by John Creasey
It reminded him of the one he had heard at the cottage, but that was probably imagination. Perhaps Barbara was not asleep after all. She must have turned round in the chair again, cat-like. She was curled up there, wasn’t she, like a cat?
Rollison heard the sound again, and it did not come from the chair, it came from outside. He was half asleep, and yet wakeful, telling himself that hotels were always full of noises which no one could understand.
He heard a sharper sound.
In the silence which followed he could hear the soft breathing of the girl.
He began to sit up, very slowly, staring at the window; and as he did so a hand appeared at the window, a dark shape in the moonlight. Then another hand appeared, and a moment later, a man’s head and shoulders.
Very cautiously, Rollison lay back, his heart thumping but his breathing steady. He had no weapon handy; if this were to be an attack, he would have to rely on his one good hand.
Chapter Nine
Shock
The window was opening wider as Rollison stared towards it. It was the swing type, and he heard faint noises as the bar which held it steady was lifted off its hook; then the window was thrust wide open, with hardly a sound. It was impossible to see who was there, for the moon was behind the man, whose head and shoulders were in black silhouette, but his hair was fair.
Then a beam of light shot out.
It struck the foot of the bed first, and gave Rollison time to close his eyes by the time it reached his face. He felt the brightness, like a kind of heat, and hoped that his eyelids were not fluttering. He was already planning what he would do when the man approached the bed.
The light was steady on his face, and then a man whispered: “Rolly.”
This was Guy Lessing.
He did not call out again, but the torch went out, and presumably he put it in his pocket. He was within two yards of his bride, but she was in a corner, and unless he looked away from Rollison, he would not see her. She seemed to be fast asleep; motionless.
Lessing hoisted himself up on a ladder that was resting against the wall, and began to climb in. It wasn’t easy for a big man, but soon he would be right inside the room. Rollison almost lost the power of thought, but it came flooding back. He must speak to Lessing before Lessing saw Barbara. If he saw her first –
The position of his body made him turn towards her.
“Who’s that?” Rollison hissed. “Stay where you are!” He sat up in bed as if stung, and Lessing twisted his neck round to look at him. “Stay there.”
“It’s me, Guy,” whispered Lessing. ‘Don’t move until I put some light on.
“You can recognise my voice, can’t you?” Lessing had managed to get one leg in, and now drew the other after him; he had not yet seen Barbara. He stood by the window, staring at Rollison. “If you’ve got a gun, put it away.”
“It is you,” Rollison gasped, to hold Guy’s attention fast.
“Listen, Rolly, I’ve got to talk to you. Keep your voice low, in case we’re heard. No need to put on a light.” Lessing was pleading as he came towards the bed, and now he could not see Barbara unless he turned right round. “A dreadful thing’s happened. I’m wanted on suspicion of murder.”
“So you realise it,” said Rollison. He spoke in a whisper as low as Lessing’s, and hitched himself farther up in bed, without moving for the light; it was surprising how bright the moonlight was now. But in a moment, any moment, Lessing was certain to hear the other breathing, would turn round, and –
“I’ve never needed your advice so much,” Lessing said. “Ought I to give myself up, or ought I to stay on the run and look for Barbara?”
He could break in here and within a minute of waking Rollison, throw such a question at him. Obviously there was no other thought on his mind; it was obsessional.
“I just don’t know what to do,” he went on. “And don’t tell me that’s because there’s nothing in army regulations about it.”
He was close to the bed.
“Guy,” said Rollison, still very softly, “why did you marry Helen Goodman, and then bigamously marry Barbara Lorne? What kind of madness is this?”
Lessing breathed, “What?”
“You heard me.”
“You must be mad,” said Lessing, but there was a lack of power in his voice, and he caught his breath on the last word.
“If anyone’s mad, you are. What on earth made you think you could get away with it?”
“But it isn’t true,” Lessing replied, and although there was more vigour in his voice, it still lacked conviction; almost as if he wasn’t really sure himself.
“In the pocket of my coat, hanging on the hanger behind the door, there is a copy of the marriage certificate,” Rollison said.
He was wide awake now, but it seemed as if the drug had taken deep hold of Barbara. He could not understand how it was that Lessing did not notice her steady breathing; it seemed very loud to him. But Lessing stood rooted to the spot at the side of the bed, staring now at the dark shape of the coat behind the door.
“It isn’t possible,” he whispered.
“Don’t be a ruddy fool. Either you married Helen Goodman or you didn’t.”
“It isn’t possible,” Lessing said, and his voice suddenly became weak, and he gave Rollison the impression that he wanted to sit down. He put a hand to his forehead, and moved forward a pace. “Tell me you’re fooling.”
“The police have a copy of the certificate, too. Helen Goodman was killed tonight, a little while before you were due to come to the cottage with your new wife. Explain it all away. I’m listening.”
Lessing dropped to the side of the bed.
“My God,” he breathed. “Did Barbara find this out?”
“Someone telephoned her before the ceremony, and left her a copy of the certificate after it.”
