The Body in the Library

The Colonel’s jaw dropped.

‘A platinum blonde, eh?’ said Melchett reflectively.

‘Yes. I say, Melchett, you don’t think—’

The Chief Constable said briskly:

‘It’s a possibility. It accounts for a girl of this type being in St Mary Mead. I think I’ll run along and have a word with this young fellow—Braid—Blake—what did you say his name was?’

‘Blake. Basil Blake.’

‘Will he be at home, do you know?’

‘Let me see. What’s today—Saturday? Usually gets here sometime Saturday morning.’

Melchett said grimly:

‘We’ll see if we can find him.’

Basil Blake’s cottage, which consisted of all modern conveniences enclosed in a hideous shell of half timbering and sham Tudor, was known to the postal authorities, and to William Booker, builder, as ‘Chatsworth’; to Basil and his friends as ‘The Period Piece’, and to the village of St Mary Mead at large as ‘Mr Booker’s new house’.

It was little more than a quarter of a mile from the village proper, being situated on a new building estate that had been bought by the enterprising Mr Booker just beyond the Blue Boar, with frontage on what had been a particularly unspoilt country lane. Gossington Hall was about a mile farther on along the same road.

Lively interest had been aroused in St Mary Mead when news went round that ‘Mr Booker’s new house’ had been bought by a film star. Eager watch was kept for the first appearance of the legendary creature in the village, and it may be said that as far as appearances went Basil Blake was all that could be asked for. Little by little, however, the real facts leaked out. Basil Blake was not a film star—not even a film actor. He was a very junior person, rejoicing in the title of about fifteenth in the list of those responsible for Set Decorations at Lemville Studios, headquarters of British New Era Films. The village maidens lost interest, and the ruling class of censorious spinsters took exception to Basil Blake’s way of life. Only the landlord of the Blue Boar continued to be enthusiastic about Basil and Basil’s friends. The revenues of the Blue Boar had increased since the young man’s arrival in the place.

The police car stopped outside the distorted rustic gate of Mr Booker’s fancy, and Colonel Melchett, with a glance of distaste at the excessive half timbering of Chatsworth, strode up to the front door and attacked it briskly with the knocker.

It was opened much more promptly than he had expected. A young man with straight, somewhat long, black hair, wearing orange corduroy trousers and a royal-blue shirt, snapped out: ‘Well, what do you want?’

‘Are you Mr Basil Blake?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘I should be glad to have a few words with you, if I may, Mr Blake?’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable of the County.’

Mr Blake said insolently:

‘You don’t say so; how amusing!’

And Colonel Melchett, following the other in, understood what Colonel Bantry’s reactions had been. The toe of his own boot itched.

Containing himself, however, he said with an attempt to speak pleasantly:

‘You’re an early riser, Mr Blake.’

‘Not at all. I haven’t been to bed yet.’

‘Indeed.’

‘But I don’t suppose you’ve come here to inquire into my hours of bedgoing—or if you have it’s rather a waste of the county’s time and money. What is it you want to speak to me about?’

Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.

‘I understand, Mr Blake, that last week-end you had a visitor—a—er—fair-haired young lady.’

Basil Blake stared, threw back his head and roared with laughter.

‘Have the old cats been on to you from the village? About my morals? Damn it all, morals aren’t a police matter. You know that.’

‘As you say,’ said Melchett dryly, ‘your morals are no concern of mine. I have come to you because the body of a fair-haired young woman of slightly—er—exotic appearance has been found—murdered.’

‘Strewth!’ Blake stared at him. ‘Where?’

‘In the library at Gossington Hall.’

‘At Gossington? At old Bantry’s? I say, that’s pretty rich. Old Bantry! The dirty old man!’

Colonel Melchett went very red in the face. He said sharply through the renewed mirth of the young man opposite him: ‘Kindly control your tongue, sir. I came to ask you if you can throw any light on this business.’

‘You’ve come round to ask me if I’ve missed a blonde? Is that it? Why should—hallo, ’allo, ’allo, what’s this?’

A car had drawn up outside with a scream of brakes. Out of it tumbled a young woman dressed in flapping black-and-white pyjamas. She had scarlet lips, blackened eyelashes, and a platinum-blonde head. She strode up to the door, flung it open, and exclaimed angrily:

‘Why did you run out on me, you brute?’

Basil Blake had risen.

‘So there you are! Why shouldn’t I leave you? I told you to clear out and you wouldn’t.’

‘Why the hell should I because you told me to? I was enjoying myself.’

‘Yes—with that filthy brute Rosenberg. You know what he’s like.’

‘You were jealous, that’s all.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I hate to see a girl I like who can’t hold her drink and lets a disgusting Central European paw her about.’

‘That’s a damned lie. You were drinking pretty hard yourself—and going on with the black-haired Spanish bitch.’

‘If I take you to a party I expect you to be able to behave yourself.’

‘And I refuse to be dictated to, and that’s that. You said we’d go to the party and come on down here afterwards. I’m not going to leave a party before I’m ready to leave it.’

‘No—and that’s why I left you flat. I was ready to come down here and I came. I don’t hang round waiting for any fool of a woman.’