Here Lies Gloria Mundy

10

Colloquies

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I rang to ask Anthony for Dame Beatrice’s address and telephone number and then I rang up her secretary and asked for an appointment. I said that I had met Dame Beatrice at Beeches Lawn and had been at the house when murder and arson were committed. Two days later I was at the Stone House on the edge of the New Forest and in conference with the eminent lady.

‘So the police have arrested the headmaster,’ she said. ‘I wonder why?’

I gave her the reasons, so far as I knew them and she nodded as I put to her the various points. When I had finished she sent me out to walk in the forest while she mulled them over. In the hall I encountered a tall, well-proportioned woman who asked why I was leaving so soon. I explained that I had been sent off while Dame Beatrice meditated and asked whether I might borrow one of the walking-sticks which I saw in the umbrella stand, as it helped my thinking to whack at heaps of fallen leaves and stinging-nettles and suchlike extravagances of nature when I was out in the country and in a quandary.

‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘You might take the dogs out as well. George wants to clean the car and I’ve got a raft of correspondence to go through, so it would save us both a job if you would do it.’

‘So you are the voice on the telephone,’ I said.

‘And you are the scribe, but not, I hope, the Pharisee, as my esteemed boss would say. You’re staying for lunch, then, as we had hoped. There will be another guest, and Dame B. says you are already acquainted with him.’

‘Not McMaster?’

‘No. This is a man — youngish, I gather — named William Underedge. He represented her at the inquest.’

‘So that was it! I wondered why he was there. I thought it must have been because his fiancée, Mrs Wotton’s niece, sent him along.,’

‘No. When Dame B. read about your Beeches Lawn murder and the fire and all the rest of it, she thought it was very interesting. She said she had met a very capable and reliable young man at Mr Wotton’s house and bade me page him. I tracked him down, beginning with the London telephone directory and, needing to go no further, got in touch and issued him his marching orders. Apparently, like all people of taste and discernment, he had taken a great fancy to Dame B., short though their acquaintance had been, and he agreed to drop everything and go straight down to Hilcombury, which he knows well because his father used to own a woollen mill down there, and attend the inquest.’

‘I shall look forward to meeting him again,’ I said politely.

‘That will be Underedge now. What a bit of luck! You can take him out with you and give him the story. Dame B. won’t want to be bothered with him if she’s mulling over whatever news you’ve brought with you.’

She was not the type to ask what this news was, but, when William Underedge had been admitted, I told both of them that Coberley had been arrested. William Underedge said, ‘What absolute nonsense!’

Laura Gavin said that she supposed the police had something to go on, so I told her about the long dagger which had been found among the ashes of the fire.

‘But headmasters of prep schools don’t go about sticking daggers into people,’ she said. ‘It’s out of character.’

‘He wasn’t always a headmaster,’ said William. ‘He was a wealthy businessman before his marriage. My father had some dealings with him when we owned the mill. He was shrewd and perhaps a bit hard, but as straight as they come.’

‘Did you ever come up against his bad temper?’ I asked.

‘Certainly not. I’ll tell you another thing.’

‘Tell it to Mr Stratford while you’re out for your walk,’ said Laura. ‘I’ve got a lot to do before lunch. See you later.’

So William and I collected the dogs and took the forest walk to a little bridge over the stream and, as we leant on the rail and looked down at the clear brown water, he said, ‘I don’t see how they can hold Coberley on the evidence they’ve got. It isn’t really evidence at all.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. His previous record? The injury to his beautiful wife? His admission that the dagger belonged to him — well, to one of his boys from whom he had impounded it? The fact that he had a key to the old house?’

‘Yes, granted, but there is the man himself. Cranford Coberley, so-called, although not the name my father and I knew him by, might conceivably kill a man in a fit of passion — it was easy to see that he idolised his wife — but I cannot believe that he would kill a woman, certainly not by stabbing her in the back. I thought the medical evidence given at the inquest was very interesting. That stab in the back was probably a woman’s crime.’

‘Well, it couldn’t have been done by Marigold Coberley. She was in the nursing home,’ I said. William straightened up and we finished crossing the bridge and whistled up the dogs who had gone chasing off after rabbits. ‘She would have been suffering from concussion and severe bruising.’

‘I don’t know so much,’ he argued. ‘I gathered that the time of death was very uncertain owing to the extensive burning of the body. The girl could have been killed before Mrs Coberley had her accident and, if she was, the whole case against Coberley goes down the drain. As soon as he is brought before the magistrates he will be released. I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, for his sake I hope you’re right,’ I said, ‘but that dagger will take some explaining. Nobody but Coberley would have known of its existence in that wooden box in the old house.’

