Die Laughing

by Carola Dunn

  “You’re quite certain he wasn’t faithful?” Alec asked.

  “Quite certain. He wasn’t even faithful to one mistress, but he swore never to start a new liaison and to tell his present lover it was all over between them.”

  “His present lover—do you know who she was?”

  “I didn’t, and I’m not sure now. But he sat down at the escritoire in the drawing room and wrote to her right then and there—it wasn’t too late to catch the last post at the post office in the High Street. He left the letter on the table in the hall while he went to put on his coat to go out and post it. I didn’t pick up the envelope and read it, but I glanced at it from a little distance and I think it was addressed to Mrs. Francis Walker.”

  Major Francis Walker? Daisy wondered. She didn’t think she’d ever heard the major’s christian name. The coincidence of surname was too great to be pure chance, though. It must be Gwen Walker. Besides, Alec looked satisfied, insofar as his impassive-policeman face allowed such an emotion.

  “Thank you,” he said. “It was your interview with your husband, then, that made you lose your appetite for breakfast yesterday?”

  “Yes. Well, not exactly. It was the p-prospect of saying g-good-bye to Harry.” Daphne sounded on the edge of tears, as if she had a lump in her throat.

  Alec handed her a handkerchief. He went through vast numbers of hankies, as weeping suspects rarely laundered and returned them to him. She sniffed into it and dabbed her eyes.

  “You already had an appointment with Lord Henry?” Alec asked.

  “Yes. There was a preview at Sotheby’s, the auction house, of Sarah Bernhardt’s effects. She collected the most marvellously exotic objets d’art, and they had some of her own paintings, too, and the manuscripts of her plays. She wrote and painted, as well as acting. Did you ever see her on the stage?”

  “Yes, in France during the War. She came to entertain the troops, though by then she was over seventy and missing a leg. You enjoyed the preview, then, Mrs. Talmadge?”

  Daphne’s enthusiasm vanished. “Harry did. He couldn’t help it, though he saw that I was unhappy. It’s just the sort of stuff he likes best. I didn’t want to spoil it for him so I paid attention and I suppose I found it impossible not to appreciate such wonderful things. I couldn’t tell him there, anyway. About the baby. It wasn’t busy, but there were always people around.”

  “How long were you at Sotheby’s?”

  “I took a taxi and got there just at eleven, which was when we’d arranged to meet. I think it was about noon when we left.”

  “And then?”

  “Oh, we walked for a bit, while I … while I told him everything.”

  “Everything?” Alec asked sharply.

  “That … that I was going to have his baby, and that Raymond and I were going to patch things up and try to make a go of it. And that I couldn’t see him again. He was devastated. He wanted me to go abroad with him, to let Raymond divorce me and then we’d be married. Perhaps I’m a coward, but I couldn’t face the scandal, not just for my own sake but for his, and our child’s. I know lots of people don’t snub divorcees the way they did even ten years ago, but plenty still do. We’d live under a cloud for the rest of our lives.”

  Daisy wondered whether Daphne was deliberately making a play for Alec’s sympathy, or just wallowing in her own self-justification. And the question recurred: Was she deceiving herself or attempting to deceive Alec? Did she or did she not realize that the more desperate she painted Lord Henry, the more suspicion must fall on him?

  “I’m doing my best to stay calm now,” Daphne went on, “but I was as upset as Harry then. We had intended to lunch together but neither of us felt like eating. We went …”

  After a long pause, Alec said, “You went?”

  “We went … We went to Regent’s Park.” This statement had the same air of inspired improvisation as when she had told Daisy about her husband’s imaginary disappointment. “He accepted my decision to stay with Raymond, you see, but we just wanted a little more time together before we parted forever.”

  “You walked to the park?”

  “No, I … we took a taxi. We sat on a bench by the lake and talked.”

  “In the rain.”

  “It wasn’t really raining, just an occasional shower. We had umbrellas.”

  But she hadn’t been carrying an umbrella when she stepped out of the taxi yesterday. Daisy particularly remembered, having just discovered she’d left her own behind. Of course, Daphne might have forgotten hers in the taxi, but women who habitually took taxis, rather than buses or the Tube, often didn’t bother with an umbrella.

