Rope's End, Rogue's End

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “He’s a dear.” Veronica’s abrupt voice actually held some feeling this time. “When I remember the way Paul and Basil used to jibe at him I still see red. Are many families as foul as ours, Richard? There seems to be some streak of sadism in us, as though we enjoy hurting each other.”

  “We’ve all got vile tempers, Ronnie, no use blinking the fact, and the way we were brought up, seeing the old man bully mother and then curse the lot of us, didn’t improve matters. Hell! I was afraid of the old devil. He was the only man I’ve ever met I’ve been afraid of. Still, I’ll give him his due, belatedly. He did the right and just thing when he left Wulfstane to you and Martin. I was mad about it at the time. I was broke for one thing, and I needed money badly. Oh, my Lord, how we all hated one another when that will was read! However, I’ve swallowed it all down now.” He looked around the handsome sombre room. “When I came back here this time I wanted to get one memory of Wulfstane not poisoned by thoughts of the old man. Thanks for letting me come. I’ll pack off later in the day and take Basil with me. You’ve had about enough of us.”

  “I’m glad you came,” said Veronica. “You helped things out.”

  “Me. Good Lord! I haven’t done much to help you, Ronnie. Look here, if I have any luck with selling my stuff in town, I’ll see what I can do to give you and Martin a leg-up – and I shan’t ask a quid pro quo, either.”

  “I don’t think you would, but we shall manage somehow. Martin and I don’t mind being poor. The one thing I’m quite certain about is that I won’t let either Paul or Basil buy us out. I can’t tell you why, but they make me livid. They’re dirty-minded, womanising beasts, both of them!”

  “Don’t be censorious, Ronnie. They’re a product of their heredity and environment, both of them. Big, full-blooded fellows, occupying themselves over ledgers and money making. Too busy making their piles to marry – for which womankind may well be thankful. Well, cheer oh. See you later. I’m going to prowl round the estate.”

  “All right. If you meet Martin don’t let him get too whacked. I’ll tell Ada about Basil’s letters. Are you sure you won’t stay another night?”

  “No, thanks. Time I was thinking about my next move. I’ll make Basil come up to town with me, and relieve you of his presence. He’s a ponderous chap these days. There’s a 4.30 train up from Sendover, isn’t there? That will do me well enough.”

  He strolled off and Veronica made her way to the kitchen, a frown on her face. She was a bad housekeeper, and she knew it. Further, despite her real love of the manor house and the land around it, she hated domestic detail and was unobservant and unskilled in the running of a house. Veronica knew that Paul had observed all the weak points at Wulfstane, the casual cleaning and lack of repairs, the clumsy service and bad cooking. Dinner last night had been a nightmare from the gourmet’s point of view, and both Basil and Paul were connoisseurs of food. Veronica raged inwardly as she remembered the birds, overcooked, dry and tough, cold, as was both sauce and gravy, sodden vegetables and a leathery soufflé to follow.

  Skilled service had come automatically in the old days, but the old servants had retired, and it cost too much to engage competent new ones. Neither had Veronica a knack for managing servants. She would put up with their ineptness for awhile without comment, and then fly out at them in a rage. Consequently the house suffered from a succession of new and incompetent servants. At present Wulfstane could boast of but three servants. A cook, so called; the parlour maid whose speech had exasperated Paul when he first arrived, and a half-witted house boy.

  Veronica went into the kitchen and gave a few perfunctory orders to the cook, then bade Ada take up coffee and toast to Basil when the postman came.

  “And how many more breakfasts, I’d like to know?” demanded Ada as soon as her mistress’s back was turned. The cook grunted.

  “No call for you to grumble. You get the tips, don’t you? I have the extra work and never see a sign of a tip.”

  Veronica heard these comments and understood them. Paul and Basil and Cynthia were all generous “tippers.” Ada could be trusted to take Basil’s breakfast up because it would be worth her while. With a sigh of relief Veronica turned from her domestic problems and went to the gun room. She often took a gun with her when she walked across the Wulfstane estates, and she was as good a shot as her brothers.

