Mad Hatter's Holiday

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘My dear, I did, but what are you trying to prove?’

  ‘That’s where the jacket on the beach came from,’ said Cribb grimly. ‘Do you have yours at home, Ma’am?’

  ‘I don’t believe I do. I left it with some other things at the Albemarle. Prothero will bring it home on Saturday.’

  ‘With respect, I don’t think so.’

  She stopped and looked up at him. ‘What do you mean? Are you telling me that my coat—‘

  ‘Is the one we found? Yes, Ma’am. I’ll get you to identify it later, of course, but I’m no longer in any doubt about it. The dead woman was wearing your sealskin jacket last Saturday night.’

  Zena was shaking her head. ‘It’s quite impossible.’

  Cribb took her arm. ‘Not at all, my dear. You know as well as I do that it was your servant, Bridget, who was murdered.’

  Silence, while she assimilated what Cribb had said.

  ‘It’s not unknown for a servant to borrow something from the family wardrobe,’ he went on. ‘Smart jacket. Fashionable, you say. Mistress asleep.’

  ‘Who said I was asleep?’ demanded Zena.

  ‘It’s the only explanation. Shall we look at what you’ve already told me? Jason was so fretful that you decided to go back to Dorking with him on Sunday, bringing your holiday to a premature end.’

  ‘Absolutely true.’

  ‘Pains in his stomach, you decided. Poor little fellow must have suffered something dreadful for you to abandon your husband like that. When did the crying start?’

  ‘Heavens, I can’t remember that.’

  ‘It was bad on Saturday, though?’

  ‘Yes, I haven’t denied it.’

  ‘Yet you tell me that you spent the evening watching fireworks and playing cards and that after Bridget had been down to get the formula from Mr. Moscrop you gave her the evening off.’

  She coloured. ‘The child was quieter by then.’

  Cribb shook his head slowly. ‘With rockets and Chinese crackers going off underneath his window? I can’t believe that, Ma’am. It makes no sense and I’ll not embarrass you any more by persisting with the point. I think Jason was asleep, as a matter of fact. Bridget had given him a dose of your sleeping-draught.’

  ‘The laudanum!’ Zena was wide-eyed with horror. ‘She fed that to a tiny child!’

  Cribb scratched the tip of his nose. ‘I must confess that I misled you there, Ma’am. The sleeping-potion wasn’t laudanum, as Mr. Moscrop will confirm. I needed to know if you had ever seen the chemist’s analysis. It’s obvious you hadn’t. We found it on the beach, you see, near the sealskin jacket and the—er—other items. Bridget still had it with her, tucked up her sleeve, I dare say, or wherever ladies tuck such things. It’s chloral you’ve been taking, if you’re still interested. Relatively harmless. You took it as usual on Saturday, didn’t you, leaving Bridget to deal with Mr. Moscrop? You didn’t realise that when you were unconscious she’d come back from seeing Moscrop, borrow your jacket and probably give Jason a spoonful of chloral to assist his slumbers before going out to enjoy herself—as she thought. We know what happened to her.’

  She lowered her eyelids. ‘You must think me very foolish, Sergeant, to have attempted to deceive you.’

  ‘Not foolish, Ma’am. I understand your reasons. If I may say so, it was a spirited account of the fireworks, considering you weren’t awake at the time.’

  She smiled faintly. ‘One goes to extreme lengths to avoid a scandal when one’s living is founded on public confidence, as ours is. The smallest suggestion of anything improper can decimate a medical practice, Sergeant. I’m sure you’ll find Bridget’s murderer and bring him to trial, but he can expect to receive more justice than we shall. There is no question that in the eyes of my husband’s patients as they read their newspapers in Dorking we shall be condemned, without reference to a judge and jury. Who is going to consult a doctor whose name is mentioned in connection with a murder, whose wife is shown to be dependent upon a sleeping-drug and whose son swam on a public beach with a female servant? There is no question of it: we shall have to move away, hoping that when our names are no longer household words we can purchase a practice in some other part of the country. But I wonder whether we shall survive at all as a family. We have lived with secrets, Sergeant, things that will rend us apart when they are revealed, as now they must be. In my weakness I stood by while Guy indulged in his silly antics in the sea with Bridget, knowing it would cause the gravest offence to my husband, but believing he would never have cause to know about it.’

