So Bad a Death Page 10

John’s frown deepened as he saw me. “Still up, Maggie? Doctor Trefont, my wife. And Sergeant Billings, Maggie.”

  “How do you do,” I said demurely to the doctor. But Trefont was more than my match. He said: “I know you well by sight. We have nearly met before, have we not, Mrs Matheson?”

  “Twice,” I agreed, not to be outdone. “On the terrace at the Hall and in Middleburn High Street. Shall I get more coffee, John?”

  He had been listening to the interchange with a still deeper frown. I did not care for the “wait until I talk to you afterwards” look, and tried to merge myself into the background.

  I hovered around the three men, pouring coffee and attracting their attention to a plate of sandwiches in ministering angel fashion. My ears were constantly pricked and I kept one eye on the doctor. His position in the case was going to be interesting. He had had some connection with the Hall prior to Mr Holland’s death, and yet here he was working for the police.

  John was behind his desk making a few notes. On one side of the fire Sergeant Billings sat upright, his enormous hands placed on his huge knees. The doctor lounged at his ease opposite, balancing his coffee cup on the arm of the chair. I was stupid not to have guessed his profession that first day at the Hall. All medicos seem stamped with the same casual independent air. John asked his subordinate a few questions first. They were ordinary routine affairs but the answers Billings gave were somewhat surprising, at least to my mind. For example, when asked at what time and by whom the body was found, Billings was unable to say. His speech became slower and a bit incoherent as he tried to explain.

  According to Billings, he had been awakened by the telephone at about 3 a.m. A man’s voice speaking in a quick, muffled manner, obviously disguised, told him that the dead body of Mr James Holland of Holland Hall, Middleburn, was lying on the track which cut through the wood. After giving this information the man rang off. At first the sergeant was inclined either to doubt his own hearing or else the sanity of the caller. There had never been anything worse than a few robberies in Middleburn during all the years in which he had served the district. And somehow saying it was Mr Holland—well, you know—it was rather hard to take in, him being such a figure and a force in these parts. Billings recovered his aplomb enough to get on to the mechanic at the local automatic exchange and order him to trace the call. “And did he?” John interrupted, whose patience with the sergeant was something I opened my eyes at.

  He did. The call originated from a public telephone outside the Middleburn Post Office. Billings hurried out of the house—his was a resident police station situated in High Street—but he was about a quarter of an hour too late to see anyone suspicious lurking, as he termed it.

  He went back to the house to dress. But only partially, I thought, catching a glimpse of striped winceyette under his uniform. Then he bethought himself of John. At this point, Sergeant Billings rolled a bulbous blue eye in my direction, as if it was my cue to carry on the story. I merely poured him out some more coffee.

  To me, Sergeant Billings appeared little more than a bucolic oaf. That was why I marvelled at John’s attention to his story. Later I discovered that Sergeant Billings’ stripes were not unmerited and that his slow but painstaking investigations under expert direction contributed largely to the success of the case.

  John turned to Doctor Trefont. He still sat at his ease and seemed agreeable to spending the rest of the night in front of our gas fire. John wanted an off-the-record account of death, a first impression of medical findings. Doctor Trefont’s reply was even a greater surprise than Billings’ story.

  “Suicide,” he said, without looking at John and while casually blowing smoke rings.

  I nearly said “rubbish” aloud.

  John’s face did not show disgust or disappointment. He was never anxious for crime to come knocking at his door. The doctor screwed his head round to look at John, throwing me an amused glance in transit. As though he had guessed at my scepticism.

  “That was my first unprejudiced impression,” he elaborated.

  “A post-mortem and a few police inquiries will no doubt cast doubts on it. But if a man is found shot through the head at close quarters with a gun in his hand, what else can I say?”

  “You doubt your own medical findings, then, Doctor,” John said pleasantly.

