by J F Straker
Michael stared at her, frowning. Her voice had attracted his attention, but he had paid little heed to her words. He said, speaking not to her alone but to all of them, ‘If the police get wind of it we’re sunk.’
‘We’re sunk if they don’t,’ Elizabeth retorted. ‘Or I am. People are already saying I killed her. Did you know that?’
If they did they gave no sign. Desmond, determined to let them have their say before expressing his own opinion, had settled himself on the bed and was absent-mindedly playing some obscure game of his own with interlocked fingers. Bruce’s normally rubicund face was white and drawn, and there were dark circles under his eyes (Why the circles? Elizabeth wondered — there had not been time for him to lose any sleep over the murder); Michael was scowling, tiny beads of sweat glistening on his olive skin. Alan nodded sympathetically. He looked more composed than the others, and Elizabeth, hopeful that he, like her husband, could be relied on to recognise the seriousness of her position and to subjugate his own interests to it, addressed herself to him.
‘Don’t you see, Alan, that the only way I can clear myself of suspicion is to explain that what we did was done in fun?’ He had an irritating habit when worried of plucking jerkily at the ends of his close-cropped moustache. He began to do it now, and Elizabeth, exasperated, said sharply, ‘Well, don’t you?’
‘It’s a possible way,’ he said cautiously. ‘But there is always the probability that it will prove something of a boomerang. The police may assume there was cause and effect — that the joke got out of hand, as it were, and resulted in murder. In other words, we’d be deliberately inviting them to suspect us. I don’t think that would be at all clever.’
‘Of course it wouldn’t.’ Michael was scornful. ‘Damned lunacy, if you ask me. Even if they don’t think it was a concerted job, they’ll certainly believe that one of us took advantage of the situation and killed her. And who’s to disprove them?’
Desmond carefully unlocked the little finger of his left hand from the unnatural position into which it had been forced. As he massaged it gently to restore the circulation he said, ‘No one. Because it may very well be true, don’t you think?’
Michael stared at him open-mouthed, his lower jaw twitching, unheeded hair almost obscuring his eyes. Bruce drew in his breath sharply, audibly, hunching his shoulders so that his thick neck seemed to concertina into nothing. Elizabeth shrank a little farther into her chair, her lips parted in a faint sigh. But Alan, his blue eyes wide, his head thrown back so that his chin looked unusually aggressive, stuck his hands into his pockets and said, ‘Yes, I do. Good for you, Desmond. I’m glad one of us has had the courage to say what all of us must have been thinking.’
‘Well, it’s the obvious answer, isn’t it?’ Desmond’s tone was mild, almost apologetic. ‘I’ve no wish to insult any of you, but what other explanation is there?’
Michael and Bruce began to protest — Michael vehemently, Bruce half-heartedly. Elizabeth said, ‘You know, it never even occurred to me.’
‘That’s because you have a nicer mind than the rest of us,’ Desmond told her, with a warm smile.
‘We all disliked her,’ Alan said briskly. Dramatics in real life made him feel uncomfortable, and he tried, not always successfully, to avoid them. ‘Most of us could be said to have a strong motive for killing her; Elizabeth’s would be primarily financial, I suppose, and Michael’s and mine the settling of an old grudge. I don’t know about you and Bruce, Desmond, but I dare say you’ve both got one tucked away somewhere.’ Desmond made a grimace and glanced across at Elizabeth, but she had turned to look thoughtfully at the flushed, unhappy Bruce. ‘We all knew her plans for Thursday, and that a better opportunity was unlikely to present itself. What is more — although I’ve no doubt some of you will deny it — I wouldn’t mind betting that each one of us called at The Elms at some time or another that evening. I did, for one. I didn’t kill her — but that’s what we’ll all say, of course. And one of us could very well be lying.’
Towards the end of this speech his voice had become more impassioned. He had been carried away by a necessity to make them see the truth of what he said. Now he was suddenly embarrassed. To hide his confusion he added, with a feeble attempt at jocularity which he knew was misplaced, ‘That ends the case for the prosecution, your worships.’
