(1)
It was just after half-past nine the following morning (Thursday) that Macdonald approached Windermere House and saw a charwoman actually hearthstoning the flight of steps leading up to the dignified front door. She was just finishing the bottom step, and Macdonald said:
“It doesn’t seem fair to walk up your steps when you’ve taken all that trouble to whiten them. It’s hard work, isn’t it?”
“Sinful waste of time, ain’t it?” she replied. “But there, it looks posh. I’m proud of ’em: there’s not a flight o’ steps for miles looks as good as these ’ere. Walk up and welcome. Was you wanting somebody?”
“Colonel Farrington. Is he at home?”
“Bless you, yes. He’s in the kitchen, polishing off his own shoes, if you’ll believe me. Takes a real gent to clean ’is own shoes. ‘Mrs. Pinks’ ’e says to me, ‘I’m proud of doing me shoes, just like you’re proud of your steps.’ That’s the Colonel, one o’ the best. A real gent, and no airs with it. Come in, second on your right. What name shall I say?”
“Macdonald. The Colonel doesn’t know me, but ask him if he can spare a minute.”
The room which Macdonald entered was a drawing room of the Edward and Alexandra period. Its rosewood tables and chairs, grand piano, cabinets, and bookcases were all beautiful old pieces, all polished and immaculate. The carefully placed cretonne-covered settee and easy chairs, with well-plumped-up cushions, told of a room recently cleaned and tidied, but there were no personal possessions lying about: no books or papers or needlework, no flowers in the vases, no fire in the grate. It was not a room in use, just a room that had been “done.” The door opened and Colonel Farrington came in. He wore grey flannel trousers and a comfortable old tweed coat, a black tie, soft collar, and very well-polished shoes.
“Good morning,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“Good morning, sir. I am sorry to have to bother you. I’m a C.I.D. man, and it is my duty to tell you the findings of the post-mortem examination on Mrs. Farrington.”
Macdonald’s voice was very quiet and steady, and Colonel Farrington listened with an unhappy face, but he looked neither astonished nor shocked, only deeply troubled.
“C.I.D.,” he repeated. “That can only mean one thing. I’m very sorry, but I feared it. I feared it all the time. . . . Poor old chap. He was a good man in his day, and the kindest soul alive. Do you mind coming in to my study---Superintendent, is it? Chief Inspector---thanks. I can’t bear this room now. It seems dead without my wife’s little things lying about. It was so much her drawing room, hasn’t changed for thirty years.”
He led the way across the hall and opened a door at the back of the house and led Macdonald into a tiny room. There was a closed roll-top desk in it, two chairs, and a bookcase with books of reference in it. Golf clubs stood in one corner, and some fishing gear in another: regimental groups were on the wall but no other pictures or photographs. The room was tidy and bare and businesslike, its wallpaper faded, its curtains drab, but the Colonel sat down in his swivel chair as though he felt at home there.
“I should be obliged if you would tell me the facts quite plainly, Chief Inspector,” he said.
“Very good, sir. Mrs. Farrington died as the result of an injection of insulin.”
“Insulin?” repeated the Colonel wonderingly. “I thought that was only used in cases of . . . what is it? Diabetes. But my wife wasn’t diabetic.”
“No, sir. It was on that account that the insulin killed her.”
“But the stuff isn’t poisonous, is it?” asked the Colonel helplessly. “I know I’m very ignorant of these things, but I thought it was used to cure disease.”
“It is used to correct the composition of the blood in diabetic patients whose organs are not producing the necessary secretions,” replied Macdonald. “When injected into the blood stream of a normal non-diabetic person, the result is coma, followed by death.”
“And Baring made this appalling mistake, injecting the wrong substance?” said the Colonel, his voice horrified and miserable.
“No, sir. It is quite impossible that Dr. Baring injected insulin, assuming that Dr. Scott reported correctly the facts you and your daughter told him.”
“Then he can’t have reported them correctly,” said the Colonel, “or else I must have confused him by something I said myself.”
