Doug Allyn: v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

When they understood that he was a policeman, and what had brought him there, they seemed more excited than alarmed. Young policemen often featured in their screen existence. They were nearly always good. As this man seemed to be. There was nothing alarming in his questions.

He started by writing down their names and was given a thumbnail sketch of their families and their histories. Gertrude Tabard, daughter of an Anglo-Indian colonel. Beatrice Mountfield, relict of Dr. Mountfield, the celebrated neurosurgeon. Florence Marant. Her father had been an inventor. She was beginning to draw a picture of the Marant patent rabbit hutch when Gertrude decided that she had occupied the limelight long enough.

She said, “He doesn’t want to know about rabbit hutches, Florence. He wants to find out who attacked Nurse Minter. That’s right, isn’t it, young man?”

“Indeed it is, ma’am. And if any of you happened to hear anything during the past two hours—”

Three heads were shaken, decisively.

Decisively, thought Boone, but not regretfully. They were none of them showing any signs of sorrow at the departure of Nurse Minter. Interest, yes. Even a sort of pleasure. He supposed that to people in their eighties the death of a much younger woman was a symbol of their own survival. A sort of triumph.

After he left them, the three old ladies sat in silence for a time. Then Beatrice said, “Do you think he knows, Gertie?”

“If he doesn’t know,” said Florence, “do you think we ought to say something?”

“Wouldn’t that be sneaking?” said Gertrude.

The word took them back to their school days. Sneaking was something only lower-class and despicable girls did.

“They’ve no real proof,” said Florence. “But we’ve all heard him, lots of times, creeping along to her room. And if she wasn’t doing what we think she was doing, what was she doing?”

“She wasn’t cutting his toenails,” said Gertrude.

This made them all cackle. Nurse Minter had cut their toenails for them once a month.

“I think,” said Gertrude, “that if he doesn’t know, it would be in the interests of justice to drop him a hint.”

The interests of justice. That was what their favourite television character, young Mack, stood for. Mack would have found a way out of their difficulty. He was a great hand at solving difficulties.

Boone, who was not as simple as he looked, had quickly circled the house and come in through the kitchen door. The wall between kitchen and television room was not soundproof. He listened with great interest to what the old ladies had to say.

On the following morning all four members of the investigating team had been busy.

Dr. Mornington had submitted a preliminary report. He said that Nurse Minter’s skull had been crushed by one powerful blow delivered from behind and above. This suggested that the killer was taller than his victim, or that she might have been stooping forward when she was hit. He added that the fact that the body had been lying in the same place since death, and that he had been called in so promptly, allowed him to be more certain about the time of death than was usual in such cases. He put it at a few minutes one side or another of nine o’clock.

The second report, which had been typed out the night before, was on the inspector’s desk when he came in. In it Boone had recorded — as nearly verbatim as he could manage — the conversation that he had overheard. Interesting, thought Rayburn. Too spotty to come to a firm conclusion, but the needle of suspicion was already swinging in one direction.

He himself had a date with the local bank manager. He was only too well aware of the tiresome restrictions which gagged such men, but this particular manager was an old friend and prepared, within limits, to be indiscreet. Rayburn eased himself towards what he wanted to know by pointing out that a search would have to be made for Minter’s Will. “By the way,” he went on, “I’m not of course asking for any figures, but perhaps you could at least tell me this. Was she a woman of any substance?”

The bank manager had nodded. “An active account,” he said, “and recently very well in credit.”

That was satisfactory, as far as it went. If details were required later, an Order of the Court would produce them.

But by far the most promising results of that morning’s work had been produced by Sergeant Hart. She had found the manager of the Palace Cinema in an expansive mood.

“Most local cinemas,” he said, “have been killed by television. We’re lucky to be alive and kicking. We’ve got a very faithful audience and one thing we do to keep their interest alive is to insert a surprise item every now and then. A short general-interest film, or a cartoon. Not Disney, he’s much too expensive, but there are quite good cartoons being made in England and Germany.”

“Do you show it at the beginning or the end?”

“We start with advertisements and a trailer, or trailers, of forthcoming attractions. Then we slip in a slide which says, ‘And now, for your additional entertainment: Pom-de-pom. Pompetty pom.’ ”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t you recognise it? Their signature tune. We’ve managed to get ahold of two or three of their earliest ones.”

Pom-de-pom. Pompetty pom. Of course. Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. It took her back to her own youth.

“And you put that in after the trailers and before the main item. I wonder if you could give me some timings—”

“For last night?” The manager cocked a shrewd eye at her. “Yes. Well. We were a little late in starting. It was just past twenty to nine before the lights went down. There were some advertisements and we showed two trailers that night. Twenty-five minutes for the comedy. I’d say it was almost exactly nine-thirty when the main feature started. My box-office girl, Stella, could confirm the times. She keeps a sharp eye on the clock. She has to stay to the end. And she’s keen to get home. Would you care to have a word with her?”

“Very much,” said Alice. And, gently prodded, Stella had produced a promising budget of information. She recognised Mr. Goldsworthy. A tall man with a beard. He had arrived in good time. And had his favourite seat. Not that it was anyone else’s favourite. On the left-hand end of the back row.

She led the way into the auditorium and indicated the seat. Certainly not a good one. Partly blocked by that pillar. Why would anyone want that one?

Stella looked embarrassed. She said, “Well, I did think—” She indicated the curtained opening alongside the seat. “Elderly men do get — you know—”

Looking through the curtain Hart saw the sign Toilets, and spared Stella further embarrassment by saying, “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. That explains it.”

There was a door at the far end with a shaded light over it. “Emergency exit,” said Stella. “Has to be kept open during the performance.”

What a setup, said Alice to herself and, later, to the inspector, who said, “It’s beginning to add up, isn’t it?”

He was aware that anything culled by Boone from Mrs. Burches had to be treated with caution since the housekeeper disliked the nurse, but it filled out the picture that was emerging.

“Set your teeth on edge, it would, the way she treated those three old dears,” Mrs. Burches had said. “All good family. Twice as good as hers. Maybe that was why she tried to take it out on them — in small ways. However, give her credit — she looked after Mrs. G all right. Maybe she was hoping for a handout of all the money Mrs. G kept under her bed.”

“Do you mean she really—”

“Not really. No. Just a story. The way people talk. However, as I said, she did that part of her job very regular. Brought her all her meals. Tidied her room. Gave her her sleeping draught each night. She must have been on her way to do that when she was attacked.”