‘I appreciated your quick thinking and speedy action in the Varieties yesterday.’
‘How is Mrs Lister?’
‘Ah, so you weren’t given information when you called at the infirmary just now.’
‘No.’
It is a waste of time to dislike people. They are as they are and nothing can be done about it. Still, here was a person I disliked. In spite of Mrs Sugden’s assertions to the contrary, I believed the feeling was mutual. At present, having his titbit of information about the cigar, he was in the ascendancy.
‘What I tell you will be in confidence, Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Very well.’
‘Beryl Lister is under guard in a private room in the infirmary. As soon as she is able to talk to us she will be interviewed.’
This was typical of him, to treat a patient as a suspect or criminal. At that moment, I didn’t dislike him, I loathed him.
‘How is she? Is she making a recovery?’
‘I understand that the prognosis is good.’
‘Then why can’t she speak?’
‘Oh, she can speak, but she won’t. Nor will she eat or drink.’
‘But that’s terrible. What’s gone wrong with the nursing that she is in such a state?’
‘The nursing is exemplary. Thank you for your professional interest.’
The man was not just annoying. He was totally exasperating. I decided to follow Beryl Lister’s example and say nothing. I waited.
He waited.
I waited.
Eyeing up the big glass ashtray, I wondered whether anyone had been tempted to hit him with it and to watch the tab ends cascade over his slightly pointed head.
He gave in. ‘She has spoken only to ask if she may see Miss Selina Fellini.’
‘Then let her see Selina.’
‘She will see no one until she has given a statement.’
‘Or starved to death. I thought we had come beyond such treatment of prisoners?’
‘She is not a prisoner.’
‘Oh, excuse me. That is what it sounds like.’
He clasped his hands and leaned back in his chair. ‘We are protecting her for her own safety. Either she tried to commit suicide, or someone else is responsible for attempted murder. Even you must understand why she must not speak to anyone else before she gives a statement.’
‘Then she is afraid, and weak. What good will come of treating her like a criminal when someone attempted to kill her?’
‘We cannot rule out the possibility of charging her with attempted suicide. She knows that.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. Nobody sits down with a cup of tea to hem a dress and then turns on the gas.’
He nodded. ‘I am inclined to agree with you, not least because you were the one who spotted the cup of tea when you removed Mrs Lister from the room. You were correct in guessing that the tea was disposed of in the glass vase. It had been laced with a powerful sedative that she might have tasted had the tea not been so sweet.’
‘So there is no question of suicide. Someone came in, disposed of the tea and removed the cup.’
‘People intent on taking their own life have been known to enlist assistance in that act.’
‘So what do you intend to do, and why are you confiding in me?’
‘I am considering allowing Miss Fellini to visit Mrs Lister, but on one condition.’
‘And what is that condition?’
‘I want you to accompany Miss Fellini, and tell me what passes between them.’
I looked beyond him through the high window. The sky was grey with city smoke. ‘That would be a betrayal of trust.’
‘Yes, and it might help us find a murderer, or an accomplice in the act of attempted suicide.’
‘I came in here expecting to give you a statement about the cigar.’
‘Ah yes, the cigar.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Tell me about the cigar. Don’t hurry. Mrs Lister has only been refusing food and drink for about sixteen hours. No harm will come to her. Yet. I suppose there is always a possibility that the guilty party might bribe a hospital nurse or porter to find out what room she is in, and to look for an opportune moment to pay a visit. It has been known. But do tell me about the cigar.’
‘You don’t want to know, do you? Yesterday you asked me for a statement.’
He picked up a smooth shiny pebble that doubled as a paperweight. ‘Orders came from on high to make the day of the eclipse as great a success as possible. There is justifiable pride and celebration of the orderly way in which the public conducted themselves.’ He straightened the papers on his desk and looked down at the first page. ‘Ten thousand people arrived by train. There were two thousand five hundred cars and one hundred and fifteen coaches. Eleven thousand two hundred and forty people paid for admission to viewing areas. There was not a single spot of trouble, no arrests. It was an entirely good-natured and good-humoured affair, policed by just one hundred constables. The towns and villages are now back to normal, having prospered from the event. It is an example of everything that is good about this country.’
He waited. I said nothing, but a sinking feeling in my stomach told me where this was leading.
He continued. ‘This is not just a triumph for the country. It shows the world what we in Yorkshire can achieve. The Astronomer Royal, the national press, newsreel people, the broadcasters, members of Parliament. The prime minister himself said that it was the most magnificent and moving spectacle he has ever seen. That is the story.’
‘That is true, but it was somewhat overshadowed for me by Billy Moffatt’s death.’
