Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  Max looked at John and then at his mother. His face was drawn and he looked like a fretful little old man. He went to look over the balustrade, then turned back. ‘What’s going on, anyway?’ he asked suspiciously. He looked at his mother. ‘You look scared,’ he said. ‘Who hurt you? Was it the same person who was here? Why did he mess up the house?’

  Soame answered for Tess, who was leaning against the balustrade and looked in no condition to answer questions. ‘Your mother is fine. There was an accident at the house she’s been restoring, and she got knocked out, but the doctors have X-rayed her all over, and she’s not badly hurt. I don’t know what happened here, but I’m going to find out. Okay?’

  He and the boy locked glances. ‘Okay.’ It was clear that it wasn’t okay, but Max didn’t quite know how to argue about it. Where to start? His face was pale, and his eyes were shadowed as he looked at his mother. ‘Mum?’ He spoke softly.

  ‘It’s all right, Max.’ Tess straightened up, blinked her eyes clear. ‘It’s my opinion that we have been visited by a poltergeist.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Max said, totally unconvinced.

  ‘And it’s also my opinion that we should have a cup of tea before we do anything else.’ She managed to stand up – probably the hardest physical thing she’d ever done. ‘You go back to bed, and we’ll bring it up. All right?’

  He nodded, and slowly, reluctantly, he did as she asked. But he knew, they all knew, that it wasn’t all right at all.

  When Soame returned from the kitchen, where Mrs Grimble was wailing as she worked, Tess was still sitting in the rocking chair where he had left her, her face paper-white under the slow-running tears. He patted her shoulder, but there was no response as she stared blankly at the overturned and gutted sofa.

  It hadn’t been much of a house, she thought, but it had been home, full of the small and silly things that had no intrinsic value but were precious to her. Every piece of furniture had a history. Junk-shop prowls with Roger, or early-morning visits to country markets on the rare weekends when they stole away together, afternoons of searching for the right materials, evenings of reupholstering, with Roger handing her the nails while he kept one eye on a televized soccer match. And the pictures, also bought in junk-shops or markets, occasionally even on a visit to a friend’s gallery when times were good, discussed over a paper cup of tea from a stall or a glass of white wine at a preview, choices narrowed, prizes carried off and hung in various places until the right spot was found. The hugs when they knew they’d been right, the giggles when they admitted they’d been had – all part of it. All important. All still Roger when Roger was gone. Grief overwhelmed her as it had not upon his death, because all that they had had together, all the marriage had been in the beginning and through the years, was tied up in these broken bits of wood and cloth and paper. Roger had still been here, somehow, his presence triggered and maintained by those memories, and now all that had been torn apart.

  Now he was really gone.

  And there was just Max. Thank God, there was still Max.

  Seeing she was in a dark world of her own, Soame went into the hall, dragged the telephone out from under the overturned bench, and called the local police. They told him to sit down and touch nothing. It seemed only minutes before they arrived, bringing a sense of order to the scene, their sensible voices and confident manner briskly blowing away the miasma of violence and violation that hung in the rooms. It was a damn shame, they agreed, in tones that indicated they knew lip service to convention was not going to help, but was very necessary. They’d seen it before and they’d see it again, and they knew how to deal with it, so not to worry. Anything taken? How about a list? No hurry. Who’s your insurance agent? You look absolutely shattered, Mrs Leland, would you like us to call your GP? They were sympathetic and efficient. While two of them surveyed the damage, a woman constable comforted Tess with practical suggestions for salvage and a hot mug of tea conjured somehow from the shattered kitchen and the equally shattered Mrs Grimble, who was now blaming herself for the entire thing.

  When she had finished her tea, Tess looked so absolutely devastated that Soame sent her to bed and agreed with the police that calling her GP would be sensible, under the circumstances. The doctor could look in on Max, too, who was now getting a little too flushed and bright-eyed as he waited for an explanation and some kind of comfort. A forensic team arrived from the local police station and began photographing the scene and attempting to find fingerprints. They had to take Tess’s prints (she hardly noticed), Max’s (who was thrilled and was given a copy of his own to keep), Mrs Grimble’s, and John Soame’s – all for elimination.

