And Death Came Too

by Hull, Richard

  “It sounds as if it would have been more likely to have got him into trouble if Mrs Hands had tried to take the matter up.”

  “Very likely, though I don’t expect it ever came into her mind to do that. I believe, though, that it was written rather cunningly, because ostensibly it was just a description of how Hands’ death occurred. However, be that as it may, the effect was appalling. Mrs Hands kept it to herself so that no one knew about it, although they saw that she was queer. No doubt they knew, too, that she had quarrelled with Miss Yeldham, but they wouldn’t know what about.”

  “Wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t the fact that Mr Hands and Mr Yeldham were serving in the same unit be known? People might have put two and two together.”

  “From what I can make out, people were rather busier then than they are now, and I believe that it may not have been known. Yeldham was only a distant cousin of the old lady you used to live with.”

  “Quite,” Barbara snapped, remembering her own grievances.

  “And perhaps she didn’t know. She didn’t tell you, for instance, did she?”

  “That’s true.”

  “Anyhow, very little was said—although I agree more people may have known than said anything,” Lansley went on, quite unaware of the existence even of Private Davies, still less of his having been in a position to give so full an account of what had happened. “If they did, they had the sense to keep quiet and not tell her what she had better not have known. Unfortunately, though, Mrs Hands herself was not absolutely wise about it. If she had been sensible, she would have burnt the letter and forgotten all about it. But she did not. She did the worst possible thing. She showed it to Martin and left it to him to carry on the family feud if he wanted to.”

  Barbara stopped suddenly. “You aren’t suggesting that he did, are you?”

  “Oh, no. How could he have done? He arrived at the house with us and was with us all the time.”

  “What about beforehand, and what about that extra two miles on the speedometer?”

  “Nonsense: I may say hard things about him sometimes; but Martin isn’t the sort of man to do a murder. Too afraid of risking a very comfortable existence for that.”

  But Barbara persisted with her usual gloomy pertinacity. A long-suffering grievance was exactly the type of motive which appealed to her, and, moreover, she was exactly one of those people whose sense of duty was most active when it compelled her to do things which were a nuisance to everybody.

  Not that the information of which she had become possessed was of any great novelty to the police, except that it confirmed what Scoresby had already suspected—namely, that Martin was in possession of a full version of the circumstances in which his father had been killed. But her preliminary action did have considerable effect, for she thought it only right to tell Patricia and her brother of her intention; and, while Martin was resigned, if not pleased, Patricia was furious.

  “I was under the impression,” she began with biting irony, “that you were a friend of ours. Is it the action of a friend, not only to believe that Martin is capable of killing a man whom he had never seen before, but actively to go and try to incriminate him? And Gerald, too,” she went on, “why can’t he mind his own business? And, anyhow, what were you two spending the afternoon together for at all?”

  The last remark being the easiest to answer, Barbara had chosen that one to which to reply with more vigour than discretion. “Why shouldn’t we? As far as I could gather, you had told him to hang about in case you wanted him to play tennis with you, and then had just abandoned him—without even troubling to tell him so. You may be engaged to him, but you don’t own him. If that’s the way you are going to treat him when you’re married, I pity the poor chap.”

  “That, at any rate, is no business of yours.” By this time Barbara had lost her temper partially and Patricia completely, and both were saying things which even at the time they knew they would regret afterwards. Of the two Barbara might most easily have recovered herself. At least she had the common sense to admit that the future relations of Patricia and Gerald were no business of hers, but she firmly stuck to it that the facts which had come into her possession ought to be told to Scoresby.

  Eventually it was Martin himself who tried to effect such partial truce as was possible. “But, of course,” he said, “by all means tell them everything, if you think we ought to. But at least do me the justice to admit that I have never tried to hide anything. In fact, I think it would be best if I went along with you. It may save the sergeant from wasting his time on matters which cannot be of the slightest concern to him.”

  Whether the last statement was true or not, Scoresby was by no means prepared to say. The only thing of which he was quite sure was that it was an interview that he had intended to have, but not at that moment. He had wanted to find out more about the knife and about any possible connection between Hands and the “purple lady” before he spoke. Added to which he had not quite made up his mind how to conduct the conversation. He recognised that Barbara meant well, and like all people who do that, was extremely trying.

  But if he was not best pleased, Patricia remained unrelentingly furious and prepared to vent her rage not only, as was perhaps reasonable enough, on Barbara, but also on the more innocent Lansley. Even her brother was not exempt from her strictures. Why, she wanted to know, had he disclosed the private affairs of the family to anyone at all? It was nonsense to say that Gerald was almost a member of it. He was not as yet, and if things went on like this, he very well might not be.

  With that (and a slight feeling of remorse, for after all she knew that she was abusing her brother just at the time when he wanted all the help he could get) she went off to take it out on Lansley, and perhaps make her last words true. For ninety-nine days out of a hundred, Patricia was a kindly and only normally irritable person, but on the hundredth day, when one of her black moods descended upon her, she became completely unreasonable, and, so long as her words hurt, she did not mind what she said. Consequently, having said everything she could think of as to what she termed his gross betrayal of confidence, and found that not only had Lansley just managed to keep his own temper, but that her words were beginning, even to her own ears, to sound very thin, she went on to invent fresh and wilder accusations. “And if you must proclaim our most intimate affairs from the house-tops, why choose Barbara?” she demanded.

