Murder Post-Dated

by Anne Morice

  In other circumstances, I knew that I should be enjoying this rattling exchange, but after a while I found myself losing the thread and giving only random and inadequate replies. There were a number of reasons for this. One was that I had scarcely had a chance to swallow more than two mouthfuls of the first course and was already well behind with the second, which I was becoming afraid might at any moment be snatched away. Another was that the band had now gone into action and, although consisting of only three instruments, the amplification was so deafening that it was difficult to hear what my garrulous neighbor was banging on about. Most inhibiting of all was the fidgeting and throat clearing which had now started up on my right.

  There had been no need to crane and peer at this one’s place card, for I knew him of old and could have guaranteed that, in addition to the audible signs of disapproval, there was a good deal of facial twitching and compulsive palm rubbing going on as well. Both these tricks were much in evidence, even when he was not in a state of umbrage, which most of the time he was.

  His name was Tim Macadam, the husband of a great friend of Elsa’s, who always defended him by claiming that a heart of gold was beating away beneath the bitten-up exterior and by reminding me that his had been a sad and difficult life. The second I knew to be true, but had still to obtain proof of the first.

  The same reservations applied to his wife, Louise, a dowdy and truculent woman, all too apt at telling people that she and Tim had no time for the theatre and did not own a television set, as though this was something to boast about. Once or twice while Mr. Megrar was doing his best to monopolise my attention, I had caught her inimical eye fixed on me from across the table and it had told me plainly that I was displaying all the ill-bred exhibitionism she most deplored in people of my calling.

  “Who’s the pretty girl next to Marcus?” I asked Tim, having snatched the chance to make amends, when my other neighbour momentarily turned away to serve himself with ice cream and raspberry sauce.

  “You mean the blonde one?” he asked, looking down at the table where this group was seated.

  “No, although I can understand your thinking so because she must be easily the best-looking female present, but that is my cousin Ellen. She is happily married now to someone called Jeremy Roxburgh, so she no longer ranks as a pretty girl in that sense. I was referring to the dark one, on whose every word Marc appears to be hanging.”

  “There’s a lot of it about this evening,” Tim remarked in an add voice. “Her name is Laycock, I can tell you that much. Amanda or Anthea, or something. Louise will know, if it’s really important to you.”

  “Oh, it is and I shall certainly ask her. I take a special interest in Marc and Millie, you know.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, it dates from when I was about twelve and used to be their baby-sitter. It has coloured our relationship ever since. If you happen to know the feminine for avuncular, it will tell you what colour I am talking about.”

  “I’m afraid not, but I think I take your meaning and it may interest you to know that the man at the head of this table is the girl’s father.”

  “Thank you,” I said, taking a closer look at him. “I was wondering who Elsa had got to play host for her.”

  He was middle-aged with white hair and noble features and he looked like a well-fed saint.

  “If you were to ask me what he does for a living, I should say rural dean or actor.”

  “Then you’d be wrong on both counts. He’s a Harley Street consultant.”

  “Oh, really? What do people consult him about?”

  “Any number of things, I shouldn’t wonder. The broad term is allergies. Quite a lucrative branch of the profession, I understand. You’re not likely to kill the patient, nor to cure him either.”

  “So lots of money?”

  “Oh, indeed! It is, as they say, no object.”

  “And so good-looking! His daughter takes after him.”

  “Think so? I can’t say I’d noticed.”

  “But you’re not so curious about people as I am, are you, Tim?”

  “I never met anyone who was,” he replied, scoring a point and looking smug about it.

  Disregarding this, I continued with the questions.

  “Do they live round here?”

  “They do now. His mother owned a biggish house just outside the village and the family used to come for summer holidays, Christmas and so on. The old lady died a year or two ago and now they just keep a small flat in London and spend most of their time here. Might have something to do with the wife being an invalid, I daresay.”

  “What’s the matter with her? Not an allergy, presumably?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. Louise would know.”

  “Is she bedridden?”

  “No, not as bad as that, but she hardly leaves the house and she has to have a nurse to look after her nowadays.”

  This reminded me of something and I became silent and thoughtful, which was a mistake, because James Megrar seized his chance and came crashing into the attack again. Fortunately, the topic this time was books, in particular one he was currently reading about Marin County, which he found uproarious. Since I had not read it and his aim was evidently to make it unnecessary for me to do so, I was able to finish up the ice cream, without having to utter a word.

  He was still in full spate when Elsa gathered up the female contingent and led us back to the house, another uncharacteristic formality, but one which had my approval for a change, because the tables in the centre of the marquee were now being stacked away, to provide a space for dancing. This had given rise to the irrational terror that Tim might feel a duty to invite me to stumble round the floor with him and the prospect would have been just as bleak if James Megrar had got in first. If his dancing had proved to be as energetic and uninhibited as his conversation, we should have been a menace to everyone else on the floor.

