Dead In The Morning

by Margaret Yorke

  Martin stood up.

  “Let’s have some more coffee, while you fill me in,” he said. “First I’ll ring up the office and tell them I won’t be in today. I’d better go down to my parents after we’ve seen Mackenzie. I may be needed.”

  Patrick was pleased to see Gerard Manley Hopkins’ advice being so speedily followed. He put the kettle on while Martin telephoned, reflecting that he had spent a great deal of time in other people’s kitchens during the past few days.

  “I’m for the sack, I should think,” said Martin, returning. He looked quite cheerful about it. “I suppose I can sell the house, now Sandra isn’t here to need it.” He looked about the pretty, gay kitchen. “It all cost a packet,” he said. “She wouldn’t settle for a flat. In spite of the mortgage, it should clear my debts. Well, begin, Dr Grant. I’m listening.”

  Patrick complied. He started at the beginning, with Mrs Ludlow having her dinner in bed, Phyllis dividing the lemon meringue pie into four, and she and Cathy setting forth for the Stable House.

  “Afterwards, you can tell me what time you got to Pantons, whom you saw and what happened,” he said to Martin.

  Martin listened quietly while Patrick went on to describe Sunday morning: how Mrs Ludlow had rung her bell and Cathy had discovered Mrs Mackenzie. He told Martin nothing about Phyllis meeting a man for tea in the Cobweb Cafe, an encounter he had witnessed by chance and that might not be relevant, nor did he refer to the letter to Tim that he had discovered. Martin did not interrupt. He sat appalled. Finally Patrick told him why he wanted to see Alec Mackenzie.

  “But why did you come here? Why didn’t you go straight to Clapham?” Martin asked.

  “I wanted to form an opinion of you,” said Patrick bluntly, and when Martin asked no question about that opinion, his estimate of the young man rose.

  “Have I time for a quick bath?” asked Martin.

  “Oh yes,” said Patrick. They might in any case be too early to find out what he wanted to know, but he hoped to get away before Inspector Foster’s men came to see Martin, as they were bound to, ultimately.

  While Martin was in the bathroom, Patrick, heaving a resigned sigh, started to clear up the squalid evidence of the previous night’s thrash that was left all over the sitting-room. Carrying glasses and brimming ashtrays out to the kitchen, he felt very domesticated and wished that Robert, his scout, could see him.

  The telephone bell interrupted his smug musings, and he called out to Martin that he would answer it.

  It might be Sandra, repentant.

  But it wasn’t. It was Gerald Ludlow, who sounded very surprised when Patrick announced his identity.

  “Your nephew’s in the bath. Can I give him a message?” Patrick asked.

  “Please.” Gerald’s voice became guarded. “Does he know how the prevailing wind blows here?”

  “He does,” said Patrick.

  “The man in charge has been to see me. Everyone concerned is to meet at my house tonight at half-past eight, including Martin.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Patrick said.

  “He must turn up,” said Gerald. “It’s mandatory.”

  “I’ll see that he understands,” said Patrick.

  “Why are you there?” asked Gerald. “I rang his office, but they said he hadn’t been in. He’s all right, I hope? He won’t do anything stupid? That girl wasn’t any good, he’s well rid of her, we all knew it couldn’t last.”

  So Gerald knew that Sandra had gone. That was a swift flight of intelligence.

  “He’s all right,” Patrick said.

  “But I don’t see why you’re there,” Gerald repeated.

  “I’ll tell you this evening,” Patrick said. “Goodbye,” and he hung up before Gerald could reply.

  IV

  Gerald stared at the telephone receiver in a bewildered manner before he replaced it. Dr Grant had not been named by the Inspector as one who should be present this evening; on the other hand, he had been up at the house on Saturday night, and again yesterday. Cathy seemed attached to him. What could his interest be in the affair? Surely not Cathy? Banishing such an idea, Gerald resumed his telephone calls.

  When asked by the Inspector to summon all the family together he had protested.

  “If you insist, I must arrange it, I suppose,” he said, but I can’t see how it will help. It must have been some frightful accident.”

