Death of an Old Girl

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘You’re on to something there, Toye.’ Pollard was invariably generous to his subordinates. ‘Whoever made a dead set for that one drawer knew that Beatrice Baynes would have put the lolly there, if “Bank” on the shopping-list meant she’d just cashed a cheque.’

  ‘Someone who pinched the money and then thought up the faked break-in?’

  ‘You know, Toye, I’m not sure that break-in was a complete fake.’

  ‘I don’t get you there, sir.’

  ‘Well, take the question of the grub. Inspector Beakbane says the daily woman is a highly respectable local body who did most of the cooking, so she’d know pretty well what was in the larder. She swears that a small loaf and a big slab of cheese have gone, and half a veal and ham pie she made on Saturday morning. Beatrice Baynes wasn’t in to lunch, remember. A bottle of milk’s gone too. It’s a bit thorough for a fake. Looks as though somebody was genuinely hungry.’

  ‘It doesn’t hang together somehow, does it? I mean anyone who’d know the ways of the house all that well isn’t likely to need to pinch grub.’

  ‘The person who seems to have spent a good bit of time over here is Miss Baynes’s goddaughter, the lady who’s collapsed and mustn’t have any visitors by doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Bit odd, that collapse, don’t you think, sir? A godmother’s not like a proper relative.’

  ‘Odd is the operative word for the whole case, to date,’ replied Chief Inspector Pollard thoughtfully.

  Six

  ‘9.00 p.m. Start Locking-up Round.’

  List of Caretaker’s duties for the summer term

  Sergeant Toye, wishing to approach the Heywards’ flat unobserved, took a circuitous route round School Wing and through the gardens. Behind the Hall he came upon what appeared to be the former stables. An iron staircase led up to living-quarters over them. He noted that the windows were clean and the curtains bright and fresh. A vase of flowers stood on one of the sills. He ascended quietly and pressed a bell-push. There was a vibrant burr, silence, and sounds of muffled altercation. He leant against the rail, whistling gently, an unobtrusive figure in a blue suit. His round pale face and horn-rimmed spectacles gave him a usefully innocuous aspect, partly belied by the shrewd eyes behind the lenses.

  A door slammed inside. A second later the front-door was flung open and a woman came out, half closing it behind her. She looked about forty, a plump, rosy country-woman with a militant expression. Toye recognised the maternal type on the defensive.

  ‘Police, aren’t you?’ she demanded, ‘whatever clothes you’ve got on? Well, then, let me put you right before you come inside, seeing as we can’t keep you out, and start bullying my husband about what time he locked up Saturday night. That Beakbane upset him proper this afternoon. He can’t take it. No more could you, if you’d been taken by the bloody Japs and bin in one o’ those camps and half-starved. His stummick’s never got properly right since. He’ll tell you five different times in five minutes, he’ll be that flustered. If you want to know when he locked up, ask me. Twenty to ten it was when he got up from supper. Nine’s the time in term-time, and ’tweren’t term no longer, and we didn’t sit down to our bit of supper till close on nine, what with all the clearing up in School. Miss Renshaw wouldn’t’ve expected Bert to do his round before we had a bite to eat, seeing he’d bin on duty since seven in the morning. Considerate lady, Miss Renshaw is, and always reasonable. And if you don’t believe me, ask Maud Hinks, the lady as found Applebys broke into. She’d bin helping too, and came up for a bit of supper along of us. Not that I’d say Bert was late if I weren’t speaking the truth, knowing it’s only commonsense. And if anyone thinks my Bert’s mixed up in the murder, they want their heads looking at. He’s that soft he can’t even kill a spider.’

  She paused for breath.

  ‘We know all about your husband’s war service,’ said Sergeant Toye tranquilly. ‘Here’s my official card… And we’ve already heard from Miss Renshaw what a reliable pair you both are. What I’ve come round for is to ask for a bit of help in fixing times. It doesn’t matter in the least when your husband locked up, so long as we know the time as near as possible. You see, no one could get in from the outside once the outer doors had been locked, could they? May I come in and have a word with him?’

  Mollified, she let him into the flat.