  “Oh, hallo!” I said, when the moment had come for joining the ladies and he seated himself beside me. “It is a pleasure to see you because it gives me the chance to congratulate you on having such a beautiful daughter. What is her name?”

  “Yes, she is rather lovely, isn’t she? Always has been since the day she was born. A sad day for me, but a joyous one too. She is called Andrea.”

  “Andrea Laycock. That goes very well. Mine is Theresa Crichton, by the way.”

  “I know, I’ve been making enquiries and I shall now return the compliment by telling you how much I’m enjoying your television serial. I should hate to think of myself getting to the stage of turning down a social engagement for the sake of watching something on the box, but I have to confess that it’s always a relief to find myself without one on Wednesday evening.”

  I considered this to be charmingly put and told him so, adding, at the risk of appearing insatiable: “Does Andrea watch it too? One always hopes the thing will appeal to all generations.”

  “Oh yes, I believe so, from time to time, you know. She’s out a good deal these days, but I gave her one of those video toys. I am not sure how often she uses it, to be perfectly honest.”

  “And your wife? I imagine she watches a lot of television, since I hear she’s an invalid?”

  “Who told you that?” he asked, not, to be fair, clattering his cup against the saucer, but setting it down a little clumsily, so that some of the coffee slopped out.

  “There now, how tiresome! I shall go and fetch myself a clean cup and saucer and some more coffee. May I refill yours?”

  “No thanks, I still have some.”

  I was not to know whether he had genuinely intended to return because, in any case, the decision was taken out of his hands. James Megrar came bounding across to fill the vacuum left by his departure and to ask me what I knew about witchcraft.

  The truthful answer, which I gave him, was nothing at all and I could have added that I had confidently expected to get through life in the same state of ignorance, but he was not having any of that. I no longer remember h
ow he came to be so well informed on the subject, although I believe it had something to do with researching for a friend who was writing a book on the supernatural, but most of what he told me was so weird and incredible that I would have suspected him of making it up, had I not learnt that the more improbable a story, the more likely it is to be true.

  None of the other guests ventured near us and I daresay he would have gone on all night, if I had been prepared to listen, but after almost an hour of it I told him that the time had come for me to seek out Jeremy, who had promised to take me home the minute I was ready to leave.

  “He and my cousin Ellen and I are all staying with her father at Roakes Common,” I explained, “and Jeremy is our chauffeur.”

  His response to this was to offer to drive me home himself, saying that if I did not mind hanging on for another ten minutes, he would squelch through the mud and bring his car up to the front door. However, I decided that I had had enough entertainment and instruction for one evening and should stick to the original plan, making a passing reference to this, when I went over to take my leave of Elsa.

  “I am relieved to hear it,” she said. “Come and have lunch with me tomorrow and I’ll explain.”

  “I can’t tomorrow, Elsa. Robin’s hoping to get down for the day. I could manage Monday, though, if that’s any good? We’re shooting in Oxford all next week, but they don’t need me on Monday.”

  “Better still. I’ll be on my own by then and there is much to report.”

  “And much I want to hear,” I assured her.

  THREE

  “Tell me about Marc’s new girl friend,” I said on Sunday morning, wondering now Ellen still managed to look like the fairy on the Christmas tree, after a gruelling evening and only five hours’ sleep. Long flaxen hair, large blue eyes and half an inch of black lashes no doubt got her off to a good start, but there was more to it than this. It was the serenity of her personality which made her shine like a good deed in a naughty world.

  “Oh, she’s all right, I suppose.”

  “Coming from you, that sounds bad. What’s the matter with her?”

  “Nothing much and she’s so beautiful. She just struck me as being a bit silly and conceited. I don’t understand Marc, you know, Tessa. Jeremy tells me he’s so jolly bright, but he’s certainly no judge of women. Do you remember that last horror?”

  “Who could ever forget her? But she was so cunning and deceitful. Andrea doesn’t look that type.”

  “No, but we were upstairs powdering our noses at one point and there was a queue for the bathroom, so I was stuck with her for about ten minutes. She was showing off like mad and she never stopped staring at herself in the glass for a single minute.”

  “What kind of showing off?”

  “Well, it was unbelievable really, because I hardly know her, but she kept on about how she wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but she could tell instinctively that I was terribly discreet. I suppose she must have been a bit high, actually, that’s the only way to account for it, because she didn’t seem to notice that there were about five other women in the room as well. Either that, or she could tell instinctively that they were deaf mutes. For all she knew, they could have been lapping up every word.”

  “Every what word?”

  “Well, it was mostly about her stepmother, who she can’t stand, apparently.”

  “Stepmother, did you say?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “Oh, just trying to get the picture. Isn’t she an invalid?”

  “According to Andrea, that’s just the cover story. The true one is that she’s always been neurotically jealous, specially of Andrea, and it’s now got to the stage where she’s practically raving mad.”

  “Does she have delusions that someone has been trying to kill her?”

  “Honestly, Tessa, no wonder some people say you’re a witch! However do you do it?”

