Cover Her Face (14 page)

“You said a little earlier that you thought the news of Miss Jupp’s engagement to Mr. Maxie was the reason for her death. Was that news known outside the household? I was given to understand that Mr. Maxie only proposed on Saturday night so that no one who was not at Martingale after that time could have been told.”

“Dr. Maxie may have proposed on Saturday, but no doubt the girl had made up her mind to have him before then. Something had been happening, I’m sure of it. I saw her at the fête and she was flushed with excitement all the afternoon. And were you told how she copied Mrs. Riscoe’s dress?”

“You are hardly suggesting that that constituted another motive.”

“It showed which way her mind was working. Make no mistake about it, Sally asked for what she got. I’m only desperately sorry that the Maxies should have been involved in all this trouble on her account.”

“You have told me that you went to bed about eleven after a stroll in the garden. Have you anyone to confirm that statement?”

“No one saw me as far as I know, Inspector. Miss Pollack and the girls are in bed by ten. I have my own key of course. It was an unusual thing for me to have gone out again like that but I was disturbed. I couldn’t help thinking about Sally and Mr. Maxie and I knew I shouldn’t get to sleep if I went to bed too early.”

“Thank you. There are just two other questions. Where in the house do you keep your private papers? I mean documents referring to the administration of this Home. Letters from the committee for example.”

Miss Liddell walked over to the rosewood desk. “They are kept in this drawer, Inspector. Naturally I keep it locked although only the most trustworthy girls are allowed to look after this room. The key is kept in this little compartment at the top.”

She lifted the desk lid as she spoke and indicated the place. Dalgliesh reflected that only the dullest or least curious housemaid could have missed the hidden key if she had had sufficient nerve to look. Miss Liddell was obviously used to dealing with girls who had too fearful a respect for papers and official documents to tamper with them voluntarily. But Sally Jupp had been neither dull nor, he suspected, incurious. He suggested as much to Miss Liddell and, as expected, the image of Sally’s picking fingers and amused ironic eyes roused her to even greater resentment than his earlier questions about the Maxies.

“You mean that Sally may have pried about among my things? I would never have believed that once, but you could be right. Oh, yes. I see it now. That was why she liked to work in here. All that docility, that politeness was so much pretence! And to think that I trusted her! I really thought that she cared for me, that I was helping her. She confided in me, you know. But I suppose all those stories were lies. She must have been laughing at me all the time. I suppose you think I’m a fool too. Well, I may be, but I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing! They’ve told you about that scene in the Maxie dining-room no doubt. She couldn’t frighten me. There may have been little difficulties here in the past. I’m not very
clever with figures and accounts. I’ve never pretended to be. But I’ve done nothing wrong. You can ask any member of the committee. Sally Jupp could pry as much as she liked. A lot of good it’s done her.”

She was shaking with anger and made no attempt to hide the bitter satisfaction behind her last words. But Dalgliesh was unprepared for the effect of his last question.

“One of my officers has been to see the Proctors, Sally Jupp’s next-of-kin. Naturally we hoped that they might be able to give us some information about her life which might help us. Their young daughter was there and she volunteered some information. Can you tell me, Miss Liddell, why it was you telephoned Mr. Proctor early on Saturday morning—the morning of the fête? The child said she answered the telephone.” The transformation from furious resentment to complete surprise was almost ludicrous. Miss Liddell gazed at him literally open-mouthed.

“Me? Telephoned Mr. Proctor? I don’t know what you mean! I haven’t been in touch with the Proctors since Sally first went to Martingale. They never took an interest in her. What on earth would I telephone Mr. Proctor about?”

“That,” said Dalgliesh, “was what I had been wondering.”

“But it’s ridiculous! If I had telephoned Mr. Proctor I should have no objection to admitting it. But I didn’t. The child must be lying.”

“Someone is lying, certainly.”

“Well, it isn’t me,” retorted Miss Liddell stoutly if ungrammatically. Dalgliesh, on this point at least, was disposed to believe her. As she accompanied him to the door he asked casually: “Did you tell anyone about the events at Martingale when you got home, Miss Liddell? If your deputy were still up no doubt it would be natural to mention Sally’s engagement to her.”