‘I bet every boy in the school knew about it. I bet lots of them had handled it before it was impounded. The staff would have known of it, and I daresay the servants too. The person who sold or gave it to the boy would have known of it. The police need to cast their net a lot wider than poor Coberley. I expect they are being pressurised and think that any arrest is better than none. Incidentally, how do you come into the affair? In other words, why are you here?’

‘I am Miss Eglantine Brockworth’s emissary to Dame Beatrice.’

‘Miss Brockworth isn’t as crazy as people think.’

‘I don’t know about that. I am to make a cryptic statement to Dame Beatrice.’

‘A quotation from that ancient tract she’s so fond of?’

‘I don’t think so. I am to tell Dame Beatrice that nothing will come of nothing.’

‘I wouldn’t call that a cryptic statement. I would call it a self-evident axiom.’

‘Ah, but that’s only half of it. The other half is to the effect that Gloria killed Gloria.’

‘I don’t see anything mysterious about that, either. People who get themselves murdered are often responsible for what happens to them. Think of the silly girls who thumb lifts. Think of impossible wives murdered by husbands who’ve come to the end of their tether and battered wives who can’t see any way out of their miseries except the death of the person responsible for them.’

‘Those are not the only reasons for murder.’

‘Granted. As for Miss Mundy, I did not see enough of her to judge whether she could be a possible murderee, but she struck me as being an unpleasant type of girl. What did you make of her?’

‘Like you, not much, but I don’t think I would have cared about cultivating her acquaintance.’

We turned back at the end of half an hour. During our return stroll we dropped the subject of Gloria Mundy and talked about the forest itself, its ponies, the gypsies, the rights and duties of the Verderers, the privileges granted to the commoners, the deer, the care of the trees, and on all these topics I found William Underedge far better informed than I was.

He stayed for lunch and when he had gone, Dame Beatrice, Mrs Gavin and I settled down, so to speak, and I passed on Miss Brockworth’s message. Dame Beatrice took it more seriously than I had anticipated.

‘She said that, did she? Interesting,’ was her comment.

‘I suppose what the Delphic oracle said was interesting to those who could make head or tail of it,’ said Laura Gavin.

‘Oh, I think Miss Brockworth’s statements had a very plain and straightforward meaning. I wonder whether it was guesswork on her part, or whether she has anything definite to go on? You would not know, of course, any more than I do, Mr Stratford. So the police have arrested Mr Coberley? How very precipitate of them. Well, now, is there anything you can add to what you have already told me?’

‘I don’t think so, Dame Beatrice. You mentioned guesswork. Don’t you think that’s all it was, and some of it rather malicious?’

‘Her niece may have told her about Mr Wotton’s premarital acquaintanceship with Miss Mundy. Incidentally, but for your information, when I had my talks with her, I asked her to write down some sentences which I dictated. They contained a disproportionate number of a’s, o’s, d’s, g’s, p’s and q’s.’

‘I think I see what you were getting at. My guess is that she carefully joined up the rounded tops of those letters, instead of leaving them partly open, as many people do when they are writing fairly fast.’

‘Exactly. Miss Brockworth dislikes leaving unnecessary gaps.’

‘So what she doesn’t know, she invents.’

‘Her deductions are logical, and, despite what may appear to be evidence to the contrary, she is shrewd, precise and well-informed.’

‘Her information is acquired by listening behind doors,’ I said. ‘She may have heard Gloria trying to blackmail Anthony.’

I told the story of Gloria and the young mother from America, and the baby dumped into the arms of the unsuspecting Anthony. I told of the photograph of him and Gloria in the guise of fond parents. When I had finished she cackled and made a comment I did not want to hear, but of which I could hardly deny the significance.

‘She had forged a powerful weapon,’ she said, ‘if Mr Wotton has a jealous wife.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If the whole truth came out, there could be as strong a case against Wotton as against Coberley. Then there is McMaster, who also had an affair with the girl. There may be others. What if the wretched Gloria got money by blackmail and one of her other victims, not Wotton or McMaster, tracked her down and killed her?’

‘Blackmail comes under the heading of dangerous trades, certainly. Not only is it a major crime, but the blackmailer can never be certain that one day one of the victims will not turn, like the proverbial worm. “Publish and be damned” is not only a courageous but the most sensible reply to blackmailers. If it came to the point, they would hardly dare to carry out their threats.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t know whether Coberley killed Gloria or not, but I don’t want to see Wotton or McMaster in the dock in his place.’

‘ “Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing”,’ said Laura Gavin mockingly, and Dame Beatrice added, ‘Ring up Mrs Wotton and ask her to find out whether Mrs Coberley would care for me to call on her. I have my own reasons for believing in Mr Coberley’s technical innocence.’

‘His technical innocence?’

‘Oh, I think it more than likely that Mr Coberley might have killed Miss Mundy, if — ’

‘If somebody else hadn’t beaten him to it,’ said Laura Gavin. I returned to Beeches Lawn puzzled and perturbed.

