by J F Straker
He received the news of Charlotte Lane’s mysterious disappearance with outward calm and inward excitement. However zealous in his attention to duty a policeman might be, drunks and speeding motorists were no stepping-stones to meteoric preferment. But this was different. If Walter Green’s story were true — and he was careful to emphasise the ‘if’ — this could be his big chance.
He was briskly but courteously efficient when he called at The Elms the next morning. Though he had hoped first to check Green’s statement with Mrs Green, he remained unperturbed when Elizabeth herself opened the door to him. She was out of breath, he noticed. She had probably watched for his arrival from an upper window, and had then hurried downstairs to forestall Mrs Green. She wouldn’t want that old gossip making a mountain out of a molehill, thought Ted. If it was a molehill. Which he hoped it wasn’t.
‘There may be nothing to it, Miss Messager,’ he said, when he had explained his errand. ‘But the matter has been reported, and it is my duty to investigate.’
‘Of course. Come in, please.’ She led the way into her aunt’s study, apologising for its untidiness. ‘How can I help you?’
He took his time over telling her, weighing his words carefully.
‘As I understand it, miss, Mrs Lane left here on Thursday afternoon to stay with a friend in Purley. But it seems that she never arrived there. Now, why might that be?’
‘I couldn’t say. But the main purpose of her visit was to do some shopping in London. Perhaps she decided to stay in the West End for a day or so before going down to Purley.’
‘In that case wouldn’t she have advised her friend?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But — well, you know my aunt, Mr Williams. She’s not given to considering other people.’
It was weak and suspiciously forced reasoning, he thought. He gave the girl what was intended to be a searching look.
‘You are not worried about her?’ he asked.
‘If you mean, do I think something terrible has happened to her — no, I don’t. But I would like to know what she’s up to.’
She smiled at him. But Ted Williams was not to be beguiled by a smile. He had often admitted to himself that there was something about the Messager girl that he found oddly attractive; her red hair, perhaps, or that deep voice of hers. But promotion was more attractive still, and her smile was out of place here. There might be more in Walter Green’s dark suspicions than he had at first believed. If Miss Messager didn’t actually murder the old girl she at least knew something she wasn’t telling. He was sure of that.
‘It was Walter Green told me of the telephone call from Mrs Lane’s friend,’ he said gravely. ‘I expect you know that. He also said there was a note Mrs Green had found in the hall yesterday morning. Threatening, he said it was.’
‘Oh, that.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t take that too seriously, Mr Williams. It was only some one’s idea of a joke. Aunt Charlotte was never in debt in her life.’
‘You’re sure of that, miss? About it being a joke?’
The girl hesitated. ‘I can’t prove it, of course, but — yes, I’m sure.’
‘May I see it, please?’
‘Certainly. It’s up in my room. I’ll get it for you.’
He was glad to be alone for a few moments; it gave him the opportunity to consider his next move. There was something wrong somewhere. If the girl knew neither where her aunt was nor what had happened to her it didn’t make sense to pretend that everything was perfectly normal, that there was no need for police investigation. So she was putting on an act. But why? And was he handling her right? Should he frighten her by voicing his suspicions, or should he go along with her until she gave herself away by some unguarded statement?
How would the Inspector handle her? He wished he knew.
When Elizabeth returned with the note he took his time in reading it, puzzling over its possibilities. It had been found under the mat, the gardener had said. But when had it been put there?
‘It wasn’t there Thursday morning,’ Elizabeth said, when asked. ‘I swept the hall myself. And shook the mat.’ She hesitated. ‘I — er — I imagine the village is already full of rumours, isn’t it?’
‘There’s talk,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll keep this note, miss, if you don’t mind. As you say, it may be a joke; but then again it may not. Mrs Lane would be able to tell us more about that, eh?’
‘I doubt it. But keep it by all means.’
He was placing the note carefully in his wallet when he was visited by one of those moments of clear, deductive thought that had made him aware that nature had intended him to fill a role more exalted than that of village constable.
