Murder Included

  An hour or more of miserable thinking brought him to no happier conclusion than that which had caused him to shrink from touching his wife when she had asked for his help on the east-wing staircase; it was with relief that he heard the door open: this was Price, surely, and an end, however horrible, in sight. But it wasn’t Price; it was Patricia, tall, fair, fresh and wholesome, but with a faint line of anxiety on her brow. Coming across the room to him, she said, ‘I’m afraid I’ve given church a miss this morning. Has anything else happened, Daddy? There’s a rumour that the police are in the east wing.’

  Sir Charles told her.

  ‘Margot — but that’s rot,’ said Patricia. ‘She’d nothing against Cousin Elizabeth, and people don’t murder their mothers.’

  ‘Husbands do murder their wives, though, Pat, and it was Scampnell we were thinking of when the matter of the flasks was considered, though I can’t imagine what he could have had against Elizabeth.’

  ‘In the flask business, Margot must have been an accessory, and she’s never even had the nerve to ride — I can’t see her getting involved in a murder. If the story about the flasks came from Lisa, it may be a pure invention.’

  Sir Charles sighed. ‘Then I’m afraid we’re back where we were after that first talk we had, Patricia.’

  ‘Cheer up, Daddy. We must hear something definite soon; the police must have got some clues from this dust-up in the east wing. A car load of plain-clothes men arrived just before I came in here, and Margot’s had a long interview with Price in the study.’

  Almost querulously Sir Charles said, ‘The suspense is horrible. I want it to end, but I’m afraid of the ending.’

  ‘Never mind, Daddy. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.’ Father and daughter turned as the door opened, but it was only Benson bringing a tray with two glasses and a sherry decanter. ‘Any news, Benny?’ asked Patricia. ‘Well, miss,’ he replied, ‘they’ve been taking finger-prints — Beatrice’s and her ladyship’s and Sylvia’s. Mr Scampnell and Miss Rattray have gone off with the Superintendent in a police car. The Detective-Inspector is in the east wing now, but I couldn’t say what he’s doing there.’

  Sir Charles asked him, ‘What about the key of the east wing, Benson? I thought you kept it.’

  ‘In the pantry, Sir Charles. There are hooks on the inside of the door of the glass cupboard and, though there are a great many keys that I can’t put a name to, where it is possible each hook is neatly labelled. A mistake it seems now, though it has often proved a convenience.’

  Wearily, as though he were sick of the whole business, Sir Charles said, ‘And who besides yourself knew about them?’

  ‘Her ladyship, Beatrice, Sylvia, perhaps, and young Eric. But, if I may say so, Sir Charles, this does not necessarily point to a member of the Family or the staff. The guests were in the habit of visiting the pantry to deposit their hunting-flasks, which has often been done while I was at supper or even after I had retired for the night.’

  ‘Of the people who had hunting-flasks two happen to be dead, Benson. Young Marvin has an alibi, and young Rose has very wisely kept away since Miss Elizabeth’s murder. Mr Rose had no motive for killing either of the ladies.’

  ‘But it would be quite natural,’ Benson said, ‘for Mrs Scampnell to ask her husband or her daughter to run down with her flask if she had forgotten it. In the hall we consider Miss Margot a very inquisitive young lady. She offended Mrs Capes once by penetrating into our quarters and entering the kitchen without knocking.’

  ‘What did she want?’ asked Patricia.

  ‘A cloth to wipe up some ink, I believe, Miss Pat. When Mrs Capes suggested that she should have rung the bell, she said that she wished to save us trouble. Mrs Capes was extremely annoyed.’

  ‘Well, I sincerely hope we shall hear something definite before tonight,’ said Sir Charles, ‘or everyone will be feeling nervous at bedtime. I wonder the Roses haven’t cleared out, but I suppose the police won’t let them.’

  ‘I believe that is so, Sir Charles,’ said Benson. ‘Mrs Rose seems particularly overwrought, and since Mrs Scampnell’s death she has refused to move about the house or to sit in any of the reception-rooms without her husband. Now she favours the theory of a homicidal maniac, who has inhabited the east wing for some time without our knowledge.’

  ‘I wish it were so,’ said Sir Charles wistfully.

