I
Nugent Parsons nearly fainted under the sudden verbal attack. The strip of plaster became one with his face. I still felt sorry for him, although I appreciated John having his job to do. It was rather like eating your Christmas turkey, but refusing to see it killed. Parsons had been so much caught on the hop, as it were, that his obvious agitation could be interpreted only one way.
John said: “You were in the wood adjoining Holland Hall last night. Why?”
Parsons realized the way out of this predicament was not silence. It was too serious to remain silent. The consequences would be damning. On the other hand the explanation he gave was just as bad. Considering murder was the subject around which the discussion revolved, it was very poor. To say lamely that he had been for a walk and had accidentally stumbled on the body did not have much force about it.
“The wood is private property,” John said. “Is it your custom to take a walk through other people’s estates?”
Nugent Parsons replied swiftly to this. “I am employed at the home farm. There is no fence separating it from the rest of the property.”
“Where exactly did this walk of yours begin and what route did it follow?” There was a sceptical note in John’s voice.
Parsons hesitated too long before he answered: “I walked from the men’s quarters along the road and then cut round the other side of the Hall through the wood back again.”
“About seven, I think. It may have been some minutes after. I went as soon as I finished my evening meal.”
I glanced at John quickly, wondering if he was thinking of the shadow we had seen slipping through the trees as we had gone along the drive. But he was after another point.
“That means you must have found Mr Holland’s body very soon after the shot. Why didn’t you advise the police at once?”
Parsons was caught badly. He stammered something about not wishing to get mixed up in anything. As John had told me this reluctance was often his experience, he could not but let it go.
“As the sound of the shot must have come from the wood, how does it happen you continued your walk in that direction? You might have guessed something was wrong. I gather you would rather dodge trouble.”
A slightly bewildered look came over Parsons’ face. He said with difficulty: “I didn’t know it was a shot. I did hear a car backfiring. It didn’t occur to me it was an explosion from a gun.”
I frowned a little at this statement.
“You say you cut along the other side of the Hall, Mr Parsons. Do you mean outside the boundary fence or within it?”
“There is a path following the drive the other side of the poplars. It branches off and goes behind the house.” John threw me a quick look as though to say: “Here is the question you want asked.”
“Did you see anyone going along the drive?”
Parsons said “No” in a careful voice. There was almost a triumphant sound about it as if he was congratulating himself on being able to answer openly and truthfully.
“Or anyone on the same path as you used?” John asked. He was clever. He read Parsons’ mind like a book.
He said “No” again. But this time his voice wavered.
John pounced on it. “You are not certain. You might have seen someone?” Parsons thought for a moment. He was weighing the pros and cons of something.
Presently, without raising his eyes, he said: “While I was waiting just beyond the Lodge, I thought I saw someone moving along the path some distance ahead. Of course it may have been a trick of the shadows, but I got the impression it was someone I knew. Mr Mulqueen from the Hall.”
John took this without expression. I had detected a faintly malicious undertone in Parsons’ voice, and thought I knew the reason why. It was a rather astounding reason, but one that had occurred to me when I first clapped eyes on Nugent Parsons. I made a moue of distaste to myself.
If Parsons had intended anything malicious in his statement it only repercussed on himself. Beyond directing Sergeant Billings to make a note of the possibility of the person being Ernest Mulqueen, John ignored it.
“Why were you waiting near the Lodge? Had you arranged to meet someone there?”
Parsons stammered badly again. “No, of course not. I wasn’t waiting for anything—anyone. I paused—to light a cigarette. It couldn’t have been more than a minute before I saw Mr Mulqueen. Then I moved off at once.”
“You did not want him to see you? Is that correct?”
“Yes—no. I mean—I didn’t care whether he did or didn’t.” Parsons’ hands were shaking and he dropped his eyes again. “Can’t all this wait until the morning? I don’t feel quite up to things at the moment.”
“I can understand that,” John agreed smoothly, his eyes on the discoloured patch growing at Parsons’ mouth. “How did you come by that? It looks to me like a blow from someone’s fist.”
