Murder of a Martinet

by E. C. R. Lorac

  The funeral was to be at midday. At eleven o’clock Macdonald stood in the echoing entrance hall of the Northern Hospital and met Colonel Farrington, when the latter came down from seeing Peter. The old man looked grey and tired, but he did not seem surprised to see Macdonald.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector. I’ve just seen the boy. He’s pretty sick, but they’re satisfied with the progress he’s making. He’ll get over it all right. I’ve just had a few words with him and set his mind at rest. He was worrying, you know. Ah. you’ve got a taxi. Very kind of you, very kind indeed. This is a dreary neighbourhood, isn’t it? I’m sorry for the folks who’ve lived all their lives in streets like this.”

  He got in the taxi, and when Macdonald was seated beside him, the Colonel went on: “I keep on being reminded of the days when the children all had measles or whooping cough or something. Madge generally started the epidemic, and then they all got it. It was the other way round this time: started with the youngest. Peter got in a panic and then Paula. Curious how panic is contagious. You’ll have noticed that, I expect?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen it happen,” replied Macdonald.

  “We’re through the bad patch now,” said the Colonel, “Whatever it was, they’ve faced it and realised how foolish they’ve been. I’m still a bit worried over Madge, though. She’s been so quiet and steady, but all this worry and upset’s taken it out of her. She ought to go away for a bit—get right away from it all. She tells me she’s going to that funeral—poor Pinks. D’you think that’s wise? Very tiring things, funerals.”

  “I don’t know if it’s wise, sir, but I don’t think anybody has the right to prevent her going.”

  “Quite, quite. She’s been very good to them all. But she does need a rest. If I could get Paula away for a bit, too, it’d make things easier for Madge. There’s a cousin of mine in Sussex—a kindly, comfortable soul—she’d have Paula for a bit. But I mustn’t bother you with all these family arrangements. You’ve got enough to think about without all that. I hear you went and looked old Preston up. Amazing the trouble you fellows take. Every detail accounted for.”

  “Preston was away when I called. He’d gone up to Lancashire to see his people. They live in Bolton, I’m told.”

  “Bolton. That’s it. One of those industrial towns, isn’t it? I’m glad the old chap got away. He’s been talking about going there for a long time He’s a good old chap. Did you near how long he was staying?”

  “Quite a short time, I believe. One of the local police went and had a word with him.”

  “Ah, yes, you all work in together, don’t you? Wonderful organisation. I hope the old chap wasn’t put out. They’re very touchy about the police. You can’t make them see sense on that point. They regard it as a disgrace even to be asked to give evidence.”

  “I think the majority of policemen are very considerate fellows. It’s only very occasionally you get the hectoring type They’re not encouraged by the Chief Constables of today.” “Quite right, quite right. It’s the same in the Army; much more humanity in the system today,” said the Colonel. “It’s been a privilege to see you chaps at work. Chief Inspector. I was a bit worried at first; so many implications, y’know. Might have gone wrong. All this about Madge. I’m not very happy in my mind about her going to that funeral. Very trying things, funerals. And she’s tired, you know. Not really fit for a strain of that kind. D’you think I ought to go with her? She said not, and I don’t like to insist.”

  “There’s no need for you to go. sir. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Ah . . . you’ll be going yourself. That’s a great relief to me. I know you’ll see she’s all right. Ah, here we are, back in Regent’s Park again. It’s a pleasant neighbourhood. I like the trees. Always say you can’t beat London trees. I’ve lived here for thirty years. Got to know it well. Those lime trees now . . . and the hawthorns just budding. I’ve enjoyed this drive, Chief Inspector. On my soul I have. No month like March . . .”

  3

  It was a very small funeral cortege. Mrs. Pinks had refused to let the children go. “I don’t care what you say or what you thinks,” she declared firmly to her sister-in-law. “Funerals is no things for kids to go to. They can stop at home and see the kettle’s boiling, and ’ave a nice cuppa ready for us. ’Am I couldn’t get, but I’ve made some nice sandwiches out of that box tongue the butcher let me ’ave. Very nice and respectful ’e was. And ’Enery did love a nice bit of box tongue.”

