Blue Murder (13 page)

Cheam frowned.

Mr. Hardstaffe,” he said gravely, “I am investigating a case of murder.”

The head master smiled.

‘Oh, nonsense, my good man!” he exclaimed. “Who on earth would want to murder my wife? She was quite the most irritating woman I have ever known, but she was harmless. If it wasn't suicide, it was an accident, and that old fool Macalistair made a mistake in the prescription. When I think of the outlandish fees that fellow charges for his medicines, I don't know how he had the effrontery to stand up and admit in public that he puts nothing but chalk in them. I always did wonder whether he was a fool or a knave. Now I know he's a knave!”

“There was no mistake in the sleeping powders,” replied Cheam. “All that has been investigated thoroughly. And if it was suicide, where did Mrs. Hardstaffe get the morphia from?”

“How the hell do I know? From that lunatic of a maid, I suppose.”

“So you knew that she had some morphia?”

“Certainly. My daughter told me, and Mrs. Hardstaffe was there at the time. I said then that someone ought to take it away. The girl's not right in her head, and it wasn't safe to let her keep it.”

“Do you happen to know exactly where she did keep it?” asked Cheam.

“Eh? Oh, in that enormous trunk-contraption of hers, I should think.”

“You've been in her bedroom then?”

Mr. Hardstaffe looked up sharply as if he had every intention of denying this.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” he admitted, however. “I needn't tell you that it's not a habit of mine to go into the maids' rooms, but my daughter said I really ought to have a look at this one. She said it was a regular Old Curiosity Shop, and I must say she was right. Fancy stopping to pack a huge box with all that junk when you're fleeing for your life half across Europe! But I believe these refugees are all the same.”

It occurred to Cheam to wonder what Hardstaffe himself would choose to take, if forced to go on a similar expedition. But he denied himself the intriguing excursion into fancy which such a thought offered, and returned to his questioning.

“When did you last see your wife alive?”

“I've already given my answer to that question at the inquest. I've nothing to add to it now.”

“I see,” said Cheam thoughtfully. “You said, if I remember correctly, that that was downstairs just before she went to bed. I take it that it would be later than usual, as you had a visitor?”

Hardstaffe snorted.

“It was not,” he said emphatically. “Mrs. Hardstaffe was a woman of fixed habits. She went to bed about half past nine every night whether we had visitors or not. It looked very rude, naturally, but Mrs. Hardstaffe
was
naturally rude.”

“You're sure you didn't see her upstairs when you went to bed?”

“Sure? Of course I'm sure. Do you think I'd lie about a thing like that? I saw Miss Fuller home—you can't let a young girl like that go home alone in the dark—then I had my usual nightcap and went up to bed.”

“I see, sir,” said Cheam. “Now can you tell me what key this is, sir?”

He withdrew from his pocket the same key he had previously shown to Leda.

“Good God, no!” exclaimed Hardstaffe. “You might as well ask me to identify a pin.”

“Then it would surprise you to be told that this is the key to the communicating door between your bedroom and your wife's?”

“Surprise me? I should think so! That key's been lost for years.”

“So you say,” returned Cheam. “But if that is so, perhaps you can tell me how it came to be in the drawer of your tall-boy under your socks.”

Hardstaffe, his face suffused with anger, banged his fist against his heavy oak desk.

“What's this? Third degree?” he shouted. “The key to that door is lost, I tell you, lost! As for the one you're waggling at me, I know nothing about it, and if you found it in my drawer, someone must have planted it there. And what the hell do you mean by sneaking into my room while I'm away, eh? What else have you pilfered? You—”

“Now, now, Mr. Hardstaffe,” said Cheam. “There's no need to upset yourself about it. I say I found the key in the drawer: you say you didn't put it there: that's all I want to know. Now, what about this will?”

“What will?” snapped the schoolmaster.

Cheam, feeling that the conversation might develop in these lines into the kind of cross-talk beloved of music-hall comedians, hastened to explain.

“Mrs. Hardstaffe's will, sir. I take it that you knew she had made one. We found it in her room.”