‘Suppose this note means what it says?’ he suggested. ‘And suppose it made sense to your aunt? She could have been so frightened by the threat it contained that she decided to disappear. Mightn’t that have been the way of it?’
‘No,’ the girl said firmly. ‘This visit had been planned weeks ago. It wasn’t a sudden decision.’
‘Quite so, miss. But she hasn’t gone where she’d planned to go, has she? She’d think, you see, that whoever was threatening her might know of her plans and would follow her. Instead, she just disappears.’
‘No,’ Elizabeth said again. ‘In the first place, she wasn’t frightened, she was perfectly normal. Ask Mrs Green if you don’t believe me. Secondly, if she had read the note she would either have destroyed it or kept it; she certainly wouldn’t have hidden it under the mat. And lastly, if she had been in trouble, and had decided to disappear, she would have confided in me.’
Yes, thought Ted Williams. And suppose she did confide in you? Didn’t she also tell you to hold your tongue, to head off all inquiries? And isn’t that what you’re doing right now? As for the note well, panic (if there had been panic) could account for it being left under the mat. In itself it didn’t prove or disprove anything.
But he must not allow suspicion to cloud his judgment. He must be thorough, methodical. Not until he had all the facts would it be safe to consider possible solutions.
‘I understand the Greens left the house shortly after lunch on Thursday,’ he said. ‘They weren’t back until nigh on ten, Walter said, so Mrs Green wouldn’t know much about your aunt’s state of mind that afternoon, would she?’ He paused. ‘But you were here, I presume, when Mrs Lane left in the taxi?’
‘No,’ Elizabeth said. She was well aware that he presumed nothing of the sort; Mrs Green would not have omitted that piece of information. Reluctantly she told him of the bogus telephone call and of her visit to Valerie. No doubt he would seize on it with glee, dress it up in the most sinister garb; but to conceal it now, only to have it revealed later from some other source (Valerie, perhaps, if the police inquiries circulated that far), would be still more damaging.
He did seize on it. Seized on it and worried it until, by the time he had done, Elizabeth was both frightened and annoyed. Ted Williams was intelligent, but not intelligent or astute enough to conceal the drift of his thoughts. She didn’t like the direction in which they were drifting.
‘Well, that’ll be all for now, miss,’ he said, closing his notebook with regret. He had enjoyed the interview. ‘I’ll send in a report, and it will then be up to headquarters to decide what action is to be taken. Er — this friend of your aunt’s, miss. I’m not sure I got the name right. Donly, is it?’
‘Donelly. Mrs Ethel Donelly. I don’t know the address, but it’s somewhere in Purley.’
‘Thank you, miss.’ Pencil poised over the reopened notebook, he paused. ‘Would you mind writing it down for me?’ And, as she took the pencil and notebook from him, ‘In capitals, please, so there won’t be no mistake. Block capitals.’
Her face looked very pale under the auburn hair. But the flash of her eyes indicated more anger than fear as she answered, after a slight pause, ‘Certainly. But don’t waste your time comparing my writing with that on the note, Mr Williams. Any resemblance will be entirely coincidental. I assure
you I didn’t write that.’
She formed the letters with deliberate care, aware of his embarrassment but not of its cause. It was not, as she thought, because of the trick he had tried to play on her, but because the trick had been detected. It hurt his confidence in himself that this girl should have seen through the ruse so easily.
He was saved from comment by the entry of Mrs Green, carrying a tray on which were two cups of coffee. She glanced eagerly at the two young people, and was greatly cheered by the obvious signs of strain.
‘Time for elevenses,’ she said. ‘Everything all right, miss?’
Elizabeth ignored her. ‘Will that be all, Mr Williams?’ she asked, handing back the notebook. Her tone was frosty. ‘I have things to do.’
He took it from her mechanically. He had temporarily forgotten the girl. His eyes were fixed with interest on Mrs Green, who was staring open-mouthed at the wall. Following the direction of her gaze, he found he was looking at the circular door of a small wall safe.
