Murder Included Read online

  Murder Included

  Joanna Cannan

  © Joanna Cannan 1950

  Joanna Cannan has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1950 by Victor Gollancz.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

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  CHAPTER ONE

  FROM the depths of a shabby leather armchair Ronald Price looked round the Chief Constable’s study, noticed the hunting prints, the photographs of polo teams, the shelves of books, the blue-and-red Turkey carpet, the golden cocker spaniel just now dislodged from the very chair he was sitting in and sent to its basket. Colonel Blimp … he thought, and: dog’s hairs all over my blue suit … and: stinks of dog, this room does … and: whatever would Valerie say to all those books? — regular dust-traps … The Chief Constable, standing on the worn hearthrug with his back to the fire, said, ‘Well, good hunting,’ and gulped down half his whisky-and-soda, and Price heard the lips of the Superintendent smack as he himself took a sip of gin-and-orange.

  The Chief Constable said, ‘It’s not lack of self-confidence that made us apply to the Yard, Inspector. The Superintendent and I have solved many a knotty problem, eh, Treadwell? It’s just that we’re too near to these people — first thing I said was, well, we can count out Sir Charles — he was at school with me, and a moment later Treadwell comes out with, well, there’s no need to question Miss Pat — I knew her as an infant. It’s the same with the servants. Neither Treadwell nor I can remember a time when we didn’t know Benson — he’s the butler. Beatrice Blythe, the head housemaid, is Treadwell’s aunt, and Kate the kitchenmaid is his cousin. Nanny, of course, was born on the place — at the south lodge — she was old John Toomer’s daughter. Mrs Capes, the cook, comes from farthest afield: she’s from Aston-on-the-Green, five miles away. The under housemaid, Sylvia Spencer, comes from the Home Farm — her grandfather farmed it and, I believe, her great-grandfather. The first Lady d’Estray was a cousin of mine and I’m Hugo’s godfather, so it’s altogether rather an impossible situation, eh, Treadwell?’

  ‘That’s what baffles me, sir,’ owned the Superintendent, a round-faced man with unblinking china-blue eyes. ‘Question Sir Charles after all he’s done for my grandmother I could not. Of course, there’s not all that need to bother the Family — it must be one of those paying guests or an outside job. I don’t mean by that the outside staff, Inspector. They’re all well known to us — in fact Perry, the head-gardener, is my brother-in-law.’

  ‘And the deceased?’ Price asked. ‘Was she related to either of you?’

  His sarcastic tone went unnoticed. ‘Well, actually,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘Miss Hudson, being a distant cousin of the d’Estrays, must have been a connexion of mine. I’ve known her for many years. She used to stay at the Park every year for a fortnight or three weeks to get some hunting, before they started this paying-guest business.’

  ‘And when did they start it?’

  ‘Another drink?’ asked the Chief Constable.

  ‘No, thank you, sir. When …?’

  ‘Treadwell?’

  ‘Well,’ said the Superintendent, ‘just a thimbleful.’

  Price fidgeted while Colonel Rivett-Bankes refilled the Superintendent’s glass and then his own. Arriving by car at the county town of Harborough, Price had expected to find himself promptly in conference at the Police Station, but the Sergeant on duty there had informed him that a police car was waiting to run out a further ten miles to the Chief Constable’s home, where Superintendent Treadwell would meet him. Price was a Londoner; he was Left Wing; he had no fancy for doing his work in the dog-and-flea-ridden ‘studies’ of retired Colonels. He had kept silence as a loutish local constable drove him through the October dusk over hills to wrought-iron gates, yew hedges, and Elizabethan gables. A doddering parasite of a butler had shown him into this large, over-crowded, shabby, so-called study, where Colonel Blimp, after nearly wringing his hand off, had turned ‘Susie — little woman’ out of a chair and expected him to sit down in it. Now, fussing about with cut-glass decanter and silver cigarette box, he was doing his best to turn an important conference into a cosy chat. Price repeated his question.

