Root of All Evil

by E. X. Ferrars

  “When d’you think he vanished?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t seem to be around this afternoon. I had to open the door to let Professor Basnett in, but I thought perhaps Ted was just upstairs, watching television, and hadn’t heard the bell. He often does that in the afternoon. But he isn’t there.”

  “Well, let’s not bother about him now,” Felicity said. “Max will be here any time now and Laycock may just walk in. You don’t suppose...” She stopped.

  “Yes?” Andrew said. Agnes had left the room.

  “I was just going to say, you don’t suppose the police have taken him in for questioning about that affair yesterday? I don’t know why they should, but suppose they have. Only I think he’d have let us know they were taking him away, don’t you? It’s a little worrying. But I don’t want to let myself get worried and upset when I’m expecting Max. He’s such a dear man. I know you’ll like him.”

  It was about seven o’clock when Max Dunkerley arrived. At first sight Andrew did not feel at all sure that he was going to like him. He was a short, portly man of about sixty-five with a large, fleshy face, wide-open blue eyes with a look in them of almost continuous surprise, and only a little hair left, which was long enough to curl over his collar. It was nearly white, but had a faint, pinkish tinge in it, as if it had once been red. He had large feet which pointed slightly outwards as he tramped forwards into the room and kissed Felicity.

  “Now what’s all this I’ve been reading about in my evening paper?” he asked when she had introduced Andrew. “About a murder on the common. Probably you don’t take an evening paper, but have you heard about it?”

  His voice was high-pitched and grating and sounded as if it belonged to a much older man than he appeared to be.

  “Have we heard about it!” Felicity exclaimed. “It’s our own special murder. D’you mean there was nothing about us in the paper?”

  “Not a word, my dear. Why should there be?”

  “Well, it’s true we haven’t had any reporters round,” she said. “I hadn’t thought of that. So the police are keeping quiet about that side of it, are they? I wonder why.”

  He sat down. “Mind if I smoke?” He did not wait for permission to light a cigarette with his short, thick, nicotine-stained fingers. “Now go on, go on, tell me how you’re mixed up in it.”

  “But didn’t it even mention in your evening paper that Margot Weldon used to work for me?” Felicity asked.

  “So that’s who the woman was. The name seemed familiar, yet I couldn’t place it. No, they only said that the body of a woman who had been identified as a Miss Margot Weldon, of some address in London, I forget where it was, had been found yesterday evening on the road across the common out here, probably strangled and dumped from a car. That’s all.”

  “So they know her address. I suppose it was in her handbag, along with that peculiar letter of hers. Andrew, please tell Max about the letter.”

  Andrew did his best to give a short account of Margot Weldon’s strange confession and of her visit to the house in the afternoon before her death. He was not going to mention the odd circumstance of the draught that had blown through the house, which both he and Felicity had felt, but she prompted him to do it. Max listened with his staring eyes fastened unblinkingly on Andrew’s face. He looked deeply interested, and when Andrew finished, he nodded his head several times.

  “It’s all as clear as day, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s just as your policeman said. Someone somehow forced the woman to write the letter, then murdered her, drove out here, dumped her body, drove his car over it to make it look like an accident, came on here to murder you, Felicity darling, assuming the confession in the handbag would keep him in the clear, but then he had all his plans upset because when he let himself in at the back door, he heard Professor Basnett’s voice in here, talking to you. Whoever it was, was a sad bungler, wasn’t he? Not to have made a better job of driving his car over the woman’s body so that the strangulation really was hidden, and not to be completely certain you’d be alone. Why, I might have been here myself when he came. Don’t I often drop in for a drink with you about that time? Of course, you suspect some member of your family. That’s understandable. What we must make sure of is that he isn’t successful when he has another go.”

  “Max, how can you?” Felicity cried. “What terrible things you’re saying! Oh, why in the world do I put up with you?”

