Chapter 4

The Constable Takes A Hand

The butler left and shortly afterwards ushered in a short, portly and pompous policeman, whose uniform buttons strained over his generous paunch. Celia remained seated at the desk to receive him, her back ramrod stiff and the light from the green-shaded lamp coaxing rainbow-shot glints from the diamonds at her neck and ears, while Bertie lounged in his armchair and elegantly crossed one evening-dress clad leg over the other, screwing his monocle back in his eye to scrutinise the newcomer. Ginger, silent and unnoticed, standing immobile in the relatively deep shadow by the window, thought the pair of them were consciously or unconsciously playing up their role as aristocrats. He did not think the constable would be amused, a conclusion borne out by the man's opening words.

"This is a very serious matter, Lady Conway," he began ponderously and self-importantly. "You should have reported it straight away."

"My mother is Lady Conway," Celia corrected him frostily. "I am Lady Celia Courtney, as you should know, but it will suffice to call me m'lady," she informed him brusquely.

The policeman looked irritated rather than abashed and Ginger wondered whether it was wise to antagonise him.

Constable Pearson sat down heavily without being invited and Celia pursed her lips. "Do make yourself comfortable, Constable," she told him pointedly and Ginger noticed the man had the grace to blush slightly at his lack of manners.

"I'll come straight to the point, m'lady," he stated bluntly. "You rang up the station at …" he broke off to consult his notebook, then continued portentously, " 21 hours 44 minutes to tell me that there has been a shooting that you have known about since before dinner, which from my experience of your sort of people," he said ungraciously, "is about 20.30 hours."

"Eight o'clock, actually, officer," put in Bertie languidly. "We were a few minutes late because I went up to see what was keeping Cliffe – the murdered man. I knocked on his door and receiving no reply, tried the handle. It was unlocked and I found him lying on the floor, shot through the forehead with a small calibre pistol, but with no sign of the weapon in the room."

"And you are…?" queried the policeman, about to make an entry in his notebook.

"Bertie Lissie, Lady Celia's cousin. Actually," continued Bertie, "I'm Lord Lissie but I'm also Sergeant Lissie of the Special Air Police, attached to Scotland Yard." He hid an amused smile at the constable's expression on hearing this unexpected statement. The pencil remained poised over the page as Pearson appeared to be immobilised by surprise.

Bertie seized the initiative and continued, "I didn't touch anything, naturally. As I said, I couldn't see the murder weapon, although I didn't spend much time investigating. Then I took the key out of the door, locked it so no one could get in and disturb anything, and came downstairs."

"And you told her ladyship what had happened?" surmised the constable.

"Oh no!" replied Bertie. "Not straight away. I told my colleague, Air Constable Hebblethwaite, who is also a guest here, first. I thought he ought to know."

"And what did he do? I don't suppose he told her ladyship, either, did he?" asked the policeman with a suspicion of sarcasm in his voice, as he made several different attempts to capture the surname in his notebook.

"You're quite right," Ginger spoke for the first time.

The constable peered into the gloom from whence Ginger's voice had come. Whether it was the fact that they were of equal police rank, or the slight northern intonation in the young man's voice that betrayed his working class origins, the policeman seemed to warm to him, for his tone of voice when he asked his next question was cordial. "So what did you do then, constable?"

Ginger stepped forward into the light and saw from the expression of surprise on Pearson's face that he had not lived up to the policeman's preconceived ideas of him. Whether it was his apparent lack of years or the fact he was attired, like Bertie, in evening dress, Ginger was not sure.

"I had taken Lady Celia into dinner," he explained, joining the circle at the desk. "Lord Lissie came and fetched me from the dining room, but without alarming the other guests. We decided that, as it was too late to do anything for Cliffe and the scene of the crime had been made secure, the most pleasant thing for everyone else was to go on with dinner as normal and observe the rest of the guests, who were, after all, potential suspects."

"Did you form an opinion about what time the victim was shot?" Pearson wanted to know.

Ginger and Bertie exchanged glances. "We thought we heard a shot just as we were leaving my room to come down to dinner," offered Ginger. "That would have been about five to eight."

"Both leaving the young man's room," mouthed the constable silently as he wrote the information down. He looked up and subjected Ginger to a curious scrutiny.