  During the morning, after she had taken up yet another breakfast tray, Ada went about her work in lackadaisical fashion. She sang at moments, as she flipped round with a duster and straightened the rugs, and applied furniture polish in dollops which she did not bother to rub off. She had received a ten shilling note from Mr. Paul, left on the breakfast tray in his room, and five shillings from Mrs. Lorne. If Mr. Basil did the handsome thing she reckoned she could buy that new winter coat with the fur collar she had seen advertised in the morning’s paper. Then, with a new hat, she would try for a new job in the Sendover registry. She was about sick of this place, with its miles of passages and awkward stairs. “Work enough for a regiment,” she had declared to cook on her first day, “and something about this house gives me the jitters. It’s all noises.”

  On that fine October morning when she worked, all the doors and windows in Wulfstane were wide open to the mellow sunlight, yet Ada still had a feeling of discomfort. She was for ever looking over her shoulder as her own shadow chased her on the worn wood floors. The boards creaked at every step she took, pigeons fluttered and tapped against the windows, the breeze made loose old casements tattle on their fittings, and Ada longed for the cheerful human bustle of a busy hotel, with visitors coming and going, and a radio full blast in the lounge. She had cause for complaint, too, this morning. Six bedrooms to do, and that Miss Mallowood lounging off never giving a hand at all, and Mr. Martin’s bedroom in such a muddle she couldn’t so much as begin to tidy it.

  It was getting on for one o’clock when Ada had finished “doing” the bedrooms. Martin’s was the last straw, for he was an incorrigibly untidy fellow. Ada collected some odd tops and plates, whereon he had apparently taken an impromptu meal overnight, and with her hands full essayed to open and shut the heavy door of his bedroom. The wind from the open casement caught the door and shut it with a loud bang, knocking the ill-balanced crockery out of Ada’s hands, and somehow she missed the awkward stair just below the door and fell her length with a loud yell. Sitting up dizzily, her hand to her head, she was beginning to moan loudly when Veronica’s voice called from the staircase head:

  “What was that?”

  Ada groaned, “I had me hands full, and that dratted door just caught me. I’m bruised all over.”

  “Not that, you fool!“said Veronica tersely, and then Richard’s voice put in from across the landing:

  “What the deuce was that? Someone let off a gun in the house, or that was what it sounded like.”

  There was a distant peal as the ancient bell clanged below at the front door, and Veronica said sharply to the maid:

  “Pull yourself together, Ada, and go and answer the door. Leave that mess alone for the moment.”

  Grumbling, nursing her bruised elbows, the girl went off downstairs and Veronica turned to Richard:

  “That was a shot – upstairs,” she said breathlessly. “Where’s Martin?”

  “The Lord knows, I don’t,” replied Richard. “That report came from upstairs – from the old playroom I thought.”

  He crossed the landing to Veronica’s side, but before he reached her she was already running up the narrow stairs which led to the top floor. Richard followed close at her heels, and when he reached the upstairs passage he flung open every door he passed. Veronica, however, ran straight to the door of the room they called the playroom – a long room at the east end, in the more ancient part of the house. Catching the handle, she tried to open the locked door, and then hammered on it with her fists, calling:

  “Martin, Martin, open the door!”

  Richard came up behind her.

  “Stand away, Ronnie. Let
me see if I can get it open.”

  Veronica, white-faced now, and breathless, did as he bade her, and Richard attacked the old door with his shoulder, crashing his weight against it time after time, so that the house resounded with his efforts.

  “Hell! I can’t make it budge,” he gasped. “It’d take a battering ram to get that door down.”

  Unreasoningly, fear in her face and voice, Veronica banged on the oak panels again, calling Martin’s name.

  “That’s no good, Ronnie. The only thing for it is a chisel and hammer, to cut the lock away from the jamb. I’ll go and get some tools,” said Richard.

  He turned to run down the passage towards the stairs, and found himself facing a stranger, a solidly built man in navy blue.

  “Anything wrong, sir? I heard the noise,. and came up to see if I could help.”

