Murder for Miss Emily

by J F Straker

  Miss Justin felt flattered at being thus linked socially with her friend; Myttons had been squires of Cheswick for generations. ‘Very well, Emily,’ she said. ‘And what else?’

  Miss Mytton shook her head. She did not know what else.

  For a time the two ladies were silent. While Miss Mytton ransacked her brain for inspiration, her friend’s thoughts wandered to the room upstairs. A vision of John Cluster in Emily’s bed rose once more before her. It really was odd that...

  ‘Clara! I’ve got it!’

  Miss Justin pulled her mind down to ground level. ‘Got what, dear?’

  ‘Gwendoline Colling!’ Miss Mytton said triumphantly. ‘It was Gwen who took the message when I ordered a taxi for Sunday. So she knew I was going to be away that night.’

  ‘She wouldn’t know where to find the key,’ Miss Justin objected.

  ‘George must have told her. It was wrong of him, but men do tell their wives things.’

  ‘But she was having an affair with Mr Cluster, Emily.’ Miss Justin was always punctilious in giving even the dead their proper titles. It was an outward sign of her genteel upbringing — like wearing gloves and a hat. ‘Everyone knows that. So why should she kill him? And anyway, what would they be doing here?’

  ‘Much the same, I imagine, as rumour has it they were in the habit of doing elsewhere,’ Miss Mytton said dryly. ‘As to why she killed him — that is what we have to discover. I shall see Gwendoline tomorrow and demand an explanation. I think I know how to tackle that young hussy.’

  *

  Bert Cummings was uncertain whether playing host to two policemen was good for trade or not; it attracted the curious, but repelled those with skeletons in their closets. Since he had little choice in the matter, however, he accepted their presence philosophically and ministered to their material comforts to the best of his ability. He also gave them what information he could. Miss Mytton’s opinion that the village would not talk to the police was not entirely justified.

  ‘This fellow Bright,’ the inspector said, when Bert had related, with due regard for his licence, the fracas that had taken place in the bar on Saturday evening. ‘Was he one of Cluster’s buddies?’

  ‘Not really. They’d come in here for a booze-up once in a while, that’s all.’

  ‘Were they quarrelling before the Colonel came in?’

  ‘Not as I remember.’ The landlord scratched his chin in an effort to clarify his thoughts. ‘And yet I reckon they must have been. Why else would Bright pick a deliberate quarrel with him?’

  ‘Why indeed,’ the inspector agreed. ‘How did Bright behave afterwards?’

  ‘Very reasonable. Very reasonable indeed, I’d say.’

  ‘H’m! Well, let’s get back to Cluster. I’m told he was keen on the ladies. Who was the current attraction?’

  ‘Cherchez la femme, eh?’ Bert winked knowingly. ‘Well, it’s common talk that him and Mrs Colling was a whole lot thicker than water.’

  At the inspector’s request he fished a pencil stub from his waistcoat pocket and compiled a list of those who had been in the pub on the Sunday evening — adding, so far as he could remember, the time at which each had left. But to Pitt’s surprise one expected name was missing.

  ‘Wasn’t Colling in?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, he was and wasn’t. He looked in just as I was calling for last orders, but he didn’t stop for a drink.’

  ‘What did he want, then?’

  ‘He was looking for Cluster,’ Bert said slowly, noting with satisfaction the look that passed between the two detectives. He was sorry for the unfortunate Colling, but the post of key witness in a murder was undeniably attractive. ‘He didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask. I told him Cluster had been gone close on three-quarters of an hour. Which he had.’

  ‘Did Colling seem upset at all?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Bit excited, perhaps.’

  Bert was surprised when they asked him where the Wests lived; he had expected them to make hotfoot for the garage. As soon as he’d heard of the murder he’d decided George Colling was the most likely suspect. Him or Tom Shannon.

  The Wests lived in the main street, almost opposite the church. Jacob West, a pleasant but somewhat slow-witted old man with a mop of white hair and permanently bent back, tended the cemetery and the vicarage garden, and was gravedigger for Cheswick and several nearby villages. His wife Mary was a hard-faced woman of sixty; there was a distinct similarity, both in looks and in character, between her and her daughter Elizabeth. Vera, the younger girl, took after her father in disposition.

