A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death

by Jennie Melville

  Squatting comfortably before a low table were a young man and a young woman. As they were still wearing pyjamas the meal they were eating might have been breakfast.

  “Oh, I thought you were someone else,’’ said the girl. “ I do know you, though, I’ve seen you around. Let me see now, you’re the policewoman, aren’t you?’’

  “Betha, you talk too much.’’

  “Pipe down, Joe. I do the talking here.’’ She gave him a little pat on the shoulder. “Now, what is it?’’ She faced Charmian who, for once, was at a loss for words.

  Then she said: “ Miss Alda Fearon came here three or four times. I’m helping clear up her work.’’

  “She cleared it up,’’ said the girl, sitting down again. “ Whatever there was to clear.’’

  “Are you Mr. Everard?’’ said Charmian, addressing the man.

  “I’m Everard,’’ said the girl.

  “And your landlady?’’

  “I’m the landlady,’’ said the girl. “Such as there is. I don’t interfere. Do I, Joe?’’

  “Not much, Betha,’’ Joe said through a mouthful of toast.

  “I see,’’ said Charmian, beginning to see why Alda had starred Betha Everard’s name with two red stars. “But you are a student at the University?’’

  “Yes, of course. You know that already. You’ve got my name on a list.’’

  Charmian didn’t deny it.

  “But I’m also the landlady of this house. I told Miss Fearon that and I thought she understood.’’

  “She understood, honey,’’ said Joe, from the table. “ She said she wouldn’t be back.’’

  “So I don’t know why you’ve come chasing round. Or even why I should answer any questions. I don’t want to give trouble or anything,’’ went on the girl firmly. “But I want to feel free.’’

  “I do have reasons for asking questions,’’ said Charmian slowly. “Good reasons. But I think you’ve answered me. I suppose it was because you two are living here together that Alda Fearon kept coming.’’

  “Yes. She wanted Joe to move out. But why? You know I’m over twenty-one and I’m old for my years too. So’s he.’’

  Joe grinned.

  “And is he a student too?’’

  “Don’t insult me,’’ growled Joe.

  “Take no notice of him,’’ said the girl. “Of course he is. He’s at the Art School.’’

  “I’m an artist,’’ said Joe.

  “But you’re not married?’’

  “No, of course not. We’re just here together. It’s the way we want it. Tomorrow we may not want it that way.’’

  “Go on,’’ said Joe sceptically.

  “All right. He thinks it’s for life. Perhaps it is. Then I suppose we will marry. But perhaps not. It’s difficult for a woman. Get economic independence, I say, and then it doesn’t matter whether you marry or not.’’

  “I don’t mind if I live on you, love,’’ said Joe.

  “Where do you come from?’’ said Charmian, turning to face Joe.

  “Here. I’m a native.’’

  “Had you seen Miss Fearon before she came here calling?’’

  “No.’’ His eyes narrowed.

  “What’s your name?’’

  “Hatchett.’’

  “And your Christian name is Joe?’’

  “It’s Leopold, as a matter of fact. But I prefer Joe.’’

  “Oh, well, thanks,’’ said Charmian, preparing to leave.

  Shirley nodded towards a painting propped on an easel. It was a landscape of the sombre industrial area around Midport. “Is that one of yours?’’ she asked.

  Betha gave a hoot. “ He wouldn’t be seen dead with that. He’s lost in an abstract maze, aren’t you, Joe? No, it’s one of mine. I’m a Sunday painter.’’

  Shirley walked over to study the landscape and Betha went with her.

  “I’ll show you one of mine. It’s on the stairs,’’ said Joe to Charmian.

  On the staircase wall outside was a large abstract: thousands of brightly coloured dots on an aluminium background.

  “You don’t have to like it, love,’’ said Joe. “It’s not lovable. That’s not what it’s for.’’

  “What is it for?’’ said Charmian. She saw that as she stared an eye began to take shape among the coloured dots, and perhaps this was what it was all about.

  “It watches visitors,’’ he said.

  “A sort of evil eye?’’

  “No, it’s neutral,’’ he said seriously. “It just observes.’’ They walked a few steps, then he said, “I don’t know what you’ve come here for, but I suppose it’s not what Betha thinks. She doesn’t always see all there is to see.’’

