The Monday Theory

by Douglas Clark

  “That doesn’t take long, Mr Green. I just draw a chalk line from one end of the blackboard to the other and tell them that is the age of the earth.”

  Masters was looking at some of the drawings on the board. “Palaeontology?” he asked politely.

  “Of course, I was forgetting you are a senior member of the university. Perhaps you had to study something of this sort.”

  “The odd fossilized plant. Nothing quite as technical as this.”

  Carvell finished putting his notes in order and fastened them with a small bulldog clip. “What can I do for you?”

  “I thought I ought to come to forewarn you that you may be in for an unpleasant shock.”

  Carvel frowned. “The lab assistant will be wanting to clear up in here and prepare for this afternoon’s lecture. I suggest we talk in my office.”

  “Just down the corridor, is it?” asked Green.

  “Quite correct. If you would follow me . . .”

  The office was book-lined, but had a number of chairs, obviously needed when Carvell held his tutorials in it. Only when all three were seated did the professor say to Masters, “I’m in for an unpleasant shock, you say?”

  “In so far as we believe that Mrs Carvell was dead before the divorce came up in court. I imagine it is an unpleasant thought to a sensitive man to know his wife had died the night before the hearing. If that is not a shock in itself, then the knowledge that you are still Mrs Carvell’s next-of-kin and that all the arrangements you both made before the hearing are null and void must be slightly bemusing.”

  Carvell said nothing for some moments. Then he asked: “You only believe this? You are not sure?”

  “Not one hundred per cent sure. But we have strong reasons to suppose so. Not the least important reason is that Mrs Carvell did not attend the court on Tuesday morning, despite having announced her intention of doing so.”

  “And your other reasons?”

  “I would prefer not to enumerate those, sir, until we can establish them more firmly. But I should like to know if you were expecting to see your wife in court.”

  “I was there myself, but I did not know Rhoda’s intended movements.”

  “When did you last see Mrs Carvell?”

  “We haven’t met . . . hadn’t met for at least two months before her death. All our communication was through our respective solicitors.”

  “Usual form,” grunted Green.

  “I’m afraid so. An unsavoury business.”

  “All for nothing, apparently,” said Masters. “You will understand, Professor, that I expect to establish that you were still her husband when she died. That, I suppose, will mean that Mrs Carvell’s not inconsiderable estate will revert to you by a former will?”

  “Not inconsiderable estate, Mr Masters? Rhoda hadn’t that much to dispose of.”

  “Abbot’s Hall? I understand you agreed to her having that.”

  “She put up most of the money.”

  “And you the rest. And, I suspect, you also paid for the improvements which must have cost a great deal of money but which will have added a lot to its value.”

  “I was her husband. Naturally, I paid the bills.”

  “And the furniture at Abbot’s. Some of the pieces there are valuable. I know nothing, of course, of the furniture in your former home here in London, but all-in-all I would say you made a more than generous settlement on Mrs Carvell as a prelude to divorce.”

  “What are you trying to say, Chief Superintendent?”

  “Nothing more than I have stated.”

  “My generosity, as you call it, was based on the fact that I should not be paying my wife the usual maintenance and, as I said, she virtually bought Abbot’s Hall.”

  “Still,” grunted Green, “I’ve heard of couples who’ve fought over possession of a clothes line. Literally.”

  Carvell shrugged. “Is that all, gentlemen?”

  “Not quite, sir. I shall want to see Mrs Carvell’s friends and acquaintances. Perhaps you could let me know who they were.”

  “I know very little of her friends, Mr Masters.”

  “But surely, Professor, you entertained and were entertained? Had a social life together?”

  “Not for some years now. We did some duty entertaining, of course . . .”

  “But you had been going your separate ways for some time?”

  “Rhoda knew a lot of newspaper people and the like. They were not exactly . . .”

  “Your cup of tea?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Relatives?” asked Green.

