A Fatal Freedom (38 page)

Thomas shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He gave a small cough. ‘Would you have any idea how it was administered?’

‘I assume it was ingested; that is the usual method with poisoners.’

‘We haven’t found any food, nor medicines, apart from some aspirin tablets,’ said Ursula, indicating the bottle she’d brought through from the bedroom and placed on the windowsill. ‘Could the poison have been in something he ate outside this place?’

Dr Barton shook his head. ‘A lethal dose of cyanide will take effect within minutes. If he was poisoned elsewhere, he would not have been able to climb the stairs or let himself in before collapsing.’

‘So the poisoner must have taken any evidence away with himself,’ murmured Thomas.

‘Himself or herself – don’t they say poison is the weapon of the female of the species?’ said Dr Barton.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Thomas thoughtfully. ‘I have known cases where it has been used by men.’

‘So,’ Dr Barton seated himself in the armchair and stretched out his long legs. ‘Perhaps you will now be good enough to fill me in on why you are both here in what do not seem to be the sort of surroundings you would normally be found. Well, Mr Jackman perhaps, but Miss Grandison appears used to better things.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Ursula said with a chuckle.

Dr Barton raised an eyebrow but waited for one of them to provide the promised explanation for their presence.

Thomas recharged both the doctor’s and his glasses, set the bottle back on the cabinet, then took the free chair. ‘I’m now a private investigator and I was commissioned to look into the death of one Joshua Peters. He died of cyanide poisoning in a box of cherry liqueur chocolates that had been sent him through the post. This man,’ he waved towards Albert’s body, ‘was his servant.’ In even tones Thomas outlined the bare details of what had been discovered so far. He left out any mention of Millie but explained that Alice Peters was in prison charged with the murder of her husband.

‘So you think,’ said Dr Barton when he had finished, ‘that both master and servant have been murdered by someone they had been blackmailing; is that about the size of it?’

Thomas nodded.

‘Well, I can see why you are here, Mr Jackman. However, you haven’t explained the presence of Miss Grandison.’

Without looking at him, Ursula knew that Thomas was at a loss.

‘I’m Mr Jackman’s assistant,’ she said.

‘Assistant, eh?’ Dr Barton’s left eyebrow rose. ‘I didn’t realise investigation could be women’s work.’

‘Women have valuable skills,’ said Thomas negligently. ‘As a case we worked on together six months ago proved. Miss Grandison is an excellent assistant.’

‘Well,’ the doctor rose. ‘Mr Pond may not need my services but others do. I shall go directly to the police station to report a suspicious death and arrange for the coroner to be informed.’

Thomas handed him a card. ‘Send me an account and I will see that you are paid.’ He paused for a moment then added, ‘I would appreciate knowing the findings of the autopsy. Whether cyanide poisoning was confirmed.’

‘It will be.’ The doctor picked up his case and held out his hand to Ursula, who rose and took it. ‘Goodbye, Miss Grandison. I wish you and Mr Jackman luck with your investigation.’ He felt in his breast pocket and brought out a card of his own and offered it to Thomas. ‘Perhaps you will let me know the result?’

‘Of course.’

‘No need to see me out.’ The doctor closed the door behind him.

Ursula remained standing and looked at Thomas. ‘I couldn’t think of any other reason for my being here.’

He grinned. ‘Well, as I said, we worked together before – I don’t see why we can’t again, do you?’

She felt relief.

‘After our good doctor has informed the police, my old friend Inspector Drummond will almost certainly be round here. If we are to stay ahead of things, the other inhabitants of this apartment house need to be questioned now.’

A surge of excitement filled Ursula. ‘And you want me to help?’

‘That way we will take half the time. These rooms seem to be the only ones on this floor. I’ll take the next floor down and you the one below that.’

‘What shall we say?’

‘Let us stick to the story we gave Mrs Duggan: we came to visit our friend, Albert Pond, and it appears he has been poisoned.’ He paused for a moment. ‘We could also say that there are important papers missing. Papers that were the reason for our visit.’

‘And, quite naturally, we want to know if Albert had someone call on him yesterday?’

‘Exactly.’ He looked at her, ‘Not nervous, are you? I remember you handling matters in Somerset extremely well.’

Ursula remembered how unthinkingly she had taken up the case of the nurserymaid whose body she had discovered, and how deeply she had become embroiled in the investigation that had gradually gathered pace; the terrible shocks and the heartache that had followed. At least this case would not involve her so deeply. And just maybe questioning some neighbours might give Thomas Jackman a lead that would enable him to clear Alice of the murder charge.

