“The bag may have contained another bottle of some morphia prescription,” replied Dick abruptly. “It must almost certainly have contained some letters or papers or some personal traces if he was just leaving home for good. No one would remove it from this room, surely, without his knowledge. Why should he have removed it himself, and where did he put it? Was he really in a fit state to get up to that shelf, find morphia, fetch himself a whisky and conceal his bag somewhere, doctor, and why on earth should he?”
“He may have asked Soames to put his bag somewhere—or Doris—I think she’s outside, so I’ll go and ask her!” Mrs. Broome still felt Dick’s insistence a little tiresome as she went out into the passage calling the maid.
“Does she realize that suicide, or even a dose taken inadvertently, means we must call in the police—and at once?” asked Dr. Lee in a lowered voice. “Get the Bishop’s leave for that, Dick, as soon as you can.”
But Dick did not answer at once. He had bent over the bed in search of any trace of another medicine bottle or tablet, and now all such thoughts were swept from his mind by a piece of crumpled paper, just protruding from the pillow which caught his eye. It was only a rough slip, but bending over the cold, still body, Dick could just make out a short list:
Bishop (he read) £2,000
Chancellor 2,000
Judith 5,000
Wye 2,000
Staples 50, etc
“Better break it to her that we must notify the police,” murmured Dick, as Mrs. Broome returned, distraught, and Dick had to look up and try to hide his horror at his discovery for the moment.
“Mabel was with Moira, and the poor old soul is in a dreadful state! Mabel says she has even got out of bed and walked about in her agony, and you know she hasn’t stirred from bed for weeks. Can’t you give her something, operation or no operation, doctor, for how can we tell if the ambulance will ever get out at all to-day!”
“I will! I will! Just get your spirit kettle going with some boiling water and I’ll give her a shot at once! But one moment, Mrs. Broome. You are aware that as this is almost certainly a case of suicide, whether by accident or intention, we shall have to notify the police and I fear we shall have to expect a visit and enquiry from them.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” cried poor Mrs. Broome, distracted. “Why did he want to kill himself here? Oh, how wrong of me to say that but—well, it seems such a pity to choose this house and the middle of an Ordination! Dick, dear, you must break it to the Bishop and do all that has to be done. You and Dr. Lee will help us in every way you can, I know!”
Every way you can! thought Dick. Just for a moment the temptation to take that appalling list and destroy it was overwhelming. Ulder was dead—why should his evil deeds live after him? Of course Dick could not and would not commit such a breach of his moral and professional code, but still—
For one dreadful moment as the doctor fumbled at his bag Dick let his mind dwell at last on the possible suspects. Motive and opportunity alike seemed to point skeleton fingers at such preposterous figures—Judith—the Chancellor—Canon Wye—the Bishop himself! No, a million times no, he told himself, while the cold question: Who else? began to creep into his mind like the freezing wind outside.
“Why on earth was Ulder here? What do you think of all this, Dick?” asked Dr. Lee.
“I couldn’t say before Mrs. Broome, but how and why should Ulder have finished himself off like this?” answered Dick slowly. “He was making a new start in life, and it wasn’t humbug about his going to America, with that big bag full of fantastic lay clothes. He came here of his own accord—he was in no new disgrace. If he had reached up for that container he’d have burst his heart, I imagine, and we can see he wasn’t even driven to it by pain. And as for the bag—well, I must admit to you in confidence that he would never have asked anyone to remove his papers, or let them out of his sight for a moment!”
“What were these missing papers?” asked Dr. Lee abruptly. As a good old-fashioned churchman and a confirmed gossip, he knew all and more than all there was to know about Ulder’s expulsion from the College. “Were there any of importance? Blackmail?”
“Looks like it,” said Dick laconically, pointing to the paper under the pillow. The doctor put on his spectacles quickly enough as he bent over the list, and looked up at last as if he had seen a ghost or the devil himself.
“I suppose,” he said, in a voice Dick hardly recognized, “that we must leave this here, that we can’t let the whole affair be buried?”
“You don’t mean that, doctor! If you really mean to suppress evidence just sit down and sign a certificate of death from natural causes!”
