His cool statement got its reward. Mrs. Lorne did not reply at once, but her face told Macdonald all that he wanted to know for the moment. She was quite obviously considering whether it was worth while to enter a blank denial of the detective’s statement. Macdonald continued:
‘It would be a considerable help if you could tell us anything about Mr. Basil Mallowood’s state of mind immediately prior to his death. It is also important to us to know if he had had any recent contact with his brother, Paul. The absence of the latter is creating difficulties in this inquiry. I thought perhaps you, who knew both brothers, could give us an unbiassed opinion.”
Macdonald’s rather vague generalisms were calculated to produce the effect he intended – that was, to give Mrs. Lorne the impression that he had previous information about her acquaintance with the Mallowood brothers, so that she should not think it worth while to deny what was now, in Macdonald’s opinion, an ‘established fact.’ This lady, unlike Veronica Mallowood, was not an adept at concealing her thoughts.
“I don’t think my opinion is even worth stating, Chief Inspector. Presumably you want evidence to show that Basil Mallowood was so depressed by the situation in which he found himself that suicide seemed to be the only solution. I can assure you that he never gave me any inkling that he was in difficulties. He always seemed a very prosperous and contented person when I saw him, which was infrequently. I have known the MalIowoods for years, and been good friends with them, but they are a reticent family, not given to confidences.”
“So far as I can gather, Paul and Basil were far from being on a friendly footing,” went on Macdonald, “and I should very much like to know this. To what extent were they cognisant of each other’s affairs? In short, did the one discuss the other with you, who were an old mutual friend?”
“Certainly not.” The answer came quickly this time. “I found the best way of keeping up my friendship with both – as far as I did keep it up – was to make no reference to the other.” She was fiddling with her handbag as she spoke, and took out a mirror, studying her face in the usual manner of the modern woman, and she gave a sudden exclamation as she held up the mirror.
“Veronica! What a start you gave me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
Macdonald had heard nothing, either, but Veronica was standing some yards behind him, in the shadows at the back of the hall. She came forward, saying:
“Nice of you to come over, Cynthia. Life has been pretty maddening, as you may imagine.” She turned deliberately to Macdonald.
“Have you finished your researches in our house, Chief Inspector? Without intending any discourtesy, it is disconcerting to one’s friends to be interrogated by a Police Inspector when they pay a friendly visit.”
“I’m sorry it’s disconcerting, Miss Mallowood, but I’m afraid it’s necessary. In common with you, I intend no discourtesy, but the problem which I am sent to investigate has disconcerted more people than your immediate friends. While I sympathise with you, I have to remember that I am briefed as representative of a public who have good reason to feel disconcerted over recent events.” He faced both women squarely, his lean dark face stern as he looked at them. “A police inquiry is an unpalatable proceeding to most people, but it is not instituted without cause. There are two ways of conducting such an inquiry, and of meeting it. One is by direct question, met by frank answer. It is less painful in the long run than the more tortuous form which has to find methods of uncovering evasion.”
“You are assuming evasion then?”
Veronica’s chin was up arrogantly, and Cynthia Lorne’s eyes were anxious.
“Not of necessity,” replied Macdonald, “but those who find most reason to be disconcerted by questioning are those with something to conceal. I will leave you to think it over.”
He walked down the steps to the drive, after a formal bow to both women. Veronica responded with an equally formal bow, but Cynthia Lorne only stared at him with startled eyes. Macdonald was not dissatisfied with his brief and seemingly barren interview with the last-mentioned lady. He was pretty well satisfied that Cynthia Lorne might well have been the channel through which Paul and Basil Mallowood acquired a modicum of information about each other. Cynthia was just the type of woman who receives men’s confidences. Macdonald was interested, too, in Veronica’s friendship with Mrs. Lorne. They seemed such complete opposites. Perhaps Veronica, too, had collected information about her brothers from the same source, meditated Macdonald, as he argued out possible variations on the intricate problem described ironically by Inspector Long as “a nice clear case.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“HALLO, Jock. I rather suspected that you might put in an appearance, though I was afraid Long might be sent back to continue his intelligent observations.”