  ‘Perhaps he guessed the truth,’ said Cribb.

  She shook her head. ‘Never. He would have stopped it at once. I had my instructions, but I was not equal to them. Yet that is not all that I dread. When my husband went out by afternoon and evening, sometimes returning very late, I kept telling myself that I believed his stories of visiting former patients. For peace of mind I did not seek to discover the truth, Sergeant—how many thousand neglected women have done the same?—I took my sleeping preparation and sought oblivion. But now there will be no escape from the truth. I shall hear where he was on Saturday and I do not know what I shall have to forgive. I do not know whether the removal of our illusions is the best thing. Sergeant, is it so unforgivable to have tried in our clumsy way to conceal the fact that Bridget was probably your dead woman on the beach?’

  ‘I’m in no position to forgive it, Ma’am,’ said Cribb, ‘but when you put it that way I can understand.’

  CHAPTER

  14

  ‘NOW, THACKERAY. I’VE TOLD you about my meeting with Mrs. Prothero. I’d be obliged if you’d give me your account of the meeting you had with Miss Floyd-Whittingham.’

  Thackeray took out his pocket-notebook and cleared his throat in the best police-court manner. He was now becoming accustomed to the solemn little exchanges of information in the interviewing-room at Grafton Street police station, but the first time it had happened you could have knocked him down with a police-issue pencil. It was contrary to everything he knew about Cribb’s way of conducting inquiries. Anyone assisting Cribb was expected to glean a full understanding of developments from listening for occasional utterances never more than half a dozen words in length and watching for the tell-tale tilt of an eyebrow, or the twitch of a cheek-muscle. There were rumours, of course, that after Cribb’s music hall murder investigation, criticism had been voiced in certain quarters of sergeants who ordered constables to perform manoeuvres in ignorance of their full implications, but Cribb was unlikely to be influenced by that. It was far more likely that the Brighton ozone had gone to his head.

  ‘In accordance with my instructions,’ Thackeray began, ‘I proceeded to Lewes Crescent, arriving there shortly after eleven o’clock. Upon knocking at the door and announcing my business I was admitted by a maidservant who informed me that Miss Floyd-Whittingham was at breakfast. I impressed upon her the seriousness of my business and she agreed to take me to her Mistress without delay. I followed in anticipation of being admitted to the breakfast-room, but found myself instead being led upstairs and shown into what—er—not to beat about the bush—I found to be Miss Floyd-Whittingham’s bedroom.’

  ‘Her bedroom?‘ Cribb brought down his hand noisily on his thigh. ‘Thackeray, how do you manage it? You can make a compromising situation out of anything. Where was Miss Samantha, then?’

  ‘In bed, Sarge. With a boiled egg on a silver tray.’ He resumed his evidence-giving manner. ‘Naturally, I apologised for the intrusion, but she did not give the appearance of being discomfited.’

  ‘She didn’t disappear screaming under the bedclothes, you mean? Go on.’

  ‘She was decently covered with a white lace garment. I sat on a chair—it was quite ten feet from the bed—and explained the reason for my visit. I handled it delicate, Sarge, as you suggested, saying we was tracing the movements of a number of people on Saturday night. She admitted quite readily that she was at the ball with Dr. Prothero—called him Gre
gory. They was in the Dome from nine o’clock onwards, except for half an hour when they watched the fireworks from the Steine Gardens. That was between half past nine and ten. Otherwise they was there until one in the morning. She’s got a card with his name against the dances to prove it, Lancers and Galopades and Polkas. Gregory all the way down to the Last Waltz. She’ll vouch for him, I’m sure.’

  ‘Hm. Did she volunteer anything else about him—where she met him, for instance?’

  ‘In church, Sarge. She didn’t know he was married at first. He’s always behaved very proper, she said. He’s a decent, warm-hearted man and his wife don’t understand him.’

  Cribb gave the celebrated tilt of the right eyebrow. ‘That’s one view of Prothero, then. What about Samantha? What’s your opinion of her, Constable?’

  Thackeray tilted both eyebrows. ‘Oh, a regular beauty, Sarge! No question of it. A face like a china doll and a show of red hair I’ve never seen the equal of. I suppose she wears it different when she goes out, but it was hanging loose down her back when I saw it. I don’t know what she’s like dressed and on her feet, Sarge, but she’s a stunner in bed, I promise you!’

