by M. M. Kaye
Simon lifted an expressive eyebrow. ‘Do you usually drink whisky with lemonade?’
‘No. I don’t drink it with anything,’ said Miranda bleakly, ‘but I’m going to drink it now. Robert says it’s the world’s best pick-me-up, and I need one.’
‘Robert was not aware that you would ever try it out on top of a straight double-brandy,’ observed Simon. ‘Leave it alone, Miranda, and go and get yourself some hot milk instead; or some black coffee.’
Miranda drank off the contents of her glass with deliberation and suppressing a grimace of distaste, pushed it away from her and said: ‘Where are the others?’
‘They’ve gone.’
‘And—and Friedel?’
‘She’s gone, too. Miranda—’
‘My name,’ said Miranda stiffly, ‘is Brand.’
‘But then I don’t know you well enough to call you by your name,’ said Simon gently, his attention still apparently on the array of cards spread out before him. ‘Don’t be childish, Miranda. Who introduced you to Brigadier Brindley?’
The question was so unexpected that for a moment Miranda wondered if she had heard aright. Simon looked up and waited, his eyes on hers.
‘I—I don’t remember. Robert, I suppose—or Stella. No it wasn’t. It was Colonel Leslie: I remember now. It was in the dining-car of the train from the Hook. He was sitting opposite the Leslies and I sat next to him because we could only sit four to a table, and as Mademoiselle and Lottie were with Stella and Robert, I sat at the next one.’
‘Did you get the impression that they had known each other before, or had only just met?’
‘I don’t really know. It’s very difficult to tell with army people, because even if they have only just met they know so many people and places in common that they sound as if they know each other well. Mrs Leslie must have known him before, because she said that Stella—’ Miranda stopped, frowning. ‘No it wasn’t that of course.’
‘What wasn’t which?’
‘Nothing really. Only something I got the wrong way round. I thought she meant the Brigadier but she didn’t. It was Johnnie she meant.’
‘Who meant? And who is Johnnie?’ inquired Simon patiently.
‘Johnnie Radley: Stella’s first husband. He was killed at Tobruk.’ Suddenly she found herself telling Simon of that curious conversation in the Kurfürstendamm. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed effects of a stiff whisky on top of the brandy that Simon had given her, or perhaps she only wished to talk in order to keep herself from thinking of Friedel’s dead face in the moonlight and the feel of that slack, heavy body in her arms—and of her own perilous position.
Simon listened without comment and without once raising his eyes from the tiny coloured playing-cards before him. He continued to deal and place them, and when she had finished he swept the cards together and remarked in an abstracted voice that there were two missing.
There were low voices in the hall, and Robert and the doctor came down the stairs and into the dining-room. Robert looked bewildered and angry, and his handsome face was unusually pale. He ignored Simon and asked Miranda why on earth she wasn’t in bed?
‘Mademoiselle isn’t back yet,’ said Miranda tiredly. ‘And I thought that Stella…’
‘Stella’s asleep. And it’s quite time you were too. Run along now, darling; I want to talk to Lang. I’ll see to Mademoiselle.’ He turned to the doctor. ‘Can’t you give her something? Not a knock-out drop, just something that will help her sleep.’
‘She won’t need it,’ said Simon dryly. ‘All she needs is a couple of aspirins to ward off a hangover.’
Robert said furiously: ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘Only that the kid has about a quarter of a pint of mixed whisky and brandy inside her at the moment,’ said Simon equably, ‘and as she appears to be unused to spirits it should prove a fairly effective soporific.’
The doctor silently handed over two aspirins and Miranda swallowed them obediently and stood up. Robert put an arm around her slim shoulders: ‘I’ll see you up to your room.’
Miranda smiled a little crookedly and said: ‘I’m all right,’ and turning her head saw that Simon had risen too and was watching her. She thought that she had never see a blanker or more expressionless face. And yet there was something there—perhaps in the eyes that met hers so steadily—something watchful and intensely interested and, yes, angry …
She freed herself gently from Robert’s hold and turned and went out of the room.
