So Bad a Death Read online

  I put my head on one side to look at him speculatively.

  “I wonder. I think it is rather brave of you to make that suggestion. I can’t tell my husband because any proof I have which involves me even slightly with the Hall will mean expulsion from Middleburn and a house to which I am becoming rather attached, in spite of its bizarre appearance. If you knew the miles I walked to find that house, you would understand.”

  I got up and said without hope: “I suppose you wouldn’t like to save me the trouble of ferreting, as you call it?”

  “Certainly not,” Doctor Trefont replied in a perfectly amiable voice. “If you will persist in this foolishness my only wish is that you will find a red herring or two to keep you occupied and out of mischief.”

  “I see your point,” I replied, grinning. “But it would save a lot of time if you could tell what you were doing on the terrace of the Hall that first day I saw you; why Mr Holland and Yvonne vied with each other belabouring you with their tongues; and what Sister Heather meant when she got into your car in High Street.”

  He frowned in a startled way. I pressed home the attack.

  “You know,” I said conversationally, “when anyone uses the word ‘murder’ I always prick up my ears. I think most people would be inclined to. You should warn Sister Heather to be more discreet.”

  The worried look on Doctor Trefont’s face, followed up by this Parthian shot, should have provided an excellent exit.

  Unfortunately, my departure was spoiled by Tony’s sudden and tenacious interest in the sterilizer near the door.

  Doctor Trefont followed me to the door.

  “I will see you again,” I told him, “with my ferret. Good-bye, Doctor Trefont.” The door was closed behind me with more than necessary force.

  I wheeled Tony down the surgery path, and headed towards the village, deep in thought. So often murder mysteries have been compared with jigsaw puzzles. The comparison has become tedious, but James Holland’s death and the tangled web of reticence and mystery which I found at the Hall and in Middleburn itself were a perfect example of one.

  There was some connection between all the pieces I had picked up and examined, but it was easy to forget the importance of one when overwhelmed with the sudden significance of another. Which was precisely what happened, as I walked along the High Street through the shopping centre.

  My mind was filled with the presence of Doctor Trefont and Sister Heather when I entered the Middleburn library, estate and many other agencies, and dry-cleaning establishment. And there waiting to serve me, dressed in his shirtsleeves and sateen apron, was Mr Cruikshank.

  II

  I had expected Cruikshank to be found skulking in the bush country outside Middleburn or wandering in another suburb with a lost memory. I might have been less surprised had he been found dead in suspicious circumstances. But I certainly did not expect to find him exactly as I did that first day in Middleburn; not only alive and well and in his own setting, but with his manner having undergone no change whatsoever. Just as though he had never disappeared.

  I managed to move my tongue about at last and to ask if my parcel had come in.

  “Maud!” Cruikshank called, ignoring my glassy stare. “Mrs Matheson’s grey flannels. And how are you liking the Dower House, Mrs Matheson? Settling in all right?”

  The man’s effrontery was astounding.

  Cruikshank continued: “Such a sad, sad affair at the Hall. Poor Mr Holland. Middleburn won’t be the same without him. Shocking to go like that.”

  He passed his head to and fro, tut-tutting. His words gave no indication whether he favoured the theory of suicide or murder.

  “I heard about it this morning when I got back,” he continued. “It almost bowled me over, as the saying goes. I have been out of Middleburn for a few days visiting an aged aunt of ours. You may have noticed me gone.”

  Cruikshank held me fascinated. It was just like listening to a radio play and wondering how the situation would be saved. In spite of my bewilderment, some shrewd instinct told me that this was going to be the story he wanted to reach the ears of the police before they came to him. It was a stroke of luck that I had walked into his shop that afternoon.

  Cruikshank continued: “I understand that before last night’s tragic affair I had been the talk of Middleburn.” He smiled indulgently at his sister, who had brought in “my grey flannels.”

  “Foolish girl! And all because I did not wish to cause her any anxiety, Mrs Matheson.”

