The Case of the Abominable Snowman

  But perhaps she hadn’t. Perhaps she had never removed her day make-up. Why should she bother to, indeed, if she had this in mind? No, it was of no significance, Nigel decided. He had just lost his sense of proportion for a moment, seeing that lovely, artificial face with the dark hair tumbling about it, the wanton head drooping over the body that might have been an innocent girl’s.

  Everything, Hereward said, had been left untouched. Then she had written no farewell message, unless Hereward, in his morbid horror of scandal, had found one and decided it had better be suppressed. Hereward, or some other interested party – a suicide note from Elizabeth might easily damage more persons than one – Nigel fancied. Well, it was not unprecedented for suicides to leave no message. And maybe it was in character that Elizabeth should have hung herself naked, flaunting her beauty to the end. There was nothing more for Nigel to do till he had discovered some of the facts. He went out, and found his way downstairs.

  As he approached Mrs Restorick’s room, he saw her husband in the hall below, talking to a policeman who was furtively trying to kick some of the caked snow off his boots. If Hereward was so sanguine about persuading the Chief Constable to hush things up, it seemed more than likely he would have the village constable in his pocket too. And what about Dr Bogan? Were his lips to be sealed also? Nigel anticipated a difficult job. But, of course, he had no reason yet to believe that there was anything to hush up – anything beyond the suicide of an erratic relative. Or did Hereward want to have it made out an accident?

  Charlotte Restorick was seated at her desk. ‘Your wife is a dear,’ she said, ‘the children are quite crazy about her already. Now, come and sit over here, and tell me what you think about it all.’

  ‘May I ask you some questions first?’

  ‘Why, of course.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Milly. She’s the maid who was looking after poor Betty. She called her at nine o’clock this morning – Betty liked to sleep late. Milly found her like that, and we heard her screaming.’

  ‘What happened then? Did you all run upstairs?’

  ‘Hereward, Andrew, and I went up. We saw – what had happened. I wanted to have the poor thing taken down, but Andrew said nothing in the room must be touched.’

  ‘She left no farewell note for anyone?’

  ‘No. At least, we couldn’t find one. It might be locked away somewhere. We thought we’d better not have anything opened till the police came.’

  ‘Did you make sure she was dead? At once?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Strangeways, we knew. But Andrew sent Hereward to fetch Dr Bogan, almost at once.’

  ‘Was the door locked when Milly went in?’

  ‘I don’t know. She would have her own key, of course. Shall I ring for her?’

  Presently the girl appeared, red-eyed and shaking. She said, yes, the door had been locked. No, she hadn’t touched anything in the room, she wouldn’t have dared, not if you’d offered her a hundred pounds.

  ‘What about the black-out curtains? Were they open or closed?’ asked Nigel.

  Milly said she’d been far too terrified to notice.

  ‘They were closed,’ said Mrs Restorick. ‘We could see Betty by the light through the door, but Andrew flung them open to give us more light.’

  ‘It was fairly dark, then? I mean, the electric lights in the room weren’t on when you entered?’

  Both Mrs Restorick and Milly agreed that they were not.

  ‘Now, Milly,’ asked Nigel, ‘what time did you see Miss Restorick last?’

  ‘Ten o’clock last night, sir. I went up to help her get ready for bed, the poor soul.’

  ‘Oh, she wasn’t in bed? I understood she was unwell last night.’

  Mrs Restorick shot a quick, warning glance at him. ‘She didn’t feel up to joining us at dinner. But she hadn’t been in bed yesterday. She just kept to her room. Dr Bogan wished her not to have any change of temperature.’

  ‘I see. You helped her to retire, Milly? You didn’t put her clothes away though, I noticed.’

  ‘She told me not to, sir.’

  Nigel raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you remember her exact words?’

  ‘She said, “You needn’t bother with my clothes to-night, Milly. Run along now, there’s a good girl,” she said. Well, of course I went downstairs then, but I did think it was funny – Miss Elizabeth always liking to have her dresses put away tidily.’

  ‘Did she seem tired? Depressed?’

