NEXT MORNING, HENRY drove through chilly, Sunday-quiet London streets to the old-fashioned block of flats in Kensington where Miss Cecily Smeed lived. The building had a refreshing Edwardian spaciousness: its lofty ceilings and broad, carpeted stairs with curly brass rails belonged to an era when housing space in England’s capital city allowed comfortable elbowroom to those who could afford it. Henry was surprised that Dumbarton Court had not already been bulldozed to make way for an efficient modern structure that would have accommodated twice as many families on the same square-footage.
The elevator was an elaborate affair of gilt and wrought iron, complete with two small chairs for those delicately nurtured passengers who could not be expected to stand. It rose with majestic slowness to the top floor—the fourth—where a neat brass plate indicated that one of the two apartments was occupied by Miss Cecily Smeed. Henry pressed the bell, hoping he was not getting Miss Smeed out of bed. It was, after all, only nine o’clock on a Sunday morning.
After a short delay, however, the door was opened by Miss Smeed, dressed in a heather-mixture tweed skirt and a cashmere sweater. Her gray hair and discreet makeup were impeccable. She looked at Henry with some surprise and no pleasure, and said, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
Henry introduced himself, showed his official identity card, and asked if he might come in and ask Miss Smeed a few questions. Cecily did not bat an eyelid. She simply said, “I’m afraid it is not convenient, Chief Superintendent. I have a visitor.”
“This won’t take long, Miss Smeed,” Henry assured her. “And it is urgent. I’m afraid—”
From somewhere inside the apartment, a man’s voice called, “Who is it, Cecily?”
Over her shoulder, Cecily Smeed said, “It’s a detective, Denton. From Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, my goodness.” The voice sounded alarmed. “Is it about—?”
“I don’t know what it’s about,” said Cecily, rather too quickly. “I have told him it is inconvenient to speak to him at the moment.”
Henry said, “Is your visitor by any chance Mr. Denton Westbury, Miss Smeed?”
“It’s no business of yours, but as a matter of fact—yes. And now—”
Henry beamed. “What a piece of luck,” he said. “I was intending to call on him after I left you. Now I can talk to you both together. So if you don’t mind—”
With a bad grace, Cecily Smeed admitted Henry to the apartment and ushered him into a drawing room into which a couple of entire modern flats would have fitted comfortably. A big bay window looked out over a panorama of rooftops to the distant dome of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and a Steinway grand piano took up no more than a corner of the space available. On a low marble table in front of the brocaded sofa, two delicate Wedgwood china cups steamed with newly made coffee. Behind the sofa, looking very much on the defensive, stood a young man with a thin, pale face and neatly trimmed sandy hair. He was dressed in brown corduroy slacks and a turtleneck pullover several sizes too large for him.
Cecily said, “This is Chief Superintendent Tibbett of Scotland Yard, Denton. Apparently he wants to talk to you.”
“To me?”
“To both of you,” said Henry. “How do you do, Mr. Westbury?”
“What’s all this about?” Denton Westbury demanded, addressing Cecily.
She shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said. “Please sit down, both of you, and I’ll bring another cup of coffee.”
When Cecily had gone, Henry took off his overcoat, hung it over a chair, and sat down on the sofa. Westbury remained standing. Again he said, “What on earth is all this?”
Henry said, “You may not have heard that Simon Finch was murdered yesterday.”
There was a long pause. At last, Westbury said, “Yes. I had heard.”
“In Ambrose Quince’s office,” Henry added.
“I know. Ambrose telephoned me. That’s why—” He stopped.
Henry smiled. “That’s why you came to see Miss Smeed. You are both affected by the death of Simon Finch—or perhaps I should say, Simon Warwick.”
Cecily Smeed came back into the drawing room, carrying a third cup of coffee. Briskly, she said, “So, it’s about the young man who was killed. Well, I don’t see how Denton or I can possibly help you, Mr. Tibbett. I never even met Mr. Finch.”
“Nor did I,” said Denton Westbury, quickly.
“And yet,” Henry pointed out, “when you heard the news, you came round to see Miss Smeed before nine on Sunday morning. Why?”
