A Lover Too Many

by Roy Lewis

  A personal quarrel? Something unconnected with work? Could be — there had been something strained about the silence that had fallen on his entry. But Bill was married; seven years married to a local girl. Peter seemed to remember hearing recently that Mrs Daly was expecting her second child soon. He recalled meeting Mrs Daly once. A small, dowdy woman who should make better of her appearance.

  Still, it was all none of his business.

  He heard Joan’s discreet tap on the door, and a moment later she entered.

  ‘These three letters came this morning: I’ve drafted replies to two of them.’

  He knew that he would simply have to sign them: they would be in order. Joan knew her job.

  ‘The third asks you to get in touch with Mr Corey at the Old Mill. There were two telephone calls. Both gentlemen said they would ring back.’

  ‘That’s fine, Joan. Look, I’ll sign these at once and then you can get them in the post this afternoon. Now, there was something I wanted you to do . . . ah yes, the Blair will. You remember Mrs Blair?’

  ‘At Cardington.’

  ‘Yes. Look, I think the document can now be taken over to her for explanation, and signature. Bill can do that. Perhaps you’d like to drive out with him, and then you two can act as witnesses to the signature. It’ll give you a chance to get out of the office for an hour or so, and it’s a pleasant drive.’

  ‘I’ve got rather a lot of work to do, Mr Marlin. Perhaps you could send one of the juniors.’

  Peter looked up in surprise.

  ‘Can’t it wait? It’s a nice afternoon, and I’d thought you’d welcome the chance to drive across to Cardington.’

  ‘I’d just as soon stay here,’ Joan said firmly. ‘With your permission I’ll ask Betty to go.’ Peter eyed her thoughtfully. Perhaps she didn’t want to spend an hour in the car with Bill. He shrugged.

  ‘Up to you, Joan.’

  She stood hesitantly at the desk facing him.

  ‘Did everything go all right this morning?’ she queried.

  ‘Ah-uh. I think the takeover will go through. The files are in my briefcase — perhaps you’ll stick them back in the drawer.’ Automatically, Joan reached for the briefcase. Her hand brushed against his, lightly. She still made no move to leave.

  ‘Mr Marlin,’ she said finally, in a quiet voice. ‘I’ve said nothing before . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘About . . . the last few weeks. Well, I’d just like you to know that I’m sorry about the whole thing, and, well, you know.’

  He knew. It had been rather pleasant, really, in view of all the condolences, often prying, that he had received, that Joan had said nothing but simply had carried on — not as though nothing had happened, but at least as though there were other things to think about.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Joan. I’ve appreciated your own sensitivity in the matter.’

  ‘I — I’ve also heard about the . . . discussion in Mr Stephen’s room yesterday. I gather that you will be leaving the firm, Mr Marlin.’ Peter stared at his hands.

  ‘It is rather more than probable.’

  ‘Have you decided what to do then? Will you be setting up in practice elsewhere? In some other town, perhaps?’

  There was a strange eagerness in her tone that he couldn’t fathom.

  ‘I really haven’t thought about it,’ he replied, somewhat puzzled.

  ‘You see,’ she said slowly, ‘when you leave, I will probably leave the firm also.’

  ‘Why on earth should you do that?’

  Her eyes were fixed on his and she was breathing somewhat quickly, and nervously.

  ‘Well, I’ve been working with you now for some years, and if I may say so, I’ve got used to you — and you’ve got used to me — and I think that I would just as soon leave the same time as you. And perhaps — perhaps join your firm when you are established.’

  ‘But Joan,’ he protested, ‘I’ve not even thought about what I should do yet. Everything’s happened so quickly — I’ve just not got round to making even the most tentative plans. But I don’t understand. Don’t you like working with the firm?’

  She was silent for a moment. Her eyes were grey-green: he’d never noticed before.

  Grey-green . . . and serious, with an underlying message for him that emphasised the meaning of her next words.

  ‘I have been extremely happy working here,’ she said. ‘But when you leave, there’ll be nothing to keep me here.’

  He hoped that he managed to keep the surprise out of his face. There was no mistaking her meaning. His male egotism was flattered by what she was saying, but the situation was difficult — if not impossible.

  Nor was it a situation that he wanted. It added yet another complication to his life. And yet . . . her lips were slightly parted, and there was a slight flush to her cheek. He had always thought her more than decorative . . .

  With a deliberate effort he kept his voice impersonal.

  ‘I couldn’t have wished for a better secretary, Joan, nor could I get a better one. But I haven’t decided what I’ll be doing yet. If you do leave the firm, and I need a secretary, I’ll certainly employ you. But in view of the uncertainty at the moment, I think you’d be best advised to hang on here.’

  He knew that he had mishandled it, but the words were out and they were cold and unfriendly in their tone and in their disregard of what she was really saying. They told her that he knew what she had been driving at — she had made her meaning clear enough — but that he was unprepared to accept a relationship with her other than the purely professional one they had enjoyed up to this moment.

  She handled the situation far better than he.

  ‘I see, Mr Marlin,’ she said softly, and with dignity. ‘I’ll get these papers filed away at once.’

