*
Soon after Lovegrove had left him, Hildidge left his office and, taking his car, drove to Fellows’ shop. The chemist himself came to the counter.
“Are you Mr Fellows?”
“Yes.”
“You probably don’t know me. I’m Chief Superintendent Hildidge.”
“I’ve seen you about, Mr Hildidge. What can I do for you?”
“Answer a few questions, I hope.”
Fellows eyed him warily. “Something wrong?”
“No, no. Nothing to do with you, at any rate.”
“That’s a relief. Come round to the dispensary. It’s more private in there.”
“Thank you.” Hildidge followed the chemist into the back shop. “I won’t keep you long. The point is that Miss Holland died rather suddenly last night.”
“The headmistress? Why, she was in the shop yesterday afternoon. Here, wait a minute, Chief Superintendent, how did she die?”
“Of some sort of poison. Quite what, we don’t know yet.”
“You’re not suggesting she got something here, I hope.”
“Not at all. I said so, Mr Fellows.”
“Then what’s all this about?”
Hildidge said gloomily: “I suppose you’d call it her state of mind. We’ve got to decide how she came to die. She was all alone in the house. So it might have been accident, or it could have been suicide.”
Fellows shook his head. “Not suicide. Not Miss Holland. She would never help herself to an overdose.”
“It definitely wasn’t an overdose of any drug or sleeping pills. There weren’t any in the house.”
“That’s what I’d have guessed. And besides, her attitude here in the shop yesterday—why, she was telling Miss Dunn—she’s my assistant—how much she was looking forward to going on holiday at the weekend.”
“Going on holiday?”
“Yes. To Malta. Next week is half term. Miss Holland said she was going up to London on Friday afternoon to see her mother and stay the night and then going out to the airport on Saturday to fly to Malta. Said she was looking forward to getting the autumn sunshine out there. Reckoned it was the best time of the year to go. She was just buying a few cosmetics and a couple of films to take with her. In great fettle she was.”
“You heard all this?”
“Yes. I was standing here in the doorway. We were quiet at the time. Miss Dunn and Miss Holland were only a few feet away, along the counter. I’d have said Miss Holland was the last person to commit suicide, without hearing her yesterday. But if ever I saw a well-balanced, happy woman, it was Miss Holland when she was chatting about her trip to Malta. I mean, it stands to reason, Mr Hildidge, nobody’s going to do away with themselves when they’ve got a nice holiday coming up, are they?”
Hildidge grimaced thoughtfully. “It would seem you’re right, Mr Fellows. I’ll bear in mind what you’ve told me. And thanks. I don’t suppose we’ll have to worry you again, but it could just be we’ll need a statement. If so, we’ll have to have Miss Dunn confirm it, of course.”
“Any time, Mr Hildidge. I’m only too thankful we didn’t sell her anything she could have taken a bit too much of by accident. I reckon her death is going to be a loss. We supply the school with all the bits and pieces for the matron and the first aid boxes and so on, and while Miss Holland’s been there they’ve been ideal customers. I wish I had a hundred like them.”
Hildidge took his leave of Fellows and made his way back to the station. As he passed the desk sergeant, he said: “I’ll have a cup of black coffee sent up, please. And let me know when the forensic report on Miss Holland arrives.”
“We’ve had a verbal, sir. The pathologist rang through to say she died of . . . Half a sec, sir, I’ve got it written down. Here it is. Miss Holland died of respiratory paralysis leading to death by asphyxia consequent upon the ingestion of cytisine. I was asked to tell Mr Lovegrove that cytisine is the poison in laburnum and it looks as if Miss Holland was chock full of the seeds.”
“He said chock full?”
“Yes, sir. I took it down. There’ll be a written report by tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. Time of death between ten and eleven last night, sir. Not prepared to go any nearer than that.”
“Right. Type up those notes and let me have a copy. And don’t forget that coffee.”
“Sir.”
