Serpents in Paradise

by Martin Edwards

  ‘He’d have only gambled the money away if he’d had it. He promised to be as hard and selfish as his uncle was. It’s funny—though he altered his will so often, I always thought old Hentish meant his nephew to have the money in the end. I thought he just enjoyed frightening William by disinheriting him.’

  ‘A sense of power, sir?’

  ‘Yes, the idea of doing good always seemed to sicken him. Odd, he loathed humanity, yet he will be remembered as one of its great benefactors. All that money to cancer research …’

  I leant forward.

  ‘It’s curious,’ I said, ‘that no one has ever noticed that you can’t see the boathouse from the cedar tree. The willows screen it from view. I’ve often wondered if you planned it or whether it was on an impulse.’

  The lights flickered as the train rattled through a tunnel. The little clerk coughed.

  ‘Purely impulse, sir. In a small way I am a student of literature, and it has always struck me as curious that it is generally considered the unhappy ending if charity gets the money instead of the dissolute young heir. An alternative to be averted at all costs. The book I am reading now, sir, deals with a missing will. The hero is at the moment lying handcuffed and gagged on a deserted wharf.’

  ‘And the tide is rising?’

  ‘Swiftly, sir. He has three hours till midnight, in which to find a certain paper, otherwise his aunt’s fortune reverts to charity.’

  ‘And he finds it in time?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’d have ended it differently?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was a silence.

  •••

  ‘I’ve always wanted to know when the idea occurred to you,’ I said.

  He coughed.

  ‘Mr Hentish’s days were obviously numbered, sir. When he was signing the will I thought what a fine thing it would be if he should die before a change of heart. Otherwise, I knew I should soon be down at the Abbey to alter the will again in young Mr Hentish’s favour, and I knew him too well to hope that anyone but himself and the bookmakers would benefit by the money. Too like his uncle, sir.’

  ‘I suppose old Hentish started talking about William and got into a rage at having been deceived over the wedding. That would bring on one of his attacks.’

  ‘Yes, sir. His face got purple and his lips went white. I stood watching him, hoping it might be fatal. He told me to go and pour him out a glass of medicine from the bottle on the table in the bathroom. The directions were on the bottle, he said. I’m a little short-sighted, sir; it took me a little while to get my bearings. When I got my reading glasses on the first thing that caught my eye was the phial labelled morphia, and while he was yelling at me from the library I opened the cupboard door, took out the morphia, and poured it into the glass of medicine. He took the glass from me. “You damn fool,” he said, and drank it down.’

  ‘Swallowed it too quickly to suspect anything, I suppose.’

  ‘He just drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and leaned back in the chair. I went into the bathroom and wiped my fingerprints off everything, which I understand is the correct procedure in murder. Then I returned to the library, collected my papers and replaced them in my brief case. Mr Hentish sat perfectly still. I don’t know whether he was breathing or not. When everything was in order I went out into the hall, closing the library door quietly behind me. I rang the bell for Mr Croucher, and told him I should remain in the garden till my train time. “Is the old screw quiet?” he asked me, and I said he was.’

  ‘Did it occur to you that William Hentish might be accused?’

  ‘No, sir; the fact that the will was not in his favour seemed to preclude that. I didn’t know he was unaware of my presence at the Abbey, or the reason for it.’

  ‘I suppose you saw him across the lawn to the boathouse?’

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t. I must have been dozing at the time. I took a chance on corroborating his story. It was the least I could do, I thought, sir.’

  ‘Do you never feel a twinge of remorse about it?’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘Remorse! The money went to cancer research, sir. Have you read their last report? They’ve made great strides forward. Remorse! Oh no, sir. I’ve too great a regard for human life for that.’

  The train quivered as the brakes checked the engine’s speed, and the clerk peered out of the window. ‘This will be my station, I think.’ He gathered up the evening paper and his brief case. As the train groaned to a standstill a porter flung the door open and the fog bellied into the carriage.

  ‘Cranham Junction. All change for Kedam, Stukely, Rye, and Wyming. All change,’ he chanted. ‘Any baggage, sir?’

  ‘No thank you.’ He turned to me. ‘I’ve enjoyed our conversation very much, sir. I wish you good night.’

  ***

  There is no silence more complete than the silence which follows the cessation of machinery. It intensifies all other sounds, the hiss of escaping steam, the clank and rattle of milk cans and the muffled chant of the porter. ‘All ch-aa-nn-ge.’ Suddenly the engine throbs, there is a jerk and a scraping as the wheels turn. Green lights, red lights, porters, old women, solicitors’ clerks, loom large in the mist for a second through the moisture on the window-panes; the scraping of the wheels becomes more rhythmic, takes on a deeper whine; and the train rolls you on beyond them all.

  The Scarecrow

  Ethel Lina White

  Ethel Lina White (1876–1944) was, like Anthony Berkeley, another Golden Age writer who valued her privacy. Born in Abergavenny, Monmouthshire, she wrote the books on which the classic suspense movies The Lady Vanishes and The Spiral Staircase were based, but little is known about her life. The most informative biographical account has been written by the rare book dealer Mark Sutcliffe, who discovered that she was known by her relatives and contemporaries as “Dell”, and was one of a family of twelve raised by Welsh nursemaids. In a letter to her publisher, she recalled the lurid stories told her by the nursemaids—“probably excellent training for a future thrill-writer!”