  Miss Cruikshank had been coached in her cues.

  “You nearly had me demented, Arthur, going off and leaving no word. Naturally I went to the police. Who wouldn’t, Mrs Matheson?”

  I had got over the first paralysing surprise, through the gullible stage, and was now feeling annoyed at their childish playacting.

  “Who wouldn’t, indeed,” I agreed with heavy sarcasm. “But why didn’t you tell your sister where you were going, Mr Cruikshank?”

  He patted Miss Cruikshank’s hand in a nauseating fashion.

  “It was like this, Mrs Matheson. My sister is very attached to our aunt. If Maud knew she was ill and wanted to see me, she would worry herself sick. I thought it best to slip off without a word. Mind you, I never anticipated being so long away. I did send a telegram, but Maud said she never received it. The post office system leaves much to be desired, don’t you think, Mrs Matheson?”

  “No,” I said flatly, refusing to play their type of ball.

  He passed over my interruption and reiterated about their aunt and her illness and Maud’s unnecessary anxiety. It was pure padding. I cut it short by asking him if he had reported his presence to Sergeant Billings at the Middleburn Police Station.

  He hadn’t—not yet. The shop was in a turmoil. He had been so busy all day. Maud had let things go. She had been so worried.

  I indicated the handset at the end of the counter.

  “I suggest you ring the station now. It should only take about thirty seconds to make the call. If you pass me the telephone book I will look up the number.”

  Cruikshank was nonplussed. A certain venomous look came into his eye, such as one sees in a cornered rat. After a moment’s hesitation he removed the receiver.

  “Oh, dear,” said Maud in a frightened voice as he dialled the number.

  While he was speaking to Sergeant Billings I checked Connie Bellamy’s address. There was something I wanted to follow up in connection with Cruikshank. “Better for the police to hear it direct,” I said sweetly from the doorway. “I never was good at telling a secondhand story.”

  Connie Bellamy was sharing a cane couch with her dog in the garden. She waved as I approached, but did not get up.

  “Such an effort,” she excused herself in a satisfied way.

  I replied dampingly, “Perhaps you are not getting enough exercise. That might be fat you’re putting on, lying about like this.”

  “Nonsense, Maggie. I take exercise, of course. One mile before breakfast is worth ten after breakfast. Peter goes with me to keep me company, don’t you, my angel? You look after mummy and see that she doesn’t come to any harm.” She raised her head from this idiotic prattle. “This lying about, as you call it, is another way of absorbing vitamin D. The sun, you know. Do you study your diet and see that it is well-balanced, Maggie?”

  “I suppose so. When I have time.”

  “You don’t seem very concerned. I do think it is all frightfully interesting.”

  “Let it go! I didn’t come here to talk vitamins, but to tell you your friend Cruikshank has now done the re-appearing act.”

  Her glance suddenly avoided mine. “How odd of the man. Where had he been?”

  “Visiting a sick aunt, so he told me,” I replied, watching her closely. “I came to tell you because you expressed an urgent desire to see him. Why do you?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Connie denied, still dodging my eye.

  “You said your husband did,” I said impatiently. “I was speakin
g in a general sense. What did you mean when you said Cruikshank has been systematically robbing you for years.”

  Connie adopted the playful style to combat my interrogations. She wagged one finger at me. “The same old Maggie. Always wanting to know what is going on. Of course, being married to a policeman has made you worse. I am sure your husband must have some very interesting stories to tell about crime. I am looking forward to meeting him.”

  I grinned at her. “Don’t try and change the subject, Connie. Being a policeman’s wife has made me suspicious of anyone trying to turn questions into questions.”

  “I’m sure I wasn’t,” she protested.

  “All right,” I said promptly. “Prove it. Tell me in what way Cruikshank has been robbing you. Has he been charging you more rent than he should?”

  She looked affronted. “This house is our own. Harold would never pay rent to anyone. He doesn’t hold with it.”

  “I thought it was, but I had to get you started. If the house is yours what connection have you with the local estate agent?”

