The Bloody Wood

by Michael Innes

  The double doors of the belvedere, themselves elegantly curved to conform to the lines of the building, were wide open. The interior, although lit also from the small aperture above, somehow remained filled only with a subdued light. Once inside and looking outward, the effect was rather that of being in a miniature theatre, and of facing a proscenium arch beyond which was revealed a brightly lit rural scene. Alternatively one could close the doors and so find oneself in dim seclusion, with no other company than that of two sightless marble statues set in niches, and a vague proliferation of dolphins and other marine creatures on a somewhat cracked and damaged mosaic floor. There was provision for electric heating and lighting; there was a table together with a few comfortable chairs; there was even one of the ivory telephones. As fixtures there were some tall and elegant cupboards in a grey wood and of classical design. At one time these had no doubt served some purpose of refined living. When one opened them now – Appleby discovered – they disclosed merely a tumble of flower pots and similar oddments. The whole place, indeed, seemed to have been only casually reclaimed for occupation; near the back there was a barrow, a gardener’s ladder, and a jumble of croquet-boxes, golf-bags, tennis nets and similar paraphernalia.

  Here, it was to be supposed, the Martineaus had found their last contentment together. Perhaps because a consciousness of this hung in the air, one found oneself moving quietly, and not caring much to linger. The Pendletons, indeed, had gone off at once, so that the Applebys were again left alone with the Chief Constable. Three people were enough for one small and obvious experiment.

  ‘You two can sit down,’ Appleby said. ‘More or less in the doorway, I’d say. When I give a whistle, you must contrive a couple of minutes’ casual conversation. Would you be able to manage that?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Colonel Morrison was once more rather forlornly humorous. ‘It oughtn’t positively to tax our social resources.’

  ‘Then here goes,’ Appleby said, and walked back into the wood. When he returned five minutes later, it was to nod briskly. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Really no comment needed.’

  ‘You both heard our voices and could identify them?’ Morrison asked.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘And make out what we said?’

  ‘A word or two. Judith said something about its being a fine evening, and of the sort that promised a fine day tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes. I thought I’d better go the whole hog.’ Judith shivered suddenly. ‘Can we leave this place now?’ she asked. ‘I somehow didn’t like that experiment an awful lot.’

  ‘Then come along.’ Appleby turned to Morrison. ‘Ought the belvedere to be locked up?’ he asked.

  ‘I have a man keeping an eye on it. He made himself scarce when we turned up.’

  ‘Good. Now for the office.’

  ‘Those two kinds of motive,’ Judith said, as they made their way through the wood. ‘Greed and fear. You know, they may both apply to Bobby Angrave – and to Bobby Angrave alone.’

  ‘Making him an odds-on favourite, eh?’ Morrison had showed a quick interest. ‘You know, I don’t care for that young fellow, as I said. Too clever by half. Not that I’d let such feelings prejudice the matter in any way. But how do you mean, Lady Appleby?’

  ‘There can be very little doubt that Bobby was his uncle’s eventual heir. Probably there is a will of Charles’ leaving Charne and a good deal else to his wife in the first place, for it was certainly wholly in Charles’ power to dispose of. But ultimately he would have arranged that Bobby should inherit. Very well. That actually makes Bobby Angrave the owner of Charne at this moment, or at least as soon as various legal forms have been complied with. John, would that be right?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘But, until both Charles and Grace were dead, Bobby was only an heir on sufferance. He had no right in the property whatever.’

  ‘That must be so too.’

  ‘And so we have the motive of greed.’

  ‘But what about fear?’ Morrison asked. ‘We’ve worked out the facts about Friary. Miss Page had exposed him to Mrs Martineau. As soon as Mrs Martineau passed on the story to her husband, Friary’s number was up. But as Miss Page herself could be frightened into silence–’

  ‘We’ve got all that.’ For the first time, Appleby spoke impatiently. ‘The point is that, for some reason, the double motive works with Bobby. And I think I know why.’