  John then made another phone call. An hour later Detective Sergeant Tim Nightingale and Detective Chief Inspector Abbott were standing in the doorway, looking around, as the forensic team finished their work. Soame glared at Nightingale with a mixture of anger and appeal.

  ‘Now will you believe that Mrs Leland and the boy are in danger?’ he asked, grimly. ‘Now will you take this seriously?’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Tim Nightingale glanced at him. ‘I always have taken it seriously,’ he said calmly. ‘But there wasn’t much for me to go on, was there?’

  ‘Is this enough?’ John demanded, waving an arm around at the heaps of material that had once furnished the Leland home. ‘It was planned, the whole thing was planned.’

  Chief Inspector Abbott raised an eyebrow. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? She was attacked by Archie McMurdo. He knew I would have to go out to look for her, or to identify her body, or whatever, and when I did he got in and tried to get at the boy, who he probably thought would have been left alone. When he couldn’t get at the boy, he did this.’

  Abbott looked confused. Sergeant Nightingale had returned from Cambridge and brought with him some interesting information – interesting enough to jolt Abbott from indifference to intrigue. He now understood why Tim had become caught up in the case – the people and the situation were ambiguous and somehow did not mesh comfortably. There was a feeling of jagged edges, a picture out of focus, and pieces missing. They had been discussing Soame when the call came through concerning the Leland house. And now a new element was being introduced. He glanced at Nightingale and saw that he, too, seemed puzzled. ‘And just who is Archie McMurdo?’ Abbott asked, slowly.

  ‘Oh, Archie is—’ Soame paused. ‘I thought you knew about Archie,’ he said to Nightingale.

  ‘He’s news to me.’

  With a visible effort at self-control, Soame explained about their visitor of the previous evening, the trouble he’d been causing Tess at the house, and the threats he’d made after he’d been thrown out.

  ‘You threw him out bodily?’ Abbott asked. He gazed at John Soame with new interest.

  ‘I had no alternative, the man was drunk and objectionable. I felt Mrs Leland was in some danger from him.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Abbott sent Nightingale a glance, and Tim went into the hall, where he had a low-voiced conversation with one of the other policemen. When he returned, Soame was standing with his fists clenched by his sides, and Abbott was gazing into space reflectively. ‘So you think the scenario is as follows – just let me talk this out, if you will,’ Abbott was saying.

  ‘Go on,’ Soame said tightly. He apparently had mixed feelings about the appearance of a superior officer on the scene. While he welcomed the presence of rank as an indicator of the importance of the situation, he resented the authority so represented. It had been easier dealing with Nightingale.

  Abbott was reciting for his own benefit as much as anyone else’s. There had been too many cases crossing his desk, too many investigations in progress, and he needed to know exactly where they were on this one. ‘A few months ago, Roger Leland was killed in a car accident. His son was in the car with him, but was uninjured. Since that time he has suffered with nightmar
es, and on top of that he caught rheumatic fever and is now convalescing here at home. In order that Mrs Leland may continue her work, you have been hired to tutor the boy in exchange for accommodation. Right so far?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the past few weeks Mrs Leland has received several “silent” phone calls—’

  ‘Some of them were threatening. They threatened her, and her son, and demanded money.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you have no proof of that, other than Mrs Leland’s word. Anyone else who has picked up the telephone has heard only silence.’

  Soame looked stunned. ‘Are you saying she’s lying?’

  ‘Mrs Leland felt confident enough to go to a large empty house on her own,’ Abbott pointed out.

  ‘In broad daylight. And she expected Adrian to be there.’

  ‘Adrian being?’

  ‘Her employer, my ex-brother-in-law, Adrian Brevitt.’ Soame was obviously not happy with Abbott’s attitude. ‘And you’re forgetting the intruder we had the other night.’

