7 - Death of a Dean Read online

  “I suppose so.”

  “If he wasn’t taking it for some illness, I mean, if it wasn’t prescribed by his doctor—and come to think of it, it can’t have been, because Mary called their doctor right away and, if he’d prescribed it, he’d surely have said something then. No, if it wasn’t prescribed, then where on earth did Francis get it from? I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you can just walk into a chemist and buy!”

  “That’s true.”

  We both considered this for a while, then I said, “You don’t think—oh no, it’s too ridiculous!”

  “What?”

  “You don’t think he might have taken it on purpose ...”

  “Committed suicide? Francis? No way! You have to think you’re a failure in some way to want to kill yourself. Can you imagine Francis ever considering himself a failure? At anything?”

  “Well, no ... but there may have been some reason we don’t know about. Some awful thing that might have caused a scandal, or something.”

  “Seducing choirboys? Embezzling funds? Can you see him?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, no I can’t. Well, if it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t suicide, then that leaves ...”

  “Murder?”

  “It does sound awful when you come out with it just like that.”

  “You must admit Francis was loathed by a lot of people.”

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a candidate for murder!”

  “More than most, I’d say. Oh well, if it was murder then the police will tell us soon enough.”

  I was just stacking the dishwasher after lunch next day when Mary rang.

  “Oh, Sheila,” she said, “I thought you’d want to know. Inspector Hosegood’s just been. He says they’re treating Father’s death as a case of murder.”

  “Oh, Mary!” In spite of my speculations the day before, I was shocked and startled. “What do they think happened?”

  “The autopsy showed that the morphine was taken with food, but we haven’t got any details yet. I think the inspector is taking things quite slowly and carefully. The cathedral, you know, and the bishop and so on, it’s obviously a bit delicate for him.”

  “Yes, I see. How’s your mother taking it?”

  “Quite well, considering. Pretty stunned, though.”

  “And what about Adrian?”

  “Oh, Adrian!” There was a definite note of scorn in her voice. “He’s still in bed. In shock, the doctor says.”

  “Oh dear. Well, give Joan my love and tell her if there’s anything I can do ...”

  “Yes, I will. Thanks, Sheila.”

  David was in the sitting room brooding over the Telegraph crossword puzzle.

  “I don’t know why I do these things, they only irritate me. ‘Size of paper might be topping for a jester’—eight letters?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said. “I can’t do crosswords, it’s like mental arithmetic, my mind goes blank. David, that was Mary. She says that the police are treating it as murder.”

  David looked up, startled. “Murder!”

  “Yes, apparently the morphine was taken with food. I don’t know how long it takes to act, whether it was lunch or tea.”

  “And if it was tea,” David said thoughtfully, “then it must have been when I was with him in the cathedral.”

  “Murder in the cathedral!” I said.

  “A singularly difficult play, I always think. Only one decent part and all that tiresome choral speaking, endless special rehearsals. I played Roger Fitzurse once—quite nice to do, but you get a bit fed up just having that scene in the middle and then having to hang about waiting for the curtain call.”

  David was speaking at random as he usually did when there was something he didn’t want to face.

  “But murder, David!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, well, we did consider the possibility.”

  “I know, but idle speculation’s one thing, the police actually investigating it is another.”

  I sat down on the arm of the sofa.

  “Let’s hope it was lunch,” I said, “and not tea. But if it was, what did you have? I mean, you’re all right, so what did Francis have that you didn’t?”

  “Oh, heavens, I don’t know.”

  “You must think, David, it’s important. The police will be asking you.”

  He made an effort to concentrate. “Right, let me see. Cups of tea, of course, we both had that, and cucumber sandwiches. But there were some other sandwiches—Gentleman’s Relish. I remember that because I thought how typically Francis it was to have Gentleman’s Relish!” He repeated the name with gusto. “I didn’t have any of those because I don’t like anchovy.”

  “That might be a possibility,” I said. “Anchovy’s a strong taste and would hide the taste of anything that was put in it. Go on, was there anything else?”

  “Um, let me think ... We both had some of the shortbread and I had a piece of that walnut cake and he had a coffee eclair. Hang on! I’ve just thought of something! There was that indigestion medicine. He had that before we started tea. Said something about counteracting the acid, something like that. I gather he had it before every meal.”

  “That’s it, then!” I exclaimed. “And, of course, if the tea and the medicine and everything was laid out ready then absolutely anyone could have come in and popped something into the medicine—well, anyone who has access to that room, and I daresay quite a lot of the cathedral people did. For all we know, Francis was at loggerheads with half the diocese!”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me,” David said. “Well, dear, it’s a comforting theory and one I greatly prefer to the one the police probably have in mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Who had a tremendous motive for killing Francis? Financial—they always like that—as well as personal. Who was there, on the spot, when he probably imbibed the fatal dose?”

  I looked at him in horror.

  “Oh no, they couldn’t think it was you!"

  “Well,” David said, “I don’t expect Inspector Ivor would have thought so, too obvious for him, he was a devious sort of bastard, but I’ll lay you even money—or I would if I had any—that I shall be hearing from your nice Inspector Hosegood within the next twenty-four hours.”

