The Key (9 page)

THE NEXT FEW hours saw a good deal of activity on the part of a number of people. Garth walked to Perry’s Halt and from there took the train to Marbury, from which sizeable town he judged that he could without indiscretion ring up Sir George Rendal. As a result of this conversation strings were pulled, a Chief Constable was tactfully approached and prevailed upon to request that the Harsch case should be taken over by Scotland Yard.

Garth, having finished with the telephone, partook of a horrible and very expensive meal at the Station Hotel and made his way back by the late slow local, wondering what hotel crooks did to food to make it so repulsive.

As he walked across the dark fields from Perry’s Halt he was wondering about other things. Madoc – why should Madoc have murdered Harsch? Jealousy over Medora Brown? A good stock answer out of all the melodramas that had ever been written. It did seem extraordinarily unlikely. But then people did do very unlikely things, and melodrama was a most constant factor in human affairs. Every day the snappier papers produced the most lunatic stories of human behaviour. Medora wasn’t his cup of tea, but she might be Madoc’s. She might even have been Michael Harsch’s. She was quite a handsome woman in her way. She could have sat or stood for almost any one of the darker heroines of Greek tragedy. A little old perhaps for Cassandra, but quite a possible Electra, who could never have been young, and a very credible Clytemnestra. Or Medusa. Yes, Medusa had it – a Medusa who had seen something which had turned her to stone. The legend in reverse.

Well, Madoc was bound to be arrested unless he had a very good explanation to hand about the key. He found himself wondering how Madoc would take arrest. These men who got angry about trifles sometimes found control in an emergency. He wondered, and wondered again, why Madoc should have shot Michael Harsch. There was the obvious melodramatic motive of jealousy. There was the impossible-possible twisted motive of the pacifist who sees himself rescuing the world from the latest perversion of science. It might be either of these, or a tangled mixture of both. He thought the police might have their work cut out to get a case that would hold water. A jury wasn’t going to like hanging a man on the unsupported evidence of a boy of twelve. He was glad the thing was off his shoulders anyway. He had made the report he was bound to make, and that finished it as far as he was concerned.

It felt like the middle of the night, but it was actually no more than eleven o’clock when he got back to the Rectory, where he discovered Miss Sophy in a woollen dressing-gown sitting up for him with hot coffee and sandwiches, over which she became very chatty but most admirably abstained from asking any questions. In her generation the men of the family came and went, and you never dreamed of asking them where they had been. It simply wasn’t done.

She talked instead about Miss Brown.

‘I am afraid Mr Harsch’s death has been a very severe shock. I would not let her sit up – she is, really not at all herself – but I hope perhaps in the morning, with the inquest behind her, she will be feeling better.’

Garth had his doubts. He felt concerned and embarrassed, and made haste to talk about Miss Doncaster. He had heard Aunt Sophy become quite animated on the subject before now, but tonight she merely sighed and said, ‘You know, my dear, I am sorry for her. She and Mary Anne had a very difficult time when they were young. Their father was a most peculiar man. He didn’t like people coming to the house, and they never had any opportunities even when they were abroad. I think they would have liked to marry, but they never met anyone. Mr Doncaster was really so very reserved, and he lived till they were both past middle age. And now Mary Anne is a complete invalid, so I feel sorry for Lucy Ellen, though sometimes she does make me lose my temper.’

Garth felt very warmly towards his Aunt Sophy as he said good-night.

At a little after ten o’clock next morning a very empty train approached Perry’s Halt containing two officers sent down from Scotland Yard. They were Chief Detective Inspector Lamb, a large imperturbable person with a sanguine complexion and strong black hair wearing a little thin upon the top, and Detective Sergeant Abbott, between whom no greater contrast could be imagined. They might, in fact, have furnished material for a cartoon entitled ‘The Police Officer, Old and New’ – Abbott being an extremely elegant young man who had arrived at his present position by way of a public school and the Police College. His fair hair was slicked back from rather a high brow. His clothes were of the most admirable cut. His expression as he sat opposite his superior officer was one of boredom verging on gloom. He had, as a matter of fact, just had his fourth application to be allowed to join the RAF refused, and refused with what could only be described as an official raspberry. To his Chief Inspector’s well meant recommendation to look upon the bright side he replied bitterly that there wasn’t one.

Lamb looked at him reprovingly.

‘No call to say things like that, Frank. I can feel for you all right, because the same thing happened to me in nineteen-fifteen. Downright put out about it I was, but I’ve come to see things different, and so will you.’

There was a faint insubordinate gleam in Sergeant Abbott’s pale blue eyes as he passed in review the shoulders, the girth, the very considerable avoirdupois of his superior, the reproof of whose glance became intensified.

‘Now you listen to me! I don’t mind betting – not that I’m a betting man or ever have been, but that’s just a manner of speaking – well, I don’t mind betting that you’ve been thinking, “What’s it matter whether an odd professor gets murdered, when there’s thousands blowing each other to bits all over the world?” ’

Abbott’s lips framed inaudibly the words, ‘Archibald the All-right’, and then passed rapidly to a bowdlerised version.

