Десмонд Бэгли - The Vivero Letter

‘No objection at all — if it helps to keep the farm in one piece.’ I thought I would probably sell it anyway, it had too much blood on it for my liking. It would be an uncomfortable thing to have around.

‘Well, I don’t think there’s more we can do now,’ said Mount. ‘I’ll set the legal processes in motion — you can leave all that to me.’ He stood up. ‘I’m the executor of the estate, Jemmy, and executors have wide latitude, especially if they know the ins and outs of the law. You’ll need ready money to run the farm — to pay the men, for example — and that can be drawn from the estate.’ He grimaced. ‘Technically speaking, I’m supposed to run the farm until probate, but I can appoint an expert to do it, and there’s nothing to prevent me choosing you, so I think we’ll let it go at that, shall we? Or would you rather I employed a land agent until probate?’

‘Give me a couple of days,’ I said. ‘I want to think this over. For one thing, I’d like to talk to Jack Edgecombe.’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But don’t leave it much later than that.’

Before leaving Mount’s office I telephoned the farm as I had promised Dave Goosan and was told that Detective-Superintendent Smith would be pleased if I would call at Totnes police station at three o’clock that afternoon. I said that I would and then went out into the street, feeling a little lost and wondering what to do next. Something was nagging at me and I couldn’t pin it down, but suddenly I realized what it was.

I was hungry!

I looked at my watch and discovered it was nearly twelve o’clock. I had had no breakfast and only a very light snack the night before so it wasn’t really surprising. Yet although I was hungry I didn’t feel like facing a set meal, so I climbed into the car and headed towards the Cott where I could get a sandwich.

The saloon bar was almost empty with just an elderly man and woman sitting quietly in one corner. I went to the bar and said to Paula, ‘I’ll have a pint, please.’

She looked up. ‘Oh, Mr. Wheale, I’m so sorry to hear of what happened.’

It hadn’t taken long for the news to get around, but that was only to be expected in a small town like Totnes. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a bad business.’

She turned away to draw the beer, and Nigel came in from the other bar. He said, ‘Sorry to hear about your brother, Jemmy.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Look, Nigel; I just want a beer and some sandwiches. I don’t feel much like talking just now.’

He nodded, and said, ‘I’ll serve you in a private room if you like.’

‘No, that doesn’t matter; I’ll have it here.’

He phoned the order through to the kitchen, then spoke to Paula who went into the other bar. I took a pull of beer and was aware of Nigel coming to the counter again. ‘I know you don’t want to talk,’ he said. ‘But there’s something you ought to know.’

‘What is it?’

He hesitated. ‘Is it true that the dead man — the burglar — up at the farm was an American?’

‘There’s no certainty yet, but it’s a probability,’ I said.

He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know if this is relevant, but Harry Hannaford told me a couple of days ago that an American had made Bob an offer for that tray — you know, the one they found was so valuable.’

‘Where did this happen?’

Nigel flipped his hand. ‘In here! I wasn’t here at the time, but Harry said he heard the whole thing. He was having a drink with Bob at the time.’

I said, ‘Do you know this American?’

‘I don’t think so. We get a lot of Yanks here — you run a place as old as the Cott and you’re on the culture circuit. But we didn’t have any Americans staying here just then. We have one here now, though; he arrived yesterday.’

‘Oh! What kind of an American?’

Nigel smiled. ‘Oldish — about sixty, I’d say. Name of Fallon. He must have a lot of money, too, judging by the telephone bill he’s run up. But I wouldn’t say he’s a suspicious character.’

‘Getting back to Hannaford and the other Yank,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me anything more?’

‘There’s nothing more to tell. Just that the Yank wanted to buy the tray — that’s all Harry said.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘He’ll be in soon, as like as not, for his midday pint. He usually comes in about now. Do you know him?’

‘I can’t place him.’

‘All right,’ said Nigel. ‘When he comes in I’ll tip you the wink.’

The sandwiches arrived and I took them to a corner table near the fireplace. When I sat down I felt suddenly tired, which wasn’t surprising considering I’d been up all night and subject to a hell of a lot of tension. I ate the sandwiches slowly and drank some more beer. I was only now coming out of the shock that had hit me when I found Bob, and it was beginning to really hurt.

The pub started to fill up and I saw one or two faces I knew, but no one bothered me, although I intercepted some curious glances from eyes that were quickly averted. But there’s a basic decency among countrymen which forbade them overt curiosity. Presently I saw Nigel talking to a big man in tweeds, then he crossed to me and said, ‘Hannaford’s here. Want to talk to him?’

I looked around the crowded bar. ‘I’d rather it wasn’t here. Have you a room I can use?’

‘Take my office,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I’ll send Harry in after you.’

‘You can send a couple of pints, too,’ I said, and left the bar by the back door.

Hannaford joined me in a few minutes. ‘Main sorry to hear about Bob,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Many’s the laugh we’ve had here. He was a good man.’

‘Yes, Mr. Hannaford; he was.’ It was easy to see the relationship between Hannaford and Bob. When a man is a regular caller at a pub he strikes up an easy and casual acquaintanceship in those four walls. More often than not it goes no further than that and there may be no meeting outside the pub. But for all that there need be no shallowness to it — it’s just uncomplicated and friendly.

I said, ‘Nigel tells me there was an American wanting to buy the tray from Bob.’

‘That there was — and more’n one. Bob had two offers to my knowledge, both from Americans.’

‘Did he? Do you know anything about these men, Mr. Hannaford?’

Hannaford pulled his ear. ‘Mr. Gatt was a real nice gentleman — not at all pushy like a lot of these Yanks. A middle-aged man he was, and well dressed. Very keen to buy that tray from Bob was Mr. Gatt.’

‘Did he offer a price — a definite price?’

‘Not straight out he didn’t. Your brother said it was no use him offering any price at all until he’d had the tray valued, and Mr. Gatt said he’d give Bob the valuation price — whatever it was. But Bob laughed and said he might not sell it at all, that it was a family heirloom. Mr. Gatt looked mighty put out when he heard that.’

‘What about the other man?’

‘The young chap? I didn’t relish him much, he acted too high and mighty for me. He made no offer — not in my hearing — but he was disappointed when Bob said he wasn’t set on selling, and he spoke pretty sharpish to Bob until his wife shut him up.’

‘His wife!’

Hannaford smiled. ‘Well, I wouldn’t swear to that — he showed me no marriage lines — but I reckon it was his wife or, maybe his sister, perhaps.’

‘Did he give a name?’

‘That he did. Now, what was it? Hall? No, that’s not it. Steadman? Nooo. Wait a minute and I’ll get it.’ His big red face contorted with the effort of remembering and suddenly smoothed out. ‘Halstead — that was it. Halstead was the name. He gave your brother his card — I remember that. He said he’d get in touch again when the tray was valued. Bob said he was wasting his time and that’s when he lost his temper.’