by Joyce Porter
Miss Jones was forced to admit that this was probably true but it didn’t make her any happier about the forthcoming encounter. Could she, she wondered dejectedly, at least persuade the Hon. Con to put a skirt on? Mrs Urquhart was so particular about such things, being what Miss Jones liked to call a real lady. This classification implied no criticism of the Hon. Con, of course, whose blue blood and ancient lineage entitled her to flout convention and even common decency, but Miss Jones couldn’t help wishing in the innermost recesses of her loving heart that her friend was a little more like Mrs Urquhart. After all, Mrs Urquhart came from a family which, although not ennobled, was just as good as the Hon. Con’s and she possessed a fortune as great, if not greater. She didn’t, however, consider it necessary to slouch around dressed in clothes that looked as though they had been discarded by a scarecrow or perfume herself with after-shave lotion or – Miss Jones shuddered – attempt to trim her own hair with her grandfather’s cut-throat razor.
‘Chicken broth!’ said the Hon. Con.
Miss Jones passed a limp hand across her brow. ‘Chicken broth, dear?’
‘Just the thing for an old lady. Light but nourishing. Buck her up no end.’
Miss Jones doubted most sincerely that Mrs Urquhart would need to be all bucked up by a present of chicken broth and she was relieved that her opinion was not likely to be put to the test ‘We haven’t got any chicken broth, dear,’ she pointed out.
Ingenuity was, however, occasionally the Hon. Con’s middle name and when at ten o’clock she set out to pay her morning call on Mrs Urquhart she was armed with a Thermos flask which, if not full of chicken broth, contained the next best thing: half a cube of meat stock dissolved in boiling water and laced with some sherry which Miss Jones kept insisting had gone off. If that, opined the Hon. Con when she got her voice back after a tentative sip, didn’t put some hair on old Ma Urquhart’s chest, nothing would.
Miss Jones was also worsted in the matter of the trousers. ‘ Garn!’ scoffed the Hon. Con. ‘ The old girl’s been as gaga as a coot for years. She wouldn’t notice if I were starkers.’
‘In that case, dear, it seems rather a waste of time going to see her at all.’
The Hon. Con was knotting her tie in the kitchen mirror. She scowled at her reflection. ‘Can’t think what you’re making such a fuss about, Bones!’ she growled.‘Anybody’d think the Urquharts were blooming royalty, the way you’re carrying on. I’ve put a clean collar on, haven’t I? What more do you want?’
Miss Jones recognized the futility of telling her and with a sinking heart watched the Hon. Con stump off down the garden path, the Thermos flask tucked securely under her arm. All Miss Jones could do now was hope that whatever fit Mrs Urquhart threw at the sight of her visitor would not be fatal.
There was only one policeman hanging about outside the Hellons’ house and the crowd of onlookers had gone, too. Passers-by stared at the house, of course, but they didn’t stop or, if they did, it was only for a second or two. The Hon. Con stopped and stared for a long time but that was in the line of duty. All the downstairs windows still had their curtains drawn and there wasn’t a sign of life anywhere. The Hon. Con glowered and just hoped that people realized how difficult things were for her. Damn it all, how could you be expected to achieve results when you couldn’t even get your hands on the basic facts. She’d had to scratch around like a starving hen to get even the bare outline of what had happened and she didn’t suppose Mrs Urquhart would be any blooming help, either. In fact, the closer she got to Mrs Urquhart’s house, the more she regretted ever having thought of the old termagant. By an odd coincidence the Hon. Con had known the Urquharts since she was a child and, though her father had dismissed them as a flashy lot, the Hon. Con had always found them rather daunting. The men had been so mettlesome and dashing and the women so delicate and feminine, always talking about clothes and make-up and other topics equally incomprehensible to the podgy young Constance. The passing years had not made the relationship any easier.
‘Oh heck!’ groaned the Hon. Con, and got a sharp look from the policeman on duty who was eager for anything, even a gibbering maniac, to relieve the monotony. The Hon, Con glared haughtily back at him and, shrugging her shoulders, plodded on past the Hellons’ house and into Mrs Urquhart’s imposing driveway. The house loomed ahead of her and, not for the first time, the Hon. Con marvelled that the old girl could afford to live in such state. True, there were signs of neglect and decay but there was still that air of casual elegance which the Hon. Con remembered as being the hallmark of the Urquharts.