  The Colonel set down the decanter, flung a log on the already extravagant fire, caught the spaniel’s eye, and said, ‘There’s a good bitch,’ whereat she leapt from her basket and he roared, ‘Get back, Susie, get back.’ Susie got back; he settled himself in the chair opposite Price, stretched out his long legs in their muddy corduroy trousers, drank some whisky and at last came to business.

  ‘The paying guests didn’t start till Sir Charles married his second wife about eighteen months ago. Like all the rest of us, the d’Estrays are hard up. Charles was thinking he might have to sell the place and that would have been an awful thing for everyone. Towards the end of the war an old aunt of his had died out on the Riviera and left him her villa. He went out to see about selling it and brought home his second wife — Bunny. Now I come to think of it I don’t know what her real name is — everyone calls her Bunny. Well, Bunny,’ said the Chief Constable, his voice growing drier, ‘is made of different stuff from the d’Estrays. Instead of moaning about selling the place, she said, why not turn it into a guest house and hunting stables, she and Sir Charles running the house and Pat the stables. The family hung back at first and Sir Charles still loathes his “guests”, but, to give her her due, Bunny’s worked hard and she’s made a go of it.’

  ‘And Miss Hudson was one of the guests?’

  ‘Yes, but she was a welcome one. As I told you, she had stayed there on and off for years and she worshipped the place and was delighted at the chance of living there. Sir Charles and Hugo and Pat were always tremendously fond of her — Hugo, by the way, is out of the army and looking round; there was some talk of him starting a dairy herd, I believe, but it needs capital. In the meantime he’s hunting the Badgemoor. Now the paying guests …’

  ‘May we finish with the family first? Is that all of them?’

  ‘Oh no. There are two younger children, Simon and Iona. Fourteen or fifteenish — nice kids, very popular with the village. Then there’s Bunny’s child — Lisa.’

  ‘The second Lady d’Estray was a widow?’

  ‘Widow of some French chap,’ said the Chief Constable.

  ‘I’ve never got hold of her name, I’m afraid — he was a writer fellow. She’s in that line herself — writes books about Siamese cats and children.’

  ‘And did she get on with Miss Hudson?’

  ‘As far as I know quite amicably. Thought her a bit of an old battle-axe, I expect, not having been brought up with her like the d’Estrays. I thought her that myself, as a matter of fact — I don’t care for these excessively horsey women.’

  ‘And the other paying guests — did they like Miss Hudson?’

  ‘If I know her, she put ’em in their place and kept ’em there. But I never heard of any unpleasantness.’

  Price got out his note-book. ‘And their names?’

  ‘I’ve got ’em all down,’ said the Chief Constable, and, putting on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, he took a crumpled envelope from the pocket of his checked
hacking coat, turned it about and read, ‘Mr Rose. Well, Mr Rose is a type that I daresay you’re familiar with, though it’s not common, thank the Lord, down here. A few years back his name was Rosengarten or Rosenberg, I daresay. He’s a man of fifty odd, with a fancy to be a country gentleman; talks about buying a place but hasn’t found one to suit him yet; goes up to town twice a week and the rest of his time his business — whatever it is — is managed by his son, Howard. Howard comes down Friday nights and goes up Sunday evenings as a rule. Both of ’em ride to hounds, and Pat finds them very trying. Mrs Rose seems a nice little woman.’

  ‘The servants don’t care for her,’ put in Treadwell.

  ‘Oh well, they wouldn’t,’ said the Colonel. ‘She’s what they call round here a “lady left on the wrong doorstep”. But there’s no harm in the woman.’ He referred to his envelope. ‘Mr and Mrs Scampnell — now I bet she’s liked by the servants. She was a General’s daughter, and she was first married to a chap in the Indian Army, who left her quite well-off. Scampnell’s in some family business — goes up to the Midlands to directors’ meetings once a month or so. Mrs has a daughter by her first husband, a nice-looking girl but getting on. Mrs Scampnell’s the horsewoman of that party — rides astride but sits well back, quite good in the old-fashioned style.’ He glanced again at the envelope. ‘Flight-Lieutenant Marvin. Air Force bloke,’ he added unnecessarily.

