Root of All Evil

by E. X. Ferrars

  “I didn’t find her for you,” he said. “You must be a bit mixed up, darling.”

  “I’m sure I’m not. I told you I wasn’t going into a home, which was what you and Frances wanted me to do, and that what I wanted was to engage a companion-housekeeper, and you rang me up and told me you’d found just the right person for me. I remember that call of yours distinctly.”

  He wrinkled his high, shiny brow in bewilderment. “If you’re so sure about it, perhaps I did... But no, I’m sure I didn’t. Really, I’m sure.”

  “I thought perhaps she was a patient of yours, Derek, and you thought a nice quiet job with me was just what she wanted to cure her neuroses.”

  “Now, honestly, what do you take me for? As if I’d do a thing like that without consulting you! And she wasn’t a patient of mine. That I can say for certain. But I’m beginning to remember... Only I’m not sure of it... I believe it was Quentin or Georgina who found her.” He looked at his son. “Quentin, was it you?”

  “No,” Quentin said. “I hardly remember her at all.”

  “Georgina?” Derek said.

  She turned at the window and surveyed the room with a faint scowl on her face.

  “I can’t remember the first thing about her,” she said. “I was still at school when she was working for Felicity, and even if I’d been at home I don’t suppose I’d have taken much interest in her domestic arrangements. I can’t even remember what the woman looked like.”

  “But I’m sure one of you recommended her to me and got me to persuade Mother to employ her,” Derek said. “Cast your minds back. I know it’s a long time ago, but there must be something about it you remember.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Quentin said.

  “It wasn’t me,” Georgina echoed him.

  “Then it was you yourself, Derek,” Felicity said, “and you just don’t want to admit it. That’s just like you.”

  “Well, I’m not absolutely sure... That’s to say...” He paused, passing a hand across his forehead. “I do remember talking the matter over with you on the telephone, but I couldn’t say positively I was recommending her. And if it wasn’t Quentin or Georgina who found her, then I don’t know... Anyway, what does it matter now?”

  “Perhaps not much,” Felicity said, “except that I feel now one of you is trying to cover something up and I don’t like the feeling. But you needn’t be afraid I’ll hold it against you, whichever of you it is, if only you’ll tell me the truth. I’m simply curious, you see. It’s a very weird feeling having someone confess to your murder, and I’d like to know more about her. I never got to know much about her while she was working for me. I never liked her much, even before I found she was forging my cheques. But I’m sure you sent her to me, Derek, whatever you say.”

  “Don’t you think it just might have been Max Dunkerley?” Frances said hesitantly.

  Who was Max Dunkerley? Andrew wondered. He had never heard the name.

  Whoever he was, the suggestion seemed to rouse great anger in Felicity. Her eyes sparkled wrathfully.

  “Max? Certainly not!” she said. “If he’d ever done anything so unusual as to interfere in my private affairs, I shouldn’t have forgotten it. Max never interferes. He never gives me advice. That’s one of the reasons we’ve managed to remain friends all these years. No, it was one of you.”

  If it was, Andrew thought, then of course one of them was lying, and over a matter which only acquired importance because a lie was being told about it. For a moment Andrew wondered if the person who was lying could be Felicity herself. Could she have some devious reason for trying to conceal the fact that she knew more about Margot Weldon than she had admitted?

  He had not found an answer to that when the door opened and Laycock appeared.

  “Inspector Carsdale is here again, madam,” he said to Felicity. “He wishes to speak to you. Shall I show him in?”

  Felicity nodded and as Laycock showed the tall detective into the room, she greeted him, “Good morning, Inspector. Can we talk here or do you want to talk to me privately?”

  He looked round the room and seemed to hesitate.

  She went on, “This is my son, Dr. Silvester, and my daughter-in-law. And these two are my grandchildren and this is my grandson’s fiancée, Miss Neale. And Professor Basnett you met last night. And they all know the strange story of what happened yesterday evening. In fact, we’ve just been discussing it. So I don’t think there can be any reason why you can’t speak openly in front of them. Because I suppose that’s why you’ve come—to tell me something about that unfortunate woman.”

