They Walk in Darkness Page 9

  ‘It’s hardly likely that anybody sane would experiment with cyanide,’ remarked Peter. ‘Most people are aware that it is a particularly deadly poison and quite useless as a means of furnishing the sensations which the drug addict seeks.’

  ‘I suppose there’s some truth in that,’ said Courtland. ‘It seems to me that Laura must have got herself mixed up with something very strange and queer . . .’

  ‘Maybe there’s something among her effects, sir,’ said the superintendent, hopefully, ‘that’ll explain why they all went to this cottage. Have you any objection to my looking through her apartment?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Courtland. ‘It wouldn’t be much good if I had, would it?’

  He leaned over and pressed a bell-push beside the bed. ‘Perhaps you’d both like a drink? I feel that I could do with a pretty stiff brandy myself . . . No? Well, please yourselves. Laura has a suite of two rooms. I’ll get Pitt to take you. You’ll probably find them in an incredible state of untidiness. I’ve never been there myself, but the servants are always complaining . . . Come in.’

  Pitt appeared, following his preliminary tap on the door, expressionless and correct.

  ‘Take these gentlemen to Miss Laura’s apartments,’ ordered his master, ‘and then bring me some brandy.’

  The butler bowed. Not a flicker of curiosity stirred the impassiveness of his face as he turned and led the way along the thickly carpeted corridor. And yet he must be curious, thought Peter. He can’t be human and not wonder what all this is about.

  Laura Courtland’s suite was on the other side of the house. Pitt opened the door and ushered them into a large room that was furnished with all the luxuriant ornateness that characterized the rest of the house. The colour scheme was in lilac, cream, and gold, and the room was, as Courtland had said it might be, incredibly untidy. In some queer way, too, which Peter was quite unable to fathom, it gave out an atmosphere of decadence.

  ‘That door over there leads into the bedroom, sir,’ said the butler, nodding slightly towards it, ‘and the bathroom opens off the bedroom.’ He bowed again and softly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  ‘That man is uncanny,’ remarked Peter. ‘He displays not the slightest interest regarding the reason for our visit, and yet he knows that you are a police officer and, therefore, something pretty serious must have happened. It’s unnatural.’

  Superintendent Odds grunted.

  ‘It’s not the only thing unnatural about this house, sir, if you ask me,’ he said, while his eyes travelled slowly about the room. ‘What about Mr. Courtland’s attitude? Is it natural to receive the news that your daughter’s been murdered like that? Whatever she may have been. I’ve got a girl of my own, and she’s a pretty good girl too, thank the Lord, but, if she was as bad as could be, I wouldn’t be taking her sudden death as a matter of course, an’ I don’t think there’s many as would. Callous an’ unfeeling I call it.’

  Peter was inclined to agree with him, though he thought there might possibly be extenuating circumstances in Mr. Courtland’s favour. Laura had not been the type to inspire affection, at any rate not paternal affection. He was not prepared to argue this out with Odds just then and, anyway, the superintendent had already begun his inspection of the sitting room. Peter, therefore, left him to it and prowled around on his own account. There were magazines and books scattered all over the place and trails of cigarette-ash everywhere. Laura Courtland seemed to have had a habit of never putting anything back in its proper place. He found a bookcase and examined the contents with interest. The books were mostly novels. An unexpurgated edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover stood next to two novels by James Hadley Chase. He saw that the rest were nearly all of the same type, which was an interesting signpost to the dead woman’s character. On the lower shelf, thrust between a rather nice edition of the Decameron and a copy of Oscar Wilde’s poems, was a book by Montague Summers, which rather surprised him. It was hardly the sort of thing he would have expected to find there, judging by Laura’s rather bawdy taste in literature. Superintendent Odds had come to an anchor by a small writing bureau, which he had opened (it had not been locked) and was going carefully and methodically through the contents. It was as untidy as the rest of the room. The pigeonholes were stuffed with letters, and bills, and old theatre programmes, some of which had overflowed on to the blotting-pad. Odds looked round at Peter and his eyebrows went up.

  ‘There’s no doubt that she was pretty hot stuff, sir,’ he remarked, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Some of these letters don’t leave much to the imagination, I must say. Perhaps you’d give me a hand, Mr. Chard? I don’t want to wade through all this muck unless it’s got some bearing on the murders . . .’