Parsons put his hand up to cover his face in a self-conscious manner.
“I—I ran into a tree in the dark,” he muttered.
“When you were taking a walk as you did last night?” John queried in an abominable voice. “You seem to make these nocturnal strolls a habit, Mr Parsons. What I can’t understand is your lack of sensibility in taking the same route after finding a corpse the previous night.”
Parsons made no answer. There was nothing he could say in the face of such heavy sarcasm.
John continued: “You also seem to be rather hard of hearing. You are doubtful about hearing the gunshot last night.”
“Tell me, was a woman’s scream in the wood tonight also inaudible to you?” Parsons raised his eyes and stared defiantly: “I didn’t hear a woman scream.”
John held his gaze for a moment or two and then turned away, shrugging.
“You can go home, if you like,” he suggested. His manner conveyed that the interview had not been of much use to him. It was not worth continuing.
Parsons got to his feet. He looked at me awkwardly. He could hardly thank me for my hospitality when John had used his presence to more advantage than was proper in a host.
And he hadn’t finished yet. Parsons was at the door with Sergeant Billings at his heels when John said over his shoulder: “Before you go, Mr Parsons, will you tell me exactly how you found Mr Holland?”
John had his head turned away from the two men. Only I could see his face. I thought he looked strained, and watched him anxiously.
Parsons replied, almost mechanically: “I was walking along the track through the wood when I came on the figure of a man lying on his back in the middle of the path. I might have tripped over him but for the fact that I had a torch with me. I flashed it on the face and recognized Mr James Holland from the Hall. He had a wound in his head. In his right hand he held a gun.”
John interrupted without turning round. “You say you found him lying on his back. In what position were the legs? Were they drawn up or extended?”
Parsons glanced at Sergeant Billings. He feared some trap. “I swear I did not touch him. I was only there for a minute. There was nothing I could do. He was dead. His hand was almost cold.”
“Answer my question,” John said wearily. “In what position were the legs?”
“Extended, I think. I was rather upset. I did not notice much.”
John’s face reflected the weary note in his voice. “You may go,” he repeated. “You too, Sergeant. There will be nothing further tonight. Good night.”
He made no move to see them off the premises. In my uncertain role of hostess I had no wish to speed the parting guest with any other excuse than to make certain that the front door was locked after them.
Parsons made his departure hastily. I watched him pass along the fence on his way to the farm buildings further up the road. Sergeant Billings glanced down at my detaining hand in embarrassment. I loosened my grip on his sleeve, grinning.
“Forward woman, aren’t I, Sergeant? I want you to do something for me. A few yards along the road you’ll find a handkerchief of mine tied to the fence. You’ve got a flashlight on your bicycle, haven’t you? Inspect what you find underneath the handkerchief very carefully. You’ll probably find it of some interest. Good night.”
II
I went back to the lounge-room. John looked up at me with a wry smile.
“Nothing?” I asked.
“A few points, but not what I want for the moment. I’m worried about that inquest, Maggie. If we miss out on that it will mean a hell of a job.”
“You’ll find a clue,” I said hopefully. I sat down opposite. “Are you in the irritating position of guessing all about our new friend Nugent, or can I suggest a few things that may enlighten you?”
“I have a fair idea. But give me your view of the situation. What did you make of Nugent Parsons?”
“He’s very good-looking,” I said reflectively. John sighed ostentatiously. “But in rather a weak way,” I went on, unruffled. “It would be easy to make an impression on him. As a matter of fact I felt a bit sorry for him.”
“Well?” said John.
“Odd, don’t you think, how the Mulqueen woman popped in tonight all painted up like a Jezebel? She seemed to be waiting for a certain time and then popped out again. It wasn’t long after that we heard a woman’s scream. Also very soon after, Ernest Mulqueen finished off his last rabbit and made tracks for home.”
John frowned. “Young Parsons and that old hag?”
