Gin and Murder

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  ‘Are those the hunting days?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘Tuesdays and Saturdays with an occasional bye day on Thursdays. They didn’t hunt yesterday because of Mrs. Broughton, but the master’s said they can go out tomorrow instead. Haines, that’s the kennel huntsman and first whip, is to hunt hounds.’

  ‘You did some overtime last night in the bar,’ said Flecker.

  ‘Yes, and very interesting it was too. Quite brought back old times.’

  Sonia Denton was at home, but not very pleased to be caught with no make-up, untidy hair and wearing an old housecoat.

  ‘I’m not really dressed; I was just doing the housework; one’s chained to the sink nowadays. If you’ll just excuse me a minute —’

  ‘Don’t you worry, madam,’ Browning said quickly. ‘We’re both married men.’ But, nevertheless, Sonia fled.

  She took twenty minutes to dress while Flecker and Browning sat in modern chairs with foam rubber seats, on either side of a fitted electric fire. Browning read the romantic short story in Sonia’s weekly magazine; Flecker drew gibbets and faces behind bars in his notebook and thought this prying into private lives was the worst part of police work. What did he care if she and Vickers had been lovers? It was none of his business, but she wouldn’t realize that; people always suspected one of judging and condemning.

  When she came back, it was apparent that Sonia had performed a complete toilette, even to eyebrows and lashes. She looked well dressed in an expensive tweed skirt, a twin-set and high-heeled shoes.

  Flecker grinned as he got to his feet. ‘A morale raiser?’ he asked, and when Sonia looked at him blankly, added, ‘Some people always confront adversity with their best clothes; like captains who put on full dress uniform to go down with their ships.’

  ‘I think it’s important to look your best,’ Sonia told him. ‘I hate this slovenly slacks and pullover business that goes on in the country; it’s not feminine. And I don’t see why men should go round looking like tramps either. I won’t let my husband keep any awful old clothes, so he can’t wear them — not even for washing the car.’

  Browning said, ‘I’m with you, madam, but the Chief Inspector’s more of a Bohemian type, and it would be a dull world if we all thought alike.’

  ‘Bohemian, am I? That’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ said Flecker. Still, I’ve been accused of worse things —’

  Then he turned to Sonia and went on in a more serious voice, ‘Look, Mrs. Denton, I’m afraid we’ve simply got to drag your private life into this murder inquiry. I’m sure that you want to help us find Mr. Vickers’ murderer, and I can assure you that the police are very discreet and that nothing which isn’t absolutely essential to the case will be allowed to leak out. The fact is we’ve learned that you knew Mr. Vickers very much better than you admitted to my colleague, Inspector Hollis.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sonia asked, but there was no question in her voice. She was trying to gain time.

  ‘Only that you saw a good deal of Mr. Vickers last autumn when your husband was away. Is that correct? We can check up quite easily,’ he added when she remained silent. ‘But it’s bound to give rise to gossip if we start asking questions all round the district.’

  ‘Yes … she said, ‘it’s true. But it was only for three weeks. I hadn’t seen him since, until the other night.’

  ‘Does your husband know about it?’

  Sonia stood twisting a cluster of rings on her finger; when at last she answered her voice was barely audible. ‘Yes, Steve knew. The busybodies simply rushed to tell him — He isn’t a murderer though,’ she went on, her voice rising. ‘He wouldn’t have killed Guy and he certainly wouldn’t have killed Mrs. Broughton. There was only one person who had any reason to kill her, and that was Mark. I wonder he hadn’t done it before, tied to that disgusting, drunken old hag year after year.’ She began to cry angrily, her pretty little face distorted with venom. ‘It was Mark who killed Guy, too, just because he didn’t want anyone interfering with his hounds. He lives for those hounds; they’re his life. Everyone knows that, but they’re not going to tell the police, oh no, they don’t want Mark hanged; but they don’t care what happens to Steve —’

  Browning said, ‘Now, now, madam. Don’t upset yourself; the Chief Inspector’s a long way off hanging anyone.’

