Die All, Die Merrily

by Bruce, Leo

  Mrs Bourne bowed graciously.

  “It’s this. Did anything happen to disturb him that Saturday night? A phone call or anything? ”

  “Nothing! He slept as usual as peacefully as a child.”

  “You would have known if he was called down or anything? ”

  “Oh, yes. I am far the lighter sleeper. He rose rather early, as you know, because he was going to see poor Richard.”

  “What time did you both retire?” ventured Carolus, thinking that’ retire’ was just the word for Anita Bourne.

  “It was well after midnight, I fear. We had entertained some friends for dinner.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Bourne.”

  “Let me ring for …”

  “No thanks. Really. I must run.”

  Either, thought Carolus, she had spoken the truth or she was one of the most accomplished and barefaced liars he had ever met.

  17

  FROM breakfast next morning Carolus was summoned to the telephone.

  “It’s Lady Drumbone,” said Mrs Stick with the stoical air of one who has now abandoned herself to the inevitable.

  The lady politician’s rich voice made a loud contralto assault on Carolus’s eardrum.

  “Mr Deene, are you responsible for this? ”

  “Responsible for what?” asked Carolus irritably. He was never at his most affable in the early morning.

  “Haven’t you read the newspapers? ”

  “Certainly not. I haven’t finished the crossword yet. Let’s keep our sense of proportion.”

  “This is no joke, Mr Deene. If I find that you are in any way involved I shall … I shall report it to your headmaster.”

  “Yes, do that, whatever it is. His address is Pension Le Balmoral, Ostend. He’d be delighted to hear from you. And now would you control your hysteria sufficiently to tell me what is in the newspapers? ”

  “I shall leave you to discover that for yourself if you don’t already know. When you have done so would you please come over and see me immediately? ”

  “I shall be over this morning. I’ll certainly look in.”

  Carolus called Mrs Stick.

  “Would you ask Stick to go round to the newsagent’s shop and get me all the popular papers? The Daily Horror, The Daily Wail, The Daily Explosion and The Daily Smirch.”

  “I hope there’s nothing about you in them, sir,” said Mrs Stick severely. “I managed to talk my sister round last time, but if she was to read again that we work where you’re mixed up in murders and that, I don’t know what she wouldn’t say. She’s married to a gentleman in the Undertaking and always has been most respectable. Living in Battersea as she is, it would never do for people to know anything about her sister.”

  “If Stick gets the papers we shall see, shan’t we? ”

  When Stick returned and Carolus had had time to look at the headlines, he saw what Lady Drumbone had meant. The existence of the tape-recording had become known, and short of accusing Lady Drumbone of murder, the crime reporters had said about everything which might damage her. Steering between libel and contempt of court they had succeeded in portraying a woman feverishly covering up evidence which involved her family and trying to save her name by subterfuge or, as they hinted, bribery. “No Prosecution Contemplated “said one headline, referring to a charge of suppression of evidence. This suggested that Lady Drumbone was even now paying out large sums to preserve herself from a term in Holloway. The matter of Florrie Lamplow’s death was dealt with in a separate but adjacent column, and no reader could escape the conclusion that the family had been aware of Richard Hoys-den’s homicidal tendencies, and finding that they had had this appalling outcome, had combined to conceal the whole thing.

  Furthermore, it was said that the inquest on the gamekeeper’s wife was being held on the following day, and suggested that Hoysden’s confession should form part of the evidence at this. Lady Drumbone, it was hoped, would be cross-examined and it would be known why her nephew’s confession had been hitherto suppressed.

  All this was presented with the usual distorted photographs of Lady Drumbone herself, Richard, Pippa, Alan and Keith. There were interviews with Mr Toffin (“Mr Hoysden was always a perfect gentleman though somewhat unbusinesslike”), Miss Hipps (“It was to me he always turned in trouble “), and Mrs Redlove (“I was her closest friend”). The game-keeper’s cottage appeared and a picture of the clearing in which Florrie’s body was found (“Favourite resort of the Drumbone family, it was here that Mrs Lamplow’s mangled body was discovered six days after her murder “). Column after column of red-hot newsprint under flaming headlines told the story of “Hushed-Up Horrors at Maresfield ”.