  So it was Mrs. Pinks. Miss Pinks, and Mrs. Walter Pinks who drove to the cemetery, to be joined by Madge Farrington, dressed in her new black coat and a little black hat set jauntily above her white face and haunted eyes. Together they stood by the gaunt gaping grave, in a huge cemetery where daffodils strove to nod despite the London soot. The March wind fluttered the chaplain’s white surplice and the black crepe which Mrs. Pinks had borrowed from a neighbour. and for a brief moment the passing of Henry Pinks was invested with the classic dignity of age-old formula and rite. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The earth rattled on the lowered coffin, and Madge, dry-eyed, stood with her arm round the charwoman’s heaving shoulders and stared down into the rectangular space cut in the London clay.

  Macdonald had said: “You can go to this funeral by yourself, as you wish to go.” And he kept his word. He saw Madge’s taxi arrive at the cemetery, driven by a driver with a very familiar face. He saw her go into the chapel and emerge following the coffin to the grave, but he kept his distance. Madge had once said, “There are some things I will not do,” and Macdonald was certain that whatever she purposed to do later, she would not mar the decorum of Henry Pinks’ moment of dignity. She had been well trained in decorum, for whatever the late Mrs. Farrington had been, she had certainly been a lady, and Madge had been brought up by Mrs. Farrington.

  Concealed near the gatehouse of the cemetery after the funeral was over, Macdonald heard Mrs. Pinks beg Madge to come back to join the party in tea and sandwiches.

  “No, I won’t come back, Mrs. Pinks, dear; Father will be wanting me at home.” said Madge. “It all went off beautifully, and the flowers are lovely.”

  “Not ’arf posh, that wreath you sent, duckie,” said Mrs. Pinks. “ ’Enery would’ve loved that wreath, ’e did like them lilies—but you shouldn’t ’a spent all that . . .”

  The hired car drove off. with the Pinks family drying their eyes, sensibly prepared to enjoy the rare luxury of a motor drive, and Madge walked out of the cemetery gates alone. Her taxi driver, parked by the gates, called to her, “Taxi, miss, drive you home again?” but she did not turn her head. Macdonald nodded to the man as he passed the taxi, and then followed Madge. He had his own guess as to what she would do. She walked steadily along to the main road and made her way deliberately through the crowd glancing neither to left nor right, and certainly never looking behind her. At Highgate Tube Station she turned in to the booking hall and took a ticket to Goodge Street, still calm and unhurried. Macdonald was only a few steps behind her on the escalator. When she reached the platform she turned towards the rear and stood facing the tunnel whence the train would emerge. She stood perfectly still, close to the edge of the platform, and from far away came the sound of the approaching train. The sound increased in intensity, from a rumble to a muffled roar, and then in an earsplitting crescendo the train emerged from the tunnel.

  It was then that Macdonald caught Madge, picking her up as he would have lifted a child, swinging her to the back of the platform just as she tried to fling herself under the train. He saw the face of the driver in the cab. heard the screech of the brakes which drowned Madge’s scream as he heaved her back into safety, and then felt the sting of her hand as she slapped his face like a child in a fury.

  “Let me go,” she shrieked at him. “Let me go. I killed her. You know I killed her. What do you want to hang me for? Can’t I end it my own way? Let me go!”

  Macdonald caught her hands and held them down, .shaking the rigid body. “You didn’t kil
l her, and I know you didn’t kill her. Nobody’s going to hang you, because you didn’t do it. You’ve done your best, but .it’s no good. You can’t settle things like this. Now’ be quiet, and for goodness’ sake show’ a little common sense. I’m very sorry, but you can’t do things like that.”

  She flopped suddenly, the crazy energy of her struggle collapsing into limp inertia. Macdonald lifted her onto a seat against the wall as a tube attendant came up.

  “I saw you catch her. They’re always doing it. Makes me mad. Never think of the driver, do they?”

  “No. I don’t think they do,” agreed Macdonald. “All right. I’m a C.I.D. man. I’ll see to this.”

  “Rather you than me. Gives me the proper pip, they do,” said the other disgustedly. “Think about the driver, that’s what I say.”

  4

  It was about half an hour later that Macdonald reached Windermere House again and Reeves admitted him into the silent hall. One glance at Reeves’ face was enough to warn Macdonald of what was coming.

