So Bad a Death Page 14

  I handed John a towel wrung out in cold water and watched his ministrations in silence.

  “Sticking plaster, Maggie?”

  I made for the medicine chest in the bathroom.

  When I came back into the room, I heard Sergeant Billings say in a quiet tone: “It’s him, sir. I could swear to it. Hearing him in the dark like that brought it all back to me.”

  John did not reply. He cut off a strip of adhesive tape and clapped it skilfully over the cut. Then he got to his feet and went over to the tray. He poured out a small quantity of brandy and gave it to the stranger to drink.

  It was never John’s way to heckle anyone when he was down, even in execution of his duty. I considered that admirable trait one of the main factors contributing to his successful career. He worked with his brain, not merely relying on circumstances. He gave the stranger time to pull himself together before he spoke. He asked his name and what had happened to him out there in the wood.

  The stranger replied to the first question after some hesitation: “Nugent Parsons.” Almost as though he was speculating on a false name.

  However, no one could possibly think of a name like Nugent on the spur of the moment. But as to how he was injured and what he was doing in the wood, he remained obstinately silent.

  Then John sprang his surprise, or rather Sergeant Billings’.

  I told him afterwards it was mean of him to steal the Sergeant’s thunder.

  He asked in a clipped, clear voice: “Was it not you who rang the Middleburn police station early this morning to report the dead body of James Holland?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I

  Nugent Parsons nearly fainted under the sudden verbal attack. The strip of plaster became one with his face. I still felt sorry for him, although I appreciated John having his job to do. It was rather like eating your Christmas turkey, but refusing to see it killed. Parsons had been so much caught on the hop, as it were, that his obvious agitation could be interpreted only one way.

  John said: “You were in the wood adjoining Holland Hall last night. Why?”

  Parsons realized the way out of this predicament was not silence. It was too serious to remain silent. The consequences would be damning. On the other hand the explanation he gave was just as bad. Considering murder was the subject around which the discussion revolved, it was very poor. To say lamely that he had been for a walk and had accidentally stumbled on the body did not have much force about it.

  “The wood is private property,” John said. “Is it your custom to take a walk through other people’s estates?”

  Nugent Parsons replied swiftly to this. “I am employed at the home farm. There is no fence separating it from the rest of the property.”

  “Where exactly did this walk of yours begin and what route did it follow?” There was a sceptical note in John’s voice.

  Parsons hesitated too long before he answered: “I walked from the men’s quarters along the road and then cut round the other side of the Hall through the wood back again.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About seven, I think. It may have been some minutes after. I went as soon as I finished my evening meal.”

  I glanced at John quickly, wondering if he was thinking of the shadow we had seen slipping through the trees as we had gone along the drive. But he was after another point.

  “That means you must have found Mr Holland’s body very soon after the shot. Why didn’t you advise the police at once?”

  Parsons was caught badly. He stammered something about not wishing to get mixed up in anything. As John had told me this reluctance was often his experience, he could not but let it go.

  “As the sound of the shot must have come from the wood, how does it happen you continued your walk in that direction? You might have guessed something was wrong. I gather you would rather dodge trouble.”

  A slightly bewildered look came over Parsons’ face. He said with difficulty: “I didn’t know it was a shot. I did hear a car backfiring. It didn’t occur to me it was an explosion from a gun.”

  I frowned a little at this statement.

  “You say you cut along the other side of the Hall, Mr Parsons. Do you mean outside the boundary fence or within it?”

  “There is a path following the drive the other side of the poplars. It branches off and goes behind the house.” John threw me a quick look as though to say: “Here is the question you want asked.”

  “Did you see anyone going along the drive?”

  Parsons said “No” in a careful voice. There was almost a triumphant sound about it as if he was congratulating himself on being able to answer openly and truthfully.

  “Or anyone on the same path as you used?” John asked. He was clever. He read Parsons’ mind like a book.

