by J F Straker
Who else is there?
Robert Lane was a small, insignificant-looking man with a receding chin and an expression that seemed to indicate permanent dissatisfaction with life. He had a thin, petulant voice, watery blue eyes that peered suspiciously from above half-glasses, and a mobile lower lip that sucked intermittently and noisily at a dull, drooping moustache. Picture of the eternal pessimist, thought Pitt, ruminating on estate agents in general and this one in particular. How on earth does such a drab individual ever persuade anyone to buy a house?
‘Your brother’s sudden death must have come as a shock to you, Mr Lane,’ he said. ‘I dare say it was also a blow to learn that you were not mentioned in his will?’
‘Not at all. It was what I had expected. Edward and I quarrelled shortly after his wedding.’
‘You did not approve of it?’
‘I said after it, not because of it. What has this to do with my sister-in-law, Inspector? I thought it was her death you were investigating, not my brother’s.’
Pitt accepted the rebuff.
‘Do you own your present business, sir?’
‘No. I’m the manager.’
Pitt was not greatly interested in Robert Lane. The man had a seedy look, and no doubt a slice off Charlotte Lane’s generous bank-roll would have been welcome to him. But he had not killed her. His alibi was cast-iron.
He looked across the room to where Mrs Lane sat, firmly wedged in her fireside chair. She was a large, flabby woman with enormous bosom and tree-trunk legs. The legs and bosom so filled the eye that one did not at first notice the sad expression or the slight cast in her eye, the work-roughened hands or the ill-fitting dress.
‘I’m sorry your son is out,’ he said.
‘Gone to the pictures, eh? You know, I’m so out of touch with the cinema that I had forgotten they were open on a Sunday. Does he go regularly?’
‘Why, no,’ the woman said, with a quick glance at her husband. She sounded short of breath. ‘Not really. I’ve certainly never known him go on a Sunday before. It must have been a film he particularly wanted to see.’
‘I had hoped to ask him about last Thursday,’ Pitt said, wasting no more time. ‘Pure routine, as I said before. Perhaps you can remember what he did that evening?’
‘Why, yes.’ Again that quick glance at her husband. ‘At least — no, I don’t think I can.’
The little man has more to him than I gave him credit for, Pitt thought. He certainly has his wife under his thumb. She can’t even answer a question without his permission.
‘What did you want to know, Inspector?’ Lane asked, in his thin voice.
‘Well, I suppose your son was at the office until it closed?’
‘He was.’
‘And after that?’
‘I don’t know. But he came home in good time for his supper at eight.’
Mrs Lane moved slightly in her chair. ‘Oh, but surely, Robert, you remember —’
This time Pitt saw the frown that stopped her. Damn the man! he thought. If I could have sprung it on her alone I might have learned something useful.
He made a last attempt. ‘What was it you remembered, Mrs Lane?’ he asked.
She moved her hands vaguely. ‘Nothing. It — it wasn’t important.’
The Inspector knew when he was beaten. He glanced across at the silent Watkins. The Sergeant tucked his elbows in to his sides, spread out his forearms with the palms uppermost, and shrugged his shoulders in a Semitic gesture of resignation.
‘That seems to be that,’ Pitt said. ‘May I use your telephone, Mr Lane? We have another call to make, but I want to check with the police station first.’
Lane nodded, pointing to a small wall cabinet. He seemed to be in the process of swallowing his moustache, which perhaps accounted for his silence.
The line was engaged. Pitt stood waiting, after telling the operator to keep ringing. The radio was on, as it had been throughout the interview; not loudly, but enough to provide a distracting background of noise. It began to get on the Inspector’s nerves.
The ringing tone, then a click. ‘Milford Cross Police Station,’ came the voice over the wire. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Sergeant Cole? Pitt here. I should have rung you before, but —’ He broke off, listening. There was a new sharpness to his voice as he said, ‘Is she badly hurt?’ Another pause. Watkins was all attention. ‘Yes, do that. I’ll be at the hotel if you want me.’