Lessing drew his hand over his forehead, very slowly. Rollison thought that his hand was trembling; and Rollison felt alarm and anxiety even deeper than he had before. It was a long time before Lessing spoke again, and in the silence, Barbara actually shifted her position, and her chair creaked. Lessing took no notice.
“It’s hideous,” he said at last. “Absolutely hideous. I suppose I must—”
His voice trailed off.
Rollison knew what he was going to say: that he must have married Helen Goodman during a spell of temporary amnesia. But for two things, that might have been the only necessary explanation. The two things were the demands for money and the murder of the woman. Even the demands on Lorne’s pocket would fit in; if someone had known of this marriage, had seen it as a source of blackmail, and decided to act. It was even possible that Helen née Goodman had been to the church –
No, that wasn’t feasible.
Whoever had telephoned Barbara would not have calmly returned to the cottage and set about preparing for the honeymooners; there were limits to fantasy.
“Hideous,” Lessing said, rather more firmly. “No one will believe me, of course, including you.”
“What won’t we believe?”
“Rolly, listen to me.” Lessing leaned forward and shot out a hand, gripped Rollison’s forearm and sent pain through the injured wrist; the fingers gripped tightly, angrily. “You’ve got to listen to me. If I married that girl I knew nothing about it. I wasn’t aware of what I was doing. For years I’ve had black-outs, and when I’ve come out of them I just haven’t known a thing. I didn’t realise that anything like this could happen, but it’s the only possible explanation. I wasn’t aware of what I was doing.”
“Presumably you weren’t aware of killing Helen tonight.”
Lessing’s voice rose, as if he had completely forgotten the possibility of being overheard. The grip on Rollison’s arm was almost savage.
“I didn’t kill her, I tell you
.”
“Not even in a black-out?”
“I didn’t black out tonight.”
“You didn’t telephone my flat, either.”
“I tried to, from Staines, but the line was engaged, and I simply couldn’t stand around waiting. I had to do something. I got back into the car and hit the miles so fast it wasn’t worth stopping again. Then I saw Barbara in Winchester.”
“What?”
“I was driving, and saw her walking along the street; I couldn’t believe my eyes,” said Lessing, as if still amazed. “There was a string of traffic, and I couldn’t stop. I yelled out of the window, but some damned great lorry was passing, and I don’t suppose she heard. When I did manage to stop and get out, she’d gone. I walked the streets for her, looked in at every cafe and hotel, I nearly went mad trying to find her.”
“Mad enough to black out?”
“I tell you I didn’t black out.’ Now Lessing had lost all restraint, and was shouting. “I went out near the cottage, hoping she’d be there, and there were some police and obviously a lot of trouble about. I wasn’t seen, and decided I’d be better off back in Winchester. I hardly knew what I was doing then, everything had gone completely out of control. I was frantic. I had to know what had happened, so I telephoned a newspaperman I know in London. He told me that there was a call out for me in connection with this Helen Smith’s murder.”
“Did you know Helen Goodman—or Smith?”
“Of course I did. She was daily woman and cook whenever I came down here. My God, Rolly, I was here two or three times a year, she couldn’t have been more respectful, it was always Major this and sir that. I didn’t give my real name when I went down there—at first I used the cottage to dodge newspapermen, and I called myself Brown. But Brown, Smith or Lessing, if I’d married her she wouldn’t have behaved so meekly. She was one of the friendliest souls imaginable, the equable, sunny type. It’s utterly unthinkable that we were married; that certificate must be a fake.”
That was when Barbara said, “Thank God for that.”
Chapter Ten
Bride and Groom
Lessing turned his head very slowly, as if he could not believe that he had heard aright. Barbara was sitting up in the big armchair, her legs still on an upright one in front of her. Her face was ghostly pale in the moonlight. Lessing stood up. Barbara was staring at him, as if she wanted to examine every feature on his face, to see the expression in his eyes. Rollison had the strangest feeling; that in this moment each had forgotten that he existed.
Lessing moved towards his bride.
Barbara pushed the coat she used as a blanket, and began to get up.
It was like watching a scene played in slow motion, and now Rollison was quite sure that they were oblivious of him. He watched, unable to make himself look away.
With a sudden movement Lessing reached Barbara, drew her up and stared into her eyes; so she was hidden from Rollison. Then they were in each other’s arms, hall laughing, half crying; and it was almost a sacrilege that he should be a witness to this fierce re-awakening of their love. And in that moment Rollison became quite certain that Lessing had no thought of Barbara’s money or his past; this was an instance of two people being absolutely in love with each other.
After a few moments, Rollison leaned over and switched on the bedside light. It was bright compared with the earlier darkness, and Lessing started, Barbara gave a sharp exclamation. Then they separated and turned round, but their arms were intertwined as they stared at Rollison.
“I’d forgotten you,” Lessing said, and gave a short laugh. “There’s something else you don’t believe.” When Rollison didn’t answer, he went on, “I don’t know whether I ought to thank you for looking after Barbara or break your neck for being in her room.”
“It’s his room,” Barbara told him.
“He could have left it to you,” said Lessing, but he was jesting in a grim way. His eyes widened. “Could he, though? You look as if a ton weight’s fallen on you. Who hit you, Rolly?”
