‘Don’t perjure yourself for Mark,’ Chadwick said gravely. ‘Remember, he’s innocent until he’s proved guilty. Don’t risk even white lies to the police.’
‘How can one tell the truth to a bone-headed copper like that?’ demanded Elizabeth. ‘He’s determined to put the wrong construction on everything — far better keep one’s mouth shut.’
CHAPTER SIX
WHEN HOLLIS had announced that the weedkiller was missing from the potting shed Mark had taken it calmly.
‘Codding’s probably put it in some safe place and forgotten about it,’ he said. ‘Or he’s finished the stuff and thrown the tin away, or he’s loaned it to Philips for the stableyard. I can think of a dozen more likely fates for it than that it should have been used to poison Vickers.’
‘I’ve no doubt you can,’ said Hollis. ‘I take it that you’ve nothing to add to what you’ve told me already, Mr. Broughton?’
‘Any further comment would be unprintable,’ Mark replied, and that had ended the interview. Later, he had talked to Codding and found the old man unshakable in the conviction that he had seen the weedkiller on the shelf in the potting shed only the previous Wednesday.
‘Philips was carrying on ’ow someone ’ad ’ad ’is ’oof oil brush,’ Codding explained. ‘That’s ’im all over. ’E’s never lost nothing. No, someone’s always ’ad it. To stop ’is moaning I said I’d get ’im an old paintbrush, and down to the shed I went and got one from the jar I keeps on the shelf. I ’ad to move things round a bit to get at the turpentine — I wanted to give it a bit of a clean up and then I sees the weedkiller. Ah, I thought, I’d forgotten I ’ad you. Come in ’andy in the spring, that will. Gave me a turn, it did, to find it gone. And now that detective’s locked up my shed and took the key, so ’ow I’m to get on with the gardening I don’t know.’
After that Mark had retired to the office, a bleak little room where he was supposed to keep the hunt correspondence and interview earth stoppers and gamekeepers, and had opened a bottle of whisky.
On Sunday morning he had wakened with a thick head and a bad temper. Finding two silent and apprehensive looking children wandering aimlessly about the house he had decided that their religious education was being neglected and packed them off to church. Then he’d walked round the stables, sworn at Philips for failing to report the bran supply was running low, and found fault with half a dozen details in the kennels, before returning to the office and a new bottle. By Sunday afternoon he looked ten years older than he had the previous day.
Oho, thought Hollis when he and Hughes were shown into the office by Nan, You’re rattled, you are. I’ll soon have you where I want you. And he began without preliminaries:
‘Mr. Broughton,’ he said in a hectoring voice, ‘yesterday you gave me to understand that you never approached Mr. Vickers at Commander Chadwick’s party. Now, from information received, I find that this statement not to accord with the facts.’
‘If you mean it’s a bloody lie, why don’t you say so?’ asked Mark and poured himself out another drink.
‘I put it to you, Mr. Broughton, that the sequence of events could have been as follows: when you attended the Commander’s party you had already formed a resolve to kill Mr. Vickers should the chance present itself. You therefore took with you a solution prepared from the weedkiller and, when you told Miss Chadwick that you must go and find your wife, walked round the room, waited until Mr. Vickers, who was talking to Colonel Holmes-Waterford, put his glass down in a convenient spot (probably the mantelpiece), and then introduced the solution. Well, what have you to say to that?’ he asked, when Mark remained irritatingly silent.
‘Are you charging me with murder?’ Mark asked quietly.
‘No, not at this stage.’
‘Well then, I find your manner extremely offensive. I refuse to answer any more questions except in the presence of my solicitor, and I would be grateful if you’d get out of my house.’
Hollis began, ‘It is the duty of every citizen …’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mark. ‘But you’ve just told me you think I’m a murderer. I’ve asked you to leave,’ he added.
