I
The Dower House telephone rang in the early hours of the following morning. I was having a nightmare. One of those ghastly dreams which have neither form nor sense but are terrifying withal. Even the telephone bell was part of it until it penetrated my consciousness. It was not the continuous sound of an automatic impulse, for it came from the Hall, operated by whoever answered the call there.
I slid out of bed on the instant, feeling inexplicably disturbed. It would have been easy to pretend not to hear it and let the ringing awaken John. But somehow I did not. I wanted to get to that phone and hear whatever news it could tell me.
The clock in the dining-room was striking as I passed on the way to the study. I put my head in the door, switching on the light. It was half-past three. Something had prompted me to check the time. I spoke without thinking, all my good telephonic manners forgotten.
“Who is it?”
There was a pause before a slow voice that I came to know well asked to speak to John. The caller used his full official title.
The voice was so prosaic and monotonous that I lost part of my nervousness.
“He’s asleep,” I informed him tartly. “It’s half-past three, you know. Can I give him a message at some more Christian hour?”
“No, that would not do. Must speak to the Inspector. Very important.”
“What is it, Maggie?” asked John from behind me. He stood there, very large and solid, tying the sash of his dressing-gown. His hair was tousled but his face bore no trace of sleep. It was firm and his eyes were alert.
“For you,” I said. “I think it’s Russell Street.”
I handed him the receiver. Suddenly a tremor passed through my body. John saw me tremble and gripped one arm around my shoulders as he spoke into the receiver. I dropped my head against his arm in the hope of hearing both sides of the conversation.
When he said: “Yes, Billings?” the disturbed feeling returned. I knew Sergeant Billings was in charge of Middleburn police station. He did most of the talking, but it was unintelligible to me. The grip around my shoulders tightened almost unbearably. I glanced up into John’s face. It was blank and very, very official. I had seen that look before. Something pretty big had turned up.
“I’ll be at the gates in ten minutes. Get a doctor.”
“John,” I said in a whisper.
John made as if to hang up. On impulse he put the receiver back to his ear. I watched him wonderingly. Then he gave the instrument to me with an inquiring lift of his brow. I heard it too—an unmistakable sound of breathing.
I gave John a slight push out of the way and rang back on the line. It was an excellent form of punishment. A direct ring in the ear is very unpleasant. John grinned broadly before his face returned to its official look. I followed him back to the bedroom, running to keep up with his speedy purposeful steps.
“Local?” I asked. Wives of policemen do not show too much curiosity. They would only get snubbed for their pains. John nodded. He started to dress. I watched him anxiously.
“Has Cruikshank been found?”
“Cruikshank?” He spoke the name absently as though it struck a faint chord. He paused in the act of pulling on his shoe. I held the other ready for him. He stared straight into my eyes.
“Maggie. That shot you say you heard. What time did it happen?” John’s voice was imperative.
Without wanting to know the reason for his question, I thought quickly, one hand to my head.
“After seven. We arrived on time, don’t you remember? You pointed that out. I was only in the drawing-room for a few minutes. I went to get my cape.”
“About seven-ten, to allow a margin. Thanks.”
He got up and found a muffler to wind around his neck. It would be cold out in that mist. It was becoming thicker at midnight when we returned from Holland Hall and that horrid dinner party. I waited for John to speak, my eyes on his face. For a moment it did not seem as though he was going to tell me. Then he did, abruptly. Another slow tremor took possession of me.
“Maggie darling! Something pretty ghastly has happened. You’ve been in this sort of thing before. Do you think you can stand it? It will mean some beastly memories of yours dug up again.”
“Murder?” I mouthed the word. John took my shoulders in his hands. “Not that baby?”
He looked puzzled for a moment but brushed it off. He shelved my impulsive remark in a corner of his mind to be dealt with later.
“Mr Holland has been found shot dead in the grounds of the Hall.” His eyes scanned my face curiously, but my only reaction was complete astonishment.
“The Squire!” I exclaimed, heedless of what I was saying in my surprise. “It seems impossible. Why, he—”
“I must go,” John interrupted. “Billings will be waiting for me. Prepare some coffee and then go back to bed like a good girl.”
“How long will you be?” I asked, trying to keep the nervous note out of my voice. The idea of being left alone in the house again and this time with a murderer across the way did not fill me with a sense of security. Even had I known then that my welfare was of immediate concern to the murderer, I doubt whether I would have been less nervous.
