The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 25

"He was an actor. He was currently playing in Bulldog Drummond at the Richmond Theatre. It was only a small role as a gangster, but he did it to perfection. They'll miss him dreadfully."

The inspector was tempted to ask, "And will you?" But he kept his lips b.u.t.toned. "Bulldog Drummond. I can't say I've read it."

"It has a sub-t.i.tle," said Mrs Flanagan. "Daddy, can you remember the sub-t.i.tle?"

"The Adventures of a Demobilized Officer Who Found Peace Dull."

"I knew he'd know it," she said. "Being housebound, Daddy has more time for reading than the rest of us. 'A Demobilized Officer Who Found Peace Dull.'"

This was closer to Inspector Carew's diagnosis. "Poignant, in the circ.u.mstances."

"Oh, I don't agree. Patrick's life was anything but dull."

"So last night he would have returned late from the theatre?"

"About half-past eleven, usually."

"Perhaps he was overtired."

"Patrick?" she said with an inappropriate laugh. "He was inexhaustible."

"Did he have a difficult war?"

"Didn't every soldier? I thought he'd put all that behind him."

"Apparently not, unless there was something else." The inspector was beginning to revise his theory. "Forgive me for asking this, Mrs Flanagan. Was your marriage entirely successful?"

The lips twitched again. "I dare say he had lapses."

"Lapses," said old Mr Russell. "Like la.s.ses on laps."

This piece of wit earned no more than a frown from his daughter. She said to the inspector, "Patrick was an actor. Enough said?"

"Didn't it anger you?"

"We had tiffs if I caught him out, as I sometimes did."

"You seem to treat it lightly, if I may say so."

"Because they were minor indiscretions, kissing and canoodling."

The inspector wasn't certain of the meaning of "canoodling," but he guessed it didn't amount to adultery. "Not a cause for suicide, then?"

"Good Lord, no."

"And how was the balance of his mind, would you say?"

"Are you asking me if he was mad?"

"When he shot himself, yes."

"I wasn't there when he shot himself, but I think it highly unlikely. He never lost control."

"Well, then," the inspector said, preparing to leave, "it will be for the coroner to decide. He may wish to visit the scene himself, so I'm leaving the, ahem, den as it is, apart from the, ahem . . ."

"Mortal remains?" old Mr Russell suggested.

"So please don't tidy anything up. Leave it exactly as it is." He picked up his hat and left.

Mrs Flanagan had barely started her next brandy when the doorbell rang again. "d.a.m.n. Who's that?" she said.

Her father wobbled to the door and admitted a fat, bald man in a ca.s.sock. He smelt of tobacco. "Father Montgomery," he said.

"Should we know you?" she asked.

"I was Padre to your husband in France. I'm the inc.u.mbent of St Saviour's in Richmond. I heard from one of my congregation that he'd been gathered, so I came at once to see what I could do."

"Very little," said Mrs Flanagan. " 'Gathered' isn't the word I would use. He killed himself. That's a lost soul in your religion, isn't it?"

The priest sighed heavily. "That is distressing. I know he wasn't a regular wors.h.i.+pper, but he was brought up in the Church of Rome. He professed himself a Catholic when pressed."

Old Mr Russell said in a parade-ground chant, "Fall out the Jews and Catholics."

"Exactly, sir. So I do have a concern over the destiny of poor Patrick's soul. Is it certain?"

"If you call putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger certain, I would say it is," said Mrs Flanagan, wanting to be rid of this visitor. "We've had the police here and they confirm it."

"His service revolver, I suppose? How I wish the army had been more responsible in collecting all the weapons they issued. May I see the room?"

"Is that necessary?"

"I would like to remove all doubt from my mind that this was suicide."

"You have a doubt?"

His eyes flicked upwards. "I have a duty, my dear."

She showed him into Patrick's den, a small room with a desk surrounded by bookshelves. Her father shuffled in after them.

The body had been removed, but otherwise the room was just as the police had seen it, with the revolver lying on the desk.

"Please don't touch anything," Mrs Flanagan said.

The priest made a performance of linking his thumbs behind his back. He leaned over and peered at the gun. "Service issue, as I expected," he said. "Did the police examine the chambers for bullets?"

"Empty. He only needed the one."

"Where did he keep the gun?"

"In the bottom drawer but don't open it."

Father Montgomery had little option but to look about him at the bookshelves. There were plays by Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw. "Did he act in any of these?"

