Cover Her Face (15 page)

“If we’re thinking about motive,” replied Dalgliesh, “we could start with this engagement to Mr. Stephen Maxie.”

The doctor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Lot of rot. The boy’s a fool. He hasn’t a bean except what he earns and God knows that’s little enough. Of course, there will be something when his father dies, but these old families, living and keeping up property on capital, well, it’s a wonder they haven’t had to sell. The government’s doing its best to tax them out of existence. And that fellow Price surrounds himself with accounts and grows fat on untaxed expenses! Makes you
wonder if we’ve all gone mad! Still, that’s not your problem. You can take it from me, though, that Maxie isn’t in a position to marry anyone at present. And where did he think Sally was going to live? Stay on at Martingale with her mother-in-law? Silly fool wants his head examined.”

“All of which makes it plain,” said Dalgliesh, “that this projected match would have been calamitous for the Maxies. And that gives several people an interest in seeing that it didn’t happen.”

The doctor leaned across the desk at him challengingly. “At the cost of killing the girl? By making that child motherless as well as fatherless? What sort of people do you think we are?”

Dalgliesh did not reply. The facts were incontrovertible. Someone had killed Sally Jupp. Someone who had not even been deterred by the presence of her sleeping child. But he noted how the doctor’s cry allied him with the Maxies. “What sort of people do you think we are?” There was no doubt where Dr. Epps’s allegiance lay.

It was growing dark in the little room. Grunting with the slight effort, the doctor heaved himself across his desk and turned on a lamp. It was jointed and angled and he adjusted it carefully so that a pool of light fell on his hands but left his face in shadow. Dalgliesh was beginning to feel weary but there was much to be done before his working day was over. He introduced the main object of his visit.

“Mr. Simon Maxie is your patient, I believe?”

“Of course. Always has been. Not much to be done for him now, of course. Just a matter of time and good nursing. Martha sees to that mostly. But, yes, he’s my patient. Quite helpless. Advanced arteriosclerosis with other complications of one kind and another. If you’re thinking that he crawled upstairs to do in the maid, well, you’re wrong. I doubt if he knew she existed.”

“I believe you’ve been prescribing some special sleeping tablets for him for the last year or so?”

“Wish you wouldn’t keep on saying you believe this, that and the other. You know damn well I have. There’s no secret about them. Can’t see what they’ve got to do with this business though.” He stiffened suddenly. “You don’t mean she was doped first?”

“We haven’t the post-mortem report yet, but it looks very like it.”

The doctor did not pretend that he did not understand. “That’s bad.”

“It does rather narrow down the field. And there are other disquieting features.”

Dalgliesh then told the doctor about the missing Sommeil, where Sally was alleged to have found it, what Stephen did with the ten tablets and the finding of the bottle in the treasure hunt plot. When he had finished there was a silence for a moment. The doctor was sagging back into the chair which had at first seemed too small to withstand his cheerful and comfortable rotundity. When he spoke the deep rumbling voice was suddenly an old and tired voice.

“Stephen never told me. Not much chance with the fête, of course. Might have changed his mind though. Probably thought I wouldn’t be much help. I ought to have known, you see. He wouldn’t overlook carelessness like that. His father … my patient. I’ve known Simon Maxie for thirty years. Brought his children into the world. You ought to know your patients, know when they want help. I just left the prescription week after week. Didn’t even go up to him very often recently. Didn’t seem much point in it. Can’t think what Martha was doing though. She nursed him, did everything. She must have known about those tablets. That is, if Sally was telling the truth.”

“It’s difficult to imagine her making the whole thing up. Besides, she had the tablets. I presume they can only be obtained by a doctor’s prescription?”

“Yes. Can’t just walk into a chemist’s and buy them. Oh, it’s true all right. Never doubted it really. I blame myself. Should have seen what was happening at Martingale. Not only to Simon Maxie. To all of them.”

“So he thinks one of them did it,” thought Dalgliesh. “He can see clearly enough which way things are moving and he doesn’t like it. Small blame to him. He knows this is a Martingale crime all right. The thing is, does he know for certain? And if so, which one?”

