Death in Fancy Dress

by Anthony Gilbert

  Eleanor remarked wearily, “It isn’t a joke, Meriel, and I don’t think it will help things to treat it as one.”

  But it was difficult to quench Mrs. Ross. “But, Eleanor dear,” she expostulated, “Mr. Keith agrees with me it’s absolute Nemesis. He strangled this unfortunate French girl, and—oh, well, you all know about the mills of God. And Mr. Dennis says it’s called an act of God. No one holds you responsible for that. Not even insurance agents. You ask James.”

  I don’t think Eleanor was listening. She was as white as paper, her eyes oddly dark in that ravaged face. She looked, in fact, like the ghost she had represented last night. She was moving slowly round the room, touching one object after another, without realising the nature of any of them.

  Presently she turned towards us. “It’s too clever to be an accident,” she said in despairing tones. “Considering how many people wanted Ralph out of the way. Things don’t pan out as simply as that in real life. It’s like a play.” She sat down at last, folding her beautiful hands in an attitude of despair. “I suppose everything will come out now. Have you ever noticed, Tony, the complete detachment of justice? James has done nothing—Hilary has done nothing—but they’ll suffer.” But I couldn’t believe she was troubling very much about Hilary.

  Meriel Ross spoke in rousing tones. “Nonsense. Of course, if you go about looking like a ghost, or a woman with a crime on her conscience, everyone will believe the worst. As a matter of fact, if I’m asked, I shall say the Captain was in the habit of drinking too much, and I’d heard him threaten suicide if Hilary wouldn’t marry him. And Hilary had better tell the same story. It’s always as well to have everybody telling the same truth, especially when they’re on oath.”

  “And, of course, he’d choose the night of the ball, when Hilary was letting everyone congratulate her on her engagement, so as to make things more unpleasant,” agreed Jeremy. “You ought to have been a novelist, Mrs. Ross.”

  Dennis and I felt more serious; at least, we couldn’t joke in this hilarious manner. It looked to both of us as if the affair was going to be an extraordinarily unpleasant one for us all. I couldn’t myself see much hope of saving Eleanor’s good name, unless Ralph had destroyed every scrap of clue, which didn’t seem to me likely. And Hilary couldn’t escape, anyway. The trouble was, you couldn’t get at her these days, as it had been possible to do even a year ago. She’d been a nice, candid child then, but now she evaded your questions with a smooth aloofness or a wild burst of spirits that baffled you. In fact, unless McKenzie was prepared to sign a death certificate for simple drowning, and the coroner pronounce a verdict of Misadventure, there seemed little hope of hushing any of the scandal; and everyone in the county would want to hear the details, and contribute titbits of local gossip.

  3

  At last McKenzie came back, and a single glance at his face, and at Nunn’s, that was pale and drawn under its square impassivity, confirmed my worst fears. Nunn was saying, “You’ll give evidence at the inquest, of course? And I take it we may expect further inquiries.”

  “Oh, bound to,” said McKenzie casually. “Matter of fact, I’m interested professionally. I’ve never known a case of simple drowning where there was so much congestion in the lungs as there is here. But it’ll be good to get another opinion. I dare say Gudgeon, the police surgeon, will be along later.”

  When McKenzie had gone, Eleanor said softly, “The police, James? We’re to be spared nothing.”

  Nunn said in common-sense tones, “You rationally expect the police when you have a mysterious death. It looks to me as though the whole thing will turn on medical opinion. And finally, it’ll rest with the coroner’s jury.”

  “What can they do?”

  “Bring in a verdict. If this isn’t an accident, it must be foul play. They’re going to help to decide which. Unless they can suggest another alternative. You can’t be sure. There’s no end to the things juries will suggest. They feel they’re on their mettle in a way, you know. They talk about sifting the evidence, and truth being stranger than fiction. Not that they’ve any special qualifications. Has it ever struck you how odd it is to leave a man’s fate in the hands of twelve casually-appointed strangers, all of whom may be dolts for all we can tell? Or prejudiced. Well, that’s English law, and if we have to live under it, it seems a natural corollary that we should die under it, too. Eleanor, my dear, you’d better rest, if I may suggest it. You’ll want all your strength when the inquiry proper begins.”

