A Will to Murder

by J F Straker

  But Mrs Green made no move to go, and her continued and silent presence began to unnerve the girl. Without looking round, she said irritably, ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you agree with me?’

  ‘No, miss, I don’t. And I’m surprised, I must say, that you can treat it so lightly. Thursday, it says on that piece of paper, doesn’t it? And Thursday was yesterday, the day your aunt left. But it seems she never got to her friend’s. Why, miss? Because something’s happened to her, that’s why!’

  ‘An accident, you mean?’

  ‘Not an accident, miss. Murder.’ She rolled the word out with macabre delight, noting with grim satisfaction the shock it occasioned her listener. ‘It’s my belief whoever wrote that note has done what he said he’d do.’

  ‘It doesn’t mention murder,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Mrs Green. Aunt Charlotte didn’t leave because of that note; she had planned this visit weeks ago.’

  Mrs Green had no reply to this. But she had not yet finished. For a few moments she watched the girl, her thin lips pressed into an even tighter line, her sharply pointed nose seeming to sniff the air suspiciously, face and body uncompromisingly stiff. Then she said, ‘Did you see the taxi-man?’

  ‘No. I was out at the time.’

  ‘Ah!’ This was triumph. ‘Last night you said as how you’d seen her leave.’

  ‘Did I? No, I don’t think so.’ Elizabeth tried to sound indifferent. ‘All I said was that she’d gone. And so she has, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, miss. But how did she go? And where? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘To London, by train and taxi,’ Elizabeth said lightly. Time was running short; Aunt Charlotte was no longer there, but it seemed that she could still impede and frustrate. She stood up, twisting and turning in front of the mirror in a final critical appraisement. ‘How do I look, Mrs Green?’

  The woman frowned, resenting this attempt to disarm her. But her fast-vanishing femininity could not entirely ignore the appeal.

  ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I like the grey better.’

  ‘So do I,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘But it needs cleaning, and I see there’s a button missing.’ She sat down and began to put on her hat. ‘Why don’t you and Mr Green take the day off? You need not bother about me. I don’t expect to be back until late.’

  ‘Your aunt said as you wouldn’t be going out of an evening.’ It was more of an accusation than a reproof. ‘She said you’d promised.’

  Elizabeth made no reply. She wanted to tell the woman to mind her own business, but feared to antagonise her further. Mrs Green could be dangerous. She also resisted the temptation to point out that, if Aunt Charlotte had been murdered, it didn’t much matter what she had promised.

  ‘Well, I’m off.’ She brushed a speck of powder from her skirt, picked up gloves and handbag, gave a last pat to her hair, and turned to go. ‘Don’t wait up for me. I’ve got a key.’

  Mrs Green did not move. She eyed the girl malevolently, making no attempt to hide her suspicion. ‘Seems like you don’t want the police to know about your aunt,’ she said.

  ‘Well, really!’ Elizabeth stared back at her indignantly, her fists clenching. ‘I don’t think you quite realise what you’re saying, Mrs Green.’

  The woman’s eyes flickered, and she rubbed her hand nervously against her mouth. Her broad feet, hitherto planted firmly on the carpet, twisted slowly on to their edges and back again. But they did not shift their ground.

  ‘That was the way it looked,’ she mumbled sullenly.

  If it was an apology it was a very meagre one. But Elizabeth decided to accept it. She could not keep Desmond waiting merely to satisfy her desire to put Mrs Green in her place.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘We’ll let it go at that. But I don’t like people doubting my motives, Mrs Green. Nothing has happened to Aunt Charlotte — if it had we should have heard by now — and she wouldn’t thank us if we asked the police to make inquiries about her. If you’ve set your heart on discussing it with Williams I can’t stop you. But I advise you to be careful what you say.’

  The woman nodded. She looked frail and small, but Elizabeth felt no pity for her. Mrs Green was a prying, mischief-making busybody. Yet she thought it wise to attempt some sort of a truce between them, however uneasy.

  ‘You’re all worked up over nothing,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Go out and forget it. It’s a lovely day.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ And then, as Elizabeth reached the door, ‘What’ll I do about the telegram?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing you can do. I don’t know Mrs Donelly’s address, and she isn’t on the phone.’

