A Will to Murder

by J F Straker

  Only a week or so ago, thought Elizabeth, they had been friends; now they had thrown Michael to the wolves, and were preparing to do the same with Bruce. Or had they never been friends? Were they just people who had come together for companionship, but with no real feeling for one another? How would Desmond react if it seemed that Alan were guilty — or vice versa?

  Elizabeth went up to her room immediately after the meal. Desmond and Alan, still at the table, saw her stop to talk to George Farrel on the way. Desmond, although he could not hear what was said, again noted with surprise his father’s increased friendliness towards the girl. Dulcie, who was at the same table, completely ignored her.

  His eyes intent on his companion’s face, Desmond said, ‘Michael tells me you saw me in the village Thursday afternoon.’

  ‘Did I?’ Alan frowned. ‘Yes, that’s right. Near the bus stop. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering how you came to be there, that’s all. That was at five-fifteen, and you don’t usually knock off till five-thirty.’

  There was a strained silence. Then Alan said, ‘I’d gone out to buy some tobacco for my father. He intended working late that evening.’ The frown deepened. ‘Are you suggesting there was something fishy in my being there at that time?’

  ‘No, of course not. In fact, I gather the boot’s on the other foot. From what Michael said I got the impression that you were suspicious of me.’

  ‘Then you’ve got it wrong. I wasn’t suspicious of anyone.’

  ‘Good. Actually, I was there to collect a parcel off the bus. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn up — which was why I had to go into Tanbury that evening.’

  Alan nodded, and began to draw faint lines on the tablecloth with the prongs of a fork. Presently he said, ‘That was the bus Elizabeth said she caught, wasn’t it? Did you see her?’

  Desmond stared at him. ‘No. No, I didn’t. Did you?’

  ‘No. But I was too far away to distinguish people inside it.’ He pulled absent-mindedly at his moustache. ‘There weren’t many on it, were there?’

  ‘No. About half a dozen.’

  They did not look at each other. Desmond also picked up a fork. He balanced it on one finger, watching it move gently up and down. Then, with an oath, he slapped it down on the table.

  ‘This is damned ridiculous!’ he said. ‘Any moment now and we’ll start suspecting Elizabeth. Of course she was on the bus; I just didn’t see her, that’s all.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, let’s go into the bar and have a drink.’

  There had been few people in the dining-room, but the saloon bar was crowded. Desmond was soon busy behind the bar, and Alan, left to his own devices, debated with himself whether to stay or go home. He could not really afford an evening’s drinking, yet the cheerlessness of home without his father did not appeal to him; he wanted company. It was not left to him to decide, however. He was well known and liked in the village, and the crowd in the bar, already cheery, soon swallowed him up.

  It was shortly after nine o’clock that he saw Bruce Poulton beckoning to him from the doorway. Excusing himself from the group around him, Alan obeyed the signal.

  Bruce’s mien was grimly purposeful. ‘What’s up?’ Alan asked. ‘Anything wrong? Is it about Michael?’

  ‘I want a word with Desmond,’ Bruce said.

  Alan gaped at him. ‘Is that all? What’s stopping you, then? He’s in the bar. Why call on me?’

  Bruce shook his blond head. ‘I’m not going in there,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to him outside.’

  Alan stared at him doubtfully. ‘You’re not looking for trouble, are you?’ he asked, mistrusting the other’s demeanour. ‘I noticed you weren’t exactly matey at our little get-together upstairs this evening. What’s biting you, Bruce?’

  ‘I want to talk to Desmond, that’s all. Tell him, will you?’

  ‘I’m damned if I will!’ And then, relaxing, ‘Oh, come off it, you idiot! Desmond can’t leave the bar now, he’s busy. Stop being so damned mysterious and aloof and come in and have a drink. If you must talk to Desmond in private you’ll have to wait until closing time.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’ Bruce’s body was as taut as his voice. ‘Tell him I’ll be out in the front.’

  Troubled, Alan returned to the bar. What the hell was wrong now? Bruce was a moody chap at the best of times; give him something big to chew on, like Aunt Charlotte’s murder, and he might turn really nasty. Was he turning nasty now? Perhaps Desmond would know what was biting him.