“Not so old,” I protested. “And you must admit she looked rather snappy tonight. She’s just at that age, you know. She looks the type who would carry on an intrigue just for the excitement and thrill of it. Disgusting what we women come to, isn’t it?”
John mumbled something like “Damned fool.”
“It looks as though Ernest surprised them. She came rushing out of the wood just after you left, leaving some evidence on the barbed-wire fence in her hurry. I told Sergeant Billings to collect it. Did I do right?”
John nodded briefly and approvingly. “What else can my clever wife tell me?”
“Not much. Except it is obvious Nugent Parsons doesn’t like Ernest Mulqueen. Suspicious shadows develop into him under the slightest pressure of Nugent’s imagination. I wonder if it was he or Ernest we saw last night. Funny the way they were both slinking.”
“I consider it funnier that Parsons can’t take in a gunshot when he hears one,” John said with irritation. “A farm worker must know something about firearms.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “He seemed quite sincere about it too.” John made no comment. He brought out his pipe and filled it mechanically, his eyes fixed on a point beyond me.
I said presently: “Will I be interrupting a train of thought if I give you my idea why Parsons was waiting in the Hall grounds?”
John brought his gaze to meet mine. “Eh? No, not at all. Go on.”
“You don’t sound a bit interested,” I complained. “My theory is that he was waiting for a signal from Elizabeth Mulqueen. Remember the tower light? It must have meant that she couldn’t meet him that night but would keep the tryst the following one. What do you think?”
“Quite feasible.”
It was my turn to sigh. “You know, you are not a bit interested in what I’m saying. Had you guessed it all before?”
“Parts, anyway. You have been filling in the gaps admirably.” He got to his feet. “I think I’ll turn in, Maggie. Do you mind?”
“Of course not. I’m glad you’re not going to sit up all night turning over bits of paper, searching for your missing clue.”
John pulled me to my feet, and slid his hands up to my shoulders.
“Do you know,” he said with a half smile. “I’ve got a hunch that clue is going to turn up any minute. There is something you said at the back of my mind that I just can’t quite catch. But it will come.”
I felt suddenly happy. “Tell me when it does.”
He shook me slightly. “If you didn’t chatter so much you wouldn’t wrap up bits of important evidence so thickly. I have got to undo all the covering to get to them.”
I thumped his chest with my closed fist. “Brute. You’re taking away a nice comfortable feeling of smugness. In future I won’t say a word.”
“That would be foolish,” he said in all seriousness. And so I was made happy again.
It is one thing to be complimented on being an excellent helpmate, but a very different matter to be awakened from a deep sleep in the early hours of the morning and have the compliment endorsed.
At first I thought John was crazy. He kept saying: “Rabbits, Maggie,” until I was sufficiently awake to realize that he was not talking in his sleep. I struggled to understand his meaning.
“Wake up, darling. I want to tell you what a wonderful woman you are.”
I rolled over, taking in the luminous face of the clock in transit.
“Must you, at this hour?” I asked resignedly. “Why rabbits?”
John said, enunciating clearly as though I was hard of hearing: “The inquest. Remember? The Holland inquest. I have found that clue. Only it’s not a clue. It is something much better.”
I was wide awake at once. “What is it? Quickly, tell me.”
“The wound in Holland’s leg. It had me puzzled. It wasn’t caused by barbed wire. He caught his foot in a trap. Ernest Mulqueen’s gin.”
There was silence for a moment while I digested this triumphant statement.
“I think I’ll go and work on the idea,” John said. “Go back to sleep, Maggie. You’ve done your part.”
I protested. I wanted to get up and stay with him, to discuss every possible angle of this new situation. For once John played the heavy husband and ordered me to stay where I was.
“I won’t be able to go back to sleep,” I stated definitely, submitting to being tucked in like a baby. But I could not stay awake even out of cussedness. John did not come back to bed again. He worked until Tony awoke, and further concentration was impossible. Then he brought a tray of tea into the bedroom, rousing me with aggressive heartiness. I gave Tony a biscuit to dip into my cup and said: “Did the clue work out all right?”