“Whoever killed Helen Smith-Goodman.”
“Ah,” said Lessing, and his arm tightened round Barbara. “Back to reality. Well, there isn’t much more I can say—did you hear everything, Bar?”
“Everything that mattered, I think,” answered Barbara, her voice quite steady. “You said that if you married this Helen you weren’t aware of it, and that you certainly didn’t have a black-out tonight, and didn’t kill her. All that matters is that I believe both, darling, and I do.”
“It might be quite important to persuade the police,” Rollison interpolated.
“They’d never seriously believe that if I knew this servant and I were married, I’d bring my bigamous bride down to the cottage!”
“Queer things happen, and you might have paid Helen to keep quiet. Wives have condoned bigamy before.”
“Don’t be a lunatic.”
“You should read the News of the World,” Rollison said mildly. “The police would be prepared to believe that you came to an arrangement with Helen, that she decided not to keep it, and you killed her.”
Neither Lessing nor Barbara spoke; both looked shocked.
“The fact that Guy came down to the cottage regularly and that Helen looked after it for him makes that theory look more than possible,” Rollison said. “It could be very impressive circumstantial evidence, with Helen not here to give evidence for the defence. The fact that he used a false name looks odd, too. There may have been a good reason for that, but will it be easy to make it look reasonable to a jury? False names hide a multitude of sins. Guy, you’re in a bad spot.”
“Do you have to gloom like this?” Lessing demanded, and it seemed as if the presence of Barbara had given him back all his confidence. “Don’t you believe in ‘truth will out’ and that kind of thing? And haven’t I briefed the best detective in the country to find out the truth?”
“Guy,” said Rollison soberly, “there’s really only one line to follow which would help.” He looked at Barbara. “Your father was approached today and told that unless he paid over a large sum of money, the story of Guy’s alleged earlier marriage would be given to the newspapers.” He ignored the gasp which exploded from Barbara, and the exclamation which Lessing stifled, and went on, “That is the line I shall follow, but you and your father are going to have to accept one thing.”
“What is that?” demanded Lessing.
“The whole story will have to come out.”
After a moment: “We can’t help that,” said Barbara practically.
“Yes, I suppose it will,” agreed Lessing and added almost wearily: “If it were simply the matter of this previous marriage, we’d face it, but with a murder added—” He broke off, and there was a long pause before he went on, “I suppose the police might stretch it even farther and say that Barbara was in the know all the time.”
“They could.”
“Rolly, what can you do?” asked Barbara, her voice now soft and scared.
“We need a lot more time to think this out,” answered Rollison, and changed the subject without warning. “How did you know I was here, Guy?”
“I saw the hotel register.”
“When did you come in?”
“I was still hunting for Barbara,” Lessing told him. “I thought she might have given a false name, but I was bound to recognise her handwriting, so I made a trip of all hotels. You’d just signed in when I came here. There was an old salt of a porter on duty, who said there wasn’t a room left for the night, but if I was really stranded I could sleep in the lounge. He sits so close to the foot of the stairs I didn’t have a chance to come up this way, but I know the hotel fairly well, and was pretty sure that your room was this one, or next door. Sol went out the back way. There’s a courtyard, ladders, everything I needed to come up and see. I was scared stiff
in case I opened the window of the wrong room, but—” He broke off, and gave an unexpected grin. “Isn’t it time you did some explaining, too?”
“Barbara will explain everything that’s necessary,” Rollison told him, and got off the bed cautiously. “I think I’d rather be in London than in Winchester in the morning, and I don’t know that there’s any need for me to go to the cottage again. Guy—these black-outs.”
“They’re genuine.”
“I know they are!” Barbara broke in. “They must be.”
“How long do they last?” Rollison asked.
“Usually only an hour or so.”
“What’s the most likely thing: that you went through this ceremony with Helen Goodman during a black-out, or—”
“When you first put it to me, I almost believed it was possible,” said Guy Lessing quietly, “but now that I’ve had time to think about it, I know it wasn’t. There would be the licence to get and all the plans to make, it couldn’t be done in an hour or two.” He gulped. “I don’t believe I’m a schizophrenic case. That’s the only rational explanation now, and I just don’t think that it’s true.”
But he could not be absolutely sure.
“It’s ludicrous even to think of it,” Barbara said, as if that settled the whole question.
“What is the best thing to do?” asked Lessing, trying to be rational. “Give myself up to the police, I suppose, and let them work out what really happened.”
“It might be,” conceded Rollison, “but I’m not sure yet. There’s one little matter the pair of you may not have realised. That if you didn’t marry Helen Goodman, someone did—and in your name. And he persuaded Helen to say she married a Smith—and so make sure that it looked as if you were anxious to be anonymous.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Lessing.
“Of course!” cried Barbara, eyes blazing with new hope. “All we’ve got to do is find out who it was!”
“That’s all,” agreed Rollison dryly. He slid his feet into his shoes, then put his right foot up on a chair and tried to tie the laces with one hand. He couldn’t manage it; suddenly Barbara came across and tied the laces for him. “Thanks,” he said, and whispered: “Want me to go?”
