‘The first question I was going to ask will be irrelevant if your guess is correct and the guilty person is insane.’
‘Ask, all the same.’
‘Well, can you – have you thought of any possible explanation of the note which was found on the body?’
‘I see it always before my eyes. In Memoriam 325. So strange. But to me it means nothing at all.’
‘Nor to me. You were shown it, were you?’
‘By the kind Superintendent, yes. He asked, as you have done, for any explanation I could offer. Was my daughter born in March of nineteen twenty-five? I say no, how could she be when at death she was barely twenty-four? Had I relations who sent people to concentration camps, maybe? I am indignant. I say no, not possible. Have I copy of Tennyson’s poems? I say no. I ask why. and I learn that the title of a very long poem is In Memoriam by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. English lords are strangely named. Why not, I asked the kind Superintendent, Lord Alfred Tennyson? He does not know.’
Dame Beatrice explained the difference between Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Lord Alfred Tennyson and then asked, somewhat abruptly,
‘What did you think of your daughter’s engagement to Mr Edward James? – apart, I mean, from the difference in their ages?’
‘I thought only that it was likely to be a long one. I was sorry. I wanted Karen to marry soon, but I was afraid that, with Edward’s ambitions and his cold nature, she might have to wait until she was more than thirty, and then Edward would be more than fifty.’
‘Did she herself contemplate a long engagement?’
‘I hardly know. If I mentioned it she would change the subject and, after all, her engagement to Edward was by her choice, not mine.’
‘But, apart from the difference in their ages and the fact that it looked like being a long engagement, you saw no reason to disapprove of it?’
‘No. Why should I disapprove?’
‘Why, indeed? You mentioned your son the last time we talked to you. Did he approve of his sister’s engagement?’
‘Only to try to borrow money from Edward. As I told you, Otto is not a good boy.’
‘Does he come to see you between voyages? We heard that he is a merchant seaman.’
‘Sometimes he comes, more often not. He wastes his pay as soon as he lands and then – off again.’
‘Did the brother and sister get on well together?’
‘As I said before, Otto is not a good boy. However, I believe he was fond of Karen in his way.’
‘When I asked you what you thought of your daughter’s engagement, you did not sound particularly enthusiastic about it. Won’t you tell me what you really think of Mr James?’
‘I do not care for him much, but he was Karen’s choice, not mine. I have no reason to dislike him, but I think he is a cold man, calculating, ambitious – so unlike my dear husband.’
‘And yet, when we saw you last, I thought you compared the two. Mrs Schumann, I am about to ask you a difficult and perhaps a painful question.’
‘Nothing matters now.’
‘Well, you mentioned two quarrels between Mr James and your daughter. Have you ever wondered whether perhaps there were other disagreements about which your daughter did not confide in you?’
‘You mean that the police suspect Edward? Oh, but that is nonsense! Edward is a most religious man.’
‘How often did Mr James visit your daughter here at weekends?’
‘How often? Oh, one in three or four. He needed his weekends for study. Karen understood that. I did not mind. It was better to have her to myself.’
‘A very discouraging interview, don’t you think?’ asked Laura, when she and Dame Beatrice were on their way home.
‘I noticed that you took little part in it.’
‘Thought I’d better keep out, in case I said the wrong thing. It’s clear she has no suspicions of Edward James, though, isn’t it? One thing – you didn’t let on, I noticed, that we don’t believe Karen was killed where she was found. Is it a police secret?’
‘The Superintendent did not say so, but perhaps the fewer who know the better.’
‘Mightn’t it have stimulated Mrs Schumann to tell us a bit more if you’d told her? While she thinks Karen was killed in those woods she’s naturally flummoxed. She can’t understand her having travelled so far in the time at her disposal.’
‘There is something in what you say. What I want to know now is how Mrs Schumann herself spent the day.’
‘But we know that, don’t we? She took her dog – oh, look here, surely you don’t suspect her of killing her daughter? I believe I asked you that some days ago.’
‘I would like to know from what hour, and for how long, the house was empty that day. I also want to know at what time Miss Schumann left her lodgings that morning and whether she used the car we suspect (but do not know for certain) she possessed. You see the point, of course?’
‘I think so. You believe that Karen Schumann was up to something, and that, if we knew what it was, we might make a guess as to why she had to be killed. But surely you were on the ball when you suggested that Karen and Edward James may have had a more serious row than the two Mrs Schumann mentioned. That being so, it’s very likely that the couple planned to meet at the cottage, knowing that Mrs Schumann would be out, in order to get things settled privately, where nobody would disturb them. My guess is that, instead of a reconciliation taking place, there was a further bust-up, and James – perhaps without really intending to – did for Karen by choking her with the dog-whistle cord and then, not being sure whether she was quite dead, finished off matters by strangling her.’
‘It is a tenable hypothesis. How do you account for the comparatively early hour at which this would have taken place?’
‘Oh, that’s simple. Karen knew the time when her mother was leaving the cottage with the clumber spaniel, but had no idea of when to expect her back, so she played it safe, as she thought, and arranged to get there well before lunch-time.’
(12)
The next interview was with Phillips.