“As quick as I can. You’ll be all right. There will probably be one of our men patrolling the road for the rest of the night.”
I saw him out quickly. I was not prepared to stand in a lighted doorway for all and sundry to see I was alone in the house. The coffee took but a minute to prepare. I dallied over it, trying to spin out the time. Sleep was going to be impossible. I took a cup along to the study and lit the gas fire, using the same match for a cigarette. But drinking coffee and smoking took up only a little more time. I gazed at the clock and the asbestos bars of the fire alternately. An hour passed, and at last something happened.
The sound of a car drawing up outside the house jerked me to my feet. I switched off the study light and drew aside the curtains at the window cautiously. The dark bulk of the car was out of my line of vision, but I could see two long arms of light shining through the mist. I opened the window an inch and bent my head to listen, the wet air pressing against the side of my face.
Two figures slipped by me on the other side of the hawthorn hedge dividing the Dower land from that of the Hall. I caught a glimpse of white coats and a stretcher through the thicket. The figures disappeared along the track into the wood.
Weary and chilled, I waited there for what seemed another hour before a little cavalcade came slowly down the path. The body of our late host and landlord passed me on its way to the ambulance.
I shut the window and hurried down the passage to the kitchen. Body in ambulance meant body on the way to the morgue and post-mortem and John’s work finished for the moment. It was not his habit to go searching for clues in the dark. A picket and a man on guard were all that were necessary until daylight.
John’s key was in the door as I came down the passage with a tray in my hands. He was not alone. Two men were with him, and I recognized one with interest.
John’s frown deepened as he saw me. “Still up, Maggie? Doctor Trefont, my wife. And Sergeant Billings, Maggie.”
“How do you do,” I said demurely to the doctor. But Trefont was more than my match. He said: “I know you well by sight. We have nearly met before, have we not, Mrs Matheson?”
“Twice,” I agreed, not to be outdone. “On the terrace at the Hall and in Middleburn High Street. Shall I get more coffee, John?”
He had been listening to the interchange with a still deeper frown. I did not care for the “wait until I talk to you afterwards” look, and tried to merge myself into the background.
I hovered around the three men, pouring coffee and attracting their attention to a plate of sandwiches in ministering angel fashion. My ears were constantly pricked and I kept one eye on the doctor. His position in the case was going to be interesting. He had had some connection with the Hall prior to Mr Holland’s death, and yet here he was working for the police.
John was behind his desk making a few notes. On one side of the fire Sergeant Billings sat upright, his enormous hands placed on his huge knees. The doctor lounged at his ease opposite, balancing his coffee cup on the arm of the chair. I was stupid not to have guessed his profession that first day at the Hall. All medicos seem stamped with the same casual independent air. John asked his subordinate a few questions first. They were ordinary routine affairs but the answers Billings gave were somewhat surprising, at least to my mind. For example, when asked at what time and by whom the body was found, Billings was unable to say. His speech became slower and a bit incoherent as he tried to explain.
According to Billings, he had been awakened by the telephone at about 3 a.m. A man’s voice speaking in a quick, muffled manner, obviously disguised, told him that the dead body of Mr James Holland of Holland Hall, Middleburn, was lying on the track which cut through the wood. After giving this information the man rang off. At first the sergeant was inclined either to doubt his own hearing or else the sanity of the caller. There had never been anything worse than a few robberies in Middleburn during all the years in which he had served the district. And somehow saying it was Mr Holland—well, you know—it was rather hard to take in, him being such a figure and a force in these parts. Billings recovered his aplomb enough to get on to the mechanic at the local automatic exchange and order him to trace the call. “And did he?” John interrupted, whose patience with the sergeant was something I opened my eyes at.
He did. The call originated from a public telephone outside the Middleburn Post Office. Billings hurried out of the house—his was a resident police station situated in High Street—but he was about a quarter of an hour too late to see anyone suspicious lurking, as he termed it.
He went back to the house to dress. But only partially, I thought, catching a glimpse of striped winceyette under his uniform. Then he bethought himself of John. At this point, Sergeant Billings rolled a bulbous blue eye in my direction, as if it was my cue to carry on the story. I merely poured him out some more coffee.
