Hasty Death (16 page)

‘Mr Jerry, perhaps you would like to lie down?’ said Lady Glensheil in glacial tones.

‘No, I’m fine and dandy. The prison door has opened a crack. Do you know why we’re all here, hey?’ He pointed with his dripping soup spoon, first at his wife, then at
Angela Stockton and Lord Alfred. ‘See those three? Each one of them paid the late and unlamented Freddy Pomfret ten thousand pounds. Blackmail, I think. So, dear wife, if the murderer and
blackmailer is amongst us, I beg of him to supply me with whatever he has on my dear wife and I will pay him a fortune.’

Harry glared at Rose, who dropped her eyes to her plate.

‘You’re drunk,’ said Lord Alfred coldly. ‘If you can’t hold your wine, go to bed and stop making ridiculous accusations. The police have already questioned us. It
is sheer coincidence that we all decided to help Freddy out. He demanded the same amount from each of us.’

‘Oh, Lady Rose!’ squeaked Maisie Chatterton. ‘Don’t tell me there’s going to be another death. Death does seem to follow you around.’

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Mrs Jerry snarled. Mr Jerry merely grinned.

‘Listen to me, all of you,’ said Lady Glensheil. ‘We are all going to church in the morning, and I mean all. Now, let’s talk about something else. The situation in the
Balkans is fraught. . .’

Her voice rose and fell inexorably through eight courses before she finally rose as a signal to the ladies to follow her to the drawing-room. But she turned in the doorway. ‘I think this
evening we will break with tradition and the gentlemen will come as well.’

To everyone’s relief, Mr Jerry said he was going to bed. In the drawing-room, tables were set up for cards while Frederica Sutherland entertained them by singing Scottish songs and
accompanying herself on the piano.

Harry drew Rose aside. ‘Why did you tell Jerry about the blackmail?’

So Rose told him about being caught hiding behind the curtain.

‘You shouldn’t have said anything,’ said Harry crossly. ‘Now they really will be on their guard.’

‘Oh, pooh!’ said Rose defiantly. ‘They must already have thought it odd that all three of them have been invited. Did you find anything in Lord Alfred’s rooms?’

‘Nothing incriminating.’

‘Did you bury the body very deep?’

‘No, we didn’t bury it. We took it off away to the Thames with his car and sank the both of them.’

‘So Daisy was right. He must have been following us. Where was the car?’

‘Outside the gates.’

‘But someone will find the body in the river.’

‘Don’t worry. The water was pitch-black and we wedged him behind the steering wheel of his car.’

Philip Hargraves, a blacksmith and motor mechanic, was walking along the upper reaches of the Thames outside the village of Maidenton with his teenaged son, Bertie, just as the
sun was coming up. He planned to get in some early fishing before starting work.

It was a truly beautiful morning and the dawn chorus sounded from the trees along the grassy bank.

‘Look at that, Dad,’ said Bertie, stopping short. ‘Tyre tracks going straight into the river.’

Philip joined his son and together they looked down into the waters of the Thames. The water may have been pitch-black at night, but in the brightening rays of the sun it was still and clear
along the stretch outside the village. There was a strong current in midstream, but by the bank the water was as clear as glass.

And so, looking down, they were able to see a figure in a car sitting on the bottom.

‘Better call the police,’ said Bert.

‘No, wait a bit,’ said his father. ‘Let’s get that car out first. I’ll go back and get the tractor and winch it out. You keep a look-out.’

‘But, Dad!’

‘Do as you’re told or I’ll take my belt to you!’

The motor car and body were slowly winched up out of the Thames.

Philip’s face was red with excitement. ‘Let’s get this back afore anyone sees us,’ he said. ‘Hop in the tractor.’

‘But, Dad, the body.’

‘I’ll tell you about that.’

Philip drove carefully back to his smithy, looking carefully left to right to make sure no one was watching. It was still very early and his smithy was on the outskirts of the village.

Outside the smithy, he unhitched the motor car and pushed it inside. ‘Now, you,’ he said ferociously to his son, ‘not a word of this or I’ll beat the living daylights out
of you. Run along. You say one word and I’ll get to hear of it. Poor gentleman probably was drunk and drove straight into the river.’

