A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death

by Jennie Melville

  “That could be a pretty dangerous thing to be,’’ said Charmian slowly. She was trying to remember if there hadn’t once been a story about Alda and some sort of trouble. Alda had been, and still was for that matter, beautiful in an austere kind of way. She was ten years older than Charmian which meant she must be approaching forty, but her oval face and smooth dark hair (now worn in curls) looked younger. As she got older the Italian blood inherited from a maternal grandmother was showing more and more. Alda at forty would look more like an Italian than Alda at twenty could possibly have done.

  “So I got out,’’ said Alda. “I wanted to work with healthy straight young people who had a future to look forward to. I thought about taking a teacher’s diploma, but, well, I’m not all that good at putting my thoughts on paper, and so when I saw this post advertised I applied. And I’ve enjoyed it.’’

  She had made friends, too. One after another of the young people as they pressed past her in the crowd, carrying a cup of tea or a plate of cakes, nodded and smiled at her.

  The party was being held in a long white panelled room dominated by a ponderous plaster ceiling. The University, although very new itself, was starting its life in this immense Gothic revival mansion.

  “What was this building?’’ asked Charmian. “ Before it was the Senate House?’’

  “I believe it was built by a man who manufactured one of the earliest sewing machines. Tuffet Towers it was called then.’’

  “Will they knock it down and build a new Senate House?’’

  “Oh, no.’’ Alda was shocked. “ Didn’t you know this style of thing is coming back into fashion again? We had a group of architects round here only the other day raving about it and saying they wanted to create all the other buildings in a style that matched.’’

  Across the room a woman who was gazing alertly round her raised her hand in greeting to Charmian and went back to her scrutiny of the room. She was fair and with a fringe. Her appearance, while not beautiful, radiated a sort of sturdy charm. What she promised she performed. Or so you felt. Her whole body was neat and elegantly proportioned and her clothes suited it. Charmian, who secretly wished she looked like that, and was a sucker for that sort of face, had fallen for her at once.

  “Shirley Jackson of the Herald,’’ said Charmian.

  “I know.’’

  “She did an interview of me last week. Policewoman arrives to take diploma in criminology, that sort of thing.’’

  “I read it.’’

  “Women have to support other women,’’ said Charmian, slightly defensive. “And she’s very good. Did you see that series she did on ‘Scenes from Provincial Life’. She had a brilliant one on crime in the provinces, a petty thief; an anonymous letter writer; even a murderer.’’

  The room began to seem very warm. She opened the window again and promptly a bird appeared, soon to be followed by another and then a third.

  “A lot of birds here, have you noticed?’’ asked Alda.

  “No, I hadn’t noticed. I don’t usually see things like birds,’’ said Charmian honestly. “ I see people and things and occasionally ideas but hardly ever birds. Maybe it’s the trees.’’ Midport was heavily wooded.

  “Yes, perhaps,’’ said Alda absently. “They all look so good, don’t they, all these students. Neat, well behaved, good. I wonder if they’ll stay that way?’’

  “I don’t know. That’s a funny thing to say.’’

  “I’m in a funny mood. Do you have days when everything seems crooked, dirty and mean.’’

  “We all do,’’ said Charmian.

  “I’m having one now. Everything seems second rate and shoddy. Not you. I don’t mean you. You’re all right.’’

  “I’ll take my share,’’ said Charmian.

  Alda stared out of the window. “I know how it started too. I’ve got a problem.’’

  “I thought you might have.’’

  “Call it a worry more than a problem. I live alone. Of course, you know that. I have this small place. In a nice district about a hundred yards from here. I like it.’’ She was talking just for the sake of talking, trying to spill her worry out into words for Charmian to hear. “It’s silly really. If anyone ought to know how to cope it’s me. I’ve had experience. I’m a professional in trouble.’’ She was trying for a joke, but she couldn’t make herself amused.

  “What is it?’’