“I have come to you, sir, to get a statement at first hand,” said Macdonald. “As you probably know, we are scrupulous about getting firsthand statements when it is possible to do so.”
“Quite right, quite right,” said the Colonel. “Don’t think I was casting any imputations. I believe that Dr. Scott is a very clever doctor. And I like him, you know. He seemed to me very straight, with a real sense of duty. I felt he was a man I could trust, and I’ve had a bit of experience.” His hand fumbled in his pocket, and Macdonald produced a packet of cigarettes and held it out.
“Oh, very kind of you, very kind indeed,” said the Colonel hastily. “I’m ashamed to say I’m quite out. Got out of my routine, you know. I still can’t get used to it. Muriel, my wife, had a wonderful memory. Always reminded me of things. Now, about the facts you want. Where shall I begin?”
“Would you give me an outline of events on the Monday, the day Mrs. Farrington died?” asked Macdonald. “Start with the morning.”
“Good idea,” agreed the Colonel, puffing away at his cigarette. “Always like to approach a problem. We slow down as we get older, and the mind’s less adaptable. I always try to go steady and not make hasty judgments. Now, on Monday I was at home all day. It was in the morning my wife began to feel poorly. She’d gone down to the kitchen to have a chat with Madge. Madge is my daughter, and she runs the house for us. Very capable girl. I think it must have been the basement stairs upset Muriel. They’re nasty stairs, steep and awkward.”
“One of the drawbacks in a house of this period,” observed Macdonald easily, and the Colonel nodded.
“You’re right. I’ve always thought it was a sinful thing the way domestic servants were expected to carry loads up those stairs, but that’s by the way. When she came back to our flat---that’s this floor, you know---I persuaded Muriel to lie down in the drawing room. She felt faint and short of breath. I rang Baring, and his secretary said she would give him my message. Muriel seemed very seedy, and I thought she was a bit fussed about herself. Didn’t want much lunch, though Madge sent her up a very nice tray. Lay down in the afternoon; I read to her for a while. After tea I got really put out with Baring. I felt he was neglecting my wife. I rang again and spoke very tersely, very tersely indeed. I feel a bit ashamed of it now, poor old chap. He wasn’t really fit to come out, you know. I persuaded Muriel to get into bed, and rang up to put off some friends who had been coming to play bridge, and I tried to calm her. She was in pain, and I felt really worried. Baring came just before seven, and I left him with her. She preferred to see him alone. I was very relieved when he came. He always had a calming effect on Muriel. Very good manner, you know. I always think these clever young doctors like Scott make a mistake in despising a gentle manner. After all, what’s a doctor for? Though, as I told you, I liked Scott. I was surprised. He was very kind to me and I felt he was genuine. I was a bit bowled over, you know. We’d been married for thirty-five years---and there it was.”
“I realise what a shock you suffered, sir,” said Macdonald, “and so did Dr. Scott. I am quite sure he is genuine.”
“Glad to hear you say so,” said the Colonel. “Well, Baring spent quite a time with my wife. Twenty minutes at least. Then he came and joined me in the drawing room. There was a good fire in there, and he looked cold and grey. I suddenly realized how old he looked, shaky and exhausted. I say, stop me if I’m running on. I know I tend to be garrulous nowadays. Muriel noticed it. She was a most intelligent woman.”
“I don’t want to stop you. I want you to go on telling me things exactly as you have been doing, perfectly naturally,” said Macdonald. “You are being an admirable witness.”
“Well, you’ve been very considerate to me, Chief Inspector. I can’t tell you how glad I am to have a man of your calibre on the job. You’re taking the trouble to listen, and very few fellows do that nowadays, not to a back number like me. We’ll get to the bottom of this together. It’s a painful business and I don’t deny it, but I feel confident you’ll see where the confusion arose. Now, where was I?”
“You asked Dr. Baring into the drawing room,” prompted Macdonald.