  But Desmond did not know. ‘Bruce and I have never really hit it off,’ he told Alan, when the latter eventually managed to talk with him privately. ‘For some reason he’s always seemed a bit suspicious of me. Jealous, almost — though the Lord knows why.’ I do, Alan reflected; but we won’t go into that now. ‘Did he seem mad at me? I mean, is he now striding up and down outside with balled fists all set to sock me as soon as I show up? If so I think I’ll decline the invitation.’ Desmond grinned. ‘I reckon if Bruce hits you you stay hit.’

  ‘Shall I tell him that?’

  ‘No. I’d better see him, I suppose; apart from any other reason, I’m curious. But not now; not until the bar closes. Tell him he can wait in the bar, or the lounge, or the drive, or any damned place he pleases. It’s all the same to me.’ He had spoken seriously; now he smiled. ‘And stick around, Alan, will you? I might be glad of your company later. I never did see any sense in challenging the odds.’

  Alan went out to the porch, but there was no sign of Bruce in the large area of light thrown by the floodlights. I suppose he doesn’t want anyone to see him hanging around, he thought, and is skulking somewhere out there in the dark. Well, let him skulk; I’m damned if I’m going to search for him. If he insists on behaving like a boor he can have the same treatment.

  Desmond was in full accord with this sentiment when he heard it. ‘Do him good,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Cool him down.’

  But Alan was not so sure. Bruce was not the cooling type; it might be that the enforced wait would serve rather to swell the anger, or irritation, or whatever it was that had motivated his visit.

  During the remainder of the evening Alan paid little attention to the talk that went on around him. Every time he saw Desmond leave the bar he experienced an impulse to go after him; there was always the possibility, he thought, that Desmond’s curiosity had overcome his caution, that he had gone out alone to discover what had brought Bruce to the hotel. But he restrained his impulse. Desmond’s absences were, he knew, connected with the running of the hotel. He could not be permanently in the bar.

  Dulcie, who normally sought excuses to be nowhere else, came in only once that evening. She gave Alan the same warm, subtly inviting smile that she reserved for all personable young men, but he knew that it was mainly mechanical and meaningless in his case. He had never been one of Dulcie’s favourites — perhaps for the reason that he had never sought that distinction. Desmond, he knew, stood high in her regard. Yet even Desmond was not in favour that evening, for the girl scarcely looked in his direction during the few minutes she was there.

  George Farrel too made only a brief appearance. Alan — who, like most of Desmond’s friends, stood much in awe of the Honourable George — thought, as he had often thought before, that Desmond was more likely to make a success of the hotel business than was his father. George Farrel seldom unbent; he took offence too easily, and seemed to resent the necessity of having to earn a livelihood by pandering to the whims and appetites of his fellow-creatures. That evening his back and his mood were even more rigid than usual. Had he any suspicion that his son might be involved in the mystery surrounding the murder? Aunt Charlotte set us all by the ears while she was alive, Alan thought, and she’s still doing it after her death.

  There was the usual rush to complete the last orders at closing time, the same cheery goodnights, the usual reluctant leavers who had to be tactfully but firmly helped on their way. Alan watched the scene with rising tension. Now for the showdown, he thought, as he and
Desmond waited in the hall until the little knots of chattering people on the drive had broken up and departed, until the last car had gone and the big floodlights had been switched off.

  ‘Come on,’ Desmond said. ‘Let’s see what the big bad wolf has in store for us.’

  He went through the swing door with Alan close behind him, and for a few moments the two young men stood expectantly at the top of the wide steps. Now that the floodlights were off there was only the light from the hotel windows to illumine the drive. They could not see him, but Bruce might be very near.

  ‘Well, if he wants me here I am,’ Desmond said. Into the darkness he called softly, ‘Okay, Bruce. What is it?’

  They waited. There was no sound or movement except those caused by the blustering wind. ‘Perhaps I ought not to be on view,’ Alan said doubtfully. ‘He was very insistent that he should see you alone.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Alan!’ Desmond protested. ‘He can at least show himself, can’t he? What am I supposed to do? Go down into the arena and wait for the lion to pounce? Don’t be so damned melodramatic.’