  White threw up a safe but boring job with the Ministry of Pensions “on the strength of a ten-pound offer for a short story” and “scratched a living on short stuff for quite a time before my first novel was published”. Her favourite form of relaxation was watching films (“I used to go to the Pictures before it was general”) and this may account for the involving narrative style of her mysteries, and the fact that they are well suited to film and TV adaptation. This story is characteristically vivid.

  ***

  “This is death!” thought Kay.

  It had come so suddenly that she felt no fear. The first pang of horror had not yet stirred within her brain. She was numb with sheer surprise.

  A moment ago, she had been laughing into the eyes of a man whom she believed to be her friend. They were dull eyes, dark in colour.

  Suddenly, they had grown dense as mud, and then burst into a green flame. Even as she stared, hypnotised by the change, his fingers shot out and gripped her throat.

  The supper-room was of discreet arrangement. Other couples were whispering on the other side of the screen. The orchestra jerked out jazz in a deafening blare.

  Kay had one moment of stark realisation. Rescue seemed hopeless. The fingers around her neck were clamped like an iron vice. Already everything was beginning to swim.

  “The end!” she thought.

  Then it grew dark.

  ***

  That was over three years ago. Today, Kay was, apparently, not a penny the worse for her experience. She carried no scar on her throat, and only the least bruise on her nerves.

  A waiter—who had miraculously chanced to glance round the screen—had been her salvation. Afterwards, she had a conversation with the head doctor of the mental hospital where Waring was confined.

 
“It was such a shock,” she said, “when he suddenly turned on me, because I always thought he liked me—quite.”

  “May I ask the exact nature of your relations?” inquired the doctor.

  “He’d asked me to marry him,” answered Kay frankly, “and I had refused him. But we went on being friends. I had not the slightest idea that he harboured any grudge.”

  Dr. Perry smiled down at her, for he liked her type; a healthy bobbed-haired girl with resolute brown eyes.

  “I hope you will try to forget all this bad business,” he said. “Remember, you’ve now nothing to fear.”

  And now, for the first time in three years, Kay was afraid.

  It was all William’s fault.

  William was the man to whom she was engaged. He was a doctor in the nearest town, and he rang her up whenever he had a chance. The wire was their blessed line of communication, and Kay rushed to the telephone the instant she heard the preliminary tinkle.

  She was about to broadcast a kiss, when she was arrested by his words.

  “Look here, Kay. I’ve news. But—don’t be alarmed! There’s nothing in the world to be frightened about.”

  And then, of course, she began to feel afraid.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Well—Waring’s escaped.”

  Involuntarily, Kay glanced out of the window. In front of her was an expanse of bare fields, with low hedges, running to meet the white skyline. It looked windswept and very empty.

  She laughed, to show William Tree that she was not afraid.

  “Well, if he comes here, I shall be in the soup.”

  William hastened to reassure her.

  “I’ll be over with you as soon as my old stinkpot will bring me. Don’t worry about Waring! I’ll fix everything all right.”

  Smiling, Kay hung up the receiver. It was a definite comfort to know that she would soon be seeing William. As he resembled an ardent pugilist rather than a soothing young physician, the mere sight of him would be bracing.

  She lit a cigarette and sat down to think. But her thoughts were curded with memories of the old hectic life, when she had been an art student at Chelsea, and the harmless flirtations, which had culminated in the tragedy of Waring.

  Again she saw the tawdry restaurant revolving around her in mad circles of light and colour, as the fingers tightened round her throat.

  She shuddered. It was unpleasant to reflect that, at this moment, Waring was in her neighbourhood—hiding behind outhouse or hayrick—picking up her trail. He might be twenty miles away—or he might be near.

  Unpleasant, too, to dwell on her isolation. She and her mother were alone on the chicken-farm, for they could afford no outside labour. And her mother—called by maternal request ‘Milly’—was, at this juncture, hopeless.

  In other respects, however, she was the mainstay of their speculation, for, while Kay did the rough land-work, she tended the incubators, with excellent results. The worst thing about her was her appearance; a featherweight of a woman with hollow rouged cheeks, she looked ridiculous in the trousers which were her idea of a smart country outfit.

  Kay shook her head in decision.

  “Milly musn’t know.”

  She walked to the window and looked out over the checkerboard of fields. The nearest bungalow was more than a quarter of a mile away. She could see the telegraph wires which bordered the main road, and also her own solitary line, shaking in the wind.

  But, with the bareness, came a sense of security. She was grateful for the absence of undergrowth with its sinister suggestion of concealment.

  Suddenly, as her eyes wandered on, her heart gave a sharp double-knock and then seemed to stop.

  Standing amid the young trees of the cherry orchard, was a man.

  ***

  The next moment she burst into a peal of laughter.

  Her man was a scarecrow.