  “Because you like having your own thoughts put into words,” he said. “Professor Basnett has a kind face. I’m sure he’d do his best, but he’d never be able to plumb the terrible depths of your mind. There’s a great deal of buried evil in your mind, so it doesn’t really startle you that there may be evil in your nearest and dearest. Now the question is, what are we going to do about it? Would you like to come and stay with me?”

  “In that unspeakable little flat of yours? No, thank you, Max.” She laughed. “You mean well, but I couldn’t stand it. And as it happens, I’ve made arrangements to protect myself. Arthur Little is coming out here tomorrow to draw up a new will for me in which I’m leaving everything I’ve got to Agnes. So none of the family will have any motive for murdering me. And they know that already. I told them what I was going to do this afternoon. So if I get murdered before Arthur gets here, whoever does it had better not bungle his alibi as he’s bungled things so far, because his motive will be rather obvious.”

  So that was her real reason for changing her will, Andrew thought. He ought to have understood it sooner. It was perhaps a better reason than the one she had given before.

  Max Dunkerley let cigarette ash drift on to his waistcoat. “Then come and stay with me tonight,” he said. “You can have my bedroom and I’ll sleep in the studio. I’ve often done it before and it’s quite comfortable, though I’d sleep on the floor if I thought it was for your good, Felicity.” He sounded troubled and sincere and Andrew began to like him better than he had until then. “It need only be until you’ve got things sorted out with Little. Just the one night.”

  “My dear, you really are very kind,” she said, “but I’ll have two strong men to look after me here in the house tonight, Andrew and Laycock. And I never sleep a wink in a strange bed and I feel terrible if I don’t sleep. So I’ll just risk it and stay at home.”

  He gave a little shake of his head, as if he did not like the sound of it, but knew only too well that arguing with Felicity was generally fruitless. A few minutes later Agnes came into the room to tell them that dinner was ready.

  It looked as if Felicity had been mistaken when she said that there would be two strong men in the house that night, for there was still no sign of Laycock. Agnes was deeply agitated by his mysterious absence and could not stop talking about it, which Andrew saw irritated Felicity. She was worried too, but her way of dealing with it was to brush it off as something that it was better not to think about.

  “If he doesn’t turn up soon with a very good explanation of what he’s been doing, of course I shall dismiss him,” she said as they sat down at the table in the dining-room. “I don’t understand it. It doesn’t seem like him. He’s always seemed so considerate and responsible. So he may have some good reason for what he’s done, though I can’t imagine what it could be. If he’s gone off simply because he’s had some trouble with that girlfriend of his or something of that sort, I shall have to get rid of him. If he thinks we’ve become so dependent on him that he can do what he likes, I really can’t tolerate it. Oh dear, what a pity! We seem to have had our domestic affairs so comfortably arranged for a good while now, haven’t we, Agnes? And the silly boy has to go and upset things. How I do wish people had more thought for others. But times have changed. People aren’t nearly as reliable as they used to be.”

  Andrew did not believe that Felicity had ever had much thought for others. Her own comfort had always been the main object of her life. But the disappearance of Laycock was certainly strange.

  “Have you looked in his bedroom to see
if he’s taken anything with him?” he asked Agnes. “It might tell you whether or not he means to return.”

  “Goodness me, you don’t mean to say you think he may have gone off for good!” Felicity exclaimed.

  “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?” Andrew said.

  “Suddenly, without a word of warning?”

  “People do that sort of thing sometimes,” he said. “For no reason that anyone can understand, they just disappear. Have you looked in his room, Mrs. Cavell?”

  “Only quickly, to see if he was there,” she said. “But I shouldn’t know if he’d taken anything with him. I don’t know anything about his belongings. He’s always looked after his room himself.”

  “I expect he’ll turn up presently with some perfectly good explanation of what’s happened,” Max Dunkerley said, sounding as if he meant it to be encouraging, but there was such a lack of confidence in his tone that it could not have had that effect.

