was you who started all this,’ she murmured, under cover of ‘Massa’s in de cold, cold ground’.
‘Who else? Just my abominable luck. Don’t dwell on it. I couldn’t help it, could I?’ I said.
‘So said the child who swatted the fly on grandpa’s head and caused the poor old man to end up in a lunatic asylum,’ she said; and she certainly was not meaning to be funny. ‘Tell me what has happened,’ she demanded.
‘I’d rather you heard it from the police,’ I said. ‘You would hardly believe it if I told you.’
‘The police? You don’t mean — you can’t mean —?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s what I mean. Carbridge came to the party after all, in a manner of speaking.’
----
8: Its Aftermath
« ^ »
W hen the plain-clothes men turned up, they checked all the names and addresses, took each person outside the door for questioning, and ascertained that, except for myself and the two unlucky hash-slingers, nobody had left the party until Bull brought Trickett out to speak to me. Then they let everybody else go, but hauled Trickett, myself, the caretaker and the two youngsters off to the nick to be questioned.
We were interviewed separately, of course, and they kept me until the last. I can’t say that talking to a policeman who makes it obvious that he thinks you are lying is a pleasant experience. I heard later that they had soon let the youngsters go. All they wanted from them was the assertion that, so far as they knew, nobody except themselves, Bull and myself had been anywhere near the dark passage while the party was going on.
The interview with Trickett had taken longer. They had wanted full details about the Scottish tour, whether he had known Carbridge before he met him in Glasgow, why the students and Perth had left him and the others before the end of The Way and exactly where, when and why they had caught up with him again and, finally, where Perth was and why he had not accepted the invitation to the reunion.
On their part (said Trickett later) they had told him nothing, although he had asked point-blank how long Carbridge had been dead.
‘That’s for the inquest,’ the detective-inspector told him. We all knew that, before the five of us had been ushered into the police cars, James Minch had been closely questioned, for he had given the rest of us a lively account of the interview before the five of us had been shipped off to the nick. It seemed, according to James Minch, that they suspected him of having had a sgian dubh tucked into his colourful woollen, right-leg stocking.
‘You are also wearing a sporran, I see, sir.’
‘It’s an essential part of the outfit. No pockets in a kilt, you see.’
‘I thought a dagger was also part of a Scotsman’s native attire, sir.’
‘A dagger ? On the dance floor?’
‘One of those small, ornamental knives they wear in their football-style socks, I meant.’
‘Oh, a sgian dubh . I do have one at home, but I didn’t bring it with me. As you see, I’ve nothing up the sleeve of my shirt, either, neither have I quarrelled with the deceased at any time or suffered any insults from him addressed either to my sister or myself.’ (I was not too sure about this.)
‘You don’t speak with a Scottish accent, I notice.’
‘It’s been said, you know, that Scotsmen speak better English than the English.’ (He himself spoke up-market Cockney.) ‘In any case, I had the misfortune to be brought up in England and was educated at an English public school.’
‘I think that is all I need trouble you with at present, then, though we may need to ask you some more questions about your knife at a later date, sir.’
‘Why don’t you ask Todd whether he’s got a bomb tucked into the waistband of those elegant flannels? He’s Bolshie-trained, you know — or is it IRA?’
‘There is no need to be offensive, sir, either to me or Mr Todd.’
‘But how to be offensive is the only thing I learned at my public school,
‘Who else? Just my abominable luck. Don’t dwell on it. I couldn’t help it, could I?’ I said.
‘So said the child who swatted the fly on grandpa’s head and caused the poor old man to end up in a lunatic asylum,’ she said; and she certainly was not meaning to be funny. ‘Tell me what has happened,’ she demanded.
‘I’d rather you heard it from the police,’ I said. ‘You would hardly believe it if I told you.’
‘The police? You don’t mean — you can’t mean —?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s what I mean. Carbridge came to the party after all, in a manner of speaking.’
----
8: Its Aftermath
« ^ »
W hen the plain-clothes men turned up, they checked all the names and addresses, took each person outside the door for questioning, and ascertained that, except for myself and the two unlucky hash-slingers, nobody had left the party until Bull brought Trickett out to speak to me. Then they let everybody else go, but hauled Trickett, myself, the caretaker and the two youngsters off to the nick to be questioned.
We were interviewed separately, of course, and they kept me until the last. I can’t say that talking to a policeman who makes it obvious that he thinks you are lying is a pleasant experience. I heard later that they had soon let the youngsters go. All they wanted from them was the assertion that, so far as they knew, nobody except themselves, Bull and myself had been anywhere near the dark passage while the party was going on.
The interview with Trickett had taken longer. They had wanted full details about the Scottish tour, whether he had known Carbridge before he met him in Glasgow, why the students and Perth had left him and the others before the end of The Way and exactly where, when and why they had caught up with him again and, finally, where Perth was and why he had not accepted the invitation to the reunion.
On their part (said Trickett later) they had told him nothing, although he had asked point-blank how long Carbridge had been dead.
‘That’s for the inquest,’ the detective-inspector told him. We all knew that, before the five of us had been ushered into the police cars, James Minch had been closely questioned, for he had given the rest of us a lively account of the interview before the five of us had been shipped off to the nick. It seemed, according to James Minch, that they suspected him of having had a sgian dubh tucked into his colourful woollen, right-leg stocking.
‘You are also wearing a sporran, I see, sir.’
‘It’s an essential part of the outfit. No pockets in a kilt, you see.’
‘I thought a dagger was also part of a Scotsman’s native attire, sir.’
‘A dagger ? On the dance floor?’
‘One of those small, ornamental knives they wear in their football-style socks, I meant.’
‘Oh, a sgian dubh . I do have one at home, but I didn’t bring it with me. As you see, I’ve nothing up the sleeve of my shirt, either, neither have I quarrelled with the deceased at any time or suffered any insults from him addressed either to my sister or myself.’ (I was not too sure about this.)
‘You don’t speak with a Scottish accent, I notice.’
‘It’s been said, you know, that Scotsmen speak better English than the English.’ (He himself spoke up-market Cockney.) ‘In any case, I had the misfortune to be brought up in England and was educated at an English public school.’
‘I think that is all I need trouble you with at present, then, though we may need to ask you some more questions about your knife at a later date, sir.’
‘Why don’t you ask Todd whether he’s got a bomb tucked into the waistband of those elegant flannels? He’s Bolshie-trained, you know — or is it IRA?’
‘There is no need to be offensive, sir, either to me or Mr Todd.’
‘But how to be offensive is the only thing I learned at my public school,
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