Murder to Music

by Margaret Newman

  ‘Pack of lies!’ exploded the old man. ‘Pack of damned lies. Who the devil spun you a tale like that?’

  Roger appeared in the doorway to announce that Mr Tredegar was wanted on the telephone.

  ‘It’s Robert Stanley. He says he’s been chasing you all round London and that it’s urgent.’

  He led the way out into the hall and Tredegar followed, shrugging his heavy shoulders at Simon.

  ‘Not the time now. But come up to my flat and I’ll let you know about it. Pack of lies! Don’t believe a word of it.’

  Simon was curious but prepared to wait. The Old Man was clearly in a co-operative and amusing mood. As Simon allowed Roger to show him out, he promised himself a visit to Twickenham the next morning. He did not reflect as he did so that for men in their eightieth year tomorrow does not always come.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Even when next morning Simon found an ambulance standing outside the block of flats in Twickenham it did not immediately occur to him that his journey had already been rendered unprofitable. But when, panting slightly, he had climbed to Evan Tredegar’s flat, he found the door standing open, its knocker swathed in a duster and its bell silenced by sticking plaster. In quick alarm Simon stepped into the hall, but at once he had to flatten himself against a wall as two ambulance men appeared carrying a stretcher.

  While they negotiated the double corner which made the doorway a difficult one for their burden, Simon had a moment to study the face of Evan Tredegar, all that could be seen above the enswathing blankets. Not a flicker disturbed, not a drop of blood coloured it; the lips, relaxed into a flabby petulance, were blue and the same colour tinged the suddenly thin eyelids which covered the eyes.

  The men freed themselves from their difficulty and began a careful descent of the stairs.

  ‘You can go in now,’ Annie’s voice said tearfully to someone inside the flat. Simon took a step towards it, but at that moment Dr Smiles appeared, frowning heavily. He recognised Simon with an effort and paused in the doorway.

  ‘What’s happened, Doctor? Is he dead?’

  ‘Not quite, Superintendent, but very near. Very near indeed, I’m afraid. Can you wait a moment? I must just see him into the ambulance and have a word with the nurse. Then I’ll come back up.’

  He did not wait for an answer but disappeared down the stairs in short fussy steps. Simon went into the flat and opened the first door he came to. It was a bedroom in a state of chaos. All three windows were open, and the curtains strained indignantly in the cold December wind. The sheets and blankets from the bed in the centre of the room had been pulled down on to the floor; they lay in a heap on the carpet in front of the gas fire. Beside them stood the doctor’s bag and a tray which bore a hypodermic syringe and an assortment of bottles and swabs. A man in dirty blue overalls was crawling round the edge of the floor, leaving behind him a trail of quickly struck and quickly discarded matches.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Simon after he had watched this performance for a few seconds. The man straightened himself on his haunches and looked up, unoffended.

  ‘Gas Board,’ he said. ‘Looking for the leak. But there isn’t one, not that I can find. It was the fire all right. Nothing wrong with the tap, either. There’s no vent behind the fire, though. People ought to know how dangerous it is, especially when they sleep with their windows shut. Nothing for me to do here.’

  He picked up his bag of tools and walked out of the room. Simon followed and was at once caught by Dr Smiles, who guided him towards the study.

  ‘Now then, Superintendent, you want to know what’s wrong. He’s had a heart attack, either caused by or aggravated by gas poisoning; it’s left him completely paralysed. He can breathe and that’s all. Can’t speak, can’t move, can’t eat—that’s why I’ve had to get him to hospital, where they can feed him intravenously. Pretty serious at his age, you know. I doubt if he’ll ever open his eyes again. A younger man might get something back—speech, a little hand movement—but there’s not much hope for a man of seventy-nine with his medical history. I’d give him three days perhaps, not more.’

  ‘Which came first, the heart or the gas?’ Simon asked. ‘The gas man said it wasn’t a leak. Do you think he tried to kill himself?’

  ‘That hadn’t even occurred to me, but I suppose it’s a possibility. But not a very great one. He wasn’t what I’d call a suicidal type and he’d no special worry that I know of. Just a minute, though.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Annie!’

  She appeared at once.

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘If you know where Mr Tredegar kept his pills, the ones I gave him, bring them along here, will you.’

  The maid returned in a moment carrying a small bottle and Dr Smiles shook the contents into his hand.

  ‘Sixteen,’ he said. ‘It’s a week since I gave him twenty and he took one of them at once. That means he’s been having a certain amount of trouble with his heart, but it seems reasonable. These are to quieten the heart down, but they have a fairly knock-out effect. You could do yourself a lot of damage with ten of them. I wouldn’t have given him so many if I hadn’t been sure that he was a man who liked living. If he turned on the gas deliberately, he’d have taken some of these first—and then made himself comfortable in bed. Very nice too; I’ll do it myself one of these days. I’m sure it was an accident.’

  ‘How would it have happened in that case?’

  ‘Too easy. He stoops to turn on the fire, has a heart attack and collapses before he has time to light it. Or, as he was wearing his night clothes, he may have been stooping to turn it off, and then hit the tap as he fell.’

