I Could Murder Her

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Reeves. “When you say wicked, what do you mean?”

  “When I sez wicked, I means wicked,” she retorted, “and if you’re not old enough to know that some sorts o’ wickedness drives decent folks demented you’ve no business to be where you are. What’s they all been muttering in this ’ouse ever since Tuesday? Madge. That’s what they’ve been saying, all bar the Colonel, and he’s as simple as a child for all he’s the kindest gent God ever made. More’s the pity, maybe. If ‘e’d leathered ’er when she was still capable of learning, this might never’ve ’appened.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Reeves; “but seeing it has happened, what about it? Seems to me there’s not much you miss of the goings on.”

  “Now don’t you think I’m nosy, because I’m not,” she replied, “and anything I’ve got to say’s been said to your boss, supposing ’e is your boss,” she added, with a gesture towards the drawing-room door.

  “He’s my boss all right, and I wouldn’t ask for a better,” rejoined Reeves.

  “Nice fellow he is, too,” said Mrs. Pinks; “but there’s one thing I might say to you, seeing you’re handy, and what I’d call easy. You’d better keep your eye on them ’ere. There’s going to be trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?” asked Reeves.

  “Well, you’ve seen a bit of the goings on today—them twins. You see, they’ve all been in a fair old state ever since Tuesday morning. They pretended it was the old lady’s ’eart; might’ve happened any time, they sez to me. All but Madge. She didn’t say nothing, but she’d the sense to know it wasn’t ’eart they was fussing about. And she didn’t like it. No more did I. And them others are all trying to put it on to Madge. And if they’re bad enough for that, they’re bad enough for anything. So you just watch ’em. And now I’m goin’ down to ’elp in the kitchen, seeing you’ve upset all me work.”

  “Sorry and all that,” said Reeves. “It’s just the way things happen. Now can you tell me this. Have there been any workmen on this floor recently, electricians, window cleaners, or so forth?”

  “Not any I’ve seen, but I don’t ’ang about on this floor. I do the old lady’s bedroom at nine sharp; did, I mean, before all this. She was punctual, I’ll say that for *er, and Miss Madge, she did the drorin’ room at ’arf-past eight reg’lar, and turnout once a week, me on Monday in the bedroom and ’er on Tuesday the drorin’ room, when the old lady went to ’er ’airdresser’s and was out of the way. But I’d be through with this floor by ’arf-past ten, and then up I’d go to them twins, and a fair waste of time it was, with the mess they made an* all. And I’m not ’ere at all after two o’clock, so I can’t answer for afternoons. Better ask the Colonel. *E’s in ’is study, and Mrs. Duncan’s in there with your boss. And I’ll ’op it before she comes out, if it’s all the same to you. And just you watch out,, see? We’ve *ad enough of it. We don’t want any more, and that’s flat.”

  3

  When Macdonald left the drawing room he found Reeves in Mrs. Farrington’s bedroom.

  “There’s something I don’t quite cotton on to here, Chief,” said Reeves. He showed Macdonald the fingerprints he had “brought up” on the window frame and door, “That’s a man’s prints. Fairly big chap, too. They’re not the Colonel’s. They’re too big for Strange. I noticed his hands—long and thin. What about this other bloke. Duncan?”

  “He’s still out—but I doubt if these will be his prints,” replied Macdonald. “They’re more like the prints of a chap who works with his hands—wide and flattened.”

  “That’s what I think. But according to all accounts, there haven’t been any workmen in the house lately. What have we got here? The ready-made explanation?”

  “Prefabricated.” said Macdonald. “Got them all photographed?”

  Reeves nodded. “And most of the family’s, too. They’re easy to sort out. I got the twins’ from the attics, the Colonel’s from his dressing room, Miss Farrington’s and Mrs. Pinks’ from the kitchen, both sets volunteered.”

  “You can get Mrs. Duncan’s from the drawing room; the chair she was sitting in had polished wooden arms,” said Macdonald, “and you can go up and ask the Stranges if they object to having theirs taken. Their reaction to the request may be more informative than the prints, but we’d better get them all sorted out.”

  Reeves nodded. ‘*Mrs. Pinks cleaned this room at nine o’clock every morning,” he said. “From what I’ve seen of her, she’s a good worker. Very thorough.”

