Die All, Die Merrily

by Bruce, Leo

  “I’m a solicitor,” said Bourne, and again showed that swift smile which had nothing like mirth in it.

  “I’ve told you what they said to that.”

  “Not what your brother said.”

  “Keith didn’t speak, I think. He was pretty shaken. He’d always seen a lot of Richard—more than of me. They had more in common, I suppose. But when he got me alone he asked rather childishly as if I should know everything, ‘ Could he have, Alan? Killed someone, I mean? ‘”

  “What did you say to that? “asked Carolus.

  “Nothing very comforting. I didn’t feel like comforting anybody. ‘I shouldn’t have thought so’, or something of the sort. You know, Deene, when a thing like this happens in a reasonably united, reasonably happy family like ours no one is very adequate to cope with it. My aunt’s a strong-minded woman …”

  “Is she?”

  “Well, a determined woman, but she was as much at a loss as any of us. Quite apart from grief.”

  Carolus stood up.

  “Now I should like to hear that recording,” he said.

  3

  ALAN BOURNE rose.

  “You’ll have to come to my aunt’s flat for that.”

  “I see. I thought it was here, since you asked me to this address.”

  ’No. I presumed you would want to see this place. Where the shot went and so on.”

  “The police do that sort of thing far better than I could. Ballistics and finger-print experts. They know by now exactly where the pistol was when it was fired. Didn’t anyone hear it, by the way?”

  “Yes. Two lots of flat-dwellers, I understand, but they’re rather vague about it. I should have thought a shot fired in a building like this would have caused a sensation.”

  “No,” said Carolus. “It doesn’t, oddly enough. I’ve had this situation before. People hear a bang and say afterwards they thought it was a car back-firing or something. One is lucky if they have any idea of the time.”

  “Both these families had their television sets on, I gather. The walls of this building are pretty solid. Mrs Tuck, who stayed here most of the day, tells me they’ve narrowed the time down to between ten-thirty and eleven last night, but can’t be more accurate than that. So you don’t want to see anything here?”

  Carolus hesitated.

  “What about the tape-recorder? Did it belong to Richard Hoysden? ”

  “It came out of stock, we suppose. He sold them in the shop, but none of us had seen one in his flat before.”

  “I should just like to know where you found it.”

  They went to the bedroom. Carolus scarcely looked at the splintered wood at the head of the double bed, but Bourne moved a small table.

  “This is exactly where it was,” he said. “Within reach of someone lying in bed. The pistol was there on the floor.”

  “You say that apparently Hoysden had been sitting up in bed? ”

  “That’s what it looked like.”

  “Suicides are unaccountable, anyway,” said Carolus. “There simply are no rules of likelihood. One will stand or walk even as he swallows something that means almost instantaneous death. Another, like your cousin, takes it easy. I see nothing in the position of things here inconsistent with a carefully planned suicide. The only unusual thing about it is that instead of writing the usual note, Richard Hoysden left his last words and confession on a tape-recorder. Even that’s not unprecedented.”

  They left the flat without more discussion and stood for a moment in the entrance hall of the block.

  “Might as well go on foot,” said Bourne. “It’s only about seven minutes. Or I’ll come in your car to show you.”

  They decided to walk. It was nearly eleven o’clock before they reached the building of which Lady Drumbone had reserved the top floor. They passed among the wonders of concrete and neon lighting, noting the municipal offices which had the glassy sheen of the Crystal Palace and the stark shape of something conceived by Corbusier in a cubistic nightmare. They passed two splendid supermarkets, a pub which looked like a Swiss hospital and a church which looked like a prison, all arrogantly self-conscious buildings in ferro-concrete. Highest of all was Drumbone House, and when Bourne set the lift in motion it was so swift that Carolus felt as though the inside of his stomach had been left at ground level.

  It was Keith Bourne, evidently, who opened the door, a rather handsome youth in a loose-lipped way, with too much brilliant gold hair.

