So Bad a Death Page 5

“Closing this place doesn’t seem to have mattered much,” I observed.

  The secretary on the stage took off her glasses and peered down to where we were sitting. “If everyone kindly listened to the announcements maybe I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.” She replaced her glasses and went on with the notices.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I suggested to Yvonne.

  “I can’t,” she whispered back. “Mr Holland—”

  “Rot,” I said, pulling her up.

  The horn-rimmed secretary paused again.

  “She has just remembered she left the gas on,” I explained, pushing Yvonne out the door.

  “Spare me from women in bulk,” I said, when safely outside.

  We strolled over the grass together. Groups of children were playing among the garden seats under the trees. Tony was having toys snatched from him by a flaxen-haired little girl in a very short frock.

  “Would you like to see my baby?” Yvonne asked shyly. “You didn’t that day, did you? He is just over here.”

  “Who is that with the children? And why must she sit on the ground? She looks appalling.”

  “Miss Potts-Power,” Yvonne answered, with a faint sparkle in her voice. “She is on the crêche committee. She loves children.”

  “And tells everyone so. I know the type.”

  I watched the dumpy girl on the lawn endeavouring to draw Tony onto her knee, one hand brushing back his hair in a disgusting fashion.

  “What a darling little boy!” she cooed. “What is your name, my pet?”

  The darling little boy smacked her hand away without ceremony and fled to my side.

  “What is his name, Mrs Matheson?” Miss Potts-Power asked, advancing on her knees after him.

  “Anthony John. I’m sorry he hit you, but he is rather shy. Not used to large gatherings, are you, Tony?”

  I loosened the clutch on my leg. Tony retreated still further behind Baby Holland’s pram. “He’ll come round presently,” I said. “Just leave him be.”

  “What a lovely name!” remarked Tony’s pursuer idiotically. “Come here, Anthony, and we’ll play gee-gees.”

  The horrible woman actually put the palms of her hands on the ground, presenting her fat behind invitingly. Tony, displaying a masterly sense of timing, dodged round the other side of the pram and back to the other children. Miss Potts-Power got up and tried desperately not to look hurt.

  I felt it was for me to make up for Tony’s lack of taste, and said hurriedly: “It is very good of you to play with the youngsters.”

  “Oh, but I love to,” exclaimed Miss Potts-Power, trying to tidy her damp wisps of hair. “I simply adore children. It must be lovely to have a baby. If poor mother,” she continued in a regretful tone, “wasn’t an invalid and needed me, I would have got married and had dozens.”

  Yvonne took this statement seriously. She spoke in a low tense voice. “I wanted a lot of children too. If only—” She broke off and tried to hide her flushed face by bending over the baby. There was an awkward silence.

  I was relieved to see Brenda Gurney coming across the lawn to meet us.

  “Cowards, both of you,” she declared pleasantly. “Yvonne, I am so sorry. We all understand. Most of us, anyway. I’m afraid Connie is after your blood. Here she is now.”

  Yvonne’s hand went to the buttons of her jacket again.

  Connie came up like a destroyer. “It is just too ridiculous for words. Yvonne, you must do something. What reason has Mr Holland for closing the hall? Can you tell me that?”

  “He didn’t say, Connie,” the girl stammered.

  “You asked him, of course,” Connie said scathingly. “Really, Yvonne, in an emergency like this you should assert yourself.”

  “Leave her alone,” Mrs Gurney interposed good-naturedly. “Everything will turn out all right.”

  Connie swung to starboard. “It’s all very well taking that attitude, Brenda, but I think you are to blame for Mr Holland’s nastiness. Everyone could guess who you were taking off at Marion’s auditions last week. That sugary little sneak—I know Ursula Mulqueen is related to you, Yvonne, and I’m sorry—must have told her mother.”

  “What did you do?” I asked, as Brenda Gurney listened to the tirade with an amused smile.

  “Marion was playing up to Ursula Mulqueen, although she really is a good little actress. You’d be amazed. I couldn’t stand the crawling, so when my turn came I gave an interpretation of her ladyship from the Hall among her villagers.”

