So Bad a Death (39 page)

“I knew Doctor Trefont of old. He had once attended Yvonne Holland. I went to him and told my story, thinking he might be able to do something.”

The doctor threw out his hands. “As you know, Mrs Matheson,” he said ruefully, “I could do nothing. I was in complete disfavour with both Mr Holland and Yvonne.”

“You took a blood test of young Jimmy and diagnosed lead poisoning,” I said with approval.

“That's as far as I got, I'm afraid. I still don't know how Mrs Ames was administering the stuff to the baby, or even how she got hold of it.”

It was my moment. It always makes one feel good to be able to tell someone else their own business.

“The dummy!” I announced in triumph. “Nurse Stone belongs to the old, old school and insisted upon it. The poison was mixed with a malt extract and smeared on the bulb. Mrs Ames did all the catering for the Hall.”

Sister Heather looked disapproving. “I didn't know Mrs Holland permitted one of those things to be given to her baby.” Doctor Trefont asked: “What made you think of the dummy?”

“It didn't require very much cleverness on my part,” I admitted. “It was rather thrust at me by a stroke of luck.” I told them how I had thrown the comforter away over the golf course.

“For a while Jimmy seemed to pick up. I bet Mrs Ames was sore at my interference. However, Nurse Stone played into her hands by asking her to get another one, and the fun started all over again. Then by some extraordinary chance Tony picked up the original dummy. He took a fancy to it, and helped himself to the jar of comforter smear I had confiscated from Yvonne. His precocity frightens
me still. Mrs Ames learned of its whereabouts through Daisy Potts-Power, who saw Tony with it in his mouth. Daisy was taking a golfing lesson from Ames that day. When Tony was off-colour she became frightened and tried to get the dummy back.

“Actually she gave herself away. For it was only after I was searching for some reason why anyone should break in and turn the nursery topsy-turvy that I chanced on the beastly thing. I took a sample of the malt to the local chemist, who arranged an analysis. It was on the same day that I came to suspect Mrs Ames. I overheard her ordering a prescription in a very professional manner. On looking into her record, it might be found that she had made a study of pharmacology.”

Doctor Trefont was tremendously interested. When I told him that the chemist still had the jar of malt and a copy of the report, he made no apology about cutting his professional visit short and departing to confer with Jenkins. Sister Heather gave me a sedative and ordered me to settle down for another nap. I could get up after lunch.

I was just feeling warm and drowsy and ready to relax into a deep sleep when Ernest Mulqueen put his head in the window. I sat up with a start.

He raised one hand. “Don't be scared. It's only me. I had to see you for a minute.”

“Do come in,” I invited.

Ernest Mulqueen shook his head. “Don't think I will. I wasn't made for a sick room. I'll stay here if you don't mind, and say my piece through the window. Do you remember the last time I saw you?”

I drew my brows together. So much had happened that I was in no position to work out riddles.

“The day after the old man was shot. In the wood. Before I landed in jug,” he explained quite happily. I was glad to see that “jug” had not robbed him of his old bounce. Indeed, the experience appeared to have made him more buoyant.

I remembered at once and realized why his sudden appearance had startled me out of all proportion. At our last meeting Ernest Mulqueen had looked as though he wanted to strike me.

“What about it?” I asked cautiously.

“I could have belted the hide off of you for your cheek,” I was informed quite without rancour. “I want to say I am sorry now. I was worried that day. I'd talked too much. I always do. A bad habit, but I'm a plain man and I talk straight. You knew about the agreement I had with the old man. I thought you'd put your hubby on to it.”

“You mean the document you told me you had signed giving up your farm?”

“That's right.”

“You've no need to worry,” I assured him. “They couldn't find it.”

He grinned slyly. “Of course they couldn't. I stole it.”

I looked at him half-fearfully, half in amazement at his candour. His next words were to startle me more.

“You see, I came across the old man dead. I could have told the chuckle-headed police that he wasn't shot at the time they said. Sorry again. Forgot about your hubby; no offence meant.”

I said in my most disapproving voice, forgetting my own lapses: “It was your duty to report your finding at once to the police.”

“And get myself arrested instead of detained? Not me! Anyway, I wasn't sorry to see the old man dead. The gun in his hand didn't deceive me either. James thought the world would stop turning if he wasn't in it to give it a spin or two. It suited me better to keep quiet. I had other things to attend to.”

“Tell me,” I said curiously. “‘Was it you slinking up the drive that night? We saw someone amongst the trees.”

“I didn't want to be seen. As a matter of fact that pansy chap Yvonne and Ursula are so mad about chased after me. But I was able to give him the slip. I knew where I could find the agreement. It was up in the old man's bedroom. Then I remembered about Ursie. She'd been playing for some extra cash, and I didn't blame her much. She never had much to splurge. The old man believed in keeping us all
more or less dependent on him. I tore out a few pages of the account book and took them along with the agreement to be destroyed.”

“Your wife nearly gave the show away,” I told him. “She heard someone in Mr Holland's room and thought it was he. But of course after he was found dead it couldn't have been.”

The roundness of his jolly face suddenly hardened into a square shape. The change was fascinating. I could well imagine the same transition taking place when he came across Elizabeth Mulqueen with Nugent Parsons in the wood.

I had been tactless in mentioning her name. The little man left me abruptly. Although there was nothing more to be said—he had spoken his “piece”—I could have done with more of his bracing conversation.

I lay back again, trying to recapture the warm drowsy feeling Ernest Mulqueen had terminated so abruptly. My mind turned idly from speculating on the future relations between Ernest and Elizabeth Mulqueen to a relative subject. That of the signal light from the tower. Mrs Mulqueen was the inaugurator of the idea, and Harriet Ames had adopted it. She had recognized in it an admirable means of communicating with that partner of hers, whose name was ever in the back of my mind but about whose actual identity I was still in error.