  As she ran down the path Elizabeth knew that Mrs Green was watching her from the bedroom window. Damn the woman! she thought; she’s made me late, and she’s put me in a vile temper. And it is quite on the cards that she’ll try to get her own back on me by talking to Williams.

  Some of the uneasiness instilled in her by this last thought was dispelled as she turned into the lane and saw the Wolseley waiting at the corner. She even managed a wry smile as she realised how delighted Michael and the others would be at what they would no doubt consider a turn-up for the book. They had banked on Mrs Green to raise the alarm, but they could not have anticipated that she would make such a thorough job of it.

  Nor could they have anticipated that, despite their precautions, murder would be Mrs Green’s first thought.

  * * *

  Elizabeth was slightly disappointed by the wedding ceremony. It was all so businesslike, so unromantic. The registrar was a scraggy little man with a cold and a sniff, the witnesses unprepossessing strangers picked up by Desmond. Even when they addressed her as ‘Mrs Farrel’ and wished her good luck she was not greatly moved. It just didn’t seem real.

  But I suppose the result is the same, she thought. And Desmond at least was real enough, and far from disappointing. He looked handsome and distinguished; and if the cut of his clothes was rather more Edwardian than Milford Cross was accustomed to, at least it suited him. I wouldn’t have him any different, she told herself; and if I’m not in love with him I certainly ought to be. But maybe I am.

  She squeezed his arm as they paused for a moment at the top of the wide steps that led down to Tanbury High Street. ‘I suppose we’re properly married,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t feel like it, and I want to be sure.’

  He grinned down at her.

  ‘Positively no deception,’ he assured her. ‘We’re stuck for life. Come on, let’s eat. Getting married always gives me an appetite.’

  They were half-way down the steps, arms linked, when she stopped, holding him back.

  ‘There’s Bruce,’ she whispered. ‘See? Crossing the street. Oh, don’t let him see us!’

  She turned and ran back to the shelter of the hall. Desmond followed, amused by her panic but anxious to please her. From behind a stone pillar, with Elizabeth hovering anxiously in the shadows, he watched the large figure of Bruce Poulton dodging his way through the heavy traffic. Bruce seemed to be in a hurry, his progress causing more than one driver to brake sharply. Arrived on the pavement, he hesitated for a moment, gave a swift glance to where the two were hiding, and then, a frown on his face, walked quickly away.

  Desmond watched him go. ‘All clear,’ he said at last, emerging from his post of concealment. ‘I lost him in the crowd, but I’m pretty sure he’s gone.’

  ‘Do you think he saw us?’ Elizabeth asked. She was still in the shadows.

  ‘I doubt it. He’d have hailed us if he had.’ He was not as confident as he sounded, but he did not want to alarm her. ‘What does it matter, anyway?’

  ‘He might guess why we’re here. Our marriage wouldn’t be a secret any longer.’ She felt deflated, nervous. Bruce was in love with her, and had always been jealous of Desmond. How would Bruce react if he knew? ‘What could he be doing in Tanbury, Desmond? Why isn’t he at the bank?’

  ‘Goodness knows.
Probably been sent on a message to the branch here. Come on, darling, snap out of it. To hell with Bruce! The way I’m feeling even the sudden appearance of Aunt Charlotte in person couldn’t perturb me. I’d probably invite her to the wedding feast.’

  His gaiety cheered her slightly, but she had little appetite for the meal he ordered so carefully. She had suffered from Bruce’s jealousy before; he could not bear her even to look at another man when she was with him. Or perhaps it wasn’t jealousy, but pride; that stupid, unreasonable pride of his, that twisted harmless words and actions into unforgivable insults. It was the more frightening because it was unpredictable.

  They drank champagne. Elizabeth felt better for it, and began to tell her husband of the events of that morning and the preceding evening. Occasionally he frowned, but mostly he laughed. He was particularly amused by Mrs Green’s suspicions.

  ‘Good old Mrs Green,’ he said. ‘Michael said she wouldn’t fail us.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s at all funny,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I don’t mind her spreading rumours that Aunt Charlotte has disappeared — that was what you wanted, wasn’t it? But I hate this talk of murder. And what a nerve she has, actually daring to hint that I’m responsible. All right, you may laugh. But how would you like to be accused of murder?’

