Hobby of Murder

by E. X. Ferrars

  Sam Waldron’s voice was heard coming from a room inside. ‘Who’s there, Anna? What are you doing out there? Bring them in, bring them in.’

  Then he appeared in the doorway of the room where his guests had had drinks before his dinner. He was wearing the brown corduroy trousers and white sweater in which Andrew had seen him first, but checked bedroom slippers instead of gum boots, and if he did not look quite as impressive as he had on the night of the dinner, when he had been swathed in a long white apron and had been made to appear even taller than he was by the chef’s hat that he had had on his head, he had lost none of his air of distinction.

  ‘We aren’t managing very well, I’m afraid, now that the Bartletts have left us,’ he said. ‘But we can offer you drinks. Come in here and please forgive the mess we’re in. We’ve been so dependent for so long on those two good women that we hardly know how to fry bacon and eggs. We don’t really know why they took off as they did. Panic, I suppose. Fear that they were going to be suspected of poisoning Singleton. Crazy, but I don’t suppose they realized how utterly virtuous they appeared to other people. Of course, none of us knows how we appear to other people. Now what’ll you have, whisky, vodka, sherry?’

  The room into which he had taken Ian and Andrew was not really in a mess. A newspaper lay on the floor. Cushions in the easy chairs had not been plumped up. Ashes in the fireplace had not been swept up. That was all.

  Ian and Andrew chose whisky, Sam Waldron vodka, and Anna sherry. She had come into the room behind the others, and now perched on the arm of an easy chair in one of the graceful poses that seemed to come to her naturally.

  ‘You’ve read the papers, of course,’ Sam said, when he had poured out drinks for the four of them and they were all sitting down.

  ‘And you have too,’ Ian said.

  Sam gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes. But it doesn’t tell one much, except that the woman’s dead. One supposes it’s because she knew too much about Singleton’s death, but it doesn’t say so. D’you know any more about it?’

  ‘A certain amount,’ Ian answered. ‘I found her in the lake, you know. And the police have found her handbag in the lake, with a thousand pounds in it. The theory is that she was attacked from behind and the handbag flew out of her hand and landed in the water.’

  ‘That sounds very strange to me,’ Sam said, thoughtfully rubbing a finger slowly down his aquiline nose. ‘What was she doing, wandering about with a thousand pounds in her handbag? That doesn’t sound like her.’

  ‘They’re considering the possibility of blackmail,’ Ian said.

  ‘That she was being blackmailed, d’you mean? No, of course you mean she was blackmailing someone and had just been paid. Well, well, what extraordinary things one learns about people—if it’s true, that’s to say. But it ought not to surprise me too much. Take the case of dear old Parson Woodforde. Respectability itself. Yet he took it for granted that he should buy his tea and his brandy from someone he called the Smuggler. According to his view, that was perfectly acceptable behaviour in a quiet country parson. So perhaps Miss Clancy found a touch of blackmail acceptable too. It was on a surprisingly small scale, wasn’t it, if it was only a thousand pounds?’

  ‘There’s a suggestion that it was just a first instalment,’ Ian said.

  Sam nodded. ‘That makes sense. So she knew who murdered Singleton, and how it was done. Extraordinary. She must have been a much cleverer woman in her way than I’d ever have given her credit for—oh, darling!’ He had turned with a look of great distress to his wife, for her slight body had suddenly become shaken with sobs and tears were pouring down her face. ‘Darling, don’t cry! We couldn’t have done anything to help her.’

  She mopped at the tears with a handkerchief but went on shuddering. Sam sat down abruptly in the chair on the arm of which she was sitting and put his arms around her.

  ‘Don’t!’ he repeated. ‘I know you cared for her very much once, but that was years ago. And I know everything’s horrible now, but it’ll pass. They’ll find out who did those things, and we’ll get back to normal.’

  ‘No, we won’t!’ she snuffled into her handkerchief. ‘Nothing’s ever going to be the same again. We were so happy and everything was going so well, but now it’s all spoilt, and the only way to get over it will be to go away. And I don’t want to go away. I just want none of it to have happened.’

