Fate Worse Than Death

by Sheila Radley

  They had reached his parked Alfa. He opened the door and bent to take out his Ordnance Survey map of the forest, but Hilary touched his arm to stop him.

  ‘Martin,’ she said quietly. ‘This is nothing to do with Mrs Yardley. It’s bad news for you personally, I’m afraid.’

  He straightened very slowly, his hands on the hot metal of the car roof, and stared out over the exhausted grass of the airfield. The air was heavy, almost too thick to breathe. He felt sweat springing on his forehead, and wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  He cleared his throat. Without looking at Hilary he asked, ‘Is it – my aunt?’

  ‘Yes. I really am sorry, Martin. I’m afraid she’s dead.’

  He gripped the edge of the car roof. ‘Aunt Con must have killed herself,’ he said. ‘It was suicide, wasn’t it?’

  Chapter Thirty Four

  ‘Tell me: what made you say that Mrs Schultz must have taken her own life?’

  Chief Inspector Quantrill stood with his arms folded, watching the younger man. Tait sat – uncharacteristically slumped – on his aunt’s chintz-covered sofa, gazing blankly through the sitting-room window of number 9 Fodderstone Green. He looked grey-faced, shattered. Ordinarily Quantrill would have offered his condolences and left the man alone; but the circumstances of Constance Alice Schultz’s death had given rise to suspicion.

  She had last been seen by her neighbours, Mr and Mrs Braithwaite and Mr and Mrs Websdell, at approximately 6 p.m. the previous evening. A police car with a loudspeaker had driven through Fodderstone Green calling for further volunteers to help in the search for Mrs Yardley, and all the able-bodied residents had gathered on the Green to receive their instructions. Both Marjorie Braithwaite and Beryl Websdell had thought that Mrs Schultz was not looking well, and they had persuaded her to return home.

  The following morning – that morning – Mrs Braithwaite had made a neighbourly call on Mrs Schultz at approximately 9.30 a.m. The back door was unlocked, but Mrs Schultz was not in. Mrs Braithwaite had then walked down the garden, expecting to find her neighbour there.

  As she neared the garage, Mrs Braithwaite heard the noise of an engine. The garage doors were closed but not locked. Opening them, Mrs Braithwaite saw that the white Ford Escort was filled with fumes, and that a vacuum-cleaner hose led from the exhaust and through the partly open rear window of the car. The remainder of the window opening was blocked with a cloth.

  Mrs Braithwaite opened the driver’s door and found Mrs Schultz at the wheel, apparently unconscious. The key – one of a bunch – was in the ignition, and Mrs Braithwaite switched off the engine. She tried to rouse Mrs Schultz, but was unable to do so. She then ran to her own house and telephoned for the police.

  A uniformed police officer from the Fodderstone incident room went immediately to the scene, together with a detective constable. They removed Mrs Schultz’s body from the car, and a police surgeon who arrived shortly afterwards confirmed their opinion that she was dead. Her body was taken to Breckham Market mortuary to await a post-mortem examination.

  Inside the car, on the passenger seat, was found a bottle of brandy one-quarter empty. A glass that had held brandy was on top of the dashboard. Also on the passenger seat was a battery-operated tape-recorder, and in it a run-through tape of the St John’s College, Cambridge recording of Gabriel Fauré’s Messe de Requiem. No note from the dead woman was found in the car.

  Having heard from Mrs Braithwaite the identity of Mrs Schultz’s next-of-kin, the detective constable tried to get in touch with her nephew, without immediate success. He and his uniformed colleague then carried out the necessary search of the house in an attempt to find the reason for Mrs Schultz’s death; again, no note was found. The detective subsequently took statements from the dead woman’s neighbours, as a result of which he called in Detective Chief Inspector Quantrill.

  ‘What was your reason for saying that your aunt must have killed herself?’ repeated Quantrill. ‘Because that was your immediate reaction to what Sergeant Lloyd told you. If Miss Lloyd had said that your aunt had been “found dead”, then suicide might have been a reasonable inference. But all you were told, on my instructions, was, “She’s dead.” For all you knew, the old lady might have had a heart attack, or a stroke, or a car accident. And yet you immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was suicide. Why?’

