Smallbone Deceased

Accordingly, that afternoon, Miss Cornel made her way out to Belsize Park. She went by Underground. She was not by nature dishonest over small matters, but she reckoned that if she was prepared to put up with the discomfort and pocket the difference, that was her affair.

Wellingboro’ Road was some distance from the Underground station, and her search for it was made no easier by the fact that the first two persons of whom she enquired appeared to speak only Czechoslovakian, the third, a large and helpful lady, chiefly Polish, and the fourth, a starved-looking Indian, seemed willing to commit himself only to the language of signs.

Eventually, more by good luck than judgment, she discovered herself outside No. 20 Wellingboro’ Road.

A grey-haired lady opened the door, said, “No, Mr. Smallbone was not at home,” and prepared to shut it again.

Twenty years of miscellaneous experience in a solicitor’s office had hardened Miss Cornel to this sort of thing. She placed herself in such a position that the door could not be shut without actual violence, and said: “It’s rather important. I come from his solicitors, you know, Messrs. Horniman, Birley and Craine, of Lincoln’s Inn.”

She produced from her handbag an impressive piece of the firm’s best headed notepaper, addressed to the “Occupier, Head-Lessor or Sub-Lessor as the case might be of 20 Wellingboro’ Road” and authorising him (or her) to permit the bearer to make all proper enquiries as to the whereabouts of one of the firm’s clients, viz. M. Smallbone of the same address, etc. etc. Miss Cornel had actually typed it out and signed it herself with a thick nib in a flowing hand, and altogether it looked rather good.

It was good enough for Mrs. Tasker, anyway. And Miss Cornel was allowed to enter. It was not, she reflected, the type of tenement or dwelling-house usually associated with the clients of the firm. The front hall exuded that unforgettable miasma which clings to a certain type of north London residence which has been built too long and interiorly decorated too seldom: a smell altogether different from, and more repellent than the racy odours of the slums. The whiff of decayed gentility was almost physical. It was as if some very faded spinster had been allowed to fade away altogether and her body had been laid to rest beneath the floorboards.

“The first floor he has,” said Mrs. Tasker. “Two rooms and the use of the gas-ring in the back room, which he shares with the second floor. This way, and mind the edge of the linoleum, some day ’twill be the death of us all.”

Miss Cornel found herself on a narrow landing. Mrs. Tasker led the way to the front room. Looking over her shoulder Miss Cornel could see a visiting card pinned to the door—“Marcus Smallbone, B.A.”—and, in smaller writing in the bottom left-hand corner, “and at Villa Carpeggio, Florence.”

“Goodness,” said Miss Cornel, “he’s got an Italian residence as well.”

“I expect he has,” said Mrs. Tasker. “A remarkable man, Mr. Smallbone. The things he’s got in that room of his, you’d be surprised. Valuable. But there, I have to get in to dust over them.” With this remark, which seemed to be in part an excuse and in part an explanation, Mrs. Tasker drew a key from the mysteries of her upper garment and unlocked the door.

The contents of the room were certainly unexpected. Round three of the walls stood glass-fronted cases containing coins, medals, a few cameos and intaglios, and a number of objects which looked like large fishbones. On top of the cases, and on shelves which stood out from them were rows of statuettes, figurines and uninspiring clay pots of the dimmer shades of umber and burnt sienna.

“Where on earth does the man sit down?” asked Miss Cornel.

“He has his meals in his bedroom.” Mrs. Tasker sounded quite unsurprised. She was indeed hardened to the vagaries of her lodgers. One of them kept parrots and another belonged to the Brotherhood of Welsh Buddhists.

“When’ll he be back?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Mrs. Tasker.

“Well, when did he go away?” asked Miss Cornel patiently.

“About two months ago.”

“What? I mean, didn’t he—doesn’t he tell you when he’s going away? What about his rent?”

“Oh, if it’s his rent you’re worrying about,” said Mrs. Tasker complacently, “you needn’t. Six months in advance he pays. Has his own meters, too. I don’t care where he goes or when he goes. It’s all the same to me. Why, last year he was away for three months—”

Miss Cornel nodded. She remembered it well. Mr. Horniman had been moving heaven and earth to get his signature to a Trust document.

Another thought struck her.

“What about his letters?”

Mrs. Tasker pointed to a little heap on the sideboard.

“There’s a few come for him,” she said. “Mostly bills.”

Miss Cornel looked through them quickly. Three of the cleaner envelopes were, she guessed, Messrs. Rumbold & Carter’s communications of the 23rd February, the 16th ultimo and the 8th instant. The rest were, in fact, circulars and bills.