  The inspector looked thoughtfully at each face as she named them. It seemed to Andrew that there was something about him today that had not been there the evening before. Something harder, sterner, less inclined to be friendly. His heavy brows had become a straight line across his face.

  “We’ve made certain discoveries about her in which I’m sure you’ll be interested,” he said. “It wasn’t any hit-and-run driver who killed her. She was murdered by manual strangulation and her body was thrown out of a car onto the road. The car was driven over her after she’d been dumped there, but it happens that that failed to disguise the marks on her throat. It probably happened some time between half past five and six o’clock. We’ve found a witness who was out walking his dog along the road at about half past five and who says he saw nothing unusual then. And it was at about six o’clock that the driver of a van found her and called the police station. And that more or less fits with the medical evidence, though that of course can be misleading. In the circumstances, that letter in her handbag, confessing to your murder, Mrs. Silvester, becomes very interesting.”

  There was silence in the room.

  After a moment, in a dry voice, Felicity observed, “I always thought there was a certain interest in it.”

  “Of course,” the inspector answered without expression. “But what looks probable now is that someone may really have intended to murder you and to put the blame on Margot Weldon. Somehow, probably by threats, he forced her to write that letter. Then he killed her, brought her to the common and threw her body into the road, though he didn’t succeed in obliterating the fact that she’d been strangled. And then it was his intention to come here and commit the murder to which she’d confessed, but something prevented him completing his programme.”

  Again there was silence, then Andrew exclaimed, “The draught!”

  Felicity shivered, as if she felt it again.

  “So it really was someone walking over my grave,” she said.

  Andrew explained to Inspector Carsdale what it was that he and Felicity meant by the draught. The inspector thanked him for the information and said that he would hand it on to Chief Superintendent Theobald, who had been put in charge of the case now that it was known to be murder, but it was difficult to discern whether or not he was interested. Coming to what was plainly the main object of his visit, he said that he wanted Felicity to accompany him to the mortuary to identify the dead woman.

  Agnes Cavell, who had slipped into the room in the wake of the inspector, protested that Mrs. Silvester should at least have her lunch before setting out. But Felicity said that she would sooner get it over and possibly have lunch after she returned, but that no one should wait for her as it seemed probable that after what must be a far from pleasant experience, she would have no appetite. Derek said that he would go with her to the mortuary. They left in Derek’s car, following that of Inspector Carsdale into the town.

  Agnes told the others that lunch was ready and acted as hostess, taking the place at the head of the table where Felicity usually sat and giving occasional orders to Laycock, who was more than usually clumsy as he waited on them and on whose cherubic face there was a look of curious grimness. It was as if he was intensely angry about something, Andrew thought. The meal consisted of cold chicken and salad and an apple pie. For a time they were all silent with expressions of wonder on their faces. The first person to break the sil
ence was Frances.

  “But it’s impossible, isn’t it, that someone came here to murder Felicity?” she said. “Who could possibly want to do that? I’m sure that draught was just your imagination, Andrew.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said. “Otherwise I don’t like to think about what might happen next.”

  “That letter in Margot’s handbag isn’t imagination,” Georgina said. “And nor is the fact that Margot was murdered, if we’re to believe that policeman.

  “And all of us here have perfectly good reasons for murdering Felicity, let alone what outsiders may have,” Georgina went on. “The very best of reasons. She’s rich and we all need money.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frances said. “Derek and I don’t need money. We’re quite comfortably off.”

  “All the same, we know, don’t we, that Felicity’s left Father the bulk of her estate?” Georgina said. “And if he had it, he could retire and go to live in some comfortable tax haven and write the book about the psychosomatic aspect of illness that he’s always said he’ll write some day. I’m not saying, mind you, he came here to murder Felicity. Actually, it seems rather unlikely.”

