So Bad a Death Read online

  I had gone to Middleburn on the advice of a city estate agency, which had given me the address of a Mr Cruikshank.

  This gentleman appeared to have many irons in the commercial fire of the village. His address was scribbled on the back of one of John’s official cards. As I stood outside a shop in High Street comparing the numbers, I saw that not only was Mr Cruikshank the local estate agent, he also ran a lending library, managed several agencies for insurance, and was a depôt for a dry-cleaning establishment.

  Looking back now, I cannot understand how I opened Mr Cruikshank’s screen door, which was and still is badly in need of oil, without feeling some other emotion than a weary speculation as to whether he could assist me in my house-hunting. My feet were sore from tramping city and suburbs. If there is anything likely to break the spirit it is blisters on the heels.

  Cruikshank was a short, stout man. When I saw him that afternoon he was in his shirt-sleeves with an immense black sateen apron tied around his protruding middle. This was his usual mode of apparel in the shop. He looked up from his job of rebinding battered library books when I entered. A keen, inquisitive look was cast at me.

  “Ah, yes! Margetsons wrote to me about a Mrs Matheson,” he remarked, after I had stated my business. He then added, a trifle patronizingly: “You’re after a house. Well, now. That is rather a problem nowadays.”

  As I considered he was liable to start commenting at length on the housing position, a dissertation I had already heard many times, I cut him short by demanding if he had any vacancies on his books.

  Mr Cruikshank put his head on one side.

  “Yes and no,” he replied, in an irritating fashion. “When I say yes, there is a vacant place in this district. On the other hand, it is doubtful whether the owner will sell it to you.”

  He stressed the last word, and I felt my irritation rising. But house-hunters cannot afford to offend estate agents. I asked for the owner’s address, so that I could see him for myself. Mr Cruikshank gave a small derisive laugh.

  “You had better wait for a while until I can take you along. Maud!” he yelled into a door leading from behind his counter.

  I remained where I was, idly glancing through a pile of uncatalogued books. Mr Cruikshank’s maiden sister appeared.

  “I have got to go out,” he told her. “Are you taking that one, Mrs Ames? Here, Maud, fix up Mrs Ames.”

  I had not noticed the young woman standing beside me until Mr Cruikshank spoke. She handed a book over the counter in silence, and then turned slightly towards me.

  “You are looking for a house, are you?” she asked. Her voice was flat and toneless. She kept one hand on the turned-up collar of her coat, trying to hide the port-wine stain which disfigured one side of her face.

  “That’s right!” I said eagerly. “Do you know—”

  The young woman shook her head disinterestedly. She turned back to the counter and picked up her book. The estate agent came bustling through the counter pulling on a coat.

  “Yes, looking for a house. Hopeful, isn’t she, Mrs Ames? I thought we’d try Holland again, but I don’t like her chances. Are you ready, Mrs Matheson?”

  I followed him through the shop.

  “Do you mean to say there has been a vacant house in this district for some time and the owner won’t sell?” I demanded, trying to shorten my stride to suit his. We became separated by a baby carriage, but not before I heard him start: “Yes and no—”

  When I came within earshot again he was still talking.

  “—many’s the time I’ve taken hopeful young ladies like yourself to see the owner. Occasionally he has permitted them to look over the Dower House, but when it came to talking terms—a most uncompromising man. However, we’ll see what happens today.” Mr Cruikshank gave a little skip and started to hum a tune.

  We followed the main road out of the village and up a steep incline. Houses had become more infrequent and soon gave way altogether to open paddocks. Now and then Cruikshank nodded to a stray pedestrian or waved his hand at a passing car.

  “You seem to know everyone,” I remarked pleasantly.

  He gave another little skip. “I,” he announced, turning his head towards me confidentially, “I am the most dangerous man in Middleburn.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Ah, yes!” continued Cruikshank. “Not much that has gone on in Middleburn over the last thirty years has escaped my notice. I know such a lot about everyone. Why even you now—” He looked sideways. “You look a comfortably-off young lady. Not wealthy, but nice and secure. Am I right?”