  “Rhoda was an only child. Her parents are both dead, though I believe there are some aunts and cousins whom I’ve not met since we were married over thirteen years ago.”

  Masters got to his feet. “In that case, sir, we shall leave you to have your lunch.”

  “And come back another day, I suppose?”

  “Should it seem necessary. But we shall not hound you. I have no desire to do so and I daresay you would resent it.”

  “Most emphatically.”

  “That being so, Professor . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you be so kind as to write out an account of your movements for last Sunday, Monday and Tuesday? It would save us having to question you on the matter.”

  “By God, you suspect me of killing Rhoda.”

  “Not really,” said Green wearily. “But you must know that we always have to look closely at the immediate family of any victim. Statistics prove we’re right. Most killings are domestic.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. But you can be reassured . . .”

  “What by?”

  “If the DCS suspected you of killing your wife, he’d have you at the Yard and your statements would be taken down by a shorthand writer for typing out. We’ve just asked you to write your own list.”

  “For Sunday, Monday and Tuesday! Some list.”

  “We have to leave ourselves a good time bracket,” said Masters.

  “You mean Rhoda was not seen alive later than Sunday?”

  “Oh, she was. On Monday morning, in fact.”

  “Then I can see no reason for you wanting to know my movements on Sunday. And all day Tuesday I was either in the court or here in the college.”

  Masters seemed to make a sudden decision. “Right, Professor. Make it Monday, then. Should I need more, I’ll come back and ask. I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nor my own.”

  *

  Reed and Berger were again talking to Derek Heddle in the View interview room. The young man looked better for a night’s sleep, and he was noticeably less keyed up than on the previous day.

  “I told Mr Masters everything I knew.”

  “Not quite,” said Reed.

  “What didn’t I say?”

  “You didn’t tell us that bedroom smelt of garlic.”

  “Garlic? It ponged like hell of . . . wait a minute. I’ve been wondering about that stink. I’ve had it in my nostrils ever since. I tried sluicing my nose out last night with salt and water. All I did was nearly drown myself.”

  “Skip the gory details. You were wondering about the stink, you said.”

  “Yes. Although it was so god awful, I thought I seemed to recognize some of it.”

  “Some of it?”

  “Yes. As though it had been made up of two or three different stenches. The smell of death . . . and now you’ve mentioned it, yes, garlic.” He looked across at Reed. “What’s so important about garlic?”

  “It only told the pathologist straight away that they’d been killed by arsenic. If you’d told my boss, he’d have known, too.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Any other smells you can recall now?”

  “Yes. Booze.”

  “Drink? Alcohol?”

  “Yes. At least I think so. It was one of the stenches I told you about. Stale booze. But honestly, I didn�
��t think of it at the time. It’s really only just come to me that that is what it was.”

  “So you think those two had been drinking heavily?”

  “I suppose they must have been.”

  “Did you see any bottles and glasses in the room?”

  Heddle shook his head. “I can’t remember any, but I didn’t really look.”

  “In the sitting room?”

  Again Heddle shook his head, but stopped in mid-gesture and frowned.

  “What’s up?” asked Berger. “Remembered something?”

  Heddle looked shamefaced. “I’m sorry. I think I could have misled you.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve been so obsessed with the stink of that room . . . look, the whole place smelt frowsty . . .”

  “So?”

  “I think that the place where I really smelt the stale booze, worst of all that is, and to recognize it properly, was the sitting room.” He frowned. “And that’s strange, isn’t it, seeing there’s a fireplace in there. Wouldn’t that air the room? Let the fumes disperse?”

  “Maybe,” said Reed. “But we’ve got it right now, have we? Think before you say.”

  “Yes,” said Heddle after a moment’s pause.

  “So,” said Berger, “it would seem from what you’ve told us that there was some really heavy drinking that evening in the sitting room. Then, somehow or another those two staggered up to bed, got in and breathed out enough alcohol fumes to make the bedroom smell, and at the same time breathed in enough arsine fumes to kill them.”

