The message was handwritten in a surprisingly firm script. Dalgliesh read: “I’ve been planning this for some time, and if you don’t like it, you can put up with it. This, thank God, will be my last family Christmas. No more of Gertrude’s stodgy Christmas pudding and overcooked turkey. No more ridiculous paper hats. No more holly indiscriminately stuck around the house. No more of your repellently ugly faces and mind-numbing company. I’m entitled to some peace and happiness. I’m going where I can get it, and my darling will be waiting for me.”
Helmut Harkerville said: “He was always a practical joker, but you’d think he’d want to die with some dignity. Finding him like this was a terrible shock, particularly for my sister. But then Uncle never had any consideration for others.”
His brother said, with quiet reproof: “Nil nisi bonum, Helmut, nil nisi bonum. He knows better now.”
Adam asked: “Who found him?”
“I did,” said Helmut. “Well, at least I was first up the ladder. We never have early morning tea here, but Uncle always took to bed a flask of strong coffee to drink in the morning with a tot of whisky. He’s usually up early so when he didn’t appear for breakfast by nine o’clock Mrs. Dagworth went to see if he was all right. She found the door locked, but he shouted out that he didn’t want to be disturbed. My sister tried again when he didn’t come down for lunch. When we couldn’t make him hear we got out the ladder and climbed in through the window. The ladder’s still in place.”
Mrs. Dagworth was standing beside the bed in stiff disapproval. She said: “I was employed to cook Christmas dinner for four. No one told me that the house was an unheated monstrosity and the owner suicidal. God knows how his usual cook manages. That kitchen hasn’t been upgraded for eighty years. I tell you now, I’m not staying. As soon as the police arrive, I go. And I shall make a complaint to the Lady’s Companion. You’ll be lucky to get another cook.”
Helmut said: “The last bus leaves for London early on Christmas Eve and there isn’t another until Boxing Day. You’ll have to stay until then, so you may as well do what you’re paid to do, get on with some work.”
His brother said: “And you can make a start by getting us some tea, hot and strong. I’m starved in here.”
Indeed the room was exceptionally cold. Gertrude said: “It will be warm in the kitchen. Thank God for the Aga. We’ll all go there.”
Dalgliesh had hoped for something a little more seasonal than tea and thought with longing of the excellent meal awaiting him at his aunt’s cottage, the carefully chosen claret already open, the cracking and sea-tang of a driftwood fire. But the kitchen was at least warmer. The Aga was the only piece of reasonably modern equipment. The floor was stone-flagged, the double sink was stained and there was a huge dresser covering one wall loaded with an assortment of jugs, mugs, plates and tins, and several cupboards, the tops all similarly covered. On an overhead pulley a collection of tea towels, obviously washed but still stained, hung like depressing flags of truce.
Gertrude said: “I brought down a Christmas cake. Perhaps we could cut that.”
Carl said quietly: “I think not, Gertrude. I don’t think I could stomach Christmas cake with Uncle lying dead. There are probably some biscuits in the usual tin.”
Mrs. Dagworth, her face a mask of resentment, took a tin from the dresser labelled “sugar” and began spooning out tea into the teapot, then burrowed in one of the cupboards and brought out a large red tin. The biscuits were old and soft. Dalgliesh declined them but was grateful for the tea when it came.
He said: “When did you last see your uncle alive?”
It was Helmut who replied: “He had supper with us last night. We didn’t arrive till eight and naturally his cook had left nothing for us. She never does. But we’d brought some cold meat and salad and had that. Mrs. Dagworth opened a tin of soup. At nine o’clock, immediately after the news, Uncle said he’d go to bed. No one saw or heard him again except Mrs. Dagworth.”
Mrs. Dagworth said: “When I called him for breakfast and he shouted to me to go away, I heard him pull the cracker. So he was alive at nine or just after.”
Adam said: “You’re sure of the sound?”
“Of course I was. I know the sound of a cracker being pulled. It seemed a little odd so I went to the door and called out, ‘Are you all right Mr. Harkerville?’ He called back, ‘Of course I’m all right. Go away and stay away.’ That’s the last time he spoke to anyone.”
Dalgliesh said: “He must have been standing close to the door for you to hear him. It’s solid wood.”
Mrs. Dagworth flushed, then said angrily: “Solid wood it may be, but I know what I heard. I heard the cracker and I heard him tell me to go away. Anyway, it’s plain what’s happened. You’ve got the suicide note, haven’t you? It’s in his handwriting.”
Adam said: “I’ll go upstairs and keep watch on the room. You’d better wait for the Suffolk police.”
There was no reason why he should keep watch on the room, and he half-expected them to protest. However, no one did and he climbed the stairs alone. He entered the bedroom and locked the door with the key which was still in the keyhole. Going over to the bed, he scrutinised the corpse carefully, smelt the ointment with a grimace of distaste, and bent over the body. It was apparent that Harkerville had applied the grease liberally to his scalp before going to bed. The hands were lightly clenched but he could detect in the right palm a wodge of Christmas pudding. Rigor mortis was just beginning in the upper part of the body, but he gently raised the stiffening head and studied the pillow.
After examining the cracker he turned his attention to the note. Turning it over, he saw that the back of the paper was slightly brown as if it had been scorched. Going over to the immense grate, he saw that someone had been burning papers. There was a pyramid of white ash which still gave a faint heat to his exploring hand. The burning had been thorough except for one small segment of board with what looked like a unicorn’s horn, and a scrap of letter. The paper was thick and the few type-written words plain. He read: “eight hundred pounds not unreasonable considering.” There was no more and he left both fragments in place.
To the right of the window, there was a heavy oak desk. It suggested that Cuthbert Harkerville had slept more peaceably with his important papers close to hand. The desk was unlocked but was completely empty except for some bundles of old receipted bills held together with rubber bands. The desktop and the mantelshelf were likewise empty. The huge wardrobe, smelling of mothballs, held only clothes.
Adam decided to take a look at the adjoining rooms, not without qualms that this was trespass. The room occupied by Mrs. Dagworth was as bleakly unfurnished as a prison cell, the only remarkable feature a mouldy stuffed bear holding a brass tray. Her unopened case lay on a bed too narrow for comfort and with a single hard pillow.
The room to the right was equally small, but the absent Mavis had at least imposed on it some trace of adolescent personality. Posters of film and pop stars were stuck on the walls. There was a battered but comfortable cane chair and the bed was covered with a quilted bedspread patterned with leaping lambs in pink and blue. The small rickety wardrobe was empty; Mavis had discarded her half-used make-up jars into the wastepaper basket and had slung on top of them a variety of old and soiled clothes.