But she had not gone to sleep until long after midnight. She had not even undressed. She had sat on the edge of her bed with her chin on her hand and stared ahead of her, and listened to the murmur of voices from the dining-room. She had heard Mademoiselle return, and Mademoiselle’s excitable tones raised in angry expostulation—the governess became exceedingly foreign when agitated, and her speech became a mixed torrent of English and the German-French of St Gallen.
Miranda, listening to her, gave a little shiver of distaste. She found Mademoiselle repellent, and felt towards her much as Aunt Hetty did towards cats. Even the smell of the caraway seeds that Mademoiselle would nibble between her strong yellow teeth could make her nerves curl in disgust.
Mademoiselle had been with Stella for three years, ever since Lottie was five. She had proved a hard worker, and willing to help with housework, mending and laundering; she never seemed to take holidays, had no near relatives, and in a day when reliable household help was difficult to obtain, had turned out to be worth at least four times her modest salary. Stella frequently said that she did not know how she would manage without her, and blessed the chance that had brought her to their door inquiring for employment.
Three years ago Miranda, who had recently left school, was living in a girls’ club in London, having obtained work with a model agency. And later, when she was earning a steady income, she had taken a small flat with a girl of her own age who was studying at R.A.D.A. So she had not seen very much of Stella, and little or nothing of Mademoiselle until she had accepted the Melvilles’ invitation to go out with them to Berlin, and had met them all in the lounge of the Station Hotel at Liverpool Street. But since then her first instinctive dislike of the elderly Swiss spinster, with her dyed hair, her peculiar eyes and perpetual aroma of caraway seed, had grown into aversion. And tonight, sitting in her bedroom with her aching head in her hands, Miranda listened to Mademoiselle’s plangent tones echoing up from the hall below and shivered with distaste.
Presently Mademoiselle had come upstairs and gone to her room, and later Robert had crossed the hall with the doctor and Simon Lang. Miranda could not make out what they were saying, but Robert’s voice sounded weary and cross, the doctor’s soothing, and Simon’s unendurably placid.
It was past one o’clock before Miranda again removed the topaz-coloured dress that was smeared with Friedel’s blood, and fell into an exhausted and uneasy slumber; but the hall was bright with mid-morning sunlight when she came downstairs again.
She could hear Stella’s voice behind the closed door of the drawing-room, and as she hesitated someone crossed the landing above and came quickly down the stairs. It was Mrs Leslie, hatted and gloved and carrying a small suitcase. She stopped when she saw Miranda and looked surprised.
‘Hullo, my dear. They told me you were asleep. Have you had any breakfast? It was kept hot for you. I’ve been helping the governess to pack.’
‘Pack what? Is she leaving?’ inquired Miranda, wishing that her head did not ache so.
‘Oh no. It’s only the child. Lottie is going over to the Lawrences’ for a day or two until this horrible business is cleared up. Katy Lawrence rang me up this morning and asked me to arrange it. She didn’t like to ring this house in case Mrs Melville or you were asleep, so I came over and fixed it with Robert. Of course it’s the obvious thing to do—get the child right out of the way. The governess is to sleep here and bicycle over every morning to look after her during the day. It’s no distance, really.�
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Miranda said: ‘Who’s Stella talking to?’
‘Captain Lang—or some other man from the local equivalent of the Gestapo,’ said Mrs Leslie with a trace of acid. ‘We’ve had a swarm of them all over the place this morning, including the German police. They had Edward and myself answering a lot of idiotic questions before breakfast; and the servants and the batman! They even wanted a list of our guests last night, and in what order they had arrived. I never heard such nonsense! I’ll tell the cook that you’re up and she can bring you something to eat in the dining-room.’
‘I don’t want anything to eat,’ said Miranda with strong revulsion.
‘Nonsense! You’ll feel far better once you’ve had some food and hot coffee,’ said Mrs Leslie bracingly. ‘You’re looking a wreck. At least twenty-four!’
Miranda smiled and Mrs Leslie said: ‘That’s better,’ and went off to the kitchen to speak briefly and with authority to Frau Herbach.