He put down the receiver, nodded to Watkins, and, with hurried thanks to the Lanes, made for the door. A testy voice stopped him. ‘It’s fourpence for a local call, Inspector.’
Impatiently Pitt dug his hands into his pockets, explored their emptiness, and looked appealingly at Watkins. The Sergeant handed over the money without a word. But as they climbed into the car he said, ‘Some people can be real mean, can’t they?’
Pitt let it pass. He might have been referring to Lane.
* * *
Elizabeth awoke to find herself in her bed at the hotel. There was a soft light in the room, but the thumping of her head dissuaded her from turning to look around her. She lay on her back, her eyes half closed, trying to remember. There was a lightly rolled bandage round her forehead, and slowly she raised a hand to feel it. It held a pad in place; she pressed gently and winced at the pain. As she took her fingers away she passed them in front of her eyes; there was no blood on them, they did not feel sticky. Perhaps it isn’t broken, she thought. Just bruised.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to remember what had happened. She had gone to the police station to sign the statement; there had been a strange Sergeant there, and she had talked to him, and then — yes, then she had signed. But after that? It must have happened on her way home across the common. It had been dark, and . . .
The click of the door handle made her open her eyes. Dulcie stood there, framed against the brighter light in the corridor. When she saw Elizabeth watching her she came into the room and shut the door, moving to stand beside the bed. But she did not speak. With an effort Elizabeth turned her head to look at her. The expression — or rather the lack of expression — on the other girl’s face puzzled her.
‘I must have fainted, I think,’ she said. Her throat was dry, and she swallowed uncomfortably.
‘Perhaps. You also cracked your head against something very solid.’ Noticing the swallow, Dulcie picked up a tumbler of water from the table and handed it to her. With difficulty Elizabeth raised her head from the pillow and sipped.
‘It feels like quite a bruise,’ she said.
‘It is.’ Dulcie took the glass from her. ‘You’ll be no beauty when that bandage comes off.’
That isn’t important, thought Elizabeth, and wondered that Dulcie should mention it. It couldn’t be jealous satisfaction; Dulcie was far prettier than she, and had no cause to fear competition. Who had put the bandage on? But that wasn’t important either, and her mind wandered back to the common. She could remember it now. The trees and the darkness — and a figure that had sprung at her from behind, that had pushed her so that she fell and . . .
‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘How did I get here?’
‘Some men on the common heard you screaming. They carried you back.’
‘But who undressed me and put me to bed?’
‘I did,’ Dulcie said.
‘Thank you.’
The other girl continued to stare at her with that blank expression which seemed to see and yet not see. Elizabeth began to feel uneasy. Why didn’t Dulcie ask what had happened, show some interest? It was unlike her to be so silent, so enigmatic.
Then she remembered something that swept Dulcie from her mind. She moved a hand to her neck. Her wedding-ring had gone!
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Dulcie asked.
She held the ribbon between finger and thumb — away from her, as though the ring suspended on it were some noisome thing. The look on her face, no longer wooden, intensified that impression.
‘You know?’ Elizabeth said. It was a formal question; she had already guessed the answer. ‘We had hoped to keep it a secret for the present.’
‘Obviously. Don’t worry, I won’t spread the glad news. Do you want to see him?’
Did she? It never occurred to her to query who Dulcie meant by ‘him.’ But did she want to see him — now, after what had happened, before she had had time in which to consider its implications? Unhappily she realised that what she wanted most was to be left alone. But would Desmond understand?
‘Yes, please,’ she said.
Her thoughts were not pleasant ones as she waited for him. But he was all solicitude as he knelt beside the bed, his cheek against hers. ‘When they carried you in I nearly had a fit,’ he said. ‘I thought you were dead. What happened, darling? There’s an awful bruise on your forehead, and the doctor said you were probably concussed. You just looked at him vaguely when he spoke to you.’
‘I was conscious?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Only just. Neither the doctor nor the Sergeant could get anything sensible out of you.’
