So Bad a Death (23 page)

“Well, keep your eye on him,” I advised. “I never did like the man. What is the next item of interest?”

John flipped over the odd sheets of papers balanced on his crossed knee. He picked out one.

“What are you frowning over?” I asked, resting my chin on his shoulder.

“A receipt from Doctor Trefont for professional services rendered to Mrs James Holland. He didn't mention that he had attended her. I hope it only slipped his mind. I don't like being lied to.”

“May I see?” I asked, as casually as I could. The bill itself did not convey much, insofar as the term “professional services” had not been enlarged upon. My eyes went to the date. It verified my suspicions so perfectly that I felt inclined to doubt my own deductions. But it must be so. The information Doctor Johnson had given me and the strange contradiction of Yvonne and her father-in-law, allied to their hostility towards Doctor Trefont, all fitted in. The reluctance of both the doctor and Yvonne to discuss their relations was easily understood. Taken by itself, James Holland's violent opposition was puzzling. There could be only one explanation of that. Either Trefont had been a victim of overwhelming coercion or else
he too had been a guileless fool. In either instance he must have rebelled after the dirty work was done, and Holland had not liked it.

John's voice roused me.

“What was that?” I asked. “I was in a trance.”

“I merely inquired if you had lost interest in the proceedings, or whether you are too tired to continue. You have been staring at a receipt in a vacant manner for the past five minutes.”

“Sorry,” I said, giving up the paper. “I am still keen.”

I would have to get hold of that receipt later. It was not essential in Yvonne's case, although she might remain obstinately silent no matter what proof was produced. But if I read the doctor aright, he would not budge an inch unless I had something with which to back up my accusations.

John slipped the papers onto my knee and got up. “We'll have to continue later. That sounds like Braithwaite now. Don't lose any of those papers. They might prove important.”

II

I think John's warning was issued in a perfectly innocent manner, but I was glad he did not see me start guiltily. I picked over the small pile quickly. There was only a brief moment before Braithwaite would be admitted.

Thumbing through those documents was like looking up an encyclopedia. It was easy to become diverted and forget the original purpose. That happened to me then, when I came across something that almost wiped everything else from my head. At first I thought it belonged to an untouched part of the pattern. I did not realize then that I had already filled in the outlying pieces.

The new item on which my interest became focused was a very old letter. So old that it was dissolving along the edges where it had been folded. I read it as quickly as the fading writing permitted. Then John pushed open the door for Braithwaite to enter. Reluctantly I placed the frail sheet with the rest of the papers and assumed my hostess expression.

John said to me: “Have we any of that brandy left, Maggie? Don't get up. Just tell me where it is.” I glanced quickly at Alan Braithwaite. He looked pale around the gills.

“In the cupboard above the kitchen sink. Come and sit down, Mr Braithwaite.”

He chose the easy chair John had been using earlier in the evening, but sat bolt upright, grasping his briefcase as though it held the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

“I am sorry to appear so rattled, Mrs Matheson,” he remarked, glancing towards the curtained windows, “but the fact is I have had rather an unnerving experience.”

“They are locked,” I said soothingly.

Alan Braithwaite grinned at me sheepishly. “Perfectly absurd of me. I must be lily-livered. But it was the sheer unexpectedness of it. It caught me unawares.”

“What did?” I asked in a patient voice.

John came back into the room with a glass in his hand.

“We are getting used to this form of hospitality,” he informed Braithwaite. “Down the hatch and you'll feel better. Someone tried to snatch his bag, Maggie.”

“Did they?” I asked, interested. “They weren't very successful. What happened?”

Young Braithwaite tried to disguise a shudder as he finished off the drink.

“I came through the wood. I thought it might be quicker as I was delayed longer than I expected at the Hall. It was dark, of course, but I know the path fairly well. As a point of interest it happened at that same turn where Mr Holland was found. For a moment I thought I was going to be another victim. Absurd, you know, what you imagine might be your last thoughts. All in a flash. I wondered what the devil I had done to deserve this. But I don't think the footpad meant murder. Anyway, not this time.”

Like all lawyers, you take a hell of a time to get to the point, I thought irritably.

“Someone stepped up in front of me and dealt me a terrific blow in the solar plexus, at the same time making a grab at my bag.”

“I suppose,” said John, “it would be a futile question to ask if you recognized the would-be bandit.”

“I'm afraid so. It was dark in the wood, what with the trees and everything. I can't even tell you if he was big or small.”

“Or male or female,” I supplied.

Alan Braithwaite gave me a surprised look. “A man, of course. I hadn't thought of that.”

“A solar plexus punch is a favourite of the gentle sex,” I told him. He looked a bit shocked.

“Luckily,” he went on, “I had the presence of mind to keep a firm grip on the handle of my case. After the first abortive attempt my assailant made off. It took me several minutes to regain my breath. I came along here at once.” He looked at John doubtfully. “I had it in mind to ring the police, but I suppose telling you amounts much to the same thing.”

“If you like you can ring Sergeant Billings from here. The telephone is in my study. As it is a local matter he would be the best person to advise. There is very little I could do beyond telling him myself.”

Braithwaite was a shade disappointed at John's detached view of the matter.

“You consider,” he ventured with legal restraint, “that my assailant was just an ordinary thief after money or similar valuables?”

“Until I know what you have in the case, I can't think otherwise,” John answered, in a manner worthy of the best legal circles.

“Perhaps it is as well to keep things formal,” Braithwaite said, after pondering on the matter. “I will report the attack to Middleburn police station.”

