Smallbone Deceased

There seemed to be no object in suppressing the facts, so Sergeant Plumptree related the essentials of the case to his host and summarised the information that Hazlerigg had asked him to obtain.

“Well,” said the clergyman, “I haven’t seen Smallbone for more than a year. Tell you why in a minute. But if you want to know what sort of man he was, then I can probably give you as much help as anyone alive. I’ve known Marcus Smallbone for more than thirty years. We first met at the university—we were both up together at Angelus. Our tastes were rather different, but we happened to live on the same staircase, and on one occasion”—the Reverend Eustace smiled reminiscently—“I saved him from being immersed in an ornamental fountain. Six against one seemed to me heavy odds so I weighed in and—er—lent him a hand. Dear me, yes. That was a long time ago. After we had both come down we still corresponded occasionally. When I had my first London living I looked him up, and we met once or twice for a meal.” He got to his feet, kicked a bull-terrier off the sofa and resumed. “The chief thing wrong with Marcus was a small settled income. Big enough to save him the trouble of earning his living, but not big enough to keep him busy looking after it. He had too much time. He used to spend a good deal of it over his collections. One year it was first editions, then it was Toby jugs. Lately, I believe, it’s been pottery. He never stayed in any one branch long enough to acquire any real knowledge of it. Well, that’s a harmless enough pursuit. But there was a worse side to it, I’m afraid—there’s nothing to be gained by not being absolutely frank—he had rather a small and uncomfortable mind. Possibly, again, this was due to having too much time on his hands. He loved writing to the papers, you know, to expose the errors of authors, or to call rather malicious attention to discrepancies in the statements of public men. These people were fair enough game, I suppose, but it didn’t stop there. I can only give you one example of this, because it’s the only one that came personally to my knowledge, but about two years ago a fellow parson of mine got into bad trouble with the bishop. He was lucky to keep his cloth. I won’t tell you the details—but the information on which the bishop acted came from Smallbone—”

Sergeant Plumptree nodded. He didn’t need to be told that this information was important. It opened, in fact, a startling vista. But there was a question which had to be asked and he found it difficult to frame it. The Reverend Evander saved him the trouble.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “and you can put it right out of your mind. Smallbone was not a blackmailer. That wasn’t the way his mind worked at all. He’d ferret around unearthing these awkward and unsavoury facts, but he didn’t expose them for gain. I don’t know why he did it. It’s a question that won’t be answered now, this side of Judgment. Get off that sofa, Bungy, or I’ll brain you. Partly, as I said, it was not having enough to occupy himself with. It’s a terribly true tag about Satan and idle hands. Partly, I think, it was because that sort of business gratifies an overdeveloped sense of self-importance. Have another mug of cocoa, sergeant? That’s right. I can’t think why people should glorify beer at the expense of cocoa. It was that hearty vulgarian, Chesterton, who started it…”

IV

A thousand miles to the south.

Although it was only mid-March the sun of Central Italy already had power in it. Il Sergente Rosso, of the Carabinieri Reali, district of Florence, sub-station of Arrugia, sweated and grumbled as he wheeled his black-painted bicycle up the steep hill from the Arno Valley to the upland village of La Chioccola.

It was a Sunday and it was a fiesta: one of the many fiestas which bestar the Italian Catholic year. At lunch in the sub-station there had been consumed, besides the inevitable pasta schuta, lamb, a rare delicacy, and great square wedges of Monte Nero cheese. Wine had been drunk. Sergeant Rosso sweated.

Nevertheless, he persevered. There was a certain measure of pride in the perseverance. It was not every day that appeals for help came from England to the police of the sub-station of Arrugia. Prestige was involved. And beside and above all this, Sergeant Rosso was a friend of the English. Had he not fought, in the black days of 1944, as a member of the partigiani? Had he not shared in the triumphs of 1945? Had not the very bicycle which he was wheeling been stolen from the Royal Corps of Signals?

Sergeant Rosso sweated but persevered.