So Bad a Death Read online

  The two children delighted in the unexpected prolongation and spent the time rushing madly up and down the passage. Their shrieks of delight at this energetic and purposeless form of entertainment came to me as I took a leisurely bath and changed into a dinner dress. It was fun getting into a long skirt once again. I topped off the black crepe with a candy-striped jacket, and went to the mirror.

  I took a satisfied look at my reflection from every possible angle and then a dissatisfied one at the bedroom clock. John was cutting it fine. I laid out his clothes in a dutiful fashion, and leaving the bedroom light aglow, went down the passage to the lounge-room, switching on lights as I went.

  Tony rushed headlong to meet me. I snatched him up for a minute. Mrs Ames had bathed him before tea and put him into striped pyjamas and a scarlet dressing-gown. He wriggled away and tore down the passage after Robin.

  Smell when allied to instinct becomes a highly acute sense. I could always tell when someone strange had been in my house. I had felt that as soon as I had returned from golf. Even if I hadn’t known Mrs Ames and Robin were in the house, that sense would still have been mine. It was very strong as I entered the lounge-room. I smiled a little to myself. Not that I minded Mrs Ames using my sitting-room, but it did not seem quite in accordance with my conception of her. I wondered if she had inspected every room in the Dower. I could find out from Tony if I cared to pump a child in such a futile cause.

  John came in just then. I was in the hall as soon as I heard his step on the flagged path. I hurried him off to change, and sat down to glance through the evening paper he had brought home.

  There was a small oblong box lying alongside the paper. I opened it with the lack of conscience which wives seem to develop after a few years of married life. A dainty little corsage was inside. I pinned it onto the lapel of my jacket feeling abominably sentimental.

  John came back presently, slipping cigarettes into his case. “Why is it,” he demanded in a resigned fashion, “women always mess up a newspaper?”

  He started to clear up the sheets on the floor while I sat clinging to one, my eyes glued on an item in the personal column.

  “Did you see this?” I asked.

  “See what? By the way, you might wait until I give you gifts before you thank me for them.”

  “Sorry, but I was overwhelmed. Have a look at this.”

  He read above my pointing finger. I looked into his face to see his reaction. He smiled round at me gently and said: “Are you ready, Mrs Matheson? May I offer you my arm?”

  I put the paper down. “You knew about it,” I accused him, rising and slipping a fur cape over my shoulders.

  “Detectives always read the personal column. You never know what you may pick up.”

  “Well, what do you think about it?” I asked, goaded.

  “It is certainly an original way to ask anyone to dinner. Tell me, should I go and say something polite to the nursemaid?”

  “No, but you could slip her the fee she expects and is entitled to. We are escorting young Robin home too. Find him while I tuck Tony in.”

  My question had been gracefully but firmly evaded. John did not intend to discuss the item in the paper. I wondered if it was because I had been reticent about affairs at the Hall and he was piqued, or whether his attitude was becoming official. His remark was a fine example of understatement. To invite a man to dinner through the medium of the personal column was in itself odd, but when one knew that the proposed guest had disappeared in suspicious circumstances several days earlier the situation was even more out of the way.

  “Will he be able to get himself to bed?” I asked Mrs Ames as Robin presented his hand in an enchanting fashion. His little fingers curled into mine without any shyness.

  Mrs Ames watched him, answering my question with a nod.

  “I hope you won’t be lonely here by yourself,” I persevered, trying to break through Harriet Ames’ reserve.

  “No, I won’t be lonely,” she replied, waiting for me to go.

  She stood at the end of the hall as John opened the front door.

  “Good night,” I called, raising one hand.

  “Don’t try so hard, Maggie,” John said, pulling the door to.

  “Hullo. Who’s this?”

  The gate of the Dower had opened, and a female figure picked its way over the flags.

  “Why, Miss Cruikshank! Good evening.” I was surprised.

  Miss Potts-Power had declared the Squire’s party was all over the village. “I’m afraid we are just on our way out.”

  “Oh, dear!” Miss Cruikshank said. “I must be too early. She did say seven. The clock in the shop must have gained.”

