Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense

by Simon Brett

  “Bless you, bless you. Come on, let’s drink to it.”

  “I don’t drink much. It makes me sleepy. I haven’t got the head for it. I—”

  “Come on, drink.”

  Mostyn hadn’t got the head for it. As the afternoon progressed he became more and more embarrassingly devoted. Then he fell into a comatose sleep.

  The day after next the plane ticket was on the dining-room table, next to Peter Mostyn’s passport. Upstairs his small case was packed ready. He was to fly from Paris in three days’ time, on the Wednesday. He would be back at the cottage by the weekend. With the money and jewels which would be Renshaw’s lifeline.

  Renshaw’s confidence started to return. With money in his pocket, everything would once more become possible. Twelve thousand pounds was plenty to buy a new identity and start again. Talent like his, he knew, could not be kept down for long.

  Mostyn was obviously uneasy about the task ahead of him, but he had been carefully briefed and he’d manage it all right. The Big Boy was entrusting him with a mission and the Little Boy would see that it was efficiently discharged.

  A new harmony came into their relationship. Now that his escape had a date on it, Renshaw could relax and even be pleasant to his protector, Mostyn glowed with gratitude for the attention. It did not take much to make him happy, Renshaw thought contemptuously. Once again, as he looked at the prematurely aged and crippled figure, he found it incongruous that their bodies had ever touched. Mostyn had never been other than pathetic.

  Still, he was useful. And, though it was making huge inroads into his carefully husbanded wealth, he kept the supply of brandy flowing. Renshaw topped up his tumbler again after lunch on the Monday afternoon.

  It was then that there was a knock at the door. Mostyn leapt nervously to the window to check out the visitor. When he looked back at Renshaw, his face had even less colour under its thatch. “It’s a gendarme.”

  Moving quickly and efficiently, Larry Renshaw picked up his dirty plate, together with the brandy bottle and tumbler, and went upstairs. His bedroom window was above the sloping roof of the porch. If anyone came up, he would be able to make a quick getaway.

  He heard conversation downstairs, but it was too indistinct and his knowledge of French too limited for him to understand it. Then he heard the front door shut. From the window he saw the gendarme go to his bike and cycle off towards Montaigu-de-Quercy.

  He gave it five minutes and went downstairs. Peter Mostyn sat at the table, literally shaking.

  “What the hell’s the matter?”

  “The gendarme . . . he asked if I had seen you.”

  “So you said you hadn’t.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But what? That’s all there is to it, surely. There’s been an Interpol alert to check out any contacts I might have abroad. They got your name from my address book back at the flat. So now the local bobby here has done his bit and will report back that you haven’t seen me since last week in London. End of story. I’m glad it’s happened; at least now I don’t have to wait for it.”

  “Yes, but, Larry, look at the state I’m in.”

  “You’ll calm down. Come on. Okay, it was a shock, but you’ll get over it.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is, if I’m in this state now, I just won’t be able to go through with what I’m supposed to be doing on Wednesday.”

  “Look, for Christ’s sake, all you have to do is to catch a plane to London, go to the Liverpool Street Left Luggage office, get the case, go to somewhere conveniently quiet, load the stuff into your crutches and come back here. There’s no danger.”

  “I can’t do it, Larry. I can’t. I’ll crack up. I’ll give myself away somehow. If I were like you, I could do it. You’ve always had a stronger nerve for that sort of thing. I wish it were you who was going to do it, because I know you could. But I just . . .”

  He petered out. Anger invaded Renshaw. “Listen, you little worm, you’ve got to do it! Good God, you’ve said enough times you’d do anything for me; and now, the first time I ask for something, you’re bloody chicken.”

  “Larry, I would do anything for you, I would. But I just don’t think I can go through with this. I’d mess it up somehow. Honestly, Larry, if there were anything else I could do . . .”

  “Anything else? How about getting me off the murder charge? Maybe you’d like to do that instead?” Renshaw asked with acid sarcasm.

  “If I could . . . Or if I had enough money to be any use . . . Or if—”

  “Oh, shut up, you useless little queen!” Larry Renshaw stomped savagely upstairs with the brandy bottle.

