Miss Pink Investigates Part One

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ Miss Pink said. ‘In the first telephone call there was heavy traffic in the background.’ She looked at Cole. ‘Wherever Rumney was, he didn’t get to a trunk road at lunch-time Saturday, so who made the one o’clock call, and from where?’

  ‘I expect Zeke’s got a gramophone,’ Cole said. ‘You can buy special effects discs; the radio people use them a lot. Our fellow was clever.’

  ‘You said he was mad,’ Lucy reminded him.

  ‘Oh yes, dear, right round the bend. It happens, you know, with these keen minds; they get so sharp they cut their own throats.’

  ‘You mean he’ll make a mistake under interrogation?’

  ‘He’ll crack; all the mistakes have been made except the last one; the pattern’s there, you see; he can’t go back.’

  ‘But is there any proof?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘There are the anonymous letters,’ Cole said.

  ‘I burned mine. You mean, the other letters have been found?’

  ‘No, dear, they won’t come to light now; they were stolen by the blackmailer and went the way of yours: burned.’

  ‘So they can’t be used as evidence; they don’t exist.’

  ‘Quite. And the disc with background effects for the phone call: the noise of traffic, that will have been destroyed. But there are two other telephone calls which are quite important.’ He said it lightly but Miss Pink stiffened.

  ‘Go on,’ Lucy said, ‘you’re intriguing us.’

  ‘The first telephone call was made the night that the hiker was killed at Storms’ bend. It was that call which sent Sarah out on the road drunk.’

  ‘And who made that call?’

  ‘You spoke to Sarah.’

  After a moment Lucy said carefully: ‘Sarah says I telephoned her on the night the hiker was killed?’

  ‘No. She says she rang you and you said Noble was at Storms.’

  ‘She’s a liar.’ Lucy was equable. ‘What was the second call?’

  ‘That was the night Peta was killed. Someone rang Mossop to tell him that the person who tipped off the police about the stolen whisky in his cellar was Peta.’

  Miss Pink gasped. ‘It was Peta?’

  ‘Indirectly.’ Cole was smooth. ‘Peta must have known about the whisky and mentioned it in passing to someone close to her.’

  No one spoke for a moment, then Miss Pink asked: ‘What time did Mossop get that call?’

  ‘Some time after half past ten.’ Cole didn’t look at her but at Lucy. ‘At that time Peta was walking from this house to Storms.’ He looked round the room as if envisaging her standing in it. ‘When she reached the hotel Mossop was waiting for her. There was a violent quarrel. Peta denied tipping off the police, and she was speaking the truth; the tip-off came from the blackmailer. But Mossop was confused and for a moment he thought that Peta herself must have been blackmailing him. He hit her. That was the mark on her face, remember?’

  ‘He killed her,’ Lucy said flatly.

  ‘No, dear. He left her where she’d fallen and he went to bed. It’s because he’s not a killer that he got frightened and eventually he went downstairs to see if she was all right—and found her dead. Now, he knew he hadn’t hit her other than on the face; in any case, by now there was a wound as well as a bruise and he knew which he was responsible for, and he knew he’d locked that front door. It was closed, but unlocked. He saw that someone had set it up for him to be the killer, so he removed the body and cleaned up the room. But he knows who killed Peta.’

  Only the flames moved among the logs. ‘Who?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘The person who tipped off the police, who telephoned him, who followed Peta to Storms, who saw her drinking alone through a crack in the curtains, persuaded her to open the door, came in with some excuse for a talk—and killed her.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘The priest,’ Miss Pink said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Cole was ritually polite.

  ‘It’s hanging above the bar: a lead-weighted weapon like a cosh used for killing salmon. There’s blood on it.’

  ‘It ought to be moved,’ he said.

  ‘Hendry’s taken it,’ Miss Pink lied.

  ‘You’re suggesting Peta told Denis about the stolen whisky,’ Lucy said lightly. ‘Fortunately for me, we settled down to television after she went so I couldn’t have made the telephone call to Mossop nor followed her to Storms.’

