Bodies from the Library 4, page 23
Julian looked at him levelly. ‘He could get a great deal more by going to Truda’s grandmother. Now she would have paid the earth to keep the matter quiet; and she had it. You don’t think I’d have handed over all that money without some sort of written undertaking from Winson that would prevent him going on with the action? And you can bet your boots he wouldn’t have given it up for a mere paltry two hundred and fifty pounds.’
Mr Dickinson looked down at his rather particularly elegant ‘boots’ and decided that he would not risk them. Messenger was right. He wished they could have had this out before, but he had only just learned about the money paid to Winson. He hummed and hawed a little.
‘So it was just a loan?’
‘Just a loan,’ said Julian steadily.
The danger had passed. Truda’s taut hands relaxed, the light came back to her eyes. But Dickinson had not done. He said smoothly: ‘Very well. Then there’s nothing against you, Mr Messenger, except this: that on the night before the murder, at about the time that the poison must have been stolen—you were missing from your room. And you can give me no alibi.’
‘No,’ said Julian.
‘And Miss Deane can’t help you?’
(‘Whatever happens, Dickinson mustn’t know …’) ‘No,’ said Truda.
Gloria sat on the narrow bench which ran round the well, swinging one little foot, and suddenly she laughed.
‘What does that mean?’ said Truda, very cool and quiet.
‘I mean that under all your airs and graces you are contemptible,’ said Gloria, enjoying herself. ‘You go along in your cool way, rich and safe and smug; no worries, no fears, no temptations; and people think you are “good” and “sweet”. But as soon as trouble and temptation come you fold up, you’re not good at all, you’re just rotten like the rest of us …’ She looked round triumphantly.
‘Those two are in love; Julian was in Truda’s room that night, and now, though he’s in danger of his life because of it, though he’s in danger of being accused of murder, she won’t admit to it. She’s so terrified of losing her precious reputation, so terrified of her grandmother hearing about it and doing her out of her precious fortune, that she won’t admit to it. One word from her would give her lover an alibi for the whole night; she could save him from the slightest suspicion of murder, and she won’t say that one word!’
Julian started to his feet. He said, staring at Gloria: ‘My God!—so it would!’ and suddenly swung round upon Truda, flinging his arms around her, holding her close. ‘Oh, my love, my darling, what a silly, blind fool I’ve been! I couldn’t have stolen the poison; so whatever sort of motive I’ve had, I couldn’t have murdered Winson; and that’s all there is to it!’
To Dickinson, he said; ‘Gloria’s quite right, I was with Trudie that night. I was with her all night, and I couldn’t have stolen poison, and so I’m clear!’ And he kissed his love and said; ‘We here married last week!’ and held her close to him again.
Gloria took one of her neat about-turns: ‘So there, with my reproaches to Truda for seeming not to want to admit being—well, rather naughty!—I’ve revealed that Julian is free of all suspicion!’ But nobody noticed her. They were all intent on Mr Dickinson. If Julian were free of suspicion, upon whom could it fall next? But apparently he had not quite finished with Julian. ‘There’s still the matter of that cheque to clear up,’ he plodded on relentlessly.
‘Winson came to me that night at the dance,’ said Julian, one arm still held firmly about Truda’s shoulders. ‘He told me he had just arranged with Jenny to bring this action against me. I told him to bring it and be damned; that I was married to Truda now, and that was the end of it. The minute I’d spoken, I saw what a fool I’d been. He was on to it like a stoat …’
He glanced wryly at Gloria. but she was intent upon her white shoe. ‘He said that that wasn’t necessarily the end. He knew he couldn’t get away with the action—he admitted it—but he said it would make an awful stink; and he suggested that Truda’s grandmother would pay a good deal to keep it quiet.
‘I made another mistake: I—well, I’m not used to—to coping with this kind of thing,’ said poor Julian, wincing at the revelation of his ineptitude in dealing with crooks. ‘I blurted out that he mustn’t let my great-aunt know yet: that she hadn’t been told. As a matter of fact, we’d come down here to tell her, only, as you know, we found she was in London. Winson changed his tone. He began to be quite chatty; he talked about a “loan” and things like that; but what it all boiled down to was that if I didn’t oblige him, he’d ring her up straight away and tell her. Well, I couldn’t have that. It would have been the most awful shock to her to have our marriage blurted out over the telephone by a perfect stranger: it would have broken her heart.’
