Die Laughing (18 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Die Laughing
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“Her! A good gossip I don't think! Wouldn't pass the time of day wiv the Duke of York, was ‘e to tip 'is ‘at to 'er nice and polite. Tells me what to do and I does it, and ‘ardly another word out of 'er all day. I specks that's why I'm sitting ‘ere gabbing with a rozzer as shouldn't. Not but what I'm sorry I can't be much 'elp. Like I said, I don't ‘old wiv murder.” She stood up and collected their mugs. “I better get back to me work. The major'll be 'ome for 'is tea any minute, I shouldn't wonder.”
“Thanks for mine. I'll go and wait for him in the hall,” Alec said, swallowing a sigh. Though he hadn't got any useful information from her, he didn't think she had any for even Tom to extract. He hadn't done too badly. Could it be Daisy's influence? She talked with equal ease to a dustman or a duchess, so why shouldn't he?
He left the kitchen, then, on impulse, stuck his head back in. “By the way, Mrs. Davies, have you ever seen Mr. Talmadge?”
“The dentist what was done in? Just the once. ‘E come to a dinner party, 'im and ‘is missus, one time when I stayed late to wash up, just to oblige. Cor lumme, what a smasher! If 'e'd been mine, I wouldn't've let 'im out of me sight. All
the girls after ‘im, I shouldn't wonder. Can't 'ardly blame madam if she was carryin' on wiv 'im!”
Alec had a feeling that she had at last said something helpful. Before he could go over her words with a fine-tooth comb to extract any hidden significance, he heard the front door closing and brisk footsteps in the hall. He hurried from the back passage to meet the major.
Major Walker greeted him with a thunderous scowl, not undeserved. “Fletcher! What the devil are you doing here?”
“I came to see your wife, Major. Since she isn't in, Mrs. Davies kindly allowed me to wait and gave me a cup of tea.”
“My wife?” Walker asked suspiciously.
“And you. I'm afraid we've been unable to find corroboration of the times you were at your club.” Alec took out his notebook. “Would you be so kind as to give me the names of the people you talked to or lunched with?”
“I certainly will not! As it happens I didn't see anyone I know. Some regiment or other was having a big reunion and the place was a madhouse. If I'd known, I wouldn't have gone at all.”
“What time did you arrive and leave?”
“I'll be damned if I know. I'm no clock watcher, dammit. And if you're pestering everyone who ever passed the time of day with Talmadge, you must be working the clock round, with little to show for it. I've said everything I have to say and I'll thank you to leave us alone!”
“When do you expect your wife back, Major?”
Alec's calm persistence provoked another, still more explosive outburst.
“Leave Gwen out of this! How dare you harass us? I'll report you to your superiors. And now get the hell out of
my house!” Walker opened the front door and stood holding it. His moustache bristled, his face was red with fury, but Alec detected a definite uneasiness that no amount of bluster could quite conceal.
“As you wish. But I'll be back. Please try to remember the times you arrived at and left your club.”
“Get out!”
Alec got.
 
 
Daisy rang the Talmadges' doorbell with some trepidation. She had no qualms about going to see Daphne, but it would be too, too embarrassing to meet Lord Henry. Should she pretend not to know he was Daphne's baby's father? The situation was not one her teachers had covered in their lectures on deportment and etiquette.
Hilda Kidd came to the door, in her parlourmaid get-up. “Mrs. Talmadge isn't seeing—Oh, it's you, ma‘am. We've had that many callers, half of 'em strangers. Ghouls, I call 'em.”
“I just wanted to ask how Mrs. Talmadge is doing.”
“Much better today, ma'am, but she's to stay lying down for a couple of days yet. Step in and I'll see if she'd like to see you.”
Astonished at the maid's affability, Daisy stepped in. No doubt Hilda's surliness had been caused by the shock of her master's death, worry over her mistress, and perhaps the presence of her enemy Brenda Hensted. Nurse Hensted should be gone by now, a relief to all concerned.
Or was she gone? Coming down the stairs were familiar black shoes and stockings, navy frock with white cuffs and collar, and lastly a white cap.
