Chapter Seventeen

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IT was shortly after nine o’clock the next morning that Macdonald arrived again at Windermere House and rang the front-door bell. The steps had not been cleaned, neither was there any sign of Mrs. Pinks. It was Madge who opened the front door; she was dressed, as usual, in a clean white coat, her dark hair brushed back smooth and hard from her face, as trim a figure as a hospital ever turned out. Her face was bloodless, her dark eyes sunk in their shadowed hollows, but her stance was as steady, her voice as deliberate, as ever.

She said, “Good morning,” with composed and unwavering calm, stood aside to admit Macdonald, and then led him to the drawing room, closing the door quietly when they had entered it. She stood before him in her habitual nurse’s attitude: very erect, hands clasped lightly in front of her at waist level.

“You will have heard that my father has gone to see Peter in hospital? They phoned saying that pneumonia had set in. It takes these drug cases like that occasionally.”

Her voice was quite emotionless, and Macdonald replied: “Yes. I had the report. They did not think that he was in any immediate danger, but that as he was fretting, it would be better for him to see his father.”

She nodded. “They’ll kill the pneumonia with M. and B., and then pet him back to health again. Peter’s always been the same. When life goes against him he uses illness as a defence mechanism and gets away with it. I’ve often thought it must be rather useful to be made like that.” Her dark eyes challenged Macdonald with a lustreless stare and then she went on: “I suppose you could say the same about my sleepwalking. I’m sorry I gave everybody so much trouble last night. I used to do it as a child, but I’d no idea I’d started it again.” She paused, but before Macdonald had time to reply, she went on calmly: “So when Anne said she heard me on the stairs on Monday night, she was probably telling the truth.”

“Quite probably,” replied Macdonald, his voice as expressionless as her own. “But as you know, even better than I do, the injection given to Mrs. Farrington was not given at two o’clock in the morning. By that time she was probably beyond human aid.”

Madge stood very still, her dark eyes gazing beyond Macdonald into the distance. “I’ve tried to remember,” she said, and this time, for all the control of her voice, her throat was dry. “I don’t dream as a rule. I thought I did dream, that night. I was worrying. I suppose I went down to see . . . that it was all right. I don’t know. . . .”

Macdonald replied in a perfectly equable voice: “You remember that you told me that you went for a walk round the Inner Circle on Monday evening, between eight o’clock and nine. I thought you might be interested to know that I have corroboration of that fact. A taxi driver, who had just set down a fare, noticed you and described you.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” she snapped back. “I was home here before the nine o’clock news was finished. I was in the house when Father went out. We were all in the house, except Father. It was then it was done. You know that. I know it.” She broke off and then added tartly: “How one does run on. The thing is an absolute obsession. It goes round and round, like a corkscrew. I didn’t mean to bore you, going on talking about it. I asked you in here to make a request. You know Mrs. Pinks lost her husband?”

“Yes.”

“He’s being buried today. I want to know if you’ll let me go to the funeral. She wants me to be there. It may sound funny to you, but she asked me to go.”

“It doesn’t sound funny at all,” answered Macdonald quietly. “You have been very kind to her, and to her husband as well. It’s perfectly natural that she should ask you to be with her.”

“And may I go?”

“Certainly. I shall do nothing to prevent you going.”

“Thank you.” Her dry voice was abrupt, almost scornful. “They set such store by funerals,” she went on. “I often used to think that the one good thing about the blitz was that it might short-circuit one’s own funeral. Just tidy you up without any bother to anybody. But Mrs. Pinks wants me to put on my new black coat and be a credit to her; so I’ll do my best. She’s the most generous-minded human being I’ve ever known.” She broke off and stared at Macdonald again, as though she were trying to get him into focus, and when she spoke again it was in her usual curt voice, without the faint quiver and breathlessness of her last speech. “I suppose you came here to ask about something, not to hear me babbling. What is it this time?”

“Yes. I came here to ask you something,” replied Macdonald. “You know we found some unidentified fingerprints in Mrs. Farrington’s bedroom?”

“Yes. Father told me. What does it matter?”

“It matters a lot. It’s necessary to find the person who made those fingerprints and determine when he, or she, was in that room, and why they were in the room.”

