Murder for Miss Emily

by J F Straker

  Murder for Miss Emily

  J. F. Straker

  Copyright © J. F. Straker 1961

  The right of J. F. Straker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1961 by F. A. Thorpe Publishing.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Saturday, November 12

  Chapter Two: Monday, November 14

  Chapter Three: Tuesday, November 15

  Chapter Four: Wednesday, November 16

  Chapter Five: Thursday, November 17

  Chapter Six: Friday, November 18

  Chapter Seven: Saturday, November 19

  Extract from Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker

  Chapter One

  Saturday, November 12

  Emily Mytton waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her hostess and bent her long body confidentially towards the vicar.

  ‘She tries so hard to be one of us that one can’t but feel sorry for her,’ she said, in a voice that carried farther than the confidence warranted. ‘We come to her parties because we’re creatures of habit; to refuse needs more will-power than most of us possess. But it’s sad to think that none of us really likes her. Not even you, Ernest, despite your Christianity. Not even her own family, poor thing. Her husband’s afraid of her, Sybil obviously despises her, and Archie — well, I don’t know about Archie. I suppose that at the age of ten one hasn’t started to criticize one’s mother. One accepts her unquestioningly.’

  The Reverend Ernest Newcutter winced. He was a kindly little man; and although he could not deny the probable truth of Emily Mytton’s remarks, and knew there to be no real malice behind them, he regretted that such sentiments should be broadcast. But he had known Emily for nearly half of his sixty-seven years, and was well aware that neither he nor anyone else could curb her tongue. He hoped that the animated chatter of the cocktail party had shut out Emily’s voice from all but his own ears.

  ‘Aren’t you being a little unfair?’ he protested. ‘You and I and the others have our roots here in the country. We’re at home. Julia Mace is not. She belongs to the town.’

  ‘Suburbia,’ Miss Mytton corrected him.

  ‘Very well, suburbia. The point is, she needs mellowing. Or perhaps “weathering” is the better word. Like those new council houses they’re building along the London Road. And weathering can’t be achieved in a moment, Emily. You must give her time.’

  Miss Mytton snorted. She had a large nose (‘The Cheswick Hooter,’ Archie Mace irreverently called it), and the sound was correspondingly prodigious.

  ‘They’ve been here eight years. That may be a moment in Eternity, Ernest, but not in a lifetime.’ She sipped at her sherry. ‘Still, you may be right; about my being unfair, I mean. I’ve no doubt she has her good points. But if only she wouldn’t try so hard to impress — be a little more natural, a little less ostentatious. Not only in her appearance, but well, this enormous house, for instance, and running two cars, and all these lavish parties. She spreads it on too thick, and I’m sure Edward can’t afford it. Look at him now. Did you ever see a man more depressed in pursuit of what is supposed to be pleasure? Sending young Archie to Eton will cost them a pretty penny — though I don’t blame her for that. But I do blame her for the way she’s trying to push Sybil into marriage with Clifford Hooper. If that isn’t because his father’s a baronet then I’m a...’

  Mr Newcutter was not destined to discover what new identity Emily Mytton was prepared to assume. Her voice died abruptly at the approach of a man as rotund as the vicar and nearly twice his height. Miss Mytton was tall, but she had to look up at Sir Richard Hooper.

  ‘Did I hear the ancestral name?’ he asked pleasantly.

  Sir Richard’s ancestry was as plebeian as Emily Mytton’s was aristocratic. But because she liked him, and because there was nothing in his voice to suggest that he had heard more than his question implied, she suppressed her mania for the truth and changed the context.

  ‘You did, Sir Richard.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I was wondering how the romance between Clifford and Sybil is progressing.’

  A frown cut deeply into the baronet’s forehead, like creases in an inflated balloon. It looked incongruous there.

  ‘Not too well, Missemily. Maggie and I are rather worried. We were all in favour of their getting married just as soon as they were ready (we weren’t much older ourselves when we got hitched, and we’ve never regretted it), but it seems that Sybil is cooling off. Well, that’s fair enough; a girl can’t love to order. What worries us is that Cliff’s as keen as ever, and we don’t like to see the boy miserable. For that’s what he is, Missemily. Miserable as sin.’

