Death in the dark, p.19
Death in the Dark, page 19
“Bringing your sheaves—or scalps?”
Collier gave a detailed report of his movements during the previous forty-eight hours.
“Well, that sets your mind at rest, doesn’t it?” asked the Superintendent. “The girl’s safe, recovering from measles. The aunt—not so good, but there’s nothing extraordinary about a motor accident unfortunately. We haven’t a ghost of an excuse for carrying on with this, my lad, and you know it. We can’t reopen the Fallowes murder case. It was never our pigeon, and Merle was tried and found guilty on evidence that ought to convince anybody. I’m going to put you on to something else.”
Collier said nothing for a minute. He was remembering the hot afternoon in August that he had taken Sandra and Toby to the circus whose tent was pitched in a field on the outskirts of the south Devon fishing village where they were spending their summer holiday. He had run down for a weekend before going to America. He remembered the Flying Merles’ act, the light, shining figures darting to and fro high up in the roof, looking in the greenish gloom like silver fish flashing through still water. He remembered how the girl had laughed and flung the rose from behind her ear over the barrier as she ran out, and that Toby had caught it, and the boy’s round, freckled face lit up with excitement. There had been something about that act that had caught his imagination too.
“I don’t agree, sir. There’s something wrong at Sard Manor. This illness of Oliver Ramblett’s. What is it? I’ve studied the reports of the trial and I tried walking up from Laurel Lodge to the station. It was a wet evening, not very late, between nine and ten. I didn’t meet a single soul. If it was Oliver, he used to ride a motor-cycle. I got that from the garage hand who vetted Mrs. Sturmer’s car for me. Assume that Oliver planned the murder. Or perhaps he didn’t plan it. Perhaps he rode over to see his uncle and try to borrow money from him. The uncle refused. There was a quarrel and the fatal blow was struck. Oliver had heard perhaps from the old man himself, of the fancy he had for asking music hall performers in to supper and presenting them with tracts and good advice. He worked out the idea of personating the murdered man and getting somebody into the house to act as his scapegoat.”
“Where would he get the false hair and beard?”
“That’s a point, sir. It must have been premeditated, a carefully worked out scheme, planned perhaps weeks in advance. Clever. Damnably clever.”
“There’s one objection to it being Oliver,” remarked the Superintendent. “Wouldn’t he have waited until he was twenty-one? He wouldn’t get the money before.”
“He could get an advance. As to the personation I learned from the barmaid at the pub where I stayed that there’s a flourishing dramatic society at Bedesford. They put on plays for local charities several times a year. Oliver and his sister belonged to it for a time. I gathered that there was some unpleasantness for which the girl was responsible. So you see he might have some experience of theatrical make-up. I don’t want to drop this enquiry before I’ve seen him.”
“You and your hunches,” grumbled Cardew. “How are you going to see him? You can’t force your way in and insist on the family producing him. We don’t play those totalitarian games in this country.”
“You can’t do that there here, in short,” said Collier grinning. “I’ve thought of a way if I can pull it off. May I try?”
“Oh, go and boil your head,” growled his superior officer.
“Thanks awfully,” said Collier gratefully, and left the room rapidly before he could be recalled.
Three minutes later he was climbing on to a bus in Westminster Square on his way home.
Toby was in bed but not asleep. Hearing his stepfather’s voice below and the welcoming barks of the terriers he came down in his dressing gown over his pyjamas to bounce up and down on the springs of the long-suffering sofa while Collier had his supper.
“Have you seen her? Is she all right?”
“I think she is, but I couldn’t see her. She’s got measles.”
“What? At Sard Manor? How putrid for her. I say, Hugh, are you sure?”
“The doctor said so.”
“Did you see Oliver Ramblett?”
“No.”
“You don’t seem to have done much, do you?” observed the critic on the hearth.
Sandra looked at him reprovingly. “Be quiet, Toby. You ought to be in bed.”