  Alan Bourne introduced them.

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” said Keith, and invited them to sit down in the entrance hall which seemed to be the main room of the house. Was it, Carolus wondered, called the lounge? Probably. It was comfortably furnished with cream-coloured armchairs on a rich green carpet. Flowers were arranged in towering tableaux which recalled Constance Spry. There were no pictures on the walls.

  “My aunt will be with us in a moment,” said Keith. Carolus noticed that both he and his brother spoke of ‘my aunt’, never using her first name. “She has someone with her at the moment.”

  Alan Bourne said “Who? “rather sharply.

  “Only a Case,” said Keith. “From Aldershot, I believe.”

  “Oh, God! “said Alan Bourne.

  Just then a door opened and there emerged a woman as stately as an Edwardian barmaid. She was followed by a pale rather limp young man.

  As they all rose, Lady Drumbone acknowledged them graciously, but before allowing Carolus to be introduced she said: “Alan, show Mr Pitchcock to the lift.”

  Keith was about to speak, but Lady Drumbone—and no one could do it better—discouraged him with a glance. She wanted Carolus to be formally introduced by Alan.

  This, in due course, was done.

  “A dreadful case! “said Lady Drumbone. It took Carolus a moment to realize that she was referring not to her nephew’s suicide but to the details recently given her by the young man who had left. “A soldier, a volunteer, treated in the most bestial manner. I shall certainly raise it in the House. On the pretence that he did not wash, a number of men divested him of all his clothing in a public barrack-room. All his clothing. Imagine the humiliation! They then took him to the wash-rooms and most brutally scrubbed his body with hard-bristled brooms.”

  “Brooms?” Carolus could not resist asking.

  “Yes. Their excuse was that they would not approach nearer till he was clean. He suffered agonies. Agonies! But the most serious aspect of the matter was revealed the following day. When it was reported to the man’s commanding officer, he laughedl It is scarcely credible in a civilized age. As soon as I have dealt with the Belsens of the Bahamas, I shall raise this hideous affair.” She turned to Carolus. “Mr Deene, I am pleased that you are with us. Let us go to the patio! ”

  The ‘patio’ was a roof-garden with a fountain over concealed lighting and wrought-iron furniture.

  “I do not drink,” announced Lady Drumbone. “But you will doubtless wish to do so. Keith, please give Mr Deene what he wants.”

  Carolus noticed that the offer was not made to her nephews and this caused no surprise. However, Keith brought him an intelligently measured whisky-and-soda.

  “You have heard the details of Our Tragedy? ”

  “I have heard about your nephew’s suicide. How do you account for it? ”

  “There is surely only one way of accounting for it. His mind was temporarily deranged.”

  “You think he only imagined he had killed someone? ”

  “That, Mr Deene, is for you to discover. It would be the most welcome solution in the circumstances, and I think a probable one. If my nephew Richard was insane enough to shoot himself, he was insane enough to believe in a wholly illusory murder.”

  “I see your point,” said Carolus. He did. If Richard resembled his aunt he might have made himself believe anything. “I have not yet heard his recorded confession,” said Carolus. “Was there anything in it to indicate when he had committed the murder, real or illusory? ”

&nbs
p; “Oh, yes. He says ‘I have just killed her’, or something tantamount to that.”

  “I see. And the shot was heard about half-past ten. When was he last seen? ”

  Alan Bourne answered this.

  “So far as we have been able to discover, when he left his shop at nearly seven. You will hear all that from his assistants.”

  “Yes, indeed. But supposing that we have no further information, we can allow him three hours or so for his murder. Had he a car? ”

  “Yes. A Rover.”

  “Do we know whether he used it that evening? ”

  “Not yet. You will probably be able to find out.”

  “I’m indulging in supposition,” admitted Carolus. “Suppose your cousin’s confession is to be accepted. Suppose when he dictated it he had ‘just’, as he said, killed someone. Suppose he used his car. We have an area within a radius of say thirty miles of Maresfield in which the murder took place. Possibly a little more but probably less.”

