The call disclosed that Madge Thornton was now asleep, after being given sedatives, and that the doctor had banned all visitors until further notice.
‘I think we must try the deceased lady’s house, then, madam,’ the Inspector said, putting down the receiver. ‘Constable Freeth has told me of the events which led you to call him in, and I’ll send my sergeant over right away to have a look round and search for Mr Baynes’s address.’
After a brief absence he came back again, and sat down in a chair by the desk.
He told her that he felt she was in a position to give invaluable background information. ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘this is a much more complicated business than a murder in a private house. We’ve got to get the hang of a much wider setting, if I can put it in that way. I understand the deceased was an old pupil of this School, and lived just opposite the entrance?’
‘That’s quite correct,’ said Helen. ‘She was here at School just at the turn of the century, and has kept in close touch ever since.’
‘Dr Wallace has given a provisional opinion that she died during Saturday night. Assuming for the moment that she was killed on the premises — of course we’re keeping the fire-escape in mind — can you suggest why she should be in the studio at that time?’
‘It depends on what you mean by Saturday night, Inspector. Perhaps I had better explain a little about last Saturday.’
She outlined the Festival programme, explaining that Beatrice Baynes had not been eligible for an invitation to supper. ‘But of course there was nothing to prevent her coming over here again after supper, although it doesn’t seem very likely. She was elderly, and had been out all day, and I know that she took some friends back to her house when she left here at about six. There was an art exhibition in the studio, but she had already seen that.’
In response to his request she provided the names and addresses of the three guests at the sherry-party. The Inspector then began to question her about the locking-up arrangements at Meldon.
‘Bert Heyward, our resident caretaker, is responsible for it. Normally in the summer term he begins at nine o’clock, starting with the Assembly Hall and working through School Wing — where the studio is — to this house. But Saturday was not a normal day, so he may have been earlier or later. He’s most reliable, and I’m quite sure no doors were left unlocked all night.’
‘I’ll be taking a statement from him later,’ said Inspector Beakbane. ‘Once the locking-up was done, madam, would it be possible for anyone to get from this house into School Wing?’
‘There are connecting doors on all three floors. Those on the first and second floors are kept permanently locked, and haven’t been opened for years. The one on this floor is locked by Bert Heyward when he comes through, and he puts the key inside the case of the grandfather clock in the hall. I think this is fairly generally known as far as the School goes. The connecting doors between this house and New House are never locked, in case of an emergency at night. Perhaps if I drew a rough plan?’
‘Thank you very much, madam,’ he said, studying the sheet of paper. ‘I take it,’ he went on, ‘that quite a few people were sleeping on the premises on Saturday night, although most of the guests were here only for the day?’
‘About fifty, I should say. Roughly twenty-five Old Girls, the fifteen members of the Sixth Form, and those of us who are resident staff. I can get you an accurate list.’
‘That would be very —’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Colonel Patch and Sir Piers Tracey, Miss Renshaw,’ Joyce Kitson announced.
The Chief Constable of Upshire strode into the room with outstretched hand.
‘Good morning, Miss Renshaw,’ he said. ‘I needn’t say I’m distressed. A shocking thing to happen — here, of all places. Morning, Beakbane. You know Sir Piers from the Bench, of course. He’s chairman of the Meldon Governors. We met on the doorstep.’
Greetings were exchanged and two more chairs drawn up. At Colonel Patch’s suggestion the Inspector gave a precis of the situation.
‘If I may,’ Helen interposed as he ended, ‘I think there are one or two other things I ought to tell you about.’
‘Please go ahead, Miss Renshaw,’ said the Colonel.
She briefly described Madge Thornton’s visit to her flat on Sunday, and the arrangements she had made for her welfare with Sister Littlejohn.
‘I just can’t forgive myself for not having taken some action about Miss Baynes,’ she said miserably, ‘but it really didn’t seem called for at the time, and you know, Sir Piers, how difficult she could be.’
‘You acted as any reasonable person would have done,’ he said, observing her strained face, ‘and have absolutely nothing to reproach yourself with, has she, Patch?’
