After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery)

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘That occurred to me,’ said Bill, ‘but the doctor says that, medically speaking, there’s no indication the body’s been moved. I examined the area around the chair pretty closely, as you can imagine, but there’s no scuff marks on the carpet or anything else to suggest that he was carried or dragged here.’

  Jack’s mind was racing. It seemed impossible that John Askern could’ve been murdered, and yet here he was. You can’t argue with a body. Bill had said that only yesterday. ‘How long has he been dead?’

  ‘I saw him at twenty to five,’ said Dr Roude. ‘I’d estimate that by that time he’d been dead for about two and a half to four hours or so. That’s the absolute outside. Certainly not earlier, but I can’t be more accurate than that. There’s too many variable factors to take into account.’

  ‘Would three o’clock be a possible time?’ asked Bill.

  Dr Roude pulled a face. ‘I’d veer to an earlier time, perhaps, but three is certainly possible, yes.’

  ‘And it’s murder,’ said Bill. ‘Murder by strangulation.’ He reached out and touched the blue silk scarf with his forefinger. ‘He was strangled with this, despite the fact he looks so peaceful.’

  Dr Roude cleared his throat. ‘To be technical, what I believe actually occurred was attempted strangulation, causing compression of the vagus nerve, which runs alongside the jugular vein. That led to over-stimulation of the heart, so the cause of death was actually heart failure, which explains the lack of usual signs of asphyxia.’ He snapped his briefcase shut. ‘Which, I may say, is a relief for all of us, as an asphyxiated victim is not a pleasant sight. We’ll probably find he had a weak heart, but that’s something which I only can ascertain in the P.M.’ He looked at Bill. ‘If you don’t need me for anything else, I’ve finished here.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, Doctor,’ said Bill. He looked up as a knock sounded on the door and a constable came in.

  ‘The mortuary men are outside, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked at the fingerprint men. ‘Can the body be taken away now?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we’ve finished,’ said one of the men. ‘You can touch anything you like now.’ He nodded towards the photographer. ‘We’ve got it all on record.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bill. He turned to the uniformed constables. ‘Ask the mortuary chaps to come and remove the body, then return to making enquiries at the other flats, will you? Let me know right away if anything new turns up.’

  The mortuary men came in, loaded the mortal remains of John Askern onto a stretcher, covered the body with a green canvas cover and took it away.

  Once everyone had gone, the flat seemed very quiet.

  Bill lit a cigarette and, sinking into an armchair, tossed his cigarette case over to Jack. ‘Help yourself. This is a turn up for the books, isn’t it? All our theories kicked into touch.’

  ‘That poor beggar Askern,’ said Jack, taking a cigarette and striking a match. ‘I know I suggested he was the villain of the piece, but it was horrible to see him like that.’ He shook his head impatiently, as if to rid himself of the image.

  ‘Incidentally, it’s kind of you to say our theories,’ he added glumly, after a pause. ‘It’s me who was so damn certain John Askern was our man. I wouldn’t say I had it all worked out, but I was getting there. Mrs McAllister seemed to fit so well as the victim in Signora Bianchi’s cottage. I’d guessed that she’d been a servant, perhaps in old Mr Lythewell’s household, perhaps elsewhere in Whimbrell Heath, but certainly somewhere she knew John Askern in a context associated with art.’

  Bill looked at him acutely. ‘I see. That explains why she said what she did outside the exhibition. That’s not a bad explanation, Jack.’

  ‘I thought it was credible. It’d do as a working hypothesis, at any rate. However …’

  ‘Carry on,’ said Bill. ‘You’ve not spelt your ideas out for me like this before.’

  ‘No? That’s because ideas are all they are – or were, I should say. There’s damn all I can prove. It was no secret that John Askern had been married, but I guessed Joan McAllister may have found out Colin’s mother was alive. And you know I thought John Askern had seen off old Mr Lythewell to have a crack at Lythewell’s treasure?’

