Murder Will Speak

by J. J. Connington

  “We couldn’t help it,” Norris argued. “It just happened.”

  But Linda’s training had given her strong enough counter-arguments.

  “Oh, yes, we could, dear. It’s no good trying to shuffle off the blame onto the Universe. You shouldn’t have let yourself fall in love with a married woman. It wasn’t love at first sight or anything of that sort. We drifted into it. And I should never have let myself get fond of you. One can stop these things at the start, if one tries. You know that, quite well. It was our own doing, and it would be cowardly now to pretend that it wasn’t. I’m not going to lie to myself about that. I try to be honest with myself, even in things like this. We should never have let ourselves get to this stage, where we can’t go forward and it’s too late to go back.”

  Norris Barsett tried to turn aside that awkward thrust.

  “Well, I don’t see it as you do, dear, but if you won’t divorce him or let him divorce you, can’t you manage to separate from him? I hate to think of your living side by side with him, day after day. He jars on you at every turn, anyone can see that. Why not go off and take a house of your own?”

  Linda shook her head.

  “That’s no use, Norris. Suppose I did. You’d want to come and see me oftener than ever, and I haven’t the backbone to prevent you. People would talk. No one could blame them if they did. And he might divorce me, if he thought it worth his while. What good would that do either of us? I’d lose my friends’ respect — at least the respect of the only ones I really care about. They’d be quite kind and sympathetic, but still . . . I wouldn’t be quite the same person to them after that. And I’d always be on the watch for slights. It’s the way I’m made. I’d lose that, and I’d get nothing in exchange. Even if Ossie divorced me, I couldn’t marry you, thinking as I do about it. We’d be just where we are, divorce or no divorce. It isn’t worth while to be disgraced just to end up where you started. Oh, what a fool I’ve been!”

  Norris Barsett soothed her silently for a while, but his face was grim.

  “Then, I suppose, you’ll get free only if he dies?” he said at last, rather harshly. “It’s a funny world, Linda. Six or seven thousand people, most of them decent souls, get killed on the roads every year, just snuffed out; and yet he’s allowed to go on living, when no one would grieve for him if he were one of them. It beats me,” he concluded, as though giving up the secret of the Universe as a bad job.

  “Don’t talk like that, Norris. I think of it often enough myself, and it’s not the sort of thing one should let into one’s mind. It’s . . . it’s dangerous, to brood over ideas of that kind.”

  “Well, don’t let’s waste the few minutes we have,” Norris said. “Forget all about it, dear. Let’s forget all about everyone but ourselves, just for a little.”

  Linda lifted her head and looked at him gratefully.

  “That’s all I want,” she confessed with a touch of shyness. “You’re so good to me, Norris. I wouldn’t need anyone else, if I had you all to myself. You mean everything to me, nowadays. It’s all I can do to hide that, when I meet you amongst other people. Darling . . .”

  She broke off suddenly at the sound of a car entering the gate. In a moment she had wrenched herself free from his arms, darted across the room, and seated herself in an arm-chair.

  “That’s Ossie,” she whispered. Then, in a natural tone, she began to discuss the last game that had been played that evening.

  In a moment or two, they heard steps passing the window, then the fumbling of a latch-key in the door. Norris threw a glance at the window, where the blind still hung askew; but he relaxed again as he recalled that the car had gone direct to the garage at the side of the house. By the time Hyson had passed the window, Linda had been in her new position.

  Hyson took off his coat in the hall in a leisurely way and then came into the room. He showed no surprise at Barsett’s presence. He had seen him through the window as he came up to the front door. So there was something in what Olive had said, after all, perhaps? Past midnight, and this fellow lolling there on the chesterfield as if he hadn’t a home to go to. And all the others gone, probably long ago. There had been others, as the disordered cards on the table showed. Barsett hadn’t had the field to himself all evening. No doubt he’d made the best of his opportunity, though, once the Telfords had cleared out. And now the pair of them were sitting there, hot and uncomfortable, no doubt, and trying to look as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Wondering what he was thinking, probably. Well, if they were feeling hot, he’d roast them a bit, just for amusement.

