Death and Miss Dane

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “Go on—say it, “ she urged. “I said I hadn’t had that key ring back from Choomy. Choomy says he gave it back to me. And that’s worrying you.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “That isn’t what’s worrying me. What’s worrying me is that there’s something about you that seems to have warped my judgment. The confidence I can’t help having in you is hardly justified by circumstances. There are things about you that don’t add up. Perhaps I haven’t any detective instinct, but the fact remains that I don’t seem to have any doubts about you.”

  “There’s nothing extraordinary in that. It’s just one of those things. If somebody came to me, said you’d done anything mean, anything criminal, I’d say you hadn’t; finished. You don’t have to explain a thing like that; in fact, you can’t. You have to accept. But the police,” she ended calmly, “won’t accept it. Why don’t we turn around and go to them now, and tell them everything about the key ring and about Choomy and about me?”

  “No.” He brought out the word without hesitation. “Not tonight. Let’s enjoy one night without any police treading on our tails. Let’s be police-free citizens—just for tonight. Let’s enjoy ourselves with my mother and Rosario and Frances and Bob.”

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “They hate living here,” he said. “Not because it’s small, but because they loved the farmhouse so much. Did Frances tell you they’d tried farming?”

  “Yes. Where was the farmhouse?”

  “Over there on West Hill, below Sanctuary. The General Hospital bought it—the house and the land—when Bob and Frances had to give up. He put a manager in—but every time Bob and Frances look out of one of their front windows they can see the chimneys of their old house, and it…reminds them.”

  “Frances wants her husband to join you.”

  “So do I. He will—one day; give him time.”

  “Did he always live here, like you and Frances?”

  “No. He was a school friend of mine, and one day I introduced him to Frances, and that was that. She loved the Valley and she persuaded him to buy a farm—and that was that too. Now she’s afraid to open her mouth and let any advice come out of it.”

  “What was the General like?” she asked, her eyes on the distant outlines of Sanctuary.

  “The General? Hard but fair, I think. Nobody around here knew him, because he kept himself to himself, and I only met him a few times on business, but he struck me as being a nice old fellow. I’m sorry he’s dead, and I hope they’ll catch the devil that killed him.” He frowned down at Anabel. “What are you going to tell the police tomorrow?”

  “My whole history, I guess. Born in Canada, brought up wherever my father worked, which was sometimes in Canada and sometimes South America. Mining engineer; only one child; a daughter—me. I wanted to see Europe, and he staked me for two years because my mother, he said—only I don’t remember, because she died when I was born—was a great one for culture. Two years; he thought I’d get enough culture in that time to set me up for life. But there was an awful hole to full, and two years didn’t fill it. I ran out of money, and I took a job. The end.”

  “So far.”

  ”So far. You were born at Sanctuary, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it hard to leave?”

  “Harder for my mother than for me, I think. It all came too suddenly for her. My father died, and we found there was no money, and that meant selling out. The end.”

  She laughed—a sound so musical that he thought, ludicrously, of sleigh-bells. And then he saw Frances coming out of the house, and felt something that was almost relief, for the sight of her was familiar, and it steadied him and brought him back to reality and made him remember a number of things he had been in danger of forgetting.

  Chapter 6

  He helped Anabel out of the car and took her suitcase, only to have it taken from him by Bob Castle, who had followed his wife out of the house. Short, fair, stocky, he turned a tanned, humorous face on Anabel and shook her hand with manifest satisfaction.

  “My, my, my,” he intoned, “a lovely honey blonde for my tea! Look at her, Paul—my favourite colouring and my favourite proportions.”

  “Down!” warned Frances. “Anabel, take no notice.”

  “It just shows,” Bob told nobody in particular, in a voice of pride, “how much confidence my wife has in me.”

  “Or in me,” suggested Anabel calmly.

  Bob grinned at her, and she smiled back at him, and Paul, getting reluctantly into the car, watched them going into the house and drove away with the same feelings of regret and relief filling his mind. He made the journey to Brakeways in record time, the sight of Philippa, he felt, would sweep away these almost disloyal thoughts.

  A maid let him in and led him to the drawing-room; Philippa, she told him, was dressing and would be down soon. It was twenty minutes before anybody joined him, but he did not notice the passing of time; he was back at the Junction, watching a girl detaching two keys from a key ring and handing it to a small, fat little boy. Anabel Dane…Mr. Dutt…Choomy; his thoughts shuttled between them and then came to rest on Anabel. He did not hear the door open, and was startled when the doctor’s voice sounded behind him.

  “Oh—hello,” he said, turning. “How’s Mr. Allenby?”

  “You can go up and see him if you want to,” said the doctor. “He’s all right. Philippa sang out as I passed her door to ask me to tell you she wouldn’t be long. I hear you’re putting up Mrs. Zimmerman?”

  “Yes. My mother thought it wasn’t right to leave her alone at the Lodge.”

  “Won’t it get you all in rather deep with the police?”

  “I don’t see why. Anyway, she’s getting a change.”

  “And she’s getting time to think; a great advantage.”

  “I’ll go up and see him now,” he said.

