I Could Murder Her

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “Even if it means landing Madge in the dock?”

  Anne shivered. “Don’t say such horrible things, Joyce.”

  “Somebody’s going to be landed there, my dear, so it’s no use going goopy over it. If it wasn’t Madge, who was it? The twins? I believe Peter’s bats enough for anything, and now they’ve hauled him off they may plump for him, poor kid. I know he loathed Mother; she’d been trying to convert him or something. Cosy little prayer meetings and heart-to-hearts. She simply shattered him: that’s why he’s gone to the pack.”

  “Weren’t you ever fond of her, Joyce? She was your mother.”

  “Oh, God, don’t start on that tack. I adored her when I was a kid, and then I suddenly got nauseated, when I was about seventeen, and began to go boymongering. But never mind all that. About Peter. He couldn’t have done it, you know. He hasn’t the nerve. I suppose Paula could have. She’s as hard as nails inside.”

  “You’re all as hard as nails inside. I think you’re frightful, every one of you.” burst out Anne.

  “Yes, we’re a nice family. I suppose we take after Mother. And now we’re all busy putting up defence mechanisms and trying to be more hard-boiled than we actually are. D’you realise we shall be in all the papers, Anne? They’ll have an inquest next, and then there’ll be reporters and press photographers raging round. If only Eddie hadn’t said she was talking to him at nine o’clock it would have been so simple. Can’t you talk to him about it. Anne?”

  “No. I can’t and I won’t. It’s no good anyway; he’s got to stick to what he’s said. Joyce, were you awake when the twins brought their party down to the door?”

  “No. I wasn’t. I sleep-like a log. They stopped dancing at twelve, and Phil and I said ‘Thank God’ and went to sleep. So it’s no use asking me if I were on the stairs, too, because I wasn’t. It must have been Madge you heard. What did you call it? The equalising dose or neutralising dose or whatever it is.”

  “But it wasn’t given.”

  “Oh, lord, what a mess-up,” groaned Joyce. “Perhaps she tried, and Eddie was awake . . . Say if he knows it’s Madge. Anne. He’d never tell. He’d rather die himself than let them touch Madge.”

  Anne suddenly sat up, taut. “Who’s that? Someone going upstairs.”

  “It’ll be Phil. About time. Well, I’ve got to tell him the cheerful news sometime, so I’ll go and get it over.”

  “I wish I’d never told Tony I heard Madge on the stairs; it only made things worse,” said Anne miserably.

  “We shall learn by experience.” mocked Joyce. “Another time we won’t utter. Just say I don’t know, I can’t remember, I didn’t notice. They can’t make anything of that. Once you say, ‘I saw her,’ she can say, ‘I saw you,’ and who’s to sort that one out? Thanks for the drink. Now I’ll go and talk to Phil.”

  THIRTEEN

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT SAME EVENING Madge went up to Paula’s room and tapped lightly on the door. The C.I.D. woman opened it and came onto the landing.

  “She’s just beginning to wake up, Miss Farrington. She’s slept for six solid hours, and I think she needed it. I don’t think there’s anything the matter with her but want of sleep, and she’ll probably wake up perfectly normal. It might be better if you were with her when she wakes. If she sees me she may imagine things.”

  “Are you allowed to leave her with me?”

  “Why not? You managed her jolly well this morning. I’ve searched everything in her room: there isn’t a thing that could do her any harm. So will you go in and stay with her for a bit?”

  “All right. I’ll leave the door open, and you can hear if she says anything. Then you won’t have to ask me about it afterwards. I’ve brought you up a tray with coffee and some sandwiches: it’s on that table there.”

  “Thank you very much. You’ve been jolly decent to think of me, and it’s an awful long way to carry trays up.”

  “I’m used to it. I’ll go in and ask Paula if she wants anything to eat.”

  Madge went into the bedroom and walked over to the window, drawing the curtains back quietly. Paula stirred and rubbed her eyes. Madge went to the bed and said: “You’ve had a good sleep, twin. How’s the head—better?”

  “Yes, thanks. What time is it?”

