Motive for Murder

by Anthea Fraser

  At last, just on twelve o’clock, he leant back in his chair. ‘Right, that’ll do for now. Work from the tape first, then this morning’s work. Leave them on my desk when you’ve finished.’ He stood up, and without further comment left the room.

  On the opposite side of the hearth stood another desk, which was presumably mine. A covered typewriter stood on it, and on a table to one side was the tape recorder. I put paper in the machine, switched on the recorder, and began to type.

  I was only about half-way through the first tape when Mrs Johnson looked round the door to say it was ten minutes till lunch. It seemed, I thought ruefully, as if my afternoon walk to the cliffs would have to be postponed.

  I glanced out of the window in time to see Sarah come running over the grass, with Mike strolling behind her.

  She was aiming for the front door, but on seeing me she swerved and motioned me to open the French window. ‘Oh Miss Barton, Pinkie’s got the loveliest little babies!’ she cried excitedly. ‘Uncle Mike let me hold one and it was all warm and velvety!’

  I’d forgotten Mike’s promise to show her the piglets – in fact, it had registered in my mind only as an attempt to stop her chatter about Linda Harvey.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he enquired now, coming up to us. ‘Is the muse co-operative today?’ He was smiling and the admiration in his eyes lifted my heart.

  He really was remarkably handsome, with his thick hair and those grey, incredibly long-lashed eyes. I was struck again by the paradox of their dreaminess and his lean cheeks and strong, square chin. ‘The muse has about three weeks’ start on me, I gather,’ I replied. ‘It will take me some time to catch up.’

  ‘So you won’t be free this afternoon?’

  It was merely a question, I told myself, not a veiled invitation. ‘Afraid not, and I was hoping for a closer look at the sea.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time,’ he said easily. Behind me, loud through the open window, the dinner gong sounded.

  ‘Away you go, both of you, or there’ll be trouble. I’m off to the Chapel Arms for a pint. See you! ’Bye, Sarah.’

  ‘Thank you for showing me the pigs!’ Sarah called over her shoulder, and he raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  ‘Uncle Mike likes you,’ Sarah remarked as we hurriedly shared the cloakroom basin to wash our hands.

  ‘Does he?’ I hoped I sounded non­committal.

  ‘Yes, he was asking me about you.’

  Miss Tamworth appeared at the open door. ‘Hurry, Sarah. Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Barton.’ Her eyebrows conveyed surprised displeasure at the shared washbasin. Sarah flashed me a conspiratorial grin and followed her across the hall to the dining-room.

  Well, I had two friends here, I thought to myself, and perhaps that wasn’t so bad for less than twenty-four hours.

  * * *

  Lunch was not much more cheerful than dinner had been. However, Sarah’s chatter helped lighten the atmosphere, despite repeated commands not to talk so much and to eat her food while it was hot.

  Matthew spoke only once, to enquire whether I had finished the notes. I told him I had not, but would do so after lunch, and he made no comment.

  Accordingly I spent the long, golden afternoon typing, first to the tape recorder, and then from my shorthand notes. The pile of pages grew gratifyingly and by four-thirty I had finished. There was half an hour in hand before the evening session, and I badly needed some fresh air.

  I went out through the French windows and across the smooth lawn to the gates through which, in the mist, Mike had driven me last night. Today, it was a different world.

  On my left, the rough road petered out into a sheep track, meandering farther up the hill among tufts of grass and golden fronds of bracken. Autumn was already touching the spiky hedgerows, and jewel-red berries studded the green, but this afternoon it was still summer and the air was heavy with the warm, honey-sweet smell of gorse. Along the path a grasshopper whirred and a clumsy bee droned lazily among the clover at my feet. For a moment I debated whether to take the moorland path, but the call of the sea was strong in me.

  I turned down the hill and after a few minutes came to the wider road which led up from the town. Beyond it lay the cliffs and the sea.

  I crossed quickly, almost running now my goal was in sight. But almost immediately I realized I had not, after all, time to reach the beach and be back at the house by five. The sand lay a long way beneath me, reached apparently by means of a flight of steps cut out of the cliff which fell away almost at my feet.