  ‘Oh, yes – the intruder, who forced open a door but didn’t come in.’

  ‘He might have—’

  Abbott ignored him and continued his resumé. ‘Now, in addition to all that, you tell us that for the past few weeks, a man named Archie McMurdo has been harassing Mrs Leland at her work – a mansion she is restoring for his aunt, Mrs Dolly McMurdo. He annoys her and the workmen, so naturally she goes out to dinner with him.’

  ‘You make it sound irrational,’ John muttered. ‘I think she was trying to put the relationship on a friendlier basis – for Adrian’s sake.’ Obviously agitated now, Soame began moving around the room, trying to put a few things back in place. Abbott stayed where he was and continued. Nightingale, fascinated by the older officer’s technique, watched and listened. There was a case here. He’d been right. And now Abbott was taking it, and him, seriously.

  ‘She was co-operating for her boss’s sake, then, rather than her own,’ Abbott said, slightly annoyed at Soame’s pedantic interruption. ‘But then this Archie McMurdo shows up here at the house—’

  ‘Drunk.’

  ‘Drunk, and makes an unwelcome pass at Mrs Leland, which you interrupt. You throw him out. He makes threats and accusations, which unsettle Mr Brevitt and, through him, Mrs Leland. So she suddenly decides to go to the house today.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When Mrs Leland doesn’t return, you decide to go to the house to find her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Soame was continuing to pick up objects, as if searching for something.

  ‘You leave the boy in the charge of the housekeeper.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And not ten minutes after you leave, someone arrives here and tries to get to the boy.’

  Soame whirled. ‘Exactly my point! As if he’d just been waiting for his chance.’

  Abbott looked at him and nodded. ‘Yes. But when the housekeeper locks the door and refuses to come out or to answer him, he doesn’t shout, or argue, or attempt to break it down, but goes away and vents his anger on the house itself.’ Nightingale glanced at Soame, gauging his responses to Abbott’s questions. ‘Does that sound like he really wanted to kidnap the boy?’ Abbott asked, with what sounded like sincere interest.

  ‘How would I know what he really wants?’ Soame demanded. ‘How can you? How do we know he’s even sane?’

  Nightingale shifted his position, leaning against his other shoulder, arms folded. He was looking at the professor with new eyes. ‘Just where is the McMurdo house?’ he asked, abruptly.

  In a voice that trembled with exasperation, John gave him the address. He explained Tess’s sudden suspicion that there might be something hidden there. ‘Which, as a matter of fact, there was.’ He told them about the false wall and the collection of Victorian pornography. ‘I didn’t take time to really assess it, but it’s probably quite valuable,’ he concluded.

  ‘Is it?’ Nightingale asked. His eyes were hooded as he looked at Soame. ‘Of course, you’d know more about that than I would – that period is your speciality, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the point,’ Soame argued. ‘The point is, this mad Australian followed her there and tried to get her out of the way – either by killing her or putting her in hospital.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To get at the boy, obviously.’

  ‘Why would he want the boy?’

  ‘To force her to hand over what he thought was his.’

  ‘Which she had just found and offered to him, anyway? That hardly makes sense, Mr Soame. You can’t have it both ways – either he wanted what was hidden in the house or he wanted the boy.’

  ‘Well, then, you tell me what’s happening, here,’ John practically shouted, as he moved towards Nightingale. ‘Give me your theories. Give me your explanations.’

  ‘Take it easy, take it easy,’ Abbott said, taking hold of his arm. Soame glared at him, struggled for a moment, then stepped back.

  Nightingale was being patient, but it was difficult. Considering all he had learned in Cambridge about Soame, from both Bardy Philpott and the friendly local sergeant, it wasn’t surprising the man’s nerves were so shot. On the other hand, he was reacting rather strongly to someone else’s troubles. If they were someone else’s troubles. He got out his notebook and opened it. ‘Let’s go over it a step at a time and see what we’ve got, all right?’

  ‘You just did that. You’re wasting time, damn it!’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Soame. What we have here is agreement on the facts and disagreement on their interpretation.’