  And Flecker, who was looking at Sonia with a sort of fascinated revulsion, asked: ‘Have you any actual proof when you say that Broughton killed Vickers? We know he had a motive, possibly two motives, but did you see or hear anything to make you feel positive he was the murderer?’

  ‘I didn’t see him pouring poison into Guy’s glass, if that’s what you mean,’ answered Sonia, sniffing into a tiny handkerchief. ‘But it’s obvious, isn’t it? I can’t see why you have to go round upsetting other people, when it’s obvious who did the murders.’

  ‘Obviousness is not always evidence,’ said Flecker. ‘However, let us go on to the party. Can you remember to whom you talked?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Sonia, delighted to be on safer ground. ‘First of all I talked to Mrs. Chadwick; I admired the way she’d done the flowers. Not that she’d done much except stick a few Christmas roses into an old-fashioned silver bowl. I remember she held forth for a long time; she’s a great talker, it’s no wonder her husband never opens his mouth. When I managed to get away from her I had a little chat with Colonel Holmes-Waterford about the weather and the hunt ball. I’m not at all interested in horses or hunting, you know; it wasn’t my sort of party at all. I didn’t want to go in the first place, but Steve said it was good for business — that’s what men always say when they want to justify themselves for dragging their wives to boring parties.

  ‘Well then,’ she went on, ‘I had no one to talk to so I went to see what Steve was doing. He was talking to Mrs. Broughton. She looked a terrible old ragbag and you could see that she was drunk; she didn’t really know what she was saying. I got Steve away as soon as I could, but he only began talking to that grubby little Bob Bewley, so there I was left again. Commander Chadwick came over to speak to me, but he kept on about Nelson, which wasn’t very interesting. Then I asked after Antonia Brockenhurst’s horses. That’s all you can say to her — “How are the horses, Antonia?” I ask it at every single cocktail party that I meet her at, and then make off as quick as I can. Later on I had a conversation with Hilary Chadwick; she was asking my advice about shops, where I bought my clothes and so on.

  ‘After the Broughtons had left it became a bit more interesting and we talked about how awful she had looked and how she’d been swaying about all over the place and almost poured a drink over Colonel Holmes-Waterford. And then we discussed whether Mark ought to have brought her and whether it was his fault that she drank, and I quite enjoyed myself until poor Guy was taken ill.’

  ‘Did you drink the cocktail?’ asked Flecker, when she had finally stopped speaking.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  ‘He drank it too; it was he who persuaded me to have it. At first I said I’d rather have sherry. But he said Charlie’s specials were quite something, so I gave in and had one.’

  ‘One more question,’ said Flecker. ‘Did you know that Vickers was going to be at this party?’

  ‘No. I shouldn’t have gone if I’d known. You see I didn’t want to go anyway, but Steve persuaded me. Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me if I’d known Guy was going; it’s so embarrassing having to meet. I suppose the busybodies haven’t got round to telling the Chadwicks, or else they were so taken up with trying to catch Guy for Hilary.’

  ‘We heard that Miss Chadwick wasn’t as interested as all that,’ said Flecker. ‘We heard, rightly or wrongly, that her … er … heart was given elsewhere.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sonia looked at him with respect. ‘Steve forbade me to mention that. He said that Mark had been a good friend to him and that he wasn’t in the habit of hitting men when they were down. Men are so silly about friendship.’


  Flecker looked at his watch. ‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Denton. You’ve been a great help.’

  Browning said, ‘Good morning, madam,’ and followed his Chief down the narrow staircase to the yard below.

  ‘Miaow, miaow, miaow!’ said Flecker as soon as he was in the car.

  ‘She’s a pretty little thing, though, sir.’

  ‘That won’t last, and her wretched husband’ll soon find his rose is all thorns; that dear little pussycat is all claws — sharp ones too. I’m looking forward to meeting the poor misguided man; I’ve a fellow feeling for him.’

  ‘I dunno, sir. I daresay he’s happy enough. She keeps the place nice, she’s got what it takes, and I expect she’s a good little cook.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about it,’ said Flecker. ‘You’re happily married to a sensible woman with an exceptionally nice nature; you’ve no experience of pretty little things who scratch and bite.’