  I had never heard him talk so fluently; I thought it was to give Eleanor a chance of pulling herself together. Perhaps, like myself, he was afraid that she would suddenly collapse, and the notion of that fine, enduring woman going to pieces alarmed us all. Eleanor took his advice and went off, with Mrs. Ross to look after her; Nunn excused himself and disappeared; Jeremy said, “I wonder what Dennis is doing to make Hilary confess. Gosh! The police! What a racket!”

  Whatever Dennis had been doing to get the truth out of the girl, he didn’t seem to have accomplished much, beyond upsetting her completely. She came to find me presently, saying in frantic tones, “Tony, have you any influence with Arthur? I don’t know what he’s driving at, but he obviously doesn’t believe a word I say.”

  I asked her what she had said, and she told me, “He wants to know what I was doing in the garden last night. I told him I wanted to be alone, and get a breath of fresh air. Of course, you know he was annoyed to start with. He thought I was making myself cheap with my partners. He doesn’t seem to realise that my stock’s gone down since that evening with Ralph. People aren’t quite the same, and I made a fool of myself, I know, and felt I couldn’t stand it any longer. But on my honour, Tony, Ralph’s death is nothing to do with me.”

  “I believe you,” I tried to console her, “and I’m sure Dennis does, too.”

  “Arthur thinks I’m nothing but a liar. He as good as told me so. And he caught my arm so hard I shall be black and blue to-night. I thought he was going to try and shake some sort of admission out of me.”

  I said, “I don’t want to bother you, but tell me one other thing. Why did you upset mayonnaise over your pyjamas at supper?”

  She blushed rosily. “Did you see that, too? I was being chaffed in a way I didn’t much like, and I thought suddenly I was going to cry. I wanted to get out—like a small girl who’s afraid of being sick in the drawing-room.”

  Even for Hilary that was very thin, and I wasn’t much surprised at Dennis’s attitude. But she had plenty of staying power. Even when the police got hold of her and asked her again and again about that visit to the garden, she stuck to her ridiculous story. (I had wondered how they knew of it, but it appears that Miss Yule had torn down with her tongue hanging out to confide in some girlish friend of hers that there was an awful row imminent between that Feltham chit and her admirer, and she’d be surprised if that wedding ever came off. I fancy we were indebted to the same young woman for some of the coroner’s other leading questions, as to Hilary’s relations both with Dennis and with Ralph.)

  4

  The inquest was a gruelling affair. Wellington-Andrews had a large, ponderous, unintelligent face, with long moustaches; he spoke weightily and felt his own importance. As a rule, he had nothing more interesting to adjudicate than the death of a man employed on one of the neighbouring farms, with some perfectly simple solution like an attack by a bull, or strain following a hard day; or a road accident, when he could air his views on the heinousness of motor-cycles, and this affair of the Felthams, with its soupcon of scandal, was much appreciated by that tilted Roman nose.

  I take my facts of the inquest largely from the local press. It’s always easy, in detailing an affair like this, to lay undue emphasis on what contributes very little to the conduct of the case or the solution of the mystery, with the possibility of slurring over facts that do eventually prove of first-rate importance. Anyhow, here they are, for whatever any
one can make of them.