  ‘No,’ Soame said. ‘What we have here is people being pig-headed, obstinate, and dangerously lax in doing their duty!’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion, too,’ Abbott said, sharply.

  ‘Then why aren’t you looking for Archie McMurdo?’

  ‘We are,’ Nightingale said.

  ‘We’re checking with the biggest hotels,’ Abbott explained, patiently, knowing without having to ask that that was what Nightingale had put in operation during his whispered colloquy with the constable in the hall. It was the obvious step to take. ‘Then we’ll move down to the smaller—’

  ‘Fine, yes, fine,’ Soame said, barely controlling himself. ‘Good.’

  ‘Right. Now, Mrs Leland went to the McMurdo house this morning, leaving you in charge of the boy.’

  ‘No. Her decision to go was unexpected, and I had made other arrangements for this morning, so she called Mrs Grimble and asked her to come over and stay with the boy. Which she did.’

  ‘Very obliging of her. So you left here at what time?’ Soame frowned. ‘About ten thirty, I suppose. My appointment was for eleven.’

  ‘And that was with?’

  ‘Clarissa Montague – she’s a specialist at the museum.’

  ‘A specialist in what?’

  ‘Oh, for . . . ’ Soame gritted his teeth. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘Well, in Victorian architecture, then.’

  Abbott raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? And what did you discuss?’ He paused. ‘I can check with Ms Montague, you know.’

  Soame’s shoulders sagged. ‘We discussed the McMurdo house.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I thought I might be of some help to Mrs Leland. And it pertains to the research I’m doing as well.’

  ‘I see. Interesting.’ Nightingale wrote it down and seemed to dismiss it. ‘And Mrs Leland left the house – when?’

  ‘Shortly after I did, I suppose. I know she was just getting her coat out of the cupboard when I closed the front door behind me.’

  ‘Fine. And she went straight to the McMurdo house?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘How long would that take her?’ Abbott enquired.

  ‘I have
no idea. You’ll have to ask her.’ Soame was restless. He picked up a picture and looked at the wall above where it lay, searching for the hook that had held it. He hung the picture back up, but as he did so, the last piece of its broken glass fell out and shattered at his feet. ‘Damn.’

  ‘What time did you leave the museum?’

  ‘I don’t know. About twelve thirty or so.’

  ‘And you arrived back home at what time?’

  ‘Again, I can’t be certain. About three, I suppose. I stopped for a quick lunch at a café somewhere in Knightsbridge, and browsed around Harrods for a bit. Walked part of the way home.’

  ‘I see.’ Abbott stared at Soame and Nightingale made another note. ‘But when you arrived back here, Mrs Leland hadn’t returned?’

  ‘No. Mrs Grimble was worried, she had expected her back for lunch. We waited and waited, and then I decided I’d better go to the house and see if anything had happened to her.’

  Nightingale finished writing and waited for Abbott’s next question. ‘What time did you arrive at the McMurdo house?’

  ‘What?’

  Abbott repeated the question, and Soame frowned. ‘Somewhere around five, I suppose.’

  ‘And how long did it take you to find her in the wine cellar?’

  ‘I have no idea. About twenty minutes.’

  ‘But the 999 call was logged at five fifty-five,’ Abbott said, in a flat voice. ‘We checked it before we left the Yard.’

  Nightingale felt a jolt go through him. He saw it now. The way Abbott had set it out made it clear that it could have been Soame himself who caused the accident at the McMurdo house, because he had only a vague alibi for the relevant time. Equally, it could have been Soame who vandalized this house after pretending to leave it – thus arriving at the McMurdo house later than he’d said. Now that was a new and interesting kettle of fish.

  Had Soame built up – on the basis of a few crank telephone calls – an entire edifice of threats and dangers surrounding Mrs Leland, all because of his own paranoia? Was this another manifestation of his mental breakdown, seeing monsters in other people’s lives as well as his own? And was this Archie McMurdo just a convenient scapegoat or a real villain?