Murder in the Morning

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘I do feel a bit drained,’ she admitted. ‘By the way, I’ve got that list of addresses you wanted.’ She took out the photocopy and handed it over. ‘The last one’s a bit indistinct. I think it must have been added later by someone using a dud typewriter ribbon.’

  Sybil scrutinised the list. ‘That’s Delia Forbes. She only joined the class at the beginning of this term.’

  ‘I’ll check it in the Bursar’s office. I have to go over to hand in my register now there’s no one here to take charge of it.’ A pathetic little shade hovered for a moment at her elbow, reminding her of her other errand. ‘And I want to get Angy’s address. I know she lived in Tranmere Gardens but I’m not sure of the number.’

  ‘It’s number twenty-two. Now, how do I know that?’ Sybil’s brow wrinkled. ‘I’ve never been there myself. Oh yes, I remember! I overheard her telling Delia.’ Her eyes rounded with curiosity. ‘Were you planning to go round there?’

  ‘I thought I might have a word with Eddie Brady.’ Melissa heaved a sigh. ‘I’m not sure what good it can do but I’ve been thinking over what you said about Barney Willard. I don’t think he killed Angy either. Perhaps there’s something the police have missed.’

  Sybil’s face glowed. ‘Are you going to do some detective work? Could I help, do you think? I’m a great fan of your Nathan Latimer!’

  ‘Why not? Two heads are better than one.’

  ‘How super! Shall we talk about it over that cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, let’s. I’ll just drop this register in to Mrs Ellis and double check that address. See you outside the main gate.’

  Ten minutes of easy walking brought them to Sybil’s house. It stood on a corner, at the end of a terrace of four which had, Sybil explained as she put her key in the front door, replaced a large Victorian dwelling. The sitting-room was on the first floor, above the garage, with a picture window overlooking a small park. The place was comfortably and tastefully furnished, with some good ornaments and pictures and several vases of fresh flowers.

  ‘Do make yourself at home,’ said Sybil hospitably and bustled off into the kitchen. When she returned with a tea-tray, Melissa was on her feet admiring a portrait of a handsome, grey-haired man that hung above the stone fireplace.

  ‘My late husband,’ said Sybil. She stood for a moment beside Melissa, looking up at the portrait. ‘We’d only been married five years when he died. We had to wait a long time because I had my mother to look after and she was rather difficult.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He had cancer. We took up painting after we found out. It was something quiet that we could do together.’ Sybil’s expression, which had become momentarily sad, softened into a tender smile that was wholly natural. ‘He’d always been keen to try but never seemed to have the time. He wasn’t very good at it, but we both enjoyed it very much,’ she added wistfully. ‘I’ve kept on going to classes ever since.’

  ‘And you are very talented,’ said Melissa.

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so. Do sit down.’ Sybil placed a small table at her elbow and poured tea into dainty china cups. ‘No sugar . . . that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Melissa sipped gratefully. ‘Just what I needed. I thought today’s class would never end!’

  ‘It was rather depressing, wasn’t it? But I suppose it was only natural that people should feel affected by what happened.’

  ‘I checked Delia Forbes’ address, by the way. Mrs Ellis looked out her enrolment form for me. Her writing wasn’t all that easy to read but I think it’s correct.’ Melissa handed over a slip of paper. ‘Talking of addresses, you mentioned that Angy gave hers to Delia.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Have you any idea why? Was Delia going to visit her?’

  ‘She might have been. She was very taken with those drawings we were talking about. Maybe Angy had offered to show her some more of her work, or lend her a book or something.’

  ‘What’s Delia like?’

  Sybil thought for a moment. ‘About my age, I suppose. Dark curly hair . . . glasses . . . ’ Her pointed face rounded into a smile. ‘I’m not much of a detective, am I? I’m usually too absorbed in my work to spend much time looking at the other students.’

  Melissa’s brain was nibbling away at an idea. ‘Can you remember when it was that Angy gave Delia her address?’

  ‘Oh, quite recently. Let me think . . . yes, it was the last time we had a class.’

