So Bad a Death (24 page)

John glanced over it frowningly. “Actually it was found in Mr Holland's bedroom. I only gave it a cursory glance and then passed it on to you for further perusal.”

Alan Braithwaite smiled a little grimly. “I perused it today and found this.” He pointed one finger to the top of a page and turning the leaf indicated the next number.

I craned forward to catch his meaning.

John said without expression: “Two sheets have been torn out. That wipes out any audit that can be made. You say Mr Holland kept these accounts?”

“It was his book, but I notice entries have been made in several different handwritings.”

“Can you recognize them?” John asked quickly.

“Mr Holland employed as his accountant whoever was nearest to hand at the time. Usually members of his family, although I detect Ames' writing in a few instances. Rather beastly, isn't it?”

I knew what he meant. One of the family had been cooking the accounts to his advantage and had torn out the sheets before the police got hold of the book.

“It is remarkable Mr Holland did not observe anything out of the way,” John observed.

“I don't think he regarded the accounts book very seriously. He was very open-handed with household money, so I am told. He entertained quite a lot. The fact that he barely wrote in it himself shows that he did not worry too much whether it balanced or not.”

“Then it will be pretty hard to tell how much was taken,” John said. “Have you any idea at all?”

“Not the faintest. The difference between the totals on the now consecutive leaves is rather large, but that is neither here nor there. The dates covered by the missing pages were times when Mr Holland was spending freely in entertainment.”

“If we can discover who made the entries for those dates we will know who stole the pages. Did you make any inquiries at the Hall tonight?”

“A few. I wanted to tell you about it first. No one seemed interested or concerned at my questions.” There was a pause. John frowned heavily into the fire. I was glad Alan Braithwaite's call had not been for nothing.

Just then a footstep sounded on the flagged path outside the window. Our visitor jumped slightly, and grinned when he saw my eyes on him.

The footsteps walked across the narrow stone porch. There was a pause as the owner felt for the bell. I put aside my knitting and left the room. I did not mind answering unexpected rings when two men were in the house.

Ursula Mulqueen stood at the door. She looked strongly like her mother standing there in her dark dress with a coat over her shoulders. Her lips were not parted in their customary vacant smile. They were pressed together in a purposeful manner. The Mulqueens were developing a habit of calling at the Dower. Oddly enough Ursula's words were almost the identical ones her mother had used. She had been out for a stroll and—

“Mr Braithwaite is here,” I told her in order to save time. I stepped aside to let her into the hall.

“Alan? Now I think of it he did mention he was coming over. Is he talking business with your husband?”

“He was. I think they have finished now.”

“Perhaps he will escort me home if he has finished.”

“Are you sure you won't stay?” I asked ironically.

Alan Braithwaite frowned slightly as Ursula went into the room. John's look of irritation returned. Ursula's eyes took them both in speculatively. She glanced at the open briefcase and the papers John had made into a pile on the mahogany coffee table.

She turned a pleading little-girl look on Braithwaite. “Could you possibly see me home as far as the gates, Alan? I had no idea I was so late.”

To John she said: “Inspector, I have come to plead on father's behalf. I know he could not possibly have done this wicked deed. Even if he had I'm sure there was some good excuse for killing poor Uncle James. Perhaps he was dying of some incurable disease and begged father to do it.”

Braithwaite muttered: “Don't be idiotic, Ursula. I'm sure Inspector Matheson realizes your good intentions, but you'll do your father more harm than good talking like that.”

Ursula swung round. “What have I said?” she cried fearfully.

Alan Braithwaite got up. “I'll take you home, Ursula. Are you ready?” Evidently he considered it was the only way to shut her up.

I grinned at John after they had left. The irritated expression left his face.

“What beats me,” he said ruefully, “is that neither of them nor anyone else at the Hall realizes that Ernest Mulqueen's detention is a very minor step and that they are all without alibis.”

“The full significance struck Yvonne this afternoon. I was the one who disillusioned her. Hullo, young Braithwaite has left his precious account book.”

“I told him to. I want to have another look at it. Are you coming to bed? I'm just about all in.”

III

I was half-asleep when I remembered about Doctor Trefont's receipt. It broke me into full consciousness with a jerk, which communicated itself to John.

He asked at once: “Is anything the matter?” I lay back again, trying to sound sleepy. “Just dreaming. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

He made no comment and presently his breathing became steadier and louder. I pondered on what I should do. There would be no sense in taking the receipt from the file. Ten to one it would be missed immediately. To take a copy of it would be better. I waited for a few more minutes and tried to get out of bed stealthily.

John spoke again through the darkness. “For Heaven's sake, Maggie, try and relax. Would you like an aspirin?”

I was grateful for the idea. “I'll go and get one.”

John gave a loud resigned groan and heaved himself up. “Stay where you are. I'll get it for you.”

So much for my plan to make use of his idea. John came back, switched on the bedside light and handed me two tablets with a glass of water. I looked at them in dismay. If I took both pills there would be little chance of staying awake long enough to allow John
to settle down so as to sneak out of the room. I took one with a sip of water, placing the other on the bedside table.

“Take them both,” advised my annoying husband. “I can never sleep if you are on edge all night. The room tingles with your tired nerves. They make a hideous noise.”

“No, really,” I protested. “One will send me off.”

“Take it, girl. I want some rest.”

He held my nose between two fingers, and as my mouth fell open dropped the aspirin on my tongue, following it up with the tumbler of water to my lips. “Talk about third degree methods,” I spluttered.