  “I do. From the little I knew of, but the amount I heard about the late Mr Holland, suicide would be the last crime he would commit. Unless of course he had some deep far-flung plan to execute which necessitated his own removal. The man had a genius for running things his own way in this part of the world.”

  “That means enemies,” John nodded. “Do you know of any?”

  The doctor replied dryly: “Dozens, if by enemies you mean those who resented his high-handed behaviour. But I don’t know of anyone who could be considered a worthy opponent—on the same social plane, as it were. However, when a man as feared and disliked as Holland is found shot dead, one can’t help thinking that there might have been such an enemy.”

  There was a pause before John asked: “You say you knew Mr Holland only slightly? Who was his medical attendant?”

  “He didn’t have one. His health was remarkably robust.”

  “What about the rest of the family? Are they all so hardy?”

  “I believe Mrs Ernest Mulqueen is considered a goldmine in Collins Street. I never attended her myself.”

  “Did you ever attend any other member of the household?” The doctor’s attention was on the third cigarette he was rolling. “Occasionally members of the staff came to my surgery with minor cuts and ailments.”

  John dropped the subject at this point. I could have shaken him, but dared not interfere in any way. Surely he could sense the doctor’s reluctance to speak about his medical dealings with the Hollands. The little he admitted had to be dragged out of him and he had skilfully avoided prevarication. No mention had been made of Yvonne and the baby. I was certain from what I had seen and overheard, and from hints dropped by Yvonne, that he had had some professional interest in her and the child. If John was not going to find out the nature of that interest, I was.

  Beyond saying “I wish you’d gone to bed” in a worried voice, John did not reproach me further after the two men had left. I think he was glad I had been there, even if it was only to pour the coffee.

  “It hardly seems worthwhile going back to bed,” I commented, yawning at the clock. “Why can’t murderers commit their crimes in office hours? It is as bad as being married to a doctor. Do you go to the office today or can you sleep in?”

  “I must go in. I’ll have to put in a report at once. It is not conclusive that owing to propinquity I will be placed in charge of this case.” We went back to bed in silence. I was nearly asleep when John’s voice spoke drowsily.

  “There are a few questions I must ask you later, Maggie.”

  I started to snore gently.

  II

  Daylight brought Tony out of his cot. He ran wildly around the house, full of overpowering vitality which we both regarded with dull amazement. John went off immediately after breakfast, extracting a promise from me to get some rest when Tommy went down for his noonday nap.

  Not long after he had gone, the telephone rang. I went to it with a frown. The extension line from the Hall which hitherto I had regarded as a necessary nuisance now appeared more in the light of a sinister connection between the two houses.

  It was Yvonne, more nervous and rattled than ever.

  Could I—would I please come over as soon as convenient. She felt she had no one to turn to. And I seemed—well, so practical.

  Shuddering at the epithet, I said yes, certainly. I had intended coming tomorrow, not wishing to intrude on their private sorrow.

  A rather hysterical sound greeted this conventional phrase and she rang off.

  I went round the house with Tony at my heels. By emptying ashtrays from the study I was reminded of Doctor Trefont. Laying down my duster, I picked up the telepho
ne from John’s desk.

  Ames answered my ring. His voice was grave and subdued as became a bereaved employee.

  “Very, very shocking,” was the smooth reply to yet another conventional phrase.

  I waited for a few seconds, allowing time for Ames to switch the Dower extension onto the exchange line.

  I was about to dial out my number when a voice broke in.

  “Put me through to Mrs Matheson at the Dower House, please, Ames.”

  “Ames—” I said sharply. “Haven’t you given me the line? Why is one extension key still open?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Matheson. Mrs Mulqueen wishes to speak to you.”

  “What is it, Mrs Mulqueen?” I asked ungraciously. She started on a monologue which was much the same as Yvonne’s insofar as an urgent desire to see me was expressed; the plea about not having anyone to turn to also was employed. But where Yvonne had seemed genuinely upset, I was persuaded that Elizabeth Mulqueen had some definite reason for wishing me to call.

