Motive for Murder

by Anthea Fraser

Quite a catechism, this! ‘One brother. He works in the City.’

  ‘And your parents are both alive?’

  ‘Yes.’ My tone was one of patient resignation. It was unintentional, but he heard it.

  ‘Unless we’re to drive along in total silence, it seems I must make conversation. If it annoys you, I’ll switch on the radio instead.’

  I flushed, ‘I’m sorry. It doesn’t annoy me.’

  ‘Good,’ he said caustically. Anyway, we’re nearly there.’

  I looked out of the window again. We were now in the suburbs of a fairly large town, and austere grey houses lined the road in dignified rows. There was a church, a parade of shops. Matthew turned right at some traffic lights, right again, and we were in a street of smaller, terraced houses, with neat front gardens and net curtains at the windows.

  ‘Number fifty-two,’ he murmured. ‘I think it’s just beyond this lamp post. Yes, here we are.’ He drew in to the curb and switched off the engine. In the sudden silence the rain pattered loudly on the roof of the car. ‘Did you bring an umbrella?’

  ‘No, but it doesn’t matter.’ I turned up the collar of my macintosh.

  Matthew got out and came round to open my door. Together we hurried up the short path.

  The front door opened as we reached it to reveal an elderly lady in a mauve cardigan. ‘Good afternoon, sir. What a day you’ve brought with you!’

  We surrendered our dripping macs in the tiny hall and went through the door indicated into the small front room. A fire burned cheerily in the grate, winking on the brass fender and coal scuttle. Above the fireplace was a small painting of a fishing village, and in front of it, completing the homely comfort, a black cat stretched luxuriously.

  On a low table a bowl of autumn crocuses speared the shadowed corner with their purple flame, and beside them lay a tray ready laid for afternoon tea.

  ‘Mrs Statton, may I introduce my secretary, Miss Barton?’

  I held out my hand and noticed the surprise with which she took it as she looked at me for the first time. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’re not the young lady who came before. I thought –’

  Matthew said, ‘Miss Harvey isn’t with me any more,’ and I wondered if only I heard the rough edge to his voice.

  I said quickly, ‘I was just admiring your painting, Mrs Statton. Is it an original?’

  Her face lit with pride. ‘Yes, Miss, Mr Menzies gave me that hisself. He used to tease me about it. “Sell it, Mrs Statton,” he’d say, “and it will keep you in your old age!” Not that I ever would.’

  ‘Did he sign it?’ I bent closer, peering through the masterful brush strokes to discern a signature.

  She smiled. ‘That he did. Look.’ Her horny finger reached past me and pointed to a tiny thistle in the bottom left-hand corner. ‘That’s how he signed all his paintings, miss. His little affectation, he called it.’ She smiled fondly at the painting, then turned back to Matthew, who had been quietly listening. ‘Now, sir, before we start our chat I’m sure you and the young lady could do with a nice hot cup of tea to warm you up. The kettle’s on, if you’ll excuse me.’

  She bustled from the room, and I sat down in the chair she had indicated. ‘I hadn’t realized you’d brought Linda here.’

  ‘Of course I brought her; what’s a secretary for?’

  I bit my lip. He lit a cigarette and the spurt of the match illumined the planes of his face – the grooves from nose to mouth, the lines at the corner of his eyes. Not a happy face, I thought suddenly. How would he have replied if I’d parried his own question back at him?

  He inhaled deeply and tossed the spent match into the fire. A coal shifted and the cat lazily stretched its paws, claws outspread. Its fur glistened redly in the firelight, reminding me unpleasantly of Derek. I was still watching it when Mrs Statton came back with the squat brown teapot.

  ‘Now,’ she said comfortably as she began to pour, ‘how can I help you, sir?’

  I declined her offer of a scone and opened my notebook. Matthew, unhampered by a pencil, bit appreciatively into one. ‘You remember, Mrs Statton, that this is all unofficial – purely for my own interest?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, you explained last time. It’s exciting, helping with one of your books, though I’m sorry it’s on account of poor Mr Menzies.’

