Death of an Old Girl

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘This is exactly the sort of thing I want, Mrs Kitson. You made the next move?’

  To Pollard’s surprise Joyce Kitson looked embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this,’ she said without looking at him, ‘but I just sat for a moment or two. I couldn’t remember where I’d put the wretched form. I just panicked.’

  ‘In case it was mislaid?’

  ‘Yes. I know it’s idiotic, but I often do if there’s a hitch.’

  ‘Why? You surely can’t be afraid of losing your job?’

  ‘Yes, I am. It’s not just a job. I’ve managed to get a sort of foothold here — the rest of my life has just gone to bits. However, this is quite beside the point. I remembered quite quickly that I’d put the form in a drawer — this one. I opened the drawer and found it almost at once under one or two other papers, and gave it to her, and said it would save trouble — Mr Torrance taking the paintings, I mean.’

  ‘What did Miss Cartmell do with it?’

  ‘She looked round rather wildly for somewhere to write, so I cleared a few things off this end of the desk to make a space for her. She’d forgotten to bring anything to write with, and asked me to lend her something, so I produced a biro. She had a piece of paper in her hand, and started copying the names and ages of the girls whose paintings were being sent in onto the entrance form.’

  ‘Try to visualise her doing it, if you can. Did she take long?’

  ‘She made a mistake — put a name in the wrong column, I think — and exclaimed about it. I said it wouldn’t matter if she crossed it out neatly. Then she steadied down and did the job quite quickly, and asked me for a clip to fasten the form to the top sheet of cardboard: she’d got the paintings sandwiched between two bits. I gave her one out of this bowl of oddments I keep handy. Then she began to do up the parcel with the brown paper and string she’d brought along — very badly.’

  ‘Badly? I should have expected her to be good with her hands.’

  ‘Yes, you’d think anyone who draws so well would be, but she’s ham-fisted over every day practical jobs. I watched her making a hash of it and then offered her a roll of that gummed brown paper strip, and held the parcel steady for her. It was still a botched-up affair, but would hold together, I think.’

  ‘And at this point Mr Torrance came in?’

  She paused again.

  ‘No, not quite. She said something about writing on the outside, and I saw her print “Entries from Meldon School, Upshire,” in block capitals, and just as she was finishing, Mr Torrance appeared at the door — which she’d left half-open, incidentally.’

  ‘All this has been extraordinarily clear and helpful,’ Pollard said. ‘Now this is a distasteful job, but I want to act it all out, standing in for Miss Cartmell myself. As we go along, tell me if I take too long or not long enough over anything. I’m going to time us with this stop-watch… Could you fix me up with something like the form and the parcel?’

  Things were going better than he had expected, he thought, as Joyce Kitson assembled brown paper, cardboard and string… He found her an intelligent cooperator, cutting short the time required for filling in the entry from, but halting him during the pause while she tracked it down and while the recalcitrant parcel was done up.

  ‘Mr Torrance now arrives in the doorway,’ he said finally, cutting out the stop-watch. To his surprise six and a half minutes had elapsed since he had burst into the room in the role of Ann Cartmell.

  Thanking Joyce Kitson, he asked her rather apologetically to go through the sequence of events once again, as a check. The result differed by only a couple of seconds. When he told her that Ann Cartmell had been in the office for approximately six and a half minutes, she looked astonished and confused.

  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be misleading… Sometimes when you’re very tired, time doesn’t seem — well, to run on in the usual way, if that’s clear.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Pollard. ‘One’s power of assessing it gets out of gear, doesn’t it? Anyway, we’ve now got all this satisfactorily cleared up, thanks to your help. Tell me, did Mr Torrance come into the office?’

  She shut her eyes once more, and frowned slightly in concentration.

  ‘Not really. He stood in the doorway there and said “good evening,” and that he was in a great hurry. He obviously didn’t want to dally at all. Ann Cartmell grabbed the parcel and went towards him. Then he gave me a brief acknowledgment-of-existence bow — sorry, but I can’t stand the man — and they disappeared in the direction of the front door.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’ asked Pollard, turning towards the door and trying to visualise the scene.

