So Bad a Death (12 page)

“Just another guest,” John said at last. I pulled myself together.

“It only remains for there to be thirteen guests and we go home.”

Even as I spoke flippantly in the endeavour to capture my first mood, something else happened. The light in the tower of the Hall began again to flash on and off. I pulled John along hurriedly. If we got near to the house there would be a good chance of seeing who was in the tower. We came into the open sweep of gravel below the terrace. The light had ceased to flicker. It shone steadily down, illuminating the marble pond in the centre of the oval. I scanned the windows of the tower keenly, but there was no one to be seen.

John followed my gaze. “A form of red carpet, I presume,” he suggested.

“Quite likely,” I replied.

The house was now brilliant with light. The front door stood wide open in spite of the inclement night. Music sounded—a sweet, hackneyed Strauss waltz, hard to give title to on account of the underlying similarity of many three-four time compositions, but nevertheless nostalgic and poignant. Somehow Strauss sounded quite at home in this strange house; as though the Hall belonged
to the same era. The music conveyed the impression of corruption and tragedy beneath its gay polished exterior that must have existed in the Vienna of the Archduke Rudolph and his little Marie. That lilting melody was the leitmotif of the Holland case.

Ames, a picture of sartorial adaptability as usual, appeared as soon as we put foot on the top step. His role on this particular occasion, however, was rather confused. He seemed more a master of ceremonies than a butler. He took John's coat, suggesting I retain my fur.

“Some ladies find the house a trifle draughty.”

His manner was perfect, but just the same I let slip my cape into his hands. He went on to say, without even blinking at my childish behaviour, “I regret that Mr Holland has not yet come in. He is expected at any moment. Will you come this way, please?”

He ushered us into the drawing-room, an apartment heavy with crimson and massive with mahogany. The Strauss waltz came from a Panatrope situated on the far side of the room. Daisy Potts-Power, dressed in shapeless draperies of flowered voile, was standing beside it. One hand hovered over the needle as the record neared completion, the other held back the loose sleeve which threatened to become entwined in the mechanism. Before I had time to greet her, a very deep voice spoke from behind the door.

“And again. Play it again, girl.” I swung round. An elderly woman of immense, almost revolting girth was seated in a wheelchair half hidden by the door. She was attired in a garment which might have been a remnant from the hangings at the windows, and flashed a quantity of diamonds in dirty settings on her balloon-like fingers. These lay loosely on her lap. The grotesque immobile body was rendered all the more conspicuous because of the eyes that darted to and fro in their yellowing balls.

She spoke in her deep voice without hesitation. “I always choose this position. You can catch people without their party faces on.”

Ames coughed. It was that deprecatory sound which is always associated with fictional butlers.

“Be quiet, Ames,” said the crimson-velvet woman as he began to make introductions. She surveyed John with a basilisk eye. “So
this is our detective! Well, young man, show me how good you are. What is my name and who am I?”

I had disliked the old woman on sight. Now I loathed her. I stepped in front of John and said coolly: “I also consider myself a detective. I'll show you I can be quite good too. Your name is Mrs Potts-Power and you are the unofficial first lady of Middleburn.”

She was immensely pleased and a spasm indicative of delight spread throughout the heavy body.

“Splendid! Give me some more. Come here and sit by me.”

I felt I could afford to punish the old woman. I shook my head. “Presently. I want to say good evening to your daughter.” Ames had already introduced John to Daisy and left the room. Mrs Potts-Power clapped her hands like an Eastern potentate. Daisy came up on the instant.

“Mrs Matheson wants to say good evening to you.”

“Oh—er—good night,” Daisy said with a nervous giggle. It was clear enough now that she lived in awe of the tyrannical old woman. This talk of staying at home to care for mother was just a product of her hungry nature.

I said: “I think I will get my cape. There is quite a draught in this room.”

As I left the drawing-room Mrs Potts-Power bellowed: “How long do we have to stay here before one of the Hollands puts in an appearance? I want my dinner.”