  “And you do?’’

  “I’m an artist. The seeing eye,’’ he grinned.

  “So the thing on the stairs is a self-portrait,’’ Charmian said with a nod towards the painting.

  He laughed. “ You’re clever. And if it looks unpleasant, that’s the way it is. It’s a cold world. Some people think it’s going to blow up with one big bang, but I think it’ll end in a slow frost. But end.’’

  “No hope?’’

  “No hope. Not for these eyes to see.’’

  “Do all your generation see it either as a frost or a fire?’’

  “Yeah. All those that aren’t still bedded down in their little cocoons of wool. I mean they’re still on the treadmill. And then there are the border-line ones: not quite in cocoons but not quite realising that things are too far gone. And they’re the worst.’’

  “Oh, why?’’

  “Because they still think it’s worth altering institutions. They might give you a hard time.’’

  “Thanks,’’ said Charmian. “ Can I call that a warning?’’

  He laughed. “If you think it’s worth while.’’

  “You don’t look so hopeless.’’

  “Oh no, not hopeless. It’ll last out my time. Après moi le deep freeze. I shall enjoy my life. But don’t ask me to care.’’

  “What did you make of that?’’ asked Charmian, as Shirley joined her and they walked away.

  Shirley shrugged. “You tell me.’’

  “I was interested,’’ said Charmian cautiously.

  “I’d be careful before I’d trust that young man,’’ said Shirley.

  “I hardly ever do trust anyone. In the way of business, of course.’’

  “Yes, I remember you said that.’’

  Charmian had two more names and addresses on her list. They were both within walking distance of the University neighbourhood.

  “Williams. Twenty-two Elmside Place,’’ she said. “ Straight ahead and then first left.’’

  But this home, when they got to it, was locked and quiet. No one answered their summons.

  “I can come back,’’ said Charmian. Empty houses usually interested her. This one didn’t. All the time she was thinking of a new kind of murderer, young, casual, indifferent. She didn’t think he had lived in this house.

  Shirley looked at her watch. “I’m not sure if I ought to come with you to the last address. I have an appointment.’’

  “It won’t take long. I’d like you to come.’’

  “You lead the way then.’’

  “Yes, I will,’’ said Charmian. She smiled. “I’ve saved the best till last. I think.’’

  “Why is it best?’’

  “Alda underlined this address. Her pencil went right through the paper.’’

  “Why, that’s very promising,’’ said Shirley ironically.

  “And she put three names: the landlady’s, Mrs. Banks, the student, Priscilla Duval (she’s American), and a second student she just calls Mr. Timms.’’

  Mr. Timms was from Nigeria and Miss Duval was from Georgia but de-segregation seemed to be working very well, because they emerged from the house together laughing, just as Shirley and Charmian arrived there. Both of them, it had to be said, were very beautiful young people.
r />   Charmian was not at all surprised to discover, within a few minutes of talking to them, that they were drama students.

  “Hi!’’ said the girl gaily.

  “Hi,’’ said Charmian before she could stop herself, they were that persuasive.

  “If you want Ma Banks, she’s in her sanctum, having her cup of tea. I shouldn’t go in.’’

  “It’s the sacred hour,’’ said Mr. Timms in a deep attractive voice.

  “Will she shout at us?’’ said Charmian.

  “She’ll offer you a cup of tea, than which there is, in my opinion, no fate worse,’’ said Priscilla with an elegant wriggle that was deftly echoed by Mr. Timms before they pranced off down the street. “But you ought to know that.’’ She smiled at Shirley.

  The two women found their way into the house. The front door was not locked. From somewhere inside a voice called to them to come in.

  Mrs. Banks was standing drinking tea at the window of a room with a view over the neighbouring streets. She turned to greet them.

  “I was just watching from the window,’’ she said, in a husky voice. “I see you got in.’’

  “Did you expect us?’’ said Charmian, surprised.

  “Not you especially. No. But someone. I suffer from precognition,’’ said Mrs. Banks, as if it was a disease. “That’s why I had the door wide open. One mustn’t impede the influence.’’ She looked with interest from face to face; she smiled. “Fancy it being you,’’ she said.

