The White Feather Killer

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Don’t you worry about Mr Hargreaves.’

  ‘But there can be no question of my coming back here. To live.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. If you wish to. You are up to date with your rent.’

  ‘It is not simply a question of rent, is it, Mrs Ibbott? This is more than a business to you, it is a …’

  ‘It is my family.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are part of that family.’

  The interview was not going as Quinn had planned. He had not planned on a stab of emotion that threatened to unpick the stitches that were holding him together. He had not planned on crying.

  TEN

  Mary Ibbott shuffled her feet, making slow progress back from the kitchen. She had overfilled the teapot, so every slight deviation from the horizontal caused tea to spill out of the spout and slop about in the tray. The strain of holding the tray level was most trying. Her wrists ached. The china cups rattled in their saucers. And the harder she tried to keep the tray steady, the more it shook.

  It was most inconsiderate of Betsy to take the day off, forcing Mary to play the skivvy for her mother. And to be waiting hand and foot on that man was the last straw. Wait till Mr Hargreaves discovered he was back! There would be hell to pay.

  Mr Hargreaves! She ought to say Corporal Hargreaves. Little had they known he was a corporal in the territorials and was set to join his regiment the very next day. How distinguished he looked in his uniform. And how brave he was. Mrs Hargreaves was a very lucky woman and no mistake. Mary wondered sometimes if she truly appreciated quite how lucky she was. It wasn’t just that Mr Hargreaves was handsome – he was ever so witty too. He always had a twinkle in his eye and a special little wink for Mary, like they were conspirators against the rest of the house.

  She couldn’t believe old Quinn had the nerve to come back. Mary was simply bursting with the news of his return. She longed to tell Mr Hargreaves, but failing that, she simply had to tell someone.

  Mary heard voices on the landing above. It was Appleby and Timberley. Their voices were low, but intense, as if they were having an argument in whispers.

  She thought of the two young men with a certain indulgent scorn. She was fond of them, but they really were chumps. And mere boys compared to Mr Hargreaves. It was rather embarrassing how they both doted on her so. Perhaps she oughtn’t to lead them on the way she did, playing one off against the other, when she was really interested in neither of them. But it was their own fault. They couldn’t tell when she was ribbing them. They were very clever and all that, and she had to admit they did make her laugh, but such chumps, it really had to be said. There was no other word for it.

  They must have heard the rattling of her tray because their furious little tête à tête came to an abrupt halt. One by one their faces appeared, peering down at her from the landing above. They really did look quite ridiculous.

  ‘What ho, Mary!’

  ‘Is that tea? And fruit cake?’

  ‘It’s not for you two chumps.’

  ‘I say, Mary, that’s rather harsh of you, you know.’

  ‘Who is it for then?’

  ‘It’s for Mr Quinn. Or should I say Inspector Quinn?’

  ‘Quinn?’

  ‘Quinn!’

  The two of them yelped the name simultaneously, one in wonder, the other excitedly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes. He’s talking to Mummy in the drawing room.’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘Good old Quinn!’ This was Timberley’s rather more surprising response to the news. His excitement played havoc with his asthma, setting off a coughing fit, which he stifled with his handkerchief.

  ‘What do you mean, good old Quinn?’ objected Mary. ‘He’s a horror!’

  ‘Oh, I rather like Quinn,’ said Timberley, examining the contents of his handkerchief with a distracted frown. ‘He’s an odd cove, I’ll grant you. But a decent chap deep down. And he is something of a celebrity, you know. A bona fide hero. Quick-fire Quinn of the Yard!’

  Mary was having none of this. ‘A hero? That’s not what I’d call him. You saw the way he carried on with Mrs Hargreaves.’

  ‘I say, Mary,’ put in Appleby. ‘I don’t think there was any carrying on, as you so salaciously put it. I rather think it was just a misunderstanding.’

  ‘He practically declared his undying love for her. In front of her husband! And everyone!’

  ‘That was unfortunate, I grant you,’ said Timberley. ‘But I think, well … you know he was admitted to Colney Hatch soon after?’

