“Or he thinks it does.”
“Same thing, for him. My guess is that there’s a girl somewhere.”
“Here? Difficult to keep it secret, surely?”
“Impossible. Perhaps that’s what’s worrying him. Afraid that, with all this poking about, awkward enquiries will be made. For instance, where was he going yesterday afternoon, besides leaving a book on old Baildon? My dear Gilk, I assure you, the people who throw the temperaments and go all hot under the collar are almost always the innocent, not the guilty.”
“You talk as if I said it was he that killed Matt.”
“He might have,” Ellis conceded. “But I don’t think he did.”
“The famous intuition?”
“No hunch at all. I just don’t see why he should.”
“He felt very strongly about the old man’s treatment of Joan. That was genuine enough.”
“Yes. But why do it yesterday?”
“Perhaps he was never alone with him before.”
“What interests me far more is, why didn’t he go down the garden and have a word with Joan? He must have known she’d be at home.”
“She might have gone out with her mother.”
“A girl like that, working her eyes out of her head to get to Oxford, and given a real chance like a whole holiday? She’d be somewhere with a book. And it wasn’t far to go.”
“How do you know he didn’t? You’ve only his word for it.”
“True. But he wouldn’t lie about that. Joan might let it out. And someone might have seen him. Remember, she could be seen from the road.”
They went on speculating and arguing until they reached the police station. Here they were received by an amiable and red-faced sergeant, who ushered them in to Bradstreet.
“Don’t grin at me like that, you old So-and-So,” Ellis said to him, as soon as the door was shut. “Out with it.”
“Was I grinning?” Bradstreet asked, with mild surprise. “I didn’t know. Well—we’ve got the result of the autopsy. The cause of death was suffocation.”
“That helps us a hell of a lot.”
“Threads from the muffler were found in the mouth and throat.”
“He might have fallen with it across his mouth. Bruises?”
“Several from the books.”
“Before or after death?”
“Can’t say. As near as makes no matter.”
“H’m. So we’re no further than we were.”
“There is a slight bruising of the lower lip. Against the dental plate. But that, again——”
“Yes. Well, I didn’t expect anything. Surgeon no views?”
“Cautious. Doesn’t like the smell of it, but won’t say anything definite.”
“How was Carter?”
“Stiff. Resentful. Bit sarcastic.”
“At my expense.”
“He didn’t name anyone in particular.”
“Bless his heart. What else have you got?”
“Your American friend is at Exeter. Staying at the Rougemont. Went off this morning for the day, but said he would be back to dinner.”
“Good. Nelder?”
“Nothing yet. You know,” Bradstreet rubbed his chin, “we’ve got to go careful there. We can’t pull him in, just like that. There’s nothing to connect him with the business in hand. At least, nothing that I can see.”
“Say you want to talk to him about something else. Gilk—you can help us there. What might we want to talk to him about?”
Gilkison cleared his throat. The sound gave a prim, pedantic colour to his utterance.
“A number of things. Price agreements. The presence in his shop of copies of new books that aren’t review copies and have not been ordered from the publishers. His own publishing business.”
“I didn’t know he had one,” Ellis said.
“It isn’t run under his own name, of course.”
“What might be wrong with it, Mr. Gilkison?” Bradstreet asked.
“It’s the old game. An amateur writes a book. A retired colonel, a cook, a governess, an only daughter, a crank—anyone you like. They see the advertisement of Nelder’s company, and send their manuscripts in. Nelder writes an ecstatic letter, saying it is marvellous, but that, as the author is unknown, he or she must contribute to the cost of publishing. The contribution is duly sent. Nelder has the book printed as cheaply as he can, binds a few copies only—enough to meet the author’s needs and those of the few friends who’ll ask for copies. The book drops dead, and Nelder pockets the balance. It’s a wicked ramp.”
Bradstreet nodded.
“We get complaints about that sort of thing, but, unfortunately, it’s inside the law.”
“It is, if the publisher does what he undertook to do. If he prints and binds the number of copies specified in the contract. Very often he doesn’t. He takes the risk.”
“I’ve had cases,” Bradstreet said, “where there was no written contract at all.”
“Then, of course, you can do nothing. But, with Nelder—can’t you just say you’ve had complaints, and want to question him?”
“You see?” Ellis grinned. “Absolutely immoral. No scruples at all. And then he’ll turn on us and say the police are unscrupulous.”
“Anyway, I can give you three or four lines that’ll make Nelder think you have a right to question him. Things I know for certain.”
“But can’t prove?”
“It isn’t any business of mine to prove them.”
“We could go and see him, anyway,” Ellis said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After lunch, Ellis announced his intention of going to call upon Mrs. Baildon’s sister. Mr. Pawle, the vicar, and Mrs. Exworthy he had handed over to Bradstreet, alleging his own generosity. Bradstreet smiled placidly, and was not deceived.
Once more Gilkison petitioned to be allowed to get to work upon the books. He expressed himself with such heat that Ellis was obliged to soothe him and tell him that he should start that same afternoon, as soon as this last visit was over.
“You look so respectable, Gilk. You inspire such confidence. You’ve no idea what a help you are to me.”
Gilkison refused to rise. He complained again when they set out only twenty minutes after lunch, and received a homily upon laziness. By the time they reached their goal, his manner was one of dignified reserve.
Ellis chuckled to himself. He enjoyed baiting the precise and old-maidish side of Gilkison; it was one of the many pleasures that were built into the strong affection between them. Even better, he loved to exasperate Gilkison into attacking him. The venom and direction of the darts that then came in showers delighted him and ministered to his vanity. And, all the time, he knew that Gilkison’s pique was superficial only, and that he, too, recognised and enjoyed the game.
“He’s like an aunt I had,” Ellis once said of him. “We used to rag her like demons, and she adored it. When we got tired, she’d start to trail her coat and attract our attention till we began again.”
Thoughts of an aunt seemed appropriate as they walked up Martha Attwill’s path: but Joan Baildon’s aunt proved to be not at all like Ellis’s.
They did not see her at first. The two-storey cottage of brown stone had in front of it a little porch and conservatory combined. Both the glass door and the inner door stood wide. A stiff bell, of the kind that one turns like a key, set up a jangling just inside the door, so loud as to startle them.
“Yes?”
Ellis spun round. He could not tell where the voice came from.
“Hallo, then?”
They looked back into the small garden, to their left, and saw a plump little woman sitting in the shade of an arbour. In front of her gleamed a white enamel basin.