Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  “Yes. You see we got the creeps sitting indoors, so we thought we’d go out; the Metropolis at Harrow it was. Then we had tea upstairs… and did a little shopping on the way home and then we listened in… and went to bed. Then on Sunday he promised he’d come round in the evening, and we kept waiting and waiting and Mabel said it’d be the fog—”

  “Right! Thank you, Mrs. Oliviere. Now just one other matter—a perfectly private one. I want you to answer frankly. And I want you to remember that the police and myself know a lot of things people don’t give them credit for.” He let that sink in. “Let’s go back a few years. You first met Mr. France at Cambridge, in your father’s shop.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “And he got very attached to you.”

  “Yes… he said he’d marry me.”

  “And how old were you then?”

  “Nearly seventeen… only I was always a big girl for my age.”

  “Exactly! Now tell me what happened—in so many words—between you and Mr. France.”

  She made no bones whatever about that. “Well, dad was away on holiday and he found out that Mi—Mr. France had been there. One of the neighbours must have let on, and he kicked up an awful row and threatened all sorts of things and got a lot of money out of him… and I didn’t see him again because he left Cambridge soon after that.”

  “And then your father died.”

  She seemed to anticipate the question. “Yes, but he didn’t leave anything. He used to gamble it away on horses.”

  “And then you went to Felixstowe. How exactly did you happen to run across Mr. France again?”

  “It was ever so funny! He came in the shop one day when he was living down at Martlesham and he recognised me and we went out together once or twice on the sly and then he said would I come to London, and… and—”

  “And here you are!” He gave a gesture of infinite comprehension. “Well, that’s all very plain sailing. Now here’s the important point. When that money was paid to your father it was paid because Mr. France was supposed to have treated you badly. Had you any brothers?”

  “No.”

  “Any relatives or friends who thought the same thing? Who were what you might call ‘furious’? Who threatened to kill him, or anything like that?”

  Her eyes opened in genuine surprise. “Why! That’s what Mi—Mr. France asked me when he came round and I told him there wasn’t anybody… no young man or anybody! I didn’t have a penny of his money! And I never said a word to a soul about it!”

  “That’s what I thought. You kept it a thing of the past. You knew it wouldn’t do you any good if it were known.”

  The very vehemence of her protestations was on the point of bringing more tears and Wharton closed the subject with another benevolent gesture. “That’s all right then! You’re not the woman to bring up old grievances—which perhaps weren’t grievances at all… to you. As a matter of fact, I suppose only your father, and his lawyer, knew anything about it.”

  “And my aunt… and she’s an old cat!”

  “They often are!… Your uncle alive?”

  “No! And a good thing for him!”

  “Exactly!” said Wharton, and that virtually concluded the inquiry, though he took the name and address of the aunt and made a note to have the gambling propensities of the late Alfred Oliver inquired into—both as matters of routine rather than urgency. The great thing was that her story rang true. As for the moralities, that was no business of his. And when he had questioned the maid and thought the whole matter out again, he felt really satisfied. And other considerations added to that satisfaction. France had asked her the same questions and had been convinced of the truth of her replies, otherwise he’d have taken direct action and not have written to Franklin. Further, in that letter to Franklin he had expressed himself as puzzled—and puzzled he was, because he was certain that there existed no champion who was likely to take up so melodramatic a cudgel on behalf of little Lucy. And lastly, if there were such a champion, why had he waited all those years? Not because he was waiting for France to be in a position to pay, and pay well, for the mischief he’d presumably caused—there had been no mention of money or suggestion of blackmail in any of the threatening notes!

  One other thing did occur as he was going away, something that confirmed the guilelessness of her attitude and the precarious position in which the death of France placed her. She came fluttering to the door, apologetic and anxious.

  “Could you tell me what is going to happen to… to Mr. France’s money?”

  “You mean, has he left you anything?”

  “Yes… You see I don’t know what to do with the house and things.” Then naïvely: “Should I be allowed to keep it?”