‘Very well,’ said Hollis. He left the office, but not the house. With Hughes at his heels he went to the kitchen to look for Nan. She was putting the kettle on and she signalled to them to come in and to shut the door. When she spoke it was in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘One drinking upstairs and one drinking downstairs,’ she said. ‘Never in all my life have I been in such an ’ouse. I can’t do nothing with Mrs. Broughton today. She’ll ’ave that D.T. again before we know where we are and then she’ll be back in one of them ’omes.’ She drew closer to Hollis. ‘I ’eard ’im last night. He was asking her what she’d done with the arsenic. All night long he was looking for it. All her drawers were upside down this morning where he’d been through them. “Where’s that arsenic, Clara?” he kept saying, “Where have you put it?” We’re none of us safe; not with that arsenic in the ’ouse. He might take it into ’is head to kill any of us. I’m not touching anything that’s been in the dining-room, that I’m not.’
‘This is very interesting, Miss Hatch,’ said Hollis. ‘Hughes, have you got that down?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now Miss Hatch, you’re sure of the exact words? Mr. Broughton said, “Where’s that arsenic, Clara? Where have you put it?”’
‘That’s right, and I could hear him opening all the drawers and cupboards.’
‘Well, keep your ears open,’ said Hollis. ‘You may hear something else of interest to us. Come on, Hughes. Don’t waste time. We must get back to the station.’
Jon and Deborah were hanging about in the hall. White-faced and anxious they looked beseechingly at Hollis, but he hurried by; children were people of little importance in his eyes. Sadly they returned to the sitting-room and joined the dogs round the fire. The bottom seemed to have fallen out of their world. It had happened to them once before when they had learnt that a Mau-Mau gang had murdered their parents in Kenya, but then, mercifully, they had been younger; old enough to feel the loss, but not to suffer the torment of their imaginations.
When they had come to live with their uncle and aunt at Lapworth they had accepted Clara and her gin bottle with the uncensoriousness of the unprompted child and soon Mark had somehow manufactured a new foundation to their lives. He had produced kittens, puppies and ponies. He had eaten revolting morsels at dolls picnics and stood bareheaded in the rain at the funerals of pet bantams. He had handed handkerchiefs tactfully to the tearful, laughed at bad school reports, rescued them from Nan’s rages. Through all their violent and inconsolable griefs he had seemed a rock, and now the rock was crumbling. Aunt Clara was drunk; Nans only conversation was vague innuendoes uttered in a frightened whisper; Codding and the other men stopped talking whenever they drew near. There was no help from outside and even to each other they could hardly voice their thoughts. Long and desperate silences fell between them.
After Hollis had departed neither spoke for a long time. At last Deb announced in a voice which broke: ‘I shall kill myself if they hang Uncle Mark.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said her brother with a conviction he did not feel, forced by his two years’ seniority to offer comfort. ‘Of course they won’t hang him. He didn’t kill Guy Vickers.’
‘Then why does he keep drinking?’ demanded Deb. ‘He’ll have to go into a home next.’
‘Oh, I expect he’s just fed up,’ said Jon. It’s enough to make anyone drink, having the place lousy with detectives.’
*
When Hollis reported to him Superintendent Fox agreed that his information was worthy of a conference with the Chief Constable, though he pointed out that there was no hope at present of making an arrest.
‘You’ve no proof,’ he told his subordinate as he picked up the telephone, ‘and you’ve got to have the devil of a lot of proof nowadays. You won’t get a committal on a murder charge on what you’ve got. Find th
e tin of arsenic. Get Mrs. Broughton sober — she may have something to say. See the other guests again and find out whether Broughton was seen anywhere near the mantelpiece — Lincombe 200,’ he interrupted himself to tell the operator.
Hollis said, ‘I’ve got Broughton rattled. If I keep on at him he’ll give something away. He’s drinking hard; he’ll break before long.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Fox. ‘Tough lot, these hunting people. They —’ He broke off as the Chief Constable came on the line. ‘Coming over,’ he remarked, replacing the receiver. ‘Come on, just time for a cup of tea.’
Hollis retold his case against Mark Broughton to the Chief Constable. ‘And now I’ve got him properly rattled,’ he finished with pride. ‘He’s drinking a lot too much, and this afternoon he told me to get out of his house and said he wouldn’t answer any more questions except in the presence of his solicitor.’