She rang the front door bell and examined the paintwork with the critical eye of a ham-fisted do-it-yourselfer as she waited for the door to open. The elderly maid, deaf and not caring much for the look of the Hon. Con anyhow, listened impatiently as she blurted out her business. The shameful absence of hat, gloves and visiting card was duly noted before the old retainer creaked off. It was an eternity before she returned, carrying the glad tidings that Mrs Urquhart was not only ‘at home’ but ‘receiving’ as well. She led the way upstairs, hobbling on as fine a crop of bunions as Totterbridge could produce, to the drawing room-Mrs Urquhart, wearing a tea gown, was sitting by the fire in state. Though she was old and frail and tended to live in a world which no longer existed, she was very much in charge of this particular situation.
‘How very kind of you to call, Constance,’ she said in a rather high-pitched drawl ‘I do hope it hasn’t interrupted your ridin’.’
‘Riding?’ The Hon. Con was distressed to find that she was turning back to a bumbling, overweight schoolgirl under the amused stare from those faded blue eyes. She could actually feel her feet growing larger and the sleeves of her jacket shrinking up her arms. She was even grateful for that damned Thermos flask. At least it gave her something to do with her hands.
‘Those are jodhpurs you’re wearing, aren’t they ?’
‘How are you keeping, eh?’ asked the Hon. Con heartily, sitting down on a weedy looking chair that buckled protestingly under her weight.
Mrs Urquhart smiled a thin smile.‘Don’t try to change the subject, Constance!’ The Hon. Con squirmed.
‘And what is that you’re clutchin’?’
‘Eh? Oh,’ – the Hon. Con gazed hopelessly at the chicken broth container – ‘it’s a … a Thermos flask.’
‘You see?’ Mrs Urquhart inclined her head triumphantly. ‘You have been ridin’.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t realize there was any huntin’ round here.’
‘There isn’t,’ said the Hon. Con miserably.
‘You’ve been hackin’ then?’
‘No,’ said the Hon. Con, beginning to wish the earth would open up and swallow her.
Mrs Urquhart’s blue eyes opened very, very wide. ‘You don’t meant to say you’re just walkin’ around like that, Constance? Dear heavens, your poor father must be spinnin’ in his grave! Addle-pated as he was, he did appreciate a well-dressed woman.’ Mrs Urquhart preened herself in a manner which hinted at all kinds of delicious intrigues in the far distant past.
The Hon. Con clenched her fists and seized the bit between her teeth. ‘ Hear you’ve had a murder next door!’ she bellowed.
Mrs Urquhart kept her eyes closed and her hands over her ears long enough for the Hon. Con to get the message. Then she spoke very, very quietly. Kindly don’t associate me with that sordid business, Constance. I had quite enough trouble with that young woman when she was alive and, as I told the policemen, I absolutely refuse to be pestered by her now she’s dead.’
‘You actually knew her?’ gasped the Hon. Con, overreacting and only just grabbing the little Dresden figure in time. Well – crikey – you’d think Mrs Urquhart with all her money could afford a table that didn’t wobble about like a jelly
Mrs Urquhart fastidiously rejected a scathing observation about ungainly elephants as being beneath her style. ‘Of course I didn’t know her, Constance! I never go out and, with the advancin’ years, I grow increasin’ly
particular about whom I let in. Both my maids,’ she added – and the warning was painfully clear – ‘ have very strict instructions.’
But the Hon. Con had already vowed that, if she got out of this in one piece, she was never going to darken Mrs Urquhart’s door again and so she felt entitled to press her hostess a little further. ‘But, you said …’ she began.
‘I am perfectly well aware what I said, Constance!’ retorted Mrs Urquhart sharply, flapping the Hon. Con into silence with an irritated fluttering of her heavily be-ringed hands. ‘And, if you could manage not to interrupt me every two seconds, I shall explain my statement.’ Mrs Urquhart was a firm believer in establishing her version of the truth as widely and as early as possible. She didn’t rate the Hon. Con very highly as an ally but the murder of the O’Coyne girl was an embarrassment and it was a case of any port in a storm. ‘It was thanks to Torquil that I became involved with the trollop.’
‘Torquil?’ ventured the Hon. Con.
‘Miranda’s boy.’
Miranda, the Hon. Con recollected, was Mrs Urquhart’s youngest daughter who had managed to divide her adult life pretty evenly between the altar and the divorce court. Torquil, presumably, was a product of one of the brief interim periods.