“Ah, yes. Poor old chap. He said, ‘No immediate cause for alarm, Colonel. Just see she takes things quietly,’ and then he began to cough. A shocking cough he’d got: shook him to bits. I was really concerned. I shoved him into a comfortable chair and said, ‘You’re not fit to be out, Baring. I’m sorry to have brought you out, I am indeed. You sit still for a minute.’ I mixed him a small whisky and said, ‘You just put this down. Do you good. I’ll have a word with Muriel and then come back here.’ I went across to the bedroom---we’re on the one floor here---and told Muriel I’d be back in a moment, and Baring was quite satisfied. Didn’t want her to get worked up, you know. Then I went to the drawing room. Baring was hunched up over the fire, half dozing. He woke up when I spoke to him, and said, ‘I’m about done, Farrington. Time I gave up. You can’t cure
anno Domini.’ I was upset, never heard him speak like that before. I tried to cheer him up, and he pulled himself together and began to talk about Muriel. Said he’d arranged a consultation and mumbled on about pulse rate and murmurs. Between you and me, Chief Inspector, I could hardly make out what he said. I’ve thought since----Still, no use thinking after the event.”
“I’d be glad if you told me what you thought, all the same,” said Macdonald.
“I oughtn’t to have given him that whisky, ought I?” asked the Colonel unhappily. “I realised afterwards he’d probably had one before he came out, feeling cold and shaky like that. Muriel mentioned it. She disliked the smell of whisky. I didn’t say a word about this to Scott. Disagreeable business. If I hadn’t been worried about Muriel, I might have had more sense. I said to him, ‘Look here, Baring, I’ll drive you home. You don’t look well. Better let me drive you.’ But he was very affronted. Wouldn’t hear of it. He was steady enough on his feet, and I thought maybe I was making a fuss, and I didn’t want to go out at that moment and have to walk back with Muriel in the nervous state she was. So I just let him go. I felt very bad about it when I heard of his accident. I oughtn’t to have given him that whisky.”
“A doctor who is practising, and who knows he is going to drive himself home, ought to have enough wisdom to refuse a drink,” said Macdonald. “When Dr. Baring went, did you go straight in to see Mrs. Farrington?”
“Yes, I went to her immediately. She seemed much better, reassured, you know, and said she’d have a little supper. But when her tray came up she didn’t fancy it, so I took it down again. To tell you the truth, I should have enjoyed eating that omelette myself, but what with one thing and another, I thought I’d better stay with Muriel and get myself a snack later. So I sat with her, chatting about one thing and another. She told me about these damned injections Baring was giving her. I didn’t say anything much, I didn’t want to upset her, but I’m strongly against all this hanky-panky with bugs. Half the time these medical johnnies are just experimenting. But let that pass. I stayed with my wife until just after the nine o’clock news. Then I gave her one of the sleeping tablets Baring had left for her, and some hot milk with a few drops of brandy in it, and left her quite comfortable, saying she felt sleepy. I thought I’d go out and get a sandwich at the pub, so I went up and asked Anne, my daughter-in-law, to come down to our flat while I was out, in case Muriel wanted anything, and off I toddled to the Red Lion. I was hungry, you see. It’d been rather a worrying day,” he concluded.
“I quite see that,” said Macdonald, and the old man went on:
“I came in about ten, and just opened Muriel’s door. She was asleep, and I went and talked to Anne over the drawing-room fire. I went to my room just before eleven, and crept in to look at Muriel. I didn’t like the sound of her breathing, and I went and fetched Madge. But Madge thought she seemed all right. So I went to bed.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Macdonald. “There’s one further point I should like to ask you about. Do you remember if Dr. Baring had his medical case in his hand when he left the house?”
“Curiously enough, I do remember that,” said the Colonel. “I told you he took it amiss when I said I’d drive him home, and he walked out in some dudgeon. I helped him into his coat, which he’d left in the hall, and just as he was leaving I noticed he’d put his case down on the hall table when he put his coat on. I picked the case up and said, ‘Hi, you mustn’t leave this behind,’ and he took it from me and off he went. So I do know he had his case in his hand when he left the house.”
“That’s all very clear, sir,” replied Macdonald. “Now, could I have a word with Miss Madge? She is your daughter, I gather, and Mrs. Farrington’s stepdaughter.”
