So Bad a Death (22 page)

“Mr Mulqueen hasn't been arrested,” I pointed out. “Anyway, not yet. You are talking as though the hangman's noose was already around his throat. Detaining someone for further questioning does not make it a cut-and-dried affair.”

The slight look of fear which passed through her eyes puzzled me.

“It has to be proved he killed your father-in-law. That demands a motive. If Mr Mulqueen can produce an alibi for the time of the murder he hasn't a thing to worry about.”

“You mean,” Yvonne said in her old hesitant voice, “that now it has been established Mr Holland was killed intentionally, we will all have to prove alibis?”

“Quite likely,” I agreed in a cheerful voice. “It depends on whom the police's fancy alights.”

Yvonne had become quite pale. She had lost her champagne vivacity.

“Would you like me to come up to the Hall with you?” I offered in a fit of charity. “Your aunt might be in a bad way.”

“Who? Aunt Elizabeth? Of course. My mind was wandering. I would appreciate it if you came.”

“This is my second appearance in the role of comforter,” I told Yvonne. We parked the children on the terrace and entered through the window into Mr Holland's study. Yvonne looked about her. There was a certain agitation in her manner which she was trying desperately to hide. I waited for her to lead the way to the Mulqueens' wing. She paused near the desk, her hand straying over the polished surface to the extension telephone.

I glanced at her with raised brows. She said jerkily: “You know the way to Aunt Elizabeth's room. I have an urgent call to make. I won't be long.”

She waited until I left the room before she lifted the receiver. The indicator shutter fell in the tiny switchboard near the stairs as I passed, but the alarm had been turned off. No one would hear Yvonne's extension ringing. Shrugging slightly, I hurried forward and took up the receiver.

Yvonne's voice requested Ames to give her a city number. I dialled it out without speaking and waited to hear the impulse. It was answered almost immediately. I recognized the voice of an experienced telephonist as the name Braithwaite and Braithwaite was announced. Yvonne asked for Mr Alan Braithwaite. I closed the keys and placed the receiver back, eyeing the connected lines with hungry curiosity.

Something prompted me to glance around. It was not a guilty look, but I could feel someone's eyes on me. I looked upwards to the stairs. On the first landing Ursula Mulqueen stood, one hand on the banister.

I said hurriedly: “I called to see if I could do anything for your mother when the phone rang. No one seemed to be around so I answered it.”

Ursula tripped down the stairs, her curls bobbing about her shoulders.

“That was very kind of you, Mrs Matheson. Poor, dear father. It is all so bewildering and frightening. Was there any message?”

I answered without thinking: “It wasn't an inward call. Yvonne wanted Alan Braithwaite's number.”

A slight flicker crossed Ursula's face, as though she found it an effort to retain the sweet exterior.

“Mother says girls who chase men forfeit their respect,” she declared aimlessly, as she led the way to Mrs Mulqueen's rooms. A murmur of voices came from the east wing. Then she said something which rather astounded me. The words were trite certainly, but her voice had changed from its usual high lilting cadence. It took on a deeper tone, with the smoothest hint of satire beneath.

“Mother always knows best, don't you agree, Mrs Matheson?” She widened the doorway of the sitting-room very quietly and stepped aside. She had planned and executed a neat little peepshow.

Nugent Parsons stood near the window. Mrs Mulqueen was in front of him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

“We can't go on like this,” Parsons was saying. “You were foolish asking me to come here. The police—”

“But darling Nugent,” Mrs Mulqueen cooed up at him. “You must be patient. Nothing need be changed. Don't spoil things by losing your head.”

“Everything is changed,” he almost shouted. “For a while it was fun for both of us, but murder!” Mrs Mulqueen said in an odd voice: “You're not trying to get away from me, are you?”

“Yes, yes. I want to leave the Hall. I don't want to have anything more to do with you. You—you are an old woman.”

I glanced at Ursula Mulqueen. She was smiling.

Elizabeth Mulqueen slowly removed one of her hands. “You'll regret that,” she said, and struck him full on the mouth. I slipped back into the passage as Nugent Parsons rushed out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I

“Tell me about the inquest,” I requested John, after dinner.

“Nothing much to tell. I was relieved at the coroner's finding.”

“I'm sure you were. Why did you detain Ernest Mulqueen?”

John began to fill a pipe slowly, staring into the fire.

“I could make a case against him if I cared to. The man has no alibi for the time of the crime. Furthermore, we have a witness to say that he was as far from the house as the gates.”

I snapped my fingers. “That much for Nugent Parsons' evidence. A prejudiced witness. What about all the others who lack alibis?”

John said ruefully: “I would be glad to find someone with a watertight alibi, if only to try and disprove it. So far the field is crowded with suspects. When the shot was fired, we were the only ones in the drawing-room.”

“Not the only ones,” I corrected. “Daisy and Mrs Potts-Power were there. How about those for watertight alibis?”

“Quite so, but unfortunately can't disbelieve my own eyes. Unless Mrs Potts-Power split herself into a dual personage and one part went off to commit the murder while the other stared at me rudely, I fail to see how to break her alibi. The same goes for the daughter and Ames.”

“What exactly is Ames' position at the Hall?” I asked presently. “He seems rather an oddity to me. A jack-of-all-trades. It's a wonder he is content to be so. He fills so many jobs expertly.”

John put his feet to the ground and rested his hands on either arm of the chair as though to rise. “If you are really interested in a few routine inquiries we have made, I'll get some papers from the study. They may or may not be relevant to the case.”

“Go ahead. I am very interested.”

