So Bad a Death (34 page)

“You must be in love, my girl,” I told her. “It was beastly damp. I was worried about the state of my hair.”

Presently Alan darted off, leaving her alone. He did not say anything. He just started to run. Yvonne did not know what toward. She retreated to the terrace to wait for him. He was away quite some time. That was when she heard the noise of a car backfiring. Braithwaite came back presently. He had seen a figure skulking round the house in a suspicious manner but did not want to alarm her. That was why he had left her so precipitately. He had lost the suspicious figure.

“I didn't think about it until afterwards,” she told me in a strained voice. “Then I became worried, and when you talked about alibis I rang Alan to warn him. I knew he hated Mr Holland and I thought—” She broke off and eyed me fearfully.

“You thought,” I continued, “he dashed through the wood to meet Mr Holland by appointment and killed him. Is that right?”

She bowed her head again. “Why did Alan Braithwaite hate him? Because of you? The way you were treated?”

“Mr Holland was always being offensive to someone. He was trying to order Alan to marry Ursula. Naturally Alan did not like being managed, and there were words between them. I think Mr Holland was going to remove his business from Alan's firm if he didn't fall in with his wishes.”

“After seeing what happened to you after marrying into the Holland family, I can't blame Alan for not wanting to ally himself with Ursula. Tell me, if it is not an impertinent question, how did you come to marry the Squire's son?”

She smiled wearily. “No, it is not a rude question. In time Jim would have been just like Mr Holland. I thought I was in love with him once, but I was not sorry when he died. Of course it was a great tragedy. The plane smash, I mean. Mr Holland couldn't resign himself to the fact that it was an accident. He wanted to blame somebody.”

I nodded. “He even suspected foul play. There was a letter my husband found. Was there any talk of it?”

“Not that I know of,” she said, looking startled again.

“Forget it,” I said, with a wave of my hand. “Go on about your husband.”

“That's about all. Only”—her voice took on a brittle quality—”I learned that I was chosen to marry a Holland for just one reason. To provide an heir. After that I was to be quietly banished into the background. I told you I had no relatives.

“Mr Holland wanted someone who would bring no outside influence with her. I don't mean that the operation would have been performed after my baby's birth even if Jim had lived, but there was a chance it might have. Once I was a Holland's wife there was to be no risk of me becoming anyone else's. Mr Holland's own wife left him. He was not going to have a similar thing happen to Jim. Hence I was selected as the best available material to work on.”

“Just as if you were a cow,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Here! We have been yarning long enough. Get some things together and we'll go. Are you willing to come?”

Yvonne got up and faced me. “I would like to ask you one question. Who are those friends you spoke of? The ones you said I would not admit?”

I had not wanted this difficulty to arise. Yvonne was just as likely to dig her heels in and refuse to budge. “Doctor Trefont and Sister Heather. Their concern is not so much for you as for this fellow,” I indicated the baby.

She stammered: “But Doctor Trefont! He was one of them at the operation.”

I sighed. “I know that too. But he was in as much ignorance as you were. He too didn't know about it until afterwards. That is why he has always been so interested in your baby.”

III

I got Yvonne out of the house without encountering any direct opposition. I had expected another scene with the nurse. Beyond sitting at her open door and eyeing every move we made as Yvonne put a few clothes in a suitcase, she made no attempt to argue with her. I never learned who was responsible for the locking of the closet door on the ground floor where the pram was kept, but I rather suspected Nurse Stone of a malicious intent.

I was willing to go back upstairs and wrestle for the key, but Yvonne begged me not to, almost hysterically. She was more anxious now than I was to leave the Hall.

Ames came along the passage. I saw his eyes pass from Yvonne holding the baby wrapped in a shawl to her case in my hand. They were quite expressionless, but as usual his attitude forced an explanation from me. I told him as casually as I could that Mrs Holland was going to spend a few days at the Dower. Yvonne was agog to go. I think she felt that some of the influence she had ascribed to her father-in-law remained vested in Ames.

But Ames spoke pleasantly enough. “By the way, Mrs Matheson, someone has been calling your husband several times during the afternoon. I think it was Mr Cruikshank, the estate agent. The voice was familiar, but he wouldn't leave a message.”

I wondered at once what Cruikshank wanted so urgently, and if any words of mine had inspired him to get in touch with John. Unfortunately I did not know where John was, although a call through to headquarters might have contacted him. I wished afterwards I had taken the trouble to do just that. It might not have been too late even then.

Constable Cornell materialized half-way along the road. Yvonne noticed him first. She was forever glancing over her shoulder as though some hand might reach out and pull her and the child back to the Hall.

“Maggie, there's a man following us. He came out of the woods.”

“That,” I stated, “is not a man. It is a watchdog. There is no need to be agitated. He won't bite. Let's wait for him.”

Cornell did not hasten his walk when he saw us pause. When he came up he held out his hand. “Carry the case?”

I passed it over thankfully. Babies' paraphernalia becomes heavy after a while. I introduced Yvonne and said that in future he would have the two of us in his charge. He regarded the extra work with a dispassionate eye, but I could wager he was glad when John came home and he went off duty.

John took Yvonne's presence in the house almost for granted. This was surprising. As a rule he was not enthusiastic about overnight guests outside the family. Furthermore, I had thought he would be mystified about the necessity to protect Yvonne and Jimmy. Not that any discussion on the matter arose, for I did not want him to learn of my activities; but he inferred that it was good for her to be at the Dower. Evidently he had his own ideas on Yvonne's position in the case, although we had mutually refused to compare notes. He treated her as though she had every right to be present at our dinner table. He even inspected Jimmy. It was such a close and interested inspection that I became more and more suspicious of those ideas of his.

