Death in the Night Watches

by George Bellairs

  “Very well, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  “Miss Rickson, then. On the night she died, she was said to have shown considerable agitation after I left her. She went round to the various members of the family asking them questions. Did she see any of them in your presence or when you were about?”

  “No, sir. She seems to have been to them one by one, too. I asked Mr. Bancroft, the butler, what it was all about. But he said he was as much in the dark as me.…”

  “Did Miss Rickson ask you any questions at the time?”

  “Yes, sir. She was on about the dog dying again. I told her I didn’t know a thing about it and that I resented people saying that it died from a cup o’ tea that I took to the mistress. Where that tale came from, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Nobody’s accusing you, Clara. Did you see Miss Rickson about the house that evening?”

  “Yes, sir. I remember thinkin’ it was a bit unusual. She was generally so quiet between her dinner and going to bed. That night, though, she was all over the place. As I said, she was talking to the family. I saw her going to Miss Alice’s room in rather a hurry. I thought the Count had had another of his do’s.…”

  Here the girl halted suddenly and put her hand on her lips. It was evident that she had touched on some forbidden topic.

  “His do’s. What do you mean, Clara?”

  “I mean, he might have been drinkin’ again.…”

  The maid looked uncomfortable and it was evident that she was improvising to cover her indiscretion.

  “Now, now, Clara. That won’t do, my girl. You know it wasn’t drinking. He was quite sober when I was here. Besides, why should Miss Rickson need to rush to his rooms when he was drunk? His wife was there. Tell me the truth.”

  “You won’t tell if I do, sir. It’s forbidden to mention it here. In fact, sir, I don’t think anybody outside the family knows. He’s an epileptic.… Brought it on with drinkin’, about two years back. Now and then he has attacks. They have to lock him in his room.…”

  “I see. Has he had any lately?”

  “He had one on the night Mr. Henry died, sir. He got out, too, after it was over and Miss Alice was hunting him in the grounds till well past midnight.…”

  “I understand. And they made you and the rest of the servants swear to say nothing about it?”

  “Yes, sir. The Count’s queer for a day or two after one of his attacks. Dazed, like, and very quiet.…”

  “H’m. Has he ever been violent on such occasions, Clara?”

  “Not that I’d know of, sir. But him and Miss Alice generally keep to their rooms then. She looks well after him. Not often he gives her the slip.”

  “Does the doctor call when he’s taken ill?”

  “Yes, sir. The Count doesn’t like Dr. Watterson. He has Dr. Firebrace from Trentbridge. The doctor was here when the Count got outdoors. They thought he was in bed.…”

  “Very well, Clara. Now back to Miss Rickson. Did you see her anywhere else on the night she died?”

  “She was in the gun room doin’ something for a bit. I thought she was after Miss Alice. She and the Count had been there.…”

  “What was she doing? Does she often go there?”

  “No, sir. There’s nothin’ in there to interest her. Besides, it’s a cold, uncomfortable room and all them animals’ ’eads gives you the creeps.…”

  Littlejohn quite agreed.

  “As regards Mr. Henry and Mr. Gerald. I hear they didn’t hit it off very well at times. Did they do much quarrelling and arguing about the house …?”

  Clara began to wring her hands. It was against all her training to talk with outsiders about the family.

  “They did have rows now and then, but what family doesn’t?”

  “What about, Clara?”

  The girl pushed back her fair hair, which in her flurry, seemed in some way to grow more and more disordered of its own accord. She was a pretty girl and her confusion made her prettier than ever.

  “Oh, sometimes they’d quarrel about the works. Mr. Henry was more … well … cleverer than Mr. Gerald and he’d get a bit sarcastic with him now and then. Then Mr. Gerald’s temper would rise and he’d go for Mr. Henry and you’d hear them at it hammer and tongs.…”

  “When was the last of these quarrels, Clara?”

  “Last Monday, I think it was. I heard them at it in Mr. Henry’s study.…”

  “Did you overhear any of it?”

