The Merciless Ladies (36 page)

I wondered where the police were taught the English language and why some of them seemed to think it wrong to use one syllable where three would do. The court was crowded. Olive's mother was there and apparently her uncle, a man who looked so much like the recently deceased Sir Alexander Crayam that he could have been mistaken for him. One or two others I dimly remembered from the wedding. And Vincent de Lisle and Jeremy Winthrop. And a fair gaggle of reporters. I thought of Paul and Holly in Crichton. They would have heard by now, but neither had come down. Why should they? On a bright cold morning like this the air would be fresh and sweet and the hills a special shade of gold-brown.

The police surgeon had taken the stand. Death, he said, had been caused by a bullet from a Colt .32 revolver, and he held up a small flattened piece of lead for the court to see. The bullet had been fired with the barrel of the revolver pressed hard against the abdomen but pointing upwards in a peculiar way, as if the wrist holding it had been bent. The bullet had lodged in the spine, severing the spinal cord, and death had been instantaneous. When he reached the dead woman the time was 1.52 a.m. and he doubted if she had been dead much more than an hour. There were no other marks on the body except a slight abrasion on the left wrist and another on the right upper arm. These had occurred before death.

The coroner said: ‘Could the wound which caused death have been self-inflicted?'

‘It could.'

‘In your opinion is it such a wound as might in fact result from an attempt to destroy one's own life?'

Little spiteful golden-haired Olive … clinging to me … clinging …

The surgeon said: ‘Except for the unusual angle, quite consistent.

Possibly one might suppose she fell forward on the bed before she pulled the trigger.'

‘There is no evidence of foul play?'

‘No, sir.'

Maud Brade was called. A different person from the timid little maid the court might have expected to see. No snivelling into a handkerchief for Maud. Dry-eyed and tart, she gave her evidence as if holding a grievance against the coroner.

Yes, she was Mrs Olive Stafford's personal maid, her only maid, and had been with her four years: though she had actually been in the employment of the Crayam family for nearly twenty-five. Tuesday was her evening out. She usually left the flat about one o'clock and returned soon after midnight. On this Tuesday she went to see her mother, who lived in Shepherd's Bush. She had tea there, and then she and her sister went to the pictures. She came out at ten-thirty and went back to her mother's for a cup of coffee. She stayed a bit later than usual discussing family matters, including her own future, so it was midnight before she left home. She took the tube to Bond Street and walked down from there. It was just a minute or two after one o'clock when she reached Clarendon Gardens. She had her own key, of course, and let herself in. The only unusual thing she noticed was that she always had to put a tea-tray with a spirit-lamp etc. ready in the living-room before she left, and this hadn't been used: instead there was a used glass on the table and a brandy bottle without its top. As the light was on in Mrs Stafford's bedroom she thought she might still be awake, so she tapped and went in, and that was what she found.

‘Did Mrs Stafford tell you her plans on this particular evening?'

‘No, but I thought she was going out. She was always better tempered when she was off out.'

‘Was it not customary for her to give you some idea of her movements?'

‘Sometimes. Not this week.'

‘Why not this week?'

‘We wasn't on the best of terms this week', said Maud. ‘A month's notice after years of looking after her like a mother. It wasn't fair.'

‘You were leaving Mrs Stafford? For what reason?'

Maud glanced spitefully round the court. After fumbling with her bag, she said: ‘She had to economize; couldn't afford to keep me, so she said.'

‘Was Mrs Stafford in reduced circumstances?'

‘Yes. Her divorced husband hadn't paid up.'

‘Was she, do you think, worried over money matters?'

‘Well, if she wasn't she ought to have been. There was nothing but bills in the post.'

‘Can you tell us if she did anything unusual on Tuesday?'

Maud thought. ‘ Can't say as I can.'

‘Nothing which might give us reason to believe that your mistress was specially worried or upset or suffering from, say, an attack of nerves?'

‘Can't say as I can. Of course, she was under a doctor with her nerves.'