"But we didn't positively identify it as such," concluded Bertie to draw attention back to him. "We thought it might have been a backfire. The night was still, and sound would have travelled a long way. The window was open, too," he added.

"And do you share a room?" Pearson wanted to know curiously, clearly intrigued by what went on upstairs at country house parties.

"Of course not," replied Bertie naturally, thinking that the constable had some queer ideas. "I came along to collect Ginger after we had both finished dressing."

Constable Pearson looked at the young man again and scribbled out his attempts at Ginger's surname, noting in his book instead, "Ginger".

They were interrupted by a tap on the door followed by the appearance of Beech. "The police doctor has arrived, m'lady," he announced.

On being requested to show the man in, Beech presented a tall, thin, bespectacled man, in his mid-forties, with hair that is commonly known as "pepper and salt". He was carrying the badge of his office, a brown leather Gladstone bag.

"Dr Grange, m'lady," the butler announced and withdrew.

Celia made the introductions and suggested that Bertie took the doctor up to Cliffe's bedroom so that he could view the body.

Bertie assented, then in an aside to Ginger, remarked, "you'd better stay here, old boy. It won't be pleasant. I'm not exactly looking forward to it myself."

Ginger nodded, reflecting that he was fortunate in that his comrades were at pains to protect him from the more distressing nature of their work.

Pearson accompanied the doctor and Bertie, leaving Ginger alone with Celia.

"I think we had better rejoin the others in the drawing room," suggested Ginger as tactfully as he could. "We've been an awful long time, considering we were supposed to be inspecting a painting."

Celia looked at him puzzled for a moment and then recollected the purported reason for their being in the library. With an effort she drew herself up and smiled at him. "I feel a bit shaken, you know, Ginger," she confessed. "I think I'll just have a brandy before we go back. Do help yourself," she added as she went to the table behind one of the sofas, selected a decanter from the tray of drinks and poured a small measure of the amber liquid into a balloon glass.

Ginger declined, adding that he seldom touched spirits; brandy was for medicinal purposes and would be wasted on him.

"That's what this is," Celia assured him, "purely medicinal." She took a couple of mouthfuls and sighed, "you're right, what a waste! It's Napoleon cognac and completely unappreciated. I suppose I offend your Northern frugality with my prodigal ways," she murmured half ironically, putting the unfinished glass down on the desk.

Despite himself, Ginger smiled and Celia had the grace to blush. For all she was attracted by his different upbringing and enjoyed teasing him, she had to admit she liked him for himself and had instantly regretted her rather snide remark. Ginger sensed the subtle change in her attitude and decided it was time to get his own back.

"I feel better after that bracer," she announced briskly.

"Good!" said Ginger. Then with a grin he added, "let's give the gossips something to talk about." He offered her his arm and, when she took it with a startled glance, led her back to the drawing room, ushering her in proprietarily.

The guns and their wives looked up at their return and several of the men gave Ginger a conspiratorial wink, to which he responded with an air of innocence that was so patently false it fuelled their speculation rather than ending it. The women looked at Celia curiously and to her intense annoyance she found herself blushing. She did not expect this turn of events, nor to feel uncomfortable that the tables had been turned on her and her reaction was a revelation. When she turned to Ginger to remonstrate with him, he smiled into her eyes.

"I think that painting, "The Biter Bit", was wonderful, don't you?" he asked impishly.

Celia dropped her gaze and nodded ruefully. "No more teasing," she breathed. "I promise. I didn't realise what you must feel. It was just a bit of fun."

"One person's fun is another's embarrassment, wouldn't you say?" he asked quietly. For a moment, his accent broadened as he quoted, "'if you prick us, do we not bleed?' Just because my father was a miner and I was born in a slum," he continued in his normal voice, "doesn't mean my feelings can be toyed with for your amusement."

"I'm sorry," said Celia genuinely reaching out to put her hand on his arm. "Really I am." She was unable to meet his eyes.

Ginger put his hand under her chin and raised her face. "Yes, I think you are," he agreed. "It's been a salutary lesson for you." As he spoke, some sixth sense made him glance across to find Colonel Hitchcott watching them contemplatively. Ginger took his hand away and felt the blood rush to his cheeks, annoyed with himself at the display of embarrassment.

