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  And Death Came Too

  Richard Hull

  About the Author

  Richard Hull was born Richard Henry Sampson in London on 6 September 1896 to Nina Hull and SA Sampson, and attended Rugby School, Warwickshire. When the First World War broke out, his uncle helped him secure a commission in the Queen Victoria’s Rifles. At the end of the war, after three years in France, he returned to England and worked as an accountant.

  His first book, The Murder of My Aunt, written under the pseudonym Richard Hull, was published in 1934. The novel, set in Dysserth, Welshpool, is known for its humour, narrative charm, and unexpected twists. Hull moved to writing full-time in 1934 and wrote a further fourteen novels over the span of his career.

  During the Second World War, he became an auditor with the Admiralty in London — a position he retained for eighteen years until he retired in 1958. While he stopped writing detective fiction after 1953, Hull continued to take an interest in the affairs of the Detection Club, assisting Agatha Christie with her duties as President. He died in 1973.

  Also By Richard Hull

  The Murder of My Aunt

  Keep It Quiet

  Murder Isn’t Easy

  The Ghost It Was

  The Murderers of Monty

  Excellent Intentions

  And Death Came Too

  My Own Murderer

  The Unfortunate Murderer

  Left Handed Death

  Last First

  Until She Was Dead

  A Matter of Nerves

  Invitation to an Inquest

  The Martineau Murders

  This edition published in 2019 by Agora Books

  Agora Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd

  Originally published in Great Britain in 1939 by The Collins Crime Club

  55 New Oxford Street, London WC1A 1BS

  Copyright © Richard Hull, 1939

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  1

  The Third Night

  Gerald Lansley yawned prodigiously, straightened his white tie, and made his way across the floor of the ballroom to where Patricia Hands, his fiancée, was sitting with her brother.

  “Getting near bedtime, isn’t it?” he suggested.

  “Bedtime? I’m just waking up.” Patricia’s determined face with its resolute chin looked uncompromisingly alert.

  “Oh! You woman,” groaned the athletic and cheerful-looking man beside her. “When it comes to endurance I give it to you every time. But you don’t have to work in the day time.”

  “Sorry, Martin, but it’s only once a year that Trevenant comes alive and I do like to make the best of it.”

  “I don’t blame you,” her brother answered, “but I rather wish that it didn’t come alive, as you put it, three nights running and in the middle of August. One dance I can put up with, though the County Ball is always pretty grim. And the Yeomanry Ball is always a good show; besides, one is sort of worked up to it, but when it comes to the third night for the Hospital—”

  “Oh, charity, charity—” Gerald began.

  “That’s been said before,” Patricia broke in. “Yes, I know, Martin, the third night is a bit much, but it is only once a year and we’re absolute dormice for the other three hundred and sixty-two days. Socially and industrially. If it weren’t for the show you two work for, I believe the whole county would close down.”

  “You don’t want more factories down here, do you?” Lansley sat down and ran his hand over his sallow face. “I fancy that I have heard comments on the possibility of spoiling the delectable County of Treve by industrialisation.”

  “But why August?” Martin Hands went back, apparently absent-mindedly, to his previous question but in reality he was well aware of how easily his sister and her fiancé could start a violent and heated argument about nothing, especially when, as now, both of them were tired.

  “To catch the casual visitor,” Patricia answered. “After all this is a place that a few people come to for their holidays. And talking of visitors, what about that invitation we received this morning?”

  “Well, here it is. I brought it along as you told me to, being a dutiful brother. We’d better get hold of Barbara, hadn’t we, if we’re going to read it aloud? Shall I go and see if I can find her?”

  “I suppose that is best—although I think that Mr Yeldham meant us to bring her along rather more casually than that.”

  “He doesn’t know Barbara Carmichael as we do. It never does to try to put a fast one over Barbara; she always sees through it and then she has a grievance. And with a grievance she’s intolerable, whereas—oh, well, I’ll go and find her.”

  As the tall figure made its way out of the quiet corner in which they were and began to thread its way through the dancers, Patricia gave its back an entirely sisterly grin.

  “Whereas,” she finished the sentence, “when Barbara is in good form, she is very much to some people’s taste.”

  Lansley grunted. He was not at all sure that he was anxious to have Barbara as his brother-in-law’s wife. Having had a real grievance against the world, she was only too apt to invent other less serious ones, and at the same time she was far too acute to be a comfortable person to have about the place. With a shrug of his shoulders he returned to the subject that was about to be discussed.

  “I gathered that you had had a note from Yeldham. He sent me one, too.”

  “So he says. I didn’t know that you were in his house at Finchingfield.”

  “Didn’t I mention it? Very likely not. To tell you the truth I didn’t like the place much, and for that I partly blame old Yeldham. Not a bad sort of fellow, really, I suppose. In fact, some people liked him very much—those that he liked, that is.”

  “He was always making favourites of some people, do you mean?”

  “Yes. And they could do nothing wrong—for a while. I generally did nothing right, though there were times when he tried to be fair but even at that early age he bored me.”

  “And you showed it?”

