Death of an Old Girl

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘Dear Clive,’ she said, a rapt expression in her eyes. ‘How appalling for a real artist like him to have got mixed up in this dreadful business. He’s such a remarkable person, Sergeant, you know. So utterly absorbed in his work and so interesting, and yet not a bit patronising to ignoramuses like my husband and myself. Was it you who interviewed him? He rang us up.’

  ‘That would have been one of my superior officers, madam. Does he often visit you here?’ Toye enquired with interest.

  ‘We hope he will in future, Sergeant, now that he has taken the plunge, although a man like that must be simply inundated with invitations, mustn’t he? Last weekend was his very first visit to us, and we were so delighted. We first met him last autumn at one of those huge, noisy cocktail parties one has to go to in London, and got talking about this part of the country, and when he said how attractive he thought it was, we begged him to run down if ever he found himself with a free weekend. I never imagined we’d hear any more about it, and it was such a thrill when he wrote a most charming letter a few weeks ago, asking if we’d really meant it. Imagine it!’

  ‘I expect a gentleman as high up in the world of art as Mr Torrance works a lot harder than people think,’ suggested Toye.

  Mrs Scorhill, reclining languorously with an arm behind her head, and showing an appreciable amount of thigh, expatiated at length on this subject. Presently he succeeded in bringing the talk round to the previous Saturday evening.

  Yes, she told him, poor Mr Torrance hadn’t arrived until after a quarter-past nine: she couldn’t remember to a minute. He’d warned them that he might be late, but really she’d begun to get worried … the Sergeant would begin to think she’d got a thing about road accidents, wouldn’t he? No, they never minded people not turning up on the dot … it wasn’t tiresome, really, with a simmering oven, and the sort of meals that were elastic, if the Sergeant knew what she meant… Mr Torrance? Yes, he’d looked simply exhausted when he did turn up. He’d had such a day: busy in the Gallery all the morning, and then one of those tiresome meetings that go on for ever, in all that terrific heat, too. And on top of it all he’d stopped off on the way down to do something for that wretched School, and just because of that had got himself involved in this miserable case.

  Toye commiserated, and said that he expected a couple of nights in such a lovely place had soon put Mr Torrance right.

  Mrs Scorhill’s shoulders registered despairing frustration… It had been only one night, as things had turned out. Mr Torrance had been so apologetic, but there’d been some unexpected crisis over a picture, and he felt he simply must be on the spot the very first thing on Monday morning. They’d offered him breakfast at dawn, and he’d been so appreciative, but said he’d have to get in touch with the other directors, and it was all a bit confidential for the phone. ‘We were heartbroken: we’d asked quite a few people in to meet him on Sunday evening.’

  ‘A big job never really lets you off the lead,’ Toye agreed. ‘All that worry must have quite spoilt even the very short time Mr Torrance was able to spend at Flete House.’

  Well, Mrs Scorhill didn’t know if she’d go quite as far as that. He’d soon zipped up after a few drinks, and been so witty and amusing … they’d roared with laughter at the things he’d said… He’d been a really delightful guest…

  Toye came to the conclusion that there was probably little more of interest to be extracted from Mrs Scorhill, and began to disengage himself by asking if she recommended the main road or the cross-country return route to Meldon. Here she was most emphatic. They often ran down to Whitesands, out of the tripper season, of course, and always by the main road as far as the Trill turning. The lanes were hopeless: one met endless tiresome farm tractors and things, and did nothing but back. Finally, after the usual arguments about accepting refreshment when on duty, Toye took his leave, carefully noting the exact time of his departure.

  After Toye had driven off to Stannaford Magna, Pollard went into the hall of Old House with no very clear-cut plan of action, beyond the intention of talking to Helen Renshaw before she left for the funeral. The place seemed very quiet and deserted. The door of the secretary’s office was open, and there were papers on the desk, but no sign of Joyce Kitson. He thought he could hear distant voices, and tracked them down to the headmistress’s office. Acting on impulse he went to the door and knocked. Invited to enter, he opened it to find Helen Renshaw dictating to Joyce Kitson. They looked up at him in surprise, and he thought he detected disapproval in the latter’s face. He apologised for disturbing them.

