by R. W. Heber
“Well, that is sociable! Who gets to entertain me?”
“Loredana?” Jim suggested wickedly, getting up. “See you in the morning, darling.”
When he reached his small room and opened the door, he had a sixth-sense feeling that there had been an intruder. Seconds later he realized that there had. A thick white envelope was lying on his bedcover. He picked it up, saw there was nothing written on the outside and that it was unsealed, then extracted the contents and gave a low whistle, of which his daughter would have deeply disapproved. He was holding the missing contract of sale for five hundred acres of Whittenham Park. He flipped through the typed pages, some with changes written in by hand. Two signatories were named. Above the words, “Baron Gilroy of Wittenham,” there was no signature. Above the name, “George Ernest Welch,” there was another blank space. Neither had signed.
10
INSPECTOR Morton had the contract document inside a transparent plastic exhibit bag, labelled with the details of where and when it had been found. Jim Savage had brought it down before breakfast, after showing it to Dulcie McMountdown, who had at first objected to its being given to the police, then seen the wisdom of it. Morton was grateful. Contrary to his expectations, Savage was being sensible and co-operative. He felt certain that the contract was central to his investigation, although why it should have been dumped in Savage’s room was a mystery.
“I had a feeling it might be,” Savage had said non-committally.
“Why?”
“Because the others see me as neutral.”
“There’s no neutrality between the law and a murderer,” Morton growled.
“But I am not the law. And not everyone thinks as correctly as that.”
Morton had been forced to agree with this. Now he was seated at the table in his interview-room looking across at one person who unquestionably did think logically and correctly: Dulcie McMountdown. The time was 10 A.M. on Sunday, of which he made a note. The document in its plastic bag lay between them, inanimate, yet able to speak volumes, if it only had a voice.
“Was there anything significant about the contract, Mrs. McMountdown?”
“Yes. George Welch had not signed it.”
“And why do you think he hadn’t?”
“On the last occasion I spoke to him he was uncertain about all the amendments. They gave certain advantages to Lord Gilroy.” Dulcie spoke calmly and circumspectly. She could not reason out how this document figured in Welch’s death, but she was as convinced as Morton that it did. Not that he had said so, she merely sensed it. “I advised Mr. Welch that there were limits beyond which we could not push Lord Gilroy over the land sale.”
“So he died before he was ready to sign?”
“Presumably.” Actually this was jumping to conclusions. Depending on how George was poisoned, he might have been killed before he could sign. She decided to speculate gently. “When I last saw him on Friday night, he’d drunk quite a lot of whisky. He might have fallen asleep. He might have decided to go over the amendments again in the morning. After all, Lord Gilroy had agreed to sign if this draft was accepted.”
“Gilroy’s word is his bond?”
“In today’s world, nobody’s is.” Remembering the stormy meetings they’d had, Dulcie’s plan had been to get them both round the table in the morning and have both sign then and there.
“Did anyone visit Mr. Welch after you that night?” Morton wondered if she knew that Mrs. Worthington had brought him yet more whisky at 11:30 P.M.
“Not that I know of. Did they?”
“When Mrs. Worthington brought him the cocoa he told her to ask the butler for more whisky.” He carefully did not specify who took up the liquor.
“That damn cocoa!” Dulcie said with feeling. “You know I ended up drinking it, and it was doped?”
Morton nodded. “In other words, you know very little about what went on during the night?” Was there a flash of anger in her blue eyes? He thought so. But her answer was as guarded as it could be.
“That is quite right. I had to force myself awake when the maid began screaming.”
“As part of the ‘murder’ plot?”
Dulcie heard the disdain in his voice and decided to be frank. “The only people who cared about the plot in the least were the Savages and Priscilla Worthington. The contract was the real issue for most of us.”
“Including Mrs. Chancemain?”
“She and her husband were invited purely to make up the numbers.” Again that flash of annoyance. “Loredana was a hanger-on.”
