A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death

by Jennie Melville

“I had heard,’’ he said. This time he was embarrassed. Charmian could imagine what he had heard.

  “A nurse then, please!’’

  “I don’t really know any.’’

  “Oh, come on,’’ said Charmian, sceptically.

  “Well, there might be one or two.’’ He looked round. “Here.’’ There was a girl sitting at a table by herself. He led Charmian to her, muttered something incomprehensible and fled.

  The girl looked up.

  Charmian explained what she wanted.

  “Well, it wasn’t me,’’ said the girl. “And I don’t know if I can find you what you want.’’ She thought a while. “When was it?’’

  “I know the exact date.’’

  “Yes,’’ she pondered.

  “You won’t get into trouble,’’ said Charmian swiftly.

  “We’re not really supposed to talk about cases.’’ She was still troubled. “ Wouldn’t the police be the best people to …?’’ She stopped, she really didn’t know what to say.

  “I am the police.’’

  “Oh.’’ She studied Charmian. Something about Charmian’s appearance must have convinced her. “Then I think the best thing I can do for you is to take you to meet the girls and let you ask around.’’ She stood up. “Come on, those that are off duty are next door.’’

  She led Charmian out through a passage, across an inner court and into another building where they entered a lift.

  “No stairs here except the fire escape,’’ she said, pressing a button. “If the lift breaks down, we fly.’’

  On an upper corridor she banged on a door and called out, “Come on, kids, here’s someone who wants to ask you questions.’’

  Charmian took her car on her next journey, which was not far out of town, but too far to walk. She drove slowly on this pleasant evening. It would be nice to drive straight out of Midport and put the whole thing behind her. For a moment she toyed with the idea of driving west and not coming back, but her hands were already obeying another set of instructions. She turned left and then followed a suburban road out of town. She was driving through the most prosperous district of Midport where the houses had well tended front gardens and gleaming paint work. A few years ago the sign of prosperity here had been two or even three cars. Now it was skis on the roof of a car, or an indication somewhere that the family owned a yacht. Midport had a large yachting club of weekend sailors.

  Soon on her left was a stretch of ornamental railing with elms behind, then an arched gateway. Over the gateway, painted green, golden letters said: Municipal Cemetery.

  In the back of the car Charmian had some flowers which she had bought off a stall in Midport Market Place just before it closed up. Beaufleurs in King’s Road, which Shirley had recommended and which she had approached hopefully, already had its smart white blinds drawn.

  Charmian drove up to Alda’s grave and put the flowers down on it. She stood gazing for a few minutes; she was remembering Hamlet’s words to Horatio bidding him “ in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story’’. It was true pain to her to tell Alda’s story to herself.

  “You tried to help a young girl, Alda,’’ she told herself, “and that girl killed you as surely as I stand here and you lie there.’’

  She stood there for a little while longer and then walked on. She was looking for something, but she didn’t know where to look nor if she would know it when she saw it.

  An elderly man came up to her and spoke to her civilly: “We’re closing soon, miss.’’

  “I understand. I’m on my way out.’’ She passed ahead of him down the broad avenue with graves on either side.

  “Were you looking for someone, miss?’’

  “Yes.’’

  “I hope you found what you wanted?’’ He was genuinely polite.

  “I’m not sure.’’ She was walking very slowly, looking around her all the time. “You keep it all very tidy.’’ Ahead of her she could see a tidy new grave with the name Frederic Martin on a wooden cross at the head.

  “I only keep the gate, miss. I’m not the gardener. But we have a good set of men here. Take it seriously, you see. We like this place to look cared for.’’

  “Yes, it does.’’ But it was an impersonal care. Some of the graves had fresh flowers newly planted but others, although tidy, looked as if no one interested had approached them for years.

  “Do many people bring flowers regularly, and go on doing it over a period?’’

  “Some do, some don’t.’’

  “I suppose it means something,’’ she said, looking down at a grave.

  “Leaving flowers don’t necessarily mean love, and not leaving don’t always mean there isn’t love,’’ he said from out of his long experience.

