Hollow Vengeance

by Anne Morice

  ‘Did he? What did he say about him?’

  ‘Oh, just that he’d heard rumours that Marc had been involved in some stupid and unnecessary misunderstanding with the police, but that it had all been cleared up now and he knew what a tremendous relief that must be for me. I was really quite touched and I honestly believe that things are going to work out quite well in that quarter, specially if this girl he’s going to marry turns out to be the right sort. Still, that does nothing to solve the immediate problem, does it? I still have to make some decision about that.’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘I promised to try and ring him at lunch time and I really shouldn’t keep him hanging about any longer than I can help, when he’s been so considerate. Well, I’ll just have to nerve myself to go and have a talk with Louise, I suppose,’ Elsa said, getting up as she spoke. ‘And the sooner the better, if it has to be done. I can’t say I relish the prospect, but it seems the only one open to me. You’ll be all right, will you? I shan’t be long. At least, I hope not.’

  ‘Yes, perfectly all right. I’ll be sitting here, good as gold, keeping my fingers crossed for you, but . . .’

  ‘And keep an eye on the children, will you? I don’t want Marc to go vanishing into the blue again.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do that too, but Elsa . . .’

  ‘Well?’ she asked, with a hint of impatience.

  ‘This conversation you had with David yesterday, did it take place in the drawing room?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call it. Rather more like a doctor’s waiting room than somewhere to sit and talk. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘You didn’t happen to notice a blown-up colour photograph, on a table near the window, or anywhere else in the room, for that matter?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Quite sure. It was the most dreary and impersonal room I’ve ever seen. I’d have noticed at once, if there’d been anything like that to catch the eye. But why do you want to know? What’s the point of all this?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I admitted, ‘but I think I’ll have to watch it. It shows signs of becoming an obsession.’

  That was at nine o’clock and about half an hour later I uncrossed my fingers long enough to make some fresh toast and coffee for Marc, which he took upstairs on a tray, saying that he proposed to spend the morning working in his room.

  I told him in all sincerity that I devoutly hoped he would not be disturbed.

  He was followed into the kitchen shortly afterwards by Millie, at her most tousled and surly and, when she had masticated her way through a bowl of what looked like bran mash, I put it to her that she should wash her hair and I would set it for her in an entirely new style, which would enhance all her best features and probably cause Miss Diane Hearne to sit up and turn pale with rage.

  She grudgingly consented to this and when the job was done I imprisoned her under my portable hair dryer, with instructions to remain there for a minimum of half an hour. It was then getting on for eleven o’clock, Elsa had still not returned and, with both my little charges safely occupied, the moment had come to uncross my fingers again and telephone Robin.

  There was no good reason to suppose that he would have already dug out the information I had asked him to get for me, but it was worth a try, since the chance for a private talk might not come again for hours, perhaps days. The gamble paid off too, because he was gratifyingly informative, although, when I showered him with praise and thanks, he told me they were undeserved, since his success had been entirely gratuitous. It appeared that there had been a message on his desk that morning, requesting him to ring Inspector Bledlow as soon as he came in. Having done so and obliged with a little confidential, off-the-cuff information, whose nature he would not divulge, he was then in a position to ask a small favour in return.

  ‘So tell me,’ I said, ‘and make it short and sharp, if you can. These walls may soon have ears. I take it she left a will?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Quite a recent one, in fact, dated about three months ago and a rather curious document, in some respects.’

  ‘Doesn’t he get the lot?’

  ‘Not quite. That’s to say he gets the house, the land and a reasonably hefty sum outright and with no conditions. He also stands to get half the residue, which I might tell you looks like coming out at well over the million mark, the other half going to some foundation in Australia.’

  ‘What does “stands to get” mean?’

  ‘There are strings to it. Very unusual ones too; something outside all my experience, at any rate. If he marries before his thirtieth birthday, this money goes into a trust for his heirs and he draws the income until they come of age.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘The foundation gets the lot.’

  ‘And when is his thirtieth birthday?’

  ‘Next February. So only four months to go.’

  ‘Well, that shouldn’t cause him any worry. He’s unofficially engaged already and she’s not half bad looking, if she’s the girl in the photograph. I daresay they won’t find it any harder to like each other when there’s half a million or so depending on it.’

  ‘Maybe not, but don’t you find it an odd sort of clause?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose that would be true, in a general way, but she was obviously a great old climber and she had set her heart on David taking things a step further by marrying into the aristocracy. Apart from the personal satisfaction, she would have seen it as one in the eye for all the people round here who she imagined had snubbed her.’

  ‘Yes, but haven’t you missed the point?’

  ‘Oh, have I? Which point?’

  ‘Well . . . if you don’t see it, perhaps I’ve got it wrong. Legal terminology isn’t exactly my forte . . .’

  ‘And here comes Elsa, so I’d better go now. Goodbye, and thanks a lot, Robin.’

