Murder Included Read online

  Elizabeth Hudson’s death stunned rather than grieved the d’Estrays. She had been for so long in their lives that they had accepted her without asking themselves what they had felt for her. Sir Charles said, ‘Good old Elizabeth! We were all children together. She was the eldest and our leader in everything.’ Hugo, who had been her favourite among the present generation, said, ‘It’ll seem queer without her.’ Patricia said, ‘It’ll be rotten at Christmas.’ But when, in the evening, Sir Charles called his household together and announced that Miss Hudson’s death wasn’t natural, wasn’t suicide, might possibly have been an accident or — though he couldn’t bring himself to believe it — something very much worse, and hoped that everyone would do everything in his power to help the police in their enquiries and not be offended by the routine questioning, which would no doubt be necessary, Hugo and Patricia waited until the door had shut behind the paying guests and the servants and then Patricia burst out with: ‘It couldn’t have been an accident. Cousin Elizabeth never had any sleeping drugs or medicines. She wouldn’t even take aspirin. All she ever took was those old-fashioned senna-pod things. Some devil’s poisoned her,’ and Hugo more quietly said, ‘Whoever it was, we’ll hang them.’ ‘We’ll do our best,’ said Sir Charles. ‘To the guillotine!’ cried Lisa from the window-seat, where she had been unnoticed. ‘What’s that child doing here?’ asked Sir Charles. ‘It’s no place for her, Bunny.’ ‘Lisa, go and make daisy chains or something,’ said the distracted Bunny.

  It had been a dreadful day. She had been awake and was thinking: another day … well, I made my bed and I must lie on it … but hadn’t opened her eyes when someone had entered her bedroom, and since there was no chink of china or smell of coffee she had realized that something was wrong before she heard an urgent whisper, ‘Wake up. Come along — wake up, my lady.’ Then she had opened her eyes and seen Nanny in her blue print dress and white apron, and Nanny had said, ‘Miss Hudson’s gone,’ and Bunny had said, ‘Where?’ Nanny replied, ‘I mean, she’s dead, Beatrice found her. You’d better come and have a look at her.’ She held out Bunny’s dressing-gown of cherry corduroy and Bunny dived into it and they hurried along the corridor and across the gallery at the head of the stairs to Miss Hudson’s room, which, since she didn’t care a dam’ if her bedroom faced north, south, east, or west, faced north and looked between Palladian pillars, across the sweep of the drive to the deer park. Beatrice, a plump woman of middle age, with faded frizzy hair and china-blue eyes in a placid countenance, was standing at the door of the bedroom; she led the way in and there was Elizabeth Hudson, staring, quite horribly, from beneath a muddled heap of bedclothes. ‘Oh lord,’ said Bunny. Her first husband, the gifted but difficult Raoul Sallust, had died of tuberculosis of the lungs in a chalet in Switzerland, and he had died when the sun was setting behind the snow-peaks and the cows were coming in from pasture, and, bored by his sickness and knowing that he had left immortal lines behind him, he had died readily and peacefully, and Bunny, pulling down the blind, had thought, after life’s fitful fever … and the sweetest canticle is nunc dimittis … and the setting sun and music at the close … In the little Mediterranean port, on the outskirts of which she had built her small villa, she had become — how or why she never clearly understood — the friend and confidant of several of the poorest families, and more than once she had been with the grandmothers and the great-grandmothers when they died, and that had been well and good, the folding up of the garment at the end of day. But Elizabeth Hudson had died convulsed and frightened, struggling and vomiting.

  … ‘What could have been wrong with her?’ said Bunny, and then, ‘I’ll call Charles.’

  Sir Charles was slow to waken and then embarrassed because he hadn’t got his teeth in. ‘Something wrong with Elizabeth — well, surely you can ring up Hope-Johnstone without rousing the entire household.’ ‘But she’s dead,’ cried Bunny. ‘Nonsense,’ said Sir Charles. Bunny said, ‘Oh Charles, don’t be silly. I know a corpse when I see one.’ ‘Wait a minute,’ said Sir Charles and turned aside and there was a click and he’d got his teeth in. ‘Hand me my dressing-gown. I expect it’s all your imagination.’