  Peter wasn’t too keen to pry into the dead woman’s private correspondence, but he realized that it was necessary and came over to help Odds sort them out. He very soon found that what the superintendent had said was something of an understatement. He had never seen such letters before, and he felt a curious sense of embarrassment at seeing them now. It was like suddenly surprising the dead girl, herself, in the nude. They were nearly all from different men, signed for the most part with Christian name only, but in some cases just an initial, and they left no doubt regarding Laura’s chief interest in life. There was nothing, however, which could remotely have any bearing on her death. The majority bore London addresses, and the dates covered a period of many months. When they had examined the last one and had a look in all the drawers, the superintendent sighed disappointedly.

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing there, is there? We’d best try the bedroom.’

  The bedroom was in a worse litter than the sitting room. Articles of wearing apparel lay all over the place — stockings, underclothes, dresses, and shoes. It was evident that the room had not been tidied since Laura Courtland had last used it, and Peter rather wondered at this. He discovered some time later that she had disliked the servants in her rooms unless she was there to see what they did. The dressing-table, laden with perfumes and toilet preparations, yielded nothing of interest. A jewel-case, which was unlocked, contained several pieces of expensive jewellery, among which was a rather pretty brooch of platinum with the initial L in rubies, which, Peter thought, was rather attractive.

  At the end of a thorough search, which included the very handsomely appointed bathroom adjoining, they were forced to the conclusion that they were no wiser than when they had started. There was nothing at all to suggest why Laura Courtland had gone to the derelict cottage on the previous night in company, or to meet, those other three, or why in the course of that weird meal she had met her death.

  Superintendent Odds looked at his watch.

  ‘It’s just half-past seven, sir,’ he said. ‘If you’re agreeable, we’ll go back to Fendyke St. Mary. I’d rather like to pay a visit to Miss Fay Bennett’s house. Maybe we’ll be luckier there than we have been here.’

  Chapter Six

  Rose opened the door to Superintendent Odd’s knock and stared at them with wide and rather frightened eyes.

  ‘Miss Bennett isn’t at home . . .’ she began, but the superintendent cut her short.

  ‘I know that, miss,’ he said, gravely. ‘I’m afraid that your mistress won’t be coming home. I’m Superintendent Odds of the County Police, and I’d like a word with you. May I come in?’

  Rose gasped, goggled, and swallowed. Her face flushed with excitement.

  ‘Has . . . has there been an accident?’ she stammered.

  ‘I’m afraid there has,’ answered the superintendent.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ cried the girl, excitedly, as he and Peter stepped into the hall. ‘I’ll call Mrs. Bossom . . .’

  But there was no need to call Mrs. Bossom. That lady appeared of her own accord, her eyes snapping with eager curiosity.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s ’appened?’ she demanded, turning her shining red face from one to the other.

  ‘There’s been an acci
dent . . .’ began Rose, but Mrs. Bossom ignored her completely and addressed her remarks to Odds.

  ‘What’s ’appened?’ she repeated. ‘What’s it all about . . .?’

  ‘May I ask your name, ma’am?’ interrupted the superintendent.

  ‘You may,’ replied Mrs. Bossom, instantly adopting a tone of defensive belligerency. ‘It’s Lucy Bossom — Mrs. Lucy Bossom — an’ I ain’t ashamed of it . . .’

  ‘What position do you occupy in this household?’ asked Odds.

  ‘Cook-’ousekeeper,’ answered Mrs. Bossom, ‘an’ I’d like to know . . .’

  ‘Did Miss Bennett live here alone?’ went on the superintendent, without giving her time to state what it was she was so anxious to know.

  ‘No, me an’ Rose lives in,’ said Mrs. Bossom. ‘An’ what I . . .’

  ‘I mean apart from you and Rose,’ said Odds, driving ruthlessly through her attempts to take hold of the conversation. ‘Did any of Miss Bennet’s relations live with her . . .?’

  ‘Relations?’ cried Mrs. Bossom, shrilly. ‘I know nothin’ about no relations. There’s no one else livin’ ’ere ’cept me an’ Rose an’ Miss Bennett. Now what . . .?’

  ‘What time did Miss Bennett go out last night?’ continued the superintendent.