  The smile faded and she looked nervous. “Of course I don’t mean any harm by that. But naturally when I get these little intimations, it’s always interesting to see who turns up. Sometimes I get the name very clear, but other times, would you believe it, I have no more idea than you might have yourself. I remember on one occasion I could see the face very clear, very clear indeed, but I had no notion in the world of the name. But that time the dear sister in the spirit didn’t turn up, so I was never in the way to learn. I’m afraid some barrier to our meeting must have arisen.’’ She frowned. “I may have unconsciously closed a door somewhere. That does happen.’’

  She moved over to the tea-table, where there were several cups. “A cup of tea?’’

  “Not tea for me, thank you.’’

  “Silly of me to ask,’’ said Mrs. Banks with delight. “I had it in my mind you didn’t drink tea. I’m not often wrong, when I have a clear message registering.’’

  “It must make life a lot easier for you,’’ said Charmian.

  “Oh no.’’ Mrs. Banks was surprised. “It causes a great deal of hard work.’’

  “Hard work?’’

  “Reading. Research.’’ She waved a hand towards several piles of newspapers and magazines. “For instance, if I have a P.C. (I call it that to myself: precognition) if I have a P.C. of a ship sinking, naturally I have to go through all the magazines and newspapers to find out about the actual event. Sometimes this is by no means easy. It can take weeks. I have known it take years before the story turned up. So I have to do a great deal of work. I can’t afford to miss a newspaper. I’m working on an air crash now.’’ She screwed her face up, as if calculating. “I dreamt about it three weeks ago—but so far, nothing.’’

  “Are you disappointed when someone or something you’ve had a premonition about doesn’t appear?’’ said Charmian.

  “Precognition,’’ corrected their hostess. “There’s a difference. No. I know a barrier has come down that’s all. It’s sad, you know, but one has to accept it. Human nature is frail. Still, I got Mr. Timms.’’

  “You got him?’’

  “Yes, I asked for him specially. In my mind, you know. Tall and dark, I said. Miss Fearon was a little worried when I explained how he had got here. She thought she’d arranged it. I’m afraid she wasn’t quite pleased to think she wasn’t entirely an agent of her free will. People rarely are, you know.’’

  “Is that why Miss Fearon kept coming? Was she worried about Mr. Timms? Did she see him?’’

  “Yes,’’ said Mrs. Banks. “ I believe so. Is that why you’ve come too?’’

  “I’m just trying to complete some of Miss Fearon’s work.’’

  “Oh.’’

  “Miss Fearon,’’ Charmian hesitated. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but she’s dead. She died suddenly.’’

  “Deaths never come in ones, do they?’’ said Mrs. Banks.

  “I suppose not,’’ said Charmian.

  “There’s always a drama going on outside our own,’’ said Mrs. Banks soberly. “ That’s something I’ve learned.’’

  “Does the name Eddie mean anything to you?’’ said Charmian suddenly.

  “Eddie?’’ Mrs. Banks looked puzzled. “I never call any of my lodgers by their Christian names.’’

  “Mrs. Banks, you said something about a drama going on outside,’’ said Charmian urgently. “ What did you mean?’’

  Mrs. Banks stared at her; a shutter seemed to come down over her pale blue eyes. It was almost as if each eye had an extra eyelid, like a cat’s. Her eyes seemed to grow even paler, more opaque, her gaze withdrawn.

  “Well, for instance,’’ she said, “while I was drinking my tea I was watching something. You saw me at the window. Perhaps you thought I was just standing there. I wasn’t, though. See that tall building? That’s a school and they’ve just had a fire there. I saw the flames.’’

  “What school?’’ said Charmian.

  “Palmer’s Road. I don’t know if anyone was hurt. They got the flames under control quickly, but you can’t tell, can you? It’s the fumes that get them.’’

  Charmian heard her and understood that this was the school that Ann Hooks had been telling her about, and that probably Ann herself was concerned with the fire, might even have been present at it. She didn’t take a lot of notice of the story, but it worried her a bit. It took the edge off her concentration, however; she missed something. Something she might have seen.

