by J F Straker
‘Why not? If Alan didn’t they must have done. But what a turn-up, eh?’ He grinned. ‘What do we do now? Play up to them?’
‘We can’t do much else, can we, until we hear from Aunt Charlotte? But I’ll ask Miss Webber at the post-office for confirmation of that second telegram. If she can’t produce it we’ll know I’m right.’
The thought of Mr and Mrs Green’s probable discomfiture seemed to cheer her. But not for long. Whatever they talked about — and mostly they talked about themselves — Aunt Charlotte was always there at the back of their minds, spoiling their pleasure.
As they got up to leave Elizabeth said, ‘I’ve loved it here, darling. Thank you for bringing me. You know the nicest places.’
‘We’ll come again,’ he promised her.
‘Will we?’ She sounded wistful. ‘It would be a lovely place to spend our honeymoon — if we ever have a honeymoon, that is. I’m afraid that by the time our chance comes we’ll no longer be eligible. We’ll probably have been married for years and years.’
‘Don’t be so gloomy,’ he said. And then, realising that this might be misconstrued, ‘You shan’t be done out of your honeymoon. Just leave it to me, darling. I’ll fix it.’
‘You can’t fix it while Aunt Charlotte is alive,’ she told him. ‘Once she gets back it’s going to be difficult to see each other, let alone go away for a honeymoon.’
They spent the afternoon in the car, and returned to the Speckled Trout, at Elizabeth’s request, for a late tea. But some of the magic had left it, she found. Dusk had blotted out the view, and now it was just another country inn. They ate mostly in silence; Elizabeth sensed that her husband was anxious to be gone, and could guess the reason. The hotel was a busy place on a Saturday and, despite his often casual air, she knew he took a keen interest in it.
As they drove through the dark lanes back to Milford Cross he told her of his plans for the future. His father was old-fashioned, he said, and too content to leave things as they were and always had been. It would be different when he took over. He would modernise the old lounge, install cocktail and snack bars, put in central heating. There would be a new wing to house ballroom and squash court, a swimming-pool in the grounds. ‘It’s just a hostelry at present,’ he said. ‘People come to us for a drink, a meal, and a bed for the night, but they don’t stay. The place is never full. I want them to look on the hotel as a holiday resort, somewhere to spend a gay weekend; somewhere quite different to the usual run of country pubs. I want to see us booked up for weeks — months ahead. And we will be, once I’ve got everything fixed. You’ll see.’
‘It sounds marvellous,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But won’t it cost a lot?’
‘Plenty,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘We’ll have to take it in easy stages.’
She liked that ‘we’; it made her feel even closer to him that he should automatically assume she would take an interest in the hotel, be a part of his work as well as his leisure.
‘How about the tower room?’ she asked. ‘Will you leave that as it is?’
The tower room was a feature of the hotel. The tower itself was at the western end of the building, and prior to the First World War the then owner, an elderly German named Goetz, had built into it a room in which he could shut himself away from the imagined dangers that threatened him from the spy-crazy English. It was still as he had left it, but was never used.
‘I think so,’ Desmond said. ‘Commercially it’s more useful that way. The customers lap it up.’
‘You promised to take me up there, but you never have.’
‘Haven’t I? There’s nothing much to see, except the view.’
It was just after five-thirty when they reached Milford Cross. Desmond drove direct to the hotel. ‘The old man will be wondering where I’ve got to,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home after I’ve made my peace with him. Wait in the car, darling — I shan’t be a jiffy.’
The lounge lights were dim as he went in through the swing door; the bar was not yet open. At the far end of the room a little knot of people, Dulcie and his father among them, stood talking. When he saw Desmond Mr Farrel left the others and came to meet him.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Desmond said cheerfully, noting the frown on his father’s face and omitting an excuse. His father hated excuses.
Mr Farrel glanced up at the clock. ‘You must have had an excellent lunch,’ he said drily. ‘Who was your companion?’
