So Bad a Death (15 page)

I shut my eyes for a minute. “Yes. He was right-handed. No fatal mistake on the murderer's part there.”

“Murder or suicide, every avenue is being explored,” said Sergeant Billings primly as he moved off.

Mr Holland's body had been found almost in the centre of the path, half-way between the two houses. Hand in hand with Tony, I arrived at the place, which was segregated by means of stakes joined together by rope. Sergeant Billings and his constable were scavenging around just outside this area. They seemed to be so busy stirring up the blanket of fallen leaves that I went on almost immediately. I was interested to know what John had sent them to find.

At the other end of the path I came on Ernest Mulqueen, clad in his mackinaw and tweed cap. He was wandering along with his eyes on the ground, and started violently when I spoke his name.

At once I was struck by his changed appearance. Like most tubby, rosy little men when dealt a severe shock, he had become pale and flabby-looking. Indeed he appeared so undone that I made an effort to brace him.

“I meant to cut you dead the next time we met,” I informed him, “out of revenge for what you did last night.”

For a moment my words might have been calamitous for the unnerving effect they had on Ernest Mulqueen. Then it penetrated that I was teasing him, and he tried to force a wobbly smile. It was a poor effort, barely touching the deep lines either side of his mouth which must have been caused by years of grins.

“You ignored me when you came in before dinner,” I explained, helping him out. I was beginning to regard him in a new light. Murder or suicide, every avenue is being explored, Sergeant Billings had said. Ernest Mulqueen appeared to be one of these avenues. A man could not change overnight like he had without having something on his mind.

“Your hair was done differently,” he tried to defend himself.

“No go. I always wear the same style for months on end.”

I felt like someone staring through a magnifying glass at a moth on the end of a pin. And yet I could not stop myself.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, in a bad attempt at sounding confidential, “you looked so smart and dressed up that I was scared to speak to you.”

“Flattery can't help you,” I said, shaking my head. “Confess now. You either wanted to snub me or else you had something on your mind.”

My words were daring under the circumstances, in spite of a light tone. I felt a little frightened after I had spoken: colour flowed into Ernest Mulqueen's face. It was not his original ruddy colour but a flush of temper. He half raised a clenched fist.

“If it was anything on my mind that concerned you or your policeman husband, I would have told you,” he snarled. He turned away quickly, plunging straight into the wood away from the path.

III

As I was skirting the Hall to the terrace a window opened in the east wing. Elizabeth Mulqueen put out her head.

“I have been watching for you,” she called, beckoning imperiously. “Come in through the conservatory and along to my sitting-room.”

“Where can I locate Mrs Holland? She rang first.”

Elizabeth Mulqueen said something vague about Yvonne lying down and that I could see her presently. She shut the window before I could protest further.

I was interested to find out why Mrs Mulqueen desired my company so suddenly. It was with this desire and not in the spirit of meekness that I followed the directions to her sitting-room. If she only wanted someone to listen to her reactions and emotions at hearing of her brother's death, I doubted whether I would fit the bill.

I was beginning to think this was the reason for the summons, when she introduced a subject so casually that some sense that had been with me that horrid time at Central sprang to the fore.

I was told that neither Ernest nor Ursula had shown the proper sympathy and consideration. Of course, Ernest could not be expected to have the finer feelings of a Holland, but she had tried to bring Ursula up so carefully. After all it was her own brother who had committed suicide—

“Just a minute,” I broke in. “Who told you it was suicide?”

Mrs Mulqueen opened her eyes at that. “Why, of course it was suicide. You don't think it was an accident, do you?”

“No, I don't,” I said bluntly. “I think it was murder.”

She manifested terrible shock. It was far too histrionic to be genuine.

“But who?” she wailed, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “Who would want to murder poor James? I just can't believe it. I won't believe it.”

“Then why should poor James want to commit suicide? I only met him once, but he seemed the last person in the world who would take his own life.”

“I don't believe it,” Elizabeth Mulqueen repeated, throwing back her head. “James has never been the same since my nephew was killed. His only son. So very tragic. James has had a life with many disappointments and much unhappiness. I think Jim's death was the last straw. My poor, poor brother.” She averted her face and dabbed at her eyes ostentatiously.

“That happened nearly eighteen months ago,” I pointed out. “Do you think he would have brooded on suicide for all that time, and then done the deed on the very night he was giving a dinner party? Furthermore, I can't see him committing suicide in the middle of the wood on a damp cold night. What was he doing there? Where had he been?”

Mrs Mulqueen remained silent. I released my grip of Tony's jumper and let him stray around the over-furnished room.

Presently my hostess, completely ignoring my two questions, leaned forward to pat my hand.

“You've cheered me up considerably,” she said on a sigh. “I knew I was right asking you to come. You've been very kind.”

I was trying to recall what words of consolation I had uttered, when she said: “By the way, being the wife of the officer in charge of the inquiry into my brother's death, I suppose you have his ear and are able to assist in a lot of ways. You've worked together before, so I've been told.”

I made no reply. Any reference to the circumstances under which John and I had met always made me tongue-tied, and in the face of Mrs Mulqueen's wagging finger to boot, there seemed nothing to say.

“I am sure,” she went on, “there must be a lot of tedious detail which has nothing whatsoever to do with the result of such an inquiry. Red herrings, if you follow my meaning. I think I might be doing your husband a good turn if you will tell him that I must have made a mistake last night. I only imagined hearing my brother in his room. You know how it is. You expect to hear things and think they take place. You see, the light was on in James' room. I supposed that he must have returned and was there. Silly how we women always leap to conclusions. So you will tell your husband, won't you?”

