by Clara Benson
Freddy hesitated, then came to a reckless decision.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘They don’t know anything about this. I didn’t want to mention it to them until I’d spoken to you and found out the truth.’
At that her expression softened, and she came a little closer to him.
‘I am telling the truth,’ she said, and there was a ring of sincerity in her voice. ‘I promise you I had nothing to do with all this. I wished Ticky out of the way as much as anyone, but I should never have done anything about it. I grumbled and paid up, just like everybody else. And I’m perfectly devastated about Nancy’s arrest. Perhaps it doesn’t seem that way, but I’m not the emotional sort—I never was. I don’t lose my temper or burst into tears when things go wrong. I’m the sort who thinks things through carefully and doesn’t do anything hasty. Look here, I don’t know whether Nancy killed him or not, but I promise you I intend to do everything in my power to make sure she isn’t convicted. She’s been so terribly good to me that I should be nothing but ungrateful if I didn’t try to help her as much as I can. Please, Freddy, say you believe me. I should hate you to think badly of me.’
She was gazing at him appealingly. Freddy looked at her standing there, so calm, intelligent and competent, dressed neatly and smartly as always, and wondered how anyone could believe her to be a murderess. If she were ever to stand in the dock, surely no jury would ever convict her on the present evidence. Why, it was inconceivable. He sighed and gave her a rueful smile.
‘Well, if you are innocent, all I can say is that you’ve made some pretty spiteful enemies,’ he said at last. ‘Even the papers in Bournemouth seem to have taken every opportunity to print nasty rumours about you.’
She winced.
‘Yes, they were rather horrid,’ she said. ‘It was very upsetting.’ She paused. ‘Does this mean you believe me, then?’
‘I don’t see how anyone could doubt you,’ he said. ‘You’ll forgive me for saying all those things, won’t you? But I had to be sure.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’m so glad.’
There was a silence, then Freddy said:
‘I think the rain has stopped. Let me lend you an umbrella for the way home.’
‘There’s no need. I shall be quite all right,’ she said, and moved towards the door, then hesitated, as though struck by a thought. ‘I don’t suppose you still have that cutting, do you?’ she said tentatively. ‘I’d be awfully grateful if you’d give it to me—or at least destroy it.’
It was now that Freddy braced himself to do something either very brave or very foolish.
‘Oh, yes, I think I have it here somewhere,’ he said. ‘Now, where did I put it?’
And so saying, he turned his back, his heart thumping, and made as if to root among a little pile of papers that lay on a bookshelf just behind him. Also on the shelf was a silver trophy for some sporting achievement or other—one of the very few he had won at school. It was kept well polished, and he looked into it and watched, holding his breath, as the distorted reflection of Ann Chadwick put its hand into its pocket and crept silently towards him. When he whirled around, there was the knife, raised and ready to strike. Quick as a flash he dodged to one side just as it came down, but he was not quite fast enough, and the blade caught him on his left upper arm. At first he was aware of no pain, only a warm, sticky wetness as the blood began to seep through his sleeve, and he grimaced as Ann gave a little scream of frustration.
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said, and made a grab for the knife. She jumped back and swiped at him again, but she had lost the element of surprise now, and ran to put a chair between them.
‘Give that to me,’ said Freddy. ‘You don’t think I’m just going to let you stick it in me, do you?’
He circled around the chair after her. A frightened look came into her eyes, and she seemed to be on the point of retreating. He felt he had the upper hand, and was preparing to make a rush at her and take the knife from her, when she made a sudden lunge forward with it pointed at his heart. He leapt back just in time, and it missed him by an inch.
‘Why, you—’ he said, outraged that she had fooled him so easily.