  “So what does it mean then?’’

  “Trouble,’’ he said, “that’s what it can mean. Somehow, somewhere along the line it means trouble.’’

  When Charmian got back to her room she found a white envelope propped up against her bottle of ink on her desk. She couldn’t miss seeing it and she knew she wasn’t meant to. Open me, it seemed to say. She opened it.

  “Don’t you wonder if you will ever have a satisfactory relationship with any man?’’ it asked with simple cruelty.

  And because Charmian did ask herself this question she flushed with the pain.

  Her first reaction was to tear the letter up, but after a moment’s thought she put it aside carefully. Then she sat down at her work table to think. She could hear Don moving about next door.

  She didn’t like to admit it, but she was nervous. “ I am going to confront a murderer and I need protection,’’ she said to herself.

  Finally, she decided what to do. She scrawled a brief note: Meet me at the coffee-shop in half an hour. She signed it with her initials.

  Then she went out and pushed it under Don’s door. She watched until she saw it withdrawn, and then hurried down the stairs before he could open the door.

  Downstairs she went at once to the telephone. She was lucky, the person she wanted was in.

  “Shirley?’’ she said. “You know that series you are doing on provincial life? Would you like to add to it? Add a murderer? Come and help me meet a murderer.’’

  The coffee-shop was crowded, as it always was at this hour, but she found an empty table near the window and sat down to wait. One or two people wandered up to sit with her but she fended them off. Bits of gossip were filtered out of the conversation around her by her selective ears.

  “And she was wearing the biggest sapphire I’ve ever seen. Huge, square. No, not a brooch, a ring.’’

  “Heels! And even so I was towering … you’d think it difficult … walking, but I suppose not much.’’

  “Such tiny …’’

  Emily Carter saw Charmian and came stumbling over, knocking someone’s cigarette into their hot chocolate and earning a baleful stare from a girl whose hairpiece she jolted sideways. Emily herself had mysteriously grown a blonde plait and looked about twelve.

  “Have you heard? Have you heard?’’ she began.

  “Calm down, Emily.’’

  “But arrested,’’ said Emily, her eyes popping. (Her husband always said: “Emily, your thyroid’s working overtime’’.) “Four students arrested. And a bomb in the computer.’’

  “I don’t think it’s as bad as that.’’

  “It’s what I’ve heard,’’ said Emily disappointed. Her eyes grew round and huge. (Wolf’s eyes again, Emily, her husband would have said reproachfully. He had been looking for a meek, kind, quiet wife when he got Emily.) “But I went to The Party. And I curtsied. I didn’t mean to. I said: Emily, you’re a Republican and you won’t curtsey, but I did. I gave a little bob.’’

  “Are you a Republican, Emily?’’

  “Oh, well, in a way. In theory. It was a good party. I did enjoy it. And of course it was buzzing with these rumours you say aren’t true.’’ She eyed Charmian speculatively. “Are you sure nothing’
s happening? I’d say you look tense.’’

  It was amazing, thought Charmian, the knack Emily had of turning up at moments of crisis. You thought she noticed nothing in her heedless procession through life, but when something happened, there she was. When the house on the corner of the road where both Charmian and Emily then lived, after remaining empty for three months, suddenly and mysteriously burst into flames, it was Emily, wide-eyed and fascinated, who summoned the fire brigade. And when the Gearies and Barnes had their sensational picnic which resulted in two divorces and one lawsuit, it was Emily who saw them coming back with the signs of warfare on them. Charmian thought that if ever she was lying in bed, sick, and Emily appeared, she would know what was imminent and would wait for death to come.

  “You look tired, Emily,’’ was all she answered. “Why don’t you go to bed?’’

  “You’re trying to get rid of me,’’ said Emily, who was used to this phenomenon.

  Charmian nodded. She knew from experience that truth was best with Emily. Behind Emily she had already caught sight of Shirley on her way in. Emily, who seemed to have eyes in the back of her head, observed her too.

  “I can see from your face it’s arrived.’’