  “If you can help me to smash that door in, come along,” said Richard. “I think there’s been an accident. We heard a report up here – you can smell gun fumes now.”

  “I heard it, too, sir,” replied the newcomer. “Are you Mr. Basil Mallowood?”

  “No. I’m Richard Mallowood. Come on. It’s this door at the end. Now, both together…”

  Veronica leaned against the wall while both men together flung their weight against the sturdy door. Their combined weight and strength seemed to make the old wails shake, but the door still held, and Veronica suddenly came to life, and raced for the stairs, crying:

  “I’ll get you some tools.”

  As she rushed downstairs she pushed past Ada and the cook, who were standing gaping, and Albert, the house boy mouthed senselessly at her as she ran. It was but a couple of minutes later that she was back again, a carpenter’s bag in her hand, and it was she who found a big chisel and heavy mallet, which Richard took from her.

  “Keep back, Ronnie, There’s no room here,” he said, as he held the chisel against the door jamb, and swung the mallet to drive it home. The man in dark blue mopped his forehead as he watched, realising that the man wielding the tools knew what he was about. Half a dozen crashing blows from Richard Mallowood’s swinging mallet cut through the solid oak jamb, and then he threw the tools down, saying:

  “That should do it, now then, both together again.”

  The renewed onslaught was successful. With a rending, tearing sound, the wood gave at last and the door burst inwards. The smell of gunpowder came out on them in a choking wave, as Richard and the stranger staggered and lurched into the room with the force of their impetus when the door gave. Richard checked himself by grabbing at a heavy table, and the other man heaved against him as Veronica cried wildly from the door:

  “It isn’t Martin, it isn’t Martin after all!”

  Richard recovered his balance and gave one glance across the room.

  “Not Martin, it’s Basil,” he said tersely, and then turned back to the door, filling the aperture with his sturdy bulk.

  “Clear out, Ronnie! No need for you to come in here. Go and phone the police. Do as you’re told, and don’t argue…”

  He shoved the door close again, and turned to the stranger, who replied to the implicit question before it was uttered.

  “Metropolitan Police, sir. Inspector Long. I came here to see Mr. Basil Mallowood.”

  “My God, that’s it, is it?” inquired Richard. “Well, you’re five minutes too late. That… was Basil.”

  A man’s body was slumped forward in a big spindle-backed armchair which stood in the middle of the room. The heavy sporting gun which Basil had been experimenting with yesterday lay on the floor: a string was fastened to its trigger, and the same string was still looped round the right foot of the dead man. There seemed to be no question as to what had happened. The dead man’s chin had rested on the muzzle of the upturned gun, his foot had jerked the string-tied trigger, and the resulting heavy charge “had made a fair mess of him,” to use Inspector Long’s phrase. The Inspector was pretty well inured to horrors, but the sight of the almost faceless corpse remained with him for many a day to come.

  While Richard leaned against the doorpost, breathing heavily, the Inspector went up to the body and lifted one of the limp hands. He was in no doubt as to the condition he would find. The head was still bleeding hideously, the blood not yet clotted. The man was dead – his brains had been scattered by the heavy charge at close range – but his body was yet warm. Richard Mallowood’s estimate of five minutes was probably correct. Long undid the dead man’s coat and again tested the temperature of his body – still warm. He turned to Richard.

  “Can you be sure of his identity, sir? The lady mentioned another name – Martin.”

  “Martin is our youngest brother. He’s fair-headed,” said Richard. “This is Basil.”

  He came forward and himself lifted one of the limp hands, examining it and twisting the signet-ring on the first finger. “Poor devil! He said something about coming up here to look through some papers, so that he could work undisturbed.”

  He glanced round, and moved towards a table which stood beneath one of the windows. Papers and letters were scattered on it, and Richard was about to pick up a sheet when the plain clothes man stopped him.

  “Don’t touch anything, please. These must be properly examined.”

  Richard frowned down at the sheets.