  “An intruder. Or a Peeping Tom. Or perhaps both. I’m not quite sure. Anyway, someone watching me. University districts do attract that type of psychopath, you know. Look at the Boston Strangler.’’

  “What did you see?’’—What she really meant was: how do you know so much and yet so little?

  “Well, to begin with I saw a face. I’m on the ground floor and I saw a face at the window. Just a flash.’’

  “It could have been a child. Do you have any apple trees in your garden? It’s apple stealing time.’’

  “No, there aren’t any apples. I don’t think it was a child. Then once or twice, I’ve felt absolutely certain that someone tried the door.’’

  “At night? Late at night?’’

  “No.’’ Alda shook her head. “ That’s what’s so funny. Both times it was early evening, about supper time. I’d just come in. Anyone who was watching could have seen me come in.’’

  Charmian looked out of the window, trying to assess the situation. If there was one. Wasn’t it possible Alda was imagining it all. Reluctantly she said: “You know what you ought to do?’’

  “Go to the police?’’ said Alda ironically. “And you know why I don’t? Remember what we used to say: Panic stories!’’

  “Not always.’’

  “You did just now. I saw it in your face. She’s kidding herself, you said. These unmarried women!’’

  “Well, what do you want me to do?’’

  “Nothing really, I suppose,’’ said Alda irritably. “ I just wanted to tell you. It’s probably not important. If there’s someone watching I can protect myself. I know how. But it’s awkward. I just want to be let alone.’’ She seemed angry.

  Ah well, thought Charmian, so there was another reason for leaving the Force, apart from love of the normal young; she diagnosed a man. She looked at Alda with sympathy and so much comprehension that Alda turned her head aside, not wanting to see it.

  The words ‘I just want to be let alone’ were the give away. People want to be left alone only when they fear their private life is not as private as they thought. Alda had a lover. Perhaps he had a wife. And the wife had spies. So it was this way: either Alda was creating her intruder because she feared to be observed, or the set-up had drawn in some sexual delinquent who grasped the position and found it titillating. Charmian knew all the possibilities.

  “You could get a dog,’’ said Charmian.

  “I was so furious last night I rushed out there and waved a torch and shouted. That’ll frighten him, I thought, that’ll make him run.’’

  “And did he?’’

  “I don’t know.’’ Alda touched her black curls. “There was just silence after that for a long while. Then I went back in.’’

  “I take it back,’’ said Charmian dryly. “You don’t need a dog.’’

  Alda laughed. “Don’t worry over me. Forget I said anything. Forget you’re a policewoman. For this lovely year just be a student: keep it simple.’’

  Charmian did not answer. Not for anything in the world would she have revealed that her life was far from simple, and that as well as being a student she had another purpose here. Even if she had wanted to tell Alda, she was forbidden. Her orders were to keep silent. To watch, to wait and keep silent.

  Later, when the party had broken up and she was making her way out of the building she saw that there certainly were lots of little birds in the air, swooping and darting.

  The problem of the dead man still troubled the nurse and when she passed the doctor in the corridor she stopped him and said: “You said the dead man was cl
ever once. As if the cleverness had gone. Can you lose cleverness?’’

  “Yes, you can.’’ He was definite. “ You can if you destroy your brain cells, burn up your nervous reactions, alter the whole metabolism of your body by feeding it the wrong sort of food.’’

  She looked at him.

  “Pot, cocaine, heroin—it’s like throwing sugar on a fire. First it burns, then it shrivels. What’s left is nothing. The nerves are gone, the digestive system is gone, the lungs clog up, and the heart starts to labour. The first casualty of all is that little spark of intelligence. Oh yes, that goes. All you’ve got left is a battered, sodden, stupid shell. You can destroy your mind like you can destroy everything else if you are destructive, or careless, or just cursed. I suppose some people are cursed. Whatever happens it’s going to go wrong for them. But sometimes it looks as if such people are deliberately misusing themselves.’’