  Cole flicked a piece of fluff from his slacks. ‘But chaps have to go to the loo, and he doesn’t think he watched television. He thinks he went straight to bed. Of course, he admits he was pretty drunk.’

  ‘You’ve questioned everybody.’ Miss Pink caught a note of harshness in Lucy’s voice and looked up sharply. ‘And what was my motive for killing Peta?’ The tone was velvety again and Miss Pink lowered her eyes to the other’s hands. They were quite still. Absently she wondered how much the rings were worth. She heard Cole saying, ‘I don’t think it was necessary to kill her—’

  But Lucy had stood up. ‘Do you want to listen to this?’ she asked Miss Pink, ‘because I think the evening’s entertainment is coming to an end. I have a telephone call to make. Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Miss Pink said, knowing it was intended as dismissal. She looked at Cole and saw that he was regarding her with cold hatred, then she realised that he was not looking at her, but through her. They sat and waited.

  A number was dialled and Miss Pink’s ears started to strain as if the telephone were in another room.

  ‘Hello,’ Lucy said calmly, ‘I’ve changed my mind; I’ll come along tonight after all. They’re just leaving; our business didn’t take as long as we expected. That will be fine; I’ll see you in the bar.’

  She came back to the fire. ‘He is my alibi for last night; he and about forty-five others. How do you suggest I picked up the money?’

  ‘Lecture halls are dark; I’ve no doubt you sat by the door.’ Cole was bland.

  ‘I can describe the slides and the commentary.’

  ‘Naturally. You talked to the lecturer afterwards, and you’ll have discussed the lecture; he sounds the kind of man who could be deceived by a beautiful woman.’

  They eyed each other without expression and it was Miss Pink who felt the sweat break out on her skull. The fire was too hot. ‘You suggested it wasn’t necessary to kill Peta,’ she prompted Cole.

  ‘Ah, yes. Murder wasn’t the original intention. Peta seduced Denis Noble and Lucy didn’t like that—’ the other woman made an impatient gesture and he smiled, ‘—so, guessing—as she’d guessed in Sarah’s case, and in Mossop’s—she guessed again and started blackmailing the girl.’

  ‘No one guessed,’ Miss Pink interrupted. ‘The murderer had seen documents relating to Peta’s history.’

  ‘Yes?’ He looked at her with interest. ‘So, ostensibly Peta was blackmailed, but this was only a peg; persecution was the motive. If the girl had another breakdown so much the better. And to help things along she was getting the nasty telephone calls, those where no one said anything. It worked—very well. Noble, like most respectable fools, is terrified of neurotic women, and he returned to the fold. But Peta had been driven too far and although the persecution probably stopped when Noble left her, Peta didn’t know it had. Things were still snowballing for her, even if it was only in the mind. She needed help and she made a sudden decision regardless of consequences. She came straight to Noble although he was dining here, but all he could advise was a doctor. However, he meant it and he said that if she didn’t go to Bright, he would see the doctor himself on Saturday. Peta had to be stopped from talking and the mind behind it had an outside chance of getting someone else to silence her. That call to Mossop wasn’t merely making trouble between husband and wife; it was hoped that Mossop might hit too hard. But, of course, the caller had to follow through and go up to Storms to find out what had happened.’

  Miss Pink said, ‘Certainly Peta might have told the doctor she was being pers
ecuted but how would that endanger the blackmailer? There was only Peta’s word for it—no one else would talk—and the poor girl couldn’t have been normal by this time.’

  ‘But it would be out in the open,’ Cole insisted. ‘Bright might believe her, he might persuade her to go to the police, even to tell Mossop. Then Mossop might, just possibly, admit someone had attempted to blackmail him, pretending that he’d been accused of after-hours drinking parties. Even Sarah’s involvement could be exposed. But do you think the killer used reason? I tell you: the killer was losing control. She had power. She watched Sarah and Peta disintegrate; she saw Mossop, who had defied her, hauled into court. She could terrify people and get money merely by picking up the telephone; she killed Peta and almost pinned the death on Mossop. She enjoyed the plotting, she revelled in the killing.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘It was exciting, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It’s made a good story—if in somewhat bad taste, but you’re a common little man.’ She smiled as if to take the sting out of her words. ‘You’ve got the look of a Baghdad tinker about you. I hope you don’t mind my changing my mind about giving you dinner.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said politely.