‘Silly woman!’ said Mrs Leslie, returning. ‘Scared out of her wits and wants to leave. Says she’ll be the next victim. And this is the nation that … well, never mind. Ah, here’s the coffee: have some of that at least. I’ll take the suitcases over to my house.’
‘Is Lottie at the Lawrences’ already?’ asked Miranda, following Frau Herbach and the tray into the dining-room.
‘No, she’s over at my house playing with that child with the freckles who was on the train with us. Katy Lawrence is going to fetch her later. I expect I shall be seeing you. Brace up!’
She turned away and left Miranda to her belated breakfast.
Someone had forgotten to turn off the central heating in the dining-room, and since the room was full of sunlight and very hot, Miranda went over to the nearest window and opened it. The drawing-room windows, a yard or so to the left, were also open, and Stella’s voice was clearly audible. There was a break in it, as though she had been crying.
‘… Oh, I know I behaved like a fool! But I had to know. I couldn’t bear not knowing! You see, he’d known her in Egypt and I knew that she had written to him.’
Simon Lang asked a question, but Miranda only caught the intonation of his quiet voice and did not hear the words.
Stella said: ‘It was Mrs Marson. She was there too—at the Lawrences’; I think all the wives were—and she said something to Sally—Mrs Page—about her being a grass-widow for the evening because her husband was dining out at some Mess in the American sector. So then Mrs Bradley asked Sally if she’d like to come up to their flat for supper, but she said she already had a date, and Mrs Bradley laughed and said: “Trust you for that!” And—and—when Robert, my husband, rang up and said he wouldn’t be back to supper because he would be working late on some scheme, I…’
There was a brief pause, as though Stella were striving to control herself, and when she spoke again, it was in a flat, level voice.
‘I didn’t mean to do anything silly. It was just that I didn’t want to go back to the house because…’ Her voice wavered momentarily. ‘Because Miranda was there, and I wanted to be alone and think. So I rang up and said I wouldn’t be back, and I drove out somewhere—to that place where the swimming-pool is—and parked the car and walked about the grounds and thought about everything. And then I suddenly decided to ring up the office and—and make sure. I drove to the Officers’ Club and telephoned from there. But there was no answer from his office and he wasn’t in the Mess either.’
Simon Lang must have moved nearer the window, because this time Miranda heard him say: ‘What time was that?’
‘Just after half-past seven.’
‘Quite sure?’
‘Yes. I looked at the clock when I’d finished telephoning. It was about a minute past the half hour.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I went out and got into the car and drove to the road where the Pages’ flat is,’ said Stella in a hard, defiant voice. ‘I parked the car where I could watch the entrance. And I saw Sally—Mrs Page—come out and get into a taxi—and I followed it. But I lost it at the traffic lights.’
‘Had you waited long?’ Simon’s voice was entirely matter-of-fact, and he might have been discussing the weather. It evidently had a steadying effect upon Stella, for her voice sounded less taut and more normal.
‘No. Only a minute or two. It’s not far from the Club, so it must have been about twenty to eight.’
‘Mrs Page was dining at the Leslies’,’ said Simon. ‘So by that reckoning she must have arrived at their house not later than ten minutes to eight.’
‘I know,’ said Stella wretchedly. ‘I’ve made a complete fool of myself. I see that now.’
‘What did you do when you lost sight of the taxi?’
‘I parked the car in a side street and just sat.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know. It didn’t seem very long, but it may have been an hour—or two hours!’ She gave a dreary little laugh. ‘And then I had something to eat at a café in one of the back roads and came home, and … Well, you know the rest.’
Simon said: ‘Did you see anyone you knew? Or anyone you think might be able to identify you, between the time you left the Club and eight o’clock? That’s almost the only time we’re interested in.’
‘No,’ said Stella wearily. ‘No one at all. So you see I haven’t got an alibi. Captain Lang…’
‘Yes?’
‘Does Robert have to know?’
‘Not unless you tell him yourself,’ said Simon. ‘It might not be a bad idea you know,’ he suggested, gently deprecatory.
