The Other Devil's Name

by E. X. Ferrars

  “It’s possible,” Constance said. “Mollie might have confided in someone besides me. And I’ve been thinking, if she did that, it may be a clue to why she was murdered.”

  “Will you explain that?”

  She made a small helpless gesture with her hands.

  “I can’t really. It’s just a feeling I have. Perhaps when she told this person about what she’d done—if she did and I don’t really believe she would—she somehow made him feel that she knew more about him than he liked.”

  “But you’ve no idea what she might have said.”

  “None at all.”

  “Or when she said it.”

  “No.”

  “Do you think she met this person this morning and talked in a way that made him feel it was urgent to get rid of her?”

  “That might have happened, mightn’t it?”

  “Do you know whom she met?”

  “No, of course not. I know she talked to Dr. Pegler and Miss Grace, and I’ve been told Mr. Ryan and Mr. Gleeson were also in the surgery and that she chatted to them, but as she had that basket of groceries with her it meant she’d gone shopping before she went to the surgery and I don’t know anything about whom she may have met while she was doing that. But to tell you the truth…”

  She hesitated and he waited for her to go on.

  “I can’t believe she confided in anyone but me about destroying the will,” she said. “It was difficult enough for her to bring herself to tell me about it. Somehow I can’t really see her telling even a close friend about it.”

  “Which brings us back to the fact that the most likely people to have known what she’d done are the doctor, the nurse, the housekeeper and the nephew.”

  She nodded.

  “And which of those strikes you as the most probable blackmailer?” There was a touch of irony in his voice, and Andrew began to fear that from the beginning he had not taken her seriously.

  She seemed to feel it too, for there was irritation in her voice when she answered, “I can’t possibly say. I’m not used to blackmail.”

  He stood up. “Well, thank you for your help, Professor. I’m afraid answering all my questions must have put a severe strain on you. I’m sorry. I’ll keep the letter, if you don’t mind. It’s typewritten and that may always tell us something. Just one thing more…”

  She waited.

  “I don’t know what, in the circumstances, is the position about Mrs. Ryan’s will,” he said. “We’ll need a lawyer to explain that. But I presume that you inherit all that your sister had to leave.”

  “No,” Constance said.

  “You don’t?”

  “No, some time ago she made a will leaving everything she had to Nicholas Ryan.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Did she really? You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, our solicitor in Maddingleigh has the will. Peters, Clarke and Peters. But my sister had a copy of it, which I imagine is somewhere among her papers here. I’ll look for it, if you like.”

  “Not now. We can get in touch with your solicitor tomorrow. But will you tell me, did Mr. Ryan know about the will?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps Mollie told him about it.”

  “Do you think if she had it’s something she would have told you?”

  “I don’t know. There’ve been times recently when I’ve felt I didn’t know my sister at all. I don’t know what she might have done.”

  “Good night, then. I hope I shan’t have to trouble you tomorrow, but I’m afraid I may have to. Try to have a good rest now.”

  At last the two detectives left.

  For a moment after they had gone Constance sat perfectly still, then reached suddenly for her glass and swallowed what was left in it at a gulp.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t believe any of it happened.”

  “Constance, if Ryan knew about Mollie’s will,” Andrew said, “it gives him a very powerful motive—”

  But that was as far as he got. First putting down the glass with a look of great carefulness, Constance slid gently down in her chair, unconscious.

  Andrew did not know what to do. During the war he had had a number of lessons in first aid, but none of them had related to what ought to be done when a woman in her seventies, who had just received a severe emotional shock, collapsed on his hands.

  Was it simply a faint? If it was, he believed, the right thing to do was to bend her head downwards between her knees and keep it there until consciousness returned. But suppose it was a heart attack or a stroke? Neither at her age, and considering the strain of the last hour or so, was improbable, and if either had happened, for all he knew, moving her might be dangerous.

  It did not really take him long to decide what to do, though as he stood wondering for a horrible moment if she had died while he looked at her, it felt as if he had remained there uselessly for some endless, incalculable time. But then he reached for the telephone, flipped over the pages of the pad on the table beside it till he found a note of Dr. Pegler’s number and dialled it. If the doctor was not at home his answering phone would probably tell Andrew where he was to be found.

  But luckily it was David Pegler himself who answered.

  “This is Basnett speaking,” Andrew said. “You remember, we met at the Gleesons’. Could you come to Cherry Tree Cottage at once? Constance has just collapsed. She’s passed out and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if you’ve heard the news about her sister, but the police have been here questioning Constance for a long time and it’s been too much for her.”

  The doctor wasted no time asking questions.

  “I’ll be round in a few minutes,” he said, and rang off.

  Andrew replaced the telephone and turned back to Constance. At least she was alive, for she was breathing in a heavy, snorting way, but her face was as colourless as that of Mollie in the mortuary. She was slumped sideways in an ungainliness that seemed unnatural in someone usually so neat and collected. Andrew decided to take a risk and carry her to the sofa.

  She was very light. Though he was as old as she was and past the age for attempting to lift heavy weights, he managed it easily and settled her in what looked a comfortable posture, with a cushion under her head. Then he sat down, watching her intently to make sure that the breathing went on.