But the figure inside the frock was plump. The face, illuminated now by the the fanlight over the front door, was round and rosy and cheery, and the hair peeking out from beneath the cap was grey.
“Mrs. Fletcher? I'm Nurse Biddlecome. Mrs. Talmadge is ever so pleased you dropped by. She's doing nicely, but just as a precaution for the dear baby's sake, she's to stay flat on her back. I'm sure you won't upset her, will you, dear. Just have a nice cheerful chat.”
“Right-oh.”
“I'll have Cook send Gladys up with a tea tray in a few minutes, and I'll be up to help her drink as she's not allowed to sit up properly, poor dear. You know your way, don't you?” With a friendly nod, Nurse Biddlecome whisked past Daisy and disappeared towards the kitchen.
Daisy went up to find Daphne looking much changed from the ill, miserable woman she had been the day before. Her hair was neatly brushed, her face made up lightly but thoroughly, her smile happy and welcoming, very different from yesterday's pitiful attempt.
“Daisy, how kind of you to come.”
“I'm glad to see you so much better.”
“I feel wonderful.” Daphne sobered. “I know it's dreadful of me after what happened to poor Raymond, especially when he'd been so kind and understanding and promised to turn over a new leaf. But I just can't help being happy. Besides, Nurse Biddlecome says it's better for the baby if I'm cheerful and don't brood.”
“She's a bit different from Miss Hensted, isn't she!” Daisy said with a laugh.
“Poor Miss Hensted. She always resented me just because I was Raymond's wife, and it must have been frightful for her when he died, nuts about him as she was. But thank heaven she's gone. Daisy, I expect your husband told you Harry and I are going to be married. It'll be very quiet, of course, just a registry office, and very soon because of the baby, but would you mind awfully being a witness?”
Daisy hesitated. An illicit liaison and a murder were hardly a good foundation for marriage. On the other hand, she didn't believe either of them was involved in the murder, and though Alec had not crossed them off his list, he seemed to be looking elsewhere. And there was the baby to think of. She had never understood why an innocent baby should suffer for the sins of the parents, but that was the way the world worked. “If you'd really like me to,” she said.
“Bless you!” Daphne was silent for a moment, then she said, “I do hope they catch whoever murdered poor Raymond before the wedding. I don't suppose you know whether the police have found out who it was?”
“They're not ready to arrest anyone yet, that much I know.”
“The more I think about it, the more certain I am that Raymond was … seeing Gwen Walker. I half suspected it before I saw the address on that letter, though I can't pin down exactly why. Not that I mean to suggest she would have killed him because he told her it was all over between them.”
Since she appeared to be suggesting just that, Daisy said a trifle sceptically, “No?”
“No. You see, Raymond implied that she, whoever she was, was going to be quite relieved. She was afraid her husband
was suspicious and she was nervous about what he'd do if he found out. At least, that's the impression I got. I was in a bit of a state myself at the time, remember.”
Not what Alec would regard as evidence, Daisy thought. She'd pass it on to him, though, for what it was worth. If he took it seriously, he'd have to move the major to the top of his list.
 
 
Next morning, as Daisy emerged from the bedroom blinking and tying the cord of her dressing gown, the telephone bell shrilled in the hall below.
“I'll get it, Mummy!” Belinda dashed past, already dressed in her navy school-uniform gym slip, ginger pigtails neatly ribboned to match. Nana bounded after her.
“I must have been mad,” Daisy muttered to herself. After two blissful nights in Bel's bedroom, the puppy was thoroughly settled in. She was never going to accept being shut up downstairs again when Mrs. Fletcher came back.
“It's for Daddy,” Belinda called up. “Urgent!”
“He's in the bath.”
“Granny said never to tell—”
“No, don't. Say he can't come to the telephone just now and get a message, darling.” Daisy knocked on the bathroom door. “Urgent 'phone call, Alec.”
“I just soaped my face,” came the spluttered reply. “Who is it?”
Daisy went to the top of the stairs. “Who is it, Bel?”
“Detective Sergeant Mackinnon. He says may he talk to you, Mummy.”
