So Bad a Death (33 page)

“If that is the case,” I replied, “I will be the first person to talk frankly. I am a great believer in the unvarnished truth. It gets you somewhere, whereas innuendos only leave you to struggle along to the same vague goal.”

Sister Heather turned her ignition key. “Then I take it you'll do as I ask?”

I opened the door and slid one leg out. “I suppose so. You speak as though the responsibility was all mine.”

Sister Heather gave me a troubled look. “It is, Mrs Matheson. Believe me, it is. Please do your best.”

“OK,” I replied negligently. “I'll let you know how I get on.”

I did not go straight to the Hall after this interview. Tony wanted his dinner and Constable Cornell's lean and hungry look had become more evident. After all, one should feed the household pet as well as the son and heir. Tony had his meal first. I put him into his cot for a nap and then sat down to lunch with Constable Cornell in the kitchen.

He was as unobtrusive a guest as he was a shadower. At first I thought it might be embarrassing sharing a salad with a strange policeman without John there. Cornell's position in my household was out of the way. One could not class him as a casual labourer like a gardener and pass the luncheon through the kitchen door to be eaten on the porch. On the other hand, it would have been absurd for me to feed in lonely state in the dining-room, while he ate in the kitchen where I usually had meals in John's absence.

Constable Cornell, however, was not in the least put out. No doubt he was accustomed to adapting himself in his particular line of police work. He ate with solemn satisfaction, neatly avoiding any curious questions on my part without appearing rude. I gave up after a while and we talked on everyday topics. Cornell was chary with words, but I found myself mentally filling in the gaps, and lunch time passed quite pleasantly.

“When the boy wakes I want to go over to Holland Hall,” I said, watching him closely.

He nodded into his third cup of tea.

“How will you get on?” I asked. “It was all right this morning, but you will be more noticeable in a private house.”

He disdained an answer to such a foolish question. He merely asked how long before we started. I tried to match his superiority by pointing out that children must have their day sleep. Our departure depended entirely on Tony.

I took a childish pleasure in the fact that Tony again slept over his usual time. But still Cornell showed no impatience. He seemed quite happy to sit on the kitchen porch and stare at the back fence. I longed to know what went on in his mind, or whether it was as concrete in consistency as his appearance. I had offered him a magazine
or two, but though he thanked me politely, they remained unread at his side.

I was curious to see how he would get over his position when I was at the Hall. Would he desert me at the gates or plod along behind the whole time I was seeking Yvonne out? But he deserted me even earlier than that.

Tony awoke, calling for me. I dressed him and led him through to the kitchen.

“I'm ready, Mr Cornell,” I called. Instead of hearing his laconic “Oke,” there was no reply. I opened the wire door but the porch was empty. I shrugged and turned back. The magazines I had lent him were neatly placed on the kitchen table. I called his name through a window in the front of the house thinking he might be waiting at the front gate. But there was still no reply.

“Come along, Tony. Our watchdog seems to have got off the chain. We'll go on ahead. After all it is his job to mind us, not we him. I don't anticipate needing his protection this afternoon.”

I kept a look-out for Constable Cornell all the way to the Hall. His presence had worried me in the beginning. Now I noticed his absence and felt incomplete without my attendant.

Old man Ames sat smoking on the tiny porch of the Lodge. I waved to him and he answered it by taking his pipe from his mouth and describing a circle with the stem. As we passed, the door of the Lodge opened swiftly and Robin rushed out calling Tony's name. Tony pulled his hand away and darted forward. Perforce I had to follow, whereas I had no desire to stop and chat with the old man.

He asked me if I was going up to the Hall. The children could play together for a while. He would look after them. Robin and Tony were watching me with anxious eyes, so I accepted the offer.

The Hall door was wide open. Before I could ring, Mrs Mulqueen came down the passage. She did not see me waiting on the threshold until I spoke her name.

She came forward. I noticed she looked ruffled and out of temper. Her manner was rude when she asked what I wanted.

“When are we going to get rid of all these curious policemen?” she complained, following me along to the stairs. Yvonne, I had
been informed, was in the nursery. She spent most of her time there nowadays.

“It is unpleasant,” I agreed, wondering if I came within that category, being the wife of one.

“I thought we'd finished with them,” she went on. “No one has been near us for a day or two when in came one just now. He said he was sent to look over James' rooms. As if that hasn't been done a dozen times already, I am going to make a complaint to your husband, Mrs Matheson. A picture from my sitting-room is missing. We can't have these strange men wandering around the house.”

“I am afraid it is one of the evils that naturally follow on murder,” I told her, backing up the stairs.

“I still won't believe my brother was murdered,” she asserted with a toss of her head. “He had been worried and upset for months—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “But the fact still remains it was murder, despite any wishful thinking as it is termed nowadays. It used to be called self-deception.”

I made a swift ascent after this Parthian shot.

I identified the door of the nursery. I had not been on this floor by day. It seemed quite different with the sun streaming in at the window at the end of the passage. Before I had time to knock, the adjoining door opened and Nurse Stone came out. The woman's face was flushed and her breath stank.

“So,” she muttered in a nasty voice. “The busybody has put in another appearance. The baby is asleep. He is not to be disturbed.”

“I have no wish to disturb him,” I said, trying to speak calmly. “I understand Mrs Holland is in the nursery. I came to see her.”

The nurse stepped in front of the door. “No, she isn't. She has gone out. So you can just go too. I heard all about you the other night. I am in charge of the baby, and I won't have any interference from you or anyone else. So you can just go, my fine lady. And keep away or it will be the worse for you.”