  “She’s a very old friend of yours,” Lansley had put in mildly.

  “I’ve known her a very long time,” Patricia corrected, “and done her what I had hoped were a considerable number of kindly acts. But now I know what her friendship is worth.”

  “She’s only doing what she thinks is right and if, as I am quite sure, it is a complete mare’s nest, then it can’t possibly hurt Martin.”

  “That’s right! Stand up for her!”

  “Why not? She’s being rather stupid, I admit, but there is a duty on the ordinary citizen—”

  “To get their friends into trouble! There can’t be any such duty!”

  “—And even you were saying since that unlucky night when we went to Y Bryn that we ought to tell the police everything.”

  “Not what cannot possibly concern them.”

  “And are we to be the judge of what does or does not concern them?”

  “Oh! Of course, Barbara’s quite right and I’m quite wrong!” Suddenly her bad temper caused a spasm of jealousy to shoot through her brain. “Oh, I see what it is. Didn’t I understand that Mr Yeldham had only a life interest in Miss Yeldham’s property, and that the conscientious Barbara is now an heiress? I suppose that she will not find it necessary to point that out to the police; but never mind, I shan’t worry to go and tell them. I’m not Barbara. Nor am I as rich now as she is. So that’s how the land lies.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Patricia.” Lansley made a last attempt to calm her down. “Neither you nor I know if she does come in for the money. Still less do I know how much money either of you have compared to the
other.”

  “Don’t you? Wills can be inspected at Somerset House, I believe, and calculations made.”

  “Considering the variations which have overtaken investments since 1918 and the present day, he would be a clever man who could calculate what you have now.”

  “Oh! So you do know that my father left some money to me absolutely when I married or came of age!”

  “My dear Patricia—”

  “Don’t ‘dear Patricia’ me. It’s an infuriating phrase at any time.” The last remark at least was true.

  “I should hate to do anything to make you cross.” Lansley gave up the struggle of keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. “But I should like to know what right you have to accuse me of wanting to marry you for your money. It isn’t very complimentary to yourself, you know.”

  “I shall please myself as to whether I pay compliments to myself or not. But for the rest, you are not the first person who has tried that game on. I’ve seen through the others quite early on, but I must admit that you very nearly deceived me. I don’t think that I should have noticed if it hadn’t been for poor Mr Yeldham. It’s when something serious has got to be faced that people come out in their true colours, and both you and Barbara have shown me what kind of friends you are. However, now I know. Too well, I know.”

  It was not long after she had taken her departure that she realised that she had made a fool of herself, for if she did get beside herself when one of her bad moods was upon her, she was prepared, when she recovered, to be mentally honest with herself and to admit her mistake and apologise fully. The only trouble—and past experience ought to have taught her how real a trouble it was—was that occasionally it was too late. Had she but known it, this too was moving towards being a similar case, for while she was relenting at leisure, Lansley was thinking. “I wonder,” he said beneath his breath. “Things will be a little stormy at the office during the early part of next week. A day away to let things blow over will sound, to Hands at any rate, quite a sensible thing to indulge in. Let me think. If I go up by the early train—” He began to make calculations as to time, and finally came to the conclusion that he ought just to be able to get through all that he wanted in what would be available. “There won’t be very much to spare, though,” he decided.

  13

  Analysis

  Once more Scoresby examined all the evidence in front of him and decided that he had better analyse it in order to take stock. It was, of course, still possible that the murderer was some entirely unknown person of whom he had never heard, but on the whole he thought it extremely improbable that there should have been yet another person with any motive whatever. It might, it was true, have been a purely casual housebreaker; and even the absence of any sign of burglary was not conclusive, because the thief might have been disturbed before he had time to take anything. Nevertheless there was no sign, and on the whole Scoresby thought that the hypothesis that he had all the possible people to some extent visible was fairly safe.

  That being so, there were the four who arrived in Hands’ car in one group, while the rest—Salter, the woman with the yellow gloves—might be termed miscellaneous, and could be placed with the complete outsiders, Kinderson and Reeves.

  There was no doubt that Reeves had every opportunity and that he had behaved very oddly after leaving the dining-room at Y Bryn, a room in which, in fact, he ought never to have been. It was very peculiar, too, that his first account had given no explanation as to why his fingerprints should be found on a wine glass, and, as a preliminary move, Scoresby decided to inquire into that. There was, he noticed, nothing in any of the evidence given to him which accounted for it.

  Reeves hummed and hawed a good deal when the question was put to him. Foolishly he said at first that he could not remember having touched a glass at all, and he even suggested that the fingerprint evidence must be mistaken in some way. It did not, however, take Scoresby very long to break down the defence, and finally the constable was shamefacedly forced to confess to his glass of champagne. “Of course, sir,” he ended, “I knew it would sound all wrong, and so did Mr Hands and the other ladies and gentlemen. That is why they decided not to say anything about it.”