  It was not difficult to guess how news of the existence of the tape-recording had leaked out, in fact ‘leaked’ was an inadequate word—an undammed rush would have been more expressive. As he had pointed out as early as last Sunday evening, eight people were then aware of it, and it had since been handed to the police. A local reporter and correspondent of London papers would be a poor performer indeed, if he did not hear of it, and skilled questioners would have done the rest. Doubtless the fact that Carolus’s own name nowhere appeared had convinced Lady Drumbone that he was responsible.

  The attack, indirect as it was, plainly had Lady Drum-bone for its objective. ‘Hoist with her own petard’, thought Carolus grimly as he drove over. But he smiled to himself as he wondered what kind of a reception he would get.

  When Lady Drumbone entered the lounge Wilma Day was, as the Court Circular says, ‘in attendance’.

  “In spite of your impertinence to me on the telephone this morning,” began Lady Drumbone, “I have decided to give you a chance to explain yourself.”

  “Oh, haven’t you wired the headmaster?” asked Carolus in disappointment.

  “I have postponed that till I have seen you.”

  “You should have. He would love an excuse to fly over for the last act.”

  “Mr Deene, did you or did you not, inform the press of the existence of that tape-recording? ”

  As Carolus was about to reply the telephone rang and Wilma hurried to it.

  “It’s one of those ex-prisoners from Dartmoor who say they were used as human guinea pigs for a serum and are now suffering from poliomyelitis, tuberculosis and hay fever.”

  “That,” said Lady Drumbone, “will have to wait. Now, Mr Deene? ”

  “I haven’t seen anyone from the press,” said Carolus. “I agree that the whole hu-ha is rather silly.”

  “Silly! It is the outcome of cold-blooded malice and jealousy. I accept your word that the information did not come from you, and I have my suspicions about its source.”

  “It had to come out, you know. The press isn’t asleep. A story like that was bound to break.”

  “Nevertheless, someone here in Maresfield must be responsible for its first revelation. I think I know who that is.”

  “Oh. Who? ”

  The telephone sounded again.

  “It’s the Sunday Clarion,” said Wilma. “Have you finished your article on The Martyrdom of Mau-Mau? ”

  “Tell them I have other, more personal matters to attend to.”

  “They say they know that. But they need the article tomorrow.”

  “Tell them I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You were telling me whom you suspect of sneaking,” said Carolus.

  “A man called Slugley. The porter in the block of flats over Richard’s shop. It has lately come to my knowledge that he is the brother of a Sergeant Slugley whose inhuman brutality to a squad of recruits I exposed. The men were tortured and forced to undergo various hideous privations. Sergeant Slugley was reduced to the ranks and his brother has declared a vendetta against me.”

  “I should not have thought he had the energy.”

  “No great energy is required for a treacherous action of this kind. The problem is—what can be done to check it? ”

  “The newspaper campaign? Nothing, I imagine.”


  “It was to avoid a situation of this kind that I engaged your services, Mr Deene.”

  “It was to discover the truth that I took on the case.”

  “Have you discovered the truth? ”

  “I think so. I have to obtain confirmation, which I am preparing to do.”

  “And what, may I ask, is the truth? ”

  “Richard didn’t murder Florrie Lamplow, if that is any help to you.”

  Lady Drumbone’s air of extreme surprise gave her away.

  “He didn’t?”

  “Certainly not.”

  She paused a moment to realize the full implications of this. Carolus was tempted to wink to Wilma Day, who was behind her.

  “You can prove this? ”

  “Only by naming her murderer, which I am not yet prepared to do.”

  “But you are certain? ”

  “In my own mind, yes.”

  A decision was being made and Lady Drumbone rose to her feet to announce it.

