“And the telephone-box, on which you laid such stress?”
“It began to seem very odd that there should be a taxi at the door of my
father’s office at the precise moment that he emerged. You see, I knew that call was faked, and it flashed on me that nothing could be easier than for the driver to have sent the message, nipped back to his cab, and come driving past the door just as my father appeared. He’d probably tried half a hundred times to maneuver my father into some such position, and at last luck was with him.”
He was silent for a very long time.
“What a tragedy!” murmured Cowdrey after that pause, “why don’t you get away for a bit till it’s blown over?”
“This sort of tragedy,” said the young man somberly, “can never die.”
“You mean, the shock of his death... .”
“No. The real tragedy was that, at the end of sixty years’ fighting, he’d nothing worth keeping to lose.”
Very soon afterwards Cowdrey went away and left him alone, a dark, sad young man plunged in the welter of his lonely thoughts in that dark and lonely house.
Over My Dead Body
“Nurse,” called Mrs. Farren, in her fretful voice. “Nurse, where are you?” “Coming,” called Nurse Anstruther, and a moment later she bustled into the room, a brisk, trim little woman, as hard as nails,
Mrs. Farren complained. “What is it now?”
“My pillows,” moaned Mrs. Farren. “And I think I have a temperature.”
Nurse shook up the pillows and took her patient’s temperature, which, as she expected, was normal, and said she’d just been down for a cup of tea.
“Tea’s poison to me,” moaned Mrs. Farren. “Isn’t it time for my medicine?”
“Not till three o’clock.”
“Time goes so slowly when you’re laid aside. Isn’t Joy back yet?”
“Your daughter went out to lunch, Mrs. Farren. She’s lunching with Captain Waterhouse, you know.”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Farren forgot her languor. “Did she tell you?”
Nurse Anstruther laughed. “Who else does she ever lunch with these days? I expect they’re making their final plans.”
“Plans for what?”
“Well a blind man could see they’re head over ears in love. He practically lives on your doorstep.”
“Nurse you must be out of your mind. Thank heaven Captain Waterhouse goes back to his cannibals and Hottentots next month. What’s so funny?
“There aren’t any cannibals or Hottentots in Kenya where Joy will be going. My sister’s there and ...”
Mrs. Farren brushed Nurse’s sister aside. “Joy’s certainly not going out to Kenya. I shouldn’t hear of it.”
“I fancy she’ll go just the same. You don’t want her to be an old maid, do you? You’ve had her a long time. Now, it’s time you had your medicine. Shall I pour it out for you?”
“You know I always take my own; I prefer it. My life has made me very careful. People are so careless, unscrupulous even and I don’t want any chance of getting the bottles mixed so that I get the wrong dose.”
Mrs. Farren put out her hand and took a tall round bottle off the table beside her. This was “my medicine” to be taken every six hours. She had another bottle of quite different shape that contained her sleeping-mixture.
The two mixtures looked so much alike that Dr. Sampson made a point of putting them up in bottles impossible to confuse, and in addition each was conspicuously labelled. Nurse watched Mrs. Farren measure out a careful dose, and recork the bottle.
“Now you can make my coffee on the gas ring.” She said “About Joy you’ll find you’re quite wrong. She’s very young for her age, but not so young she’d be taken in by that adventurer.”
At that moment a door downstairs crashed. “That’ll be her back,” remarked nurse. “You can ask her for yourself.”
Joy Farren was a tall, fair girl, with brilliant eyes and a face bright with happiness. She must have been lovely ten years ago, and now that she was in love youth had flowed back to her face.
“How late you are, darling; I’ve been so worried. Couldn’t you have telephoned or something?”
“It’s only just three. We had so much to arrange the time absolutely flew.”
“We?”
“Guy and I. He’s just heard he’s to sail next month and he wants us to get married immediately, so that I can go out with him. Oh, mother. I never thought I’d be as happy as this again.”
Mrs. Farren raised herself on one elbow. “Are you mad, Joy? There can’t be any question of your marrying Captain Waterhouse.”
