Dead In The Morning

by Margaret Yorke

  “I have spoken to each of you individually about your movements on Saturday night,” he went on. “Most of you I saw straight away on Sunday, or on the following day; Mr Martin Ludlow I met this afternoon. I have taken no statement, however, from Mr Timothy Ludlow. You,” he added, speaking to Tim directly, “did not return from your holiday until Saturday evening. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right, Inspector,” Betty chipped in.

  “Please let your son speak for himself, Mrs Ludlow,” said the Inspector, but he did not wait for Timothy to answer. “I have here copies of the statements you have all made and signed concerning the last hours of Mrs Mackenzie and the whereabouts of you all at that time. Now, some of you may be puzzled about the nature of these inquiries, so I will just go over what happened, as far as we know it.

  “On Saturday night Mrs Ludlow senior took dinner in bed. This was quite usual, I understand?” Here he paused, and looked at Phyllis.

  “My mother often has a tray in bed when she is tired,” said Phyllis.

  “That night it would be reasonable for everyone to assume that Mrs Ludlow would be tired, for the previous day had been strenuous, with the excitement of a family party,” said the Inspector, and he bowed towards Helen, who remained motionless. “It would therefore have been surprising if Mrs Ludlow had not gone to bed for dinner on Saturday night.”

  He looked round again, and there were nods from Betty and from Phyllis confirming that this was a fair assumption.

  “Now, Mrs Medhurst, may we hear from you, please, how Mrs Ludlow’s meal was served to her that night?” asked the Inspector.

  “I took it up to her, on a tray,” said Phyllis.

  “Course by course, as she was ready, or how?”

  “No, all at once. There was cold soup, chicken fricassee, and her pudding.”

  “You mean the hot dish was served together with the rest?”

  “Yes. My mother has a special plate with a container below it for hot water, to keep her food warm. It irritates her to have someone coming in and out while she is eating, and perhaps finding her not ready for the next course. My mother is very independent, Inspector; she likes to set her own pace and she enjoys her food.”

  “I see. And so the sweet course was on the tray too, when you took it up?”

  “That is so.”

  “And you served it, Mrs Medhurst?”

  “Yes. I cut up the pie in the kitchen some time earlier. Cathy and I wanted to have our meal promptly because we were coming down here to spend the evening,” Phyllis said.

  “So there was a period of time in which a piece of pie clearly intended for Mrs Ludlow was set aside from the rest, in the kitchen ?”

  “A short time, yes.”

  “And who could have known that, besides yourself?”

  “Anyone who was in the house. In this case, only my niece and Mrs Mackenzie. We always do it like this when the pudding is a cold one. All the family knows that mother’s helping is prepared first,” said Phyllis. “Often, if it’s trifle or a mousse, or something of that kind, it’s made in a separate glass.”

  “So that if anyone called at the house in the short time between your dividing of the pie, and when you took the tray up to your mother, they would have known where to find your mother’s portion?”

  “Yes, if anyone called,” said Phyllis.

  “And you went up the staircase with the tray, or did you go in the lift?”

  “I used the stairs.”

  “I see. Thank you. Now, Mr Ludlow.” Inspector Foster turned to Derek. “I put it to you that you called on your mother on Saturday evening,” he said.

  Derek stiffened in his seat and stared fiercely back at the Inspector. “Certainly not,” he said at once. “I was at home all the evening.” Inspector Foster turned to a paper that he held in his hand. “Before you say anything more, Mr Ludlow, I must tell you that you were seen arriving at Pantons at a quarter to seven that evening, and were observed leaving again twenty minutes later.” There was silence. Everyone gaped at Derek, and Betty gave a little moan.

  “That Bludgen woman!” Derek exploded. “She does nothing but watch her window all day long.”

  “Mr Ludlow, would you care to change your remark about visiting Pantons on Saturday evening?” the Inspector asked in a mild voice.

  “I did come up. I just popped in to see mother for a few minutes,” Derek said, very red in the face now.

  “And will you tell us why you called?” asked the Inspector smoothly.

  “No, I won’t! It’s none of your damned business,” Derek said.