‘Nothing whatever,’ replied the Colonel. ‘In any case, Miss Renshaw, even if you had rung us up there was no justification for police enquiries at that stage. And if we had felt that her not turning up at Applebys last night was suspicious, we certainly shouldn’t have started off by searching the school, should we, Beakbane?’
‘No, sir. We’d have contacted hospitals for an accident case, and so on. The delay’s unfortunate, of course, but it’s easy to see how it’s come about.’
‘I expect you’d like to talk things over,’ said Helen, taking herself in hand and rising to her feet. ‘I’ll go and get that list of the people who slept here on Saturday night for you, Inspector.’
When she returned five minutes later there was an atmosphere of decision in the room. The Chief Constable and Inspector Beakbane bent over the list which Joyce Kitson had produced.
‘Well, this would have clinched it in any case,’ the former said. ‘About forty possible witnesses scattered all over the country by now. You agree, Beakbane?’
‘Absolutely, sir. We just haven’t the manpower for a job like this, and I know the Super would say the same.’
‘I’ll ring him, first, of course, and then get on to the Yard right away, and ask them to send someone down. I’d better mention your name, Tracey, as you know the A.C., and tell him Meldon’s one of our pigeons. No, Miss Renshaw, the phone in the secretary’s office will do perfectly well. We’ll leave you two to have a chat.’
‘Well, my dear, we’ve weathered some storms over the past twelve years,’ said Sir Piers, moving into the chair vacated by Inspector Beakbane, ‘and we shall weather this one, but I wish the woman had got herself murdered somewhere else… You’re looking very knocked-out, not unnaturally. You want a shot in the arm. Got any brandy in the place?’
‘There’s some brandy up in my flat, but I’m all right really.’
Ignoring this statement he went in search of Joyce Kitson, and presently came back with a glass on a tray.
‘Get this inside you,’ he said.
As she sipped the brandy Helen began to feel better.
‘Do smoke,’ she said.
Sir Piers lighted a cigarette.
‘What’s particularly on your mind?’ he asked. ‘Afraid of being a suspect yourself? You’d have bumped her off long ago if you were going to!’
‘No, not really, although I suppose I am one potentially. It’s Madge Thornton, first and foremost, I think. She’s been very odd and overwrought ever since she came back from her mother’s funeral, and she was definitely in an hysterical state on Sunday. And when Bert Heyward came in and blurted out about the body, she made a mad remark and went sky-high.’
‘H’m. Where is she now?’
‘In the Sanatorium. Under sedation, and no visitors allowed.’
‘And what else?’ he asked, reverting to his original question.
‘Ann Cartmell must have been up in the studio quite late on Saturday, doing a final clear-up. Clive Torrance was coming in after supper to advise about some entries for a competition. Of course she didn’t murder Beatrice Baynes, but it’s well known that Beatrice had had the knife into her, and she was most offensive about her work at the A.G.M. on Sat
urday. Ann’s the highly-strung type who’ll probably go to pieces when the police question her. She’s due to fly to New York on Thursday, by the way, to take up that scholarship she’s been awarded. And then there’s Bert Heyward. He must have gone in to lock the fire-escape door on the inside.’
Sir Piers smoked in silence.
‘The only possible course is complete frankness with the police,’ he remarked at last. ‘You must tell them about Miss Cartmell. I doubt if she’ll get away on Thursday, unless it can be proved that Beatrice was still alive after she had left the premises. What’s the present terminus ad quem?’
‘About seven o’clock, I think.’ She went on to tell him about the sherry party, and the telephone calls she had made.
A knock on the door heralded the return of Colonel Patch.
‘I’ve been on to the Yard,’ he told them. ‘They’re sending down a Chief Detective-Inspector Pollard and the usual support, and they say they ought to get here about three. Now we’re —’
‘Just a minute, Patch, Miss Renshaw’s thought of a few more things which seem relevant. I’ll go and get on to the other Governors,’ he said to Helen, ‘and draft a stock answer for Mrs Kitson to give parents and other people who ring up.’
‘Thank you so much. And we’ll get lunch laid on for everyone.’