  Clara began to pluck the lace on her apron and hesitated. “Remember what I told you, Clara. I must know.”

  “I don’t quite remember exactly, but it sounded something about being short of money.”

  “Who was short of money?”

  “Mr. Gerald, I think. Mr. Henry was shouting at him. Something about ‘You might be hard up, but there’s no excuse for’… and then he swore ’orribly, ‘… there’s no excuse for that.’ What that was, I don’t know. But Mr. Gerald back-answered him as loud, and swearing too. ‘You lyin’ little swine,’ says Mr. Gerald. ‘You sneakin’ little rat. As if I’d stoop to it.…’ They both raised their voices when they were angry and I couldn’t help hearin’ just that as I passed.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did Henry come and question you about the tea and the dog dying after it happened?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Gerald did, though. He asked me if anyone had stopped me and interfered with me on the way with the tray to Mrs. Worth. I said no. And I told him what I told you. I just put it down for a minute while I got the biscuits.”

  “Oh. That all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Everybody out this afternoon, Clara?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Bancroft’s just gone to the lodge with a bottle of port for Matthews, who’s got a chill. The rest are out.… Miss Alice went to the funeral.… Mrs. Worth’s rode over to see her father, who’s not so well. The Count’s in town somewhere and Mr. Gerald’s at the works.…”

  The girl rose and smoothed down her dress as though anticipating the return of Bancroft.

  “One more question, Clara. Miss Rickson had glucose in her sugar basin, hadn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did all the family know it was glucose?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. The little joke was about Ricky’s hoard of sugar, sir. But then, you’d perhaps call it sugar in a joke.…”

  “Where did the glucose come from?”

  “Pickthorne’s, the chemists, down in town, sir. It’s very scarce these days and we had to get it there, because doctor gave Miss Rickson a sort of priority note to get it on account of her health.”

  “Who went for it?”

  “Oh, anybody who happened to be in that direction.”

  “Including members of the family?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve known Miss Alice call for it … or even the Count. He didn’t mind doing errands.… He’s nothin’ else to do.”

  “Did Mr. Henry … or Mr. Gerald, or Mrs. Worth ever get it?”

  “I couldn’t say that, sir. Though I’ve no doubt they would do if Miss Rickson wanted it badly. We was all fond of Miss Rickson, sir.”

  “Thank you again, Clara. You’ve been very useful and I will try to be discrete about the information you’ve given me. I’ll see you don’t suffer by disclosing family secrets, anyway. Good day, Clara.”

  “Good day, sir. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Avoiding Bancroft, who was pursuing a ponderous course homewards, Littlejohn took the shortest way back to Trentbridge and made for the High Street, where Pickthorne’s was one of the largest and most prosperous-looking shops. Entering, he asked for a word in private with the manager. An eager young assistant led the Inspector into a small waiting room, which seemed to combine the functions of an optical department and a sanctuary for the fitting of trusses and elastic stockings. Prominently displayed on a table were two bell pushes labelled respectively, “Male Assistant”, “Female Assistant”. Lit
tlejohn didn’t like the place. It had a furtive atmosphere about it, as though dope were peddled there, too. He lit his pipe and disinfected it thoroughly whilst he waited.

  Mr. Lancelot Pickthorne himself bounced in before long, rubbing his soft fat hands and beaming from ear to ear. He was small and flabby with a pale, sagging face, and looked as though, beneath his skin deep grin, he was suffering from some inner complaint which all the nostrums in his shop were powerless to heal.

  “Now, sir. And what can we do for you?”

  Mr. Pickthorne’s little piggy eyes took in Littlejohn from head to foot, as though trying to single out his weakness and attack it before he had spoken.

  When Littlejohn produced his card, Mr. Pickthorne’s smile vanished, as though somebody had cleaned it from his face with a duster. He had been making a pretty penny out of some illicit cosmetics and wondered if his sins had found him out. Or, again, had some of the assistants been blundering with a prescription?

  “How do you do? And to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Inspector?”

  The chemist was trying to smile again, but it looked more like an attack of nausea.

