I Could Murder Her

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Madge laughed shakily. “You are a dear, Mrs. Pinks. It was a bit shattering: she as good as told me I was certifiable.”

  “Now don’t you bother about what the old ’orror said,” said Mrs. Pinks as she put the kettle on the stove. “If anyone’s bats, it’s ’erself, and I’d tell ’er so for two pins. And selfish! Eight to dinner, if you please. It’s time you got out of this, miss. She’s just eating your life up. I’ll be sorry for meself when you go, miss, you’ve been real good to me, but the sooner you does go, the better for you. I’d like to get my hands on her, I tell you straight.”

  Madge shivered. “Don’t say things like that,” she said. “The awful thing is she frightens me. She always has. When I was tiny I was terrified of her, and it comes back. But it’s silly to talk about things.”

  “That it isn’t,” said Mrs. Pinks trenchantly. “It’ll do you a power of good to talk, miss. I know I’m not much, but I’m fond of you, and you can say what you like to me, same’s I did to you over my own bit of trouble. You just listened and understood, and it helped me a lot. I reckon that old woman bullied you cruel as a kid.”

  Madge nodded. “That’s true. You see, I wasn’t her child. She adored Tony, and he was always good and I was always bad, and I was hideously jealous of him. I wanted someone to be fond of me, and I knew she wasn’t, even when I was quite tiny, though she pretended to be, like she does now. She dominated me. Do you know that until I went to train as a nurse I’d never been away from her? She called me her darling Madgie and I’d always got to be at home with her to help her.”

  “I know. There is some women like that. As though they’d got tentacles,” said Mrs. Pinks. “What beats me is why you ever came back here to slave for her.”

  “I had a bad breakdown. That’s what she was talking about. You see, 1 was m a mental home for six months, and I had to come back here afterwards. I’d no money and I couldn’t go on nursing. Nobody would have me until the doctors were certain I was all right again.”

  “If you’d ‘ad an ’aporth o’ sense, you’d have gone out charring sooner than come back ’ere to be put upon,” said Mrs. Pinks. “But don’t you worry about ’as-beens, dearie. You just beat it and go away like you said. D’you know, I could ’ardly contain meself while I was listening out there in the scullery in case you went and told ’er the name o’ the party you’re going with. If you’d started doing that, I’d’ve come in and been took queer meself just to stop you. While she don’t know she can’t make trouble, see? And now I’ll just make that tea. And remember to tip me the wink when you’re going, because I’ll walk out on ’er, too, and then she can see for ’erself what nice light work you and me’s been doing, and ’ave ’er eight to late dinner, I don’t think.” She gave a cheerful snort, adding: “And I’ll just pour that Ovaltine down the sink while I’m about it, to ease me feelings. And I’ll put a nice drop of that there in your tea—whisky’s just what you’re wanting. You’re all of a jelly after that set-to. And if you take my advice, you’ll pop your hat and coat on and walk out of that basement door with what’s left of the ’ousekeeping money. You’ve earned it, if ever a girl did.”

  Madge began to laugh, and at that moment her father came into the kitchen again. “I seem to keep on hindering you this morning, my dear,” he began apologetically, and Madge said quickly:

  “You never hinder me, Daddy. I’m always glad to see you. Give me that waistcoat, I’ll soon get the mark off. Mrs. Pinks is just making a cup of tea. Will you have a cup?”

  “With a drop of something in it for Miss Madge, which she badly needs, her all of a jelly with the things that’s been said.” said Mrs. Pinks truculently.

  “By Jove, that’s a good idea!” said the Colonel. “I’m very grateful to you for looking after my daughter, Mrs. Pinks. I know she has a tough time here, and so do you, with all those stairs to clean. I’ve often said the bloke who designed this house was demented. Simply made work for the sake of making it. You’ll find they’re more rational over domestic interiors when you go the States, Madge.”

  He took off his coat and waistcoat and handed the latter to Madge, while Mrs. Pinks poured out the tea.

  “You know what Mother says about it?” asked Madge bitterly.

  “Yes, yes, but don’t you bother, my dear,” replied Colonel Farrington. “You must know, with your training, that a weak heart often makes people difficult. I’ll have a word with old Baring myself. Muriel needs a sedative; she’s very highly strung, and the heart trouble makes her unreasonable sometimes. Don’t you worry about what she said. She’s got a heart of gold: she’ll understand your point of View as soon as she gets over this little bit of heart pain. False angina, Baring calls it; very painful, I believe.”

