by M. M. Kaye
Simon turned and looked at her, his eyebrows up and an odd gleam in his eyes.
Miranda shivered suddenly in the bright sunlight and said: ‘It all looks so ordinary, and so safe. It doesn’t seem possible that anything like that could have happened out there.’
Simon said: ‘You’ve forgotten the first line of that poem.’
‘No, I haven’t. You left it out. “O passer-by, beware!” I was the passer-by: but how is one to know?’
Simon did not reply and the room was very silent; as silent as the quiet garden outside.
Miranda sighed and turned away from the window. ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said slowly. ‘You have a theory about me, haven’t you? A possible reason why I might have murdered two people who were complete strangers to me.’
She looked directly at Simon Lang, but her eyes were dazzled by the bright sunlight beyond the window, and his face seemed to be oddly out of focus and once again entirely without expression: as though a blind had been drawn down over it. He did not trouble to deny or confirm her statement, but returned her gaze evenly and in silence.
‘What reason could I possibly have had?’ urged Miranda. ‘I didn’t know either of them.’
Simon said quietly: ‘That might not have been necessary.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you? I wonder.’
Simon was silent for a moment or two, then he said meditatively: ‘Men commit murder for a variety of reasons. But generally speaking, there are only two reasons why women do; and they frequently commit them for a combination of the two. It is just conceivable—only just—that you might qualify on account of those reasons.’
‘I don’t understand!’ repeated Miranda angrily.
‘If you don’t, then there’s no need for you to worry,’ said Simon.
‘But I tell you, I’d never even met Brigadier Brindley before that afternoon on the train,’ insisted Miranda.
‘No, I don’t think you had,’ said Simon unexpectedly.
‘There you are then! As for Friedel, I hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to her.’
Simon looked at her speculatively for a moment or two, then he said quietly: ‘Whoever killed the Brigadier need not have known him for more than a few hours.’
‘And Friedel?’
‘That was, I think, a mistake,’ said Simon. He glanced at his watch and said: ‘I must go,’ and turned and walked to the door.
Miranda ran after him and caught at his arm: ‘But you haven’t answered my question!’
Simon looked down at the slim fingers that clutched his sleeve. ‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘I don’t believe I have.’
He detached her fingers quite gently, as though he were removing some small creeping object that he did not wish to harm, and the hall door closed quietly behind him.
Miranda made a sound like an infuriated and frightened kitten, and turning her back on the door, ran upstairs to find Stella.
CHAPTER 13
Stella’s bedroom door was not only closed, but locked. Miranda knocked softly, and receiving no answer, tried the handle.
A voice that she did not immediately recognize as Stella’s said sharply: ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ said Miranda with a fine disregard for grammar. ‘I only wanted to see how you were bearing up.’
A key turned in the lock and the door opened. Stella said: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you knock. Come in. Has Captain Lang left?’
‘Yes,’ said Miranda uncommunicatively.
Stella moved over to her dressing-table, and sitting down in front of it began to fidget aimlessly with bottles and brushes, and Miranda, watching her reflection in the glass, saw with something like horror that she looked old. Sallow-skinned and haggard, and desperate. Stella looked up, and catching sight of Miranda’s face in the glass, started violently. The bottle she had been touching overturned and spilt a stream of scented lotion over the table, and Miranda ran to her and put her arms about her.
‘What is it, Stel’? What’s the matter?’
Stella flinched at her touch and then sat still, submitting to the embrace. But Miranda could feel that her body was tense and trembling, and see that she was staring at her own reflection in the mirror as if it were some stranger she saw there. She said in a hoarse whisper: ‘I’m afraid, ’Randa. I’m afraid!’
Miranda’s arms tightened about her and she tried to think of something to say that would convince Stella that Robert would never leave her for Sally Page or anyone else. She said to gain time: ‘What have you got to be afraid of, darling?’
‘Of being murdered,’ said Stella in a whisper.
