by Carola Dunn
16
“It is my duty, ma’am, to warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be introduced in evidence in a court of law.” From the corner of his eye, Alec saw Tom’s pencil dash across the paper as he recorded the utterance of the required caution. “Do you wish to send for your solicitor?”
“That won’t be necessary, I’m sure. None of my guests has complained of being given the ‘Third Degree.’” Mrs. Cochran gave a brittle, artificial laugh. “As the Americans put it, I believe.”
Alec glanced at the constable by the hall door, who shook his head slightly. No departing witnesses had been permitted to take their leave of their hostess, let alone to tell her anything about their interviews with the police.
“I’m sorry people were kept waiting so long,” Alec apologized in a conversational tone.
She relaxed visibly. “No harm done, Chief Inspector, except to Eric’s cellar. Gilbert Gower—well, the less said the better! I quite understand, you had to be certain no one else had a hand in that foolish young woman’s attempt to dramatize herself.”
“Dramatize herself?”
“By pretending she meant to commit suicide. I must say it was a disgraceful trick to play on poor Roger Abernathy.”
“Why should Miss Blaise pretend to commit suicide?”
“To catch Eric’s attention.” Mrs. Cochran leant forward. “I must explain,” she confided, “that Miss Blaise is rather taken with Eric. Or perhaps she simply hopes to further her career, I can’t claim to be sure which. In any case, recently she has been positively throwing herself at him, and the poor dear can’t bring himself to be so cruel as to reject her outright. He isn’t always able to avoid her—you saw for yourself how blatantly she threw herself into his arms when his duty as host forced him to approach her after that silly show.”
Was she trying to convince herself, or him? “I’m afraid that was not a silly show, ma’am. Not pretence. The glass contained a large dose of cyanide.”
No sign of surprise, of shock, behind the mask of make-up. Mrs. Cochran’s story was as slipshod as her crime, the fingerprints missed, the reactions unplanned.
“No doubt Miss Blaise would have found some excuse not to drink, had Mr. Abernathy not prevented her. Unless she really meant to kill herself? In my house!” The indignation at least had been practised, but was belied by Lady Macbethian hands, writhing in her black silk lap. “Thank heaven she failed.”
“Why should she kill herself?”
“Eric must at last have told her plainly to leave him alone.”
“On the contrary, he offered her the mezzo-soprano part in the Verdi Requiem.”
“I imagine that was by way of a parting gesture.”
“A parting gesture? A farewell gift? Implying the end of a relationship. What was the relationship between your husband and Miss Blaise?”
“I didn’t mean a parting gift!” She was beginning to get flustered.
Alec gave her a hard look. “I think you did, Mrs. Cochran.”
“Oh, very well, I did,” she said sulkily. “Eric is too kind for his own good; he found it impossible to repulse her. He treated her as a friend and she tried to take advantage of him.”
“And you were angry about their ‘friendship’?”
“Eric is a brilliant conductor. Any scandal could put paid to his future. Of course I was angry. But it was over, so even if I had wanted to kill her, why should I try now?”
“Because it isn’t over. Because the Verdi part signalled reconciliation, not good-bye. Because Eric Cochran is deeply infatuated with Olivia Blaise and on the verge of abandoning his career and his wife for her sake.”
“Rubbish! His career is the most important thing in the world to him, and he needs my support. He knows I’d do anything to help him rise to the top of his profession.”
“Anything?” Alec spoke softly, yet she blenched. “Your fingerprint is on the glass.”
“It can’t be!” She stared at him aghast, then made a quick recovery. “I mean, of course it can. This is my house, after all, and my party.”
“Your maids handed around the glasses.”
“The sherry glasses, yes. But when I heard Miss Blaise was to sing, I told one of the girls to bring a glass of water specially, in case she needed it. Then I made a point of taking it from her tray myself and placing it on a doily, to make sure the surface of the piano was not marred. Maids are so careless these days. One simply cannot get decent servants since the War.” Mrs. Cochran looked pleased with her clever improvisation.