  To my right an outcrop of rock ran out into the sea, cutting off the little bay below me, and beyond it lay the main beach of Chapelcombe. It would probably be possible to walk round the rocks at low tide, but now the water was right up, and with it the glorious salty tang which I missed so much in London.

  I sat down on the warm grass, clasping my knees and gazing out across the water while I breathed deep, ecstatic lungsful of air.

  The water was calm and blue, dotted with tiny sailing ships like a child’s painting. Below me at the base of the cliffs the rocks rose pinky-grey, wearing a ruffle of drifting foam. Two seagulls glided lazily, their wings still. And all this was mine, for three whole months!

  Down in the town the church clock chimed a quarter to five. Reluctantly I pushed myself to my feet and stood for one last moment drinking in the peace of it all. Then I turned and walked back to the house.

  The library seemed dim now, with the golden light all at the front of the house, and I shivered as I sat down at my desk, wondering if I had time to run upstairs for a jumper before Matthew arrived. I hadn’t; at that moment he came into the room.

  ‘You’re ready – good. Are you up to date?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Haig. The papers are all on your desk.’

  ‘Did it take you the whole afternoon?’

  ‘Almost; I just had time for a quick walk to the cliffs. It’s a lovely little bay down there, isn’t it? I’m looking forward to a swim one afternoon.’

  He lifted his head quickly. ‘Can you swim?’

  The question was abrupt, and I looked at him in surprise. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason.’ He looked a little disconcerted. ‘Just – take care, that’s all. The tide can be treacherous, even in the bay.’

  ‘It looked like a mill pond today,’ I said.

  ‘People have been known to drown in mill ponds.’

  I stared at him. Could he be serious? ‘Only with stones round their necks!’ I said with a nervous laugh.

  He did not reply, and my silly little joke hung embarrassingly on the air between us.

  ‘Get your notebook,’ he said, and I was glad to do so. Damn him, I thought, as my pencil sped over the page. Why does he have to make me feel so uncomfortable, so unsure of myself? Perhaps Linda Harvey knew what she was doing, after all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next few days fell into the same pattern. Mornings and evenings were spent in the library with Matthew. I was relieved to discover that his frugal-sounding ‘something on a tray’, which he’d told me comprised our supper, was in fact a pretty substantial meal, consisting of ham, eggs and fried potatoes or a plateful of smoked haddock. Lunch was by then a dim memory, and I was never back in time for afternoon tea – if, indeed, any was provided. Those suppers in the library, stilted as they were, made a welcome break in the concentrated work which engrossed me as much as it did Matthew.

  The afternoons, once I got into the routine, were my own, and though I enjoyed myself exploring my new surroundings, if there was a half-formed hope of meeting Mike in my mind, I was disappointed.

  When the wind blew in from the sea I abandoned the stinging sand and climbed instead up the sheep-track to the moors. They were filled with an exultant solitude that at once soothed me and made me restless. After the crowds of London, it was almost unearthly to be able to spend a whole afternoon walking, alone with sun and wind, and to meet nobody. Up there, the petty irritations of my hours with Matthew and th
e niggling unease I felt about Linda Harvey dissolved into the air.

  Over behind the town, I could see the outer reaches of the golf course where Matthew played, and from one hillock it was possible to look right down on the chimneys of Touchstone. It seemed as if I could jump directly on to the roof. The smooth lawns, the laurel hedges, the neat vegetable garden, and even the minute figure of Mrs Johnson hanging out the washing, lay at my feet like a discarded toy.

  I stood for several minutes staring down at it all with the wind in my face. Suppose it really was a dolls’ house, full of puppets. Jerk the string and the puppets danced; drop it, and they fell lifeless to the ground.

  I shivered suddenly, turned away and ran down the hillock, startling a clump of silly sheep which had inadvertently approached. They bucked clumsily out of my way, their white faces staring, and moved off together, pushing and bumping aimlessly into each other. I stood looking after them until they were no more than large blobs of cotton-wool among the scrub. Down here beneath the hillock it was sheltered from the wind and the sun still held the heat of summer.

