THREE SILENT THINGS a cozy murder mystery (Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘I wondered if you knew her at all?’

  Miss Butler froze, warning bells ringing. She said carefully, ‘Only very slightly. I came across her when I was serving in the Wrens. She was married to a naval officer. Her first husband, I believe.’

  ‘Did you happen to go to see her when she moved into the Hall?

  She stared at the colonel. ‘I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Because when the police came to see me about her death, they mentioned that someone had been seen on the terrace about two weeks earlier – looking in at Miss Delaney’s flat window. A lady. They had a very good description of her.’

  ‘Did they?’ Her voice sounded like a mouse’s squeak. ‘Dressed all in navy blue and wearing some kind of gilt service brooch. Naturally, they’re investigating all possible leads.’

  ‘Yes, naturally.’

  ‘But so far they haven’t discovered who this particular person was. They asked me if the description matched anybody that I knew in the village.’

  She gulped. ‘And what did you say, Colonel?’

  ‘I told them that it didn’t. You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Butler, but I would just like your assurance that there is no connection whatsoever between the unknown lady on the terrace and the death of Miss Delaney. And I’m perfectly sure that there isn’t.’ He smiled at her gently. ‘We’re already fellow conspirators, aren’t we? We trust each other completely.’

  He was alluding, of course, to her theft of Lady Swynford’s diamond brooch at the summer garden fête and the fact that he had not given her away to the police. She had already returned the brooch, in fact, but he had kept her shameful secret, saved her from disgrace, and the matter had never been mentioned between them again. She still did not know what had come over her to have done such a wicked thing.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Colonel.’

  ‘So perhaps you could just put my mind at rest?’

  She told him the whole story, from the brief encounters with Miss Delaney at the naval receptions, to the accidental discovery in the tabloid newspaper that she had moved into the Hall and her failed attempt to call.

  ‘I meant no harm, Colonel. Please believe me. I was just curious. Such a fascinating woman, you know. My father was greatly taken by her.’

  They both looked up at the bemedalled studio portrait of the admiral on top of the bureau glowering down.

  ‘Yes, most people seem to have been.’

  She gabbled on. ‘I looked through the window and saw Miss Delaney. She was on the telephone, talking to someone. Looking very pleased about something, actually. Very happy. Then she turned my way and I think she caught sight of me. Of course, I left immediately.’ Freda Butler put her hand over her eyes, mortified. ‘I never went back, please believe me, or tried to see her again and I’m very ashamed of what I did.’

  The colonel reached out and touched her arm. ‘Of course I believe you, Miss Butler. And there’s no more to be said.’

  ‘You won’t tell the police?’

  ‘Certainly not. It has no bearing on the case. We’ll keep it between ourselves, shall we?’

  He stood up and she saw him to the front door.

  She said, ‘Thank you, Colonel. Thank you so much.’

  ‘There’s nothing to thank me for, Miss Butler, and nothing to worry about.’

  He looked up at the sky and said briskly, as though everything was perfectly normal, ‘Do you know, I do believe it might be going to snow again.’

  Seven

  At the inquest on the death of Lois Delaney, the public gallery of the Coroner’s Court was crowded and the national newspapers had sent their reporters. She might have been a faded star, but Lois Delaney was still managing to pull in an audience.

  Witnesses were called, one after the other, to the box below the bench and sworn in. Inspector Squibb described the discovery of the body and the scene; no marks or trace of a break-in anywhere from outside the house or at the main entrance and none at the flat windows, or the flat door in the hall. The police doctor testified that Lois Delaney had died somewhere between six and eight o’clock in the evening in question – the warm bath water had made a precise assessment difficult. There had been no signs of a struggle. Death had been due to electric shock caused by a hairdryer connected to a power socket outside the bathroom being immersed in the bath while switched on. The pathologist who had performed a post-mortem on the body added the information that Lois Delaney had drunk considerably more than half a bottle of vodka mixed with tomato juice. Her liver had shown signs of permanent damage but the other organs were healthy. The coroner was busy making notes with his fountain pen.

