The Colour of Murder

by Julian Symons

  “No help.” A shudder passed through me which I was unable to control. “I met Barney Colter in that club of yours. He picked a quarrel with me. I got thrown down the stairs. You’ll probably hear about it next time you go in, so you may as well know now.”

  Uncle Dan had his long nose stuck in the brandy glass. He lifted it out, stared at me, stuck it back again, raised the glass and tossed off the brandy at a gulp. “Troubled waters,” he said obscurely. “Haven’t seen Barney Colter in a couple of years. What did you fight about?”

  I told him what had happened. It seemed absurd as I told it.

  “Give you a bit of advice, Johnny boy.” Uncle Dan stared at his socks, dark blue with red clocks on them. “Cut it out. These little clubs and girls with lipstick and all that. Sorry I ever took you along to the old Five O’Clock Shadow. Doesn’t suit you, that kind of life. You just stay home, sit tight.”

  “That isn’t what you said last time. And only a few minutes ago you said May was a terrible woman.”

  “So she is, boy. I still think you’ve got to put up with her. You’re the respectable type and that’s all there is to it. But let’s talk about it over an honest glass of beer. I can see they want to get rid of us here.”

  He paid the bill, except for the two brandies, and we went out into the June sunshine. I looked at Uncle Dan and felt a sudden revulsion from him, his foxy look and narrow grey head and pointed shoes. “Do you mind if we don’t have that beer just now?” I said. “I’m pretty full.”

  “’Course not, my boy. Feel all right? Let’s get a couple of deck-chairs.”

  “I want to think things out,” I said vaguely. “I’ll just go for a walk alone, an hour or so. We’ll meet later on.”

  It took a lot to disconcert Uncle Dan, and he wasn’t put out now. “Right you are, me boy. I shall just go down on the beach, get a deck-chair, put a newspaper over my face and have a nap. No offence, I trust.”

  “No, it was a wonderful lunch. Just that I want to be alone. Let’s meet at, say, half past six, at – where do you think?”

  “The Lord Providence in West Street is a cosy little pub. Don’t know what May will think of it, though.”

  “I’ll see you there, anyway. What time are you going back?”

  “Last train’s good enough for me. And if I happen to meet some nice little filly – well, Dan’s your uncle.” He gave me a prodigious wink, raised his hand and went down the steps to the beach.

  Chapter Twenty

  Now that I was alone I felt extremely light-hearted, almost irresponsible. I knew beyond doubt what I meant to do. I walked along the front, turned down Little North Street, pushed upon the swing-doors of the Langland and strode inside. There was nobody in the hall. I beat a little tattoo on the bell, and the slick-haired young man I had seen before came in.

  I said boldly, “Miss Morton?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s expecting you, no doubt. Room 23, on the first floor.”

  I nodded and walked up the stairs, feeling as if there were springs in my heels. I heard a murmur of voices from Room 23. A party perhaps? I tapped lightly on the door and opened it.

  There were four people in the room, but the first thing I was conscious of was the old man in bed. He lay propped high by pillows, a grey-faced man with streaks of red mixed with the grey, his thin hands moving upon the sheets in front of him, his breathing uneasy. A yellow bed-jacket round his shoulders made the grey of his face particularly noticeable. Had I come into the wrong room? Then I looked at the other people there and saw Sheila, but a Sheila so pale, worn, harassed, that I did not immediately recognise her. I saw also an old man, grave, elegant, goatishly bearded, with a black bag, and a young one with familiar face, fair and chunky with crew-cut hair. It took me a moment or two to realise that the old man must be a doctor and that the young one was an old acquaintance, Sheila’s cousin, Bill Lonergan.

  I say a moment or two, and although the time before Sheila spoke could only have been measured in seconds, the scene was fixed in my mind, Sheila staring at me haggard and wide-eyed, Bill Lonergan with his thick brows creased in a frown as though I represented some problem, the old man apathetic, the doctor gravely inquiring.

  Then Sheila spoke. Her voice was not friendly. “John Wilkins. What are you doing here?”

