Resort to Murder

by TP Fielden

  A couple of the photographers were arguing about the relative merits of their candidates for the Thank Heavens! board. Their comments about these young hopefuls setting out on the path of marital harmony were nothing short of cruel, but then that’s photographers for you.

  Betty, who by now should be back in the Newton Abbott office, was still clinging on in the hope that the Fleet Street caravanserai would roll into town to wring from her every last drop of that inspired final interview with Ben Larsson. But to justify her continued presence in the newsroom she had purloined the village correspondents’ notes and was busy doing a rewrite:

  Salborough Active Club – three mile Dartmoor walk, level moderate. Meet at Fox Tor Café. St John Ambulance in attendance.

  Kempston Silver Alliance – monthly lunch with Madge Monkton giving a talk, ‘My Life Prior to Spiritual Awakening’. Bring own thermos as the kettle has not been found.

  Her typewriter clacked on, slow but relentless. John Ross groaned with boredom, reached down and opened his bottom drawer. The whisky bottle was still there, its very presence offering consolation and courage as only the sight of a VAT 69 label can. He stuck his foot on the drawer and pushed it to and fro, the movement bringing small comfort, for he would never taste the glory of the grain again.

  Betty finished her nails and had another stab.

  There is still time for local people to tell the Local Government Boundary Commission for England where they think the new electoral division boundaries should be drawn across Devon …

  Gara Bay Coastwatch – there have been complaints of a young couple going out nightly into the bay in a small boat and behaving in an undignified fashion. If anyone knows …

  Across the desk, in Judy Dimont’s chair, Valentine Waterford’s body squirmed and twisted in pain.

  Chrystanthemums.

  Regular incurved: 1 Mrs E. Everett; 2 Edgar Walsh; 3 Miss Hope. Irregular incurved: 1 Mrs E. Everett …

  ‘Oh, oh, oh, OH!’ he shouted. ‘This is impossible! I can’t go on!’

  Betty raised her eyes slowly from the application of her nail polish; this was her moment. She’d been studying this willowy figure with his ill-fitting suit and perfect manners ever since he’d landed in the office. He was handsome, though his hair could do with a brush, and – she could tell from across the desk – he smelled rather delicious.

  ‘Can I help, Val?’

  ‘Er, it’s Valentine … sorry. But yes, Miss Featherstone, please. This is driving me mad.’

  There followed an intense discussion, the complexity of which required Betty to move round to Valentine’s side of the desk, lean over his typewriter, and gently lead him down the byways of typographical folklore. She did not rush to complete her task, for at close quarters the smell was all the more delectable.

  Could he possibly be the …? Her new date had failed to show up, a not uncommon experience for Betty, and the one thing she had discovered about Newton Abbot in her short acquaintance was that there were few men of marriageable age and none with any looks. ‘It’s simple, Val. Name of the flower, full point. New par. Species of the flower, colon. Number, name, semi-colon – number, name, semi-colon. Number, name …’

  ‘It’s a nightmare!’ wailed Valentine. ‘Like learning how to dance the quickstep. Do this, then do that, then do something else. Too many commas and full stops and numbers and names and – ruddy flowers! For heaven’s sake how many flowers are there in the world?’

  Betty smiled patronisingly. ‘You thought journalism was about big news stories, Val? Murders and such? This is what it’s about, my dear – getting people’s names right, in the right order, making sure the punctuation is spot on so that there isn’t a scene in the print room on press day. Commas and colons – that’s what it’s about.’

  He’d heard all this from Mr Rhys and Miss Dimont – now Betty too?

  The new reporter looked imploringly at her. ‘Promise this torture does not go on for long. I’ve never seen so many punctuation marks!’

  He wrenched the paper from his typewriter, fed in more, and angrily started beating the keyboard. Across the room, a district reporter wandered in and handed his latest dispatch to John Ross, the sub-editors put the Children’s Page to bed, the sports editor promised his deputy it wouldn’t be a long lunch, and Friday started to wind down, as it always did, with a steady trickle of people heading for the pub.