‘Of course the fact that her displeasure would deprive Truda of a large fortune had nothing to do with it?’ suggested Gloria.
Julian looked down at her with a twist of his eyebrow, a little look of half-humorous contempt. Honestly, one couldn’t keep up with ugly minds of such women as Gloria! He said: ‘At that moment the only thing I thought about was not distressing her. I knew how much Truda loved her and wanted her not to be hurt. As for money—yes, that did have something to do with it, naturally. Truda’s never gone without money, and I felt that it was up to me to try and keep it for her if I could. She didn’t tell me, till after we were married, that my great-aunt had actually said that she would cut her off if she married me—our being cousins was what mattered.’
‘Of course I wanted to persuade Aunt Edwina to let Trudie have her money, if I could. And there was a hurry, too, because we wanted her to know about our marriage before Trudie’s twenty-fifth birthday next week.’
‘Why?’ asked Dickinson.
‘Because after Trudie’s twenty-fifth, the money is hers whatever she may do.’
‘I still don’t see the connection,’ said Dickinson.
‘I wanted granny to know before my birthday that I had married Julian so that she could do as she liked about the money,’ Truda explained.
‘You see,’ cut in Julian, looking straight at Gloria, ‘I did not marry Trudie for her money, but I didn’t want her to lose it; through any fault or failure of mine.’ He turned to Dickinson. ‘Perhaps I should have come clean about our marriage to you …’
‘But you thought I might insist on making it public before you could get to Lady Audian yourselves?’ Dickinson saw and sympathized with their predicament.
‘Exactly. It doesn’t seem perhaps important to you, but it went on being important to me—even when by keeping our marriage dark I seemed to be heading straight for the dock as Winson’s murderer.’ Julian’s apologetic, modest words disclaimed for himself all heroism.
‘Your husband’s motive was entirely chivalrous, Mrs Messenger,’ Dickinson made Truda a courteous little bow, ‘and he is completely free from suspicion.’ Truda’s answering smile was sweet and grateful as she proudly gathered Julian’s hand in both of hers.
So that was that. Julian Messenger had an alibi, and a perfectly good alibi it was; for if he had not been with Truda, why should she have slipped into the bathroom and closed the door when Tiggy’s little knuckle came knocking at her bedroom door that night? Julian Messenger and Truda were both out. And that left—five people. Mr Thoms, Gloria Winson, Evan Stone, Miss Pye, Jenny Sandells. Mr Dickinson left them all on deck under the care of Inspector Trickett, and went slowly down the little saloon.
Sparrow had finished laying the table, a vase of flowers and fern stood in the centre, and round it were grouped the food and drinks, the pie and the sandwiches, the salad, the iced coffee, the lemonade. It was very hot and most of the company had abandoned their coats and cardigans in the launch; the steward had brought them all down and hung them carefully on hooks behind the bunk-seats.
Dickinson sent him up on deck with Tiggy, and himself sat down alone at the head of the table; sat for a long time deep in thought, rolling grubby bread pellets between thumb and forefinger and sticking them in an irregular pattern all round the edge of a plate. Mr Thoms, Mrs Winson, Evan Stone, Jenny Sandells, Miss Pye. Miss Pye … After a while he got up and went to the head of the companionway. ‘I say—Miss Pye!’
Miss Pye scrambled up from the well where they were all still sitting. ‘Yes, Mr Dickinson?’ She came towards him:
‘That day Mr Sandells died, Miss Pye: you were at the house?’
‘I arrived ten minutes after he was found,’ said Miss Pye carefully.
‘I see. You couldn’t—er—you couldn’t somehow substantiate that, could you? Did anyone see you arrive?’
‘Gloria knows it’s true,’ said Miss Pye, beginning to gabble slightly in her anxiety. ‘Gloria can tell you it’s true. I came in at the door and she said, Oh, Pye, where have you been?—John’s dead,’ she said. The nurse has just found him dead in his bed! I’m so upset,’ she said, ‘do ring up and try to get Evan Stone to come across and help me, and look after things.’ So I rang up Mr Evan at the aerodrome, where he kept his aeroplane, you know; and he said he’d come at once.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dickinson. He got rid of her. ‘Mr Stone—would you come here a minute, please?’ Evan came forward. ‘How far was your aerodrome from the Sandells’ house on Haverstock Hill?’
