7. A GREASY LADDER

Christie’s Detective Agency Part 7

“What I think we should do,” announced Jennifer when she was happy that her new employee had convinced himself that there was no lasting damage to his sensitive private parts, “is take a look at that ladder. The one Bill Stubbs fell off, that is, make sure there was nothing wrong with it that might have ended in his accident. It’s always a mistake to ignore the obvious.”

“It crossed my mind,” replied Horace, and then a thought that had fluttered around the edge of his mind found its way into words, “what do you want me to call you, ma’am?” he asked, “I really don’t know.”

“Certainly not ma’am!” she replied. “Look, my name’s Jennifer and my friends call me Jenny. Do you want to be friends with me or not?”

“I like you,” he replied hesitantly.

“Then call me Jenny. I’d like that. And what do I call you?”

“That’s awkward,” he stammered, “My name’s Horace and I hate it. My middle name’s Poirot, and that’s worse. My nickname was Shorty at school, and I never could work out why. But it’s better than either of my proper names.”

“Were you in short pants longer than most boys?” asked Jenny.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Is your… private part … particularly short?” she teased.

He blushed at that. “How would I know?” he asked.

“I know what boys are like in the showers at school after a tough game of rugger,” she laughed, “I’ve read about it. Comparing statistics and all that.”

“I don’t know.” By then he was red as the proverbial beetroot.

“Then I’ll call you Shorty without knowing why,” she said, “and so, Shorty, to work. We’d better call on Beryl Stubbs again and ask if we can see the fatal ladder. And I’ll not pry into your nicknama at school and why you got it.”

“That’s the best thing you’ve said this last few minutes,” half-stammered Horace.

“Sorry if I embarrassed you,” she said more softly, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that my first husband was obsessed by his own bits and pieces. He thought he might require some sort of treatment to enlarge things down there! It was rubbish, of course, just his imagination. I promise I’ll try not to mention it again. You’re a much nicer person than he was.”

“Okay.”

“Mind you, my second husband wasn’t much better,” she mused. “I reckon he married me for my money, and soon went to see his solicitor for a divorce when he found out there wasn’t any.”

“You’ve had bad luck, then,” he sympathised.

“I have, when it comes to men. Come on, let’s go before I get all maudlin and start chatting you up because you’ve not yet quite reached the dangerous stage of life called manhood!” she said with a smile.

“To Mrs Stubbs then, Jenny,” he said.

“It sounds good when you say my name, Horace, and I want to give you a better nickname than Shorty, which sounds sort of critical, for the office. I want to call you,” she thought for a moment, “yes, I want to call you Captain. It goes well with a strong lad like you, and Poirot would like it too. He’s always been my favourite fictional hero, and his sidekick was Captain Hastings.”

“That’ll be all right. A nice military name. It’ll do,” he said. “Captain Sorsse. It’s got a ring to it.””

“Come on then, Captain!”

“Coming.”

She led the way out of the office, locking the door behind her. He looked at her as she walked down the stairs and marvelled that she could actually not trip over her own hair. It gave the impression of being that long, but he did realise it wasn’t actually as long as it looked.

“I do like your hair, Jenny,” he ventured, “I’ll bet it took you a lifetime to grow it like that.”

She smiled at him. “It sort of did,” she said.

The ride to the Stubbs residence didn’t take long, and when Jenny knocked the door Beryl opened it. Her eyes lit up when she saw them standing there.

“Have you found out anything yet?” she asked.

Jenny shook her head. “Not quite,” she said, “but we’re looking hard and there are several leads we want to follow. But for today, is the ladder that poor Bill fell from back here? I couldn’t see it at the vicarage when we called there.”

“Of course,” nodded Beryl, “I got Tom to bring it back here. He’s my neighbour and a good man. Come on, I’ll show you. It’s round the back.”

She led the way and they saw the three-part ladder propped up against the back wall of the house, in a corner where they hadn’t noticed it last time they’d been there.

“It’s not so new,” explained Beryl, “but Bill loved it! He said it would see him out, and he was right seeing as he’s dead.”

“It’s a good sturdy set of ladders,” agreed Horace, or Captain as he was beginning to think himself.

“He bought it way back,” nodded Beryl.

Now he was to be called Captain, Horace went up to the three ladders that connected to make a single long one, long enough to reach the second floor window of the vicarage, he judged, without Mr Stubbs having to stretch or in any way struggle to reach the glass.

“A lovely set,” he agreed, then he thought he noticed something.

“Has anyone touched it since your neighbour brought it back?” he asked, straining to see the higher rungs.

“No. There’s only me here now that darling Bill’s gone,” said the widow.

“It’s just that, unless I’m mistaken…”

Captain pulled himself up two or three steps and rubbed one finger along a higher rung.

“Here,” he said thoughtfully, “Look: there’s something black and sticky on this rung.”

He gently rubbed one finger along the rung, and when he withdrew it they could see quite plainly that it was covered in something glossy and black.

He raised it to his nose and sniffed it.

“Oil,” he said, “someone’s smeared thick oil on this rung, and I’d estimate it’s the one Bill would have been standing on to reach that high window, the one that he fell from.”

Jenny frowned. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

“That thick oil on that rung might have been slippy enough for him to slide off,” he said slowly, “someone knew that he’d be at the top of this particular ladder when he was doing that second floor window, probably reaching up, and with his feet on a slippery surface…”

“And that’s why he fell,” concluded Jenny.

“And that means what?” asked Beryl.

“It means,” murmured Captain, “that when he fell it was no accident. When he fell it was murder!”

© Peter Rogerson 17.09.21

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