In the courtyard below men and women were arriving, by car or on foot, to spend a cheerful and convivial evening in the hotel. Through the half-open window there drifted up to the five young people in the room the sounds of talk and laughter, the slamming of car doors, the crunch of footsteps on gravel. But they did not heed them. They were the sounds of another and a saner world, from which they were temporarily apart.
It was Michael who broke the silence.
‘How about the Greens?’ His voice was thick, and he cleared his throat noisily. ‘Couldn’t they have killed her?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘They went out almost immediately after lunch, and didn’t get back until nearly ten o’clock.’
‘How do you know? Desmond said you were out yourself.’
‘From five to half-past nine, yes. But I saw them go and I saw them return.’
‘That proves nothing,’ Michael said. ‘They could have come back and killed her while you were out, couldn’t they?’
But he said it without conviction, and none of them grasped at the proffered straw.
‘There’s one important factor to be taken into consideration,’ Desmond said. ‘The taxi. Aunt Charlotte was catching the six forty-five train, so the taxi wouldn’t have called for her later than six-fifteen. That means she must have been killed after five o’clock, when Elizabeth left the house, and before six-fifteen. How does that affect us?’
Alan smiled with his mouth, but there was no humour in his eyes.
‘Taken at face value, it affects me nicely. I didn’t go to The Elms until after nine.’
‘Face value? That means you can’t prove it, eh?’
‘No, I can’t. I was at home on my own that evening. The old man was out.’
Remembering that night, Elizabeth said, ‘Were you in the garden when your father brought me home?’
He nodded. ‘I had just pushed that cosy little invitation under the front door when you turned up. When I heard his voice I cleared off. I wanted to see you, but not in his company.’
‘What did you want to see me about?’
‘The safe. I was supposed to make it look as though some one had tried to open it. Remember?’
Yes, she remembered. ‘Some one did tamper with it,’ she said. ‘And removed the picture.’
He flushed. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said brusquely. ‘I was never inside the house.’ And added, a trace of bitterness in his voice, ‘Not for years.’
‘We’re getting nowhere,’ Michael said impatiently. ‘You say yourself you can’t prove you weren’t at The Elms before nine. Incidentally, why did you leave it so late?’
‘Because Elizabeth was out,’ Alan said, ignoring the suspicion in the other’s voice. ‘I rang her at six-thirty, and several times after that; but there was no reply. I wouldn’t have gone there at all if I hadn’t thought of writing that note. At the time it seemed a happy contribution.’
‘I heard the telephone,’ Bruce said. He was speaking to himself, but at Elizabeth’s startled gasp he looked up, his cheeks reddening. ‘I —’
Alan interrupted him. ‘You mean you were actually in the house at half-past six that evening?’
‘Outside, not in. I’d rung the bell, but no one answered. But I could hear the telephone ringing.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I wanted to speak to Elizabeth. Nothing wrong in that, is there?’
‘About Aunt Charlotte?’
‘No.’
He said it vehemently, explosively. They waited for him to explain further, but he did not. He sat glowering at them truculently, defying them to question him.
They all knew that l
ook of his — they were used to his moods. When Alan spoke again his tone was conciliatory.
‘Don’t lose your temper, Bruce. No one’s accusing you.’ He frowned at Michael, who was all set to explode into an accusation. ‘Certainly not me. I’m not sure, but I think you’ve given me an alibi.’
Desmond looked sceptical. ‘If I had to rely on an alibi like that I’d skip the country,’ he said. ‘I’d feel safer.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t need one. Not yet.’ Alan turned again to Bruce. ‘Did you see anyone near the house?’
‘No. Only Desmond.’ His voice was quieter, but sullen. ‘He gave me a lift from the corner.’
Three pairs of eyes turned simultaneously towards Desmond, who grinned at them.
‘He’s right, you know. I’d been into Tanbury, and came back that way; I wanted to give Elizabeth the love note and collect something of Aunt Charlotte’s to dump. I met Bruce just as I was turning into the lane. He told me there was no one at home, so we came back here and had a drink.’
