The First Time He Died

Book 636: Murder Room

by Ethel Lina White

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Charlie Baxter has never been a success. Yes, he's popular with women, but he's not exactly a party guy. A cheerful loser, that's Charlie. He has even made a hash of his 'death'. For, having almost exhausted a legacy left to him by a rich aunt, he has planned to insure his life and then 'die'. But he has failed to foresee the ramifications of his sinister scheme. And he has reckoned without people cleverer than him - the insurance company, for one. Then there's his wife, Vera, who is playing along for her own benefit ...

Release date: March 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

NEARLY every one in the small town of Starminster was sorry to hear of Charlie Baxter’s death. He was popular with women, while men invariably
called him a “decent little chap”—a curious inaccuracy, since he was well over medium height.

A gentle unassuming nature, he stole out of life as unobtrusively as he left a party—when he nodded farewell to his host and slipped away, without any one knowing that he had gone. At the
time flu was epidemic. One day, some one mentioned casually that he was ill. The next bit of news was a thunderclap in the billiard-room at the Grapes.

“Poor Baxter’s passed out.”

There was a chorus of “Poor chap,” for Charlie’s slate was clean. He paid his bills, subscribed modestly to local charities, and listened to golf stories. Did the usual things,
while his game was always a trifle below the standard of his opponent; the drinks were inevitably on him, but he was a cheerful loser.

No one was really surprised, therefore, to hear that Death had found him a bit below his form, and had taken advantage of the fact.

“When did he die?” asked some one.

“Late last night,” replied the herald.

“Flu, I suppose?”

“Yes. Sudden collapse. Heart was weak, I’m told.”

“No, it wasn’t,” announced Acorn, the Insurance agent.

He chalked his cue and looked around him, with no real hope, for some one whom he could beat at snooker. He was the first person to miss Charlie Baxter.

“Damn mistake if they had that old fool Dubarry to attend him,” he said savagely. “Another doctor might have pulled him through.”

“Mrs. Baxter swears by him,” remarked a masculine gossip.

“She would.”

The company grunted assent. It was an established fact that Dr. Dubarry had the brains of a stewed mushroom, and allowed nothing to interfere with his personal pleasure; but it had to be
admitted in his favour that he had almost entirely ceased to practise, and only took on a case after personal persuasion.

When the matrons of the town heard of Charlie Baxter’s death they added a rider to the verdict of medical inefficiency. They hinted that Vera Baxter might have been too casual in her
treatment of the patient. Heads were shaken and tongues wagged.

“He always waited on her. It would be a change for her to wait on him. A pity they did not have a trained nurse.”

“But Dr. Dubarry said she was wonderful,” observed a more charitable tongue.

“He would. She’s a pretty woman.”

Unlike her husband, Vera Baxter was not very popular in the town. She was a cheery, capable little person, with an anti-litter mind; but she could not play hockey, and they could never be
certain that she had gone to the right school.

In appearance, she was a slim, pretty blonde—smart and decorative—who looked too young to be married, until it was noticed that her shrewd blue eyes had grown up before the rest of
her.

What the town chiefly resented was the third occupant of Jasmine Cottage—Puggie Williams. He had been a fixture there for several months and was a man of mystery. He wore old well-cut
clothes with distinction and his voice betrayed breeding; but he had the red-veined mashed face of a hard drinker, and when he remembered to forget his origin, his manners were appalling.

It was evident, however, that he had begun life in a different social sphere from that of his friends, and had probably met them, when he was sliding down the ladder and they were climbing up,
so had clung round their necks, as ballast.

He appeared to be on excellent terms with Charlie and a real friendship seemed to exist between the three. Vera ordered him about as much as she dominated her gentle husband, for she was the
type who expected men to be doormats. All the same, the town could not accept Puggie, in connection with Vera, because of his sex.

