So Bad a Death (21 page)

III

That afternoon was the date of Brenda Gurney's tea party, and I found myself regretting having accepted the invitation. It seemed an age since that day Connie Bellamy introduced me to the Middleburn Community Centre, although different members had called me in the ensuing week, particularly after James Holland's death.

I visualized myself parrying questions the whole afternoon, and becoming worn and bored. Such an anticipation was quite wrong, for at Brenda Gurney's party I found another piece of the jigsaw. It started as a suspicion and ended up a fact that had a great deal of significance in the case.

Again the day was blue and golden, making the tinted foliage of the wood an even more lovely sight than the green springing leaves I see now. The days were almost monotonous in their perfection. Clear, cold mornings with the sun strengthening to a summer's warmth. Then towards the end of the day a mist would rise from the creek. Even perfection becomes dreary. It was hard to conceive violent emotions being stirred in the midst of such peace. Perhaps the contrast of nature at fall and battling human nature made crime seem all the more horrible.

The village was almost empty of shoppers. The middle of the week seemed the recognized time for tea parties. I noticed that the Post Office clock registered a time too early to make my presence welcome in a home where several children had to be washed and dressed ready for guests. A notion occurred to me suddenly and I went into the Post Office.

The postmaster was a cheery individual who sat for the greater part of the day on a high stool behind the counter. A crutch was propped close by, but his extraordinarily long arms barely necessitated him using it to support his tucked-up trouser leg. Stamps, forms and telephones all lay within his reach.

He knew me. Ever since James Holland's death his interest, like so many others, had increased. I had no difficulty in obtaining my request, even though it meant him getting off his stool and rummaging through files under the counter. I wanted a list of wires or any other messages he knew of that were sent to Mr Holland when he was away.

“Here we are, Mrs Holmes,” he said, hauling himself back to his position and flicking through a folder. “'Fraid there's not much. Wait a bit, though. Mr Ames sent a couple. ‘Can't locate Cruikshank for the dinner. What shall I do?' The old bloke wired back, ‘Find him.' Like him, that was, Mrs Poirot. Real boss-cocky like.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Another from Mr Ames. ‘Have inserted notice in paper for Cruikshank. No answer as yet.'

“Did Mr Holland reply to that one?”

“Not through this office. All I have now is a message saying when he would be home. I phoned it to the Hall, but they said don't bother about a written copy. Here it is still.”

“You rang the wire through,” I said quickly, picking up the slip he slid across to me and giving it a brief glance. “Who took it at the Hall?”

“Dunno, I'm sorry to say. Except it was a woman's voice. Can you make anything of that, Mrs Chan?”

“I might. Thanks for the co-operation. Good-bye, Doctor Watson.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” called the postmaster, grinning at my riposte. “You don't want one from your husband, do you?”

“I never finesse against my partner,” I said from the doorway.

Brenda Gurney's party was very much the same as the numerous other afternoon teas I subsequently attended in Middleburn. The same set of young matrons was present and the conversation turned as usual to confinements and children generally. It was quite the thing to give an account of one's accouchements in intimate and minute detail. Each member of the party waited impatiently until she could relate her experiences, which were by far the most interesting.

I was surprised to note Yvonne Holland among those present. Whatever her feelings for her late father-in-law were, and I was not one to advocate respect for someone dead for whom one felt not the slightest liking in life, it would have been advisable for her to obey convention and stay away from any form of parties, however innocuous.

Several shocked glances were directed towards her during the afternoon. Brenda, easy-going, did not give a damn as long as Yvonne enjoyed herself. For myself, I was more interested than disapproving. Yvonne's attitude intrigued me. She had thrown off the chains of convention which had bound her to the Hall. Ill-timed as it was, I was glad to see she still had some courage left. But the carefree
look about Yvonne smacked of defiance. I watched her carefully as she chattered and laughed a great deal. She gave herself away by the old habit of plucking at her belt as though it was too tight around the waist. The girl was absurdly slim to have produced a baby at all. Her hip bones stood out like two points through the sheer wool of her blue frock. It seemed to fall in a perfectly flat surface from neck to waist. She greeted me in gay bantering fashion which gave the impression we were old friends who could afford to be rude to each other.

“How is Jimmy?” I asked, when conversation had ceased to be general and the crowd broke up into discussion groups.

“Much better,” she replied eagerly. “He seems to have picked up considerably during the last day or two. I am taking him down to the Health Centre tomorrow. I'm sure he has put on weight.”

I said feebly: “Why, that's grand.”

She had broken loose with a vengeance.

Yvonne went on: “Now that he's such an important person I think it is time he received more attention. Health Centres are very helpful, don't you think so?”

“Rather,” I agreed in a faint voice. Her sudden vigour was almost overwhelming. “Why don't you take him straight to a doctor to give him a thorough overhaul?”

“I would, if I knew of someone suitable. You see, I never had a doctor except when Jimmy was born—I couldn't bear to go to the local man.”

“Doctor Trefont?” I felt my way cautiously. “From all accounts he seems to be quite adequate.”

Yvonne shook her head obstinately. She was perfectly willing to take the baby to Sister Heather but not to Doctor Trefont.

“What about the doctor who attended your confinement?” I suggested.

“He only handles obstetrics. He's a gynaecologist. A Collins Street man,” she added, not without pride. It is amazing how more importance is added to one's case by saying that.

But Yvonne had not added her story to the harrowing collection. The omission puzzled me. I asked her the specialist's name.

At first her answer meant no more to me than fingers on a familiar chord. Barry Clowes. Where had I heard that name before? Barry—Then I remembered. I glanced at Yvonne a shade too quickly. Her eyes became suddenly wary as though she had spoken indiscreetly.