The answer was so unexpected and so shocking that Miranda released her and took a quick step backward.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
Stella’s hands clutched at the edge of the dressing-table. ‘Someone meant to kill me. Me—not Friedel!’
Miranda opened her mouth to say ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ but a sudden recollection of what Simon had said to her less than ten minutes ago checked the words on her tongue. At the time, preoccupied with her own angle, she had not stopped to think what he had meant when he said that Friedel’s death had probably been a mistake.
After a moment she said: ‘Nonsense!’ but the word lacked conviction and Stella brushed it aside.
‘It isn’t nonsense! It was night, and she was wearing my coat. Don’t you see—someone thought it was me! Even you did. You said so! Someone thought I should be here alone, as you were. You should have been out—Mrs Leslie told me so—but I ought to have been here. I tell you, someone meant to kill me, ’Randa!’
Miranda said: ‘Darling, why? Do be sensible! Why should anyone want to kill you? Surely it’s obvious that someone had it in for that wretched woman, and the fact that she had borrowed your coat had nothing whatever to do with it?’ She was trying to be reasonable and comforting, but she did not believe her own words, because if Simon Lang thought that Friedel’s death was a mistake, he must have a very good reason for thinking so. But who would want to kill Stella? Surely you would have to hate someone very much to wish to kill them? Simon had said that women usually killed for one of two reasons; though he had not specified those reasons. Was one of them hate? Who hated Stella? Who would want her out of the way?
Two names leapt to Miranda’s mind: Norah Leslie and Sally Page …
‘No!’ said Miranda aloud. ‘No!’
‘You can believe what you like,’ said Stella in a shaking voice, ‘but I know that someone meant to kill me. I tell you I know!’
But Miranda had been speaking to herself—or to Sally Page: pretty, young, foolish Sally, who imagined herself to be in love with Stella’s husband. Or to Norah Leslie, who hated Stella for some hidden reason of her own. But neither of them was capable of murder, and it was all nonsense that Stella had been the intended victim. It must be! Simon was wrong, and Friedel had been killed for some reason unconnected with either or any of them.
She tried to make Stella see this, but Stella was frightened beyond the reach of reason. Her insular dislike of foreigners and foreign countries, her jealousy of Sally Page, and the shocking reality of the two brutal murders with which she had been brought into contact, had combined to bring her to the verge of a complete physical and mental collapse. She would only repeat, ‘I know that it was meant to be me,’ in reply to all Miranda’s soothing arguments.
Miranda said patiently: ‘How can you be so sure? Do you know of any reason why anyone should want to kill you?’
‘Yes…’ Miranda barely caught the whispered word. Stella was not even looking at her; she was staring in front of her as though she saw someone or something that Miranda could not see, and there was a stark terror in her eyes that made Miranda’s heart miss a beat.
Miranda said quickly: ‘If you mean Sally Page, I think…’
‘Sally?’ interrupted Stella, her gaze returned to Miranda. ‘What on earth has Sally Page to do with it?
’ Her voice sounded genuinely startled.
‘Nothing,’ said Miranda hastily. ‘Stel’, this reason you know of—why someone should want to kill you—what is it?’
Stella’s face changed. It became black and expressionless, and her violet-blue eyes were no longer terrified, but guarded and wary. She did not answer for a moment, and then she picked up a powder puff from the dressing-table and spoke to Miranda over her shoulder.
‘Of course I don’t know of any reason. How should I? It’s just that that woman was wearing my coat. That’s all. Don’t let’s talk about it any more for heaven’s sake, ’Randa. Oh God, what a mess I look! I must do something to my face before Robert gets back.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Miranda, only too glad to change the subject.
‘Seeing a lot of people about this Friedel business. He’ll be back for luncheon. You might go down and see if the cook is doing anything about it. She’s been behaving in a most peculiar manner. Where the Germans acquired their reputation for toughness I can’t imagine. They seem to me to collapse into tears and hysteria at the drop of a hat! Oh well, I suppose I can’t talk. Go and see about it will you, darling? Robert should be back any minute now!’