  ‘An unfortunate simile, Sir Richard,’ said the Reverend Ernest. ‘Sin, I regret to say, is seldom as miserable as it ought to be.’

  It was odd, mused Emily, that Sir Richard should use the soubriquet by which she was known to the villagers. ‘Missemily’ — the second sibilant stressed to become the first letter of the second syllable. She had been ‘Missemily’ as far back as she could remember; ever since she was a little girl, the last of the Myttons of Mytton Hall, Cheswick, in the County of Tanbyshire. And now Sir Richard and Lady Hooper, of Peckham, in the County of London, lived at the Hall — and she, Emily Mytton, in the gamekeeper’s cottage.

  But she was still ‘Missemily’ to the village. She was also, it seemed, ‘Missemily’ to Sir Richard. Perhaps in its use he paid unconscious homage; to her a little, but mainly to a way of life of which she was a fading relic (Emily Mytton was fifty-eight), and of which he had hitherto experienced nothing and admired much.

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need to worry,’ she said kindly. ‘Clifford’s young; and this is his first romance, isn’t it? I don’t have to tell you how resilient love can be at twenty. If Sybil turns him down he’ll probably bounce back into circulation as rapidly as all young things seem to do nowadays.’

  Julia Mace bore down on them, a trayful of glasses clutched tightly in podgy hands from which sprouted long, pointed fingernails, indecent in their crude scarlet. She was blonde and small, and at forty-three had already lost an unceasing battle against the encroachment of fat. She smiled at them brilliantly to show white, evenly matched teeth, but there was no echo of the smile in her hard blue eyes as she pressed drinks on them.

  Sir Richard obediently exchanged his empty glass for a full one, but both Miss Mytton and the vicar declined and announced their intention of leaving. Julia did not waste any time on the Reverend Ernest; a country parson was not, she considered, socially important. But on Emily Mytton she exploded the full force of her synthetic charm.

  ‘Already? But you’ve only just come!’ She beckoned to her husband. ‘Edward, Miss Mytton says she’s leaving. Can’t you persuade her to stay just a little longer?’

  After twenty years of marriage to Julia obedience had become almost second nature to Edward Mace. He smiled at their reluctant guest and embarked on the required persuasion. But it was not his charm that induced Miss Mytton to change her mind. She suddenly remembered that she must wait for the Hoopers, being dependent on them for transport.

  As she chatted casually with Edward she studied him covertly. He had aged considerably of late, she thought; there were lines in the sallow face that had not been there a year ago, and his hair was greyer. Was Julia setting too hot a pace financially? He seemed prosperous enough. And he was certainly a most competent solicitor; her affairs had never been so ably handled until old Mr Ganton had entrusted them to his care. Yet there was a weak streak in him somewhere, she fancied. Was it the
eyes or the mouth that made her think that? And no man with a really strong character would allow himself to be so dominated by his wife.

  She was glad when the Hoopers decided to leave, although she had a guilty feeling that it was on her account they did so. ‘I’m not dragging you away, am I?’ she asked Lady Hooper.

  The other woman shook her head, her large bosom quivering vigorously. She was built on the same spacious lines as her husband.

  ‘You’re most certainly not, my dear. I don’t drink, and I ran out of conversation ages ago. We didn’t have smart parties like this in Peckham, you know, and I’m too old to develop new habits. But the children enjoy them. So does Richard, although he’d never admit it.’

  ‘We didn’t have cocktail parties in my young days either,’ said Miss Mytton. ‘I think they’re overdone. Always the same people talking the same gossip. No variety.’

  Clara Justin caught her arm and drew her aside. Miss Justin’s normally pale face was flushed with gin, and strands of grey hair had escaped from under her hat.

  ‘I’ve been waiting all evening for a chance to talk to you, Emily, and now you’re going,’ she said intensely. ‘Mary West is worried about her daughter. I know there’s not much you can do, of course, but — well, if you were to have a few words with Mr Cluster…’

  Emily Mytton frowned.

