by Simon Brett
‘What do you mean?’
‘She could have been pushed.’
‘Pushed?’ Eulalie Vance looked at her blankly. ‘Pushed – what do you mean?’
It is easy to tell when someone so theatrical has stopped acting, and Mrs Pargeter could see that Eulalie Vance had just stopped. Her reaction was genuine surprise. The thought that Mrs Selsby might have been murdered had never occurred to her.
Another name was struck off the list of suspects.
Mrs Pargeter comforted her. Mrs Selsby had been so vague and sleepy that she would never have noticed the absence of her letters. Anyway, by then she had been too short-sighted to read them. No, Eulalie shouldn’t worry. It was something she had done in a fit of passion, but it had been an action with no unpleasant consequences for anyone.
At the end of this reassurance, Eulalie Vance rose. ‘Thank you for saying that. It makes me feel a lot better.’
Mrs Pargeter reflected that it wasn’t what she had said that had made Eulalie feel better; it had just been the talking. Having made the mistake of showing an interest once, Mrs Pargeter realised that she might be letting herself in for a whole lot more confidences about the actress’s purple past.
‘I’m going out for a walk, Melita. Clear my head.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Oh, I found this on the chair.’ She held out the diary. ‘Could you give it back?’
‘Whose is it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘Well, this is Mr Dawlish’s chair. I assume it’s his.’
41
TUESDAY
12 MARCH – 1.45 p.m. – I am losing control. This is ridiculous. After last night’s failure with the cyanide, I have now committed the total idiocy of leaving this diary around the hotel!
Just a couple of days ago I felt so confident, and now I am in a state of trembling agitation like a schoolboy outside the headmaster’s study. I must get a grip on myself, and recapture that coolness and detachment with which I planned and executed my two murders. I must not give way to morbid doubts.
God knows what I have unleashed by my carelessness with this book. I sat at lunch looking round the room, wondering who had handled it, and – worse – who read it. That snooper, Mrs Pargeter, certainly had it, and, I don’t doubt, read every word. Then that idiot Eulalie Vance had her paws on it, too. Maybe even others, closer to me, have also looked inside.
The trouble is, this opens everything up so. Until my stupidity of leaving the book around, I thought that all I had to do to feel safe was to get rid of Mrs Pargeter – now I won’t feel secure until I’ve disposed of everyone living under the roof of the Devereux. Any one of them might have read this and be able to incriminate me.
At least I won’t be caught that way again. I’ll never let this book out of my sight – keep it in my pocket at all times in future.
I must keep calm. Take things one at a time. So far no one else has said anything to me. So far the only person I know to be a threat to me is that busybody, Mrs Pargeter. I must get rid of her as soon as possible, and then I can assess calmly whether or not I have to murder anyone else.
I will watch her every movement. If she leaves the hotel at any time of the day or night, I will follow her. And this time I will not make any mistakes!
42
Mrs Pargeter decided that the time had come for decisive action. She had done enough abstract, intellectual investigation; the moment had arrived to draw the murderer out of hiding and confront him.
The annoying thing was she didn’t yet know who he was. She had narrowed the candidates down to the two men, but she could not yet be positive which of them had committed the murders.
She had seen both round lunchtime. Colonel Wicksteed, referring to a slight brightening of the weather, had observed that it was about time ‘the dogs of spring were let off their winter traces’.
And Mr Dawlish, to whom she had presented the diary just before lunch, had given her a most peculiar, abstracted, surprised look.
Of course she hadn’t read any of the diary. She hadn’t even opened it. This was another legacy of her life with the late Mr Pargeter. He had kept a diary, but had always discouraged her from reading it. ‘It’s not that there’s anything in it I’m ashamed of, Melita my love,’ he always used to say. ‘It’s just that what you don’t know, you can’t be made to stand up in court and say.’
