Late, Late in the Evening

'Yes, I see,' I said. 'Can you think of anybody who might have seen you standing outside the cinema waiting for Mr Nigel?'

'There were any number of people coming out of the cinema when it closed down at eleven. Some of them must have noticed me. Look here, are you to do with the police?'

'Sufficiently so for your purpose. I shall tell them about this interview and then they may contact you and make any enquiries they think fit.'

'You think I've been lying?' He could have sounded belligerent, but, as a matter of fact, he appeared to be alarmed. 'I assure you, madam, I've told you nothing but the truth. If Mr Kempson says he came to the cinema and didn't find me, he's the liar, not me. Hang it all, treat me fair! Which is more likely?'

'You have a point there, perhaps.'

'I never even knew the young girl.'

'Perhaps Mr Nigel is in a position to claim the same thing. However, it will be to your advantage to go to the police yourself and tell them what you have told me.'

'You don't mean I'm really suspected?' he said, looking even more alarmed.

'At the moment, neither less nor more than others,' I replied. His alarm had impressed me to some extent. I did not suspect him of murder. I did suspect that he had something to hide.

I went straight to the police station. The inspector was in his office dealing with various documents, but he received me courteously and asked what he could do.

'I want to know whether a telephone call came for Mrs Kempson while you were at Hill House on the Monday after Miss Patterson was murdered, Inspector.'

'Yes, there was a call.'

'Ah!'

'From the young lady's father.'

'Nobody else?'

'Nobody else. He was very distressed, of course, and asked what we wanted him to do. He said that his wife was in a state of collapse, but if he could be of any help he would come over. I advised him to stay put and we would let him know about the inquest, as his daughter would have to be identified formally.'

And you are positive that there was no other call for Mrs Kempson that day?'

'What is all this, ma'am?'

'Probably nothing of importance,' I said. 'I wondered whether the photographer had rung up to explain why he had not come to the house to take the pictures at the birthday party.'

'No, he didn't ring, ma'am.'

I could not understand why the photographer had told me such a lie. I went to the Town Hall. It is a pretentious but ugly building which mars an otherwise charming street. The porter on duty enquired my business in a civil manner, so I asked him whether he had been on duty at the banquet of which I mentioned the date. It appeared that he had.

'I believe some photographs were taken,' I said.

'While he was sober, lucky enough,' said the porter. 'When he left I had to help him down the steps and then blowed if he didn't go tacking away across the street to the Goat and Grapes. Good thing there wasn't no traffic about. I watched him across and I thinks to myself as he'll be lucky if Bill Ballock serves him, the state he's in when he leaves here. When the photographs and the orders was all took, I reckon they give him a skinful in the mayor's parlour, 'cos, when I see him off, happy wasn't the word for it. He could still stand on his feet, just about, but I reckon that was instink, not intention.'

I crossed the road to the Goat and Grapes. At that hour it was empty except for a pot-boy polishing glasses. I asked to speak to the landlord and a Dickensian character of jovial aspect appeared. He remembered the night in question perfectly well, but for reasons quite unconnected with the murder.

'I always do pretty well when there's a "do" on in the Town Hall,' he informed me. 'Some of 'em come in before it starts, so as to get themselves into the mood, like, and if I'm still open when it's over, some of 'em comes in for a night-cap, as you might say.'

I mentioned the photographer.

'I understand he belonged to the night-cap contingent,' I said.

'Then you understand wrong,' said the landlord promptly. 'He comes in here in a state which I should describe as unfortunate and I refused to serve him.'

'He did not get anything to drink here?'

'He did not, madam. Do you think I want to lose my licence? I told him I was shutting up shop and he'd best go home and sleep it off.'

'You did not take him behind your bar and minister to him in your back room?'

The landlord stared at me incredulously.

'Who's been telling you that tale?'

'It was rumoured. You deny it, then?'

'If you wasn't a lady I'd do more than deny it; I'd add a few rude words to make my meaning clear.'

'So what happened to him?'

'My pot-man found him laid out sleeping it off in the gents when he went to hose out on the Sunday morning, but whether he'd been there all night, well, that I couldn't undertake to say.'

Intriguing, don't you think, dear Sir Walter?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE PENNY DROPS

As you will realise, dear Sir Walter, the result of my investigations provided us with four lines of enquiry, for, after my meeting with the photographer, the police and I were pursuing our ends in even closer association than before.

The situation which confronted us was not, as so often happens in cases of murder, the necessity to break down alibis, but to establish them. Among our suspects, as I saw it, four had to be cleared and one retained.

'Psychology first,' said the inspector. 'I'm a great believer in it since one of your lot, ma'am, if I may so refer to a body of learned ladies and gentlemen in whom, usually, our lot don't place much confidence, was able to clear my little girl of a charge of thieving from another child at her school. Not that I'm all that sold on it in a general way, you understand, because, as it seems to me, psychology is more concerned with finding excuses for the criminal than getting him committed on a charge.'

Having obtained carte blanche from him, I considered my suspects all over again. Two of them, the photographer and Mr Conyers, I decided to ignore for the time being. Neither was at all likely to have had a motive for killing Merle Patterson and the only possible reason which Mr Conyers could have had for murdering Ward was that he thought him a threat to little Lionel's inheritance. As, according to Mrs Kempson, the estate was more or less of a white elephant, this motive seemed inadequate. Lionel would get the money anyway.

I turned my attention again to Doctor Tassall. It seemed time to put the cards on the table. I sent a note to the surgery to ask him to spare a few minutes on his next round or as soon as was convenient, to pay a call on Mrs Landgrave.

That this was a deceitful move intending to disarm him I freely admit. However, if he was a murderer, the nicer scruples were out of place; if he was an innocent man he had nothing to fear or, at this late stage in the proceedings, nothing to hide from me. The mere fact that he was suspected-if he did not know it already-should be sufficient, I thought, to make him willing to talk.

From my window on to the street I saw him arrive. I opened the front door to him myself and led him into my sitting-room.

Are you the patient?' he enquired.

There is no patient for you, but possibly one for me,' I replied. He did not pretend to misunderstand me.

Any police hidden behind the arras?' he asked, with an attempt at flippancy which was bold but not convincing.