Murder in Outline

by Anne Morice

  “I can let you in easily enough,” I told her. “No trouble at all. But hasn’t it occurred to you that Tina may raise some objection to your mother commandeering part of her furnishings?”

  “Good gracious no, of course she won’t,” Pauline replied, sounding as though this were the silliest question imaginable, which perhaps it was.

  “What I still don’t understand though,” I said, pounding ahead of her up the first flight of stairs, “is why you didn’t explain all this to Tina and ask to borrow her key?”

  “Yes, I know, that’s what I should have done, but it wasn’t my fault, honour bright! I couldn’t find her, you see. I searched absolutely everywhere and then someone told me that she’d left immediately after lunch and I was getting into a panic by then, because of the flowers and everything, and I just kept my fingers crossed that she’d be here. Only, she’s not and I simply couldn’t think what to do.”

  Pauline was quite breathless by this time, but at least she was partially vindicated as soon as we entered the flat. The note I had left propped up on the hall table that morning had been removed and another put in its place. The writing was tall and narrow and rather cramped, as befitted the author’s physique, and the message was fairly typical too.

  “Gone to Oxford. Private Class. May not be back till late. Stew ready to go in oven, if you want it. T.”

  It occurred to me in passing that one could almost believe that she was avoiding me, although since I had more or less forced myself on her perhaps this was excusable, if not altogether endearing. In any case, it was not the moment to dwell on personal wounds, for Pauline was fidgeting at my elbow in agonies of impatience, and, putting the letter down, I said:

  “Okay, let’s get started! Where does the clock live?”

  “Above the fireplace and flanked by two shepherdesses, if memory serves.”

  “Yes, that’s what Mummy said,” Pauline muttered, darting into the sitting room. However, she advanced only a few feet towards her target before stopping dead in her tracks, as though she had been shot through the heart.

  “My God!” she moaned in a voice of doom. “It’s stopped!”

  This was undoubtedly true, and simultaneously I realised that I had been subconsciously aware for some time that the hands were set permanently at twenty past four, although I could not recall whether this had always been so, or not.

  “Keep calm,” I said. “I expect she just forgot to wind it up. Now, where would the key be, I wonder.”

  It was not on the shelf, so I pulled open the tiny wooden door below the clock’s face and instantly all was explained. There was a thick roll of white paper, with a rubber band round it, standing upright inside.

  Using only the tips of a thumb and one finger, I carefully eased it out and then gave the pendulum a gentle tap. It swung into action immediately, settling into a regular beat and I closed the door again.

  “There we are, Pauline! What could be simpler? Either the maddening tick tock got on Tina’s nerves, or else she has seen this as the ideal place to keep her will.”

  “Oh, you are a lambie pie, Tessa,” she said, all gush and simper again. “How would I ever have managed without you?”

  “The key’s in there too,” I told her, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t wind it up or tinker about with the hands until it’s safe and ready in its new home. These old clocks can be temperamental and it might hit back if we push it around too mercilessly.”

  This advice brought on another flurry of anxiety and Pauline jumped backwards, as though taking my words literally:

  “Oh Lord, Tessa, I feel awful asking you another favour, but you know what a clot I am. Things always seem to get gummed up as soon as I touch them and I have a ghastly feeling it will stop again if I carry it down myself. I suppose . . . ?”

  “I don’t mind lending a hand, if it’s going to be that much of a worry to you,” I informed her graciously, being curious to see this flat which Hattie’s father was to occupy; and as soon as we had set the clock in place and satisfied ourselves that all was well with it, I wandered off on a tour of exploration. It was, as I had foreseen, an apartment of great luxury and taste and provided with everything man could desire, to delight the eye and save the labour.

  “Will he be staying here on his own?” I asked Pauline, who was trailing along in my wake, obviously torn between fear of offending me and feverish impatience to get out before His Excellency caught us on the premises.

