So Bad a Death Page 13

  “Not much. It all depends on the interpretation you can put on it. Have you been to Trefont yet?”

  “I did today. Would you think me frightfully silly if I asked you not to mention names?”

  “Is the line tapped? You’re living in a queer part of the world if what the papers say is true. Afraid I’ll have to say names if you want the news.”

  I paused a minute, straining my ears to catch the slightest sound on the wire.

  “All right. Go ahead. What is it?”

  “The man you saw today—”

  “Doctor Trefont?”

  “Damn it, I thought you said to be discreet. All I have to report is that he was anaesthetist to Barry Clowes at one time.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, perplexed. “Who and what is Barry Clowes?”

  “Big Collins Street gynaecologist. Also a big-time abortionist. That is the only dirt I can dig up against Trefont. He is no longer associated with him. His professional record may be as pure as snow now.”

  There was a pause as I frowned over this information. Doctor Johnson’s voice said peevishly, “Can I go back to my steak and kidney pie, please?”

  “Certainly. I am anxious to start my own. Thanks a lot, Doc, for the information. I’ll let you know if it comes in useful. Good-bye.”

  John put his head in the door as I put down the receiver.

  “Are you coming, Maggie? The brat won’t lie down.”

  We settled Tony with a combination of threats and cajolement and went down to the dining-room.

  John was looking pale and very tired. He went through the usual lassitude with every case he handled. On the job he was keen, alert and untiring, but once at home he seemed to sag completely, and to depend on me for a renewal of spirits. I did what I could by keeping the conversation frothy and the menu attractive. It might have surprised Connie to learn how I studied the chart with a view to increasing vitality-giving foods.

  Adopting a high-handed manner that went over well with Tony, I sent John into the lounge-room to light a fire and relax. Presently I took along a tray of coffee, prepared for a cosy domestic evening, only to find the lounge-room dark and chill. John was seated at his desk in the study.

  “I might have known,” I said resignedly, setting down the tray and going over to light the gas fire. “Can’t you relax just for tonight?”

  “With the inquest tomorrow?” he asked irritably. “Do you know what will happen if I can’t find some scrap of a clue, some tiny particle of evidence amongst all this?” He indicated the spread of papers on the desk. “Suicide whilst of unsound mind! Maggie, it was not suicide. A very clever person planned this. Is that person cleverer than the police, than I?”

  “No,” I said promptly. “You’ll find your clue. Just take it easily.”

  “With every pointer heading towards the wrong verdict? I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else but you, but I’m feeling rattled.” He got up restlessly and went over to the window.

  “What about the will?” I asked, dropping a lemon ring into John’s cup. On a case, he liked his coffee very black. “What happened with Braithwaite?”

  His face lightened for a moment. “I feel sorry for that poor fellow. He is having trouble with the ladies. I had to prise him free from the Mulqueen girl and Mrs Holland before I could get any sense out of him.”

  “I met Ursula lying in wait for him as I left. I didn’t know Yvonne was doing the same. She had been lying down in her room. Where is all the money going?”

  “That’s the trouble,” John said gloomily. “You could say the will was rather unusual and enough to inspire half a dozen motives, but you can hardly suspect an infant of getting out of his cot and shooting his own grandfather, can you?”

  “Yvonne’s son is the heir, is he? I’m not surprised. I doubt if anyone else will be. The old man set great store by the family name. Anything else of interest?”

  “They all get their share, even the servants. Yvonne Holland has a sort of trust fund which reverts to the estate if she marries again. She and the Mulqueens are to manage the estate in conjunction with Ames until the youngster reaches twenty-one.”

  I frowned. “That’s bad. It looks as if they will all stay on at the Hall together. I suppose they could hardly do anything else just now. The housing problem, of which we knew so much.”

  “There was one item in the will which may be of interest to you. The old man evidently decided that when he died there would be no need for a Dower House. This place is to be separated from the rest of the estate and sold. Braithwaite seemed to think there would be nothing in the way of our buying it.”