  Cribb winced. ‘I believe it Thackeray, but I wouldn’t bandy it about in quite those terms if I were you. People jump to wrong conclusions.’

  ‘What bothers me,’ said Thackeray, undaunted, ‘is what a handsome young woman like that sees in a man of Prothero’s age—even allowing that he’s a dapper little toff.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not so unusual,’ said Cribb.

  ‘You’re right, Sarge! I do believe there’s a type of young woman that finds older men difficult to resist. I observed a certain look in Miss Floyd-Whittingham’s eyes as I entered the room.’

  ‘Focused on a grey beard, perhaps?’ murmured Cribb. ‘It sounds as though you had a lucky escape, Thackeray. You did escape, I take it? Never mind. We’ve more important things to discuss. Between us, we’ve now interviewed everyone who would seem to be connected with this case—Miss Floyd-Whittingham, the Protheros and Mr. Moscrop. I suppose there’s still the possibility of some complete stranger having met Bridget on the beach on Saturday night and murdered her, but in my experience that sort of killer doesn’t go to a deal of trouble afterwards to get rid of the body. No, I think we’ve met our murderer already. You’ve got your notebook there, and I’ve seen you working at it on and off throughout the week. If it wasn’t the Newmarket Handicap you were considering, I hope you’ve got something useful to contribute to the investigation by now.’

  Thackeray was not unprepared. He licked his forefinger in a businesslike way and turned several pages of the notebook. ‘Well, Sarge, you’ve always advised me to look for a motive in a murder case, and I’ve been weighing up the parties concerned to see what reason they would have for putting an end to Bridget.’

  ‘A sound procedure, Constable. What conclusions have you reached?’

  ‘Ah. Well, let’s dismiss the least likely one first. So far as I can tell, Miss Floyd-Whittingham has never met Bridget, and wouldn’t have any reason to kill her. The only way she might be involved is as an accomplice to Dr. Prothero.’

  ‘Reasonable enough,’ said Cribb. ‘And she doesn’t sound to me like the sort of woman who’s handy with a cleaver.’

  ‘Them’s my own sentiments exactly, Sarge. And I’ve got the same reservations about Mrs. Prothero from what you told me of her. She’s got a motive, though, in my opinion.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She didn’t like Bridget at all. She told Moscrop Prothero engaged the girl himself. If she’d had her way she would have dismissed her. Now seeing that she’s so attached to young Jason, and Bridget was apt to go off swimming with Guy and leave the child in the charge of bathing-machine attendants, it don’t seem impossible to me that Mrs. Prothero might have got desperate, knowing that her husband didn’t take no interest. You told me yourself that Mrs. P. knew about the capers in the sea with Guy, so she must have known about Jason being left with strangers, too. That’s enough to strike panic into a woman of her nervous susceptibilities.’

  ‘I see the point,’ said Cribb, ‘but there’s still the dismembering to account for. That’s not a woman’s work.’

  Thackeray had obviously thought of this. He tucked his thumbs confidently in the pockets of his waistcoat and said, ‘A woman as charming as Mrs. Prothero might not have to look very far to find a man prepared to wield a cleaver for her.’

  ‘Moscrop?’ said Cribb.

  Thackeray rewarded his sergeant with a broad grin. ‘But I’ll leave him for a moment, if you don’t mind. The next on the list is Guy.’

  ‘The boy?’

  ‘Now that’s just it, Sarge. We’re disposed to think of him as a boy, but he’s fifteen years old and quite precocious from what I’ve heard. It ain’t every fifteen-year-old that talks to his elders and betters the way that lad does, or takes snuff, or has a dabble below stairs, to use a coarse expression.’

  ‘That doesn’t make him a murderer.’

  ‘Ah, but he ain’t what you would call a level-headed personality. Perhaps it’s on account of his age—I’m not sure about these things—but he sounds to me like a boy without a proper sense of responsibility. Moscrop says he saw him holding Jason above the crocodile tank. That’s the deuce of a risk to take with a small child, wouldn’t you say? He seems to have no respect for people at all, in his family or out of it. Now just suppose his philanderings with Bridget had gone a good deal further than the Protheros realised. Just suppose Bridget was in a delicate condition, or thought she was, at any rate, and told him so. I can’t help wondering whether he ain’t the sort of boy that might resort to murder in that situation.’

