Root of All Evil

by E. X. Ferrars

After the moment of shocked silence that followed what she had said, Andrew observed, “Proof is a big word.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” She turned away from him and walked to the window, standing there staring out into the garden. There was a terrible dejection in the slump of her shoulders. “I told you we’d broken off our engagement. Now I wish we hadn’t. It feels hideously disloyal. But in any case, I’ll stick to him.”

  “But the proof, what is it?”

  “For one thing, a photograph,” She turned to face Andrew. “They found the woman’s address, you know, in her handbag, and they’ve been showing photographs of us all to her landlady. They’ve been snapping us all at odd times, as you may have noticed. And the landlady recognized Quentin at once. She said he used to go to the room and sometimes stay there for days on end about four or five years ago. Then Margot Weldon gave the room up because she said she’d taken a job in the country, and that just about fits the time she came to work for Felicity. But then after a little while she turned up again and took another room in the building, but Quentin never went to see her any more. But now he’s admitted he used to know her and that it was he who recommended her for the job here to his mother. And she remembered that all along, of course, and did her best to cover up for him, saying it was Max Dunkerley, but now she’s broken down and just sits and cries.”

  “But that isn’t proof of murder,” Andrew said. “Isn’t there any more than that?”

  “Lots more. Don’t you understand, it was Quentin who forged Felicity’s cheques? Margot only cashed them at the bank. He needed money badly at the time, because he was trying to be a writer and he’d next to nothing to live on. And it was only when Margot was found out and dismissed that he got himself a job. But as soon as he’d got one, Margot started to blackmail him. She kept threatening to tell Felicity he’d done the forgeries and he paid her to keep her quiet. But then I came into his life and we even decided to get married, and that made him want to get rid of the past with all its threats and be free of that horrible load of blackmail. And that meant, you see, that he’d got to get rid of Margot.”

  “But this is all supposition,” Andrew said. “It may be what happened, but is there any proof of it?”

  She put both hands to her temples, thrust her fingers through her hair, stared at him as if he had said something preposterous, then dropped into a chair.

  Her manner changed abruptly. In a quiet voice, she said, “He’s confessed.”

  “To all this that you’ve been telling us?”

  She nodded. “Not at once. But there are traces of Margot’s clothing and some blood on the tyres of his car, so there wasn’t much point in going on denying it. And the police had that photograph which showed he’d known Margot in the past, and they found out some facts about payments into her bank account which tally with withdrawals from his, and when all that came out he seemed to give up hope and told them everything. He told them he’d refused to go on paying blackmail and that if she’d come down here to see him, he’d make her a final payment and they arranged to meet in the late afternoon outside one of the pubs in Braden. I think she must have distrusted him, because she came to this house, didn’t she, and almost made up her mind to come in, and I think that must have been because she’d decided to tell Felicity the truth about the forgeries. But she changed her mind and met him as they’d arranged. He’d got rid of me by then. I suppose he’d some plan for doing that, but as things turned out it was easy for him because we started out for a walk in the afternoon but the wind was so strong we turned back, and it happened I’d a headache and went upstairs to lie down, while he said he’d brought some work with him that he’d like to get on with. But really he went out to meet Margot and he drove her out to the common and strangled her there and dumped her body in the road and ran his car over it and planted the forged letter he’d prepared in her handbag, confessing she’d murdered Felicity.”

  “And then?” Andrew said.

  “What do you mean—and then? Isn’t that enough?”

  “It’s just that she didn’t murder Felicity. But he came here to do it, didn’t he? Somebody came. And what was the point of that confession if it wasn’t going to happen?”

  She gave him a distracted look and made a visible effort to control herself.

  “Quentin didn’t murder Felicity,” she said.

  “Not that evening,” Andrew agreed. “Whoever came went away again. But what about next day?”

  “Haven’t you been told, we all spent the evening together? None of us could have done it.”

  “That’s really true, is it?”

  “Certainly it’s true, unless she died much later than the police say. I suppose if she did, any of us might have slipped out in the night and killed her. But as it happens...”

  “Yes?” Andrew said as she hesitated.

  “Quentin and I spent the night together. He didn’t go out.”

  “I see. In any case, it’s unlikely she was killed later than we’ve been told. Agnes found the back door open about half past eleven, as if someone had just gone out that way, and we searched the house after it and found nobody. And she locked the door then, so if someone came later they’d have had to break in and I gather there wasn’t any sign of that having happened.”

  Agnes, who had been sitting with her hands tightly clasped in her lap and her gaze moving swiftly backwards and forwards between Andrew’s face and Patricia’s, as if they were players in a tennis match, broke in, “And we were so quiet so as not to disturb Felicity! If only we’d looked in her room! I suppose it would have been too late to help her, but the police could have been on the job hours sooner and perhaps they’d have caught the murderer by now.”

  Patricia gave her a vacant look, as if what she had said meant nothing to her. She turned back to Andrew.

  “Is there anything we can do?” she asked.

  “To help Quentin?”

  “Yes. That’s why I came—to ask you that.”

  “Even though he’s confessed he’s a murderer?”

