Mad About the Boy? (11 page)

‘You've got a thing about Uncle Alfred,' said Isabelle. ‘You've never liked him.'

‘How shatteringly perceptive of you. You're right, of course.'

‘I think it's colouring your judgement, Jack. It can't be Uncle Alfred. You know the doctor gave me something to help me sleep? I was out like a light but woke up at about four in the morning because the boards outside my room had creaked. They do when someone walks along there. I looked out and Uncle Alfred was creeping along the corridor, shoes in hand. If he'd been out until four, he can't have had anything to do with what happened to Tim, can he? The odd thing was that he was dripping wet.'

‘Dripping wet?'

‘Absolutely soaking. I heard him squelching and this morning there were wet patches on the carpet. I don't know what he did with his wet things.'

‘I wonder what the dickens he'd been up to? I wouldn't have thought your Uncle Alfred would have gone in for midnight bathing, especially wearing full evening dress.' Haldean clicked his tongue. ‘As you say, it's odd, Belle, but it doesn't let him out. He could have come back much earlier and then gone out again.'

‘He could, I suppose,' agreed Isabelle reluctantly. ‘But if we're throwing suspicion around, what about Lady Harriet? She'd make a wonderful murderer. I don't know why she'd murder Tim but I can imagine her murdering her husband. You should see how she looks at him when she thinks nobody's watching.'

Haldean was silent. After the scene on the river bank, he too could imagine Lady Harriet murdering her husband without any compunction whatsoever. Not only that but she carried a gun.

‘No, hang on,' continued Isabelle. ‘She was watching the fireworks, of course. That's a pity. How about Mrs Strachan? She seems completely brainless but she might have hidden depths. I can't remember if she was watching the fireworks or not. If this was really a story then she'd be my favourite suspect because, although we all know her, we haven't paid much attention to her. Tim might have found her rifling through Lord Lyvenden's secret papers and she could have snatched up a gun and shot him.'

Haldean sat upright. ‘D'you know, Belle, that's not a bad idea. Tim being shot by accident, I mean. That would work.'

Smith-Fennimore gave a dismissive snort. ‘Can you honestly see that twitty woman having the brains to do something like this?'

‘Why not?' Haldean stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You see, Mrs Strachan certainly has been snooping in Lord Lyvenden's papers. I heard the pair of them discussing it, if I can put it like that, earlier on. They didn't know I was there, of course. He . . . well, he wasn't happy and she was in a blue funk. It was a nasty little episode altogether. Say Tim did surprise her. She'd have the gun close to hand and if there was a letter lying on the desk even Mrs Strachan would be able to see how it could be used as a suicide note, no matter how dim she seems.'

Smith-Fennimore was silent for a few moments. ‘You could be right,' he said eventually. He looked at Isabelle. ‘Well done. Have you any more suggestions? This idea of yours of treating it as a story has more going for it than I thought.'

‘Well, there is another possibility,' she said with a smile. ‘This really is a solution from a story. I read it the other day in
Modern Thriller.
This young man was going to come into a fortune when he was twenty-one but his solicitor had made away with all his money and then killed him so he wouldn't be discovered. The thing was, that the room where the body was found was locked up and no one could work out how the murder had been done. Tim was going to get his money next year. His uncle holds the funds and paid him an allowance. What if his uncle had embezzled the money? He could have come here secretly, lain in wait, shot Tim, then slipped away.'

‘Hold on,' said Stanton. ‘I read that one too. It was brilliant. I see what you're getting at, Isabelle. It could be Tim's uncle, couldn't it? No one suspects him, because no one knows he was here. I say, Isabelle, that really could work.'

Haldean looked at his friend disbelievingly ‘What d'you mean, it could work? It's goofy. How did this bloke get into the house? There were servants swarming all over the place.'

‘Not when the fireworks were going off,' argued Stanton. ‘Besides that, there was soot in the hearth.'

‘So?'

‘So don't you see? It could have happened like it did in the story. The chap who was the solicitor got on the roof and climbed down the chimney.'

Haldean shook his head and sighed. ‘Isabelle, if you think this is a probable solution you must be loopy. Look, Arthur, old fruit, about this story. It wouldn't be by Edgar Wallace, would it?'

‘It might have been,' said Stanton defensively.