  Anyway, her story of sitting in the park conflicted with Lord Henry’s of going to a restaurant. Either they had not been together and were trying, ineptly, to give each other alibis, or they were together—committing murder.

  While Daisy pondered, Alec had asked something to which Daphne responded, “I don’t know exactly. I didn’t look at my watch, but it didn’t seem very long. Daisy knows what time I got home, and I came straight by taxi from … the park.”

  “Ten past two,” Daisy said. Wherever Daphne had been, it wasn’t Regent’s Park. “No, call it twelve or thirteen minutes past, if you want precision. It was ten past when I checked the time a couple of minutes before Daphne arrived.”

  “Thank you,” said Alec, giving her an I-told-you-to-keep-quiet look. “Mrs. Talmadge, I understand you jumped to the conclusion that your husband had committed suicide. Do you mind telling me what you thought might have driven him to take his own life?”

  No drivel about a Harley Street practice this time. “Everything.” Tears started again. “I thought he must have been brooding about the baby not being his and … oh, everything! I felt that way myself.” Her voice quavered. “If it wasn’t for the baby, I might have tried to kill myself.”

  To Daisy’s wifely eyes, Alec looked torn between disbelief in Daphne’s melodramatic statement and concern over her emotional condition. With outward equanimity he said, “I’m very glad you didn’t, and I trust the impulse has passed. Just one or two more questions, if you feel up to it.” Not waiting for an answer, he went on, “Did you know your husband was in the habit of inhaling laughing gas?”

  “Yes. I asked him to stop, but he said he knew what he was doing so it wasn’t at all dangerous. I don’t think he did it very often.”

  “Who else knew?”

  “Just Nurse Hensted, I think. I never told anyone, of course, and I doubt she did. It wouldn’t do his practice any good.”

  “I dare say. Can you suggest anyone who might have a motive for hating or fearing your husband?”

  Daphne gave a short, unamused laugh. “I suppose most of his patients feared him. The only person I can think of who might have hated him enough to murder him is his mistress’s husband.”

  14

  She’s right, darling, don’t you think?” Daisy led the way downstairs. From above, her shingled head looked like a bronze chrysanthemum, Alec thought. He recalled how she had jammed her hat down over her head when she had her hair cut short, for fear he’d hate it. Her next words, however, were of a kind to dispel tender memories:”If Major Walker discovered his wife was having an affaire with Raymond Talmadge, he’d burst a blood vessel. At least, I’ve only met him a couple of times, but he struck me as a bit of a fire-eater.”

  “You’re assuming Gwen Walker is the woman in question. All we have is an unsubstantiated and unattributed rumour provided by a noted scandalmonger, and an address Mrs. Talmadge herself admits she may have misread.”

  “But they coincide.”

  “I shall have to go and see her,” Alec conceded with a sigh. “No sign of Creighton?” he asked Mackinnon as they reached the hall.

  “I reckon he’s stuck in traffic, sir. Likely he’s not the sort to take the Tube.”

  “Most unlikely,” said Daisy. “Well, that clears up one puzzle, at least.”

  Though Alec recognized a tactic intende
d to lead to a discussion of her theories of the crime, he asked, “What puzzle is that?”

  “I’ve been wondering why, when she so obviously didn’t want people to know about the gas-sniffing, she led me right to the surgery.”

  “That’s a good point. What’s the answer?”

  “She was so distraught after saying good-bye to Lord Henry forever, she just wasn’t thinking clearly. Of course, that’s assuming she actually did tell him it was all over.”

  “You still suspect she made it up?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’ll tell you something I’m quite sure she made up. I don’t believe for a moment that she and Lord Henry spent well over an hour sitting on a bench in Regent’s Park, with or without umbrellas!”

  “No,” Alec agreed.

  “We might find the taxi man who brought her home, sir,” said Mackinnon. “Then we’d know where he picked her up, and if there was a gentleman with her then.”