‘Tch, tch,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Pity we’ve reached that stage so early. Except for the old nurse’s story we’ve very little to go on, very little. It’s all so circumstantial, but of course you realize that. And then this hunt quarrel is really rather a trivial matter. I don’t think that in itself it’s much of a motive unless there’s something more behind it. One would have to be very unbalanced to murder for that sort of thing and, so far, we’ve no evidence that he is unbalanced.’
‘I understand the hunt means a great deal to Mr. Broughton, sir,’ Hollis said. ‘Commander Chadwick’s words were that “he lived for the pack”. And then, on the old nurse’s showing we could easily establish that he’s a violent and quarrelsome type of man.’
‘Hmm. You’re taking it he’s a fanatic?’
‘Quite, sir. It won’t be difficult to produce evidence of that. The difficulty’s going to be to prove he introduced the poison into Vickers’ glass. None of the others present at the party are willing to admit that he even approached Mr. Vickers. In fact they’re being very evasive — I shouldn’t have thought that people of their social standing would have wished to assist a criminal, but I gather that a Master of Foxhounds is something of a local king.’
‘Well, well,’ said the Chief Constable, and he hummed a few bars before he spoke again.
‘You know, I still think we ought to call in the Yard, Fox,’ he said. ‘I realize you’re against it; but we haven’t the experience they have, we can’t expect to have it and there’s no disgrace attached to asking for specialized help in a case of this kind — in fact it’s rather the other way about. If the Press start clamouring or old Vickers buttonholes his M.P. we shall be on the mat for not realizing our limitations.’
‘Call in Scotland Yard, sir?’ said Hollis speaking out of turn. ‘Call in the Yard with a case three parts solved? You’ll be handing it to them on a plate.’
Fox scratched his nose. ‘Well, it’s for you to say, sir, but —’ The telephone rang and with a sigh of exasperation he broke off and lifted the receiver.
‘Dr. Skindle, sir,’ said the cadet on the switchboard. ‘I told him that you were in conference, but he says that it’s of the utmost urgency.’
‘Put him through,’ said Fox.
Dr. Skindle spoke loudly and clearly; all three of them could hear him. ‘Fox?’ he said. ‘Skindle here. Look, I’m at the kennels at Lapworth. Mrs. Broughton’s in a bad way. She’s not going to last long and, unless I’m a Dutchman, it’s arsenic again.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS Tuesday morning when the Assistant Commissioner sent for Detective Chief Inspector James Flecker. The A.C. was a dark, dyspeptic man of immense capability. He worked endlessly and at speed and expected those under him to do the same. Given to sarcasm, he suffered fools not at all and was much feared in Central Office.
‘Just the thing for you, Flecker,’ he said. ‘“Death Stalks Rural England. Arsenic in the Stirrup Cup. Master of Foxhounds goes Berserk”, or so the local constabulary appear to think. Here you are, get down to Melborough as fast as you can and straighten them out. And for Christ’s sake buck up about it, because with Linden sick and Canning on holiday I’ll be sending myself out on the next job.’
‘“Chief Inspector Solves Killing at Supersonic Speed,”’ said Flecker, taking the proffered folder. ‘Right, sir,’ and he turned to leave the room.
‘You’d better take Browning,’ the A.C. called after him. Tell Sutton I don’t care what he’s on, you've got to have him.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You needn’t sound so grateful,’ said his superior. ‘I only do it for my own peace of mind.’
Sergeant Browning was delighted. That will make a nice change, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s some time since we had an outing together. I’ll just dash home and pack a bag.’
‘I’ll call for you then,’ said Flecker. ‘It’s on the way.’
Then he went back to his rooms at the top of a gloomy house in an unfashionable quarter of Kensington, packed a modest bag, had a word with his landlord’s wife, left a note for the milkman and was on his way with an alacrity which would have commended itself to the Assistant Commissioner.
Browning’s luggage was far less modest. Flecker looked at it with distaste. Good God! How long do you think this is going to take us — six months?’
‘Just as well to be prepared, sir. I dare say we shall be moving in smart circles.’
‘Now then,’ said Flecker. ‘Remember you’re a married man and a copper. There’s no more room in the boot so you’ll have to put that great trunk in the back.’
