Brenda Dance was a fausse maigre. Clothed, as she was at the moment, in a dark winter dress, long-sleeved and high at the neck, she gave an impression of slenderness, and such was her charm that the Superintendent, a staid man, had to remind himself hastily of who and what he was, and why she was in his presence. He blushed, and his voice came harshly. Mrs Dance, accustomed to the effect she had on many men, smiled sadly, and extended a shapely foot towards the fire.
‘Quite good weather for the time of year,’ she remarked.
‘Going to snow,’ said Collins, recovering, beaming at her, and nodding to the sergeant to take down what she said. ‘Now, madam, I’m hoping you can help me over this miserable business. I take it I may anticipate that you will answer a few questions?’
‘Certainly.’ Mrs Dance smothered a tiny, cat-like yawn, and smiled at the Superintendent. Her dark-brown hair, artlessly dressed by a genius (herself, very likely, thought Collins), was that of a well-cared-for child. It lay on her forehead like silk and curled round about her small ears and the nape of her neck. Her wide-set eyes were as innocent as those of a very young boy, but there was nothing but primitive passion in the flare of her nostrils, her firm, red, quick-tempered mouth, her wilful chin and the curve of the cheek which she turned towards her interlocutor. She was not beautiful, in the literal sense of the word, but Collins had never before been confronted by such a mixture of gamine devilment and charm. Moreover (if he summed up Mrs Dance correctly), if Mrs Dance had decided to murder Miss Campbell, nothing, he was convinced, would have come between Miss Campbell and her fate. Incidentally, he reflected, nothing had.
‘There is just one thing,’ he said. ‘What is all this about a dog?’
‘A dog? Oh, the Hound of the Baskervilles! I know nothing about it, Superintendent. I fled. We all fled except Miss Menzies and Mrs Bradley. It was as good an example of crowd-panic as I’ve seen since a bull got loose in Crendon High Street on cattle-market day.’
‘Do you know how the dog came to be on the premises that night?’
‘I’ve no idea. I knew that Sir Bohun had a surprise for us all, so I imagine he brought the dog here. He is very transparent, and during dinner he hinted, rather childishly, that there were to be two competitions during the course of the evening. We knew we were to be given pencils and paper to record our impressions of the characters or something – I’m no good at all at party games, particularly if it involves writing anything down – I couldn’t possibly care less who’s who and what’s what – but then he indicated something more. I suppose it was the dog he had in mind.’
‘But I understood that the appearance of the dog surprised him as much as it did his guests.’
‘He ran away. We all did, I tell you, except that terrifying Mrs Bradley and her secretary, but Sir Bohun would do that sort of thing for the fun of it and to keep up the joke. Fly with the rest of us, I mean. He’s terribly little-boy, you know.’
‘I see. It doesn’t seem as though the dog was very important. Did you leave the house that night for any reason, Mrs Dance?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh? At what time?’
‘At about one o’clock in the morning, I believe – or it may have been rather earlier. I didn’t notice.’
‘Alone?’
‘Well, I was alone when I left the house, but I was joined by Mr Mildren.’
‘Where?’
‘In the garage.’
‘You went for a drive in that fog?’
‘No, of course not, but we had to be careful.’
‘Indeed? Oh, I see.’
Mrs Dance smiled tolerantly.
‘I’m sure you do,’ she said. ‘It was our own business. We then went to the Dower House, where we’d lighted the fire. It was a previous arrangement, and I can’t see that it had anything to do with Linda Campbell.’
‘Of course not. No, no. At what time did you return to the house?’
‘At three. And, if it’s of any help, I can tell you that by that time the fog had lifted.’
‘But was not the house locked up?’
‘Yes, but a maid let us in. She had her orders.’
‘What do you know about the dog that was kept on the station?’
‘Nothing. Was there one? I never travel by train if I can help it.’
‘Mrs Dance, can you tell me whether Miss Godley is under the influence of anybody here?’
‘Little Celia? What a question! I am the last person Celia would confide in. What exactly do you mean?’
‘Only what I say, Mrs Dance. Ladies usually get to know one another’s little secrets.’