  “It’s worth a try. Get on to it when we finish here, will you? But I can’t help thinking that if they were murdering Raymond Talmadge, both together or either with the other’s knowledge, they would have done a better job coordinating alibis! I wonder what they were doing?”

  “I bet they were—” Mackinnon cut himself off, his face turning scarlet as he glanced shamefacedly at Daisy.

  “You could be right, Sergeant,” she said. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they went to a hotel for a final fling.”

  Mackinnon gazed at Daisy with mingled embarrassment and awe. Apparently she had read his mind.

  The last thing Alec needed was another detective officer who believed Daisy to be infallible! Suppressing a groan, he said, “I suppose it would explain why neither of them wants to admit where they were. And even if it’s not true, the possibility gives me a point of attack when Creighton gets here. You don’t mind walking home, do you, Daisy? Your umbrella’s in the car.”

  “I’ll fetch it, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mackinnon offered eagerly, and was gone before she could say yea or nay.

  For once she didn’t argue. “I’ll get these notes typed for you before I go out, darling.”

  “That would be a help.” Alec thought she looked a bit tired. “Do you really have to go to this dinner party tonight, love?”

  “Yes, I told Mrs. Randall I would and one can’t let people down at the last minute. How lucky I said you couldn’t make it.”

  “Not a chance, thank heaven. First Creighton, then him and Mrs. Talmadge together, if the nurse thinks she’s up to it, and then I’d better go and have a word with Mrs. Walker.”

  “I hope the major doesn’t shoot you for suggesting his wife is unfaithful. Come to think of it, doesn’t death by laughing gas seem a bit subtle for a military man?”

  “He’d hardly bring a pistol with him if he came to have it out with Talmadge. A horsewhip more likely. But if he found Talmadge already under the influence, perhaps laughing at his remonstrances, he might seize the opportunity. I’ll worry about that if I find out Gwen Walker actually was Talmadge’s mistress. Keep your ears open this evening.”

  “I will, darling. Oh, by the way, Daphne’s giving the nurse pay in lieu of notice. She can’t stand her. In fact they can’t stand each other and Miss Hensted is keen to be off. There’ll be an agency nurse coming in the morning. Just in case you need to talk to her again.”

  “That’s all right, we have Miss Hensted’s address.”

  “I thought so. Thank you, Sergeant Mackinnon.” Taking from him her red umbrella—endearingly audacious in a world of black brollies, Alec thought, especially as it clashed with her lilac costume—she pulled on her gloves. “Do try to make sure the Chief gets something to eat, won’t you? Even if it’s just a sandwich. Cheerio, darling, and good luck.”

  As the door closed behind her, Mackinnon said admiringly, “Maybe we could do with a few lady detectives on the force.”

  “No doubt the day will come,” Alec said dryly. “The women constables we got last year seem to be working out quite well. While we wait, I’d better bring you up to date on what Mrs. Talmadge said.”

  Before he had quite finished, the doorbell rang, followed immediately by the rat-tat of the knocker. Gladys appeared from the nether regions. Alec waved her away and went to open the door himself.

  “Good evening, Lord Henry.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Inspector.” No sign of the cool, even nonchalant façade Alec had met yesterday. In his agitation, Creighton had rushed out in his smoking jacket, embroidered crimson silk and most unsuitable for wearing in the street. He glanced wildly from Alec to Mackinnon and back. “It wasn’t you who told me Daphne is in danger?”

  “Out of danger, sir,” said Mackinnon in a soothing tone Alec couldn’t have bettered.

  “You spoke to Detective Sergeant Mackinnon here, Lord Henry. Mrs. Talmadge is resting comfortably.”

  “But what happened? I must see her at once!”

  “If Mrs. Talmadge wishes to see you, and the nurse doesn’t forbid it, you shall go up as soon as you’ve answered a few questions.”

  “Questions! I told you everything yesterday.”

  “I think not, sir. Shall we go into the dining room?” Alec led the way, confident that Mackinnon, like a Scottish sheepdog, could be relied upon to herd Creighton after him. He pulled out a chair at the table, waited till Creighton sank onto it, then seated himself at the head of the table.