Free of Outer London, its neighbouring light industries and their attendant housing estates, Flecker told his companion to read the case notes aloud.
‘Looks bad for the M.F.H.,’ said Browning, when he had finished. ‘He sounds a bit of a tartar. They mostly are a bit peppery, these M.F.H.’s. Got to be, I suppose; I wonder if they’re chosen because they’re like that or if they get like it afterwards?’
‘Cause and effect, the eternal mystery,’ said Flecker unhelpfully.
‘When I was a boy,’ Browning went on, ‘old Colonel Darcy Blake had the Houghton hounds. He could give you a mouthful too. Many’s the time I’ve had the warm side of his tongue. Of course, I was a bit of a lad; always wanted to be up in front; rode the old pony nearly to death. I wanted to go in to hunt service, but father wouldn’t hear of it and now look at me — a ruddy policeman.’
‘Never mind, your misspent youth is going to stand you in good stead. You can reminisce by the hour with the hunt staff — there’s nothing like gossip.’
‘Good as a holiday, this is going to be. Only wish it was summertime.’
By the time they stopped for lunch Melborough had begun to appear on the signposts and the countryside had become undulating with hedges dividing the dipping fields. ‘“O pastoral heart of England”’, said Flecker, and Browning, assuming professional tones, remarked that it was a nice bit of hunting country.
Melborough took them by surprise. An apparently interminable suburb culminated abruptly in the main street, a wide, tree-lined, vista of ancient houses built in glowing stone. Flecker stopped to ask the whereabouts of County Police Headquarters and was directed to a between-the-wars building in a paler version of the golden stone just beyond the town centre. Leaving the car in the gravelled courtyard they walked towards the station.
Browning looked his chief over. ‘Your coat belt’s twisted, sir, and your tie’s a bit round to the right.’
‘Oh, hell!’ said Flecker; but he obediently straightened his tie and untwisted his belt. Then Browning handed him the folder containing the case notes. ‘You’d better have this too,’ he said, offering a pencil, ‘because, if I remember rightly, yours are always chewed to bits.’
‘Thanks,’ said Flecker meekly and led the way in.
As they came into his office Superintendent Fox looked from one to the other and thought, as people always did, that the tall, broad-shouldered, well-dressed man with the greying hair and the Anthony Eden moustache must be Fl
ecker; but Browning, who had been mistaken for the Chief Inspector before, drew back hastily and the Superintendent found himself shaking hands with a younger and far less striking individual. Stocky — he was barely tall enough for police regulations — he had a rather square face above which his dark hair grew in untidy profusion. His wide and shapeless mouth was amiable and it was only his eyes that betrayed his intelligence: dark blue eyes that burned in the slow, good-natured face.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Fox, looking at his watch. ‘The Chief Constable should be here in about five minutes.’
When the Brigadier arrived they went through the notes of the case again, after which Fox brought them up to date with a resume of the latest information.
‘Broughton’s drinking fairly heavily,’ he said. ‘But he seems able to stand it. We’ve got two men on him, night and day, but so far he hasn’t gone further than the kennels. He gave us permission to search and we’ve been through the house with a small toothcomb. The results were entirely negative.
‘Mrs. Broughton actually died of heart failure caused by the arsenic poisoning. Apparently her heart had been groggy for some time — years on the bottle, I suppose and it wouldn’t have taken much to finish her off. She took the stuff in two or three large nips of gin, and the analyst’s report indicates that it was a pretty strong solution. There were no fingerprints on the bottle except the deceased’s, but there are indications that, previous to her handling, it had been wiped clean. We’ve contacted the distillers and asked them to trace the sale as quickly as possible.
‘The Vickers’ inquest was opened and adjourned this morning. Mrs. Broughton’s is to be held here on Thursday.’
Flecker was making notes. Browning sighed as he saw an old envelope and the tattered stump of a pencil come into use, and observed with some annoyance that the Chief Constable and Fox had also remarked this unbusinesslike behaviour. You don’t do yourself any good, he thought; you’d get yourself promoted twice as fast if you behaved like everybody else.
Gin and Murder Page 5