Death Came Softly

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “I gathered from what Mrs. Merrion said that her sister was feeling rather under the weather.”

  “She’s under the worst depression any aneroid ever registered. You know, if she’d stayed on at Valehead, she’d have gone plain bats. So should I, for that matter. They’re just too much for me.”

  “In what way?”

  Rhodian held up one brown hand and ticked off his points on his lean fingers.

  “One poet, given to Sherlocking, tense with atmosphere; one archeologist, given to snooping, frightened to bits; one Irishman, mad as they make ’em, given to prophesying; one big tough, given to drinking cider, frightened of ghosts; and finally, one exceedingly nice hostess, given to gardening, being driven crazy by all the others. If, in addition to that little selection, you had the dame in there, jittering at all of ’em, the atmospherics would be too lively for a commonplace bloke lacking imagination, like me.”

  “It sounds full of possibilities,” agreed Macdonald. “What examples have you had of the amateur Sherlocking—anything spectacular?”

  “Only dramatic statements. Lockersley came in last night after he’d been playing his piece with you. Mrs. Merrion and her sister had gone up to bed, but Keston and I provided the audience. Lockersley said, ‘I think I know who did it. I think I know how he did it. I think I know why he did it.’ Keston was on the other side of the door, but he heard all right. Can you beat it? I took him to bed, and stayed with him till he was in bed.”

  “Lockersley’s a bit rash, going round making statements of that kind.”

  “Just hot air. Spoken for effect—but Keston isn’t the sort of bird to annoy that way. Anyway, I’m glad to be out of it. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Merrion had an idea yesterday evening about how the old man lighted the charcoal in that brazier. Did she tell you?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her again. What was it?”

  “Meta Fuel. You know the stuff. The professor had got a big packet of it.”

  “Had he? Well, it’s certainly an idea.”

  “But no means of proving it, I suppose, unless you had some of the ash analyzed. Would it leave traces?”

  “I should think so. I’ll look into it.”

  Rhodian grinned. “I suppose you think us poor mutts for making suggestions. I know most of mine are pretty imbecile, but I thought Mrs. Merrion’s idea about the Meta Fuel might be a possibility. I wish for her sake you could get the whole business cleared up. She’s as straight and good a soul as ever breathed, and it’s just darned hard on her.”

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. I can assure you I shan’t loiter more than necessary. I hear you’re busy on a film stunt. Enjoying it?”

  Rhodian laughed, showing his fine white teeth.

  “Not all that, it’s pretty fair bunk. I shan’t be there when they show the premiere, I tell you. But some of the photography’s good. It ought to be. I risked my life twenty times a day exposing some of that film. The scenario’s pretty fair muck—studio stuff, human appeal and heart throb. Sick making, but they offered me a contract which was worth considering, and I’m not one of these purists. I started the travel stuff for the fun of it: I liked it, but I don’t dislike money. Leastways, I don’t suppose so. I’ve never had any yet.”

  He threw his cigarette end out of the window, adding, “I’d better go back and be ready to do the sympathetic friend act. It’s a darned funny show. I seem to have tumbled into the story with the lid off. I’ve heard all the funny stuff, diamonds and that. Punk. I don’t believe in any of it. The old boy lighted his brazier to warm himself, or else to assist his own incantations, and just swallowed a whiff of the deadliest gas an innocent looking substance can produce. Keston and his nerves and Lockersley and his sleuthing are just local color. They’d neither of them murder a fly. Neither would the dame in there. She’s frightened of her own shadow. Carter’s a tough, but a damn silly one. Brady’s an Irishman and superstitious. He wouldn’t have gone near that cave at midnight for all the gold of Ophir. That’s got them all taped for you.”

  “Thanks,” murmured Macdonald. “I enjoyed your analysis. Most enlightening.”

  “Sez you. If I were asked who, of the company in the house yesterday, was most capable of murder, I should have chosen you. You’ve an air of quiet competence.”

  “Again, thanks.”

  “Not at all. Are you going to check up on alibis, or whatever it is a detective does?”

  “Probably. Do you know Lockersley at all, apart from having met him at Valehead?”