  ‘He had a big glossy under his arm. It looked like one of the art periodicals. Oh, yes, and he was carrying his briefcase.’

  ‘His briefcase?’ Pollard struggled to cut any inflexion of surprise out of his voice.

  ‘Yes, I remember it from before, when he came down to lecture.’

  ‘Perhaps he brought it down to put the paintings in?’

  ‘Oh, it wouldn’t have been nearly big enough for that. I expect he had papers and things in it. Anyway, I think men like carrying round a briefcase — it’s a sort of executive status symbol.’

  Pollard laughed.

  ‘I think you’ve got something there,’ he said.

  After chatting for a few minutes, he renewed his thanks for her help and left the office for the library…

  ‘You know how it is,’ Pollard said to Toye, as they faced each other across the table in the bay. ‘You blunderbuss about and land yourself in umpteen dead ends, and then quite suddenly stumble on what you know is significant, as you did at Stannaford Magna. This briefcase. Torrance isn’t an office executive who tags a briefcase round with him automatically. Even if he’s brought down work to do on Sunday, it’s astonishing that he lugged it up to the studio — unless he wanted it up there.’

  ‘To bring something in, or take it away?’

  ‘Yes…’ Pollard made a sudden convulsive movement, and brought his fist down on to the table with a crash. ‘God! What mugs we’ve been! That’s why he came! That’s why he’s raising such a hell of a stink about Ann Cartmell going to America! Why he wangled this scholarship for her… He’s using her to get something out … dope, or — Good Lord, can he be in the spy racket?’

  Toye whistled.

  ‘I’ll hand it to you, sir. Does she know, do you think?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s not like being a party to murder. Smuggling’s illegal, but very few people feel it’s really wrong. They think it’s a way of getting your own back on the Government for taxes, and so on… But I think she’s too naive for him to have risked letting her know about it, let alone the blackmail side of it… Remember, she was going to be met by pals of his. It would have been simple enough for them to get at her luggage.’

  ‘If she isn’t mixed up in it,’ said Toye, looking at the time-table, ‘Torrance must have put whatever it was into something he knew she was taking with her, mustn’t he?’

  ‘But when? That’s the devil of it! All right, I’m coming down to earth flat on my face, as one always does after a brainwave. But this is the goods. I’m positive it is.’

  ‘Must’ve been when he first arrived,’ said Toye, looking puzzled. ‘In a bare two minutes, though? Couldn’t have been when he went back for the book, though… time’s tight enough for the murder, let alone —’

  ‘Murder, violence and sudden death! She must have seen him doing it and let him know that she had.’

  Nineteen

  ‘Persistent hammering at the weak spots in the defence led to the break-through which brought the Cup back to Meldon.’

  Report on match played by the First Lacrosse Twelve

  It was only a matter of minutes before the single-mindedness of a man on the brink of a major undertaking took possession of Pollard. This new theory about the murder had got to be taken to pieces and examined from every conc
eivable point of view. It was still only a theory, but it suggested ramifications of the most far-reaching type, ramifications which would ultimately take the case to a higher level of authority altogether. He saw that his return to London was a matter of urgency, and set off with Toye for a hasty meal at Linbridge and a parting call at the police station. Rather to his relief both Superintendent Martin and Inspector Beakbane were out. No progress had been made in the search for strangers and other possible suspects, and making sure that any reports of these would be telephoned to them immediately at the Yard, the two C.I.D. men started for London.

  The run gave Pollard an opportunity for some hard thinking. The fact that he was unable as yet to prove his theory stuck out a mile, but he decided not to let this worry him for the moment. He wanted to think round the situation and absorb its implications.