All attention was abruptly switched to the door as Constable Pearson, accompanied by the doctor and Bertie, came into the drawing room and his dramatic announcement forced all thoughts of any possible involvement between their young hostess and her guest from everyone's mind.

Constable Pearson cleared his throat and declared importantly, "I shall have to ask you all to remain where you are. There has been murder done!"

The room broke into uproar as the occupants responded to this revelation.

"Celia! Is this true?" asked Lady Conway, aghast.

"What is this, Lady Celia?" asked Colonel Hitchcott bewildered, "some kind of a joke? Are you doing an Agatha Christie weekend and you've got mixed up?"

"I'm afraid not, Colonel," Celia told him regretfully, nodding to her mother. "Someone has killed Alfred Cliffe, apparently."

"Are you sure he didn't just kill himself?" queried the ex-soldier, frowning. "He was getting treatment for depression, you know."

"He was definitely murdered, I'm afraid," confirmed Bertie.

"Hmph," snorted the Colonel. "Shouldn't speak ill of the dead," he continued, "but whoever it is has done everybody a good turn in that case!"

Constable Pearson made a note in his notebook. "You didn't like him then, Colonel?" he asked heavily.

"The man was a menace!" exclaimed the Colonel. "He wiped my eye on the drive today."

Constable Pearson looked puzzled so Bertie explained. "What the Colonel means is that Cliffe shot across and took one of his birds." When the policeman still looked blank, Bertie added, "it's a shooting faux pas as well as a potentially dangerous manoeuvre."

"His dog caused havoc with the drive," added a deep voice which Bertie recognised as belonging to Joseph Levy-Strauss. "He had no idea of controlling it," the financier continued, a remark which caused much nodding and murmurs of agreement among the assembled guests.

"And he was rude to the beaters," mentioned another gun, a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man called Worsley who was standing near the fireplace, a coffee cup in his hand. "Absolutely no call for it."

"He was rude to everybody," interposed Peter Fosdyke from his seat near the window. "The man just didn't have any social graces at all."

This pronouncement also provoked a chorus of assent as Constable Pearson struggled to keep up with the information that was being thrown at him. Ginger, still standing close to Celia, almost felt sorry for him.

Naomi Levy-Strauss, a pretty dark-haired girl, much younger than her husband, clutched at the necklace at her throat, twisting the rope of pearls convulsively. Under the torsion, the string snapped and the pearls spilled over the carpet, rolling across the polished parquet. All eyes switched to the cascade of beads.

Flustered, the young woman bent down and began scrabbling on her hands and knees to gather up the remnants of her broken necklace.

Lady Maria Worsley, who had been sitting next to her, leaned forward and touched her gently on the shoulder. "Don't, my dear," she said not unkindly, "ring for a servant."

Naomi reddened. "Of course," she stammered, straightening up and looking round for the bell.

Lady Maria's husband put his coffee cup on the mantelpiece and moved across to pull the cord as Constable Pearson cleared his throat for another announcement.

"I shall have to have all your names and particulars," he told them, brandishing his notebook. "Then I shall want to see you one at a time in the library."

He moved aside as Beech arrived in response to the bell. "What do you want?" he inquired officiously.

"You rang, m'lady?" asked Beech, ignoring the policeman.

"I did," the Honourable Peregrine Worsley told him from the right of the fireplace before Celia could reply. "Mrs Levy-Strauss has broken her necklace. Send someone to pick up the pearls and have them re-strung."

"Certainly, sir," returned Beech urbanely. "I'll send a maid at once." With that, he withdrew to set the process in motion.

Constable Pearson eyed Peregrine speculatively. "I think we'll start with you, sir," he said grimly.

"Just as you wish," responded Peregrine smoothly. He paused in making his way toward the door to murmur reassuringly to his wife, an attractive Spanish-looking beauty who, Ginger thought inconsequentially, would have been just Algy's type, "I don't suppose this will take long, darling."

As the short, dumpy policeman and the tall, lean aristocrat left for the library, a hubbub of speculation broke out among those left in the drawing room. A maid entered unnoticed by the guests and cleared up the remnants of the broken necklace.