  The girl pondered for a moment. ‘Well, sir, that’s funny too, seeing as what the poor lady meant to do. But she didn’t seem sad. I thought she was excited, like.’

  ‘And that was the last you saw of her – till this morning? Had she her nightdress on when you left her?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She was doing her face at the mirror, in her nightdress and peignoir.’

  Nigel’s eyes suddenly sparked, and his tone made the girl start as he said:

  ‘“Doing her face”? Making up, d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. She had taken off her make-up and was putting on cold cream. She did that every night.’

  ‘I see. Yes,’ said Nigel after a short pause. ‘Now, Milly, can you keep a secret?’

  ‘Oo, yes, sir. What was it you –’

  ‘I want you to tell nobody – nobody at all, you understand – what we’ve been talking about.’

  The girl promised, and was sent away. Nigel was aware of Charlotte Restorick’s eyes shrewdly scrutinizing him. Getting up he walked over to the mantelpiece and began to fiddle absentmindedly with a Lalique fish that stood upon it – a delicate, grotesque piece of glass work, but no more grotesque than the idea which had come into his head.

  ‘I’m afraid I understand only too well what direction you’re moving in,’ whispered Mrs Restorick. ‘But it’s not possible. You must be wrong, Mr Strangeways.’

  ‘How well did you know Miss Restorick? Did she confide in you? Had you any reason for thinking she might kill herself?’

  ‘I didn’t know her very well. I admired her – she was a lovely creature and so full of life. But I don’t think any woman,’ Mrs Restorick faintly accented the word, ‘could have got to know her well. I want to be frank with you. You’d find it out for yourself, in any case. Elizabeth was a man’s woman, every inch of her. Some of us are like that, others aren’t. No, she didn’t confide in me. We never saw her for long. Of course, there was always a room for her here, but she was erratic and secretive – she used to come and go – she had an income of her own, by her father’s will, and she spent most of the time in London or travelling.’

  ‘You never suspected she might put an end to her life?’

  ‘She had been out of sorts and very nervy lately.’

  ‘Lately?’

  ‘We noticed it particularly this visit. She came down just before Christmas.’

  ‘What was her illness?’

  Mrs Restorick looked a little confused. ‘I think you had best ask Dr Bogan about that.’

  ‘I will. Do I take it he was officially in attendance upon her? Has he been here all the time? Did you know him before?’

  ‘I don’t know a great deal about him. Elizabeth used to bring people down here very casually. He was a personal friend of hers, I believe, and she consulted him professionally too. He’s some kind of specialist, in London. He’s been down here every week-end since Elizabeth came.’

  ‘And the other members of your house party – have they all been here since just before Christmas?’

  ‘Andrew arrived a week before the others. Will Dykes and Miss Ainsley came the same day as Elizabeth. They were to have stayed a fortnight or so, but now –’

  ‘Did they all know each other previously?’

  Charlotte Restorick rose from her chair and walked over to Nigel. Her fine, full face kept its dignity, though she made no attempt to conceal her distress.

  ‘Mr Strangeways,’ she said, ‘all these questions of yours – let’s not pretend to each other any lon
ger. You don’t believe my sister-in-law committed suicide.’

  Nigel gazed back at her straightly. ‘You saw the body. The face is made up. Milly told us that Miss Restorick was removing her make-up when she left her. Milly said she sounded “excited”. Can you believe that Elizabeth, that any woman would take off her make-up, and then make up her face again, just before hanging herself?’

  Mrs Restorick’s hands gripped the shelf of the writing-desk behind her back.

  ‘I think you had better say it all,’ she whispered.

  ‘Elizabeth was “excited”, not depressed. She wanted to get Milly out of the room quickly, as if she expected a visitor any moment, so she told her not to bother about putting away the clothes. She had begun to remove her make-up, because she didn’t want Milly to guess that she – expected a visitor. When you found her this morning, her face was made up and her body naked. There’s only one explanation. She did expect a visitor that night, and someone did visit her – a lover. And that someone killed her.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘There are worse occupations in this world

  than feeling a woman’s pulse.’