“Amazing possibilities.” The weary, strained look of the previous night had gone. In spite of his lack of sleep and growth of beard, John looked fresh and alert. “You remember I asked Parsons if he had touched the body? The straightened legs did not look right. A man does not fall under a gunshot in that position.”
“You mean the gin was employed to waylay the Squire, and that when the killer removed it, he forgot to place the legs in a natural position?”
“Precisely,” John nodded. “And it is just that mistake backed up by the evidence of the gin that will make all the difference to the coroner’s finding. It could even mean an early arrest,” he added thoughtfully.
III
That afternoon was the date of Brenda Gurney’s tea party, and I found myself regretting having accepted the invitation. It seemed an age since that day Connie Bellamy introduced me to the Middleburn Community Centre, although different members had called me in the ensuing week, particularly after James Holland’s death.
I visualized myself parrying questions the whole afternoon, and becoming worn and bored. Such an anticipation was quite wrong, for at Brenda Gurney’s party I found another piece of the jigsaw. It started as a suspicion and ended up a fact that had a great deal of significance in the case.
Again the day was blue and golden, making the tinted foliage of the wood an even more lovely sight than the green springing leaves I see now. The days were almost monotonous in their perfection. Clear, cold mornings with the sun strengthening to a summer’s warmth. Then towards the end of the day a mist would rise from the creek. Even perfection becomes dreary. It was hard to conceive violent emotions being stirred in the midst of such peace. Perhaps the contrast of nature at fall and battling human nature made crime seem all the more horrible.
The village was almost empty of shoppers. The middle of the week seemed the recognized time for tea parties. I noticed that the Post Office clock registered a time too early to make my presence welcome in a home where several children had to be washed and dressed ready for guests. A notion occurred to me suddenly and I went into the Post Office.
The postmaster was a cheery individual who sat for the greater part of the day on a high stool behind the counter. A crutch was propped close by, but his extraordinarily long arms barely necessitated him using it to support his tucked-up trouser leg. Stamps, forms and telephones all lay within his reach.
He knew me. Ever since James Holland’s death his interest, like so many others, had increased. I had no difficulty in obtaining my request, even though it meant him getting off his stool and rummaging through files under the counter. I wanted a list of wires or any other messages he knew of that were sent to Mr Holland when he was away.
“Here we are, Mrs Holmes,” he said, hauling himself back to his position and flicking through a folder. “’Fraid there’s not much. Wait a bit, though. Mr Ames sent a couple. ‘Can’t locate Cruikshank for the dinner. What shall I do?’ The old bloke wired back, ‘Find him.’ Like him, that was, Mrs Poirot. Real boss-cocky like.”
“Another from Mr Ames. ‘Have inserted notice in paper for Cruikshank. No answer as yet.’
“Did Mr Holland reply to that one?”
“Not through this office. All I have now is a message saying when he would be home. I phoned it to the Hall, but they said don’t bother about a written copy. Here it is still.”
“You rang the wire through,” I said quickly, picking up the slip he slid across to me and giving it a brief glance. “Who took it at the Hall?”
“Dunno, I’m sorry to say. Except it was a woman’s voice. Can you make anything of that, Mrs Chan?”
“I might. Thanks for the co-operation. Good-bye, Doctor Watson.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” called the postmaster, grinning at my riposte. “You don’t want one from your husband, do you?”
“I never finesse against my partner,” I said from the doorway.
Brenda Gurney’s party was very much the same as the numerous other afternoon teas I subsequently attended in Middleburn. The same set of young matrons was present and the conversation turned as usual to confinements and children generally. It was quite the thing to give an account of one’s accouchements in intimate and minute detail. Each member of the party waited impatiently until she could relate her experiences, which were by far the most interesting.
I was surprised to note Yvonne Holland among those present. Whatever her feelings for her late father-in-law were, and I was not one to advocate respect for someone dead for whom one felt not the slightest liking in life, it would have been advisable for her to obey convention and stay away from any form of parties, however innocuous.