  She had made him the preceding evening—shamelessly neglecting her chores and her proper share of work, in the thrill of a new job. Her artistic training had assisted in his manufacture, so that he was a padded masterpiece of reality.

  To help the illusion, the scarecrow was not dressed in the usual rags. In the absence of these—and reflecting that weather could not spoil it, during the short time that the cherries were ripening—Kay had clothed her dummy in a weatherproof left behind him at the bungalow by her brother, who was on a ship.

  Its collar was turned up to meet nearly the broad-brimmed slouch hat. Big boots, with padded leggings and stuffed gloves completed the outfit.

  ***

  It was almost dark when her task was completed. This was the first time she had seen the scarecrow by daylight.

  It had given her a distinct shock. Her nerves were still quivering, as she stood gazing out of the window. The scarecrow was so grotesquely lifelike. In the distance, he seemed to assume a real personality. His movements appeared to be independent of the wind. As she watched it, she almost expected to see it walk from the orchard.

  She began to grow nervous.

  “I’m sure I never made that,” she murmured. “It looks alive.”

  There was no time for idling, for she had yet to visit the egg-house. But, even as she took out the key, she knew that work was impossible, unless she first satisfied herself about the scarecrow.

  She was surprised at her own distaste. As she swung open the gate leading into the orchard, she recoiled instinctively at the sight of the figure lurking amid the dwarf trees.

  It seemed to be waiting for her. At any moment—she expected it to spring.

  “Absurd!” she said aloud.

  Screwing up her will-power, she ran towards it, like a young war-charger. And, as she came nearer, it lost its lifelike outlines, and became—quite definitely—a stuffed dummy.

  “Thank Heaven!”

  In that half-sob of relief, Kay learnt the measure of her fear.

  Then, at the sound of a familiar hoot from the lane, she dropped the key of the egg-house on the grass, and rushed back to the bungalow. She reached it, just as the dilapidated car chugged to the door.

  Although not given to demonstration, they hugged each other.

  “I’m still here,” laughed Kay, releasing herself. “You’ll never get rid of me, and you’d better give up hoping.”

  Then Milly appeared, and before Kay could warn him, William had blurted out the situation.

  “You’ve both of you got to clear out this instant, and come back with me into the town,” he commanded. “It’s only a question of hours. Dr. Perry and his staff are out, combing the district.”

  Kay—a big bonny girl in breeches though she appeared—was ready enough to go. The opposition came from an unexpected quarter—the fragile Milly.

  “The idea!” she exclaimed. “Do you expect me to leave my chicks and incubators, at this critical stage? It’s monstrous.”

  William and Kay beat themselves, in vain, against the wall of her resolution. She refused to hear argument.

  “All I know is,” she declared, “that every penny I possess is wrapped up in this farm. And as for Waring, I’m not frightened of him. I always found him most quiet and unassuming. In fact, quite impossible. Besides, I had some experience in that Chelsea riot of Kay’s.”

  As William groaned, Kay’s face suddenly lit up.

  “Milly’s right,” she asserted. “We’re safer here. To begin with, we don’t know that he will want to attack me again. And if he does, how can he possibly find us here?”

  William smoked in silence for a time.

  “That’s true,” he said presently. “Presuming it is a case of l’idée fixe, he can’t know where you are. The only way he can find out is through me.”

  “You?” cried Kay.

  “Yes. He connects us. He was jealous of me before he went off his rocker.
He’ll probably make a bee-line for Chelsea. Do the people at your old studio know your address?”

  Kay shook her head.

  “There have been relays of tenants since then. The tide has long ago washed away all traces of poor undistinguished me.”

  “Good. Well, he’ll do a bit of lurking there—and then he’ll stalk me.”

  Kay promptly clapped his cap upon his head.

  “Then back you go, my lad, before you give the show away.”

  Even as she spoke, a shadow chased away her smile.

  “You don’t think he’s already followed you here?” she asked.

  “Not he,” said William. “He’s not had time to get back from his Chelsea lurk. I believe if I do a bit of lurking myself, he’ll step into my trap, and then you’ll be safe again.”

  ***

  Kay held his arm rather tightly as they walked towards his car; and William’s kiss, too, was lingering—and his voice slightly husky.

  “Bless you and keep you safe! I—I don’t like the idea of leaving you two women alone, without a man.”

  Kay began to laugh.

  “But we have got a protector. One of the best. He scared me, and he’d scare off anyone.”

  Still laughing, she ran him round to the orchard-gate, and pointed to the scarecrow.

  “Look! There’s our man.”

  •••

  Towards evening, the wind rose yet higher, driving before it sheets of torrential rain. In spite of her common sense, Kay dreaded the hours of darkness. Their ugly matchbox bungalow seemed no protection against the perils of the night. She heard footsteps in every gust of wind—voices in every howl. Sleep was out of the question, and she made no attempt to go to bed.

  “If I have to die, I’ll die in my boots,” she resolved.

  Rather to her surprise, the valiant Milly shared her vigil, although she asserted that her anxiety was on the score of the roofs of the chicken houses. Together, the two women sat in the lamplit sitting-room, listening to the rattle of corrugated iron, the slash of the rain against the windows, and the shrieking of the wind.