"No. He collected them for personal reading. He was a well-read man."

"Well-read," said old Mr Russell. "Oh, essay, essay, essay."

"Father adores his word-play," Mrs Flanagan. "Not one of your very best, Daddy."

The books continued to interest the priest. There was a shelf of detective stories above the drama section featuring works by Conan Doyle, E.W.Hornung and G.K. Chesterton. Three by the author who called himself "Sapper" were lying horizontally above the others. One was Bulldog Drummond, the novel of the play the dead man had appeared in. On another high shelf were some volumes the priest wished he hadn't noticed, among them Married Love, by Marie Stopes. But his eyes were drawn inexorably to Family Limitation, by Margaret Sanger not for its provocative t.i.tle but for the round hole he noticed in the binding.

"Might I ask for a dispensation to handle one of the books?"

"Why?" asked Mrs Flanagan.

"Because I think I see a bullet hole through the spine."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" said Mrs Flanagan, forgetting herself. "Where?"

The priest unclasped his hands and pointed. "Do you mind?" He reached for the book and removed it. Sure enough, there was a scorched round hole penetrating this book and its neighbour, The Psychology of s.e.x, by Havelock Ellis. "Didn't the police remark on this?"

"They didn't notice it. What can it mean?"

"Presumably, that two shots were fired and this one missed. If you look, the bullet penetrated the wood behind the books. Do you recall hearing two shots?"

"I couldn't say for sure. I was asleep. I thought it was one shot that disturbed me, but I suppose there could have been two."

"And this was when?"

"About midnight, according to the clock in my room. Daddy, can you recall two shots?"

"Aldershot and Bagshot," said the waggish Mr Russell.

"It's a puzzle," said the priest, rotating his head, his eyes taking in all of the books. He replaced the damaged volume and turned his attention to the floor. "There should be two spent cartridges unless someone removed them."

"Do you think you're a better detective than the police?" Mrs Flanagan said, becoming irritated.

"No, but I work for a Higher Authority." He pushed his foot under the edge of the carpet and rolled the corner back towards the chair. He couldn't be accused of touching anything; his feet had to go somewhere. "Hey ho, what's this?"

Under the carpet was a magazine.

"Leave it," said Mrs Flanagan.

"We're allowed to look," said Father Montgomery, bending low. The magazine was the current issue of John Bull, that patriotic weekly edited by Horatio Bottomley. The number seven was scribbled on the cover in pencil.

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" said old Mr Russell.

"Is that your magazine, Daddy?" Mrs Flanagan asked him. "You said it was missing."

"No, mine's upstairs."

"We have it delivered every Thursday. Father does the compet.i.tion," Mrs Flanagan explained. "What's the compet.i.tion called, Daddy?"

"Bullets."

"Right." She gave her half-smile. "Ironic. He sometimes wins a prize. They give a list of phrases and the readers are invited to add an original comment in no more than four words. Give us an example, Daddy."

"'Boarding House Philosophy: Let Bygones Be Rissoles'"

"Nice one. What about one for the church? What's that famous one?"

"'Wedding March: Aisle Altar Hymn'."

"That won five hundred pounds for someone before the war. Daddy's best effort won him twenty-five, but he keeps trying. You're sure this isn't your copy, Daddy?"

"Mine's upstairs, I said."

"All right, don't get touchy. We'd best keep this under the carpet in case it's important, but I can't think why." Mrs Flanagan nudged the carpet back in place with a pointed patent leather toecap, wanting to hasten the priest's departure. "Is there anything else we can do for you, Father Montgomery?"

"Not for the present, except . . ."

"Except what?"

"If I may, I'd like to borrow your father's John Bull."

"I'll fetch it now," said the old man.

And he did.

Father Montgomery returned to Richmond and went backstage at the theatre. It was still early in the afternoon and there was no matinee, but some of the actors were on stage rehearsing next week's production.

He spotted the person who had first informed him of Patrick Flanagan's sudden death. Brendan was painting scenery, a fine, realistic bay window with a sea view behind.

"My dear boy," the priest said, "I'm so pleased to catch you here."

"What can I do for you, Father?"

"I've come from the house of poor Patrick Flanagan, rest his soul."

"We're heartbroken, Father. He was a lovely man."

"Indeed. Would you happen to know if he had a lady friend at all?"

"You mean Daisy Truelove, Father?"

"I suppose I do, if you say so. Where would I find her?"

"She's in the ladies' dressing room."