To me, Sergeant Billings appeared little more than a bucolic oaf. That was why I marvelled at John’s attention to his story. Later I discovered that Sergeant Billings’ stripes were not unmerited and that his slow but painstaking investigations under expert direction contributed largely to the success of the case.
John turned to Doctor Trefont. He still sat at his ease and seemed agreeable to spending the rest of the night in front of our gas fire. John wanted an off-the-record account of death, a first impression of medical findings. Doctor Trefont’s reply was even a greater surprise than Billings’ story.
“Suicide,” he said, without looking at John and while casually blowing smoke rings.
I nearly said “rubbish” aloud.
John’s face did not show disgust or disappointment. He was never anxious for crime to come knocking at his door. The doctor screwed his head round to look at John, throwing me an amused glance in transit. As though he had guessed at my scepticism.
“That was my first unprejudiced impression,” he elaborated.
“A post-mortem and a few police inquiries will no doubt cast doubts on it. But if a man is found shot through the head at close quarters with a gun in his hand, what else can I say?”
“You doubt your own medical findings, then, Doctor,” John said pleasantly.
“I do. From the little I knew of, but the amount I heard about the late Mr Holland, suicide would be the last crime he would commit. Unless of course he had some deep far-flung plan to execute which necessitated his own removal. The man had a genius for running things his own way in this part of the world.”
“That means enemies,” John nodded. “Do you know of any?”
The doctor replied dryly: “Dozens, if by enemies you mean those who resented his high-handed behaviour. But I don’t know of anyone who could be considered a worthy opponent—on the same social plane, as it were. However, when a man as feared and disliked as Holland is found shot dead, one can’t help thinking that there might have been such an enemy.”
There was a pause before John asked: “You say you knew Mr Holland only slightly? Who was his medical attendant?”
“He didn’t have one. His health was remarkably robust.”
“What about the rest of the family? Are they all so hardy?”
“I believe Mrs Ernest Mulqueen is considered a goldmine in Collins Street. I never attended her myself.”
“Did you ever attend any other member of the household?” The doctor’s attention was on the third cigarette he was rolling. “Occasionally members of the staff came to my surgery with minor cuts and ailments.”
John dropped the subject at this point. I could have shaken him, but dared not interfere in any way. Surely he could sense the doctor’s reluctance to speak about his medical dealings with the Hollands. The little he admitted had to be dragged out of him and he had skilfully avoided prevarication. No mention had been made of Yvonne and the baby. I was certain from what I had seen and overheard, and from hints dropped by Yvonne, that he had had some professional interest in her and the child. If John was not going to find out the nature of that interest, I was.
Beyond saying “I wish you’d gone to bed” in a worried voice, John did not reproach me further after the two men had left. I think he was glad I had been there, even if it was only to pour the coffee.
“It hardly seems worthwhile going back to bed,” I commented, yawning at the clock. “Why can’t murderers commit their crimes in office hours? It is as bad as being married to a doctor. Do you go to the office today or can you sleep in?”
“I must go in. I’ll have to put in a report at once. It is not conclusive that owing to propinquity I will be placed in charge of this case.” We went back to bed in silence. I was nearly asleep when John’s voice spoke drowsily.
“There are a few questions I must ask you later, Maggie.”
I started to snore gently.
II
Daylight brought Tony out of his cot. He ran wildly around the house, full of overpowering vitality which we both regarded with dull amazement. John went off immediately after breakfast, extracting a promise from me to get some rest when Tommy went down for his noonday nap.
Not long after he had gone, the telephone rang. I went to it with a frown. The extension line from the Hall which hitherto I had regarded as a necessary nuisance now appeared more in the light of a sinister connection between the two houses.
It was Yvonne, more nervous and rattled than ever.
Could I—would I please come over as soon as convenient. She felt she had no one to turn to. And I seemed—well, so practical.
Shuddering at the epithet, I said yes, certainly. I had intended coming tomorrow, not wishing to intrude on their private sorrow.
A rather hysterical sound greeted this conventional phrase and she rang off.
I went round the house with Tony at my heels. By emptying ashtrays from the study I was reminded of Doctor Trefont. Laying down my duster, I picked up the telephone from John’s desk.
Ames answered my ring. His voice was grave and subdued as became a bereaved employee.
“Very, very shocking,” was the smooth reply to yet another conventional phrase.
I waited for a few seconds, allowing time for Ames to switch the Dower extension onto the exchange line.
