Chapter 20
I
A little later in the day yet another visitor found his way to 16 Blenheim Close. Detective-Sergeant William (Tom) Tiddler.
In reply to his sharp knock on the smart yellow painted door, it was opened to him by a girl of about fifteen. She had long straggly fair hair and was wearing tight black pants and an orange sweater.
'Miss Gladys Dixon live here?'
'You want Gladys? You're unlucky. She isn't here.'
'Where is she? Out for the evening?'
'No. She's gone away. Bit of a holiday like.'
'Where's she gone to?'
'That's telling,' said the girl.
Tom Tiddler smiled at her in his most ingratiating manner. 'May I come in? Is your mother at home?'
'Mum's out at work. She won't be in until half past seven. But she can't tell you any more than I can. Gladys has gone off for a holiday.'
'Oh, I see. When did she go?'
'This morning. All of a sudden like. Said she'd got the chance of a free trip.'
'Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me her address.'
The fair-haired girl shook her head. 'Haven't got an address,' she said. 'Gladys said she'd send us her address as soon as she knew where she was going to stay. As like as not she won't though,' she added. 'Last summer she went to Torquay and never sent us as much as a postcard. She's slack that way and besides, she says, why do mothers have to bother all the time?'
'Did somebody stand her this holiday?'
'Must have,' said the girl. 'She's pretty hard up at the moment. Went to the sales last week.'
'And you've no idea at all who gave her this trip or – er – paid for her going there?'
The fair girl bristled suddenly.
'Now don't get any wrong ideas. Our Gladys isn't that sort. She and her boyfriend may like to go to the same place for holidays in August, but there's nothing wrong about it. She pays for herself. So don't you get ideas, mister.'
Tiddler said meekly that he wouldn't get ideas but he would like the address if Gladys Dixon should send a postcard.
He returned to the station with the result of his various inquiries. From the studios, he had learnt that Gladys Dixon had rung up that day and said she wouldn't be able to come to work for about a week. He had also learned some other things.
'No end of a shemozzle there's been there lately,' he said. 'Marina Gregg's been having hysterics most days. Said some coffee she was given was poisoned. Said it tasted bitter. Awful state of nerves she was in. Her husband took it and threw it down the sink and told her not to make so much fuss.'
'Yes?' said Craddock. It seemed plain there was more to come.
'But word went round as Mr Rudd didn't throw it all away. He kept some and had it analysed and it was poison.'
'It sounds to me,' said Craddock, 'very unlikely. I'll have to ask him about that.'
II
Jason Rudd was nervous, irritable.
'Surely, Inspector Craddock,' he said, 'I was only doing what I had a perfect right to do.'
'If you suspected anything was wrong with that coffee, Mr Rudd, it would have been much better if you'd turned it over to us.'
'The truth of it is that I didn't suspect for a moment that anything was wrong with it.'
'In spite of your wife saying that it tasted odd?'
'Oh, that!' A faintly rueful smile came to Rudd's face. 'Ever since the date of the fete everything that my wife has eaten or drunk has tasted odd. What with that and the threatening notes that have been coming '
'There have been more of them?'
'Two more. One through the window down there. The other one was slipped in the letter-box. Here they are if you would like to see them.'
Craddock looked. They were printed, as the first one had been. One ran:
'It won't be long now. Prepare yourself.'
The other had a rough drawing of a skull and crossbones and below it was written:
'This means you, Marina.'
Craddock's eyebrows rose.
'Very childish,' he said.
'Meaning you discount them as dangerous?'
'Not at all,' said Craddock. 'A murderer's mind usually is childish. You've really no idea at all, Mr Rudd, who sent these?'
'Not the least,' said Jason. 'I can't help feeling it's more like a macabre joke than anything else. It seemed to me perhaps -' he hesitated.
'Yes, Mr Rudd?'
'It could be somebody local, perhaps, who – who had been excited by the poisoning on the day of the fete. Someone perhaps, who has a grudge against the acting profession. There are rural pockets where acting is considered to be one of the devil's weapons.'
'Meaning that you think Miss Gregg is not actually threatened? But what about this business of the coffee?'
'I don't even know how you got to hear about that,' said Rudd with some annoyance.
Craddock shook his head.
'Everyone's talked about that. It always comes to one's ears sooner or later. But you should have come to us. Even when you got the result of the analysis you didn't let us know, did you?'
'No,' said Jason. 'No, I didn't. But I had other things to think about. Poor Ella's death for one thing. And now this business of Giuseppe. Inspector Craddock, when can I get my wife away from here? She's half frantic.'
'I can understand that. But there will be the inquests to attend.'
'You do realize that her life is still in danger?'
'I hope not. Every precaution will be taken '
'Every precaution! I've heard that before, I think… I must get her away from here, Craddock. I must.'
III
Marina was lying on the chaise-longue in her bedroom, her eyes closed. She looked grey with strain and fatigue.
Her husband stood there for a moment looking at her. Her eyes opened.
'Was that that Craddock man?'
'Yes.'
'What did he come about? Ella?'
