Cyanide With Compliments

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘At Roccombe. Brede House, it was called.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not the lovely little seventeenth-century timber-framed house, with the external staircase turret? It’s recently been listed… I expect you think I’m heartless to mind so much about the house.’

  ‘I don’t. I’m interested in old houses myself. But may we hark back to the fire you told me about? I’d just like to check up on the owner’s name with Inspector Dart. If it turns out that he’s investigating your Mrs Bayley’s fire, obviously he’d be glad of a word with you. Could you face it? It would only take a few minutes, and then we can get down to our own business.’

  ‘You’re impossibly persuasive, Mr Pollard. If it wasn’t a serious matter the situation would be comic, you know.’

  ‘I’ll go and see if he wants to come along,’ Pollard said, getting to his feet. He paused at the door with a grin. ‘He’s now Chief-Inspector, by the way. Promotion often mellows.’

  Left alone, Olivia realized that the unexpected diversion had taken any remaining tension out of her interview with Pollard. It would be extraordinary if two of the cruise passengers had been involved in disasters in the neighbourhood. There seemed very little that she could tell Inspector Dart if Brede House had been Mrs Bayley’s, all the same.

  Apparently it had. She could hear returning footsteps and conversation, and found herself greeting a self-conscious Dart with tactful congratulations on his Chief-Inspectorship.

  After a lengthy preamble he asked her if she could confirm that Mr and Mrs Bayley had been on the cruise throughout.

  ‘You’ll understand that under the circumstances this is the sort of question we have to ask,’ he said. ‘We’ll be getting on to the Company, of course, but since you’re here, Mrs Strode, and they were at your table, it’s a chance of first-hand information.’

  Olivia was able to assure him categorically that the Bayleys had been with the cruise party during the whole period up to the ship’s return to Venice.

  ‘Looking back on it, I’m sure they didn’t miss a single meal or shore excursion,’ she said.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ Dart remarked with satisfaction. ‘Now, I understand you were with Mr and Mrs Bayley when the radiogram from their solicitor about the fire reached them?’

  ‘Yes, I was. We were at dinner, on the day when we were berthed at Piraeus, in Greece.’

  As she spoke, she noticed that Pollard, hitherto a discreetly amused spectator, registered distinct interest.

  ‘Perhaps you’d describe the incident in your own words, Mrs Strode?’

  Olivia shut her eyes for a moment, opened them again, and proceeded to give a succinct account of the radiogram’s arrival and the Bayleys’ reactions.

  Dart made some notes, read them over and frowned.

  ‘Would you say the news was a shock to Mr and Mrs Bayley?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing as strong as that. After all it wasn’t their home. They were a bit startled, but mostly annoyed, I think, at the prospect of bother with the insurance people, and perhaps having to cut short their stay in Venice, and fly straight home.’

  ‘And did they? Fly straight home?’

  ‘Someone else at our table said they had. Apparently they rang their solicitor when we got to Venice, and he advised them to come back at once. I suppose it was known about the body by then. I didn’t see them go off. We had a final day in Venice, and I went ashore early and didn’t get back until dinner time.’

  In reply to further questions from Dart, Olivia described the Bayleys to the best of her ability. No, she didn’t know what Mr Bayley’s job was, but his wife had referred to the factory on one occasion, so he was probably in industry.

  Inspector Dart gathered his papers together, and brought the interview to a close, thanking her warmly for her help.

  ‘All is now forgiven,’ Pollard remarked as the door closed. ‘Some elevenses, I think, don’t you? Canteen coffee, or would you feel safer with tea?’

  As they waited for a tray of tea to be brought, he talked easily, making enquiries after mutual acquaintances in Affacombe. When it arrived he asked her if she would pour out. ‘You don’t smoke, do you? Will it worry you if I do?’

  ‘Not a scrap,’ she replied, handing him his cup.

  ‘This question is getting monotonous,’ he said, ‘but it’s essential to keep on asking it. What sort of a person was Audrey Vickers? You’re a writer and a broadcaster. I want you to put her over as convincingly as you can.’