  She was looking utterly spent and distraught and took the unprecedented step of flying to the gin bottle at ten past eleven in the morning.

  ‘It was simply terrible,’ she said, ‘I came nearer to having a quarrel than I’ve been for years. And I never quarrel with anyone, Tessa,’ she added, looking as though she might burst into tears if I disputed it.

  ‘No, of course you don’t, everyone knows that, so it must have been Louise’s fault. Did she take it badly?’

  ‘Badly is an understatement. It was most upsetting. I simply wouldn’t have believed Louise could behave in such a way.’

  ‘In such a what way?’

  ‘Well, I was very careful to lead up to it tactfully, as you can imagine. The last thing I wanted was to shock or frighten her, but, when I eventually came out with it, her attitude at first was that I had meant to do precisely that. She practically accused me of having invented the story of the handkerchief out of pure malice. I could hardly believe my ears.’

  ‘Did you manage to convince her that she was wrong?’

  ‘In the end, I did, and a fat lot of good that was. When I asked her straight out whether she honestly believed me capable of such a mean, vicious and senseless trick, she mumbled something about not having meant that exactly, then launched out on a new tack and came up with a whole fresh set of accusations.’

  ‘Quite a strong reaction, one way and another!’

  ‘It was most unpleasant, I can assure you. The gist of it was that, all right, she was prepared to accept my word that I had not made the story up, but that could only mean that I was acting as the dupe or unintentional accomplice of someone else. In other words, instead of realising, as any true friend would have done, that the handkerchief had been planted in the Trelawney house, for the sole purpose of implicating Tim in the murder, I had been so perfidious as to swallow the story whole and believe the worst.’

  ‘And what was your line of defence there?’

  ‘I asked if she did not realise that what she was saying could only imply that someone actually had planted the
handkerchief, perhaps for that very purpose, to which she calmly replied that she realised it perfectly.’

  ‘I see!’

  ‘I wonder if you do? I certainly didn’t. My next question, naturally, was whether she had formed any idea of who that person could be and that’s when I really had to control myself not to punch her in the face.’

  The picture conjured up by this statement was so improbable that I almost laughed aloud.

  ‘There’s nothing funny about it, my dear. She actually had the nerve to tell me that she quite frankly and firmly believed that the handkerchief had been put there by Marc. Can you credit it? I was so flabbergasted that at first I couldn’t bring myself to utter a word and then she went on to say how, although she wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to anyone else, she and I both knew he had been in the neighbourhood on the day of Mrs Trelawney’s death. Hadn’t we both seen and recognised his car? So what about that? Naturally, she wasn’t accusing him of having had any hand in the murder, thanks very much, but, as far as she was concerned, there couldn’t be any doubt that he was responsible for the handkerchief turning up where it did.’

  ‘And when you could speak, what did you say?’

  ‘Nothing much. I was having such a struggle not to lose my temper, you see. I simply told her that if that was how she felt, it might be better if she and I were not to meet for a while. I certainly had no wish to see her until she had apologised. Then I left her and came home and, as you see, had a strong drink to pull myself together.’

  ‘Yes, very dignified and I consider you came out of it well, but how do you account for it, Elsa? What possessed her to make such an accusation, to you, of all people?’

  For the first time her expression wavered and, turning her head away, she set the glass down on a table. Then she said slowly, ‘I was asking myself the same question all the way home, until it suddenly came to me. Of course, the connection is entirely imaginary and it was still atrocious of her, but all at once I began to get a glimmer of what was in her mind.’

  ‘Well, every little helps, I suppose?’

  ‘It’s all so stupid and miserable, but the fact is . . . well, do you remember my telling you the other day about Marc having this silly passion for practical jokes?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well, some years ago, when he was about fifteen, I suppose, we all went to a New Year’s Eve party at the Macadams’. It was when their daughter was still alive. She was about the same age as Millie, so it was a kind of mixed-generations party and after dinner we played children’s games, hide-and-seek and sardines and things like that.’

  Elsa paused here, to pick up her drink again, while she drew on a seven-year-old memory. They had an au pair girl at the time, Norwegian or Swedish, I can’t remember. Awfully pretty girl, but not very nice and Louise never really got on with her. Well, to be perfectly frank, we all thought she was a tiny bit jealous because Tim made such a ridiculous fuss of her and would insist on including her in all the family treats and outings. So, anyhow, that was the situation and during one of the games of sardines Marc was the first to go out of the room and he went and hid in this au pair’s bedroom. Louise found him there. The bed was all rumpled up and he showed her one of Tim’s handkerchiefs, which he said had been under the pillow. It was just for a lark and I’m sure he didn’t understand in the least what he was doing. He was only a child, not . . . well, experienced, if you see what I mean, but it had the most fearful repercussions. Apparently, Tim and Louise had a blazing row after the party and two days later Karen was packed off home. That really scared poor Marc and he came to me and owned up. He’d messed up the bed himself and borrowed one of Tim’s handkerchiefs, without telling him, in case it should come in handy for one of his silly pranks.’