Macdonald turned round and stared. He was sitting by the fire in the parlour of the Mallowood Arms, having eaten an exceedingly good dinner of roast goose, to which he had done full justice.
“Well, I suppose you were to be expected, being also intelligently observant,” he said. “Are your fellow scavengers also on the scent?”
The long-limbed fellow who came in and pulled up a chair opposite to Macdonald was Peter Vernon, a journalist who merited the Chief Inspector’s description of him. Vernon had “a nose” for an interesting case, and was often to be found paying attention to odd happenings long after his professional colleagues considered the matter dead and done with. Vernon and Macdonald were old friends, and of all the journalists known to the latter Vernon was both the most trustworthy and the most acute.
“No. To the best of my knowledge and belief they were satisfied with the Coroner’s verdict,” replied Vernon, in answer to Macdonald’s query, twisting his long legs round one another and lighting another cigarette. “I’ve been down here ever since the inquest, talking to all and sundry. That’s a damned odd family, Jock.”
“Ay,” Macdonald glanced at Vernon with a grin. “Having eaten, Peter? Goose, and good at that.”
“Damn you,” replied the journalist with feeling. “Yes. I’ve eaten tough cold mutton, dry at that, at an inferior establishment two miles away. The chirp and chat in the bar made it worth while. Do you know they were betting on three chances, none of which took any stock in suicide.”
“Three?” inquired Macdonald. “Which three?”
“Veronica, Paul, and Martin, in order of favour,” replied Vernon. “Did that chap shoot himself, Jock, or didn’t he?”
“The evidence suggests that he did. There’s a damned lot to be explained away if he didn’t,” said Macdonald. “These local pundits have a habit of disregarding facts inconvenient to their pet theories. I’ll admit there are a few points which need explaining, but they seem to me to be facts subsequent to the shooting. What have you heard about the family, Peter?”
“That with the exception of Veronica and Martin, who act and think as one, they all hate one another like poison, and the family reunion was an almighty queer business. This chap Paul has always been livid with fury that the property wasn’t left to him. That’s common talk all around – passed on by successions of servants. One old blighter said he’d been waiting for years for Paul to murder his youngest brother and sister – and the assembled company didn’t seem to think he was overstating the case. Paul adores Wulfstane. His one idea in making money was to restore the place as it deserves to be restored, and Veronica and Martin won’t let him spend a penny on it, and just let it get more and more decrepit. Have you seen that Elizabethan wing, Jock?”
“Yes. I’ve been around the place half the day. The east wing will soon be a ruin if it’s not taken in hand. The roof tree’s rotting through, and the panelling is splitting off the mildewed walls – and yet Veronica Mallowood worships that house, Peter. You can read it in her face.”
“You ought to be able to read something else in her face, for she must be at war with herself,” said the journalist. “She’s an amazing creature. It seems that the mother died when Martin an
d Veronica were young, and she was brought up in that household of men by a father who openly derided her for her lack of charm, and never ceased rubbing in the fact that she couldn’t find a husband. All the money to spare – not much at that – was spent on the boys’ education. Veronica was taught by her father – poor wench. She never had any decent clothes, never went anywhere, had to ask her father for a stamp if she wanted to post a letter, and never had so much as a dress allowance until the old man died.”
“Why didn’t she clear out and get a job?” inquired Macdonald. “It’s not as though she lacks character, or ability, from the look of her. It seems sheer inconsistency for a woman of her type to stop at home under those conditions. It’s not as though she lived in the last century.”