  “I suppose so,” I answered, my dislike growing stronger.

  “Well, now! That’s good hearing. Let us suppose that I can use my influence with Mr Holland and secure the Dower House for you, perhaps there might be some little extra in it for me. Eh? What do you say?”

  “There might be,” I answered shortly.

  Mr Cruikshank gave three consecutive skips. “We’ll just see what happens today,” he promised again.

  III

  Holland Hall was an immense estate, set on the rise of a hill and overlooking the village. The house, except for its square white tower, was rendered invisible from the road by the tall Lombardy poplars lining either side of the gravelled driveway. It was the length of this drive and the fact that just inside the elaborate iron gates was a small dwelling labelled “THE LODGE” that gave the whole property a pretentious appearance. The Hall was either an imitation or the manifestation of an ideal. An odd place to find in Middleburn, cheek by jowl, as it were, with five-roomed modern houses.

  The agent Cruikshank swung open the path gate with a fussy gallantry, standing aside to let me pass through. Perhaps that was another time when I should have felt some overwhelming emotion that would warn me of the web of mystery into which I was to be dragged. But I didn’t. Mentally I was girding my loins for battle. Although I understood that for some reason he was reluctant to do so, Mr Holland had a house to sell, and I was very, very weary of house-hunting.

  The drive curved into an open oval area in front of the house. In the centre of the oval a marble female figure revealed her knees to the goldfish with one hand, while the other held aloft a spraying fountain. Beyond the lily pond, stone steps led down to a sunken garden. I turned my attention to the house itself as we mounted more stone steps to the surrounding terrace. It had had several years in which to became mellowed, but not enough to disguise its crudity. Gabled and gargoyled at every conceivable point, it presented a baroque example of mixed architecture.

  “‘The style is the man,’” Cruikshank quoted smugly. “Quite a showplace, isn’t it?”

  He pressed his broad-tipped finger on the bell for the second time.

  A weak, fretful wail came from the side of the house.

  “Surely that is not a baby I can hear crying?” I asked, surveying this fantastic dwelling in wonderment.

  “That will be Mr Holland’s grandson,” Cruikshank nodded. “We’ll go round and see if there is anyone there.”

  A middle-aged man dressed in baggy tweeds straightened up from bending over a perambulator which was parked at the far end of the terrace. He turned quickly at the sound of footsteps and slipped one hand into a shapeless pocket. The other clumsily readjusted the pale pink mosquito netting over the hood. The eyes that met mine held a certain expression of embarrassment, if not furtiveness.

  “Well!” breathed Mr Cruikshank in my ear. “Well! I am surprised to see him at Holland Hall.”

  Before I could speak one of the French windows overlooking the terrace was pulled up with a jerk and a girl stepped over quickly. She did not notice us standing at the corner of the house. I was unable to observe the expression on her face, but her voice was charged with a cold loathing.

  “What are you doing here? I did not call you. Why have you been looking at my baby?”

  “Mr Holland’s daughter-in-law,” Cruikshank breathed again in explanation. “His son’s widow.”

  The s
tranger smiled at the girl gently in a conciliatory way. His mild eyes came once more to rest on my face beyond her.

  The girl wheeled around and gasped in such a frightened way that I retreated a step. I murmured something about ringing at the front door and no one answering.

  She tried to disguise her agitation. Her face, though quite young, was lined and harassed. Her small hands fiddled incessantly with the belt of her green wool dress as though it was too tight about her slender waist.

  “I didn’t hear the bell. Baby was crying. Teeth, you know.” She smiled in a tired fashion.

  I nodded wisely, and watched the stranger trying to sidle past us unobtrusively. One hand remained in his pocket. He stepped off the terrace and walked unhurriedly down the drive. I glanced at Cruikshank. His gaze had been darting from the girl to the stranger with a bright curiosity.

  “Yvonne,” a voice called from the house. The girl started and went back to the French window at once.

  “Yes, Mr Holland?”

