So Bad a Death (6 page)

“Perhaps things are getting tight and he can't afford a shilling in the pound to an agent,” I suggested.

“You can guarantee Braithwaite doesn't do it for nothing. No, there's something unusual there. Who else was in the house when you left Cruikshank and Holland together?”

“Yvonne was. I presume Mrs Mulqueen was too. She came down from upstairs as Ursula and I came in. I don't know the domestic arrangements of the Hall, but I suppose someone was in the kitchen. There was going to be a dinner party that night.”

“I'll suggest to Sergeant Billings to check up on them. What was your impression of Cruikshank when you left him? Was he frightened or ill-at-ease?”

I sat up with a jolt. “You're not thinking Mr Holland killed him and buried him in the cellar, are you?”

“Don't be silly,” John said severely. “These are routine questions. You always ask how the vanished seemed when seen last. He might have lost his memory or something.”

I sank back again. “Well, he certainly didn't appear frightened or embarrassed. On the way up, he was confident he could do something for us in regard to the Dower. I think Cruikshank considered himself master of the situation. But then, he seems the type of person who always does.”

“That was definitely the last you saw of Cruikshank, Maggie?” John's voice was serious.

“You're not doubting my word, I hope,” I said indignantly. “I'd like to get my hands on the person who dragged me into this.”

“That should be easy. It was Miss Maud Cruikshank.”

II

The oddest part of Mr Cruikshank's disappearance was the tardy way in which his sister went to the police. She maintained over and over again that Arthur was in the habit of going away for a couple
of days at a time without any notice; although, as a rule, a note came in the mail explaining his absence and announcing his probable return. But as a letter did not come, and a quick search revealed that none of his clothes were missing, she became concerned.

I am repeating her statement word for word. Personally I didn't believe a word of it, and still don't. I think she guessed what was afoot even then and that continuous inquiries for Mr Cruikshank from customers at the shop goaded her into going to the police.

If Miss Cruikshank could describe my appearance so accurately, surely she must have recognized me that day I called into the shop. If she was so concerned about her brother, she would have commenced her own inquiries then and there. To this Miss Cruikshank replied that working had taken her mind off the subject. It was a feeble excuse. I was able to push my point by recalling a conversation between her and a customer wandering about the bookshelves in search of a light romance.

“
Desert Love!
” exclaimed this discriminating reader. “Have I read it, Miss Cruikshank?”

“I'll check up with your card, Mrs Bellamy.”

“Please do. I seem to remember the name. About sheiks and slaves. Where is Mr Cruikshank? He would know whether I have had it.”

Miss Cruikshank left me to run through a tray of index cards.

“He was called away for a few days. I expect him home any time now,” she said, without looking up.

The Bellamy woman, whom I had been regarding with an absent-minded interest—I had seen her somewhere before—made a sound of impatience and reached down
Love in the Starlight
.

“So hard to find something I haven't read,” she murmured.

I agreed amiably, and pointed out a scarcely marked copy of
The Good Companions
tucked away in a corner.

“It's fairly old, but it bears reading several times.”

“Oh,
The Good Companions
. Yes, I saw the picture years ago. I got the book afterwards, of course, but it seemed so long that I—why, Maggie Byrnes! Fancy running into you after all this time.”

A swift, all-enveloping glance took in my hair-do, clothes and figure.

“You remember me, of course. It must be four years—no, five. What are you doing in this part of the world? Our sweet little Middleburn. You are married, of course.”

Another rapid look was shot over me.

“Very much so,” I replied, recalling Mrs Bellamy's face. The use of superfluous phrases had placed her. She had worked in the Trunk Exchange for a while, as dunderhead a telephonist as anyone could hope to hear. In those days her name was Connie Rowe.

“Just wait a minute until Miss Cruikshank stamps this book, Maggie. We'll have a nice long chat while we shop. I've got Peter outside.”

“And I've got Tony,” I said, not to be outdone.

“Your son? How delightful! I am just dying to—yes, this one, please, Miss Cruikshank. No return. When will Mr Cruikshank be back? I want to see him most urgently; or rather my husband does.”

“I expect him home tomorrow, Mrs Bellamy.”

“That's what she said two days ago,” Connie whispered, pushing me out the door. “I do believe he has gone into hiding or something. Harold is positively furious. Do you know the man has been systematically robbing us for years? Is this your little boy?”

She bent down in front of the pusher. Tony gave her that cruel speculative stare children do to strangers.

“My dear, the image of you, of course. Where is my Peter? Peter,” she called. “Oh, there he is. At the butcher's shop as usual. Come here, you bad boy.”

Peter proved to be not as I had anticipated, a small boy, but a cheeky black-and-white terrier. I had been fully prepared to return the compliment, and say how like he was to Connie.

I remarked rather weakly: “What a nice little dog.”

“He's an angel,” Connie announced, giving him a squeeze. “Such a comfort to me. But his nose will be out of joint soon, won't it, Peter boy? Poor little pet. You won't be too jealous, will you, darling? Now jump down and let Mummy Bellamy get on with her shopping. In here, Maggie. I want to pick up some sandwiches. Ham, of course. My dear, I positively crave for anything in the pork line. My own mother was just the same. Can I tie Peter to your pusher?”

“No,” I said firmly, visualizing her beastly dog dragging Tony and pusher into the middle of High Street. “What about that post?”

“Yes, that will do. You are fussy, Maggie.”

I followed her into the shop. A large parcel of sandwiches was passed over the counter.

“Not all for Mummy Bellamy,” Connie coyly assured me. “It is my turn at the Community Centre today. Afternoon tea, you know. You must come with me.”

I bought some bacon for breakfast and immediately regretted it, when Connie remarked in her high-pitched voice: “How frightfully coincidental!”