  ‘Quite suddenly, he was in a fix with his uncle and aunt,’ Judith said. ‘He said exactly that to me, when he more or less presented himself as top suspect. I felt he was simply trailing his coat. There’s something perverse about the movement of Bobby’s mind, even at the best of times. But perhaps it was all some kind of bluff. Anyway, it seems a fact that something was going to turn up that would wreck his chances, if he didn’t act quickly.’

  ‘And, of course, we know what it was going to be.’ Appleby had turned to Morrison. ‘Would I be right in supposing you had quite a spot of trouble over drug-taking not so long ago – and actually among highly respectable county families?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Not surprised you’ve heard of it. A shocking thing. One boy driven potty. Another packed off to be a jackaroo in New South Wales or some such place. And a lot more mischief than that.’

  ‘Bobby Angrave admits to having been in on it. He spoke to me rather light-heartedly about it – but that was something he probably wouldn’t have done unless there was trouble brewing. And that brings in Pendleton.’

  ‘Pendleton?’ Morrison was blankly astonished. ‘Fellow’s a bit too pleased with himself for my liking. But I can’t believe he’d peddle–’

  ‘No, no – it’s not like that at all.’ Appleby was amused. ‘From Edward Pendleton we have to move on to one of the local doctors. He’s the man who’s been attending on Grace Martineau. His name is Fell.’

  ‘Fell? Yes, I’ve heard of him. Very well reputed, and all that.’

  ‘Well, Fell – although it appears to be going off at a tangent – is in the running as a suspect himself – under “fear”, that is, not “greed”.’

  ‘My dear chap, haven’t we got enough–’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Appleby was suddenly cheerful. ‘One can’t, you know, have too many suspects. The more you have, the likelier you are to nobble one of them.’

  It appeared to take Colonel Morrison a moment to gauge the frivolous character of this piece of logic. Having done so, he offered no comment.

  ‘But we’ll stick, for the moment, to Angrave. Charles Martineau suddenly becomes aware that his nephew has been taking drugs. It’s impossible to see that as serious in itself. The boy quite clearly hasn’t become any sort of addict, and he hasn’t been involved in any open scandal. Charles Martineau is a man of the world, and a man of sense as well. So far, there’s nothing that would persuade him to come down heavily on a lad who must still have been short of his majority during the time in question. On the other hand, Martineau, like his wife, is a person of high moral principle. If Bobby’s conduct had something really vicious about it – if he had made money, say, by peddling the stuff to younger friends – that would finish him as certainly with his uncle, who liked him, as it would with his aunt, who did not. One can imagine a position, that’s to say, in which Bobby would have to act swiftly or be disinherited.’

  They had now emerged from the wood, and Charne lay in front of them. Colonel Morrison halted for a moment to survey it. He might have been estimating just what it could be worth to a dislikeable young man who was too clever by half.

  ‘That’s a facer,’ he said. ‘If Angrave has got the wind up at this moment, I can’t say that I’m surprised. But what could have brought the drug business home to him now? It’s past history, more or less. At least, I hope it is.’

  ‘The answer to that is Dr Fell. Or rather, it’s a luckless encounter between Fe
ll and our friend Pendleton. At the moment, I needn’t go into details. But Fell has some scandal about drugs concealed in his past; Pendleton happens to know about it; and Pendleton thought it proper to give a very private warning to Martineau. It’s clear that Martineau at once thought of that bad business of Bobby’s local friends. He became alarmed, questioned Bobby, taxed Fell, probably made fresh inquiries at the other lads’ homes. And here’s our final point for the moment. Bobby may have been in sudden and unexpected danger. But so may Fell. Fell may actually have let people have drugs. Or, at the very least, he may have been so careless about them that – his record being in some way as it is – any further trouble would lead to his being struck off the Medical Register. But it was still only from the Martineaus that any such trouble could come.’

  ‘Edward Pendleton,’ Judith interrupted. ‘What about him?’

