The Lately Deceased

by Bernard Knight

  Mr Forbes-Talbot spread his hands in a gesture of despair.

  ‘I realise it is a forlorn hope, sir, but I’d be glad if you’d do it, all the same. Now, sir, there is another question I would like to put to you. From your professional experience, would you consider this fifteen-year interval before Mr Walker receives the capital an unusual condition to find in a will?’

  ‘Extremely unusual, I should say. Of course, it is a not uncommon provision in the case of minors inheriting from parents. Many a parent, anxious that his child should not have control of its money too soon, has stipulated that the child must reach the age of twenty-five or even thirty before it can touch the capital sum. But this case, of course, is entirely different. Here we are dealing with husband and wife.’

  ‘Can you suggest any reason why Mrs Walker should have thought it necessary?’

  ‘I would suggest that Mr Walker is best qualified to answer that question.’

  ‘Yes, sir, we’ve already asked him and he has told us what he thinks. I just wonder whether you might have a private opinion you would care to advance.’

  Mr Forbes-Talbot shook his head slowly.

  ‘In other circumstances I might have been able to help you. Had I been present at the conference between Mrs Walker and Mr Hornsby, I might well have had something to say on the subject; but, regrettably, I was not. I have nothing to offer that is not pure speculation.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it, nevertheless.’

  ‘Very well.’ ‘Pickwick’ put the tips of his fingers together and spoke with the measured solemnity of a judge pronouncing judgment. ‘It is my belief that the condition of inheritance as expressed in Mrs Walker’s will is no more than an idiosyncrasy of the female mind. I don’t think it goes any deeper than that.’

  ‘You mean that it was not to be accounted for by reason, but that it was just a whim.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Why do you feel that?’

  ‘Because, my dear Inspector, in my experience feminine actions are rarely to be accounted for by reason.’

  ‘I see. Nothing stronger to go on than that?’

  ‘It is amply strong enough for me.’ The lawyer’s reply was bland and confident.

  ‘You have nothing further to add, sir?’

  ‘One other theory does present itself to me, but I hesitate to mention it. It would savour, I think, of me trying to teach you your job.’

  ‘I’ll take a chance on that, sir. What have you in mind?’

  It was some moments before Forbes-Talbot replied; then he said, ‘Let me preface my remarks by saying that I have not the least reason to believe there is any basis in fact in what I am about to say. It is just a theory and, almost certainly, wild theory.’

  ‘That is understood, sir.’

  ‘Very well then. I’m thinking, Inspector, that it is possible that when Mrs Walker made her last will she may have been in fear of her life. If she and her husband were not on very good terms, who knows what dark and ugly thoughts, however unwarranted, may not have taken root in her mind. She had a great deal of money to leave and there are no limits to the fanciful imaginings of a woman under emotional stress. Some perfectly innocent action or remark of her husband’s might conceivably have suggested to her that he had greedy eyes on her fortune and that he was prepared to hasten her end by violent means.’

  The lawyer paused as if marshalling his thoughts.

  ‘If she did harbour such suspicions, she may well have thought to temper his impatience by the expedient she chose. She may have reasoned that even the most desperate man would hesitate to commit murder today if he stood to gain nothing by it for fifteen years. After all, Inspector, when a man commits a crime for gain, he usually does it because he’s in immediate need of the proceeds – not, I think, as a long-term investment.’

  ‘All that is very true, sir, and as you have said, it is an aspect of the case that had not escaped us. But, speaking for myself, it is not a theory that holds water, because if she had thought Walker was in the least likely to do her in for her money, surely the simple remedy was to cut him out of the will altogether. But she didn’t. Instead, she adopted this tortuous “fifteen year” business which does not seem to have any sense, logic or reason.’

  ‘Precisely, Inspector; which brings us back to the idiosyncrasies of the female mind I mentioned earlier.’

  Mr Forbes-Talbot beamed benignly across the table. ‘There is just no accounting for the ladies.’

