Lonelyheart 4122 f-3

by Colin Watson

  “Life is not simple, Mr Purbright.”

  “No, indeed, Mrs Staunch. It takes all sorts, doesn’t it?”

  She glanced at him sharply, but his face was quite expressionless.

  “Perhaps,” she said, rising, “you’d better come along to my office. I want to be as helpful as I can. And if those poor women really have come to some harm...”

  “I’m afraid everything points that way.”

  “Then naturally we must see what can be done. Provided”—she paused on her way to the door—“you understand that anything I can tell you must be in the strictest confidence.”

  Unsure of what this was supposed to mean, Purbright nodded gravely and followed her.

  The office was a very small room with walls colour washed in primrose. On a wooden table were a typewriter, a letter basket and a hand operated duplicator. A dozen or so unopened letters were tucked behind tapes pinned to a board on the wall.

  Mrs Staunch opened a drawer in the metal filing cabinet that stood in one corner. She took out a folder, referred to the note she had made earlier, and found after some searching a second folder.

  She withdrew from each a form which she laid on the table before Purbright.

  “There you are. Miss Reckitt and Mrs Bannister. I thought they would both be still on file.” She indicated hand written entries. “They fill these in themselves. Here, you see...age, address, what they like doing, various personal details...” She looked up. “Any use?”

  The inspector read through the firm, well formed backhand of Martha Reckitt and then the less certain writing of the widow, spidery and laboured and with an occasional spelling mistake.

  Martha claimed to be of respectable, religious family, the deaths of whose other members had left her lonely but reasonably well provided with means for setting up a home of her own if she could meet someone sincere and companionable. She was interested in welfare work and thought she would like to live in the country; parish affairs greatly appealed to her. She had a fondness for needlework and reading, liked animals (her present situation, unfortunately, did not permit her to keep pets), and sometimes took a Sunday school class. Although tolerant in most manners, she could have no admiration for a man who drank. She did not condemn smoking—not pipe smoking anyway—but cared nothing for it herself. She had been told that she cooked well and was reasonably good looking. She enjoyed good health, apart from a slight asthmatic tendency.

  Mrs Bannister made no mention of family other than a loyal reference to having lately lost “one of the best”. Her consolations were the television, plays especially, and keeping her home nice. Nice, too, was her figure and often she thought she would like to see it in a dance frock again if the chance offered, which she hoped it would even now. She did lots of reading, loving books as she did and being a bit on the quiet side. Her special ambition, though, was to keep chickens and she would not hesitate to sell up her nice home for the sake of moving to a cottage in the country. What she would like in a man was attentiveness and a free and easy way, also education—that she admired very much.

  When he had finished reading, Purbright put the sheets down and regarded them silently. Nothing, he thought, was so saddening as the conflict between fear and loneliness. It could be terribly dangerous, too.

  “Tell me, Mrs Staunch—isn’t there a real possibility of people exploiting an agency like yours? I mean, here are two women who are obviously just asking for trouble.”

  “You’re thinking of what they have put down here about their means?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Ah, but things like that are just for my guidance. They’re absolutely confidential. I never pass them on with introductions.”

  “But there is no guarantee that these women won’t divulge details themselves once a correspondence gets started.”

  “That’s true. They aren’t children, though. Neither I nor anyone else can protect them for ever. They wouldn’t want me to. No, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable when I say that my responsibility ends with the provision of facilities—safe-guarded facilities, mind—for my clients to get in touch with one another. What friendships they form then are strictly their own affairs. Have you anything to find wrong with that, inspector?”

  Purbright realized that Mrs Staunch could be voluble when she liked. And she would like if he were to let himself sound critical. “No,” he said smoothly, “that sounds fair enough.”

  Apparently mollified, she waited.

  “As I understand it,” Purbright said after a while, “you provided Miss Reckitt and later Mrs Bannister with a list each of gentlemen selected by you from your current clients as being potential matches for the ladies in question. Each list was in effect a set of descriptions, each description applying to a particular client and being accompanied by his code number. This number was the key to the man’s name and address, known only to him and you. By the way, they’re all three-figure numbers, aren’t they?”

  Mrs Staunch nodded. “Even for the gentlemen, odd one’s for the ladies.”

  “Very well,” said Purbright. “What you did not know, and cannot now tell me, is the identity of those clients who did in fact get in touch with Miss Reckitt and Mrs Bannister.”

  “I’m afraid that is so.”

  “Then have you a record of the lists which Miss Reckitt and Mrs Bannister received? You see what I am after—the names of men from whom these women had a choice. If a record exists, it would simplify my job tremendously.”

  For the first time in the interview, Mrs Staunch looked bewildered.

  “Record? No, I’ve no record of that kind. In any case, I can’t compromise my clients. There’s mutual trust involved here, inspector.”

  “There may well be murder involved, Mrs Staunch,”

  “We can’t know for certain at the moment.”