  “I expect you’ll hear from Mr. France’s solicitors,” he assured her as he got in the car.

  That seemed to be the clearing up of a loose end. So sure indeed was Wharton of the elimination of Lucy Olivere as a vital factor in the case that, occupying his mind for a good part of the next half hour, was the wonder who had been responsible for the species of practical joke that had been played on France—the threat and the prophecy that had turned out so uncannily true.

  CHAPTER XIV

  STILL MORE LADIES

  But what occupied Wharton’s mind in the latter stages of his progress from Suburbia towards Arcadia, was the attitude he should adopt with the lady he was about to question. Beyond the fact that she was certainly young and presumably patrician, he knew little except what he had gathered from Franklin and Usher. The problem presented indeed perplexities which were not cleared entirely away as the car was gliding along the mile of private road to the Hall of Marfleet Parva. During that short journey along the smoothly gravelled drive with its trim hedges and ornamental trees, the wealth of its owner became so consistently apparent that, before he knew it, he had decided on a certain suavity of directness, and a courtesy that should hint at the omniscience and the dignity of the law which he represented.

  As the car drew up at the portico of the long Georgian building, his eye took in the stretch of lawns and parkland and the general air of spacious opulence. At the door a footman took his card—a private one—and showed him into a kind of library. Almost immediately Mrs. Claire came in.

  As he caught sight of her for the first time, Wharton understood Franklin’s point of view. She certainly did look boyish in the tweed skirt and close-fitting jersey and with that Eton-cropped head. And there was no mistaking the natural buoyancy of her temperament as she came forward with a delightful smile.

  “How d’you do?” Then a pause that might have meant anything.

  Wharton bowed. “I am speaking to Mrs. Claire—Mrs. Peter Claire?”

  She nodded and smiled. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you,” said Wharton. “But first of all, Mrs. Claire, may I apologise for a little piece of deception. I’m Superintendent Wharton, of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard.”

  The smile went—then reappeared timorously.

  “Then it’s—er—Mr. Claire you want!”

  “No, ma’am; not necessarily. I came purposely to see you.” He cleared his throat. “You see, it’s like this. Mr. Michael France is dead, but certain things have still to be cleared up. He was a friend of your husband… and yourself, and that’s why I’m here, to ask you to help us.”

  She looked puzzled. “But how?”

  “I’ll come to that in a moment, ma’am. But may I say to start with, that I preferred this morning to see you alone, that is to say, not in the presence of your husband. And I hope that whatever information you give me need never reach his ears—”

  She laughed, just the least bit nervously he thought. “Aren’t you being very mysterious?”

  Wharton shook his head. “I don’t think so… not to you. For instance, may I tell you some facts that are in my possession; facts that may have to be acknowledged by you in the full publicity of a coroner’s court?”

 
She closed her lips and watched intently. “Well… go on with what you have to say.”

  Wharton went on. He repeated the events and conversation of the Friday night, with Usher, of course, entirely out of it. Once or twice she frowned, then she leaned her chin on the back of her hand and her eyes narrowed. Once her lips puckered to the demurest suggestion of a smile.

  “You agree with those statements I’ve just given you, Mrs. Claire?”

  “Well—er—suppose I do? How really—I mean, I don’t see how I’m affected.”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” said Wharton patiently. “We know that Michael France died round about ten o’clock on the Saturday night and therefore when you were with him. I’ve told you the arrangements—elaborate and careful ones—you made, so as to be in that house at that very time. Did you see him die, Mrs. Claire?… Or was he dead when you got there?”

  Her mouth opened. She made a quick breath or two, then as quickly recovered her poise.

  “How could I have gone to the house? I was at Maidenhead.”

  “At Maidenhead? What for?”

  “To see my old nurse. I spend a day or two with her every year.”

  “She’s the Mary to whom you and Mr. France were alluding?”

  “Yes… I mean her name’s Mary.”

