On her way to the station she posted the letters she had written the previous night. By the time they were opened by their recipients she would be well out of the way.
The last person to see her was Mr. Bates. Mr. Bates had come down to Brakemouth with his wife for a “change” after Maggie Bates had flu. On this particular afternoon, in spite of the rather choppy sea, he rented a boat and went for a row. Mrs. Bates preferred to roam through the High Street of Brakemouth looking for full-fashioned lisle stockings. Then she would go to a movie.
“You can do that at home,” objected Mr. Bates.
“I could,” agreed Maggie, “if I didn’t have to spend all my time on the housekeeping.” A typical married couple. So Mr. Bates collected the fifteen-year-old son of his landlady and the pair went out together. They were getting on well in spite of the difficult sea.
when, rounding the curve of Dead Man’s Rock, the boy said: “Look, that’s Mystery House,” pointing to a newly painted house on the cliff. “You know, where the lady fell off the balcony.”
“Oh, yes?” said Mr. Bates, vaguely.
“Wasn’t it in the London papers?” asked the boy. “I tell you, it was all over the papers here. Her sister was poisoned a week back,” he added triumphantly, “and they say her nephew did it. You might think the house was haunted. I’d like to see a ghost.”
As though some invisible fate heard him, a figure at that moment appeared on the edge of the cliff, much too near the edge for Mr. Bates’ peace of mind. She was a tall, sallow woman, dressed without a scrap of imagination, just such a drab figure as you might see in any town in the country in the fourth year of the peace.
“Is that a ghost?” exclaimed the boy eagerly, and Mr. Bates, not quite certain himself, replied sharply: “If she isn’t she soon will be, if she goes much nearer the edge of the cliff. What fools these women arel” The tide was now very high and the rocks beneath the waves were quite invisible.
“Go back!” called Mr. Bates irritably. He wasn’t sure if the woman heard him or not. He did not then realize that, being just round the curve of the coast, he was invisible to her, though he could see her clearly enough. The next instant he had half-risen in the boat. “Look outl” he exclaimed. “Good God, the woman’s slipping.”
It was horrible. He had seen this sort of thing often enough in the movies without turning a hair, but in real life it was appalling. For there could be no possible doubt about it. This was no ghost, it was no accident. Mr. Bates had never seen anything more deliberate in his life. His first instinct was to prevent the lad with him from seeing what was happening, but a moment later his humanitarian sense caused him to row furiously toward the spot where the woman had disappeared.
“Can you row?” he yelled to the boy.
“I can’t swim,” the boy told him. His teeth were chattering. For weeks afterwards Mr. Bates tormented himself and Mrs. Bates wondering what he ought to have done.
“Just what you did do,” said Mrs. Bates impatiently. “You know with your wounded leg you couldn’t have done any good, and the
woman had enough on her conscience without making me a widow into the bargain. And anyway, if she wanted to go out like that, I don’t see that any one had any right to stop her.”
Mr. Bates groaned. Crook would have said: “Take it easy, pal. Dames are all the same. Law and order don’t mean a thing to them.”
And he’d have instanced Miss Pettigrew, whose letter he opened at about the time she, believing herself to be unobserved, stepped off the cliff into space.
22
IT IS a pity I cannot be with you when you read this so that you can tell me how I betrayed myself,” Miss Pettigrew wrote. “I suppose you knew the truth from the beginning. I remember, when I asked you if you knew who was guilty, you said you knew who was responsible for Miss Bond’s death. There was a delicate distinction there, and I did not miss it.
“Yes, of course I wrote the letters. How did you come to be so sure so soon? At the beginning, like all the criminals of whom you spoke to me, I thought no further than one step ahead. At that time murder had not entered my mind. I read somewhere some years ago that all murders that are not self-defense are first committed in the mind, in the imagination, although the actual deed may be done on the spur of the moment. But there must exist the desire, the will to murder, and it is this constant will that enables the criminal to take advantage of an opportunity and act in a flash. As I did, Mr. Crook, as I did.