  “Isn’t this – ?” the doctor began.

  The answer was sharp, though obscure. “It certainly isn’t.”

  Bill Lonergan came forward, smiling, brows relaxed, hand extended to grip mine firmly. “If it’s not Johnny Wilkins. You remember me, don’t you? Good to see you again.”

  I said apologetically, “They told me in the hall to come straight up.”

  “They thought you were somebody else,” Sheila said. “My father is ill, as you can see for yourself. Doctor Burrows says he must be spared any excitement.”

  The doctor nodded his neat head and spoke precisely, in a rather high goatish voice. “That is so, yes, excitement should be avoided as much as ever possible.”

  “I’m sorry.” I turned to go, but now the man in the bed spoke complainingly.

  “Wilkins, did somebody say Wilkins? Is that Geoffrey Wilkins’ son?”

  “My father was Geoffrey Wilkins.”

  “How very interesting. Please come to the bedside. Sheila, where are my spectacles?”

  “But, Father –”

  “Now now, it will not excite me to talk to this young man for five minutes, will it, Doctor Burrows?” The doctor moved his head non-committally. “You have dragged me down to this atrocious place, a journey which there can be no doubt has caused the heart condition from which I am suffering. It is hard if an old man cannot say a few words to somebody in what may be the last hours of his life. Where are my spectacles?”

  “Here.” Sheila gave them to him, sat down in a chair and began to cry quietly. I approached the bed.

  “Sit down.” His voice had a kind of whining impatience. “So you’re young John who used to be the apple of your father’s eye. I haven’t seen you since you were, let me see, five years old. We were great friends, your father and I.”

  I sat in a chair by the bedside, uncomfortably conscious of Sheila’s sobs behind me. I remembered now that I had sometimes heard my father mention Morton, Morton the timber merchant, when I was small. Then his name had dropped out of conversation, and by the time I was seven or eight I never heard it.

  “Great friends.” A little saliva appeared at the corner of his mouth and he wiped it away. “I want my teeth, where are my teeth?”

  Sheila produced teeth from a cup and handed them to him. The old man fitted them in, giving a push of the thumb that produced a final click. “Better.” Indeed, his voice did sound clearer and his face appeared buttressed by the teeth, as though a support had been added to an uncertain building. “Remember you well, little Jim.”

  “John.”

  “Your father now, he was a stubborn man. Headstrong, you might almost say foolish. A clever man, I grant you that, but his own worst enemy. Couldn’t recognise a chance when he saw one. Know the pond?”

  “The pond?” It seemed to me that the old man’s mind was wandering.

  “The big pond on the Common, island in the middle.”

  Doctor Burrows gave a deprecating cough. “I don’t think there’s anything further I can do usefully at the moment. I shall be in again tomorrow morning.”

  The sick man’s attention was distracted from me immediately. “Am I going to die, Doctor?” he whined.

  The doctor tittered. “We are all going to die, Mr Morton, all in our time. But you look after yourself, do what this young lady tells you, ten more minutes’ talk at the most, don’t try to get out of bed or any of that nonsense, avoid excitement, remember the ticker mustn’t be strained. Now a word with you, my dear young lady.”

  Sheila and Bill Lonergan followed him out of the room. The sick man moved uneasily. “Pillow’s not comfortable.” I changed its position, and as I did so my fingers touched his shoulders,
thin as knives. “They think I’m dying, that doctor thinks I’m dying, and so does Sheila. Why else is young Bill here, come to pay his last respects to his old uncle, I’ve got nobody else. But I’m not dead yet.”

  “That’s right,” I said, for the sake of something to say.

  His watery eyes looked at me uncertainly. “You’re young Wilkins, hasn’t Sheila mentioned you?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know.”

  “She’s been a good girl to her old father. I’ve been nothing but a trouble to her for the last five years. I shall leave her comfortably, tell you that.” The watery eyes fixed me for a moment. “Not like your father.”

  I was surprised. “What’s that?”

