[Mrs Bradley 50] - Late, Late in the Evening

by Gladys Mitchell

  As Mr Nigel had gone back to his London flat, I returned to Hill House and asked Mrs Kempson to repeat to me all that she could remember of the arrangements for the photographer's visit. She was only too anxious to find a scapegoat outside her own family, for she fully realised the implications suggested by the absence from the festivities of Mr and Mrs Conyers, herself and Mr Nigel at what must have been the time of Miss Patterson's death. She had previously done her best to impress upon me that Doctor Tassall was also out of her house at that time, and I knew that he had lied about his call to a maternity case. Perceiving my new drift, which might implicate the photographer, she proved more than willing to give me all the information she could.

  She produced the photographer's typewritten reply. In it he regretted that a previous appointment would prevent him from attending at Hill House on the evening in question unless he could add a return taxi fare to his bill. To this Mrs Kempson had replied that, as the taxi would be kept waiting, presumably, while the photographs were being taken, and as it appeared that this would be a lengthy process, since her grand-daughter had arranged for a number of group photographs, as well as some individual portraits, to be taken, Mr Nigel Kempson would meet him outside the cinema in Broad Street, convey him to the house by car and take him back when the session was over.

  This arrangement had been made over the telephone and the photographer had agreed to it, but there was nothing in writing.

  I asked her whether the suggestion to pick up the photographer had come originally from Mr Nigel. She replied that it had not, and I wondered whether he had resented her high-handed assumption (as I saw it) that he would be willing to absent himself from the party for an hour or more merely to satisfy Miss Kempson-Conyers' whim and Mrs Kempson's wishes.

  The photographer's address was at the top of his letter, so I went to see him.

  I do not know why I had expected him to be a young man. He was nothing of the kind, but is, I should imagine, at least fifty years of age. When I announced that I had come from Mrs Kempson he looked hopeful and said, 'Oh, she's going to do something about it, then?'

  About what?' I asked.

  'Why, me hanging about in Broad Street best part of an hour,' he replied, 'waiting to be picked up.'

  'But you were not there at the right time.'

  'Who wasn't?'

  'You weren't. Mr Nigel Kempson waited for you, but you did not appear.'

  'Who didn't?'

  'You didn't.'

  'You've got it the wrong way round, I'm afraid, madam. It was Mr Kempson didn't show up, not me,' he said. 'I would have written to Mrs Kempson to claim something for my time and the loss to me of not taking the photographs, but I reckoned she had enough on her plate with that poor girl getting murdered and Mrs Kempson's name in the papers and everything, so I thought I'd bide my time before I put it to her that she'd let me down.'

  'I think we had better get this quite clear,' I said to him. Well, there was nothing to shake his story. He produced Mrs Kempson's letter and a copy of his own reply...'I keep copies, madam, mine being a chancy business and people sometimes in no hurry to settle up, so I like to have a record of the whole transaction'...and he gave me the gist of the subsequent telephone conversation. He then said:

  'Of course, that's the weak point, so far as I'm concerned, madam. I haven't anything in writing to say that Mr Nigel Kempson was to pick me up and nothing about the time or the place. I jotted them down, but that's not evidence, is it? And even if it was, I wouldn't have a case to take to court, I don't reckon, even if I was prepared to go as far as that, which, between ourselves, I would not be.'

  'Just give me an account of what happened from the time you left your last appointment that evening and the time you decided that Mr Nigel Kempson was not going to put in an appearance,' I suggested.

  The appointment, it appeared, had terminated at the Assembly Rooms in the Town Hall after he had taken photographs of the guests who attended a banquet there. He had taken three pictures in a matter of minutes. This was at half-past nine. From then until nearly ten o'clock, he and his assistant had been occupied in taking orders for copies of the photographs and had met with what he called 'about the usual run of luck' in selling the photographs later and in the matter of drinks.