  “Doesn’t a murderer need help? Hasn’t he a right to it?”

  “He’s made it rather difficult for anyone to help him.”

  “Couldn’t he retract his confession?”

  “But if it’s true... You do believe it’s true, don’t you? He didn’t make it up to shield someone?”

  Her face brightened for a moment, as if this idea offered hope, but then the look faded. “No, it’s true.”

  “The only thing I can think of,” Andrew said, “is that we should get hold of Little and tell him what’s happened. His advice will be much more reliable than mine.”

  “Felicity’s solicitor, you mean.”

  “Yes, unless the Silvesters have another one.”

  “I don’t think they have. Yes—yes, please, will you do that?”

  Andrew went to the telephone and, finding a book beside it in which the numbers most often used by Felicity were noted down, he leafed through it and found the number of Little, Little & Summers, which he presumed was the one he wanted. Dialling, he asked for Mr. Arthur Little and was put through to him.

  Making it as bald as he could, Andrew told the solicitor that Quentin Silvester had been arrested for the murder of Margot Weldon and was at present in police custody. What, if anything, could be done about it he left to the lawyer. Arthur Little said that the first thing he would do was to get in touch with Dr. Silvester and find out what steps he had taken, and then, if Dr. Silvester wished it, he would go to the police station.

  Putting the telephone down, Andrew told Patricia the result of his call.

  He was interrupted by an exclamation from Agnes. “Look!”

  She had got up from her chair while he had been at the telephone and gone to one of the windows. In front of the window there was a small round table with a vase of daffodils on it and beside the vase was a box of papier-mâché, inlaid with shell. It was open and Agnes was pointing at something inside it.

&n
bsp; Andrew went to the window and looked at what was in the box. It appeared to be Felicity’s workbox. There were scissors and a thimble and pins and needles and reels of cotton in it, but on top of these things there was a small, pale blue notebook.

  “It’s Felicity’s address book,” Agnes said. Her voice was hushed, as if the sight of it frightened her.

  Andrew reached out to pick it up, but she put out a hand quickly to stop him.

  “We oughtn’t to touch it,” she said.

  “Why not?” He picked it up and began to turn the pages. On one at the end which had the word “Notes” at the top of it, he saw the name Graveney scrawled on it and a telephone number. He showed it to Agnes.

  “Yes,” she said. “But however did it get here? D’you think Felicity herself can have put it there? Accidentally, perhaps, and forgotten about it?”

  “Do you remember if that detective who was searching for it yesterday looked in this box?” Andrew asked.

  “I don’t actually remember it,” she answered, “but I should think he must have.”

  “Then it wasn’t Felicity who left it here,” he said. “Who else has had a chance to do it since he searched?”

  She gave a grim smile. “You and me.”

  “No one else? I was out a good deal of yesterday afternoon. Did no one else come here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Was the back door unlocked as usual all day?”

  “No, I thought in the circumstances I’d better keep it locked for the present.”

  “Has anyone besides you got a key?”

  “I have,” Laycock said.

  Patricia started, as if she had been unaware of his presence in the room until he spoke. For the first time it seemed to strike her as curious that he should be there, casually leaning against the doorpost and smoking.

  “But why should anyone return the book after taking it?” Agnes asked.

  “It would be a rather bad thing to have found in one’s possession,” Andrew said. “And there was no point in keeping it once it turned out that Little had a note of Lady Graveney’s name and number. But what made you suddenly open the box, Mrs. Cavell?”

  She reddened slightly. “I don’t know. It was just an impulse I had. That’s true, even if you don’t believe it.”

  Andrew did not believe it. He remembered that when Laycock had first returned from the police station, he had not sat down as he had been asked to do, but had walked over towards the window and stood there with his back to it while he said how much he appreciated the kindness that Mrs. Silvester and Mrs. Cavell had shown him. Agnes had seen him do that and perhaps had seen more than Andrew. Perhaps she had seen Laycock slip something into the box. But she might not have seen what it was and have been anxious to find out what he had done.

  On the other hand, she might have put the address book in the workbox herself.

  For the first time Andrew asked himself if it was possible that Agnes had killed Felicity.

  If she had, it had cost her a fortune. If she had waited only a few days to do it, she would have found herself a very rich woman. Always supposing that she had got away with it. But as it was, she had gained nothing, whereas a number of other people had gained a great deal. A number of people, all of whom had alibis and could not possibly have committed the murder. Whereas the people who had no alibis had no motives either. One of them had already confessed to committing another murder, as well as forgery and deceit. Was he just the single offshoot that had gone wrong of a family that was otherwise law-abiding and honourable? Or was there something rotten at their root?

  Felicity herself had believed that no one who knew her had cared for anything about her but her money, and perhaps that very belief had brought into being the state of affairs that she had derided. She had responded to all kindly advances with suspicion. She had given no affection in return. She had actually taught her family to think of her only in terms of the money that she would leave them. Thought of in those terms, it might be said that she had brought her murder on her own head.

  All the same, which of them, Agnes or Laycock, had put the address book into Felicity’s workbox? And why?

  Had Patricia been near the workbox since she had come into the room?

