Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘He’d lost them, too.’ Smith-Fennimore smiled at Ashley’s expression. ‘He was always losing things. He’s been late for nearly every meal so far because of losing his tie-clip or his collar-studs, or something of that sort. On the links this morning he had to play with rolled-up sleeves. The thing is, while we were searching for them, Major Haldean looked in Captain Stanton’s chest of drawers. He found the sheath knife that the Russian had left on Sunday. It was buried under Captain Stanton’s socks.’

  Ashley sat up. ‘You found the knife in Captain Stanton’s drawer?’

  ‘Major Haldean found the knife,’ corrected Smith-Fennimore.

  ‘But what did Captain Stanton say? How did he account for the knife being there?’

  Smith-Fennimore spread out his hands in a puzzled gesture. ‘He didn’t. He appeared to be as surprised as we were. Haldean had mentioned that Mr Charnock had said the knife was missing but we never dreamed it would turn up in Captain Stanton’s drawer.’

  Ashley sucked his cheeks in. ‘Can you suggest how it got into Captain Stanton’s drawer?’

  Smith-Fennimore shrugged. ‘Obviously someone put it there. As I say, Captain Stanton seemed as surprised as Major Haldean and myself, so surprised I wondered if someone had put it there as a sort of joke.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who would be likely to play that sort of joke? One of the young ladies, for instance?’

  Smith-Fennimore looked startled. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so for a minute. I mean, it’s not like making an apple-pie bed or anything, which they might do. It’s not very funny.’

  ‘Could Mr Charnock himself have put it there?’

  ‘He could have done,’ said Smith-Fennimore dubiously. ‘If he did, he wouldn’t intend it as a joke, though. He’s not that sort of person.’

  ‘So really, although you talked of it as a joke, you believe that Captain Stanton himself hid it there?’

  Smith-Fennimore shifted in his chair. ‘It’s hard to think of any other explanation, but all I can say is that at the time it never crossed my mind. Captain Stanton seemed stunned by the sight of it and it never occurred to me he was telling anything but the truth when he said he didn’t know how it had got there. We passed it around between the three of us, and, I’m sorry to say, I managed to cut myself on it. Major Haldean went downstairs as there was no point in us all being late, and Captain Stanton helped me tie a handkerchief round my hand. Then . . .’ Smith-Fennimore hesitated.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ asked Ashley. Smith-Fennimore didn’t answer.

  Ashley waited but Smith-Fennimore didn’t speak. ‘I must remind you once again that this is a very serious matter.’

  ‘I didn’t like Stanton’s manner,’ said Smith-Fennimore reluctantly. ‘I don’t know the man well, as I said, but he’d always been amiable enough, even if he was nervy. He seemed really rattled. He must have told me a dozen times he didn’t know how the knife had, got into his chest of drawers. To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention. My hand was hurting like the dickens and I wanted to find some iodine. I knew the longer I was the more irritated Sir Philip would be. Stanton was utterly distracted by the knife and didn’t seem to realize that we were already late. So I asked him to go and roust out Lyvenden and join us when he was ready.’

  ‘So you left Captain Stanton in his room with the knife?’

  ‘That’s right. I went into lunch and very shortly after that, Lawson, the footman, told Sir Philip that there was some sort of row going on in Lord Lyvenden’s room. I suppose I should have thought of Captain Stanton right away, but I didn’t. He’d always seemed such a harmless sort of chap that it never crossed my mind he’d do such a thing.’

  ‘Even though you hadn’t liked his manner?’

  ‘I ask you, man,’ said Smith-Fennimore with some irritation, ‘is it a likely thing to think? Two men can be late for lunch without our jumping to the conclusion that one’s murdered the other. When I heard there was a row in Lyvenden’s room, I thought the Russian who’d been here on Sunday had come back and so did everybody else. He was a nasty piece of work and no mistake. Sir Philip asked Major Haldean and myself to accompany him. Miss Rivers and the two Robiceux girls came as well.’ He smiled tightly. ‘They said they didn’t want to miss out on the fun.’

  ‘What happened then, sir?’

  ‘Well, there was a dickens of a kick-up going on. You could hear the noise from a long way off. Sir Philip banged on the door and demanded to be let in. I peered through the keyhole and could just see an outstretched arm. Our first thought was to break the door down, but when we tried the handle we found it wasn’t actually locked.’

  ‘You’re sure about that, sir? That the door wasn’t locked, I mean?’

