MERLE COVERDALE said to Trevor Lomas, ‘I’ve only been helping him out with a few private things. He’s good company and he’s different. I don’t have much of a life.’
‘Only a few private things,’ Trevor said. ‘Only just helping him out.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Typing out his nark information for him.’
‘Look,’ Merle said, ‘he isn’t anything to do with the police. I don’t know where that story started, but it isn’t true.’
‘What’s this private business you do for him?’
‘No business of yours.
‘We got to carve up that boy one of these days,’ Trevor said. ‘D’you want to get carved alongside of him?’
‘Christ, I’m telling you the truth,’ Merle said. ‘It’s only a story he’s writing for someone he calls Cheese that had to do with Peckham in the old days. You don’t understand Dougal. He’s got no harm in him. He’s just different.’
‘Cheese,’ Trevor said. ‘That’s what you go there every Tuesday and every Friday night to work on.’
‘It’s not real cheese,’ Merle said. ‘Cheese is a person, it isn’t the real name.’
‘You don’t say so,’ Trevor said. ‘And what’s the real name?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Lomas, truly.’
‘You won’t go back there,’ Trevor stated.
‘I’ll have to explain to him, then. He’s just a friend, Mr Lomas.’
‘You don’t see him again. Understand. We got plans for him.’
‘Mr Lomas, you’d better go. Mr Druce will be along soon. I don’t want Mr Druce to find you here.’
‘He knows I’m here.’
‘You never told him of me going to Dougal’s, week-nights?’
‘He knows, I said.’
‘It’s you’s the informer, not Dougal.’
‘Re-member. Any more work you do for him’s going to go against you.’
Trevor trod down the stairs from her flat with the same deliberate march as when he had arrived, and she watched him from her window taking Denmark Hill as if he owned it.
Mr Druce arrived twelve minutes later. He took oil his hat and hung it on the peg in her hall. He followed her into the sitting-room and opened the door of the sideboard. He took out some whisky and poured himself a measure, squirting soda into it.
Merle took up her knitting.
‘Want some?’ he said.
‘I’ll have a glass of red wine. I feel I need something red, to buck me up.
He stooped to get the bottle of wine and, opening a drawer, took out the corkscrew.
‘I just had a visitor,’ she said.
He turned to look at her with the corkscrew pointing from his fist.
‘I daresay you know who it was,’ she said.
‘Certainly I do. I sent him.’
‘My private life’s my private life,’ she said. ‘I’ve never interfered with yours. I’ve never come near Mrs Druce though many’s the time I could have felt like telling her a thing or two.’
He handed over her glass of wine. He looked at the label on the bottle. He sat down and took his shoes off. He put on his slippers. He looked at his watch. Merle switched on the television. Neither looked at it. ‘I’ve been greatly taken in by that Scotch fellow. He’s in the pay of the police and of the board of Meadows Meade. He’s been watching me for close on three months and putting in his reports.’
‘No, you’re wrong there,’ Merle said.
‘And you’ve been in with him this last month.’ He pointed his finger at her throat, nearly touching it.
‘You’re wrong there. I’ve only been typing out some stories for him.’
‘What stories?’
‘About Peckham in the old days. It’s about some old lady he knows. You’ve got no damn right to accuse me and send that big tough round here threatening me.’
‘Trevor Lomas,’ Mr Druce said, ‘is in my pay. You’ll do what Trevor suggests. We’re going to run that Dougal Douglas, so-called, out of Peckham with something to remember us by.’
‘I thought you were going to emigrate.’
‘I am.’
‘When?’
‘When it suits me.’
He crossed his legs and attended to the television.
‘I don’t feel like any supper tonight.’ she said.
‘Well, I do.’
She went into the kitchen and made a clatter. She came back crying. ‘I’ve had a rotten life of it.’
‘Not since Dougal Douglas, so-called, joined the firm, from what I hear.’
‘He’s only a friend. You don’t understand him.’
