by Anne Morice
It was then that I had one of my blinding flashes, in which not only did the significance of an earlier remark of Robin’s come crashing down on me with the force of a sledge hammer, but an entirely new concept of how the murder had been committed rose up before me and clicked into focus.
“Well, perhaps not every single lead has been tried yet,” I muttered abstractedly. “There might still be one more which could stand investigating. Now where on earth would one start with that?”
“I can tell you exactly where one would,” Robin said sternly. “One would start by going straight to the local coppers who are handling the case and one would tell them everything one knows.”
“But I don’t know anything, not positively.”
“All right then, what one suspects.”
“It wouldn’t do any good, Robin. I’ve absolutely no proof, you see. They’d think I was out of my mind, but even if they took me seriously they wouldn’t have any more chance than I have of proving it. A good deal less, probably. I’ll have to think about it rather carefully before I make a move.”
“Where have I heard those words before?” he asked me. “And you know what comes next, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think so. You say something like: ‘Well, whatever happens, do try and keep out of trouble’, and then I say: ‘Yes, I promise to, and anyway there’s no danger at all.’”
Robin sighed. “We seem to have learnt our parts over the years, if nothing else.”
“The difference being,” I assured him, “that this time it’s true, every word of it. Cross my heart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ever a man whose word was his bond, Gerald came through with the information I had asked for in only a matter of days, although pointing out somewhat reproachfully that Robin could probably have got it for me in half the time.
“Really? You mean our gentleman has a record?”
“It was a long time ago, and he was on the level with you, up to a point. A true blue chartered accountant, right enough. He joined a building society in the Midlands soon after he was qualified. Worked with them for a year or two and then got sent down for fraud and embezzlement. Three years, with six months’ remission. It was during the war actually, so it’s rather a mystery that he hadn’t been called up; but anyway if you’ve got to spend a few years in jug that’s obviously the time to pick for it. No one is going to worry later on about a gap in the references.”
“Well, well, fancy that!”
“News to you, eh? Well, naturally, it’s not the kind of thing a fellow would be inclined to brag about. I daresay even his best friends don’t know.”
“As to that,” I said, “I wouldn’t be too sure. It would never surprise me if there was one who did. Well, thanks a lot, Gerald. I’ll have to ring off now because there’s a bit of a rumpus going on downstairs.”
The rumpus had subsided to a grumbling monotone by the time I reached its source and was emanating from Mrs Cheeseman, our daily help, in the throes of one of her perennial dirges about the revolting behaviour of the younger generation. There are various reasons for resenting her unquestioning assumption that I should necessarily be on her side in this particular conflict, but on this occasion I was ready to concede that she had grounds for complaint. It transpired that she had been bent double over the dustpan and brush on the staircase when her ears were assailed by curious scuffling and rattling sounds behind her, caused, as she soon discovered, by someone trying to push an object through the brass letter box.
Since the morning post had already been delivered, Mrs Cheeseman had instantly concluded, for what reason I cannot tell, that the object in question must either be a bomb or else a revolver aimed at herself. Nevertheless, she had acted with remarkable courage and presence of mind and, taking care to keep out of the line of fire, had crept forward and flung wide the door.
In the brief time she was given to observe him, she managed to ascertain that the messenger was one of those skinny young chaps, with hair falling about all over his face and none too clean with it. She also reported that he had a shifty expression and long finger nails, which was pretty fair going, in view of the fact that she had approximately two seconds to work in. In fact, she had barely got the door open when a small package was thrown down at her feet and almost in the same movement the thrower of it had turned on his heels and bolted down the steps, with his long, dirty hair streaming out behind him, oblivious, so it seemed, to Mrs Cheeseman’s shouted commands to come back this instant and tell her what he meant by it.
Leaving the package in situ, she had then started up the stairs, with the intention of making me a party to this outrage, and had collided with me on my way down.
“Shouldn’t touch it, if I were you,” she advised, as we descended together to the hall. “Best thing would be to pop it in a bucket of water and then ring the Inspector.”
Although too bulky to pass through our letter box, it was quite a tiny package, not much bigger than a match box and wrapped in brown paper and string; and there was something instantly familiar in its shape and size, even before I came close enough to see the paper sticker depicting silver wedding bells, with which it was adorned.
“Stop worrying,” I told Mrs Cheeseman when she returned to my side a few minutes later with a pail of water, having prudently appropriated this part of the operation for herself. “It was probably only Terry, Frank or Don.”
Her censorious attitude did not soften. “As to that, I couldn’t say, I’m sure. As I told you, he didn’t stop long enough to give me his name. Just threw this thing down and hopped it. Young monkey! Are you going to put it in the bucket before it blows up in our faces?”