‘So you got nothing new from Mrs Schumann,’ he said. ‘I’ve had another talk with her, too, and I’m sure she’s told us everything she knows. I’ve done my best to jog her memory, but I can’t get anything more, and I’m pretty certain there’s nothing more to get. The only extra bit of information she supplied doesn’t help at all, so far as I can see. I asked her for the address of the house to which she took her stud dog. It’s in Ringwood. I went there, and confirmed with the people that the service was given, and seems to have been successful.’
‘At what time did Mrs Schumann get there?’ Dame Beatrice enquired.
‘As near as they could remember, at about a quarter past twelve. The dog was eager, the bitch willing, so matters did not take long, and Mrs Schumann stayed to lunch and drove herself and the dog away again at half-past two or thereabouts.’
‘So she would have left her cottage …’
‘Roughly speaking, at eleven forty-five, and would have got back to it at about three.’
‘So her daughter must have been dead before she left her cottage.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Phillips, staring. ‘Surely, ma’am, you’re not suggesting …’
‘I am not suggesting anything, Superintendent. I was merely passing a remark.’
‘Well, they say a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse, ma’am, but I really don’t think we need to nod or to wink in that direction.’
‘Of course not,’ said Dame Beatrice meekly. ‘Have you traced the telephone call which was said by Mrs Schumann to have come from her daughter to inform her of the day’s holiday and to ask whether she would be at home?’
‘Oh, yes, the call has been checked. It was made from the school. The school secretary made it at Miss Schumann’s request, but, of course, she did not stay in the room to overhear what was said.’
‘Is the school telephone in the secretary’s room, then?’
‘The one the
staff use, yes, ma’am. There is an extension to the headmaster’s study, of course, and another to the caretaker’s house.’
‘One would think Miss Schumann would have put her own call through. What was the object of getting the secretary to do it, I wonder?’
‘There was a reason for that, ma’am. The secretary now does all the ringing up, whether it’s school business or staff private calls. It seems that the teachers are supposed to pay for private calls, but last year there was such a discrepancy between the telephone account and the money in the kitty – the headmaster and the secretary keep a careful record of all their own calls – that the head decided that staff using the telephone were neglecting to brass up, so now the secretary does all the ringing up, keeps a list of staff calls and charges them up each month when the teachers get paid.
‘An admirable system.’
‘I’ve also had another go at the young ladies, Miss Tompkins and Miss O’Reilly, both teachers at the school, and with whom Miss Schumann shared the flat. They can’t add anything useful, either. They simply repeated what they had told me before. Miss Schumann was up earlier than they were, and had told them previously that she was going to spend the day with her mother. That must have been a lie, of course. She must have known that her mother was going to be out.’
‘In other words, she meant to spend the day in some way that Edward James – if his story about spending the day studying is true – wasn’t supposed to hear about at second hand,’ said Laura. ‘That sounds to me like a clandestine assignation.’
‘Quite so, Mrs Gavin. But, if there was a man involved, we haven’t found hide or hair of him yet. As for James’s alibi, well, Dame Beatrice might like to have a word with the school caretaker. Mansfield is his name. He’s not much good to us, though, I’m afraid. As the school was closed, he had a long lie-in and wasn’t breakfasting until ten, so if James claims to have been in the school library from nine o’clock onwards, Mansfield isn’t any good as a witness either for or against him.’
‘I see no point, at present, in contacting the caretaker,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘but I shall speak to the two young women and should be grateful for Mr James’s address. At what time did he return there on the day of the murder, I wonder?’
‘He went back for his tea at five. He had told his landlady that, as there would be no school dinner that day, he would get some lunch in the town. There are only two places where he could have done that. One is a pub which does snacks at the bar but no set lunch; the other is the Rosebud Café. I’ve made enquiries at both, but with no useful result. The pub is always three deep round the bar counter at midday, so they’re not prepared to swear to anybody, and although they agree they might have noticed someone who wasn’t one of their regulars, they don’t remember anybody in particular. The café is in the same boat – always full for lunch, and two out of their three waitresses are newcomers. I even tried the local fish and chip place, but you can guess what the answer was there! Queues all down the street from a quarter to twelve until two o’clock! They couldn’t swear to anybody.’
‘Well, we’d better get weaving,’ said Laura, when she and Dame Beatrice were on their way home, ‘and the best of British luck to us, say I!’
This pious wish lived up to its ironic nature. The visits produced nothing helpful whatsoever, and Edward James was left with an alibi which he was unable to prove and which the Superintendent was equally unable to break. Miss Schumann had possessed her own car and had been alone when she took it out of the lock-up on the morning in question. It had not been returned, and was later found abandoned, after a police search, among other parked cars on the edge of Rhinefield, just outside Brockenhurst.
‘From there,’ said Laura disgustedly, ‘all the murderer had to do was to walk to Brockenhurst Station.’
‘A description of Edward James was given at the ticket office there, and to the porters, but with no result. His landlady said he was wearing the dark suit in which he habitually went to school, but she did not actually see him leave the house because she was having her own breakfast when she heard him close the front door, so, of course, he could have changed his clothes before he went out,’ said Dame Beatrice.