Morton was now quite aware of Loredana’s activities, but in his estimation they were indeed peripheral. He returned to the subject of the contract.
“Was Lord Gilroy unhappy with the land deal?”
So, Dulcie thought, he’s begun to suspect Gilroy. Personally she could not imagine a man less likely to murder anyone competently than the third Baron G of W.
“He would have preferred to sell land for a golf course,” she said. “The amendments to the contract represented a compromise. But he’s not my client. I can’t speak for him.”
“But he was unhappy about it?” Morton persisted.
“He didn’t have much alternative. Thanks to Lloyds he’s very short of money.”
Morton stretched his shoulders. He’d been sitting at this table too long and his muscles ached. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m not a desk-job man. Thank you for your help. There’s just one other thing.” He tapped the exhibit bag with his Biro. “You’ve handled this, so I’d like to have your fingerprints taken for elimination purposes. I’ll be taking everyone else’s.”
Dulcie agreed readily enough, reflecting with pleasure that Hamish would not like the procedure one little bit. But she did not want to lose sight of the document. Even though it was on the computer at her office, the amendments were not. “Mr. Welch’s partners might want to proceed. We might still need the contract.”
“Hmm.” This had not occurred to Morton. “Who would inherit his money?”
“His wife, I suppose.” Dulcie did not remark that there were more likely to be debts than assets. “Another firm holds his will. I was his commercial lawyer.”
Morton asked for the firm’s name and thanked her again. When she had been fingerprinted, Timmins came back to the interview room.
“Have an officer get onto these solicitors, will you?” Morton asked. “Track them down at home. Find out what’s in Welch’s will. Who stood to gain what. And ask Lord Gilroy to come through.”
Buck Gilroy had been having a tough morning. Breakfast had hardly begun when the first national tabloid had been on the line about Ted’s death. A TV crew had just turned up at the Lion Park. He needed Morton’s help.
“How can we control them?” he demanded plaintively as soon as he sat down.
“Tell them the body’s at the mortuary and a full investigation is being made.”
“Can’t you say that because of Welch’s death no one can be interviewed?”
“So far as I’m concerned the two events are unconnected.” Not for the first time Morton wondered how the strength of character which had earned Gilroy’s grandfather a peerage could have been so totally lost in a mere two generations. “In my experience,” he added, “it’s better to talk to them, even if you say very little.”
“I suppose so.” All Gilroy’s fears of bad publicity resurfaced. “They’ll be calling this ‘The House of Horrors’ next.”
Morton shrugged his broad shoulders. He couldn’t care less what they called Wittenham Park, or Lord Gilroy himself, as long as the media didn’t get in his own way.
“Matthews’s death is not what I wanted to talk about,” he said. “What I’m interested in is the morphine in your medicine cupboard.” His desk now had a different exhibit standing on it. Inside another transparent bag was a small brown bottle labelled “Oramorph.” “Morphine is a dangerous drug and ought not to be kept in an unlocked cupboard. Why have you got it anyway?”
&nb
sp; “Completely forgot I had.” Gilroy was bemused. “We got it when someone staying with us was in a lot of pain. Fellow called Jack Anderson.”
“When was that?”
“Three years. Four years. You should ask my wife.”
“And when was it last used?”
“When Jack was here. He was taken to hospital and it got left behind.”
“So it’s been here ever since?”
“Yes.” Gilroy found this sudden interrogation unnerving. What on earth was the man getting at? “There are all sorts of medicines in there. We ought to have a clear-out.”
“You do realize that Mr. Welch died from an opiate overdose and that morphine is an opiate?”
“It is?” Gilroy was almost struck dumb as he realized that he was being suspected of involvement in the murder. “Well, I mean, they used it in the army if you were wounded. It’s a pain-killer. That’s what Jack used it for.”
“It can also kill,” Morton said flatly. “I shall be testing the bottle for fingerprints and I hope you and your staff will co-operate.”
