Died in the Wool

‘Have you warned them about this visitation?’

‘I talked grandly about “an expert from a special branch”. I said you were a high-up who’d been lent to this country. They know your visit is official and that the police and hush-hush birds have a hand in it. Honestly, I don’t think that alarms them much. At first, I suppose, each of us was afraid; personally afraid, I mean, afraid that we should be suspected. But I don’t think we four ever suspected each other. In that one thing we are agreed. And would you believe it, as the weeks went on and the police interrogation persisted, we got just plain bored. Bored to exhaustion. Bored to the last nerve. Then it stopped, and instead of Flossie’s death fading a bit, it grew into a bogey that none of us talked about. We could see each other thinking of it and a nightmarish sort of watching game set in. In a funny kind of way I think they were relieved when I told them what I’d done. They know, of course, that your visit has something to do with our X Adjustment, as Douglas pompously calls it.’

‘So they also know about your X Adjustment?’

‘Only very vaguely, except Douglas. Just that it’s rather special. That couldn’t be helped.’

Alleyn stared out at a clear and uncompromising landscape. ‘It’s a rum go,’ he said, and after a moment: ‘Have you thought carefully about this? Do you realize you’re starting something you may want to stop and – not be able to stop?’

‘I’ve thought about it ad nauseam.’

‘I think I ought to warn you. I’m a bit of state machinery. Any one can start me up but only the state can switch me off.’

‘OK.’

‘Well,’ Alleyn said, ‘you have been warned.’

‘At least,’ said Fabian, ‘I’ll give you a good dinner.’

‘Then you’re my host?’

‘Oh, yes. Didn’t you know? Arthur left Mount Moon to me and Flossie left her money to Douglas. You might say we were joint hosts,’ said Fabian.

III

Mount Moon homestead was eighty years old and that is a great age for a house in the antipodes. It had been built by Arthur Rubrick’s grandfather, from wood transported over the Pass in bullock wagons. Starting as a four-roomed cottage, room after room had been added, at a rate about twice as slow as that achieved by the intrepid Mrs Rubrick of those days in adding child after child to her husband’s quiver. The house bore a dim family resemblance to the Somersetshire seat which Arthur’s grandfather had thankfully relinquished to a less adventurous brother. Victorian gables and the inevitable conservatory, together with lesser family portraits and surplus pieces of furniture traced unmistakably the family’s English origin. The garden had been laid out in a nostalgic mood, at considerable expense, and with a bland disregard for the climate of the plateau. Of the trees old Rubrick had planted, only lombardy poplars, pinus insignis and a few natives had flourished. The tennis lawn, carved out of the tussocky hillside, turned yellow and dusty during summer. The pleached walks of Somerset had been in part realized with hardy ramblers and, where these failed, with clipped hedges of poplar. The dining-room windows looked down upon a queer transformation of what had been originally an essentially English conception of a well-planned garden. But beyond this unconvincing piece of pastiche – what uncompromising vastness! The plateau swam away into an illimitable haze of purple, its boundaries mingled with clouds. Above the cloud, suspended, it seemed, in a tincture of rose, floated the great mountains.

At dinner, that first night, Alleyn witnessed the pageant of nightfall on the plateau. He saw the horn of the Cloud Piercer shine gold and crimson long after the hollows of the lesser Alps, as though a dark wine poured into them, had filled with shadow. He felt the night air of the mountains enter the house and was glad to smell newly-lit wood in the open fireplaces.

He considered once again the inmates of the house.

Seen by candlelight round the dining-room table they seemed, with the exception of the housekeeper-chaperon, extremely young. Terence Lynne, an English girl who had been Florence Rubrick’s secretary, was perhaps the oldest, though her way of dressing her hair may have given him this impression. It swept, close-fitting as a cap, in two black wings from a central parting to a knot at the nape of her neck, giving her the look of a coryphée, an impression that was not contradicted by the extreme, the almost complacent neatness of her dress. This was black, with crisp lawn collar and cuffs. Not quite an evening dress, but he felt that, unlike the two young men, Miss Lynne changed punctiliously every night. Her hands were long and white and it was a shock to learn that since her employer’s death she had returned to Mount Moon as a kind of landgirl, or more accurately, as he was to learn later, a female gardener. Some hint of her former employment still hung about her. She had an air of responsibility and was, he thought, a trifle mousey.