“Really, sir!” spluttered the doctor. “Honesty—my honour—my oath!”
“Just so, but it’s as bad to tamper with evidence of any kind. It might always boomerang on the innocent, and, if any one here poisoned Ulder, he probably wasn’t sane at the time—he must be a lunatic, you’d say, not fit for a position of trust.”
“Any one … but who’s any one?” The two men stared at each other. “But, my dear Dick, if you knew our Chief Constable now you’d understand how damnable this all is!”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Dick, “and that he’ll enjoy a scandal here! But I’m sure he’ll keep his prejudices to himself.”
“I’m not,” said the doctor, as he went off to the next room. “Oh well, go ahead and tell the house party here that we suspect suicide and no more, and ring up the police. But I hope to goodness Sergeant Tonks comes alone, for he’s a good churchman and as stupid as they make them too! If he falls for suicide—it’s no affair of mine!”
“There’ll have to be some arrangements about—” Dick pointed to the bed.
“Yes, yes, I thought of that. Look here, I’m going to give that poor old soul next door a good shot of morphia now, in case the ambulance isn’t here anyway till midday. Tell the police to try to make their examination at once and then the ambulance and mortuary van with the body can get off together—safer if together in case there’s a breakdown. They’ll want an autopsy I expect. Never thought to live to see one on a parson, but the damn world’s upside down!”
The doctor’s world had turned upside down and his language with it, thought Dick, as the poor little man bustled away to the next room. Dick felt far indeed from his own normal self as he too walked to the door and locked it behind him just as steps re-echoed along the passage, and the silence was broken by the voices of the Bishop and Canon Wye as they hastened from the Chapel to the room. It was a mercy, reflected Dick, that Bobs had mesmerized them all into staying put in the Chapel till the Service was finished, or they would all have been all over Ulder’s room, Bishop, Canon, Chancellor, Staples, Soames and all! And one of them, the realization fell again like lead upon his heart, one of them surely was hurrying here because he must know most, and dread most, the discovery of what had passed in that room that night. Well, as it was, that person had better hear the suspicion of suicide at least, and Judith might as well take it too, he decided grimly, as the girl came out of Moira’s room with tumbled curls and flushed face, the scent of flowers clinging to the rustling dressing-gown which revealed her slim, exquisite form in its primrose silk pyjamas. Dr. Lee and Mrs. Broome had just sent her away, it appeared, and Soames followed her, carrying away Moira’s breakfast tray.
“What’s wrong?” Her light tone voiced the question which no one dared to ask. “Mabel called me with some story of murder and sudden death, but I was too sleepy to make it out and I’ve been with Moira since! Thank Heaven Dr. Lee is giving her something at last!”
“My lord, may I please telephone for the police?” Dick forced himself out of the maze of horror and incredulity, in which his suspicions wandered.
“Is it necessary in a case of natural death?” asked the Bishop, “for I assume Dr. Lee can sign the certificate in view of poor Ulder’s condition?”
“Not in this case. Ulder did not die of heart disease, but of morphia poiso
ning.”
“Self-administered?” Canon Wye’s question was as sharp and brittle as the icicles on the windows.
“There must be some enquiry about the method,” answered Dick evasively.
“Poor Lee miscalculated his dose! Is it necessary to expose him?” The Bishop’s voice and hands were trembling as he spoke. “Why think it self-administered?”
“I’m afraid it is not our province to decide whether his death was accidental or intentional,” replied Dick. “Perhaps you would rather see Dr. Lee, and then telephone yourself, my lord? He is with Moira.”
“Yes, yes!” The Bishop moved to Mr. Ulder’s door—“And meanwhile I must pray by this poor mortal—”
“I’m afraid the doctor wishes the door locked and the room left as it is. The police are always adamant on that point!” Dick’s face was as bleak as his voice. Did ever Ordination candidate before forbid a bishop to enter one of his own rooms?
“But that’s absurd!” The Chancellor came up, bristling and burly. “We must look through Ulder’s papers, find his present address, and notify any relatives.”
“There are no papers,” replied Dick briefly.
