by John Creasey
“Not as far as I know. I’ll have her checked and the house watched. Anything else for me now?”
“Get cracking,” Coppell ordered.
“I’ve got Sloan, Wilderson, and Larson on the move,” Roger said. “Shall we manage with the Richmond Police Surgeon, or take one of our top men?”
“I’ll have Quinn standing by,” said Coppell.
Roger sat in the back of his car with Sloan at his side, and Larson, the Yard’s photographic expert, in the seat next to a plain-clothes man at the wheel. There wasn’t much to say because little more was known. He had learned that Dr Courtways had telephoned the Yard and been put through to the Commander; she had first asked for West, but he had been engaged.
“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” Roger said to Sloan. “The plane left an hour before we heard about it.”
“Do we know how she died?” asked Larson. “Not one of these chopper jobs, I hope.”
“Strangled, according to Richmond.” Roger had talked to Superintendent Callen, just before leaving, and they were going straight to the nursing home, where Callen would meet them.
“Any special angle to follow?” asked Sloan. He was a big, fresh-faced, schoolboyish-looking man who was now running to fat, which made him less wholesome-looking than he had been when he and Roger had first worked together. Weight, marriage, and possibly disappointment had slowed him down in more ways than one. He had resigned himself to being a top-flight second-in-command, and if he were ever moved up to superintendency it would be towards the end of his career, and because of seniority. He could carry out orders, but somehow could not make decisions quickly enough to ensure his promotion,
“It’s going to be tricky,” Roger told him. “Particularly if we run into any of the patients. Dr Courtways may prevent it, but it may not be possible.” He related what had happened only two afternoons before, and an uneasy silence followed.
Traffic was very thick. It would be twelve o’clock before they reached the place, but it was no use worrying, Roger told himself and then glared out of the window, because he was worrying.
Those violet eyes . . .
Could it be argued that Yolande Marshall was better off dead?
Roger pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t relevant. What mattered was who had killed her and why, and whether Sir David Marshall could possibly know anything about it. He had already started enquiries, through the Yard’s legal department, to find out who would benefit from Lady Marshall’s death.
Her husband, presumably; perhaps also the cousin in Miami.
And one other person; a person who would benefit enormously because Marshall was now free to marry her.
Henrietta Lyle.
12
CAUSE FOR ANXIETY
Henrietta watched the huge jet aircraft take off, saw the streamers of dark fumes behind each engine, and waited on the observation roof of the airport until the machine had become only a speck in the sky. All the time she had been watching she had been aware of the roar of other aircraft landing and taking off, of voices over the public address system, of movement in the crowd below, the constant bustle as aircraft were reloaded and provisioned and made ready for new journeys to new lands and new peoples.
At last she turned and walked away.
David had telephoned her early that morning, and asked her to come with him to the airport, and she had scurried to get ready and be on time. But she had hated the actual moments of parting, and had told David that she wouldn’t wait. They had said goodbye in the main lounge, long before he had boarded the bus which had taken him to the aircraft. Perhaps she should have gone home then. She wasn’t used to this strange, empty feeling; now, she could almost understand what he meant when he told her how he felt when she left him.
She walked with forced briskness back to the big multiple storey car park. He had driven here in his car, she was to drive it back. It was much larger than hers, and she was still a little awkward. A young BOAC officer, watching, grinned across at her.
“Shall I drive?” he called.
In spite of herself, she laughed; it was the kind of thing Gerry would say. She waved, and he waved back.
Two young men thumbed for a lift, but she shook her head. In these days it wasn’t safe to stop for anyone, she told herself – feeling, nevertheless, a pang of contrition as she passed them – but the next moment they were forgotten, as thoughts of David flooded back to her mind. It would be strange not to see him for so long, but the time would soon pass, she must concentrate on what she had to do. Despite convincing herself that she felt much better she was glum for most of the drive, and when she put the car in the garage and locked the garage doors, she felt almost sorry for herself. But Miss Toms, the ‘daily’ who was more than a daily, tall, gangling, raw-boned and with very prominent eyes, called to her from the kitchen.
“Got him off safely, then?”
“Yes – he’s the better part of a thousand miles away by now.”
“I never did trust those aircraft,” declared Miss Toms. “I had a boyfriend who was a pilot once, always late, he was. Going to be in for lunch?”
“Yes – can you get me a snack?”
“I’ll leave a tray,” promised Miss Toms.
Henrietta passed the open kitchen door and was almost at the door of her room when the other called out in a tone of alarm, “Hey! I nearly forgot!”
Sugar, tea, coffee, milk, meat, bread – Miss Toms nearly forgot something every day.
“What’s that?” called Henrietta, over her shoulder.
“I meant to leave a note on your desk,” said Miss Toms, striding behind her. “My hands were wet, that’s why I didn’t. A policeman called.”
Henrietta spun round on her heel.
“What?”
“Said he wanted Sir David and the next best thing would be you.”