  Certainly it did not succeed in cheering Agnes. A brooding look remained on her face and she hardly spoke for the rest of the meal. Max also became unexpectedly silent. Andrew had a feeling that he was a naturally garrulous man who in normal circumstances might prevent any real conversation from getting under way simply by drowning it in his own chatter. But not tonight. He was abstracted and spoke only briefly when he was spoken to. On the whole it was not a successful evening, and Felicity, realizing that it was not, showed her annoyance and swept out of the room as soon as she could, taking Agnes with her, leaving the two men together.

  They were both silent for some time, then Andrew, feeling that he must say something, inquired, “Have you known Felicity a long time?”

  “Oh yes, I met her soon after she came to live here,” Max answered. “That must be nearly twenty years ago. I knew Derek and Frances already and the two children, so I met Felicity and fell in love with her. I mean that almost literally. If she’d been ten years younger I’d have asked her to marry me. She’d only have been ten years older than I and what’s ten years when you fall passionately in love? I can’t tell you how beautiful she was, even in her sixties. Not that she’d have accepted me. She doesn’t really like anyone to come too close to her. I believe Agnes has been about the best friend she’s ever had, and she, of course, has to remember her position and do what she’s told. She doesn’t seem to mind it, but that sort of relationship wouldn’t have suited me. We should have been extremely unhappy. Ah well.” He gave a sigh. “Perhaps things are best as they are. She really is going to make a new will, leaving everything to Agnes, is she?”

  “So I believe.”

  “It seems to me sad, somehow. I’m quite fond of the whole family, even that rather dreadful girl Georgina. She’ll be all right when she grows up. I know she’s taking her time about it, but I’ve known her since she was a toddler and she was so sweet then. I suppose that’s given me a special sort of feeling about her. And I like this girl Quentin’s got engaged to. He’s showing better sense than I expected. And Derek’s a very good sort of fellow. An excellent doctor, conscientious and understanding. And Frances may be a bit of a muddler, but I’ve never known her do anything unkind.”

  “So after all you don’t really believe anyone in the family tried to get in and murder Felicity?”

  “Good heavens, no! That’s what she thinks, that’s all. I haven’t the faintest idea who did it, unless it was that man Laycock. That seems as probable as anything. But I don’t go in for solving murder mysteries. Shall we join the ladies?”

  He stood up.

  However, when Andrew went to the drawing-room, Max disappeared into the lavatory, so Andrew entered the room alone.

  Felicity at once addressed him rapidly, in a low tone, as if she were afraid that Max might overhear her. “Andrew, tell me quickly, did Max say anything about the pictures?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You see, it’s obvious he was depressed at dinner and I’ve been wondering, when I told him I was going to leave everything to Agnes, did he think I meant the pictures too? Because he’s longing to have them and I promised them to him years ago. Of course I couldn’t change that.”

  “Do they mean a lot to you?” Andrew asked. “Are you very fond of them?”

  “Not specially. As a matter of fact, I’ve never cared for them much. Seascapes don’t mean anything to me. It was James who collected them.”

  “Then why not make Dunkerley a present of them right away? That would relieve his anxiety.”

  “A present? Right away?” The idea seemed to astonish her and on the whole to displease her. Once she had parted with them, Andrew realized, she would feel that she had lost at least some of her power over Max Dunkerley. With an odd pang of pity, Andrew thought suddenly what a very lonely person she must be, believing, as she did, that no one could care for her except for the sake of her possessions.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Perhaps it would be the best thing to do. But there’d be the blank spaces on the walls. The wallpaper’s probably faded. I’d have to have the rooms redecorated.”

  When Max joined them a minute or two later, she said nothing about the pictures and they had not been mentioned when, at half past ten, he left the house.

