out a little farther, so that the bulging, slightly watery eyeball was plainly discernible.
“About Johnny Bogue,” Hedda said.
“Bogue.” Was it Applegate’s imagination, or was there a shade of restraint now in Anscombe’s loquacity? “What do you want to know about him, Miss Pont?”
“Anything you can tell me.” Hedda sat down on an upturned packing case.
“That’s a tall order. Get off the toffees, cat.” The cat turned amber eyes on him and leapt in a leisurely way to the floor. “Fact is, I got in a bit of trouble for talking about Johnny Bogue. During the war it was, when everyone said he was a German spy. I faced them out about it. Had some rare arguments. Nothing I enjoy more than a good argument.”
“Didn’t like it the night they ducked you in the pond,” his daughter said.
“That wasn’t argument, my girl, it was hooliganism. And who was proved right in the end? Wasn’t he killed on a mission for his country?”
“And died owing you a hundred pounds you never saw.”
“I got my share of the estate like everybody else. If Johnny had lived I’d have got the lot.” The protuberant eyes glared angrily at her. “You go out back and help your mother. I’ll tend to the shop.”
She shrugged and went out, banging the door behind her. “They’re prejudiced against him because of the money,” Anscombe said. “But I think nothing of that. Do you know what Johnny – that’s what I used to call him to his face and he liked it – would do? He’d always pay his bill in fivers, sometimes every month, sometimes not for six months, and he’d never take any change. If the bill was twenty-one pounds he’d give me five fivers. I’d offer him the change. ‘Keep it, Bill,’ he’d say. ‘What is it, after all? It’s only money.’”
Applegate felt it was time he said something. “You liked him,” he remarked rather feebly.
“More than that, sir. I’m proud to have known him. I remember the first time he came in this shop. He put his arms on the counter and said: ‘I’m Johnny Bogue. I’ve just come to Bramley Hall. Expect you’ve heard of me.’ Of course the word had gone around that he was coming to live down here, and some were pleased and others weren’t. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you some facts. Once I was an MP and now I’m not. Once I was in prison and now I’m out. Don’t think that means I’m a back number, or that you won’t get your bills paid. You play straight by me and you won’t be sorry.’ And I never was sorry.”
“That was some time in the thirties,” Hedda said.
“When he started his New Radical Party, nineteen thirty- four . Wanted to make a clean sweep of everything, he did. No more Parliament. A government of businessmen was what he was after, with a real man at the top of it. He was that all right. He was for cutting down Income Tax by half, and do you know how he was going to do it? Through a State lottery and a tax on betting. You’re an enlightened woman, Miss Pont, no doubt you’re a progressive man, Mr–”
“Applegate.”
“Applegate. Wasn’t that sensible? But the politicians wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t have anything to do with his ideas though they didn’t mind drinking his champagne at weekends. Look at these.” From a box labelled “Cigarettes, various,” he selected three from a batch of old photographs. They all showed the curly-headed, arrogant figure of Jenks’ snap. Here he stood wearing an umpire’s white jacket, a glass of beer in his hand, with the Bramley cricket team; here knelt laughing with one hand round a girl’s ankle (“Judging the ankle competition at our local show,” said Anscombe. “The girls loved him.”) and here stood outside Bramley Hall in the middle of a group among whom he recognised Barney Craigen and Eileen Delaney. Hedda’s finger jabbed. “Who are those two?”
Anscombe put on horn-rimmed spectacles which gave him a surprisingly
“About Johnny Bogue,” Hedda said.
“Bogue.” Was it Applegate’s imagination, or was there a shade of restraint now in Anscombe’s loquacity? “What do you want to know about him, Miss Pont?”
“Anything you can tell me.” Hedda sat down on an upturned packing case.
“That’s a tall order. Get off the toffees, cat.” The cat turned amber eyes on him and leapt in a leisurely way to the floor. “Fact is, I got in a bit of trouble for talking about Johnny Bogue. During the war it was, when everyone said he was a German spy. I faced them out about it. Had some rare arguments. Nothing I enjoy more than a good argument.”
“Didn’t like it the night they ducked you in the pond,” his daughter said.
“That wasn’t argument, my girl, it was hooliganism. And who was proved right in the end? Wasn’t he killed on a mission for his country?”
“And died owing you a hundred pounds you never saw.”
“I got my share of the estate like everybody else. If Johnny had lived I’d have got the lot.” The protuberant eyes glared angrily at her. “You go out back and help your mother. I’ll tend to the shop.”
She shrugged and went out, banging the door behind her. “They’re prejudiced against him because of the money,” Anscombe said. “But I think nothing of that. Do you know what Johnny – that’s what I used to call him to his face and he liked it – would do? He’d always pay his bill in fivers, sometimes every month, sometimes not for six months, and he’d never take any change. If the bill was twenty-one pounds he’d give me five fivers. I’d offer him the change. ‘Keep it, Bill,’ he’d say. ‘What is it, after all? It’s only money.’”
Applegate felt it was time he said something. “You liked him,” he remarked rather feebly.
“More than that, sir. I’m proud to have known him. I remember the first time he came in this shop. He put his arms on the counter and said: ‘I’m Johnny Bogue. I’ve just come to Bramley Hall. Expect you’ve heard of me.’ Of course the word had gone around that he was coming to live down here, and some were pleased and others weren’t. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you some facts. Once I was an MP and now I’m not. Once I was in prison and now I’m out. Don’t think that means I’m a back number, or that you won’t get your bills paid. You play straight by me and you won’t be sorry.’ And I never was sorry.”
“That was some time in the thirties,” Hedda said.
“When he started his New Radical Party, nineteen thirty- four . Wanted to make a clean sweep of everything, he did. No more Parliament. A government of businessmen was what he was after, with a real man at the top of it. He was that all right. He was for cutting down Income Tax by half, and do you know how he was going to do it? Through a State lottery and a tax on betting. You’re an enlightened woman, Miss Pont, no doubt you’re a progressive man, Mr–”
“Applegate.”
“Applegate. Wasn’t that sensible? But the politicians wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t have anything to do with his ideas though they didn’t mind drinking his champagne at weekends. Look at these.” From a box labelled “Cigarettes, various,” he selected three from a batch of old photographs. They all showed the curly-headed, arrogant figure of Jenks’ snap. Here he stood wearing an umpire’s white jacket, a glass of beer in his hand, with the Bramley cricket team; here knelt laughing with one hand round a girl’s ankle (“Judging the ankle competition at our local show,” said Anscombe. “The girls loved him.”) and here stood outside Bramley Hall in the middle of a group among whom he recognised Barney Craigen and Eileen Delaney. Hedda’s finger jabbed. “Who are those two?”
Anscombe put on horn-rimmed spectacles which gave him a surprisingly
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