Before Westbury could answer, Cecily said, “Denton thought I might not have heard the news. He was quite right—Ambrose Quince didn’t bother to telephone me. Naturally, Denton knew I would be interested. Of course, you must know all about Lord Charlton’s will.” Her eyes went for a moment to a silver-framed photograph on the piano. It showed a man in his sixties with a vigorous, aggressive face. Across the bottom, in bold handwriting, it was inscribed, “To Cecily, with gratitude—Alexander Charlton.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “I know about the will. About both wills, in fact. Both you and Mr. Westbury have a lot to gain from Simon Warwick’s death.”
Cecily said, “The dead man is Simon Finch, Mr. Tibbett. It has yet to be proved that he was Simon Warwick. For all we know, the other claimant may turn out to be Warwick after all. Or perhaps they are both fakes, and the real Simon Warwick will turn up. Ambrose Quince has three years from the date of Lord Charlton’s death to trace the young man, you know.”
Henry said, “Ambrose Quince is convinced that he had found Lord Charlton’s nephew. As he told you, he has overwhelming proof, which he intends to lay before the courts.”
Westbury began, “How do you know—?”
Henry said, “I intend to talk to everybody who was at the Quinces’ dinner party last week. Apart from Mr. and Mrs. Quince, you people are the only ones who knew that Simon Warwick had been found, who knew the claimant’s name, and—very importantly—who knew that he was due in Mr. Quince’s office at ten o’clock yesterday morning. Also, you all stood to gain from a reversion to the old will.”
Denton Westbury clutched the back of the sofa, and looked as if he might faint. He said, “But…Ambrose said…it must have been the other man…”
Reassuringly, Henry said, “Please understand me, Mr. Westbury—I’m not making any accusations against anybody. It’s just that, for your own sakes, I must be sure that everybody who was at that party is completely in the clear. Surely you see that?”
Cecily gave an impatient little sigh. “I suppose so,” she said, “but it’s so foolish. You talk as though we all had motives for murder. Well, in my case, that’s ridiculous.”
“Two hundred thousand pounds, Miss Smeed? As opposed to an inkwell?”
Cecily said, “I am not a poor woman, Chief Superintendent. Lord Charlton made sure that I would be able to retire on a handsome pension when he—” She paused. “When he no longer needed my services. Apart from that, I have taken another job. Retirement doesn’t interest me, and I have very wide experience in the business and financial world. I had no difficulty whatsoever in finding work. I am currently employed as personal assistant to Sir William Telford, the managing director of Amalgamated Textiles. Of course I would like to have two hundred thousand pounds—who wouldn’t? But I can assure you that I wouldn’t murder anybody to get it.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Miss Smeed,” said Henry. “Now, in Mr. Westbury’s case—”
Again, Cecily answered for Westbury. “If you knew anything about London society, Mr. Tibbett, you would know that Denton is greatly in demand for organizing charitable work. Isn’t that so, Denton?”
Westbury, who seemed to be feeling a little better, smiled weakly and said, “I certainly mustn’t complain. I’m kept very busy. I have the contacts, you see.”
“Nevertheless,” Henry said, “the job with the Charlton Foundation—”
“Just a job, Mr. Tibbett. As Cecily says, I don’t need it. Goodness me, no. It’ll be quite a relief to be shot of it. Give me time for other things.”
Henry remembered his conversation with Rosalie Quince. He said, “You’re not looking for another job, then?
Denton laughed, a little shrilly. “Me? Certainly not. I have more on my plate than I can handle as it is, thank you very much.”
Carefully hiding his disbelief, Henry said, “Well, that seems to dispose of motive for both of you. Still, I’d better just get from each of you an account of where you were yesterday morning between nine and ten o’clock.”
Westbury said quickly, “That’s easy. I was at my karate class.”
Showing no particular interest in the remark, Henry said, “I see. Where is that held, Mr. Westbury?”
“The gymnasium’s in High Holborn.” He gave an address, which Henry wrote down. “You can ask them. John—that’s my friend—John and I go every Saturday morning. Nine to nine-thirty.”
Henry made a note. “And after the karate class?”
There was a tiny hesitation, and then Denton said, “I came here. To see Cecily.”
“To see Miss Smeed?” Henry was surprised.
