Latter End (11 page)

Chief Detective Inspector Lamb sat solidly in Jimmy Latter’s heavy oak writing-chair, which he filled a good deal better than Jimmy did. On the table in front of him was a pile of papers. He had left his bowler hat in the hall and appeared, in his neat dark clothes, as a stout, strongly built figure, very upright and as solid as the oak which supported him. His strong black hair had receded a little at the temples, leaving his large square face rather more in evidence than it had been twenty years before. His round brown eyes, which Frank Abbott irreverently compared to peppermint bullseyes— the dark, strongly flavoured kind—were turned upon that young man, who in a beautiful suit of summer grey sat in an easy attitude on the farther side of the table. There could have been no greater contrast than that which the two men presented. Lamb, the old-time policeman, experienced in discipline and life, just, honest, intelligent. Frank Abbott, product of the public school and Police College, much more educated, but under all his irreverence a loyal subordinate and a staunch admirer of his chief. To look at him, one would not suppose him to be given to loyalties and admirations. Rather an exquisite young man—rather blasé, very fair hair slicked back with unguents, pale blue eyes fixed in a meditative stare, the latest collar, the latest tie, hands noticeably well shaped and beautifully kept, slim elegant feet in slim elegant shoes.

The Chief Inspector tapped the table and said,

“Well, Frank, what do you make of it?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir.”

Lamb made a sound which might have been described as a snort.

“Oh, it isn’t, isn’t it? Very proper and respectful all of a sudden, aren’t you? Not feeling ill, I suppose?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

The table was banged.

“Then come off it! I asked you a question.”

Sergeant Abbott smiled negligently.

“I should like to hear your opinion first, sir.”

The Chief Inspector’s colour had risen. Frank was an insubordinate young dog. There were times when he wanted taking down a peg or two. There were times when he got the taking down. This morning had been one of the times, and Lamb had dealt faithfully. Young men with swelled heads were what he never had tolerated and never would. Frank was a good boy, but none the worse for a setting down—too free by half with his opinions. And now he was getting his own back. Insubordination—that was what it was, and he’d got him in a cleft stick. You can’t discipline a man for being respectful. He said rather loudly,

“It’s too soon to be giving opinions, but if the locals hadn’t thought it was murder they wouldn’t have called us in.”

Frank Abbott gave a slight cool nod.

“As you say, sir.”

“The Chief Constable didn’t want to be mixed up in it. I don’t think his opinion’s worth having. He’s overdue for retirement. But that Inspector—what’s his name, Smerdon?—he’s a smart fellow, there’s no doubt about what he thinks. And Dr. Hathaway. The doctor’s right, you know, about sleeping-draught suicides—they take the stuff in bed, every man jack of them. I suppose it’s natural—what they call association of ideas. You go to bed and you go to sleep— especially the women. The only exceptions I can think of are the people who try and get off the map altogether—go off into a wood or something like that where they think they won’t be found. Now this Mrs. Latter, she’s a smart, sophisticated woman—a goodlooker too. She’s had a row with her husband. He finds her in his cousin’s room in the middle of the night. By Mrs. Marsh’s account she’s chucked herself at his head, and he isn’t having any. Then the husband comes in—says he’s heard everything and sends her packing. Well, there’s no denying that’s a slap in the face for a woman— about the worst she could have. She might commit suicide.”

Frank Abbott nodded, but did not speak. Lamb went on.

“She might, but I can’t see her doing it like that. To my way of thinking, the sort of woman she was would have made a better show of it—dressed it up a bit. Suicides do, you know. There’s a lot of the old ‘They’ll be sorry when I’m dead’ about them, especially with women who kill themselves over love affairs. They want to make a good dramatic impression that’ll give them plenty of limelight and leave the man in the case something to think about for the rest of his life. As I see it, by all accounts Mrs. Latter wasn’t the sort of person to want to slip away quietly and not give any trouble. No woman who’s managed to get herself as much disliked as she had is going to think about other people’s feelings. That sort of woman wants to make a splash. She makes up her face, she does her hair, she puts on her best nightgown, and she leaves a suicide note to harrow the man’s feelings up.”

Frank’s indifferent look had changed. He said,

“Yes—I think you’re right.”

Lamb had talked himself into a good temper.

“Then I must be! Well, if it isn’t suicide it’s murder. And if it’s murder, then it’s one of the people in this house—one of seven people. Mr. Antony Latter is out of it—he wasn’t here. A bit of good luck for him. He’d no motive either, as far as one can see. You don’t poison a woman because she sets her cap at you. Well, that leaves Mr. Jimmy Latter the husband, those two half-sisters who aren’t really half-sisters at all—”

“His stepmother’s daughters.”

