Murder in the Morning

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘No!’ The word burst from Eleanor’s lips like a spurt of flame.

  Melissa could hardly believe her ears. ‘What do you mean, no? You have to go! You can’t get out of it!’

  Eleanor buried her face in her hands. Her breathing became harsh and uneven and her shoulders heaved.

  ‘I’m not . . . going . . . to the police!’ she gasped.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  Even as she spoke, the answer came into Melissa’s head with a dreadful, blinding clarity. Twice before she had found Eleanor in obvious distress, obsessed with fears for her husband’s safety. Now, it seemed, those fears were only too well founded.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Eleanor . . . you were there . . . and you saw . . . ’ For a moment, stunned by the enormity of her friend’s predicament, she too found difficulty in speaking. ‘It was Rodney, wasn’t it? That alibi was a fake . . . Rodney killed Angy!’

  For a moment, Eleanor seemed to hold her breath. Then she lifted her head; her tears had stopped flowing and her eyes were two points of green fire.

  ‘How dare you accuse my husband!’ Her voice was almost a snarl, thick with rage, barely recognisable. She got up and stood over Melissa, glaring down at her. ‘Apologise at once!’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ stammered Melissa, feeling more bewildered by the minute. ‘I must have misunderstood . . . but you must have seen something . . . or someone.’

  As she spoke, a new fear came into her head. Was it Barney whom Eleanor had seen? She couldn’t remember telling her anything that might have betrayed her feelings for him but it was possible. Was his story after all a pack of lies? Had he been back to Angy’s flat that Tuesday afternoon after all and been seen by Eleanor, and had she all along been keeping silent out of friendship? The thought was like a blow to the stomach and she winced with the pain of it. But no, her reason told her, that didn’t make sense either. Eleanor would never have kept quiet when her precious Rodney was under suspicion.

  ‘Tell me, please!’ she implored. ‘What did you see?’

  Eleanor backed across the kitchen until she was standing against the edge of the work-top that ran between the sink and the cooker. Silhouetted against the window, she drew herself erect and flung out both arms, as if she were on a stage and about to give a public performance. The fingers of her right hand brushed against a wooden knife-block like the one in Angy’s kitchen. She appeared to be pointing at it and, for a split second, gave the illusion of being about to execute some grotesque conjuring trick.

  ‘I didn’t see anyone,’ she said at last, and now her voice was high-pitched, breathless, almost infantile. Her right hand closed round one of the knives and she pulled it, very slowly, from the block and ran a finger along the blade. Suddenly, she gave one of her husky, nervous giggles. ‘I know who did it, though, khikhikhi! I know the name of the murderer!’

  Anyone would think she was talking about a party game, thought Melissa. Even now, she could not bring herself to believe the horrifying truth. The strain has got to her, she thought wildly, she’s having a nervous breakdown. Any minute now and she’ll go right over the edge. Rodney should be sent for . . . if I could just get to the phone . . . but first, I’ve got to calm her down and get that knife away from her.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said in a soothing voice. ‘Why don’t you come home for lunch with me and tell me all about it? I can’t stay . . . I’m expecting an important phone call. And do stop playing with that knife . . . you’ll cut yourself.’ Desperately ad-libbing, she half rose.

  ‘Don’t move!’ said Eleanor. She had a foolish grin on her face and she made a little stabbing gesture in Melissa’s direction. ‘You still don’t understand, do you, khikhikhi!’

  Melissa’s stomach tightened and something cold went crawling up her spine. Eleanor . . . Eleanor had killed Angy . . . she was face to face with a murderess who was armed with a knife. Somehow, she must distract her attention. Her eyes swept the kitchen for inspiration and fell on the pair of gloves lying on the dresser. Cotton gloves. Brown cotton gloves . . .

  Eleanor was still holding the short, wickedly pointed blade directed towards Melissa. Her eyes were unfocused and her lips were moving. Melissa’s heart was hammering like disco drums. Keep calm, she told herself, try to look and speak normally. Say the wrong thing, make the wrong move and she’ll go berserk and come at me with that knife. She had been sitting bolt upright on the wooden chair; now she forced herself to lean back in a more relaxed position. Snappy, still restless, came and sat beside her and she held out a hand to him. He licked it eagerly as if anxious for reassurance.