  “These,” said Lady Drumbone, “are as you admit suppositions. The important thing is to establish that no murder has taken place.”

  “That is what you want me to do? ”

  Lady Drumbone evaded this.

  “I want you to investigate, Mr Deene. I understand that you have experience in investigation. I am naturally anxious that there shall be no scandal. I am, as you know, a public figure.”

  “I know that,” he said. “What do you mean by scandal?”‘

  For a moment Lady Drumbone seemed nonplussed. She was sitting very straight but she looked down as though studying the five rings on her clasped fingers. Powerful fingers, Carolus noticed.

  “I mean scandal which could be used against me,” she said. “Unscrupulous people will go to any lengths to vilify if it serves their own ends and gives them publicity. A reputation may be blasted so easily.”

  You should know, thought Carolus, but he said only: “I’m afraid you’re right. But if your nephew did murder someone? ”

  “If he did it was during a fit of insanity. It is most unlikely that his name would be connected with the crime.”

  “And if someone else were accused of it? ”

  Lady Drumbone rose to the occasion, both in fact and figuratively. She stood up and her tall figure was dark against the sky.

  “Let justice be done! “she said loudly, if ambiguously.

  “So long as that is your attitude we can go ahead. The first step will be, of course, to hand this recording to the police.”

  “I warned you of this,” said Alan Bourne to his aunt.

  “To the police!” said Lady Drumbone. “But it is precisely to avoid such a step that I am employing you. I want this matter cleared up without official intervention. My nephew’s last words”—there was a dramatic ring in her voice—“ are surely of concern to us, his family, not to any public body.”

  “Murder, or supposed murder, is very much a public concern. You yourself have frequently made it so. Need I remind you …”

  “You need remind me of nothing, Mr Deene. I have a high sense of public responsibility. Were this a case of tyranny or suppression, such as I have frequently exposed, it would be another matter.”

  “Don’t let’s argue about it. The recording will go to the police tomorrow, or I shall report its existence.”

  “Please don’t address me in that hectoring manner, Mr Deene! “said Lady Drumbone with dignity. But watching her Carolus knew that she was baffled and somewhat afraid.

  “I don’t think you need worry much,” said Carolus. “The police are accustomed to hysterical confessions. They get several from quite innocent people after every crime. Unless they have on their hands an unsolved murder of a woman discovered today they’ll probably put your nephew’s confession down to illusions, as you do. They have murders enough without looking for them. If he did kill someone, on the other hand, they would almost certainly trace it to him, recording or no.”

  There was a sudden interruption from Keith.

  “Richard didn’t kill anyone! “he said. “He couldn’t! ”

  “In that case there can be no reason to suppress this recording. Eight people, at least, know of it already and it can be only a question of time before the police hear that it exists.”

  “Eight people? “asked Alan Bourne.

  “You yourself told Gorringer, Priggley and me. Then there are Lady Drumbone, Mrs Hoysden, Keith Bourne, Mrs Tuck and yourself. I should be surprised if you have kept it from your wife, and I would guess that your sister, Mrs Romary, has heard something of it. In a few days it will be common property, then it would look to the police as though you have been deliberately concealing it.”

  “There may be some small measure of truth in that,” conceded Alan Bourne.

  But Lady Drumbone was not prepared to give in without a struggle.

  “I should be the last person,” she announced, “to countenance the suppression of evidence. I have seen too often the evil that comes from that. The Government suppressed the evidence in that case of the three Icelandic patrol boats which were sunk by a British battleship, their crews left to drown in icebound seas lest their statements should incriminate the commander of the battleship.”

  “How did you know of it? “asked Carolus, fascinated.

  “One rating, Mr Deene, one naval rating in all the battleship’s crew had the conscience to inform me. The Governor of the Gladstone Islands suppressed the evidence when a battalion of the Ross and Cromarty Fusiliers went beserk …”

  “You mean you disapprove of suppressing evidence, Lady Drumbone? “cut in Carolus.