“That’s right. It leaves them, and that Miss Mercer, and the servants—the old cook who’s been here donkey’s years, the kitchenmaid, a girl of seventeen, and Mrs. Gladys Marsh.” He repeated the last name in a very disapproving tone, “Mrs. Gladys Marsh. Well, I’m sorry for her husband, whoever he is. A thorough-going bad lot is how I’d put her down. Why, she’d the impudence to make eyes at me.”

With a perfectly straight face, Sergeant Abbott said,

“Incredible, sir!”

The bullseyes bulged a little.

“Look here—how do you mean, ‘incredible’? You saw her, didn’t you?”

He got a properly respectful reply.

“I mean it would have been incredible if I hadn’t seen it.”

Lamb grunted.

“Well, bad lot or no, I think we count her out. I can’t see what motive she’d have. She was by way of being the spoilt favourite, I gather, and if she’d had any hand in the business, I shouldn’t expect her to put herself forward the way she did. I don’t suppose we’d have heard a word about Mrs. Latter having those sick attacks and saying someone was trying to poison her if Mrs. Gladys Marsh hadn’t had her fit of hysterics and let it out. I don’t see anyone else tumbling over themselves to tell us. They’ll all stick together, the rest of them will. There’s the family—that’s natural. And there’s that old woman in the kitchen—she’s been here more than fifty years. Well, people like that, they’ll stick even closer than the relations will.”

“Plus royaliste que le roi,” murmured Sergeant Abbott, adding hastily, “You’re quite right, sir.”

He got a glare.

“Oh, I am, am I? And let me tell you that my own language is good enough for me, and if it isn’t good enough for you it ought to be! If you’ve got to put a thing into a foreign language, it’s either because it’s something to be ashamed of, or it’s because you’re showing off.”

Having waved the red rag, Frank made a strategic retirement.

“It was a quotation, Chief.”

“Then you can quote in English! There’s the whole of Shakespeare, isn’t there? Extraordinary what a lot of quotations there are in Shakespeare.”

“Quite true, sir.”

“Then stick to ’em! And don’t go foreign on me—it puts me out! Where was I?”

“Mrs. Maniple sticking closer than a relation.”

Lamb nodded.

“She’s that sort. And she’s got the girl Polly What’s-her-name—”

Frank offered “Pell.”

“Polly Pell. She’s got her well under her thumb, I should say. Kitchenmaids were kitchenmaids when she went into service. She’ll have gone through the mill herself, and she’ll not be standing any nonsense. Things don’t change so much as you’d think in a village. I was brought up in one, and I know. The world’s been turned upside down, but there’s a long way to go before you can stop a determined old woman having her own way with a girl like that. So we come back to where we started. If Gladys Marsh hadn’t let the cat out of the bag, I don’t suppose anyone else would have done it.”

“I don’t suppose they would.”

“Well then, if we leave out Gladys Marsh we get the family and the old cook. I think we can leave the girl out of it too— she wouldn’t have any motive. So then there’s Mr. Latter, Mrs. Street, Miss Vane, Miss Mercer—I’m counting her as family—and Mrs. Maniple. Well, Mr. Latter has the strongest motive. He’s been married two years, and by all accounts he’s very devoted to his wife—thinks no end of her. And then all of a sudden he gets this frightful shock. He finds her in his cousin’s room in the middle of the night in her nightgown, fairly throwing herself at him, and his cousin saying no. It’s enough to throw a man off his balance. If he’d killed her then, he’d have got off with a nominal sentence. Provocation—that’s what he had. But he didn’t kill her then. He takes the rest of the night, and all next day, and the best part of another twenty-four hours after that. And Mrs. Latter dies of an overdose of morphia administered in her after-dinner coffee. He had the motive—there’s no stronger motive than jealousy. He’d put her on a pedestal and she’d come down with a crash. He had the opportunity—he was alone in the room, with the coffee in those two cups on the tray. You may say that all the rest of the family had an equal opportunity, and that’s true. Take their own statements. Miss Vane brings the tray in and puts it down, goes out on to the terrace and along to this study window, where she looks in and asks Mr. Latter if he is coming into the drawing-room for his coffee. He says yes, and she wanders about for a bit. By the time she looks in to say she’s going for a walk the rest of the family are in the drawing-room, Mr. Latter is drinking his coffee, and Mrs. Latter is going towards her chair with her cup in her hand. Miss Vane goes away, and doesn’t come back till ten o’clock, when she finds Mrs. Latter alone in the drawing-room in a state of collapse. That’s Miss Julia Vane. She could have put morphia into either of the cups, but she had no means of knowing which one Mrs. Latter would take.”

Frank Abbott had straightened up. His eyes were cool and keen. He said,

“Quite.”