  ‘You would expect to be poisoned anyway.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ He was shocked. ‘That’s not worthy of you. You’ve got the vestiges of reason left. Too many people know now. Killing me would be an embarrassment. Miss Pink knows everything. And, put all the bits of stories together: Sarah, Mossop, Harper—the stories the bodies in the caves will tell: you’d have to destroy too much to win now. Where did you get the gun?’

  ‘What gun?’

  ‘They were in Cyprus during the troubles,’ Miss Pink said.

  ‘There’s no proof of anything,’ Lucy reiterated. ‘It’s just a story.’

  ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Something was missing for you. When were you aware of it and how did you see it: loss of youth and advancing age, the knowledge that life was behind and future existence was all downhill, and drab, and somewhere you’d missed a turning? Were you angry because you’d been a parasite for so long you’d forgotten how to live independently? You had no money, you had to keep Noble. You wanted a new life and security. Life had been sex and affluence but behind it you enjoyed power. When you thought about it you could still have the affluence and power because there was another way of getting them besides sex, and one that meant you didn’t have to be an obvious parasite. In fact, you could get your own back at society. You started on crime, carefully at first, but you were successful and the money started to come in—’

  ‘I don’t need money,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m a rich woman.’

  ‘You have this house and you have those rings; what more have you got? There are no more men; even poor old Noble was knocked for six by a neurotic kid, and Noble’s in the red anyway. No, dear, it’s all behind you, and there was never anything in front either. Turning criminal wasn’t the solution for you; you’re not criminal calibre. That’s a different kind of mind, and not much emotion. Criminals aren’t passionate, and they don’t make mistakes.’

  ‘There are plenty in prison.’

  ‘Not the successful ones.’

  Miss Pink was regarding the other woman fixedly and now Lucy turned to her. ‘What do you make of all this?’ she asked curiously.

  Miss Pink said: ‘Odd things have occurred to me. You had an abusive letter, not a blackmailing one. If you’d told Denis Noble that it was blackmail, wouldn’t he have insisted on your going to the police, or gone himself? Why were you the person to have the only harmless letter, given your character: a letter that was silly and patently untruthful? It seems that the only similarity between yours and the other letters was that it was anonymous and so, at first sight, you were also a victim.’

  ‘True,’ Lucy conceded.

  ‘You went out of your way to stress that you were comfortably off,’ Miss Pink went on. ‘That was vulgar. You were remarkably indiscreet about your private life. That was undignified. You’re neither vulgar nor undignified. You were abnormally excited last Friday night; one wonders why. The impression you gave was of a middle-aged woman infatuated with a younger man, but you’re not grieving for Jackson Wren; you’ve shown no sign of grief at all. Then, on Saturday morning there was a moment when you were overcome by what I thought was the horror of an anonymous letter. You had to have a cigarette and your hands were trembling. Mr Cole suggested that Wren signalled to you when he’d trapped Caroline. Could that have happened at that moment? Your window looks towards Shivery Knott.’

  ‘So it does.’ Lucy stood up and Miss Pink followed.

  ‘There is one other thing,’ Miss Pink said. ‘When Wren discovered Caroline was dead, he ran down here and straight into a house. I heard the door close behind him as I crossed the green. He came to this house.’

  ‘So,’ Lucy said, ‘I’m a blackmailer and a multiple murderer—if you count Caroline, but where’s the proof? What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Cole said. He motioned Miss Pink before him and they went out to the passage where she collected her anorak and opened the door. He closed it behind them.

  Under the gable end she whispered: ‘Come up to the Rumneys’.’

  ‘No. Come and sit in my car. It’s on the green.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Aston Martin was parked facing Thornbarrow.

  ‘There isn’t a shred of proof,’ Miss Pink exclaimed, seating herself in the front and peering through the windscreen.

  ‘There’s the money.’

  ‘The fifty thousand?’

  ‘She’s got it somewhere.’