‘Taking a chance, wasn’t he?’
‘No. The Superintendent found out that the landlady always has breakfast in the back room basement, so she never sees Mr James leave the house when he goes to school.’
‘So we’re no further forward. Oh, well, it will soon be Christmas. Hamish breaks up at school tomorrow, and Gavin says he can take a few days’ leave. If you can spare me, I think I’ll take them both to see my parents. What did you think of doing?’
‘I am still considering which of three invitations I shall accept, so make your plans. What does Hamish want for Christmas?’
‘To have Fergus to sleep in his room.’
‘Fergus,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘knows the murderer.’
Laura looked startled.
‘He’s actually seen him, you think?’
‘I am sure of it.’
Laura shook her head.
‘As always, you speak in riddles,’ she said, ‘and yet I can see that you’re serious. Anyway, may Hamish have Fergus in his bedroom while he’s here?’
‘Why not? Will Hamish wear a kilt, if you’re going to Scotland?’
‘He hasn’t got one.’
‘He is tall for his age, and of pleasing build. He would set one off, I think. It shall be my Christmas present to him if he would like that.’
‘I should think he’d adore it, and he’s just about the right colouring to wear the Menzies white and red. You’ll have to spring him a sgian-dubh to stick in his stocking, and a crest brooch for his bonnet. Great gosh! He’ll be insufferable! I can just see him swanking around!’
CHAPTER TWO
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
‘Farewell and adieu, all you fine Spanish ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain,
For we’ve received orders for to sail to old England,
But we hope in a short time to see you again.’
* * *
(1)
‘Well, I’m damned! He’s done it again!’ said Gavin. He and his wife had spent Christmas and Hogmanay with Laura’s people, and then, leaving their son with his maternal grandparents, they had gone on to Skye to spend the last few days of Gavin’s leave together and without encumbrances.
They were staying in a small hotel on the north-east coast of the island and so were avoiding the seasonable snow which had fallen heavily on the mainland mountains. From the windows of the lounge, and from their bedroom, the prospect was of a sweeping bay with two small islands, a long promontory which sheltered the hotel and, beyond the promontory, the misty, snow-covered mountains of Wester Ross.
Here and there, on the green uplands which surrounded the bay, were the white houses of the crofters which had succeeded the ancient dwellings, stone-built, thatched, the roofs weighted down with stones, in which, less than two generations ago, their ancestors had lived.
Behind the hotel, on the opposite side of the rough and narrow road which came north from Kyleakin, Sligachan and Portree, and which followed the coast from Staffin and Flodigarry round to Uig and southward, rose mountainous cliffs of bare and stratified rock. To the south was the extraordinary formation called the Quiraing. To the north, at the turn of the road, Duntulm Castle, the ruined stronghold of the MacDonalds of Skye, was perched on its tremendous headland.
Gavin had not brought his car. They had hired transport in Kyleakin and would return to the ferry by the same means. They had walked, keeping to the roads, (for the mountain mists were treacherous), they had eaten, they had lazed and they had gone to bed early and risen late. It was an ideal existence, from their point of view, and Gavin’s exclamation had cut into a silence of repletion after breakfast on the fourth morning of their stay.
‘Done what again? And who has?’ asked Laura. Her husband handed her the newspaper
, now several days old, which the manager of the hotel had offered him and which he was perusing more for courtesy’s sake than because he wanted to read stale news.
‘This strangler of young women,’ he said. Laura read the paragraph he pointed out, and then re-read it before she handed the paper back.
‘It’s what Phillips was afraid of,’ she said. ‘Do we have to go back straight away?’
‘I see no reason why we should. It isn’t anything to do with us officially. Wonder whether Dame B. knows about it?’
‘Doubtful, I think. She never reads the newspapers at Christmas time, and, anyway, she isn’t at home. She went to spend Christmas with Carey Lestrange on his pig-farm in Oxfordshire. The paper doesn’t tell us much, does it?’
‘It tells us quite enough. The same district, the same kind of death, the same verdict at the inquest.’
‘Another foreign girl, too.’
‘Ah, well, Miss Schumann claimed to be English. Both her parents were naturalised.’
‘I think I’ll telephone Mrs Croc.’
‘Why? She won’t thank you for interrupting her holiday. Time enough for her to take action when you’re both back at the Stone House. What about hiring a car and taking a run to Dunvegan this morning?’
‘In this rain? Not worth it. I’d rather take a walk and get really wet.’
‘You have strange tastes.’
‘They are what endeared you to me when we met. No, stop scrapping! Remember I’m the mother of your son!’
‘Talking of which, it sometimes seems to me that we’ve rather put all our eggs into one basket. What do you think?’
‘Please yourself. But I don’t admire your description of our child.’
‘Got your marriage lines to back up your opinion, too, haven’t you? Anyway, I’m not sure Hamish would approve of a baby sister.’
‘Why sister? I’d be just as likely to have another boy.’
‘Ah, no,’ said Gavin, ‘Shakespeare knew the answer to that one. “Make thee another self, for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee.”’
[Mrs Bradley 41] - Three Quick and Five Dead Page 5