  “Something will have to be done,” Connie declared. She was becoming quite heated. “Something drastic.” Her eye lighted on me.

  “I must go,” I said hurriedly, strapping Tony into his pusher. “I’ll see you again some time, Connie. It has been a grand afternoon.”

  “My dear, so marvellous to have a distinguished detective living in this lawless district. Harold will be frightfully interested when I tell him. You’ll be at Brenda’s next week, of course. I’ll see you then.”

  I was embarrassed and must have shown it. Mrs Gurney said in her tolerant, amused way: “Give me time, Connie. I haven’t asked her yet. But you will come, won’t you, Mrs Matheson? This day next week.”

  “I’d love to. Are you coming my way?” I asked Yvonne.

  III

  “Dear little things, aren’t they?” I remarked, as we passed noisily through the village. Tony was tugging at his straps irritably and baby Holland kept up a continuous whimper in spite of his dummy.

  The habitual scared-rabbit expression on Yvonne’s face gave way to tenderness as she looked down at the pale little face of her son.

  We began to climb up to Holland Hall. “You take Tony up the hill,” I suggested. “I’ll push your pram. What on earth possessed you to get such a heavy one?”

  Her voice sounded bitter. “Mr Holland ordered it. It was the most expensive in the shop.”

  “You know,” I remarked tentatively. “You shouldn’t let those Hollands order your life for you all the time. Stand up for yourself a little.”

  She made no reply to this. She was staring down at Tony, who was very intrigued by the change of driver.

  I went on, feeling my way carefully. “By the way, where is the local Health Centre? I haven’t had Tony weighed for an age.”

  “In Mainbridge Road. It runs off from the street which goes down by the Post Office.”

  “Sounds fairly complicated. Perhaps you could come with me and show me the way. What day do you go?”

  Yvonne replied stonily: “I don’t go at all. Mr Holland doesn’t like it.”

  “Why ever not? If you had a chat with the sister in charge it would probably make all the difference to this little fellow. Does he always cry like this?”

  “No, only just lately. He’s teething, Nurse says. She was my husband’s nurse and knows a lot about babies. That is another reason why I don’t visit the Health Centre.” She finished rather defiantly, as though daring me to think her weak-willed.

  “Your husband’s nurse, eh? She must be fairly old.”

  “The Health Centre sister is not young.”

  “So you have been to the Health Centre,” I said swiftly. “Why didn’t you go back?”

  “I’ve told you,” she replied, becoming distressed. “Mr Holland doesn’t like it. That one time I went there was a terrible row. I live in his house. I must do as he wishes.”

  “Even when it concerns your child’s welfare? And talking about Jimmy, there is just one thing I have been wanting to do ever since I saw him.”

  I stopped the pram, jerking on the brake with my foot, and bent quickly. The dummy was lying slack in the child’s mouth.

  The pale lips did not close on to it as I gently unpinned the cord with which it was attached.

  “Just this,” I said, and threw the dummy with all my strength over the hedge into a fairway of the golf course.

  Yvonne looked horrified. “You shouldn’t have done that. Nurse will only get him another one. And it does quieten him.
”

  “If she gets him another one it’ll be your turn to play ball with it. Don’t be a foolish girl. Dummies are senseless, unhealthy things. Now promise you’ll take me to the Health Centre tomorrow. I’ll call for you about three.”

  Yvonne glanced about her as though frightened someone might hear.

  “Please don’t come up to the house. Wait here at the gates.”

  “Then you’ll come?”

  “I may be able to slip out. Please don’t be angry if I can’t manage it. Thank you for wheeling the pram.”

  “Till tomorrow then?”

  She nodded. I turned off smartly in case she changed her mind, and headed back to the village.

  Middleburn had a neat little shopping centre devoid to date of any chain stores. I learned later that James Holland discouraged them. As he held mortgages over the majority of the shops, the entrance of any combine interest into the village would weaken his alarmingly big influence.