  ‘We’re in the middle of our tea. You’d better come through to the kitchen… Maybe you could do with a cup yourself.’

  Bert Heyward, looking white and strained, sat hunched over a plate of ham and eggs. He glanced up nervously and sketched the movement of rising.

  ‘Don’t disturb yourself, Mr Heyward,’ said Toye, sitting down opposite to him. ‘Sorry to call at such an inconvenient time, but we’ve been over at Applebys trying to link up the break-in there with what happened up here, and it’s important to get times clear. I hadn’t expected you’d’ve locked up so early on a day like Saturday.’

  Bert paused, an impaled piece of ham halfway to his mouth, and stared at Toye. ‘Early? Nine’s my time. I was late: forty minutes. I got proper muddled with that chap badgering me, but what the wife’s says’s right. It was her and Maud Hinks as told me to get crackin’.’

  ‘’Tweren’t term no longer,’ reiterated Mrs Heyward stoutly. ‘There’s a bit more ham and plenty of eggs if you could do with a bite, Sergeant.’

  Inspector Pollard often remarked that Toye was a kind of human chameleon with a remarkable facility for blending into an environment, an aptitude which stood him in good stead on this occasion. Within a short time Bert began to relax, and the atmosphere became positively sociable. The excellent ham and eggs were followed by homemade cake and jam. Eating heartily and complimenting his hostess on her cooking, Toye brought the conversation round to Saturday by remarking that they’d left London in such a hurry there had only been time for a sandwich. It looked like being a puzzling case with no end of work… Unconsciously, the Heywards began to assume the role of helpers.

  Festival was one of the hardest days in the year, he learnt. Not that Mrs Heyward didn’t get extra for helping in the kitchen, but all that washing-up three times over was killing in spite of the machines… Yes, Bert finished up earlier, as soon as he and Jock Eccles had cleared away the extra seatings round the hard courts, and taken in all the odd chairs people brought outside and then walked off and left, without a thought as to how they were to get back. Then he’d got the Hall to put to rights from the meeting. Always had a good look for cigarette ends: you couldn’t credit how careless some folk were, for all they’d been to a posh school. Yes, they always enjoyed a bit of hot supper at the end of the day, but Bert knew she wouldn’t get home till round about half-past eight, so he’d got on his bike and gone down to the Plough for a beer. That would be about ten to seven. He’d sat yarning with the chaps and come away again at quarter-past eight. He’d noticed the time, thinking about his supper. Yes, he’d passed Applebys about twenty past the hour… No, he hadn’t seen Miss Baynes about, but Miss Thornton was coming away… She was often over there to see Miss Baynes, who was her godmother, they’d been told. Shy, Miss Thornton was. Never much to say for herself, but a nice lady. No wonder she’d gone into a fit when she’d heard… Bert was that upset when he got to Miss Renshaw he never noticed Miss Thornton and Maud Hinks. As for Mrs Bennett, she said she’d never get over it to her dying day, a corpse tumbling out on top of her like that… Yes, it was a quarter after ten when Bert got back — a fifteen-hour day.

  Toye made a mental note that Bert’s arrival and departure at the Plough could probably be confirmed, and skilfully led the conversation to the subject of Beatrice Baynes. The Heywards agreed that she was a nosey-parkering old besom who behaved as though the place belonged to her. Always poking about the grounds and prying into what wasn’t her business. What Jock Eccles said about her you couldn’t hardly repeat, but then he’d had her living on his doorstep, you might say. No, she hadn’t been much bother to them, Bert’s work being more indo
ors. Not that there wasn’t a good side to her, same as there was to most. Maud Hinks who worked over at Applebys…

  No great animosity there, thought Toye, unless they’re a pair of first-class actors, which I don’t believe. Still, you never quite know with these war victim chaps… He’d got to call on Maud Hinks, he told them, to check up one or two points about the break-in…

  With the loan of Bert’s bicycle as a crowning achievement, he set off shortly afterwards for Trill, timing himself carefully. The noise emanating from the Plough and the cars outside, some with London number-plates, suggested that the village and the Press were in active conference. He decided to leave the Plough until the following morning, and went on to Number Two, Church Row.

