The Monday Theory

by Douglas Clark

  “Quite. And we haven’t a single fact or clue to hang on him except, perhaps, that being of a scientific mind, he could be said to know about arsenic. But that’s like saying I could be judged to have killed somebody because I know a lot about murder.”

  “You’re waffling.”

  “Perhaps. However, in spite of what I’ve just said . . .”

  “Don’t be shy. We shan’t laugh.”

  “We’re going to look hard and long at the Professor.”

  “That’s about all we can do, and I must say I’m backing you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Certainly not tonight. I expect Wanda will be hoping I can see my way clear to staying at home with her.”

  “I should bloody well hope so.”

  Masters was right. His wife never tried to interfere with his comings and goings, but there was no hiding her pleasure when he announced his intention of not turning out again. While in no way wishing to involve her in the case, he did, however, attempt to satisfy her unspoken but natural curiosity. She said very little as she listened, curled up in a huge armchair, with her shoes off. But when he had finished she made one remark.

  “If you want to know about her cooking utensils, darling, find a woman who visited her at Abbot’s Hall. Men—and probably some women—don’t notice these things. But women—well, quite a lot of them could tell you every item you have in your sitting room within two minutes of being shown in.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. Though whether she ever invited women there . . .”

  “She must have done. Married couples to stay for a few days. That sort of thing.”

  He rose to pour her a drink. “I’ll take the hint. Would you like the brandy straight or a Horse’s Neck?”

  She smiled up at him. “Long and weak, please.”

  “That sounds a bit like my case.”

  “I don’t think so. To me it sounds very neat.”

  He grinned at her little play on words. The world, to him, seemed to be back on its course.

  Chapter Six

  “Bill,” said Masters, when he and Green met next morning, “there’s one little job I would like you to do for me.”

  “Alone, you mean?”

  “You and Berger.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Interview the night porter at Gladstone Hall. I want to know what time Carvell got in a week last Monday night, or Tuesday morning as the case may be.”

  “Why me? Is he liable to be difficult or something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Yes.”

  Green grunted. “If he’s the night porter, he won’t be on duty now.”

  “Not until six tonight I suppose. I was just giving you fair warning.”

  Green nodded, sat down and—for once—produced a pristine, unbattered packet of cigarettes. As he unwrapped it, he said: “If this chap is going to clam up on me . . .”

  “Out of loyalty, perhaps, or because he just dislikes policemen.”

  “Right. I’m pleased you told me now. Just so’s I can think about it.”

  “Good. Now, what time will our friends on the Daily View reach the office, do you suppose?”

  “Not before ten.”

  “And Roger Vadil?”

  Green grimaced. “He’s the sort that could surprise you. Looks as if he would stroll into his office at eleven, whereas, in fact, he probably beavers away from half-past eight every morning.”

  “In that case, I think we should try him first.”

  “And Carvell himself?”

  “We shall have to speak to him again, of course, but I’d rather leave it until we’ve got all we can from the others.”

  “To go into battle fully armed?”

  “Fully armed, and with as big a supply train of spare ammunition as possible.”

  “And the lads?”

  “We shan’t need them when we visit Vadil. But I would like them to get in touch with Robson. I want the locals to comb that area for three champagne bottles—whole or in pieces—and a number of oven-trays.”

  “Robson won’t like that.”

  “Perhaps not, and I must admit it’s a forlorn hope. They could have been ditched in the sea, as Robson said yesterday, though I think not.”

  “No?”

  “With a howling gale blowing? Why struggle against it across that heathland to throw stuff away when you can dispose of it anywhere between West Sussex and Inner London?”

  “Miles from anywhere.”

  “Quite. Disposed of piece by piece in overgrown ditches.”

  “Or bottle banks for the champagne bottles.”

  “I’d forgotten those.”

  Green got to his feet. “Ready to go in about ten minutes?”

  “Fine.”

