In At The Death

by Francis Duncan

  Sauntering along the pavement was a man who acknowledged Inspector Parkin’s appearance with a gesture that would not have been remarked by any casual bystander. The house was, then, already under police supervision.

  ‘Housekeeper’s name’s Colver,’ Parkin said. ‘Mrs. Colver —widow, I gather.’

  ‘She knows about Hardene?’ queried Boyce, and the other nodded.

  ‘Yes. We got in touch with the house last night—just after he was found. The constable recognized him straight away and in any case there was plenty of evidence on him—wallet, personal card and so on.’

  ‘How did this Mrs. Colver take it?’

  ‘Shocked. Couldn’t believe it. Reaction seemed genuine enough. But don’t take my word for it. I didn’t spend many minutes with her—things were moving too fast—and in any case she was supposed to have been called out of her bed, so that you’d have a job to say whether it was the kind of attitude you might expect or not.’

  Parkin’s finger was on the bell. In a few moments the door was opened by a middle-aged woman. She recognized the inspector and a kind of taut foreboding settled in her face.

  She said no word but stood back to allow them to enter and then led the way to a room which, judging by the number of chairs it contained and the periodicals piled on the centre table, had been the doctor’s waiting room. Parkin made the introductions and she nodded. It was a defensive gesture, as though she felt she must avoid actual speech as long as possible.

  Boyce said:

  ‘I’m afraid this is very distressing for you, Mrs. Colver, but I’m sure you understand how necessary it is to make thorough investigations.’

  Again the nod, tight-lipped. But Tremaine saw the nervous quiver of the fingers resting on the table against which she was standing and knew that she was inwardly fighting to prevent her agitation from revealing itself in her face.

  Boyce went on as though he believed her to be at her ease.

  ‘As Doctor Hardene’s housekeeper I’m hoping that you’ll be able to give us quite a lot of help,’ he said conversationally. ‘I daresay, for instance, that you’re familiar with such things as his surgery times and his methods of working.’

  An expression that was both puzzled and wary came into her face.

  ‘I was the doctor’s housekeeper,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with the surgery. Miss Royman can tell you more about that.’

  ‘Miss Royman?’

  ‘Receptionist,’ put in Inspector Parkin. ‘She’ll be along soon. Due to arrive just before nine.’

  ‘I see,’ nodded Boyce. ‘It was her job to handle Doctor Hardene’s appointments, medical records and so on, whilst you were chiefly concerned with the domestic arrangements?’

  The housekeeper was looking more at ease. Something of her tension seemed to have left her.

  ‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘Not that I didn’t help him sometimes when he wanted things after Miss Royman had left.’

  ‘You mean you might make appointments or take telephone calls for him?’

  ‘I didn’t make appointments. I’d pass on any messages to the doctor or Miss Royman. Sometimes people would ring up when neither of them were here.’

  ‘Quite so. Did Doctor Hardene have many calls of an urgent nature after his normal hours?’

  The housekeeper’s rather thin eyebrows drew together as she considered the question.

  ‘I wouldn’t say he had many calls,’ she said slowly. ‘Most of his patients were private. They wouldn’t ring him up unless it was really important.’

  There was a touch of pride and a certain asperity in her voice. She was basking in the reflected glory of her employer’s exclusive practice. She resented any suggestion that Hardene had been a struggling G.P. at the beck and call of his panel.

  ‘But there was,’ Boyce said, ‘an emergency call last night, was there not?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘That’s why he had to go out.’

  ‘Did you answer the telephone—or did the doctor?’

  ‘Doctor Hardene did. He came out and told me that he’d been called away to one of his patients. I was in the kitchen—putting things ready for the morning.’

  ‘Did he tell you the patient’s name?’

  ‘No. He said that he’d been expecting a call because she’d been worse when he’d paid his routine visit in the morning, and that he couldn’t say how long he might be. He said that it would depend upon what her condition was like when he got there.’

  ‘He told you it was a woman then?’

  The housekeeper looked uncertain.

  ‘Well, I thought it was a woman,’ she said doubtfully. ‘From the way he spoke. But he didn’t say her name.’

  Boyce pencilled a brief note.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He just went out,’ the housekeeper said, a little at a loss. ‘He was already wearing his hat and coat when he came from the surgery and he was carrying his bag. He went out through the hall and a few minutes later I heard his car drive away.’

  ‘And you didn’t see him again?’

  ‘No,’ she returned, in a low voice, ‘I didn’t see him again.’

  ‘Was it usual for you to wait up for him when he was called out on such occasions?’

  ‘He didn’t like me to wait up. He told me I couldn’t be on duty all the time and that I was to go to bed. I used to leave a tray of something for him in the kitchen so that he could help himself when he came in.’

  ‘And that is what you did last night?’

  ‘Yes. I cut several sandwiches and left them with a glass of cold milk and then I went to bed.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Just before half past ten. I usually go to bed about then,’ she added.

  ‘Did you wonder why Doctor Hardene hadn’t come back?’

  ‘Not especially. He’d told me he didn’t know how long he would be, as I said. I don’t think I paid any attention to it.’

  ‘Do you know what time he left the house?’

