Here Lies Gloria Mundy

8

Hounds in Cry

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I think all three of us dreaded Anthony’s appearance in the coroner’s court. He and the medical witnesses were called and then the police put up two other people, one of whom I had more or less expected, the other somewhat of a surprise. The chief fireman was the first of them to take the stand. He described the fire, referred to Celia’s telephone call to the fire brigade and, in answer to questions he stated that, to the best of his knowledge, there had been no body among the ashes and nobody had been trapped in the house.

‘She would have run out screaming if she had been in there when the fire started,’ he said, ‘if she had been alive, that is, which we’re told she wasn’t, but we would have seen her body. Wood burns out to fine ash, as everybody knows, and wood — plenty of it, of course, but that makes no difference — was all that got burnt up, the walls being good Cotswold stone and still standing.’

‘What about the roof? That wasn’t made of wood,’ said the coroner.

‘Oh, well, yes, a lot of slates did come down, but if there had been a body I still reckon me or some of my lads would have seen it.’ (This point was emphasised by the police surgeon, who asserted that the body showed no sign of having been struck by falling roof-tiles.)

The surprise witness, so far as I was concerned, was Anthony’s gardener, who had reported the finding of the body. I suppose my surprise was irrational.

‘You are William George Platt?’

‘That’s me.’

‘You live at Begonia Cottage, Hilcombury?’

‘That’s right, there being no gardener’s cottage on the estate, so I go to Beeches Lawn daily.’

‘So you were not at Beeches Lawn when the fire broke out in what is known as the old house?’

‘A man can’t be expected to do no gardening after dark.’

‘Where were you?’

‘At the Weaver and Loom. Plenty there to say so.’

‘When did you know about the fire?’

‘Next morning, when I went to put in my day.’

‘Did nobody mention the fire to you before that?’

‘Ah, come to think of it, they did, well, sort of. When I got home from the pub my missus said as she had heard the fire-engines go past our cottage, so she wondered where the fire was, or whether it was only an exercise, but it was no business of ourn, we didn’t think, so we went to bed and then next morning I found that poor soul when I see what had happened to the old house. I started to do a bit of clearing up and then I seen her and went to get my orders from Mr Wotton who I guessed would be having his breakfast.’

‘And when you had reported to Mr Wotton?’

‘I never. He was busy, so I reported to Mrs Wotton and I reckon she phoned the police.’

‘Did you, in your capacity as gardener, ever store any inflammable material in the old house?’

‘Course not. I’ve got my shed and anyway the old house was kept locked. I only got in to see the body because the front door, being wood, was burnt down.’

‘And you had no idea that anybody was living in the old house?’

‘I’d soon have had ’em out of it. If anybody lived there, they only lived there of a night.’

The inquest had to be adjourned so that the police could continue with their enquiries, but everybody, ourselves included, had expected this. Poor old Anthony had had to say that he had identified the body as being that of Gloria Mundy, for no relatives had come forward, neither had the police been able to find any, for any personal documents which might have been helpful and which might have been in Gloria’s handbag or suitcase had been consumed in the fire.

The medical evidence did not help the police very much, either. The report was that it was impossible to state the time when the murder had been committed, for all the usual indications — staining and discoloration spreading into the face and neck, marbling of the veins and so forth, had been eliminated by the scorching that the body, and particularly the face, had received in the fire.

One thing was certain. The fire itself was not the cause of death. There was clear evidence of a deep stab wound, inflicted in the back, which must have killed the girl. The fire had undoubtedly been an attempt to cover up this more serious crime. What seemed to me to be the most extraordinary feature of the case — the fact that, although the face was unrecognisible, the hair had been no more than scorched — was not mentioned, so I suspected that the police were keeping very quiet about this possibly significant circumstance.

The inquest had opened at ten in the morning. Celia had not attended it, but, apart from Anthony and myself, William Underedge had turned up, although he slipped away so quickly at the end that we did not get a chance to speak to him. I wondered how he had found out the date and time of the inquest, but I supposed Celia had written to Karen and the news had been passed on.

We had scarcely finished lunch that day when Detective-Inspector Rouse and Detective-Sergeant Skinner were announced. Their purpose, it seemed, was to confirm who had been staying in the house when Gloria first turned up.

‘You see, sir,’ said Rouse, ‘the medical evidence, as it stands, is of very little use to us for the time being. As I read the pathologist’s report, the deceased could have been killed almost as soon as she arrived here.

‘We know, from your own admission, when that was, and the headmaster of the school, Mr Coberley, and also his wife, whom I interviewed separately — her in the nursing home — before I came here, both confirm it, but I need witnesses who can tell me of subsequent events. As I see it, the deceased could have met her death at any time from that day almost up to the time when the body was actually put into the house and the bonfire started.’

Anthony confirmed the list of names and addresses he had given before, then he and Celia were politely but very definitely dismissed and Rouse turned his attention to me.