For the moment Alec let lie the question of how she had managed to leave only a single print when she picked up the tumbler, not to mention the lack of the maid’s prints. “You gave the maid the order to fetch a glass of water when you heard Miss Blaise was to sing? That was quick work. I understand she went straight to the piano when she was asked.”
“Oh. Well, perhaps it was when Mr. Westlea expressed his intent to invite her to sing. Yes, that’s it. I wanted to be prepared in case she accepted.”
“I believe you were prepared before that. Even before you proposed the notion to the reverend gentleman.”
“I? It was entirely his own idea.”
“Mr. Westlea says you pointed out Miss Blaise to him and suggested that a song from her would be a suitable memorial for his daughter.”
“What if I did? That’s no crime!”
“Odd, though, you must admit, since you disliked and despised Miss Blaise. However, that is only a part of the preparations I referred to. A full set of your fingerprints has been found on the tin of cyanide in the potting shed.”
“Oh Lord, I forgot,” she groaned, her shoulders sagging. But she wasn’t done yet. She straightened again, stiff as a backboard. “That is, I forgot I had moved the tin up to a high shelf. I noticed the gardener had carelessly left it within easy reach. As I said, good servants are impossible to find nowadays.”
She was a game fighter. Alec admitted to himself a sneaking admiration. He glanced at Tom.
“Prints on the lid, sir,” the Sergeant murmured.
Mrs. Cochran heard. “Naturally I checked the lid to make sure it was on tightly.”
“Well, we shall of course check with your gardener as to where he left the tin.” He noted her alarm with satisfaction. Still, the gardener might well not remember. The evidence all pointed towards her, yet he’d prefer some sort of admission before he charged her. “Both maids have already denied bringing the water glass to the piano.”
“They would, wouldn’t they,” she said contemptuously. “Really, Chief Inspector, what’s all the to-do about? Miss Blaise didn’t die. She came to no harm whatsoever.”
“Bettina Abernathy died.”
“That has nothing to do with me. I had no reason to kill her.”
“No, but you thought you did. You didn’t know about Miss Blaise. Mr. Cochran met her at the Abernathys’ house, and you had every reason to believe his affair was with Mrs. Aberna-they.”
“What if I did? However much I wished to be rid of her, I’d never have poisoned her in the middle of Eric’s concert, and such an important concert!”
Much against his will, Alec believed her. How neat it would have been to wrap up both cases at once with a single arrest, he thought regretfully, though he’d never counted on it. Bettina’s murderer was still unidentified.
His tone deliberately casual, he said, “So Mrs. Abernathy’s murder just gave you the idea of poisoning Miss Blaise.”
“Yes, it … . No! I want my solicitor!” Mrs. Cochran demanded belatedly.
“By all means, ma’am. He can join us at the police station, where you will be charged with attempted murder. I suggest you ask your maid or your husband to pack up a small suitcase for you.”
“Not Eric.” The heavy cosmetics no longer disguised her years. “I don’t want to see him. This is his fault, all his fault!”
Pitying her, Alec could not altogether disagree.
When Eric Cochran arr
ived at Olivia’s digs, the sausages were long gone, a second pot of tea brewed and consumed. To stop Olivia’s nervous pacing, Daisy had persuaded her to practise for the Requiem and she was singing the Agnus Dei when her lover rang the bell.
Daisy had a sudden qualm about letting him in. “Alec said he’d send an officer,” she remembered. “What if it’s a ruse to get at you?”
“If Eric wants to kill me, I’d just as soon be dead.” Olivia unlocked the door.
Cochran looked almost shell-shocked. “They’ve arrested Ursula,” he said dully. “I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it.”
Though Daisy was dying to ask whether Mrs. Cochran had been arrested for Bettina’s murder as well, she opted for discretion. The moment his face was buried in Olivia’s lap, she hopped it, waving good-bye as Olivia raised her head to mouth a silent “Thanks!”
She went home first, to tell Lucy the latest news.
“Darling, you do get mixed up with the most peculiar people,” Lucy drawled. “I trust your tame copper doesn’t think the woman pinched the cyanide from my darkroom?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Daisy, a bit disgruntled because Lucy wasn’t all agog. “After all, the Cochrans patronized a posh West End photographer.”