The boy scampered off. Philip shut the double doors of the smithy and locked and bolted them. Then he stood and stared at the car in delight. It was a Spyker six-cylinder engine, four-wheel
drive. Other cars only had rear-wheel brakes. He had seen a photograph of it in the
London Illustrated News
showing it parked outside the Crystal Palace. The Spyker factory was in
Trompenburg, Amsterdam. The family name was Spijker, but the firm’s name was Spyker, largely because the motor cars were exported to English-speaking countries.

He was itching to get to work on it, but first he had to get rid of that body. He unlocked the doors of the smithy and peered out. No one around. He went to the stables and hitched up the pony
to the trap. Then, with his powerful arms, he lugged the dead and wet body of McWhirter and threw it in the back and covered it with sacking. The river had washed the blood away and swollen the
corpse, so he did not, in his excitement, notice the bullet-hole in the back. He relocked the smithy and left a note on the door to say he would be back later.

He set off, driving steadily through the sunny, leafy lanes, his heart singing with gladness. There was a generous God in heaven who had sent him a Spyker.

He made a leisurely journey, stopping often to rest and water the pony. At last he saw a thickly wooded area beside the main road with a sandy track running into it and drove along the track to
where the trees and underbrush were dense.

He heaved the body out of the cart and carried it over to a large tree and propped it up against the trunk. The dead man was wearing an expensive watch but he decided not to take it. The
beautiful car was enough. He would tell the villagers that a gentleman had left it with him for repairs and had never come back.

The following morning Mr Jerry awoke with a groan. His head ached and he could hear the pounding of the breakfast gong. Normally guests rose when they felt like it, but this
was Sunday and Lady Glensheil was determined that all should breakfast early and go to church.

Little flashes of his behaviour at the dinner table came into his mind and he groaned and pulled the quilt up over his ears. No doubt his wife would be in shortly to scream at him. Until then,
he would enjoy as much peace and quiet as he could.

His valet entered quietly and said, ‘Wake up, sir. Her ladyship wishes your presence in the dining-room.’

‘Tell her I’m sick,’ he moaned. ‘Tell her I’m dead.’

‘What about Mrs Trumpington? Her lady’s maid says her door is locked and she cannot rouse her.’

‘She’s probably dead as well. Go away!’

He tried to get to sleep again, but, aware of another presence in the room, feebly opened his eyes.

His wife’s maid, Bartlett, was looming over him. She was a powerful woman and he was almost as frightened of her as he was of his wife.

‘What are you doing in my room?’ he demanded, struggling up against the pillows and then groaning and clutching his head.

‘I cannot get into madam’s room. The door is locked and she expressly told me to rouse her in time for the church service.’

‘I’m sure they’ve got spare keys to all the rooms in the servants’ quarters. Now, leave me alone !’

The church was small and old, smelling strongly of essence of villager, because the sun striking in through the stained-glass window was heating up the crowded
congregation.

The vicar was frightened of Lady Glensheil, and in an effort to please her had written a very long sermon indeed. And as the sermon had to do with helping the poor and Lady Glensheil firmly
believed the poor had brought their poverty on themselves by drink and gambling, she glared at the vicar from under the shadow of an enormous straw hat laden with waxed fruit. Lady Glensheil was
often attacked by petty meanness and she had instructed her maid to take the waxed fruit out of the bowl on the dining-room sideboard and attach it to her black straw hat. Although the maid had
stitched diligently, attaching the fruit by putting a net over each piece, each item was heavy. A banana detached itself and fell on to Lady Glensheil’s lap, to be followed by an apple.

‘I wish something would happen to make that tiresome man finish his sermon,’ she said.

The door of the church suddenly burst open and Bartlett rushed in, shrieking, ‘She’s dead! My mistress is dead. He killed her!’

That shut the vicar up. The congregation sprang to its feet.

‘Good thing Kerridge is here,’ said Harry, who was next to Rose. ‘I’ll go and fetch him.’

Mr Jerry had risen and locked his own bedroom door. He climbed back into bed and sank down under the covers. Peace at last.

Then he heard a frantic rattling at the doorknob and Bartlett crying, ‘Murderer. I’m getting the police.’

‘Ghastly rotten, rotten creature,’ he muttered. He closed his eyes and blessed sleep came at last.