  There was a faint whistling sound in his breathing. “The pond on the Common. Remember one evening we walked round it together. Your dad had you with him, little fellow, trotted about and then threw stones in. I was hard up for money, wanted your dad to come into the business, put in some money, take a share of the profits. Good share of them. He wouldn’t do it.”

  “He made a mistake.” I said it for something to say. Why had my father refused, I wondered? Probably from inherent laziness, for he could not at that time have had any money difficulties.

  “Didn’t recognise a chance when he saw one. Ended up with nothing, for all his big house in Kincaid Square. And me – I’m comfortable, I’ve told you that.” The whistle in his throat became worse, he stretched out a hand that trembled. “Pills in that bottle. Give me two.”

  They were tiny pink pills. I gave him two which he took with a sip of water. I went to the door. Sheila, Bill Lonergan and another man were talking in the corridor. I called Sheila.

  She came running, and went over to the bedside. “Daddy, are you all right?”

  He groaned slightly, and smiled at her with what seemed to me an assumed feebleness.

  “I gave him two of those pills.”

  “You’ve been making him talk too much,” she said angrily, and then spoke to him quietly. “Daddy, Doctor Burrows says you need complete rest. He’s sending in a nurse for tonight, but of course I’ll be here too and she can call me if there’s anything you want.”

  He groaned again. “Nothing but a bother. Better dead.” He was ill, no doubt, but I gathered the impression that he did not feel as ill as he sounded.

  “You’re not to say that,” she said passionately. “And you’re not to talk any more. Say goodbye, John.”

  “Goodbye, Mr Morton.” I took the thin, dry, unresponsive hand. He murmured something unintelligible.

  Sheila walked across the room with me. “I shouldn’t have said that about making him talk, it wasn’t your fault. How did you happen to come along here?”

  “I’m staying in Brighton for a few days and remembered you were going to be here.” She seemed to accept this without question. We reached the door and I opened it. Outside Bill Lonergan was standing talking to the other man I had already noticed.

  “You’ve met each other,” Sheila said. “John Wilkins, Leslie Jackson. But I don’t suppose you know that Leslie and I became engaged last week.”

  The man with Bill Lonergan was the big blond I had met at the tennis club, the man who had played in the doubles. And Sheila was engaged to him. I couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t take it in, though I noticed now the glitter of diamonds on the third finger of her left hand. I stared from one to the other of them, waiting for them to tell me what kind of a joke they were playing.

  The silence must have been awkward. Sheila said, “That was why you were let in straight away, you see. They were expecting Leslie. He’s come down from London.”

  “I see.” My tongue felt thick in my mouth as I spoke. “I must congratulate you both.”

  Jackson ignored my congratulations and spoke to Sheila. “Is your father worse?”

  “I don’t think so, he’s just been talking too much. He’s very ill though.”

  “Is it heart trouble?” I asked.

  “Yes, he had a heart attack on Saturday night, and nearly died then. Doctor Burrows says if he has another–” She did not complete the sentence. “Goodbye, John.”

  I took her hand, and did not let it go. That must have looked strange. Bill Lonergan said, “Come on out and have a drink, Johnny. What about you, Sheila, you must be worn out.”

  She withdrew her hand from mine, shook her head. “I can’t go out until the nurse comes. Then I shall go for a walk. On my own. I want to get away from everybody and everything.” In her voice there was for the first time the sound of strain. Jackson put his large hand on her white arm. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I must sit with daddy now.”

  She went into the room, Jackson beside her, and closed the door. She did not give me a backward glance.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “God, how I hate sickrooms.” Bill Lonergan shivered a little. “Let’s have a pint to take the taste away.”

  We walked along the front, went into a small pub called the Lock and Key, where he ordered beer for himself and whisky for me. I remembered that he had always been a great beer drinker.

  “It’s rough on Sheila, poor kid. The old boy’s had it, you know, that’s why I’m down here.”

  “What do you mean?” I just couldn’t seem to take in anything.

