The Dying of the Light: A Mystery Page 8

  ‘Right, let’s have it.’

  Rosemary Travis frowned politely.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Inspector?’

  ‘What makes you think Mrs Davenport was murdered?’ Jarvis demanded.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Rosemary replied.

  Jarvis narrowed his eyes.

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Certainly not. I know she was murdered. And so you jolly well should too. The evidence is clear enough, for heaven’s sake.’

  Anderson gave Jarvis a look which said ‘Now do you see what I mean?’ Perhaps he has a point at that, thought Jarvis with a sudden flash of irritation. He’d been willing to give the old biddy the benefit of the doubt, but enough was enough.

  ‘What evidence?’ he snapped.

  ‘Why, the morphine syrup and the cocoa, of course! I managed – with some difficulty, I might say – to persuade one of your officers to take them away with him. Frank, I believe his name was. The near-sighted one from the Isle of Wight. I assumed they would have been analysed by now, and the results communicated to whoever’s in charge.’

  She peered at Jarvis as though struck by a sudden doubt.

  ‘You are in charge, aren’t you?’

  Jarvis knew that the way he was gaping suggested he wasn’t in charge of his wits, never mind the investigation. Although Frank – ‘call me Franklin’ – Tomkins had indeed been born and raised in Newport, he wouldn’t have admitted under torture that it was the one on the Isle of Wight rather than the Kentucky bank of the Ohio River, still less that the ‘shades’ he affected were in fact prescription sunglasses.

  ‘The items in question mentioned were duly passed to our forensic department for routine examination,’ said Jarvis, pulling himself together with an effort.

  ‘With what result?’

  Jarvis took refuge in his notebook for a moment.

  ‘The cocoa in the mug contained nitrazepam, commonly known by the trade name Mogadon. The medicine bottle contained a mixture of morphine syrup, as specified on the label, and a proprietary liqueur known as Bols Blue Curaçao.’

  Anderson grunted.

  ‘Personally I prefer this cask-strength Ardbeg ’73. The distillery may have closed, but its spirit lives on. Sure you won’t indulge, Inspector?’

  Rosemary smoothed the skirt over her lower limbs.

  ‘Well, there’s your evidence,’ she remarked tartly. ‘The question now is who did it, and I warn you that the solution will be a supreme test of your detective abilities. All the residents visited Dorothy’s room that evening to wish her farewell, and in the mêlée which followed Miss Davis’s appearance it would have been a simple matter for any of them to have added the lethal combination of sleeping tablets to the cocoa and alcohol to the morphine syrup.’

  Jarvis clacked his teeth together a few times. Preston North End 1, Accrington Stanley 1. Billy Duff’s goal saved the day for the Reds, but Preston went on to win the replay. They’d wept, him and his dad.

  ‘Who’s Miss Davis?’ he murmured.

  ‘My sister,’ replied Anderson. ‘Letty affects our mother’s maiden name in order, and I quote, to “make a statement.” ’

  Rosemary gave a discreet cough, as though to call the proceedings to order.

  ‘George Channing is the only suspect who can be excluded at this stage,’ she continued, ‘having been confined to his bed following the unfortunate incident involving Mr Anderson’s dog. We are thus left with a total of seven suspects. A very satisfactory number, don’t you agree, Inspector? Large enough to allow a sufficient variety of possibilities without being, as dear Dorothy once put it, unnecessarily vast.’

  Jarvis squirmed about on his stool, which seemed to be growing harder by the moment.

  ‘Look, Miss Travis, there’s nothing to suggest that those pills were taken from your room by anyone other than …’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t pursue that avenue of inquiry, if I were you,’ Rosemary interrupted. ‘None of our rooms can be locked, and I only use the sleeping tablets very infrequently. Any of the suspects could therefore have taken them, possibly some time ago, without my being aware of the fact. Bearing that in mind, I suggest we concentrate our attention on the question of the blue curaçao.’

  ‘My dear Miss Travis …’ boomed Jarvis.

