Lessons for Survivors

by Charlie Cochrane

  “I’d be a sight happier if there was less emphasis on the theatricals, Professor. It’s only because Mr. Wilson recommended we agree to this that I’m here.” McLaren clearly meant it. He’d not been happy with their scheme from the start, but Wilson—even a retired Wilson—wasn’t someone to be argued with. And he had the chief constable’s ear.

  “We’ll play everything by the book.” Jonty looked solemn; one of the things his scar had added to his appearance was a gravitas not previously present. “And if it doesn’t work . . .” He shrugged. “I suppose she’ll sue us for defamation or something.”

  “We need to get through the front door first.” Orlando swallowed hard; he hadn’t realised just how imposing Thorpe House would look close up. Even though they were expected, they couldn’t be certain of the reception they’d get.

  “If Rosalind Priestland thinks we’re here because of her mother-in-law’s jewels, then we’ll be welcomed.” Jonty flicked some nonexistent specks from his jacket. “It’s when she realises that we’ve got in under false pretences that we have to start worrying.”

  If Mrs. Hamilton was surprised at a policeman (and not the local bobby, to boot) with the grocer’s boy in tow knocking at the door rather than the tradesmen’s entrance, she was too well-bred to show it. Jonty saved his explanation for when they’d been ushered into the drawing room. Mitchell, looking every inch the spinsters’ dream, was already present. To give moral support, Jonty assumed. Or maybe to confess to the crime himself, if they’d got it horribly wrong? He forced away any thoughts of them making fools of themselves.

  “Dr. Stewart, Professor Coppersmith.” Rosalind rose to meet her guests. “I’m so pleased to see you. I assume we can at last clarify the matter of what happened to Alice Priestland? I’m just sorry we couldn’t have cleared this all up last year.”

  I bet you are, Jonty thought uncharitably. Then you could have inherited Peter’s part of that legacy as well. “That’s what we want to do,” he said aloud. “We can confirm that we’ve located her jewellery and corroborate that she ran away and began a second life.”

  “So the letters were right?” Mitchell steepled his hands to his chin. “I wish the twins could have known. It would have eased things between them. Confession of error and forgiveness are at the root of a fulfilled life.”

  “I’m forgetting my manners. Please take a seat.” Rosalind cut through the theological chat, indicating chairs for Jonty and Orlando. She seemed to think twice about McLaren and Billy, but in the end offered them seats too. “I assume you’re all aware that my brother-in-law and his nephew were here the day Peter died?”

  “We are indeed.” Orlando’s was the voice of authority; slow, measured, and displaying no hint of his misgivings.

  “I suppose that’s why young Billy’s here. You saw them, didn’t you?” Rosalind took a handkerchief from her pocket and twisted it in her lap.

  “I saw somebody.” Billy looked confused. “Don’t know who it was.”

  “It was one of the family.” Rosalind looked at Mitchell. “It sounds unchristian, but I can’t help worrying about that. You don’t think it possible they came in through the conservatory door when we were busy and . . . and did anything to my Peter? So they’d get a bigger share of the inheritance?”

  “I suppose it’s possible, although I find it most unlikely.” Mitchell turned to Jonty. “Is that why you’ve come? To tell us some ridiculous tale about Peter being killed by his nephew?”

  Jonty swallowed hard, ignoring the “ridiculous” bit. Was there any chance they’d got this arsey-farsey? That Rosalind’s apparent acting was genuine and the real killer had taken them all for a ride? They’d soon find out.

  “We’re here to discuss the possibility that Peter was murdered, but not by his nephew. We have a witness to the deed.” Screw-his-courage-to-the-sticking-place time. “Why did you kill him, Mrs. Priestland?”

  If Jonty expected a stream of protest from Mitchell and a stream of invective from Rosalind, he was disappointed on both counts. Rosalind’s voice was icily calm. Had she been preparing herself for this eventuality or had Simon—and they—read this all dreadfully wrong?

  “I think you’ve been misled. Peter was already dead when I found him. When we found him. Mrs. Hamilton was with me and she’d been with me all afternoon up until then. How could I have had the chance, even if I’d had the inclination?” Rosalind still looked and sounded the picture of innocence, aided by a slight catch in her voice. “I loved him so much.” She glanced at Mitchell, but he seemed to deliberately avoid her eye.