  The reconstructions had established that it was a practical possibility for Clive Torrance to have committed the murder. That in itself was an important step forward. The suggestion — he didn’t dare call it an inspiration at this stage — that Beatrice Baynes had been killed in order to silence her, seemed to him to transfer the whole business from the realm of the fantastic to that of credibility… Of course, he ought to have realised long ago that the key to the case was this carefully engineered visit to Meldon. In one sense the murder he was investigating was simply an irrelevance, the chance result of a periodical being overlooked. And if the theory were sound it disposed of the small lingering doubt about whether, if Ann Cartmell hadn’t remembered, Clive Torrance would have done so himself, having spotted Beatrice Baynes and realised that he had to go back… Pollard came down finally on the side of the forgetfulness having been perfectly genuine, and the murder its fortuitous outcome.

  Toye was a good driver, taking every opportunity but no risks. Pollard looked at his watch, saw that they were making good time and relapsed into thought once more. It was extraordinary, he reflected, what an important part pure chance seemed to have played in the case, confusing the issue and leading to lamentable waste of time. Suppose Mrs Thornton had lived another week … that George Baynes had backed a winner on the afternoon of the murder, and, more especially, that Beatrice hadn’t turned up in the office at the precise moment when Torrance was telephoning to Ann Cartmell and Joyce Kitson had gone off to cope with some decrepit O.M. in the hall…

  Thrusting these speculations aside, he returned to the subject of the engineered weekend. It struck him that if Torrance had planned to use Ann Cartmell for some illicit purpose, the scheme looked like a long-established one. He wondered when the idea of her applying for the American scholarship had first been mooted. If he knew anything about such matters, applications would have had to be in early in the year, if not before Christmas. Had he had his eye on the girl from the time he got her the job at Meldon? If so, this would explain the surprising amount of attention he seemed to have given to the school’s art department… On the other hand, Helen Renshaw had found his vanity a convincing enough explanation of this. Then, how essential had the Scorhills been to the plan? Torrance’s meeting with them last autumn was surely the purest chance? But if they hadn’t materialised, a man in his position would have had little difficulty in wangling an offer of hospitality somewhere in that part of the world, even if not quite as handy for Meldon. Or he could have thought up some perfectly good reason for staying at an hotel… No, the Scorhills seemed to have been a bit of sheer good luck for him.

  There was something curiously impassive about Toye’s profile, Pollard thought, glancing round at his companion.

  ‘Had any great thoughts?’ he asked him.

  ‘I’ve been thinking that if you’re right about the smuggling idea, sir, Torrance must have had contacts, mustn’t he? And you’d think Special Branch would’ve got wind of it if he’s been moving in circles known to be in touch with the likely embassies.’

  ‘They’ve been known to miss things, haven’t they? Then there are all these cultural exchanges nowadays, providing jolly useful cover. If he’s done anything in that line it might be a pointer. There’s the American end to consider, too. I wonder about these Vanderplanks that Ann Cartmell was going to stay with in New York…’

  ‘Do you think it’s more likely to be drug-running?’ asked Toye.

  Pollard was silent for half a mile or more as Toye threaded his way skilfully through increasingly dense traffic.

  ‘On the whole, no,’ he said at last. ‘If Torrance is in the drug racket on a big scale, I think he’s more likely to be part of a highly efficient organisation. This long-term cultivation of Ann Cartmell just for one single trip would hardly be worth it. I agree that secret documents and so on are cloak and dagger stuff, but that sort of thing does go with a long, leisurely build-up. The top people in espionage don’t work in terms of quick results.’

  On arriving at the Yard Pollard asked for an immediate interview with Chief Superintendent Crowe, and within ten minutes was summoned to the latter’s room. Crowe looked at him interrogatively without speaking.

  ‘I’ve established that Torrance could have murdered Beatrice Baynes, sir,’ Pollard told him. ‘My theory — unsupported by evidence as yet — is that his motive was to silence her.’

  ‘Let’s have a detailed report, and your justification for this theory, then.’