  In Elizabeth’s room Nanny and Beatrice had set the bed to rights, but Charles turned very quickly from the body and said he would ring up the doctor. ‘What do you think she died of, Nanny?’ Nanny hadn’t liked Elizabeth and had always deplored her visits: she had taken the children for long walks and rides and overtired them, and she had encouraged them to make collections of pressed wild flowers, which littered the nurseries. ‘A heart attack, I should think, racing round like she did at her age.’

  Bunny went away and dressed, and Sylvia, the underhousemaid, brought in her breakfast and Lisa’s: Bunny, anticipating Simon and Iona’s opinion that to breakfast in your room was a disgusting French habit, had insisted that in the holidays Lisa should descend fully dressed to the schoolroom, but this was October and Simon and Iona were back at school. Lisa, small for her age and slight, with smooth brown hair, hazel eyes, and a clear pale skin, an insignificant figure among the tall handsome d’Estrays, was still in her pyjamas, but knew that Miss Hudson was dead and seemed inclined to a philosophical discussion; Bunny had barely got rid of her before Hope-Johnstone came and, after spending what seemed to Bunny, as she waited in the corridor, hours in Elizabeth’s bedroom, told her to lock the door and not let anyone touch anything, and then went down to the study, where he remained for some time closeted with Sir Charles. After he had gone, Sir Charles called Bunny and, carefully closing the door, tactfully broke it to her that Hope-Johnstone was unable, without a post-mortem examination, to sign a death certificate, that he suspected an accident or suicide, and that the Superintendent from Harborough would be coming along and, later, an ambulance. Bunny said, ‘He must think she took an overdose of something. There was a glass on the bedside table when Nanny fetched me this morning, but Beatrice may have taken it down when she tidied up the room for the doctor.’

  This she repeated later to Superintendent Treadwell, who then held the view that Miss Hudson wasn’t, probably, as tough as she liked to make out, was in the habit of taking some kind of sleeping draught and had overdone it, ‘though what baffles me is that there’s no sign of any sort of medicine in her room,’ he admitted. He saw Beatrice and Sylvia, who confirmed Bunny’s supposition about the fate of the glass and were able to tell him that it was Miss Hudson’s invariable habit to take a nightcap of whisky and water, and that a long tumbler was placed in her room every evening when the bed was turned down. Refreshed by elevenses in the housekeeper’s room, Treadwell went back to the police station; the police ambulance arrived; Sir Charles and Benson took charge and Elizabeth Hudson went out of the house on a stretcher down a secondary staircase. Shortly afterwards Colonel Rivett-Bankes called, stayed some time with Sir Charles and exchanged a few words in the drive with his godson, Hugo. Bunny kept out of his way. She never knew what to say to him.

  At luncheon, when the guests were seated at their tables, Sir Charles, with his back to the fire, addressed them simply and solemnly, was sorry to tell them that his cousin, Miss Hudson, had died suddenly, was afraid that, as she hadn’t seen a doctor for many years, there would have to be an inquest, but could assure them that they would suffer no inconvenience. Before he could reach the family table, where Bunny was looking out of the window at the light drizzle, Lisa was making bread pellets, and Hugo and Patricia had their eyes on the table-cloth, Mr Rose got to his feet and was sure that he was speaking for all in expressing his deepest sympathy for their popular host in the loss he had sustained. ‘Those of us who had the great good fortune to meet her in the hunting field,’ said Mr Rose, ‘were particularly impressed by her courage and good sportsmanship.’