  Dr Harvey was called about the occasion a week previously when Miss Delaney had summoned him to her flat at the Hall.

  ‘She had run out of the nitrazepam sleeping pills normally provided by her London doctor and asked me to prescribe more.’

  The coroner asked, ‘And did you, Doctor?’

  ‘No, I prescribed a placebo for her instead.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘It’s often just as effective as the real thing, and it’s a lot safer. When I saw her, Miss Delaney had obviously been drinking. Sleeping pills and alcohol are a dangerous combination, and she was living alone. I wasn’t prepared to take the risk.’

  ‘How did Miss Delaney seem to you, Dr Harvey? What was her emotional state at that time?”

  ‘I thought she seemed rather distressed.’

  ‘Did she tell you why?’

  ‘She said she hated it when she couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Did she strike you as being unbalanced?’

  ‘I’m not qualified to say.’

  A London psychiatrist who had treated Lois Delaney during her stays in a drying-out clinic gave evidence that in addition to her dependence on alcohol, she had suffered from severe depression. He had prescribed medication with some degree of success but the condition was always likely to return and had done so repeatedly in Miss Delaney’s case over several years. Yes, she could be described as having an unbalanced temperament... that is to say, subject to extreme mood swings and inclined to irrational behaviour and judgement. And she had told him that she frequently felt an urge to take her own life. In his professional opinion, this was what she had ultimately done.

  The London doctor who had prescribed the nitrazepam was also called and testified that the actress often had great difficulty sleeping and had become psychologically dependent on the drug, which had a diminishing effect with time. She had attempted suicide six months ago by taking an overdose of the pills on top of alcohol, but fortunately her husband had discovered her in time. As her doctor, he had been reducing the dose gradually in an effort to wean her off the drug but in cases like Miss Delaney’s, where the patient was not anxious to co-operate, it always took time.

  Mrs Barnes was called and, plainly very nervous, confirmed that Miss Delaney had often seemed depressed, and that she was aware that she drank more than was good for her.

  The coroner wrote some more notes. ‘Do you know how much?’

  ‘I couldn’t say exactly, sir, but there were always a lot of empty bottles.’

  A faint titter sounded around the courtroom. The coroner glanced up, frowning.

  ‘What effect would you say that drinking too much had on her?’

  ‘It made her feel very down, sir. She’d cry a lot and say how much she missed the theatre.’

  ‘Did she ever speak of taking her own life?’

  ‘No, sir. Not to me, or to my husband either. She never said anything about that, but we were always worried that she might harm herself when she was in one of those moods.’ The hairdryer had been a brand new one, Mrs Barnes testified. The old one had broken down and Miss Delaney had asked her to get another for her. She had gone to Boots in Dorchester and bought one – a white one because Miss Delaney liked light colours. It had a metal stand and was kept out on the dressing table in the bedroom, same as the old one had been. Miss Delaney went to her hairdresser’s in L
ondon regularly and had it cut very nicely, but in between she washed her hair herself with the hand shower in the bathroom and she always sat at her dressing table to dry it so she could see in the mirror. She had beautiful hair, Mrs Barnes added – it was quite easy to look after.

  ‘So far as you are aware, she never used the electric socket outside the bathroom door so that she could dry her hair inside the bathroom?’

  ‘No, never, sir. The mirror’s over the basin and right on the other side of the bathroom. The cord wouldn’t have reached far enough for her to see properly. Besides, Miss Delaney was frightened of electricity and she always got my husband to change light bulbs, for instance. And she knew how dangerous it could be near water. She told me a friend of hers had been electrocuted that way. I know she’d never have done a silly thing like that – except on purpose.’