Westbury was on the defensive at once. “Any objections, Mr. Tibbett? It just so happens that I am helping Lady Bolchester organize a charity ball for the Distressed Gentlefolk Fund, and we want to get Lady Telford to sit on the committee. Not that she’ll be the faintest use, of course, but if we can get Barbara Telford, then Sir William will obviously have to cough up a decent subscription. Now, as I told you, I have the contacts. Annie Bolchester was simply going to write to Barbara, but I said to her, I said, ‘That’s not the way to go about it, dear. You let me talk to Cecily Smeed. Barbara Telford is terrified of Cecily’—sorry, Cecily dear, but it’s true, isn’t it?—‘and if Cecily makes a point of it—’ ”
Henry cut short the flow. “So you came straight here from High Holborn. In a taxi?”
“Bus,” said Westbury.
“Presumably Miss Smeed can confirm this?” Henry looked inquiringly at Cecily, who nodded.
“Denton got here about a quarter to ten,” she said, “and stayed until about half-past.”
“And you yourself, Miss Smeed?”
Cecily looked puzzled. “I was here with him, of course.”
“But earlier in the morning—”
“I was having breakfast. I am not in the habit of rushing out early on Saturday morning, especially if I have an appointment.”
“You were expecting Mr. Westbury, then?”
“Of course. He telephoned me on Friday evening.”
Henry said, “You didn’t talk to anybody—the charlady, the postman—?”
Evenly, Cecily said, “If you mean, have I an alibi, the answer is no. It would be very surprising if I did.” She thought for a moment, and then said, “Anyhow, why are you interested in nine to nine-thirty? I thought Finch’s appointment with Ambrose was for ten o’clock.”
Vaguely, Henry said, “Oh, he turned up early for it.”
“Well, then.” Cecily was triumphant. “How could I possibly have known he would do that?”
“No,” said Henry. “You couldn’t have known, could you? Silly of me. By the way, are you going to use your influence with Lady Telford?”
“Yes, I am. If it will help Denton.”
“You haven’t mentioned it to her yet?”
“Of course not. I shall speak to Sir William at the office tomorrow.”
Henry made a final note, and then said, “Well, I think that’s all. I may have to ask you both to make formal statements later on, but I hope it won’t be necessary.”
“I should hope not,” said Westbury, who seemed a lot chirpier. “After all, it was the Benson man who did it, wasn’t it? I mean, it stands to reason. Why don’t you arrest him?”
“All in good time, Mr. Westbury,” said Henry with a smile. He turned to Cecily. “Just one more question, Miss Smeed. I believe you were already working for Lord Charlton when the adoption of young Simon Warwick was arranged.”
Cecily raised her eyebrows. “Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Quince mentioned it.” Cecily’s sardonic smile deepened. “I suppose,” Henry added, “that she must have heard it from her husband.”
“Ambrose Quince,” said Cecily, no longer smiling, “is by no means as clever as he thinks he is. If he had not been his father’s son…well, never mind. Yes, in the technical sense, I was working for Mr. Alexander. I was sixteen years old, and a junior clerk in the outer office.”
“It must have been a small organization in those days,” Henry said.
“Very small, Mr. Tibbett. The mill itself was not a large concern. It was up in the Midlands, of course. We were turning out army uniforms under government contract. But Mr. Alexander was already experimenting with synthetics, and in 1944 he opened the London office. There was just himself, and his secretary Miss Harkness—she left in 1947 to get married—and Mr. Crumble, whom he brought down from the Wolverhampton plant. And myself. We started Warwick Industries—just the four of us.” There was wistful remembrance mixed with pride in her voice.
“I thought Mr. Dominic Warwick—”
“Just the four of us,” Cecily repeated, firmly.
“Well you must surely have heard something about the adoption at the time?”
Cecily shook her head. “I told you, I was sixteen and the office tweeny. I remember the buzz bombs, of course. And I remember the day we heard Mr. Dominic and his wife and baby had been killed.” She added, “Mr. Dominic started out as a partner in the business, it’s quite true, but when he got married in 1943 he sold his shares back to Mr. Alexander. He didn’t care about the future.”
“As it turned out, he didn’t have a future, did he?” said Henry.