  He said “No” again. But this time his voice wavered.

  John pounced on it. “You are not certain. You might have seen someone?” Parsons thought for a moment. He was weighing the pros and cons of something.

  Presently, without raising his eyes, he said: “While I was waiting just beyond the Lodge, I thought I saw someone moving along the path some distance ahead. Of course it may have been a trick of the shadows, but I got the impression it was someone I knew. Mr Mulqueen from the Hall.”

  John took this without expression. I had detected a faintly malicious undertone in Parsons’ voice, and thought I knew the reason why. It was a rather astounding reason, but one that had occurred to me when I first clapped eyes on Nugent Parsons. I made a moue of distaste to myself.

  If Parsons had intended anything malicious in his statement it only repercussed on himself. Beyond directing Sergeant Billings to make a note of the possibility of the person being Ernest Mulqueen, John ignored it.

  “Why were you waiting near the Lodge? Had you arranged to meet someone there?”

  Parsons stammered badly again. “No, of course not. I wasn’t waiting for anything—anyone. I paused—to light a cigarette. It couldn’t have been more than a minute before I saw Mr Mulqueen. Then I moved off at once.”

  “You did not want him to see you? Is that correct?”

  “Yes—no. I mean—I didn’t care whether he did or didn’t.” Parsons’ hands were shaking and he dropped his eyes again. “Can’t all this wait until the morning? I don’t feel quite up to things at the moment.”

  “I can understand that,” John agreed smoothly, his eyes on the discoloured patch growing at Parsons’ mouth. “How did you come by that? It looks to me like a blow from someone’s fist.”

  Parsons put his hand up to cover his face in a self-conscious manner.

  “I—I ran into a tree in the dark,” he muttered.

  “When you were taking a walk as you did last night?” John queried in an abominable voice. “You seem to make these nocturnal strolls a habit, Mr Parsons. What I can’t understand is your lack of sensibility in taking the same route after finding a corpse the previous night.”

  Parsons made no answer. There was nothing he could say in the face of such heavy sarcasm.

  John continued: “You also seem to be rather hard of hearing. You are doubtful about hearing the gunshot last night.”

  “Tell me, was a woman’s scream in the wood tonight also inaudible to you?” Parsons raised his eyes and stared defiantly: “I didn’t hear a woman scream.”

  John held his gaze for a moment or two and then turned away, shrugging.

  “You can go home, if you like,” he suggested. His manner conveyed that the interview had not been of much use to him. It was not worth continuing.

  Parsons got to his feet. He looked at me awkwardly. He could hardly thank me for my hospitality when John had used his presence to more advantage than was proper in a host.

  And he hadn’t finished yet. Parsons was at the door with Sergeant Billings at his heels when John said over his shoulder: “Before you go, Mr Parsons, will you tell me exactly how you found Mr Holland?”

  John had his head turned away from the two
men. Only I could see his face. I thought he looked strained, and watched him anxiously.

  Parsons replied, almost mechanically: “I was walking along the track through the wood when I came on the figure of a man lying on his back in the middle of the path. I might have tripped over him but for the fact that I had a torch with me. I flashed it on the face and recognized Mr James Holland from the Hall. He had a wound in his head. In his right hand he held a gun.”

  John interrupted without turning round. “You say you found him lying on his back. In what position were the legs? Were they drawn up or extended?”

  Parsons glanced at Sergeant Billings. He feared some trap. “I swear I did not touch him. I was only there for a minute. There was nothing I could do. He was dead. His hand was almost cold.”

  “Answer my question,” John said wearily. “In what position were the legs?”

  “Extended, I think. I was rather upset. I did not notice much.”

  John’s face reflected the weary note in his voice. “You may go,” he repeated. “You too, Sergeant. There will be nothing further tonight. Good night.”

  He made no move to see them off the premises. In my uncertain role of hostess I had no wish to speed the parting guest with any other excuse than to make certain that the front door was locked after them.