“I’ve told you I don’t know. I didn’t order anybody to do anything in there. Mrs. Farrington may have got someone in to do something without telling me. She was secretive over some things. For all I know, she may have had someone in on Monday morning when she came down to the kitchen to talk to me. If she was with me in here, she knew I wouldn’t be going upstairs poking around to see what she was having done. She always imagined I spied on her, while, actually, I couldn’t have cared less. But I can’t see why you’re fussing. Whoever was in the room has got nothing to do with what you’re getting at, and you know it hasn’t. Unless you’re still worrying about those diamonds you said were missing.”

“They’re not missing any longer. We found them in a very large tube of flake white among Peter’s painting things.”

“I’m glad of that . . . in a way,” said Madge, and she spoke quite naturally. “You’ll never be able to prove who put them there, will you? It might have been Peter or Paula, or me, or Anne—any one of us. You don’t know that it was even the person who stole them who hid them in the tube.”

“No. That’s quite true,” replied Macdonald. “Perhaps Paula herself will have something to say about it. She has been asking to see me, hasn’t she?”

“Yes. I suppose Maddox told you that. I knew Maddox in hospital once. She’s a good nurse. She agreed with me that it was better for Paula not to see you yesterday. The kid doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s nearly frantic about Peter. When you see her, tell her it’s all right. She’s a mean little beast in some ways, but the sight of her now gets me down. She’s only a kid.”

Macdonald had been listening to the undertones of Madge’s voice as much as to what she said. Something had happened to her. Her rigid self-control was slipping at last, and she tended to talk as a patient recovering from an anaesthetic talks—freely but not quite reasonably.

“I know she’s only a youngster,” rejoined Macdonald. “You needn’t worry about her; I shan’t give too much heed to what she says, because she’s in no state to give evidence. Now, about this funeral. How are you going to the cemetery? Do you want a taxi?”

“No. I never take taxis. I can’t afford them. I shall take a bus to Camden Town and then a trolley-bus out to Highgate. I’m not going with Mrs. Pinks. To follow a hearse would be about the last straw.”

“I shouldn’t go by bus if I were you,” said Macdonald. “You’re tired and on edge. I’ll get you a taxi, and you can take it quietly.”

She cried out at him: “Oh, for God’s sake, leave me alone. Let me do this thing by myself. I haven’t asked you for much, have I? Only to go to a funeral. Can’t you let me do that by myself?”

“I haven’t said you couldn’t go by yourself,” replied Macdonald patiently. “I only said it wasn’t sensible to go by bus. You’re so tired you hardly know what you’re doing or saying, and you’re going to stand by an open graveside while the coffin is lowered and the words of committal spoken, and it’s not going to be easy. You’ve often told other people to have a little common sense, haven’t you? Take your own advice now.”

His quiet voice brought the tears to her eyes, but she fought them back. “You know, don’t you?” she asked desperately.

“I know you want to go to that funeral,” he replied. “Go and get it over. Leave the talking till afterwards.”

A half-smile lighted the desolation of her eyes. “Mrs. Pinks says you’re too much like a human being to be a cop.”

“It’s possible to be both,” replied Macdonald. “Now get this into your head. You’re going to that funeral, by yourself, as you wish to go, and nobody’s going to interfere with you. There are some things I won’t do—to quote what you said to me on the first occasion I met you. So put on your best coat as requested. Have you got a nice bunch of flowers? They do like a nice bunch of flowers.”

Madge gasped—a gasp that was more laughter than astonishment. “You are the most unexpected person I ever met. . . . I sent a wreath—a big one. It cost all I’d got. For my own funeral, it’ll be no flowers by request.”

And with that she turned and fled from the room.
2

The funeral was to be at midday. At eleven o’clock Macdonald stood in the echoing entrance hall of the Northern Hospital and met Colonel Farrington, when the latter came down from seeing Peter. The old man looked grey and tired, but he did not seem surprised to see Macdonald.

“Good morning, Chief Inspector. I’ve just seen the boy. He’s pretty sick, but they’re satisfied with the progress he’s making. He’ll get over it all right. I’ve just had a few words with him and set his mind at rest. He was worrying, you know. Ah, you’ve got a taxi. Very kind of you, very kind indeed. This is a dreary neighbourhood, isn’t it? I’m sorry for the folks who’ve lived all their lives in streets like this.”

He got in the taxi, and when Macdonald was seated beside him, the Colonel went on: “I keep on being reminded of the days when the children all had measles or whooping cough or something. Madge generally started the epidemic, and then they all got it. It was the other way round this time: started with the youngest. Peter got in a panic and then Paula. Curious how panic is contagious. You’ll have noticed that, I expect?”

