The Birthday Present

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘None of it good, I suspect!’ Smiling was an effort and he fingered his aching jaw. There was hardly an area of his body that wasn’t sore. The Sister on the hospital ward had tried to persuade him to involve the police but he had fought shy of that, insisting that he had taken a tumble down some steps while under the influence. She hadn’t believed him but finally gave up.

  Connie frowned. ‘So what should I say to him? Back tomorrow maybe? He’s not going to like it.’

  ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Don’t say you’ve seen me. Don’t mention my name. There’s a dear.’ With one hand to his back, Steven disappeared into the sitting room, telling her to ‘Wait a moment!’ and reappeared with a florin which he pressed into her hand. ‘Buy yourself a drink or something, Connie.’ Or a dozen bars of soap, he thought. ‘Just say you spoke to the housekeeper. I’d rather not get involved.’

  She regarded the florin with obvious disappointment. ‘So when am I to say then?’

  ‘Say she’s expected back soon because we’ve got a wedding on the fifth – that’s Saturday. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . I’ve been unwell. I had a fall down some steps.’

  She nodded, unsurprised. ‘You do look a bit battered – as if you’ve gone ten rounds in the boxing ring but didn’t win!’

  A damned sight worse than that, he reflected. Stupid old cow! He bit back a rude comment about her own sorry appearance. ‘I’d better get back to bed.’ He closed the door firmly, crossing his fingers that she would deliver the correct message.

  No doubt she knew Markham well enough to choose her time. If she waited until he’d been drinking he’d be in a foul mood and she might get the back of his hand across her face. He closed his bedroom door. ‘Rather you than me!’ he told her as he fell back in the bed, pulled up the bedclothes and prepared to go back to sleep.

  Connie made her way home, stopping only to call in at the Dog and Bone to spend some of her florin. As it happened, the pie man called in while she was drinking her third gin and she bought two mutton pies to eat when she got home. Food cheered her up and she felt in need of solace. She missed Rose’s company more than she would admit but now she blamed her for being in France and out of Andrew Markham’s reach because that put Connie in the firing line. The three gins were intended to boost her courage when she next saw her employer.

  As she let herself in by the front door of the house, Mr Coates, the downstairs tenant, came out to meet her, a nicotine-stained finger pressed to his lips in warning.

  ‘What?’ cried Connie in alarm.

  ‘Shh! He’s up there, Connie! Our lord and master! Pissed as a newt!’

  ‘Up where?’

  ‘Your flat. He let himself in. I thought he was after me for the rent I owe but he simply ignored me. He could hardly get up the blooming stairs! Fall down ’em, you miserable sod, I thought. Fall down and kill yourself!’

  Connie hesitated. She had the two pies and she could give Markham one of them. They could have a bite to eat and a nice chat and then she could tell him about Rose letting him down. Sometimes she could sweet-talk him into a better mood – a more romantic mood, maybe. Deep down she still had a reluctant affection for the man. Andrew. She smiled at the memories. He’d been young and handsome once and she would have walked over hot coals for him!

  Mr Coates was waiting for her answer, a puzzled look on his face. ‘Come back later, Connie,’ he advised. ‘Let him sober up a bit. He’s a bad-tempered bugger when he’s drunk. You know he is!’

  Still she hesitated. Her head told her his advice was sound. She could just slip away and come back later. Her heart, however, said that maybe he needed her and somehow they might rediscover a little of the old magic. It was a long time since anyone had cared for her. She was old and had lost her youthful charms but Andrew had nothing to boast about except the money he had made, and his good looks were fading fast. He could only just claim to be good looking. Overweight and unfit, he had made many enemies. He was not a happy man.

  ‘Connie! Hop it while you still can.’

  She gathered her wits together and gave him a sad smile. ‘I remember him when he was twenty-one. His birthday party! I was invited. The girls went mad for him then but he only had eyes for me.’ She started to go up the stairs.

  ‘More fool you, then!’ he snapped.

  Connie heard him slam the door of his kitchen in disgust but she pushed aside the last remaining doubts. When she reached the door of her flat she found it wide open. There was no sound from inside the flat. Probably fallen asleep, she told herself with a smile. Well, in that case she would tiptoe round, laying the table with a decent cloth if she could find one, and maybe a candle. A pity she didn’t have any flowers. A single red rose. That always looked good on a table laid for two. A single rose meant something. She stepped inside the door but he was waiting behind it.