  ‘It’s a point, certainly. Yet just consider. Edward is a very fair-minded man, and has the strongest possible sense of professional propriety. He considers that it would be wholly improper to breathe a word in public about Fell’s past history, whatever it may have been. If Fell was ever actually charged with professional misconduct, he must either have been cleared, or penalized only in some minor way. Probably he turned GP simply because he realized it was imprudent to continue as an anaesthetist: no more than that. So all that Edward Pendleton does is to say this very confidential word to Charles. And then–’

  ‘But wait a moment.’ Morrison had held up a hand to interrupt. ‘If Fell’s past is not in any way really lurid, why should this admittedly awkward cropping up from it lead towards desperate courses?’

  ‘I’ve told you. The revelation of even a mild second involvement in irregularities over drugs might well be fatal to him. Moreover, he may have a present – or a recent past – that is more lurid than whatever trouble first checked his career. And now let me get back to Judith’s question. Suppose there is this new threat – embodied solely in what the Martineaus may conceive it their duty to do. Suppose Grace Martineau then appears to die by a tragic accident, and her husband appears to take his own life in consequence. These misfortunes don’t seem to have the slightest connexion with Dr Fell. They distress our friend Edward very much. And one very likely consequence is that Dr Fell and his affairs never enter Edward’s head again.’

  ‘It would be a most desperate gamble, all the same.’ Colonel Morrison paused on the terrace. ‘Is there anybody else, Appleby, that you can work up a case against in this terrifying way?’

  ‘Macaulay the gardener, perhaps. And, of course, his Aberdonian nephew. Or old Mr and Mrs Coombs at the lodge.’

  ‘No, no – my dear fellow. Seriously, more or less.’

  ‘Martine Rivière.’

  ‘Ah, the niece. But would she stand to inherit much?’

  ‘At the moment, we just don’t know. Certainly something. Perhaps she hasn’t been altogether out of the running for a great deal. With one single changed circumstance, she would be a very good suspect indeed.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘A switching of the two deaths.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean by that?’

  ‘Simply in point of time. It seems certain and established – doesn’t it? – that Grace Martineau died before Charles. But suppose it had been the other way round. For a certain space of time, Grace would probably have been the owner of Charne and everything else. Like my wife, I can’t imagine Charles Martineau as having made any other sort of will.’

  ‘But that’s fantastic!’ The Chief Constable seemed really upset. ‘To leave everything to a dying woman would simply be to invite red ruin in the way of death duties.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he bequeathed his wife only a life interest in Charne, with Bobby Angrave as the eventual proprietor. But he would quite certainly leave a great deal to his wife absolutely – and damn death duties. So my point, of course, is this. If Grace had survived Charles, it would be as the owner of substantial wealth, the eventual disposition of which could be determined in terms of an existing will. If Grace’s will, say, left everything to Martine Rivière, who was her favourite, then Martine would get everything that had passed into Grace’s estate at the time of her death. Roughly, it may be put this way: it was to Bobby Angrave’s interest that Grace should die before Charles, and to Martine Rivière’s interest that Charles should die before Grace. And Bobby won.’

  ‘Perhaps there was a hitch,’ Judith said.

  ‘It’s possible.’ Appleby laughed shortly. ‘But I doubt whether Martine is the sort that goes in for hitches.’

  Colonel Morrison had produced a silk handkerchief, and with this he mopped his brow. The day, it was true, was already turning warm; nevertheless there was a faint hint of the theatrical in his gesture.

  ‘Now for Martineau’s office,’ he said. ‘And I can only hope there’s to be no hitch, my dear Appleby, in what you’ve pretty well promised me before midnight.’

  ‘It’s unlikely. I can’t say more than that.’

  ‘John is intolerable.’ Judith took her husband’s arm. ‘Quite, quite intolerable. But he commonly brings these things off all the same.’

  ‘I have faith in him,’ Morrison said. ‘When backed up by you.’ He hesitated. ‘By the way, perhaps I should mention…well…in Mr Martineau’s office–’

  ‘The body’s still there?’

  ‘Yes. The photographs have been taken, and the fingerprint work done, and so forth. But the matter of posture and so on is so crucial–’

  ‘Yes, of course. And you won’t want a crowd.’ Judith was not in the least unwilling to be thus dismissed. ‘I think I see Martine in the loggia. I’ll go and join her.’