  “Hello, Barsett,” he said, dropping into another arm-chair. “Keeping Linda company?”

  “We’ve been playing bridge,” Linda explained, with a nod towards the card-table.

  “Double dummy?” Hyson said ironically. “I can think of more amusing games for two people.”

  “The Telfords were here,” Linda volunteered. “They’ve just gone. Ruth Jessop was here, too. They gave her a lift home.”

  “Ah?” Hyson returned indifferently. “Very pleasant for everyone. Your friend Ruth was at the office this afternoon. Curious how a woman can’t be left alone with a man without trying to vamp him. But I held her off. Not quite my style, somehow. You didn’t think of offering her a lift home in your car, Barsett? No? Well, I guess you chose the better part.”

  Norris Barsett glanced at Linda and then rose to his feet. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “It’s pretty late,” he said, as though he had just realised the time. “I must be getting along.”

  “Oh, there’s no hurry,” Hyson declared. “The night’s young yet. Linda never goes to bed till all hours, and I’m not sleepy myself. Sit down. It’s not often I see you. Linda’s the lucky one.”

  Barsett made a protest, but Hyson would take no denial.

  “Have a whiskey and splash before you go,” he insisted. “I’ll join you. Just get us a couple of fresh glasses, Linda, will you?”

  She brought them, and he poured out a couple of whiskey-and-sodas, handing one to his guest.

  “Pipe?” he inquired. “Or a cigarette? Here you are.”

  He picked up a cigarette-box from the table and held it out to Norris.

  “Now we’re comfortable,” he continued, re-seating himself and leaning back in the deep arm-chair.

  “How is Mr. Lockhurst?” Linda asked, before he could begin again. “Did you ring up to ask for him?”

  “Oh, going on all right. Got coronary thrombosis, it seems. See I’m as sober as a judge, by the way these words slip off my tongue, Barsett. Beat British Constitution as an alcohol test, if you ask me. Old Lockhurst’s all right. Just needs care and a pretty nurse to hold his hand if he gets nervous.”

  “When will he be well again?” asked Linda.

  “Three months, or so, probably. Where were we, when you interrupted? Oh, yes. Talking about Ruth Jessop, weren’t we? Nothing escapes that woman. She was greatly struck by the settee in old Lockhurst’s private office. By the way, Barsett, I wouldn’t lean too heavily on the arm of that chesterfield. It lets down on a hinge and the catch isn’t very good. Linda lies on the thing a lot, so it’s had wear. But most likely you know all about it.”

  “Miss Jessop mentioned the settee to-night,” Barsett commented, in an indifferent tone.

  “Between bites? Wonderful appetite she has. Does one good to see people so keen on their food. Did she bring any scandal with her? Or was she just hunting for some here?”

  “She talked a lot about these anonymous letters that are going about,” Barsett explained. “She seemed rather proud of having had one of the first ones herself.”

  “She didn’t show you it, did she? No? I’m not surprised, to judge by one I got myself. Hardly the sort of thing one could paste up on a hoarding. Illustrated, too. And with people’s names attached. Didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know before, though. I can see some things easily enough.”

  “You haven’t forgotten Moll
ie Keston’s wedding?” Linda asked, trying to get the talk on to other lines. “Now that Mr. Lockhurst’s away, I suppose you’ll be short-handed at the office. But you can get off for that, can’t you? We ought to turn up there.”

  “Oh, yes. Always pleased to see some other man getting tied up. Why don’t you look around yourself, Barsett, and find your ideal? A fresh sensation for you.”

  “I’m not thinking of marrying,” said Barsett, dryly.

  “No? Well, perhaps this wedding’ll bring you up to scratch. It’s the atmosphere does it. You begin to think of things. How happy you’d be with a home of your own and a nice girl to sit on a chesterfield with you, after dinner, and tell you how fond she is of you and how you’re just the one man in the world, and all that sort of stuff. Just you think it over, Barsett. Plenty of pretty girls about. Linda knows quite a lot of the young ones: Nina Alderbrook, Vi Dagenham, Dorothy Campdale, a whole crew of them. Get her to show you round and put in a kind word for you with them.”