  ‘Then it must have been the day Angy was murdered! This could be very important, Sybil. Suppose Delia had become friendly with Angy and gone to her flat that afternoon. She’d have been one of the last people to see her alive.’

  Sybil’s eyes grew round. ‘My goodness, so she would! The last I saw of Angy was a few minutes after the class ended. I’d popped into the library to get a book renewed and when I left the college building I saw her walking along the road on her own.’

  ‘Delia might have followed later. Did you tell the police?’

  ‘About Angy giving Delia her address? I don’t think so. No, I’m sure I didn’t. It’d gone right out of my mind until just now. A policeman came to call on me that Thursday evening, after Angy’s body had been found, asking what time the class ended and where I went afterwards . . . that sort of thing. Oh, and he asked if I’d ever seen Angy having any kind of disagreement with anyone and I had to tell him about that little contretemps with Mr Willard and young Godfrey Mellish.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Poor Mr Willard, I don’t suppose that helped him very much.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you were the only one who mentioned it,’ sighed Melissa. ‘And the police will have spoken to Delia herself by now, so we can’t expect to find anything new there.’

  ‘Never mind!’ said Sybil briskly. ‘When do you propose calling on Eddie Brady?’

  ‘Why not now, if you’ve got time? It’s not far, is it?’

  Sybil was already on her feet, her eyes shining. ‘Just round the corner from the college. Isn’t this exciting!’

  Number twenty-two Tranmere Gardens was a double-fronted house in the Regency style which bore all the familiar signs of having seen better days: peeling stucco, blistered paint and sagging gutters. Behind a low wall, a ragged hedge squatted like a moulting hen over a clutch of empty drink cans and discarded crisp bags; a couple of unkempt evergreen trees, grown to roof height, screened the house from the road and severely restricted the amount of light reaching the dingy windows.

  Sybil and Melissa mounted what had once been an imposing flight of steps flanked by tall white pillars and peered at the labels alongside the row of bell-pushes in a corroding brass frame affixed to the wall beside the front door. One was blank, two were roughly printed with unfamiliar names and the top one read ‘Caroli’ in artistic capitals.

  ‘Not much help, is it?’ said Sybil, frowning.

  ‘Hang on, I’ve just remembered,’ said Melissa. ‘He lives in the basement flat.’

  As they descended the steps, a battered car turned into the drive and pulled up in a corner of the small courtyard. The driver, a slight figure in a tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers, got out and looked across at the two women before turning to rummage behind the front seat and extract a bulky briefcase and an armful of files. The glance was sufficient for identification.

  ‘That’s him!’ said Melissa. ‘Excuse me,’ she called, ‘aren’t you Mr Brady?’

  A pair of deep-set, greyish-brown eyes stared from beneath a high forehead and strongly-marked brows. Their expression was guarded and none too friendly, and the response to Melissa’s question was a jerk of the head that plainly said, ‘What if I am?’

  ‘We recognise you from your portrait,’ said Melissa. There was no softening in the defensive manner.

  ‘The one Angy Caroli did of you,’ added Sybil.

  ‘You knew Angy?’ It seemed to Melissa that the expression had become a shade less hostile. The voice had a curious quality, husky and high-pitched as if uncertain whether it was
a light tenor or a throaty mezzo-soprano. The face, too, was intriguing, its strong lines accentuated by severely cropped hair and a skin smooth and ruddy as an apple.

  ‘We knew her from college,’ Sybil was explaining. ‘I was a student in her art class – I’m Sybil Bliss – and this is Melissa Craig who teaches creative writing.’

  ‘Eddie Brady.’ A slim hand shook each of theirs in a powerful grip. ‘Angy’s spoken about you both. Come to think of it, she did your heads as well, didn’t she?’ They nodded, relieved that the ice was broken. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but it rather seems that the police suspect one of the lecturers at the college of killing her,’ said Melissa.

  Eddie Brady looked from one to the other and said, ‘I think I know the one you mean.’

  ‘We both know the gentleman concerned and we’re not very happy about the way things are going so we’re making a few enquiries of our own.’