  ‘I know it’s a bore, but could you possibly run through it all again? There are some points I’d like to check, and Miss Barton, hearing it for the first time, might notice something which has escaped us. As you know, being a writer and not a policeman, I’m as interested in who might have done the murder, as in who actually did.’

  ‘Well, as to that sir, I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Whoever could have wanted to do such a thing? Such a nice gentleman he was, not like some of them painters nowadays.’

  ‘Let’s recap, then,’ Matthew said. ‘Mr Menzies was a widower, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. His wife died five years ago, just before Miss Lesley’s wedding.’

  ‘He got on well with his daughter?’

  ‘Apple of his eye, she was. Living in London when all this happened.’

  ‘You didn’t live in the apartment yourself, did you?’

  ‘No, sir. I used to arrive at eight-thirty each morning – had my own key – and take Mr Menzies a cup of tea. I’d do the house over, and shop, cook his dinner, and leave soon after six in the evening.’

  ‘A long day,’ Matthew commented.

  ‘But I enjoyed it. There was no one needing me here.’

  And on the day in question?’

  Mrs Statton braced herself. ‘Well, sir, it was just like any other day. I cooked his dinner for him – he liked his main meal at midday. In the afternoon I did a little mending and Mr Menzies read. Great reader, he was.’

  ‘He didn’t seem any different – worried about anything?’

  ‘Bless you no, sir. If he had, I’d have remembered later – after it all happened.’

  ‘So there was nothing unusual?’

  She shook her head.

  I glanced at Matthew, thinking of the novel. As he’d said, the characters in it were very different from real life – the importunate friend, the spendthrift nephew, the calculating brother. No resemblance to any living person, I thought wryly.

  He leant forward and placed his cup and saucer on the table. ‘Now Mrs Statton, I know this upsets you, but we’ll be as quick as we can –’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, as I was leaving, I spoke to Dawson in the hall –’

  ‘Ah yes, the porter. I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘ – and he said as how there was to be a big party that evening at number thirty-four. Rather cross, he was, because there would be a lot of noise, and complaints from the other residents, and all.’

  ‘Which was why,’ Matthew said slowly, ‘among so many strangers in the building that night, the murderer was able to slip in without being noticed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She twisted a handkerchief in her hands and kept her eyes on it. ‘Well then, the next morning I arrived at half-past eight as usual. First thing I noticed was all the lights was on. I called, I think – then I pushed open the sitting-room door.’

  There was a short silence, punctuated only by the unconcerned ticking of the clock and the deep-throated purr of the cat on the rug.

  And – there he was, sir. Lying on his face, with his head –’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ Matthew said quickly, and Mrs Statton drew a long, steadying breath.

  ‘I’m all right, sir. There was this heavy vase lying beside him, covered in blood. Everything else was the same as usual, which seemed – wrong, somehow.’

  I knew what she meant; it must have seemed shocking that everything in the room was not defiled by the grotesque happening.

  ‘And you phoned the police.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And they rounded up everyone in the building and as many as they could trace who’d been at the party?’

  ‘That’s right.’

&nbs
p; So there it was. I relaxed a little.

  ‘Well, Miss Barton? Any ideas?’

  ‘Were there no finger prints?’ I asked, remembering television serials.

  ‘Nothing suspicious; the ornament had been wiped, but that was all. They reckon he must have opened the door using a handkerchief and not touched anything else.’

  ‘Another cup of tea, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Statton, we’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for being so patient with us.’

  Matthew rose and so did I. It was only just after four, but the bleak day was already drawing in. Mrs Statton brought our macs, which had not had a chance to dry. A drop of rain fell from them on to the cat, which rippled its fur in protest. I turned away as Matthew pressed a note into Mrs Statton’s hand, then we were running down to the car again, battered by the rain.

  ‘A pretty fruitless journey, I’m afraid,’ Matthew remarked. ‘We’ll just have a look at the apartment building while we’re there, for you to get the idea of the layout.’

  The idea of visiting the scene of crime did not appeal to me, especially on such a dismal afternoon, but I made no comment and after a few minutes’ driving Matthew stopped and again we ran through the rain to the shelter of a doorway. But this was very different from Mrs Statton’s humble little house.