  Smith-Fennimore nodded. ‘I’m certain. Sir Philip turned the handle and the door opened right away. We went into the room and found Captain Stanton kneeling by the body, his hands covered in blood. It was a pretty awful sight, I can tell you. The Robiceux girls started crying, and Stanton kept on saying he hadn’t done it. I had my gun with me and told him to get back against the wall. My idea was to keep him under cover until the police arrived. I had no idea of what he was going to do next. He made a spring, crashed through the french windows, and ran for it. I fired to warn him to stop, but he kept on running. I went to fire again, but Miss Rivers grabbed my arm and I nearly hit him. I might have actually winged him. He certainly stumbled, but he picked himself up and carried on running.’ Smith-Fennimore paused, biting his lip.

  ‘What happened next, sir?’ asked Ashley quietly.

  The pause lengthened. Ashley knew that Smith-Fennimore was strapping down some strong emotion. Anger? No. Although his face was devoid of emotion, his hands were trembling. With an odd shock, Ashley realized that the big, confident man in front of him was close to tears. The rain hissed down against the windows and the gun-room clock ticked its seconds into the silence for a full half-minute.

  Ashley looked at Smith-Fennimore’s impassive face and decided not to probe that particular wound any further. Not only would it be close to cruelty, he could always ask Haldean about it afterwards. He changed the subject. ‘Your gun, sir. May I see it?’

  Smith-Fennimore’s shoulders relaxed. He produced the pistol from his pocket and passed it to the Superintendent, who held it briefly. He noticed there were smears of blood on the butt.

  ‘This is an impressive weapon, sir. Where did you get it?’

  ‘It’s my navy Colt. I bought it from Harrods in the war. I’ve got a licence for it.’

  ‘Didn’t it hurt your injured hand to use it?’

  Smith-Fennimore nodded ruefully. ‘It hurt like sin. I didn’t notice until afterwards that it had reopened the cut. You must remember, Superintendent, that we were all pretty wound up and even though my hand was giving me gyp, it didn’t seem to be as important as trying to stop Stanton.’

  Ashley handed back the Colt. ‘Why do you carry it, sir?’

  ‘Because,’ said Smith-Fennimore, putting the gun back in his jacket pocket, ‘there have been some peculiar things happening in this house and I wanted to be sure of protection. You know about Mr Preston’s suicide? Well, Major Haldean believes there was more to that than met the eye, and I was inclined to agree with him.’

  Ashley sat upright. ‘Another murder, you mean, sir?’

  ‘Another murder,’ agreed Smith-Fennimore. ‘Major Haldean can tell you more about that than I can. He’s full of ideas.’

  Ashley grinned, despite himself. ‘Yes, he usually is.’

  There was a tap on the door and a police constable entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the doctor and the photographer have arrived.’

  ‘Thank you, Bevan. I’ll be along right away. We’ve just about finished.’ Ashley rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Commander. I’ll get your statement typed up and ask you to sign it later. You’ve been a great help.’ He paused, noticing the way Smith-Fennimore was cradling his hand. ‘Why don’t you come along and get the doctor to look at
that?’

  Smith-Fennimore got up. ‘Good idea.’

  Dr Speldhurst was, Ashley realized when he and Smith-Fennimore got back to Lord Lyvenden’s room, in no very happy mood. Sir Philip Rivers stood by the body with a faintly proprietorial air while the doctor fussed round.

  Speldhurst looked up as they entered. ‘You’re Superintendent Ashley, eh? I was saying to Sir Philip that this was getting to be a habit. I’d rather see people while they were still alive than keep on inspecting corpses in his bedrooms. Don’t worry, I haven’t touched the knife. I suppose you want me to tell you how long he’s been dead and so on?’

  Ashley smiled placidly. ‘We will need that information, Doctor, of course, but first of all I’d be glad if you’d look at Commander Smith-Fennimore’s hand.’

  Speldhurst tutted as he saw the clumsy, blood-soaked handkerchief round Smith-Fennimore’s palm. He didn’t attempt to untie it but cut it off with scissors. ‘By jingo, I bet that hurts,’ he said, looking at the wound. ‘No permanent damage, I’m glad to say.’ He started to clean off the dried blood. ‘What is it? A knife cut?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Smith-Fennimore tightly. ‘It was my own fault.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t hurt less for that.’ He picked up a bottle of iodine. ‘This is going to sting, I’m afraid.’