  They had then packed up their paraphernalia and he himself had crossed the road for another drink at the Goat and Grapes before that hostelry closed at ten-thirty, while his assistant had returned to the studio with the camera and so on. When the bar closed, the photographer, being known to the landlord as a personal friend, had been taken behind the bar to the back premises of the inn for a private drink which, incidentally, he would pay for on the morrow.

  'It was to use up the half-hour before Mr Kempson was to pick me up,' he explained, 'but just in case he should be early, I went along to stand outside the cinema at ten to eleven, not to keep him waiting.'

  'Ah, yes. You can prove this, of course; I said. He did not put up any pretence of not understanding me.

  'You surely don't think I killed that poor young creature and that's why Mr Kempson didn't pick me up at eleven, do you?' he said. 'He never turned up, I tell you, and that's why I turned it in at midnight and went home, and pretty cheesed off I felt, I don't mind telling you. Well, I didn't think I ought to 'phone up at that time of night and the next day was Sunday and then, when I 'phoned on Monday morning, a policeman answered and told me to ring up later, as Mrs Kempson could not talk to anybody. Then, of course, it was in the local paper all about the murder, so I wouldn't bother her, like I said.'

  'Yes, I see,' I said. 'Can you think of anybody who might have seen you standing outside the cinema waiting for Mr Nigel?'

  'There were any number of people coming out of the cinema when it closed down at eleven. Some of them must have noticed me. Look here, are you to do with the police?'

  'Sufficiently so for your purpose. I shall tell them about this interview and then they may contact you and make any enquiries they think fit.'

  'You think I've been lying?' He could have sounded belligerent, but, as a matter of fact, he appeared to be alarmed. 'I assure you, madam, I've told you nothing but the truth. If Mr Kempson says he came to the cinema and didn't find me, he's the liar, not me. Hang it all, treat me fair! Which is more likely?'

  'You have a point there, perhaps.'

  'I never even knew the young girl.'

  'Perhaps Mr Nigel is in a position to claim the same thing. However, it will be to your advantage to go to the police yourself and tell them what you have told me.'

  'You don't mean I'm really suspected?' he said, looking even more alarmed.

  'At the moment, neither less nor more than others,' I replied. His alarm had impressed me to some extent. I did not suspect him of murder. I did suspect that he had something to hide.

  I went straight to the police station. The inspector was in his office dealing with various documents, but he received me courteously and asked what he could do.

  'I want to know whether a telephone call came for Mrs Kempson while you were at Hill House on the Monday after Miss Patterson was murdered, Inspector.'

  'Yes, there was a call.'

  'Ah!'

  'From the young lady's father.'

  'Nobody else?'

  'Nobody else. He was very distressed, of course, and asked what we wanted him to do. He said that his wife was in a state of collapse, but if he could be of any help he would come over. I advised him to stay put and we would let him know about the inquest, as his daughter would have to be identified formally.'

  And you are positive that there was no other call for Mrs Kempson that day?'

  'What is all this, ma'am?'

  'Probably nothing of importance,' I said. 'I wondered whether the photographer had rung up to explain why he had not come to the house to take the pictures at the birthday party.'

  'No, he didn't ring, ma'am.'

  I could not understand why the photographer had told me such a lie. I went to
the Town Hall. It is a pretentious but ugly building which mars an otherwise charming street. The porter on duty enquired my business in a civil manner, so I asked him whether he had been on duty at the banquet of which I mentioned the date. It appeared that he had.

  'I believe some photographs were taken,' I said.

  'While he was sober, lucky enough,' said the porter. 'When he left I had to help him down the steps and then blowed if he didn't go tacking away across the street to the Goat and Grapes. Good thing there wasn't no traffic about. I watched him across and I thinks to myself as he'll be lucky if Bill Ballock serves him, the state he's in when he leaves here. When the photographs and the orders was all took, I reckon they give him a skinful in the mayor's parlour, 'cos, when I see him off, happy wasn't the word for it. He could still stand on his feet, just about, but I reckon that was instink, not intention.'