  “I suppose so. He had got such a very wet sense of humour—the exact opposite to dry, I mean. Hearty, clean jokes of a simple nature, completely lacking in intelligence and full of good intentions.”

  “He must be a generous man, though.”

  “He was always pretty well off. The school only had a lease of his house and there was some crisis or other about it and so he bought it. And did not allow the governing body to forget the fact, either.”

  “All the same he is generous,” Patricia repeated, her eyes giving the little flash that Lansley knew to be a danger signal. “Why, look at the way that he’s kept open house all these three nights.”

  “I wonder who told him that the food and drink at these parties was deplorable, or did he hope to get off light? Sorry,” he went on quickly as Patricia’s eyes flashed again. “I don’t expect that he did. Anyhow, I gather we are about the only people who haven’t troubled him for a drink.”

  “Precisely. Apparently the only people. Sit down, Barbara, and give me that letter, Martin,” she added, as her brother returned with Barbara Carmichael.

  “Letter?” Barbara’s deep grey eyes looked suspiciously at her friend. “You didn’t mention it when you picked me up earlier to bring me here.”

  “No. I wasn’t sure if it was worth worr
ying you about. It’s from Mr Yeldham.” A quick glance showed her that she was, as she expected, on thin ice, and she went on hurriedly. “Let me read it to you. He says:

  “‘I had hoped during the three dances to offer some slight hospitality to all those in Treve whom I have any claim to know. I also hope that the neighbourhood will not think me, as a new arrival here, too pushing. I can only assure you that I mean well! And as I do not dance, to keep open house for them for these three nights seemed the best thing that I could do.

  “‘On the whole I think that they must have forgiven me, as I find on checking the list of people to whom I ventured to write, with those who have looked in on me at Y Bryn, that nearly everybody has been here for a short while. In fact, there are only four exceptions, you and your brother, Gerald Lansley and Miss Carmichael.

  “‘The object of this note is to hope that I may eliminate all those four exceptions tonight. I am sure that you will not think that I mean to be impertinent to you whom I never met. As no doubt you are aware, I did know your father very well in the war.’”

  “Did he?” Lansley interrupted.

  “Yes.” Martin’s monosyllable was rather uncompromising. “They were—or rather should have been together when my father was killed.”

  “Should have been?”

  “They missed each other. Otherwise—it was bad luck.” Patricia’s words were rather hurried, and she quickly went on reading the letter aloud. “‘As to the third person, Gerald Lansley was in my house at Finchingfield and, though I have no doubt that he has no good recollections of me, I understand that he will come if you tell him to.’”

  “Silly old ass!” Lansley burst out. “That’s the sort of thing that he thinks is funny.”

  “‘But it is with Miss Carmichael that I most want you to use your influence.’” Patricia’s voice went on more deliberately. “‘I can well understand that after living so many years at Y Bryn, and then finding that my cousin had left it to me, that she may be reluctant. I can entirely appreciate her feelings. Indeed, I feel very unhappy about her, and that makes me the more want her to forgive me for an action which, after all, was not of my seeking. I shall quite understand if she would rather not, but it would be an act of kindness on her part, and on yours, if you would both come in just for a few minutes.’”

  There was a short pause as Patricia folded over the note and handed it back to her brother.

  “I think it’s rather a nice letter,” she added, as none of the other three said anything.

  “Yes,” Lansley agreed, “it’s just like him. Every effort to be kind and tactful but not really any success at either attempt. I mean, Barbara, you probably—”

  “I’m not afraid to go there. It’s true that having been adopted, as I thought, by Miss Yeldham, and having lived at Y Bryn practically all my life, I hadn’t really expected what has happened to occur. But it doesn’t seem to be fair to blame Mr Yeldham. Life often treats one queerly, and this is just another case. I’m quite prepared to go round if you want to, though I am a bit tired.”

  “I’m rather for it, too,” Lansley put in, after hesitating a second, as if he were waiting for Patricia to speak. “It’s no great distance if Martin will drive us, we’re all tired, and a glass of something decent to drink would do us no harm whatever. There is one thing I must say for old Yeldham. His drink was always reputed to be good. Let’s go along. What do you say, Martin?” he added, as neither Martin nor his sister spoke.

  “I’m against it.” A strained silence fell as Hands put forward no reason for his abrupt refusal. Barbara’s thoughts appeared, as so often, to be far away, as with one hand she disarranged her prematurely greying hair. Lansley allowed his gaze to wander from Martin to her and then to Patricia, fully aware that she was the only person who could ever persuade her brother to change his mind. Patricia, too, seemed to be wrapped in thought. Did Martin, she wondered, still grieve over the loss of their father after all these years? It was a long while ago—twenty-one years now—and she had been only three at the time as compared with Martin’s seven, and she herself had no recollection of any parent. Indeed, she was always a little surprised that her brother had so vivid a memory of the last leave before their father went back to be killed at Bullecourt a few days afterwards. But even granting Martin’s extraordinary tenacity, it was surprising that he did not want to see someone who would possibly be able to give them a more detailed account of what had happened. She knew something of the story and of what lay behind that “they were—or rather should have been together”. All the same she had always been told that it was, as she had said, pure bad luck and it would never do for Martin to get absurd ideas into his head. They must certainly all go round to Y Bryn!