*
Hildidge worked in his office until well after midday. Fortunately it was mostly routine, because his mind was never entirely free of the business of Miss Holland’s death. His concern was not solely on account of his own daughter, Helen, though he was of the opinion—maybe erroneous—that Bramthorpe would never again be the same school, and this could mean that Helen’s education and upbringing would be the poorer. He was worried about the case. He had already satisfied himself that Lovegrove’s hint of suicide was a non-starter. He’d known it wasn’t suicide even before he had heard what Fellows had had to say. But equally he was sure accident could not be the answer. He had admired Miss Holland, and after long years in the police there were very few people he did admire. Admired and respected her because she had been—in his eyes—the essence, not of infallibility exactly, but of superb, practical intelligence of the sort that may make an error of judgement, always for the best of reasons, but that rarely makes mistakes. Certainly not major ones. And for her death to be an accident she would have needed to make the biggest mistake possible—a fatal one. And he just could not accept this, despite the fact that Lovegrove’s investigations showed that no other party had been involved. The nagging problem was what to do about it. How to prove that his own feelings were right.
He tossed the last of the files into the out-tray, and as he did so, his internal phone rang.
The desk sergeant.
“Mr Hildidge, sir! Sir Thomas Kenny is here and would like to see you.”
“I’ll come down.”
Sir Thomas Kenny was Chairman of the Bramthorpe Watch Committee and so was, in some respects, Hildidge’s boss. But the Chief Superintendent guessed that Sir Thomas would be wearing another hat today. That of Chairman of the Board of Governors of Bramthorpe College, in which guise he had been Miss Holland’s boss. The news of her death would have come as a great blow to Sir Thomas who—as Hildidge knew—had as great a regard for the late headmistress as he had himself.
Hildidge went slowly downstairs. The prospects of interviewing the man who was, theoretically, responsible for ensuring that Bramthorpe was efficiently policed did not thrill him. He knew that he could offer Sir Thomas no report that would cover the force in glory or even offer a hint that the mystery was about to be cleared up.
“Good morning, Sir Thomas. This is a surprise. I’m sure I heard you were away on holiday.”
“I am, or was. I hurried back as soon as I got the sad news about Miss Holland. My solicitor rang me as soon as he knew. I came straight back.”
“You would like to discuss it with me?”
“That’s why I’m here, Mr Hildidge.”
They went up the stairs side by side. Compared with the Chief Superintendent, Kenny was small. A little, slim man, sixtyish; but still lithe, dressed in an expensive dark-grey suit, white silk shirt and black tie. He carried a dark, wide-brimmed hat of the style he customarily wore and which always gave Hildidge the impression that the little man had recently returned from some hot climate where it was necessary to shade eyes and face from the heat of the sun.
Kenny was a widower and—reputedly—a very rich man. He was certainly wealthy, owning businesses and a great deal of property in Bramthorpe. He had started in a small way and, by hard work and the unceasing use of an astute business mind, had climbed the ladder of financial success rapidly and skilfully.
“Can I offer you any refreshment, Sir Thomas? I have whisky or, if you prefer it, coffee.”
“No, thank you.” Kenny took the visitors’ chair. “But I should like to hear what progress
you have made in solving the mystery of Miss Holland’s death.”
Hildidge shrugged. “We have established that Miss Holland died from the poison which comes from laburnum seeds.”
“Is that all?”
“We can find no evidence to show that anybody else was involved. She was alone in the house. There are no signs of forcible entry. All doors and windows were secure.”
“You are saying she committed suicide?”
“No, sir. I personally believe that to have been impossible with Miss Holland. I know better than most that nobody can be sure of who will or who will not commit suicide, but if ever I was convinced of anything—knowing Miss Holland—it is that she would not take her own life. Also, we have evidence to show that she was in a very cheerful frame of mind yesterday and looking forward to a mid-term holiday in Malta.”
Kenny nodded. “She was looking forward to it very much indeed, particularly as she had stayed in Bramthorpe and worked over most of the summer holiday.” He looked up at Hildidge. “So what is your explanation, Mr Hildidge?”