  Smith-Fennimore endured the doctor’s attentions with gritted teeth, flexing the fingers of his rebandaged hand with relief. ‘Thank you.’

  The doctor grinned. ‘You almost sound as if you mean it, man. Get that bandage changed every day and it should be much better in a week or so.’

  Ashley looked down at the body. ‘Have you had a chance to come to any conclusions, Doctor?’

  Dr Speldhurst turned away from Smith-Fennimore and glared at Ashley over the top of his pince-nez. ‘My conclusion is that he was stabbed, but you hardly need me to tell you that. There’s no doubt how he died but it’d take a good strong push to get the knife in like that. I imagine the killer – Captain Stanton, did you say, Sir Philip? – held his shoulders while he struck. It couldn’t really be done in any other way The knife glanced off the ribs twice before it punctured the aorta, which accounts for all the blood. It’s a wicked-looking weapon.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Ashley thoughtfully. ‘Where’s the photographer, by the way? I expected to find him here.’

  The doctor grinned once more. ‘He’s being sick in the scullery. He’s that weedy-looking fellow from the village. I don’t suppose he’s ever photographed anything more exciting than a wedding in his life. Now for the time of death. Let me see . . .’ Dr Speldhurst took his watch from his pocket. ‘It’s five o’clock now. I’d say he’s been dead about four hours, which makes the time of death somewhere around one o’clock or thereabouts, give or take twenty minutes on either side.’

  ‘Is that as close as you can get?’ asked Ashley.

  ‘Damn it, man, I’m not a clairvoyant!’ exploded Dr Speldhurst. ‘Besides that, why d’you need me to tell you when he died? According to Sir Philip you saw the chap do it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not quite,’ began Sir Philip when he was interrupted by voices in the hallway.

  Lady Harriet, followed by a protesting police constable, came into the room. ‘Sir Philip!’ she cried. ‘This man tells me some stupid story about my husband.’

  Sir Philip gave Ashley an agonized look. ‘This is Lady Harriet, Lyvenden’s wife,’ he said in a low voice.

  Ashley stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Harriet, but this is going to be a terrible shock. Would you like to come with me? I’d rather you weren’t in this room.’

  He’d hoped to get her away, but she was staring past him at the body on the floor. She turned white and swallowed. ‘I see it’s true,’ she said faintly ‘No. No, I don’t want to stay in here.’

  Smith-Fennimore looked at the doctor. ‘I’ll be off,’ he said quietly ‘There’s nothing much I can do.’

  Ashley took Lady Harriet’s arm and escorted her out of the room and into the hall to where there were a table and two chairs set against the wall. She sank into a chair and sat with her hands rigidly folded across her handbag, staring in front of her. Sir Philip, Dr Speldhurst and Smith-Fennimore followed.

  ‘Lady Harriet,’ said Sir Philip gruffly, ‘we know what a shock this is for you. Would you like to retire to your room?’

  She gave a little shudder, shaking off the suggestion irritably. ‘No, please don’t fuss. I shall be perfectly all right.’ She sighed and drew a cigarette out of her case with shaky hands. Sir Philip lit it for her. ‘Poor Victor,’ she said eventually. ‘That it should end like this. Still, he had it coming to him.’ The men exchanged surprised looks.

  ‘Did your husband have any enemies, Lady Harriet?’ asked Superintendent Ashley.

  ‘Oh, absolutely heaps, officer. I presume that is what you are. Yes, poor old Victor did everyone down in the end. You never had any business dealings with him, did you, Sir Philip? That’s probably why you were still friendly with him. He was always impressed by people who didn’t have to buy a title. He was very keen that Mr Charnock should introduce you to him. Do you know who did it?’

  ‘Captain Stanton, Lady Harriet,’ said Sir Philip.

  She raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. ‘Captain Stanton? That boy? But that’s absurd. There are stacks of people with a better motive – and here’s one now,’ she added viciously.

  Mrs Strachan came into the hall. Her face was stained with tears. She gestured down the corridor towards the garden suite. ‘Is . . . is it in there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Harriet flatly. ‘Victor’s dead body is in his room. He’s been stabbed.’

  Mrs Strachan gave a little scream and burst into renewed sobs. ‘Oh, Victor, Victor,’ she cried. ‘And dear Lady Harriet. So brave. I can’t bear it!’ She dabbed her tears with a wet handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, do stop it,’ said Lady Harriet in disgust. ‘Stop it, woman, or I’ll tell them exactly what you were doing here.’

