So Bad a Death (14 page)

“I must go,” John interrupted. “Billings will be waiting for me. Prepare some coffee and then go back to bed like a good girl.”

“How long will you be?” I asked, trying to keep the nervous note out of my voice. The idea of being left alone in the house again and this time with a murderer across the way did not fill me with a sense of security. Even had I known then that my welfare was of immediate concern to the murderer, I doubt whether I would have been less nervous.

“As quick as I can. You'll be all right. There will probably be one of our men patrolling the road for the rest of the night.”

I saw him out quickly. I was not prepared to stand in a lighted doorway for all and sundry to see I was alone in the house. The
coffee took but a minute to prepare. I dallied over it, trying to spin out the time. Sleep was going to be impossible. I took a cup along to the study and lit the gas fire, using the same match for a cigarette. But drinking coffee and smoking took up only a little more time. I gazed at the clock and the asbestos bars of the fire alternately. An hour passed, and at last something happened.

The sound of a car drawing up outside the house jerked me to my feet. I switched off the study light and drew aside the curtains at the window cautiously. The dark bulk of the car was out of my line of vision, but I could see two long arms of light shining through the mist. I opened the window an inch and bent my head to listen, the wet air pressing against the side of my face.

Two figures slipped by me on the other side of the hawthorn hedge dividing the Dower land from that of the Hall. I caught a glimpse of white coats and a stretcher through the thicket. The figures disappeared along the track into the wood.

Weary and chilled, I waited there for what seemed another hour before a little cavalcade came slowly down the path. The body of our late host and landlord passed me on its way to the ambulance.

I shut the window and hurried down the passage to the kitchen. Body in ambulance meant body on the way to the morgue and post-mortem and John's work finished for the moment. It was not his habit to go searching for clues in the dark. A picket and a man on guard were all that were necessary until daylight.

John's key was in the door as I came down the passage with a tray in my hands. He was not alone. Two men were with him, and I recognized one with interest.

John's frown deepened as he saw me. “Still up, Maggie? Doctor Trefont, my wife. And Sergeant Billings, Maggie.”

“How do you do,” I said demurely to the doctor. But Trefont was more than my match. He said: “I know you well by sight. We have nearly met before, have we not, Mrs Matheson?”

“Twice,” I agreed, not to be outdone. “On the terrace at the Hall and in Middleburn High Street. Shall I get more coffee, John?”

He had been listening to the interchange with a still deeper frown. I did not care for the “wait until I talk to you afterwards” look, and
tried to merge myself into the background.

I hovered around the three men, pouring coffee and attracting their attention to a plate of sandwiches in ministering angel fashion. My ears were constantly pricked and I kept one eye on the doctor. His position in the case was going to be interesting. He had had some connection with the Hall prior to Mr Holland's death, and yet here he was working for the police.

John was behind his desk making a few notes. On one side of the fire Sergeant Billings sat upright, his enormous hands placed on his huge knees. The doctor lounged at his ease opposite, balancing his coffee cup on the arm of the chair. I was stupid not to have guessed his profession that first day at the Hall. All medicos seem stamped with the same casual independent air. John asked his subordinate a few questions first. They were ordinary routine affairs but the answers Billings gave were somewhat surprising, at least to my mind. For example, when asked at what time and by whom the body was found, Billings was unable to say. His speech became slower and a bit incoherent as he tried to explain.

According to Billings, he had been awakened by the telephone at about 3 a.m. A man's voice speaking in a quick, muffled manner, obviously disguised, told him that the dead body of Mr James Holland of Holland Hall, Middleburn, was lying on the track which cut through the wood. After giving this information the man rang off. At first the sergeant was inclined either to doubt his own hearing or else the sanity of the caller. There had never been anything worse than a few robberies in Middleburn during all the years in which he had served the district. And somehow saying it was Mr Holland—well, you know—it was rather hard to take in, him being such a figure and a force in these parts. Billings recovered his aplomb enough to get on to the mechanic at the local automatic exchange and order him to trace the call. “And did he?” John interrupted, whose patience with the sergeant was something I opened my eyes at.

He did. The call originated from a public telephone outside the Middleburn Post Office. Billings hurried out of the house—his was a resident police station situated in High Street—but he was about
a quarter of an hour too late to see anyone suspicious lurking, as he termed it.

He went back to the house to dress. But only partially, I thought, catching a glimpse of striped winceyette under his uniform. Then he bethought himself of John. At this point, Sergeant Billings rolled a bulbous blue eye in my direction, as if it was my cue to carry on the story. I merely poured him out some more coffee.

To me, Sergeant Billings appeared little more than a bucolic oaf. That was why I marvelled at John's attention to his story. Later I discovered that Sergeant Billings' stripes were not unmerited and that his slow but painstaking investigations under expert direction contributed largely to the success of the case.

John turned to Doctor Trefont. He still sat at his ease and seemed agreeable to spending the rest of the night in front of our gas fire. John wanted an off-the-record account of death, a first impression of medical findings. Doctor Trefont's reply was even a greater surprise than Billings' story.

“Suicide,” he said, without looking at John and while casually blowing smoke rings.

I nearly said “rubbish” aloud.

John's face did not show disgust or disappointment. He was never anxious for crime to come knocking at his door. The doctor screwed his head round to look at John, throwing me an amused glance in transit. As though he had guessed at my scepticism.

“That was my first unprejudiced impression,” he elaborated.

“A post-mortem and a few police inquiries will no doubt cast doubts on it. But if a man is found shot through the head at close quarters with a gun in his hand, what else can I say?”

