The Man Who Killed Himself

by Julian Symons

  ‘Yes. Who are you? Where is my wife?’

  ‘Coverdale, sir. Detective-Inspector, CID. I’ve got some bad news for you.’

  He did not have to make his voice quaver as he asked the nature of the news, and was told it. How had the police got there so quickly? Was there something threatening in the Inspector’s voice? He was asked where he was.

  ‘A friend’s house. Very near.’

  ‘Give me the address, sir. I’ll send round a car.’

  He put down the telephone for a moment. ‘Not bad news, I hope,’ Elsom asked eagerly.

  ‘The address, what’s the address?’

  ‘I don’t get you. What address?’

  ‘The address here, you fool.’ The actions and emotions of the day were too much for him, and he began to weep. Elsom looked at him appalled, called his wife, and then picked up the telephone. Even in the grip of the hysteria which was not checked by the huge drink Melissa poured for him, he could not help noticing the businesslike way in which Elsom received the news, opening his jacket to reveal a battery of pens and pencils and selecting one with which to make notes. He chose a ballpoint which wrote in red, and as Arthur remembered the trickle of blood, this seemed to him absurd. The tears streaming down his cheeks became tears of laughter. He made a gesture at the ballpoint, and the laughter grew higher. Elsom put down the telephone, turned, said, ‘Sorry about this.’ He saw nothing, but felt a tremendously hard blow on the jaw, one that rattled his teeth and knocked him off the chair arm on which he had been sitting, on to the carpet.

  Melissa’s triangular face bent anxiously over him. He looked up, unable to focus properly.

  ‘Oh, Derek,’ she said, ‘I hope you haven’t hit him too hard.’

  Chapter Two

  Conversation with Coverdale

  Everything seemed to be happening at once, and everybody treated him with a totally agreeable care and delicacy. When the police car arrived he was still on the sofa, with Melissa holding a damp towel to his jaw and Elsom full of apologies for not knowing his own strength. Then into the car – it was the first time he had ever been in a police car, and he said so to the detectives – and in a flash they were back at The Laurels. He was still feeling shaky, and entered the house holding the arm of one of the detectives.

  In the hall Mr Slattery gave him his customary look, but otherwise everything was changed. As always happens when the police enter a house where a violent event has occurred, the whole place seemed to have been taken over by them. There were cars outside the house, men dashed in and out carrying bits of equipment, and they talked to each other briskly. ‘Got all you want?… Is Jerry at the station… Finished the downstairs and the hall, trying upstairs.’ Feet clattered in and out, up and down. He tried to look in the living-room, but was not allowed to do so. A man appeared, nodded, said ‘Mr Brownjohn, come along.’ Where were they going? It proved to be the kitchen. Clare wouldn’t like this, he thought as they sat in chairs on opposite sides of the kitchen table, she wouldn’t like it at all.

  ‘My name’s Coverdale.’ He was a big man with a lumpy, knobbly face and a bulky body that seemed to be straining out of his shiny blue suit. ‘Sergeant Amies.’ Startled, Arthur looked round and saw another man beside the door. ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘Thank you, I don’t smoke.’

  Coverdale lighted one himself, staring across the table all the while. Was it the prelude to a fierce interrogation? Instead he said, ‘Put the kettle on, Bill. Mr Brownjohn could do with a cuppa. You’ve had a shock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stands to reason it was a shock.’

  ‘I was a little hysterical. A friend had to hit me.’

  ‘He made a job of it. You’re going to have a nice little lump.’

  ‘I don’t really know what’s happened.’

  ‘Stupid. Course you don’t.’ Was he guileful, or as straightforward as he appeared? ‘Somebody broke in, that’s the way it looks at the moment, burglar perhaps. Your wife surprised him.’

  ‘She – she is dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I told you on the telephone.’

  ‘Yes. Somehow it’s hard to believe.’ This was true. Clare’s presence seemed to him to hang like a gas cloud over the whole house.

  ‘You need that cup of tea.’