‘Now, sir, obviously Miss Mundy was acquainted with Mr and Mrs Wotton, or she would hardly have turned up at this house and been invited to stay for lunch.’

‘I don’t think Mrs Wotton knew her,’ I said, ‘although it was she who issued the invitation. I believe Miss Mundy was acquainted with Anthony Wotton before his marriage, that’s all.’

I wondered, even as I said this, whether I was not letting Anthony down, but I did not see why Celia should be mixed up in this beastly affair more than could be helped. After all, I had had my arms round her, however involuntary the embrace had been on both sides, and the warmth of that sporadic encounter, together with her warm greeting upon my arrival at Beeches Lawn, remained with me. Besides, I thought of Imogen, whom I had allowed to slip out of my life.

Rouse pounced upon my words.

‘So Mr Wotton was acquainted with the deceased, but Mrs Wotton was not,’ he said. ‘I see. May I ask whether you yourself were acquainted with the poor young woman?’

‘No, I had never met her before she came here.’

‘What about the other guests?’

I thought I saw a chance of doing a bit of cover-up for Anthony, whom I felt I might have landed in the cart.

‘Well, there was another man who had known her some time back, I believe,’ I said, ‘but he wasn’t actually present when she arrived and she had gone before he got here.’ (I reserved the information that Hara-kiri had seen her in the grounds.)

‘Who would that be, sir?’

A man named McMaster, H K McMaster. He and Wotton used to play in the first fifteen when we were at college together, so I suppose they knew the same people.’ I thought rather well of myself for thinking that one up. He consulted Anthony’s list.

‘Mr McMaster, yes. Exactly when did he arrive and how long did he stay?’

‘He came on the same day as Miss Mundy, but later. As a matter of fact, McMaster came to see me, to talk over some literary work I was doing for him. It was in preference to my going to see him at his home that the Wottons invited him to meet me here. Our talk was supposed to be completed that same afternoon, but the storm made all the roads pretty bad, so McMaster was asked to stay the night, and decided to do so.’

I hoped to goodness that he would not ask whether Hara-kiri had seen anything of Gloria in the grounds or elsewhere, and he did not. He merely asked whether any of the other guests had been acquainted with Gloria. Here, thinking that I could spread the load a little further, I said that I did not think any of the other guests had met her before, but then I added, ‘But I believe one of the young couples, who had to come back because their car got bogged down when they were caught in the storm, thought they might have seen her. Of course they only got a fleeting glimpse of her in the rain and they didn’t really know her.’

‘Then why did they assume it was Miss Mundy?’

‘That extraordinary hair by which Wotton and I identified the body.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, sir. Where had they met her previously?’

‘Only at Sunday lunch. By the way, is Dame Beatrice down on Wotton’s list of guests? She was not at lunch but she had come to cast a professional eye over the dotty aunt, and she had gone before Gloria came. Had to attend a conference in Cheltenham, I think.’

‘Dotty aunt?’ said Rouse, and I could almost see him prick his ears. ‘How dotty? Do you mean’ — he looked at Anthony’s list — ‘Miss Brockworth?’

‘Dotty enough to heave a chunk of bread into Miss Mundy’s plate of soup and splash her up to the eyebrows, and dotty enough to attempt to climb an unsafe staircase and bring it down with her and break a leg,’ I explained.

‘That would be the staircase in the burnt-out house?’

‘Yes. That’s why there was all that wood to which somebody set fire.’

‘Where is the lady now?’

‘In hospital, of course.’

‘And you think she is mentally unstable?’

‘How else can you account for her actions?’

‘I have her down on the list of guests with which Mr Wotton has furnished me. All the same, he did not mention the hospital or her accident. He merely gave me her home address.’

‘I suppose that is what you asked for.’

‘I don’t approve of people who withhold information, sir. I shall have to see this old lady. If she went to the old house, she may have something to tell me.’

‘Well, take care that you haven’t got a plateful of soup in front of you. She’s a dead shot at short range,’ I said, with a flippancy which was not only out of place but, under the circumstances, unwise, for he said stiffly that he was obliged to me for the warning. I asked whether there was anything more I could do for him. He replied that he had no more questions for me ‘at the moment’.

I did not care for the sound of this. It was clear that he had not finished with me. I pressed the point and asked whether I was free to return home.

‘At least, not home,’ I said. ‘I want to carry out my commission for Mr McMaster and he has set a deadline.’ I explained the nature of the job I was doing for Hara-kiri and added that the pay was good and that I needed the money. He proved not to be such a bad chap after all. He agreed to let me go after I had given him the addresses of the hotels I had still to inspect and the approximate time that I expected to stay at each one.

‘There’s another thing,’ I said, struck by a sudden idea. ‘Have you had a complaint from Mr Coberley?’