  I turned to survey this man who built himself pseudo-manor houses and was not disappointed. In appearance and bearing he was all that he should have been.

  “Come nearer, Yvonne.” Holland’s voice was quiet, yet harsh and high-pitched. It demanded obedience. The girl advanced closer, her fingers entwined tightly. James Holland put out one hand and gripped her thin wrists. She stumbled to her knees over the sill of the window.

  “That fellow was here! Haven’t I told you I will not have him in the house? My wishes must be respected!”

  The girl looked up at Holland with a sort of weak defiance.

  “I didn’t want him here. Perhaps you can explain why he came,” she said.

  The old man held her gaze pitilessly until her eyes dropped. He released his grip on Yvonne’s wrists so suddenly that she sprawled at his feet. I hated him most for the smile he gave when he saw the girl so. She moved away to her child, her shoulders rounded as though manifesting her beaten spirit. Holland turned to deal with the other two persons on his terrace.

  He addressed the agent haughtily. “You’ve seen fit to answer my summons at last, Cruikshank. You will pay for your tardiness. Young woman with the inquisitive eyes, would you kindly leave my house?”

  I gasped with indignation, conscious of the aptness of his description. Cruikshank, evidently accustomed to the vagaries of clients, completely disregarded the dismissal by ushering me through the window.

  The room was James Holland’s study; large, red-carpeted and impressive. There were two or three immense leathern caverns of armchairs. The bookshelves were packed with massive tomes of a variety that immediately make one wonder who would read them and why. Mr Holland’s mahogany desk was of corresponding proportions. It lay angle-wise in one corner so that the light from the French window shone over his left shoulder. A beam from the late afternoon sun caught that side of his face, illuminating one eye, the tiny criss-cross veins on his cheekbone and the brown-marked hand tapping impatiently on the polished surface of the desk. I realized that unless my reluctant host was cross-eyed I was the object of his gaze and the cause of his tattooing fingers. I dropped my eyes meekly, thinking it might be pleasing, and swallowed my further indignation at being left standing.

  At last Cruikshank drew up a chair and introduced me. I received a brief nod.

  “Well, young woman, what is it? If you’ve come about my house, you’re wasting your time. It is not on the market, and that is final.”

  I felt my heart sink, and cast an inquiring glance at the estate agent. He made no attempt to get up from his chair so I stayed put, ready to fight if the need arose. He merely put the tips of his fingers together and sucked in his breath through his teeth. He appeared to be enjoying some secret situation.

  “Mrs Matheson is the wife of a distinguished Russell Street officer,” Cruikshank told Holland. “You may have heard of him.”

  The old man shot the agent a startled glance. “What are you driving at, Cruikshank? Are you trying to intimidate me? You are scarcely in the position—”

  “No one is in a position to intimidate the police,” Cruikshank retorted ambiguously.

  Holland was silent. He looked me over frowningly. The old man seemed to be debating some point in his head. I found it a tense moment.

  “Very well,” he said abruptly. “You may look over the house. But I promise nothing, you understand that?”

  As the estate agent rose with me, Mr Holland added quickly: “A word with you, Cruikshank. My sister will show you through the Dower House, Mrs Matheson. Go along the passage to the east wing. You’ll find Mrs Mulqueen there. Tell her I sent you.”

  IV

  Dismissed as though I was a prospective housemaid he had been interviewing and then sent to the kitchen for further instructions, I wondered at the airy way in which James Holland permitted a strange female to wander unescorted through his immense home. Either he presumed that I was not the type to steal the spoons, or else his revenge would be so dire in any such instance that the punishment would more than fit the crime and therefore afford him greater gratification.

  It was not to be the last time that I made a solitary journey through the Hall. Each one was to bring a stronger feeling that all was not well there. On every occasion there was some incident to support the feeling. That day it was a door ever so slightly ajar.

  Someone had eased it a crack so as to peer into the passage, and then at my approach had fled, not willing to risk their surveillance being discovered by the sound of the latch going into place. It could have been one of the servants, curious as to who I was, yet timid in case I was an important visitor. But I know now that I had been watched right from the start.

