Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Haldean nodded. ‘That’s virtually what I said to Stanton and Fennimore earlier.’

  Stanton shifted in his chair. ‘I still think you’re wrong, though, Jack. He really had been stuck for money, don’t forget.’

  Isabelle wriggled impatiently. ‘But you explained all that to me, Arthur. He wasn’t stuck now.’

  ‘And I would have helped,’ said Smith-Fennimore quietly. ‘He must have known I would have helped.’

  ‘The only trouble is, Belle,’ said Haldean, ‘that if Tim was murdered, that presupposes a murderer.’

  She looked at him alertly. ‘Yes.’ She drew her breath in. ‘I see what you mean. Pass me a cigarette, will you?’ Smith-Fennimore lit her cigarette and she smoked it thoughtfully. ‘So you’re saying that someone here, someone we know, is a murderer?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, yes,’ replied Haldean quietly.

  ‘But who, Jack?’

  Haldean ran his thumb round the angle of his jaw. ‘That’s the interesting question. You see, I thought I knew.’ They all looked at him, startled. ‘The trouble is, my favourite candidate is out of it. He can’t possibly have done it so now I’m back to square one.’

  ‘Are you going to tell us who your favourite candidate was?’ asked Smith-Fennimore.

  Haldean hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything before I was a great deal more certain but it can’t do any harm now, I suppose. I’d settled on Lord Lyvenden.’

  Smith-Fennimore looked bewildered. ‘Why?’

  ‘All sorts of reasons, but I’m wrong. The man’s got a rock-solid alibi. Yvette, Lady Harriet’s maid, the one who was sent upstairs for Lady Harriet’s shawl, heard the shot. She thought it was a firework and was a bit fed up to think she was missing the show.’

  ‘How d’you know it wasn’t a firework she heard?’ asked Isabelle.

  ‘Because when she got back with the shawl, the show proper hadn’t started.’

  ‘But those wretched fireworks were going off all evening,’ said Stanton.

  Haldean shook his head. ‘Not then, they weren’t. Lyvenden was building up to his big moment. When Yvette came back into the ballroom, Lord Lyvenden was still gassing about what a wonderful occasion it was and that fixes the time at about at ten to ten. I remember looking at my watch and wondering how long he was going to spout on for. And, although he was my first choice, he can’t possibly have been boring us all rigid and murdering people at the same time.’

  ‘No,’ said Isabelle after a pause. ‘No, he can’t have been. So who is it, Jack?’

  Haldean put his hands wide. ‘Search me. And, as Arthur reminded us, Tim might have committed suicide after all.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ she said decisively. ‘You can’t get us all thinking about murder and then just bow out like that.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and put her hands round her knees, silent for a few moments. ‘Look,’ she said eventually. ‘You write detective stories, don’t you?’

  ‘It has been known,’ muttered Haldean. ‘I’ve got to earn a crust somehow.’

  ‘Can’t we think of it as a story? Every time I remember it’s Tim I feel sort of crushed and can’t think straight, but this way we might be able to come up with some ideas. I know it’s a bit off to play Pin The Tail On The Murderer, so to speak, but I can’t do it any other way. Actually, Jack, if this was a story then I wouldn’t suspect Lord Lyvenden for a moment.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Stanton. ‘Don’t tell me you like the man.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. He’s horrible and I wish Uncle Alfred hadn’t introduced him to Dad, but that’s just it. He’s so obnoxious that he’s the obvious red herring that I always discount. I’d be right, too, wouldn’t I? I mean, if he’s got an alibi he’s out of it.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Haldean, ‘if this was a story, then his alibi would make him very suspicious indeed.’

  ‘This is nonsense,’ said Stanton. ‘For one thing I don’t believe it was murder and for another I just can’t see it. I mean, I can’t stand Lyvenden but I’m blowed if I’m accusing him or anyone else of murder, especially as you’ve just proved he can’t be guilty. I mean, you haven’t got any evidence, have you? Anyone can make a guess. You might as well say the butler or the Chief Constable or Mr Charnock did it.’

  ‘Uncle Alfred?’ asked Isabelle in bewilderment. ‘Uncle Alfred can’t have done it. Why on earth should he? Besides that, he wasn’t here last night. I suppose that means you find him suspicious too, Jack.’