The hall was still deserted when I came out of the powder room. I wandered along, pausing with critical eyes in front of one or two of the massive and gloomy oil paintings on the walls. A small telephone switchboard caught my attention. It stood in the deep shadow of the stairs opposite the double doors of the drawing-room. I was examining it casually when a smooth voice spoke behind me.

“Do you wish to make a call, Mrs Matheson? The line is engaged at the moment.”

I turned swiftly. Ames was standing before the entrance to the drawing-room, a silver tray of drinks between his hands.

He waited, bland and impeccable, with his head tilted at just the right angle.

“Perhaps I should call the Dower,” I suggested.

Ames' eyes went to the board again. “The extension is engaged also. I will try it for you presently.” He moved slightly aside to let me pass ahead of him.

“I'll wait,” I told him. “I know how to operate the board.”

He inclined his head still further and went into the drawing-room. I leaned against the stairs and studied a gory painting of dead game. There was a brace of hares, blood bright upon their heads. They lay athwart a long-nosed gun, the redness staining the white cloth beneath. In the background leered a sharp-faced animal mask. A small window opened onto a darkling landscape.

My eyes were on the highlight of the painted gun barrel when reality and imagination seemed to coalesce. The sound as of a gunshot reverberated in the still deep mist outside the Hall. I heard it clearly, although it seemed far away in the night.

III

I hurried into the drawing-room. John met my anxious eyes with an inquiring look. I moved over to his side. Mrs Potts-Power and Daisy appeared unconcerned. The old woman was leaning back in her wheelchair, thick wrinkled lids half-hiding her restless eyes. Daisy was replaying the Strauss waltz. Then the sound occurred again. This time it was further away and not quite as full-bodied. Mrs Potts-Power opened her eyes wide and stirred irritably.

“Why must cars go backfiring just while I am enjoying the music?” she asked.

“Sherry, Maggie?” John said in my ear. Ames was bending the tray down towards me. I took a glass carefully. My hands were not quite steady. When Ames went out of the room for a moment I downed the sherry in one swallow.

“Bar-room manners,” John commented. “What's the matter?”

“I thought the first one sounded like a gunshot. Silly?”

“Very silly.”

Daisy raised her voice from across the room. “Such lovely sherry. I do think it is a most romantic beverage, don't you, Mrs Matheson?”

Mrs Potts-Power snorted. “Don't be a fool, girl. Ames, find me some whisky. I can't abide this wash.”

“Now, Mother, please. You know what the doctor said about spirits.”

“Daisy will pour the soda for me,” said the old woman, grinning. “You heard what I said, Ames.”

“Yes, madam.” He came over towards me. “Mrs Ames has just called from the Dower. Everything is all right.”

“Thank you, Ames.”

“At last!” said Mrs Potts-Power rudely as Yvonne Holland came into the room, followed by a mild-looking young man. She wore a dinner-dress made of fine crimson wool and looked pretty but painfully thin. Her nervous hands plucked and smoothed the draped basque as she stammered apologies to Mrs Potts-Power.

The old woman let her go after she had had her fun, and sat ready to pounce on the next person who entered.

Yvonne saw me and led the young man over to be introduced. His name was Braithwaite. I drew my brows together when I heard it.

He saw the motion and said: “We had some correspondence over the Dower House, Mrs Matheson.”

“Of course. How clever of you to guess I was trying to place you. I dislike a familiar name to elude me.” He was one of Mr Holland's solicitors.

I introduced John and we chatted together for a while. Now and then Yvonne threw a glance in our direction. Daisy had claimed her attention, and was talking brightly about the weather.

Elizabeth Mulqueen entered a pace or two ahead of her daughter. Her studied entrance was upset by Mrs Potts-Power addressing her from behind the door and making her jump. She changed the sudden jerk into a graceful about-turn with praiseworthy aplomb.

“Dear Marguerite!” Mrs Mulqueen said sweetly. “How lovely to see you within these portals again. Do you remember my little girlie?”

