by J F Straker
Pitt shook his head.
‘The Austin being seen up at Coppins Point on Friday bears out the doctors. Whether it suits us or not, he must have died that evening. Which means that someone else sent the note to Bullett; someone who wanted to foster the belief that Laurie was still alive. It was reasonable to assume that Bullett would pass the information on to us, or make it public through his paper. But why the money?’
‘Maybe the murderer was seized with remorse,’ Dick suggested. ‘Thought he ought to provide for his victim’s wife. There may be more to come, in that case. Care to take a look at the corpse?’
As the Sergeant had said, the body was an unpleasant sight. Pitt did not linger in its presence.
‘That disposes of any doubt about Laurie’s height,’ said Dick. ‘Gofer was right. Five foot six — and no fractions.’
‘Poor chap,’ Pitt said softly. ‘I don’t suppose he had a chance. I’ve seen a lot of murder, Dick, and I like it less every time. But if it was Carrington…’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, we know now why he wanted that alibi.’
*
Since Sunday night a change had come over Miss Fratton, Dorothy noticed. A marked change. She was as affectionate as ever towards the girl, but more docile, less belligerent, towards others. Dorothy wondered whether the blow on the head had had something to do with it. Even Mrs Gill, whom Miss Fratton detested, had been received at No. 14 with something approaching courtesy. Drawn by curiosity, Mrs Gill had overcome her fear of Miss Fratton to call on the Monday and inquire after her neighbour’s health. She had expected to be shown the door and told to mind her own business. Instead she had been ushered into the parlour and allowed to inspect the bump on Miss Fratton’s head.
Mrs Gill could not understand it. Never before had she set foot in No. 14. Emboldened by success, she decided to try again. In time, she hoped, Miss Fratton might come to confide in her, might even disclose the cause of her antipathy towards postmen. Through her, too, she might learn more of the Weston girl; for although Mrs Gill disapproved of Dorothy’s appearance and behaviour, there was no denying she was the most promising inhabitant of Grange Road when it came to scandal.
She chose Friday afternoon for her second call. But it was Dorothy, not Miss Fratton, who opened the door to her. Slightly taken aback, Mrs Gill explained the reason for her visit.
‘You’d better come in, then,’ said Miss Weston. She disliked Mrs Gill. ‘Miss Fratton’s lying down, but I expect she’ll see you.’
Miss Fratton was perfectly prepared to see anyone. The bump on her head had not yet subsided, and was still painful enough to remind her of Sunday evening. But she did not regret that little incident. It had changed her almost overnight from an outcast into an object of sympathy and admiration. Amazed and confused by the kindness exhibited by neighbours who had hitherto shunned her, Miss Fratton had begun to realise how much she had missed in the past. She could have felt almost kindly towards the intruder who had been instrumental in effecting this change in her life — had he been anyone else.
For he was not unknown to her, Miss Fratton had decided after due reflection. She had committed a crime, and now she had been punished for it. It had been punishment in rather a drastic form, perhaps, and not one which she would have expected a man of his type to adopt. Not towards a woman, anyway. But no common burglar would have broken into her house solely to steal a torch. No, Miss Fratton decided, the assault on herself had been the purpose of his visit. As for the torch — well, it had been lying handy on the hall-stand. He could have picked it up to use as a weapon, and then kept it to light his way across the links.
Her worry now was over Dorothy. Dorothy, she felt, ought to know. It was unfair to leave her in ignorance. And if her conscience hinted that this desire to confide in her friend was not entirely unselfish, that it was also prompted by the hope that Dorothy would turn even more to her in the future, Miss Fratton paid her conscience little heed.
But it would not do to confide in Dorothy alone. Dorothy would keep it a secret between themselves. If she was to achieve her end others had to know. If it were public knowledge Dorothy could not sit on the fence. She would have to side either one way or the other. And public opinion, hoped Miss Fratton, would force her in the right direction. Her direction.
