Chapter Three #2
As they drove the short distance to the end of the village and turned into a narrow lane, Alec explained what he expected of his two remaining men.
“At present the family and staff are not under suspicion, and we have no reason to suppose they ever will be. I don’t want any hint that we’re interrogating them.
You two will go to the kitchen with some excuse—a glass of water, perhaps—and the chances are they’ll want to chat about the missing man. ”
“Can we let on he’s been found dead, sir?” Ledbetter asked.
“Certainly. I’ll be breaking the news to the family, though probably they’ve already guessed, when the chief constable rang up to tell them I was on my way.
All you have to do is encourage the servants to talk about his character, friends and acquaintances, how he spends his time, in fact anything at all related to his life beyond this household.
We’ve no idea what may be useful. Don’t take notes.
Or rather, only mental notes. I hope you’ve both got good memories. ”
Naturally both claimed excellent memories.
“The cook’s my auntie,” Pickett volunteered.
“Excellent. You’ll know the best way to get her talking, then.”
“It’s stopping her’ll be the problem. You don’t know my Auntie Flo.”
“All the better. DC Ledbetter is in charge, though.”
“Yes, sir. Here’s their drive, on the right there.”
They passed between brick gateposts, devoid of gates and topped with simple stone balls rather than heraldic beasts. Ledbetter commented on this.
“The Hallidays have never been ones to make a display,” said Pickett, rather severely.
Alec wondered whether, regardless of what Auntie Flo might reveal, it would be worthwhile turning to the constable for information about the family. As far as he knew, Sergeant Lear hadn’t consulted the village bobby when Halliday was reported missing.
A couple of hundred yards of weed-free gravel drive brought them to the manor, a red brick Queen Anne house, not particularly large but attractive and well-kept amid smooth lawns.
“Smugly prosperous” was the phrase that sprang to Alec’s mind.
So many small estates had been ravaged by high death duties since the War, but Quigden Manor seemed to have escaped.
Of course, if the late Vincent Halliday had a teenaged daughter, his father, Sir Daniel must be getting on in years, so there had been no recent death of a title-holder.
Did Halliday leave a son as well as a daughter?
If not, on the baronet’s demise the title and estate would doubtless pass to a more distant relative, just as Daisy’s father’s viscountcy and her childhood home had gone to a cousin she barely knew.
Could this be a family affair after all?
Was the murderer the next heir, the other two victims nearer heirs, or even red herrings?
But he was theorising far ahead of his data. “Pickett, any other children?”
“Two boys, sir, but they’ll be away at school. Miss Delia was sent home from school on account of an epidemic of scarlet fever.”
So much for that!
Alec rang the doorbell, noting that the manor had been electrified.
The door was opened by a stout elderly butler.
His round, bland face did not reveal whether he knew—or cared—that “the young master” was missing, presumed dead.
He looked Alec up and down, then glanced at the police car with the uniformed and plain-clothes officers sitting in it looking like policemen. One eyebrow twitched.
A second quick scrutiny of Alec apparently reassured him. At least, he didn’t advise him to go round to the servants’ entrance.
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, Scotland Yard.” He presented his official card, which the butler ignored. “I believe Sir Daniel is expecting me.”
“Ah yes, the … gentleman from Scotland Yard. If you’ll just step inside, sir, I’ll see if it’s convenient for Sir Daniel to see you now.”
Alec had every intention of speaking to the baronet within the next ten minutes, convenient or not. However, arguing with butlers was not only a futile waste of time but set their backs up, reducing—even ending—their usefulness as sources of information. Meekly he stepped into the entrance hall.
As presaged by the exterior, everything was in discreet good taste, from the gleaming floorboards to the Chinese bowl of pink and yellow roses on the gleaming half-moon table.
The butler departed down a passage leading off to the left, but he returned in just a couple of minutes. “Sir Daniel will see you in the library, sir. This way, if you please.”
The room was exactly as Alec expected. Walls of glass-fronted shelves held calf-bound volumes most of which had probably been there for at least a century.
A long table, a large rosewood knee-hole desk, and leather armchairs completed the picture of a Victorian, even Georgian, gentleman’s library.
What he had seen of the house so far seemed frozen in time, no hint of the twentieth century intruding.
What he had heard of the family sounded as if they—apart from the baronet’s enterprising granddaughter—embraced Victorian domestic virtues as well as Victorian décor.
Keep a stiff upper lip and don’t wash your dirty linen in public. How long would they have kept quiet about Vincent Halliday’s disappearance if the girl had not taken the initiative?
The butler announced him. A tall, lean man who had been standing staring out of a window, came forward to greet him, walking with the aid of a stick.
He moved stiffly, but his shoulders were unbowed by age, his steel-grey hair still thick.
Observing his lined face and liver-spotted hands, knowing the age of his son, Alec reckoned he must be in his seventies.
“Chief Inspector, Cheriton did not inform me of the purport of your visit, but I can only assume you bring bad news.”