  Bill nodded. ‘D’you still think that?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I think it’s feasible. I thought Joan McAllister had guessed either that Colin’s mother was alive or the truth about Lythewell’s death, two facts that Askern would want kept quiet. John Askern bought her off and Joan McAllister went to America. Then, years later, she sees him outside the exhibition and – bingo! She recognises him and starts to cash in. Askern, already worried to death by the reappearance of Signora Bianchi, found Joan McAllister popping up again just about the last straw. So, knowing that Signora Bianchi’s cottage is unoccupied, he asks her to meet him there and bumps her off, disposing of her body God knows where. And that, Bill,’ he said, flicking the ash off his cigarette, ‘was more or less it. The fact that poor old Askern was murdered himself does make me think I was on the wrong lines.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Bill, ‘you are. Which is a pity, because it sounds very plausible. You aren’t in possession of all the facts, though.’

  Jack looked up with a cynical smile. ‘That sounds as if you’re awarding me a pat on the back, an A for effort and a gold star. Go on. What facts am I lacking?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t asked me who this flat belongs to, for instance.’

  ‘I was going to. We’re obviously firmly in upper middle-class territory. It didn’t belong to John Askern, did it?’

  ‘Not as far as we can tell. Not unless he was the man who really paid the rent, if you see what I mean. The porter tells me the flat belongs to a Colonel and Mrs Pearson, but they’re in Egypt for six months. The Colonel and his wife approached a lettings agency to let the flat while they were away.’ Bill couldn’t help but pause. ‘You’re going to love this, Jack. The flat was taken three weeks ago by none other than Mrs Joan McAllister.’

  If Bill had been hoping for a reaction, he certainly got one. Jack gaped at him. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Joan McAllister,’ repeated Bill.

  ‘Bloody hell, Bill, that’s impossible! Joan McAllister couldn’t have rented the flat. We’d worked out she was dead, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘You worked out she was dead,’ Bill reminded him. ‘You and Miss Wingate.’

  ‘So where’s Joan McAllister now?’

  ‘I only wish I knew. I’ve looked in the bedroom and it seems to me as if she’s made a complete get-away. The wardrobe’s empty and there’s no suitcase. It looks as if she’s scarpered. I’ve had a good look round and there aren’t any personal bits and pieces that might give us a clue. I’ve got men calling at the other flats in the building to see if anyone’s seen her recently, but, so far, we’ve drawn a blank.’

  ‘Joan McAllister?’ repeated Jack, dumbfounded. ‘But …’ He smoked his cigarette down to the stump and crushed it out in the ashtray. He got up and, going to the fireplace, braced his arms against the mantelpiece, sinking his head between his shoulders.

  It was a little while before he turned to face Bill. ‘I’ve been wrong,’ he said flatly. ‘I’ve been wrong from beginning to end.’

  ‘You might not be wrong about the association between Joan McAllister and John Askern,’ said Bill. ‘There had to be something between them, otherwise he wouldn’t have been murdered here, in her flat.’

  ‘I was wrong about Joan McAllister being murdered in Signora Bianchi’s cottage, though, wasn’t I? Hell’s bells, Bill, I couldn’t have been more wrong! You’re sure – absolutely sure – that Joan McAllister rents this flat?’

  ‘I’ve got a description of her from the porter and from the neighbours, and I’m bound to say, their description ties in with my memory of her.’

  Jack lit another cigarette. ‘Did she have a maid or any other servant?’

  Bill shook his head. ‘No, I asked that. Mrs McAllister told one of the neighbours, a M
rs Conway-Lloyd, that her maid had left to go back home to Ireland to be married a few weeks ago and she was trying to find a nice girl to take her place.’

  ‘Well, that’s a complete fairy tale for a start. A few weeks ago Mrs Joan McAllister was living at that grim boarding house in Purbeck Terrace, swiping pennies and tuppences from the Waifs and Strays Society.’ Jack paused, trying to adjust his thoughts. ‘I can hardly believe it. You say this neighbour – what’s she called?’

  ‘Mrs Conway-Lloyd.’

  ‘This Mrs Conway-Lloyd actually spoke to Joan McAllister?’

  ‘Absolutely, she did. It sounds as if she was quite pally with her. As I said, I’ve got the men checking who saw her last, but a good few people have seen her and spoken to her in the last three weeks. Mrs Conway-Lloyd, for instance, thought she seemed a very nice sort of woman with a great interest in charities.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly true. The charity part, at least.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I need hardly tell you, Bill, this is a complete facer. I was practically certain Mrs McAllister was the missing victim from Signora Bianchi’s cottage. Damnit, you believed it, too.’

