So Bad a Death (5 page)

“Yes, Mother?”

“Don't run off like that again, without telling me where you are going. I was quite worried.”

Ursula paused on the same step as her mother. Watching them from the foot of the stairs, I glimpsed a certain challenge in her stance.

She said quietly: “I couldn't find you, Mother.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Mrs Mulqueen turned aside, laughing gently.

“These young girls, Mrs Matheson,” she said, throwing out her hands, “so independent! Come with me.” She drew me along the hall. “So you liked the Dower. Enchanting place, isn't it? Quite a treat to see a house built in such good taste.” She patted my arm. “You shouldn't have become so excited. I tell James he is quite cruel letting you young girls through it. But it really is frightfully amusing seeing you get thrilled with it and then James refusing to sell. You should hear James tell stories of the tearful interviews he has had. He has such a sense of humour.”

“The same sense of fun boys have when they pull flies' wings off,” I agreed, pausing with her outside the door of James Holland's study.

“Oh dear!” Mrs Mulqueen said. “I forgot Yvonne was with James. We will have to wait. It would never do to interrupt. Sit down, Mrs Matheson.”

I did so, but Mrs Mulqueen stood as near to the study door as she could.

“Tell me all about yourself,” she requested without interest. Voices rose and fell in the study. I could hear Yvonne Holland sobbing.

“I do wish dear Yvonne would learn to control herself. We Hollands know how to disguise our emotions. Lack of control is so ill-bred, don't you think so, Mrs Matheson? But of course poor Yvonne hasn't had a chance. Good breeding is innate, I always say.”

I stood up.

“What are you going to do?” Mrs Mulqueen asked sharply.

“Nothing,” I replied, and sat down again. “Couldn't you stop your brother bullying that young girl?”

“You mustn't worry about Yvonne. She just doesn't understand James. She has no idea how to handle him. Not like Ursie, now. So sweet and pliable. James just dotes on my little girl.”

I sat helpless. Bits of incoherent conversation escaped. But only one sentence came clearly through the study door. Yvonne—on a high, hysterical note—sobbed out: “You child-murderer! I could kill you for it!”

There were some short ugly sounds and the sobbing terminated abruptly. I got up quickly. Mrs Mulqueen put her hand on my arm. When she smiled there was a sudden striking resemblance to her
brother. The door of the study opened and Yvonne Holland rushed out, one hand across her face.

James Holland stood in the middle of the room. The heavy crimson hangings were drawn across the windows. A standard lamp was all that lighted the room.

“Come in, Mrs Matheson,” he said, and went back to his desk. “Sit down. You need not stay, Elizabeth.”

Mrs Mulqueen glanced along the hall before entering.

“James, why don't you send her away? She doesn't belong here. She never will be a Holland. Let her go.”

Holland picked up a letter from his desk and scanned it without expression. “She was my son's wife. Her child is a Holland. One day he will take my place here. Yvonne has responsibilities. She must be taught to realize them.” He put the letter down and looked at me. “You saw the Dower and like it, Mrs Matheson?”

“I think your house would be most suitable for us. I suppose you wouldn't consider—”

Mrs Mulqueen broke in with her soft laugh. It was an artificial sound, like an amateur on the stage. A series of descending “ha-has.”

“I warned you not to become fond of the Dower,” she said, wagging one finger at me. “My brother has no intention of selling it, have you, James?”

Holland spoke slowly without taking his eyes from the letter on his desk. “I'll let the Dower House to you, Mrs Matheson.”

“Our idea is to buy a house, not to rent one,” I said, and got to my feet.

Holland surveyed me with surprise. “You refuse my offer?”

“I do,” I replied boldly. “Relations between landlord and tenant are always insecure. I wouldn't trust you, Mr Holland.”

Mrs Mulqueen gasped.

“Well, really!” she began. Holland silenced her.

“You are a very forthright young woman,” he observed. “Suppose I offer you an option of buying the Dower in—shall we say—six months' time?”

“James,” Elizabeth Mulqueen said in a plaintive voice. He glanced at her, an ironic gleam in his eye.

“You wouldn't like to have the police for neighbours, Elizabeth? Or were you expecting me to give the Dower to you?”

“It is your house, James,” Mrs Mulqueen answered brightly.

“I accept your offer,” I said, adding with caution, “providing you put it in writing.”

He scribbled on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk. “My solicitors' address. Your husband may contact them. Braithwaite will arrange the details of our agreement. Good night, Mrs Matheson.”

A thought occurred to me. “Mr Cruikshank. Will I let him know of your decision?”

There was a slight pause.

“You need not concern yourself with Cruikshank,” Holland said shortly. “Elizabeth, show Mrs Matheson out.”

Although he did not get up from his desk I felt moved to say: “Thank you for your generosity, Mr Holland. You cannot know what this means to us. Good night.”

I did not know then about the estate agent, Arthur Cruikshank. Even if I had, I doubt whether I would have cared.

I had found a house.

CHAPTER TWO

I

Mr Cruikshank had disappeared. He had walked out of Holland Hall, down the gravelled driveway, and vanished into thin air.

I did not hear of it until some time later. Inquiries as to his whereabouts were not started for several days after the actual disappearance. Cruikshank's sister, Maud, set the ball rolling. She went to the local police station and told Sergeant Billings that her brother had not been at the shop since late afternoon on a certain date. She had last seen him in the company of a smartly dressed young woman, who might be described as fair and rather tall, but who had no distinguishing marks except perhaps an unusually square jaw.

