by J F Straker
Pitt said, ‘A woman has been murdered and a man has died, Mr Farrel. It is time you stopped playing games.’ He drew in his breath and exhaled loudly. ‘Right? For a start, then — it was Bruce Poulton, wasn’t it, who attacked you on the common yesterday evening?’
Flushed and unhappy, but still prevaricating, Desmond said, ‘It may have been. But I told you at the time, Inspector, it had absolutely nothing to do with Mrs Lane’s murder. It was a private quarrel.’
‘‘Domestic issue’ was the phrase you used then, sir,’ Pitt said. ‘That was nearer the mark, I fancy.’ He looked sharply at Elizabeth, and then back to Desmond. ‘Am I right in thinking you were referring to an event that took place in Tanbury on Friday afternoon? That was the issue, wasn’t it? That was why Poulton waylaid you on the common, why he tried to see you again in the evening? That was what had aroused his anger against you and —’ He paused. ‘And against Miss Messager also, perhaps? Isn’t that so, Mr Farrel?’
To most of those in the room his words, except in that they implied a quarrel between Desmond and Bruce and that Elizabeth was somehow involved, were meaningless; they had no knowledge of this mysterious event to which he had referred. Even Elizabeth did not understand at first. When she did she felt her cheeks go hot, and looked almost accusingly at her husband. She felt no savage pride, as Dulcie might have done, that two men should have fought because of her; to Elizabeth it was a primitive and degrading act. But that Bruce should have tried the ultimate revenge of murder was too horrible to contemplate.
‘No!’ she said, hysterically shrill. ‘No, Desmond, he couldn’t!’
But Desmond had eyes and ears only for the Inspector. Since the latter knew so much there was no point in further denial.
‘That’s about it,’ he agreed, his voice hoarse.
George Farrel jerked his astonished frame into action.
‘Will you please explain what you’re talking about?’ he demanded, stepping forward to confront the Inspector. Pitt was silent, and without waiting longer for an answer he rounded on his son. ‘What is it, Desmond? What’s this about you and Bruce? What have you been up to?’
‘Later, Dad. I’ll tell you later.’ He brushed his father aside impatiently and moved closer to Pitt, so that they stood face to face. ‘Anything else, Inspector?’
‘Yes.’ Pitt stood his ground, his keen eyes fixed unwinkingly on the young man’s. ‘Why, do you suppose, did nothing happen to you tonight?’
Some of the tension left him at that. His shoulders drooped a little, his feet shuffled an indeterminate pattern on the floor.
‘It may have been intended — it probably was — but it so happened that I locked my door when I went to bed. Sounds sissy, I know — but it’s true.’
‘What prompted you to do that?’
Alan Torreck had listened to this battle of words with growing bewilderment and alarm. It was a relief to be able to take part, to shed his inaction.
‘It was my idea, Inspector,’ he said eagerly. ‘I told you, I thought Bruce was somewhere in the hotel. He was in an ugly mood, and I was afraid he meant mischief.’ He turned to Elizabeth. ‘I didn’t think to warn you, Elizabeth; it never occurred to me that you might also be in danger. I still can’t understand it.’
Elizabeth shook her head. She could not understand it either.
‘So you advised Mr Farrel to lock his door, eh?’ Pitt said.
‘Yes. We’d just left —’ He stopped abruptly, his mouth agape. Then it closed with a snap. ‘Michael! We’ve forgotten Michael, Desmond.’
‘Michael Lane?’ Pitt said sharply. ‘How does he come into this?’
Desmond told him. His former antagonism had left him now; the fight was over, and another quarry had been set up. But he expected further fireworks from the Inspector at having withheld this information, and was relieved when they did not materialise.
‘All right,’ Pitt said. ‘Show Sergeant Watkins where his room is.’ And to the Sergeant, ‘Rout him out, Jim, and bring him along.’
When they had gone Farrel said, ‘While we are waiting for young Lane, Inspector, perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me what all that was about? This happens to be my hotel, and I have a right to know what goes on in it.’