  “And you actually encouraged them to do that?”

  “Well, sir—I didn’t think you would understand.”

  “I don’t think I do now. But I am willing to listen to an explanation.”

  The constable stood up squarely and erectly, and after a moment’s thought began to give his reasons. A spoilt young man, thought Scoresby, whose attractive manner and cheerful, good-looking face had made life too easy for him; conceited, perhaps, but rather likeable in his frankly egotistical way. “In the first place, sir, it was rather a shock when I found the body. I hadn’t been expecting to see anything of the sort, and, though I hope I’m not squeamish, there was a messy lot of blood about. But, then, as I said, I got the idea that this was my big chance, and so first of all I listened at the dining-room door, and then, as you know, I went in, in the hopes of giving them such a surprise that they would give themselves away—or one of them would. Now, if I was going to surprise them, I thought that I had better do it good and proper. So first of all I talked as oddly as I knew how (not half as oddly as that Salter did, though), and then, seeing that glass of champagne, I just couldn’t resist giving them a real good jolt. And it did startle them—there’s no doubt about that.” Reeves grinned as he thought of the faces which had confronted him, and then, remembering his present position, became quickly serious again; “But unfortunately not enough. Leastwise, so far as I know, it didn’t.”

  “You didn’t really think that would produce any results, did you?”

  “Yes, sir. Seemingly I was wrong, but I thought it might. And besides, I’m afraid, sir, I had always wanted to taste champagne, and I didn’t think I should ever have another chance.”

  It was Scoresby’s turn to smile. “That sounds more like the reason,” he commented dryly.

  “Really, sir, it was only part of it.”

  “Did you like it?”

  The question was clearly a surprise to Reeves, and he answered at once without a second’s hesitation: “Not much, sir. I shan’t be trying to get any more. Beer’s a great deal nicer to my mind, and it doesn’t give you hiccoughs so badly. But that stuff did pull me together. I think I was a bit more upset than I knew at the time, and that, perhaps, sir, is why I was so foolish.”

  “The whole point of being a useful member of the force is that you must never act foolishly when something happens which might upset ordinary people. Just you remember that in future. As it is, on top of muddling everything up, you suppressed a small and, I hope, unimportant point, just to cover yourself, with the result that I have had to unravel it at a time when I had better things to think about than you.” Seeing that the moment was good, Scoresby went on to give Reeves the telling off that had been waiting for him for some time.

  “Yes, sir.” The constable’s one idea was to get out of the room. “I really won’t act like that in future, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

  “No,” Scoresby answered slowly. “You might help by doing something that I intended to do. I rather fancy that a car was driven up from the town hall to somewhere near Y Bryn—and perhaps to Y Bryn—on that night. If it was, the car was then replaced, and possibly on the way back a knife with a spring blade for killing game was got rid of. I want you to look round at any point where that car could have stood and see if that knife by any chance has not been recovered. It might have been thrown out into a hedgerow on the way, or hidden somewhere where it could be found again. It’s rather a long shot, but it ought to be investigated.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best, sir, because I should like—”

  “I have no doubt you would,” Scoresby finished the sentence for him acidly. Really, as a kind-hearted man, he would be delighted if Reeves could rehabilitate himself, but he saw no reason to make it too easy for him. With that he turned back to the an
alysis which he had temporarily put aside.

  Taking a piece of paper, he ruled five columns, heading four of them with the names of one of the four of the Hands group. Then to the left he put a number of subjects which he wanted to examine. “Opportunity to be absent from the dance,” was the first, and “Known to be absent,” the second. But these proved to be two disappointing headings, since all the four people concerned could have left, but none of them were known to have done so. “Reluctance to go to Y Bryn,” came next, “Reaction to Yeldham’s absence,” “Mistaking Salter for Yeldham,” followed; then “Unconvincing conversation to Salter,” “Comments on Reeves’s arrival,” “Attitude to stray woman,” “Reaction to news that Yeldham is murdered,” and finally, “Other remarks or actions which do not seem natural.” “Suppressions in evidence,” was added as an afterthought.

  The first cross-section, “Reluctance to go to Y Bryn,” produced several definite features. In Scoresby’s mind it had been Barbara from whom he expected most opposition, but in fact she had been resigned if not enthusiastic and the opposition had come mainly from Hands, with Lansley vacillating. The decision to go had been entirely Patricia’s.

  On the other hand, the reactions to Yeldham’s absence had been very limited. At first none of them seemed to have known what to do about it, or to have taken any steps at all. It was not until after the unknown woman had gone that anything had been said, even. Naturally, it would have been awkward to have commented on it too freely while Salter was still present, but even when he was gone the suggestion to do something about it, when it had come from Martin, had apparently even then been half-hearted. His words sounded as if he had been more occupied in commenting on Yeldham’s lack of manners than anything else, which would have been positively petty from a man who had just murdered him.