Songs in the Key of Death

by William Bankier

  “But the murdered man. I’m right, he was your companion, wasn’t he?” Her silence was enough. “So what happened? You did kill him, didn’t you? I can tell.”

  Meredith’s face crumpled and she wept like a child. Bits of explanation came through. “It was never like that before. He was cruel. He didn’t want to make love, he wanted to hurt me. I had no choice. I had to defend myself.”

  “But he was stabbed. Do you carry a knife?”

  “It was his knife. He was forcing me, on the beach by that terrible sewer. I pretended to cooperate and when he wasn’t alert I grabbed the knife.”

  It could have been true and it could just as well not have been. But for a moment or two, Tennyson was touched by something in the girl’s fierce loneliness. He remembered Tony Bastable’s outline of her tragic background and saw her now as the bereaved teenager whose parents had taken the easy way out. He was not about to add to her misery.

  “All right,” he said, “all right, don’t cry. I’m not going to the police.” He found himself putting an arm around her shoulder and felt her stiffen and move away. “It’s all over and done with anyway. We can’t bring him back.”

  So Eric Tennyson took his secret away with him and carried it through an exciting summer, during which rehearsals for his play got under way. But his imagination would not let go of the material, and he found himself working it into an outline for a drama that the society might want to stage at a later date. In the play, a shy girl from an amateur theatrical group makes regular trips to seaside resorts, assumes another character, picks up interested men, and then stabs them to death.

  It was during the final week of rehearsals for his romantic comedy that Tennyson stumbled on an example of life imitating art that shook him to the ground. He was sitting alone in the dressing-room backstage at Marlborough Hall, waiting for a lighting adjustment to be made. Bored, he picked up a copy of an old newspaper left there months ago by a member of some other company using the hall. The headline on page two caught his eye.

  BRIGHTON STABBING FITS PATTERN

  He read on and learned that the police had linked the murder of the Leeds businessman with two others committed within the year at other resorts along the coast—Bournemouth and Ramsgate. They were working on the theory that someone connected with yachting or coastal fishing was involved.

  Tennyson tore the page from the musty tabloid, folded it small, and tucked it into a pocket. He was dizzy with apprehension and guilt. He should have gone to the police right away. How would he justify himself if he called them now, months after the fact? Still, she had not been active again—if, in fact, the other cases had to do with her at all. She had admitted the first killing, in self-defense, she said. The police might be wrong in linking all three.

  Tennyson was looking glumly at the floor when Tony Bastable put his ruby face through the doorway. “Come along, author. You’re wanted onstage.” Eric had given himself a small part in his own play, to share the praise or the blame, whichever it might be.

  He followed the director up the narrow steps and was able to lose himself in the make-believe action, to put off the troublesome responsibility, at least until he could talk to Meredith Morgan again.

  But she was elusive during play week, vanishing after each performance, so he decided to show her the clipping at the cast party on the Saturday following closing night. It was a triumphant week for Tennyson because the audiences loved the play. A woman with West End connections asked him for a copy of the script and said she was sending it to a chap who was always looking for comedies. Tony Bastable was ebullient and asked Tennyson what else he could give them. Eric said he had something on the fire, a thriller, and promised to show Tony an outline.

  By party night, the euphoria had faded enough for Tennyson to be concerned again about the secret he was carrying. He waited for Meredith to show and when midnight arrived without her, he asked around. One of the cattier girls rolled her eyes at a friend and said, “She must have gone off on one of her trips”

  “Trips?”

  “Yes, didn’t you know? Meredith is a loner. She saves her money and then sneaks off someplace were she can get drunk and let her hair down.”

  Tennyson did know. And his knowledge went further than theirs. If Meredith Morgan was about to do her thing again, he, Eric Tennyson, would be morally if not legally guilty of aiding and abetting.

  He left the party and walked to Meredith’s rooming house. The idea of calling the police still did not appeal to him. He was terribly late with his information and the story would be hard to follow. His best bet would be to follow the girl and head her off.

