So Bad a Death (26 page)

I wanted to throw the dummy away but the howl rose to such a crescendo that, with a strong warning, I replaced it in Tony's pocket.

“How quaint of him!” Daisy said. “I noticed he had it in his mouth but I did not like to make any comment.”

I said in a firm voice: “No child of mine ever has nor ever will have a dummy. Your ball is here right at my feet. What are you going to use?”

She chose a number eight at random, buffeting two trees and pulling down a shower of leaves around us. After the confetti had blown away, I saw that her ball, by some marvellous chance, had just made the edge of the fairway. We strolled towards it together.

“I suppose,” I said tentatively, working on my notion, “that your
mother is having her afternoon nap.” The slightest encouragement made Daisy loquacious. That was why few people gave it.

“I left her tucked up snugly in her chair in the garden. She likes to see people passing, you know. Mother's really marvellous the way she puts up with her suffering. Her patience makes me feel my life is really worthwhile, devoting it to her. She may drop off for a doze if she becomes easy. If only people realized how remarkable she is.”

This disjointed speech was meant to convey two things: Firstly, that Daisy held the upper hand over her mother. Also, that she could have done something with her life had she so desired. From my impression of mother and daughter together, neither was convincing.

“If she likes to watch people going by,” I said, “she must like visitors. I'll take Tony down to bring some brightness into her life.”

Daisy was inordinately pleased. “Would you really? That would be nice of you. I would come back with you, but I want to see Ames. He promised to show me some strokes. I do think he is an awfully nice man, don't you? A real gentleman.”

“Rather,” I agreed, thankful that she thought so. “I'd hate you to miss a lesson.”

She laughed self-consciously. “I suppose you consider my game needs it.”

There wasn't much I could say to that. Daisy was one of those players who would never learn golf. She was like those who lack card-sense. Either it is in you or it is not. The same with golf. I waved her on to the green, full of admiration for Ames, who preserved the role of a real gentleman when tutoring Daisy in golf. The lesson would keep her occupied until I learned from Mrs Potts-Power what I wanted to know.

II

The first information I gleaned was not from the old woman, but of her. The wheelchair was certainly in a secluded corner of the garden, but there was no mountainous, heavy-eyed occupant tucked cosily up therein.

So Connie Bellamy was right. I was not surprised. Rather I was embarrassed for the old woman's sake. It is not pleasant to be taken in deception. From the low open windows at the front of the house came the sounds of the Viennese waltz to which Mrs Potts-Power was so addicted. I was beginning to hate Strauss. He was associated forever in my mind with that dreadful dinner at Holland Hall.

The garden path passed directly alongside the windows. I could not resist glancing in. Mrs Potts-Power was there as I had guessed. She stared directly into my eyes. That basilisk gaze of hers held me for a moment.

She said calmly: “I wondered when you would come. You'll find the front door open.”

There was something uncanny about the way she sat there waiting for me, and not at all put out of countenance. I refused to be intimidated, although a sense of nervousness was mine.

When I entered the room she repeated: “I have been expecting to see you. I knew you would come sooner or later. Sit down and don't let that child fidget. I don't like children.”

My maternal hackles rose. Mrs Potts-Power regarded me with malicious amusement. I sat down abruptly. If you want something from somebody you have to dance to her tune, even a Strauss waltz.

She passed over a box of chocolates and candy. I selected one for Tony.

Mrs Potts-Power said: “Put it straight into his mouth. I can't abide sticky fingers.”

“You know,” I said pensively, “you remind me very much of the late Mr Holland. Were you related?”

“Both malignancy and benignity are prerogatives of old age,” retorted Mrs Potts-Power. “James Holland and I chose the former.”

“With so much in common,” I asked, “why did you quarrel with him?”

“You are a very inquisitive young woman,” she replied.

“So he said also. Since you recognize curiosity as part of my make-up, perhaps you will tell me how you come to be out of your wheelchair? Does Daisy know?”

She chuckled, a low wobbly sound from the depths of her large stomach.

“Quite likely she has guessed. But it suits her better to deceive herself. ‘Poor mother! So dependent on me.' Does she talk like that to you?”

My expression must have indicated my disgust.

“Come, come, girl,” Mrs Potts-Power said sharply. “Don't you agree she is better being deceived? She's far happier. And I like being waited upon and coddled. Sometimes she nearly drives me to distraction with her patience and submissiveness. As a matter of fact my heart is none too steady. It doesn't justify a wheelchair, but it justifies me a little.”

“If you do nothing but sit around and eat, no wonder your heart is dicky,” I said.

“What have you come to see me about?” Mrs Potts-Power asked, heaving her bulk out of the chair after three attempts.

She moved the needle of the Panatrope to the edge of the disc.

“I thought you knew,” I retorted. “You said you've been expecting me.”

Mrs Potts-Power grinned. “I have a fair idea. But I wouldn't like to give away more than you wanted.”

“Why did you quarrel with James Holland? Why were you, for the first time in years, suddenly invited to a dinner party at the Hall?”

She answered me without reticence. “I wanted Jim to marry Daisy. James didn't like the idea. I think he was worried that my influence would be stronger than his. It would have been too,” she added reflectively. “I could hold out longer than James even when we were young. That's why I didn't marry him myself. It must have been a matter of ten years since I was at the Hall. I was there the other night at his invitation. I had won again.”

“Mr Holland won one round,” I pointed out. “His son married Yvonne.”

