Dead Man's Shoes by Bailey H. C

Author:Bailey, H. C. [Bailey, H. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Published: 1941-03-05T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XXII

MR. CLUNK WORKS IN THE VINEYARD

HOPLEY WENT AWAY perplexed, bitter and half content. Never bad Josh’s cant tasted so foul, never had he felt Josh so fond of him.

Wasn’t that jolly?

Give the little devil his due. He had opened out quite a bit. The defence of Uvedale he put up was darned strong. That argument, if anybody killed Clavell the killer must be a bloke with almighty reason to smash Clavell’s land ramp - very hot stuff. Hand it to Josh, a marvel at picking the best goods in the dark.

But what would he do with them? Nix. He was cutting out. What did he really believe? Accidental death, satisfactory verdict, must accept it. Because it was true, or because he saw no chance of breaking it, or because it suited him very well to have Clavell put out of the way and let the death pass for accident? Say Josh had his goggle eyes on land round Calbay, that would explain a lot - explain his keeping Victor Hopley there, explain his wanting Clavell’s game watched, explain his stopping any further enquiry into Clavell’s death and packing Victor Hopley off home. Clavell dead and no questions raised, Josh had the field to himself.

Or had he? If Clavell was killed to stop him buying Black Gap land, would the killer let Josh buy? Not much. On that theory Josh’s game was smashed - unless the little devil made the murderer stand in with him. Would he try that? No. All bunk the tales Josh had no limit. He might wangle a case to make big money on the side, he’d never go shares in crime.

But who ever knew him give up what he was after without getting his own back?

So what? So nothing. He had cut out and good - bye to Calbay, praise God.

These reflections would have been even more perplexed if Hopley had seen Mr. Clunk walk up in the dusk to the Vineyard and enter the shop of Isaac Coad.

Coad failed or affected failure to recognise him, told him it was closing time, bustled a lad to put up shutters. But Mr. Clunk really couldn’t pass through Calminster without a word of sympathy for his old friend’s trouble: glad to find him up and about, feared he wasn’t quite himself yet, very right in taking great care of himself.

Coad blessed his eyes, not what they used to be, if it wasn’t Mr. Clunk! He shook hands, he offered a cup of tea, he sent the lad to make it and brought Mr. Clunk to a fusty, cosy room behind the shop. So Mr. Clunk had heard how he’d been laid up? Mr. Clunk was distressed, from the story he heard it must have been a dreadful injury.

On that Coad was voluble. With much detail and colour he described the attack upon him in the dark passage, his call to the police, his sufferings. From sentence to sentence Mr. Clunk ejaculated sympathy and at the end asked eagerly who was the scoundrel, had Coad any idea, had the police any clue?

Coad became satirical.

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