Death of an Old Girl

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘I’m afraid that’s a matter for my superiors. She is, of course, an important witness, unless it can be proved that Miss Baynes was still alive after Miss Cartmell left the school premises that night.’

  ‘Well, I must say I think it’s damned rotten luck. This summer school would benefit her work immensely, quite apart from the chance to see a bit of the world on the cheap.’

  ‘I quite appreciate that, but I’m afraid it’s just one of those things… I shall be raising the matter of her going, of course, and I’ve promised her to see what can be done.’

  ‘I’m glad to know that. If it’s a question of a dearer last-minute fare on the only available plane, I’ve told her that I insist on standing it. She needs a let-up after this beastly business.’

  Torrance opened the door, and the two men went out on to the landing.

  ‘Are you a painter yourself?’ asked Pollard, as they passed the room opposite.

  ‘Not within the meaning of the act. The history of art and art criticism is more my line. I’m the Assessor’s art critic, you know, and go on the air quite a bit these days. My hobby’s wood carving. Come in here, if you’ve got a minute.’

  As he listened to Torrance enthusiastically discussing the properties of various types of wood from the standpoint of a carver’s art, Pollard felt his distaste for him less strongly. The man was certainly a creative artist in this medium: there were some superbly designed and executed specimens of his work.

  ‘Reverting to Ann Cartmell once again,’ Torrance said as they went downstairs, ‘I suppose I had better tell the friends of mine who were meeting her and putting her up for a night or two, to stand by?’

  ‘I think I should,’ replied Pollard. ‘What about giving me their name and address, in case we are able to rush her over there at short notice, and can’t get on to you?’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, Inspector. I’ll write it down.’

  Stepping out into Wain Street a few minutes later, Pollard had the all too familiar feeling of having spent precious time in thoroughly exploring a dead end.

  Ten

  ‘Meldon was founded in 1880, to provide a sound education for the daughters of professional and middle-class families.’

  History of Meldon School

  Within moments of returning to his room at the Yard, Pollard was immersed in the reports awaiting him on his desk. Blood tests confirmed that the sample taken from the table in the studio belonged to the same group as that of Beatrice Baynes. Microscopic examination showed that the minute fragment of hair was identical in all respects with a specimen from the area of the injury… It must have been absolutely unpremeditated, he thought. No weapon brought along. Would she have been strangled if the stone or something similar hadn’t been so handy? Whoever did it was pretty smart over the disposal of the body, but rattled enough for the traditional small mistake, the putting down of the weapon without checking up on bloodstains.

  The immensely enlarged photographs of the scratches on the shoe heels and the linoleum showed a correspondence beyond any question. Pollard’s imaginative reconstruction of the actual murder returned to his mind. He felt, with gratification, that it must be accurate in all essentials… Young Strickland must be told he’d done a sound bit of deduction over the bloodstains.

  Turning to the detailed report on the fingerprints, Pollard had the sensation of being pulled up sharply. There was no trace of Madge Thornton’s in the studio. He realised with discomfort that he had begun to take a good deal for granted where she was concerned: theorising ahead of his data, in fact. But all the same, it seemed quite incredible that she wasn’t linked in some way with the murder. If she and George Baynes had been in collusion, her part would probably have been to get Beatrice up to the studio on some pretext or other. In this case she quite possibly wouldn’t have left any prints, since the fire-escape door was apparently open all the evening… But surely a crime committed in collusion was more likely to have been carefully planned ahead than unpremeditated…? He went on reading. As he had feared, the rough wooden struts and hessian of the puppet theatre had failed to yield a single distinguishable print. Ann Cartmell’s were everywhere, and Bert Heyward’s on both doors and the window catches, but neither of these sets nor Madge Thornton’s were on the bureau or other surfaces in Applebys.