  SEVENTEEN

  Judy and Auriol were closeted in the kitchen of the harbourside café in Bedlington. Outside the gulls screamed as a late fishing boat rode in on the tide, but in here it was deathly quiet.

  ‘So there we have it,’ said Judy. ‘Ben Larsson was Rhys’s placeman in Berlin. Operation Tailcoat was Rhys’s idea …’

  ‘They called our job Naval Intelligence,’ replied Auriol. ‘One sometimes wondered whether old Rusty ever had an intelligent thought in his head.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed in all these years,’ said Judy. It was her turn to make the tea.

  ‘He so wanted to be like Ralph Izzard, but he just wasn’t as clever,’ recalled Auriol. ‘Ralph was just a tiny bit crazy – I mean, floating a fake German bomber in the English Channel with our chaps hiding aboard in the hope of capturing a U-boat? Completely mad!’

  ‘The Admiral was ready to buy it. He said the surprise element meant the chaps could easily take command.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘You didn’t see so much of Rhys at that time – you had your own fish to fry,’ said Auriol, getting down the cups and saucers. ‘But he was under my control and was always a terrible nuisance. First, this brilliant idea, then that equally wondrous notion to biff the enemy.

  ‘Of course the Admiral was ready to listen to any idea that sounded half decent – he wanted results – but instead of the half plausible what we got was the half baked – and I always ended up with the job of trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Tailcoat should have worked, but Richard Rhys was never very good on detail and so – disaster.’

  ‘I imagine Ben Larsson was lucky to escape with his life,’ said Judy. ‘He must have hated Rhys for the foul-up.’

  ‘Curiously it brought them together. I gather he was a frequent visitor to Ransome’s Retreat. It was Larsson who alerted him to the job vacancy at the Riviera Express.’

  Judy was annoyed. ‘You never told me that! How do you know?’

  Auriol looked out of the window. ‘Oh, I kept in touch with Larsson, as one does.’

  Judy was annoyed now. ‘You never told me that, either!’

  ‘My dear, there are secrets within secrets. Some things are best left in a drawer. It’s one’s duty to remember where the sleeping dogs lie, but no need to wake them up unless or until it becomes necessary.’

  ‘We know each other so well, and yet we don’t,’ said Judy thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s the nature of friendship,’ said Auriol. It was hard for Judy to disagree – she hadn’t told Auriol about Valentine’s kiss on the doorstep.

  ‘So where does that leave us? Is old Rusty capable of murder? Certainly you can see he had the motive – didn’t want Larsson spilling the beans about his failure in Berlin, let alone the collateral loss of life. Our agents in Germany were very precious – we had so few!’

  ‘You know he didn’t do it, Hugue – murder, that is. He may have been very angry but he’s just not up to it – far too complicated. Anyway, what would Larsson have been doing? Did he just sit there meekly and let Rusty link him up to that contraption so he could be murdered? I don’t think so!

  ‘No, it sounds to me more like an act of revenge, a premeditated and coolly planned act, not some spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  ‘You agree it must be murder then,’ said Judy.

  ‘Of course. Nothing else makes sense. Larsson had used that particular model for years to give demonstrations to the faithful. In any case the electrical current involved is negligible – the whole caboodle couldn’t electrocute a m
ouse!’

  ‘What about all those deaths? The letters of complaint? The Daily Herald investigation?’

  Auriol smiled. ‘Between you and me, I think Larsson was probably right about some of them. Idiots who didn’t read the instructions. Maybe some of the equipment was faulty, who knows. What I do know is that the whole box of tricks was essentially harmless – which is why I’m sure that somebody tampered with it deliberately.’

  Miss Dimont thought for a moment. Having these conversations with Auriol could be quite useful – certainly her superior brainpower allowed her to see around corners, or so it seemed – but she was so convinced, when she came to a conclusion, that she was right it dimmed her eyes to other possibilities, whereas Judy’s thinking remained flexible.