It would, of course, have been one way of disposing of it, but only a temporary solution. The truth was that on the very morning when Brenda had first called on me I had been taking part in one of those morning radio shows where, in between a lot of chat about one’s personal and public life, listeners’ letters are read aloud and their record requests played for them. One of my jobs on that occasion had been to convey best wishes to Paul and Tracey, on their wedding day, from Mum, Dad and Eileen, brothers Terry, Frank and Don, not forgetting Auntie Jill, Tim the budgie and about a hundred others whom I regret to say I have now forgotten. Moreover, at this point in the proceedings the D.J. had given me some fatuous line about how it sounded like such a good party that I was sorry I hadn’t been invited and hoped they would send me a slice of wedding cake. The big trouble with a gambit of this kind is that a slice of wedding cake is what you invariably get, and I had not a doubt in the world that this was the work of Paul and Tracey.
It is true that such gifts are not often delivered by hand to the recipient’s private residence, but it can happen, and Robin’s name and profession had been bandied about a good deal in the course of the programme, so there would not have been the slightest difficulty in finding our address in the telephone directory.
“Stand back!” I instructed Mrs Cheeseman, ripping off the brown paper and the silver paper inside that and finally removing the little white pasteboard box.
When no explosion followed she advanced a step nearer, her expression clouding as she recognised the fading prospect of disaster.
“Hmm! Not very generous, were they?” she said, in a gallant attempt to find something left to disparage. “Won’t be able to make a pig of yourself over that little scrap!”
“I don’t intend to try,” I informed her. “I renounced such things years ago.”
Oddly enough, it looked considerably more appetising than the majority of such offerings, but I have to watch my figure and ten o’clock in the morning is no time to dig into a wedge of dried fruit, marzipan and icing sugar, however miniscule. So, having deposited the box on the hall table, I returned to my room and the business of wrestling with the problem of how to fit Gerald’s new disclosure into its rightful place in the puzzle.
Mrs Cheeseman did not turn up for work the following day, but there was nothing specially
remarkable about that, for she had a hypochondriac husband, and although he usually manages to time his fatal diseases to provide the maximum inconvenience for myself, I forgive her because she really has a very boring life. I have even disciplined myself to listen patiently to a detailed description of his imaginary symptoms and when she arrived at the normal time on the next day I dutifully assumed my sympathetic expression and waited for the dams to burst.
It changed to one of genuine concern, however, when I learnt of the true cause of her absence, for it emerged that it was not the ghastly husband who was responsible this time, but dear old Lassie. This was no laughing matter, for there was nothing fictitious about Lassie’s illness and in fact Mrs Cheeseman informed me that she had suffered some kind of heart attack and passed away during the night.
It was hardly a propitious moment to clear up another small mystery which had been plaguing me during the preceding twenty-four hours, but a little later on, when she had dried her tears and reverted to her normal state of grumbling disapproval, I ventured to ask her whether she knew what had become of the box of wedding cake.
“I was going to give it to Robin,” I explained. “He has a passion for sweet things, as you know, but when I went to look for it yesterday it had gone.”
“Couldn’t say, I’m sure. I hope you’re not accusing me of taking it?”
“No, of course not. I just thought you might have put it away in a safe place.”
“Well, I didn’t. Never touched it,” Mrs Cheeseman snapped and then turned on the kitchen tap with such ferocity that any further words would literally have been drowned out.
It was so uncharacteristic of her to pass up such a splendid opening for lengthy and pessimistic conjectures that I became rather thoughtful and strongly inclined to believe that it had been just as well that I had not offered Robin the wedding cake. Pondering the matter still more thoroughly during the afternoon, I rejected the idea of telling him the full story, while nevertheless making a mental note to pump him about the effects of cyanide, a commodity which I suspected might very neatly be inserted into a slab of almond icing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I remained in a somewhat reflective frame of mind throughout the day, for the longer I dwelt on the sudden demise of poor old Lassie the more sinister the implications appeared.
Two things chiefly disturbed me. The first was that in giving my solemn vow to Robin that I was in no personal danger from Mike’s murderer I had been perfectly sincere, and it was distinctly galling to discover that what had started as the unblemished truth should have turned out, in the shortest time imaginable, to be the falsehood of the century. Even more depressing in a sense was the consciousness of having slipped up so badly that the murderer was now actually gunning for me, and yet having no inkling as to when or in what manner I had given myself away. Calculated risks are all very well, but to place oneself in all innocence slap in the way of a violent and painful death is quite another matter and one of the very few consolations to be gleaned from the whole episode was that at least I was innocent no longer and would henceforth be on my guard.
Fortunately for the harmony of our marriage, this sour mood had abated by the time Robin returned, all eager anticipation for the pipe and slippers and plenty of ice in the pink gin, for by then an even bigger crumb of comfort had landed on my plate. It had been deposited there by the very simple deduction that it merely required a little delving back into the events of the preceding days to discover exactly how I had betrayed more knowledge than I should rightly have possessed and that the answer, when it turned up, would provide positive proof of the murderer’s identity.
I had arrived at this consoling conclusion after a period of solid, concentrated thought and found it so impeccably logical that my one regret was in not being able to share it with Robin. However, he was suitably forthcoming on the subject of death by cyanide poisoning and not unduly curious about my motives in questioning him and, by the time we had seized the rare opportunity for an early night and gone upstairs to bed, I felt reasonably confident that a few hours’ sleep would banish all the confusions and get my memory back into proper working order.
