by Anne Morice
“There is something about the phrase ‘sweet girl,’ which is so damning, specially coming from you.”
“It wasn’t intended to be, so I’ll put it another way: she is beautiful, has good manners, I know nothing against her and, since Marc is obviously smitten, it is not for me to dig below the surface for hidden faults. My only worry is whether she is half as much in love with him as he is with her, which I sometimes doubt; and, even if she is, whether Gregory won’t somehow contrive to break it up. I suppose it comes from his having been a single parent since the day of Andrea’s birth, but he really does seem to be quite exaggeratedly possessive about her. However, that’s something they’ll all have to work out for themselves.”
“Right! So now you can tell me about your murder which turned out not to be one, after all. Would I be right in assuming that it involved the Laycocks in some way?”
“Good gracious, no. Really, Tessa, you do pick up some extraordinary ideas! I wonder where you got hold of this one?”
“Not from anywhere in particular. I know very little about them, but I have been made aware of a certain mystery surrounding Mrs. Laycock. I admit it occurred to me that the word might have got around that someone had it in for her, or else that she wasn’t ill, but mentally deranged and so had to be kept in the charge of a wardress disguised as a nurse. In other words, that she had to be protected from making another attempt to kill herself or someone else.”
“You have a vivid imagination and I am afraid it has led you astray this time. So far as I am aware, neither story has ever been circulated. I was referring to an altogether different scandal, concerning quite a different wife.”
“Anyone I know?”
“You know the husband. You met him here on Saturday.”
“You wouldn’t be referring to James McGrath!”
“Yes, I would.”
“There now! I was off the mark, wasn’t I? What happened to his wife?”
“She disappeared.”
“So everyone said he’d killed her and then she spoilt all the fun by turning up again, alive and kicking? Although she wasn’t at your party, obviously.”
“No, and the story wasn’t quite as tame as that, either.”
“Good! Tell me how it did turn out.”
“Her name is Rosamund. She is about the same age as him and reputed to have most of the money. She is a nice woman, a shade too reserved for my taste, but always pleasant and civil, if you know what I mean?”
“And therefore more popular than her husband, presumably?”
“Which is precisely why we were all so puzzled when she disappeared like that, without a word to anyone, not even ringing up to say goodbye. Tim and Louise, who are their nearest neighbours, were away at the time, spending the weekend at some hotel they go to every year in the Lake District. When they got back Rosamund had gone. No message, nothing.”
“And so, of course, they immediately assumed that her husband had killed her and buried the remains in the garden?”
“Not at first, that came later. To begin with, we all accepted his explanation without question.”
“Which was?”
“That her cousin Isobel had been taken seriously ill and that Rosamund was staying up in London, so as to be near the hospital. We all knew that she was devoted to this cousin. She was an orphan and Isobel’s parents had brought her up, so they were more like sisters. It was quite a reasonable story and he might have got away with it, for a while at any rate.”
“What went wrong?”
“Unfortunately for him, Louise, who was more friendly with Rosamund than most of us, was in London herself only a few days later. She’d met Isobel before and she happened to run into her in Knightsbridge. She was in excellent health and she hadn’t seen or heard from Rosamund for months. You can imagine how that set all the tongues wagging? Mine as much as anyone else’s, I’m ashamed to say.”
“And did any of them go wagging to the police?”
“I believe so. She denied it later, but I have an idea that Louise . . . well, anyway, if so, there was evidently nothing they could do about it. Rosamund hadn’t been reported as missing and there was no dead body, so presumably no justification for interfering. Just as well, too, because when the entire neighbourhood had been humming with sinister rumours for over a week, we heard the true explanation.”
“I hope it won’t be too much of an anti-climax?”
“Knowing Rosamund, or rather believing we knew her, ail of us found it sensational enough, but I daresay you won’t. She’d run away with another man.”
“No, honestly? How did you find out?”
“From two sources, Louise being the intermediary in both.”
“She is a busy woman, that Louise, isn’t she?”
“Well, as I told you, she and Rosamund were friends and near neighbours, so it was natural for her to play a more active part in the affair than someone like myself, for instance. Obviously, she was worried when she discovered that the story about the cousin being ill was untrue and, when still nothing was heard from her, Louise nerved herself to go and see James and warn him that she didn’t intend to let him get away with the deception any longer.”
“And how did he react to that?”
“It completely took the wind out of his sails, I gather. He broke down and admitted that Rosamund had left him for another man. He didn’t know his name, or anything about him, but she had left a note, saying she’d fallen in love with someone else who she thought she could be happy with, that she’d be in touch with him when they’d both had a chance to adjust to the situation. James, however, feels certain that she’ll think better of it and come back to him. He told Louise that was why he’d invented the story about her cousin. If and when she did come back, he didn’t want it known that she’d ever left him. He begged Louise not to spread it around and she gave him her word that she wouldn’t.”
“But her word was not her bond?”