  “Just gone seven. Do you mind if I put the light on? You look a lot better now. Would you like some tea or coffee, or just a cold drink?”

  “How’s Peter?”

  “Oh, he’s all right. He’ll soon be about again. It may be a good thing this drug business was found out. He’ll have a chance to pull himself together.”

  “Do they think he did it—killed Mother?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. I don’t, if that’s any help to you. He’s much too clumsy. But there’s no earthly object in talking about it. If you get up and have a wash, I’ll make your bed. Come along, you’ll feel better after a wash.”

  Paula sat up. “Is that Macdonald man still here?”

  “No. He left hours ago.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No. Nothing. Come on, twin, get a move on. I haven’t got Father’s supper yet. It’s worse for him than for anybody else, you know, and he hasn’t fussed a bit.”

  “Why are you so decent to me all of a sudden? I know you hate me.”

  “I wish you’d leave off talking, twin. I don’t care a snap about you either way, but I’ve told Father I’d look after you, and I’m not going to leave you with the bed in that state. So get up and don’t go on bleating like a lost lamb.”

  Madge’s cool, impersonal voice had its effect. Paula got up and went over to the washbasin, while Madge stripped the bed with the deft swiftness of the trained nurse, turned the mattress, and remade it, turning in her “hospital corners” automatically and folding back the sheet in the best professional manner.

  “Now that’s all nice and fresh, so back you pop, and cream your face, or whatever it is you do. and brush your hair properly. I’ll bring you up a tray in a few minutes. Have you got a book to read? Or will you go to sleep again?”

  Paula got back to bed and sat up, looking like a child, save for her shadowed eves. “Madge, can you ring up the Chief Inspector?”

  “I’ve no idea, but I’m certainly not going to. I’ve had quite enough of Scotland Yard for one day.”

  Paula rubbed her eves, and Madge thrust a hairbrush into her hand, saying: “For goodness’ sake brush your hair. You’re usually such a tidy kid, and you look frightful at the moment. Which of all these messes do you put on your face?”

  “The big pot. Madge, wasn’t he rather decent, that Macdonald man?”

  “If we had to have a detective in the house, I suppose we were lucky to have a man like that who listened quietly and didn’t bully anybody. Father liked him, which was all that mattered to me. I wish you’d leave off harping, twin. We’re all a bit tired of it.”

  “I want to talk to Macdonald, and I’d sooner get it over.”

  “Well, you’re not going to talk to him tonight,” replied Madge. “Whatever it is, it can wait. Sleep on it, as our elders and betters always say. You may think better of it in the morning.”

  “I can’t sleep any more.”

  “Very well,” said Madge. “In that case I shall ring up Dr. Scott and ask him to come and give you an injection. You’ve been quite bother enough. We’ve all had as much to put up with as we can stand, and nobody’s going to sit up with you and be patient with you while you do a private wail. If you’re feeling rotten, it serves you right. You’re quite as capable of controlling your own nerves as anybody else is, so don’t be so damn selfish.”

  “Have you ever nursed in a mental home, Madge?”

  Madge went suddenly white. “No. I haven’t, and I don’t want to start, so if you’re feeling mental, don’t expect me to look after you. Now do your face, and I’ll bring you up a tray later, and then you can settle down again quietly.”

  She walked deliberately out of the room and closed the door. T
he C.I.D. woman was standing in the passage, drinking her coffee with every appearance of unconcern. Madge beckoned to her, and they went together into the attic studio.

  “You heard all that?” asked Madge.

  “Yes. What do you imagine she wants the Chief Inspector for?” queried the other.

  Madge shrugged her shoulders irritably. “I suppose she’s taken it into her silly head to confess that she killed her mother.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I know Paula. You’ve got to remember that she’s abnormal in one way, and that’s about Peter. Twins are often queer, and this pair is very queer. Paula’s always fought Peter’s battles. Lied for him, cadged for him, stolen for him. She knows Peter’s got himself into every sort of mess and she’s ready to do anything to get him out of it. It’s a sort of inverted selfishness. She’s as hard as nails and as selfish as hell, and Peter’s her other self.”