  Chapter IX

  Nunn having given evidence of identification, McKenzie was called to give medical evidence as to cause of death. He said that he had felt some difficulty in giving a certificate of death from accidental drowning, as in his experience, and he had at one time held a sea-coast practice and had a good deal of work in connection with drowned persons, he had never known such a degree of congestion from simple drowning. If a man were forcibly held under water, he said, congestion would ensue, and the longer he were kept submerged, the greater would the degree of congestion be. There were no injuries to the face or bruises on the body, which seemed to argue against the likelihood of a struggle; deceased was a strong, healthy man, not likely to have had a sudden fit, and had clearly been in his normal health a little earlier in the evening, as he had set out with the intention of attending a party at the Abbey. He, the witness, had considered the possibility of his having slipped into the pond, but it seemed to him unreasonable that a man who was a notoriously good swimmer should have collapsed without making any appreciable effort to save himself. In reply to a question by the coroner, he said that the body was not entirely free from marks of injury. Blood had flowed from one ear; this might have been the result of congestion, but there was a wound to the left ear which appeared to have come in contact with some sharp material or object. And some time prior to death there had been a bruise on the back of the head. In his opinion, this bruise was not sufficient to render a man unconscious, though he admitted that it might induce a certain degree of vertigo, during which time the subject would be more or less helpless.

  “Is it your opinion that, having been rendered giddy, he could have been thrust into the pond?” Wellington-Andrews asked.

  “It’s possible, of course. But the shock of the cold water would undoubtedly have revived him.”

  “But if he had been held under the water…”

  “That, of course, is a different consideration. But you must remember that in that case whoever was responsible would be bound to bear traces of the affair. For instance, the sleeves and arms of such person or persons would be immersed.”

  “You don’t consider that the deceased was dead before being put into the water?”

  “In my opinion, it’s a practical impossibility for any medical man to answer such a question with certainty. But if he was dead, then there’s only one way, I think, in which he could have met his death, and that is if someone had put a wet cloth over his head, choking the nose and mouth, which would produce the same effect as ordinary drowning.”

  “Have you ever known such a thing to happen?”

  “Not within my own experience, but there is a classical criminal case in which that precise thing is supposed to have been done.”

  “And, in your opinion, death could not have been due to an accident?”

  “I should have said not. I can’t account for so much congestion in a person who had not recently had a heavy meal, and who was not liable to apoplectic or epileptic fits. But I should add that I am open to conviction on this point. It’s always difficult to lay down any hard and fast rule that will govern all cases.”

  “Did you know the deceased?”

  “I had known him for years, and had attended him once or twice for minor ailments. In my view, he was a perfectly healthy man.”

  Then they called Gudgeon, the police surgeon. It was unfortunate for everyone that Nunn hadn’t had his opinion instead of McKenzie’s at the outset, for he declared roundly that in his view death might well be due to accidental drowning. The amount of congestion did not appear to him excessive.

  Several of us pricked up our ears at this, and hoped the coroner wouldn’t take the matter further. But he wasn’t disposed to let the matter pass so easily. He wanted the jury, he said, to have every possible chance of determining a very odd case, and possibly if they knew something of the dead man’s circumstances and his position in the neighbourhood generally, it might materially assist them. He called Dennis.

  Dennis looked cool and collected. He gave his name and address, and said he was a civil servant, who was paying a visit to the Abbey as the fiancé of Miss Feltham.

  “For some reason I c-can’t fathom,” he added, “civil servants and p-plumbers are the b-butt of the nation. But they are the b-back-bone, too.” As soon as he spoke, it was obvious to anyone who knew him that he was like a cat on hot bricks, inwardly shying away whenever Hilary’s name was mentioned. We supposed he was hoping to avoid any mention of Hilary’s ill-starred visit to the Cottage ten days earlier, and her mysterious venture into the garden on the night of the party.

  “I understand that it was you who discovered the identity of Sir Ralph?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were suspicious as to his whereabouts?”

  “Yes, I was. You see, I kn-knew he’d been invited to the party and meant to c-come. And when a man d-doesn’t turn up when he’s expected, and within a few hours a b-body is found on the p-premises, you are apt to p-put two and two together. And in my youth I was intended for a ch-chartered accountant.”

  “I see.” Wellington-Andrews obviously wasn’t going to like this witness. “You had met Sir Ralph?”

  “Oh, yes. I’d seen him at the Abbey m-more than once.”

  “What were your relations with him?”