  “I should hope so!” Frances said.

  “But as long as we’re talking about possible motives, we ought to bear it in mind that he’s got one,” Georgina insisted. “So has Quentin.”

  “Granted,” he said. “Felicity’s told us she’s left you and me each a legacy of several thousand pounds and she’s left you her jewellery too. If I had the money now, of course I could get out of advertising and have another go at being a writer. And by the time the legacy ran out I might have learnt the job and be able to keep myself and Tricia in comfort. And that gives Tricia a motive too, because I’m sure she’d far sooner see me writing happily than doing hack-work in an advertising office.”

  Patricia gave a slight shake of her head. “I’m not sure I would, you know. I like people to recognize their limitations.”

  “And you don’t think I’d ever make it as a writer?” Quentin cast up his eyes in mock horror. “What a shattering blow! I thought you had complete faith in me and my talents.”

  “I think you’ve a long way to go before you can be sure about that yourself,” she answered. “I think a legacy at the moment might be very bad for you.”

  “Yet on those terms you think it’s a good idea to get married?”

  “I’m willing to take the risk. And you aren’t going to inherit anything immediately.”

  Quentin laughed, but the face of the girl, with its oddly attractive, irregular features, was sombre.

  “If I had a legacy of several thousand pounds now,” Georgina said, “I think I should look for a husband. I’d like to be married, only I don’t think I’d like it unless I had some money of my own. I’d hate to be dependent on anyone, always having to ask for money when I wanted some. I know, of course, I could keep on with a job, but I don’t see why one should go on working hard if one’s managed to get married. Yes, I could do with a legacy.”

  “Don’t, don’t, don’t!” Frances cried. “I think the way you’re talking is horrible. Don’t you understand it’s perfectly possible someone came here yesterday evening to murder Felicity? To murder her! And if Professor Basnett hadn’t been here, he might have gone ahead and done it. Why can’t you take it seriously?”

  Quentin, who was sitting next to her, put an arm round her shoulders.

  “It’s all right, darling, in our way we’re being perfectly serious. We’re all slightly in a state of shock, and that’s probably why we’re letting it out in this deplorable flippancy. But I think what we’re doing is quite sensible. We’re only doing what the police will be doing soon, and we might as well be ready for them. Who else would stand to benefit if Felicity died? Agnes, what about you?”

  Agnes’s face, which had been unusually pale, suddenly coloured. “All I know is, she’s said she hasn’t forgotten me. I’ve never tried to find out from her what that means.”

  “It probably means she’s done something fairly generous,” Quentin said. “I hope so. You’ve certainly deserved it. Laycock, what about you?” He looked round at Laycock who at that moment happened to be just behind his chair. “Has my grandmother promised to do anything for you?”

  For an instant Andrew saw rage in Laycock’s eyes. It startled him, it was so violent. Then they became expressionless.

  “She has never spoken to me of the matter,” he said. “I should not have expected it.”

  “Then that makes you the most suspicious person here,” Quentin said, cheerfully unaware of having aroused any special emotion in the other young man. “It’s always the person with no motive whatever who turns out to be the murderer, isn’t it? Nothing personal, Laycock.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Laycock said in a tone of icy dignity and left the room.

  Georgina had observed more than Quentin. “I’d lay off Laycock, if I were you,” she said. “He didn’t like that.”

  “Oh, he knew it was just a joke,” Quentin said.

  “I don’t think he did,” she replied. “Or if he did, he was pretty deeply offended. And to tell you the truth, I’d say that even if he hasn’t any obvious motive, he might be the most dangerous person in the room. There’s something about him that’s always given me a queer feeling. What do you think, Agnes? You know him better than any of us. He looked furious just now. Could he be dangerous?”

  “Oh, not in the way you mean,” Agnes said. “I’m sure he couldn’t. I know Quentin offended him just now and I think it was a pity he did it. After all, Laycock could hardly answer back, so it wasn’t very fair to him. But it’ll blow over quite quickly, I expect.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I know I’m always in the wrong,” Quentin said. “If you like, I’ll go out and apologize to him straight away.”

