by Muriel Spark
“Yes, he is, really.”
“Most people,” he said, “would say she was afraid of him. He bullies her.”
“Well, I’ve only heard his side. He looks pretty bad just now.”
“Did you notice the complexion?”
“High coloured. Goodness he’s lost weight.”
“Stooping more?”
“Oh, much more. The stuffing’s knocked out of him. Mrs. Pettigrew keeps the whisky locked up.”
Alec made a note. “Do him good in the long run,” he commented. “He drank too much for his age. What is he going to do about Mrs. Pettigrew?”
“Well, he pays up. But she keeps demanding more. He hates paying up. And the latest thing, she wants him to make a new will in her favour. He was supposed to be at the lawyer to-day, but he called in on me instead. He thought I might persuade Eric to come and frighten her. He says Eric wouldn’t lose by it. But as you know, Eric feels very bitter about his family, and he’s jealous of his mother, especially since her novels are in print again, and the fact is, Eric is entitled to a certain amount, it’s only a question of time….”
“Eric,” said Alec, “is not one of us. Go on about Godfrey.”
“He says he’d like to make it up with Eric. I promised to write to Eric for him, and so I shall, but as I say—”
“Has Mrs. Pettigrew any money of her own?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You never know with a woman like that, do you? I don’t think she has much, because of something I heard yesterday.”
“What was that?”
“Well,” said Olive, “I got the story from Ronald Sidebottome, he called yesterday. I didn’t get it from Godfrey.”
“What was the story?” said Alec. “You know, Olive, I always pay extra if it entails an extra interview on your part.”
“O.K.,” said Olive, “keep your hair on. I just wanted you to know this makes another item.”
Alec smiled at her like an uncle.
“Ronald Sidebottome,” she said, “has finally decided not to contest Lisa Brooke’s will now that Tempest is dead. The case was really Tempest’s idea. He said the whole thing would have been very distasteful. All about Lisa’s marriage with Guy Leet not being consummated. Mrs. Pettigrew is awfully angry about the case being withdrawn, because she was working in with the Sidebottomes when Tempest died. And she hasn’t managed to get her hold on Ronald, though she’s been trying hard all winter. Ronald is a very independent type at heart. You don’t know old Ronald. He’s deaf, I admit, but—”
“I have known Ronald over forty years. How interesting he should strike you as an independent type.”
“He has a nice way with him on the quiet,” she said. She had met Ronald Sidebottome while strolling round a picture gallery with her grandfather shortly after Tempest’s death, and had brought the two old men back to supper. “But if you’ve known Ronald for forty years, then you don’t want to hear any more from me.”
“My dear, I have known Ronald over forty years but I can’t know him as you do.”
“He hates Mrs. Pettigrew,” Olive observed with an inward-musing smile. “She won’t get much of Lisa’s bequest. All she has so far is Lisa’s squirrel coat, that’s all.”
“Does she think of contesting the will on her own account?”
“No, she’s been advised her case is too weak. Mrs. Brooke paid her adequately all the time; there’s no case. Anyway, I don’t think she has the capital to finance it. She was depending on the Sidebottomes. Of course, under the will, the money goes to her when Guy Leet dies. But he’s telling everyone how fit he feels. So you can be sure Mrs. P. is going to get all she can out of poor old Godfrey.”
Alec Warner finished his notes and closed the book. Olive passed him a drink.
“Poor old Godfrey,” said Olive. “And he was upset by something else, too. He had an anonymous phone call from that man who worries his sister—or at least he thinks he had. It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?”
Alec Warner opened his notebook again and got his pen from the pocket of his waistcoat. “What did the man say?”
“The same thing. ‘You are going to die’ or something.”
“Always be exact. Dame Lettie’s man says, ‘Remember you must die’—Was that what Godfrey heard?”
“I think so,” she said. “This sort of work is very tiring.”
“I know, my dear. It must be. What time of day did he receive this call?”
“The morning. That I do know. He told me it was just after the doctor had left Charmian.”