Ursula was drawn forward. Beyond her mother's pink lace figure, I saw that she was wearing a frock patterned with rosebuds and a string of seed pearls.

Mrs Potts-Power looked at the muslin frills and the bow in the hair with an unkind eye. “As well as the day she was born nearly twenty-five years ago. Tell me, Elizabeth, where is James?”

Mrs Mulqueen threw a vague glance around the room. It took me in with a slight look of recognition. Ursula had already shown her pink gums in my direction.

“Isn't he down yet? I heard him moving around in his dressing-room some time ago.”

“No, he isn't, and I want my dinner. You are all late.”

Mrs Mulqueen left her talking and continued around the circle like a royal hostess. It was a pity, as Mrs Potts-Power declared loudly, that she had not put in her appearance earlier.

Ursula moved towards me. We exchanged a few conventional phrases. Presently she claimed young Braithwaite's attention. Again I observed young Yvonne Holland's glances in Alan Braithwaite's direction. A slightly clouded look came into her blue eyes when Ursula smiled at her sweetly.

Ernest Mulqueen entered in a surreptitious way. His could have been made a perfect entry had he been the type to wish it so. He appeared anxious not to draw attention to himself. I waved to him cheerily as to an old friend. Had he not borne me company during that first strange night at the Dower? I was surprised and more than a little embarrassed when he returned my wave with a blank stare. I dropped my hand and found John grinning at me.

Ames came to the doorway and announced dinner.

“Where is James?” Elizabeth Mulqueen asked in exasperation. “Ames, go up to his room and tell him we are all waiting.”

Mrs Potts-Power rapped her daughter on the hand with her be-ringed knuckles. It was a signal to start pushing the wheelchair.

“I don't care where James is. I was invited here for dinner and I intend to have it.”

I whispered to Yvonne as we passed through to the dining-room. “How is your baby? Might I see him later?”

“Certainly. I'll take you up to the nursery before coffee.”

I said: “Mr Braithwaite seems a nice person. We resumed our acquaintance capitally.” She flushed and glanced at me suspiciously. I retreated before she gave herself away any further.

That dinner was one of the most extraordinary affairs I have ever attended. To begin with, there was no host sitting at the top of the table. Ames had come back with the news that Mrs Mulqueen must have been mistaken. Mr Holland had not yet arrived. He had left a message previously that the dinner was to start punctually, even if he was not there.

“We don't even know why James has been gone for the last few days,” Elizabeth Mulqueen said across the table to Mrs Potts-Power. “Do we, Ames?”

She invited his corroboration as he leaned down to pour wine into her glass. It must have been rather disconcerting for Ames to be addressed when playing his role of butler. But he replied without flickering an eyelash.

“No, madam.”

“The only word we have had is a telegram from some outlandish spot saying he would be home tonight at seven,” Mrs Mulqueen complained.

A second extraordinary thing about the dinner was an empty chair beside me with a place set opposite it. During the fish course it dawned on me who should have been sitting there. Once James Holland issued his royal command the guest should automatically be present, irrespective of whether he was dead, ill, or had lost his memory; one of which three misfortunes might be Mr Cruikshank's excuse.

The table was fairly quiet. Conversation was not particularly brilliant when it did take place. John was doing his best with Ursula Mulqueen, but he was somewhat frustrated by the latter's obvious desire to monopolize Alan Braithwaite to the exclusion of Yvonne, who sat on his other hand.

Ernest Mulqueen appeared completely crushed either by his stiff shirt or the company, and spoke little. He picked at the excellent dinner Mr Holland had provided to make up for his likely absence.
I would have expected Ernie to be a hearty eater and a boisterous table-talker. Elizabeth Mulqueen sat on his right. She had ignored him from the time he had entered the drawing-room, and addressed most of her remarks to old Mrs Potts-Power. The latter was shovelling food down and not even bothering to reply to the smooth sweet talk.