So Bad a Death (35 page)

There was no light showing from the Cruikshanks' flat above the shop, but that and the lateness of the hour did not deter John. He knocked and rang at the shop door. After some time Miss Cruikshank put her head out the window above and called: “Is that you, Arthur?”

John gave his name and asked her to come down. After a few moments she appeared, hugging an ancient red dressing-gown around her spinster shape. John carefully removed his eyes from that, and the sight of her thin, colourless hair done up in curlers.

Her manner was nervous and she seemed more than naturally pale. Assisted by the postmaster, John questioned her and learned that the wire, as had been suspected, was a hoax. Aunt was never in better health. She had been astounded to see Maud, and from what John gathered not particularly delighted. Miss Cruikshank was on her way back to town within half an hour. She got back to the shop about nine thirty that evening, seething with righteous indignation and burning to tell Arthur all about it, only to find the place in darkness and her brother out. As she did not know where he was or how long he might be, she bottled her story to keep hot for the morning and went to bed. She had been there until that moment.

John thanked Miss Cruikshank for all this information. He then told her about her brother's efforts to contact him. He asked if she knew what it was about. She said “No” almost before he finished the question. She seemed to become more agitated, although she strove to hide it. John then asked formal permission to look round the place.

Assisted again by the postmaster, who was thoroughly enjoying his role of policeman, they searched the flat and the shop. Luckily it was John who opened the cupboard underneath the stairs. He was in some ways hardened to the sight that met his eyes. He shut the door quickly and told Miss Cruikshank to wait upstairs until he came to her. His casual manner deceived her. She went upstairs obediently, while John and the postmaster, whose enjoyment dropped suddenly to zero, cut down the rigid dead body of the estate agent. He was as cold as mutton and not as pretty a sight.

John said on the face of it, it looked then like a suicide. Especially as he found a note addressed to himself in one of the pockets of the black sateen apron Mr Cruikshank always wore on duty in the shop.

I was glad I did not see that note until afterwards. It would not have been pleasant thinking I had hounded a man into taking his
own life, no matter how criminal he was. It took the form of a confession to the murder and was signed with Cruikshank's name. When Maud Cruikshank was asked to identify the writing she did so through such a blind of tears that it deceived her. Luckily there are experts at Russell Street who make short shrift of such forgeries.

John did not return home until well into the early hours of the next morning. I was still awake, but he sank into bed dead tired and without a word. I was still full of imaginings that he blamed me for my forgetfulness, and one or two tears stole down my face in self-pity at his neglect.

I thought I had overcome resenting his unapproachableness during one of his cases, but it seemed I had not. However, the self-pity had a good effect. It relaxed my taut nerves and presently sent me off to sleep.

He was off again early next morning, with a farewell peck that made me ashamed in front of Yvonne. I had rather wanted to demonstrate the ideal husband to her. The self-pity started again during lunch when the telephone rang. I started up, thinking it would be John. A man's voice asked for Yvonne. She came back to the table after a long time with a confused but not unhappy look on her face. Alan Braithwaite, she announced, and tried to go on with her meal.

I remember that afternoon very vividly. The weather was one of delicious warmth and clear air. A somnolent autumnal calm that gave no hint of what the night would bring to me. Armed with garden chairs and knitting, we went down to the back of the garden and the shade of the poplars. Jimmy lay on his back in Tony's outgrown pram. For a while Yvonne seemed on edge lest he start crying, but the peace of the day and the good meals I had supervised into his little stomach had good effects. By and by she relaxed and even began to play with Tony in the sandpit.

Constable Cornell retained his position on the back porch despite two or three invitations to join us. He kept his gaze fixed vacantly on the trees above our heads until I longed to give him some knitting to do.

This lasted until afternoon teatime, when I went into the house to prepare orange juice for the children. When I was searching in a
cupboard for uncracked cups to do honour to my guest, my eye fell on some packs of cards. I presented one to Constable Cornell along with his tea. It was a happy inspiration, for he immediately opened up into an intricate patience.

Very soon the warmth of the sun started to wane, reminding us that after all it was autumn and not summer. I was about to suggest going indoors when Tony made his discovery.

He had been digging like a puppy in his sandpit when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I saw him pause and shoot a quick glance to see if I was watching. I pretended not to be, but continued to keep an eye on him. His busy fingers pulled something out of the sand. It was dropped into his bucket with a hard rattle. The noise was very pleasing and he rolled the bucket around to continue it. Presently he came up to my chair and I stole a look inside.

There was no mistaking the small object Tony had been playing with so blithely. Even if you have never seen a bullet before, your imagination does not need much to identify one.

“Look!” I said to Yvonne. “Tony found it in the sand. Now how on earth would such a thing get into the pit?”

Yvonne looked and then raised startled eyes on my face. I had been going to treat the bullet as a curio until her anxious look. It was extremely unlikely that the bullet had been delivered along with the soil. And as John had only completed the sandpit a week or so, the scavenging of time would scarcely account for its presence.

I turned it round in my fingers gingerly.

“I hope it is not likely to go off,” I said.

The bullet in Tony's sandpit meant something. Of that I was sure. Where had it come from? Why should anyone fire a gun into the sand? I turned my head slowly from one side to the other. Constable Cornell's interest was still in his patience. I observed him as my eyes swept a circle searching for some place where the person who had fired the bullet might have stood.

A bullet meant a gun or some sort of firearm. The first and last time I had heard a gunshot was the night Mr Holland was found dead in the wood with one in his hand. And that gun John had said was one of a pair.

What did the bullet in Tony's sandpit mean? As far as I could see there were more guns and bullets than the actual noise of their explosion.

