Death of an Old Girl

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  These agreeable visions were suddenly extinguished by a cold shower of realism. Exactly what had he achieved so far? Bloody little, if anything. Suppressing an inclination to go to the other extreme, and visualise failure and a ruined career, Pollard embarked on a form of self-interrogation which had often yielded dividends in the past.

  Had he tripped up over anything? He reviewed the checking of alibis and further enquiries entrusted to Sergeant Toye, and the search for the young man being carried out by the Linbridge police. George Baynes was being shadowed. Madge Thornton was safely under further sedation and the watchful eye of Sister Littlejohn. The results of the first lot of dabs would be waiting for him at the Yard… Suppose Thornton’s weren’t anywhere in the studio, or on the bureau at Applebys? Pollard frowned, as the teasing problem of the relation between the murder and the break-in returned to his mind. If she’d gone for the cash — and she’d almost certainly have known where it was kept — what about the food? She was, of course, in a peculiar state of mind… Could the young man after all have been someone on the run, and nothing to do with the murder? Extraordinary coincidences did happen…

  He pulled himself up again, and went on to the second question of his self-imposed catechism: what do I know about X, my most promising suspect? As applied to Madge Thornton, it seemed to have distinct possibilities… A middle-aged spinster orphan — no, she could be secretly married, divorced or a widow — a middle-aged orphan, and a not very successful music teacher, who had been at Meldon some years longer than the H.M. Also, the godchild of the late Beatrice Baynes, who had paid for her education, given her expensive presents, left her a very comfortable income, and yet had been disappointed in her, snubbed her, and failed to attend her mother’s funeral, although there must obviously have been some link with the family. Yet, thought Pollard, in spite of this alleged down-trodden status, she showed unmistakable signs of fury when Beatrice had been mentioned, and was hell-bent on tracking her down on Saturday evening, and again on Sunday morning, presumably to have a row with her… So far, she had produced no alibi for two periods during which the studio was apparently empty: 8.30 p.m. to 8.40 p.m. and from just after nine to approximately nine-fifty. As far as physique went, she could easily have delivered the killing blow, and carried the old woman’s small, frail body across the room.

  Pollard mulled over the facts, conscious that something was nagging at the back of his mind. He waited, and it suddenly clicked into position. That housekeeper, Mrs — Mrs Milman. She’d told Toye that Madge Thornton had looked a bit het up, but had been like it ever since her mother died… That was it. The psychological disturbance had been sparked off by Mrs Thornton’s death. Not just as a result of the actual bereavement, surely? It wasn’t as though Madge had been living at home, her whole existence centred on her mother. And it was quite fantastic to suggest that Beatrice Baynes’s absence from the funeral could have caused trouble on such a scale. Could Madge have discovered that her godmother had done her parents some really serious injury in the past? And was there any hope of getting it out of her? He’d better follow up this idea from the other end, and have enquiries made about the Thorntons by the Warhampton police.

  Am I barking up the wrong tree after all? Pollard negotiated a snarl of heavy lorries and shot ahead, as he considered this third question. What about young Baynes, with his walloping financial motive? Well, he was being shadowed, and would shortly be interviewed… Suppose he really had been the man Ann Cartmell saw? He might have come down on Saturday evening, found Applebys locked up, and gone across to the park on the chance of finding his great-aunt, who had decided to take an evening stroll there. For some reason they’d gone up to the studio together, and had a flaming row. He’d killed her, stuffed the body into the puppet theatre and the stone into his pocket… Then he could have gone back to Applebys, pinched the money and food, and made his way back to Town by a devious route… Almost unbelievably cool, and the most appalling risk right under the noses of the people at the Lodge… Still, colossal risks did come off sometimes, and like Madge Thornton, he probably would have known where Beatrice Baynes kept her money.

