by Bruce, Leo
“A great deal. Look, Bourne, I know it’s late, but if you’re going to hand that thing in tomorrow morning we must get hold of a shorthand typist tonight to take it down. Is that possible? ”
“It’s well past midnight.”
“I know, but this is essential. It must be someone meticulously accurate and also trustworthy.”
“There is only one possibility and I doubt if she will leave her home tonight. She has probably been in bed for three hours.”
“Telephone? ”
“Yes, but I hardly like …”
Lady Drumbone settled the matter.
“Better phone her, Alan, since you have introduced Mr Deene.”
The clause seemed hardly consecutive, but it brought Bourne to a decision. He dialled a number. There was a pause of nearly two minutes before he was answered.
“Miss Tripper? Oh, this is Mr Bourne. I am sorry to trouble you at this late hour, but a matter has arisen of the utmost urgency. Yes. We need something to be taken down in shorthand from a tape-recorder. No, tomorrow would be too late, I’m afraid.”
Bourne listened, then putting his hand over the mouthpiece said: “She says she’s in her night attire.”
“Tell her to come just as she is,” said Carolus hurriedly.
“If you would be so good as to dress we would send a car for you in ten minutes. Well, a quarter of an hour, then. No, no, no, I’m at Lady Drumbone’s flat. Of course she is here and will be present. My brother will come for you. Yes, yes. No, no. He will indeed. No, not on any account. But no one will see you. They can’t be, at this time of night. I’m sure they wouldn’t think anything of the sort. Not about you, Miss Tripper. No, indeed. Yes, certainly. I give you my assurance, yes. Of course not. Thank you. In fifteen minutes’ time then. What? Yes, I’ll tell him. No, he knows it’s an urgent matter. Right. Fifteen minutes …”
“Put the receiver down,” said Carolus, exasperated, and Bourne did so and left them for a moment presumably to send Keith with the car for Miss Tripper.
“I am still waiting to hear,” said Lady Drumbone as a supplementary to her first question, “what you learned from that recording.”
“A lot. I find this a most interesting case.” He turned to Bourne as he re-entered. “But I am surprised at your saying your cousin had given details.”
“Well, didn’t he?”
“He gave, unwittingly I think, a great deal of information, but no details at all. He does not say whether his victim was young or old, tall or short, blonde or dark, in fact he says, directly, nothing about her at all except that he loved and hated her.”
“At least from that we know she wasn’t a stranger to him? ”
“Do we? A man in his state of mind could believe that he loved and hated someone known only an hour. Then of the scene of the murder he does not say whether it was near or far, indoors or out …”
“He says ‘white on the green ground’. That’s a pretty strong indication.”
“He gives no precise time, and as for motive he only says that he planned it with one object and carried it out with another, or words to that effect. He does not say whether he used his car or whether he left the body at the scene of the murder or moved it. He says nothing of the woman’s face or dress.”
“But he tells us what he used.”
“That might be sheer hysterical rhetoric—‘a silk cord no more than a yard long’.”
“With tassels.”
“Yes, but he was babbling like Othello whom he later quoted. I don’t say there is no information in the thing. There is a great deal. But hardly ‘details’.”
“You are satisfied though, Mr Deene,” said Lady Drum-bone in a second supplementary, “you are satisfied that there was a murder? I hoped you might feel as we do that it was an illusion.”
“That was no illusion, Lady Drumbone. There was a murder, all right.”
“And you intend to discover the details? ”
“I do. Now let us again go on mere supposition. If Richard was going to take someone to a place with this object …”
“This is very painful to me, Mr Deene.”
“I’m sorry. Can either of you suggest anywhere? ”
Keith passed through the room on his way to the front door, but did not hesitate. It was Lady Drumbone who answered.
“If I make a suggestion it must not be thought that I agree with your premise that Richard committed murder. But on principle I shall answer your questions as fully as possible. There is such a place.”
Alan Bourne turned to her. “You mean the bungalow? “he said.
