Death in the Stocks: Merely Murder

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘I know,’ said Leslie. ‘Only don’t worry, old thing. I’m absolutely sure Kenneth didn’t do it, and they practically never convict the wrong person. If there’s the least doubt –’

  ‘They give them penal servitude,’ said Antonia in a hollow voice. ‘You needn’t tell me. And he’d rather be hanged than that.’

  Leslie patted her shoulder, and said with a gulp: ‘They won’t. I – I’m certain they won’t.’ Then, as Giles came back into the room, she said: ‘If that sickening female has gone I’ll push off too. Mr Carrington, you’ll look after Tony, won’t you, and try and cheer her up? Good-bye, Tony, darling. I’ll come round first thing in the morning. Good-bye, Mr Carrington.’

  The door closed firmly behind her. Antonia was left alone with her cousin. She said forlornly: ‘You needn’t be afraid I’m going to cry, because I’m not.’

  He sat down beside her. ‘There’s nothing to cry about, chicken,’ he said.

  She turned a rather wan face towards him. ‘Oh, Giles, I have such a ghastly fear that he may have done it after all!’

  ‘Have you, Tony? Would you like to bet on it?’ he asked, smiling.

  Her eyes questioned him. ‘You don’t think he did?’

  ‘I’m very nearly certain he didn’t,’ replied Giles Carrington.

  Twenty-two

  This pronouncement did not have quite the desired effect, for after staring at Giles blankly for a moment or two Antonia tried to smile, failed, and felt a choking lump rise in her throat. Giles saw her face begin to pucker, and promptly took her in his arms. ‘Don’t cry, Tony darling!’ he said gently. ‘It’s going to be all right.’

  Antonia hid her face in his shoulder, and gave way to her over-wrought feelings. However, she was not one to indulge in an orgy of tears, and she soon stopped crying, and after one or two damp sniffs, sat up, and said shamefacedly: ‘Sorry. I’m all right now. Thanks for being nice about it.’

  Giles drew his handkerchief out of his pocket, and compelled Antonia to turn her face towards him. He looked down at her lovingly, and said: ‘I won’t kiss a wet face. Keep still, my lamb.’

  Antonia submitted to having her tears wiped away, but stammered, rather red in the face: ‘D – don’t talk rot, Giles!’

  ‘I’m not talking rot,’ he replied, and took her in his arms again, this time not gently at all, and kissed her hard and long.

  Antonia, unable to utter any protest, made one feeble attempt to push him away, and then, finding it impossible, grasped his coat with both hands and clung to him. When she was able to speak she first said, foolishly: ‘Oh, Giles!’ and then: ‘I can’t! I mean, you don’t really – I mean, we couldn’t possibly – I mean –’

  ‘You don’t seem to me to know what you mean,’ said Giles, smiling into her eyes. ‘Luckily, I do know what I mean.’ He possessed himself of her left hand, and drew the ring from her third finger, and put it into her palm, closing her fingers over it. ‘You’ll send that back to Mesurier to-night, Tony. Is that quite clearly understood?’

  ‘I was going to, anyhow,’ said Antonia. ‘But – but if you actually mean you want to m-marry me instead, I can’t see how you can possibly want to.’

  ‘I do actually mean that,’ said Giles. ‘Just as soon as I’ve finished with this affair of Kenneth’s.’

  ‘But I can’t think Uncle Charles would like it if you did,’ objected Antonia.

  ‘You’ll find he’s bearing up quite well,’ replied Giles. ‘Will you marry me, Tony?’

  She looked anxiously at him. ‘Are you utterly serious, Giles?’ He nodded. ‘Because you know what a beast I can be, and it would be so awful if – if you were only proposing to me in a weak moment, and – and I accepted you, and then you regretted it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he said. ‘I love you.’

  Antonia suddenly dragged one of his hands to her cheek. ‘Oh, darling Giles, I’ve only just realised it, but I’ve been in love with you for years and years and years!’ she blurted out.

  It was at this somewhat inopportune moment that Rudolph Mesurier burst hurriedly into the studio. ‘I came as soon as I possibly could!’ he began, and then checked, and exclaimed in an outraged voice: ‘Well, really! I must say!’

  Antonia, quite unabashed, went, as usual, straight to the point. She got up, and held out the ring. ‘You’re just the person I wanted to see,’ she said naïvely. ‘Giles says I must give this back to you. I’m terribly sorry, Rudolph, but – but Giles wants me to marry him. And he knows me awfully well, and we get on together, so – so I think I’d better, if you don’t mind very much.’

