He was roused from his reflections by Sister Littlejohn’s return. The plan had worked beautifully, and Miss Thornton was all ready to see him. She really seemed much more like herself this morning, but they’d be keeping her for a day or two longer, to make sure she was properly on her feet again. Until after the funeral, probably.
Pollard, who had been debating with himself whether a watch ought to be kept on Madge Thornton, was considerably relieved by this information. They went along a passage smelling of antiseptics and stopped outside a door with a glass panel.
‘I’ll be in the surgery just opposite, doing up the medicine glass,’ she murmured in his ear. ‘Here’s Mr Pollard to see you, dear,’ she announced cheerfully, flinging the door open. ‘He just wants a little chat with you while I’m busy in the surgery. He can’t stay more than a few minutes.’
Madge was up and dressed, sitting in an armchair by the window. As Pollard crossed the room she looked up at him nervously, and his trained perception registered a complex of emotions behind her trepidation, of which fear was only one. He was immediately struck by the fact that she was well-built, and rather clumsy-looking, with big feet and strong hands … a better build for it than Renshaw, he thought, remembering Beakbane… Pollard had married an exceedingly attractive woman, and it seemed incredible that anyone could be content to make so little of herself … that large face, with its neglected, roughened complexion, and the lank, straw-coloured hair which looked as though she cut it herself. Rather curious light eyes, which watched him apprehensively. And that awful shapeless cardigan, a sort of sandy colour, bunched over a cotton frock… When she spoke in answer to his conventional greeting, it was a pleasant surprise to find that she had a rather deep, agreeable voice. As she made no attempt to ask him to sit down, he seated himself opposite to her, and began to make general conversation, gradually working round to her position at Meldon.
‘I hate my work here,’ she said abruptly. ‘Except the gardening.’
‘Gardening?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘Yes. I run the girls’ gardens. That part’s all right.’
It came to him that this large, awkward woman would look perfectly at home in gardening kit, with a foot on a spade… He asked her why she hadn’t become a professional gardener if she preferred that kind of work to teaching music.
‘Aunt Beatrice didn’t approve. She said it wasn’t a suitable career. She was paying for me, you see.’
Educated her, and has left her a life interest in £30,000, thought Pollard.
‘I suppose Miss Baynes was an old friend of your parents?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know about a friend.’ She spoke rather sullenly, dragging out the word. ‘She’d always known them, I think, right back in her Warhampton days.’
It occurred to Pollard that Mr Thornton might have been an employee in the Baynes business, and that Madge could have a social inferiority complex.
‘I’m so sorry to have to come and bother you when you’ve had so much trouble just lately,’ he said gently, ‘but I think you may be able to help me a lot. You must have been more intimate with Miss Baynes than anyone else at Meldon. Would you try to put your mind back to last Saturday? I don’t suppose you went to the Festival supper, did you? It must have been a very trying day for you.’
‘Oh, yes, I did. We all have to — to entertain the Old Meldonians. I’m one myself, but I count as staff now.’
Reflecting that she would hardly lie about something which could be verified so easily, Pollard asked if she had seen Miss Baynes on her first visit to Applebys, at about twenty minutes past eight.
‘No, I didn’t. The door was locked, and there was no answer when I rang.’
‘Did you see anyone about?’
‘Only Bert Heyward. He went past on his bike, just as I came away.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘Oh, I just wandered about in the park. I thought Aunt Beatrice would be back soon, and I’d wait.’
‘Did you meet many people?’
‘No. I kept away from the school and the gardens. I didn’t want to talk to anybody.’
‘But you must have wanted to talk to Miss Baynes very badly, if you went over to see her again?’
Watching Madge intently, Pollard saw her clasped hands tighten until the knuckles whitened.
‘That — that was different. I’d hardly seen her since I got back from the funeral.’
‘Wasn’t Miss Baynes at your mother’s funeral?’ he asked in surprise.
‘No.’
Could this be relevant to the theory that there’d been a row, he wondered?
Madge confirmed that Ann Cartmell had offered her a lift in the drive, and said that the second visit to Applebys had been as abortive as the first. She had gone round to the garden and called, but Aunt Beatrice hadn’t answered. Her choice of words struck Pollard as slightly odd. Had she any reason to believe that Miss Baynes had been there all the time? He asked if she had been surprised at her godmother’s being out.
‘Yes, I was,’ she said. ‘Aunt Beatrice hardly ever went out in the evening.’
‘But at this stage you weren’t worried about her?’
‘Worried? Oh, no,’ she replied, with an inflexion in her voice which he was unable to interpret.
‘How disappointing for you it must have been,’ he remarked, ‘when you wanted to spend a little time with someone you were fond of.’
The sudden anger in the pale eyes was unmistakable, as she elapsed and unclasped her hands. Pollard experienced a feeling of triumph: beyond any doubt something had happened to arouse indignation like this…
‘I expect you were glad to get back to the Staff House and go to bed,’ he went on. ‘Did you manage to get a lift?’
‘No. I walked.’
‘Did you go straight back from Applebys?’
‘Why should I?’ she demanded angrily. ‘It was a lovely evening and I’d a perfect right to walk in the park if I wanted to.’