  ‘Apart from Rusty, who else do you think had a motive?’ went on Auriol.

  ‘Well,’ said Judy, pouring fresh water into the pot, ‘there are several possibilities. First, was it revenge? Or was it for gain?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Pernilla Larsson would gain from his death, in that her son would inherit the business – she told me as much – and better poor old Ben should die while she was still married to him, rather than wait till he’d found himself a fifth wife.’

  ‘But, Hugue, he was eighty!’

  ‘Still acting pretty lively, Auriol – he pinched Betty Featherstone’s bottom, she told me. In addition, without digging too deep you get the picture of a pretty ruthless streak in Pernilla. What was the state of their marriage? Had she had enough of it? She’s still in her fifties, time enough to find a younger model for herself, and walk away with a sizeable fortune. We don’t know she didn’t have a bel ami.’

  Auriol took this in but you could see she was already discounting the possibility. ‘Mm … maybe. Who else was in the house?’

  ‘Gus Wetherby, Pernilla’s son.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Manservant called Lamb. Interestingly the first thing Gus Wetherby did after discovering his stepfather’s death was to fire him – now why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Well, Mrs Lamb, the housekeeper. Don’t know much about her.’

  ‘Any more staff?’

  ‘The gardener. But he was with Pernilla at the bottom of the garden during the period when old Larsson must have died.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘No. Here we come to the difficulty. A small deputation, I’m told five or six, from the Lazarus League – you know, those dotty old people who read Larsson’s pre-war book and thought he was the New Messiah. They turn up most weeks and he rather fancied himself as a saviour, and used to give them tea and a talk-to.’

  ‘They sound pretty harmless.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Miss Dimont, seeing that her friend was, as always, dismissing too early the less likely culprits. ‘Supposing one of them had lost someone to the dreaded Rejuvenator? Here would be an ideal opportunity to gain access to the chap whose invention had caused the death. We don’t know who these people were – they came up for an hour and then wandered away again.’

  Auriol waved her hand dismissively. ‘No time to set up an elaborate trick to murder the old boy. No time!’

  She was right, of course.

  ‘Well, that limits the field then. Pernilla. Her son Gus. The man Lamb. Or Mrs Lamb, of whom we know nothing.’

  ‘I’d like to know more about the relationship between Ben Larsson and his stepson,’ said Auriol.

  So would I, thought Miss Dimont.

  ‘. . . all serene, then?’ breathed Athene sweetly, and looked up at Mr So. The old gentleman’s expression remained implacable and though he nodded in agreement, the application of her usual graceful calm seemed not to be working.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ The Chinaman gently inclined his head but that was all.

  ‘Well, look, would you like me to speak to them if they come in again? Say something? I don’t normally talk to people I don’t know but I’m sure it can be done.’

  Mr So smiled gently in gratitude, bowed slightly, and faded back into his habitual corner. The Chinese Singing Teacher was empty this morning, its tranquillity almost restored, but it had been an unhappy time. Athene sat at length looking into her teacup in search of some solution to the invasion of the Sisters of Reason, but answer came there none.

  She unwrapped her pastel silk scarf (‘so Isadora Duncan, my dear’) from round her neck and got out her battered notebook. Back at the Riviera Express the atmosphere had been electric with animosity – not just the usual squabbles in Curse Corner and the point-scoring between rival reporters, but the whole business of Mr Larsson’s death and the breach it had opened up between the editor and his staff. Something had gone on at Ransome’s Retreat, that was clear, but what was also clear was their grudging acceptance of Mr Rhys’s leadership had been temporarily suspended. In effect, the editor and his reporters were not speaking to each other.

  Athene rarely wrote her column in the office – except sometimes late at night when everyone had long since disappeared – but this morning she’d walked through the editorial floor and come away unsettled by the angry vibrations swirling about the place.