Now she was becoming desperate, for she knew there was no way out for her if she left him alive. She gave a sort of growl, and began to stab the knife repeatedly in his direction, pressing forward even as he retreated. Her eyes were wide, and her expression was one of concentrated fury, and she seemed as unlike the usual calm, serene Ann Chadwick as it was possible to be. Freddy began to think he ought to make a run for it, for she did not look as though she would give up her weapon lightly, and his arm was beginning to throb with pain. However, she had cut a great gash in his favourite jacket, which irked him more than it ought to have in the circumstances, and made him perversely determined to get the knife off her by hook or by crook. He was bigger than she, of course, and had the advantage of greater physical strength, so it ought to have been fairly easy for him, even with his injured arm, to overpower her. However, he was hampered by a lifetime’s drilling in good manners, which had taught him that it was not permitted to hit a woman, and so he wasted a good few minutes in trying to grab hold of her wrist—a dangerous enterprise, which very nearly led to his losing a finger or two. At last she forced his hand by making a lunge at him that nearly slit his throat, upon which he abandoned his manners, threw himself at her, and brought her down with all his weight. She screamed as they hit the floor, but still would not let go of the knife, and he was surprised at her strength as he tried to prise it from her hand. For a few moments they grappled, and he was so caught up in the struggle that he did not hear the sound of a key in the lock, and was unaware that anybody had come in until he heard a shriek.
‘Freddy! What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ came Cynthia’s horrified voice. ‘Let go of her at once!’
At her words, Freddy glanced around, saw his mother standing in the doorway, a folded umbrella in her hand, and loosened his grip—just long enough to allow Ann to take advantage of his momentary lapse in attention and take a swipe at his shoulder. The blade went in a little way and he gave a yell. At that, Ann wriggled out from underneath him and scrabbled away from him on her hands and knees.
‘Stop her!’ exclaimed Freddy as he saw her heading for the door.
Cynthia was starting to realize that she had gravely misread the situation. She stared at Freddy, who was clutching his bleeding shoulder and trying to sit up, and then at Ann.
‘You’ve stabbed him!’ she said in outraged disbelief. ‘How dare you? Oh, no you don’t,’ she said, spurred suddenly into action, her one thought to prevent the woman who had injured her only darling son from making good her escape. Before Ann could get up, Cynthia stepped forward and struck her smartly over the head with the umbrella once, then twice. Ann cried out and dropped the knife as she put her hands over her head to shield herself, and Cynthia picked it up.
‘You oughtn’t to carry this sort of thing around,’ she said. ‘You might hurt someone.’
Freddy struggled to his feet and went to lock the front door, watching Ann warily all the while.
‘You’d better give the knife to me,’ he said grimly. ‘I don’t trust her an inch.’
‘Shall I call the police?’ said Cynthia, eyeing the telephone.
‘Do,’ said Freddy. ‘She killed Ticky and she’s been trying to pin the blame on Nancy.’
‘Goodness me!’ said Cynthia. ‘That won’t do at all.’
She picked up the receiver and asked for the police. Freddy went across and looked down at Ann, who was still kneeling on the floor, glaring furiously at first one of them, then the other.
‘If you’ll sit quietly until the police come I won’t tie your wrists,’ he said. ‘But it’s not very comfortable down there. Why don’t you sit in a chair?’
Ann said nothing, but turned her face away from him. Her murderous energy seemed spent, but he knew what she was capable of, and had no intenti
on of taking his eyes off her. The pain in his arm and shoulder was getting worse, and he wanted to get his wounds seen to, but he could not until the prisoner had been taken away, and so he sat down, and the three of them waited in silence for the police to arrive.
THE NEXT FEW days were busy ones for Freddy. First, his arm needed attention; although he was in some pain, he was relieved to hear that the wounds were fairly superficial, and would heal nicely with care and a little rest. After that, he spent some time in conference with the men of Scotland Yard, who were now inclined to take his view of the case, since well-bred young ladies did not, as a rule, tend to visit young men in their own homes with a view to stabbing them in the back, and so it could be fairly inferred that this was a matter that required investigation. Ann Chadwick had been arrested on a charge of attempted murder, and evidence was now beginning to come to light that seemed to show she was also responsible for the deaths of Ticky Maltravers and James Weaver. The proprietor of the chemist’s shop from which the nicotine had been purchased could not positively identify the person who had bought the poison, but the signature in the poison-book—although a fair imitation—was certainly not that of Nancy Beasley. Then the knife Ann had brought with her to kill Freddy was shown to be one of a pair—the other having been used to murder Weaver. Furthermore, she could not or would not say where she had been on the night of Weaver’s death—and in fact, was maintaining a stubborn silence in the face of any attempts to question her. All in all, there seemed no further reason to continue holding Mrs. Beasley in prison, and so she was released, to her very great joy.