I caught the sound of footsteps the other side of the door. The significance of the woman's low tones had not escaped me.

“Is that you, Yvonne?” I called clearly.

“Mrs Matheson?” said an uncertain voice.

“Get out,” said Nurse Stone, raising her voice and still blocking the way.

“I want to see you, Yvonne.”

The nurse looked at me savagely. I moved aside in haste. Her fist was clenched and her arm half-raised when a door further along the passage opened. Out walked Constable Cornell. The woman dropped her arm as he stood still in the passage watching the scene with incurious eyes. Nurse Stone, realizing he was a representative of the law, could do nothing but retreat. I slid through the half-open door of the nursery. I had overcome one obstacle. Now Yvonne.

“What is it you want?” she asked, after I had locked the door behind me. I bent over the baby before I spoke. He looked pale and wasted.

“You,” I said, turning to answer her question, “and Jimmy, of course. How would you like to come and stay with me for a while?”

She looked both surprised and startled.

I raised one hand. “Before you answer, I want to say a few things. Speak frankly, in fact. I seem to have been doing quite a bit of it today. I think it pays.”

Yvonne sat down in a chair near the cot, while I perched myself on the arm of the chair and looked out the window. I wanted to marshal my forces.

“I am not sure how much you realize, Yvonne,” I began, “but you do know or suspect that Jimmy is in deadly danger in this house. I have been advised by good friends of yours, although you will not for some reason recognize them as such, to persuade you to take shelter with us for a while. My husband”—and I crossed my fingers under a fold of my skirt; I did not know what John's reaction would be—“will be delighted to have you stay.”

Yvonne's eyes had widened with fear. She turned to the cot. “Is he really in danger?” she whispered.

“I think so. In fact, I know it. I have evidence to prove it. I am not sure why, but I could tell you how. It would frighten you to death.”

“I didn't know,” she said, in a low tone.

“Didn't know!” I echoed. “But you did, only you were suspecting the wrong person.”

She looked both puzzled and troubled. “I don't understand you. Really I don't.”

It was my turn to frown in bewilderment. “But I heard you,” I said. “You accused your father-in-law of trying to do Jimmy an injury. Don't you remember I told you? I overheard you accusing Mr Holland of child murder.”

“But that hadn't anything to do with Jimmy,” Yvonne replied, taking the initiative. “That was something else.”

“What was it?”

She looked down at her hands as a slow colour deepened in her face. “I can't tell you. You wouldn't understand.”

“You'd better tell me. We won't get anywhere if we stay at cross-purposes. I am a pretty understanding person and not easily shocked.”

She bent her head even lower. “All right!” she agreed after a hesitation. “You see, I have had a certain operation. Even if Jim, my husband, had not been killed in his plane, we could never have had any more children.”

“I guessed about the operation,” I said gently. “Go on.”

She raised her head. “It wasn't my idea,” she declared with vehemence. “I didn't know about it until afterwards. Mr Holland arranged for it. When his son, my husband, died, he didn't want me to marry again. He thought that would stop anyone from wanting to marry me.”

My brain seemed to tighten. For a moment I felt a surge of anger and disgust. James Holland seemed to have recognized in himself some higher authority over life and death.

“It was never spoken about,” Yvonne went on, “until one day when we quarrelled. Someone had been paying me attention and Mr Holland didn't like it. He never did like having his plans upset and he had other ideas for this person.”

I guessed she meant Alan Braithwaite, but held my tongue.

“He told me the matter was to stop. He said if I didn't discourage this man's attentions he would tell him I had had that operation. No one would believe that I had nothing to do with it. That was when I said what you overheard. I told Mr Holland he was a murderer.
That he had destroyed the life of children I might have had. He struck me in the face. He was like that, you know. He was used to running people's lives his own way. He could arouse such fear that no one ever questioned his authority. That was why I was glad when he died. It was the only way to stop him.”

I did not like the way Yvonne spoke the last sentence. Her voice was weary and fatalistic, as though she might have been admitting to murder herself.

On impulse I asked: “Do you know who killed him?”

Her head darted up instantly. She was on the defensive again. “No!”

“But you can guess,” I said shrewdly.

She clenched her hands together. “No, no,” she said wildly. “It is impossible. He wouldn't have done it, even for me.”

“Alan Braithwaite?” I asked at once. “Do you mean him?”

Her head fell forward after her foolish words. She really hadn't the stamina of a mouse. Any trained interrogator could have wormed her thoughts out of her after five minutes, if he had not already guessed them.

“Tell me about it,” I suggested. “I may be able to help. He has no alibi for the time of the murder, but then neither have you nor anyone else. Why are you worried about him? I know you rang the other day to warn him. Tell me, Yvonne. There might be no need to worry. The police are not quite satisfied as to the time of the murder in spite of the shots that were heard.”

“Shots?” Her eyes questioned me. “I only heard one. I thought it was a car backfiring until later when we were told about Mr Holland.”

I wrinkled my forehead in perplexity. This business of the shot and the car backfiring! It had me completely puzzled. I stubbornly maintained that there were two sounds. Yet everybody else declared there was only one and that might have been a car backfiring. Then there was Doctor Trefont's statement that his car had backfired near the Hall.

“We won't discuss that now,” I said, shelving the problem. “Tell me exactly where you were before dinner and what happened.”

Alan Braithwaite, it appeared, had arrived early on that fateful evening. He and Yvonne had taken a stroll round the gardens. It was such a beautiful night.