  “No. Never happened across him. Don’t you believe all that Keston suggests. Lockersley’s no vice in him, you can see that at a glance. If it’s true he’s got a mistress, he was probably nabbed by her when he was composing poetry. In any case, all my sympathy goes out to the lady. See you later, I hope.”

  “Thanks,” reiterated Macdonald.

  10

  Macdonald saw Rhodian again just before the train reached Paddington. “No use asking you to eat with me somewhere this evening?” inquired the latter, but Macdonald shook his head.

  “Afraid not. I’ve got a spot of work to do, one way and the other.”

  “A pity. I should have liked it. I’m going along to the film studio to see a run through, after I’ve got rid of my spot of bother in there.” He indicated the compartment where Mrs. Stamford was seated, and his grin was not very respectful.

  “You’re intending to get back to the States pretty soon, I gather?” inquired Macdonald, and Rhodian nodded.

  “Yes. In a week or two. Depends on when the Clipper will take me. One can’t make one’s own plans these days. They’re made for one. So long. Glad I met you, though sorry the occasion called for your services.”

  He turned back toward his compartment, his face still alight with the friendly grin which had so much vital enjoyment in it.

  Macdonald went direct to his own department at C.O., the Commissioner’s Office, as Scotland Yard is known to the police. Here he found Peter Vernon waiting for him. Vernon was a journalist and a very able one. He had been friends with Macdonald for years, and apart from liking Vernon, the C.I.D. man found him useful on many occasions, on account of Vernon’s extensive knowledge of people. If he did not actually know the person Macdonald was interested in, Vernon could nearly always “dig up a contact.” He was never discouraged, no matter how difficult the task Macdonald set him in the way of making improbable acquaintances, and always willing to try.

  Sitting in Macdonald’s rather comfortless official armchair, smoking a deplorable pipe, Vernon inquired, “What cheer, Jock? A true bill?”

  “To the best of my knowledge and belief, yes,” replied Macdonald. “However, neither knowledge nor belief is very extensive yet. Do you know this lad Lockersley?”

  “Haven’t you a passion for getting your own questions answered while leaving other people’s natural curiosity unsatisfied,” grumbled Vernon.

  Macdonald sat down and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got time to listen to your always valuable but frequently garrulous reports, but I haven’t time to compete in the word-spinning game. You shall have your pound of flesh in due time—meantime, get on with it.”

  “I thought you were going to forget yourself to the extent of saying ‘go to it,’ ” replied Vernon. “Why do other people’s slogans so often sound so poor? Now, about Lockersley. As it happens, I do know him, if you can call it knowing him to have drunk vodka—so-called—and imbibed sausages—also so-called—in his company. I think he told me I was a sanguinary fool, and I replied suitably. I like him. Also I like his work. Lockersley, oh philistine of Cannon Row, is a poet. Not quite in the front rank, but not far removed. He has all the right qualifications, including a belief in democracy, and a passion for pacifism of the type shown by the International Brigade—stout fellas. He can be sure of getting his stuff printed in papers like the New Chancellor, New Speech and all that. Obviously he’s poor. No visible means of support, as you chaps say—except his writing. In terms of lucre it’s not th
e world’s richest proposition. He lives in Camden Town, and Rebecca Grale lives with him. At least, they live together in theory, and share the latch key, so to speak, but they’re hardly ever there together. Lockersley’s mad on the country. He turns tramp for weeks together, and Rebecca’s a passion for painting Irish bogs. I think the cohabiting effect has been assumed as a token of mutual independence, and a gesture against the phrasing of the book of Common Prayer. Lockersley, I can assure you, is a sound lad. He’s generous and kindly, and has an honest respect for the craft of letters. Anything else you want to know?”

  “His address, if you can bring yourself to be so explicit, and a further line on his personal habits. I gather, from your opening, that you met him at a cocktail party. Is he one of the new poor who enjoy the fleshpots of Bloomsbury?”

  “The cocktail party at which I met him was a riot in an attic in Hampstead, given by a Czech in honor of a Russian. Mostly they spoke French, and there were ten nationalities represented among fifteen guests, most of whom sat on the stairs, because the capacity of the room only ran to six. What you really mean is, does Lockersley like purple and fine linen. Money, to put it plainly. He does not. I never met a chap who cared for money less. He could make pots if he chose. He doesn’t choose. Here’s his address, but if you’re a party to hanging him, you ought to be lynched.”