‘Yes. Not actually terribly feasible, I would have thought.'

‘Well, why not?' argued Stanton. He grinned. ‘If you're determined to make it a murder, this idea's as good as any other. Besides, who's to say I'm not right? Some of the chimneys here are massive. It'd be perfectly possible to climb down them.'

‘Look, you prune, I don't care if they're as big as barn doors. Let's take it that Uncle Andrew did shin down the chimney – although why I'm having this conversation, God only knows – what the dickens was Tim meant to be doing while his uncle played at Father Christmas? I know he wasn't the most observant of souls, but even he'd have noticed someone come down the chimney and prance across the carpet, gun in hand. He'd stand out a bit, don't you think? Apart from anything else, he'd be as black as the ace of spades.'

‘He could have climbed down beforehand and lain in wait,' countered Stanton. ‘Besides that, the solicitor didn't shoot this chap I was telling you about. He stabbed him with a hat-pin loaded with snake poison so everyone was looking for a snake and –'

‘It was by Edgar Wallace, wasn't it?'

‘Well, so what? It worked in the story and Isabelle said to treat it as a story and that's what you've been doing.'

Haldean picked up the cushion Isabelle had thrown at him and hurled it at his friend. ‘I agreed to treat it as a story to try and get some ideas, not to listen to you talk unadulterated mashed potato. For heaven's sake, bury your face in that so I can't hear you . . .'

He suddenly broke off and stared sightlessly into the empty fireplace. ‘The soot,' he whispered. ‘Of course. The soot explains it.' He turned to the others, suddenly completely serious. ‘The soot explains the alibi. Everyone's alibi. The death didn't occur at ten to ten. It could have occurred at any time between the limits the doctor gave. Twenty to ten to ten o'clock, give or take ten minutes or so either side.'

They all stared at him. ‘How does the soot explain the alibi?' asked Isabelle sharply.

Haldean waved her quiet with an imperious gesture. ‘Don't you see? The house was full of fireworks yesterday.
Anyone
could have pinched a banger and a piece of fuse and put it in the fireplace. Depending on the length of fuse and what type it was, it'd be easy enough to make it explode at any time you wanted it to. Ten to ten, say. And then we come along, find out there's been a bang heard in Lord Lyvenden's room and brightly inform each other that's the time of the shot. But fireworks come in a cardboard tube.' He got up, strode to the fireplace and drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece. ‘We didn't find the cardboard tube. Why didn't we find the cardboard tube, Belle?'

‘Because the murderer took the gunpowder out of the tube so it wouldn't be discovered later,' Isabelle said slowly.

Haldean smacked his hand down on the mantelpiece. ‘That's it! Damn it, the maid even told me it sounded like a firework! It was only afterwards she assumed it must have been the gun.'

‘Just a minute, Haldean,' said Smith-Fennimore. ‘You couldn't simply tip gunpowder into the grate and put a fuse in it. The charge would have to be contained in something. An old cartridge case or a cigar tube would do the trick.'

Haldean looked at Stanton. ‘Was there anything in the grate? A container of any sort?'

‘Hang on a mo,' said Stanton doubtfully, trying to remember. ‘There was a cigarette packet. It was all burnt and charred at one end. I think it was a packet of Goldflake. I assumed it had been tossed into the fire and got burnt.'

‘But the fire wasn't lit. We don't have fires at this time of year. So how did the cigarette packet get burnt?' He felt in his pocket. ‘I've got my room key and I know it fits Lyvenden's old room. Let's go and have a look.'

All four went upstairs to Lord Lyvenden's room where, after some coaxing with his key, Haldean opened the door. They lifted the fire screen to one side and looked in the grate. The soot was there but no cigarette packet.

Haldean felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. ‘Someone's moved it. Look, you can see a patch where the packet was. Someone's moved it who knew what it was used for. We're on to something. It really is true. And unless someone can prove an alibi between half past nine and ten past ten, then it could be anyone. Anyone at all.'

There was a long pause. ‘There's another possibility,' said Smith-Feimimore, eventually. ‘It was something you said, Isabelle, about Lady Harriet looking daggers at Lord Lyvenden that's made me think of it. Tim might not have been the intended victim after all. It was Lyvenden's gun and Lyvenden's room. Couldn't Lyvenden have been the one who should have been killed? After all, the light was very dim and if someone came in and saw a figure sitting at the desk they might have assumed it was Lyvenden.'

