The Monogram Murders(30)

A Visit to Great Holling

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING, I set off to Great Holling as instructed. My impression upon arrival was that it was similar to many other English villages I had visited, and that there was not much more to say about it than that. There is, I think, more difference between cities than between villages, as well as more to say about cities. I could certainly talk at length about the intricacies of London. Perhaps it is simply that I am not as finely attuned to places such as Great Holling. They make me feel out of my element—if I have an element, that is. I’m not convinced that I do.

I had been told that I could not fail to spot the King’s Head Inn, where I would be staying, but fail I did. Luckily, a bespectacled young man with a boomerang-shaped scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and a newspaper tucked under his arm was on hand to help me. He appeared at first behind me, startling me. “Lost, are you?” he said.

“I believe I am, yes. I’m looking for the King’s Head.”

“Ah!” He grinned. “Thought so, with your case and all. You’re not a native, then? King’s Head looks like a house from the street, so you’d not notice it, not unless you went along the lane there—see? Go down there, turn right and you’ll see the sign and the way in.”

I thanked him and was about to follow his advice when he called me back with, “So where are you from, then?”

I told him, and he said, “I’ve never been to London. What brings you to our neck of the woods, then?”

“Work,” I said. “Listen, I hope this doesn’t sound rude, and I’d be glad to talk to you later, but I’d like to get myself settled in first.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you, then,” he said. “What kind of work is it you do? Oh—there I go again, asking another question. Maybe I’ll ask you later.” He waved and set off down the street.

I tried again to proceed to the King’s Head and he shouted after me, “Down the lane and turn right!” More jovial waving followed.

He was trying to be friendly and helpful, and I should have been grateful. Normally I would have been, except . . .

Well, I’ll admit it: I don’t like villages. I didn’t say so to Poirot before I left, but I said it to myself many times during the train journey, and then again when I got off at the pretty little station. I didn’t like this charming narrow street in which I stood, which curved in the exact shape of a letter S and had tiny cottages on both sides that looked more suitable for whiskery woodland creatures than for human beings.

I didn’t like being asked presumptuous questions by complete strangers on the street, though I was fully aware of my own hypocrisy since I was here in Great Holling to interrogate strangers myself.

Now that the bespectacled man had gone on his way, there was not a sound to be heard apart from the occasional bird and my own breathing. Beyond the houses I saw empty fields and hills in the distance that, combined with the silence, made me feel immediately lonely. Cities, of course, can also make a person feel alone. In London, you look at those who pass you by and you have no idea what is going on in their minds. Each one looks utterly closed to you and mysterious. In villages the same rule applies, except that you suspect it is the same thing going on in every mind.

The owner of the King’s Head turned out to be a Mr. Victor Meakin, who looked to be between fifty and sixty and had thin gray hair through which the tops of his ears poked pinkly on both sides. He too seemed eager to discuss London. “Were you born there, if you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Catchpool? How many people live there now? What’s the size of the population? Is it very dirty there? My aunt went there once—said it was very dirty. Still, I’ve always thought I’d like to go one day. I never said so to my aunt, though—I’d have had an argument from her, God rest her soul. Does everybody in London have a car of their own?”

I was relieved that his stream of chatter allowed me no time to answer. My luck ran out when he got to the question that really interested him: “What brings you to Great Holling, Mr. Catchpool? I can’t think what business you might have here.”

At that point he stopped, and I had no choice but to answer. “I’m a policeman,” I told him. “From Scotland Yard.”

“Policeman?” He maintained a determined smile, but he looked at me now with very different eyes: hard, probing and disdainful—as if he was speculating about me and drawing conclusions that were to my disadvantage. “A policeman,” he said, more to himself than me. “Now, why would a policeman be here? An important policeman from London, too.” Since he seemed not to be asking me directly, I neglected to reply.

As he carried my cases up the winding wooden stairs, he stopped three times and turned to peer at me for no discernible reason.

The room he had allocated to me was agreeably sparse and chilly—a welcome change from Blanche Unsworth’s frilly, fringed extravagance. Here, thankfully, no hot water bottle with a knitted cover had been laid out for my use. I can’t bear the things; even the sight of them irks me. The warmest thing in any bed should always be a person, in my opinion.

Meakin pointed out some features of the room that I might have spotted myself, such as the bed and the large wooden cupboard. I tried to respond with the appropriate mixture of surprise and delight. Then, because I knew I would have to do so at some point, I told him the nature of my business in Great Holling, hoping this would satisfy his curiosity and allow him to look at me henceforth in a less penetrating way. I told him about the Bloxham Hotel murders.