The Man Who Hated Banks & Other Mysteries

by Michael Gilbert

  “Oh, Morgan. Someone has locked the corner cupboard.”

  “Yes, sir. I locked it, on Mr. Mallet’s orders.”

  “Then kindly unlock it.”

  “There was something you wanted?”

  “You’re damned right there’s something I wanted,” said Major Rix. “That’s where the whisky lives.”

  Morgan moved across to the cupboard, selected a key from a ring of keys and opened the cupboard. He then went over to the sideboard, opened that, and took out a tumbler. Into the tumbler he poured a very reasonable quantity of whisky, replaced the bottle in the cupboard, relocked the cupboard, and handed the glass to Major Rix.

  He did all this in the most serious manner possible.

  “There is a syphon of soda in the sideboard – if you require it, sir,” he said. “That is not locked.”

  Major Rix said nothing at all. He simply picked up the tumbler and swirled the whisky round in it.

  “Perhaps you would care to come with me,” said Morgan.

  “Oh – certainly.” Bohun recovered himself with an effort. As he looked back he saw that the major was still sitting in his chair. His single eye had a frosty, faraway look in it.

  Bohun followed Morgan up the stairs. As they reached the top a door opened and a woman came out. Pre-war Oxford, thought Bohun at once. About thirty-five. Bluestocking, but overlaid now with a certain amount of country moss.

  “Good morning?” she said, managing to turn it into a question. “This is Mr. Bohun, Miss Rachel. He’s here to see your father on business.”

  “Business.” Miss Mallet sounded upset. “But – is Daddy well enough to see this gentleman?”

  “I expect it will be important business,” said Morgan. “Some matter which has to be attended to. You understand.”

  “Oh – yes, I expect that’s it.” Miss Mallet turned to Bohun, drawing him aside with her glance in a way which seemed to exclude Morgan from the whole conversation.

  “You must be as quick as you can, Mr. Bohun. If you’ve brought something – something for him to sign, get it done as quickly as possible. He’s a dying man.”

  “He’s—”

  “If you’d come this way,” said Morgan loudly. Miss Mallet laid a hand on his arm. “I want you to promise me,” she said.

  “I’m afraid,” said Bohun carefully, “that there may be some mistake. The business I have to discuss with your father – it isn’t family business at all. It’s to do with his work in London. We’ve got quite a few important decisions to make. However – I’ll certainly be as quick as I can, I promise you that.”

  All the time that he had been speaking she had kept hold of his arm. Morgan had taken a step forward and seemed almost ready to grasp him by the other arm. Penelope and the Suitors, thought Bohun. He was inclined to let the scene develop but it was broken up by a noise from below.

  Major Rix had come out into the hall.

  The drink which Morgan had poured for him must have been stronger than it looked, for even from above it could be seen that he was swaying very slightly on his feet, and he fumbled with the door handle for a few moments as he closed the door.

  Miss Mallet had dropped Bohun’s arm and was looking down into the hall. The expression on her face reminded him of a visitor at the zoo, some adult, intellectual spinster, peering down into the trough of the Reptile House. Detached, intrigued, very faintly nauseated.

  “If you’d come along now,” said Morgan.

  When they had turned the corner of the corridor he halted. It was too dark for Bohun to see his face.

  “I expect you haven’t met Miss Rachel before,” he said.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure—”

  “Nor Master Norman?”

  “No, I’ve never met him.”

  “You don’t want to pay too much attention to what either of them say. They’re both a little bit – you know.”

  Before Bohun could say anything more he had turned, knocked at a big, double door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

  The room was in half-darkness, and what light there was came from a reading lamp placed slightly behind the bed in such a way that it deepened the shadows on the face of the man who lay there.

  Bohun was considerably startled at the picture. But he was even more startled when Mr. Mallet sat up vigorously from his supporting pillows. His voice, when he spoke, showed no trace of weakness.

  “Where are the children, Morgan?”

  “Miss Rachel has gone downstairs. Mr. Norman is out with his birds.”