  “You must see the possibility, though. It’s a rather more serious matter, surely, than professional etiquette.”

  “That is too light a word, inspector, if you don’t mind my saying so. My pledges to people who come here are not just points of etiquette.”

  “No, I’m sorry...”

  She raised a hand and remained a moment in thought.

  “I suppose,” she said, “that in the circumstances you could be fairly insistent. You know—a search warrant or something?”

  “I’d much rather that question didn’t arise.”

  After another pause she said: “Look—as I told you, I’ve no record of those particular lists. But what I will do is this. I’ll go through the file straight away, this evening, and try to reconstruct the one I sent Mrs Bannister. I know my own system and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work out the same twice.”

  “And Miss Reckitt?”

  “No. That was too far back. Two months ago I tidied the files up quite a bit and a lot of the names won’t be there any more.”

  “Shall I send someone round in the morning?”

  Mrs Staunch smiled. “I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind, inspector. I’ll see that you get it as soon as possible.”

  She showed him out by yet another of Handclasp House’s many doors. This one led into a back lane. It was growing dark. A woman going by with a child glowered at him suspiciously.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning Mrs Staunch called at the police station and left a white foolscap envelope marked “Highly Confidential” which she requested the duty sergeant to place immediately into the hands of Detective Inspector Purbright.

  She then drove on through the town to Northgate and parked her car against the railings of the Radical Club. She saw, but paid no particular attention to, a trim and cheerful looking woman of doubtful age who was gazing up towards the building’s balustraded roof. The woman held before her in the manner of tourists and singers of hymns, an open book. Yes, indeed, Miss Teatime was saying silently to herself, quite, quite lovely. So it is..

  Eventually Miss Teatime closed the book and ascended the steps.
She noticed the illuminated sign at the end of the hall, knocked gently on the waiting-room door and entered. After reading the two invitations, she responded to that on the left.

  The room in which she found herself was subtly different from the scene of Inspector Purbright’s interview.

  It was smaller and furnished in the style of a country parlour, with flowery wallpaper, Welsh dresser and a pair of diminutive armchairs that looked, in their loose covers, as if they were curtseying beside the roughstone fireplace set with fir cones on pink tissue paper. A copper warming pan gleamed on the wall. Before a low, demurely curtained window, was an earthenware bowl containing hyacinths in bloom. Their perfume drifted through the room where it became veined with the smell of freshly unpacketed tobacco. It was while Miss Teatime was delightedly savouring this combination that she noticed, propped casually against the low brass fender, a pair of well worn leather slippers.

  Mrs Staunch entered. Over her costume and quite hiding her jewellery was a fawn linen housecoat. She extended her hand.

  “I am Sylvia Staunch.”

  Miss Teatime looked very pleased to hear it. She grasped her bag and guidebook tightly and gave a little bob. Her smile came partly from good natured habit, partly from the sudden temptation to say Good morning, Mrs Tourniquet! They sat facing each other in the armchairs. “And do I take it,” opened Mrs Staunch in a creamy contralto, “that you are thinking of joining our little circle?”

  “Well,” said Miss Teatime, gazing at the slippers, “I did happen to see your advertisement and I thought no harm would be done by coming along for a little talk.”

  Mrs Staunch beamed. “Exactly. Now just ask me whatever you would like to know.”

  “I’ve only just arrived in Flaxborough, you see, and I think it is an altogether charming little town; I really do. Of course, London has been my home for many years, but I have not been fully happy there...”

  “The big city can be a very lonely place,” said Mrs Staunch.

  “Indeed it can. And in recent years London has become so intimidating, somehow. The rushing about, the overcrowding...one simply has no time to stand and stare, as they say.”

  “Are you a Londoner by birth, Miss...?” Mrs Staunch had already glanced at her prospective client’s left hand.

  “Teatime. Lucilla Teatime. No, as a matter of fact I was born in Lincolnshire. There are Teatimes in the Caistor area, you know. Perhaps that is why I had this urge to seek more rural surroundings. And I do like the sea, of course. Do you not find that Flaxborough smells of the sea?”

  “We have a tidal river.”

  “Tidal? Oh, how nice.”

  “And there are the docks.”

  “I am very fond of docks. Not,” she added dreamily, “that I have ever been in one, you understand.”

  Mrs Staunch thought the pun a trifle odd, but she smiled just the same.

  “So now here you are in our little community and you feel you would like someone to share in the adventure. Is that how it is?”

  “You could put it like that. A guide and comforter true,” twinkled Miss Teatime, “is perhaps what I need.”

  “No, seriously, I think you may have the right idea. I know how difficult it is to adapt to a new environment, and two heads are always better than one, are they not?”

  “Well, not on the same neck,” replied Miss Teatime, biting her tongue just too late. She hastily added: “As my uncle used to say. He was a bit of a card, the rector.”