“Precisely. We have a bungalow on the coast some ten miles from here, Mr Deene. At a place called Marling Flats. We all use it from time to time, but nobody has been in occupation recently. It stands quite alone.”
“You all have keys? ”
“Oh, yes. It was like other things among us, a family concern. We are a very united family.”
“May I visit it tomorrow? ”
“Alan, give Mr Deene a key of Windy Hollow.”
Carolus pocketed a heavy key.
“I haven’t really started to draw even the first vague conclusions,” he said, “but there are one or two small things I find rather puzzling at a first glance. One of them is that Richard Hoysden should have undressed, got into pyjamas and gone to bed, all, it seems, in order to shoot himself. I know the behaviour of suicides is often unaccountable, but this does seem particularly odd.”
“Not if you knew Richard,” said Alan Bourne. “He loved his bed. Even in the army, he told me once, he had a reputation for getting his head down. If he wanted to read or listen to music or do a crossword in the evening he would sit up in bed. It was a family joke. We all pulled his leg about it.”
“I see. So you put suicide with reading or listening to music or doing crosswords, and think he would have turned in for it? ”
“He might have acted through habit or instinct.”
“Yes. I suppose so. I shall have to try to trace his movements that evening and I dare say come to you both with a good many questions when I have sorted my ideas. Is Mrs Hoysden still staying here, by the way? ”
Lady Drumbone answered that.
“She is. But I hope you will not wish to ask her questions. She is desperately unhappy and ill in consequence. I have given her a sleeping-tablet this evening.”
“There will be no hurry for that, I think. But I shall have to ask her one or two things eventually.”
They were interrupted by the entrance of Keith and Miss Tripper. Carolus rose but Alan Bourne remained seated as perhaps befitted the secretary’s employer.
Miss Tripper was in her fifties and as neat as a new pin. She looked rather like a new pin, her long, narrow person rising to an inverted flower-pot hat. She seemed to be in a state of some fluster and left most of her sentences unfinished.
“I hardly know …” she said.
“Evening, Miss Tripper,” said Alan in a businesslike manner, to put her at her ease. “Sorry to drag you out like this. Must have been very inconvenient for you.”
“Oh, it’s not so much the inconvenience as …”
“Sunday evening, too. I expect you were asleep.”
“I had retired for the night, but of course …”
“Trouble is, there’s no one else I can trust. You know my aunt. This is Mr Deene. Miss Tripper.”
“How do you … I really don’t … Of course, I’m quite …”
“Yes, yes. Now the thing is this. You will have heard of my poor cousin’s suicide? ”
“Yes, I was so very … It was a terrible …”
“You must know that he did not, as usual, in these cases, leave a letter to explain his action.”
“Oh, dear, it does seem … I knew him by …”
“What he did leave was a tape-recording made in his last moments.”
“Indeed? I hadn’t heard the …”
“This tape-recording must be handed over to the police in the morn
ing.”
“The pol … Oh, my good …”
“Yes, it may be important evidence. But since Mr Deene is also investigating on our behalf we need a copy of the words spoken.”
“A cop … You want me … It is all very bewil …”
“Yes. I know from long experience how accurate and fast you are.”
“Oh, it’s not my accur … I don’t know whether … It seems an intru …”
“Well, try anyway, Miss Tripper. Here is the recording.”
Miss Tripper produced a notebook, and once this was in her hands she became calmer though her sentences still hung in the air.
“I am quite … Please let it beg …” she said.
As the words came from the recorder Miss Tripper’s pencil seemed to have life of its own. Carolus watched its course with amazement. All Miss Tripper’s nervousness had left her now—she was doing the thing for which, it seemed, she had been born. Her face showed no emotion. Perhaps the sense of the words did not enter her mind.
“I shall indicate the shot with an asterisk,” she announced coolly when she had finished.
But when Alan Bourne produced a portable typewriter her confusion returned.
“You want it immed … ? I thought tomor …”
“I should like it now, if you would be so good,” said Carolus.
