So Bad a Death

by June Wright

  “Who was it?” I asked, when he came back with a file of papers.

  “Braithwaite. He was dining at the Hall. He has something to tell me. He’ll be over presently.”

  I avoided John’s eye. “Perhaps you could ask him about buying the house. Don’t you think it is time we started pushing things along? It would be terrible if the family sold it over our heads.”

  “They won’t,” John stated calmly. “I’m not doing anything until this case is finished. You are not going to get into mischief a second time. Certainly not now you’re married to me.”

  I said on a sigh: “I can’t think why I did. Marry you, I mean.”

  John swept my feet off the couch and sat down. “My money, darling, and my good looks. Very rarely do they go together. Do you or don’t you want to have a look at these papers?”

  I sat up beside him. “I do, Midas-Adonis. What’s this one?” I unfolded a typewritten sheet of paper bearing the Russell Street letterhead.

  “That,” said John, “should answer your inquiries about Ames. It is a list of the salaries and wages paid to the Hall and farm employees. You might note the first amount, which is more than your husband makes every year.”

  I whistled at the figures opposite Ames’ name. “Very nice. No wonder he was content to stay.”

  “Another reason why I wouldn’t try breaking Ames’ alibi. No man in his right senses would kill a goose that laid eggs as large and golden as Holland did.”

  “Supposing he was blackmailing the Squire. This amount might be partly hush money.”

  “An absurd suggestion, Maggie. It is in every book of rules that the blackmailer never wipes out his source of income.”

  “But if Ames got more out of Holland dead? Isn’t he to run the estates?”

  “In conjunction with two others and only until Yvonne’s baby is old enough to assume office. His hands are more tied than if Holland was alive. You may dismiss the idea. It has already been gone into.”

  “I will, but with a parting shot. A lot might happen in twenty years, or whenever it is Jimmy arrives at his inheritance.”

  “Unfortunately we cannot await possibilities of the years to come. The job is in the present. To convict a murderer of the death of James Holland.”

  “Don’t sound so pompous.”

  “As a matter of fact,” John confessed, “I wasn’t thinking as I spoke. Your remark reminded me of something I have been waiting to ask you for the last few days. I was recalling what it was.”

  “Hush,” I said hastily, putting up one finger. “Was that the doorbell? Go and see if it is Alan Braithwaite.”

  “Maggie, my own dear,” John said in a tired voice. “Never use the same gag twice. Last time Mrs Mulqueen filled the breach. Young Braithwaite is missing his cue. I certainly didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  I started up only to be pulled down again. “Don’t you think I had better go and see?”

  “You needn’t bother. If you want to be secretive, we’ll let it pass. I may even know what I was going to ask you.”

  “Quite likely,” I agreed in a demure voice, taking up the paper again. “Is there anything further to catch the eye on this salary sheet?”

  “You might note your friend Parsons’ name. Holland was quite a good boss to work for. I wouldn’t have minded being in his employ. Even the pension he paid old man Ames is quite respectable. According to the will, that is to continue. Holland waxed biblical in writing the bequest. There must have been some sort of bond of affection or respect between them.”

  “I should say both. The old man seemed to be the only genuine mourner I could find at the Hall. All the others were busy looking after their own interests.”

  “You can’t expect anyone who has been murdered to have many mourners, sincere ones, anyway. Even to those nearest and would-be dearest, Holland’s manner of death must be a source of embarrassment. Read this letter. You will find it interesting.”

  I took a folded sheet of cream notepaper to which a long sheet of foolscap was attached. I separated them, glancing down the foolscap. It held a neat list of names and addresses with an amount opposite each one. There were two other money columns, containing much smaller figures. Each column had been added up, and the totals worked out in percentages for purpose of comparison.

  “You won’t make head or tail of that until you see the letter,” John informed me kindly.

  “Oh no? That’s just where you are wrong. I have got quite a fair idea.”

  I read the letter without much surprise, noting the date. It was three days before my interview with Mr Holland about the Dower House. When I came to the neat unflourishing signature of Harold Bellamy I looked up.