Sharply, Cecily said, “He wasn’t to know that. He just didn’t care.”
Henry said, “Later on, when you became Alexander Warwick’s private secretary, did he never talk to you about his nephew?”
“Never. I assumed the baby was dead, and Mr. Alexander never mentioned him.”
“Well, Miss Smeed,” said Henry, “if you do remember anything about those days, please let me know. Here’s my office number.” He stood up and put on his coat. “Thanks for the coffee. By the way, if either of you plans to leave London within the next few days, let my office know, will you? Please don’t bother to see me out…”
As the drawing-room door closed behind him, Henry heard Denton Westbury say, “Well, that was good for a laugh.”
To which Cecily Smeed replied curtly, “I’m glad you’re amused.”
The front door of the Crumbles’ elegant house in Down Street, Mayfair, was opened by a butler, no less, who informed Henry disdainfully that Sir Percy and Lady Diana were in Scotland for the weekend. When pressed for further details, he reluctantly agreed to fetch Lady Diana’s social secretary. He retreated, leaving Henry standing on the doorstep. A couple of minutes later he returned with an equally supercilious blonde who deigned to inform Henry that Sir Percy would be flying back in his private aircraft tomorrow morning and would go straight to his office from Gatwick Airport. Lady Diana, however, would be staying on at Abercrombie Castle for a few more days. Her whole tone implied that Henry should have used the tradesmen’s entrance in the mews behind the house.
Henry thanked her politely, and returned to his office at Scotland Yard. A telephone call to Bertram Hamstone’s house in Saint John’s Wood was answered by a maid, who was ever so sorry but Mr. and Mrs. Hamstone were at their country cottage in Surrey for the weekend. They should be back late tonight. Yes, she did know the address. The house was called The Hollyhocks, and it was at Tenley Green, near Guildford.
Henry’s next call was to the car pool, to request an unchauffeured car. Then he rang Emmy to tell her he would not be home to lunch, and finally pressed the buzzer that brought Sergeant Hawthorn into his office.
Tom Hawthorn was a young man with a round, fresh-complexioned face and an endearing air of perpetual eagerness, like a puppy straining at the leash. Henry had first made his acquaintance on a case in Hampshire, when Hawthorn was still a constable in the uniformed branch, and had subsequently used his good offices to get the young man transferred to the CID. Amply justifying Henry’s confidence in him, Hawthorn had quickly risen to the rank of sergeant, and—since Derek Reynolds’s deserved and overdue promotion to inspector—Henry had selected him to be his personal assistant. Hawthorn, for his part, regarded Henry with what the latter felt was a rather too doglike reverence and admiration, but in all other respects was shaping up nicely. Now, he stood rigidly to attention on the far side of Henry’s desk, quivering with the desire to please.
“You’ve read my notes on the Finch case, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“I’ve just spoken to Miss Cecily Smeed and Mr. Denton Westbury. Get your notebook and sit down. I didn’t take formal statements from either of them, but I want at least a record of my recollections of what was said.”
Leaning back in his chair, eyes half closed, Henry dictated a précis of his recent interview, not omitting the subjects’ final words.
When he had finished, Hawthorn said, “I’ll go and type this up, shall I, sir?”
“No,” said Henry. “Leave it with the typing pool. You and I are taking a trip to the country.”
“The country, sir?”
“Tenley Green, near Guildford. We’re going to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Hamstone.”
Tenley Green was a pretty village far enough off the beaten track to have survived its comparative closeness to London. Mellow red-brick houses clustered round a triangular village green, complete with pond and horse trough. As Henry braked to a stop, the doors of the ancient gray stone church opened, and the congregation began straggling out into the grassy churchyard and down the path to the lych-gate—tweedy men and women turning up coat collars and knotting scarves against the chill January air, exchanging village gossip and remarks about the weather to the accompaniment of inexpert organ music from inside the church.
Henry got out of the car and went up to a large, red-faced man, who was dressed in prickly tweeds, a British Warm overcoat, and porkpie hat.
“Excuse me, sir, I wonder if you could tell me where to find a house called Hollyhocks?”