“Two reasons – both germane to the case. One was Martin. She always stood between Martin and the old man’s cruelty. The other was the house. She’s crazily attached to the house – and you see she got it in the end. The old man quarrelled with all his three elder sons, and left the house to Martin and Veronica. More rows over that. The other three were furious. Well, there you are. Think out the sort of youth that woman had. Look at her now. Is it any wonder that people who have known her all her life – or known of the circumstances she lived under – should suspect her of potentialities of violence? They say that apart from Martin she hates her brothers, particularly Paul and Basil. When they were children, the two elder brothers baited her like hell. She was a big, ugly, fierce-tempered hoyden with a bitter tongue. No wonder she gives one the jim-jams to look at now. There’s something fantastic about her.”
“And so what?” asked Macdonald.
Vernon stretched himself. “And so she’s left with Wulfstane, and not enough money to keep its roof intact, let alone its walls,” he went on, “and she won’t touch her brothers’ money because she won’t tolerate their patronage. And then Basil, who’s made off with a fair-sized fortune, shoots himself at his old home. How much boodle did he get clear away with, Jock?”
“You’ll have to wait for the auditors to tell you that… Still – some. Everyone in the city knows that. Your guess is that Veronica’s cornered it?”
“Why not? It’s a theory – not wilder than that woman’s personality. I’ve got a notion in my head that brother Basil, knowing he was stymied, came home to earth. I tell you you could hide in that house half a lifetime, Jock, and never be found. Say if she made a compact with him, got him to write that letter – and then emulated Jael, wife of Heber the Kenite?”
Macdonald shook his head. “Doesn’t ring true. He wouldn’t have trusted her. Besides – where’s Martin?”
“Oh, he fits in all right. He knew what had happened, and did a bolt to save himself being asked questions, being a poor hand at lying. Jock, was that letter of Basil’s foolproof? Was it really his writing?”
“So far as can be ascertained by comparison with what we can lay hands on. As a rule he used a typewriter or else dictated his letters, but his office produced enough old chits to serve as a basis of comparison. The experts are satisfied – and so am I. Basil wrote that letter all right.”
Hunched up in his chair, Vernon frowned over the fire.
“Keeping to the Veronica theory,” he went on at last, “It’s Paul she was expected to do in, because Paul made a vow that he’d get Wulfstane for his own eventually – but Paul seems to have got off according to plan.”
Macdonald chuckled. “You’re toying with the same line of thought which has broken on all of us, including Long and myself, as a brilliant inspiration. Now you just listen. Paul Mallowood left Wulfstane at 7.50 – witnesses, Richard and the gardener. He drove through the village at 7.55. Witness, the innkeeper here and sundry others who had seen him the previous day. At 8.45, he pulled up at a garage three miles from Guildford and had a tyre pumped up. At 9.30 he arrived at Croydon airport, where his car was fetched by previous arrangement. His papers and passport were examined, and all the rest, and he left by plane at 10.15. Now while we’re on the subject, consider these further facts. Basil was seen by the maid, Ada Brown, and by Richard Mallowood about 9.15. He was spoken to by Veronica a little later. He was heard moving about upstairs at 11.30 – having taken the gun upstairs with him, according to the maid, who saw it in his bedroom earlier. He had only been dead a few minutes when Long examined his body, and the only fingerprints on that last letter are those of the dead man, identical with the prints on his toilet articles. These facts cramp a few picturesque theories pretty thoroughly, though they have no particular bearing on Veronica or Martin.”
“Except by inference. The chap who left in the Rolls Royce car could not have been concerned in the death of the man who shot himself – or who was shot.”
“That’s the size of it.”
“But Veronica – who needed money desperately for the upkeep of the house – has no word for it but her own that she was out of doors all the morning, and it’s not improbable that Basil had a thumping big sum on him when he left London, and, finally, there’s no sign of that sum about now. Correct me if I err.”
“You don’t. You might be a nuisance if you published your assumptions and queries as a free-lance – so don’t.”
“You know I won’t. Now the two people who were at a loose end all that morning were Veronica and Martin, and Veronica was nearest to the stairhead leading to the playroom when the shot was heard.”
“Yes, but Richard was also at a loose end most of the morning.”
