Gin and Murder

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  ‘Haines was second whip to the Darlington Woodland at some point in his career. Aren’t they an adjacent hunt to the Houghton?’ asked Mark.

  ‘That’s right, sir. I’ve had the odd run into their country. Great one for digging, the old Colonel was and he used to swear blue murder when they went to ground in the Darlington country; it was a fairly frequent occurrence too, with all the big woodlands they’ve got there.’

  ‘Go and look round before the men go to lunch,’ said Flecker.

  ‘Sure you don’t want me, sir?’ asked Browning. ‘I dare say there’ll be plenty of other opportunities for me to look round.’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Flecker told him. Reluctantly, Browning left the office and, as the door shut behind him, Mark said, ‘I think your sporting sergeant is afraid that you’ll be my next victim.’

  Flecker laughed. ‘No, it’s not that; he doesn’t think my method of taking notes is efficient and he’s always expecting me to make some irreparable police faux pas. He’s not exactly critical, it’s just that he wants to save me from myself.’

  ‘Well, what do you want of me?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Answers to a multitude of questions, I’m afraid,’ Flecker told him.

  ‘I’ve already told one policeman that I won’t answer any more questions except in the presence of my solicitor,’ said Mark.

  Flecker looked him in the face. ‘If you’re guilty of murder that is the most sensible thing you can do,’ he said. ‘On the other hand if you’re innocent it’s an absurd line to take.’

  ‘Your predecessor told me I was guilty,’ said Mark contentiously.

  ‘My predecessor was a fool,’ countered Flecker, his voice brusque and sharp. The two men glared at each other over the desk and then suddenly Mark gave way.

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ he said. ‘Ask. After all I needn’t answer if I don’t want to.’

  ‘First question, may I sit down, sir?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mark answered. ‘Sorry, what little social sense I had seems to have left me.’

  Flecker sat down and produced his notebook, a pile of old envelopes and two equally disreputable pencils. Then he tugged distractedly at his hair and said, ‘There are so many things I want to ask you that it’s impossible to know where to begin.’

  ‘Why not ask me if I killed Vickers and, or, my wife,’ suggested Mark. He spoke quietly and with extreme bitterness.

  Flecker looked up from his notes. ‘Well, did you?’

  ‘No.’ Mark seemed to search for words to qualify his monosyllable but to be too tired to find them.

  ‘The evidence against you is largely circumstantial,’ said Flecker, suddenly becoming businesslike. ‘I think it would best serve us to begin at the beginning and go through the whole lot; interrupt me if I go off the rails or if you’ve anything to add.

  ‘Among the guests at the Chadwicks’ party, there were three people who had grievances against Vickers. You were one.’

  ‘It’s comforting to learn that I wasn’t the only one,’ interrupted Mark.

  ‘But,’ Flecker went on, ‘it is your arsenic that is missing. Can’t you throw any light at all on the disappearance of that tin of weedkiller?’

  ‘No.’

  Flecker thought he detected a slight reservation in the answer and decided to gamble on it. ‘And yet,’ he said gently, ‘we know that you asked Mrs. Broughton what she’d done with it, and we know that you spent all Saturday night looking for it.’

  He waited, apprehensively, for an outburst. Mark got up, pushing his chair back violently, and walking round the desk came and leaned against the chimneypiece. Flecker, realizing what a big man he was, found him uncomfortably close. Mark looked down at him and said, ‘You know, I suppose, that my wife drank?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, if you had someone in the house who was barely responsible for her actions and something disappeared, what would you think and do?’

  ‘I see. Was she in the habit of roaming about the garden?’

  ‘Yes, she’d give Nan, her old servant, the slip and go out without a coat on the coldest of days. She had a sort of mania for the summerhouse.’

  ‘But why should she have killed Guy Vickers?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘I’ve no idea unless she’d heard me cursing and swearing about him and thought that she would do me a last service as a sort of gesture. She was given to gestures.’

  ‘You say “a last service”. Does that mean you believe she committed suicide?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘What else can I think? I didn’t kill her; Nan and the children wouldn’t have killed her; we had no visitors on Saturday or Sunday. And then, when she was dying,’ he fiddled with the clock on the chimneypiece as he spoke, ‘she kept murmuring “poor Guy.”’