  I crossed the road to the Goat and Grapes. At that hour it was empty except for a pot-boy polishing glasses. I asked to speak to the landlord and a Dickensian character of jovial aspect appeared. He remembered the night in question perfectly well, but for reasons quite unconnected with the murder.

  'I always do pretty well when there's a "do" on in the Town Hall,' he informed me. 'Some of 'em come in before it starts, so as to get themselves into the mood, like, and if I'm still open when it's over, some of 'em comes in for a night-cap, as you might say.'

  I mentioned the photographer.

  'I understand he belonged to the night-cap contingent,' I said.

  'Then you understand wrong,' said the landlord promptly. 'He comes in here in a state which I should describe as unfortunate and I refused to serve him.'

  'He did not get anything to drink here?'

  'He did not, madam. Do you think I want to lose my licence? I told him I was shutting up shop and he'd best go home and sleep it off.'

  'You did not take him behind your bar and minister to him in your back room?'

  The landlord stared at me incredulously.

  'Who's been telling you that tale?'

  'It was rumoured. You deny it, then?'

  'If you wasn't a lady I'd do more than deny it; I'd add a few rude words to make my meaning clear.'

  'So what happened to him?'

  'My pot-man found him laid out sleeping it off in the gents when he went to hose out on the Sunday morning, but whether he'd been there all night, well, that I couldn't undertake to say.'

  Intriguing, don't you think, dear Sir Walter?

  Chapter 18

  The Penny Drops

  As you will realise, dear Sir Walter, the result of my investigations provided us with four lines of enquiry, for, after my meeting with the photographer, the police and I were pursuing our ends in even closer association than before.

  The situation which confronted us was not, as so often happens in cases of murder, the necessity to break down alibis, but to establish them. Among our suspects, as I saw it, four had to be cleared and one retained.

  'Psychology first,' said the inspector. 'I'm a great believer in it since one of your lot, ma'am, if I may so refer to a body of learned ladies and gentlemen in whom, usually, our lot don't place much confidence, was able to clear my little girl of a charge of thieving from another child at her school. Not that I'm all that sold on it in a general way, you understand, because, as it seems to me, psychology is more concerned with finding excuses for the criminal than getting him committed on a charge.'

  Having obtained carte blanche from him, I considered my suspects all over again. Two of them, the photographer and Mr Conyers, I decided to ignore for the time being. Neither was at all likely to have had a motive for killing Merle Patterson and the only possible reason which Mr Conyers could have had for murdering Ward was that he thought him a threat to little Lionel's inheritance. As, according to Mrs Kempson, the estate was more or less of a white elephant, this motive seemed inadequate. Lionel would get the money anyway.

  I turned my attention again to Doctor Tassall. It seemed time to put the cards on the table. I sent a note to the surgery to ask him to spare a few minutes on his next round or as soon as was convenient, to pay a call on Mrs Landgrave.

  That this was a deceitful move intending to disarm him I freely admit. However, if he was a murderer, the nicer scruples were out of place; if he was an innocent man he had nothing to fear or, at this late stage in the proceedings, nothing to hide from me. The mere fact that he was suspected-if he did not know it already-should be sufficient, I thought, to make him willing to talk.

  From my window on to the street I saw him arrive. I opened the front door to him myself and led him into my sitting-room.

  Are you the patient?' he enquired.

  There is no patient for you, but possibly one for me,' I replied. He did not pretend to misunderstand me.

  Any police hidden behind the arras?' he asked, with an attempt at flippancy which was bold but not convincing.

  'No police, but I believe Mr Landgrave is within call.'

  'Oh, yes. Bit of a bruiser, isn't he?'

  'I believe he has the reputation of being a man of his hands.'

  'I accept the hint. Well, if I'm the patient, what is your diagnosis?'

  'I cannot make one until you have answered my questions.'

  'Right. I haven't time for verbal sparring, so fire away, please. I've a number of calls to make.'

  'It is about the one you didn't make that I should like to question you.'

  'I don't have to incriminate myself, you know.'

