by Heron Carvic
The superintendent was becoming almost superstitious with regard to Miss Seeton’s sketches, details from which appeared increasingly relevant. He wished to study them again for any points that he might have missed before using the search warrants and particularly before seeing Mr. Trefold Morton.
They found a portfolio in the bottom drawer of the writing-desk and, on untying the tapes, amongst some sketches that fell out was one that brought an explosion of laughter from Delphick. The sergeant, in footballer’s rig and with a bemuddled expression, was running, the ends of a long striped woollen scarf streaming behind him. Ahead of him, dragging him with one hand and with an umbrella in the other, her face a recognisable likeness of Miss Seeton herself, ran the Red Queen.
“Faster. Faster,” chortled Delphick. “Sorry, Bob, but that’s exactly how you looked at Bow Street the first night we met her.”
“That does look like how she often makes me feel,” Bob admitted. “But how on earth could she know I play for our police eleven?”
“What a cartoonist she’d have made,” commented Delphick. He put the drawing back, took the Venning and the two Trefold Morton sketches, spread them on a table and sat down to study them. “This is almost exactly how the girl was lying,” remarked the superintendent, pointing to the Niobe sketch. “We ought to have taken the warning more seriously. I did worry about it—but not enough. And then, the broken bottle. Presumably pills again.”
“You mean there’s a connection with this one,” asked Bob, pointing to the first of the Trefold Morton drawings, “where he’s holding up that phial thing of pills?”
“Maybe. It’s very possible. It was a tube of pills that Trefold Morton had given her that Mrs. Venning knocked out of her hand. And Miss Seeton herself thought that was the only reason that she’d put it in the sketch—that it happened to be in her mind at the time. But, somehow . . . no. I don’t think so. I think it goes deeper than that. The more I look at it, the more it seems to me that this drawing should be complete in itself. An almost exact analogy. Something the mother had done, that annoyed the gods. The gods, in revenge, have killed the daughter. The mother’s remorse. And the pills should fit into that story somewhere. Any connection with these”—he pushed the sketch to one side and drew the two of Trefold Morton towards him—“would only be coincidental. Now this . . .” He brooded over the grass-skirted gentleman capering with the shrunken heads. “I’m fairly sure that I know what this means. Embezzlement and breach of trust. And if we’re lucky we may find proof of it tonight. We’d better . . .”
“Sir.” Bob, who had been wandering around the room, was peering at the signature E.D.S. on a watercolour over the fireplace. The dark outline of a branch in the right foreground, a few scattered leaves still clinging, heightened the effect of distance to the grey sky where lighter and darker tones became massed and rolling clouds. Between, a sweep of moorland with heather bent before the wind. It seemed familiar.
Delphick glanced up. “Well, what is it?”
“I think it’s you, sir.”
Delphick got up and went over to him. “What d’you mean, you think it’s me?”
“The picture, sir. I kept looking at it and thinking it was somewhere I knew. And then I suddenly realised”—Bob beamed, delighted with himself—“it’s not somewhere, it’s someone. Can’t you see it?”
“It looks rather cold,” observed Delphick.
Bob grinned. “Yes, sir. But a nice-looking picture on the whole, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t be insubordinate.”
“But don’t you see, sir,” Bob hurried on, “it explains what Miss Seeton was trying to say. I mean, if that drawing of me reminds you of Bow Street and her first impression of me was as a footballer, then this could be her first impression of you. It was nothing to do with exams. Not Grade A. Grey day. ‘Grey day . . . footballer . . . must . . .’ There was something she felt she must tell us. And that means . . .”
“That her first impressions are linked with young César. Which makes it a certainty, rather than a possibility, that it was Lebel with the Venning girl tonight.” Delphick picked up his overcoat and shrugged himself into it. “Get cracking, we must be on our way; we’ve hardly started yet.”