  ‘You thought that that was a sign of remorse?’

  ‘I didn’t know what else to think,’ Mark answered.

  ‘Well, I think we can dismiss that theory entirely,’ Flecker said emphatically. ‘I don’t believe Mrs. Broughton killed Vickers and I’m sure she didn’t commit suicide. Would an intending suicide bother to poison a whole bottle of gin? Would she wipe off all the fingerprints of previous handlers? Would she have had an old and now untraceable bottle, presumably filled for the occasion with the poisoned gin?’

  ‘I had no idea of all this,’ said Mark. ‘But why should anyone murder Clara?’

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me with that point,’ said Flecker. ‘But there is one obvious motive; she saw something she wasn’t meant to see at the Chadwick party; wittingly or unwittingly she constituted a danger to Vickers’ murderer who, consequently, had to get her out of the way.’

  Mark went on playing with the clock in silence. After a pause Flecker asked, ‘You didn’t find any trace of that tin of arsenic, did you?’

  Mark shook his head, ‘Not a sign.’

  ‘Nor did the local police,’ said Flecker. ‘Of course it’s possible the old man was mistaken.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Mark, ‘until I tried to shake him. He’s absolutely certain it was there on Wednesday; he’s ready and willing to swear to it.’

  There was another silence and Flecker noticed that the unfortunate clock was now standing on its head. At last Mark spoke again. ‘If Clara, my wife, had seen anyone poison Vickers she’d have told me,’ he said. ‘I’m sure she would and, anyway, who could have got in here to poison her? None of it makes sense.’

  ‘Yes, that’s rather the trouble so far as we’re concerned. You see, it would have been very easy for you to have killed Mrs. Broughton.’

  ‘And why should I suddenly poison my wife?’ demanded Mark. ‘The situation hadn’t changed in any way and I had put up with it for five years.’

  ‘There’s always the last straw,’ said Flecker.

  ‘And, as far as I can make out, I’m supposed to have murdered Vickers because he wanted to be joint master — of all the bloody silly ideas. Anyway,’ he went on, righting the clock and then turning to face Flecker, ‘you’re sure my wife had nothing to do with it?’

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t kill Vickers and then take her own life.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mark. He yawned and then asked: ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘Did you drink the cocktail at the Chadwicks’ party?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘Good God, no! I can’t stand those naval concoctions; you can’t hunt hounds with a splitting head, or at least I can’t. I drank whisky. Another nail in my coffin?’ he asked as an afterthought.

  ‘No, rather the opposite. You would have had to poison Vickers’ actual drink. It would have been much easier to have poisoned one’s own and then swapped glasses. If anyone noticed, one could pass it off as a genuine mistake.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Mark thoughtfully. ‘“Sorry, I thought it was mine” and then you simply pour the lethal dose among your hostess’s Christmas roses and wait until the next party. Whoever did in Vickers had probably had several goes already.’


  ‘Quite likely,’ said Flecker. ‘It’s a good time of year for parties.’

  Mark sighed. ‘But who out of all those people could possibly have behaved like that? I’ve known them all for years. I don’t believe there’s one of ’em capable of it.’ He sounded very tired and frustrated.

  ‘If I were you, sir. I’d try and get some sleep,’ said Flecker, and he grinned inwardly to hear himself talking like Browning.

  ‘You trying to get me to the slaughterhouse in good condition?’ asked Mark.

  ‘No, I just feel that you might be of more use to me if you weren’t quite so tired. Would you mind if I went and talked to Miss Hatch?’

  ‘Not in the least.’ Mark yawned again. ‘But don’t expect to hear a good word for me. If Nan had had her way, I should have been summarily dealt with long ago; strung up on the walnut by the gate. I think,’ he went on, ‘I’ll take your advice. Would you tell her I’ve gone to bed and don’t want any lunch?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Flecker. ‘And thank you very much.’

  ‘What for? Not throwing you out?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Flecker. ‘Only, in the police we call it co-operation.’