Damn, he thought, she’s beginning to feel cornered. She’ll go off again in a minute if I’m not careful…
‘It must have been very pleasant strolling there,’ he said easily. ‘Did you by any chance see anyone coming away from the school, or from Applebys, while you were about?’
Exasperatedly he saw her grasp the arms of her chair, and rise a little in her seat. Then her eyes became blank, and she began to laugh, a high-pitched hysterical laugh…
The door opened, and Sister Littlejohn came swiftly and competently into the room.
Pollard locked the cardboard box containing the medicine glass into his car, and went into the entrance hall of Old House, bracing himself for another difficult feminine interview. Ann Cartmell promptly appeared in the doorway of the secretary’s office, giving a totally unexpected impression of light-heartedness. He apologised for keeping her waiting, and suggested that they go into the library.
‘You’re feeling a bit better about things this morning, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, much better. Mr Torrance rang me from London late last night. He tried Miss Renshaw first to find out where I was, and she gave him the Staff House number. He says I mustn’t get into a flap in case I have to be a day or two late getting to New York. He’s sure it won’t be more, and that a seat on a plane could be wangled somehow. He’s going to cable his friends about meeting me just the same if I’m held up, and thinks I’ll be able to stay with them after the summer school instead of before, if necessary.’
Pollard registered the facts of the situation previously unknown to him.
‘Your course doesn’t begin this week, then?’
‘No. Isn’t it lucky? I was going to spend the weekend with these friends of Mr Torrance in New York until Tuesday evening, and have a super time sight-seeing. It was awful to think if missing it, but now it looks as though it’ll come off after all.’
‘Are they artists, too?’ he asked casually, marvelling at her childlike self-centredness.
‘Mr Torrance says they both paint… He told me someone from Scotland Yard was going to see him today. Will it be you?’
‘It might be. Now, shall we go up to the studio? There’s nothing there to upset you, as I said last night.’
At the request of the police Jean Forrest had held up the cleaning of School Wing. It was empty and silent, the air close and still. As Pollard walked along the echoing corridor with Ann Cartmell, he glanced into the deserted classrooms and reflected that few places were more dead than school buildings during the holidays. They went up the stone staircase at the far end, and came to the studio door which was locked and sealed. He inspected and broke the seal and inserted a key. Going in first, he held the door for Ann, and at once indicated the empty corner on the left.
‘You won’t ever have to see the puppet theatre again, of course,’ he told her in a matter-of-fact voice, and went across to open the fire-escape door. ‘Let’s have some air, shall we?’
The studio looked both squalid and dramatic. Dust and finger-printing powder lay everywhere, and easels, stools and screens had been hastily thrust into wildly irrelevant positions by the investigators. The table by the wall facing the door was strewn with the various objects which had been left stacked upon it. There was a curious random pattern of white chalk circles…
Pollard beckoned to Ann and made a gesture towards the table.
‘Have you ever played Kim’s Game?’ he asked.
She nodded affirmatively, looking at him in bewilderment.
‘Well, then, has anything been removed from here? Try to remember what was stacked together before my chaps disturbed it all.’
She gave a despairing exclamation.
‘But I’m hopelessly untidy — I never know where things are!’
‘Just take your time, and don’t get fussed over it. You’ll be surprised at what you can remember.’
He moved away, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, and embarked on an imaginative reconstruction of the actual murder. Suppose Beatrice Baynes had come up the fire-escape — whether casually or by appointment could wait for the moment. The murderer, X, is also there. They confront each other at the table, just where Ann Cartmell is standing now. An angry scene develops. X, infuriated, snatches up some heavy blunt object with a rounded edge, and smashes it down on the old woman’s fragile skull… She slumps to the floor, while the killer, panic-stricken, looks round for somewhere to conceal the body, unconsciously putting the weapon down on the table… Obviously the puppet theatre is the place… He — or she — heaves up the body, but not quite soon enough to avoid those short, tell-tale marks of dragging made by the victim’s heels. It is comparatively light, and not too difficult to carry across the room, but has to be put down again while X pulls the puppet theatre clear of the wall. Quite safe to touch the rough canvas: it won’t take prints… Now the stowing away of the body inside. This takes a bit of manoeuvring, and the heels drag again… Then the contraption is pushed back against the wall… All X will have to do now is to snatch up the weapon and make an unobtrusive exit… So easy to overlook that tiny bloodstain where it has rested on the table… Obviously the puppet theatre is the place … broad shoulders and strong hands was quite a convincing figure…
A slight sound made him turn round. Ann Cartmell, looking pale and upset, had taken a step towards him.
‘There is something missing,’ she said, and swallowed. ‘A stone we use for a paperweight.’
‘What sort of stone?’
‘Like one of these.’ She showed him a cardboard box containing flat, water-worn stones from four to six inches in diameter, of the type found on shingle beaches.
‘But how can you be sure that one of these has gone? They look much the same.’
‘The missing one was rather special. It had veins of quartz or something, which made a pattern like the Sphinx. The girls called it the Sphinx — one of them brought it back from a holiday at Westward Ho!’