‘Anything wrong, Mrs Green?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Wrong? Her picture’s gone, that’s what’s wrong. Mrs Lane’s picture, that’s always hung there.’ She turned to the girl. ‘Did you take it down, miss? It was there Thursday morning, I’d swear to that. You always said you didn’t like it. Come to that, you didn’t like her either, did you?’
There was no mistaking the malice in her voice. To Elizabeth, already overwrought by her interview with Constable Williams, it was the last straw. Unmindful of the policeman’s presence, she whirled furiously, on this new tormentor.
‘Get out!’ she snapped. Her fury almost choked her, so that all the scathing words she wanted to utter seemed to stick in her throat. The skin was stretched tight over the knuckles of her clenched fists; if the woman had been nearer she would have struck her. ‘Get out, damn you!’
Mrs Green drew herself up to her full five feet five.
‘Well!’ she exclaimed. ‘Well!’
As she stalked from the room Elizabeth collapsed on to a chair and burst into tears.
Ted Williams was embarrassed. But he had his duty to perform, and Mrs Green had introduced a new and mysterious twist to the puzzle. ‘About this picture, miss,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘You can’t say what has happened to it?’
She took her hands away from her face and, lacking a handkerchief, wiped the tears from her cheeks with slender fingers.
‘No,’ she said, and sniffed. ‘It was there Thursday morning, as Mrs Green said. It used to hang in front of the safe.’
‘Was it there yesterday?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been in this room since my aunt left.’
‘Have you had any visitors?’
She shook her head.
The constable was puzzled. In itself the picture could not be important; only the mystery surrounding its disappearance made it so. Who else but the occupants of the house could have moved it? And why? And where was it now?
When he put these questions to the girl she turned on him angrily. Her nerves were all to pieces, and she was in no mood to be reasonable.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You can search the house if you like — I don’t care. All I know is that I haven’t touched the beastly thing. And I didn’t write that silly note . . . and . . . and I don’t know what’s happened to Aunt Charlotte . . . and . . . oh, leave me alone, can’t you?’
With the tears again welling into her eyes, she ran from the room.
* * *
The Speckled Trout overlooked the Tan Valley from the top of a high hill; it stood on the site of a fifteenth-century inn, some of the original walls of which had been incorporated into the newer building. The long, low dining-room, all dark oak and whitewashed walls and gleaming copper, was on two levels; from it the diners had an uninterrupted view, down a wide ride of green fields and brown earth broken by hedges and lone trees and flanked by dark conifers, to where the river cut like a flashing blue and silver streak across the landscape. Cattle dotted the distant fields, thin plumes of smoke spouted lazily from farmhouse chimneys. A church spire peeped coyly from above a cluster of tree-screened cottages.
‘It’s just perfect,’ Elizabeth said, and sighed. A toy train emerged from behind the right-hand bank of conifers, and she watched it dreamily until it had dawdled its way across the scene and disappeared. ‘Why haven’t I been here before?’
‘You must have chosen the wrong meal tickets,’ Desmond suggested. ‘Cigarette?’
The lunch had been excellent; their stomachs were comfortably full. They sat in well-padded chairs on the lower level, coffee and liqueurs on a table between them. The sun shone; they could feel its warmth through the closed windows. Behind them the room was empty of diners, for they had lunched late; but lights glowed cosily in the bar. Waiters were clearing and re-laying tables, glasses tinkled as the bartender washed up.
‘I wish now that I hadn’t done it,’ Elizabeth said, her mind returning to their previous conversation. ‘Let off steam, I mean. It was stupid and undignified. But coming on top of Ted Williams’ insinuations she — well, she got me down. I let fly at her regardless.’ She puffed nervously at her cigarette. She was not a hardened smoker; Aunt Charlotte did not approve. ‘I suppose they’ll walk out on me now. Well, let them; I never wanted them there in the first place. There’ll be hell to pay when Aunt Charlotte returns, but who cares?’
