Smallbone Deceased

Fortunately, at this point, Sergeant Plumptree’s system was spared further shocks by the arrival of a nurse, who led him out into the hall.

“Is she—er—?”

“Yes,” said the nurse. “She is. Sometimes it’s worse than other times.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it.” Some explanation, he felt, was necessary. “A friend asked me to look Mrs. Groot up—”

“Her name isn’t Groot.”

“She said—”

“She’d say anything. That’s the form it takes. She told the postman yesterday that she was Mrs. Roosevelt.”

“I see.”

“As a matter of fact her name is Lemon.”

Sergeant Plumptree found himself outside.

The next house he tried was either empty, or its inhabitants were all asleep. He crossed the road, walked along a few yards, and tried again.

This time a small shrewd, grey-haired woman answered the door and denied any knowledge of Mrs. Groot or Miss Holding. What number did they live at? Sergeant Plumptree was afraid he didn’t know. What did they look like then? Sergeant Plumptree didn’t know that either. The grey-haired woman said it was a pity he hadn’t obtained a little more information before he had started. Sergeant Plumptree agreed and took himself out into the street once again. The grey-haired lady looked thoughtfully after him and then picked up the telephone.

Accordingly, when Sergeant Plumptree came out of the next house but two, and was beginning to doubt the existence of Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding, he found himself face to face with a member of the Kent Constabulary, who opened the conversation with a request for a sight of his identity card.

So he had to walk up the hill to the police station after all.

When they discovered who he was, the Sevenoaks police were, of course, helpful. They were also amused, and made little attempt to disguise their amusement. “‘Suspicious character’, according to our Miss Parkins,” said the station inspector, “‘snooping round the houses, with a very unlikely story about some ladies who lived there.’ What were the names? Groot and Holding. Just take a look in the householders’ register. No, no one of that name. That’s an up-to-date list, too. You’re sure you weren’t mistaken in the name of the road?”

“No. It was Styleman Road right enough,” said Sergeant Plumptree absently. His thoughts were elsewhere. If there was no Groot and no Holding in Styleman Road was that not in itself significant? Might the fiasco not have served a useful purpose? It certainly looks as if those two receipts—but wait a bit, the addresses had been in Miss Cornel’s book. That fact began to assume an interest of its own.

“I think I’ll make another call,” he said. “Miss Cornel—Red Roofs—I understand that it’s a bungalow out on the Wrotham Road.”

“That’s the one,” said the inspector. “Would you like me to send a man with you?”

“Thank you very much,” said Sergeant Plumptree with dignity, “but I think I can manage this by myself.”

He found Red Roofs without difficulty and Miss Cornel driving a mower across a well-disciplined lawn. A few words with her cleared up quite a number of misconceptions.

“Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding? Yes, of course I know them. They both live in that corner house in Styleman Road—the large one. You probably noticed it. It calls itself the Rochester Homes. It’s an almshouse, really, only they’re both a bit shy about admitting it. I expect that’s why they just put Styleman Road on their letters.”

“I see,” said Sergeant Plumptree. “Could you explain what these payments were?”

“Why on earth do you want to know?”

“The inspector asked me to check up,” murmured Sergeant Plumptree. “Apparently he found the receipts and wondered—”

“What snoops you are,” said Miss Cornel. It was difficult to tell whether she was annoyed or amused. “Well, if you’d looked far enough you’d have found three or four others—there’s a Mr. Abetts, of Northampton, a Miss Mutch and a Mrs. Hopper, of Melset, and—let me see—yes, a Miss Percy, of Potters Bar.”

“And who are these persons, miss?”

“They’re a private charity. Abel Horniman had certain sums of money left him, from time to time, which he could spend at his absolute discretion. It wasn’t very much—the income amounted to three or four hundred pounds a year. That was how he spent it. All those people have been servants or governesses in big families, and they’re all in what is commonly called reduced circumstances. Mr. Horniman used to divide the money among them—it amounted to about sixty pounds a year each. I acted as unofficial almoner. I used to send them their money each quarter, and I’d visit them when I could. Particularly Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding, being almost on my doorstep.”

“I see, miss.”

“I observe in your eye a barely-suppressed desire to check all this up,” said Miss Cornel. “I’ll give you the addresses of the other four to write down in your notebook. And you might call on Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding on your way to the station. Ask for the matron and mention my name.”

“Thank you,” said Sergeant Plumptree. “I’ll do that.”