‘No, he’d never have done anything to hurt himself,’ answered her stepmother, ‘not even for the pleasure of hurting someone else. There’d have been no fun if he couldn’t watch.’
Jill looked at Margaret anxiously. She had never understood why this woman, attractive and very little older than herself, had come to marry her father in the first place. She said, in a low voice: ‘You must have hated him.’
‘No, I didn’t hate him,’ said Margaret. ‘I was sorry for him — in a way…’ ‘Somebody hated him,’ said Jill.
‘Yes — I suppose so … unless it was an accident…’
‘It couldn’t have been. That stuff must have been put in the whisky and milk deliberately…’
‘But who could have done it. There was nobody in the house but ourselves and the servants — and they’d all gone to bed…’
‘The servants could have had no reason…’ A sudden idea seemed to occur to Jill and she put it eagerly into words. ‘Listen, Margaret — supposing somebody called to see father — after you left him — you wouldn’t have known, would you?’
‘No … I don’t think so,’ replied Margaret. ‘I was very tired — I fell asleep almost at once.’
‘Somebody could have come — very late.’ A tinge of excitement crept into Jill’s voice. ‘They could, couldn’t they?’
‘It’s no good, Jill,’ said Margaret. ‘The police went into all that…’
‘I know, but don’t you see? It’s the only explanation. Somebody must have come
— they must.’
‘But who? Who would be likely?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jill clung desperately to the idea, ‘at least it’s something to work on, isn’t it?’
Some of her enthusiasm communicated itself to the elder woman.
‘If — if it could be proved — proved — that somebody did come — it would make a difference, wouldn’t it?’
‘Of course it would — all the difference, Margaret. There would have to be a fresh inquiry then.’
‘Nobody was seen — they couldn’t have been — or the police would have known about it … ’
‘They might not — there wouldn’t have been any witnesses.’
‘Then how can you possibly prove anything?’
‘I can try,’ said Jill.
‘Oh, Jill, if you could — if only you could…’
‘I’ve got to — it’s the only way…’
‘You’ll have to be quick,’ whispered Margaret, ‘very quick. There isn’t much time left…’
Jill left the prison and took a bus to Piccadilly Circus. There was some time before her train left to take her back to the country and the restful comforts of Easton Knoll, the lovely old house in which she had spent the greater part of her life, and she decided that what she wanted just at that moment, wanted more than anything else, was tea. There was a restaurant opposite the place where the bus stopped and she went in. The place was very crowded but she managed to find a table and sat down with a sigh of relief.
After a long delay a waitress condescended to take notice of her presence.
‘Only a pot o’ tea, miss?’ said the girl, when Jill gave her order. ‘No cakes or anything?’
‘No, thank you — just tea, please.’
The waitress sniffed and went away. Jill lit a cigarette and looked around her. There was some kind of altercation going on near the entrance but a pillar obscured her view, and she couldn’t see what it was about. Presently a deep, booming voice reached her ears. ‘No room?’ it roared, rising above the chatter and clatter of the place. ‘Nonsense, my good girl. There is an empty chair at that table over there — where that lady is sitting. I can think of no valid reason why I should not occupy it. May I suggest that at the first opportunity you consult an oculist? Warne, of Wimpole Street is an excellent man.’
With an apologetic and flustered manageress twittering in his wake, a huge man in a rumpled suit of Harris tweed came striding over towards Jill’s table.
‘Madam,’ he cried, when he was still several yards away, in a voice that effectually drowned all other sounds, ‘I am sure you can have no objection if we share this table? Should your imagination suggest a motive other than a lack of accommodation elsewhere, I can assure you, that it requires a considerable amount of spring cleaning…’
‘Please sit down, Mr. Gale,’ said Jill.
The big man’s shaggy eyebrows shot upwards and he tugged at a belligerent beard.
‘Eh?’ he shouted, ‘Eh? I’m afraid I don’t…’
‘You are Simon Gale, aren’t you?’ said Jill.
‘I am,’ he agreed, ‘but…’
‘Then sit down and don’t make so much fuss,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s looking at you.’
