Six Feet Under

by Dorothy Simpson

  And yet, he thought once more, there was that money.…

  Perhaps it was time for a change of tactics. Perhaps he ought to stop pussy-footing around and try a little bull-dozing instead. But he’d never found that that sort of approach worked for him. He had always found patience and subtlety infinitely more effective. Perhaps he had just been too busy, had not given himself sufficient time to absorb, think, weigh.… A leisurely talk with old Pitman was what he needed. The man was no fool and Thanet was convinced that there was a great deal yet to be learned from him about his unlovable former pupil. Poor Carrie. After such a life, to have met such an end …

  Thanet frowned, remembering his certainty, the previous evening in her bedroom, that there was something he had failed to do. What was it? He still hadn’t pinned it down but it was very near the surface now. He could feel it hovering there, on the very fringe of his awareness.

  As he turned into Nettleton he made up his mind. Before seeing Robert Pitman he would go and take one more look at Carrie’s room.

  He was suddenly convinced that it had not yet yielded up all its secrets.

  10

  There were no chairs in Carrie’s room so Thanet took off his dripping raincoat, hung it on the end of the curtain rail, and perched on the bed. The wan, grey light filtering through the half-net curtains did nothing to enhance the dismal little room; The hands of the old alarm clock still stood at twelve fifteen and indeed time itself seemed to have stopped here. The very air of the place seemed as devoid of life as its former occupant.

  Thanet sat with shoulders slumped and hands clasped between parted knees and gazed aimlessly about him. The sense of urgency which he had experienced in the car, the impetus which had sent him hurrying up the narrow staircase, had dissipated the moment he had stepped into the room. He must have been crazy to expect otherwise. He and Lineham had searched the place thoroughly enough the first time, after all. And yet … this had been Carrie’s own domain, the one tiny corner of the whole world in which she could have been assured of complete privacy. Even her mother had not been able to penetrate up here: those steep, narrow stairs had been as effective as a drawbridge. Once up here, had Carrie really been satisfied with nothing more than a cupboard full of cheap romantic fiction?

  And why not? he asked himself impatiently. Having so little in her life outside this room, why should she not have been contented with very little more inside it?

  Thanet stood up and began to pace restlessly about in the narrow corridor of space between the bed and the window. The point was, Carrie had got herself murdered. He didn’t, couldn’t believe that hooligans had killed her and therefore there must have been something about her, something in her character, knowledge, habits, behaviour, that set her apart, something that had ultimately provoked that final act of violence.

  Surely it was therefore not unreasonable to expect to find traces of that something here, in the only place which had been truly hers?

  Unnoticed by Thanet his cracked and slightly distorted reflection advanced and receded in the mirror of tiles as he passed to and fro, scowling down at the worn brown linoleum with its herringbone pattern of imitation wood blocks. Absorbed in his thoughts as he was it took some time for him to register that one small area of this shabby flooring seemed more scuffed than the rest of it. At once he stopped. Why should that be? Enlightenment came swiftly. The spot was about eight feet from the tile mirror. Here Carrie must have stood whenever she wished to study her full-length reflection.

  Thanet frowned. A Carrie who lingered to admire herself in the mirror did not fit the image of the Carrie he had seen. She had looked to be the sort of woman who would use a mirror only in the most cursory fashion, to check quickly on over-all neatness.

  A Thanet neatly divided into squares advanced to meet him as he approached the mirror. He had seen these tiles in the shops. Six inches square, with a self-adhesive backing, they were a quick and easy way for an amateur to achieve the effect of a full-length mirror. Also, of course, they were both small and portable. If Carrie had wanted to install a long mirror up here without her mother knowing, then they would have provided her with the perfect solution. Smuggling them up a few at a time would have presented no difficulty. She had made a good job of sticking them up, too, Thanet conceded. He ran his fingers over the satin-smooth surface. If only mirrors could talk, he thought fancifully, what tales they would have to tell.…

  He swung away, impatient with himself. The question was, why should it have been important to dessicated little Carrie Birch to have a full-length mirror on the wall of her bedroom? Thanet squatted to look more closely at the worn patch on the linoleum. It was roughly circular, and within there were a number of tiny indentations. Thanet’s eyes opened wide in astonishment as understanding came.

  Carrie Birch in high heels?