  ‘Mrs Craig’s a crime writer. She knows a lot about detection and things!’ explained Sybil, evidently thinking this would impress.

  Melissa smiled and shook her head. ‘Oh, I’m no Sherlock Holmes! It’s just that Mr Willard is a friend . . . and the police do make mistakes sometimes. We understand you knew Angy quite well and we thought you might be willing to help us.’

  An extraordinary change came over Eddie Brady’s face. Grief welled into the deep-set eyes and the reply, when it came, was unsteady and uttered through tightened lips. ‘I’ve told the fuzz all I know.’

  ‘Please. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Oh, all right. You’d better come in.’

  The sitting-room of the semi-basement flat was overfull of shabby furniture and littered with books and papers. Eddie Brady dumped the briefcase on the floor with the heap of folders on top, took off the tweed jacket and threw it into a corner, and dragged two chairs from under the cluttered table.

  ‘Have a seat. How about some tea?’

  Melissa sensed rather than saw Sybil’s nervous hesitation as they sat down. ‘Actually, we’ve just had tea, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, well, mind if I do?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Shan’t be a tick.’

  ‘Well!’ murmured Melissa as the door closed. ‘That’s something I hadn’t thought of.’ The haircut would have won the approval of an army officer and similar clothes could be seen in the windows of men’s outfitters in any high street, but the body inside them was unmistakably female.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ whispered Sybil in some alarm. ‘I’ve heard about such people, of course . . . ’

  ‘Shh!’ murmured Melissa, smothering a grin. Plainly, Sybil was about to have her horizons widened. After a few minutes, the door reopened and Eddie returned with a mug of tea, drew up a third chair and sat down. ‘Mm, that’s better!’ she said after a few mouthfuls. She found a stained beer-mat and put down the mug, which bore the legend, ‘When God made man, she was only joking’ in spiky black letters. ‘Right, now!’ She sat leaning forward in her chair, her hands planted on her thighs so that her elbows jutted outwards. ‘How can I help you, ladies?’ Outwardly, she had recovered her composure but her eyes were watchful as well as sad.

  Conscious of Sybil at her side, tense as a patient in a dentist’s waiting-room, Melissa took the plunge.

  ‘How well did you know Angy?’ she asked.

  Eddie scowled. ‘If you’ve come here to pry . . . ’

  ‘Please.’ Melissa put out a hand. ‘I don’t mean to offend. We want to find out who killed her. Surely, you want that too, if you were fond of her?’

  ‘Fond?’ Eddie made a harsh sound that could have been intended as a laugh but sounded more like a cry of pain. She grabbed her mug of tea, gripping it in both hands and staring down into it with an expression of such misery that one could almost imagine the dead girl’s face reflected in the surface of the liquid.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distress you,’ said Melissa softly.

  Eddie put down the mug and pulled a man-sized handkerchief from her trouser pocket. Angrily, she dashed away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. It was several moments before she regained her self-control.

  ‘I fell in love with her the minute I saw her,’ she said at last.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Last summer. She came here looking for somewhere to live. She’d seen the card I put up in a local shop, advertising the top flat. She was like a waif . . . alone, anxious, scared.’

  ‘What was she scared of?’

  ‘A man, of course!’ Eddie’s lip curled. ‘He’d beaten her, bullied her into an engagement she didn’t want. I took her in, looked after her, helped her get settled. Then these other creatures started pestering her.’

  ‘Creatures?’

  ‘Men from the college. She used to tell me about them. There was that bearded artist, Poppa Barney she called him. He was constantly interfering in her life, lecturing her, ordering her about. I tried to get her to give him the elbow but she would always say, “but Eddie, he means well and he’s so kind”. Kind!’ Another mirthless bark. ‘He slapped her around as well, did you know that?’

  ‘I know he hit her once, just before she was killed. He never had a chance to speak to her again and he’ll never forgive himself. Did she tell you what the quarrel was about?’