“I hated Clara Bond, almost as much as I loved her sister, Isabel. I became an orphan very early in life, and when I was a child I used to imagine a sister for myself. When I started on my career as a governess I always envied those children who had sisters. To me it always seemed the most delightful of all relationships. Twenty years ago I met Isabel Bond. From that moment I knew I had met the one person with whom I should wish to spend the rest of my life. Naturally, Clara Bond was utterly opposed to any such plan.
Thanks to the terms of her father’s will she had full control of all the moneys he left, so long as Isabel Bond remained unmarried. I dare say it had never occurred to the old man that she might wish to set up house with a woman friend. We had need of patience, Isabel and I. For five years we waited; then I inherited a small legacy, nothing at all considerable but sufficient to buy a modest cottage in the country, and at the same time I was offered a post that did not involve living in. This seemed our opportunity, but once again Clara put obstacles in the way. She said that she could not agree to her sister becoming a paid housekeeper, as she would be if she had no income of her own, and if she was not to occupy this position, then she would be living on my charity. Either alternative was unthinkable. Since then Clara Bond has never missed an opportunity to keep Isabel and myself apart. Then, a short time ago, there crept into Isabel’s letters a new note. She was happier than she had been for years; she spoke of some recompense for the years that the locusts had eaten. And on the heels of that information came a letter telling me of her fatal accident.
“I have never believed in this theory. I do not say that Clara Bond actually pushed her sister off the balcony; I do say she was responsible for her death. It was after her death that I began to plan my revenge. For years she had terrorized Isabel, even threatening her with incarceration in an institution for the weak-minded. Oh, I didn’t want her to die quickly. I wanted her to suffer even a hundredth part of what her sister had endured for so many years. I wanted her to know what fear was. The anonymity was an essential factor. If she had known the name of her tormentor she would have taken steps to deal with the situation at once. I wanted her to be unsure if it was the woman sitting next to her in the hotel, standing behind her in the bus queue, walking apparently by chance along the same pavement, going into the same shop. I knew she hated suspense; therefore I used the vague threat. There was nothing for her to catch hold of. I never had any fear that she would go to the police; she had far too much to lose. I know at one time she suspected Locket. That was unfair to Locket, but I doubt whether she would have cared. I don’t think she thought it was I. All the letters were delivered by hand or bore the Brakemouth post-mark. She was so careful about money herself she could scarcely have believed that I would make the journey simply to deliver a letter. It was so easy. I only had to wait till she left the hotel and leave my envelope then. Or I could put it among the postal deliveries. People, Mr. Crook, as I have heard you observe, believe what they wish to believe, and see what they are expecting to see. Similarly, they seldom see what they do not expect.
“Then I had an unanticipated stroke of good fortune. Miss Bond actually asked me to come and stay at the hotel. That created innumerable small opportunities for increasing her unease. I missed none of them. Sometimes I wondered if she would be driven to taking her own life. It would never have lain on my conscience if she had, but that was a ridiculous thought. Clara had never willingly given anything away since she was born. Was it likely she would throw away her life to oblige me?
/> “Then a new element came into the situation. Oh, I don’t mean John Sherren. I never believed he was any danger to her. No, I refer to Roger Marlowe. I only had to see her on the night of his arrival to know she was more afraid than she had ever been. He had some power over her nobody else possessed. I hold no brief for him. He was—and is—a scoundrel. He had no more heart than Clara, although he had a more winning and gracious manner. But he was as ruthless as she. If he had a weapon, as I was certain he had, he wouldn’t hesitate to club her with it. When he came in that evening and she asked him to join us I knew at once that she had some plan in mind. She wouldn’t give away a cup of tea unless she saw it coming back to her with compound interest. She was afraid of him and she was quite unscrupulous. Those are the important points. When she offered him saccharine and even took a little bottle from her bag my suspicions flared up. Who knew better than I that she never used the stuff, insisting on being supplied with sugar? And since she had not known there were going to be guests that night, she could not argue that she had bought the saccharine in preparation for their arrival. I watched her pour the little pellets into Mr. Marlowe’s cup; there were still some left in the bottle, I could see that quite clearly, but she did not attempt to add any to her own tea. She dropped the bottle back into her bag. Then she produced the sugar, which she handed around, proving that there was no need for the saccharine.
