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  INSPECTOR FRENCH: SUDDEN DEATH

  Freeman Wills Crofts

  Copyright

  Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain for the Crime Club

  by Wm Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1932

  Copyright © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1932

  Cover design by Mike Topping © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008393120

  Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008393137

  Version: 2020-07-16

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  PART I: AS ANNE DAY SAW IT

  1. Satisfaction

  2. Doubt

  3. Perplexity

  4. Fear

  5. Danger

  6. Death

  7. Inquest

  8. Repercussion

  PART II: AS INSPECTOR FRENCH SAW IT

  9. Initiation

  10. Consultation

  11. Investigation

  12. Explanation

  13. Jubilation

  PART III: AS ANNE DAY SAW IT

  14. Horror

  PART IV: AS INSPECTOR FRENCH SAW IT

  15. Demonstration

  16. Interrogation

  17. Mystification

  18. Asseveration

  19. Frustration

  20. Illumination

  PART V: AS ANNE DAY SAW IT

  21. Nemesis

  Footnote

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  Also in this series

  About the Publisher

  PART I

  As Anne Day Saw It

  1

  Satisfaction

  No one would have thought from Anne Day’s appearance, as she sat with closed eyes in the corner of her third-class carriage, that her mind was seething with a delicious excitement. But seething was a mild description of the turmoil that was in process therein. For this commonplace little journey which she was making down into Kent was one of the great events of her life. It was the opening, so she fondly allowed herself to hope, of a new and happier chapter in her fortunes, a turn for the better long, very long, overdue.

  For life had not recently smiled on Anne Day. Alone, out of work, and with her little balance dwindling at an appalling rate, she had for eleven weary months fought a losing battle with the devils of panic and despair.

  Anne was an only child and an orphan. Her mother died when she was twelve, and from then till his death ten years later she had kept house for her father in the old Gloucester parsonage. The Reverend Latimer Day was a scholar and a recluse, a brilliant thinker, but out of touch with the world, and therefore out of touch with its material rewards. At his death Anne had found herself homeless and with an income of barely thirty pounds a year. Her friends in the parish had been kind, but she could not stay with them for ever, and three weeks after the funeral, with seventy pounds, the proceeds of the auction, she had left the district to try her fortunes in London.

  Fate at first had been kind to her. After only a fortnight’s search she had found a job as companion to an old lady. Mrs Hume was kind and soon treated Anne like a daughter, but she was poor, and could not pay enough to enable Anne to save. For six years Anne had remained there, happy indeed in a way, but in spite of all her efforts, unable to better her position. Then Mrs Hume had died, and at eight-and-twenty Anne had found herself once more on the world.

  She had no special qualifications. Though she had acted as secretary to her father in his research for a critical work on the Pentateuch, she had not the necessary training for a business career. Nor had she any degrees or diplomas which might have helped her to get a post as teacher.

  Life, indeed, became very hard for her. For eleven terrible months she had haunted registry offices and searched the files of papers in the public libraries, while shoes and gloves, and latterly even food and lodging had grown more and more hideously insistent problems. In spite of it all she could hear of few suitable jobs, and such as did materialise were snapped up by young women with better clothes or qualifications. For many weeks she had had her name down for domestic service, but none of the mistresses she could easily have served would take her without previous references, and those who overlooked this formality were of a type with which she vowed only hunger itself would force her in contact.

  And then, just as she had decided to take a position as scullery maid in a large house, this job had turned up, this job to which she was now travelling. When on her weary round she had for the hundredth time asked at the desk at Mrs Allsopp’s registry office the question from which hope had wellnigh departed, the marvel had happened. Instead of the shake of the head and the perfunctory, ‘Nothing yet, I’m afraid, Miss Day,’ to which she had grown so sadly accustomed, she had been told to wait. Ten minutes later she had been called into Mrs Allsopp’s room, and there the marvel had become a miracle.

  A tall, well-built, well-dressed man with strong features sat facing Mrs Allsopp. Anne was presented, or rather indicated. Mr Grinsmead was polite. He got up, smiled, and held out his hand as if Anne really was a human being and not the piece of furniture Mrs Allsopp so evidently considered her. Then briefly he stated his business. He wanted a housekeeper. His wife was a semi-invalid and the strain of running things had become too much for her. He wanted someone to relieve her of it. But a mere housekeeper was not enough. He wanted a lady of tact who, while competent to manage everything on her own responsibility, would yet defer to his wife and carry out any directions she might choose to give.

  ‘I wish her to be pleased and humoured,’ he said. ‘If her desires run counter to what you consider the best way of doing things, you must give way, or at least make her believe you do. I don’t want anyone who will take up the position, “Well, I’m responsible for this and I must do it my way or not at all.” You follow me, Miss Day? The actual efficiency of the household management is of less importance than the pleasing of Mrs Grinsmead.’

  Anne agreed eagerly. Mr Grinsmead nodded slowly and went on.

