Murder Post-Dated

by Anne Morice

  “Yes, you are.”

  “So here is one more for you to answer, if you will. Would it also be correct to assume that such a decision could not be regarded as conclusive, one way or the other? That, whatever the verdict, an element of doubt would remain? In short, that some other expert might be found whose opinion contradicted the first?”

  “Not entirely. I think that would only apply if the result was positive. That’s to say, if the first expert had given it as his opinion that they were written by the same person. In that case, I should imagine it would need to be endorsed by others before it could be accepted as proof. But, if he were to express doubts, or decided that it could not have been written by the same person, then that would most likely be the end of it, because it could not be used as evidence.”

  “So I have nothing to fear? No, don’t answer that. How could you and why should you? I realise how black things must look for me, but I do assure you that, if I were guilty, I should not now be wasting my time and yours by putting these questions. The matter would already be in the hands of my solicitor. So thank you all for coming and remember, if you will, what I have asked you to do for me.”

  We drove in slow procession to the Macadams’ house, Tim and Louise in their own car, Elsa and I followed in Toby’s. This splitting into pairs had been done at the instigation of Louise, who was no doubt eager to hear my views, without putting herself to the trouble of asking for them. Responding to this unspoken command, Elsa had scarcely climbed aboard before saying:

  “Well, what do you make of it, Tessa? How can one possibly believe that anyone but he forged the letter? And yet, at the same time, he sounded so convincing, specially with that bit at the end.”

  “I don’t know, Elsa. Like you, I’m in two minds about it, but it struck me as rational, as well as convincing. Why should he bother to consult an amateur like myself, if he had forged it and therefore knew that not one, but a dozen experts could be found to say so?”

  “So you’re inclined to take him on trust?”

  “Yes, I am. The alternative would appear to be that he’s exceptionally stupid, which is much harder to believe. There are a couple of things I’d need to find out though, before finally coming down on his side. Perhaps you could take on one of them for me?”

  “I suppose it depends on what it is.”

  “I’d be interested to know whether Rosamund could type. If so, whether she owned a typewriter. That would really clinch it for me.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. At least, I think I do.”

  “You see, I can understand what the purpose of sending a spurious letter to Louise would have been. To allay her suspicions and ensure that the news that Rosamund had bolted would come from the most reliable source of all. But what a fearful risk to have tried to imitate her handwriting for such an insignificant reward! To lie low and do nothing would have been far more sensible. Louise could hardly have gone to the police to complain that she hadn’t heard from her friend lately and therefore concluded that her husband had murdered her. If Rosamund did possess a portable typewriter, which she could have taken with her, all he needed to do, presuming he killed her, was to type the letter, sign it with a big R, then sink the machine in the river Thames.”

  “Well, I expect it would be quite easy to find out. Louise is bound to know.”

  “Bound to,” I agreed.

  “What’s the other job?”

  “Oh, that’s for Robin. I must remember to ask him when he comes for the weekend.”

  “But surely you can tell me what it is?”

  “In the event of the letter being proved to have been written by James, I want to know what will happen next. Presumably, they can’t arrest him for murder until a body turns up, so will they send seven men with seven spades to Orchard House, to start looking for one? Whichever way they tackle it, I see boulders ahead and it’s made more complicated still by the fact that no one seems clear about exactly when Rosamund is supposed to have walked out. You said that Tim and Louise had been away for the weekend and when they’d got back she’d gone, but that’s pretty vague and no one seems able to pin it down any closer. I shall be fascinated to know what the procedure is likely to be now.”

  “If you had arrived back five minutes earlier,” Toby said, “you would have had the unique opportunity to answer one of your own telephone calls.”

  “Oh, sorry, I’m afraid I dawdled a bit. Who was it this time?”

  “The usual. If you ask me, he fancies you. That’s the simple answer and all this intrigue about his missing wife has been cooked up as a cheap way to gain your sympathy.”

  “Then he must feel cheated because it is turning out to be a most expensive way. What does he want now?”

  “The same as he always wants. He would like you to have dinner with him tomorrow evening.”

  “Nothing doing. I’m working tomorrow and, even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t have dinner with him.”

  “You may change your mind when you’ve heard it all.”

  “All right, tell me.”

  “He is too canny to invite you to dine with him in the privacy of his lair and he suggests that you should meet him in the foyer of that hotel whose name temporarily escapes me, but as far as I know is the only one in Oxford.”

  “Oh, I see!”

  “He also went out of his way to emphasise that he will be unable to drive you home afterwards. This, of course, is to allay any fears you might have of finishing up as a mangled corpse on the hard shoulder of the M40.”

  “Did he say so?”

  “Not in those words. His explanation was that after dinner he has to drive some place in Northampton, where he has business to conduct tomorrow in his role of Capability Brown.”

  “Well, if I go at all, it will have to be for a quick drink. I can’t expect the studio driver to hang around for the whole evening.”

  “So now you think you will go?”

  “I shall weigh up the pros and cons while I have a bath. That usually brings a decision, for better or worse.”