  ‘Now at one time, it is true, we used to be offered a glass of sherry at Christmas and suchlike festivities, but that custom has long since lapsed. Mr Anderson will bear me out when I say that at present the residents have no access to alcoholic beverages at all. That being so, the first problem we must resolve is how the murderer obtained a supply of the exotic liqueur which he – or she – used to intensify the narcotic action of the morphine syrup to a fatal degree.’

  Feeling an urgent need to assert his authority, to say nothing of giving his backside a rest, Jarvis rose to his feet. He towered over the elderly woman, swaying back and forth in the manner cultivated by the constabulary for the purposes of impressing the populace.

  ‘I fully recognize how painful it must be for you to accept that Mrs Davenport took her own life,’ he stated. ‘Nevertheless, the fact remains that there is not a single shred of evidence to suggest otherwise. As far as the curaçao is concerned, we naturally made inquiries as soon as the forensic report revealed its presence in the sample of morphine syrup. It transpired that this liqueur is among those kept on the premises for the use of the owners.’

  Anderson walked over to the escritoire. He lifted a wide-bottomed bottle and swirled the viscid blue contents around.

  ‘My sister’s poison,’ he said. ‘I’d as soon drink meths myself.’

  ‘I believe this room isn’t locked?’ Jarvis prompted.

  Rosemary held up her hand like a pupil in class.

  ‘Surely the important point, Inspector …’

  ‘No, no,’ Anderson replied. ‘Although my little sanctum is theoretically off-bounds to residents, it would have been quite simple for Mrs Davenport to sneak in here and filch some booze with a view to ceasing upon the midnight with no pain. The only mystery is why, with such an array of rare – and in some cases unobtainable – malts at her disposal, she should have chosen this appalling blue muck.’

  ‘Precisely!’ cried Rosemary.

  Struggling to her feet, she grasped Jarvis’s arm.

  ‘That is the key to the whole mystery! Don’t you see, Inspector? Even supposing that Dorothy had been capable of breaking in here and stealing spirits – and anyone who knew her will tell you how absurd that hypothesis is – we have to explain the remarkable coincidence that of all the drinks available she happened to select the only one which will not reveal its presence when added to morphine syrup because they are the same colour.’

  She stared intensely at Jarvis.

  ‘If Dorothy had deliberately chosen to put an end to her life, she would have had no need to dissolve the sleeping pills in her cocoa or carefully disguise the fact that her medicine had been adulterated with alcohol. There is only one possible reason why anyone should go to such extraordinary lengths, and that is to conceal the fact that Dorothy’s death was not suicide but coldblooded premeditated murder!’

  ‘Or to draw attention to it,’ said Jarvis.

  They stared at each other.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Rosemary replied in a haughty tone.

  Jarvis turned to Anderson.

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like a word with Miss Travis in private.’

  Anderson drew Jarvis to one side.

  ‘You’re not starting to take her seriously, I hope?’ he murmured. ‘If so, let me slip you a quick verb. sap. Letty may be a foul-mouthed slag who might be compared to a brick outhouse to that edifice’s advantage, but believe me, she has this lady’s number. Like all those who deceive themselves before practising on others, it’s a tangled web Miss Travis weaves. Should you become ensnared in it, Inspector, you would become the laughing-stock of your colleagues and superiors.’

  ‘I’ll t
hank you to allow me to carry out my duties as I see fit, sir,’ Jarvis replied stiffly.

  Anderson shrugged.

  ‘Very well!’ he sighed.

  He refilled his glass and slouched out, closing the door with an exaggerated care in pointed contrast to his sister’s abrupt exit.

  ‘Now I do hope you’re not going to allow yourself to be deceived into suspecting the staff,’ Rosemary told Jarvis. ‘Even discounting those purists who would exclude such a solution on principle, it seems safe to assume that any suspect whose guilt seems as blatant as the Andersons in the present case is bound to be a red herring.’

  Jarvis grasped the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. Give me strength, he thought. Don’t let me hit an old lady.

  ‘May I remind you, Miss Travis,’ he said, ‘that this is real life, not some thriller?’