  ‘Do you know if it was her custom to take a bath early in the evenings?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She told me that she’d always done that when she wasn’t working in the theatre. She said she liked to have a bath around six o’clock, then spend the rest of the evening in her dressing gown. She found it more comfortable and she didn’t have the bother of undressing twice. It also made her sleep better. She didn’t always sleep very well, like the doctor said.’

  At this point, Mrs Barnes’s voice faltered and she groped for a handkerchief.

  The coroner said gently, ‘This must be very upsetting for you, Mrs Barnes. Would you like to take a rest for a while?’ She rallied bravely, wiping her eyes. ‘No, thank you, sir. I’m all right.’

  ‘Mr King was her only visitor that evening?’

  ‘As far as I know, sir.’

  ‘What time did he arrive at the Hall?’

  ‘It would have been about quarter past five. I let him in myself because he hadn’t been able to make the outside bell to Miss Delaney’s flat work.’

  ‘He didn’t have a key to the main door?’

  ‘Yes, he did, sir, but he didn’t have it with him. The visit was on the spur of the moment, he said. Miss Delaney had asked him to call by and he happened to be in the area.’

  ‘Do you know what time he left the Hall?’

  ‘Just past six. He came to tell my husband to be sure and get the bell mended.’

  ‘Did you see him out?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. My husband and I both went to the door with him and waited till he’d driven away.’

  Jeanette Hayes was summoned. Her long hair was tied back and she was wearing a navy reefer jacket over her jeans. She looked pale, the colonel thought, and tense. She testified that she had rung at the door of Flat 2 that evening at about half past seven and had received no answer.

  ‘You were acquainted with Miss Delaney?’

  ‘Yes. I’d known her through her son, Rex. I lived with him for several years but we broke up last summer. That was when I moved to the Hall.’

  ‘Were you aware that Miss Delaney was a resident?’

  ‘She wasn’t – not at that time. When she moved in, it was a complete surprise to me.’

  ‘You weren’t aware that it was her husband who had bought and converted the Hall into flats?’

  ‘No. I dealt with a company called Greenhill Estates. I didn’t know it had anything to do with Mr King.’

  ‘Did you visit Miss Delaney after she’d moved in?’

  ‘I didn’t realize she had for some weeks – not until I happened to meet her in the hall.’

  ‘Did you see much of Miss Delaney after that meeting?’

  ‘I didn’t see her again at all until Rex came to stay with her at Christmas. She invited me for a drink on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘And you accepted?’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t tell me that Rex was there, or I wouldn’t have done.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I wasn’t anxious to see him again. Our relationship was finished.’

  ‘How did you find Miss Delaney on that particular evening? What sort of mood was she in?’

  ‘She was in very high spirits. She’d been offered a leading part in a Noël Coward revival and she was certain it would be a big success.’

  The colonel was called next. He answered the same questions all over again. He had found Miss Delaney dead in the bath; he had neither touched nor moved anything, nor seen any kind of note that she might have left. And, no, he had never met her before or knew anything of her private life. As he reached the end of his testimony, he was tempted to offer his own personal conviction – that whatever the evidence pointed to, Lois Delaney had not killed herself. But on what could he base it? That her mouth was half-open and that she had looked as though she had wanted to speak to him? The coroner would think he was as unbalanced as the dead woman. And, in any case, witnesses at an inquest were there to answer questions, not offer uninvited opinions.

  The next witness was Lois Delaney’s son, Rex Farrell, and the colonel could see a strong resemblance to his mother. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, good-looking, a rich speaking voice and a great deal of easy charm. He was an actor, he said. He lived in Fulham in London and he had spent Christmas with his mother in her flat at the Hall. She had been on unusually good form because of the chance of returning to the stage in the Noël Coward play. Over the moon, in fact.

  ‘Would you describe your late mother as subject to mood swings?’

  ‘Lord, yes. It depended how things were going for her.’

  ‘What things, precisely?’

  ‘In the theatre. It was the only thing she really cared about.’