  ‘Well, that’s something I’m afraid I can’t arrange for you,’ Sam said. ‘I’d do anything else on earth, but putting the clock back’s something I can’t do.’

  ‘If only we’d never given that awful dinner,’ she moaned. ‘Then if it was going to happen anyhow, it wouldn’t have been here in our house. It wouldn’t have been anything to do with us.’

  Sam looked at Ian and Andrew.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘She’s usually so controlled. But she’s gone to pieces since the dinner and now the news about the Clancy woman is just too much for her.’

  ‘Andrew hasn’t told you about the state of Eleanor’s cottage,’ Ian said. ‘He was taken into it by Roland. They’re old friends, you see, and Roland seems to have a great regard for Andrew’s perspicacity.’

  ‘Her cottage, you say?’ Sam said. ‘But I thought you said her body was found in the lake.’

  ‘Yes, but someone got loose in her cottage after killing her. Andrew, tell Sam what you saw in the cottage.’

  Andrew gave a brief description of what he had seen. Anna’s sobbing gradually grew less as she listened, her reddened eyes fixed incredulously on Andrew’s face. Once or twice she shook her head, as if she could not bring herself to believe what he was saying.

  ‘And I believe the prevailing theory at the moment,’ Andrew concluded, ‘is that Miss Clancy thought she could protect herself from her victim by telling him that she’d written an account of what she knew which would be found if anything happened to her, but that she was killed all the same and her murderer went to the cottage to find what she’d written, and when he didn’t find it smashed the place up in a rage.’

  ‘And do you believe that?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I’ve no other theory to offer,’ Andrew answered. ‘On the whole, it seems to me quite probable.’

  ‘I don’t believe any of it,’ Anna cried. ‘I don’t believe Luke was murdered, I think he committed suicide, and I don’t think my dear Clancy was killed by someone she was blackmailing, but just by one of those horrible perverts one’s always hearing about, who found a lonely woman out for an evening walk and wanted to rape her, only she fought him off and ail he managed to do was kill her and throw her body in the lake. And then he went and wrecked her cottage because he was one of those awful vandals who love to smash things.’

  ‘What about the thousand pounds in her handbag?’ Ian asked. ‘As Sam said, it isn’t the sort of sum you’d expect her to be carrying about with her.’

  ‘How d’you know why she had it?’ Anna demanded. Her voice had risen. She was almost screaming. ‘She may have got it to give to somebody next day. The bank may be able to tell whether or not she cashed it herself. I can imagine her giving it to someone who was in difficulties of some sort. She was wonderfully warm-hearted and generous, that’s partly why we all loved her so at St Hilda’s. You could always go to her with your troubles. This idea that she was a blackmailer—it’s horrible, horrible!’

  Her husband’s arms held her close, but she went on crying, ‘Horrible!’

  That was the word that rang in Andrew’s head as he and Ian presently walked home. But being horrible does not make a thing improbable. He was not sure that Anna’s defence of Eleanor Clancy had not made him more inclined to think of her as someone capable of blackmail than he had been before it. Also, he thought of what Sam had said as he had seen them out of the door. He had said that he would never fish in that lake again. Andrew found that he did not believe in that, either. As soon as propriety allowed, he felt sure, Sam would be back after his tench and his carp, and he would be cooking t
hem himself after soaking them for some hours in slightly acidulated water to get rid of the taste of mud. And Anna would calm down and life would go on for the two of them in the way that was normal for them.

  Other murders in other towns and villages would fill the newspapers. Death would stalk the land as usual. Planes would crash, killing all the passengers and crew. Buses would be overturned on motorways, with a long list of casualties. Children would be indecently assaulted, would be killed crossing roads, or by their impatient parents or step-parents. And Luke Singleton’s novels would go on selling as well as ever, if not better, for a considerable time after his death.

  The murders in Lower Milfrey would be forgotten.

  What was it Ernest Audley had said that morning? ‘It couldn’t happen, so it didn’t happen …’

  The words lingered in Andrew’s mind as he and Ian went back to an empty house. Was it possible that after all they meant something?

