Murder in Outline

by Anne Morice

  I chose the second means of entry, having arrived half an hour early, purposely to pay a call on Patsy, which I felt to be already overdue.

  This being Saturday, there were no schoolroom classes and I found her ensconced in her cosy, cluttered little sitting room, looking exactly as I remembered her best, one dachshund on her lap, another draped across her feet and half a dozen of the most recent intake of juniors seated in a semi-circle on the floor, while she read aloud to them from her own favourite book, The Wind in the Willows.

  She looked up at me over the top of her reading glasses, when I had knocked and been bidden to enter, and then, when the hugging was over, and I had been introduced to one and all, she put aside the book, brought out a box of peppermints from her secret hoard and proceeded to regale us all with tales of my dashing exploits as a schoolgirl. They were largely apocryphal, but the little girls were not yet of an age to carry a pinch of salt in their mental equipment and lapped up every word. It was quite a wrench to tear myself away from the happy scene, and Patsy also appeared to feel that something had been left unfinished. She walked to the head of the staircase with me, saying:

  “Come back and see me again, my duck, if you get a moment. Such a lot I want to hear.”

  “I certainly will, but there’s nothing wrong, is there, Patsy? You look a bit worried. Don’t tell me you’ve found a toffee pilferer in the Lower Third?”

  For a moment she looked quite aghast, then recovered herself and laughed in an embarrassed kind of way:

  “Same old Tessie,” she said, patting my cheek. “Always such a tease!”

  There were three minutes to go before Curtain-Up on the first play, and a senior girl, no doubt acting as Front of the House Manager for the occasion, was standing by, ready to black out the windows. She signalled to one of her minions, who were dotted about at various points in the auditorium, to show me to my seat and provide me with the tools of my trade. These consisted of a programme, writing pad, ball-point and several marking sheets.

  I was sorry, although not particularly surprised, to find that Vera had fulfilled the promise made on her behalf and turned up. Not in a very cheerful mood, however, by the look of her, and she was wearing a singularly unbecoming black headscarf, pulled well forward over her forehead, which made her look more lugubrious than ever. I also had to concede that she looked far from well and I was struck by the depressing thought that practically every adult I had so far encountered at Waterside had appeared either anxious or ill, or, in some cases, both.

  She and Eddie were seated in the centre of what was now the front row, the first four having been removed to make room for a table, which was tastefully set out with water carafes, crystal glasses and a large bowl of roses, in true Constance Bland style. My tactful escort guided me past this to a seat on Eddie’s left, and immediately afterwards the lights dimmed and the curtain rose on three females in Edwardian dress, griping on about the tedium of it all and the desirability of getting to Moscow.

  This was Green’s offering and was to be followed by a half hour interval. After that our morning schedule required us to see two more performances, separated by another interval, the first of these being Orange’s entry. The full programme was timed to end at twelve-thirty, at which hour we were invited to luncheon at headquarters, to be followed by a conducted tour of the art exhibition. We should then see the two remaining plays, bringing us to four-thirty and the end of the day’s stint.

  It was bad luck for Green that they should have selected a play by Chekov, for they could not have foreseen when the choice was made that one of their judges could claim to have appeared in it herself, in the original version and in a Russian theatre. Inevitably, Vera had nothing but contempt for their poor effort and I saw that I should not have to waste a moment talking her out of awarding them a high score.

  Indeed, she went to the opposite extreme and announced, loudly enough to be heard on stage, as well as by a group of partisan spectators up in the circle, that they deserved no more than three marks out of a possible ten in each section, Design, Direction and Acting. So I evened the score up a bit by giving them a total of twenty-five, which was at least five more than they deserved, and then suggested that we spend the remainder of the interval sunning ourselves on the terrace.

  I suspected Vera of being about to refuse, on principle, but fortunately Eddie was all in favour and had stood up and offered her his arm before she could formulate her objections. With head down and clutching the knot of her headscarf in the manner of one who had been invited to take a stroll on the Siberian Steppes, she allowed herself to be led outside.

