Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake

Fox sat quiet at his side. They waited in the dark for Mr Whipplestone to turn and continue his walk.

But he stopped and peered directly into the alleyway. For a moment Alleyn had the uncanny impression that they looked straight into each other’s eyes and then Mr Whipplestone, slipping past the bonnet of the car, tapped discreetly on the driver’s window.

Alleyn let it down.

‘May I get in?’ asked Mr Whipplestone. ‘I think it may be important.’

‘All right. But keep quiet if anybody comes. Don’t bang the door, will you? What’s up?’

Mr Whipplestone began to talk very rapidly and precisely in a breathy undertone, leaning forward so that his head was almost between the heads of his listeners.

‘I came home early,’ he said. ‘My sister Edith had a migraine. I arrived by taxi and had just let myself in when I heard the basement door close and someone came up the steps. I dare say I’ve become hypersensitive to any occurrences down there. I went into the drawing-room and without turning on the lights watched Sheridan open the area gate and look about him. He was wearing a hat but for a moment or two his face was lit by the headlamps of one of some half-dozen cars that had been halted. I saw him very clearly. Very, very clearly. He was scowling. I think I mentioned to you that I’ve been nagged by the impression that I had seen him before, I’ll return to that in a moment.’

‘So,’ said Alleyn.

‘I was still there, at my window, when this car pulled out of the square from the shadow of the trees, turned right and parked a few doors away from me. I noticed the number.’

‘Ah!’ said Alleyn.

‘This was just as Sheridan disappeared up the Mews. The driver got out of the car and – but I need not elaborate.’

‘I was rumbled.’

‘Well – yes. If you like to put it that way. I saw you station yourself at the corner and then return to this car. And I saw you drive into the Mews. Of course, I was intrigued but believe me, Alleyn, I had no thought of interfering or indulging in any – ah – ah –’

‘Counter-espionage?’

‘Oh, my dear fellow! Well. I turned away from my window and was about to put on the lights when I heard Chubb coming down the stairs. I heard him walk along the hall and stop by the drawing-room door. Only for a moment. I was in two minds whether to put on the lights and say, “Oh, Chubb, I’m in,” or something of that sort, or to let him go. So uncomfortable has the atmosphere been that I decided on the latter course. He went out, doublelocked the door and walked off in the same direction as Sheridan. And you. Into the Mews.’

Mr Whipplestone paused, whether for dramatic effect or in search of the precise mode of expression, he being invisible, it was impossible to determine.

‘It was then,’ he said, ‘that I remembered. Why, at that particular moment the penny should drop, I have no notion. But drop it did.’

‘You remembered?’

‘About Sheridan.’

‘Ah.’

‘I remembered where I had seen him. Twenty-odd years ago. In Ng’ombwana.’ Fox suddenly let out a vast sigh. ‘Go on,’ said Alleyn.

‘It was a court of law. British law, of course, at that period. And Sheridan was in the dock.’

‘Was he indeed!’

‘He had another name in those days. He was reputed to come from Portuguese East and he was called Manuel Gomez. He owned extensive coffee plantations. He was found guilty of manslaughter. One of his workers – it was a revolting business – had been chained to a tree and beaten and had died of gangrene.’

Fox clicked his tongue several times.

‘And that is not all. My dear Alleyn, for the prosecution there was a young Ng’ombwanan barrister who had qualified in London – the first, I believe, to do so.’

‘The Boomer, by God.’

‘Precisely. I seem to recollect that he pressed with great tenacity for a sentence of murder and the death penalty.’

‘What was the sentence?’

‘I don’t remember – something like fifteen years, I fancy. The plantation is now in the hands of the present government, of course, but I remember Gomez was said to have salted away a fortune. In Portugal, I think. It may have been London. I am not certain of these details.’

‘You are certain of the man?’

‘Absolutely. And of the barrister. I attended the trial, I have a diary that I kept at that time and a pretty extensive scrapbook. We can verify. But I am certain. He was scowling in the light from the car. The whole thing flashed up most vividly, those one or two minutes later.’

‘That’s what actors call a double-take.’

‘Do they?’ Mr Whipplestone said absently, and then: ‘He made a scene when he was sentenced. I’d never seen anything like it. It left an extraordinary impression.’

‘Violent?’

‘Oh yes, indeed. Screaming. Threatening. He had to be handcuffed and even then – It was like an animal,’ said Mr Whipplestone.

‘Fair enough,’ Fox rumbled, pursuing some inward cogitation.

‘You don’t ask me,’ Mr Whipplestone murmured, ‘why I took the action I did. Following you here.’

‘Why did you?’

‘I felt sure you had followed Sheridan because you thought, as I did, that probably there was to be a meeting of these people. Whether at the Cockburn-Montforts’ or at the Sanskrits’ flat. And I felt most unhappily sure that Chubb was going to join them. I had and have no idea whether you actually intended to break in upon the assembly but I thought it might well be that this intelligence would be of importance. I saw Chubb being admitted to that place. I followed, expecting you would be somewhere in the Mews and I made out your car. So here I am, you see,’ said Mr Whipplestone.

‘Here you are and the man without motive is now supplied with what might even turn out to be the prime motive.’

‘That,’ said Mr Whipplestone, ‘is what I rather thought.’

‘You may say,’ Fox ruminated, ‘that, as far as motives go, it’s now one apiece. Chubb: the daughter. The Sanskrits: losing their business. Sheridan – well, ask yourself. And the Colonel and Mrs C-M – what about them?’

‘The Boomer tells me the Colonel was livid at getting the sack. He’d seen himself rigged out as a Field Marshal or as near as dammit. Instead of which he went into retirement and the bottle.’

‘Would these motives apply,’ Fox asked, ‘equally to the Ambassador and the President? As victims, I mean.’

‘Not in Sheridan’s case, it would appear.’

‘No,’ Mr Whipplestone agreed. ‘Not in this case.’

They were silent for a space. At last Alleyn said: ‘I think this is what we do. We leave you here, Br’er Fox, keeping what I’m afraid may prove to be utterly fruitless observation. We don’t know what decision they’ll come to in the piggery-flat or indeed what exactly they’re there to decide. Another go at The Boomer? The liquidation of the Ku-Klux-Fish or whatever it is? It’s anybody’s guess. But it’s just possible you may pick up something. And, Sam, if you can stand up to another late night, I’d very much like to look at those records of yours.’

‘Of course. Only too glad.’

‘Shall we go, then?’