  ‘Thriller?’ Rosemary queried acidly. ‘My dear Inspector, I hope you don’t think for a moment that I would concern myself with any such rubbish. My only interest is in the classic English detective story, with its unique blend of logic and fair play. There is no room for sloppy guesswork or vulgar sensationalism. If you observe the rules, spot the clues and make the appropriate deductions, you should be able to arrive at the correct solution.’

  ‘In real life,’ Jarvis continued implacably, ‘poison is the least common method of murder, accounting for less than six per cent of all cases.’

  ‘Of the cases that come to light, perhaps. But who is to say how many homicidal poisonings are successfully passed off as illness, accidents or – as in the present instance – suicide?’

  Jarvis struck his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  ‘For the love of …!’

  He stared into space for some time, running over the results and league positions for January 1958. Eighteen thousand turned out to watch them draw one all at Bury. Happy days!

  ‘I am a police officer, Miss Travis,’ he declared at last.

  ‘I know that,’ Rosemary replied brightly.

  ‘As such, I cannot conduct an investigation on the basis of hearsay, innuendo, rumour or fantasy. I require evidence. And as I have already said, there is no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Mrs Dorothy Davenport did not take her own life.’

  ‘But why should Dorothy go to such pains to disguise the lethal combination of drugs mixed into her cocoa and medicine?’

  ‘I don’t believe she did.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Rosemary exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Then who did?’

  ‘You.’

  They confronted each other for a long moment. Then a smile of pure pleasure lit up the woman’s frail, wrinkled features.

  ‘Do you know, Inspector, you’re not such a fool as you look! How clever of you to notice that I had deliberately excluded myself from the list of suspects.’

  Jarvis hid his face in his hands. I don’t believe this, he thought.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said.

  Rosemary frowned.

  ‘We can’t afford to exclude any possibilities at this stage, however unlikely they may appear. Even George Channing’s innocence should perhaps not be taken for granted. One might argue that the very fact that his alibi seems unbreakable in itself constitutes grounds for suspicion, and his room is of course next door to the victim’s. Secret passages are always a tendentious topic, but I think one might be regarded as permissible in a house such as this. On the other hand, the hideous injuries which Channing sustained might seem to preclude …’

  ‘What injuries?’

  ‘… and of course his motive is a good deal less obvious than, say, the Andersons’.’

  Jarvis felt the way he had on the never-to-be-forgotten day when Accrington creamed Stockport 4 nil to stay in the promotion race, and his dad let him drink the sediment out of his bottles of White Label. The pitch was tilting, the goalposts moving, the ref nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Who is this Channing?’ he demanded truculently. ‘What happened to him?’

  Rosemary waved vaguely.

  ‘Don’t let’s get off the point, Inspector. The only aspect of poor Channing’s ordeal which need concern us is that it might appear to give him a perfect alibi …’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘… intended to divert suspicion from the real culprit, who has cleverly covered his – or her – tracks by …’

  ‘FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, WHAT HAPPENED?’

  Rosemary Travis threw up her hands in exasperation.

  ‘Oh really, Inspector! Since you persistently refuse to listen to my advice, you can jolly well go and find out for yourself.’

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Tell you the truth, I rather fancied a career in the police myself at one time,’ said Miss Davis, leading the way upstairs.

  ‘And I’m sure you would have been a great credit to the force,’ Jarvis replied gallantly.

  Miss Davis tittered.

  ‘Either that or the Army,’ she went on as they reached the landing. ‘It was not to be, however. As the runt female of the litter, I let myself be talked into taking up the teaching game instead.’

  She barked a laugh.

  ‘Not that it made much difference in the end. The parents apparently thought of education as a suitably ladylike activity, like being a nurse, only more genteel. Maybe it used to be, too, when there was proper discipline at home and the kids came to you already broken in. These days the only thing you have a hope of teaching most of them is that you don’t fuck with the system.’

  ‘Well this is it,’ murmured Jarvis.

  ‘And though I have no wish to brag,’ Miss Davis went on, ‘I turned out to be a natural.’

  They came to a doorway opening into what looked like a walk-in cupboard.