“I’m afraid so, sir. Won’t you sit down?”
Sir Daniel raised his chin with an impertinence-depressing stare, then thought better of it. With a sigh and a faint, ironic smile, he said, “We none of us want to admit the influence of anno domini, do we? Perhaps I will.”
He moved to the table and took the seat at the end, motioning to Alec to join him. Alec was pulling out a chair when the door was flung open and a plump, fair girl-child burst in.
“Grandfather, they said there’s a policeman—” She stopped dead on seeing Alec. “Oh!”
“You were not invited, Delia.” The baronet’s voice was icy. “I will not have you rushing about in this hoydenish manner.”
“It’s my daddy who’s missing!” she cried. “You don’t care.”
“Of course I care.”
“Then why didn’t you—”
“Don’t argue. Go back to your mother at once. You will be told what you need to know in due course.”
He was unduly harsh, Alec thought, but it was none of his business and, in any case, nothing would make him relate the grim story in her presence. In fact, he was glad the girl’s mother and grandmother were also apparently to be excluded.
Delia glared at her grandfather, then her face crumpled and she ran from the room, sobbing noisily.
“My apologies, Chief Inspector. I don’t know what they teach at that school she goes to, but it’s clearly not self-restraint.”
The simple fact of his speaking thus to a stranger, and a mere policeman at that, showed him not half so cool and calm as he would have liked to appear. His face had taken on a greyish tinge Alec didn’t like. He looked every minute of his age.
However, he continued abruptly, “Please go ahead. I assume your presence indicates that my son is dead.”
Alec sat down. “Pending positive identification by a member of the family, sir, so we believe. All the evidence points that way. Have you a photograph?”
Sir Daniel was prepared. He handed over a studio portrait in a silver frame of an army officer, a major—in his late thirties, at a guess—in dress uniform. “It’s not very recent. We don’t go in for family photography. Well?”
Army officers in uniform tend to look very alike, yet there was no doubt in Alec’s mind. “I’m sorry, this strongly resembles the deceased. We’re still required to have someone make a personal identification, I’m afraid.”
He inclined his head in acceptance. “Regulations must be observed. I take it Scotland Yard would not be interested had Vincent died a natural death.”
“Correct.”
“May I know … what happened?”
After a brief internal debate, Alec said, “The information could materially affect our investigation, sir, but if you will give me your word—”
“You need not fear that I shall talk to the press,” the baronet said with a touch of anger.
“I’m sure of that, sir, but I must have your assurance that you won’t tell any of the family, even. No one at all.”
“You have my word.”
“Mr. Halliday was shot through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous.”
There was silence while Sir Daniel absorbed this. Then he said, “May I at least tell the family that he didn’t suffer?”
“If you wish.” Alec didn’t add that Spilsbury said Halliday had been bound hand and foot for several hours before death. He had undoubtedly suffered physical discomfort and considerable mental distress. “You don’t want to wait until after formal identification of the deceased?”
“No. My wife and his are as capable of drawing conclusions from your arrival as I am. My daughter-in-law must decide what is to be told to the child, and when. But I wish to see … him as soon as possible. Can it be arranged?”
“Whenever you wish, sir. My driver can take you.”
“I should prefer my own car and chauffeur.”
“Then DC Ledbetter will accompany you.”
“Am I—is the family under suspicion?” Sir Daniel asked harshly.
“No, sir. Circumstances are such that we can be fairly certain none of you is involved.”
“Fairly certain!”
“I’m sure you understand, sir, that that’s the best I can say until we’re in a position to make an arrest.”
“But for the present, at least, you’ll be leaving us in peace.”
“On the contrary, I’m afraid. You must see we can’t possibly find your son’s killer without knowing a great deal about him, his friends and associates, his history, every scrap of information we can pull together.
In a case of murder, I don’t need your permission to search his personal effects, including any papers, letters, and accounts.
Strictly speaking, the body should be positively identified first. However, for reasons I can’t go into, we strongly believe time is of the essence and I’d appreciate your allowing me to get on with it right away. ”
For a moment it was touch-and-go. The old man’s eyes flashed beneath his bushy eyebrows.
Then he sank back into a sort of apathy typical of many relatives of murder victims, when a sort of emotional anaesthesia set in.
“Do what you must,” he said listlessly. “Do you want to talk to me now, or after…?”
“Better get it over with, sir. If you wouldn’t mind arranging with Lady Halliday for her cooperation—”
“My wife will cooperate as she sees fit.” So he wasn’t the all-powerful paterfamilias!
“I shall tell her I consider it the most sensible course. My butler will instruct the staff to offer every assistance. Now, if you would be so kind as to inform your sergeant I’ll be ready to leave in twenty minutes?
” Pushing on the table, he levered himself from his chair.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Just one question: Would it have made any difference if we had notified the police sooner?”
“I very much doubt it.”
“Thank you.”
From his tone, he might have been thanking Alec for passing a cup of tea.