Sergeant Billings took down all her information in a notebook with a blunt pencil moistened by his tongue, and since Miss Cruikshank seemed calm enough and not at all upset by her brother's likely fate, offered no sympathy. He told her she would be notified as to police action during the course of the next few days. He then put in an official report to send to Russell Street Headquarters, where the matter reached John's ears. Not that he had anything to do with mere disappearances. Nothing less than a juicy murder could command his attention.

One of his colleagues at Russell Street, recalling that we had recently moved to Middleburn, brought the official report to him as a matter of interest. I do not know whether John let out then that I was the square-jawed young woman last seen with the estate agent,
but he must have been unmercifully chaffed before the whole case was broken.

The way in which John passed on the information was typical of him. It was the night we were hanging the curtains in the study. I was standing back and debating whether or not to have a valance of figured chintz to match the side drapes when I caught his eyes fixed on me. I looked at him inquiringly.

“Yes, you have got one,” he remarked meditatively. I was puzzled and glanced back at the curtains.

“No, don't turn away. Show me your chin again. Profile and then full face.”

I moved my head obediently. “Yes, I would definitely say it was square. Has anyone remarked on it before?”

“Dozens. What on earth are you talking about?”

He went on musingly. “Fair hair. Tall. Do you dress smartly, my pet?”

“I try to. What is this?”

“Weight about ten stone?”

“Nine,” I corrected with some indignation. “Why this police description? Am I wanted for something?”

John began to fill a pipe with an air of deliberation. He seemed amused.

“Yes and no. When I say yes—”

“You sound like my friend the estate agent,” I interrupted. “I told you about him. He always looks at a question from both sides. Tedious when you are in a hurry for an answer.”

“It's strange you should mention him,” John said.

“And why, pray?”

“A report came in at Headquarters that he has disappeared.”

“Has he?” I asked without much interest. “But what has he got to do with me?”

John's grin broadened considerably. “Only that he was last seen in the company of a young woman answering accurately to your description. You haven't been indulging in a spot of kidnapping, have you, Maggie?”

“Certainly not. I haven't seen the man since that day he took me to the Hall.”

“Which is precisely the day and time he vanished.”

“What!” I exclaimed incredulously. “If this is a joke, I think your idea of humour is feeble.”

“It's no joke, I can assure you. Think of my career. Wife of C.I.D. man wanted for police interrogation. No good, Maggie.”

“Then stop grinning like a gargoyle. Am I likely to be questioned?”

“The interrogation is about to commence,” John said, taking up his position behind the desk. “I promised Billings, who is in charge here at Middleburn, I'd find out what you know. So you have nothing to fear.”

“I'm not afraid,” I said, eyeing him carefully withal. “Fire your questions. After all, you did it once before. And that was a case of murder, not kidnapping. Or am I supposed to have murdered Cruikshank?”

John winced a little. I knew I had touched a raw spot and sat down on his knee in penitence.

“That was mean,” I admitted, tucking my head under his chin. “On with the questions.”

John shifted my elbow out of his ribs and blew the top of my hair from his face.

“This is the first time I have cross-examined anyone sitting on my lap.”

“I should hope that you have neither cross-examined nor done anything else,” I retorted.

“Sit up, Maggie. It is a disadvantage not being able to see the witness's face.”

“No fear. I'm comfortable as I am. What do you want to know?”

“This is not the way to conduct an inquiry,” said John resignedly. “Just tell me how you came to be with Cruikshank, how and where you left him and at what time. As accurately as you can.”

“You know how. He took me up to the Hall to see Mr Holland.”

“Of course I know, but Sergeant Billings doesn't. You'd better pretend I'm him.”

This struck me as funny.

“If you start giggling, Maggie, I'll push you off and make you sit opposite to me in proper questioning style.”

I related all I did that afternoon with the estate agent and how I had left him alone with Mr Holland in the latter's study while Ursula Mulqueen took me over to the Dower.

“Just a minute,” John interrupted. “Why didn't Cruikshank go with you? Isn't it customary for the agent to accompany the prospective tenant over a house?”

“He stopped to speak to Mr Holland.”

“Did he stay of his own accord or was it at Mr Holland's request?”

“Mr Holland's, I fancy. He said something about wanting to have a word with him.”

“How did Holland sound?”

I thought for a minute. “Curt. He seemed annoyed Cruikshank had not answered an earlier summons.”

“What time was this?”

“Half-past four-ish. I noticed a tea tray on Mr Holland's desk. I must have been the best part of an hour with Ursula by the time we walked through the wood, looked at the house and returned. I remember catching a train from Middleburn about a quarter to six.”

“About four-thirty,” John nodded in approval. “And Cruikshank wasn't there when you got back?”

“No. Mr Holland was alone in the study. We met Ursula's mother in the passage. She took me along.”

“Did Mr Holland make any comment about Cruikshank?”

Again I gave John's question some thought.

“I can't quite remember. I did ask if I should get in touch with Cruikshank to tell him about taking the house, but the Squire said: ‘No. I'll fix it up with him; just see my solicitors.' I think that was all.”

“Cruikshank didn't say where he was going after he left the Hall? Not waiting to see you was odd.”

“So I thought at the time. Evidently the business was not to go through the agent at all. We pay a monthly cheque to Braithwaite, don't we?”

“Very odd,” John said again, frowning. “I wonder why Holland took it out of the agent's hands.”