  Even as her smile faltered, a hand clamped itself around her throat and she was jerked backwards off her feet.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ His voice was thick, his words slurred. ‘And where’s that girl?’

  She couldn’t answer because she was half choked and struggling for breath. Suddenly he gave her a push and she tumbled head first into the room.

  Shocked, she stared up from the floor as he towered over her, his fists clenched, his eyes narrowed into mean slits. ‘Where’s Rose?’ He tried to smile. ‘Where’s the wonderful Miss Lamore?’

  She scrambled into a sitting position, searching for a lie that would pacify him. Mr Coates’s warning flashed through her mind and she decided to lie. ‘Rose is . . . Yes, I think she’ll be in later . . . at the Supper Room.’

  ‘You think so?’ He swayed. ‘You’re supposed to know.’ He put out a hand to the wall to steady himself. ‘You always were a stupid cow!’

  She prayed that he would collapse and then sleep it off. He would be in a better mood when he woke up again. If that didn’t happen she must somehow get past him and out of the flat. There was no way she was going to talk him into anything while he was in this state and her fear grew. Cursing her stupidity, she glanced round for something with which to defend herself if the need arose. She said, ‘I’ve brought us a bit of dinner, Andrew – I mean Mr Markham.’

  She thought of the poker and took a step back to be nearer to it but, as drunk as he was, he read her intentions in her face. He lunged forward, she snatched it up but he took it from her and threw it across the room. It struck a picture and shattered the glass before falling on to the ancient sofa.

  Markham laughed at the expression on her face. ‘What? Going to hit me, were you? Who’re you kidding?’

  They faced each other across the room, Connie white-faced, holding her breath, Markham red with anger and fuelled with drink.

  She watched for a chance to dodge past him and escape through the door but he held his arms wide. ‘Come on, Connie! Make a run for it!’

  He took two steps towards her and she imagined his hands closing again around her neck. If she retreated she would soon have her back against the wall. If she ran forward . . .

  ‘Andrew! I mean . . . Please don’t . . .’

  Downstairs in the hallway, Mr Coates stared upward, wondering what was going on in the attic flat. Asking for trouble, she was, going up there when they all knew what he was like when he was drunk. Usually he sent his bully boys to do his dirty work but when drink got the better of him his temper took over from any common sense he might have.

  Suddenly he heard a scream followed by silence. Then he heard a thud.

  Above him a door opened and Mrs Jupp, from the first floor flat, came down. She had her apron on and clutched a duster in her free hand. She said, ‘What’s happening up there? Is Connie all right?’

  He explained the situation and they regarded each other fearfully.

  ‘D’you think we should go up and see?’ she asked.

  ‘That thud must have been him falling down. Dead drunk, most likely.’

  Suddenly they heard heavy footsteps on t
he top stairs.

  ‘That’s him!’ Mrs Jupp clutched at his arm. ‘At least he’s on his feet again.’

  They froze momentarily.

  When the footsteps reached the landing, however, Mr Coates grabbed Mrs Jupp’s arm and pulled her into his front room and closed the door. The erratic footsteps thundered down, the front door opened and as one they rushed to the window. Peering out they saw Andrew Markham staggering along the pavement. For a moment he clung to the pillar box long enough to vomit, then continued his erratic journey.

  ‘Ugh!’ Mrs Jupp wrinkled her nose. ‘The filthy pig!’

  For a long time, listening, neither of them spoke again.

  Mrs Jupp broke the silence. ‘Well . . . good riddance to him!’

  ‘D’you reckon she’s all right?’

  ‘Course she is. She’s a tough old bird. None of our business.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m not trailing up any more stairs than I have to. The doctor says I have to rest with my feet up on a pillow. My legs have ached like crazy these last few weeks. I can hardly walk.’ He was not listening, she realized with a shrug.

  ‘I told her not to go up.’ He scratched his thinning hair. ‘I couldn’t stop her. It’s very quiet up there. Maybe he knocked her out.’