“Oh, very … I only thought … Lady Drum …” She sat down before the portable. There was a whirr of fingers and Carolus was handed a sheet.
“I trust … no inacc …”
“There is only one,” said Carolus, “but it is a serious one. You have omitted the word ‘Hell’.”
“Oh, reall … I scarce … Lady Drumbone’s neph …”
“It’s all right. I will insert it. Thank you very much, Miss Tripper.”
“Not at… Delight …”
“You will please regard this incident as entirely between yourself and the family, Miss Tripper,” said Alan Bourne. “I know I need not stress that. You have always been discretion itself.”
“Thank you, Mr Bour … Then if I may be excu … I do trust every … So very trag … Good …”
“Good …” said Carolus, but at a glance from Lady Drumbone added “night! ”
When Miss Tripper and Keith had left them Carolus recognized that there was only one thing to do—take leave of Lady Drumbone and drive home. Yet he had an obstinate feeling that he had left something undone. He took time over the last of his whisky as he tried to think what this could be, but at last rose to his feet.
Just as he was about to say goodnight to Lady Drumbone, a woman appeared in the archway which led to the rest of the flat. She was a lustrous creature, brilliant golden-red hair and a white dressing-gown which made her appearance more finished and smart than an evening gown would have done. Her eyes seemed to have a greenish tint but that, thought Carolus, might be the lighting. She carried herself not with the affected dignity of Lady Drumbone but as though conscious of her figure and looks.
“I heard that ghastly recording,” she said accusingly.
“Pippa, this is Mr Deene. Mrs Hoysden.”
She came towards Carolus impulsively.
“I’ve heard about you. I’m glad you’ve come. Richard didn’t kill anyone, you know. Don’t get that idea for a moment. Poor sweet, he hadn’t it in him or he would have killed me.”
“Did he ever try? “asked Carolus steadily.
“Try? What do you mean? ”
She was staring into his eyes and Carolus felt she was asking how much he knew.
“Just that,” he said, trying to make it sound as little insolent as possible.
“He … he wasn’t a violent man. We quarrelled, yes.” Then with sudden resolution—“Of course he never tried.”
Lady Drumbone became very grande dame.
“I particularly asked you not to question Mrs Hoysden, Mr Deene. She is far from well.”
“I’m sorry. Mrs Hoysden, when can I ask you a few questions? ”
“What about?”
“Well, your husband. Your own movements last night. Just a few routine enquiries.”
“I can’t see what I have to do with it. If Richard did kill someone it wasn’t me. That ought to be fairly obvious. Why me? ”
“Because, Mrs Hoysden, I’m trying to get at the truth, and you strike me, if you’ll permit me to say so, as someone who will tell the truth.”
She turned away.
“I’d like a drink,” she said.
“Darling, after that pill I gave you? ”
“That pill doesn’t seem to have had much effect, does it? Alan, please give me a whisky. Did you tell this man I was with you yesterday evening? ”
“Yes. I did.”
“I really think Lady Drumbone is right,” said Carolus. “I shouldn’t bother you with questions now.”
“Come tomorrow,” said Pippa Hoysden over her glass. “I’ll tell you anything I can tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Now I won’t inflict myself on any of you longer. It’s past one. Goodnight, Lady Drumbone. Goodnight, Mrs Hoysden.”
Lady Drumbone bowed silently. Pippa stretched out her hand.
As he was on the way to the door he passed the tall french windows still open to the patio. They had costly curtains of oyster-coloured silk. At these he stopped, for they were held back by ornate silk cords with tassels.
He turned sharply to Lady Drumbone.
“Who was in this flat between seven o’clock and ten on Saturday evening? “he asked.
“To my knowledge, no one.”
“Had Richard a key of the flat? ”
“Certainly. It was his home until a year ago when he married. He kept his key.”
“Were you the first to return that evening? ”
“Yes. No one was here.”