Evan looked at him oddly. He said at last: ‘Well, I told you the other day. It was twenty miles away; about that.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Dickinson. After a moment he added: ‘And it never occurred to you that that constituted a perfectly watertight alibi? That if you had killed Sandells, you couldn’t possibly have been at your aerodrome by the time Miss Pye rang up? I’ve only just understood that it was there, that she rang you up.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Evan. ‘I suppose it does let me out.’
‘Didn’t you realize, Mr Stone, that you were pretty seriously in need of a let-out?’
Stone laughed weakly. ‘Well, what do you think?’
Mr Dickinson did not laugh. He looked him straight in the eye. ‘I think, Mr Stone, that for a number of years you’ve been protecting somebody else at the cost of your own good name.’
He returned to the table. He knew now the Who. And the Why. For a little while he sat there silently, rolling bread pellets between his fingers and thumb, then he jumped up and walked round the little saloon, went carefully through the pockets of the coats, hanging on the pegs where Sparrow had put them. With haggard but no longer puzzled eyes, he summoned the party to the reconstruction lunch.
Tiggy greeted darling Mr Dickinson with rapture, and settled down on her stool (there was room for only a couple of chairs, besides the side-bunks, in the saloon), swinging excited legs and eyeing the feast before her, all unconscious of its significance. The rest of the party scrambled self-consciously into their places in an embarrassed silence. Dickinson stood in Geoffrey Winson’s place, back to the companionway. Sparrow faced him, standing beside a flap-table, holding the drinks. Trickett looked uneasily at Dickinson and hoped he was not going to make a fool of himself.
There was a pretence at remembering the small talk that had been talked several days before. They helped themselves to coffee and sandwiches, pie and salad and cake, and what they could not eat or drink was set aside. ‘I want to get things to exactly the same stage that they were in when Geoffrey Winson came down,’ said Dickinson.
Tiggy was given her cue and started working her way round the table with the plate of sandwiches. ‘But you, Miss Pye,’ said Dickinson, holding out a hand, ‘didn’t you pass Mr Winson something in the meantime?’
‘Oh, yes, the serviette,’ said Miss Pye, rather breathlessly. She picked one up from the table and gave it to him. ‘And what about that sea-sick tablet?’ asked Mr Dickinson coolly, still holding out his hand.
‘Sea-sick tablet?’ She stared at him, petrified.
‘Wasn’t that what you agreed upon at breakfast that day? He’d been talking to Sparrow about his fear of being sea-sick during the race? He went on talking to you about it; didn’t he? Sparrow could only suggest his getting some stuff from the chemist; but you—you’re a great one for patent medicines, Miss Pye—you had something to give him, hadn’t you? He was to take a second with his meal, to settle his stomach. There was an exchange of looks, perhaps—you passed him the serviette, and with it a tiny pill …’
‘No, no,’ cried Miss Pye, paralysed with terror.
Dickinson shrugged. ‘Very well; we’ll leave it for the moment. Now, Tiggy, old girl …’
Tiggy gobbled up one egg sandwich; he took the other from the plate and ate it slowly.
‘Then I asked Winson to have a drink,’ said Thom-Thom from the other end of the table.
Sparrow began to open a bottle of sherry. Jenny drank the remains of the iced coffee in her glass, and handed it to Dickinson.
‘I’ve taken great care not to drink from this side,’ she explained politely.
Evan passed over the heavy vacuum jug, lifting it carefully in both hands. ‘Winson helped himself and shoved it back across the table and I poured out some more into my own glass and drank it.’ Evan waited until Dickinson had gulped down the coffee as Winson had done; and then went up on deck. The sherry was passed up the table after a ceremonious tasting by Mr Thoms; and Trickett, acting Roy Silver’s part, handed him a piece of pie. ‘I suppose I’d better try and eat it,’ said Dickinson. There was a gleam in his eye.
Truda mixed a dressing and Jenny oiled the lettuce. Tiggy hung over his chair, the only person present not strung to a pitch of excitement almost unendurable; the only person present not acting a part. ‘I would love some,’ she said.
‘I don’t think we need go through that bit,’ said Dickinson. He put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair.
‘Oh, mummy, can’t I finish it? Do let me finish it.’
‘No, Tiggy, nonsense, don’t be silly. You can’t eat any more on top of all you’ve had.’
‘Oh, mummy!’