  Mesurier’s expression was more of astonishment than of chagrin, but he said in a dramatic voice: ‘I might have known. I might have known I was living in a fool’s paradise.’

  ‘Well, it’s jolly nice of you to put it like that,’ said Antonia, ‘but did you really think it was paradise? I rather got the idea that most of the time you thought it pretty hellish. I don’t blame you a bit if you did, because as a matter of fact I thought it was fairly hellish myself.’

  This frank admission threw Rudolph momentarily out of his stride, but after a few seconds’ pained discomfiture, he said with a good deal of bitterness: ‘I can’t grasp it yet. I expect I shall presently. Just now I feel merely numb. I don’t seem able to realise that everything is over.’

  ‘You can’t really think that everything’s over merely because we’re not going to be married,’ said Antonia reasonably. ‘I expect you only feel numb because I took you by surprise. You’ll be quite thankful when you do realise it. For one thing you won’t have to have bull-terriers in your house, and you know you never really liked them.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’ he demanded. ‘Is that the only crumb of comfort you can find?’

  It was apparent to Giles that Mesurier was enjoying himself considerably. He rose, feeling that the jilted lover did at least deserve to hold the stage alone for the last time. ‘I’m sorry about it, Mesurier,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But Tony made a mistake. I expect you’d like to have a little talk with her. I’ll go and get Murgatroyd to help me pack Kenneth’s suit-case, Tony.’

  Mesurier was so much interested in this that he forgot his role for a minute. ‘Why, what’s happened? Is Kenneth going away?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Antonia, recalled to present trials with a jolt. ‘He’s being detained, whatever that means.’

  ‘My God!’ said Mesurier deeply.

  Giles went out of the studio, and shut the door behind him.

  Twenty minutes later Antonia joined him in Kenneth’s bedroom, remarking with a sigh of relief that Rudolph had gone at last.

  ‘And a good job too!’ said Murgatroyd, fitting a bulging sponge-bag into the suit-case that lay, half-full, on the end of the bed. ‘If it weren’t for this dreadful thing that’s happened I should be congratulating you from the bottom of my heart, Miss Tony, but when I think of poor Master Kenneth, locked up in a horrid cell with ten to one no proper bed or anything – well, it’s just too much for me! I can’t seem to take much notice of anything else. Not that shirt, if you please, Mr Carrington; it’s only just back from the laundry.’

  ‘Giles says he doesn’t think Kenneth did it,’ said Antonia.

  ‘Thank you for nothing!’ retorted Murgatroyd. ‘He’d better not let me hear him say anything else, that’s all. Him or anyone. There’s a case for those brushes, Mr Giles. You leave them to me.’

  Antonia picked up a folding leather photograph frame from the bed and grimaced at Violet’s classic features. ‘What on earth do you want to put this in for, Giles?’ she inquired. ‘Just when he seems to be going off her, too. He won’t want it.’

  ‘You never know,’ Giles answered. ‘Put it in.’

  The rest of the packing was soon done, and in a few minutes Giles had locked the suit-case, and set it on the ground. ‘I shall have to go, Tony,’ he said. ‘Promise me you won’t worry!’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ said An
tonia dubiously. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Save some constable or other the trouble of having to fetch Kenneth’s things,’ he replied.

  She raised her eyes to his face. ‘Shall I see you tomorrow?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I think probably not until late, if at all,’ he answered. ‘I’m going to be pretty busy.’

  ‘Busy for Kenneth?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Yes, busy for Kenneth.’ He took her hands, and held them clasped together against his chest. ‘Keep smiling, chicken. Things aren’t desperate.’

  ‘You’ve found out something!’ she said. ‘Oh, what is it, Giles?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘That’s what I hope to do! At present I’ve only got a suspicion. I’m not going to tell you any more in case I’m wrong. But I do tell you not to worry.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘If you say I needn’t I won’t.’

  It was past six o’clock when Giles Carrington left the studio. He delivered the suit-case first, and then, after a glance at his wrist-watch, drove to the Temple, and changed into evening dress. His subsequent proceedings might not have seemed to Antonia to be the actions of a man trying to aid her brother. He visited three cocktail-bars, four hotels, one night-club, and two dance-halls. He partook of refreshment in all of these resorts, and engaged various head-waiters, assistant-waiters, hall-porters, and page-boys in conversations which they at least found profitable. He reached his flat again in the small hours, swallowed a couple of aspirin tablets in the hope of defeating the inevitable headache, and got thankfully into bed.

