Cyanide With Compliments

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  The little house and its garden of about a fifth of an acre formed a surprising rural enclave in the built-up centre of Roccombe. Access to it was from a narrow lane joining the town’s two main streets, which were roughly parallel to each other. Dart produced a large-scale plan, and pointed out the location of the supermarket whose owners had been anxious to acquire the site for the expansion of their present premises. From the point of view of destruction the fire had been an unqualified success. The roof had fallen in, and only blackened walls and gaping window spaces remained. The structure had been a timber frame of oak filled in with bricks. The latter were cracked and split, but the oak beams, hardened by the passage of time to a steel-like consistency, were still in position although badly charred.

  The report stated that the fire had been deliberately started in two places. Rags soaked in paraffin had been used as incendiary material, together with a quantity of newspapers and cardboard which were probably lying about in the partly dismantled house. Traces of wax where both the fires started indicated a timing device involving the burning down of candles.

  ‘Interesting,’ Pollard commented. ‘The fire is thought to have got going about twelve-thirty am, isn’t it? The chap could have rigged things up, and pushed off while there were still people about in the street. Much less noticeable than slinking around in the small hours, with the fire gaining ground rapidly.’

  ‘Quite,’ Colonel Brand agreed. ‘That struck us at once. Dart, you’d better explain the lines you’ve been working on.’

  ‘Roccombe’s a smallish market town,’ the latter said. ‘It’s got about twelve thousand people. But it’s quite a busy little place: centre for a big rural area, and it gets a lot of tourists in the summer. They use it as a base, and go touring round in their cars. It’s only a dozen miles from the coast. It’s not got what you’d call night-life, though, and people don’t keep late hours. All the same, there’d be a few around up to eleven, and a bit after, maybe. We’ve made house-to-house enquiries about parked cars the night of the fire, and questioned the conductor and some of the passengers on the last bus out, but nothing came of it. The railway’s not on: the station closes down at half-past eight. But one of my chaps had the bright idea of calling at the Railway Hotel. It doesn’t sound much with a name like that, but it’s a fair-sized comfortable place, bucked up by the tourist trade. We found that a chap booked in for the night of the fire, Thursday, 26 April. Gave his name and address as J. Brockenhurst, 17 Alma Road, Huddersfield. I needn’t tell you there’s no such place.’

  Pollard was suitably complimentary.

  ‘The chap came off the London train, as they call it,’ Dart went on. ‘It’s the connection with the London train here, getting to Roccombe at four-ten if it’s on time. It brings back kids who come in to school here, and shoppers, as well as anybody from a distance, so for about five to ten minutes the station’s quite busy. So nobody actually noticed the chap arrive, but he seems to have walked over to the hotel, and asked for a room for the night, mentioning that he’d come on the train. It’s a bit unusual for people not to come by car these days, so it stuck in the receptionist’s mind. She’s quite a bright kid, so we’ve had her over in case you’d like to question her. She’s here now.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve had all she knows,’ Pollard replied tactfully, ‘but it sometimes helps to hear it at first hand.’

  ‘It seems a damn silly way for the chap to behave at first sight,’ Colonel Brand remarked, ‘but when you think it over, it’s got points. People notice parked cars, and as you said just now, roaming about in the middle of the night’s damn chancy.’

  ‘I agree,’ Pollard said. ‘If you’ve got to take a whacking great risk, behaving in a perfectly open way’s often your best bet.’

  ‘Shall I take Superintendent Pollard along to see the girl, sir?’ Dart asked. ‘Three of us might be a bit much for her, don’t you think?’

  Maureen Webb, receptionist of the Railway Hotel, Roccombe, was a fresh-faced sensible young woman in her early twenties. In answer to Pollard’s question about her job, she explained that reception didn’t keep you all that busy except in the season, so she lent a hand with other things in the hotel. They hadn’t been expecting any arrivals that afternoon, so the gentleman had had to ring for service. He told her he’d come down on business on the train from London, and just wanted a room for the night. Not dinner, as he was meeting his business contact. They weren’t anything like full, so she had no difficulty in fixing him up.