  They did not speak to each other for over 24 hours.

  But the next evening, as he lay on the bed drinking brandy, watching the declining sun tinge the scrubby oak trees of the hillside with gold, Renshaw’s instinct started to take over again. It was a warm feeling. Once more he felt protected. His instinct was an Almighty Big Boy, looking after him, guiding him, showing him the way forward, as it always had done before.

  After about an hour, he heard the front door and saw Mostyn setting off down the road that led to Montaigu-de-Quercy. Again. He’d been out more than once since their row. No doubt going to buy more brandy as a peace offering. Poor little sod. Renshaw chuckled to himself at the aptness of the description.

  Alone in the cottage, he dozed. The bang of the door on Mostyn’s return woke him. And he was not surprised to wake up with his plan of campaign worked out in every detail.

  Peter Mostyn looked up like a mongrel fearing a kick, but Larry Renshaw smiled at him and was amused to see how gratefully the expression changed. Mostyn had all the weakness of the sort of women Renshaw had spent his life avoiding.

  “Larry, look, I’m terribly sorry about yesterday afternoon. I was just a coward. Look, I really do want to do something for you. You know I’d give my life for you if I thought it’d be any use. It’s been a pretty wasted life, I’d like it to do something valuable.”

  “But not go to London and pick up my things?” Renshaw asked lightly.

  “I just don’t think I could, Larry, I don’t think I have it in me. But I will go to London tomorrow. There is something else that I can do for you. I can help you. I have helped you already. I—”

  “Never mind.” Renshaw spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture of forgiveness. “Never mind. Listen, Peter,” he went on intimately, “I behaved like a swine yesterday and I want to apologize. I’m sorry, this whole thing’s been a dreadful strain, and I just haven’t been appreciating all you’re doing for me. Please forgive me.”

  “You’ve been fine. I . . .” Mostyn’s expression hovered between surprise and delight at his friend’s change of behaviour.

  “No, I’ve been being a swine. Peace offering.” He drew his hand out of his pocket and held it towards Mostyn.

  “But you don’t want to give me that. It’s your identity bracelet, it’s got your name on. And it’s gold. I mean, you’d—”

  “Please . . .”

  Mostyn took the bracelet and slipped it on to his thin wrist.

  “Listen, Peter, I’ve been so screwed up that I just haven’t been thinking straight. Forget the money in London. Maybe I’ll get it some day, maybe I won’t. The important thing is that I’m safe at the moment, with a friend. A very good friend. Peter, what I want to ask is, can I stay here for a bit?” He looked up humbly. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? Look, you know, Larry, I’d be delighted. Delighted. You don’t have to ask that.”

  “Bless you, Peter.” Renshaw spoke softly, as if choked by emotion. Then he perked up. “If that’s settled then, let’s drink on it.”

  “I won’t, thank you, Larry. You know it only makes me sleepy.”

  “Oh, come on, Peter. If we’re going to live together, we’ve got to learn to enjoy the same hobbies.” And he filled two tumblers with brandy.

  The prospect opened up by the words “live together” was too muc
h for Mostyn. There were tears in his eyes as he drained his first drink.

  It was about an hour and a half later when Renshaw judged the moment to be right. Mostyn was slurring his words and yawning, but still conscious. His eyes focused in pleasure for a moment when Renshaw murmured, “Why don’t we go upstairs?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” He giggled.

  “Really? Really?”

  Renshaw nodded.

  Mostyn rose, swaying, to his feet. “Where are my crutches?”

  “They won’t help you stand up straight in the state you’re in.” Renshaw giggled again, and Mostyn joined in. Renshaw ruffled his Little Boy’s hair, and the toupee came off in his hand.

  “Gimme thaback.”

  “When I come upstairs,” Renshaw murmured softly. Then, in an even lower whisper, “Go up to my room, get my pyjamas, put them on and get into my bed. I’ll be up soon.”

  Mostyn smiled with fuddled pleasure, and started off up the stairs. Renshaw heard the uneven footsteps in his room above, then the hobbling noises of undressing, the thump of a body hitting the bed and soon, predictably, silence.