  “On matters of public interest, certainly. But the sanctity of family life …”

  “Perhaps we could hear this recording now? ”

  “I am not accustomed to being interrupted, Mr Deene.”

  “Not?”

  “Certainly not in my own home. But since my nephew has, foolishly, I begin to consider, brought you into this matter, you shall hear the recording. Keith! ”

  “I’m not going to listen to it again! “cried Keith.

  “You have not been asked to listen to it. But kindly … er … play … insert … put the thing in rotation. We will return to the lounge for it. And please close the doors.”

  Before producing the tape-recorder, however, Keith refilled Carolus’s glass. Then, leaving the tape-recorder open on a table, he walked quickly from the room.

  Alan Bourne crossed to it.

  “My brother is highly-strung,” he explained. “He was devoted to Richard and this thing is very disturbing, as you will hear.”

  Carolus glanced at Lady Drumbone, once again upright in her chair, her face expressionless. The words began somewhat abruptly.

  “Oh, I killed her all right. She is quite, quite dead. With a silk cord no more than a yard long I killed her and left its tassels on her shoulders like a pair of epaulettes. She never had a chance to make a sound, and if she had there was no one to hear her. But it did not matter, for I had drawn it tight before she could open her mouth. She had not time to get hold of it. Her hands came up but it was almost convulsively. A single choking cough and she could breathe no more. I had done what I meant to do.”

  There was a pause here, but no one spoke. When the voice resumed it was a little slower, a little weary it seemed.

  “Why did I do it? Hate and love are always so damnably intermixed. I loved her, yes, but I hated her, too. I wanted to be free—as I could never be while she was alive. Yet within an hour of killing her I wanted to be under her spell again. Spell or domination? I wanted to be with her. And I’m going to be. Why I did it and why I meant to do it are different things. As I planned it all, it would give me what I wanted. But when I came to carry it out, I did not think of that. Hate and love, you see.

  “When will they find her, I wonder? Tonight? Tomorrow? They may find me first and wonder. But they will find her later and understand. She will still be there. White on the green ground.

  “When I think tha
t I have just come from her, that an hour ago she was alive … but I won’t think of that. I know what I’m going to do now.

  “‘Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men’, I thought when I came to her.’ She’s like a liar gone to burning hell’. ‘’Twas I that killed her’. I said that as I came away and it was true.

  “Yes, I had my reasons and planned it with care. I should never be suspected, I said. I was right there, too. No one saw me. No one would ever connect me with it. It was neatly done. But I did not foresee this. Remorse? No, it isn’t remorse. I don’t want to go on living, though. Surely that will be understood by everyone. I don’t want to live while the investigation follows her death, and someone else is suspected.

  “Lucky I’ve got this little revolver. A souvenir. With plenty of ammunition, though I shall only need one shot. It’s quite sure; no chance of bungling. Under the chin—like this—and through the brain.”

  There was another long pause, the same voice could be heard saying “Hell! “then the shot.

  Alan Bourne rose and was making for the tape-recorder.

  “No,” said Carolus, who was listening intently, “let it finish.”

  They waited while the tape ran through but there seemed to be no other sound. It took some considerable time.

  “Did you hear anything? “asked Bourne.

  “No. Did you? ”

  “Not a sound.”

  “There was not a sound,” said Carolus. “Not a movement, not a flapping blind or the mew of a cat. It does not seem natural for a flat to have been in such silence.”

  He looked about him.

  “Let’s listen here, for instance.”

  They were motionless. Just audible was the ticking of a large clock and from far away the noise of a car starting up in the street below. Somewhere, lower in the block, a piano was being played.

  “You see? There is scarcely ever silence.”

  4

  LADY DRUMBONE asked a question and Carolus knew what it felt like to be a Minister of the Crown when she rose.

  “Have you learnt anything from that? ”