I was about to dial out my number when a voice broke in.
“Put me through to Mrs Matheson at the Dower House, please, Ames.”
“Ames—” I said sharply. “Haven’t you given me the line? Why is one extension key still open?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Matheson. Mrs Mulqueen wishes to speak to you.”
“What is it, Mrs Mulqueen?” I asked ungraciously. She started on a monologue which was much the same as Yvonne’s insofar as an urgent desire to see me was expressed; the plea about not having anyone to turn to also was employed. But where Yvonne had seemed genuinely upset, I was persuaded that Elizabeth Mulqueen had some definite reason for wishing me to call.
“I will be over presently,” I told her. “Now may I have the line, please?”
After arranging a time with Dr Trefont for that afternoon, I paused to gaze out of the study window. It was a perfect day, fine, crisp, clean. Tony clambered up onto the window seat beside me. I brushed his yellow hair to and fro, addressing him absently.
“The wood looks so serene by sunlight. Too placid and perfect a place to shelter violence. Yet only a few hours ago I was crouching here cold and fearful of what would be located in its very heart.”
“Bang!” said Tony suddenly, with uncanny appropriateness.
“The result of a bang,” I agreed. “A large, horrid bang.”
Sergeant Billings with another man in uniform passed along the path below. I put my head out of the window.
“Hullo, Sergeant. Whither away?”
The two men stopped and peered through the hedge. I had the advantage, as they stood in the full sunlight.
“Good morning, Mrs Matheson. The Inspector asked us to look at the picket we fixed up last night.”
“Is he in charge of the case, then?” I asked, not knowing whether to feel pleased or apprehensive. “Where is he?”
“At the Hall.”
“I was just going over to pay my condolences. May I come through the wood and visit the scene of the crime? I promise not to trample on any clues.”
I was taking a mean advantage of Sergeant Billings. In the normal course of events he would have refused, but as I was the wife of his superior officer he did not like to.
“By the way, Sergeant, is it murder or suicide? What was the result of the post-mortem?”
He replied guardedly: “Muchly what the doctor said. The shot could have been fired by Mr Holland himself. The gun was found near his right hand.”
I shut my eyes for a minute. “Yes. He was right-handed. No fatal mistake on the murderer’s part there.”
“Murder or suicide, every avenue is being explored,” said Sergeant Billings primly as he moved off.
Mr Holland’s body had been found almost in the centre of the path, half-way between the two houses. Hand in hand with Tony, I arrived at the place, which was segregated by means of stakes joined together by rope. Sergeant Billings and his constable were scavenging around just outside this area. They seemed to be so busy stirring up the blanket of fallen leaves that I went on almost immediately. I was interested to know what John had sent them to find.
At the other end of the path I came on Ernest Mulqueen, clad in his mackinaw and tweed cap. He was wandering along with his eyes on the ground, and started violently when I spoke his name.
At once I was struck by his changed appearance. Like most tubby, rosy little men when dealt a severe shock, he had become pale and flabby-looking. Indeed he appeared so undone that I made an effort to brace him.
“I meant to cut you dead the next time we met,” I informed him, “out of revenge for what you did last night.”
For a moment my words might have been calamitous for the unnerving effect they had on Ernest Mulqueen. Then it penetrated that I was teasing him, and he tried to force a wobbly smile. It was a poor effort, barely touching the deep lines either side of his mouth which must have been caused by years of grins.
“You ignored me when you came in before dinner,” I explained, helping him out. I was beginning to regard him in a new light. Murder or suicide, every avenue is being explored, Sergeant Billings had said. Ernest Mulqueen appeared to be one of these avenues. A man could not change overnight like he had without having something on his mind.
“Your hair was done differently,” he tried to defend himself.
“No go. I always wear the same style for months on end.”
I felt like someone staring through a magnifying glass at a moth on the end of a pin. And yet I could not stop myself.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, in a bad attempt at sounding confidential, “you looked so smart and dressed up that I was scared to speak to you.”
“Flattery can’t help you,” I said, shaking my head. “Confess now. You either wanted to snub me or else you had something on your mind.”
My words were daring under the circumstances, in spite of a light tone. I felt a little frightened after I had spoken: colour flowed into Ernest Mulqueen’s face. It was not his original ruddy colour but a flush of temper. He half raised a clenched fist.
