by Heron Carvic
She smiled. “Oh, that’s all right, it makes a change.” She closed the study door. “Will he be coming back tonight?”
“No,” said Delphick. “Not tonight.”
Her smile broadened. “Well it just goes to show doesn’t it, I told you he was smooth.”
Delphick’s curiosity got the better of him. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve stayed with him so long.”
“Well it suited if you know what I mean,” she explained. “He knows his place and I know mine and we don’t interfere with each other above half. It’s not as if he were married or had a family with everybody wanting things different.”
“And yet I gather that you’ve never really liked him?”
“Not to say like no,” she admitted amiably. “I can’t abide him, never could take to him not from the first. When somebody’s too smooth like he is then somebody else is going to get the rough of it I always say.”
Which was as good a sum up as any of Mr. Trefold Morton and his activities, decided Delphick, as he and the sergeant returned to their car.
• • •
At the solicitor’s office in the High Street they found nothing of immediate interest except for a small, unlabelled bottle of pills in a medicine cupboard on the wall of a washroom adjacent to Mr. Trefold Morton’s sanctum. It was a replica of the bottle that the housekeeper had described. Held in the hand it resembled a phial, but in fact the base widened out like a miniature decanter.
“Makes it easier to stand up, I suppose,” commented Bob.
“That, yes,” agreed Delphick. “But more important, I should say; without being particularly noticeable, it’s sufficiently different not to be mistaken for anything else.”
The clock at Brettenden Police Station showed one minute to two when the superintendent and the sergeant arrived. They went straight to the office where Mr. Trefold Morton was being detained and took over the interview from the two weary officers who had run out of questions, out of ideas and had but one thought between them, sleep. Without speaking, Delphick sat down at the desk and began to read through the notes left ready for him, ignoring the solicitor’s protest.
Listening, Bob decided that there was little of literary merit in Mr. Trefold Morton’s repetitious phrases and contented himself with entering in his notebook: “T.M. snorting and blowing like a grampus.” It took Delphick less than seven minutes from the time of their entry, to cut through the skin and reduce the whale to blubber. The superintendent had used one of those minutes before he pushed the papers to one side, stared at the solicitor, then introduced himself and the sergeant by name and rank.
Mr. Trefold Morton jumped to his feet, taking his stand on Outrage. It was an outrage, he insisted, an outrage, he repeated, in fact he repeated it several times, that he should have been kept there so long simply because he had given Miss Seeton a lift in his car. If anything had happened to her after he had dropped her—he knew nothing, of course; he had been told nothing; merely questioned like a common malefactor—but if anything had, it had nothing to do with him. Nothing at all. Nor, he ended triumphantly, if unwisely, could it be proved.
Delphick cut the ground from under him by agreeing that, on the evidence that they had so far, he was, as yet, merely an important witness in a case of murder and attempted murder. The solicitor’s eyes bulged. The question of complicity would be gone into—and gone into very thoroughly—at a later stage. And that, if that had been the only reason for his detention, it would indeed have been an outrage.
“I understand,” he continued, “that the manager of The Singing Swan was a regular visitor at your house and I should like an explanation of—these.” He slapped down on the desk the packet of papers from the safe that Bob had given him.
Mr. Trefold Morton gobbled for a moment, sat down again, then admitted to having financed the club. He denied having any say in, or knowledge of, the way the club was run. He insisted that it had been a speculative investment undertaken from altruistic motives; that he had no thought of profit, merely a laudable desire to provide the youth of Brettenden with a social club that would keep them out of mischief. If his generosity had been abused in any way he, himself, could hardly be blamed.
Delphick made no comment on this, but keeping his eyes on the solicitor, said:
“I should also like a full explanation of the entries in this.” He withdrew the black notebook from his pocket and held it in his hand.
Mr. Trefold Morton gazed at it, hypnotised; then of their own volition his hands made a small wringing movement.
Seeing that he had broken, that he had, finally, come apart at the seams, Delphick cautioned him and picked up the telephone.
