So Bad a Death (18 page)

“Please, please don't be angry, Maggie,” Daisy implored. “It wasn't only that. You see, I was afraid I'd given you the wrong impression about mother and Mr Holland. I mean they had never really quarrelled about anything specific. Now Mr Holland is dead it would be dreadful if the wrong impression reached the police and mother became involved.”

So Daisy was just like the rest of them: all fearful of being involved. The very word had become a common denominator.

All were out to use me as a buffer between their uneasy consciences and John.

“I don't think you need worry even if it does reach the police,” I told her. “When the shot that killed Mr Holland was fired, you and your mother were both in the presence of the very man who is now in charge of the case. Another matter—how was your mother to execute a plan of murder to look like suicide when she is confined to a wheelchair?”

Daisy's mouth fell open slightly.

“Oh,” she said, and flushed all over her plain round face. “Of course. She couldn't, could she? She can't get out of her wheelchair. How stupid I am. Good-bye, Maggie, good-bye, Connie.” She turned and fled indoors.

Connie and I proceeded up the hill.

“She can get out of her wheelchair,” Connie said suddenly.

“Mrs Potts-Power? How do you know?”

“Well, I haven't actually seen her,” Connie replied with newly acquired caution. “But one day when I was passing I saw the wheelchair in an obscure corner of the garden. It was empty.”

“That's nothing. She could have been lying down inside.”

“Someone was playing the gramophone,” Connie insisted. “It wasn't Daisy. She went into town that day. I can't remember the name of the record, but it was one of those waltz tunes Mrs Potts-Power is always playing. It went like this.”

“Strauss will turn in his grave,” I commented.

“I think the old lady was left in the garden and she decided that while Daisy was out of the way she'd try out her legs. She always struck me as a hypocritical old tyrant. I only hope Daisy finds her out soon and leaves her flat.”

“There might be a dozen explanations of that empty wheelchair. I wouldn't go round saying too much about it. A murder has taken place, you know. And in spite of Daisy's assurances to the contrary there must have been something in the quarrel between her mother and Mr Holland.”

“Was he really murdered, Maggie?” Connie asked on the instant. “I heard so many rumours today.”

“You don't want to listen to rumours. An inquest will probably be held within the next few days.”

“But what is your own private opinion? With your experience you should know.”

“Connie,” I said with force, “if you refer once again to my past, this happy friendship, the threads of which we are picking up, will end. I am not in a position to give an opinion even if I wanted to.”

This was not exactly true, as I was already convinced that, in spite of any evidence to the contrary, James Holland was murdered. But with John in charge of investigations my position was a delicate one. The fact that we lived in the same district and were neighbours to where the crime had taken place meant watching my step. It would not do to show a tendency for one side or the other.

III

The steak and kidney pie had plenty of time in which to brown nicely, as six o'clock struck and John did not come in. I bathed and fed Tony and let him roam round the house in pyjamas while I went
into the study to call up the Hall to find out how much longer John would be.

I looked out the window to the square tower of the Hall rising above the trees as I spoke to Ames.

The Inspector had left. He should be at the Dower House any minute. I heard John's step in the hall and Tony's whoop of delight.

“He is here now. Thank you, Ames.”

“Just one moment, Mrs Matheson.”

There was a message for me. Would I please ring the following number. It sounded familiar. I asked Ames for the line at once.

John came in with Tony on his shoulder.

“I won't be a minute,” I promised. “Dinner is ready. Put the boy into bed, will you?”

I did not want John to overhear even my side of the telephone conversation. This trail was my own particular baby; which, all things considered, was rather an apt metaphor.

Doctor Johnson came to the phone after a short wait. He grumbled at me for interrupting his dinner. “This is the same time you chose to have your brat, Maggie. Don't make a habit of it.”

“Sorry, but I was interested to learn you rang me. What news?”

“Not much. It all depends on the interpretation you can put on it. Have you been to Trefont yet?”

“I did today. Would you think me frightfully silly if I asked you not to mention names?”

“Is the line tapped? You're living in a queer part of the world if what the papers say is true. Afraid I'll have to say names if you want the news.”

I paused a minute, straining my ears to catch the slightest sound on the wire.

“All right. Go ahead. What is it?”

“The man you saw today—”

“Doctor Trefont?”

“Damn it, I thought you said to be discreet. All I have to report is that he was anaesthetist to Barry Clowes at one time.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, perplexed. “Who and what is Barry Clowes?”

“Big Collins Street gynaecologist. Also a big-time abortionist. That is the only dirt I can dig up against Trefont. He is no longer associated with him. His professional record may be as pure as snow now.”

There was a pause as I frowned over this information. Doctor Johnson's voice said peevishly, “Can I go back to my steak and kidney pie, please?”

“Certainly. I am anxious to start my own. Thanks a lot, Doc, for the information. I'll let you know if it comes in useful. Good-bye.”

John put his head in the door as I put down the receiver.

“Are you coming, Maggie? The brat won't lie down.”

We settled Tony with a combination of threats and cajolement and went down to the dining-room.

John was looking pale and very tired. He went through the usual lassitude with every case he handled. On the job he was keen, alert and untiring, but once at home he seemed to sag completely, and to depend on me for a renewal of spirits. I did what I could by keeping the conversation frothy and the menu attractive. It might have surprised Connie to learn how I studied the chart with a view to increasing vitality-giving foods.