  “Arsine?”

  “Arsenical gas.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, yes, I suppose that’s what must have happened, but I can’t say for certain.”

  “Of course not, Mr Heddle. In fact there could have been a party downstairs. You know, a few people in for a celebration. A group of drinkers would make that room smell even if it wasn’t a real boozy affair. Quite a lot drunk and spilled by a number of people rather than a hell of a lot drunk and spilled by just two. See what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So who would be at the party?”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Friends and acquaintances, Mr Heddle. Who was Mrs Carvell friendly enough with to invite to a party?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wasn’t in her league.”

  “Maybe not, but you can overhear every word she says when she comes into the editorial office or whatever you call it. She must have mentioned people—her pals and others—when she was talking to the Lugano woman.”

  “Well, yes. She named names, but they never meant anything to me, because I didn’t know them, see. If she mentioned somebody whose name I knew . . .”

  “Like who?”

  “The Prime Minister or the leader of the GLC or the Archbishop.”

  “No private friends?”

  Heddle shrugged. “The odd socialite, I suppose, but nobody of interest to me.”

  “So you reckon we should see this Golly dame?”

  “She won’t like it, but yes, she’s the one. Though to be honest, I don’t think Rhoda was ever friendly with Golly. I mean they worked together and that was it.”

  “Okay,” said Reed. “How do we get hold of her? Do you take us up there, or do you send her down here?”

  “I’ll ask her to come down.”

  “Tell her,” corrected Reed. “And leave her in no doubt about coming straight away. Our time’s valuable.”

  Heddle grinned. “It’ll give me great pleasure to give Golly a few orders. As I said, she won’t like it. In fact, she’ll snap like an alligator, but she’s a nosey old besom . . .”

  “Most alligators are. All nosey.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. What I mean is, her curiosity will overcome her objections.”

  Heddle was right in his forecast. In less than five minutes Golly Lugano entered the interview room breathing fire—almost literally, judging by the aura of smoke from the inevitable cigarette that surrounded her.

  “Mizz Lugano?”

  “That’s me.” She sat down heavily in the chair formerly used by Heddle, stubbed out her cigarette and opened the packet she had in her hand to take another one. “I’m a busy person. I’ve got a page to edit.”

  “Your colleague Rhoda Carvell was found dead in her cottage two nights ago.”

  “I know.” She flicked the lighter for her cigarette. “What’s it got to do with me?” She peered challengingly at Reed through the haze of smoke that surrounded her head.

  Reed strove to keep his temper in check. He wasn’t sure which irritated him the more. The callous attitude, with no sign or word of regret, or the repulsive raddled appearance of the woman. The black nostrils, the over-painted and powdered face, the coarse skin, the short-cropped wig of hair that didn’t know whether it was black or ginger . . .

  “To do with you? We believe her to have been murdered. Aren’t you anxious for us to find her killer?”

  “Anxious? It was probably her own fault. Taking on that wet hen, Woodruff.”

  “Are you suggesting Ralph Woodruff killed her and himself?”

  “Not just like that. Woodruff hadn’t the guts to hurt himself.”

  “What are you suggesting then, Mizz Lugano?”

  “Rhoda was a fool. She knew what men are like. Carvell had treated her like dirt. Woodruff smarmed over her so much he was like a snail leaving a trail whenever he touched her. She should have steered clear of men: should have learned from experience.”

  “Instead she went off with Woodruff as soon as she was free from her husband.”

  Golly barked a laugh. “As soon as? She’d been going around with that gigolo for years.”

  “Years?”

  “Of course, Carvell didn’t know. He only realized it about a year ago—probably eighteen months.”

  “Why had she been fooling about with Woodruff?”

  Again Golly cackled. “You men! Have you met Carvell? No? Well, when you do, you’ll see he’s a lusty man. You can sense it.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “All I’m saying is that Carvell and Rhoda weren’t equally matched. He demanded more than she was prepared to give.”