Lamb went on.

“Miss Mercer comes next. She says she came into the drawing-room and found Mrs. Latter there, standing by the coffee-table. She says she was putting sugar in her coffee. Mrs. Latter said something about where were the others, and went out on to the terrace by way of looking for them. Miss Mercer says she followed her. If it ever comes to a trial, I suppose the defence will say it wasn’t sugar Mrs. Latter was putting into her cup, it was the morphia powdered up to look like sugar. I suppose that’s possible—but it don’t seem likely. On her own showing Miss Mercer had the opportunity of doctoring one of the cups.”

“That would mean premeditation.”

Lamb nodded.

“That goes for all of them… Mrs. Street comes next. She says she came into the drawing-room and found it empty. The coffee-tray was on the table. She hadn’t been there more than a moment, when Mr. Latter came in. He didn’t come along the terrace and in through the window, but followed her through the door. Mrs. Latter and Miss Mercer were on the terrace. She said she would call them, and went out by way of the window, leaving Mr. Latter alone in the room. She had her opportunity, and she left him with his. That’s all plain—each of them was alone with the coffee-tray. One of them must have poisoned the coffee which Mrs. Latter drank. I don’t think it’s reasonable to suppose it was the cook. She is by all accounts devoted to Mr. Latter, and if she poisoned one cup, it would be an absolute toss-up whether he got it or not. She could have no motive except general resentment, and she’d never have risked it. I think we’ll cut her out. That leaves us with Miss Vane, Mrs. Street, Miss Mercer, and Mr. Latter. They all had an equal opportunity to putting something into one of the cups. But Miss Vane, like the cook, had no control over who took which cup. They all agree that she didn’t come back into the drawing-room. So she’s in the same boat as the cook, and I’m going to leave her out too, at any rate for the present. Now we’ve got Mrs. Street, Miss Mercer, and Mr. Latter. And this is where they all go vague on us. I want to know who dished those cups out. When Miss Vane looked in Mr. Latter was in a chair by the window drinking his coffee, and Mrs. Latter was crossing the room with her cup in her hand. Mrs. Street was sitting quite close to the open terrace door. Miss Mercer was picking up some rose-leaves which had fallen from a vase on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Street says she didn’t touch the coffee-cups or notice who did—she was very tired, and she was only thinking about how soon she could get off to bed. Miss Mercer says she didn’t go near the tray or touch the cups after she and Mrs. Latter came in together from the terrace. She says Mrs. Latter walked straight up to the tray and took her cup. Mr. Latter says his cup was on the small table beside his chair. He says he didn’t notice whether it was there when he first came into the room. Well, maybe he’s lying. If he put morphia into one of the cups he wouldn’t want to risk getting that cup himself—he’d make sure there wasn’t any mistake by putting his own cup out of harm’s way. Mrs. Street says she can’t remember whether both cups were on the tray when she went through. She’d been to see her husband that afternoon—he’s being moved to a convalescent home at Brighton—and she says she was much too taken up with thinking about him and how tired she was to be bothering about coffee cups. Miss Mercer says both cups were on the tray when she came into the drawing-room. Of course either she or Mrs. Street could have put the morphia into one of the cups and shifted the other to the table by Mr. Latter’s chair. Or Mr. Latter could have done it himself when he was alone in the room.”

“So where are we?” said Frank Abbott.

“Motive,” said Lamb. “There’s four of them with opportunity. But if we’re to believe Miss Mercer, who says there were two cups on the tray when she came in, Miss Vane couldn’t have moved Mr. Latter’s cup, as she couldn’t have told who was going to take which. So she’s much less likely than the other three. Let’s take it that it lies between the three of them who could have put the harmless cup by Mr. Latter’s chair. We don’t know who it was. Two of them mayn’t know any more than we do. One of them must know, because one of them moved it, and the one who did is the one who knew what was in the other cup. That’s as far as we’re likely to get on opportunity, without direct evidence. So we come to motive. As I said to start with, Mr. Latter has the motive which is one of the strongest a man can have—he had actually heard his wife making love to another man in very compromising circumstances. Now for Mrs. Street. She’s got a motive too. It don’t seem so strong, but it’s a motive all right. Remember that Gladys Marsh saying, ‘They all hated her—they’d all have liked to do her in. Mrs. Street wanted to have her husband here, and Mrs. Latter wouldn’t have it—said she didn’t want to be cluttered up with relations, and she didn’t see turning the house into a hospital neither.’? And then she tossed her head and said, ‘Mrs. Street’s been crying her eyes out about it. There’s some good-looking nurses in that hospital. Afraid she’ll lose her husband the way she’s lost her looks, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She’s an unpleasant, spiteful young woman, but there’s a motive there, you know.”