  “I’d like to believe that you’re correct, Mr Ludlow, but I’m afraid that isn’t so,” said the Inspector. “There’s a lot more here than meets the eye. If we can wrap this case up quickly you’ll be spared a lot of painful publicity. I’m sure you’re as anxious as I am that the Yard shouldn’t be called in.”

  “We must keep the newspapers away,” said Gerald.

  “As soon as the inquest opens again, they’ll be on it,” said the Inspector.

  “If your chaps keep on coming to the house the village will be wondering what’s up,” Gerald protested. “And Mrs Bludgen at the lodge doesn’t miss much.”

  “So I’ve discovered,” said the Inspector. “A very useful witness, Mrs Bludgen.”

  Gerald looked at him sharply.

  “Do you know what really happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to say any more just now,” said the Inspector primly. “Please just do as I ask. It will make less of a stir among the members of your family if you arrange it, rather than me.”

  “Oh, I agree,” said Gerald hastily. “It’s all like some dreadful nightmare,” he added. “If you’re right, whoever did it must have been out of their mind.”

  “Maybe,” said the Inspector. “It’s a difficult case. We’ve had to make a lot of inquiries outside this area to get the background, so it’s taken time. The sooner it’s all cleared up the better.”

  “That’s true, at least,” said Gerald. “You won’t need my daughter, will you? Nor my wife. They aren’t concerned, and besides, someone must stay with my mother.”

  “The young lady need not come, but your wife’s presence will be required, sir, if you please,” said the Inspector. “And your two nephews.”

  “Oh, surely not, Inspector! Martin hasn’t been down here for weeks. And Timothy’s only just returned from Spain.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn that Mr Martin Ludlow’s wife has left him? And that he is heavily in debt? Also that he was seen to enter and leave the grounds of Pantons on Saturday night?” inquired the Inspector heavily.

  “Oh no! It can’t be true,” exclaimed Gerald, but it was the third of these pieces of information that seemed incredible.

  “It is true, I assure you. I’ve just had the report from London. Mrs Sandra Ludlow left Heathrow early this morning with a gentleman, not her husband; rather older, I believe.” The Inspector coughed. “Mr Martin Ludlow has been a constant loser at a Soho gaming club, and a witness saw him drive through the gates of Pantons on Saturday. I think you’ll agree that his position is far from satisfactory, under the circumstances?”

  Because of this conversation and its revelations, Martin had been the first person summoned by Gerald to the Inspector’s meeting. He telephoned his brother Derek next, and got snapped at for the interruption.

  “I’ve got a lot on,” he said. “Can’t spare time to talk to you now. That damned Inspector’s been on the line already this morning. Why can’t they get on and clear this business up? Woman must have committed suicide, it stands to reason.”

  Gerald did not care for all this indiscreet talk on the telephone, especially from Derek, whose office had a switchboard manned by a girl who might listen in when she had nothing else to do.

  “There are a few queries, it seems,” he said. “We’re all to come, your boys too.”

  “Good heavens, what a waste of time,” said Derek. “It’s got nothing to do with them.”

  “Nevertheless, they’re to come,” said Gerald. Derek clearly had no notion of Martin’s troubles. He would learn about them soon enough.

  “You’ll tel
l Betty and Tim?”

  “Ring them for me, would you, Gerald? I’ve got such a lot on, and you know what Betty is. Yackety-yack. I simply haven’t the time. You’re at home, I gather?”

  “Yes. Someone has to be, there’s a bit too much going on,” said Gerald. “I’ll ring Betty.”

  “Keep her calm,” Derek said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Right. Sorry I can’t talk,” Derek said. “See you tonight.”

  Helen came into the hall as Gerald finished this conversation.

  “Derek’s pretty fed up about coming round tonight,” he said. “He seems to be in a flap about something.”

  “In a flap,” repeated Helen. “That’s a British expression?”

  “Rather outmoded slang, really,” said Gerald. “It goes back to the war.” He put his arms round her. “Poor darling, what a beginning. A family grilling by the British bobbies.”

  Helen kissed him.

  “They have their job to do, I guess,” she said. “Do they know what happened?”