To my astonishment, Marigold Coberley’s response to Celia’s call (which was in person and not over the telephone) was a blunt and apparently unalterable refusal to entertain a visit from Dame Beatrice.

‘But how extremely foolish of her,’ I said. ‘Surely she knows of the immense reputation Dame Beatrice has built up for herself? Surely she knows of her standing at the Home Office? Surely she realises that Dame Beatrice would not offer help if she didn’t believe that poor old Coberley is innocent of the charge? Can’t you tackle the silly girl again and persuade her to have a bit of sense?’

‘No, I can’t. I can’t say more to her than I have said already. Have a go at her yourself, Corin, if you think you can do any better than I’ve done. I’ve talked my head off and done no good at all. She must be mad to refuse such wonderful help, but there it is. She says it’s up to the lawyers. It’s their job now.’

With some embarrassment I informed Dame Beatrice of the result of my telephone call. She listened to my apologetic explanation that Marigold must be suffering from severe shock and depression and did not attempt to cut me short. At the end she said, ‘You have told me what I expected to hear.’

‘That Marigold Coberley would turn down your most kind and generous offer?’

‘Yes. Come and see me again, if you can spare the time.’

‘Right away,’ I said. When I arrived I repeated my question: did she know that Marigold would refuse her help?

‘Not exactly that. What you have told me confirms my view that Marigold Coberley believes that her husband did kill Gloria Mundy. Oh, well, if the cup is full, perhaps the saucer will be more receptive. I shall go to visit Cranford Coberley himself.’

‘If it’s a permitted question,’ I said diffidently, ‘do you believe that Coberley is innocent?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘the time sequence may well be wrong.’

‘Oh? In what way?’ I enquired.

‘I think I agree with William Underedge’s theory that the murder may have been committed before Mrs Coberley slipped on the school-house steps and hurt herself.’

‘If that could be proved, it would go a long way towards removing Coberley’s motive for murder,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Dame Beatrice, ‘if it could be proved, but that proof may be difficult to find and it may be non-existent. I will hear what the man himself has to say. I doubt whether he will refuse to see me, although he would be within his rights to do so.’

‘He would be a fool to refuse help,’ said Laura. ‘As for his wife, even if she does think him guilty, surely she wants to do the best she can for him.’

‘Possibly she thinks she is doing the best she can for him,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘She may have heard that I have a passion for finding out the truth, so, if she really believes that he murdered Miss Mundy, she will do everything she can to keep him out of my clutches. Well, now, Mr Stratford, I need to know the address of the hospital. I shall look in on Miss Brockworth tomorrow morning at eleven. Would it fit in with your plans to meet me at the hospital gates at twelve?’

‘But they won’t let you in at eleven,’ I said. ‘The visiting hours, you know.’

She grinned at me with a mirthless stretching of her mouth. Laura Gavin told me impatiently not to be silly.

‘There isn’t a hospital in the land which would keep Dame Beatrice out,’ she said. I apologised. Dame Beatrice cackled and our next meeting was arranged forthwith. I parked in the hospital grounds at a quarter to twelve to make certain that I did not keep Dame Beatrice waiting, got out of my car to stretch my legs after having driven to the hospital from McMaster’s Dorset hotel where I had spent the night, and saw Laura Gavin at the wheel of another car. I went up to it and she wound down the window.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘I’ve been wondering why Dame Beatrice asked me to meet her here.’

‘I think she wants to tell you what she and Miss Brockworth have had to say to one another. Are you free for the rest of the day?’

At this moment Dame Beatrice emerged from the main door of the hospital. She was accompanied by nurses who were attending her as though she were royalty. I walked towards them and Dame Beatrice took her leave. I escorted her to her car.

‘We are all to lunch at Beeches Lawn,’ she said. ‘Will you lead the way and then Laura can follow you.’

It was clear that Anthony and Celia welcomed us with relief as well as with enthusiasm. Celia, in fact, went so far as to say that poor Cranford Coberley would be all right now.

‘Not necessarily,’ Dame Beatrice said. ‘So much depends upon when the murder was committed. Unless that can be established — and upon present evidence it looks almost impossible to say when the killing took place — it is the vexed question of an alibi which faces us. This afternoon I shall hear all that Mr Coberley can tell me about his movements after the last time that Miss Mundy was seen at the old house.’

‘The worst of it is,’ said Anthony, ‘that people living their ordinary lives and carrying out their normal duties have no idea that they may need to provide themselves with an alibi for any particular time. I doubt very much whether I could remember what I was doing or where I was at any particular time between when Gloria rushed out of this house in a blazing temper because of naughty old Eg and the soup, and the time the body was discovered after the fire.’

