Murder for Miss Emily

by J F Straker

  Or was it that the truth about himself would also implicate Gwen?

  Distressed and confused, Miss Mytton temporarily abandoned the problem and went into the kitchen to prepare lunch.

  Back in the garage office George Colling was repeating his story. And this time he was doubly wary, for the police would be more searching in their inquiry than Missemily. He had disliked having to deceive the old girl; despite her rather patronising manner she had been good to him in the past. But it was no longer a question of likes and dislikes. To lie had become a necessity.

  ‘Let’s see if I’ve got this right,’ Pitt said. ‘You left here just after nine-thirty for Market Lacing. A few minutes before ten you were back, and your wife asked you to return a book that Cluster had lent her. Receiving no answer at the farm, you tried the Mytton Arms and the Grapevine without success, and then came home. Right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, wondering if they believed him. ‘I was only away ten minutes. Probably less.’

  Pitt nodded. ‘Rather late, wasn’t it, to go to such trouble to return a book? Couldn’t it have waited until the morning?’

  ‘I suppose it could. But it came from the public library, and my wife thought Cluster might want to change it when he went into Tanbury next morning. She’d had it nearly a fortnight.’

  ‘Was Cluster a particular friend of yours?’

  ‘No. My wife knew him better than I did.’

  ‘And I presume you still have the book?’

  ‘Yes. It’s upstairs.’

  Norris-Kerr was new to the district and had been studying a map. He said, ‘May we have the name and address of your fare for Sunday evening, sir? Incidentally, I see Market Lacing is eight miles from here. You must have been moving to do the double journey in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Colling said. Here at least he was on firm ground. ‘The house is four miles this side of the town. And when I got there I found that the trip had been cancelled. They couldn’t ’phone me because their telephone was out of order.’

  ‘You are quite sure that there was no one at Trant Farm when you called there?’ Pitt asked. ‘Neither Cluster nor his wife?’

  Colling shrugged. ‘The place was in darkness, and no one answered the door, back or front. That’s all I can tell you.’

  The inspector sighed. Elizabeth Cluster had said she was at home that evening, that she had not gone to bed until eleven. One of them was lying. But which?

  ‘About yesterday morning, sir. You say the cottage was open and the key in the lock. Did you have to push the door to enter?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fingerprints, he thought. They’re wondering why they haven’t found mine. ‘My hands were full, so I gave it a shove with my elbow.’

  When the questions finally ceased he took them upstairs and left them with Gwen. He wanted to stay; but he knew his presence would only make her more nervous than she was already, so he went back to the office and sat there, biting the skin round his fingernails until the blood ran. There was no reason to suppose anything would go wrong; they had rehearsed their stories carefully. It was the danger of the unforeseen question that troubled him.

  Fifteen minutes later, when the police had gone, he hurried upstairs again. Gwen was on the settee, staring into the unlit fire and rubbing her knees with her hands. He sat down beside her and took one of her hands in his. It was cold to the touch, and he massaged it gently.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Did you show them the book?’ And, when she nodded, ‘That must have shaken them. I could see they didn’t believe me when I said it was his.’

  She shuddered, and collapsed against him, her body convulsed with sobs. He put an arm round her and held her close, but the action was mechanical. It was not so much her grief that troubled him as the possible cause of it. Was it fear of the police? Or was it distress at her lover’s death?

  *

  Agatha Newcutter was a feminine replica of her brother. Both were short of stature and round of figure, with clear, twinkling blue eyes, and a freshly scrubbed complexion; both had masses of white hair and a benign expression. Sir Richard Hooper referred to them as ‘the Cheswick Cherubims’.

  The Reverend Ernest smiled at the incredulity on his visitor’s face.

  ‘Like as two peas, eh?’ he remarked cheerfully. ‘The difference, Inspector, lies in the trousers; my sister wears them only figuratively. And perhaps my moustache is more pronounced.’

  He fondly stroked the white, bushy hairs on his upper lip.

  ‘A stock joke, Inspector,’ Miss Newcutter explained. ‘But as the elder by nearly an hour I have to humour him.’ She gave her brother an affectionate pat. ‘Don’t forget to offer the Inspector a glass of sherry, Ernest. I must see to the dinner.’

