Chapter 19
When Alec pulled up behind Dr. Curtis’s maroon Talbot, anger lay as heavy in his stomach as the fried-egg sandwich Daisy had handed him as he dashed out of the door. He was furious with himself.
He ought to have foreseen that something like this might happen. Walker was obviously not the most emotionally stable of men. Whether Alec’s persistence had aroused his suspicions or he was already aware of his wife’s infidelity, he was bound to go off the deep end one way or another.
It all seemed horribly straightforward, though a few questions remained. Had the major killed himself from sheer despair at being cuckolded, or had he killed Talmadge and committed suicide in part from guilt? With any luck he’d have written a note of explanation.
A third uncertainty wrapped Alec in a miasma of sick dread: he prayed he wasn’t going to find Gwen Walker murdered in her bed.
As he stepped from car to pavement, doubts began to nibble
at the corners of his mind. They were driven into retreat by the arrival of the police surgeon. Ridgeway bounced out of his sporty Bugatti, black bag in hand.
“I gather you have another one for me, Fletcher. This’ll tie up the last one, eh?”
“Perhaps.”
“Come, come, my dear chap, isn’t it obvious? Walker discovers his Gwen is indulging in a bit of nooky with the dentist, does him in in a fit of temper, and kills himself out of remorse. I bet you a fiver he’s left a note explaining it all. They nearly always do.”
“How do you know about Talmadge and Mrs. Walker?” Alec asked sharply. “Rumour, or of your own knowledge?”
Ridgeway laughed, a trifle uneasily. “Why, of my own knowledge. Doctors don’t spread rumours, you know, like policemen. I saw them at an hotel in Brighton, a discreet little place, doesn’t ask awkward questions. I’m a bachelor, remember.”
“And whom did you tell?”
“No one.”
Alec stared at him.
“Well, perhaps one person. Pillow talk. You can’t expect me to give you her name.”
No wonder Daisy hadn’t been able to trace the rumour to its source. “I hope I shan’t be called to your house next, to find out who cut your throat with your own scalpel.”
Chastened, Ridgeway followed him to the house. Alec hoped he realized that his “pillow talk” might well be responsible for Walker’s death, possibly Talmadge’s and Mrs. Walker’s as well.
The front door stood open, but Alec rang the bell. The
daily woman came out of the front room. “Oh, it’s you, ducks, the rozzer. Come on in, do.”
“Morning, Mrs. Davies.” Alec caught a whiff of coal-gas as he entered the hall. “Have you seen Mrs. Walker this morning?”
“I just got ’ere meself, ducks, and I’m that flambustigated I dunno whether I’m on me ‘ead or me ’eels and that’s the truth.”
The divisional DS came into the hall from the rear.
“Mackinnon, have you seen Mrs. Walker?”
“No, sir, not yet. I only just got here.” Momentarily the Scot looked as if he resented the implication of inefficiency. He caught on with admirable speed. “Och nay, ye dinna think … ?” He turned towards the stairs.
“’Ere now, you can’t go barging in on madam,” Mrs. Davies protested. Then she looked from Mackinnon’s grim face to Alec’s, and her own paled. “Blimey.”
“Mrs. Bates hasn’t seen her either?” Heads shook. “Ridgeway, go up with Mackinnon, please,” Alec requested. “Mrs. Davies, Dr. Curtis is in the kitchen, I take it?”
“Yes, and a young rozzer as the sergeant brung wiv ’im.”
“And Nora Bates?”
“In the front parlour ‘ere. The doctor told ’er to go sit down wiv ’er feet up. Nasty shock she ’ad, and ‘er not as young as she was. I was wiv ’er when you rung the bell.”
“Go back to her, will you? I’ll need to talk to both of you in a bit. Don’t say anything about … what may be upstairs, please.”
“Me lips is sealed,” promised Mrs. Davies, “but let’s ’ope it’s a false alarm.”
“Let’s hope,” Alec agreed fervently. He headed for the kitchen.
Dr. Curtis was just coming out. For a moment Alec couldn’t work out why he looked lopsided, then he realized the old man’s shirt was buttoned wrong so that his tie was awry. He must have left home in a great hurry. Alec raised his hand to his tie to make sure he hadn’t done the same thing.
“Morning, Fletcher. Nothing to be done for the poor chap, I’m afraid.
Sergeant Mackinnon said Ridgeway is on his way and no doubt he’ll be more precise, but at a guess he’s been dead seven or eight hours.
Without moving him, there’s nothing to suggest he did not die of coal-gas poisoning. I thought you’d want him left in situ.”
“Yes, thank you, Doctor. We have to consider all the possibilities.”