The man looked surprised and exchanged a quick glance with his companion—a thin middle-aged woman with a beaky nose. “Hollyhocks? What business do you have there, may I ask?”
Henry said, “I’ve come down from London to see Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Hamstone.”
“You have?” Unexpectedly, the man gave a sharp roar of laughter, and the woman smiled apologetically. “Well, sir, you’re looking at them now. May one ask the nature of your business? I don’t think we have met.”
“No, we haven’t, Mr. Hamstone,” Henry agreed. He took out his official identity card. “Chief Superintendent Tibbett, CID. If we might—”
“Good heavens, d’you mean Scotland Yard?” Bertram Hamstone had a penetrating voice, and several people turned and looked inquiringly. “So the crime wave has hit Tenley Green at last, has it? Well, well, well. Got a car?”
“Right there,” Henry said.
“Then you’d better follow me. Mine is the yellow Mercedes.”
Hamstone took his wife’s arm and strode off toward a very elegant automobile parked alongside the horse trough. Henry, under the concentrated gaze of Tenley Green’s population, climbed back in beside Sergeant Hawthorn and restarted his engine. Soon he was tailing the Mercedes as it wound out of the village and down a narrow lane between steep banks and trees, which reached out from either side to form a natural cloister. After a couple of miles, the Mercedes began flashing its right-hand signal, and Hamstone turned around in the driver’s seat to make sure that Henry was close behind him. With a chubby forefinger he jabbed toward his right, underlining the message of the turn signal; then the car turned right and abruptly disappeared, as though swallowed up into the landscape.
Henry slowed down, and realized the reason for Hamstone’s emphasis. Even had he been looking out for it, he might easily have missed the small, unmarked dirt track that turned off the tarred road and immediately lost itself in a series of tight bends among overshadowing trees. After a few hundred yards, however, the last bend suddenly brought the car out into a big circular parking area in front of a house that only a private banker could possibly have described as a cottage. It was a small Elizabethan farmhouse, red-brick and half-timbered, with a newly thatched roof and diamond-leaded windows. It had been immaculately restored, and was surrounded by a small, well-tended flower garden. Smoke rose from tall red-brick chimneys, and broad stone steps led up to a terrace that ran the length of the building.
As Hamstone climbed out of his car, the oaken front door was opened from inside, and two golden retrievers came tumbling out, tails thrashing in welcome. Elizabeth Hamstone patted the leaping dogs as introductions were made, and then Bertram Hamstone said, “Come inside and have a glass of sherry. Can’t offer you lunch, I’m afraid, but you’ll get a very decent meal at the Fox and Pheasant down in the village. Down, Miranda! Down, Major! I suppose you’re here over this Finch affair…”
In the drawing room, a log fire blazed in a vast stone fireplace. Henry and Sergeant Hawthorn refused drinks. Hamstone poured himself a generous measure of pale sherry and stood with his back to the fire, legs astraddle. Elizabeth had disappeared into the recesses of the house.
Hamstone said, “Bad business, this. No doubt that the young man was murdered, I suppose?”
“None at all, I’m afraid,” said Henry.
“So I gathered from Quince. Curious thing to do, wasn’t it?”
Henry said, “How do you mean, curious?”
“Well, somebody wants to get the fellow out of the way—that’s understandable. But an obvious murder, right there in Ambrose Quince’s waiting room…well, I’m no expert, but I should have thought there’d have been subtler ways of disposing of Simon Warwick.” Hamstone noticed Henry’s look of interrogation, and gave a robust laugh. “Oh, I don’t mean more sophisticated means of murder, Chief Superintendent. I mean legal ways.”
“What sort of legal ways, Mr. Hamstone? I’ve read the file—”
Bertie Hamstone snorted. “So have I,” he said, “and I can tell you that Ambrose is by no means on to a sure thing. The evidence is pretty convincing at first glance, I’ll give you that, and if there was nobody contesting the suit, I daresay a court would concur.”
Henry said, “You mean—people are going to contest the fact that Simon Finch was Simon Warwick?”
Hamstone chuckled. “Not anymore, sir. Not anymore.”
Enlightenment dawned on Henry. He said, slowly, “You mean that a person who wished the old will to be reinstated would have contested the claim of a live Simon Finch, to prevent him from inheriting. But once Simon Finch is dead, it’s to everybody’s advantage to prove that he really was Simon Warwick.”