  STERNE

  A FEW MINUTES later, Mr Restorick took Nigel to interview the members of the household. It was, Nigel thought, a rather horrible travesty of last night’s occasion; there was the same embarrassment and artificiality about the company now assembled in the drawing-room, the same touch of formality in the way Charlotte Restorick introduced him; while Nigel, himself, was only a little less uneasy about his status quo than he had been the night before. Mrs Restorick had agreed that neither of them should hint at the dreadful interpretation he had put upon Elizabeth’s death; so she was now introducing him, with that air of making something between an informal and a set speech which even under the present circumstances her dignity contrived to carry off, as a friend who had some experience in these matters and had kindly consented to give them all the help he could.

  ‘Mr Strangeways seems to be a man of parts,’ murmured Andrew when Mrs Restorick had finished. ‘A psychical investigator. A friend in need. An expert in – er – police matters.’

  Hereward shifted in his chair and glared at his brother. Miss Ainsley was staring at Nigel, her mouth dropped unbecomingly open, nicotine-stained fingers pulling at her lower lip. Dr Bogan, gazing at the floor, combed his beard. It was Will Dykes, Nigel noticed as he glanced round the company, who seemed to have taken the blow hardest; he was staring out of the window, isolated in grief, tears running down his cheeks; the others were keeping up an elaborate pretence of not noticing this exhibition. So Dykes was in love with her, thought Nigel, there’s no doubt about that now. Dragging his attention away from the novelist, he addressed the company at large.

  ‘I hope you won’t look upon me as an intruder. The police are bound to ask questions presently, and it’ll be more satisfactory all round if you’re prepared for that. It’s not a question of cooking up a story, of course, but of having clear in one’s mind the essential points.’

  Nigel paused for long enough to realize how very unconvincing this preamble sounded, then continued:

  ‘Now first, did any of you suspect that this might happen? Had any one heard Miss Restorick threatening to kill herself? Is there any reason why she should have done so?’

  An uncomfortable, dismal silence followed. Hereward Restorick, as if he felt it the duty of a host to relieve the awkwardness, finally said:

  ‘I never got the impression personally that – but, of course, Betty was a rather – well, I mean she was rather –’

  ‘– a neurotic girl,’ supplied Andrew, in a tone so harsh that even Nigel started and glanced at him in surprise. Andrew’s thin, brown face looked bleak as the wintry sky outside. His words, like the key log loosened from a log jam, set everything moving.

  ‘Betty was what the world made her. She lived in a rotten environment, and she couldn’t help being tainted. But at heart she was sound. I tell you, in her heart she was innocent. And she’d far too much courage to take the easy way out. I don’t understand it.’

  Will Dykes seemed to be talking to himself. His voice was low and monotonous, like the voice of a man mumbling through a nightmare. When he’d finished, it was as if the act of speech had woken him out of his dream. He looked around in a dazed way and, suddenly aware of the tears on his cheeks, brushed his sleeve over them. There was a moment’s outraged silence. Then Eunice Ainsley said:

  ‘Well, considering I heard her tell Mr Dykes only a week ago that she couldn’t go through with it, I should have thought – but she could always make men believe black was white.’

  ‘Come, child, you’re overwrought,’ said Mrs Restorick firmly.

  ‘Is that true, Dykes?’ asked Andrew.

  The novelist stiffened in his chair, an incongruous figure in this company with his oiled quiff of hair and provincial clothes.

  ‘What Miss Ainsley hears through keyholes is hardly evidence. But Betty did say that to me.’

  ‘What? Good God! But why didn’t you –?’ Hereward stuttered to a standstill.

  ‘It’s not relevant,’ said Dykes stubbornly.

  ‘Not relevant?’ asked Andrew. ‘Surely the police or Mr Strangeways are the best judges of that?’

  ‘When Betty said she couldn’t go through with it, she was not talking about suicide. She was talking about marriage.’