“Get me Chief Inspector Brinton at Ashford, please. . . . Chris? . . . The holding charge will be embezzlement and breach of trust. . . . Yes. Incidentally, from something we’ve learned since, I think I can tell you the meaning of Miss Seeton’s last words.” From the corner of his vision, he noted the solicitor flinch. “She was trying to tell us that ‘chummy’ of our recent conversation was Lebel. . . . Right. . . . And to you. . . . Good night.”
chapter
~12~
“NASTY PIECE of work, wasn’t he, sir?” observed Bob as he and his superior set out for Plummergen the next morning.
“Yes,” agreed Delphick, “I’m bound to admit that I find myself in entire sympathy with his housekeeper; I never could take to him, not from the first. How she stuck him for nearly twelve years . . .”
They had stuck him until after three o’clock that morning, when Mr. Trefold Morton had been removed to a cell for what was left of the night.
Faced with the proof of his frauds, on that particular subject the solicitor had whined quite freely, the recurring theme of his chant being sorrow for himself. His attitude was that, except in the case of the nephew from Scotland of whose existence he had been unaware, none of the clients concerned had either near relatives or friends to inherit. In consequence the properties would have gone to charities or to the Crown and he felt, he felt strongly, that considering his position, he had as much right, indeed more right, to the money than they. That he had beggared his clients whilst they were still alive, he admitted to be true, but what else, he asked tearfully, could he have done? If he had waited until their deaths, it would have been too late to take action.
When Delphick, restraining anger, pointed out that certainly in the case of Miss Worlingham and probably in that of Mr. Foremason, he had not only robbed people who had trusted him but had also been directly responsible for their deaths, Mr. Trefold Morton shrugged. If people were too stupid or too indifferent to look after their own affairs, to look after themselves, what else could they expect?
On the question of drugs, they could wring no admission from him. He denied ever having seen the curious shaped bottle before, declaring that if it had been found at his office premises, it had either been planted, or else that it must belong to one of his staff and Delphick was in no position to press the matter further until an analysis had been made of the contents. The story of Miss Hant and her bottle Mr. Trefold Morton dismissed as the ravings of an unbalanced mind. He insisted that the pills that he had given to Miss Seeton out of kindness, purely out of kindness, were some proprietary brand of headache cure whose name he had forgotten and, as Mrs. Venning had destroyed the bottle in question, and Miss Seeton was not there to testify, there the matter had to be left.
When Mr. Trefold Morton had been taken away, the Duty Sergeant had produced tea and camp beds. Superintendent Delphick had settled to sleep in reasonable comfort, while Sergeant Ranger, for whom the camp bed was far too short, had settled in unreasonable discomfort on the floor.
Bob slowed the car. “Do you mind if we stop here for a moment, sir? There’s something I want to get.”
“Go ahead.”
Delphick watched Bob enter a florist’s shop, then settled back in his seat to plan his next moves. As usual, the wretched Lebel had disappeared into thin air. There must be g
ood organisation behind him. Still that was only to be expected. Drugs meant big money. Big money meant big resources. Were Lebel’s repeated attacks upon Miss Seeton in the nature of a personal vendetta, or on orders from above? It was a profitless speculation, Delphick decided. Whatever the reason, Lebel seemed determined to continue having a go which was what chiefly concerned the police. It would have been pleasant to have nailed Trefold Morton for his part in last night’s attempt, but it didn’t look as if there was going to be a chance of proving it. Thank the Lord that, owing to the solicitor’s confession over the embezzlement, he himself hadn’t been needed at the Magistrate’s Court this morning. Chris Brinton had arranged for someone else to present the police case and to ask for remand without bail, with the possibility of further charges. The further charges part didn’t look too promising. Without a great deal more than they’d got, they’d never get a drugs charge to stick. Anyway, he’d passed all his gen on to Narcotics. Maybe they’d come up with something. Their best chance might be Miss Hant. There was the possibility that Trefold Morton had been slipping her doses of the hard stuff when he visited her in the nursing-home. If so, she might blow the gaff on him when her supplies were cut off. He must have a word with Dr. Knight. At worst the solicitor should cop a good stretch for embezzlement. So that was one unpleasing specimen knocked out of the ring, who would never in any real sense get off the floor again. Dealing with drug traffickers was like dealing with an ants’ nest. You trod on a few unimportant workers, but you never seemed to get to the heart of the next. To the inner ring of workers. Let alone the queen. Or was it—a king? Anyway, the leader. Boiling water was good for ants. He watched himself striding down the labyrinthine corridors of an ants’ nest, with a kettle in his hand, demanding “Take me to your Leader”. The kettle tipped, spilling boiling oil. Now, that was an idea. If he could use . . . boiling oil . . . that should prove . . . it should definitely prove . . . something.