“I've heard enough talk about it,” said Hardstaffe more calmly, “so I always assumed she'd made one though I've never seen it. She was always threatening to alter it, whenever one of the family annoyed her, but I don't know whether she did. I lost count of the number of times she said she was going to cut me out of it altogether. If she really made as many new wills as she said, there must be enough to paper a room with.” 

“In that case,” remarked the Superintendent, watching him carefully, “you'll be pleased to hear that she left all her money to you unconditionally.”

Hardstaffe, whose body throughout the interview had been tensed like that of a pugnacious little dog scenting danger, relaxed, and sank back slowly into his swivel-chair.

“Did she now?” he exclaimed, smiling. “Did she really? Unconditionally? No, I certainly never expected that.” His face gradually assumed the benevolent expression that he was wont to reserve for the annual visit of the School Governors. It just shows how one can misjudge those whom one knows best.”

“Yes, sir. Of course you realise that no one can benefit by a will which is signed under coercion?”

“What do you mean?” Hardstaffe asked sharply, then, resuming his complacent smile, he went on, “This is part of your legal jargon, of course. I assure you that no one is likely to have coerced Mrs. Hardstaffe into signing anything. She was a damned obstinate woman in spite of her gentle appearance. I tell you that writing her will was a kind of hobby to her. It just happens that I'm the lucky one. She might have altered it by now if she hadn't happened to die when she did.”

“Just so,” agreed Cheam. “She might have altered it if she hadn't happened to—be murdered. There's a slight difference.”

The smile faded from the headmaster's face.

What are you getting at?” he demanded. “Ever since you poked your nose into this place, you've been trying to cast suspicion on me. First it's that key, and now it's this will. I tell you I don't know anything about either of them.”

“We have a sworn statement to the effect that on the same day on which this will was signed, someone was trying to force your wife to sign some paper.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“The whole scene was witnessed through the lighted window of your study at home.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Someone of your own height, with a voice like yours, was threatening your wife with a horse-whip.”

Hardstaffe half-rose from the chair, controlled himself with a super-human effort, and sat down again.

“It's a preposterous invention!”

Cheam, relentless, pursued the subject.

“You have never threatened your wife with a horsewhip?”

“Certainly not.”

“Never?”

“No ne—” Perhaps aware of the Gilbertian savour of the conversation, he changed his reply to, “Never in my life.”

“You won't deny that you recently thrashed a boy with a whip until he fainted?”

“That was different.” Cheam could see him tensing the muscles over his heavy jaw. “It was a matter of school discipline, and it was a cane, not a whip. It is necessary to thrash boys occasionally. But I have never lifted my hand to a woman in my life. It is a malicious lie!”

“Very well. Just one more question. What are your relations with Miss Fuller?”

Hardstaffe leaped to his feet, and gripped the sides of his desk with fingers visibly twitching to be at the Superintendent's throat.

He looked like a small, malevolent devil.

“You leave her out of this!” he yelled. “Now get out, get out before I lose my temper. Get out, I say! Get
out!
” 

The following week, Charity Fuller dined again at the Hardstaffe's. Stanton and his wife and son had returned home, so that it was an evenly-balanced foursome who sat down to dinner.

From the beginning, it was a distressing evening.

Last time I was here, thought Charity, we were three women to one man. Last time I was here,
she
was alive, and she was sitting... She shivered as she realised that for some reason, calculated or otherwise, she herself was seated in that place now, for Mrs. Hardstaffe used to sit at her husband's left, in defiance of all the rules of etiquette.

“Salt?”

Mr. Hardstaffe proffered the silver Georgian salt-cellar, contriving to brush his hand against hers as he did so.

Charity forced a smile to her lips.

I wish he wouldn't, she thought. He knows I don't like being touched in public, especially in this house. Miss Hardstaffe notices everything so quickly. I hadn't been in the drawing-room for five minutes before she saw that my belt was fastened with a safety pin instead of a patent fastener. She's not likely to miss seeing his hand touching me. I must refuse cigarettes: the way he lights mine is too demonstrative. I'm afraid he'll get worse now that
she
is dead.