  ‘I thought she might be, but that’s as far as I was prepared to go. It was you and Miss Wingate who were so sure about it. And, while we’re on the subject of Miss Wingate, guess who discovered the body?’

  Jack gazed at him. ‘Go on,’ he said in a dried-up voice.

  ‘It sounds as if you’ve guessed.’

  ‘It was Betty Wingate, wasn’t it?’

  Bill nodded. ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Jack was quiet for some time. ‘What on earth was she doing here? Tell me what happened.’

  ‘She received a letter, supposedly from John Askern, asking her to meet him here at three o’clock this afternoon. It contained a warning of danger.’

  ‘Did it, by George?’

  ‘He said that she was in danger and, for the sake of her own safety and his, he asked her not to tell anyone about the letter. He went on to say that he was very sorry to hear that she and Colin had had a disagreement but, if she was in possession of certain facts, she might see his son’s actions in a different light. He also said he was now able to give her the truth of what lay behind her unpleasant experience that night in Signora Bianchi’s cottage.’

  Jack nodded. ‘That’s a fairly powerful invitation. I notice you say the letter was supposedly from John Askern. Was it?’

  Bill shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She had the letter with her but I haven’t had time to examine it properly.’

  ‘What happened then? I take it Miss Wingate kept the appointment?’

  ‘She did. She says she followed the instructions literally to the letter, which were to come here at three, knock and enter. She showed up at three, walked in and found John Askern much as we saw him. Or, at least, that’s what she says.’

  Jack frowned. ‘Do you doubt her word, Bill?’

  Bill clicked his tongue. ‘Come on, Jack, you know as well as I do that we can’t blindly accept what any witness says as being the unvarnished truth. And,’ he added, obviously picking his words carefully, ‘you must admit that she does seem to have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Jack said nothing.

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ said Bill uncomfortably, ‘but you have to see that her story is open to question. For all I know, she could’ve written the letter herself, to provide an excuse for being here.’

  ‘But why, Bill? You’re saying, not to wrap it up, that you suspect Miss Wingate of murdering John Askern, but why? What on earth does she have to gain?’

  ‘To say I suspect Miss Wingate is putting it far too strongly, but I have to question what she says. As to what she has to gain, what does anyone have to gain?’

  ‘Well, if this flat does belong to Joan McAllister, Mrs McAllister might have decided that Askern knew a damn sight too much about her and decided to put him out of the way. There was a warning of danger in that letter, after all. What happened after Miss Wingate discovered John Askern?’

  ‘She got out of the flat and found the porter who, after seeing for himself what had happened, ran into the street and called the nearest policeman. He telephoned the Yard. I got over here as fast as I could. Miss Wingate was very upset, so I arranged for her to be taken back to the Yard and left in the care of a couple of women police officers.’

  ‘Does Colin Askern know what’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve asked for him to be informed. John Askern was his father, after all. Naturally I didn’t want him here, so I suggested he should come into the Yard. Do you want to take a look round before we go? As I said, I’ve already been through the place, but you might see something I’ve missed.’

  ‘All right, but it sounds as if Mrs McAllister made a clean escape.’

  A thorough and frustrating search turned up nothing of any importance. Indeed, the total lack of any personal possessions whatsoever made Jack pause. ‘I know she’s only been living here for three weeks, but she’s obviously gone to some pains to clear the place out completely. This wasn’t a hurried escape, Bill. She’s taken her time over this.’

  A knock came at the door and a police constable came in. ‘We’ve completed our round of the flats, sir. The last person to see Mrs McAllister was the porter. He saw her this morning, round about midday.’

  ‘Was she carrying a suitcase?’

  ‘No, sir. According to the porter, she was coming in, not going out. He didn’t actually speak to her, apart from to say good morning. He didn’t take any especial notice of her, but he says it was Mrs McAllister all right.’

  ‘I see. Well, I think we’ve done all we can for the time being. I’ll lock up and leave instructions with the porter.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Do you want to come back to the Yard with me, Jack? We’ll probably find Colin Askern there.’