Several shocked glances were directed towards her during the afternoon. Brenda, easy-going, did not give a damn as long as Yvonne enjoyed herself. For myself, I was more interested than disapproving. Yvonne’s attitude intrigued me. She had thrown off the chains of convention which had bound her to the Hall. Ill-timed as it was, I was glad to see she still had some courage left. But the carefree look about Yvonne smacked of defiance. I watched her carefully as she chattered and laughed a great deal. She gave herself away by the old habit of plucking at her belt as though it was too tight around the waist. The girl was absurdly slim to have produced a baby at all. Her hip bones stood out like two points through the sheer wool of her blue frock. It seemed to fall in a perfectly flat surface from neck to waist. She greeted me in gay bantering fashion which gave the impression we were old friends who could afford to be rude to each other.
“How is Jimmy?” I asked, when conversation had ceased to be general and the crowd broke up into discussion groups.
“Much better,” she replied eagerly. “He seems to have picked up considerably during the last day or two. I am taking him down to the Health Centre tomorrow. I’m sure he has put on weight.”
I said feebly: “Why, that’s grand.”
She had broken loose with a vengeance.
Yvonne went on: “Now that he’s such an important person I think it is time he received more attention. Health Centres are very helpful, don’t you think so?”
“Rather,” I agreed in a faint voice. Her sudden vigour was almost overwhelming. “Why don’t you take him straight to a doctor to give him a thorough overhaul?”
“I would, if I knew of someone suitable. You see, I never had a doctor except when Jimmy was born—I couldn’t bear to go to the local man.”
“Doctor Trefont?” I felt my way cautiously. “From all accounts he seems to be quite adequate.”
Yvonne shook her head obstinately. She was perfectly willing to take the baby to Sister Heather but not to Doctor Trefont.
“What about the doctor who attended your confinement?” I suggested.
“He only handles obstetrics. He’s a gynaecologist. A Collins Street man,” she added, not without pride. It is amazing how more importance is added to one’s case by saying that.
But Yvonne had not added her story to the harrowing collection. The omission puzzled me. I asked her the specialist’s name.
At first her answer meant no more to me than fingers on a familiar chord. Barry Clowes. Where had I heard that name before? Barry—Then I remembered. I glanced at Yvonne a shade too quickly. Her eyes became suddenly wary as though she had spoken indiscreetly.
I said carelessly: “Quite a big shot, I believe. I was told he always employed his own anaesthetist. Am I right?”
Yvonne replied with some reluctance. “I had a special anaesthetist when Jimmy was born. Doctor Clowes always gives his patients the best attention. He believes in care before and after the birth.”
“So I was told,” I repeated significantly. Again Yvonne threw me that wary look.
“Was Doctor Trefont your anaesthetist?” I challenged her. I tried to hold her eyes and will her to answer. There was a pause. Then Yvonne dropped her gaze and quite deliberately upset her teacup over the arm of her chair. She jumped up dabbing at the tapestry. Our hostess came up leisurely.
“Oh, Brenda, I am sorry,” Yvonne cried. “I can’t think how I was so clumsy.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll send one of the kids to get a cloth and mop it up. Let me get you another cup of tea.”
“I really think,” Yvonne said, with a guile that astounded me, “that I had better sit over there near the tea-table. I will be less likely to make a mess.” She took up a position in the middle of a chattering group where intimate conversation of the type I wanted with Yvonne was impossible.
“How did it happen?” Brenda murmured. “I hate to suggest it of one of my guests, but I thought it was done on purpose. I just happened to be glancing this way. What do you think?”
“I won’t commit myself,” I said, smiling.
Brenda continued with her mopping. “You know, we were hoping you would be able to entertain us this afternoon. But Yvonne turned up and no one likes to mention the subject.”
“Thank heaven for Yvonne,” I replied, half-laughingly, half in earnest.
“I daresay, but we are bursting for the inside story. She’s changed, don’t you think?”
“Yvonne? Her present mood is unfamiliar to me. I doubt if she could change much underneath.”
