A Grave Case of Murder

by Roger Bax

With a feeling of anticlimax she returned to the car and drove slowly back in the direction of Judiford, wondering how to fill in the afternoon. As she passed the church, a thought struck her and she drew up. If this Neville Hutton were going to marry a girl from the Appleby house in a week or so, he might well be there now. She hesitated. Should she try the Farm? As she looked around at the quiet rural scene, doubt assailed her again. It was so much more likely that the resemblance was accidental. She couldn’t conceive of Harry as a part of this life—and it would be rather embarrassing to intrude. Almost automatically she glanced again at the photograph, and again the resemblance leaped at her. Nothing would be lost by asking, anyway. Purposefully she turned the car into the short drive of Monks Farm and drew up outside the open front door.

  A man was crossing the hall, and at the sound of wheels on gravel he came to the door. He was a big, imposing man, with a balding domed head.

  “Good morning,” he said as she got out.

  “Good morning,” Wanda returned rather breathlessly. “I wonder—could you tell me if Mr. Hutton is here—Mr. Neville Hutton?”

  “I’m very much afraid that he isn’t, at the moment,” said Thomas graciously. He found Wanda’s appearance very much to his taste, and her accent was delightful. “He’s gone off for the whole day, as a matter of fact, with his fiancée, and I expect he’ll be out till quite late.”

  “I see.” Wanda’s perplexity was obvious as she stood uneasily on the threshold.

  “But if there’s anything I can do for you,” added Thomas gallantly, “any message, or anything, I shall be only too pleased.”

  “It’s very kind of you …” Wanda hesitated. “I’ve come down from London, you see, and it isn’t always easy for me to get away. I saw a picture …” She produced the somewhat battered photograph. “I thought it resembled someone I used to know a long time ago. I thought I would look him up. But I may be mistaken.”

  Thomas took the photograph. “Yes, that’s Neville. But come in, won’t you? At least we may be able to save you a wasted journey.” He called to the maid. “Gertie, run upstairs and get that picture of Mr. Neville from Miss Barbara’s room.” He escorted Wanda into the sitting room and found her a chair.

  Gertie was back almost immediately with a large framed photograph in her hand. “There you are,” said Thomas, handing it over with a flourish.

  Wanda took one look at the picture and laid it face downward on her lap.

  “Well,” said Thomas, smiling, “is that your friend?”

  “No,” said Wanda in a flat voice. “It is my husband.”

  The smile faded. “Your husband?” Thomas stared at her incredulously, a flush of indignant pink tingeing his plump cheeks. “My dear young lady, there must be some mistake. This man is about to marry my niece.”

  “Yes,” said Wanda, “but there isn’t any mistake. He married me in Teheran in 1943 and his name then was Harry Thornton. It is not likely that I should forget the face of my husband.”

  Thomas had become very grave. “Mrs. Thornton, this is a terribly serious allegation you are making. I hope you know what you are doing. Have you—have you any proof?”

  “He will admit it—he will have to,” said Wanda, in the same flat voice. “But I am not trying to prove anything. Please understand that I did not come here to make trouble—only to find out. I want nothing—from him or from you or from anyone else. There is only one thing I want to do—just to see him alone for a short time, and to tell him what I think of him. After that he can do what he likes, and what you do is your affair.” She bent to pick up her bag.

  Thomas pressed his fingers against his temples. “This is appalling. Mrs. Thornton, we can’t leave the matter like this. Please wait—I must fetch my sister.” He went into the hall, calling, “Marion!”

  From the library opposite came a gentle creak, and the Ancient appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on, Thomas? Is something wrong?”

  Thomas laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder and tried to steer him back into the library. “It’s nothing you need worry about, William. You go and sit and rest. Lunch will be ready very soon.”

  “I’m not hungry,” William growled. “What are you trying to keep from me now, eh?” He ambled into the sitting room. “Ah, good morning.” He gave Wanda a courtly bow and lowered himself into a corner chair where he sat patiently, as though awaiting the rise of a curtain.