Mr Druce breathed in deeply and looked up at the lampshade as if calling it to witness.
‘You can have a chop with some potatoes and peas,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any.’
She sat down and took up her knitting, weeping upon it.
He leaned forward and tickled her neck. She drew away. He pinched the skin of her long neck, and she screamed.
‘Sh-sh-sh,’ he said, and stroked her neck.
He went to pour himself some more whisky. He turned and looked at her. ‘What have you been up to with Dougal Douglas, so-called?’ he said.
‘Nothing. He’s just a friend. A bit of company for me.’ The corkscrew lay on the sideboard. He lifted an end, let it drop, lifted it, let it drop…
‘I’d better turn the chop,’ she said and went into the kitchen.
He followed her. ‘You gave him information about me,’ he said.
‘No, I’ve told you -‘
‘And you typed his reports to the Board.’
She pushed past him, weeping noisily, to find her handkerchief on the chair.
‘What else was between you and him?’ he said, raising his voice above the roar of the television.
He came towards her with the corkscrew and stabbed it into her long neck nine times, and killed her. Then he took his hat and went home to his wife.
‘Doug dear,’ said Miss Maria Cheeseman.
‘I’m in a state,’ Dougal said, ‘so could you ring off?’
‘Doug, I just wanted to say. You’ve re-written my early years so beautifully. Those new Peckham stories are absolutely sweet. I’m sure you feel, as I feel, that the extra effort was quite worth it. And now the whole book’s perfect, and I’m thrilled.’
‘Thanks,’ said Dougal. ‘I doubt if the new bits were worth all the trouble, but -‘
‘Doug, come over and see me this afternoon.’
‘Sorry, Cheese, I’m in a state. I’m packing. I’m leaving here.’
‘Doug, I’ve got a little gift for you. Just an appreciation-’
‘I’ll ring you back,’ Dougal said. ‘I’ve just remembered I’ve left some milk on the stove.’
‘You’ll let me have your new address, won’t you?’
Dougal went into the kitchen. Miss Frierne was seated at the table, but she had slipped down in her chair. She seemed to be asleep. One side of her face was askew. Her eyelid fluttered.
Dougal looked round for the gin bottle to measure the extent of Miss Frierne’s collapse. But there was no gin bottle, no bottle at all, no used glass. He took another look at Miss Frierne. Her eyelid fluttered and her lower lip moved on one side of her mouth.
Dougal telephoned to the police to send a doctor. Then he went upstairs and fetched down his luggage comprising his zipper-case, his shiny new brief-case, and his typewriter. The doctor arrived presently and went in to Miss Frierne. ‘A stroke,’ he said.
‘Well, I’ll be off,’ Dougal said.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, a tenant. I’m leaving.’
‘Right away?’
‘Yes,’ Dougal said. ‘I was leaving in any case, but I’ve got a definite flaw where illness is concerned.’
‘Has she got any relatives?’
‘No.’
‘I’d better ring the ambulance,’ the doctor said. ‘She’s pretty far gone.’
Dougal walked with his luggage up Rye Lane. In the distance he saw a crowd outside the police-station yard. He joined it, and pressed through with his bags into the yard.
‘Going away?’ said one of the policemen.
‘I’m leaving the district. I thought, from the crowd, there might be some new find in the tunnel.’
The policeman nodded towards the crowd. ‘We’ve just arrested a man in connexion with the murder.’
‘Druce,’ Dougal said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Druce is. the man,’ Dougal said.
‘He’s the chap all right. She might have been left there for days if it hadn’t been for the food burning on the gas. The neighbours thought there was a fire and broke in. The tunnel’s open now, as you see; the steps are in. Official opening on Wednesday. Lights are being fixed now.’
‘Pity I won’t be here. I should have liked to go along the tunnel.’
‘Go down if you like. It’s only six hundred yards. Brings you out at Gordon Road. One of our men is on guard at that point. He’ll know you. Pity not to see it as you’ve taken so much interest.’