She shrugged her shoulders, and looked at him anxiously through the cigarette smoke.
But her husband could not entirely allay her fears. ‘Rather a bore to be out of order with the police,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Why?’ She knew he was not being flippant; the most tragic and unwelcome event could be described by Desmond as a ‘bore.’ ‘Who cares what that stupid young man thinks? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’
‘Of course not. But you made it look that way by pretending you weren’t interested in what had happened to Aunt Charlotte. Two telegrams, a threatening note, the picture missing; you can’t laugh that lot off and expect to get away with it.’
‘I’m not expecting to get away with anything,’ she said sharply. ‘Nothing has happened to Aunt Charlotte. You know that.’
‘Do I?’ He frowned. ‘I’m not so sure. The note could have been left by Alan; I haven’t seen him since that evening, I’ve been too busy seeing you. But the picture is a little more tricky. None of us could have liberated that; we couldn’t get into the house. And since it is now certain that Aunt Charlotte never arrived at Mrs Thingummy’s — well, where is she?’
Couldn’t get into the house? But they could. The back door was open, Mrs Green had said.
Mrs Green had said!
‘I don’t know,’ she said abstractedly.
‘And it doesn’t look too good your clearing off on Thursday afternoon,’ Desmond went on. ‘You say you had this mysterious telephone call, but —’
That shook her out of her reverie. ‘Wait a minute!’ she demanded. ‘Are you suggesting I invented it?’
‘Of course I’m not, darling. But the police may. If they suspect you of being responsible for Aunt Charlotte’s disappearance it’s the logical conclusion. They’ll say you were trying to fake an alibi.’ He paused. ‘I suppose it must have been Alan who rang you.’
‘Of course it was Alan.’ Elizabeth nervously stubbed out her half-finished cigarette. ‘If it wasn’t you or Michael or Bruce who else could it have been? Anyway, it’s not important.’
‘It could be,’ Desmond said seriously. ‘The police may say —’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake stop bleating about the police,’ she said irritably, stressing the final word. ‘You make it sound as though the whole of Scotland Yard is after me — whereas it’s only Ted Williams poking his nose into a little dirt the Greens have obligingly stirred up for him. And there wouldn’t even have been Ted Williams if Michael and the rest of you hadn’t tried to be funny.’
‘But you agreed to it at the time, darling. B
e reasonable. It’s not fair to blame us now.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But I ought to have had more sense.’ She lifted the lid of the coffee-pot and peered into its depths. ‘More coffee?’
He nodded, pushing his cup towards her.
‘You know, darling, it isn’t true to say that we’re responsible for everything that’s happened. We may have set the ball rolling, but that’s all we did do. We didn’t send that second telegram, we haven’t liberated Aunt Charlotte, we —’
‘Wait a minute, Desmond.’ She put down the coffee-pot and gripped his outstretched arm. Her eyes were shining. ‘What if we’re not the only practical jokers in Milford? What if some one is hoaxing us? No, not us — me.’
‘Eh?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t get it. Who?’
‘The Greens,’ Elizabeth said excitedly. ‘It was Mrs Green who told me the back door had been left unlocked. But had it? Did she make that up? And that second telegram . . . and the phone call from Mrs Donelly . . . she could have invented those too, couldn’t she? Yes, and no one but the Greens could have taken that picture down and hidden it,’ she added triumphantly. ‘Apart from me they’re the only people who’ve been in the house.’
‘Good Lord!’ Desmond was startled and impressed. ‘You may be right on the beam, darling. But why? What could be behind it?’
‘Goodness knows. They only suffer Aunt Charlotte for what they can get out of her — they’re that kind of people — and they certainly haven’t any use for me. Mrs Green has made that perfectly clear. But there must be more to it than that, surely? You don’t try to get people suspected of murder just because you dislike or despise them. Still, whatever the reason, it must have been Michael’s telegram that gave them the idea. That and the note. Or perhaps they wrote the note too?’
