Patricia Wentworth - Wicked Uncle

If he had thought this the moment to provoke a reprimand, he might have added, “Embarras de richesse.” Quotations from foreign languages being so many red rags to the official bull, he judged it better to abstain. There would, for one thing, hardly be time for the Chief to do himself justice on the kindling theme of Police College pups and wind in the head engendered by over-education. Frank Abbott knew most of it by heart, and would have been sorry if the salt had lost its savour. As it was, he got a grunt and a “Just about beats the band!”

Taking this as encouragement, Frank proceeded.

“If Pearson is to be believed-it all seems to turn on that, doesn’t it?”

Lamb grunted.

“There’s nothing against Pearson. He’d a good character in the force. Had a bad accident and was invalided out. He got better after a year or two and went to Blake’s. It’s a respectable agency.”

Frank balanced his pencil thoughtfully.

“If Porlock was a blackmailer, almost anyone may have bumped him off. Seems a pity anyone should be hanged for it.”

“Now,” said Lamb, “none of that! The law’s the law, and duty’s duty. Murder’s no way to set things right. Don’t you let me hear you talk like that! There’s no reason why Pearson shouldn’t be telling the truth, and I expect he is. He hasn’t got any axe to grind that I can see. So if we take what he says, Porlock was blackmailing Tote and Carroll for certain, and both of them for pretty serious offences. Masterman and Miss Lane are only probables. There may be others. We’ll see if Mr. Leigh can tell us anything. By what Pearson says, he was giving the orders after it happened. The man who keeps his head is the man who is likely to have noticed things. It’s no good saying I wish we could have been here before they moved everything. The locals have done a pretty good job with photographs and all, but it’s a handicap all the same. Photographs and fingerprints are all very well, but they don’t give you the feel of a place and the people. We come into it a matter of eighteen hours after it’s happened and everyone’s had time to tighten up and think what they’re going to say. If you can get there before they’ve got their balance you’re going to get something a good deal nearer the truth-especially from the women. And I don’t mean that just for the guilty parties. It’s astonishing what a lot of people have got something they’d like to hide or dress up a bit different for the police. Why, I remember thirty years ago there was a woman carried on as guilty as you please, telling lies as quick as shelling peas, and all it came to in the end-she wore a wig and she didn’t want her husband to find out. Well, here’s Mr. Leigh.”

He introduced himself and Frank with solid dignity.

“Detective Inspector Lamb of Scotland Yard, and Sergeant Abbott. Sit down, Mr. Leigh. I hope you will be able to help us. I’ve got your statement here, and I’d like to ask you a few questions. Now, how well did you know Mr. Porlock?”

Justin had been thinking that these two were interesting examples of the old-style policeman and the new. Lamb the product of village school, secondary education, and the wide, unsurpassable university of experience. Solid as English earth and English beef, that’s what he looked. The countryman’s burr on his tongue, the countryman’s balanced shrewdness in his eye. Just so the bargaining farmer balancing prices against pigs and heifers. These were larger matters, but the shrewdness and the competence were the same. Abbott might be any young man in his own club-public school- Police College -clothes that looked as if they came from Savile Row-noticeably well-kept hands. He wondered if he would ever fill the old man’s boots. He didn’t look as if he would, but you never could tell. The impression passed in a flash. He said,

“I didn’t know Mr. Porlock at all. I never met him until yesterday when I arrived here with Miss Lane in time for tea.”

Lamb nodded.

“ Miss Lane brought you-then you know her?”

“I know her very well. Perhaps I’d better explain. Mrs. Oakley’s secretary, Dorinda Brown, is my cousin. She has only just gone to the job, and as she is quite young and I’m her only relation, I thought I would like to meet the Oakleys. I was trying to find out something about them, and to meet someone who knew them. Porlock’s name was mentioned as being a near neighbour of theirs in the country, and very friendly with Martin Oakley.”

“Who mentioned it?”

“It was Miss Lane. So when she said she was coming down here for the week-end and she could easily ring up and suggest bringing me, I rather jumped at it.”

“ Miss Lane knew Mr. Porlock well?”

“I don’t know how well she knew him. They seemed to be on very friendly terms. She told me he loved entertaining and practically kept open house. He was certainly a most genial host.”

“How did he strike you, Mr. Leigh?”

Justin considered.

“Well, he was what I’ve just said, a genial host. A lot of social charm-all that sort of thing. And enjoying himself. That’s what struck me more than anything else. It was an ill-assorted, uphill party, and it must have been hard work, but I’d swear he was enjoying himself.”

Lamb focussed the stare upon him.

“Just what do you mean by ill-assorted, Mr. Leigh?”

Justin’s charming smile appeared.

“You won’t ask me that after you’ve met them.”

Lamb grunted and let it go.

“Anyone appear to be out of sorts-nervous-out of temper?”

“Well, of course I don’t know what Mr. Tote’s like as a rule, but I suppose you could say he was put out.” He laughed a little. “That’s putting it mildly. He didn’t talk, he didn’t join in any of the games. He looked as if he was in a foul temper, and just sat.”

“Eat his dinner?”

Justin couldn’t help laughing.

“Everything he could get hold of. Porlock has a marvellous cook.”

“Anyone else seem put out?”

“Well, as I said, I don’t know these people. Masterman may go about looking like a death’s head all the time-he was certainly spreading gloom last night. The sister looks as if she hadn’t smiled for years.”

“Mr. Leigh, I’d like to ask you something, but of course you don’t need to answer if you don’t care to. It’s not anything personal. I’d just like to know how Mr. Gregory Porlock struck you. You said he had a lot of what you’d call charm. What I’d like to know is just this-would you have said he was straight?”

Well-would he? He wondered what he would have thought if he hadn’t known what he did. Very difficult to divest yourself of knowledge and decide what your mental processes would have been without it. Once Dorinda had said “He’s the Wicked Uncle,” he couldn’t go back and judge the man as Gregory Porlock. And was he going to tell the Chief Inspector about the Wicked Uncle? He thought not. Dorinda would almost certainly do so-the art of practising a concealment was one to which she would never attain. There was something reposeful in the thought. He decided that she might be left to deal with the Wicked Uncle in her own ingenuous manner. Meanwhile there was no reason why he shouldn’t say what he thought. With no more than what seemed quite an ordinary pause for consideration he replied,

“No, I don’t think I would.”

After a moment or two, during which he appeared to be digesting this answer, Lamb returned to the charge.

“I’d like to ask you something in confidence. These people who were here last night-they were all strangers to you except Miss Lane?”

Justin nodded. “And my cousin, Dorinda Brown.” He wondered what was coming.

“They say lookers-on see most of the game. You’ll understand this isn’t to be talked of, but what I’d like to know is this- would it surprise you to hear that some of these people were being blackmailed?”