  John had sized up the situation. He inserted his key in the door and swung it open. I caught a glimpse of Harriet Ames still standing at the end of the hall.

  “A caller for you,” John said pleasantly. He gently pushed Miss Cruikshank inside and shut the door again.

  “But why didn’t she say she had asked someone to keep her company,” I exclaimed. “I would not have minded.”

  “Mrs Ames does not waste her breath in superfluous explanations. You asked if she would be lonely and she said no. Reason why would have transpired.”

  We followed the road round the curve to the entrance gates of the Hall, Robin still holding my hand in his engaging way. Further discussion on his mother’s supreme reticence was inadvisable. His fingers moved slightly at the mention of her name.

  Light shone from the unshaded windows of the Lodge. We could see inside the cosy living room. Robin’s grandfather sat opposite another man at a table drawn up in front of the fire. One hand was poised over the chess pieces set out between them. He heard the steps on the stone porch and looked up. With a word to his companion he rose to his feet and disappeared out of vision. Robin loosened his hand and went forward eagerly as his grandfather appeared.

  Old man Ames was as courteous as his son, but his manner held more warmth and sincerity. His attitude never conveyed the impression of a superficial correctitude as Robert Ames’ did. He thanked us for bringing Robin home and seemed quite prepared to chat for a while had not John drawn my attention to the time.

  The porch light was left aglow as we went up the drive, but this was soon lost to view, smothered by the developing fog. The poplars growing on either side of the drive seemed more closely knit by night. It was as though we were walking through a deep tunnel.

  I made one or two rhetorical remarks to John, but he grunted, and did not seem disposed to talk. I had lost some of my exhilaration too. It had changed into a nervous excitement. That silent walk in the darkness and fog did not inspire gaiety. On the other hand there was an anticipatory thrill about it, as if the stillness and gloom were a prelude to feverish activity.

  But even through the darkness I saw, or else my imagination sketched, the vague outline of the square white tower of the Hall looking down on us as we approached.

  I began to be foolish and glance over my shoulder. But my imagination had not gone beyond the bounds of reality.

  “Mat,” I said suddenly, using an old nickname in my fright. John pulled me gently into the shade of the poplars. He seemed conscious of another presence too, and pressed my arm warningly. We stood there for one minute, two. Presently a shadow moved on the far side of the poplars. It moved quickly and quietly in the direction of the house. There was a slight brushing of the leafless branches. Except for that sound I might have imagined the dim form. But there was no breeze to make those trees move.

  “Just another guest,” John said at last. I pulled myself together.

  “It only remains for there to be thirteen guests and we go home.”

  Even as I spoke flippantly in the endeavour to capture my first mood, something else happened. The light in the tower of the Hall began again to flash on and off. I pulled John along hurriedly. If we got near to the house there would be a good chance of seeing who was in the tower. We came into the open sweep of gravel below the terrace. T
he light had ceased to flicker. It shone steadily down, illuminating the marble pond in the centre of the oval. I scanned the windows of the tower keenly, but there was no one to be seen.

  John followed my gaze. “A form of red carpet, I presume,” he suggested.

  “Quite likely,” I replied.

  The house was now brilliant with light. The front door stood wide open in spite of the inclement night. Music sounded—a sweet, hackneyed Strauss waltz, hard to give title to on account of the underlying similarity of many three-four time compositions, but nevertheless nostalgic and poignant. Somehow Strauss sounded quite at home in this strange house; as though the Hall belonged to the same era. The music conveyed the impression of corruption and tragedy beneath its gay polished exterior that must have existed in the Vienna of the Archduke Rudolph and his little Marie. That lilting melody was the leitmotif of the Holland case.

  Ames, a picture of sartorial adaptability as usual, appeared as soon as we put foot on the top step. His role on this particular occasion, however, was rather confused. He seemed more a master of ceremonies than a butler. He took John’s coat, suggesting I retain my fur.

  “Some ladies find the house a trifle draughty.”