Mrs Potts-Power snorted. “Picked out for him just as James selected Olivia. Poor weak fools, the pair of them. James wanted women merely for breeding purposes. He realized women like me complicated matters. Olivia was the same as Yvonne. No
relatives—no money. Just a young, foolish child who would submit herself mentally and physically to a stronger character.” She finished spitefully: “I daresay, had he thought of it, James would have got rid of them somehow, after they had served their purpose.”

“Quite the feudal lord,” I murmured. “Fate intervened in both cases, did it not?”

The old lady gave me a sharp glance. “What do you mean?”

“Before the idea occurred to Mr Holland to rid himself of his wife, she did it for him. In Yvonne's case his plans were upset by his son's untimely death. He was indifferent to her presence when she was no longer Jim's wife.”

“Who has been talking to you? Elizabeth? How did you know about Olivia?”

“Mrs Mulqueen has told me nothing. But there is a photograph of Olivia Holland in her room. The picture caught my eye because it is turned to the wall. I defined it as a token of disgrace and punishment. Then I came across a letter. Strange how we women cannot resist writing farewell letters. It would have done your heart good to read it, if you considered Olivia a poor, weak fool.”

“I knew Olivia ran off, although James did not broadcast the fact. But you can't go visiting relatives for years, especially when it is known you have none. Was there a man?” Mrs Potts-Power smacked her lips over this old scandal.

“No, I don't think so. I am sorry to disappoint you. Although Olivia admitted in the letter that someone was helping her.”

Mrs Potts-Power stuffed caramels one after another into her mouth to make up for the disappointment. “I'd like to know who it was. Olivia hadn't a friend in the world except those James had. And you wouldn't call them exactly friends. Unless it was—” She broke off and turned her wicked eyes towards me.

I watched them, deeming it wiser not to urge her on. She was capable of leaving her remark uncompleted out of sheer cussedness. Her eyes narrowed to gleaming slits and widened again slowly. They looked at me blandly. Mrs Potts-Power had guessed at the identity of Olivia's friend. But she wasn't going to talk.

“Mrs Potts-Power,” I asked, “where is Olivia now?”

“She is dead,” Mrs Potts-Power replied promptly. “There was a death notice in the paper years ago. I remember reading it.”

“How many years?” I inquired, disappointed but persevering. “Who put the notice in? Not James Holland. Olivia had left him, remember.”

The blank look settled on Mrs Potts-Power's face again. She was hiding some secret knowledge behind it. She became suddenly talkative.

“I don't know how long ago it was. Jim was quite young at the time. My husband had just died. I had my own troubles. It did occur to me James might marry again, just to get someone to rear Jim. That was before that nurse came.”

“Where did Olivia Holland die?” I persisted.

Mrs Potts-Power thought, and presently recollected the name of the country town. It struck a familiar chord.

“Then there is no chance of Olivia being still alive, and better still, living somewhere in the vicinity of the Hall?” I watched the old woman's face carefully.

“You have been reading too many mystery novels, Mrs Detective Matheson. Things don't work out like that in real life.”

III

I left Mrs Potts-Power, my mind dazed with new discoveries and their confusing issues of possibilities and probabilities. She followed me out the front door and settled herself in the wheelchair, casting me a wicked look as she tucked the crocheted rug around her knees.

Tony's steps were lagging as we climbed up the hill to High Street. I gave him an absent hand, automatically checking a stumble now and then. Two ideas were firmly fixed in my mind. Unfortunately both were difficult to develop. Olivia, the one to whom James Holland's death was likely to prove a source of satisfaction and a fulfilment of revenge, was dead. She was out of this world, so far as a notice in the death column could prove. Could she have arranged
her own death, or did Holland furnish the notice in order to stop scandalous whispers?

The second matter was the town from which Olivia's death had been reported. That same town was recorded as the receiving station of the telegram Mr Holland sent to the Hall just before his murder. It was no strange coincidence but a hint of the Squire's business during his last days. Had he, after all those years, suddenly decided to trace his erring wife's steps and verify her death? Had he discovered something concerning her which caused him to bring together an ill-assorted table of dinner guests in order to make known such information?

There were so many questions to ask, so many answers that might serve. My brain whirled desperately. I was glad when a voice interrupted, calling my name.

Connie Bellamy came panting up the street. As she drew near I had a sudden sinking feeling. All thoughts of Holland Hall and its kindred complications vanished. I had asked the Bellamys to dine that night and I had forgotten all about the invitation!

Connie must have found me distrait as we walked along together. She held her chatter for a brief spell. I laughed at the look of deep understanding she directed on me. She had been asking about the case and imagined my mind was occupied with its intricacies. Whereas I was swiftly planning an impromptu dinner for my forgotten guests.

Passing through the village, I said: “I hope it won't put you off, but you'll have to watch me buying your dinner. I had rather a rotten night and didn't feel up to preparing more than a grill and salad.”

Connie probably thought me a shocking housewife, but at least that was better than the truth. I came out of the butcher's shop and found her talking to Daisy Potts-Power.

“Hullo,” I said. Daisy carried her golf bag slung over one shoulder with a professional air. “How did the lesson go?”

She was brighter than ever and excited. “Awfully well. I feel as though I might begin to play now. Ames was terribly patient with me.”

I frowned at the name. It would be a shocking thing if Daisy made a fool of herself in that way.

“Look,” she said. “Tony has that dummy in his mouth again. Isn't he just the cutest thing?”

I swung round, catching a swift movement of Tony's hand from his mouth to behind his back. He regarded me with a solemn eye which did not falter before my more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger look. I was not going to risk a scene right in the middle of the village, so I dragged Connie off. “How was Mother?” Daisy yelled after us, over two or three heads.

“Most enlightening!” I called back. “You might tell her I said so. You'll find her in the garden all tucked up cosily in her chair.”