John turned off the light. “Just be quiet and take deep relaxing breaths. You'll soon be asleep.”

I said: “Thank you, darling,” in a meek voice.

It would be tough going. I suddenly realized how warm and comfortable I was. I wanted to sink further and further into the softness and warmth. My eyelids fell down once or twice. I jerked them open again. With a great effort I turned my head towards the luminous dial of the clock. If I could keep my eyes on that tiny glow of light there might be a chance. The trouble was I had to wait for John to go deeply asleep. If I got up too soon there was a strong likelihood of him demanding, ‘What the hell are you up to now, Maggie?' And in a sharper tone than before.

Then I bethought myself of a trick which had never failed me in the old days during the night shifts at the Exchange. Rousing myself by a supreme effort of will I rapped my head with my knuckles sharply three times. Then I gave in, turned over and fell asleep repeating: “I will wake up at three o'clock.”

Heaven knows why I picked that particular hour. I suppose because I had heard somewhere that sleep is deepest at that time. There would be less chance of disturbing John again. Also, it would give the double dose of aspirin an opportunity to work off.

Sure enough I awoke at three o'clock. Actually the clock said five minutes past the hour. I felt absurdly gratified when I remembered John pointing it out as five minutes fast. I was quite wide awake. It was not as dark as I had expected. My eyes were able to pick out familiar objects of furniture. There was no mist across the sky that
night, and the stars shone as bright and hard as diamonds in the casement frame of the bedroom window.

I turned my head in the direction of John's breathing. Surely he would not awaken now. I slid out of bed and felt for my dressing gown. If he did I would have to make a call from Tony the excuse. I stood perfectly still beside the bed waiting for indications of John's wakefulness and planning my route across the room to the bedroom door. It would be too silly if I bumped into something and woke him that way.

I proceeded carefully on tiptoe, so much so that I nearly overbalanced. I crept down the passage in the darkness, not daring to switch on a light. It wasn't worth risking any sort of glow which might bring my sleeping spouse hurrying to my side. It was amazing how still and lonely the house seemed away from him. I wasn't exactly nervous. That would have been absurd with John close at hand. But I felt a sense of loneliness which kept me on edge with my senses alert.

Half-way down the passage I felt for the open study door. My safest move would be to conduct my researches by torchlight. I strained my eyes against the darkness and fumbled carefully in the desk drawer. My fingers fell first on John's official revolver. It was a nasty shock. I had thought it was the torch. Although I knew it was unloaded, I did not care to handle a weapon which, with the addition of a small part, could cause death so quickly.

With the torch glowing red through my fingers I went further along to the lounge-room. After the chilliness of the passage, it was warm and just a little stuffy. I could smell the remains of my own cigarettes and even a hint of spirits from the tumbler Alan Braithwaite had left on the table. Besides these definable smells, there was that intangible something which I recognized when someone outside ourselves had been in the house.

I moved across the room to the table, absently lifting the tumbler to see if a wet ring-mark had been left on the polished surface. Leaving the torch alight beside it, I opened John's file and hurriedly went through the papers. The receipt was still there. I lifted it out, scanning it again more closely. Then my eyes fell beyond it onto the pile. I put the receipt aside and lifted up the creased letter which
had caught my interest before John had brought Alan Braithwaite in that evening. I could barely see the writing in the dim light. Picking up the torch, I held it directly over the page, moving it along as I re-read the faded words. It had been the signature which had caught my eye. I had only heard that name spoken in connection with the Hollands once before. What was it Elizabeth Mulqueen had said? “Olivia—a sweet girl. She died a long time ago.”

She must have died officially with the Hollands the day she wrote that letter I held in my hand.

          
I am leaving you, James. I am running away because I hate you for what you have made of me. Trained and moulded me, as you put it. Don't go to the trouble of coming after me to bring me back. The only wife you'd bring back would be dead. And you always did fear scandal. I am going to make some new life out of what little you have left of me.

                
I don't even care about Jim. My son? Yours, James. You took him from me right from the start. I only pray that when you try to mould him according to your will he might one day disillusion you, and that your own pretentious tyrannical life will crash into oblivion, for such is the revenge I would like. I hope to witness that day. You need not concern yourself. I am not running away with another man. If I could have found one I would have been glad because of the blow to your pride. But I have found a dear friend, a counsellor and a comforter. What is the use of explaining to you. You are too proud and hard to judge anyone except on the lowest principles.

                
I can't even bring myself to write ‘good-bye,' James, because that is too fine a word to pass between us. No doubt you will arrange some story to circulate about my disappearance to soothe your pride and stop any scandal. I don't care much if you do, because people will know underneath what I am doing although they will be too afraid to say it to your face. Strangely enough now for
the first time since I met and married you I am afraid no longer. Fear is a bad emotion to kindle, James. One day it might rise up and strike at you instead.

                
Don't forget what I said about coming after me. I would as soon die as live as your wife again.

                
Olivia

I whistled very softly. What a letter! What a skeleton in the Holland cupboard! I wondered if he did go after her and she committed suicide as she had promised. The letter had a strong-willed sound about it. And yet Olivia couldn't have been like that if she had allowed herself to be “moulded and trained.”

Quite suddenly Yvonne's face appeared before my mental vision. When reading the letter, I had visualized the writer as someone after the style of Yvonne. A similar fit of defiance, such as Yvonne was manifesting at this moment, had prompted Holland's wife to write such a letter. She was no longer afraid of him. Yvonne was no longer afraid of her environment. The softest and most pliable of worms turns sooner or later.