  “Well, I’ll be seeing you. Want me to take a look at Mrs. Zimmerman this evening?”

  Paul hesitated.

  “No. Leave it till tomorrow, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  “Just as you like. I gave her a sedative; you might see that she takes it before she settles down for the night.”

  “I will,” promised Paul.

  He knocked on Mr. Allenby’s door, and a rather hoarse voice told him to enter. Going in, he saw the patient propped up in bed, looking, he thought, more angry than ill.

  “Don’t come too close,” warned Mr. Allenby. “Sit over there, by the window. Full of germs, full of germs.”

  “I won’t sit down, thanks,” said Paul. “I just looked in to ask how you were feeling.”

  “I’ve got a bad cold, and my head’s muzzy. Got no appetite; none whatsoever. My chest feels heavy, too, but I can’t get that doctor to take anything I say seriously. He knows perfectly well I’ve got a weak heart and I ought to be in the hands of a nurse, but he persists in behaving as though I’m in bed just for the pleasure of being waited on. I’m going to get up tomorrow; there’s no pleasure in being in bed, I can tell you. If you’ll look out of that window you’ll see what I mean. People grow trees to hide themselves from their neighbours, and these tenants of that doctor’s hang their washing on ’em. Look at that; saris and puggrees and Lord knows what else floating there like bunting. As soon as I’m on my feet I’m going along to see them, to lodge a strong complaint. I pointed it out to the doctor, and all he did was laugh.”

  “Perhaps Philippa could say something next time she sees them.”

  “Next time? There won’t be a first time if I have anything to do with it,” said Mr. Allenby.

  “I must have got it wrong; I understood she’d called on them,” said Paul. “Now if you’ll forgive me, I’ll—”

  He stopped. Mr. Allenby’s mouth was hanging open, and he was staring at Paul with eyes that almost started from his head.

  “What…did you say?” He asked slowly.

  “Nothing,” said Paul hastily. “Just that I had to leave you;
I’ve—”

  “You said…you said that Philippa had…had been to see them. What did you mean?”

  “She merely paid a friendly call; her mother wasn’t well enough to go, and as Mrs. Dutt is having a baby, she—”

  “Philippa…went there?”

  “I’m sorry I mentioned it—but I assumed you’d know.”

  “Know!” Mr. Allenby made an effort at self-control. “Don’t you realize that until this murder is cleared up, everybody ought to keep away from that house? I’m not fool enough to say that any of ’em did away with the General, but how do we know for certain? One of those servants might have gone out on the prowl and found his way down through the woods and seen the General through the windows of that veranda room. There wasn’t a curtain or a screen of any kind, my sister tells me; a fellow could have looked in, or found his way in and been surprised by the General—who knows?”

  “I wouldn’t worry if I were you. The police seem to be on the job.”

  “Police!” Mr. Allenby snorted. “They came here and asked a lot of lunatic questions and stood about wasting time. Police! Well, I mustn’t keep you; suppose you’re anxious to be off. Nice of you to come in, very nice, very nice.”

  “I hope you’ll be up soon.”

  “I told you. Getting up tomorrow. Be glad to be out of this room. Good-bye, goodbye.”

  Paul closed the door behind him and walked thoughtfully downstairs. As he got to the hall he heard Philippa coming down, and waited for her to join him. Without pausing, she leaned a cheek toward him for his kiss, and frowned when he stopped her and turned her face to his.

  “Not now, Paul,” she said irritably. “I’ve only just made my face up.”

  He released her at once and followed her into the drawing-room and closed the door. She took a cigarette from a box and handed him one.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting,” she said.

  “That’s all right. I went up to see your uncle. I’m afraid I upset him by mentioning that you’d gone to see the Dutts.”

  He was holding his lighter open for her, and she had been about to light her cigarette, but she removed it from between her lips and stared at him, her red mouth slightly open.

  “What in the world did you want to tell him for?” she asked slowly and angrily.

  “Why shouldn’t you call on Mrs. Dutt if you want to? It was a very kind thing to do. Don’t you want a light?”

  She lit her cigarette and walked to a chair and sat down, but something about her manner told him that her mind was far away.

  “I’ve said I’m sorry.” He walked forward and took one of her hands. “What’s got into you?”

  “I’ve got two invalids on my hands; it doesn’t make for gaiety,” she said.

  “I suppose not. Tell me—”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Did you know that the General had been married?”

  “I knew when mother told me. She knew when he told her—which was on the day he proposed. Didn’t I mention it to you?”

  “No.” There were a lot of things that she and her mother hadn’t mentioned, he mused.

  “I’ve ordered dinner for you; perhaps I’ll feel better after a few hours with you.”

  “I can’t stay to dinner I’m afraid. I’ve got to get back; Mrs. Zimmerman’s there, and—”

  “Mrs. Zimmerman? Dining with you?”

  “Staying with us. Rosario found her walking down the road looking ill, and brought her in, and mother asked her to

  stay.”

  “But good heavens!” She sat bolt upright. “Don’t you know what everybody’s saying about her? She had a violent quarrel with the General, and left him in a terrible state of nerves, and when the police questioned her, she pretended she’d lost her memory!”