  In the morning, when his man brought in the early tea-tray, he awoke with a good deal of reluctance, and said: ‘Oh, God! Not tea. One of your pick-me-ups. And turn on my bath.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said his man, thinking it was funny of Mr Carrington to go out on the binge when his family was in such a packet of trouble.

  A bath, followed by an excellent pick-me-up, more or less restored Giles. He was able to face the task of shaving, and even, when that was over, to partake of a very modest breakfast. While he sipped a cup of strong coffee, he told his man to put through a call to Scotland Yard, and to ask for Superintendent Hannasyde.

  Superintendent Hannasyde, however, was not in the building, and an inquiry for Sergeant Hemingway was equally fruitless. The voice at the other end of the telephone was polite but unhelpful, and after a moment’s reflection Giles thanked the unknown, said that it didn’t matter, and rang off. His next call was to his own office, and his man, hovering discreetly in the background, had his curiosity whetted by hearing that Mr Carrington was to be told that Mr Giles Carrington had important business out of town, and would not be at the office that day. It was certainly a queer set-out, and what Mr Giles Carrington thought he was playing at heaven alone knew.

  At half-past five in the afternoon Giles walked into Scotland Yard and once more asked for Superintendent Hannasyde. This time he was more fortunate; the Superintendent had come in not half an hour earlier. He was with the Assistant Commissioner at the moment, but if Mr Carrington would care to wait? Mr Carrington nodded, and sat down to wait for twenty minutes. At the end of that time he was escorted to Hannasyde’s office, and found Hannasyde standing by his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  Hannasyde looked up: ‘Good-afternoon, Mr Carrington. I’m sorry I was out when you rang up this morning. I’ve had rather a busy day.’ He looked more narrowly at Giles, and said: ‘Sit down. You look as though you’d been having a busy day too.’

  ‘I have,’ said Giles, sinking into a chair. ‘And a still busier night. What I want to know is, did your men find anything that had any possible bearing on the case when they searched Roger Vereker’s flat yesterday?’

  Hannasyde shook his head. ‘No, nothing. Was that what you wanted me for this morning?’

  ‘Partly that, and partly to let you know what I’d been doing.’ He moved rather restlessly in his chair, frowning. ‘I want to see that night-porter, by the way. I wish I’d been present when the flat was searched.’

  Hannasyde regarded him with some slight show of amusement. ‘My dear Mr Carrington, there was nothing there other than what we saw.’

  ‘Kenneth’s pipe? Oh, that’s not it! Kenneth had nothing to do with either murder. I wanted you to come and piece out the first murder with me to-day, but when I couldn’t get hold of you I thought I’d better do it myself rather than hang about perhaps for hours.’

  Hannasyde stared at him in astonishment for a moment, and then drew out his chair from behind the desk, and sat down in it. ‘Forgive me, Mr Carrington, but have you been drinking, or are you just having a little joke with me?’ he inquired.

  A rather weary smile touched Giles’s lips. ‘To be frank with you, I’ve been drinking,’ he answered. ‘Not quite lately, but last night, from seven o’clock onwards. I had to be so tactful, you see – pursuing what might have turned out to be a wild and scandalous goose-chase.’

  ‘Mr Carrington, what have you got hold of ?’ demanded Hannasyde.

  ‘Arnold Vereker’s murderer, I hope.’

  ‘Arnold Vereker’s murderer?’ exclaimed Hannasyde.

  ‘Roger’s too. But if there was no clue of any kind in the flat –’

  Hannasyde drew in his breath. ‘What there was you saw, Mr Carrington,’ he said patiently. ‘You saw the pipe, the pistol, the half-finished letter in the blotter, the glass of whisky-and-soda, and the note from – no, you didn’t see that, now I come to think of it. Hemingway found it after you’d left. But it hasn’t any bearing on the case that I can see. It was only a note from Miss Vereker, thanking her half-brother for –’ He broke off, for Giles Carrington’s sleepy eyes had opened suddenly.

  ‘A note from Miss Vereker…’ Giles repeated. ‘A note – where was that found?’

  ‘Screwed up in a ball behind the coal-scuttle. I should say that Roger Vereker meant to throw it into the fire, but missed his aim. Do you mean to tell me – ?’

  ‘Where was the envelope?’ Giles interrupted.

  ‘We didn’t find it. I suppose Vereker had a luckier shot with that. I wish you’d stop being mysterious and tell me just what you’re driving at.’

  ‘I will,’ said Giles. ‘But when I think that if I’d only been present when that flat was searched you and not I would have spent an entirely hellish twenty-four hours trying to induce half-wits to identify a face – However, I’m glad I’ve found the link between the two cases. It annoyed me not to be able to present you with all the facts.’ He saw the smouldering light in Hannasyde’s eyes, and smiled. ‘All right, all right,’ he said pacifically. ‘Violet Williams.’