  Benson withdrew. Patricia stayed chatting with her father, and presently Hugo came in and asked who had been arrested: the kennel boy had seen a man and a young woman in a police car on the Harborough road. ‘It must have been the Scampnells,’ said Patricia. ‘Benny told us they had gone to the police station, but he didn’t say they’d been arrested.’

  ‘That’s just like people,’ said Sir Charles testily. ‘Surely you know, Hugo, that before a person can be arrested a warrant is necessary? I expect the Scampnells have gone to the police station to make a formal statement. Where have you been all morning?’

  ‘Down at the kennels. I went down at half past six this morning, so I really haven’t a clue as to what’s been happening.’

  ‘And you “couldn’t care less”, I suppose,’ said Sir Charles angrily. ‘We’re in terrible trouble here: we’ve had two murders in the house; the murderer is still at large, and all you do is to make off at dawn to the kennels. Where’s your sense of responsibility? You might be a child, Hugo.’ Hugo said, ‘Well, I’m sorry if I was wanted, but I’ve a bitch whelping, and it’s hounds, not my stepmother’s paying guests, for which I’m responsible.’

  ‘It’s not only the paying guests who are involved,’ said Sir Charles, and Patricia, getting up and linking arms with her brother, said, with the rather obvious tact which her mother had used, ‘We’ve ten minutes before lunch, and I’ve got to go across to the stables for something — if you’ll come with me, I’ll put you wise, Hugo.’

  They went out together, and for the first time for days Sir Charles ceased to think of the murders and thought of his elder son, who at four-and-twenty wanted nothing in the world but to hunt foxes round Bottom Wood and over Aston Wold and up and down the vale of Rushbrook. Since the Conquest, when they had made their name and got their land, the d’Estrays had done nothing spectacular; the soldiers retired as Colonels, the Indian Civil Servants with C.S.I.s, the colonial governors with C.M.G.s; in the Church they had risen to be rural deans and minor canons; nevertheless they had lived on a plane that Hugo was forsaking as he swept out kennels, skinned carcases, mixed puddings with only a couple of idiot boys to serve under him. Sir Charles d’Estray was, in fact, too old and too obstinate and not courageous enough to acknowledge that the bloodless revolution of the English was already history: even with paying guests in his house, he didn’t see himself as a hotel-keeper: that was his wife’s affair …

  The gong rang for luncheon. Bunny had asked for a tray for herself and Lisa; and apparently the Scampnells were still at the police station, for only the Roses appeared and, paralysed with embarrassment, remarked — Stanley in an unnaturally gruff and hearty voice and Sybella in a nervous gabble — on the weather, the tenderness of the roast chicken, and the sporting news: luncheon over, they retired to their bedroom. Sir Charles, grateful to the call of duty, set off in a slight drizzle to the home farm to inspect repairs; Captain went with him, but Babette ignored his whistle, preferring, he disapprovingly conjectured, to stuff indoors. On his return, when he had shed his mackintosh and was heading for the library, Benson came through the hall and told him, ‘The Detective-Inspector rang up, Sir Charles, and will be here at five o’clock or soon after. Her ladyship is in the library. Shall I serve tea now?’ Sir Charles glanced at his watch. ‘Five and twenty to. Yes, bring tea in now and we’ll get it over. Is Mr Hugo about?’ ‘I believe he’s in the stable with Miss Pat, Sir Charles. I’ll let them know.’ ‘Thank you, Benson, but, look here — surely this is your Sunday off?’ ‘I could hardly go out at a time like this, Sir Charles,’ said Benson. ‘I suggested that the boy should
go in my place, but even he preferred to remain.’ ‘Out of loyalty or curiosity, d’you think?’ Sir Charles asked him. ‘I think out of loyalty,’ replied Benson, ‘but out of loyalty to Miss Lisa rather than to ourselves.’ Sir Charles muttered, ‘Hmph’, and went on to the library, where he found Bunny crouching over the fire with Babette lion-like at her feet. She turned her head as he entered, but neither smiled.

  ‘As you’ve come downstairs, I conclude you’re better,’ he said without warmth.

  As coldly she answered him, ‘Thank you, yes.’

  He picked up a newspaper, and they stayed silent till Benson came in with the tea-tray. Hugo and Patricia followed him. ‘How are you, Bunny?’ Hugo asked kindly. ‘Pat told me as much as she knew about your adventures this morning. So it was Margot …’

  Bunny, with a malevolent glance at Sir Charles, said, ‘You’ve only my word for it.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Hugo soothingly.