  “Then draw the curtains back a bit. We must have some light. Fetch Mr. Bohun a chair. That’s right, we can use this table. Now, Bohun – this holding company. I tried to explain it to Craine, but he seemed to find it very difficult to understand. Perhaps I oughtn’t to say so, but he seems to be losing his grip a bit—”

  Fortunately Bohun had met Mr. Mallet before; most people in a certain line of business in the City ran across him sooner or later. Rumour had it that he had been a sergeant major in one of the administrative branches during the First World War and had made a pile out of the barter of vehicle spare parts. Whatever truth there may have been in this was now buried in the drift of time. The early ‘twenties had been spent in company flotation, as audacious as it was profitable. After this he had transferred his energies to the field of the Trust Corporation. At sixty he was rich and practically respectable.

  “He’s quite a character,” Mr. Craine had warned him. “He shouts and bangs and swears and insults you and roars with laughter and sends you a dozen bottles of Scotch for Christmas. One year he sent me a box of exploding cigars. In some ways he’s got a lot in common with the late Joe Stalin—”

  At the end of two hours, although he had been sustained with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk, brought up by Morgan, Bohun felt limpish. The table was littered with papers, and Bohun was beginning to wonder whether it was he who was advising Mr. Mallet on the effect of the latest Finance Act, or vice versa. However, they had reached some sort of conclusion when steps sounded in the passage. Mr. Mallet swept the papers together, stuffed them under his pillow, turned off the second light, and sank back with a loud groan.

  The door opened, and Morgan came in.

  Mr. Mallet came to life at once.

  “Thought it was Rachel,” he said. “That’s all right then. If anything further’s needed, I’ll telephone Craine tomorrow. I think you’ve got a good grasp of it, quite a good grasp.”

  “Thank you,” said Bohun faintly.

  “One other thing. If you happen to talk to either of my children before you go, would you mind remembering that I’m a dying man? I had a stroke at the beginning of the week which paralysed my left side. It hasn’t affected my brain in any way, but if I should have another – which seems very possible – it may well finish me. You understand?”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Bohun. “I’m sorry to hear—”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Mallet. “Stay to tea if you like. Morgan will drive you to the station in time for the five o’clock train.”

  It was two mornings later before Bohun got round to discussing the Mallet family with Mr. Craine.

  “You’ve never seen such a crazy setup in your life. Either the father’s mad, or the children are mad, or they’re all mad—”

  “I’ve never noticed anything actually mad about Mallet,” said Craine. “You’re certain he wasn’t really ill?”

  “I’m not a doctor,” said Bohun. “Strokes are funny things. But in my view he was no more ill than—”

  “Blast that telephone,” said Mr. Craine. “Excuse me a moment. Who? Mr. Mallet? Oh, young Mr. Mallet. Put him through please—”

  The telephone squeaked and bumbled. Whoever was speaking at the other end had a lot to get off his mind, and was determined to unload it fast.

  At last Mr. Craine succeeded in breaking in.

  “I’ve got Mr. Bohun here with me,” he said. “Yes – that’s my partner. He came dow
n to see you two days ago. He knows all about it. When? Oh, right away. If he gets the next train he should be with you before lunch.”

  He rang off.

  “Look here,” said Bohun, “I’ve got Lady Maidsmoreton coming—”

  “Mallet’s dead,” said Craine. “He died this morning. The house is in an uproar. You’ll have to go and cope. Take the will with you. I’ve got it here. I’m sole executor so you’ve got my full authority to spend any money and take any steps you like. I expect you may have to be down there a couple of days, so I’ll get John Cove to look after your work. Miss Thwaites, would you mind getting hold of a taxi?”

  “Oh dear,” said Norman Mallet. “Oh dear. I’m so g-glad you’ve g-got here, Mr—Mr. Bohun. I’m sure it will make a great difference having you here. I’m sorry you had to walk up from the station. I couldn’t find Morgan and I couldn’t – I mean, he always k-keeps the keys of the car on him, so it was very awkward.” He had a slight, rather pleasant stammer. “How did it happen?” said Bohun.