Pitt said, not unkindly, ‘Your son was wise in saying that explanations must come later. Don’t be impatient, Mr Farrel; you’ll know soon enough.’ And when he knew how would he react? ‘It might be a good idea, sir, if you and Miss Rivers were to rustle up some tea. I think we could all do with it. Sergeant Cole can go with you.’
Still protesting, Farrel went. Dulcie trailed after him; it seemed that all vitality had left her, so listless was her attitude. But as she reached the door she turned and gave Elizabeth such a look of bitter hate that Elizabeth was appalled. Had Dulcie been in love with Bruce? she wondered. And was she, Elizabeth, now to be blamed for his death?
Pitt said, ‘Miss Messager, have you discussed your aunt’s will with anyone since Mr Crumley was here?’
The girl hesitated. She did not want to admit in front of Alan that she had discussed it with Desmond and with no one else. Alan would wonder why Desmond should have been singled out. ‘Only with one person,’ she said — hoping that, having guessed or discovered the secret of her marriage, he would guess that much more.
Pitt nodded and went over to the window, where he stood for a few moments gazing out at the night. Then he turned and walked quickly from the room. They heard him speak briefly to Williams and go off down the corridor.
Alan’s immediate thought, when the two of them were alone, was to question Elizabeth about Bruce, to discover the cause of the quarrel between him and Desmond. But, great as was his curiosity, he could not bring himself to do so. She had suffered too much that night to revive a topic that was so obviously painful to her.
Yet something had to be said; they could not remain silent together for long. With the Inspector’s parting query fresh in his mind, but with no great interest (the terms, he thought, were a foregone conclusion), he said, ‘What was that about Aunt Charlotte’s will?’
Elizabeth told him. She had not meant to tell him yet, but she was too defeated, too unhappy, to defend her pride further. It did not matter now what people should think of her.
She had expected him to condole with her in her ill fortune; instead, a look of pleased surprise showed on his face. Strung up as she was, that irritated her.
‘Well?’ she asked sharply. ‘What’s funny about that?’
He was instantly embarrassed. ‘I — I’m sorry, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘It’s bad luck on you, of course. Only —’
He paused. ‘Only what?’ she demanded.
He did not answer. And suddenly she knew she could supply the answer for him, and felt the blood rush to her face.
Desmond had been right — Alan was in love with her. He was an honest young man with a conventional outlook on love and marriage, and it had not seemed right to him that he should ask a potentially wealthy young woman to marry him. But now that her fortune had vanished . . .
They were still gazing at each other when Pitt returned, Desmond and the Sergeant with him. Desmond said bluntly, ‘Michael’s gone,’ and sat down on the bed.
‘Gone?’ Alan jerked his mind back from the castles it had been building in the air. ‘Gone where?’
‘He didn’t leave a forwarding address,’ Desmond said. ‘He’s just gone.’
George Farrel brought the tea himself; with him came Sergeant Cole, and the information that Dulcie had retired to her room. ‘I thought that would be all right, sir,’ the Sergeant said. ‘She didn’t look too good.’
Pitt nodded abstractedly; he was thinking of Michael Lane. Lane would have to be found, but the search need not be immediate. He could not be far away.
As they drank their tea he stood beside the bed gazing thoughtfully at the pillow on the chair. He said to George Farrel, ‘How many pillows do you sleep with, sir?’
‘Two. Why?’
Pitt did not answer the question. ‘And you, sir?’ This to Desmond.
‘Two.’
When he looked at Alan the latter said, ‘Sometimes two, sometimes one. Depends how the fancy takes me.’
Pitt sipped the hot tea gratefully. ‘I’m interested in sleeping habits,’ he said. ‘One learns a lot from them. Pillows in particular. I once knew a man who used to push his second pillow under the bed, right out of sight against the wall.’
They considered this in silence; it seemed a frivolous anecdote under the circumstances. Desmond said, ‘Eccentric but harmless. What happened to him?’
‘He was hanged, Mr Farrel.’
This too was received in silence; an uneasy silence this time, for they were beginning to wonder if the apparent frivolity did not have a more sinister background.
‘That seems a rather harsh punishment,’ George Farrel said.
‘It does, doesn’t it? But the pillow wasn’t as innocent as this one, you see. There were certain marks on it which shouldn’t have been there.’