  CHAPTER 8

  Andrew cooked the lunch of sausages, bacon and frozen chips as he was more used to cooking for himself than Ian was. After it, Andrew went upstairs to his room, kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed. He was having some difficulty keeping the wretched tomtit at bay. Willow, titwillow, titwillow kept repeating itself maddeningly in his head. He felt that if only it would stop his mind might become clear, his ideas lucid, his vision of what had really happened at Sam Waldron’s dinner convincing. For he found that he had a belief that he knew more about it than he was aware of knowing. That that was probably an illusion was something that he accepted, yet it would be such a relief to find that it was true, to be able to fit just a few missing pieces into the puzzle of that evening and so complete the picture. It would bring such peace of mind. Meanwhile, sleep gave it to him for a little while, but after only about half an hour he woke up to find that the tomtit was still with him.

  ‘But now I’m as sure as I’m sure that my name

  Is not Willow, titwillow, titwillow

  That ’twas blighted affection—’

  He sat up in bed with a jerk. The jingle stopped. For suppose it was not blighted affection? Suppose blighted affection had had nothing to do either with the death of the tomtit or of Luke Singleton.

  Everyone, he thought, had been taking for granted that the motive for his murder had been sexual. But suppose sex had had nothing to do with it. Did that mean automatically that the motive must be financial? Suppose it was not that either. Andrew’s thoughts began to run in an entirely new direction and piece by piece fitted into the puzzle so that a strange picture began to take shape. But this could be as mistaken as the obsession with blighted affection, which he had decided was a delusion. Unless he could obtain some information he could not feel sure that the sense of inspiration which possessed him now was anything but self-deception. And how was that information to be obtained?

  After a short spell of very careful thinking he got up, not troubling to put on his shoes or slippers, but moving quietly in his socks, a habit he had when he was at home, went downstairs and picked up the telephone in the hall. He did not know where Ian was, but hoped that it was in his bedroom, for he did not want what he had to say to be overheard. But even if it was, it would not make much sense to Ian.

  He dialled the London number of his nephew, Peter Dilly. When he answered, Andrew said, ‘Peter, there’s something I’d like you to do for me. It’ll mean a bit of trouble, I’m afraid, and take a bit of time, but it’s urgent. Have you any time to spare?’

  ‘I can make it,’ Peter answered. ‘Is it to do with that murder you’ve got in your neighbourhood?’

  ‘So you’ve been reading about it, have you?’

  ‘One can hardly avoid it,’ Peter said.

  ‘Well yes, it is. There’s some information I want rather badly. If certain facts are what I think they may be, I believe we can clear the whole thing up, but they need to be corroborated.’

  ‘Go ahead, then. If it’s anything I can actually do, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Get paper and pencil, then.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve got them here.’

  Andrew then told Peter as briefly as he could what it was that he wanted Peter to find out for him. It was not a great deal, but Andrew had no idea how long it might take for the facts to be checked.

  When he finished, Peter said, ‘It sounds simple enough. I suppose you don’t want to tell me what you’ve got on your mind.’

  ‘Not till I’m clearer about it myself,’ Andrew answered.

  ‘All right, then. I’ll set out on the job straight away, and I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve anything to tell you.’

  ‘Thank you. I knew I could count on you. Thank you very much, Peter.’

  They both rang off and Andrew returned to his bedroom.

  It was about four o’clock when he came downstairs again and now he heard voices in the sitting-room. Going in, he found Ian, Mollie and Brian sitting there, with a tea-tray between them. Mollie was just pouring out the tea.

  Andrew was about to withdraw hurriedly, feeling that if a triangular discussion was in progress, a fourth member would hardly be helpful, but Mollie said at once, ‘Oh, there you are. We couldn’t decide whether to call you down for tea. I’ll just get another cup.’

  She put the teapot down and hurried past Andrew into the kitchen. It looked all very normally domestic.

  As he still hesitated in the hall just outside the doorway, Ian said, ‘It’s all right, come in. We’ve just been settling a few things, nothing to worry you.’

  Andrew would have preferred to return to his bedroom and do without the tea, but Mollie, returning from the kitchen with a fourth teacup, slid her arm through his and drew him into the room. She was smiling, but her eyelids were red and puffy, as if she had been crying.