  I stretched out on the short, prickly grass and lay back with my hands behind my head, staring up at the scudding cloud-sheep against the deep blue of the sky. Bees murmured, a cricket hummed. My eyelids drooped. Somewhere high in the air the song of a lark cascaded down like liquid music. How lucky I was, I thought drowsily, to have this job – and how unlucky was Linda Harvey, to lose it.

  A cloud skidded over the sun, and without its warmth I was suddenly cool. I sat up. It was as though the day itself frowned and retreated at the name of Linda Harvey. I laughed aloud at the idea, but among the still grasses the sound was a discord. Beating wings clapped behind me and I spun nervously round as some bird I had startled rose from the heather. The peace of the afternoon was spoilt. I stood up, dusted down my dress, and was about to start for home when I heard the sound of a car.

  It was so totally unexpected up here that for a moment I wondered if it was, after all, a plane. I was not long in doubt. It was definitely a car, and near at hand. I ran in the direction of the sound and up another rise of ground. To my surprise, I saw that about five hundred yards away a road dissected the moorland. It was low-lying, between high banks – probably following some ancient river course. As I watched, the car swung into sight and passed beneath me. I shaded my eyes to watch it, wondering where the road led to. Probably some farm or other. Of course – it would be Mike’s! He’d said he lived farther along the coast from Touchstone. That might have been his car – I had only seen it in the mist and would not have recognized it again.

  I started down the slope instinctively, tired of my own thoughts and aware of a desire to see him. But the car was already out of sight and a glance at my watch informed me that I was almost due at the library. Reluctantly, I turned back.

  Mike was still on my mind as I took my place in the chair by Matthew’s desk, and I asked idly, ‘Does Mike live alone at the farm?’

  Matthew looked up in surprise, and I realized that it was the first time I’d spoken to him about something other than work.

  ‘He does now; his mother, who was my aunt, died a few months ago. But he has a housekeeper – a sister of Mrs Johnson’s, actually – and the men have their own cottages scattered round the farm, so there are plenty of people about.’

  ‘What about his father?’

  ‘I don’t remember him.’

  ‘So he has no relatives now?’

  Matthew smiled a little. ‘Only me. Next question?’

  I flushed, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not at all; I’m relieved to find you have a thought in your head other than your typewriter!’

  Stung, I retorted, ‘You don’t exactly encourage conversation!’

  I expected a deserved rebuke, but he merely said mildly, ‘I suppose I’ve got out of the habit of it.’

  I clenched my hands in my lap. ‘Didn’t you talk to Miss Harvey?’

  There was a tiny silence. Then he said evenly, ‘Occasionally. But we were speaking of Mike; have you seen him since you arrived?’

  ‘Only briefly, with Sarah. Why?’

  ‘Just that – oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  I said, ‘He told me you don’t approve of him.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Not exactly. Mike has done some pretty irresponsible things in his time, but he’s always managed to get away with them. His mother idolised him – and he her. He was very cut up when she died.’ He flicked an amused glance at me. ‘Perhaps I should warn you that his girlfriends never last more than a week or two.’

  ‘Really?’ I said coldly.

  ‘So don’t go losing your heart to him,’ he finished, only half-jokingly. ‘I feel responsible for you.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m quite able to take care of myself.’

  His eyes mocked me. ‘I’m sure you are.’ After a moment he went on, ‘Well, if that’s all you need to know about my cousin, perhaps we can continue with the book.’

  I bent my head without a word and picked up my pencil. I knew he was watching me but I refused to meet his eyes again and after a brief pause he began to dictate.

  As my pencil covered the pages, I was still thinking about Mike. So he’d had lots of girlfriends. Well, that was hardly surprising. I never supposed I was the first he had looked at in that dreamy, caressing way. Perhaps Linda – my thoughts skidded to a halt and my pencil faltered. Then I collected myself and the shorthand flowed smoothly on. But I had just realized that my latest attempt to speak of Linda Harvey had, as usual, been neatly parried.

  * * *

  The next morning dawned damp and misty and by breakfast time a heavy drizzle had started which was to persist all day.