  Mrs West was alone in the house when the detectives called. Having been given the day off by Miss Justin, for whom she worked as a ‘daily,’ she had hurried off to visit Elizabeth to congratulate her on her widowhood rather than to commiserate. But she had come away from Trant Farm with mixed emotions. There had never been much sympathy between mother and daughter, for each was too selfish to give way to the other; but Mary had hoped that, freed of her bondage to Cluster, Elizabeth would now turn to her family. She had visions of settling in at the farm; if, as was reputed, it was in bad shape, Jacob would put that right. He might be slow-witted, but he was at home on the land.

  Elizabeth had not turned her mother away, but there had been no enthusiasm in her welcome. Mrs West’s thinly veiled hints for the future had been disregarded. There was no need to do anything in a hurry, Elizabeth said; at present all she wanted was to be left alone. Indignant and alarmed at this set-back to her plans, Mrs West had told her daughter exactly what she thought of such unfilial conduct. Now, some hours later, she was regretting that indiscretion. It might have hardened Elizabeth still further against her.

  The arrival of the police was an added trial, and she answered their first questions sharply; John Cluster was dead, and good riddance to him. But the mention of William Bright’s name caused her to be more circumspect. She had hopes of her lodger for Vera.

  ‘He was out Sunday night,’ she said. ‘Come home about twenty past ten, just as we was going to bed. A very nice young gentleman. Never any trouble, and most regular with his rent.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’ Pitt asked.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ It was a fact that rankled. William had been going out of late two or three evenings a week, and often in his best suit. She suspected a girl — a suspicion that worried her when she thought of Vera. ‘He’d been out all day — Tanbury, he said. Been to the pictures. He come in about nine o’clock and went straight out again.’ There was the sound of footsteps in the hall. ‘If there’s anything else you want to know you’d best ask him yourself. That’ll be him now.’

  They made no move to stop her when she went out to warn Bright of their presence. Even before she mentioned the police she could see that he was worried. But when she said so, and asked, secretly fearful, if he had been upset by the news of Cluster’s death, he laughed.

  ‘After what he did to me Saturday night? Are you kidding?’ He slapped her playfully on her broad behind. ‘You hurry up and get my tea ready, Ma, while I entertain the visitors. I’m off out in half an hour.’

  He showed no trace of anxiety when facing the two detectives, and answered most of their questions willingly and fully. Only when they came to the previous evening did he hesitate:

  ‘I’m not sure I want to answer that,’ he said.

  ‘John Cluster was killed around ten o’clock,’ Pitt told him quietly. ‘I’m not suggesting you had anything to do with his death, Mr Bright, but you’ll appreciate that that’s the time that interests us. You wouldn’t care to reconsider your decision?’

  Bright nodded. ‘Okay. It’s a little delicate, but I’ll tell you. It so happens I was setting snares. And on Cluster’s land.’

  ‘Without his permission, I presume.’

  ‘I don’t know why you should — but you’re dead right. Hence my reluctance to discuss it.’

  Pitt tried to probe further, but Bright had little more to tell him; he had
been alone, and his poaching had been unsuccessful. ‘I met the Vicar in the churchyard on my way home,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t help you much, does it? So it looks as if you’ll have to take my word for it.’

  ‘You had spent the day in Tanbury, Mr Bright, and on your return you went out again almost immediately,’ Pitt reminded him. ‘Without changing. That’s right, isn’t it?’ And, when the other nodded agreement, ‘What clothes were you wearing?’

  ‘Just a suit.’

  ‘A suit, eh? Well, that may be right for Tanbury. But wasn’t it rather unsuitable for your evening occupation?’

  Bright looked down at his polo-necked sweater and soil-stained trousers, and smiled wryly.

  ‘I get your point, Inspector. You’re right, of course. But then there’s no law against a man ruining his own clothes if he wishes, is there?’

  ‘May I see the suit you ruined, sir?’

  ‘You can see the suit I wore. I didn’t ruin it.’

