Hobby of Murder

by E. X. Ferrars

  The house, it had seemed to Andrew, was large for a man to live in by himself. It stood some way back from the road, with a stretch of well-tended garden in front of it. It had gables, a green pantile roof, picture windows, and had probably been built between the wars. Inside it felt cold, as if it suffered from not being fully inhabited. The room into which Audley took Andrew was of medium size, had a fitted dark brown carpet and was furnished with tall, wing-backed chairs covered in stiff blue linen, some reproduction chests and cabinets, a small bookcase filled with uniform editions of classics that looked as if they were seldom handled, and something that caught Andrew’s eye at once: a row, hanging on the wall, of three glass-fronted cases containing butterflies. They had plainly been skilfully pinned and set, and under each specimen was a minute label.

  Standing looking at them as Audley brought sherry from a corner cupboard, Andrew asked, ‘Your hobby?’

  ‘My father’s,’ Audley replied. ‘And it’s one that isn’t too well regarded now when we’re trying to preserve the sort of species that he has there. But I must admit that I used to go out with him when I was a child, and enjoyed chasing the things, and I wouldn’t be parted from his collection for anything.’ He poured out sherry. ‘You’ve been retired for some time, I believe.’

  ‘About ten years,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘I often wonder how I shall occupy myself when I retire,’ Audley said as they both sat down. ‘Have you found it a problem?’

  ‘Not so far,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s taken me all that time to get a book written. Not that I ever worked at it very consistently. I’ve travelled a good deal, and besides, the book required a good deal of research. But now it’s in the hands of the publishers, I can’t say I’ve made any very definite plans for myself.’

  ‘You aren’t married, I believe.’

  ‘My wife died shortly before I retired.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry. You’ll have been told I and mine are separated. In fact, divorced. You could hardly help knowing that after what I said the other evening about that fellow Singleton. Curious how different those two brothers are. Brian’s a very good friend of mine.’

  ‘In any case, you’ve a good many years ahead of you before you need worry about retirement,’ Andrew said. ‘Do you see yourself staying in Lower Milfrey indefinitely?’

  ‘That’s something I ask myself pretty frequently. A flat in Rockford would save me a lot of trouble. But I dislike the idea of a move, probably having to sell off half my furniture because the flat would be very much smaller than this house, and undoubtedly I’d get cheated in the process, because I know nothing about the value of what I’ve got. I dislike the idea of being cheated. And I’ve some good friends here. Yes, probably I shall stay here for the foreseeable future.’

  They chatted for a while longer, then Andrew made his way back to the Davidges’ house, where he explained why it had taken him so long to post his letters and where he was given more sherry.

  ‘I always think there’s something pathetic about Ernest living on in that house by himself,’ Mollie said. ‘I think it’s a kind of act of defiance. Luke Singleton got his wife, but he isn’t to be allowed to feel he drove Ernest out of his home as well. Absurd, really, because he’d be far better off in Rockford, near to his office. But at least he’s got a very good daily woman here, Mrs Crewe, a widow. I sometimes think he’ll end up marrying her. They’re about the same age and it would really suit them very well.’

  ‘You see marriages everywhere,’ Ian said. ‘Why don’t you try to marry him to Eleanor?’

  ‘I don’t think she’d be in the least interested,’ Mollie answered. ‘Anyway, she’s too old for him. Of course, she might do it for the money. He’s pretty well fixed, and my impression is that she finds things a bit difficult. I think she might set up as a professional photographer in Rockford, because she’s really very good. But when I suggested it to her once she said the endless passport photographs and wedding-groups would bore her to death and I suppose it would be pretty frightful. Even children, if you had to make them the smiling cherubs their parents wanted, would be a bit awful.’

  ‘I’m not really sorry for Ernest,’ Ian said. ‘Life with him can’t have been very exciting, and he’d have made very sure that it wasn’t.’

  Andrew had been out with Ian early that morning, and to Ian’s delight they had seen a flock of what he told Andrew were lapwings arrive. They came down from the north, he said, to winter in the temperate climate of England. They came every year to Lower Milfrey, to the muddy verges of the lake on the common. They were big, greenish-black birds, with a strange, distinctive voice that seemed to be saying, ‘kee-wi, kee-wi’. For a short while the sky was almost black with them and Ian was entranced and for a few minutes Andrew felt the thrill of it too. But on their way back to breakfast he found to his great annoyance that the rhyme which by now he intensely disliked was going round and round in his head.