“Did he say what he wanted?” asked Henrietta, annoyed that the police were making such a fuss, and fearful that the caller had said enough to let Miss Tom put two and two together.
“No – but would you call him back.”
“Was his name West?”
“No, but he said he was speaking for a man named West.”
“What name am I to ask for?” enquired Henrietta.
“Tomlinson – Detective Sergeant Tomlinson. That’s not a name I’m likely to forget,” declared Miss Toms, delighted with herself.
Henrietta glanced at the clock; it was a quarter to twelve, she had been an hour getting back from the airport. Better get the call over. She sat at her desk and dialled, asked for Tomlinson, and was put through almost at once.
“Tomlinson here.”
“I understand you asked me to call you,” said Henrietta. “This is Henrietta Lyle.”
“Henrietta?—oh! Miss Lyle?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you speaking from?” the man asked.
“Sir David Marshall’s home,” said Henrietta, a little puzzled by his tone of voice. “Is it about—?”
“Is one of our men there, Miss Lyle?”
“A man from Scotland Yard? No. Why should there be?”
“He’s late, then,” said Tomlinson. “I’m sorry to be so mysterious, but will you please wait until he comes and say nothing to anyone else before you talk to him. He’ll be a Detective Sergeant Cousins.”
“Will you please tell me what this is all about?” demanded Henrietta, and, as she spoke, heard a ring at the front door bell.
“Someone is here now,” she said. “It may be your Mr Cousins.”
“I’d be most grateful if you’ll check,” said Tomlinson.
There were footsteps in the hall – Miss Toms, making sure she was at the door first. Puzzled, and aware that there must be something more than she yet knew, Henrietta said, “Yes, ho
ld on,” and stood up. As she did so, a shattering thought struck her: David’s plane might have crashed.
“Oh, my God, no!” she exclaimed.
She realised that the colour had drained from her face as she opened the door. Miss Toms was admitting an unexpectedly elderly, grey-haired man. Henrietta had an impression of a lined face and of piercing slate-blue eyes.
She made herself speak evenly.
“Are you Detective Sergeant Cousins?”
“Yes, Miss. Are you Miss Henrietta Lyle?”
“Yes. What has happened?”
He looked at her squarely, and Miss Toms gaped, scenting excitement if not scandal. Henrietta clenched her hands with impatience.
“What would you think might have happened, Miss?”
“Anything!” she exclaimed. “A Mr Tomlinson from the Yard is on the telephone, now you—has the aircraft crashed?” She could not keep the anguish out of her voice.
“Lord save us!” gasped Miss Toms.
“Aircraft—” Cousins began, then broke off hastily. “No, miss, that’s not why I’m here. No aircraft’s crashed that I know of. I’ll be glad if you will spare me a few minutes.”
“Certainly.” Henrietta forced a smile, and led him through to her office.
Cousins, moving very quickly for a heavy man who must be nearly sixty, went across to her desk. “May I, Miss Lyle? Thank you.”
He picked up the telephone, “That you, Tommy . . . yes . . . I shouldn’t think so . . . yes, of course.”
He rang off and turned to face Henrietta, and she sensed that he was watching her very closely indeed, that he was going to try to catch her off guard.
“How long have you known about Lady Marshall’s death?” He made the question into an accusation.
Angered by his manner and worried by the uncertainty, Henrietta heard the words but did not immediately take in their meaning. It was the way he looked at her searchingly, that really brought the significance of the question home. And as it dawned, so her expression changed, surprise, disbelief, horror, following one another across her face.
“Dead! But she can’t be dead,” she said at last.
“I’m afraid she is, miss.” Cousins’ voice was flat, unemotional.
“But—but—David—Sir David—would have heard about it!”
“Hadn’t he?”
“Of course he hadn’t. Almost the last thing he told me to do was telephone Dr Courtways regularly and enquire . . .” She broke off.
“Was it indeed,” said Cousins slowly.
“Please tell me why you’re here?” Henrietta spoke fearfully. “What has it to do with the police, even if Lady Marshall is dead?”
“She was murdered, miss. Strangled. They found her this morning.” Cousins might have been talking about the weather.
Henrietta caught her breath. Yolande – murdered!
But people one knew were never murdered. Only strangers, people one read about in the newspapers. Yolande. It was impossible.
As the thoughts raced through her mind, uncontrolled, once again she had a strange feeling that this man was trying to catch her off guard. But why should he? she wondered. Surely—surely he couldn’t suspect that she, Henrietta . . . that David . . .
It was monstrous.
It was more than she could stand.
“I’ll be glad to help in any way I can, but I think I had better talk to Superintendent West . . .” Her voice sounded hollowly in her ears, her knees trembled. In a few moments she would begin to cry. Biting her lip, she led the way back to the hall.
Cousins, following her, did not ask any more questions. When he had gone, however, there were two uniformed policemen outside, one at the front door, one at the front gate.
Back in her office, she sat down at her desk, shivering. Making herself lift the telephone, she called Dr Courtways, but the doctor was not available. She tried three times, then forced herself to start typing some letters which David had been anxious to have posted today; but she had no sooner put the paper in the machine than there was a tap on the door, and in came Miss Toms.