  He found Nan in the kitchen making apple dumplings.

  ‘May I come in and talk to you?’ he asked. ‘Don’t stop your cooking.’ He looked at the apples with interest. ‘I always wondered how they got inside.’

  ‘The children like them,’ said Nan, banging viciously at her pastry. ‘That Mrs. Tucker, called herself a cook, but she didn’t make them properly. Lard and a nice drop of milk I put in, then there’s some goodness in it. There’s no goodness in water. It was just the same with ’er soups. Vegetables and a drop of water, where’s the goodness in that? Time and time again I said to ’er why ever don’t you get some bones and boil up a nice stock?’

  ‘And wouldn’t she take your advice?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘Not ’er! You might as well have spoken to your little finger. She turned nasty in the end; went and got a job up in London, so she said. They won’t think much of ’er cooking up there.’

  ‘And now you have to do it?’ said Flecker.

  ‘I works myself to death for Mr. Broughton and those children and not a word of gratitude do I get. I’d ’ave left years ago if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Broughton. Forty-two years I’ve been with ’er family. Thirty years with her ladyship and twelve years with Mrs. Broughton. It was a pity she ever married ’im.’

  ‘But they got on well at first, didn’t they?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘New brooms,’ said Nan, banging the dumplings down in their baking dish, ‘always sweeps clean.’ She turned to put the dish in the oven and went on, ‘It was all right so long as she went riding and hunting with ’im. She’d ride all them big ’orses, and she only a little thing. Used to jump anything — anything, didn’t matter how ’igh it was, she’d be over; that’s what they used to tell me. Lovely she looked in ’er hunting clothes, white stock and all. I used to tie it for her. “Nan,” she’d say, “you do it so much better than I do; it never moves when you tie it for me.” Then there were all the hunt balls and the parties, very gay they were at first. Of course, she needn’t ’ave taken ’im. She had plenty of other admirers; plenty of proposals too. She was such a pretty little thing.’ Nan sat down at the floury table and wept bitterly.

  What consolation could one offer, Flecker wondered, for the old nurse wasn’t weeping for the poor drunken wreck who’d died on Sunday, but for the brave gay figure of long ago. He felt his anger rising against Broughton, who’d spoken so casually. He’d shown no shame at having taken something so vivid and reduced it so low. Marriage didn’t always work out; however good your intentions you could fail, he knew that from his own experience. But at least Broughton could have given his wife her freedom.

  ‘What actually drove Mrs. Broughton to drink?’ he asked Nan gently.

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me. Time and time again I begged ’er to tell me, but she never would and she wouldn’t have a word against him, neither. Not a word. I wrote and told ’er ladyship and she came down, but it wasn’t a bit of use. She spoke to him about it, but directly ’e started on to Mrs. Broughton she went abroad. Just packed up and went and we didn’t see ’er for three months. She wrote to him and said that she wanted to think things out — or that’s what ’e told me. When she came back things were better for a time and then she got worse and worse and ’e took to spending all day with them ’ounds. Her ladyship died and there was no one I could send for. I did all I could, but it wasn’t a bit of use … and she was such a lovely little baby …’ Tears overwhelmed her again and Flecker stood by, feeling utterly inadequate. Browning always found some consolation to offer, he told himself. But what in honesty could he find to say? It was the loss of a life’s work.

  ‘Can’t I get you a drink or something?’ he asked diffidently.

  ‘It’s not a bit of use you trying to ask me no questions today.’ Nan pulled herself together sharply. ‘You run along now and come back tomorrow or the next day, when that there inquest’s over, and then I’ll show you my photographs.’

  Flecker, relieved to find she could face the thought of a tomorrow, agreed and thanked her politely for her help.

  ‘Gone one,’ said Nan ignoring him and bustling round the kitchen. ‘Goodness knows what time we’re going to ’ave lunch.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FLECKER AND BROWNING drove back to the Dog and Duck for lunch and, as they ate roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, Flecker tried to sort out his notes while he listened to Browning.