Desmond told him. He was not sure that his father approved of Elizabeth. He could have nothing against the girl herself, but having Charlotte Lane for an aunt was definitely a handicap. ‘She’s outside in the car. I’m just going to run her home.’
George Farrel looked at him thoughtfully. Desmond was suddenly aware that Dulcie and the others had stopped talking and were watching them intently.
‘I think you had better bring Miss Messager in,’ his father said quietly.
‘Eh?’ Desmond was startled. Had the old man discovered already that he and Elizabeth were married? ‘What’s up, Dad?’
‘Her aunt has been murdered,’ Mr Farrel said.
‘Oh, that!’ Desmond grinned. ‘That’s just a rumour. Elizabeth thinks the gardener and his wife have cooked it up to scare her. We’ve been discussing it this afternoon. She can’t make up her mind whether to confront them with it now or wait until Mrs Lane returns. But either way it seems to me —’
Mr Farrel shook his head.
‘This isn’t a rumour, Desmond,’ he said. ‘The police have found her body.’
Chapter Five
A Bloody Mess
Elizabeth surprised them by her calmness. There were no tears and no hysterics. Her cheeks were a little whiter, her body stiffer; she sat very still, though the hand gripping the brandy they had poured for her was not entirely steady.
When George Farrel complimented her on her control she shook her head.
‘It isn’t really control, Mr Farrel; it’s just that I don’t feel anything. Not at the moment. I’m sorry she’s dead, that she died like that; but it’s an impersonal sorrow, as though she and I had been strangers.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t have to pretend, do I? Every one knows how it was between us.’
The two men nodded, relieved. Desmond, anxious not to betray his close interest in the girl, hovered silently in the background. His father patted her approvingly on the shoulder.
‘We understand,’ he said kindly.
Elizabeth twisted in her chair to smile nervously up at him, handing him her empty glass. ‘Where — how did they find her?’ she asked.
‘It was young Williams,’ Farrel said. ‘I gather he had a talk with you this morning’ — the girl nodded — ‘as a result of which he decided to take a look round the house.’
‘But can he do that?’ Desmond protested. ‘Surely not without a warrant or Elizabeth’s permission?’
Elizabeth wrinkled her brows. ‘I think I gave him permission,’ she said slowly. ‘I got so fed up with his questions that I told him he could search the house if he liked. But I never thought he would.’
‘Well, he did,’ Farrel said. ‘And after he’d combed the house he got busy on the yard. The old well was the first place he looked.’
His son glanced at him sharply, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it reluctantly. Elizabeth said quickly, ‘You mean she was down the well? Oh, no!’
‘So I’m told.’ George Farrel’s hand was again on her shoulder. ‘You mustn’t let it distress you, my dear. Let me get you another brandy, eh?’
She shook her head.
‘No, thank you. Please — what else? How did she die? Could it have been an accident?’
The pressure on her shoulder tightened.
‘I don’t know. I understand not but then I’ve been told so much by so many different people, and none of them in a position to know the truth. All I can say for certain is that they found her body in the well. The rest is just hearsay.’
She leaned forward, burying her fingers in her hair. Redgold strands gleamed
dully in the soft light. The two men looked at each other, the same thought in their minds.
But Elizabeth had not succumbed to tears. She was flushed but dry-eyed when she looked up to ask, ‘What ought I to do, Mr Farrel?’
He had already given that some thought.
‘The natural thing would be for you to go home, I suppose. But I’m sure you’d rather not. It would be distressing for you, and there’s nothing you can do there. So I suggest you stay here. The police will want to see you in due course, but I’ll let them know where to find you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said gratefully. She was surprised at his thoughtfulness. Relieved, too — it augured well for the future. ‘I’d prefer that.’
‘She can’t stay in here,’ Desmond said, looking at the clock. ‘The place will be full this evening, and it’s close on opening time now.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Go up to my room, Elizabeth. I’ll be with you shortly, but I must put a phone call through first.’
