Death of an Old Girl

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  A.C. and two girls return to Studio.

  8.58

  George Baynes reaches Applebys. Fits in with time Aggett met him on road

  8.59

  A.C. and girls leave Studio. Sister Felicity and Mrs Fleming confirmed

  9.02

  Sister F. and Mrs Fleming reach Studio and settle down on fire-escape.

  A.C. offers M.T. lift in drive. M.T. confirmed

  9.03

  George Baynes in Applebys porch. A.C. confirmed

  approx.

  9.05

  M.T. reaches Applebys. G.B. confirmed

  9.10

  M.T. leaves Applebys. G.B. confirmed

  Goes to spy-hole.

  A.C. reaches Staff House. Several witnesses

  9.20

  M.T. sees Miss Craythorne drive past. Craythorne supports this

  9.35

  G.B. leaves Applebys and enters park. M.T. confirmed

  9.40

  B. Heyward leaves for locking-up round. Mrs Heyward and Mrs Hinks confirmed

  9.50

  Sister F. and Mrs Fleming found by B.H. who locks up Studio. All three confirmed

  9.53

  Locking-up of School Wing continues. Sister F. and Mrs F. confirmed

  10.12

  M.T. returns to Staff House. Mrs Milman confirmed

  10.15

  B.H. returns home from locking up. Mrs Heyward confirmed

  The minutes slipped past. He scrutinised and tried to assess the significance of it all, item by item. It was like looking through a telescope, he thought, at the soundless but significant activities of a distant group of people combining in an evolving pattern of which he had not yet detected the underlying motif… Jock Eccles pedalling slowly down the road … elderly ladies getting decorously into a car and waving goodbye … a small figure in a navy-blue coat hurrying up the deserted drive, desperately intent … a Jaguar scorching down the London road … a young man in a green shirt striding over Clintridge and exchanging a brief greeting with the rustic Aggett, homeward bound from the Plough… Then, quite suddenly, Pollard experienced a kind of mental electric shock… Good Lord! To think he hadn’t picked on that unsupported statement before, when such a lot hung on it. Seizing his pen he began a series of scribbled calculations.

  The sound of a car drawing up outside distracted him. A couple of minutes later Toye came in, impassive of countenance as ever, but Pollard who knew him well detected a latent excitement.

  ‘You’ve been the hell of a time,’ he said. ‘Anything in the bag?’

  Toye came and sat down facing him.

  ‘To my mind, sir,’ he replied, ‘this visit of Mr Torrance’s stinks.’

  Pollard put down his pen and listened.

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing you can base a case on,’ he said thoughtfully, when Toye had finished, ‘but it could be damned useful supporting evidence. You had luck, of course, with that woman being such a fool, but you’ve done a rattling good job. Now, if only they’ve unearthed something about Torrance at the Yard… We’ll run up presently, but first of all, I want you to take a look at this. It’s wide open at one point.’

  A few minutes later Toye put his finger on the blank in the third column opposite 8.29 p.m., and looked up interrogatively.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. We’ve been a couple of clots. This timing rests on Torrance’s statement only. Ann Cartmell said quite definitely that she didn’t notice the exact time when they came down, and I can quite believe it. She was still in a seventh heaven from the petting party, unless I’m very much mistaken. She only said “it must have been about half-past eight.” Torrance, on the other hand, was quite specific.’ Pollard referred to his notes. ‘He said it was just on half-past eight, and that his watch was reliable. You couldn’t get anything definite from Mrs Kitson, so it’s quite on the cards that there’s a margin of several minutes here. It might make all the difference. Suppose they came down at eight-twenty-five, and Torrance still didn’t arrive in the Secretary’s office until eight-thirty-six. That would give him nine minutes from the time he got back to fetch his Artifex.’

  ‘What about the other end?’ asked Toye.