  Making his way back to Comber Street, Stammers reflected that he had taken up the amiable Mr Pickwick’s time to little purpose. Colin Moore’s death and suicide note must surely have rung down the final curtain on the Walker case. He thought of the cold, wet hours of investigation he and his colleagues had spent during the past couple of days and grinned wryly.

  ‘Oh, well, what’s the difference?’ he said to himself. ‘There’s no less discomfort in hunting stolen radios than in chasing murderers.’

  He reached the station and spent a couple of hours in the warmth, if not comfort, of the CID office, helping Grey to check the statements for the inquest the following morning.

  It was the late afternoon of the day on which Stammers went to see Mr Forbes-Talbot. Dusk was falling with that pinkish-grey glow that threatens snow, and the roar of rush-hour traffic was rising to its climax.

  A heavily overcoated man, carrying a large suitcase, slipped out of a door marked ‘Prince Enterprises’ and turned to secure the lock behind him. With a quick glance up and down the dingy street, he pulled up his coat collar to ward off the cold wind and set off towards the main road. There he was fortunate enough to flag down a taxi almost at once. His survey of the street, however, had failed to show him the figure of a caped policeman standing in the shadow of a doorway a little farther down on the other side of the street.

  As soon as Leo Prince had cleared the end of the road, the constable walked slowly across to the warehouse door and rattled it vigorously. Finding it secure, he produced a torch from under his cape and, rubbing the grime from an adjacent window, shone the beam through the glass into the front office. Then he turned off his torch and went with unhurried steps back to his police station.

  Once inside, he shed his cape and went into the duty room. The station sergeant was sitting alone, morosely picking his ear with a matchstick.

  ‘Sarge, you know that place in Britton Street you told me to keep an eye on?’

  The older man looked up from his absorbing task.

  ‘The one that Hackney tipped us off about?’

  ‘That’s right. I just saw the chap just leaving, carrying a flipping great suitcase. After he’d gone, I went over and had a butcher’s through the window. It looks like he’s cleaned the place out, drawers all open, safe door ajar, the lot. I reckon he’s done a bunk.’

  The sergeant registered interest. ‘Has he indeed? Then I’d better get on to Hackney and tell them he’s scarpered. They talked about him being mixed up in some killing job up west. Did you see which way he went?’

  ‘He went out into Clerkenwell Road. But by the time I got there, there was no sign of him, so I reckon he must have got a cab.’

  ‘Anything else you noticed?’

  ‘Well, the case he was carrying was one of those light air-travel bags. He could have gone to the airport.’

  The sergeant was scornful.

  ‘That don’t mean a thing,’ he said. ‘My missus has got one of them and she’s never travelled in anything but a second-class non-smoker. Still, I’ll tell them for what it’s worth.’ He reached for the phone.

  And so the news came from Clerkenwell, via Hackney, to Marylebone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  On that same dismal afternoon, Pearl Moore sat having tea in her hotel room. The news of her husband’s suicide had been given to her over the telephone by Meredith. She had received it with surprise, but no trace of sorrow. He had asked for another talk with her and she had invited him to the lounge of the small but exclusive ho
tel that she was using in Belgravia. They had fixed the time of the meeting for six o’clock, and now she had rather under an hour to wait for his arrival.

  After returning from Paris, she had avoided the flat in Hampstead and had moved into this hotel, taking with her only the handful of things that had accompanied her to France. Following Meredith’s message she felt she could never again enter the Hampstead flat and decided to stay on at the hotel until she could find some other accommodation.

  As she sat drinking tea in her room, the phone buzzed. She answered it and heard the voice of the desk clerk.

  ‘A Mr Walker to see you, madam.’

  ‘Send him up, please.’

  Pearl had not been expecting Gordon and, with the detective’s visit so near, she was not altogether pleased, but supposed that half an hour would make no difference.

  A few moments later, Gordon tapped the door and she let him in. As she closed the door behind him, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hungrily. She responded, but without the ardour which was usually hers. Gordon, sensing this, held her at arm’s length.