  “I see. Then you broke your appointment with Mr. France?”

  “No. He telephoned me he couldn’t come.”

  “Where and when did you receive the message?”

  “At my house… at nine o’clock.”

  “You are sure of the time?”

  “Perfectly sure! That was when I decided to go to Maidenhead after all.”

  “You sure it was Mr. France’s own voice you heard?”

  “Oh, quite!”

  Wharton gave a dry sort of smile. “Well, Mrs. Claire, the age of miracles is not yet over. Mr. France was ’phoning to you and doing his turn on the Paliceum stage at the same time. He was there from 8.45 till 9.15.”

  “Do you disbelieve me.”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I disbelieve the evidence of my own senses!”

  “Please don’t be ridiculous!” She stamped her foot, then sprang up with a rare assumption of indignation. “How dare you! What do you mean by your… your beastly questions!”

  Wharton sat on. He merely shook his head reprovingly. “Words like that won’t get us very far, Mrs. Claire. Sit down… please! That’s better. Do you want me to have to bring you in front of a coroner’s court? Do you want to be forced by the law to state in public what you and I can discuss here in confidence? Do you want publicity?… crowds?… the Press?… gossip?… and scandal!”

  She glared at him. “What do you mean by scandal?”

  Wharton shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe men and women aren’t what they used to be! Are you so deliberately blind as you’re making out? No scandal, you say! You who will have to admit in public that you deliberately schemed, behind your husband’s back and with the connivance of your nurse, to go at night to the house of another man!” He broke off exasperated. “Mrs. Claire! Answer my question! Did you go to that house or did you not?”

  “I told you I did not.”

  “I see. You still persist that you went to Maidenhead?”

  “Ask my nurse! Apparently you don’t believe me.”

  “And whose fault is that, Mrs. Claire?”

  Up she jumped again, this time with an infuriated nod and a voice shaking with temper.

  “You beast!”

  Wharton refused to be annoyed—and for good reason. Mrs. Claire was perturbed. If her suggestions of insult had been made more quietly, they’d have carried more weight. Had she left the room without saying a word, he might have been alarmed; as it was he produced his notebook.

  “The name and address of your nurse, please.”

  She fairly threw it at him. “Mrs. Doran, The Cottage, Long Lane, Maidenhead.”

  He took it down, put the notebook back with elaborate care, then prepared to rise.

  “Before I go, Mrs. Claire, may I impress something on you most earnestly. You’re not dealing with me, Superintendent Wharton; you’re dealing with the law; with things that land people in places of public trial—”

  “You threaten me!”

  “Not at all! I merely advise. Though you’re the wife of the man who owns all this”—he waved his hand at the window—“the law will treat you with the same courtesy and the same cold justice as it would the poorest servant in your kitchen. Remember that, Mrs. Claire; and for the last time let me ask you. You adhere to the statement that you did not see Michael France last Saturday night?… living or dead?”

  The two looked at each other; Wharton calm, magisterial, and with something earnest, almost pleading in his voice; she with eyes looking daggers and lips moving convulsively. Then she shook her head fiercely.

  “Will you leave this house!”

  Wharton shook his head. “I shall leave your house, Mrs. Claire, but not because you order me. I shall go because I see no further reason for staying.” He shook his head again, with genuine regret. “You insist on publicity and scandal? Very well, you must have them. I shall see your husband—and your nurse—at once. Tomorrow, if not before, I must question your servants… unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind.” He rose. “Is your maid here?”

  A defiant, “She is!”

  “I wish to see her at once; here in this room. If you choose to remain, please do so.”

  If looks could have finished him off, that would have been the end of Wharton. She flounced out of the room with a slam of the door. Wharton sat down and mopped his forehead. Five minutes wait and the girl came in—a tallish girl of about the same age as her mistress, but so blond and natural as to be almost startling after the jet hair and dynamics of the other. And as he saw the hair of the newcomer—bobbed, fringed, silky, medieval-looking—Wharton wondered. She looked very timid as she caught the stranger’s eye. Wharton smiled.