  The room was small but comfortably furnished, and very untidy. The bed had been made, but Bright’s clothes still lay where they had been thrown rather than draped over the back of an armchair. Books were stacked on a bedside table, boots and shoes and socks were scattered over the floor. The grate was crammed with rubbish, cigarette-ends littered the hearth. There were toilet articles on the narrow mantelshelf, and in the over-sized print that hung crookedly above it Highland cattle grazed knee-deep in bright purple heather, with the murk of an approaching storm smothering the grey hills in the background.

  Norris-Kerr shuddered inwardly as he stood in the doorway and watched the inspector pick his way across the floor to the armchair. He was not a tidy person himself, but he liked others to be tidy for him.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Bright apologized. ‘I was in rather a hurry this morning, and the old lady doesn’t exert herself.’ He picked the suit off the chair and threw it on the bed. ‘Well, there it is, Inspector. Help yourself. Is it bloodstains you’re after, or just mud? I doubt if you’ll find either.’

  In that he was right. But although the absence of bloodstains did not surprise Pitt, the absence of mud did; it seemed impossible that the man could have tramped across farmland at night without at least soiling the turn-ups of the trousers. With Bright’s permission he examined the rest of the man’s wardrobe — and with no greater success. If Bright had told the truth about the suit (and Mrs West later confirmed that he had) it was clear to Pitt that he had lied about how he had spent the evening.

  When he put this to Bright the man did not seem dismayed.

  ‘Don’t believe me, eh?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you’re entitled to your own opinion, Inspector. But I say I was poaching. And until you prove me wrong I was doing just that.’

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday, November 15

  ‘I want to talk to you, George,’ Miss Mytton said briskly. ‘After that I’m going to have a few words with Gwen.’

  ‘Yes, Missemily.’

  He looked as disconsolate and distraught as on the previous morning. Miss Mytton was more than ever convinced that she was on the right track.

  ‘It’s about the murder,’ she began, seating herself in the dark little office on a chair which he had carefully wiped for her. ‘I thought it over most carefully yesterday—’ It would be better, she had decided, to leave Clara out of this. ‘ — and it is obvious to me that whoever killed Cluster knew I was going to be away Sunday night and where to find the key. Now, that narrows the field considerably. I don’t intend to disclose their names — that would be most improper — but you can take it from me that only two of them had a really strong motive for murder. And one of the two is you, George.’

  He made no comment on this, but continued to stare unseeing out of the cracked office window.

  ‘Now I’m going to say something which may displease you,’ Miss Mytton went on, hoping he wasn’t going to be difficult. ‘But this is no time to beat about the bush; murder’s a nasty business and calls for plain speaking. George — it’s true, isn’t it, that Gwen and John Cluster had been seeing far too much of each other lately?’ She saw his back stiffen, but he did not answer. ‘You may have shut your eyes to it, but it’s common knowledge in the village; and it’s only a matter of time before it reaches the ears of the police. And you don’t need me to tell you what they’ll make of it.’

  He turned slowly. ‘Are you suggesting, Missemily, that I had something to do with Cluster’s death?’

  His voice was taut but controlled. She wished she could see his face, but he stood in shadow.

  ‘My opinion doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘If it’s any consolation to you I don’t think you did, although I’m sure you had provocation enough. It’s the police point of view you have to consider.’

  ‘I can deal with them,’ he said shortly. ‘You don’t have to bother about me, Missemily — thanks all the same.’

  Miss Mytton hesitated. She was about to tread on more delicate ground and was uncertain how to begin. But she had no intention of shirking what she considered to be her duty.

  ‘There is also your wife’s position to consider,’ she said.

  ‘Gwen? How does she come into it?’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, George. I’m not accusing Gwen. For that matter, I’m not accusing anyone. But there is a distinct possibility that Cluster came to my cottage to meet a woman. When one considers the type of man he was, and that—’ She was about to say, ‘He was actually in the bed,’ but delicacy forbade. ‘Doesn’t that point to Gwen? She booked the taxi for me, so she knew I would be away; and I’ve no doubt you told her where I keep the key.’ She paused, but he made no denial. ‘The cottage would be a more comfortable rendezvous than the back seat of a car or — or wherever it was they usually met,’ she concluded lamely. ‘More private too.’