“Oh yes, it was. She played absolutely fair, but what happened was that only a few days later she had a letter from Rosamund herself. It covered much the same ground, but there was nothing about its being confidential, so Louise felt she was no longer under any obligation to keep silent about it.”
“Goodness, what an exciting time it must have been! When did all this happen?”
“Five or six weeks ago.”
“And nothing has been heard from her since?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“And you still have no idea who she went off with?”
“None whatever. It can’t have been anyone local, or we’d certainly have heard by now. What a dark horse she was, under that shy and diffident exterior! The theory now is that half the time when she was reputed to be staying either with her cousin in London, or else with friends in Sussex, she was actually with this man, although who he was and where they met is still a mystery. Anyway, the sensation has died a natural death now. Perhaps it would get a revival if she should come back, as James still feels confident that she will. Anyway, you can see now why I made my little joke about the murder which turned out not to be one?”
“I wouldn’t be to sure of that, Elsa, if I were you.”
“Oh, really, Tessa, you’re incorrigible! Haven’t I just told you that Louise had a letter from Rosamund, written in her own hand and repeating in almost the same words what she’d already heard from James?”
“Which is precisely what strikes me as dubious.”
“For goodness sake, why?”
“I wouldn’t have expected her to express herself to Louise in identical terms to those she had used in a letter to be seen only by her husband.”
“Oh, that’s just a quibble.”
“And here comes another! How well does Louise know Rosamund’s handwriting?”
“As well as one knows any of one’s friends’, I suppose.”
“I was just thinking that, as these particular friends presumably lived within half a mile of each other . . .”
“Then I assume they would have communicated mainly by telephone?”
“Oh yes, mainly, of course they would, but there are always occasions for writing, aren’t there? Notes left on the kitchen table when Louise was out, or to say thank you for a party. Postcards when she went away on holiday, all that kind of thing.”
“I suppose so. Tell me more about the letter, though. Obviously, there was no address, but did it give any clue at all as to where she had gone?”
“No. It had a London postmark, but that means nothing. She could easily have arranged for it to be posted by someone she could trust not to give her away.”
“Did Louise show it to you?”
“Yes, she did. It was a curious sort of letter, in a way, I remember thinking she must have written it in a hurry because it was quite short and it had no beginning.”
“How can one write a letter, however short, without beginning it?”
“No introduction is what I meant. It just went straight into ‘I want to try and make you understand, etc., etc.’”
“Honestly, Elsa, you amaze me sometimes.”
“What have I said now?”
“You’re so trusting! How could you fail to see through a trick like that?”
“So simple-minded, I suppose you mean? Are you suggesting it was a forgery?”
“Of course, I am. I should have thought it was obvious.”
“But I keep telling you that Louise recognised the handwriting.”
“I know you do and I daresay it was a good enough imitation to get by, so long as there was nothing to compare it with, and was there? The sort of notes and cards you mentioned are not likely to be filed away for future reference; but what clinches it for me is that missing introduction.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Because including one could have been a dead give-away. Some women sprinkle ‘darlings’ and ‘dearests’ about in conversation like sugar on the strawberries, but they don’t necessarily use them in correspondence. And vice versa, of course. Louise would have noticed at once if the opening endearment had been too effusive or too impersonal, so clever Mr. Forger played safe and omitted it altogether.”
“You do realise, of course, that if by some incredible chance you were right, there is only one person who could have done it?”
“You mean James McGrath? Yes, and I consider he has been very intelligent about it.”
“I can’t say I agree with you.”
“Well, the way I see it is this: a less astute man, having murdered his wife and buried her corpse in the garden, would doubtless have given it out that she had left him and run off with someone else, which would inevitably have given rise to endless gossip and speculation, the last thing he wanted. You agree?”
“Yes, I daresay it would. In fact, it did, but I still can’t see why telling two separate lies was so much cleverer than finding one good one and sticking to it. Why make it so complicated?”
“Well, you see, Elsa, the first one, the one about the dying cousin, served a double purpose. He would have realised, of course, that it wouldn’t hold up for long, but it gave him a breathing space, time to manoeuvre outside the glare of the limelight. Then, in due course, Louise turns up, breathing fire and brimstone, and he is able to use that first lie as proof of how grief-stricken he is, how he’s praying his wife will return and that no one will find out that she left him, thereby neatly spiking Louise’s guns. Faced with that confession, even she might be expected to feel ashamed of herself. So then, when the forged letter arrived, there was a good chance she would hold her tongue. It might occur to her that she was becoming paranoiac on the subject and, in any case, she would have hesitated to go into battle again and risk making an utter fool of herself, if the letter did prove to be genuine. I think he sized her up correctly, too, and that’s exactly what did happen. If you ask me, that’s why she showed it to you.”
“To see whether I would notice any flaws in it?”
“Exactly! And when you didn’t she probably thought that was good enough. At any rate, she decided not to go it alone.”
