by J F Straker
‘Is that clever husband of yours at home?’ she asked, as Julia helped her out of her wet raincoat. ‘I’ve got a nice legal problem for him.’
‘He’s playing golf with the Colonel,’ Julia said. ‘But if this rain continues he’ll probably be back before you go. Edward’s a fair-weather golfer, I’m afraid.’
‘And Archie? Has he contracted mumps yet?’
‘No, thank goodness. And he’ll be out of quarantine on Monday. It’ll be a relief to get him back to school.’
Neither of them made any reference to Sybil.
The Newcutters and Mary West completed the committee. They arrived together just as Sir Richard was leaving.
‘I’ll call back for you around four-thirty,’ he told his wife.
‘Call for me too, please,’ said Miss Mytton. ‘I’ve had enough walking for one day.’
Mace and the Colonel returned from the golf club just before four. The rain had not damped the Colonel’s exuberance, but Mace was in a bad humour. From the drawing-room came the chatter of women’s voices, and he took his friend into the study. ‘We don’t want to become involved in whatever it is they’re up to,’ he said. ‘Most depressing. Care for a cup of tea?’
The Colonel was not a tea drinker. He eyed the row of decanters on the side-table enviously. ‘Think I’d prefer a whisky and soda,’ he admitted, rubbing his hands briskly. ‘Gets the circulation going. Nothing like it.’
Normally Mace never drank spirits until the evening, and then only sparingly; but on this occasion he poured as liberal a measure for himself as he did for his guest. He felt he needed it.
‘Wife got a bun-fight on?’ asked the Colonel, sipping his drink appreciatively. From the window he watched the rain slanting down on to the drive, where large puddles had already formed.
‘Committee meeting of some sort, I think. She’s a great one for committees.’ Mace joined the Colonel by the window just as a black saloon car rounded the bend between the rhododendrons. ‘Hello! Looks like someone is late.’ And then, a moment later, ‘Hell! It’s that damned inspector again.’
‘Moves around, don’t he?’ the Colonel said. ‘Persistent blighter. Think he’s getting anywhere?’
‘I don’t know. To be honest, I no longer care. The fellow’s becoming a positive menace. He’s for ever popping in here or at the office with his damfool questions.’
The Colonel frowned. ‘Such as what?’
If Mace heard the query he ignored it. ‘I’ll have to see what he wants, I suppose. Julia won’t like it if she has to leave her guests to deal with him.’
As the car drew up on the gravel Archie, heedless of the rain, ran from the garage to meet it. Norris-Kerr grinned when he saw him. ‘Got yourself in a bit of a mess, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘What have you been up to?’
The boy looked at his grimy hands and rubbed them on his jeans. ‘I’ve been cleaning the car,’ he explained. ‘I do it every Saturday when I’m at home.’
‘For free?’
‘No fear. Dad gives me five bob.’ He fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief. Not finding one, he rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, leaving a grey streak on his upper lip. ‘It didn’t really need it today; he did it himself on Thursday.’ He grinned. ‘I hope he’s forgotten, because I need the money. I’m going back to school on Tuesday.’
Pitt said gravely, ‘That sounds uncommonly like getting money under false pretences.’
The boy stared at him, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. It was the first time he had been directly addressed by the inspector, of whom he was somewhat in awe.
‘He didn’t tell me not to do it,’ he said.
‘And it was only the inside he did properly.’
‘Extenuating circumstances, eh?’ Pitt allowed his face to relax in a smile. ‘Very well; we’ll take no action this time. Is your father at home?’
‘He’s just got back from golf,’ Archie told him.
But it was Colonel Gresham whom the inspector asked to see when Mace opened the door to them. ‘I was told he might be here,’ he explained, as they followed the solicitor into the study. ‘That’s one advantage of working in a small village. Everyone seems to know where everyone else is.’
Mace wasn’t sure that it was an advantage. Neither was the Colonel. He was obviously disconcerted at finding himself the object of the police quest, and still more so when Pitt asked if he might speak to him in private.