  After a while, Eleanor slowly lowered the knife. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her,’ she said in a voice that was almost normal. ‘It was because of the things she said about Rodney, you see.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Melissa.

  ‘She offered to lend me a book – an art book – and suggested I call round to collect it. She told me where she lived . . . it was a scruffy little bed-sit at the top of a horrid old house,’ Eleanor screwed up her face in ladylike disgust. ‘In the class that afternoon she’d been teaching us to draw heads and she showed us some of her work . . . sketches of people in the college. There was one of me and one of Rodney.’ The voice faltered for a moment and then continued in a flat monotone, as if she were repeating a lesson.

  ‘When I got there, she’d spread out all the sketches as if she’d been admiring them. She was very conceited, you know, about her own work. We talked about the drawings and she picked up the one of Mr Willard and said, “Poor Papa Barney, I’m afraid he’s very cross with me and he’s going to be even crosser when he knows all about Eddie.” Did you know,’ the look of disgust returned, ‘that Eddie was a . . . a woman? Angy was . . . one of those!’

  ‘Yes, I knew about Eddie,’ said Melissa. ‘What else did Angy say?’

  ‘She gave a funny little smile, like a cat. She was rather like a cat, didn’t you think so?’

  ‘In some ways. Do please go on.’

  ‘I pointed to the drawing of Rodney – it was really rather good, I thought – and I said, “That’s a good likeness of Doctor Shergold,” or something like that and . . . ’ Eleanor’s breathing quickened again and her grip on the knife tightened, ‘do you know what she said?’ She swallowed hard, chewed her bottom lip and swallowed again, as if she were trying to bring herself to utter an obscenity that in normal circumstances would not so much as enter her head.

  ‘Well, what did she say?’ prompted Melissa.

  ‘She said, “Oh, that pompous little fart”! I could hardly believe my ears!’ She was seething with well-bred outrage.

  The tension had become almost unbearable, yet the words had come as such an anti-climax, and sounded so incongruous when spoken by Eleanor, that Melissa felt an insane desire to laugh.

  ‘It’s not funny!’ snapped Eleanor.

  Melissa put her face to rights. ‘No, of course it isn’t. I’m sorry.’

  There was another pause. A contemplative look had come over Eleanor’s face. When she spoke again, her voice held a note of weary resignation.

  ‘Right from the day she started working for him, I realised that Rodney was . . . well, rather taken with Angy. I know him so well, you see . . . he couldn’t keep anything from me. There was something about his face when he spoke of her . . . and then one day . . . it was the day you first had tea with me . . . they’d been out together somewhere . . . on business of course, it was quite legitimate but I knew something had happened between them. His jacket smelt of perfume and there were long, reddish hairs on it.’

  Melissa gave a little sniff to show her contempt for such behaviour.

  ‘I didn’t blame him in the least,’ insisted Eleanor, with a quick frown of reproach. ‘He’s such a clever, talented man and I’m so ordinary and plain. I’ve always felt terribly honoured to be his wife but I’ve often asked myself what he saw in me.’

  I could tell you, thought Melissa grimly. Daddy w
as Principal at Brigston and was seen as an academic ladder, only Daddy very inconsiderately went and died before Rodney got past the bottom rung. He must have realised he was never going to get far without that influence and had been taking his disappointment out on his wife ever since. Yet such was her devotion to him that her loyalty and admiration had remained unshaken.

  Aloud, she said, ‘You shouldn’t sell yourself short all the time, Eleanor. You’re very talented . . . Angy herself said so.’ Mention of the name brought her mind back to reality. ‘Did you tackle Rodney about his affair with her?’

  Eleanor winced and appeared shocked. ‘Of course not! I told you, I didn’t blame him . . . only,’ her face took on a wistful expression, ‘I couldn’t stop wondering what she looked like . . . what sort of a person she was. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I had to know. I had the idea of pretending to be Delia and signing on at the art class for a term. I went to a shop selling theatre costumes and bought a wig and some plain glass spectacles. It was rather fun . . . I felt very daring!’ For a moment, the pale, round face lit up with a childlike amusement as she relived the memory.