The coroner said: ‘ Do you know if she had anything else to worry about except money?'

‘Well, isn't that enough?' said Maud. ‘She'd a case comin' off against her husband next month. She was all nerves. Her husband—'

‘Did she ever speak as if she were contemplating taking her own life?'

‘Not except once, just after she'd left her husband, she said she was sick of life.'

‘But that was some years ago?'

‘Yes. She was mad enough for anything then.'

The coroner held up something in his hand. ‘Do you recognize this weapon, Miss Brade?'

‘Yes, sir, it belonged to Mrs Stafford.'

‘Did she ever say why she had a revolver?'

‘She was nervous. She had expensive jewellery. And the flat's easy to break into.'

‘How long has she had this weapon?'

‘Since her divorce. Soon after.'

‘Where did she keep it?'

‘In the middle drawer of the dressing-table in her bedroom.'

‘To your knowledge, had your mistress any special enemies or people from whom she might fear harm?'

Yes', said Maud. ‘She was at daggers drawn with her husband. He deserted her and married another woman.'

‘I understand that her late husband lives in the north of England. Have they met or corresponded of recent months?'

‘I don't know about met. They've corresponded.'

‘Did he have a key to this flat?'

‘No-o', said Maud reluctantly. ‘Well, not as far as I know.'

‘Did anyone else possess a key?'

‘The janitor.'

‘When you came in there was no sign of any letter, any suicide note?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Thank you, Miss Brade.'

‘Olive's solicitor was called briefly to give evidence about the divorce and her dispute with Paul about maintenance. He was followed by Brigadier Crayam, whose testimony did not seem to have much value except to fill in the details of Olive's life. When he got in the box he looked plumper and younger than his brother, and something in his manner suggested he had not had to carry the burden of Lady Crayam for forty years.

Proceedings were taking their humdrum and most desirable course. Beasley, who was covering the case for the
Chronicle
, caught my eye and winked. He was obviously bored and thinking if I would stay for the verdict he might cut and run.

Olive's doctor gave a Wimpole Street address. Mrs Stafford had first come to him three years ago, suffering from severe headaches and sleeplessness. There was nothing organically wrong with her but she was potentially a neurasthenic. He understood there was a history of it in the family. He had given her treatment and she had seen him from time to time since then and had seemed generally to improve under his care. There was, of course, no doubt that she all the time made too many demands on her nervous energy.

‘Would you say', the coroner asked, ‘that Mrs Stafford in your experience was the sort of woman who would be likely to take her own life?'

The doctor took off his glasses.

‘In my experience … I should say, no.

There was a brief stir in the court.

‘Would you kindly explain what you mean?'

‘I understood you to ask me if in my experience Mrs Stafford was the type of woman who would be likely to take her own life. I can only answer, no. The neurotic class to which she belonged has a very low rate of suicide.'

‘We have heard in the evidence of Miss Brade', said the coroner, ‘that Mrs Stafford spoke of ending her life.'

‘She did so to me once', said the doctor. ‘I naturally spoke to her very sharply; but I did not take her seriously. Since you asked my opinion, I wished to make it clear that this was the exception for her type, not the rule. That type of hysterical, nervous woman, of whom I may say I have had some experience, often comes to the point of talking of suicide, indeed of threatening suicide if it will gain her any point. It might, indeed, be that such a woman would go to the extreme,
before a witness
, of pointing a revolver at her own breast; but that is a condition far removed from pulling the trigger – and
when alone
. For that reason I was surprised to hear of Mrs Stafford's death.'

‘Was Mrs Stafford's condition, generally speaking, better or worse on the last occasion you saw her?'

‘In my opinion it was better. But the human mind is unfathomable.'

There was a pause before the next witness came to the stand. The clerk of the court was consulting with the coroner. Presently the coroner looked up and nodded.

A man with thin brown hair and protuberant eyes was seen making his way towards the stand. He gave his name as Inspector Priestley.

‘You are in charge of this case?'

‘I am, sir.'

‘You wish to give evidence at this juncture?'