  ‘Because Aunt Con told me what she was going to do,’ said Tait in a leaden voice. He stood up and began to walk about the room. ‘Oh, not in so many words. She never mentioned suicide. But everything she did and said while I was staying with her pointed to the fact that she was making her final arrangements.’

  He explained to the Chief Inspector about his aunt’s expressed intention to leave Fodderstone Green, and her refusal to look for alternative accommodation; about her attempt to give him her furniture, and her insistence that he should take the family valuables with him; about the way she had disposed of her old clothing, and burned letters and diaries and photographs.

  ‘Aunt Con even told me what kind of funeral she wanted. She asked me to take notes … God, what a fool I was not to realize what she was planning! I suppose I was too absorbed in my own affairs to think about her, at the time. But as soon as Hilary said she had bad news for me, everything clicked into place. I didn’t need to be told anything else. I knew that my aunt had killed herself, and I knew how she’d done it.’

  Quantrill gave the younger man a hard green stare. ‘But she didn’t leave a note. And you know as well as I do that the coroner will want to know why she did it.’

  ‘Aunt Con told me that, too, in a way. You see, she was growing old, and the garden was getting too much for her to manage, and her dog had died –’

  ‘That doesn’t add up to any reason for killing herself at the age of seventy. Not unless she was ill with depression, and neither of her women neighbours believes that of her. I understand that Mrs Schultz was on friendly terms with both of them. She hadn’t seemed to them to be depressed, she’d never mentioned suicide, and neither of them can believe it.’

  ‘Which just goes to show how little they really knew her,’ said Tait in the superior voice that never failed to irritate his colleagues. ‘My aunt liked to be friendly with her neighbours, yes. But she would never have discussed her private affairs with them. She was independent, and she had her own reasons for what she did. I respected her, and I can accept that. If her neighbours can’t, that’s their problem.’

  ‘True … But that brings us back to the question why Mrs Schultz didn’t leave a note. An elderly lady who plans her own death in such detail is almost certain to leave notes for relatives, and usually for the coroner too.’

  ‘That’s easily explained,’ said Tait. ‘My aunt had told me so much that she knew there was no need for her to put it in writing. She’d even said good-bye to me, though of course I didn’t realize it was for the last time –’ His voice wavered, and for a moment he looked stricken again, rather than superior. ‘Of course, there might have been a medical reason for what she did. She didn’t look well, I noticed that. Perhaps she had a terminal disease.’

  ‘We’ve checked,’ said Quantrill. ‘The last time your aunt saw her doctor was eighteen months ago, when she had bronchitis.’

  ‘Aunt Con wasn’t the kind of woman to keep running to her doctor,’ said Tait, superior again. ‘But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t ill.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Quantrill conceded. ‘We shall find that out for sure from the post-mortem, shan’t we?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Even if no pathological evidence of disease is found, it doesn’t mean that she didn’t feel ill. Or imagine it. And as I said, she was an independent woman. She’d have hated the idea of having to be dependent on anyone.’ Tait shook his head in self-reproach. ‘Poor Aunt Con – it doesn’t seem possible that I shall never see her again … It doesn’t seem possible, now, that I didn’t realize what she was planning. But I can understand her logic. And when it comes to the inquest, I’m
sure the coroner will understand it too.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the Chief Inspector heavily. ‘It sounds plausible. But that’s the trouble with you, boy, you always were a damn sight too plausible.’ He paused, angry with himself that even after all these years as a detective, he was unable to decide whether the young man standing in front of him was an honest smoothie or a smooth liar.

  ‘Look, Martin,’ he went on, ‘this isn’t an official interview because I’ve already reported the matter to the Assistant Chief Constable. I had no option. Not in view of the circumstances the investigating detective uncovered. But we’ve worked together for a year or two, you and I, and the least I can do is to tell you what I know. You see, my information is that some days before she died, your aunt told you that she was a very rich woman. She also said that she was virtually cutting you out of her will.’

  Tait stood silent, his skin drawn tight over his cheekbones, his nose sharper than usual, as Chief Inspector Quantrill went through the details of his quarrel with his aunt.