  ‘Now the question is whether you could manage the work. Mrs Allsopp tells me that you kept house for many years for your father, but it is possible that we may, for instance, do more entertaining than your father. Perhaps you would tell me something about your experience in that way.’

  Equally eagerly Anne explained. There had been clerical lunches, church functions involving entertainment at the parsonage, visits of professors and others interested in the early books of the Bible. She was sure she could do what was required.

  Again Grinsmead nodded. His household consisted of his wife, two small children, the governess, two servants, and the gardener-chauffeur. She thought she could do it?
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  She was sure of it.

  Very well. So far as he could see, she would suit admirably. But he couldn’t definitely offer her the position. Would she come down on a month’s probation?

  Would she go down? Anne laughed to herself at the question. Did this clever, successful-looking man know that her worldly assets amounted to just four pounds, seventeen shillings and threepence halfpenny? Yes, she would go down; as soon as he wanted her; and she hoped his wife would find her suitable. At all events she would do her very best to please. She did not try to bargain. She did not even ask the salary. Things had gone too far for that. Her voice was sharply eager as she asked where she was to go, and when.

  She had almost been overcome by what followed. For a moment the man had looked at her fixedly, then he had taken notes for five pounds from his pocket and handed them over.

  ‘An advance on your salary,’ he had said. ‘You may want to get a few things. Besides, there is the fare down. I live near Ashbridge. Will you come down tomorrow by the train leaving Victoria at 3.45? The car will meet you and take you out to Frayle.’

  She had bought the few things and caught her train by a margin of nearly an hour.

  A job! Surely with a month’s opportunity to show what she could do, she would be certain to retain it? A congenial job, moreover, with congenial people! She could not bring herself to conceive of them as otherwise. For Mr Grinsmead—he had given his name as Severus Grinsmead—had said that she was to live with them as one of the family. And with a good salary; one hundred and twenty pounds a year and all found: twice, more than twice, what she would thankfully have accepted! As she compared her present outlook with that of only yesterday morning, she felt overwhelmed with thankfulness and joy.

  Yet it remained true that had she known all that awaited her at Ashbridge, she might well have drawn back in dismay, preferring the known humiliations of the scullery maid’s job to the agonies of fear and horror and suspense which she was fated to endure with the Grinsmeads.

  No one could have called Anne beautiful. She was small with a rather squat figure, an undoubted snub nose and a mouth of generous proportions. But truth and honesty shone in her gray eyes and her firm chin showed courage and determination. No fool, Anne looked, but a capable and reliable young woman, a good friend and an ally worth having in a tight corner.

  As the brakes grated on the wheels she opened her eyes and looked around. This surely must be Ashbridge. Her heart beat a little quicker as she stood up to collect her meagre belongings, the cheap cloak bought among other things out of the nine pounds seventeen shillings and three pence halfpenny to which Mr Grinsmead’s advance had raised her capital, the old-fashioned solid leather portmanteau which had been her father’s, the five-shilling umbrella which she had so long coveted. A poor collection, yet in spite of it and of her dumpy figure and thumping heart, she had an air which made the chauffeur who presently came up to her as she was standing on the platform, touch his hat respectfully.

  ‘For Mr Grinsmead’s, miss?’ He was a youngish man, pleasant enough looking, dressed in a neat dark blue uniform, and with a soft intonation suggestive of the West country. Anne at once took to him. She felt suddenly comforted. This pleasant beginning to her job was surely a good omen.

  ‘It’s about two miles out, miss,’ the man went on as he picked up the portmanteau. ‘Very nice country.’

  ‘It looks lovely, as far as I could see from the train,’ Anne agreed. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  ‘No, miss? I’m sure you’ll like it.’ He held open the door of a large blue car, shut Anne carefully in, and mounted the front seat. The car rolled smoothly off.

  Anne was too much excited to observe her surroundings in any detail. Dimly she was conscious of passing through a pleasant looking town with good shops, and out into undulating, well-wooded country. The contrast between yesterday’s weary, hopeless trail through the pitiless London streets and being borne thus luxuriously through this beautiful country, filled her mind too poignantly for observation. What a change in her fortunes! Oh, that she might not fail, was the burden of her thought! That she might please these Grinsmeads and be kept on! She clenched her hands in the intensity of her desire.

  The two miles passed before she was well aware that they had left the town, and slackening speed, the car swung through an ornate gateway. A little plate, fixed to the gate, bore in ornamental letters the name ‘Frayle’. The drive curved past masses of rhododendrons to a fair-sized house. This was evidently quite modern, being built like thousands of others with the lower story of brownish purple bricks, and the upper story and roof covered with ‘antique’ reddish brown tiles, and with long low lead-lighted windows. Behind were trees, some fine beeches and sycamores. Anne glimpsed a brightly coloured garden at one side of the house and a tennis court at the other as she passed from the car to the porch.

