So Bad a Death Read online

She got up from her chair suddenly.

  “Now, little boy, don’t touch my pretty pictures.”

  I grabbed Tony’s hand and moved to the door. “That reminds me of another matter, Mrs Mulqueen,” I said pleasantly. “Since I am behaving so inquisitively, may I know why you keep that picture hanging face to the wall?”

  “What picture? Oh, that is a photograph of James’s wife. She died. Keeping the photograph so is just my little way of mourning her. I was very fond of Olivia, very fond indeed. It is sad to think they are both gone and I am left, the last Holland.”

  I left her to reflect on her solitary state. She seemed to have forgotten the existence of the youngest Holland, frail though it might be. Ames was at the foot of the stairs as I came along the passage.

  “Mrs Mulqueen told me to come in through the conservatory door,” I told him, feeling some explanation was due—the effect Ames always had on me. “Mrs Holland is in her room, I suppose?”

  “Just one minute, Mrs Matheson.”

  He spoke urgently, with one hand outstretched. I glanced at it with raised brows. Ames dropped it, looking foolish.

  “I want to tell you something,” he said.

  “What is it?” I asked with curiosity.

  He was shaken out of his habitual suaveness. Ames lowered his voice, glancing down the long passage.

  “Mrs Matheson, Mr Holland did not commit suicide. I know everything points that way, but I knew the late Mr Holland too well. He would never have killed himself. I—” He threw another glance over his shoulder. “It may sound presumptuous, but I was very attached to the late Mr Holland. I can’t let his death go unavenged.”

  “That’s all right, Ames. I don’t think anyone else thinks it either, excepting perhaps Mrs Mulqueen. But why tell me this?”

  “I thought perhaps you may be able to persuade your husband. He is in charge of the inquiry. I can prove Mr Holland didn’t do it himself.”

  “Well, if you can prove it, what are you worrying about? What’s your proof?”

  “I don’t know if you can count it as evidence yet, but a revolver was stolen from the study some time ago. Mr Holland complained of the loss and asked me to look into the matter for him.”

  I put one foot on the first step to brace myself against Tony, who was dragging at my hand. “Have you told my husband that?” I asked Ames.

  “No, not yet. You see, the police have come across a letter which might help the suicide theory. If I told them about the missing gun, they might think it clinches the matter. But if you told Inspector Matheson it might be very different.”

  I looked Ames over frowningly. He dropped his eyes to Tony.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll tell him.”

  He thanked me. In order to show his appreciation, he relieved me of Tony’s fidgetings by suggesting that he should go down to the Lodge to play with Robin for a while. Thus Ames and I became somewhat involved in the matter of gratitude. Tony’s enlivening presence was not exactly suitable on a visit of condolence.

  I went upstairs wondering how many more times I was to act as a liaison officer between suspects and police. Elizabeth Mulqueen’s story might be as thin as paper, but Ames’ had a ring of sincerity to it.

  Yvonne was lying on her bed in a darkened room. Even in the dim light her face looked ghastly. I sat down in a chair near the bed, begging her not to get up. I felt awkward and ill-at-ease as she remained silent. I did not know what was expected of me. You can’t go sympathizing with anyone losing a father-in-law they both feared and disliked, and at whose demise the only emotion experienced must be one of relief.

  Presently, without looking at me, Yvonne said in a low tense voice: “Your husband thinks it is suicide, doesn’t he? He must. Anything else is out of the question.”

  I was becoming very tired of being expected to use my influence and said so.

  “Don’t tell me you invited me here to enlist my sympathy on that account. I don’t know what my husband thinks, but I do know nothing I can do or say will change his sense of duty and justice. Just get that into your head right at the start.”

  I got up. If that was all Yvonne wanted I was prepared to leave.

  She put out a hand. “Don’t go. Please stay for a moment, Mrs Matheson. I’m so upset and bewildered. I think I’m going mad. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  I sat down again, ashamed of my sudden outburst. Yvonne had not merited it wholly. It was the result of slow reaction on my part to Elizabeth Mulqueen’s innuendoes.

