Case with No Conclusion by Leo Bruce Page A

offered us cigarettes. “The police have been here again this morning,” he said. “There seems to be no doubt at all that poor old Duncan committed suicide.”
    â€œI’m very sorry about it, sir,” said Beef, and there seemed to be genuine sympathy in his voice. “Must be very upsetting for you, having known him all your life.”
    Peter nodded. “Yes,” he said, “we all feel it. He was as loyal a man as you could want to meet. And although in this last year or two he seemed to have become nervy, and highly strung, he always did his job rather better than one could expect. I was fond of him in an odd way. I can remember him taking me to kindergarten, and coming to meet me afterwards.”
    â€œBut have you any idea what made him do it?” blundered Beef.
    â€œI rather think it was the strain of all this business. I know he felt very worried at the thought that he might be called up to give evidence, and that his evidence might tell against my brother. However, his wife will be able to tell you more than I can. Would you like me to call her?”
    â€œPerhaps it would be as well,” said Beef.
    Mrs. Duncan was as short and stalwart as her husband had been narrow and pale. Her arms seemed to be bursting out of her dress, and her face was large and white like a plain suet pudding. She showed no signs of grief at her recent loss, but her expression was resentful. And one felt at once that she had mastered the nervous Duncan as easily as she ruled the rest of the kitchen. There was something a little unhealthy about her, the faint odour of perspiration perhaps, or the heavy fleshiness of her figure.
    â€œVery sorry to hear of your loss,” said Beef ponderously.
    â€œMm,” returned Mrs. Duncan, as though she were dubiously accepting a tribute.
    â€œYou have no doubt in your mind that he committed suicide?” asked Beef.
    â€œOh no,” said the cook. “He’d threatened to do it a dozen times. He was so upset with all this.” She glanced accusingly at Peter Ferrers. “And it’s hardly a wonder.”
    â€œStill,” said Beef complacently, “one would have thought it would take more than a to-do of this kind to make a normal man do himself in. If he’d handled as many murders as I have, he’d have known better.”
    â€œIt wasn’t the murder,” said Mrs. Duncan, “it was his attachment to the family. I always told him he thought too much about his work. He couldn’t sleep at night if everything wasn’t just right. ‘Do your job and have done with it,’ I used to say. But no, he’d be wondering if Mr. Stewart had liked this, and fidgeting over Mr. Peter saying that, until he was little better than a ninny. And then when this happened he was nearly off his head. I told him straight that I didn’t see that Benson was much loss. But all he’d say was, ‘If you knew all that I know,’ or, ‘I hope I never have to tell all I can tell,’ or something of that sort.”
    â€œThere you are,” said Beef triumphantly to Peter and me, “I told you yesterday he knew more than he’d say.”
    â€œWell, if he did,” argued his widow, “he’s took it with him to his grave, for he never told me nothing.He’d worry and fidget and jump as though someone had come up behind him, and mumble in his sleep, but he never give nothing away.”
    â€œWhen did you notice his manner changing?” asked Beef.
    â€œWell, he’s never really been the same since the old gentleman died. Though you’d think that the bit of money he came into would have cheered him up.”
    â€œHow much was it?” asked Beef, and I felt that his question was prompted by the merest curiosity.
    â€œOh, not a great lot,” said Mrs. Duncan guardedly. “Three hundred pounds, or thereabouts. With what he had saved up it would have been enough to buy a