“Yes. I’ve seen it happen,’ replied Macdonald.

“We’re through the bad patch now,” said the Colonel. “Whatever it was, they’ve faced it and realised how foolish they’ve been. I’m still a bit worried over Madge, though. She’s been so quiet and steady, but all this worry and upset’s taken it out of her. She ought to go away for a bit—get right away from it all. She tells me she’s going to that funeral—poor Pinks. D’you think that’s wise? Very tiring things, funerals.”

“I don’t know if it’s wise, sir, but I don’t think anybody has the right to prevent her going.”

“Quite, quite. She’s been very good to them all. But she does need a rest. If I could get Paula away for a bit, too, it’d make things easier for Madge. There’s a cousin of mine in Sussex—a kindly, comfortable soul—she’d have Paula for a bit. But I mustn’t bother you with all these family arrangements. You’ve got enough to think about without all that. I hear you went and looked old Preston up. Amazing the trouble you fellows take. Every detail accounted for.”

“Preston was away when I called. He’d gone up to Lancashire to see his people. They live in Bolton, I’m told.”

“Bolton. That’s it. One of those industrial towns, isn’t it? I’m glad the old chap got away. He’s been talking about going there for a long time. He’s a good old chap. Did you hear how long he was staying?”

“Quite a short time, I believe. One of the local police went and had a word with him.”

“Ah, yes, you all work in together, don’t you? Wonderful organisation. I hope the old chap wasn’t put out. They’re very touchy about the police. You can’t make them see sense on that point. They regard it as a disgrace even to be asked to give evidence.”

“I think the majority of policemen are very considerate fellows. It’s only very occasionally you get the hectoring type. They’re not encouraged by the Chief Constables of today.”

“Quite right, quite right. It’s the same in the Army; much more humanity in the system today,” said the Colonel. “It’s been a privilege to see you chaps at work, Chief Inspector. I was a bit worried at first; so many implications, y’know. Might have gone wrong. All this about Madge. I’m not very happy in my mind about her going to that funeral. Very trying things, funerals. And she’s tired, you know. Not really fit for a strain of that kind. D’you think I ought to go with her? She said not, and I don’t like to insist.”

“There’s no need for you to go, sir. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Ah . . . you’ll be going yourself. That’s a great relief to me. I know you’ll see she’s all right. Ah, here we are, back in Regent’s Park again. It’s a pleasant neighbourhood. I like the trees. Always say you can’t beat London trees. I’ve lived here for thirty years. Got to know it well. Those lime trees now . . . and the hawthorns just budding. I’ve enjoyed this drive, Chief Inspector. On my soul I have. No month like March. . . .”
3

It was a very small funeral cortège. Mrs. Pinks had refused to let the children go. “I don’t care what you say or what you thinks,” she declared firmly to her sister-in-law. “Funerals is no things for kids to go to. They can stop at home and see the kettle’s boiling, and ’ave a nice cuppa ready for us. ’Am I couldn’t get, but I’ve made some nice sandwiches out of that hox tongue the butcher let me ’ave. Very nice and respectful ’e was. And ’Enery did love a nice bit of hox tongue.”

So it was Mrs. Pinks, Miss Pinks, and Mrs. Walter Pinks who drove to the cemetery, to be joined by Madge Farrington, dressed in her new black coat and a little black hat set jauntily above her white face and haunted eyes. Together they stood by the gaunt gaping grave, in a huge cemetery where daffodils strove to nod despite the London soot. The March wind fluttered the chaplain’s white surplice and the black crêpe which Mrs. Pinks had borrowed from a neighbour, and for a brief moment the passing of Henry Pinks was invested with the classic dignity of age-old formula and rite. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The earth rattled on the lowered coffin, and Madge, dry-eyed, stood with her arm round the charwoman’s heaving shoulders and stared down into the rectangular space cut in the London clay.

Macdonald had said: “You can go to this funeral by yourself, as you wish to go.” And he kept his word. He saw Madge’s taxi arrive at the cemetery, driven by a driver with a very familiar face. He saw her go into the chapel and emerge following the coffin to the grave, but he kept his distance. Madge had once said, “There are some things I will not do,” and Macdonald was certain that whatever she purposed to do later, she would not mar the decorum of Henry Pinks’ moment of dignity. She had been well trained in decorum, for whatever the late Mrs. Farrington had been, she had certainly been a lady, and Madge had been brought up by Mrs. Farrington.