  “Of course she was with you. That was the beauty of it, wasn’t it? I believe your housekeeper’s hearing isn’t what it was?”

  The sudden horrified look on Rosalind’s face, quickly hidden, gave the lie to her response. “Her hearing is excellent, thank you.”

  “Hmm.” Jonty cracked on, hoping his papa wasn’t sitting up in heaven with a glass of malt whisky in his angelic hand, shaking his head at the speculative stuff his youngest son was spouting. “You saw your husband in a deep sleep, and saw your chance. A unique chance, perhaps not to be repeated. To pretend he was already dead, send Mrs. Hamilton off to get help and, while she was away, smother him. Peter was still weak after the flu, so it would have been easy. Billy, tell us what you saw,” he said, sounding friendly enough but with officer-like authority.

  Billy took a deep breath, as close to standing at attention as he could manage in a chair, and addressed a spot somewhere to the left of Jonty’s head. “We’d been killing ladybirds, me and Mr. Houseman, that morning. I’d come back to see if I could get a glimpse of the red kites over the woods. Everyone tells me there’s no such birds round here and I shouldn’t hang around making a nuisance of myself, so I kept out of view. I didn’t want Mrs. Priestland or Mrs. Hamilton coming and telling me off.” He cast a quick glance at Rosalind, then pressed on. “I was round by the back of the house. Where they keep all those flowers.”

  “The conservatory,” Jonty said softly.

  “I suppose so. It’s a sort of glass house.” Billy smiled. “I saw Mr. Priestland in there, and thought that big thick blanket must have been uncomfortable up over his face. Mrs. Priestland must have thought the same, because she moved it aside. Then she covered his face with a little handkerchief. I guessed he was already dead, so she was doing what was required.”

  This wasn’t quite what they’d asked McLaren to ask Billy to say. He was supposed to be talking about seeing Rosalind bending over the body, pressing a cloth over his nose and mouth. Nothing about a blanket. Jonty just hoped the lad’s extemporising wouldn’t spoil things.

  “Why was it required, Billy?” Mitchell’s voice had an attractive tone, the sort that invited confidences or confessions.

  “I don’t know. I’d never seen a dead body before. They didn’t do it with my gran, but nobody’s told me why. When I asked, they said to be quiet.” Billy looked puzzled. “I don’t know why Mrs. Priestland placed the blanket in the big tub, either.”

  “What big tub?” Jonty felt like his head was going to explode.

  “The one with the strange plants in. Mr. Houseman says they keep it full of water so the plants don’t get dry. Mrs. Priestland put the blanket in there after she put the handkerchief on his face.”

  “May we have Mrs. Hamilton in, please?” Orlando asked.

  “You may have whom you like.” Rosalind’s voice was suddenly hard. “Reverend, would you be so kind?”

  “Don’t you worry yourself, sir.” McLaren’s voice was surprisingly authoritative. “I’ll fetch her.” The silence after he departed grew increasingly uncomfortable, but fortunately McLaren was gone only a short time. Mrs. Hamilton must have been lurking not too far away. “You have my seat, ma’am. We’re discussing the day your master died.”

  Mrs. Hamilton cast a quick glance at her mistress, although whether that was to check it was all right to sit down or to communicate her support, Jonty couldn’t tell. The faintest buzz of an
idea began in his head, like a small wasp in one of his mental pigeonholes.

  “Mrs. Hamilton,” he said, rather quietly, and without looking at her, “can we clarify something?”

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

  Jonty, with a triumphantly knowing glance at the rest of the company, repeated the question, much louder this time, then continued. “On the day Peter Priestland died, where was his blanket when you came back from phoning the doctor?”

  “In that ridiculous trough where he liked to stand his favourite plants. Such a mess. Mrs. Priestland said it had fallen in there by accident, in the panic.” Mrs. Hamilton cast a quick glance at Mrs. Priestland, as if checking her answer was acceptable.

  “Are you sure of that?” McLaren had evidently been making notes throughout, although nobody had seemed to have noticed. Now all eyes were drawn to his notebook and pencil. “Mrs. Priestland told you it had just fallen in?”