  ‘How can we find out?’

  ‘If it’s in the house, she won’t leave it there when she goes to Carnthorpe, but she could have hidden it somewhere between Whirl Howe and here, to be picked up later.’

  ‘Wei ought to go to the police.’

  ‘As you say: there’s no proof.’

  ‘There’s all this fresh information: the telephone call to Mossop after Peta left Thornbarrow—that’s damning. What made him tell you about it? He’s told no one else—so far as I know.’

  ‘Never mind that now. She may come out at any moment.’

  ‘I’m going to Carnthorpe to find Hendry,’ Miss Pink said suddenly. ‘If you’re right, she’ll make a dash for it, and she’s mad and very dangerous.’

  ‘It might be an idea.’ He was laconic and he yawned without apology.

  ‘Are you police, Mr Cole?’ He didn’t answer. ‘If you are,’ she continued, ‘is there any need for me to go?’

  ‘We could need Hendry,’ he murmured. ‘What kind of car—? Oh yes, she’s got a Jensen Healey.’ After a moment he added, very low and as if to himself: ‘It would have to be night time.’

  *

  ‘It would have to be,’ she repeated aloud, driving down the lane, ‘and the floods out again.’ And no one left behind in Sandale but Grannie and Arabella, and Daniel Cole watching from the dark car on the green, and Lucy Fell.

  She felt stunned. The crimes had been horrible: sadistic, ruthless, inhuman, and yet to suspect an innocent person of them was even more horrible. Miss Pink’s mind demanded proof. She would have expected a guilty person to break down, but Cole hadn’t broken Lucy. Was her control a sign of guilt? Cole had probed and crowded; his accusations were monstrous if untrue (also if true), yet Lucy stayed cool.

  She drove slowly. She wasn’t delivering ransom money tonight; Hendry could wait. In any event, he didn’t even know that she was coming and, she thought grimly, it was doubtful that he’d believe her. It could sound like some macabre tale told out of school.

  The water from the meadows was inching across the road. She rounded Storms’ bend, passed High Hollins and Throstle Shaw and her lights illumined the first rock wall. The windscreen wipers clicked away but the rain was easing; it was now the fine drizzle typical of Lakeland. She changed down for the first bend in the gorge.

  The river was up and roaring
. White water showed in the headlights and she stayed in the middle of the road peering ahead for oncoming traffic.

  Where there were fallen rocks last night, there could well be tonight. She thought she must be approaching the place; it was on a straight section, she remembered, not a bend. The wipers scraped the screen, dry, and she switched them off. With perfect visibility she crept round a bend, changed into third, and braked. The road had gone.

  She drove forward slowly, still on tarmac but ahead it ran into a sprawled matt mass where points of light winked back at her from stones above the level of the road. It was a landslide.

  She stopped and got out. There was no moving this obstruction. Idly, hands in pockets, she walked up to the pile of earth and rocks and broken saplings. It didn’t cover the whole of the road; there was a strip of tarmac above the river, but there was no room for a car to get through, not unless one cleared some debris and then drove with both offside wheels canted at a crazy angle. One might do it, with extreme caution, but the river had undermined the bank and on the edge the tarmac was only a crust overhanging the torrent.

  She manoeuvred her car to the right-hand verge, not caring if it sank in a ditch, concerned only to get it off the road. She thought she might reverse out of the gorge but then she thought of Lucy driving to Carnthorpe and dismissed the idea. She took a torch from the Austin and locked the doors. She stood beside it, remembering the road through the water-meadows between high walls and with no grass verge and nowhere to go from the path of an advancing car. There was the raised footway, but it was flimsy and could be crashed. As she hesitated, she recalled that the packhorse track ran through the Throat and only about fifty feet above the road. That would be safe.

  She shone the torch up the hill past the landslide. There was a fairly easy slope and an outcrop of rock. She started to scramble through the undergrowth, slipping on wet scree and earth. Level with the top of the outcrop she paused and wondered if there were a better route; perhaps she might wait and let Lucy pass. But of course, Lucy couldn’t pass. She rested on the outcrop and realised that she was inordinately tired.