“You doubt your own medical findings, then, Doctor,” John said pleasantly.

“I do. From the little I knew of, but the amount I heard about the late Mr Holland, suicide would be the last crime he would commit. Unless of course he had some deep far-flung plan to execute which necessitated his own removal. The man had a genius for running things his own way in this part of the world.”

“That means enemies,” John nodded. “Do you know of any?”

The doctor replied dryly: “Dozens, if by enemies you mean those who resented his high-handed behaviour. But I don't know of anyone who could be considered a worthy opponent—on the same social plane, as it were. However, when a man as feared and disliked as Holland is found shot dead, one can't help thinking that there might have been such an enemy.”

There was a pause before John asked: “You say you knew Mr Holland only slightly? Who was his medical attendant?”

“He didn't have one. His health was remarkably robust.”

“What about the rest of the family? Are they all so hardy?”

“I believe Mrs Ernest Mulqueen is considered a goldmine in Collins Street. I never attended her myself.”

“Did you ever attend any other member of the household?” The doctor's attention was on the third cigarette he was rolling. “Occasionally members of the staff came to my surgery with minor cuts and ailments.”

John dropped the subject at this point. I could have shaken him, but dared not interfere in any way. Surely he could sense the doctor's reluctance to speak about his medical dealings with the Hollands. The little he admitted had to be dragged out of him and he had skilfully avoided prevarication. No mention had been made of Yvonne and the baby. I was certain from what I had seen and overheard, and from hints dropped by Yvonne, that he had had some professional interest in her and the child. If John was not going to find out the nature of that interest, I was.

Beyond saying “I wish you'd gone to bed” in a worried voice, John did not reproach me further after the two men had left. I think he was glad I had been there, even if it was only to pour the coffee.

“It hardly seems worthwhile going back to bed,” I commented, yawning at the clock. “Why can't murderers commit their crimes in office hours? It is as bad as being married to a doctor. Do you go to the office today or can you sleep in?”

“I must go in. I'll have to put in a report at once. It is not conclusive that owing to propinquity I will be placed in charge of this case.” We went back to bed in silence. I was nearly asleep when John's voice spoke drowsily.

“There are a few questions I must ask you later, Maggie.”

I started to snore gently.

II

Daylight brought Tony out of his cot. He ran wildly around the house, full of overpowering vitality which we both regarded with dull amazement. John went off immediately after breakfast, extracting a promise from me to get some rest when Tommy went down for his noonday nap.

Not long after he had gone, the telephone rang. I went to it with a frown. The extension line from the Hall which hitherto I had regarded as a necessary nuisance now appeared more in the light of a sinister connection between the two houses.

It was Yvonne, more nervous and rattled than ever.

Could I—would I please come over as soon as convenient. She felt she had no one to turn to. And I seemed—well, so practical.

Shuddering at the epithet, I said yes, certainly. I had intended coming tomorrow, not wishing to intrude on their private sorrow.

A rather hysterical sound greeted this conventional phrase and she rang off.

I went round the house with Tony at my heels. By emptying ashtrays from the study I was reminded of Doctor Trefont. Laying down my duster, I picked up the telephone from John's desk.

Ames answered my ring. His voice was grave and subdued as became a bereaved employee.

“Very, very shocking,” was the smooth reply to yet another conventional phrase.

I waited for a few seconds, allowing time for Ames to switch the Dower extension onto the exchange line.

I was about to dial out my number when a voice broke in.

“Put me through to Mrs Matheson at the Dower House, please, Ames.”

“Ames—” I said sharply. “Haven't you given me the line? Why is one extension key still open?”

“I'm sorry, Mrs Matheson. Mrs Mulqueen wishes to speak to you.”

“What is it, Mrs Mulqueen?” I asked ungraciously. She started on a monologue which was much the same as Yvonne's insofar as an urgent desire to see me was expressed; the plea about not having anyone to turn to also was employed. But where Yvonne had seemed genuinely upset, I was persuaded that Elizabeth Mulqueen had some definite reason for wishing me to call.

“I will be over presently,” I told her. “Now may I have the line, please?”

After arranging a time with Dr Trefont for that afternoon, I paused to gaze out of the study window. It was a perfect day, fine, crisp, clean. Tony clambered up onto the window seat beside me. I brushed his yellow hair to and fro, addressing him absently.

“The wood looks so serene by sunlight. Too placid and perfect a place to shelter violence. Yet only a few hours ago I was crouching here cold and fearful of what would be located in its very heart.”

“Bang!” said Tony suddenly, with uncanny appropriateness.

“The result of a bang,” I agreed. “A large, horrid bang.”

Sergeant Billings with another man in uniform passed along the path below. I put my head out of the window.

“Hullo, Sergeant. Whither away?”

The two men stopped and peered through the hedge. I had the advantage, as they stood in the full sunlight.

“Good morning, Mrs Matheson. The Inspector asked us to look at the picket we fixed up last night.”

“Is he in charge of the case, then?” I asked, not knowing whether to feel pleased or apprehensive. “Where is he?”

“At the Hall.”

“I was just going over to pay my condolences. May I come through the wood and visit the scene of the crime? I promise not to trample on any clues.”

I was taking a mean advantage of Sergeant Billings. In the normal course of events he would have refused, but as I was the wife of his superior officer he did not like to.

“By the way, Sergeant, is it murder or suicide? What was the result of the post-mortem?”

He replied guardedly: “Muchly what the doctor said. The shot could have been fired by Mr Holland himself. The gun was found near his right hand.”