They picked up Mr. Trefold Morton’s keys at the police station in Brettenden on their way to his house where they rang several times, knocked and were on the point of letting themselves in with a key when the door was opened for them by an elderly woman in dressing-gown and slippers, with a shawl round her shoulders. She had a broad face which should have been jovial, had it not been for the tiny, pursed mouth and she stood, blinking nervously at them, barring their entrance. The superintendent explained that they were police officers and apologised for the lateness of the call. She stepped back and, as soon as they were in the hall, shut the front door, then pointed to an oak bench against the wall. Delphick produced one of the search warrants, but she shook her head, pointed once more towards the bench and moved to the stairs. Nonplussed for a moment, Delphick went after her holding out the warrant. She waved it aside, drew herself up and, the little mouth pinched even tighter, jabbed her forefinger twice towards the bench with an air of command.
The sergeant was surprised to see The Oracle suddenly smile and bow.
“Very well, madam. We will wait. But we should be grateful if you’d be as quick as possible.”
She gave him a brief, final nod and scuttled up the stairs.
Bob followed his superior as Delphick moved to the bench and sat down.
“What’s up, sir? I don’t think she’s all there.”
“Your powers of observation do you credit. She’s not. However, I think she’s repairing the omissions. We’ll hope it doesn’t take too long.”
“But hadn’t we better make a start, sir? It’s getting a bit late.”
“True. But I think it might save time in the long run to have a guided tour. Also there’s no point in upsetting the old lady more than we need. Remember that, whatever we may think of this wretched solicitor, she probably thinks the sun, the moon and several stars shine out of him. Again, if we’re lucky enough to find anything here, a witness who’s prejudiced in his favour is to our advantage.”
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
Bob turned and his jaw dropped. Down the stairs sailed the same dressing-gown, the same shawl, the same slippers, but a woman transformed. Spectacles, with a heavy black frame, made her eyes appear large, shining and genial. The firm, wide mouth, stretched in a welcoming smile, seemed to Bob’s awestruck gaze to be crammed with glistening white teeth. The whole face glittered with glass and plastic.
“I’m the housekeeper,” she went on. “Can I help you? I’m so sorry to have kept you, I’m sure. The bell woke me and thinking it was him and having forgotten his key I came down quick as I could and went and quite forgot my glasses. And it wasn’t a mite of good you going on about what you wanted until I’d fetched them because what you can’t see you can’t take in if you know what I mean. Now, what’s he gone and done? There was a Lady Colven or some such name rang up earlier wanting to know where he was but as I told her I couldn’t tell her not knowing. But she wouldn’t take no and asked who he might be dining with so I gave her a list of possibles. But he did take his car that I do know. Has he had an accident?”
Delphick was fazed by this piece of verbiage after her determined silence at their first encounter.
“No,” he assured her, “nothing like that.”
“Not? But you said you were police.” She beamed upon them inquiringly. “What’s he been up to? Got himself into trouble?”
The superintendent chose his words with care. “There are certain matters that need an explanation. At the moment Mr. Trefold Morton is helping us with our inquiries. Have you been with him long?”
“Well ‘long’ depends on how you look at it, doesn’t it. Now it would be—let me see . . .” the housekeeper considered, “yes, it would be a matter of twelve years come Christmas.”
“And yet the possibility of trouble doesn’t seem to surprise you?”
“Not to say surprise no. Too smooth by half I’ve always thought him.”
“Have you had any trouble with him yourself?”
“Not to say trouble bar a couple of run-ins first off, when I came. He said the food was too expensive and I ought to be able to manage with cheaper. I told him. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs I told him and if you want to eat the shells, sir, you’re welcome if that’s what you want and I’ll have the eggs but lower myself I won’t. He never said no more. You have to be firm or people take advantage. And then there was the wages. He wanted to keep back part of my wages and put it into something for me. I told him straight. You put my wages into my hand I told him and any further putting that needs doing I’ll do myself. Too smooth by half I thought that.”
The sergeant had moved unobtrusively behind the housekeeper, his notebook in his hand and Delphick decided to glean what he could while she was in the mood for reminiscence.