  Abruptly, Norris Barsett rose to his feet. Every word of Hyson’s had carried its barb. One would almost suspect the man had been spying before he came into the house, but that was out of the question. And as he had felt each dart, Barsett had known that Linda must be wincing under it too. He would dearly have liked to come to grips with Hyson and leave his mark on him as the price of his sport; but to do that would be to drag the whole business into the open and make Linda’s position impossible. A humiliating affair, having to sit down and restrain oneself while that gross brute used both of them as butts for his verbal shafts. But one just had to bear what one couldn’t prevent. All he could do was to go, and thus rob Hyson of his amusement. Linda would understand his position, no doubt; but that did not make it less mortifying.

  He ignored Hyson and turned to Linda.

  “I’m afraid I must go now, Mrs. Hyson. I’ve stayed far longer than I meant to.”

  He succeeded in giving a fair imitation of a guest who is confused to find he has lingered too long and who fears he has overstayed his welcome. Hyson watched him sardonically as he did so, and accompanied him to the door.

  “Come again soon,” he said heartily as Barsett went down to his car. “Linda will always be delighted to see you.”

  Chapter Four

  Instruments of Fate

  “ ‘BLEST be the bride on whom the sun doth shine,’ ” quoted Wendover with sentimental satisfaction. “If Herrick was anything of a prophet, Mollie should be all right, one would think. But what’s become of the girl you were paired off with?”

  Sir Clinton glanced up at the deep blue of the sky, across which rare clouds of silver fleece were drifting slowly; then his eyes came down to the lawns dotted with the bright dresses of the girl guests.

  “I gather she wanted a few words with the bride, so I effaced myself tactfully. Your young friend seems to have given you the slip, too.”

  “Oh, I’m no spoil-sport,” Wendover declared. “She did her best to entertain me while duty demanded it — and she’s an amusing little thing. But afterwards one of these youngsters drifted up; and it was plain she’d more interest in him than in me, which isn’t amazing. So I left them inspecting the rose-garden.”

  “Well, our responsibilities are off our shoulders, so we can look about us freely.”

  “Pretty sight, to see all these young people enjoying themselves,” Wendover commented lazily. “Girls always look their best at a wedding. I don’t know why.”

  “Touches the heart of a hardened bachelor, doesn’t it?” Sir Clinton said slyly. “One can always tell what you’re thinking, Squire, when you talk like that. You’re wishing that they may all get married to young Adonises and live happily ever after. It’s this wedding atmosphere going to your head.”

  He gazed slowly round and seemed interested in several strangers who were near at hand.

  “I don’t know as many people here as you do, Squire, but I’m always willing to learn. Who’s that dark-haired man with the square jaw, talking to the first bridesmaid over yonder?”

  “Barsett’s his name,” Wendover answered, after a glance at the couple. “If you’re trying to infer whether he’s a bricklayer or a shoemaker, Clinton, I’ll save you the trouble. He’s a sleeping partner in some firm, draws his profits, and does nothing much besides. Oh, yes, I believe he’s interested in the Bacon-Shakespeare problem, and people say he means to write a book about it sometime. He employs a secretary, anyhow, a girl I know.”

  “Thanks, I hadn’t got quite the length of inferring the secretary’s name. What I did notice was that Miss Alderbrook’s fidgeting slightly; and I infer that she’s wondering if it isn’t time for her to go and get photographed in the wedding group. There’s no romance for you in that pair, Squire, take it from me.”

  “Oh, I like to see people enjoying themselves,” Wendover admitted placidly. “There’s trouble enough in this world, and it’s a pleasure to see the other side, sometimes, for a change. And, talking of trouble, one never need go far to look for it. See that girl standing over there by the araucaria?”

  “I’m not a botanist, Squire, but I suppose you mean the monkey-puzzle?”

  “Well, monkey-puzzle, if you like it better. The tall fair-haired girl is the one I mean. Now there’s a case of trouble. She married a fellow called Hyson. Not quite our sort, Hyson. I haven’t seen much of him and I don’t want to see more. He’s a shade below her socially, just a shade, but it makes all the difference. When he got her, he tired of her almost at once. He’s one of those fellows who can’t leave women alone; and he doesn’t even take the trouble to conceal it from her, I gather.”