  ‘Mrs. Browning and I have our ups and downs, but that’s only natural. You want to have another try, sir. There’s no sense in giving up because a thing doesn’t work out the first time.’

  Flecker’s attention seemed riveted on the suburbs of Melborough, through which they were passing, but at length he said, ‘I don’t think I make much of a husband; women like something more alert and dashing. They want someone punctual and practical; if not good-looking at least well brushed, and with a fair share of the standard attractions — someone who can be shown off to their friends.’

  ‘Not all women by any means,’ said Browning with conviction. ‘You’ve been unlucky, fair enough, but you mustn’t tar ’em all with the same brush.’

  When they reached the King’s Street premises of Marley and Skinner the detectives found Steve Denton waiting in the road.

  ‘It’s five minutes to eleven,’ he pointed out. ‘You did say ten-thirty.’

  Flecker apologized hastily.

  ‘It’s not that I mind waiting,’ Steve told him. ‘It’s just that there’s a devil of a lot of work to get through and people always want vets in a hurry.’

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I possibly can,’ Flecker promised. ‘Is there anywhere where we can talk undisturbed?’

  Steve thought for a moment. ‘Well try the X-ray room; the office is out of the question — full of people and I think George is in the dispensary.’

  He led the way down a narrow alley way and they caught glimpses of bandaged dogs and caged cats as they followed.

  ‘I’m sorry,' said Steve, ‘I can’t offer you a seat, well have to lean. Cigarette?’ The policemen shook their heads and he lit one for himself.

  Flecker said: ‘We called on Mrs. Denton on the way here.’

  Denton’s face hardened and when he spoke he kept his voice level with difficulty. ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to have questioned us both at the same time?’ he asked.

  ‘Well yes, sir, you’re quite right, it would have been easier,’ said Flecker innocently. ‘But unfortunately your working hours seem precisely to coincide with ours, which makes things rather difficult.’

  ‘I see. Well, what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’

  Flecker began with his question on the rescue of drowning flies and errant bits of cork from glasses; but the vet was certain that he had seen nothing of that sort. Then Flecker asked him with whom he had talked.

  ‘With Mrs. Chadwick mostly,’ was the answer. ‘We had quite a long chat. I talked to Charlie too, but he was busy with the drinks. I had a few words with Mrs. Broughton, who seemed, to put it mildly, a bit hazy. A word with Bob Bewley, a word with the Colonel — that’s Holmes-Waterford. Oh, yes and a word, in fact several words with Antonia Brockenhurst; she was trying to get a bit of free advice on her grey horse’s suspensory ligament. That’s about the lot, I think, except for my wife.’

  Flecker had been counting on his fingers. ‘You didn’t speak to Vickers, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Well yes, of course I did; but not until he was taken ill.’

  ‘You didn’t speak to Miss Chadwick?’

  ‘No, she was very much engaged.’

  ‘And you didn’t speak to Mr. Broughton?’

  ‘No. To tell you the truth, I find the Master a little aweinspiring. I usually wait to be spoken to.’

  ‘And that night he wasn’t in a very forthcoming mood?’ suggested Flecker.

  ‘I believe not,’ answered Steve shortly.

  ‘Did you expect to meet Vickers at this party?’ asked Flecker after a pause.

  ‘No.’ Steve’s voice was even, but it was obvious that he was on his guard.

  Flecker pushed ineffectively at his unruly lock of hair. Look,’ he said earnestly, ‘we’ve stirred up a good deal of Vickers’ past. Don’t think we’re out to make trouble or that we’ve just got nasty minds. Murder’s an unpleasant business and it’s difficult for anyone who’s mixed up in it — however innocently — to escape the unpleasantness. All sorts of things that are better forgotten are apt to get dragged up by the officers doing the investigations; but they don’t go any further, unless they are absolutely essential to the case. The police are much more discreet than most people suspect.’

  Steve was rather red in the face, but he had himself under control. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I know what you mean. Vickers took advantage of my absence to seduce my wife, but I didn’t murder him. I admit I felt like doing so at the time I learned about it, but the feeling evaporated and now the whole affair’s just an unpleasant memory.’

