by J F Straker
The doctor’s unsympathetic manner was probably an extension of his annoyance at being summoned at such a late hour. You’ll live, he told Connor; there’s some heavy bruising which will continue to be painful for a week or two, but I fancy no bones are broken. Call in at the surgery in the morning, and if it seems necessary we’ll arrange an X-ray. I’ll give you something to ease the pain and help you sleep.
‘I’ll ring for a taxi if I may,’ Connor said, when the doctor had gone.
‘You won’t get a taxi at this hour,’ Northropp told him. ‘It’s after one. Why not stay the night? I’ll run you back to the hotel if you insist, but you’re welcome to a bed here.’
Connor was stuck for a decision. For himself he had no preference, but which would cause his hosts the least inconvenience? While he hesitated, Susan Northropp said, ‘Doesn’t the Malt House lock up at midnight, Alec? I know the Royal does. Mr. Mallorie might not be able to get in. Not unless he has a key.’
‘He could knock them up, I suppose,’ Northropp said. ‘But they wouldn’t love him for it. You’d better stay, Mallorie. Less trouble all round.’
‘Put like that I can’t refuse,’ Connor said. ‘Thanks.’
Susan Northropp bade him goodnight and left; it was long past her bedtime, she said. Connor too would have welcomed bed, the doctor’s analgesic was beginning to take effect, but Northropp seemed in no hurry to move. Connor had already given him his supposed reason for visiting the town; now Northropp asked for further detail. He remembered the Becky Main case well, he said; as Mallorie must know, it was he who had introduced her to the man who was subsequently charged with her death. He had not seen the man as a killer, he said, but the evidence had seemed conclusive. What evidence had Mallorie got for doubting the verdict?
Connor shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Don’t think me rude but — well, it’s a long and involved story. Can we leave it till another time? I’m beginning to feel muzzy. It must be that stuff the doctor gave me.’
‘Of course. Thoughtless of me.’ Northropp got up. ‘However, before we depart it might be as well if we got ourselves straight, eh?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘If you wish to conceal your true identity — well, fair enough. But I’ve a good memory for faces, and that fungus doesn’t fool me. Your name isn’t Mallorie, is it? You’re James Connor.’
Chapter 6
The maid brought him breakfast in bed. He had been awake for some time and the stiffness had eased a little, but his side was sore and heavily discoloured. Raising himself for the girl to place the tray across his knees was a painful exercise, but it failed to dull his appetite; and while he ate he considered, as he had been considering since he woke, the events of the previous evening.
He had always been aware that if anyone in Felborough were to recognise him it would probably be Northropp, in whose company he had spent most of his previous visit to the town. Initially he had seen recognition as a disaster, for if his true identity were generally known it could create animosity and quash all hope of co-operation in his investigation. But Northropp had not only promised to keep the knowledge to himself, he had offered his help. ‘I never really accepted that manslaughter verdict,’ Northropp had said. ‘Somehow I couldn’t see you as a killer. Now I know I was right. I mean — well, you wouldn’t be here if you were guilty, would you? I imagine there is little I can do to help, but if you need me you know where to find me.’ Connor’s gratitude had been fervent and sincere. Northropp’s name carried weight in the town, his co-operation could be valuable; and despite an increasing drowsiness he had told his host what he could remember of the contents of Becky’s diary and the conclusions he had drawn from them. Northropp had disagreed with his assessment of Brummit; like most police officers Brummit had had his failures, Northropp said, but although there were those who doubted his ability none had openly questioned his honesty. He had also been sceptical of Connor’s contention that Becky and McGuppy had been killed by the same person. But he had agreed that B could well hide the identity of Becky’s killer, and that the men who had attacked Connor that evening had been after the diary and not his money. ‘They had no joy there, so they decided to frighten you off,’ Northropp had said. ‘The question is — what now?’
‘They’re out of luck,’ Connor had said. ‘I don’t frighten that easily.’
‘Well, it’s your carcass. But if you’re staying — you say you saw one of their faces?’
‘Briefly.’
‘Then why not tell the police? They might be able to pick him up. They might also keep an eye on you.’