  “Yes. She said it had dropped into the water as she’d tried to rouse him. It needed an age of drying out.” The housekeeper spoke slowly and with what seemed absolute candour, her eyes constantly flicking between the policeman and her mistress.

  Jonty took a deep breath. “Had that blanket been covering Mr. Priestland when you first found him, apparently dead?”

  “Yes. He felt the cold terribly, poor man, so we’d made sure we tucked him up nicely. Not near his face, of course. Didn’t want to suffocate him.” Mrs. Hamilton’s head turned sharply at the hint of a gasp from her mistress.

  “Were you gone long? Making the call?” Jonty now had total charge of the interview.

  The housekeeper looked confused at the change of tack. “I was a bit longer than I might have expected to be. The telephone in the hallway didn’t seem to be working, so I had to go below stairs to the one we have there. There was a problem on the line, then the doctor was an age coming to his phone, then it seemed difficult to make him understand what the problem was.”

  “Time enough.” Jonty nodded. “And when you returned his face wasn’t covered with a handkerchief, either?”

  “No.” Mrs. Hamilton looked across at her mistress again.

  “Time enough for what?” Mitchell unexpectedly cut in.

  “To wet the blanket and use it to smother Peter Priestland. McLaren, I’ve got a book at home that tells me, if I remember aright, that if you smother someone with something wet and woollen it leaves very little in the way of marks. Would that be possible here?” Jonty shot a sideways glance at Rosalind, who looked distinctly unhappy.

  “I couldn’t say, sir, me not being a forensic expert like Bernard Spilsbury.” McLaren frowned. “Although I’ve come across something similar before with a toddler.”

  Mrs. Hamilton suddenly spoke. “But you wouldn’t have done anything like that, would you, madam? You’d have been too scared I’d have come back and caught you in the act.”

  “Of course.” Rosalind shook her head, as if to say, See how illogical people are.

  Jonty pressed on. “But what if your mistress happened to know there was something wrong with the phone line? She’d have been able to count on your being delayed.”

  “It was an error on Billy’s part, surely?” Mrs. Hamilton turned to the grocer’s boy. “You must have been mistaken about what you saw.”

  “I was not.” Billy looked every bit as certain as he sounded. “The blanket was on the old man’s face. She took it off and put it in the water. Then she covered his face with a cloth.”

  “This is ridiculous. Why would I do that?” Rosalind threw up her hands.

  “To wipe away any drips of water? Or any other signs?” Orlando leaned forwards. “Or to check if he was still breathing? The almost imperceptible rise and fall of the cloth . . .”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why do you take the word of a silly boy who can’t even tell a buzzard from a billiard ball?” Rosalind snorted.

  “I’m not a silly boy. You’d not have called me that if I’d been old enough to go to France. I’m prepared to stand up in court and say what I saw.”

  “As am I.” Mitchell spoke quietly, with eyes closed. “We should have the truth, Mrs. Priestland. Only that can set all of us free.”

  “You’re right. We should have nothing but the truth.” Mrs. Hamilton got up, went over, and stood by the door, where a shawl lay folded on a little table. She picked it up, twisting it in her hands. “Gentlemen, you’ve so nearly got this right. Peter Priestland was murdered, but not by Mrs. Priestland. After we’d finished looking for ladybirds, my mistress had to go and wash her hands. I could hear my master breathing in a hoarse, rattling way. I ran to him, but he was so very distressed, I couldn’t but put him out of his misery. He’d been so ill . . .” She made the shawl into a flat pad, then handed it to Orlando, who was nearest to her. “Feel that material. How close the weave is.”

  She stepped back while he rubbed the shawl between his fingers, then held it to his face, every eye in the room watching him.

  “What?” McLaren exclaimed, bewildered. “Would someone tell me exactly what’s going on here?”

  “I think we’re being played like fishes but I’m not sure who the angler is.” Mitchell got to his feet too. “Mrs. Priestland, can you . . .”

