murder in oils 20

 a bit on the drag today, sorry, got up and fed cats, went back to bed to doze for an hour and oops, it was 3 hours...

Chapter 20

 

Dinner was slightly strained. Anna was plainly aware that there was something going on, but was glad to have a glowing reference from David. She might not have been as happy had she realised that anyone able to read between the lines would realise that she was not welcome any more. Anna, however, was very straightforward, and saw nothing to complain about.

Miss Truckle managed to produce a meal of cooked ham, courtesy of Fortnum and Mason, served with roast potatoes, pease pudding, decently heavy with onions, and a touch, Alexander thought, of garlic and curry to just lift it.

“Nice addition to the pease,” said Alexander.

“Yes, it’s good,” agreed David.

Miss Truckle blushed.

“Thank you,” she said.

 

“Where’s my painting of Helen?” asked David, staring at the blank space on the wall.

“She’s taken it down,” said Alexander. “It must have been whilst we dressed for dinner.”

“Where is it?” David panicked.

“Stay calm, David, you have others,” said Alexander. “I have to conclude that she has destroyed it.”

“I want her prosecuted! And she can leave first thing in the morning!” yelled David.

“Criminal damage is a civil suit,” said Alexander. “Please, David, let me handle this.”

“Why would you want to? You don’t like her either. Are you saying...?” Alexander put his hand over David’s mouth.

“She’s going to pay,” he murmured into David’s ear. “And more thoroughly if you let me do it my way.”

David subsided.

“If you say so,” he said. “I’m going to bed. If I see her again I might kill her.”

 

Alexander was about to turn in for himself, when there was a howl of anguish from David.  Alexander ran up the stairs, and found David staring at the painting of Helen, which had been repeatedly slashed with a kitchen knife, across Helen’s face. David stood, transfixed, tears running from his eyes, shaking like a leaf.  Alexander suddenly realised that David had held himself together over the inquest, his own enquiry, and the funeral, and that this destruction of the semblance of his wife had broken him completely in bringing her death home to him.

“Come on, old man, I’ll take it to Ida, she’ll be able to repair it,” said Alexander, removing the spoiled painting from the bed. A little note fluttered down which Alexander stooped and picked up, certain that David had not seen it. A quick glance showed that it said, ‘Have the frigid bitch in your bed, then, if you want her so much.’

“I’m going to kill her,” said David.

“No, you’re not,” said Alexander. “You’re going to take a couple of aspirins, and go to bed.”

“Sleeping pills; Craiggie gave them to me to get through,” said David, with gritted teeth.

“Good idea,” said Alexander. “I will see that she pays. Let me take this, and I’ll put it in my car to take to Ida.”

“Yes, take it away, her own face smirks from it,” said David, his teeth chattering. “And tell Ida to paint that smirk out!”

Alexander saw him into bed, and helped him take his pill, and went down to Basil’s room.

“Get Foster to check on David, and tell him to sleep in the dressing room or somewhere,” he said. “I’m going to put this in the boot, to hide it.”

“So far she hasn’t managed to sabotage the car,” said Campbell.

“Good. Keep regular checks,” said Alexander.

He stowed the painting, and took himself to bed, wondering how he was going to get through the next uncomfortable day.

Well, one thing he could ensure, that Gloria or any of her murderous little friends – if they had missed any – could not murder anyone in their beds with the access panels.  Alexander found a hatchet in a shed, and some cut branches of applewood, and proceeded to fashion several basic wooden wedges. It was crude, but it would work, and he used the back of the hatchet to hammer them into the base of the ground floor panels outside.  They might be found and removed in daylight, but at night, they were virtually invisible, unless you were looking for them. It should deter access.

Then he went to bed, reflected that he would need to put the hatchet back the next day, and laid it down on the bedside table.

He fell into uneasy sleep.

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander woke when Ida screaming in his dream being menaced by some unspecified danger turned into female screams for real. He rolled onto his feet and went to the bedroom door, and touched the key in the lock. His fingers jumped back reflexively; it was hot.

“Campbell! Wake up, the house is on fire!” he shouted, hearing the word ‘fire’ amidst the screams.