But Robert had already arrived, for Miranda found him in the drawing-room with Harry and Elsa Marson. The three had been talking together in low tones, but they broke off as she entered and turned quickly to face her.
Standing together in the cool cream and green of Stella’s drawing-room, they seemed to Miranda to look curiously alike, despite their wide physical dissimilarities. And for a brief moment that fleeting impression of likeness puzzled her, until she realized that it was soley a matter of tension. They had turned simultaneously, and as they stood facing her in silence, their three faces bore the same look of strained wariness. It lasted only for a moment, and then the tension relaxed and Robert said: ‘Oh, it’s you, ’Randa. I thought—’ He bit off the sentence and turned to Mrs Marson: ‘Elsa, have a brandy and soda instead of that sherry. You look as if you could do with it. We all could.’
‘Thank you, no,’ said Mrs Marson. ‘I think it is time we go now.’
She looked shockingly ill, thought Miranda. Something had happened to her face since they had first met on that fateful journey to Berlin. It seemed to have aged, as Stella’s too had aged. Yet that was not all. Her face seemed thinner and somehow more un-English, and she had taken to a lavish use of make-up, as though to provide a mask with which to conceal that change. But the bright patches of rouge on her cheeks only served to accentuate their thinness and the curious grey pallor of her skin, and no amount of paint and powder could disguise the dark patches under her eyes or dim their feverish glitter. She too looked as Stella had looked—haggard and raddled and afraid. Miranda wondered if her own face bore that same look of fear?
Harry Marson said: ‘Hullo, Miranda. This is a bloody business isn’t it—in more senses than one.’ He finished the contents of his glass at a gulp. ‘We’ve had the Polizei and the F.B.I. and the Gendarmerie and old Uncle Sherlock-Holmes-Cantrell and all swarming over us since early dawn. Or that’s what it feels like. The entire allied police force appears to be interested in the demise of your late parlourmaid, and it’s probably only a matter of time before we’re all lined up answering questions for a squad of comrades from the N.K.V.D. as well!’
Robert said quite pleasantly: ‘Shut up, Harry,’ and Harry Marson shot him a quick look and reddened under his tan. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and said: ‘Well I suppose we’d better be getting along. Give you a lift to the office after lunch—fair exchange and all that.’
‘Make it about three,’ said Robert.
‘Okay. Come on, Elsa.’
They went out through the french window and took the short cut across the Leslies’ garden to their own house.
Stella came down to luncheon looking smooth and poised and soignée. It did not seem possible that this was the same woman who had crouched before her looking-glass, hysterical and terrified, so short a time ago. She had changed into a leaf-brown suit that brought out the copper tints in her blond hair, and had made up her face with care. But her hands still trembled slightly and the carefully applied mascara could not hide the redness about her eyes.
Robert went to the foot of the stairs to meet her. He took her into his arms and held her close to him for a moment, her head thrown back so that he could look into her eyes. Then he kissed her gently and released her.
‘Well done, darling,’ said Robert approvingly.
A little flush of colour rose to Stella’s cheeks and the tension in her face and body seemed to relax. She smiled at him warmly and lovingly, and tucking her hand through his arm, turned towards the dining-room.
A little after three o’clock a horn sounded in the road. ‘That’ll be Harry,’ said Robert. ‘Darling, I’m going to be late again this evening. I’m sorry. It’s specially beastly just now, but there is a bit of an international flap on, and the C.O. is up to his eyes in work and worry. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but it may not be until around eight o’clock. Goodbye, my sweet. Try not to worry too much. Everything is going to be all right, and as soon as all this has blown over I shall see if I can’t scrounge a bit of leave and we’ll go down to Italy for ten days. Would you like that?’
‘No,’ said Stella with a crooked smile. ‘Frankly, darling, I’d prefer ten days in a boarding-house at Blackpool or a cosy chalet in some Butlin holiday camp. Bracing Britain is good enough for me, and I feel I never want to see another hysterical foreigner in my life!’
