Читать книгу Accident by Design - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 15

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Brown mopped his face as he walked sedately over to the garages. “I couldn’t very well ask her if he drank too much,” he said to himself. “The Coroner will have to use his own judgment—but he still reeked of gin when I moved him, and he’d got a flask in his pocket, as well. I’d say that was at the bottom of it—he’d got too much gin inside him.”

The garages, as Judith had told Brown, were in the old stable quadrangle, where loose boxes and carriage stables had been very handsomely adapted for lock-up garages on two sides of the yard. The remaining sides had been turned into living quarters for chauffeur and gardener, “and very nice too,” thought Brown, looking at the mellow stonework and beautifully painted doors and window frames. The Sergeant knew Beach by sight. The Templedean Place chauffeur was a greyheaded fellow, very smart in his well-cut, bottle-green uniform, but there was something about the man’s face which Brown did not like—the rat-trap mouth and suspicious eyes looked very unamiable.

“Edward Beach, chauffeur to Sir Charles Vanstead?” began Brown formally. “You know what I’m here for?”

“I can guess. And I tell you straight I’m not surprised to see you,” said Beach sourly. “Many’s the time I’ve thought this’d be the end of it.”

Brown took out his notebook. “I’m asking you for evidence and I shall take it down in writing,” he said. “Would you like to explain what you mean in your own words?”

“It’s simple enough. Sergeant. Mr. Vanstead was a shocking bad driver. He asked for trouble and he got it. Out of respect for Sir Charles and Miss Vanstead I shall try to wrap that up a bit at the Inquest, if I’m called, but that’s what it amounts to. You’ll find plenty of people to tell you the same.”

“What do you mean by being a bad driver? Deceased had driven for years, hadn’t he?”

“Yes. I taught him to drive myself. Nineteen hundred and twenty-two that’d have been. Couldn’t get any sense into him, even when he was a boy. He’d never stop to think there were other fools on the road.”

Brown put his notebook down for the moment. “All right. Say if you have a word off the record,” he said. “Have you noticed him driving yourself?—not hearsay, firsthand.”

“He’s passed me twice on Templedean Hill when I was off duty, on my bike. I know when a car’s in gear. He used to cruise down that hill, trusting to the rise to slow him up, always swearing he hadn’t got enough petrol and had to save some doing fool tricks like that there. He drove on his brakes, and on the belief he was the only chap who’d any right on the road. Well, he did it once too often.” The chauffeur paused.

“Petrol, now. Did you fill his tank?”

“Not me. He tried that on, but I wasn’t having any. I’m responsible for what goes in the Daimler and Miss Vanstead’s Morris, and I wasn’t obliging Mr. Vanstead by filling his tank on other people’s rations.”

“You clean and service the cars here?”

“The Daimler and the Morris. Not the Stanhall. Never touched it.”

“How’s that?”

“Because Mr. Vanstead hated my guts. That’s why he wouldn’t have me drive him in the Daimler. I spoke a few plain words to him when he was a boy, for his own good, and he’s never forgiven me. He once took Sir Charles’s Mercedes out—1923 that was—and he piled it up against the posts of the entrance gates. A lovely car that was—sheer wanton stupidity. Quite a lot I said, and I told Sir Charles what I’d said, too, and he upheld me. Oh no, I never so much as cleaned that Stanhall—thank God! You can’t lay his death at my door. See that—garage number three?”

Beach waved towards a closed door. “That’s Mr. Vanstead’s lock-up. Lock-up’s the word. He was so suspicious he locked that door every time he took the car out. Thought I’d pinch his tools, I suppose. And I’ve been employed here since 1920, barring the time I was in the aeroplane works.”

“Then you can’t tell me anything about the condition of the Stanhall?”

“Not through looking at it or working on it. I heard it. A chap’s got ears. That was quite a good car when he bought it—engine ran nicely. It got worse every week he drove it. Ask Elliott over at the Crossroads Garage; he’ll tell you how many jobs he’s done rewelding and taking dents out of the wings and respraying. Mr. Vanstead couldn’t do those jobs himself.”

“Umps,” said the Sergeant. “That’s quite a point. Now, between ourselves—did he drink?”

Beach looked disgusted. “Sozzled. I’m a teetotaller myself. Don’t hold with drinking in my job. He didn’t often speak to me, but when he did he stank of spirits, and so did his wife.”

“Miserable business,” said Brown sadly. “Of course the Japs knocked hell out of him—I daresay that explains it. Were you here when Mr. Vanstead took his car out this afternoon?”

“No. I was digging in my garden. Miss Vanstead went out in her own car at two o’clock. She told me I shouldn’t be wanted and could do some gardening if I liked. She knows I’m keen on gardening, and there’s not much chauffeuring for me to do just now. Very considerate lady, Miss Vanstead.”

“Everyone respects her, I know that. Look here, Beach. What sort of mechanic was Mr. Vanstead?”

“Not for me to say, because I don’t know, but you’ve seen the result of his tinkering. Always mucking about with that car, he was.”

“Is there a spare key to that lock-up?”

Beach stared. “Can’t say. If there is, I’ve never seen it.”

“Ever seen any unauthorised persons around here?”

“No. Not at any time.”

Brown shut his notebook. “Very good. That’ll do for now. I’ll get a statement typed out with your evidence that you had nothing to do with the Stanhall and you can sign it. As for your opinions—well, wait and see if the Coroner asks for them.”

“That’s about it,” agreed Beach.