So Bad a Death Page 3

  The track continued alongside a hedge which served as a boundary for one side of the Dower House garden, and from thence to the road via a stile. Ursula Mulqueen waited for me on the top step.

  “I love running, don’t you?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Sometimes,” I replied shortly. I was in no mood to be challenged to a race to the gate of the Dower House. My companion was just as likely to offer it. I felt I was being led up the garden path both literally and metaphorically, and tried to stem the girlish prattle.

  “See here, Miss Mulqueen. If what you say is correct and your uncle has no intention of selling this house, there is not much point in your wasting your time taking me over it.”

  “Oh, but you must see it,” she insisted. “Uncle James doesn’t often permit people through the Dower.”

  I said rather tartly: “I suppose it doesn’t matter wasting my time.”

  Ursula Mulqueen widened her ingenuous stare.

  “But you wouldn’t be, dear Mrs Matheson. I can assure you that everyone who has seen it has come away quite thrilled. I remember a leading city architect describing it to Mother as an architect’s dream come to life. Come along in.”

  “There are such things as nightmares,” I murmured, following.

  The interior of the Dower House was as pretentious and artificial as its name and my first glimpse of it had promised. All the more so because of its newness and unlived-in atmosphere. At least Holland Hall had had some years in which to lose its raw appearance. There were black beams and diamond-paned casement windows galore. The attempt at an Elizabethan aura clashed absurdly with various up-to-the-minute fittings.

  I moved around the house, mentally adjusting our modern furniture within this Elizabethan solecism. I still had hopes, despite Ursula Mulqueen’s parroted opinion on the matter, that Uncle James and I would do business together.

  “The garden is in remarkably good order.” I was surveying the terraced slope and row of golden poplars from the room I had visualized as John’s study.

  “It is mostly my father’s work,” Ursula Mulqueen told me. “Gardening is his hobby when he is not managing the home farm for Uncle James. He and Ames are always planning new landscapes. Not that Ames gets much time either.”

  “I should think that in running a big place like the Hall no one would have any free time.”

  “We all have our own little jobs to do,” she replied tritely.

  “What do you do?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

  “I help Mother. Arrange the flowers and things like that. I am always busy.”

  “Incredible!” I murmured. “I didn’t believe there was such a person left. Don’t you ever want to get out into the big world? Carve yourself a career or do something?”

  “Uncle James says that the only career for a woman in our station of life is marriage,” Ursula Mulqueen stated in all seriousness.

  “But how are you to achieve that sublime state if you don’t get out?”

  “Uncle James arranges everything. He always does. He has remarkable executive powers. I have heard Mother say so.”

  “He seems to be a remarkable man,” I said, losing interest. The girl hadn’t an original idea in her head. Every word she spoke seemed to be quoted from someone else.

  I followed my guide back to the Hall, lending but half an ear to her prattle on the manifold remarkable qualities of her Uncle James.

  Perhaps my slight attention was enough to absorb what Ursula Mulqueen told me that late afternoon last autumn. I was to hear and form many opinions on the character of James Holland, but Ursula’s reading of him as a romantic figure has stuck in my mind to this day. She may have been sincere when she described him as such. I cannot yet be sure. The girl was and still is a complete enigma to me.

  As far as I can remember, separating the facts from the loquacious mist in which Ursula Mulqueen shrouded her remarks, it was James Holland’s own uncle who first settled in Australia. Like some of the other piratical pioneers of his time, he obtained vast areas of property for the proverbial song. These he bequeathed to his nephew and heir together with his own ruthlessness and sublime snobbery. I gathered, from certain reverent hints Ursula let drop, that the family was descended from a famous English house. It was considered an established fact that the cynical, brilliant Charles James Fox held an important place in the family tree.

  James Holland’s way of life was based on the ambition to establish a class parallel to, if not the same as, the landed gentry of the home country. Hence the size of Holland Hall, out of all proportion to his needs and those who lived with him. The lodge and the crouching lions on the stone pillars flanking the gates were a typical manifestation of his ambition. Then there was the picture gallery in the house itself, containing some very bad specimens of portrait painting. I learned later that ironically enough the only picture worth looking at was a small water-colour of an Australian bush scene. There had also been some attempts to form a local hunt, but without success. The foxes which had been imported for this pastime now raided the poultry farm, much to the disgust of Ursula’s father.

  Ursula’s story sounded absurd to me. Nevertheless it was quite true. James Holland had both the money and the influence with which to indulge his whims. Everything was on his side but one important factor. And that was time.

  When Holland Hall was built as a pseudo-country residence, it had not been reckoned on the city spreading into such far-reaching suburbs. Bit by bit the distance between the Hall and town was being bridged by small, modern houses. Whether Mr Holland liked it or not Middleburn was just another suburb of Melbourne, in spite of its isolation and air of a country village.

  So far James Holland had managed to keep Middleburn at bay. He owned acres of land on either side and opposite the Hall. By dint of turning part of these into public golf links and opening his artificial wood to the public at certain times for charitable purposes, he had managed to block the local Council’s demands that he should sell some of it. The vast open paddocks that isolated the Hall had been given over to pasture for cows (he owned the local dairy) and sheep from some of his drought-stricken properties in the north.