  NINE

  “The architects of this building went to immense trouble to ensure that the acoustics should be as bad as human ingenuity could make them,” he said, steering me to a corner table, “which of course is why I chose it. I should prefer what I have to say to be heard by no one but yourself.”

  “Whatever it is, I hope you’ll be able to compress it into half an hour. The car is coming for me at seven-thirty.”

  “I shall do my best and perhaps I ought to begin by saying that, whatever appearances may suggest, I did not forge the letter and I did not kill Rosamund. I don’t know whether you feel able to take that on trust, but I hope so, because if not, you will certainly not believe anything else I am about to tell you.”

  “For the sake of argument, let us assume that I do.”

  “Thank you for that much, at any rate. And the next point to get out of the way is that I do not know who committed either of those crimes, but I have now decided that I must make it my business to find out.”

  “Hang on a moment, James, because I must interrupt you here. Are you now implying that you know your wife is dead?”

  “I have known it from the beginning,” he replied.

  “And that note you told Louise she had left for you, saying that she had gone off with another man?”

  “Never existed. Or rather, it had an existence once upon a time, but that was several years ago.”

  “And yet you still expect me to believe . . . ?”

  “I know it sounds unreasonable, but if you will let me explain, I hope to make you understand. It is the brunt of what I have to tell you and, since you are in a hurry, it might be best if I were to present the facts in my own way and in the right order.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “To return to the point I was making before, it is not hard to see that, due to a combination of circumstances, for which I am partly to blame, I am getting into very deep water and it is now my considered
opinion that the only way to extricate myself is by discovering the true perpetrator of these crimes. And please don’t try to persuade me that I should leave such business to the police, because it would only waste more time. The single advantage I possess is that they may be halted in their tracks by lack of evidence. To make them a free gift of it and to expect them to take it for what it was, and not for what they could make it, would be the sheerest lunacy. If you, who are on the whole predisposed in my favour, have reservations, I can guess what their reaction would be.”

  “And what gives you the idea that I am predisposed in your favour?”

  “The fact that you have twice eaten my salt, or drunk my gin and tonic, to be precise. I believe you to possess integrity, as well as brains. I do not see you accepting hospitality from someone you thought capable of killing a defenceless woman.”

  No sweeter sound on earth, as a rule, than a song in one’s own praise, but this one contained a few wrong notes as well.

  “And some fine old whoppers you told me while I was drinking it,” I reminded him.

  “Yes, and I apologise, but you caught me off guard. Naturally, I knew the letter must be a forgery, but the rest of what I told you was substantially true. I honestly did feel a sense of relief. It seemed to me that it could only have been written by Rosamund’s murderer and this, after the first shock, struck me as a good sign. He had expected me to be under arrest and awaiting trial by now, but the weeks had gone by and I was still at large. So he was getting panicky and had decided to give matters a push forward by sending this letter, counting on its being recognised as a fake. For a time I even allowed myself to believe that, now that it was in the hands of the police, they would be able to track down the author and reveal him as the murderer as well. It wasn’t until later that I realised what a forlorn hope that was.”

  “I don’t necessarily agree with you there, but there isn’t time to argue about it now. That is, if there is more to come?”

  “Indeed there is, and I now turn to some events which occurred one Saturday morning last April. I should warn you that it is not a pretty story.”

  “Stories about murder rarely are.”

  “I take a keen interest in bird watching, as you know, and on the morning in question, as on numerous others at this time of year, I got up between three and four o’clock and went on foot to one of my favourite look-outs. It happens to be high up in the woods which adjoin our land, and I have rigged up a rough sort of hide. Our house is very isolated, as you also know, and the sun wasn’t up when I set out. The Macadams were away and, not surprisingly, I didn’t encounter a soul, either then or on my way back about three hours later. In fact, I was home just after eight o’clock. Everything was the same as I had left it. The empty milk bottles were still outside the back door and neither the post nor the papers had been delivered. Nothing surprising there, either. Situated as we are, at the furthest point from the village, our deliveries don’t arrive before nine-thirty or ten. I put the kettle on to make some tea and then carried a tray upstairs for Rosamund. There wasn’t a sound and the door was shut, so I opened it very gently, in case she was still asleep. I needn’t have bothered. She wouldn’t have heard, if it had been forced open by a herd of elephants.”

  “She was dead?”

  “Such an idea never entered my head at the time. I did notice that the bed was rumpled and untidy, because it was so out of character. She was always neat and meticulous. But still, I just assumed that she’d got up earlier than usual and had gone into the bathroom.”

  “But she wasn’t there?”

  “No, nor anywhere else in the house. Early morning walks weren’t her style at all, so I was left with only one conclusion.”

  “That she’d walked out?”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have to waste time explaining things to you, Tessa. Before I’d finished drinking my tea, I’d become half convinced of it. She had known I would be out between four and eight in the morning and she’d ordered a taxi to take her to Dedley Station in time for the first train of the day. Then I realised that there was a simple way to find out for certain. If she had left me, she must have taken a suitcase with her and the contents must have included, among other things, brushes and combs and make-up. The answer was to find out what, if anything, was missing from her dressing-table.”