‘Yes, but I’m not interested in Celia Godley. I don’t care how many little secrets she keeps from me. All I ask is that other people don’t interfere in my affairs.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Dance. Then it is of no use to ask you whether Miss Campbell had any enemies.’
‘Enemies?’ Mrs Dance looked thoughtful. Collins had a sudden, complete, delightful picture of her at the age of six, innocence, devilment and all. ‘I should say she had quite a few. Poor old Manoel hated her, for one. She was trying to hook Sir Bohun, and Manoel couldn’t stand that. Manoel, you know, is his son.’
‘Illegitimate, though, I believe. I have heard something of the kind from various sources. Sir Bohun does not seem to hide the fact. How do they get on together?’
‘Manoel stands a pretty good chance of inheriting the property, if Sir Bohun does not marry again and alter his will. At least, that’s what Manoel thinks. He told me so. But – get on together, I don’t really think they do.’
‘And Miss Campbell, only a very short time before her death, had become engaged to Sir Bohun. Yes, it supplies a motive. Besides, Manoel seems to have asked Mrs Bradley to tell him how to commit murder without being found out!’
‘I should call that a point in his favour. Nobody would be such a moron as to ask a thing like that if he really contemplated doing it.’
‘It would seem like that, but some criminals are incurably childish, Mrs Dance. I could cite you no end of examples.’
‘Some other time,’ said the siren, getting up. ‘You don’t want me any longer, do you?’
‘Where were you at the time of Miss Campbell’s death?’ asked Collins suddenly.
‘They said at the inquest that she died at between three and five in the evening, didn’t they? Well, I suppose I was resting or waiting for tea, but I can’t bring any witnesses to prove it. I hope you don’t think I killed Linda Campbell?’ Her eyes were wide open and unafraid, and her mouth was incredulous and amused.
‘I have to keep an open mind, madam.’ He went to the door, and opened it with a flourish. Mrs Dance remained where she was.
‘Whoever did it was no psychologist,’ she said. Collins closed the door quietly and came back to his chair.
‘What do you mean, Mrs Dance?’ he enquired, nodding to the sergeant again.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied the mistress of the situation coolly. ‘As somebody else is almost certain to give it you as a rumour, I might as well give it you as a fact. Sir Bohun did not intend to marry Linda. When she disappeared the last time and did not come back (because she was dead, of course – he knows that now) he was most thankful to make it an excuse to break the engagement.’
‘But why? Had he changed his mind so very soon? That was hardly fair treatment for the girl.’
‘It wasn’t, was it? I don’t know to what extent he had changed his mind, but I do know that something had turned up to make him realize that marriage with Linda was an impossibility.’
‘Really? What was that?’
‘Who, not what, Superintendent.’ Her eyes danced, her curved lips were provocative. ‘But who turned up is nothing to do with the enquiry.’
‘That is for me to judge, madam. Come, now, Mrs Dance, please don’t hold out on me. This is a grim business, and, so far, we have very little to go on. A handful of suspects, including, of course, yourself – ’
‘Y
ou will have a long job proving that I killed poor Linda because I wanted Sir Bohun for myself! I wouldn’t have dear old Boo if he was the only man left alive!’
‘You exaggerate, I am sure,’ said Collins. ‘Will you answer my question, Mrs Dance?’
‘Yes,’ said the siren, nodding. ‘I think I will. He had reason to suppose – or so he told me – that Linda Campbell was already married – or, if not exactly married, well, that there was very much somebody else!’
‘Can you enlarge on that, madam?’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. And how he found it out – supposing it were true – I don’t know. He was just a little bit’ – she sketched a gesture – ‘at the time, so I didn’t take very much notice. But there it is, for what it’s worth.’
‘And when did you learn of this, Mrs Dance?’
‘At the Sherlock Holmes party.’
‘But he offered her marriage after the party – some little time after.’
‘I know. I’m only telling you – ’
‘Quite so, madam. Thank you very much. Is there anything more you can add?’
‘Unfortunately not. I wish there were. It has been a most enjoyable conversation.’