I said carelessly: “Quite a big shot, I believe. I was told he always employed his own anaesthetist. Am I right?”

Yvonne replied with some reluctance. “I had a special anaesthetist when Jimmy was born. Doctor Clowes always gives his patients the best attention. He believes in care before and after the birth.”

“So I was told,” I repeated significantly. Again Yvonne threw me that wary look.

“Was Doctor Trefont your anaesthetist?” I challenged her. I tried to hold her eyes and will her to answer. There was a pause. Then Yvonne dropped her gaze and quite deliberately upset her teacup over the arm of her chair. She jumped up dabbing at the tapestry. Our hostess came up leisurely.

“Oh, Brenda, I am sorry,” Yvonne cried. “I can't think how I was so clumsy.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll send one of the kids to get a cloth and mop it up. Let me get you another cup of tea.”

“I really think,” Yvonne said, with a guile that astounded me, “that I had better sit over there near the tea-table. I will be less likely to make a mess.” She took up a position in the middle of a chattering group where intimate conversation of the type I wanted with Yvonne was impossible.

“How did it happen?” Brenda murmured. “I hate to suggest it of one of my guests, but I thought it was done on purpose. I just happened to be glancing this way. What do you think?”

“I won't commit myself,” I said, smiling.

Brenda continued with her mopping. “You know, we were hoping you would be able to entertain us this afternoon. But Yvonne turned up and no one likes to mention the subject.”

“Thank heaven for Yvonne,” I replied, half-laughingly, half in earnest.

“I daresay, but we are bursting for the inside story. She's changed, don't you think?”

“Yvonne? Her present mood is unfamiliar to me. I doubt if she could change much underneath.”

“She's a sweet little thing, but I think she was foolish coming today. She'll get herself talked about.”

“I'm sure she has already,” I said, nodding my head around the room.

Brenda sighed. “Yes, we're awful cats. But it does save life from becoming too monotonous. Have you heard the latest about her cousin-in-law?”

I started to work this out.

“Ursula Mulqueen,” Mrs Gurney elucidated to save me trouble. “You must know her. Her clothes are appalling. That's the funny part.”

“Is it?” I asked, wondering if I was becoming slow on the uptake.

“My conversation is always disjointed,” my hostess said with a swift smile. “My husband says I lack mental coordination. The Mulqueen girl. Someone told me they saw her the other day in the cocktail lounge at the Albany.”

“She must have been an incongruous sight,” I said, thinking of that smart rendezvous and cherchez-vous.

“But she wasn't. She was dressed-up fit to conquer. Make-up, an exotic hair-do, and a stream of orchids to boot. What do you make of it?”

“I wouldn't care to give an opinion,” I replied, not without truth. The story was too fantastic.

“You disappoint me, Mrs Matheson. Don't you give anything away?”

“I learned discretion in a very hard school,” I told her. “I wasn't always so cautious. Talking of discretion, don't you think it is time you stopped pretending to clean that chair? Some curious glances are being directed our way.”

I was left isolated when she went. The first impression I made on the Middleburn tea circle had not been a favourable one. I was regarded with some trepidation, as though I might turn remarks to some sinister purpose connected with the police. It was not until the case was finalized that I became an accepted member of Middleburn society.

Brenda Gurney moved through the chattering groups to the radio. It had been playing softly ever since I arrived. She turned the dial round and round, saying disgustedly, “News session everywhere. I may as well switch it off.”

I called out to her across the room: “No, please don't. I'd like to hear it.”

There might be some news of the inquest. All day I had been thinking of John. How he was faring and whether he had been able to persuade the coroner to give a satisfactory decision.

No one knew what I had in mind, but my raised voice had the effect of silencing the talk. I was too interested in the news to worry about making myself conspicuous. I moved nearer to the radio in case the chatter started again, asking permission of my hostess to tune it louder. I had to wait until the overseas and national news were read before I got what I wanted. It was the first item of the local news. The desultory talk around me broke off abruptly as Middleburn was mentioned. The announcer's voice filled Brenda Gurney's room as though it was devoid of any others but myself.

“A verdict of murder by person or persons unknown was given. It has been officially announced that Mr Ernest Mulqueen, of Holland Hall, Middleburn, has been detained for further questioning.”

One or two of the party made ejaculations of shocked surprise. All eyes were turned to Yvonne. She took it very well. The girl had something more in her besides a superficial breeding gained by association with the Squire. She made no remark and her face remained impassive. But the seriousness of the position must have struck her forcibly, as she made her farewells almost immediately.

I felt curiously allied to Yvonne at that moment when hostile eyes turned upon her. She had lost her precarious footing in the society where I had not yet gained one. Nothing out of the way could be tolerated by these girls, except perhaps Brenda Gurney. I bade them all a hurried good-bye and left them to discuss us in peace.

I made no attempt to overtake Yvonne. There was nothing to say. She might or might not be fond of Ernest. The relationship was remote and his character and way of living far removed from her own. Besides she had shown a desire to avoid me.

We proceeded along in an absurd fashion, Yvonne wheeling her pram about ten yards in front of my pusher, wherein Tony slept surfeited with afternoon tea. Strangely enough she did not seem to realize I was there. Turning in at the Hall gates she caught a glimpse and stopped, beckoning me on with an imperiousness worthy of a Holland. The news of her uncle's detention had not upset the new mood.

As soon as I was within speaking distance, she said: “Isn't it terrible? Poor Aunt Elizabeth! What am I to say to her?”