  “Mr Ludlow, I suggest that you wanted your mother to lend or give you a considerable sum of money, and that she refused,” said the Inspector. “Think, before you reply.” He waited, pencil in the air, like the conductor of an orchestra with his baton raised, while Derek gasped and spluttered, and finally subsided.

  “I don’t know how you’ve found out, but it’s true,” he said at last.

  Betty uttered a small cry. She stared from her husband to Tim, appalled, and at Martin, then back to Derek once again.

  “And did your mother consent to your request?”

  “She did not,” said Derek heavily. “I expect you’ve already asked her.”

  “No. I have been hoping to spare Mrs Ludlow from too much distress,” said the Inspector. “Will you tell us why you wanted the money?”

  “I’m sure you already know the answer to that,” said Derek, with heavy irony.

  “I should like to hear it from you, sir, if you please,” said the Inspector.

  “I’m not obliged to tell you,” Derek said, fiery again. “I should consult my solicitor first.”

  “Very well.” Inspector Foster inclined his head. “As you wish. Nevertheless, you admit that you visited your mother on Saturday evening?”

  The atmosphere in the room had altered during this interchange. Everyone was looking now at Derek. Gerald sat forward, tense, and Phyllis gripped the arms of her chair. Martin and Tim looked shocked, and their mother covered her face with her hand. Helen, solemn-faced, gazed at Derek for a brief instant and then glanced away.

  “I admit it,” Derek said. “But I didn’t go fiddling about with her supper tray, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Derek, don’t lose your temper,” Phyllis warned.

  “I object to all this nosey-parkering,” Derek stormed.

  “So do we all, but we must put up with it till this thing’s sorted out,” said Phyllis.

  “Very wise, Mrs Medhurst,” said the Inspector. He turned to Derek again. “Now sir, be calm, please. Whom did you see at Pantons that night, apart from your mother?”

  Derek seemed about to explode again, but he thought better of it, and answered with an attempt at calmness.

  “No one. I could hear my sister and Mrs Mackenzie talking in the kitchen. I didn’t see Cathy, but the wireless was on in her room. I expect she was in there,” Derek said. “I slipped in and out quietly. I didn’t want to be long, nor to explain why I had come. I left my car down the drive.”

  “You left yours down there too, hidden among the bushes, didn’t you, sir?” the Inspector now said, turning to Martin, who had been watching his father in a horrified way during this conversation. “Will you account for your presence at Pantons that night, please?”

  Martin nodded glumly.

  “It’s a long story,” he said. “Put briefly, I’d been gambling pretty heavily and lost. I owe about two thousand pounds.”

  “Martin!” This from Betty.

  “You may as well know it all. I was afraid of losing Sandra. She’d met a chap who was loaded. I won a bit at first, but then there came a landslide,” Martin said.

  “You saw your grandmother and she refused to lend you any money?” said the Inspector.

  “Exactly. She said she’d given us a generous wedding present to help buy the house, which was true, and we couldn’t expect any more.”

  “And what time did you
call?”

  “I’m sure the redoubtable Mrs Bludgen has told you that,” said Martin. “I arrived at about twenty past seven.” He looked at his father. “We must have just missed each other,” he added, with a faint smile.

  “But you did not leave until nine-fifteen,” said the Inspector. “Why was that?”

  “I didn’t go to see Grandmother straight away. I walked about in the garden for ages, trying to think of some other way to get the money,” Martin said. “But I’d already tried everything else. The house is fully mortgaged as it is.”

  “So both you, Mr Martin Ludlow, and you, Mr Derek Ludlow, had the opportunity and the motive to take some capsules from the parcel in the hall, and secrete the powder they contained in the slice of pie prepared for Mrs Ludlow senior,” said the Inspector.

  “How could they, Inspector?” Gerald burst out. “Do you mean to say that either my brother or my nephew went into the kitchen and under the nose of Mrs Mackenzie introduced sleeping pills into some food? Impossible.”