  Sidney Rose, dark-haired and high-coloured, was wearing riding-breeches and a hacking coat of chestnut-brown Harris tweed; his yellow tie was adorned with foxes’ masks and hunting whips, a handkerchief to match was in his breast pocket and he wore a
yellow waistcoat. His cable-stitch stockings matched his coat. His suede shoes looked and were hand-made. Henry Scampnell, who, as Rose sat down, twisted himself into a position that was neither sitting nor standing, was dressed neither for country nor for town. He wore a rather thin grey tweed suit and a stiff collar with a silk tie. His most distinguished features were his thick grey hair and deep-set blue eyes. In his light voice and with the grammar-school accent that Iona imitated, he said, ‘I should like to second Mr Rose’s remarks. I’m sure we all feel for Sir Charles and the family in their sudden loss.’ Across the table his desiccated, ladylike wife frowned at him and he subsided.

  Sir Charles said, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much,’ and sat down to his rapidly cooling tomato soup.

  After luncheon Bunny retired to her little sitting-room upstairs. She had contrived to vacate the morning-room on the ground that it was needed as a writing-room for the guests, and, in spite of Sir Charles’s protest that it wasn’t fit for her, had established herself in an erstwhile sewing-room in the west wing. Sir Charles, with The Times under his arm, joined her there and, having announced that it was useless to discuss Elizabeth’s death until the result of the post-mortem was known, discussed it until four o’clock, when Benson came in to tell him that Superintendent Treadwell was in the study. ‘Don’t come down,’ Sir Charles told Bunny. ‘Since I married you, I’ve dragged you through one sordid affair after another. Let me spare you this,’ and Bunny assented, for, since only goodness knew what was in front of them, it would be wise, she felt, to seize the smallest opportunity of allowing Charles to protect her.

  He was soon back. Treadwell wanted the whole household called together, and Sir Charles was to hint at what Treadwell believed — that Elizabeth had been murdered. For the post-mortem had revealed that she was full up with some vegetable poison. ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I think the drawing-room would be best — more room. Benson’s told the servants to come in and he’s collecting the others. I’ve sent Hugo to fetch Pat from the stables.’ ‘And I suppose,’ said Bunny at the head of the stairs, ‘that, while you’re speaking, that imbecile Treadwell will be watching for guilty faces. I do hate policemen.’ Sir Charles, going down the stairs, turned and gave her a look. Treadwell was standing in the hall below them.

  Bunny watched him while Sir Charles spoke. His expressionless eyes did indeed move from face to face, and then quite unexpectedly met hers, and she felt herself blushing and at the same moment remembered saying to someone that she would like to strangle — was it? or poison? — Elizabeth. Please God, I said it to Lisa or someone who doesn’t matter, she thought in a panic, and then: Lisa … that scene over the flowers … she yelled and screamed, you beast, you pig, you cow, I’d like to kill you, and everybody heard her, everybody. … Sir Charles, having finished hoping that everybody would do everything in his power to help the police in their inquiries, was speaking to Treadwell, and then he nodded to Benson and the servants went out and, as though he were at a party, Sir Charles said, ‘Mr Rose, this is Superintendent Treadwell, who’s going to clear up this business for us … and Mr and Mrs Scampnell and Miss Margot, and here’s Flight-Lieutenant Marvin. Our only absent guest is Mr Howard Rose, who comes down at week-ends from London.’ Treadwell said, ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, there are some routine questions that I should ask — just for form’s sake,’ and Sir Charles said, ‘I’m sure everyone will be glad to do everything they can. My study’s at your disposal, Treadwell. Would you like me as your first victim?’ Treadwell looked embarrassed and said, ‘I can talk to you any time, Sir Charles,’ and Sir Charles said, ‘Well, what about Hugo?’ ‘I can always find Mr Hugo,’ said Treadwell. ‘One of the guests, perhaps …’ and then Sidney Rose said, ‘Take us in order of seniority: then we can’t be jealous. I think we came here a few days before the Scampnells,’ and, ‘You’re the big noise in Harborough, I suppose,’ he said chattily, as he left the room with Treadwell.