“Laburnum poisoning is not uncommon, Sir Thomas. Many people die accidentally—particularly children—from picking up and chewing laburnum seeds in mistake for peas.”
“You are saying this was an accidental death?”
“Up to now, sir, we can come to no other conclusion. My C.I.D. officers are still investigating, of course, but they are already convinced it was an accident.”
“Can you envisage Miss Holland wandering about some garden and picking up seeds to chew, Hildidge?”
“No, sir.”
“Yet you are treating her death as an accident.” There was no mistaking the almost scornful incredulity in Kenny’s voice.
“Without firm evidence to the contrary, Sir Thomas, we have no option but to treat it as an accident or suicide. And our experience leads us to believe it will be one or the other. As we have ruled out suicide, we feel we are right in suggesting accidental death.”
“Not this time.” Kenny was adamant. He stared Hildidge straight in the eyes to emphasise his point.
Hildidge stared back for a moment. The little man was in deadly earnest and because the little man was also important, the Chief Superintendent was only too well aware that he had to treat what he was saying with extreme care.
“Sir Thomas,” he said at last, “I have spent this morning wondering how Miss Holland came to die. I knew her—perhaps not as well as you, but as the parent of a pupil—and I must confess that not only am I at a loss to account for her death, but also that I am feeling her death, personally, very keenly. She was a woman I admired and respected, and in whose hands I was very glad to leave the education of my only daughter whom I prize above rubies. Do you not think, therefore, that I am as anxious as you to know how it happened and why?”
There was a silence. Then Hildidge continued.
“You are convinced her death was not accidental.”
“Only accidental if it was an accident on somebody else’s part, not on hers.”
“You sound so positive, Sir Thomas, that I must ask you if you have some information for us. Perhaps that is why you hurried back from your holidays—to tell us something you think we ought to know.”
“There is something I want to tell you, and it’s this. Miss Holland was no fool. She couldn’t have poisoned herself with laburnum seeds accidentally.”
“You don’t necessarily have to be a fool to poison yourself accidentally, Sir Thomas.”
“A biologist and botanist has to be.”
“Miss Holland was a botanist?”
“Among other things.”
“I didn’t know that, Sir Thomas.”
“And your people didn’t bother to find out?”
“It had escaped our notice. We only learned this morning that the toxic substance was laburnum seeds. But now you’ve told us . . .”
“What will you do?”
“Sir Thomas, we can only work on facts.”
“You mean you will still say it was an accident?”
“Unless we can prove otherwise.”
“Which you believe to be impossible?”
“What exactly are you suggesting, sir? That Miss Holland was murdered? Because if it was neither suicide nor accident . . .” Hildidge didn’t finish. He was wondering how best to appease Kenny and—if it came to that—his own suspicion, both apparently intent on forcing him into undertaking a full-scale murder investigation without a shred of reason for doing so. He was managing to suppress the urge of his own private belief—just—by constantly reminding himself that private beliefs unsupported by fact are notoriously bad reasons for starting a police case of such a nature. The two men stared at each other: Kenny determined and Hildidge at a loss. It seemed that the first to break the silence could well explode. It was then that Hildidge did what he ought to have done at the outset, and that was to say to hell with humouring Sir Thomas, no matter how important he was, and to do what he, the head of the local police, wanted to do. It was a police matter, and . . . He knew what he wanted to do. Had known it all along. Why had he held off? He supposed it was because of Lovegrove. Lovegrove who just wouldn’t know how to handle a case like this.
“Well?” demanded Sir Thomas as though he had guessed Hildidge had come to a decision.
“I propose to ask the Chief Constable’s permission to call in Scotland Yard, Sir Thomas. He will, of course, want sound reasons for agreeing. I shall try to give him those reasons, but I am relying on you to back me up. Without your help I may not succeed.”
