Page 59 of Marriage and Murder
He led them to a good-sized room with windows looking out on an inner courtyard. Johnson was already seated at the rectangular table, about halfway down one long side. The investigators filed in and chose seats while Mallard performed the introductions.
Penelope and Barnaby’s presence caused Johnson’s eyebrows to fleetingly rise, but he merely nodded respectfully to them and returned his gaze to Stokes and Mallard. Penelope and Barnaby chose seats beside each other, across the table from Johnson and a little farther up the room, leaving the places directly opposite the man to Stokes and Mallard.
Penelope sat, clasped her hands on the table, and angled herself so that she could observe Johnson and also Stokes and Mallard.
After the policemen had settled, Stokes nodded to Mallard, inviting him to take the lead.
Mallard clasped his large hands, leaned forward on his forearms, and fixed his gaze on Johnson.
O’Reilly’s man seemed entirely relaxed, quite at ease and even a little amused.
“Just a pleasant conversation here,” Mallard stated, and Johnson inclined his head. “So,” Mallard continued, “what can you tell us about Monty Pincer?”
Johnson considered his answer, then offered, “I can tell you that he’s not a man anyone in their right mind would ever place an ounce of trust in.”
Mallard nodded. “How did he come to be of interest to your master?”
Johnson shrugged. “The usual way. Debts. Pincer’s been running up debts here, there, and everywhere more or less for all of his life. He often plays the game of taking from Peter to pay Paul. That’s how he came to O’Reilly’s attention. He looked into Pincer’s assets and discovered that, lo and behold, the run-down hovel Pincer calls home has a nice parcel of land attached—land Pincer currently agists for next to nothing. He’s no farmer and has no idea of the worth of what he owns.” Johnson smiled like a shark. “The boss looked and saw pretty hills, a spring-fed brook, and nice pastures and decided he wouldn’t mind having a piece of land like that out Bowerchalke way. Sleepy little spot with no nosy neighbors. So he told me to offer Pincer a consolidation loan.”
“Meaning,” Stokes clarified, “a loan to pay off all his other loans, leaving your boss—O’Reilly—as Pincer’s sole creditor.”
Johnson nodded with a touch of respect. “You understand it, then. The way the boss likes to run things is to let them—the punters, like Pincer—run for a while, all the time getting deeper into debt, as they do, so that when the time eventually comes and we call in the loan, there’s no option for them but to hand over whatever they’ve used as collateral as payment. In Pincer’s case, that’s the deed to his cottage and land in Bowerchalke.”
“Let me guess,” Barnaby said. “You feel that Pincer has now run far enough, and you’re ready to foreclose, as it were.”
Johnson grinned. “Right you are, sir.” He looked at Stokes and Mallard. “Especially as it seems that Pincer is going to be spending some time as a guest of Her Majesty.”
“As to that,” Mallard said, “what do you know of Pincer’s recent activities? We’re particularly interested in his pursuit of a lady named Viola Huntingdon.”
Johnson frowned. “If I’ve got this right, then the lady Pincer bailed up today was this Viola’s younger sister?”
“That’s right,” Stokes said and waited.
Johnson sat back. “Well, all I can tell you is what Pincer told me, and if you’ve got any handle on the man at all, you’ll know to take anything that comes out of his mouth with a very large dose of salt.”
“We know,” Penelope said. “So what did he tell you?”
Johnson was about to oblige, but then hesitated. After a moment, he looked at Mallard. “Here. If I tell you what I know—what the blighter told me—I won’t have to appear before any beak, will I?”
It was Stokes who replied, “Unless you have some information that only you know that proves pertinent to our case against Pincer, then it’s highly unlikely you’ll be called on to make an appearance.”
Johnson pondered that qualified response, then huffed. “I figure putting that nincompoop behind bars will be doing the boss—and all of society—a service. So…” He raised his head and ran his gaze over their faces. “Over recent weeks, Pincer’s been feeding me a line about courting some wealthy spinster in some village. Pincer never told me her name, but I looked into it quiet-like, and the village was Ashmore, and the lady lived at Lavender Cottage, and her name was Viola Huntingdon. From what I learned, it seemed like Pincer’s estimation of her worth wasmore or less on the mark. So I waited to see what would happen. While the boss was hoping Pincer would run fully aground and hand over the deed to the place in Bowerchalke, if Pincer was to pay his debts and all interest in full, well…” Johnson raised his heavy shoulders in a shrug. “That would do, too. Chances are he’d run himself aground again later. His sort always do.
“So I waited, but as Pincer was running close to the time when we’d likely roll him up, I made sure he knew to report to me a few times every week to tell me how matters were progressing.” Johnson met Stokes’s gaze. “With men like Pincer, it doesn’t pay to let up the pressure.”
“I see,” Stokes said. “So from what Pincer told you, you understood that he was attempting to lure Viola Huntingdon into marriage.”
Johnson nodded. “And when we met last Wednesday, he more or less told me that he was about to pop the question to this Viola. He was certain—absolutely bleedin’ confident—that she would agree. He said he’d already broached the subject, and she was eager as could be. He was scheduled to meet with me Saturday—last Saturday—and bring a down payment, but instead, he fronted up with this tale that his pursuit of Viola was off because her younger sister had returned to the village, and she—the younger one—was even more wealthy, so he was now focusing on her, and he expected all to go smoothly because, apparently, this younger sister had always had a soft spot for him.”
Johnson huffed. “I probably should have told him enough was enough and foreclosed then and there. But it was such a strange story, and I was curious as to what the silly beggar was up to, so I told him I’d give him another few days—a week tops—and arranged to meet with him Wednesday.”
“That was the Wednesday just past?” Stokes clarified. “Two days ago?”
Johnson nodded. “After he left—this was on the Saturday—I sent a man down to Ashmore to see what he could learn on the quiet, and he came back and reported that the reason Pincer’s pursuit of Viola Huntingdon had come to naught was that the lady had turned up dead. That was why the sister had returned, but Pincer hadn’t told me any of that.” Johnson sniffed. “Still hasn’t.”
“And did he turn up on Wednesday?” Stokes asked.
“Yes,” Johnson said, “but just with more weaselly words about how everything was on track and that soon, I’d hear wedding bells. As you might imagine, by then, I was running out of patience, so I told him to report back today. Which he did, but he was still spinning the same tale, just with new shiny bits. He told me he’d gone to London and checked, and the younger sister was a lot wealthier than even he’d imagined, and that he would soon ask her to marry him but that he’d had to go slower than he’d hoped, yet he was certain the wait would be worth it.”