  Pitt refused the sherry. ‘This is not a social call, I’m afraid,’ he said, when Miss Newcutter had left them. ‘I’m hoping for a little information, sir.’

  The vicar sighed. ‘This dreadful murder, eh? I was afraid it was that. Well, how can I help you, Inspector? Is it general information you’re after, or something specific?’

  ‘Both, really. But we’ll start with the specific. I’ve been talking to William Bright, and he tells me he met you in the churchyard Sunday evening.’

  ‘That’s true. I’d been out to post a letter, and collected a book from the vestry on the way home. It was then I met Bright. Sometime after ten, I think.’

  ‘Did he say where he’d been?’

  ‘No. But he must have come across the fields from the Hall. There’s a footpath, you know. It’s used—’ Mr Newcutter paused, his blue eyes suddenly round. ‘Good gracious! You’re not thinking he killed John Cluster because of that squabble they had in the pub, are you?’

  Pitt shook his head. ‘I’m not thinking of anyone in that connexion yet, sir. Did Bright seem at all agitated?’

  ‘Not as I remember. But then it was only a casual encounter in the dark.’

  ‘What sort of a man is he?’

  But there the vicar could not help. Bright was not a churchgoer, nor had he lived long enough in the village to become a ‘character’. ‘He comes from Yorkshire, I believe. Works as a gardener for Miss Justin. I’m told he isn’t a very good gardener, but Miss Justin seems satisfied.’

  ‘I haven’t met Miss Justin,’ Pitt told him.

  ‘You haven’t?’ The vicar was surprised. ‘She’s Miss Mytton’s shadow. Lives at Fir Cottage.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Except for her dog Peter. But I doubt if she’s lonely. She has many friends in the district, and her nephew gets down for the occasional weekend. And Peter is quite a companion in himself. A most intelligent animal.’

  The Reverend Ernest was a great dog-lover. From Miss Justin’s Peter he progressed to Colonel Gresham’s Dandy, and thence to his own Minna, a retriever of impressive lineage. ‘Almost human, Inspector. That dog can find anything, no matter how cunningly it’s hidden. Why, only the other day—’

  But the inspector had had enough; it was the human inhabitants of Cheswick, not the canine, who interested him. At the vicar’s first pause for breath he said quickly, ‘Her parents are dead, then?’

  ‘Eh?’ It took Mr Newcutter a few seconds to recover his bearings. ‘Oh, Miss Justin! Yes, they are. She was devoted to her mother, who died when Clara was nineteen. Clara was staying with her married brother up north at the time (his wife was expecting a baby), and I’m told she was so upset by the news that it was weeks before she was well enough to return.’ Mr Newcutter sighed. Such devotion seemed to be missing in the modern generation. Or was it that they were less demonstrative? ‘That was before my time, of course. But I remember her nephew Matt coming to live with her. Her brother had died, and his widow remarried and went to live in America, leaving the boy in Miss Justin’s care. It seemed heartless, but I don’t think Matt has suffered. He’s a fine lad, and he and Clara are devoted to each other.’

  ‘And old Mr Justin?’ />
  ‘He died about nine years ago. That was when the Maces came to Cheswick. Edward Mace took over old Justin’s place in the firm — Ganton and Justin, you know, the Tanbury solicitors. I believe he’d been a clerk there in his young days, but moved away from the district. Now, of course, he is the firm. Ganton is still alive and nominally a partner, but he’s over eighty.’

  ‘Mr Mace is another I’ve yet to meet,’ Pitt said.

  ‘Oh? I expect you will. You’ll find him pleasant enough, though he looks harassed. I can’t think why. Plenty of money, a lovely house, married, two nice children — what more can a man want? I believe the girl, Sybil, is rather headstrong, but—’ The Reverend Ernest paused to look longingly at the decanter on the table. ‘Are you quite sure you won’t have a sherry, Inspector?’