  Maud Hinks was at home, and received him with the manner of one well-accustomed to interviews with the police. Toye, with his usual attention to detail, asked her a few unnecessary questions about the larder at Applebys, and passed easily to the events of Saturday evening at Meldon. Without the slightest hesitation she confirmed that Bert hadn’t gone off to lock up until twenty to ten. She’d chipped him herself, saying he’d get the sack if he sat there on his backside much longer instead of getting on with his job…

  Mounting Bert Hayward’s bicycle once more, Sergeant Toye rode back to Meldon, noting that it took him just under five minutes to reach Applebys.

  Driving back to Meldon through the afternoon, Ann Cartmell’s dominant feeling was sheer exasperation. What on earth was the point of dragging her back? There was nothing about the studio Jean Forrest and Bert Heyward couldn’t tell the police… She wondered once more what sort of fatal accident could possibly have happened up there? Could somebody have monkeyed with the pottery kiln in the storeroom, and been electrocuted? Anyway, it was switched off all right: the last firing had been a fortnight ago… The Inspector who had rung her up had been so stupidly cagey. She still didn’t know who had been killed. Surely not Mrs Bennett who always did the cleaning? She’d never have touched the kiln, anyway … she was terrified of it!

  The spell of fine weather was breaking up. After ten days of sparkling sunshine the dark green foliage of trees against a dull grey sky depressed Ann, sensitive as she always was to light and colour. Even the prospect of Thursday seemed to have lost some of its power to thrill. Suddenly her mind went taut as an alarming idea occurred to her. They couldn’t keep her from leaving, just to give evidence at an inquest, could they? Surely not, when it was absolutely obvious she’d nothing to tell them? Seriously disturbed by the thought, she drove on mechanically, completely forgetting that she had meant to stop somewhere for tea.

  Turning in at Meldon just after six, she pulled up sharply, astonished to see that the drive gates were shut. Almost at once Jock Eccles came out of the Lodge and proceeded to open them for her with an air of portentous importance, wearing a suit instead of his working clothes.

  ‘Why on earth are the gates shut, Jock?’ Ann asked, leaning out of the window as he closed them again behind her car.

  ‘Why, tae keep oot unauthorised pairsons. Journaleests an’ sic.’

  ‘Journalists?’ she echoed blankly.

  ‘Aye. ’Tis a case of murder, ye ken.’

  ‘But who’s been murdered?’ she gasped, the blood ebbing from her face.

  ‘Yon,’ he said, with an expressive backward jerk of his head towards Applebys. ‘Have ye no’ haird? She came tummlin’ oot o’ yon wee puppet theatre in the studio with a great dunt in her heid…’

  As Ann walked shakily into the entrance hall of Old House a tall man in plain clothes came out of the library and spoke to her.

  ‘I expect you’re Miss Ann Cartmell, aren’t you?’ he said pleasantly, ‘I’m Chief Detective-Inspector Pollard of New Scotland Yard, and in charge of the enquiry. We’re very sorry to have to bring you back. If you’re not too tired, perhaps we could have a talk right away?’

  Five minutes later she faced him across the table in one of the library bays, and found herself surprised that he looked so ordinary. Rather big-built and loose-knit, fairish and with a nice, unremarkable face. It wasn’t until he began to talk that she sensed a kind of completely assured authoritativeness about him. Ann eyed him uneasily, answering his questions about her position in the School rather breathlessly. He asked her if she knew what had happened.

  ‘Only what Jock said as I came in. Jock Eccles, at the Lodge.’

  ‘What did Jock say?’

  ‘He said that Miss Baynes had been — been murdered. And that she was — was in the puppet theatre up in the studio.’ She shivered uncontrollably, and turned her face away.

  ‘Have you had any tea?’ Pollard asked unexpectedly.

  Ann shook her head. He got up and went out of the room, returning within a few minutes to say that some tea would be arriving shortly. He began to talk easily about the library pictures and his wife’s work as an art lecturer. When a knock came at the door he got up again and took in the tray. Ann murmured thanks and poured out a cup of tea with a hand that shook, conscious of being observed.

  ‘Try two or three lumps of sugar,’ he suggested. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock. And try not to mind answering a few questions.’