  “None at all,” Connie retorted. “I do wish you would stop this questioning, Maggie. You’re making my head ache.”

  “I will, as soon as you’ve told me what I want to know,” I replied cheerfully. “It is good training for developing your powers of endurance.”

  “I refuse to discuss the subject,” Connie snapped. “It is none of your business and Harold said—”

  “Oho,” I said, as she stopped short. “So Harold told you to shut up, did he? I wonder why.”

  “Because,” Connie blurted out, “it is best to be very careful at this time. We don’t want to become involved with the Hall. Harold was most upset when I told him what I said to you. Most unreasonable of him, of course, when he more or less inferred your husband might be able to help us—” She broke off again with one hand at her mouth. “Oh, damn you, Maggie. What do you mean by worming it out of me this way!”

  “I suggest you go on,” I threatened. “It would be better if I could tell John the whole story, not half. He might start brooding on all sorts of things which might involve you properly.”

  Connie looked a little frightened. “Maggie, you won’t tell him! I do think you are awful treating me like this when I am in a delicate condition.”

  “Think how painful it is for me. But I’ll stop, just for your sake. Perhaps you will be able to persuade Harold to have a talk with John when you come to dinner. From a policeman’s wife, you might pass on the idea to him. By the way, how did you come to buy this house? It is really very nice, Connie.”

  “Do you like it?” she asked, pleased and diverted. “Hasn’t Harold made the garden lovely? Of course, our bad boy Peter tries to wreck it. We bought the house under a scheme old Mr Holland ran. I believe he built this whole block.”

  I glanced at her quickly. Connie had let fall something that all my questioning and bullying had not surprised. What was better still, she was not conscious of it.

  “Will you stay to tea?” Connie asked, pushing Peter to the ground.

  “I’d love it. Providing,” I added guardedly, “it won’t be a glass of milk and cheese sandwiches. I refuse to be stuffed with calcium.”

  After tea Connie decided perhaps she did need more exercise and walked as far as the High Street with me. Half-way up the hill we passed the Potts-Power residence. Daisy was watering the front garden, waving the hose around in three-four time to the sound of music from inside. Connie called a greeting and remarked how dry it was this autumn. Daisy replied in kind and then caught sight of me. She ran over to the fence. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. The steak and kidney pie would have to cook itself if she chatted for long.

  “Of course, you met Miss Potts-Power at the Community Centre, didn’t you, Maggie?”

  Before I had time to speak, Daisy said: “Oh, I feel Maggie and I are old friends. Wasn’t it dreadful last night, Maggie? Fancy us all together like that! I said to mother when I heard the news, Maggie must be feeling dreadful. This is the second time she has come up against murder.”

  I flinched every time she spoke my name but found her last sentence interesting enough to overcome a desire to hit her on the head.

  “So you think it was murder, do you?”

  “Mother says it was. And she is always right. James Holland wouldn’t have the humility to kill himself. Those were her very words. But it is dreadful, isn’t it? We knew him so well.”

  “I thought you said he and your mother had quarrelled and hadn’t spoken for years.”

  “Did I?” she queried vaguely. “But what is time, Maggie? Mother admired and respected him, I am sure.”

  “Time will mean dinner won’t be ready for my husband if I don’t push off,” I said, directing another glance at my watch.

  “Oh, just one minute, Maggie,” Daisy almost begged. Her attitude of semi-adoration both embarrassed and annoyed me. “I called on you earlier this afternoon, but you were out. I thought you might like someone understanding near you at this time.”

  “Mr Holland was no relation of mine,” I said, surprised.

  “I know that, Maggie. But you see Connie was telling me all about that time at the Telephone Exchange, and I thought it might bring back horrid memories.”

  Her words irritated me not only by the interference they interpreted, but because they were almost identical with John’s. She made them sound a little ridiculous.

  “Mrs Bellamy had left the Exchange before that affair started,” I said, shooting an annihilating glance at Connie. “She can’t know more than the newspapers published.”

