Murder, London--Miami Read online

  “We made quite sure she had nothing to do with them,” Coppell said, stiffly.

  “Was Marshall fond of her then?”

  “There’s no evidence that he was,” answered Coppell. “But all the evidence and reports are on file, and since you’ve already poked your nose into Marshall’s affairs, you might as well have a look at them. Then you’ll be able to make sure that all of us on the case did our job properly,” he added drily.

  ‘He’s protesting too much,’ thought Roger.

  “Is it all right if I dig a little?” he asked.

  “Do what you like,” said Coppell. “We’ll give priority to anything urgent that crops up. Such as proving that Marshall knew about those letters to his wife,” he murmured.

  9

  DECISION

  Henrietta pulled up outside Number 5 Glebe Crescent, almost opposite the study window. She did not get out of the car immediately. It was futile to want to put back the clock; but how she wished that she could go back even to yesterday afternoon, with David in his tormented mood and she treading warily, never sure that she would not make a remark which would worsen his mood, either driving him to protest against her lack of feeling or thrusting him further back into a despondency which she felt duty-bound to try to lift.

  Duty-bound?

  Why was she always so convinced that she must help David out of a mood of despondency? Because she would help anyone? Or because he was David? Until she answered the question honestly to herself, she wouldn’t be able to think clearly or to judge her own emotions. On that thought, she stirred herself and got out of the car, locked it, and went to the house, glancing up and down. There were only fifteen houses in Glebe Crescent, eight on the other side, seven, rather larger, on this. Except for one at the far end, a Queen Anne house built in the days when this whole area had been meadow or farmland, David’s was the best – far enough back from the road to appear remote, yet close enough to be seen clearly. The wide, smooth lawns, the rose beds, the flagstones of the paths, were beautiful and distinctive.

  It was an elegant house, in an elegant setting, and she would hate to leave it.

  She nearly had left it – and perhaps, indeed, she had.

  David had only to make the decision that having her here simply on a friend-secretary basis was too disturbing. He might already have reached the decision in the cold light of morning. Yesterday’s crisis might have been the turning point.

  If he had, she couldn’t possibly blame him.

  And, in some ways, she would welcome it.

  She reached the front door, key in hand, and then said quite loudly, “No I wouldn’t. I’d hate it. I’d never get over it!”

  Alarmed, she wondered whether David was in the hall. If he were he would have heard that, and one of his first questions would be, ‘What would you never get over?’

  He wasn’t in the hall.

  He was often at his study window, or at the door.

  She hesitated, then tapped at the study door, to let him know she was in – but had he been in the study, he would have seen her, and surely made some sign. In some moods, when he had been hurt or affronted by something she had said or done unwittingly, he would wait for her to tap, and she could tell his mood by his tone of voice.

  She tapped more loudly, but there was no answer.

  Disappointed, she went to her own room, half-expecting to find him there, but this was empty, too. There were some letters on her desk with notes on how they should be answered, and her heart leapt. He hadn’t taken her resignation literally! She took off her coat and draped it over a chair, pinned up a stray wisp of hair, took the cover off the typewriter and tidied the oddments on her desk. It was hard to believe that that police officer, West, had been in here. She recalled West vividly: his good looks, the hint of strength held on a leash, the easy exercise of self-control.

  Where was David?

  She heard a footstep in the hall, and for the second time her heart leapt. His tread was brisk and firm. She half-rose from her chair as the door opened and he appeared. On that instant, and in spite of his swollen eye and mouth, she sensed that he was much calmer than she had known him for some time.

  “Hallo, Henrietta!” He held out both hands as he came towards her. She rounded the desk and they gripped hands for a moment, then he put his arms round her, kissing both her cheeks before standing back.

  Her eyes were glowing.

  “Good morning, David!”

  He smiled.

  “And in spite of the storm last night, you look lovely,” he said.

  “Thank you, kind sir!”

  “I should say you slept untroubled and long.”

  “I took a sleeping tablet,” she said simply.

  “The practical Miss Lyle! Let’s go into the study, I’ve things to talk about.” He moved towards the communicating door and stopped suddenly to take her hands again.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded, looking at her intently. “Really all right?”

  “I think so,” she said. “As far as I can be, first thing in the morning.”

  He laughed, and let her go.

  “Whatever you do, Henrietta, don’t ever change,” he told her, holding the study door open for her to walk through.

  A shaft of sunlight filled the room with an unfamiliar radiance. He had tidied up, and his own desk was in its usual immaculate order. He waited for her to sit down, studied her appraisingly, then, quite soberly, he said, “I’ve made a decision.”

  Suddenly, painfully, her heart contracted. She did not look away from him or change her expression, but slowly her blood seemed to turn cold. He had made a decision: he had decided not to go on trying to work out their relationship, but to take her at her word.

  “I hope it’s the right one.” She did not know how she made herself answer him.

  “It’s on your advice,” he said.

