Choice of Evils

by E. X. Ferrars

  ‘Because I've been staying there in the house and he supposed I was a close friend of Amory's,’ Peter replied.

  ‘Did you tell him to call the police?’

  ‘I did, yes, but it seems Amory told him not to.’

  ‘He's conscious then.’

  ‘Or was, for a little while. I told him to call the doctor and he said he'd already done that.’

  When they reached the house they found that the doctor had arrived ahead of them. A car, which Andrew presumed was his, was in the drive in front of the door, which was open. But as they were about to enter, a voice called to them from the direction of the summerhouse and a man in a white jacket came running up to them. It was the man who had served the dinner on the Friday evening.

  ‘He's in the summerhouse, sir,’ he panted. ‘I found him just outside it and I thought I'd get him inside rather than leave him lying there. He may not know you. He didn't know me when I found him, then when I began to move him he suddenly come to and said what the hell did I think I was doing. So I said I was just moving him on to the couch where he'd be more comfortable and then I'd call the police and he said no, I wasn't to think of doing that. So I said I'd get the doctor and he said all right, do that and then he seemed to pass out again.’

  ‘Any bones broken?’ Peter asked.

  ‘The doctor says not, but he's sending him to the hospital for an x-ray. The ambulance will soon be here.’

  Andrew and Peter advanced to the door of the summer-house. Simon Amory was lying on the sofa inside, his eyes shut, his face of a deathly pallor except where a bright red mark crossed it from his chin to his temple, just missing his eye, and where a trickle of blood had spilled down from the corner of his mouth. He was breathing in a slow, snoring way. His collar was open and there were red marks on his throat. A tall middle-aged man was standing beside him, looking down at him.

  Hearing Andrew and Peter outside, he turned to face them. He had a long, bland face and very little hair left on his high forehead, a small, puckered mouth and tired-looking eyes.

  ‘I'm Dr Manton,’ he said. ‘I don't believe the damage is serious, but it'll make him feel pretty uncomfortable for a few days. You're friends of his?’

  ‘My name's Basnett,’ Andrew replied, ‘and this is my nephew Peter Dilly, who's been a guest in the house for the last few days. He only moved out this morning. Do you know anything about what happened?’

  ‘You'd better speak to Mr Gooch,’ the doctor said. ‘He found him and moved him before I got here. It looks as if someone thought of strangling him, then either lost heart or somehow got scared away. I think there was a bit of a fight first.’

  ‘Oughtn't we to call the police?’

  At the word ‘police’ the eyes of the man on the sofa opened.

  ‘Don't do it/ he said in a hoarse-voiced, muttering way.

  ‘I don't want them in on this.’

  The eyes closed again.

  'So he's conscious,’ Andrew said.

  ‘As conscious as he feels like being,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Who did this to you, Amory?’ Andrew said.

  He thought that there was going to be no reply, but then in the same growling way, with his eyes still closed, Amory answered, ‘What's that to you?’

  ‘Nothing very much,’ Andrew said, ‘but I'm curious. Was it Nicholl?’

  ‘Why should it be Nicholl?’

  ‘Only that he probably thinks you killed his wife.’

  'Suppose I did?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I'm not telling anyone.’

  Andrew turned to the doctor.

  ‘He's delirious, isn't he?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘Unless he's putting it on.’

  ‘Have you given him anything?’

  ‘Only an injection of a painkiller.’

  Amory spoke. ‘Ever been beaten up? First time it's happened to me. Changes the way you look at things.’

  ‘I think we'll call the police all the same,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Don't do it, I say. I'm not charging anyone. All that's worrying me is why the hell he didn't finish the job. He had me by the throat and could have done it in another minute. Why the hell didn't he do it?’

  ‘Do you want to die?’

  ‘That's my affair.’

  ‘I agree, but this would have been a messy way of doing it. And we're all of us getting tired of murder.’

  ‘It wouldn't have been a murder, it would have been an execution. I've paid and paid, but you can never pay enough.’