  “Last night. Just as he always s-said it would. Quite suddenly. Like that—” Norman snapped his fingers, then seemed to find the gesture slightly indecorous and restored his hand to his trouser pocket.

  “It was between n-nine and eleven. Rachel saw him at nine. She usually went in to see him last thing at night, to tuck him up and give him his – well to make him comfortable. When Morgan went up at eleven o’clock to settle him for the night, he found him d-dead. We sent for the doctor, of course. That’s Dr. Runcorn. He’s up there now. You’ll be able to see him.”

  “Did Dr. Runcorn know that your father was ill?”

  “Of course. He’s been father’s d-doctor for years.”

  “But he knew about the stroke?” persisted Bohun.

  “Oh, yes, he knew about that.”

  “Was he attending him?”

  “Well, there was nothing much he could do.”

  The elderly parlourmaid appeared. She had been crying.

  “Will Mr. Bohun be staying?” she enquired.

  “Why, yes – certainly. That is, I hope you’ll be staying—”

  “I’d like to stop to lunch, if it wouldn’t be troubling you,” said Bohun. “I’ve booked a room at the Black Goats.”

  “I expect you’ll be more c-comfortable there,” said Norman, without making a great deal of effort to conceal his relief. “Placket, would you show Mr. Bohun up – he’d like a word with the doctor.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Bohun. “I know the way.”

  He was halfway up the stairs when the study door opened and Major Rix appeared. He snapped a finger at Bohun and said, “Come on down here a moment, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  “I must—”

  “It’s important,” said Rix. “You’d better hear it.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Bohun.

  “They’ll tell you Mallet died of a stroke,” said Rix, as soon as the library door was shut. “Nothing further from the truth. The doctor’s an old fool. He wouldn’t know a stroke from German measles.”

  “I—” said Bohun.

  “Just let me tell you this,” said Rix urgently. “Mallet was murdered. Morgan did it. I don’t know how. Poison or something, I should think. There’s enough poison in this house to finish off the French Navy. Herbal muck. Rachel brews it. Another thing. What did Morgan slip up to London for last Thursday? Mallet never sent him. But I saw him. I was up there on business. He was coming out of some place off the Gray’s Inn Road. Lot of shady chemists shops in that district. Don’t tell me he was up to nothing.”

  Bohun hardly liked to point out that if there was plenty of poison in the house it seemed a waste of time to go all the way up to London to buy more. But Rix was beyond such considerations. He was also more than a little drunk.

  “Have you any idea,” he said, “why Morgan should want to do that?”

  “Of course,” said Rix. “You know it as well as I do. Mallet had left him five thousand under his will. He was going to change it when Rachel married me. Morgan was afraid he’d get left out of the new one. I needn’t tell you.”

  “Er—no,” said Bohun. He had Mr. Mallet’s will in his pocket and was reasonably familiar with its contents. “Well, I think perhaps you ought to be rather careful about saying things like that to anyone—”

  “I wouldn’t say them to anyone,” agreed Rix handsomely. “After all, you’re just a bloody lawyer. You’re paid to have things said to you.”

  “Quite so,” said Bohun. It was a view of his professional duties which had been expressed to him before, though never quite so bluntly. He went upstairs to find the doctor.

  Dr. Runcorn was just finishing. He was a dignified little sheep with a respectable crown of smooth, white hair, and muddy grey eyes. He shook Bohun’s hand and said, “I’m glad you’ve come. The lawyer takes on where the doctor leaves off. Very sad, a busy man like him. But businessmen often go that way.”

  “It was the stroke, then.”

  “A recurrence of the stroke, yes.”

  That seemed to be that.

  Bohun said, “I know nothing about strokes, of course, but I saw him two days ago and he seemed so alert and vigorous.”

  “Vigorous enough in mind,” said the doctor. “That’s often the way. It attacks the body first.”

  “He seemed comparatively vigorous in body, too.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” said Dr. Runcorn. “I saw him myself on – let me see – Monday morning, and he was completely paralysed. He could only move his head and neck.”