  Pollard had a good memory and began to work out times. The murder could hardly have been committed in the short interval between 8.30 and 8.40 p.m.? It would have had to take place after Ann Cartmell and the two girls had cleared off at nine o’clock… Suppose George Baynes had come out of Applebys at a minute or two after nine, and gone over to the park — but he’d have run into Madge Thornton who was coming down the drive. Pollard felt a thrill of excitement. It was the question about whether she’d seen anyone coming away from Applebys that had sent her over the edge. Could the two of them possibly have been in it together? They both stood to benefit handsomely, quite apart from Madge’s unknown grievance. Or was she trying to cover up for George? What sort of relationship existed between them? They certainly didn’t appear to have much in common… His thoughts raced on. At last it looked as though he might be on to something. Anyway, there were a few definite lines of enquiry to follow up, and to tell the Old Man about…

  Reluctantly Pollard began to devote more of his attention to the traffic and less to his case.

  ‘Don’t mind giving us another job to do, will you?’ said Sergeant Phillips of the Yard Fingerprint Department. ‘It all helps to pass the time. Those puzzle pictures of Boyce’s are just too simple.’

  ‘Well, these may help you,’ replied Pollard, handing over Ann Cartmell’s prints and the cardboard box containing the medicine glass. ‘I know you get stuck very easily! Just find out if the dabs on the glass are in either of Boyce’s two lots while I go and do a spot of work. I shouldn’t think either of the two I’ve given you are in Records, but you could have a look.’

  After a few more exchanges with Phillips he paid a brief visit to his own room. Here he learnt that George Baynes had gone at his normal time to the Kensington estate agency where he worked, and had shown no sign of making a bolt. He had been told to come to the Yard on leaving work. Mr Torrance would be pleased to see Inspector Pollard at the Domani Gallery at any time during the afternoon. Chief Superintendent Crowe was out on an urgent case, but expected back later, and wished to see Inspector Pollard…

  Lunch — very belated — seemed indicated. Pollard rang up the secretary of the college where his wife lectured, left a message to say that he would be coming home some time that evening, and made for the canteen.

  The Domani Gallery was in Wain Street, off the west side of Regent Street. Pollard ran a critical eye over the exterior. The place looked prosperous, and an exhibition seemed to be in progress. He went in, found a reception desk with a temporarily deserted air, and passed on into a large room. Here about thirty people were contemplating paintings and consulting catalogues. He glanced round for someone in charge, and saw a tall, dark man surrounded by a group of young people. They were all trousered, long-haired and sexually indistinguishable, and listening with attention while the speaker commented with great assurance on a startling abstract. Wondering if this were Clive Torrance, Pollard crossed the room and joined the outskirts of the group… Well-dressed, he thought, and beginning to put on weight … looks as though he does himself well…

  At this moment the man turned round, saw Pollard and broke off in mid-stream.

  ‘Fly, all is known,’ he remarked to his audience. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, Scotland Yard has caught up on me. I was at the scene of the crime, you know. Am I right, sir?’

  ‘Mr Clive Torrance? Chief Detective-Inspector Pollard of New Scotland Yard,’ Pollard replied equably, producing his official card, and noting a subtle change come over Torrance on being addressed in public school English. The young men and women goggled.

  ‘Not the Puppet Theatre business?’ demanded a shaggy youth in ringing tones. Heads were turned towards them from all sides. Torrance looked at Pollard, making a gesture of amused despair.

  ‘I do apologise, Inspector. Where the hell is Haynes? In the loo, I suppos
e. Oh, there he comes… Let’s go up to my flat, shall we? Unless you’d like to arrest me on the spot, that is, and give the Domani unparalleled publicity?’

  This remark was received with hilarity, and a volley of requests for information which Torrance waved aside.

  ‘A terrific thrill for them, of course,’ he remarked, escorting Pollard up a flight of stairs. ‘God knows what they’ll go spreading round about me. In here, Inspector.’

  A door marked PRIVATE gave on to a small landing. On the right Pollard caught a glimpse of what looked like a large studio-cum-workshop. Torrance led the way into a sitting-room on the left.

