Bring Forth Your Dead

by Gregson, J. M.

  Carroll paused, studying the bookcase behind the busily writing Sergeant with an ironic smile as he confronted his own mortality head on. ‘The symptoms of a heart which is ceasing to function properly are not very different from those of arsenic poisoning. Perhaps if I had thought of that at the time, I might have become suspicious, but I doubt it. Of course, as soon as the hospital contacted me to ask about the death, I could see the possibilities of arsenic. But you see, I’ve never seen anyone die from deliberate poisoning before. Perhaps, in view of your visit here this afternoon, I should say not to my knowledge at least.’ It was the nearest he would come to an apology or an admission of carelessness; even here, his bitterness seemed rather against a dishonest world that presumed to deceive him rather than at his own omissions.

  ‘You were the only doctor involved?’

  ‘Yes, to my present regret. There was no legal requirement for a post-mortem because I had been in regular attendance: I saw Edmund three days before his death. And I am sure you are aware that with a burial, only one doctor’s signature is needed on the death certificate. The modern trend for cremation is a splendid thing: it brings extra income to chaps like us from the second signature required before you can burn a corpse.’ His levity seemed quite incorrigible, though he looked tired now. He had forgotten all about his tea, which was almost cold as he found it belatedly beside him. He spilled a little of it in the saucer; then his face creased with distaste as he sipped the tepid liquid. The contrast between his crisp speech and the aging shell from which it emerged was more marked than ever.

  ‘So you never considered the possibility that there might be more than a damaged heart involved in Craven’s rapid decline?’ Lambert pressed because he was anxious to know if Carroll had even suspected otherwise, but he was aware also that he was piqued by the man’s cheerful abnegation of all responsibility; surely he should have at least shown a decent sense of guilt.

  ‘Never, Inspector. Perhaps I should reiterate that the symptoms of decline stemming from a malfunctioning heart are not dissimilar to those of arsenic poisoning, when that is conducted over a period of time. And arsenic eventually causes heart failure. Technically, I think you would find that what I entered on the certificate as the cause of death was correct.’ He leaned back in the chair and hugged himself at the thought, his tea finally abandoned. His shrunken figure was shaken for an instant with unseemly mirth.

  Lambert realised that he would get no further with this line of questioning. He said, ‘Dr Carroll, you were in regular attendance upon a patient we now know to have been systematically murdered over a period of months. As an outsider entering each week into that household, you may have become aware of undercurrents of feeling. I should like to know if you noted any incident or relationship which might now seem significant. Think carefully, please. Those with regular access to Mr Craven’s food which means once a week or thereabouts—appear to be Mrs Lewis, his housekeeper, his daughter Angela Harrison, his son David Craven, and his old friend Walter Miller, who went in to play chess with him once a week.’

  ‘There are other methods of disguising arsenic than food, of course. For instance, you could inject a solution directly into the bloodstream. However, let us agree for the moment that food is the most likely method of ingestion.’ Carroll’s pedantry was such that for a moment Lambert had the unworthy desire to shake the frail old shoulders. Yet he knew that he was annoyed less by the old man’s omission than by his failure to show a seemly remorse: had he been properly cowed, he might have met a Superintendent full of sympathy. Lambert forced a smile at himself as the doctor went on, ‘Well, the person with the best opportunity was me.’ He cackled outright at the ridiculous thought; Lambert’s experience told him not to dismiss it so lightly. He would investigate the possibilities of the idea in due course, though he fancied that here motive, which he had dismissed so lightly when questioning Margaret Lewis, might be important by its very absence.

  James Carroll was studying him intently, with his head on one side, like a child who teases a small animal and awaits a reaction. Lambert and Hook stared back at him stolidly, refusing to feed him further material. Denied such stimulus, Carroll lost his intensity and suddenly looked very tired. He said petulantly, ‘Any of the people you mention could have done it, in theory. Assuming one of them did, you’d better keep your eye on young David Craven.’