“I’m going. But I say, look here, Hugh. What’s the good of being in the C.I.D. if you can’t make people talk? Anything may be happening there. Can’t you do anything to stop it? You could tell in Judy’s last letter that she was frightened. She asked for help.” The boy was half crying.
Collier rose from the table and began to fill his pipe. Sandra, piling the dishes on a tray, glanced at him anxiously and was shocked to see how tired he looked.
“Don’t, Toby,” she said sharply, “he’s simply worn out.”
“It’s all right, Sandra. Don’t scold him. Toby, that’s one of the hardest things in my job, the feeling that something is going to happen, and that we can’t prevent it because we don’t know who will strike the blow or where it will fall. I believe you are right about these people, but there’s nothing to take hold of—yet.”
“You’re not giving up?”
“No. I’m going down there again to-morrow.”
Toby brightened. “Good egg. I say, I’m sorry if I was rude just now. I didn’t mean to be.”
Collier lay back in his chair with his feet stretched out to the fire, comfortably relaxed. “I know you didn’t. Try not to get too worked up over this, old chap. I’m sorry you got mixed up in it.”
“What hopes if I hadn’t?” said Toby, who was never inclined to belittle his own achievements. “I put the Rambletts on the map. Didn’t you see any of them?”
“Only Mrs. Lacy, the cook, and Dr. Farwell.”
“What’s he like?”
“Very smooth spoken, with a toothy smile. Can’t say I liked the blighter.”
“They seem to go in a lot for being ill,” said Toby thoughtfully.
“Toby, you really must go to bed,” said his mother, coming in from the kitchen.
“Another five minutes. I’m trying to help. This is serious, you know, Mother. I mean—it’s getting pretty near the time when—when Judy’s brother—”
“Darling,” she said gently, “you know what I told you. Pray for him. It’s all you can do.”
“Yes, Mother. Good night.” He kissed her and gave her a hug that told her all he could not put into words. “Good night, Hugh.”
“He’s got this very much on his mind,” his mother said with a sigh when he had left the room.
“I know.”
“Will you be going off again to-morrow?”
“Yes. Early. Toby’s right about the time. It’s getting terribly short. Don’t you get up, Sandra. I’ll come down and boil the kettle on the gas ring.”
“Nonsense. I shall get up and see that you have a good breakfast.”
Soon after ten the following morning a clerk brought Collier’s official card into the room where Mr. Freeman, of the old-established firm of Freeman, Vansittart, James and Freeman of Lincoln’s Inn, was going through his morning mail.
“Scotland Yard? Dear me. Show him in at once.”
Mr. Freeman was a man verging on sixty, a good lawyer of the steady, unenterprising, reliable type, who will see to it that his clients do not take unnecessary risks. His practice seldom took him to the Courts.
“Come in, Inspector. Take a chair. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Freeman, but the name of your firm has come up in the course of an enquiry. The late Mr. Fallowes was a client of yours, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“You are continuing to act for his heirs?”
Mr. Freeman adjusted his spectacles. “These questions are rather—but the matter is hardly confidential. Mr. Fallowes made a will which we drew up for him, in favour of his great nephew, or, failing him, of his three great nieces. He left a very considerable fortune and naturally there is a good deal to be done, but we are getting on with it as fast as we can.”
“Did you have any visits from the police at the time of the trial, or before that?”
“No. My managing clerk went down to have the house and furniture valued for probate. The police had the keys, but they were most considerate. There was no difficulty about that. As Mr. Fallowes’ relatives live in another county and he has seen little or nothing of them of recent years they have been spared the notoriety which—”
“Just so,” said Collier sympathetically. “We’ve abolished the pillory as a legal instrument of punishment, but there’s something very like it. Oliver Ramblett is still a minor, isn’t he?”
“He will be twenty-one one day next week.”
“Have you seen him since his great uncle’s death?”
“We have not. We wrote at the time to advise him of the contents of the will and suggested that he should come up to see us. His mother replied for him. He was suffering from what appeared to be some obscure nervous trouble and had been ordered complete rest. I am afraid, from what I hear, that he is not much better. What is the purport of this enquiry, Inspector?”