  ‘I’m answerin’ no more questions till I know what it’s all about,’ declared Mrs. Bossom, planting her hands firmly on her substantial hips and glaring at him truculently. ‘It’s a fine thing to come burstin’ into people’s ’ouses an’ firin’ off questions without tellin’ ’em nothin’ . . .’

  ‘Now, now, there’s no need to get upset,’ said Odds, soothingly. ‘You may as well know now as later. Your mistress’s body was found this afternoon in circumstances which suggest she was murdered . . .’

  Rose gave a startled cry and clapped a hand to her mouth, while her eyes went round with horrified astonishment. Mrs. Bossom gaped foolishly, all her previous belligerency wiped away.

  ‘Well, I do declare,’ she gasped, inadequately. ‘Whoever could ’ave done such a thing . . .?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Odds. ‘Now, if you will answer a few questions . . .’

  ‘I don’t know nuthin’,’ said Mrs. Bossom, instantly back on the defensive. ‘I’ve never been mixed up in anything . . .’

  ‘I’m quite sure you haven’t.’ Odd’s voice was smooth and conciliatory. ‘But it may be helpful if you will tell us something about Miss Bennett’s movements during the past forty-eight hours. What time did she go out last night?’

  ‘It’d be round about half-past eight,’ said Mrs. Bossom, frowning. ‘She ’ad ’er dinner at seven an’ then she dressed . . . Yes, it’d be about ’alf-past eight.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’ asked the superintendent, and Mrs. Bossom gave one of her expressive sniffs.

  ‘’Er say where she was goin’?’ she repeated, scornfully. ‘No, that was a thing she never did. No consid’ration for other people she ’adn’t. Lyin’ in bed ’alf the day an’ wantin’ meals at all hours . . .’

  ‘So you have no idea where she went?’ said Odds.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she go out alone. I mean, did anyone call for her?’

  ‘So far as I know she went alone. Nobody called, did they, Rose?’

  ‘No,’ said Rose, shaking her head. ‘No one came yesterday at all.’

  ‘Did she have many visitors as a rule?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘Visitors!’ said Mrs. Bossom, tossing her head. ‘I should say she did. Always droppin’ in at all hours, they was. And she’d receive ’em sometimes in a flimsy wrap that was more suitable to the bathroom than the drawin’ room, if you ask me, an’ gentlemen at that! Some people don’t ’ave no sense of modesty . . .’

  ‘Were Mr. Mallory, Monsieur Severac, and Miss Courtland, among Miss Bennett’s friends?’ said Odds, breaking in on Mrs. Bossom’s virtuous indignation.

  ‘Yes, they was,’ answered Mrs. Bossom. ‘Mr. Mallory was always poppin’ in an’ out, and so was Miss Courtland. Monsieur Severac didn’t come so often as the other two, but he called once or twice.’

  ‘What were the names of the other people who came to see Miss Bennett?’

  ‘Rose can tell you more about that than I can. She used ter answer the door to ’em, an’ a pretty dance it give ’er sometimes. I ’ad all my work cut out ter look after the kitchen . . .’

  The superintendent looked at Rose questioningly, and she puckered up her face in an effort of memory.

  ‘Well, there was Mr. Gourley,’ she said, after a pause. ‘’E used ter come quite a lot. ’E lives up by the Green. An’ then there was the Reverend Gilbert Ray, the curate — ’e only come once . . .’

  ‘I should think so, indeed,’ put in Mrs. Bossom, with another sniff.

  ‘There was quite a lot of names I can’t remember,’ Rose continued, apologetically. ‘I didn’t take much account of ’em, reelly, an’ the names ’as gone out of me ’ead . . .’

  ‘If you should remember any of them,’ said Odds, ‘will you put them down and let me know? I’m anxious to find everybody who was acquainted with Miss Bennett . . .’

  ‘That Miss Courtland’s the one you want to talk to,’ said Mrs. Bossom, decisively. ‘Bosom pals, as you might say, they was. Birds of a feather, if you want my opinion, an’ neither any better than what they should be . . .’

  It was fairly obvious, thought Peter, that Fay Bennett’s reputation, so far as Mrs. Bossom was concerned, was anything but good. He realized that this really meant very little. The Mrs. Bossoms of this world are only too apt to see bad in everybody whose station in life is a little bit better than their own. At the same time there was probably something in what she said about ‘birds of a feather.’ Laura Courtland, on her own father’s admission, had been, to put it very mildly indeed, fast, and if she and Fay Bennett had been such friends it was only reasonable to conclude that the latter was of the same genus.