It was rather weird in a way, because everything turned out so entirely differently. I had only just started to remove my make-up when Robin came sauntering back from his dressing room, saying in a plaintive voice:
“How did this monstrosity get into my wardrobe, do you know?”
He was standing behind me, outside my line of vision as I pulled faces at myself in the mirror, slapping on the cold cream and I said:
“What’s the matter? Has Mrs Cheeseman been up to her tricks again?” before swivelling round to get a look at the monstrosity.
It was a blue and red striped dressing gown and the instant I laid eyes on it I became totally transfixed, while my mind went into action so fast that it was a wonder that the whirring noises weren’t audible all over the room.
“I suppose she was responsible,” Robin answered, still eyeing the dressing gown with deep revulsion, “but you’d think even she would know it’s not my style, not to mention about four sizes too small. Where on earth do you suppose she found it?”
He doesn’t find me particularly attractive at this stage of the demaquillage and had doubtless deliberately kept his face averted from mine, but something unnatural in my posture may have got through to him, for all at once he looked up in alarm and came forward, flinging Mike’s dressing gown on to a chair on his way.
“What’s up, Tessa? Are you all right?”
“Oh yes, fine, perfectly all right,” I answered in a lightheaded way.
“You don’t look it, you look terrible, but perhaps it’s just that mess on your face. Why are you goggling at me in that insane fashion, though? And why don’t you answer me, for God’s sake?”
“Because you keep asking all the wrong questions,” I explained. “This is where you’re supposed to say: ‘You look as though you’d seen a ghost’, and then I say, ‘Yes, I believe I have.’”
“Right. Let’s carry on from there. Whose ghost?”
“Mike Parsons, of course.”
“Ah! And did he tell you how he met his death?”
“Naturally.”
“And so now you know it all?”
“Well, not quite all, because there were one or two things which Mike didn’t know himself, but I think we shall soon get them; or at any rate Superintendent Meiklejohn will. We could give him two lines of enquiry to follow up straight away. One is to find out who owns the Four Corners Travel Bureau and the other is to check with some of the banks in the locality to see whether Brenda has opened a separate account in her own name.”
“Be good enough to settle one personal matter first,” Robin said.
“What’s that?”
“Is this going to be a long story?”
“I’m afraid so,” I replied.
“Then would you mind if I went downstairs and got myself a whisky and soda before you begin?”
“Not at all. You can bring me one at the same time.”
“On one condition.”
“Oh yes?”
“That you’ll have wiped all that goo off your face by the time I return.”
I did better than that, as it happened, for during the interval I lined up all the items I had to tell him and slotted them into the right order, which meant that after all it was still only midnight when we went to bed.
I was glad about this because, purely for my own satisfaction, there was one final piece of business to be undertaken before the police took over and by eight o’clock the next morning I was already driving out of London to pay my very last call on Brenda.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I am all in favour of Women’s Lib, as you both know,” Toby said crossly. “But I consider this was going too far.”
“Although you could say it was one up to the movement, in a sense. I mean, who would have believed that two such different women could sink their personal
ities to unite in a common goal, especially something so tricky as murder? It just shows that no field should be barred to us on grounds of temperament.”
“And perhaps you are priding yourself on the fact that it took another woman to bring them down?” Robin suggested.
“No, far from it. I was bang in the centre of things from the word go and still they fooled me completely. I never could get round the fact that each of them made a perfect fifty per cent suspect. It took me ages to see that by joining them together you could make one all rounder. And you must admit they did a splendid job. The pretence of one of them never having heard of the second, and of the second despising what she’d heard of the first was quite masterly. All the more convincing for never being overdone.”
“I do rather agree with you, Tessa,” Toby admitted. “It was quite a triumph to keep up the pretence while planning such a complicated programme. I wonder how the idea came to them in the first place? Some kind of extra-sensory perception, do you suppose? Did they communicate by thought waves?”
“No, I think they must have met once while Mike was alive, although probably only once, and it was sheer fluke that nobody ever knew about it, because I imagine it was during that meeting that the plan was first mooted. After that, they only kept in touch by telephone, probably using a code of some kind, in case the lines should be crossed.”
“But what brought them together in the first place, if the plot was only hatched after they met?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Don’t you remember Robin telling us how amazed he was that Chloe hadn’t tried to enlist Brenda’s help in restraining Mike when he became such a nuisance? I stupidly dismissed the notion because I’d decided that Brenda was so effectively marooned in her suburban ivory tower that it would have been pretty hard to contact her, even if one had wanted to. But I should have realised that this situation was not of her own choice. It was simply one of Mike’s manoeuvres for keeping her totally under his thumb. It’s true that she did deliberately shun the neighbours, but that was because she was well aware of the stories he had spread about her being a slattern and an alcoholic and she felt humiliated by their pity and disapproval. But I am quite sure that she would have welcomed overtures from the people he worked with. She hated being kept out of all that side of his life.”