The news of the tragedy swept through Starminster like a prairie fire. It was a day of wretched weather. There had been a heavy snowfall in the night, so that, in the morning, every roof was
white-capped and the church steeple looked like a sugar-loaf.

Now, however, it had begun to melt. Slush covered the pavements and lay in the gutter, while the country roads were churned by traffic to the consistency of brown fudge. The hills were iced
silhouettes against the grey sky, and the streets appeared dark and miserable. People’s faces—pinched with cold—seemed actually dirty, so that any one with an artificial
complexion was a public benefactor. It was chill and gloomy, and no time to think of death.

Yet it was constantly in the thoughts of many a woman. Charlie’s last public appearance had been at a Primrose Dance, when there had been a man-famine. Too retiring to invite the
attractive girls and women, he had danced exclusively with wallflowers.

He was an excellent dancer—light as a feather—with a springy step and tireless rhythm. Stout matrons, whose husbands were dancing with buds, seemed to swing years off their age as
they swayed in Charlie’s arms. Spinsters, who were too mature for public competition, and schoolgirls, who were too callow, found in him not only a partner, but sympathy and deference.

One of these was a Miss Belson, an unmarried woman of some social standing, who had been forced to attend the function because of its political nature. Sitting glued to a hard cane-chair, it did
not console her to remember that twenty years previously she had been so much in demand that she was forced to subdivide her programme.

She, too, was an excellent dancer, and Charlie confided to her that she was his best partner. He talked to her about herself, while his soft brown eyes paid her those compliments which his
tongue was too circumspect to utter. With customary modesty, he let her usurp their conversation; his sole personal item was the confession that his beard was not artistic swank, but a safeguard
for a delicate throat.

“I don’t mind admitting I look better with it than without,” he added, with a little laugh. “You know. Chin.”

“I hate Strong Men, like Mussolini and Cromwell,” declared Miss Belson.

For Charlie had watered the patch of dried romance in her heart, so that she began to wonder whether his married life was happy, and to notice that Vera danced almost exclusively with Puggie
Williams.

She was at the library when she heard of his death. It was a terrible shock for her, when the man who had reminded her that she was a woman as well as a ratepayer flicked out of her life, in one
casual sentence from the librarian.

“Isn’t it sad about poor Mr. Baxter?”

She asked for details with correct composure, but, instead of choosing her usual recommended book, she carried away with her a thriller. She felt she wanted something to take her thoughts off
the tragedy.

On her way home she was gripped with an uncontrollable urge to go to Jasmine Cottage and look at the building which held the shell of the man she had met too late. In soaked shoes, she shuffled
along over slushy pavements and past snow-powdered laurels, until she reached the little cream-washed house.

It was built on the extreme outskirts of the town, for only two lamp-posts divided it from the utter darkness of the York Road. No light was visible, although the blue-green curtains at the
small casement windows were partially undrawn, so that she could see the flicker of a fire in the lounge. As she paused, a car passed, and its lamps bathed the room in a momentary glow.

She saw two people—Vera Baxter and Puggie Williams—who were sitting close together, as though they were talking in whispers. There was something so furtive in their attitude that it
compelled her attention. She caught the flash of teeth and eyes, and wondered incredulously whether they were laughing.

Although she could not be positive about what she had seen, she walked home, throbbing with anger. Instinct insisted that Vera Baxter was not mourning for her husband.

Miss Belson lived with her widowed sister, Lady Fry, who was stout and bronchial. Once she was inside the well-warmed house, she could shut out the cold and misery of the streets; but she could
not forget the incident. It remained—a burr on her mind—throughout an excellent dinner, when she ate mechanically, and agreed with her sister that poor Charles Baxter looked like a man
who needed “mothering.”

That night she read in bed with a hope to induce sleep; but the thriller did not provide the usual escape from life. Instead, its chief function was to sidetrack her thoughts into a new and
terrible direction.

Murder.