  “Then he’d made a remarkable recovery,” said Bohun. “When we were discussing business on Tuesday afternoon he sat up without apparent effort, handled the various papers extremely vigorously and generally behaved like a man who was perfectly well, but happened to be taking a day’s rest in bed.”

  “Did you see him out of bed?”

  “Well – no.”

  “You’re quite sure you’re not exaggerating his other movements?”

  “I’m not in the habit of exaggerating,” said Bohun.

  “Well, it’s very remarkable. But, then, nature is remarkable. It is of academic interest now, poor fellow.”

  “There was more to it than that,” said Bohun steadily. “Once or twice in the course of our conversation he suggested that the whole of his illness was a sham. Something intended to deceive his children.”

  Dr. Runcorn went very red and his mouth tightened disagreeably.

  “Am I to understand that you are suggesting that he deceived his medical adviser, too?”

  “Well, it would be possible, wouldn’t it? Who’s to know? A man says to you, ‘I’ve had a stroke. My mind is quite clear but my body won’t move.’ There’s nothing to show, is there? Or is there?”

  “There can be certain secondary symptoms—”

  “Were these present in Mallet’s case?”

  “To a limited degree. But I’m afraid I cannot see where this is taking us. Are you suggesting that he is not dead now?”

  “No,” said Bohun softly, looking at the sheeted figure on the bed. “No. That is a fact that I think we will have to accept.”

  “Then what do you suggest, pray?”

  “Perhaps a further examination into the cause of death.”

  “I have made my examination.”

  “Then I suggest a second opinion.”

  “And your authority for making the suggestion?”

  “The lawyer,” said Bohun unkindly, “takes on where the doctor leaves off. I act for the sole executor – who happens to be my partner. I will obtain his written directions if you insist.”

  Dr. Runcorn went white. “Really,” he said. “I think you are making a mountain out of a molehill. You realise, I hope, what you are doing. Perhaps you would like the police in the house as well—”

  The door crashed open. The noise and urgency of it made both men jump. It was Major Rix. He looked almost sober.

  “Morg
an’s been shot,” he said. “I just found him in the spinney at the back of the house.”

  “Well, now,” said Inspector Franks patiently, “and where do you come into this?”

  Bohun told him where he came in.

  Inspector Franks spelled his name out carefully, and said, “It’s a long shot, but you wouldn’t by any chance happen to know a Superintendent Hazlerigg?”

  “Yes. He was a Chief Inspector when I knew him.”

  “Then you’re the chap who doesn’t go to sleep?”

  “The eye that never closes,” agreed Bohun.

  “Ah,” said Inspector Franks. He thought for a minute, and then said, “I expect it’ll be a help to me, having an independent inside view, as you might say. If you’ve no objection.”

  “None at all,” said Bohun. “But don’t expect too much. I’ve known Mallet for some time, but I only met Rachel when I came down on Tuesday – and I actually saw Norman for the first time this morning.”

  “Norman and Rachel,” said Franks. “Those would be the only children?” He turned back the pages of his book. “I’ve seen both of them, but I couldn’t make much out of them. Both a bit young for their age, I thought.”

  “Retarded adolescence,” agreed Bohun. “Stern parent. Not much contact with the outside world. Norman keeps foxes and badgers. Rachel brews herbs.”

  “Well now,” said Franks. “Herbs?”

  “Just before we go on with this,” said Bohun, “there’s a point I’d like to be quite clear on. Which death are you investigating?”

  “Both, at the moment,” said Franks. “Morgan could be suicide – but I don’t think it is. Mallet could be natural causes. I’m keeping an open mind about that.”

  “Have you got someone doing the necessary?”

  “Police surgeon. Yes. He won’t miss much.”

  “Good,” said Bohun. “As long as that’s settled.”

  “I’ve got one or two other people to see. Perhaps you’d like to listen in. Representing the next of kin.”

  “That’s very good of you,” said Bohun, trying to conceal his surprise. It occurred to him that Hazlerigg must have given him an exceptionally good ticket.

  The middle-aged maid came. Her name was Placket.

  “Such a good master,” she said, “and such a kind father.”