  His manner was perfect, but just the same I let slip my cape into his hands. He went on to say, without even blinking at my childish behaviour, “I regret that Mr Holland has not yet come in. He is expected at any moment. Will you come this way, please?”

  He ushered us into the drawing-room, an apartment heavy with crimson and massive with mahogany. The Strauss waltz came from a Panatrope situated on the far side of the room. Daisy Potts-Power, dressed in shapeless draperies of flowered voile, was standing beside it. One hand hovered over the needle as the record neared completion, the other held back the loose sleeve which threatened to become entwined in the mechanism. Before I had time to greet her, a very deep voice spoke from behind the door.

  “And again. Play it again, girl.” I swung round. An elderly woman of immense, almost revolting girth was seated in a wheelchair half hidden by the door. She was attired in a garment which might have been a remnant from the hangings at the windows, and flashed a quantity of diamonds in dirty settings on her balloon-like fingers. These lay loosely on her lap. The grotesque immobile body was rendered all the more conspicuous because of the eyes that darted to and fro in their yellowing balls.

  She spoke in her deep voice without hesitation. “I always choose this position. You can catch people without their party faces on.”

  Ames coughed. It was that deprecatory sound which is always associated with fictional butlers.

  “Be quiet, Ames,” said the crimson-velvet woman as he began to make introductions. She surveyed John with a basilisk eye. “So this is our detective! Well, young man, show me how good you are. What is my name and who am I?”

  I had disliked the old woman on sight. Now I loathed her. I stepped in front of John and said coolly: “I also consider myself a detective. I’ll show you I can be quite good too. Your name is Mrs Potts-Power and you are the unofficial first lady of Middleburn.”

  She was immensely pleased and a spasm indicative of delight spread throughout the heavy body.

  “Splendid! Give me some more. Come here and sit by me.”

  I felt I could afford to punish the old woman. I shook my head. “Presently. I want to say good evening to your daughter.” Ames had already introduced John to Daisy and left the room. Mrs Potts-Power clapped her hands like an Eastern potentate. Daisy came up on the instant.

  “Mrs Matheson wants to say good evening to you.”

  “Oh—er—good night,” Daisy said with a nervous giggle. It was clear enough now that she lived in awe of the tyrannical old woman. This talk of staying at home to care for mother was just a product of her hungry nature.

  I said: “I think I will get my cape. There is quite a draught in this room.”

  As I left the drawing-room Mrs Potts-Power bellowed: “How long do we have to stay here before one of the Hollands puts in an appearance? I want my dinner.”

  The hall was still deserted when I came out of the powder room. I wandered along, pausing with critical eyes in front of one or two of the massive and gloomy oil paintings on the walls. A small telephone switchboard caught my attention. It stood in the deep shadow of the stairs opposite the double doors of the drawing-room. I was examining it casually when a smooth voice spoke behind me.

  “Do you wish to make a call, Mrs Matheson? The line is engaged at the moment.”

  I turned swiftly. Ames was standing before the entrance to the drawing-room, a silver tray of drinks between his hands.

  He waited, bland and impeccable, with his head tilted at just the right angle.

  “Perhaps I should call the Dower,” I suggested.

  Ames’ eyes went to the board again. “The extension is engaged also. I will try it for you presently.” He moved slightly aside to let me pass ahead of him.

  “I’ll wait,” I told him. “I know how to operate the board.”

  He inclined his head still further and went into the drawing-room. I leaned against the stairs and studied a gory painting of dead game. There was a brace of hares, blood bright upon their heads. They lay athwart a long-nosed gun, the redness staining the white cloth beneath. In the background leered a sharp-faced animal mask. A small window opened onto a darkling landscape.

  My eyes were on the highlight of the painted gun barrel when reality and imagination seemed to coalesce. The sound as of a gunshot reverberated in the still deep mist outside the Hall. I heard it clearly, although it seemed far away in the night.

  III

  I hurried into the drawing-room. John met my anxious eyes with an inquiring look. I moved over to his side. Mrs Potts-Power and Daisy appeared unconcerned. The old woman was leaning back in her wheelchair, thick wrinkled lids half-hiding her restless eyes. Daisy was replaying the Strauss waltz. Then the sound occurred again. This time it was further away and not quite as full-bodied. Mrs Potts-Power opened her eyes wide and stirred irritably.