  Asked by Pollard if she could describe the visitor, she was less sure of her ground. Quite a tall gentleman, she said, wrinkling her brow. Not young, exactly, round thirty-five, perhaps. Very polite and nice, but not the sort to start telling you all about himself or get fresh. He’d worn horn-rimmed spectacles, and had a briefcase and an overnight case with him. Pressed by Pollard for further details, she thought his hair had been an ordinary sort of brown, nothing to notice specially, and hadn’t taken in the colour of his eyes. He’d asked for afternoon tea, which was served to him in the residents’ lounge, and about six o’clock he’d stopped at the desk on his way out with his briefcase to ask what time the hotel closed for the night. They only had a night porter in the season, so she’d let him have a key on the usual deposit, in case his business kept him after half-past eleven when they locked up. He’d returned it the next morning when he paid his bill, and gone off to get the train back to London. She’d happened to notice him crossing the road and making for the station.

  Pollard asked her a few more questions, but it was plain that she had nothing more to tell him. He thanked her for her help, adding that she had made a valuable contribution to the enquiry into the fire at Roccombe.

  She reddened with pleasure.

  ‘A real wicked thing to do, setting fire to a place like that,’ she said indignantly, ‘and poor Barny Mole burnt to death, dead drunk or not. People back at Roccombe are scared stiff thinking we’ve got a fire-raiser around.’

  ‘I don’t think they need worry about that,’ Pollard reassured her. ‘We’re quite sure this is a case on its own.’

  When they had returned to Colonel Brand, Dart went on with his story. No one in the hotel had heard the so-called J. Brockenhurst come in that night, but he must have done, as the chambermaid found him asleep in bed when she took in early tea at eight o’clock the next morning. As Maureen Webb had said, he subsequently breakfasted, paid his bill and departed, presumably by the London train at nine twenty-five am.

  Pollard picked up the street plan of Roccombe. ‘Is there a garden wall shutting off the house from the lane?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, there is,’ Dart replied. ‘Another thing which helped the chap. The wall’s about six feet, and the old lady who lived there had spikes put on the top to stop kids climbing up. The gate’s solid wood, with a good lock. The local estate agent’s got one key, and no doubt the Bayleys have another. Once you were through the gate and the supermarket was closed, you could do what you liked without being spotted. Some curtains had been left up, too, so there wouldn’t have been any risk of the candle light showing.’

  ‘In fact, the only real risk was being seen going in,’ Pollard remarked.

  ‘If he went along after leaving the hotel,’ Colonel Brand said, ‘it wasn’t a bad moment to choose. Shops shut at half past five, and people soon clear off home, or drop into a pub on the way. Not many would be cutting through the lane at that hour. And if anybody saw a respectably dressed man with a briefcase unlocking the gate, he’d think it was something to do with the estate agent. A prospective buyer, perhaps. The house was up for sale. In any case no one has come forward about it.’

  After some further discussion Colonel Brand suggested that all useful ground had been covered, and the conference broke up. Pollard was to lunch with him, and after arranging to meet Toye at the railway station he went off with his host.

  It was a good lunch, and he found the Chief Constable pleasant company. Afterwards, when they parte
d, Pollard found that he had an hour to spare before the Fulminster train, and went for a stroll round the old part of the city. He was admiring some eighteenth-century houses in the cathedral close when a car drew up and parked within a few yards of him. The next moment Olivia Strode got out. They looked at each other in surprise, and she came towards him smiling with hand outstretched, a short comfortable figure in a light summer suit, bareheaded and carrying a shopping-basket. ‘How unexpected,’ she said, as they shook hands. ‘Unexpected and nice,’ Pollard replied. ‘You know, once or twice during the past few days I’ve wondered if you would be willing to give me a little more help. I suppose you can’t spare a few minutes here and now?’

  ‘Willingly. I’ve only come in for shopping. What about that seat over there?’