“If it was anything on my mind that concerned you or your policeman husband, I would have told you,” he snarled. He turned away quickly, plunging straight into the wood away from the path.
III
As I was skirting the Hall to the terrace a window opened in the east wing. Elizabeth Mulqueen put out her head.
“I have been watching for you,” she called, beckoning imperiously. “Come in through the conservatory and along to my sitting-room.”
“Where can I locate Mrs Holland? She rang first.”
Elizabeth Mulqueen said something vague about Yvonne lying down and that I could see her presently. She shut the window before I could protest further.
I was interested to find out why Mrs Mulqueen desired my company so suddenly. It was with this desire and not in the spirit of meekness that I followed the directions to her sitting-room. If she only wanted someone to listen to her reactions and emotions at hearing of her brother’s death, I doubted whether I would fit the bill.
I was beginning to think this was the reason for the summons, when she introduced a subject so casually that some sense that had been with me that horrid time at Central sprang to the fore.
I was told that neither Ernest nor Ursula had shown the proper sympathy and consideration. Of course, Ernest could not be expected to have the finer feelings of a Holland, but she had tried to bring Ursula up so carefully. After all it was her own brother who had committed suicide—
“Just a minute,” I broke in. “Who told you it was suicide?”
Mrs Mulqueen opened her eyes at that. “Why, of course it was suicide. You don’t think it was an accident, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” I said bluntly. “I think it was murder.”
She manifested terrible shock. It was far too histrionic to be genuine.
“But who?” she wailed, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “Who would want to murder poor James? I just can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.”
“Then why should poor James want to commit suicide? I only met him once, but he seemed the last person in the world who would take his own life.”
“I don’t believe it,” Elizabeth Mulqueen repeated, throwing back her head. “James has never been the same since my nephew was killed. His only son. So very tragic. James has had a life with many disappointments and much unhappiness. I think Jim’s death was the last straw. My poor, poor brother.” She averted her face and dabbed at her eyes ostentatiously.
“That happened nearly eighteen months ago,” I pointed out. “Do you think he would have brooded on suicide for all that time, and then done the deed on the very night he was giving a dinner party? Furthermore, I can’t see him committing suicide in the middle of the wood on a damp cold night. What was he doing there? Where had he been?”
Mrs Mulqueen remained silent. I released my grip of Tony’s jumper and let him stray around the over-furnished room.
Presently my hostess, completely ignoring my two questions, leaned forward to pat my hand.
“You’ve cheered me up considerably,” she said on a sigh. “I knew I was right asking you to come. You’ve been very kind.”
I was trying to recall what words of consolation I had uttered, when she said: “By the way, being the wife of the officer in charge of the inquiry into my brother’s death, I suppose you have his ear and are able to assist in a lot of ways. You’ve worked together before, so I’ve been told.”
I made no reply. Any reference to the circumstances under which John and I had met always made me tongue-tied, and in the face of Mrs Mulqueen’s wagging finger to boot, there seemed nothing to say.
“I am sure,” she went on, “there must be a lot of tedious detail which has nothing whatsoever to do with the result of such an inquiry. Red herrings, if you follow my meaning. I think I might be doing your husband a good turn if you will tell him that I must have made a mistake last night. I only imagined hearing my brother in his room. You know how it is. You expect to hear things and think they take place. You see, the light was on in James’ room. I supposed that he must have returned and was there. Silly how we women always leap to conclusions. So you will tell your husband, won’t you?”
“If you like,” I said slowly. I had been following Tony’s progress round the room with my eyes when a thought occurred to me.
“Just tell me one thing, Mrs Mulqueen. What were you doing on the floor above when your suite is down here in the east wing?”
She answered without a blink. “I went up to the tower to switch on the light. It throws out such a radiance. I knew James liked it being on when he gave a party.”
“Is there anything wrong with the switch?” I asked. “Anything that would make it flicker on and off?”
She got up from her chair suddenly.
“Now, little boy, don’t touch my pretty pictures.”
I grabbed Tony’s hand and moved to the door. “That reminds me of another matter, Mrs Mulqueen,” I said pleasantly. “Since I am behaving so inquisitively, may I know why you keep that picture hanging face to the wall?”
“What picture? Oh, that is a photograph of James’s wife. She died. Keeping the photograph so is just my little way of mourning her. I was very fond of Olivia, very fond indeed. It is sad to think they are both gone and I am left, the last Holland.”
