The Collected Works. Josephine Tey
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in plain English what does that mean?” She, too, must have suffered from Mr. Erskine.
Grant took his leave, warned Williams to be ready to accompany him next morning to Canterbury, arranged for a substitute in the absence of them both, and went home and slept for ten hours. In the morning, very early, he and Williams left a London not yet awake and arrived in a Canterbury shrouded in the smoke of breakfast.
The accommodation address proved to be, as Grant had expected, a small newsagent in a side street. Grant considered it, and said: “I don’t suppose our friend will show up this end of the day, but one never knows. You go across to the pub over the way, engage that room above the saloon door, and have breakfast sent up to you. Don’t leave the window, and keep an eye on everyone who comes. I’m going inside. When I want you I’ll sign from the shop window.”
“Aren’t you going to have breakfast, sir?”
“I’ve had it. You can order lunch for one o’clock, though. It doesn’t look the kind of place that would have a chop in the house.”
Grant lingered until he saw Williams come to the upper window. Then he turned into the small shop. A round bald man with a heavy black moustache was transferring cartons of cigarettes from a cardboard box to a glass case.
“Good morning. Are you Mr. Rickett?”
“That’s me,” Mr. Rickett said, with caution.
“I understand that you sometimes use these premises as an accommodation address?”
Mr. Rickett looked him over. His experienced eye asked, Customer or police? and decided correctly.
“And what if I do? Nothing wrong in that, is there?”
“Not a thing!” Grant answered cheerfully. “I wanted to know whether you knew a Mr. Herbert Gotobed?”
“This a joke?”
“Certainly not. He gave your shop as an address for letters, and I wondered if you knew him.”
“Not me. I don’t take no interest in the people who has letters. They pay their fee when they come for them, and that finishes it as far as I am concerned.”
“I see. Well, I want you to help me. I want you to let me stay in your shop until Mr. Gotobed comes to claim his letter. You have a letter for him?”
“Yes, I have a letter. It came last night. But—You police?”
“Scotland Yard.” Grant showed his credentials.
“Yes. Well, I don’t want no arrests on my premises. This is a respectable business, this is, even if I do a little on the side. I don’t want no bad name hanging round my business.”
Grant assured him that no arrest was contemplated. All he wanted was to meet Mr. Gotobed. He wanted information from him.
Oh, well, if that was all.
So Grant was established behind the little tower of cheap editions at the end of the counter, and found the morning passing not so slowly as he had feared. Humanity, even after all his years in the force, still had a lively interest in Grant’s eyes—except in moments of depression—and interest proved plentiful. It was Williams, watching a very ordinary small-town street, who was bored. He welcomed the half-hour of conversation behind the books when Grant went to lunch, and went back reluctantly to the frowsy room above the saloon. The long summer afternoon, clouded and warm, wore away into a misty evening, and a too early dusk. The first lights appeared, very pale in the daylight.
“What time do you close?” Grant asked anxiously.
“Oh, tennish.”
There was still plenty of time.
And then, about half-past nine, Grant became aware of a presence in the shop. There had been no warning of footsteps, no announcement at all except a swish of drapery. Grant looked up to see a man in monk’s garb.
A high-pitched peevish voice said, “You have a letter addressed to Mr. Herbert—”
A light movement on Grant’s part called attention to his presence.
Without a moment’s pause the man turned and disappeared, leaving his sentence unfinished.
The apparition had been so unexpected, the disappearance so abrupt, that it was a second or two before mortal wits could cope with the situation. But Grant was out of the shop before the stranger was more than a few yards down the street. He saw the figure turn into an alley, and he ran. It was a little back-court of two-storey houses, all the doors open to the warm evening, and two transverse alleys leading out of it. The man had disappeared. He turned to find Williams, a little breathless, at his back.
“Good man!” he said. “But it isn’t much use. You take that alley and I’ll take this one. A monk of sorts!”
“I saw him!” Williams said, making off.
But it was no good. In ten minutes they met at the newsagent’s, blank.
“Who was that?” Grant demanded of Mr. Rickett.
“Don’t know. Never saw him before as far as I know.”
“Is there a monastery here?”
“In Canterbury? No!”
“Well, in the district?”
“Not as I knows.”
A woman behind them put down sixpence on the counter. “Gold-flake,” she said. “You looking for a monastery? There’s that brotherhood place in Bligh Vennel. They’re by way of being monks. Ropes round their middles and bare heads.”
“Where is—what is it? Bligh Vennel?” Grant asked. “Far from here?”
“No. ’Bout two streets. Less as the crow flies, but that won’t be much good to you in Canterbury. It’s in the lanes behind the Cock and Pheasant. I’d show you myself, if Jim wasn’t waiting for his smoke. A sixpenny packet, Mr. Rickett, please.”
“After hours,” said Mr. Rickett, gruffly, avoiding the detective’s eye. The woman’s confidence was a conviction in itself.
She looked surprised, and before she should commit herself further Grant pulled his own cigarette-case from his pocket. “Madame,” “they say a nation gets the laws it deserves. It is not in my weak power to obtain the sixpenny packet for you, but please let me repay your help by providing Jim’s smoke.” He poured his cigarettes into her astonished hands, and dismissed her, protesting.
“And now,” he said to Rickett, “about this brotherhood or whatever it is. Do you know it?”
“No. There is such a thing, now I remember. But I don’t know where they hang out. You heard what she said. Behind the Cock and Pheasant. Half the cranks in the world has branches here, if it comes to that. I’m shutting up now.”
“I should,” Grant said. “People wanting cigarettes are a nuisance.”
Mr. Rickett growled.
“Come on, Williams. And remember, Rickett, not a word of this to anyone. You’ll probably see us tomorrow.”
Rickett was understood to say that if he never saw them again it would be too soon.
“This is a rum go, sir,” Williams said, as they set off down the street. “What’s the programme now?”
“I’m going to call on the brotherhood. I don’t think you had better come along, Williams. Your good healthy Worcestershire face doesn’t suggest any yearning after the life ascetic.”
“You mean I look like a cop. I know, sir. It’s worried me often. Bad for business. You don’t know how I envy you your looks, sir. People think ‘Army’ the minute they see you. It’s a great help always to be taken for Army.”
“Considering all the dud cheques on Cox’s, I find that surprising! No, I wasn’t