  ‘Exactly! He’s a lunatic!’

  The door to the drawing room opened and her mother peered out severely. ‘Mary! What on earth are you doing out here?’

  ‘I’ve brought the tea, Mummy.’

  ‘Well, bring it in. And stop … gossiping.’ Mrs Ibbott projected a disapproving scowl up the stairs at Appleby and Timberley, causing them to scatter as if under enemy fire.

  ELEVEN

  Mary set the tea things down with a final clumsy jolt that sent another spurt of tea sloshing out.

  ‘That will be all, Mary,’ said Mrs Ibbott tersely.

  ‘I am not the maid! I am your daughter!’ With that, she stomped from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘I do apologize,’ said Mrs Ibbott, after a moment in which she sought to regain her composure.

  But the door opened almost immediately and Mary stomped back into the room to retrieve her novel. The door was slammed a second time.

  ‘I don’t know what to do with that girl, I really don’t.’

  ‘She’s young,’ said Quinn.

  ‘That’s no excuse. I am sure I have not brought her up to be so ill-mannered. And sometimes, well, I despair. She is in danger of making a positive fool of herself over Mr Hargreaves, you know.’

  This was a difficult subject for Quinn, who, it could be argued, had made a positive fool of himself over Mrs Hargreaves. He gave a vague gesture of solicitude.

  ‘He’s all she ever talks about. Quite besotted, she is. Thank heavens Mr Hargreaves is leaving us tomorrow. Perhaps then we shall get some peace.’

  ‘Leaving? The Hargreaveses are leaving?’ If Quinn had wanted to keep the note of keen interest out of his voice, he did not succeed.

  ‘Mr Hargreaves is. He’s joining his regiment. He’s in the territorials, you know. Mrs Hargreaves is naturally most anxious on his behalf, although she is equally proud that he is answering the call of duty. Mind you, I don’t think they are likely to send the territorial regiments out to Belgium though, are they? They will leave that to the professional soldiers. That’s not to say he won’t be required to risk his life in defence of England, should the Germans invade. We can only pray that it will not come to that.’

  ‘I feel that I ought to apologize to Mr and Mrs Hargreaves in person.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise? Would it not be better for us all to put the incident behind us, to carry on as if it never happened.’

  ‘But it did happen.’

  ‘There is no need to torture yourself over it, Inspector.’

  ‘I really do wish that you wouldn’t call me Inspector.’

  There was a beat before Mrs Ibbott asked, in a voice that brimmed with emotion: ‘May I call you Silas?’

  ‘If you wish.’ Quinn’s response was hurriedly careless, as if it didn’t matter to him what she called him. And yet even he could not deny her use of his Christian name represented a new level of intimacy. He was no longer her tenant. Did that mean he was now her friend?

  ‘You know, Silas, I have not forgotten your kindness to a certain lady who used to live here.’

  ‘Ah – I would rather we did not talk about that.’

  ‘You don’t wish to talk about the good that you do, but you insist on picking away at your … mistakes?’

  ‘It’s not a question of that. The whole business with Miss Dillard is still
rather painful to me.’

  ‘She was a very unhappy woman. Your kindness to her, I am sure, was a rare light of warmth and comfort in the darkness of her existence.’

  Before he could answer, the door to the drawing room was thrown open, and a man in khaki uniform burst in. Hargreaves.

  Quinn put down his teacup and rose to his feet. It was not intended to be a threatening gesture. On the contrary, he meant to signal his respect. But he only succeeded in provoking Hargreaves to raise his fists in a boxer’s guard.

  ‘So, it’s true! What a bloody nerve!’

  ‘Mr Hargreaves!’ protested Mrs Ibbott, rising to her feet and putting herself between the two men. ‘Kindly watch your language! You’re not in the barracks now.’

  At that moment, Celia Hargreaves rushed into the room. ‘Jack, stop it! Don’t be a fool!’

  She was quickly followed by Appleby and Timberley. A moment later, Mary completed the gathering.