  ‘And now I’m as sure as I’m sure that my name

  Is not Willow, titwillow, titwillow,

  That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,

  Oh, Willow …’

  No! He was not going to let it drive out of his mind the real pleasure that he had felt in watching the great flock of birds descending, handsome creatures with their tall, wispy crests and white breasts. Perhaps it was a pity that in St John’s Wood there were seldom any birds to be seen but sparrows and the occasional pigeon. However, the place had other attractions and when he had been away from it for only a short while he generally found himself glad, as he was beginning to feel at the present moment and in spite of all the friendliness of the Davidges, that he would fairly soon be returning to it.

  On the evening of the dinner-party they set out in the Davidges’ Ford Escort at seven o’clock to the Waldrons’ house which was beyond the far end of the village. Lower Milfrey was one of the villages that are built along a road, which once might have been considered a main road but now was little more than a country lane, and which bent more than once, with a church at one bend and a public house at the other. The church was built of stone, with a square tower and an arched Norman doorway, the pub was white and thatched, with some dark beams, small windows and a fairly freshly painted sign which gave its name as the Black Horse. Most of the houses along the road were old, though here and there a modern bungalow had been jammed in where there was some room to spare. There was a post office which sold most essential groceries, a village hall and a garage. Behind the houses were mostly fields and a little woodland.

  They had left the village behind by about a quarter of a mile before they reached the gate that opened on to the drive that led up to the Waldrons’ house. The gate was standing open now and they could see that several cars had arrived before them. The house was a modest example of a Queen Anne manor. It was built of a soft golden-coloured brick, had tall sash windows and a portico of great dignity. The house stood on a slight rise so that it overlooked the village, seeming to dominate it. A park which stretched away into darkness surrounded it.

  This evening all the windows of the house were alight and a light shone over the front door, which stood open. When Ian had parked the car in the wide gravelled court in front of the house, he and Mollie and Andrew walked in at the door, knowing from the noise that was coming from one of the doors inside where they were expected to go. But an elderly woman emerged from a passage that led out of the hall and greeted them and took their coats. Perhaps in honour of the peculiar nature of the occasion she was wearing a long white apron over a black dress and a mob cap. The Davidges evidently knew her, for they exchanged a few words with her as she led them to the door from which the sound of voices came, then turned and disappeared once more down the passage.

  There were about fifteen people in the room, one of whom was Ernest Audley. He was in a corner of the room, with a drink in his hand but a look of having withdrawn as far as he could from the other guests. He was in a dark suit, as Ian was too, but there w
as great variety in what the people there were wearing. Some of the men were in gaudy pullovers, one in a crimson velvet jacket with a white frilly cravat spilling out at the neck, one or two in dinner-jackets. Some of the women were in long skirts and well decorated with jewellery. One or two were in tight skirts that reached only halfway down their thighs, with brightly coloured blouses and shoes with very high heels. Mollie had come in probably the best dress she had in a fairly scanty wardrobe, for clothes had never been one of her interests. It was of ivory-coloured silk, simple and close-fitting. Anna Waldron, who came to meet the Davidges and Andrew as they came into the room, was in a plain black velvet dress, cut low at the neck, low-heeled black shoes with silver buckles and a collar of pearls. The hand that she held out to each of them was loaded with ancient-looking rings.

  ‘You must forgive Sam for not being here to welcome you,’ she said, as she had no doubt said to everyone else who had arrived. ‘He’s busy in the kitchen. He and I won’t actually be dining with you tonight. When Parson Woodforde entertained or was entertained by his friends there was probably a whole staff of servants to cook and serve the wonderful meals they had, we’ve only got our two dear Bartletts. They’ve been splendid, entering into the spirit of the thing in the most delightful way, but of course Sam’s the cook and he needs me to help him.’

  As soon as she had seen that they were supplied with drinks, she turned away to make her prepared little speech to the next guest who had just come into the room. Andrew could see what an effort it was to her to conceal her shyness. There was no ease or spontaneity in her welcome, only a forced sweetness. The evening, he thought, would be an ordeal rather than a pleasure for her.