  “Dr. Baring’s an old fool,” said Madge. “Mother’s got a perfectly sound heart.”

  Having poured out the tea, Mrs. Pinks tactfully removed herself to the scullery, and Colonel Farrington expostulated:

  “You mustn’t say that, my dear. I know Baring’s old now, and old-fashioned as well, but he’s known Muriel for thirty years, and when he says her heart has deteriorated, I know he's telling the truth. But we won’t argue over that: I just want to assure you that your mother’s opposition to your plan was only due to agitation. You rather jumped it on her, you know. When she’s had time to think it over, she’ll be as pleased as I am. Most unselfish woman living—and she's often told me how hard you work and what a dull time you have. So don’t fret, Madge, it’s all a storm in a teacup.”

  “I only wish it were,” said Madge slowly. “You’re an optimist. Daddy. You always were.”

  3

  “Have you got any money, Anne? Money of your own, I mean?” asked Paula.

  “Depends how much you want, twin. Have you been losing your purse again? Or are you broke after buying that new suit? It certainly is a poem. No one would ever think you were hard up.”

  Paula looked at herself critically in Anne’s long glass. She was a slender girl, with exquisite slim ankles and pretty hands and feet. Her face, a little pale and pointed, with a minimum of make-up, was distinguished by wonderful eyes, deep blue-grey, widely set, and softly shadowed in eye cavities too deep for a young face.

  “She is a lovely thing,” thought Anne, and added aloud: “Would a pound note do? I haven't been to the bank this week.”

  “Oh . . . thanks awfully, but that’s not quite what I mean,” replied Paula. “It’s not me. It’s Peter. He’s been rather idiotic. And I don’t want any rows just at the moment.”

  “Peter ought to manage his own financial crises, twin. He’s no business to borrow from you. He’s got a decent job, and you only earn odd bits and pieces.”

  Paula smoothed her sleek fair hair thoughtfully. “He hasn't. He walked out of his job a fortnight ago. He just couldn’t stick it any longer.”

  “Goodness! Does your mother know?” asked Anne.

  “Of course not. She’d have been throwing fits with monotonous determination if she did. Eddie knows. He took it quite calmly. He's an intelligent old boy considering the life he’s led. He said he never expected Peter to settle in a lawyer’s office, ‘but your mother was set on it, my dear, and we had to give it a trial,’ ” added Paula, with faithful accuracy giving the very tones of Colonel Farrington’s diffident voice.

  Anne laughed. “But what’s Peter doing, then, Paula? He still goes out every morning at eight-thirty.”

  “Of course,” said Paula calmly. “If he didn’t the balloons would go up. He’s designing sets for Vladimir, our choreographer. Peter’s got a flair for the job, but of course he’s never had any training, and I don’t expect it’ll last. I know he’s a bit of a mess, but that’s Mother’s fault. She simply made a mess of him. That dotty co-ed school she sent us to during the war was hopeless for Peter. He'd have done much better if he’d gone to a common or garden secondary and learnt to work. He’s bone lazy.”

  “But I thought you liked your co-ed.”

  “Oh
, yes. We did. I liked it because the dancing and music were really good. Peter liked it because it was free discipline, you just walked out of anything which didn’t amuse you. Hence Peter.”

  “I see. And what sort of mess has he got himself into now?” asked Anne. “Is it a girl?”

  “Oh, lord, no. I wish it had been. I could have coped with that. I can’t do a thing about this. It’s money. I don’t quite know all the ins and outs, money leaves me stone cold, but it’s something about backing a bill or guaranteeing a cheque. The only part of it I really understand is that the alternative’s five hundred pounds or quod for fraud. Peter’s just been had by one of his phony friends and now he’s left holding the baby.”

  “Five hundred pounds . . . goodness. He’ll have to go to his mother for it, then,” said Anne. “I haven’t a bean, and Tony won’t produce five hundred.”