  Resolutely putting the reports aside, Pollard tabulated the findings of the interview with Clive Torrance. The statements made confirmed Ann Cartmell’s in all respects, except that she had not mentioned Torrance’s return to the studio to fetch the forgotten Artifex. Probably it had seemed so trifling an incident that she had genuinely forgotten it. All the same, he must establish the vital point as to which of them remembered that the periodical had been left behind, and check over times again, as a matter of routine.

  Putting the dossier of the case in order, Pollard pressed a buzzer and summoned Detective-Constable Longman, who reported that George Baynes was in an adjoining waiting room. Shadowing him had been child’s play. He’d made no move during the night, gone to work at a normal hour, and stayed in the office except for a brief excursion for lunch nearby. Asked if he seemed nervous, Longman hesitated.

  ‘More worried, I’d say, sir. He seemed too preoccupied to notice anything, going through the streets and on the bus.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure he didn’t notice you, sit over there, and take it all down when he’s shown in. And get me a nice glossy photograph of an only moderately villainous crook, and wipe it clean of prints. I’m anxious not to put the wind up him at this stage.’

  Pollard was immediately struck by a resemblance between George Baynes and his great-aunt. The shape of the face, he thought. A much weaker mouth and chin, though… Dark, as Cartmell said about the man she saw, and only about five foot nine. Doesn’t look as though he slept much last night…

  Invited to sit down, George Baynes subsided on to the chair in front of Pollard’s desk, and darted an uneasy look in the direction of Longman.

  ‘My secretary,’ said Pollard. ‘I’m sorry to have had to trouble you to come along, Mr Baynes, but as Miss Baynes’s next of kin, we’re hoping you may be able to help us a lot in the enquiry. I take it that you are, in fact, her nearest surviving relative?’

  ‘Yes, that’s quite right,’ replied George, with obvious relief at the innocuous opening of the interview. ‘The family’s on the way out from the look of it. I’m the only one of my generation.’

  ‘She had no surviving brothers or sisters, then, or nephews and nieces?’

  ‘No. Her elder brother, my grandfather, died in 1951. My father was an only child, and he and my mother were killed in the Blitz. There was a younger brother, but he was killed in the ’14 war. Aunt B. hadn’t any sisters.’

  ‘But surely Miss Madge Thornton is a connection?’ enquired Pollard with simulated surprise.

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ ejaculated George fervently. ‘No relation at all.’

  ‘Really? The fact that she is a godchild of Miss Baynes seems so much in evidence.’

  ‘She was a bit too much in evidence if you ask me. Always hanging round Aunt B. when I was down there. Eye to the main chance, in my opinion.’

  ‘Miss Baynes must have been attached to Miss Thornton, though. I understand that she paid for her education, and gave her very generous presents. It will be interesting to see if she has made provision for her in her will.’

  George looked up sharply.

  ‘Do you know anything about the will yet? I couldn’t get a thing out of old Yelland, her lawyer, when I rang him up.’

  ‘I expect he feels it would hardly be correct to divulge its contents until after the funeral.’

  ‘Lawyers are always so damned cagey. When on earth will the funeral be? How long are the police going to hold it up?’

  ‘Assuming that the coroner issued a burial certificate this morning, it will be a matter for the executors,’ replied Pollard calmly. ‘I suppose Miss Thornton’s parents must have been old friends of Mis
s Baynes?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ said George impatiently. ‘It must have been ages ago, anyway.’

  ‘Do you know Miss Thornton well?’

  ‘Hardly my cup of tea!’

  ‘No,’ agreed Pollard. ‘It must have been annoying for you to have her in and out so much when you were staying with your great-aunt.’

  ‘She nearly drives me up the wall,’ George admitted in a burst of confidence. ‘And Aunt B. felt the same, if you ask me. She was a one, you know, and liked you to stand up to her. I’ve seen her hopping mad at Madge’s everlasting “yes, Aunt Beatrice”, and “no, Aunt Beatrice”. Can’t think what she saw in her. If the old dear hadn’t been so strait-laced, you might have thought Madge was a by-blow of hers.’

  Could there possibly, Pollard wondered, be anything in this preposterous suggestion?