“Some people imagine they must get something better if they pay more. Phillip dropped by this morning. The poor prune rang up next door and panicked when he didn’t get answer.”
“The maids were told not to answer the ’phone because of reporters. What did Phil want?”
Lucy waved a languid hand. “Just to know whether you were still in the land of the living. If they’ve arrested this Cochran person, you’ll be coming home, won’t you?”
“I expect so. Not because of the arrest; because the ghastly vicar’s supposed to flee the wicked city today so Muriel won’t need protection from him. I’d better go and see what’s going on. Toodle-oo, darling.”
Daisy found Muriel alone with her afternoon tea. Roger was lying down in his room and the Reverend and Mrs. Westlea had already departed.
“Father was furious that I wouldn’t go with them,” Muriel said. “Have a biscuit while I ring for another cup.”
“I couldn’t touch another drop. Olivia and I drank tea till my insides started sloshing about.” She took a chocolate biscuit though. “Why on earth did your father expect you to go back to the wilds of Norfolk?”
“He couldn’t decide whether I was more likely to be compromised by Yasha or by Roger. I suppose it will look a bit odd, my going on living in Roger’s house now Betsy’s gone.”
“Bosh! You’re practically brother and sister, and he’d never survive without you. Today was a bit much for him, was it?”
“He’s just so tired. And he still seems to feel the attempt on Olivia’s life was somehow his fault. Do you know what’s happening?”
“Golly, I nearly forgot to tell you. Alec’s arrested Mrs. Cochran.”
“Oh dear, that’s what Roger’s afraid of. He doesn’t believe she killed Betsy, so she must have copied whoever did.”
“Which doesn’t make it his fault.”
“No, but you know how one imagines all sorts of frightful things when one’s ill and overwrought. He must wish he’d been able to stop Betsy behaving in such a way that someone decided to poison her. Anyway, whatever is bothering him, he’s in a dreadfully morbid state. He even … . Daisy, promise you won’t tell Yasha?”
“Tell him what? All right, I promise.”
“Roger’s made an appointment with his solicitor for tomorrow morning. He’s going to change his will and leave the house to me, which would be wonderful if it didn’t mean he’s feeling absolutely rotten.”
“He told me he didn’t expect to survive losing Bettina,” Daisy said slowly. Muriel looked so appalled, she quickly added, “But I dare say he’ll live for years yet. Why don’t you want Mr. Levich to know about the house?”
“It’s this impossible business about not wanting him to marry me because I have a bit of money, and not wanting him not to marry me for fear I’ll believe … you know.” Muriel sighed. “Not that I really expect him to propose, but he’s so … . He has a rehearsal this afternoon, but he came straight here from the Cochrans’, as soon as Mr. Fletcher had finished with him, to make sure Roger and I were all right. Oh Daisy, he was so sweet, so pleased that Mr. Fletcher had trusted him to guard the back door.”
Daisy refrained from pointing out that Alec had no earthly reason to suspect Levich of wanting to bump off Olivia. “I hope it means Alec’s cleared him altogether,” she said, “but don’t count on it. Once you’re on his list of suspects, it’s frightfully difficult to get off. I wish I knew whether he’s charged Mrs. Cochran with Bettina’s death too!”
“So you don’t think she did in Mrs. Abernathy, Chief?” Ernie Piper asked from the back seat of the Austin, which he had driven over to pick up Alec and Tom at the Divisional Police Station. The formalities over, they were at last on their way back to New Scotland Yard.
“No, and even if she did we’ve not a shadow of proof to justify a charge against anyone. Great Scott, we don’t even know for sure whether Mrs. Abernathy died of cyanide or nitroglycerin poisoning! I hope Sir Bernard’s report is waiting for me.”
“It is, Chief, and the lab’s, and the jeweller’s. I knew you’d want to know, so I went and had a quick dekko at your desk.”
“No dinner, and supper in the canteen again,” said Tom with a lugubrious sigh. “A man could starve to death.”
“Not on what you pack away, Sarge,” said Ernie cheekily. “I’d like to see what you eat at home, I would.”