‘I don’t recommend these sorts of goings-on, sir,’ said Sergeant Bird on Wednesday afternoon. He had come to Freddy’s flat to examine the scene of the fight, and had found Freddy lounging artistically on a sofa with his bandage arranged to its greatest advantage. ‘You might have been killed.’
‘True,’ said Freddy. ‘But think of the time and effort I’ve saved you. Why, if I hadn’t lured her into my trap, the thing might have dragged on for months, since I refuse to believe a judge would have done anything but throw out the case against Mrs. Beasley on such flimsy evidence.’
‘There’s not a great deal of evidence against Miss Chadwick, either,’ said Bird. ‘If she hadn’t tried to kill you, then we might have had difficulty in prosecuting anybody at all. I suppose we ought to thank you, even if it was a very foolish thing to do on your part.’
‘Yes, it occurred to me as soon as she hacked a hole in my arm that perhaps I’d bitten off a little more than I could chew. It’s not the sort of thing I’d normally do. In fact, to be perfectly frank, I can’t think what got into me.’
‘A knife, sir.’
‘Oh, very good,’ said Freddy appreciatively. ‘Do they teach you jokes like that at police school? Would they accept me, do you think?’
‘I beg your pardon, but a policeman is required to demonstrate evidence of good character and high moral standing—at least, I seem to remember that’s what they call it.’
‘Are you suggesting I lack those qualities, sergeant?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. Which reminds me: you don’t happen to know anything about the child’s toy cart we found while we were searching Mrs. Pilkington-Soames’s house, do you?’
Freddy raised his eyebrows politely.
‘A child’s toy cart, you say? Why, no, I don’t think so. I used to have something of the kind myself, but I thought it had been thrown away long ago. Is it still there?’
‘It is indeed,’ said the sergeant.
‘Were you thinking of taking it down Parliament Hill?’ said Freddy. ‘I doubt it would hold your weight.’
‘Probably not. But it’s had something heavy in it lately, by the looks of it. There are several cracks in the wood that look very recent.’
‘Perhaps someone’s been carrying coal in it,’ suggested Freddy.
‘Not coal, I don’t think,’ said Bird. ‘But I’m pretty certain someone’s been pushing it about in the street. There were some flecks of dried black paint on it that looked as though they might have come from the railings in Eaton Terrace—or possibly even Caroline Terrace.’
‘How very odd.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Still, I don’t suppose it has anything to do with the murder,’ said Freddy. ‘After all, we know who did it.’
‘But there are still some things we don’t know. For instance, two doctors have sworn that Mr. Maltravers’ body was moved after he died.’
‘Yes, I remember you said something of the sort. Might they have made a mistake?’
‘Not likely, is it?’ said Bird.
‘Well, then, perhaps someone found him in the street and decided to move him out of the way for one reason or another. It was probably something quite innocent, and nothing to worry about.’
‘Perhaps not, but it confused the investigation no end. If we’d found him where he died then we might have solved the case much more quickly.’
‘Still, no harm done, eh?’ said Freddy. ‘You found the murderer and we can all go on as we were before.’
‘That’s as may be, but I might hope that whoever was responsible for moving the body would have the sense in future not to interfere with the police in the carrying-out of their duty,’ said Bird with some emphasis.
‘Oh, I agree with you absolutely,’ said Freddy sincerely. ‘But as I think I said to you before, sometimes people accidentally get in the way, and it can’t be helped.’
