Mad About the Boy? (6 page)

Haldean shook his head. ‘I'd like to, but we need something a bit more definite to tell them. You see, now General Flint has decided it's suicide, we'll have to have something more concrete than unfounded suspicions to make him investigate the case properly.' He blew out a mouthful of smoke in an irritated sigh. ‘I wish Superintendent Ashley was here but he's on holiday. I got to know him last year. There was a murder over in Breedenbrook.'

Smith-Fennimore turned round. ‘Was that the business the newspapers called The Fortune Teller's Tent Mystery? You were caught up in it, weren't you?'

Haldean nodded. ‘That's the one. After that, I know Ashley would take me seriously. As it is . . .' He shrugged. ‘If there's anything to find, we'll have to find it.'

‘Us?' Smith-Fennimore looked startled. ‘What do you want us to do? I don't know what to look for. I'm not a detective.'

Haldean gave a faint grin. ‘It's not so very complicated.' He walked across the room and propped himself against the mantelpiece. ‘The first thing we do is to go back to last night. Arthur, when was the last time you saw Tim?'

‘Crikey, Jack, I don't know what time it was. I didn't look at my watch.'

‘Well, how soon before the fireworks was it?'

Stanton frowned. ‘It can't have been long. I came in from the terrace to the hall and saw Tim going up the stairs. He told me Lyvenden wanted his cigarette case.' His face cleared. ‘That's right. Then I went back to the ballroom, saw you and we stood together to watch the fireworks.'

‘And neither of us saw him again. Did you see him, Fennimore?'

Smith-Fennimore shook his head. ‘I saw him earlier in the evening, but I was talking to Sir Philip for quite a while before the fireworks started. I certainly didn't see Tim then. Mind you, I wasn't looking for him especially.'

‘He didn't watch the fireworks,' said Haldean thoughtfully. ‘Do you remember when Lord Lyvenden was making his speech? He suddenly decided Lady Harriet needed her shawl. He looked round the crowd and I thought he was looking for Tim.'

‘That's right, Haldean,' agreed Smith-Fennimore. ‘Now you mention it, I thought much the same thing. He sent Lady Harriet's maid, didn't he?'

‘That's right. So, as Arthur saw Tim go upstairs just before the fireworks and as he wasn't there during the fireworks, let's assume for the time being that's when it happened. It certainly fits in with what the doctor said. Now, if Tim was murdered, the murderer came into the room with him. Did they leave any traces?'

Smith-Fennimore raised an eyebrow. ‘Cigar ash and footprints, you mean? This is Sherlock Holmes and no mistake.'

‘Perhaps it is,' said Haldean with a fleeting smile. ‘Let's look. Incidentally, Fennimore, do you know anything about this gun?' He picked it up from the desk and handed it to him. ‘General Flint had a good look at it last night so even if there were any useful fingerprints on it, they won't be there now.'

Smith-Fennimore reached his hand out for the gun. ‘It's Lyvenden's,' he said. ‘I've seen it before. He always kept it in his desk.' He pulled a face. ‘I remember Tim commenting on it. The poor beggar knew it was there all right. Doesn't that scupper your murder theory, Haldean?'

‘Not necessarily. The gun could have been on the desk or if the drawer was open it could have been visible.' He smiled deprecatingly. ‘There's another fairly obvious explanation but the great thing in this game is not to jump to conclusions too early and to collect what evidence we can.' He looked at Stanton and Smith-Fennimore. ‘Er . . . shall we start?'

The three men began to look round the room.

Stanton stood by the fireplace. For Jack's sake he'd go through with this charade, but it was a charade. He glanced along the mantelpiece. What on earth was he meant to be looking for? Jack might know what he was doing but he certainly didn't. There was a clock, an ashtray, china figures of a shepherd and shepherdess . . . What could he get out of them? Nothing. This was a waste of time. Still, he supposed he'd better look as if he were doing something if Jack was so set on it. He bent down and moved the fire screen surrounding the hearth. There was a scattering of soot in the empty grate. A discarded and charred packet of Goldflake lay to one side. ‘The chimney needs cleaning,' he announced. ‘Is that significant?'

‘I wouldn't have thought so,' said Haldean absently. He looked up as Smith-Fennimore gave a stifled exclamation. ‘What is it?'