  “And now I suppose you’re going to tell me that everything was present and correct?”

  “I feel sure it was, but I never got as far as looking. In order to reach the dressing-table, I had to pass the bed and, in doing so, I made a series of discoveries, each one acting like an electric shock to the brain and nerves.”

  “What discoveries?”

  “Bloodstains on the pillow was the first one. Also on the mattress cover.”

  “Mattress cover?”

  “The bottom sheet had been removed. That was my second discovery. The third was the knife. It had been tucked down under the pile of rumpled bed-clothes, with only an inch or two of the handle showing.”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “No, I pulled back the bedclothes until the whole length of it was visible. The blade and lower half of the handle were caked with blood.”

  “What kind of a knife was it?”

  “A familiar one. My own pet carving knife, in fact. Used only by myself and always kept sharp as a razor. I pride myself on my skill as a carver, you see. It is one of my vanities, and not the first one to get me into trouble.”

  “Then what?”

  “I stood there like a zombie for I can’t say how long, incapable of thought or movement. By the time I’d pulled myself together and gone downstairs the tea was cold, so I made a fresh pot. What I wanted more than anything was a neat whisky, but I didn’t dare have it because I needed a clear head to try and work out what I was going to do.”

  “I don’t understand. Why was it necessary to do anything, except go to the telephone and ring the police?”

  “A good question, for which there are three good answers. In the first place, there was nothing and nobody, as I’ve explained, to bear out my story of the bird-watching expedition. It is a well-known hobby of mine and one which is obviously known to my wife’s murderer, but there was no way of proving that I had indulged in it on that particular morning. It is not like shooting, where, with any luck, you have something to show for it. That was the first reason.”

  “What else?”

  “Something which occurred in my raffish youth. I was plastered and I got mixed up in a pub brawl. It was a genuine case of self-defence, or so I believed. This chap came at me and I let him have it. I was a good bit younger and stronger than he was and he went down like a sack of potatoes. He died in hospital about eight hours later and I was up on a manslaughter charge. I got off, as it happens, but it was touch and go, and it’s still there in the records. A reputation for violence wasn’t going to be much help in these circumstances.”

  “And the third reason?”

  “That took care of the motive. Good old-fashioned jealousy, which is a beauty, isn’t it? You remember my telling you that the letter Rosamund was supposed to have left for me had once existed? Well, it had. A year or two ago she really did go off with another man. I was away on a job in Hereford and I came back to find her gone and this note on her dressing-table. It made a deep impression on me and when Louise came round, bleating about Rosamund not being with her cousin and I had to switch stories, I was word perfect.”

  “But she came back to you that time?”

  “Yes. I never quite understood why, but she came back and we tried to pick things up where we’d left off, but she wasn’t happy. I think she was still seeing this man, corresponding with him, anyway. That was partly why we moved to Sowerley. I thought a change of scene and new friends might help her to forget him. They didn’t though, and it would all have come out, if I’d been put on trial, because I’m pretty sure her cousin must have known about it.”

  “So when you had drunk your tea, what did you do?
”

  “I started by packing two suitcases, the smaller one with the kind of things a woman would need if she were going away for a few days, the other with the knife and bloodstained bedclothes. I left them in the bedroom, let myself out of the house, locked the front and back doors, got in the car and drove to Banbury. Luckily, I wasn’t expecting anyone that day and the post and newspapers had both been delivered by then.”

  “Why Banbury, for God’s sake?”

  “I had an appointment there with a client at eleven o’clock and it was important not to deviate from the day’s programme. My meeting was to include lunch and I reckoned that I should be back at home between four-thirty and five, although I’d have been happy to have spun it out longer than that if the circumstances had made it seem natural.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it would still have given me several more hours of daylight than I needed. When there was still just enough left to get to the main road without using headlights, I carried the suitcases down to the car and drove to the place I had planned for their disposal. It would not help you to know where that was.”

  “And also you may not be willing to put yourself in my power quite to that extent?”

  “No, perhaps not. Any other questions?”

  “Dozens, but I only have time for two. Did you never find out who the man was who Rosamund ran off with?”

  “No, but I intend to do everything in my power to do so now because it seems to me that he must be the one who murdered her. God knows why, but who else could it have been?”

  “You mean because of the forged letter? I agree with you that whoever sent it was most likely also the murderer, but why does it follow that no one but your wife’s lover could have written it?”

  “Because in saying that it was almost a facsimile of the one which Rosamund had written to me two years earlier, I was speaking the exact truth. It had been pored over often enough before I destroyed it, to have become indelibly imprinted on my memory, and who else but Rosamund, myself and her lover could have seen the original? No doubt, she would have shown it to him, conceivably have written it as he dictated, but it passes belief that it could have been read by anyone else. That was why I asked Louise and Elsa for their help. I thought it was just possible that one of them might come up with some memory, however trivial, which would give me a lead. What was your last question?”