Murder for Miss Emily

by J F Straker

  ‘There’s other ways of relieving it,’ he said. ‘And don’t try to kid me there was nothing more than the odd kiss and cuddle. I knew Cluster.’

  She flushed at that, and looked down.

  ‘There wasn’t,’ she said flatly. ‘You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true. He was always trying, of course, but I managed to hold him off. I knew I was playing with fire — that was part of the attraction — and that I couldn’t hold him off forever. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to break with him. There’d be nothing to put in his place, you see.’

  ‘Except me, eh? And I’m not enough.’

  She turned suddenly, looked at him for a brief moment, and then walked past him and sat down in an armchair. He turned also, but he did not move. He said, ‘And Sunday night? Did you expect just to sit on Missemily’s bed with him and hold hands?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘That was why I didn’t want to go. But he threatened—’ She sighed. ‘Oh, all sorts of things. And he said no one would believe it hadn’t happened already, so it might as well happen that evening.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘I didn’t want to go, George. Really I didn’t.’

  ‘But you went,’ he said. ‘That’s what counts.’

  She did not answer.

  His hip was aching — it always did if he stood for long — and he went over to the table and sat down, lighting a cigarette. But after a few quick puffs he was on his feet again, moving restlessly about the room. He was too keyed up to sit still.

  He said bitterly, ‘You shouldn’t have married a cripple if it was a caveman you wanted.’

  ‘But I didn’t. I told you, it was the excitement, not Cluster himself, that attracted me.’ Her voice rose hysterically. ‘It’s all very well for you, George; you’ve got the garage. But what about me? What have I got? Just this poky little flat, with not even a garden. You’re always too busy to take me out, and anyway there’s never any money. It’s weeks since I went to a cinema. And as for a dance—’

  She began to cry; not through penitence, but because she was frightened. Frightened of being alone. George had seemed unimportant while Cluster was alive. But now Cluster was dead. And if George should fail her — if he should decide to leave her...

  George had decided nothing. There was some truth in what she had said, he thought sadly. He had allowed the garage to monopolize him.

  ‘If you’d made a few friends in the village it wouldn’t be so dull,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘They’re not my type. They don’t like me and I don’t like them.’

  He knew that was true. The knowledge made him feel sorry for her, and he said slowly, ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have come here. But it seemed a good idea at the time. The garage was going cheap, and I knew I could make a go of it. I have, too. It’s worth twice what I paid for it.’

  She looked at him, new hope in her eyes.

  ‘Then why not sell it? You could buy another garage, couldn’t you? In London, perhaps.’ A heavenly vista of shops and cinemas and dance-halls came to her, and she clasped her hands tightly in her eagerness. ‘You’ve never really been one for the country, George. You’re town-bred, same as me.’

  He smiled wryly. He had no illusions about Gwen. If he were to do as she wanted she would go back to London with him full of good intentions. But sooner or later there would be another Cluster. He knew that.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘We’ll see.’

  *

  The Royal George was a typical old-fashioned country hotel. The dull November afternoon increased the natural gloom of the lounge, with its dark panelling, low ceiling, and small-paned windows. As the two detectives threaded their way between the worn brown leather armchairs in the wake of the hall porter, Norris-Kerr wondered how many whiskies it would take to arouse any hilarity in such sombre surroundings.

  Major Parker hoisted himself from the depths of an armchair to greet them. He was a solid, red-faced man, some years younger than the Colonel. ‘Sorry I was out when you called this morning,’ he said. ‘Been out all day.’ He waited while they settled themselves into armchairs and then reseated himself. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  Pitt told him, watching his expression change from genial curiosity to astonishment and acute embarrassment. To relieve the latter the inspector said in conclusion, ‘You’ll appreciate, sir, that this is merely a routine inquiry. We’re just hoping that Colonel Gresham’s movements yesterday evening may give us a line on one or two other points that have been puzzling us.’

  The major nodded, not entirely convinced. ‘You had me worried there,’ he said. ‘For a moment I thought the old boy had been cutting loose. He was quite a fiery customer in his younger days, although he’s mellowed since then. But I mustn’t start reminiscing. You want to know what happened last night?’