  But after she had closed the door behind her he was still remembering the hurt look in her eyes. It was strange: for him, Joan Shaw had always possessed a sophistication and a professional, efficient approach to life that had made him feel that she would be incapable of being hurt. The memory of the look in her eyes told him now how wrong he was.

  The afternoon, which had started badly, continued in the same vein. He had occasion to go through Joan’s office twice during the next hour and each time he was aware of a strained, brightly cheerful attitude between them. It irritated him, for he felt very much in the wrong. At one point he thought that he even ought to apologise and perhaps suggest they meet for a drink that evening to talk the matter out.

  It was a thought he angrily rejected. He’d never given Joan any encouragement and he was annoyed that she should now put him in this position. It wasn’t that he didn’t find her attractive — he did. But — there were too many buts, and he didn’t intend to analyse them.

  His mood blackened as the afternoon wore on.

  It was four-thirty, and there was the end of a Land Commission problem on his desk that left him completely vulnerable to the surprise of an unexpected telephone call.

  The intercom buzzed and Joan’s cool voice said, ‘Mr Marlin, there’s a call for you. It’s Miss Walker. Shall I put her through?’

  ‘Miss Walker?’

  ‘Shall I put her through?’

  Somewhat dazed, Peter hurriedly agreed.

  A moment later Shirley’s husky voice was at the end of the line.

  ‘Peter? I must apologise for ringing you like this at the office. Something’s happened and I thought you should know about it. I rang you this morning but you were out . . . Peter?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m still here. It’s just that I was taken a little aback, hearing your voice. You were saying?’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘As I said, I’m sorry to ring you like this. But I received a visit this afternoon. From the police.’

  ‘The police! But—’

  ‘It was all very unpleasant. I was questioned . . . about you, and about Jeannette. Various inferences were drawn.’

  ‘I don’t underst
and.’

  ‘They know that you spent last night here, Peter.’

  The watch on Peter’s wrist sounded inordinately loud. Among the violent, whirling thoughts in his mind was an irrelevant one: had Joan left the line open in her office?

  ‘I don’t understand. Why should they come to see you about me and Jeannette? I’ve answered enough of their blasted questions and so have you. Why again, now?’

  ‘Not they — there was just one man. A new man. An Inspector Crow. He’s been called in, from Scotland Yard, apparently.’

  ‘There’s enough stuff on the whole thing down at the station,’ Peter protested, ‘to make it unnecessary for any further badgering to go on. And there’s certainly no need for them to bother you!’

  ‘I think that your appearance at my house last night has led them to think otherwise.’

  ‘Shirley,’ Peter said urgently. ‘I’m sorry it’s my fault — I didn’t apologise last night, nor this morning — but I do so now. I’ve behaved like a fool, and a coward, and worse. But this — leave it with me. I’ll get on to this at once.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Shall I ring you again — to let you know the outcome?’

  In the long pause that followed he almost thought that she had left the phone. When she finally replied her voice was low, but controlled.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

  He sat there dully for several minutes after she rang off. Then the anger returned and he reached for the intercom, to ask Joan to get the police station for him.

  It was unnecessary. Her voice came to him first.

  ‘Mr Marlin, there’s a gentleman in the outer office who wishes to see you.’

  She paused.

  ‘He gives his name as Inspector Crow.’

  * * *

  He was skeletal.

  In Peter’s experience there were occasionally men whose names summed up their appearance. Inspector Crow was one of them. He was over six feet in height, but could have weighed little more than nine or ten stone. His dark suit was well cut but hung on his thin frame carelessly. His domed head was hairless, his eyes deep-sunk, heavy-browed, his prominent nose jutted out from fleshless cheeks. From bony wrists were suspended narrow hands and thin, long fingers.

  But his eyes were young and lively, and he was not without a sense of humour.

  ‘You seem surprised at my appearance . . . in your office, Mr Marlin.’ The voice also possessed a youthful quality. ‘May I sit down?’

  Peter came to himself.

  ‘Please do, Inspector Crow. Yes . . . your visit is opportune. I was about to ring you at the station.’

  ‘To complain?’

  ‘I see no reason why you should have bothered Miss Walker.’

  ‘Or yourself.’

  ‘As you say.’

  Inspector Crow smiled thinly. ‘I feel sad that I have to differ, Mr Marlin, but perhaps I should explain the situation. You see I have been called in to assist the local police in the investigation into your wife’s death and while I have every confidence in their individual and collective ability in general matters my experience forces me to presuppose that the best way of obtaining relevant information is to get it myself, in person.’

  ‘This is nonsense. It means that we have to go through the whole thing again.’

  ‘Not precisely so, Mr Marlin. I have already read through the reports and voluminous material assiduously collected by the local police engaged on the case, but there are just a few points of detail I need to acquaint myself with, and a few people to see. Like yourself—’

  ‘And Miss Walker?’

  ‘And Miss Walker.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you feel it necessary to subject her to further questioning.’

  Inspector Crow spread his bony hands. ‘One never knows what may be found. It is in questioning people that one sometimes finds activation for the crime, for instance.’