  ‘It was some time after nine. But I don’t know exactly. It might have been nearer ten. I just can’t say.’

  ‘And you can tell us nothing more about the time between Doctor Hardene’s leaving the house and your being aroused by the police officers with the news that he’d been murdered?’

  ‘What else is there I can tell you? I went to bed. I didn’t know anything about what had happened.’ She seemed to sense disbelief in Boyce’s attitude. A sharp, defensive note crept into her voice. ‘It’s true! I didn’t know anything about it! How could I have known!’

  Boyce held up his hand.

  ‘Please don’t distress yourself, Mrs. Colver. It’s my job, you know, to ask questions. I don’t want you to imagine that I’m doubting your word.’

  She realized that she had made an error and was obviously anxious to eradicate the impression she had made.

  ‘I—I understand,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been such a terrible shock. I still can’t realize it’s true. I don’t think I know what I’m doing or saying.’

  Her voice was not quite level and she had a distraught air that suited her words, but Tremaine thought that underneath he could detect a harder note. Watching her he thought that her eyes were upon Boyce with an intentness that was out of keeping with the rest of her attitude. It was as though she was deliberately adopting a pose and was furtively studying Boyce to see whether he had been taken in by it.

  Boyce said:

  ‘Quite so. Your relationship with Doctor Hardene was perfectly amicable? You found him a considerate employer?’

  ‘The best you could wish for,’ she said warmly. ‘You couldn’t work for anyone better. Whoever did such a terrible thing must have been mad. Mad and wicked!’

  ‘You can rest assured, Mrs. Colver, that we shall do all we can to find the murderer. You can help us a great deal in that task by telling us anything you know—anything—that might have a bearing on what happened last night.’

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nbsp; ‘I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll not be able to rest until you’ve found the man who did it.’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Boyce said quietly, ‘that it was a man.’

  Tremaine saw the quick fear that stabbed into her face and knew that Boyce must have seen it, too.

  ‘No,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘No. Of course not. I meant the man—or—or the woman.’

  Boyce went on impassively, as though he had noticed nothing:

  ‘Did Doctor Hardene have many visitors? I mean, of course, outside his patients.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He didn’t have much time for entertaining people. He was out a lot, and whenever he was at home he was generally working in his surgery. It wasn’t often anyone called to see him, although there were a lot more enquiries of one sort or another after he decided to put up for the council.’

  Boyce glanced at Parkin. The inspector gave an affirmative nod.

  ‘He started taking an interest in local politics a few months ago. There was talk about his standing for the council at the next election.’

  There was a wariness in Parkin’s voice. It reminded Tremaine of his attitude earlier when the police car had brought them from the station. He was like a man carefully speaking only the truth but who knew that there was more that he might say and was scrupulously trying to avoid saying it.

  ‘What about his relatives?’ Boyce said, turning back to the housekeeper. ‘Did you ever have occasion to speak to any of them, or did the doctor ever mention them to you?’

  ‘I don’t think he had any relatives,’ she told him, doubtfully. ‘At least, I never heard him speak about them.’

  ‘How long have you been working here as a housekeeper?’

  ‘Ever since he first came here. I answered his advertisement for someone to look after him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Boyce said. ‘All right, Mrs. Colver. That’s all I need to trouble you with for the moment. I’m sure you understand, of course, that I may want to ask you a few more questions later on, and if anything occurs to you that you feel I should know about please get in touch with me or with the inspector here right away.’

  He looked at Tremaine enquiringly. Tremaine shook his head.

  Although he did not put any questions to her it drew the housekeeper’s attention upon him. She gave him a glance in which both suspicion and fear seemed to be contained. She hesitated, as though she would have liked to stay and find out just what part he was playing, but Boyce had made it quite evident that the interview was at an end, and, reluctantly, she went out.

  ‘I wonder,’ Boyce said thoughtfully, when the door had closed behind her, ‘what she’s afraid of?’

  ‘I thought,’ Tremaine observed, ‘that she was inclined to protest too much. I mean about how well Hardene treated her.’

  ‘Yes, she made it sound too good to be true, didn’t she?’

  ‘I’ll check on it,’ Parkin said.

  Boyce was looking about the waiting room, idly turning over the periodicals lying on the table.

  ‘We can take it up with the receptionist,’ he remarked. ‘Miss Royman. She ought to know what the domestic atmosphere was like.’

  Parkin nodded. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘It’s twenty to nine. We should be seeing something of her any moment now.’

  It was, in fact, some five minutes later when Margaret Royman arrived. The plain-clothes man who had been on duty at the door conducted her to the waiting room. She was disconcerted when she saw the three men facing her.

  ‘I—I’m sorry,’ she said, a little haltingly. ‘But if you haven’t made an appointment with the doctor I’m afraid he won’t be able to see you this morning. He’s extremely busy.’

  ‘It’s all right, miss,’ Parkin said, coming forward ‘No need for you to worry. You’re Miss Royman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doctor Hardene’s receptionist?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes, I am. But I don’t understand. Why did that man let me into the house just now? Where is Mrs. Colver? Isn’t the doctor here?’

  Her glance went to each of them in turn. They saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and also the colour recede slowly from her face.

