‘Medium height, slight build, wore a dark overcoat and a light hat, spoke in a whisper, his face was hidden by a muffler. You see—that might be anybody.’ He paused and added, ‘There are three dark overcoats and light hats hanging up in your hall here, Mrs Davis.’
‘I don’t think any of these people came from London.’
‘Didn’t they, Mrs Davis?’ With a swift movement Sergeant Trotter moved to the dresser and picked up a newspaper.
‘The Evening Standard of February 19th. Two days ago. Someone brought that paper here, Mrs Davis.’
‘But how extraordinary.’ Molly stared, some faint chord of memory stirred. ‘Where can that paper have come from?’
‘You mustn’t take people always at their face value, Mrs Davis. You don’t really know anything about these people you have admitted to your house.’ He added, ‘I take it you and Mr Davis are new to the guesthouse business?’
‘Yes, we are,’ Molly admitted. She felt suddenly young, foolish, and childish.
‘You haven’t been married long, perhaps, either?’
‘Just a year.’ She blushed slightly. ‘It was all rather sudden.’
‘Love at first sight,’ said Sergeant Trotter sympathetically.
Molly felt quite unable to snub him. ‘Yes,’ she said, and added in a burst of confidence, ‘we’d only known each other a fortnight.’
Her thoughts went back over those fourteen days of whirlwind courtship. There hadn’t been any doubts—they had both known. In a worrying, nerve-racked world, they had found the miracle of each other. A little smile came to her lips.
She came back to the present to find Sergeant Trotter eying her indulgently.
‘Your husband doesn’t come from these parts, does he?’
‘No,’ said Molly vaguely. ‘He comes from Lincolnshire.’
She knew very little of Giles’s childhood and upbringing. His parents were dead, and he always avoided talking about his early days. He had had, she fancied, an unhappy childhood.
‘You’re both very young, if I may say so, to run a place of this kind,’ said Sergeant Trotter.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m twenty-two and—’
She broke off as the door opened and Giles came in.
‘Everything’s all set. I’ve given them a rough outline,’ he said. ‘I hope that’s all right, Sergeant?’
‘Saves time,’ said Trotter. ‘Are you ready, Mrs Davis?’
Four voices spoke at once as Sergeant Trotter entered the library.
Highest and shrillest was that of Christopher Wren declaring that this was too, too thrilling and he wasn’t going to sleep a wink tonight, and please, please could we have all the gory details?
A kind of double-bass accompaniment came from Mrs Boyle. ‘Absolute outrage—sheer incompetence—police have no business to let murderers go roaming about the countryside.’
Mr Paravicini was eloquent chiefly with his hands. His gesticulations were more eloquent than his words, which were drowned by Mrs Boyle’s double bass. Major Metcalf could be heard in an occasional short staccato bark. He was asking for facts.
Trotter waited a moment or two, then he held up an authoritative hand and, rather surprisingly, there was silence.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, Mr Davis has given you an outline of why I’m here. I want to know one thing, and one thing only, and I want to know it quick. Which of you has some connection with the Longridge Farm case?’
The silence was unbroken. Four blank faces looked at Sergeant Trotter. The emotions of a few moments back—excitement, indignation, hysteria, inquiry, were wiped away as a sponge wipes out the chalk marks on a slate.
Sergeant Trotter spoke again, more urgently. ‘Please understand me. One of you, we have reason to believe, is in danger—deadly danger. I have got to know which one of you it is!’
And still no one spoke or moved.
Something like anger came into Trotter’s voice. ‘Very well—I’ll ask you one by one. Mr Paravicini?’
A very faint smile flickered across Mr Paravicini’s face. He raised his hands in a protesting foreign gesture.
‘But I am a stranger in these parts, Inspector. I know nothing, but nothing, of these local affairs of bygone years.’
Trotter wasted no time. He snapped out, ‘Mrs Boyle?’
‘Really I don’t see why—I mean—why should I have anything to do with such a distressing business?’
‘Mr Wren?’
Christopher said shrilly, ‘I was a mere child at the time. I don’t remember even hearing about it.’
‘Major Metcalf?’
