Кирил Бонфильоли - The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery

What entered, in fact, was a monstrous, dark-blue bosom, followed some ten inches later by its owner, the most terrifying policewoman I’ve ever seen. When I say that Jock himself would not have liked to encounter her in some dark alley I think I have said it all. The Super didn’t seem in the least frightened of her, although her spade-like hands hung down to her knees.

‘Petal,’ he said, ‘file on Fellworthy; fast .’ I do think that at this point he might have offered me a drink. Petal was back in a twinkling (although I realise that’s an inept word), slapped a slim file onto the Super’s desk and hovered officiously. ‘Hop it,’ he said. My respect for the man grew.

‘Rrrr,’ he said as he thumbed through the file, ‘yes, Agnes Hortense Fellworthy. Yes, just eight years and two months ago. Shocking.’ My eggy brain slowly unscrambled itself and an omelette began to form: baveuse or gooey in the middle but none the worse for that. Having borne with fortitude the news that Miss Fellworthy was, in fact, Mrs ditto, it was not too hard to take the tidings that there was now a brace of Mrs F.s. I phrased my question with care.

‘When you say “shocking,” Super, how do you mean? “Shocking,” I mean.’

‘Drettful,’ he explained. ‘Lovely lady, she was, I met her often. Drove out one afternoon for the shopping, down the drive, straight across the main road, right through the middle of a Cycling Club outing, through a quickset hedge and precipitated herself and vehicle over, well, a precipice. Hundred and fifty feet.’

‘Died instantaneously, I suppose?’

‘Well, no-one hardly ever walks away from a mischance of that sort, sir. Especially if your vehicle becomes a blazing holocaust as it strikes the bottom of the quarry.’ For my part I knew that I had struck pay-dirt: the nuggets of gold glistered before my eyes.

‘She was, of course, wearing her spectacles at the time?’

‘Eh? No, never wore them.’ My nuggets became fool’s gold and the iron pyrites entered into my soul.

‘But sun-glasses, surely,’ I whined. He thought ponderously, wetted a thumb and leafed through the file.

‘No. One of the Cycling Club, whom she narrowly missed killing, states that her eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead.’

‘Post-mortem?’

‘Naturally. Trace of alcohol, consistent with one sherry before lunch, confirmed by her husband. No trace of any drug or medicine. The coroner unhesitatingly returned “Accidental.” Oh, yes, I see that her own doctor, at the inquest, deposed that he had warned her against driving fast on account of being liable to short black-outs, her being pregnant, if you’ll excuse the expression.’

‘And was she?’

‘Well, no, the post-mortem didn’t show anything of that.’

‘But the doc in question said that she was, ah, expecting?’

‘No, he didn’t exactly say that, he used the term “ petit male ,” you know what these doctors are for fancy terms.’

‘Yes, indeed. Could I have the name and address of this doctor, please?’

It was four o’clock; that fearful hour when vicars’ wives and policeman take tea, a fluid which is necessary at dawn but positively harmful at other times. I declined the cup which was pressed upon me; when you have drunk one cop-shop cup of tea you have drunk them all. More to the point, when one is nurturing a lusty young chrysanthemum on the upper lip it is important to avoid nitrogenous stimulants. (I once knew a chap in the Royal West African Frontier Force who cured himself of a tiresome little infestation by soaking his pubic hair with paraffin and touching a match to it. The infestation perished; so did his marriage.)

Down in the dungeon department I found Holmes quaffing that very liquid (tea, of course, not paraffin – I must try to be more lucid) with the pongid Petal and many an amply-booted he-copper. We drove away in the general direction of Oxford. After a few minutes he said, ‘Sir, I’m slowing down. On your right you’ll see where the original Mrs Fellworthy went to meet her Maker in the quarry and on your left you’ll see the Fellworthy domicile.’ The left was what interested me; a long, straight drive, leading straight down to the road and trimmed, on the western side only, by a high fence, like one of those flashy picket-fences you see around those places which want to look like stud-farms, but higher and with the upright posts closer together. It was not sightly, nor did I much like the look of the long, low house which squatted at the summit of the drive. Perhaps it was because there was a good chance that a murderer was even then peering at us from one of the windows. I have no especial grudge against murderers – they go their way and I go mine – but I confess that I don’t much like the thought of them looking at me thoughtfully.

‘Holmes,’ I said thoughtfully as the car picked up speed, ‘at what time today would you normally have ceased duty and returned to your nearest and dearest?’

‘Four o’clock, sir. But it’s all right, I’m quite enjoying myself and there’s no hurry. And my nearest and dearest is a norrible old landlady who sniffs me breath every time I come in and pushes leaflets under me door about Demon Drink.’

‘Once again you have gone to the heart of the matter, Holmes, your instincts are unerring. You see, I wished to know whether or not you were officially off duty. Plainly, you are. I wished to ascertain whether you were a dedicated teetotaller. Plainly, you are not. If you will pull into a suitably quiet road-side spot I should much like to show you a most capacious silver pocket-flask engraved with a veritable triumph of Edwardian technology.’

After the flask had passed between us a few times, with many a musical ‘glug,’ I told him what I had learnt and invited his contribution to the seminar.

‘Get any dirty?’ is how I put it to him.

‘Yessir. And I don’t mean the tea in the canteen, ha ha.’

‘You should try the sherry in the Senior Common Room at Scone, ha ha.’

On the strength of that brace of witticisms I fished out the capacious flask again and we supped, offering mute thanks to Allah, who made men hollow.

‘First, sir, I’ve had a word with the Sergeant who examined the charred vehicle in which the first Mrs Fellworthy met her end. He is a car buff and assured me categorically that the brakes, steering-linkages and all that had not been tampered with. He took particular interest in this scrutiny because he happens to hate the guts of Dr F. and would dearly have liked to feel his collar.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll be coming to that. Second, the first Mrs Fellworthy, as you already ascertained, never wore glasses of any shape or form. Third, she was abstemious in her own habits but generous with liquor to guests, passing policemen, postmen and such.’

I know a hint when I hear one: I passed the flask.

‘Fourth, although somewhat older than Dr F., she was a lovely lady and anyone could tell she loved her husband. Doted on him, in fact, despite his occasional insensate rages.’

‘Insensate rages?’ I said, pricking up the ears.

‘I’ll be coming to that, sir. Sixth—’

‘Sorry, shouldn’t that have been “fifth,” Holmes?’ He counted on his fingers and agreed.

‘Fifth, she was a rich or wealthy lady. She and him had a joint account at Martin’s Bank, Prince’s Risborough, which he occasionally used, but most of the heavy bills were paid by the lady, using an account with a London bank which I was not able to ascertain the name of.’

‘Ho ho!’ I thought to myself – well, I could hardly have been thinking to anyone else, could I? – ‘This has all the savour of the true argol or yak-turd.’