Alec completed his notes and closed his book once more. He said to Olive, “Has Guy Leet been informed of the withdrawal of the law-suit?”
“I don’t know. The decision was only made yesterday afternoon.”
“Perhaps he does not know yet,” said Alec. “Lisa’s money will make a great difference to a man of Guy’s tastes. He has been feeling the pinch lately.”
“He can’t have long to live,” said Olive.
“Lisa’s money will make his short time pleasanter. I take it this information is not particularly confidential?”
“No,” said Olive, “only what I told you of Mrs. Pettigrew’s hold on Godfrey—that’s confidential.”
Alec Warner went home and wrote a letter to Guy Leet:
DEAR GUY—I do not know if I am the first to inform you that neither Ronald Sidebottome nor Mrs. Pettigrew are now proceeding with their suit in contest of Lisa’s will.
I offer you my congratulations, and trust you will long enjoy your good fortune.
Forgive me for thus attempting to anticipate an official notification. If I have been successful in being the first to convey this news to you, will you kindly oblige me by taking your pulse and your temperature immediately upon reading this letter, and again one hour afterwards, and again the following morning, and inform me of the same, together with your normal pulse-rate and temperature if you know it?
This will be invaluable for my records. I shall be so much obliged.
Yours,
Alec Warner
P.S. Any additional observations as to your reaction to the good news will of course be much appreciated.
Alec Warner went to post the letter and returned to write up his records. Twice, the telephone rang. The first call was from Godfrey Colston, whose record-card, as it happened, Alec held in his hand.
“Oh,” said Godfrey, “you’re in.”
“Yes. Have you been trying to get me?”
“No,” said Godfrey. “Look here, I want to speak to you. Do you know anyone in the police?”
“Not well,” said Alec, “since Mortimer retired.”
“Mortimer’s no good,” said Godfrey. “It’s about these anonymous calls. Mortimer has been looking into them for months. Now the chap has started on me.”
“I have an hour to spare between nine and ten. Can you come round to the club?”
Alec returned to his notes. The second telephone call came a quarter of an hour later. It was from a man who said, “Remember you must die.”
“Would you mind repeating that?” said Alec.
The speaker repeated it.
“Thank you,” said Alec, and replaced the receiver a fraction before the other had done so.
He got out his own card and made an entry. Then he made a cross-reference to another card which he duly annotated. Finally he wrote a passage in his diary, ending it with the words, “Query: mass-hysteria.”
Chapter Eleven
In the fine new sunshine of April which fell upon her through the window, Emmeline Mortimer adjusted her glasses and smoothed her blouse. She was grateful to be free of her winter jumpers and to wear a blouse and cardigan again.
She decided to sow parsley that morning and perhaps set out the young carnations and the sweet peas. Perhaps Henry would prune the roses. Henry was over the worst, but she must not let him hoe or weed or in any way strain or stoop. She must keep an eye on him without appearing to do so. This evening, when the
people had gone he could spray the gooseberries with lime-sulphur in case of mildew and the pears with Bordeaux mixture in case of scab. And the black-currants in case of big bud again. There was so much to be done, and Henry must not overdo it. No, he must not spray the pears for he might over-reach and strain himself. The people would certainly exhaust him.
Her hearing was sharp that morning. Henry was moving about briskly upstairs. He was humming. The scent of her hyacinths on the window ledge came in brief irregular waves which she received with a sharp and pleasant pang. She sipped her warm and splendid tea and adjusted the cosy round the pot, keeping it hot for Henry. She touched her glasses into focus and turned to the morning paper.
Henry Mortimer came down in a few moments. His wife turned her head very slightly when he came in and returned to her paper.
He opened the french windows and stood there for a while satisfying his body with the new sun and air and his eyes with his garden. Then he closed the windows and took his place at the table. “A bit of hoeing to-day,” he said.
She made no immediate objection, for she must bide her time. Not that Henry was touchy or difficult about his angina. It was more a matter of principle and habit; she had always waited her time before opposing any statement of Henry’s.