“She’s a sweet little thing, but I think she was foolish coming today. She’ll get herself talked about.”
“I’m sure she has already,” I said, nodding my head around the room.
Brenda sighed. “Yes, we’re awful cats. But it does save life from becoming too monotonous. Have you heard the latest about her cousin-in-law?”
I started to work this out.
“Ursula Mulqueen,” Mrs Gurney elucidated to save me trouble. “You must know her. Her clothes are appalling. That’s the funny part.”
“Is it?” I asked, wondering if I was becoming slow on the uptake.
“My conversation is always disjointed,” my hostess said with a swift smile. “My husband says I lack mental coordination. The Mulqueen girl. Someone told me they saw her the other day in the cocktail lounge at the Albany.”
“She must have been an incongruous sight,” I said, thinking of that smart rendezvous and cherchez-vous.
“But she wasn’t. She was dressed-up fit to conquer. Make-up, an exotic hair-do, and a stream of orchids to boot. What do you make of it?”
“I wouldn’t care to give an opinion,” I replied, not without truth. The story was too fantastic.
“You disappoint me, Mrs Matheson. Don’t you give anything away?”
“I learned discretion in a very hard school,” I told her. “I wasn’t always so cautious. Talking of discretion, don’t you think it is time you stopped pretending to clean that chair? Some curious glances are being directed our way.”
I was left isolated when she went. The first impression I made on the Middleburn tea circle had not been a favourable one. I was regarded with some trepidation, as though I might turn remarks to some sinister purpose connected with the police. It was not until the case was finalized that I became an accepted member of Middleburn society.
Brenda Gurney moved through the chattering groups to the radio. It had been playing softly ever since I arrived. She turned the dial round and round, saying disgustedly, “News session everywhere. I may as well switch it off.”
I called out to her across the room: “No, please don’t. I’d like to hear it.”
There might be some news of the inquest. All day I had been thinking of John. How he was faring and whether he had been able to persuade the coroner to give a satisfactory decision.
No one knew what I had in mind, but my raised voice had the effect of silencing the talk. I was too interested in the news to worry about making myself conspicuous. I moved nearer to the radio in case the chatter started again, asking permission of my hostess to tune it louder. I had to wait until the overseas and national news were read before I got what I wanted. It was the first item of the local news. The desultory talk around me broke off abruptly as Middleburn was mentioned. The announcer’s voice filled Brenda Gurney’s room as though it was devoid of any others but myself.
“A verdict of murder by person or persons unknown was given. It has been officially announced that Mr Ernest Mulqueen, of Holland Hall, Middleburn, has been detained for further questioning.”
One or two of the party made ejaculations of shocked surprise. All eyes were turned to Yvonne. She took it very well. The girl had something more in her besides a superficial breeding gained by association with the Squire. She made no remark and her face remained impassive. But the seriousness of the position must have struck her forcibly, as she made her farewells almost immediately.
I felt curiously allied to Yvonne at that moment when hostile eyes turned upon her. She had lost her precarious footing in the society where I had not yet gained one. Nothing out of the way could be tolerated by these girls, except perhaps Brenda Gurney. I bade them all a hurried good-bye and left them to discuss us in peace.
I made no attempt to overtake Yvonne. There was nothing to say. She might or might not be fond of Ernest. The relationship was remote and his character and way of living far removed from her own. Besides she had shown a desire to avoid me.
We proceeded along in an absurd fashion, Yvonne wheeling her pram about ten yards in front of my pusher, wherein Tony slept surfeited with afternoon tea. Strangely enough she did not seem to realize I was there. Turning in at the Hall gates she caught a glimpse and stopped, beckoning me on with an imperiousness worthy of a Holland. The news of her uncle’s detention had not upset the new mood.
As soon as I was within speaking distance, she said: “Isn’t it terrible? Poor Aunt Elizabeth! What am I to say to her?”
“Mr Mulqueen hasn’t been arrested,” I pointed out. “Anyway, not yet. You are talking as though the hangman’s noose was already around his throat. Detaining someone for further questioning does not make it a cut-and-dried affair.”