  ‘Broughton seems well enough liked. Haines said he wouldn’t deny that the master was a “warm one to whip in to,” and Philips, that’s the stud groom, said he’d been like a bear with a sore head since the weedkiller walked, but otherwise there were no complaints. Codding, the old gardener, thinks no end of him, but he’s still certain that the weedkiller was on the shelf in the shed on Wednesday. They’ve all had strict instructions not to discuss the murders in front of the children. Those are a nice couple of kids, sir. Little monkeys, I should think. Up to all manner of mischief according to what the men were saying, but good little riders. They were in the saddle room, getting one of the girl grooms to ask them questions; something to do with a pony club exam. We had a good laugh over some of the answers.’

  ‘In fact you had a nice morning,’ said Flecker, through a mouthful of the prunes and custard which had followed the roast beef. ‘While I was trembling in the company of a volcanic M.F.H. or trying to stem Nan’s tears.’

  ‘They don’t seem to care much for Nan outside,’ said Browning. ‘They reckon she’s an old tartar.’

  ‘Well, I reckon she’s had something to put up with in her time. I’m not surprised she’s turned sour. I’m going to telephone Colonel Holmes-Waterford,’ Flecker went on, getting up as he finished his last mouthful. ‘We’ve got to see the Chief Constable at three, or at least, I have, for my sins. I thought we might visit the Colonel on the way there.’

  ‘And there was me hoping to snatch forty winks,’ said Browning in resigned tones.

  ‘You’re not as afraid of the A.C. as I am,’ said Flecker. ‘Have you got threepence? I’ve run out of change.’

  At Lapworth Manor the butler took a message and then returned to the telephone to say that the Colonel would see the Chief Inspector at two-fifteen.

  Browning joined his chief as he replaced the receiver. ‘If we’re going to visit all these military gentlemen, we’d better take a clothes brush to you, sir,’ he remarked, producing one and advancing on Flecker. ‘And isn’t this Colonel Holmes-Waterford on the County Council? If I remember rightly he is, so everything said in that quarter will go straight back to the Chief Constable.’

  Flecker, who was submitting to being brushed, though not with very good grace, said, ‘The bark of military gentlemen is notoriously worse than their bite, and if you think I’m going to put on police college airs for either of them, you’re mistaken.’


  ‘What do you do with your trousers at night, sir?’ asked Browning. ‘They look to me as though they spent last night on the floor.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Flecker. ‘That’s quite good enough; if there’s one thing your military gentlemen hate, it’s to be kept waiting.’

  Browning was impressed by Lapworth Manor. ‘Quite puts our little pink cottage in the shade, sir, doesn’t it? Still, I don’t know that I’d want it; it doesn’t look very homely to me.’

  Gold showed them into the library and there was time for Browning to warm himself at the log fire and for Flecker to inspect the bookshelves before Douglas Holmes-Waterford, with Pluto and Toby at his heels, came in.

  ‘Good afternoon, Chief Inspector,’ he said, advancing on Browning, who retreated behind the armchair.

  Flecker hastily returned a book to the shelf and came across the room. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Flecker and this is Sergeant Browning.’

  ‘Ah yes, quite.’ Holmes-Waterford shook him by the hand. And now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s the same old story, I’m afraid,’ said Flecker. ‘Questions and yet more questions.’ To Browning’s horror he tugged a whole handful of crumpled envelopes from his pocket and began to look through them in a leisurely manner. ‘Firstly, I believe you talked with Mr. Broughton at the Chadwicks’ party at the time when he was standing alone by the door, “glaring across the room” as one witness put it, at Mr. Vickers. Did you learn anything of his state of mind at that moment?’

  The Colonel looked down and watched his foot play with the fringed edge of the hearthrug. ‘Frankly, Chief Inspector, you put me in a very awkward position,’ he said. ‘You see, Mark Broughton is one of my oldest friends. We were at school together and so forth.’

  ‘Yes, I understand, of course,’ said Flecker. ‘But you have to remember that this is a murder inquiry and that the sort of attitude some of us may take when a friend’s in trouble over his car — or even income tax returns hardly meets the situation. After all, sir, two of your own friends have been killed.’