Chapter 10 #2
Speechless, the constable waved Alec to a seat by the front window and stood uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot.
The ladder-back chair looked as if it had had a long, hard life in someone’s kitchen before being demoted to constabulary use, but it felt solid enough when Alec sat on it. Hoping its partner on the other
side of the small, square table was equally sturdy, he invited Puckle to be seated.
“When are we to expect reinforcements from Exeter?” he asked.
“Torquay they do be coming from, sir. ’Tis a mortal sight closer. How long—well that depends, sir. Being Sunday, likely they’d have to call someone in. The superintendent said as they’ll be motoring down, there being none so many trains and ferries of a Sunday evening.”
“At least we’ll have transportation, then.”
“Oh no, sir. The superintendent said the motor-car’ll drop them in Abbotsford for the last ferry, and it do have to go back tonight, being needed elsewhere.”
Alec sighed. “All right, let me have your notebook and a pencil and tell me what you know about Enderby’s affairs.”
Reluctantly, Puckle handed over his notebook. “I don’t like to gossip, sir. It don’t do in a small place like Westcombe.”
“Your discretion is commendable, Constable, but misplaced. This is now officially a murder enquiry. Anything you tell me is not gossip but essential background information.”
“Yessir. He first come to Westcombe three years since.” Puckle glanced at the door his wife had gone through, then at the youth industriously scribbling at the big desk, and lowered his voice.
“He weren’t alone, like. Had a woman with him.
Claimed they was brother and sister and took rooms next door to each other with a connecting door. ”
“You’re sure she wasn’t his sister?”
“What I heard was, the chamber-maid said one o’ their two beds weren’t slept in. Mrs. Hammett come in here and complained, said it shouldn’t be allowed, though how she expected me to—”
His story was interrupted by the sound of boots on the cobbles outside. The lifeboatman Bill stuck his head around the door. “Ned and me’s brung un up along, sir. What’ll us do wi’ un?” he enquired.
Alec looked at Puckle, who stood, pushing himself up with his
hands on the table. “Take un to the side gate, Bill. I’ll go round and unlock it. He’ll have to go in the wash’se for now. I’ll light a lantern.”
He went through to the back and the face at the door disappeared.
“I’ll have to go and break the news to Mrs. Enderby,” Alec said to Vernon. “How well do you know her? Is she likely to need a medical attendant on hand?”
“Not when you tell her, I shouldn’t think. You can’t run a pub if you’re a shrinking violet. But does she have to see him?”
“Briefly. By oil-lamp, I gather.”
“He’s … he’s a bit of a mess, isn’t he? My uncle must be home by now. Shall I ring him up?”
“If you would. My compliments and can he come at once. If not, I dare say you’ve learnt how to cope with fainting or hysterics?”
“Y … yes.” The prospect obviously daunted him far more than examining the dead man had. “Sort of.”
“We’ll hope your uncle can come, or the police surgeon arrives before I get back. Cheer up. You’ve done remarkably well so far and I expect you can manage if you have to.”
Alec went out into the dusk. Sunday was late opening, but the bars at the Schooner would have been open for some time by now.
Half the lifeboatmen were probably in there drinking.
More than likely they had already told Mrs. Enderby that her husband was dead, unless the lawyer-coxswain had warned them not to.
On the other hand, surely decency would demand closing the bars when she heard the news. The seamen might decide to hold their tongues to preserve drinking time.
Pure speculation! Alec recognized he was postponing his duty, a part of his job he loathed. He walked down the hill.
The windows of the public bar were lit by the soft glow of gaslight behind curtains.
One was open and through it came a subdued murmur of voices.
No rumble and clatter of skittles. Alec remembered seeing a sign: NO SKITTLES ON SUNDAYS.
On the far side of the open front door, the windows of the dining room were also lit.
Of course, it was dinnertime for the hotel guests. Mrs. Enderby must be cursing her absent husband.
Or had she pushed him?
Alec entered. The narrow lobby was empty, the cubby-hole behind the registration desk unlit.
He rang the bell on the desk, to no effect.
As he stood there, wondering whether to knock on the middle door to his left, which must lead into the space behind the bar counter, Mrs. Enderby came out of the dining room, harassed and hurrying.
A babble of voices and the chink of china and cutlery cut off as she shut the door behind her.
“Oh, did you ring, sir? Sorry, I’m short-handed and all the rooms are taken. You’ll be lucky to find a place at this time of year but you could try—”
“I must ask you to spare me a moment, Mrs. Enderby. Police. Is there somewhere quiet we can go?”
She took in a sharp breath. For a moment she held absolutely still, then she exhaled and said, “If you’re looking for him, I don’t know where he is. If you’ve got him, you can keep him. What’s he done now? Don’t tell me his latest victim is below the age of consent?”
The door to the lounge bar opened and a man came out. He nodded to Alec, who recognized one of Peter Anstruther’s pals from the previous evening. “’Night, Mrs. Enderby. I’ll send one of the lads first thing tomorrow to get that drain running properly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dale. Good night.” As Dale stepped out into the street, she lifted the counter of the reception desk.
“We’d better go through here, Officer.” She led him through a door into a tiny but comfortable sitting room and lit a lamp, keeping the gas turned quite low.
“Something to drink? Well, you won’t mind if I do. Have a seat.”
He watched as she poured herself a short gin from a bottle in a corner cabinet, filled the glass with tonic water, and took a swig. Apart from unnaturally blond hair, Nancy Enderby was good-looking, with brown eyes, naturally dark brows and lashes, and a
minimum of cosmetic assistance—carmine lips and a dab of powder on the nose. Her artificial silk frock was tight-fitting but the neckline suggested a compromise between the barmaid and the business-woman. She sank wearily into the nearest chair, and Alec sat down.
“My name is Fletcher. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Her unblinking stare disconcerted him. So did her words: “That depends on what you mean by bad, don’t it?
” When he hesitated how to respond, she went on.
“It is something about George, I reckon? I obey the licensing laws, and if I didn’t, Fred Puckle’d be round here like a shot wi’ Ellen Hammett chivvying ahind him, not a plainclothes gentleman-copper as was drinking in the lounge last evening. ”
“Yes, it’s your husband. He fell from a cliff. I’m sorry … he’s dead.”
She breathed a long, deep sigh. Alec thought her lips quivered momentarily, perhaps recalling the early days of courtship and marriage, then her mouth hardened and she said harshly, “Fell—or was pushed?”
“That’s what I have to find out. I’ll need to ask you about any enemies he may have had—”
“May!” she snorted.
“As well as whatever you can tell me about his movements today, and your own.”
At that she gave a sour smile. “That’s easy. I were right here, doing his share o’ the work along o’ my own.”
“But first,” Alec said gently, “as next-of-kin, you’ll have to come along to the police station and make a positive identification of the deceased.”
“If it’s right now you mean, Mr. Fletcher, that’s just what I can’t do. I’m a working woman. I’ve got a good staff but they need overseeing. There’s customers to be attended to.” As she spoke she stood up, her mind apparently already returning to business.
Alec rose with her. “That’s all right, Mrs. Enderby. Come round at closing time, and you might want to bring a friend with you.”
Much better than right now, actually, he thought with relief. By half past ten, either Vernon’s uncle or the police surgeon would have had a chance to prettify the battered remains of George Enderby’s face.