  As they expected, Colin Askern was with Betty Wingate at Scotland Yard. Slightly more unexpectedly, he was accompanied by Daphne Askern, and Maud and Daniel Lythewell.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Mrs Askern,’ said Bill.

  ‘I had to come,’ she said, dabbing her eyes. She’d obviously been crying. She swallowed a sob and dabbed her eyes again. ‘I know what I said and what I did, but I was bitterly hurt, Inspector. I felt betrayed and so horribly let down, but now the worst has happened, I can’t believe I was so harsh and unfeeling towards poor John. He tried to tell me that terrible woman meant nothing to him, but I wouldn’t listen, and now she’s murdered him.’

  ‘Terrible woman?’ asked Bill.

  ‘S-S-S Signora Bianchi,’ said Daphne Askern in a flood of renewed sobs.

  ‘There, there, Daphne, don’t take on so,’ said Maud Lythewell, slipping an arm round her shoulders. ‘I’m quite sure the Inspector will be able to track her down, and then,’ she added, her face growing stern, ‘she’ll pay the full price for her crimes.’

  ‘It won’t bring back poor dear John,’ wailed Daphne Askern. ‘He’s gone and I was so horrible to him!’

  ‘Signora Bianchi?’ repeated Bill. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Askern, whatever makes you think that it was Signora Bianchi who was responsible for your husband’s death?’

  Colin wriggled impatiently. ‘Of course she wasn’t responsible! The idea’s ridiculous!’

  Bill waved him quiet.

  Mrs Askern lowered her handkerchief. ‘Mr Lythewell said so,’ she said uncertainly. ‘It has to be her. She’s been behind all poor John’s troubles from beginning to end.’

  ‘Mr Lythewell?’ asked Bill enquiringly.

  Daniel Lythewell put his hands wide. ‘Who else could it be, Inspector? Signora Bianchi attempted to blackmail poor John – be quiet, Askern! – and, when she’d come to the end of that little game, I’m afraid this was the next step.’

  ‘My mother,’ said Colin, who was obviously holding himself in check with some effort, ‘is not a murderer.’

  ‘She can twist you round her little finger, Colin
,’ said Betty. She was still pale and shocked, but her voice was composed. ‘She always could. You’d do anything for her.’

  ‘She’s my mother, for Pete’s sake!’ He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Look, I know she has her faults –’ there was a concerted sniff from all the women in the room – ‘but she isn’t a violent person. She simply wouldn’t do that sort of thing. She just wouldn’t.’

  Bill nodded. ‘I have to say, Askern, that I agree with you.’ Colin Askern looked at him gratefully. ‘Not,’ continued Bill, ‘from any knowledge of your mother’s character. As far as that goes, I haven’t really got any. Our chief suspect in the affair has to be the woman who rented 22, Dorian House, where your father was found, and I’m bound to say the description of her doesn’t sound remotely like your mother.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ wailed Daphne Askern. ‘What was John doing in some woman’s flat? Who was she?’ She gulped. ‘He wasn’t having an affair with this woman, was he? I don’t think I could stand it!’

  ‘Now, now, Daphne,’ said Daniel Lythewell with heavy-handed sympathy. ‘Perhaps there are some questions that are better not answered just at the moment.’

  Daphne Askern’s face crumpled and she gathered herself for another outbreak of sobs.

  ‘I think you can rest assured there’s no question of Mr Askern having an affair with the woman who rented the flat,’ said Bill hastily. Daphne subsided, her chest heaving.

  Colin looked at him, puzzled. ‘But who was she, Rackham? Oh, my God, this is like a nightmare!’ His voice broke. ‘First of all poor Dad goes to pieces and then this happens. Who was this woman? The one who rented the flat, I mean?’

  ‘Her name,’ said Bill, ‘is Mrs Joan McAllister.’

  There was a complete and puzzled silence.

  ‘Who?’ asked Colin eventually.

  Betty gave a little gasp. ‘Mrs McAllister? She’s the woman who collapsed at the art exhibition. But …’ She glanced at Jack and stopped, biting her lip.

  ‘I know,’ said Jack, speaking for the first time. ‘I thought she was dead. I was obviously wrong.’

  Betty shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand. I just don’t understand any of it. What was Mr Askern going to tell me? And why did he ask me to meet him at this Mrs McAllister’s flat?’