“Me? Right-oh. Go and start your breakfast.” Back to the
bathroom door. “It's Mackinnon, darling. He's going to tell me what's up.”
Alec's roared “No!” was sufficiently muffled for Daisy to decide she hadn't heard it. She hurried downstairs and picked up the apparatus.
“Sergeant? This is Mrs. Fletcher. What's the matter?”
“It's Major Walker, ma'am. Their cook's just rung up to say she came down this morning and found him with his head in the gas oven.”
W
hen Alec pulled up behind Dr. Curtis's maroon Talbot, anger lay as heavy in his stomach as the fried-egg sandwich Daisy had handed him as he dashed out of the door. He was furious with himself.
He ought to have foreseen that something like this might happen. Walker was obviously not the most emotionally stable of men. Whether Alec's persistence had aroused his suspicions or he was already aware of his wife's infidelity, he was bound to go off the deep end one way or another.
It all seemed horribly straightforward, though a few questions remained. Had the major killed himself from sheer despair at being cuckolded, or had he killed Talmadge and committed suicide in part from guilt? With any luck he'd have written a note of explanation.
A third uncertainty wrapped Alec in a miasma of sick dread: he prayed he wasn't going to find Gwen Walker murdered in her bed.
As he stepped from car to pavement, doubts began to nibble
at the corners of his mind. They were driven into retreat by the arrival of the police surgeon. Ridgeway bounced out of his sporty Bugatti, black bag in hand.
“I gather you have another one for me, Fletcher. This'll tie up the last one, eh?”
“Perhaps.”
“Come, come, my dear chap, isn't it obvious? Walker discovers his Gwen is indulging in a bit of nooky with the dentist, does him in in a fit of temper, and kills himself out of remorse. I bet you a fiver he's left a note explaining it all. They nearly always do.”
“How do you know about Talmadge and Mrs. Walker?” Alec asked sharply. “Rumour, or of your own knowledge?”
Ridgeway laughed, a trifle uneasily. “Why, of my own knowledge. Doctors don't spread rumours, you know, like policemen. I saw them at an hotel in Brighton, a discreet little place, doesn't ask awkward questions. I'm a bachelor, remember.”
“And whom did you tell?”
“No one.”
Alec stared at him.
“Well, perhaps one person. Pillow talk. You can't expect me to give you her name.”
No wonder Daisy hadn't been able to trace the rumour to its source. “I hope I shan't be called to your house next, to find out who cut your throat with your own scalpel.”
Chastened, Ridgeway followed him to the house. Alec hoped he realized that his “pillow talk” might well be responsible for Walker's death, possibly Talmadge's and Mrs. Walker's as well.
The front door stood open, but Alec rang the bell. The
daily woman came out of the front room. “Oh, it's you, ducks, the rozzer. Come on in, do.”
“Morning, Mrs. Davies.” Alec caught a whiff of coal-gas as he entered the hall. “Have you seen Mrs. Walker this morning?”
“I just got 'ere meself, ducks, and I'm that flambustigated I dunno whether I'm on me ‘ead or me 'eels and that's the truth.”
The divisional DS came into the hall from the rear.
“Mackinnon, have you seen Mrs. Walker?”
“No, sir, not yet. I only just got here.” Momentarily the Scot looked as if he resented the implication of inefficiency. He caught on with admirable speed. “Och nay, ye dinna think … ?” He turned towards the stairs.
“'Ere now, you can't go barging in on madam,” Mrs. Davies protested. Then she looked from Mackinnon's grim face to Alec's, and her own paled. “Blimey.”
“Mrs. Bates hasn't seen her either?” Heads shook. “Ridgeway, go up with Mackinnon, please,” Alec requested. “Mrs. Davies, Dr. Curtis is in the kitchen, I take it?”
“Yes, and a young rozzer as the sergeant brung wiv 'im.”
“And Nora Bates?”
“In the front parlour ‘ere. The doctor told 'er to go sit down wiv 'er feet up. Nasty shock she 'ad, and ‘er not as young as she was. I was wiv 'er when you rung the bell.”