  *

  “I’m pleased to see you, gentlemen,” said Vadil. He waved them to take the two modern chairs drawn up before his desk. “Though I had not expected a second visit quite so soon.”

  “Pleased to see us?” asked Green.

  “Why not? You have presented me with the possibility of an unusual, if not unique legal problem. I’m interested. Am I to know whether the court divorced a dead woman last Tuesday morning?”

  “It did,” replied Masters.

  “Without any shadow of doubt?”

  “The merest shadow, perhaps, but I think not.”

  “Forensic examination puts the deaths as occurring on the Monday night?”

  “Not precisely. You know that the medical profession is never willing to commit itself exactly. But the pathologist has given us a time bracket which includes the Monday.”

  “But you know Mrs Carvell was alive on Monday—in the morning at least.”

  “We know she was alive in the early evening of that day, too. She visited a local shop close to Abbot’s Hall just before closing time that day.”

  “So you have established that she went there that day instead of Tuesday, which was her original intention?”

  “That is so. And such information, linked with the timing of the storm and the closed windows we spoke of the last time we were here, has satisfied us that Mrs Carvell and Mr Woodruff died on the Monday night. There are other bits of evidence to support our belief. For instance, the shop could not supply the three bottles of gin Mrs Carvell wanted. She said she would return the next day when the fresh supplies were in. She didn’t go for them.”

  Vadil laughed. “That is the most telling bit of evidence you’ve produced so far. Rhoda Carvell would not have missed her gin, had she been alive.”

  Masters nodded. “So we are led to believe.” He held up his pipe. “Do you mind if I . . .?”

  “Go ahead. There’ll be some coffee here in a minute. I was in soon after eight this morning, so I asked for it to be sent in early.”

  “Thank you. So, Mr Vadil, you have your legal problem. How do you propose to resolve it?”

  “I’ve given it some thought. I feel sure the answer will be the easy one. Facts count. If Carvell was a widower before the court sat a week last Tuesday morning, he could not be granted a divorce. The petition and subsequent ruling will be declared null and void. The agreed settlements will not be valid. Carvell will still be deemed to have been Rhoda’s next-of-kin at the time she died. Her previous will is legal and as he was her sole heir, he will get everything with—as you know—no death duty to pay—as between man and wife.”

  “Could be a motive there,” grunted Green.

  Vadil considered this for a moment. “It could be regarded as such, I suppose, but I would have said it was a slim one.”

  “I think so, too,” agreed Masters.

  “I’ve known slimmer ones,” asserted Green.

  “So have I, Bill. But in view of Mrs Carvell’s expressed intention of attending court on Tuesday morning, we must assume that she did not propose to go to Abbot’s Hall until Tuesday afternoon at the earliest. So we must also assume that she was kill
ed twenty-four hours earlier than her murderer had planned.”

  “Got it,” said Green. “By that time she would no longer have been Missus Professor, so Carvell would not be her heir, so the motive of gain disappears.”

  “That’s how I see it.”

  Vadil smiled. “You two think it all out, don’t you?” He got to his feet as the door opened and a typist backed in, drawing a trolley behind her. “I must say it is most reassuring to hear you do it. Thank you, Brenda, we’ll manage for ourselves.”

  Masters waited till the door closed behind the girl. “Reassuring?” he asked.

  “I used the word advisedly,” replied Vadil, pouring black coffee from a flask. “Milk? Sugar if you would like it.” He stood by the trolley. “I have confidence in the police, Mr Masters. I’ve met the odd exception within your ranks, of course, but there are slightly bruised apples in every professional barrel. Reassurance merely means a bolstering of that confidence—in a practical way—after hearing you think aloud.”

  “Thank you. Now, Mr Vadil . . .”

  “That sounds as if you were going to question me.” Vadil moved round the desk to his chair. “I don’t know whether I shall take kindly to that.”

  Masters grinned: “Let me reassure you . . .” he began.