  “Good morning! Has your mistress told—”

  The door opened quickly and Mrs. Claire re-entered. Like a late-comer at church, she sank into the nearest seat.

  “You are Mrs. Claire’s maid?”

  “Yes… sir.”

  “Well, your mistress and I have had a little argument and—to tell you the whole truth—we’ve had a little bet on it. What we want you to do is to be a sort of umpire and settle it. I suppose you have a bet sometimes?”

  His manner was so jovial that she smiled. “Sometimes, sir.”

  “Splendid! You’re the very one we want. Now then, what time did your mistress leave the house on Saturday night? You remember Saturday? The foggy night?”

  “Just after nine, sir.”

  “Capital!” He rubbed his hands. “And Archer carried her bag to the station?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He chuckled again. “And when did she come back to town again?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t there.… But the mistress got back here on Sunday just before ten.”

  His face fell. “I say, that’s bad!” He turned to Mrs. Claire. “Well, I suppose I’d better pay up! Thank you very much—er—”

  “Warren, sir.”

  “Thank you, Miss Warren.”

  He watched her leave the room, then apparently unaware of the other woman’s presence, made his way to the door. In the huge mirror canted above it, he saw, however, the quivering lip and the eyes welling to tears. A courteous, “Good morning, Mrs. Claire!” and he was out in the hall. Just over an hour later, the car drew up alongside a small, detached, creeper-covered villa on the fringe of open country a bare mile out of Maidenhead.

  * * * * *

  He knocked three times before the door was opened, by an elderly woman who seemed rather in a fluster. She looked motherly and dependable; grey-haired, dumpy and ample bosomed. He noted the violet-coloured dress, the tidy hair, and the cameo brooch that had been put on slightly askew.

  “Am I speaking to Mrs. Doran?”

&nb
sp; “Yes… I’m Mrs. Doran.”

  “I rather wanted to see you about somethmg important. May I come in?” She hesitated. “I’m here really on behalf of Mrs. Peter Claire, who told me you were her old nurse.”

  There was an attempt at a smile, but the attempt ended badly. If anything she looked more nervous than ever as she drew back from the door and showed him into a typical best room.

  “I’ve come at an awkward time,” said Wharton apologetically. “You were just going to have your lunch.”

  “Oh, no! I’ve had it. I always have it early.” Her voice was husky and mechanical.

  “And a very good plan too. You’re a widow, Mrs. Doran?”

  “Yes. I lost my husband in the war.”

  He shook his head consolingly. “A terrible business that! And you’re sure I’m no trouble to you? You weren’t going out?”

  “No… I wasn’t going out… I never hardly go out.”

  “That’s all right then.” Most difficult sort of woman, thought Wharton. About as effusive as a mute—and a damnably suspicious look in her eye. However, perhaps she’d respond to different treatment. “I’m a policeman, Mrs. Doran; what they call a detective. Now don’t get alarmed. I’m the most harmless man in the world—so my wife thinks! All I want to know is something that concerns Mrs. Claire—for her good. You see it’s like this. A certain gentleman who died suddenly on Saturday night, is supposed to have seen Mrs. Claire before he died. Between you and me, I know he couldn’t have done. And why? Because she was here with you!”

  She nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes! Miss Dorothy was here! She came at ten o’clock and she’d have been earlier only the fog made her late, and she was here till Sunday evening, when it cleared.”

  The words came pat—too pat. A woman all nerves as she was, should have mentioned nothing but what was extorted, not have added information to information. Wharton frowned as he listened to the brief account that had obviously been rehearsed.

  “At ten o’clock. Hm! And how did you know the time so exactly?”

  “I looked at the clock in the kitchen when I put the cat’s basket out and I said to myself, ‘Miss Dorothy won’t be coming now,’ and I was just going to bed.”