by Anne Morice
“Not bad, but too circumstantial. The fact that the two marriages came unstuck at about the same time doesn’t prove there was a connection.”
“Someone said that proof can sometimes mean lack of imagination and there is plenty of evidence to suggest one.”
“What evidence?”
“The rift between Rosamund and Isobel, which also started at that time. Isobel could find no way to account for it, but I can. If my reconstruction is right, she’d have been the last person Rosamund would have confided in. Therefore, being unable to do so, she preferred to have no communication with her at all. How does that strike you?”
“With a resounding clatter, although it still does not show Alan to be the murderer.”
“You say that because you haven’t heard the best bit yet. I have been saving it till the end.”
“And the right place for it, I always say. Not bad, either, to know that the end is approaching. What is the best bit?”
“It hinges on the muddle over that trip to Wales. It’s obvious that James was expecting Alan to join him. Why else would he have laid in extra stocks of food and made up two beds? Obviously, also, Alan could not deny that the arrangement had existed, having doubtless mentioned it to various other people. So he plays it down, pretends it was only a loose arrangement and, hearing no more about it, concluded the trip was off. However, it’s my belief that he had every intention of going and only changed his mind at the last minute. And why was that, you ask?”
“Oh, do I?”
“Yes, and I shall tell you. On Thursday night, the eve of his departure, he listened to the nine o’clock news. Just in case you need to be reminded, that was when we first heard about the missing boy. By Friday morning, when Alan was due to leave, a full-scale search was under way. That was why he changed his mind. It had been his intention all along that James should be arrested for Rosamund’s murder, but he had no desire to be with him when it happened.”
“My dear Tessa, you amaze me sometimes! I had never expected to accuse you of underestimating yourself, but you have done it now. It is not half a link, it is practically the clasp to fasten the chain. All you need to do now is to find out why he killed her and the battle’s won.”
“Yes,” I admitted with a sigh, “as someone is said to have remarked in another context, there’s the rub!”
TWENTY-FOUR
The christening was to take place on the following Saturday, and Friday morning had been set aside for buying a hat in which to grace this occasion, and also a present for my month-old godson.
I had asked Ellen if she would help me to choose them, which she had agreed to do, on condition that Andrea could tag along. “She’s almost on her feet now,” she explained, “but we don’t want any slipping back and, the more mental therapy we can lay on, the sooner we’ll be able to launch her on to the world again. Buying hats should be just the job. All those mirrors!”
We met on the second floor of a giant department store and I soon saw the wisdom of the words, for Andrea was in her element. She tried on every hat that was brought up for my inspection, wandered up and down the showroom, admiring her reflection from all angles, monopolised the saleswoman and generally showed more animation and good humour than at any time during our acquaintance.
“It’s a mystery to me,” I remarked to Ellen, while we waited for the box containing the white panama which was supposed to go with everything, “how any normal-sized hat could fit that head.”
“It is puffed-out with vanity,” she explained, “and that brings it up to average dimensions.”
“Well, another couple of hours of this and she’d be ready to take on all the fathers and fiancés the world has to offer. Let’s hope she’ll find something to adore among the cuddly toys.”
“You’re not going for a silver mug, then?”
“No, he’s only four weeks old, so what could he do with it? And his mother, who ought to know, tells me he would prefer a pram cover. I shall throw in a teddy to make it more personalised, and Andrea can help me choose him. That should make her happy.”
It was among the more inaccurate forecasts, however, because as soon as we entered the Toys and Babycare Department the mood changed and it became clear that we were heading for trouble.
It covered an area of several acres and was stuffed with enough merchandise from prams, cots and paddling pools, down to size one bootees, to satisfy the needs and gladden the hearts of several thousand children, about half of whom appeared to have turned up to test the truth of this.
The immediate effect of this sea of plenty, on myself at any rate, was quite dizzying, but Ellen was able to guide us unerringly to the layette section. It consisted of a single counter, running the entire length of the room, with shelves behind it and a row of chairs in front, which she instantly realised had been placed there for the comfort and convenience of the expectant-mother consumers. It was while we were moving in single file towards it that things started to go wrong.
Ellen led the way, followed at a distance by Andrea, whose mind must still have been up with the hats on the floor above because, for no discernible reason, she became involved in a traffic incident.
It occurred at the intersection of two aisles. Coming towards us, on our own, was a woman dragging a small child by the hand, while at right angles to us a boy of about five was hurtling along on an erratic course in the wake of an outsize doll’s pram, whose handlebar was on a level with his eyes. The other woman stopped to let him pass, but Andrea did not. She walked straight into the pram, which lurched sideways, causing the boy to lose his grasp and fall over, and striking terror into the hearts of the other child and its mother. Both children instantly began bawling at the top of their lungs, which brought about half a dozen other people running in, to add to the turmoil. In the gradual sorting out which ensued, Andrea, whose leg was bleeding, stood white-faced and silent with a dazed expression on her face, as though unable to comprehend what was happening or what had caused it.