The Major said abruptly, ‘Read about it in the papers. I was stationed at Edinburgh at the time.’
‘That’s all you have to say—any of you?’
Silence again.
Trotter gave an exasperated sigh. ‘If one of you gets murdered,’ he said, ‘you’ll only have yourself to blame.’ He turned abruptly and went out of the room.
‘My dears,’ said Christopher. ‘How melodramatic!’ He added, ‘He’s very handsome, isn’t he? I do admire the police. So stern and hard-boiled. Quite a thrill, this whole business. “Three Blind Mice.” How does the tune go?’
He whistled the air softly, and Molly cried out involuntarily, ‘Don’t!’
He whirled round on her and laughed. ‘But, darling,’ he said, ‘it’s my signature tune. I’ve never been taken for a murderer before and I’m getting a tremendous kick out of it!’
‘Melodramatic rubbish,’ said Mrs Boyle. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
Christopher’s light eyes danced with an impish mischief. ‘But just wait, Mrs Boyle,’ he lowered his voice, ‘till I creep up behind you and you feel my hands round your throat.’
Molly flinched.
Giles said angrily, ‘You’re upsetting my wife, Wren. It’s a damned poor joke, anyway.’
‘It’s no joking matter,’ said Metcalf.
‘Oh, but it is,’ said Christopher. ‘That’s just what it is—a madman’s joke. That’s what makes it so deliciously macabre.’
He looked round at them and laughed again. ‘If you could just see your faces,’ he said.
Then he went swiftly out of the room.
Mrs Boyle recovered first. ‘A singularly ill-mannered and neurotic young man,’ she said. ‘Probably a conscientious objector.’
‘He tells me he was buried during an air raid for forty-eight hours before being dug out,’ said Major Metcalf. ‘That accounts for a good deal, I daresay.’
‘People have so many excuses for giving way to nerves,’ said Mrs Boyle acidly. ‘I’m sure I went through as much as anybody in the war, and my nerves are all right.’
‘Perhaps that’s just as well for you, Mrs Boyle,’ said Metcalf.
‘What do you mean?’
Major Metcalf said quietly, ‘I think you were actually the billeting officer for this district in 1940, Mrs Boyle.’ He looked at Molly who gave a grave nod. ‘That is so, isn’t it?’
An angry flush appeared on Mrs Boyle’s face. ‘What of it?’ she demanded.
Metcalf said gravely, ‘You were responsible for sending three children to Longridge Farm.’
‘Really, Major Metcalf, I don’t see how I can be held responsible for what happened. The Farm people seemed very nice and were most anxious to have the children. I don’t see that I was to blame in any way—or that I can be held responsible—’ Her voice trailed off.
Giles said sharply, ‘Why didn’t you tell Sergeant Trotter this?’
‘No business of the police,’ snapped Mrs Boyle. ‘I can look after myself.’
Major Metcalf said quietly, ‘You’d better watch out.’
Then he, too, left the room.
Molly murmured, ‘Of course, you were the billeting officer. I remember.’
‘Molly, did you know?’ Giles stared at her.
‘You had the big house on the common, didn’t you?’
‘Requisitioned,’ said Mrs Boyle. ‘And c
ompletely ruined,’ she added bitterly. ‘Devastated. Iniquitous.’
Then, very softly, Mr Paravicini began to laugh. He threw his head back and laughed without restraint.
‘You must forgive me,’ he gasped. ‘But, indeed, I find all this most amusing. I enjoy myself—yes, I enjoy myself greatly.’
Sergeant Trotter re-entered the room at that moment. He threw a glance of disapproval at Mr Paravicini. ‘I’m glad,’ he said acidly, ‘that everyone finds this so funny.’
‘I apologize, my dear Inspector. I do apologize. I am spoiling the effect of your solemn warning.’
Sergeant Trotter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve done my best to make the position clear,’ he said. ‘And I’m not an inspector. I’m only a sergeant. I’d like to use the telephone, please, Mrs Davis.’
‘I abase myself,’ said Mr Paravicini. ‘I creep away.’
Far from creeping, he left the room with that jaunty and youthful step that Molly had noticed before.
‘He’s an odd fish,’ said Giles.