  The door was opened by a slightly unpleasant looking maid, who took Anne’s portmanteau from the chauffeur. ‘I’m Gladys, miss,’ she said civilly enough. ‘I’ll show you your room, and when you are ready Mrs Grinsmead would like you to have tea with her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Anne smiled, as she followed the girl into the hall. ‘What a delightful country this is. I’ve never been here before, and after London it looks heavenly.’

  Gladys admitted briefly that the country was ‘naice,’ and led the way upstairs. The house, from the glimpses Anne had got so far, was well but plainly furnished, the house of a successful though not exactly wealthy man. It seemed of comfortable size, neither cramped not yet in any sense a mansion. Gladys threw open a door not far from the head of the stairs and led the way in.

  Anne could scarcely refrain from a cry of delight as she saw what was to be her room. It was not large, but it was delightfully arranged as a bed-sitting room. A luxurious looking divan was evidently the disguised bed, while a kind of davenport became, when the lid was lifted, a basin with running hot and cold water. There were comfortable armchairs, a couple of little tables, two large built-in wardrobes, a cheery wallpaper and pretty curtains and furnishings. But the glory of the room was its window, a large square bow with an enclosed window seat. Anne hurried across the room and gazed out.

  The outlook seemed to be west: it was at the side of the house overlooking the garden and the sun was shining on the angle between it and the front. Anne experienced another little thrill of delight as she saw the garden. She was passionately fond of flowers, and here were flowers in gorgeous profusion. Immediately below, along the side of the house, was a narrow plot of well-kept grass. Then came some herbaceous borders, masses of red and yellow and blue. Behind was a rose pergola, a blaze of colour, with at one side a small pool and rock garden. Beyond, towards the back of the garden were the beeches, while in front were open views over the rolling, well-wooded country.

  ‘How lovely!’ Anne cried.

  ‘Very naice view, miss,’ Gladys answered. ‘If you’ll please ring when you’re ready, I’ll show you the drawing room.’

  She withdrew silently, and Anne, brought back to earth, hastened to make her toilet. She wondered if she was the first housekeeper to occupy this charming room, or whether she was just one of a succession. She felt almost frightened as she thought of her luck. The large salary, this delightful room, the respectful air of the servants, the life as a member of the family, the pleasant master of the house: was it not too much? Anne’s experience of life had been that such perfection simply did not exist. Against it all must there not be some horrid crab?

  Perhaps, she imagined, the drawback might be Mrs Grinsmead’s personality. And when a few minutes later she was ushered into the drawing room, she felt that this might indeed prove to be the truth.

  The drawing room occupied the front corner of the house on the opposite side to Anne’s room. It was a good-sized, but rather badly proportioned room, with two bow windows. The furniture was expensive, but with the exception of the carpet, not quite to Anne’s taste. Anne at once lost her heart to the
carpet, a gorgeous carpet, thick and soft to the feet, and bearing conventional Chinese flowers in dead gold on the most vivid of blue backgrounds. But the other things she thought were pretentious rather than comfortable. She noticed with pleasure, however, that there were books in plenty both on shelves and lying about, and, being musical, she thrilled at the sight of the superb grand piano.

  In the smaller of the two bow windows sat the mistress of the house. Sybil Grinsmead was tall and fair and washed-out looking. Her hair was light without being golden, her eyes a watery blue, and her features aristocratic, though slightly indeterminate. She was thin and unhealthily pallid, languid and evidently wanting in grip. Her dress was expensive looking, but a little untidy, as if she lacked the energy necessary for the small finishing touches which make the difference between being well and indifferently gowned. She was lying back in an easy-chair, a novel on her knee, and beside her a tea tray on which an electric kettle sang lustily. She rose as Anne entered and came forward with a faint smile.

  ‘How d’you do?’ she said apathetically, holding out a flabby hand. ‘Won’t you sit down? You’re ready for tea after your journey?’

  Judging from what she had heard from others in positions similar to her own, Anne had reason to be pleased with her reception. And yet, though Mrs Grinsmead’s manner was perfectly courteous, it left Anne vaguely dissatisfied. There was no pretence of even ordinary cordiality behind the words, such as had been shown by the other members of the household with whom she had come in contact. Of course in a way Anne could not expect cordiality, but there was not even that quality of manner which passes for cordiality in the ordinary relations of life. Mrs Grinsmead seemed absolutely uninterested in Anne’s arrival; as if it were just the same to her whether Anne came or stayed away. Anne, of course, expected no interest for her own sake, but as the woman’s future deputy in the control of the household, she was surprised at being taken so casually.

  During tea Mrs Grinsmead talked carelessly on a variety of subjects, all of which Anne noticed with some bewilderment had one peculiarity in common. With the exception of a perfunctory reference to Anne’s journey, every remark that the lady made was impersonal. Politics, travel, art, the country: yes. Anne Day, Sybil Grinsmead, or Sybil Grinsmead’s household: no. She did not then, nor did she till a long time after, ask Anne anything about herself; not even about her previous experience. Strangers they met, strangers they remained.