He awoke half an hour later. Someone was shaking him. He blinked and looked up. Detective Superintendent Kerridge, having obtained the spare key from the servants’ hall and flanked by
Captain Cathcart, was staring down at him.

‘What the blazes . . .’ he began.

‘Please get dressed, sir,’ said Kerridge. ‘Your wife is dead.’

‘She is? I mean, how? Choke on some food? Always was a greedy woman.’

‘No, sir. Mrs Trumpington has been strangled.’

‘Good Gad! Here, hand me that dressing-gown. Where’s my man? I must get shaved.’

‘Mr Trumpington, that can wait. We have questions we must ask you immediately.’

Now thoroughly frightened and with his mind racing, Mr Jerry got out of bed and put on his dressing-gown and slippers. What had happened last night? What had he done? He could remember her
shouting at him. Then all was blank.

While he sat down in his private sitting-room, Harry went back into the bedroom. Mrs Jerry was lying there, her eyes protruding and her tongue sticking out. He averted his eyes and turned his
attention to the bedside table. There was a champagne bottle there. He peered down into it. It was empty. He looked down into the wastepaper basket.

There were several scrunched-up pieces of paper and a champagne cork. He smoothed out the pieces of paper but they were merely notes reminding Mrs Jerry about jobs to give to her maid, like
mending a tear in a gown and checking the inventory of the lace box.

Two local policemen entered the room. ‘What are you doing here, sir?’

‘I have the superintendent’s permission.’ Harry was about to turn away, but then he frowned and stooped and picked up the champagne cork. He looked at the dead body again. She
hadn’t struggled. Although fat, she had been a powerful woman. Surely she would have thrashed around as she fought for her life.

He produced a magnifying glass from his pocket and studied the cork. There was a little hole in the top. He went quickly into the sitting-room and interrupted Kerridge’s interrogation of
Mr Jerry.

‘Come over here to the window,’ said Harry, ‘and look at this. Here, take my magnifying glass.’

Kerridge peered at it. ‘What’s up with it?’

‘That tiny little hole. She didn’t struggle. She may have been drugged. Someone could have taken a hypodermic syringe and injected some sort of drug into the bottle.’

‘But why go to such lengths?’

‘To stop her making a noise.’

‘We’ll need to wait for the results of a full postmortem to find out. I wonder how the door got locked on the inside.’

‘Easy,’ said Harry. ‘Bartlett said she got the spare key from the servants’ hall. Therefore our murderer must have done the same thing. Maybe he meant to return later and
make sure he hadn’t left any clues.’

‘Were you all in church?’

‘All except Mr Trumpington here. Look at him. I really think he was out for the count all night. Oh, I’ve just remembered something. He told the dinner table last night that he knew
about the blackmail and that he would pay a fortune for the evidence against his wife.’

‘How did he know?’

‘Lady Rose told him.’

‘I should arrest him now.’

‘If it were simply a matter of her being strangled in a drunken rage, perhaps I might believe he did it. But I firmly believe she was drugged first.’

Kerridge turned to the crumpled figure of Mr Jerry. ‘Go to your room, sir. We will wish to question you further.’

‘Come into the bedroom,’ said Harry. ‘As far as I remember, there wasn’t a glass.’

‘Maybe the maid took it away.’

But when Bartlett was summoned, she said she had not touched anything.

‘No glass,’ mused Harry. ‘Of course she was greedy enough to drink from the bottle. It must have been someone she knew and wasn’t frightened of.’

‘Like the husband?’

‘I’m sure it’s someone else.’ Harry went to the window and opened it. Then he bent and sniffed.

‘Smell this. I think after she had been drugged, our murderer poured the contents of the champagne that was left out into the garden and some of it splashed on the sill.’

‘There are reinforcements arriving,’ said Kerridge. ‘I’ll have all their rooms searched.’

‘Tell your men to look for a hypodermic’

‘You should have put gloves on before you touched that window.’

Harry sighed. ‘If you think this lot are going to let you take their fingerprints without a direct order from the prime minister, then you are very much mistaken.’

‘I wish I were a man,’ said Rose fiercely to Daisy.

‘Why?’

‘Captain Cathcart is up there with the police, being informed of everything. We just have to wait until he deigns to tell us something.’

‘I wonder why she was killed?’ said Daisy. ‘If she was killed and didn’t choke to death shoving food in her mouth.’