Police surveillance, Connor had said, would only complicate his task. Nor was he particularly interested in the two thugs. ‘It’s the man behind them I’m after. Right now I fancy Ron Main as the front runner. He claimed to have friends.’
Northropp had grimaced. ‘He hardly fits your Mr. B, does he? Becky wouldn’t blackmail her own brother. Not if she were fond of him, as you say she was. And where would he have got the cash to pay her?’
‘Adam Grant, then.’
Another shrug. ‘You’ve met him. Your guess is as good as mine. But I’d be surprised.’
‘He drove you home that night. Did he stay?’
‘No. Said he had to get home.’ Northropp had drained his glass and eased himself out of his chair. ‘Let’s pack it in for tonight, shall we? You look all in.’
Connor had slept fitfully and was surprised that he had slept at all. Now, breakfast over, he waited for the maid to remove the tray and considered how he might most profitably use the help Northropp had offered. But when eventually he went downstairs it was to find Mrs. Northropp alone in the breakfast room, drinking coffee and reading her mail. She wore the negligee she had worn the previous evening, but now her face was made up and there were jewels in her ears and on her fingers. Connor thought she looked terrific.
‘Good morning.’ She smiled at him. ‘How are the bruises?’
‘Sore,’ Connor said. ‘Is your husband about? I was hoping for a further chat.’
‘You’re out of luck, I’m afraid. He’s been gone a good hour.’
‘Really? But it’s only just after nine.’
‘You have to get up early to catch Alec, Mr. Mallorie. He’s a real eager beaver where work is concerned. Would you like some coffee?’
Connor had been embarrassed at greeting her. It had occurred to him that Northropp might have considered his wife to be outside the scope of his promise not to disclose Connor’s identity — in which case she might well resent his presence in her house. But her friendly manner suggested that his embarrassment had been unjustified, and he declined the coffee and sat down.
‘He has obviously been very successful,’ he said. ‘You have a lovely home.’
‘We have, yes. Unfortunately Alec treats it more as an extension of his office. Most evenings he brings work home.’ She sighed. ‘Would you believe that we haven’t been out together for over a fortnight?’
‘No,’ he said gallantly. ‘I wouldn’t. I’d say work would lose out to you every time.’
She smiled appreciatively. ‘It doesn’t. But thank you for the compliment. What are your plans, Mr. Mallorie? I’m going into town to do some shopping. Can I drop you off at the surgery? I gather Dr. Follick is expecting you.’
While he waited for her to dress he rang Northropp’s office. It was some time before Northropp came to the phone, and when eventually he did his voice was crisply impatient. Sure he wanted to help, Northropp said; but he was frantically busy and couldn’t it keep till the evening? Connor apologised and said yes, it could; but perhaps Northropp would answer just one simple question. In September 1968 he had got tickets for his sister and some of her friends to attend a variety show at the Grand Theatre, Leeds on the evening of the 18th. Had the date been chosen by chance? Or had someone specifically requested it — and if so, who?
Northropp exploded. ‘God’s teeth, man! You call that simple? It was over six
years ago, dammit! I don’t even remember getting the tickets, let alone why or when.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Connor said.
‘You did? Then why ask?’
‘It might have been significant,’ Connor said. ‘But no matter. Forget it.’
He preferred not to explain what had prompted the question. Northropp’s scepticism the previous evening had shaken his conviction that McGuppy and Becky had been killed by the same person, and although Northropp could not have killed Becky he could have killed McGuppy. Yet had he done so he would surely have reacted differently to Connor’s question. He would have been hesitant and confused, seeking an answer that would remove him from suspicion. Instead of which his reaction had been exactly right. Unless the date held a particular significance for him, how could he be expected to remember such a trifling incident after six busy years?
The surgery was almost empty. Dr. Follick had been called out, the receptionist told him, but Dr. Fitt would see him. Connor wondered about the name — George Fitt’s son, perhaps, or at least a relative — and was prepared for a likeness. But he was not prepared for the fact that Dr. Fitt was a woman. Younger than himself, he thought, and no beauty. She had a pleasant face with friendly eyes, but her chin receded sharply and her nose was squat. A white coat hid her figure.