‘I am here at the moment, sir, to ask for an adjournment of this inquest until after lunch.'

‘On what grounds?'

‘We have further medical evidence which will not be available until this afternoon. Then I wish to call a fresh witness who has just come in and is at present only just making his statement.'

The coroner looked at the clock.

‘Very well. The court is adjourned until two o'clock.'

V

I pushed my way out, anxious to get a breath of fresh air and also to avoid the people who would be issuing from the court behind me. A hand touched my arm. It was Beasley.

‘Hullo, Grant, you going my way?'

‘Depends which way that is', I replied, not graciously.

‘Well, I was off to the pub round the corner. It's a decent little place, and not many of the Press go there.'

You're staying for this afternoon, then?'

‘I am
now
. Don't know what the police have got on to but Priestley was breathing through his nose, which is always an interesting sign.'

Perhaps talking would help to pass the time more quickly than sitting alone. I fell into step beside him.

‘This is quite a new line for you, isn't it?' he said. ‘Are you looking for a new angle?'

We went in. The place was pretty full.

‘I knew Olive Stafford well.'

‘Oh, sorry. I'd no idea.'

We ordered drinks and sandwiches.

‘Now I remember', said Beasley. ‘You were a friend of her husband's. I'd forgotten.'

I nodded.

‘Does he never come to Town nowadays?'

‘No.'

‘I suppose that's why he wasn't there today. But he should have been, shouldn't he?'

‘They were nothing to each other.'

‘Well, this should rather turn out a blessing in disguise for him. If all the lawyer said is true. I mean it'll make a difference to his finances with no divorced wolf to keep from the door.'

We found a table.

‘Evidently no love between Paul Stafford and that serving wench. She'd make trouble for him with her ‘‘daggers drawn'' if she could.'

I said: ‘A man who's in Cumberland …'

‘Oh, yes, of course. Naturally.' Beasley went on with his mouth full: ‘I was pretty tired of the whole thing until Priestley asked for an adjournment.'

‘I wonder what they're driving at.'

‘There was a rumour current that Bernard Spilsbury has been called in.'

It was a long time before I spoke.

‘Whatever for?''

‘What? … Oh, it's not unusual, I suppose. Maybe the police pathologist is dissatisfied with something.'

‘We shall see.'

‘Paul Stafford', said Beasley. ‘What's the idea, d'you think, going off to Cumberland and hiding himself there? A fellow who knew him at the Hanover Club said he was never quite the same after those lawsuits.' Beasley helped himself to the mustard. ‘But there we are: it's happened before. Man gets to the top, can't stand corn, kicks over the traces, gets himself in a mess and goes all to pieces. Look at Oscar Wilde. D'you think drink's had something to do with it?'

‘As a matter of fact, no', I said.

Beasley looked up at me. ‘You still see him? What's he doing?'

‘Painting.'

‘Ah? Portraits?'

‘No. Advanced stuff.'

‘Oh … He's been bitten by that bug. D'you think there'd be a story in it for me if I went up and saw him some time?'

‘No', I said.

‘Um. He was always pretty helpful to us fellows in the old days.'

‘I think you'd find him changed.'

‘Oh, well, in that case …' Beasley sighed. He glanced at my plate but didn't remark on the fact that its contents were slow to disappear.

VI

I had refused Beasley's offer of a seat on the Press bench and slid into my old position on the back row. There I waited.

This adjournment …

The court was stuffy and cold.

‘Call Mr Bernard Sparks.'

A little anaemic man in a blue suit, with a brown moustache slightly browner in the middle.

A harmless little man.

He was sworn in and gave his name and address. He was, he said, employed by Messrs Glebe & Hunter, private inquiry agents, of Wardour Street. His firm had been instructed to keep a watch on the movements of Mrs Stafford. They were acting on the instructions of Messrs Carp, Cleeve & Rosse, of Chancery Lane. At 7.30 p.m. on Tuesday last, he had been standing outside No. 3, Clarendon Gardens …