  In Middleburn itself, he was landlord to the greater percentage of the shops and such houses as were not privately owned. Even the tradesmen bought their supplies from the home farm which was situated another mile along the road. Thus Mr Holland held a tight grip on the village and its inhabitants. He was the Squire. They were his tenants.

  V

  It was growing quite dark in the wood; and late, for I could feel that bite in the air which came as soon as the sun touched the horizon. Through the trees I caught a glimpse now and then of the white tower of the Hall. A splendid view of the whole countryside could be obtained from it, as I discovered later. It was an ideal position from which to follow a person’s movements around the estate.

  The tower room suddenly flashed into light and was as abruptly darkened, as though someone had pressed the switch and then realized that they could be seen through the swiftly falling dusk for miles around.

  I poked Ursula Mulqueen in the back.

  “Did you see the light in the tower? Look! There it is again.”

  “How extraordinary!” exclaimed my companion. “It makes the tower look like a lighthouse; as if it was signalling.”

  I cast a sharp glance in Ursula’s direction, but her face was now only a white blur in the gloom. She had taken the words right out of my mouth.

  Ursula went on a shade too quickly: “Are you going back to town by train? I’ll look up the timetable for you when we get in.”

  Keeping one eye on the tower for any repetition of the signalling, I picked my way carefully along the flagged walk to the conservatory.

  We entered the front hall from behind the stairs just as a woman dressed in trailing black lace was descending. She paused, leaning over the bannister.

  “Is that you, Ursie? Where have you been? I have been looking all over the house for you.�
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  The voice was fond, playful, but I did not like it. There was an underlying tone of peevishness.

  Ursula went to the foot of the stairs. “Uncle James asked me to take Mrs Matheson over to the Dower House. I’m afraid poor Mrs Matheson has fallen in love with it. I feel so sorry for her. Did you want me for something, Mother?”

  Mrs Mulqueen turned her smile in my direction. It was not reflected in her wide, bland eyes. I received a gracious nod which made me feel like the prospective housemaid once more.

  “I’ll take care of Mrs Matheson, dear. Run up and have your bath. I’ve laid out the white frock. I’ll be up later to tie your sash nicely. The Quirks are dining, you know. And dear—”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Don’t run off like that again, without telling me where you are going. I was quite worried.”

  Ursula paused on the same step as her mother. Watching them from the foot of the stairs, I glimpsed a certain challenge in her stance.

  She said quietly: “I couldn’t find you, Mother.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Mrs Mulqueen turned aside, laughing gently.

  “These young girls, Mrs Matheson,” she said, throwing out her hands, “so independent! Come with me.” She drew me along the hall. “So you liked the Dower. Enchanting place, isn’t it? Quite a treat to see a house built in such good taste.” She patted my arm. “You shouldn’t have become so excited. I tell James he is quite cruel letting you young girls through it. But it really is frightfully amusing seeing you get thrilled with it and then James refusing to sell. You should hear James tell stories of the tearful interviews he has had. He has such a sense of humour.”

  “The same sense of fun boys have when they pull flies’ wings off,” I agreed, pausing with her outside the door of James Holland’s study.

  “Oh dear!” Mrs Mulqueen said. “I forgot Yvonne was with James. We will have to wait. It would never do to interrupt. Sit down, Mrs Matheson.”

  I did so, but Mrs Mulqueen stood as near to the study door as she could.

  “Tell me all about yourself,” she requested without interest. Voices rose and fell in the study. I could hear Yvonne Holland sobbing.

  “I do wish dear Yvonne would learn to control herself. We Hollands know how to disguise our emotions. Lack of control is so ill-bred, don’t you think so, Mrs Matheson? But of course poor Yvonne hasn’t had a chance. Good breeding is innate, I always say.”

  I stood up.

  “What are you going to do?” Mrs Mulqueen asked sharply.

  “Nothing,” I replied, and sat down again. “Couldn’t you stop your brother bullying that young girl?”

  “You mustn’t worry about Yvonne. She just doesn’t understand James. She has no idea how to handle him. Not like Ursie, now. So sweet and pliable. James just dotes on my little girl.”

  I sat helpless. Bits of incoherent conversation escaped. But only one sentence came clearly through the study door. Yvonne—on a high, hysterical note—sobbed out: “You child-murderer! I could kill you for it!”

  There were some short ugly sounds and the sobbing terminated abruptly. I got up quickly. Mrs Mulqueen put her hand on my arm. When she smiled there was a sudden striking resemblance to her brother. The door of the study opened and Yvonne Holland rushed out, one hand across her face.

  James Holland stood in the middle of the room. The heavy crimson hangings were drawn across the windows. A standard lamp was all that lighted the room.

  “Come in, Mrs Matheson,” he said, and went back to his desk. “Sit down. You need not stay, Elizabeth.”

  Mrs Mulqueen glanced along the hall before entering.

  “James, why don’t you send her away? She doesn’t belong here. She never will be a Holland. Let her go.”