  He sat for about a quarter of an hour finishing his drink. Then, whistling softly, he started to make his preparations.

  He moved slowly, but efficiently, following the infallible dictates of his instinct. First he went into the little bathroom and shaved off his remaining hair. It took a surprisingly short time. Then he removed his false teeth and put them in a glass of water.

  He went cautiously up the stairs and inched open the door of his bedroom. As expected, Mostyn lay unconscious from the unaccustomed alcohol.

  Unhurriedly, Renshaw placed the glass of teeth on the bedside table. Then he changed into the clothes Mostyn had just abandoned on the floor. He went into the other bedroom, picked up the overnight case that had been packed, and returned downstairs.

  He picked up the air ticket and passport, which still lay accusingly on the dining table. He put on the toupee and compared his reflection with the passport photograph. The picture was ten years old and the resemblance quite sufficient. He picked up the crutches and tried them until he could reproduce the limp that appeared in the “Special Peculiarities” section.

  Then he picked up the half-full brandy bottle, another unopened one and the candle on the table, and went upstairs.

  The Little Boy lay on his Big Boy’s bed, in his Big Boy’s pyjamas, even wearing his Big Boy’s gold identity bracelet, but was in no state to appreciate this longed-for felicity. He did not stir as his Big Boy sprinkled brandy over the bedclothes, the rush matting and the wooden floor boards. Nor did he stir when his Big Boy laid the lighted candle on the floor and watched its flames spread.

  Larry Renshaw felt the usual confidence that following his instinct produced, as he travelled back to London in the identity of Peter Mostyn. He even found that there were compensations in being a pathetic, toothless cripple on crutches. People made way for him at the airport and helped him with his bags.

  On the plane he mused comfortably about his next movements. Certainly his first port of call must be the Left Luggage office at Liverpool Street. . . . And then probably one of the fences he already knew, to turn the jewellery into cash. . . . Then, who could say? Possibly abroad again. . . . Certainly a new identity. . . .

  But there was no hurry. That was the luxury his instinct had achieved for him. In Mostyn’s identity he was safe for as long as he could stand being such a pathetic figure. There was no hurry.

  He felt tense as he approached Passport Control at Heathrow. Not frightened—he was confident his instinct would see him through—but tense. After all, if there was a moment when his identity was most likely to be questioned, this was it. But if he was accepted here as Peter Mostyn, then he had nothing more to worry about.

  It was slightly unnerving, because the Passport Officer seemed to be expecting him. “Ah, Mr Mostyn,” he said. “If you’d just take a seat here for a moment, I’ll tell them you’ve arrived.”

  “But I—” No, better not to make a scene. Reserve righteous indignation for later. Must be some minor mix-up. He imagined how feebly Peter Mostyn would whine at the nuisances of bureaucracy.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Two men in raincoats arrived and asked him to go with them to a small room. They did not speak again until they were all seated.

  “Now,” said the man who seemed to be senior, “let’s talk about the murder of Mrs Lydia Renshaw.”

  “Mrs Lydia Renshaw?” echoed Larry Renshaw, bemused. “But I’m Peter Mostyn.”

  “Yes,” said the man, “we know that. There’s no question about that. And that’s why we want to talk to you about the murder of Mrs Lydia Renshaw.”

  “But . . . why?” Larry Renshaw asked, quite as pathetically as Peter Mostyn would have done.

  “Why?” The man seemed puzzled. “Well, because of your letter of confession that arrived this morning.”

  It was some time before he actually saw the document that had incriminated him, but it didn’t take him long to imagine its contents.

  Because of his long-standing homosexual attraction to Larry Renshaw, Peter Mostyn had gone round to see him the evening before he was due to return to his home in France. At the block of flats in Abbey Road (where he was seen by the porter) he had found, not Renshaw, but Renshaw’s wife, the woman who, in his eyes, had irrevocably alienated the affections of his friend. An argument had ensued, in the course of which he had shot his rival. Larry Renshaw, returning to his flat, seeing his wife’s body and guessing what had happened, had immediately set off for France in pursuit of the murderer. It was Renshaw’s arrival at his home that had prompted Peter Mostyn to make a clean breast of what he had done.