  ‘Not much,’ he agreed. ‘But, after all, it’s only Mrs Green. You don’t have to worry about her, darling.’

  ‘It’s only Mrs Green so far. But it’ll spread; she’ll see to that.’

  ‘But why should she pick on you? You told me you weren’t even in the house when Aunt Charlotte left?’

  ‘I wasn’t — though I gather that doesn’t impress Mrs Green favourably either. The point is, Desmond, that I’ve brushed off both the telegram and the note as unimportant, and I’ve refused to report either to the police. That’s what has aroused her suspicions — and I can’t altogether blame her. It does look bad, I can see that. Tell me — what was I supposed to do when that telegram arrived?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘We never got around to fixing that, did we?’

  ‘If you did you omitted to inform me,’ she said accusingly. ‘Who slipped that unpleasant note under the front door?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know that either.’ He gave her a rather guilty smile. ‘The truth is, darling, that I sort of lost interest in the plot after you told me I was about to become a husband. I just left it to the others to arrange, and did as I was told. But that note wasn’t in the programme as outlined to me. It must have been Michael or Alan adding a last-minute touch, I imagine. It wouldn’t be Bruce.’

  No, it wouldn’t be Bruce. Bruce wasn’t the type for inspired last-minute touches. ‘What exactly was the programme?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, there was the telegram. Then Alan was going to call round and monkey with the safe, and I was supposed to collect something of Aunt Charlotte’s and dump it near the river.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘You know I didn’t. You foxed us all by going out last night. What’s more, we couldn’t leave that love-note for you to hide conspicuously in her room. And it was a beautiful note, too. I wrote it myself dreaming-oh-my-darling-love-of-thee. Rather a bore having to waste it.’

  With that sentiment Elizabeth concurred. A note hinting at an elopement would have headed Mrs Green away from murder. Its news value would have been greater.

  When she told him of the unlocked back door, and the footsteps Henry Torreck had heard, he was as bewildered as she had been.

  ‘Odd,’ he agreed. ‘Damned odd. Of course, the prowler could have been whoever it was pushed that note under the door; Michael or Alan, presumably. But why didn’t he wait until Mr Torreck had gone, so that he could tell you what he’d been up to? But the back door —’ He frowned. ‘Could Aunt Charlotte have forgotten to lock it?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Elizabeth was suddenly impatient to be gone. This was her wedding day, but Aunt Charlotte was spoiling it for her as surely as she had spoilt so many other days. For as long as they sat at table the topic would continue to haunt them; there would be breaks, of course, but always they would return to it. Aunt Charlotte was as inevitable as — as death.

  She stood up quickly. He had ordered coffee, but she could not sit there and wait for it. They must go — now, at once, before everything was ruined.

  ‘Going some place?’ Desmond asked, surprised. ‘Can I lend you a penny?’

  She switched on her most summery smile.

  ‘A penny wouldn’t be sufficient,’ she said gaily. ‘I was thinking of the South of France. Isn’t that a ‘must’ for a honeymoon?’

  Instantly he switched his mood to hers. ‘But of course,’ he said gravely. ‘Stupid of me not to think of it. I’ll get the hall porter to call a ‘plane. Or — you’re sure you wouldn’t prefer Purley? I’m told it’s becoming fashionable. All the best people go there now.’

  Elizabeth shuddered. Aunt Charlotte again!

  ‘No, thank you. Any other suggestions?’

  He came to stand beside her. Regardless of the curious stares of the other diners, he put an arm round her waist.

  ‘The Tower Hotel,’ he whispered. ‘Have I ever shown you my etchings, Mrs Farrel?’

  * * *

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when they left the Tower Hotel. They walked sedately down the stairs and through the deserted lounge, not looking at each other, with Elizabeth humming a rather sad little tune they had heard over the radio earlier in the evening.

  Dulcie was in the hall. She eyed them steadily, her face expressionless save for the slight frown that creased her pretty brows.