  Swing doors led us precipitately into an enormous marble-floored hall, against the far wall of which stood two pairs of lifts. On our immediate right was an alcove, barred by a counter with telephone and pigeon holes. From behind it, the hall porter was eyeing us questioning. He was tall and ruddy-faced, with a toothbrush moustache and carried himself well in his uniform.

  An ex-soldier, I thought.

  ‘Good afternoon sir, madam. Can I help you?’ Then his eyes took in Matthew. ‘Oh – it’s you, sir. Mr – Haig, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well done, Dawson. Yes, Matthew Haig. This is my secretary, Miss Barton. I wonder if we could have one more look along the corridor upstairs?’

  ‘Well, sir, if I was to accompany you I don’t see that it would matter.’

  We moved over to the lifts. ‘Self-operated, you see,’ Matthew said to me, ‘so no convenient liftman with a good memory.’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Dawson is as good as any liftman,’ I said tactfully, and was rewarded with an appreciative smile from behind the bristling moustache.

  ‘Well, miss’ – as a mere secretary I was no longer addressed as madam – ‘I always say, once I see a face, I remember it. And can usually put a name to it, too.’

  The lift stopped and we got out on the second floor. A long, deeply-carpeted corridor swept in both directions, an arrow pointing to numbers 21 to 25 to our left, 26 to 30 to our right.

  ‘Number 23 it was,’ remarked Dawson. ‘Can’t let you in, I’m afraid – there’s a new owner there now.’

  We moved down the passage and stopped outside a royal blue door. The gilt number 23 gleamed on the paintwork and a card read, ‘Fredericks, Major P.C.’

  I thought suddenly, I’m standing where the murderer stood! and a frisson lifted my hair.

  ‘And the party was just opposite,’ Matthew said, looking at the door facing us, with its matching gilt number.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Young Mr Gilman. His parents were away on a cruise and he seized the opportunity, as you might say.’

  ‘I suppose you didn’t know the guests?’

  ‘That I did not, sir, nor wouldn’t want to, neither. A very strange bunch, to my way of thinking. Not a decent haircut among them.’

  ‘How old is Mr Gilman?’ I asked suddenly, and Matthew glanced at me in surprise.

  Dawson ran his fingers through his moustache. ‘Twenty-three, twenty-four.’

  ‘So his guests were about that age too?’

  ‘Anything from seventeen to thirty, I’d say.’

  ‘In which case,’ I mused, ‘the murderer must also be a young man – or woman.’

  Matthew turned questioningly, and Dawson nodded approval.

  ‘Well,’ I explained, ‘the only reason he or she wasn’t spotted was because a lot of other young people were in the building that night. A stranger who didn’t fit in that age group would, I’m sure, be remembered by Mr Dawson.’

  ‘My God,’ Matthew said slowly. ‘No doubt the police have registered that, but I confess it hadn’t struck me. Well done, Emily.’

  ‘Which,’ I finished with a smile, ‘disposes of several fictitious characters at least.’

  ‘I suppose you know all the members of Mr Menzies’ family, Dawson?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Miss Lesley-that-was, and Mr Holloway, and Mr Jack Menzies and his wife –’

  ‘And they weren’t here that night?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Dawson looked shocked, as well he might, considering the implications behind Matthew’s question.

  ‘And there’s no one, Dawson, no one at all, who made an impression, who arrived by himself, perhaps, or didn’t seem to fit in with the others?’

  ‘No sir, I can’t say there was.’

  I said suddenly, ‘You’d have noticed, wouldn’t you, if someone had come down again almost straight away?’

  ‘Yes, miss. But they reckon he ran down the service stairs and out the basement door.’

  ‘He couldn’t have come in that way, and avoided being seen at all?’ Matthew asked hopefully, mindful of his plot.

  ‘No, sir. The door was locked on the inside. The murderer unlocked it to let hisself out.’

  ‘No doubt wiping the handle and key when he’d done so,’ said Matthew resignedly.

  ‘Quite so, sir.’

  Money again changed hands and Matthew and I were back in the car. I gave a little shiver.