  Mrs Jupp nodded. ‘My neighbour had a run-in like that once. Husband knocked her out with a coal scuttle! She had to have stitches. Good thing it was empty . . . Poor old Connie. She’ll come round.’

  He frowned. ‘Maybe we should see how she is.’

  ‘She’ll be embarrassed.’ The thought of finding Connie on the floor in a dishevelled state was immediately distasteful and it overcame Mrs Jupp’s natural curiosity.

  Mr Coates wavered. ‘She might need help but he might come back while I’m up there. We could lock the front door.’

  ‘But it’s his property, Mr Coates. He’s in a nasty mood already. He might have a go at us. Might kick us both out for interfering!’

  They thought furiously until Mr Coates suggested they wait for an hour or so. ‘When we hear her moving about again you could go up to her. Woman to woman. Like you said. You know.’

  Finding she had talked herself into a corner, Mrs Jupp resigned herself to the inevitable. ‘Right you are. Soon as I hear her on the move I’ll pop up with a mug of tea.’

  Eight

  When the taxi pulled up outside Connie’s flat the following day, Rose and Marcus saw a constable standing on the doorstep. It had been raining and he was an abject figure, huddling into his damp uniform for whatever warmth he could find. His feet were apart and his hands were clasped behind his back. He looked as though he had settled in for a long stay, thought Rose, surprised.

  ‘What on earth is happening?’ she asked.

  ‘Something serious,’ said Marcus. ‘I’d better see you in before I go home.’

  ‘There’s no need. I’ll be fine. You go on back to Victoria House. I know you’re tired. I certainly am.’

  The taxi driver turned in his seat. ‘Looks like trouble. They don’t stick the Old Bill on the doorstep for nothing!’ He leaned sideways to get a better view.

  Rose was already out of the taxi and hurrying towards the constable. ‘What’s going on? Why are you here? Has something happened?’

  He put his hands on his hips, effectively barring her entrance. ‘You could say that, miss. Why are you here?’

  ‘I live here. In the top flat with Connie.’

  By this time Marcus had joined them. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘You could say that.’ He regarded Rose with narrowed eyes. ‘So you’re the one who lives with Miss Wainwright, are you? So where were you yesterday?’

  Not liking his tone, Marcus said firmly, ‘She was with me, on the journey back from Wissant, in France. Why are you asking? What has happened here?’

  ‘So you are giving this young woman an alibi.’

  Rose’s heart seemed to stop. ‘An alibi?’

  Marcus said, ‘An alibi? Certainly not – because she doesn’t need one.’

  Ignoring him, the constable stared at Rose but before he could say any more the side window of the bay was pushed up and Mr Coates poked his head out. His eyes were wide with shock. ‘It’s Connie! She’s dead! He killed her! Our lord and master killed her!’

  Now robbed of his chance to tell Rose the dramatic news himself, the constable turned on him irritably. ‘You’ve been told not to gossip about the murder.’

  ‘But she lives up there. She’s going to find out for herself soon enough.’ He turned back to Rose. ‘It was him that done it! Markham. We heard this scream sort of cut short and then nothing . . . except a thud and then he was down the stairs and away, drunk out of his mind and staggering. He done it. He strangled her! Her neck was all bruised. And he’s scarpered. Well, he would.’

  Rose had started to tremble with shock and she felt Marcus’s arm go round her. Markham had murdered Connie? Was it possible? She said, ‘I must go up to her.’ Her voice shook. ‘Oh, poor Connie!’

  ‘Sorry, miss. No one’s allowed up there. It’s a crime scene and there are investigations going on. Anyway, she’s not there. Wainwright’s body was taken to the mortuary.’

  Wainwright’s body. It sounded so horribly impersonal, thought Rose, as though Connie had ceased to be a person.

  The front door opened and a sergeant came out. The constable briefed him and Sergeant Cooper looked Rose up and down.

  Marcus said, ‘We’ve just come back from a trip to France. We know nothing about it.’ Briefly he explained their situation and gave the name and address of his mother and stepfather in Wissant for purposes of corroboration.

  Rose said, ‘But why did he kill her?’