He gestured with the back of his hand towards the sunny weather. “What d’you think of it?” he said.
She looked up, smiled, and nodded once. Her face was a network of fine wrinkles except where the skin was stretched across her small sharp bones. Her back was straight, her figure neat, and her movements easy. One half of her mind was busy calculating the number of places she would have to set for the people this afternoon. She was four years older than Henry, who had turned seventy at the beginning of February. His first heart attack had followed soon after, and Henry, half-inclined to envisage his doctor as a personification of his illness, had declared himself much improved since the doctor had ceased to pay regular daily visits. He had been allowed up for afternoons, then for whole days. The doctor had bade him not to worry, always to carry his box of tablets, to stick to his diet, and to avoid any exertion. The doctor had told Emmeline to ring him any time if necessary. And then, to Henry’s relief, the doctor had disappeared from the house.
Henry Mortimer, the former Chief Inspector, was long, lean, bald and spritely. At the sides and back of his head his hair grew thick and grey. His eyebrows were thick and black. It would be accurate to say that his nose and lips were thick, his eyes small and his chin receding into his neck. And yet it would be inaccurate to say he was not a handsome man, such being the power of unity when it exists in a face.
He scraped butter sparingly on his toast in deference to the departed doctor, and remarked to his wife, “I’ve got these people coming this afternoon.”
She said, “There’s another bit about them in the paper to-day.” And she held her peace for the meantime about his having to take care not to wear himself out with them; for what was the point of his being retired from the Force if he continued to lay himself out on criminal cases?
He stretched out his hand and she put the paper into it. “Hoax Caller Strikes Again,” he read aloud. Then he read on to himself:
Police are still mystified by continued complaints of a number of elderly people who have been receiving anonymous telephone calls from a male hoax-caller since August last year.
There may be more than one man behind the hoax. Reports on the type of voice vary from “very young,” “middle-aged” to “elderly” etc.
The voice invariably warns the victim, “You will die to-night.”
The aged victims’ telephones are being tapped by the authorities, and police have requested them to keep the caller in conversation if possible. But this, and all other methods of detecting hoax-callers have so far failed, the police admitted yesterday.
It was thought at first that the gang’s activities were confined to the Central London area. But a recent report from former critic Mr. Guy Leet, 75, of Stedrost, Surrey, indicates that the net is spreading wider.
Among numerous others previously reported to be recipients of “the Call” are Dame Lettie Colston, O.B.E., 79, pioneer penal reformer, and her sister-in-law Charmian Piper (Mrs. Godfrey Colston) the novelist, 85, author of The Seventh Child, etc.
Dame Lettie told reporters yesterday, “I am not satisfied that the C.I.D. have taken these incidents seriously enough. I am employing a private agency. I consider it a great pity that flogging has been abolished. These vile creatures ought to be taught a lesson.”
Charmian Piper, whose husband, Mr. Godfrey Colston, 86, former Charmian of Colston Breweries, is also among the victims of the hoax, said yesterday, “We are not in the least perturbed by the caller. He is a very civil young man.”
A C.I.D. spokesman said everything possible is being done to discover the offender.
Henry Mortimer put down the paper and took the cup his wife was passing him.
“An extraordinary sort of case,” she said.
“Embarrassing for the police,” he said, “poor fellows.”
“Oh, they’ll get the culprit, won’t they?”
“I don’t see,” he said, “how they ever can, all evidence considered.”
“Well, you know the evidence, of course.”
“And considering the evidence,” he said, “in my opinion the offender is Death himself.”
She was not really surprised to hear him say this. She had followed his mind all through its conforming life and late independence, so that nothing he said could surprise her very much. He had lived to see his children cease to take him seriously—his word carried more force in the outside world. Even his older grand-children, though they loved him, would never now understand his value to others. He knew this; he did not care. Emmeline could never, however, regard Henry as a dear old thing who had taken to developing a philosophy, as other men, on their retirement, might cultivate a hobby. She did not entirely let her children see how she felt, for she liked to please them and seem solid and practical in their eyes. But she trusted Henry, and she could not help doing so.