  ‘You were telling me what happened the day you went to Angy’s flat,’ Melissa reminded her.

  ‘Oh, yes, so I was.’

  The minutes ticked by. When, at last, Eleanor spoke again, her voice had a metallic edge and the sentences came one after the other with the precision of clockwork, with only the occasional hesitation.

  ‘She put down the sketches and went into the kitchen. She was going to make a cup of tea. I followed her. She had her back to me, getting out the tea-things. She was talking about herself and her . . . affairs. She said she’d had several men as lovers and decided she preferred women. And then . . . and then . . . ’ The momentum faltered; Eleanor seemed to be steeling herself; the final words tumbled out in a rush as if borne on a choking wave of hatred and anger. ‘She said, “When that little squirt Shergold comes round for his weekly bit of nooky, it’ll be the last time. He’ll have to go back to screwing his wife.” That’s what she said!’

  ‘And that was why you killed her?’

  Eleanor drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It wasn’t only that,’ she whispered. ‘It was what she said after. She gave a silly giggle and said, “I hope for his sake the poor cow never takes a lover and finds out what a pathetic little prick her husband’s got.”’ In a swift change of mood, Eleanor drew herself up to her full height and with both hands round the knife handle made vicious downward stabbing movements in the air. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed. ‘How dared she say that about my Rodney?’ she hissed. ‘How dared she?’

  At last, Melissa understood. It was rage at the insults to her husband, not his infidelity, that had driven the wife to murder the mistress.

  Eleanor was still gripping the knife and a row of whitish spots like little pearl buttons ran across the back of each hand . . . the hands that she had always kept smooth and immaculate in order to please the man who for twenty-five years had dominated, undervalued, denigrated and finally betrayed her.

  Slowly, the pearly spots faded as Eleanor slackened her hold. Her head drooped, her shoulders sagged. Now, thought Melissa, now perhaps I can persuade her to hand it over. But before she could speak, Eleanor said wearily: ‘What will happen to me? Are you going to call the police?’

  ‘Don’t you think it would be better if I called Rodney first?’ suggested Melissa. ‘And perhaps you should talk to your doctor . . . ’

  ‘Oh no!’ Eleanor’s eyes widened in sudden terror. ‘Don’t call Rodney! I don’t want him here!’

  She made a sudden bound, catching Melissa completely off-guard. A moment before, she had been leaning back against the edge of the sink, drooping and defeated. Now, she was out of the kitchen and halfway down the hall.

  ‘Eleanor, where are you going?’ Melissa yelled, dashing after her. By the time she reached the foot of the stairs, Eleanor was on the landing. Still clutching the knife in one hand, she rushed into her bedroom, staggering in her haste and lurching against the frame before practically falling through the door and slamming it. Melissa tore up the stairs, seized the handle and pushed but Eleanor had thrown her weight on the other side. For a moment or two they struggled while the door shifted and vibrated a couple of inches this way and that; then the resistance increased as if something had been wedged against it.

  Melissa pounded on it with her fists. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ she shouted. ‘Come out of there!’

  ‘Go away!’ said Eleanor, her voice muffled.

  ‘Open this door!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Melissa stopped hammering and tried to think rationally. ‘You’re overwrought,’ she pleaded, trying to sound calm. ‘Let me get you a drink.’ Anything to keep her talking, stop her doing something stupid. She pictured Eleanor sitting on the edge of her bed, the knife in her hand and despair in her heart, and shuddered at what she might be contemplating.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ sobbed Eleanor. ‘Leave me alone.’

  The telephone rang suddenly and Melissa nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘I’ll go and answer that,’ she said.

  ‘No!’

  ‘It might be Rodney.’

  ‘Leave it!’

  The bell rang and rang. Stealthily, terrified of provoking the distraught woman into doing herself an injury, Melissa inched her way down the stairs and into the hall. As she reached for the receiver, the ringing stopped. She glanced back upstairs; from behind the bedroom door came the sound of muffled crying. Thankful for a modern push-button telephone that was virtually silent, she tapped out Rodney Shergold’s office number. ‘Sorry, Eleanor,’ she muttered as she waited for the ringing tone. ‘There’s no way you can hide this from him.’

