In At The Death

by Francis Duncan

  ‘Well, it sounds rather the wrong way round,’ he observed, a trifle doubtfully. ‘My editor sent me out to conduct the interviews not to be one of the victims!’

  Boyce chuckled.

  ‘The point is, Mr. Linton, I’m a stranger here, which means that I’m starting at a disadvantage. What I’m getting at is whether you can tell me anything about Doctor Hardene that may help me to put him in his place in the general scheme of things.’

  ‘As far as medicine goes there isn’t much I can tell you about him,’ the reporter said. ‘His practice must have been a decent one but he wasn’t one of the local big names. Just an average G.P. I’d call him with enough of the bedside manner to put him on the right side of the people who live around here. He didn’t land himself in the headlines until he thought he’d turn politician.’

  ‘And then,’ Boyce said softly, ‘he did get the limelight, eh?’

  Tremaine glanced at him with suddenly narrowed eyes. So this was what Jonathan was after. He recalled that moment when Inspector Parkin had referred to Hardene and politics and the wariness had come into his manner, as though he knew more than he wanted to say. Trust Jonathan not to have missed it.

  ‘Don’t think I’m trying to make out it was all over the town,’ Linton was saying. ‘It made a bit of a stir, of course, but that sort of thing naturally makes people talk.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Hardene seems to have sold himself the idea of setting up as a crusader. All for the rights of the common man and politics pure and undefiled—you know the kind of thing. That wasn’t so bad—in fact it was quite a good line—but then he started making it personal. At one of his meetings he dropped a broad hint that there’d been some funny business over contracts for work done for the council. He didn’t actually mention any names but it was pretty clear to everybody what he was getting at.’

  ‘Or who he was getting at,’ Boyce said.

  Linton returned his glance with a grin.

  ‘That’s about the size of it. One of our city fathers—a building contractor called Masters—went up in the air over Hardene’s accusations and there was quite a scene at one council meeting.’

  ‘Masters, then, is a member of the council?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the point. He belongs to the opposite side. Naturally, there were official denials and all that sort of thing, but mud always sticks and there were plenty of people only too willing to hear something of the kind said against Masters. There’s no doubt he had his knife into Hardene afterwards.’

  ‘Did Hardene ever withdraw his accusations?’

  ‘If he did I’ve never heard of it,’ Linton returned. ‘In fact, I understood that things were growing worse between them. Masters isn’t the type to let anybody get away with something that belongs to him—even if it’s only his reputation.’

  ‘Was there any truth in what Hardene said?’

  The reporter shrugged.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. That ground’s too slippery for me.’

  ‘All right,’ Boyce said, after a fractional pause. ‘I appreciate your help anyway—local people know far more about the reasons for things happening than a stranger can hope to learn on his first appearance.’

  ‘Can I take it,’ Linton said, ‘that you’ll be having a few extra details for us later, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Jonathan Boyce’s tone was affable. ‘You need to satisfy your editor; I need to satisfy my superiors. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t get along together. When it’s possible to give you information without giving it to the wrong people as well I’ll see that you get it.’

  He nodded and turned away. For an instant or two the reporter hesitated, as though he would have liked to pursue the matter, but it was clear that as far as Boyce was concerned the interview was over, and Linton strolled slowly back to rejoin his companions.

  Tremaine caught Boyce’s eye upon him, and grinned in answer to the twinkle he saw there. Parkin said, as the door closed behind them when they reached the hall once more:

  ‘You won’t find any difficulties with either the Echo or the Courier. They’re out for all they can get, of course, but we don’t go in for the news-at-any-price stuff.’

  ‘I think we’ll live and let live,’ Boyce returned.

  He led the way back to Hardene’s surgery. As he entered the inner room Tremaine saw his eyes go at once to the newspaper cuttings and other items he had left upon the desk, and then turn momentarily upon Margaret Royman, still seated at her place in the adjoining receptionist’s room.