“But I am. I am. Oh, mother, isn’t it wonderful ...?”
“It’s preposterous,” said Mrs. Farren shortly. “The fact is you’ve let yourself get carried away, and quite lost your head. He’s not the sort of man I intend you to marry. And how you can talk in this heartless fashion about leaving me ...”
“I must marry Guy,” said Joy. “If I stay this time it’ll be too late.”
“If he’s as fickle as that ...”
“It’s not a question of being fickle. But—I haven’t forgotten Alan Pearce and Maurice after him, and ... The truth is, you don’t mean me to marry at all.”
“I should have thought you owed our mother something. Nurse, what are you gaping there for? I shan’t want you for the next hour. My daughter and I have important matters to discuss.”
As she passed Joy, Nurse Anstruther whispered “Good luck,” but her heart was heavy. Mrs. Farren was an expert at getting her own way and she’d run Joy ragged for years. The row had started when she closed the front door, and it was still going on when she returned an hour later. Now it was clear that Mrs. Farren was going all out for victory.
“Over my dead body,” she was saying as Nurse came in. “I’m sure you don’t want my death on your conscience. Later you’ll be grateful to me for saving you from yourself.”
* * *
During the days that followed it became increasingly clear that Joy and her lover would be defeated. Mrs. Farren refused to discuss the matter further.
Nurse Anstruther came to a decision “Over my dead body.” Mrs. Farren had said, and “So be it” decided Nurse. Her plan was simplicity itself. She merely proposed to change the contents of the medicine bottles so that when Mrs. Farren took her six o’clock draught she would, in fact, be taking a fatal dose of sleeping-mixture. She always liked to be left alone between six and seven, and by that time it would be too late to do anything about it.
When the truth was discovered, it would be assumed she’d made a mistake (for Nurse would put the mixtures back again before calling the doctor), or even deliberately taken an overdose to make it impossible for Joy to marry Captain Waterhouse.
On the day the nurse resolved to put it into action Mrs. Farren had a visitor, a Mrs. Christie. Mrs. Farren spent the whole visit bemoaning her daughter’s attitude. “It’s a miserable thing to grow old and know you’re unwanted,” she said. “My life’s a burden and I shall be thankful when I can lay it down.”
When Nurse let Mrs. Christie out the latter said: “Dear me, she is in the dumps. I suppose it’s all right her having that sleeping mixture beside the bed? I should keep an eye on her if I were you. In her present mood she might do anything.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” murmured Nurse Anstruther, truthfully. “But thanks for the tip.”
She looked in on Mrs. Farren on her way up; her patient was lying back against the pillows with closed eyes. “I don’t want to be disturbed, Nurse,” she said. “Mrs. Christie’s quite worn me out. I shall try to get some sleep.”
* * *
For about an hour the house was perfectly quiet. Then, at a quarter to six, Mrs. Farren’s bell rang and her voice could be heard imperiously demanding the attendance of everyone in the household. When she had them all—Joy. Nurse and the cook, Mrs. Palmer—lined up at the foot of the bed, she told them: “I want you all to hear what I have to
say. Then you can alibi each other. And, Joy, you’re going to get your own way after all. I only hope you won’t regret it.”
“You mean, you’re going to agree to our marriage?” Joy couldn’t believe her ears.
“I mean, I shan’t be here to disagree. It seemed to me the only way out. I’m a burden and so—and so I’ve taken a double dose of my sleeping-mixture. It’s no good looking like that, Joy. It’s too late to do anything. Enjoy your marriage. It’s cost me my life.”
Joy looked as if she would faint. Mrs. Palmer cried. “The doctor, nurse, get the doctor.”
Mrs. Farren repeated triumphantly. “It’s too late.”
Only Nurse Anstruther remained composed. “Now don’t take on anyone,” she said. “There’s no harm done. Mrs. Farren, you haven’t taken a fatal dose at all. All you’ve had is a double helping of your ordinary medicine which wouldn’t hurt a fly.