  It was with evident relief that Morrison watched Judith move away.

  ‘Face anything, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘But no reason to shove just this at her – eh? Don’t mind telling you, it gave me a bit of a turn myself.’

  20

  Bobby Angrave stood in the hall. He was watching several plain-clothes policemen packing miscellaneous equipment in boxes. There were two police cars and a van in front of the house, and several uniformed constables were also visible. Bobby turned away from this spectacle and advanced towards Morrison and Appleby. Although his manner made no parade of owning the place, he had in some way taken on an air of authority. This was partly evident in a careful courtesy.

  ‘If it isn’t holding you up,’ he said, ‘may I have a word with both of you?’

  ‘Most certainly.’ Morrison’s reply was brisk. ‘Anything you have to say, Mr Angrave, is material. It will be considered carefully. Very carefully, indeed.’

  ‘There’s nobody in the library.’ Bobby led the way there, let the others enter before him, and then shut the door. ‘I suppose,’ he asked politely, ‘that if one is proved to have committed suicide one is cast into prison at once?’

  ‘Your question is meaningless, sir.’ Not surprisingly, the Chief Constable’s reception of this frivolity was stony. ‘The act of suicide is illegal, and the attempt is therefore illegal too. But, as you know perfectly well, at the present day it is seldom followed by the institution of criminal proceedings – unless there has been a suicide pact, or something of that sort.’

  ‘So it’s very probable that your activities at Charne are not directed at finding a criminal?’

  ‘They may well do so.’

  ‘That’s just what I’m afraid of.’ Bobby Angrave produced this astonishing remark prefectly naturally. ‘Rather to your surprise, you may, in a sense, come upon a criminal. I wonder whether it’s a good idea?’

  ‘Mr Angrave, it is hard for me to follow you. You cannot expect comment on the strength of such cryptic remarks.’

  ‘I’m only saying that it seems to me you might reasonably leave well alone.’

  ‘My dear Bobby’ – Appleby th
ought he had better interrupt – ‘it isn’t easy to describe as “well” a state of affairs involving two unexplained unnatural deaths. It’s the Chief Constable’s concern to establish the truth, whether it leads to finding a criminal or not.’

  ‘And it seems to be your concern too, sir, since you’ve started mucking in.’ Bobby said this in a cheerful tone apparently designed to render the words tolerably inoffensive. ‘My point is, you know, that I don’t believe you are going to find anybody to jug. I suspect that a stage will come when you both realize that. There won’t be any justice to execute – and, if that’s so, will it be all that sage and sensible to feel there’s nevertheless a truth to vindicate? I know you both have a professional character, and all that. But I put it to you simply as between gentlemen.’

  ‘You seem to be suggesting conspiracy,’ Morrison said grimly.

  ‘I suppose you can put it in that stuffy way, if you choose. But you know perfectly well that I mean.’ Bobby had walked to a window, and was surveying the terrace. ‘All those Black Marias, and big-bottomed bloodhounds straining at their leashes–’

  ‘Mr Angrave, I will not listen to offensive language about the men under my command.’

  ‘All right, Colonel, all right.’ Bobby allowed himself a flash of impertinence. ‘But you understand me perfectly well. Martineaus have been around this place for quite a long time. I’d have supposed the dossier could be closed without bringing in the Sunday reading of the folk. Or even the BBC. You know the kind of thing. A fellow with a disagreeable accent standing at the lodge gates and talking into the cameras about the dark mystery lying up the drive behind him.’

  There was a moment’s silence. This was because Colonel Morrison had been reduced to speechlessness. He would have been less speechless, perhaps, if this outrageous old-school-tie stuff hadn’t in fact touched some chord in him.

  ‘I’d have supposed we could all be trusted,’ Bobby said. ‘If it came to the crunch, I mean.’ He turned round and looked straight at Appleby. ‘I appeal to you,’ he said. ‘My aunt drowned herself, because her few remaining weeks of life were not worth bearing. My uncle shot himself, because he had no wish to continue living.’