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘no doubt you’ll be hearing all about Miss Baynes’s will when you go down for the funeral.’

  For the first time since the interview began, George showed signs of unease.

  ‘Oh — well, yes, I suppose so. It takes so long if you haven’t got a car. Upsets them at the office.’

  Pollard made a pretence of consulting his notebook.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll understand,’ he went on, in a slightly different tone, ‘that in a case of murder the police have to make a large number of enquiries from everyone in any way connected with the victim. You will have seen in the Press that Applebys was broken into in the course of last weekend. We consider this highly significant. We have reason to suppose —’ he fixed his eyes on George’s face — ‘that the person involved had an intimate knowledge of Miss Baynes’s habits.’

  The young man paled visibly, and moistened his lips.

  ‘Not really?’ he said, with an attempt to show keen interest.

  ‘Yes. There were unmistakable indications. Now, Mr Baynes, I want you to look at this photograph very carefully. Take your time… Have you ever seen this man working at Applebys? Possibly as a gardener?’

  George took the photograph with a hand which was far from steady. Pollard watched him considering his reply.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got a rotten memory for faces. There was a chap doing some digging in the garden at Whitsun, but I didn’t notice him particularly.’

  Pollard took back the photograph by a corner, and dropped it into a drawer.

  ‘Was that your last visit to Applebys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are quite sure you didn’t go down there last weekend?’

  ‘Absolutely. I was on duty at the office.’

  ‘Not all the weekend, surely? You’re at Grant and Wotherspoon, the estate agents, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. No, I mean, I was on duty on Saturday morning.’

  ‘What did you do after the office closed?’

  ‘Went and had a sandwich and beer at the pub across the road, and then hung about listening to the racing results.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘None. Not even placed.’

  ‘And then?’

  George took a deep breath. He’s prepared the next bit, thought Pollard.

  ‘I’d begun to feel a bit under the weather. When I got home I was as sick as a dog. Could hardly get to the loo. It must have been the sandwich, I suppose: they hand out such muck at these places. I felt bloody. Went on heaving for hours, and just lying on my bed and sweating.’

  ‘How unpleasant,’ said Pollard. ‘Wasn’t there anybody to get you a hot water bottle, or anything?’

  ‘Oh, no. There’s only a woman who cleans the place after a fashion, but she goes off to her married daughter on Saturdays and Sundays.’

  ‘But what about the other people living in the house? I should have thought one of them might have come to your assistance.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have known anything about it. I didn’t hear a sound. Most people are away at weekends, and I barely know the other chaps by sight.’

  ‘So you spent all Saturday evening on a bed of sickness?’

  ‘I certainly did! I could hardly sit up. I took a dollop of aspirin, and slept it off. Didn’t move till Sunday morning, when I felt like a cup of tea and some toast. I was just about able to crawl round to the local by lunch-time.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you managed to recover so quickly,’ said Pollard, ‘although you still look a bit the worse for wear. I don’t think I need keep you any longer, Mr Baynes — I expect you’ll be glad to get home. Perhaps you won’t mind waiting while your statement is typed out for you to read through and sign?’

  There was a perceptible pause.

  ‘Er — no, of course not.’

  ‘Just see Mr Baynes to a waiting-room, Longman, and then get his statement done as quickly as you can, will you…?’

  ‘Did he sign it, Longman?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. Skimmed through it and dashed his name down. Very anxious to be off. Pitt was waiting to tail him. Bit amateurish, wasn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Difficult to believe he can really think we’ve swallowed it, isn’t it? You dropped the prints in on Dabs?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They said they’d get on to them right away.’

  The telephone on Pollard’s desk rang, and he accepted a personal call from Linbridge.

  Sergeant Toye reported that the inquest had been adjourned after the coroner had taken evidence of identity, and that the burial certificate had been duly issued. The funeral — strictly private — had been fixed for Thursday, and Mr Yelland had wired to Mr George Baynes’s private address to ask him to come down tomorrow — Wednesday — afternoon.