‘You’re always right, sir. That is exactly what I was thinking.’

‘Then you stop it and listen to me! What’s at the bottom of this and every other war that’s ever started? Contempt for the law, just the same as any other crime. Someone wants something, and he goes to grab it. If anyone gets in his way they get hurt, and he doesn’t care. Pity of it is, when it’s nations there isn’t anything strong enough to stop them. But when it’s what you might call private crime there’s the law and there’s us. Every time we lay a criminal by the heels we’re making people see that the law is there to protect them and to be respected. That’s the way you get a law-abiding people. And when you’ve got that, you’ve got people with a respect for other people’s law – what you might call International Law. You can’t keep things like that for yourself unless you’re willing for other people to have ’em too – not when it’s law anyway. That’s what’s gone wrong with the Germans – they’ve stopped respecting the law – other people’s first, and then their own. Well, that’s not going to happen over here. But the law’s got to be served, and that’s where we come in. Servants of the law – that’s you and me, and it don’t matter whether we’re flying, or driving a tank, or hunting a murderer, we’ve got to do our job. Well, here we are. There’s the local man on the platform, and I hope he’s got a car.’

He had, and they were driven in it to the police station at Bourne, where they interviewed a cocksure and uplifted Cyril Bond and took his statement. Questioned upon it, he gave definite and very clear replies, and was dismissed with an injunction to keep his mouth shut. After which Lamb announced that they would walk to the Rectory if someone would show them the way, but they would like to see the church first.

MISS BROWN FACED them across the table in the old rector’s study. She was of such a pallor as to rouse some apprehension lest she should bring the interview to a sudden close by fainting. She wore a black dress. She sat stiffly upright. She kept her eyes upon the Chief Inspector’s face – haunted eyes with dilated pupils.

Sergeant Abbott sat at one end of the table with a notebook. He had seen a good many frightened people in the course of his professional duties, but he thought Miss Brown had it as badly as any of them.

After an impressive pause old Lamb was leading off.

‘You are Miss Medora Brown?’

‘Yes.’

‘You gave evidence yesterday at the inquest on Mr Michael Harsch, during which you stated that, having used your church key on Tuesday morning, you put it back in the top left-hand drawer of Miss Fell’s bureau, and that you did not go to the church again.’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like to modify that statement at all, or to add to it?’

Her lips hardly moved, but they said, ‘No.’

Lamb made a show of unfolding a paper. He did not hurry over it.

‘I have here the statement of a witness who says he was in a lane known as the Church Cut somewhere between nine and a quarter to ten p.m. on the night of Mr Harsch’s death. He states that you came through the garden door into the lane, and that Professor Madoc met you, and asked you whether you were going to the church to see Mr Harsch, who was playing the organ there. He said that you should not go, and that you should hand him over the key. When you refused, he twisted your arm and the key fell. The witness declares that Mr Madoc picked it up and went off in the direction of the church, whilst you went back into the garden and shut the door. Have you any comment to make?’

Miss Brown stared with those dilated eyes. She moistened her pale lips and said, ‘No.’

Lamb leaned forward.

‘It is only fair to tell you that Major Albany says that your key was not in the drawer on Thursday evening, but that by the time you all returned from the inquest on Friday morning it had been replaced. There is further evidence to show that you left the house at midnight on Thursday for a quarter of an hour, and that you went into the lane. There was some broken glass there, and you brought a bit of it in on your dress. Mr Madoc also picked up a bit of broken glass. From which we infer that you met him again on Thursday night, and that he then gave you back the key which he had taken from you on Tuesday.’

There was a somewhat prolonged pause. Lifting his eyes from his notebook, Sergeant Abbott surveyed Miss Brown. She was not looking at him but at the Chief Inspector. He at once became aware that the quality of this look had changed. It was as if, having heard the worst, she was assembling her courage. At least that is how it struck him. Certainly something had happened since he had looked at her last. She was, for instance, no longer so rigid. The extreme pallor was gone. You couldn’t say that her colour had come back. That thick, smooth skin of hers probably never had any, and when she wasn’t paralysed with fright it would appear very much as it did now.

As the thought went through his mind, she made a slight movement and said quick and low, ‘Will you let me explain?’

Lamb said, ‘Certainly. I shall be glad to hear anything you have to say.’

She moved again, leaning a little towards him.

‘Of course I don’t know who your witness is, but he is quite mistaken in what he saw. I can tell you exactly what happened. I could hear that Mr Harsch was playing the organ in the church. He is—’ she paused and corrected herself ‘—he was a very fine musician. I have often gone into the church to listen when he was playing. I meant to do so on Tuesday evening. I took my key because sometimes he has locked the door. I went down through the garden and opened the door into the lane. There is a similar door into the churchyard a little farther along.’