She was thorough in her examination, but less confident than Follick that he had suffered no internal injury, and arranged for an X-ray appointment for that afternoon. ‘If you care to ring me this evening I’ll let you know the result,’ she told him. ‘I should have it by then.’
Connor thanked her. ‘There was a George Fitt who used to be planning officer here,’ he said. ‘Any relation?’
‘He was my father,’ she said. ‘You knew him?’
‘We met. But I’ve been out of touch with the town for some years. In fact it was only a few days ago that I learned he was dead. A motoring accident, wasn’t it?’ She nodded.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s spent water. Will you be staying in Felborough long, Mr. Mallorie?’
‘A week or two. My plans are indefinite. I’m here on vacation.’
‘Really? Felborough should be flattered. It’s a thriving community, but not exactly famous as a holiday centre. You’ll be looking up old friends, I suppose. I see Alec Northropp made the appointment with Dr. Follick. They’re friends of yours, are they? The Northropps, I mean.’
‘No.’ She was aware of how he had come by his injuries, and because he had assumed that she would also know that it was Northropp who had come to his assistance he had not briefed her further. Now he repaired the omission. ‘They were both extremely kind. Incidentally, what’s their address? I must send Mrs. Northropp some flowers.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘We’re not on visiting terms.’
‘But I thought —’ Connor paused. She had a warm, rather soothing voice — part of the professional stock-in-trade, no doubt — but was he mistaken in thinking it had cooled slightly at mention of the Northropps? ‘I mean, I understood that he and your father — didn’t they used to be friends?’
‘More business associates than friends.’ Connor nodded, remembering how Northropp had sought to avoid her father when they had met on the site of the shopping centre. ‘And like you, Mr. Mallorie, I lost touch with the town for a while. I only returned to live here last year, when Dr. Follick invited me to join the partnership. But don’t misunderstand me. I’m not sour on the Northropps and I don’t go out of my way to avoid them. We don’t mix in the same circles, that’s all.’
The hotel manager was relieved to see him — no doubt he had feared he might be stuck with an unpaid bill — and shocked to hear of the reason for his absence. Mugging was something new to the town, the manager said, he hoped it would prove to be an isolated incident. Connor said he hoped so too, asked him to arrange for flowers to be delivered to Susan Northropp, and went upstairs to rest. Take it easy, Dr. Fitt had told him — at least until we know the result of the X-ray. Connor had accepted the advice with no intention of obeying it. Now he realised it had been sound. Energy seemed to have drained from him. Delayed shock, he supposed.
Mrs. Evans rang at lunchtime. The two members of the theatre party whose names had previously eluded her, she said, were a Mrs. Agatha Christy (‘spelt with a y — no relation’), a widow, and a Mrs. Eileen Woolmer. Mrs. Christy had since remarried and left the town, and Mrs. Woolmer’s husband was a local solicitor; so that wasn’t much help, was it? The news gave Connor no impulse to add Henry Woolmer to his list of suspects. Nor was he surprised that Woolmer had omitted to mention, when he had referred to McGuppy’s murder, that his wife had been at the theatre that night. Even had he remembered, which was unlikely, Woolmer would not have considered it relevant, for at that time neither he nor Connor had envisaged a connection between the two murders. A pity, though. Mrs. Woolmer was unlikely to know anything of value, but loose ends were always frustrating.
The early afternoon was spent at the hospital, and at six he rang Dr. Fitt. No bones broken, she told him; not even cracked. All he needed was rest. She was about to ring off when he said, ‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to have dinner with me this evening?’
There was a pause. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Not why do you suppose it, but why do you ask?’
‘I wasn’t entirely honest with you this morning. I let you assume I have friends here. I haven’t. Company at dinner would make a pleasant change.’
‘But why me? There’ll be no free medical advice, if that’s what you’re after.’
He laughed. ‘It isn’t. But I’ll admit to an ulterior motive. I’m here on a mission, and I think you may be able to help me.’
‘Oh? How?’