He asked about the Saturday evening at Martingale. Dr. Epps’s account of Sally’s appearance before dinner and the disclosure of Stephen’s proposal was considerably less dramatic than that of Catherine Bowers or Miss Liddell, but the versions fundamentally agreed. He confirmed that neither he nor Miss Liddell had left the business room during the counting of the money and that he had seen Sally Jupp mounting the main staircase as he and his hostess were passing through the hall to the front door. He thought Sally was wearing a dressing-gown and carrying something, but he couldn’t recall what. It might have been a cup and saucer or perhaps a beaker. He had not spoken to her. That was the last time he had seen her alive.

Dalgliesh asked who else in the village had been prescribed Sommeil.

“I’ll have to look up my records if you want accuracy. May take half an hour or so. It wasn’t a common prescription. I can remember one or two patients who had it. May be others, of course. Sir Reynold Price and Miss Pollack at St. Mary’s had it, I know. Mr. Maxie, of course. By the way, what’s happening about his medicine now?”

“We’re holding the Sommeil. I understand that Dr. Maxie has prescribed its equivalent. And now, Doctor, perhaps I might have a word with your housekeeper before I go.”

It was a full minute before the doctor seemed to hear. Then he shuffled out of his chair with a muttered apology and led the way from the surgery into the house. There Dalgliesh was able tactfully to confirm that the doctor had arrived home at ten-forty-five the evening before and had been called out to a confinement at eleven-ten. He hardly expected to hear otherwise. He would have to check with the patient’s family, but no doubt they would provide an alibi for the doctor up to three-thirty in the morning when he had finally left Mrs. Baines of Nessingford in proud possession of her first-born son. Dr. Epps had been busy helping life into the world for most of Saturday night, not choking it out of Sally Jupp.

The doctor muttered something about a late visit and walked with Dalgliesh to the gate, first protecting himself from the evening air by an opulent and voluminous coat at least a size too large for him. When they were at the gate the doctor, who had plunged his hands into his pockets, gave a little start of surprise and opened his right hand to reveal a small bottle. It was nearly full of small brown tablets. The two men looked at it in silence for a moment. Then Dr. Epps said, “Sommeil.”

Dalgliesh took a handkerchief, wrapped up the bottle and slipped it into his own pocket. He noted with interest the doctor’s first instinctive gesture of resistance.

“That would be Sir Reynold’s stuff, Inspector. Nothing to do with the family. This was Price’s coat.” His tone was defensive.

“When did the coat come into your possession, Doctor?” asked Dalgliesh. Again there was a long pause. Then the
doctor seemed to remember that there were facts which it was pointless to try to hide.

“I bought it on Saturday. At the church fête. I bought it rather as a joke between myself and … and the stall-holder.”

“And that was … who?” asked Dalgliesh inexorably.

Dr Epps did not meet his eyes as he answered dully, “Mrs. Riscoe.”

Sunday had been secularized and timeless, its legacy a week so out-of-joint that Monday dawned without any colour or individuality, a mere limbo of a day. The post was heavier than usual, a tribute to the efficiency both of the ubiquitous telephone and to those subtler and less scientific methods of country communications. Presumably tomorrow’s post would be heavier still when the news of the Martingale murder reached those who depended on print for their information. Deborah had ordered half a dozen papers. Her mother wondered whether this extravagance was a gesture of defiance or a sop to genuine curiosity.

The police were still using the business room, although they had notified their intention of moving to The Moonraker’s Arms later in the day. Mrs. Maxie privately wished them joy of the cooking. Sally’s room was kept locked. Only Dalgliesh held the key and he gave no explanation for his frequent visits there nor of what he had found or hoped to find.

Lionel Jephson had arrived early in the morning, fussy, scandalized and ineffectual. The family only hoped that he
was being as big a nuisance to the police as he was to them. As Deborah predicted he was at a loss in a situation so divorced from his normal concerns and experience. His obvious anxiety and reiterated admonitions suggested that he had either grave doubts of his clients’ innocence or little faith in the efficiency of the police. It was a relief to the whole household when he scurried back to town before luncheon to consult with a colleague.

At twelve o’clock the telephone rang for the twentieth time. Sir Reynold Price’s voice boomed across the wire to Mrs. Maxie.

“But it’s disgraceful, my dear lady. What are the police doing?”

“I think at the moment they’re trying to trace the baby’s father.”

“Good God! Whatever for? I should think they’d do better to concentrate on finding who killed her.”

“They seem to think there could be a connection.”