If there was any one person in Grange Road who could be trusted to spread the news it was Mrs Gill. And when Dorothy ushered her into the parlour Miss Fratton decided that the time was ripe for her revelation.
She had rehearsed her part many times in the days that had elapsed since Sunday night. She had even elaborated a little, to lend colour to her story — although, to do her justice, she was perhaps unaware of the extent of this elaboration. But since in her own mind she was fairly certain of the man and why he had come, and since she had no intention of invoking the aid of the law, she saw no harm in inventing facts to impress the truth on Dorothy.
‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Mrs Gill, after she had inquired into Miss Fratton’s condition, ‘that a man can do a thing like that and get away with it. I’m sure I’ve hardly slept a wink since, wondering who would be next. I don’t know what the police are up to, really I don’t. There’s that postman a whole week gone by, and still they haven’t found him. He might even have been murdered, for all we know.’
She looked keenly at Miss Fratton, hoping that her lead would be followed. But Miss Fratton, although she rose to the bait, was not prepared to swallow it.
‘Good riddance to him if he has,’ she declared. ‘They’re a thieving lot.’
She led the conversation back to her own injury. But Mrs Gill, equally determined, was not so easily side-tracked.
‘It could have been the postman who attacked you,’ she said. ‘After all, it’s common knowledge that you don’t think much of them. Though I’m sure I don’t know why. I always think uniforms are so attractive. Even a postman’s.’
‘I don’t,’ retorted Miss Fratton. ‘They’re a cloak to hide the wickedness beneath. As for that postman — slovenly, that’s what he was. Looked as though he’d grown out of his oilskins years ago.’ She raised herself on her thin elbows to watch the effect on Dorothy as she added, ‘It wasn’t the postman Sunday night, anyway. I know quite well who it was.’
Both members of her audience stared at her in surprise.
‘You do?’ said Dorothy. ‘But you told the police that you didn’t even see the man! You didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman.’
‘I know, dear.’ Miss Fratton tried to smile sweetly, but it only made more prominent her tufted chin and hooked nose. ‘You must remember that I was only half-conscious at the time. I didn’t want them hanging around asking a lot more questions; I just wanted to be rid of them. It was only later, when I had had time to think, that the details came back to me.’
Mrs Gill and Dorothy spoke at once.
‘Who was it?’ asked Mrs Gill; and ‘Why didn’t you tell the police later, then?’ asked Dorothy.
Miss Fratton ignored Mrs Gill.
‘I didn’t tell them, dear, because I thought it might distress you,’ she told the girl.
‘Distress me? What on earth are you talking about, Miss Fratton? How do I come into it?’
‘Because…’ Miss Fratton paused, her eyeballs swivelling from one to the other of her astonished listeners. ‘Because it was Mr Carrington,’ she said weightily.
‘Jock!’ exclaimed Dorothy. ‘Jock! Oh, no, that’s too absurd.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mrs Gill had hoped that her visit might prove fruitful, but she had anticipated nothing like this. ‘Are you quite, quite sure it was him, Miss Fratton? Why on earth should he do a thing like that?’
‘Exactly,’ echoed Dorothy. ‘Why should he?’
But Miss Fratton was not prepared as yet to answer that question. That would come later. It was not for Mrs Gill’s ears.
‘I saw him,’ she said. ‘As he lifted the torch to strike me I saw his face.’ This was not true, she knew. But her aud
ience must be convinced.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said the girl. ‘I just don’t believe it. For one thing, you told the police that you didn’t know what the man hit you with. And you said he was tall. That wouldn’t fit Jock.’
‘I was confused, dear.’ Miss Fratton was a little alarmed at the vehemence with which Dorothy defended her friend. ‘And he seemed tall. I was crouching away from him, you see, to avoid his hitting me.’
Mrs Gill stood up. ‘The police must be told at once,’ she said. ‘Shall I ring the Inspector?’
‘No,’ said Miss Fratton, firmly. ‘I don’t want the police brought into this. I’m none the worse for it now, and it’ll be best to forget the whole thing.’ She turned to Dorothy. ‘Don’t you agree, dear?’