  ‘Yes, we’ve settled everything,’ she said as she sat down and picked up the teapot again. ‘That is, I suppose we have.’ She looked at Ian. ‘Haven’t we?’

  ‘There was nothing much to settle, once the two of you had made up your minds,’ he said. ‘You’re moving out, Brian’s giving up his job as soon as he’s sure he’s going to have an income, I get a divorce moving. I suppose that’s really worthwhile, is it? The divorce, I mean.’

  Brian’s square, tanned face was more sombre than usual.

  ‘Of course it is,’ he said. ‘I want to marry Mollie.’

  ‘One can’t help wondering why,’ Ian said. ‘Marriage nowadays seems so totally unnecessary.

  ‘What do you think, Andrew?’ Mollie asked. She was trying to make it sound light, but there was a slight tremor in her voice. ‘A divorce can be quite expensive. Do you think we should bother about it?’

  Andrew had sat down and accepted the cup of tea that she held out to him.

  ‘I can tell you one good reason for marrying Brian,’ he said, ‘if you and Ian have really decided to separate.’

  ‘Oh, we have,’ she said. ‘He really wants it as much as I do.’

  ‘What’s this good reason?’ Ian asked.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll think it morbid,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s just that I’m assuming that Brian is going to become a pretty rich man and that he’ll make a will leaving all he has to Mollie.’ He looked at Brian. ‘Is that correct?’

  Brian nodded. ‘I haven’t heard anything definite about Luke’s will, but he told me he was leaving all he had to me. That includes his copyrights, I believe. It should amount to a good deal. And of course I’ll make a will sometime and leave everything to Mollie, if she really wants to stick to me, but what’s that got to do with our getting married?’

  ‘Only that if you’re married and you should happen to die before her,’ Andrew said, ‘she won’t have to pay any death duties on what she inherits from you, whereas if you’re merely living together she’d find the tax considerable.’

  ‘Andrew!’ Mollie gave a little shriek. ‘Morbid—I should think so! Do you think I’m going to marry Brian and then wait for what he’s going to leave me wh
en he dies? I never knew you could say anything so outrageous.’

  ‘I think it makes very good sense,’ Brian said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, suppose there’s someone who’s got it in for the Singletons, and I’m the next to go … No, that doesn’t really sound very convincing. If that was so, I’d be liable to be finished off pretty soon, wouldn’t you say? And a divorce takes ages to go through. So even if we’ve decided on marriage, we probably shouldn’t have got married in time to dodge the death duty.’

  Ian burst out laughing. It was a curious sound to hear in that room where tragedy of a kind was being enacted.

  ‘Don’t take Andrew too seriously,’ he said. ‘I know him in this mood. He’s very embarrassed and wants to deal with that by reducing it to absurdity. But perhaps it’s quite natural that early death should be on his mind. Neither Luke nor Eleanor were what one could call young, but they died before their time.’

  ‘I haven’t reduced anything to absurdity,’ Andrew said. ‘I’ve merely stated a fact. And remember, Brian, that if you make a will in the near future leaving all you have to Mollie, and then later you marry her, the marriage cancels all wills made before it, and if you don’t make another, she won’t inherit anything. All you meant to leave to her will go to your next of kin. Have you any next of kin?’

  ‘A cousin or two whom I’ve seen about twice in my life,’ Brian answered. ‘Are you suggesting they might have a motive for murdering me?’

  ‘Not so long as you make a will soon, and another as soon as you’ve got married,’ Andrew said.

  ‘I see,’ Brian said. ‘Then I’d better get ahead with that. Thank you, Professor.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ Mollie said to him tenderly. ‘Andrew’s just teasing you, because, as I said, he’s embarrassed at finding himself assisting at the break-up of a marriage. But Andrew dear, there’s no need to be embarrassed now. The worst is over. If you’d come downstairs a bit sooner you’d have heard Ian and Brian shouting at each other, and me in tears. We were all arguing about what was to be done about this house. It belongs to Ian and me, you see, and Ian wants to sell it and I think he ought to keep it, because it suits him so splendidly.’