  ‘Quite sure, thank you, sir. But don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘I think I will, you know. Gives me an appetite.’ The pale golden liquid gurgled sweetly into the glass, and the vicar sighed appreciatively as he sipped it. ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘Half way round the village,’ Pitt said, with a faint smile. ‘May we take the dead man next? By all accounts he was something of a menace.’

  Mr Newcutter’s face clouded.

  ‘He was indeed. One hesitates before speaking ill of the dead, but there’s little good one can find to say of him. In his father’s day Trant was one of the best farms in the district, but the son has neglected it badly. His money has gone on drink and loose living. He was a bad-tempered man, too; bad-tempered and cruel. His first wife, Isobel (she was a relative of Colonel Gresham. Have you met him?) died after only a few years of marriage. She had never been strong, poor thing, and under the treatment Cluster handed out to her she just crumbled away. Elizabeth, his second wife (she was engaged to Tom Shannon before Cluster turned her silly head), hasn’t fared much better. But she comes of tougher stock than poor Isobel, so at least she has managed to survive.’ The vicar took another sip at his sherry. ‘Odd, isn’t it, how women fall for such scoundrels?’

  Pitt wondered at the faint trace of bitterness in that final comment. Had some other John Cluster been responsible for Mr Newcutter’s bachelorhood? He said, ignoring the query, ‘I’m told Cluster was currently having an affair with Mrs Colling.’

  ‘So I believe.’ The vicar sighed. ‘Poor George. He’s a good fellow, but quite the wrong husband for her. Yet there’s no doubt he’s very much in love; her behaviour must have hurt him badly. My heart bled for him on Sunday night. He looked a most unhappy and tormented man.’

  ‘Sunday night?’ Pitt sat up with a jerk. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Just after I’d met Bright. George was alone in his taxi, driving very slowly through the village towards London. He pulled up under one of our new lamp standards to light a cigarette, and I saw his face clearly. Distressing — very distressing. Though of course that terrible yellow lighting doesn’t improve anyone’s complexion,’ he added hastily. ‘That was Miss Mytton’s doing. I was against it at the parish meeting, but she happened to be in one of her practical moods, when nothing must stand in the way of progress.’ He shook his head. ‘I fancy she regrets it now, although she would never admit it.’

  That the inspector could well believe. ‘She seems a remarkable woman,’ he said.

  ‘Very remarkable, Inspector. But don’t start me off on Emily Mytton. I could tell you—’

  Agatha Newcutter put her head round the door. ‘You’re wanted on the telephone, Ernest. It’s Edward Mace.’

  Left to himself, Pitt walked over to the window. The curtains had been drawn, but he pulled one aside and looked out. The vicar had been right about the yellow lighting, he thought; it made not only the people but the buildings look jaundiced.

  William Bright came out of the West’s cottage wheeling a bicycle. He paused for a moment to stare across at the vicarage, and then pedalled off in the direction of the Mytton Arms. Why a bicycle for that short distance, wondered the inspector.

  Or is he going farther afield?

  He was still gazing out of the window when the vicar returned.

  ‘It’s you Mace wants to talk to, Inspector, not me,’ he said. ‘I understand he has discovered something that he thinks will interest you.’

  *

  Everything at Two Rivers was organized on the assumption that ‘someone might call.’ Meals were served strictly to time, the hall and lounge were kept tidy, and Julia Mace was always suitably dressed and made-up to receive visitors. That the visitors were infrequent did not deter her, and the whole household was liable to suffer for her social aspirations. Her husband respected her passionate desire to be ‘someone’ in the county, although he took issue with her from time to time on the financial angle. His daughter was less accommodating.

  Sybil Mace was a moody, sometimes sullen girl, openly contemptuous of her mother’s social aspirations. She had inherited Julia’s dominant personality, and resented her mother’s attempts to manage her as Edward Mace was managed. There was always tension when the two were together. For that reason they were together as little as possible.

  Neither Edward nor his daughter had much to say at dinner that evening. Julia observed them with displeasure; she disliked silent meals. ‘Haven’t you anything to talk about?’ she demanded irritably of her husband. ‘You might try to be a little more entertaining when you come home. Surely something occasionally happens at the office?’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear.’ It was becoming a stock answer. ‘Yes, of course things happen. It’s just that I don’t think you’d find them interesting.’