That some of my movements had been the subject of the signalling I had no doubt whatsoever. It had been Mrs Ames who had stalked me that night at the Hall when I had gone to answer Yvonne's call to see Jimmy. It had been she who had listened to me talking to John concerning the time on the telegram and who had watched me as I studied the portrait of Olivia in Elizabeth Mulqueen's sitting-room. Thinking I might return to study the picture again and recognize a likeness either to herself or Robin, she took it away to destroy. She had observed all my movements from the very beginning and had estimated at every one how much I had learned. My curiosity became dangerous. With the breaking of the time of the murder known to the police, my presence, which had once been necessary for the killer's alibi, was regarded as a menace. The string across the Hall drive was hastily prepared. I was to be
frightened off the scene. When Mrs Ames found I was not so easily deterred she made another attempt, this time more ruthless than the first.

III

I learned my mistake from Connie Bellamy when she called that afternoon. Stunned and grieved by the revelation of the second person John had arrested, I was helpless against Connie's vicarious excitement. She was completely untouched by the reality of the Middleburn crimes. With an envious eye she regarded me in the same light as one of her long-suffering screen heroines.

“My dear, how frightfully odd that you did not know. I heard that your husband actually arrested him here in this house. He was coming to kill you. How marvellous that you escaped, but I daresay your husband would have caught him just the same. I was speaking to Marion over the phone. Of course, you remember Marion Parkes, our dramatic coach at the Community Centre, don't you, Maggie? Well, she thinks it a marvellous idea if you could make the whole thing into a play. Marion would produce it and of course you could have the leading part. What do you think?”

“Connie,” I said. “Please go now. Forgive me, but I have a shocking headache.”

“My dear, let me get you something. It may be your eyes, Maggie, you know. Do you eat carrots? Such a potent source of vitamin A. I hope Yvonne is managing properly. I'll pop in and give her a few tips as I leave.”

I caught my breath and started to laugh silently. “Connie, you're impossible.”

Connie's eyes goggled at me in apprehension. “I hope you are not going to be hysterical, Maggie. So unlike you, my dear. Perhaps I had better go now. I'd love to stay and chat, but you know how I must avoid everything unpleasant just now.”

I saw her out and then went back to the lounge-room again. I was sitting in front of the fire when John came in. I jumped up at once,
but he stood in the doorway watching me. He looked thoroughly weary, but relaxed and unconcerned.

“Hullo,” I said. “I had something to tell you this morning, but you'd gone.”

“What was it?” he asked, taking off his coat and scarf and throwing them on to the nearest chair.

“I don't hate you, after all.”

“That's good.”

“In fact, I like you—very much.”

“That's better still. Sorry I was brutal last night.” He came over towards the fire.

“You nearly broke my jaw—and my heart.”

John gripped my outstretched hands tightly.

“Tell me about the case,” I said presently. “It was old man Ames, wasn't it? Connie told me. I was so certain it was his son.”

John began to fill his pipe with his free hand. “The case goes back a long way, Maggie. The foundation of the Middleburn crimes was laid when James Holland's wife, Olivia, left him. Or perhaps even before that. The killer was someone who belonged to the same generation as the Squire. Charles Ames was the originator and organizer of the whole plan, but he had a worthy accessory in his daughter-in-law, Harriet.”

I lifted my head. “Do you mean to say Harriet's husband knew nothing whatsoever?”

“It is hard to credit, but if you stop to consider Robert Ames' character you will know why. There is a superficial quality in him. As we know, he does most things well; perfect, but without imagination. There is no broad vision in his mind. Every move Robert made that seemed incriminating was at the suggestion either of his wife or his father. Had Charles Ames confided in him he probably would have been shocked by any suggestion that the positions of the two families should be reversed. For that was Charles Ames' ambition right from the beginning. For years he had been jealous of James Holland's position and wealth and the influence he wielded. He could not see why the Squire and his descendants should have more of this world's gain and power than his own family. So when Olivia
Holland appealed to him for friendship out of sheer desperation and lack of anyone else, there began the first glimmerings of a plan to achieve ascendancy over Holland.

“Although not in love with Olivia, he despised James Holland's attitude towards his wife. Ruthlessness was completely foreign to his own intelligent approach towards ambition. No matter how insignificant their position, people could always be put to some use by a superior brain.

“Olivia had started a second child. She made up her mind to leave James Holland's despotism and bring it up by herself. Charles Ames helped her run away and hide herself in the country. Later when she was dying, Olivia communicated with Ames and he came and took the child, Harriet, to be cared for elsewhere. Whether in later years it was persuasion, propinquity or a happy chance that caused a daughter of Holland to bestow her hand on his son, I do not know.

“Although I say that the foundation of the crimes was laid years ago, it was not until recently that the actual temptation came Charles Ames' way. Fate seemed to be forcing him along when James Holland's son was killed in a plane smash. He knew what the old man's will would be. The money and estates were to go to the nearest male descendant. Between the Ames family and the Holland position and wealth was a puny, delicate baby, Holland's other grandson. Harriet Ames undertook to remove that barrier.”

“Did you know about that all the time?” I asked crossly.

“Not as soon as you did,” John said in a soothing voice. “Thanks for getting the stuff analysed. Cornell picked up the report after you left the chemist's shop.”

“Never again will I play amateur detective. Go on.”

“Affairs were going well for Charles Ames until he was forced to take in another partner. If I ever turn to crime, which is the silliest thing anyone could do, may I never make the mistake of joining forces with an accessory after the fact. It invariably leads to more strife than one is guaranteed or willing to weather. The partner in this instance was Cruikshank the estate agent.