by J F Straker
At the little police station Pitt said, ‘I have a typescript here, Mr Lane, of the statement you made last night. Do you wish to sign it?’
‘Why not?’ Michael felt in his pocket for a pen. If this was all he had been a fool to panic.
‘I’ll read it to you,’ Pitt said. When he had done so he asked, ‘You don’t wish to make any alteration?’
‘I don’t think so. Why? Is my grammar faulty?’
‘You say here, Mr Lane, that you caught the four forty-eight bus to Tanbury last night. Is that correct?’ And, as Michael hesitated, ‘We have a witness who says you didn’t — who says you were on the five-eighteen. Do you still dispute that?’
Michael shrugged. He knew when he was beaten.
‘The conductor, I suppose. All right, Inspector, I was on the five-eighteen. So what? Not important, is it?’
‘You left home at four-thirty, sir, or shortly after. How did you fill in the time between then and five-eighteen? That’s what is important.’
‘Oh, I just mooched around. It was nearer four forty-five than four-thirty when I left home. That’s how I came to miss the four forty-eight.’
‘Did you meet anyone you know?’ Michael shook his head. ‘That’s rather odd, isn’t it? Milford Cross is a small place, and I understand you’ve lived here all your life.’
‘Yes. There just didn’t happen to be anyone around.’
The Inspector seemed to accept that. ‘What made you lie about the time, Mr Lane?’ he asked.
Michael sighed with relief. At least one hurdle had been successfully negotiated. He said, with more spirit than hitherto, ‘I should have thought that was obvious. I had been wandering round the village at the time Miss Messager was attacked. It seemed safer to invent an alibi than to admit that.’
You young fool, Pitt thought. He felt almost sorry for the fly who had walked so carelessly into the web. He enjoyed a battle of wits; but this was no battle, it was a massacre.
‘Why should you be suspected of attacking Miss Messager? Had you a motive for doing so?’
‘Of course I hadn’t. But people do get accused of crimes they haven’t committed.’
‘And acquitted,’ Pitt said. ‘Tell me how did you come to hear of the attack on Miss Messager? In case you don’t know, it occurred at approximately four-fifty. While you were waiting for the bus, eh?’
With a sinking heart, Michael realised his mistake. ‘I heard some one talking about it,’ he said lamely, after vainly searching for a way out.
‘One of those people who didn’t happen to be around, I suppose?’
Michael flushed angrily at the blatant sarcasm. ‘No, you’ — ‘bloody fool’ he had been about to say. ‘On the bus.’
It was too easy. ‘No one but you boarded that bus at Milford Cross,’ Pitt said mildly, almost gently.
Michael shrugged helplessly. There was no comeback to that, and he did not attempt one. They had him neatly sewn up. Why struggle against the inevitable?
‘Lying does not seem to be one of your major accomplishments, Mr Lane,’ Pitt said. ‘How did you come by that money?’
The sudden switch in the attack took him off guard. He made a feeble attempt to bluster. ‘It belongs to the firm,’ he said. ‘Nothing to do with you.’
‘So you said before, sir. But where did it come from? Not the safe — your father has the key.’ Michael glared at him, muttering something about minding his own business. ‘Shall we stop beating about the bush, Mr Lane? I am suggesting that you attacked Miss Messager on the common yesterday evening, took the key from her handbag, and with it entered The Elms and then forced the safe in the study. And I suggest that the money now in your pocket was stolen by you from that safe.’
‘It’s a lie,’ Michael said, without any great show of indignation. ‘You try and prove it.’
‘I will,’ Pitt said. ‘If that money belongs to the firm your father will have knowledge of it.’ He turned to Watkins. ‘Get Mr Lane on the phone, Sergeant.’
Michael shook his head. ‘You needn’t bother,’ he said sullenly. ‘Dad wouldn’t know about it. It’s mine. I borrowed it from a friend.’
‘Ah!’ The Inspector permitted himself a smile of satisfaction. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Who was the friend, Mr Lane?’ But his victim only glared at him stonily, and he said solemnly, ‘You are behaving very foolishly, you know. Perhaps you don’t quite appreciate the serious position you are in? For it is serious. Unless you can give me a satisfactory explanation of how you came to be in possession of that money I shall have no alternative but to arrest you on a charge of robbery with assault.’