  Andrew remembered suddenly that she had, but while he was still trying to reconstruct in his own mind what her movements had been since her arrival, the front doorbell rang again.

  As before, Laycock went to answer it, and brought Frances Silvester into the room. Her wispy hair had a dishevelled look, as if a wind were blowing, yet outside it was calm and still. Her small face, which had probably once been pretty, was tense with pain. She ran to Agnes and threw her arms round her neck.

  “Agnes, what am I to do—tell me! You always know what to do,” she cried. She bent her head on to Agnes’s shoulder. “He’s confessed, but he didn’t know what he was saying. I’m sure he didn’t know what he was saying. He can’t have meant it. He can’t have done what he said he did. You don’t think he did it, do you?”

  Agnes remained oddly stiff in the other woman’s embrace. She patted her on the head, but looked past her as if her mind were on something else.

  “Professor Basnett rang up Mr. Little,” she said, “and he said he’d get in touch with Derek. I think that’s all any of us can do at the moment.”

  “But don’t you understand, Quentin didn’t do it!” Frances wailed. “It must have been someone else in her life who did it. A woman like that—God knows how many people she’s ruined or driven mad. Someone followed her down here, don’t you see, and killed her where it would look as if one of us had done it.”

  “And put that forged letter in her handbag, confessing to a murder that hadn’t happened?” Agnes said. “It must have been someone who knew an awful lot about us all.”

  “But then what can I do for him, Agnes? I’ve got to do something.”

  “Wait to see what Mr. Little advises.”

  “Oh dear, you’re so sensible, but I don’t think you understand what I’m going through. That poor boy!”

  “He chose to confess, didn’t he? No one beat him or tortured him. And the fact that he confessed may help him and so may the fact that he’s been paying that woman blackmail for years. I should think that may be looked on as an extenuating circumstance.”

  “But they’ll send him to prison. They’ll keep him there for years.”

  “At least they won’t hang him.”

  Frances gave a little squeal of horror. She withdrew several steps from Agnes.

  “I believe I’ve been quite mistaken about you,” she said. “I don’t believe you’ve got a heart.”

  “Perhaps not one in the best condition,” Agnes answered. “I’m sorry, Frances, but hysteria upsets me. To help Quentin now you’ve got to keep very calm and sensible.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Oh, God, who is it now?” Agnes demanded with a trace of the hysteria in her voice that she had just criticized in Frances. It was one of the moments when the strain of the last days appeared to be too much for her. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”

  Andrew half-expected that if would be Theobald, but in fact it was Derek and Georgina. Theobald, he supposed, was otherwise engaged at the moment, going step by step through Quentin’s confession, making sure that he was in fact the forger and murderer that he had claimed.

  False confessions, Andrew believed, were often made to the police from a variety of motives, from the unusual one of desiring to protect the person who was really guilty, to the commoner one of simple exhibitionism. But thinking of the smooth young man whom he had seen here before Felicity’s murder, who had her pale golden hair, her blue eyes and her fine features, as well as her vividness and the charm that she could always wield when she chose, Andrew was surprised to find that it was easier to think of him as a dishonest and cold-blooded criminal than as either quixotic or pathetically perverse.

  Derek strode into the room ahead of Georgina, ignori
ng everyone but Frances, whom he caught hold of by the arm and pulled round to face him.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Why did you suddenly go driving off like a maniac?”

  “I wanted to talk to Agnes,” she answered. “Agnes is always so wise. At least I thought so, but I’m not sure about that any more. I’m not sure about anything. But I knew you wouldn’t listen to me. You never listen to me. You always treat me as if I were a fool. But I’m not a fool. I’m only liable to get a bit muddled about things sometimes, and then when you shout at me like this I get worse.”

  “You’re a fool and a liar,” he said. He turned to Agnes. “What has she been telling you?”

  “Oh, no lies,” Agnes said. “Only things you might expect from any mother.”

  Frances gave a sigh, extricated her arm from Derek’s grip and sat down. “What I’ve been trying to say is that Quentin may not have been the only person Margot Weldon was blackmailing, so he may not be the only person with a motive.”

  Derek nodded sombrely. He patted her on the shoulder, as if he regretted having been so harsh with her. “I’m afraid we’ve got to accept it that he’s done what he said,” he said. “I don’t understand how a son of mine could have got himself into such a position. He had a good home, a good education, he knew Frances and I would always give him anything he wanted within reason. He’d only to ask for it.”

  “Within reason!” Georgina suddenly yelled. She had sat down on the arm of her mother’s chair and had been absent-mindedly stroking her hair. “He only asked you for anything once. He asked you if you would give him a small income for a year or two so that he could see what he could do as a writer. And you told him a writer who had anything in him wouldn’t have to be dependent on his parents. You told him to get a job and do his writing when he had the time.”

  “And I’d do the same again,” Derek said bitterly. “And no doubt he’d do the same again, forge his grandmother’s cheques or somebody else’s, because that’s how he’s made. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’ll spend every penny I get from Felicity defending him. I’ll get the best lawyer I can and do everything humanly possible to get him a light sentence. I dare say it won’t be possible, but I’ll try.”