  Chapter 10

  Two days elapsed before the inspector rang.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Malory. I expect you’ve heard from Mrs. Beaumont that we are making inquiries into the circumstances of her husband’s death. I’d like to have a word with you and Mr. David Beaumont today, if that’s convenient.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Whenever you like.”

  “I’ll come at about eleven-thirty, then.”

  “Yes, that will be fine.”

  David didn’t seem too upset at the prospect of the inspector’s visit.

  “What will you say to him?” I asked. “I mean, how much will you tell him?”

  David shrugged. “Well, everything, don’t you think, dear? For a start that female, Monica whatsit, will undoubtedly have told him about the quarrel and the raised voices, and I’m sure it will be better to tell him quite openly how it was between Francis and me than for him to worm it out of other people. He’d really think I had something to hide then and he’d be madly suspicious.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “It’s just that—well, anyone who doesn’t know you might find the motive very strong ....”

  “Let’s face it, darling, the motive was very strong. I don’t say I’d have been prepared to kill Francis—think of all the practical difficulties!—but I can’t deny that, in many ways, I’m glad that he’s dead.”

  Inspector Hosegood arrived on the dot of eleven-thirty and accepted my offer of coffee. He and David went into the sitting room and I roamed around the kitchen, fiddling with the coffeemaker, rearranging the cups on the tray and generally working myself up into a nervous state. They seemed to be a very long time and I was reminded of my scho
oldays, when, on the rare occasions I had committed some misdemeanor (I was a law-abiding child), I had to wait, it seemed interminably, outside the head’s study while some other malefactor was interviewed. Eventually David came into the kitchen. He looked rather shaken and simply said, “He’d like to see you now.”

  I gave him a sympathetic smile and picked up the tray. “There’s some coffee there for you, help yourself.”

  Inspector Hosegood was standing by the window looking up at the hill behind the house.

  “Nice view you’ve got,” he said.

  “Yes, aren’t we lucky! It’s especially lovely in August and September when the heather and the gorse is out—quite a blaze of color ....” I felt I was babbling as I handed him a cup of coffee and proffered the sugar bowl.

  “Yes, I will,” he said comfortably. “I know they say it’s bad for you nowadays, but I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

  “Do sit down.” I gestured to the sofa, but he chose the more upright winged chair, which gave him a magisterial air.

  “Well now, Mrs. Malory. Just a few things. Perhaps you could very kindly tell me in your own words about your visit to the deanery the day Mr. Beaumont died.”

  He sat forward in the chair, nursing his cup, listening intently while I described the events of the afternoon.

  “Yes, I see, thank you, that’s all very clear. You’ve known the dean and his family for a long time?”

  “Oh yes,” I replied. “David, Francis and I were more or less brought up together, though I haven’t seen much of Francis in recent years because, quite frankly, I didn’t like him. I was fond of Joan, his wife, but Francis was a very difficult person.”

  “But you’ve kept in touch with Mr. David Beaumont? He often comes to stay with you?”

  “He’s always been a close family friend,” I said firmly, wondering what exactly the inspector was thinking. “My husband—my late husband—and I have always been very fond of him. He’s stayed with us, off and on, for years.”

  “And this time he came to see his brother?”

  “Oh no! Well, he did see Francis, but that wasn’t why he came. No, he just needed a little break ...”

  “He was in some financial difficulties, I believe?”

  I laughed. “All actors have financial difficulties,” I said in what I hoped was a light tone, “it goes with the job!”

  “But these financial difficulties were worse than usual?”

  “Well, yes,” I said reluctantly. “But he’s always managed to sort things out before and he has many good friends who will help him, I’m sure.” I felt I was getting into deep waters and I was relieved to hear a kind of muted bellowing at the window. “Oh, do excuse me! That wretched cat! If I don’t let him in he’ll drive us mad!”

  I went over and opened the window and Foss stalked in. Pausing on the windowsill to stare coldly at the inspector, he jumped down and, with a sideways look to make sure I was watching, began to sharpen his claws on one of the chairs. I picked him up firmly and put him out of the room, apologizing for the interruption.

  The inspector laughed. “Little devils, aren’t they, Siamese? My sister has one, a real terror, always climbing up the curtains and the stair carpet’s in ribbons! My wife says she doesn’t know how Josie puts up with it, but my sister always was a fool about animals!”

  “I know,” I said, “I’m just the same.”

  “Well now,” he went on, “I presume you know that the dean died from morphine poisoning, and we can tell from the autopsy that the substance was taken with the meal he had at about four-thirty, either in the food or, most probably, in the indigestion mixture he took before it. Unfortunately, all the crockery and so forth was taken away and washed up long before we had a chance to get the SOCO people in there. But the fact remains that he does seem to have taken the morphine during the course of that meal he had with his brother.”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously.

  “There were two occasions when the dean was out of the room. He went down into the main body of the cathedral to see, first, the precentor and then the archdeacon. The first time he left the room they hadn’t started tea and the dean hadn’t taken the medicine.”

  “You mean there was just one opportunity for David to put morphine in the medicine! Honestly, Inspector, it’s just not possible! David simply isn’t that sort of person—well, you’ve met him!”

