Murder by Suicide

by Veronica Heley

  ‘… do you really think I couldn’t afford to look after your mother …?’

  ‘Who knows what you’d try to get away with!’

  ‘Your mother has a great deal more sense than you give her credit for.’ That was Roy’s deeper voice. ‘It’s true there has been some malicious gossip …’

  ‘Well, that will all stop how I’m back!’

  ‘You’re moving back down here?’ Archie, sounding appalled.

  ‘I am to manage my great-aunt’s properties, and I can’t do that from the Midlands, can I? My husband is arranging to transfer down here, so that we can all be together and I can protect my mother from unsuitable friends.’

  ‘Really …!’ That was Archie again, spluttering in shock.

  There was a movement in the kitchen doorway. Roy was standing there, leaning against the lintel. He looked sombre.

  ‘Why do you let her make a slave of you?’

  In that moment Ellie saw that Roy really did care for her. He might or might not be interested in her money. He probably was. All that talk about her being his partner in a business venture had probably been leading up to a request for investment. But he did care for her, too.

  She said, ‘Habit, I suppose. Both she and Frank are – were – so dominant that I’m used to keeping the peace.’

  ‘She’s jealous of you, you realize that, don’t you?’

  Ellie considered that, head on one side. Yes, it might be. Diana was tall, dark, handsome and bossy. Men didn’t usually like bossy women. Diana had never had a boyfriend until she’d brought Stewart back one day. Stewart thought she was wonderful. Diana agreed with him. A marriage made in heaven, but possibly not one destined to last.

  She said, ‘Thanks for the wine and the flowers, but I think it might be best if you went now.’

  ‘Bad timing.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps?’

  ‘Ring me.’

  ‘Yes. Your daughter said something about staying here, taking a job with Miss Quicke.’

  ‘I apologize for her behaviour.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, I daresay Miss Quicke can look after herself.’

  Now that was an odd remark to make, thought Ellie, as she showed him out. Diana hadn’t mentioned that her great-aunt was called Miss Quicke. So how did Roy know? In fact, it would be interesting to find out exactly what Roy did know and how he had come by the knowledge. Of course, he’d probably heard the valuers at the flat refer to Miss Quicke as the owner. Yes, that would have been it.

  A storm was brewing outside. And inside.

  She must rescue Archie, put the Yorkshire pudding on, then the carrots … and have a good think about everything. Housework was a marvellous invention. It almost stopped you thinking, if you concentrated on it hard enough.

  13

  Ellie went down the stairs as quietly as she could. She had only just got little Frank off to sleep. He was fretful, poor thing, sleeping in a strange cot in a strange room. At eleven months old, it wasn’t surprising if he was reacting badly to this sudden change from everything that was normal.

  Ellie found herself wishing that Diana had not brought him. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. Of course she did. She was just ashamed of herself for not loving him so wholeheartedly that whatever he did, and however crossly he looked at her, she would always feel warmly towards him.

  She wondered, slightly hysterically – but then, she must remember that shortage of sleep could distort the way you looked at things – whether she was perhaps not as maternal as she had thought. Perhaps it was all her fault that Diana was as she was. A depressing thought.

  Diana was on the phone again, laughing like a madwoman at something one of her friends had said.

  Ellie surveyed the mess from their roast dinner. She hadn’t had to face so much mess from a meal for months. When her friends came round, they always helped her clear up. Diana, of course, wouldn’t do that. It was going to be difficult to lead her own life with Diana and little Frank in the house.

  Ellie tackled the clearing away and the washing-up. Diana finished one phone call and started another. Ellie went through into the living room, switched on the television for the news and put her feet up. Diana came in, walking on springs. On top of the world. And why wouldn’t she be, with her mother to slave for her? Roy was right, and Ellie ought to do something about it.

  ‘A night at home for a change,’ said Diana, throwing herself full length onto the settee and reaching for the remote to change television channels. She didn’t ask if Ellie minded. Ellie thought of going to bed. She thought of hitting Diana over the head with the nearest heavy object.