  “Why must cars go backfiring just while I am enjoying the music?” she asked.

  “Sherry, Maggie?” John said in my ear. Ames was bending the tray down towards me. I took a glass carefully. My hands were not quite steady. When Ames went out of the room for a moment I downed the sherry in one swallow.

  “Bar-room manners,” John commented. “What’s the matter?”

  “I thought the first one sounded like a gunshot. Silly?”

  “Very silly.”

  Daisy raised her voice from across the room. “Such lovely sherry. I do think it is a most romantic beverage, don’t you, Mrs Matheson?”

  Mrs Potts-Power snorted. “Don’t be a fool, girl. Ames, find me some whisky. I can’t abide this wash.”

  “Now, Mother, please. You know what the doctor said about spirits.”

  “Daisy will pour the soda for me,” said the old woman, grinning. “You heard what I said, Ames.”

  “Yes, madam.” He came over towards me. “Mrs Ames has just called from the Dower. Everything is all right.”

  “Thank you, Ames.”

  “At last!” said Mrs Potts-Power rudely as Yvonne Holland came into the room, followed by a mild-looking young man. She wore a dinner-dress made of fine crimson wool and looked pretty but painfully thin. Her nervous hands plucked and smoothed the draped basque as she stammered apologies to Mrs Potts-Power.

  The old woman let her go after she had had her fun, and sat ready to pounce on the next person who entered.

  Yvonne saw me and led the young man over to be introduced. His name was Braithwaite. I drew my brows together when I heard it.

  He saw the motion and said: “We had some correspondence over the Dower House, Mrs Matheson.”

  “Of course. How clever of you to guess I was trying to place you. I dislike a familiar name to elude me.” He was one of Mr Holland’s solicitors.

  I introduced John and we chatted together for a while. Now and then
Yvonne threw a glance in our direction. Daisy had claimed her attention, and was talking brightly about the weather.

  Elizabeth Mulqueen entered a pace or two ahead of her daughter. Her studied entrance was upset by Mrs Potts-Power addressing her from behind the door and making her jump. She changed the sudden jerk into a graceful about-turn with praiseworthy aplomb.

  “Dear Marguerite!” Mrs Mulqueen said sweetly. “How lovely to see you within these portals again. Do you remember my little girlie?”

  Ursula was drawn forward. Beyond her mother’s pink lace figure, I saw that she was wearing a frock patterned with rosebuds and a string of seed pearls.

  Mrs Potts-Power looked at the muslin frills and the bow in the hair with an unkind eye. “As well as the day she was born nearly twenty-five years ago. Tell me, Elizabeth, where is James?”

  Mrs Mulqueen threw a vague glance around the room. It took me in with a slight look of recognition. Ursula had already shown her pink gums in my direction.

  “Isn’t he down yet? I heard him moving around in his dressing-room some time ago.”

  “No, he isn’t, and I want my dinner. You are all late.”

  Mrs Mulqueen left her talking and continued around the circle like a royal hostess. It was a pity, as Mrs Potts-Power declared loudly, that she had not put in her appearance earlier.

  Ursula moved towards me. We exchanged a few conventional phrases. Presently she claimed young Braithwaite’s attention. Again I observed young Yvonne Holland’s glances in Alan Braithwaite’s direction. A slightly clouded look came into her blue eyes when Ursula smiled at her sweetly.

  Ernest Mulqueen entered in a surreptitious way. His could have been made a perfect entry had he been the type to wish it so. He appeared anxious not to draw attention to himself. I waved to him cheerily as to an old friend. Had he not borne me company during that first strange night at the Dower? I was surprised and more than a little embarrassed when he returned my wave with a blank stare. I dropped my hand and found John grinning at me.

  Ames came to the doorway and announced dinner.

  “Where is James?” Elizabeth Mulqueen asked in exasperation. “Ames, go up to his room and tell him we are all waiting.”