  “I don’t think so. The Inspector seems to imagine that by getting us all gathered round in a family circle he’ll trap one of us into accusing somebody else of wanting to get rid of Mother.” His voice was bitter. “It’s horrible. I simply can’t believe it. Who would do such a thing?”

  “I’m sure none of you would,” said Helen. “But I don’t believe it was suicide, either. Everything points the other way.”

  “According to the Inspector, none of us is quite as straightforward as we seem,” said Gerald. “Ironic, isn’t it? You and I thought we had problems. Now there’s young Martin. His wife’s left him. The police have discovered that he owes a lot of money. Goodness knows what else they’ve ferreted out.”

  “They’ll tell us, maybe, tonight,” said Helen. She turned away from him, shifting a flower in the bowl on the table. “Poor Martin.”

  “Derek sounded as if he’d all the cares of the world on his back, too,” said Gerald. “Still, the sooner the police get all this cleared up, the better. Then we can forget it and make some plans.” He drew her close to him. “We’ll have another honeymoon,” he said.

  V

  Derek and Betty were the first to arrive at the Stable House that evening. With them came a sulky, unspeaking Timothy; he wore clean grey trousers and a blue sweater, and he had washed his hair, but in no other way had he followed Cathy’s advice.

  “What is this all about, Gerald?” Betty asked, fluttering into the house ahead of her men. “Surely the police are making a mountain out of a molehill?”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Gerald said.

  “I’ve read that if anyone takes sedatives, who isn’t used to them, and then has a drink, it can be fatal,” Betty said. “Mrs Mackenzie liked a drop, I know.”

  “The police don’t seem to think it’s quite as simple as that,” said Gerald. He looked at his brother interrogatively, to see if Betty knew what was involved.

  His brother shrugged. “Why anticipate ?” he said.

  “Do you understand what it’s all about, Helen?” Betty asked. “It seems a great riddle to me.”

  “It’s horrible,” Helen said.

  “Poor dear, fancy all this happening when you’ve only just arrived,” Betty said. “What will you think of us all?”

  Helen murmured something indistinguishable, and at this moment the doorbell rang. It was Martin.

  “Martin! What are you doing here? Where’s Sandra?” Betty cried. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  Martin crossed the room and gave his mother a peck on the cheek; he made no attempt to answer her. Then he greeted his father with a mumbled word. Helen, whom he had not met, was introduced, and Gerald suggested everyone could use a drink before the Inspector arrived.

  “But I don’t understand why you’re here, Martin,” Betty repeated.

  “Oh Mother, do stop making a fool of yourself. Everyone’s got to be here, except Gran and Cathy,” Tim growled. “Don’t you realise, the police think one of us tried to bump Gran off, but Mrs Mackenzie got the push instead.”

  Before their eyes, Betty suddenly shrivelled from a plump upstanding figure into a midget. Her face puckered as her body sagged.

  “Timothy, how dare you speak to your mother like that!” Derek said in a furious voice.

  “Is it true? Is what he says true?” whispered Betty.

  “I’m afraid it is, dear,” Derek said.

  “But it can’t be!” Betty looked round the room, at her husband, at her brother-in-law, at her sons. “Not one of the family!”

  She looked at Tim, white-faced and mulish, and remembered with shocked clarity what he had wanted on Saturday, and how he had flung away, out of the house, when his request for money was refused. She suddenly began to feel very sick, but then her common sense returned; Tim was moody, ill-tempered, not very clean; but he was not a liar and he was not violent.

  There were a number of discreditable things she was sure he would be capable of, but murder was not among them. She felt calmer; it could not be Tim. But who, then?

  At this point, Phyllis walked in, without ringing; she was flushed, and apologised for being late.

  “Is Cathy all right?” Gerald asked.

  “Yes. She’s upstairs with Mother. They’ve got the television up there, watching some programme about birds. Cathy’ll ring up if Mother gets fretty,” Phyllis said. “I simply told Mother I was coming down to see how Helen is managing with Mrs Bludgen. How are you ?” she added, and everybody laughed.

  “She’s only been the one time,” Helen said. “Tomorrow’s her day, isn’t it? She scares me to bits. All that fierce red hair, and the way she looks at me, trying to figure out why I’m here, I guess. As if I were a being from another planet.”