  I got up in my excitement. “Why, that’s marvellous! Now we can change the name to something sensible.” Suddenly a thought struck me, and I said in mock seriousness: “I hope you don’t think I knew of that clause and killed the Squire myself.”

  He grinned back. “No, I don’t. But I bet, providing we can make it murder and not suicide, that some busybodies will pass that suggestion around.”

  “In that case,” I said lightly, “I had better start finding the real killer myself.”

  John shot me a sharp glance. “Maggie, if you worry me, I won’t buy the house. I think I’ll hold over arrangements with Braithwaite until this case is wound up.”

  I came round to his chair. “Why, Inspector Matheson! That’s blackmail.”

  “It’ll be murder if you get in my hair over this business. It’s no use giving me innocent looks. I know you’re playing some foolish underhand game. When are you going to tell me what you know?”

  “When you hand over the title deeds of the house,” I said, with my sweetest smile.

  “A deadlock. All right, my girl! You have my warning. Step on my corns or Sergeant Billings’ and out we go.”

  “Talking about Sergeant Billings, did he tell you Cruikshank is back under his sateen apron once more?”

  “He did. He was going to see Cruikshank sometime this evening.”

  “Doesn’t the missing gun help at all?” I asked presently, as John kept turning over the same piece of paper.

  “I talked with Ames about it. He was quite insistent that the Squire complained of its loss. But Holland might have mislaid it himself through forgetfulness. Or he may have mentioned it first in case Ames noticed its absence. If a man really sets out to commit suicide he doesn’t want to be frustrated half-way. The faithful steward might have suspected something. No, Maggie, there are only two things I can find in all this mess. The first might be so coincidental that it signifies nothing. The other, though more concrete, has me quite puzzled.”

  “What are they?” I lighted two cigarettes and passed one over to John.

  “The first is the time of the shot. And here we could make a supplementary note. You were standing in the passage when you heard a sound which you immediately guessed was a gunshot. How did it happen I passed off that same sound and a subsequent one as a car backfiring?”

  “The front door was open,” I reminded him.

  “Hmm. Yes, I suppose that was it,” John sounded dubious. “However, to get back to the time factor. Don’t you regard it as curious that at that particular time not one member of the household was present in the room? I think it must have been about ten minutes later before any of them came in.”

  I frowned at the tip of my cigarette. “You mean that if it is murder, quite a few people who might be found wanting the Squire out of this world will have to start looking for alibis.”

  “You are still presupposing murder, Maggie. What I am driving at is this: it was unnatural for not one of the Hollands to be present to receive guests.”

  “They probably thought the Squire was there. The Hall is a ranch of a place, and no one seemed eager to be in his company for long. Remember Mrs Mulqueen sent Ames up to the Squire’s room. She thought she had heard him moving about.”

  “And yet this morning she informs you that she was mistaken. I wonder why.”

  I hesitated a minute. “I thin
k she wanted to draw attention away from the fact that she was on that floor. Her own rooms are on the ground floor in the east wing. I don’t know what her game is, but she knows something about that flickering light we saw in the tower.”

  “You mean she used the tower as a means of signalling to someone?”

  “Well, it looks like it.”

  “What stupid nonsense!” John said, irritable again. “Time enough to go into that if and when we establish the murder theory. The other point I was going to mention is the mark on one of Holland’s ankles. The post-mortem report was delightfully vague—suggested it was caused by barbed wire.”

  “That’s quite possible. The wood is divided from the road by a barbed-wire fence. He might have got through the fence and caught his leg.”

  John shook his head in a dissatisfied way. “Have you found out who reported the body?” I asked, still trying to make helpful suggestions.

  “No. But that’s nothing, People don’t like being involved with bodies, especially with those of well-known persons. Anonymous reports are not uncommon at Russell Street.”