“Whatever you say.” He didn’t much like having his fingerprints taken, as if he were a common criminal. Dee Dee would be appalled. But he could see that it was essential to be helpful. “I shouldn’t think that bottle’s been touched for years.”
“Then there won’t be anything to worry about, will there?” Morton said with an edge in his voice. “By the way, did you have a row with Welch over the contract?
“A bit of one. He was piling on the pressure.”
“And you had to sell?”
“It’s all to do with Lloyds. I’ll know for sure on Monday. But, between ourselves, he was insisting on a deal today.”
“I see.” Morton thanked Gilroy and ushered him out before calling Timmins in again.
“You know something, Sergeant?” he said reflectively. “Lord Gilroy loathed Welch and he hated this deal he was being hijacked into. What do you think?”
“He hadn’t signed anything, had he, sir?”
“His wife was in the room next to Welch. She could have slipped something into Welch’s drink.”
“Or that death-warmed-up butler could have done, sir. By the way, I’ve sent the empty bottle of Bells from the dustbins for analysis.”
“It won’t tell us anything,” Morton said with certainty. “What we need to find is that second decanter. But you’ve a point there over the butler. Suppose he thought Gilroy had signed and he was going to lose his job? That would be a motive.”
* * *
UPSTAIRS Jemma was sitting in her father’s room, relating how when she was on her way to bed last night she had overheard yet another quarrel, although not before she’d been subjected to a more than patronizing conversation with Loredana.
“One at a time! Which came first?” Jim asked.
“Oh, Daddy. Don’t be so silly. I was talking to Loredana downstairs after you left.”
“And what did she have to say?”
“That was the funny thing. I’m not sure that what she was saying was what she was actually talking about.”
“Admirably clear, darling. Do you make this kind of remark to your editor? Or is he psychic?”
Jemma lifted her foot and kicked her father sharply on the ankle, so that he grimaced. “You’re lucky I’m wearing trainers. You deserve boots.”
“All right, then.” Jim gave way. “What was she saying?”
“She was talking about that poor man Ted and the lion and how it must have been fate and it was probably in his stars that death was round the corner in some form. Nothing he could have done would have prevented it, even if he’d been warned.”
“About the lion or his stars?”
“I think she meant his horoscope, because she said that if anyone had read Welch’s, they might have known he was going to die soon.”
“So she was actually saying that we are powerless in the hands of the gods?”
“I think so. But she doesn’t seem that sort of person. Especially not when she’s carrying on with someone else’s husband. Suppose Dulcie had the stars on her side?” Jemma laughed. “Hamish is such a cold fish, she probably has. Anyway, after that Loredana did a bit of a number on me. How bored I must be and if she could do anything for me.”
“Which meant there were things you could do for her?”
“Got it in one. She wanted me to pretend that I’d seen Hamish going down to the kitchen this morning and that he must have come from his own room.”
“And?”
“I played dumb and said I was sure no one would ever ask me. Then I came upstairs and heard the row between Hamish and Dulcie.”
“Ah. Event number two.”
“Daddy!” Jemma lifted a finger in warning. “One more crack out of you and I’ll”—she hesitated while deciding what to threaten—“I’ll keep everything to myself.”
Jim raised his hands in mock surrender. “I give in! What was going on between Dulcie and her husband?”
“She was giving him hell.”
“You heard it?”
“What do you think? I can hear it now. And it answers one of our big questions.”
* * *
“DON’T THINK you’re going to sneak out and spend the night with her again, either!” Dulcie had been so angry that Jemma had caught every syllable. “Because you’re not!”
“What d’you mean, ‘again’?” Hamish was arguing back, but weakly.
“You didn’t sleep here last night. Nor did you go to the kitchen from here.”
“Don’t be absurd, darling.”