“Scotland Yard! Just what’s needed, Hildidge. What I hoped you’d say. Don’t worry about the Chief Constable. The only possible objection he can have is the expense, and if that happens I’ll pay the bill myself and recover the money by not inviting him to dinner for the next two years.”
Hildidge was pleased to see the little man had cheered up. When he thought about it, he realised that he himself felt happier, too.
He picked up the phone and asked for an outside line.
Chapter Two
It was nearly three o’clock when D.I. Lovegrove knocked on the door of Hildidge’s office and blundered in without waiting for an invitation.
“I heard downstairs you’ve called in the Yard,” he said angrily.
“They’ll be arriving at about half-past four.”
“They can’t do anything I haven’t done.”
“They can try.”
“It won’t alter the facts. And if the coroner brings in suicide or accident the case will be closed.”
“What are your worried about, Lovegrove? If you’ve done everything possible, there’ll be nothing for them to turn up. So you’ll be in the clear. But if somebody turns up something you’ve missed . . .”
“Not a chance. There’s nothing to turn up.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Not a whisper of suspicion of anything more than suicide, really, though we’ll have to call it an accidental death.”
Hildidge didn’t reply. He realised he was beginning actively to dislike Lovegrove. Hitherto he had tolerated the D.I., who normally did his everyday work well enough, but who had never sparked any feeling of friendship in the Chief Superintendent. The silence lasted long enough to make Lovegrove feel uncomfortable. He spoke first. “Anyway, what can these Yard chaps do between now and eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Why eleven o’clock?”
“That’s when the inquest’s arranged for.”
Hildidge felt anger mounting. “Who arranged it?”
“The Coroner—Gilchrist—himself.”
“With you?”
“Of course with me. Who else?”
“And you didn’t ask him to hold off until we could be ready?”
“We are ready. I told you. I’ve got it all. Besides, Gilchrist couldn’t manage Friday and he won’t sit on Saturday, so it had to be Thursday, unless he held it over till next week. When I told him it would be accident or suicide,
he said he wanted to get it cleared up as soon as possible.”
“You’ve overstepped the mark, Lovegrove.”
“How?”
Hildidge gestured helplessly.
“Look here, sir, I always arrange the inquests with the coroner in cases of unexplained death. It’s part of my job. We’ve found no evidence of foul play, and when I arranged it I didn’t know you were calling in the Yard. So how have I overstepped the mark? And what are you going to do about it? Tell Gilchrist to cancel because you think it is a case of murder although there’s no evidence to support your opinion? You can do that, sir, but you won’t get very far. Not with Gilchrist. He works on facts, as you very well know.”
“Have you finished?”
“No, sir. I haven’t. Who is going to represent the police tomorrow? Me, with what I’ve got? The only bloke who’s done any of the investigation? Or are you going to suggest some big bug from Scotland Yard gets up just to say the police have nothing to present because they haven’t made an investigation?”
Hildidge spoke quietly. “It could just be that you are right, Lovegrove, so I’ll not say now what I think about this whole set-up. But if it turns out you’re wrong, then I’ll have something to say both privately and officially. Now go and get some work done.”
Lovegrove left the office and Hildidge sat back to think. The D.I. had been right. Gilchrist was not the sort of man to postpone an inquest, once arranged, without good reason. He would regard such a request as Hildidge could make as trivial and possibly as an attempt to trifle with his office. There was also the chance of exposing a rift in Hildidge’s own force if the D.I. had told Gilchrist there was no evidence of foul play and he, Hildidge, were to suggest there could be but could produce no evidence to support the claim. He damned Lovegrove, and then himself for not having acted more positively and taken over the reins once it had been decided to call in the Yard. He supposed there was nothing he could do now except consult the Yard man when he arrived. They had said they were sending Masters—Detective Superintendent George Masters. He’d heard of him. Heard of his reputation as a Jack as good as any the Yard had produced for a long time. An ideas man, he’d been called. Hildidge hoped he would have some ideas about how Miss Holland came to meet her death.
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