“Go back to her, will you? I'll need to talk to both of you in a bit. Don't say anything about … what may be upstairs, please.”
“Me lips is sealed,” promised Mrs. Davies, “but let's 'ope it's a false alarm.”
“Let's hope,” Alec agreed fervently. He headed for the kitchen.
Dr. Curtis was just coming out. For a moment Alec couldn't work out why he looked lopsided, then he realized the old man's shirt was buttoned wrong so that his tie was awry. He must have left home in a great hurry. Alec raised his hand to his tie to make sure he hadn't done the same thing.
“Morning, Fletcher. Nothing to be done for the poor chap, I'm afraid. Sergeant Mackinnon said Ridgeway is on his way and no doubt he'll be more precise, but at a guess he's been dead seven or eight hours. Without moving him, there's nothing to suggest he did not die of coal-gas poisoning. I thought you'd want him left
in situ.
”
“Yes, thank you, Doctor. We have to consider all the possibilities.”
“And I dare say this may be connected to the other nasty business.” Curtis sighed. “Ah well, such is life—and death. I'd better have a word with Mrs. Walker before I go, though I'd say she's a lot tougher than Mrs. Talmadge, less likely to be overcome by her feelings. Is she still upstairs?”
“Yes.” Alec put a hand on his arm. “She hasn't yet been told about her husband. Dr. Ridgeway has gone up. Perhaps you wouldn't mind looking in on Mrs. Bates first? She's in the sitting room at the front.”
Alec was further delayed by the young uniformed constable Mackinnon had ordered to stop anyone entering the kitchen. By the time he had shown the embarrassed but determined lad his credentials, Mackinnon was hot on his heels.
“She seems to be all right, sir. This was by the bed.” In his handkerchief-wrapped hand he brandished a small white cardboard box. “Sleeping powders, Veronal, to be taken as needed. But it's almost full, and Dr. Ridgeway says she's sleeping normally, though verra soundly. Did you want him to wake her?”
“No, let's leave her in happy ignorance as long as we can. Constable, go and ask him to come down to the kitchen.”
“Softly,” cautioned Mackinnon, transferring the box to his pocket. “Dinna wake the lady.”
“Did she and the major share a room?”
“Aye, Chief, looks like it. Two single beds.”
They went on to the kitchen. The door stood open. The smell of gas was strong in the passage, unpleasant but not choking. Alec stuck his head into the kitchen and sniffed cautiously.
“Not too bad.”
“Bearable,” Mackinnon agreed. “Mrs. Bates opened all the doors and windows before she rang up Dr. Curtis.”
Alec stepped in and stopped to one side just inside the door, to survey the scene. To his right was an open door to the outside, the window beside it also wide open. Ahead, beyond a scrubbed wood table, was the sink, with another open window above it. Over the draining board was a gas hot-water geyser.
Following Alec's gaze, Mackinnon commented, “Good job the geyser isna the kind with a pilot light, or we'd be investigating a hole in the ground.”
To their left was the stove. The oven door half concealed Major Walker, dressed in dinner jacket and black trousers, their formality in incongruous contrast to his position. His
back to them, he was partly seated on a cushion, partly sprawled on the tiled floor, his head resting on another cushion inside the oven. Whatever dreadful despair drove people to gas themselves, they almost always tried to make their last moments as comfortable as possible. A cosy death.
“It's usually women who choose a gas oven,” Alec said with a frown. “Not what I'd expect of a military man. You didn't see a note?”
“I would have showed you right away, Chief.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“Nothing on the kitchen table. It could've blown off.”
“True. Check the floor in the passage and front hall, will you, and have your constable look around the front and back gardens. We'll hold off on a thorough search till Tring and Piper get here.”
As the sergeant left, Alec started to circle the table, scrutinizing everything he passed. The kitchen was neat and spotless, “all shipshape and Bristol fashion,” in Mrs. Davies's words, except for two mugs and a small saucepan in the sink. The mugs were full of brown-scummed water, a teaspoon standing in each. The inside of the pan, also filled with water, was coated with white scum.