He snapped his fingers contemptuously, but he sat down.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘I’m Jill Hallam. Don’t you remember? Margaret introduced us. It was rather a long time ago…’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the bearded man. ‘I’ve got it now. You’re Maggie’s stepdaughter Here, waitress!’ He broke off, swinging round in his chair, ‘We want tea, girl — large quantities of tea — and see that it’s properly made and not like dishwater…’
‘Y — yes, sir,’ mumbled the waitress, a little scared, ‘shall I bring a pot for two, sir?’
‘Bring a pot for four,’ said Simon Gale. ‘We shall then, possibly, be able to squeeze out enough for two. If this were a civilized country one could get beer at this hour. Since, however, it suffers under the petty restrictions of an unimaginative collection of morons, one is forced to curb one’s natural inclinations and put up with tea.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The girl scuttled away, convinced that she was dealing with a madman.
‘You know, it’s rather a strange coincidence we should have met like this — today,’ said Jill. ‘You’re a great friend of Margaret’s, aren’t you?’
‘Known each other since childhood,’ said Gale. ‘I remember her when she was all legs, red hair, and freckles. Devilish temper she had even then.’
He rolled up his sleeve, and thrust a hairy forearm under Jill’s nose.
‘See that scar? Maggie did that — with a penknife — stuck it into my arm because she objected to me calling her Maggie!’ He shouted with laughter. ‘Didn’t stop me, though. I’ve always called her Maggie. I’ve always wanted to paint her when she was in a temper, but it never lasted long enough … How is she? Is she up in town with you?’
Jill stared at him in astonishment. ‘With me?’ she stammered. ‘Surely you — you know?’
‘Know?’ he demanded, ‘know what?’
‘You must know — the newspapers … ’
‘Look here,’ he cried. ‘What the devil are you talking about? Newspapers? I haven’t seen one of the scurrilous rags for over eight months. I’ve been abroad — painting in Italy — only got back this morning…’
‘Then — then you don’t know…’
‘My dear young woman,’ said Simon Gale, ‘that should be sufficiently obvious from what I have just said. Will you kindly stop dithering in this irritating manner, and tell me what it is I don’t know?’
‘Margaret’s in — in prison,’ said Jill.
‘In prison,’ shouted Gale. ‘Maggie?’
‘Ssh ,’ said Jill. ‘Please, Mr. Gale — everybody’s looking round.’
‘I don’t care a hundred tinkers’ cusses if they’re looking triangular!’ roared Gale even louder than before. ‘They can all turn pink and bust and it wouldn’t interest me in the smallest degree. Why is Maggie in prison?’
‘For murder,’ answered Jill.
‘Murder — whose murder?’
‘My father.’
‘Hallam, eh?’ Gale whistled softly. ‘By Saint Michael and all the angels! I always knew that infernal temper of Maggie’s would get her into serious trouble one of these days.’
‘Wait,’ she broke in, ‘you don’t understand…’
He mad
e an impatient gesture. ‘Of course, I understand … I’ve seen Maggie in a temper too often. What did she do — bash Hallam over the head with a poker or stick him with the bread-knife?’
‘He was — poisoned.’
‘Poisoned?’ Gale’s eyes narrowed and his voice changed. ‘Here, that’s different. There’s something wrong somewhere — all wrong. Maggie wouldn’t do that — she wouldn’t poison anyone.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ said Jill. ‘I don’t believe she did.’
‘Of course she didn’t,’ he swept away the suggestion and very nearly a vase of flowers as well. ‘She’s altogether the wrong type. She’s capable of killing anybody in a fit of temper, but poison … Rubbish, nonsense, balderdash!’
‘I think so too, but she’s been tried and found guilty … the execution is fixed to take place in seven days’ time.’
‘Execution?’ thundered Gale, to the horror of the people nearby. ‘Do you mean these blundering, incompetent numskulls are going to hang her?’
‘Yes,’ replied Jill. ‘Her appeal was dismissed and they won’t even consider a reprieve.’