  “Then this room was cleaned on Monday morning,” said Macdonald. “At eleven o’clock Mrs. Farrington went down to the kitchen to see Madge. Half an hour later she came back here to lie down, and here she stayed until her body was carried out the next morning. If Mrs. Pinks does do her work properly, there’s not much time for those extra prints to have been made.”

  Reeves nodded. “Mrs. Pinks cleans Peter’s room. We know the sort of muck it was in, but there wasn’t any old dust, if you take me. You can always tell the careless cleaner: they leave dust all along the wainscot, and on the moulding of the doors and along window ledges. She doesn’t do that. Also, it’s worth remembering Mrs. -Thing was a proper fusser. Three sorts of furniture polish, and two other sorts for the floors. She’d never have stayed quiet in bed all day if she could have seen dust and smuts on the window ledge. Look at them now.”

  Macdonald looked, and nodded. “You do pick up the chirp and chat of an establishment faster than any chap I know,” he replied. “I think you’ve got a point there. I’ll go and ask the Colonel what his wife did when she got up on Monday morning. It’ll cheer him up. He loves concrete questions and he’s very good at answering them.”

  “O.K., Chief. I’ll go up and see the Stranges. I have a feeling he won’t oblige. Too much red tape in his composition. Not like Miss Madge. She’s got a lot of common sense, she has.”

  “I quite agree,” said Macdonald. “Incidentally, the Colonel denies categorically that his wife ever kept a notebook about Madge’s symptoms.”

  “Does he? That’s interesting. Who’s the liar? The old lady herself? Might be. Mrs. Pinks says she was a wicked woman, and Mrs. P.’s a good old trout.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” rejoined Macdonald. “The difficulty in this house is to get an unbiased opinion. Mrs. Pinks is Madge’s devoted adherent, and vice versa. Tony hates Madge, and he’s all out to prove she’s both guilty and mentally unsound. Mrs. Tony also hates Madge, though she’s careful not to display the fact, and Mrs. Duncan muttered ‘Madge’ with appropriate melodrama as soon as she got the chance. Paula is in such a state that it’s no use relying on anything she says at all.”

  “According to Mrs. P., the whole boiling of them have been jittering themselves up ever since Tuesday,” said Reeves, “and by general agreement, Madge is the safest bet for their money. Well, I’ll go and see the civil servant and test his reactions.”

  4

  Macdonald went to Colonel Farrington’s study and found the latter busy writing letters.

  “It’s a very simple matter, sir,” said Macdonald. “We always check up on fingerprints, as you know. Can you tell me exactly who could have been in Mrs. Farrington’s bedroom on Monday morning?”

  “Yes, I think I should be able to tell you that,” agreed the Colonel. “We were very regular in our habits, y’know, a real old-fashioned pair. We had breakfast at eight-thirty, in the dining room. There was nobody in the bedroom between then and nine o’clock, when Mrs. Pinks came. Mrs. Pinks always does our bedroom/ the bathroom, and my dressing room. My wife used to say that she—the charwoman—was one of the most thorough cleaners she’d ever had. A most conscientious woman she is, never neglects a thing. Now, Monday—yes, it was the day when the bedroom had its weekly turnout, so Mrs. Pinks would have spent longer on it than usual, well over an hour. So she would have been in the bedroom until after ten. My wife always went and had a word with Mrs. Pinks in the bedroom after breakfast—say about nine-fiftee
n—and then Muriel went to the drawing room to answer any letters and to do a little telephoning. Ever since her heart gave her trouble and she couldn’t get about very easily, she depended a lot on the telephone to keep contact with her friends. Let me think, now. Yes, on Monday she was in the drawing room until Mrs. Pinks had finished the bedroom. I remember that now, because I wanted to go to the phone myself. When Mrs. Pinks had finished, my wife went straight into the bedroom to see that everything was satisfactory, and she stayed there, tidying drawers and so forth, until I went in there myself to see about my shoes—repairing, you know. So we were both of us in the bedroom until Muriel went down to the kitchen to have a word with Madge about her birthday party, and I followed her there in about twenty minutes’ time. It was then that I noticed how ill Muriel looked, and I persuaded her to come and lie on her bed. So now you have the answer to your question: The only people who were in the bedroom on Monday morning were my wife, myself, and Mrs. Pinks. That holds for most of the day, until after tea, when Tony looked in to see her, and Paula, and later on, of course, Baring was there. Nobody else at all. Oh, except Madge, who just looked in at eleven o’clock at night.”