  I stood at the dining-room windows after lunch, staring through the streaming panes at the sodden garden and the outline of the gate only just visible through the rain. A free afternoon, and nothing to do. Matthew, presumably undeterred by the weather, had set off for the golf club as usual; I had seen him go, in waterproof trousers and jacket, a cap pulled over his head.

  ‘Isn’t it horrid?’

  I turned to find Sarah beside me.

  ‘And it’s Saturday too!’ she added disgustedly.

  So it was. The days had all seemed the same since I arrived. Matthew had offered me one of my ‘free evenings’ the other day, but I had no plans, and since we were at an interesting point in the book, I hadn’t bothered to take it. However, the thought of working on a Saturday night was not very pleasant, even if I had nothing better to do. I could at least go down to Chapelcombe to the cinema.

  ‘And,’ Sarah was continuing, ‘I go back to school on Wednesday. Next year, when I’m nine, Daddy says I’ll probably board.’

  I must have looked surprised, because she added naively, ‘I get in his way rather.’

  My heart contracted, ‘I’m sure you don’t – he hardly ever sees you!’

  ‘I think it’s because I remind him of Mummy,’ she went on, in her old-fashioned little voice. ‘Not that I really look like her – Mummy’s very beautiful – at least, I think she is – but I suppose just because I’m here it makes him think of her, and he doesn’t like that.’

  ‘Do you miss her, Sarah?’ We were still standing at the window, and I put my arm round the thin little shoulders and pulled her against me.

  ‘Not really. I didn’t see her much, either. She was always working or at parties.’

  ‘Working?’

  ‘Yes, she writes, like Daddy, but on a newspaper. Tammy says she’s very clever.’

  My heart ached for the child, rejected by both her parents.

  As though she knew what I was thinking, she looked up at me with a smile, ‘I’m not lonely, though. I have Tammy – she was Mummy’s nanny once – did I tell you? – and Uncle Mike is much more fun than Daddy! Daddy’s always so solemn – he never laughs.’

  ‘Perhaps he misses your mummy too.’ I hadn’t thought of t
hat before.

  ‘Yes, I suppose he does. But they always used to shout at each other when she was here, so ...’ she lifted her shoulders in an almost foreign little shrug.

  I thought gratefully of my own happy family, and half-changed the subject. ‘You say she’s beautiful – what does she look like?’

  ‘Would you like to see her picture?’

  ‘Yes – yes, I would.’

  ‘Come upstairs, then.’ She tugged at my hand and I turned readily from the depressing view and went with her up the stairs and into her bedroom. It was next door to mine and roughly the same shape, decorated with a wallpaper covered in teddy bears and rabbits.

  ‘It’s a bit babyish,’ Sarah apologized matter-of-factly, ‘but I quite like it really.’ It was uncanny how often she answered a thought in my mind.

  She knelt on the floor before a little roll-top desk and opened one of its drawers, from which she took a photograph album. She laid it on the rug in front of the gas fire. ‘Let’s be cosy!’ she said, ‘Could you light it?’

  I knelt beside her on the rug, and the cheerful glow spread over us. Sarah rolled onto her stomach and opened the album at the first page. On it was pasted, somewhat crookedly, a blurred snap of a young woman in a long skirt, holding a baby. My heart sank. If this was to be the quality of the photographs, I would be no nearer knowing anything about Mrs Haig. There was a preponderance of glue, which shone dully all round the snap and even in a few spots on the print itself.

  ‘That’s Mummy and me, but you can’t see it very well.’ Sarah turned over. ‘There!’ she said triumphantly. This page was certainly more promising. There was a photo of Matthew standing with his arm round a girl. They were both laughing, and I was so surprised at this revelation of him looking young and happy, that it was a moment before my eyes passed to the figure beside him. She was attractive in a bony, long-limbed kind of way, with her hair cut in a style fashionable some years ago. Even in the snap, the lift of her chin and the stance of her body, independent of Matthew although he held her, spoke of an arrogant self-confidence. I was a little disconcerted to find that I didn’t like her. No doubt I was prejudiced by what she had done to Sarah.