  ‘Ah,’ said Treadwell.

  ‘He’s Treadwell’s fancy,’ said the Chief Constable, smiling, ‘but I’m afraid he’s going to floor us with a cast-iron alibi. Treadwell fancies him because, unlike the other p.gs., he’s known Miss Hudson for some time and she introduced him here. He got shot up in the war, I gather, and she started him riding as a sort of cure for nerves. A good-looking fellow …’

  ‘They had a name for them in the 1914 war,’ said the Superintendent, ‘Temporary gents.’

  The Chief Constable said, ‘Oh, you’re a snob, Treadwell. It runs in your family. I remember —’

  Price interrupted, ‘What’s this alibi?’

  ‘You’ll see it in Treadwell’s notes,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘He interviewed several of the p.gs. this morning. According to Marvin and everybody else he was in London. From the doctor’s report it seems certain that the poison was taken last thing at night and Miss Hudson kept the wherewithal for a nightcap — whisky and water — in her bedroom. What’s his name — Marvin — went up to town with Howard Rose on Sunday evening, so if he’d done the tampering, Miss Hudson would have drunk the fatal dose on Sunday night. Beatrice and Sylvia both remember taking a dirty glass down from the bedroom on Tuesday morning as usual, so we know she didn’t give her nightcap a miss on Monday. Of course all that may be immaterial. It’s not yet confirmed that the poison was in the bottle. Incidentally the only finger-prints we found on it were those of Miss Hudson.’

  ‘Finger-prints are not what they were. Everyone knows too much,’ said Treadwell.

  ‘Their absence is significant,’ said Price. ‘If there’s only one set of the deceased’s finger-prints, it is obvious that prior to her retiring for the night the bottle had been wiped clean by the murderer. Otherwise there would have been a mass of superimposed prints — her own and the domestic helps’ — when they dusted.’

  ‘If they dusted properly there wouldn’t have been,’ said Treadwell. ‘They would have dusted the bottle every morning when they did the bedroom. And I bet Beatrice did too. I’ve always heard that she’s an excellent servant.’

  It was natural, thought Price, for Colonel Blimp to use the word ‘servant’ but he couldn’t understand Treadwell using it, especially of his own aunt, was it? or cousin? These country chaps … he thought. They’re years behind the times … don’t they realize we’ve done away with masters and servants? To teach them better he said, ‘I presume the domestic helps can enlighten us on that subject. Now with reference to the glass — was that tested for finger-prints?’

  ‘It was taken down and washed up before even the doctor got there. Of course it never occurred to Beatrice, who had taken in the morning tea, that Miss Hudson had died other than naturally. Nor to Nanny, who was next on the scene — called in by Beatrice. Nor to Lady d’Estray, called in by Nanny. I can quite understand that Beatrice’s instinct was to tidy up for the doctor. He told them, too late, not to touch anything. He suspected that the old girl — Miss Hudson, I mean — had taken an overdose of some sleeping draught. He didn’t know her — she was as tough as a moorland pony and had absolutely no use for doctors or drugs. I went to the Park before lunch — I found a message from the Superintendent when I came in. The general opinion was that, what with cub-hunting twice a week and dragging people out for ten-mile walks the rest of the time, she’d overdone it, getting on for seventy she was — I should never have thought it, would you, Treadwell? When I heard that she was full up with oenanthotoxin — whatever it may be — you could have knocked me down with a feather. Treadwell and Sergeant Blow went up at once and started questioning the servants, that’s to say Beatrice, who took in the tea, and Nanny, called in by Beatrice, and Benson. None of the others, of course, would know anything.’

  ‘With the possible exception of the kitchen help who, presumably, washed up the glass.’

  ‘The glass wouldn’t go to the kitchen,’ said Treadwell.

  ‘Where would it go then?’ asked Price a little irritably.

  ‘To the pantry, of course,’ said Treadwell.