“Tell me,” he asked, “have you noticed anything strange? Any odd goings-on?”
The housekeeper bristled. “Certainly not. Nothing of the kind. Goings-on and I’d not have stopped. Nasty he may be and not to be expected different it being his nature poor man but respectable I’m bound to give him.”
Delphick pacified her. “No, that wasn’t what I meant. I was thinking more of any unusual type of visitor. Or anything unusual, in fact, that you remember.”
The housekeeper moved to a chair and sat down. “Well, there’s one man. He comes here quite a bit, you might say he was unusual, anyway his clothes are and his hair’s done in a sort of bob with a fringe. I’ve seen him about the town and somebody did tell me his name but it’s gone, they said he runs a club or some such out Les Marys way.”
“And you say he comes here quite a bit?”
“Well, you could say quite a bit—about once a week regular. Mostly latish, I’ve only let him in a few times myself, but sometimes when I’ve heard the door go late I’ve looked out the window and seen him leaving.”
“Any others?” Delphick queried casually.
“Not to say unusual, no.” She pondered a moment, then laughed. “Of course, there was the young gentleman from Scotland, but that was years back.”
The superintendent’s face took on a look of sympathetic interest. “Yes?”
“Well, he called, and I asked him to wait, but when I went in and gave his name, he said to say he wasn’t at home, so I went back and said he wasn’t in, which wasn’t true of course but I couldn’t say different having been told, and the young man wasn’t half wild, said he’d come all the way from Scotland to bury his auntie and where was the money? I told him I couldn’t say I’m sure and he stamped off saying he’d have the law on him. That made me laugh, I mean how can you have the law on a lawyer, doesn’t make sense.”
Delphick gave another gentle prompt. “Anyone else?”
“Else? Well, let’s see now—there was that Miss . . . no, her name’s gone, though it was all in the papers after, she came twice. The first time he saw her and they didn’t half have a row, I could hear them in the kitchen, she was shouting and screaming and she was crying when she left and he said I wasn’t to let her in again if she came. But she did come, oh, a long time after, must have been above a year, it was in the morning and I said she ought to try his office but she said she’d been there and they’d said he wasn’t in. She seemed in such a state I felt sorry for her, poor thing, and took her into my own room and gave her a cup of tea. She kept saying the bank must have made a mistake and she couldn’t be poor, she shouldn’t be poor and did I think she was poor and things like that. Well, I told her I really couldn’t say, not knowing. And she said look what things had brought her to—well she did look bad and that’s a fact. And she said if she wasn’t poor, she kept harping on that, well anyhow if she wasn’t, she’d fooled him she said and he’d find out soon enough because she’d made a new will only that morning with the milkman. Well, that didn’t make sense because milkmen don’t make wills anyone knows that. Then she said never trust a solicitor, so I told her I wouldn’t and was there anything I could do and she said no, there was nothing anybody could do now. And off she went. I felt quite upset. Then I read in the papers next morning how she’d gone and jumped off a roof that very afternoon after leaving here. It gave me quite a turn. I knew at the time that tea wasn’t doing her any good.”
“And?” Delphick still spoke quietly, afraid to break the flow.
“And?” repeated the housekeeper. “Now let’s see. The only other one I can think of is a Miss Hant. Yes, now I come to think of it she wasn’t so long ago, a matter of months. She turned up all wild-eyed and starey like that other Miss . . . funny how that name’s gone and it’s on the tip of my tongue too if only I could put my hand on it.” She frowned.
“Miss Worlingham?” murmured Delphick.
“There of course, Worlingham, I knew I knew it if only I could call it to mind. Well, as I was saying this Miss Hant came of an afternoon, I didn’t take to that one, when she must have known he wouldn’t be here and was very surprised he was out or said she was but I didn’t believe her, she was sly that one. She said he’d promised her some pills, well he’s not a doctor I told her, but she got a bottle out of her bag and said would I pop up to his bathroom cupboard and see if there was one like it there and get it for her.”