“Of course,” said Hamstone. “Obvious, isn’t it? The only living person who now has any interest in disproving Finch’s claim is—Simon Warwick.”
“So if Harold Benson should turn out to be the real Simon Warwick, he’d be the last person to want his rival dead.”
Hamstone nodded approvingly. “Quite right. I see you take my point, Chief Superintendent. Benson could have challenged a live Simon Finch in the courts, and would have had the backing of a whole lot of people who were equally anxious to dispose of Finch’s claim. If he now challenges a dead Simon Finch, he’ll not only be one man against the world, but he’ll be creating a very bad climate of public opinion against him, if he should be accused of murdering Finch.”
Henry said, slowly, “He may not have thought of that.”
“I never met the young man myself,” said Hamstone, “only heard about him from Ambrose. I suppose if he teaches at a university he can’t be a complete idiot, although one never knows these days.”
Henry, feeling that he was being led off the track, said, “I daresay we’ll soon know a lot more about Harold Benson, Mr. Hamstone. Meanwhile, I’m afraid I have to ask you to tell me where you and Mrs. Hamstone were yesterday morning between nine and ten o’clock. It’s for your own protection, you understand.”
Hamstone gave Henry an unfriendly look. “I’m not at all sure that I do understand,” he said, “but the answer is very simple. Elizabeth was here—Martin drove her down on Friday evening, and you can be sure there’s no shortage of witnesses to that, because there was some sort of village do—bingo evening for the Animal Welfare Fund, or some such thing. As for me—well, I don’t mind admitting that that sort of affair is not my cup of tea, so I pleaded a business dinner in London and drove myself down in the Mercedes yesterday morning. I left the London house at around half-past eight—the housekeeper will be able to tell you—and got here soon after eleven.”
Henry said, “Two and a half hours? We made better time than that, didn’t we, Sergeant Hawthorn?”
Hawthorn said, with the trace of a grin, “Hour and forty minutes, sir.”
“Good God, man, don’t you know the difference between Saturday and Sunday?” Hamstone sounded rattled. “Ever tried getting out through Putney High Street on Saturday morning? Traffic’s solid from the World’s End to Wimbledon Common. Sunday is an entirely different matter.”
“Yes, of course it is,” said Henry soothingly, which provoked a sharp and suspicious look from Hamstone. He went on. “By the way, Mr. Hamstone, I understand you employ a lot of Americans in your office.”
“A lot of Americans? In my office?”
“Well, in Sprott’s Bank.”
“Yes, there’s a handful of young Americans in our organization, but none in my personal office. Why do you ask?”
“Somebody,” Henry said, “telephoned Ambrose Quince’s secretary on Thursday, purporting to speak from your office, and asked for Simon Finch’s telephone number in Westbourne. Later on Thursday, somebody else called that number, spoke to Mr. Finch’s landlady, and left a message that Mr. Quince had altered the time of Mr. Finch’s appointment on Saturday from ten to nine-thirty. Mr. Quince, of course, never authorized such a call. In each case, the caller was a man with an American accent.”
Very definitely, Hamstone said, “That call was not made from my office, Mr. Tibbett. I told you, I have no Americans on my immediate staff, and I would have had no possible interest in Mr. Finch’s telephone number. I was especially careful not to meet either of the claimants personally. That side of the matter was entirely up to Ambrose.” He paused, and then said, “Benson, one presumes?”
“One doesn’t presume anything at this stage,” said Henry. “Well, I think that’s all for the moment, Mr. Hamstone. We’ll be on our way to the Fox and Pheasant.” He stood up.
Hamstone said, “Keep in touch, won’t you, Chief Superintendent? Naturally, this whole affair has complicated matters concerning Lord Charlton’s will. Ambrose is anxious to press ahead with court proceedings to ratify Finch’s claim, but…well, it would be easier to do if the murder was cleared up.”
“We’ll do our best, Mr. Hamstone,” Henry assured him, and Hawthorn nodded his earnest agreement.