  His fears were realized when she did not answer repeated rings of the bell and heavy pounding on the door. But a tiny bird of a woman did appear from another doorway on the ground floor. She was in a wheelchair and held a large cat on her lap. Tennyson knew that contemptuous look—it was Meredith’s cat.

  “Good evening,” he said, putting on his brightest and best transatlantic voice. “I’m sorry to trouble you. I know Meredith Morgan has gone away, but she has a few pages of script in her flat and we need them for a reading. I wonder if I could just dart up and fetch them?”

  “You’re the lad who wrote the play.”

  “Yes I am.”

  “I didn’t go. I can’t go anywhere. Congratulations, I heard it was smashing.”

  “Well, thank you.” It was a chance, so Tennyson said, “Did Meredith say where she was going this time?”

  “Never. That girl comes and goes as she pleases.”

  “Yes. Well then, if I might have a key...”

  The landlady creaked away backwards on her giant wheels. A minute later, Tennyson was on his way up the stairs. It was a blind chance; he would have to be lucky. There were no travel folders on view in the dismal room so he busied himself nosing about the telephone table. Here he saw a directory with a lot of numbers scribbled on the cover. One looked fresher than the others, and its four-digit prefix indicated it was outside London. Taking a chance, Tennyson picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  After a few rings, a cheerful female voice answered and said, “Good evening, The Cliffs Hotel.”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you. I have a silly question. Could you tell me where you’re located?”

  The girl laughed. “Last time I looked, we were in Penzance.”

  The first train he could catch was out of Paddington Station at 9:30 in the morning. Tennyson settled himself for the six-hour trip west, down through Devon and into Cornwall. He knew he was being shown some of the most beautiful countryside in the world but his mind would not let him enjoy it. He had to find Meredith Morgan fast. And then he had to decide what to do with her.

  Penzance, the end of the line, came up a little after half past three. A stretch of sea on the left dazzled Tennyson—it was an indescribable blue and there was so much water he felt dizzy and had to grasp the rough train seat. There was no end to it—the sea was freedom, the sea pulled you away from the land.

  The Cliffs Hotel was only a five-minute walk from the station. Tennyson went and stood outside, not knowing what to do. Meredith would not be registered under her own name. Would she be pretending again to be German? Perhaps, but not necessarily. Even so, how could he inquire without a name?

  He began to feel the pressure of time. She would probably not be in her room on a sunny Sunday afternoon. But supposing she followed her Brighton pattern and chose a pub—Penzance had pubs on every corner.

  Tennyson turned from the hotel and started walking. After all, Meredith was a visitor too. She could only have drifted down this hill and onto the main street, working up the other hill past the station. And he was in luck with English pub hours; they were all closed till six so she had to be circulating.

  It was almost six o’clock when he saw her. She was standing with a man outside a pub called The Turk’s Head, the red plastic bag hanging over her shoulder, her hip cocked in a coquettish pose. The man was portly, his f
ace florid in a frame of curly grey hair.

  As Tennyson watched, the pub door was opened from the inside and the couple went through, ducking their heads under the low lintel. Not wanting to waste a second, Tennyson hurried across the street and stepped down into the entry. There were two doors, the Saloon Bar and The Snug. He tried the latter and found Meredith sitting alone on an upholstered bench. Her eyes widened.

  “Where’s your friend?” he said.

  “In the loo.”

  “Good.” He produced the newspaper story and showed it to her. She only glanced at it. “You admitted the Brighton killing and here are the police saying it’s one of a set. How do you explain that?”

  The portly man was back. Meredith spoke first, her German accent sounding impeccable. “I’m sorry, I lied to you. I am not alone. This is my husband, he has found me, and I am a bad girl.”

  Portly gave a gallant bow. “You could never be a bad girl, my dear. Sir, you are a lucky man.” He insisted on buying them drinks and departed, wishing them years of happiness, hinting they needed babies to turn their marriage to gold like his.

  Alone now, Meredith lowered her voice and dropped the accent. She admitted the crimes and said, through tears, that she could not help herself. Leaning close to Tennyson, taking his arm, she was everything the Meredith back in Wimbledon was not. He found himself feeling very sorry for her while an inner voice told him they were in this together—which, after his months of silence, was true enough.