  ‘I’ve already had quite enough words with John Cluster, thank you. Any more, and we’d probably come to blows. And I’ve no sympathy to waste on Mary West. If she’d acted as a mother should Elizabeth would never have married the brute.’

  Miss Justin sighed, fiddling with her gloves. She was as tall as Miss Mytton, but slimmer and more angular. It puzzled many of her friends that she had never married, for her face still retained traces of youthful good looks.

  ‘You’re prejudiced, Emily,’ she said.

  ‘If you are referring to Tom Shannon, of course I’m prejudiced.’ Miss Mytton’s tone was sharp. ‘Apart from being a damned good worker, he’s decent and he’s honest. And he’s still in love with Elizabeth — more’s the pity. The fact that she deliberately jilted him to marry Cluster makes no difference to Tom, it seems. There’s never been another woman in his life, and I doubt if there ever will be.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m wasting no sympathy on Elizabeth.’

  ‘Mary says her husband beats her when he’s drunk,’ Miss Justin confided, not without relish. ‘That’s often enough, heaven knows! And the way he runs after the village girls! Something ought to be done about it, Emily.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt something will be. But not by me. Try the vicar or the police — it’s more in their line. And don’t start commiserating with Mary West, Clara. It was greed that moved her when she married Elizabeth off to John Cluster. Now, because the marriage hasn’t developed the way she hoped, and there’s no soft living being handed out by her drunken son-in-law, she’s filled with self-pity. For that’s what it is. I don’t believe she cares a hoot about what Elizabeth has to put up with.’

  Miss Justin sighed again. She was not greatly concerned about the Wests, but she liked to take an active interest in the problems of village life. It was Emily and the vicar, of course, who took the decisions and ironed out the difficulties. But even to act as an auxiliary in these matters was of some importance.

  ‘Mary thinks her husband may take the law into his own hands,’ she said.

  ‘He’ll be a fool if he does. Cluster may be a sot, but he’s no weakling. I wouldn’t give much for Jacob’s chances. If it came to a fight Cluster would pulverize him.’

  But the thought of what Cluster might do to Jacob West made no impact on Miss Justin. She was reminded of something else. She said, ‘He was drunk last night. Very drunk.’

  ‘Cluster? I’m not surprised. He is seldom anything else.’

  Miss Justin nodded impatiently. That was not the important thing. ‘He was in my garden,’ she said.

  Miss Mytton lost her imperturbability. ‘Clara! He wasn’t!’

  ‘He most certainly was. I saw him.’ Gratified at the success of her bombshell, she hurried on. ‘I’d gone out into the garden to look for Peter, and there he was. It was shortly after half-past ten. He was standing just inside the gate, with Peter growling at him.’

  ‘How very unpleasant for you.’ Miss Mytton shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have liked that at all. But what made you go out? I thought Peter always took his evening stroll alone.’

  ‘So he does. I let him out at ten-fifteen, and at ten-thirty he’s back on the dot. But he wasn’t back last night, and that’s why I went to look for him.’

  ‘And what did Cluster do when he saw you?’

  ‘Nothing, thank goodness! He just stood there swaying drunkenly and glaring at Peter. I think he’d have kicked him if he hadn’t been afraid of losing his balance; you know how brutal he can be.’ Miss Justin shivered at the thought. ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Something about William. But his speech was so slurred I couldn’t make head or tail of it. And the oaths he used, Emily!’ Miss Justin shivered again. ‘Quite shocking! It was such a relief when he suddenly turned and walked off. I think he fell down the steps to the road, but I didn’t wait to investigate. I just hurried back to the house with Peter and locked myself in.’

  ‘William, eh?’ Miss Mytton thoughtfully stroked her long chin, from which sprouted a few obtrusive hairs. ‘A little bird told me that the two of them had quite a session in the Arms last night. Perhaps Cluster wanted to finish their discussion, or whatever it was.’