  “Gently abusive!” I commented. “No wonder poor Connie was hot and bothered. It looks as though Cruikshank has been making some money out of them and a lot of other poor guileless fools.”

  “We can only presume it was Cruikshank. He was Holland’s agent. Very clever of him to charge just a fraction more in each case for repayment of interest and principal on the houses Holland sold on terms. It makes quite a respectable percentage. With luck he could continue his practice forever without being detected. The first column is the amount paid, the second the agent’s fee which usually comes out of it, and the third is the actual fee Cruikshank helped himself to by dint of overcharging his clients. I wonder how your friend’s husband tumbled to it.”

  “Is this the Squire’s handwriting?” I asked, tapping the sheet with the back of one finger.

  John nodded. “I found it in his desk. When I saw the name on the letter I thought it might be of interest. Especially after what you told me.”

  I said thoughtfully, “Holland must have faced Cruikshank with this that day I saw the Dower. Cruikshank did a bunk, thinking Middleburn would be too hot to hold him. How fortunate for him Holland was murdered.”

  “He can still be sued by the executors of the estate. No, Maggie, there is something more in Cruikshank’s disappearance than that.”

  “Perhaps,” I suggested, “he has nothing to fear from them, now the Squire is out of the way. It may be ages before they come round to this business.” I handed back the foolscap and letter. “By then he might have covered his tracks or worked out a convincing story.”

  “We are letting Cruikshank alone for the moment,” John said. “If he is mixed up in this business as I think he might be, he’ll show his hand somewhere.”

  “Well, keep your eye on him,” I advised. “I never did like the man. What is the next item of interest?”

  John flipped over the odd sheets of papers balanced on his crossed knee. He picked out one.

  “What are you frowning over?” I asked, resting my chin on his shoulder.

  “A receipt from Doctor Trefont for professional services rendered to Mrs James Holland. He didn’t mention that he had attended her. I hope it only slipped his mind. I don’t like being lied to.”

  “May I see?” I asked, as casually as I could. The bill itself did not convey much, insofar as the term “professional services” had not been enlarged upon. My eyes went to the date. It verified my suspicions so perfectly that I felt inclined to doubt my own deductions. But it must be so. The information Doctor Johnson had given me and the strange contradiction of Yvonne and her father-in-law, allied to their hostility towards Doctor Trefont, all fitted in. The reluctance of both the doctor and Yvonne to discuss their relations was easily understood. Taken by itself, James Holland’s violent opposition was puzzling. There could be only one explanation of that. Either Trefont had been a victim of overwhelming coercion or else he too had been a guileless fool. In either instance he must have rebelled after the dirty work was done, and Holland had not liked it.

  John’s voice roused me.

  “What was that?” I asked. “I was in a trance.”

  “I merely inquired if you had lost interest in the proceedings, or whether you are too tired to continue. You have been staring at a receipt in a vacant manner for the p
ast five minutes.”

  “Sorry,” I said, giving up the paper. “I am still keen.”

  I would have to get hold of that receipt later. It was not essential in Yvonne’s case, although she might remain obstinately silent no matter what proof was produced. But if I read the doctor aright, he would not budge an inch unless I had something with which to back up my accusations.

  John slipped the papers onto my knee and got up. “We’ll have to continue later. That sounds like Braithwaite now. Don’t lose any of those papers. They might prove important.”

  II

  I think John’s warning was issued in a perfectly innocent manner, but I was glad he did not see me start guiltily. I picked over the small pile quickly. There was only a brief moment before Braithwaite would be admitted.

  Thumbing through those documents was like looking up an encyclopedia. It was easy to become diverted and forget the original purpose. That happened to me then, when I came across something that almost wiped everything else from my head. At first I thought it belonged to an untouched part of the pattern. I did not realize then that I had already filled in the outlying pieces.

  The new item on which my interest became focused was a very old letter. So old that it was dissolving along the edges where it had been folded. I read it as quickly as the fading writing permitted. Then John pushed open the door for Braithwaite to enter. Reluctantly I placed the frail sheet with the rest of the papers and assumed my hostess expression.