“There are times, you know, Tessa, when it saddens me that someone so fundamentally kind and good-natured as you are should have such a suspicious mind. Still, there it is and you’ve been vindicated often enough in the past, so I suppose you could be right this time. What do you advise me to do about it?”
“Why do anything? It’s not really your business.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could just drop it and pretend to go on in blissful ignorance, now that you’ve pointed out what wickedness may lie behind it. I’m afraid I shall have to ask Louise straight out whether she’s truly satisfied that the letter was genuine. Why don’t we go together, this very afternoon? Then she can show it to you.”
“Oh no, Elsa, I’m sure that would be fatal. The mere sight of me brings Louise out in a rash and she’d shut up like a clam.”
“On the contrary. I know you two have a way of bringing out the worst in each other, but she has great respect for your intelligence. She’s often told me so.”
“Something tells me I have a better chance of keeping her respect if I also keep my distance. Besides, I can’t go this afternoon, Eve promised to spend a little time with Ellen. They were out to dinner last night, so I’ve hardly seen her and we couldn’t talk this morning because she and Jeremy were both in floods of tears.”
“Oh dear, why was that?”
“Because Jeremy has to go to Geneva for forty-eight hours.”
“Why doesn’t she go with him, if parting is so painful?”
“She did once, but she found Geneva very boring when Jeremy was immured behind steel doors, talking to bankers for most of the day. Also it would mean sacrificing the blissful reunion on Wednesday evening. But do ring up and let me know how you got on with Louise.”
“Oh, I will and I just hope and trust that this time you’ll be proved wrong.”
“Cheer up!” I said. “It has been known.”
FIVE
Toby and Ellen were having tea by the swimming pool and when she had fetched an extra cup from the kitchen Ellen launched into a detailed description of a film which she and Jeremy had seen the night before in Storhampton.
Toby kept cutting in with remarks like: “Dear me, how dreadfully uninteresting!” but it did not discourage her and she ploughed relentlessly on until he was obliged to do what he would have done in the cinema, which was to walk out.
“What’s got into you?” I asked her.
“Yes, sorry about that, but I had to find some way to drive him indoors because I want to tell you the latest about Andrea.”
“And it’s not fit for Toby’s ears?”
“Oh yes, but he’d have kept interrupting to ask us whether we thought it was a situation he could use. It would have taken the whole afternoon to argue that out and I have to go back to London in a minute.”
I took her meaning. Toby earns his living by writing plays, but the living is not quite as good as it ought to be because he is so lazy about it and always hoping other people will do half the work by providing him with plots, which they very rarely do.
“Just as well he went when he did too,” Ellen added, “because I was running out of steam. We all left before the end, you won’t be surprised to hear.”
“All?”
“Yes, Marc and Andrea came with us and afterwards we went to have dinner at that new restaurant in the Market Place. As soon as we got there Andrea and I made a dash for the Ladies and that’s when she started on about her stepmother again.”
“Lavatories do seem to bring out that certain streak in her.”
“Well, this was slightly different. She admitted that she’d had too much to drink at the party and, although she couldn’t remember much about it the next day, she had a ghastly feeling that she’d given me
a lot of yackety-yack about her stepmother.”
“So she was retracting?”
“Yes, she was, but I’ll tell you something funny, Tessa. You know how I said I didn’t believe her the first time? Well, the funny part is that I didn’t believe her the second time either.”
“That must have taken some doing?”
“Not really, because I’m sure I’d have gone on disbelieving the first story, if only she hadn’t denied it. Now I begin to wonder if it was a case of in vino veritas.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one reason, because she asked me if I’d repeated it to Jeremy and when I said no, instead of looking relieved, as you’d expect, she looked . . . well, more like disappointed. Also I’m not convinced that people do tell outrageous lies when they’re stoned. I think they’re more likely to tell outrageous truths and then wish to God they hadn’t.”
“Unless they happen to be compulsive liars, which at the last hearing was your verdict on Andrea.”
“And we don’t like that any better, do we? It may be some comfort to know that there isn’t a murderess in the family, but the alternative would seem to be that Marc had fallen for a nut case. Take your pick!” Before I could so do, Toby came ambling across the grass to tell me that I was wanted on the telephone.
“You took your time,” Elsa said, sounding as cross as two sticks about it.
“Not my fault. You ought to know by now that Toby doesn’t relay such messages at the gallop.”
“I do know and it wasn’t that which made me irritable. I just wish so much that you hadn’t got me involved in this business of Rosamund’s letter.”
“You tackled Louise, then?”
“This afternoon, as soon as you left. I wanted to get it over. And you were right, of course. She simply pounced on it when I told her I’d been thinking it over and been wondering if there could be anything spurious about it. She agreed at once, but said that she’d kept quiet about it for fear of influencing me, because the last thing she wanted was to stir up trouble, if there was no reason to.”
“Oh yes?”
“Now, Tessa, I know you don’t like her, but she’s not a mischief-maker and her concern is purely altruistic.”
