Colin Watson - Coffin Scarcely Used

Yet even this prospect did not much lighten Bradlaw’s thoughts. The police, he had been told on his return from the hospital, had called in his absence and would come back later. And that, he reflected, could mean only one thing. He looked at his watch. The inquest would be nearly over. He listened as he dodged around among the elm shavings for Betty—no, it was Eileen now—to ring the bell summoning him to the office.

Eventually the bell did sound. Bradlaw hastily harnessed himself in the wing collar, hooked around it the ready-knotted black tie, and wriggled into his coat as he crossed the yard and entered the house.

Closing the door behind him, he eyed the two waiting men.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Bradlaw gravely, tucking his chin well down and doing his best to convey the impression that he, death’s ferryman, had touched shore for five minutes only, but would consider accepting a message for the other side provided it was brief, and addressed to the highest authority.

“Hello, there!” responded Purbright. Love winked cheerfully and perched himself on a chair arm. Bradlaw, who knew and was known by both men perfectly well, realized that the presumably solemn nature of their inquiries was not going to prevent them from treating him with familiarity. Which was a pity, for his nervousness would have been better concealed if professional gloom could have been assumed on both sides.

“Well, here’s a fine how-d’ye-do,” began Purbright, offering cigarettes. “What do you know about it, Nab?”

Hearing his nickname, Bradlaw abandoned hope of being able to remain stuffy and safe. But he wasn’t going to be backslapped into parting with anything compromising. He rolled his head, glanced at the shut door and hoarsely confided: “They tell me he went and got himself knocked off: is that right?”

Purbright unexpectedly jabbed Bradlaw’s paunch. “Dead right.” he whispered. “Point is...who? Eh?”

“Poor old Gwill.” Bradlaw relaxed. Purbright seemed inclined to be bar-parlourish about the affair, a good sign. “You’d never have thought he was the sort to end up like that. Here, it wasn’t women, was it?” He pronounced “women” like a medical term.

“Dunno,” Purbright said. “Might it have been?”

Bradlaw pretended to consider. Then he shook his head. “I never heard of anything. Mind you, there’s often a woman in these things. They’re queer creatures. Damn me, they are, you know.”

“There’s the woman next door, of course. Had he anything to do with her, would you say?”

Bradlaw looked momentarily shaken. “Why, have you seen her?”

Watching him, Purbright replied: “I happened to run into her yesterday. She said she’d been away.”

“Ah!” Bradlaw paused, and added: “No, she’s got her head screwed on. Widows are safe enough as a rule. She’d been away, you said?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“You mean, she can’t have done it?”

“We haven’t decided yet who could and who couldn’t. We’re at the damn-fool question stage. Let’s see”—Purbright eyed Bradlaw with faint amusement—“what we can find in that line for you, shall we? What, for instance, were you doing on the night before last? And don’t say laying in business in Heston Lane.”

“Laying out, sir.”

“You shut up, Sid; I’m waiting for Nab to incriminate himself.”

Bradlaw chuckled and smoothed the few remaining parallel lines of hair across his pinkly shining head. “Night before last...” He massaged the putty of his mouth and frowned. “Night before last...” He removed his hand and his mouth returned to its own devices, the first of which was to ejaculate: “Buffs!”

“Pardon?” said Purbright.

“Buffs. There was a lodge meeting. Then I popped in at the club. That chap Lintz from the paper—know him?—he was there. I brought him back with me as a matter of fact. Ethel—no, Eileen—made us some supper and he stayed until...Oh, I don’t know, half-past one or two.”

“Doing what?”

“Heaven knows. Talking. Having a couple of beers. I really can’t remember.”

“You wouldn’t be playing chess by any chance?”

“Chess? I wouldn’t be surprised. Is that what he said?”

“You seem rather vague about it.”

“Not a bit of it. We played chess.” Bradlaw turned to Love and explained: “It’s a sort of complicated draughts, you know.”

“Anyway,” said Purbright, “you were definitely with Lintz all the time from, say, eleven until two?”

“Oh, yes. Except when he was out in the yard, of course.”

“In the yard?”

“He wanted some fresh air, he said. I remember that because he let the door catch and had to wake me up to get in again. Chess,” added Bradlaw feelingly, “can be bloody tiring.”

“So you don’t know how long he was out?”

“Not really. Can’t have been long, though. Too cold.”

“Could he have got out of the yard into the street?”

“Into the lane, yes; but why should he?”

“Was his car in the lane?”

“I think so...No, we’d come back in the Bedford—my van, you know.” Bradlaw frowned. “Here, but you’re not trying to make out that George nipped out for a jimmy riddle, and then took a fancy to slap down Uncle and got back here before I knew he’d gone?”

Purbright looked at him in silence for several seconds, then smiled. “Now you see what nasty people your policemen pals can be when they want.”

Bradlaw puffed out his cheeks indignantly.

“What did you know about Gwill?” Purbright resumed.

“Not much. Why?”

“You saw him at his house pretty regularly, didn’t you?”

“Now and again.”

“He didn’t play chess, I suppose?”

“Gawd, you are in a griping mood. Anyone would think you suspected me.”

“Perish the thought. Why did you go to see him?”

“Just to be sociable. I’m a steady advertiser, too.”

“He didn’t give dinner parties for all his advertisers, surely. Who else went with you?”

“Rodney Gloss was there sometimes—his solicitor. Doc Hillyard, too, occasionally. That’s all, as far as I remember.”

“What about Harold Carobleat?”

“Well, what about him? He’s dead.”

“That’s all right. I just wanted a general picture of social life at the Gwill’s. We have to start with something, you know.”

Bradlaw shrugged and began tracing numeral outlines on the desk calendar with one finger. “I’ll tell you this much,” he said slowly, “you needn’t waste time looking at Gwill’s friends for whoever killed him. I’ve known him, and them, for a good few years. Look, doctors and lawyers in a place like this don’t go round murdering people.”

“Nor undertakers?” murmured Purbright.

“No, not undertakers, either. Why the hell should they?” Bradlaw seemed to feel a sudden surge of resentment. “You flounder about and make all sorts of wild insinuations against people just because they knew somebody who’s been found dead. Damn it, I don’t think you even know yet how the fellow was killed.”

Purbright said patiently: “No, I don’t think we do,” and waited.

“Right; then why go casting around for suspects like...like a quizz-master or something?” (Bradlaw went to television for most of his derogatory similes.)

“He’s the one,” said Purbright to Love, jerking his thumb at Bradlaw. “Got the bracelets, Sid? Bracelets,” he explained to the now peeved undertaker, “are what we call handcuffs. Very slangy.”

Bradlaw grunted, looked at his watch and scowled. “Come on,” he pleaded. “I’ve people coming at twelve. What else do you want to know?”

“Just three more things, Nab, I think. Firstly, what business was Gwill mixed up in apart from his paper?”