  ‘Careful what you say now,’ Andrew said. ‘You're probably not quite in your right mind, so that protects you, but you don't want to start making confessions that you may regret later.’

  ‘I'm not confessing anything. I'm only saying that in Nicholl's place I'd have done what he did, only I'd have finished the job. He's gone now, of course. Wherever he is, I hope he rots.’

  There was a sound of voices outside, and of trampling feet. The men with the ambulance had arrived.

  When they had moved Amory on to a stretcher and had carried him out, followed by the doctor, Andrew turned to Gooch, who had been standing waiting a little way from the summerhouse, and asked him, ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘There was a telephone call for him,’ Gooch replied. ‘It was Miss Todhunter. I put it through here, where I was fairly sure Mr Amory was working, but there wasn't any answer, so I came out to see if he was here or not. And I found Mr Amory and another man struggling here on the grass. I - I didn't interfere - I was just plain scared. But as soon as he saw me the man ran off. I thought at first he'd killed Mr Amory, he lay so still. But then he moved and said something, so I got him inside, and when I saw how he was hurt I called the doctor and then Mr Dilly, who I thought was a good friend of his, as he'd been staying in the house. But like I told Mr Dilly, he wouldn't have me call the police. Ought we to do that now?’

  ‘I think we'll leave that to the people at the hospital.’ Andrew took Peter's arm and started towards his car. ‘Amory seems like a man who regrets the end of capital punishment. He sounds as if at the moment he'd rather welcome being hanged.’

  'So you're sure he killed Rachel and Magda Braile,’ Peter said.

  ‘No, I'm almost sure he didn't,’ Andrew answered.

  CHAPTER 9

  It surprised neither of them, when they reached the hotel, to be told that Desmond Nicholl had checked out. Andrew asked if he had left an address, and was told that he had left only that which he had given when he had registered on arrival. It was a London address, and made Andrew say that he had by no means given up all thought of returning to London himself, even if Peter found his presence here convenient. Peter only gave a laugh and said that he did not believe that anything would tear Andrew away from Gallmouth as long as the situation there remained as it was. Andrew knew that there was truth in that, though he believed that in the afternoon his desire to make for his home had been genuine. Some words spoken by Amory kept repeating themselves in his brain. Tve paid and paid, but you can never pay enough/ Words spoken by a man in a state of shock, but perhaps literally true. Perhaps, on the other hand, simply a reference to remorse for an action he now deeply regretted. Or perhaps both. Remorse plus blackmail. It did not seem impossible.

  It was not until the next morning that Andrew saw Amory again. He visited him in the hospital, after having found out which one it was by telephoning the man Gooch, with whom Dr Manton had been in touch. Andrew waited until mid-morning to pay his visit, finding Amory in a bed at the end of a long ward, looking pale and angry. The anger seemed to increase when he saw Andrew.

  ‘Why the hell did they have to bring me in here?’ he greeted him. 'There's nothing broken, they could have sent me home. Or if they'd made up their minds to keep me here, why couldn't they give me a private room? Do they think I couldn't afford it? You were there yesterday, weren't you, when that fool Manton got the ambulance? I seem to remember you were there. I don't know what you were doing there and I
don't know what you're doing here now. Can't you keep your nose out of other people's business?’

  ‘I'm not very good at it,’ Andrew admitted. ‘I called in to ask if there's anything Peter or I can do for you.’

  ‘Not to tell me I'd got to get hold of that damned inspector and tell him how I nearly got myself murdered?’

  ‘No. I rather fancy that if I were in your place I'd be doing what you're doing.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ The snarl of Amory's voice grew rougher. ‘What d'you know about my place?’

  ‘Nothing much, except that I'm glad I'm not in it.’

  ‘Oh, you're glad you haven't murdered two women and been beaten up by an enraged husband. That's very moderate of you. A lot of people would envy me.’

  ‘Amory, if I can give you a bit of advice,’ Andrew said, ‘I wouldn't try to talk myself into being arrested.’