  ‘I don’t think eight-thirty-eight is far out. Ann Cartmell didn’t hesitate at all over saying that it was just on twenty to nine when he drove off, and she seems to have had her eye on the time because of finishing the clearing-up in the studio before nine, when Bert Hayward should have started his locking-up. And this seems to fit in with what the two girls and Mrs Kitson thought the time was, and Jock Eccles too.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible that someone might have seen both of them coming down, or Torrance on his own? The kitchen squad when they were dispersing, for instance. Shall I nose round a bit?’

  Pollard considered.

  ‘On the whole,’ he said, ‘I think we’ll hold our hand down here until we’ve been up to the Yard. Some information on Torrance may have come in which alters the whole situation. If he did commit murder, he’s one of the coolest and slickest customers I’ve struck as yet, and the last thing we want to do is to put the wind up him. We’re still in a hopelessly weak position, even if we can demonstrate that he could have done the job in the time.’

  ‘On the question of motive, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Still, the immediate job is concerned with practical possibilities. Great Scott, look at the time! Let’s go and get a belated snack and start for Town. We’ll call in at the Linbridge station just on chance.’

  The report session with Chief Superintendent Crowe later that day began inauspiciously. He indicated a scatter of evening papers with a jerk of his head.

  ‘They’re in full cry,’ he remarked. ‘How many of your suspects have you cleared out of the way? Sit down.’

  Pollard sat down.

  ‘George Baynes, Madge Thornton, and Bert Heyward, sir,’ he replied. ‘Also Ann Cartmell acting independently of Torrance.’

  ‘A pretty comprehensive clean sweep. Let’s hear your grounds for making it.’ Crowe leant back in his chair, his bright, birdlike stare trained on his subordinate, prepared to miss nothing. As Sister Felicity emerged in the curse of the narrative he gave a shout of laughter.

  ‘My God, you had some luck there, Pollard. First time I’ve heard of a case with a holy nun parked on the scene of the crime like a sitting hen.’

  Pollard grinned.

  ‘I’m dashed grateful to her,’ he said. ‘In the long term, that is. In the short, she’s cut out all the likely suspects and left a situation in which it seems to be either Torrance on a ridiculously tight schedule and with no motive, or a roving maniac. Has anything come in on Torrance, sir?’

  ‘Don’t jump the gun. Go on with your report in an orderly manner.’

  Pollard went on. He set out his case for Beatrice Baynes having gone over to the studio soon after seven-thirty, with the object of sitting in on the Cartmell-Torrance appointment, and passed over a copy of the time-table. Crowe put up a hand for silence, and studied it for a full two minutes.

  ‘Go on now,’ he said.

  ‘As you see, sir, the case against Clive Torrance rests on the short period round eight-thirty. At first sight it looks like being a sheer physical impossibility that he could have committed the murder in the time, but we only have his unsupported statement that they came down at eight-twenty-nine approximately. Miss Cartmell said she hadn’t noticed the exact time. It seems to me that it could quite well have been earlier — say, four or five minutes earlier.’

  ‘Have you tried to get corroboration of this statement? Surely there must have been people about?’

  ‘Yes, I expect there probably were, sir, but I don’t think it’s at all likely that they’d have been time-conscious within just a minute or two, which is what we’re after. It was a sort of holiday occasion, and all the official fixtures were over. They’d just have been wandering about nattering, without anything very definite in mind.’

  ‘Fair enough. Why haven’t you had a trial run o
ver the ground, though, to get some idea of the time the job would have taken?’

  Pollard explained his reasons for not having drawn attention to Clive Torrance. ‘And I thought the enquiry might have brought in something relevant,’ he said in conclusion.

  ‘Unfortunately nothing much has turned up about any of ’em,’ replied Crowe, pulling some type-written sheets towards him.

  Clive Torrance, born in 1917, came from a comfortable middle-class London home, his father having been an architect. He had been educated at one of the smaller public schools, going on to the Slade and afterward studying art in Paris. At first he had exhibited with some success and achieved a reputation as a teacher, gravitating later to work in connection with national schemes for art education in which he had become a well-known figure. After his father’s death he had bought a share in the syndicate which owned the Domani Gallery, of which he was now managing director. The Gallery appeared to be doing well, and there was no suggestion that its activities were other than impeccable.