  John said to me: “Have we any of that brandy left, Maggie? Don’t get up. Just tell me where it is.” I glanced quickly at Alan Braithwaite. He looked pale around the gills.

  “In the cupboard above the kitchen sink. Come and sit down, Mr Braithwaite.”

  He chose the easy chair John had been using earlier in the evening, but sat bolt upright, grasping his briefcase as though it held the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

  “I am sorry to appear so rattled, Mrs Matheson,” he remarked, glancing towards the curtained windows, “but the fact is I have had rather an unnerving experience.”

  “They are locked,” I said soothingly.

  Alan Braithwaite grinned at me sheepishly. “Perfectly absurd of me. I must be lily-livered. But it was the sheer unexpectedness of it. It caught me unawares.”

  “What did?” I asked in a patient voice.

  John came back into the room with a glass in his hand.

  “We are getting used to this form of hospitality,” he informed Braithwaite. “Down the hatch and you’ll feel better. Someone tried to snatch his bag, Maggie.”

  “Did they?” I asked, interested. “They weren’t very successful. What happened?”

  Young Braithwaite tried to disguise a shudder as he finished off the drink.

  “I came through the wood. I thought it might be quicker as I was delayed longer than I expected at the Hall. It was dark, of course, but I know the path fairly well. As a point of interest it happened at that same turn where Mr Holland was found. For a moment I thought I was going to be another victim. Absurd, you know, what you imagine might be your last thoughts. All in a flash. I wondered what the devil I had done to deserve this. But I don’t think the footpad meant murder. Anyway, not this time.”

  Like all lawyers, you take a hell of a time to get to the point, I thought irritably.

  “Someone stepped up in front of me and dealt me a terrific blow in the solar plexus, at the same time making a grab at my bag.”

  “I suppose,” said John, “it would be a futile question to ask if you recognized the would-be bandit.”

  “I’m afraid so. It was dark in the wood, what with the trees and everything. I can’t even tell you if he was big or small.”

  “Or male or female,” I supplied.

  Alan Braithwaite gave me a surprised look. “A man, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “A solar plexus punch is a favourite of the gentle sex,” I told him. He looked a bit shocked.

  “Luckily,” he went on, “I had the presence of mind to keep a firm grip on the handle of my case. After the first abortive attempt my assailant made off. It took me several minutes to regain my breath. I came along here at once.” He looked at John doubtfully. “I had it in mind to ring the police, but I suppose telling you amounts much to the same thing.”

  “If you like you can ring Sergeant Billings from here. The telephone is in my study. As it is a local matter he would be the best person to advise. There is very little I could do beyond telling him myself.”

  Braithwaite was a shade disappointed at John’s detached view of the matter.

  “You consider,” he ventured with legal restraint, “that my assailant was just an ordinary thief after money or similar valuables?”

  “Until I know what you have in the case, I can’t think otherwise,” John answered, in a manner worthy of the best legal circles.

  “Perhaps it is as well to keep things formal,” Braithwaite said, after pondering on the matter. “I will report the attack to Middleburn police station.”

  “Show him where the phone is, Maggie. I must clear up these papers.”

  I gave John another sharp look at this remark. I almost believed that he did not trust me alone with those papers for any length of time.

  I took Braithwaite along to the study and rang the Hall. Ames answered it and expressed regret that the outward line was in use.

  “I’ll wait on,” I said, when he offered to call when the line was disengaged. “The line is busy,” I told Braithwaite. Holding the earpiece, I sat down in the desk chair and dropped my elbow on the arm.

  “Yvonne said the phone has hardly stopped ringing all day,” Braithwaite told me. “Some people have very bad sense of timing. You would think that they would hold off for a while.”

  “Curious, I suppose,” I offered. “You can’t get away from human nature. How was Yvonne today?” I did not say that I had already seen her. I wanted to know if her sudden spurt of self-assurance had gone. Evidently it had not.

  “Bearing up remarkably well. I was surprised at her good spirits. You know, Mrs Matheson, that will the old man made is a great piece of injustice. It is hardly fair to expect Yvonne not to marry again.”