‘A complaint? About what, sir?’

‘Well, it seems there must be a gang of louts at work. They could be the arsonists as well, don’t you think?’

‘As well as what, sir?’

‘Somebody smeared grease — butter, he thinks — on the steps outside his house and his wife took a nasty toss and hurt her head. I expect they told you about it at the nursing home.’

‘And so, sir?’

‘Then comes this burnt-out house. Coberley had an option to purchase it and it got destroyed. Doesn’t that seem to add up? It could all be part of a vendetta against the Coberleys.’

‘And the murder of Miss Mundy? How do you fit that in?’

‘A clear case of a mugging. It wouldn’t be the first one which has ended fatally. My theory is that these louts killed the girl after she left here. They must have gone further in mugging her than they had ever intended, or else she fought back and one of them used a knife on her. I imagine he only threatened her with it at first and then lost his head. To me it all adds up. They must have thought the old house was already Mr Coberley’s property, so saw a chance of getting rid of the body and avenging themselves on Mr Coberley at one and the same time, even after the greasy steps incident. It looks like a real campaign of hate and revenge to me.’

‘Do I understand that you are a writer, sir?’ Although his tone was inoffensive, the implication of the words was plain.

‘Yes. I told you about the job I am doing for Mr McMaster,’ I said evenly.

‘Just so, sir. You would need plenty of imagination for literary work, of course.’

‘I suppose I might say the same about your job,’ I retorted.

‘True, in a way, sir, but we have to establish actual facts before our imagination (which is to say our theorising) is allowed to come into play. You have no facts whatever to support your theories. It is highly unlikely that a gang of louts put grease on Mr Coberley’s doorstep. That would be merely a child’s thoughtless trick and far more likely to have been carried out by some of his own boys; it is equally unlikely that a gang of young hooligans would have known that Mr Coberley had any interest in the old house. Further to that, we have had no complaints of muggers in this town. Then again, if a gang had stabbed that young woman to death, they wouldn’t have risked picking up the body and bringing it on to Mr Wotton’s premises. They might have tumbled it over a hedge into somebody’s front garden, but after that they would have scarpered, believe you me. Now, sir, is there anything you know — actually know — about this business and which you would like to confide to me? You arrived, I understand, before any of the other guests and you are the only one of them who is still here.’

‘I don’t know a thing which would help you, Inspector, and that’s flat. Anyway, you claim that there is no reason to suspect hooliganism, but what about the burnt-out car found blocking the byroad to the old convent just close at hand?’

‘The car was left — abandoned, of course — by thieves, sir. It has nothing to do with the Mundy case.’

‘That body was never part of the bonfire at the old house, Inspector.’

‘The chief fireman’s evidence at the inquest would seem to indicate that, sir, but what makes you so certain?’

I decided that I had gone far enough, so I said that I thought it a possibility and said nothing more about Gloria’s hair. I added that I thought nets should be cast as wide as possible, that was all. He said that the police always considered a case from every angle and that perhaps I knew very little of the world outside the ivory tower (as he had heard it called) of a novelist. This nettled me. I reminded him that I was also a journalist. I then said, ‘Have you ever heard of a sheila-ma-gig, Inspector?’

‘I can’t say I have, sir.’ Having set me down, as he thought, he was good-humoured again. ‘Is it a kind of jack-in-the-box?’

‘No. You might do worse than study the subject,’ I said. ‘I think Miss Mundy was a bit of a sheila-ma-gig.’

‘You wouldn’t care to explain your meaning, sir?’

‘No. You are much too young,’ I said.

He looked at me, but all he said was: ‘Thank you for your help, sir. I had better see Mr Wotton now. Perhaps you would be good enough to locate him for me. I do not want to bring the servants into this part of my enquiry just yet.’

Before I left Beeches Lawn the three of us discussed the inspector’s visit and revealed to each other what had been said. Whether Anthony and Celia told me all that had passed between them and the inspector and whether Anthony had confided fully in Celia and vice versa, there was no telling.

‘The whole business is complicated because of the accident to Mrs Coberley,’ I said at the end of the discussion. ‘But for that, I would agree wholeheartedly that the murder was committed deliberately by somebody who detested Gloria or was very much afraid of the harm she could do him or her. That the fire was started deliberately to cover up the identity of the corpse can’t possibly be disputed, but I think the burnt-out car explains itself. The old house was a cover-up.’

‘Somebody who hated Gloria or was afraid of her? You’ve got a wide choice there, I fancy,’ said Anthony. ‘She was a real little pot of poison. Did you know about that Italian artist fellow who committed suicide after he got mixed up with her?’

‘You think Rouse ought to cast his net a lot wider than he seems to be doing? That’s exactly what I told him.’

