‘What for?’ said Cadwallader, but I shushed him.
‘It was a blind,’ I said, ‘and it worked. Now take me to the castle, darling. I need to make some notes before I forget all of this. Very puzzling. Very puzzling indeed.’
Alec, returning to the castle for lunch, was – there is no other word for it – drunk. He asked the butler for a glass of milk and ate slice after slice of bread, buttered and rolled up, but still his eyes were swimming.
‘You have to have the milk and starch first, you goose,’ I told him. ‘You should have had a pint of porridge for breakfast. It’s far too late now to do you any good. But what did you find out?’
‘Apart from the limits of my constitution?’ said Alec. ‘Very little. Nothing. Only that the Burry Man had a sizeable nip at each of the pubs and that most of the “right ferry folk” also gave him either a penny or a nip, a penny if they have children most usually and a nip if they don’t. Except that some of them give both, but the incomers and some of “those and such as those” do neither, or if they do it’s more likely money than drink. But all in all, he could quite easily have had more than enough whisky to kill him. Just as the doctor said.’
‘Is that what you were trying to prove?’ said Cadwallader, looking hurt. ‘Do you still not believe me that something fishy is going on here?’
‘Oh certainly, we believe that,’ I told him. ‘More definitely all the time. Only I’m not convinced that the mystery is a murder mystery, that’s all. Now Alec, here’s a thing. I had forgotten this until Mrs Dudgeon was organizing the funeral feast this morning, and the bad news is that if you forgot too you might have to go round again and pump the publicans for more details.’ Alec groaned. ‘Unless,’ I went on, ‘on your travels did anyone own up to the ham sandwich?’
‘Is that a code name?’ said Buttercup.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t you remember? The police surgeon said that Robert Dudgeon had nothing in his stomach except a great deal of alcohol and a ham sandwich.’ There was a chorus of disgust at my choice of topic for the luncheon table, Buttercup spluttering with dainty squeamishness and Alec clearly on a knife-edge after all the beer.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but some of our sensibilities must be set aside. Alec and I have learned that to our cost in the past. So darling, did anyone mention a sandwich?’
Alec shook his head.
‘Isn’t it all part of the bravado of the Burry Man,’ said Buttercup, ‘that he can’t eat a thing once he’s in his little green suit? The ham sandwich must have been waiting for him when he disrobed at the end of the day. Mrs Dudgeon must have brought it from home.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘After all, he must have eaten it fairly late on for it still to have been identifiable as -’ Alec gulped and I stopped. ‘But there’s something not quite right there. Something that occurred to me on the very first night when we went round to the cottage, Buttercup.’
‘Which cottage is that?’ said Cad.
‘Oh Lord, can’t we just tell him, “Freddy”?’ I said. ‘I’ll never remember to stop.’
‘You dare,’ said Buttercup. ‘I know things about you I can tell as well, my dear.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Cad. ‘What are they talking about, Osborne?’
‘No idea as usual,’ said Alec. ‘But the drink has made it much less annoying.’
‘That very first time we went there,’ I resumed, ‘that awful fierce woman was banging around washing all manner of pots and pans, wasn’t she?’ Buttercup shrugged. ‘Well, she was. I was reminded of it the next day when all the sisters were fighting over a little teacup to wipe. Now here is the question: what meal was that the washing up of?’ No one responded. ‘From what meal sprang those pots and pans? Do you see?’ Alec gazed at me owlishly, with his mouth slightly open and Cad and Buttercup looked expectant and polite, but blank. ‘If Robert was out Burry Manning all day, they couldn’t be luncheon pots. And if Mrs Dudgeon packed a sandwich to take to him so that he could go straight from his rounds to the greasy pole competition then they’d hardly be supper pots, would they?’
‘Well then, they must have come from the night before’s supper, then,’ said Buttercup. ‘But I can’t see that they matter.’
‘The night before?’ I said. ‘My dear girl, Mrs Dudgeon would have you up for slander if she heard you. Dirty pots sitting overnight and all day in a decent woman’s cottage kitchen? And at Ferry Fair time too. Impossible! No, the only explanation is that Dudgeon had indeed meant to go home after discarding his burrs and that Mrs Dudgeon had supper ready for him. Someone in the crowd at the greasy pole expressed surprise that he was there – I overheard it – and apparently Mrs Dudgeon had refused to shift her pony and her sweet little trundle-cart from where it stood waiting, saying that she was going to take Robert home. But… he doubled back. And… at some point he ate that pesky sandwich.’
‘Which…’ said Cad, trying to catch up, ‘… you’re saying might have been poisoned?’ I sighed in exasperation.
‘No, Cad, for heaven’s sake, which I’m not saying might have been poisoned. Please will you get untraceable poison out of your head once and for all. All I’m saying is that we need to find out where they got to on this aborted journey homewards; where it was that he was taken in and fed.’
‘And what will that tell us?’ said Buttercup. Alec showed no sign of having registered anything; his head had sunk until his chin was on his chest.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘But it might be significant. If Dudgeon was being threatened by someone who wanted to stamp out the Burry Man, perhaps this same someone waylaid the cart on Friday evening and subjected Mr and Mrs Dudgeon to a tirade on the subject of their broken agreement.’
‘With light refreshments,’ said Buttercup, drily. I had to laugh.
‘I admit it sounds a little odd. But look at Alec here.’ We all looked at Alec, who gave a gentle snore. ‘If one were determined to have a serious talk with him at the moment one might well start by shovelling in some sustenance. I’d go for strong coffee rather than sandwiches, but still.’
‘I still don’t see what any of that will tell us about the actual death,’ said Cad, sounding rather sulky.
I refused to rise to the bait again, but I mollified him a little by saying: ‘At the very least, if someone did harangue Dudgeon on his way home on Friday night, and if he thought they might follow him all the way back to his cottage to carry on haranguing him there, and because of that he decided to go back to the Fair instead of sleeping it all off at home, then to my mind that person has a great deal to feel guilty about. I mean, the strain of the day and the drink might be the main culprits but any upset or worry added to the mix had to have played a part. And if Dudgeon was as keyed up then as Mrs Dudgeon is now I would quite happily say that his state of mind was what tipped the scales. After all, he did the parading and the drinking every other year and they didn’t kill him. It was this year, with the mysterious worry, that he died.’
Cad nodded and seemed satisfied with this to be going on with.
‘We’ll have coffee upstairs,’ said Buttercup to a maid who had come to clear the table. ‘Lots of strong coffee.’ She reached under the table to nudge Alec with her foot and he stirred, grunting. The maid smirked and left.
‘After which,’ I said, ‘I’m off back to the Dudgeons’ place to poke around at the back and see if I can work out what Miss Joey Brown was up to this morning.’
‘Do you suspect her?’ said Cad.
‘I’m not sure,’ I answered. ‘There’s something slightly off about her, but it might be quite separate from our concerns. Worth checking, though.’