“Then you’d better come round to tea one of these days, young ’un. See what a good home-cooked meal is like and put a bit of meat on them bones of yours. The missus likes to have summun extra to cook for.”
“Cor, really?”
“After a meal prepared by Mrs. Tring you won’t need to eat for a week,” Alec assured him, “and that’s if you turn up without notice. Her steak-and-kidney pud has to be tasted to be believed. You can both count on tomorrow evening free, barring emergencies.” Because tomorrow, come hell or high water, he was taking Daisy out to dinner.
He turned towards the river and New Scotland Yard rose before them, its red and white stripes glowing in the sunset. Since he was a small boy Alec had been determined to belong there, ever since his father had pointed from the river steamer and told him that was where the best detectives in the world worked. Now he belonged, and despite the inconveniences of his job he wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Joan had accepted the inconveniences, the uncertainty as to whether he’d be home for dinner or dashing off to some out of the way corner of the country. His mother put up with it stoically—but she was of a generation of women raised to put up with the vagaries of their men. Daisy appeared to understand and forgive, but as yet she was only a friend, minimally affected. She couldn’t fully grasp the demands on a copper’s wife.
Not that she was going to have to find out unless he plucked up his courage to propose. He wasn’t ready for that yet.
Taking her home for tea with his mother and daughter was a step in that direction. Was he mad to have agreed to invite her? Could she possibly be as pleased as she had seemed when she accepted?
His wandering mind returned to the case as they reached his office. He and Tom sat down at their desks and Piper pulled up a chair. Alec tossed the lab report to Tom, the jeweller’s to Ernie. Turning to the last page of Sir Bernard Spilsbury’s, he was relieved to find a summary in comparatively plain English.
“Crikey!” said Ernie, who had also turned straight to the last page. “Twelve thousand nicker! The Russian bloke had a motive, all right.”
“Twelve thousand pounds?” Alec said, dismayed. He had hoped the jewellery would turn out to be paste. As if it wasn’t bad enough not to be able to investigate Marchenko further, how was he to explain his neglect to his men?
At least they didn’t kno
w about the nitroglycerin in the cellar—assuming Spilsbury and the lab agreed on nitroglycerin as the cause of Bettina Abernathy’s death. What was more, the way Lord Curzon was carrying on in Lausanne, the Soviet trade mission might not be around much longer to be blown up.
“Twelve thou, give or take,” Ernie confirmed. “Mr. Feinstein says he’s kept the stuff in his safe as you asked, Chief.”
“See if you can get Miss Westlea on the telephone, Ernie.” Alec and Tom returned to their more complicated reading.
The Chief Pathologist’s conclusion was that the signs found at the second autopsy were slightly more in favour of nitroglycerin than cyanide. Very slightly, he emphasized. He wouldn’t swear to either in court. The most positive indication was the word of Dr. Renfrew’s assistant, who thought he remembered the victim’s blood being brownish at the first autopsy. Since he hadn’t noted it in writing, let alone investigated whether the cause was the presence of methemoglobin, his word was hardly useful as evidence. However, Sir Bernard trusted it would help the Chief Inspector in his investigation.
“Miss Westlea, Chief.”
Alec took the ’phone. “Miss Westlea, this is Alec Fletcher.” Damn, now he was thinking of her as a friend of Daisy’s, not a suspect. “Chief Inspector Fletcher,” he amended. “The jewellery you let me take for appraisal is worth approximately twelve thousand pounds.”
“Oh no! Are you quite sure?”
“Isaac Feinstein, the jeweller who valued it, is both reliable and discreet. In fact, I’ve left the stuff in his care and I’d appreciate it if you’d let him look after it for the present, just in case it should be needed as evidence. However, you have every right to insist on its return.”
“Oh no. I’d absolutely hate to have it in the house. As I can’t give it back to Mr. Marchenko yet, I’ll be glad it’s somewhere safe.” She hesitated. “Mr. Fletcher, this may sound funny, but would you mind not telling Mr. Levich it’s so valuable?”
“Of course not.” He could think of no conceivable circumstances which might require telling Yakov Levich. Poor woman! Whether she returned the goods to Marchenko or not, they were liable to cause complications in her life.