“May I ask who put you in charge of this affair?” If, thought Dick, Canon Wye had a thumb-screw or stake handy, or, failing such happy method, an examination paper on which to plough Dick, he’d be for it!
“I’m not, sir! It was pure chance that Mrs. Broome beckoned me to come upstairs, and that Dr. Lee asked me to have a glance at things with him. I’ve no more to do with it.”
“Oh, but indeed he has!” Dr. Lee and Mrs. Broome emerged from Moira’s room in time to hear the end of the conversation and the doctor spoke. “He’s a good head and done military intelligence and all! As good as a layman!” Long acquaintance with the Church had only confirmed the good doctor in his belief that all clergymen were unbusinesslike.
“Dear Dick is so helpful,” chimed in Mrs. Broome. “And now I really think we should all leave this part of the house quiet for poor Moira, don’t you, Dr. Lee?”
“Certainly. No one can do anything in there.” The doctor pointed at St. Ursula gravely. “Dick here knows all the facts and should get on to the police at once. The sooner the formalities are over the better. I’ll wait as long as I can myself, and I’d like to see Mrs. Broome and this young fellow settling down to some breakfast with all of you. There’s a trying day before your good lady, Bishop, and I wouldn’t mind a good cup of coffee myself.”
In any trial of will the one person who is sure of himself usually comes off victor. It must be fancy, thought Dick, that already the Bishop, Chancellor and Canon Wye were eyeing each other so oddly, and that Judith had so suddenly disappeared. But certainly what seemed like a united front against his interference had broken up, or else the human instinct for bodily sustenance, after being what Judith called “so hard at it in Chapel for so long”, was predominant. And to some at least Ulder’s death must mean unutterable relief that was another odd consideration—if only the papers had really disappeared. And one—but here again Dick thrust aside the thought—one might even now be in possession of the papers, having abstracted them from the missing bag, and be rejoicing, yes, actively rejoicing in the apparent acceptance of a theory of suicide.
The telephone arrangements in the Palace were, as Bobs always said, entirely lacking in the spirit of the confessional. The main line was in the hall and by picking up the receiver here any one could overhear either the Bishop’s conversation from his desk, or Bobs’ from his room, or Mrs. Broome’s from her boudoir. Any listener was liable to be discovered eavesdropping at any moment, of course, but the entrance hall was likely to be free from interruption till breakfast was over.
“I want to take a call here to the police, Soames,” said Dick, catching the butler on his way to the pantry from the hall. It would be safer to explain to Soames that he knew he was liable to be overheard, Dick decided. “Bring me a cup of coffee and a roll or something from the dining-room, will you? It’ll take some time to get on.”
“The police, sir?” Evidently Soames was taken aback, but then after all you do not expect police in Palaces. “Is—is anything wrong?”
“Not quite a clear case,” answered Dick negligently. This rather slimy little wreck of a fellow was, he told himself, about the only person in the Palace who had no connection with the dead man, so why, as the shifty eyes evaded his, should he wonder if the butler had any part in the affair? Wishful thinking, probably, as he still did not dare to think of the other possible criminals. Certainly Soames was curious, for he hung about arranging a tray with Dick’s breakfast first on one table in the hall, and then on another, till Dick dismissed him curtly. Still, curiosity wasn’t crime and in any case Soames could hope for little satisfaction. After infinite delays at the village post office, while Mrs. Jones was comfortably finishing her breakfast and calling on a stupid operator in Evelake (for the day of dials had not dawned in the countryside), Dick’s information to the police station was curt enough, if urgent. As a stunned voice stuttered in reply Dick rang off, finished his coffee and, tray in hand, flung open the baize door to the servants’ passage.
There, as he suspected, stood Soames, polishing a door handle vehemently.
“Hullo, Soames! I was just bringing back this tray. Thanks a lot for it. I didn’t feel like joining them in there,” he nodded his head towards the dining-room. “A bit upset, and I expect you were. Can I speak a word to you, by the way?”