“You see,” she explained to the others, “when Mrs. Christie warned me Mrs. Farren was in one of her moods, just to be on the safe side I changed over the bottles; so when”—she turned to Mrs. Farren— “you took two spoonfuls out of the one marked sleeping mixture, you were just taking two spoonfuls of tonic, like I said. Why, Mrs. Farren, what is it?”
For her patient had suddenly pulled herself erect and her face was ghastly with fear. “Is—that—true?” she whispered.
“Of course it’s true. Now, Mrs. Farren, let’s have no more of these theatricals ...”
But the woman pushed away her restraining hand. “Don’t touch me, you—you murdering fool,” she panted. “Do you know what you’ve done? How was I to guess you’d play a trick like that? I meant to give you all a fright—that was all—and so before I took the dose I changed the bottles back—do you understand? —I changed them back.”
* * *
A coroner’s jury absolved Nurse Anstruther from blame, the coroner remarking that she had taken a somewhat unconventional step to prevent possible tragedy. He did not hold her in any way responsible for Mrs. Farren’s death.
But Nurse Anstruther is still not sure whether she was a murderess or not.
The Funeral of Dendy Watt
Dendy Watt, an old reprobate, was found hanging in a disused shed three days before Christmas, leaving neither note, relatives, nor money to tidy up his earthly affairs. After the inquest, the body was passed to the Matthews Funeral Parlor for disposal; Mortimer Matthews was a busy little man who buried paupers at a cut rate in return for recommendations from the Councillors when more profitable interments were in question. That was the year of the big snow, and Death was as busy as the proverbial bee. Some ministers were conducting funerals in triplicate, and burying in triplicate, too, where there was no one to accept responsibility for the deceased.
On Christmas Eve old Mort Matthews had his hands full with the funeral of the Honorable Mrs. Grubb, who was going to meet her maker in the full panoply of embroidered pall, silk-hatted attendants, a special anthem, and a diatribe from the Reverend Cartwright. It wasn’t feasible to keep Dendy Watt in cold storage till after the holiday—Christmas was always good for the trade, with old gentlemen over-indulging and old ladies falling off ladders trying to hang the unwanted mistletoe. “We’ll have coffins queuing up at the gate,” Mort told his driver, Tig Wilson. “Mr. Cartwright can’t fit in another service before Christmas, so I’ve arranged with the Reverend Graves at Ullerton— good name that for a minister, don’t you agree?—to include Dendy with two old gents from the local almshouses who went out together, got in the way of a car—shocking thing really.” (The coroner had brought in a benign verdict that permitted Dendy Watt to be buried in consecrated ground.)
“And in death they were not divided,” quoted Tig, and Mr. Matthews smiled his approval.
“A very philosophic spirit, Mr. Wilson. The funeral’s fixed for 2:30 the day of Christmas Eve, but Mr. Graves says he’d postpone it for fifteen minutes, but no longer.”
Tig Wilson frowned. “It can’t be done, Mr. Matthews. There’s the Honorable Mrs. Grubb at 12:00—that’ll take an hour, coming and going; then there’s my lunch, and you did agree I should get off after that. My boy’s expecting me—I always go there Christmas Eve to help decorate the place—I told him I’d be there at four o’clock. Dendy can’t expect to upset everybody’s plans.”
“Mr. Wilson!” Mort sounded shocked. “Where’s your respect for the dead? Putting your personal convenience in the foreground? You know our motto— ‘Death works all round the clock and. so do we.’ Anyway, Ullerton’s not so far out of your way and you can finish the journey in the van.”
The van was the plain hearse—the posh one was reserved for Mrs. Grubb and such; poor chaps like Dendy Watt wouldn’t appreciate elegant fittings and silver rails. The van looked so like an ordinary plain truck—no name on it, of course, you can’t advertise trading in corpses; so most people thought that was what it looked like—an ordinary truck.