‘It’s about your visit to Tanbury on Thursday, sir,’ Pitt explained, when Mace had left them. ‘You told us that it was around seven o’clock that evening when you started to drive home, but you omitted to say at what time you left your friend at the hotel. Major Parker tells us it was shortly after six; certainly not later than six-fifteen. Which leaves forty-five minutes unaccounted for.’ His pale grey eyes were fixed sternly, almost accusingly, on the Colonel’s face. ‘Perhaps you’d care to account for them now?’
But Colonel Gresham had not been a regular soldier for nothing. He was not easily intimidated. Putting his glass down on the table, he drew himself up to his full five feet six and a half inches and returned the inspector’s stare with good measure.
‘If you’re implying — as I think you are — that I deliberately withheld information, then I protest strongly.’ Head thrown back, his chin was more than usually prominent. ‘Fact is, you never asked me. Your mistake, not mine.’
The inspector nodded, abandoning the stare.
‘You’re probably right, sir. But I’m asking you now.’
At that the Colonel’s truculence left him. Mechanically he picked up his glass and sipped slowly, his eyes flickering between sips from the whisky to the two policemen.
‘Does it matter?’ he asked. ‘Rather private, you see.’
‘It matters considerably.’
‘H’m! Well, if you must know, I went back to where I’d parked the car — in Wetherby Lane, near Mace’s office — and waited until Bright came out.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to talk to him, that’s why.’ The truculence had returned to his voice but not to his attitude. He avoided the inspector’s eyes. ‘Miss Justin had told me Bright was consulting Mace about some information he had on Cluster’s murder. I wanted to know what it was.’
‘Why?’ Pitt asked again. ‘Were you nervous, Colonel?’
‘No, damn you, I wasn’t!’ This time the anger was real. ‘I thought it was about time someone got around to sorting this thing out. You fellows don’t seem to be making much of a job of it.’ He shrugged. ‘Or call it curiosity. I don’t care.’
‘And what did Bright tell you?’ Pitt said blandly.
‘Nothing. Didn’t give me a chance to talk to him. Nipped smartly round the side of the building, collected his bike, and disappeared down the yard.’
‘Did you go after him?’
‘Certainly not.’ The Colonel was obviously indignant at the suggestion that he might let his curiosity impel him into an undignified chase. ‘Thought he was probably taking a short cut through the back way. No sense in chasing after him.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Came home. But I nipped into the Lion for a quick one first.’
When he eventually joined Mace in the hall it was to find Julia there also, with a damp Archie lurking in the background. Julia had recovered sufficient of her aplomb (no one at the meeting had referred to the affair between Bright and Sybil; it seemed that it might not, after all, become the graveyard of her ambitions) to allow herself to be indignant at this persecution, as she liked to call it, by the police.
‘Don’t start flying off the handle,’ Mace said, trying to pacify her. ‘It may be annoying, but we’ve got to put up with it. They’re only doing what we pay them to do.’ He turned to the Colonel. ‘Do they want to see me?’
‘They didn’t say so.’
His hand closed on the door-knob. ‘I’d better go in. We can’t just leave them there.’
The two det
ectives looked up at his entry. Pitt’s expression was as noncommittal as ever, but there was a grim look on the sergeant’s normally cheerful face which worried the solicitor.
‘Finished, Inspector?’ he asked diffidently.
‘Not quite,’ Pitt said. ‘I’m afraid I must—’
‘Really, this is too much!’ Julia had followed her husband into the room, and now stood teetering on stiletto heels beside him. Her anger seemed to accentuate her plumpness. ‘We all realize you have a job to do, but do you have to do it quite so blatantly? It’s one thing to make discreet inquiries, but this — this persecution of innocent people...coming here at all hours of the day and night...pouncing on our guests...Well, really!’
As she paused for breath, puffing out her bosom like a pouter pigeon, Pitt said quietly, ‘I dislike this as much as you do, Mrs Mace. But I’m afraid I—’
She cut him short. ‘It may interest you to know, Inspector, that you have interrupted a most important committee meeting. So perhaps you would be good enough to say what you have to say and allow me to return to my guests.’