“Correct. Of course you can see her. You’ll find she’s a very clearheaded girl. I’m very fortunate in my children, they’re a fine lot. Now Madge will be in the kitchen. I will fetch her. The only thing is it’s damned cold in here and it’s warm in the kitchen. But it’s not quite the thing to ask an officer like yourself into the kitchen.”
Macdonald laughed a little. “I have no feelings on that score, sir. Make it the kitchen by all means, if it’s convenient to your daughter.”
(2)
The kitchen at Windermere House was old-fashioned: Macdonald saw at a glance that laboursaving had been the last thought in the mind of the builder who had designed it, but it was nevertheless a very pleasant place. The huge Victorian dresser, scrubbed to whiteness, held a noble array of handsome china. The dish covers of many sizes which were ranged on the white walls were burnished like silver. The range was alight, and a clear fire burned cheerfully. Colonel Farrington preceded Macdonald into the kitchen and said:
“I’m sorry to hinder you, Madge, my dear, but Chief Inspector Macdonald has called and he wishes to ask us all a few questions about poor Muriel. I’ve brought him down here because there’s no fire on our floor and it’s a chilly morning.”
“Quite right, Daddy,” said Madge composedly. “Ask him to come in. I’ll just ask Mrs. Pinks to get on with your study, if that’s all right for you.”
“Certainly, my dear, certainly. A very good idea,” replied the Colonel.
Madge stood by the kitchen table in her white coat, her hands clasped lightly in front of her, as a hospital nurse would stand before a doctor.
“Good morning. Will you sit down?” she said to Macdonald as her father and Mrs. Pinks left the kitchen.
“Thank you. Miss Farrington, and perhaps you will sit down too,” said Macdonald. She seated herself on a wooden kitchen chair and laid her clasped hands on the table. Macdonald remembered what Dr. Scott had said: “Hands, eyes, balance, all co-ordinated.” The C.I.D. man agreed. Here was a woman who moved quietly and who sat still. Only her eyes were troubled, and Macdonald knew all too well that contraction of eyes and mouth which was a natural reaction to a visit from his own department.
“I am sorry to bring you additional trouble,” went on Macdonald. “I have to tell you the findings of the post-mortem examination on Mrs. Farrington. Her death was caused by an injection of insulin.”
Madge gave one start, a jerk and tremor which ran through her from head to foot: her face whitened and her lips shut tight as she stared at Macdonald. Then she said: “You mean she was murdered.”
“It is very difficult to find any other explanation of her death at present,” said Macdonald. “Your father believes that Dr. Baring made a mistake in his injection.”
“My father knows as much about doctoring as I do about the hydrogen bomb,” said Madge impatiently. “Dr. Baring left my stepmother about a quarter past seven. At nine o’clock she was listening to the news. Different practitioners might give you varying opinions as to the time it takes for insulin to put a patient under, but none of them would say it’s longer than an hour before a complete blackout. Often it’s much less.”
“You are acquainted with the use of insulin in certain psychological cases?”
“I am a state registered nurse.”
She spoke deliberately, her words almost a challenge, and she met Macdonald’s eyes, her own hard and steady.
“Very good,” replied the C.I.D. man quietly. “Now I asked your father if he would give me an account of events here last Monday. He did so, very clearly and willingly. Would you do the same?”
“Certainly,” said Madge. She seemed to relax a little and then said slowly: “It was one of those days. . . . It was ordinary enough to begin with. I was just busy doing housework and cooking. Do you really want a detailed account of what might be called a domestic close-up?” she asked abruptly, but yet with something akin to a smile on her close lips.
“Yes, please,” said Macdonald.
“Very well. Then you shall have it. At eleven o’clock my stepmother came into the kitchen when I was making the pastry for lunch. She began talking about her birthday and said she wanted a dinner party for eight. When my stepmother said ‘dinner’ she meant ‘dinner.’ Four courses at least, and all the family silver. I just said that I would not cook and serve dinner for eight singlehanded.”