  “Please, please don’t be angry, Maggie,” Daisy implored. “It wasn’t only that. You see, I was afraid I’d given you the wrong impression about mother and Mr Holland. I mean they had never really quarrelled about anything specific. Now Mr Holland is dead it would be dreadful if the wrong impression reached the police and mother became involved.”

  So Daisy was just like the rest of them: all fearful of being involved. The very word had become a common denominator.

  All were out to use me as a buffer between their uneasy consciences and John.

  “I don’t think you need worry even if it does reach the police,” I told her. “When the shot that killed Mr Holland was fired, you and your mother were both in the presence of the very man who is now in charge of the case. Another matter—how was your mother to execute a plan of murder to look like suicide when she is confined to a wheelchair?”

  Daisy’s mouth fell open slightly.

  “Oh,” she said, and flushed all over her plain round face. “Of course. She couldn’t, could she? She can’t get out of her wheelchair. How stupid I am. Good-bye, Maggie, good-bye, Connie.” She turned and fled indoors.

  Connie and I proceeded up the hill.

  “She can get out of her wheelchair,” Connie said suddenly.

  “Mrs Potts-Power? How do you know?”

  “Well, I haven’t actually seen her,” Connie replied with newly acquired caution. “But one day when I was passing I saw the wheelchair in an obscure corner of the garden. It was empty.”

  “That’s nothing. She could have been lying down inside.”

  “Someone was playing the gramophone,” Connie insisted. “It wasn’t Daisy. She went into town that day. I can’t remember the name of the record, but it was one of those waltz tunes Mrs Potts-Power is always playing. It went like this.”

  “Strauss will turn in his grave,” I commented.

  “I think the old lady was left in the garden and she decided that while Daisy was out of the way she’d try out her legs. She always struck me as a hypocritical old tyrant. I only hope Daisy finds her out soon and leaves her flat.”

  “There might be a dozen explanations of that empty wheelchair. I wouldn’t go round saying too much about it. A murder has taken place, you know. And in spite of Daisy’s assurances to the contrary there must have been something in the quarrel between her mother and Mr Holland.”

  “
Was he really murdered, Maggie?” Connie asked on the instant. “I heard so many rumours today.”

  “You don’t want to listen to rumours. An inquest will probably be held within the next few days.”

  “But what is your own private opinion? With your experience you should know.”

  “Connie,” I said with force, “if you refer once again to my past, this happy friendship, the threads of which we are picking up, will end. I am not in a position to give an opinion even if I wanted to.”

  This was not exactly true, as I was already convinced that, in spite of any evidence to the contrary, James Holland was murdered. But with John in charge of investigations my position was a delicate one. The fact that we lived in the same district and were neighbours to where the crime had taken place meant watching my step. It would not do to show a tendency for one side or the other.

  III

  The steak and kidney pie had plenty of time in which to brown nicely, as six o’clock struck and John did not come in. I bathed and fed Tony and let him roam round the house in pyjamas while I went into the study to call up the Hall to find out how much longer John would be.

  I looked out the window to the square tower of the Hall rising above the trees as I spoke to Ames.

  The Inspector had left. He should be at the Dower House any minute. I heard John’s step in the hall and Tony’s whoop of delight.

  “He is here now. Thank you, Ames.”

  “Just one moment, Mrs Matheson.”

  There was a message for me. Would I please ring the following number. It sounded familiar. I asked Ames for the line at once.

  John came in with Tony on his shoulder.

  “I won’t be a minute,” I promised. “Dinner is ready. Put the boy into bed, will you?”

  I did not want John to overhear even my side of the telephone conversation. This trail was my own particular baby; which, all things considered, was rather an apt metaphor.

  Doctor Johnson came to the phone after a short wait. He grumbled at me for interrupting his dinner. “This is the same time you chose to have your brat, Maggie. Don’t make a habit of it.”

  “Sorry, but I was interested to learn you rang me. What news?”