The Man Who Killed Himself

by Julian Symons

  Copyright & Information

  The Man Who Killed Himself

  First published in 1967

  © Estate of Julian Symons; House of Stratus 1967-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Julian Symons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842329243 9781842329245 Print

  0755129571 9780755129577 Kindle

  0755129636 9780755129638 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Julian Symons was born in 1912 in London. He was the younger brother, and later biographer, of the writer A.J.A. Symons.

  Aged twenty five, he founded a poetry magazine which he edited for a short time, before turning to crime writing. This was not to be his only interest, however, as in his eighty-two years he produced an enormously varied body of work. Social and military history, biography and criticism were all subjects he touched upon with remarkable success, and held a distinguished reputation in each field. Nonetheless, it is primarily for his crime writing that he is remembered. His novels were consistently highly individual and expertly crafted, raising him above other crime writers of his day.

  Symons commenced World War II as a recognised conscientious objector, but nevertheless ended up serving in the Royal Armoured Corps from 1942 until 1944, when he was invalided out. A period as an advertising copywriter followed, but was soon abandoned in favour of full time writing. Many prizes came his way as a result, including two Edgar Awards and in 1982 he received the accolade of being named as Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America – an honour accorded to only three other English writers before him: Graham Greene, Eric Ambler and Daphne Du Maurier. Symons then succeeded Agatha Christie as the president of Britain’s Detection Club, a position he held from 1976 to 1985, and in 1990 he was awarded the Cartier Diamond Dagger from the British Crime Writers for his lifetime’s achievement in crime fiction.

  He published over thirty crime novels and story collections between 1945 and 1994; with the works combining different elements of the classic detective story and modern crime novel, but with a clear leaning toward the latter, especially situations where ordinary people get drawn into extraordinary series of events – a trait he shared with Eric Ambler. He also wrote two modern-day Sherlock Holmes pastiches. In A Three Pipe Problem the detective was ‘...a television actor, Sheridan Hayes, who wears the mask of Sherlock Holmes and assumes his character’. Several of Julian Symons’ works have been filmed for television.

  Julian Symons died in 1994.

  Dedication

  For George Hardinge

  Note

  My thanks are due to Mr A J Nathan of L and H Nathan, the famous court, theatrical and film costumiers, for information about wigs in general, and for taking a benevolent interest in the affairs of Major Easonby Mellon. Readers will be reassured to know that Major Mellon’s deception is practicable, and in fact is not unknown in real life.

  Introduction

  The French call a typewriter une machine á ècrire. It is a description that could well be applied to Julian Symons, except the writing he produced had nothing about it smelling of the mechanical. The greater part of his life was devoted to putting pen to paper. Appearing in 1938, his first book was a volume of poetry, Confusions About X. In 1996, after his death, there came his final crime novel, A Sort of Virtue (written even though he knew he was under sentence from an inoperable cancer) beautifully embodying the painful come-by lesson that it is possible to achieve at least a degree of good in life.

  His crime fiction put him most noticeably into the public eye, but he wrote in many forms: biographies, a memorable piece of autobiography (Notes from Another Country), poetry, social history, literary criticism coupled with year-on-year reviewing and two volumes of military history, and one string thread runs through it all. Everywhere there is a hatred of hypocrisy, hatred even when it aroused the delighted fascination with which he chronicled the siren schemes of that notorious jingoist swindler, Horatio Bottomley, both in his biography of the man and fictionally in The Paper Chase and The Killing of Francie Lake.

  That hatred, however, was not a spew but a well-spring. It lay behind what he wrote and gave it force, yet it was always tempered by a need to speak the truth. Whether he was writing about people as fiction or as fact, if he had a low opinion of them he simply told the truth as he saw it, no more and no less.

  This adherence to truth fills his novels with images of the mask. Often it is the mask of hypocrisy. When, as in Death’s Darkest Face or Something Like a Love Affair, he chose to use a plot of dazzling legerdemain, the masks of cunning are startlingly ripped away.

  The masks he ripped off most effectively were perhaps those which people put on their true faces when sex was in the air or under the exterior. ‘Lift the stone, and sex crawls out from under,’ says a character in that relentless hunt for truth, The Progress of a Crime, a book that achieved the rare feat for a British author, winning Symons the US Edgar Allen Poe Award.

  Julian was indeed something of a pioneer in the fifties and sixties bringing into the almost sexless world of the detective story the truths of sexual situations. ‘To exclude realism of description and language from the crime novel’ he writes in Critical Occasions, ‘is almost to prevent its practitioners from attempting any serious work.’ And then the need to unmask deep-hidden secrecies of every sort was almost as necessary at the end of his crime-writing life as it had been at the beginning. Not for nothing was his last book subtitled A Political Thriller.