Delphick seemed almost asleep. “What kind of bottle?”
The housekeeper smiled and nodded. “Well now it’s funny you should mention that. It was sort of different in a way. It started off more like a tube for tablets and then right at the bottom it opened out like a bottle. I gave her the rightabout quick, the idea that I’d go handing out his things to people at the door without directions, whatever next, and anyway there was no bottle like that in his cupboard as I should know having dusted. And he wasn’t half wild when I told him, he said the woman was mad and ought to have a certificate. I hardly liked to look at the papers the next few days in case she’d done herself too, but I’ve heard since that she’s in hospital so she’s all right, I think the National Health’s wonderful, don’t you?”
Delphick rose hastily. “Now perhaps, if it’s not keeping you up too late, you could just show us round. Have you any idea where Mr. Trefold Morton is most likely to keep any private papers?”
“Papers?” The housekeeper deliberated. “No I couldn’t say, I’m sure, excepting for his office. Of course there’s that safe he’s got hidden behind some books in his study, you might try there I suppose.” She crossed the hall and opened a door. The detectives followed her. One wall of the study had been shelved making a floor to ceiling bookcase. They exchanged glances. The conducted tour was paying off. The housekeeper took a few volumes from one of the middle shelves, disclosing a small wall safe. “There. I came on it when I had the books out for dusting but I never let on I knew not being my business, but seeing you’re police with a warrant and his keys I suppose it’s all right.”
More than all right, Delphick reflected; blind luck. It could have taken them hours of searching, certainly more time than they had that night, to find the safe. He was intrigued, too, by the housekeeper’s relation to Mr. Trefold Morton and the fact that she would not—probably, though unconsciously, could not—bring herself to mention his name, always referring to her employer as him, or he. In view of such dislike it was curious that she should have stayed with him so long. He caught himself wondering what Miss Seeton would have made of the housekeeper in one of her portraits. He selected a key from the owner’s ring, opened the safe and removed the contents: a few old jewel cases; and papers. He put the cases back, handed half the papers to Bob and began to riffle through the remainder.
Entries in a small black notebook caught his attention and he put the rest to one side. The entries were under four main headings; each heading being the shortened, underlined version of a name. Under these headings
followed lists of figures and dates, the earliest dating back some fifteen years, with occasional initials. The names Delphick could guess. C’dale would be Mrs. Cummingdale; the young gentleman from Scotland’s auntie. F’son, Mr. Foremason who had died in a car crash. While W’ham must be Miss Worlingham. And H’t could only stand for Miss Hant. A right-hand column in each entry was given over to addition and under the total was drawn a heavy black line. Delphick was struck by notes in red under the black lines: twenty-five per cent, then a figure and, after subtraction, a final total. Who, he speculated, had been milking Mr. Trefold Morton for twenty-five per cent? Miss Hant’s entry was unfinished, the addition incomplete, the black line as yet undrawn. The entries were too cryptic to be resolved without a key, but his own suspicions, allied to the housekeeper’s revelations filled in the picture. The figures and dates probably related to the transfer of bonds, stock and share certificates and the like, but advice from the various banks on their late client’s original holdings should soon decipher the whole. He shut the book and turned to the sergeant.
“I think this is all we shall need for the moment. The rest can wait till tomorrow.”
“I was wondering about these, sir.” Bob offered a packet of papers, held by an elastic band.
“What are they?”
“There’s no name or anything, sir, just figures. But they’re dated for each week and they look like a list of outgoings and incomings. I got the idea, from what this lady told us,”—he smiled at the housekeeper—“that they might be a weekly statement of accounts from that club The Singing Swan.”
Delphick took the papers, glanced at them, then, with the notebook, put them into his pocket. He returned the rest to the safe, locked it and replaced the books on the shelf. He addressed the housekeeper.
“Thank you for your patience. We shan’t want anything else tonight. I’ll arrange for a full search in the morning. I’m only sorry that we had to get you out of bed.”