  ‘So I’m the fool, am I? That’s what a man gets for defending his wife’s honour.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said Mrs Hargreaves, flashing a pleading look towards Quinn.

  ‘Don’t apologize to him! He should be the one apologizing to us,’ protested her husband. He had dropped his guard, but was jabbing the air aggressively with an extended forefinger.

  ‘That’s precisely why I am here,’ said Quinn. ‘To apologize to both of you. To everyone. You are right to be angry, Hargreaves. I should not have said the things I said. Needless to say, there is no truth in any of it.’

  He should not have done it, but he could not help himself. He looked in her direction, for the merest sign of disappointment on her face. Was this why he had come back, after all, to look at her?

  ‘Why did you say it, man? Good God, what were you playing at?’

  Quinn looked imploringly towards Mrs Ibbott.

  ‘Mr Hargreaves, the important thing is that Inspector Quinn acknowledges that he made a mistake. We must all put it behind us and move on. If Mr Quinn is to come back to the house …’

  ‘Over my dead body!’

  Celia Hargreaves let out a shriek of distress. ‘Jack, how can you say such a thing? When you are about to …’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘It is not up to you to whom I let my rooms,’ Mrs Ibbott pointed out.

  ‘I am about to go off to war and you are proposing to bring this adulterer into the house, leaving my wife alone, unprotected, a prey to his vile attentions.’

  ‘Mr Quinn is not an adulterer. I think we can all acknowledge that no impropriety of any kind occurred. Words were said, I grant you that. However, they were said while Mr Quinn was under the influence of a mental imbalance, from which he is now recovered.’

  ‘Is that what he says? Is that right, Quinn? Your mind was unbalanced?’

  ‘I cannot explain why I said the things I did.’

  ‘Cannot or will not? You said them because you meant them. You used the pretence of a breakdown as a screen to hide behind. So that you could make love to my wife and then claim that you didn’t know what you were doing. Meanwhile, if your advances were met with anything other than the disgust they merited, you would take that as encouragement to continue.’

  ‘No one regrets more than I what I said.’

  ‘You have no idea what damage you’ve done.’

  ‘I am sorry. I am sorry. I can only say it again. I am sorry.’

  ‘You’re pathetic.’

  Quinn turned to his landlady. ‘There are a few things I wish to collect now, then I will send someone for the rest of my belongings.’

  Mrs Ibbott did not answer. She merely bowed her head in resignation.

  His bed, his armchair, his desk, his wardrobe, his chest of drawers and his one bookshelf were all exactly as he had left them. It was strangely wearying to look at them.

  It was tempting to lie down on the bed but he felt that that would be an imposition. It was no longer his bed, after all.

  He took down the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and laid it open on the bed. It was dispiriting, actually, how few possessions he had. Perhaps he would even be able to take everything away in the suitcase.

  There was a knock on the door. He opened it to let Timberley in.

  ‘I say, I’m awfully sorry you’re going, Quinn.’

  ‘It’s for the better.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a bad show. It was simply spiffing having a famous detective about the place. Old Hargreaves is such a boor, you know. I don’t see what difference it makes to him. He’s going to be away with his bally regiment.’

  ‘That’s precisely why I cannot stay here.’

  ‘Well, the old place won’t be the same without you, Quinn. That’s all I can say.’

  Quinn was surprised to hear this information.

  Timberley went on: ‘I don’t like it when things … change around me. It upsets me. I didn’t like it when … when Miss Dillard died.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I didn’t like it when the Hargreaveses came. I mean, Mrs Hargreaves is a decent sort, but he … well, you know what I think of him. He’s taken to going around in his uniform all the time, you know, preening himself like a blooming peacock. Rubbing a chap’s nose in it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult, you see, for Appleby and me. We’re young and everyone expects us to enlist. But it isn’t so simple, you know. I envy you, Quinn. You’re a policeman. No one will say, what are you doing here when you should be at the front? Everyone accepts that we must have policemen. But really it’s no different for Appleby and me, in a manner of speaking. Not exactly the same, I admit. But there aren’t many people who can do what we do. We are specialists. I know we rather appear to be bumbling fools, but we are both very highly thought of in our fields. Our supervisor has made it known that he simply cannot afford to lose us. Some would say it’s not essential war work. But it’s important, is it not? It’s part of our civilization. The Natural History Museum is a national institution. It must continue. In a way, that’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it?’