There was more compassion than annoyance in the look Pitt gave her. Norris-Kerr took a step forward and halted, stopped by a backward gesture of the inspector’s hand.
‘I’ll do that, ma’am,’ Pitt said. He turned to her husband. ‘Edward Mace, I am arresting you on a charge of being concerned in the murder of William Bright on the seventeenth of November. You need not say anything now unless you wish, but I must warn you...’
There was a horrified shriek of protest from Julia. Then, with a moan that sounded like air escaping from a pricked balloon, she collapsed in an untidy heap on the floor.
*
‘I got Agatha to bring me as far as the corner,’ Miss Mytton said jerkily. She had run the rest of the way to Fir Cottage, and was still panting from her exertion. ‘I felt I must let you know at once, Clara. Edward Mace, of all people! The man must be raving mad!’
‘Edward’s sane enough,’ Miss Justin said.
‘Of course he is. Far too sane to commit a murder. I wasn’t referring to him. It’s the inspector who’s mad.’
Miss Justin made no comment on that. The heavy rain had given place to a steady drizzle, and from the sitting-room the garden looked a dreary place. The gloom outside was reflected in the room, scarcely relieved by the flickering fire, which gave out more smoke than flame. Yet she did not move to switch on the light or poke the fire or draw the curtains.
‘I must say you’re taking it very calmly, Clara.’ Miss Mytton peered forward in an attempt to pierce the shadows. ‘I always thought you had rather a soft spot for Edward. Personally, although I don’t deny his professional ability, I’ve never rated him highly as a man. Perhaps his wife has prejudiced me against him.’ She paused, recalling Julia’s scream and the scene that had met her eyes when she and the rest of the committee had rushed to the study. The pathetic sight of that small, dumpy figure sprawled so untidily on the floor had temporarily made her forget her dislike. The blonde hair, still immaculate, had looked the more artificial against the dark background of the carpet, the high heels no longer provided the extra inches for which Julia had yearned. How she would hate it, Miss Mytton had thought, if she could know we are watching her now! ‘However, my personal likes and dislikes are immaterial; the police have made a ghastly mistake, and I intend to see it rectified. I shall take it up with the Chief Constable. George Bullingdon may not be the brightest of men, but at least he has a sense of responsibility. That’s more than can be said for these policemen of his. They may be well-meaning and industrious, but they are obviously irresponsible.’
‘What did Edward say when they arrested him?’ asked Miss Justin.
‘I don’t know, dear. I wasn’t there. But I expect he was completely flabbergasted. I saw him before they took him away in the car (to Tanbury, I suppose), and he looked absolutely dazed, poor man. I told him I would take the matter up with higher authority, but I don’t think he heard me. Or if he did he didn’t understand.’
‘They wouldn’t have arrested him without a reason,’ Miss Justin said thoughtfully.
‘Of course they had a reason. Or thought they had.’ Miss Mytton was happily impatient of her friend’s obtuseness. ‘Obviously they think he killed William because the poor man wanted to marry Sybil. Particularly as it happened just after William had been to his office. As if Edward would resort to murder to prevent a marriage! It’s really quite childish.’
‘But that’s only a motive, Emily. Have they any real evidence against him, do you think?’
‘They can’t have, can they? Not if he didn’t do it.’
Miss Justin gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. After a pause she said, ‘But suppose he did, Emily? You could be wrong. You were wrong about William and Mrs Colling, weren’t you?’
Miss Mytton was quick to note the slight break in her friend’s voice. So she isn’t as calm as she’s trying to make out, she thought knowingly.
‘We were both wrong,’ she said. ‘It was as much your mistake as mine. And it was only — was that a car, Clara? Perhaps it’s Matt. Dear me! He little knows what an exciting weekend he’s let himself in for.’
‘He doesn’t, does he?’ Miss Justin went over to the window and peered down the path. Was that a figure standing by the gate? She watched it for a few seconds; but it did not move, and she turned away with a sigh. ‘It isn’t Matt,’ she said. ‘If it was a car it didn’t stop.’