“My dear,” she confided, as we left the delicatessen, “I've got so much to tell you, I hardly know where to begin. Where are you living, Maggie?”

“At a place called the Dower House. We are hoping to change the pretentious title after six months. At the moment it belongs to the Squire of Middleburn.”

“The Squire? Oh, you mean Mr Holland, of course. Isn't he too awesome? Those black bars of eyebrows with that white hair. We all loathe him in Middleburn. The sooner he passes away the happier a lot of people will be. Fancy you getting the Dower! I heard he would never let it go, even after his son's accident. But,” said Connie, pausing to take breath, “I don't know if I'd call you lucky, Maggie.”

“I believe I am in these times,” I replied, steering the pusher carefully to avoid Peter's jerking leash.

“Well, Maggie”—Connie spoke in that tone of voice people use when they are a little envious of another's possessions—“all I can say is that you've walked slap-bang into trouble. I hope you won't regret it.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked quickly. I was sensitive to another's opinion regarding our choice of abode, although I could not say why. I think I must have been uneasy about our connection with Holland Hall from the start.

“I don't quite know,” Connie confessed, after a moment's thought. “I just feel trouble, that's all. Harold says I am psychic. That household simply reeks of mystery. Such a collection of incompatibles,
you know. But there! You're used to that sort of thing, aren't you, Maggie? Weren't you mixed up in that funny business at the Exchange a few years back?”

“Very little,” I replied shortly, determined that Connie and everyone else would learn nothing about “that funny business” from me. It brought back too many bitter memories.

Connie stopped and eyed me for a minute. “I would love to know exactly—” she began.

I shook my head. “Nothing doing.”

“And you married the policeman who solved the case! How terribly romantic. You must lead an exciting life.”

“Quite humdrum,” I assured her. “Am I really bidden to the Community Centre?”

Connie was easy to divert. “My dear, I insist. The other lasses will be thrilled to meet you. We are a frightfully enthusiastic organization. Lectures, art classes, dramatics. We foster a spirit of culture in Middleburn, you know. Such fun!”

“It sounds hilarious,” I said, as Connie swept me along to a large hall set back from the street and surrounded by lawns and trees.

“Does the Squire own this too?” I asked, observing the letter H wrought in stone above the main door.

“Maggie, you can't turn round in Middleburn without bumping into Mr Holland. Sometimes it is positively terrifying. Don't say I didn't warn you if he comes to put pressure on you. I can see his idea, of course.”

“What idea?”

“Wait and see,” Connie said mysteriously. “Just remember I warned you. Now, are we ready? Leave Tony out here with the other children. He will be well looked after.”

There was a considerable amount of noise issuing forth from the hall. Connie sailed in, nodding and smiling as she led me past rows of knitting women and up a short flight of steps to the stage. I faced a battery of critical feminine eyes as the chatter broke off abruptly. Connie made straight for the executives' table, dragging me by the hand.

“Brenda, I am most fearfully sorry for being late. I met an old friend. Mrs Gurney, Maggie,” and I was introduced to the president of the Community Centre, who surveyed me with a sympathetic twinkle in her friendly gaze.

“Connie, must you?” I murmured, as she reached over and rang the handbell on the president's table.

“Girls,” she announced to the room at large. “An asset to Middleburn. May I introduce Mrs—Maggie, what is your name again?”

“Matheson,” I muttered, looking around for a way of escape. I noticed a girl sitting at the end of the official table. Her head was bent, but she looked familiar.

“Maggie, our secretary.” I bowed to a stolid-looking woman in horn-rimmed glasses. She took them off, nodded and replaced them on the bridge of her nose. “And Mrs Holland at the end of the table.”

Yvonne Holland was gazing at me intensely now. She looked smaller and thinner when seated. Her hand plucked at the buttons of her mustard tweed jacket.

“Brenda,” Connie ran on. “Maggie must give us a lecture on crime. She knows such a lot about murders and things. Her husband, you know. I do think it most romantic to be married to a super-sleuth. Does he carry a gun, Maggie?”

Mrs Gurney said: “Connie, do make the tea. We are all dying of thirst. Sit down and relax, Mrs Matheson. We really are nice people.”

“I felt like a Christian thrown to the lions,” I declared, sitting angle-wise so that I could see Yvonne Holland. She had recognized me.

“Will you really give us a talk on crime?” Mrs Gurney asked, her eyes dancing.

“Certainly not.”

“Such a pity. A lot of scope for murders here.”

I said with feeling: “Connie never knew how close to death she was.”

“Oh, dear!” Brenda Gurney ejaculated suddenly. “I'm afraid you're in for something.”

“What now?” I asked in resignation.

“Our dramatic coach, Mrs Parkes. I saw Connie talking to her. Bear up. All for Middleburn culture, you know. Hullo, Marion, wherefore art thou?”

A stout female, clad in a sort of Grecian tunic, took up a position in front of me.

“Please don't abuse Shakespeare, Brenda,” she admonished in a sonorous voice. “I find it in very poor taste. If you want to quote, make it quite clear you are doing so.” She placed the palms of her hands firmly on the table. “Now, Mrs Matheson, can you act?”

I blinked up at the large-chinned face bending over me.

“I run the dramatic side of our organization,” she explained, as Mrs Gurney laughingly left me in her clutches. “Every year we do either scenes from Shakespeare or a farce. It is Shakespeare's turn this year. You must be in it. I am so short of tall girls for the male parts.”

“I don't think I'd be any good,” I said, watching Yvonne Holland half-rise and then sit down again, as though she had changed her mind.

“Nonsense!” Mrs Parkes said vigorously. “With your background of drama you will be just the thing. Connie said you were a detective or something before you got married. All you have to do is to be perfectly natural in your rôle. As Shakespeare says, ‘All the world's a stage.' Now what sort of part would you like?”