Two gentlemen had called from The Daily Globe, said Miss Toms, could Miss Lyle spare them a few minutes?
Henrietta shook her head, bending pointedly over the letters, and Miss Toms turned reluctantly away.
The next moment the telephone rang. Henrietta snatched up the receiver – could this be Dr Courtways?
“Evening News here, miss. I wonder—”
“I’m sorry.” Henrietta depressed the receiver rest, waited for the dialling tone, then tried for the fourth time to get Dr Courtways, but still without success.
The moment she replaced the receiver, the telephone rang again. It was another reporter.
“I’m sorry.” Wearily, Henrietta replaced the receiver, and, on the instant, the bell rang yet again.
This time, it was Superintendent Roger West.
The most vivid moment of Roger’s day, one which would stay in his mind for a very long time, was when he saw Lady Marshall lying back in bed, her head on one side, her beautiful violet eyes closed, her mouth slack.
Dr Courtways related the story quietly and without emotion. It was normal, she told Roger, for patients to sleep as long as they wished. Lady Marshall had not called for her tea by ten o’clock, this had been reported, and a nurse had gone to check.
“I was told at once, Superintendent, and immediately tried to speak to you. When you weren’t available I asked for Mr Coppell.”
“I’m glad you did,” Roger said. “You understand that everyone will have to be questioned, unless we get results very quickly?”
“You mean the patients?” Dr Courtways looked questioningly at Roger, and he nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. Any one of them is capable of committing the crime, Mr West . . .” she was talking a shade too quickly, her only outward show of nervous tension, “I can only pray that none of them actually did so.”
“What chances are there of anyone breaking in?” Roger demanded.
Dr Courtways frowned. “Our main purpose is to make sure that none of the patients can break out,” she said. “I’m afraid that that may well answer your question. Oh, well,” she shrugged, “I have arranged for the secretary – in fact for all the staff – to be entirely at your disposal. And there is a room on the ground floor, with a telephone, for your exclusive use.”
The rest of the day, Roger, and the members of his team, checked, questioned, took photographs, and tested everything in the room for fingerprints. The night staff was brought in and questioned, four of them in all.
None reported anything unusual.
None of the patients appeared to have left their rooms.
The front door was always locked and bolted; the back and two side doors also, but as all the patients were on the first floor, a night nurse in constant attendance, there was always a tendency to be careless with downstairs windows.
“So someone could have broken in,” Roger said. He was nagged by the fact that Marshall had flown to Miami on that very morning.
He talked to the local Police Surgeon and to Jack Quinn, the consultant pathologist at the Yard. Both agreed that a stocking had been slipped beneath Lady Marshall’s head, and drawn tightly round her neck until she was dead.
“But why didn’t she cry out? Make some attempt to fend off her attacker?” Roger asked. “The night staff had heard nothing and there had been no signs of a struggle.”
“She was very heavily drugged,” Quinn told him, “the normal practice, apparently. She would have been unaware of what was happening.”
Someone had crept into that room, taken the stocking, wound it round Lady Marshall’s throat – and drawn it tighter and tighter.
“Could a woman have done it?” Roger knew the answer before he put the question.
“Of course.”
It had been half past three in the afternoon when Detective Sergeant Cousins had arrived at Richmond. It was nearly half past four when he reported back to Roger at the nursing home. The moment Roger saw him, he sensed excitement.
“Let’s have the big stuff first,” Roger ordered.
They were in the room which had been put at his disposal, one which faced a hedge on one side of the grounds. In the past few hours Roger had interviewed at least twenty people here and would probably interview as many more before the day was out.
“It could be big stuff, at that, sir. Sir David Marshall went out in his car at five minutes to twelve last night and returned a little after two o’clock this morning. The neighbour who reported the incident between him and Gerald Ward, saw him leave and return. He could easily have gone to Richmond and back in that time, sir.”
13
A MASS OF EVIDENCE
Roger watched the other man’s face, saw the depth of his satisfaction, and did the one thing which told him how seriously he took this news. He lifted the telephone and dialled the Yard, asking as he did so, “Found any corroborative evidence yet?”
“Two men on the beat saw a dark coloured Rover 2000 which could have been Marshall’s, heading towards Putney.”
“The right direction. Mr Coppell, please . . . West.” He held on. “What else?”
“I had a talk with Miss Lyle, sir. Incidentally, she thinks . . .”
Cousins broke off a fraction of a second before Coppell spoke into the telephone, and Roger sensed that he had bitten his tongue to keep back what he intended to say.
Then Coppell said, “Well, Handsome?”
“Marshall is known to have gone out between twelve and two in the morning,” Roger told him. “Can you get all the Divisions en route to check, sir?” That would be Chelsea, Fulham, Putney, and Richmond. “They’ll jump to it quicker for you than for me.”
“I’ll fix it,” said Coppell. “Anything else?”