I dropped my knitting into my lap and sat back, thinking hard. I closed my eyes, pretending to Yvonne that I was dozing in the sun while all the time I was reliving that day. The day and night of James Holland's murder.

I turned over each direct or indirect contact we had had with our landlord. The period between our arrival in Middleburn and his death had been so brief. Up to the day of the murder there had been no positive communication between us.

For my part that decisive day had progressed smoothly, even enjoyably until—

Suddenly my mind was alert to a small feeling of disturbance. The first hint of a strange reaction on the day of the dinner-party. I fumbled for the underlying significance.

I came home from golf. It was late. Nearly six. I had lost a ball? No, that wasn't right. That lost ball came into the picture later. What was it, then? Begin again.

I was late. It was a scramble to get dressed for the dinner-party and to put Tony into bed. Tony? Not Tony alone. Tony and Robin and Mrs Ames. When I came in they were having their meal in the kitchen. They had been out at the sandpit the whole afternoon and had just come in for tea.

And up in the lounge-room I could sense some strange occupation. Mrs Ames has been exploring the house. No, not Mrs Ames. Although it was natural enough at the time to presume so. James Holland!

Without evidence, even without a tangible clue I was convinced James Holland had called into the Dower House before setting out on his last walk through the wood.

The time on the duplicate telegram was the correct one. The Squire had been due to arrive at Holland Hall at five, and not, as the police were led to believe, at seven when the shot was fired.

The same sound of an exploding gun to which I alone bore obstinate witness, and which I had in an endeavour to shirk the
responsibility checked and rechecked. Why, oh why, hadn't John of all people distinguished it more clearly when to me it was like a bang in the ear?

A bang in the ear! I sat up suddenly and my eyes fell on Yvonne's anxious ones. She had not been deceived by my somnolent pose. A bang in the ear! A tiny thread started at the back of my brain and started to weave itself strongly to the front. I had it. I nearly had it. Then quite simply everything was clear. I knew what had happened. I knew what the bullet in Tony's sandpit meant.

I glanced quickly towards Constable Cornell. He was shuffling the cards, his eyes once more above our heads. I waited until he had opened up another game of patience.

“Yvonne,” I said softly. “I need your co-operation. Come inside for a moment. The children will be all right here.”

She got up obediently and followed me indoors to John's study. She made no comment of surprise when I presented her with a steel-lined riding crop and indicated a leather upholstered chair. She promised to remain within earshot of the study while I was gone. I found myself loving Yvonne for the way she did not ask questions.

II

I chose to go to the Hall through the wood. I did not want my red-hot idea to lose any of its warmth by a tedious walk round by the road and up the drive. Neither did I want Constable Cornell dogging my footsteps.

The track through the wood helped me to develop the timing and execution of the crime more clearly.

I entered the house quietly through the conservatory door. There was no point in attracting attention. I had no legitimate excuse for being there. I hoped to accomplish my task unnoticed.

The place seemed empty in spite of the unlocked door. The gathering of the autumn mist which hid the sinking sun rendered it gloomy and just a little frightening. I had made up my mind not to be nervous. Should I meet anyone, I could say Yvonne had forgotten
some clothing or invent some similar excuse. Once I had accomplished my objective there would be no need ever to set foot in the Hall again.

I think I would have preferred to see someone. The unnatural stillness of the Hall amused every instinct of my fertile imagination. Anyone's company, no matter how hostile, would be better than this isolation in an alien house.

For the first time I was conscious of James Holland's domination. I had an eerie feeling that I was bending to his will. My remembrance of him, his appearance and his character became strangely vivid. Unseen, he seemed to be commanding me to bring his murderer to justice.

I tried to shake off this uncanny influence. Justice for the unjust man? Revenge for one who sought only revenge on others in life? I could find nothing to admire in that vivid remembrance, and more to hate from what I had subsequently learned of James Holland.

I lifted the receiver from the switchboard at the foot of the stairs. The dial tone of the open exchange line seemed extraordinarily loud. I cut it off at once and threw a hasty glance up and down the passage. There was still no sign of life.

I connected the key of the Hall with the extension to the Dower and, pressing down on the ringing key, turned the handle once. Yvonne answered immediately. I repeated my instructions to her and hung the receiver on the hook which I had jammed with my handkerchief. Then I moved away towards the door of the drawing-room and waited. The sound of the steel-lined riding crop striking the leather chair came over the wire, but it was not quite satisfactory. In spite of my ever-growing apprehension I wanted the experiment to be perfect if it was to be considered successful. It meant a few more minutes in the deepening lonely gloom.

I went back to the switchboard, my ears alert for any disturbance either from behind me or above on the stairs. I fancied I heard sounds, but put them down to my own edginess. I had to keep calm.

“Try again,” I whispered over the line to Yvonne. “Harder—harder, and hurry. I'm getting the jumps.”

My fingers fumbled as I readjusted the handkerchief to hold the line open and placed the receiver back. My hands shook in the need for haste. I wanted to get back to my position near the drawing-room before Yvonne raised the whip again. I was only a step away from the stairs as the noise came again. This time it reverberated across the line. The sound as of a gunshot broke the silence of the Hall.

“Again, Yvonne,” I spoke clearly. The success had made me reckless. I stepped back along the wall. The crack came again. I felt sweat trickling down my body and my heart thumped almost unbearably. I was right. What a plan it was, how clever! But I could smash it.

I need never set foot in this horrible house again. It frightened me. I owned to it now. If I remained there much longer I would start screaming with a mad and unreasoning terror. I had to get out now. At once.

In every shadow I saw someone looming up before me. At every footstep I took someone was following me. After a journey of dire anticipation I reached the conservatory door. It had been my goal. It meant safety. But fear, worse than the previous imaginings, struck me again.