She let him busy himself in the garden before she sent him indoors to rest. A few more weeks and he would be watching the post for that particular letter from his old friend in the country inviting him to come for a fortnight’s fishing. It seemed miraculous that another spring had begun and that soon Henry would announce, “I’ve heard from Harry. The mayfly’s on the river. I’d better be off day after tomorrow.” Then she would be alone for a while, or perhaps one of the girls would come to stay after Easter and the younger children would roll over and over on the lawn if it was dry enough.
She sowed her parsley, and wondered excitedly what the deputation who were calling to see Henry this afternoon would look like.
The Mortimers’ house at Kingston-on-Thames was not difficult to reach, if one followed Henry’s directions. However the deputation had found it a difficult place to find. They arrived shaken in nerve and body, half an hour late in Godfrey’s car and two taxis. In Godfrey’s car, besides Godfrey himself, were Charmian, Dame Lettie and Mrs. Pettigrew. The first taxi bore Alec Warner and Dame Lettie’s maid, Gwen. In the second taxi came Janet Sidebottome, that missionary sister of Lisa Brooke; accompanying her were an elderly couple and an aged spinster who were strangers to the rest.
Mrs. Pettigrew, spruce and tailor-made, stepped out first. Henry Mortimer came beaming down the path and shook her hand. Godfrey emerged next, and meantime there was a general exit from the two taxis, and a fussy finding and counting of money for the fares.
Charmian, from the back of Godfrey’s car, said, “Oh, I have so enjoyed the drive. My first this year. The river is splendid to-day.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, Godfrey,” said Dame Lettie who was being helped out. “Don’t pull me.” She had grown stouter and yet more fragile during the past winter. Her sight was failing, and it was obviously difficult for her to find the kerb with her foot. “Wait, Godfrey.”
“We’re late,” said Godfrey. “Charmian, sit still, don’t move till we’ve got Lettie out.”
Mrs. Pettigrew took Dame Lettie’s other arm while Henry Mortimer stood holding the door. Lettie yanked her arm away from Mrs. Pettigrew, so that her handbag dropped to the pavement and the contents spilled out. The occupants of the taxis rushed to rescue Lettie’s belongings, while Lettie herself drew back into the car and sank with a plump sound into her seat.
Young Gwen, whom Dame Lettie had brought as a witness, stood in the gateway and laughed aloud.
Mrs. Mortimer came briskly down the path and addressed Gwen. “Look lively, young person,” she said, “and help your elders instead of standing there laughing.”
Gwen looked surprised and did not move.
“Go and pick up your aunt’s belongings,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
Dame Lettie, fearful of losing her maid, called out from the car,
“I’m not her aunt, Mrs. Mortimer. It’s all right, Gwen.”
Mrs. Mortimer, who was not normally an irate woman, took Gwen by the shoulders and propelled her over to the little group who were stiffly bending to retrieve the contents of the bag. “Let the girl pick them up,” she said.
Most of the things were, however by now collected, and while Alec Warner, directed by Henry Mortimer, stooped to fish with his umbrella under the car for Dame Lettie’s spectacle-case, Gwen so far overcame her surprise as to say to Mrs. Mortimer, “I got nothing to do with you.”
“All right, Gwen. It’s all right,” said Dame Lettie from the car.
Mrs. Mortimer now kept her peace although it was clear she would have liked to say more to Gwen. She had been troubled, in the first place, by the sight of these infirm and agitated people arriving with such difficulty at her door. Where are their children? she had thought, or their nieces and nephews? Why are they left to their own resources like this?
She edged Gwen aside and reached into the car for Dame Lettie’s arm. At the opposite door Henry Mortimer was reaching for Charmian’s. Mrs. Mortimer, as she assisted Dame Lettie, hoped he would not strain himself, and said to Dame Lettie, “I see you have brought the spring weather.” As Lettie finally came to rest on the pavement Mrs. Mortimer looked up to see Alec Warner’s eyes upon her. She thought, That man is studying me for some reason.