  H R F Keating

  London, 2001

  PART ONE

  Before the Act

  Chapter One

  Mr Brownjohn at Home

  In the end Arthur Brownjohn killed himself, but in the beginning he made up his mind to murder his wife. He did so on the day that Major Easonby Mellon met Patricia Parker. Others might have come to such a decision earlier but Arthur Brownjohn was a patient and, as all those who knew him agreed, a timid and long-suffering man. When people say that a man is long-suffering they mean that they see no reason why he should not suffer for ever.

  Major Mellon met Patricia Parker on a Wednesday in April. On the day before that Arthur Brownjohn returned to his home in Fraycut at about five in the afternoon. The house was called The Laurels, although there was no remaining trace of a laurel tree. It was a small square detached house made of red brick, with a neat garden in front and a larger one, just as neat, behind. There are hundreds of such houses in Fraycut, and they are loved by those who live in them because they establish so satisfactorily their owners’ position in society. Arthur’s wife Clare greeted him with a fierce peck on the cheek and the news that the hedge needed clipping. She was a powerful woman with one of those red healthy faces that carry with them a suggestion of hunting and hor
se shows. Clare was two inches taller than Arthur, and it might have seemed that she was physically better equipped for hedge clipping than he. It was her expressed belief, however, that it did Arthur good to get out into the air, and now she stood with hands on hips watching him from outside the French window in the drawing-room while he unsteadily climbed a pair of steps and snipped at the hedge.

  ‘Not quite even, a little more off there on the right,’ she said and then, like a sergeant-major calling a recruit to attention, ‘Arthur. What are those trousers?’

  He looked down from the steps. ‘Trousers?’

  ‘They are your best gaberdine.’

  ‘Not my best.’

  She did not relent. ‘You know you don’t wear them for gardening. Go up and change.’

  Arthur had already changed once, from business suit to gaberdine trousers, but he changed again. Clare went into the house.

  Clip the hedges, trim the edges, mow the lawn. These were among his duties. It was half past six when he put away the gardening tools in the garage that contained no motor car, and then it was to find that Clare was dressing. Time for him to change again. The Paynes were coming for bridge.

  ‘I should really like to have a bath.’

  ‘Can’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had one, water won’t be hot. Besides, there’s no time.’

  The Paynes arrived just before seven-thirty. They were one of half a dozen bridge-playing couples with whom the Brownjohns exchanged visits. The procedure on these occasions varied very little. The visitors had one or perhaps two drinks, a rubber of bridge was played, sandwiches and coffee were served by the hostess, more bridge was played and at some time between eleven and twelve o’clock a good-night whisky was offered. The whole thing made, as Clare said when she won, a thoroughly nice evening.

  Mr Payne was the manager of the Fraycut branch of the bank at which Arthur and Clare had a joint account. He was not, as Clare had often said to her husband, quite out of the top drawer.

  ‘Funny old weather we’re having,’ he said as he sipped his sherry. ‘Rain and shine, rain and shine. April though, I suppose you must expect it. How was it in London?’ He spoke as if Fraycut were at the other end of Britain, instead of half an hour’s journey from London.

  ‘About the same as here.’ Mr Brownjohn twiddled his glass.

  ‘You can’t trust the English weather.’ Clare mentioned the weather as if it were an unreliable servant.

  ‘That’s just what I always say.’ Mrs Payne said it, as she said everything, with a nervous rush. ‘What’s the summer going to be like? You can’t tell. So George and I are going to Spain.’

  ‘The Costa Brava?’ Clare asked with a note of ennui. The Brownjohns never went abroad for holidays, and indeed had not been away together for years.

  ‘The Costa Blanca. They say it’s nicer, so much less crowded.’

  ‘How odd,’ Clare bayed in her deepest tones. ‘I was in Penquick’s yesterday. The Penquicks are going to Costa Blanca. Perhaps you may see them there.’

  There was silence after this remark. The Penquicks owned a grocery shop in the High Street. Mr Brownjohn offered more sherry, poured it into three glasses. His wife said sharply: ‘Arthur.’

  ‘My dear.’

  ‘No more for you. You know you haven’t a head for liquor.’

  Arthur left his glass unfilled. Mr Payne and his wife exchanged a meaningful glance. They had heard similar conversations in the past.

  ‘Well,’ Mr Payne said, ‘Bring out the devil’s playthings. After all, that’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘I think it’s absurd to call them that,’ his wife riposted. ‘As long as you don’t play for high stakes and don’t take it too seriously, there’s no harm in it.’

  Clare made no comment. She played with a concentration that was terrifying to behold.

  Eight, nine, ten, eleven o’clock. Husbands and wives played together, and the Brownjohns held bad cards or had bad luck or played badly. They lost every rubber. The financial deficit was small, the mental irritation extreme. ‘What made you double that heart call?’ Clare asked her husband. ‘Surely anybody with eyes in his head could see that wasn’t what I wanted. Just because you’re sitting with the king and two others.’

  Mr Payne wagged a finger. ‘Now now. No inquests.’