  “Perhaps she sensed something unusual. She was a little nervous, wasn’t she?’’ said Charmian as they left.

  “Oh, do you think so?’’ said Shirley, not really answering.

  “Not telling all the truth,’’ continued Charmian.

  “Who does?’’

  They walked on in silence.

  “It’s funny,’’ said Charmian, putting her hand to her forehead and pushing away the heavy hair in a gesture that hadn’t come to her in years. “ I feel as if none of these people were quite real … As if I’d assembled a cast of walking dolls.’’ She gave a faint laugh, as if she’d suddenly perceived an esoteric joke.

  The joke was: Charmian was after Eddie, looking for him.

  But now, had she known, Eddie was after her.

  “Do you think after all,’’ said Shirley, “that Alda might have died in a sort of crime of passion? She did have a lover, you know.’’

  Charmian waited for her to go on.

  “Why continue this academic witch hunt? There may be nothing in it.’’

  “I think Alda’s death does connect up with student life somewhere,’’ said Charmian obstinately. “I don’t see it as a crime of passion. And anyway,’’ she continued, “I shall let my colleagues in the Midport Regional Crime Squad pursue that side. I’m sure they are.’’

  “How can you be so sure about student involvement?’’ persisted Shirley.

  “I’ll tell you one day,’’ said Charmian. “And that’s a promise.’’

  The two women walked on. And then, as if they had each become aware of the strange irony of their situation, Shirley and Charmian looked at each other and began to laugh.

  Chapter Seven

  As soon as she had recovered from the black mirth that had fallen upon her, and could get to a telephone, Charmian called the young policewoman, Ann Hooks. She was lucky to find her at home.

  “Yes, I’m off duty,’’ said Ann, “and yes, it was quite a fire. No casualties, some damage. The woodwork room was destroyed. School’s still open, tho
ugh.’’

  “Were you hurt?’’

  “No, no. My hands got a little singed.’’ She gave a mirthless laugh.

  “That’s not good.’’

  “I’m not quite sure how much was meant for me. That what’s worrying.’’

  “The fire was deliberately set?’’

  “Oh, no doubt about it. And it’s quite impossible to pin it on the culprit. The headmaster has asked for someone to keep an eye on the school and the job is mine,’’ she said sardonically. “All on me. And you know what? For various reasons, I think I’ve earned it.’’

  She left Charmian with an uneasy feeling, and this was fair enough, because it was how Ann felt herself.

  “My life’s lousy,’’ she said to herself. “ I’m in love, but there’s no future in it. I have a career, but I’ve only burnt my hands, and I’m pretty, but for this country the wrong colour.’’ She looked in the mirror. “But I’ll plod on. Won’t be beaten. No, they’ll have to kill me first.’’ She turned away from the mirror. “I could cry.’’ The disposition to cry was within her, but the tear ducts were arid.

  “Only white girls can cry,’’ she said calmly, as if she was stating a physiological fact.

  Yesterday, she had refused an honourable offer of marriage. “You’re a policeman,’’ she’d said. “ You can hardly afford any wife, let alone me. I’d come expensive.’’ He’d try again because he loved her. But it was in her mind that she had already cost him dear. Men liked their younger brothers; perhaps he even loved his.

  Charmian had work of her own to catch up with and spent the rest of the day reading and writing.

  In the evening, she remembered Billy, Alda’s cat. Charmian was a reluctant animal lover, but a conscientious one. Having remembered Billy she was concerned for his welfare. Finally, she got up and went out. It was a clear evening, and in a happier mood she would have enjoyed the stroll under the trees, but it was only too reminiscent of the evening she had found Alda dead. Now Alda was buried. How quickly it was over, the passage from life to death.

  This evening no Billy came rubbing against her legs, and for a minute Charmian stood there wondering what to do.

  “I was crazy to come,’’ she said. “What’s Billy to me?’’

  Still grumbling to herself, she studied the front door. There were three bells, each with a name above it, belonging to the three apartments into which the house was divided. Already Alda’s name had been removed from the ground floor bell. Charmian averted her eyes, and prepared to ring the bell marked Cosby. She fancied she had heard Alda talk of Miss Cosby.