I left her to reflect on her solitary state. She seemed to have forgotten the existence of the youngest Holland, frail though it might be. Ames was at the foot of the stairs as I came along the passage.
“Mrs Mulqueen told me to come in through the conservatory door,” I told him, feeling some explanation was due—the effect Ames always had on me. “Mrs Holland is in her room, I suppose?”
“Just one minute, Mrs Matheson.”
He spoke urgently, with one hand outstretched. I glanced at it with raised brows. Ames dropped it, looking foolish.
“I want to tell you something,” he said.
“What is it?” I asked with curiosity.
He was shaken out of his habitual suaveness. Ames lowered his voice, glancing down the long passage.
“Mrs Matheson, Mr Holland did not commit suicide. I know everything points that way, but I knew the late Mr Holland too well. He would never have killed himself. I—” He threw another glance over his shoulder. “It may sound presumptuous, but I was very attached to the late Mr Holland. I can’t let his death go unavenged.”
“That’s all right, Ames. I don’t think anyone else thinks it either, excepting perhaps Mrs Mulqueen. But why tell me this?”
“I thought perhaps you may be able to persuade your husband. He is in charge of the inquiry. I can prove Mr Holland didn’t do it himself.”
“Well, if you can prove it, what are you worrying about? What’s your proof?”
“I don’t know if you can count it as evidence yet, but a revolver was stolen from the study some time ago. Mr Holland complained of the loss and asked me to look into the matter for him.”
I put one foot on the first step to brace myself against Tony, who was dragging at my hand. “Have you told my husband that?” I asked Ames.
“No, not yet. You see, the police have come across a letter which might help the suicide theory. If I told them about the missing gun, they might think it clinches the matter. But if you told Inspector Matheson it might be very different.”
I looked Ames over frowningly. He dropped his eyes to Tony.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll tell him.”
He thanked me. In order to show his appreciation, he relieved me of Tony’s fidgetings by suggesting that he should go down to the Lodge to play with Robin for a while. Thus Ames and I became somewhat involved in the matter of gratitude. Tony’s enlivening presence was not exactly suitable on a visit of condolence.
I went upstairs wondering how many more times I was to act as a liaison officer between suspects and police. Elizabeth Mulqueen’s story might be as thin as paper, but Ames’ had a ring of sincerity to it.
Yvonne was lying on her bed in a darkened room. Even in the dim light her face looked ghastly. I sat down in a chair near the bed, begging her not to get up. I felt awkward and ill-at-ease as she remained silent. I did not know what was expected of me. You can’t go sympathizing with anyone losing a father-in-law they both feared and disliked, and at whose demise the only emotion experienced must be one of relief.
Presently, without looking at me, Yvonne said in a low tense voice: “Your husband thinks it is suicide, doesn’t he? He must. Anything else is out of the question.”
I was becoming very tired of being expected to use my influence and said so.
“Don’t tell me you invited me here to enlist my sympathy on that account. I don’t know what my husband thinks, but I do know nothing I can do or say will change his sense of duty and justice. Just get that into your head right at the start.”
I got up. If that was all Yvonne wanted I was prepared to leave.
She put out a hand. “Don’t go. Please stay for a moment, Mrs Matheson. I’m so upset and bewildered. I think I’m going mad. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
I sat down again, ashamed of my sudden outburst. Yvonne had not merited it wholly. It was the result of slow reaction on my part to Elizabeth Mulqueen’s innuendoes.
“How is the infant?” I asked to break the tension. “He is likely to be an important person now, is he not?”
“If you mean the money,” Yvonne replied with bitterness, “I suppose he is.”
I went on gently. “You know, now Mr Holland is dead, you must exert yourself. Get Jimmy away from here. I would put him into a good children’s hospital for a week or two to fix his diet and to build him up. What about it?”
She nodded listlessly.
“I am extremely puzzled about your late father-in-law,” I went on. “He seemed anxious that the male line of Hollands should continue, and yet—”
I paused. She glanced at me expectantly.
“What do you mean?”
I threw out my hands, a little embarrassed.
“I have to confess I overheard you and Mr Holland quarrelling. The day I called about the Dower House, do you remember? There was a certain accusation you hurled at him.” Yvonne raised herself abruptly. “What do you mean? What did you overhear?”