  ‘For you perhaps,’ said Bunny.

  Patricia, with heightened colour, explained, ‘Well, you see, you’ve told us what happened in the east wing this morning, but you haven’t told us why Margot poisoned Cousin Elizabeth. Even the motive for Mrs Scampnell’s murder’s gone now; we all thought she was murdered because she had a clue, but it’s quite obvious that she wouldn’t have sneaked on her own daughter.’

  ‘From prefect to policewoman,’ said Bunny.

  ‘Really, Barbara,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Pat,’ he went on, seeing his daughter’s mouth open, ‘don’t let yourself be provoked into saying something that you may regret later. The Detective-Inspector will be here very shortly, and please God he’ll have some news for us — this uncertainty is appalling. Will you pour out the tea, Barbara?’

  ‘Patricia can,’ said Bunny, finding herself suddenly averse to any action which displayed her as Lady d’Estray. ‘You remember,’ she excused herself, ‘that I was half-throttled this morning.’

  So Patricia sat down and dispensed tea in a quick efficient way, which seemed to condemn Bunny’s usual absent-minded dithering over milk and sugar, and Hugo talked to his father about Elizabeth Hudson’s horse: Patricia thought that Marvin would sell it and Hugo might suggest to Lord Badgemoor that he buy it for the Hunt, but it was getting on in years and a good home with some doting woman might be better for it. ‘Wouldn’t the old chap be useful to you, Pat?’ asked Sir Charles. ‘I can’t think what possessed Elizabeth to leave him to young Marvin,’ Hugo said. ‘The poor devil had to pretend to be horsey; he’d have lost his job otherwise.’ Sir Charles said coldly, ‘What job?’ and Hugo didn’t answer, but Patricia said, ‘I’d like to buy Brutus, of course, but shall we want even the horses that we’ve got? Won’t the murders put people off coming here as paying guests — what do you think, Bunny?’

  Bunny shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue. Considering how people read crime fiction, one would think that they might be attracted. Why not exploit it — revise the booklet and put, along with baths and table wines, “murder included”?’ Sir Charles said, ‘Barbara, I wish …’ but a light knock on the door interrupted him. He said irritably, ‘Come in’ and in came Price. ‘Pardon me if I intrude,’ he said as all heads turned to him, ‘but, in view of the substantial progress I have made in my investigations, there are one or two points that I would like to talk over with you. I feel sure that you, too, will be interested to hear the latest developments.’

  ‘Will you have some tea?’ asked Bunny, feeling the teapot. ‘We can ring for some fresh, but actually it’s quite hot.’

  ‘Thank you, Lady d’Estray, but I partook at the police station.’

  ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘The Detective-Inspector doesn’t smoke,’ said Sir Charles impatiently. ‘Sit down, Price. I’m thankful to hear that you’re making progress.’

  Price chose a chair outside the ring that the d’Estrays had made round the fireside, and, sitting up straight, alert, and neat, with his knees together and his hands clasped, he began: ‘Lady d’Estray’s excursion into the east wing, imprudent and ill-advised though it was, has led us to the evidence required to confirm the suspicions I voiced to you, Sir Charles, in the study earlier today. When, after leaving the wing, I questioned Miss Rattray, she insisted that it was she who followed Lady d’Estray there, that Lady d’Estray attacked her, and that any injuries sustained by Lady d’Estray had been inflicted by her — Miss Rattray — solely in self-defence. This, on the face of it, was a perfectly feasible explanation, and I could scarcely have requested Miss Rattray to have accompanied me to the police statiqn had she not displayed considerable confusion when questioned with reference to the hunting-flasks. I trapped her by pretending to accept her story and then asking her how she imagined that Lady d’Estray had disposed of the second flask; she made various suggestions, following which I enquired why she had previously informed Lady d’Estray that Mrs Scampnell had only one. She was taken aback, hesitated, and finally asserted that the story Lady d’Estray had told me was a fabrication. I left her on the pretext of taxing Lady d’Estray with the untruth if she were well enough to see me; actually I saw Henry Scampnell, who assured me that his wife had only one flask, as his daughter had informed Lady d’Estray. In the light of subsequent events the matter of the flasks seems insignificant, but it was the disparity between the two statements which convinced me of the Scampnells’ guilt, for if Henry Scampnell did not act in collusion with his stepdaughter, he was at least an accessory before and after the fact. I invited him to accompany his stepdaughter to the police station, and in a very short time I had ascertained that Miss Rattray’s finger-prints had been found on the cupboard under the sink in the east wing, though the utensils and the spirit stove and the second hunting-flask, which I found inside the cupboard, had been wiped clean. Some minute shreds of a vegetable substance, which I have despatched to the laboratory, will, I anticipate, prove the presence of the root from which the guilty party distilled the poison. I am on my way now to the Chief Constable’s to procure a warrant for the arrest of Margot Rattray and her stepfather, but my case would be very much stronger if I had a suggestion to make as to motive. The general impression seems to be that Mrs Scampnell held the purse-strings, and your housemaid, Blythe, asserts that the family life was not so harmonious as it appeared on the surface to be. Can none of you add to this? For instance, have you ever noticed anything to indicate that the daughter or the husband was short of money?’