  ‘Tea coming up.’ The Sergeant poured it into mugs instead of the cups Clare would have used. The tea itself was strong and sweet, and he did feel better after drinking it.

  ‘Amateur,’ the Inspector said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If it was done that way, somebody breaking and entering and then your wife surprising him, it was an amateur. Pros don’t carry guns.’

  ‘She was shot?’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ It was the first hint that guile might lurk behind the blue marble eyes. ‘Emptied the revolver in a panic, fired all over the place. Amateur sure enough.’

  What was the best question to ask? ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Round about three-thirty.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s right.’ Surprise showed on Coverdale’s lumpy face. ‘I mean Clare has – had – rather fixed habits, for being in and for being out. She was almost always in on Friday afternoons. So it’s not likely she would have come back and surprised a burglar. I mean, she would have been here.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Coverdale drained his cup. ‘Eh, Amies?’

  ‘Interesting.’ The Sergeant whisked away the cups, began to wash them up.

  ‘You think it was personal, some enemy?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You got any enemies, your wife got any?’

  ‘No. Nobody who would do this.’

  ‘Happily married? No quarrels?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ He was genuinely shocked by the suggestion. ‘We were quite happy. My work takes me away from home rather a lot. Clare had developed interests of her own. I was pleased about that, but I suppose in a way they tended to separate us.’

  ‘Tried to ring you this afternoon.’ Coverdale’s voice was casual. ‘Your office. No reply.’

  ‘It’s a small office, just an address. I don’t have a secretary.’

  Silence. Amies turned from the sink. ‘Going to ask him, sir?’

  ‘May as well.’ He could feel his legs trembling. ‘Any idea where you were this afternoon around three-thirty?’

  ‘I went up to Birmingham this morning to see a client. I caught the two-fifteen back. I was in the train from Birmingham to London.’

  ‘Mind telling us the client’s name?’ That was Amies again.

  ‘Steel Alloys Limited. I saw Mr Gibson, left him soon after twelve, had lunch –’

  ‘Mind telling us where?’

  ‘A pub called the Dog and Duck, just off the Bull Ring. I got in to Euston – oh, I can’t remember, but not before half past three.’

  ‘They’re not that quick yet, are they?’ Coverdale laughed heartily.

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have done perhaps. Don’t want to upset you. Leave it until tomorrow if you like.’ Coverdale got up. ‘Like us to fix a hotel for you? Don’t suppose you’ll want to stay here, wouldn’t advise it anyway.’ Amies had washed up the cups. The two men moved to the door. He felt a passionate reluctance to let them go.

  ‘There was a question I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  A man put his head round the kitchen door, muttered something to Amies, who went out. Coverdale looked inquiring.

  ‘How do you know it was half past three when it happened?’

  ‘Your next door neighbour, name’s Lillicrapp. Heard some glass breaking, saw a man run out of your house and down the road. Went round the back to have a look. The glass was your French window, broken by one of the shots. He looked through the window, saw your wife on the floor, rang us straight away. That’s the sort of co-operation we like to get from the public.’

  ‘This man he saw. You
’ve got a description?’

  Coverdale nodded. The door opened again, Amies said, ‘Spare a minute, sir?’

  He was left alone in the kitchen. His existence with Clare surrounded him. The plates had their own place on the dresser shelves and she had been especially pleased by the mats beside them, a series called ‘Cries of Old London’ which she had bought only a few months ago. Attached to the gas cooker was an automatic lighter which he had bought for her. He sat at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. His jaw ached.

  ‘Mr Brownjohn.’ Coverdale was looking at him with what might have been pity. Beside him, Sergeant Amies was holding the Easonby Mellon letters. ‘No more questions for tonight.’