  From where they sat flowering trees were a mass of delicate colour against the grey stone of the cathedral.

  ‘They seem particularly good this year,’ Olivia said, in reply to a comment from Pollard. ‘Are you staying in Highcastle?’

  ‘I came down last night for a conference with your Chief Constable and Inspector Dart, and go on to Fulminster this afternoon.’

  She gave him a quick look. ‘Fulminster? Isn’t that where the Langs live?’

  ‘Yes, it is. In point of fact it’s to see them that I’m going there. At the risk of being indiscreet I’ll tell you that they’re completely cleared. The enquiry has shown that they couldn’t possibly have been involved in Mrs Vickers’ death.’

  Olivia’s face expressed her relief. ‘I’m profoundly thankful to hear that, Mr Pollard. I’ve thought about those two young people such a lot. I just couldn’t believe that they’d done such a terrible thing. I do hope life will be easier for them now. They both struck me as badly needing a little peace and quiet to grow up in.’

  ‘I think that sums it up very well,’ Pollard said.

  They sat without speaking for a few moments. A flock of pigeons rose into the air, circled round, and returned to the grass where an old lady was scattering largesse. For a moment Olivia was back in the Piazza San Marco.

  ‘Mrs Strode,’ Pollard said suddenly, breaking in on her thoughts, ‘as I said just now, I think you may be able to help me once again if you’re really willing to be bothered.’

  ‘Of course I’m willing,’ she replied, ‘especially after what you’ve just told me about the Langs. They may be in the clear from the point of view of the police, but people will still go on talking until the case is finally solved, won’t they?’

  ‘They will. Well, I’ve come down here in connection with the arson at Roccombe. You’ll understand that I can’t say any more, but I’m quite sure you’ll draw certain conclusions. You’re a writer, aren’t you? Would you be prepared to put down everything that you can remember about Mr and Mrs Bayley that strikes you as even faintly relevant? Never mind how trivial it seems.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, after a short pause. ‘I’ll do my best, but I very much doubt if I’ll be able to produce anything likely to help you. The sooner you have it, the better, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, yes, but I don’t want to ask the impossible.’

  ‘I’ll try to get something off to you by the Sunday afternoon post from Affacombe. If I send it by first-class mail you’ll certainly get it by the second delivery on Monday — possibly by the first. Will that do?’

  ‘I’ll be very grateful indeed,’ Pollard told her, glancing at his watch. ‘Now I must be making for my train, unfortunately.’

  ‘I suppose you’re obliged to live in London, on account of your job? How I should hate it.’

  ‘It’s not so bad out at Wimbledon where we are. Our house is in a quiet road, with quite a decent bit of garden.’

  ‘Wimbledon?’ Olivia exclaimed, as they walked in the direction of the main street. ‘Why, my son and his wife live there. Do you remember meeting them briefly at Poldens, just before they were married? They’ve got a house in Uplands Rise.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I remember them both well. Your son’s a solicitor, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a partner in a London firm. They’ve a small boy of two, and another baby coming very shortly.’

  ‘We’re just a beat ahead of them, then. We’ve twins of seventeen months. Boy and girl.’

  ‘How simply splendid. Next time I come up we must arrange for the families to meet. David and Julian would love it.’

  ‘So should we,’ Pollard said, ‘so I hope that’s a firm undertaking. I turn down here, don’t I? Thank you again, Mrs Strode, and quite apart from your help, it’s been a pleasure to meet again.’

  Remembering that Drusilla worked at the Fulminster Technical College on Fridays, Pollard decided to allow time for the Langs to have their evening meal before calling on them with Toye that evening. It was after seven when they arrived at the house and rang the appropriate bell. After a short interval someone could be heard running downstairs, and the door was flung open by Keith Lang.

  It had been a warm day, and he presented an ungainly figure in his shorts, open-necked shirt and scuffed sandals. The old-fashioned word hobbledehoy sprang to Pollard’s mind, but as he formulated it a change seemed to come over the young man’s bearing. The alarm he had registered on recognizing his visitors was replaced by a kind of stoical dignity which lent him presence.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said a little breathlessly in reply to Pollard’s greeting, looking him straight in the face.