‘Blood?’
‘No, sir, not blood.’ Pitt seemed suddenly to have lost interest in the topic. He put his cup back on the tray and said briskly, ‘It’s time we found out what’s happened to Mr Lane. We’ll have to search the hotel.’
‘Can I help?’ Alan asked quickly. He did not want to stay there with Elizabeth; all he had to say to her now must be said when they were alone.
‘Yes. You can team up with Sergeant Cole. Perhaps you’d go with Sergeant Watkins, Mr Farrel?’ George Farrel nodded, and Pitt turned to Desmond. ‘I’ve some business to attend to on the phone, but after that you and I will have a look round outside. Wait for me here, will you?’
In the corridor Pitt stopped to talk to Constable Williams. The latter listened stolidly. He had come to the conclusion that he neither liked nor trusted the Inspector; Pitt, he had decided, had not done well by him. Nor was that his only criticism. There had been some queer goings on in the hotel that night, it seemed; he hadn’t been able to hear much that was said in the room, but young Mr Poulton was dead and Miss Messager half suffocated. And all because, in Ted Williams’ opinion, Michael Lane hadn’t been kept under lock and key. They ought never to have let him go once they’d got him.
‘And remember this, Williams,’ Pitt concluded. ‘Your job is to keep an eye on Miss Messager. Young Mr Farrel is in there with her now, but I’ll be back for him shortly. I think she’s safe enough, but we can’t afford to take chances. There’s been enough trouble here for one night.’
Pompous old buffer, thought Williams. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said smartly.
When they had all gone Elizabeth said wearily, ‘Pass me my handbag, please, Desmond. What time is it?’
‘Nearly half-past five.’ He watched her as she applied lipstick to her mouth. ‘I wonder what Michael is up to. Did he have a hand in this also?’
‘I don’t know. After this I don’t think I’ll ever trust anyone again. Desmond — it was Bruce you met on the common yesterday, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. I didn’t tell you because I thought it might worry you.’
‘What happened? What did he say?’
‘It was what he did, not what he said. But he accused me of taking you away from him.’
‘But it isn’t true!’ she protested more to her conscience than to Desmond. ‘I never gave him the least encouragement. You believe that, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ He was still on the bed, and reached across to take her hand. ‘Forget it, darling. You’ve no call to reproach yourself.’
But she could not forget it. She doubted if she ever would. ‘Did he know we were married?’ she asked.
‘Yes. He didn’t say how. Either Dulcie told him, or you were right about him seeing us on Friday.’
‘But why did you have to fight him, Desmond? It was so — so degrading.’
‘I didn’t.’ He sounded indignant. ‘He just lashed out at me and knocked me down. It wasn’t a fight, it was a massacre — with me on the receiving end.’
Instantly she was sorry; he had had a bad enough evening without her contribution to it. She pressed his hand. ‘Do you think he meant to kill us both?’ she asked.
‘Probably. That locked door may have saved me. Not that any of the locks in this place are worth a damn. But Bruce wouldn’t know that.’
She shuddered. ‘He couldn’t ever have loved me,’ she said. ‘You were right about that, weren’t you?’ And then, after a pause, ‘I wonder how the Inspector knew we were married?’
‘They have a way of finding these things out,’ he said. Suddenly impatient, he slipped his hand out of hers and stood up. ‘What the devil is he up to? Why doesn’t he come back? I want to know how Michael fits into all this.’
The door was open. Outside in the corridor Ted Williams heard their voices and occasionally distinguished words and phrases. But he wasn’t listening for them; he was still brooding on the incompetence and stupidity of Inspector Pitt. It was just like Pitt, he fumed, to put the youngest member of the Force present on static guard duty and go chasing after suspects himself. And they hadn’t even offered him a cup of tea!
Fretting at his inactivity, he walked a few restless paces. He turned to come back —and there at the far end of the corridor was the tall figure of Michael Lane!
For a brief moment the two men eyed each other, each in an agony of indecision. The fugitive was the first to act; he turned and ran for the stairs that led to the next floor. That was too much for Constable Williams. Banging the bedroom door wide open, he yelled, ‘Look after Miss Messager, sir. Mr Lane’s just gone up the back stairs. I’m going after him.’