  She was apparently fully occupied and did not glance up, but Tremaine saw the flush of colour rise to her neck and he knew that she was aware of Boyce’s scrutiny and was by no means as busily engaged as she was pretending.

  He was conscious of an unpleasant feeling of doubt. It was clear that Jonathan Boyce had left the items he had taken from the locked drawer in Hardene’s desk in a place where Margaret Royman could easily have reached them if she had possessed any reason for wanting to do so. And it was equally clear that she had in fact been examining them during their absence.

  Why? What did she have to conceal, and of what was she afraid?

  5

  HOME IS THE SAILOR

  WHATEVER IDEAS BOYCE might have had concerning Margaret Royman he kept them to himself. His next step was to carry out an inspection of the remainder of the house.

  The housekeeper was called upon to lead the way, and although she did not offer any more information than she was required to give her replies were open enough.

  There was not a great deal to be seen. Two rooms on the top floor were used merely as lumber-rooms; the rest were adequately although not expensively furnished. It was, in fact, the home of a bachelor who had not been particularly interested in his surroundings other than as somewhere to eat and sleep.

  The only exception to the general male austerity was to be found in the housekeeper’s own room. This was a large apartment in the front of the house bearing clear evidences of feminine occupancy.

  Two framed photographs stood on the dressing-table. One was that of a man in middle age and the other was of a youth seated in a wheeled chair, with a low brick building in the background with wide glass doors standing open to a verandah.

  The housekeeper saw Tremaine’s glance and with an automatic movement she straightened the first of the photographs, which was a little out of position.

  ‘My husband,’ she said briefly. ‘He died ten years ago.’

  A vase of flowers stood in front of the window and gaily patterned chintz had been used to improve the appearance both of the dressing-table and the rather heavy, old-fashioned bed.

  ‘I see you’ve done your best to make things attractive, Mrs. Colver,’ Tremaine ventured, but the housekeeper’s lips came together in a forbidding line and he tried no more efforts at conversation that went outside the needs of the official enquiry.

  They went back downstairs and the housekeeper returned to her duties.

  ‘Not,’ Boyce observed, ‘the chattiest of creatures.’

  They were leaving the house when a car driven by a chauffeur in uniform drew up outside. They waited as the door was opened and its occupant, aided by the chauffeur, descended awkwardly to the pavement.

  He was an elderly man whose build must once have been imposing but who was now bowed over the sticks he needed to help him make a slow progress towards the entrance gate. They watched him as he shuffled nearer, irascibly throwing off the arm the chauffeur put out to help him.

  He stopped as he became aware of their presence and looked at them questioningly. Parkin stepped forward.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Did you wish to see Doctor Hardene?’

  The elderly cripple stared at him with sudden antagonism, clearly resenting being interrogated, but the touch of authority in the inspector’s voice stayed him from a sharp retort.

  ‘I did,’ he returned briefly, and left it to Parkin to make the next move.

&nbs
p; ‘Did you have a definite appointment with him, sir?’

  ‘Of course I had an appointment with him,’ the other said irritably. He lifted one of his sticks on inch or two in Parkin’s direction. ‘What is all this? Isn’t Hardene here? He knows perfectly well I arranged to see him this morning.’

  ‘I’m afraid Doctor Hardene isn’t here, sir,’ Parkin said, unruffled. He opened the gate and placed a guiding hand on the other’s arm. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to come into the house. It’ll be easier to talk in there.’

  The elderly man studied him without speaking for a moment or two, as though uncertain whether he should raise an objection, and then he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the chauffeur who was standing at the gate.

  ‘Wait for me in the car, Sage.’

  He shook off Parkin’s hand and began to make his way up the path towards the house. The inspector glanced significantly at Boyce and made no attempt to repeat his gesture of assistance.

  It was Margaret Royman who opened the door to their ring. She saw the elderly man leaning on his sticks and came forward to help him over the threshold. This time, Tremaine noted, he did not disdain the aid he was offered; there were, evidently, degrees of objection.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Slade,’ Margaret Royman said. ‘I tried to get you at your house but you’d already left.’