Again the silence. Then Michael said, a trifle wildly, ‘I seem to have been the only one who didn’t go near the place that evening. Nobody can accuse me, thank goodness. I’m in the clear.’
‘Not you,’ Alan said. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Michael. We’re in this together. All of us.’
Elizabeth flushed. He had not looked at her, and she did not think he meant to include her. But she knew that Michael most certainly would.
‘Am I supposed to add my contribution now?’ she asked. But her attempt at bravado fell flat, and she added soberly, ‘Aunt Charlotte was alive when I left the house at five o’clock. There’s not much more I can tell you, is there?’
‘Isn’t there?’ This from Michael. ‘Why did you go out that afternoon?’
‘Because —’ Remembering, she turned to Alan. ‘Was it you who phoned me that afternoon? About Valerie?’
‘Me?’ He sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘Not about Valerie. And not before six-thirty.’
‘Then who —’ Bewildered, she looked appealingly at Desmond. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘Neither do I,’ he agreed. ‘Some one’s kidding us.’
Alan looked from one to the other. ‘I don’t understand either,’ he said. ‘Suppose one of you explains?’
Briefly Desmond told him. ‘Elizabeth thought that one of us had had the bright idea of getting her out of the house before Aunt Charlotte left. She says you suggested it — not the phone call, but that she should be out of the way. Well, I didn’t phone her . . . and Bruce and Michael said they didn’t . . . so that left you.’
‘It doesn’t leave me now,’ Alan said. ‘So what?’
‘So one of us could be a liar, and we’re back where we started.’ Desmond flexed his arms, stretching them languidly. ‘Rather a bore, isn’t it, to find that one’s circle of intimates may include a murderer?’
‘Or a murderess,’ added Michael.
The blood left the girl’s face, so that suddenly her hair seemed to turn a more fiery red. It was the first time any of them had hinted openly at what she had known must be vaguely in their minds. She felt cold and frightened, drained of all vitality, so that the effort to defend herself seemed too great. Yet she knew she must make that effort. If she said nothing . . . if she allowed the accusation to pass unchallenged . . .
‘I didn’t kill Aunt Charlotte.’ Her voice was cold, expressionless. She could not summon indignation to lend conviction to her denial. ‘You don’t have to believe me, Michael, any more than I have to believe you. But it’s the truth.’
Desmond said quickly, ‘Nice, friendly type, aren’t you, Michael? Any more cracks like that and out you go.’
Alan’s comment was so forceful that, having made it, he was suddenly covered with confusion at memory of the words he had used in front of the girl. Bruce nodded approval of their condemnation, frowning angrily at Michael. But Michael merely shrugged. He evinced neither embarrassment nor contrition, and met their frowns with a challenging, ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’
Nobody answered that. Alan said, ‘Let’s stop bickering and get this thing settled. Do we or do we not tell the police what we had planned to do? Since they don’t know about it we shan’t have to answer a direct question; but do we volunteer the information?’
‘No,’ Michael and Desmond said in unison.
‘How about you, Bruce?’
Bruce shrugged his large shoulders. ‘I’ll do what the rest of you think best.’
‘Elizabeth?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not so easy for me, Alan. I had very little to do with it, yet I’m more involved than any of you.’ She told them of her interview that morning with Ted Williams. ‘I know he suspects me; I’m going to have a lot of awkward questions to answer. And how can I answer them except by telling the truth? It isn’t so much the things that happened, it’s the way I reacted to them. How, for instance, can I explain my complete indifference to Aunt Charlotte’s fate when that first telegram arrived?’
‘Once they discover how it was between you and her — and that won’t take them long — it explains itself,’ Michael said.
‘Anyway, disinterest isn’t criminal. They can’t arrest you for that.’
‘Perhaps not. But they could be very unpleasant about it. And then there’s the fact that I went out that afternoon. It looks wrong. In a way I suppose it was wrong; if whoever it was telephoned me hadn’t stressed the urgency I certainly wouldn’t have left Aunt Charlotte to see herself off. Now the police will probably infer that I was trying to fake some kind of an alibi. They may not even believe that there was a phone call.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you?’