‘But are you quite certain it was on the table last Saturday? I don’t want you to think I question what you are saying, but you told me just now that you were bad at remembering where things were, didn’t you?’
She looked at him steadily.
‘Yes, I’m absolutely certain. When I came up after tea to take down the exhibition, I used it to weigh down a pile of paintings. A breeze had got up, and was coming in at the fire-escape door, and things were blowing about.’
Pollard took a deep breath.
‘Can you remember noticing it when you were here with Mr Torrance, or when you were doing the final clear-up with the two girls?’
She closed her eyes, and thought intently.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said at last. ‘It simply didn’t register with me again.’
At any rate, he thought, we’ve established the place and the weapon, almost beyond doubt…
‘Don’t let this distress you too much,’ he said, observing the expression on her face. ‘It would have happened in any case, I’m afraid.’
Sergeant Toye was in the library, adjusting the timetable made at the White Horse. Handing Pollard some notes, he reported that his luck had been in at the Staff House. Taking Miss Thornton first, her return on Saturday evening had been witnessed by the housekeeper, Mrs Milman, who had come out of her room on the ground floor just after the end of the ten o’clock news on the radio — say at twelve minutes past. Pressed, she had said that Miss Thornton looked a ‘bit het up’, but added that she’d been like that ever since her mother died. She had noticed Miss Thornton emerging from the bathroom in her dressing-gown about half an hour later. During a conversation with the Senior Mistress Toye had also established that Miss Thornton was present at the Festival supper.
‘Then she’s unaccounted for during the short period when Miss Cartmell was seeing off Mr Torrance, and again from after the offer of the lift — which she confirms — to the time when Bert Heyward locked up the studio at about nine-fifty, if he did,’ said Pollard meditatively. ‘I’ve managed to see her, by the way.’
He was just beginning to tell Toye about the interview when a police car drew up outside the window, bringing Superintendent Martin and Inspector Beakbane en route for the inquest, which Pollard did not propose to attend. The four men sat round a table in one of the bays, while Pollard once again outlined a case against Madge Thornton.
‘Opportunity,’ commented the Super tersely. ‘Physique for it, too, from what you say. Motive seems a bit theoretical, apart from the money. Dabs in the right places in the studio might clinch it.’
Toye, invited to proceed, stated that there was overwhelming evidence that Ann Cartmell had returned to the Staff House soon after nine, and been occupied in packing and having a late snack with her friends until about midnight.
‘That bears out my conviction that she knows nothing whatever about the murder,’ said Pollard. ‘I’ve seen her again this morning. She’s a self-centred little piece at present, and looks on the whole business as a tiresome interference with her arrangements for going to America. And if she’s out of it, presumably Torrance is, too.’
Toye interposed to explain that he had called at the Lodge, and questioned the head gardener, Jock Eccles, about the time of Mr Torrance’s arrival. Eccles had fulminated about a car which had swung in at the gates at a dangerous speed, and gone tearing up the drive. He’d shaken his fist after it from the kitchen window. Somewhere round half an hour later, he’d been in the garden when it came back at the same daft speed, hardly slowing down to turn right into the road. A Jaguar, with a dark man at the wheel.
‘Doesn’t look as though he’d paid an earlier visit, does it, sir?’
Pollard agreed. The Super, who liked solid, tangible clues, showed signs of restlessness, and reverted to the man seen leaving Applebys about nine o’clock, and the steps he was taking to trace him. On hearing that there was a bare possibility that the stranger had been George Baynes, next-of-kin and chief beneficiary of the deceased, he became almost voluble.
‘Doesn’t follow that the assailant was out of the way tall,’ said Inspector Beakbane. ‘Deceased was only four foot eleven.’
‘I think I can tell you what the object was.’ Pollard gave the gist of his conversation with Ann Cartmell about the missing stone. Toye suggested searching the garden near the foot of the fire-escape.
‘Mightn’t have been too big for a man to stuff in his pocket,’ replied the Super. ‘About the probable time of death, now. All the usual stuff about how impossible it is to say anything at all, and then the mixture as before, more or less … not much later than Saturday midnight, and it could have been several hours earlier.’
‘I suppose we couldn’t hope for anything nearer after nearly forty hours.’ Pollard looked at his watch and started putting papers into the briefcase. ‘I’d better make tracks for London. I want to drop Thornton’s dabs in at the Yard before I see Torrance and Baynes.’
Nine
‘There have been remarkable developments in the art department.’
H.M. Inspector’s Report on Meldon
Press cameras clicked as Inspector Pollard drove out of Meldon Park. He felt a surge of elation: a hasty glance at the morning papers had shown him the extent to which the case had caught on with the public. His own name had featured quite prominently… As the police car gathered speed he visualised Jane bringing in the evening papers, perhaps with his photograph on the front page … her gratification, veiled in banter… People’s heads turning after him in the street, and after them both as he led her into an expensive restaurant to celebrate the triumphant conclusion of the enquiry … married a good-looker, too, they’d be saying… Old Crowe, his Chief at the Yard, possibly dropping a hint about the future…
Death of an Old Girl Page 10