“If you like,” I said slowly. I had been following Tony's progress round the room with my eyes when a thought occurred to me.

“Just tell me one thing, Mrs Mulqueen. What were you doing on the floor above when your suite is down here in the east wing?”

She answered without a blink. “I went up to the tower to switch on the light. It throws out such a radiance. I knew James liked it being on when he gave a party.”

“Is there anything wrong with the switch?” I asked. “Anything that would make it flicker on and off?”

She got up from her chair suddenly.

“Now, little boy, don't touch my pretty pictures.”

I grabbed Tony's hand and moved to the door. “That reminds me of another matter, Mrs Mulqueen,” I said pleasantly. “Since I am behaving so inquisitively, may I know why you keep that picture hanging face to the wall?”

“What picture? Oh, that is a photograph of James's wife. She died. Keeping the photograph so is just my little way of mourning
her. I was very fond of Olivia, very fond indeed. It is sad to think they are both gone and I am left, the last Holland.”

I left her to reflect on her solitary state. She seemed to have forgotten the existence of the youngest Holland, frail though it might be. Ames was at the foot of the stairs as I came along the passage.

“Mrs Mulqueen told me to come in through the conservatory door,” I told him, feeling some explanation was due—the effect Ames always had on me. “Mrs Holland is in her room, I suppose?”

“Just one minute, Mrs Matheson.”

He spoke urgently, with one hand outstretched. I glanced at it with raised brows. Ames dropped it, looking foolish.

“I want to tell you something,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked with curiosity.

He was shaken out of his habitual suaveness. Ames lowered his voice, glancing down the long passage.

“Mrs Matheson, Mr Holland did not commit suicide. I know everything points that way, but I knew the late Mr Holland too well. He would never have killed himself. I—” He threw another glance over his shoulder. “It may sound presumptuous, but I was very attached to the late Mr Holland. I can't let his death go unavenged.”

“That's all right, Ames. I don't think anyone else thinks it either, excepting perhaps Mrs Mulqueen. But why tell me this?”

“I thought perhaps you may be able to persuade your husband. He is in charge of the inquiry. I can prove Mr Holland didn't do it himself.”

“Well, if you can prove it, what are you worrying about? What's your proof?”

“I don't know if you can count it as evidence yet, but a revolver was stolen from the study some time ago. Mr Holland complained of the loss and asked me to look into the matter for him.”

I put one foot on the first step to brace myself against Tony, who was dragging at my hand. “Have you told my husband that?” I asked Ames.

“No, not yet. You see, the police have come across a letter which might help the suicide theory. If I told them about the missing gun,
they might think it clinches the matter. But if you told Inspector Matheson it might be very different.”

I looked Ames over frowningly. He dropped his eyes to Tony.

“All right,” I said. “I'll tell him.”

He thanked me. In order to show his appreciation, he relieved me of Tony's fidgetings by suggesting that he should go down to the Lodge to play with Robin for a while. Thus Ames and I became somewhat involved in the matter of gratitude. Tony's enlivening presence was not exactly suitable on a visit of condolence.

I went upstairs wondering how many more times I was to act as a liaison officer between suspects and police. Elizabeth Mulqueen's story might be as thin as paper, but Ames' had a ring of sincerity to it.

Yvonne was lying on her bed in a darkened room. Even in the dim light her face looked ghastly. I sat down in a chair near the bed, begging her not to get up. I felt awkward and ill-at-ease as she remained silent. I did not know what was expected of me. You can't go sympathizing with anyone losing a father-in-law they both feared and disliked, and at whose demise the only emotion experienced must be one of relief.

Presently, without looking at me, Yvonne said in a low tense voice: “Your husband thinks it is suicide, doesn't he? He must. Anything else is out of the question.”

I was becoming very tired of being expected to use my influence and said so.

“Don't tell me you invited me here to enlist my sympathy on that account. I don't know what my husband thinks, but I do know nothing I can do or say will change his sense of duty and justice. Just get that into your head right at the start.”

I got up. If that was all Yvonne wanted I was prepared to leave.

She put out a hand. “Don't go. Please stay for a moment, Mrs Matheson. I'm so upset and bewildered. I think I'm going mad. I don't know what I'm saying.”

I sat down again, ashamed of my sudden outburst. Yvonne had not merited it wholly. It was the result of slow reaction on my part to Elizabeth Mulqueen's innuendoes.

“How is the infant?” I asked to break the tension. “He is likely to be an important person now, is he not?”

“If you mean the money,” Yvonne replied with bitterness, “I suppose he is.”

I went on gently. “You know, now Mr Holland is dead, you must exert yourself. Get Jimmy away from here. I would put him into a good children's hospital for a week or two to fix his diet and to build him up. What about it?”

She nodded listlessly.

“I am extremely puzzled about your late father-in-law,” I went on. “He seemed anxious that the male line of Hollands should continue, and yet—”

I paused. She glanced at me expectantly.

“What do you mean?”

I threw out my hands, a little embarrassed.

“I have to confess I overheard you and Mr Holland quarrelling. The day I called about the Dower House, do you remember? There was a certain accusation you hurled at him.” Yvonne raised herself abruptly. “What do you mean? What did you overhear?”

I eyed her uneasily. She was panting slightly.

“Why,” I asked slowly, “did you accuse Mr Holland of child murder? Why should he want to murder his own grandchild?”