  “She can’t remember what happened on the day before his death, but there’s nothing extraordinary about that,” pointed out Paul. “She isn’t young, and I don’t suppose the police broke the news of his death with too much preparation. But it isn’t only Mrs. Zimmerman tonight. Bob and Frances are coming in and bringing Anabel Dane.”

  “Bringing who?”

  “Miss Dane.”

  “Dane? Dane? Is she the girl Uncle Edward mentioned? The one who cadged a lift off you from the Junction?”

  “She didn’t cadge; Rosario insisted on her joining us. She’s in the office now and—”

  “Office?”

  It was like that game you played in childhood, thought Paul; somebody turned their back and you shuffled forward a few steps and then they turned suddenly, and you froze in your tracks.

  “She’s helping Frances. She was out of a job and—”

  “But I thought she came to a job in the Valley.”

  “She did, but they threw her out, and Frances—”

  “You mean she got the sack?”

  “It wasn’t her fault, exactly. Well, yes, it was,” he amended, “but the woman was a harridan, and when the agency rang up, Frances engaged her.”

  “Frances,” said Philippa, “takes a great deal too much on herself.”

  “She’s been bossing me for 30 years,” said Paul. “She doesn’t know her place, that’s what it is. Now stop arguing and come and have dinner.”

  “I don’t like the company,” said Philippa, and there was venom in her tone. “I prefer to leave Mrs. Zimmerman alone unless she recovers her mysteriously—and conveniently—lost memory. And I can live quite happily without dining with Frances Castle and her husband; they don’t like me and I’ve no time for them. And you’d better get rid of this woman before she leads you into bad trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “That’s what I said. Doesn’t the fact that she was lodging with Mrs. Edmond mean anything to you?”

  “She left Mrs. Edmond this morning.”

  “Quite so. You found that out when you called on her at 9:30.”

  He stared at her.

  “Who in the world told you that?”

  “Dr. Veysey. He knows quite a lot about your new secretary. He told me that she took a mysterious walk on the night of the murder.”

  “She—”

  “I suppose she decided there was too much competition at Mrs. Edmond’s; she moved herself to the Red Lion.”

  “Anabel Dane only spent one night at Mrs. Edmond’s. I fancy Dr. Veysey can easily beat that record.”

  She was on her feet, and he saw that she was white with rage, and wished that he could clear up the mystery of the doctor’s position at Brakeways, but her next words drove the doctor from his mind.

  “You’ll get rid of her,” she said slowly, “or you won’t see me again.”

  “What has Miss Dane got to do with us? She—”

  “I’ll give you ten seconds,” said Philippa.

  He stared at her.

  “The office is the office. What difference can it make to you?” he asked slowly.

  “Let’s call it a test case,” she said. “If you won’t get rid of Miss Dane now, how do I know that you’ll get rid of Frances Castle later on?”

  “Frances? She’s been with me for—eight years.”

  “Too long,” said Philippa calmly.

  “Does Miss Dane go?”

  “No,” he said at last.

  He had no very clear idea of how the interview ended. He was in his car, and the car seemed to be running on the steady blaze of anger that had brought him out of the house, and that burned itself out slowly as he drove to the Cottage.

  He put the car in the garage and got out and slammed the door and stood for a moment with his hand plunged into his pockets. Then he felt a hard object . . . two, and brought them out and stared at them for a long time. A ring—an engagement ring . . .and a key ring.

  The beginning—and the end.

  He went into the hall; he could hear a confused sound of voices coming from the kitchen, but the drawing-room was quiet. Opening the door, he found Bob Castle alone.

  “Thought you wouldn’t be long,” comme
nted Bob. “Just pouring the drinks; you’ve got an instinct for—” He paused. “Anything wrong?”

  Paul waited until he had a drink in his hand; then he took out the ring Philippa had returned, and held it out on his palm, and heard Bob’s long, low whistle.

  “Just now?” he asked in an awed voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “Yes. Chuck Miss Dane out of the office—and subsequently Frances—or else.”

  “You said no?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I see. Drink up and I’ll give you another,” said Bob. “They’re your drinks, but at the moment you don’t look strong enough to handle a decanter. How d’you feel?”

  “I don’t know. What are all those women doing in the kitchen?”

  “Producing dinner—I hope.”

  “Mrs. Zimmerman down?”

  “No—but she’s coming down for dinner.” His brown eyes rested on Paul reflectively. “Two rings in two days; not bad going.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Anabel told us. You picked up her key ring, you blasted fool, you. Had you gone crazy, or something?”

  “No. Not crazy. I think I…I think I just couldn’t imagine her involved in anything of—of that kind. Picking up the key ring seemed, at the time, to be a way of keeping her out of trouble. It wasn’t until I’d had time to think that I realized that whether she could explain why it was lying there or not, the police would have to know.”

  “You’re taking her to the police tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll have a lot of explaining to do. Would you like me there to give you a character?”

  “No.” he poured himself another drink. “There’s something you could help me to work out.”