  It was a well-proportioned Georgian room with white panelling and good windows, furnished with unobtrusive luxury. Pollard took in the quality of the plum-coloured fitted carpet, the beautiful curtains of a Regency design, and a couple of paintings of the French Impressionist school. Torrance indicated one of two opulent armchairs, remarked that he knew drinks were ruled out, and proffered a choice of cigarettes of the more expensive brands. Lighting up for them both, he sank into the second chair, and gazed at Pollard.

  ‘This really is a god-awful business,’ he remarked. ‘You know, what’s haunting me is the thought that the poor old girl may have been in that puppet show contraption all the time little Cartmell and I were choosing those paintings. Do tell me — if it’s permissible to ask — has the time of death been established?’

  ‘Only that it was probably before midnight, or soon after,’ replied Pollard. ‘After an interval of something like forty hours it’s impossible to be very precise, unfortunately.’ He observed the man’s sensual mouth and chin, and air of aplomb, and felt a flash of compassion for Ann Cartmell’s vulnerability. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s very likely that you can help us much, Mr Torrance, but you’ll understand that we like to get statements confirmed as far as possible. Perhaps the simplest thing would be for you to run through everything connected with your visit last Saturday?’

  ‘I’ll do that gladly, although I’m afraid it’s not likely to get you much further.’ Clive Torrance crossed his legs and thrust his left arm behind his head. ‘First of all, I’d better explain briefly how I come to be connected with Meldon. I found Ann Cartmell for them a couple of years ago. I do a lot of work in connection with art education — arranging courses and summer schools and what-have-you, and she’d just been on one of them. She’d taken a toss in her first job, and was thinking of chucking teaching altogether. I’d got a hunch that she had what it takes to make a good teacher of art, in spite of her immaturity and lack of confidence, and it turns out I was quite right. She’s a nice child, and I kept an eye on her down there. For instance, I gave them a lecture as a boost to the art department, and so on. I encouraged her to put in some of the girls’ stuff for this Commonwealth Schools show which is coming off in the autumn — it would be a tremendous feather in her cap if Meldon pulled off an award — and I said I’d help with the final selection if I could…

  ‘Well, that’s the general background, I think,’ Torrance continued, expelling a mouthful of cigarette smoke. ‘I’m pretty busy, of course, and to tell you the truth the whole business went out of my head until last Saturday. I had a meeting in the afternoon, and then was going on for a short weekend with some friends at a place called Stannaford Magna — it’s a village about twenty miles beyond Trill. I was just chucking my things into a bag after lunch when I remembered these blasted paintings, and realised that I’d be passing within a few miles of Meldon. What? Oh, yes, sorry, you’ll want the address. Mr and Mrs Gavin Scorhill, Flete House, Stannaford Magna. In the phone book, if you want the number.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Pollard, making a note. ‘Please carry on.’

  ‘Where was I? Packing. Yes, I don’t like letting people down, so I rang Meldon on chance, and found that Ann Cartmell was still there, and hadn’t sent the stuff on her own. I told her I could drop in for a few minutes about eight. She said she might still be held up at some Old Girls’ supper, and asked me to go straight up to the studio, where she’d leave the paintings out. I’d been there several times, and know the lie of the land. In the end I was a bit late getting off, and didn’t arrive at Meldon until just on eight: I remember noticing the clock in the Quad, and she joined me almost at once, and we got down to the job.’

  ‘Almost at once?’ said Pollard. ‘One minute after you? Two? Five?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult to be as exact as that. I went in,’ Torrance screwed up his eyes, ‘saw the paintings were pinned up on screens, walked across the room, caught sight of one I liked, and was looking at it when I heard the door open and she came in. Say two minutes. Not as much as five, I’m certain.’

  ‘Artists are often sensitive to all kinds of subtle impressions. Can you remember having any sensation of someone having just gone out of the studio, for instance?’

  Torrance looked at him with evident gratification.

  ‘I’d no idea the police appreciated that kind of thing. No — that sounds quite insufferable. Forgive me. I know exactly what you mean, of course, but I honestly can’t say I remember getting any impression of anything. I’d come down with a specific purpose, you see, and I suppose my mind was on it. I’m a bit of a single-tracker when professionally engaged.’