‘Hm!’ said Collins when she had gone. ‘What do you make of her, Sergeant?’
‘Femme incomprise,’ said the sergeant. ‘The Greeks had a word for it, sir. I wouldn’t put anything past her.’
‘Oh, I would,’ retorted Collins. ‘I’d put murder past her, for one thing. She can get her own way without anything crude, my dear chap.’
‘It depends what you mean by crude,’ said the sergeant, who enjoyed a debate. ‘And, another thing, sir. I’ve been routing round among the servants, as you told me to, and there’s one bit of her story which isn’t true.’
‘Eh? Which bit?’ Collins sat up.
‘The bit about necking with Mr Mildren, sir.’
‘We shall have to get in touch with that bird, I suppose. But go on. What about him.’
‘Only that it couldn’t have been Mildren she went to the car and the Dower House with, sir. According to the servants, he was put to bed dead drunk long before she says she left the house. I’ve been tipped to get Chief Detective-Inspector Gavin to confirm it. He helped to put him to bed!’
‘Who was it, then, that she went out with that foggy night?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, sir. It certainly wasn’t Mildren.’
‘I wonder why she should lie about it? We’ll find out later, I expect. I’ll ask whether Gavin will confirm that Mildren was put to bed drunk.’
CHAPTER 14
THE MYSTERY OF JANE EYRE
‘Her father he makes cabbage nets,
And through the streets does cry ’em;
Her mother she sells laces long
To such as please to buy ’em.’
HENRY CAREY – Sally in Our Alley
*
OVER THE TELEPHONE from his office at New Scotland Yard, Gavin did confirm it. Nobody, he asserted, could have roused Mildren from bed and gone out with him to a car or to the Dower House, or anywhere else, once he had been put to bed at the Sherlock Holmes party.
‘He was as clean out as ever I’ve seen a man,’ he told Collins. ‘Our charming Mrs Dance is lying.’
‘Then that particular lie will bear investigation,’ said Collins. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Gavin. I’m much obliged. I’ve a hunch that Mrs Dance had her own reasons for wishing Miss Campbell out of the way, but that’s by the way, of course. It doesn’t mean we suspect her of the murder.’
Gavin laughed. The only reason Mrs Dance could have had for telling that particular lie, he reflected, was that she did not want anybody to know who her partner in the car and in the Dower House had been.
‘My guess, for what it’s worth, is that she was with Manoel Lupez,’ he said.
‘Why couldn’t she say so, then?’ demanded Collins. ‘It doesn’t matter to us!’
‘It might matter to Manoel.’
‘Oh, I see. Queer his pitch with Sir Bohun, you mean? But Sir Bohun isn’t sweet on the lady.’
‘How do we know? Besides, she’s on the verge of divorce. Sir Bohun may be prudish. After all, Manoel is his son.’
‘Where does Sir Bohun get off, querying other people’s morals?’ grumbled Collins. ‘Still, what these people did on the night of the Sherlock Holmes party doesn’t, probably, have any bearing whatever upon Miss Campbell’s death. I wish, Mr Gavin, that you’d allow me to ask to have you join us. You’ve had considerable experience of these cases, and ours is pretty limited. Our first job is to contact any relatives. I thought somebody would be bound to turn up for the inquest, but nobody did. I suppose Sir Bohun has an address of the deceased before she entered his employment? – her private address, I mean.’
‘I’ll ask him,’ said Gavin at once. ‘I’d like to be in on this case. It interests me. I’ve already had a word in private at the Yard. You’ve only got to phone them. I’d enjoy doing it, and I shouldn’t be treading on anybody’s corns. I can put you through now, if you like.’
On the following day he came down with his chief’s official blessing and made it his first job to see Sir Bohun. Not altogether to his astonishment, Sir Bohun turned extremely obstinate.
‘Why should I give away Linda’s previous address?’ he wanted to know. ‘Don’t like this idea of ferreting out the poor girl’s past. None of us has lived a blameless life; we’ve all got skeletons in cupboards; besides, an Englishman’s home is his castle. You can’t go poking your nose into the business of a lot of innocent people just because an unfortunate, very silly girl is murdered.’
