No Business of Mine

“That’s swell,” I said. “I know a friend of hers. Maybe I’ll look her up. Do you know her? I was wondering what she was like. Think I’d be welcome?”

“From what I hear, men are always welcomed there,” she said, with a sniff. “I’ve never seen ’er. No one in the village sees ’er. She only comes down for the weekends.”

“Maybe she has someone to look after the cottage?” I suggested, wondering if I had made the journey for nothing.

“Mrs. Brambee does for ’er,” the woman told me. “She ain’t much ’erself.”

I paid for my drink, thanked the woman, returned to the Buick.

It took me only a few minutes to find Beverley. I saw it through the trees as I drove up the narrow lane. It stood in a charming garden, a two-storied, thatch-roofed, rough-cast building, as attractive as any you could wish to see.

I parked the Buick outside, pushed open the gate and walked up the path. The sun beat down on me, and the smell of pinks, roses and wallflowers hung in the still air. I wouldn’t have minded living there myself.

I went up to the oak nail-studded front door, rapped with the shiny brass knocker, feeling a curious uneasy excitement as I waited. I was uneasy because I didn’t know if Netta’s sister had heard about Netta, and I wasn’t sure how I should break the news. I was excited because I wondered if Anne was like her sister, and how we would get on together.

But after a few moments, I realized, with a sharp feeling of disappointment, that there was no one in, or at least, no one was going to answer my knock. I stood back, glanced up at the windows of the upper floor, then peered into the first window within reach on the ground floor. I could see the room stretching the length of the house, and the big garden through the windows at the back. The place was well furnished and comfortable. I moved around the house, until I reached the back. There was no one about, and I stood for a moment, hat in hand, looking across the well-kept lawn and at the flower-beds, a mass of brilliant colours.

I passed the back door, hesitated, tried the handle, but the door was locked. I moved on until I reached another window, paused as I noticed the curtains had been drawn.

I stared at the curtained window, and for no reason at all I suddenly felt spooked. I took a step forward, tried to see into the room, by peering through a chink in the curtain. I could see it was the kitchen, but my view was so limited I could only make out a dresser from which hung willow pattern cups and plates in rows along the ordered shelves.

Then I smelt coal-gas.

Feet crunched on the gravel. I swung around. Corridan and two uniformed policemen came striding towards me. Corridan’s face was dour, his eyes showed irritation and anger.

“You better bust in quick,” I said, before he could speak. “I smell gas.”

Chapter Five

I sat fuming in the Buick outside the cottage, and watched the activity going on in and out the front door.

Corridan had been extremely curt and official when he had recovered from his surprise at seeing me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he had demanded. Then he, too, smelt the gas. “This is no place for you. It’s no good glaring at me. This is police business, and newspaper men are not wanted.”

I began to argue with him, but he brushed past me, saying to one of the policemen, “Escort Mr. Harmas off the premises, please, and see he keeps out.”

I felt inclined to clock the policeman on his beaky nose, but I knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere so I returned to the car, sat in it, lit a cigarette and watched.

Corridan and the other policeman succeeded in breaking down the front door. They entered the cottage, while the second policeman remained at the gate to scowl at me. I scowled right back.

After a few moments, I saw Corridan opening the windows, then move out of sight. The sickly smell of gas drifted across the lawn. I waited a quarter of an hour before anything else happened. Then a car drove up and a tall dismal-looking guy carrying a black bag got out, had a word with the policeman at the gate, and together they went inside.

I didn’t have to be clairvoyant to guess the guy was the village croaker.

After ten minutes, the dismal guy came out. I was waiting for him near his car, and he gave me a sharp, unfriendly look as he opened his car door.

“Pardon me, doc,” I said, “I’m a newspaper man. Can you tell me what’s going on in there?”

“You must ask Inspector Corridan,” he snapped back, got into his car, drove away.

The policeman at the gate grinned behind his hand.

After a while the other policeman came out of the cottage, whispered something to his colleague, hurried off down the lane.

“I suppose he’s gone to buy Corridan a toffee apple,” I said to the policeman at the gate. “But don’t tell me. Just let it mystify me.”

The policeman grinned sympathetically. I could see he was the gossiping type and was bursting to talk to someone.

“E’s off to get Mrs. Brambee wot looks after this ’ere cottage,” he said, after a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t overheard.