“A very reasonable thing to say,” put in Macdonald.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not: My stepmother was not used to being thwarted. She immediately produced heart symptoms. I put my fingers on her pulse, which was perfectly normal, and told her so. Then my father, who has a genius for turning up at the right moment, came in here and assisted her upstairs. I gather that she went to lie down. At lunch I sent her up a tray. She ate quite a good meal. I had my own lunch down here, as I habitually do. It’s more convenient for serving the second course.”
“Do you carry meals up those stairs?” asked Macdonald.
“Sometimes. Sometimes I use the service lift. It was put in in 1910. It is worked by hand and is very heavy and liable to stick. I did use it on Monday, because I didn’t want any more arguing, so I stayed down here. After lunch I washed up, tidied the kitchen, changed, and went out to pay the tradesmen’s books and do some shopping.”
“So you did not see Mrs. Farrington again before tea?”
“I did not see her again until eleven o’clock at night,” said Madge. “I saw my father when I took up tea, and he was fussed because Dr. Baring had not been. I’m afraid I told him that it was quite unnecessary to bother Dr. Baring, who was as much good as a sick headache, anyway. After tea and washing up I got busy with supper. On Mondays two old friends come in to play bridge with Daddy and Mother, and I had been asked particularly to produce a cheese
soufflé and a mousseline sweet. Both tiresome things to make. At half-past six my half-sister Paula came down here and asked for some sherry glasses. She and Peter had suddenly decided to have a sandwich supper for some of their friends upstairs. As I had counted Paula and Peter in for the
, and eggs are scarce, I wasn’t best pleased. I told them they could use their tooth glasses for the sherry.”
Macdonald’s lips twitched, and suddenly Madge laughed. A shaky laugh, but still a laugh. “It all sounds so ludicrous,” she said; “but you asked for it. Paula was livid. She said she would ask Mother for the key of the glass cabinet. I said I couldn’t care less.”
“And did Paula ask Mrs. Farrington for the key?” inquired Macdonald.
“I imagine so,” replied Madge. “There were twelve sherry glasses, very beautiful ones. There are now only nine. The twins are like that. At a quarter to seven Anne Strange came down here. Do you know our names, or must I explain?”
“I’ll stop you if you mention anybody I can’t place.”
“All right. Anne asked me why on earth I was cooking a meal. It appeared that the party was off, and neither Daddy nor my stepmother wanted any supper. I suppose it was childish, but I was furious,” added Madge.
“So should I have been,” said Macdonald. “You had assumed that Mrs. Farrington would be well enough for her party?”
“I knew she was well enough,” said Madge, “and as a rule her bridge took precedence over her heart. I’m afraid I’m not giving you a very pleasant picture of myself, but I’m not always a pleasant person.”
“Who is?” asked Macdonald. “You seem to be giving me an honest picture, which is what I want.”
“Well, then something happened which was the only nice thing that whole beastly day. Mrs. Pinks, my charwoman, came to the door with a bunch of daffodils for me which she had bought ‘up ’Igh Road,’ being Kilburn High Road, and a bag of shrimps. She believes I share her passion for shrimps. She had two of her children with her, a boy of ten and a girl of twelve. So I asked them in and gave them the cheese
soufflé and the mousseline. They don’t often get anything nice. They wolfed down the lot inside ten minutes. They were hungry. I enjoyed that. I shall always remember it.”
“Good. I sympathise with you, and it was a jolly good idea,” chuckled Macdonald.
“Was it? Five minutes later Daddy came down and said Mother would like a little
soufflé and sweet. I said there wasn’t any. He came back again and said then Mother would like an omelette. I had no more eggs, so I made an omelette of dried eggs. If you know anything beastlier, I don’t. It came back untouched three minutes later. I gave it to the cat, who also didn’t think much of it.”
Macdonald laughed. “It certainly
was one of those days,” he said. Madge looked straight at him and then away again, and Macdonald saw that her underlip was quivering, but she joined in his laugh.
“It was all very silly, but I was tired and angry. Everyone seemed to be beastly. I washed up and decided I’d go out to the pictures. I’d had enough kitchen for that day.”