  This put Larry Renshaw in a rather difficult position. Since he was now innocent, he could in theory claim back his own identity. But he had a nasty feeling that that would raise more questions than it would answer.

  His instinct, now diminished to a limping, apologetic, pathetic thing, advised him to remain as Peter Mostyn, the Little Boy who had made the supreme sacrifice to protect his Big Boy.

  So it was as Peter Mostyn that he was charged with, and found guilty of, the murder of Mrs Lydia Renshaw.

  And it was as Peter Mostyn that he was later charged with, and found guilty of, the murder of Larry Renshaw.

  DOUBLE GLAZING

  THE FIREPLACE WAS rather splendid, a carved marble arch housing a black metal grate. The curves of the marble supports echoed the elaborate sweep of the coving and the outward spread of petals from the central ceiling rose. The white emulsion enthusiastically splashed over the room by the Housing Trust volunteers could not disguise its fine Victorian proportions. The old flooring had been replaced by concrete when the damp course was put in and the whole area was now snugly carpeted. This was one of the better conversions, making a compact residence for a single occupant, Jean Collinson thought as she sat before the empty grate opposite Mr Morton. A door led off the living-room to the tiny kitchen and bathroom. Quite sufficient for a retired working man.

  She commented on the fireplace.

  “Oh yes, it’s very attractive,” Harry Morton agreed. His voice still bore traces of his Northern upbringing. “Nice workmanship in those days. Draughty, mind, if you don’t have it lit.”

  “Yes, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t use it in the winter. When they did the conversion, the builders checked that the chimney wasn’t blocked. Even had it swept, I think.”

  “Oh yes. Well, I’ll have to see about that when the winter comes. See how far the old pension stretches.”

  “Of course. Do you find it hard to make ends meet?”

  “Oh no. I’m not given to extravagance. I have no vices, so far as I know.” The old man chuckled. He was an amiable soul; Jean found him quite restful after most of the others. Mrs Walker with her constant moans about how her daughter and grandchildren never came to visit, Mr Kitson with his incontinence and un
willingness to do anything about it, Mrs Grüber with her conviction that Jean was part of an international conspiracy of social workers devoted to the cause of separating her from a revoltingly smelly little Yorkshire terrier called Nimrod. It was a relief to meet an old person who seemed to be coping.

  Mr Morton had already made his mark on the flat although he had only moved in the week before. It was all very clean and tidy, no dust on any of the surfaces. (He had refused the Trust’s offer of help with the cleaning, so he must have done it himself.) His few possessions were laid out neatly, the rack of pipes spotless on the mantelpiece, the pile of Do-It-Yourself magazines aligned on the coffee table, the bed squared off with hospital corners.

  Mr Morton had taken the same care with his own appearance. His chin was shaved smooth, without the cuts and random tufts of white hair which Jean saw on so many of the old men she dealt with. His shirt was clean, tie tight in a little knot, jacket brushed, trousers creased properly and brown shoes buffed to a fine shine. And there didn’t linger about him the sour smell which she now almost took for granted would emanate from all old people. If there was any smell in the room, it was an antiseptic hint of carbolic soap. Thank God, Jean thought, her new charge wasn’t going to add too much to her already excessive workload. Just the occasional visit to check he was all right but, even from this first meeting, she knew he would be. Harry Morton could obviously manage. He’d lived alone all his life and had the neatness of an organized bachelor. But without that obsessive independence which so many of them developed. He didn’t seem to resent her visit, nor to have complicated feelings of pride about accepting the Housing Trust’s charity. He was just a working man who had done his bit for society and was now ready to accept society’s thanks in the reduced circumstances of retirement. Jean was already convinced that the complaints which had led to his departure from his previous flat were just the ramblings of a paranoid neighbour.

  She stifled a yawn. It was not that she was bored by Harry Morton’s plans for little improvements to the flat. She had learned as a social worker to appear interested in much duller and less coherent narratives. But it was stuffy. Like a lot of old people, Harry Morton seemed unwilling to open the windows. Still, it was his flat and his right to have as much or as little ventilation as he wanted.