  ‘Cold?’ he asked. ‘Or is it just distaste for the job?’

  ‘A bit of both, suppose.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and have a drink somewhere, followed by a decent meal. That’ll make you feel better.’

  We drove to a hotel whose neon lights struck a note of cheer in the near-darkness. Matthew parked the car. ‘Now, leave your notebooks. We’ve done enough work for one day.’

  He took my arm and led me across the gleaming wet car-park, up the steps and through more swing doors, if you’d like to leave your mac in the cloakroom, I’ll meet you back here.’

  Gratefully, I escaped and did my best to right the havoc the wet afternoon had done to my hair. When I returned, Matthew rose from a table near the fire.

  ‘What would you like to drink? Gin? Sherry?’

  ‘Sherry, please.’ He pulled out my chair and I sat down. We were early and there were not many people about. My mind was still on the interviews we’d had that afternoon.

  ‘Mr Haig –’

  Matthew set down his glass. ‘I think while we’re on a social footing we might dispense with formality, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh – yes, of course,’ I stammered.

  ‘Well? What were you going to say?’

  ‘I was wondering how closely you intend sticking to the facts. I know neither the victim nor any of the other characters are like those in real life, but the setting is similar – the apartment block and the party.’

  ‘Which is why I wanted another look.’

  ‘Yes, but what I’m trying to say is that, in fiction as well as fact, the age of the party guests limits the choice of murderer.’

  ‘Choice of murderer!’ He laughed. ‘What a glorious phrase! I suppose it does, yes, but let’s forget about it for now. If we never speak of anything else, it’ll go stale on us. Agreed? No shop talk.’

  ‘No shop!’ I replied.

  He raised his glass to me with a smile, and I realized with a sense of shock that it was the first he’d ever given me; very different from the sardonic twists I was used to. The effect was disconcerting; he seemed at once younger and more attractive. If he exercised this charm on Kate, I didn’t see how she could resist him.

  I relaxed in turn, and for the first time found I could be completely natural with him. A
lso for the first time, we were giving each other our undivided attention, as though no one else was in the room. But there were others present, of course – other women in particular, who, I noticed from quick glances, were very much aware of Matthew, and the knowledge made my self-confidence soar. We laughed a lot; I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much for a long time. The evenings with Mike were never undiluted pleasure.

  And hard on that thought came the realisation that I was bracketing Matthew and Mike together – which was dangerous. For Matthew was not a carefree young man with whom it was natural to flirt. He was one of Britain’s best-known contemporary writers, a bitter, divorced man – with a daughter.

  I laid my fork on my plate, and the little tinkle put a full stop to my laughter.

  ‘Had enough? Room for coffee and liqueur?’

  ‘I’d love a coffee, thank you, but nothing else.’

  ‘What a modest little mouse you are! Go on, try one!’

  I did not like being called a mouse, modest or otherwise. ‘All right.’

  The unaccustomed drink brought back my confidence and made me more than a little heady. Matthew lit a cigar and the pungent smoke cocooned us in our small world of candles and coffee cups. I wished that we could drift for ever shut off from all uncomfortable influences. No Mike, no Derek, no Kate.

  But Matthew was already looking at his watch. ‘Well, since it’s a two-hour drive home in the dark, we’d better be going. Would you like to collect your mac while I get the bill?’

  In the cloakroom mirror I caught sight of my face, unusually flushed and bright-eyed. Not, I thought tartly, the face of a secretary who has just been given dinner by her boss. Hastily I shrugged on my mac and went out into the hall. Matthew was waiting by the door. The rain had lessened and was now a misty drizzle. He took my arm and guided me over to the car, and we eased our way out of the car park into the still-busy streets of the town. It was only about nine o’clock, but the wet darkness made it seem later. Matthew switched on the radio and my eyes, smarting still from the cigar smoke and the sweet potency of the liqueur, closed. I leant back, half-listening to the quiet music, aware of the turning and swaying of the car. Against my eyelids swam jumbled pictures of the day’s events – work that morning in the library, the drive out – Mrs Statton – Dawson in the thick-carpeted passage – Matthew’s smile above the candles.