  ‘Deeply suspicious,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Are you serious?’ demanded Isabelle.

  ‘Not really,’ he said with a grin. ‘I wanted to see how you’d react.’

  ‘Jack!’ She threw a cushion at him, which, to her irritation, he caught. ‘If we carry on like this, I’m going to decide you did it. Actually, you’d make a very satisfactory murderer. You’re dark and sinister.’

  Smith-Fennimore grinned. ‘If Haldean had done it, I don’t suppose you’d be too anxious to try and convince us it was murder, would you, old man?’

  ‘If it was one of his stories he might,’ chipped in Isabelle before Haldean could answer. ‘He could be dying to boast about how clever he’d been and sort of daring us to catch him out. I remember reading one where you did just that. But what made you think of Lord Lyvenden, Jack? There must be more to it than the fact he’s easily one of the most unpleasant guests we’ve ever had.’

  ‘He’s a bit much, isn’t he?’ agreed Haldean. ‘But no, Belle, it wasn’t his lack of charm and want of ready tact that made me pick him out, it was the circumstances. Lyvenden’s got the breeze up about some papers he has with him. Tim told me last night he’d been strafed by Lyvenden for looking in the wrong file. Apparently the noble lord really went over the top about it. So, I thought intelligently, that could be a motive. I believed that Lyvenden had the opportunity to bump off Tim by following him upstairs after he’d sent him to get the cigarette case – and, although it’s unimportant, Lyvenden didn’t half look flushed when he came into the ballroom to start his speech before the fireworks – and, of course, the fact that it was Lyvenden’s room and Lyvenden’s gun that was used all seemed to point to Lyvenden, but I’m wrong.’

  Stanton scratched his chin. ‘Of course you’re wrong, Jack. Even if this was a story I’d think you were wrong. What about the note Tim left? It’d be easy enough to scrawl a message like – oh, I don’t know – Sorry, I suppose, but I can’t see Lord Lyvenden or anyone else sitting down and writing reams about how broke he was and so on.’

  ‘That’s very well spotted, Arthur,’ said Isabelle admiringly. ‘Unless the murderer’s a master forger then the whole case goes up the spout.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Haldean with weary patience. ‘And he hardly wrote reams. Look, Fennimore, you saw the note. Describe it for Belle, will you?’

  Smith-Fennimore wrinkled his brow. ‘The note? It was Tim’s writing, all right. I’d swear to it. That throws a spanner in your murder theory, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Go on with your description,’ said Haldean without heat.

  Smith-Fennimore shrugged. ‘All right. It was written in ink on a half-sheet of cream notepaper and the words were at the top of the sheet. He said that he was sorry and that the cause was money.’

  Haldean nodded. ‘That’s pretty good.’ He stretched his legs out, put his hands behind his head and half closed his eyes. ‘The actual words ran, as far as I remember, I am sorry for what I have been forced to do – no, hang on – course of action I have been forced to undertake and for any distress that might ensue. The motive is purely financial. The note itself is still upstairs and we can check it if it’s necessary but that’s about the gist of it. Now, does anything strike you as odd about that note?’

  Isabelle cupped her chin in her hands thoughtfully. ‘Not really. It sounds a bit stilted, but so what?’

  ‘But that’s it,’ said Haldean. ‘It was far too stilted to be an ordinary note. It so
unds much more like a business letter, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Hold on there, Jack,’ objected Stanton. ‘It’s all very well to talk about the language being stilted but most people write far more formally than they speak. I know I do. It takes quite a bit of skill to write something so it sounds natural. You manage it. I think you must be quite a good writer, really.’

  Haldean grinned. ‘Thank you for that glowing tribute, said the blushing author. Signed copies of all my works will be available at the back of the hall after the meeting. What I think happened is that the murderer found part of a business letter and used that. Any more comments, anyone?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Isabelle. ‘If the note was taken from a business letter, then where’s the rest of it?’