There was one vacant chair beside the counter, so I offered it to her whose need seemed greatest. No gesture could have been more ill-conceived, though, and the climax we had been working up to now swept over us like a gust of wind heralding a storm.
Andrea’s face, which had been so pale, puckered and changed to scarlet. She clenched her fists, banged them on the counter and began to scream. She went on screaming until Ellen gave her two resounding slaps across the face and then, after a moment’s silence, subsided, whimpering, into the chair.
It had now become my turn to stand transfixed, taking no part in the action, but asking myself how I could have been so blind. So many links and chains were clinking around in my head that I forgot all about the white panama and followed the other two, first to the Ladies’ Rest Room and then into a taxi, in a state of semi-trance. The only thought I could keep a firm hold on was that I was at last beginning to understand what it was that Andrea had been trying so hard to forget.
Admittedly, at this stage it was partly guesswork, but belief that I was right and everyone else wrong had never been stronger. It made me determined to press on and find some evidence to support it, however hard the going might be. That it would be hard was plain from the outset, because there were questions to be answered by a number of people, not all of whom were necessarily disposed to co-operate, which always calls for a modicum of diplomacy, and there were worse obstacles than that to contend with here. In moments of low ebb they appeared almost insuperable, since of the half-dozen or so whose knowledge I most needed to draw on, two were scarcely on speaking terms with me, one was in police custody and two were dead.
Luckily, there remained one who suffered from none of these disadvantages and during dinner that evening I asked Robin whether there was any chance of my being allowed to visit James McGrath.
“The short answer is no,” he replied.
“Not even for five minutes?”
“Not even for one. Why do you want to?”
“I h
ave a couple of questions for him.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Why should I, when I really believe I’m on to something at last? Besides, you’ve told me more than once that you’re not convinced he’s guilty.”
“In which case, he’ll be acquitted, presumably.”
“I’d rather make certain of it.”
“What makes you think he’d be willing to answer your questions?”
“The fact that they have no direct bearing on the murder. Or rather, not in a way to implicate him. It concerns a matter of adoption. I want to know whether he and Rosamund were planning to adopt a child at the time of her death and, if so, what stage the negotiations had reached.”
“And supposing the answer should be no, they were not planning anything of the kind?”
“Then I should bow out gracefully, because that is what I regard as the cornerstone of my theory. Everything else stands or falls by it.”
“Then write a letter and I’ll do my best to see that it gets to him through his solicitor. That’s the most I can promise.”
“Thank you, Robin, that’ll do nicely. And now see what you can do with this one!”
“Oh, not another! Does it never strike you that I have any work of my own to bother about?”
“This is only a trifle, but it needs a voice of authority to bring quick results. It would probably take me about six weeks, if I were to try to do it on my own.”
“Oh, very well, give me the worst!”
“It concerns a birth certificate. I can’t be precise over details, only the year and the month, but I expect that will be enough.”
“Then you had better make a note of it, such as it is.”
When I had done so and handed it to him, he looked up, frowning:
“Are you sure about this, Tessa?”
“My information comes from a reliable source.”
“And it really has some bearing on the McGrath case?”
“Oh yes, it concerns him as much as anyone.”
“All right, I’ll do what I can. Nothing else you need, I suppose, while I’m about it?”
“Well, there is just one other tiny thing, as it happens.”
“Oh, God! Why did I speak?”
“This is personal. I was thinking that perhaps we ought to invite Alan here one evening? We do owe him a dinner, you know.”
“Yes, we do, but I’m not at all sure that he’ll come. I’m even less sure that I want him to. Not after all that probing and pestering that went on last time the three of us had dinner together.”
“Well, you won’t have to put up with it this time. Invite him for seven-thirty and then make sure that you have to work late that evening. Ten minutes is all I need.”
“It may be more than you’ll get. I still doubt if he’ll want to come.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. “I’m pinning my hopes on the hunch that he’ll find it harder to stay away.”
Having started these wheels turning, the next job was to put a call through to Sowerley Grange. Elsa had told me that the secretarial college was now closed for the summer and that she was finding it a bit of a trial having Millie at home all day. She would be going to Brittany with some friends in July, but for the time being could find nothing better to do than grumble incessantly about the iniquity of throwing all that money away on a boring old wedding, when half the world was starving. So I had devised a small holiday task for her, to take her mind off things.
“I think you should try your hand at a crime story,” I told her. “Not a fictional one, exactly, because you won’t have to invent anything. It’s all there for the taking. Just think of it, Millie! How many budding journalists are lucky enough to have a real-life murder right on their doorstep? It’ll be marvellous practice for you and it was you who said what a good story it would make when it all came out.”