  “How is the infant?” I asked to break the tension. “He is likely to be an important person now, is he not?”

  “If you mean the money,” Yvonne replied with bitterness, “I suppose he is.”

  I went on gently. “You know, now Mr Holland is dead, you must exert yourself. Get Jimmy away from here. I would put him into a good children’s hospital for a week or two to fix his diet and to build him up. What about it?”

  She nodded listlessly.

  “I am extremely puzzled about your late father-in-law,” I went on. “He seemed anxious that the male line of Hollands should continue, and yet—”

  I paused. She glanced at me expectantly.

  “What do you mean?”

  I threw out my hands, a little embarrassed.

  “I have to confess I overheard you and Mr Holland quarrelling. The day I called about the Dower House, do you remember? There was a certain accusation you hurled at him.” Yvonne raised herself abruptly. “What do you mean? What did you overhear?”

  I eyed her uneasily. She was panting slightly.

  “Why,” I asked slowly, “did you accuse Mr Holland of child murder? Why should he want to murder his own grandchild?”

  She fell back against the pillows with closed eyes.

  “Yvonne!” I said in an urgent voice.

  Yvonne opened her eyes and gave a twisted smile, quite without mirth. “Don’t worry. I haven’t fainted.” She turned her head towards the window and seemed to forget me.

  “What did you mean by that outburst?” I demanded. “Why did you say ‘I could kill you for it’?”

  “Did I say that?” she asked, in a whisper still. “I don’t remember. Did I really say that?”

  I returned her gaze steadily.

  A knock came at the door. I went to answer it.

  “Please,” said Yvonne in a soft tone, “if that is Ursula, don’t let her in. I don’t think I can bear it now.”

  It was Nurse Stone. She gave me the same look of scarcely veiled hostility I had earned the previous night. But I thought I detected a certain fawning quality in her tone, no doubt due to John’s position again.

  “The police want to interview me. Will you tell Mrs Holland to listen for Baby?” She made an attempt to peer around the door, which I frustrated.

  Yvonne was struggling off the bed. “I must go downstairs. He is on the terrace in the sun.”

  “Stay where you are,” I ordered. “I’ll go and see if he is all right and get one of the maids to listen for him. They’ll tell you if you’re wanted.”

  IV

  The child was sleeping peacefully. I tucked his hand under the blanket and watched him frowningly. Hitherto I had considered that the baby was, as it were, in medias res, but now it appeared he was inter alia, and that a bigger and much deeper game was being played.

  A familiar voice called my name. I wandered along the terrace to the study window.

  “Can I come in?” I asked, bending double under the French window as I spoke.

  “What are you doing here?” John demanded, getting up from the big mahogany desk.

  “I came in answer to a royal summons. The brat is playing at the Lodge.” I wandered over to James Holland’s desk. John had been going through it.

  “What a rotten game yours is,” I remarked, indicating the piles of papers which included letters.

  “You become hardened to it,” John replied briefly. “Maggie, did we ever receive a letter from Holland?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t think so. I never saw one.”

  John took my handbag from my grasp, extracted the hand mirror and held it in front of the blotting-pad from the desk. “Holland blotted an envelope addressed to me. Why didn’t I receive it?”

  “Perhaps he forgot to post it,” I suggested, “or decided not to send it.” John frowned at the pad and then put it aside. He ran both hands through his hair in a tired fashion. “Are you tossing to decide whether it is murder or suicide?” I asked.

  He grinned ruefully. “It looks like coming to that. Certain facts are hard to get away from. Take a look at that, for example.”

  I picked up the letter. It bore the inscription of a well-known firm of private detectives. Messrs. Dawson & Heeps regretted very much that they had nothing further to report on the inquiry into the death of James Alexander Holland who crashed in his plane in the north of Victoria eighteen months ago. The letter suggested politely but firmly that Mr Holland was wasting his time in trying to bring about any other decision but that of accidental death.