Miss Liddell hesitated then said defensively, “Well, the news was bound to get around, wasn’t it? I mean, the Maxies could hardly expect to keep it secret. Actually, I did mention it to Miss Pollack. Mrs. Pullen was here, too. She came over from Rose Cottage to return some teaspoons which we’d lent for the fête teas. She was still here chatting to Miss Pollack when I got back from Martingale. So Mrs. Pullen knew and you’re surely not suggesting that telling her had anything to do with Sally’s death.”

Dalgliesh replied non-committally. He was not so sure.

By dinner-time the activity of the day at Martingale seemed to be slowing down. Dalgliesh and the sergeant were still working in the business room from which the sergeant occasionally emerged to speak to the man on duty at the door. The police cars still mysteriously appeared, disgorged their uniformed or mackintoshed passengers and, after a short wait, bore them away again. The Maxies and their guests watched these comings and goings from the windows, but no one had been sent for since the late afternoon and it looked as if the questioning was over for the day and that the party could think about dinner with some prospect of being able to eat undisturbed. The house had suddenly become very quiet, and when Martha nervously and half-heartedly sounded the gong at half past seven it boomed out like a vulgar intrusion into the silence of grief, sounding unnaturally loud to the family’s heightened nerves.

The meal itself passed almost in silence. The ghost of Sally moved from door to sideboard, and when Mrs. Maxie rang and the door opened to admit Martha, no one looked up. Martha’s
own preoccupations were shown in the poverty of the meal. No one had any hunger and there was nothing to tempt hunger. Afterwards they all moved as if by unspoken but common summons into the drawing-room.

It was a relief when they saw Mr. Hinks pass the window and Stephen went out to welcome him in. Here at least was a representative of the outside world. No one could accuse the vicar of murdering Sally Jupp. Presumably he had come to offer spiritual guidance and comfort. The only kind of comfort which would have been welcome to the Maxies was the assurance that Sally was not after all dead, that they had been living through a brief nightmare from which they could now awake, a little tired and distressed by the lack of sleep but raised into joy by the glorious realization that none of it was true. But if this could not be, it was at least reassuring to talk with someone who stood outside the shadow of suspicion and who could give this dreadful day the semblance of normality. They found that they had even been speaking in whispers and Stephen’s call to the vicar rang out like a shout. Soon he was with them and, as he entered with Stephen behind him, four pairs of eyes looked up inquiringly, as if anxious to know the verdict on them of the world outside.

“Poor girl,” he said. “Poor little girl. And she was so happy yesterday evening.”

“Did you speak to her after the fête then?” Stephen could not succeed in hiding the urgency in his voice.

“No, not after the fête. I get so muddled about times. Stupid of me. Now that you mention it I didn’t speak to her at all yesterday, although, of course, I did see her about the gardens. Such a pretty white dress she was wearing. No, I spoke to her on Thursday evening. We walked up the road together and I asked about Jimmy. I think it was Thursday. Yes, it must have
been because I was at home all the evening on Friday. Thursday evening was the last time we spoke. She was so happy. She told me about her marriage and how Jimmy was to have a father. But you know all about that, I expect. It was a surprise to me, but, of course, I was glad for her. And now this. Have the police any news yet?”

He looked round in gentle inquiry seeming oblivious of the effect of his words. No one spoke for a moment and then Stephen said, “You may as well know, Vicar, that I had asked Sally to marry me. But she couldn’t have told you about it on Thursday. She didn’t even know then. I never mentioned marriage to her until seven-forty p.m. on Saturday.”

Catherine Bowers laughed shortly and then turned away in embarrassment as Deborah turned and looked at her. Mr. Hinks creased worried brows but his gentle old voice was firm.

“I do get times muddled I know, but it was certainly Thursday when we met. I was coming out of church after Compline and Sally was passing with Jimmy in his pushchair. But I couldn’t be mistaken about the conversation. Not the exact words, but the general gist. Sally said that Jimmy was soon to have a father. She asked me not to tell anyone and I said I wouldn’t, but that I was very glad for her. I asked whether I knew the bridegroom but she just laughed and said she would rather let it be a surprise. She was very excited and happy. We only walked a little way together as I left her at the vicarage and I suppose she came on here. I’m afraid I rather assumed that you knew all about it. Is it important?”