John talked a great deal about the case that evening. This, also, surprised me. As a rule his reticence amounted almost to rudeness. It encouraged Yvonne to open up on several impressions, as was his intention. She did not observe it, however. That night I learned of two steps that had been made.

The first was the matter of the gun found in Mr Holland's hand. John explained its make and usage with a wealth of ballistic detail which made little impression on me, whatever it might have done to Yvonne. It all boiled down to the fact that a bullet from the same gun was the one that had killed the Squire. An interesting point was that Sergeant Billings had traced its licence and the place of purchase. It was one of a pair that had been bought in Mr Holland's name. This, as John remarked, might or might not be important. The next move was to discover what had happened to the twin gun.

Yvonne was unable to help him in this regard. She admitted to complete ignorance of firearms. She doubted whether she had ever seen the first gun. “Though, wait a moment.”

John and I waited patiently as she wrinkled her brow in an effort at remembrance. John was sitting on the couch beside me, having dutifully given up his favourite chair to the guest. I felt his muscles tighten and wondered what he was so excited about.

“It was some time ago,” Yvonne said. “Mr Holland was away. Mrs Mulqueen thought she saw someone on the terrace and rang through to Ames at the Lodge. I remember he went all round the house but found no one. I think he had a gun with him that time.”

John's muscles remained tense. I shot a quick look at him and saw his eyes gleaming. That and the way he changed the subject so carefully started me thinking.

He told us something else Sergeant Billings had unearthed.

It was the result of a tedious job: that of tracing Mr Holland's movements before he died.

The Squire had spent several days in Bendigo. During those days he made several trips to outlying towns. The purpose of these trips seemed to be entirely to visit the local Bush Nursing Hospitals. John offered no comment with this information. Yvonne looked frankly puzzled and did not offer any suggestions. I tried not to look wise. I had already guessed that Mr Holland had been searching for positive evidence of his erring wife's death.

Then the climax of the evening arrived. It had all been so safe and cosy in front of the fire. I was happy in the knowledge that I had done my duty by Yvonne and Jimmy. John seemed satisfied with the way the case was developing.

Yet during that time another crime had been committed. I blamed myself for it bitterly. It was such a careless mistake, due chiefly to my negligence. It was not so much what I had done, but what I had left undone.

A ring came at the front door. The sudden sound did not startle me, so wrapped up was I in mental and bodily comfort. I did not even have that much warning. John came back with a familiar-looking
man who walked on one leg with the aid of crutches. I recognized him after a moment as the Middleburn postmaster.

He looked rather excited, and did not keep us long in explaining the reason for his call.

“I wouldn't have come at all,” he said, “but I saw Miss Cruikshank pass the house. I couldn't understand what she was doing back so soon.”

At the name my hand went to my mouth to still a gasp. Cruikshank, so eager to get in touch with John. I had forgotten to give him the message.

“You see,” went on the postmaster, “there was a telegram earlier this afternoon addressed to her. It said that her aunt was seriously ill and wanted her to come and stay. I remember sending the boy over with it to the library at once. It was marked urgent. Miss Cruikshank came over to me in a flurry and sent a wire back to say she would be there on the four o'clock train. The aunt lives about sixty miles out of the town.

“When I saw Miss Cruikshank tonight I started wondering. I remembered thinking something was odd about that wire after Miss Cruikshank sent hers back. I went into the office to check up on it and I found this.”

He passed over a duplicate sheet to John. “See here?” he pointed out. “Miss Cruikshank's aunt lives sixty odd miles from Melbourne and yet this wire bears the stamp of Ashton post office. Queer, don't you think, Inspector?”

“John,” I said. My voice shook. “I'm terribly sorry, but I forgot to tell you. Mr Cruikshank has been trying to contact you all the afternoon.”

I hardly dared meet his eyes as he raised them slowly and frowningly from the duplicate wire. Both Yvonne and the postmaster realized something was wrong, but they did not share the foreboding John and I had.

I do not think John blamed me even then, but I remember saying forlornly to Yvonne, after he had left the house: “He didn't say good-bye. He always does, even though it might only be for a short time.”

Yvonne was the strong one that night. Our positions were reversed. She did not realize the significance of what the postmaster had told us. In fact, she had no idea why Cruikshank's name should concern us so much. She supported as best she could my doubts and fears as we waited for news from John. Once or twice I tried to reassert my authority and order her to bed, but she shook her head and put another log on the fire.

I was wandering restlessly around the room when John came back. He only stayed a few minutes to tell us what had happened and to allay any anxiety I might have felt concerning his whereabouts. He knew my powers of endurance, but he glanced hard at Yvonne before he spoke.

“What is it?” I whispered. “Cruikshank?”

He stood against the door watching me. I read a certain anger in his eyes and wondered briefly if I was the cause. “Yes, he's dead. He left a note.”

“Suicide?”

John said deliberately: “I found him in a cupboard under the stairs. He was hanging by a cord around his throat from a hook.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

I

There were a thousand questions to ask, but John was gone again before the first numbness of shock passed. It was only at the end when all the gaps were being filled in that I learned precisely what had happened. Although my knowledge just then was incomplete, it is chronological to give the facts now. The recital might seem a little bald, as it is second-hand, and John is never one to give rein to impressions.

After the postmaster had brought the copy of the two telegrams to show him and I had admitted my forgetfulness, John drove straight down to the library in the postmaster's little runabout. The postmaster was agreeable to tag along. I do not think for one minute that John was apprehensive about his own personal safety. After all, what could a man hampered by a crutch and hindered by the lack of one leg do in the matter of defence? The postmaster's presence was more in the nature of an excuse for calling on the Cruikshanks. If all was well and there was to be nothing gained by the call, it would be easier to concoct some story about the wire in order to satisfy any sudden suspicion the Cruikshanks might have.