‘Sergeant Watkins? Was he here?’
‘No, the one from the village. Darling, what happened? Can you remember now?’
She told him. When she had finished he said, a puzzled look on his face, ‘And is that all?’
‘It’s enough, thank you.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. But to push you down and then clear off — well, what was the point of it?’ He moved his cheek from hers and knelt upright, arching his back. ‘Sounds like a lunatic to me.’
‘It wasn’t a lunatic,’ she said, a tremor in her voice. ‘You know that.’
‘I do? How?’
Painfully she turned on her side to face him; her knees were sore, and much of her body still ached. But when Desmond leaned forward to help her she shrank away from him. It was a slight, instinctive action, instantly checked. But Desmond saw it and withdrew his arm.
‘Sorry,’ he said stiffly. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Oh, no.’ She smiled. That too was instinctive; she did not feel like smiling. ‘Desmond, you and Alan are convinced, aren’t you, that one of — of us must have killed Aunt Charlotte?’
‘Eh?’ He stared at her. ‘What on earth has that to do with it?’
‘But you are, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so. But it’s only an opinion, not a conviction. I’m quite prepared to be persuaded otherwise. Do you want to try?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I agree with you and Alan now. And I’m sure that whoever killed Aunt Charlotte tried to kill me this afternoon.’
‘But that’s absurd!’ He was obviously startled. ‘For one thing, from what you say there was no attempt to kill you. Goodness knows what was behind the attack, but it certainly wasn’t murder.’
‘How can you be sure of that? If I hadn’t screamed . . . if those men hadn’t heard me . . . it might have been very different.’
‘All right, he intended to kill you.’ He smiled at her. ‘What then? Aunt Charlotte was murdered because — well, because she was Aunt Charlotte. You know what I mean. But nobody feels that way about you. So where’s the connexion?’
Elizabeth shook her head again, wincing at the pain.
‘Aunt Charlotte was killed for her money,’ she said. ‘Some one tried to force the safe.’
‘All right, then, she was killed for her money.’ The smile broadened into a grin. ‘You see what a docile husband I am? Not an argument in me. But you haven’t got any money. So what?’
‘I’ve got hers,’ she said, her eyes intent on his face. ‘She left it to me.’
He whistled softly.
‘So you have! I’d forgotten that. But who’d benefit by your death? Michael’s your only relative, and he’s so distant I don’t think he’d count. Unless you made a will in his favour he probably wouldn’t get a bean.’
‘He might expect to.’ The palms of her clenched hands were moist with sweat. ‘He doesn’t know about our marriage.’
‘No. But what — oh, I see.’ He laughed, his eyelids raised comically. ‘I’m the next of kin now, eh? No, he certainly doesn’t know that. But Michael wouldn’t do that to you, darling. He might conceivably have bumped off Aunt Charlotte — Aunt Charlotte was poison to him, he’s firmly convinced she did him and his father out of what he dramatically terms ‘their rightful inheritance’ — but he doesn’t feel like that about you. I know he snaps at you occasionally — you inherited some of the grudge, I suppose — but he’d never harm you physically. And if you eliminate Michael, who else is there?’
‘Yes,’ she said breathlessly. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought he must hear it. ‘Who else is there?’
‘I can’t —’ He stopped abruptly, the words ending in a quick intake of breath. With a lithe movement he sprang to his feet, pushing the chair roughly away. ‘Good God, Elizabeth! You can’t think I did it?’
She did not answer. She just looked at him steadily, until her eyes filled with tears and his face became a blur. She heard rather than saw him run from the room . . . heard his hurried steps along the corridor . . . heard him banging down the stairs. Faintly she heard his voice calling; but she was too shaken, too unhappy, to listen.
He was not alone when he returned. He almost pushed the Honourable George into the room, closed the door, and said loudly, not looking at Elizabeth, ‘Dad, will you please tell Miss Messager how you and I have been spending the afternoon?’
Embarrassed, his father protested. ‘I wish you would explain what all this is about, Desmond. I am quite sure Miss Messager isn’t interested in our domestic pursuits.’