  ‘Has he, now?’ ejaculated Pollard.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ Toye went on to report in guarded fashion that Madge Thornton was again under sedation, that the presumed weapon had not been found, and that a house-to-house enquiry about strangers in the neighbourhood was in full swing. He, Toye, had found out that one of Miss Cartmell’s girl helpers lived quite near, and the other one was conveniently staying with her. He was just going over to check up with them… Yes, in the presence of the parents, of course.

  Pollard was briefly encouraging, and rang off. As he did so, a messenger arrived from Sergeant Blair of the fingerprints department. A report stated categorically that the prints on the bureau and other surfaces at Applebys were those of George Baynes, but that none of his appeared in the photographs relating to the studio at Meldon.

  ‘What the hell!” muttered Pollard. ‘When are you taking over from Pitt, Longman?’

  ‘Ten o’clock, sir.’

  ‘Keep in touch, then. It’s just faintly possible that I may be making an arrest. And for God’s sake, don’t let young Baynes give you the slip.’

  Chief Superintendent Crowe looked up from an evening paper as Pollard came in. PUPPET THEATRE MYSTERY INQUEST screamed from the front page.

  ‘Publicity in a big way,’ he remarked. ‘You’ll have to bring it off, my boy. Let’s hear your report.’ He pushed a box of cigarettes towards Pollard, and lighted a pipe in a leisurely way. ‘Go ahead,’ he ordered.

  Years ago Crowe had just scraped into the police by a millimetre of height. Now, not far from retirement, he was still upright and energetic, with a thatch of white hair, and very bright eyes, appropriately capable of a fixed avian stare. This he now directed upon Pollard, who took a deep breath and plunged.

  The Chief Superintendent was famous for the apparently irrelevant remarks which he would throw out at the end of a subordinate’s report, and also for the sudden unnerving demands for information while it was in progress.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he interrupted, after Pollard had been talking for some time. ‘Make out the family tree of this Baynes lot.’

  Thanking Heaven that history had been his favourite subject in school, Pollard seized a sheet of paper, and hastily constructed the genealogical table showing the four generations of the family which had emerged in the course of the enquiry. Crowe accepted it wi
th a grunt.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, thirty seconds later.

  When Pollard had finished, silence descended. Crowe blew a perfect smoke ring, and watched it slowly disintegrate.

  ‘These middle-class murders mean a hell of a lot of work,’ he remarked.

  ‘Sir?’ replied Pollard, accepting the gambit.

  ‘The nobs,’ pronounced Crowe, ‘are news. Thanks to the Press their lives are an open book. In the working-classes the neighbours know everything, and a bit more. The middle classes are much better at covering their tracks. They’re reticent, and expert at not attracting attention, all tucked away in their detached houses with a nice bit of garden. You have to dig. Jolly deep, sometimes.’

  ‘Meaning the history of the Baynes family, sir?’

  ‘I’ve stated a general principle. What do you want done?’

  ‘I thought of enquiries about the Thorntons, to try to establish some kind of link with the Bayneses.’

  ‘Naturally, but can’t you think of a shorter cut as well? Time isn’t on your side, my boy.’

  ‘Somerset House?’

  ‘Of course. Where can we get Madge Thornton’s date of birth, to speed things up?’

  ‘Ministry of Education?’ suggested Pollard, in a flash of inspiration.

  Crowe grunted approval, and made a couple of notes on his pad, and resumed his unblinking contemplation of his subordinate.

  ‘What do you consider is the most striking feature of the murder?’ he asked.

  ‘Its unpremeditated character, sir.’

  ‘Quite. That adds to your difficulties, too, doesn’t it? No nice trail of poison-buying under false names, or second-hand typewriters acquired in disguise. Just a handy paper-weight picked up on the spur of the moment. You needn’t necessarily have a motive in the ordinary sense of the word. Have you taken steps to get a medical report on this caretaker chap?’