“It’s a nuisance,” Mort was continuing smoothly. “Such short notice. He was a little man, was Dendy, and right now I don’t have a coffin his size. That means using one of the larger ones—always keep a few in stock for precisely this sort of emergency—a great waste of good wood, I call it.” He shook his head. “And no one to appreciate it. I don’t like waste, Mr. Wilson, but we mustn’t grudge a fellow creature the last service we can afford him.”
Tig raced back from the Grubb interment, unnecessarily prolonged, in his opinion, by an obsequious rector. He stopped at a local café for a cup of coffee and a sandwich and was agreeably surprised on his return to the funeral parlor to find that Mr. Matthews, perhaps experiencing a qualm of conscience over stealing his driver’s Christmas Eve, had everything prepared for him. The plain van stood by the side entrance, as usual; the coffin had the handsomest bed Dendy had occupied, for years, with just his name and a date on the lid.
Mr. Wilson looked round for a pall to cover the ceremonial box, but Mort said easily, “You won’t need that, Mr. Wilson. One thing this hearse does provide is complete privacy, and Mr. Graves is sure to have a spare pall. We wouldn’t want any harm to come to this one—children, you know.”
“My grandsons won’t be playing with a hearse,” said Tig stiffly. “No attendants, sir?” For the two mutes who had presumably helped to hoist the coffin into the van were putting on their coats and saying, “Happy Christmas.”
“There will be attendants for Dendy’s companions,” smiled Mort. “At this festive season they will hardly grudge him a share of their—accoutrements. Be sure to remember me to your son. I wonder if you realize your good fortune, Mr. Wilson—a son and one so devoted to his father. Not all of us are so blessed.”
Mr. Wilson felt embarrassed. Everyone knew that Mort’s only surviving relative was a nephew, first cousin in roguery to the dead Mr. Watt, and at this very moment, if rumor could be believed, the police were interested in his whereabouts. It was good of the old man, really, to go on bothering about his nephew; it was difficult to see what Mort got out of it.
* * *
It appeared to Tig that all the world and his wife had chosen that afternoon to start the Christmas holiday. The sky, that had been lowering when he started, soon sank, like a huge dingy cloth loaded with old washing. He’d reached Faiths Cross when the snow began again. If progress had been decorous even by funeral standards up to this point, it now dwindled to a virtual standstill. Innumerable learner-drivers seemed to be abroad, all struggling for the middle of the road and refusing to be budged, presumably because they feared to be crushed against the sidewalk.
Tig looked ever and anon at his watch: Mr. Matthews had failed to explain what he was to do with his burden if he didn’t reach the churchyard in time. He doubted if the minister would allow him to park the coffin in an outbuilding, and he certainly didn’t propose to take Dendy to his son’s house as an uninvited guest. There were limits even to Christmas hospitality.
When it became obvious he wasn’t going to reach his objective anywhere
near the right time Tig decided on what his employer later described as “a madman’s decision.” Struggling out of the muddle of trailing cars he turned the hearse into a side road and, started to career at a most unseemly pace over the Downs. He knew this part of the country—he was a birdwatcher in his spare time—and there were landmarks that would warn him when he should rejoin the main road. What he hadn’t allowed for was the obvious fact that Downs have a disconcerting way of looking alike when snow-covered, and landmarks simply go to ground like homing moles. Still, Tig blundered on until suddenly he felt a sickening lurch, nearly fell out of his seat, and realized that the wheels of the van had plunged into a ditch.
“Hup there!” he said impatiently, gunning the engine. But all that happened was that the wheels, after a whirl or two, stopped dead. Tig hopped out to investigate. He was shocked to find the hearse canted at a most unreasonable angle. The snow was considerably thicker than he’d appreciated and they were stuck as tight as a fly in a spider’s web. Moreover, a furious wind had sprung up, threatening to turn him into a snowman if he didn’t get under shelter soon. Thoughtfully he unbolted the back door of the hearse and climbed in, dragging his driver’s rug with him.
Sequel to Murder: The Cases of Arthur Crook and Other Mysteries Page 26