  The flagged terrace which separated this side of the theatre from the lawns and flowerbeds surrounding The Lodge, was set out with pretty bamboo furniture and, with masterly timing, as we emerged on to it a girl came across the grass, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits.

  “You have to hand it to the dear old gorgon,” Eddie remarked, as I poured out. “She may not be in the pink of health, but she has not lost her touch.”

  “Yes, it’s almost daunting, isn’t it, how well the wheels are oiled? Of course, she’s been able to profit by yesterday’s experience with the dance sessions. Any little hitches that occurred then will have been ironed out for our benefit. I forgot to ask who won that, by the way. You don’t happen to know?”

  “Green, I think,” he replied, “or it might have been Blue. Brown, perhaps? I get so confused by all these complicated names.”

  “Never mind,” I said, “because here comes one of my acquaintances who can almost certainly put us straight on it.”

  The reference was to Hattie, one of the group of girls who had been watching from the circle and who were now wandering out on to the terrace. She was carrying a sketch pad and a bulging sackcloth bag.

  “Brown,” she answered promptly, when the question had been put to her. “Everyone knew they would and they did. Five of them are in Teeny’s class, so it was a foregone conclusion.”

  She then proceeded to explain that she had been granted the special privilege of sitting in at every performance, having been commissioned by Mrs. Bland to make a pictorial record of the entire event.

  “Sort of official war artist,” she added, eyeing the plate of biscuits in a speculative fashion. This did not pass unnoticed by Eddie, who pushed it in her direction and urged her to fill her pockets, a suggestion which, somewhat to my amazement, she obeyed almost literally, scooping up a handful and popping them into her sack, before sauntering off in search of pastures new.

  The three unhappy Russians were followed by five miserable London girls, sharing a flat in Fulham, in an excerpt from a play I had recently seen in London. On the face of it, this was a sensible choice, but in fact the inexperience and immaturity of the cast showed up much more glaringly in a contemporary setting and even by stretching loyalty to the limit I could award them no higher marks than had been earned by their predecessors.

  The final performance of the morning, however, was on a totally different level, and far outshone the others. It was a one-acter, specially written for the occasion, about a vaudeville troupe at the seaside and included a number of song and dance turns, to the accompaniment of an on-stage piano. The device, as we all agreed, was unoriginal, but it was hard to fault the production and even Vera grudgingly admitted to being impressed by the brilliance of the star performer, whose name, the programme informed us, was Belinda Jameson.

  In view of her present and impending troubles, as related by Tina, no one could fail to admire the spirit and discipline as well at the artistry she displayed.

  Janet Haynes, alias Madam, came in person to escort us to headquarters for lunch. So absorbed were we in the tour de force on stage that none of us had noticed her come in, but when the curtains were drawn back and sunlight flooded in again I was that she was sitting at the end of the row and applauding as enthusiastically as the rest of us.

  Our brief consultation concluded, and resulting in an aggregate of eighty-s
ix marks, which effectively put paid to Orange’s chances, Madam moved up a few places and introduced herself.

  Evidently, she had done pretty well out of her share of the London ballet school, for on this occasion she was wearing a cream-coloured dress and jacket, with plenty of pearls and a heavy gold bracelet. She was in a conciliatory mood too, and thanked us very graciously for consenting to be shut up in a stuffy theatre on such a glorious morning. Eddie gallantly responded by saying that he would cheerfully endure such incarceration for a week, if he could be guaranteed such ripping entertainment, but Vera threw one of her spanners into these happy works by complaining, as we passed through the foyer, that it had indeed been insufferably hot and, since this had caused unbearable discomfort to her feet, she would be obliged to change into another pair of shoes, which she had left in the car.

  Eddie promptly offered to scuttle off and fetch them for her, but as she rather churlishly pointed out, this would only have resulted in her wearing one pair and his carrying the other. So we parted company and Madam and I were left to battle on alone in finding pleasant things to say to each other, as we covered the remaining hundred yards to the house.