  “You told her just now that you didn’t believe he'd done it.”

  “Of course I don’t believe he did it. He’s much too big a fool. Now, are you going to leave her alone, or go in and bear .the confession?” ■

  “I think I shall leave her alone. She can’t come to any harm. I’ve wedged the window, and there’s not so much as a manicure set for her to try tricks with.”

  Madge laughed, a short dry laugh. “No poison, no razor blades, nothing to hang herself on, window wedged. There’s nothing in the bed: I stripped every sheet and blanket off and punched the pillow's. Poor silly kid. I could be sorry for her if- Never mind. Well, now I’ll go and get her some thing to eat. You’re not my business, so I’ll leave you to it.” “Thanks for the coffee. It was lovely.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it. Weren’t you once in hospital, training?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dog recognises dog,” said Madge dryly.

  2

  It was shortly after ten o’clock that Macdonald let himself into Windermere House, using the latchkey to the front door which the astute Reeves had found in Mrs. Farrington’s bag. The Chief Inspector had a warrant which gave him the right of entry, but he was not intent on a further search that night. He was thinking of Mrs. Pinks’ warning: “There’s going to be more trouble in this house.” So far as was humanly possible, Macdonald intended to avoid more trouble.

  The Farrington family had all gone to bed early, each of them tired out with the strains and stresses of a day which had had the qualities of an earthquake, inasmuch as it had rocked the secure basis of their orderly lives. From the street Macdonald had watched the downstairs lights switched off. He knew to what uses the rooms were put; he saw the light go on in the Stranges’ bedroom, the light switched off in their sitting room. He saw the basement darkened soon after nine o’clock, and the light shine out from Madge’s bedroom, and he had waited until the whole house was in darkness, walking patiently round the block until the last light, Paula’s, flicked off.

  Then he let himself into the silent house, closing behind him the front door which nobody had bothered to bolt. He stood perfectly still in the hall, until his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light which entered through the fanlight above the hall door. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. Nobody knew better than Macdonald that somebody in that house was aware of the inexorable process of the law, closing in slowly like a giant trawl net. but that person had not found it necessary to keep the light on or to keep the wireless on in the effort to defeat thought or to keep fear at bay. The whole house was dark and silent and secret.

  The Chief Inspector stood in the hall for quite a while. He was inured by training and practise to waiting, and his muscles accepted the strain of keeping perfectly still as readily as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light. He heard the grandfather clock strike eleven and wheeze itself back into the tick-tock which sounded so uncannily loud in the silent house. Then he opened the front door and Reeves slipped in beside him, another noiseless shadow among the shadows of the hall. Reeves also stood still for a while, and then he slipped away soundlessly, to stand just within the drawingroom door. Macdonald began to mount the stairs, and took up the position he had chosen on the first floor, in the angle of a tall cupboard which the Stranges used for their coats and macs.

  As he stood there in the darkness his mind played with the oft-debated question—did the minds of those who lived there affect the houses in which they lived? Was there such a thing as “a happy house” or “a haunted house” apart from its inmates? Could anybody, unaware of the events which had happened in this house, sense the disease which Macdonald was aware of even in the silence which enwrapped it? Descendant of Highlanders who had believed in second sight, in ghoulies and ghoosties, in signs and portents, Macdonald was not superstitious himself, but there was some quality in the dark house where he stood which made his nerve ends prickle, as though he sensed the sum total of disturbance in those who presumably slept in the rooms around him.