Collier wondered rather uneasily if he had made a good impression. He realised that Mr. Freeman was of the type who would be adamant in the defence of his client’s interests.
“I have not come here to make mysteries, Mr. Freeman. I have had occasion to visit Sard Manor twice in the last few days. I did not succeed in seeing any member of the family. I came away with a very strong feeling that there was something amiss there.”
Mr. Freeman looked disturbed. “Can you put it more plainly?”
“Well—I’ll say this. If I had any standing, if I were in any way responsible for or connected with Oliver Ramblett I would insist on seeing him. I happen to know that for some time past he has been shut away from the rest of the family in a suite of rooms at the top of the house, and has been seen only by his stepmother and the doctor who has been visiting him almost daily.”
“Dear me. That sounds—that won’t do. And yet—you don’t allege any ill-treatment, Inspector?”
“I’ve no evidence as to that one way or the other. But I think if he is ill he should have trained nurses.”
“I agree. But—hasn’t he?”
“My information is that he is being nursed by his stepmother. That is, she takes up his meals and brings down the tray. Nothing was said of any further attention.”
Mr. Freeman took off his spectacles with careful deliberation, wiped them, and put them on again.
“I cannot suppose that an Inspector of the C.I.D. would come to me with a—with a mare’s nest. The terms of the will—no, I can’t believe it.”
“You have met Mrs. Ramblett?”
“No. We have been in correspondence. There have been papers to be signed and witnessed and so forth. She is empowered to act for her stepson during his minority.”
“Have you advanced her any money on his account?”
“Yes. A small sum when one considers the amount he inherits. Five hundred pounds. I gathered that the family are in straitened circumstances. Land-owners nowadays—have you—have you anything against her, Inspector? Strictly between ourselves?”
“I have some reason to suspect that she is addicted to drugs.”
“Good Heavens! I shall have to act on what you have told me, Inspector, but I don’t quite see—what do you advise?”
“I should go down there, sir, making the excuse of some legal business which you want to explain to him personally or papers which must be signed by him in your presence. Don’t announce your arrival. Make it a surprise visit. And insist on seeing him. Don’t let them put you off.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Freeman reluctantly. “I can see that it is my plain duty. I suppose you can’t come with me to—to back me up if need arises?”
Collier, who had always meant to go with him, was glad that he had not had to make the suggestion.
“I might do that, sir, though I don’t think I had better go up to the house with you. It might make things awkward for you if my suspicions turn out to be unfounded.”
“Yes, I see that. You’re right. I can go alone.”
“No need, Mr. Freeman, if you don’t object to my company. I am going down to Bedesford in any case.”
“We can travel together then. I’ll go by car, I think. I can give you a lift.”
Collier thanked him. He had spent a good many hours in trains and railway station waiting rooms during the last few days and was growing rather tired of them.
“I suppose it should be fairly soon,” said the lawyer.
“To-day if you can possibly manage it.”
“Oh dear. I might—but I couldn’t get off until after lunch. I have an important appointment at half past twelve. We shouldn’t arrive until long after dark,” Mr. Freeman objected.
“There’s quite a decent hotel at Bedesford. The beds are comfortable and they know how to grill a steak.”
“Very well. I must ring up my man and tell him to pack a bag and see that my car is ready for a long run. Dear me, how I do dislike being hurried. Not that I blame you, Inspector. Don’t think that. Will you be here at two? Right. I’m much obliged to you.”
CHAPTER XX
A MORNING VISIT
Mr. Freeman and Collier had breakfast together in the coffee room of the King’s Head before they parted. Collier had explained that he had business in the town.
“I shall stay to lunch if they ask me,” said the lawyer. “I am hoping that your—ah—suspicions—are unfounded. But if I am not satisfied I should like to talk things over with you.”