  “Thank you, sir. That is admirably clear,” said Macdonald.

  “And if you want to take our fingerprints, Chief Inspector, of course we shall all be ready to co-operate. I know it’s part of your routine and I have no feelings in the matter at all.”

  “Thank you, sir. My colleague, Reeves, is dealing with prints. He will ask you if need arises. Another point. Were you in the bedroom when your wife’s body was moved by the stretcher men?”

  “I was,” rejoined the Colonel quietly. “Scott was with me all the time. Quite rightly. He was very kind.”

  “I’m sure he was, and I am sorry to take you back to painful memories, but can you remember just how the men moved about the room? Did any of them open the window?”

  “No. I don’t mind talking to you about it, Chief Inspector. You have your duty to do, and no one could have been more considerate than you have. Then there’s this to it. After the initial shock, and it was a shock, I think the philosophy of a lifetime comes to one’s aid. We all have to die. I’m an old man, and my own call will come in due course. There’s nothing to fear in death. That’s how I see it. Now about the stretcher men. They were very quick and very skilful. They took the stretcher to the bed, lifted the body, .covered it, and carried it straight out. They didn’t cross the room to the window. and to the best of my recollection, they touched nothing at all—none of the furniture, that is. Madge stripped the bed. Scott closed the window, using the cord for that purpose. He latched it. I think he took away certain things. After that the room was locked and sealed until you opened it today.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Macdonald quietly.

  The Colonel rumpled up his grey hair, as though thinking hard, and Macdonald waited. Then the old man said: “I’ve been thinking over what you said about me having it out with Tony. You were right, of course. Better leave it alone, at any rate for today. They’re all on edge. Not responsible for what they’re saying. I told you that Tony was a damned liar to say such an infamous thing, but I realise now I was wrong. Exaggerating, just as Tony himself had been exaggerating. It’s possible my wife did say something to him about being worried over Madge. The girl works too hard, I know that, and Tony got it all out of focus and made up this story about the notebook. Natural enough. I dare say, considering the state he’s in. One thing’s a great comfort to me. Chief Inspector, and that’s Madge herself. Perfectly calm, perfectly sensible. She’s a tower of strength to us. When everybody else loses their heads, she keeps hers.”

  “Yes,” agreed Macdonald, “that’s perfectly true. I think her behaviour today has been admirable.”

  “She’s a fine girl. I’ve always had a particular affection for Madge. It’s hard for a girl to lose her own mother as Madge did, and though Muriel was devoted to her, it’s not quite the same thing. Her own children were bound to come first.” He sighed heavily, the sigh of a tired old man, and then added: “I don’t know' if I ought to ask. Chief Inspector, but can you see any daylight at all in this problem?”

  “It’s too early to formulate any opinion, sir. Some of the evidence is still confused, and it’s far from complete. We like to get corroborative evidence of every statement. For instance, it’s desirable to get independent testimony, wherever possible, of everybody’s movements, and that takes time. May I give you some instances?”

  “By all means do.”

  “Take the hour between nine-fifteen and ten-fifteen on Monday evening,” said Macdonald. “You were out. Miss Farrington was out. Mrs. Strange was alone in the drawing room. Mr. Strange was alone upstairs. The twins were entertaining their friends. All those statements need to be corroborated where corroboration is possible.”

  “Well, you can start with me,” said the Colonel. “I went out of this house, turned left, took the first on the left and the second on the right into St. John’s Wood, High Street, and went into the Red Lion. I dare say the barmaid would remember me. I asked for some sandwiches, told her my wife was ill and I’d had no supper, and she was very good about it and gave me a very decent meal. There’s a lot of kindness in the world if you go halfway to meet it. I stayed there until nearly ten o’clock, talking politics to the chaps there in the way we all do these days, and then I walked straight back here and joined Anne in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” rejoined Macdonald.