‘That’s most kind,’ said the Colonel. ‘And it would be a convenience if we could have somewhere for an office.’
‘Of course. Would the library be suitable? It’s just across the hall.’
Time went on in a curiously disjointed way. The imperturbable Jean Forrest provided a series of lunch trays in unusual places. Unfamiliar footsteps passed and re-passed the swing doors into School Wing. Instinctively the Meldon community drew closer together. The Senior Mistress who had left for home that morning returned at once on being contacted by Joyce Kitson. The school doctor looked in, ostensibly to report on Madge Thornton. Incoming telephone calls were handled with tact and brevity in the secretary’s office, and very few allowed to go through to Helen Renshaw. Jock Eccles, instructed to shut the gates and keep out unauthorised visitors, assumed his second-best suit and a more than usually militant expression.
Soon after half-past two Sir Piers came in to tell Helen that the crime reported from the Announcer was driving from London in a fast car.
‘I know Broadbent, the editor,’ he said, ‘and offered them the exclusive story. The others will all turn up, of course, and hang about for scraps, but it won’t be so trying if the scoop has already gone. I’ll cope with him when he arrives, so don’t worry.’
She asked him if he knew what was happening.
‘They’re waiting for the Scotland Yard people. Then Patch will go off, and Beakbane too, when he’s handed over. Miss Cartmell has been told to come back, so she’ll appear some time this evening. Lives in Bath, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes. Isn’t that a car coming up the drive?’
He went over to the window.
‘Scotland Yard,’ he said a moment later. ‘Four of them?
‘Four?’
‘The detective-inspector, his sergeant and a couple of technicians, I imagine. For photography and fingerprints.’
‘This is the sort of thing that happens to other people, isn’t it?’
He came across the room and sat down again.
‘History suggests,’ he said, ‘that Meldon possesses a quite remarkable resilience.’
She had just time to smile back at him when Joyce Kitson announced Chief Detective-Inspector Pollard of Scotland Yard.
Five
‘The Figure of Beatrice, by Charles Williams.’
List of Missing Library Books
‘I’d better see ’em off,’ said Inspector Beakbane, as the stretcher party manoeuvred out of the studio door. ‘Always gives a good impression in a posh set-up.’ He grinned at Chief Detective-Inspector Pollard and went out with a touch of jauntiness in his step.
It’ll be O.K. if I watch out, thought Pollard, even if he is twenty years older than I am. Perhaps he’ll come off the defensive as we go along.
Dismissing Beakbane from his mind he stood with his back to the door, concentrating intently on the studio. Immediately facing him was the door leading to the fire-escape. To the left of it a table stood against the wall, stacked with an assortment of jars, vases, boxes and other oddments. To the left again, a paper press with drawers underneath… His gaze moved on anti-clockwise to the folded screens stacked in the corner, and on again over the easels and stools under the windows in the west wall… A lot more junk on the window-sills. The puppet theatre had stood in the corner on his left, its back to the wall behind him. The tug with which the cleaner had pulled it out had swivelled it round through ninety degrees, so that it now faced him. It was a flimsy affair of hessian over strips of rough wood, about six feet high. The powerful light being used by Detective-Constable Strickland, who was fingerprinting the inside, showed behind the gentle-moving small curtains, giving a macabre impression of a performance about to begin. The effect was heightened by a Mephistophelian flash as Detective-Constable Boyce took a photograph. Sergeant Toye, sprawled on the floor examining the linoleum through a lens, might have been struck by a thunderbolt. He glanced up at Pollard.
‘Looks as if an army’s tramped over the place, sir.’
‘It has,’ replied Pollard. ‘A monstrous regiment of women for most of Saturday, and God knows how many people today, before we got here. Carry on, all the same. If the marks on those heels weren’t made by dragging, I’ll eat my hat.’ He looked towards a pair of good, but well-worn black shoes with low cuban heels.
The door opened to re-admit Inspector Beakbane.
‘There’s nothing more for us here at the moment,’ Pollard told him. ‘Let’s leave these chaps to it and go down to the library, I’d be jolly glad of a recap up to date.’