  The next guest happened to be Felicity Mace. She was in a black jersey and a full flowered skirt and looked neat and pretty and practical. As soon as Anna had turned away from her, she remarked, ‘The Singletons haven’t come yet.’

  Andrew had noticed that too.

  She went on, ‘But Ernest’s here, trying to hide in that corner. I think I must go and do my best to get him out of it. Since he actually decided to come half the battle’s over.’

  ‘Or hasn’t begun yet,’ Ian said.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said with her pleasant, good-natured smile. ‘He’s got perfectly good manners. I don’t really think there’s any risk of his making a scene.’

  ‘Perhaps Luke Singleton won’t come,’ Mollie said. ‘If Brian’s told him that Ernest’s going to be here, he might have the sense to keep out of sight.’

  ‘But think what a disappointment that would be for everyone,’ Felicity said. ‘We don’t often have celebrities in Lower Milfrey.’

  She moved through the throng towards the corner where Ernest Audley stood. At the same time a tall man entered the room, to be greeted by Anna with her little speech, the same as she had made to the Davidges and to Felicity, except that for a moment she sounded spontaneous, as she exclaimed, ‘Oh, how good of you to come, Inspector! Of course you know we’d have understood perfectly if you’d been far too busy.’

  He answered, ‘I’d no intention of missing the evening if I could possibly manage it, Mrs Waldron. Your husband told me there’s venison tonight. Not many people know how to cook venison and it’s not much good if you don’t know how. But I know I can trust him to go about it the right way, and that’s a treat I wouldn’t miss for anything.’

  He was a broad-shouldered man, heavy in his build, and though he did not look much more than forty, his short, rough hair was already turning grey. His face was square, with wide-spaced, heavy-lidded eyes. He was in a dark suit that did not fit him very well. It did not actually look too tight for him, but as if perhaps it had been made for him when his muscles had somehow been differently developed from their present condition.

  As he came further into the room, his eyes fell on Andrew. He stood still for a moment, looking at him. Then he suddenly came forward, his hand outstretched.

  ‘Professor Basnett,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you remember me.’

  ‘Inspector Roland,’ Andrew answered. ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘We meet in pleasanter circumstances than last time,’ the detective said. ‘You were of great help to us, as I remember it, over that very unpleasant affair at Upper Cullonden. But you may not care to have it recalled.’

  ‘It isn’t a pleasant memory,’ Andrew admitted, ‘but I’m glad if you think I was of help.’ He turned to Ian and Mollie. ‘Let me introduce an old acquaintance of mine, Inspector Roland, who had to handle the affair of the bomb that killed Sir Lucas Dearden. Inspector, these are old friends of mine with whom I’m staying at the moment, Mr and Mrs Davidge.’

  ‘And are you particularly interested in Parson Woodforde?’ the Inspector asked. ‘This dinner seems to be held in honour of him.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him, but never read his diary,’ Andrew said.

  ‘You should, you should,’ Roland said. ‘Mr Waldron introduced me to him. He’s the only man I know of who actually let his pigs get drunk. As I remember it, he gave his pigs some beer grounds taken out of a barrel he had and they got so drunk that they couldn’t stand up. He says he never saw pigs so drunk in his life.’

  ‘I must certainly read him,’ Andrew said. ‘I’ve never seen a drunk pig.’

  ‘I wonder if it improved the flavour of the pork,’ Ian said. ‘I’ll ask Singleton if they’ve ever made any experiments of the kind at the Rockford Agricultural Institute.’

  ‘Talking of Singleton,’ Roland said, looking round the room, ‘has our celebrity arrived? I know his brother, but I don’t see him.’

  ‘No, they aren’t here yet,’ Ian answered.

  ‘I think I’ve read everything he’s written,’ Roland went on. ‘Hopelessly inaccurate—his police procedure, you know—but such good reading. I can almost believe in the world he’s created, it’s so alive. I’ll be interested to see what he’s like.’