  ‘You’re quite sure you didn’t hear any sound — perhaps a very slight one — on the fire-escape?’

  Torrance paused, and shook his head. ‘Nothing helpful there, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Right. And I suppose this applies to the whole time while you and Miss Cartmell were both there?’

  ‘Oh, certainly. We were talking pretty well non-stop. I’m quite sure no one actually came in. I can say that definitely, but it’s pretty negative, I’m afraid.’

  Pollard reflected that a man like Clive Torrance was probably skilled at keeping an ear cocked for untimely arrivals.

  ‘Did you notice the time when you both came away from the studio?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I was giving her a few tips about her visit to the States — I’d sponsored her application for this summer school over there which she’s probably told you about — and then I offered to take the paintings back to London for her and drop them in, and realised that it was later than I thought. It was just on half-past eight. My watch is pretty reliable.’

  ‘And then you went down to your car together?’

  ‘We had to collect an entrance form from the secretary’s office en route. Oh, wait a minute. I dashed back to pick up a copy of Artifex, which she suddenly remembered I’d left behind. She ran on to the office in the front of the building, and I picked her up there. She came out and waved me off. I’d parked in the sacred precincts outside the front door, I’m afraid, instead of going round to the car park.’

  ‘Did you have any difficulty in finding the Artifex?’ asked Pollard, trying to keep all sign of interest out of his voice.

  ‘None whatever. I’d brought it down with me to read over the weekend, and there happened to be a reproduction in it relevant to something I was saying to her about one of the paintings — I simply can’t resist teaching. She must have put it down on the table when she’d looked at it, and it got underneath our discards.’

  ‘Did you by any chance notice a flattish grey stone with a white quartz pattern lying on the table?’

  Torrance gave him a sharp look.

  ‘Let me think… There was a lot of junk at the fire-escape end of the table … vases … jam jars … a pair of board compasses … boxes… No, sorry, I can’t remember seeing a stone of any kind… Was it?… Good God!’

  ‘Almost certainly the weapon used, yes.’

  ‘Well, it does rather look as though the body — was there, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s certainly suggestive,’ replied Pollard, ‘but not conclusive. Even an artist’s visual memory is selective to some extent, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, quite. I’ve often noticed that with my own. It’s rather interesting. Related to one’s subconscious
, presumably.’

  ‘Had you ever met Miss Baynes?’ asked Pollard, accepting another cigarette.

  ‘Not in the sense of having been introduced to her. Of course, she may have been to the lecture I gave at Meldon, but I wouldn’t know. She wasn’t at the little supper party that Miss Renshaw laid on for me. I’m damned sorry for that woman, and for Piers Tracey, too. He’s Chairman of the Meldon Governors, as you probably know. An awfully decent chap.’

  Pollard agreed that the murder was extremely unfortunate from the point of view of the school authorities, and closed his notebook.

  ‘Well, I don’t think I need take up any more of your time, Mr Torrance,’ he said. ‘As you were up in the studio, I had better take your fingerprints, if you don’t mind. We’re trying to get the very large number of impressions sorted out.’

  ‘Not in the least. I shall be interested to see exactly how it’s done.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Pollard in the course of the operation, ‘it’s possible that you might be called as a witness at the resumed inquest. Have you any plans for going abroad in the fairly near future?’

  ‘Not until mid-September, at the earliest. I might be going over to Paris for a few days about then. But surely you’ll have laid the maniac who must have done it by the heels by that time?’

  ‘We certainly hope so,’ answered Pollard, making as though to rise.

  ‘Oh, just one other thing before you go. About little Cartmell. She will be able to go all right, won’t she? Even if not on Thursday? Dash it, it’s obvious she hasn’t the remotest connection with the murder — you’ve only got to look at the kid. It’s just sheer bad luck that it happened in the studio instead of one of the labs or a classroom.’