He did appreciate it. And he knew that only Desmond could save him. But Desmond had insisted that the loan should remain a secret. Secret from whom? From every one, presumably. Yet Desmond could never have contemplated this predicament when he made that condition.
‘Desmond Farrel lent it to me,’ he said. ‘At lunch today.’ He saw the look of incredulity on the Inspector’s face, and added, ‘If you don’t believe me ring up and ask him.’
‘A very sensible suggestion,’ Pitt said. ‘I’ll do that.’
* * *
Elizabeth got up that afternoon, but she did not go downstairs. The unsteadiness of her legs and the still painful bruise on her forehead provided a sound excuse for staying in her room, but they were not the main reason. The bandage was off, and she was well aware of the stares and sympathy that would greet her. More telling still, she considered that she looked a fright.
Desmond had tea with her in her room. He had called in for a few minutes before lunch, and had then rushed off to see Michael. She had expected him to question her about Mr Crumley’s visit, and was relieved when he did not. It would not be easy to tell him. However much he loved her, he was unlikely to receive with equanimity the news that the anticipated fortune was not to materialise.
Some of the despondency which had possessed her that morning had evaporated by tea-time. She was even a little ashamed of her behaviour — like a spoilt child, she thought, and wondered what the Inspector and Mr Crumley had thought of her. She was not the heiress she had expected to be, but she certainly was not destitute. She had a thousand pounds, plus whatever the sale of the house and furniture might bring; and she was a married woman with a husband to provide for her. That money could give her the extras, the occasional fling; it could even satisfy, in a not too ambitious style, her longing to travel. Only when she recalled how Aunt Charlotte had deliberately tricked and cheated her did her chagrin return.
Desmond exerting his charm was difficult to resist, and that afternoon he was in a cheerful and attentive mood. By the time the last of the buttered toast had been eaten Elizabeth was beginning to wonder if she had not been mistaken in thinking she did not love him.
I’m a fickle person, she thought ruefully. It’s time I grew up.
‘Did old Banner call?’ he asked. And added, at her look of bewilderment, ‘The lawyer. You said you wanted to make a will. I rang his office this morning. He was out, but a clerk took the message.’
‘No,’ Elizabeth said. She had forgotten Mr Banner.
‘No matter. There’s no hurry, is there?’ He helped himself to a cake and stood up, smiling down at her where she lay propped against the pillows. ‘You look good enough to eat in that get-up. Move over, darling; I think I want to sit on the bed.’
She obeyed, blushing. He leaned across to kiss her.
After some minutes had passed — ‘Not during meals,’ Elizabeth said firmly, pushing him away, herself aroused by his caresses. Even if I don’t love him, she thought, I don’t think being married to him will prove a terrible hardship. Not if he’s always as attentive as this.
Desmond said, ‘Meals don’t last for ever, thank goodness,’ and bit into an eclair. ‘Did you tell Alan of your design for enriching him?’
Alan! She had forgotten Alan. He and Uncle Henry would suffer as much as she, although they would not have to bear the same disappointment.
>
‘No,’ she said, once more depressed. ‘I didn’t, luckily.’
‘Why ‘luckily’? Changed your mind? Darling, you’ve gone all dismal on me. Have an eclair to cheer yourself up. Real cream.’
She shook her head. She did not want an eclair, she wanted sympathy. There was so much she could have done with that money — for Desmond, for Alan, even for Michael. Well, Alan and Michael would never know what they had missed; but Desmond would. Should she tell him now, while he was in this happy mood? Sooner or later he would have to know, and her own disappointment would be easier to bear if she had some one to share it with her.
‘Desmond, I — I want to talk to you. Seriously.’ He grinned at her, and her heart sank; it seemed such a shame to spoil his happiness. ‘About Aunt Charlotte’s will.’
‘I’m all ears,’ he assured her, and turned back to his teacup. ‘How much are we worth?’