“Show him where the phone is, Maggie. I must clear up these papers.”

I gave John another sharp look at this remark. I almost believed that he did not trust me alone with those papers for any length of time.

I took Braithwaite along to the study and rang the Hall. Ames answered it and expressed regret that the outward line was in use.

“I'll wait on,” I said, when he offered to call when the line was disengaged. “The line is busy,” I told Braithwaite. Holding the
earpiece, I sat down in the desk chair and dropped my elbow on the arm.

“Yvonne said the phone has hardly stopped ringing all day,” Braithwaite told me. “Some people have very bad sense of timing. You would think that they would hold off for a while.”

“Curious, I suppose,” I offered. “You can't get away from human nature. How was Yvonne today?” I did not say that I had already seen her. I wanted to know if her sudden spurt of self-assurance had gone. Evidently it had not.

“Bearing up remarkably well. I was surprised at her good spirits. You know, Mrs Matheson, that will the old man made is a great piece of injustice. It is hardly fair to expect Yvonne not to marry again.”

I watched him closely. “If she wants to, she shouldn't let the money stand in her way.”

“That's just what I told her,” Alan Braithwaite informed me in all innocence. “She had such a short time with Jim, and that ended tragically. Mr Holland should have made some allowance, irrespective of her future plans.”

“He probably didn't like the idea of the Holland money going out of the family. Hullo—this sounds like it.”

Ames' smooth voice sounded in my ear. I asked for the police station number and handed the receiver to Braithwaite. There did not seem any point in retiring discreetly as I knew what Braithwaite was going to say. The conversation was a short one. Billings must have become accustomed to odd occurrences taking place in his district. Braithwaite did not have to repeat himself once.

“The matter is going to be looked into,” he said, handing me back the phone with a shrug. “My brief escapade sounds a bit feeble now.”

Automatically I held the receiver to my ear before ringing off. “Just one moment,” I said, listening closely.

It was there again. A soft sound of someone breathing, the slight noise of an open line in another place. I rang on the line quickly, hoping to catch the eavesdropper, and listened in again. In my own ear there came the reverberation of a similar ring. I jumped and slammed the receiver on its stand indignantly.

“Come along,” I said, ignoring Alan Braithwaite's inquiring gaze. “John will be wondering what has become of you. You said you had something important to tell him.”

He followed me along the passage. “It may or may not be pertinent, but it is something I will have to look into if your husband does not. I would have been over sooner, but I was delayed at the Hall. Funeral arrangements, you know. Mrs Mulqueen was rather trying about them. She insists upon a huge affair instead of a private one. A small show would be in much better taste under the circumstances. What do you think?”

“From what I knew of Mr Holland the more pomp and ceremony the better. Had he but known the manner of his death he would consider an elaborate funeral a form of challenge to his murderer. I may be dead, but you can't kill my memory, so to speak.”

John looked up as we entered.

“All in order,” I said. “I think Billings took it without a blink. Are you two going to talk in a way I will understand or would you prefer me to go?”

“I would hate to do you out of the fire, Mrs Matheson. No doubt, you have your husband's confidence in many matters. If he does not object I see no reason why you need not remain.”

I removed myself into a quiet corner. I could see John was becoming irritated at the legal touch. Alan Braithwaite conveyed the impression that there was all night ahead in which to propound theories. Whereas I knew John was nearly tired to death, in spite of his look of alertness. I hoped Braithwaite's air of importance was justified.

John tried to bring him around to the point at once. “You say someone tried to snatch your briefcase. Is there something in it you wanted to show me?”

“There is. But first I want to tell you about Mr Ernest Mulqueen. I went along to see him late this afternoon as I told you I would. I thought he might like to see a lawyer. He didn't seem in the least perturbed by his position. Instead he bombarded me with questions concerning his late brother-in-law's will. In a word, he wanted to know what he got out of the estate. Odd thing for a man under
suspicion of murder, don't you agree? Please don't think I am betraying the confidence of a client. I was assured in no uncertain terms that when the time came Ernest Mulqueen would need no assistance from a pansy tie-waving solicitor like myself.”

I let out a spurt of laughter from my corner. It sounded like the forthright little man. “However,” continued Braithwaite, “I was also assured of my welcome. I was just the man Mr Mulqueen wanted to see. And forthwith he put in a claim for some obscure farm in the Riverina, which he said was amalgamated with some of the other Holland estates. He wants the farm separated and handed back to him. I told Mr Mulqueen I would look into the matter. When I got back to the office I went through some files and found certain papers appertaining to this farm. They were certainly in Mulqueen's name. The point is, if the farm is his how does it happen that the property affairs were in Mr Holland's hands? Mrs Mulqueen supplied an answer to that question tonight. She remembers vaguely my late father drawing up some document and Mr Mulqueen signing over the farm to her brother and being paid a lump sum. But unless you have the receipt for that money and the agreement she thinks was signed, all trace of them has disappeared.”

“I have got nothing,” John answered slowly.

Braithwaite shrugged his shoulders. “Well, on paper the farm is still Mulqueen's unless those two documents turn up. I thought you might be interested to learn of it.”

Alan Braithwaite opened his case and took out a green book bound with calfskin. He turned over the pages lightly.

“This is a record of the home farm and household accounts. A rather rough one, I am compelled to admit. Mr Holland was accustomed to keep it in his study as a check on outgoing and incoming monies. The accounts were neither accurate or foolproof, but they helped maintain some sort of cost of running expenses connected with the Hall. You handed it to me along with other papers when we cleared out the desk.”