  “I will be over presently,” I told her. “Now may I have the line, please?”

  After arranging a time with Dr Trefont for that afternoon, I paused to gaze out of the study window. It was a perfect day, fine, crisp, clean. Tony clambered up onto the window seat beside me. I brushed his yellow hair to and fro, addressing him absently.

  “The wood looks so serene by sunlight. Too placid and perfect a place to shelter violence. Yet only a few hours ago I was crouching here cold and fearful of what would be located in its very heart.”

  “Bang!” said Tony suddenly, with uncanny appropriateness.

  “The result of a bang,” I agreed. “A large, horrid bang.”

  Sergeant Billings with another man in uniform passed along the path below. I put my head out of the window.

  “Hullo, Sergeant. Whither away?”

  The two men stopped and peered through the hedge. I had the advantage, as they stood in the full sunlight.

  “Good morning, Mrs Matheson. The Inspector asked us to look at the picket we fixed up last night.”

  “Is he in charge of the case, then?” I asked, not knowing whether to feel pleased or apprehensive. “Where is he?”

  “At the Hall.”

  “I was just going over to pay my condolences. May I come through the wood and visit the scene of the crime? I promise not to trample on any clues.”

  I was taking a mean advantage of Sergeant Billings. In the normal course of events he would have refused, but as I was the wife of his superior officer he did not like to.

  “By the way, Sergeant, is it murder or suicide? What was the result of the post-mortem?”

  He replied guardedly: “Muchly what the doctor said. The shot could have been fired by Mr Holland himself. The gun was found near his right hand.”

  I shut my eyes for a minute. “Yes. He was right-handed. No fatal mistake on the murderer’s part there.”

  “Murder or suicide, every avenue is being explored,” said Sergeant Billings primly as he moved off.

  Mr Holland’s body had been found almost in the centre of the path, half-way between the two houses. Hand in hand with Tony, I arrived at the place, which was segregated by means of stakes joined together by rope. Sergeant Billings and his constable were scavenging around just outside this area. They seemed to be so busy stirring up the blanket of fallen leaves that I went on almost immediately. I was interested to know what John had sent them to find.

  At the other end of the path I came on Ernest Mulqueen, clad in his mackinaw and tweed cap. He was wandering along with his eyes on the ground, and started violently when I spoke his name.

  At once I was struck by his changed appearance. Like most tubby, rosy little men when dealt a severe shock, he had become pale and flabby-looking. Indeed he appeared so undone that I made an effort to brace him.

  “I meant to cut you dead the next time we met,” I informed him, “out of revenge for what you did last night.”

  For a moment my words might have been calamitous for the unnerving effect they had on Ernest Mulqueen. Then it penetrated that I was teasing him, and he tried to force a wobbly smile. It was a poor effort, barely touching the deep lines either side of his mouth which must have been caused by years of grins.

  “You ignored me when you came in before dinner,” I explained, helping him out. I was beginning to regard him in a new light. Murder or suicide, every avenue is being explored, Sergeant Billings had said. Ernest Mulqueen appeared to be one of these avenues. A man could not change overnight like he had without having something on his mind.

  “Your hair was done differently,” he tried to defend himself.

  “No go. I always wear the same style for months on end.”

  I felt like someone staring through a magnifying glass at a moth on the end of a pin. And yet I could not stop myself.

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, in a bad attempt at sounding confidential, “you looked so smart and dressed up that I was scared to speak to you.”

  “Flattery can’t help you,” I said, shaking my head. “Confess now. You either wanted to snub me or else you had something on your mind.”

  My words were daring under the circumstances, in spite of a light tone. I felt a little frightened after I had spoken: colour flowed into Ernest Mulqueen’s face. It was not his original ruddy colour but a flush of temper. He half raised a clenched fist.