“Sling yer stuff  outa the winder,” said Campbell, pulling on a dressing gown and slippers.  He and Alexander threw out their bags, and the hatchet, and then Alexander boosted Campbell out of the window, and followed rapidly, glad of the suppleness of the family exercises.

The balcony did not reach this far, but Alexander dropped to the ground without a problem.

He could see flames flickering in the studio, the parquet floor ablaze.

“What’s under this side of the house? It’s the ground floor even though it’s raised,” he said.

“Servant’s quarters and kitchen,” said Campbell. “I’ll to round an’ rouse them, and look for a ladder. You might want to get them women out through the access panels.”

“At least Ida isn’t here,” said Alexander. “You get Gladys out. I’ll see if I can get to the women by the back stairs.... dear God! I gave David a sleeping pill, and he’s over this inferno!”

“I’ll send Gladys after the women,” said Campbell. “Ladder in the orchard.”

Alexander followed Campbell, who barged in the back door and was banging the dinner gong for all he was worth. Alexander saw the stairs and found Miss Truckle tottering down with Gladys one side, and Anna the other. They were all well-wrapped in wet towels.

“Well done, get them out!” he said. “Where’s Gloria?”

“No idea; didn’t look,” said Gladys.

“That wicked woman, she has set this fire, my nose is most acute and I smelled gasoline!” cried Miss Truckle.

“I don’t say you’re wrong,” said Alexander, grimly. “Towels?” he asked, preparing to decamp to where Campbell, seeing his lady love safe, was directing the collection of a ladder.

“I’ll phone for the fire truck in Bicester,” said Gladys. “The phone in Gloria’s office should be safe for a while.  There are fresh towels in here,” she opened a cupboard. 

Alexander hurriedly soaked a linen glass-cloth each and some towels to protect them from the heat by which time Gladys had dialled 999 and got her message through, as it cut off.

“Line burned,” she said. “Come on!”

They ran out of the house, and Alexander was glad to note that the women had wrapped themselves in quilts as well as having wet towels over their faces.  He had a pile of towels onto which he worked the pump in the back yard.

Campbell and Gregson came with ladders from the orchard shed.

“No Foster!” gasped Campbell.

“Hell! He’s upstairs with David,” said Alexander. “Put it up to his window and hold it steady,” he added, and ran up the ladder. He took a wet towel to beat at any flames he might encounter.

He hammered on the window, and groggily, Foster sat up from the sofa where he was sleeping.

 “Open the window! Fire!” bellowed Alexander.

“Oh swelp me! The master is well away!” said Foster, wringing his hands.

 “Throw some clothes, his and yours, and help me to tie him up in his own coverlet to lower him  down,” said Alexander. He ripped sheets, knotting them together to make a rope. The floor was becoming uncomfortably warm.  He lashed David’s wrists together, and tied him in his quilt. The bundle that was David struggled.

“Stay still, David, the house is on fire, I’m getting you out,” said Alexander.

“The house is on fire!  How did that happen?” asked David, in a stupor.

“Truckle smelled petrol, and I think someone tried arson, but if you die, you’ll give them what they want,” said Alexander, brutally. “Now if you can climb a ladder, I’ll undo you, if not, I’ll lower you.”

“I’ll climb,” said David. “There’s the access panel....”

“I jammed them all up to stop someone slitting your throat in your sleep,” said Alexander.  “There’s an ordinary ladder.” He undid David.

David seemed to have come back to life, and followed Alexander to the window.

“Foster, you go first,” said David. Foster obediently climbed over the sill and down the ladder, and David followed, swearing that someone had disconnected his sense of upright.

There were people below to aid him, and Alexander was rather keen to get out and follow him down. The pile of clothing had been moved back, and, taking the ladder, Alexander shooed everyone to move a good distance from the house as soon as his own feet touched solid ground.

The male servants had managed to connect up a garden hose to an outside tap, and were spraying the studio, which was well and truly alight.

“Where’s Gloria?” asked David. “Did she do this?”

“I fear she’s many miles away by now,” said Alexander, grimly. “She killed Helen and Basil, and I was only waiting on having a few constables for a raid, once Keller was nicked, to shut down her poison laboratory forever.”

