Dead In The Morning (17 page)

Phyllis was now a fiery red.

“That is perfectly true, Inspector,” she said, and her hands were tight on the arms of her chair. “But it hardly constitutes a romance.”

Her dignity was impressive.

“I put it to you, Mrs Medhurst, that you wish to marry Mr Richards. If you were to do so, depriving your mother of your services, she might cut you out of her will, and this would be a matter for resentment after so many years of care. You would naturally prefer your share of her fortune rather than live merely on a bank manager’s pension. And so would Mr Richards.”

“Inspector, I refuse to listen to this any longer,” Gerald exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I agreed to this meeting in my house because you insisted, and I hoped it might be constructive in some way. But all you have done is to accuse my brother, my nephew, and now my sister of the basest cupidity. My sister is an honourable woman; perhaps you don’t meet many of them in your profession. She looks after our mother out of regard for her high sense of duty. She is incapable of the twisted thinking you impute to her.”

“I’m sure we all appreciate your family loyalty, Mr Ludlow,” said the Inspector. “But affection blinds the judgement, very often. The facts speak for themselves. Mrs Medhurst had a strong motive; she had ample opportunity. And she fetched the pills from the chemist’s shop, leaving them in the hall in a careless manner that was unusual for her. By leaving them where others could have found them she hoped to confuse the issue. She was, of course, aware that other members of the family had their troubles too.”

“Inspector, you’re wrong.” Tim was on his feet now. “Aunt Phyllis wouldn’t do a thing like that. You don’t know everything.” He ran his fingers wildly through his hair. “I was here that night, too,” he began desperately, and Phyllis interrupted.

“Shut up, Tim,” she said peremptorily.

“Yes, shut up, Tim,” said a brisk new voice.

Tim, startled, turned towards the door, and even the Inspector now looked taken aback as into the room came Patrick Grant. He was followed by a pale young man with a haggard expression.

“Forgive me, Inspector, for intruding on your conference,” Patrick began. “But it’s justified. As most of you know, this is Mr Alec Mackenzie, whose mother’s death is the reason for your presence here tonight.”

He crossed the room, followed by the young man, and stopped in front of Helen, who rose slowly from the sofa where she had been sitting.

“Mrs Ludlow, you have not met Mr Mackenzie,” he said. “Mackenzie, this is Mrs Gerald Ludlow.”

Helen said nothing. Her face was grey. Gerald stood beside her, his bulk against her shoulder. Martin, watching, saw their hands meet. No one spoke.

“Dr Grant, I must ask you to leave us,” Inspector Foster said angrily.

Patrick turned to him.

“I am here because I have something relevant to tell you, Inspector,” he said. “I am sure you have been describing very capably what may have happened last Saturday night when Mrs Joyce Mackenzie unfortunately swallowed a quantity of sodium amytal, and died. You are doubtless convinced, as I confess I was myself at first, that the pills were intended for Mrs Ludlow senior. The lady possesses a considerable fortune, and sees no reason why her children or grandchildren should receive any part of it before she dies, however much they might need a sum of money now.”

As he spoke, Patrick had somehow edged the Inspector away from his position in the centre of the hearth and taken up this place himself. Inspector Foster now stood slightly to one side of him, wearing an outraged expression on his face yet unable to halt the flow of speech. Sergeant Smithers, scribbling fast, longed for a second pair of eyes so as to observe the scene.

Patrick pressed on, giving no one a chance to interrupt him; he had the initial advantage of surprise. Gerald, who had expected after their words on the telephone to see him earlier, had by now forgotten all about him.

“Several members of the Ludlow family are in financial or other difficulties,” Patrick said. “Mrs Ludlow senior is not the gentlest of matriarchs, and doubtless few tears would be shed were she to die peacefully. On Saturday night, for some reason, she did not eat her pudding. Mrs Mackenzie was well known to possess a sweet tooth and an inability to resist eating up any tit-bits that are left over. Accordingly she finished Mrs Ludlow’s pudding, and she died.”

Now Patrick took a step backwards so that he might subject the Inspector to the regard that had quelled many an unruly undergraduate.