  “Miss Day,” she said, “kindly go to the other telephone and call the offices of all the newspapers who have printed this libellous stuff. Tell them that I will see their representatives here at five o’clock today. Tell them that all members of my family will be present. Tell them that Mr Carolus Deene, a private investigator of some repute, has startling new light to throw on the matter. Then please see that Mr and Mrs Alan Bourne, Mrs Hoysden, my nephew Keith and my niece Mrs Romary are present.”

  Wilma left them together and Carolus smiled.

  “You may scotch the snake,” he said, “but don’t imagine for a moment that you’ll kill it.”

  “At least it should teach these persons not to take Richard’s guilt for granted as they have done. You are prepared to tell them in uncompromising terms what you have told me? ”

  “Yes, though it will bring Gorringer post haste from Ostend, probably lose me my housekeeper and certainly irritate the police.”

  “I have always found, Mr Deene, that the truth is its own reward.”

  “Have you now? I shall come here shortly before five and make the statement you require. But I shall say no more, however I’m questioned.”

  Lady Drumbone bowed.

  “Mr Deene,” she said, “there is another matter on which I must speak to you. I gather you have seen a certain amount of my nephew Keith? ”

  “He has been very helpful.”

  “I trust you have done nothing to encourage his absurd attempts to flirt with my secretary, Wilma Day? ”

  “No business of mine,” said Carolus, “but I think they are sincerely in love.”

  “They are both far too young to consider it. I have told Keith flatly that I will countenance neither that nor his equally unreasonable wish to start a repertory theatre here.”

  “Pity,” said Carolus. “He seems interested. But that is a family matter. I will come here before five, Lady Drum-bone.”

  Carolus kept his word. At ten to five he braved the stomach-searing swiftness of the lift and found the family assembled. They treated him with unusual cordiality, perhaps because he was to help clear Richard’s name.

  “I do not know whether this is a time of day when you wish to drink, Mr Deene. If so please help yourself.”

  A collection of bottles had been set ready for the press conference.

  “We hear you know who killed Florrie,” said Alan, “but that you want confirmation.”

  “Yes. I’m going to stay in her cottage for a few days.” Olivia Romary smiled.

  “You think the murderer will return to the scene of his crime? “she suggested.

  “Something like that, perhaps,” said Carolus.

  “I say, I wish you’d let me come with you,” pleaded Keith. “Remember I know the place well.”

  “No. I’ve got to be alone there, I’m afraid.”

  “I shouldn’t care for it,” remarked Pippa. “Only a few yards from where a murder was committed.”

  “Or at least where a corpse was found,” said Olivia, who read crime novels.

  There were only half-a-dozen press representatives when all had gathered, and Alan, who seemed to be conducting the affair, wisely kept it informal. Family and press sat about the room urisegregated, and though only four of the six joined Carolus in having a drink, it seemed at first that good humour would be maintained all round. But gradually the room fell silent as Alan began to explain.

  “We think it’s rather unfair of you to suggest that evidence was deliberately suppressed. I want to explain that it was I who found the recording and I take full responsibility for not having handed it in at once. But you must remember that no murder had then been discovered, and I frankly believed the thing was a piece of raving.”

  He was stopped there by someone who asked if he had a copy of the words used by Richard.

  “No,” he said blandly, “I haven’t.”

  Almost certainly, thought Carolus, this was true. Miss Tripper had not waited to find and insert a carbon and Alan certainly had not got the typescript which was in his, Carolus’s, pocket.

  “At what point did you in fact hand it over, Mr Bourne? “Alan was asked.

  “As soon as I realized its importance.”

  “But not in time for the inquest? ”

  “There was a good deal of confusion,” explained Alan. “It had been a great shock to all of us.”

  “Lady Drumbone, may I ask if you knew of this recording? ”

  “I am prepared to answer questions,” said Lady Drumbone rising to this, “not to face an inquisition.”

  “Did you know of it, Mrs Hoysden? ”

  “Yes,” said Pippa, “I didn’t take it seriously. It was quite absurd. Richard was incapable of killing anyone.”