  ‘If you please. Colonel Gresham gave us his version, but he was rather uncertain about times. I think the accident shook him up more than he realized.’

  ‘Quite. Well, he rolled in here at — oh, around five-fifteen, I suppose it was. We went up to my room.’ He looked round the darkening lounge, and grimaced. ‘I keep a bottle up there; this place gives me the willies. We knocked back a few whiskies, swapped a few stories — and then, shortly after six, off he went.’ There was a low whistle from the sergeant, and the major glanced at him quickly. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ Norris-Kerr, annoyed with himself at his lapse, tried to sound surprised at the question. From the sudden stiffening of the inspector’s body beside him he knew that his superior officer was displeased. ‘Hot in here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ Major Parker seemed undecided about this. But he was reminded of his position as host, and with an apologetic gesture he said, ‘Either of you fellows care for a drink?’

  They both declined. Pitt said, ‘I suppose Colonel Gresham was sober when he left?’

  ‘Sober? Of course he was sober.’ There was no indecision in the major’s voice now. ‘You don’t get an old hand like Gresham tight in three-quarters of an hour.’

  ‘You say he left shortly after six, sir. Can you be more precise?’

  ‘Well, call it a quarter past. I’d expected him to stay to dinner, but he said he had an appointment.’

  Pitt was silent on the short drive to Wetherby Lane. Norris-Kerr respected his silence. He was even grateful for it (he had expected a reprimand for that whistle); yet he would dearly have liked to discuss the possible significance of this latest piece of information. If Major Parker were right, a whole hour had elapsed between the Colonel’s leaving the Royal George and his collision with William Bright’s cycle. The journey to Cheswick would occupy about twenty minutes of that. How had he spent the other forty?

  Miss Stewart was not pleased to see them; she foresaw yet another late afternoon at the office. But her displeasure was slight compared to that of her employer. Mace was in a thoroughly bad temper. After three weeks’ absence his senior partner had elected to return to the office that afternoon, and putting old Ganton ‘in the picture’ had left him still further behind with his own work.

  ‘Send them in,’ he told the girl. ‘But don’t mention their visit to Mr Ganton. If he decides to take an interest in these damned murders we’ll be here half the night.’

  Pitt looked round the room in surprise; as Miss Mytton had previously remarked, it was not an attractive room. ‘You must prefer your other office,’ he said conversationally, taking the chair the solicitor offered. ‘This is pretty gloomy in comparison.’

  ‘I haven’t got another office,’ Mace said shortly. ‘That belongs to my partner. I use it only when he’s away. And I hope you gentlemen won’t think me rude if I ask you to make this visit as brief as possible.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have an appointment in Cheswick in three-quarters of an hour.’

  ‘We won’t keep you a moment,’ Pitt promised him. ‘But did Colonel Gresham call here a second time that afternoon?’

  ‘You me
an Thursday? Certainly not. I’d have told you if he had.’

  ‘You might have forgotten,’ Pitt said diplomatically. ‘We know—’

  ‘You know what, Inspector?’ asked Mace, as the other paused. But Pitt did not answer immediately; he was staring at the solicitor’s face as though fascinated by something he saw there. Only when the question was repeated did he come out of the trance that seemingly possessed him.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I must apologize if I appeared to be woolgathering. But I was just putting two and two together.’

  ‘I hope it came right for you,’ Mace said. ‘It seldom does with me.’

  Ten minutes after the two detectives had left Mace came out of the office to find them standing disconsolately beside the police car. The driver was bent over the engine.

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked. He was already late, but politeness forced him to put the rather unnecessary question. ‘I can give you a lift to Cheswick if that’s any use.’

  Pitt accepted gratefully. Followed by the sergeant, he climbed into the back of the solicitor’s station-wagon, which was parked in the yard adjoining the building.

  ‘Come to think of it,’ Mace said, as he pressed the starter, ‘that’s the first time I’ve seen a police car refusing to function.’