  “Look,” he said during a second round of drinks, “we don’t have to be Freudians to see the problems you’ve had to cope with. I heard about your parents’ suicide and how that turned your life around.”

  “My life was miserable before that. They never loved me. They only loved each other. Oh, they gave me clothes and money and private schools. But that was to shut me up and keep me out of their sight.” Her voice was flat.

  Tapping the message out with a fingertip on the back of her hand, Tennyson said, “It can still be all right. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I know you’re broke now but we can get you into some sort of psychotherapy on the National Health. Or I can pay for a specialist—I’ve got money. No, listen to me. You can talk out this hostility and not have to go after older men.”

  “But after what I’ve done...”

  “I’ve never believed in punishment for its own sake. Those men can’t be brought back to life. The thing is to salvage your life.”

  He spent the night with her in her room at The Cliffs. A wind blew up and brought rain to lash the bay window, and beyond that sound breakers pulsed and crashed against the shingle beach. On an impulse, he asked her to speak to him in her German accent. She did, crooning romantic syllables in a husky voice, and he was overcome with desire for this strange, dangerous woman.

  In the morning, the sky was blue again, the sea choppy under a brisk wind. Their best train to London was at four o’clock so they were left with hours to kill.

  Meredith said, “Let’s take a bus to Land’s End. As long as we’re here, it’s a shame not to see it.”

  So they boarded a green coach and drove along winding country roads, the drystone walls ablaze with gorse in golden bloom. At Land’s End, the wind was fierce and the mass of tourists headed for the safety of the hotel with its bars and lounges.

  “Can we survive this hurricane?” Tennyson said, holding Meredith by both arms, finding it difficult to catch his breath.

  “Don’t be a coward,” she said.

  They walked round the hotel and crossed a dry decline to where an outcropping of eroded rock marked the southwestern tip of England. A white signpost indicated mileages to places like John O’Groats. The wind was incredible—Tennyson had never experienced anything like it. It was more than a movement of air; it had substance, as if they were standing in the rush of an avalanche.

  “A little of this goes a long way!” he shouted.

  Meredith was looking around. “We’re the only brave ones,” she said. “I love it.” She moved from his side and ventured across a sloping rock, sitting down on it, bracing her feet, then peering over at the sea. She looked back over her shoulder and he was struck by her childlike beauty. With her hair streaming flat across her cheek, she looked twelve years old.

  “Come and see the color of the water!” she shouted. “It’s unbelievable!”

  He crept over the rock and edged to a position beside her. She was right, the water below was churned to an electric foam, boiling and reaching upward with sheets of spray.

  Then her foot was kicking at his and her hand was in the small of his back and he felt himself sliding forward over the edge. In that last moment, he saw her eyes and noted that they were intent, filled with a fierce determination. And he thought of his success, of all the plays he was going to write, and there ought to be something he could do but he was head down now and screaming as he fell.

  Tony Bastable was astonished and saddened by the tragedy at Land’s End. Imagine old Eric being involved with Meredith like that. The American had never said anything; he didn’t even seem to like the girl particularly. A faint whisper of suspicion sounded in Bastable’s mind but he could not link it with anything.

  As for Meredith, she had been a sad enough figure up till now. How could they possibly cope with her after this?

  However, life must go on. More particularly, the life of the Hartfield Dramatic Society. Pity they had found a local playwright only to lose him after one success. Still, Tennyson had offered them his new play, so Bastable felt no qualms in rescuing it from his flat. If the outline had merit, another writer could develop it and they would have a nice newsy production, a posthumous premiere!

  He settled into his armchair, stretched his legs, and began to read. Then Tony Bastable’s intelligent eyes began to widen perceptively as he learned about the unloved actress who travelled to seaside resorts and killed strangers, and who was found out by a writer who pursued her, which left her with no choice but to kill him.

  Enter the lively and lurid world

  of DIME CRIME!

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