  The first camera flash showed Pippa looking very handsome as she answered.

  The conference continued for about fifteen minutes. A mistake, thought Carolus, who saw the news angles multiplying with every word. But he said nothing until Alan drew him in.

  “There is one rather important aspect of this,” said Alan. “Mr Carolus Deene has been investigating the affair and has something interesting to say.”

  Carolus felt himself under the bored scrutiny of Fleet Street.

  “Not much,” he said. “It’s something that ought to have been obvious from the first. Richard Hoysden didn’t kill Florrie Lamplow. That’s all.”

  “You mean to say he had nothing to do with her death? ”

  “I said he did not kill her. Let us respect our words.”

  “It was just a coincidence then? She was strangled on the night on which he committed suicide saying that he had just strangled a woman. Pure coincidence? ”

  “No comment,” said Carolus maddeningly.

  “Do you know who did? ”

  “I think so.”

  “Have you informed the police? ”

  “No.”

  “Are you suppressing evidence, Mr Deene? ”

  “No. The police are in possession of all the facts as I know them.”

  “What makes you think he did not kill her? ”

  “I don’t think. I know it. But I couldn’t convince you and don’t intend to try.”

  “This is a very extraordinary attitude. Are you going to name the murderer? ”

  “In due course, yes, unless the police have arrested him or her first.”

  “Or her? Do you think a woman could have strangled Mrs Lamplow? ”

  “No comment.”

  “Who are you acting for in this case?”

  “No one. I’m interested.”

  “You’re saying that it doesn’t matter that the coroner never heard that recording because what Richard Hoysden said in it wasn’t true? ”

  “I’m not saying anything about the coroner.”

  “Do you think, then, that the recording was a fake? That it wasn’t made by Hoysden? ”

  “I have no means of knowing. I never knew Richard Hoysden.”

  “Do you think the police are making a mistake? �
��

  “I know nothing about the police.”

  There followed a number of personal questions. Carolus was asked his age, profession, criminological experience, and so on. Flash bulbs flared again. Then, with extraordinary precipitation, the press left.

  “It seems to me, Mr Deene,” said Lady Drumbone, “that you were seeking publicity for yourself.”

  “At all events,” said Carolus, “I shall certainly have it. I expect the headmaster within forty-eight hours.”

  18

  “REALLY, sir,” said Priggley at breakfast on Monday morning, “you shouldn’t do these things suddenly. Where on earth did you get it? ”

  ‘It’ referred, as even Carolus could not pretend to ignore, to a check suit he was wearing, so vivid and blatant that it made Rothsay’s clothes discreet by comparison. Even Mrs Stick seemed to start and almost drop the tray she was carrying.

  “Anything wrong, Mrs Stick? ”

  “It’s not for me to say, sir,” returned the little woman primly. “Only I must own I’d like to know where it came from. It wasn’t in your wardrobe yesterday.”

  “Oh, this? “said Carolus trying to carry it off.

  “I shall have to warn Stick. If he was to see it unexpected it might bring on one of his old attacks. I don’t know whatever made you get it.”

  “I shan’t be in, tonight, Mrs Stick. I shall want a bag with one of my other suits in.”

  “I should think you would,” said Mrs Stick. “You couldn’t wear that all the time, could you? ”

  Something was happening to her mouth, and Priggley maintained afterwards that it was a smile.

  “Tell me,” said Carolus, when Mrs Stick had left them, “as a nice healthy boy with a pen-knife, a piece of string and a few horse-chestnuts in your pocket, could you fix up a microphone and amplifier? ”

  “Fix up? ”

  “Yes. I want a microphone in one place and the loudspeaker concealed some distance away. Is that beyond your capacities? ”

  “Of course not. But what on earth are you going to try now? No sensational stuff, sir, please. You know it doesn’t suit you. Working things out in an armchair is your line. Every time you’ve tried to do anything violent it has ended in disaster.”