  Olivia slowly drank some tea. Into her mind came a vivid picture of Audrey Vickers, restless-eyed and talking volubly.

  ‘You’ve — you’ve seen her, I expect?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve seen the body, yes. It helps one to reconstruct, you know. I once had a case which started off with a bare skeleton, and felt very stuck.’

  ‘She was a woman completely out of touch with reality as far as her relationships with other people went. More than anyone I’ve ever met. She gave me the impression of having run away from it for so long that she’d lost the power of recognizing it. She’d built up a kind of fantasy world in this connection, and the strain of trying to maintain it made her absolutely self-absorbed and perpetually on the defensive. Neurotic, too, as a sort of side-effect.’

  Pollard, listening intently, gave a nod of comprehension.

  ‘She was quite a forceful person by temperament,’ Olivia went on thoughtfully, ‘so she expressed her defensiveness aggressively, if I can put it like that. Pushing herself forward all the time, and being insanely possessive of her niece, who is her only near relative, I believe. And, of course, a result of this was her hostility to Mr Lang. You can understand what an unpopular member of the cruise she was, particularly because of her treatment of the young people. She’d never let them off the lead for a moment if she could help it. You’d hear other passengers saying how they’d managed to avoid her — I did myself, on occasions. But I admit I felt bad about it sometimes. She was obviously an acutely unhappy woman. Is this the sort of thing you want, by the way?’

  ‘Exactly what I want,’ Pollard assured her. ‘But you didn’t always avoid her, did you? Mrs Lang told me how you tried to come to the rescue when her aunt felt ill on the Acropolis.’

  ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t moved by concern for Mrs Vickers. I was furious at her insisting on the Langs taking her back to the ship before they’d even had time to look around.’

  ‘Didn’t you think Mrs Vickers really was ill?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. My reaction was that the stuffy heat and pretty steep climb up from the coach park had made her a bit breathless, and that she was putting on an act. You see, she had been perfectly all right a few minutes earlier. The three of them were right on my heels as we came up, and she was talking in her usual vociferous way. Incidentally, the ship’s doctor couldn’t find anything wrong with her when he saw her.’

  ‘Did she usually enjoy the visits to the sites?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘Not really for their own sake, I think. I feel I’m being completely feline, but it seemed to me she used them as opportunities for getting into conversation with people, and generally pushing herself.’

  ‘Then isn’t it odd that she shammed illness and contracted out on the Acropolis? It must have been the most popular site of the whole trip.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Olivia agreed. ‘It hadn’t struck me in that light.’

  ‘You say they were just behind you. Did this illness, genuine or otherwise, come on very suddenly?’

  ‘I don’t know that I can answer that question. You see, my one aim was not to get involved with them: I’d pretended not to notice they were behind me. The way out on to the top was blocked by a party of noisy Americans. There was an American cruise ship in, too, and the crowds were really rather trying. I pushed past, and slipped away to the right. Then, at last, I was able to register the Parthenon… I suppose it was a minute or two before I surfaced again, and started off to look at the Erectheum, over on the left. It w
as just at that moment that I heard Mrs Vickers demanding to be taken back to the ship at once, and saw her sitting down with her hand to her heart, looking a bit flushed.’

  Pollard considered, trying to visualize the scene. ‘Could she have had a breeze with the Americans?’

  Olivia screwed up her eyes and thought hard. ‘I don’t think so. I dimly remember hearing their conversation going on and on while I was looking at the Parthenon.’

  ‘I suppose you don’t remember what they were talking about?’

  ‘I do, as it happens. If I hadn’t been feeling exasperated by the noise and masses of people, I should have been amused. There were three women who hadn’t met for some time — college contemporaries, I gathered. They had all married in the meantime, and were showing off their husbands to each other with cries of excitement. It was all rather disjointed, but I do remember one saying that she’d urged hers to take American citizenship.’