  ‘May we have a few minutes with you and Mrs Lang?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Without looking back Keith led the way up a wide carpeted staircase, and then on again up a steeper one with worn linoleum on the treads. As they reached the second floor of the house there were sounds of washing up from a room at the back.

  ‘Come along a minute, Dru, will you?’ Keith called in an expressionless voice.

  Pollard and Toye followed him into a sitting-room. In the window overlooking the road was a table with a typewriter and piles of typescript at one end, and some science textbooks and essays at the other. The floor was bare boards with a square of carpet in the middle. There were two elderly armchairs, two upright chairs drawn up to the table, well-filled bookcases, a television set and a gas fire. Gay posters partly covered the faded wallpaper, and fragrance from a jar of white lilac on the mantelpiece filled the air.

  They all turned as Drusilla appeared in the doorway, small and vivid in a royal blue mini-frock. She stopped dead, and her hand went involuntarily to her mouth.

  Keith strode forward, shut the door, and with unexpected formal courtesy ushered her towards one of the armchairs before taking a defensive stance in front of the fireplace.

  Pollard took possession of the other armchair and smiled at them.

  ‘You needn’t look as if this is the end of the countdown,’ he said. ‘There are two reasons for this visit of ours. I’ll be blunt. The first is to tell you that the enquiry has reached a point at which we know that neither of you could have been responsible for Mrs Vickers’ death.’

  The Langs’ immediate response was to each other, oblivious of the presence of Pollard and Toye. They exchanged a long look, and Keith came forward and perched on the arm of his wife’s chair.

  ‘Thanks for telling us,’ he said shakily. ‘I won’t pretend we haven’t been a bit het up. It looked a bit obvious, didn’t it?’

  ‘Too obvious,’ Pollard replied, ‘for people as intelligent as yourselves. You must credit the police with some powers of judgement, you know.’

  ‘It’s been hell,’ Drusilla said unequivocally, but she had herself in hand. She got to her feet with a degree of poise which astonished Pollard after her behaviour at their first meeting. All this has started her on the growing up process all right, he thought, remembering Olivia Strode’s remark. ‘We haven’t any beer, I’m afraid,’ she went on, ‘but I can make coffee. The real thing, not instant.’

  ‘A cup of coffee would be fine,’ Pollard said, ‘wouldn’t it,
Sergeant?’

  While Drusilla was in the kitchen he tried to reduce tension by talking to Keith about his writing.

  ‘I suppose some people would call me an escapist,’ the young man said in the course of conversation. ‘My new novel’s been the only thing that’s kept me from going round the bend since all this business blew up. Drusilla’s felt the same about her job.’

  ‘And why not?’ Pollard asked. ‘Surely literature and science are as real as the ups and downs of day-to-day living?’

  Keith grinned, his rather heavy face lighting up attractively.

  ‘You’re making me revise my image of a copper,’ he said. ‘Up to now it seems to have been oversimplified. I want to say that you’ve treated us jolly decently, and we’re grateful. Anything we can do — you know. Here’s the coffee.’

  The coffee was excellent, and Pollard praised it.

  ‘Sergeant Toye and I have got to get back to London tonight,’ he said, ‘so I’d better get on with the second reason for this visit. Do you remember my ringing you at Redbay vicarage?’

  They nodded, looking puzzled.

  ‘About that water-colour, you mean?’ Drusilla asked.

  ‘About the artist who’d painted it. All I can say at the moment is that we’re still interested in the subject. You told me, Mrs Lang, that Mrs Vickers had raised it with a Mr John Bayley during the cruise. During one of the shore excursions, I think you said. Will you both try to remember all you can about the conversation between them on this occasion?’

  Silence descended. Drusilla leant forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her chin cupped in her hands. Keith stared out of the window, frowning in his concentration. Toye took out his notebook.

  Keith was the first to speak.