  I watched him closely. “If she wants to, she shouldn’t let the money stand in her way.”

  “That’s just what I told her,” Alan Braithwaite informed me in all innocence. “She had such a short time with Jim, and that ended tragically. Mr Holland should have made some allowance, irrespective of her future plans.”

  “He probably didn’t like the idea of the Holland money going out of the family. Hullo—this sounds like it.”

  Ames’ smooth voice sounded in my ear. I asked for the police station number and handed the receiver to Braithwaite. There did not seem any point in retiring discreetly as I knew what Braithwaite was going to say. The conversation was a short one. Billings must have become accustomed to odd occurrences taking place in his district. Braithwaite did not have to repeat himself once.

  “The matter is going to be looked into,” he said, handing me back the phone with a shrug. “My brief escapade sounds a bit feeble now.”

  Automatically I held the receiver to my ear before ringing off. “Just one moment,” I said, listening closely.

  It was there again. A soft sound of someone breathing, the slight noise of an open line in another place. I rang on the line quickly, hoping to catch the eavesdropper, and listened in again. In my own ear there came the reverberation of a similar ring. I jumped and slammed the receiver on its stand indignantly.

  “Come along,” I said, ignoring Alan Braithwaite’s inquiring gaze. “John will be wondering what has become of you. You said you had something important to tell him.”

  He followed me along the passage. “It may or may not be pertinent, but it is something I will have to look into if your husband does not. I would have been over sooner, but I was delayed at the Hall. Funeral arrangements, you know. Mrs Mulqueen was rather trying about them. She insists upon a huge
affair instead of a private one. A small show would be in much better taste under the circumstances. What do you think?”

  “From what I knew of Mr Holland the more pomp and ceremony the better. Had he but known the manner of his death he would consider an elaborate funeral a form of challenge to his murderer. I may be dead, but you can’t kill my memory, so to speak.”

  John looked up as we entered.

  “All in order,” I said. “I think Billings took it without a blink. Are you two going to talk in a way I will understand or would you prefer me to go?”

  “I would hate to do you out of the fire, Mrs Matheson. No doubt, you have your husband’s confidence in many matters. If he does not object I see no reason why you need not remain.”

  I removed myself into a quiet corner. I could see John was becoming irritated at the legal touch. Alan Braithwaite conveyed the impression that there was all night ahead in which to propound theories. Whereas I knew John was nearly tired to death, in spite of his look of alertness. I hoped Braithwaite’s air of importance was justified.

  John tried to bring him around to the point at once. “You say someone tried to snatch your briefcase. Is there something in it you wanted to show me?”

  “There is. But first I want to tell you about Mr Ernest Mulqueen. I went along to see him late this afternoon as I told you I would. I thought he might like to see a lawyer. He didn’t seem in the least perturbed by his position. Instead he bombarded me with questions concerning his late brother-in-law’s will. In a word, he wanted to know what he got out of the estate. Odd thing for a man under suspicion of murder, don’t you agree? Please don’t think I am betraying the confidence of a client. I was assured in no uncertain terms that when the time came Ernest Mulqueen would need no assistance from a pansy tie-waving solicitor like myself.”

  I let out a spurt of laughter from my corner. It sounded like the forthright little man. “However,” continued Braithwaite, “I was also assured of my welcome. I was just the man Mr Mulqueen wanted to see. And forthwith he put in a claim for some obscure farm in the Riverina, which he said was amalgamated with some of the other Holland estates. He wants the farm separated and handed back to him. I told Mr Mulqueen I would look into the matter. When I got back to the office I went through some files and found certain papers appertaining to this farm. They were certainly in Mulqueen’s name. The point is, if the farm is his how does it happen that the property affairs were in Mr Holland’s hands? Mrs Mulqueen supplied an answer to that question tonight. She remembers vaguely my late father drawing up some document and Mr Mulqueen signing over the farm to her brother and being paid a lump sum. But unless you have the receipt for that money and the agreement she thinks was signed, all trace of them has disappeared.”