  “No, he’s bringing an A.D.C. or someone. Which reminds me, it might be a bright idea to . . . um . . . skedaddle before they turn up. Bit embarrassing, if they were to walk in, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, very well,” I agreed, having seen all I wanted, “but there’s still one thing you must do before you leave.”

  “Oh dear, is there? What have I forgotten now?”

  “Your trug. You left it in Tina’s flat.”

  All this climbing up and down stairs, fraught as it had been with nervous anxiety, had left her looking quite washed out and, since there was still some whisky left in Robin’s bottle, I suggested that she should stay another five minutes and have a drink.

  I half expected her to say that she would love a ginger-pop, but in fact she accepted the whisky with great speed and alacrity, saying:

  “Oh whoops, what fun! It’s such a lark being with you, Tessa, but it mustn’t be more than five, or Mummy will be wondering what on earth’s become of me.”

  This struck me as a funny thing for a mummy to be wondering at six o’clock in the evening about a woman in her mid-thirties, and it then occurred to me that the well-known relationship between Pauline and Mrs. Bland might be largely mythical. Perhaps she had built up this image of Connie as the domineering, demanding mother out of a desperate need to excuse her own inadequacy and lack of initiative; and also, perhaps, because it was preferable to admitting even to herself that what she actually suffered from was a yawning maternal indifference. It was a thought which for the first time brought stirrings of curiosity about Pauline as an individual and I attempted to draw her out a little.

  “I suppose you’ve met him before?” I asked her. “What’s he like?”

  “Who?”

  “Hattie’s father.”

  “Oh well, yes I have, as a matter of fact. He used to put in an appearance occasionally when Hattie first came to us, but he hasn’t been lately and he wouldn’t know me from Adam.”

  “Why not? I’m sure Hattie must have talked to him about you.”

  “About me? Gracious no, I’m quite sure she wouldn’t. She hardly knew I existed. Not many people do, actually.”

  “But I understood you were one of the few people who were able to get close enough to become quite friendly with her.”

  “Whoever told you that?”

  “Someone . . . forget now.”

  “Well, it’s not true, I’m sorry to say. I mean, just because . . .”

  “What?”

  “Oh, when she first started going to art classes in Oxford I had the job of chaperoning her, so of course I got to know her just a little. But it only lasted for a term or two. After that she was considered to be old enough and sensible enough to go on her own. She wasn’t the type to play hookey and spend the time at the flicks, worse luck!”

  “Why worse luck?”

  “Because I rather enjoyed those trips. Of course, Mummy used to give me masses of chores to do in Oxford and a huge shopping list to get through, but I didn’t mind that. It was fun to break out of the routine for a bit and I was rather disappointed when it stopped. I supposed I must have grumbled to someone; but that was years ago and there was never anything personal between me and Hattie. We used to talk a bit on the journey and she seemed quite glad of my company, but all the same I bet she didn’t give two hoots when I stopped going.”

  “So you wouldn’t have got any clue as to why she might have been contemplating suicide?”

  “Gosh no, none at all. She always seemed to be such a merry person.
But I’d better not talk about it, if you don’t mind, Tessa. Mummy has absolutely forbidden me to discuss it with anyone and she’d slay me if she found out. Anyway, I must run now, or I’ll be in trouble. Bye bye and thanks ever so much for your help.”

  Run was the word for it and she was halfway to the front door before she’d got the last words out and, although I followed her into the hall, she had gone before I had time to point out that once again she was leaving without her trug. However, I did not bother to go after her, having more important matters on my mind just then. The sight of Tina’s note, still propped against the Sunderland jug on the hall table, had set me wondering afresh whether she was deliberately avoiding me and, if so, why. This, in turn, brought back the memory of her odd behaviour on the river bank and I paced about the sitting room, picking things up and putting them down again, while cudgelling my brain to find some connection between these two puzzles.

