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.
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.
Father Christmas made sounds that I translated as: “Yes, you, good fellow. Come and sit down here. In this chair here. Next to me, here. The chair that the unfortunate young ne’er-do-well no longer has the need of, here.”
Under normal circumstances the repetition might have grated, but since I was engaged in a translation exercise, I rather welcomed it.
“Actually, I was about to take a stroll around the village . . .” I started to say, but the old man had made his mind up that I should do no such thing.
“There’s plenty of time for that later!” he barked. “Now, you’ll come and sit down, and we’ll have ourselves a talk.” To my alarm, he began to sing:
“Come and sit down,
Come and sit down,
Mr. Policeman from London Town.”
I looked at Meakin, who kept his eyes on his beer glasses. Anger emboldened me and I said to him, “I seem to remember asking you only ten minutes ago not to discuss my business with anybody.”
“I haven’t said a word.” He did not even have the good grace to look at me.
“Mr. Meakin, how has this gentleman found out that I’m a policeman from London if not from your telling him? Nobody else in the village knows who I am.”
“You mustn’t go leaping to conclusions, Mr. Catchpool. That’ll get you nowhere, I expect. I’ve said not a word about you to a single body. Not a word.”
He was lying. He knew that I knew, and he didn’t care.
DEFEATED, I WENT AND sat with the old gnome-like man in his corner of the inn. There were hops and brasses on the dark beams all around him, and for a second he struck me as a strange white-haired creature in an even stranger nest.
He started to talk as if our conversation were already in full swing: “. . . not a gentleman but a ne’er-do-well, and his parents are the same way. They can’t read, or write their own names, and nor can he. No Latin to speak of! Twenty years of age and look at him! When I was his age—ah, but that was long ago. Time immemorial! I made the best of myself as a young man, but some take the blessings the Lord bestowed and squander them all. They don’t realize that greatness is within the grasp of every man, so they don’t try to achieve it.”
“Latin, eh?” was all I could manage by way of reply. Greatness? I counted myself as lucky every time I avoided a humiliating failure. There was nothing coarse about the old man’s voice, in spite of his lumpy claret-colored nose and ale-soaked beard. Undistorted by drink, his was a voice one might be pleased to listen to, I thought.
“So, have you done great things, then?” I asked him.
“I’ve tried, and I’ve succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.”
“Have you really?”
“Ah, but that was long ago. It doesn’t pay a man to dream, and the dreams that matter most can never come true. I didn’t know that when I was young. I’m glad I didn’t.” He sighed. “What about you, my good fellow? What will be your great achievement? Solving the murders of Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus?”
He spoke as if this were an unworthy goal.
“I never knew Negus, though I saw him once or twice,” he went on. “Shortly after I arrived in the village, he left it. One man comes, another man goes, and both for the very same reason. Both with the heaviest of hearts.”
“What reason?”
The old gnome poured an almost impossible amount of ale down his throat in one swift motion. “She never got over it!” he said.
“Who never got over what? Do you mean that Ida Gransbury never got over Richard Negus’s leaving Great Holling?”
“The loss of her husband. Or so they say. Harriet Sippel. They say it was losing him so young that made her what she was. I say that’s a poor excuse. Not much older than the kid that was sitting where you’re sitting before you were sitting there. Too young to die. There’s no end to them.”
“When you say ‘made her what she was’—I wonder what you meant by that, Mr. . . . um . . . ? Can you explain?”
“What, my good fellow? Oh, yes. It doesn’t pay a man or a woman to dream. I’m glad I was old by the time I tumbled to that.”
“Forgive me, but I’d like to check I’ve got this right,” I said, wishing he would stick to the point. “Are you saying that Harriet Sippel lost her husband at a young age, and that being widowed was what made her become . . . what?”
To my horror, the old man started to cry. “Why did she have to come here? She could have had a husband, children, a home of her own, a happy life.”
“Who could have had those things?” I asked rather desperately. “Harriet Sippel?”
“If she hadn’t told an unforgivable lie . . . That was what started all the trouble.” As if an invisible participant in the conversation had suddenly asked him another question, the old man frowned and said, “No, no. Harriet Sippel had a husband. George. He died. Young. A terrible illness. He wasn’t much older than the kid, the ne’er-do-well that was sitting before where you’re sitting now. Stoakley.”
“The ne’er-do-well’s name is Stoakley, is it?”
“No, my good fellow. My name is Stoakley. Walter Stoakley. I don’t know his name.” The old gnome combed his fingers through his beard, then said, “She devoted her life to him. Oh, I know why, I’ve always understood why. He was a substantial man, whatever his sins. She sacrificed everything for him.”
“For . . . the young man who was here just now?” No, that seemed unlikely; the ne’er-do-well had not looked substantial.
It was lucky that Poirot wasn’t party to this conversation, I thought. Walter Stoakley’s disorganized ramblings would have given him a seizure.
“No, no. He’s only twenty, you know.”
“Yes, you told me a few moments ago.”
“No point devoting your life to a wastrel who spends his days drinking.”
“I agree, but—”
“She couldn’t marry some kid, not once she’d fallen in love with a man of substance. So she left him behind.”
I had an idea, inspired by what the waiter Rafal Bobak had said in the dining room of the Bloxham Hotel. “Is she many years older than him?” I asked.
“Who?” Stoakley looked puzzled.
“The woman you’re talking about. How old is she?”
“A good ten years older than you. Forty-two, forty-three at an estimate.”
“I see.” I couldn’t help being impressed that he had guessed my age accurately. If he was able to do that, I reasoned, then surely I would eventually manage to draw some coherent sense from him.
Back into the discursive chaos I went: “So the woman you’re talking about is older than the ne’er-do-well who was sitting here in this chair a few minutes ago?”
Stoakley frowned. “Why, my good fellow, she’s more than twenty years older than him! You policemen ask peculiar questions.”
An older woman and a younger man: the very pairing that Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus had been overheard gossiping about at the Bloxham Hotel. I was definitely making progress. “So she was supposed to marry the ne’er-do-well, but then chose a more substantial man instead?”
“No, not the ne’er-do-well,” said Stoakley impatiently. Then his eyelids flickered. He smiled and said, “Ah, but Patrick! He had greatness within his grasp. She saw it. She understood. If you want women to fall in love with you, Mr. Catchpool, show them you have greatness within your grasp.”
“I don’t want women to fall in love with me, Mr. Stoakley.”
“Whyever not?”
I took a deep breath.
“Mr. Stoakley, could you please tell me the name of the woman you were talking about—the one you wish hadn’t come here, who fell in love with a more substantial man and who told the unforgivable lie?”
“Unforgivable,” the old gnome agreed.
“Who is Patrick? What is the rest of his name? Are his initials PJI? And is there, or was there ever, a woman by the name of Jennie in Great Holling?”
“Greatness in his grasp,” said Stoakley sadly.
“Yes, quite. But—”
“She sacrificed everything for him, and I don’t think she would say she regretted it, if you asked her today. What else could she do? She loved him, you see. There’s no arguing with love.” He clutched at his shirt and twisted it. “You might as well try to rip out your heart.”
Which was rather how I felt after a further half hour of trying to extract some logic from Walter Stoakley. I applied myself until I could bear it no longer, and then gave up.