Smith-Fennimore was flicking through the papers on the desk. He looked up when Haldean spoke, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘I can't believe it! This is incredible.'

‘What've you found?' asked Haldean.

‘Files. Confidential files. Lyvenden shouldn't have these papers here.' Smith-Fennimore tapped the documents in front of him. ‘Good God, none of these files should have been taken out of the bank and they certainly shouldn't be left lying around in this casual way.'

‘What bank?' asked Stanton.

‘My bank, Smith, Wilson and Fennimore. Lyvenden's a director. I'll have to have a word with him about this.' He picked up three files and put them under his arm. ‘I'm taking these with me.'

‘I don't think we should take anything out of the room,' said Haldean.

Smith-Fennimore snorted. ‘These shouldn't have been here in the first place. I'm not having my clients' affairs left for the police to poke into. I'll be happier when I've got them under lock and key. I don't know what the devil Lyvenden was thinking of.'

‘Tim said he was careless with papers.'

‘Tim was right. What's that you're looking at?'

‘The suicide note,' said Haldean thoughtfully ‘Does it seem odd to you?'

Smith-Fennimore and Stanton looked at the note critically. ‘Not really,' said Smith-Fennimore in the end. ‘Apart from the fact it's on a half-sheet of paper.'

‘Well, that could be just the only paper that was handy,' said Haldean. ‘No, what I mean is that all the writing is at the top of the sheet. The note's only a few lines long. Why cram it all at the top of the paper?'

‘Dunno,' said Stanton. ‘I still think it's suicide. Maybe he was going to write more and then couldn't go on.'

Haldean put down the note and continued his search, dropping down on his hands and knees to crawl under the desk. ‘Nothing much here apart from fluff. Waste-paper basket. Empty' He backed out and, standing up, dusted off the knees of his trousers. ‘There's one thing I want to try. Fennimore, could you play the victim for me? I want you to pretend to shoot yourself.'

Smith-Fennimore pulled a face. ‘Come on, Haldean, that's a bit morbid, isn't it?'

Haldean made a pacifying gesture with his hands. ‘Will you try it? I just want to see something.'

‘I suppose so.' Smith-Fennimore reluctantly sat down and lifted his fingers to his head. ‘Bang. Is that what I'm supposed to say? What did that show us?'

Haldean stood back and looked at him critically. ‘Where did you shoot yourself?'

Smith-Fennimore looked at his fingers and placed them to his head once more. ‘Here, on my temple.'

‘So you did. And that would be the natural place to shoot yourself, wouldn't it? But Tim didn't do that. He shot himself here.' Taking Smith-Fennimore's hand he moved the fingers round until they were considerably behind the right ear. ‘Just here, where the bulgy bit of your head goes into the back of your neck. Why should he do that?'

‘Maybe he was disturbed,' suggested Stanton. ‘Look, like this. If I could just sit in the chair . . .' Smith-Fennimore got up and let Stanton take his place. ‘Now, I've got a gun to my head,' he said, raising his fingers as Smith-Fennimore had done, ‘and I'm just about to pull the trigger, when there's a noise. That would make me turn my head – like so – and the bullet would miss my temple but go in behind my ear.'

‘Brilliant, Arthur,' said Haldean. ‘But what noise?'

‘What about the maid in the next room? If she'd come up for Lady Harriet's shawl, maybe Tim heard her and it made him jump.' He gave an irritated shake of his head. ‘As I said, I just don't believe it, Jack. You're barking up the wrong tree. Tim killed himself. The poor devil felt like hell and shot himself. That's all there is to it.'

‘Is it?' asked Smith-Fennimore suddenly. ‘Is it?' Haldean caught the note of suppressed anger in his voice. ‘Look, Haldean, all this stuff about murder. You've done this before. Do you really think there's a possibility that Tim was murdered?'

Haldean hesitated, then nodded his head. ‘Yes. I do. Obviously the fact that Tim really was stuck for money changes things, but on the other hand, if Arthur had helped him out, then that reason had gone, for the time being at least.' He looked at Stanton. ‘Did Tim have any other debts?'

Stanton shook his head. ‘I don't think so. When he'd stopped telling me how awful things were, I made him go through everything he owed. I don't think he kept anything back. It amounted to just over three hundred quid. I wrote him a cheque there and then. The trouble is that if he'd continued to hang around with the Brooklands crowd, it wouldn't be long before he was in the same mess again. Maybe that's what made him feel so rotten, knowing that the money I'd given him was just a stop-gap.'

