“Yes, and that’s how the mistress found out for certain that he had a wife. She’d got her suspicions already and was carrying the gun in her bag to get the truth out of him, or so she claimed at the trial. She saw red and shot him after Mrs White showed up.”
His voice shook. “So Mrs White is innocent?”
“Totally. We’ve been talking to her. She came down today to look at those cottages. She’s the owner now. She’ll sell them if she’s got any sense. I mean, who’d want a home looking out over the Killing Field?”
They helped Mooney to the gate and into the ambulance. Below the surface of Middle Field, the moist soil pressed against the seeds.
Bullets
“You can remove the body.”
“Was it definitely...?”
“Suicide, I’d stake my life on it,” said Inspector Carew, a forceful man. “Single bullet to the head. Gun beside him. Ex-army fellow who didn’t return his weapon when the war ended. This must be the third or fourth case I’ve seen. The world has changed too much for them — the wireless, a Labour Government, the bright young things. All these poor fellows have got is their memories of the war, and who wants to think about that?”
“He didn’t leave a note.”
“Are you questioning my conclusion?”
“Absolutely not, Inspector.”
“I suggest you get on with your job, then. I’m going to speak to the family.”
The family consisted of the dead man’s widow, Emily Flanagan, a pretty, dark-haired woman not much over thirty; and her father, whose name was Russell. They were sitting at the kitchen table in 7, Albert Street, their small suburban house in Teddington. They had a bottle of brandy between them.
The inspector accepted a drink and knocked it back in one swig. When talking to the recently bereaved he needed all the lubrication he could get. He gave them his findings and explained that there would need to be a post mortem to confirm the cause, obvious as it was. “You didn’t find a note, I suppose?” he said.
Emily Flanagan shook her head.
“Did anything occur that could have induced him to take his own life? Bad news? An argument?”
Mrs Flanagan looked across at her father.
“No argument,” the old man said. “And that’s beyond dispute.”
Mrs Flanagan clapped her hands twice and said, “Good one, Daddy.”
Inspector Carew didn’t follow what was going on, except that these two seemed more cheerful than they should.
“As a matter of fact,” Mrs Flanagan said, “Patrick was in a better mood than I’ve seen him for some time.” The ends of her mouth turned up in what wasn’t quite a smile, more a comment on the vagary of fate.
“This was last night?”
“And for some days. He was singing Horsey, Keep Your Tail Up in the bathroom.”
“Bracing himself?” said the inspector. His theory of depression was looking shaky.
“What do you mean, ‘bracing himself’?”
“For the, em...”
“Felo de se,” said old Mr Russell. “Felo de se — fellow’s sad day.”
“Daddy, please,” said Mrs Flanagan.
The inspector decided that the old man had drunk too much brandy. This wasn’t a comfortable place to be. As soon as he’d got the essential details he was leaving. “I understand you were both woken by the shot.”
“About midnight, yes,” the widow said, glancing at her fingernails. She was holding up remarkably.
“You came downstairs and found him in his office?”
She nodded. “He called it his den. And Father came in soon after.”
“He’d given no indication of taking his own life?”
“He liked his own life, Inspector.”
“What was his work?”
“He was an actor. He was currently playing in Bulldog Drummond at the Richmond Theatre. It was only a small role as a gangster, but he did it to perfection. They’ll miss him dreadfully.”
The inspector was tempted to ask, “And will you?” But he kept his lips buttoned. “Bulldog Drummond. I can’t say I’ve read it.”
“It has a sub-title,” said Mrs Flanagan. “Daddy, can you remember the sub-title?”
“The Adventures of a Demobilized Officer Who Found Peace Dull.”
“I knew he’d know it,” she said. “Being housebound, Daddy has more time for reading than the rest of us. ‘A Demobilized Officer Who Found Peace Dull.’”
This was closer to Inspector Carew’s diagnosis. “Poignant, in the circumstances.”
“Oh, I don’t agree. Patrick’s life was anything but dull.”
“So last night he would have returned late from the theatre?”
“About half past eleven usually.”
“Perhaps he was overtired.”
“Patrick?” she said with an inappropriate laugh. “He was inexhaustible.”
“Did he have a difficult war?”
“Didn’t every soldier? I thought he’d put all that behind him.”
“Apparently not, unless there was something else.” The inspector was beginning to revise his theory. “Forgive me for asking this, Mrs Flanagan. Was your marriage entirely successful?”
The lips twitched again. “I dare say he had lapses.”
“Lapses,” said old Mr Russell. “Like lasses on laps.”
This piece of wit earned no more than a frown from his daughter. She said to the inspector, “Patrick was an actor. Enough said?”
“Didn’t it anger you?”
“We had tiffs if I caught him out, as I sometimes did.”
“You seem to treat it lightly, if I may say so.”
“Because they were minor indiscretions, kissing and canoodling.”
The inspector wasn’t certain of the meaning of “canoodling”, but he guessed it didn’t amount to adultery. “Not a cause for suicide, then?”
“Good Lord, no.”
“And how was the balance of his mind, would you say?”
“Are you asking me if he was mad?”
“When he shot himself, yes.”
“I wasn’t there when he shot himself, but I think it highly unlikely. He never lost control.”
“Well, then,” the inspector said, preparing to leave, “it will be for the coroner to decide. He may wish to visit the scene himself, so I’m leaving the, em, den as it is, apart from the, em....”
“Mortal remains?” old Mr Russell suggested.
“So please don’t tidy anything up. Leave it exactly as it is.” He picked up his hat and left.
Mrs Flanagan had barely started her next brandy when the doorbell rang again. “Damn. Who’s that?” she said.
Her father wobbled to the door and admitted a fat, bald man in a cassock. He smelt of tobacco. “Father Montgomery,” he said.
“Should we know you?” she asked.
“I was Padre to your husband in France. I’m the incumbent of St Saviour’s in Richmond. I heard from one of my congregation that he’d been gathered, so I came at once to see what I could do.”
“Very little,” said Mrs Flanagan. “‘Gathered’ isn’t the word I would use. He killed himself. That’s a lost soul in your religion, isn’t it?”
The priest sighed heavily. “That is distressing. I know he wasn’t a regular worshipper, but he was brought up in the Church of Rome. He professed himself a Catholic when pressed.”
Old Mr Russell said in a parade-ground chant, “Fall out the Jews and Catholics.”
“Exactly, sir. So I do have a concern over the destiny of poor Patrick’s soul. Is it certain?”
“If you call putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger certain, I would say it is,” said Mrs Flanagan, wanting to be rid of this visitor. “We’ve had the police here and they confirm it.”