  “To her, you probably seem like one,” said Phyllis. “I doubt if she’s met an American before. She’ll be expecting you to behave like someone in a film.”

  “Don’t you think she might have done a line with a G.I. or two, before Bludgen appeared and swept her off her feet?” Gerald asked. “Whisky, Phyl?”

  “Thanks, I’d love one.” Phyllis exchanged a smile with Gerald as he gave her her drink; that afternoon, with Helen, they had sat in the garden talking for nearly two hours, discussing the situation in which they found themselves, Mrs Ludlow’s temperament, Cathy’s future, and many other things, and Phyllis had experienced a renewal of the deep affection she had always felt for her younger brother. He had suffered a terrible blow when his first wife died; he deserved to be happy with his Helen, if only they could surmount this ill-starred start.

  “Phyllis, do you know what this meeting’s all about?” Betty quavered. “Derek says the police suspect one of us of - oh, I can’t say it! It isn’t possible,” she finished.

  “Yes, it does seem impossible,” Phyllis agreed. She spoke calmly. “And in that case, we’ve nothing to fear, have we? If none of us did this dreadful thing, the police can’t prove that we did. We have only to speak the truth.”

  “Hmph. Yes. Quite so,” said Derek. He was the head of the family, if anyone else could be so described while their mother lived. He looked round at them all. “Phyl’s right. Everyone simply stick to the truth, and refuse to get rattled. There’s nothing to fear. We don’t go in for third degree over here.”

  Helen made a wry face at this, and Gerald filled up his brother’s glass again.

  “I can’t imagine what really happened,” he said. “But murder’s out of the question.”

  But was it?

  Martin’s glass was empty too. Wretched young man, no one had mentioned his misfortunes. Gerald thought that Helen and he were the only people present who knew of them.

  They all heard the sound of the police car arriving outside. Its door slammed, and Gerald went to meet the Inspector before he had time to ring. If this scene had to be played, at least let civilised conduct prevail for as long as it could.

  Inspector Foster entered the room
where all the others were assembled, with the panache of a leading actor making his entrance after the first minutes of a play. He carried a sheaf of papers, and was followed by Sergeant Smithers, who held only a notebook.

  “Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Inspector. He took up a position in front of the hearth, from where he could see them all, ranged round in a semicircle. Obediently, those who already had chairs sat down again. Gerald asked Martin to fetch some more chairs from the kitchen, and finally everyone was disposed. Gerald and Helen were together on the sofa; Tim perched on a tapestry-covered stool in front of the walnut bureau. Betty, in a tub chair near the window, cast a frightened glance at Derek who frowned at her, and shook his head, leaving her more bewildered even than before.

  “Well then, is everybody comfortable?” asked Inspector Foster, adopting now the guise of a genial schoolmaster. “I regret that it has been necessary to ask you all to come here this evening, but I am sure you agree that we want to solve this mystery as soon as possible, and with the minimum publicity. I know that Mrs Ludlow senior is old and frail, and you don’t want her worried more than is unavoidable, so the sooner we pool our knowledge, the better.”

  He paused, and gazed at his audience. Betty shuffled in her seat and looked at the carpet. Tim stared at his bitten nails. Martin clasped and unclasped his hands. Derek stared truculently back at the Inspector. Helen and Gerald looked briefly at each other and then past the Inspector’s ankles and at the empty grate. Phyllis looked at the red-haired Sergeant, upright on his kitchen chair in an unobtrusive position, pencil and notebook at the ready.

  Inspector Foster cleared his throat. His sharp brown eyes seemed to dart about as he surveyed them. Met in a pub or on the racecourse or in some other non-official capacity, he might have seemed an amiable enough acquaintance, Gerald thought, but now he was menacing. He wished the fellow would get on with it.

  “By now you are all aware that Mrs Joyce Mackenzie’s death last Saturday night or in the early hours of Sunday morning was not due to natural causes,” he began. “She died of an overdose of barbiturates, combined with alcohol, and my purpose is to discover how she came to take these substances.” He paused, and shuffled his papers. No one else moved.