As the constable’s footsteps receded down the corridor Desmond hurried to the door. For a moment he stood there, undecided. Then he turned and walked slowly over to the bed.
‘What the devil is Michael up to?’ he said, frowning. ‘If he wants to get away why didn’t he go down, not up? What is there —’ He snapped his fingers as the solution came to him. ‘The tower! He’s making for the tower! Why the devil didn’t I think of that before?’
‘Does he know about the tower room, then?’ she asked.
‘Of course he does. But Ted Williams doesn’t. Sorry, Elizabeth, but I’ll have to go. This is a job for yours truly.’
He was already at the door when she called out to stop him. She had no wish to be left on her own. Bruce had tried to kill her, and Bruce was dead; there was no threat to her from him. But somehow that knowledge did not give her the assurance she needed. While Michael was at large in the hotel the sense of danger persisted.
‘I’m not staying here by myself,’ she said, throwing off the bedclothes. ‘Either you stay too, or I’m coming with you.’
Desmond stood irresolute. Then he laughed.
‘Come on, then. But make it snappy.’ He snatched the dressing-gown from a chair and thrust it at her. ‘Here, put that on. And hurry.’
Obediently Elizabeth hurried. She was flustered by his urgency, but could understand it. As she sat on the edge of the bed wiggling her feet into slippers he caught at her hand impatiently and pulled her upright. Together they ran down the corridor and up the stairs; a narrow passage, uncarpeted, led off from the end of the floor above, and down this they hurried, Elizabeth silent in her soft moccasins, Desmond’s shoes clattering on the bare boards. The passage culminated in narrow stone steps that spiralled steeply upward into the tower. Desmond almost pulled her up them after him, not resting until they stood at the foot of the frail-looking metal ladder that provided the only means of ascent to the eyrie above.
‘Damn!’ Desmond said. ‘Either I guessed wrong, or he’s in such a flap that he forgot to pull the ladder up after him. I’d better investigate. You wait here, darling, while I have a look-see.’
Still panting from her exertions, Elizabeth watched him as he climbed the ladder nimbly and pushed at the heavy door. It opened smoothly, and he disappeared into the room. Then a light was switched o
n, and a moment later he was back at the opening.
‘He’s not here,’ he said. ‘But come on up. You said you wanted to see the place. Well, now’s your chance.’
She found it difficult in slippers and dressing-gown, but she managed it. Desmond handed her into the room, and she stood beside him as he hauled up the ladder, broke it into sections, and closed the door.
‘Snug as a bug in a rug,’ he said, smiling. ‘But I wonder what’s happened to Michael.’
Elizabeth shivered and pulled the dressing-gown closer about her. ‘It’s not so snug,’ she said. ‘It’s cold. Is there an electric fire?’
He bent to switch it on.
‘All the conveniences,’ he told her gaily. ‘I believe the old boy even used to keep food and drink up here.’
The room was square, with windows on each side. To the east she could see the glow above the city of Tanbury; a few lights twinkled in the village to the south. The furniture consisted of table and chairs, a cupboard, and a long settee that stretched almost the length of the west wall. A rather thread-bare carpet covered the floor, and in one corner was a large, old-fashioned safe. There were no pictures or ornaments, no curtains at the windows.
‘It must be a fascinating spot in daylight,’ she said.
‘It is. You can see for miles. Now come and sit down and have a cigarette.’
She went over to the settee reluctantly, hoping he wasn’t feeling suddenly amorous; but when she sat down beside him he made no attempt to embrace her. ‘Don’t you want to look for Michael?’ she said, after he had lit her cigarette.
‘No hurry. I like it here. Always did.’
‘What was he afraid of?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Old Mr Goetz, I mean.’
‘Us.’ He laughed. ‘Not the Farrell — the whole English nation. The locals weren’t very nice to him, I’m told. That was at the start of the First World War; he was of German birth, and every one had spy mania well developed at that time. Old Goetz was sure they were out to get him, so he built this place. Not the tower — that was here originally, of course — but the room. It was the only place he could feel safe in. They say he always slept up here.’