  “One of them is a message to me,” he said, “I suppose I can read it, if I don’t touch it. Damn it all, that’s my brother, you know,” he said, and his voice expressed some feeling at last – a sort of savage regret.

  With Long at his elbow, Richard Mallowood read the scrawled sheet.

  “Dear Richard. I apologise for landing you in this mess-up. It’ll be less painful for all of you than the showdown if I’d lived. The post this morning brought me the news I expected, and I’m throwing my hand in. The accountants will tell you what it’s all about. To save you and Veronica being asked the usual idiotic questions I’m leaving this statement. I am going to blow my brains out with your shot gun – its charge can be counted on to make the result certain. I waited until Paul was well away. The thought of him uttering pompous rectitudes over my remains isn’t to be endured, and he’d have driven you all mad with his fussing. Bad enough as it is. Basil Mallowood.”

  “That is your brother’s handwriting?” inquired Long.

  Richard almost snarled at him. ” Whose do you think it is? Mine? It’s Basil’s writing, poor devil, you won’t have any bother about proving that. Why the hell did he do it? I can never see that bankruptcy is a good reason for blowing your brains out. What the devil does money matter?” He turned and stared at Long. “Was it bankruptcy? – and where do you come in?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a warrant out for Mr. Basil Mallowood’s arrest. Alleged embezzlement. I came here to execute it.”

  “My God… that was what he meant,” said Richard slowly. “Did he wait until he saw you plodding up the drive? Why the hell didn’t he foot it, days ago? Poor old Basil… sitting here, screwing himself up to do it, having written that letter… and tried to write others.” He nodded towards the grate, filled with torn and half-burnt fragments. “My God, if he’d told me straight out what was the matter, I’d have got him out of the country somehow – and be damned to you!” he added fiercely.

  Long saw fit to ignore the last remark. It was enough to upset any man to see his own brother reduced to the state of sheer ghastliness represented by that thing in the chair. Long knew nothing about the Mallowoods as a family. He did know that Basil Mallowood had embezzled vast sums of money over a period of years, and that his skilful defalcations had only just been discovered by the accountants. He turned to Richard and said:

  “You asked the lady, your sister, isn’t it, to phone through to the local police. You might see that she’s done so, and asked for the surgeon to be sent up. I must stay here until the local men arrive. We shall have to take photographs, and follow the usual routine, though it looks like a straightforward case.”

  “Straightfo
rward? It looks glaringly obvious to me, however, you have to observe the rules of your own mumbo-jumbo. I’ll go down to my sister. I expect she’s made the matter plain to the village cops. She’s a sensible creature.”

  Richard turned and gave another glance at the body in the chair, and his face contracted. “Poor old Basil,” he said softly.

  He went downstairs and met Veronica in the hall, speaking sharply to the servants. Ada was saying, “I’m not going to stop in a house where such things happen,” and Richard cut in sharply:

  “Go and get on with your work. You’d better get the lunch served. It’s no use talking rubbish about not staying here. The police will want to question everybody who was in the house, whether you like it or not. Cut along, and don’t make more trouble.” To Veronica he said, “Come along into the morning room.” He caught her arm and led her through a small room at the back of the hall, where the telephone was installed, into the morning-room beyond.

  “You got the police station, and explained?”

  “Yes. I told them Basil had shot himself. They’re coming straight up here. Who was that man who came upstairs?”

  “A police inspector from the city. You’d better hear the story straight away. There was a warrant out for Basil’s arrest. Embezzlement. He knew – I suppose those letters he had this morning warned him. He chose to shoot himself rather than face the music. Sit down, Ronnie. You look all-in. It’s a grim business, but thank God Paul’s out of the way. He would have been the last straw.”

  Veronica’s face was very white. “Yes. Thank goodness he’s gone. Richard, Basil did shoot himself, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He did. The old method String round the trigger and a loop over his toe. Why? What are you thinking about?”

  “I wish I knew where Martin was. I don’t want him to blunder in to all this and just be told anyhow. It’ll be an awful shock for him, and he’s queer sometimes if things upset him. The police won’t want him to go upstairs – and see Basil like that, will they?”