  “Did the Squire think there was dirty work done?” I asked, passing back the letter.

  “Evidently. But look what an excuse this is for suicide, Maggie. For eighteen months old man Holland has been hanging on, trying to make someone pay for the death of his son. Then Dawson & Heeps tell him to snap out of it, it was an accident. The boy had come to the end of his allotted span and you can’t argue with the Almighty about the justice of it.”

  “That’s all very well,” I objected. “But why doesn’t he shoot himself immediately on receipt of this letter? Why go off on some trip, arrange a dinner party and keep his suicide for that moment? Where had he been?”

  John put the letter back on its pile.

  “Nobody seems to know exactly where James Holland went. Not even Ames.”

  “What about the telegram Ames received? Where was it lodged?”

  “Some obscure little country town out of Bendigo.”

  “Can’t Ames tell you why the Squire left Middleburn? I thought he was conversant with all Holland’s business.”

  “He has no idea,” John said, seating himself at the desk. “I have someone trying to trace Holland’s movements, but it is a hell of a job.”

  “So it is going to be suicide,” I said, sitting down on the arm of a chair. “Well, that should fit in with everyone’s wishes, except perhaps Ames,” I added as an afterthought.

  John looked up quickly. “What’s that?”

  I told him about my conversation with Elizabeth Mulqueen, Ames and Yvonne, omitting the part about the baby. With his new official standing John could and would order me offstage if he considered my concern for Jimmy was involving me in the affairs of the Hall. However, he was more interested in the missing gun Ames spoke about than any tell-tale break in my story.

  “Ames said Mr Holland complained of the loss? That’s odd, if the man meant to use it on himself.” There was a pause. John stared in front of him, frowning again.

  “When do you want lunch?” I asked presently.

  He looked up, his face clearing.

  “Now,” he grinned, “but unfortunately I can’t come yet. Young Braithwaite is coming out from town with the will. Don’t wait for me. I may be able to scrounge something here.” Billings appeared at the window. He saw us together, backed a step and coughed.

  “Come in, Sergeant,” John called. “Did you find it?”

  Billings stepped over the sill.

  “Not a trace, sir. Are you sure we are looking for the right thing?” I glanced from one man to the other with raised brows. Observing my mystification, John grinned again.

  “What are you talking about?” I demanded. There were times when I knew I was allowed to ask questions.

  “We don’t know ourselves. There was a note in the post-mortem report about a wound in the right leg of the body just above the instep. The trousers Mr Holland wore were torn at that place. I sent Sergeant Billings out this morning to look for barbed wire with traces of the material adhering. He reports no luck.”

  “Look here!” I protested. “I thought you inferred this was going to be suicide. Why all these careful investigations?”

  “Just routine,” John replied airily. “We now await the will. Further light might be thrown on this question of murder or suicide. Money, and there must have been quite an amount of it, always talks. In this instance I hope it will speak long and loudly.”

  “I had better go,” I said, getting up. “Tony will be wanting his dinner and his sleep. Do I expect you when I see you? Steak and kidney pie and the remains of the day before yesterday’s sweet for dinner.”

  “It will make me rush home madly at six o’clock,” John promised, as I nodded good-bye to Sergeant Billings.

  Ursula Mulqueen was strolling leisurely down the drive in the direction of the gates. It was only my knowledge of the time which caused me to catch up with her. I had intended passing on after a brief word.

  “Oh, Mrs Matheson!” she said, opening her eyes and mouth wide. “Isn’t it perfectly dreadful about poor dear Uncle. To think that we were all sitting down to dinner waiting for him last night and he was lying out there in the wood alone. It pains me to think of him being by himself at such a time, without anyone to help him on his journey.”

  “As far as I can see someone did help him on his journey,” I told her with brutal frankness.

  The shocked and sad expression changed immediately to horror. Her face mirrored exactly the transition that had taken place on her mother’s.