She told herself that if two persons wanted to put a third out of the way, it would be easy to pull the wool over the eyes of the doctor, if he was an incompetent fool. They had the opportunity
to administer a poison or drug, which would cause a collapse in the ordinary course of illness, especially if the patient had a weak heart.

Even to herself Miss Belson was careful not to mention names.

Suddenly she remembered Charlie Baxter’s tireless dancing. He had never panted or shown the least sign of distress. There was a beating inside her temples and her palms grew clammy as she
sprang up in the bed.

“Suppose he was murdered,” she murmured. “What could I do?”

At that moment she realised the moral courage of those who appeal to the Police. In her own case, however, her course was obvious. Even in the face of a discrepancy she rejected the monstrous
notion.

“What an awful thing to think, without a shred of evidence. It’s this wretched book.”

She slammed down the novel on the table and switched off her light.

All the same this fact is definite. Had Dr. Dubarry—speeding through France in the Blue Train—not taken too much for granted, he would never have written a Certificate of Death for
Charles Baxter.

SOON after the news became known the first flowers arrived at Jasmine Cottage. They were brought by a matron who was so sorry to hear of Charlie’s
death that she wanted to know more about it.

To her surprise the door was opened by Puggie Williams, wearing a mulberry-silk dressing-gown, which threw up all the smouldering tints of his complexion. He appeared to have been keeping up his
spirits in time-honoured fashion, for he stared stupidly at the caller’s bunch of white violets.

“What are these for?” he asked.

“Just a few blooms from my frame, for—for the room,” explained the inquisitive lady.

“Oh, Charlie.” Puggie’s face lit up. “By gum, the poor little chap will be pleased.” He sighed as he corrected himself. “I mean, he would be pleased
if he could see them.”

“How is Mrs. Baxter?” inquired the matron.

“Crashed. Definitely crashed.” Puggie lowered his voice. “She’s just sent the maid away. Positively can’t stick any one around. Nerves, you know.”

“Can’t I do something to help?”

“Nothing, thanks frightfully. There’s always P.W. on tap. She’s used to me, so I don’t count.” He plunged his short bulbous nose into the white violets. “The
stink of these always bring back a memory,” he said sentimentally. “A wet country road and a red-haired girl in riding-kit. We’d been coming back from hunting, and
she—”

He broke off and added, “Well, Charlie’s just another memory now. Thanks for the violets, Mrs. Er-Ah-Um. Charlie’ll love them.”

A little later, Puggie Williams was popular for the first time, for he became Official News. He appeared in High Street, wearing a dark suit, and combined pink eyelids with a set expression.

He informed people that Mrs. Baxter was deeply grateful for every one’s sympathy, but was too upset to see callers until after the funeral.

“I’m rushing it on, on purpose,” he explained. “Day after to-morrow if I can make the grade. Fact is, Vera—Mrs. Baxter—is morbid about death. Can’t keep
her out of the room. She’ll be normal once the—body’s out of the house. Besides, directly it’s over I can clear out.”

The fact that Puggie was convention-conscious caused him to soar in the popular estimation.

“Is it a public funeral?” asked some one.

“No, strictly private. Only, if friends showed up, she’d naturally appreciate it.”

“Flowers?”

Puggie looked doubtful as he scratched a pimple with a long patrician hand.

“Flowers?” he repeated. “Well, it’s like this. The widow wanted none. But he felt it would help the florists. You know what a chap he was for thinking of
others.”

“So—he knew?” asked a woman huskily.

“Yes.” Puggie gulped in sympathy. “We couldn’t fool him. He knew he was passing on. Conscious to the last.”

To change a painful subject, the matron of the white violets asked about future plans.

“Will Mrs. Baxter be staying on here?”

“No,” replied Puggie, “definitely not. The mere thought of what she bumped into here would make her shudder. She may stay out her quarter. . . . Well, I must be
moving.”

He saluted gravely and passed on his way to the undertaker’s, where he stated his requirements.