‘If I don’t do it, Superintendent Collins will,’ Gavin pointed out. ‘And, as he says himself, I’ve had a great deal more experience in these matters than he has. It would help him a great deal if he could fill in the background a bit. Don’t you realize, Sir Bohun, that unless suspicion fastens upon some outsider, things may be made very embarrassing – not to say dangerous – for one of your own household? There is Grimston, who dreamt of the murder; there is your niece, Miss Godley, who appears to have been involved in some queer do or other and to have visited the deserted railway station where the body has been found; there is even yourself, who are known to have been in a considerable hurry to terminate your engagement to Miss Campbell – ’
Sir Bohun, grimacing wildly, gibbered at him to be quiet. Then he rummaged in a drawer and flung a letter at Gavin. It was headed:
C/o Mrs Tregidder, Camborne, Cheesebury, and was signed with Linda Campbell’s name.
‘Thanks,’ said Gavin, pocketing the letter, which was Linda Campbell’s acceptance of the post of governess to Timothy. ‘I’ll get along down there at once.’
Mrs Tregidder’s residence turned out to be an old-fashioned house built on to a disused windmill. Gavin’s first thought about it was that it must be a paradise for children, and this theory was borne out by the sight of three of them, two girls and a boy, playing in and out of a thick grove of laurel trees which bordered an unkempt lawn. He greeted them cheerfully, and asked whether their mother was in.
‘She isn’t our mother,’ the boy informed him. ‘We only play here.’
‘We play here because Judith died,’ added the older of the girls.
‘Judith?’
‘Judith Tregidder. She died. Miss Campbell did it, but we mustn’t talk about that.’
‘I see. She must have died after Miss Campbell left, though, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, she did, only Miss Campbell let her catch an illness. She took her to a place where someone had it.’
‘It was polio,’ said the boy. All three children looked at him impatiently. They wanted to get on with their game.
‘Is Mrs Tregidder in?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, she’s in, but it isn’t tea-time yet. They’re still sewing.’
‘Who are?’
‘The people who come Tuesdays and Thursdays. They make things for bazaars to help polio.
’
Gavin groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was gossip about himself from a mothers’ meeting. However, he had come a long way and he wanted to get back that same evening. He doubted whether Mrs Tregidder would be able to tell him much, and he did not want to waste a day.
‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I wonder whether one of you would do something for me?’ He looked hopefully at the older girl. ‘I want to speak to Mrs Tregidder rather particularly. Will you take my card in to her?’
‘We’re not allowed in there,’ said the boy. ‘I’ll take it, though, if you like. I’m not afraid of her tempers. She threw a knife at me once, but I didn’t care. She was sorry afterwards, and gave me a shilling not to tell anybody.’
‘But you’ve just told me!’
‘Yes. I’ve told plenty of people. A shilling isn’t enough to shut your mouth for. Nobody buys me cheap!’
‘I think, after all, I’ll go myself, then,’ said Gavin, putting back into his pocket the shilling he had just taken out of it. The three children gazed after him and a stone from the unweeded gravel path flicked him between the shoulder-blades. ‘All right, my lad. I’ll see you when I come out again,’ he thought grimly, as he stepped into the porch and rang the bell.
A man answered the door.
‘Mr Tregidder?’ Gavin enquired; and, when the man had nodded, he went on: ‘I am a police officer, and I have called to make a routine enquiry respecting a young woman who was employed here a short time ago, a certain Miss Linda Campbell.’
‘Come in,’ said Tregidder. ‘I hope you won’t need to trouble my wife. She took our little girl’s death very hard. She’s not got over it yet, and won’t, I’m afraid, for some time.’
‘I’m very sorry.’ Gavin followed Tregidder into what was apparently the dining-room. There was no fire, but the master of the house switched on an electric heater and invited the guest to sit down. ‘I won’t keep you longer than I can help. How long was Miss Campbell employed here?’
‘Six or seven months, I believe. She came in the October and left in the following May.’
‘Did she give notice, or was she dismissed?’
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