“And I dare say this may be connected to the other nasty business.” Curtis sighed. “Ah well, such is life—and death. I’d better have a word with Mrs. Walker before I go, though I’d say she’s a lot tougher than Mrs. Talmadge, less likely to be overcome by her feelings. Is she still upstairs?”
“Yes.” Alec put a hand on his arm. “She hasn’t yet been told about her husband. Dr. Ridgeway has gone up. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind looking in on Mrs. Bates first? She’s in the sitting room at the front.”
Alec was further delayed by the young uniformed constable Mackinnon had ordered to stop anyone entering the kitchen. By the time he had shown the embarrassed but determined lad his credentials, Mackinnon was hot on his heels.
“She seems to be all right, sir. This was by the bed.” In his handkerchief-wrapped hand he brandished a small white cardboard box.
“Sleeping powders, Veronal, to be taken as needed. But it’s almost full, and Dr. Ridgeway says she’s sleeping normally, though verra soundly. Did you want him to wake her?”
“No, let’s leave her in happy ignorance as long as we can. Constable, go and ask him to come down to the kitchen.”
“Softly,” cautioned Mackinnon, transferring the box to his pocket. “Dinna wake the lady.”
“Did she and the major share a room?”
“Aye, Chief, looks like it. Two single beds.”
They went on to the kitchen. The door stood open. The smell of gas was strong in the passage, unpleasant but not choking. Alec stuck his head into the kitchen and sniffed cautiously.
“Not too bad.”
“Bearable,” Mackinnon agreed. “Mrs. Bates opened all the doors and windows before she rang up Dr. Curtis.”
Alec stepped in and stopped to one side just inside the door, to survey the scene.
To his right was an open door to the outside, the window beside it also wide open.
Ahead, beyond a scrubbed wood table, was the sink, with another open window above it.
Over the draining board was a gas hot-water geyser.
Following Alec’s gaze, Mackinnon commented, “Good job the geyser isna the kind with a pilot light, or we’d be investigating a hole in the ground.”
To their left was the stove. The oven door half concealed Major Walker, dressed in dinner jacket and black trousers, their formality in incongruous contrast to his position. His
back to them, he was partly seated on a cushion, partly sprawled on the tiled floor, his head resting on another cushion inside the oven. Whatever dreadful despair drove people to gas themselves, they almost always tried to make their last moments as comfortable as possible. A cosy death.
“It’s usually women who choose a gas oven,” Alec said with a frown. “Not what I’d expect of a military man. You didn’t see a note?”
“I would have showed you right away, Chief.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“Nothing on the kitchen table. It could’ve blown off.”
“True. Check the floor in the passage and front hall, will you, and have your constable look around the front and back gardens. We’ll hold off on a thorough search till Tring and Piper get here.”
As the sergeant left, Alec started to circle the table, scrutinizing everything he passed.
The kitchen was neat and spotless, “all shipshape and Bristol fashion,” in Mrs. Davies’s words, except for two mugs and a small saucepan in the sink.
The mugs were full of brown-scummed water, a teaspoon standing in each.
The inside of the pan, also filled with water, was coated with white scum.
Bedtime cocoa, Alec thought, then he noticed the tin on the draining board. Bedtime Ovaltine, he amended. Samples of each liquid must be sent to the lab. He wished he had the “murder bag” Tom kept muttering about, with everything necessary for collecting evidence.
Rounding the third corner of the table, he looked down on Major Francis Walker, deceased.
“She’s perfectly all right.” Ridgeway’s arrival startled Alec, whose thoughts were presently devoted to Gwen
Walker’s unfortunate husband. “Veronal she appears to have taken. The sergeant has the remaining powders, which I’d say is most of them. It’s best to let her sleep it off if you can. If you wake her, she’s liable to be dopy.”
“No hurry.”
Ridgeway joined him by the stove. “Poor devil. I’ll tell you this, old man, if I ever decide to get married, I shan’t choose a beauty. All right, if you’ve seen what you need to, let’s have a look at him.”
“Don’t move him yet, please, not more than you can help. I want some photos. Does his position look natural to you?”
“As natural as they ever do. They arrange themselves carefully, but as soon as they lose consciousness they slump all over the place. Not that I’ve seen more than two or three before, but once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.”
Alec moved out of his way. He knelt beside the body, grasped one wrist, and started muttering about ambient temperatures and the onset of rigor.
Mackinnon returned. “No sign of a note on the floor, sir. Constable Jenkins is still looking outside. Shall I give him a hand?”
“No, leave him to it. It’s a long shot. You can go and tell Dr. Curtis that Mrs. Walker is sleeping and ask him if he prescribed the Veronal. If so, see if he can remember how many doses he gave her.”
“He doesna dispense, himself, sir, but if he canna recall how many he prescribed, I’ll ring up the chemist. The name is on the box.”
“Good.” The word was at once assent and approval. DS