Grave Mistake (14 page)

“I have already told you she was in particularly good form. That was an understatement. She gave me every reason to believe she was happier than she had been for many years.”

He got to his feet, looked fixedly at Alleyn and said loudly: “She had become engaged to be married.”

The lines from nostril to mouth tightened into a smile of sorts.

“I had gone up to London,” he said, “to buy the ring.”

iv

“I knew, of course, that it would probably have to come out,” said Dr. Schramm, “but I hoped to avoid that. She was so very anxious that we should keep our engagement secret for the time being. The thought of making a sort of — well, a posthumous announcement at the inquest — was indescribably distasteful. One knew how the press would set about it and the people in this place — I loathed the whole thought of it.”

He took one or two steps about the room. He moved with short strides, holding his shoulders rigid like a soldier. “I don’t offer this as an excuse. The thing has been a — an unspeakable shock to me. I can’t believe it was suicide. Not when I remember — Not unless something that I can’t even guess at happened between the time when I said goodbye to her and my return.”

“You checked with the staff, of course?”

“Of course. She had dinner in bed and watched television. She was perfectly well. No doubt you’ve seen the report of the inquest and know all this. The waiter collected her tray round about eight-thirty. She was in her bathroom and he heard her singing to herself. After that — nothing. Nothing, until I came back. And found her.”

“That must have been a terrible shock.”

Schramm made a brief sound that usually indicates a sort of contempt. “You may say so,” he said. And then, suddenly: “Why have you been called in? What’s it mean? Look here, do you people suspect foul play?”

“Hasn’t the idea occurred to you?” Alleyn asked.

“The
idea
has. Of course it has. Suicide being inconceivable, the
idea
occurred. But that’s inconceivable, too. The circumstances. The evidence. Everything. She had no enemies. Who would want to do it? It’s—” He broke off. A look of — what? Sulkiness? Derision? — appeared. It was as if he sneered at himself.

“It was
meant
to be a secret,” he said.

“Are you wondering if Mrs. Foster did after all confide in somebody about your engagement?”

He stared at Alleyn. “That’s right,” he said. “And then: there were visitors that afternoon, as of course you know.”

“Her daughter and the daughter’s fiancé and Miss Preston.”

“And the gardener.”

“Didn’t he leave his flowers with the receptionist and go away without seeing Mrs. Foster?” Alleyn asked.

“That’s what he says, certainly.”

“It’s what your receptionist says too, Dr. Schramm.”

“Yes. Very well, then. Nothing in that line of thinking. In any case the whole idea is unbelievable. Or ought to be.”

“I gather you don’t much fancy the gardener?”

“A complete humbug, in my opinion. I tried to warn her. Out to get all he could from her.
And
he has,” said Dr. Schramm.

“Including the right to stay on at Quintern?”

“By God, he wouldn’t have lasted there for long if things had gone differently. I’d have seen to that.
And
he knew it.”

“You think, then, that he knew about the engagement?”

“I think, poor darling, she’d said something that gave him the idea. As a matter of fact, I ran into him going up to her room one afternoon without asking at the desk. I tore a strip off him and he came back at me with a bloody impertinent sneer. To the effect that I wasn’t yet in a position to — to order her private affairs. I’m afraid I lost my temper and told him that when I was he’d be the first to know it.”

Mr. Fox, using a technique that Alleyn was in the habit of alluding to as his disappearing act, had contrived to make his large person unobservable. He had moved as far away from Alleyn as possible and to a chair behind Dr. Schramm. Here he palmed a notebook and his palm was vast. He used a stub of pencil and kept his work on his knee and his eyes respectfully on nothing in particular.

Alleyn and Fox made a point of not looking at each other but at this juncture he felt sure Fox contemplated him, probably with that air of bland approval that generally meant they were both thinking the same thing.

Alleyn said: “Are you still considering motive, Dr. Schramm?”

Schramm gave a short meaningless laugh. His manner, unexpected in a doctor, seemed to imply that nothing under discussion was of importance. Alleyn wondered if he treated his patients to this sort of display. “I don’t want to put ideas in your head,” Schramm said, “but to be quite, quite frank that did occur to me. Motive.”

“I’m resistant to ideas,” said Alleyn. “could you explain?”