  She swallowed all that and said instead, ‘Diana, I’m worried about your job. You said you’ve given in your notice, but won’t they expect you to work out a month?’

  ‘Sh! I’ve been looking forward to this all week. I didn’t have to work out my notice. I was due some holiday and then, well, we had a row. He was way out of order. So I don’t have to go back.’

  Sacked, thought Ellie. Now, did Diana provoke it, or had she been just her usual difficult self? In her head, she rehearsed what she must say. ‘Well, Diana, if you’re going to be staying here for a while, there’s something I think you ought to know.’ Then she would get out the colourful handwritten poison-pen letters, the word-processed one that Aunt Drusilla had given her, which matched the one Diana herself had received, and the wax figure.

  She would say, ‘They come at all hours, some left in the shed, some delivered through the front door by hand. Aunt Drusilla’s is one like yours. But I think I may know who is responsible for the handwritten notes. The problem is what to do about it. I think I ought to confront the woman – if it is who I think it is. Would you come with me?’

  Diana would be horrified. She would say, ‘Oh, poor mother! Yes, of course. Let me help you get to the bottom of this.’

  No, she wouldn’t. Diana would say that this confirmed her worst fears, that Ellie was incapable of managing life on her own, that it was a blessing in disguise that she, Diana, had to move back in with her mother, and that now she was back nothing more would happen. Let the police deal with it, she would say.

  Then she would go on about ‘those awful men who’ve been smarming around you’. She would call Roy ‘the Bar-tick’ and make snide remarks about ‘the fat little church warden’.

  Ellie would be unable to deny that both men knew she was very comfortably off.

  Fatigue damped down her indignation. She looked across at Diana, animated, absorbed in her programme. Do you honestly think I could forget your father so quickly? asked Ellie silently. If she said it aloud, Diana might say something about never knowing what stupidity would strike her mother next. In an uncanny echo of her father.

  Ellie said, ‘What was that?’

  ‘Shhh!’

  The letterbox on the front door had plopped open, and something had fallen through onto the mat in the hall. Diana didn’t move, so Ellie went to investigate. It was yet another anonymous typed letter in a businessstyle envelope. She read:

  YOUR SINS HAVE FOUND YOU OUT,

  AND AN HONEST MAN IS FREED FROM HIS CHAINS. What on earth did that mean? Good quality paper, just like the other ones. It occurred to Ellie to check for a watermark, something she had not done before. Yes, there was one: ‘Zeta’. The paper was of such high quality that you could almost see the weave. Would there be lots of that paper around?

  She checked on the headed notepaper in Frank’s bureau. That had a different feel to it, and a watermark of a knight in armour, with the word ‘Conqueror’. Frank’s letterheads had been done by the local printing press in the Avenue. Would it be worth checking if they stocked the Zeta paper? It might. On the other hand … oh, everything seemed so hopeless!

  The grandmother clock in the hall chimed ten o’clock.

  ‘I have to be up early tomorrow,’ said Diana, turning off the television and yawning. ‘I promised Aunt Drusilla I’d be at the estate agents to pick up their key
s at nine. You’ll look after baby Frank tomorrow for me, won’t you? Oh, heavens! I have to wash out my best blouse and I’ll have to buy some new tights on the way in tomorrow.’

  ‘Give me your blouse and I’ll do it,’ said Ellie, knowing that she was dropping back into slavery, but too tired to stop herself. ‘Go on. Get a good night’s sleep.’ It was more than she would do, she knew.

  Somehow or other, she seemed to have come to the conclusion that tomorrow – when John would probably be at the charity shop – she must tackle Sue about the poison-pen letters. Alone. Without Diana, and without the police. Although what she would do with young Frank she hadn’t the slightest idea. Someone bent on solving mysteries didn’t visit suspects pushing a baby in a buggy, did they?

  Monday morning, and Ellie had overslept. Little Frank had been restless in the night, and she had got up to see to him twice. Diana had also got up, once. Now his left cheek was bright red. Very obviously teething.

  Diana was fratchy, finding fault with the breakfast Ellie provided, borrowing her last good pair of tights, and kissing Frank hastily before dashing off to her new job.