Concealed near the gatehouse of the cemetery after the funeral was over, Macdonald heard Mrs. Pinks beg Madge to come back to join the party in tea and sandwiches.

“No, I won’t come back, Mrs. Pinks, dear; Father will be wanting me at home,” said Madge. “It all went off beautifully, and the flowers are lovely.”

“Not ’arf posh, that wreath you sent, duckie,” said Mrs. Pinks. “ ’Enery would’ve loved that wreath, ’e did like them lilies—but you shouldn’t ’a spent all that. . . .”

The hired car drove off, with the Pinks family drying their eyes, sensibly prepared to enjoy the rare luxury of a motor drive, and Madge walked out of the cemetery gates alone. Her taxi driver, parked by the gates, called to her, “Taxi, miss, drive you home again?” but she did not turn her head. Macdonald nodded to the man as he passed the taxi, and then followed Madge. He had his own guess as to what she would do. She walked steadily along to the main road and made her way deliberately through the crowd glancing neither to left nor right, and certainly never looking behind her. At Highgate Tube Station she turned in to the booking hall and took a ticket to Goodge Street, still calm and unhurried. Macdonald was only a few steps behind her on the escalator. When she reached the platform she turned towards the rear and stood facing the tunnel whence the train would emerge. She stood perfectly still, close to the edge of the platform, and from far away came the sound of the approaching train. The sound increased in intensity, from a rumble to a muffled roar, and then in an earsplitting crescendo the train emerged from the tunnel.

It was then that Macdonald caught Madge, picking her up as he would have lifted a child, swinging her to the back of the platform just as she tried to fling herself under the train. He saw the face of the driver in the cab, heard the screech of the brakes which drowned Madge’s scream as he heaved her back into safety, and then felt the sting of her hand as she slapped his face like a child in a fury.

“Let me go,” she shrieked at him. “Let me go. I killed her. You know I killed her. What do you want to hang me for? Can’t I end it my own way? Let me go!”

Macdonald caught her hands and held them down, shaking the rigid body. “You didn’t kill her, and I know you didn’t kill her. Nobody’s going to hang you, because you didn’t do it. You’ve done your best, but it’s no good. You can’t settle things like this. Now be quiet, and for goodness’ sake show a little common sense. I’m very sorry, but you can’t do things like that.”

She flopped suddenly, the crazy energy of her struggle collapsing into limp inertia. Macdonald lifted her onto a seat against the wall as a tube attendant came up.

“I saw you catch her. They’re always doing it. Makes me mad. Never think of the driver, do they?”

“No. I don’t think they do,” agreed Macdonald. “All right. I’m a C.I.D. man. I’ll see to this.”

“Rather you than me. Gives me the proper pip, they do,” said the other disgustedly. “Think about the driver, that’s what I say.”
4

It was about half an hour later that Macdonald reached Windermere House again and Reeves admitted him into the silent hall. One glance at Reeves’ face was enough to warn Macdonald of what was coming.

“He shot himself,” said Reeves. “I suppose I could have stopped him, but I let him out of sight for ten seconds and he didn’t waste them. If anybody’s to blame, blame me.”

“Call it fifty-fifty,” said Macdonald dryly. “I should have hated to see him hanged, for all that he murdered his wife quite deliberately. What happened?”

“He was quite cheerful and normal when you brought him back. Asked me if I’d join him in a cup of tea for elevenses, and down we went to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and told me where the tea was, and while we were waiting for the kettle to boil he said: ‘By Jove, I forgot to clean my shoes this morning. Never go out without cleaning my shoes.’ He got a box out of the kitchen cupboard with shoebrushes and whatnots in it and started polishing his shoes. He asked me to make the tea when the kettle boiled, and I’d just got hold of the kettle when he shot himself. He’d hidden his gun under the dusters in the boot box. His confession was in a big envelope sticking out of his jacket pocket—here it is. T’s crossed and I’s dotted. And a vote of thanks to you and me for being so considerate. That’s a new one on me, Chief.”

“On me, too,” said Macdonald. “It beats me how a man like that could screw himself up to murder.”

“He’d got a limited mind,” said Reeves slowly. “He could be driven so far and no farther, and the old lady just drove him too far when she began to bully Madge back into being a mental case.”

Macdonald nodded. “Yes. You’re quite right. He saw what was happening and he could only think of one way out of it. And his chief mistake was in giving old Dr. Baring too large a whisky, and he probably did that out of sheer kindheartedness!”