  *

  ‘That you, Clara?’

  As if it could be anyone else, thought Miss Justin, holding the receiver a little farther from her ear. Why did Emily always shout on the telephone? But she dutifully admitted that it was indeed herself, and waited for the next blast.

  ‘Good. Well, I just rang up to remind you that there’s a meeting of the Christmas Fund Committee tomorrow afternoon at the Maces’. With all this trouble in the village I thought you might have forgotten. It seems positively ages since we arranged it, but actually it was only last Saturday. At the Maces’ party. Remember?’

  Miss Justin had certainly forgotten. She had even forgotten that the Christmas Fund existed. But she said calmly, ‘Yes, I remember. But I’m no longer on the committee.’

  ‘Aren’t you? No, neither you are. I remember now. Has Matt arrived yet?’

  Matt had not arrived. He had sent a telegram to say that he would be travelling down by road the following day with a friend, and hoped to make Cheswick in time for dinner. ‘But he’s got a couple of days off,’ Miss Justin explained. ‘He won’t have to go back until Tuesday evening.’

  ‘How nice for you, dear. Give him my love, and bring him round to see me. Come to lunch on Sunday.’ There was a pause. ‘I hear the inspector called to see you this morning. What did he want?’

  Now who told you that? Miss Justin wondered. But she did not put the question. Sooner or later Emily was told everything that happened in Cheswick. ‘He wanted to know about William and Mrs Colling,’ she said.

  ‘What about them?’

  Miss Justin told her. But she said nothing of the further questions the inspector had put — of the Colonel’s car being parked in Wetherby Lane, or of her own visit to Edward Mace’s office. That could have been embarrassing.

  ‘So he followed that up, did he?’ Miss Mytton neighed with satisfaction. ‘I wonder if he’s been to the garage yet. I meant to call in myself this evening, but I’ve been too busy. I suppose you’ve heard about Elizabeth Cluster and this dreadful man she’s got in tow? What’s his name? Lamont? Lamond? Something like that.’

  Miss Justin had not heard; she did not possess her friend’s network of informers. Miss Mytton, delighted at this unexpected piece of good fortune, proceeded to tell her. News travelled fast in the village. It was not often she had virgin soil on which to spread it.

  ‘I understand he’s a traveller in cattle-foods. A most repulsive creature, Erich says — he saw them in the Arms together this evening. She took him back to the farm for a meal.’ Miss Mytton snorted. ‘No, not Erich; the traveller. And from Erich’s account of their behaviour a meal isn’t all he’ll be getting.’

  ‘Does Tom know?’

  ‘He certainly does. He was there too. He took it very well, Erich says. And to my mind, Clara, it’s the best thing that could have happened. For Tom, I mean. I had a talk with him this afternoon, and I think I opened his eyes a little, poor man, about the sort of woman Elizabeth is. But one never knows with Tom. He’s such a reserved creature.’ Miss Mytton sighed. ‘I think I’ll send him away for a short holiday. Give him a chance to get over it.’

  ‘But can you do that, Emily? Isn’t he still under suspicion of having murdered Mr Cluster?’

  Miss Mytton snorted. It was an unpleasant sound, magnified over the telephone.

  ‘Rubbish, Clara. I told you, I’ve spoken to the Inspector. He can’t be in much doubt now where to look for his murderer.’

  Chapter Seven

  Saturday, November 19

  At three o’clock that afternoon Sybil Mace, answering a ring at the front door, was confronted with Sir Richard and Lady Hooper. For a moment she stood speechless, the colour mounting in her cheeks. Then, after a muttered word of apology and a hurried shout for her mother, she turned and fled upstairs.

  Once in her room she began to regret her conduct. From her treatment of Clifford the Hoopers must think her heartless, and if they knew about William (as she supposed they did) her stock would have sunk still lower. Now they would also deem her boorish and ill-mannered. And she liked the Hoopers. She could even like Clifford if only he would lay off the passionate lover act. As an escort to dances and parties he was pleasant and attentive, and undeniably good-looking. And pleasant and good-looking young men were scarce in Cheswick.