  ‘What’s it all about, my dear? Has Doctor Hardene been called away?’

  Margaret Royman looked towards Parkin for guidance. The inspector said:

  ‘In a manner of speaking, sir—yes, he has been called away. Let me introduce myself. My name is Parkin. I am a police-officer. This gentleman is Chief Inspector Boyce, of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Scotland Yard?’ The other looked startled. ‘Has Hardene been up to anything?’

  Parkin did not give him a direct reply. He glanced enquiringly at the girl.

  ‘Is this gentleman one of the doctor’s patients?’

  ‘Yes,’ she returned. ‘It’s Mr. Martin Slade. Doctor Hardene had an appointment with him for this morning. I tried to get him on the telephone to tell him not to come but I was too late.’

  Parkin nodded. He turned back to Slade.

  ‘May I ask, sir, what leads you to suppose that Doctor Hardene may have been—up to something?’

  Slade was looking a great deal less antagonistic now; Parkin’s attitude was making it plain that something serious was in the wind, and his reaction was no longer so aggressive.

  ‘I suppose it was this political business. Hardene was asking for trouble with the line he was taking a week or two back and I thought maybe he’d gone too far.’

  ‘You were thinking particularly of his crossing swords with Mr. Masters?’ Jonathan Boyce interposed, and Martin Slade turned awkwardly to face him.

  ‘Yes. After all, Masters isn’t the kind to let things slip.’ He hesitated then and peered into the Yard man’s face as though a doubt had just occurred to him, and he might find confirmation of it there. ‘But I can’t imagine him going to Scotland Yard about it—after all, it wasn’t all that important. What brings you here, Chief Inspector? Where is Hardene?’

  ‘Doctor Hardene,’ Boyce said unemotionally, ‘is dead.’

  He left it at that. Slade stared at him.

  ‘Dead? But how? I didn’t know he had anything wrong with him.’

  ‘He was murdered. His body was found late last night in an empty house facing the downs.’

  For a long time Slade did not make any reply. He stood quite still, leaning heavily on his sticks, staring at Boyce. His face was a mixture of bewilderment and unbelief.

  ‘Murdered!’ he breathed at last. ‘Murdered! Bless my soul. I never dreamed Masters would go that far.’

  ‘Nobody,’ Boyce said, ‘has accused Mr. Masters of being responsible. Nor, as yet,’ he added, ‘has anyone else been accused.’

  A slow smile came into Martin Slade’s eyes.

  ‘Quite, Chief Inspector. I was speaking out of turn. My apologies. It seemed to me that if anybody had killed Hardene it was most likely to have been Masters, but I agree that it won’t do to go throwing anyone’s name around without proof.’

  Boyce gave him a reflective glance, but he made no attempt to pursue that particular matter.

  ‘Did you know Doctor Hardene well, Mr. Slade?’

  ‘I was one of his patients,’ the other returned. ‘Not that he seemed able to do anything to get rid of these,’ he said ruefully, and raised one of his sticks.

  ‘I meant outside your professional relationship,’ Boyce said, and the other shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t like his politics. We didn’t have much to say to each other—except maybe when I was telling him what I thought of him.’ A grim humour came into his voice. ‘Miss Royman can tell you all about that.’ He gave her a sideways glance. ‘Eh, my dear?’

  Margaret Royman looked embarrassed, and Slade gave a dry, slightly malicious chuckle.

  ‘No need to keep it back on my account. After all, if the police don’t hear it from you they’re certain to have it from the Colver woman. When Hardene acted like a fool I told him so and I know she didn’t miss much.’ He turned his regard upon Boyce. ‘Doctors like to think they’re a race apart, but when you’ve had to endure as much pain as I’ve had you get to know their limitations and you can see quickly enough when they’re trying to pull the wool over your eyes.’

  Boyce nodded. It might have been a nod of sympathy, of understanding, or merely of acknowledgment that he had heard.