He jerked awake as Bob returned carrying an enormous sheaf of flowers and the largest box of chocolates that Delphick had ever seen. Bob laid his purchases on the back seat, got in and started the car.
“I thought as we were calling at the nursing-home, sir—well, I thought . . .”
“And a very nice thought, too, Bob. Provided she’s there.”
Bob was confident. “Oh, she will be, sir.”
Delphick was less confident. “I wish I could feel as sure. She’s got amazing powers of recuperation. After a good night’s sleep, she’s just as likely to be skipping round with her umbrella, stirring up mayhem in all directions. Speaking for myself, for a nice twelve-hour kip, I wouldn’t need to be given an injection—just the chance.”
At the nursing-home, Bob got out and collected his offerings from the back of the car. Delphick remained in his seat.
“I’ll stay put, Bob, till you’ve checked whether Miss Seeton is really here.”
“Right, sir.”
Bob pushed past the swing doors and looked round the empty hall. Anne Knight, in nurse’s uniform, came quickly through a door on his right.
“I saw your car from the window. I’m afraid you’re too late. Miss Seeton’s gone. She didn’t seem any the worse for last night and as soon as she’d had her breakfast, she said she really couldn’t laze about in bed any longer. And off she went.” Bob gazed at her dumbly and Anne realised what he was carrying. She smiled. He looked so like a love-sick suitor. What a shame Miss Seeton hadn’t been there to receive him. “Oh, what a charming thought. How sweet of you. I know she’ll love them. If you take them along to her cottage, I think you’ll find her there.”
Bob advanced upon her, his face crimsoning, and thrust his purchases into her arms.
“For you,” he said. He turned and walked out.
Mrs. Knight, coming downstairs, found her daughter sitting on the bottom step, clutching what appeared to be half the garden wrapped in paper and a small crate of chocolates.
“Darling. Have you got an admirer?”
Anne raised a tear-stained, smiling face. “Have I, Mummy? I’m not sure. He’s only spoken two words since I met him.”
“What were they?”
“ ‘For you!’ ”
“Then you have,” decided her mother. “But I shouldn’t cry about it. It’s good for the flowers, but ruination to chocolates. Come along.”
She helped her daughter cart the booty into the sitting-room.
• • •
“Miss Seeton’s left, sir. They say she’s gone home.”
“Oh.” Delphick refrained from comment on Bob’s flushed face and wooden expression, forbore to glance towards the back seat, even managed not to smile. “I see. Then we’d better get along there. Carry on, Sergeant.”
“A fight to the death. Both took up their swords.
“Wham. Bang. Bang. Whang. Wham. ScrrOUNCH.
“‘Stop. Stop,’ cried Jack the Rabbit.
“‘Why?’ asked Wally Weasel.
“‘Because I’ve broken my sword,’ said Jack.
“‘That makes mine longer,” said Wally. ‘I shall win. Remember it’s a fight to the death.’
“‘Of course if is,’ said Jack. ‘But look, my sword’s got long jagged splinters. I might hurt you.’
“‘Oh!’ said Wally.
“‘We shall have to call it off,’ said Jack.