  “Thanks. I shall doubtless get my deserts in due time. For your information, Lockersley seemed to be quite enjoying the very comfortable house he is staying in, and he’s not too democratic to despise a well cut dinner jacket. Any sidelights on my other acquaintance, Bruce Rhodian?”

  “Lawks! You’ve been going it. All the winners in the literary sweepstakes. I reviewed his book. He can write, I’ll say that for him. I never enjoyed a travel book more. It takes a lot to make me laugh out loud when I’m reading to earn my living, but I laughed over his until I rocked. I reckon he can live on the proceeds of that book until he shuffles off this mortal what not—”

  “If you want to quote, for the good Lord’s sake don’t interlard decent English with your own corrupt idioms,” cut in Macdonald. “Have you met Rhodian, too, in the course of your illiterate career?”

  “He’s not the sort of chap a poor bloke meets,” replied Vernon. “He’s being publicized, run by agents who see to it that he meets profitable persons. I’ve heard him speak, after dinner speech at Grosvenor House, and good at that. He doesn’t swank and doesn’t blether. He’s out to make money, in the best Yank tradition, and I don’t blame him. I’d do it myself if I saw how. Rhodian has all the qualities to insure success. He’s got the pioneering spirit and guts enough to face any danger; he’s got imagination, and the capacity to write of what he’s seen, and he can laugh at himself, which is the most endearing trait I know in any chap whose actions come perilously near the heroic.”

  “Hm . . . quite enthusiastic. Anything on the debit side of the picture?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of. People like him. He’s been the most run-after man in town these past months, and most women fall for him at sight, but it’s said that he’s straight, and doesn’t exploit the situation. Is it true he’s keen on the woman he’s been staying with—Axel Merrion’s widow?”

  “I can’t say. She’s a charming woman in a quiet way. What do you know about her?”

  “Nothing except that she’s Axel Merrion’s widow, and inherited his fortune. He was a great man, and very generous to the journalists’ benevolent. Look here, Jock. I’ve talked the deuce of a lot. Tell me this. Was Professor Crewdon murdered?”

  “I believe so, but it’s not for publication yet. The inquest’s been adjourned pending inquiries. It might be worth your while to attend the next session. I’ll let you know.”

  “What’s the place like—Valehead?”

  “Beautiful.”

  Macdonald uttered only that one word, but Vernon caught the sincerity of the quiet voice and cocked an angular eyebrow. That one word from Macdonald meant more than rhapsodies from more talkative people.

  “Is it? I think I’d like to see it,” said Vernon, and Macdonald replied:

  “Yes, I think you would, but not just now, Peter. If you go there, others will follow you, and I should hate to let Fleet Street loose in Valehead. Wait until I give you the word—and now thanks very much for all your help. I’ve got to get a move on.”

  “See you this evening?”

  “I think not. I shall probably go down to Devon again.”

  “Is Lockersley still there?”

  “I think so. He was this morning. Rhodian traveled up on the same train as I did, with Mrs. Merrion’s sister—the latter best part of the way towards a nervous breakdown.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did. Probably just nerves—possibly something else. I don’t know. . . .”

  When Macdonald left his office he went straight to the address in Camden Town which Vernon had given him. Lockersley had given his club address to Turner, and Macdonald wanted to know what sort of place he lived in. The address turned out to be that of a studio in the garden of a house between Chalk Farm Station and the Albert Road. Macdonald rang the bell and the door was opened by a charwoman, a typical, wizened, alert looking little Cockney. She did not wait for Macdonald to speak but informed him, unasked:

  “She’s out. Going to be out all day, and going away again tomorrow, so that’s that.”

  “Oh. How disappointing. Is Mr. Lockersley here?”

  “Him? No. Not been here for weeks. Why? Is he coming today? I was just doing a nice bit o’ scrubbing. Not too soon, either. Filthy, the place is, and what’d you expect, shut up for weeks at a time as it is. I call it a crying shame, for they’ve got some nice bits and pieces. Ought to move ’em, I reckon, before Jerry blows ’em out. If you want to come in and wait, you’ll have to put up with me scrubbing. Got to get me work done.”