  ‘The murderer took it with him, of course,’ said Haldean, witheringly. ‘He wouldn’t leave a dead give-away like that lying around. And that’s something else fishy, too. The waste-paper basket was empty, and it shouldn’t have been. Tim was working in there yesterday and he told me some of the letters he wrote were duds, so there should have been something in it. None of the servants emptied it. I’ve asked. So who did empty it? The murderer, obviously, to get rid of any incriminating evidence.’

  Isabelle pulled a face. ‘Come on. I bet one of the servants emptied it, realized they shouldn’t have done and won’t own up. That’s a much simpler explanation than yours.’

  Smith-Fennimore coughed. ‘I think we’re straying from the point. Was Tim murdered or wasn’t he? And granted that Lyvenden can’t be guilty, who else could it be?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Haldean. ‘If the shot was heard at ten to ten, that rules out everyone who was in the ballroom. Who do we know wasn’t there?’

  ‘Lady Harriet’s maid,’ said Isabelle, promptly. ‘She could have killed him when she went up for Lady Harriet’s shawl.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ asked Stanton.

  ‘Goodness knows, but she was away from the room at the right time. Who else was missing?’

  ‘There’s your Uncle Alfred,’ said Haldean. ‘He wasn’t at the ball but he could have crept back in.’

  ‘You’ve got a thing about Uncle Alfred,’ said Isabelle. ‘You’ve never liked him.’

  ‘How shatteringly perceptive of you. You’re right, of course.’

  ‘I think it’s colouring your judgement, Jack. It can’t be Uncle Alfred. You know the doctor gave me something to help me sleep? I was out like a light but woke up at about four in the morning because the boards outside my room had creaked. They do when someone walks along there. I looked out and Uncle Alfred was creeping along the corridor, shoes in hand. If he’d been out until four, he can’t have had anything to do with what happened to Tim, can he? The odd thing was that he was dripping wet.’

  ‘Dripping wet?’

  ‘Absolutely soaking. I heard him squelching and this morning there were wet patches on the carpet. I don’t know what he did with his wet things.’

  ‘I wonder what the dickens he’d been up to? I wouldn’t have thought your Uncle Alfred would have gone in for midnight bathing, especially wearing full evening dress.’ Haldean clicked his tongue. ‘As you say, it’s odd, Belle, but it doesn’t let him out. He could have come back much earlier and then gone out again.’

  ‘He could, I suppose,’ agreed Isabelle reluctantly. ‘But if we’re throwing suspicion around, what about Lady Harriet? She’d make a wonderful murderer. I don’t know why she’d murder Tim but I can imagine her murdering her husband. You should see how she looks at him when she thinks nobody’s watching.’

  Haldean was silent. After the scene on the river bank, he too could imagine Lady Harriet murdering her husband without any compunction whatsoever. Not only that but she carried a gun.

  ‘No, hang on,’ continued Isabelle. ‘She was watching the fireworks, of course. That’s a pity. How about Mrs Strachan? She seems completely brainless but she might have hidden depths. I can’t remember if she was watching the fireworks or not. If this was really a story then she’d be my favourite suspect because, although we all know her, we haven’t paid much attention to her. Tim might have found her rifling through Lord Lyvenden’s secret papers and she could have snatched up a gun and shot him.’

  Haldean sat upright. ‘D’you know, Belle, that’s not a bad idea. Tim being shot by accident, I mean. That would work.’

  Smith-Fennimore gave a dismissive snort. ‘Can you honestly see that twitty woman having the brains to do something like this?’

  ‘Why not?’ Haldean stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You see, Mrs Strachan certainly has been snooping in Lord Lyvenden’s papers. I heard the pair of them discussing it, if I can put it like that, earlier on. They didn’t know I was there, of course. He . . . well, he wasn’t happy and she was in a blue funk. It was a nasty little episode altogether. Say Tim did surprise her. She’d have the gun close to hand and if there was a letter lying on the desk even Mrs Strachan would be able to see how it could be used as a suicide note, no matter how dim she seems.’

  Smith-Fennimore was silent for a few moments. ‘You could be right,’ he said eventually. He looked at Isabelle. ‘Well done. Have you any more suggestions? This idea of yours of treating it as a story has more going for it than I thought.’