  Felicity said good night to Andrew and Agnes and went up to bed almost at once. Andrew asked Agnes if he could help her clear the table in the dining-room, but with a weary yawn she sank into a chair, replying that she was very tired and would leave it till next morning. She could easily do it before she got the breakfast, she said. She looked worn out. Her face was drawn and her eyes, which were usually so calm, had an anxious, concentrated look in them, as if she were dwelling intently on something in her own mind. She and Andrew sat quietly for a little while and Andrew was just about to say good night and leave her when they heard Felicity calling.

  “Agnes! Agnes, will you please come up here?”

  She gave a little groan, as if the effort were almost too much for her, then pulled herself to her feet and went out.

  Andrew remained where he was, half-expecting the sounds of a rumpus to start upstairs. Felicity’s voice had sounded excited. But all was quiet and incautiously he allowed his eyes to close. That was all that he intended at the moment, just to let them close briefly. Then he would go upstairs and go to bed.

  What a pity it was, he thought, that it would not be his own bed in his own room. Although Felicity’s spare bedroom was a good deal more luxurious than his own, it did not seem to him to be nearly so restful. It was merely the unfamiliarity of it, of course, that gave him that feeling. The bed could not have been more comfortable. There was a bathroom opening out of it. There was a bookshelf with a promising-looking collection of books for the wakeful guest. But all the same, how peaceful it would be to be at home now, without thoughts of murder to trouble him, or policemen coming and going, or wills that needed changing...

  “Professor Basnett! Professor Basnett!”

  He woke with a start. Agnes had a hand on his shoulder and was shaking him. He had no idea how long he had been asleep.

  “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled drowsily. “I must have dropped off.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but there’s something I’d like to show you. Something very odd. I’d like to know what you think of it.”

  He felt too sleepy to be able to think clearly about anything, but he stood up and followed her out to the kitchen.

  The back door was standing wide open.

  Doing his best to dismiss the fog of fatigue from his mind, he said, “Did you open it?”

  “Of course not,” she answered. “I came in here just now to lock it and found it like that. And it must have happened since I was in here, making the coffee. I haven’t been back since I did that, but the door was shut then.”

  “So someone came in after that,” Andrew said, “and left in a hurry, or why didn’t he shut the door behind him? Do you suppose it was Laycock?”

  For some reason the question seemed to
anger her.

  “Laycock, Laycock!” she cried. “Can’t anyone think of anything but Laycock? Anyway, why should he leave the door wide open like that if he came home?”

  “Suppose he was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing?” Andrew said. “D’you think there’s any possibility he’s an alcoholic?”

  “I’m certain he isn’t,” she snapped at him. “He hardly ever drinks anything.”

  “But suppose he’s been one in the past and just had a lapse today.” Andrew felt fairly sure he was talking nonsense, but he could not think of anything else to say. “Suppose he found the murder and the police and so on a bit too much for him and wandered off, looking for consolation. Then he might have come back, very drunk, a little while ago and gone up to bed. Have you looked in his room?”

  “No, but I will. I certainly will. I’m positive you’re wrong.”

  She still seemed angry at the suggestion. Closing the door, she locked it and shot the bolts at top and bottom, then ran to the foot of the staircase.

  All at once her aggressiveness drained out of her. “Of course, you may be right,” she said in a troubled voice. “It would explain quite a lot of things. Why he’s doing the kind of job he is, when he’s obviously too good for it...”

  With dragging feet, she went slowly up the stairs.

  In a few minutes she came down again.

  “No,” she said, “he isn’t there. There’s no sign he’s been there since the morning. The room’s perfectly tidy. He’s always very tidy. It must have been someone else who opened the door.”

  “Or the latch didn’t quite catch the last time you shut it,” Andrew said, “and the wind’s blown it open.”

  “Only there’s no wind tonight.”

  It was true. The night was still and even while the door had been open there had been no feeling of a cold blast blowing in. In a clear sky stars had been shining brightly.

  “You don’t think...” Agnes began uncertainly and paused. “You don’t think that—just possibly—whoever came in may still be in the house?”