  Parsons made his departure hastily. I watched him pass along the fence on his way to the farm buildings further up the road. Sergeant Billings glanced down at my detaining hand in embarrassment. I loosened my grip on his sleeve, grinning.

  “Forward woman, aren’t I, Sergeant? I want you to do something for me. A few yards along the road you’ll find a handkerchief of mine tied to the fence. You’ve got a flashlight on your bicycle, haven’t you? Inspect what you find underneath the handkerchief very carefully. You’ll probably find it of some interest. Good night.”

  II

  I went back to the lounge-room. John looked up at me with a wry smile.

  “Nothing?” I asked.

  “A few points, but not what I want for the moment. I’m worried about that inquest, Maggie. If we miss out on that it will mean a hell of a job.”

  “You’ll find a clue,” I said hopefully. I sat down opposite. “Are you in the irritating position of guessing all about our new friend Nugent, or can I suggest a few things that may enlighten you?”

  “I have a fair idea. But give me your view of the situation. What did you make of Nugent Parsons?”

  “He’s very good-looking,” I said reflectively. John sighed ostentatiously. “But in rather a weak way,” I went on, unruffled. “It would be easy to make an impression on him. As a matter of fact I felt a bit sorry for him.”

  “Well?” said John.

  “Odd, don’t you think, how the Mulqueen woman popped in tonight all painted up like a Jezebel? She seemed to be waiting for a certain time and then popped out again. It wasn’t long after that we heard a woman’s scream. Also very soon after, Ernest Mulqueen finished off his last rabbit and made tracks for home.”

  John frowned. “Young Parsons and that old hag?”

  “Not so old,” I protested. “And you must admit she looked rather snappy tonight. She’s just at that age, you know. She looks the type who would carry on an intrigue just for the excitement and thrill of it. Disgusting what we women come to, isn’t it?”

  John mumbled something like “Damned fool.”

  “It looks as though Ernest surprised them. She came rushing out of the wood just after you left, leaving some evidence on the barbed-wire fence in her hurry. I told Sergeant Billings to collect it. Did I do right?”

  John nodded briefly and approvingly. “What else can my clever wife tell me?”

  “Not much. Except it is obvious Nugent Parsons doesn’t like Ernest Mulqueen. Suspicious shadows develop into him under the slightest pressure of Nugent’s imagination. I wonder if it was he or Ernest we saw last night. Funny the way they were both slinking.”

  “I consider it funnier that Parsons can’t take in a gunshot when he hears one,” John said with irritation. “A farm worker must know something about firearms.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “He seemed quite sincere about it too.” John made no comment. He brought out his pipe and filled it mechanically, his eyes fixed on a point beyond me.

  I said presently: “Will I be interrupting a train of thought if I give you my idea why Parsons was waiting in the Hall grounds?”

  John brought his gaze to meet mine. “Eh? No, not at all. Go on.”

  “You don’t sound a bit interested,” I complained. “My theory is that he was waiting for a signal from Elizabeth Mulqueen. Remember the tower light? It must have meant that she couldn’t meet him that night but would keep the tryst the following one. What do you think?”

  “Quite feasible.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “You know, you are not a bit interested in what I’m saying. Had you guessed it all before?”

  “Parts, anyway. You have been filling in the gaps admirably.” He got to his feet. “I think I’ll turn in, Maggie. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. I’m glad you’re not going to sit up all night turning over bits of paper, searching for your missing clue.”

  John pulled me to my feet, and slid his hands up to my shoulders.

  “Do you know,” he said with a half smile. “I’ve got a hunch that clue is going to turn up any minute. There is something you said at the back of my mind that I just can’t quite catch. But it will come.”

  I felt suddenly happy. “Tell me when it does.”

  He shook me slightly. “If you didn’t chatter so much you wouldn’t wrap up bits of important evidence so thickly. I have got to undo all the covering to get to them.”