‘Not over the telephone. I’ll tell you at dinner. Will you come?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m a sucker for mysteries.’
She declined his offer to collect her. The less driving he did the better, she said, and he could expect her at the Malt House at seven. Promptly at seven she was there, and he took her down to the cellar bar for a drink before dinner. He was pleased to note that her figure was good and that she dressed well. A pity about the unflattering nose and chin; had they been the way they should have been she could have been quite attractive. Nice eyes and nice hair. And an enchanting smile.
‘So what’s the mystery?’ she asked, sipping sherry.
‘I’ll be frank with you, Miss —’ He hesitated. ‘Dr. Fitt.’
She laughed. ‘Miss Fitt sounds a bit off, doesn’t it? I think that’s one reason I chose the medical profession. Marriage seemed unlikely, and I didn’t fancy going through life as a misfit. ‘Doctor’ seemed a pleasant alternative. However, don’t let’s be formal. Call me Alison. You’re James, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. But not Mallorie. The name is Connor. James Connor.’
She looked puzzled. Clearly the name had no significance for her.
‘Then why the Mallorie? Is that part of the mystery?’
Connor explained. He needed her sympathy and co-operation, and as Mallorie he had nothing with which to win them. He knew that unless he could persuade her of his innocence he could be even less successful as Connor. But that was a chance he had to take.
‘I remember reading the case,’ she said when he had finished. ‘It didn’t make much impact, I’m afraid; I didn’t know you and I didn’t know the woman. I don’t think I even knew any of the witnesses.’
‘Not Adam Grant? Or Brummit?’
‘No. I’d heard Brummit’s name but I don’t think I ever met him.’ She smiled. ‘I gather he’s not your favourite policeman.’
‘He’s not my favourite anything. But forget Brummit; the thought of him spoils my appetite. What’s important is that you believe I am innocent, that I had no part in Becky Main’s death.’
‘I have to, don’t I? I can’t think why else you’d be telling me this. But what help can I give you that merits a dinner?’
‘No
ne, probably. But don’t let that bother you. The food here isn’t all that special.’
Over dinner he prompted her to talk about her father. She had seen him primarily as an unhappy and frustrated man, she said. His marriage to her mother had been an uneasy one, and after she was born her mother had withdrawn what little affection she had previously shown him to lavish it on their daughter. ‘Looking back, I get the impression that Father must have been highly sexed. He was always impeccably dressed — the peacock syndrome — and when any of my college friends visited the house he — well, they were in no danger of being raped, I suppose, but the pretty ones got plenty of attention. Particularly if they were well developed. I expect that infuriated Mother. She was basically a cold person, and as far back as I can remember they occupied separate rooms. I never saw him leave or enter hers, so I imagine she denied him the sex he undoubtedly needed; and in his position it must have been difficult for him to find it elsewhere.’ Alison sighed. ‘Poor Father. Poor Mother too, I suppose. Neither can have got much joy from their marriage.’
‘Was that why he drank?’ Connor asked.
‘He didn’t. Not then.’
In 1961, when Alison was sixteen, her mother had died of cancer; she had been ill for some time, Alison said, and must have welcomed death as a final release from pain. In a way it had also been a release for her father, now free to live his life the way he chose. ‘Although I suppose he was still sexually frustrated. Certainly he never brought a woman home. Not until he met Susan, that is.’
‘Susan?’
‘Susan Poole. Susan Northropp that is.’
Connor nodded. It was what he had guessed, and the primary reason for asking Alison to dinner. He had remembered that when her father had suggested he stay in Felborough overnight and lunch with the Fitts the next day he had said that ‘Susan would be delighted’. He had remembered too that Northropp had tried to counter the invitation by reminding Connor of his business appointment in Northampton. Northropp had known that Connor would recognise Susan Fitt as the near-nude woman he had seen in Northropp’s flat and had mistakenly assumed to be Northropp’s wife; and although Northropp would have expected Connor not to betray a possible customer, it was certainly a confrontation he would be desperately anxious to avert. How would he have done so, Connor wondered, had Kessler not removed the necessity?