  ‘Did you go to Lapworth at all over the weekend?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You weren’t asked to visit the kennels on Saturday evening or Sunday morning?’

  ‘No, the nearest I went to Lapworth was Mr. Tring’s place at Rollhurst — Upper Rollhurst Farm, I think they call it.’ He looked Flecker firmly in the face and went on, ‘I can understand that you should suspect me of murdering Guy Vickers; but why in heavens name should I have poisoned poor Clara Broughton? She’s never done me any harm; my only feeling towards her was one of pity intense pity.’

  ‘I’m afraid that anyone who murdered Vickers may have had a motive for murdering Mrs. Broughton,’ Flecker told him. ‘If I had intended to poison Mr. Vickers by calmly adding a solution of arsenic to his cocktail I should have accepted Mrs. Broughton as offering less risk than any of the other guests, and I should have seized my opportunity when I saw her talking to Vickers.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Steve thoughtfully, ‘I get you there. You mean Clara Broughton was used as a stalking horse but saw what was going on; she turned out not to be quite as scatty as the murderer hoped. Somehow the murderer found out that she knew so he drove over to Lapworth and gave her a nip of arsenic to keep her quiet. Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t produce an alibi for the whole of the weekend — sometimes I have a lad from the veterinary college to take round with me in the vac, but the current one is in bed with ’flu. Still, I can provide you with a list of the clients I visited if you like.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that at the moment,’ Flecker said amiably. ‘I won’t keep you any longer but I should like a word with your dispenser if he’s available — just a routine check-up,’ he added apologetically.

  ‘The kennels next, sir?’ asked Browning as they climbed into the car.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Flecker with obvious reluctance. ‘We’ve still got Holmes-Waterford to see.’

  Browning looked at him critically. ‘You don’t seem to fancy meeting Mr. Broughton,’ he said.

  Flecker looked a little shamefaced. ‘You’re quite right, I hate meeting murderers; always find myself looking at their necks. Broughton’ll be my fourth. There was Langdale, who knifed a coloured boy; I was a sergeant then, working with Canning. There was the celebrated Ma Brown who poisoned her husband and father-in-law and tried to collect the insurance money. And then our mutual friend Carter. They all swung.’

  ‘It’s not a bit of good you getting morbid,’ the Sergeant said firmly.
‘They all deserved to swing; real bad lots they were, every one of them.’

  ‘Yes I know. But is the fourth going to be a bad lot or is he going to turn out to be a much misused man?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HOMELY AND WHITEWASHED, with green-painted window frames and doors, the Master’s house, adjoining the kennels at Lapworth, seemed to invite sunshine. But, when the detectives drove up it looked forlorn among the bleak grey fields, and the only signs of life were another police car, parked discreetly in the lane and a slow spiral of smoke from a chimney.

  Nan kept them a long time on the doorstep before she deigned to answer their knock and when she came her step was slower than before and her face blotchy from weeping. Flecker asked for Mr. Broughton.

  ‘’E’s in the office,’ said Nan. ‘I don’t know whether I’ll see you or not. ’E told the last detective to get out. I’m not going in to ’im. There you are, that’s the door.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Flecker. He knocked and a voice called ‘Come in,’ in weary tones. Mark Broughton was writing letters at a flat-topped kneehole desk. He looked tired and his eyes were bloodshot, but to Flecker he seemed sober enough.

  ‘We’re from Scotland Yard,’ said Flecker. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Flecker and this is Sergeant Browning.’ He paused and added in his meekest tones: ‘And we’d be glad of your help.’

  Mark looked at him quizzically. ‘That’s a new line,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a new policeman,’ Flecker replied.

  ‘Well?’ Mark asked warily.

  Flecker said, ‘Sergeant Browning is very interested in horses and hounds; he used to hunt as a boy. Might he go and look round outside?’

  Suddenly Mark smiled and Flecker realized how great his charm must be when he was untroubled by adversity. ‘Certainly,’ he answered. ‘Ask for Haines or Philips and say I sent you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Browning, looking doubtfully at Flecker. ‘I used to hunt with the Houghton when old Colonel Darcy Blake was master. Many’s the good day I’ve had with him, on the old pony.’