‘She will be in this. Tell her, please.’
His father moved a few paces nearer the bed and smiled apologetically at Elizabeth. ‘Desmond seems to have gone slightly crazy, my dear. He and I have been going through the accounts this afternoon, and I can only suppose the mental exercise has affected his brain. He isn’t used to it.’
‘You don’t have to be funny,’ Desmond said impatiently. ‘And be more explicit. It’s the time that’s important.’
His father looked at him. Then he nodded, and walked over to stand beside the bed. ‘So that’s it, eh?’ he said gravely. ‘You think Desmond may have given you that bump on the head?’
There was a lump in her throat. ‘No,’ she gulped, swallowing hard. ‘Not — not really.’
‘Good. Because I can assure you he did not. He was in the sitting-room with me all the afternoon — until Tom Carter and his friends staggered in with your unconscious body and deposited you practically in our laps.’
‘‘Staggered’ is not very complimentary to the lady,’ Desmond said, opening the door. ‘But thank you, Dad. That’s all I wanted.’
His father did not immediately take the hint.
‘I’m sorry about this, Miss Messager,’ he said. ‘Desmond has many faults, but assault and battery have so far not figured prominently among them. What made you pick on him?’
She could not tell him that. But added to her own unhappiness was the knowledge that she had hurt them both, and she turned her head away, the tears springing to her eyes.
Embarrassed, Farrel leaned over to pat her shoulder gently.
‘I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to upbraid you. It’s not your fault; concussion does funny things to the imagination. We’ll have a good laugh over this when you’re well again.’
Wisely, Desmond left her alone after his father had gone. Not until she had dried her eyes and smiled at him guiltily did he come over to her.
‘Satisfied?’ he asked.
She reached out a hand to take his. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t really mean it. Your father was right; that bang on the head must have knocked the sense out of me. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘If you thought that of me in you right mind you couldn’t love me much, could you?’
The sadness in his voice touched her
, and she squeezed his hand. But she could not answer him. She had been in her right mind, and she had suspected him. And she knew, with a sudden clarity of mind that startled and shocked her, that what he had inferred was true. She did not love him.
Thankful for his silence, she lay pondering her problem. She did not love him, and she never had loved him. She had been impressed by his personality and charm, but more than anything it had been the chance he offered to escape from Aunt Charlotte and reality that had attracted her. In her imagination she had built him into something he wasn’t, something he never could be; and because of that she had married him.
She squeezed his hand more tightly, appalled by what she had done — not to herself, but to him. Well, at least she could keep that knowledge from him; she had made a bargain and she would keep it.
‘Am I forgiven?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’ He sat down beside her, a slight frown on his face. His hand responded only mechanically to her squeeze.
‘You don’t look forgiving. Are you very far away?’
He smiled then, but the frown quickly returned. ‘I was thinking about Michael. Since we’re agreed that I wasn’t responsible for what happened this afternoon, we’re back to him. You know, I’ve a good mind to check up on him. I don’t like this uncertainty.’
She clutched his hand with both her own.
‘Oh, no!’ she gasped, frightened. ‘Don’t, Desmond. It would be dreadful if — if —’
‘If what?’ he asked, surprised. ‘We must know where we stand with him. It’s a pretty grim situation, not knowing if one can trust one’s friends.’
‘Yes. But don’t you do it. Leave it to the police, darling. Don’t let’s get mixed up in it.’
‘We’re mixed up in it already. But just as you say.’
To distract his mind from Michael and in an attempt to show her repentance, she said, ‘It’s only since I got that bump on the head that I’ve realised I’m a rich woman now. It’s quite a responsibility; I ought to make a will, I suppose.’ She smiled wanly. ‘Could I do that tomorrow, before anything else happens to me?’
‘Nothing will. I’ll see to that. But make a will if you want to. I’ll ring up old Banner in the morning. He’s not much of a lawyer, but he ought to be able to tackle a will.’