  ‘I can guess where your information came from,’ Tait said at last. ‘That bloody snooper from number 10, Marjorie Braithwaite! She must’ve been looking for an opportunity to get back at me ever since I told her to mind her own business.’

  ‘You don’t deny the quarrel with your aunt, then?’

  ‘No. I regret it, now that Aunt Con’s dead. I regret the unkind things I said to her. But at least I did my best to make up for it. I went out of my way to be really nice to her for the rest of my stay.’

  Quantrill gave him a narrow-eyed look. ‘Why?’ he said bluntly.

  Tait shrugged. ‘Partly out of a sense of shame, I suppose. But I’ll admit that it was mostly self-interest. I decided that Aunt Con had been so taken up with the idea of giving her money to charity that she hadn’t looked at it from my point of view at all. I felt sure that when she’d had time to think it over, she’d realize the injustice of cutting me out – particularly if I showed her that I really was a deserving character, despite the row. The snag was that I didn’t know whether she’d actually made a new will, or whether she was merely thinking of it.’

  He hesitated, and then said with an attempt at nonchalance, ‘Was a will found when this house was searched for a suicide note?’

  ‘No. But there was the name of a Woodbridge firm of solicitors in her address book. Your family was connected with the firm at one time, I believe. They tell me they’ve had no recent communication from Mrs Schultz – but they are holding her will.’ Quantrill paused, deliberately keeping the younger man in suspense. Tait’s lips had parted, and his breathing was fast and shallow.

  ‘The will was made some years ago,’ continued Quantrill. ‘I understand that apart from a few minor bequests, her nephew Martin Gregory Maitland Tait – that is you, isn’t it? – will cop the lot.’

  Colour flooded back into Tait’s face at such a speed that Quantrill almost expected it to extend into his fair hair. His eyes had a hard, bright shine. ‘Glory hallelujah!’ he muttered fervently.

  ‘You may well say so,’ agreed Quantrill. ‘Lucky for you that your aunt didn’t do as she intended, wasn’t it? Lucky for you that she didn’t make another will after all. Perhaps she did, of course, and we haven’t been able to find it …’

  Tait’s colour began to ebb. He said nothing.

  ‘My information,’ the Chief Inspector went on, ‘is that you were seen in this garden on Wednesday evening burning some of your aunt’s private papers. You admitted at the time that you were doing so without her knowledge or consent.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Tait sounded almost relieved. ‘Someone’s suggested to you that having quarrelled with my aunt, I waited until she went next door to the Websdells and then burned her new will in public view on a bonfire! I know where that idea came from – Mrs Bloody Braithwaite again. I wouldn’t have thought you’d take such an allegation seriously.’

  ‘We don’t dismiss any allegations where an unexplained death has occurred,’ Quantrill reproved him. ‘You know that perfectly well. But it isn’t just your aunt’s will that’s in question. It’s her actual death.’

  Tait stared, his face white again. ‘You don’t mean –? Good God, surely you don’t suspect me of having killed her? But that’s crazy – I loved her. I would never, ever – for God’s sake –’

  The Chief Inspector let him talk himself into silence. Much as Tait had annoyed him over the years, often as he’d longed to slap the blasted boy down, he wasn’t enjoying this. Odd, though, he thought in passing, that when it came to this crisis point, every suspect, villain or cop, used the same words of denial.

  ‘We have to consider that possibility,’ Quantrill said. ‘Someone who knows the ropes could have sedated Mrs Schultz or confused her with alcohol, and then arranged her in the car so that her death would look like suicide. The circumstance that all the neighbours were out yesterday evening looking for Mrs Yardley would have made it that much easier. And the fact that you took your aunt’s car to the local garage on Wednesday morning and asked for the engine to be adjusted to a reasonably fast tick-over –’

  ‘At my aunt’s own request! I didn’t think it significant at the time, but she was obviously preparing for her death.’