  Pollard embarked on an account of the two reconstructions which he had carried out. When he had finished Crowe nodded briefly.

  ‘That appears to be quite sound,’ he said. ‘Now about this silencing idea of yours.’

  ‘I’d like to go back a bit, sir, if I may. All along I’ve had the feeling that the whole business somehow centres on this girl Ann Cartmell, although I’ve been convinced from the start that she wasn’t involved in the murder. When it began to look as though Torrance’s visit to the Scorhills had been contrived, it suggested that he wanted to be able to call in at Meldon last Saturday evening without making too much of a thing of it. Going down specially from London just to choose those paintings really would have stuck out, but dropping in on the way to stay with friends was another matter. He told me that he had rung up the school earlier in the day to find out if Ann Cartmell was still there. I think he knew very well that she was. He had arranged for friends of his to meet her and put her up when she arrived in New York, and must have discussed with her when she would be able to leave, and heard about this Old Girls’ affair which would keep her at Meldon until the Sunday morning.’

  ‘I’ll accept all that provisionally,’ said Crowe. ‘What are you suggesting was the big idea?’

  ‘Using her to get something across to America, almost certainly without her knowledge. I can’t imagine anyone planning an important coup taking Ann Cartmell into his confidence, and using her as an accomplice. I suggest that Torrance hid whatever it was in the painting gear he knew she was taking with her, and that it was to be removed by these friends of his when she got there. The trouble is that I can’t see how he had time to do it.’

  ‘Never mind about that for the moment,’ replied Crowe unexpectedly. ‘It’s the murder you’re supposed to be investigating. I take it you’re suggesting that Beatrice Baynes spotted him doing this conjuring trick, taxed him about it when he went back to fetch the magazine, and that he slugged her rather than risk it getting out?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly that.’

  ‘And what do you think this contraband was that he was trying to get across in this complicated way?’

  ‘I think it’s possible that he’s working for the Communists. Or, much less probably, that he runs drugs over when he can.’

  The gleam which came into Crowe’s eye did not escape Pollard, who felt a flicker of amusement. The Chief’s views on the Special Branch were well known to his subordinates. The chance of one of his own men being a beat ahead would have a strong appeal…

  ‘Have you got the name and address of these people the girl was going to stay with?’

  Pollard handed over a type-written slip. Crowe glanced
at it and pressed a bell-push on his desk. Pollard had the sensation which never failed to thrill him, of a vast, intricate machine going smoothly and inexorably into action.

  When an enquiry about the Vanderplanks had been composed for despatch to the F.B.I. in New York, Crowe hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the telephone receiver.

  ‘The A.C. suggested a conference this morning. He’s up-to-date with the case apart from this report you’ve just made. Before we go along is there anything more you want to discuss? Mind you, Pollard, I don’t say I accept this theory of yours, but there’s just the chance the whole business is going to break big, and steps may be needed which mean authorisation from the top.’

  Pollard was little given to day-dreaming, but on occasions he had pictured himself conducting an enquiry which not only hit the headlines but brought him into direct contact with top-level C.I.D. circles, and even with the Government. He shifted his position and took a firm grip on himself.

  ‘I’d like to stress Torrance’s obvious anxiety to get Ann Cartmell off to America,’ he said. ‘It might be worth finding out who put the Blare on to her being held up. Of course I realise I’ve no explanation so far about how Torrance knew for certain what gear she was taking with her, or how he could have planted it without her noticing at the time, or discovering whatever it was afterwards. He’d either have to have done the job while she was routing about for paper and string to do up the parcel, or in the bare two minutes before she arrived in the studio just after eight.’

  ‘There is an alternative, don’t forget.’ Crowe looked at him quizzically. ‘She may have led you up the garden path, and be in it up to the neck. Collusion over smuggling’s a very different proposition from collusion over murder. Easy for him to ask her to take along a nice box of expensive British cigarettes, and just keep quiet about it, for instance. Not too easy for her to refuse, either, come to think about it.’