  ‘What’s wrong, darling?’

  Pearl turned away and went to the settee.

  ‘That police superintendent is due here very soon, with another string of questions about Colin – and about us, I expect!’

  ‘Well, naturally, when a man gasses himself, the police have to go through the motions of finding out the facts, especially when he’s a murderer! Sorry, sweet, perhaps that was not the nicest thing to say.’

  The woman went over to a wall mirror and patted her already immaculate hair into shape.

  ‘Don’t try to spare my feelings, Gordon. You know perfectly well Colin meant nothing to me. If I said I was sorry he’s dead, I’d be a liar, though it is queer to know I’ll never see him again.’

  Gordon walked round the settee to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged him off impatiently.

  ‘Don’t start anything, please, Gordon. That detective will be here soon. Why did you come, anyway? I told you all there was to know over the phone.’

  Walker looked exasperated.

  ‘Well, darling, as we have both suddenly become unmarried without the fuss of divorce I thought you might want to see me. Just an idea, you know.’

  Pearl turned back to him and smiled.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. It is rather miraculous, almost too good to be true. I suppose you inherit all her money.’

  Gordon’s face hardened a shade.

  ‘I know, my dear,’ he said, ‘that neither of us is a sentimentalist, but my wife is still not buried and your husband hasn’t been dead more than a few hours. This is neither the time nor the place to worry your pretty head about Margaret’s money. Besides, I’m quite capable of keeping you in comfort without any help from her.’

  Pearl seemed in two minds whether to pursue the subject or whether to let it drop. Then she smiled at him and sank down onto the settee, patting the place alongside her for Gordon to join her.

  ‘Sorry, darling! Things have been a bit too much for me these past few days. Give me a cigarette.’

  Then, expertly, almost without him being aware of it, she proceeded to extract from him all the information about the will that she wanted to know. She sat tight-lipped, looking into the fire, until he had finished.

  ‘So you’re worse off now than before she died?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it – for fifteen years, at any rate.’

  ‘Don’t you get a thing now?’

  ‘Yes, I get five thousand a year and the house at Oxford.’

  ‘How much have you got of your own?’ Her eyes were hard and calculating, and Gordon looked at her warily.

  ‘Hey, what is this?’ he demanded, half seriously, half in fun. ‘Why all this financial grilling? Do you want me to buy you a yacht?’

  With a sudden change of mood Pearl short-circuited his questions by holding up her lips to be kissed. Then she reached to the end of the settee, picked up his hat and placed it on his head.

  ‘Out, darling! That policeman will be here soon. We don’t want him to get the wrong idea, do we? I’m supposed to be the sorrowing widow today; remember?’

  As he got up to go, Gordon looked at her curiously. ‘When were you at the Hampstead place last?’ he asked.

  ‘The morning that Margaret died, getting together some things to go to Paris. Colin wasn’t there then. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wondered when he did his suicide act, that’s all.’

  As he left the room, he asked her.

  ‘What are you going to do? You can’t live here for ever.’

  ‘I’ll get a flat as soon as I can.’

  ‘Have you decided to marry me, or don’t you think my financial position is sound enough?’ His bantering tone was not without its sharp edge.

  ‘I’ll think about it. But only after the decent interval has passed, darling,’ she mocked him.

  ‘Well, don’t leave it too long; I might change my mind!’

  As Walker crossed the foyer downstairs, Meredith emerged from the cloakroom. Walker had his back to the superintendent and didn’t see him; Meredith watched his retreating figure with interest.

  ‘Pretty quick off the mark!’ he said to himself. ‘I wonder how long he’s been up there?’

  He went to the desk and asked for Mrs Moore. In a few moments, Pearl came down to the lounge, looking superb in a slim grey dress, her concession to mourning, though the glitter of the smile she gave to a passing acquaintance gave little impression of sorrow. Meredith pointed to a pair of easy chairs out of earshot of any other guests and Pearl sat down gracefully. He offered her a cigarette and apologised for troubling her at this sad time.