‘Good God Almighty!’ Simon Gale was genuinely distressed. His beard bristled with indignation. ‘Something’s got to be done about this — we’ve got to get Maggie out of this mess.’ He glared round the crowded restaurant with malignant ferocity. ‘Look here, we can’t talk with all these chattering women round us … Come along to my studio … there’s nobody there but my young brother, Martin, and we can talk in peace … I want to hear all about this — all about it.’
He jumped to his feet almost upsetting the small table.
‘But — but the tea?’ began Jill.
‘To hell with the tea!’ roared Simon Gale. ‘Come on — we’ll get a taxi.’
He caught her by the arm and almost dragged her out on to the pavement. By great good luck there was an empty taxi passing and he hailed it.
The studio, she discovered, was in Kensington Church Street, an old house wedged in between an antique shop and a tobacconist’s. Gale flung a handful of coins at the driver, pushed her up a short flight of steps, thrust a key in the door, and, before she could recover her breath, had rushed her up an old staircase and into a huge, untidy room with great windows and an enormous skylight, which was littered with painting materials, easels, canvases, shelves, filled with books, and massive armchairs grouped round a stove.
She was hastily introduced to a dark-haired, good-looking man, much younger than Gale, who had been reading, and rose in astonishment at the unceremonious disturbance of his peace.
‘Pour out some beer, Martin,’ shouted his brother, ‘Here you are, Jill — you’ll find that chair comfortable.’
She was dying for a cup of tea but she didn’t like to suggest it.
Martin Gale, however, when he had brought his brother a huge foaming tankard drawn from a barrel in a corner of the studio, asked her if she would like some tea.
‘Oh, yes, please,’ she said, gratefully.
‘The kettle is boiling,’ he said. ‘I’ll make some.’
Simon took a prodigious draught from the tankard, flung himself down in a chair and began to stuff an old pipe with tobacco.
‘Now,’ he boomed, ‘let’s have the whole story.’
They both listened attentively while Jill told them. When she had finished, Martin looked over at his brother.
‘Well, I must say it looks pretty hopeless to me,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Simon?’
‘Pour me out some more beer,’ grunted Simon, ‘and don’t be such a confounded young pessimist.’
‘You don’t think it’s hopeless, then, Mr. Gale?’ said Jill.
‘Me? No,’ he answered. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be easy — the time element is going to be the greatest handicap — but hopeless? No, I refuse to admit that it’s hopeless.’
‘But how can you get round the evidence?’ demanded his brother, coming back with the re-filled tankard.
‘I’ve no intention of trying,’ retorted Gale. ‘I don’t care a fig for the evidence! I’ll agree that it’s pretty damning, but I’ll back my knowledge of psychology against sufficient tangible evidence to fill the Grand Canyon. I say that Maggie is as incapable of doing what these nincompoops say she did, as I am of perpetrating an atrocity — like The Stag at Bay.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Jill. The tea which Martin had brought her had made her feel better. The weariness had almost gone.
‘Of course I am,’ said Gale. ‘Only a bunch of congenital idiots could possibly imagine otherwise.’
‘I’m not disagreeing with you, Simon,’ said Martin. ‘I think Maggie’s innocent but how are you going to prove it? That’s what I want to know.’
‘By discovering the person who really poisoned Hallam, of course,’ said Gale.
‘Supposing it was an accident?’ asked his brother.
‘Sheer flaming nonsense!’ snorted Simon. ‘That’s the one thing it couldn’t have been, and you’ll see why if you take the trouble to use your brains. No mere accident could have left such a perfect chain of evidence against Maggie. That was planned — and very cunningly planned. No — we can wash out accident.’
‘What about suicide?’
‘I’m certain it wasn’t that,’ put in Jill. ‘If you’d known father you’d have understood what I mean. He was afraid of death.’
‘In any case the same objection applies to suicide as to accident,’ said Gale. ‘If Hallam committed suicide he must have done so in such a way as to make it look as though Maggie had murdered him — deliberately, mark you. Did he hate her?’
Jill shook her head. ‘No — they were always rowing, of course — they both had fiendish tempers — but I think in his own way he was fond of her — as fond as he could ever be of anyone except himself.’
