Chapter Eight
‘If any soft or perished Place appear on the Outside, try how deep it goes, for the greater Part may be hid within.’
Mrs SARAH HARRISON (The Housekeeper’s
Pocket Book, etc.)
THE second seaport of England and the greatest cotton market of Europe seemed at first to Laura Menzies dirty, congested, dull and inextricably confused. She had set out, however, in the spirit of adventure which characterized her outlook, and the hotel and Kitty, between them, reconciled her to the greyness of an atmosphere which seemed to be compounded in equal parts of drizzle and soot.
‘Well, Dog,’ said Kitty with candour, ‘I don’t know why on earth you brought me here.’
‘As I told you, young K., to improve your education and give you food for thought,’ replied Laura, summing up the sandwiches with which she had provided herself before retiring to rest, and then selecting the largest. ‘Anyway, the grub’s all right. What are you beefing about? Don’t you want to help your Auntie Laura?’
‘Yes, if I knew what you were up to. But I don’t. What’s all this about water nymphs? It sounds a bit Picasso to me.’
‘Oh, Lord! Did you see that show?’
‘Yes, I did. And I’ll tell you what, Dog. I got a new hair-style out of it.’
‘Not off Pop-Eye?’
‘Off one of the Ladies in Grey. And that Fish-Hat, Dog. An idea.’
‘Maybe. You’re welcome to it, if so. But the water-nymph, K., is Mrs Croc’s latest murderer. It’s killed someone already, she thinks, and repercussions are expected hourly.’
‘But that was at Winchester, you said. What’s Liverpool got to do with it?’
‘Have patience, duck, and I’ll explain. It seems that the water-nymph is sponsored by a rather odd, Mr Pym Passes By sort of bloke by the name of – Oh, well, that doesn’t matter.’
‘Name of what?’ asked Kitty, who preferred her friend’s narrative complete and the characters labelled.
‘Name of Tidson, then.’
‘I used to know someone named Tidson,’ said Kitty. ‘Or was it McCallahan? Anyway, he married a Chinese girl and inherited an opium den.’
‘Oh, do dry up!’
‘Sorry. Go on, then. But, you know, Dog, my word-associations are very free. That’s why I get on in my job.’
‘I’ll bet they are, if Tidson reminds you of McCallahan. Well, this Tidson read in the paper about the water-nymph, swallowed the story whole, and insisted on going down to Winchester to see whether he could spot the bally thing.’
‘How does Mrs Croc. come into it?’
‘Well, this Tidson’s relations were worried, and Mrs Croc. was drawn in to find out whether he was quite right in the head, and, if not, whether dangerous or only goofy.’
‘Oh, I see. Go on. What about Liverpool, then? – And when you’ve done turning over all the sandwiches and taking the tops off I think I’ll have one.’
‘Eh? – Oh, sorry! Here you are. Yes, well, this Tidson used to grow bananas, and as his boats sometimes came to Liverpool, Mrs Croc. sent me down to consort with any of his pals who might happen to hang out in the vicinity of the docks or elsewhere to find out whether he’s likely to have murdered this boy.’
‘Oh, heavens, Dog! Don’t be such an ass! I don’t see any point in what you’re saying.’
‘To tell the truth, duck, I don’t either. But let that pass. Shall I order another plate of sandwiches?’
‘Not for me. I’m going to bed.’
‘Not an unsound scheme,’ said Laura, getting up. ‘“Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.” In other words, I shall take a ride on the overhead electric railway, which, my spies inform me, is the best if not the only way of getting a birds-eye view of the docks. During our tour I shall formulate my plans for obtaining the low-down on this Tidson.’
They enjoyed their ride next morning, and were given a free pass to visit a Cunarder, then in dock. It was on board this ship that Laura experienced a stroke of that luck which, as she modestly explained in a letter to Mrs Bradley, was always apt to dog her footsteps.
She was standing on the port side of the orlop deck and was talking in her usual confident, hearty tones when a young man near by came up and raised his hat.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘but I think I heard you mention the name Tidson.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Laura, scanning him frankly. ‘A man who used to keep a banana plantation on Tenerife.’
‘Yes. One of our managers. Just retired. He had charge of San Sábado, on Puerta de Orotava, hadn’t he?’
‘I don’t think so. My Tidson was a banana grower in his own right.’
‘Scarcely likely, if you don’t mind my saying so. The banana plantations belong to us, you know. He managed San Sábado for us until this last year. I wondered what had happened to the old chap. We used to think him unlucky.’
‘Unlucky? Why?’
‘Well, his men used to die on him, you know. They got so superstitious, in the end, that he couldn’t get enough labour to keep San Sábado going. Everybody said he had the evil eye. Personally, I think it was the wife.’
‘The wife?’
‘Crete Tidson. Beautiful woman. Half Greek.’
‘Tell me,’ said Laura, earnestly. ‘Was there ever any suspicion of foul play? Among the labourers, you know.’
‘Good Lord, no! The chaps died naturally enough. Girls, too. We employ a lot of female labour. It’s an amazing thing to see what some of these Island girls can carry. Make some of your Covent Garden porters open their eyes, I can tell you.’
‘Is your Mr Tidson queer at all?’ enquired Laura. ‘He’s in the care, more or less, of an alienist at present, and we wondered – I’m her secretary – whether he’d ever shown any signs of anything (so to speak) peculiar.’
‘Oh, the old bloke was as mad as a hatter,’ said the young man cheerfully. ‘Ask anybody on Tenerife or Orotava. Used to climb the mountains to look for the boogie-woogies jumping out of the volcanoes. Harmless as a child, of course, but definitely bughouse. No doubt whatever about that.’
‘But nothing sinister?’ persisted Laura.
‘Not a thing. Used to borrow and not pay back, which didn’t make for popularity exactly, but people soon got wise to that, and simply didn’t lend him anything. He spent a fortune on his wife. That’s where the money went, all right. Can’t think, for my part, why she married him. Quite staggeringly beautiful, you know. The Spaniards used to call her Doña Alba.’
‘Well, talk about pennies from heaven!’ said Laura, when she and Kitty were on shore again. She spoke regretfully. ‘That’s the end of our holiday, duck. I shall embody what I’ve just learnt in an official letter to Mrs Croc. this afternoon, and she’ll probably reply with a telegram recalling me at once to her side.’
Mrs Bradley, however, had far too much right feeling to do this. She told Laura to go on to the Lakes or to Blackpool with Kitty if she liked, and to be sure to enjoy herself. She would expect her when she saw her, she added, and expense need not be spared.
‘So what!’ said Laura, handing over the message.
‘So nothing,’ said Kitty firmly. ‘You’d better forget the Lakes, Dog. As I see it, we’ve got work to do here.’
‘Such as?’
‘Track down this banana person again, and make him produce his affidavits.’
‘His what?’
‘His affidavits. A business precaution. You know, like making people pay a deposit when they book their permanent wave.’
‘Lord, K., don’t be such an ass! We’re off to the Lakes as soon as we can book a couple of rooms.’
‘Oh, Dog, don’t please be awkward. You can’t leave this in the air. Either you’ve got to get evidence that this man knew what he was talking about, or else you’re here under false pretences. Besides, there’s an American woman in the lounge who’s got a hair-style I’ve never seen before, and I want to find out how it’s done.’