  *

  They got nothing more out of the enigmatic Dr Carroll. If there was anything more than a personal preference in him for David Craven as a murderer, they failed to elicit it. Twenty minutes later they stood outside the original Georgian windows of ,the offices of Arkwright and Company, Solicitors, in the middle of Oldford, and Lambert contemplated the prospect of another interview with a professional man without enthusiasm.

  Alfred Arkwright gave the impression that his firm had been here as long as the wool on which the original wealth of the Cotswold town had been built, instead of the mere two hundred years which were the fact. He received Lambert and Hook at the appointed time with the air of an aristocrat doing trade an immense favour in granting it an audience. ‘Sit down, please,’ he said, waving a lordly arm at the only two chairs available in his small office, as though inviting them to select from hundreds. ‘I am at your service. Just let me know how I can be of assistance.’ He knew perfectly well, of course: Hook had explained things painstakingly in arranging this visit. But the forms—Alfred Arkwright’s forms—must be observed.

  Lambert, who had long considered Arkwright his ideal Polonius, very nearly demanded more matter with less art. Instead, he had to content himself with stressing his opening phrase as he said, ‘As you know, we are here in connection with the death thirteen months ago of a certain Edmund Craven.’ He noticed himself being drawn into Arkwright’s formalities of language; the solicitor tapped a perfectly manicured finger on the file in front of him and permitted himself a deprecating smile of acknowledgment. ‘Perhaps you would also like to be told officially that we are now in the early stages of a murder inquiry. Which makes Mr Craven’s legal arrangements of special interest to us.’ Arkwright nodded an urbane acknowledgment of the inevitable centrality of the law in all important concerns of men. ‘It will therefore be necessary that you reveal to us not merely legal documents, but everything you know about his thoughts in the last year or so of his life.’

  Alfred Arkwright’s brow contracted for a moment beneath the line of his still plentiful silver hair at the crudity of this approach. ‘There is little I can tell you that has not already been made public. As you know, the peculiarities of the law compel us to reveal the details of wills to the fourth estate. When there is an absence of violent crimes or scandal in the locality, which surprisingly enough is still the case in some weeks, our local press fills its columns with the raw detail of the estates of people who can no longer defend their privacy. The details of Edmund Craven’s arrangements appeared there some time ago.’

  ‘So remind me of them, please,’ said Lambert. He had dealt with Arkwright before; it was like a complex eighteenth-century dance in which each knew the conclusion, but had to go through the elaborate steps to arrive there. Lambert’s brisk injunction here broke the sequence: as if in response, Arkwright rose unhurriedly from his chair and left the office with a muttered excuse. ‘“Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell,”’ intoned Lambert moodily as the solicitor passed from earshot. He knew he was indulging himself: Arkwright was unfortunately neither wretched nor rash. When Hook gave him the required interrogative look, he said, ‘Don’t worry, he gets stabbed through the arras in the fourth act.’

  ‘How very painful,’ said Bert. ‘Still, I do think a bit of police brutality is called for in cases like this.’ He made an elaborate mime out of his preparations to write as Arkwright came back with a thin cardboard file.

  ‘I have here details of all our correspondence with Edward Craven. The will, as a legal document, is kept in our strong-room: I had already extracted it in preparation for your vi
sit. It was returned here by Mr Craven’s daughter after probate arrangements had been completed.’

  ‘Angela Harrison was named in the will as executor?’

  ‘Indeed, yes.’ There was no need to apologise to Arkwright for surprise at a female being thus entrusted: his tone announced that he found it most surprising and probably ill-advised. So much so that for once he did not need prompting to say, ‘The son is the elder child by several years; I pointed out to Craven that this would be the more usual person to name as executor, but he was adamant that Angela should be so named. It is unusual, but by no means unique in these times.’ His tone indicated that it was one more proof of decadence in the times in question.

  ‘Do you know of any reason why David Craven should be excluded from the duties of executor?’