  The post contained two nasty surprises for Ellie. One was a bill from her solicitor, word-processed as immaculately as usual, with a covering letter confirming that their long-standing agreement was at an end and he would be grateful if Mrs Quicke would inform him who was to act for her in future, so that all relevant documents could be handed over.

  Well, he hadn’t wasted much time, had he?

  Automatically she checked the watermark. The same, Zeta. Just as she’d thought. There must be a lot of firms using it. The typed letters must have come from someone local, perhaps someone who also bought paper at the printing press in the Avenue. No use asking who.

  There was also another handwritten, hand-delivered letter, on violent green paper this time.

  CANCEROUS BITCH! Ellie struggled between terror and anger. The threat, the wax image … all would be enough to defeat a woman who wasn’t having to look after a fractious toddler for the day.

  But baby Frank brought everything back to reality with a bump. Ellie held him on her hip while she phoned the doctor’s surgery for an appointment. She would show the doctor the messages, and ask for a scan or whatever it was you had these days to determine whether or not you had cancer.

  The doctor was busy. Of course. A popular woman. An appointment was made for a week’s time with the promise that if a slot became vacant before, the receptionist would let Ellie know.

  Ellie soothed Frank’s swollen gums and with relief felt the tip of a new tooth breaking through. He would soon feel better. Until the next tooth started. Calpol might help. Was there any in Diana’s luggage? Luckily there was.

  Ellie struggled to get Frank and herself dressed. By the time she had got him strapped into his pushchair, he was sleepy and she was exhausted. Had she given him too much Calpol? She checked the bottle. No, the dose had been correct.

  Trying to jar him as little as possible, she negotiated the front door and step and then the gate onto the road. He stirred, but did not wake. Hallelujah. And spring was on the way, wasn’t it? The early Kaufmannia tulips were opening out flat. Great colour, that scarlet. It lifted the spirits.

  They passed a garden which was brilliantly yellow with miniature daffodils. When depressed, buy a bunch of daffodils. She would do just that at the greengrocers.

  She stopped at the church hall to ask if the playgroup had a vacancy for Frank. The organizer reacted in surprised amusement. Didn’t Ellie know they had a waiting list? He was too young, anyway. They never took toddlers who were still in nappies. Ellie might try the toddlers’ group which met in the afternoon, but they didn’t take unaccompanied children, so she would have to stay with him. Ah. There were day nurseries, of course, but – sniff – she didn’t know anything about them.

  The walk through the Avenue was held up several times as various people Ellie knew wanted to exclaim over her being in charge of little Frank. Luckily he slept through it all, one hand still clutching the ear of an indescribable animal which might have been a dog, or possibly a rabbit. Whatever it was, it was known as ‘Gog’.

  Ellie checked the window of the closed charity shop as she passed. Yes, John was there, hauling books around. Good. That meant Sue would be alone.

  Ellie did some shopping and then continued down the Avenue to Bill’s office. She felt sore about Bill. They’d been such good friends for so long – but his behaviour had been inexcusable. At one point during the night she had wondered if she ought to apologize and try to make it up with him, but she’d thought better of it in the morning. Best to pay the bill and look for someone else. Perhaps Kate could help.

  Bill’s secretary, as neat and well groomed as ever, was parking what looked like a brand-new red car in front of the office as Ellie arrived. ‘What do you want?’ she said, not bothering to look directly at Ellie.

  Very rude, thought Ellie, handing over an envelope with the bill and cheque inside. ‘Just tidying up the odd loose end,’ she replied, and turned the pushchair round to get on with the rest of her life.

  Ellie negotiated the pedestrian crossing, frowning at the secretary’s lack of courtesy. That nice waitress Chloe was cleaning the window inside the Sunflower Café. She waved to Ellie, who waved back. She was tempted to stop off and have a cuppa … but no, she must not be diverted. John’s wife was at home alone and the opportunity must not be missed.

  John and his wife lived in a large semi-detached house behind the library. The garden was trim enough, but the paintwork could do with renewing. Ellie remembered John saying that he didn’t know what to do about repainting the house, because his wife couldn’t stand having workmen about the place.