  ‘Does it make any difference if I do or if I don't?’ Amory said. 'They've made up their minds I did it, so why shouldn't I take a bit of credit for it? Get my picture in the papers. See myself on television going into the police station with my coat over my head to hide my face. Glamour, that's what I want. Haven't you ever wanted glamour?’

  ‘If you really wanted it yourself you'd have called the police last night when you took that beating. But I understand you don't want them even now.’

  ‘Certainly I don't. And I don't know if I much want you here either. Tell me, what have you really come for?’

  T suppose because although I don't think you committed those murders, I think you know who did, and I'm curious what you're going to do about it.’

  ‘You're going to warn me that if I know such a lot, I'm in danger. That's very fine of you.’

  ‘No, I don't think you're in any danger.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘You know that.’

  ‘Not in any danger while that man Nicholl's around?’

  ‘He isn't around any more. He's gone back to London. Anyway, if you think you're in danger from him, call in the police.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You're in a very unfortunate position, Amory, I see that, but sooner or later you'll have to make up your mind what to do about it, and my advice to you is get hold of Mayhew as soon as you can and tell him everything. Not that I think for a moment you'll take it.’

  ‘How d'you know I haven't made up my mind already?’

  ‘It wouldn't surprise me if you have.’

  ‘I'll tell you one thing I've made up my mind about. As soon as you take yourself off, I'm getting out of here. They want me to leave. If ever there were people who can make you feel unwanted, it's those bloody junior doctors. They seem to think you come here on purpose to make work for them, when all you wanted was to be left at home … Christ, look who's here!’

  Andrew turned his head and saw Edward Clarke advancing slowly along the ward, peering to right and left at the beds on either side, looking, it was evident, for Simon Amory.

  Andrew got to his feet.

  ‘If you've other company, I'll be leaving you,’ he said. ‘I don't think they hold in these places with more than one visitor at a time.’

  Clarke had reached Amory's bedside by then.

  ‘Grand to see you looking so cheerful, Simon,’ he said mendaciously. ‘I was expecting to find you next door to a corpse. Good morning. Professor. You're looking well too. I telephoned your house this morning, Simon, and was told by Mrs Gooch where to find you, but she certainly laid it on a bit thick. She'd hinted to me that you'd had your neck broken.’

  ‘If it hadn't been for her husband being on the spot, I dare say I should have,’ Amory growled. ‘Why did you try to telephone me this morning?’

  ‘Only to tell you that we had a committee meeting yesterday evening and we decided, in spite of what happened this time, that the festival has basically been a success, and we'd repeat the experiment next year.’

  ‘What's that got to do with me?’ Amory demanded. ‘I'm not on your committee.’

  ‘I thought you'd be interested all the same. You'll help us again, won't you?’

  ‘Most unlikely. My guess is I won't be here.’

  ‘You don't mean you're leaving Gallmouth!’

  ‘More surprising things have happened. Why not ask Mayhew?’

  ‘No, no, you don't mean that.’ Clarke looked shocked.

  ‘You aren't serious.’

  ‘The question is, how serious is Mayhew?’

  Andrew repeated that he was leaving. It seemed to him that neither man took any notice of this but in different ways were concentrating on one another. Clarke had a look of insincere cheerfulness on his face, Amory one of sneering contempt. Andrew walked away along the ward and out of the hospital into the street. He walked back to the hotel. He found Peter in the lounge, reading a news-paper. He put it down when he saw Andrew and asked him how his interview with Amory had gone.

  ‘I didn't like it,’ Andrew said. ‘He seemed to be trying to draw attention to himself as suspect number one.’

  ‘D'you think he's shielding someone?’

  ‘I should think it's most unlikely.

  I put it down to vanity. I think he wants to build himself up as a murderer, and then at the last minute spring a surprise that clears him.’

  'Such as letting on who the real murderer is?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Do you think he knows that?’

  ‘I should say, almost for certain.’

  ‘I believe you think you know that for certain yourself, Andrew.’