  “Why doesn’t she divorce him, then?”

  “Because she’s a strict Catholic. I respect her for sticking to her code; but it’s landed her in a very unhappy life. There’s no denying that.”

  “Any children?” Sir Clinton asked.

  Wendover shook his head.

  “Not even that to take the edge off it. Parents dead, too. Lucky she has her sister — that pretty girl beside her, the platinum blonde. Joan Errington — that’s her name — is Barsett’s secretary.”

  He broke off and turned to greet a girl in a grey coat and skirt with a grey fox fur about her throat.

  “How’d you do, Mrs. Telford. Is your husband here? I haven’t come across him.”

  Nancy Telford gave him a rather haggard smile.

  “No. Jim had to go North to keep an appointment, unfortunately. One he couldn’t get out of.”

  “This is Sir Clinton Driffield,” Wendover introduced the Chief Constable.

  Nancy Telford evidently recognised him by name.

  “Oh, I’ve heard of you,” she volunteered. “My husband’s a crime fiend and follows all sorts of cases in the papers. Gruesome taste, isn’t it? But perhaps I shouldn’t say that.”

  Sir Clinton’s smile allayed her slight confusion.

  “Well, at least I can say that I don’t go looking for cases,” he said in self-defence. “They come to me, and I wish they wouldn’t. I’d rather have a blank sheet so far as crime in this county goes.”

  Nancy Telford’s only comment was a vague gesture. She seemed to be grappling with some problem which engrossed her and which had no connection with the conversation. Wendover, who had known her for some years, was perturbed by the change in her. She had been a bright little thing, always in good spirits and ready to laugh at any minor troubles which might assail her. There had been nothing of the introvert about her in those days. Now all that eager interest in the external world seemed to have faded. Instead of sparkling as they used to do, her eyes were sombre and there was a look in them as though she brooded continually on some obsessing idea which overshadowed her mind. And her tone, when she spoke, suggested that she was unable to give her whole attention to what she was saying and had only the slightest interest in what was said to her, though she did her best to mask this by a mechanical mimicry of attentiveness.

  “Somebody told me that you’ve g
ot a cottage up in Glen Terret,” Wendover said, to break the pause which threatened to grow unduly long. “That’s a fine bit of country.”

  “It’s not really ours,” Nancy explained. “We rent it from summer to summer, that’s all. But we’ve been there for three summers now, and we don’t get tired of it, so I suppose we’ll go back and back for a while yet.”

  “Glen Terret?” interjected Sir Clinton. “I know it pretty well. I’ve been up there, fishing, once or twice. I wonder if you know Mr. Forrest, by any chance.”

  “Do you mean the Procurator-Fiscal? We’ve met him. Jim and he used to fish together now and again.”

  “I came across him in the same way,” Sir Clinton explained. “We happened to be staying at the Cross Keys Inn — you know the place, where all the fishers go? — for a week. And, of course, we had more in common than fishing, in the evenings. He’s a kind of opposite number of mine, to some extent, though he’s got wider powers. They do things differently in Scotland.”

  “Yes, he acts as a kind of coroner, doesn’t he, as well as director of prosecutions?” Wendover interjected.

  Sir Clinton nodded but made no attempt to pursue the subject as Nancy Telford obviously had no interest in it. She fingered a pleat in her skirt for a moment or two and then surprised the Chief Constable by her next remark.

  “Don’t you find, sometimes, that people do things quite against their will, Sir Clinton? Commit crimes and that sort of thing, I mean. Don’t they struggle against something, often, and then it gets the better of them, even though they know they’re doing wrong? In kleptomania, for instance, don’t they just have to steal, no matter how hard they try not to?”

  Sir Clinton evidently had no desire to commit himself.

  “It’s always possible,” he said evasively. “But it’s hardly within my province. If someone takes goods without giving an equivalent for them, my business is to establish the facts and then hand them on to other officials like Mr. Wendover here. It’s their affair to settle whether it’s a case of kleptomania or theft, not mine.”