“I’ve brought Mr. Baxter’s measurements, because Mrs. Baxter can’t bear to hear the men coming, until—until they’ve got to. How soon can you knock up
a rough shell?”

“I’ve one in stock which might do at a pinch,” replied the undertaker. “There’s so much illness that we have to be prepared.”

“Good,” nodded Puggie. “Send it up to-morrow morning at twelve. And send the coffin one-thirty, sharp, the next day. I want the funeral to be two o’clock.”

As he left the arrangements entirely to the taste and discretion of the undertaker, the remainder of the short interview was satisfactory to both.

“You understand,” he said, as he left the shop, “plain, but good. And no one’s to come mucking round. If you want to know anything, ring me. I’ll be in all day
to-morrow. . . . And now, I’ve got to flag the vicar.”

After he had left the Vicarage, there were still visits to be paid, so that some time elapsed before he returned to Jasmine Cottage, where Vera met him in the passage.

There was no hint of the distracted widow in her appearance. She looked smart as paint in a very becoming black frock, which was not mourning, since she had been wearing it all the winter. It
suited her fair colouring remarkably well. Her lips were tinted coral, and exactly matched her cigarette-holder.

Her small face, however, grew sharp with worry as she listened to Puggie’s recital, and when she spoke, her voice grated like a saw.

“You fool. Why didn’t you say ‘no flowers’? We shall have people messing round here.”

“I was thinking of poor Charlie,” remarked Puggie quietly. “It’s a compliment to him. After all, Vera, it’s his due.”

“Perhaps so.” Vera shrugged. “But, Puggie, what possessed the idiot to promise the girl a fiver? Where am I to find one? Growing on a lamppost?”

Puggie patted her thin shoulders.

“Don’t worry, old girl,” he advised. “Take one fence at a time.”

Later on, additional details of the death at Jasmine Cottage were circulated, when the maid—Minnie Reed—was seen walking about the town, dressed in her best clothes.

“I’ve got a week’s holiday,” she explained. “The mistress was wonderful right up to the time of the master’s death, and then she went to bits and screamed to
leave her alone with him. After all I done, she swept me out of the house like so much rubbish.”

It was plain that the maid considered that she had been cheated out of a sensational experience, although she admitted that she was allowed to wish her master “Good-bye.”

She made the most of that.

“They called me into the room just before the end. He was sinking fast. His face looked like wax and his hands were cold as ice. He shook hands with me, but he couldn’t speak, only
whisper. He said, ‘Good-bye, Minnie, and thank you for all your kindness to me. I didn’t know you when I made my Will, but your mistress will give you five pounds to remember me.’”

Among others who heard of Charlie Baxter’s death was a schoolgirl who was home for the Christmas holidays. She was a wholesome, athletic youngster of sixteen, in the pudding-face stage,
but with promise of attraction. She had only two ambitions—to pass the Senior Cambridge and to enter for the Junior Golf Championship.

When she was going to the Library one wet afternoon for her mother, she dropped the book in the road. Charlie Baxter, who was passing at the time, picked it up and wiped off the flecks of mud
with his clean handkerchief.

The courtly gesture left the girl gaping with astonishment. She was inarticulate when he carried the book for her to the Library. On the way he complimented her on the goal she had shot at a
recent Ladies’ Hockey Match, and discussed the game in general, and her form in particular.

The girl went home feeling that every cell in her body had been subjected to a chemical change. For the first time she experienced the chaotic upheaval of Nature. Hitherto she had been a boy,
and would have been murderous to a Constant Nymph on the hockey field.

For about a week she hugged her secret as she rubbed Pond’s cold cream into her face at night, and went to soppy, sentimental pictures. She idealised Charlie to a knight of King
Arthur’s Court. And then, in the midst of her dawning rapture, she heard of his death.

She was having afternoon-tea in the drawing-room, and she went on munching quantities of hot crumpet, without comment or show of emotion. The . . .