Nothing Like Blood (15 page)

“I am ready to hear what you have to tell me,” announced Mrs Rose, a fine fleshy woman in mustard yellow.

Carolus had a feeling that in spite of all this
montage,
frankness would pay him best.

“You won't like it, I'm afraid. I'm that most tiresome of beings, a private investigator. Worse still, I do it because I like doing it.”

“Do what?” asked Mrs Rose, haughtily but not impatiently.

“I suppose I must call it investigate. I get consulted by people when there is anything that seems inexplicable about a death.”

“Was there anything that seemed inexplicable about my sister's death?”

“Well, it gave rise to a great deal of speculation.”

“I can't think why. She was warned that she hadn't long to live and the doctor was satisfied that she died naturally.”

“I know. But for some reason the members of that household began behaving in a curious way after it. There was a great deal of suspicion and talk among them.”

“I can scarcely be held responsible for that.”

“Certainly not. Your sister's will was much discussed.”

“I'm not surprised. It was a most questionable will. That Grissell woman! And all that money to the servants!”

“Her husband was cut out.”

“For no adequate reason known to me. I still cannot see …”

“Did you know there had since been another death in the house?”

“I read it in the newspapers. What of it?”

“Mrs Rose, let me appeal to you. I'm really trying to find the truth in a highly anomalous situation. I admit that there is no apparent connection between your sister's death and Sonia Reid's. But you would be helping me enormously if you would tell me a little about your sister and her husband. Strictly between ourselves, I mean.”

Mrs Rose blinked, then said unexpectedly: “Have a glass of champagne?”

“Thank you.”

Carolus watched her go majestically to the door and bring in a tray which had been set on a table on the landing
. There was an ice bucket containing a bottle and two glasses. As she poured out, he noticed it was Veuve Clicquot.

“I don't see why not,” said Mrs Rose when she had sipped. Carolus realized that she was answering his appeal. “You appear to be a gentleman.” Carolus waited. “My sister and I were the only children. My father's name was Dodgham.”

Carolus couldn't resist this solemn announcement though his idiotic question might have cost him his information. “Did he make cars?” he asked.

“I don't know what you mean. It is spelt D-o-d-g-h-a-m. My father was a well-known musical entrepreneur. My sister and I were brought up to play several instruments. Until my marriage I occasionally performed at charity concerns. The harp.”

Carolus nodded eagerly.

“We married in the same year, but very differently. Lydia married a worthy but insignificant man. I, as you doubtless know, married Otto Cremoine Rose, who has been referred to in the press as a Take-Over Tycoon. Lydia's marriage was not as unfortunate as it might have been, for we both had adequate private fortunes.

“I do not believe that James Mallister's motive was the sordid one of money. For some years he and Lydia were a devoted couple, but, when she became an invalid, she lost her happy disposition. She was, I am afraid, an embittered woman. Another glass of champagne?”

“Thank you. I gathered that in your sister's last months she resented her husband's association with a young woman who lived in the house?”

“I visited her a week or two before she died. Her attitude, I thought, was shocking. She spoke of her husband in a derisory manner, not as if she was troubled by the association you mention, but as though it was beneath
contempt. She told me then she had cut him out of her will, but did not say that she had left a large sum to Miss Grissell.”

“They were at school together, I believe.”

“They were. I was, of course, considerably younger and remember Grissell as a senior girl, a bullying and cruel creature whom I detested. Then who are these Jerrisons?”

“A man and woman who work at Cat's Cradle.”

“I know that. Why were they so lavishly endowed? My sister must have been crazy.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do. There has been madness in the family, just as there is hereditary heart disease. I am thankful I am untouched by both. More champagne?”

“If you really think that her long illness had weakened your sister's mind …”

“But of course. Isn't that well known to you all? She was far from being mentally normal when I saw her. Grumbling because her husband, a frail-looking man more often ill than she was at first, was fit enough to watch her die. Grumbling because he came to crow over her and grumbling because he didn't spend enough time with her. She seemed to be angry with everyone in that house, the proprietress, the other guests, even that overbearing Grissell. And suspicious. She told me quite seriously she thought she was being poisoned.”