  Unconsciously he was writing the dead man’s obituary.

  Or one of them. As it turned out, there were going to be several.

  Charmian went back to where she was living, which was one room in a large Victorian house, newly converted into a residence, Marchbanks Hall. She had a large room with a bay window; she calculated it had once been the main bedroom of the house. Next door in what had presumably been the dressing room was a small kitchen of which Charmian had the use. So did the other half a dozen people who lived on this floor. At certain times of the day the kitchen was so crowded you could hardly get in. Pressure times were between eight and nine-thirty in the morning and then from six till nine in the evening. Charmian had developed the habit of going without breakfast and eating only salad in the evening. As a result she was getting slimmer every day.

  She threw off her shoes, drew a chair up to a desk, and got down to work. She had one or two notes to write up from a lecture that morning and some reading to do. She balanced her spectacles on her nose and sat there, looking young and thoughtful.

  Noises from outside began to filter in. Doors banged, voices shouted, and along the corridor someone put the Beatles on the record player. Presently a rival firm would start up with something loud like Berlioz. All around Charmian was vigorous healthy young life in which she felt, ever so slightly, alien.

  When her academic work was done, she turned her attention to her other task here. She drew a folder of papers and a thick notebook from a locked drawer. The desk was standard equipment in these rooms and the lock would have presented no difficulty to anyone determined to break it open. Probably a key from any other desk in the house would have opened it. Accordingly Charmian always arranged a small check of her own, such as a hair or a thread of cotton placed across the contents. So far the drawer had remained undisturbed. It would have been very interesting if anyone had tampered with it.

  Presently, still pursuing her task, she went downstairs to the public telephone box in the hall and made a call.

  “Hello,’’ she said and identified herself accordingly to the manner instructed. The expected voice answered her: it was not the voice of her boss back in Deerham Hills, Chief Inspector Pratt.

  “I’ve been looking around,’’ she said cautiously. “ Nothing so far. I was on the alert today, but there was no sign of anything.’’

  “It’s early days yet.’’

  “The boy in the room next door had two years at the University of California. He seems a nice lad.’’

  The voice muttered something which Charmian just heard.

  “I’m at least six years older,’’ she said coldly.

  “That never stopped anyone yet.’’ There was a distant cheerful laugh.

  Impelled by some inner tension, Charmian poked her tongue out at the telephone and at once felt much better.

  “One of the women students seems a bit old to be first year,’’ she said cheerfully. “She says she’s been travelling and only just decided to read for a degree. Might be something there. Of course, it’s a big intake and I haven’t seen everyone yet.

  “Anything else?’’

  “One of the administrative staff. Bit of trouble there,’’ said Charmian. Should she say any more about Alda? “ Might mean nothing,’’ she said. “I’m watching it.’’ But Alda had a complete list of all the students, was bound to be pretty familiar with the background of all of them, and might have run into all sorts of secrets. She might look like a danger to someone. Perhaps this was the cause of the watch she thought was being kept on her.

  Then Charmian received her instructions. She listened silently, making the occasional noise of assent. “Yes, I’ll watch all that,’’ she said. “Especially the political meetings.’’ The voice added something. “Yes, I’ll watch the fringe groups. So far there aren’t any. It’s too soon.’’ There was another comment across the wire. “Are you suggesting I act as an agent provocateur?’’ said Charmian coldly.

  As she went back to her room, she looked around her as if expecting attack. But wasn’t it silly to be alert and apprehensive here? Wasn’t it, after all, she that was the aggressor?

  Even after a week she was beginning to have an affection for her room with its big window and its books. Everything in the room was new. She was its first user. She felt too old and too experienced to have any right to be there at all. It belonged to the young ones she could hear talking and laughing in the rooms around her.