A tea-tray awaited them on the table in the bay opposite the door.
‘Bit of all right,’ remarked Beakbane. ‘Ashtrays, too. Shall I be mother?’
He poured out two cups, dropped three lumps of sugar into his own, held out a packet of cigarettes to Pollard, and opened the folder he had been carrying under his arm.
‘Deceased,’ he said, without further preamble, ‘saw off three highly respectable old schoolmates from the house opposite the gates just after seven on Saturday evening. We’ve checked with two of them through the Whitesands police: they live down there. As far as we’ve been able to discover, no one — except the murderer, that is — saw her again until she shot out of that Punch and Judy show affair with her head bashed in, at about twenty to eleven this morning. Dr Wallace, our police surgeon, gives it as his provisional opinion that she was killed before midnight on Saturday. He’s doing a p.m., of course, but I doubt if he’ll be pinned down any closer after all this time.’
‘Odd that nobody noticed her absence on Sunday. Or wasn’t it?’
‘In some ways, no. She lived on her own, and her day woman didn’t come on Sundays. Actually, it was noticed — there are one or two fishy bits of evidence here, including signs of a break-in at the house, which we’re pretty well convinced are phoney.’ The Inspector expelled a mouthful of smoke, and went on. ‘One of the teachers here, a Miss Madge Thornton, is deceased’s godchild. She can’t be questioned at the moment on doctor’s orders: she went sky-high on hearing about the murder, and is in the sick-bay under sedatives. But she told Miss Renshaw that she went over there late on Saturday evening and couldn’t get an answer. When deceased didn’t show up at church on Sunday morning, Miss Thornton went to the house again — Applebys, it’s called — saw the milk and paper on the doorstep, still couldn’t get answer, and panicked. She came over here, knocked up Miss Renshaw — she’s got a flat upstairs — and begged her to contact the police.’
‘Which she didn’t do, I take it?’
‘No. Apparently relations were pretty tricky between them, because of the changes she’s made since she took over the school. B
rought things up-to-date: girls allowed out with boyfriends, and so on. Deceased was an old scholar herself here, you see, a long way back. Miss Renshaw said in so many words that she didn’t want to trigger off an unnecessary row by interfering, and that it seemed obvious that deceased was out seeing as much as she could of her old pals who’d come for the Reunion. So she calmed Madge Thornton down, and got the School nurse to keep an eye on her for the rest of the day and give her a sleeping-pill. She says she’s been worried about Miss Thornton, who only came back from her mother’s funeral last Friday, seeming very upset and nervy. Time of life, too, I daresay. Cool customer, Miss Renshaw,’ added the Inspector. ‘Gives me the jitters a bit, between ourselves. Reminds me of the head teacher at my board school who used to scare the guts out of me.’
‘Possible suspect?’ enquired Pollard, intrigued.
‘Given a motive, I wouldn’t put it beyond her. Plenty of brains, and used to keeping her head screwed on… Motive’s the only hope in clearing up this case, as you’ll have seen for yourself. Anybody about the place from seven o’clock onwards on Saturday night could’ve done it. There were about sixty of them, counting the helpers at the supper, and there’s always the possibility that an outsider got in, before they locked up for the night. Look at this…’
He produced the rough sketch-plan made by Helen Renshaw, and explained the normal locking-up procedure, and the possibility of internal access to School Wing at a later hour by anyone who knew where the key of the door leading from Old House was kept overnight. The two men sat smoking in silence while Pollard considered.
‘A lot hangs on where the murder was committed,’ he said. ‘Was she slugged in the studio, or somewhere else and carried there afterwards? If somewhere else, the murderer must either have known about the puppet theatre or felt that it was safer to hide the body inside than in the grounds. He — or she — may have thought that the school was closing down for the holidays and that it wouldn’t be found for some time. We can’t get much further until my chaps have finished upstairs. Not that I’m very hopeful of the floor after all that tramping about. The path outside leading to the fire-escape’s like iron after this dry spell, too. There’s nothing for us there.’
Death of an Old Girl Page 5