Miss Weston was not deceived. She guessed that there was more to come. Although she sensed something of the motive behind Miss Fratton’s revelation, she did not believe that the woman would publicly incriminate Carrington without some justification. That would be libel — or was it slander? Yet it was impossible to believe that Jock…
She turned away without answering.
Mrs Gill, still on her feet, was impatient to be gone. The police did not really matter; there were other ears more receptive. And the longer she stayed the greater the danger that Miss Fratton might demand complete secrecy on the matter. That, Mrs Gill knew, would be more than she could manage.
‘I’ll be running along now,’ she said, edging towards the door. ‘I can’t help thinking you are wrong about not telling the police, but if that’s the way you feel, dear, there’s no more to be said. And as for Mr Carrington — well, I’ve no idea why he should do such a dreadful thing.’ (Which was untrue. In her own mind she was quite certain that the assault was due to Miss Fratton’s interference between Carrington and the girl.) ‘But he doesn’t deserve to be let off, that I do know.’
With Mrs Gill’s departure, Miss Fratton got up from the couch and walked over to the girl, putting a gnarled and skinny hand on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. But I couldn’t leave you in ignorance of the type of man he is, could I? It has taken me days to bring myself to the point of telling you.’
Dorothy shook herself free. She never could bear to be touched by Miss Fratton.
‘I’m not in love with Jock, if that’s what you think,’ she said. ‘But he and I are friends, and I’m not prepared to hear him slandered without a chance to defend himself. Besides, the whole thing is preposterous. And why on earth did you wait until that old gasbag was here before telling me? You know damned well she’ll spread it all down the road. If it gets to Jock’s ears — as it will — I expect he will sue you. You ought to be more careful what you say about people.’
Miss Fratton was not worried about the Law. Nor was she prepared to give her reason for wanting a third party present when she revealed her secret. But if she was a little relieved at Dorothy’s assertion that she was not in love with Carrington, she was also apprehensive as to how the girl would take the confession she was about to make.
‘It isn’t preposterous,’ she said. ‘He had reason to be angry, you know. One shouldn’t blame him too much.’
The girl stared at her. Was Miss Fratton actually defending a man? And a man she had always hated at that?
‘What reason?’ she demanded.
A red flush tinged the grey gauntness of the older woman’s cheeks.
‘It was me followed you and him Sunday afternoon,’ she said, simply but ungrammatically.
‘You? But I thought—’ Dorothy stopped. There was no need to tell Miss Fratton what she had thought. ‘What on earth made you do it?’
‘I had to.’ Miss Fratton’s voice was heavy with emotion. ‘I just couldn’t bear it any longer, seeing you and him together. Or if it wasn’t him it was that other one. And when I saw you going up towards the Point with him I thought…maybe he was going to propose to you — perhaps take you away from Tanmouth, so that I’d never see you again. I waited for you to come back…and he had his arm round you, and…Well, I felt I had to follow you, dear.’
Miss Weston was used to these outbursts of emotion. This was the old Miss Fratton. ‘And what good would that do you?’ she asked, unmoved.
‘I wanted to know — about you and him, I mean. You never tell me anything — I had to find out for myself. But I didn’t mean any harm, Dorothy. And when you screamed…’
A few drops of water squeezed themselves from behind the protruding eyeballs and chased each other down Miss Fratton’s cheeks as she recalled the pain of that Sunday afternoon — far, far worse, she thought, than the pain she had suffered later in the day. She had been so sure that Dorothy was lost to her as she had watched them stroll ahead of her in the dusk with their arms round each other’s waists. And remembering that, how could she believe the girl when she said she was not in love with the man?
Dorothy was not impressed. She had suffered Miss Fratton’s affection in the past because she had felt sorry for the old girl’s loneliness; and also because, as Mrs Gill suspected, she knew Miss Fratton had no one to leave her money to when she died. But this was going too far. She was not prepared to suffer so much interference.