Over lunch the three of us, Anthony, Celia and myself, filled in the blanks to the best of our ability. After lunch Dame Beatrice went over the various points and Laura Gavin took down our answers. It did not seem to me that these helped very much. She had a complete list of the people who had been at lunch on the day that Gloria had shown up, and I had already told her of the visit paid by McMaster and how he had had to stay the night because of the storm, and we mentioned the departure and return of Kay Shortwood and Roland Thornbury on the same day.

‘They saw Gloria at the window of the old house, so she was certainly alive then,’ said Celia, ‘and Aunt Eglantine saw her after that.’

‘So that narrows the time a bit,’ said Anthony. ‘Aunt Eg met her at the old house when she elected to climb that rotten staircase and brought it down with her.’

‘She told me about that,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘It seems that she wanted to look at a valuable picture which was kept in the old house.’ She looked enquiringly at Anthony and added, ‘It seems a curious place to have kept it, if it really was valuable.’

‘Oh, my aunt got it into her head that it was a Rubens, but, of course, it was nothing of the sort. It was by an unknown artist and I shouldn’t think it was worth more than a few pounds.’

‘It was a striking bit of painting, though,’ I said. ‘I saw it when Coberley took me into the old house. It could have been a portrait of Gloria herself, as a matter of fact.’

‘So Anthony told me when he first came clean about his association with Gloria before we were married,’ said Celia.

‘So you refused to have it in this house, I suppose,’ said Laura Gavin.

‘No. It had always hung in the old house,’ said Anthony. ‘My father would not have it in here.’ He told the story of his great-grandfather and the original of the portrait. ‘I imagine the woman had a child by the old reprobate,’ he concluded, ‘and Gloria was her direct descendant. To that extent I suppose she can claim — as she did — to be a distant relative of mine.’

‘What form did the portrait take?’ asked Dame Beatrice. ‘Was it a portrait-bust, a full-length study, or what? Was it in the clothes of the period, and, if so, what would that period have been? Miss Brockworth could not describe the portrait to me, as she said she had never seen it.’

‘We took care she didn’t see it,’ said Celia. ‘It was a reclining nude and, although the girl was so thin, there was a sort of horrible suggestiveness about it which was — well, would have been to anybody of my aunt’s generation — quite revolting.’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ said Anthony. Celia opened her mouth, but caught my eye and said nothing. Dame Beatrice asked what, to me, was a surprising question.

‘I know from William Underedge, who kindly attended the inquest for me, that you and Mr Stratford were called upon to identify the body,’ she said to Anthony, ‘and that it was the parti-coloured hair alone which aided you. Would you, Mr Wotton, have been equally sure of your identification if you had been shown the whole body of the deceased?’

Considering what, presumably, had been Anthony’s previous relationship with Gloria, I thought this was an outrageous question. Anthony did not look at Celia, but he answered Dame Beatrice steadily and seriously enough.

‘I don’t see what difference it would have made,’ he said, ‘because I suppose the body wouldn’t have been recognisable, either by me or by anybody else, if it had been burnt as badly as the face was burnt.’

Dame Beatrice turned to me.

‘Mr Stratford, from what you have told me, I gather that you were the first person to see Miss Mundy arrive at Beeches Lawn.’

I looked out of the window at the trees and shrubs which bisected the garden and, turning again to Dame Beatrice, I agreed and added,

‘She came along the front of the house, where we are now. I saw her from my bedroom window.’

‘So much I remember. She came in from the direction of the playing-field. To do that, would she have had to pass a convent which was mentioned to me in connection with quite another matter?’

‘It’s no longer a convent,’ said Celia. ‘You are talking about that car which was burnt up?’

‘And Miss Mundy arrived here on the Sunday I left?’ went on Dame Beatrice.

‘On the Sunday, yes. Some local craftsmen use the building now, but they wouldn’t have seen Gloria go past the place,’ said Anthony. ‘The old convent is empty at weekends.’

‘Splendid,’ said Dame Beatrice. I thought I knew the reason for her satisfaction. All the same, I wondered how Gloria could have known that the convent building would have been deserted on the Sunday of her arrival. Dame Beatrice, who appeared to be able to read my mind without asking questions of me, said calmly, ‘She asked what the building was, I suppose, and one of the local people or perhaps one of the schoolboys told her.’

‘I wonder whether she saw that burnt-out car,’ said Celia. ‘I don’t think the police knew about it until the lessee of the convent building reported it, though. It probably wasn’t there when Gloria came that way.’

‘I do not see how it could have been,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Does your gardener work on Sundays?’

‘Certainly not. I’m a churchwarden,’ said Anthony, ‘and am in honour bound to keep the fourth Commandment.’

‘Except in the case of cook and her scullery maid,’ said Celia. ‘There are limits to his pious observance of the Sabbath. He does love his midday Sunday dinner, although we do have a cold meal at night.’