  “It?’’

  “Whatever appointment you’re waiting for,’’ said Emily acutely but without malice. She departed in good order, having, in her opinion, scored a victory. Charmian noticed she didn’t leave altogether, but soon found some more friends to talk to.

  Shirley moved in and sat where Emily had been. “ I was waiting for her to go.’’ She lit a cigarette. “A friend of yours?’’

  “I’ve known her a long time.’’

  “She’s watching us still,’’ said Shirley irritably.

  “I believe she is,’’ said Charmian, amused.

  “She is. I can feel her eyes burning my back.’’

  Charmian laughed. “Want to change places?’’

  “No.’’ She shifted in her seat. “ You look pleased with yourself.’’

  “I am, in a way. Yes, I suppose that’s a fair comment.’’

  “Now what’s it all about? Why did you ’phone me? And what is this story about meeting a murderer?’’

  “Don’t you want to? If you like, you can go away now. You only have to say.’’

  “Of course I want the story. But I don’t like being led around blindfold.’’

  “Your eyes shall be opened,’’ said Charmian gaily. “Only wait.’’

  “I’m waiting. But don’t ask me to wait too long.’’

  “Not long,’’ said Charmian watching the door.

  Shirley had on a loose tweed coat and brown leather shoulder bag over one arm. She had a notebook and pen on the table in front of her. This afternoon she had been relaxed; tonight she was here on business. But so was Charmian.

  “You weren’t so cocky this afternoon,’’ said Shirley. “Are you telling me you know something now you didn’t know then?’’

  “Yes, of course.’’

  “Well, you’d better come across with something good. I tell you as of this moment I am incredulous.’’

  “Yes, I like a sceptic. It makes it all the better when you have convinced one.’’

  Shirley looked at her and frowned. “I could do with a drink,’’ she said suddenly.

  “Right.’’ Charmian got up. “We’re emancipated here. There’s a bar. I’ll get one.’’ She came back carrying two glasses. “Brandy.’’

  Shirley looked from the drinks to Charmian. “Now you really are alarming me.’’ She took a sip. “I suppose the murderer’s going to walk through that door for me to interview and this is to give me strength.’’

  “I need strength too,’’ said Charmian, also drinking. She could see Emily’s eyes on her and saw the legend already forming in them: Charmian Daniels drinks. She raised her glass and met Emily’s gaze defiantly.

  Don appeared, made his way across the room and slid silently into the third seat. Shirley didn’t see him until he sat.

  “Oh, it’s you. I wondered who it would be joining us here.’’

  “Yes, Don,’’ said Charmian with apparent satisfaction.

  “I don’t really know why I came.’’

  “Me neither,’’ said Shirley. “But I did. She’s got us both hypnotised.’’ She turned to Charmian. “ Will anyone else come in?’’

  “Wait and see.’’

  Shirley took a drink of brandy and opened her notebook. “Let’s get down to it, then. Let’s have the confession.’’ She looked at Don.

  “Who’s confessing to what?’’ asked Don.

  “If you don’t know, then nobody does,’’ said Shirley.

  “Let me address the company on the subject of murder and murderers,’’ said Charmian.

  “She’s drunk,’’ said Shirley.

  “She’s not,’’ said Don, who had been eyeing Charmian closely. “Not with the brandy anyway. No one could have that weak a head.’’

  “I’m not drunk,’’ said Charmian, “ and you know I’m not. Shirley and I have both been interested in murderers from our professional points of view. You too, Don.’’ She gave him a little bow. “ I pay you the compliment of saying your interest is professional.’’

  “Thanks.’’