  Chapter Three

  Life Goes On

  He stayed that night, and for two nights after it, with the Elsoms. Derek – he had insisted that Arthur should call him by his Christian name – had come to The Laurels and taken him back. No sooner was he in the Elsoms’ home than a doctor arrived. He turned out to have been sent by Coverdale. He took Arthur’s pulse, listened to his heart, looked into his eyes, ordered him to bed immediately and gave him two pills which, with the accompanying glass of hot milk, sent him to sleep in five minutes. He woke next morning to find that Elsom was working in the garden – it was Saturday. Melissa brought him coffee and toast on a tray.

  So began two of the most enjoyable days in his life. Melissa was prepared to treat him like an invalid, and he stayed in bed that Saturday until lunchtime. It occurred to him that he had not spent a whole morning in bed since he was a child. All sorts of people left messages of sympathy. ‘I told them you were not well enough to see anybody yet,’ Melissa chirped. The doctor returned and pronounced him much improved. When he got up he wore Elsom’s dressing-gown, which was far too big for him. In the afternoon Elsom brought a caseful of clothes from The Laurels.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ Arthur kept repeating.

  ‘Not a bit of it. You stay as long as you like, that’s the way we want it. What are friends for if they don’t rally round at a time like this?’

  You’re not a friend of mine, he felt inclined to say, I hardly know you and don’t even like you. But the doggy managing quality of Elsom proved very helpful. ‘Hate to bring it up, Arthur, old chap,’ he said, ‘But there’ll be the question of the funeral. Would you like me to see Jukes, they say he’s the best local man?’ Then there was the coffin. Was it to be the finest quality oak with specially designed handles, or standard pattern? His choice of finest quality oak met with approval. The inquest was fixed for Tuesday, and Elsom had gathered that it would be more or less a formality.

  ‘I think Coverdale’s got a line he’s working on, though he won’t say much about it.’ He held out a small paper bag. ‘I got this for you.’

  Arthur opened the bag. It contained a black tie. He saw that Elsom was wearing one.

  ‘Just a formality, but you have to show respect.’

  ‘Very thoughtful of you.’ He took off the tie he was wearing and put on the black one. ‘Thank you very much.’

  That evening Melissa suggested that, if he felt up to it, they should ask one or two people in tomorrow who wanted to express their sorrow in person. He dimly perceived that the Elsoms were using the occasion to establish themselves in the community, but what did it matter? A dozen people came in before lunch on Sunday, and the occasion turned out to be something between a cocktail party and a wake. The Paynes were there, and so was the retired naval commander. A dwarfish man from the Liberal Club told Arthur what a great loss Clare would be to the whole community, and Miss Leppard, secretary of the Art Society at Weybridge, said that Clare had a real talent for painting. Miss Leppard was a tall peering woman, and she brought her face very close to Arthur’s as she said, ‘I have had a visit from the police.’ He moved back a little. ‘They were interested in your wife’s attendance at our classes. I told them that she had one of the most original approaches of anyone in the group. I’m not sure if that was really what they wanted to know.’

  So they were on to the Weybridge art classes! He knew that they must be, but it was good to have this confirmation of it. Had they got on to the hotel yet? The trouble was that he felt a need to give them some direction. He wanted to go to Coverdale and tell him the name of the man he was looking for. That was obviously not possible, and he felt the pangs of the artist unable for private reasons to make public acknowledgement of his work.

  ‘Wonderful weather.’ That was Mrs Payne. Had she not been saying a few days ago that the weather was incalculable? ‘I shall never forget the chats poor dear Clare and I had about her garden. She loved growing things.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘You mustn’t take it too hard. George and I were very fond of you both. We always thought you were perfectly suited.’

  The strange thing was, he reflected, that in many ways this was perfectly true.