  ‘You might let me be the judge of that,’ she snapped.

  Sybil was watching her father; although inclined to despise him for his subservience to her mother, he was the only member of the family for whom she felt any deep affection. He’s worried, she thought; more worried than usual. That means Julia’s been overdrawing again, the bitch!

  To take the heat off him she said, ‘There’s always the murder if you’re hard up for conversation. But you probably won’t want to discuss that. It’s not particularly genteel.’

  She emphasized the last word mockingly. His mouth full of chocolate pudding, her brother nodded vehemently.

  ‘What’s that matter?’ he demanded, swallowing hastily. ‘I want to discuss it if no one else does. Dad! What do you think Mr Cluster was doing up at Old Mother Mittenses?’

  ‘Archie!’

  ‘Sorry, Mother.’

  Archie always thought of Miss Mytton as ‘Old Mother Mittenses.’ The first time Julia had heard him use the expression in public was at a children’s party at which Emily Mytton had been present, and such a social gaffe by her offspring had nearly given Julia heart failure. She had forbidden Archie ever to use the expression again, but it invariably slipped out when he was excited.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said his father. ‘In any case it’s not a proper subject for children.’

  Sybil laughed. ‘Really, Daddy! How terribly Victorian! Archie probably knows a damned sight more about the murder than—’ She paused. ‘Than you do.’

  ‘That’s not what you were going to say,’ her mother observed. ‘You changed your mind, Sybil. Why?’

  ‘Oh, be your age, Julia!’ Sybil had been encouraged to use her mother’s Christian name. It made Julia feel younger. ‘I was going to say “than anyone.” But at least the murderer knows more about it than Archie. Unless Archie happens to be the murderer. I wouldn’t put it past the little horror.’

  It was Sybil’s turn to be admonished by her mother. But Edward Mace was worried. She’s lying, he thought. Julia’s right; that isn’t what she had it in mind to say.

  ‘When I got back on Sunday night, Sybil,’ he said, ‘your mother told me you were at the Hoopers’. It must have been nearly ten-thirty before you were home.’

  ‘Ten-twenty,’ Sybil corrected him.

  ‘Ten-twenty, then. So you were probably up at the Hall when the murder was committed, and must
have left soon after. Are you sure you saw or heard nothing that would help the police?’

  ‘How do you know what time Mr Cluster was murdered, Dad?’ asked Archie. ‘It didn’t give it in the papers. It just said “last night”.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt, Archie. Well, Sybil?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, glad of her brother’s intervention. It had given her time to collect her thoughts. ‘I did. See someone, I mean. And it could have been the murderer, I suppose. I wouldn’t put it past her.’

  It was an hour later that the police arrived. Sybil waited for them in the lounge, and as they came into the room she crossed her knees nonchalantly to show a plentiful amount of leg. A cigarette drooped from her mouth, wreathing her face in smoke as she puffed at it steadily. She hoped she looked hard-boiled and cynical. In fact she was extremely nervous.

  Archie had been dispatched to bed, his protests unavailing; all he wanted, he wailed, was the detectives’ autographs. Julia, the doom of her social life apparently pending (it did not occur to her that Miss Mytton was already more deeply involved in the murder than her daughter was likely to be), lost her temper and smacked his bottom. For once she was lost, out of her depth. For once she took a back seat and allowed her husband to handle the situation.

  Edward Mace cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘I hope you will appreciate, Inspector, that neither my wife nor I had any knowledge of this until my daughter mentioned it at dinner this evening. Otherwise we should have contacted you before.’ (‘Not a word of this to anyone,’ Julia had wailed, when she had recovered from Sybil’s startling announcement. ‘Sybil must not be involved. It would ruin everything.’ And for once Sybil had agreed with her mother. But Mace had pointed out that if they withheld the information the consequences could be serious, and far more damaging than the mere possibility of Sybil having to appear in the witness-box. And because his argument was backed by professional experience they had reluctantly given way.) ‘I was out Sunday evening. My wife did mention that Sybil was spending the evening with the Hoopers, but—’