Robert laughed and stooped to kiss her. ‘Butlins it shall be! And if only I were a man of means instead of an impecunious chap who has still to qualify for a minimum pension, I’d hand in my papers and take to breeding pigs tomorrow! Never mind, my sweet, one day we shall retire to some nice, safe semi-detached on a bus route, and keep hens in the back garden.’
‘It sounds heavenly,’ said Stella with a laugh. ‘But why the semi-detached? Why not Mallow?’
‘My dear girl,’ said Robert, reaching for his hat, ‘by the time I can afford to retire or am heaved out—whichever comes first—the local housing committee will have grabbed it under some by-law and converted it into Workers’ flats. And about time too! With the cost of living well over the roof, the place is a mark one white elephant.’
The car horn tooted again impatiently and Robert pulled Stella to him and kissed her again, holding her for a moment with his cheek against hers. He looked past her to Miranda, his eyes anxious, and said: ‘Look after her, ’Randa.’
Stella released herself with a little laugh. ‘It’s Miranda who needs looking after darling, not me. ’Randa was in the thick of it all.’
‘Well, look after each other then.’ He reached out and ruffled Miranda’s dark hair affectionately, kissed her cheek, and was gone.
Two men came to interview Stella during the course of the afternoon: one of them Colonel Cantrell, whom Miranda had first seen in the waiting-room of Charlottenburg station, and the other a German policeman. But they did not ask to see Miranda, and she returned to the garden and sat on the edge of Lottie’s sandpit with an anxious eye on the drawing-room windows.
Why were they worrying Stella again? Was it because she could produce no alibi for the previous night? But Stella of all people would not kill someone in mistake for herself. Unless Simon was wrong and there was no question of a mistake? Or did they perhaps think that for some reason of her own Stella might have killed Friedel and had the brilliant idea of dressing her in her own coat in order to create the impression that she herself had been the intended victim—thereby providing herself in some sort with an alibi, to compensate for the fact that she could produce no evidence to prove where she had been during that short margin of time in which Friedel must have met her death? They might reason like that; but then they had not seen her, as Miranda had, in her bedroom that morning. Stella was afraid. Afraid for her life. Genuinely and terribly afraid. And despite her sub
sequent denial, it was quite obvious that she had a special and secret reason for that fear.
Mrs Marson…? Had it been Elsa Marson who had spoken to Friedel on the landing in the hostel that first morning in Berlin? Where had she been last night, and what had she been doing in the Soviet Garden of Remembrance? Miranda sighed and abandoned the problem in favour of wishing herself back once more in the tiny, comfortable flat off Sloane Street.
Colonel Cantrell and the German policeman left after half an hour, and towards five o’clock Stella suggested a visit to the swimming-pool at the Stadium, where Lottie and the Lawrence children were to have a swimming lesson. She had not referred to the afternoon’s interview, but her eyes were over-bright and there was a hectic flush of colour in her cheeks that made Miranda feel anxious. Stella was making an obvious effort to appear her normal self, and was gay and talkative and had confined her conversation to an amusingly malicious account of the Wives’ Meeting at the Lawrence house.
‘I wonder if we need any petrol?’ said Stella, starting the car and backing it out cautiously. ‘I think there’s a spare gallon somewhere.’
Miranda leant forward and peered at the gauge: ‘No. You’ve got two gallons in the tank. It isn’t far, is it?’
‘Only a couple of miles, I think. If that.’ Stella sighed and said: ‘Do you remember when we bought this car? It was in 1950, for Robert’s leave. We went to Dorset. Oh, those peaceful English lanes and hedges! And here I am, driving it down an autobahn in Berlin. It seems all wrong, somehow.’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ comforted Miranda. ‘You’ll drive it down a lot more English lanes one day. It’s done a nice, comfortable wodge of British mileage—17,332 miles no less—so I see no reason why it should not tot up a few on autobahns before getting back to hedges again.’