  “Peter won’t go to Muriel, he’d rather go to quod. He says it’d be cheaper in the long run,” said Paula. “You see, he’s developed a thing about Muriel: she’s choked him with mother-love. The sickening part of it is that I have got the five hundred, really, left to me under Granddad’s will, only Muriel’s got it for her lifetime. I do think it’s a bit grim. Still, never mind, I’ll cope somehow. If I really set my mind to it I shall get it.”

  “Don’t talk rot, Paula,” said Anne quickly. “A girl like you might be able to raise five hundred, but there’s only one way of doing it, and you’re not going to do that.”

  “Let us not argue,” said Paula. “It’ll be all right on the night. Things always are. Or does the phrase offend? What a funny old thing you are.”

  “Have you talked to Eddie about it?” .

  “Of course not. He hasn’t a bean of his own and he’d only worry. I tried Joyce, but she and Philip are pretty well on the rocks, too. She’s an extravagant wench. It’s true I like nice clothes, but I contrive to get mine for tuppence by swapping. I got this suit from Helene in exchange for the black moire. Quite a good swap. Bye-bye, Anne. Sorry to have bothered you. I know you won’t utter. I’ll cope somehow.”

  And with that Paula slithered out of the room, incredibly graceful and apparently quite untroubled.

  THREE

  “I WISH YOU’D COME IN and have a look at Muriel, Madge. I don’t want you to think I’m an old fuss-pot, but I don’t feel quite happy about her,” said Colonel Farrington apologetically.

  It was eleven o’clock at night, and Madge was just going up to bed; she carried a glass in her hand and she answered: “Of course, if you want me to, though I assure you there’s no need to bother about Mother’s heart. It’s quite as good as mine. I forgot to take her barley water up; it’s here. Is she awake?”

  “No. She’s asleep. Very heavily asleep. Baring gave her some sleeping tablets, because she complained of heart pains. I always hate dope of any kind, and I don’t like the look of her. She’s a very bad colour.”

  “Poor old Daddy! How you do worry!” said Madge. “All quite unnecessary. Mother’s a typical hypochondriac, that's all.”

  “You’re a little hard. Madge—but then, of course, you do understand these things,” said the Colonel. “I’m an old fool, and I know it, but I was worried in case she’d taken too much of the beastly stuff. Baring was suggesting a consultation about her heart.”

  “Consultation my hat! Mother was certainly upset when I told her I wasn’t going on slaving here indefinitely, but her heart symptoms are just temper,” replied Madge.

  Colonel and Mrs. Farrington had the ground floor of

  Windermere House as their own flat, now that other floors were occupied by Anne and Joyce and their respective husbands. Madge opened the bedroom door very quietly and went up to Mrs. Farrington’s bed. A shaded hand lamp cast a soft glow on the sleeping woman, and Madge stood looking down at her. Mrs. Farrington was breathing rather heavily, and her husband whispered uneasily: “Do you think I ought to ring up Baring?”

  “No. Of course not. Sleeping draughts often make patients breathe heavily. Baring wouldn’t have given her anything that wasn’t perfectly safe. Don’t worry, Daddy. Go to bed and forget all about her. You may get a full night’s sleep yourself for a change. I know she generally wakes you up about half a dozen times.”

  “The poor soul’s a very bad sleeper,” said the Colonel. “All right, my dear. Thank you for reassuring me. You’re a good girl, Madge.” He kissed her forehead gently, and Madge whispered:

  “I’m far from good—but never mind. Sleep well, Daddy, and don’t worry.”

  2

  “Madge, Madge, will you come at once, my dear? I’m afraid . . .”

  Madge was sitting on the edge of her bed in her dressing gown when her father opened her bedroom door a crack and spoke in an urgent whisper. It had just struck six o’clock, and the March dawn was breaking, clear and luminous, while blackbirds shouted outside in the plane trees. Madge always got up at six, and did two hours’ housework before breakfast.

  “All right, Daddy. Come in. What is it?”

  Colonel Farrington, his face grey, his hair tousled, came into the room in his dressing gown.

  “She’s dead, Madge. Dead and cold. ... I just went in to her.”

  Madge stood up and gave one glance at her father’s face; then, without a word, she hurried to the door and ran down the stairs and into her mother’s room with Colonel Farrington behind her.