‘I suppose she did turn up here unexpectedly?’ said Celia suddenly and with obvious meaning.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ shouted Anthony. ‘Of course she did! And now will you lay off? Do you want to see me doing a thirty-year stretch for killing her? Stop picking on me, for God’s sake! I thought we’d done with all that!’

I decided, rightly or wrongly, to speak my mind.

‘Look here, you two,’ I said, ‘if you don’t take care, you are going to land one another in the cart if you continue with all this damn silly bickering. Celia, you foolish girl, you must have known, even if he hadn’t told you, that you weren’t marrying a man unspotted by the world. I can’t think what woman would want to marry Sir Galahad. He may have been perfection perfected, but I bet he was the biggest prig on earth and the most blasted, pie-faced boring do-gooder ever to have out-miracled Pollyanna. Why don’t you grow up? Your job is to stick by Anthony and back him through thick and thin. Where’s that “Voice that breathed o’er Eden” gone to?’

‘The voice that breathed o’er Eden was the voice of the serpent,’ said Anthony, red in the face. ‘Get lost, Corin! Drop dead, if you prefer it! One more crack out of you in criticism of my wife and I’ll knock you silly.’

‘Oh, Anthony!’ said Celia. Before she could add, ‘My hero!’ I slid out. My bags were already packed. I left without formal leave-taking, reflecting with some self-satisfaction that Dame Beatrice herself would have been the first to congratulate me on my handling of a domestic situation which, if Celia had been kinder and wiser, need never have arisen between her and Anthony.

I went back to my flat, left some laundry and a note for the woman who ‘did’ for me, re-packed and telephoned the first of the hotels to let the manager know that I should be along early on the following day. They had all been warned by McMaster that I could give only short notice of my visits, so that nobody could say exactly when these would be. The result was that I had been offered various types of accommodation, from an attic room in the staff quarters to a room in an annexe, to a luxurious suite on the ground floor which happened to be vacant at the time of my arrival. I had accepted what was offered without comment, regarding it as the luck of the draw so far as bedrooms were concerned. The food, drink and other amenities had always been beyond praise, so I had nothing to complain about.

The first of the Cornish hotels had been purchased from an old-established family which could no longer afford to keep it up, even by turning it into a tourist attraction. It was somewhat forbidding from the outward view, a very plain-looking Georgian house whose south façade was relieved from otherwise uncompromising austerity by a very fine pillared portico and the addition on either side of twin pavilions, light, graceful and charming.

I sub-edited the brochure for this house, finding little to add or alter, and telephoned McMaster, with whom I kept in touch when I was ready to pass on to the next hotel. When I handed in my key to the receptionist, she produced a letter for me.

As soon as I scanned the envelope I knew that the writing was unknown to me. As it had been re-addressed from my publishers’ London address, I took it for fan-mail, thrust it into my pocket and did not read it until I was in my room at the second Cornish hotel. This hotel was, as a building, the most interesting and unusual of all those which I had surveyed. It had begun as a monastery, had been fortified later by one of its abbots, had passed into private hands in the sixteenth century; from then onwards it had been altered and enlarged until the company of which McMaster was a director had taken it over, demolished its most grotesque and unfortunate features and left it in the form which might have been the intention of the original planners, at any rate so far as its outward appearance was concerned. Inside, like all the other McMaster hotels I had visited, it was almost boringly luxurious.

The room allotted to me was in one of the flanking-towers. It was small, but it looked straight out to sea and to the left and right there were magnificent views of the south Cornish coast. It was not until I began to undress to take a pre-dinner bath that I thought of the letter. It was from (of all people) Miss Eglantine Brockworth.

‘I take it very ill,’ the letter ran, ‘that you did not come to see me in hospital before you left Beeches Lawn. I have much to say to you and all is strictly confidential, so I can only tell it to someone I can trust. I observed you closely during the short time we were together and noted that you conducted yourself with propriety and self-restraint and this encourages me to confide in you. Come as soon as you can. The rozzers are rounding us all up and time is short.’

After dinner I rang up Beeches Lawn and got Celia.

‘I’ve had a letter from your aunt,’ I said, ‘sent on by my publishers. She wants me to visit her in hospital, but I hardly know her, so I don’t think it’s quite my scene.’

‘Meaning you hate visiting people in hospital,’ said Celia perceptively. ‘Well, don’t go. She’s a cagey old thing. She asked me to lend her that novel of yours. I thought she wanted to read it, but now I can see it was a way of getting in touch with you through your publisher without our knowing what she had in mind.’

‘Perhaps I ought to go,’ I said. ‘It seems unkind not to, now that she’s asked me. After all, she’s a very old lady.’

‘Please yourself, Corin, but I ought to warn you that they hate her at the hospital and it spills over on to her visitors. I go to see her from a sense of duty, but you don’t have to bother.’

‘I’ll write to her, then,’ I said, ‘and tell her that I’m quite tied up at present, but I’ll visit her as soon as I can.’