“Inspector Dalgliesh will probably think so,” said Deborah wearily. “I suppose you ought to go and tell him. There isn’t much choice really. The man has an uncanny facility for extracting uncomfortable truths.”

Mr. Hinks looked troubled, but was saved from the necessity
of replying by a quick knock at the door and the appearance of Dalgliesh. He held out his hand towards Stephen. Loosely wrapped in a man’s white handkerchief was a small mudcaked bottle.

“Do you recognize this?” he asked. Stephen went across and looked at it for a moment but did not try to touch it.

“Yes. It’s the bottle of Sommeil from Father’s drug cupboard.”

“There are seven three-grain tablets left. Do you confirm that three tablets are missing since you put them in this bottle?”

“Naturally I do. I told you. There were ten three-grain tablets.”

“Thank you,” said Dalgliesh and turned again to the door.

Deborah spoke just as his hand reached for the door-knob: “Are we permitted to ask where that bottle was found?” she asked.

Dalgliesh looked at her as if the question really needed his serious consideration.

“Why not? It is probable that at least one of you would genuinely like to know. It was found by one of the men working with me, buried in that part of the lawn which was used for a treasure hunt. As you know, the turf has been cut about fairly intensively there, presumably by hopeful competitors. There are several sods still lying on the surface. The bottle had been placed in one of the holes and the turf pressed down over it. The person responsible had even been considerate enough to mark the place with one of the named wooden pegs which were lying about. Curiously enough it was yours, Mrs. Riscoe. Your mug with the drugged cocoa; your peg marking the hidden bottle.”

“But why? Why?” said Deborah.

“If any of you can answer that question I shall be in the business room for an hour or two yet.” He turned courteously to Mr. Hinks. “I think you must be Mr. Hinks, sir. I was hoping to see you. If it is convenient perhaps you could spare me a few minutes now.”

The vicar looked around at the Maxies in puzzled pity. He paused and seemed about to speak. Then, without a word, he followed Dalgliesh from the room.

It was not until ten o’clock that Dalgliesh got round to interviewing Dr. Epps. The doctor had been out nearly all day seeing cases that might or might not have been urgent enough to warrant a Sunday visit, but which had certainly provided him with an excuse to postpone questioning. If he had anything to hide he had presumably decided on his tactics by now. He was not an obvious suspect. It was difficult, for one thing, to imagine a motive. But he was the Maxie family doctor and a close family friend. He would not willingly obstruct justice but he might have unorthodox ideas about what constituted justice and he would have the loop-hole of professional discretion if he wanted to avoid inconvenient questions. Dalgliesh had had trouble with that kind of witness before.

But he need not have worried. Dr. Epps, as if conceding some semi-medical recognition to the visit, invited him willingly enough into the red-brick surgery which had been misguidedly added to his pleasant Georgian house, and squeezed himself into a swivelchair at his desk. Dalgliesh was waved towards the patients’ chair, a large Windsor of disconcerting
lowness in which it was difficult to appear at ease or to take the initiative. He almost expected the doctor to begin on a string of personal and embarrassing questions. And, in fact, Dr. Epps had obviously decided to do most of the talking. This suited Dalgliesh who knew very well when he might learn most by silence. The doctor lit a large and peculiarly shaped pipe.

“Won’t offer you a smoke. Or a drink for that matter. Know you don’t usually drink with suspects.” He darted a sharp glance at Dalgliesh to see his reaction but, receiving no comment, he established his pipe with a few vigorous sucks and began to talk.

“Won’t waste your time saying what an appalling thing this is. Difficult to believe really. Still, someone killed her. Put his hand round her neck and throttled her. Terrible for Mrs. Maxie. For the girl, too, of course, but naturally I think of the living. Stephen called me in at about seven-thirty. No doubt the girl was dead, of course. Had been for seven hours as far as I could judge. The police surgeon knows more about that than me. Girl wasn’t pregnant. I doctored her for the odd spot of trouble and I do know that. It’ll be one in the eye for the village though. They do like to hear the worst. And it would have been a motive I suppose—for someone.”