  ‘None whatsoever. As I say, I commented to Craven at the time that it seemed unusual to exclude his only son, but he merely confirmed what he had already instructed me to do in writing. Perhaps we should not read too much into it: the will itself shows no bias against David. Rather the reverse, as things have turned out.’

  ‘Meaning?’ said Lambert. He was suddenly tired of observing the forms Arkwright seemed to require of him.

  The solicitor looked professional surprise over his gold-rimmed glasses. It was a gesture he often practised and rather enjoyed. Lambert thought suddenly that he could be only a few years younger than Dr Carroll; yet the solicitor seemed at this moment unchanging and immortal, as though invested with such qualities by long service in a profession that deplored change. Arkwright said heavily, ‘I understand that young Mr Craven has obtained planning permission for the site of Tall Timbers. The old house is apparently to be demolished and a block of flats erected in its place. No doubt it is now being sold for a considerable amount.’

  Lambert suspected that Arkwright knew exactly how much that considerable amount was, but he did not offer him the satisfaction of the series of questions which would be necessary to reveal it. The fact was enough for the moment: it provided room for considerable detective thought. He said after a pause, ‘We need the details of the will, Mr Arkwright.’

  ‘That is fairly straightforward, but I prefer not to rely on memory,’ he opened the will and adjusted his glasses. ‘Craven was a rich man, even by today’s standards. His estate was eventually valued for probate purposes at nine hundred and forty-two thousand pounds.’ He looked from Lambert to Sergeant Hook in search of a reaction. Lambert was proud of Bert’s determined inscrutability, which could not have come easily to a Barnardo’s boy. ‘The main beneficiaries, as you might expect, were David Craven and Angela Harrison. They received items to the value of approximately four hundred thousand pounds each, if we take the value agreed by the probate office. David received the house, plus an insurance policy realising just over a hundred thousand; Angela was left shares and bonds worth the full four hundred thousand.’

  ‘Was there a reason for dividing the inheritance in this way?’

  ‘Edmund Craven originally thought in terms of leaving the house jointly between his children, with the rest of his money after other bequests divided equally between the two. Angela was worried about the joint bequest of the house, and I had to advise that leaving a house jointly can cause difficulties where one partner wishes to sell and the other one to retain the property. Edmund Craven saw the point immediately. I think he hoped that his son would move into Tall Timbers after his death: he was fond of the house, I believe.’

  ‘David, however, chose not to implement his father’s wish in this. Was it a surprise when he did not do so?’

  Lambert did not expect an answer to such a speculative sally. But it produced an unexpected effect. For a moment the gossip that lay somewhere deep within Alfred Arkwright’s polished legal shell struggled with the reticence his professional image demanded. His profession won, of course, as it always would within his chambers. He said, ‘You will no doubt be seeing David Craven in the course of your inquiries. You will form your own impression of his character and actions then, I am sure.’ But for a moment the corners of his mouth had crinkled with distaste. Plainly, like Dr Carroll, he did not like the surviving Mr Craven. In his present irritation, Lambert found it hard not to account that a mark in the young man’s favour.

  ‘All parties were happy with this arrangement, though, at the time when the will was made?’

  ‘Superintendent, you must understand that it is my duty to execute the wishes of my client, not to make sure that other parties are happy or otherwise with the details.’ Arkwright smiled at Lambert’s naïvety and adjusted the lapels of a suit that was impeccably cut in the fashion of a previous decade. ‘But I gathered from Edmund Craven at the time that the will seemed to accord with the wishes of the main beneficiaries.’

  Lambert sighed: it took a long time to extract a yes. ‘Would you please list the other provisions of the will for us as succinctly as possible?’