  “What I’ve been most interested in is the changing pattern, the way murderers are getting younger. I talked a lot about it. The new kind of murderer, I said it was. The violent young in our midst. There’s a joke lying about there. You’ll learn about that later.’’ She paused. “ I’m not giving you a lecture. I’m really getting down to business. And I’ll do it with my own confession. Before today I suppose I thought killers were a different sort of person. Now I know that anyone is killer material. That’s a platitude, of course, but it’s a platitude you just have to learn for yourself. Today I saw a boy shoot a young woman. He pulled the gun. I helped push her into the position where she had to get killed. He’s one sort of killer. I’m another sort. He, of course, fits very nicely into the category of new young killers I was talking about. But there was me behind him.’’ Once again she paused. “ I suppose if I had to find a name for myself I’d call myself the well-meaning murderer. There you are, Shirley. One murderer for you to fit in.’’

  “Am I supposed to interview you?’’ asked Shirley.

  Charmian shook her head. “No. I’m not thinking of me now.’’ She turned to look at Don. “Now there’s you. You could be called a dedicated murderer. I suppose you’d say the end justifies the means.’’

  “I’ve never killed anyone,’’ said Don.

  “Violence hangs all about you. Sooner or later someone’s going to get killed. It’s only a matter of time. Maybe it will be you. That’ll be self-murder.’’

  “You’re hard.’’

  “Harder than you think.’’

  “And what about me?’’ said Shirley.

  “You smell of murder and death,’’ said Charmian politely. “ I’ve thought that for a very long time. It seemed to walk after you. Hadn’t you noticed that yourself?’’

  Shirley went very white.

  “I thought I was looking for a new kind of murderer of Alda, but you are really a very old kind indeed.’’

  “What made you suspect?’’

  “You were too good, I suppose, too helpful. Always around. I really do know about people. It worried me. But there was something else. I saw a gun in your bag the day you opened it when we were having coffee. Alda’s blow, and Mrs. Banks’s, could have been caused by the butt of a gun. I saw it in your bag, wrapped up in chamois leather.’’

  “Yes, I wondered if you saw,’’ admitted Shirley.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time asking questions and even more trying to think of the right questions to ask, but a little while ago I heard the history of an educated man who became a drug addict and who lost his job. Alda was the cause of him losing his job; she initiated the investigation on him. Today I saw his grave. I think he died in Midport Hospital
and was buried here. He was called Freddy Martin. Poor Alda in her confusion didn’t get the name right.’’

  “He didn’t kill her,’’ said Shirley.

  “No. He didn’t kill her. You did. For a long time I wondered what it was that Alda saw that made it necessary for her to be killed. And then I realised I was looking at it the wrong way. She not only saw, but was seen. She called on Mrs. Banks, investigating the lodging situation, and there she was seen by Freddy Martin: also by Priscilla Duval.’’

  “I hated her,’’ said Shirley. “She destroyed his life once and she’d have done it again. And he kept trying to call on her and talk to her. I knew that was dangerous for him. She’d say he was trying to push drugs at the students.’’

  “Why didn’t he keep away from where students live?’’ asked Charmian.

  Shirley shrugged. “ Couldn’t, I suppose. It was the only atmosphere he knew. Anyway, it’s not so easy getting anywhere to live in Midport. You try.’’

  “You had a house. Why didn’t he live with you?’’

  “I reminded him too much of the past. But don’t think we’d parted for good, we hadn’t. I’d have taken him to London with me. Somehow I’d have done that.’’

  “You ought to have let him go,’’ said Charmian. “Why don’t you stop sending Lilies of the Valley to his grave?’’

  “We were man and wife,’’ said Shirley proudly. “And don’t you forget that. I never did.’’

  “I guessed,’’ Charmian nodded. “ Only someone whose own marriage had suffered diminution could write the letters to me that you did. But they were just spite, were they? You wanted me to be driven out.’’

  “He was my husband, but he was a sick man,’’ said Shirley.

  “You were hanging on to something that was no longer there. You had a relationship that no longer existed. Did he see you strike Alda? Is that why he ran away? He did run away from you, didn’t he? Hadn’t he been running for a long, long time?’’

  “You are cruel,’’ whispered Don. “Look at what you’re doing to her.’’

  “I told you I was hard,’’ said Charmian, hardly turning towards him. “And then he was dead before Alda was. That must have been quite a shock for you when she walked into the tea party the day you and I met.’’