“Really? This is most interesting. Whom did she suspect?”

“All and sundry, so far as I could gather. No one in particular.”

“Not even her husband?”

“I think not. James had just gone into a hospital for an operation; the only person in the house of whom she spoke at all pleasantly was the girl who has since died, Sonia Reid. It appeared that a friendship had grown up
between them. They discussed music and Lydia had ordered a most elaborate record-player from the girl's shop. Hi-Fi she called it. It gave her some consolation in her last weeks. Yet there was no mention of this Sonia Reid in her will, the last version of which was made after their friendship had sprung up.”

“You remained on intimate terms with your sister, Mrs Rose?”

“Not very, I fear. There was, I am sorry to say, a tendency on her part to be jealous as my husband's status in the nation's finances became more and more prominently mentioned in the press, while James Mallister remained a bank-clerk. It was natural enough, perhaps, particularly when she was well enough to come up to town and we could not always include her husband and her in our lists of guests.”

“You entertain a good deal?”

Mrs Rose stared at him.

“You surely must know … must have read …” She seemed genuinely perplexed.

“I'm afraid I don't follow that sort of thing.” His hostess seemed affronted.

“I can scarcely believe that anyone could remain unaware … However, we will let that pass. I think I have answered your question. Is there any other assistance I can give you?”

“You, personally, have no doubt that your sister's death was due to natural causes?”

“None. It has been attested by a competent physician.”

“You don't think that her heart attack could have been induced in some way?”

“That is a most unpleasant thought. I shall refuse to harbour it. Who would be so wicked and take such a serious risk when it was known that my sister could not live long in any case?”

“That's certainly a point. I gather that no one in the house knew that she had recently changed her will.”

“You see? Frankly, Mr Deene, I think you are trying to stir up muddy waters. If there had been the slightest doubt at the time, surely there would have been a postmortem and an inquest? I know very little about such things.”

“There was no doubt at the time. It is the result of what has happened since.”

“You cannot be suggesting that the case may be re-opened in some way?”

“I'm not in the confidence of the police. I shouldn't think it's impossible, though.”

“Then I shall ask my husband to intervene immediately.”

“I'm afraid that would not help very much. In England, Mrs Rose, there are limits to the powers of even a Takeover Tycoon.”

She seemed to contemplate this statement then dismiss it as preposterous.

“Another glass of champagne? “she suggested with her lavish smile. It was gruesomely well rehearsed. Carolus could well believe that she was accustomed to entertaining.

T
HE
Reverend Ralph Cracknell was as cheerful as he had sounded on the phone. He came to the door of his bright little house, a plump and smiling man of fifty.

“What a punctual person!” he said. “Punctuality's
next to godliness in my opinion. Come along in. This isn't a vicarage because I'm not a vicar. I'm the curate-in-charge of St Aug's round the corner, so I suppose this is the curate-in-chargery.”

“St Aug's? “Carolus could not help asking.

“St Augustine's. Only it sounds so august. Like a cupper?”

“Thank you.”

“It's just being made. My crone will bring; it. Squattez, and let's hear your trouble.”

Carolus decided to get this over as quickly as he could.

“Do you know Bishop Grissell?”

“Know him? Known him for thirty years. We were at St Mick's together. Beg your pardon. St Michael's Theological College. What about him?”

“I'm investigating the deaths of two women in the house in which Bishop Grissell lives.”

“Whe-whee-ew! “whistled Mr Cracknell. “Not
again
?”

“Again?”

“Oh nothing. So poor old Grissell's got involved in a murder case?”

“Why did you say ‘again', Mr Cracknell?”

“You know how one says things. Tell me about the murders.”

“I haven't said there has been a murder, and certainly not that Bishop Grissell is involved in one. I said he lived in the house.”