  “Mrs Mackenzie may have left the kitchen briefly,” said the Inspector. “The murderer had only to wait for that to happen, hiding in the lift, perhaps. If the capsules were opened and the powder taken out of the gelatine containers, it would not have taken long to insert it in the meringue part of the pie. Any spilt powder would resemble sugar.”

  Tim sat up and seemed about to speak, but Martin intervened.

  “Well, which of us was it, Inspector? Who’s your fancy? My father or me? Take your choice,” he said.

  “Oh Martin, stop it,” Phyllis said. “This is nonsense. Of course you didn’t do it, and nor did Derek.”

  “You’re sure of that, are you, Mrs Medhurst?” asked the Inspector. “Why?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Derek is my brother. I know him,” Phyllis said. “And I’ve known Martin since he was a baby. It’s impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible. You may think it unlikely, but I have demonstrated that both Mr Ludlow and his son had the motive and the opportunity to arrange this crime,” said the Inspector. “There was, however, someone else with equal motive, and far better opportunity.” Here he paused, and looked at Phyllis, who returned his gaze steadily.

  “Mrs Medhurst, you have declared that neither your nephew nor your brother did this thing. Are you so convinced of this because in fact you know who did it? Because you did it yourself?”

  “Inspector, no! I protest!” cried Gerald, starting forward. “You go too far.”

  “No, Gerald.” Phyllis held up her hand. “Don’t stop the Inspector. I think we must hear what he has to say.”

  She sat back in her chair, her hands clasping its arms and her legs neatly crossed at the ankle. Though she looked relaxed, her whole body was taut. Derek, now that the immediate attack had moved from him, became slightly less red in the face but he looked at the Inspector as though he spoke in a foreign language, so alien did his theorising seem. Betty had almost abandoned hope of following what was said; she sat in her little chair plucking at her skirt with her fingers and occasionally glancing round at the others. Tim had stopped biting his nails; he looked white and shocked. Martin watched the Inspector intently; once, he looked at the clock that stood on the mantelpiece and was amazed to find that it was already nine o’clock. Helen sat twisting the sapphire and diamond ring she wore on her left hand; she looked at Phyllis. In the background Sergeant Smithers seized the chance of a lull in the talk to look up from his notebook and cast a quick glance round the room.

  “Mrs Medhurst,” the Inspector resumed. “It’s true to say, is it not, that your mother treats you with some lack of sympathy?”

  “My mother is old, crippled, and often in pain, Inspector. She does not mean to be unkind,” said Phyllis sharply.

  “But if you wished to marry again, your mother would object?”

  Now everyone stared at Phyllis; their faces, except for Helen’s, clearly revealed that such a possibility was outside their wildest speculations.

  “If such a position arose, my mother would certainly try to prevent it,” Derek mumbled at last, when it was obvious that his sister either would not, or could not speak. He cleared his throat. “The way she treats Phyllis - my sister - is disgraceful, and we have been very much at fault in allowing it to happen.”

  Phyllis found her tongue. “Derek, why bother to reply to such a stupid question?” she said. “This whole discussion seems to be entirely made of ‘ifs’.”

  Inspector Foster consulted a paper in his hand.

  “Yesterday morning, Mrs Medhurst, you had coffee at the Cobweb Cafe in Fennersham with a Mr Maurice Richards, of Number Five, The Drive, Fennersham,” he said. “You meet this gentleman for tea each Friday afternoon at the same cafe, and last winter you both attended art classes at the Fennersham Evening Institute. You meet him for coffee on Wednesday mornings when you do your weekly shopping, and you have visited his residence on a number of occasions. Do you deny this?”

  Phyllis was now a fiery red.

  “That is perfectly true, Inspector,” she said, and her hands were tight on the arms of her chair. “But it hardly constitutes a romance.”

  Her dignity was impressive.

  “I put it to you, Mrs Medhurst, that you wish to marry Mr Richards. If you were to do so, depriving your mother of your services, she might cut you out of her will, and this would be a matter for resentment after so many years of care. You would naturally prefer your share of her fortune rather than live merely on a bank manager’s pension. And so would Mr Richards.”