  The peregrination eventually brought me to the fireplace, where my eye lighted once more on the roll of paper which had been concealed inside the clock, and I feel sure, indeed could almost swear, that it was in a spirit of pure absent-mindedness that I slid off the rubber band and started to unroll it. Be that as it may, there was no absence of mind in the way in which, after a single glance, I opened it out fully and studied it in every tiny detail. It was a pen and ink drawing of birds, fish and animals, each with a human face attached to it, the very one, in fact, which Hattie had shown me when she was working on it.

  SEVENTEEN

  Her Britannic Majesty’s ambassador, with A.D.C. in tow was delivered by Billy in the white Rover to his temporary lodgings soon after half past six. All three men entered the house and about five minutes later Tina’s doorbell rang. Before going to answer it, I replaced the roll of paper in its rubber band and tucked it out of sight behind a cushion. The caller was Dr. Bland.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but I gather Pauline left a basket here.”

  “Yes, she did. Do come in and I’ll fetch it for you. Have you time for a drink?” I added when, instead of waiting in the hall, he followed me into the sitting room. “Do say yes, because I’m all on my own and getting terribly bored.”

  This was untrue because I had just spent a fascinating twenty minutes working away at fever pitch with pencil and paper and the job was far from completed. However, I no longer had much doubt that Tina was purposely keeping out of my way and reckoned myself safe from interruption by her for some time to come. Furthermore, Billy really appeared to be in need of a stimulant. He looked sad and jaded and appeared to have shrunk a little.

  “Well, when you put it like that, Tessa, how can I refuse?”

  “This one all right?” I asked, holding up the whisky bottle.

  “The best there is. I’m sorry you’ve been left on your own like this.”

  “Oh well, can’t be helped. Tina’s kept pretty busy at the moment, what with private lessons and all.”

  “So she’s managing to fit those in too, is she? I’m glad of that.”

  “It’s where she is now.”

  He smiled at me, that endearing, almost conspiratorial smile, which seemed to be expressed mainly in his eyes:

  “Well, not at this precise moment, as it happens.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, she’s over at The Lodge. Our poor old Patsy has had a collapse of sorts and Tina very kindly volunteered to supervise the girls’ supper and bedtime. It was very good of her, but I must say I hadn’t realised it would mean neglecting you like this. That was naughty of her. Pauline could have managed, I expect.”

  “It doesn’t matter at all,” I said.

  “Forgive my saying so, but I rather think it does. Not to you, perhaps. I remember you as the sort of live-wire who never had much trouble finding something to occupy herself with, but I think it matters to Tina. She’s a bad girl and I shall tell her so.”

  “Well, please don’t quote me, will you? I’m not really feeling sorry for myself and it was very kind of her to put me up at all, just because I . . . had an urge to spend a few days here. I can’t honestly expect her to disorganise her life on my account.”

  “No, but it might not be a bad thing, just the same. She’s a sad, secretive little creature, in some ways; still caught in the chains of that unhappy childhood of hers, I often think. My wife and I quite worry about her. It’s unwholesome at her age to devote so much time to work. That’s why we were both pleased when we heard you were staying here. You’re such a jolly, happy-go-lucky soul and we hoped you might shake her up a bit.”

  I can take any amount of compliments, as a rule, and come scampering back for more, but I was uncomfortably aware that this one was undeserved. Whatever my motives in planting myself on Tina, the laudable desire to act as a tonic to her spirits had certainly not been among them. So I chose this moment to offer him a refill, which being accepted gave me a chance to change the subject and ask whether there was anything seriously wrong with Patsy.

  “Nothing you could put your finger on. She’s getting old, just like the rest of us, poor dear, and she’s been under great strain these past few days. It’s all been a little too much for her.”

  “She ought to think about retiring.”

  “Patsy retire? Oh, I hope not. We’d be lost without her. No, she’ll pull out of it, once she’s had a bit of peace and quiet, without all those chattering girls around.”

  “How is Mrs. Bland bearing up, by the way.”

  “Oh, splendidly! But she can take any amount of knocks and still come up fighting.”