They watched her as she crossed the room and went into the hall. The older man was frowning. ‘Knight-errantry is a fine thing, Desmond,’ he said, ‘but don’t overdo it. There are rooms other than yours where we could have put her.’
‘I know. But a hotel bedroom is a cheerless place with no fire and no one to talk to. She’ll be better off in my room.’
‘I dare say. But although I’m sorry for the girl I can’t forget who she is.’ He looked squarely at his son. ‘You may as well know that it’s being freely rumoured in the village that she knows more than most about how her aunt came to be in the well.’
‘Good God! You believe that?’
‘No. But I can’t entirely ignore the possibility that it may be true. I suggest that, under the circumstances, ordinary human sympathy would be more circumspect than gushing sentimentality. But suit yourself.’
‘I don’t gush,’ Desmond said, disgusted at such a term being applied to him. ‘And I don’t rat on my friends.’
Hands thrust deep in his trouser-pockets, head high, he stalked from the room. His father sighed and, after a momentary pause, followed him. Murder was an unpleasant occurrence, but, as Desmond had inferred, it might well be beneficial to trade. He had better prepare for a full house.
Elizabeth did not have to wait long for her husband to join her. He went straight to a cupboard, poured himself a large whisky (Elizabeth refused his offer of brandy for herself; she was past the need for that, she assured him), and rather awkwardly began to offer her his sympathy.
He looked so uncomfortable that Elizabeth felt sorry for him. She knew his role was more difficult than hers. ‘There’s no need for that between you and me, darling,’ she said gently. ‘But thank you for trying.’
Relieved, he gulped down his whisky and poured another.
‘What gets me down,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the liquid in his glass, ‘is the thought of us joking about her being murdered, and all the time the poor old girl was . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Rather grim, that.’
‘I know. It doesn’t bear thinking about — although I’ve been thinking about little else since I came up here. I suppose this room reminded me of it.’ She shuddered. ‘Darling, I think I’ll have that drink after all. Not brandy — a gin and tonic.’
He poured it for her.
‘It’s such an amazing coincidence,’ she said. ‘Even to the day.’ He looked at her oddly at that. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.’
She sipped her drink. Presently she said, ‘How will this affect us, Desmond?’
‘You and me? I don’t know. It could be sticky.’
‘How?’
He put his glass down on the mantelpiece and walked slowly over to her. Balancing himself on the wide arm of her chair, he took her free hand and began to caress it with his own.
‘You won’t like this, darling,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it myself. But it seems there is already a rumour going the rounds that you had a hand in pushing Aunt Charlotte down the well.’
‘I see.’ He felt her stiffen. ‘Well, that was to be expected, I suppose. Mrs Green hasn’t wasted much time, has she?’ She sighed. ‘Darling, you and your friends have got me into quite a mess, haven’t you?’
‘We’ve got ourselves into a mess too,’ he said. ‘But that’s by the way. It’s this damned gossip that worries me. How will the county police react to it? Even if they write off Mrs Green they can’t ignore Ted Williams. He will have put in an official report, I imagine.’
‘About the telegram, you mean, and that note?’
‘Yes. And the missing picture.’
‘Can’t I just tell them the truth — that it was all a joke?’
‘The picture wasn’t. But the rest well, I don’t know.’ He went over to the fireplace, picked up his drink, and switched on the electric fire with his foot. For a few moments he stood staring down at it, watching the element turn from a rusty brown to glowing red. Then he looked up. ‘The truth isn’t just yours and mine, darling; it belongs to the others as well. They’re as much concerned as we are.’
‘Well?’ Her tone was defiant.
‘We’ve got to consult them before deciding; we can’t simply ditch them out of hand. I rang Alan and asked him to round them up, and I expect they’ll be here soon. Then we can sort it all out. But before they come there’s something you and I have to settle on our own, my sweet.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Our marriage. Do we or do we not continue to keep it secret?’