  ‘I saw Mrs Kitson was not in her office,’ he said, ‘so I ventured to try here. Is it a very inconvenient moment to have a few words with you, Miss Renshaw?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Helen replied. ‘Come and sit down.’ Joyce Kitson had gathered up her pad and some letters, and was making to leave them when Pollard interposed.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I rather wanted to see Mrs Kitson too. Could we have a sort of talk à trois, do you think? It’s often very helpful to have a discussion.’

  ‘By all means. Draw up that other chair, Inspector.’

  This is a bit of luck, he thought, as he complied. Kitson looks as sticky as they come, but she can hardly be obstructive in front of her boss… He opened his notebook on his knee, and smiled pleasantly at the two women.

  ‘One of the puzzling things about this case, as you know,’ he told them, ‘is why Miss Baynes went to the studio at all last Saturday evening. She was elderly, and no doubt tired after a long day, and she had already visited the art exhibition. The police are satisfied that she was murdered there, and it is virtually impossible that she was taken there by force, so she must have gone on her own free will. Up to now we have been unable to find anyone who saw her on her way there. There is some evidence that she went across between half-past seven and a quarter to eight, when there was no one at the Lodge, and the whole community as far as we know was occupied with supper.’

  Helen Renshaw nodded appreciatively.

  ‘It has been suggested,’ he went on, ‘that her motive in going was to be present during Mr Torrance’s visit to Miss Cartmell, and that to do this without their being aware of her presence she concealed herself in the puppet theatre.’

  Pollard watched the two faces in front of him. He saw Helen Renshaw’s registered distaste which quickly gave way to anxiety. Joyce Kitson reacted more slowly. She looked baffled and incredulous, and then frowned as if trying to work out some problem.

  ‘The difficulty here,’ he went on, ‘is how Miss Baynes could have known that Mr Torrance was coming. He has assured me that he had never given a firm undertaking to advise on the selection of paintings for the competition, and that in fact the whole matter had gone out of his head until he was packing his bag for a weekend visit to friends at Stannaford Magna after lunch last Saturday. He then suddenly remembered about it, and realising that Meldon wouldn’t be far out of his way, rang up Miss Cartmell to ask if the paintings had already been sent off. I realise what a busy afternoon it must have been, but I wonder if by chance anything is known about this telephone call? Was Miss Cartmell summoned to take it over a loud speaker, for instance?’

  Helen Renshaw looked amused.

  ‘We aren’t quite as streamlined and up-to-date as that,’ she remarked. ‘The call would have come through the secretary’s office in the usual way.’ She glanced interrogatively at Joyce Kitson, who nodded.

  ‘Yes, I took it myself. It was a personal call from London for Miss Cartmell.’

  ‘Can you remember the time it came through?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. People were in and out all the time. It was not like taking a message, when I should have noted down the time as a matter of course. Between two-thirty and three, I should think.’

  ‘Was Miss Cartmell expecting a call?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Joyce Kitson rather tartly. ‘She hadn’t said anything to me about it.’

  ‘The non-resident staff aren’t
encouraged to have incoming calls over here unless it’s something urgent,’ Helen Renshaw explained. ‘Mrs Kitson can’t waste her time running round the School looking for people. If anyone knows an important call is coming for her she is asked to be on hand, or let Mrs Kitson know where to find her. In this case I’m quite sure Miss Cartmell wasn’t expecting one from the way she spoke to me about it later in the afternoon.’

  ‘I see,’ said Pollard. ‘Was it difficult to track her down in the crowd?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ replied Joyce Kitson. ‘I knew that she would be up in the studio showing O.M.s round the art exhibition, and I asked one of the Sixth Form to go and fetch her.’