  “He shot himself,” said Reeves. “I suppose I could have stopped him, but I let him out of sight for ten seconds and he didn’t waste them. If anybody’s to blame, blame me.”

  “Call it fifty-fifty,” said Macdonald dryly. “I should have hated to see him hanged, for all that he murdered his wife quite deliberately. What happened?”

  He was quite cheerful and normal when you brought him back. Asked me if I’d join him in a cup of tea for elevenses, and down we went to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and told me where the tea was, and while we were waiting for the kettle to boil he said: ‘By Jove, I forgot to clean my shoes this morning. Never go out without cleaning my shoes.’ He got a box out of the kitchen cupboard with shoebrushes and whatnots in it and started polishing his shoes. He asked me to make the tea when the kettle boiled, and I’d just got hold of the kettle when he shot himself. He’d hidden his gun under the dusters in the boot box. His confession was in a big envelope sticking out of his jacket pocket—here it is. T’s crossed and I’s dotted. And a vote of thanks to you and me for being so considerate. That’s a new one on me, Chief.”

  “On me. too,” said Macdonald. “It beats me how a man like that could screw himself up to murder.”

  “He’d got a limited mind,” said Reeves slowly. “He could be driven so far and no farther, and the old lady just drove him too far when she began to bully Madge back into being a mental case.”

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. You’re quite right. He saw what was happening and he could only think of one way out of it. And his chief mistake was in giving old Dr. Baring too large a whisky, and he probably did that out of sheer kindheartedness!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  “A CURIOUS case,” observed the Assistant Commissioner when Chief Inspector Macdonald made his report on the Farrington case.

  “And an unexpectedly interesting one, sir.” rejoined Macdonald. “To my mind, there was never any doubt at all as to who was responsible for Mrs. Farrington’s death, but the ‘build-up.’ the accumulation of detail concerning human behaviour, made it much more interesting than many of the more spectacular cases we’ve had.”

  The A.C. pushed his chair back to a more comfortable angle after a glance at the clock. “I’ve got half an hour, or if I haven’t I propose to take it,” he said; “so lay on. I find your details interesting, Macdonald, and I’m always game for an argument.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much room for argument, sir,” responded Macdonald, a smile lighting his eyes. “Here was the setup, as I saw it through the evidence of those who lived or worked in that house: first Madge, then the charwoman, then Paula, then Anne Strange and her husband. It was these who provided the evidence which they sought, desperately, to conceal.”

  “You think they guessed?” asked the A.C.

  “Yes, I’m sure of it. Madge knew all the time. Paula tumbled to it. Mrs. Pinks knew. Anne Strange guessed. Tony Strange tried to persuade himself—and me—otherwise, but he knew. The other married couple—the Duncans—were negligible, and Peter avoided trouble by an overdose of dope.” He paused and took a cigarette from the case the A.C. held out to him.

  “Deceased must have been a deplorable woman,” went on Macdonald. “She was selfish to an abnormal degree; she was possessive, dominating, and tyrannical. And mean with it. The old man must have had some sort of inkling of all this for years, but he was a peace-loving old chap. He made the best of her, until the worst obtruded itself so clearly that he felt he’d got to put a stop to it, not for his own sake, but for the children’s. He listed his reasons perfectly clearly in the document he left for us, beginning with Madge. Madge was his first-born child, the daughter of his first wife. Farrington married again chiefly in order to get a home and a mother for Madge. He was a kindly, simple, affectionate man, prepared to offer complete devotion to the woman whom he married. He never dreamt of criticising her, and she dominated him completely, so that he accepted her at her own estimate, as a self-sacrificing wife and mother to whom duty meant everything and self nothing. In my own view, this state of affairs might have gone on all their lives but for the upheaval of the war. Between 1940 and 1945, Edward Farrington was away from home, away from the domination of his wife, and he began to look at life from another angle. In other words, he began to think.”

  The A.C. nodded. “You obviously found him an interesting study. Macdonald.”