“It’s probably a lot of bumph but it does seem to me that our engagement wouldn’t have been madly popular in certain quarters. Gardener, for one. And her family, to make no bones about it.”

“Are you thinking of Mrs. Foster’s stepson?”

“You said it. I didn’t.”

“Motive?”

“I know of no motive but I do know he sponged on her and pestered her and has a pretty disgraceful record. She was very much upset at the thought of his turning up here and I gave orders that if he did he must not be allowed to see her. Or speak to her on the telephone. I tell you this,” Dr. Schramm said, “as a fact. I don’t for a moment pretend that it has any particular significance.”

“But I think you have something more than this in mind, haven’t you?”

“If I have, I wouldn’t want too much weight to be given to it.”

“I shall not give too much weight to it, I hope.”

Dr. Schramm thumbed up the ends of his moustache. “It’s just that it does occur to me that he might have expectations. I’ve no knowledge of any such thing. None.”

“You know, do you, that Carter was on the premises that afternoon?”

“I do not!” he said sharply. “Where did you get that from?”

“From Miss Verity Preston,” said Alleyn.

Again the shadow of a smile: not quite a sneer, not entirely complacent.

“Verity Preston?” he said. “Oh, yes? She and Syb were old friends.”

“He arrived in the same bus as Bruce Gardener. I gather he was ordered off seeing Mrs. Foster.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” said Dr. Schramm. “Who by?”

“By Prunella Foster.”

“Good for her.”

“Tell me,” said Alleyn, “speaking as a medical man, and supposing, however preposterously, that there was foul play, how would you think it could be accomplished?”

“There you are again! Nothing to indicate it! Everything points to the suicide I can’t believe in. Everything. Unless,” he said sharply, “something else has been found.”

“Nothing, as I understand it.”

“Well then—!” He made a dismissive, rather ineloquent, gesture.

“Dr. Schramm, there’s one aspect of her death I wanted to ask you about. Knowing, now, the special relationship between you I am very sorry to have to put this to you: it can’t be anything but distressing to go over the circumstances again.”

“Christ Almighty!” he burst out, “do you suppose I don’t ‘go over’ them day in, day out? What d’you think I’m made of!” He raised his hand. “I’m sorry!” he said. “You’re doing your job. What is it you want to ask?”

“It’s about the partly dissolved tablets found in the throat and on the tongue. Do you find any inconsistency there? I gather the tablets take some twenty minutes to dissolve in water but are readily soluble in alcohol. It was supposed, wasn’t it, that the reason they were not swallowed was because she became unconscious after putting them in her mouth. But — I suspect this is muddled thinking — would the tablets she had already taken have had time to induce insensibility? And anyway she couldn’t have been insensible when she put these last ones in her mouth. I don’t seem able to sort it out.”

Dr. Schramm put his hand to his forehead, frowned and moved his head slowly from side to side.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Touch of migraine. Yes. The tablets. She took them with Scotch, you know. As you say, they dissolve readily in alcohol.”

“Then wouldn’t you think these would have dissolved in her mouth?”

“I would think that she didn’t take any more Scotch with them. Obviously, or she would have swallowed them.”

“You mean that she was conscious enough to put these four in her mouth but not conscious enough to drink or to swallow them? Yes,” said Alleyn. “I see.”

“Well,” Dr. Schramm said loudly, “what else? What do you suppose?”

“I? I don’t go in for supposing: we’re not allowed. Oh, by the way, do you know if Mrs. Foster had made a Will — recently, I mean?”

“Of that,” said Dr. Schramm, “I have no idea.” And after a brief pause: “Is there anything else?”

“Do you know if there are members of the staff here called G. M. Johnson and Marleena Briggs?”

“I have not the faintest idea. I have nothing to do with the management of the hotel.”

“Of course you haven’t. Stupid of me. I’ll ask elsewhere. If it’s convenient could we look at the room?”

“I’ll take you up.” He pressed a buzzer on his desk.

“Please don’t bother. Tell me the number and we’ll find our way.”

“No, no. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

These protestations were interrupted by the entrance of the nurse. She stood inside the door, her important bosom, garnished with its professional badge, well to the fore. A handsome, slightly florid lady, specifically plentiful.