‘He’s just turned eighteen,’ Mrs Urquhart continued, permitting herself a faintly indulgent smile, ‘and he is unfortunately goin’ through one of those difficult phases. He doesn’t get on with his step-father and then there was some trouble about a cardinal’s niece – they live in Italy, you know – so Miranda sent him over to me until things died down. I must say I can’t think what all the fuss was about. I found him a most delightful boy. A little unreliable where money is concerned, perhaps, but he gets that from his father. Bernard was always terribly unreliable about money. Especially other people’s. Or,’ – she paused thoughtfully – ‘was it Bertram? One tends to become a little confused where Miranda is concerned. I do wish she could find a really nice man and settle down. I’m afraid this Italian business isn’t goin’ to last much longer.’
‘Because of Torquil?’ asked the Hon. Con, hoping to hire Mrs Urquhart back to more fruitful pastures.
‘Well, Torquil certainly doesn’t help,’ admitted Mrs Urquhart with a sigh. ‘Such an awkward age for a boy – eighteen. I was terribly afraid he was goin’ to be bored in Totterbridge – after Rome, you understand. And so he was at first. Very bored. I was just beginnin’ to wonder what on earth I was goin’ to do with him when he got friendly with this au pair girl at the Hellons. Oh, dear, I thought all my troubles were over! She was really quite pretty, you know, in a scullery-maid sort of way and a nice little affair was just what Torquil needed.’
‘Quite,’ murmured the Hon. Con, trying to treat these delicate matters of the heart with a nonchalance equal to Mrs Urquhart’s. ‘So they became chums, did they?’
Mrs Urquhart’s lips clamped into an ugly line. ‘They did not! The two-faced little bitch had the sheer impertinence to reject his advances out of hand! Imagine! A young slut like her and a charming boy like Torquil! Oh, the selfishness of it! Mrs Urquhart waxed pathetic and even went so far as to dab her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief that wouldn’t have survived one blow from the Hon. Con. ‘Poor Torquil was absolutely broken-hearted! Really, I could cheerfully have strangled that girl myself!’
‘But you didn’t?’ said the Hon. Con with a rather silly sort of laugh.
‘Of course I didn’t! And neither’ – Mrs Urquhart fixed the Hon. Con with a steely glare – ‘did Torquil!’
The Hon. Con’s face went brick red. ‘Idea never crossed my mind,’ she muttered.
‘I am glad to hear it!’
‘’Spect the police wanted a word with the lad, though?’
The interview, as far as Mrs Urquhart was concerned, had now reached its climax and she spoke slowly and distinctly. ‘Torquil had left Totterbridge hours and hours before that girl was killed. I saw him leave in the taxi-cab for the station with my own eyes.’
Chapter Six
‘Well,’ said Miss Jones, taking the Hon. Con’s account of her tête-à-tête with Mrs Urquhart with more than a pinch of salt, ‘ that’s that, isn’t it, dear? If this Torquil flew back to Rome on Monday evening, he couldn’t possibly be involved in the murder. He’s got an alibi.’
‘I know he’s got an alibi!’ snapped the Hon. Con. She suspected that she had not shown up too well vis-a-vis Mrs Urquhart and she was not in the sunniest of moods.’ The fact remains that the dissolute young pup has one heck of a motive and we’ve only got the old girl’s word for it that he really was on his way back home at the vital time.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Urquhart wouldn’t lie, dear.’ Miss Jones was much more interested in the inside of the Thermos flask which the Hon. Con had brought back empty after having poured the contents down a convenient drain.
‘If it meant saving Torquil’s lousy little neck, she’d lie her head off! She knows the danger he’s in. That’s why she told me the whole story. You can bet your boots that if he hadn’t been mixed up in it, I’d never have been let over the threshold. Well, she hasn’t convinced me of his innocence, for all her cleverness.’
‘He certainly sounds a very unpleasant young man,’ admitted Miss Jones, still wondering how she could remove those ugly black stains. ‘Are you sure Mrs Urquhart was grateful for the chicken broth, dear?’
‘Pleased as punch,’ said the Hon. Con firmly. ‘Told me she was going to have it for her lunch.’
‘Well, I suppose it couldn’t actually poison anybody,’ murmured Miss Jones, sniffing dubiously. ‘On the other hand, Mrs Urquhart isn’t very robust, is she?’
‘She’s as tough as an old goat!’ snorted the Hon. Con. ‘In fact, if this abominable grandson of hers proves to be in the clear, I wouldn’t mind putting my money on the old girl herself.’