  At dinner, while the d’Estrays ate in silence, the paying guests gossiped, calling from table to table. Treadwell had been sweet to Sybella Rose, but Cecily Scampnell thought him dense and doubted if he would ever find out anything; Henry Scampnell pointed out that he had not been trained as a detective; Sidney Rose believed that these country-bred chaps had an enormous amount of common sense, partly inherited from their forebears, who for generations had lived near to Nature, and Nature couldn’t suffer fools, and partly acquired by living near to Nature themselves; and this common sense was often sounder, if slower, than the sharpness of the townsman. To support his contention he recounted a conversation he had had with a philosophical hedger, which Mrs Scampnell capped with the sagacities of an Indian syce.

  It was not until late that evening that the Chief Constable telephoned to tell Sir Charles that, after a lot of consideration, he had decided to call in Scotland Yard. Sir Charles, as he told Bunny afterwards, had been a little stiff about it, and pointed out that it wasn’t going to be very pleasant, having outsiders butting in. But the Chief Constable besought him to consider Treadwell’s point of view: ‘He has known you and been taught to look up to you since he was a nipper — how can he ask you where you were on Monday at eleven pip emma?’ ‘I shouldn’t care if he did — he’d only be doing his job,’ Charles argued. ‘I don’t suppose you would care,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘but Treadwell would. Awkward for me, too, Charles. By and large I’m a tactless blighter, and I’d hate to endanger a long and, may I say, a very pleasant friendship.’ ‘You’d have to be very tactless to do that, old man,’ said Sir Charles. But, sitting on the edge of Bunny’s bed as he told her, ‘Sounds as if he saw himself arresting me —’ ‘I think he’s right in a way,’ said Bunny, lighting a cigarette and remembering too late that Charles didn’t like to see women smoking in bedrooms. ‘He’d have to keep an open mind, wouldn’t he? And it’s rather awful to keep one’s mind open about one’s friends.’ ‘I don’t see any difficulty in that,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Well, of course, men don’t,’ said Bunny. ‘They throw chaps out of clubs because they cheat at cards and afterwards they cut them in Piccadilly.’ ‘Well, naturally,’ said Sir Charles. Under the lace of her French nightdress, Bunny shrugged her firm thin shoulders and then she changed the subject. ‘What do you suppose he’ll be like — the Scotland Yard detective? If your who-dunnit books are right, he’ll be a peer’s nephew, or if he’s dull himself, he’ll bring a friend who’s a peer, or an Oxford professor, who laughs very loudly and drinks gallons of beer and quotes from Restoration comedies.’

  ‘I expect he’ll be quite an ordinary sort of man,’ Sir Charles said. ‘A bit more acute, I expect, than Treadwell. I do hope you’ll be discreet, darling, and remember that what you say in the gallery can be heard at the foot of the stairs.’

  ‘But I do hate policemen,’ said Bunny. ‘It’s not a generality. No one naturally sympathetic to me would choose to be a policeman. Charles, if Elizabeth really was poisoned, who do you think did it?’

  Sir Charles got up and walked about the room.

  ‘I can’t believe she was poisoned, because I can’t begin to think who could have done it or what motive there could have been. I don’t think Mrs Scampnell liked her: they were like a couple of cats always after hunting, but you don’t kill someone because you think you ride better than she does. Elizabeth didn’t care for the Roses, but it seemed to me that the more she snubbed them the more they smarmed up to her — Rose is a thoroughgoing snob, you know. If I had the handling of the affair — which, thank God, I haven’t — I should be inclined to look into Elizabeth’s past life for a motive; not that I should expect to find any murky secrets — a straighter creature never lived — but there might have been something. And that, of course, would make one think of Marvin; he seems a nice quiet fellow, though I wish he’d trim his moustache, I must say; but he’s the only one of our lodgers she knew before she came here.’

  Bunny ventured, ‘Of course Elizabeth could be irritating …’


  ‘Irritating?’ cried Sir Charles. ‘She was outspoken, that’s what you mean; but those blunt, downright people are never irritating — you know where you are with them.’

  ‘They’re irritating to some people,’ argued Bunny. ‘Weaker people, perhaps, who know they can be dominated and in consequence are desperately afraid of domination — don’t you see?’