  He looked at his watch several times while he waited for the doctor to arrive. The minutes passed very slowly. In the silence Horatius seized the opportunity to move in on Andrew’s mind.

  “For how can man die better

  Than facing fearful odds,

  For the ashes of his fathers,

  For the temples of his gods…?”

  Andrew could think of all sorts of better ways of dying. His own choice would be to die in his bed with a kindly doctor in attendance who was ready to be generous in the matter of injecting morphine. But it was a curious thing to realize how seldom he had had to face anything that could be described as fearful odds. His wife’s death, the months before it when they had both known that it was inevitable, and the years after it until he had adjusted himself after a fashion to his loneliness had been by far the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

  His war had been a fairly peaceful one. Being a scientist and a teacher, he had been in a reserved occupation and probably his worst experience had been lecturing to a hall full of medical students to whom he had had to attempt to teach the elements of biology. He had been very young and unsure of himself and they had been bored and unruly. Later he had come to enjoy lecturing, but it had taken him some time to learn how to control a big class without any fear of it.

  His most notable exploit during those years had been in an air raid, when as a member of the fire brigade of his college he had been on its roof when a firebomb had landed a few feet away from him, and using his long-handled shovel he had scooped it down into the street and had narrowly missed hitting a policeman. Since that occasion he had never had any doubt that English was the richest of langua
ges.

  But the Consul’s brow was sad,

  And the Consul’s speech was low,

  And darkly looked he at the wall,

  And darkly at the foe…

  The sound of the door knocker rescued Andrew from Horatius. He had been looking pretty darkly at Constance for any sign of returning consciousness, furious with himself because of his ignorance and inability to help her, and when he heard the knocker he shot out of the room as fast as he could to greet the doctor.

  It was only as he did so that it occurred to him that the room was in twilight and that it was time to switch on the lights. Doing so as he went, he let David Pegler in.

  “I came as quickly as I could,” he said. “Where is she?”

  He turned automatically to the staircase, ready to go up to her bedroom.

  “No, in here,” Andrew said, indicating the open sitting-room door. Although it seemed so much longer, it had in truth been only a few minutes since he had spoken to the doctor on the telephone.

  Perhaps the turning on of the lights had had some effect on Constance, for her eyes were open, looking dazed and only half aware of her surroundings, but as the two men came in she started trying to sit up. Pegler put a hand on her shoulder, pressing her back against the cushions.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “Fainted, did you?”

  He had taken her by the wrist, feeling for her pulse. The grey eyes in his round, plump face with its double chin and unusually high forehead looked at her with what Andrew thought was a surprising lack of concern. But it was possible that that was simply because he did not want to show too much, since that might have alarmed her.

  “I must have,” Constance said shakily. “I’ve never done such a thing before. I’ve never fainted in my life. You’ve heard about Mollie?”

  “Mollie?” He was doing things with a stethoscope. “What’s she done?”

  “Then you haven’t heard.”

  “I saw her this morning, but only for a moment. Hadn’t got time to chat with her. I’d given Mrs. Roberts the usual prescription for her and I think she gave her her pills all right. Now what made you faint? Did you have any pain before it? Have you any pain now?”

  “No, no, there’s nothing the matter with me,” Constance said impatiently. “Andrew shouldn’t have called you. Andrew, please would you tell him…?”

  She was beginning to look more like herself, but her voice suddenly dried up as if she could not bring herself to say any more.

  Andrew told Pegler about Mollie’s death, of where and when her body had been discovered, of the visit to the mortuary and the visit by the police to Cherry Tree Cottage. But he said nothing about Mrs. Ryan’s will, or about Mollie having left all that she possessed to Nicholas Ryan, or about the anonymous letter that seemed to have begun everything. He hoped that that was what Constance wanted him to do. At all events, she did not add anything to what he said.

  The doctor’s eyes grew round with astonishment as Andrew talked. He did not interrupt, but when Andrew came to an end he muttered, “It’s unbelievable. Mollie!” He clawed with a small, plump hand at his bald forehead, as if there were hair there to be thrust back. “Poor harmless Mollie! Why on God’s earth can anyone have wanted to do such a thing to her?” He stared incredulously at Andrew. “Have we a maniac in our midst? Of course, as you probably know, Constance, Mollie has always been moderately unstable. She told me herself she’d spent some time in a mental home. But she seemed to have got over her trouble completely, and anyway, I don’t see what that could have had to do with her murder. Could someone have imagined she was a threat to him? Could she have known something…? But no, that doesn’t make sense. I’m so very sorry. I wish I could help. All I can do medically is advise you to take things as quietly as you can. I don’t think there’s anything the matter with you except acute stress. I’ll leave you some sleeping pills—”

  “No,” Constance said positively. “I can manage without them. I’m sorry you’ve had this trouble, David. Andrew shouldn’t have sent for you.”