  “I’ve no doubt that Madge will be able to give you all the details you want,” went on the Colonel. “She's like me—plain and decided. About the young people upstairs. Paula told me they were all dancers in her own show. They’ve been doing a turn at the Black Domino Club on three evenings a week. I can give you the name of their manager, I’ve got it written down here; outlandish sort of name. One of the boys calls himself Boris, and they’ve been doing a quintet dance with Paula as solo dancer. So if you want to find them, you shouldn’t have any difficulty. As for Tony, I’ll lay any money he was doing The Times crossword. He always does. Hardly ever takes his wife out these days, lazy chap. And Joyce and Philip were together upstairs. So perhaps that sorts it out a bit.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, sir,” said Macdonald.

  “It’s my duty to be helpful, isn’t it?” replied the Colonel. “As I see it, it’s plain common sense to answer all your questions as plainly and fully as possible. I’m very much ashamed that the twins have behaved as they have. I feel it’s a reflection on their parents. Perhaps I deserved it, I don’t know . . . I haven’t kept an eye on them as I should—there’s nothing like fear to show up the weak points in young people’s characters.”

  “Or anybody else’s character, for that matter,” agreed Macdonald.

  TWELVE

  DURING THE HOURS FOLLOWING MACDONALD’S first report to Scotland Yard (sent immediately after the discovery of Peter Farrington’s drugged condition), the Criminal Investigation Department set its great machine :n motion. Neither the information broadcast about its encyclopaedic activities nor yet the memoirs of its ex-members have succeeded in giving the general public an adequate idea of the work that that department is capable of doing in a limited time. If the Chief Inspectors ask for information about certain aspects of the lives of those they interrogate, the facts are generally produced in a surprisingly short time, for there is no facet of human behaviour which has not its expert inquirers in the C.I.D. When Macdonald was told by Mrs. Pinks that Peter Farrington was in deep waters financially, Detective Inspector Jenkins got to work on the small data provided. By teatime the co-ordinated departments of the Yard had produced chapter and verse concerning a certain young man described as Ronnie Bellairs (among other names), whose bill for £500 had been optimistically backed by Peter Farrington. Ronnie was already under surveillance for suspected fraud, and Peter would have been interrogated that day about his guarantee even had Macdonald not started on the case.
Philip Duncan’s financial position and the possibilities of his play being produced were also elucidated, with small prospect of satisfaction to the many tradesmen who were his creditors. In addition to these routine inquiries, the C.I.D, sent out requests for information to all point-duty men in D Division who had been patrolling the area in which Windermere House was situated, with particular reference to Monday evening. A London police constable may look a solitary and self-contained unit as he patrols the respectable residential areas of the great city, but his contacts are many, and the keener his powers of observation, the greater the constable’s hopes of promotion. He gets to know the postman, both collecting and delivering, and he knows the times they pass certain points, for the postmen, like the constables, are not casual in their timetables. The taximen on certain stands, the roadmen, the Borough employees, workmen whose jobs cause them to journey at unusual hours, daily and evening domestic workers, all these may come under the notice of the observant constable. Thus, when the “information required'’ notice goes out from Scotland Yard, the potential suppliers of information are legion, for the Metropolitan Police can produce witnesses at every hour of the twenty-four.

  Nobody was better aware of these facts than Macdonald, and nobody prouder of the promptness arid keenness with which the point-duty men respond to a request for information from “C.O.”

  The Chief Inspector was not at all surprised to find a whole series of reports concerning movements and persons observed in the quiet and sedate thoroughfare which ran past Windermere House. It was an inhabitant of the nearby High Street, who always took his dog for a walk after the nine o’clock news, who had noticed Colonel Farrington leaving Windermere House on Monday evening. This same observer, returning a few minutes later, had seen a man dressed like an artisan who had been standing outside Windermere House at twenty minutes past nine. At half-past nine the artisan had been noticed by a postman returning from the sorting office. At nine thirty-five an empty taxicab had cruised past the house and the driver reported that nobody was standing outside, but at nine-fifty a “sitter-in” returning home from a neighbouring house had seen a man agreeing in description with the artisan just coming away from the Farringtons’ house.