  I sighed and thought again. A silence fell, to be broken when John said: “By the way, Maggie, I meant to ask you before. What did you mean—”

  “Hush,” I interrupted hastily and got to my feet. “Was that Tony calling?”

  “I didn’t hear him.”

  “I’ll go and have a peep at him.”

  I got out of the room quickly, closing the door behind me. If I stayed out long enough John would get on with his notes and shelve what he wanted to ask. Tony was sleeping deeply as I had expected, but I wasted time straightening his bedclothes and dawdled back to the study. John must be given ample opportunity to defer any leading questions.

  Then quite suddenly I was overcome by that uncanny sensation that all this had happened before. The circumstances and my actions were vaguely familiar. At first I thought the feeling might be connected with some hitherto unremembered dream. Then I saw the shadow against the leadlight of the front door and hurried forward. During the evening a banging noise had sounded from the wood now and then. Ernest Mulqueen was still putting his rabbits out of their misery.

  But it was not Ernest who stood on the porch that night. It was Elizabeth, his wife. I was taken aback at seeing her, and my first instinctive thought was “Now, what does she want?”

  “Mrs Matheson, how nice to find you in,” Mrs Mulqueen said, extending a gracious hand. “I was out for a little stroll. I simply had to get out of the house. So many memories of poor James.”

  I cast her a close look. She wore a musquash coat slung across her shoulders, the arms hanging loose. The low V of her black dress held a diamond clip. With her fading hair hidden by a chiffon turban of scarlet that matched her lips and nails, she looked twenty years younger.

  I took her down to the study, grateful for her presence insofar as I was cold and John could hardly start questioning me now.

  After its first look of irritation, John’s face settled into a polite mask. He hated having his thread of thought interrupted. Mrs Mulqueen kept up a patter about poor dear James that told nothing and committed herself not at all. John did not use her unexpected visit to any advantage. I don’t think he was interested yet. His one idea was to find that clue to fix the inquest decision the following day.

  In fact, no one was very interested, either in each other or in the conversation that we all pushed along. I noticed Mrs Mulqueen glance at the clock once or twice, and about ten times that number at the tiny jewelled watch on her wrist. A hectic flush grew up gradually under her skilfully tinted cheeks.

  After some time she leapt up right in the middle of a sentence and said: “I really must go now. They will be wondering what has become of me at home. Please don’t get up, Mr Matheson. Or should I say Inspector?”

  John held open the door.

  “Not yet, anyway,” he said, very pleasantly. I glanced at him sharply, but Mrs Mulqueen did not seem to take in the significance of his remark.

  We both followed her down the hall to the front door. She thanked us for cheering her up and making her forget poor dear James for a while. I wondered again how we had done this, and murmured some conventional reply.

  We watched her to the curve in the flagged path before John closed the door. The gate clicked as I turned off the porch light. John gave me a heavy look and went back to the study.

  “Sorry, darling,” I said, following him.

  “The trouble with you, Maggie,” he informed me, “is you don’t know when to stall people off. You’d let them talk and pour out their troubles, imaginary and otherwise, until the cows come home.”

  “That’s your own system, my boy,” I retorted. “I learnt it from you. Let them talk. You’ll soon find out what they are hiding. Those were your own sage words. What’s the matter?”

  John had cocked his head on one side and raised a hand for silence. I listened in the stillness of the room. The night sounds were very clear. I made a vague decision to inquire some time what exactly went to make up those sounds. The only one I could recognize was a rhythmical throb from the frogs in the creek at the bottom of the garden.

  “What are you listening to?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” John said with a grin. “It was a ‘lack of’ I was trying to hear. There has been some occasional banging going on in the wood, but it has stopped now for some time. I am curious to know what it was.”

  “Easily explained,” I said airily, and went on to tell him about Ernest Mulqueen and the gin set in the wood.

  “Just a minute,” John interrupted. “Wasn’t that it again?”