  “Really,” protested Dennis, “I hadn’t any. I hardly knew the m-man.”

  “You had no reason for cherishing ill-feeling against him?”

  “It isn’t v-very easy to cherish ill-f-feeling against a man you d-don’t know,” returned Dennis, reasonably.

  “Isn’t it a fact that you had had several arguments about him with Miss Feltham within a few days of his death?”

  Dennis smiled. “Oh, I d-daresay. I was generally arguing with her about s-something.”

  “Please keep to the point. You were objecting to the amount of time she spent in the deceased’s company.”

  The old fox hadn’t lost any time in collecting local gossip, and he meant to have his pound of flesh, with a bit over, if he could secure it. I heard later that he disliked Nunn, and was glad to make things as unpleasant for him as possible, but I daresay that was no more than another scrap of malicious local rumour.

  Dennis was composedly answering the last question. “I objected to all the t-time she spent in anyone’s c-company, but mine.”

  “Is it not a fact that she threatened to marry the dead man?”

  “Oh, I expect so. She was always th-threatening to marry someone else when she was c-cross with me. My m-married friends tell me it’s quite usual. Nothing to get hot and b-bothered about.”

  “You had assured her that she would never marry him?”

  “Well, she w-won’t, w-will she?”

  “What precisely did you mean when you told her that?”

  “P-precisely what I implied. That I didn’t intend to let her m-marry Sir Ralph. I didn’t intend to let her m-marry anyone but me, if it comes to that.”

  “I see. I believe, though, I am not being over-emphatic when I say that you had a grudge against the dead man. About a week ago, half the neighbourhood turned out to look for Miss Feltham, who had disappeared in mysterious circumstances.”

  “I never heard a fog called a m-mysterious circumstance before,” Dennis objected. “Miss Feltham got l-lost in the fog and very sensibly went to her c-cousin’s house for shelter. I c-call it the dispensation of P-providence that there was a house for her to go to. I was out in the fog myself for m-most of the evening, and it was devilish cold. She might have got frost-bite.”

  “You had no angry words with the dead man in that connection?”

  “Why on earth should I? He c-came over next morning to apologise for not b-being able to let us know she was with him. He hasn’t g-got a telephone.”

  “You saw him on that occasion?”

 
; “Only for a moment from an upper landing. We hardly spoke.”

  “And yet, knowing him as little as you did, you had no difficulty in recognising the body, although I understand it had been identified by no one else?”

  “There hadn’t been m-much time. No one had seen him except the butler and Sir James, and he’s t-told you they weren’t on exactly intimate t-terms.”

  “But you, who had only had casual glimpses of him up at the Abbey, recognised him at once?”

  “I’ve been in the S-secret Service, you see,” explained Dennis, apologetically. “You get up to all the t-tricks of the trade there, the wig and the mask and the shaping of the nose—all the b-bundle.”

  “I see.”

  “B-besides, there were the hands. You c-can’t disguise hands as easily as you can faces, and he h-had a little scar on the wrist…”

  “You noticed that, too, during your desultory meetings?”

  “You g-get accustomed to that kind of thing, t-trained in it, you know. If you stop and th-think for a minute, you’ll see how important it is to memorise d-details like that. It’s not so hard to change your f-face and your c-colouring, and you can pad one shoulder, as he did, to make it look higher than the other, but sc-scars and birthmarks are much harder to get rid of. That’s why observation of them c-counts for so much.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t going to get any change out of Dennis, and presently he realised it, and told him he could go. Then he called on Nunn, and put him through his paces. He said he understood that Ralph was not a constant visitor at the Abbey.

  “He isn’t at all a constant visitor to Feltham,” Nunn told him.

  “But when he does come, he doesn’t stay with you?”

  “He has his own establishment in the neighbourhood. My only relationship to him is that of his tenant, and he’s only a very distant connection of my wife’s, and that through marriage. In the circumstances, it appears to me unreasonable to suggest that I should offer him hospitality.”