  “Stop her! She’s used that shawl to distract us!” Jonty was up like a flash but not fast enough to prevent the housekeeper from slipping out of the door. Just like the occasion he first met Billy, Jonty had the feeling he’d had his attention diverted while the magician produced his—her—piece of prestidigitation. The sound of a key in the lock stopped them in their tracks. “Break this down, Sergeant.”

  “No.” Mitchell indicated another exit. “Through the dining room and into the hall. She can’t have got far.”

  She hadn’t. As Jonty, Orlando, McLaren, and Billy—who looked like he was having a day out at the fair, his smile was so wide—came into the hall, they spotted Mrs. Hamilton legging it up the stairs like a champion hurdler.

  “Stop, in the name of the law!”

  Jonty couldn’t help grinning at McLaren’s shout; the whole experience felt like being in something by Gilbert and Sullivan.

  “She won’t stop. Mitchell, where can she be going?” Orlando asked, barely stopping to hear the vicar’s reply.

  “There’s a door to the roof, right up in the attic.” The answer followed them up as they reached the top of the second flight.

  “Don’t bother,” the housekeeper shouted down, almost at the top and not breaking stride. “It’ll be easier all round if my guilt dies with me and I report straight to my Maker.”

  “Don’t let her do it.” Orlando’s face was deathly pale. He’d seen suicide before, more than once. It still haunted him at times, especially since the war, which had stirred up all sorts of memories they’d thought long dealt with. “Dear God, don’t let it happen, Jonty.”

  “I’m not sure I can catch her.” Jonty was only a step or two ahead of his friend, although Billy was gaining on their quarry.

  “Careful what you’re doing there, Mrs. H. You’ll make a terrible mess, and it’s poor souls like us what’ll have to do the clearing up.” Billy’s words must have hit home, as the housekeeper, pale and drawn, stopped halfway through the door.

  “Stay there, Billy. Stay there until it’s all done and then go straight home. I don’t want you seeing this.”

  Mitchell suddenly held out his arm to stop any of them getting closer to their prey. They’d never reach her before she could close the door and lock it against them. “I’m not sure God will forgive you, my dear. Not if you’re assuming responsibility for something you didn’t do. Especially if that might let the guilty party go free.”

  Mrs. Hamilton still hesitated, face riddled with doubt.

  “Hell.” Orlando thumped the wall with his fist. “Who’s keeping an eye on Rosalind?”

  Jonty almost fell backwards down the stairs, so quickly did he turn round. Had this all been a diversionary tactic? One quick glance at the house
keeper’s guilty expression settled matters.

  “Leave her to jump if she will. Please God, the harm hasn’t been done.” They hared back down the stairs, the dramatic denouement of this murder play having descended into farce.

  They reached the front door to see Rosalind Priestland halfway down the drive, carpetbag in hand. She’d been prepared for this, probably given warning by all the questions asked around the village. If she had a car coming for her—and she was just the sort of woman to have left nothing to chance—then she’d be away before they could reach her. Jonty cursed his having left his automobile out on the road.

  “Stop!” McLaren shouted at the top of his not inconsiderable voice, but Rosalind wasn’t having any of it.

  The squeak of a bicycle caught Jonty’s ear as he raced along. Billy had leapt on his trusty steed and was proceeding down the drive at a terrific clip. “Stop her!”

  The bicycle flashed by, unswerving. It should have been comic, a grocer’s lad chasing a respectable woman along her own drive, the stuff of Jerome K. Jerome or Weedon Grossmith, except that the woman’s being a likely murderess took all the humour away.

  It was soon done, Billy overtaking her, discarding the bicycle, and grabbing Rosalind with arms that were stronger than Jonty would have given him credit for. The lady, true colours maybe emerging at last, resorted to using her teeth to effect an escape, but all in vain. As the rest of them caught up with the scuffling pair, a motorcar screeched to a halt outside the gate, reversed, then headed off in the other direction. Whomever Rosalind had arranged to be her knight on a white charger had evidently taken his horse and run at the sight of trouble.

  “Get off me!” Rosalind was willing to fight, even when surrounded.

  “That’ll do, Billy.” McLaren took his rightful place as upholder of the law.

  Jonty felt they should get some questions in before she was handed over totally to officialdom. They still hadn’t had an admission of guilt or anything that could be used in a court of law.