  Vadil had the grace to laugh.

  “That’s it, lad,” said Green approvingly. “Nip your nose and take the plunge like you do when you do your parachuting. You’ll find it’s not too bad.”

  “Confidences,” reminded Vadil.

  “Won’t be probed,” promised Masters.

  “In that case, please ask your questions.”

  “When we were last here, you expressed surprise that we had a witness to a meeting last June, at Abbot’s Hall, between Rhoda Carvell and her husband. You said that the Professor claimed in his application that he had not cohabited with his wife for some months previous to last June.”

  “Quite right. I did.”

  “May I know if Mrs Carvell made substantially the same admission?”

  “She did.”

  “Theirs was, I believe, what one may call an amicable divorce. There was no quarrelling over settlements and so on, so I can assume, can I not, that there was a large measure of agreement about the whole business?”

  “You can.”

  “In your experience, does agreement in such matters amount to collusion?”

  “I had no cause to think so in this case.”

  “Thank you. So I am at liberty to presume that the meeting last June was fortuitous.”

  “I don’t follow your reasoning.”

  “If Mrs Carvell had known that her husband—a mistrustful and powerful man—was in the vicinity of Abbot’s Hall, would she have allowed a much less physically powerful man to stay there, sunbathing with her most of the day?”

  “If you are asking whether she would allow this third person to run the risk of being subjected to Carvell’s anger, the answer is no. Rhoda Carvell had her faults, but sadism of that sort was not one of them.”

  “So if I believe your assessment of her character—and I do—I can suppose that she was unaware of her husband’s presence in the area?”

  “That is my belief.”

  “Now, Carvell himself. Do you suppose he was there spying on her at that time?”

  “I think that would be unlikely. I don’t know much about him, but he strikes me as being too direct and forceful a character to act the part of a divorce snoop.”

  Masters inclined his head to acknowledge this assessment. Then he said: “We have been told that Carvell was carrying a geological specimen bag partly filled, and a geologist’s hammer. That part of the coast is, I am told, rich in pickings for a geologist. So I assume Carvell went there to find specimens, not knowing that his wife was in residence at Abbot’s Hall. But he visited the house to see that all was well and found his wife there with another man.”

  “That would seem a logical assumption to me, because I cannot believe that both would claim not to have been living together when, had they been doing so, both knew there was a witness to their meeting at Abbot’s Hall in June. I could put up a very strong argument to support your assumption, Mr Masters, without relying too heavily on the fact that I believed my client.”

  “Thank you. I think I am further borne out by the fact that Carvell was not antagonistic to our witness. In fact I believe they chatted amicably for a while.”

  Vadil spread his hands. “I believe you have answered your own questions. More coffee, anyone?”

  Green said: “Ta! Don’t get up. I can help myself.” As he poured, he said: “There’s just one thing.”

  “What’s that?” asked Vadil.

  “If the Prof was thinking of doing his wife a bit of mischief, he would not want to appear unfriendly to her or a third party. It would be remembered later. So he could have been nice on purpose.”

  “I refuse to comment on that,” said Vadil. “It is no part of my business to speculate as to whether Carvell did or did not murder his wife.”

  “Apologies,” said Green, totally unabashed by the implied rebuke. “It slipped out.”

  Masters said: “You will appreciate, Mr Vadil, that we are bearing in mind a number of people. One of them is Carvell. We have, however, no basis for supposing that he killed his wife.”

  “Understood.”

  Masters got to his feet. “Thank you for talking to us.”

  Vadil also rose. “I shall watch the progress of the case with interest.”

  Green slurped the last of his coffee and put the cup down so that it rattled in the saucer to announce that he, too, was ready to go.

  “A nice point you made there at the end, Bill,” said Masters after they had left the solicitor’s office.

  “Apart from the fact that it got Vadil jumpy, you mean?”

  “Yes. Of itself it was pertinent.”

  “Thanks. Where now?”