Mr. Freeman smoked a cigar and read his paper before he started, but he did not enjoy either as much as usual. He dreaded the coming interview with people who were strangers to him in a house he did not know. He often had to deal with strangers, but on his own terms, in his familiar office, with his law books ranged on the shelves. Mortgaging, conveyancing. Dry as dust, perhaps. But he liked things to be dry.
Mills, his elderly and taciturn chauffeur, had brought the car round from the inn yard to the main entrance.
“You know the way, Mills?”
“Yes, sir. It’s only about three miles out of the town.”
It was a dull day and the main road, bordered with new villas, was uninteresting. On turning into the lane soon after the last house had been passed they seemed to plunge into the depths of the country. The gate leading from the lane into Sard park was open. Mills drove the car up the double avenue of limes and turned on to the patch of level ground where the turnstile entrance to the gardens on the right and the high gate of the drive leading up to the house barred any further progress.
The lawyer put aside the rug that covered his knees and got out.
“You’ll wait for me here, Mills.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Freeman unlatched the heavy gate and let it clash to after he had entered. A bad approach, he thought, as he trudged up the steep, winding drive, and the house itself had a forlorn and neglected aspect. He rang the bell and waited.
Helen Ramblett opened the door. She had expected the doctor and her face fell when she saw Mr. Freeman.
The lawyer stiffened. Her dark beauty was undeniable, but he disapproved of the type. She reminded him of a young woman who had given one of his clients a great deal of trouble some years earlier. Mr. Freeman had managed to settle the case out of Court, but he retained a very unpleasant recollection of several interviews he had had with her.
He cleared his throat. “I am Mr. Freeman, of the firm of Freeman, Vansittart, James, and Freeman, who are acting on behalf of Mr. Oliver Ramblett. I have come down to see him on a little matter of business regarding the estate. As Mr. Ramblett will be coming of age shortly—”
He broke off, realising that he was saying much more than he need out of sheer nervousness.
The girl stared at him unsmilingly. “Oh—I am Helen Ramblett. You had better come in.” She led the way across a hall that seemed very cold and into a long and almost equally chilly drawing-room where a fire very recently lit threatened to go out.
“I’ll tell mother you’re here,” she said, and left him. He had been waiting rather a long time when Mrs. Ramblett came in. She looked very sallow and weary, and there were grey pouches of loose skin under her still magnificent eyes. She was wearing a velvet bridge coat over her old torn cardigan.
“How kind of you to come, Mr. Freeman. Do sit down. What a wretched fire. I tell Mrs. Lacy to pour some oil on it. But she’s so silly. She says it’s dangerous.”
“So it is. You should never do that.”
She shivered, crouching on the sofa and holding out spectral hands to the flickering flame. “When you’re as thin as I am you feel the cold.” She yawned and sat back, rubbing her fingers together to restore the circulation and gazing at him drowsily. The Inspector is right, he thought, she takes drugs.
“I’ve really come to see your stepson,” he said “Mr. Ramblett.”
“I’m sorry. That’s quite impossible. Poor Oliver is very ill. He’s quite unfit to see anyone. If you’d written to say you were coming I could have told you and saved you a useless journey.”
“What is the matter with him, Mrs. Ramblett?”
“I think you had better talk to the doctor about that. He’s here. He’s just been up to him. He’s been most kind and attentive,” said Mrs. Ramblett earnestly. “I don’t know what we should have done without him.” She looked towards the opening door. “Here he is. Dr. Farwell, this is Mr. Freeman. He’s come down from London to see Oliver.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Freeman,” said the doctor cordially.
The two men shook hands and the lawyer felt relieved. He preferred to have a man to deal with.
“I was just asking Mrs. Ramblett what’s the matter with her stepson.”
“And I said you could tell him better than I could,” said Mrs. Ramblett, “and how splendidly you’d looked after him all these weeks and how grateful we are.” There was something rather dreadful, rather slavish, in her eagerness to ingratiate herself with Farwell. It shocked Mr. Freeman. The doctor ignored her.