“Did you go upstairs to get your outdoor things?”
“No. They were down here, in the linen room. It’s a long way up to my bedroom, and I left my coat down here when I came in before tea. I always use the basement door when I go out.”
“And you went to the pictures?”
“No. I didn’t. It was a nice evening and there was a moon. I walked around the Outer Circle towards Baker Street, but when I got to York Gate I changed my mind about the flicks and walked up to the Inner Circle and went on right round it. It was very peaceful there.”
“I know it is. It’s very beautiful, too,” said Macdonald.
“It was just after nine when I got back,” said Madge, “I could hear the wireless on in my stepmother’s bedroom. I came in by the basement door and made some tea and had something to eat. Then I remembered I hadn’t sorted the laundry, which I always do on Monday. It’s quite a job, because the whole household send their laundry in the same basket, and I check the lot. I put out some linen to mend in the linen room, and the time just went. I realised it was nearly eleven, and I hadn’t taken Mother’s barley water to her room. As I took it upstairs I met my father in the hall and he asked me to come in and have a look at her.”
(3)
“Thinking back, and remembering what caused your stepmother’s death, do you think she was asleep or in a coma?” Macdonald spoke very quietly and watched Madge’s troubled face intently.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Her voice had a hopeless quality in it, as of one defeated. Then she braced herself and looked Macdonald in the face again. “I’d been up since six o’clock, and I’d been working hard nearly all day. This isn’t an easy house to work in, and I’d got in a temper and I was dog-tired. I tell you, I just didn’t care.” She paused and then added: “I had no reason to believe she was ill. I was certain her heart was nothing to worry about. I knew she had lost her temper as I had lost mine, but she had been put to bed and fussed over, and I’d had to get on with the chores. Remember, she was not my mother. She was no relation to me at all, and I didn’t love her. I just glanced at her lying there, looking very comfortable in the best linen sheets, snoring a bit as elderly patients do snore when they’ve had a mild barbiturate, and all I thought was ‘Thank God she’s asleep. Daddy will have a quiet night for once.’ I tell you, I didn’t care. But I can also swear that I had no idea she was really ill. Anyway, I was too tired to notice. All I wanted to do was to get to bed myself.”
Macdonald listened to her intently, using all his experience and analytical skill to determine if her answer was a very honest one or a very skilful one. Every word she said struck him as reasonable. “I was dog-tired and I just didn’t care.” Macdonald knew he could not get any further on those lines. And she hadn’t even pretended to any affection for the dead woman. “I just didn’t notice. I just didn’t care.” It flashed through Macdonald’s mind that a jury would understand that: it was so harshly realistic, and no prosecuting counsel could break it down. “I was dog-tired”---and hadn’t she had every reason to be dog-tired?
“So you went up to bed?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes. Peter and Paula had still got their party on. Their rooms are over mine, and I could hear all their racket. It was no use going upstairs to complain. I read for a bit and then I took three aspirin tablets and went to sleep, and didn’t wake up until my alarm went off at five to six next morning.”
Macdonald sat silent for a second or two. Then he said: “When I told you the cause of your stepmother’s death, you said, ‘Then she was murdered.’ Knowing, as you do know, the uses and effects of insulin, that statement was perfectly logical. I think every statement you have made shows the same quality of reason and common sense. So, using those qualities, will you tell me if you know of anybody who had any motive for killing Mrs. Farrington?”
Madge answered at once. “No. I can’t. And if I could, I shouldn’t. You see . . . she was a maddening woman. She was selfish and domineering and intolerably inquisitive. At one time we had a gag in this house. I.C.M.H.---‘I could murder her.’ We’ve
all said it, at one time or another: Paula and Peter, Joyce and Philip, and Anne and Tony---and me. Not Daddy. He loved her. He always did. I know we none of us meant it, but we said it.” She spoke clearly, almost harshly, and then added: “I don’t know who killed her. I don’t want to know. But if I did know I shouldn’t tell you. There are a few things which even I won’t do.”