  ‘I’m sorry if we’ve taken up your time, Mr. Slade. But you’ll appreciate that in matters of this kind there are certain official enquiries to be made.’

  ‘And you didn’t intend to be in a hurry to say who you are, eh? That’s all right, Chief Inspector. Well, I daresay you’ll want to know when I saw Hardene last. It was two days ago. I’ll tell you now because you’re certain to find out for yourself. We had a fine old row. Hardene wanted me to take a new course of treatment and I told him that he couldn’t fool me with any of his fairy tales.’

  ‘Were you still on bad terms when you left him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here now if we had been. He talked me round—as usual. Got me to agree to go into it again after he’d seen some specialist or other. That’s what today’s appointment was about.’

  ‘I see,’ Boyce said. ‘And you didn’t meet again after your consultation of two days ago?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Boyce looked like a man completely satisfied. ‘That’s all, Mr. Slade. If I should need to get in touch with you again on some routine matter no doubt Miss Royman here will be able to give me your address.’

  ‘You’ll be able to find out all about me all right,’ Slade said. ‘And as you can see I’m not likely to run far even if I do begin to think you’re after me!’

  He indicated his sticks with a grimace, and, turning, began to shuffle down the hall. With the dislike of the physically sound of appearing to stare at the afflicted they tried not to watch his slow and ungainly movements. Parkin opened the door for him but was careful not to offer any further assistance, and Slade descended the two or three steps outside and moved clumsily towards the gate.

  The inspector came back into the hall.

  ‘Shouldn’t think Hardene found him easy to handle,’ he observed.

  ‘Know him?’

  ‘Not off-hand. I’ll take it up, of course.’

  The elderly cripple had reached the gate by now. The hall door was still open and they saw him fumble with the latch and edge his way out to the pavement. Mordecai Tremaine took a few steps forward into the open air. The action meant that Slade was still within his vision, although the laurels flanking the pavement had concealed him now from Parkin and Boyce, standing just inside the door.

  He saw the chauffeur slip from the driving-seat and open the rear door. Slade seemed to be on the point of moving his sticks aside so that he could clamber into the car when suddenly he stopped. It
might have been that his infirmity made it difficult for him to mount the step or that he had been the victim of a sudden attack of pain on account of his exertions, but for a moment or two he did not move.

  Instinctively Tremaine moved forward with the idea of helping him, but before he could take more than a step along the path Slade had recovered and had climbed into his seat. The door was closed upon him by the chauffeur. The car was driven away and Tremaine turned thoughtfully back towards the house.

  ‘Poor devil,’ Boyce remarked, although he could not have seen the incident. He glanced enquiringly at Parkin, obviously with the intention of making the local man feel that they were operating as equals. ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘He didn’t make any bones about his disagreement with Hardene,’ Parkin said, clearly pleased, ‘but maybe he was a bit more worried about it than he made out.’

  ‘You mean he knew we’d find out sooner or later so he thought it was just as well to admit it right away? Could be,’ Boyce said. ‘That means, though, that he must have been pretty well at daggers drawn with Hardene, otherwise there wouldn’t be any need to panic.’

  The Yard man was about to close the door of the house so that they could make their already delayed departure when a sound at the entrance gate made them turn. A man had lifted the latch and was on the point of setting foot on the short drive.

  He was a burly, thick-set man, bearded, and wearing a seaman’s jersey that emphasized his bulk. He looked up suddenly to see them standing on the steps, watching him, and he hesitated, his hand on the gate. And then, abruptly, he turned away again, as though he had changed his mind about coming in.

  Jonathan Boyce, however, was too quick for him.

  ‘Just a moment!’

  The Yard man took the steps in one stride and his grasp was on the other’s shoulder, gentle but insistent, before he could close the gate and retreat to the pavement.

  ‘I’d like a word with you.’

  The other looked disconcerted. Although he stood his ground it was with evident reluctance.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  It seemed to be developing into a routine question. Boyce opened the gate.