She said with a rush, knowing it was the only way she would ever get the words out, ‘There isn’t any money. Aunt Charlotte did the dirty on me. She bought an annuity with what Uncle Edward left her — I think she did it on purpose, to spite me — and now there’s nothing. Or practically nothing. About a thousand pounds, Mr Crumley said, and the house. But that’s all.’
He did not turn round. He sat very still, the tea-cup poised at his lips. Then he sipped once . . . twice . . . and put the cup carefully back on its saucer.
Elizabeth felt herself trembling.
‘Dear me, what a bore!’ Desmond said. ‘Perhaps it’s as well that some one has already seen fit to murder Aunt Charlotte. I might otherwise have been tempted to do it myself.’
The illogicality of this statement was lost on Elizabeth. ‘I’m so sorry, Desmond,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I feel I’ve cheated you. You thought you were marrying an heiress, and — and now —’
She began to cry. Desmond turned swiftly, gripping both her arms.
‘You little fool,’ he said, shaking her gently. ‘If I’m angry — and I am — it’s on your account, not mine. Of course I wanted you to have her money; I kept thinking of what we could do with it together, you and I. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want you without it. When I asked you to marry me I said there were no strings attached, and that’s as true now as it was then.’ He bent to kiss her wet eyes, her trembling mouth. ‘Do you believe that?’
She blinked and nodded. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she whispered, pulling the sheet up to her eyes to dry them. Then she sighed. ‘Now I feel better. It’s such a blessed relief to know that you’re not angry, that you don’t mind.’
‘Wait a minute!’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I do mind, and I am angry. But not with you. When I think of that damned woman —’ He slapped his thigh heavily. ‘Oh, well. Have some more tea and then tell me all the details.’
She told him. When she had finished she added, ‘That’s why I said it was lucky I hadn’t said anything to Alan. But I did so want to help them.’
‘I know.’ He stared thoughtfully at the tea-pot. ‘A pity. Not that Aunt Charlotte would think so. She’d be delighted.’
‘I suppose she would. How dreadful to get fun out of being unkind; one ought to pity her, really. Desmond, I’m not telling anyone else about the will. Not yet, anyway. They would either feel sorry for me or think me a poor fish to have been fooled so easily. Either way I’d feel humiliated. So keep it to yourself, darling, will you?’
‘Denying Aunt Charlotte the last laugh, eh? Okay by me, if that’s the way you want it.’ He jumped up and began to pace the room. ‘Oh, to hell with the old so-and-so. Let’s forget her.’
‘It’s not easy,’ she said. ‘Even now she’s dead she still seems to dominate my life. I’d give anything to get away from her.’
‘I bet you would.’ He had been looking aimlessly out of the window as he spoke. The curtains had not yet been drawn; but there was little to see, for already it was dark. Suddenly he turned and came back to the bed, a sparkle in his eye. ‘Well, why not? Why shouldn’t we start our honeymoon next weekend? I can wangle it, and so can you; Aunt Charlotte can’t stop you now. How about it? We could try the Speckled Trout, as you suggested.’
She sat up eagerly. ‘Oh, yes!’ Then reality returned, and her face clouded. ‘But we can’t, can we? If we went away together every one would know we were married.’
Desmond laughed. ‘Not necessarily. It does happen otherwise. Still, I’m hoping that by then the police will have got this mess cleared up and we can let the cat out. If not — oh, we’ll fix it somehow.’
‘You’re always fixing things,’ she said, smiling. Picking up a compact from the table, she anxiously surveyed herself in the small mirror. ‘I look an awful sight for a new bride. People will think you beat me.’
‘Any more spanners and I will. Right, then that’s settled. I’ll book a room tonight.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘My, but it’s good to have something to look forward to. All these policemen are getting on my nerves.’
‘Me too.’ She patted the bed invitingly. ‘Come and sit down, darling, the meal is over.’ And blushed at her own forwardness.
‘Now that,’ said Desmond, ‘is —’
The door opened, and Dulcie came in without knocking. After one brief glance at the confused look on their faces she said to Desmond, ‘Inspector Pitt has been on the phone. He wants you to ring him back at once.’
She’s terribly attractive, Elizabeth thought with envy; no wonder the men all fall for her. There’s no need for her to flaunt herself the way she does, she could get them without that.