  ‘It’s not me who’s melodramatic, it’s Bruce. Don’t get stuck into me.’

  Desmond swore, but without any great depth of feeling.

  ‘Damn the fellow! I don’t intend to hang around half the night waiting for him to say his little piece. Tell you what, Alan. You stay here, and I’ll go down the drive and give him a hail from there. If he doesn’t come forward then he’s had it.’

  ‘And if he does come forward?’

  ‘Keep your ears cocked for the sound of strife,’ Desmond said cheerfully. ‘If I need reinforcements I’ll yell.’

  He walked briskly down the steps, paused at the bottom to light a cigarette, and disappeared into the darkness of the drive. The wind drowned the sound of his footsteps on the gravel, but occasionally the glowing end of his cigarette as he drew on it denoted his progress to the watcher on the steps.

  ‘Bruce!’ Alan heard him call. A pause, and then again, ‘Bruce!’

  If there was a reply Alan did not hear it. Presently Desmond reappeared at the steps. ‘He’s not there,’ he said. ‘Probably thought better of it and gone home.’

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ Alan said. ‘The way he looked I’d have said he was prepared to wait all night if necessary. Are you quite sure he isn’t there?’

  Desmond shrugged. ‘Look for yourself. Personally, I’m for a large whisky and then bed. It’s been quite a day.’

  ‘You’ve no idea what he wanted?’ Alan asked. It seemed an anticlimax.

  ‘Bruce? No idea at all. But he’s an odd cuss — odder than ever since Aunt Charlotte’s murder. Whether he did her in or not, it has certainly made its mark on him. Now come on in and join me in that drink.’

  But as he pushed at the swing door a voice calling from the direction of the road caused them both to turn and stare into the night. There was the sound of running feet — laboured and uneven, as though their owner was in considerable distress. A moment later the unkempt, unhappy figure of Michael Lane staggered into the light surrounding the porch.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Alan, as the newcomer slowly began to mount the steps. ‘What’s up, Michael? I thought you —’

  He stopped. ‘I thought you would be safely tucked away in Tanbury gaol by now’ would not, perhaps, have been the kindest of greetings to a man in such obvious distress of mind and body.

  Michael muttered something they did not catch. ‘He’s pretty well done in,’ Desmond said. ‘Take him into the bar, Alan. I’ll nip in and tell Dad we’re having a small private party. We don’t want him barging in on us.’

  Michael looked a mess; hair tousled, tie awry, trousers muddy at the knees, his hands filthy. But his distress was more mental than physical; he was also winded. He slumped wearily into a chair and clutched his bowed head with his hands, heedless of the mud on them. Alan let him be. Not until Desmond had rejoined them and had thrust a large brandy into Michael’s willing grasp, and had poured whiskies for himself and Alan, did they seek to satisfy their curiosity.

  ‘They let you go, then,’ Alan said.

  Michael took a greedy gulp at the brandy. ‘Yes, they let me go,’ he said, and coughed. ‘Eventually. Surprised, eh?’ They hastily denied their surprise. ‘Neither am I. I was at first, but now I’m on to their little game. Sort of cat and mouse. They’ll pounce again tomorrow — if I’m still around.’

  He was still out of breath, but already his manner was calmer. ‘How did you get into that state?’ Desmond asked, with a glance at Alan. Exactly what, they wondered, had been implied by that final remark?

  Michael slowly spread a hand and looked at it. He raised one leg and slapped aimlessly at its muddiness. ‘I came a cropper on the common,’ he said. ‘Hadn’t a torch.’

  There was silence. It seemed that all had been said. Alan and Desmond were eager for detail, but uncertain how to pose their questions; and Michael was unwilling to anticipate them. He finished his drink, placed the glass reluctantly on the table beside him, and said, ‘Can I have a room here for tonight, Desmond?’

  The evening, thought Alan, was full of surprises.

  ‘Of course,’ Desmond said, as surprised as Alan. ‘But why not go home?’

  ‘I haven’t a home to go to.’ Michael’s tone was bitter.

  ‘Not to-night, anyway.’