Did Soames realize he was being edged to the pantry? He certainly seemed unwilling to leave the passage, but Dick walked on unconcernedly. He had no reason to expect any enlightenment in this quarter, but he always liked to discover the lie of the land, and he wished to disentangle the muddled geography of the Palace. This passage, long and narrow, wound along till it intersected the wide entrance to the Chapel, beyond which lay the pantry and Soames’ bedroom and offices. “Just beneath the Bridge bedrooms! I say,” said Dick casually, “did you hear anything unusual last night, Soames?”
“Indeed I did, sir. People popping in and out of Mr. Ulder’s room at all hours, that’s to say, till eleven o’clock at least. It kept me awake.”
“So you couldn’t get your tray down till pretty late, I suppose?” Dick’s eyes rested on the tray of whisky, lemonade, siphons and glasses as he spoke. Soames was clearly enough in a fidget of nervousness but Dick wished him to feel unobserved.
“I—I didn’t get the tray down till this morning, sir.” (So he and Mrs. Broome differed then!)
“Not many glasses used?”
“No, sir. These candidates, as they call them, seem very abstemious. Not much like an officers’ mess.”
“You were in the Army then? France?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anywhere near my old regiment, I wonder? The 40th Brigade, Eveshire Yeomanry?”
“No, sir. I was R.A.S.C. Mostly base work.” Soames imparted the information grudgingly. “Anyway I was invalided out, shell shock, in ’16.”
“Hard luck! Nasty business! Did it take you long to get going again? A friend of mine still gibbers if a lorry passes.”
“I am not aware of any symptoms now, sir.” Had this chap been reading Wodehouse as a guide to butlers? for occasionally he would throw out such Jeeves-like sentiments with oily rectitude, in startling contrast to his usual sulky, aggressive manner.
“Good show!” Why was the fellow edging towards the tray? “By the way, you didn’t give this unlucky Mr. Ulder anything to drink, did you? I ask because he was calling out for it, I believe, and it would be difficult for you to refuse it.”
“I never gave him anything, sir!” Soames began defiantly and went on cringingly. “I never set eyes on him except to open the door and carry his kit upstairs.”
“Ah yes! That’s what I really wanted to ask you about. Mrs. Broome thinks he must have had more than the one big portmanteau in his room now. She and the Bishop want to find his address and the address of any relation, if
possible, but there’s nothing of that kind apparently, nor any trace of ordinary night things. Mr. Borderer lent him all those, but he must have had some somewhere. And papers you’d say! Hullo!”
The exclamation escaped Dick as Soames dropped a heavy decanter to the ground and, with a muttered oath, went down on his knees to retrieve the scattered pieces. It was quite a minute before he looked up with a flushed face.
“I’ve no sort of idea, sir. I may have carried up one case or two, I really couldn’t say. Being the only man here I was carrying up bags for all you gentlemen all evening and was fair off my head with the work. I couldn’t tell you about any luggage except yours being an officer’s kit and the Chancellor having that odd green baize bag of his. The work’s too much for me here, and I shall have to tell Mrs. Broome so, if we’re going to have these to-dos every few months!”
“Tough luck! Had you an easier job before?”
“No complaints on either side, sir.” Soames was evidently determined to say nothing of his past. “I came here with good references.”
“Yes, yes! And I can imagine that the luggage was a tough job. I’ll suggest to Mr. Borderer that we candidates are asked to carry up our own kit next time. I wonder if it’s possible that you put a bag of Mr. Ulder’s in another room by accident?”
“Oh no, sir. Everything else was upstairs by the time he came. It was much later when I took up his. Mrs. Broome said to leave them inside the door and not to unpack.”
Did Soames notice that plural, as Dick did, though he made no sign? It might or might not be to cover his admission that the butler went on hastily and almost savagely, “Excuse me, sir, if I say I don’t understand what all this questioning is, nor why this talk of the police, when the gentleman had a bad heart and was under the doctor’s care anyhow.”
“Well, you heard me tell the police there was a question of suicide, didn’t you?” said Dick equably. As well to let this fellow know that his snooping was observed! “I am only asking about the luggage because the Bishop wants some clue to Mr. Ulder’s relatives. I’ve nothing to do with any questions which the police may ask about everyone in the house.”
Arrest the Bishop? Page 7