  “Surely,” she protested, “your husband doesn’t think someone deliberately killed Uncle James! Who would want to do that? What reason could they have?”

  My mind fled back to something John had once told me. Even motives for murder can be arranged into tabular form.

  “Either someone who was frightened of him or jealous or else money was involved. In your Uncle James’ case I’m inclined to think there might have been two reasons. Fear and money.”

  “I was never frightened of him,” Ursula remarked inconsequentially, but with deadly aim. “Not like poor dear Yvonne. By the way, little Jimmy will be the owner of Holland Hall now, will he not?”

  “How should I know?” I asked, recognizing a figure coming through the gates. “I see Mr Braithwaite approaching. Why don’t you ask him? He is to bring a copy of the will to show the police.”

  Ursula left me at once. I watched her well-shaped legs flash up and down under the unattractive dress.

  She drew the young solicitor off the drive into the garden, one hand on his arm. She must have known Alan Braithwaite was coming and was pacing the drive waiting to meet him. I shrugged disinterestedly and continued on my way.

  Old man Ames was sitting on the porch sunning himself. I thought he looked dejected. His head was leaning on one hand as though he was deep in memories. It suddenly occurred to me that of all those living in and connected with the Hall, he was the one most likely to feel a sense of loss at James Holland’s death, and to grieve sincerely.

  There was no sign of Mrs Ames. Anxious to be on my way I called to him to convey my thanks for letting Tony play at the Lodge. Ames rose and came over to the railing. When I looked into his handsome face, I said what I should have said to each member of the Holland household I had seen and yet could not say. For Ames the words came spontaneously.

  “I am so sorry. So very sorry.”

  He looked down at me in silence for a moment before he spoke. Somehow the words he quoted in reply did not jar my sympathetic mood. That line or two from the dying King Arthur’s speech, unspoiled by further comment, seemed more appropriate than the most eloquent panegyric.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  As he finished with each patient, Doctor Trefont came to the door connecting the surgery with the waiting-room to usher in a fresh one. Presently my turn came. I pulled Tony along with me. He was as nervous as a horse running a maiden race in that scrubbed and chromium environment, with the odo
ur of antiseptic heavy in the air.

  Doctor Trefont might never have seen me before for all the signs of recognition he gave. He put his blunt-fingered hand on Tony’s head for a brief moment before going round to his side of the desk. He selected a card and spoke without raising his eyes from his pen.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Matheson,” I snapped, annoyed at the pretence.

  He looked up at me with his mild gaze. “I want your full name,” he said gently.

  “This is not exactly a professional visit,” I confessed. “I thought it a good notion since we propose settling in this district to make myself known to a Middleburn doctor.”

  He accepted this with a friendly nod. I watched him carefully over Tony’s head. “You were recommended by Mrs Bellamy. Sister Heather at the Health Centre also told me to come to you.”

  He inclined his head without speaking.

  I went on deliberately. “I went there one day with Mrs Yvonne Holland.”

  “So I learned from Sister Heather,” said the doctor calmly. “You ran a great risk of earning the displeasure of Mr Holland.”

  “Doctor,” I said, trying to hold his eyes. “Why is the attitude at the Hall so hostile towards you and Sister Heather? Mrs Holland almost begged me not to come here. Have you ever attended her?”

  He looked at me in an odd, almost quizzical way. “If I said no, it would be the truth. But you wouldn’t believe it, would you? You would keep on ferreting around until you found some reason for that animosity you say the family at the Hall have for me. Let me give you some advice, Mrs Matheson, as an ordinary person as well as your doctor. It is never wise to become too curious about things outside the law. Leave it to your husband and the men of his profession.” He dropped his gaze and made some notes on the card under his hand.

  “I agree with what you say,” I replied, trying to maintain the conversation on the same lines, “but unfortunately there are certain factors which place me in an awkward position. I consider that I have in my possession more information than the police have.”

  “You should give this information to Inspector Matheson,” Doctor Trefont said, continuing with his spasmodic writing.