Miss Mytton stood up. ‘I’d like to stay and welcome him, but I mustn’t. The sooner I get on to George Bullingdon the better. Oh, dear! It’s still raining, I see.’ She paused, hoping that Clara would offer to drive her home. But Clara said nothing, and Miss Mytton had not the heart to ask. She knew Clara would never forgive herself if she were out when Matt arrived. ‘Well, I’m glad you agree with me,’ she said, taking it for granted that Clara did agree. ‘After all, no matter what trumpery evidence they may have raked up against Edward for William’s murder, they can’t say he killed Cluster. I doubt if Edward and Cluster had even met. And certainly none of the Maces knew where I kept the key. They didn’t even know I’d be away that evening.’
‘No, they can’t accuse him of that,’ Miss Justin agreed. She had returned to the window and was once more peering down the path. Yes, she had not been mistaken; there was someone there. ‘He even has an alibi. He was over at the Adairs’ that evening. I met him as I was putting the car away.’
‘Well, there you are, then. And it’s quite obvious that Cluster and William were killed by the same person. So if Edward couldn’t have killed Cluster, then he—’
She paused. ‘Did you say you were putting the car away? That’s odd. I had the impression that you were at home all that evening. I’m sure that’s what you told me. Where had you been?’
‘To see you.’
‘Me? But I was away.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
She was about to say more, but Miss Mytton stopped her. ‘You mean to tell me you were actually at the cottage that evening, and never said a word to a soul?’ Miss Mytton’s voice was sternly critical; for by ‘a soul’ she meant herself, and it was that which rankled. ‘Clara, how could you!’ Then curiosity got the better of her, and she plunged directly to the heart of the matter. Recrimination would keep. ‘Did you actually see any of them? The Collings, I mean, or William?’
‘No.’ Miss Justin sighed deeply. ‘But I saw Mr Cluster. I’m afraid this is going to come as a dreadful shock to you, Emily, but — well, it was I who killed him.’
Miss Mytton gasped. It was said so seriously that for a brief and dreadful moment she almost believed it. But she recovered quickly.
‘That’s not funny, Clara,’ she said severely. ‘You shouldn’t joke about murder. You’ll be saying next that you killed William too, despite the fact that everyone in the village knows how fond you were of him. The things you let that young man get away with!’ Miss Mytton took a deep breath. ‘I
often wondered whether I ought not to warn you what people in the village were saying about you both. It really was most unpleasant. Quite scandalous, in fact. Or did you know that?’
Miss Justin sighed. ‘No, I didn’t. But they were wrong, Emily. You see, I hated William more than I thought it was possible to hate anyone.’ She sighed again. ‘Perhaps that’s why I felt no compunction in killing him.’
*
Even months later Emily Mytton was extremely hazy about her thoughts and emotions, the things she said (or left unsaid) during the next few minutes. She knew now that Clara was not joking there could be no doubting that — yet still she found it impossible to believe that her friend was a murderess. A double murderess! While her ears accepted the fact, her brain rejected it. Clara, whom she had known all her life; a normal, rather placid woman who had lived an uneventful (some might say a dull) existence in an ordinary English village. She had her moments of spitefulness, she was inquisitive, perhaps she was not always completely truthful. But it was incredible that she could actually have taken the lives of two fellow human beings.
What made it the more incredible was the calmness of Miss Justin herself. She stood for a little while, quite quietly, waiting for her friend to compose herself. Then she brought her a sherry. Miss Mytton had the thought that she should have cringed from her as from the approach of some diabolical monster. Yet she did not cringe, nor did she have the inclination to cringe. She accepted the sherry with a mumbled word of thanks and sipped it gratefully. It was the first occasion since early childhood on which she had been completely at a loss for words, utterly unsure of herself, her emotions — and of Clara.
The gloom was deepening in the room. Both women were glad of it, for neither wished to see the other’s face for fear of what she might read there. Miss Justin said hesitantly ‘Are you going now, Emily? I’m sorry if I’ve kept you. But I wanted you to be the first to know. I felt you had a right to that.’