  The inquest was a formality as Elsom had suggested, and indeed it was rather too much of a formality to suit him. The doctor gave evidence that death had been caused by a bullet which entered the stomach and was responsible for an internal haemorrhage. The deceased had also been hit by two other bullets, one penetrating the ribs and the other grazing the left arm. Mr Lillicrapp made a brief appearance to say that he had heard glass breaking, gone round to the garden, seen the body, and telephoned the police. Nothing at all was said about the man he had seen. Coverdale popped up to say that police inquiries were continuing. The coroner adjourned the inquest sine die, which Arthur gathered meant until they had some more evidence. The funeral was interesting in its way, although it was something of a trial because certain members of the Slattery connection reappeared, among them Uncle Ratty. He was visibly older and now walked with a stick, but age had not made him less choleric. ‘Should never have left her.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Used to write, say she was lonely.’ This was a new light on Clare. Had she really been lonely? Such a possibility had never occurred to him. ‘Left her at the mercy of these damned young thugs. That’s who it was, take it from me. Army discipline, that’s what they want.’ It did not seem worth arguing the point.

  After the funeral he returned to The Laurels. The Elsoms protested at his going, but not very fervently. He guessed that they had had enough of him, or to put it unkindly that there was no more publicity to be got out of him. Before he went Elsom said, ‘About that little deal, it’s still on.’

  ‘What deal?’ He really had forgotten.

  ‘Lektreks.’ Elsom showed his teeth. ‘You said Clare had objections.’

  ‘I can’t possibly consider it just now.’

  ‘I realise that, Arthur. When you’re ready GBD will still be there.’

  Back at The Laurels again his first sensation was a feeling of freedom. There were certain things about the house that he had always wanted to change and now – how extraordinary it was – he could do whatever he wished. He put Mr Slattery up in the attic and brought down one of his mother’s old pictures of the Sussex downs. To his surprise Susan was enthusiastic about the change, and revealed that she had always thought the portrait very gloomy. Her attitude towards him was one of protective flirtatiousness. ‘I expect you’ll like me to come in a bit more. I could cook lunch and then leave something for the evening.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’ He hesitated before asking her to help him change round the furniture in the living-room, but about this too she was approving. The bloodstained sofa cover had been sent to the cleaners.

  ‘You’ll be staying here, then?’ she asked after he had been back three or four days.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind.’

  ‘After all, it’s your home.’

  ‘It’s a big decision, Susan.’ He found it easy to call her Susan now, where before it had been difficult. ‘I have to try and adjust to a new life.’ He longed to ask whether she had talked to the Inspector about the man she had seen in the garden, but appreciated the need for restraint.


  ‘I can see that. Must be lonely.’

  He agreed, but in fact found that he did not miss Clare at all. He seemed to be busy from morning to night, shopping, doing little things about the house and in the garden (he chopped down a vine that darkened the living-room which Clare had always refused to remove), answering the telephone, accepting and refusing invitations from people he knew only slightly. He realised that some of these people asked him as a social obligation owed to the bereaved and that others were eager to hear the unpleasant details of the act, but still the invitations pleased him and he accepted a few of them, although he was careful of what he said and careful also not to drink more than one glass of spirits or three of wine. He was even asked to a Liberal Club social, but this was one of the invitations he declined.

  At two or three of these functions he saw George Payne, and the bank manager invited him in for a chat. Payne began by asking him about the crime. Were the police any nearer to finding the murderer? Arthur said he didn’t know. He hadn’t spoken to Coverdale since the inquest.

  Payne lighted his pipe and sat back behind his fumed oak desk. ‘I tell you what, the police aren’t all they used to be. I don’t believe all the tales I hear, but I can tell you this, if they spent their time looking for criminals instead of giving motorists tickets for doing five miles over the speed limit, we’d all be better off.’ It seemed safe to agree. ‘And how are things going, Arthur? How are you keeping in yourself?’

  He was used to being questioned as if he had just recovered from a serious operation, and had even come to like it. The question, in any case, was a formal approach to the production of an array of papers Clare had lodged with the bank. A solicitor could handle some of these things if Arthur wished it, but otherwise Mr Payne would take the whole burden of them upon his shoulders. He murmured that that would be very kind, and Mr Payne said with a brisk smile, ‘That’s what we’re here for, to help. I wish more people understood that. Now, you might like to have a look at these. If you come round this side of the desk I can explain.’