‘No, Tiggy,’ said Gloria. ‘No! You’ll be sick.’
‘Daddy was sick,’ acknowledged Tiggy thoughtfully. She turned hopefully to Mr Dickinson. ‘You’ve eaten some, haven’t you? Are you going to be sick?’
For answer, Dickinson put his hand to his stomach, staring in front of him with glassy eyes, and toppled forward, suddenly, across his plate.
They sat round the table, paralysed with fear, staring at him. Dickinson gave a little, horrible, grunting groan and was still again. ‘He’s poisoned!’ said one of the constables in a horrified whisper.
‘An emetic!’ said Trickett. ‘Quick. give him an emetic!’ He grabbed the mustard, and Sparrow in a daze passed him a jug of water. The constable, galvanized into action, lifted Dickinson and together they forced the mixture down his throat. ‘I’ll take him on deck, I’ll get him out into the fresh air,’ grunted Trickett. ‘Here, Boot, you stay and watch this crowd down here.’
Trickett dragged the stumbling body up the short ladder and on to the deck. Stone met them there, starting forward, stammering out questions. Dickinson reeled to the edge and vomited violently. He gasped out: ‘Trickett—go down to them!’
Below, in the saloon, Miss Pye began to scream. Constable Boot took the jug of water and slopped some over her face and she suddenly ceased. Gloria had kept her head sufficiently to cling to Thom-Thom. Julian and Truda stood helpless and appalled. Tiggy hung, howling, to Jenny’s arm, and Miss Pye began to scream again. Sparrow stood with a bewildered air, stock still beside his table.
Out in the sunlight. Dickinson lay moaning on the deck. To Trickett, bending over him, he whispered: ‘Go back. Look after things.’
‘I’ll stay with him,’ said Stone, looking across the prostrate, writhing body. ‘He seems to want you to go.’
‘I’m done for, Trickett,’ whispered Dickinson, feeling blindly for Trickett’s hand and tugging at it. ‘Cyanide. You can’t do anything. Go down and see …’
Trickett stared helplessly across the stretch of water between themselves and the land. ‘Is this … Is he going to die?’
‘He says it’s cyanide again …’
‘Frightened … murdering me so he wouldn’t be—found—out …’ Dickinson slumped again on the deck and was still. Trickett turned suddenly and stumbled down below.
Stone crouched beside Dickinson on the dick. ‘My God, this is frightful!’ Dickinson was deathly white and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. ‘I—I can’t bear to see you,’ said Stone, turning away his head from the terrible face and writhing body.
Dickinson groped blindly about him. ‘Trickett! Trickett! Where is he …?’ His voice was as feeble as a kitten’s.
‘You sent him below,’ said Stone.
‘No time … to call him … going now …’ He made a great effort. ‘Tell—Trickett—murderer—was …?’
‘Yes? Tell Trickett the murderer—tell him the murderer was …?’
‘Pye,’ whispered Dickinson; and lay still.
Stone sat back on his heels. He repeated incredulously: ‘The murderer was Pye? Miss Pye?’
Dickinson had, somehow, a stub of pencil in his hand. He raised himself painfully and began to print it in big sprawling letters on the pale silver of the deck. ‘P–Y–E …’
For God’s sake,’ cried Stone. ‘You—you can’t do that! You can’t write that …’ He snatched the pencil out of the feeble fingers. ‘I could never tell them … I could never explain to them …’ He repeated: ‘You mean you thought the murderer was Miss Pye?’
‘Pye killed John Sandells,’ whispered Dickinson, his hand groping for the pencil again. ‘I—knew—when you told me she—rang you up that day … Now she’s—killed—Winson …’
‘Oh, God!’ said Stone.
Down in the little saloon seven people sat round the table, staring like dummies at the companionway; they lifted their eyes as Evan Stone came down the steps with leaden feet and stood at the head of the table with Trickett a little behind him, watching him. Trembling, he passed his hand over his face where the sweat stood out in beads along the line of his hair. He said: ‘Inspector, you’d better go up to Dickinson. I think he’s dying. He’s got it into his head that—that Miss Pye killed John Sandells and that now she’s killed Winson; he wants to leave a message to tell you so. But it isn’t true. Pye didn’t kill Sandells.’ He paused for a moment and then said, as though it were an effort for him to speak the words: ‘Geoffrey Winson did.’