  “Not by supernatural means, I assure you. Was I right?”

  “No, not quite. As a matter of fact, you got it completely back to front.”

  “Oh well, that makes everything quite clear.”

  “Andrea suffers from delusions that her stepmother is trying to kill someone.”

  “Oh well, yes, I see what you mean. There is a subtle difference. Who was the intended victim?”

  “All three of them. Her husband, Andrea and herself as well. There was some story about Andrea finding her mooning about in one of the sheds, with a tin of rat poison in her hand and the next evening they all had violent symptoms of food poisoning. Gregory was the worst, but he refused to call a doctor and she thinks this was because he’d guessed what had caused it and was afraid there might be some official enquiry, when it would all come out. Mind you, I don’t believe a word of it. She must either be a compulsive liar, or she was a lot more drunk than she looked.”

  “Drunk or not, do you honestly mean that she told you all this in a roomful of people?”

  “Well, to be fair, I think most of them had gone by the time we reached the climax because I remember being so relieved to see the bathroom was free at last and I could escape.”

  “Don’t tell me you just walked away at an exciting moment like that, without waiting to hear if there was more to come?”

  “I didn’t believe her, you see, and it wasn’t worth the risk of losing my turn in the bathroom.”

  “So that was the end of it, so far as you were concerned?”

  “Yes. When I came out, she was so taken up with staring at her own face that she didn’t notice me and I bolted downstairs. One thing I will tell you, though.”

  “What?”

  “I just hope Marc isn’t getting too serious about her, because I have a feeling she could be very bad news.”

  FOUR

  True to her word, Elsa was alone when I arrived at Sowerley Grange, Marcus having returned to his chambers in London and Millie to her secretarial college.

  “Are you still clearing up after the party?” I asked her.

  “No, all done. The caterers were marvellous, well worth the expense. They packed everything up and on Sunday morning two lorries came and took it all away.”

  “Well, it was a great triumph and I hope Millie was suitably grateful?”

  “Oh, I think so. I think she enjoyed it in the end, despite all the grumbling that went on beforehand.”

  “So it was your idea to give a great big show-off party?”

  “Not exactly, no. It was really Marc who insisted on all the trappings. He’s always been conventional, you know, and becoming more so, now that he’s a fully fledged barrister.”

  “And bent on forcing you and Millie into the same mould?”

  “This time I suspect it was because he didn’t want us to be shamed in the eyes of his new girl friend. Gregory Laycock has a very good opinion of himself, you know, and tends to take the attitude that the young man has yet to be born who is good enough for his daughter. Anyway, I didn’t think it would hurt to indulge Marc, for once.”

  “For once? You’ve been doing it since the day he was born.”

  “That is quite untrue, Tessa. Apart from anything else, he never had a party of his own when he was Millie’s age. It was too soon after his father died for any of us to have the heart for it. Besides, he went half shares in this one, so it was only fair he should have a say in the arrangements. What did you make of Gregory?”

  “Didn’t have much chance to study him. A bit flowery and pompous, I thought. What did he mean by saying that the day Andrea was born was a sad one for him, but joyous as well?”

  “I suppose he was referring to the fact that his first wife died in childbirth. It has been suggested that he married for the second time more to provide a substitute mother for Andrea than a wife for himself. If so, it doesn’t appear to have worked out very successfully.”

  “Well, I want to hear all about the Laycocks in a minute, but before we really get started on them, do fill me in about the man you put me next to at dinne
r.”

  “James McGrath?”

  “Oh, is that how you pronounce it?”

  “How else?”

  “God knows, but I’ve never seen that name spelt MEGRAR before.”

  “Oh, that’s just Millie. I was in a hurry and I asked her to do a new place card. She wants to do a course in journalism when she’s learnt how to type, but her spelling is appalling. I do hope it won’t be a drawback.”

  “On the contrary, she’ll be immune to misprints. Why were you so set against Mr. McGrath driving me home? He’s not a sex maniac, by any chance?”

  “No, I have never heard that said about him, but he’s not very popular with the people round here.”

  “That might be because they suspect him of being more entertaining and better informed than they are, if you’ll forgive my saying so. At any rate, that’s how he struck me.”

  “As we all noticed, and that’s part of the trouble. He’s so boastful and full of himself; always holding forth at such length about his bird watching and all the rest of it, which most of them aren’t remotely interested in. That’s why I only invited him, as a last resort, when Robin had to let me down. Nowadays, when people find themselves at a party with him, you can sense them watching him. It’s as though they were waiting for him to commit some gaffe, so that they could rush to the telephone and tell all their friends about it as soon as they got home. I didn’t want your name to be bandied about in that sort of tittle-tattle.”

  “Thank you, Elsa, and now that you’ve explained all that, let’s move on to the Laycocks. Do you approve of Andrea?”

  “Oh yes; considering how ridiculously her father spoils her, she’s a very sweet girl.”

  “Is that what they call accepting the inevitable gracefully?”

  “Why do you say that?”