  Bunny said hesitatingly, ‘When you come to think of it, the show was run for and on behalf of Cecily Scampnell. They lived here for the riding and hunting, but only Cecily rode; there was absolutely nothing for Henry and Margot to do. Surely they would have been happier in London, within reach of concerts and films. Cecily hated London … But I suppose Margot could have found herself a job, if she had really wanted to go. She’s well over age — what could have kept her here?’

  ‘That’s obvious,’ said Patricia. ‘Anybody in their senses would rather live here, even if they were kept short of money, than sit in a stuffy office all day and pig it in some frightful flatlet or bed-sitting room.’

  ‘Well, that’s a moot point,’ said Bunny. ‘Me, I think there must have been a great deal more in the Scampnell set-up than met the eye. I wonder if Margot and her Scamp were lovers?’

  ‘Don’t be revolting,’ said Patricia.

  Sir Charles said, ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’

  ‘And what an imagination!’ said Patricia.

  ‘Shut up, Pat. You haven’t an imagination of any sort,’ said Hugo.

  Patricia said, ‘I’m glad I haven’t if that’s the kind of idea it produces.’

  Price said, ‘It’s not a very nice idea, I grant you, Miss d’Estray. But, human nature being what it most regrettably is, it’s possible, and it certainly ties up with the information given by the housemaid — that Miss Rattray and her stepfather laughed and mocked at the deceased together. And that reminds me — I’ve not yet had time to interview the
kitchenmaid, who, I believe, overheard something in the same line. Would it be convenient for me to see her now, Lady d’Estray?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bunny. ‘Ring, please, Charles. It’s Mrs Capes’ afternoon off, so Kate will be available.’

  Patricia said, ‘I think it’s awful to listen to what kitchen-maids have overheard.’ She asked Price, ‘Is that how detectives always build up their cases?’

  ‘It’s very seldom,’ he answered, ‘that servants’ gossip is available. Not everyone has the means to employ a domestic staff, Miss d’Estray.’

  ‘Well, we only have them because we keep a hotel,’ said Patricia. ‘I suppose when there aren’t any, you go snooping round the neighbours?’

  ‘That,’ said Price, ‘is our duty.’

  ‘Oh, Benson,’ said Bunny. ‘Will you ask Kate to come? We understand she’s got something to tell the Inspector.’ When Benson had gone again, she added, ‘Would you like to see her alone?’

  ‘Not unless you feel she might speak more freely in the absence of her employers, Lady d’Estray.’

  Patricia said, ‘It’s not my cup of tea — I’m off anyhow,’ and Hugo muttered that he must ring up about a carcase. Bunny said, ‘You’ll scare the kid, Charles, but I think I might be of use — when we can escape from Mrs Capes, Kate and I discuss her boy-friends.’ ‘I don’t know why I should scare her more than you, Barbara,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I’ve known her since she was a tiny tot down at Dog Cottages. However, I’ve letters to write. I’ll come back later.’ He went out as the kitchenmaid entered.

  Kate Treadwell was a slight, sandy girl of seventeen, who this afternoon had taken advantage of the cook’s absence to pile her curls even higher than usual and adorn them with a number of plastic slides of different designs and colours. She had used an orange lipstick and petunia nail-varnish and she smelled overpoweringly of Californian poppy.