  ‘In the case of a personal call the operator doesn’t give the name of the caller, so presumably anyone who overheard the message being delivered wouldn’t have been any the wiser. Did Miss Cartmell come down to your office to take it?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a worried look on Joyce Kitson’s pale face as she pressed her rather thin lips together. ‘I told her to take it in what we call the inner office. It’s really a part of the room partitioned off, and there’s a telephone extension in there…’ She broke off uncertainly.

  ‘Have you any reason to believe that Beatrice Baynes could have overheard the conversation?’ asked Helen Renshaw.

  ‘Well, yes, I think she might. Just as Ann Cartmell dashed into the inner office I saw old Mrs Findhorn looking helpless in the hall, and went out to see if I could do anything for her. I was away for a few minutes, and when I got back Ann had gone, and Miss Baynes and Mrs Elkinshaw were standing at my desk.’

  ‘And the receiver of your telephone had been left off and was lying on it, of course?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joyce Kitson unhappily. ‘Just by where Miss Baynes was standing. I suppose I oughtn’t to have left the office until the call was over.’

  ‘My dear Joyce,’ Helen Renshaw said kindly, but firmly, ‘I never heard anything so absurd. This isn’t the British Embassy in Moscow, is it, Inspector?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone could conceivably feel that Mrs Kitson was negligent,’ Pollard replied. ‘I hope you’ll dismiss the idea from your mind at once,’ he said kindly, turning to her. ‘In any case, there’s no proof that Miss Baynes overheard the conversation, although obviously the incident could have been the source of her information.’

  ‘I feel very disquieted,’ Helen Renshaw bluntly said, when Joyce Kitson had left them. ‘I’m afraid this may make you suspect that Ann Cartmell was involved in the murder, perhaps in collusion with Mr Torrance.’

  ‘I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending the idea hadn’t occurred to me,’ Pollard replied, ‘but I’ve rejected it on several grounds. In the first place there is the psychology of both of them. Then it was an unpremeditated murder, and so far as I can discover there appears to be a total absence of motive. What do you think,’ he went on, ‘Miss Baynes could have hoped to gain from this particular piece of snooping, assuming for the moment that it actually took place?’

  ‘I doubt if she would have had a very clear idea herself,’ said Helen Renshaw thoughtfully. ‘I think she was quite beside herself with anger after the events of the Annual General Meeting, and would have seized any opportunity of damaging Ann Cartmell — and indirectly myself. She had a thing about the sex life of the younger staff — arising from her own repressions, presumably — and I can very well imagine how she would have reacted to the chance information that Ann Cartmell was going to be in the studio with a man. And it probably sounds absolute drivel to you, but the studio was an emotive place to her: where the old order hung on longest, with her friend Miss Leeke. It seems to me perfectly in character for her to have gone up there in the hopes of seeing some improper behaviour.’

  ‘And what do you think she actually saw?’ asked Pollard.

  ‘I think any idea that she saw Ann and Mr Torrance having sexual intercourse and threatened to report them to me and the Governors is simply ludicrous, Inspector. Ann Cartmell is free to spend almost any weekend of term and all the holidays with him if she likes. It’s fantastic to suggest that anything of the sort happened in what was virtually a public place. You’ve met Mr Torrance, I take it? Can you imagine for a single moment that he’d risk his reputation like that?’

  ‘Not for a single moment, as you say,’ Pollard replied. ‘All the same, I want to talk to you about Ann Cartmell. I don’t suspect her either of murdering Miss Baynes or of being an accessory. But I’ve got a feeling — very ill-defined — at the back of my mind, that she is somehow relevant to the murder. Unknown to herself, I mean.’

  Helen Renshaw looked interested.

  ‘I see what you mean. Theoretically, that is.’

  ‘We did touch on the relationship between her and Mr Torrance before. Do you think you can possibly add anything to what you told me then?’

  ‘Isn’t the implication of all this that you suspect Mr Torrance as distinct from Ann? You know, I think it’s quite incredible, quite apart from the practical difficulties.’

  ‘You mustn’t question a police officer, Miss Renshaw,’ Pollard replied gravely.