‘I’ll come,’ Dougal said.
‘I can’t take you,’ the policeman said. ‘But I’ll get you a torch. It’s just a straight run. All the coins and the old bronze have been taken away, so there’s nothing there except some bones we haven’t cleared away as yet. But you can say you’ve been through.’
He went to fetch the torch. A young apprentice electrician emerged from the tunnel with two empty tea-mugs in his hand and went out through the crowd to a café across the road.
The policeman came back with a small torch. ‘Give this to the constable at the other end. Save you trouble of bringing it back. Well, good-bye. Glad to know you. I’ve got to go on duty now.’
This tunnel had been newly supported in its eight-foot height by wooden props, between which Dougal wound his way. This tunnel – which in a few days’ time was to be opened to the public, and in yet a few days more closed down owing to three scandals ensuing from its being frequented by the Secondary Modern Mixed School – was strewn with new gravel, trodden only, so far, by the workmen, and by Dougal as he proceeded with his bags.
About half-way through the tunnel Dougal put his bags down and started to pick up some bones which were piled in a crevice ready to be taken away before the official opening. Then he held the torch between his teeth and juggled with some carefully chosen shin bones which were clotted with earth. He managed six at a time, throwing and catching, never missing, so that the earth fell away from them and scattered.
He picked up his bags and continued through the hot tunnel which smelt of its new disinfectant. He saw a strong lamp ahead and the figure of the electrician on a ladder cutting some wire in the wall.
The electrician turned. ‘You been quick, Bobby,’ he said.
Dougal switched out his torch and set down his bags on the gritty floor of the tunnel. He saw the electrician descend from the ladder with his knife and turn the big lamp towards him.
‘Trevor Lomas, watch out for the old bones, they’re haunted,’ Dougal said. He chucked what was once a hip at Trevor’s head. Then with his left hand he grabbed the wrist that held the knife. Trevor kicked. Dougal employed that speciality of his with his right hand, clutching Trevor’s throat back-handedly with his claw-like grip.
Trevor went backward and stumbled over the bags, dropping the knife. Dougal picked it up, grabbed the bags, and fled.
Near the end of the tunnel, where the tight from the big lamp barely reached, Trevor caught up with him and delivered to Dougal a stab in the eye with a bone. Whereupon Dougal flashed his torch in Trevor’s face and leapt at him with his high shoulder raised and elbow sticking out. He applied once more his deformed speciality. Holding Trevor’s throat with this right-hand twist, he fetched him a left-hand blow on the corner of the jaw. Trevor sat down. Dougal picked up his bags. pointing his torch to the ground, and emerged from the tunnel at Gordon Road. There he reported to the policeman on duty that the electrician was sitting in a dazed condition among the old nuns’ bones, having been overcome by the heat. ‘I can’t stop to assist you,’ Dougal said, ‘for, as you see, I have to catch a train. Would you mind returning this torch with my thanks to the police station?’
‘You hurt yourself?’ the policeman said, looking at Dougal’s eye.
‘I bumped into something in the dark,’ Dougal said. ‘But it’s only a bruise. Pity the lights weren’t up.‘
He went into the Merry Widow for a drink. Then he took his bags up to Peckham High Street, got into a taxi, and was driven across the river, where he entered a chemist’s shop and got a dressing put on his wounded eye.
‘I’m glad he’s cleared off,’ Dixie said to her mother. ‘Humphrey’s not glad but I’m glad. Now he won’t be coming to the wedding. You never know what he might have done. He might have gone mad among the guests showing the bumps on his head. He might have made a speech. He might have jumped and done something rude.
I didn’t like him. Our Leslie didn’t like him. Humphrey liked him. He was bad for Humphrey. Mr Druce liked him and look what Mr Druce has come to. Poor Miss Coverdale liked him. Trevor didn’t like him. But I’m not worried now. I’ve got this bad cold, though.’