  She had feared an angry outburst, but he had himself well under control.

  ‘Aren’t you jumping to conclusions, Missemily?’ he asked quietly. ‘Even supposing it were true — what then? Are you suggesting she killed him?’

  ‘No, no! Of course not.’ Miss Mytton knew she had been suggesting just that, but she had not the heart to say so. ‘But other people may. Especially the police.’

  ‘Why? Even if you were right about them being at the cottage, why should she kill him?’

  ‘I don’t know, George. I suppose they could have quarrelled. But if we assume they were there — well, it’s obvious that you and Gwen are bound to come under suspicion. No one but you would resent their being together. And if you say you didn’t kill him—’ Miss Mytton shrugged. ‘That leaves Gwen, doesn’t it?’

  ‘There’s his wife,’ he said.

  ‘Elizabeth? My dear man, Elizabeth couldn’t have cared less about her husband’s intrigues. She may have had reasons to wish him dead, but jealousy wasn’t one of them.’

  He did not answer. Miss Mytton sighed. I’m getting nowhere with him, she thought; he listens and argues, but he won’t co-operate. I’ll have to see Gwen. She doesn’t like me, but maybe I can scare her into talking.

  As though he had read her thoughts he said, ‘I know it looks bad, Missemily, but you’ve got it wrong. Gwen didn’t meet Cluster Sunday evening; she was upstairs in the flat with me. I admit I went along to the pub just before closing time, but I was only gone a few minutes. She couldn’t have got to your place and back in the time, and do the washing-up as well.’ He limped a few short steps towards her, his haggard face twisted into a wry smile. ‘So there’s no point in your talking to her, is there? It would only upset her unnecessarily.’

  Miss Mytton stared at him. She hadn’t expected George to lie to her. And he was lying. She could tell that from his voice cold, detached, not at all the way he normally addressed her.

  ‘Very well,’ she said coldly, standing up. ‘If you don’t wish to take me into your confidence there’s no more to be said.’

  As she stalked out of the garage with the unhappy George Colling behind her, a po
lice car drew up. Miss Mytton bowed graciously to the two detectives. George’s stubborn refusal to co-operate made her feel more kindly towards them.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘If you’re here on business I wish you luck. Mr Colling is not in an expansive mood this morning. Perhaps your official status will give him confidence. He certainly hasn’t any in me.’

  That, she thought, should put George Colling in his place.

  Norris-Kerr was not wearing a hat, but the inspector had removed his in greeting. Now he stood staring at her, the hat poised some inches above his head.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re going into opposition, Miss Mytton.’ He suddenly remembered the hat, and jammed it back into place.

  ‘Certainly not. I’m merely trying to help.’ She bowed, began to walk away, and then turned back. ‘How about my alibi, Inspector? Has it been confirmed to your satisfaction?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. And thank heaven it has!’

  ‘How nice of you to put it like that.’ Miss Mytton was surprised and gratified. His obvious relief at her innocence was a tribute to her position in the village.

  ‘Not at all, ma’am. It happens that we’re overburdened with suspects. I’m only too glad to be able to shed one.’

  ‘Oh!’ She had a suspicion that the sergeant had guessed her thoughts. He was certainly smiling. ‘Well, I’m glad to have been of assistance, if only in a negative fashion.’

  Her ego deflated, she hurried away. It had not been a successful morning.

  When she reached home she telephoned the Mytton Arms. ‘Was George Colling in your bar Sunday evening, Mr Cummings?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Missemily,’ said Bert. ‘Came in looking for Cluster around ten o’clock. Just popped in and out again; didn’t even stop for a drink. Why? You turning detective?’

  So that was it, thought Miss Mytton, as she replaced the receiver. He had told her he had been to the pub. But he had said nothing about looking for Cluster.

  She did not like the train of thought that followed. She had trusted George Colling — unwisely, it now seemed — and although she had known he was lying that morning she had thought he lied to protect Gwen. That was wrong of him, but understandable. But the knowledge that he had actually been looking for Cluster on the Sunday evening put a different complexion on the matter. It was himself he was protecting, not his wife. And he would not need to lie if he were innocent. Not to her.