  “He was quite right to do so,” Pegler replied. “You’ve had a very bad shock, and shock can be a severe illness. It isn’t everyone who’s got your toughness. But for God’s sake, Constance, don’t be afraid of breaking down. Let it come out. You know, when Carolyn left me I began by bottling it all up inside me. I didn’t want anyone to see what I was suffering. But then, when I was alone in the evening, I’d get through a bottle of whisky and the peculiar thing about it was that I stayed stone-cold sober. I wanted to get drunk, but I couldn’t, and when I had to go out on calls a few times I’m certain no one noticed there was anything wrong with me. Luckily I was never stopped for a breathalyzer. But if pretty soon I hadn’t taken hold of myself and said that this has got to stop, I could easily have gone on and turned into an alcoholic. And apart from killing me, given time, that would of course have been the end of my career. Not that it’s much of a career, you may think. Carolyn didn’t. But it’s the best I can do and it means a great deal to me.”

  “Have you heard from Carolyn again?” Constance asked, making a visible effort to respond to Pegler instead of remaining lost in her own tragedy.

  “No, I’m glad to say,” he answered. “I’ve begun to be able to put the whole affair behind me. I think I’ve even begun to understand why she left me. Of course, we should never have got married. In the end this kind of thing always comes back to that. I don’t blame her. She wanted more excitement than I could give her. She’s just got a job that she likes, something to do with buying for a dress shop and doing some designing too, I believe, and it’s going to mean travelling a good deal, which she enjoys, and she’ll be making quite a lot of money. She doesn’t want anything from me but a divorce. But God forgive me, why am I talking about myself like this? I suppose it may be because I’ve discovered how much it’s helped me to let it all come out and I want you to do the same. You’ve a good friend here to help you.” He turned back to Andrew. “Are you staying on here for any time?”

  “We haven’t got around to talking about that yet,” Andrew said.

  “Well, let me know if there’s any way I can help, Constance, medical or otherwise. Don’t be afraid to call me.”

  Pegler gave her a gentle little pat on the shoulder, picked up his bag and left.

  Returning to the sitting room after closing the front door behind him, Andrew said, “I wonder if some long-tailed fish will really comfort him. You know, I can see him becoming very fond of them. But I’m sorry I called him if you’d sooner I hadn’t. The fact is, you had me dead scared.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s a nice little man, though he’s still drinking more than he says. Couldn’t you smell it?” She sat up on the sofa. “Andrew, are you going to stay on here with me for a little?”

  “Is that what you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Please,” she said.

  “All right, then. Anything you want. And now hadn’t you better go to bed? I’ll bring you up some tea and toast, or whatever you’d like. I don’t expect you feel like anything very substantial.”

  “I don’t want anything, but you’ll want something soon. I was going to cook a steak this evening, but at least there’s some cold lamb in the fridge, and tomatoes and things like that. You can help yourself.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to have another drink, then I’ll look into things. What about you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She stood up and for a moment Andrew thought of taking her arm to see her up the stairs, but she seemed quite steady and he knew her well enough to be sure that she would not welcome support that was not needed. It was just then, however, that for the first time since Superintendent Stonor had arrived with the news of Mollie’s death, Andrew saw tears in her eyes. She was not sobbing, but they were trickling quietly down her cheeks. Without making any attempt to dry them, she walked out of the room and he heard her climbing the stairs.

  Pouring out a whisky for himself,
Andrew sat down and gazed unthinkingly towards the uncurtained window at the end of the room. Outside, the dusk had deepened and the colours of the flowers in the garden had faded into an indistinct pattern of greys. The branches of the old walnut tree were dark against a sky which was still faintly opalescent, with an occasional star gleaming here and there. Something that the doctor had said had stirred a question in Andrew’s mind, but now he could not remember what it had been. His memory was becoming shockingly bad, and at his age he could only expect it to get worse and worse.

  It roused a feeling of rebellion in him that old age should deprive him of a faculty which he had always taken for granted was his for life. He had always had a very good memory. That was why he had been plagued throughout the years with the bad verse that he had enjoyed in his childhood. None of that, unfortunately, was showing any sign of fading.

  The darkness outside grew deeper. He could no longer see the walnut tree or the stars because the glass of the window reflected the lights and the interior of the room. All the blank-faced Staffordshire dogs that Mollie had collected stared empty-eyed across it. But it suddenly occurred to him that although it was some time since Constance had left the room, he could still hear her moving about upstairs. She had not gone to bed. The room over the sitting room, he believed, was Mollie’s, and Constance seemed to be walking about in it.

  He hesitated, thinking that probably he ought to go upstairs to persuade her to leave that room and not shut herself up there alone with heaven knew what pain and perhaps what feelings of guilt. But even as he considered going up to her, he heard her coming down the stairs.

  When she came into the room he saw that her tears had stopped. She was wearing a dark-blue silk dressing gown and velvet slippers and looked very small and old and fragile.

  “I’ve been going through Mollie’s desk, looking for these,” she said. She held one out to him. “That’s a copy of her will. The original, as I told that man Stonor, is with our solicitor in Maddingleigh, but this is the copy he sent us. However, this is what I was really looking for.” She held out another paper. “It’s the last letter Mollie had from Kenneth Eckersall. It came over a year ago, but it’s got his address and telephone number and I don’t think he’s moved since he wrote. I’m going to telephone him.”