  A party or a meeting was going on in the room next door, which belonged to the boy who had been two years in California. Every so often she could hear feet hurrying down the corridor and then a knock on the door. After the knock the noise would rise in a crescendo of greeting. The party was certainly making everyone welcome tonight. It sounded a serious party, though. No laughing, no music, just talk. Even as she sat there listening, the noise level dropped, as if everyone had stopped talking at once.

  She bent her head over her books again. Next door one voice was now quietly talking, going on and on. Just occasionally there would be another voice raised, as if someone was asking a question.

  Charmian sat for a moment listening, but she couldn’t make anything out. She could go out, knock on the door and go in, but she knew what would happen if she did: a lot of startled faces would look at her and then politely offer her coffee or tea or whatever they were having. Everyone would be friendly and charming and so would she and no one would say anything worth saying. She wanted to get on terms with these people, but you couldn’t rush it. Someone like Alda could help her.

  Alda at that moment sat at her dressing table, cleaning her face. She took the job seriously, like everything else she did. First cream, well smoothed in, then a lotion to remove the cream, and then another cream to replace the oils removed by the lotion. It was a soothing task and she took placid enjoyment in it.

  There was very little else that was placid in her life. As Charmian had suspected, she had problems. She massaged her skin, smoothing the skin on her forehead as if removing a frown. She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the dressing table drawer. Her fingers found a velvet ring box.

  For a moment she sat looking at it, unopened. Then she pressed the little catch and the lid raised itself. Inside was a plain platinum circle. She tried it on for size. It certainly ought to fit. After all, she had bought it herself. With a wry smile she put it back in the box.

  She had rightly understood the expression on Charmian’s face. Yes, Charmian, she said inside herself, you are correct. I do have a lover and we are not about to marry. He does not have a wife already, that is not the reason why we don’t marry. Nor do I have a husband (I wondered if you suspected that), so that is not the reason for no wedding either. Nevertheless, there is a severe, perhaps insuperable barrier to our marriage. But I have hopes, Charmian, I have hopes.

  She could foresee the time when she might tell all this to Charmian. You could tell things to Charmian. Not everything, of course. You could never tell everything.

  Suddenly Alda stood up as if hearing something. She trembled. Her mind was flooded with images of p
ain and alarm. She could hear a noise. One noise, which seemed to bang and bang round her head, reverberating like a blow. “ My God,’’ she said. “So that’s it.’’

  She stood there. “ I should have told Charmian. It’s a form of madness, that’s what it is.’’

  Her head began to feel dizzy and she rested for a while. Inertia settled down on her like a thick cloud. She was reluctant to stir. Sleep was coming.

  But there was something she still had to do. She struggled up. She had to write a letter.

  “I ought to talk to Alda,’’ thought Charmian. With discretion, of course, perhaps not quite coming out into the open, making some reservations maybe, but letting her know a little of the position.

  Alda knew quite a lot about all the students. She saw a different side of them from Charmian. With her they were willing to show their anxieties about where they should live, how much they should pay and how suitable a lodging it would be for study. About half the students in the university lived in rented rooms with a landlady to cook and clean. Alda’s job was to supervise these arrangements.

  Charmian put aside her books and dressed to go out. If Alda was in she’d visit and talk with her. If not, then it was a nice night for a stroll. Thus rationalising her motives (which sprang from several unexpressed anxieties) she set out.

  She knew where Alda lived and it was only a few streets away from Marchbanks Hall. The main group of University buildings and then a small park lay between. Alda, although very friendly and welcoming, hadn’t been forthcoming about Charmian visiting her there. And there might, Charmian considered, be a reason for it.

  The University buildings were still brightly lit up, but when they were behind her the small park seemed even darker. A curving path led across it to the house where Alda lived. Lights were on there too and Charmian headed for them.

  Alda lived on the ground floor with two front windows facing the garden. Her lights were on, so she was at home.

  Charmian stood there for a moment, looking. The curtains were drawn. One of them sagged slightly as if it had been wrenched so hard across the window that the stitching had torn.