  “He won’t last more than a couple of days, the doc thinks. So Sheila got in touch with me up in Brum. I work up there for Welding and Laycock, constructional engineers, you’ve heard of them. She told me my presence was required down here pronto.”

  “Your presence?”

  “Sure, the old man hasn’t got any near relatives except Sheila, I’m the nearest. We haven’t told him why I’m here, said I had to come down south on a job, but it’s my bet he guessed. He knows he’s going, had a bad heart for years. It’s rough on Sheila, bringing him down here, must be feeling bad about it.”

  “Yes.”

  “You known her long? She used to come and watch the school cricket.”

  “She told me that, but I don’t remember her.” I ordered another drink and passed my hand across my forehead.

  “You’re looking a bit under the weather yourself. Down here for a holiday?” His square face, pale, with freckles on the nose, expressed friendly concern.

  “Yes.”

  “Wife with you? You’re married, that’s right, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. My wife is with me.”

  “I haven’t got hitched yet.” He laughed as if he had made a joke, and perhaps he had. “How did it happen that you walked in on Sheila? Keen on her?”

  “I–” There was a choking feeling in my throat. I took a sip of whisky, and felt better.

  “You don’t have to tell me. Just the way you looked when she said she was engaged to Jackson was enough. As if you’d been hit on the head, and not gently either.” His laughter was buoyant, zestful. “Don’t like his type, do you?”

  I gulped some whisky. “He’s not good enough for her.”

  Bill Lonergan swilled beer round in his glass thoughtfully. Drops spilled on the table top where we sat, a small puddle formed. “Sheila’s a sweet girl, sweet as they come. Take that from me, I’ve known her since she was a kid. Trouble with her is she can’t say no. Don’t get me wrong there, I don’t mean she’s been with a lot of men or anything like that, she’s not that kind. I just mean she hates to say no. You say to her come out on the river, Sheila, she won’t like to say no if she doesn’t want to. She’ll say I can’t come this weekend, I’ve got to look after father. All right, you say, what about next weekend? That’s no good, I’ve got a date to play tennis. The weekend after that, then? And she smiles and says that would be lovely. You think that means she really wants to go on the river, you’d be wrong. She just hates to say no, disappoint people. I know, I’ve had some.”

  “So have I.” I remembered the theatre and afterwards, the touch of my lips on her cheek and her low voice asking me to take her home. I began to laugh.

  “Yo
u really were sweet on Sheila, I can tell that. So was I. Don’t mind telling you we were as good as engaged at one time. At least that’s what I thought.” He rubbed his nose, grinned. “Now I think it was just that she couldn’t say no. I’m not really the marrying kind anyway. But you’re married. Did Sheila know that, now?”

  “Yes, she did.” Now, again, I found myself saying things which were untrue, yet which even now I can hardly seriously consider as lies, because after all one tells lies for a purpose, and there was no purpose in the tales which I told. “Or rather, found it out after we’d been out together a few times. If it hadn’t been for that–” I found a full glass of golden whisky in front of me, and took a drink from it.

  “Yes.”

  “It was a great shock to Sheila when she found out I was married. Before that she’d been – I don’t mind saying she’d been pretty keen about me. Couldn’t keep her away as a matter of fact, always after me to take her out. Shouldn’t have done it, I know, but my wife’s a bitch.”

  “Not so loud.”

  “What’s that?” I stared at Bill Lonergan, noticing that on his forehead and freckled nose there were beads of sweat. There were only half a dozen people in the bar, but one or two of them were looking at us.

  “I think I ought to go back to the hotel.”

  “One for the road.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yes.” Silver came from my pocket, shone on the bar counter, several pieces from which the barman picked two. “A bitch. No good, you know what I mean. Now, Sheila was different.”

  “Shut up.” Bill Lonergan’s face was fiery red.

  “When she found out I was married she was upset, but before that there was no stopping her.”

  “I said shut up. I’m going back now. Are you coming?”

  Why should I talk to Bill Lonergan, I asked myself, when we had never even liked each other at school. What did he mean by telling me to shut up? “I’m staying to finish my drink.”