  The son said it without rancour, the colonel noted. It was probably something that he had accepted at a very early age.

  ‘Were you aware that she had tried to take her life six months ago?’

  ‘I found out about it later. She told me so herself. Actually, she said she hadn’t really meant to do it; she’d drunk too much and forgotten how many pills she’d taken.’

  ‘You didn’t hear about it first from her husband – your stepfather?’

  Rex Farrell smiled faintly. ‘We don’t communicate.’

  ‘When did you end your Christmas visit to your mother?’

  ‘I left on the morning of the thirty-first – just before midday, as far as I can remember. I’d had an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party at friends in Scotland.’

  ‘You drove straight there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say straight, exactly. It started to snow on the way up which made things pretty difficult. In fact, I didn’t get there until early the following morning. I’d got stuck in a drift and had to spend most of that night in the car before someone came along and helped dig me out.’

  There were several more questions before the coroner said, ‘One final question, Mr Farrell. ‘When you left your mother on the thirty-first of December, how would you describe her mood then – at that exact moment when you said goodbye?’

  ‘Very good. She was still talking about the play and how wonderful it was going to be, being back on the stage.’

  ‘So you had no reason to think that she had any intention of ending her life?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  The son had obviously not been anything like as successful as the mother. His name meant nothing to the colonel and he couldn’t recall ever seeing him on the stage, on television or in any film, or mentioned in the newspapers. He must belong to the legions of unknowns who scrape a living playing bit parts in soaps and series – such as Mrs Barnes had mentioned. He wondered what the coroner thought of him and his testimony – delivered so glibly. Rex Farrell was not a witness to inspire confidence or the belief that he was necessarily telling the truth.

  He watched with interest as Lois Delaney’s husband took the stand. He was a thick-set man of medium height, grey-haired and dressed in what were probably very expensive clothes but not ostentatiously so. He wore none of the knuckle-duster rings or flashy gold watches that the colonel might have expected from Naomi’s twister. He identified himself as head of the BHK Gr
oup of companies and testified that he had been married to Lois Delaney for nine and a half years. His evidence, delivered in a northern accent, was straightforward and unhesitating. His wife had written to him before Christmas, asking him to come and see her. He’d been reluctant to do so, thinking it was probably to do with the divorce proceedings which, in his view, were best left entirely to their lawyers. In the event, he had happened to be in the vicinity of Frog End on the 31st of December, inspecting a property, and had decided to call in at the Hall on his way back to London. Normally, he would have been using his helicopter for the trip but the weather forecast had been very bad, so he’d taken his car instead. He had arrived at the Hall at around quarter past five.

  ‘I thought I’d have a drink with her, for old time’s sake. Wish her a Happy New Year.’

  The coroner said, ‘Was there any animosity between you and your wife, on account of the divorce proceedings?’

  ‘None at all. We’d both agreed that the marriage had ended and the divorce was being worked out perfectly amicably.’

  When are divorces ever thus? the colonel wondered. ‘What did your wife want to see you about?’

  ‘It was nothing to do with the divorce. She wanted me to put up the money for a play she’d been asked to appear in. A revival of an old Noël Coward one, she told me. She was very keen on the idea but she said that she didn’t trust the people who were supposed to be putting up the money not to pull out. It had happened once before in her career and she was terrified of that happening again. Especially this time.’

  ‘What was your response?’

  ‘I refused. I’d put up money for another play soon after we were married and lost the lot.’

  ‘How did she react to your refusal?’

  ‘She became hysterical. Made a big scene. She’d been drinking before I arrived – I could tell that – and she went completely out of control. She said it would save her life if she could get back into the theatre – it wasn’t worth living otherwise. She kept begging me for the money and I kept refusing. She’d obviously convinced herself that the backers would let her down – that nobody had confidence in her any more. I told her that she could use her own money, once the divorce was through – if that’s what she really wanted. She was being given a very generous settlement. Twenty million pounds.’