‘Let’s to it,’ she said, putting on her gloves. Jackman gave a last look around the room as he held open the door for her, then closed it behind them. Their steps echoed on the uncarpeted stairs.

On the next landing Thomas gave Ursula a nod and knocked at the door that bore the number 6. She continued down to the floor below, suddenly conscious that up these same stairs had come a murderer. Or had there been more than one? Had Albert recognised his killer? If they were blackmail victims, though, surely he would have not have let them in, even if they had come to make a payment? But would he have been foolish enough to let someone he was blackmailing know where to find him?

Ursula reached the first floor landing and flat No. 4. The door had recently been painted, the brass figure in its centre was brightly polished, as was a knocker, and a neat label announced that it was the residence of Mrs Digby Walters. Ursula took a deep breath, called upon her creative powers, took a handkerchief from her bag and knocked on the door. Nothing happened; she banged the knocker again, a little harder this time.

After a moment the door was opened by a small woman dressed in a slightly faded dress of some printed material and holding an item of embroidery; delicate sprays of flowers decorated a piece of organza. ‘Yes?’ said the woman. ‘Do I know you?’ Bright eyes behind pince-nez looked curiously at Ursula.

‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Walters.’ Ursula clutched her handkerchief. ‘I have just come from Mr Pond’s apartment on the top floor,’ she dabbed at her eyes.

‘What did you say?’ Mrs Walters leaned forward a little. ‘Can you speak up?’

Ursula repeated what she had said in a louder voice.

‘Mr Pond, did I catch the name correctly? Didn’t he move in a few weeks ago? I haven’t met him but I know Mrs Duggan cleans for him, and is grateful for the business.’

Ursula nodded.

‘And what does Mr Pond have to do with me?’ Mrs Walters asked brightly.

‘It’s terrible!’ Another dab with the handkerchief. ‘We came to visit him this morning and … oh, Mrs Walters, he has passed away.’

‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. How very upsetting for you and your husband.’

Ursula did not correct her.

‘But I fail to see how that sad occurrence has anything to do with me. Did he have a heart attack?’ Mrs Walters lowered her voice as though she might be in church.

Ursula gave a little gulp. ‘I fear that our friend’s demise was not natural. It would appear that, oh, it is too dreadful but the doctor we called in says he has been poisoned!’

The woman fell back a step. ‘Poisoned!’ Then leaned forward and brought her voice back to a hush, ‘Arsenic?’

‘The doctor thinks cyanide. The thing of it is, Mrs Walters, certain papers that we were to sign and take away have disappeared. We wondered, do you know if Albert, Mr Pond, had a visitor yesterday? Did you hear him take somebody upstairs?’

‘Oh, no, dear. I never know what transpires in this building. I am too busy,’ she held up the embroidery. ‘It was something of a hobby until my dear husband passed on. Now I am not ashamed to use my skills to increase my pensioner’s pittance. People commission me; I am known for the delicacy of my work.’ She offered the piece of organza for Ursula to admire. ‘This will be a nightdress case. And being a little hard of hearing, elephants could pass by my door and I’d not know.’ She blinked, her expression troubled. ‘But I am truly sorry to hear of such a dreadful event taking place here.’ She glanced around nervously.

Ursula sighed deeply. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Mrs Walters. But I am sure you have no need to worry; I fear Mr Pond must have suffered from a personal vendetta.’

‘Vendetta!’ Mrs Walters looked even more disturbed.

‘As I said, it would have been personal. Please do not allow yourself to be worried for your safety; I am sure no one else in this building is at risk.’ Ursula glanced behind her at the door across the landing. ‘I wonder, could you tell me who lives opposite you? They may have been aware of a visitor to Mr Pond.’

‘Ah, that is Mr Barnes. Such a nice man, if a trifle eccentric. I hope he may be able to enlighten you; his eyesight is weak but he has lived here forever and can tell you details of every occupant since the year dot. Well, if I can’t help you any more, dear, I must return to my work. I can only do it in the daylight, you see.’

Ursula thanked the woman and turned to flat No. 3.

While she was waiting for Mr Barnes to answer her knock, Thomas came down from the upper floor. ‘Any luck?’ he murmured as he passed her.