  ‘My grief isn’t exactly weighing me down. Superintendent,’ she smiled. ‘There was little love lost between Colin and me. Of course I’m sorry that it should have come to this, because you can’t live with someone for a long time and not miss them when they are suddenly taken from you, but please don’t think of me as the heart-broken widow.’

  Meredith thought he heard a trace of the studio dramatics in this and passed to the first of his questions: ‘Did your husband ever mention taking his own life? Did he ever give you any reason to suspect that he might be that way inclined?’

  “What, have suicidal ideas ? God, no ! I’m amazed that he brought himself to do it. He was a physical coward, you know. Superintendent. That was one of the things I came to hate about him. How he screwed up the nerve to kill himself. I’ll never understand.”

  Meredith looked gravely at her, wondering if her hard shell would be proof against the next item of news that he had for her. “As I told you over the ’phone, Mrs. Moore, your husband left a note indicating that he had gassed him­self because he had killed Mrs Walker by accident. It was a very bitter letter, very bitter towards you.”

  ‘I see.’ Her voice was small and apprehensive. ‘Will it have to come out?’

  ‘Be read in court, do you mean? That will depend on the coroner, but I don’t think he will consider it necessary.’

  ‘Please persuade him, if you can.’

  ‘You may rely on me,’ he said quietly. ‘I am afraid it will disturb you, though, when I tell you that the purpose of the note was to explain Mrs Walker’s murder.’

  ‘Explain her murder? But, how?’

  ‘Your husband, Mrs Moore, killed Mrs Walker believing her to be you.’

  ‘Oh no, Superintendent, that can’t be true.’

  The words carried just the right inflexion of appalled shock, but Meredith watching closely, was interested to note that the woman’s tension of a moment before had gone. She had relaxed visibly, leaving him to wonder what news she could have been expecting that was worse than knowing that she had been her husband’s intended victim.

  ‘Really, Mr Meredith, it’s too fantastic!’ Pearl said. ‘Colin was jealous of me and often worked himself up into a state about me, but never to the extent of wa
nting to kill me. I just can’t believe it.’

  Meredith shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Moore, but the facts indicate otherwise,’ he said. ‘Fortunately for you, I don’t think that this circumstance is strictly relevant to the death and I’m sure the coroner will use his usual discretion in confining himself to the actual facts of the deaths.’

  Pearl studied his face as he was speaking. Detachedly, she thought him quite handsome, though rather sombre. She forced herself to listen again to what he was saying.

  ‘We’ll check on the note, of course, but I’ve not much doubt at the moment as to its outcome.’

  ‘But I can’t believe it; I just can’t! I know Colin, Superintendent. He could never kill anyone, let alone me, and certainly not himself.’

  Old Nick shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Then what other explanation can you give for the note and for his suicide?’ he asked. She looked at him mutely and shook her head. For the first time, the affair seemed to be having some emotional effect on her – or was she acting again, he wondered?

  ‘If he didn’t do it, who did and why, Mrs Moore?’ he went on. ‘It all fits. I came to see you in order to tell you the contents of your husband’s last note. It was better that you should hear it from me than from the coroner, should he consider that it must be produced as evidence.’

  Pearl murmured her thanks.

  ‘There is just one other point, madam, that I would like to raise with you.’ Meredith went on. ‘It concerns Mr Leo Prince. I think he was known to you in the past. Can you tell me of your relationship with him and any knowledge you may have regarding his affairs?’

  Pearl’s eyes opened wide; she seemed genuinely surprised at this turn in the interview.

  ‘Leo? Why, yes. I’ve known him for four or five years; since before I was married. What has he got to do with this?’

  ‘We don’t know, possibly nothing. Our principal interest in him lies in the fact that he’s apparently gone to earth, in spite of being told to hold himself ready for further questioning. We know that he has a rather unsavoury past, and that he is now using an assumed name.’