  She laughed.

  ‘Touché, Inspector. All right, I’ll talk, if I can only think of something to tell you.’ She rested her head on her hand and stared at the roses on her desk. ‘I’m sure in my own mind that they haven’t been living together,’ she said at last. ‘Ann would have been compliance itself if he’d wanted her, but she isn’t his type, and he’s much too experienced to get himself inconveniently entangled.’

  ‘You know, this interests me,’ Pollard told her. ‘It struck me that in spite of Miss Cartmell’s obvious inexperience, there was a kind of complacency about her when she spoke of Mr Torrance. Something of the air of having landed her man, so to speak. Also, she was extremely remote: almost incredibly unconcerned with the murder, considering that it had happened in her own workshop, and that she had been on the spot at various times during the evening.’

  Helen Renshaw looked doubtful.

  ‘Well, if we’re both right, it suggests that there was some development in their relationship last Saturday, doesn’t it? But you know, I don’t think it need have added up to much. In her present emotional attitude to Mr Torrance, a mere friendly farewell kiss would probably be taken to mean something much more significant. She was very excited about the oil colour-box he had sent to her from Brocatti & Simpson’s… As to her remoteness, she is still childishly self-absorbed in some ways, although so excellent at her job. She’s a late developer: I only hope she eventually meets the kind of man she ought to marry.’ She glanced at her watch.

  ‘I mustn’t keep you,’ Pollard said. ‘Miss Craythorne told me you and she were going to the funeral. But this discussion has been very helpful. Just one more question — about Mrs Kitson? We’re finding her a bit — well, difficult to talk to.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything. She’s absolutely sound, but terribly on the defensive. She made one of those hasty war marriages which broke up afterwards, and her little boy died of polio. One has to try all the time to restore her confidence, and make her feel valued. She’s a first-class secretary, incidentally.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me that. And I want to thank you for all the questions you haven’t asked, Miss Renshaw, and to tell you quite irregularly and in confidence, that I don’t think you need worry about Miss Thornton, or Bert Heyward.’

  ‘I can only say in all sincerity,’ Helen Renshaw replied, ‘that I’m thankful that you personally are carrying on this investigation.’

  Seventeen

  ‘Please check the draft time-table for next year and report any discrepancies.’

  H. RENSHAW

  Headmistress’s Notice on Staff Room Notice Board

  Toye had not returned from Stannaford Magna, and Pollard went into the Library after leaving Helen Renshaw. Sitting down at the table in the now familiar bay, he began to work on an up-to-the-minute edition of the time-table, and was soon comple
tely absorbed. Half-an-hour later he sat back and began to meditate on the result of his labours.

  SATURDAY EVENING

  approx.

  6.30

  Jock Eccles leaves for Plough. Landlord confirmed (arrival)

  6.50

  Bert Heyward leaves for Plough. Landlord confirmed (arrival)

  7.05

  Beatrice Baynes sees off friends. Mrs Steadman and Miss Watman confirmed

  7.18

  Ann Cartmell arrives in dining-room. Departure from Staff House noted by Miss Craythorne

  approx.

  7.30

  Festival supper begins. ? B.B. goes over to Studio?

  7.45

  J.E. returns from Plough. Saw Torrance arrive about 7.55

  7.59

  Torrance reaches School Wing. A.C. confirmed

  8.01

  A.C. reaches Studio. C.T. confirmed

  8.20

  B. Heyward passes Applebys. M.T. and J.E. confirmed

  8.22

  M.T. crosses over to Park. J.E. confirmed

  8.29

  A.C. and C.T. leave Studio

  8.31

  C.T. returns to Studio for Artifex. A.C. confirmed

  8.32

  A.C. reaches Secretary’s office. Joyce Kitson confirmed

  approx.

  8.36

  C.T. reaches Secretary’s office. J.K. and A.C. confirmed

  8.38

  C.T. drives off. J.K., A.C. and J.E. confirmed

  8.41