  'You could not do so at this particular interview, since there are no witnesses.'

  'You don't think the police would accept your word against mine?'

  'Not as proof positive. As a base for future enquiries I think they might. Now, Doctor Tassall, it ill becomes me, perhaps, to tell you that the best way you can help yourself is to tell the truth, but I believe that it would be in your own interests to do so. It was easy enough to find out that there is no such patient as Mrs Collins on your list.'

  'Easy enough to find that out, yes. So what?'

  'So I can think of various reasons why you left the birthday party so early that night.'

  'Oh, yes? Are you going to tell me what they are?'

  'Certainly, and leave you to indicate the right one.'

  'And suppose I select the wrong one?'

  'It will take me a little longer to find out which is the right one, that is all.'

  'I see. Do you like answering riddles?'

  'Propound one.'

  'Try this, since you are trying to get me hanged. "There was a man made a thing, and he that made it did it bring, but he 'twas made for did not know whether 'twas a thing or no."'

  I was familiar with the riddle, so I said:

  'I believe you are optimistic. Are not convicted murderers buried coffinless and in quick-lime after the hanging? Let us give up these time-consuming jests. Here are your alternatives to Mrs Collins and her being brought to bed. Either you left the party in order to avoid Merle Patterson, or else you left the party and she followed you out of the house by mutual arrangement so that you could discuss your private affairs.'

  'I've told you before! We no longer had private affairs to discuss.'

  'Miss Patterson seems to have thought you had.'

  'So you expect me to choose the second alternative and agree that Merle and I had arranged to meet outside the house that night!'

  'It would be wise for you to admit it.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I am sure it is the truth.'

  'Tell me why you think so.'

  'I have two reasons. For one thing, you had told Miss Kempson-Conyers that you expected a call and would have to absent yourself at some point from the party in order to attend on Mrs Collins.'

  'How does that prove anything?'

  'Surely, that you knew (as Mrs Collins was a figment of your brain) you would need an excuse to get away from the party at some point and had prepared yourself with one which could not be gainsaid.'<
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  'And your second point?'

  'It depends upon the first. You knew that Miss Patterson had arranged with her brother that she should take his place. You had thought that she would still be in the car when you met and it upset the plan a little when the unsuspecting Mrs Kempson invited her into the house. You managed, I expect, to speak to Miss Patterson while Amabel and her grandmother were still occupied in greeting the guests who were continuing to arrive. Miss Patterson proposed a new plan, which was that, after the pretended call was supposed to have come through, she should go into the garden at the first opportunity and that you two should hold your conclave in her car, as you had arranged.'

  'Well, all right, fair enough, so far. And then?'

  'I think you had a genuine call, and that it came earlier than the bogus one you had planned. I also think it was one which you did not hesitate to answer, and that, in fact, you welcomed it. You were not looking forward to your interview with Miss Patterson. You knew she would be reproachful; you thought she might be angry and even tearful, so, although you were determined to return to the party in the hope of having a lovers' meeting, however short, with Amabel Kempson-Conyers, you left it late enough to feel certain that, by the time you got back, Miss Patterson would have taken her three companions back to London and you would be spared an embarrassing interview.'

  'And so?'

  'You came back to find that Merle Patterson had gone out into the grounds, as arranged, but had not come back. A search-party was organised, her body was found and there was no doubt that she had been murdered. In other words, she had kept the tryst which, because of circumstances unforeseen by you, but of which you were quick to take advantage, you had managed to avoid.'

  'I didn't kill her. I swear I didn't. I mean, you don't kill girls because they are prepared to make nuisances of themselves.'

  'No? Perhaps you are not as well acquainted with the records of criminal behaviour as I am. Girls and women have been murdered simply because they were in the way. Have you heard of Emily Kaye?-of Ellen Warder?-of Harriet Staunton?-of Mrs Armstrong?-of Belle Elmore, as Mrs Crippen called herself professionally? I could go on. Shall I do so?'