  ‘Nothing—nothing’s happened to him?’ she asked, in a whisper.

  ‘What makes you think anything might have happened to the doctor, miss?’ Boyce said quietly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said quickly. ‘There’s no reason why anything should have happened to him. But who are you? And where is Doctor Hardene?’

  ‘We are police officers,’ Boyce said. ‘I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock, Miss Royman.’

  There was no concealing the look of dread that came into her face then.

  ‘What—what do you mean?’

  ‘Doctor Hardene is dead.’

  She stared at him with wide, haunted eyes, one hand at her lips.

  ‘Oh no—no! It can’t be true.’ And then, with an effort, she managed to get herself under control; her voice held a steadier note. ‘He—he was perfectly all right when I left him last night. He wasn’t complaining of being ill or—or anything.’

  ‘He didn’t die naturally,’ Boyce said. ‘He was murdered.’

  He shot the word out deliberately, but in spite of her former agitation it produced surprisingly little reaction. She accepted it with a kind of numb fatalism.

  ‘Who—did it?’ she said, and seemed to hold her breath whilst she waited for him to reply.

  ‘That, Miss Royman, is why we are here. To find out who was responsible. It’s possible you may be able to help us and we shall be very grateful for any information you may be able to give.’

  There was a brief flare of what might have been relief in her eyes, but she was clearly still very unsure of herself and her manner was hesitant.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. I had no idea when I came in just now that anything so dreadful had happened. I don’t see how I can possibly be of any assistance.’

  ‘Please allow me to be the judge of that, Miss Royman,’ Boyce said, and he allowed a certain harshness to underlie his tone.

  She looked at him doubtfully. She straightened one of the periodicals lying on the table with a nervous movement.

  Mordecai Tremaine had profited by the opportunity he had been given to study her. Margaret Royman was undoubtedly a very attractive young woman even if she was at this moment betraying a certain tension which had brought taut lines into her face. She was, he judged, about twenty-three or -four, a little taller than the average, but with a figure neither too slim nor too plump and quite obviously possessed of the knowledge of how to dress to advantage on a moderate salary.

  When she had entered the room his romantic soul had warmed instinctively towards her. She was endowed with that fresh quality of youth which was irresistible to a constant reader of Romantic Stories. It was therefore especially disturbing that her attitude should be giving rise to such doubts in his mind. The news of her employer’s death had certainly appeared to produce the distress that might have been expected, but equally certainly that was not the whole story.

  He wondered what was on Margaret Royman’s mind. And he wondered too what was making her afraid, because afraid she undoubtedly was.

  ‘You say Doctor Hardene was perfectly all right when you left him last night, Miss Royman?’ Boyce said.

  ‘Perfectly,’ she returned, steadily enough now. ‘That’s why this seems so—so dreadful.’

  ‘Quite so. Now, miss, you have my word for it that you may be able to be of great help to us. To your knowledge did the doctor have any enemies?’

  ‘Enemies?’ she echoed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean,’ Boyce said, ‘that working closely with Doctor Hardene you may be able to tell me of any persons with whom his relations were not as good as they might have been.’

  The slight movement of her shoulders was clearly intended to be a shrug of he
lplessness.

  ‘I don’t know anybody who doesn’t have a brush with other people at some time or other. Doctor Hardene wasn’t any exception. But that doesn’t mean that he made enemies —not enemies who would want to kill him.’ Her eyes fell away from his glance. ‘After all,’ she added, ‘people don’t kill other people simply because they don’t happen to like them.’

  The note in her voice seemed to be an invitation to him to agree with her.

  ‘People kill other people,’ Boyce said, ‘for all sorts of reasons that don’t seem to make sense to anyone else. It doesn’t do to overlook even the smallest possibility in a matter of this kind. Can you call anyone to mind who might have had, say, a misunderstanding with the doctor? A disagreement, perhaps—some argument over what you yourself may have considered to be an unimportant point? Not necessarily a violent quarrel.’

  ‘No,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘No, I can think of no one.’

  She waited for a moment or two, as though expecting further questions, and when they did not come she looked up again at Boyce. Her manner was that of someone who had steeled herself to face an ordeal which was inevitable but from which every nerve in her body was shrinking.

  ‘You haven’t told me,’ she said, ‘how—how it happened. Or—or where.’

  ‘No,’ Boyce said, as if he was surprised at his own lapse, ‘no, I haven’t. Doctor Hardene was apparently called out last night—an emergency call from one of his patients.’

  She stared at him in surprise.

  ‘One of his patients? Who was it?’

  ‘That’s something we’re unable to tell at present. It seems that the doctor answered the telephone himself when Mrs. Colver was busy in the kitchen. You don’t happen to know, miss, which of his patients might have been likely to call him out? I understand he was expecting something of the sort to happen.’

  ‘Was he?’ she said, and Boyce raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Didn’t you know, miss? I thought maybe that being in close touch with his work you’d have a pretty shrewd idea how things might be going.’

  ‘Doctor Hardene didn’t discuss his patients with me,’ she said, a hint of frost in her manner. ‘My work for him was almost entirely secretarial.’