“‘Yes, I see that,’ said Wally.
“Jack held out his paw. So did Wally.
“Little Lucy sat on the umpire’s knoll and smiled.
“Arm in arm the two enemies walked into the rising sun.
“‘I do wish people would look where they’re going,’ said the sun.
THE END”
She pulled the sheets out of the typewriter, picked up two more and began to insert the carbon. Her mouth twisted. She wouldn’t need a carbon of this. At least they wouldn’t be able to say she’d failed them. In that respect, anyway, her conscience would be clear. They’d paid her an advance and the book was finished. The story was finished. She put a single sheet of paper into the typewriter, rolled it to the middle and typed:
THE HUTCH THAT JACK BUILT
She sensed a movement, looked up and saw Miss Seeton standing in the doorway. They stared at each other for a long moment. Then:
“If you’ll wait one minute while I finish this.” She turned back to the typewriter and completed the title page:
by Sonia Venning
She laid the page on top of the completed manuscript, slid the whole into a large stamped envelope addressed to her publishers, and stuck down the flap. Mrs. Venning pushed her chair back, rose and went to the fireplace. She held cold hands to the blaze, but felt no warmth. Without turning her head, she spoke:
“Will you sit down?”
Miss Seeton hesitated, then moved into the room. “I know you won’t wish to see me. But I had to come.”
“Of course.”
Miss Seeton sat on the edge of a chair, her bag and her umbrella in her lap. “I did knock. But there seemed to be no one about. And then I heard the typewriter, so I came through the kitchen and knocked again.”
Mrs. Venning’s gaze was still on the burning logs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. Mrs. Fratters isn’t here. I wanted—I thought it better for her to be out of the house for a day or two. She’s staying at her sister’s.”
Miss Seeton leaned forward. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Miss Seeton tried again. “I know it doesn’t help to say I’m sorry. But I am. Most dreadfully, dreadfully sorry.”
“That doesn’t matter either.” Still contemplating the fire, Mrs. Venning straightened and leaned against the beam across the inglenook. “In any case I see no reason why you should be sorry. Quite the reverse. Mrs. Fratters heard the whole story last night from Lady Colveden and the police and told me.” Her mouth hardened. “I understand that my daughter and some friend of hers tried to run you down in a car. He then killed my daughter and you we
re lucky to escape with your life.”
“Oh, no. No,” breathed Miss Seeton. “It’s wicked, wicked. How can they—dare to say such things. I was so afraid that it would all get twisted. That was why I felt I had to come. I know it can’t help you now—but it might later. Your daughter knew nothing of what was happening. She didn’t suffer.” Miss Seeton made a helpless gesture. Then went on: “I feel I should have been able to help. To do something. But when that dreadful boy ran the car into the tree, I slipped and fell into the water. And then it was all so quick. I saw him drag your daughter from the car. But she was quite limp. She couldn’t have known. And then he”—she caught her breath and closed her eyes tightly; forced herself to go on—“he killed her. But, believe me, she couldn’t have felt—anything. I think I tried to scream. But I don’t remember any more.” She frowned, uncertain: “Except . . .”
“Except?”
Miss Seeton made an effort to remember. “Except some man—hitting me on the ground. But I think that was a dream.” She looked down. “And that’s all.”
Mrs. Venning turned away, to move about the room, aimless, restless. When she spoke, her sentences were brief and clipped. “I’m sorry I was so rude to you when you first came . . .”
“Oh, please.”
“I was frightened and worried. And I misunderstood you. I made a mistake.” She gave a short laugh. “Just one more of so many bad mistakes.”
“But, please,” protested Miss Seeton, “you have nothing to apologise for. I knew it was a mistake.”
“You knew?”
“Why, yes.” Her hands fluttered. “Niobe, you see,” she said simply.
Mrs. Venning returned to the fire and sat down. She picked up the poker and, forgetting to use it, sat looking at it in her hand. “Niobe?” she said at last. “So you did know. You did know the whole story.”