  ‘She did!’ A faint, sardonic smile softened the harsh lines of Eddie’s face. ‘We had a good laugh about it once she’d got over the shock. “At least,” I said to her, “he won’t bother you any more, now he thinks you’re having my sprog. Now all you’ve got to do is get rid of your Wednesday afternoon creep and start planning your own life.” ’

  ‘Who was the Wednesday afternoon creep?’

  ‘Her boss – Shergold, his name is. She wheedled him into letting her take the art class . . . for a consideration, of course.’ Eddie mimed an attack of nausea. ‘It was that Barney who put the idea of teaching into her head. Ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘And Shergold came to see her regularly?’

  ‘Like I said, every Wednesday afternoon. I don’t know how she put up with it but she said she felt obligated. She was like that.’ Eddie gave a fond, sad smile. ‘Soft as a mop. “He’s so repressed, Eddie,” she told me after the first time. “I felt so sorry for him.” Sorry! I’d have kicked his balls in!’

  Sybil made a faint tutting noise and shuddered, as if she had just discovered an unpleasant insect on one of her flowers. Melissa frowned, shook her head and put a finger to her lips but Eddie appeared not to have noticed.

  ‘Did you ever meet either of these men?’ Melissa asked.

  ‘I never met Barney but I caught sight of the other one once, scuttling across the yard like a nervous rabbit. Looked a right little prat!’ Eddie’s lip curled. ‘He used to sneak out of college wearing a spare jacket so’s no one’d know he was missing. Rush round here every Wednesday afternoon, have it off with Angy and rush back. She hated it, I know she did.’ Every word was coated with a gritty layer of disgust. ‘She just couldn’t bring herself to tell him to sod off.’

  So that, thought Melissa in a flash of enlightenment, was what Gloria had meant when she called Shergold a two-coat man. That coat-hanger had once held the spare jacket – but where was it now?

  ‘Yes, that fits in with everything I’ve heard about her,’ she told Eddie. After a pause, she said, ‘And you were hoping that one day she’d give up seeing men altogether and have a steady relationship with you?’

  ‘So what’s wrong with that?’ Eddie glared and clenched her fists. ‘She was halfway there already . . . and I’d have looked after her.’

  Impulsively, Melissa leaned across and put a hand on the bowed shoulder. ‘Yes, I’m sure you would,’ she said gently.

  The gesture of sympathy was almost too much for Eddie. Her features buckled and she put a hand over her eyes. ‘I was sure she’d come to love me in the end, if I could just be patient,’ she whispered.

  Sybil
was increasingly and audibly restless and Melissa was becoming irritated; she had no business to make her disapproval so obvious. It might be better to leave before there was open unpleasantness but she was reluctant to go now. She had the feeling that if she could get Eddie to go on talking long enough, there was a chance that something significant would emerge. It was, she knew, wholly irrational; her common-sense kept reminding her that Eddie must already have been closely questioned by the police.

  There was, however, one point that might not have been raised. ‘Did Angy ever mention a woman called Delia Forbes?’ she asked.

  Eddie put down her empty mug with a thump and glared. ‘Who’s Delia Forbes?’ she demanded.

  ‘One of her students,’ said Melissa. ‘We think Angy may have invited her round to her flat last Tuesday. Mrs Bliss overheard her giving her this address.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! She’s never been involved with another woman!’ Eddie’s jaw set and her hands gripped the edge of the table. Her breathing had become agitated.

  Sybil at last found her voice. ‘You needn’t worry,’ she said prissily. ‘Delia Forbes is a decent married woman, not one of your sort!’

  ‘And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  Sybil flinched at the aggression in Eddie’s manner but she held her ground. ‘I mean, she wouldn’t be capable of . . . ’ her mouth became a tight bunch of disgust, ‘your . . . unnatural practices.’

  ‘You sanctimonious cow!’ Eddie was on her feet, leaning across the table with one hand raised. Her face was scarlet. ‘Think you’re so bloody superior just because you happen to be straight!’

  Sybil leapt from her chair, sending it toppling sideways on to the floor. ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ she hissed. ‘Are you coming Melissa? I’m not staying here another minute!’