“You’re a bad liar, Hamish. I was out for the count and when I did wake up you weren’t there and your bed was cold.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“I told you last night.” Dulcie had become seriously incensed. “I’ve had enough. For months I’ve watched you come back across the square in the early morning, when Trevor’s been away, and I’ve pretended to be asleep when you came back into the room.” Suddenly she had begun to cry. “I’ve pretended too often. And now you have the nerve to screw her here! Oh God, Hamish, how could you. I loved you once, but I don’t any more. It’s over.”
“But Dulcie, darling, everything’s changed now.”
“Nothing’s changed. You’re an unfaithful bastard and I’ve been humiliated enough.”
“Dulcie, please…”
* * *
AT THIS moment Adrienne had come along the passage in her dressing-gown and Jemma was forced to move out of the way. She noticed the flare of lace beneath the gown as Adrienne opened the lavatory door and was instantly reminded of the mystery woman on Saturday morning. Then she continued on to her own room.
“And that was all you heard?” Jim asked. “Hardly earns you a master’s in eavesdropping. I don’t know whether to be proud of you or ashamed.”
“And you said that domestic geography didn’t matter! If I hadn’t passed their door I would never have heard anything.”
“All right,” Jim conceded. “But what does it all signify? We already guessed that Hamish and Loredana are having an affair.”
“It would give them both an alibi.”
“With a little help from Priscilla drugging the cocoa.” Jim chuckled. “This is becoming more like a farce than a murder.”
“So why does Loredana ask me to pretend that Hamish didn’t go from her room to the kitchen in the morning?” Jemma argued. “That would destroy the alibi.”
“Perhaps they don’t care. Perhaps they have nothing to do with Welch’s death. It’s hard to see how Loredana could be connected. She’d never met the man before.”
Jemma tried to reason this out. “Wait a minute. Let’s start with Dulcie. She was Welch’s lawyer. And your hunch was right, even though she denied it. She definitely was the third person in that row before dinner on Friday.”
“Well, thank you, my love. It’s nice to have recognition.”
“Last night she was speaking in the same low, angry
voice. You could almost mistake it for a man’s. She was telling Hamish he had no option but to do something for Welch.”
“So what did Hamish do?” Jim went over the dinner conversation in his mind, then snapped his fingers. “Got it. He laid it on the line to Gilroy about the next round of Lloyds losses. And sure enough, Gilroy got worried.”
“And felt he would have to sell the land to Welch. Easy peasy. Except, as my news editor would ask, why didn’t he sign the contract? It doesn’t make sense.”
“An awful lot of things don’t,” Jim admitted. “Why did Welch invite Loredana and her husband? Purely to make sure he dominated the weekend? On the face of it, Dulcie ought to have objected like hell.”
“Not if Hamish was essential to Welch’s plan, Daddy. Loredana also told me what friends the four of them were. She really laid it on thick. Some friends!”
“Perhaps they often did things together and Loredana’s husband hadn’t an inkling of what was going on behind his back.”
“Come on, Daddy!”
“It’s the oldest story in the world. Well, perhaps the second-oldest. The cuckold. ‘Cuckoo cuckoo, a merry note,’” Jim briefly quoted Shakespeare. “I can just imagine it. Dulcie’s away on her legal business and Loredana tells her devoted idiot, ‘Poor old Hamish is on his own again, we must have him for supper.’ They must both have been killing themselves laughing.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re killers, though,” Jemma said.
“Not at all. Just creatures of habit. They’re used to playing games with other people. Loredana probably can’t stop, she finds it too entertaining. Like stringing you along. She’ll be having a go at me next, I expect.”
“Daddy.” Jemma abruptly became firm. “This is getting us nowhere. Why should Hamish have said that everything’s changed?”
“Presumably he meant the pressure from Welch was off. ‘As tough as they come,’ he called him last night. But what did he stand to gain? We don’t know. Whereas Adrienne?”
“Adrienne is recovering amazingly quickly,” Jemma observed. “She’s not even wearing black.”