“I said a little earlier murder starts in the mind. It must have been in hers for her to act so quickly, so relentlessly. I saw precisely what would happen. Mr. Marlowe would drink the tea; she had given him sugar in his cup, but if the original pellets had really been saccharine the tea would have been as sweet as syrup. Therefore, 1 argued, the sugar had been added to disguise any possible taste. In the morning he would be found dead in his bed. When questions were asked it would be discovered that he had insufficient means even to settle his hotel bill. Clara could come forward with a story of an attempted loan and John Sherren would back her up. I am convinced Marlowe came to Brakemouth for no other reason than to obtain money from Clara Bond. It wasn’t her first experience of blackmail, remember. Then she had paid up, seeing no alternative. Now presumably she had nothing left with which to pay. It would not seem strange to the police that the man should take his own life; he was an adventurer, a man whose past, I dare say, would not endure examination. Oh, it was all quite simple and, if I had not been present, it would have been quite successful.
“I knew at once that here was just such an opportunity as I had awaited. It might never come again. And as I was planning how to act, and time was very short, John Sherren unwittingly became, my accomplice. I saw that he was stirring his tea violently and I jolted the table a little, with the result that a few drops splashed on to Clara Bond’s frock. Instantly there was a commotion; Marlowe must ring the bell, John must try and mop up the drops with his handkerchief; the chambermaid came in and was given instructions. And, while all attention was centered on Miss Bond I changed the cups, Mr. Crook—I CHANGED THE CUPS.”
Crook threw the tidily written sheets onto the table and put his hand over his eyes. He seemed tired, which was unusual for him. Bill tentatively picked up the letter.
“Go ahead,” invited Crook. “She makes vinegar sound like raspberry syrup.”
While Bill skimmed the letter Crook opened the enclosure that was folded very small. It consisted of a check for a hundred pounds and a brief note signed F.P.
“I send you this as a fee for your trouble. If you try to donate it to a Home for Unwanted Spinsters or any such nonsense I shall do my best to haunt you. When you offered me that two shillings (for the gas meter) I knew you had, as Mr. Marlowe would say, rumbled me. And, after all, I cannot take that way out. My father always taught me that a gentlewoman should be considerate, and it would involve the principal of the ladies’ club in serious inconvenience. She would have to attend the inquest, and there might be feeling about occupying a room where a woman had taken her life. I did think of following Isabel’s example and buying a bottle of aspirins, but the world is full of benevolent busybodies and I doubt whether I should be allowed to die quietly on my park bench. Someone, with those excellent intentions which pave the way to hell, would telephone for an ambulance, there would be doctors and stomach-pumps and I should be hauled back to life to face a charge of attempted suicide. So I shall go at the spot where we first met, where Isabel went in—her place, her way. I have written to the police and to Mr. Sherren, though I know too little of the law to realize whether he will be allowed to receive my letter. But I rely on you to see justice done so far as he is concerned. In Clara’s case I preferred to take the law into my own hands.” Then came her scrawled initials, and underneath a final note.
“Considering how hard I have often found it to live, it is strange how difficult it is to die.”
Bill threw the papers on to the table.
“That’s the way you figured it out, I suppose?” he suggested.
“I never believed John Sherren was guilty. To begin with, he ain’t the type, and for another thing, even if he’d had the tablets with him, and there was no proof he’d ever possessed any, he would hardly have been crazy enough to put ‘em into her cup of tea under the eyes of two witnesses. They’d both have remembered he didn’t help himself from his own bottle. Y’see, in a case like this, you can’t go on suppositions. You have to go on facts. Who had the pheno-barbitone? Answer—Miss Bond. Who wanted someone out of the way? Again—answer. Miss Bond. Who’d done something of the same kind before—you get me. Bill. Miss Pettigrew was right. No one would be surprised to find Marlowe had taken the easy way out.”
“I thought you said there was no proof anyone except Miss Bond had the stuff,” Bill objected.