  “This is my grandfather,” said Thomas uncomfortably to Wanda. “And my sister,” he added, as Marion bustled in. “Marion, this lady is Mrs. Wanda Thornton. She—she says that she is Neville’s wife.”

  Marion stood as though petrified. “Oh, no!” she breathed.

  “She’s seen his picture and says she’s quite positive.”

  Marion sank into a chair. “I simply can’t believe it. Mrs. Thornton, you must be mistaken.”

  “Suppose we hear the young woman’s story,” put in William from his corner.

  Wanda looked from one to the other of them, and gave a little shrug. “As you wish,” she said. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all.” Thomas extended his own case and gave her a light. “Please tell us everything from the beginning.”

  “Well,” she said, watching the smoke as it curled from her cigarette, “as I say I met him in Teheran. You see, I am a Pole. I was born in Przmyl, and I lived there until the Russians came in at the beginning of the war and occupied it. I was one of the hundreds of thousands of Polish people they deported to labor camps. As you may know, they made a special point of taking intellectuals and professional people. My father was a university teacher—a scholar. He died in the camp—the heavy work and the cold were too much for him. Conditions were very hard for all of us. For more than two years I existed in the camps—that is all you can say of it—and then some of us were told we should be allowed to leave. That was after Hitler invaded Russia, and Poland became Russia’s ally.” A bitter little smile curved her lips. “In the end, I too got out—to Persia. When I reached Teheran I had to take what work I could. I became a barmaid.”

  Thomas nodded understandingly.

  “It was then that I met Harry. He came to stay at the hotel where I was working, and I saw a great deal of him. He told me that he was a Third Secretary in the British Embassy in Ankara, and that he was on sick leave. He was very good-looking and amusing and attractive—but I need not tell you that. It was wonderful to have him as a companion—it was as though I began really to live after years of being frozen. I should find it difficult to tell you what he meant to me. I was in love with him, of course—terribly in love—and it seemed as though he loved me too. He asked me to marry him and go back to Ankara with him. It was like asking me if I would care to enter Heaven. I married Harry only a week after I met him—already I lived only for him.”

  “Have you a marriage certificate?” asked Marion.

  “Yes, but it is in Persian. In any case, it proves only that I married a man who called himself Harry Thornton.”

  “Where did the ceremony take place?” put in Thomas.

  “In the civil registry office.”

  “Let the girl alone,” said William. “Let her finish.”

  “Well, we were very happy—for a fortnight,” Wanda went on. “Then one morning Harry told me that he had received a telegram recalling him urgently to Ankara. He was worried about me, because there had not been time to get any proper documents, and he feared that as it was wartime I might have difficulty in getting into Turkey. He decided to go on ahead, and arrange for a British passport to be sent to me from Ankara, so that I could join him there. It was all lies and nonsense, of course, but I didn’t know much about such things—I was very young and I trusted him absolutely. I said good-by to him at the airport, and that was the last I ever saw of him.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Wanda flicked the long ash from her cigarette.

  “What did you do?” asked Thomas.

  Again she shrugged. “I was very miserable,
of course, as the days went by and I heard nothing. I thought there must have been an accident. I made all the inquiries I could. The Legation people were kind and did their best to help, but they soon found that there was no such person as Harry Thornton in the Embassy at Ankara. At first I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t accept that anyone could seem so open and sincere, and yet be so wicked. But in the end I had to believe. Harry had deliberately deceived me. Everything he had told me was untrue.”

  Wanda’s face was drawn as her mind went back over the years. “It was a brilliant performance,” she said bitterly. “He must have thought himself so clever, and me so simple. He had told me that he had registered the marriage at the Legation, but I found out that he hadn’t done so. He had promised to leave me a photograph of himself, but he hadn’t done that either. I had no idea who he really was. There was nothing I could do, and nobody who could help me. Because of the war, everyone had their own troubles. I was able to return to my job at the hotel, and I worked there until the end of the war. Then, after much difficulty about money and transport, I managed to get to England, and made more inquiries. I didn’t care for him any more by then. I despised and hated him—all the more because I’d trusted him so completely. But I wanted to find him, if only to get my freedom and purge my bitterness. It was all hopeless—I could learn nothing. Eventually I got work here, at the Evening Courier, and I thrust Harry into the back of my mind until yesterday, when I saw his picture in your family group. And that is all the story.”