  “Yes, I know, she’s wonderful, but all the same she didn’t seem to be quite her usual self on the day of the drama competition. . . . When I had lunch with you?” I suggested, treading warily.

  “Ah yes, of course,” he said, not smiling now, but still sounding serene and composed. “I’d forgotten you were a witness to one of those little setbacks. And so naturally you’ve been wondering about it, haven’t you? Well, let me assure you, Tessa, there’s nothing wrong with Connie which couldn’t be righted if she would only stick to a proper routine with the pills and injections.”

  I was at a loss to know how to respond to this, so assumed a polite, enquiring expression, as of one hoping to hear more, which this one certainly did, and he said: “She has diabetes, you see.”

  “Diabetes?” I echoed in a stunned voice, my mind in a veritable whirl.

  “No need to sound so shocked. It’s not the end of the world. In fact, it’s a fairly common complaint and perfectly easy to control, provided a certain regime is observed.”

  “The reason for my surprise,” I said, pulling myself together, “is that Mrs. Bland is the last person I would expect to find neglecting herself in that way. I always remember her as being particularly down to earth and practical.”

  “Well, that raises an interesting psychological question, doesn’t it? You’re right, of course; her reactions haven’t been at all what one would have foreseen, but I’m afraid the answer is that she hasn’t yet managed to come to terms with her situation. Won’t accept it, in other words. Up till now, she’s scarcely had a day’s illness in her life and she hasn’t much patience with invalids. We all have our Achilles heel, don’t we? I’m afraid this is hers. She refuses to admit that she has a chronic condition and therefore she doesn’t always take the necessary steps to keep it in check. In fact, you could almost believe sometimes that she goes to great lengths not to do so.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, although beginning to. “I could give you a dozen examples, but to take only one: wine is very much a taboo in her case, and she hardly touches it, as a matter of fact, but I’d soon be in the doghouse if I didn’t go through the motions of filling her glass, along with all the others. Everything has to be seen to be perfectly normal.”

  “I am sorry,” I said. “I had no idea, and it must make life very complicated for you.”

  “You could say that, I suppose, but at least she may be lucky to have a doc
tor in the house; not to mention Patsy, who does far more than her share. Between us, we shan’t allow her to go very far astray, you can be sure of that.” He swallowed the rest of his drink and stood up: “Well, I’ve enjoyed our talk, Tessa. You always were one of the bright ones. I can say that now, without being accused of favouritism or worse, can’t I? You know us all so well, without being emotionally involved, which makes it refreshing. And I know I don’t have to hand out any pompous warnings about what I’ve told you being strictly confidential. Constance has an absolute horror of anyone, most of all the girls, learning about her complaint. God knows why, but she seems to feel that a weakness of that kind would somehow undermine her.”

  Which was one way, I reflected as I saw him to the door, of issuing a pompous warning, while disclaiming any such intention.

  EIGHTEEN

  “I suppose you noticed your clock had gone?” I asked, over a steaming mug of coffee the next morning.

  I had been in bed when Tina eventually came home and, although still wide awake, had decided to give myself a night’s sleep before tackling her.

  “I was prepared for it,” she replied calmly, adding in the same offhand tone, “Can’t think why they bothered though. It doesn’t go.”

  “Probably for aesthetic reasons; to fill the yawning gap between the two bronzes. Who prepared you for it?”

  “Connie, of course. I suppose even she wouldn’t consider it quite ethical to send Pauline barging in here to snatch up whatever she wanted, without offering some explanation.”

  “But you didn’t speak to Pauline after the deed was done?”

  “Didn’t see her. I had to go and give a hand at The Lodge. Patsy was on the verge of a breakdown and couldn’t cope.”

  “So I heard. Was she any better when you left?”

  Tina’s expression darkened and she slowly lowered her arm and placed her mug on the kitchen table:

  “You seem to know an awful lot. How did you hear about the clock anyway?”

  “I was here when Pauline came for it.”