The Monogram Murders(31)

His mouth twitched as he listened. It looked rather as if he was trying not to laugh, though I might have been mistaken. “Murdered, you say? In a fancy London hotel? Now, there’s a thing! Mrs. Sippel and Miss Gransbury, murdered? And Mr. Negus?”

“You knew them, then?” I said, removing my coat and hanging it up in the cupboard.

“Oh, yes, I knew them.”

“They weren’t friends of yours, I take it?”

“Weren’t friends, weren’t enemies,” said Meakin. “That’s the best way, when you’ve got an inn to run. Friends and enemies gets you into trouble. Looks like it got Mrs. Sippel and Miss Gransbury into trouble. Mr. Negus too.”

What was it that I could hear in his voice—that strange emphasis? Was it relish?

“Forgive me, Mr. Meakin, but . . . does it please you to learn of these three deaths, or am I imagining it?”

“You are, Mr. Catchpool. Indeed you are.” He delivered the denial with utmost confidence.

We stared at one another for a moment or two. I saw eyes that gleamed with suspicion, devoid now of all warmth.

“You told me some news and I took an interest, is all I did,” said Meakin. “Just as I’d take an interest in the tellings of any visitor. It’s only right and proper, when you’ve got an inn to run. Fancy that, though—murder!”

I turned away from him and said firmly, “Thank you for showing me to my room. You’ve been very helpful.”

“I expect you’ll want to ask me a fair share of questions, won’t you? The King’s Head’s been mine since 1911. You’ll find no one better to ask.”

“Oh—yes, of course. Once I’ve unpacked and eaten, stretched my legs a little.” I didn’t relish the prospect of speaking to this man at length, but it was going to be necessary. “One more thing, Mr. Meakin, and it’s very important: if you would be kind enough not to pass on what I’ve told you to anyone else, I’d be grateful.”

“Secret, is it?”

“Not at all, no. It’s simply that I would rather tell people myself.”

“You’ll be asking questions, will you? There’s not a body in Great Holling who’ll tell you anything worth knowing.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “You’ve already offered to talk to me, after all.”

Meakin shook his head. “I don’t believe I have, Mr. Catchpool. I said you’ll be wanting to ask me, not that I’d be wanting to answer. I will say this, though . . .” He pointed a bony, swollen-knuckled index finger at me. “If you’ve stumbled upon three murders in your fancy London hotel, and keeping in mind that you’re a London policeman, you’d be better off asking your questions there and not here.”

“Are you insinuating that you would like me to leave, Mr. Meakin?”

“Not at all. Your itinerary is entirely your own affair. You’ll be welcome at this establishment for as long as you choose to remain. It’s no concern of mine.” With that, he turned and left.

I shook my head in puzzlement. It was hard to reconcile Victor Meakin as he was now with the man who had greeted me when I first walked into the King’s Head, who had babbled away merrily about London and his dirt-averse aunt.

I sat down on the bed, then immediately stood up, feeling the need of fresh air. If only there had been somewhere to stay in Great Holling apart from the King’s Head.

I put on the coat I had taken off a few minutes earlier, locked my room and descended the stairs. Victor Meakin was drying beer glasses behind the bar. He bowed as I entered the room.

In the corner, on either side of a table that was covered with glasses both full and empty, sat two men who were intent upon becoming as intoxicated as possible. Both had perfected the art of swaying while seated. One of these determined drinkers was a decrepit old gnome of a chap with a white beard that brought to mind Father Christmas. The other was well built and square jawed and could not have been older than twenty. He was trying to speak to the old man, but his mouth was too slack from the liquor and he couldn’t make himself understood. Fortunately, his drinking companion was in no fit state to listen, so it was perhaps lucky that it was unintelligible nonsense that was going to waste and not the finest repartee.

The sight of the young man disturbed me. How had he ended up at such a low ebb? He looked as if he was trying on a face that, if he didn’t change his habits, he would soon be doomed to wear for ever.

“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Catchpool?” Meakin asked.

“Perhaps later, thank you.” I smiled warmly. I try to make a point of being as good humored as I can with those I dislike or don’t trust. It doesn’t always work, but sometimes they respond in kind. “First, time to stretch the old legs.”

The inebriated young man rose unsteadily to his feet. He seemed suddenly angry and said something that began with the word “No.” The rest was unintelligible. He staggered past me and out onto the street. The old man raised his arm—a process that took him nearly ten seconds—until his finger was pointing straight at me. “You,” he said.

I had been in the village of Great Holling for less than an hour, and already two men had pointed rudely straight at my face. Perhaps among the local folk this was a sign of welcome, though I doubted it. “I beg your pardon?” I said.