“There wasn’t, but she meant to rectify that. That’s why she sent Miss P. and the others off ahead of her. She didn’t really want
to talk to her nephew; she wanted five minutes’ grace. I don’t know exactly how her plans were shaped, but murder’s frequently a matter of trifles. As they came into the hall John Sherren chucked his empty saccharine bottle into the waste-paper basket. Quick as light Miss Bond sent him back to the drawing-room on a fool’s errand. The instant he was out of sight she nipped up the empty bottle and poured into it all that remained of her tablets. Then she made her mistake. If murderers didn’t trip up on trifles there’d be no convictions. She put the tablets, as she thought, into the pocket of Marlowe’s coat hanging on the wall. But she forgot that John Sherren had a coat so damn like it she couldn’t tell them apart, and Marlowe had taken his coat upstairs over his arm when he went up in the elevator with the rest. It was sheer chance the phial slipped through a hole in the pocket: otherwise, of course, J. S. might have discovered it, dirown it out. When her nevvie came back she was all agog to get upstairs, shut the door, and wait. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait long. Of course you can’t see through stone walls, not even women with cats’ eyes like Clara Bond. She couldn’t know that, thanks to her death, the teacups wouldn’t be washed, the waste-paper baskets wouldn’t be emptied. It’s a funny thing,” he added, nodding toward the cupboard in the corner of the room as an indication that he could do with a bottle of Bass, “that the two people who were meant to pass out are about the only two who are left alive: Marlowe and John Sherren. I told you he’d die in his bed like a little gentleman, with his landlady to fold his lily-white hands and stick the white flower of a blameless life between them.”
He sounded moved, but no one had ever seen Bill jolted out of his composure.
“What would have been her situation in law?” he asked. “Did she murder the old girl simply by changing the cups?”
“Malice aforethought,” said Crook. “That’s all the prosecution have to prove. And those letters she wrote would have proved it.”
“How could you be so sure she did write them?”
“She gave herself away very early in the game. She wasn’t supposed to have been near Brakemouth since Isabel die
d, but she knew the house had been repainted during the last month, that such-and-such a shop had reopened, and a cinema rechristened. The only person who could know was someone who had been coming down at regular intervals for some months, and we know she hadn’t come to see Miss Bond or to see Locket, and if she wanted a breath of sea air what’s wrong with Brighton? Another thing—nobody but Miss Bond and the writer knew what was in that last letter, but she spoke of a hackneyed quotation that anyone might have employed. I looked through the letters—there wasn’t any quotation there. So you see? She knew because she wrote it. And, of course, she left it on the table on her way to the lift. That’s why nobody saw it till John Sherren came out of the drawing room.”
“Anything else?” Bill knew his man. Crook was keeping the best point to the end.
“Yes. It’s queer how chaps give themselves away. You remember Miss P. saying she always went along for a few minutes’ chat with her hostess—you can’t say friend—last thing at night. Now you’re not going to tell me that she perambulated through the corridor in her nighty. In fact, she said she always went along before she undressed. But on diat last night, when John Sherren came to her door, she was all ready for beddy-byes, dressing-gown, shawl, and all. See what that means? She wasn’t going along to Miss Bond that night. And why? Because Miss Bond would be too far gone to expect her, and anyhow she didn’t want to be the last to see Clara Bond alive. She might have been asked some awkward questions. Didn’t she think the old dame looked a bit queer? Didn’t it occur to her to call in the doctor? But no, she never intended to go along. Mind you, she didn’t expect to see John Sherren either. That’s one of the things you can’t count on. You can never be absolutely sure a murder’s going according to plan. Hers was to say she couldn’t wait any longer for Miss B. to come upstairs and she went to bed. Simple, my dear Watson. But that’s the trouble, Bill. Murder ain’t simple. Miss P. always insisted it was. Very superior about it, too. Any murder she might commit ‘ud be the perfect murder. And so,” he acknowledged frankly, “it might have been if she hadn’t double-crossed herself by askin’ me to hold a watchin’ brief. You know, havin’ guts is all right and where’d we be without ‘em? But if you keep a lion on the premises it don’t follow you have to put your head in its mouth and dare it to snap its jaws. That’s what Janes don’t understand. They expect a lion to go on bein’ a gentleman to the end of the chapter. Well, outsiders sometimes romp home and this is little Johnny’s race all right.”
Death Knocks Three Times Page 18