  Peter stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘You surely don’t suspect me of murdering my wife?’

  Crow was looking at him quizzically, and Peter realised the inference in the involuntary remark that he had made.

  ‘They were your words, Mr Marlin,’ commented Crow quietly.

  ‘There is nothing between me and Miss Walker,’ said Peter doggedly. ‘It was over a long time ago — when my wife returned.’

  ‘Yes . . . and last night?’

  ‘There is nothing between Miss Walker and myself. I have no doubt she will have already explained what happened last night.’

  ‘Quite adequately.’

  Inspector Crow’s eyes watched him lazily. ‘Would you like to give me a brief account of your movements the evening of your wife’s death, Mr Marlin?’

  ‘I would not. It’s on record already but in the circumstances, Inspector, I’ll repeat myself. I was working late here at the office — a fact that Miss Shaw will verify—’

  ‘Ah yes, Miss Shaw . . .’

  ‘—and when I left here, at nine-thirty, I locked up.’

  ‘Miss Shaw had left previously?’

  ‘Yes. I then—’

  ‘Did you see Miss Shaw leave?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Did you see her at the office that evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How is it that she saw you but you did not see her?’

  Peter sighed patiently.

  ‘My office is on the first floor. Miss Shaw works in the ante-room to my office. Directly outside her door are the stairs leading to the second floor. At the top of the flight is a glass-panelled door leading into the room where we keep all our bound copies of statutes and law reports. They are too bulky and numerous to be kept in the offices, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘On the evening in question I had gone up to the library to look up some authorities on a case that I had to prepare for counsel. I was stuck in there all evening. It would seem that Joan Shaw was also working late, though I didn’t realise it at the time. She saw the light in the library, and she saw my shadow on the glass. She would have known if I had left the library for I would have had to come down the stairs and past her office.’

  ‘Yes. She had made the point in her statement, as I remember.’

  ‘Then why bother me again? All I can say is that she saw me here, and the times she gives in her statement make it obvious that I am telling the truth when I say I left here and drove straight home to find my house in darkness — and my wife dead.’

  ‘In the sitting-room.’

  The gaunt frame of Inspector Crow hunched forward as he prodded Peter for more details — then abruptly he changed his line of questioning.

  ‘Tell me about your wife — when she was alive, I mean.’

  It was all familiar, painful ground. Peter Marlin frowned.

  ‘She was young, beautiful, vivacious — and I was far too dull for her. We quarrelled a great deal. I loved her.’

  ‘And she left you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Only to return to you again after . . . what was it . . . seven months?’

  ‘Almost to the day.’

  Crow raised bushy eyebrows.

  ‘And what sort of existence did you two lead thereafter?’

  ‘We lived — as the coroner put it — reasonably amicably after that.’

  ‘In spite of Miss Walker.’

  ‘Jeannette knew about it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Her return ended it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m a busy man, Inspector Crow.’

  ‘And a very succinct one, Mr Marlin.’

  ‘It comes of a great deal of questioning. Answers become stock ones.’

  Inspector Crow smiled and his deep-sunk eyes looked happy.

  ‘But faces reflect feelings, and character, that words do not, Mr Marlin. Which is one reason why I came to see you — and Miss Walker.’

  He rose to his feet.

  ‘However, that will do
for now. I thank you for the brief minutes you have given me. They’ve been instructive. Er . . . you never discovered where your wife went, when she left you?’

  ‘No. It was of no consequence. She returned.’

  ‘I agree. We have looked into the matter closely. It was of no consequence.’

  At the door his skeletal figure paused.

  ‘I hear you may soon be leaving this firm, Mr Marlin.’ His smile was as benign — as his narrow features would allow. ‘Please remain in touch with us.’

  ‘Why?’

  It was a stupid question. Inspector Crow was no longer smiling.

  ‘Because there is much in this investigation that puzzles me. And I would hate to lose touch with one of the major actors in the scenario. It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Marlin — but just one more favour. May I take up a little of your secretary’s time?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Peter coldly.

  Inspector Crow disappeared into the outer office. Peter sat down. He felt strangely uneasy. It was an uncomfortable feeling that was not dispelled by his telling himself that he had nothing to worry about.

  And this in itself was worrying.

  * * *

  By five-thirty Peter was acutely depressed. He made little attempt to analyse the reasons for his depression; he was aware that it was only partly caused by the questioning of Inspector Crow, and the re-emergence of all the anxiety surrounding Jeannette’s death. There was also Shirley’s call — and the coolness of her tone. Yet she had taken the trouble to ring him, and warn him. That must mean something. Her final words had been pretty final, nevertheless.

  Five-thirty. He realised that he had been sitting here in the leather chair for forty-five minutes, saying nothing, seeing nothing, doing nothing. He had a slight headache. Time to go home.

  Home . . . Perhaps it would be a good thing, after all, to leave the firm. He could get away from this town and the house and its memories. Maybe he could start his own firm, somewhere else: life could well be a little difficult to begin with, but things would sort themselves out in time.