Ursula Harme was an enchanting girl, slim, copper-haired and extremely talkative. On his arrival Alleyn had encountered her stretched out on the tennis lawn wearing a brief white garment and dark glasses. She at once began to speak of England, sketching modish pre-war gaieties and asking him which of the night clubs had survived the blitz. She had been in England with her guardian, she said, when war broke out. Her uncle, now fighting in the Middle East, had urged her to return with Mrs Rubrick to New Zealand, and Mount Moon.

‘I am a New Zealander,’ said Miss Harme, ‘but all my relations – I haven’t any close relations except my uncle – live in England. Aunt Flossie – she wasn’t really an aunt but I called her that – was better than any real relation could have been.’

She was swift in her movements and had the silken air of a girl who is, beyond argument, attractive. Alleyn thought her restless and noticed that though she looked gay and brilliant when she talked her face in repose was watchful. Though, during dinner, she spoke most readily to Douglas Grace, her eyes more often were for Fabian Losse.

The two men were well contrasted. Everything about Fabian Losse, his hollow temples and his nervous hands, his lightly waving hair, was drawn delicately with a sharp pencil. But Captain Grace was a magnificent fellow with a fine moustache, a sleek head and large eyes. His accent was slightly antipodean but his manners were formal. He called Alleyn ‘sir’ each time he spoke to him and was inclined to pin a rather meaningless little laugh on the end of his remarks. He seemed to Alleyn to be an extremely conventional young man.

Mrs Aceworthy, Arthur Rubrick’s elderly cousin who had come to Mount Moon on the death of his wife, was a large sandy woman with an air of uncertain authority and a tendency to bridle. Her manner towards Alleyn was cautious. He thought that she disapproved of his visit and he wondered how much Fabian Losse had told her. She spoke playfully and in inverted commas of ‘my family’, and seemed to show a preference for the two New Zealanders, Douglas Grace and Ursula Harme.

The vast landscape outside darkened and the candles on the dining-room table showed ghostly in the uncurtained window panes. When dinner was over they all moved into a comfortable, conglomerate sort of room hung with faded photographs of past cadets and lit cosily by a kerosene lamp. Mrs Aceworthy, with a vague murmur about ‘having to see to things’ left them with their coffee.

Above the fireplace hung the full-dress portrait of a woman.

It was a formal painting. The bare arms executed with machine-like precision, flowed wirily from shoulders to clasped hands. The dress was of mustard-coloured satin, very décolleté, and this hue was repeated in the brassy highlights of Mrs Rubrick’s incredibly golden coiffure. The painter had dealt remorselessly with a formidable display of jewellery. It was an Academy portrait by an experienced painter but his habit of flattery had met its Waterloo in Florence Rubrick’s face. No trick of understatement could soften that large mouth, closed with difficulty over protuberant teeth, or modify the acquisitive glare of the pale goitrous eyes which evidently had been fixed on the artist’s and therefore appeared, as laymen will say, to ‘follow one about the room’. Upon each of the five persons seated in Arthur Rubrick’s study did his wife Florence seem to fix her arrogant and merciless stare.

There was no other picture in the room. Alleyn looked round for a photograph of Arthur Rubrick but could find none that seemed likely.

The flow of talk, which had run continuously if not quite easily throughout dinner, was now checked. The pauses grew longer and their interruptions more forced. Fabian Losse began to stare expectantly at Alleyn. Douglas Grace sang discordantly under his breath. The two girls fidgeted, caught each other’s eyes, and looked away again.

Alleyn, sitting in shadow, a little removed from the fireside group, said, ‘That’s a portrait of Mrs Rubrick, isn’t it?’

It was as if he had gathered up the reins of a team of nervously expectant horses. He saw by their startled glances at the portrait that custom had made it invisible to them, a mere piece of furniture of which, for all its ghastly associations, they were normally unaware. They stared at it now rather stupidly, gaping a little.

Fabian said, ‘Yes. It was painted ten years ago. I don’t need to tell you it’s by a determined Academician. Rather a pity, really. John would have made something terrific out of Flossie. Or, better still, Agatha Troy.’

Alleyn, who was married to Agatha Troy, said, ‘I only saw Mrs Rubrick for a few minutes. Is it a good likeness?’

Fabian and Ursula Harme said, ‘No.’ Douglas Grace and Terence Lynne said, ‘Yes.’

‘Hallo!’ said Alleyn. ‘A divergence of opinion?’

‘It doesn’t give you any idea of how tiny she was,’ said Douglas Grace, ‘but I’d call it a speaking likeness.’

‘Oh, it’s a conscientious map of her face,’ said Fabian.

‘It’s a caricature,’ cried Ursula Harme. Her eyes were fixed indignantly on the portrait.