  It was not until we were on the last lap of all that she managed to dredge up a form of apology for her rudeness the previous evening; whereupon I assured her in one breath that I had not noticed it and had also understood the reason for it. However, instead of leaving it there, she launched into a stream of explanations about having made a special journey to the surgery to collect a prescription, only to find it closed. This giving rise to such transports of frustration and annoyance as to make her careless of what she was saying and whom she was saying it to. All the same, she did not offer any explanation for the surgery lights being switched on and the doctor’s car parked outside, and nor did I bother to enquire how she came to possess her own key. I was wondering whether she genuinely so underrated my intelligence, or whether she was going out of her way to leave no misunderstanding whatever concerning her relationship with Billy Bland.

  In any case, I considered that she was taking on a formidable opponent in the person of Connie, for the hand on the Waterside helm had by no means lost its strength, as was demonstrated once again when we reached the front door and a girl came panting up the steps behind us. She was carrying my jacket, which I had left on the terrace during one of the intervals and forgotten to reclaim.

  It was only days later, when I was doing some total recall about missing change from a ten-pound note, which I had used to pay for petrol, that it struck me that it had been in the pocket of this very jacket.

  SIX

  (1)

  The guests were received in the hall, which was spacious enough to serve as an all-purpose sitting room. It had an Adam-style fireplace at each end and a curved double staircase going up through the centre to the gallery above. All this grandeur, needless to say, was off limits to the girls, who shared a side entrance and linoleum-covered back staircase with the domestic staff.

  Connie Bland was standing by the fireplace on the right of the front door, talking to an elderly and wizened man, wearing a tweed knickerbocker suit, who looked like a gamekeeper or poacher. He even had his spaniel, alert and motionless, by his left boot, and I judged him to be either a very exceptional man or else the owner of a very exceptional dog, as in general these animals were anathema to Connie, being arch-destroyers of Persian rugs and polished floors.

  The answer, as I discovered by degrees, was a bit of both. It undeniably was a model dog, sitting, standing and prostrating itself at a single, staccato word of command from Master, but then, on the other hand, Master was no ordinary man either. He was a retired doctor, who had been in partnership with Billy’s father and had recently added to this distinction by inheriting a vast fortune from a widowed sister in South Africa.

  It was a relief to find Connie once more her old stately, implacable self. The anxious, vulnerable look had gone and sure proof that she was back on form came when, in the space of two minutes, she informed me that she might be old-fashioned, but personally she considered it bad taste to wear eye-shadow in the daytime, that there was such a thing as being too thin and that those shoes looked dreadfully uncomfortable for walking in. Having fired these broadsides, she walked away in search of a fresh victim, leaving it to Dr. Birkett to pick up and reassemble my shattered morale.

  However, this mention of shoes had reminded me that Eddie and Vera were certainly taking their time in retrieving hers, so I asked the doctor/poacher a question about his dog, which I hoped was guaranteed to take him some minutes to answer and, while he did so, was able to devote half my attention to watching for the Harpers’ return.

  After about ten minutes, when the dissertation on the pedigree, intelligence and loyalty of Smudge, such being the creature’s undistinguished name, appeared to be running out of steam, I noticed that Connie was also becoming restive and had twice glanced from her watch to the front door.

  A few seconds later Eddie came hurtling through it. He was on his own, flushed and harassed-looking and with sang most untypically chaud. He muttered a few words to his hostess, which I was too far off to hear, but fortunately I was seated next to him in the dining room and, without any prompting at all, he gave me a full run-down on the situation.

  It appeared that the story of the shoes had merely been an excuse. The truth was that Vera’s migraine had returned in full force and she had needed, above all, to get away quietly on her own for a while, to down a few pills in private.

  Eddie, meanwhile, had regained his self-possession and when I asked why Vera could not simply have explained all this, instead of making a mystery of it, he grinned and said that, hard as I might find it to believe, she was one of those stoics who would consider it bad form to make a fuss if she were being dragged to the stake. Also, he added, she hated people getting the idea that she was the sort of neurotic woman who lived entirely on pills. Since, in my opinion, she probably was the sort of neurotic woman who lived entirely on pills, I found this understandable.