‘If that's the case, then it can't have been originally intended to look like suicide, though,' said Haldean, thoughtfully. ‘I mean, that would imply Lyvenden had dictated a suicide note to his secretary. That argues a remarkable degree of foresight, to say nothing of the lack of ordinary feeling on the supposed victim's part.'

Smith-Fennimore shook his head. ‘Maybe when the murderer found they'd killed the wrong person, they found part of a business letter, as you said, and used that.'

Isabelle drew her breath in. ‘Malcolm, I wonder if that's it. It seems so unlikely someone would kill Tim but I can easily imagine someone wanting to kill Lyvenden. It needn't be Lady Harriet, though. Has he ever done someone down in business, say?'

‘He certainly has,' said Smith-Fennimore. ‘He's got a pretty ruthless reputation. He's always been a good boy with the bank and I can't question his expertise but there's plenty of people who wouldn't be sorry if our Mr Todd bought it. I only found out some of the things he'd done after he became a director. There's been a few times I've regretted the fact that we did appoint him, but I haven't any real grounds to suggest he moves on.'

Stanton gazed at Smith-Fennimore. ‘What? What did you say he was called?'

‘Victor Todd,' repeated Smith-Fennimore, clearly puzzled by the intensity of Stanton's voice. ‘It was his name before he got the peerage.'

Stanton stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Lyvenden's Victor Todd?' He turned urgently to Haldean. ‘You remember I said I knew something nasty about him, Jack? This is it. He ran the Colonial and Oriental Mining Conglomerate. It was nothing more than a fraud. They sold my father a pack of useless shares and when they crashed he lost nearly everything. The shock killed him. My mother had to sell up to make ends meet. She had a rotten time of it. My sisters and I did the best we could, but I was in the army and they were doing VAD work, so we had no money to help. She was so hard up and she missed my father so much she literally worried herself to death. My grandfather's money was tied up in a trust and I couldn't get hold of it until after she'd died. My God, when I think what he put us through . . .' He drew a ragged, angry breath. ‘The absolute swine. There he is, strutting around calling himself Lord Lyvenden and all the time it's my father's money and other poor devils like him who paid for his precious title.' He ran a trembling hand though his brown hair. ‘I don't know if someone tried to kill him but he deserves it. I could throttle him myself.' His white face left no doubt he meant what he said.

In all the time he'd known him, Haldean had never seen his friend so angry. ‘I'm not surprised,' he said quietly. ‘I knew your family had had a lousy time. To find Lyvenden was behind it must be unbelievable.'

Stanton shook his head, unable to reply.

‘Arthur,' said Isabelle. Her voice was urgent. ‘Please don't do anything rash. I know it's awful but you can't bring back your parents whatever you do. Please, Arthur, don't do anything. I know it's a lot to ask but please, if you can, don't say anything, either. My mother was looking forward to her silver wedding and it's been ruined. Don't make it worse. Lyvenden's staying until Friday morning. As soon as he's gone I'll tell my parents exactly what sort of man he is. He'll never be invited here again.'

Stanton was silent for a few moments. ‘All right,' he said. ‘All right, Isabelle. Don't worry.' He drew a deep breath. ‘After all, I suppose you could say it's all water under the bridge. My father was always far too trusting. He didn't have to buy the shares but he was so honest, he wouldn't dream there were crooks like Victor Todd in the world.' He bit his lip. ‘There's one thing,' he said, making an obvious effort to recover himself. ‘I think you've solved your mystery, Jack. Someone killed Tim in mistake for Lyvenden. Maybe one of these days he'll get what's coming to him.'

‘Perhaps,' said Haldean, looking at Stanton's strained face. ‘Perhaps.'

It was a sober group who left Lord Lyvenden's room. Isabelle walked down the stairs, sunk in thought. Jack had taken Arthur off for a whisky and soda in the billiard room and Malcolm had politely absented himself. She guessed that all of them, herself included, needed some time to think about what they'd discovered. The cigarette packet had been removed and the only person who would have moved it was, as Jack said, someone who was covering up murder. Had Tim been killed in mistake for Lord Lyvenden? There was no doubt that Arthur thought so.