Elizabeth smiled faintly. She had forgotten until now that with Aunt Charlotte’s death the reason for secrecy had been removed. If good could ever come out of evil this was it. The immediate future, crowded as it would be with policemen and suspicion, would seem less terrifying if Desmond were by her side to share it.
‘Oh, let’s tell them!’ she said eagerly. ‘I’m wearing your ring on a ribbon round my neck, but I’d much rather see it on my finger. And then I could stay here with you, couldn’t I?’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ he said, steeling his heart against the appeal in her voice. ‘I wish it were. I thought the same way as you at first, but now I’m not so sure.’
‘Why?’
‘One of the first things the police will do will be to get hold of a copy of Aunt Charlotte’s will. They’ll want to know who benefits by her death. Well, you do. That in itself would make them investigate you fairly thoroughly, even if there were nothing else — as there is, unfortunately. But if the will clearly states — as you say it does — that you don’t get a penny of her money if you marry before her death, and if they learn that we were married the day after she was murdered . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I know what I would think if I were a policeman.’
‘Let’s hope they haven’t got your nasty suspicious mind, then.’ She spoke lightly to hide her disappointment. The logic of his argument was unassailable, yet she wanted to assail it. ‘And just because I had a motive for killing Aunt Charlotte it doesn’t follow that I did kill her. Even a policeman wouldn’t think that, would he? There’d have to be proof.’
‘Oh, yes, there’d have to be proof. I’m not saying they’d arrest you; but it all adds up to a very unpleasant time for you until they discover who did kill her. Unpleasant for me, too; apart from worrying about you, I’ve no doubt I should be suspected as your accomplice.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Only this afternoon you were resigned to waiting years for our honeymoon. Don’t let’s ruin everything by being too precipitate now, darling.’
Elbows on knees, her chin cupped in her hands, she eyed him thoughtfully. Eventually she said, ‘Is that your only reason?’
He flushed, guessing where her thoughts had led. He would have preferred to say ‘yes’ and leave it at that; but he suspected that she was still not persuaded of the seriousness of the position, that further argument was needed.
‘No, it isn’t,’ he said slowly. ‘You must see, darling, that this would be a most inoppo
rtune moment to tell my father we’re married.’
‘Why? Because he thinks I killed Aunt Charlotte?’
‘He doesn’t think anything of the sort.’ He spoke sharply, angry because she had put him on the defensive. ‘But there are these damned rumours, and you could hardly expect him to welcome you as a daughter-in-law while —’ He broke off at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching along the corridor. ‘Oh, damn! Here come the others. We’ll have to sort this out later, darling. But in the meantime remember that I love you, and that I want the old man to feel the same way about you.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Hell, no, I don’t want that! But I do want you and him to get off to a good start. Understand?’
She had time only for a brief nod before the door burst open and three very frightened and agitated young men piled into the room in a flurry, breathless and confused, firing questions and oaths almost before the door was shut behind them. They had heard the news and some of the rumours connected with it, but the actual facts surrounding the discovery of Charlotte Lane’s body were as obscure to them as to Desmond and Elizabeth. ‘Alan and I went round to the house to see what was happening,’ Michael said, pacing restlessly about the room, the lock of hair tossing backward and forward with each sudden movement of his head. ‘Half the village seem to have had the same idea. But we couldn’t get near the place — there were policemen everywhere. We tried going down to the river and up through the copse, but it didn’t help; all we could see was the glow from the lights they had rigged up round the well. The whole yard was screened off.’ He came to an abrupt halt in front of Desmond. ‘God, what a mess! And to think the whole bloody scheme was my idea!’
Elizabeth had recoiled from the noise and confusion of their eruption into the room, retreating into her private thoughts. But Michael’s last words blended into them, and she said curtly, ‘Yes, it’s a mess. I’m not blaming you — it’s as much my fault as yours for ever agreeing to your suggestion — but it doesn’t seem fair that all the onus should fall on me. It’s up to you to do something about it.’