In the Fox and Pheasant, Henry and Tom Hawthorn split forces, Henry making his way into the saloon bar while Tom headed for the public. The pub was crowded with the usual Sunday-morning post-Matins drinkers, and gossipy information was easy to come by. By the time that Henry and Tom foregathered in the dining room for lunch half an hour later, they were able to compare notes and reach some conclusions.
Tom Hawthorn had managed to get into conversation with Dick Martin, the Hamstones’ chauffeur, who without doubt had driven Mrs. Hamstone to Tenley Green in the Rolls on Friday afternoon. Henry had overheard a large lady in a mink jacket criticize the ineffectual way in which Elizabeth Hamstone had distributed the prizes at the end of the bingo evening. Martin had complained of the way Mrs. Hamstone had tried to make him help her in the garden on Saturday morning, when he should have been cleaning the Rolls (“She think I’m a ruddy plowboy or somethink?”), while a thin lady in a beaver coat had remarked in the saloon bar that Bertie Hamstone was going to get himself into hot water with the local magistrates if he persisted in driving that frightful, vulgar yellow car of his through the village at sixty miles an hour, like he did yesterday morning. He might kill a chicken or so and get away with it by paying compensation, but one day it would be a child, or even a dog…
By and large, Henry and Hawthorn agreed over their excellent lunch of pork pie and cheese, local evidence confirmed the Hamstones’ stories. On the other hand, there were the gaps and the small inconsistencies.
Driving back to London, Henry gave Hawthorn his work schedule for Monday. He was to find out as much as possible about the previous lives and careers of Mr. and Mrs. Hamstone and Mr. Denton Westbury. Miss Cecily Smeed’s life story, as Henry well knew, was firmly rooted in Warwick Industries, and he himself intended to visit Warwick House first thing in the morning. He planned to call on Sir Percy Crumble in his office just as soon as possible after the private jet had ferried that captain of industry from Scotland to Gatwick Airport.
Back in the comfortable, untidy apartment in Chelsea where the Tibbetts lived, Emmy was curled up on a sofa drinking a cup of tea and reading a Sunday newspaper. She got up with a pleased smile as Henry came in.
“Good, darling. You’re back sooner than I expected. All through for today?”
“I hope so. Any more tea in the pot?”
“Half a moment. I’ll put in some more hot water and get you a cup.”
Emmy disappeared into the kitchen, and Henry picked up the paper. On the front page, but tucked into a corner, was the headline MURDER IN CITY SOLICITOR’S OFFICE, with beneath it a blurred but recognizable reproduction of the photograph of Simon Finch that Ambrose had had taken to assist him in his United States inquiries. The story under the picture was suitably vague. The victim was described as Mr. Simon Finch of Westbourne. There was no mention of Simon Warwick.
Emmy came back with a cup of tea. She said, “There’s a telephone message for you. Derek Reynolds called from the Yard. Apparently he took the call, but the lady wouldn’t speak to anybody but you.”
“Lady?”
Emmy consulted the notepad by the telephone. “Miss Cecily Smeed. I’ve got her number written down. She’d like you to call back as soon as possible.”
Cecily Smeed sounded positively cordial. She had been thinking back, she said, to those old days in the 1940s, and she thought she might be able to suggest a possible line of investigation for Henry.
“Oh yes, Miss Smeed? What sort of line?”
“Percy Crumble, Mr. Tibbett. I told you that Mr. Alexander had brought him down from the mill to be his administrative assistant, after Mr. Dominic pulled out of the firm. Well, I know that Mr. Alexander was very busy himself, and he delegated a lot of things to Percy. I hadn’t thought about it for more than thirty years, but when Ambrose Quince mentioned the name Humberton at that dinner party, it seemed to be vaguely familiar. Now I’ve been able to put two and two together. I remember Percy Crumble making several telephone calls to Mr. Humberton—somewhere on the south coast, I think—and talking rather mysteriously about ‘the consignment’ and ‘the goods to be delivered.’ I remembered asking him about it—I said that I had no record of any customer of that name, or any consignment due, and he simply told me to shut up and mind my own business. Well, now I realize he must have been talking about the Warwick baby. You should ask him about it.”
“Thank you, Miss Smeed. I’ll certainly do that,” Henry assured her.