  “So she’s gone back to the hotel, presumably?” I asked. “Was she really fit to drive there on her own?”

  “Not on your nelly. Not now or ever.”

  “Really? You mean she doesn’t drive at all?”

  “Never managed the test, for which I bless those stout-hearted fellows who had the job of putting her through it. Vera behind the wheel is a concept one rather shrinks from. I was all for delivering her at the hotel myself, but she would have none of it. Said it would make me late for the beanfeast and upset the whole schedule, thereby bringing Connie’s wrath down on both our heads. All perfectly true, of course, but rather beside the point. However, no talking her out of it. Like so many of these stoics and martyrs, she has the strongly developed mulish streak. So anyway, here I am, sitting next to the most beautiful girl in the world, which goes to show that silver linings are definitely on the increase.”

  “Thank you, Eddie; but, to get back to Vera, where did she go?”

  “Nowhere. She’s sweating it out in the car, poor old love. I implored her on my knees to come indoors and suffer in comfort on some Regency chaise longue, with which this house no doubt abounds, but I gather that sort of thing comes into the category of making a fuss.”

  “But she can’t spend the whole afternoon in the car, surely?”

  “Not on your life. She intends to be fighting fit in a couple of hours, when the jolly old pills have got to work. Nothing would induce her to miss the judging, I must tell you. Having put her hand to this plough, she will plough on till sunset.”

  I had hoped to hear more, but Dr. Bland was seated on my other side, at the head of the table, and I could sense his affectionate, mockingly reproachful brown eyes fixed upon me. Aware that I had committed no end of solecisms by neglecting him for so long, I swung my head to the right and flung out a few enquiries relating to the cause and effect of migraine. The replies were interesting too, providing much food for thought. This made it an
extra-special occasion for the records because the food, in the material sense, was also on a most superior level. Coquilles St. Jacques, with Chablis, had now given way to fillet of beef and a sidelong squint at the labels on the claret bottles, which were to accompany it, gave ample cause for awe and wonder. It made me realise that I had spent two whole years at Waterside, eating up my Irish stew and prunes like a good girl, without ever having the slightest conception of the gourmet orgies which must have been taking place only the width of a wall away. It just proved how true that saying is about one half knowing so little of the other, even when both halves are living under the same roof.

  Dr. Bland had altered a little since those days, although some of the changes, I suspected, were not entirely due to the passage of time. His hair had gone from streaky grey to purest white, but it was still thick, and curly at the ends, and his complexion was still bronzed to a deep tan. He had always given the impression of having recently spent three months climbing up a mountain or lying on a Caribbean beach and, since it was indisputable that he had never done either of these things, we had been inclined to attribute the sunburnt look to a dash of oriental or possibly Red Indian blood in his ancestry. This, naturally, had added considerably to his appeal, although I believe his principal attraction lay in his eyes. They were very dark brown and usually brimming with mirth and kindliness, which I felt sure accurately reflected his character, for although he was a great tease, I had never heard him utter an unkind word to anyone.

  These qualities had remained undimmed too, as he proved, once the subject of migraine was out of the way, by complimenting me on a recent television play and asking some pertinent questions concerning the technicalities of the production. We were still deep in this absorbing topic while the plates were being cleared away and replaced by clean ones for the next course, and it may have been this combination of circumstances which delayed my reaction to a slight commotion at the other end of the table. The first intimation came when I realised that Dr. Bland was no longer listening to me, but was looking straight ahead of him. I turned my head in the same direction and saw that Mrs. Bland had slumped forward over the table, apparently unconscious. A second later Billy rose from his seat and moved round the table towards her, with Pauline, after a moment’s fluttering indecision, following suit; but it was Dr. Birkett who reached her first. Placing one hand on her wrist and the other on her shoulder, he gently pulled her back into her chair. Whereupon she opened her eyes, slightly shook her head and stared at us in an affronted way, as though we had played some stupid trick on her.