Miss Jones reached into the cupboard under the sink for a bottle of bleach. Maybe a good soaking would … ‘Don’t be silly, dear!’
‘Who’s being silly?’ demanded the Hon. Con furiously. ‘Just because she prefers to mooch around all day in that drawing room like Patience on a Monument, it doesn’t mean that she isn’t capable of nipping next door in the dead of night and battering an unsuspecting girl to death.’
Miss Jones broke off her inspection of the Thermos flask to smile playfully at her friend. ‘Oh, Constance, it’s hardly any time at all since you were accusing Adam and Eve Spennymoor of the murder! Why, at this rate,’ – she didn’t endear herself to the Hon. Con by laughing indulgently – ‘you’ll have the whole town on your list of suspects!’
‘You’ve got to keep an open mind!’ blustered the Hon. Con. ‘It’s just that I haven’t got around to eliminating people yet.’
‘Well, I’m sure the police will be doing that very efficiently. If they know about Torquil’s entanglement with this girl, they’ll investigate his movements very thoroughly, won’t they?’
The Hon. Con thrust her hands deep into her trouser pockets and scowled. ‘ Could do that myself easily enough,’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t be beyond the wit of man to check a simple alibi. Only got to ring up Rome and ask ’ em what time he got home.’
‘Ring up Rome, dear? But you don’t know his telephone number or where he lives or even what his surname is, do you? Or what his mother’s married name is at the moment?’
‘Could ask old Ma Urquhart, I suppose,’ said the Hon. Con without much enthusiasm.
Miss Jones, having got her man sagging at the knees, shrewdly directed her final punch at the soft underbelly. ‘ I wonder,’ she mused, carefully placing the flask on the window sill, ‘how much it costs to make a telephone call to Rome.’
‘Dunno,’ said the Hon. Con airily, as she tried not to capitulate too obviously before Miss Jones’s cold logic. ‘Anyhow, I haven’t got time to pursue that line of enquiry at the moment. Got some more leg work to do first.’
Miss Jones abandoned the ruined Thermos flask and looked up in alarm. ‘You’re not
going to interview anybody else, are you, dear?’
‘I jolly well am!’ The Hon. Con stuck her chin out. ‘Soon as you’ve filled up the old nosebag for me, I’m on my way. Going to grill those bungalowers.’
‘Oh, Constance, dear, do you think that’s wise? I mean, well, relations have been a bit strained, haven’t they? And that elderly gentleman did threaten you with his crutch.’
‘If he tries it again, I shall kick his other leg away!’ sniggered the Hon. Con. ‘Besides,’ – she had a sudden inspiration – ‘I’m going to disguise myself.’
Miss Jones propped herself against the kitchen sink while a motley array of pirates, bedouin Arabs, pierotts and Mickey Mouses waddled with the Hon. Con’s unmistakable gait through her mind. ‘Disguise, dear?’
The Hon. Con grinned. ‘Going to wear a skirt!’
In the event the Hon. Con did the bungalows proud. She put on her best two-piece – navy-blue and pin-striped – and only rejected her grey-pork-pie hat with the silk ribbon because she was saving it for weddings and funerals.
‘What, ’asked Miss Jones, when she had finished telling the Hon. Con how nice she looked, ‘ have you got there?’
‘My secret weapon! Raffle tickets!’
‘Raffle tickets? No, don’t go away, dear! I just want to brush your collar.’
‘Found ’em in my hankie drawer,’ explained the Hon. Con, examining herself in the hallstand mirror with considerable satisfaction. ‘They’ll provide me with a first-rate cover for tackling those bungalows. That class spend a fortune on gambling, you know, and this raffle’s got some ripping prizes. Look,’ – she showed the tickets to Miss Jones – ‘a twenty-eight pound turkey, a Christmas cake, boxes of crackers and fifteen Christmas puds.’
‘Oh, but – Constance, dear – the date! The draw was on the fourteenth of December, last year!’
The Hon. Con snatched the raffle tickets back. ‘ Trust you to try and put the dampers on!’ she snarled. She had been rather tickled at the idea of using the raffle tickets which had been sent to her (unsolicited) in the hope that she would purchase some and sell the rest to her friends. At the time she had been reduced to incohorent fury by the bare-faced cheek of such an approach but now all that was forgotten and forgiven. The raffle tickets were a Good Idea and she wasn’t going to abandon it because of some raffling technicality. If the incongruity of taking presents to her well-off friends while approaching the poor with demands for money occurred to her at all she gave no sign.