I eyed her uneasily. She was panting slightly.
“Why,” I asked slowly, “did you accuse Mr Holland of child murder? Why should he want to murder his own grandchild?”
She fell back against the pillows with closed eyes.
“Yvonne!” I said in an urgent voice.
Yvonne opened her eyes and gave a twisted smile, quite without mirth. “Don’t worry. I haven’t fainted.” She turned her head towards the window and seemed to forget me.
“What did you mean by that outburst?” I demanded. “Why did you say ‘I could kill you for it’?”
“Did I say that?” she asked, in a whisper still. “I don’t remember. Did I really say that?”
I returned her gaze steadily.
A knock came at the door. I went to answer it.
“Please,” said Yvonne in a soft tone, “if that is Ursula, don’t let her in. I don’t think I can bear it now.”
It was Nurse Stone. She gave me the same look of scarcely veiled hostility I had earned the previous night. But I thought I detected a certain fawning quality in her tone, no doubt due to John’s position again.
“The police want to interview me. Will you tell Mrs Holland to listen for Baby?” She made an attempt to peer around the door, which I frustrated.
Yvonne was struggling off the bed. “I must go downstairs. He is on the terrace in the sun.”
“Stay where you are,” I ordered. “I’ll go and see if he is all right and get one of the maids to listen for him. They’ll tell you if you’re wanted.”
IV
The child was sleeping peacefully. I tucked his hand under the blanket and watched him frowningly. Hitherto I had considered that the baby was, as it were, in medias res, but now it appeared he was inter alia, and that a bigger and much deeper game was being played.
A familiar voice called my name. I wandered along the terrace to the study window.
“Can I come in?” I asked, bending double under the French window as I spoke.
“What are you doing here?” John demanded, getting up from the big mahogany desk.
“I came in answer to a royal summons. The brat is playing at the Lodge.” I wandered over to James Holland’s desk. John had been going through it.
“What a rotten game yours is,” I remarked, indicating the piles of papers which included letters.
“You become hardened to it,” John replied briefly. “Maggie, did we ever receive a letter from Holland?”
“I don’t think so. I never saw one.”
John took my handbag from my grasp, extracted the hand mirror and held it in front of the blotting-pad from the desk. “Holland blotted an envelope addressed to me. Why didn’t I receive it?”
“Perhaps he forgot to post it,” I suggested, “or decided not to send it.” John frowned at the pad and then put it aside. He ran both hands through his hair in a tired fashion. “Are you tossing to decide whether it is murder or suicide?” I asked.
He grinned ruefully. “It looks like coming to that. Certain facts are hard to get away from. Take a look at that, for example.”
I picked up the letter. It bore the inscription of a well-known firm of private detectives. Messrs. Dawson & Heeps regretted very much that they had nothing further to report on the inquiry into the death of James Alexander Holland who crashed in his plane in the north of Victoria eighteen months ago. The letter suggested politely but firmly that Mr Holland was wasting his time in trying to bring about any other decision but that of accidental death.
“Did the Squire think there was dirty work done?” I asked, passing back the letter.
“Evidently. But look what an excuse this is for suicide, Maggie. For eighteen months old man Holland has been hanging on, trying to make someone pay for the death of his son. Then Dawson & Heeps tell him to snap out of it, it was an accident. The boy had come to the end of his allotted span and you can’t argue with the Almighty about the justice of it.”
“That’s all very well,” I objected. “But why doesn’t he shoot himself immediately on receipt of this letter? Why go off on some trip, arrange a dinner party and keep his suicide for that moment? Where had he been?”
John put the letter back on its pile.
“Nobody seems to know exactly where James Holland went. Not even Ames.”
“What about the telegram Ames received? Where was it lodged?”
“Some obscure little country town out of Bendigo.”
“Can’t Ames tell you why the Squire left Middleburn? I thought he was conversant with all Holland’s business.”
“He has no idea,” John said, seating himself at the desk. “I have someone trying to trace Holland’s movements, but it is a hell of a job.”
“So it is going to be suicide,” I said, sitting down on the arm of a chair. “Well, that should fit in with everyone’s wishes, except perhaps Ames,” I added as an afterthought.
John looked up quickly. “What’s that?”