“Inspector, I put it to you that the matter of the pudding is merely a coincidence, because the victim all along was intended to be Mrs Mackenzie,” he said.

There was a gasp in the room.

“Dr Grant, I protest—” the Inspector began, but Patrick went on talking as if he had not uttered.

“The pills may have been in the whisky that Mrs Mackenzie drank. The murderer could have cleared up such evidence easily enough before the police arrived on Sunday morning,” he said.

As the Inspector tried once again to stop him, Patrick raised a hand.

“No, hear me out, Inspector,” he continued. “In all puzzles, the best way to find a solution is to look for the unusual. On this occasion there were two unusual things. The first was that Mrs Mackenzie, a creature of habit, stepped aside from her weekly routine. Each Wednesday and Sunday she posted a letter to her daughter in Winnipeg. Last Saturday she posted an extra letter, or her Sunday one a day early. She must have had a reason.

“I called today on Mr Alec Mackenzie to find out if his sister had a birthday or anniversary, anything that could be the explanation. He could think of nothing to account for an additional letter. It therefore seemed probable that Mrs Mackenzie must have had some special news to tell her daughter.”

The Inspector had now given up trying to silence Patrick. Instead, he was listening with attention.

“Now we come to the second unusual event that happened,” Patrick said. “Mr Gerald Ludlow had recently got married. On Friday night he brought his wife to Pantons.”

He paused. Helen and Gerald, still close together, stood immobile.

“Letters normally take three or four days to reach Winnipeg from England,” Patrick said. “I thought that by today Mrs Mackenzie’s daughter might have received her mother’s letter, so, with the assistance of Mr Mackenzie here, I telephoned to her. The letter has arrived. Mrs Mackenzie and Mrs Helen Ludlow had met before.”

But before he had finished speaking, Helen had fainted.

The ensuing pandemonium died down eventually. Helen recovered consciousness very quickly and was taken upstairs at once by her husband, with Phyllis in attendance. The remaining Ludlows sat about looking stunned, and when the sound of a door closing indicated that the retreating party could not overhear what passed below, Inspector Foster rounded on Patrick.

“You should have got in touch with me privately,” he said. “This alters everything.”

“I know,” said Patrick blandly. “That’s why I hurried down.”

The Inspector, making a huge effort, decided to swallow his pride. Time would be lost if he berated Patrick further, pointing out that the telephone service operated between London and Fennersham and making other such caustic comments on his actions.

“What did the letter say?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Inspector, but I can’t tell you that,” said Patrick. “It was told to me in confidence. The letter only arrived this morning, and as you know, Winnipeg time is six hours behind ours. Hence part of the delay.” He looked at the Inspector consideringly. “Mrs Mackenzie’s daughter was naturally very upset by the letter, coming on top of the news of her mother’s death. I appreciate that I have upset your plans by turning up like this with such information, but you had to know.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” The Inspector had been thinking rapidly. Patrick rather admired the way he adjusted so quickly to the new situation.

“Smithers, we must get back to the station,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The Sergeant rose smartly, putting his biro into his breast pocket and closing his notebook.

“Mr Mackenzie, may I ask you to come with us?” the Inspector said. “We must get on to your sister, and I’m sure we’ll need your help.”

Alec Mackenzie mumbled some affirmative.

Patrick said a few words to him in a low voice, and gave him a brisk pat on the shoulder. Mackenzie managed a wan smile, and then went with the two policemen towards the door. Martin followed to see them off. When he came back his mother was standing in the middle of the room fluttering her hands in a helpless way.

“What does it mean?” she asked. Her voice was a wail.

Tim, in the background, leaned on the mantelpiece biting his nails. He paid no attention to anyone else, gazing down at his scuffed shoes in abstract concentration.

“There was some link between Helen and Mrs Mackenzie - in America? But Mrs Mackenzie came from Canada.” This was Derek, thinking aloud.

“You must hear about it from your brother, not from me,” said Patrick.

“Did he know?”

“I think you’ll find he did.”

Betty had given up. The immediate threat that one of her family might be arrested for something she knew they could never have done was gone. Meanwhile, near at hand, was Martin in distress. She put out an arm towards him.

“Tell me about Sandra, dear,” she said, and beckoned him into a corner.