  “Just a little matter about glucose, which you supplied to the late Miss Rickson, of Trentvale Hall, sir.”

  “Glucose.… But, I do assure you, Inspector, that the tins are sealed when they arrive here and we never open them. If there’s been any accident with one, we are quite innocent. It’ll be the maker’s fault, not ours.”

  “Oh, nothing of that sort, sir.…”

  Mr. Pickthorne breathed a deep sigh of relief and clutched the table for support.

  “It’s just a question of who called for it from time to time. A routine check, if you understand, sir. Can you tell me if all the Worth family and servants have been here for it during the time Miss Rickson has had it?”

  “Just a minute, Inspector. I’ll inquire. Take a seat, please.”

  The chemist scuttered out and the door swung to behind him. He was back in next to no time.

  “I’ve interrogated all the assistants, Inspector. One and another tells me that all the family, except Mr. Gerald and Mr. Henry, have picked up the tins from time to time. There’s always one or another of the Worths in here for something and it’s understood that when glucose stocks arrive, we send one to Miss Rickson … or rather, did send one, I should say. She was a bit feeble and couldn’t come herself, so whoever of the family was in about the time, we’d ask them kindly to take the parcel. Except, of course, Mr. Henry or Mr. Gerald. We couldn’t trouble them. Or Bancroft, when he was in. He didn’t like being troubled, either. He wouldn’t.”

  From which Littlejohn gathered that the two fat men were not on the best of terms. He would have liked to see them antagonistically swimming round each other like angry goldfish in an aquarium.

  “And lastly, Mr. Pickthorne, just another query. You’ll have seen that Miss Rickson’s inquest was adjourned, but that the cause of her death was found to be veronal … an overdose. Have you at any time supplied veronal to the Hall?”

  “Oh, yes. I can’t say when without looking it up, but Mr. Henry himself recently had a supply on Dr. Watterson’s orders. He couldn’t sleep, I believe. These are worrying times for business-men, aren’t they? And then there’s the Count, too. Dr. Firebrace has prescribed veronal for him.…”

  “In fair quantities, sir?”

  “As a rule, they get a dozen tablets, but in Mr. Henry’s case, there were two dozen.…”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Pickthorne. Sorry to take up your time.”

  “Don’t mention it, Inspector. It’s a pleasure, I’m sure.… Gooooood afternoon.”

  He was back in the shop, hard at it, before the main door closed on Littlejohn. Kowtowing furiously to a lady customer with a loud voice and off-hand manner, he produced from beneath the counter a large package and with grave gestures indicated that the transaction was secret and a special favour.

  “Ah, they have arrived … I’ll take another three,” boomed the noisy woman, and although the closing door cut off Littlejohn from all that followed, his last view of the shop was of all the women there assembled gathering round Mr. Pickthorne and customer with angry looks and pugnacious gestures.

  CHAPTER XV

  THE GIRL WITH RED HAIR

  DR. FIREBRACE, Count Châteaulœuf’s medical man, was a tumbledown specimen but extremely competent. The curly grey hair which receded from a fine forehead bestrewed the collar of his jacket liberally with dandruff and the doctor was too occupied with his own devices to bother to brush it off. His dark, heavy lidded eyes gazed drearily through thick, dusty spectacles over the top of which he regarded anything which interested him. His tall flabby figure rippled in his shabby suit as he walked, and from his thick lips there dangled eternally a cigarette which added its share to the untidy stains on his coat and trousers. He was the cleverest man in Trentbridge by a long chalk. Other doctors consulted him whenever they were fast in a case and his own patients received first class treatment and bills only when Mrs. Firebrace was short of money. She was as bad as her husband. A perfect old ragbag interested in a drove of dogs and cats and, some said, in the bottle.

  The doctor himself did not drink. His dozy, lackadaisical manner was due to lack of sleep. He was an eminent astronomer and spent most nights sitting on his roof watching the stars through an out-of-date telescope to which he had added his own improvements.