‘I should have called it an unblushing understatement,’ said Fabian. He was standing before the fire, his hands on the mantelpiece. Ursula Harme turned to look at him, knitting her brows. Alleyn heard her sigh as if Fabian had wakened some old controversy between them.

‘And there’s no vitality in it, Fabian,’ she said anxiously. ‘You must admit that. I mean she was a much more splendid person than that. So marvellously alive.’ She caught her breath at the unhappy phrase. ‘She made you feel like that about her,’ she added. ‘The portrait gives you nothing of it.’

‘I don’t pretend to know anything about painting,’ said Douglas Grace, ‘but I do know what I like.’

‘Would you believe it?’ Fabian murmured under his breath. He said aloud, ‘Is it so great a merit, Ursy, to be marvellously alive? I find unbounded vitality very unnerving.’

‘Not if it’s directed into suitable channels,’ pronounced Grace.

‘But hers was. Look what she did!’ said Ursula.

‘She was extraordinarily public-spirited, you know,’ Grace agreed. ‘I must say I took my hat off to her for that. She had a man’s grasp of things.’ He squared his shoulders and took a cigar case out of his pocket. ‘Not that I admire managing women,’ he said, sitting down by Miss Lynne. ‘But Auntie Floss was a bit of a marvel. You’ve got to hand it to her, you know.’

‘Apart from her work as an MP?’ Alleyn suggested.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Ursula, still watching Fabian Losse. ‘I don’t know why we’re talking about her, Fabian, unless it’s for Mr Alleyn’s information.’

‘You may say it is,’ said Fabian.

‘Then I think he ought to know what a splendid sort of person she was.’

Fabian did an unexpected thing. He reached out his long arm and touched her lightly on the cheek. ‘Go ahead, Ursy,’ he said gently. ‘I’m all for it.’

‘Yes,’ she cried out, ‘but you don’t believe.’

‘Never mind. Tell Mr Alleyn.’

‘I thought,’ said Douglas Grace, ‘that Mr Alleyn was here to make an expert investigation. I shouldn’t think our ideas of Aunt Florence are likely to be of much help. He wants facts.’

‘But you’ll all talk to him about her,’ said Ursula, ‘and you won’t be fair.’

Alleyn stirred a little in his chair in the shadows. ‘I should be very glad if you’d tell me about her, Miss Harme,’ he said. ‘Please do.’

‘Yes, Ursy,’ said Fabian. ‘We want you to. Please do.’

She looked brilliantly from one to another of her companions. ‘But – it seems so queer. It’s months since we spoke of her. I’m not at all good at expressing myself. Are you serious, Fabian? Is it important?’

‘I think so.’

‘Mr Alleyn?’

‘I think so, too, I want to start with the right idea of your guardian. Mrs Rubrick was your guardian, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you must have known her very well.’

‘I think I did. Though we didn’t meet until I was thirteen.’

‘I should like to hear how that came about.’

Ursula leant forward, resting her bare arms on her knees and clasping her hands. She moved into the region of firelight.

‘You see –’ she began.

CHAPTER TWO ACCORDING TO URSULA HARME

I

Ursula began haltingly with many pauses but with a certain air of championship. At first Fabian helped her, making a conversation rather than a solo performance of the business. Douglas Grace, sitting beside Terence Lynne, sometimes spoke to her in a low voice. She had taken up a piece of knitting and the click of the needles lent a domestic note to the scene, a note much at variance with her sleek and burnished appearance. She did not reply to Grace but once Alleyn saw her mouth flicker in a smile. She had small sharp teeth.

As Ursula grew into her narrative she became less uneasy, less in need of Fabian’s support, until presently she could speak strongly, eager to draw her portrait of Florence Rubrick.

A firm picture took shape. A schoolgirl, bewildered and desolated by news of her mother’s death, sat in the polished chilliness of a headmistress’s drawing-room. ‘I’d known ever since the morning. They’d arranged for me to go home by the evening train. They were very kind but they were too tactful, too careful not to say the obvious thing. I didn’t want tact and delicacy, I wanted warmth. Literally, I was shivering. I can hear the sound of the horn now. It was the sort that chimes like bells. She brought it out from England. I saw the car slide past the window and then I heard her voice in the hall asking for me. It’s years ago but I can see her as clearly as if it were yesterday. She wore a fur cape and smelt lovely and she hugged me and talked loudly and cheerfully and said she was my guardian and had come for me and that she was my mother’s greatest friend and had been with her when it happened. Of course I knew all about her. She was my godmother. But she had stayed in England when she married after the last war and when she returned we lived too far away to visit. So I’d never seen her. So I went away with her. My other guardian is an English uncle. He’s a soldier and follows the drum and he was very glad when Aunt Florence (that’s what I called her) took hold. I stayed with her until it was time to go back to school. She used to come during term and that was marvellous.’