  I thumped his chest with my closed fist. “Brute. You’re taking away a nice comfortable feeling of smugness. In future I won’t say a word.”

  “That would be foolish,” he said in all seriousness. And so I was made happy again.

  It is one thing to be complimented on being an excellent helpmate, but a very different matter to be awakened from a deep sleep in the early hours of the morning and have the compliment endorsed.

  At first I thought John was crazy. He kept saying: “Rabbits, Maggie,” until I was sufficiently awake to realize that he was not talking in his sleep. I struggled to understand his meaning.

  “Wake up, darling. I want to tell you what a wonderful woman you are.”

  I rolled over, taking in the luminous face of the clock in transit.

  “Must you, at this hour?” I asked resignedly. “Why rabbits?”

  John said, enunciating clearly as though I was hard of hearing: “The inquest. Remember? The Holland inquest. I have found that clue. Only it’s not a clue. It is something much better.”

  I was wide awake at once. “What is it? Quickly, tell me.”

  “The wound in Holland’s leg. It had me puzzled. It wasn’t caused by barbed wire. He caught his foot in a trap. Ernest Mulqueen’s gin.”

  There was silence for a moment while I digested this triumphant statement.

  “I think I’ll go and work on the idea,” John said. “Go back to sleep, Maggie. You’ve done your part.”

  I protested. I wanted to get up and stay with him, to discuss every possible angle of this new situation. For once John played the heavy husband and ordered me to stay where I was.

  “I won’t be able to go back to sleep,” I stated definitely, submitting to being tucked in like a baby. But I could not stay awake even out of cussedness. John did not come back to bed again. He worked until Tony awoke, and further concentration was impossible. Then he brought a tray of tea into the bedroom, rousing me with aggressive heartiness. I gave Tony a biscuit to dip into my cup and said: “Did the clue work out all right?”

  “Amazing possibilities.” The weary, strained look of the previous night had gone. In spite of his lack of sleep and growth of beard, John looked fresh and alert. “You remember I asked Parsons if he had touched the body? The straigh
tened legs did not look right. A man does not fall under a gunshot in that position.”

  “You mean the gin was employed to waylay the Squire, and that when the killer removed it, he forgot to place the legs in a natural position?”

  “Precisely,” John nodded. “And it is just that mistake backed up by the evidence of the gin that will make all the difference to the coroner’s finding. It could even mean an early arrest,” he added thoughtfully.

  III

  That afternoon was the date of Brenda Gurney’s tea party, and I found myself regretting having accepted the invitation. It seemed an age since that day Connie Bellamy introduced me to the Middleburn Community Centre, although different members had called me in the ensuing week, particularly after James Holland’s death.

  I visualized myself parrying questions the whole afternoon, and becoming worn and bored. Such an anticipation was quite wrong, for at Brenda Gurney’s party I found another piece of the jigsaw. It started as a suspicion and ended up a fact that had a great deal of significance in the case.

  Again the day was blue and golden, making the tinted foliage of the wood an even more lovely sight than the green springing leaves I see now. The days were almost monotonous in their perfection. Clear, cold mornings with the sun strengthening to a summer’s warmth. Then towards the end of the day a mist would rise from the creek. Even perfection becomes dreary. It was hard to conceive violent emotions being stirred in the midst of such peace. Perhaps the contrast of nature at fall and battling human nature made crime seem all the more horrible.

  The village was almost empty of shoppers. The middle of the week seemed the recognized time for tea parties. I noticed that the Post Office clock registered a time too early to make my presence welcome in a home where several children had to be washed and dressed ready for guests. A notion occurred to me suddenly and I went into the Post Office.

  The postmaster was a cheery individual who sat for the greater part of the day on a high stool behind the counter. A crutch was propped close by, but his extraordinarily long arms barely necessitated him using it to support his tucked-up trouser leg. Stamps, forms and telephones all lay within his reach.