Mark, still holding Nurse Kettle by the arm, said: ‘Very well, Gar. Nurse Kettle will tell us what has happened!’
‘Let’s have it, then. And in case it’s as bad as you look, Kettle, I suggest we all sit down. What did you say, George?’
Her son had made an indeterminate noise. He now said galvanically: ‘Yes, of course, Mama, by all means.’
Mark pushed a chair forward for Nurse Kettle and she took it thankfully. Her knees, she discovered, were wobbling.
‘Now, then, out with it,’ said Lady Lacklander. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he, Kettle?’
‘Yes, Lady Lacklander.’
‘Where?’ Sir George demanded. Nurse Kettle told him.
‘When,’ Lady Lacklander said, ‘did you discover him?’
‘I’ve come straight up here, Lady Lacklander.’
‘But why here, Kettle? Why not to Uplands?’
‘I must break it to Kitty,’ said Sir George.
‘I must go to Rose,’ said Mark simultaneously.
‘Kettle,’ said Lady Lacklander, ‘you used the word accident. What accident?’
‘He has been murdered, Lady Lacklander,’ said Nurse Kettle.
The thought that crossed her mind after she had made this announcement was that the three Lacklanders were, in their several generations, superficially very much alike but that, whereas in Lady Lacklander and Mark the distance between the eyes and the width of mouth suggested a certain generosity, in Sir George they seemed merely to denote the naïve. Sir George’s jaw had dropped and handsome though he undoubtedly was, he gaped unhandsomely. As none of them spoke, she added: ‘So I thought I’d better report to you, sir.’
‘Do you mean,’ Sir George said loudly, ‘that he’s lying there in my bottom meadow, murdered?’
‘Yes, Sir George,’ Nurse Kettle said. ‘I do.’
‘How?’ Mark said.
‘Injuries to the head.’
‘You made quite sure, of course?’
‘Quite sure.’
Mark looked at his father. ‘We must ring the Chief Constable,’ he said. ‘Would you do that, Father? I’ll go down with Nurse Kettle. One of us had better stay there till the police come. If you can’t get the C.C. would you ring Sergeant Oliphant at Chyning?’
Sir George’s hand went to his moustache. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you may take it, Mark, that I understand my responsibilities.’
Lady Lacklander said: ‘Don’t be an ass, George. The boy’s quite right.’ And her son, scarlet in the face, went off to the telephone. ‘Now,’ Lady Lacklander continued, ‘what are we going to do about Rose and that wife of his?’
‘Gar …’ Mark began, but his grandmother raised a fat glittering hand.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘No doubt you want to break it to Rose, Mark, but in my opinion you will do better to let me see both of them first. I shall stay there until you appear. Order the car.’
Mark rang the bell. ‘And you needn’t wait,’ she added. ‘Take Miss Kettle with you.’ It was characteristic of Lady Lacklander that she restricted her use of the more peremptory form of address to the second person. She now used it. ‘Kettle,’ she said, ‘we’re grateful to you and mustn’t impose. Would you rather come with me or go back with my grandson? Which is best, do you think?’
‘I’ll go with the Doctor, thank you, Lady Lacklander. I suppose,’ Nurse Kettle added composedly, ‘that as I found the body I’ll be required to make a statement.’
She had moved with Mark to the door when Lady Lacklander’s voice checked her.
‘And I suppose,’ the elderly voice said, ‘that as I may have been the last person to speak to him, I shall be required to make one too.’
II
In the drawing-room at Hammer there was an incongruous company assembled. Kitty Cartarette, Mark Lacklander and Nurse Kettle waited there while Lady Lacklander sat with Rose in the Colonel’s study. She had arrived first at Hammer, having been driven round in her great car while Mark and Nurse Kettle waited in the valley and George rang up the police station at Chyning. George had remembered he was a Justice of the Peace and was believed to be in telephonic conference with his brethren of the bench.
So it had fallen to Lady Lacklander to break the news to Kitty whom she had found, wearing her black velvet tights and flame-coloured top, in the drawing-room. Lady Lacklander in the course of a long life spent in many embassies had encountered every kind of eccentricity in female attire and was pretty well informed as to the predatory tactics of women whom, in the Far East, she had been wont to describe as ‘light cruisers.’ She had made up her mind about Kitty Cartarette, but had seemed to be prepared to concede her certain qualities if she showed any signs of possessing them.