Martin cast a wry glance in Patrick’s direction as he allowed himself to be led away. He had begun to fear, as time went on and Patrick did not appear, that the Rover must have failed him, but in fact his arrival was timed perfectly, giving the Inspector long enough to show his hand completely. It had been agreed between them that Martin must be punctual, and must pay great attention to all that was said in case there were points not clear to Patrick afterwards. Excitement had carried Martin through the evening, but now he felt an anti-climax. His mother must be told the worst, though; best get it over, and free his father for the
tete-a-tete
with Patrick that clearly loomed.

“What a kettle of fish,” Derek was saying. “I’d like a word, Dr Grant, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Patrick glanced round the room. “Let’s go outside, shall we?”

They walked together out into the cobbled yard. The air was still full of the scent from the geraniums, and overhead a light showed in an upstairs window.

“You arrived just in time to stop Tim confusing the issue,” Derek said. “He’d just announced that he was at Pantons on Saturday night. I suppose you realised that I was too?”

“I thought you might have been,” said Patrick. As yet he had only surmised that Derek might be in trouble, and that chiefly because Betty was clearly so disturbed, yet could give no reason for her anxiety apart from her normal state of maternal fret.

“Tim’s in trouble, of course.”

“He is,” said Patrick grimly. “But not with the university.”

“I wouldn’t listen when he asked me for help,” said Derek. “I’ve got this crisis with my business. You’ll hear about it. But I should have made time for the boys. Martin’s in a mess too.”

“Martin, I think, will be able now to dig himself out,” said Patrick. “I’ll deal with Tim, if you like. On a short- term basis only. I can resolve the immediate difficulty and you can sort him out later. In the end he may profit from a narrow escape from real disaster. I’ll keep you posted.”

“He may have to leave Oxford,” Derek said. “I’m in a real mess. He’ll lose his allowance.”

“If things are as bad as that, his grant will be adjusted,” Patrick said calmly. “It won’t hurt him to go short.”

“You think Martin can manage? I can’t pay off his debts, I’ve too many of my own.”

“His wife has finally gone, so he can sell his assets,” Patrick said. “And he hasn’t got to pay for her. She was, I gather, expensive.”

“Poor boy.” Derek spoke sadly. “That must hurt. I never knew what he saw in her. She was pretty, if you like that type. Thin, you know, like a bird. They met winter-sporting, if you please, and married almost at once. Fancy trying to build a marriage on a fortnight’s ski-ing holiday.”

Patrick forbore to say that it had sometimes been achieved.

“He seems to have been rather unlucky,” he said aloud. He was accustomed to harder-hearted young men who would have seen through Sandra at once. From what Martin had told him, it seemed clear that Sandra had rebounded in his direction after an affair that went wrong; she had thought his prospects better than they were, and expected his grandmother to subsidise his perfectly adequate salary right from the start. When she learned that they might expect nothing from the old lady except upon her whim, and that they must meekly visit Pantons every Sunday into the bargain, she soon grew bored with Martin. Because of her job she had a vast number of acquaintances, many of whom admired her; it was not difficult for her to find an alternative.

“I don’t know which of us is in the worst pickle,” Derek said. “If you hadn’t arrived when you did, the Inspector would have made an arrest. I suppose the moment’s only been postponed.”

“I think you’ll find he’s been diverted,” Patrick said. “Now, shall we go back to the others?” He felt that there was a strong chance of Betty having induced an emotional scene with her sons; however, she was sitting calmly with them both, and they were deciding that Martin would return home with them for the night.

Phyllis came downstairs just after Derek and Patrick went back into the house. She said that Helen was resting, and Gerald was staying with her.

“I was telling Dr Grant that he came in the nick of time to prevent Inspector Foster charging someone,” Derek said to his sister. “I fancy the odds were evenly balanced between you and me.”

Phyllis still had the high colour in her cheeks. She gave Derek a wry smile.

“I think I was favourite, by a short head,” she said.

“Well, not any more,” said Derek flatly.

“No. Things are even worse now,” said Phyllis. She faced Patrick. “Inspector Foster will be back to arrest Helen as soon as he’s got in touch with Winnipeg.” A grim expression crossed her face.