  I pushed the door wider and walked in. There was no one there. I paused, not knowing what to do next. I had hoped to find someone who could direct me to Mrs Mulqueen. I had been walking in an easterly direction for some time, but the lady remained elusive. I moved across the room to an inner door, and looked into a bedroom. Beyond it, through an archway, was a tiled bathroom. A tidy little suite. Then the thought struck me that this must be the east wing.

  I cleared my throat loudly.

  “Is there anyone in?” I called. “Mrs Mulqueen?”

  There was no reply. I retreated to the passage and hesitated on the threshold. Time was passing, and I had no desire to view what might prove to be my future home in the half-dark. My abstracted gaze wandered over the sitting-room.

  It was a deeply carpeted and luxurious room, fitted with many fine pieces of furniture. There was perhaps a propensity to over-decoration. Dresden figures and Lalique vases stood daintily on the dado above the countless paintings and portraits hanging at frequent intervals along the satin-striped walls.

  One of these pictures caught my wandering gaze. At first glance it looked like a framed newspaper cutting. Then I realized that the picture proper was facing inwards. I went forward with what John described later as my inexcusable meddling to straighten it. The desire was far from me to start interfering where it was none of my concern, but I was curious to see why that picture was deliberately turned to face the wall.

  Something flickered in the glass of a neighbouring portrait. I swung round, my arm dropping stupidly to my side, embarrassed and more than half annoyed at being caught so.

  A girl of about my own age stood in the doorway. I surprised a rather speculative look before she smiled, baring an expanse of pale pink gum above her small teeth. She seemed disposed to be friendly, although she must have seen my abortive movement to the picture on the wall.

  “Mrs Matheson? I am Ursula Mulqueen. Uncle James told me to find you. Mother is out, so I am to show you over the Dower House.”

  My mind took in this precise little speech while my eyes were noting the dark hair wound into cylindrical curls over the shoulders and the complete lack of make-up. With these went a sweet girlish manner that was as out of date as Miss Mulqueen’s dress. It was a shade saccharine, and girlishness never did sit well on a mature
figure.

  “This is the east wing, isn’t it?” I asked lamely. “I couldn’t find anyone to direct me.”

  Again that considering look behind the wholesome façade.

  “Yes, these are Mother’s rooms. This used to be my bedroom next door until recently. Uncle James permitted me to furnish one upstairs. It’s all in vieux rose. I love pink, don’t you?”

  Ursula Mulqueen tripped down the passage ahead of me.

  “We can go through the conservatory door. It will be quicker. Just follow me, Mrs Matheson, and you won’t get lost again.” A playful laugh accompanied this, but I was sensitive enough to catch a certain significance in her words.

  “Are you looking for some place to live, Mrs Matheson? But of course you are. What a silly question to ask! You’re lucky Uncle James is letting you visit the Dower. He doesn’t often do that. But he won’t let you have it, you know. He never does. He was keeping it for Jim. I don’t think poor Uncle James realizes yet about him. It was so sudden. Flying his plane and then crashing for no reason at all. It was terribly sad. Poor, dear Yvonne—mind the path, Mrs Matheson. Flags are pretty, aren’t they? Especially with the sweet little flowers popping up here and there between them. But they can be slippery.”

  Ursula Mulqueen chatted on aimlessly as she led the way. The flagged path from the house developed presently into a narrow track which wandered in and out of thickly growing beech, poplar and oak trees. The effect of this artificial spinney was pretty, but the going was rather tedious. More than once I stumbled over a stunted growth from a gum tree which had been cut down to make way for James Holland’s arboretum.

  After a lot of unnecessary meandering of the path, we came out of the wood on a slight rise.

  “There!” said my guide, pointing to the house below us. It was placed well back from the road amid a thousand shrubs. “Isn’t it enchanting? Uncle James copied it from an Elizabethan cottage in England. Do say it is perfectly sweet. They all do. I wish it was mine. It might be too, if—” she broke off, and ran down the hill, blushing like the mid-Victorian maiden she aped.