The slight look of fear which passed through her eyes puzzled me.
“It has to be proved he killed your father-in-law. That demands a motive. If Mr Mulqueen can produce an alibi for the time of the murder he hasn’t a thing to worry about.”
“You mean,” Yvonne said in her old hesitant voice, “that now it has been established Mr Holland was killed intentionally, we will all have to prove alibis?”
“Quite likely,” I agreed in a cheerful voice. “It depends on whom the police’s fancy alights.”
Yvonne had become quite pale. She had lost her champagne vivacity.
“Would you like me to come up to the Hall with you?” I offered in a fit of charity. “Your aunt might be in a bad way.”
“Who? Aunt Elizabeth? Of course. My mind was wandering. I would appreciate it if you came.”
“This is my second appearance in the role of comforter,” I told Yvonne. We parked the children on the terrace and entered through the window into Mr Holland’s study. Yvonne looked about her. There was a certain agitation in her manner which she was trying desperately to hide. I waited for her to lead the way to the Mulqueens’ wing. She paused near the desk, her hand straying over the polished surface to the extension telephone.
I glanced at her with raised brows. She said jerkily: “You know the way to Aunt Elizabeth’s room. I have an urgent call to make. I won’t be long.”
She waited until I left the room before she lifted the receiver. The indicator shutter fell in the tiny switchboard near the stairs as I passed, but the alarm had been turned off. No one would hear Yvonne’s extension ringing. Shrugging slightly, I hurried forward and took up the receiver.
Yvonne’s voice requested Ames to give her a city number. I dialled it out without speaking and waited to hear the impulse. It was answered almost immediately. I recognized the voice of an experienced telephonist as the name Braithwaite and Braithwaite was announced. Yvonne asked for Mr Alan Braithwaite. I closed the keys and placed the receiver back, eyeing the connected lines with hungry curiosity.
Something prompted me to glance around. It was not a guilty look, but I could feel someone’s eyes on me. I looked upwards to the stairs. On the first landing Ursula Mulqueen stood, one hand on the banister.
I said hurriedly: “I called to see if I could do anything for your mother when the phone rang. No one seemed to be around so I answered it.”
Ursula tripped down the stairs, her curls bobbing about her shoulders.
“That was very kind of you, Mrs Matheson. Poor, dear father. It is all so bewildering and frightening. Was there any message?”
I answered without thinking: “It wasn’t an inward call. Yvonne wanted Alan Braithwaite’s number.”
A slight flicker crossed Ursula’s face, as though she found it an effort to retain the sweet exterior.
“Mother says girls who chase men forfeit their respect,” she declared aimlessly, as she led the way to Mrs Mulqueen’s rooms. A murmur of voices came from the east wing. Then she said something which rather astounded me. The words were trite certainly, but her voice had changed from its usual high lilting cadence. It took on a deeper tone, with the smoothest hint of satire beneath.
“Mother always knows best, don’t you agree, Mrs Matheson?” She widened the doorway of the sitting-room very quietly and stepped aside. She had planned and executed a neat little peepshow.
Nugent Parsons stood near the window. Mrs Mulqueen was in front of him, her hands resting on his shoulders.
“We can’t go on like this,” Parsons was saying. “You were foolish asking me to come here. The police—”
“But darling Nugent,” Mrs Mulqueen cooed up at him. “You must be patient. Nothing need be changed. Don’t spoil things by losing your head.”
“Everything is changed,” he almost shouted. “For a while it was fun for both of us, but murder!” Mrs Mulqueen said in an odd voice: “You’re not trying to get away from me, are you?”
“Yes, yes. I want to leave the Hall. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. You—you are an old woman.”
I glanced at Ursula Mulqueen. She was smiling.
Elizabeth Mulqueen slowly removed one of her hands. “You’ll regret that,” she said, and struck him full on the mouth. I slipped back into the passage as Nugent Parsons rushed out.