  Here, at the Chinese Singing Teacher, there was sanctuary. Or there should be. Here she should be able to tell her Sagittarian readers of the good fortune which was just around the corner, while Pisceans must prepare themselves for the glorious surprise awaiting them. And yet the words failed to come to her pen and she returned her gaze to the tea leaves, colourless in the bottom of the cup.

  The light coming through the windows was grey this morning, rendering the tea room featureless and neutral – just how Mr So wished it. The only splash of colour was from the string of Coronation lights – red, white, and blue – which eerily lit the room in its darker moments. But this morning they remained unlit as the Zen-like atmosphere had gradually reordered itself.

  ‘Wondered if I might find you here,’ said Judy, slipping gently into the seat opposite Athene.

  ‘Promise not to tell anyone else. I don’t think Mr So wants any new customers.’

  ‘Certainly not. You let me into your precious secret, this wonderful place – I won’t share it with a soul,’ said Judy, and took off a fetching straw hat which had been keeping her corkscrew curls in order. Freed from their imprisonment, they sprang happily back into their usual disarray.

  Mr So brought tea and smiled; he could see Miss Dimont’s aura was congenial.

  ‘Dear, the office!’ started Athene, ‘I have never known such an atmosphere, I had to come away. What on earth is going on?’

  ‘Well, you know,’ said Judy, ‘it’s not good. The editor … he seems to have forfeited his authority and everyone feels very uncomfortable.’

  ‘So then I came here,’ said Athene, pouring the tea, ‘and it was more of the same. Though receding, mercifully. Nowhere, it seems, is safe this morning. I must have missed something when I consulted the stars last night.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Judy encouragingly. She didn’t want to talk about Mr Rhys.

  ‘Mr So,’ said Athene. ‘Those people, you know, the Sisters of Reason, have been back again and seem to think this is their new headquarters.’

  ‘I can see that would disrupt the tranquillity of the place,’ said Miss Dimont looking around. Particles of dust floated in the weak light coming from the window, but they did not move: peace at last was slowly returning.

  ‘They were here when I came in,’ said Athene in an offended tone. ‘Well, two of them – the manly one and the woman who repairs clocks.’

  ‘Ursula Guedella and Angela de Mauny.’

  ‘I saw that you were upset when I didn’t tell you about them before, so I shall do now. Is that tea nice?’

  ‘It’s … lovely,’ lied Miss Dimont, who preferred a hot cup of Indian.

  ‘They were talking about the girl who was killed – you know, the beauty queen.’

  ‘Yee … ee … s?’ M
iss Dimont said very slowly.

  ‘That Ursula has no sense of decorum, no understanding of atmosphere. She barks like a sergeant-major and cares not who hears what she says.’

  Come on, thought Miss Dimont, are we about to get a breakthrough on the dead beauty queen? Do hurry up, Athene!

  Aloud, she said, nicely enough, ‘Yes, I noticed that when I first met her.’

  ‘Well,’ said Athene, pushing the notebook to one side, ‘she was complaining about nearly being run down by some oikish fishermen. Rabble, she called them, and worse! She had gone out for an early-morning sail and only by her skill did she avoid a collision. I mean to say, Judy, I can’t believe any of our people would go out of their way to run over a small boat, I think she was talking through her hat.’

  ‘Wait a moment!’ said Miss Dimont a shade too crisply. ‘I wonder if you can be more precise, Athene? Did you get any impression of when she was talking about?’

  Athene blinked uncomprehendingly.

  ‘You see, since I went out deep-sea fishing, I have a new friend who is the skipper of one of the Temple Regis fleet. A very nice man,’ she went on, and for a moment it seemed as though she had lost the thread of what she was about to ask her friend. ‘He’s really …’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Athene. ‘The body on the beach?’ Judy was miles away.

  ‘How could you possibly know I was going to ask about that?’ Miss Dimont was evidently put out.

  ‘Your thought processes are quite visible, my dear, does it surprise you?’

  Miss Dimont, who did not mind people telling her how brilliant she was, was less pleased that she could appear so transparent.