  ‘Did you tell Louise?’

  ‘Certainly, I did. I made Marc come with me to see her there and then, to make a full confession and to apologise. She didn’t take it very well and we were hardly on speaking terms for months afterwards. In a sad and curious way, it was really their child’s death which brought us together again. Amazing to think that’s already five or six years ago. It was such a dreadful time for them, you know; Tim, particularly.’

  ‘Why particularly?’

  ‘Because he was with her when it happened and, to some extent, I know he blamed himself. They were out on bicycles, going along in single file because the road was narrow and twisty. He was at the back and a car overtook him, travelling so fast that he only just had time to dismount. When he went round the next curve he saw that the child had been knocked off her bicycle and was lying in the road.’

  ‘And the car hadn’t stopped?’

  ‘No, and he never got the number, or any proper sort of description. Naturally, his only concern at that moment was for his daughter.’

  ‘Was she dead?’

  ‘No, but she only survived for a few hours. That may have been just as well, in a sense, because there was serious brain damage, but you can imagine their agony. It does make me realise that I ought to be more tolerant when Louise has these funny moods.’

  ‘It still doesn’t give her the right to make those accusations against Marc.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t, but I suppose she’ll pull herself together and come to her senses eventually. She must soon begin to realise that he wouldn’t play a stupid trick like that at his age and also that the two events are entirely and utterly different.’

  This may have been true, up to a point, yet nevertheless I could recognise certain similarities and one of them was Louise’s violent and hostile reaction. It seemed to me that her anger on the first occasion could well have been provoked by the fact that she had found it all too easy to believe that Tim had been sleeping with the au pair girl. So could it not equally well have flared up now because, secretly, she found it just as easy to believe that he had been at Pettits Farm on the day of the murder?

  ‘Thank you,’ Toby said, when I telephoned him to turn in the latest report, ‘I appreciate all the trouble you are going to on my behalf, but I am not sure it will do, you know. The handkerchief trick is a little banal, don’t you agree? I seem to remember somebody using it before.’

  ‘And I seem to remember someone else saying that life has a way of imitating art,’ I remarked huffily.

  ‘Yes, but this would be art imitating life, wouldn’t it? Not quite the same thing and one has to draw the line somewhere. In fact, if you want my honest opinion, I am not at all satisfied with the way things are working out. Perhaps it’s time you went home and looked about for some plot ideas in London?’

  ‘That might be all right from your point of view, Toby, but personally I do not consider that my work here is finished yet.’

  ‘Oh, very well, suit yourself. And, of course, if anything at all original does turn up, I shall always be glad to hear about it,’ he added graciously.

  ‘I can’t understand why you’re staying on like this,’ Robin complained when he rang that evening. After all, your excuse for going there in the first place was to protect a tree and prevent a murder and, without wishing to carp in any way, you can’t claim to have been outstandingly successful in either. What is the use of prolonging it?’

  ‘I feel I am being useful. Lending moral support and so on.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but how about me? No one needs moral support more than I do and I’m becoming absolutely sick to death of fish fingers. I really do think it’s time you came home.’

  ‘It’s rather hard to put this without sounding rude and ungracious,’ Elsa said after dinner, ‘and that’s the last thing I intend. It’s been lovely having you here and no one could possibly be more grateful than I am for all your help and support. You’ve done wonders for Millie too, but I do realise that you have your own life to lead and it would be unfair to expect you to go on sacrificing yourself indefinitely. Well, what I’m trying to say is that I shall be sorry, but not in the least offended if you decide you want to go home tomorrow.’

&
nbsp; That did it. If one of them had urged it on me, I might have listened. Two would doubtless have caused me to waver, but this three-pronged attack decided the matter.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ I said stiffly, ‘and, providing it’s not putting you to any inconvenience, I should like to stay until Friday.’

  ‘But, of course, Tessa dear, I can’t think of anything nicer. You are most welcome, you know that. Why Friday?’ she asked, slightly tarnishing the gilt on the preceding remarks.

  ‘Because that will give me three clear days to work on some facts I already possess and collect a few more which I still need.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To find out who killed Mrs Trelawney and why, and thereby to exonerate Marc publicly and permanently from any complicity whatsoever in her murder. Any objection?’

  WEDNESDAY

  Rarely can the unholy combination of injured pride, defiance and bravado have caused a neck to stick out more dangerously and it did not take long to grasp that some fast thinking would be required, if I were not to get my head chopped off on the coming Friday. More discouraging still was the dawning realisation that thinking would not be enough. I had already developed a theory concerning the motive for the murder and thus of the murderer’s identity, and when I had listed all the known facts which had contributed to this conclusion, I could not find one which contained a flaw. Unfortunately, I could not find one which offered proof either and I knew that, were I to present Inspector Bledlow with every scrap of information I had gathered, which had been my original intention, whether he agreed with me or not, he still would not have nearly enough evidence to make an arrest.