  Again she forced herself to speak.

  “Then you ought to be very careful.”

  “Henrietta,” he said. “I am over-tired, and if I don’t have a rest I shall go to pieces. So I’m going to fly to Miami and stay with my cousin Chloe for two or three weeks until I feel . . . rested.”

  He was going to Miami!

  He was going to take a holiday!

  Oh, what a fool she was.

  Thank God, thank God!

  David said, “You don’t seem very surprised. In fact you look delighted at the prospect of getting rid of me for a while.”

  “Oh, I am! I—”

  Suddenly she realised what she had said, had a flash of alarm lest he should take it literally.

  “I mean—” she amended, and then he chuckled and she found herself laughing.

  “I mean I’m delighted that you’re going away. I shall miss you, terribly, but—“

  He laughed again.

  “Oh, terribly,” he echoed, drily. Then he grew serious.

  “I can forget what you said about leaving, can’t I?” he asked.

  The question was almost absurd, coming at her moment of almost wild relief, and she didn’t answer at once; and for the first time that morning he looked anxious.

  “I simply can’t bear the thought of you leaving,” he went on. “I hoped that if I were away for a while you could have a spell without constant harassment.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” she replied. “You don’t harass me at all.”

  “I do very much, sometimes,” he said soberly. “You will stay, won’t you?”

  “Of course I’ll stay!”

  He looked at her a little uncertainly, then gave a faint smile.

  “You said that as if you really want to.” Before she could comment, he went on, “You can manage here on your own, can’t you?”

  “There’s at least enough rese
arch to keep me busy for a month, quite apart from day-to-day routine,” she assured him. “David – truly – I’m very glad. I’m sure it will do you a world of good. You want to get away from everybody and everything. In three weeks time you’ll be absolutely on top of yourself!”

  “I hope so,” he said, slowly. “You’ve got one thing wrong, though. I do not want to go away from you, I’d be a thousand times happier if you would come with me.”

  He paused, as if half-hoping to see some kind of ‘I’d love to come’ expression in her eyes. “What I would most like in this world is for you to live here, with me,” he went on, after a moment’s pause. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “It—it wouldn’t work out, David. It really wouldn’t.”

  ‘I suppose I am right,’ she thought, ‘I suppose it wouldn’t work.’

  He leaned forward across the desk.

  “Henrietta,” he said, “think about it while I’m away. Call it ungallant of me if you like, but you aren’t getting any younger. Nor am I. We’re wasting an awful lot of time – time we won’t have again. Think seriously about it. We could get a living-in housekeeper to act as chaperone”—he was making himself speak lightly, but he was very much in earnest—“you will think about it, won’t you? Promise me.’

  “Of course,” she said gently. “And David – don’t think I’m not deeply touched. But you may have changed your mind when you get back, so let’s wait until then.”

  He stretched forward and touched her hands.

  “I’m going to fly,” he said. “I’ve already telephoned for a flight to New York and a connection for Miami, and I’ve written a note to Chloe. That’s why I was out when you arrived. I wanted to catch the first post. When does Ward go to Milan, by the way?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Have you any news of his arm?”

  “None since I told you last night.”

  “I hope it isn’t too serious,” David said slowly. Then, all at once, he seemed to push out of his mind thought of everything but the coming trip and what she would have to do while he was away, and she saw yet another demonstration of his quite remarkable power of concentration.

  There was no one, there could never be anyone, quite like him.

  Roger West lunched in his office on a sandwich and a pint of beer, and studied the file on the Marshall case. It was surprisingly scrappy, and it became increasingly obvious to Roger that Coppell had never taken the case particularly seriously.

  There were some notes on the law as it applied to anonymous letters.

  There was a pencilled note, initialled by Jim Forrest, who was still at Chelsea:

  No one appears to have the slightest motive except Marshall himself. He would obviously benefit if his wife were put away.

  And there was a note signed by Coppell:

  There is no change in Marshall’s domestic habits. The idea that with his wife away the woman Lyle might move in, has proved unjustified.

  Roger felt a touch of pleasure from his knowledge that, after two years, that situation still remained unchanged. He was rechecking the notes and reports in the file when his telephone rang. Still reading, he stretched out a hand for the receiver. “West here.”

  “Handsome?” It was Coppell. “Funny thing’s happened – you’d better check on it right away. Lady Marshall’s had another letter, at the nursing home this time. The address is in the file. Go and find out what you can, will you? The woman you want to see is a Dr Courtways – Doris Courtways.”

  10

  THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN

  “It is, I’m afraid, essential that we intercept all correspondence to our patients,” said Dr Courtways. She was tall, an angular, handsome, Scandinavian blonde, very forthright in manner. “We have to make absolutely certain that they receive no communications which might upset or worry them in any way. The slightest emotional disturbance might do incalculable harm. Here is the letter which arrived for Lady Marshall this morning.”

  She handed Roger West an envelope which had an SW1 postmark.