  ‘It’s plausible,’ admitted Cribb.

  ‘And so we come to Dr. Prothero,’ Thackeray went on, like a guide in a museum, turning the page of his notebook. ‘Now, here’s an interesting thing, Sarge. Moscrop told us that when he had his conversation with Bridget on the morning of the regiment’s march-past, it was she who gave him Miss Floyd-Whittingham’s name. She knew all about the goings-on at Lewes Crescent of an afternoon. And that was at a time when Mrs. Prothero herself thought the doctor was going the rounds of his former patients. It’s tailor-made for blackmail, in my opinion. I think that’s why Bridget was able to keep her job, even when Mrs. Prothero knew she was neglecting Jason. Prothero wasn’t going to dismiss her when he knew she could blow the gaff to his wife.’

  ‘Do you think he was paying Bridget money, then?’

  ‘That’s hard to say. She may have been satisfied with keeping her job. In those circumstances drawing a wage is a kind of blackmail, in my estimation. Well, Sarge, that’s the motive in Prothero’s case. Bridget demands too much, so he kills her.’

  ‘Leaving us with Mr. Albert Moscrop.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve left him till last deliberate, Sarge, because I think he’s the deepest one of the lot. It’s not that I’m unappreciative of all the information he’s given us. We wouldn’t have got this far so quick without him.’

  ‘You wonder why he’s so interested in the case?’

  ‘Well, you must admit that it’s a curious way to spend a holiday. I’ve seen the jokes in Punch about men at the seaside peering through spy-glasses, but I’ve never come across anyone with a whole bagful of telescopes and binoculars. For all his grand ideas about being in Brighton for the season, he’s got no intention of going to balls or parties. He just watches everyone else enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Eccentric,’ said Cribb, ‘but harmless.’

  ‘Ah, yes, up to a point, Sarge. But when the glasses settle on a married woman and won’t move off, then I’m not so sure if it is harmless. Allowing for the sort of man he is, deadly serious but completely inexperienced with the fair sex, I’d say that any woman at the far end of those binoculars should watch out. It’s the men of his age and his kind that get strange notions in their heads. They can very easily convince themselves that the unfortunate women they fix upon a
re encouraging ’em, and that can lead to ugly results.’

  ‘It’s an interesting idea,’ said Cribb, ‘except for the fact that it was Bridget who was murdered, and not Zena Prothero.’

  ‘But don’t you see,’ said Thackeray, passionately, ‘that a man with such a single-minded interest in a woman is going to be ruthless in pursuing her? I don’t think that child Jason strayed away from his mother on the beach. I think Moscrop abducted him—just to bring him back to her and provide himself with a reason for talking to her. A man in that frame of mind will do anything, Sarge.’

  ‘Hold on a bit!’ said Cribb. ‘Single-minded, I’ll give you. Humourless, yes. Capable of contriving some situation to meet Mrs. Prothero, yes. But anything! That won’t do, Constable. It’s woolly. Not the way a detective should think. If there’s a motive for Moscrop, there must be a clearly-reasoned argument, however odd the man may be.’

  ‘I was coming to that, Sergeant,’ protested Thackeray. ‘You’ll allow that he formed a strong attachment for Mrs. Prothero?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So strong that he went to some trouble to find out for himself about her husband’s unfaithfulness?’

  ‘I should think that was his reason, yes.’

  ‘And he felt protective towards Mrs. Prothero, and angry about the husband who didn’t appreciate her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well it seems to me that things was building up to a crisis-point on the Saturday, the day of the murder. Mrs. Prothero had asked Moscrop to get the sleeping-potion analysed. By that time, he was ready to be her slave. He thought Dr. Prothero was contemptible. It was even possible— and I’m not putting it any stronger, Sarge—that the sleeping potion might contain some kind of slow-acting poison. Anyway, being asked to get it analysed was being put into a privileged position.’

  ‘You’re doing better now,’ said Cribb.

  ‘So Moscrop must have felt highly pleased with himself, meeting her in secret by the croquet-lawn and arranging another secret meeting for the Saturday, when he would give her the chemist’s analysis. She was sure to be in a grateful frame of mind. It would be Saturday night in Brighton. The fireworks would be under way. She might even agree to take a walk along the prom. with him. Imagine the prospect of that to a man who had hardly talked to a woman outside his telescope-shop!’