Mrs Pargeter could respect the wisdom of that. Although there had been a temptation to read the diary that she had returned to Mr Dawlish, to see if it contained anything that might be relevant to her investigation, it was a temptation she had resisted.
But the need for decisive action was strong. She felt the pressure and she knew that the murderer was feeling the pressure, too. The attempt to poison her had failed, but another attempt on her life must follow soon.
This time, however, she would be expecting the attack. That would give her the edge, and she reckoned she had a reasonable chance of turning the tables on him.
In her bedroom after lunch she had a little nap and then started to make her preparations.
She stowed the late Mr Pargeter’s small binoculars in her handbag, and then hesitated. Should she or shouldn’t she?
The late Mr Pargeter had not been a man of violence, although he had recognised the occasional necessity for it in a world depressingly lacking in moral standards. His attitude to violence was very similar to his attitude to the question of bringing in the police: Don’t do it unless there really is no alternative.
Mrs Pargeter tried to decide whether her late husband would have thought there was any alternative in her current situation.
She came to the conclusion that the late Mr Pargeter’s priority would be, as it had always been, that she should be well protected. And, while some husbands leave their widows only pensions, annuities and insurance policies, the late Mr Pargeter had ensured that his should also have more practical means of protection.
She took the gun out of its secret compartment in the bottom of her suitcase. It was of American manufacture, a neat little weapon with a three-inch barrel, ideal for a lady’s handbag. She slipped it in with the binoculars and put on her boots and mink coat.
She knew the risk she was taking, but she had got to the point where she had to find out the solution.
And she knew that whoever followed her out when she left the hotel would be the murderer of Mrs Selsby and Mrs Mendlingham.
She went into the Seaview Lounge and found all the surviving residents of the Devereux sitting there. Lady Ridgleigh was reading Country Life, Miss Wardstone The Church Times, and Eulalie Vance The Stage. In the bay window Colonel Wicksteed was looking out to sea with his binoculars.
‘Japanese job out there,’ he pronounced.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Dawlish.
‘Tanker. Make a lot of tankers, the Japs.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why there are so many problems in the Scottish shipyards, you know.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Mr Dawlish.
This little conversational surge having come to its end, Mrs Pargeter announced to the assembled company, ‘Just going out for a stroll. Won’t be long.’
They all nodded or waved acknowledgement of this information.
In spite of the brighter weather, by late afternoon there was a brisk March wind beating along the Littlehampton sea front. Mrs Pargeter, who had decided her route in advance, started walking firmly along the Promenade towards the mouth of Arun, the route on which she had followed Mrs Mendlingham less than a week before.
She went about two hundred yards before looking back, but there was no one hurrying after her from the Devereux.
She disciplined herself not to look back again until she reached the corner of the Smart’s Amusements building. There was a fluttering inside her, a fluttering of fear, certainly, but a fluttering that also contained a strong element of excitement, and even glee. It was a familiar sensation, one that she had often felt during her eventful life with the late Mr Pargeter.
It seemed a very long time before she reached Smart’s Amusements, but once there she stopped and knelt down, apparently to make some adjustment to her right boot.
She looked back over her shoulder.
Yes, now she was being followed.
But it wasn’t just one resident of the Devereux coming after her. There were two of them. One tall and straight, the other small and stooped.
Mr Dawlish and Colonel Wicksteed.
43
The fact that there were two of them confused her. She had been so convinced that only one would follow; she was not quite sure how to proceed.
Her plan for confrontation with the murderer had been to talk to him in the shelters where she had spoken to Mrs Mendlingham. They combined both privacy and a degree of safety. She would be able to talk there in the confidence that there would be people in adjacent booths. Given the murderer’s cautious approach to his other crimes, he was not going to risk killing her with witnesses to hand.
But now both Mr Dawlish and Colonel Wicksteed were coming towards her, deep in conversation, the situation was different. The confrontation would not take place. The murderer had set out on his grim task, only to find that his friend had tagged along. He would have to delay his next murder attempt, and Mrs Pargeter would have to delay her confrontation.