  As Pollard made no comment Olivia looked up, to find him deep in thought, an inscrutable expression on his face. She waited patiently. His next question mystified her. ‘You say that an American cruise ship was in at the same time as yours. Can you remember her name?’

  Feeling that this was really rather unreasonable, she shook her head. ‘I don’t think I ever took it in.’

  ‘What time did the Langs return to the Penelope that night?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘I can’t tell you that, either. They weren’t at dinner, at any rate.’

  ‘So you didn’t see them again on that day?’

  ‘No.’ This was the literal truth, but she had hesitated fractionally, and knew that Pollard was aware of it.

  ‘According to Mrs Lang, the row which led to the final breach between her and her aunt took place after she and her husband got back. Did you know this at the time, Mrs Strode?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did, actually,’ she replied, avoiding his eye. ‘About half-past eleven I was strolling round the deck by myself and accidentally overheard a conversation between the Langs. They didn’t know I was just out of sight. The gist of it was that Mrs Vickers had said things to Mr Lang that his wife felt she couldn’t forgive, and she had decided to have nothing more to do with her aunt. Mr Lang was trying to lower the temperature.’

  ‘I’m very glad you’ve told me about this,’ Pollard said. ‘It’s valuable confirmation of what seemed an unconvincing story. Was anything said about the possibility of Mrs Vickers altering her will?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Lang said Mrs Vickers could leave her money to a cats’ home if she liked. Then there was something about money from a grandfather having to come to her.’

  ‘Did Mrs Lang utter any threats towards Mrs Vickers?’ Pollard shot the question abruptly.

  Olivia raised her head and looked at him straight in the face. ‘No. She definitely did not utter threats. She remarked that she wished Mrs Vickers really had a weak heart instead of pretending she had, and that the sooner she died, the better. But this was shooting her mouth, as my son would put it. There was nothing well, purposeful, in the way she said it.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘You’ve been most patient with me, Mrs Strode,’ Pollard told her. ‘One more question and then I really am through. Did you notice any special contact between Mrs Vickers and anybody else on the Penelope?’

  ‘None. As I told you, people’s reaction was to avoid her as far as they possibly could.’

  A decision taken by Pollard in the watches of the night had sent Toye on ahead to Fulminster, to check the Langs’ statements about their movements on returning from the cruise. He travelled by train, and on arrival went to the police station. A previous case of Pollard’s had involved contacts with Fulminster, and Toye was welcomed with interest, and offers of any assistance he wanted. He learnt that neither of the Langs was known to the police, and that their address suggested that they were living in part of one of the older houses on the former outskirts of the city, now largely converted into flats. Toye gratefully accepted an offer to run him up to the place and was set down in a quiet road about a mile from the city centre. It was flanked by tall houses of red brick with semi-basements and regrettable excrescences such as cupolas. There were small gardens in front, most of which now appeared to be used as car ports. Toye noted that Number Eleven, the address given by the Langs, was in reasonably good shape. There were three bells outside the front door, each surmounted by a card in a slot. After inspecting these, Toye came to the conclusion that the semi-basement and second floor had been let to H. Meadfoot and K. Lang respectively, and rang the middle bell under A. C. Porter.

  The door was opened by a grey-haired man wearing a boiler-suit splashed with paint. He looked enquiringly at Toye. ‘If it’s my wife you want, she’s out shopping,’ he said.

  Toye once again presented his credentials. ‘Mr Porter, sir?’ he enquired politely. ‘The owner of the house? I’d be glad of a word with you.’

  Surprise on Mr Porter’s face was followed by comprehension. ‘Come in, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Sorry we’re in a bit of a mess. I’m doing a spot of house decorating. Mind coming into the kitchen? It’s about the Langs, I expect? Shocking business.’

  They sat down at a table in the window, and Toye explained that he was making a purely routine check in connection with the death of Mrs Audrey Vickers of Redbay, aunt of Mrs Lang.