The picture sharpened on a note of adolescent devotion. There had been the year when Auntie Florence returned to England but wrote occasionally and caused sumptuous presents to be sent from London stores. She reappeared when Ursula was sixteen and ready to leave school.

‘It was Heaven. She took me Home with her. We had a house in London and she brought me out and presented me and everything. It was wizard. She gave a dance for me.’ Ursula hesitated. ‘I met Fabian at that dance, didn’t I, Fabian?’

‘It was a great night,’ said Fabian. He had settled on the floor, his back was propped against the side of her chair and his thin knees were drawn up to his chin. He had lit a pipe.

‘And then,’ said Ursula, ‘it was September, 1939, and Uncle Arthur began to say we’d better come out to New Zealand. Auntie Florence wanted us to stay and get war jobs but he kept on cabling for her to come.’

Terence Lynne’s composed voice cut across the narrative. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘he was her husband.’

‘Hear, hear!’ said Douglas Grace and patted her knee.

‘Yes, but she’d have been wonderful in a war job,’ said Ursula impatiently. ‘I always took rather a gloomy view of his insisting like that. I mean, it was a thought selfish. Doing without her would really have been his drop of war work.’

‘He’d had three months in a nursing-home,’ said Miss Lynne without emphasis.

‘I know, Terry, but all the same … Well, anyway, soon after Dunkirk he cabled again and out we came. I had rather thought of joining something but she was so depressed about leaving. She said I was too young to be alone and she’d be lost without me, so I came. I loved coming, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Fabian murmured.

‘And there was you to be looked after on the voyage.’

‘Yes, I’d staged my collapse by that time. Ursula acted,’ Fabian said, turning his head towards Alleyn, ‘as a kind of buffer between my defencelessness and Flossie’s zeal. Flossie had been a VAD in the last war and the mysteries had lain fallow in her for twenty years. I owe my reason if not my life to Ursula.’

‘You’re not fair,’ she said but with a certain softening of her voice. ‘You’re ungrateful, Fab.’

‘Ungrateful to Flossie for plumping herself down in your affections like an amiable, no, not even an amiable cuttlefish? But go on, Ursy.’

‘I don’t know how much time Mr Alleyn has to spare for our reminiscences,’ began Douglas Grace, ‘but I must say I feel deeply sorry for him.’

‘I’ve any amount of time,’ said Alleyn, ‘and I’m extremely interested. So you all three arrived in New Zealand in 1940? Is that it, Miss Harme?’

‘Yes. We came straight here. After London,’ said Ursula gaily, ‘it did seem rather hearty and primitive but quite soon after we got here the member for the district died and they asked her to stand and everything got exciting. That’s when you came in, Terry, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Lynne, clicking her needles. ‘That’s where I came in.’

‘Auntie Floss was marvellous to me,’ Ursula continued. ‘You see, she had no children of her own so I suppose I was rather special. Anyway she used to say so. You should have seen her at the meetings, Mr Alleyn. She loved being heckled. She was as quick as lightning and absolutely fearless, wasn’t she, Douglas?’

‘She certainly could handle them,’ agreed Grace. ‘She was up to her neck in it when I got back. I remember at one meeting some woman shouted out: “Do you think it’s right for you to have cocktails and champagne when I can’t afford to give my kiddies eggs?” Aunt Floss came back at her in a flash: “I’ll give you a dozen eggs for every alcoholic drink I’ve consumed.”’

‘Because,’ Ursula explained, ‘she didn’t drink, ever, and most of the people knew and clapped, and Aunt Florence said at once: “That wasn’t fair, was it? You didn’t know about my humdrum habits.” And she said: “If things are as bad as that you should apply to my Relief Supply Service. We send plenty of eggs in from Mount Moon.”’ Ursula’s voice ran down on a note of uncertainty. Douglas Grace cut in with his loud laugh. ‘And the woman shouted “I’d rather be without eggs,” and Aunt Floss said: “Just as well perhaps while I’m on my soap-box,” and they roared with laughter.’

‘Parry and riposte,’ muttered Fabian. ‘Parry and riposte!’

‘It was damned quick of her, Fabian,’ said Douglas Grace.

‘And the kids continued eggless.’

‘That wasn’t Aunt Florence’s fault,’ said Ursula.