  Sergeant Cooper said, ‘That’s for us to find out, miss. We’ll be taking statements from all the tenants here, the staff of Andy’s Supper Room and all his friends. All in good time. And if Markham makes contact with you, Miss Paton, you must notify us immediately.’ He made to go back inside but then turned. ‘I suppose you don’t know where he is, Miss Paton? It’s a crime to withhold information.’

  ‘I have no idea, Sergeant. How could I? We’ve only just come back from—’

  ‘He might have mentioned something last time you saw him, before you went away.’

  She shook her head. ‘He didn’t.’ She was about to mention Steven Bennley but stopped herself in time.

  Sharp-eyed, the sergeant asked, ‘What? You were going to say something.’

  ‘I wasn’t. It’s nothing.’ The two men were friends and Steven would be questioned like everyone else. Once they told him about the murder, he would no doubt offer the police any information he might have. It was not up to her.

  Marcus said, ‘You’d better come back with me, Rose, to Victoria House. You can stay until the wedding and then make whatever plans you wish.’

  She nodded, saying nothing, as a fresh thought entered her head. Not only had Markham killed Connie, he had also, by his terrible crime, put an end to Andy’s Supper Room and thus to her career. At once she was ashamed of the selfish thought. What kind of person was she, to put her own needs ahead of Connie’s frightful death? But it was a sobering thought. She now had no home and no job – except for the few hours when she read to Mrs Granger.

  Marcus shook her arm. ‘Rose! You’re not listening, are you? I said you must come back with me for the time being.’ He gave his address to the sergeant and said they would be available for further questioning if it were necessary.

  Rose was refused entry to Connie’s flat so she and Marcus returned to the taxi and had barely travelled twenty yards down the road when they saw Mrs Jupp making her way slowly back to the house. She carried a basket of shopping and walked with a stick.

  ‘Stop the car!’ cried Rose and jumped out. ‘Mrs Jupp! Isn’t this terrible! Poor Connie. I can hardly believe it.’

  Mrs Jupp set down her shopping basket. ‘Our lord and master – a murderer! I still can’t take it in. Mind you, I never did like him. A bit of a bully.
That’s what he was. Lord knows where he is now. Hiding himself in the south of France most likely. All he has to do is change his name and grow a moustache or a beard! He’ll get away with it. His sort always do.’ She shook her head. ‘It could have been me . . . or you! Or Mr Coates. When I think of it . . . the danger we were in.’ She sat down on a low brick wall, leaning well forward to escape the privet hedge behind her. She began to rub her legs, making the thick brown stockings wrinkle. ‘If my husband was alive he’d go berserk. Fancy living in the house of a murderer! He never did like the man. He never liked the flat, come to that, or the street. Said it was a comedown but beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Marcus called from the taxi. ‘Rose. We should be going.’

  She said, ‘They’ll catch him, Mrs Jupp. I’m sure they will. Try not to worry.’ She helped the old lady to her feet and handed her the basket. ‘You take care.’

  As soon as the taxi moved off, tears filled her eyes and she rested her head on Marcus’s shoulder and sobbed.

  Soon after Rose’s discovery of Connie’s death, Alicia da Silva went in search of her son and found him staring moodily out over the rain-sodden lawn. Hearing her come in, he did not turn but said, ‘If it’s like this on Saturday Letitia will be furious. A rainy wedding! Can you imagine!’

  For a moment she stared at his uncompromising back with compassion but then she settled herself on the sofa. ‘Come and join me, dear,’ she said, her voice deceptively calm. ‘We have to talk.’

  He turned reluctantly. ‘Do we?’

  ‘I’ve just said so, Bernard.’ She pointed to the adjoining armchair. ‘And I think you know why.’

  He sat down but with a bad grace. ‘What is it now, Mother?’

  He sounded sullen which reinforced her fears. Taking a deep breath she said, ‘You had a letter this morning from Carlotta.’

  He was shocked, she saw. No doubt he had thought himself the first person to see the morning’s post, but she had been down before him. ‘I think I should know what it was about, Bernard.’

  His defensive attitude fell away at her words and she saw by the look in his eyes that his mind was in a turmoil. ‘I . . . I can’t show it to you,’ he stammered. ‘She has told me not to. Her words are for my eyes only. I owe her that much, surely.’