  ‘I understand that your tenants got back from their holiday last Tuesday?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s quite correct,’ replied Mr Porter. ‘They turned up about half-past eight. My wife had got something keeping hot in the oven for their supper. Not part of the bond, of course, but they’re a nice young couple, and we like to do them a kindness in and out.’

  ‘Were they at home all the next day, sir?’

  ‘Let me see. That would be Wednesday. Mrs Lang went off to the college after breakfast as usual. At least, that’s where I imagine she went. They’d said something about having run it rather fine for the beginning of her term. I saw Lang coming in with a shopping basket before lunch. He’s around most of the time. Writes, you know. He hasn’t made much of a success of it so far, but a publisher’s just taken a novel he’s written. They were both in later in the evening, and seemed to be tramping round overhead half the night. We’re early bedders, and I suppose we noticed them more after three weeks’ peace. They’re quiet enough, but of course the house wasn’t built to be turned into flats. We wanted to go on living in it when I retired, though, so letting off part of it was the obvious solution.’

  Asked about Thursday, Mr Porter remembered that both the Langs had been out all day. He clearly recalled Mr Lang going off for an interview with his prospective publisher in London.

  ‘He’s a sober sort of chap as a rule, but he seemed quite excited. I wished him luck, and he said he’d got another typescript in his case which he was going to get them to have a look at.’

  Friday had apparently been a perfectly normal day, with Mr Lang’s typewriter going full blast. Then, on Saturday, the police had come with the news about Mrs Vickers. Mrs Porter had been quite upset.

  Having got all the information he wanted, Toye gratified Mr Porter’s curiosity with a few unimportant details about the murder. Then, thanking him for his help, he managed to extract himself.

  Just as he was leaving a thought struck him. ‘Have Mr and Mrs Lang a telephone?’ he asked.

  ‘No. We agreed when they came that they could use ours in any emergency, but except for when they were both ill last winter, it’s never arisen as far as I know.’

  Toye thanked Mr Porter once again, and departed in the direction of the gate.

  It was already after twelve, and he decided to leave the Technical College until after lunch. He walked back to the centre of Fulminster, prospected carefully, and was soon enjoying a most satisfactory meal of grilled lamb chops, preceded by tomato soup, and followed by apple pie and custard. He calculated that with the inquest at Redbay not starting until half past two, Pollard could
hardly drive up to collect him before half past four. There would be plenty of time to check up on Mrs Lang at the Tech, write up his notes, and take a look round.

  He arrived at the Technical College shortly before two. The entrance hall reminded him of a London railway terminus in the rush hour. For a few fascinated minutes he watched the concentration of bizarre hair-styles, beards and other hirsute adornments, maxis, minis, midis, and male attire which baffled classification. No one took the slightest notice of him, although he narrowly escaped being knocked down on several occasions. Then electric bells rang stridently, and the crowd thinned out as if by magic. He advanced on a counter labelled ‘Enquiries’, and asked to speak to someone in authority.

  There was a flutter among the young women on duty, and a more senior figure emerged from an inner room.

  Once again Toye went through the routine of establishing his identity, and explained that he merely wanted confirmation of Mrs Lang’s presence in the College during the latter part of the previous week. After a good deal of internal telephoning he was informed that Dr Leadbitter, Head of the Department of Chemistry, would see him when he had finished lecturing. He was escorted by way of a lift and endless corridors to the science block, and asked to wait in Dr Leadbitter’s room. He contemplated its incredible untidiness with interest, wondering how anyone who lived in the midst of such chaos could cope with the intricate accuracies of advanced scientific techniques. At last the door opened, and a small fair man came in.

  Dr Leadbitter was dry and sparing of speech. He listened without comment to Toye’s request for information, and stated that Mrs Lang had carried out her normal duties on the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday of the previous week.

  ‘That is to say, she was present in this building from approximately eight forty-five am to one pm and two pm to five pm. I do not know where she lunched. To save time, I will add that she has access to cyanide. So have I, and the other members of my staff. It does not follow that any of us are murderers. I do not think I can usefully tell you anything else, Sergeant.’