‘Quite. I understand.’ He picked up another piece of paper. ‘I have the post mortem results on Mr Moffatt.’ He looked at the paper. ‘There was evidence of narcotics in his blood but not sufficient to have caused death. In layman’s terms, it was believed that he had consistently taken narcotics over a very long period, probably since his return from the Front. Finally that habit caught up with him. You might say he was a casualty of war.’
We sat in silence for a moment.
I had come here dreading making a statement regarding the cigar, and my suspicion that Billy had been poisoned. It seemed so unlikely and also unprovable. Now, here was Inspector Wallis telling me that he did not want me to make my statement because it would take the gloss off a successful day in the British calendar for 1927.
He should not have done that.
I do not care about glossy days on the calendar of history if that gloss hides the truth of a dastardly deed.
‘Inspector Wallis, I have reason to believe that Billy Moffatt was poisoned and that the method of poisoning was a cigar injected with cyanide. I do not know how he came by the cigar, but I do have a witness who conducted a test and came up with a positive result, as I told you yesterday.’
‘I see.’ He sighed. ‘Tell me again, who is this witness?’
‘His name is Alex McGregor, head boy of Giggleswick School. I persuaded him to go into the school lab and conduct a test.’
‘It won’t stand up.’
‘Perhaps Alex McGregor’s evidence would not but Mr Brownlaw’s would. You have not told me what Ernest Brownlaw’s analysis revealed.’
‘You realise that young Mr McGregor could be expelled?’
‘You’d see to that, would you?’
‘Of course not. I have no jurisdiction in that area. The time for calling in Scotland Yard without charge to the local force has passed. Inspector Huddleston is a man whom we all regard highly but he has no experience in handling a murder enquiry, particularly one where there is no evidence and the post mortem points to a contrary finding.’
‘So if Billy Moffatt was murdered, the perpetrator will go unpunished?’
‘I couldn’t comment on a hypothetical situation. Since Mr Moffatt was such an imbiber of substances, it is possible that there was something in the cigar – put there by himself.’
‘That is not a hypothetical situation, Inspector. Can you comment on Ernes
t Brownlaw’s findings?’
‘We have our own scientists who conduct such tests. Mr Brownlaw merely did his duty in reporting your request.’
‘Then what can you do, Inspector?’
‘I can try and discover what transpired yesterday in the dressing room at the City Varieties. Information about that may well link to the sad death of William Moffatt.’
‘So do you want my statement regarding Billy, or not?’
He smiled, slightly. ‘Of course. I shall have what you’ve told me typed and ready for your signature, and then I shall file it, for possible future reference. Now, what do you say to my suggestion that you and Miss Fellini visit Beryl Lister?’
Thirty-Two
The Flying Remington
Selina would either have gone to her own light and airy house near Roundhay Park, or stayed at Gledhow Lodge to keep an eye on Jarrod. I took the chance that she would have gone to Gledhow.
Mrs Compton answered the door herself. She seemed pleased to see me. ‘I’ve given the girl a few days off,’ she explained. ‘I don’t want her telling tales about Jarrod and his odd ways. I put a note through her door saying I felt a bad head coming on.’
I stepped into the hall. Marco was talking on the telephone. Not that I was listening but I heard the words delivery, and ice cream.
From upstairs came the tap tap of a typewriter. ‘Is that Jarrod?’ I asked.
Mrs Compton smiled. ‘He is busy typing his moving picture script and songs.’
Marco finished his telephone call. He began to tell me the story of the Buster Keaton picture they all went to see last night. Mrs Compton, who had not seen the picture but heard the story, hurried his tale along by jumping in with shortcuts until Marco gave up and went into the drawing room.
‘He’s using that room as an office.’ Mrs Compton led the way into the garden, saying that one of her rose bushes had come into bloom that morning. ‘It’s a hive of activity here today, just like the old days when my Reginald was alive.’
We paid homage to the new roses and then sat on the bench under the kitchen window.
‘Is Selina here, Mrs Compton?’
‘Yes. She stayed the night. She’s sleeping. I’ll give Selina her due. She’s not prepared to give up on Jarrod, though she must realise he would be happier here, in familiar surroundings.’
I passed on the information that Beryl had recovered.
‘Thank God you’ve had news. I telephoned the infirmary but of course they hate that. Told me the information would be on the board or in the paper. The man I spoke to didn’t have a hospital number for me. It was most frustrating.’
‘They have Beryl under police watch, until she has made a statement.’
‘That’s good.’
‘It would be, except that she refuses to speak to anyone but Selina. She won’t eat or drink until she sees her.’
‘Why not?’
‘I could make a guess, but I won’t. I’m allowed to accompany Selina.’