He threw a warning look over his shoulder. “No more than a wifely interest in your husband's work, Maggie.”

“Of course not,” I said innocently. “Whatever can you be thinking about?”

John shook his fist and went out.

The telephone rang in the study, but it did not delay John long.

“Who was it?” I asked, when he came back with a file of papers.

“Braithwaite. He was dining at the Hall. He has something to tell me. He'll be over presently.”

I avoided John's eye. “Perhaps you could ask him about buying the house. Don't you think it is time we started pushing things along? It would be terrible if the family sold it over our heads.”

“They won't,” John stated calmly. “I'm not doing anything until this case is finished. You are not going to get into mischief a second time. Certainly not now you're married to me.”

I said on a sigh: “I can't think why I did. Marry you, I mean.”

John swept my feet off the couch and sat down. “My money, darling, and my good looks. Very rarely do they go together. Do you or don't you want to have a look at these papers?”

I sat up beside him. “I do, Midas-Adonis. What's this one?” I unfolded a typewritten sheet of paper bearing the Russell Street letterhead.

“That,” said John, “should answer your inquiries about Ames. It is a list of the salaries and wages paid to the Hall and farm employees. You might note the first amount, which is more than your husband makes every year.”

I whistled at the figures opposite Ames' name. “Very nice. No wonder he was content to stay.”

“Another reason why I wouldn't try breaking Ames' alibi. No man in his right senses would kill a goose that laid eggs as large and golden as Holland did.”

“Supposing he was blackmailing the Squire. This amount might be partly hush money.”

“An absurd suggestion, Maggie. It is in every book of rules that the blackmailer never wipes out his source of income.”

“But if Ames got more out of Holland dead? Isn't he to run the estates?”

“In conjunction with two others and only until Yvonne's baby is old enough to assume office. His hands are more tied than if Holland was alive. You may dismiss the idea. It has already been gone into.”

“I will, but with a parting shot. A lot might happen in twenty years, or whenever it is Jimmy arrives at his inheritance.”

“Unfortunately we cannot await possibilities of the years to come. The job is in the present. To convict a murderer of the death of James Holland.”

“Don't sound so pompous.”

“As a matter of fact,” John confessed, “I wasn't thinking as I spoke. Your remark reminded me of something I have been waiting to ask you for the last few days. I was recalling what it was.”

“Hush,” I said hastily, putting up one finger. “Was that the doorbell? Go and see if it is Alan Braithwaite.”

“Maggie, my own dear,” John said in a tired voice. “Never use the same gag twice. Last time Mrs Mulqueen filled the breach. Young Braithwaite is missing his cue. I certainly didn't hear the doorbell.”

I started up only to be pulled down again. “Don't you think I had better go and see?”

“You needn't bother. If you want to be secretive, we'll let it pass. I may even know what I was going to ask you.”

“Quite likely,” I agreed in a demure voice, taking up the paper again. “Is there anything further to catch the eye on this salary sheet?”

“You might note your friend Parsons' name. Holland was quite a good boss to work for. I wouldn't have minded being in his employ. Even the pension he paid old man Ames is quite respectable. According to the will, that is to continue. Holland waxed biblical in writing the bequest. There must have been some sort of bond of affection or respect between them.”

“I should say both. The old man seemed to be the only genuine mourner I could find at the Hall. All the others were busy looking after their own interests.”

“You can't expect anyone who has been murdered to have many mourners, sincere ones, anyway. Even to those nearest and would-be dearest, Holland's manner of death must be a source of embarrassment. Read this letter. You will find it interesting.”

I took a folded sheet of cream notepaper to which a long sheet of foolscap was attached. I separated them, glancing down the foolscap. It held a neat list of names and addresses with an amount opposite each one. There were two other money columns, containing much smaller figures. Each column had been added up, and the totals worked out in percentages for purpose of comparison.

“You won't make head or tail of that until you see the letter,” John informed me kindly.

“Oh no? That's just where you are wrong. I have got quite a fair idea.”

I read the letter without much surprise, noting the date. It was three days before my interview with Mr Holland about the Dower House. When I came to the neat unflourishing signature of Harold Bellamy I looked up.

“Gently abusive!” I commented. “No wonder poor Connie was hot and bothered. It looks as though Cruikshank has been making some money out of them and a lot of other poor guileless fools.”

“We can only presume it was Cruikshank. He was Holland's agent. Very clever of him to charge just a fraction more in each case for repayment of interest and principal on the houses Holland sold on terms. It makes quite a respectable percentage. With luck he could continue his practice forever without being detected. The first column is the amount paid, the second the agent's fee which usually comes out of it, and the third is the actual fee Cruikshank helped himself to by dint of overcharging his clients. I wonder how your friend's husband tumbled to it.”

“Is this the Squire's handwriting?” I asked, tapping the sheet with the back of one finger.

John nodded. “I found it in his desk. When I saw the name on the letter I thought it might be of interest. Especially after what you told me.”

I said thoughtfully, “Holland must have faced Cruikshank with this that day I saw the Dower. Cruikshank did a bunk, thinking Middleburn would be too hot to hold him. How fortunate for him Holland was murdered.”

“He can still be sued by the executors of the estate. No, Maggie, there is something more in Cruikshank's disappearance than that.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “he has nothing to fear from them, now the Squire is out of the way. It may be ages before they come round to this business.” I handed back the foolscap and letter. “By then he might have covered his tracks or worked out a convincing story.”

“We are letting Cruikshank alone for the moment,” John said. “If he is mixed up in this business as I think he might be, he'll show his hand somewhere.”