  Quinn looked into the young man’s eyes, trying to find there what he needed to say.

  Timberley angled his head as if he were trying to identify birdsong, and a wistful smile played across his lips. ‘When I was a boy, one Christmas I got a cap gun in my stocking. It wasn’t what I wanted. Not what I really wanted. What I really wanted was a magnifying glass and a tray for pinning my specimens on. But that year all the other chaps had cap guns, so that’s what I asked for. What I really wanted, I suppose, was to be like the other chaps. On Christmas Day, I duly opened up my present. I knew what it was, of course – my parents weren’t the sort not to get a chap what he’d asked for. But when I finally had the wrapping off and saw it in its box, I remember I felt this awful disappointment inside me. A kind of emptiness. I mustn’t have been able to keep it off my face, because my mother, bless her, looked very worried. “What’s wrong,” she said. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” “No,” I said. “It’s perfect!” I ran around for half an hour firing off caps. I rather think I pretended I was a daring police detective, you know. At the end of Christmas Day, I put it back in its box and never took it out again. I still have it, you know. In mint condition, it is. I suppose the moral of the story is, to thine own self be true, or some such. I should have had the courage to ask for what I really wanted. I imagine you liked to play with cap guns when you were a boy, eh?’

  ‘I had a toy stethoscope, I seem to remember. For many years, I thought I would follow in my father’s footsteps. He was a doctor.’

  Timberley did not seem to hear what Quinn said. ‘It’s damned awkward though. Mary – you know, Miss Ibbott – well, you know I’m rather fond of her. Mary says she could never marry a man who failed to do his duty. It’s not just Mary. All the girls think like that, you know. Well, I’m doing my duty, Quinn. It’s just that my duty is to stay at the Natural History Museum.’<
br />
  ‘What does Mr Appleby say?’

  ‘I think Appleby’s going to enlist.’ Timberley made the pronouncement bitterly.

  ‘Thereby giving him the advantage with Miss Ibbott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am not sure how to advise you, Mr Timberley. Your supervisor cannot forbid you from enlisting, if that is your genuine wish. If it is not, then I would advise you to remain in your post. But to join up merely to win the favour of a pretty girl …’

  Quinn noticed Timberley’s face was suddenly flushed. ‘Are you suggesting that I’m reluctant to fight?’

  ‘That wasn’t what I said.’

  ‘I’m not a coward, Quinn.’

  ‘I misunderstood. I thought you wanted my advice. I’m sorry.’

  Timberley bit his lip. ‘No, I’m sorry. This beastly war has set my nerves on edge. Everything has changed. The whole world has changed. And there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  For a moment, Timberley became absorbed in his own thoughts.

  Quinn looked down at the suitcase on the bed. ‘If you will excuse me …’

  Timberley snapped himself out of his reverie. ‘Of course. I’ll leave you to it. I just wanted to say, I’m sorry you’re going, that’s all.’

  The young man was gone. Quinn heard him coughing on the landing outside his room for a moment before the sound trailed off downstairs.

  Quinn crossed to the wardrobe and took out a small tin box hidden away in the bottom beneath a pile of folded blankets.

  The tin was almost weightless, and yet he knew that it contained the heaviest freight imaginable: the story of his father’s infidelity.

  He had read every letter but one. He had read his father’s declarations of love to another man’s wife, a woman Quinn had never known. He had been forced to confront his father’s delight in the intimate details of their physical love. Worse than that, he had read of his father’s avowed willingness to abandon everything – by which he meant his family – to be with the woman he loved. In this way, Quinn had learnt of the person who meant more to his father than he did.

  The only letter he had not read was the one that his father had written shortly before his death, after he had lost his beloved mistress to a particularly unpleasant form of cancer.