  “Of course. I don’t want to disturb you, but I should like to wait a bit and see if Mr. Lockersley does turn up.”

  “That’s okay. You can come in. I knows a gentleman when I sees one—and a lady. She’s a lady, though you’d never believe it, living as they do. Oh, well. Takes all sorts to make a world, and they don’t make no bones about it, this pair. Not ’ypocrites. Can’t stand ’ypocrites. Never could.”

  The lively charlady preceded Macdonald into the studio, and he stood and looked around him. It was a fine spacious place, with a great north light in the roof above a model’s platform at one end. The walls had been painted in cream, a pleasant matt surface; half the floor was carpeted, the other half plain boards. A film of dust lay on most of the furniture, and the curtains had that dusty, dull look which told of long disuse in the London atmosphere, but the studio was a very charming apartment; there was a gallery at one end which evidently did service as a bedroom, and a doorway led into a kitchenette. Macdonald sat down in a big Spanish chair and talked cheerfully to the charwoman, who went down on her knees to scrub the floor at the farther end of the studio.

  “When they are both away, I suppose the place is shut up,” he inquired, “or do you come in and clean it, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Briggs is the name,” she volunteered. “No. I don’t do no cleaning when they’re both away, but I oblige if I can when Miss Grale comes here. I been in the country meself for months—bombed out I was, and fed up with the ’ole show, but all them fields got on me nerves. Couldn’t stand it. So I come back, and Miss Grale, she was real pleased to see me. Said I could sleep in ’ere a bit, until I got fixed up somewhere, but lor, this place’d give me the pip. Them pictures and all. It was locked up for months. They left the keys with Mr. Sutton next door, just in case of them insanitary bombs. Miss Grale, she ’ad one lot of keys, and she kep’ hers, but Mr. Lockersley gave his to Mr. Sutton, him being a warden. I like Mr. Lockersley meself. Not seen him for months, though. You’re an ’opeful one if you expect to see ’im ’ere. ’E always forgets an appointment as soon as he’s made it, but then what’s the use of bei
ng a poet if you can’t forget things? Are you a poet, if I might ask, or do you paint them things they calls pictures?”

  “Neither,” replied Macdonald, and she stopped her scrubbing to give him a shrewd glance.

  “No. You look as though you’d more sense,” she replied.

  Macdonald chuckled a little, and then inquired, “Do you know if Mr. Lockersley’s been staying here lately? I wondered if he’d called for his letters or anything like that.”

  “Well, he hasn’t, and that I do know,” she replied. “No one’s been here for weeks till Miss Grale come ’ome—if you like to call it ’ome—two nights ago. She wrote to Mr. Sutton and asked him to get someone to come in and do a bit of cleaning and bring the laundry in, and that, and as I was an old friend, so to speak, Mr. Sutton told me to do what I could. ’E gave me the keys, and I come in and found piles of letters on the floor, mostly bills. If you’ve written to him here, you’ll likely find your own letter on the bookshelf there. Miss Grale hasn’t sent them on yet. I reckon no one had been in the place for weeks, you could see by the dust on the floor. You mightn’t believe it, but I’ve dusted till I’m tired, and it’s all as bad as ever in two-twos.”

  Macdonald got up and glanced through the pile of letters which Mrs. Briggs indicated—from the look of them, as she said, they were mostly bills.

  “It’s not much use my waiting if Mr. Lockersley hasn’t got my letter,” he observed. “I suppose you can’t say when you expect him back here?”

  “I don’t,” she observed succinctly, sitting back on her heels. “Shouldn’t be surprised if he never came back. He’s not what I’d call a stayer, and I reckon Miss Grale gets fed up with him proper. Clever he may be, but tiresome—my eye! I’ve said to ’er more’n once, I’ve said, you’re too good for this sort of hokey pokey, and ’e’s not worth an honest woman’s bothering about him. ’Tisn’t even as though she’d got her living to earn,” she ended solemnly, and returned to her scrubbing for a moment, and then added as an afterthought, “Not that I’ve ever known ’em to have words. Very high class, they is. If ’e were my business, I’d’ve set about him with a rolling pin for some of his lackadaisical ways. Lazy. Bone lazy. That’s what ’e is. And manners ain’t everything, though he’s quite the gentleman when ’e speaks to you.”