  “I don’t think I’d do that,” Frances said. “I’d just try not to do it again. Of course, it wouldn’t have happened at all if you’d been taking things as seriously as you should. I do wish I could stop you trying to make silly jokes at the moment.”

  Hoping that he might help to stop any further indiscretions of Quentin’s, Andrew said, “Talking of outsiders, people outside this room, apart from the hypothetical burglar whom we mustn’t forget, is there anyone you know of who could possibly have wanted to harm Felicity?”

  For a moment no one answered, then Frances said hesitantly, “I suppose—well, perhaps one could say Max Dunkerley.”

  “Max Dunkerley?” Andrew said, remembering that the name had been mentioned once before. “Who is he?”

  “He’s a very old friend of Felicity’s,” Quentin said. “He lives by himself in a flat in Braden. He worked for the UN, I believe, till he retired, and he dabbles in painting in an amateur way, and Felicity’s told him she’s left him all her pictures. All these seascapes she’s got. Her husband collected them. They’re by a painter called Edwin Hayes who lived around the middle of the last century. I wouldn’t say thank you for them myself, but old Max is longing to get his hands on them.”

  “Are they valuable?” Andrew asked.

  “Moderately,” Quentin answered. “I happened to notice one of his things went at Sotheby’s recently for two thousand pounds. But I think that was a good price. Round about five or six hundred is more usual, I should think.”

  “So this collection doesn’t represent a fortune,” Andrew said.

  “No. Quite a nice nest egg, but no more than that. But Max wouldn’t sell them. He wants them for themselves.”

  “But he wouldn’t do murder to get them,” Frances said agitatedly, “so I’m sorry I mentioned him. He’s a very nice, very kind old man who’s been devoted to Felicity for years. Hasn’t he, Agnes?”

  “Yes, he comes up to see her at least once a week and I think he’s very fond of her,” Agnes replied, “Shall we have coffee in the drawing-room?”

  They returned to the drawing-room and presently Laycock brought
in the coffee tray.

  There was a little silence while he was there, as if everyone felt uneasy at the thought of upsetting him again, and he went out without speaking. Andrew had begun to wonder if the doubts with which the man inspired him had been as ill-founded as he had assumed at first. He had suggested earlier to Felicity, without himself taking the matter very seriously, that a burglar with an eye on breaking into her house might have chatted to Laycock in a pub and found out from him the habits of its inhabitants. But suppose it had gone further than that. Suppose Laycock had had a close connection with Margot Weldon and had arranged with her, without her understanding his intention, that on his afternoon off, when he had a perfect alibi, she should come to Braden and be seen close to the house, so that suspicion for the murder that he intended to commit himself could be easily fastened on her. That seemed fantastic, because he had no apparent motive for murdering Felicity. But suppose in truth he had one?

  Felicity, as everyone knew, had taken a fancy to him and might have told him, as she had told Andrew, that he would be remembered in her will. The amount that she might be leaving him was perhaps not large by some standards, but to him it might have been tempting. And suppose he had recently come to the conclusion that the time had come for laying hands on his inheritance. Andrew could not believe that Laycock intended to remain a manservant for the rest of his life. He might have other plans and required a little capital for him to get started on them.

  If that was so, then the murder of Margot, with her confession ready in her handbag, must of course always have been part of his plot. It was just Andrew’s presence that had upset it. But no...

  The theory would not stand up for a minute. It was a very amateurish attempt on his part at detection. For Laycock had known for several days that Andrew would be in the house with Felicity. It was someone else, who had not known that Andrew was coming, who had opened the back door, letting in the draught that had momentarily chilled him and Felicity, then had heard Andrew’s voice and been frightened off. He wondered if Derek Silvester and his family had been told that he was expected when they had been invited for lunch today. He could not remember that Felicity had mentioned it. It was not something, however, that he could tactfully ask them.