  This time the silence was longer and more strained. At last Alan could curb his curiosity no longer.

  ‘I don’t get it, Michael. Or’ — as light dawned on him — ‘you mean your father has turned you out? Is that it?’

  ‘More correctly, he won’t let me in. The front door is barred against me.’

  ‘Aren’t you being rather melodramatic?’ Desmond asked. ‘They may merely have gone to bed. Didn’t you try to knock them up?’

  ‘Of course I did. And they heard me. But my dear father objects to my close contact with the police, it seems. As for Mother —’ He shrugged. ‘She hasn’t a will of her own. She can’t even open her mouth without his permission.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alan said, and meant it. ‘Pretty grim, eh? But perhaps he’ll have worked off his bile by the morning. Don’t let it get you down.’

  Michael nodded glumly. ‘I’d rather like to go to bed, Desmond,’ he said. ‘I’ve had just about enough of this particular Monday.’

  ‘I’ll take you up.’ Desmond turned to Alan. ‘Are you off now, or will you wait until I come down?’

  ‘I’d better go,’ Alan said.

  But he did not want to go. Michael had depressed him. He thought of the long walk home, the lonely, cheerless cottage. He wanted to stay.

  ‘Are the coppers in yet?’ he asked. ‘If you have to wait up for them maybe I’ll change my mind and keep you company.’ He laughed self-consciously. ‘I might even follow Michael’s lead and stay the night. At least I shan’t then have to get my own breakfast in the morning.’

  At the reminder that he was about to spend the night under the same roof as the two detectives Michael had already started for the door; he had no wish to meet them again that evening. Desmond gazed thoughtfully at Alan, uncertain of the other’s purpose. He noted with some surprise that Alan was blushing. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, with no great enthusiasm. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

  As they left the bar the telephone rang in the office. Desmond answered it. When he rejoined them he looked puzzled and worried. ‘That was Bruce’s father,’ he said. ‘Bruce hasn’t been home, and he wanted to know if he were here.’

  Alan looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven. Where the devil can he have got to?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Unless he’s wandering round the common working off whatever it was that upset him.’

  They were a glum trio as they went up the stairs to the room that was to be Michael’s. When Alan and Desmond were alone again Alan said, ‘I don’t like it, Desmond. Bruce was in an ugly mood, and dead set on seeing you tonight. If he hasn’t gone hom
e it’s because he still means to do so.’

  ‘What, now? How can he? Once the coppers are in and I’ve locked up I’m going to bed. Bruce can ring his head off after that.’

  ‘He won’t do that,’ Alan said. ‘He won’t have to.’ He tugged nervously at his moustache. ‘Bruce won’t be waiting for you outside, Desmond. He’s somewhere in the hotel.’

  ‘Eh? How do you know that?’

  ‘I don’t — but I’m damned sure I’m right. He must have slipped in before the bar closed. There are a number of places in which he could hide, aren’t there?’

  ‘Yes. But why should he? I didn’t refuse to see him.’

  ‘He didn’t know that, and he wasn’t taking any chances. This way he won’t have to. He’ll wait until the place is quiet and then come up to your room.’ Alan swallowed heavily. ‘If I were you, Desmond, I’d lock my door tonight.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Noises in the Night

  Elizabeth lay in bed in the dark and listened to the wind. It had a vaguely sinister sound, augmented as it was by the rattling of the open window and the soft shushing of the curtains. She knew that eventually she would have to close the window if she was to have any sleep that night; but it was at the far end of the room from the bed, and for the present she was content to let it rattle.

  She had switched off the light at half-past ten; now it was nearly midnight, but she felt no desire to sleep. Later she would take one of Mr Farrel’s tablets; but not yet, not until she had settled the problems that troubled her. Desmond had been in to kiss her goodnight; but he had not stayed long, and for that she was glad. There was something furtive about those nocturnal visits of his which worried them both; they were not at their ease together then as they were during the day. Desmond was her husband, yet because of the secrecy surrounding that fact Elizabeth experienced an unpleasant feeling of guilt when he came to her at night. It was even worse when he left. The listening at the door, the slow turning of the handle, the whispered goodnight, filled her with an unreasonable sense of shame.