She had said: ‘My dear; I’m the bearer of bad tidings.’ And noticing that Kitty at once looked very frightened, had remarked to herself: ‘She thinks I mean to tackle her about George.’
‘Are you?’ Kitty had said. ‘What sort of tidings, please?’
‘About Maurice.’ Lady Lacklander, who had waited for a moment, added: ‘I’m afraid it’s the worst kind of news,’ and had then told her. Kitty stared at her. ‘Dead?’ she said. ‘Maurice dead? I don’t believe you. How can he be dead? He’s been fishing down below there and I dare say he’s looked in at the pub.’ Her hands with their long painted nails began to tremble. ‘How can he be dead?’ she repeated.
Lady Lacklander became more specific and presently Kitty broke into a harsh strangulated sobbing, twisting her fingers together and turning her head aside. She walked about the room, still, Lady Lacklander noticed, swaying her hips. Presently she fetched up by a grog tray on a small table and shakily poured herself a drink.
‘That’s a sensible idea,’ Lady Lacklander said as the neck of the decanter chattered against the glass. Kitty awkwardly offered her a drink which she declined with perfect equanimity. ‘Her manner,’ she thought to herself, ‘is really too dreadful. What shall I do if George marries her?’
It was at this juncture that Nurse Kettle and Mark had appeared outside the french windows. Lady Lacklander signalled to them. ‘Here is my grandson and Nurse Kettle,’ she said to Kitty. ‘Shall they come in? I think it would be a good idea, don’t you?’
Kitty said shakily: ‘Yes, please. Yes, if you like.’ Lady Lacklander heaved her bulk out of her chair and let them in.
‘Sergeant Oliphant’s there,’ Mark murmured. ‘They’re going to ring Scotland Yard. Does Rose –?’
‘Not yet. She’s out in the garden, somewhere.’
Mark went across to Kitty and spoke to her with a quiet authority that his grandmother instantly approved. She noticed how Kitty steadied under it, how Mark, without fussing, got her into a chair. Nurse Kettle as a matter of course came forward and took the glass when Kitty had emptied it. A light and charming voice sang in the hall.
‘Come away, come away death …’
And Mark turned sharply.
‘I’ll go,’ his grandmother said, ‘and I’ll fetch you when she asks for you.’
With a swifter movement than either her size or her age would have seemed to allow she had gone into the hall. The little song of death stopped and the door shut behind Lady Lacklander.
Kitty Cartarette was quieter but still caught her breath now and again in a harsh sob.
‘Sorry,’ she said, looking from Nurse Kettle to Mark. ‘Thanks. It’s just the shock.’
‘Yes, of course, dear,’ Nurse Kettle said.
‘I sort of can’t believe it. You know?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Mark said.
‘It seems so queer … Maurice!’ She looked at Mark. ‘What was that,’ she said, ‘about somebody doing it? Is it true?’
‘I’m afraid it looks very much like it.’
‘I’d forgotten,’ she muttered vaguely, ‘you’ve seen him, haven’t you, and you’re a doctor, of course?’ Her mouth trembled. She wiped the back of her hand over it. A trail of red was dragged across her cheek. It was a sufficient
indication of her state of mind that she seemed to be unaware of it. She said: ‘No, it’s no good, I can’t believe it. We saw him down there, fishing.’ And then she suddenly demanded: ‘Where’s George?’
Nurse Kettle saw Mark’s back stiffen. ‘My father?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, of course, I’d forgotten,’ she said again, shaking her head. ‘He’s your father. Silly of me.’
‘He’s looking after one or two things that must be done. You see the police have had to be told at once.’
‘Is George getting the police?’
‘He’s rung them up. He will, I think, come here as soon as he can.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I expect he will.’
Nurse Kettle saw George’s son compress his lips. At that moment George himself walked in and the party became even less happily assorted.