‘There you are, you see?’ exclaimed Simon triumphantly. ‘It all boils down to this — there’s an undiscovered murderer at large in that village of yours, and one of the most dangerous types of murderer too — a poisoner.’
‘How are you going to find him — that’s the question,’ said Martin. ‘You’ve only got seven days — six really, because there’s not much you can do today, now. It’s not very long, you know, Simon.’
‘I know, I know — we’ve got to work fast. When are you going back to Easton Knoll, Jill?’
‘Well, I was catching the seven forty-three this evening…’
‘Don’t. Wait until tomorrow. Is there a train somewhere in the late afternoon?’
‘There’s one at five seven. It only runs on Saturday … ’
‘That’ll do admirably. Can you put us up?’
‘Of course,’ said Jill. ‘I can wire Mrs. Barrett.’
‘Good. Do that,’ said Gale. ‘We’ll catch the five seven tomorrow afternoon. We’d better meet at the station.’
‘If we’re going, why not go tonight?’ asked Martin. ‘Why waste nearly a whole day?’
‘Don’t talk such balderdash, Martin. I’m not wasting anything. I’m going to spend tomorrow interviewing Mayhew, the police, counsel for the defence, Maggie — everybody who can tell me anything at all about this wretched business. I want to get hold of all the details I can — every little tiny single one of ’em. I want to go to Easton Knoll thoroughly primed with all the facts.’
‘What excuse shall I give for your coming — just now?’ said Jill. ‘People will wonder.’
‘Let ’em,’ said Gale. ‘The more they wonder and talk about it the better. We’re not going to make any secret of it. We’re going to kick up a right-royal hell for leather, blazing row about the reason we are there.’
‘What good is that going to do?’ asked Martin.
‘Can’t you see?’ answered Simon, stabbing at the air with the stem of his pipe. ‘Our unknown murderer is at present sitting pretty. All his plans have gone on smoothly oiled wheels. He’s got rid of Hallam, for some reason best known to himself, and cleverly
shifted the blame on to Maggie. She’s been convicted and sentenced and looks like hanging. He’s safe, secure, laughing up his sleeve. And then we turn up shouting to high heaven that we don’t believe a word of it, and pretending that we really know something. In an instant his smug sense of security is shattered. All the red lights begin to glow brightly, and he sees danger in large, capital letters. Do you imagine that he’s going to sit quietly and wait to see what happens? It’s not humanly possible.’
‘What do you think he will do, then?’ asked Jill.
‘What you, or I, or anybody else would do in the same circumstances,’ he answered. ‘He’ll try and take further precautions to ensure his safety. He won’t be able to help himself — he must do something. The uncertainty will gnaw and gnaw at his nerves until he has to make a move — any move — to reassure himself — and that’s when we’ve got him.’
They all three met at the station as arranged on the Saturday afternoon and reached Easton Knoll in time for dinner. Simon Gale had said very little during the journey. They thought he was asleep but he repudiated the suggestion, when Martin made it, and asserted that he had been thinking.
‘I’ve been dying to ask you,’ said Jill when they assembled in the long, low-ceilinged drawing-room at Easton Knoll for coffee. ‘How did you get on today? Did you see all the people you wanted to?’
‘I did,’ he replied. ‘I’ve had a most strenuous, if not altogether unproductive day. At the cost of a very severe strain on my temper, I have succeeded in acquiring all the information available concerning Hallam’s death. I saw Mayhew, who is a fool, I saw Sir William Fox, the counsel for the defence, who is an even bigger fool, and I saw Superintendent Shelford, who is the biggest fool of all. With what, in the circumstances, I can only regard as abnormal control, I merely informed them of my opinion without using any of the qualifying adjectives which naturally came to my mind!’
‘I wish I’d been with you.’ said Jill, laughing.
‘It was most instructive.’
‘Did you see Margaret?’
‘Yes … poor Maggie,’ Gale tugged at his beard, ‘she’s trying to keep a grip on herself, but her nerves are wearing thin. She looks as if she might crack up at any moment … ’
Noose for a Lady Page 2