  ‘In that case the fire would still be hot and would relight itself, I imagine,’ Simon suggested.

  ‘Well, then you can have it the other way round. He doesn’t turn the fire off properly for some reason, wakes up in the middle of the night, finds the room full of gas, which has already affected him, gets out to turn it off and collapses then. That fits in very well with the way the bedclothes have been dragged down with him, but not with the fact that the windows were closed. I know that he always sleeps with them open, although in weather like this he may shut them while he undresses.’

  ‘There’s no explanation that fits with quite everything, is there?’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘Is there any chance of asking him about it?’

  ‘You can ask, and he may understand you, but he won’t be able to answer. Not at the moment, anyway. In a day or two, if he’s still alive, he may be able to flicker an eyelid at you. But don’t rely on it. He’s a dying man, I’m afraid. I must get down to the hospital now. Goodbye.’

  When he had gone Simon returned to the bedroom where Annie, to his annoyance, had finished making the bed and was dusting the furniture, sniffing as she went.

  ‘This must have been a great shock to you, Annie.’

  ‘Oh, it was, sir. I found him and all.’

  ‘Tell me all about it. What time did you find him?’

  ‘Half-past nine, it was. I come at half-past eight, but I’ve got orders not to disturb him. He rings when he wants his breakfast and often it’s not before ten. But today I smelt the gas when I was polishing the corridor outside his door, so I went in.’

  She began to cry again.

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘Down by the gas fire, just where he was when the doctor came. I tried to move him, but he was too heavy, so I just had to open the windows and flap the air round instead.’

  ‘You’ve got a key of your own, I suppose. Do you know if anyone else has one?’

  ‘I don’t think so, except of course the person who stole the mortice key. And that’s no good now, because the lock’s been changed.’

  Simon nodded reflectively and leaned out of one of the open windows of the bedroom. There was a right-angled turn in the wall within a yard of the end one and another window faced it diagonally about three feet away.

  ‘Where does that window belong?’ h
e asked, pointing. ‘Is it somewhere in the flat?’

  Annie came closer to have a look.

  ‘No, that’s in the corridor outside. Shall I show you?’

  Simon followed her and pushed open the window he had seen, which was situated on the top landing of the staircase.

  ‘Anyone can walk up here without being noticed, I suppose ?’

  ‘The porter might see them during the day. He’s supposed to stay in the hall until ten o’clock. But I think he often knocks off a bit earlier for a drink. Nobody wants him at that hour, so it doesn’t matter. Still, the murderer couldn’t jump from that window to Mr Tredegar’s, could he?’

  ‘Why not? It looks dangerous because it’s so high. But if it were on the ground you could do it easily. Even here it only needs a head for heights.’ He pulled the window down and turned to stare at her. ‘What do you mean by saying “the murderer”?’

  ‘Well, of course, I know he isn’t dead. I meant the person who tried to murder him.’

  ‘But why do you think it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem likely it would be an accident, does it, with all the queer things that have been going on?’

  ‘Come inside the flat,’ said Simon. ‘Now tell me, what has been going on?’

  ‘Well, there was that key being stolen, and now money gone, and the secret visitors.’

  ‘We know all about the key now, so you needn’t worry about that. Tell me about the money.’

  ‘It was three hundred pounds. Mr Tredegar brought it back from the bank yesterday afternoon. He showed me where he put it—a big wad of notes, it was—so that I wouldn’t leave any strangers alone in the study. It was in the second drawer of his desk and he locked it and put the key in his pocket. Then this morning, when I was dusting, I saw that the key was back in the drawer, so I opened it and the money wasn’t there. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, of course, but then I found Mr Tredegar so I realised it must have been burglars. Perhaps they had a fight.’

  ‘I think the doctor would have noticed that, Annie. Tell me about the secret visitors. Who were they?’

  ‘They wouldn’t be secret if I knew, would they?’ said Annie. ‘It was only one, really. Somebody had a glass of port with Mr Tredegar last night. He’s not supposed to, either; the doctor said so.’

  ‘But that needn’t have been a secret. If Mr Tredegar hadn’t been taken ill, he would probably have told you all about it.’

  ‘Then why did he wash up the glasses himself? It’s not a thing he ever does. He knows I don’t mind finding a bit of washing-up when I come in the morning.’

  ‘Are you sure that he did?’

  ‘Either him or the visitor. All covered with bits of fluff from the cloth they were and standing the right way up instead of upside down like I always put them.’

  ‘I’d like to see them,’ said Simon.

  ‘They’re in the kitchen. Of course, I’ve washed them up properly by now.’

  Simon stopped walking.

  ‘In that case I’m not interested after all. I think I’ll have a look at Mr Tredegar’s diary. I suppose his suit will still be in the bedroom. You get on with your work, then, Annie. I can find my way.’

  The diary page for the previous day was blank but a glance back showed that the book was used more for musical notes than as a record of engagements. The bedroom, thoroughly searched, was equally empty of the missing £300; Simon phoned the Old Man’s bank manager and was lucky. The notes had been new and within half an hour he was able to circulate their numbers. He could only hope, as he walked back to the office, that the recipient or thief would not take too long to dispose of his haul. On his desk, however, was a note which made him temporarily forget all about Evan Tredegar and his visitors. It read only: ‘Come and see me. We’re on to it. Bill.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Simon found Bill preparing to leave his office.