She shook her head and he continued to the ground floor as the door of No. 3 was opened, first a crack and then a little further and someone, surely it had to be Mr Barnes, peered at Ursula. He was a gaunt figure of medium height wearing an ancient suit that hung as a sad testament to weight loss, and he sported a pair of spectacles with lenses that resembled nothing so much as bottle ends. Just as Ursula was about to break into the same approach as she had used for Mrs Walters, the cadaverous face broke into an excited smile. ‘Why, it’s the angel come down.’ His voice quavered with emotion.

What was it Mrs Walters had said? That her neighbour had bad eyesight and was a little eccentric?

Mr Barnes reached for her hand. ‘And you’re visiting me today! Come in, come in!’ He opened the door wide and, with surprising strength, pulled Ursula into his flat, closing the door behind her. ‘There, now I’ve got you. Come, sit you down.’ Now he pulled her into a living area furnished with two ancient armchairs sporting anti-macassars on the backs. A fire burned in the grate and a small kettle sat on an iron hob that jutted over the coals. Beside one of the chairs was a low, round table. On it stood a cage and inside the cage was a mouse. Ursula gave a little gasp of surprise.

‘Seen him, have you?’ said Mr Barnes happily. ‘My little friend, Mousie?’ He let go of her hand, felt for the latch of the cage door, opened it and took out his pet. It sat on his hand, upright, whiskers twitching, and waved two tiny paws. ‘Want a little cheese, do you, Mousie?’ On the table was a plate with small, roughly cut bits of a hard cheese. ‘Would you like to give him a piece?’

Feeding a tame mouse was a new experience for Ursula. She picked up a fragment and held it out. Tiny dark eyes inspected the offering, then the slim snout delicately took it in its sharp little teeth. Mr Barnes gently put his pet back in its cage. It put the cheese down, inspected it, then started to eat in dainty, darting movements.

‘Mr Barnes …’ she started.

‘Sit, sit,’ he urged her.

Since he clearly wasn’t going to pay any attention to what she was saying unless she did, Ursula settled herself on the edge of one of the chairs. With a little sigh of satisfaction, he sat in the other and, speaking slowly and clearly, she launched into her story.

‘Pond, Albert Pond,’ Mr Barnes said in his high-pitched, squeaky voice. ‘Up in the top flat, you say? Let me see, Mrs Duggan told me about him, how he’d taken it over from that actor chappie, been there for years; what was he called now? Jenkins, yes, that was it, Henry Jenkins. Never saw him act. Think he only ever had small parts. Bit of a ne’er do well, I’m afraid, with ideas above his station. Always behind with his rent; our good Mrs Duggan complained a lot about him. Went to live with his sister in Folkestone a couple of months ago. Now, what was it you asked me?’

‘Did you, Mr Barnes, see Albert Pond with any visitor yesterday? Or did you hear or see anyone passing up the stairs who didn’t live here?’

He looked sad. ‘I never see anyone.’ Then his expression brightened. ‘Except my angel.’

‘Angel?’

‘You’re the angel.’ He leaned forward and took both her hands, peering into her face. ‘Saw you.’

Ursula remembered how she’d heard a door close as she followed Thomas and Mrs Duggan up the stairs to Albert’s apartment. Had Mr Barnes been peering out after them?

‘I’ve been waiting for my angel to come for so many years.’ His face wrinkled into sadness. ‘Why has it been so long?’

‘My name is Ursula Grandison,’ she said gently, rising. ‘I am afraid we have never met before today.’

‘But yesterday you were on the stairs: you are my angel on the stairs.’

Ursula felt a flutter of excitement, but how was she to trust anything Mr Barnes said? ‘I wasn’t here yesterday.’

His face fell, then brightened again, ‘Maybe it was the day before; how should I know, every day is like every other.’

‘You couldn’t have seen me, Mr Barnes. But did you perhaps see someone who looked like me? Going up the stairs? When was it? In the morning or the afternoon?’

He shook his head. ‘I saw my angel. I see my angel. Listen, the kettle is boiling.’ Indeed it was singing a thin whistle. ‘We shall have some tea. You shall share my pot of tea.’ He felt along the top of a sideboard and ladled tea from a tin caddy into a pewter teapot.

‘I am afraid my husband is waiting for me,’ Ursula said firmly. She felt sorry for him, he was obviously very lonely. ‘I shall try and visit you and Mr Mousie another day but now I must say goodbye.’