  She looked up quickly and burst into speech.

  ‘I don’t. It isn’t that. It’s that I’m so worried about Thursday, in case I’m not allowed to go. I’m flying out to New York, to take up a scholarship at a summer school. My seat on the plane’s booked… It means absolutely everything to me — I don’t know a thing about all this.’

  ‘Somebody’s been murdered, you know, Miss Cartmell. Death’s very final: much more so than being a few days late for a summer school.’

  ‘I know you think I’m completely self-centred,’ she said, with an agitated gesture, ruffling up her hair. ‘I’m not, really. Of course I’m sorry that such a ghastly thing’s happened to anyone. But I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry Miss Baynes is dead. She loathed me. She’s been absolutely bitchy to me ever since I came. She insulted me and my work in front of the A.G.M. on Saturday, just because I didn’t teach on prehistoric lines, like the woman who was here before me, and was a friend of hers. She was always snooping and trying to make trouble for me.’

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to try to find her murderer as a matter of principle?’ Pollard asked, deciding to ignore this lavish display of motive on Anne’s part.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. I can’t help you, though.’

  ‘I think you may be able to help me quite a lot when you know all the facts.’

  He gave her a brief account of the results of the enquiry up to date, and watched her eyes widen with horror.

  ‘Do you mean she — she might have been there all the time? When I was talking to Mr Torrance? When the girls were there?’

  ‘It’s possible, but by no means certain. The police surgeon has only made a tentative estimate of the time of death so far. Now, Miss Cartmell, without realising it at the time you may possibly have noticed something of great importance. I want to go through the whole evening, from seven o’clock onwards.’

  The shock of realising the intersection of the tragedy and her own actions cleared Ann’s mind, and she began to answer Pollard’s questions clearly and sensibly. No, she had not been to the studio on returning from the staff house, but gone straight to the dining-room where people were gathering for supper. She had deliberately chosen a seat facing the window in order to watch for Mr Torrance.

  ‘Did you notice the time of his arrival?’ asked Pollard, taking out his notebook.

  ‘It must have been just on eight. I remember noticing it was five to, and then someone spoke to me and distracted my attention. When I looked out again Mr Torrance was just going in at the door — the one at the foot of the stairs going up to the studio.’

  ‘How long was it before you joined him?’

  ‘About two minutes, I should think. Just after I saw him Miss Renshaw got up and said grace — the short Latin one. I slipped out through one of the fre
nch doors, and ran across the Quad and upstairs.’

  ‘You seem to have been in a great hurry.’

  The note of amusement in his voice riled her.

  ‘It was extremely good of Mr Torrance to come in at all. I didn’t want to keep him waiting out of common politeness. After all, he is somebody.’

  ‘Quite. When you got up to the studio he was already there, I take it?’

  ‘Of course he was. He was looking at the paintings, which I’d got mounted on screens for him. He…’ Her voice trailed off, and she stared at Pollard incredulously. ‘You can’t — you really can’t imagine he can have killed Miss Baynes in two minutes? It’s ludicrous. He couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘Not possibly. The suggestion is yours. Did Mr Torrance know Miss Baynes?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think he’d ever heard of her,’ replied Ann sulkily, conscious of having made a fool of herself.

  ‘You yourself had never mentioned her hostility towards you?’

  She seized the opportunity of hitting back.

  ‘I shouldn’t bore a man like Mr Torrance with petty school gossip.’

  ‘So when you had arrived in the studio,’ Pollard went on, maddeningly unruffled, ‘you both got down to the job of selecting the competition entries. Now I want you to think very carefully, Miss Cartmell. Did you register anything in the least noteworthy while this was going on? A movement on the fire-escape, for example?’

  A trace of anxiety passed over Ann’s face. Could anyone have been listening?

  ‘I don’t remember noticing anything,’ she told him, after a fractional pause.

  He pressed her again, urging her to think herself back into the scene, and watched a subtle change come over her. A kind of sleekness.

  ‘No,’ she said, a slight tinge of complacency in her voice. ‘I noticed nothing.’

  ‘When the paintings had been chosen, did you and Mr Torrance go down together?’