‘All right, darling. My sympathies are with the woman but let it pass. I must say,’ Fabian added, ‘that in a sort of way I rather enjoyed Floss’s electioneering campaign.’

‘You don’t understand the people in this country,’ said Grace. ‘We like it straight from the shoulder and Aunt Floss gave it to us that way. She had them eating out of her hand, hadn’t she, Terry?’

‘She was very popular,’ said Terence Lynne.

‘Did her husband take an active part in her public life?’ asked Alleyn.

‘It practically killed him,’ said Miss Lynne, clicking her needles.

II

There was a flabbergasted silence and she continued sedately. ‘He went for long drives and sat on platforms and fagged about from one meeting to another. This house was never quiet. What with Red Cross and Women’s Institute and EPS and political parties it was never quiet. Even this room, which was supposed to be his, was invaded.’

‘She was always looking after him,’ Ursula protested. ‘That’s unfair, Terry. She looked after him marvellously.’

‘It was like being minded by a hurricane.’

Fabian and Douglas laughed. ‘You’re disloyal and cruel,’ Ursula flashed out at them. ‘I’m ashamed of you. To make her into a figure of fun! How can you, when you, each of you, owed her so much.’

Douglas Grace at once began to protest that this was unfair, that nobody could have been fonder of his aunt than he was, that he used to pull her leg when she was alive and that she liked it. He was flustered and affronted and the others listened to him in an uncomfortable silence. ‘If we’ve got to talk about her,’ Douglas said hotly, ‘for God’s sake let’s be honest. We were all fond of her, weren’t we?’ Fabian hunched up his shoulders but said nothing. ‘We all took a pretty solid knock when she was murdered, didn’t we? We all agreed that Fabian should ask Mr Alleyn to come? All right. If we’ve got to hold a post-mortem on her character which, personally, seems to me to be a waste of time, I suppose we’re meant to say what we think.’

‘Certainly,’ said Fabian. ‘Unburden the bosom, work off the inhibitions. But it’s Ursy’s innings at the moment, isn’t it?’

‘You interrupted her, Fab.’

‘Did I? I’m sorry, Ursy,’ said Fabian gently. He slewed round – put his chin on the arm of her chair and looked up comically at her.

‘I’m ashamed of you,’ she said uncertainly.

‘Please go on. You’d got roughly to 1941 with Flossie in the full flush of her parliamentary career, you know. Here we were, Mr Alleyn. Douglas, recovered from his wound but passed unfit for further service, going the rounds of a kind of superior Shepherd’s Calendar. Terry, building up Flossie’s prestige with copious shorthand notes and cross-references. Ursula –’ He broke off for a moment. ‘Ursula provided enchantment,’ he said lightly, ‘and I, comedy. I fell off horses and collapsed at high altitudes, and fainted into sheep-dips. Perhaps these antics brought me en rapport with my unfortunate uncle who, at the same time, was fighting his own endocarditic battle. Carry on, Ursy.’

‘Carry on with what? What’s the good of my trying to give my picture of her when you all – when you all –’ Her voice wavered for a moment. ‘All right,’ she said more firmly. ‘The idea is that we each give our own account of the whole thing, isn’t it? The same account that I’ve bleated out at dictation speed to that monumental bore from the detective’s office. All right.’

‘One moment,’ said Alleyn’s voice out of the shadows.

He saw the four heads turn to him in the firelight.

‘There’s this difference,’ he said. ‘If I know anything of police routine you were continually stopped by questions. At the moment I don’t want to nail you down to an interrogation. I want you, if you can manage to do so, to talk about this tragedy as if you spoke of it for the first time. You realize, don’t you, that I’ve not come here, primarily, to arrest a murderer. I’ve been sent to try and discover if this particular crime has anything to do with unlawful behaviour in time of war.’

‘Exactly,’ said Douglas Grace. ‘Exactly, sir. And in my humble opinion,’ he added, stroking the back of his head, ‘it most undoubtedly has. However!’

‘All in good time,’ said Alleyn. ‘Now, Miss Harme, you’ve given us a clear picture of a rather isolated little community up to, let us say, something over a year ago. At the close of 1941 Mrs Rubrick is much occupied by her public duties, with Miss Lynne as her secretary. Captain Grace is a cadet on this sheep station. Mr Losse is recuperating and has begun, with Captain Grace’s help, to do some very specialized work. Mr Rubrick is a confirmed invalid. You are all fed by Mrs Duck, the cook, and attended by Markins, the houseman. What are you doing?’