  Holland picked up a letter from his desk and scanned it without expression. “She was my son’s wife. Her child is a Holland. One day he will take my place here. Yvonne has responsibilities. She must be taught to realize them.” He put the letter down and looked at me. “You saw the Dower and like it, Mrs Matheson?”

  “I think your house would be most suitable for us. I suppose you wouldn’t consider—”

  Mrs Mulqueen broke in with her soft laugh. It was an artificial sound, like an amateur on the stage. A series of descending “ha-has.”

  “I warned you not to become fond of the Dower,” she said, wagging one finger at me. “My brother has no intention of selling it, have you, James?”

  Holland spoke slowly without taking his eyes from the letter on his desk. “I’ll let the Dower House to you, Mrs Matheson.”

  “Our idea is to buy a house, not to rent one,” I said, and got to my feet.

  Holland surveyed me with surprise. “You refuse my offer?”

  “I do,” I replied boldly. “Relations between landlord and tenant are always insecure. I wouldn’t trust you, Mr Holland.”

  Mrs Mulqueen gasped.

  “Well, really!” she began. Holland silenced her.

  “You are a very forthright young woman,” he observed. “Suppose I offer you an option of buying the Dower in—shall we say—six months’ time?”

  “James,” Elizabeth Mulqueen said in a plaintive voice. He glanced at her, an ironic gleam in his eye.

  “You wouldn’t like to have the police for neighbours, Elizabeth? Or were you expecting me to give the Dower to you?”

  “It is your house, James,” Mrs Mulqueen answered brightly.

  “I accept your offer,” I said, adding with caution, “providing you put it in writing.”

  He scribbled on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk. “My solicitors’ address. Your husband may contact them. Braithwaite will arrange the details of our agreement. Good night, Mrs Matheson.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Mr Cruikshank. Will I let him know of your decision?”

  There was a slight pause.

  “You need not concern yourself with Cruikshank,” Holland said shortly. “Elizabeth, show Mrs Matheson out.”

  Although he did not get up from his desk I felt moved to say: “Thank you for your generosity, Mr Holland. You cannot know what this means to us. Good night.”

  I did not know then about the estate agent, Arthur Cruikshank. Even if I had, I doubt whether I would have cared.

  I had found a house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I

  Mr Cruikshank had disappeared. He had walked out of Holland Hall, down the gravelled driveway, and vanished into thin air.

  I did not hear of it until some time later. Inquiries as to his whereabouts were not started for several days after the actual disappearance. Cruikshank’s sister, Maud, set the ball rolling. She went to the local police station and told Sergeant Billings that her brother had not been at the shop since late afternoon on a certain date. She had last seen him in the company of a smartly dressed young woman, who might be described as fair and rather tall, but who had no distinguishing marks except perhaps an unusually square jaw.

  Sergeant Billings took down all her information in a notebook with a blunt pencil moistened by his tongue, and since Miss Cruikshank seemed calm enough and not at all upset by her brother’s likely fate, offered no sympathy. He told her she would be notified as to police action during the course of the next few days. He then put in an official report to send to Russell Street Headquarters, where the matter reached John’s ears. Not that he had anything to do with mere disappearances. Nothing less than a juicy murder could command his attention.

  One of his colleagues at Russell Street, recalling that we had recently moved to Middleburn, brought the official report to him as a matter of interest. I do not know whether John let out then that I was the square-jawed young woman last seen with the estate agent, but he must have been unmercifully chaffed before the whole case was broken.

  The way in which John passed on the information was typical of him. It was the night we were hanging the curtains in the study. I was standing back and debating whether or not to have a
valance of figured chintz to match the side drapes when I caught his eyes fixed on me. I looked at him inquiringly.

  “Yes, you have got one,” he remarked meditatively. I was puzzled and glanced back at the curtains.

  “No, don’t turn away. Show me your chin again. Profile and then full face.”

  I moved my head obediently. “Yes, I would definitely say it was square. Has anyone remarked on it before?”

  “Dozens. What on earth are you talking about?”

  He went on musingly. “Fair hair. Tall. Do you dress smartly, my pet?”

  “I try to. What is this?”

  “Weight about ten stone?”

  “Nine,” I corrected with some indignation. “Why this police description? Am I wanted for something?”

  John began to fill a pipe with an air of deliberation. He seemed amused.

  “Yes and no. When I say yes—”

  “You sound like my friend the estate agent,” I interrupted. “I told you about him. He always looks at a question from both sides. Tedious when you are in a hurry for an answer.”

  “It’s strange you should mention him,” John said.

  “And why, pray?”

  “A report came in at Headquarters that he has disappeared.”

  “Has he?” I asked without much interest. “But what has he got to do with me?”

  John’s grin broadened considerably. “Only that he was last seen in the company of a young woman answering accurately to your description. You haven’t been indulging in a spot of kidnapping, have you, Maggie?”

  “Certainly not. I haven’t seen the man since that day he took me to the Hall.”

  “Which is precisely the day and time he vanished.”

  “What!” I exclaimed incredulously. “If this is a joke, I think your idea of humour is feeble.”

  “It’s no joke, I can assure you. Think of my career. Wife of C.I.D. man wanted for police interrogation. No good, Maggie.”