“You mean, write down everything that happened in the right order, sort of thing?”
“Well, yes, that would be the bones of it, naturally, but I think you should aim to be creative, as well. You know, build up the personalities and so on. You met Rosamund McGrath, so you could start with a character sketch of her and then build up around it. You might do a series of interviews with some of the neighbours. That would also make a useful exercise.”
“Which neighbours?”
“Well, the Macadams, for a start. Louise always knows everything about everybody, so you’d pick up a lot from her and I’m sure she’ll co-operate, if you explain that it’s a serious project. And then there’s Gregory Laycock. Doctors’ opinions can often be valuable and he should be easy prey, now that you’re going to be practically related.”
“Oh, don’t remind me! Honestly, Tessa, I don’t think I could bring myself to ask old Greg. He’s such a creep!”
“Don’t be so unprofessional. If you can’t rise above your personal likes and dislikes, you’ll never get anywhere.”
“Oh well, if you really think so, I suppose I might as well have a bash.”
“That’s the spirit! And do remember not to be diffident about it, Millie. You’ll get much more out of them, if you use shock tactics.”
On my return home from the christening, Robin informed me that Alan would be dining with us on the following Tuesday. Apparently, there had been some resistance to start with, but this had worn off when it was explained to him that two other guests would also be joining us. Robin had not thought it necessary to mention that they had been invited for eight o’clock.
“Oh, and by the way,” he added, “I am afraid your informant was not so reliable as you supposed. No birth certificate for that name, date and place. You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“Nor disappointed either?”
“No, it is what I expected. The thing was, I had to be sure, you see.”
“No, I don’t see, far from it, but I suppose all will be revealed one day.”
“Which may not be far off now,” I assured him.
TWENTY-FIVE
“No, not a bit too early,” I said, pouring out the whisky and water. “Robin has just telephoned to say he’s on his way. Guy and Elizabeth are always late, but I expect they’ll be here in a minute.”
Having impressed on Millie the value of shock tactics, I felt I could not do less than use them myself, so I sat down in the chair facing Alan and said: “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you soon, to go and check on the dinner, but before I do there’s something I want to ask you.”
He did not speak, but put his glass down and looked round the room, as though seeking some way to escape. So I went straight on, before he could find it:
“When, two years ago, Rosamund left you and went back to her husband, it wasn’t because your wife had refused to divorce you, was it? That can’t have come as any great surprise, so there must have been some other reason?”
Alan sighed and picked up his drink again. “I suppose there would be no more point in denying it, since you seem to know so much, though how the hell . . .”
“By putting four and four together. And neither was it because, after all, she felt so rotten about stealing her dear cousin’s husband that she found she couldn’t go through with it?”
“No.”
“So would I be right in suggesting that, when it came to the crunch, she found the only thing she really wanted in life was a child? This had now become an obsession and more important to her than husband, cousin, lover, or any other man or woman. There were reasons why she couldn’t have one of her own, in or out of wedlock and, anyway, she’d probably left it too late by then, so it had to be adoption. She knew there wasn’t a chance in the world of doing it legally, so long as she was living with a man she wasn’t married to, so she repacked her bags and went back to the husband she’d already got. Isn’t that how it was?”
“Yes.”
“And is it also true that after that fiasco you still continued to see each other and that, whatever your feelings, you were
able to put up with the situation and revert to the status quo simply because she seemed to be getting nowhere with the adoption societies and you were sure that she would eventually accept defeat and give up the idea? But then one day she told you that it was all fixed. She had only to wait for the baby to be born and handed over to her. So that was that. It had been nice knowing you, but from now on you and she wouldn’t be seeing each other any more. She’d be too busy, hiring nannies and turning one of the bedrooms into a nursery. Understandably, when that happened all your damped-down resentment and humiliation flared into rage and hatred and you . . .”
“That’s enough!” he shouted, springing halfway out of the chair. “I don’t know what right you think you have to persecute me in this way, but I’m not taking any more, do you hear? I’ll not stay here and listen to another word.”
“It’s all right, Alan,” I said, hearing Robin’s key in the front door and getting up too, “no more questions. I’ve found out all I wanted to know.”
During dinner, which Alan had been obliged to forego, owing to a sudden onset of raging toothache, the telephone rang and I went into the kitchen to answer it.
“Sorry to pick such an awkward time,” Millie said, “but I couldn’t wait to tell you the news. The wedding’s off!”
“No, really? Since when?”
“Since this afternoon. Marc came down to tell us. Andrea was supposed to have got mumps, but it wasn’t true, apparently. She just wanted a few days on her own, to make up what she calls her mind and this afternoon he had a letter from her.”