  The sergeant, sitting down opposite Creighton, took his notebook from his pocket with a deliberation intended to impress his lordship with the serious nature of the interview.

  “Perhaps you would like to … ah … amend your version of where you and Mrs. Talmadge went yesterday,” Alec suggested.

  “We went to Sotheby’s, and then out to lunch.”

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Talmadge disagrees.”

  “Have you been bullying her?” Creighton rose, angry yet weary, planting his fists on the table as much to help himself up as in a gesture of outrage. “Ill as she is!”

  “Certainly not.” Suspecting the man had spent a long night pacing the floor, Alec raised his hand palm down. Creighton collapsed back onto his chair. “I talked to Mrs. Talmadge in the presence of … a friend, a female friend, at her request. The nurse was within easy call.”

  “But what happened to her? Tell me that, and I’ll tell you anything you like!”

  “She nearly lost her baby. Your baby.”

  Creighton seemed to crumple. “If you know that, you know everything. You know why I couldn’t tell the truth before. No gentleman could.”

  He’d rather be suspected of murder than of being ungentlemanly? Alec wondered. “So let’s hear it now.”

  “We did go to Sotheby’s and we were there from eleven till about noon. We would have left sooner, because I could tell Daphne was in distress though she tried to hide it, but she insisted that I must see everything I was interested in. Afterwards, we could not talk in the street, and she didn’t want to go to a restaurant, so we went to a friend’s flat.”

  Alec had to suppress a smile at Sergeant Mackinnon’s disappointed expression. A flat, not a hotel—Daisy had missed the mark, though she was right that the park story was pure fabrication. No doubt Mrs. Talmadge had been too embarrassed to confess to the love nest.

  Creighton continued. “There, she told me … I expect you know what she told me.”

  “I need to hear it in your own words, sir.”

  “Oh, very well.” He removed his monocle from his eye and started to polish it on a silk handkerchief. Without it he looked much more human, haggard, and defenceless. His gaze remained fixed on the mechanical motion of his fingers as he continued. “She told me she was going to bear my child. She had already spoken to her husband, who apparently was willing to accept the child as long as she never saw me again. Except to say good-bye—I suppose that was generous of him. He could have made her write to me.”

  As he had written his farewell to his lady-friend, Alec thought. Or ha
d he? Perhaps the letter Mrs. Talmadge watched him write had been to arrange a final rendezvous.

  “I begged her to come away with me. We could go to the Continent, where people are more tolerant of such arrangements, and let Talmadge divorce her. I would have married her like a shot, but she was adamant …” He looked up, his expression lightening. “I will marry her. She’s free now, after all these years!”

  “Free because her husband has been murdered.”

  Creighton’s busy hands instantly stilled and his face went blank. After a frozen moment, he returned the monocle to his eye and his face resumed its usual lopsided inscrutability. With studied care he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “It must have been an accident,” he asserted.

  “It was not an accident, Lord Henry. I warned you that honesty really is the best policy, in spite of which you lied to me. And now I find you have an excellent and immediate motive for wanting Raymond Talmadge dead. I must now warn you that anything you say will be written down and may be used in evidence. Do you wish to ring up your lawyer?”

  “Lord, no! The old buzzard would have a fit if he found out the mess I seem to have got myself into. Been the family’s man for centuries, don’t you know. He’d go straight to m‘father. No, I didn’t do Talmadge in, and you seem to know the worst already. I’ll ‘come clean,’ as I believe they say in America. Fire away.”

  Oddly, the official warning seemed to have restored his lordship to the breezy manner with which he had first greeted Alec yesterday.

  “The address of the Dixons’ flat, please.”

  “The Dix—Devil take it, how did you know?”

  “The address, please.”

  “Six-J Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, Old Marylebone Road.”

  “Was Captain Dixon at home when you arrived? Or Mrs. Dixon?”

  “No. They’ve gone down to Henley for the week. They have a place on the river.”

  “Address, please.”

  “Dabchick Cottage, Wargrave Road.”

  “Telephone?”