Nurse Kettle had acquired a talent for retiring into whatever background presented itself and this talent she now exercised. She moved through the open french window on to the terrace, shut the door after her and sat on a garden seat within view of the drawing-room but facing across the now completely dark valley. Mark, who would perhaps have liked to follow her, stood his ground. His father looking extraordinarily handsome and not a little self-conscious went straight to Kitty. She used the gesture that Mark had found embarrassing and extended her left hand to Sir George who kissed it with an air nicely compounded of embarrassment, deference, distress and devotion.
‘My dear Kitty,’ said Sir George in a special voice. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry. What can one say? What can one do?’
He apparently had already said and done more than any of the others to assuage Kitty’s distress, for it began perceptibly to take on a more becoming guise. She looked into his eyes, and said: ‘How terribly good of you to come.’ He sat down beside her, began to pat her hand, noticed his son, and said: ‘I’ll have a word with you in a moment, old boy.’
Mark was about to retire to the terrace when the door opened and his grandmother looked in. ‘Mark?’ she said. He went quickly into the hall. ‘In the study,’ Lady Lacklander said and in a moment he was there with Rose sobbing bitterly in his arms.
‘You need pay no attention to me,’ Lady Lacklander said. ‘I am about to telephone New Scotland Yard. Your father tells me they have been called in, and I propose to send for Helena Alleyn’s boy.’
Mark, who was kissing Rose’s hair, left off abruptly to say: ‘Can you mean Chief Inspector Alleyn, Gar?’
‘I don’t know what his rank is, but he used to be a nice boy twenty-five years ago before he left the Service to become a constable. Central? This is Hermione, Lady Lacklander … I want New Scotland Yard, London. The call is extremely urgent as it is concerned with murder … Yes, murder. You will oblige me by putting it through at once … Thank you.’ She glanced at Mark. ‘In the circumstances,’ she said, ‘I prefer to deal with a gent.’
Mark had drawn Rose to a chair and was kneeling beside her, gently wiping away her tears.
‘Hallo!’ Lady Lacklander said after an extremely short delay. ‘New Scotland Yard? This is Hermione, Lady Lacklander speaking. I wish to speak to Mr Roderick Alleyn. If he is not on your premises you will no doubt know where he is to be found … I don’t know his rank …’
Her voice, aristocratic, cool, sure of itself, went steadily on. Mark dabbed at Rose’s eyes. His father, alone with Kitty in the drawing-room, muttered agitatedly:‘… I’m sorry it’s hit you so hard, Kit.’
Kitty looked wanly at him. ‘I suppose it’s the shock,’ she said, and added without rancour: ‘I’m not as tough as you all think.’ He protested chaotically. ‘Oh,’ she said quite gently, ‘I know what they’ll say about me. Not you, p’r’aps, but the others. They’ll say it’s cupboard-sorrow. ‘That’s what’s upsetting the widow,’ they’ll say. I’m the outsider, George.’
‘Don’t, Kit. Kit, listen …’ He began to plead with her. ‘There’s something I must ask you – if you’d just have a look for – you know – that thing – I mean – if it was found …’
She listened to him distractedly. ‘It’s awful,’ George said. ‘I know it’s awful to talk like this now, Kitty, but all the same – all the same – with so much at stake. I know you’ll understand.’
Kitty said: ‘Yes. All right … Yes. But let me think.’
Nurse Kettle out on the terrace was disturbed by the spatter of a few giant raindrops.
‘There’s going to be a storm,’ she said to herself. ‘A summer storm.’
And since she would have been out of place in the drawing-room and in the study she took shelter in the hall. She had no sooner done so than the storm broke in a downpour over the valley of the Chyne.
III
Alleyn and Fox had worked late, tidying up the last phase of a tedious case of embezzlement. At twelve minutes to ten they had finished. Alleyn shut the file with a slap of his hand.
‘Dreary fellow,’ he said. ‘I hope they give him the maximum. Damn’ good riddance. Come back with me and have a drink, Brer Fox. I’m a grass-widower and hating it. Troy and Ricky are in the country. What do you say?’
Fox drew his hand across the lower part of his face. ‘Well, now, Mr Alleyn, that sounds very pleasant,’ he said. ‘I say yes and thank you.’
‘Good.’ Alleyn looked round the familiar walls of the Chief Inspector’s room at New Scotland Yard. ‘There are occasions,’ he said, ‘when one suddenly sees one’s natural habitat as if for the first time. It is a terrifying sensation. Come on. Let’s go while the going’s good.’