‘Then I’ll wake her now.’ She stood, and then paused. ‘You think Beryl won’t speak because she will incriminate someone?’
‘That is a possibility.’
‘Jarrod wouldn’t have harmed her. He must have been with us in the cellar when the accident happened. And he was here when we got back from the Verts.’
‘Yes he was.’ That was true, but of course he would have had time to come back to Gledhow Lodge on his motorcycle. She knew that. ‘Let us hear what Beryl has to say.’
‘She might be confused after her ordeal.’
‘We won’t know until we speak to her. Please wake Selina, Mrs Compton. Shall I do a slice of toast and a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’
We went back into the house. In the kitchen, I put a light under the kettle. Fortunately, Mrs Compton possessed a double-sided pop-up toaster so it would not take long to provide Selina with a bite to eat before we left the house.
Marco came in to talk to me, and to continue his praise of Buster Keaton and his scene by scene account of The General. He took over supervision of the toaster while I made tea.
‘How is Jarrod now?’ I asked, when Marco paused for breath.
‘When he types, he is calm.’
‘Is this the script and the songs that he left for Selina at the theatre?’
‘I don’t know, but Selina thinks it very good.’
Mrs Compton came back into the kitchen. ‘Selina will be down shortly. She’s very relieved to hear Beryl wants to see her.’
She might be less than delighted when she learned that I was under orders to report back to Inspector Wallis.
Marco put the toast and tea on a tray. ‘Make way, ladies! Let me give my sister her breakfast.’
Thus dismissed, Mrs Compton and I went back into the garden.
We sat down on the bench by the window.
‘Did Trotter speak to you about your question?’ she asked.
‘Yes. He telephoned me after we spoke last night.’ I avoided telling her that Mr Brockett had shown little enthusiasm for Jarrod’s moving picture plan. ‘He told me about his plan for a stage show, for Selina.’
‘It sounds tremendously exciting. Did he say much about it?’
‘No.’
‘Keep this under your hat, but it’s a lush romantic musical being written by an American composer, Milton Ager. It’s to be called Happy Days.’
‘Wouldn’t that get in the way of Jarrod’s plan to have a moving picture?’
‘Not at all! If Selina has a big success in the West End, she will be taken far more seriously by the moving picture men.’
At that moment there was a crash, so sudden that it was difficult to know where it came from, until a typewriter came flying through an upstairs window. Fortuitously, the window was open, and we were close enough to the house to be out of the typewriter’s trajectory.
Jarrod’s calm had not lasted. Fortunately the machine landed on a flowerbed, softening its fall but causing destruction to a blazing crowd of marigolds.
Mrs Compton stared at the typewriter, which still held a sheet of paper. ‘It was my husband’s. Jarrod will be very sorry when he’s himself again.’
I made a move to go back in the house. Mrs Compton put a hand on my arm. ‘Let Marco and Selina deal with it.’
‘What about the doctors, did Selina make any further contact?’
‘Yes. I’m forgetting what day it is.’
‘It’s Friday.’
‘Jarrod is to go London tomorrow, Saturday, with your airmen. Marco will go with him. The plane will set off from Soldiers Field. I don’t know where they’ll land in London but a car is booked to take Jarrod directly to the Maudsley Hospital.’
‘What about Selina?’
‘Marco persuaded her to keep her engagements, the Saturday matinée and evening performance. She will follow on Sunday.’
Sunday loomed a vast distance off. Anything might happen between now and then, or between now and Saturday if Inspector Wallis became suspicious about Jarrod. We walked slowly towards the dead typewriter and looked down at it, nestling among broken stems and petals. It would be too heavy to lift. Mrs Compton said quietly, ‘Do the police know Jarrod is here?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Then it may be better if he were not here.’
‘I’m inclined to agree, Mrs Compton. Marco and Selina will have their hands full, so shall we pick up the typewriter between us?’
‘I don’t see that we’ll manage.’
‘If you fetch a tablecloth, we can roll it onto that and pick it up by holding either side of the cloth.’
‘I’ll do that.’ She went inside.
If the police did come, a dent in the marigolds could be accounted for by an animal having made its bed there. A lame Remington would be less easy to explain.
A medley of voices floated into the garden, deep and calm from Marco, gentle and reassuring from Selina, distraught and angry from Jarrod.
; Mrs Compton returned with a damask tablecloth in maroon. We set about recovering the typewriter and between us carried it into the house. As we were about to place it on the kitchen table, Mrs Compton let go, leaving me to bear its weight as she pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘How will we survive the weekend? And will any doctor be able to help my poor son?’
Death in the Stars Page 29