“Oh, Sister,” said Dr. Schramm, “would you be very kind and hold the fort? I’m just going to show our visitors upstairs. I’m expecting that call from New York.”

“Certainly,” she said woodenly.

Alleyn said: “You must be Sister Jackson, mustn’t you? I’m very glad to see you. Would you be very kind and give us a moment or two?”

She looked fixedly at Dr. Schramm, who said grudgingly: “Chief Superintendent Alleyn.”

“And Inspector Fox,” said Alleyn. “Perhaps, as Dr. Schramm expects his long distance call, it won’t be troubling you too much to ask you to show us the way to Mrs. Foster’s room?”

She still looked at Dr. Schramm, who began: “No, that’s all right, I’ll—” when the telephone rang. Sister Jackson made a half-move as if to answer it but he picked up the receiver.

“Yes. Yes. Speaking. Yes, I accept the call.”

Alleyn said: “Shall we?” to Sister Jackson and opened the door.

Schramm nodded to her and with the suggestion of a bridle she led the way back to the hall.

“Do we take the lift?” Alleyn asked. ‘I’d be very much obliged if you would come. There are one or two points about the room that I don’t quite get from the reports. We’ve been asked by the local Force to take a look at the general picture. A formality, really, but the powers-that-be are always rather fussy in these sorts of cases.”

“Oh yes?” said Sister Jackson.

In the lift it became apparent that she used scent.

For all her handsome looks, she was a pretty tough lady, Alleyn thought. Black, sharp eyes and a small hard mouth, set at the corners. It wouldn’t be long before she settled into the battle-axe form.

The room, Number 20, was on the second floor at the end of a passage and at a corner of the building. The Quintern police had put a regulation seal on the door and had handed the key over to Alleyn. They had also taken the precaution of slipping an inconspicuous morsel of wool between door and jamb. Sister Jackson looked on in silence while Mr. Fox, who wore gloves, dealt with these obstructions.

The room was dark, the closed window curtains admitting only a sliver or two of daylight. It smelt thickly of material, carpet, stale scent, dust and of something indefinable and extremely unpleasant. Sister Jackson gave out a short hiss of distaste. Fox switched on the lights. He and Alleyn moved into the centre of the room. Sister Jackson remained by the door.

The room had an air of suspended animation. The bed was unmade. Its occupant might have just left it to go into the bathroom. One of the pillows and the lower sheet were stained as if something had been spilt on them. Another pillow lay, face-down, at the foot of the bed. The bottle of Scotch, glass and tablets were all missing and were no doubt still in the custody of the local police, but an unwrapped parcel, obviously a book, together with a vanity box and the half-empty box of marzipan confections lay on the table alongside a lamp. Alleyn peered down the top of a rose-coloured shade and saw the glass slipper in place over the bulb. He took it off and examined it. There was no oil left but it retained a faint reek of sweet almonds. He put it aside.

The dressing-table carried, together with an array of bottles and pots, three framed photographs, all of which he had seen that morning on and in Sybil Foster’s desk at Quintern: her pretty daughter, her second husband; the regimental group with her handsome young first husband prominent among the officers. This was a less faded print and Alleyn looked closely at it, marvelling that such an Adonis could have sired the undelicious Claude. He peered at an enormous corporal in the back row who squinted amicably back at him. Alleyn managed to make out the man’s badge: antlers enclosed by something — what? — a heather wreath? Wasn’t there some nickname? “The Spikes”? That was it. “The Duke of Montrose’s” nicknamed “The Spikes.” Alleyn wondered how soon after this photograph was taken Maurice Carter had died. Claude would have been a child of three or four, he supposed, and remembered Verity Preston’s story of the lost Black Alexander stamp. What the hell is it, he thought, still contemplating the large corporal, that’s nagging on the edge of my memory.

He went into the bathroom. A large bunch of dead lilies lay in the hand-basin. A dirty greenish stain showed where water had drained away. A new and offensive smell rose from the basin. “ ‘Lilies that fester,’ ” he reminded himself, “ ‘smell far worse than weeds.’ ”

He returned to the bedroom and found Fox, placid in attendance, and Sister Jackson looking resentful.

“And this,” Alleyn said, “is how it was when you were called in?”

“The things on the table have been removed. And there’s no body,” she pointed out sourly.