  ‘You’re only just in time. If you want a joy ride, get your coat and come. We’ve found your puddle.’

  Simon looked blank for a moment and Bill explained condescendingly.

  ‘Remember that little story about a Famous Missing Person and a Daimler that you slid so happily on to my desk. Well, we’ve found the puddle where the Daimler picked up its splashes. Or rather, the boys down in Kent have, and we’re just off to tell them if they’ve been clever. Coming?’

  ‘Twenty seconds,’ said Simon and ran for his coat and gloves. When they were in the car he asked, ‘How do you know it’s right?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain, of course. But you know how wet it was on Christmas Eve and how frosty it’s been ever since. Well, they’ve found some frozen tyre-marks that check with the Daimler’s and have no business to be where they are. One of the tyres, luckily, is a new one which doesn’t match with the other three, so they’re not likely to have made a mistake. Distance is all right for that mileage, too.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Off a private road just outside Bexley. There’s a wood on one side of this road which belongs to some local big-bug called Sir Joshua Mester and it’s preserved. Apparently, he asked the station whether they could send a man on beat down this road occasionally; his own man is ill and some of his birds had been driven off by a car that had backed on to the private part of his land to turn. We’d sent our details round, of course, and the man who went out, bless his bright soul, made a note of the tracks and thought of us at once. Pretty smart work, actually, although I hate to let them know it.’

  ‘And what are we going to find when we get there?’

  ‘Well, personally I’m expecting to find a body, but you’re the one who knows.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon slowly. ‘I’m expecting to find a body too.’

  They found the place where the Daimler had turned easily enough; it was guarded by two young policemen who were determined not to be sent away now that the exciting part of the job was due to begin. Their help was accepted; the ground was so hard that nothing could obliterate the tracks already made, so while Simon searched for footprints the other three men began a general scrutiny of the ground. It was they who made the first discovery—an empty but labelled bottle which had held chloroform, thrown into the undergrowth. As they wrapped it up carefully and put it in the car, they heard a crash and an oath. Quickly they followed the sound and discovered Simon picking himself up from what, judging by his expression, had been a heavy fall.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the elephant pits?’ he demanded morosely of the local men; following his eyes they saw with consternation the deep, narrow hole into which he had so nearly stepped. Bill peered down it curiously and kicked a stone from the edge; there was a long wait before he heard the brisk smack as it hit the hard bottom.

  ‘Must be the best part of forty feet,’ he said. ‘What the heck is it?’

  One of the local men answered.

  ‘It’s a dene-hole, sir. You’re quite right, we should have warned you. There are a lot of them in this part of the world, although I didn’t know there were any actually in this wood.’

  ‘But what are they?’ asked Simon, who had now recovered from the shock of feeling nothingness under his feet. ‘Are they natural?’

  ‘I don’t think anybody knows, sir, My father once told me that the Ancient Britons dug them out and used them for grain storage, but if that’s true I don’t see how they’d get the grain out again. I have heard other theories too—either that they were once used as prisons or that warriors used to put their women down there while they were away from home. They’re very dangerous now, anyhow. We get a lot of accidents—dogs mainly, but sometimes small boys. When they’re on private land, and the only people who are likely to fall in are trespassers, we can’t force the landowner to cover them.’

  Bill and Simon looked at each other, the same thought in each mind.

  ‘Take the car and get back to Bexley,’ said Simon. ‘Come back with ropes and torches—in fact, bring a couple of firemen and
their equipment with you. I expect they’re used to this sort of job.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We brought spades with us, sir.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Simon. ‘Never mind. We may need them later on.’

  He watched the car drive away and turned to the remaining young constable.

  ‘Before they come back, we’d better see how many of these holes there are. If we assume that Cassati was unconscious when he arrived here—and that bottle is fairly good evidence—then we may also assume that the driver wouldn’t want to drag such a heavy burden further than he could help. I’ll take this section, you stay in the middle, and Bill, you have a look on the left, will you?’

  The three men pushed their way through the undergrowth systematically. By the time the firemen arrived Simon could feel tolerably certain that there were not more than three dene-holes in the neighbourhood, besides the one into which he himself had almost fallen.

  The examination was quick and efficient. It was possible to inspect the emptiness of two of the holes by the light of powerful lamps lowered to the bottom. The other two each had a more impenetrable shape, resembling that of an hourglass. But even at the narrowest point there was room for a man to descend. The only body which was brought to the surface was that of a fox.

  The firemen returned to their station. Simon and Bill looked at each other in disappointment.

  ‘There’s this,’ said Bill, without expectation.

  He led the way to a part of the wood which he had been examining. A path ran through it, well-marked with footprints of which Simon could make nothing. In a clearing a small trench had been dug, to a depth of about a foot. It was difficult to see what its purpose could be and there was no corresponding mound nearby. The earth had been darkened by frost so that there was no means of telling whether its disturbance were recent. They stared at it for a moment in silence. Bill prodded it with his stick, but it was rock-hard.