  “In bed, you mean?” asked Berger.

  “Of course I mean in bed. Where the hell do you think I mean? On the top of the Matterhorn?”

  “So why link up with Woodruff as well?”

  “Because that piece of soft soap didn’t make the same demands on her as Carvell.”

  “But if he . . . in addition to her husband . . . that would make it worse for her.”

  “Not in addition to. Instead of.”

  “You mean she and Carvell didn’t . . .?”

  “That’s it, dearie. He took up gambling instead. And he wasn’t above giving a few private tutorials to female students, I dare say, but I think mostly he got his fun with all those social hostesses who entertained him. He was bloody discreet. For a man of his drive to avoid a bit of scandal must have taken some doing.”

  Reed nodded and rose to offer Golly a light for her next cigarette. “So he was reconciled to the fact that he and his wife didn’t live as a normally married couple?”

  “Normal? What’s normal? And as for reconciled . . . believe me, dearie, when you meet Professor Ernest Carvell you’ll realize he’d never be reconciled to anything.”

  “Are you saying that when the Professor got to know of Woodruff’s relationship with Mrs Carvell he threatened the man?”

  Golly didn’t answer for a moment or two. Then: “Apparently not. And that surprised me. Carvell’s built like a hammer-thrower and he’s not short on temper. He could have eaten Woodruff—literally—as well as being a man with more academic and establishment clout than him. I expected daily to hear there’d been some sort of rumpus after Carvell found out about Woodruff and Rhoda. But it never came.”

  “Why do you suppose that was?”

 
“I don’t suppose anything, except perhaps that Carvell, despite his appearance and reputation, was as big a bladder of lard as Woodruff. It could be, you know. There’s a strongly held belief that a man who takes a second wife often chooses a woman of like character to the first.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If you know the character of the second wife, you know the character of the first.”

  “I get it. The same could apply to women. Mrs Carvell chose an obvious weakling in Woodruff, so it could be that underneath his hard exterior Professor Carvell is just as weak.”

  Golly nodded. “With a worse temper and more sex drive.”

  “That could mean that in spite of your less than flattering remarks about Woodruff, Mrs Carvell could have been happier with him than with her first husband.”

  “She obviously thought so.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “I just think she was a bad picker altogether.”

  “You said that her death was probably her own fault. And then added that it was because she had taken on that wet hen, Woodruff. What did you mean by those two comments?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  Reed didn’t reply. He rose to light her next cigarette.

  “Her own fault,” reminded Berger.

  Golly snorted and removed a scrap of tobacco from a lower lip gleaming with dark lipstick. “Rhoda Carvell was a good looking woman with a superlative figure.”

  “So young Mr Heddle has told us.”

  “Men, and by men, I mean all men, think that such women are highly bedworthy. Let me tell you, they’re not. Not all of them. Rhoda wasn’t. But women who look like her want men around them, and Rhoda was no exception. The most forceful of the men who flock round them are naturally men with drive.”

  “Like Carvell?”

  “Like Carvell. And they are the men who hound these girls into marrying them. Mistakenly. Men like that want women of equal appetites—whether they’re marvellous lookers or not. Otherwise the options open to them are limited. The two either have to adjust or go their separate ways. Carvell and Rhoda couldn’t adjust. So Carvell went off his way and left Rhoda to do very much as she pleased.

  “Now this is where her fault lay. Instead of being content . . .”

  “In the knowledge that her husband was consorting with other women?”

  “Not in the knowledge. I told you he was discreet. It would be a fair assumption on her part, knowing his proclivities, but not in the knowledge. And ignorance is bliss. Or should be. But not for Rhoda.” Golly sounded bitter. “She was a pretty woman, and pretty women like to have a man in tow. It’s as important to have a man as to have the right bag. And that’s why I say it was her own fault. She didn’t play it right. She could have done, but she didn’t, and because of that Carvell divorced her and she’s dead.”