That being the case, Mrs Pargeter couldn’t see much point in waiting around in one of the shelters to talk to them. The only conversation she’d get would be their usual circuitous banter, and she didn’t feel it was the moment for more of that.
So when she reached the shelter, she turned down on to the beach along the side of the Arun estuary. The sea was some way away. The tide, nearly at its lowest point, accelerated the rush of brown water in the river. It looked icy and evil as it swept past.
She was half-way down the beach, still walking alongside the torrent, when, for the first time, she thought of a conspiracy theory.
Suppose Mr Dawlish and Colonel Wicksteed had committed the murders together.
Suppose between them they had eliminated Mrs Selsby and Mrs Mendlingham. And now, between them, they were coming to eliminate her.
She looked back up the beach, and saw something that chilled her like a sudden blast of cold air.
The two men had left the Promenade and were coming down the beach towards her. They were not running, but they moved quickly and purposefully, following her exact course along the side of the swollen river.
Mrs Pargeter tried to speed up, but the sand got spongier the further she went down the beach, and snatched at her boots as they sank with each step.
She looked back. For a moment the two old men had stopped, just at the point where the old sea defence ended and there was only a low wooden fence between the sand and the river. Colonel Wicksteed’s tweed hat bent close to Mr Dawlish’s grey cap. They were talking animatedly, as if making final plans.
She ran on, now trying to cut left, away from the river, away from the sea, back up towards the safety of the Promenade and the Devereux. The beach was empty, except for the three of them. Early darkness and a soggy mist combined to isolate them, cut them off from the rest of humanity.
Her boots dragged in the hungry sand. She thought she could hear the heavy pad of pursuing footsteps. Stifling a scream, she looked back.
What she saw was the last thing she had expected. She missed the moment of his launch, but was just in time to see the body of Colonel Wicksteed, with tweed hat detached and arms outstretched, in mid-air between the sand and the river.
For a long second he seemed frozen, as in a photograph. Then he vanished from her sight into the unseen turbulence below.
Immobile with shock, she looked at the small, thin figure of Mr Dawlish, hardly fifty metres away. She waited for him to come towards her, and she felt that, when he did, she would have no will left to run, that she would just stand waiting, offering no resistance to his hypnotic advance.
It was a long, long moment. Mr Dawlish did not stir. He stayed looking down at the river, into which his friend had just disappeared.
Then he turned up towards the Promenade, and walked slowly back to the Devereux.
44
It was a quarter to four when she got back to the hotel. There was no one in the Entrance Hall, and in the Seaview Lounge only Mr Dawlish sat, in his customary armchair. The other residents must have gone to powder their noses before reassembling to await the arrival of Loxton’s tea trolley.
Mr Dawlish had removed his cap, but was still wearing his overcoat. In spite of this, the usual rug was drawn over his thin knees.
On Mr Dawlish’s lap lay the familiar dark blue diary.
Mrs Pargeter undid her mink coat and sat opposite the old man.
‘Presumably he had no chance?’
Mr Dawlish shook his head. ‘’Fraid not. Water’s very fast at that time of the tide. And very cold. Shock of that might have killed him before he drowned.’
‘So . . . the same person killed Mrs Selsby . . . and Mrs Mendlingham . . . and now Colonel Wicksteed . . .’
‘Yes.’ He looked across at her. ‘I thought you seemed to be an intelligent woman, but I didn’t realise you’d worked it all out. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’ There was silence. Then she said softly, ‘Can I ask why?’
Mr Dawlish sighed. He reached down to his lap and picked up the dark blue diary that lay there.
‘I think this’ll explain everything,’ he said, as he handed it across.
45
TUESDAY
12 MARCH – 2.30 p.m. – The worst has happened. As I feared, now it is not only Mrs Pargeter who knows my secret, but someone else as well. And that person is my dearest friend. He came and told me after lunch. He had read this book and he knew all about my murders. He was sorry for me, he said, but was quite firm that I should go to the police and confess. If I didn’t, he said, he would.