  ‘And that your fingerprints appear on the bottle of brandy that was inside the car –’

  ‘My prints? Oh, then I know who the investigating detective was,’ said Tait with disdain. ‘That malicious oaf, Ian Wigby! He was furious that I was in at the beginning of the Sandra Websdell enquiry, and he’s probably been looking for an opportunity to get back at me. Well, his allegation’s ridiculous. If a detective commits a crime, he’s hardly likely to leave his own dabs at the scene.’

  ‘Not unless he’s being extra clever,’ said Quantrill. ‘Doing a double bluff, perhaps? Your prints were also found on the tape-recorder in the car, by the way, and on the cassette.’

  ‘But I can explain that. There’s a perfectly straightforward explanation for everything.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. The ACC wants to see you at nine-thirty on Monday morning. Explain it all to him.’

  Tait looked anguished. ‘I didn’t destroy my aunt’s will,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And I most certainly didn’t kill her. I realize that because the allegation’s been made we have to go through the whole official procedure, and I’m prepared to put up with that. But you do believe me, sir, don’t you?’

  ‘You know better than to ask me that, Martin,’ said Quantrill wearily. ‘Oh, one thing. When you go before the ACC, you’re entitled to have a solicitor present. Make sure you get yourself a good one.’

  Chapter Thirty Five

  ‘You look,’ said Sergeant Lloyd, ‘as though you could do with a beer.’

  ‘Chance’ud be a fine thing,’ grumbled Quantrill, sitting down heavily in the caravan and mopping his forehead.

  Hilary handed him a can of Carlsberg. She was in sole charge of the incident room, all the other police officers having gone out to search for Mrs Yardley; it had been – was still being – a very difficult week, and she had decided to get in a supply of something stronger than tea.

  ‘How did the interview with Martin go?’ she asked, opening a Carlsberg for herself. Doug Quantrill was swigging straight from the can, but Hilary found it less messy to use a cardboard cup. ‘He had an explanation for everything, no doubt?’

  ‘Of course.’ Quantrill told her what Tait had said. Had the two of them been civilians, they would have exchanged opinions on whether or not he had destroyed his aunt’s latest will and caused her death. As they were police officers, what they discussed was whether or not the allegations were likely to stick.

  ‘It’ll all come out at the inquest on Mrs Schultz,’ said Quantrill. ‘The coroner will call Mrs Braithwaite as a witness because she found the body, and so she’ll repeat her allegations in public. But an inquest isn’t a trial, even if the coroner decides to sit with a jury. Mrs Braithwaite can’t be cross-examined. And unless the coroner d
ecides to call him as a witness, Martin will have no opportunity to defend himself.’

  ‘I suppose a lot will depend on the pathologist’s finding,’ said Hilary. ‘As long as Mrs Schultz died of carbon monoxide poisoning, with no evidence of anything in her blood other than that and a small quantity of alcohol, the coroner may be satisfied that it was a straightforward suicide. If any traces of sedative are found as well, though, it could look suspicious.’

  ‘Let’s face it,’ said Quantrill, ‘the boy’s got himself into a hell of a mess. Even if things go well for him at the inquest, we all know that his future life in the force isn’t going to be worth living.’

  ‘No sign of Annabel Yardley, I suppose?’ asked Quantrill when he had drained his can.

  ‘None. Though Martin did say something interesting,’ remembered Hilary, ‘before I mentioned his aunt’s death. He told me that when he was bringing his aeroplane in to land this afternoon, he saw a number of private vehicles travelling across a stretch of heathland about six miles north of here. He wondered whether they were anything to do with our searches, but they’re not. We haven’t been out as far as that. He couldn’t see where the vehicles were bound for because of smoke from burning straw, but it seems to me that they were on a road that no longer goes anywhere.’

  She pointed out the location on the incident-room map. The northern area of the forest had been appropriated for army battle training in the Second World War, and was still closed to the public. The heathland that Martin had referred to adjoined the battle area, and the road that had once crossed the heath was now a disused track that petered out at the Ministry of Defence boundary wire.

  ‘I’d have driven over to take a look,’ said Hilary, ‘if I hadn’t been stuck here. It certainly seems odd, as Martin suggested, that about twenty vehicles should all be heading for the remotest part of the forest in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.’