  A gong rang then and Treadwell got up and said, ‘Well, sir, that will be your dinner.’ The lady-dog jumped out of her basket. Though there were still questions that Price wished to ask, the conference, if such it could be called, was plainly over. Price got out of his chair and picked golden hairs from his coat sleeve. The lady-dog was wriggling and whining at the door.

  ‘Have to dine early now,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘We’ve only got Mrs Witts in the kitchen, and she likes to get washed up and finished.’

  ‘Too bad, sir,’ said Treadwell.

  ‘Oh well,’ said the Chief Constable, and Treadwell knew what he meant and thought, not for the first time, how well they were taking it, these doomed and done-for ladies and gentlemen; but Ronald Price thought, dine early! It would do him good to get his own dinner and wash it up too, the old bastard. ‘I suppose you’ll be going up to the Park first thing tomorrow,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘You won’t want me under your feet, but I’ll be at home all day if I can help you. Astonleigh 96. Incidentally it takes longer to get through than it does to walk across the d’Estrays’ park and up my spinney.’

  Out in the drive the Superintendent said, ‘I’ll send my car back and come along with you, Inspector; then I’ll see you get fixed up at the Red Lion and hand over my notes — you might like to glance through them.’ And, ‘This is Astonleigh,’ he said, as the car turned into the highroad. ‘I was born here. It’s supposed to be one of the prettiest villages in England. Well kept up too,’ he continued, peering into what seemed to Price the total darkness … ‘The Colonel owns what doesn’t belong to Sir Charles and both of them are good landlords.’

  Price said, ‘Landlords are, or should be, an anachronism.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Treadwell, ‘you’re in favour of Council houses. We don’t care for them here — all as alike as two peas — rules and regulations — no end of a rigmarole if you want anything done in the way of repairs; while Sir Charles’s or the

  Colonel’s tenants have only to mention it next time they run into them in the village. It’s pleasanter too if a chap gets behind with the rent to be dealing with one of their sort, instead of a lot of yapping Rural District Councillors. However, we can’t all think alike, can we?’

  Price said, ‘In the case of thinking men, there are some subjects on which there can be no difference of opinion.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we all agree that the world’s round and a few things like that,’ said Treadwell. ‘But otherwise — well, it’s always fascinated me to study bot
h sides of a question. That’s why I take two papers — the Mail and the Herald. The Chief Constable does the same, only of course he takes the Times instead of the Mail, and the Spectator.’

  ‘I should have thought Country Life or the Field were about his mark,’ said Price. ‘I don’t suppose that he actually reads the Herald. Trying it must be for you chaps to have to work with these old buffers.’

  Treadwell gasped. ‘I’d sooner work under the Colonel than — well, anybody. D.S.O. and bar and a lieutenant-colonel at thirty in the old war and ran our Home Guard in this: a wonderful horseman and everybody’s friend for miles round — you ask anyone you meet in this village. Well, not this village,’ he amended. ‘This is Aston Common; pretty enough once, I daresay, but spoiled by bungalows run up by retired Harborough tradesmen. We get a lot of trouble here — no crime, of course, but a mass of petty complaints about dangerous dogs and mischievous kids and crowing cockerels.’

  ‘I don’t blame people,’ said Price. ‘We all require our night’s rest and recuperation. Recently I have been compelled to complain about some neighbours of mine in Finchley. If once householders commence to keep chickens, a locality quickly deteriorates. In addition to the fact that recuperative slumber becomes impossible, a view of hen-runs, where lawns and rose-beds were intended, detracts considerably from the amenities.’

  ‘Well, I must say I like a nice egg for my tea,’ said Treadwell. ‘I’d sooner any day see a nice brown egg than a bed of roses.’

  Price said, ‘I don’t deny that I’m partial to an egg myself, but the present allocations are sufficient to keep us in health, and the amateur poultry-keeper is merely attempting to secure for himself a luxury unobtainable by his neighbour.’

  ‘Well, that’s human nature, isn’t it?’ said Treadwell. ‘And here we are at the Red Lion,’ he continued thankfully. ‘You stay where you are for a moment, Inspector, and I’ll pop in and see what Mrs Dawes can do for you …’