  “I did, sir; very interesting. He was a man with a strong sense of duty, also a sense of detail, but he was, as Reeves observed, very limited. He could see so far and no farther. Well, when he was demobilised and came back to live with his wife and family at Windermere House, the old comfortable days had gone—the days of a cook and three good maids. Madge was keeping house. The twins, whom he still thought of as school children, had developed into queer modern eccentrics, living a life of their own in the attics. Tony brought his wife to live at Windermere House, and Joyce brought her husband, and throughout the house, from kitchen to attics, tension grew. Everyone was unhappy—save Muriel. Everyone was embittered—save Muriel. She was the centre and focus point of discontent, and she was dominating Madge by the implied threat of proving that Madge was of unsound mind—bats, crackers, as Mrs. Pinks put it.”

  The A.C. moved irritably. “I see what you’re driving at. Macdonald, but damn it. the thing’s unreasonable. It’s plain stupid. Madge was a very competent woman. She could have walked out, couldn’t she?”

  “Certainly she could,” rejoined Macdonald; “but what I am trying to do is to reconstruct the situation from Farrington’s point of view. You say it was plain stupid. So was he, if you like to use those words. I prefer the word simple. Reeves prefers the word limited. They amount to very much the same thing.”

  “Have it your own way,” said the A.C., “but is Madge stupid?”

  “No. sir. she isn’t stupid, but she had been dominated and made wretched as a child, and she had had a very severe nervous breakdown. Madge resembles her father inasmuch as she also is limited in certain respects, particularly in her affections. She adored her father. She knew that if she did leave home her father would have a particularly poor time. It was improbable that any charwoman would put up with Mrs. Farrington for very long, and Madge foresaw that her father, when she left home, would gradually be forced into the role of head cook and bottle washer. Nevertheless, Madge had made up her mind to go. She had got a job, and she was going to America as nurse-companion. And that brings us to the state of affairs in the Farrington household on the Monday morning, when Mrs. Farrington came down to see Madge in the kitchen to ask for a dinner party for eight with all the family silver and glass, four courses, soup, fish, bird, and sweet—all to be cooked and served by Madge.”

  The Assistant Commissioner chuckled. “Give me all the details, I enjoy the details,” he murmured.

  “That projected dinner party proved to be the final detail, the last straw,” said Macdonald meditatively. Colonel Farrington had been consider
ing things for a long time. He saw Peter, who had been forced into a job which he loathed and for which he was totally unfitted, going to the bad steadily. He saw Paula lying and cheating to help her twin. He saw Anne Strange being discredited to her husband and growing increasingly bitter. He saw Philip Duncan in a financial mess. And above all, he saw Madge being jockeyed into the position of a mental defective. Tony Strange told the exact truth about the journal his mother kept, listing Madge’s departures from the normal. The book existed all right, and the Colonel knew all about it. He destroyed it, of course. He had read every word. To his simple mind, it was a dangerous document, it might cause Madge to be certified as insane. That was too much for the Colonel. Thinking the matter out carefully, he thought that if Muriel passed out painlessly—her heart was very weak, after all—he might help his demoralised family back to normal happiness. We have his own word for it that he had been considering this for some time. Now, before we get to the method he thought out, just consider the scene in the kitchen that Monday morning—when the Colonel stood outside the door and listened in to the conversation. He knew’ that Madge had got this American job and he was wholeheartedly delighted for her sake. He heard Mrs. Farrington say, ‘But, Madge, it’s impossible. The doctors would never sign the necessary papers . . . you would never be allowed to go to America.’ And the Colonel said to himself, ‘This thing has got to stop and I am going to stop it.’ ”

  2

  “Now, with regard to the method,” went on Macdonald. “The Colonel, like many men of his type, took a vague interest in diseases and medical matters. He talked to Mrs. Pinks and knew about her husband’s diabetes. He talked to Madge and learnt about the properties of insulin and its use in inducing a state of coma for nerve cases. He doubtless talked to Baring, who had suggested a course of inoculation for Mrs. Farrington’s colds. This last point is particularly interesting, because it shows a vein of real cunning in the old man’s make-up. Every time he mentioned those inoculations to me he spoke of the idea with extreme reprobation. But Baring had actually shown the Colonel himself how to give an injection. Madge knew this, though nothing would have induced her to tell me so until after her father’s death. Muriel was so sensitive to pain, she felt it less if her husband gave the injection.”