  “I think we ought to go if you don’t mind, Martin. It will look so pointed if we are the only four who don’t, and if Barbara doesn’t mind—”

  “I should prefer to get it over when somebody else is there. Oh! I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound a very graceful way to accept what is, after all, meant to be a kind invitation. Let’s just put it simply that I should like to go.”

  “So should I,” Gerald supported her.

  “Then why didn’t you go earlier?” Martin asked.

  “Too lazy. It’s about a mile and uphill. Of course, I could have borrowed the car, but I didn’t want to desert you—”

  “Which you have done at intervals during the evening.” Patricia’s tone lightened the conversation, and made it easier for her brother to fall in with her wishes.

  “I must dance with some other people occasionally,” Gerald countered, “and for that matter I’ve lost everybody at intervals during the evening. Anyhow, I’m not so vain as to imagine that you want to dance with no one but me.”

  “You’re right there. You were thoroughly heavy on your feet tonight and completely absent-minded. However, I forgive you. Come along, Martin, drive us round.”

  “Why don’t one of you drive? You all can.”

  “We can. But a party of two women and a man would look absurdly odd. It would be so obvious that you were missing.”

  “You could say that I was tired and gone to bed.”

  “I don’t know how you could easily get home without the car. It’s five and a half miles.”

  “Well, you could say that I was drunk.”

  “At the Hospital Ball? Even if Mr Yeldham doesn’t know what happens here, he’d think that that was unlikely. Besides, I won’t say such things about you, and even if I do, somebody else will be sure to give the show away. No, you’ve got to come.”

  Martin Hands made very little pretence of being willing, but at least he did get up and follow his sister to where their car was parked. Rather crossly, he turned on the dashboard lights and fumbled with the ignition key.

  “Seven point four on the trip-run indicator,” Barbara commented idly to Patricia. “So you did remember to turn it back to nought.”

  “Can’t have done,” Martin commented, turning off the light as the engine started. “It’s only five and a half to here. It must have gone round and started again.”

  “But I did remember,” Patricia put in from the back of the car. “Of course we did pick up Barbara and Gerald. Still, I shouldn’t have thought that that was as much as two miles.”

  “It’s extraordinary how the little bits mount up,” Gerald put in, suppressing a yawn.

  “I expect that a good deal of it,” Barbara suggested, “is moving backwards and forwards parking the car.”

  “Thanks very much,” Martin commented, pretending to be offended, “but I thought that I had parked it with the minimum of waste of energy and messing about in our own particular back street. However, trust a sister to disillusion one.”

  “And trust a brother,” thought Patricia, “to emphasise that you have been out of your way, even only to the extent of a couple of miles, to pick up people who are not able themselves to afford a car. Dear Martin,” she went on to herself as the car crossed the bridge over the Nant
and began to climb steadily up Trevenant Hill, “he never seems even to realise that we are reasonably rich, Gerald rather poor and Barbara as hard up as anything. Still, I’d rather he did that than remind them of the facts every other minute. I hope Mr Yeldham won’t be like that. Gerald rather seemed to imply that he was. And they say that he is very rich, too. However, we shall see. But oh! I am tired!” Aloud she added: “I really believe that if this had been two miles instead of one we should all have gone to sleep. Including probably Martin.”

  “It’s a comforting thought,” her brother replied, “that if I do, the hill will stop the car pretty quickly.”

  “But then we shall run back into the river, and that’ll be just as bad. Or won’t it? I don’t know. I’m much too tired to argue.” Lansley yawned again and expressed his satisfaction that they had at any rate reached Y Bryn.

  2

  Fair Lady

  Y Bryn, to which Arthur Yeldham had recently succeeded on the death of his cousin, was not such a large house as Lansley’s comments made it sound to be.

  Still, there was very ample accommodation for a bachelor. Not that it was possible to judge from the road, for although the front door was only a few yards from the main road from Trevenant, there were two entrances to the gravel path that led to it, and opposite the door itself a small shrubbery served the double purpose of keeping out the east wind when the door was opened and of preventing anyone from seeing in when it was.

  Indeed, the east wind must have been very much in the mind of the architect who built the house, since not only was there a small lobby inside the front door and then another door before the house was really entered, but hardly any of the windows faced in that direction. On the left of the door, both on the ground floor and on the one storey above, the wall was blank. Only, on the right, the dining-room and a bedroom that was little used, looked out that way. The inner front door, however, being central, led into a fair-sized hall from which the dining-room could be reached on the right, while straight opposite, the stairs led to the only other floor. Slightly to the left was a small sitting-room used by Yeldham as a study, while a passage leading directly to the left led to the larger sitting-room of the house. It was by no means a senseless arrangement since both these last two rooms looked on to the garden and thence over the valley of the Nant towards the hills that lay beyond and thus, if they did get the full force of the south-west gale, got also all the sun except that of the morning. In a rainy district such as Treve the sun was never so abundant that it could be wasted.