“But had anyone been here? Did you notice whether anything was disarranged? ”
“I did not.”
“How long were you alone, Lady Drumbone? ”
“A short time only. Perhaps twenty minutes. Then Pippa came.”
“Did you know she was coming? ”
“We had no idea.”
“What time did she arrive? ”
“I got here at five-past-eleven,” said Pippa.
“And your nephew Keith? ”
“Soon after that. We all reached here within three-quarters of an hour. Now may I ask why all these questions, Mr Deene? ”
For answer Carolus looked down at the carpet,’ the green ground’ under their feet.
5
WHEN he came down to breakfast next morning in his small Queen Anne house in Newminster, Carolus found no sign of his least-favourite pupil. His housekeeper soon came in with the coffee, however, and explained Priggley’s absence.
Mrs Stick was a small woman who wore old-fashioned steel-rimmed glasses and had, Carolus sometimes thought, an old-fashioned, steel-rimmed character. She was an inspired cook and a most efficient housekeeper but a somewhat exacting one, particularly when she suspected Carolus of being ‘mixed up in one of those nasty murders’. She had few weaknesses but one of them was Rupert Priggley.
“The young gentleman’s gone out,” she said, placing on the table a highly-polished silver dish of crisply fried bacon and devilled kidneys. “You can scarcely wonder, can you? It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“Holidays, Mrs Stick,” said Carolus, trying to sound casual.
“Well, holidays I hope it’s to be, sir, that’s all I can say. You don’t look well and need a nice rest. I was only saying to Stick, I said ‘If he doesn’t take a rest now he’s got a chance, I don’t know where we shall be’. I heard you come in last night. Well, this morning it was.”
“Sorry if I woke you.”
“It’s not that, as well you know, sir. I’m a light sleeper and soon drop off again. It’s wondering where you may have got to. I’ve got so’s I don’t know what to think. Though the young gentleman says it’s nothing of that sort this time.”
“Thank
you, Mrs Stick.”
“I’ll make lunch a little later than usual. I’ve got a nice jiggot for you …”
“A nice what?”
“Jiggot of lamb, sir. Leg, to them that don’t know better.”
“Yes, I see. But I’m afraid I shan’t be in to lunch. I was going to ask you to make some sandwiches.”
Mrs Stick looked at him searchingly.
“If I thought …” she began.
“A day on the beach,” explained Carolus. “Down at Marling Flats. I need some sea air. I’ll take Priggley if he turns up in time.”
“Well, don’t forget the last time you wanted sea air down at Blessington-on-Sea.1 All those dead bodies! ”
“I trust there will be no dead bodies at Marling Flats, though of course one never knows, does one, Mrs Stick? ”
“Not with you we don’t, I’m afraid. Anyone would think they was working for a policeman, the way some behave theirselves.”
Before Carolus had emerged from this pronominal labyrinth, Rupert Priggley came in, wearing overalls, passing Mrs Stick in the doorway.
“Just given the car a rub over,” he said, having closed the door. “Well, how are we doing, sir? Murder or no murder? ”
“Murder,” said Carolus.
“How did you get on with the Drumbone? ”
“She’s a fool, but a dangerous one. I’m beginning to think that all our greatest disasters are due to fools rather than knaves. Contemporary history certainly suggests it. That woman would believe anything. If you told her that you had been kept in a dungeon under the school on bread and water and were flogged once a day with a knout, she’d ask a question in the House.”
“I must try it,” said Priggley. “Now, where do we start? ”
“I want to swim,” said Carolus. “We’ll run down to a place called Marling Flats as soon as Mrs Stick has made sandwiches.”
“I might just as well have gone with the Holling-bournes, after all. Unless you’re what Mrs Stick calls ‘up to something ’.”
“There is a bungalow there owned by Lady Drumbone.”
“Goody,” said Priggley, who occasionally resembled a human boy.
Driving down, Carolus gave him an account of Mares-field and the information he had gathered there, clearing his own ideas by making them articulate.