  ‘Well, there is another possibility,’ she said with a smile. ‘This really is a solution from a story. I read it the other day in Modern Thriller. This young man was going to come into a fortune when he was twenty-one but his solicitor had made away with all his money and then killed him so he wouldn’t be discovered. The thing was, that the room where the body was found was locked up and no one could work out how the murder had been done. Tim was going to get his money next year. His uncle holds the funds and paid him an allowance. What if his uncle had embezzled the money? He could have come here secretly, lain in wait, shot Tim, then slipped away.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Stanton. ‘I read that one too. It was brilliant. I see what you’re getting at, Isabelle. It could be Tim’s uncle, couldn’t it? No one suspects him, because no one knows he was here. I say, Isabelle, that really could work.’

  Haldean looked at his friend disbelievingly ‘What d’you mean, it could work? It’s goofy. How did this bloke get into the house? There were servants swarming all over the place.’

  ‘Not when the fireworks were going off,’ argued Stanton. ‘Besides that, there was soot in the hearth.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So don’t you see? It could have happened like it did in the story. The chap who was the solicitor got on the roof and climbed down the chimney.’

  Haldean shook his head and sighed. ‘Isabelle, if you think this is a probable solution you must be loopy. Look, Arthur, old fruit, about this story. It wouldn’t be by Edgar Wallace, would it?’

  ‘It might have been,’ said Stanton defensively.

  ‘Yes. Not actually terribly feasible, I would have thought.’

  ‘Well, why not?’ argued Stanton. He grinned. ‘If you’re determined to make it a murder, this idea’s as good as any other. Besides, who’s to say I’m not right? Some of the chimneys here are massive. It’d be perfectly possible to climb down them.’

  ‘Look, you prune, I don’t care if they’re as big as barn doors. Let’s take it that Uncle Andrew did shin down the chimney – although why I’m having this conversation, God only knows – what the dickens was Tim meant to be doing while his uncle played at Father Christmas? I know he wasn’t the most observant of souls, but even he’d have noticed someone come down the chimney and prance across the carpet, gun in hand. He’d stand out a bit, don’t you think? Apart from anything else, he’d be as black as the ace of spades.’

  ‘He could have climbed down beforehand and lain in wait,’ countered Stanton. ‘Besides that, the solicitor didn’t shoot this chap I was telling you about. He stabbed him with a hat-pin loaded with snake poison so everyone was looking for a snake and –’

  ‘It was by Edgar Wallace, wasn’t it?’
r />   ‘Well, so what? It worked in the story and Isabelle said to treat it as a story and that’s what you’ve been doing.’

  Haldean picked up the cushion Isabelle had thrown at him and hurled it at his friend. ‘I agreed to treat it as a story to try and get some ideas, not to listen to you talk unadulterated mashed potato. For heaven’s sake, bury your face in that so I can’t hear you . . .’

  He suddenly broke off and stared sightlessly into the empty fireplace. ‘The soot,’ he whispered. ‘Of course. The soot explains it.’ He turned to the others, suddenly completely serious. ‘The soot explains the alibi. Everyone’s alibi. The death didn’t occur at ten to ten. It could have occurred at any time between the limits the doctor gave. Twenty to ten to ten o’clock, give or take ten minutes or so either side.’

  They all stared at him. ‘How does the soot explain the alibi?’ asked Isabelle sharply.

  Haldean waved her quiet with an imperious gesture. ‘Don’t you see? The house was full of fireworks yesterday. Anyone could have pinched a banger and a piece of fuse and put it in the fireplace. Depending on the length of fuse and what type it was, it’d be easy enough to make it explode at any time you wanted it to. Ten to ten, say. And then we come along, find out there’s been a bang heard in Lord Lyvenden’s room and brightly inform each other that’s the time of the shot. But fireworks come in a cardboard tube.’ He got up, strode to the fireplace and drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece. ‘We didn’t find the cardboard tube. Why didn’t we find the cardboard tube, Belle?’

  ‘Because the murderer took the gunpowder out of the tube so it wouldn’t be discovered later,’ Isabelle said slowly.

  Haldean smacked his hand down on the mantelpiece. ‘That’s it! Damn it, the maid even told me it sounded like a firework! It was only afterwards she assumed it must have been the gun.’