  Perhaps Arkwright noticed Lambert’s patience wearing thin; more likely even he was beginning to tire of the game of circumlocutions. He glanced at his watch and looked surprised, indicating that his next appointment was now pressing and the policemen were taking up far too much of his valuable time. ‘The only other bequest of any substance was to Mrs Margaret Lewis. She was left a cottage in Burnham-on-Sea, and ten thousand pounds. Mr Craven had owned the cottage for thirty-six years; in his younger days, I believe the family used it as a holiday home. Mrs Craven was alive then, of course.’

  ‘When did she die, Mr Arkwright?’

  ‘About fourteen years ago.’

  ‘So that means that Mrs Lewis was his housekeeper for about thirteen years.’

  ‘Yes. A little less, I think. I believe there were two previous incumbents who held the post for short periods without giving satisfaction.’ If Alfred Arkwright was aware that his phrasing was open to any but the most straightforward of interpretations, he gave no sign as his eyes studied the file in front of him, which Lambert was sure did not contain this information.

  ‘What was the probate value of the cottage?’

  ‘Exactly one hundred thousand pounds. It had been well maintained and modernised by Craven over the years, though it was leased on long lets in later times.’ So Margaret Lewis was right when she said that all those close to the dead man had motives. Bert Hook, recording the value of her bequest carefully, reflected that he had known several people who had killed for much less than this.

  Arkwright must have been genuinely conscious of the passing minutes: he went on without further prompting. ‘There were bequests of ten thousand pounds to the local Anglican church, St Gabriel’s, and five thousand pounds to a nephew in Australia, whom I understand Mr Craven had not seen for thirty years. Finally, Mr Craven left a thousand pounds and his small collection of Second World War memorabilia to Walter John Miller, whom he calls “my old friend of many years with whom I have shared so much”.’ Arkwright closed the will with the air of finality that he had perfected over the years to remind his clients of their mortality.

  It seemed straightforward enough. Lambert, looking in the document for clues about the actions of those it named, reminded himself that omissions could sometimes be as significant as bequests. ‘Were there any grandchildren?’

  Not at the time this will was made. Angela now has two children, but David remains without issue.’ Arkwright rolled off the legal phrase with the air of a man who has concluded a routine voyage with a safe berthing.

  ‘And when was this will made?’

  Arkwright reopened the document reluctantly at the first page. ‘It was signed and attested exactly nine years and three months ago today.’ He stared across the desk expectantly.

  Suddenly, Lambert knew exactly the question that was now required of him. And this time he offered it readily, trying not to reveal the first moment of real excitement he had felt in the case. ‘Is there any possibility that Craven was planning to change the provisions?’

  Arkwright had been fed his cue. He
leaned slightly forward, so that he could steeple his spotless fingers with his elbows upon the desk. ‘We do not advise changes and codicils to wills: they can cause great confusion. It is far better to make a completely new will. That is what I advised and what Edmund Craven said he purposed to do. But after he had indicated this intention, he never came back to me, and it would have been unprofessional of me to press him upon it. I should point out, perhaps, that I had no idea that his condition was worsening: his death came as a shock to me.

  Lambert said slowly, ‘This is very important, as I think you appreciate. Have you any idea at all of what kind of change in his arrangements Mr Craven was proposing to make.’

  ‘Regrettably, Superintendent, none whatsoever.’

  ‘Did he tell you whether other people knew about his proposed changes?’

  ‘No, Superintendent. It would be unusual, though, if he had not talked to the interested parties about them.’

  Lambert sensed the answer to his last question even as he framed it. ‘When did Craven indicate to you that he proposed to make a new will?’

  Arkwright looked him full in the eyes for the first time in their exchanges. ‘I have a note here of the date of our phone conversation. It took place four months before his death.’

  5

  David Craven watched the two dark shapes on the other side of the frosted glass as he spoke into the telephone. ‘Surely another month now would be in everyone’s interest? I can certainly now assure you that—’ His face hardened at the interruption from the other end of the line. ‘If we’re talking about credit ratings, you’re obviously not up to date. I suggest you make sure of your facts in that respect before we talk any further!’