‘There's some truth in that, Arthur,' said Haldean. ‘He could hardly keep on asking you for the dibs.'

‘He could have asked me,' said Smith-Fennimore quickly. ‘Bloody hell, if I'd had the slightest idea of what he was up against, I'd have given him a job. Apart from anything else, he was my riding mechanic. He knew how much I relied on him. All he had to do was ask.' He gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders. ‘Come on, Haldean. What do you really think?'

Haldean clicked his tongue in a dissatisfied way. ‘The official verdict could be correct and I might be making an absolute fool of myself by suggesting anything else. I know that. But last night General Flint made his mind up very quickly He didn't conduct anything like a proper investigation. I think there are questions to be answered. Tim was my friend and I feel I owe it to him.'

‘Friend?' said Smith-Fennimore in an undertone. ‘He was the best friend I had.' Haldean could hear the emotion in his voice. ‘We shared a hell of a lot together. But it can't be murder. Why should anyone want to kill Tim? It's so pointless.'

Pointless? thought Haldean. No. If it was murder it wouldn't be pointless . . .

The three men came out of Lyvenden's room. The chatter of voices from the hall below told them that the church party was back. ‘Shall we go down?' asked Haldean.

Smith-Fennimore tapped the files under his arm. ‘I'm going to put these away safely, then treat myself to a word with Lyvenden.'

‘Well, for heaven's sake, do it quietly,' said Haldean. ‘I feel really sorry for Aunt Alice and Uncle Phil – Aunt Alice in particular. She was so looking forward to her silver wedding and what happened to Tim has rather taken the shine off it. If you have a row with Lyvenden, it'll just make things worse.'

‘I'll . . .' Smith-Fennimore looked at him and his face lost its look of mulish obstinacy. ‘All right. I'll be discreet.' He walked off to his own room.

Stanton watched him go. ‘Do you honestly like him, Jack?'

Haldean nodded. ‘He's all right. I can understand why you're not crazy about him.'

‘I could have liked him,' said Stanton. ‘In fact I would have done if things had turned out differently, even if he does think he's the only one who cares about Tim.' He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘What the devil does it matter? Come on, let's go downstairs.'

There was quite a crowd in the hall. Lady Rivers looked up and smiled as she saw Haldean and Stanton. ‘There you are.' She handed her coat to the waiting Egerton, pulled off her gloves, unpinned her hat and put them on the hall table with a definite air of relief. ‘Thank goodness that's over. The church was absolutely packed. I don't know how news gets round so fast, but it does. Almost everyone in the village seemed to have heard about poor Mr Preston. Practically all of Stanmore Parry seemed to be there – even the chapel people – simply to look at us. Goodness knows what they expected to get out of it.'

‘They were expressing their sympathy, Alice,' said her husband.

‘They were satisfying their curiosity more like, Philip. Did you hear that wretched Daphne Tanner? She was itching to find out exactly what happened last night. Then Mr Freeman, the curate, joined us. I know he's a very pious sort of man, but he does strike me as incredibly self-righteous. Simply because I said I felt sorry for Mr Preston he warned me of the dangers of misdirected compassion, and I do think it was tactless of him to talk about self-destruction as an act of sinful folly. Thank goodness you weren't with us, Jack. You'd have hated it.'

Haldean, who usually coped with his urge to kick the sanctimonious Mr Freeman by referring him to his sense of the ridiculous, found his reserves of humour at a very low ebb.

He stepped closer to Isabelle who was standing with Bubble and Squeak Robiceux. They were about the only people in the hall who weren't talking. The Robiceuxs looked uncharacteristically solemn. ‘It all sounds perfectly septic,' he said sympathetically.

‘It was putrid, Jack,' said Isabelle with a shudder. ‘Knowing that everyone was looking at us and talking about us. Will there be an inquest?'

‘There's bound to be, I'm afraid.'

‘That'll be even worse.
Why
did it have to happen?'

‘That's what I've been thinking,' began Haldean, when he was interrupted by Lady Harriet who was approaching the staircase in a determined way. He moved aside to allow her to get past him. Aunt Alice followed.