‘Criminal type,’ said Trotter. ‘Wouldn’t trust him a yard.’
‘Oh,’ said Molly. ‘You think he—but he’s far too old—Or is he old at all? He uses makeup—quite a lot of it. And his walk is young. Perhaps, he’s made up to look old. Sergeant Trotter, do you think—’
Sergeant Trotter snubbed her severely. ‘We shan’t get anywhere with unprofitable speculation, Mrs Davis,’ he said. ‘I must report to Superintendent Hogben.’
He crossed to the telephone.
‘But you can’t,’ said Molly. ‘The telephone’s dead.’
‘What?’ Trotter swung round.
The sharp alarm in his voice impressed them all. ‘Dead? Since when?’
‘Major Metcalf tried it just before you came.’
‘But it was all right before that. You got Superintendent Hogben’s message?’
‘Yes. I suppose—since ten—the line’s down—with the snow.’
But Trotter’s face remained grave. ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘It may have been—cut.’
Molly stared. ‘You think so?’
‘I’m going to make sure.’
He hurried out of the room. Giles hesitated, then went after him.
Molly exclaimed, ‘Good heavens! Nearly lunchtime, I must get on—or we’ll have nothing to eat.’
As she rushed from the room, Mrs Boyle muttered, ‘Incompetent chit! What a place. I shan’t pay seven guineas for this kind of thing.’
Sergeant Trotter bent down, following the wires. He asked Giles, ‘Is there an extension?’
‘Yes, in our bedroom upstairs. Shall I go up and see there?’
‘If you please.’
Trotter opened the window and leaned out, brushing snow from the sill. Giles hurried up the stairs.
Mr Paravicini was in the big drawing room. He went across to the grand piano and opened it. Sitting on the music stool, he picked out a tune softly with one finger.
Three Blind Mice,
See how they run. . . .
Christopher Wren was in his bedroom. He moved about it, whistling briskly. Suddenly the whistle wavered and died. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob. He murmured childishly, ‘I can’t go on.’
Then his mood changed. He stood up, squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve got to go on,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go through with it.’
Giles stood by the telephone in his and Molly’s room. He bent down towards the skirting. One of Molly’s gloves lay there. He picked it up. A pink bus ticket dropped out of it. Giles stood looking down at it as it fluttered to the ground. Watching it, his face changed. It might have been a different man who walked slowly, as though in a dream, to the door, opened it, and stood a moment peering along the corridor towards the head of the stairs.
Molly finished the potatoes, threw them into the pot, and set the pot on the fire. She glanced into the oven. Everything was all set, going according to plan.
On the kitchen table was the two-day-old copy of the Evening Standard. She frowned as she looked at it. If she could only just remember—
Suddenly her hands went to her eyes. ‘Oh, no,’ said Molly. ‘Oh, no!’
Slowly she took her hands away. She looked round the kitchen like someone looking at a strange place. So warm and comfortable and spacious, with its faint savory smell of cooking.
‘Oh, no,’ she said again under her breath.
She moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, towards the door into the hall. She opened it. The house was silent except for someone whistling.
That tune—
Molly shivered and retreated. She waited a minute or two, glancing once more round the familiar kitchen. Yes, everything was in order and progressing. She went once more towards the kitchen door.
Major Metcalf came quietly down the back stairs. He waited a moment or two in the hall, then he opened the big cupboard under the stairs and peered in. Everything seemed quiet. Nobody about. As good a time as any to do what he had set out to do—
Mrs Boyle, in the library, turned the knobs of the radio with some irritation.
Her first attempt had brought her into the middle of a talk on the origin and significance of nursery rhymes. The last thing she wanted to hear. Twirling impatiently, she was informed by a cultured voice: ‘The psychology of fear must be thoroughly understood. Say you are alone in a room. A door opens softly behind you—’
A door did open.
Mrs Boyle, with a violent start, turned sharply. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said with relief. ‘Idiotic programs they have on this thing. I can’t find anything worth listening to!’
‘I shouldn’t bother to listen, Mrs Boyle.’