  His telephone voice was high-pitched, staccato, almost hectoring. Anxious not to alarm Eleanor, Melissa gave her name in a low voice. ‘Please come home at once,’ she said. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  ‘What’s that? Speak up, I can’t hear you!’ he snapped.

  Drat the man, how could anyone who claimed to be so clever be so slow on the uptake? She cupped her hand round the receiver. ‘It’s an emergency . . . get home!’ she repeated.

  Still he was not satisfied. ‘What sort of emergency? Can’t Nell deal with it? I’ve got work to do!’

  ‘Nell is the emergency,’ said Melissa in a fierce whisper. ‘Don’t ask questions, just get home as quickly as you can.’ She put down the receiver, ran back upstairs and tapped on the bedroom door. ‘Eleanor, are you all right?’

  There was a muffled sob. ‘Who was on the phone?’

  ‘It stopped just as I got to it,’ said Melissa, praying that her call to the college had gone unnoticed. ‘Now, why don’t you come downstairs and have that drink?’

  ‘I don’t want a drink. Melissa, will you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘Look after Snappy. Rodney doesn’t like him, you see.’

  It took a second or two for the implication to sink in. Then, in a panic, Melissa grabbed the handle of the door and began shaking it and screaming, ‘Eleanor, you must let me in!’ She flung herself against the unyielding wood but only succeeded in bruising her shoulder. Frantically, she raced back downstairs, snatched up the telephone and put in an emergency call to Detective Chief Inspector Harris.

  ‘Please let me in,’ pleaded Melissa but there was no response from the other side of the door. She gave it another shove; it seemed to yield a little. By yanking it to and fro she at last managed to prise it open far enough to get an arm through the opening and dislodge the chair wedged under the handle. Throughout her struggles, there had been neither sound nor movement from Eleanor. Her heart thumping in dread of what she might see, Melissa stumbled into the room. It was empty.

  One window stood open a bare couple of inches and the others were closed; plainly, Eleanor
had not taken that way out. For a moment, Melissa was at a loss; then she spied another door in the corner. Of course! She must be hiding in the en suite bathroom. She went across and tapped softly at the door.

  ‘Eleanor? Are you in there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The voice was quiet but at least she was still alive and conscious. Melissa tried the handle but the door was locked.

  ‘Eleanor, listen to me. Don’t do anything foolish. Just let’s talk for a little while. Now, why don’t you come downstairs . . . ’

  ‘There isn’t time.’

  ‘What do you mean, there isn’t time? What have you done?’

  ‘It’s no use, Melissa. I can’t bear any more.’

  It seemed, from the direction of the sound, that Eleanor was lying on the floor. Melissa bent down to catch the words.

  ‘I can’t live with the nightmares,’ Eleanor faltered, her voice unsteady as a leaf blown in the wind. ‘Every time I close my eyes I see her face . . . she was crouching at the cupboard with her back to me and she turned round and straightened up just as the knife was coming down and it went into her throat. I’ll never forget the look on her face.’

  Melissa felt her knees buckle and her head began to swim from stooping. She slid to a sitting position on the floor, noticing as she did so the smear of mud from her shoes that soiled the thick, delicate carpet. As if that mattered at a moment like this . . . yet she found herself thinking that Rodney Shergold would have a fit when he saw it.

  Outside, a tractor rumbled past and an aircraft droned overhead. Nearby, a dog barked and a woman’s voice soothed it. A car door slammed; Harriet Yorke was preparing to go out. Melissa scrambled to her feet, rushed to the window and called out, but she was too late. The sound of the engine drowned her voice and in a moment the car had driven away.

  Feeling drained and utterly helpless, Melissa returned to her seat on the floor, certain now that nothing she could say would persuade Eleanor to come out, if indeed she was still capable of getting to her feet and unlocking the door. When the police came they would break it down. They must be here soon; it seemed an age to Melissa since she had called them, yet when she glanced at her watch she saw that it was barely five minutes. Surely, nothing that she had done to herself could have made her unconscious in such a short time.