  ‘The trouble is Arthur’s not here half the time.’ She spoke as if her husband were physically absent. ‘I don’t know where he is. In cloud-cuckoo-land.’

  ‘Or in the attic,’ Mr Payne said with a loud laugh. ‘Racing those cars round the track.’ It was a source of amusement to all visitors that Arthur kept a complete layout for model electric car racing up in the attic with a quadruple track, a special Le Mans start, bridges and cross-overs, and twenty different cars.

  ‘We had bad cards, my dear.’ Arthur was pouring whisky into cut glass tumblers.

  ‘Give you your revenge next week,’ Mr Payne said. ‘Tuesday, Wednesday? The Grevilles are coming over for a game on Monday.’

  Arthur coughed. ‘I’m afraid I may be away in the middle of next week. Shall we let you know a little later on?’

  ‘You do that,’ Mr Payne said heartily. He finished his whisky. ‘Come on, my dear, we’ve made our fortune, let’s go and think how to spend it.’

  ‘I feel so sorry for him, George,’ Mrs Payne said as he drove sedately home. ‘I mean, it’s downright humiliating, telling him not to have another drink.’

  ‘I believe he has got a weak head.’

  ‘I dare say. But she doesn’t have to say it like that. He’s such a nice little man.’

  ‘Not much meat in those sandwiches.’ He negotiated a traffic light. ‘You know, she was a Slattery before she married. It makes a difference.’

  ‘I don’t see that.’

  ‘She married beneath her,’ George Payne said in a tone that denied the possibility of further conversation on the subject.

  Back at The Laurels they were stacking plates in the kitchen. There was no need to wash up because Susan, the daily, would do that on the following morning. Arthur interrupted Clare’s analysis of his failings during the second rubber.

  ‘My dear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t say that about my not taking another drink.’

  ‘You know the effect alcohol has on you. Remember the Watsons.’

  ‘That was seven years ago.’ But he knew that the occasion, on which he had danced and sung and tried to take off all his clothes, would never be forgotten. He said feebly, ‘I’m sure the Paynes thought it odd.’

  ‘The Paynes.’ Clare snorted quite loudly, like a horse. ‘A jumped-up fellow. In trade.’

  ‘A bank manager is not exactly in trade.’

  ‘As good as. Going to Spain with the grocer.’ Abruptly she said, ‘What are you doing next week?’

  ‘I shall be away tomorrow. I have to visit Birmingham and Manchester.’

  ‘You’re away as much as if you were a commercial traveller.’

  ‘I am a sort of commercial traveller. If you want to sell car parts –’

  ‘Spare me the details.’ Clare turned away her head. ‘I shall go to bed.’

  ‘I’ll bring up your drink. Then I shall tidy up.’

  The Laurels was a tidy house. In the small square hall there was a square Baluchistan rug, a good rug as Clare often said, which belonged to her family. Above the rug hung a portrait of her father, Mr Slattery, a square-jawed man with large square nostrils. He stared across at the opposite wall with fierce contemptuous eyes. The sitting-room led to the left off the hall. It contained a sofa and two matching arm-chairs with loose covers, set at precisely the proper angles to each other. A glass-fronted cabinet was filled with books, most of them inherited from the Slattery connection. Little Victorian tables were dotted about and room had been found for a television set, which Clare moved about frequently because she felt that really it did not belong. Victorian ornaments stood on the mantelpiece, together with an old photograp
h of the Slattery family in Calcutta, Mr Slattery with arms folded, his wife wispy in something loose, Clare holding a tennis racket. The dining-room was on the right of the hall. Six chairs sat in it round a gate-leg table and beside one wall stood a twin cabinet to the one in the sitting-room containing the best china used only for visitors. More utilitarian crockery hung from the kitchen dresser. In the kitchen larder various spots were labelled ‘Jams,’ ‘Cereals,’ ‘Tea,’ because Susan constantly put things away in the wrong places. A plastic chart with differently coloured pegs reminded Clare what to buy and when to buy it.

  Arthur made Clare the drink of hot whisky and lime which she invariably had as a nightcap, and took it up to where she sat waiting in her single bed, face creamed and hair in a net. They had played bridge in the sitting-room, which did not look as it should have done. Arthur put away the card table, returned chairs to their places, plumped up cushions. Then he went up past the bedroom to the attic. This large windowless coved room (a window would have disturbed the outside symmetry of the house) ran almost the whole length of the house. Half of it was occupied by the slot racing layout, the tracks bending in a double eight with two exciting chicane sections where cars could really go all out. Spectator stands with people in them, car pits with engineers waiting for cars to come in, television camera crews, hay bales, banking at bends, were all in place. Four cars stood ready to start. He thought of racing them, but knew that the sound would keep Clare awake. The other half of the attic contained much china discarded from down below, framed watercolours painted by his mother when he had been a child, and his old roll-topped desk. He unlocked this with a key from the ring at his waist. A loose leaf book in a black cover lay on the desk. It was his diary.