  ‘In the state he was in he couldn’t have discussed anything,’ said Miss Justin. ‘And why look for William at my place? He knows perfectly well that William lodges with the Wests.’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Clara. Probably too drunk to think straight.’ She leaned forward to peck at her friend’s cheek. ‘I mustn’t keep the Hoopers waiting. How’s Matt, by the way?’

  Miss Justin’s face brightened, as it always did at reference to her nephew. ‘I heard from him yesterday. He hopes to be home next weekend.’

  ‘Good.’ Emily approved of Matt Justin. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing him.’

  With mingled envy and bitterness in her heart Julia Mace watched her go. Julia had striven mightily to achieve social eminence in the district, and to some extent she had succeeded. They were pleasant to her, they asked her to their parties and attended hers, they allowed her to contribute to their numerous funds and charities. But they did not visit her uninvited, or admit her to their confidences, or seek her opinion on village matters. There were no little dinner parties given in her honour, no dates altered if she could not attend a function. After eight years she was still only on the fringe. And it was Miss Mytton, Julia had decided, who was responsible for that.

  She could not understand how it was that Miss Mytton should wield such influence in the village. She was poor, she was ugly, she worked for her living as a market gardener. She took no pains over her appearance, wore dowdy, unfashionable clothes, and lived in a cottage which Julia, even in her less affluent days, would never have condescended to inhabit. She had not even a title to add lustre to her name. Yet Miss Mytton was always the honoured guest, and no project was ever mooted or carried through without her advice and approval. They treated her as though she were an omnipotent goddess rather than an angular, horse-faced old woman of nearly sixty.

  To relieve her irritation Julia rounded on her husband.

  ‘I know you disapprove of my parties, Edward, but you might at least make an effort to look cheerful — if only for Sybil’s sake. Goodness knows what the Hoopers thought of your behaviour.’

  Edward Mace said nothing. He knew better than to argue with Julia in her present mood.

  Miss Mytton’s departure had acted as a signal for most of the other guests to leave also; only Clifford Hooper and his sister Penelope, and a mildly inebriated Colonel Gresham, still remained. The Colonel made it a point of honour never to leave until the drink
s had ceased to circulate; he had manoeuvred the unwilling Clifford into a corner and was extolling the virtues of mushroom-growing — a hobby which, with incurable optimism, he was confident would one day reap him a fortune. But Clifford was as little interested in fungi as he was in the Colonel. He had eyes only for Sybil, who was talking earnestly to his sister in a far corner of the room.

  It was as well for his peace of mind that he could hear nothing of the girls’ conversation.

  ‘I suppose it will be all right,’ Penelope said doubtfully. ‘I feel rather a pig, though. Cliff’s terribly in love with you, and he is my brother.’

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ Sybil assured her. She was a dark, untidy-looking girl, with a small oval-shaped face framed in straight hair that hung loose on her shoulders. ‘Others have.’ Sensing that this attitude was putting a severe strain on her friend’s allegiance, she added, ‘You wouldn’t want me to marry him if I don’t love him, would you?’

  ‘No.’ Penelope brightened at this salve to her conscience. ‘All right, I’ll do it. But for heaven’s sake be careful! The parents’ll raise merry hell if they find out.’

  Sybil laughed. ‘That’s nothing to what mine would raise. Thanks a lot, Penny. And now you’d better rescue Cliff from the Colonel and take him home. He looks bored stiff, poor boy.’

  After the young Hoopers had left Mace walked down the winding drive of Two Rivers with the Colonel to where the latter’s battered Morris was parked. He had drunk little, but his head ached and he craved fresh air. He wondered how his companion managed to consume so much alcohol and yet remain so sprightly.

  ‘I was talking to young Hooper about mushrooms,’ the Colonel told him. ‘Wonderful proposition. Make a small fortune out of it, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Mace said he hoped the other’s optimism would be justified.

  ‘Can’t miss, my dear fellow. Trouble is, I’m stuck for capital. Can’t really get cracking. You don’t happen to have a client who might care to invest a few hundreds, eh? Big profits, you know — and dead safe. Practically gilt-edged.’