‘Yes – we have been over the ground.’

‘Then you will understand. I was just going into the lane, when I heard footsteps and saw someone coming from the direction of the village. It was a man, but I didn’t recognise him. It certainly wasn’t Mr Madoc. The man called out something, I don’t know what, and I went back into the garden and shut the door as your witness says. I thought the man was intoxicated, and I gave up the idea of going to the church. Afterwards when I got up to my room I found that I had dropped my key.’

Lamb gazed at her with solid gravity.

‘Did you go back to look for it?’

She shook her head.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It was getting late – the man had startled me – I thought Miss Fell would be coming up to bed – I didn’t want to make explanations – I thought I would leave it till the morning.’

Frank Abbott thought, ‘One reason would have been enough – and she’s given us five. Five explanations means that something wants a lot of explaining away. Women always overdo things. In fact, “methinks the lady doth protest too much.” ’

He wrote what she had said, and heard Lamb ask, ‘How do you know that it wasn’t Mr Madoc who came along the lane?’

‘It wasn’t anyone as tall as Mr Madoc’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? It was bright moonlight, wasn’t it?’

‘There are trees overhanging the wall. His face was in shadow.’

‘You are sure that you didn’t recognise him?’

She sat easily now, her hands lying loosely in her lap. She said, ‘Quite sure.’

‘Then how do you account for the fact that he addressed you as Medora? That is your name, isn’t it?’

The hands took hold of one another. Frank watched them. They strained and tightened.

‘I told you he called out. I couldn’t hear what he said. He may have mistaken me for someone else. The cook next door is called Dora.’

Bent over his notebook again, Frank Abbott permitted himself a slight sarcastic smile. Lamb said, ‘You deny having had any conversation with this man? The statement I spoke of says that words passed between you on the subject of Mr Harsch.’

‘There was no conversation. I went back into the garden.’

‘Yes – leaving your key. When did you get it back again, Miss Brown?’

It appeared she was quite easy about that. She took it in her stride.

‘I went to look for it on Wednesday morning. I am afraid I didn’t look very carefully. We had had the news of Mr Harsch’s death, and I was terribly upset – I couldn’t think about anything else. I didn’t think about the key being important until someone – I think it was Miss Doncaster – said that of course the police would ask a lot of questions about the other church keys. That was on Thursday. So that evening I waited for the moon and went out into the lane to see if I could find my key.’

‘Why did you have to wait for the moon? Wouldn’t it have been a good deal simpler by daylight?’

She threw him an odd protesting glance.

‘I hadn’t time – I couldn’t get away. I am Miss Fell’s companion. Major Albany was coming to stay – there was a great deal to do.’

The same multiplicity of reasons.

Lamb said, ‘I see. Go on, Miss Brown.’

Protest changed to something like defiance.

‘There isn’t any more. I found the key. There was some broken glass there, as you said. I suppose I must have brought a bit in. I naturally didn’t imagine that anyone would be spying on me.’

There was just a spark of temper there. Lamb took no notice of it.

He said gravely, ‘Where did you find the key?’ and at once she was relaxed again. The answer came readily.

‘It was lying up against the wall under a dandelion plant.’

‘Which side of the door?’

‘On the right. It was close up against the wall.’

Lamb got up, went to the window, and stood there looking out. He could see the wall, and the shape of the door breaking it. Without turning round he said, ‘The handle’s on the left. Those doors open inwards, don’t they?’

‘Yes.’

He came back to his seat. Miss Brown went on speaking.

‘The key must have fallen out of my hand when the man startled me. It was right up against the wall, quite close to the jamb. The moon happened to shine on it, or I might not have seen it.’

‘And did Mr Madoc come there to help you look for your key?’

She drew back. The effect was that she flinched.,

‘How could he help me? He wasn’t there. Nobody helped me.’

‘You deny that you met Mr Madoc in the lane on Thursday night?’

‘Of course I deny it. He wasn’t there. I went out, and found the key, and put it back in the bureau drawer.’

Lamb took a frowning glance at the paper he had handled before, and then looked up and asked with an effect of suddenness, ‘Just how well did you know Mr Harsch?’

Miss Brown was not at all discomposed.

‘I knew him – we were on friendly terms. Miss Fell is fond of music – she often invited him.’

‘You were friendly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you more than friendly?’

She lifted her eyebrows and said coldly, ‘Certainly not.’

‘And Mr Madoc?’

There was a pause before she said, ‘I don’t know – what you mean.’

Her tone was very nearly the same, but not quite. It was still cold, but Frank Abbott thought that it had changed. He thought she was afraid.

Lamb said, ‘I am asking you how well you know Mr Madoc?’

This time her answer came quickly in a tumble of words.

‘I know him – we all know each other here – it’s a small place. Is there anything wrong about that?’

‘Does he call you by your Christian name?’

‘Certainly not! Why should he?’

‘That is not for me to say, Miss Brown.’

The Chief Inspector pushed back his chair and got up.