  But the next to arrive were not the Singleton brothers, but Eleanor Clancy. She was in a short, sleeveless dress of vivid green, which somehow made her look even bonier and gawkier than she had when Andrew had seen her last. She gave a little crow of pleasure on seeing Ian and Mollie, and clutched Mollie by the arm.

  ‘Oh, my dears, I’m so glad you’re here before me, because of course I don’t know a soul,’ she said, ‘and really I feel I’ve no right to be here. I mean, I only met Mr and Mrs Waldron that once in your house. Of course it was very interesting to meet them, very interesting. It was so strange recognizing her after all these years. But I still have a sort of feeling I’m imposing on them by coming. I very nearly changed my mind at the last minute and didn’t come. But then I’m so anxious to meet Luke again. I told you I used to know him slightly in the days before he got famous, didn’t I? I wonder if I’ll recognize him as I did Suzie—I mean Anna. I think I’m rather clever at recognizing people. Oh—there he is!’ As she broke off Brian Singleton came into the room, followed by another man.

  It struck Andrew that the brothers bore no resemblance to one another. Whereas Brian was tall and broad-shouldered, muscular and ruddy, Luke Singleton was several inches the shorter, slender, sharp-featured and pallid. He held himself with a rigid uprightness, almost as if he was on parade, and his face was bleakly expressionless. It gave no sign of the colourful and violent imagination thatmust churn within him. When Anna Waldron hurried to greet him he responded with a small smile and a stiff little bow that was almost Germanic. When Brian introduced him to the Davidges and Andrew, he repeated the bow, accepted a drink and then was led by Brian to meet other people.

  ‘You see, he didn’t know me!’ Eleanor exclaimed, but she said it almost as if this pleased her, rather than otherwise. She gave a little giggle. ‘But I’d have known him anywhere, although he’s really changed a great deal. He used to look much friendlier, and that stiff way of holding himself, as if he’d like you to think he’s in the army, that’s new. But I suppose he has to keep people at arm’s length or they’d trample all over him.
I believe in his way he’s really very shy—oh!’ She broke off again as Sam Waldron appeared in the doorway.

  He was wearing a long white apron and a cook’s white hat. As he appeared he clapped his hands, and at once there was silence in the room.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘may I have your attention for a moment?’

  He beamed at the company in the room.

  ‘First of all,’ he said, as the company waited, ‘I want to bid you welcome and to thank you for coming here tonight to help me indulge this whim of mine. It is my desire to give you the kind of meal that the people who lived in this house over two hundred years ago, but who I can’t pretend, as you know, were kin of mine, would have given you as a matter of course on a festive occasion. But you needn’t be frightened. I don’t want to chase you away by making you fear for your digestions. I am not going to give you the actual meal that they would have had, but I will read you a menu of such a meal, then tell you what items I have selected from it, I hope for your pleasure.’

  He paused for a moment, took a piece of paper from a pocket in his great white apron, and went on.

  ‘This was a dinner given by a bishop in his palace to twenty guests. You are about twenty this evening, I believe, but alas, I am no bishop and this is not a palace, and this is not the year 1783, but is near the end of the twentieth century. Had these things been otherwise, however, you would have had two dishes of prodigious fine stewed carp and tench, a fine haunch of venison, a fine turkey poult, partridges, pigeons and sweetmeats, followed by mulberries, melon, currants, peaches, nectarines and grapes. And do you know, as I read it now, that doesn’t seem such an outrageously great meal as it did when I read it first. All the same, I’m not about to inflict it on you. There are tench, caught in our own pond on the common, but no carp, and I hope, after the way in which I have cooked them you will not find they taste of mud. There is a fine haunch of venison. Anna and I brought it back with us from Scotland, and it has been marinading in red wine with herbs and garlic for two days. I hope you will enjoy it. Then there are partridges and pigeons if you can face them, but I have omitted the turkey, and for sweetmeats I have made raspberry tarts, as these seem to have been a particular favourite of our friend Woodforde. For dessert I have omitted the melon and currants, but am proud that I managed to obtain some mulberries. And of course there are Madeira and red and white wines. I’m sorry that Anna and I will not be with you when you sit down to this meal, as we shall be needed in the kitchen, but we hope to join you for coffee. Two excellent ladies, the Bartlett sisters, will wait on you. Now please make your way to the dining-room.’