  I established relations with a garrulous butcher and, by abrupt contrast, a taciturn grocer. The latter eyed me with suspicion when I followed up an explanation of our recent arrival in Middleburn by asking for sundry goods which were difficult to acquire. The fruiterer, however, greeted me by name. He dabbled in psychology, which had won him more custom than the other two greengrocers in High Street. He made it his business to learn the names and circumstances of newcomers to Middleburn. If he knew that the budget would not stand the largest apples, he whispered confidentially that the cheaper ones were a much better buy.

  It seems ludicrous that such mundane matters should have been the cause of dragging me further into the web. And yet that is just what happened. If I had not been bent on consolidating my position with the tradespeople, I would never have chosen to cross the road at that particular moment. I would not have overheard those few words which were to make me waver in my determination to keep away from mysteries.

  A big maroon car had slowed down in answer to a signal from the pavement. I paused on the road for a moment, waiting for it to park. The woman who had attracted the driver’s attention pulled open the front door as I skirted the back of the car. I was sufficiently close to hear her say in a low, rapid voice: “If you don’t do something very soon that child will die. It’s murder!”

  “I can do nothing,” was the reply. “It is too dangerous. We can only wait.”

  The front wheels of Tony’s pusher were on the pavement; the back ones and my feet were in the running water of the gutter. I gave the pusher a jerk which sent it up on the footpath and sauntered casually alongside the maroon car.

  “Wait!” exclaimed the woman. “Don’t you want to stop this horrible business?”

  “Quiet,” said the man urgently. “We will talk about it again. Get in.”

  I stopped fiddling with Tony’s straps and glanced up. As the man leaned over to shut the door of the car his eyes met mine.

  They looked puzzled for a moment, then troubled. He frowned, his hand moving over the dashboard uncertainly. The car started with a jolt. I watched it go down the street, driven by the unwelcome visitor I had seen bending over Yvonne Holland’s baby at the Hall.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I

  The telephone was ringing as I came in the gate of the Dower. I left Tony on the porch with a word of warning and hurried inside to answer it.

  A pleasant masculine voice said: “Mrs Matheson? I have a message from your husband. He is delayed at the office and will not be home for dinner.”

  “Blast!” I said, thinking of the meal I had prepared. “Thanks very much.”

  “Just one moment, please,” said the voice hurriedly.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr Holland sends his compliments. Will you and Inspector Matheson dine at the Hall next week?”

  The invitation took my breath away. Partly because I had presumed the voice came from Russell Street.

  “This is Ames speaking from the Hall,” he announced, evidently guessing at my confusion. “You were out when Inspector Matheson rang. I promised to relay his message.” The Dower House telephone was only an extension from the Hall.

  Ames? The name was faintly familiar. Oh, yes, Mr Holland’s general factotum; overseer, secretary, greenkeeper, butler and what have you. Ursula Mulqueen had told me about him. His father had served the Hollands in the same capacity until his retirement to the Lodge.

  “Mr Holland wants us to dine with him,” I repeated, playing for time.

  “Yes, Mrs Matheson. Will Wednesday night suit you?”

  I frowned at the wall.

  “As far as I know now. But my husband is engaged on a case and might not be able to make it.”

  There was a pause before Ames spoke. “I will inform Mr Holland. I am sure he will understand. Cocktails are served at seven, Mrs Matheson.” I heard the receiver being replaced.

  I went back to the porch to bring Tony in for his meal. The phone rang again. Ames’ voice was becoming familiar. This time he sounded apologetic.

  “I forgot to mention, Mrs Matheson, that Mr Holland likes his guests to wear evening dress.”

  “We always do,” I replied loftily, and took pleasure in ringing off first.

  I moved about the house quickly. There was still a great deal of unpacking and arranging of furniture to be done. Ordinarily I would have welcomed the chance of John being out of the way to get it done. But that night I felt nervous. The odd creaks and reverberations, to which one becomes accustomed after a time, seemed unnatural and sinister to my ears. The silence was heavy. It made the noises sound muffled and furtive. A constant beat from the frogs in the creek and the hum of night insects reminded me of the isolated position of the Dower House. I kept Tony from bed for as long as his temper could stand it. His worn-out crying comforted me that lonely night, where it would have irritated me at another time.