I told him about my conversation with Elizabeth Mulqueen, Ames and Yvonne, omitting the part about the baby. With his new official standing John could and would order me offstage if he considered my concern for Jimmy was involving me in the affairs of the Hall. However, he was more interested in the missing gun Ames spoke about than any tell-tale break in my story.
“Ames said Mr Holland complained of the loss? That’s odd, if the man meant to use it on himself.” There was a pause. John stared in front of him, frowning again.
“When do you want lunch?” I asked presently.
He looked up, his face clearing.
“Now,” he grinned, “but unfortunately I can’t come yet. Young Braithwaite is coming out from town with the will. Don’t wait for me. I may be able to scrounge something here.” Billings appeared at the window. He saw us together, backed a step and coughed.
“Come in, Sergeant,” John called. “Did you find it?”
Billings stepped over the sill.
“Not a trace, sir. Are you sure we are looking for the right thing?” I glanced from one man to the other with raised brows. Observing my mystification, John grinned again.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded. There were times when I knew I was allowed to ask questions.
“We don’t know ourselves. There was a note in the post-mortem report about a wound in the right leg of the body just above the instep. The trousers Mr Holland wore were torn at that place. I sent Sergeant Billings out this morning to look for barbed wire with traces of the material adhering. He reports no luck.”
“Look here!” I protested. “I thought you inferred this was going to be suicide. Why all these careful investigations?”
“Just routine,” John replied airily. “We now await the will. Further light might be thrown on this question of murder or suicide. Money, and there must have been quite an amount of it, always talks. In this instance I hope it will speak long and loudly.”
“I had better go,” I said, getting up. “Tony will be wanting his dinner and his sleep. Do I expect you when I see you? Steak and kidney pie and the remains of the day before yesterday’s sweet for dinner.”
“It will make me rush home madly at six o’clock,” John promised, as I nodded good-bye to Sergeant Billings.
Ursula Mulqueen was strolling leisurely down the drive in the direction of the gates. It was only my knowledge of the time which caused me to catch up with her. I had intended passing on after a brief word.
“Oh, Mrs Matheson!” she said, opening her eyes and mouth wide. “Isn’t it perfectly dreadful about poor dear Uncle. To think that we were all sitting down to dinner waiting for him last night and he was lying out there in the wood alone. It pains me to think of him being by himself at such a time, without anyone to help him on his journey.”
“As far as I can see someone did help him on his journey,” I told her with brutal frankness.
The shocked and sad expression changed immediately to horror. Her face mirrored exactly the transition that had taken place on her mother’s.
“Surely,” she protested, “your husband doesn’t think someone deliberately killed Uncle James! Who would want to do that? What reason could they have?”
My mind fled back to something John had once told me. Even motives for murder can be arranged into tabular form.
“Either someone who was frightened of him or jealous or else money was involved. In your Uncle James’ case I’m inclined to think there might have been two reasons. Fear and money.”
“I was never frightened of him,” Ursula remarked inconsequentially, but with deadly aim. “Not like poor dear Yvonne. By the way, little Jimmy will be the owner of Holland Hall now, will he not?”
“How should I know?” I asked, recognizing a figure coming through the gates. “I see Mr Braithwaite approaching. Why don’t you ask him? He is to bring a copy of the will to show the police.”
Ursula left me at once. I watched her well-shaped legs flash up and down under the unattractive dress.
She drew the young solicitor off the drive into the garden, one hand on his arm. She must have known Alan Braithwaite was coming and was pacing the drive waiting to meet him. I shrugged disinterestedly and continued on my way.
Old man Ames was sitting on the porch sunning himself. I thought he looked dejected. His head was leaning on one hand as though he was deep in memories. It suddenly occurred to me that of all those living in and connected with the Hall, he was the one most likely to feel a sense of loss at James Holland’s death, and to grieve sincerely.
There was no sign of Mrs Ames. Anxious to be on my way I called to him to convey my thanks for letting Tony play at the Lodge. Ames rose and came over to the railing. When I looked into his handsome face, I said what I should have said to each member of the Holland household I had seen and yet could not say. For Ames the words came spontaneously.
“I am so sorry. So very sorry.”
He looked down at me in silence for a moment before he spoke. Somehow the words he quoted in reply did not jar my sympathetic mood. That line or two from the dying King Arthur’s speech, unspoiled by further comment, seemed more appropriate than the most eloquent panegyric.