Having demonstrated to his satisfaction that he was not to be taken for a fool, Sergeant Bird shortly afterwards went away, leaving Freddy to trust that the subject of Ticky Maltravers’ final journey might never be brought up again. He was feeling tired, and was just settling himself back against the cushions in preparation for a nap, when his mother arrived.
‘What are you doing, lolling about at this time of day?’ she said. ‘Oughtn’t you to be up by now?’
‘I was feeling a little weak,’ he replied. ‘Loss of blood, you know. It makes one rather tired.’
‘Nonsense. It was barely a scratch, and you’ve had ages to recover. Listen, I’ve come because I need your help. Marjorie Belcher is holding an afternoon tea today for her saved women in Clerkenwell, and Nancy and I were supposed to be setting everything up in the church hall, but of course Nancy can’t do it now, so you’ll have to come with me instead.’
‘Why can’t Nancy do it? I thought she’d been released.’
‘So she has, but Denis is whisking her off to the Riviera for the winter, so she won’t be doing any of this sort of thing for a while,’ said Cynthia. ‘I’m rather cross with her for leaving it all to me, as a matter of fact. I only got in with Mrs. Belcher in the first place because Nancy begged me, and now she’s left me in the lurch, and I’m afraid there won’t be enough helpers to keep an eye on things. If you ask me, it’s a waste of time trying to help these women, anyway. Most of them only come for the free tea and cakes, and I’m perfectly convinced they go back to drinking as soon as they get home. And I’m not entirely sure they’re all as honest as they’d like us to believe. There’s one girl in particular I shall be keeping my eye on, who has an especially wicked look about her. I had to speak to her for insubordination at the reception the other week, and she was most impertinent. Then afterwards we found quite a few spoons and things were missing. I can’t prove it was her, but she’s the brazen sort so I shouldn’t be a bit surprised.’
‘If she was stealing the silver then I don’t suppose she’ll be back,’ said Freddy, who had a suspicion as to the identity of the young woman to whom his mother was referring. He wondered, not for the first time, why Valentina Sangiacomo was pretending to be down on her luck and accepting Mrs. Belcher’s charity, for he was sure she had no need of anything of the sort—and, indeed, seemed perfectly capable of looking after herself without anyone’s patronage. He resolved that if he ever met her again he would find out all he could about her, for she struck him as a most interest
ing individual, and a person worth knowing—provided he kept a hand on his pocket-book whenever she were near.
‘Anyway, I must go, darling,’ said Cynthia. ‘I’m glad to see you’re on the mend—although of course it serves you right, since you really oughtn’t to be inviting girls here even if they’re not planning to kill you.’
‘I didn’t—’ began Freddy, but she was not listening, and went on:
‘I know we’re all very modern these days, but it’s not quite the done thing, and you might get into trouble if you’re not careful. In my day there’d have been the most awful to-do if my father had found me visiting young men without a chaperone. Not that I’d have dreamed of it, of course, but there was one young man who was rather insistent. Very handsome, too, as I remember. However, it’s a good thing your father stepped in first, as the other one lost both his legs in the war, and if I’d married him then we wouldn’t be sitting here now, would we? Now, you’d better not lie there all morning. I shall come back at two and we’ll go to this place together. You’ll be no good for hanging bunting with that arm of yours, but I dare say you can hold a teapot.’
And with that she departed as briskly as she arrived, leaving Freddy to fall into a comfortable doze.
ON FRIDAY, FREDDY went to Curzon Street to see Lady Bendish. She received him with some surprise—which quickly turned to fear when he dropped a hint as to the purpose of his visit.
‘Is this never to end?’ she said, as he brought out the clipping which showed beyond all doubt that her first husband had been alive and well still even after her second husband, Sir Henry Bendish, had died.
‘I hope it will end here,’ said Freddy, and handed her the article. ‘It’s none of my business, and you have nothing to fear from me. I’m only sorry it went on for so long.’