  ‘Marriage?’ It was evident from Charlotte Restorick’s tones that it was the first she had heard of it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Will Dykes, throwing up his head and challenging the whole lot of them, ‘she was going to marry me, but –’

  ‘Marry you?’ Miss Ainsley’s voice rose in a kind of tittering scream. ‘Betty marry you?’

  Dykes flinched a little, but maintained his air of defiance. Is he telling the truth, wondered Nigel. Or defending her ‘good name’ at the cost of making himself look ridiculous? The latter would be in character. In Nigel’s imagination, that delicate, luxurious body hanging upstairs set itself beside the uncouth figure of the novelist. Hereward Restorick was saying inadequately:

  ‘Well, of course, must be a terrible shock to you, Dykes. Had no idea the wind was in that quarter. A rotten business for us all. Poor Betty –’

  ‘Now we’ve cleared up that misunderstanding,’ came Andrew’s incisive voice, ‘we can look elsewhere. Perhaps Dr Bogan will state his views.’

  The doctor’s eyes slowly lifted to Andrew Restorick. They were at once melancholy and reserved. Nigel fancied Dr Bogan’s practice must be largely among women – the melancholy would appeal to their maternal feelings, the deep reserve would intrigue the Pandora in each of them.

  ‘My views?’ said the doctor slowly.

  ‘Did you consider Betty a suicidal type?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘I am not disposed to think there is such a thing as a suicidal type. If you ask me whether the conditions making for self-destruction were present in Miss Restorick’s mind yesterday, I should have to answer in the affirmative.’

  ‘You mean, she was ill in her mind as well as her body?’ asked Nigel. ‘Or was it only for mental illness you were treating her?’

  ‘Now we’re getting down to brass tacks,’ said Andrew. ‘Just what was wrong with Betty? Or, to put it another way, what is Dr Bogan a doctor of?’

  Nigel’s mind flashed back to a recent occasion when the same question had been asked – by Miss Cavendish. Dr Bogan did not seem put out by Andrew’s aggressive tone. He replied equably:

  ‘I specialize in nervous diseases of women.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Andrew outrageously. ‘A lucrative profession. What is it Laurence Sterne said? “There are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman’s pulse.”’

  ‘Really, Andrew! Dr Bogan is a guest in my house. I must ask you to remember that,’ said Charlotte Restorick.

  ‘Yes. Bad form,’ added her husband. ‘We must all try and pull together just now. No recriminations.’

  ‘I quite und
erstand your brother’s feelings,’ said Dr Bogan, lightly yet formidably. ‘He has an antipathy for me, which results from a fixation upon his own sister. He has resented my presence here because of the influence I exercised professionally upon Miss Restorick. It is a quite normal, commonplace reaction on his part.’

  For once Andrew Restorick seemed altogether put down. He evidently did not relish the idea that any reaction of his could be commonplace.

  ‘Can we go back a little?’ suggested Nigel. ‘If you will tell us more precisely the nature of your patient’s illness, and explain your belief that – how did you put it? – the conditions for self-destruction were present in her mind yesterday, perhaps the business’ll clear itself up.’

  Dr Bogan pondered for a moment. ‘Miss Restorick, besides being a friend of mine, consulted me professionally. She did not wish the nature of her nervous disorder to be disclosed, otherwise she would have told you all about it herself. I should, therefore, be breaking the seal both of friendship and professional secrecy if I divulged what she was unwilling to tell even her own folks. As for –’

  ‘Just a moment, doctor,’ Nigel interrupted, ‘you are an old friend of Miss Restorick’s? Did you meet her in America originally?’

  It was now the doctor’s turn to look, for the first time, discomposed. It showed itself in the slightly unfocused expression of his eyes.

  ‘In America? Why –’

  ‘You are an American, aren’t you?’ Nigel persisted. ‘Some of your turns of phrase –’

  ‘I’ve lived in the States quite a bit,’ said the doctor. ‘But I’m not an American citizen. Mongrel Irish and Italian, I’m afraid. No, Mr Strangeways, America’s a big place, and I didn’t know Miss Restorick while her family was living there. That was ten or fifteen years ago, remember.’