‘Hell!’ Desmond said, when Dulcie had gone. ‘Now what have I been up to?’
His dismay was so expressively registered that Elizabeth laughed. ‘Go and find out,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll keep. Did you talk to Dulcie about us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why has she got her knife into me?’ He began to protest, but she shook her head firmly. ‘She has, you know. She won’t even speak to me now unless she has to. Do you think she’s jealous?’
He laughed at that. ‘Of us? Perhaps. Maybe she’s worried about being left on the shelf.’
‘That’ll never happen to Dulcie. She’s far too beautiful.’
‘Yes, I suppose she is. Darling, I’d better go and talk to the Inspector. Be seeing you.’
He used the office phone. As he lifted the receiver and gave the operator the number he was aware that his father had entered the room behind him. Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, ‘The police. They want —’ A voice came over the wire. ‘Hello! Is that you, Inspector? Desmond Farrel here. I was told you wanted me to ring you.’
Inspector Pitt’s voice was formally precise. Even after a lifetime of police work he was never at ease on the telephone.
‘Yes, sir. I want to know if you lent er — anyone a sum of money today?’ Desmond swore under his breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What of it?’
‘How much was it, sir?’
Desmond hesitated. That was a ques¬tion he did not want to answer in his father’s hearing. And it might be followed by others, equally embarrassing. ‘I think I had better come over, Inspector,’ he said. ‘This looks like being tricky on the phone.’
‘I agree, sir. Can you come now?’
‘Right away,’ Desmond promised, and rang off.
‘What was that in aid of?’ George Farrel asked suspiciously.
‘I’m not sure. Let you know when I get back.’ By then he should be able to concoct an explanation that would satisfy his father. ‘Is the car out at the front? I’ll have to hurry.’
‘You’ll have to hurry on foot, then. Bill has taken the car into Tanbury.’
Bill was the bartender. ‘Feet it is, then,’ Desmond said. ‘Lend me your torch, Dad, will you? I’ll beat it over the common.’
‘Hang on to your handbag,’ Mr Farrel advised, with unusual levity.
His son’s thoughts were far from mirthful. What the hell has Michael been up to? he wondered angrily. Still more t
o the point — what has he been saying about me? I told him to keep his mouth shut; if he’s been fool enough to chance his arm again I’m damned if I’m going to let him involve me this time. Once is enough where a lunatic like Michael is concerned.
The four men already in the little police station — the Inspector, the two Sergeants, and Michael — made it seem over-crowded. Michael nodded to him guiltily. Desmond returned the nod, unsure of the right attitude to adopt.
Sympathy, bewilderment, annoyance what was expected of him?
Pitt gave him no time to find out. ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Farrel,’ he said. ‘But Mr Lane here says he borrowed some money from you this afternoon. That’s correct, is it?’
‘Quite correct, Inspector. Did you think he’d pinched it?’
‘How much did you lend him, sir?’
From the appeal in Michael’s eyes he knew at once that this was important. But how was it important? Was he supposed to increase or decrease the amount? He had to be specific; to feign ignorance of the exact sum would merely confirm any suspicions that Michael had already aroused.
‘Fifty pounds,’ he said. The truth was safer than a wild guess.
‘Exactly fifty pounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t know the numbers, of course? No. When did you draw the money from the bank, sir?’
Desmond smiled genially. ‘I didn’t draw it from the bank, Inspector. Not in a lump sum, which is what I presume you mean. That was a little nest-egg I’ve been saving up. Mr Lane was temporarily embarrassed financially — I believe that is the correct expression — so I let it loose to earn its keep, as it were. But it’ll be back — I hope!’
‘I see. Did Mr Lane say why he needed the money?’
‘No.’
‘H’m! I take it you and he are very close friends?’
‘We’re friends, yes.’
There was a short silence. Jim Watkins hastily reviewed in his mind which of his own friends would lend him fifty quid and no questions asked, and decided that the aristocracy were more trusting than the common run. Then Pitt said, ‘That seems to be all, sir. No need to keep you any longer, thank you. You’ll want to be getting back to the hotel.’