  A shrewd eye peeped above the handkerchief. ‘You wouldn’t . . .’ stammered Mrs Strachan. ‘You couldn’t.’

  ‘I could,’ said Lady Harriet firmly. ‘Now, gentlemen, I think I will go to my room.’

  ‘Just one moment, Lady Harriet,’ said Superintendent Ashley, courteously. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain what you have just said?’

  Lady Harriet spared him an uninterested glance. ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll need a statement from you,’ persisted the Superintendent in a firmer voice.

  She looked at him coolly. ‘My good man, you’ll get a statement when and if I choose to make one. I shall be in my room. It’s next to the one that had the other dead body in it.’ She got up and swept up the stairs, leaving a stunned group of men behind her.

  ‘Whew!’ said Ashley at last. ‘She’s a cool customer and no mistake. What did she mean by that?’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Strachan would elucidate matters for us?’ asked Sir Philip.

  Mrs Strachan sniffed and put down the handkerchief. ‘It’s just Lady Harriet’s way, Sir Philip. She always resented my friendship with poor Victor. She never did understand that we were simply friends. Yes, friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ repeated Sir Philip in a dangerous voice.

  ‘Friends. We were only ever friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ ground out Sir Philip in a glacial tone. ‘What sort of friends?’

  Mrs Strachan buried herself in the handkerchief once more. ‘Don’t be hor-hor-horrible. How can you dream of such a thing?’

  Superintendent Ashley took one look at his incandescent host and decided to intervene. He put a kindly hand on the sobbing woman’s shoulder. ‘Now, now, Mrs Strachan, why don’t you come along to the gun room with me? We can have a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’ He steered the still sniffing Mrs Strachan down the hall, pausing to speak to his constable at the door of the garden suite. ‘Organize some tea for us, Bevan.’

  The Superintendent escorted Mrs Strachan
to the gun room, chatting of strictly neutral topics until the tea arrived. Helping her to sugar, he judged the moment right to start asking questions. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what you were doing this morning?’

  ‘This morning?’ she quavered. ‘Nothing. I decided to go into Stanmore Parry and have lunch there. I don’t know this part of the country very well, and I decided to have a look round. And . . . and . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Ashley, sympathetically.

  ‘I had some money with me, rather a lot of money. I’d mislaid it last night. I thought Lady Harriet’s maid had taken it. She’s French, you know, and in my opinion she is not at all trustworthy. One thing led to another and there was a bit of a fuss about it.’

  Superintendent Ashley thought that ‘a bit of a fuss’ was a magnificent understatement contrasted with the screaming row detailed at some length by Sir Philip to him earlier in the day. His face showed nothing but polite interest and, emboldened, Mrs Strachan continued.

  ‘She does take things, that girl. She’s fundamentally dishonest. I never have trusted foreigners. I’m sure she’d moved the money from where it was. Anyway, I thought the best thing to do would be to pay it into the bank.’

  ‘Where did the money come from, Mrs Strachan?’ asked Ashley, gently.

  She licked her lips, nervously. ‘I brought it with me.’

  He smiled. ‘No. Now where did it really come from?’

  She dissolved into sobs again. ‘Victor gave it to me. He was always so kind and generous. And Lady Harriet thought . . . Lady Harriet thought . . .’ She was overwhelmed by tears.

  Ashley cleared his throat. ‘Did Lady Harriet think you were having an affair?’

  There was silence, broken only by the sound of tears. ‘Yes,’ Mrs Strachan whispered eventually. ‘She was silly and jealous, but Victor and I were only friends.’

  Ashley reserved his opinion about the nature of the friendship and pressed on. ‘What did you do after you’d been to the bank?’

  ‘I walked round the village, before going to a little tea shop for lunch. It was called the Oasis. I had cod in parsley sauce and a gooseberry tart with custard. After lunch I called into the chemist’s for a new toothbrush and some aspirin. I didn’t like the look of the weather so I went into another tea shop for an early tea, hoping the rain would blow over. It was quite a nice place. It’s called the Golden Rose. It has golden roses on the wallpaper. I had Welsh rarebit and a pot of Ceylon tea and a plate of mixed cakes. Then I got a cab back. I instructed the driver to drop me at the far side of the park because I wanted to walk.’