‘Of course,’ Desmond and Alan said hastily. Bruce nodded, but Michael made no sign. He’s quite sure I killed her, Elizabeth thought uneasily. Or is he hoping to make a scapegoat out of me?
‘That phone call wasn’t in the plan,’ Alan said. ‘I don’t know how it fits in, but telling the truth won’t explain it. But there’s no doubt it’s going to be tougher for you than for the rest of us. They can’t possibly trace the telegram to Michael, and I seem to be the only other person involved. Well, I’m not worrying; I wrote that note with my left hand, and they won’t check it with my handwriting unless I come under suspicion for some other reason.’
‘Sit tight and let the police get on with it,’ Michael said firmly. ‘It’s the only thing to do.’
There was a murmur of agreement. Elizabeth said bitterly, ‘The chivalry of my male acquaintances overwhelms me. Sit tight and let Elizabeth take the can back! That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’
‘Of course not.’ With the others watching, Desmond hesitated to show her affection, but he went over and took one of her hands. It was cold and lifeless, despite the warmth of the room, and he sandwiched it gently between his own. ‘But whether we tell the truth or not you’re bound to come under suspicion; you inherit the money, and anyone in the village will tell them that you and she didn’t get on. Tell ‘em the truth, and their questions will be more objective, more searching; they’ll hit you harder, so to speak. And there’s this to consider. If they suspect us as well as you we can’t do so much to help; everything we say in your favour will also be suspect, they’ll think we are all in cahoots. Whereas if we’re the lily-white boys in the eyes of the law we might be able to pull a few fast ones in your favour. Don’t you see that?’
‘You make it sound as though you’re trying to save me from the gallows,’ she said, near to tears. ‘I don’t need saving. I didn’t kill Aunt Charlotte, and nobody can prove I did.’
Desmond looked despairingly at Alan, who shook his head; he could muster no further argument. Michael wisely kept silent. But Bruce surprised them by saying, his voice plaintive, ‘If she doesn’t want to hush it up you can’t make her.’ He turned to the girl. ‘How about a compromise, Elizabeth? An edited, well-watered version of the truth? Would you agree to that?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Michael said promptly.
‘We’d still be putting ideas into their heads that we don’t want there. It’s no help at all.’
There was a chorus of agreement joined, to their surprise, by Elizabeth.
‘Either you tell the truth or you don’t,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘Half the truth is worse than useless and twice as harmful.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right; perhaps it would be wiser to say nothing. But tell me, do you all really believe that one of us must have killed Aunt Charlotte?’ In turn she searched their faces for an answer. None was forthcoming, and she said, almost fiercely, ‘Well, do you?’
Michael and Bruce shrugged noncommittally, uncertain which was the wiser answer. ‘It’s the only logical explanation,’ Desmond said; and Alan added, ‘You can quote me on that.’
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves if you do,’ she told them. ‘You’d be deliberately planning to shield a murderer. If I thought that way I wouldn’t hesitate a moment; I’d tell the truth, no matter what the consequences. But luckily for you I think you’re wrong. There are lots of other people who hated Aunt Charlotte and envied her her money, and any one of them could have done it. Her being killed on that particular afternoon may have been sheer coincidence. It doesn’t have to be one of us.’
The four men looked awkwardly at each other. Desmond knew that none of them shared her belief, however much they might welcome it.
‘Does that mean you’re with us?’ Alan asked, voicing the uncertainty of them all.
‘I suppose so.’ Her thoughts and opinions, her sense of moral values, were by now thoroughly confused. They were all so sure that they were being sensible, that the course they suggested was in her own best interests as well as theirs. She could place no reliance on Michael; but Desmond would not advise her against his better judgment, and neither, she thought, would Alan. And Bruce? Bruce had said he was in love with her, and that must mean something. ‘But what if I’m not a good enough liar? What if they get me into a corner and I can’t wriggle out? What then?’
‘Tell the truth,’ Alan said promptly. ‘Only try to warn us first. We mustn’t contradict each other.’ He smiled at her. ‘Okay?’