  “Yes, Châteaulœuf’s an epileptic, but who’s told you? I thought he kept it dark,” said Firebrace after Littlejohn had introduced himself and stated his business. The Inspector had found the doctor in his shirt sleeves washing up dishes in the kitchen. They could never keep a maid for long and were suffering at the moment from lack of one. Mrs. Firebrace was in London at a dog show; the doctor had used up all the clean dishes and was hungry.

  “I was told at the Hall yesterday, doctor,” said Littlejohn, side-stepping the inquiry.

  “What good is it going to do you to know it?” went on Firebrace. “He’s not a homicidal maniac, you know. Quite sane. An object of pity, really. A fool to himself.…”

  The front door bell rang.

  “Excuse me,” said the harassed man, slipped on his jacket and went to answer it himself. He could be heard in confabulation with somebody who wanted him to call somewhere on his next round of visits.

  They resumed their talk when the matter had been settled.

  “You were called in to the Count on the night of Mr. Henry’s death, I understand, sir?”

  “Let me see … Henry … Henry.… Oh, the one who was gassed …! Yes, yes … yes, I was called in to the Count. He’d had another fit. Yes.”

  The doctor looked over his glasses and beamed at his visitor as though highly gratified at his feat of memory.

  “Do you remember the time, sir?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I’d finished the surgery and was on the roof with my telescope.… I’m working on a law concerning the movements of the satellites of Saturn, Inspector. Now … if to five times the movement of the first satellite you add that of the third, and four times that of the fourth, the whole will equal ten times the movement of the second.…”

  “Any bread to-day?”

  A Mongolian-looking youth thrust a cheeky head round the kitchen door and the doctor had to do a deal with him before returning to his visitor.

  “Where were we?”

  “The time you were called in to attend to the Count, sir?”

  “Oh yes. I don’t take much heed of time … except solar and stellar.… But that night at ten thirty-seven, four minutes before I had a most important measurement to make, there was an urgent call from the Hall. Yes, an urgent call.… The Count had had an attack. I hurried off.…”

  “You’d be there about a quarter to eleven, then, doctor?”

  “Thereabouts. It took about an hour to get him settled. Then, we got him to bed and I was mixing him some medicine in the bathroom and his wife had gone for a g
lass … and if the fellow didn’t get up and wander off somewhere.…”

  “At nearly midnight?”

  “Oh, about eleven forty-five.… I remember we found one of the french windows open and went out in the grounds after him.… I looked regretfully at my setting planets as I went out and judged it nearly midnight. Yes … took us half an hour to find him. He was sitting quietly in the summer house. Said a passion for fresh air came over him. Actually, he’d been drinking and had sneaked off with a bottle of whisky.…”

  “So, he was out of everybody’s sight for about half an hour, during which time Mr. Henry was being killed at the works?”

  “Yes, Inspector. What of it?”

  The old doctor blinked absently and lit a cigarette from the stump of an old one, which he threw through the open window into the street.

  “Doesn’t it strike you, sir …?”

  Dr. Firebrace suddenly reared his head.

  “Oh dear me, Inspector. Never in this world. You mean the Count went all the way to Worth’s Foundry and killed Henry.… No. Not on your life. In the first place, he was so exhausted after his attack, that it puzzled me how he mustered energy to dodge us and get outside. His lust for alcohol gave him strength, I suppose. You can take it from me, he’d never have reached the foundry, although it’s not very far from the Hall. Take that as expert opinion, Inspector, and put it right out of your head.”

  The pronouncement was made with such conviction that Littlejohn accepted it.

  Meanwhile, the doctor had produced a piece of cold pork pie, bread, butter, pickles and a bottle of beer and was clearing a corner of the dining table of its load of books and papers. The front door bell rang again.

  This time it was a pupil of the council school round the corner. Somebody had fallen in the school yard and it looked as if he had broken something. Could the doctor …?

  “Did you ever prescribe veronal for the Count, sir?” Littlejohn managed to ask in the ensuing confusion.

  “Frequently, Inspector. His wife had a supply for use during the nervously agitated times which preceded and followed attacks.”