They were half-way to the door when the telephone rang. Fox said: ‘Ah, hell!’ without any particular animosity and went back to answer it.
‘Chief Inspector’s room,’ he said heavily. ‘Well, yes, he’s here. Just.’ He listened for a moment gazing blandly at his superior. ‘Say I’m dead,’ Alleyn suggested moodily. Fox laid his great palm over the receiver. ‘They make out it’s a Lady Lacklander on call from somewhere called Swevenings,’ he said.
‘Lady Lacklander? Good lord! That’s old Sir Harold Lacklander’s widow,’ Alleyn ejaculated. ‘What’s up with her, I wonder.’
‘Chief Inspector Alleyn will take the call,’ Fox said, and held out the receiver.
Alleyn sat on his desk and put the receiver to his ear. An incisive elderly voice was saying: ‘… I don’t know his rank and I don’t know whether he’s on your premises or not, but you’ll be good enough, if you please, to find Mr Roderick Alleyn for me. It is Hermione, Lady Lacklander speaking. Is that New Scotland Yard and have you heard me?… I wish to speak to …’
Alleyn announced himself cautiously into the receiver. ‘Indeed!’ the voice rejoined. ‘Why on earth couldn’t you say so in the first instance? … Hermione Lacklander speaking. I won’t waste time reminding you about myself. You’re Helena Alleyn’s boy and I want an assurance from you. A friend of mine has just been murdered,’ the voice continued, ‘and I hear the local police are calling in your people. I would greatly prefer you, personally, to take charge of the whole thing. That can be arranged, I imagine?’
Alleyn, controlling his astonishment, said: ‘I’m afraid only if the Assistant Commissioner happens to give me the job.’
‘Who’s he?’
Alleyn told her.
‘Put me through to him,’ the voice commanded.
A second telephone began to ring. Fox answered it and in a moment held up a warning hand.
‘Will you wait one second, Lady Lacklander?’ Alleyn asked. Her voice, however, went incisively on and he stifled it against his chest. ‘What the hell is it, Fox?’ he asked irritably.
‘Central office, sir. Orders for Swevenings. Homicide.’
‘Blistering apes! Us?’
‘Us,’ said Fox stolidly.
Alleyn spoke into his own receiver. ‘Lady Lacklander? I am taking this case, it appears.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Lady Lacklander. ‘I suggest you look pretty sharp about it. Au revoir,’ she adde
d with unexpected modishness, and rang off.
Fox, in the meantime, had noted down instructions. ‘I’ll inform Mr Alleyn,’ he was saying. ‘Yes, very good, I’ll inform him. Thank you.’ He hung up his receiver. ‘It’s a Colonel Cartarette,’ he said. ‘We go to a place called Chyning in Barfordshire, where the local sergeant will meet us. Matter of two hours. Everything’s laid on down below.’
Alleyn had already collected his hat, coat and professional case. Fox followed his example. They went out together through the never-sleeping corridors.
It was a still hot night. Sheet-lightning played fretfully over the East End. The air smelt of petrol and dust. ‘Why don’t we join the River Police?’ Alleyn grumbled. ‘One long water carnival.’
A car waited for them with Detective-Sergeants Bailey and Thompson and their gear already on board. As they drove out of the Yard, Big Ben struck ten.
‘That’s a remarkable woman, Fox,’ Alleyn said. ‘She’s got a brain like a turbine and a body like a tun. My mother, who has her share of guts, was always terrified of Hermione Lacklander.’
‘Is that so, Mr Alleyn? Her husband died only the other day, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right. A quarter of a century ago, he was one of my great white chiefs in the Foreign Service. Solemn chap … Just missed being brilliant. She was a force to be reckoned with even then. What’s she doing in this party? What’s the story, by the way?’
‘A Colonel Maurice Cartarette found dead with head injuries by a fishing stream. The C.C. down there says they’re all tied up with the Royal Visit at Siminster and are understaffed anyway so they’ve called us in.’
‘Who found him?’
‘A district nurse. About an hour ago.’
‘Fancy,’ said Alleyn mildly, and after a pause. ‘I wonder just why that old lady has come plunging in after me.’