  In fact, I had the jitters so badly that I was compelled to put away the detective story I was reading at dinner. Even the radio was tuned into some gruesome play by Edgar Allan Poe. For a while I went bravely around the house, pulling down blinds and flooding the rooms with light. My dinner dishes were washed and dried with a clatter, but I did not open the kitchen door to put scraps in the garbage bin on the porch. An opossum in the roof, stirring before his midnight scampers, almost caused me to drop a stack of plates. I shook my fist at the ceiling, took a firm grip of myself and went into John’s study to unpack a case of books.

  It was this one small room, fourteen feet square, because it fitted the green carpet perfectly, which had reconciled John to the distance from town and the unreliable train service. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a gas fire had been neatly fitted opposite to the only sensible position to put a desk. This was in an alcove formed by windows facing three ways.

  I crossed to them slowly and deliberately to draw the blinds, mindful that at least I had Tony for company. A mist had risen up from the creek at the back of the Dower property where the frogs still croaked incessantly. Somewhere above the mist the moon was shining, making the white trunks of the English trees in the wood slim and wraith-like, and illuminating the tower of the Hall. I forced myself to wait, watching it. I don’t know why. Perhaps I was daring myself to be afraid if that mysterious light flashed from it again. I even counted up to twenty before I dropped the shade, and called myself a fool.

  Kneeling beside the open case, I began to sort books. They were mainly technical tomes belonging to John, but there were a few novels of mine and a set of Shakespeare which had been a school prize. Turning over pages at random as I crouched there on the floor, something made me glance towards the door. It was closed against the draught, but I could have sworn a thread of cold air blew on my neck that I had not noticed before. Terrified, I watched the door handle, half expecting to see it slide around. I knew I was being absurd and tried to call lightly: “Is that you, darling?”

  The heavy pressing silence dulled my words. Again I became conscious of the croaking of the frogs, monotonous and
lonely.

  “This will never do,” I told myself severely, getting up from the floor and letting the lid of the case close with a bang.

  I opened the door and went into the hall. At one end the porch light shining through the narrow windows flanking the front door made a pattern on the carpet. I watched it for a moment. It was quite still. At the far end of the passage a lamp was aglow just outside Tony’s room.

  He was breathing quietly. The nursery was full of the warmth and companionship of him. I leaned over the cot, wishing suddenly that he was twenty years older. It would have been good to remain there with him, but I realized that once I gave in to this state of nerves I would never be happy alone again in the Dower House. Sounds and shadows became unheard and unheeded in John’s solid, satisfying presence. I left Tony’s room resolved to continue with the unpacking. With one hand on the doorknob, I shot a would-be careless glance down to the front door.

  That glance developed into a fascinated stare. I stood clamped to the floor, the only moving thing about me an icy drop winding its way down my spine. The pattern on the carpet just inside the front door had altered. It was blurred by the shadow of a head and shoulders. I watched it, too frightened to move. A hand was passed slowly over the leadlight.

  II

  The doorbell rang briefly. Who would be calling on me at this hour? Whom did I know so well in Middleburn that they would call at all?

  I approached a few paces, my eye falling on a stout walking stick in the hallstand. I gripped this more to gain in moral courage than with any other design and called firmly despite my knocking knees: “Who is it?”

  My breath came quickly as I waited for a reply. “My name is Mulqueen,” spoke a man’s voice through the windows. “Is that Mrs Matheson? Can I come in?”

  I ran down the remainder of the hall and took the chain off the door to admit the visitor. A short, ball-like man clad in a mackinaw jacket and a tweed cap stepped across the threshold. He had a pair of small twinkling eyes and a red tip to his nose.

  “Hope I didn’t frighten you,” he shot at me. “Heard you were all alone and thought I’d pop in to see if everything was all right.”