  3

  It was after midnight when Macdonald heard the faintest of faint sounds on the floor above. Indeed it was hardly a sound at all, more a tiny vibration which told of movement, as though all the resting floor boards communicated a change in stress. As always, after a period of silent waiting, Macdonald felt that faint stirring reflected in his own bloodbeat, as though the communication of inanimate things was* passed on to flesh and blood. He was quite sure what that faint sound had meant—somebody had got out of bed, transferring their weight very cautiously to a different section of the floor. A second or so later he became aware that he himself was not the only person in the house who had noticed a movement on the floor above him. From a room across the landing on which he stood came a corresponding tremor and then a door must have been opened. It was opened silently, but the window in the room beyond it was open and the night breeze moved the air across the still house. Then followed exactly the sound which Anne Strange had described to Macdonald: the softest of footfalls on the stairs, where bedroom slippers padded faintly on thick stair carpet and a little dragging sound told of a dressing gown sometimes catching the carpet. Macdonald moved a step forward from his corner and counted the descending footsteps—there were eighteen stairs in that flight. When the person from above reached the landing and turned towards the flight leading into the hall, Macdonald bent low, so that he could catch a faint silhouette of the walker against the light which filtered in from the fanlight. So far as he could tell, it was Madge Farrington clad in a long, dark dressing gown. As soon as she started descending the next flight, Macdonald moved to the stairhead and followed, timing his own footsteps to hers. He knew that there was somebody on the landing behind him; whether it was Anne or Tony, he had no means of telling, but he in tended to keep between them and Madge—if Madge it were.

  When she reached the hall the shadowy figure turned towards the door of Mrs. Farrington’s room and tried the door handle. The room was locked, but the dark figure stood there with fingers moving uneasily over the door panels in a senseless wandering gesture which was pathetic in its futility. At last the figure turned away. It was only the faint dragging sound of the slippered feet which told Macdonald the direction she had taken, for the back of the hall was quite dark. She was moving towards the basement stairs, and Macdonald followed her. He remembered the direction and the furniture in the hall, but he had to put out his hand and find his way by touch when he was on the basement stairs. As Macdonald had already noticed for himself, the stairs were an atrocious example of bad planning—steep, awkward, with a nasty turn at the bottom. In addition to all this, the cord carpet on them was worn out and offered further perils to the unwary. Yet in spite of these difficulties the woman ahead of him went swiftly downstairs, still incredibly quiet. "‘It must be Madge,” thought Macdonald to himself. ‘‘She knows the steps so well she goes down them subconsciously. Her very feet know the way.”

  Somehow he contrived to get down the steps in the black darkness, if not as silently as the woman ahead, yet making hardly any sound, and cons
cious that there was a movement in the hall above. That wouldn’t be Reeves, he thought. Reeves was the world’s best cat. There was somebody else in the hall, and Reeves would be behind that somebody. Macdonald heard a door open, and saw a faint oblong of light. The kitchen window was uncurtained and the street lamp outside shone glancing rays down into the basement. In the half-light Macdonald saw Madge cross the kitchen towards the dresser. It was when he reached the kitchen door himself he realised that there was a third person in the room. It wasn’t sight which told him so; it was partly hearing, partly smell, the smell of carbolic soap and the sound of quick breathing. He was just sorting out these impressions when a crash and a yell behind him came with the overpowering surprise of the totally unexpected. Crashing through the preceding silence, the uproar seemed as overwhelming as if the whole house had come hurtling down. Somewhere from the direction of the dresser came a gasping cry: “Oh, God. what’s that? What's happened?” and a gruff voice replied: “It’s all right, dearie. I’m here. Don’t you worry. You’re in your own kitchen. It’s all right.”

  Whereupon Macdonald said: “Well, we might as well have the light on now, Mrs. Pinks.” He put the switch down and the charwoman blinked at him in the hard glare.

  “It’s you, is it?” she asked. “Thank Gawd for small mercies.”

  4

  Leaving Reeves to cope with the earthquake outside, Macdonald stood and looked steadily at Madge Farrington. Her face was bloodless, her lips a hard pale line, her eyes black and staring, utter bewilderment in them. Mrs. Pinks turned her back firmly on Macdonald and put an arm round Madge.

  “Don’t you worry about ’im, dearie, ’e’s not a bad chap. You’ve been walkin’ in your sleep, see? I guessed that’s what it was, wiv you so worried and that, so I just comes back and sits ’ere in case I’m wanted. Now you sit down and we’ll ’ave a nice cuppa before you goes back to bed again.”