  “Inspector, I refuse to listen to this any longer,” Gerald exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I agreed to this meeting in my house because you insisted, and I hoped it might be constructive in some way. But all you have done is to accuse my brother, my nephew, and now my sister of the basest cupidity. My sister is an honourable woman; perhaps you don’t meet many of them in your profession. She looks after our mother out of regard for her high sense of duty. She is incapable of the twisted thinking you impute to her.”

  “I’m sure we all appreciate your family loyalty, Mr Ludlow,” said the Inspector. “But affection blinds the judgement, very often. The facts speak for themselves. Mrs Medhurst had a strong motive; she had ample opportunity. And she fetched the pills from the chemist’s shop, leaving them in the hall in a careless manner that was unusual for her. By leaving them where others could have found them she hoped to confuse the issue. She was, of course, aware that other members of the family had their troubles too.”

  “Inspector, you’re wrong.” Tim was on his feet now. “Aunt Phyllis wouldn’t do a thing like that. You don’t know everything.” He ran his fingers wildly through his hair. “I was here that night, too,” he began desperately, and Phyllis interrupted.

  “Shut up, Tim,” she said peremptorily.

  “Yes, shut up, Tim,” said a brisk new voice.

  Tim, startled, turned towards the door, and even the Inspector now looked taken aback as into the room came Patrick Grant. He was followed by a pale young man with a haggard expression.

  “Forgive me, Inspector, for intruding on your conference,” Patrick began. “But it’s justified. As most of you know, this is Mr Alec Mackenzie, whose mother’s death is the reason for your presence here tonight.”

  He crossed the room, followed by the young man, and stopped in front of Helen, who rose slowly from the sofa where she had been sitting.

  “Mrs Ludlow, you have not met Mr Mackenzie,” he said. “Mackenzie, this is Mrs Gerald Ludlow.”

  Helen said nothing. Her face was grey. Gerald stood beside her, his bulk against her shoulder. Martin, watching, saw their hands meet. No one spoke.

  “Dr Grant, I must ask you to leave us,” Inspector Foster said angrily.

  Patrick turned to him.

  “I am here because I have something relevant to tell you, Inspector,” he said. “I am sure you have been describing very capably what may have happened last Saturday night when Mrs Joyce Mackenzie unfortuna
tely swallowed a quantity of sodium amytal, and died. You are doubtless convinced, as I confess I was myself at first, that the pills were intended for Mrs Ludlow senior. The lady possesses a considerable fortune, and sees no reason why her children or grandchildren should receive any part of it before she dies, however much they might need a sum of money now.”

  As he spoke, Patrick had somehow edged the Inspector away from his position in the centre of the hearth and taken up this place himself. Inspector Foster now stood slightly to one side of him, wearing an outraged expression on his face yet unable to halt the flow of speech. Sergeant Smithers, scribbling fast, longed for a second pair of eyes so as to observe the scene.

  Patrick pressed on, giving no one a chance to interrupt him; he had the initial advantage of surprise. Gerald, who had expected after their words on the telephone to see him earlier, had by now forgotten all about him.

  “Several members of the Ludlow family are in financial or other difficulties,” Patrick said. “Mrs Ludlow senior is not the gentlest of matriarchs, and doubtless few tears would be shed were she to die peacefully. On Saturday night, for some reason, she did not eat her pudding. Mrs Mackenzie was well known to possess a sweet tooth and an inability to resist eating up any tit-bits that are left over. Accordingly she finished Mrs Ludlow’s pudding, and she died.”

  Now Patrick took a step backwards so that he might subject the Inspector to the regard that had quelled many an unruly undergraduate.

  “Inspector, I put it to you that the matter of the pudding is merely a coincidence, because the victim all along was intended to be Mrs Mackenzie,” he said.

  There was a gasp in the room.

  “Dr Grant, I protest—” the Inspector began, but Patrick went on talking as if he had not uttered.

  “The pills may have been in the whisky that Mrs Mackenzie drank. The murderer could have cleared up such evidence easily enough before the police arrived on Sunday morning,” he said.

  As the Inspector tried once again to stop him, Patrick raised a hand.