  ‘How long,’ he asked, ‘have you and Rose been in Miss Bennett’s employ?’

  Mrs. Bossom gave him a look that said plainly: ‘And who might you be, I’d like to know,’ but she answered civilly enough: ‘Two an’ a half years, come this month. We both came together when she took the ’ouse.’

  ‘Where was she living before?’ inquired the superintendent.

  Mrs. Bossom shook her head.

  ‘That’s more than what I can tell you,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t given to talking about ’erself — leastways not ter me an’ Rose. The only time she spoke to us was ter give orders . . .’

  ‘And you don’t know whether she had any relations living?’ said Odds, and Mrs. Bossom declared ‘she didn’t know nuthin’ about her late mistress at all.’

  The superintendent asked several other questions, for the most part repetitive, but he failed to extract any further information, and this was quite evidently because neither Mrs. Bossom nor Rose — whose other name, it appeared, was Higgs — were in possession of any. They were both bursting with curiosity to learn the circumstances in which their mistress had come by her death, but Odds made no effort to satisfy this ghoulish eagerness. He requested to be shown over the house, and Mrs. Bossom took both he and Peter on a personally conducted tour, with Rose lingering in the rear. It was not a very large house, but it was furnished in a way that showed that the dead woman had been exceedingly well off. Everything was very modern and of the best. Odds gave the most attention to Fay Bennett’s bedroom, and the drawing room which, Mrs. Bossom assured him, she had principally used. He found nothing whatever to reward him for his trouble, and it was Peter who made the only discovery worth mentioning. He was drifting rather aimlessly about the bedroom, while the superintendent conducted his search, and happened to look into a small silver trinket-box that stood on the mantelpiece. It was empty except for a brooch, and the brooch was a replica of the one he had seen in Laura Courtland’s bedroom at Prior’s Keep. The same filigree work in platinum; the same initial L in
rubies. Peter examined it curiously and frowned. If it had been the same with the initial F instead of L, he would not have given it a second thought, but why should Fay Bennett have had a brooch, and an expensive brooch, with an initial that was not her own? He called Odds and showed him the brooch, but the superintendent did not seem to attach much importance to it.

  ‘Most likely Miss Courtland had two of ’em,’ he said, ‘and dropped one when she was here sometime. I understand ladies wear these things in hats and turbans . . .’

  Peter thought that might be an explanation, but he wasn’t satisfied with it. It seemed to him rather unlikely that Laura would have possessed two brooches that were exactly alike. There was some other explanation, and he felt that the brooch was somehow important. When nobody was looking he dropped it into his pocket . . .

  Chapter Seven

  It was too late by the time Odds had finished at Fay Bennett’s to do anything more that night, and Peter offered to drive him to his home at Hinton, a little over two miles away; an offer that was gratefully accepted.

  ‘I’d just like to step into the police station here on the way, sir,’ said Odds, ‘and get Sergeant Quilt’s report. He’s been to Mr. Mallory’s house, and Severac’s, and he may have found something. And, if you have no objection,’ he added, ‘we might take him along with us . . .’

  They found Sergeant Quilt seated at the battered desk drinking coffee and munching sandwiches, both of which had been prepared by Police Constable Cropps who had, with great relief, handed over his duties at Witch’s House to the man from Hinton, and was now, being off duty until the following day, having his supper and taking his ease in his shirt sleeves. He provided Odds and Peter with coffee, and while they drank it they listened to Sergeant Quilt’s report. It was brief and disappointing.

  On the superintendent’s instructions he had attended to the collection of the remnants of food and the remains of the wine from the cottage and taken the sealed containers to Doctor Culpepper. After that he had gone to Robin Mallory’s house and let himself in with the key which the superintendent had taken from the dead man’s pocket and given him for that purpose. He had searched the place thoroughly but had found absolutely nothing that could have any bearing on the investigations. He had then gone to André Severac’s house and repeated his procedure with the same unedifying result. That was all, except that Colonel Shoredust had rung through to say that he had been in communication with Scotland Yard, and that a detective-inspector and a detective-sergeant were arriving on the following afternoon and there would be a conference at four o’clock at the police station at Hinton.