“Damn silly ideas they would get. They’ve been here, you know. Wanted to know about some pills that Epps prescribed for me. Must have been months ago. Fancy him remembering after all that time. Now why do you suppose they worried about those? Most extraordinary thing. Not going to arrest me yet, Inspector, I said. You could see he was amused.” Sir Reynold’s hearty laughter crackled unpleasantly in Mrs. Maxie’s ear.

“How very tiresome for you,” said Mrs. Maxie. “I am afraid this sad business is causing a lot of trouble to everyone. Did you send them away happy?”

“The police? My dear lady, the police are never happy. I told them plainly that it’s no use expecting to find anything in this house. Maids tidy up everything that isn’t actually kept under lock and key. Fancy looking for a bottle of tablets which I
had months ago. Damn silly idea. The inspector seemed to think I ought to remember just how many I took and what happened to the others. Well, I ask you! I told him that I was a busy man with something better to do with my time. They were asking, too, about that spot of bother we had at St. Mary’s about two years ago. The inspector seemed very interested in it. Wanted to know why you had resigned from the committee and so on.”

“I wonder how they got on to that?”

“Some fool’s been talking too much, I suppose. Funny how people can’t keep their mouths shut, especially to the police. That chap Dalgliesh said to me that it was a funny thing you weren’t on the St. Mary’s committee when you ran practically everything else in the village. I told him you’d resigned two years ago when we had that spot of trouble and, naturally, he wanted to know what spot of trouble. Asked why we hadn’t got rid of Liddell at the time. I said to him, ‘My dear chap, you just can’t just chuck a woman out after twenty-five years’ service. It’s not as if there was actual dishonesty.’ I take my stand on that, you know. Always have. Always will. Carelessness and general muddle with the accounts, maybe, but that’s a far cry from deliberate dishonesty. I told the man that we’d had her before the committee—all very hushed up and tactful of course—and sent her a letter confirming the new financial arrangements so that there couldn’t be any misunderstanding. Damn stiff letter, too, all things considered. I know you thought at the time that we should have turned over the Home to the diocesan welfare committee or one of the national associations for unmarried mothers, instead of keeping it on as a private charitable concern, and so I told the inspector.”

“I thought it was time we handed over a difficult job to trained and experienced people, Sir Reynold.” Even as she
spoke Mrs. Maxie cursed the unwariness which had trapped her into this recapitulation of old history.

“That’s what I mean. I told Dalgliesh, ‘Mrs. Maxie may well have been right. I’m not saying she wasn’t. But Lady Price was keen on the Home—practically founded it, in fact—and naturally I wasn’t keen to hand it over. Not enough of these small individual places left now. Personal touch is what counts. No doubt, though, that Miss Liddell had made a nonsense of the accounts. Too much worry for her. Figures not really woman’s work.’ He agreed of course. Had quite a laugh about it.”

Mrs. Maxie could well believe it. The picture was not a pretty one. No doubt this facility for being all things to all men was a prerequisite for success as a detective. When the hearty man-to-man amusement had died down Mrs. Maxie had no doubt that Dalgliesh’s mind was busy with a new theory. Yet how was it possible? The mugs and cups for those last night drinks had certainly been placed ready by ten. After that Miss Liddell had never been out of her hostess’s sight. Together they had stood in the hall and watched that glowing triumphant figure carrying Deborah’s beaker up to bed. Miss Liddell might possibly have a motive if Sally’s taunt had any significance, but there was no evidence that she had the means, and certainly not that she had the opportunity. Mrs. Maxie, who had never liked Miss Liddell, was still able to hope that the half-forgotten humiliations of two years ago could remain hidden and that Alice Liddell, not very efficient, not very intelligent, but fundamentally kind and well-meaning would be left in peace.

But Sir Reynold was still speaking. “And by the way, I wouldn’t take any notice of these extraordinary rumours that are going round the village. People are bound to talk you know, but it will all die down as soon as the police get their man.
Let’s hope they get a move on. Now don’t forget, let me know if there’s anything I can do. And mind you lock up carefully at night. It might be Deborah or yourself next. And there’s another thing.” Sir Reynold’s voice became hoarsely conspiratorial and Mrs. Maxie had to strain to hear. “It’s about the boy. Nice little fellow as far as I could see. Was watching him in his pram at the fête, you know. Thought this morning I’d like to do something there. Not much fun losing your mother. No real home. Someone ought to keep an eye on him. Where is he now? With you?”