  Little Frank still slept – making up for his lost sleep the previous night. Ellie rang the doorbell and waited.

  She knew that Sue would check on a visitor by looking through the front window before she let anyone in. Often, John said, she simply refused to open the door, even to the officials who came to read the meters.

  There was a sign up by the door: ‘No free newspapers, no junk mail.’ Ellie wondered if such signs worked. If so, she might try one herself.

  The door opened to reveal Sue, wearing a plastic apron and yellow Marigold gloves. A droopy black top over a sagging skirt. Bare feet in sandals. Her hair was pulled back into an elastic band. She had her finger on the nozzle of an aerosol spray and was pointing it at Ellie.

  Ellie recoiled. Was the woman going to attack her with that spray? And what on earth was in it? Did she always greet people at the door like this? Her recoil seemed to please Sue, who put the can away and held the door wide open. She said in a disagreeable tone, ‘I’m in the middle of my spring-cleaning, but come in, if you’re coming.’

  Ellie hesitated. What was she letting herself in for? Then she manoeuvred the pushchair into the hall. It smelt clean. A mop and bucket stood nearby. Sue gestured that Ellie should follow her past closed doors, down the hall and into the kitchen.

  It was a large kitchen with old-fashioned fitments – an old pine table with a newish working surface applied to the top of it; an old-fashioned Belfast sink and stainless-steel draining board; ranks of cupboards painted dark green. Although everything was thoroughly clean, there were no signs of any cooking in progress. The blinds were drawn and the overhead light on, so that the room swam in a false, unhealthy light.

  ‘Don’t stand in the hall. I’ve just done the floor. I lock the other rooms as I finish them, of course.’

  Is she barking mad? thought Ellie. Oh dear, I ought not to have come.

  Sue switched on an electric kettle and Ellie relaxed. At least she’d get that much needed cup of coffee. On a small shelf by the door was a telephone, a biro, a ruler and a pad of gaily coloured paper.

  ‘So what brings you here, Mrs Quicke? It’s the first time you’ve bothered to visit me, isn’t it?’

  ‘This.’ Ellie took out the handwritten letters she had receive
d and laid them on the table, together with the pad from beside the telephone. The stain down the side of the pad matched that on the later letters. ‘I got a note from John which showed the same staining as on the letters I received recently, and you can see that the stains match the remains of your pad.’

  Sue hissed through her teeth. Startled, Ellie retreated a step.

  ‘It was John, not me.’

  ‘No,’ said Ellie heavily. ‘It was you.’

  ‘Prove it!’ Sue made a lunge for the letters and tore them into small pieces, wrenching through the layers. She threw them into the bin and closed the lid with a snap. Then she laughed, and there was a wild note in her laugh which caused Ellie’s shoulder blades to stiffen. The woman was definitely barking. And the house was very quiet. A large house in a quiet back street. No one would hear Ellie if Sue became violent and attacked her.

  ‘It was you, all right,’ Ellie said, as steadily as she could manage. ‘You don’t have many visitors and you appreciated Gilbert taking the trouble to spend time with you. Then Nora’s father died. Gilbert had to spend less time with you, because Nora needed him. You were angry with Nora, so you started sending her letters anonymously.

  ‘I expect you thought the letters would stop Gilbert trying to help her, but of course the reverse was the case. So you began to hate Gilbert, too. You could have lost him his job, but luckily his bishop removed him from your orbit. So that just left poor, helpless Nora, whose head you filled with such terrible ideas that without Gilbert’s support she had nothing to live for. Were you pleased when she committed suicide?’

  Sue laughed again. ‘You have no idea!’

  The kettle was boiling, but Sue ignored it. She had not asked Ellie to sit down, so they stood one on either side of the wide table, with Frank snuffling in his pushchair beside the door.

  ‘Nora wasn’t the first person you wrote letters to, either, was she?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘People talk. I listen. You go out walking at night and early in the morning, don’t you? And post the letters then, or slip them under doors? I suppose you thought no one would ever find you out and that, if they did, they would be unable to prove anything.’