Frieda, closely watched by Leda, created her usual diversion, by asking in her loudest voice, “I serve this woman first? No?”

“Yes, you fool,” said Leda. “I told you about it before dinner.”

Frieda made her perspiring way round the table, and thrust the vegetable-dish beneath Charity's nose.

“You like to sit in Mrs. 'Ardstaffe's chair? Yes?” she hissed.

Charity looked up in startled dismay, her cheeks white beneath their patches of evening rouge. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands, and sat there, trembling.

Hardstaffe's chair overturned with a crash as he moved to Charity's side.

“Get that Hun out of here, Leda, before I lay hands on her,” he said grimly.

But it was on Charity that he laid his hands—gentle hands which moved caressingly over the rounded, white shoulders rising in tempting softness from the low-cut folds of the old chiffon gown which had dyed black so well.

“You mustn't take any notice of what she says, my dear,” he said in playfully affectionate tones. “She's a lunatic.”

“I'm sorry to be so silly,” said Charity trying to smile, “but she startled me. I couldn't think what...”

“Of course, the girl's an absolute fool,” remarked Leda. “I hope she hasn't put you off your dinner.”

“Oh no, I'm quite all right really.”

To her obvious relief, Mr. Hardstaffe removed his hands, and sat down once again in the chair which Smith had picked up.

Leda, who had driven the weeping girl out of the room, handed the vegetables, in her place.

“It's too bad of you to keep that dreadful girl here, Leda,” said Hardstaffe. “She's worse than useless, and you know she's dangerous.”

“I'm afraid our dear Superintendent might have something to say if we suddenly got rid of her,” returned Leda. “I still have hopes that he will lock her up one day soon. If he doesn't, we shall have another m—” She broke off abruptly. “She's really not safe,” she finished.

“Well, I wish you'd keep her out of the way when we have company,” said Hardstaffe irritably. “Why didn't you arrange for Briggs to be in tonight?”

“Why didn't you arrange an evening when Briggs was in, if it comes to that?” Leda riposted. “You can't chop and change with maids in these days: they won't stand for it.” Charity, feeling most uncomfortable, looked appealingly across the table at Arnold Smith, who smiled reassuringly at her.

Arnold thought that she looked very sweet and innocent. The curve of her lips, the rise and fall of her barely-discerned breasts fascinated him. He felt unreasonably infuriated that her white shoulders should be exposed to the touch of Hardstaffe's sensual fingers. He glanced down at his own well-manicured hands, as if comparing them with the schoolmaster's. Then, sensing Leda's mocking glance upon him, he jumped up.

‘I'll collect the plates,” he said gaily. “Might as well make myself useful.”

And, as if glad of the chance to forget their several thoughts, they all began to help, and chattered again of pleasantly impersonal topics. For Charity was not the only one present who fancied she saw the frail ghost of Mrs. Hardstaffe walking behind her chair.

They had reached the final course of the inevitable sardines on toast (“and we shan't even get these if Hitler makes a grab at Portugal,” Leda had remarked as her father stuck a reluctant fork into his portion), when they heard a furtive knock on the door. They all looked up with fearful expectancy, but no one entered.

Then Leda, murmuring “That daft Jewess,” got up and strode across the room.

“How many times have I told you...” she began, then in softer tones, “Oh, it's you, Cook. I thought it was Frieda.”

She stepped outside, whence came a sibilant whispering which the others strained their ears to hear.

“What is it?” asked Hardstaffe, as Leda returned. “Don't tell me that Cook has found some food in the larder. This meal isn't enough to feed a cat on.”

Leda ignored his remark.

“Someone to see you, Daddy,” she said.

Hardstaffe clicked his tongue impatiently against his false teeth.

“It's amazing how these villagers will call at dinnertime,” he remarked. “I hope you said I couldn't see anyone tonight.”

“I said you'd go at once,” she replied calmly. “It isn't anyone from the village. It's a Mr. Ramsbottom and he's come from Westcastle to see you. I think you'd better go, too. He said that if you don't he'll come in here to see you, and Cook says she's sure he means it.”