So now I am faced with a frightful dilemma. Either I give myself up, or I have to murder the one person left in the world who means anything to me. And still murder Mrs Pargeter – and who knows how many others before I feel secure? I now begin to suffer that self-contempt and hopelessness that murderers are supposed to feel. The crime is one that at first gives you a sensation of power, of controlling events, but how briefly that euphoria lasts! How quickly one realises that the crime itself is in control! How I wish I had never embarked on this course!
And yet when I started – such a comparatively short time ago – it all seemed to make such good sense. I was in such a corner over the gambling debts. I had borrowed on the strength of my pension and used every other resource I possessed. They were threatening all kinds of things, but what worried me most was the threat that they would tell Miss Naismith. I was well set up at the Devereux and I planned to stay here for the rest of my days. For someone like me to be branded publicly as the kind of bounder who doesn’t pay his gambling debts would have been insupportable.
I was in pretty total despair about it, when by chance, in a private conversation with me, Mrs Selsby let slip about the unusual provisions of her will. I’m afraid from that moment I considered murder as a way out of my difficulties, and once the idea had caught hold of me, it grew stronger and stronger, until it became an obsession. I had only one aim and that was to kill Mrs Selsby.
But of course it didn’t stop there. Mrs Mendlingham had seen what had happened and came to me with a proposition – if she kept quiet, then I was to use my influence to prevent Miss Naismith from turning her out of the Devereux. Of course that was ridiculous. I had no influence with Miss Naismith, and I think, anyway, she had already made up her mind that Mrs Mendlingham should go. So there was no security for me till the old woman was dead.
But then Mrs Pargeter started meddling. I tried to kill her, using cyanide from a suicide ring I’d had made up during the War, but I failed. Never mind, I’ll try again – or at least I think I will.
Because where all was certainty, now all is doubt. Now
that I am faced with the prospect of having to kill a friend, the situation is so different. The two old women were near the end, anyway. Mrs Pargeter seems a pleasant enough soul, but I do not know her well nor feel any particular loyalty to her. But to have to kill him – I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it.
I will go out for a walk with him. That will be best. Talk to him – see if I can make him change his mind about going to the police. And, if he won’t change his mind, then I’ll have to try and kill him.
Or, if I can’t bring myself to do that, perhaps I’ll have to kill myself instead.
46
Mrs Pargeter finished reading and looked up at Mr Dawlish. From the wrinkles around his eyes tears flowed unchecked.
‘So,’ said Mrs Pargeter sadly, ‘he chose the second alternative.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Dawlish. ‘I pleaded with him not to, but he said there was no other way out. I’m afraid he always used to win our arguments. He said it’d be better all round if he went. “It’s a much, much better thing I’m doing than I’ve ever done before,” he said.’
Misquoting to the last, reflected Mrs Pargeter, as Mr Dawlish went on, ‘And he asked me to give this diary to you. He said it’d explain everything. He said he hoped you’d agree that his death tied up all the loose ends and that there was no need to go to the police about any of it.’
‘No. No need at all,’ she said, mindful of the late Mr Pargeter’s views on that particular subject.
47
A month passed before Mrs Pargeter finally made her decision.
The genteel surface of life at the Devereux Hotel had settled down again. There were three new residents, all of impeccable references (and all personally interviewed by Miss Naismith before being admitted). There was a former bank manager named Mr Poulton. There was a retired airline pilot called Preston-Carstairs (a gratifyingly double-barrelled name, which Miss Naismith took great pleasure in using at every possible opportunity). And there was another aristocratic widow called Lady Jacobson. (The arrival of the latter caused intense annoyance to Lady Ridgleigh, whose only comfort was that, with a name like that, the newcomer must undoubtedly be Jewish.)