Mrs Boyle snorted. ‘What else is there for me to do?’ she demanded. ‘Shut up in a house with a possible murderer—not that I believe that melodramatic story for a moment—’
‘Don’t you, Mrs Boyle?’
‘Why—what do you mean—’
The belt of the raincoat was slipped round her neck so quickly that she hardly realized its significance. The knob of the radio amplifier was turned higher. The lecturer on the psychology of fear shouted his learned remarks into the room and drowned what incidental noises there were attendant on Mrs Boyle’s demise.
But there wasn’t much noise.
The killer was too expert for that.
They were all huddled in the kitchen. On the gas cooker the potatoes bubbled merrily. The savory smell from the oven of steak and kidney pie was stronger than ever.
Four shaken people stared at each other, the fifth, Molly, white and shivering, sipped at the glass of whisky that the sixth, Sergeant Trotter, had forced her to drink.
Sergeant Trotter himself, his face set and angry, looked round at the assembled people. Just five minutes had elapsed since Molly’s terrified screams had brought him and the others racing to the library.
‘She’d only just been killed when you got to her, Mrs Davis,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you didn’t see or hear anybody as you came across the hall?’
‘Whistling,’ said Molly faintly. ‘But that was earlier. I think—I’m not sure—I think I heard a door shut—softly, somewhere—just as I—as I—went into the library.’
‘Which door?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Think, Mrs Davis—try and think—upstairs—downstairs—right, left?’
‘I don’t know, I tell you,’ cried Molly. ‘I’m not even sure I heard anything.’
‘Can’t you stop bullying her?’ said Giles angrily. ‘Can’t you see she’s all in?’
‘I’m investigating a murder, Mr Davis—I beg your pardon—Commander Davis.’
‘I don’t use my war rank, Sergeant.’
‘Quite so, sir.’ Trotter paused, as though he had made some subtle point. ‘As I say, I’m investigating a murder. Up to now nobody has taken this thing seriously. Mrs Boyle didn’t. She held out on me with information. You all held out on me. Well, Mrs Boyle is dead. Unl
ess we get to the bottom of this—and quickly, mind, there may be another death.’
‘Another? Nonsense. Why?’
‘Because,’ said Sergeant Trotter gravely, ‘there were three little blind mice.’
Giles said incredulously, ‘A death for each of them? But there would have to be a connection—I mean another connection with the case.’
‘Yes, there would have to be that.’
‘But why another death here?’
‘Because there were only two addresses in the notebook. There was only one possible victim at Seventy-Four Culver Street. She’s dead. But at Monkswell Manor there is a wider field.’
‘Nonsense, Trotter. It would be a most unlikely coincidence that there should be two people brought here by chance, both of them with a share in the Longridge Farm case.’
‘Given certain circumstances, it wouldn’t be so much of a coincidence. Think it out, Mr Davis.’ He turned towards the others. ‘I’ve had your accounts of where you all were when Mrs Boyle was killed. I’ll check them over. You were in your room, Mr Wren, when you heard Mrs Davis scream?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Mr Davis, you were upstairs in your bedroom examining the telephone extension there?’
‘Yes,’ said Giles.
‘Mr Paravicini was in the drawing room playing tunes on the piano. Nobody heard you, by the way, Mr Paravicini?’
‘I was playing very, very softly, Sergeant, just with one finger.’
‘What tune was it?’
‘“Three Blind Mice,” Sergeant.’ He smiled. ‘The same tune that Mr Wren was whistling upstairs. The tune that’s running through everybody’s head.’
‘It’s a horrid tune,’ said Molly.
‘How about the telephone wire?’ asked Metcalf. ‘Was it deliberately cut?’
‘Yes, Major Metcalf. A section had been cut out just outside the dining room window—I had just located the break when Mrs Davis screamed.’
‘But it’s crazy. How can he hope to get away with it?’ demanded Christopher shrilly.
The sergeant measured him carefully with his eye.
‘Perhaps he doesn’t very much care about that,’ he said. ‘Or again, he may be quite sure he’s too clever for us. Murderers get like that.’ He added, ‘We take a psychology course, you know, in our training. A schizophrenic’s mentality is very interesting.’
Midwinter Murder Page 5