  Hannasyde blinked at him. ‘Violet Williams?’ he said. ‘Are you seriously telling me that she murdered Roger Vereker?’

  ‘Also Arnold Vereker,’ said Giles.

  ‘She had never met Arnold Vereker!’

  ‘Oh yes, she had,’ replied Giles. ‘She was the dark girl you couldn’t trace.’

  Hannasyde had been twirling a pencil between his fingers, but he put it down at this, and sat a little straighter in his chair. ‘Are you sure of that?’ he asked, watching Giles closely.

  ‘I’ve found two waiters, one commissionaire, and the leader of a dance-band to identify her photograph,’ answered Giles. ‘One of the waiters volunteered the information that he had several times seen her with Arnold Vereker, who was an habitué of that particular restaurant. The commissionaire also said that he had seen her with Arnold. The leader of the dance-band did not know Arnold by name, but he recognised his photograph. In fact, he said instantly that he was the man who was with the most striking woman in the room that night. He’s an intelligent fellow, that musician – I’ve got his name and address for you. He not only recognised both photographs, but he was able to state on what date he saw the originals. The locality – my dear Watson – was Ringly Halt, which, as you probably know, is a very popular road-house about twenty miles to the east of Hanborough. And the date (w
hich was imprinted on my observant friend’s memory by the coincidence of its having been the date on which his pianist strained his wrist and had to be replaced by a substitute) was June 17th.’

  ‘Good – God!’ said Hannasyde very slowly. ‘But – she never came into the case at all!’

  ‘No,’ agreed Giles. ‘And if she hadn’t committed the second murder she never would have come into the case. She said she had never even set eyes on Arnold; both my cousins said it; and not a soul came forward to explode that fallacy. Moreover, no one ever would have come forward. None of my witnesses have any idea of her name, you see.’

  ‘But’ – Hannasyde was trying to puzzle it out – ‘how did she meet him? And having met him, why did she keep it so dark? Do you suggest that she set out to become acquainted with him with the idea of murder in mind? It’s almost incredible!’

  ‘No, I don’t think she did. From what I’ve seen of her I imagine she started with the intention of getting Arnold to marry her. But when it came to marriage Arnold was very wary. He would never be caught by a girl of her type. I’ve no doubt it didn’t take her long to realise that. She’s acute, though not clever. And then she planned to get rid of him.’

  ‘What made you suspect her in the first place?’

  Giles reflected. ‘I don’t think I know. It first occurred to me when Roger was killed, but it seemed wildly improbable. Then I made an excuse to call on her, and it struck me – perhaps I was already suspicious – that she was a little too anxious to convince me that she had an alibi for that evening. That might have been my imagination, of course, but it was enough to make me go back over everything I knew about her, and add it up, and find what the total was. To start with, I knew she was a gold-digger. My cousins were continually pointing that out to her. Also, I saw her setting her cap at Roger in a highly determined manner. She thinks more of money than anything else; that was always evident. To go on with, I learned from Kenneth (I think you were present too) that she was a close student of every kind of detective fiction. In itself that didn’t mean anything, but added to the rest it seemed to me to mean quite a lot. Thirdly, Kenneth went to call on her on the night of Arnold’s murder – and she was out.’ He paused. ‘Little things like that – not much in themselves. Also the fact that she was obviously not in love with Kenneth. I could never imagine why she got engaged to him. I remembered, too, that Miss Vereker had told me, quite light-heartedly, that Violet had always been in the habit of picking up well-to-do men in hotel lounges, and that sort of thing. Then came Roger’s death. You didn’t know it, of course – how should you? – but she did a thing that evening that seemed to me stupid, and curiously unlike her. At the last moment she told Kenneth Vereker that she wouldn’t go with him to that ball. She put his back up so badly that he at once rang up Miss Rivers, and invited her to go in Violet’s stead. At the time I was merely surprised that Violet had handled him so clumsily – for the attitude she had adopted was that it would be indecent for either of them to appear at such a function. Now I think that she did it on purpose to ensure Kenneth’s going to the ball, and thus providing himself with an alibi. She meant Roger’s death to look like a suicide, and it was she who launched the theory that he was in a state of nerves on account of the police. That was one of the most suspicious things she did, I thought. The first murder had been so perfectly planned, and was so successful, that it went to her head. She’s a conceited young woman, you know, and she ran away with the idea that if you could fool people once you could fool them any number of times.’