  “It’s a terrible story.” Marion’s face was distraught with anxiety. “Oh, what will poor Barbara do when she hears?”

  “I am very sorry for her,” said Wanda.

  Thomas got up heavily. “I need hardly say, Mrs. Thornton, that this has been a fearful shock to us. I … it will take a little time for us to adjust ourselves. We shall have to hear what Neville has to say, of course—that’s the first thing. May I ask what your own immediate plans are?”

  “I would have liked to see Harry, but I have to be at my office in the morning. I suppose I must come down again. In the meantime, I will leave you my home address and telephone number.”

  “You’ll stay to lunch, at least … ?”

  “Thank you, no. It would be embarrassing for us all.”

  Thomas bowed silently. He escorted Wanda to her car and stood there gravely as the Austin turned out of the drive in the direction of Judiford. When he returned to the sitting room, Marion had broken down and was sobbing noisily. William was sitting almost as though he were asleep, with both hands folded on the top of his stick and his beard on his chest.

  Chapter Three

  As the church clock struck nine next morning, a car left Monks Farm. Thomas Appleby had decided to call on Neville Hutton. As he had foreseen, it had proved impossible to thrash the matter out on the previous day. Thomas himself had been obliged to attend an important function in the county town during the evening, and had not reached home until midnight. Barbara had been tired out when she returned from her day in the country, which wasn’t until eleven o’clock in any case, and had gone straight to bed. Marion, still wanting to shield Barbara from as many of life’s blows as possible, had urged Thomas to see Neville alone before anything was said. So here he was, setting out on a most repugnant errand. If Neville denied the charge, a long and sordid wrangle was inevitable. If he admitted it, Barbara would be devastated. It was appalling that the Applebys should be involved in such squalid happenings.

  He went resolutely up the brick path, but to his mortification he found the cottage empty. A glance at the garage showed that Neville had already gone off somewhere, and there was no knowing when he would return. Thomas walked slowly back to his car, feeling frustrated and more unhappy than ever. He had no wish to prejudge the issue, but he had the worst forebodings on his niece’s account.

  As he turned into the Monks Farm drive he saw her standing on the porch steps in the morning sunshine. Normally not a very perceptive man, Thomas was struck by her extreme pallor. These late nights were ridiculous—a girl would naturally be in a highly-strung condition during the last few days before her marriage, and the sensible thing was to take it easy. He felt a pang of pity mixed with real affection as he looked at her; and found himself wishing that their past relations had been more cordial. With no great bond of sympathy between them, it would be hard for him to break bad news, and hard for her to take it. Still, it was really impossible to delay any longer.

  He got out of the car and approached her. “Good morning, Barbara. You don’t happen to know what Neville’s plans were for this morning, do you?”

  Barbara stared at him. Coming from Thomas at that hour, the question sounded odd indeed. “He was going to London to collect some more library books,” she said. “Why, do you want him?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact.”

  The gravity of his manner alarmed her. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Come inside, Barbara,” he said gently. “I’ve something to tell you.” He led the way into the sitting room, where Marion was standing by the window. She looked up with a wary expression as they entered, and her eyes sought Thomas’s.

  “Neville wasn’t at home, Marion. We must tell Barbara now—it’s not fair to her to keep silent.” He turned to his niece. “My dear child, you must prepare yourself for some very bad news. I—I hardly know how to tell you.” Thomas wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief and made an effort to appear calm. “Barbara, a woman called here yesterday while you were out. A young woman. She said her name was Wanda Thornton, and she claimed to be Neville’s wife.”