‘You had no right to spy on us like that,’ she said angrily. ‘You frightened the life out of me. And anyway Jock didn’t know who it was — any more than I did. As for his having attacked you Sunday night — I just don’t believe it. And I don’t believe you saw his face, either. I think you’ve made it all up so as I wouldn’t have anything more to do with him. It was a mean trick, and I’m going down there now to tell him about it.’
Miss Fratton made no effort to detain her. But the slight grimace that twitched her lips added nothing of beauty to her expression.
*
Repeated knocking on the front door of the bungalow in Grange Road produced no response. As the police passed the side-door on their way round to the back they noticed that the milk had not been taken in and that the kitchen curtains were drawn across the window. So too were the curtains in the lounge. It was only when they reached the other side of the building, where the two bedrooms were situated, that they were able to peer in through the windows.
‘That’s odd,’ said Dick. ‘Why should the lounge curtains still be drawn at three o’clock in the afternoon? He can’t be sick; the bedrooms are empty.’
‘He’s gone, you idiot,’ Pitt answered curtly, annoyed with himself. ‘That damned woman tipped him off.’
‘What woman?’
‘Miss Weston. She must have realised that our interest in the brooch was significant of something or other. She probably phoned him later and reported the whole conversation. If she told him that we’d seen the brooch — and the box — he would guess that we’d check with the jeweller, and so discover that there never was a second brooch. And that telephone call she made on Friday afternoon; if he knew she had let on about that — how she thought he was at home with another woman…’ The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. ‘He didn’t need a much broader hint, did he? Not after we had told him about the Austin.’
‘Do you think she knows he killed Laurie?’
‘Not necessarily. She’s just a fool girl who happens to be stuck on him.’
‘And that explains everything, of course,’ said Dick.
‘It should do. I don’t have to give you a lecture on women, do I?’ The Inspector turned to a constable. ‘See if you can climb through that lavatory window, Canning. And don’t waste time snooping once you’re in. Leave that to us. Your job is to open the front door.’
The constable was young and agile. When he had disappeared inside the building the two police officers walked round to the front, ignoring the stares of the curious few who had already gathered in the road outside the bungalow.
The hall was dark. The detectives walked down the passage, opening doors and peering into the empty rooms. As Dick Ponsford reached the lounge he switched on the electric light,
for the heavy curtains barred the daylight from the room.
Then he drew in his breath sharply and stood aside for the Inspector.
Jock Carrington was there. He lay face downward on the floor, a shotgun by his side. A red stain round his head marked the green carpet, and his face was a pulpy mess.
Pitt gulped and made for the telephone.
‘Well, he’s gone,’ he said, as he picked up the receiver. ‘But not the way I thought he’d go.’
9—A Very Serious Admission
The man was so obviously dead that there was no need to feel pulse or heart, but Dick knelt beside the body and went mechanically through the motions. The blood on the face had congealed; the body was quite cold. Carrington had been dead for some hours.
‘We’ll wait until the others arrive,’ said the Inspector, replacing the receiver. He walked over to the fireplace and bent to feel the grate. That too was cold.
As he straightened up he saw the typewriter. It stood on a table between the fireplace and the window. A piece of foolscap paper, almost covered with typescript, was inserted in the machine.
A sentence caught the Inspector’s eye. ‘Come over here, Dick,’ he called softly.
They stood and read it together, not touching the typewriter or the paper in it, leaning awkwardly to read where the manuscript had spilled over the back of the machine on to the table.
It was headed ‘For Inspector Pitt,’ and continued:
‘As I gather you have already guessed, I killed John Laurie; and as I have no wish to go through the ordeal of arrest, trial, and subsequent hanging, I prefer to take this way out. If you feel you have been cheated you have only yourself to blame. You should not have shown your hand so clearly in talking to me about the car and to Miss Weston about the brooch. For Miss Weston, as you should have known she would, confided in me that evening.