“Isn’t it true that he was seen in the village when Basil – presumably – was heard moving about in the playroom?”
“Quite true.”
“And isn’t it also a fact that when the shot was heard, Richard was farthest from the stairway which was the only approach to the playroom?”
“Quite. Incidentally, have you picked up any gossip about Richard?”
“Not much. He’s not been about the place for years. The last time he came home was when the father died, and there was a glorious mutual row over the will. Richard appears to have been trotting round in the village, seeing his old acquaintances, and being generally matey. They say he’s the pick of the bunch. Paul is pompous and condescending. Basil ignored all the fellows who’d known him as a boy. Martin’s considered a bit daft. Richard’s quite well liked. Veronica – well, they’re all frightened of her.”
“And so back to Veronica – and Martin,” said Macdonald. “One of my wilder theories originally was that Basil shot Martin. The times make it not impossible. Also there was the fact of Veronica’s reaction when she ran upstairs after the shot had been heard. She kept calling Martin’s name as though she was certain he was up there. As you know for yourself, deceased was totally unrecognisable so far as his face was concerned. However, that notion soon came unstuck. The old doctor chap who’s attended Martin for twenty years said their physique was quite dissimilar. In short, corpse wasn’t Martin.”
“Lord, you’re getting me mixed,” said Vernon disgustedly. “I still believe the following theory, or some variation of it. Basil knew he was scuppered in the city when the big audit was decided on. What would have been his reaction? One of two things. Cut and run, or blow his brains out straight away… He didn’t bolt, but he must have had a plan of sorts in his head when he went back to Wulfstane. It’s no use telling me that he didn’t realise his game was up when he left the city on Monday. What if he made some sort of compact with Veronica – and things didn’t go according to plan?”
“Then can you tell me how Veronica persuaded him to sit in a chair, with the muzzle of a loaded gun under his chin while she pulled the trigger? And having told me that, just explain how she locked the door of the playroom on the inside, leaving the key in the lock? It’s a good stiff key, too. I’ve known contraptions achieved with bits of string, working out the immortal law of the lever, with a crosspiece through the key, but I can assure you that nothing of that kind would have worked here.”
Vernon stretched himself again. ” Well, well,
” he said. ” So you’re satisfied that everything in the garden is law-abiding and lovely?”
“No. I’m not. I’m satisfied that someone has acquired a large bunch of negotiable securities; and that the brother Martin business is far from covered by the explanation offered to me. Incidentally, have you heard anything about Martin’s wandering habits in your village investigations?
“Am I not saving you a whole lot of trouble?” inquired Vernon with a virtuous air. “Martin’s wandering habits are well established. Servants again have informed the village of his absences at one time and another. He does just go off the map at intervals – and no one has ever set eyes on him during these periods. Oh, yes. Martin’s aberrations could be used quite reasonably and effectively. In actual fact, as I expect the old doctor bloke told you, he’s very unstable. Given to nerve storms, and occasional loss of memory.”
Once again they sat and reflected, and then Vernon asked:
“What chances, if any, of a person being concealed in the playroom?”
“None whatever. The walls are plastered, not panelled. There is no cupboard, and no piece of furniture in which any one could be concealed. I thought of that. You can work out a nice theory whereby Basil was batted over the head, or knocked unconscious and then arranged and shot, but you’ve still got the problem of how the aggressor got away, and you’ve still got the more insoluble problem of that letter written by Basil.”
“Oh, damn that letter! What’s Paul’s handwriting like, Jock?”
“Ah! At last we veer away from the Veronica-Martin complex. Paul’s handwriting, according to the not very recent samples obtained from various indirect sources, is not unlike Basil’s. The family handwriting tends to similarity – but, the experts have given it as their opinion that that letter is no forgery. It was written quickly and flowingly, and there isn’t a single aspect of it which suggests a forgery.” Macdonald knocked out his pipe on the grate, and then went on, “You seem to have been concentrating on Veronica as the evil doer. Why?”
Rope's End, Rogue's End Page 11