  “Fleet Street.” They entered the car. These days Green was beginning to sit in the front when Masters drove. Seat belts at last seemed to be having a reassuring effect on him.

  “Who’re we going to see this time? Young Heddle again?”

  Masters shook his head while concentrating on missing a taxi doing a right turn ahead of him.

  “The Lugano dame?”

  “Yes. On her own. If I drop you outside the office, Bill, would you get her down to that interview room while I’m parking the car?”

  Golly had already accepted and smoked half of one of Green’s Kensitas by the time Masters joined them.

  “Mizz Lugano isn’t very happy at being here,” announced Green.

  “She is a busy . . . er . . . person,” said Masters, “so we’ll try not to keep her long.”

  “Got your eye on anybody?” demanded Golly as she stubbed out the cigarette and opened a large handbag to take out her own packet.

  “We’re getting along,” replied Masters.

  “Meaning you haven’t a clue, I suppose.”

  “Not quite. In fact we have lots of clues. You, I hope, can give us a few more.”

  “Me? Not a hope. What can I know about Rhoda’s murder?” She lit up, sat back, and blew smoke from her nostrils.

  “Shall we see? First off, did you ever go—at any time, I mean—to Abbot’s Hall?”

  “Three times to be precise.”

  “Excellent. At whose invitation?”

  “Rhoda’s, of course. Not his.”

  “Did you ever have a meal there?”

  “Of course. You don’t think I’d go all that way just to look at a few bloody seagulls, do you?”

  “I confess I didn’t, but you could have gone for a drinks party perhaps. Then you might only get finger-eats, as opposed to a proper meal.”

  “Proper meal. Sit-down affair every time.”

  “Better and better. Did Mrs Carvell cook the meals?”

  “It was her house. So who do you think . . .?”

  Masters waited.

  “S
orry. Misled you. Went there once when Molly Clippingdale cooked a slap-up affair.”

  “Molly Clippingdale?”

  “Our cookery expert. Writes under the name of Betta Faring. Rhoda had some sort of clambake there—invited quite a lot of us. Molly did the food. Fork affair, really, but good. Hot meal. Bourgignon with savoury rice, stuffed turkey rolls fried and all that sort of thing. Cold pudding with a bottle of good brandy in it. Never tasted better, but two mouthfuls knocked you for six.”

  “How long ago was this party?”

  “Not all that long. Earlier this year, I think. Dark night, I remember.”

  “Just you and Molly Clippingdale from the office?”

  “No. Three or four of us. I know I took two in my car.”

  “Females?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any males there?”

  “Not from the office. Woodruff and one or two others I don’t remember. Saturday night, it was.”

  Masters thought for a moment. “But you yourself never went into the kitchen on your visits?”

  “Oh, I went in.”

  “But not to help with the cooking?”

  “Me Cook? Listen, love, I can’t boil hot water. At least, I can. But I have been known to burn a boiled egg.”

  “I see. Then perhaps you could tell me where I could contact Molly Clippingdale. She might be able to help me.”

  Golly Lugano frowned. “She runs a cookery school. She’s likely got lessons today.”

  “No matter. She might spare me a few minutes.”

  Golly grinned, showing lipstick-smeared false teeth. “She’d spare you a few hours. She’s got an eye for the men.”

  “Perhaps I’ll escape unscathed if Mr Green is there to protect me. Could I have the address, please?”

  “Swiss Cottage way.” Golly gave the address and phone number from memory.

  “Thank you. Now, Mizz Lugano, could I ask just one favour?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you keep the fact that we have been speaking to you a close secret, and not to mention to anybody what we have just discussed?”

  “Oh, come on! You’ve only asked me if I’d ever been in Rhoda’s kitchen at Abbot’s Hall.”

  “Even so!”

  She looked at him shrewdly out of eyes narrowed against the smoke from another cigarette. “You’re up to something. I can tell. You’re cocky.”