  The envelope had already been opened, and Roger took out a folded sheet of cheap writing paper. There was no address, and no signature – simply a message clumsily printed in block capitals.

  You’re no more mad than I am, Roger read. But you will be if you stay in that hell-hole any longer. Your husband wants to get rid of you. That’s why he had you imprisoned there.

  Roger read it three times. Hell-hole? he wondered. He had just driven through beautifully kept grounds to an Elizabethan house of rare beauty, furnished as if it were a rich man’s beloved home. The brochure, a copy of which was on file at the Yard, stated that every patient had their own bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room. In these days of hospital overcrowding, of shortage of medical staff, this was luxury.

  “Are you Lady Marshall’s personal physician?” he asked.

  “One of two – yes. Dr Smith is her consultant, but he is not resident here.”

  “Plato Smith?” asked Roger.

  “Yes.”

  There was not the slightest need, in view of this, Roger realised, to doubt the absolute reliability of either the nursing home or the medical supervision. Plato Smith was an accepted authority on mental disorders, and was frequently consulted in cases of dispute in the civil courts. He had been called several times by defending counsel in criminal cases, twice in respect of murder, when the defence had been one of diminished responsibility due to insanity.

  “So I may take it that the first sentence is not true,” Roger said drily.

  “You may indeed, Superintendent.” Dr Courtways was not even slightly amused.

  “Is there any improvement in Lady Marshall’s condition?”

  “If she is kept unexcited and under constant supervision, she lives an outwardly normal life. But after visits from her husband she becomes very violent, and recently, I’m sorry to say, she has shown certain signs of deterioration.”

  “Homicidally inclined?” asked Roger.

  “Yes. If you care to see the record—’

  “Later, please. How often does her husband visit her?”

  “Perhaps once every two months. Sir David used to come much more often, but we dissuaded him because of his wife’s inevitable relapse afterwards.”

  “I see. Did you tell him why you asked him to reduce the visits?”

  “Yes.”

  There was one extremely good thing about this woman: she did not waste a single word. She would make an excellent witness; one could not imagine her prevaricating or hedging, still less being at a loss.

  “Does she have much correspondence?” Roger enquired.

  “A cousin sends an occasional postcard from Miami Beach, in Florida. That is all.”

  “May I see her?” asked Roger.

  For the first time, Dr Courtways hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second.

  “Did you see her at the previous enquiry?”

  “No. Other officers were concerned.”

  “Do you need to tell her you are a policeman?”

  “No.”

  “Do you wish her to know you have come especially to see her?”

  “Not necessarily. I would just like to see her,” Roger explained, “simply so that I can have a clear picture in my mind of everyone involved in the case, if it should ever develop.”

  “Very well,” said Dr Courtways. “Tea is usually served in the drawing room between three-thirty and four-thirty, and we often have guests who are going to send patients here. I shall simply introduce you as Mr West, and you will only meet Lady Marshall incidentally. But any clarity of picture in your mind, Superintendent, will be a superficial one only. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “Perfectly,” Roger said.

  “Then let us go.”

  Dr Courtwa
ys stood up from the chair behind her scrupulously tidy desk, and led the way into the high ceilinged hall, the panelled walls lined with heavy oil portraits, the polished floors covered with intricately patterned Persian rugs. A maid in cap and apron was coming out of a doorway, carrying an empty tea-tray; as women often did, she shot a quick glance at Roger. Then he was taken into the drawing room. It was elegantly furnished in pale, expensive colours, but the most striking feature was a long, leaded window, overlooking sweeping lawns which went down to the river, perhaps a hundred yards away.

  In the room, two foursomes were sitting at card tables, one playing bridge, one whist. On a big, roomy couch, a middle-aged man leaned back against the cushions. Sitting together in a corner of the room were two women and one man, and as Roger glanced their way the man said something which made both women laugh delightedly.

  Dr Courtways led the way towards the trio, and Roger wondered which woman was Lady Marshall. He recognised neither. They chatted, apparently normally, for a few minutes, and then Roger was taken to the bridge party, which had now broken up. There were the usual inquest comments on the game; all seemed sensible – this might be on board a luxury ship, thought Roger, or in the drawing room of any private house during a house party.

  “Mrs Lidbetter, may I introduce Mr West . . . Lady Marshall, Mr Brash, Colonel Hull . . .”

  Lady Marshall was, as he remembered her, tall and fair, with deep violet eyes; she was simply dressed, in a pale green linen suit with a single string of pearls at her neck. Her blonde hair was beautifully coiffured, and she was a strikingly attractive woman.

  “Have you a friend coming to join us, Mr West?” she asked, not recognising him at all. “Or are you yet another official sent discreetly by the Home Office to make sure that we are all being properly cared for?”

  Colonel Hull choked back a laugh.

  “Really, Yolande,” protested Mrs Lidbetter, who was willowy, youthful, sharp-featured – and at this moment, sharp-voiced.