  From enquiries in the mews where he garaged his Jaguar, it transpired that he kept somewhat erratic hours, and was known to transport a lady passenger apt to leave such things as odd gloves, lipsticks, and wafts of classy perfume behind her. The woman who cleaned his rooms reported fairly frequent overnight absences, allegedly on business, but the general opinion was that he was a decent sort, open-handed and always with a pleasant word for you. The attitude of his own circle was less favourable, at any rate as far as its male element was concerned. While his work was generally respected, he was thought to be a conceited bounder in some quarters, and one who did himself damned well. This latter achievement was put down to his flair for picking up pictures and backing promising young artists, and to his brilliance as a bridge player. He did not appear to drink or bet heavily, or ever to have suffered from mental illness. As far as could be discovered, no connection had ever existed between the Torrance and Baynes families, or between Clive and Beatrice as individuals.

  ‘So there you are,’ commented Crowe. ‘Nothing to suggest a motive there, on the face of it. He seems a bit warmer than you’d expect in his position, but look what pictures fetch these days.’

  ‘All the same, sir,’ said Pollard, with the pleasing sensation of being about to produce a trump card. ‘Toye thinks that visit to the Scorhills at Stanaford Magna stinks. I sent him along this morning, to see if he could pick up anything.’

  Crowe paid the tribute of a single blink.

  ‘Why does it? Toye’s a damn sound chap. Not quite enough drive, but no flies on him.’

  ‘Several things struck him as odd, sir. It was Mrs Scorhill he interviewed — Mr Scorhill was up here at his office. Toye says she’s as dumb as they come. Not literally: she drivelled for the best part of an hour, but too silly to try to put anything across you. He particularly noticed that there were no books in the living-room, and no decent pictures. Unless Mr Scorhill’s a very different type, it seems peculiar that a man like Torrance with his circle of friends should cultivate people like that unless he had some ulterior motive. Toye says the place simply reeks of money and looks like a luxury hotel. Whatever sort of chap Torrance is, he’s intelligent and cultured, and his surroundings show it.’

  ‘Then,’ Pollard went on, ‘he seems to have invited himself down there. According to Mrs Scorhill they met quite by chance at some cocktail party last autumn up here, and got talking about Upshire. Torrance remarked that he thought it an attractive part of the world, and they seem to have frozen on to him and urged him to come down and stay with them. Mrs Scorhill said rather naively that they never expected to hear any more of him, and were delighted to get a letter a few weeks ago proposing himself for last weekend. He suggested coming down latish on Saturday evening and staying over until Monday morning. In the end he didn’t show up until after a quarter past nine. Mrs Scorhill wasn’t more exact than that.’

  Crowe grunted, indicating keen interest.

  ‘Toye timed himself carefully on the run from Meldon. He took twenty-six minutes on the outward journey, and twenty-eight coming back. There’s evidence that Torrance is a fast driver, and there wouldn’t have been much commercial traffic about on a Saturday night. But if Torrance left Meldon at just on twenty to nine and didn’t get to Scorhill’s place till after quarter-past, he was at least thirty-five minutes on the road.’

  ‘If he had committed the murder, are you suggesting that he stopped to get rid of the weapon?’

  ‘Yes. We haven’t been able to find it anywhere. And if, as you say, Torrance was the murderer, surely he’d have wanted a few minutes to pull himself together as soon as he was clear of the School? Both Ann Cartmell and the secretary mentioned how he had gone tearing off. According to Mrs Scorhill, he arrived looking utterly exhausted, but bucked up after a few drinks and became the life and soul of the party.’

  There was a fairly lengthy pause.

  ‘If it was rigged, it’s certainly suggestive,’ said Crowe thoughtfully. ‘It ties up with what we’ve been able to pick up about the Scorhills.’ He pushed another type-written report towards Pollard. It stated briefly that Mr Scorhill was a self-made man and a very prosperous director of several companies producing a variety of consumer goods, and that nothing was known to the police against either him or his wife. They had a circle of friends with similar business interests, and appeared to have no connection with the world of artists and other intelligentsia.