  “If it was anything on my mind that concerned you or your policeman husband, I would have told you,” he snarled. He turned away quickly, plunging straight into the wood away from the path.

  III

  As I was skirting the Hall to the terrace a window opened in the east wing. Elizabeth Mulqueen put out her head.

  “I have been watching for you,” she called, beckoning imperiously. “Come in through the conservatory and along to my sitting-room.”

  “Where can I locate Mrs Holland? She rang first.”

  Elizabeth Mulqueen said something vague about Yvonne lying down and that I could see her presently. She shut the window before I could protest further.

  I was interested to find out why Mrs Mulqueen desired my company so suddenly. It was with this desire and not in the spirit of meekness that I followed the directions to her sitting-room. If she only wanted someone to listen to her reactions and emotions at hearing of her brother’s death, I doubted whether I would fit the bill.

  I was beginning to think this was the reason for the summons, when she introduced a subject so casually that some sense that had been with me that horrid time at Central sprang to the fore.

  I was told that neither Ernest nor Ursula had shown the proper sympathy and consideration. Of course, Ernest could not be expected to have the finer feelings of a Holland, but she had tried to bring Ursula up so carefully. After all it was her own brother who had committed suicide—

  “Just a minute,” I broke in. “Who told you it was suicide?”

  Mrs Mulqueen opened her eyes at that. “Why, of course it was suicide. You don’t think it was an accident, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said bluntly. “I think it was murder.”

  She manifested terrible shock. It was far too histrionic to be genuine.

  “But who?” she wailed, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “Who would want to murder poor James? I just can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.”

  “Then why should poor James want to commit suicide? I only met him once, but he seemed the last person in the world who would take his own life.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Elizabeth Mulqueen repeated, throwing back her head. “James has never been the same since my nephew was killed. His only son. So very tragic. James has had a life with many disappointments and much unhappiness. I think Jim’s death was the last straw. My poor, poor brother.” She averted her face and dabbed at her eyes ostentatiously.

  “That happened nearly eighteen months ago,” I pointed out. “Do you think he would have brooded on suicide for all that time, and then done the deed o
n the very night he was giving a dinner party? Furthermore, I can’t see him committing suicide in the middle of the wood on a damp cold night. What was he doing there? Where had he been?”

  Mrs Mulqueen remained silent. I released my grip of Tony’s jumper and let him stray around the over-furnished room.

  Presently my hostess, completely ignoring my two questions, leaned forward to pat my hand.

  “You’ve cheered me up considerably,” she said on a sigh. “I knew I was right asking you to come. You’ve been very kind.”

  I was trying to recall what words of consolation I had uttered, when she said: “By the way, being the wife of the officer in charge of the inquiry into my brother’s death, I suppose you have his ear and are able to assist in a lot of ways. You’ve worked together before, so I’ve been told.”

  I made no reply. Any reference to the circumstances under which John and I had met always made me tongue-tied, and in the face of Mrs Mulqueen’s wagging finger to boot, there seemed nothing to say.

  “I am sure,” she went on, “there must be a lot of tedious detail which has nothing whatsoever to do with the result of such an inquiry. Red herrings, if you follow my meaning. I think I might be doing your husband a good turn if you will tell him that I must have made a mistake last night. I only imagined hearing my brother in his room. You know how it is. You expect to hear things and think they take place. You see, the light was on in James’ room. I supposed that he must have returned and was there. Silly how we women always leap to conclusions. So you will tell your husband, won’t you?”

  “If you like,” I said slowly. I had been following Tony’s progress round the room with my eyes when a thought occurred to me.

  “Just tell me one thing, Mrs Mulqueen. What were you doing on the floor above when your suite is down here in the east wing?”

  She answered without a blink. “I went up to the tower to switch on the light. It throws out such a radiance. I knew James liked it being on when he gave a party.”

  “Is there anything wrong with the switch?” I asked. “Anything that would make it flicker on and off?”