  The hand lamp was alight beside the bed, but the heavy curtains were still pulled across the windows, and Madge went and drew the curtains back in two swift movements, so that the dawn-light flooded into the room from the long bay windows. She went quietly to the bed and put her hand on Muriel Farrington’s shoulder. Then she looked up and met her father’s anxious eyes.

  ‘Tm sorry. Daddy: you’re right. She’s been dead for hours. She must have died in her sleep, perfectly peacefully.”

  Glancing down at the big double bed, Madge added: “You slept in your dressing room, then?”

  The Colonel nodded. “Yes. She thought it best. You see, she took her sleeping tablet early, and said I might wake her up when I came to bed. I had my door open, of course, but I didn’t hear a sound, though I am a very light sleeper. Do you think she might have called me, Madge, and I—”

  “No. Of course not. She hadn’t moved even; she’s just as she was when I saw her. Oh, but she drank her barley water—”

  “No, dear. I drank it,” said the Colonel. “I woke up just before six and crept in here: I couldn’t hear her breathing and I switched the hand lamp on. It was a shock. Madge. I picked up the glass and drank the stuff because my throat went dry. We’d been married over thirty-five years, you know, and—well, I w as just knocked sideways.”

  Madge went round the bed and took her father’s arm. “I know, Daddy. I understand. Come with me and I’ll get you a hot drink. You need it. We can’t do anything in here. Everything must be left until the doctor comes—it’s better so. I'll ring up Dr. Baring as soon as I’ve given you a drink.” He stood beside the bed a moment longer and then said slowly: “She died in her sleep, didn’t she, Madge, without knowing anything about it? I’m glad of that, because she feared to die. She looks so peaceful, no pain or struggle. Just passing out . . .”

  Madge squeezed his arm. “Yes, Daddy: a continuation of sleep: the best way to die. Death that way is merciful. Now come with me; you’re cold and exhausted. Let me look after you and deal with everything.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he replied gently.

  Madge took her father downstairs to the basement kitchen.

  because it was warm there. She opened up the boiler fire and coaxed it to a cheerful glow with handfuls of kindling. She filled the electric kettle with hot water from the tap and it started singing almost at once.

  Colonel Farrington sat by the stove, his face very grey and old, murmuring to himself: “Thirty-five years . . . It’s a long time. I often wondered which of us would go first. Better this way, perhaps. She’d have missed me, wouldn’t she,
Madge?”

  “Yes, Daddy. You’ve been perfect to her; never impatient, never irritable. She’d have been lost without you. Now drink this; it’s hot and it’ll do you good. I’ll go and telephone Dr. Baring.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he replied again.

  Madge went into the drawing room, where the telephone instrument stood on a table beside Mrs. Farrington’s couch, conveniently placed for the “nice little chats” she had with her friends. As she picked up the receiver, Madge was aware of a feeling of astonishment as she realised that never again would she hear Muriel Farrington’s cultured voice holding these interminable telephone conversations. “Never again . . .” she murmured to herself as she dialled the doctor’s number. The voice which spoke to her was not Dr. Baring’s, and she repeated his name.

  “Dr. Scott speaking,” was the reply. “Dr. Baring is laid up. What is it?”

  Madge was conscious of a shock: she had been so certain that she would hear old Dr. Baring’s husky, fussy, consequential voice. Dr. Scott was his new partner, a very clever young surgeon with a brusque habit of speech and no nonsense about a bedside manner.

  “This is Miss Farrington speaking, from Windermere House. My stepmother, Mrs. Farrington, has died in her sleep. Dr. Baring saw her yesterday; her heart had been giving her a lot of pain. I thought it better to let Dr. Baring know at once, before we have her moved. She was alone when she died.”

  “Mrs. Farrington . . he said slowly. “I examined her once, a few months ago. Her heart was sound enough then. All right. I’ll come along shortly.”

  “Dr. Baring is not well enough to come?” asked Madge. “He saw her only yesterday. . .”

  “Dr. Baring had a motor smash. He is still unconscious, so you’ll have to put up with me.”

  “Thank you,” said Madge evenly, and hung up the receiver. Dr. Scott was like that, an awkward customer, deliberately gauche and difficult. Madge remembered how furious he had made Mrs. Farrington. She went back to the kitchen. Her father was still sitting crouching over the fire, but his face was a better colour now, and he no longer shivered.