Bedtime cocoa, Alec thought, then he noticed the tin on the draining board. Bedtime Ovaltine, he amended. Samples of each liquid must be sent to the lab. He wished he had the “murder bag” Tom kept muttering about, with everything necessary for collecting evidence.
Rounding the third corner of the table, he looked down on Major Francis Walker, deceased.
“She's perfectly all right.” Ridgeway's arrival startled Alec, whose thoughts were presently devoted to Gwen
Walker's unfortunate husband. “Veronal she appears to have taken. The sergeant has the remaining powders, which I'd say is most of them. It's best to let her sleep it off if you can. If you wake her, she's liable to be dopy.”
“No hurry.”
Ridgeway joined him by the stove. “Poor devil. I'll tell you this, old man, if I ever decide to get married, I shan't choose a beauty. All right, if you've seen what you need to, let's have a look at him.”
“Don't move him yet, please, not more than you can help. I want some photos. Does his position look natural to you?”
“As natural as they ever do. They arrange themselves carefully, but as soon as they lose consciousness they slump all over the place. Not that I've seen more than two or three before, but once you've seen one, you've seen 'em all.”
Alec moved out of his way. He knelt beside the body, grasped one wrist, and started muttering about ambient temperatures and the onset of
rigor
.
Mackinnon returned. “No sign of a note on the floor, sir. Constable Jenkins is still looking outside. Shall I give him a hand?”
“No, leave him to it. It's a long shot. You can go and tell Dr. Curtis that Mrs. Walker is sleeping and ask him if he prescribed the Veronal. If so, see if he can remember how many doses he gave her.”
“He doesna dispense, himself, sir, but if he canna recall how many he prescribed, I'll ring up the chemist. The name is on the box.”
“Good.” The word was at once assent and approval. DS
Mackinnon was turning out to be useful. “Dr. Curtis is free to leave when you've spoken to him. Tell the women I'll be in to speak to them shortly.” Alec turned back to Ridgeway. “How long?”
“Eight hours, or thereabouts.” As he spoke, Ridgeway's hands roved about the body, palpating, raising an eyelid to peer into a staring eye, loosening tie and collar to examine the throat. “Unofficially, around midnight. Officially, sometime between ten and two. It's not an exact science, you know.”
“I'm all too aware of the fact. In this case I doubt it matters much, but how often you fellows would solve a case for us if you could say, ‘He died at precisely twelve-oh-three A.M.'”
“I would if I could,” said Ridgeway, “but I can't. The pathologist might be able to help, if he'd eaten recently and someone can tell you when. Are you going to get Spilsbury?”
“I doubt it.” The brilliant Sir Bernard Spilsbury, Home Office Pathologist, was too much in demand to take on an apparently commonplace suicide. “Not unless I can prove it's murder.”
“I thought that was the way you were leaning.”
“Not necessarily. He had ample reason for killing himself, perhaps more reason than the obvious.”
“You mean he may have done for Talmadge. Well, it looks to me like suicide. I can tell you with a fair degree of certainty that he was neither knocked on the head nor suffocated, strangled, or choked. Cherry red livor suggests carbon monoxide poisoning. There's a hint of hydrogen sulphide about the eyes. He could have been sedated with
Veronal and moved here. Should show up at autopsy. Did you want me to do it?”
“Rather you than that idiot Renfrew, but you knew him, didn't you? I'll find someone else.”
“Thanks.” Ridgeway stood up. “If there's nothing else, then, I'm off.”
“Right-oh. No, don't wash your hands there, please. There's a downstairs cloakroom, I believe.”
Ridgeway looked at the mugs in the sink, nodded soberly, and followed Alec out of the kitchen.
Mackinnon met them in the hall. “Mrs. Bates seems to have recovered from the shock,” he said with a grin. “She wants to know when she can have her kitchen back.”
As Alec and Mackinnon entered the sitting room, Nora Bates surged to her feet. “I've my work to do,” she snapped, shocked, perhaps, but not notably distressed by her master's demise. “And while Mrs. Davies lounges about, the floors aren't getting any cleaner, and I s'pose she'll expect to be paid, same as usual.”

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