“I don’t understand,” said David.

 “Well, I’m not about to explain now; we are out in a freezing cold late November night whilst the house burns,” said Alexander. “I suggest the women should hurry over to the garage, and drive down to the village and put up in the inn, whilst we continue to man the hose until the fire brigade gets here.”

“I... yes,” said David. “Go on, ladies, Gladys, goodness, can any of you drive?”

“I can drive,” said Gladys. “I drove an ambulance during the war.”

“Oh, yes, good,” said David.

 

It was at that point the whole of the end of the house above the studio fell in, and Anna had hysterics that this had been where she was sleeping before moving to keep watch over Miss Truckle.

 

And then an explosion split the night.

 

“Hell’s bells!” said Alexander. “She rigged her laboratory to blow up, damn her! I should be in pursuit...”

“I can handle things here; you go after her if you know where she has gone,” said David.

“Better than that,” said Alexander. “Gladys, get Sgt Harris up at the inn, and ask him to phone to the local bobbies in Oxford to nick any woman approaching Jonathon’s apartment.”

“Yessir,” said Gladys.

 

It was a long night. The fire engine arrived, bell clanging, and showed how a good pump and reservoir of water made a difference. By the time the first grey streaks of dawn straggled unwillingly into the sky, clouded and fogged further with smoke and haze from water on hot metal, the fire was out.

“My house!” cried David. “Oh, what a wreck!”

“I doubt it’s salvable, after the explosion,” said Alexander, soberly. “We can go and dress in the garage out of the wind and... ugh, sleet,” he added as he realised that the damp in the air was from more than the hoses. “I suggest Anna stay on at the inn until she moves to her new job; fortunate she had not unpacked and was able to throw her valise out of the window, I think Gladys retrieved it. Gregson! Is your lady love accommodating enough to put you up?”

Gregson scowled.

“Prolly,” he said.

“Good, you’d better take yourself there. Foster... David, I’m going to take you and Foster as well as Miss Truckle and Gladys to my parents, and then I’ll be coming back to see what if any evidence remains of the heroin factory.”

“Heroin factory?  Are you telling me that woman was making drugs in my house?” demanded David.

“I’m afraid so; and that was why she wanted to kill Helen and Basil, and get Ida out of the way, planning to be the wife of a prominent man and thus above suspicion,” said Alexander.

“She killed my Helen for nothing more than greed?” David was getting hysterical again.

“I will see her indicted and hanged,” promised Alexander.

“Major,” said Campbell, diffidently, “Why don’t I drive them down to Essex? You take a room in the inn, and wait for the bobbies to help sort through this mayhem for the lab.”

“I... yes, thank you, Campbell, a good idea,” said Alexander, running a sooty hand through his hair.

 

Campbell collected the car to drive them to the village.

“Take David’s big enclosed tourer to take them to Essex; David’s on the verge of collapse, and I worry about him getting fevered,” said Alexander. “And remember, Gladys is a trained ambulance driver, she can take a turn to give you a rest.”

“Good point,” said Campbell. “Be squeezed like sardines in a tin, but probably louder at complaining.”

“Well, it could be worse, they could be smothered in tomato sauce and served on toast,” said Alexander.

“We were all bloody nearly served as toast, and any tomato sauce our blood,” said Campbell.

“But we weren’t,” said Alexander. “Gladys’s stuff is in my car and so is the damaged picture.”

“I’ll sort it all out,” said Campbell. “Swot I’m here for.”

He rounded the curve into the village and swore.

“Brakes! She cut the effing brakes on her way out!” he said.

“There’s two lots of brakes, front and rear!” cried Alexander, in the front seat. “It should give some braking... and you can use the parking brake.”

Campbell demonstrated his virtuosity as a chauffeur in the wild ride round the sharp bend, and down the hill, breaking with the engine as well, crashing through the gears to minimal torque, out of gear and into reverse to make the semblance of a controlled stop outside the inn.

“Me life flashed before me eyes,” he said, taking off his cap and mopping his brow.

“Mine too,” said Alexander. “Nice driving. I’ll have someone out to fix that while I deal with the aftermath.”