  ‘The only thing I really missed was the uniform,’ she concluded reminiscently. ‘That and being able to go all the way. Know what I mean?’

  Inside the narrow cubicle were two plywood doors with cheap gilt handles. Miss Davis opened the one to the left and ushered Jarvis inside. An expanse of flowery-patterned wallpaper rose to an inordinately high ceiling. A grimy sash-window overlooked an overgrown walled garden where a large dog was secured by a length of orange rope. The air was as cold and still as marble.

  ‘That’s where she breathed her last,’ Miss Davis remarked, pointing to a metal bed-frame in the opposite corner. ‘Choked, rather. Messy business, but all part of a day’s work round here. And guess who has to get down on her bended knees and do the necessary? God forbid my precious brother should sully his fingers. I mean puleeease!’

  Jarvis surveyed the personal effects gathering dust on top of the chest of drawers. He picked up a small bevelled cone of polished stone, which proved on closer inspection to be a souvenir of Land’s End. Rosemary Travis had warned him that if he asked to speak to George Channing directly the Andersons would claim that he wasn’t well enough to receive visitors. She had therefore suggested that he tell them he wished to search Mrs Davenport’s room, as was only natural in the circumstances, and then find some pretext for going next door.

  Despite his reluctance to take advice from outsiders on professional matters, Jarvis had been forced to concede the wisdom of this. The last thing he wanted to do was to get on the wrong side of someone like this Anderson, who was related to the local MP and reportedly had the ear of various big noises on the council. He put the statuette down beside a set of miniature bottles in a wooden case and ran one finger along the top of the chest of drawers, tracing a straight line in the gathering dust. A long hair looped up and curled itself about his finger, glinting in the dull light. He brushed it away with a shudder. He’d seen the police photos and even attended the PM, yet it was only now that the fact of Dorothy Davenport’s death came home to him.

  In the centre of the room, Miss Davis was going through a brief but energetic workout, stretching and bending alternately to either side. Jarvis pointed to the dead woman’s possessions.

  ‘Aren’t you going to clear this stu
ff out?’ he demanded brusquely. ‘Move in another paying customer?’

  ‘Only wish we could,’ Miss Davis puffed.

  Jarvis opened the wooden case and took out a tiny replica of a green gin bottle. He unscrewed the top and turned it up. A drop of brackish water fell to the back of his hand.

  ‘Recession biting?’ he suggested sarcastically. ‘Bottom fallen out of the caring market, has it?’

  Miss Davis laughed.

  ‘You must be joking! We’ve got people practically beating the door down, they’re that desperate to get rid.’

  Jarvis replaced the miniature in its case and picked up a dusty bouquet of dried poppies.

  ‘The problem is William,’ Miss Davis panted, scissoring her arms from side to side. ‘He was spoilt rotten as a child, needless to say. No spunk, no gumption.’

  One of the dead flowers, disturbed by Jarvis’s probing finger, broke free of the bouquet and fell. Borne on currents of air created by the flurry of activity at the centre of the room, it drifted laterally in a series of twirling spirals before coming to rest near the head of the bed.

  ‘Only a psycho could actually enjoy this work,’ Miss Davis grunted, ‘but what the hell, it’s a living. Don’t kill the golden goose is the way I look at it. But William can hardly wait.’

  As Jarvis bent to pick up the poppy, a gleam caught his eye. He extended two fingers and grasped the slithery scrap of torn plastic.

  ‘And what will become of you?’ he murmured. ‘Back to teaching, is it?’

  There was some black lettering on the plastic. Holding it up to the window, Jarvis read ‘50 ml disposable syr.…’

  ‘Over my dead body!’ snorted Miss Davis.

  Jarvis put the scrap of plastic into his wallet.

  ‘If you still fancied a job with the police,’ he said, ‘something might be arranged.’

  Miss Davis ceased her exertions.

  ‘Really?’ she breathed.

  ‘We’re always on the lookout for people with the right mentality,’ Jarvis told her. ‘You can teach everything else, but you can’t teach that. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’