Mr Cracknell turned to Carolus sharply, though still smiling. “Then why come to me, if Grissell's not involved?”

“Just that I found myself working in mid-air. I knew nothing about the people in the guest-house in which these things had happened. It was necessary to learn what I could, and your name was given me as that of a friend of Bishop Grissell who might be helpful.”

“Helpful to you or to him? That's the question.”

“One hopes it is the same thing,” said Carolus priggishly. “But it is the truth we want, Mr Crack-nell.”

“Tell me, how deep is old Grissell in this? Up to the neck, I suppose? He has a gift for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, getting off on the wrong foot, and then putting it in it, his foot I mean. But seriously, you can leave him off your list of suspects. He may have made his blunders, but he would never hurt a woman. Not a white woman, anyway.”

Instead of seizing on the last five words, Carolus said: “Tell me a little about him.”

“Old Grissell? Vigorous chap. Strong as a horse as a young man. Used to do feats of strength at St Mick's. No one was surprised when he decided on missionary work. It was a bit of a joke at St Mick's. Cannibals would be in the cooking-pot, we said, while the missionary did the war dance. Ever hear him preach?”

“No.”

“It's worth hearing. That terrific deep voice of his. Like someone out of the Old Testament. And his sister's a real trouper, too. Those two went off to darkest Africa and we were sorry for anyone who might oppose them. He was out there twenty-four years.”

“Did you see much of him during that time?”

“He came home on leave once or twice. Always looked me up. Or rather looked me down, as you might say. I've never been ambitious, you see. Not very pop with the high-ups. They find me too frivolous, I fear. So, as old Grissell became more and more important, I paddled along quietly. I believe I am in for promotion now, but I've never looked for it. Old Grissell was all for a bishopric and, my word, he got it. Colonial, of course, but still. She was just the same. Knew how to get what she wanted.
I hear she has just come into a large sum of money from an old school friend. That sounds typical.”

“The old school friend was one of the two women whose deaths I am investigating,” said Carolus, and left this to sink in.

“I say, you're not suggesting … No, that's impossible. I don't mind a laugh at the Grissells' expense, but really …”

Carolus said nothing.

“Of course, he has a temper,” admitted Mr Cracknell.

“Yes?”

“Violent, when it's roused. He threw old Figgley in the duckpond at St Mick's. Picked him up bodily and threw him right in. Figgley's Bishop of Hatfield now. He was no weakling himself, but Grissell was in a towering rage. Figgley had called him a gorilla. He did look rather like one as a young man.”

“Bishop Grissell retired early,” said Carolus.

“Yes,” said Mr Cracknell thoughtfully. “He did.”

“Any particular reason?”

“You don't know?” asked Mr Cracknell rather slyly. “I thought everyone knew that.”

Carolus shook his head.

“I don't want to rake up that old story,” said Cracknell. “It was all very unfortunate and has been long forgotten now. Most unfair, I thought at the time.”

“Something that happened in Africa?”

“Oh yes! It couldn't have happened here, of course. That temper of his. It concerned a house-boy of his. Died in hospital. The doctors proved he couldn't have lived long, anyway. But it appeared that poor old Grissell had lost his temper with the boy. All most unfortunate. And of course all the relatives and friends made a tremendous fuss. Half the tribe turned up at the inquiry. Grissell's name was cleared. Completely cleared. But it was felt best
that he should find another field for his endeavours and he retired to England. These things happen. Ah, here's the char. Sugar and milk?”

“Thanks. What year was this?”

“About five years ago. You won't find anything in the newspapers at the time. It was kept out of them. Prestige and so on. Mind you, I've always liked Grissell. He's not the most generous of men, but his heart's in the right place. Funny, he was never given a nickname at St Mick's. Perhaps because his own name rather fitted. Figgley was Figgs and I, of course, was Crackers, but no one ever thought of calling him by anything but his correct name. Does that mean something or doesn't it?”