  ‘We’ve nothing on the Cartmell girl either.’ Crowe produced a third report. ‘Normal middle-class home and school, and art career. Flopped in her first job because she couldn’t manage East End teenage toughs. No evidence that she’s living with Torrance. I see you completely exclude collusion between her and Torrance.’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. As you said, one simply can’t see Torrance committing murder in front of a witness.’

  Crowe, who appreciated being hoist with his own petard by a subordinate, gave Pollard a mock salute.

  ‘What about Ann Cartmell, sir? Are we to let her go? Did you see that paragraph in this morning’s Daily Blare? I wonder if Torrance put them up to it.’

  ‘If he did, he’s bloody keen for her to go, isn’t he? To answer your question, I think it depends on whether it was possible for Torrance to have done the job in the time. You’d better go down first thing tomorrow and set about some sort of reconstruction. Establish to your complete satisfaction what is the minimum time he could have taken, and whether that time was available or not. If it was, I think there’s a case for packing her off on a plane on Monday. We’ll have to put it up to the A.C., of course. You’ve done quite well so far, and I think you were quite right not to show much interest in Torrance’s movements up to now, but as things have turned out it’s the only line you’ve got to follow up at the moment. What’s biting you?’

  ‘This business of motives, sir. If there was no previous link of any sort between him and Beatrice Baynes, and he isn’t bonkers, what reason could he have had for killing her more or less on sight?’

  ‘That’s up to you to work out, my boy,’ replied Crowe, stretching to indicate that the interview was coming to an end, ‘always providing that the job was a practical possibility. If it wasn’t, you’ll have to make a fresh start on the whole business. I’ll expect you back here latish tomorrow.’

  Jane Pollard possessed the rare art of being unobtrusively self-effacing when her husband’s cases were approaching crisis level. She neither indulged in bright chatter, aimed at distracting him, nor took refuge in obviously tactful silence. She provided appetising food and occupied herself wholeheartedly in some unfidgety ploy. Tom Pollard watched her absently from the depths of an armchair as she plied a tapestry needle.

  ‘How on earth can you get a rather tight-lipped woman whose whole life has come unstuck, and who’s got a chip on the shoulder to be cooperative?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Which one is this?’

  ‘The School secretary. A Mrs Kitson.’ He repeated the tragic
history given to him by Helen Renshaw.

  ‘How utterly ghastly,’ said Jane with feeling. ‘I don’t wonder she’s tight-lipped. She must have tremendous guts to have taken on a demanding job like that. What do you want her to be cooperative about?’

  ‘The length of time Ann Cartmell was in the office doing up those pictures. A sort of acted reconstruction is the only way of getting at it, I think, and I just can’t see her doing it.’

  Jane put down her tapestry and considered.

  ‘She probably finds some compensation in priding herself on coping with the toughness of life. I’d stress the rotten side of having to hunt people down, even if they are criminals, and imply that you take her for the kind of person who’ll be prepared to lend a hand.’

  ‘Clever girl, aren’t you?’

  ‘Students’ technique for the handling of difficult,’ she said. ‘Have you recovered sufficiently to tell me if Ann Cartmell’s being allowed to go? I’m consumed with curiosity.’

  He told her of Crowe’s decision.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I still feel that girl’s up to the neck in this business, even though she obviously isn’t a murderess, and I can’t believe she’s Clive Torrance’s mistress. You’ve no further information on that score, I suppose?’

  ‘No, none. Miss Renshaw absolutely scorns the idea too. The only thing I’ve discovered is that he gave her an oil colour-box as a kind of reward for getting this scholarship.’

  ‘Quite an expensive present,’ remarked Jane. ‘Was it a good one?’

  ‘I expect so. It was sent from Brocatti & Simpson’s. Not exactly an emotive present, though.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘There's nothing emotive about being given the tools of your trade as a present.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he promised her.

  ‘Good. Only two months to my birthday.’

  Silence descended once more. Tom Pollard lay back and smoked, eyes half-closed. Presently Jane folded up her tapestry.