Adopting a high-handed manner that went over well with Tony, I sent John into the lounge-room to light a fire and relax. Presently I took along a tray of coffee, prepared for a cosy domestic evening, only to find the lounge-room dark and chill. John was seated at his desk in the study.

“I might have known,” I said resignedly, setting down the tray and going over to light the gas fire. “Can't you relax just for tonight?”

“With the inquest tomorrow?” he asked irritably. “Do you know what will happen if I can't find some scrap of a clue, some tiny particle of evidence amongst all this?” He indicated the spread of papers on the desk. “Suicide whilst of unsound mind! Maggie, it was not suicide. A very clever person planned this. Is that person cleverer than the police, than I?”

“No,” I said promptly. “You'll find your clue. Just take it easily.”

“With every pointer heading towards the wrong verdict? I wouldn't admit it to anyone else but you, but I'm feeling rattled.” He got up restlessly and went over to the window.

“What about the will?” I asked, dropping a lemon ring into John's cup. On a case, he liked his coffee very black. “What happened with Braithwaite?”

His face lightened for a moment. “I feel sorry for that poor fellow. He is having trouble with the ladies. I had to prise him free from the Mulqueen girl and Mrs Holland before I could get any sense out of him.”

“I met Ursula lying in wait for him as I left. I didn't know Yvonne was doing the same. She had been lying down in her room. Where is all the money going?”

“That's the trouble,” John said gloomily. “You could say the will was rather unusual and enough to inspire half a dozen motives, but you can hardly suspect an infant of getting out of his cot and shooting his own grandfather, can you?”

“Yvonne's son is the heir, is he? I'm not surprised. I doubt if anyone else will be. The old man set great store by the family name. Anything else of interest?”

“They all get their share, even the servants. Yvonne Holland has a sort of trust fund which reverts to the estate if she marries again. She and the Mulqueens are to manage the estate in conjunction with Ames until the youngster reaches twenty-one.”

I frowned. “That's bad. It looks as if they will all stay on at the Hall together. I suppose they could hardly do anything else just now. The housing problem, of which we knew so much.”

“There was one item in the will which may be of interest to you. The old man evidently decided that when he died there would be no need for a Dower House. This place is to be separated from the rest of the estate and sold. Braithwaite seemed to think there would be nothing in the way of our buying it.”

I got up in my excitement. “Why, that's marvellous! Now we can change the name to something sensible.” Suddenly a thought struck me, and I said in mock seriousness: “I hope you don't think I knew of that clause and killed the Squire myself.”

He grinned back. “No, I don't. But I bet, providing we can make it murder and not suicide, that some busybodies will pass that suggestion around.”

“In that case,” I said lightly, “I had better start finding the real killer myself.”

John shot me a sharp glance. “Maggie, if you worry me, I won't buy the house. I think I'll hold over arrangements with Braithwaite until this case is wound up.”

I came round to his chair. “Why, Inspector Matheson! That's blackmail.”

“It'll be murder if you get in my hair over this business. It's no use giving me innocent looks. I know you're playing some foolish underhand game. When are you going to tell me what you know?”

“When you hand over the title deeds of the house,” I said, with my sweetest smile.

“A deadlock. All right, my girl! You have my warning. Step on my corns or Sergeant Billings' and out we go.”

“Talking about Sergeant Billings, did he tell you Cruikshank is back under his sateen apron once more?”

“He did. He was going to see Cruikshank sometime this evening.”

“Doesn't the missing gun help at all?” I asked presently, as John kept turning over the same piece of paper.

“I talked with Ames about it. He was quite insistent that the Squire complained of its loss. But Holland might have mislaid it himself through forgetfulness. Or he may have mentioned it first in case Ames noticed its absence. If a man really sets out to commit suicide he doesn't want to be frustrated half-way. The faithful steward might have suspected something. No, Maggie, there are only two things I can find in all this mess. The first might be so coincidental that it signifies nothing. The other, though more concrete, has me quite puzzled.”

“What are they?” I lighted two cigarettes and passed one over to John.

“The first is the time of the shot. And here we could make a supplementary note. You were standing in the passage when you heard a sound which you immediately guessed was a gunshot. How did it happen I passed off that same sound and a subsequent one as a car backfiring?”

“The front door was open,” I reminded him.

“Hmm. Yes, I suppose that was it,” John sounded dubious. “However, to get back to the time factor. Don't you regard it as curious that at that particular time not one member of the household was present in the room? I think it must have been about ten minutes later before any of them came in.”

I frowned at the tip of my cigarette. “You mean that if it is murder, quite a few people who might be found wanting the Squire out of this world will have to start looking for alibis.”

“You are still presupposing murder, Maggie. What I am driving at is this: it was unnatural for not one of the Hollands to be present to receive guests.”

“They probably thought the Squire was there. The Hall is a ranch of a place, and no one seemed eager to be in his company for long. Remember Mrs Mulqueen sent Ames up to the Squire's room. She thought she had heard him moving about.”

“And yet this morning she informs you that she was mistaken. I wonder why.”

I hesitated a minute. “I think she wanted to draw attention away from the fact that she was on that floor. Her own rooms are on the ground floor in the east wing. I don't know what her game is, but she knows something about that flickering light we saw in the tower.”

“You mean she used the tower as a means of signalling to someone?”

“Well, it looks like it.”

“What stupid nonsense!” John said, irritable again. “Time enough to go into that if and when we establish the murder theory. The other point I was going to mention is the mark on one of Holland's ankles. The post-mortem report was delightfully vague—suggested it was caused by barbed wire.”