  Barbara stood quite still. What little color there was in her face drained away. Then she began to sway, and Thomas rushed to help her into a chair. Marion fetched some water and held it to her lips, making comfortable, motherly sounds. Presently Barbara sat up, fighting for self-possession. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the chair arms, and her face, though deathly pale, showed fierce resolution. “It’s not true,” she said, her voice harsh with emotion.

  “We must hope not,” said Thomas. It pained him to see the look of mingled dislike and resentment that Barbara gave him, as though he were in some way responsible. “But the woman identified him from a photograph. She seemed very positive.” He went on to tell her about Wanda’s visit, and what she had said. Throughout the recital Barbara said nothing. Her self-control seemed inhuman. She sat with an expressionless face, staring at the floor. Thomas wondered at one moment if she were even listening to what he was saying. As he finished, she thrust back her chair and walked to the door. “I don’t believe a word of it,” she said, turning with her hand on the knob. “I don’t believe it, and I absolutely refuse to discuss it until Neville is here.” She flung her head up defiantly and went out. They heard her running up the stairs, and a moment later a door slammed.

  Neville arrived just after four o’clock. Barbara, waiting miserably in her room, had been listening for the sound of car wheels in the drive, but her lover had evidently called in at the cottage on his way back from town, for he came on foot across the fields and through the churchyard, strolling in leisurely fashion with a shotgun under his arm and an eye alert for rabbits. He was in the sitting room and had already given the family a cheerful greeting when Barbara burst in. “Neville,” she cried, rushing to him and almost shaking him in her desperation, “something horrible has happened. A woman came here yesterday and said she was your wife. Oh, darling!” Her voice broke on a sob and she gazed at him as though oblivious of everyone else in the room.

  Neville looked down at her and his brows knitted. Then his eyes traveled slowly round the room—to the solemn Thomas, the nervously apprehensive Marion, the shadowy, silent Ancient. “I must be dreaming,” he said.

  “No, darling, it really happened. A young woman who called herself Wanda Thornton.”

  Neville shrugged. “Well, there’s obviously some mistake. Good heavens, Barbara, you don’t believe this, surely?”r />
  “Of course I don’t.”

  “That’s all right, then.” Neville’s manner became protective. “Look, darling, why don’t you sit down?” He found a chair for her and stood behind it, facing the family, with his hands resting lightly in the pockets of his tweed jacket. He addressed himself to Thomas. “I don’t pretend to understand what all this is about, sir, but if it’s any comfort to you I can assure you that there isn’t a word of truth in this fantastic story.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Thomas. He didn’t look particularly glad or particularly convinced. Faced with a plea of “not guilty,” he became magisterial. “Perhaps you can suggest some explanation?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. What did you say the name was—Wanda Thornton? What was she like?”

  “She was a Pole,” Thomas told him. “Medium height, slender and dark. She claimed to recognize you from your photograph. She said you married her in Teheran in 1943—and deserted her.”

  “In Teheran?” Neville frowned, shaking his head. Then a look of recollection came into his face. “Wait a minute, though—I remember now, there was a Polish girl called Wanda in Teheran.” He smiled at Barbara almost apologetically. “We had some drinks together, darling, that was all. Oh, and I believe I took her out dancing once or twice. Then I had a feeling that she was out for what she could get, and I took care not to see her again. As for marrying her—she must be off her head.”

  “She showed no signs of being ‘off her head,’” said Thomas severely. “Her story sounded most circumstantial—you’d better hear the whole thing.” Again he recounted what Wanda had said.

  Neville heard him out with an expression of bewilderment on his face. “Well,” he said at last, “all those things may have happened to her, but I certainly wasn’t the man in the case.”

  “Then why should she make these allegations against you?” persisted Thomas. “What could she hope to gain by it?”

  “I really can’t imagine. Perhaps she thinks someone will buy her off—I told you she struck me as being a bit of an adventuress. I can only suggest we tell the police.”