‘I can’t!’ Stella’s voice had a hard edge to it. ‘He asked me this morning and I said that I had just decided to see Berlin and have supper at a German café for—for fun. I only told you because…’ She stopped, and then said in a voice that was puzzled and a little angry: ‘I don’t know why I should have told you.’
Because people do tell him things, thought Miranda wryly. Things they don’t mean to tell him—
She leaned against the windowsill and looked out across the sunny strip of lawn. Last night’s rain had battered the cherry trees, but though the ground below them was strewn with fallen petals, new buds were opening to take their place, and the garden looked fresh and clean and a little smug. It did not seem possible that a woman had died a violent death in it only a few hours ago.
Mademoiselle came round the corner of the house wheeling her bicycle, and seeing Miranda at the window, paused and inquired if she had slept well. She herself had not closed her eyes, so great was her alarm, and her sorrow for the poor, poor woman so foully done to death—without doubt by the agents of the Soviet. Always there were killings and kidnappings in Berlin by the Russians: one had told her so only yesterday.
She was interrupted by Stella who leant out of the window to ask if she was sure she knew the way to the Lawrences’ house?
But yes, said Mademoiselle. She knew quite well the direction and would have departed earlier had it not been for the time wasted by the imbecile gendarmes and their so foolish questions. Mademoiselle concluded her remarks with a resounding sniff and wheeled her bicycle away, and Stella said: ‘Hullo, ’Randa. I didn’t realize you were up. How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible! Come and have some coffee.’
‘I can’t,’ said Stella with an attempt at a smile. ‘I’m being given the third degree.’
‘Do you mean to say that the imbecile gendarmes haven’t finished with their so foolish questions yet?’ inquired Miranda, raising her voice with intent.
Stella frowned and said sharply: ‘Don’t be silly, Miranda!’ She drew in her head and Miranda heard Simon Lang laugh, and then the window shut with a bang.
Miranda poured herself another cup of black coffee and sipped it slowly. She was trying to explain something to herself. She, Miranda, had for a brief space behaved like that fictional character who plays into the murderer’s hands by concealing evidence instead of yelling for the police. Which was understandable, since
she had, after all, received a series of violent and unpleasant shocks, and could be forgiven for reacting to them a little wildly.
What was not understandable was why, in the bright light of morning, an uncomfortable proportion of the panic that had driven her to tear off the stained dress, and had whispered the words ‘Circumstantial evidence’ in her ear, should still remain with her? Because, of course, it was nonsense. Suspicion could not possibly rest on her for the simple reason that unless they suspected her of homicidal mania, she had no shadow of motive for killing Brigadier Brindley or Friedel Schultz; and no possible connection with either of them. And yet she was still afraid. Why?
Because of Simon Lang! The answer presented itself to her as suddenly as though someone had spoken the words aloud.
Simon Lang could see a possible reason why she might have committed both crimes. A motive that had escaped Miranda herself, but was, none the less, a feasible one; since she did not believe that he would waste time on impossibilities. It followed, therefore, that somewhere in all this there was some connection between Brigadier Brindley, Friedel and herself, and a possible motive for the murder of both Brigadier Brindley and Friedel by Miranda Brand.
She heard the drawing-room door open and Stella walk quickly across the hall and run up the stairs, and a moment later the sound of her bedroom door being shut with a bang. Miranda put down her coffee cup and, leaving the room, walked resolutely across the hall and into the drawing-room.
Simon Lang was leaning against the window frame, his hands deep in his pockets, looking out into the garden. He turned his head as she entered and acknowledged her presence with something that might conceivably have been called a smile, and when she did not speak, turned back to his contemplation of the garden.
Miranda seemed suddenly to have forgotten what it was she had wanted to say. She crossed the room slowly and stood beside him, looking out on the green, sunlit space and trying to imagine it as it had looked last night; and would look again when the sun had set: a place of darkness and mystery and shadows.
Something of what was passing in her mind seemed also to be in Simon Lang’s, for he said under his breath: ‘“Is the day fair? Yet unto evening shall the day spin on…”’ He did not finish the quotation, and Miranda spoke the next two lines almost without knowing that she had done so: ‘“And soon thy sun be gone; then darkness come, and this, a narrow home.”’