  I listened again for a moment or two. I opened my mouth to pass an inane remark about hearing things, when a sound did happen. It froze me to my chair, but my eyes darted to John’s face. A woman started to scream shrilly. A short sharp sound that ended before it should have—as though it was stifled before conclusion.

  IV

  John moved at once. “I’m going out. Stay here, Maggie. Ring Billings to come over at once.”

  I wanted to say “Don’t go,” or to beg to go with him.

  He said over his shoulder, reading my thoughts: “You can’t leave Tony here by himself.”

  I had the calling line at the Hall almost before the front door banged. John’s footsteps running along the path the other side of the hedge came to my ears, at the same time as Sergeant Billings’ slow voice. I told him briefly that Inspector Matheson had gone up to the wood and wanted the Sergeant to join him.

  I felt a vague admiration not unmixed with surprise when Sergeant Billings said he would come at once without further questions. The receiver was banged down in my ear. There was nothing more I could do but sit about and wonder how long John would be and what he would find up there in the wood.

  In the hurry and scramble I had noticed him open a drawer in his desk and pull out a torch. I went over to the window and pulled back the curtain, straining my eyes to catch a glimpse of light amongst the darkness of the trees.

  Suddenly I thought I saw a figure slipping out of the thicket onto the path above the house. It was no more than a lighter shadow against all that darkness. On impulse I hurried down the passage to the front door and out onto the porch. The figure had broken away from the track again. I hastened down the flagged path to the front gate, just in time to see the someone having difficulty in getting through the fence fifty yards down the road. The figure hugged the shadows until it went beyond the vision of my straining eyes.

  I stayed at the gate, thinking hard. Sergeant Billings’ bicycle lamp came weaving its way along the road. He jumped off just where the hedge joined the road and did not see me.

  I called his name urgently. He glanced around at once.

  “Here,” I called. “At the gate. It is Mrs Matheson.”

  He came up, the bicycle lamp in his hand.

  “Where is the Inspector?” he asked.

  “Somewhere up in the wood,” I replied, shading my eye
s against the light he flashed on me. “Tell me quickly, did you see anyone on the road as you came along?”

  He shook his head, anxious to join John. I did not detain him and went slowly back to the study. Mechanically I picked up a cigarette and John’s automatic lighter that lay on the desk. But I did not light the cigarette. I dropped it extravagantly to the floor, and slipping the lighter into the pocket of my jacket made for the front door again. This time I locked it after me with a vague prayer for Tony’s well-being and the comforting reflection that this new impulse would only take me a short time and not far from the house.

  Outside, the road was deserted. I hurried along to a certain point. There I flicked the lighter, thankful for the still autumn night and promising to buy a torch the following day for my exclusive use. Bending double on the grassy bank alongside the road, I ran the tiny flame carefully along the middle strand of the barbed wire.

  Presently there was a small hiss and my own breath blew out the flame in excitement. I stood upright and flicked the tiny wheel again, cursing my suddenly clumsy fingers. Holding the flame steady, I bent down again and found what I was looking for. Twisted in the jagged wire and hardly visible even to me, who knew what to look for, were half a dozen short silvery hairs. The flame had singed a couple, but I recognized them beyond any doubt as belonging to the fur coat Elizabeth Mulqueen had worn that evening.

  I pulled out my handkerchief and tied it round the wire. I wasn’t going to risk missing John’s commendation.

  I got back to the house just in time. John and Sergeant Billings came down the path. They were not alone. Between them they supported a man who dragged his feet as though he was drunk.

  John saw me waiting on the porch. “Get some water and a sponge, Maggie, please. And see if there is some brandy in the house.”

  Filled with curiosity at the turn of events, I hurried down to the kitchen. When I came back with a bowl of water and the remains of the Christmas pudding brandy, I found the strange man laid out on my lounge-room couch. He was conscious but dazed, and bled from a cut in one corner of his mouth. I could see he was making a desperate attempt to gather his wits together, and felt rather sorry for him. He was not much more than thirty and was quite good-looking in a bucolic sort of way.