  “Of course,” Mrs Staunch went on, “I think it is only fair to tell you that by no means everyone who comes here is accepted as a client. We are very selective. We insist upon two qualifications. A good background. And sincerity.”

  “How wise you are,” agreed Miss Teatime.

  “We do not ask for references. I flatter myself that I am a pretty sound judge of human nature and a personal impression is more valuable to me than any reference. That impression builds up from a dozen small points. Take the matter of fee, for instance...”

  “Yes, do,” said Miss Teatime.

  “Take the matter of fee,” Mrs Staunch repeated firmly. “Twenty guineas for a mere introduction may seem to some people a little high. But I know that a person of breeding, of integrity, has no difficulty in recognizing that a high fee is really designed for her protection—a sort of safety barrier against swindlers and”—a remark of Purbright’s came back to her—“and exploiters. It is also a test of sincerity. A true heart setting out to seek its fellow does not ask the cost of the journey.”

  You don’t run cheap night flights, I suppose? Miss Teatime wanted to ask. Instead, she nodded gravely and took a peep into her handbag. Yes, the cheque book was there just behind a slim brown box.

  Mrs Staunch rose and shifted a small mahogany table to Miss Teatime’s chair. “And now a spot of painless form filling,” she announced jocularly. “It seems something we can’t escape these days, doesn’t it?” She went to a drawer in the Welsh dresser and returned with a foolscap sheet.

  “Oh, dear, I’m terribly bad at forms,” lamented Miss Teatime. “My stockbroker says I’ll land myself in prison if I’m not careful.”

  “Just you take your time, my dear. I’ve one or two things to see to in the office, so I’ll leave you to it. Oh, by the way...” Mrs Staunch bent and pointed to one of the questions on the form. “This part about means is absolutely confidential, so don’t worry. It’s simply to give me a little guidance as to the sort of people you might like to meet.”

  She left Miss Teatime nibbling her pen and looking as excited as a nun with dispensation to play Ludo.

  A minute went by. Miss Teatime looked at the door and listened. Somewhere a typewriter was being tapped spasmodically. She glanced longingly down beside her at the handbag. No, she didn’t want to shock poor Mrs Staunch. And yet...An idea budded. She got up quickly and went to the window. It opened without trouble. Having carried to it the table and one of the chairs, she re-settled herself and lit the long, black cheroot she had taken from the box in her handbag. Then, carefully but with enormous relish, she expelled a stream of smoke through the open casement and began to write.

  When Mrs Staunch returned, she noticed Miss Teatime’s changed position and looked surprised.

  “Please say you don’t mind,” said Miss Teatime. “I’m such a fresh air lover, and there did seem just a teeny touch of tobacco smoke in here when I arrived.”

  “Of course I don’t mind, my dear.”

  “You don’t think I’m an awful fuss-pot?”

  “Not at all. Ah, we’ve finished our form filling, have we?”

  Miss Teatime held it out shyly. “I do hope it’s all right.”

  Briskly, Mrs Staunch read the form through. “Fine,” she said at last. “Just the ticket.”

  “And just the cheque,” said Miss Teatime laughingly, handing it over.

  Mrs Staunch sugared her careful scrutiny of the cheque by glancing again at the form and remarking: “Isn’t it a pretty name? Lucilla Edith Cavell Teatime. What a pity we have to introduce you simply as Miss 347!”

  Simply, perhaps, but there came a quick result.

  Miss Teatime was eating breakfast in the dining room of the Roebuck Hotel three mornings later when the receptionist brought to her table a white typewritten envelope. Inside was a smaller envelope addressed, in what Miss Teatime knew instinctively to be a firm masculine hand, to “347, c/o Handclasp Hall, Northgate, Flaxborough”.

  She enjoyed the pleasant discipline of leaving the letter intact beside her plate until she finished her two sausages and scrambled eggs and eaten three pieces of toast and marmalade. Then she poured herself another cup of coffee and slit open the envelope.

  The letter was quite short.

  Dear Miss 347,

  I wonder if you would like to write to me, as I understand you are interested in finding companionship. I, too, am a “solitary soul” and would be very glad to hear from another such. Our ages, it seems, are about the same and I feel that we m
ight have tastes in common. As I am in the happy position of not having to worry about earning a living (though not exactly one of the “Idle Rich”!!) time does drag a bit so you will understand how hopeful I am of hearing from you.

  Yours very sincerely,

  4112 (R.N. retd.)

  Miss Teatime read it through twice and was already framing a reply in her mind when she climbed, looking very pleased and determined, up the broad white staircase to her room.

  She took a sheet of hotel notepaper from the letter rack beside the pot of cyclamen, then decided against it. No—no address at this stage. At the top of a piece of her own pale sepia, deckle-edged stationery she wrote simply: c/o Handclasp House.

  The rest of the letter flowed easily enough.