  ‘Not for certain, no. But let's go and have a drink now. That interview left a taste that I'd like to get rid of. I'm sorry in a way that Amory probably isn't the murderer, he's such an unpleasant character.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you're wrong. Perhaps Mayhew will come up with absolutely unquestionable proof that he did it.’ Peter had stood up and the two of them were making their way to the bar.

  To their surprise, they found Desmond Nicholl there.

  He gave them a crooked smile and immediately offered to buy their drinks, saying, ‘I suppose you didn't expect to find me here.’

  ‘We were told you'd left,’ Andrew said.

  He had asked for sherry, Peter for gin and tonic. They carried them across the room to a table by the window. There were two or three other people in the bar who looked at them curiously, as if they were aware that these three were involved in the murders in Gallmouth, but were themselves too well bred to show their curiosity openly.

  T did leave,’ Nicholl said as they sat down, ‘but then I began to think what a damned silly thing that was to have done. If I'd hurt Amory seriously the police were going to pick me up quickly enough for grievous bodily harm and I'd do better turning myself in for it. So I came back to the police station and confirmed what I'd done. And I found that they didn't even know that Amory had had any trouble.’

  ‘That's right/ Andrew said. ‘Whatever his motives, he refused to have the police called in. I think he'd a sort of idea that you were justified in trying to kill him, thinking of him as you evidently did, or that at least was what he wanted us to think. He's a very unwilling patient in the hospital at the moment. I don't think he'll be there much longer.’

  ‘No bones broken?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that! But what d'you mean by saying that he wanted it to be thought that he'd some sympathy with my action?’

  ‘I'm really not sure,’ Andrew said hesitantly. ‘I've only a feeling that the man's such a complete phoney that one can't take any of his attitudes at their face value.’

  ‘He's a phoney, is he?’ Nicholl said. ‘What makes you say that?’

  But Andrew seemed not to want to answer that question directly.

  ‘Perhaps I'm going a bit far,’ he said. ‘You're staying in Gallmouth, are you?’

  ‘For the present.’

  Andrew nodded thoughtfully, as if he considered this a wise course of action. After all, he hi
mself had decided to stay. Reluctantly he had given up his intention of returning to London.

  He spent the afternoon continuing with the reading of Death Come Quickly. How Peter spent it he did not know, but when he came downstairs for tea there was no sign of him. He came in presently, saying that he had been for a walk on the cliffs, the cliffs on the far side of the bay, not the ones from which Magda Braile had fallen to her death. Once he had said that and had ordered tea, he lapsed into silence, an absent look in his eyes and a slight frown on his face, as if the thoughts that had come to him on his walk were occupying him still. Andrew was quite content to be silent. His thoughts were on the book that he had just finished reading, wondering if it could possibly be really as good as it seemed to him. There was enough of the literary snob in him for him to feel that what had appealed to as wide a readership as this book had done must be second-rate. It was true that it was only as well known as it was because of the play and the film that had been based on it, but the germ of its popular success had been there from the beginning.

  Peter interrupted his thoughts with sudden impatience. ‘Well, Andrew, what do you make of it? You've had an afternoon to yourself. Haven't you come up with any profound ideas?’

  ‘About the murders?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Of course about the murders.’

  ‘I haven't really been thinking about them.’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  ‘If I have, I've been leaving the job to my unconscious. Perhaps something very intelligent will emerge from it when I'm not expecting it.’

  ‘You stick to it, do you, that Amory didn't commit them?’

  ‘That's what I'm inclined to do.’

  ‘Oh God, why can't you be definite about anything? Why don't you think he did? He seems to me the obvious person.’

  ‘D'you remember something he said yesterday evening? He said, "I've paid and paid but you can never pay enough." What did that sound like to you?’

  T didn't think much about it. I thought he was wandering in his wits.’

  ‘Well, to me it sounds like simple blackmail. There's a definite statement for you, if you want one. Of course, it could be a protest at some emotional suffering he'd had to endure, but to me it sounds like a plain matter of cash.’