  “But wouldn’t you say,” the inspector said, looking at me quizzically, “that being an actor means pretending to be someone you’re not?”

  “But not David!” I exclaimed. “He’s almost transparently honest—that’s always been his trouble. Anyway, I’ve known him forever—long before he became an actor—and he’s always been the same.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Malory. I was just thinking aloud, you might say.”

  “Anyway,” I continued, “the tea was laid out already. Anyone could have gone in and tampered with it.”

  “Hardly anyone.”

  “Well, anyone who knew it was there.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not actually so,” Inspector Hosegood said. “A Mrs. Woodward, who was on duty in that part of the building that afternoon, said that she didn’t see anyone go into that room before the dean, Mr. Beaumont and yourself arrived. She also told me that while Mr. Beaumont was with his brother there were sounds of a violent quarrel.”

  “Oh, Monica Woodward!” I exclaimed. “She’s a terrible gossip with a highly developed sense of the dramatic. Violent quarrel! I believe David was very annoyed with Francis—he will have told you about that, I’m sure—and he may have raised his voice a little, but violent, no!”

  “She also said that Mr. David Beaumont left in anger.”

  “I daresay he did,” I said. “I’m not at all surprised. Francis could be really impossible sometimes and the provocation was very great, and David’s put up with it for years and never said anything. In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever known him to lose his temper with Francis!”

  I stopped, suddenly aware that I had somehow been trapped into a remark that was less than helpful to David’s case.

  “So he did lose his temper?” the inspector said.

  “If you call it losing his temper to tell Francis a few home truths that he should have done years ago,” I said spiritedly, “yes he did. But it was quite out of character.”

  “People do behave out of character, I believe, when they’re under stress.”

  “But there is one thing,” I said quickly. “If David had been going to do a devious thing like poisoning his brother, then he would hardly have had a ‘violent quarrel’ with him on the very afternoon he was proposing to kill him, now would he?”

  Inspector Hosegood smiled at me benevolently. “That thought had occurred to me, too, Mrs. Malory. Though, I suppose if he was really clever it might be a good double bluff!”

  I laughed reluctantly. “I can see that you’ve got an answer for everything, Inspector.”

  “Not everything, not by a long chalk. Not yet, anyway.” He stood up and put his coffee cup down on a table. “I believe you are a friend of Inspector Eliot, here at Taviscombe?”

  “Why yes,” I said in some surprise. “He’s married to my goddaughter.”

  “He tells me,” the inspector continued, “that you have a very good eye for details and a very good idea about what makes people tick.”

  “Did he!” I exclaimed. “Goodness!”

  “He said that you’d given him quite a lot of help on some of his cases, one way or another.”

  “Well, I did a bit, I suppose.”

  “I just thought,” he said, “that if you do happen to notice anything, or if something occurs to you, then I’d be glad to hear from you ... let me give you my number.”

  I took the piece of paper and said, “Of course. I’ll be only too pleased to do whatever I can to clear up this dreadful thing.”

  “Inspector Eliot said you had a highly developed sense of curiosity.” Inspector
Hosegood looked at me sideways to see how I was taking this remark.

  “Oh dear,” I laughed, “that sounds rather awful!”

  “I think he found it quite useful.” He moved toward the door. “Good-bye, Mrs. Malory. Thank you for the coffee.”

  I found David in the kitchen, perched uncomfortably on a stool, brooding over an empty coffee cup.

  “Well,” I asked, “how did you get on?”

  “I honestly don’t know. The inspector doesn’t give much away.”

  “I know. Here, let me give you another cup of coffee.”

  “He said that Francis was poisoned by something he had at teatime, when we were alone together.”

  “Yes, that’s what he told me.”

  “And it’s perfectly true that Francis did go out of the room twice, so I suppose in theory I could have popped something into the sandwiches or the coffee eclairs.” He shook a couple of sweeteners into his coffee and stirred it vigorously. “Which definitely makes me number one suspect.”

  “I don’t see why,” I said. “After all, you didn’t make the sandwiches. Joan did. And they may well have sat around in the kitchen at the deanery where any member of that family could have got at them. The same applies to the indigestion mixture, which, incidentally, is where the inspector seems to think the morphine was put.”

  “Well, yes,” David said, “but Joan and the others haven’t got the sort of motive I have for wanting to kill Francis, have they?”

  “I wouldn’t say that!” I said firmly. “Think of all the misery and repression in that household—it’s like something out of The Barretts of Wimpole Street! Years and years of accumulated frustration and unhappiness. It’s a wonder they didn’t murder him ages ago!”

  David laughed reluctantly. “It wasn’t the happiest of families, I know, but I’m sure the inspector will latch onto the money thing, the police always do.”

  “Well, we don’t know what financial motive there may have been as well,” I said. “I mean, how did Francis leave his money? There must have been a lot of it. I know Mary wanted to set up in partnership with her chum in those stables. She’d need quite a bit for that. And we have no idea what Adrian’s financial situation is. There are lots of other possibilities. Come on, cheer up! Inspector Hosegood seems to me like a sensible man, not the sort who would jump to obvious conclusions.”