  Downstairs Julia was apologizing to her guests. She had not expected them so early, she said; the committee was not due to meet until three-thirty.

  But Sir Richard had his own apologies to make. ‘We’ve come early on purpose,’ he said. ‘My wife and I wanted to have a chat with you about the children — Sybil and Clifford. And to save time I may as well tell you right now that we’ve heard about Sybil and this man Bright. We’re not blaming her (I didn’t know him, but I’ve no doubt he was quite a nice young fellow), and we’re not interested in what’s past and done with. It’s Clifford’s future that concerns us.’

  So I was right, thought Julia; it is common knowledge. As she sat twiddling her podgy, bejewelled fingers a great bitterness engulfed her. To think that her own daughter could so recklessly demolish the social structure she and Edward had been at such pains to build! Yet she could not damn Sybil to the Hoopers. Not if she were to salvage anything from the wreckage.

  ‘She’s very young and very foolish,’ she said brightly. ‘That’s all I can say. Though to be perfectly fair there’s no denying that William Bright was a very personable young man. And he was, of course, a gentleman, despite his peculiar choice of a profession. One can understand that to a silly, romantic girl he might easily appear as a — a—’ She was about to say ‘a kind of superior Lady Chatterley’s lover,’ but decided this might be considered in bad taste. As she hesitated, seeking an alternative, Sir Richard said bluntly, ‘You don’t have to make excuses for Sybil, Mrs Mace. I’ve no use for class distinction, and if Bright were still alive I’d say good luck to the two of them. But Bright’s dead, and what we want to know is — well, was Sybil really in love with him, or was he just a passing fancy? Like Matt Justin, for instance.’

  Julia frowned. She had no wish to be reminded of Matt Justin. She had thought him an ideal match for Sybil, although Edward had been dead against it. That Clara Justin had shared his antagonism had not endeared her to Julia.

  ‘Clifford’s still in love with her, you see,’ Lady Hooper said quietly. ‘That’s why we’re worried. We had thought of sending him abroad for a few months in the hope that he might forget her. But if this other man wasn’t really important to Sybil, then there’s no point in separating them, is there? That’s why we’ve come to you. We hoped you might be able to help us decide what’s best to be done. Not just for Clifford. For both of them.’

  They
’re not real aristocracy, of course, thought Julia. If they were they’d never consider Sybil as a wife for Clifford. Not after what’s happened. And thank goodness they’re not! It means Sybil’s to be given another chance. And this time I’ll make sure she doesn’t ruin it.

  ‘Of course I’ll help,’ she purred sweetly. ‘We all want to see them happily settled, don’t we? And I think I can say quite truthfully that Sybil regrets this unfortunate affair as much as any of us. She won’t admit it, of course; it would hurt her self-esteem, and that’s so important to young people, isn’t it? And naturally the young man’s tragic death tends to dramatize her memory of him, which doesn’t exactly help her to forget. But give her time, Sir Richard, and she will. Time’s a great healer, isn’t it?’ Sir Richard winced. ‘You know, it would probably do them both good to get away for a holiday; though not together, of course. New people, new surroundings, may blow some of the old cobwebs away. I’ll talk to Edward in the morning. I’m sure he’ll agree.’

  Miss Mytton’s arrival prevented further discussion. Julia, now in the best of spirits, greeted her almost warmly. But warmth was lacking in Miss Mytton; she was both cold and wet. The taxi, George Colling had told her over the telephone, was out of action; when she had pointed out that it was raining and she would have to walk, he had said he was sorry, but there was nothing he could do to help. (Nothing, my foot! she had muttered as she slammed down the receiver. He’s doing this to spite me. No doubt Gwen put him up to it.) But she was too conscious of her position as First Lady of the village to let her annoyance seep into her greeting to her hostess. Much as she disliked Julia, on this occasion she could even feel sorry for her; Sybil’s behaviour (or misbehaviour) must have hit her hard. So she put herself out to be pleasant, assuming that the other’s unexpected cheerfulness was a bright veneer hiding a troubled mind.