  Elizabeth stopped humming. Do we look different? she wondered. Does being married show on one’s face, in the way one walks and holds oneself? ‘Good night, Dulcie,’ she said. She felt brimful of good-will, even to Dulcie. ‘Sorry if we’ve kept you up. I didn’t realise it was so late.’

  The other girl continued to stare at them, her eyes flickering from one to the other. Then, with a curt good night, she turned and walked away.

  Perhaps she doesn’t like me any more than I like her, thought Elizabeth — surprised, not at the fact, but that she had not realised it before.

  Desmond drove her home, and for a while they sat in the car outside the house. It was hard, thought Elizabeth, to have to bid her husband farewell so soon after their marriage. She no longer had doubts about her love for him, or his for her. She was filled with gratitude towards him for having charged her life with excitement and purpose and future. Desmond had ceased to be a means to an end, he was the end itself.

  When she eventually released herself from his embrace she got out of the car briskly, aware that if she allowed herself to linger separation would be all the harder.

  ‘Good night, Mrs Farrel,’ Desmond called to her softly as she opened the gate. ‘Be seeing you some time.’

  She watched him as he backed the car and turned. Then, with a wave of the hand, she ran up the path to the house.

  There was a light in the hall; if the Greens had taken her advice and gone out for the day they were back now. She hoped they had gone to bed. Another dose of Mrs Green was more than she could bear.

  But the Greens had not gone to bed. She could hear their voices in the kitchen, and as she tiptoed down the hall and began to climb the stairs the door opened behind her.

  ‘We’d like to speak to you, please, miss,’ the woman said.

  Reluctantly Elizabeth turned and descended the stairs, wondering at the ‘we.’ She suddenly felt tired and flat. Reaction setting in, I suppose, she told herself. It’s been quite a day.

  She slumped on to a hard kitchen chair, rested her arms on the table, and glanced inquiringly at the gardener and his wife. The man was at the far end of the table, biting the loose skin round the nails of his stubby, soil-stained fingers. He gave her a quick, speculative look, but said nothing.

  Elizabeth turned to his wife. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’
>
  There was nothing speculative about Mrs Green’s expression. It was one of triumph. There was triumph, too, in her voice when she answered.

  ‘There’s been another telegram,’ she said. She leaned over and slapped the untidy piece of paper on to the table. Then she stood back, folded her arms across her meagre bosom, and nodded significantly. ‘Read it, miss.’

  Elizabeth picked it up with distaste. For so many hours Aunt Charlotte had been forgotten. Now she was back.

  ‘Worried at your non-arrival,’ she read. ‘Will telephone at eight o’clock to-night.’ It was signed ‘Ethel.’

  She sat staring at it for so long that Mrs Green, who had anticipated instant panic, remorse, and apology, lost some of her poise and glanced with raised eyebrows at her husband. But Mr Green merely shrugged his shoulders. He had nothing to suggest.

  Elizabeth sighed. Then she said, without looking up, ‘When did this come?’

  ‘Five o’clock,’ Mrs Green said; and added (perhaps to impress on the girl that they, at least, were equipped with a sense of responsibility), ‘We was just thinking of going to the pictures. But we couldn’t, of course. Not after that.’

  ‘And did Mrs Donelly ring?’

  ‘Yes, miss, she did. She said as how she hadn’t set eyes on your aunt. Nor she hadn’t heard from her neither. The poor thing was terribly upset when I told her Mrs Lane wasn’t here.’ The note of malicious triumph was back in her voice.

  ‘She said as how it was downright wicked of us not to have been to the police about it.’

  Elizabeth nodded wearily. She had no fight left.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Green. I’ll get on to them tomorrow. It’s too late to do anything tonight.’

  Green took his fingers from his mouth and coughed.

  ‘We’ve took care of that, miss. You being out, I had a word with Ted Williams. He said to tell you he’d be up to see you about it in the morning.’

  Chapter Four

  Not just a Rumour

  Police constable Ted Williams was an intelligent young man, and it was his misfortune that he was more aware of this fact than were his superiors. Thus his approach to crime was not so much to prevent or uncover it as to use it to enhance his own reputation. This was not entirely a selfish attitude. He had not been long in the Force, but he considered that his own rapid promotion would be in the best interests of society.