  A sudden, vivid image of Carrie’s feet in their sensible black lace-up shoes flashed into Thanet’s mind and sent him hurrying across to the curtain behind which Carrie had kept her clothes. He drew it aside, stared down at the floor, where Carrie’s shoes were lined up neatly: cheap, sensible and low-heeled, every one.

  Perhaps the marks on the floor dated from long ago? Perhaps Carrie had once been young and glamorous, high heels her normal foot-wear? Thanet shook his head. It was possible, of course, but he couldn’t somehow believe it—though it was certainly more credible than that Carrie should have worn them recently. He went back to the worn patch, squatted once more and ran his fingers over the crescent-shaped depressions like a blind man reading Braille. He pursed his lips. Comparatively recent, he would say.

  Thanet stood up abruptly, wincing as he did so. At incautious moments like this the spectre of his former back trouble tended to raise its ugly head. Testingly he eased his pelvis this way and that, gave a sigh of relief. No harm done this time, it seemed. He looked about him once more. How could he and Lineham have missed something as distinctive as a pair of high-heeled shoes? Perhaps Carrie had got rid of them?

  His gaze travelled methodically around the room, lingering on each of the few items of furniture before quartering the walls. Then he turned his attention to the ceiling.

  His stomach gave a great lurch of excitement. There it was, so normal a feature of at least one room in every house that until now its presence had not registered: an oblong trapdoor set into the ceiling to provide access to the roof space.

  Surely he remembered seeing a step ladder leaning against the wall just inside the door of the back bedroom? Castigating himself for not having thought of the loft before, Thanet hurried across the landing and into the other bedroom. Yes, there was the ladder. He seized it, hastened back to Carrie’s room and set it up beneath the trapdoor. Climbing on to the third step he raised both arms and pushed. The door swung back easily. It was hinged on one side and Carrie—for who else could it have been?—had kept the hinges well oiled. Eagerly, he climbed two more steps.

  The bedroom ceiling was low and his head and shoulders were now projecting up into the roof space. Despite the gloom he saw at once the row of carrier bags ranged around the sides of the opening. Treasure trove indeed! One by one he seized them, eased them through the opening and lowered them to the floor. Behind the furthest one he found a tiny suitcase. Like a small boy prolonging the anticipation of a treat, he waited until he had removed them all before descending the ladder and carrying the first across to the bed.

  Each bag had been encased in a larger, plastic one, presumably as a protection against dust—though there was very little of that, he noted. He slid the inner bag clear of the outer one and peered inside. On top was something soft, black and silky and he pulled it out, his eyebrows climbing his forehead as he realised what it was.

  A woman’s slip made of black satin, trimmed with lace.…

  A matching pair of panties followed and then bra, suspender belt, sheer black stockings. Beneath this complete set of lingerie was another, in pale blue silk and then a third, in peach-coloured satin. Thanet laid
them all out neatly on the bed and stood staring at them for a moment before arranging them in three neat little piles and turning to the next bag.

  Dresses, this time. Day dresses, he supposed they would be called, all of them expensive, made of the highest-quality materials—wool, cashmere, crêpe and silk.

  Bag after bag yielded up its treasure: sweaters, blouses, skirts, evening dresses, suits, nightdresses and negligees, cocktail dresses. Finally, there was a bag of shoes, all of them made of the finest leather, shoes for every occasion: high-heeled sandals and court shoes, walking shoes (but how different from those in Carrie’s official wardrobe!) and even a pair of calf-length boots in soft grey suede.

  By now the bed was heaped with finery. Thanet stood looking at it, struggling to relate such luxurious elegance to the insignificant, unpretentious little woman who had been the public Carrie. He couldn’t ever recall feeling so truly astonished.

  He stepped back, as if distance could give him a better perspective on his discovery and almost tripped over the little suitcase, which he had left to last. Carrying it to the end of the bed, he cleared a small space in which to sit. Then he laid it across his knees and clicked open the locks.

  Make-up this time, the lot. This was a vanity case, with fitted compartments for everything. Thanet picked up one of the bottles: Elizabeth Arden.

  But the most interesting discovery was still to come. As he removed the tray Thanet saw human hair. He plunged his hand into its silkiness and lifted it out. A wig, blonde, short and softly curling. He shook his head in amazement, trying—and failing—to visualise Carrie wearing it.

  So she had had a complete disguise, an entire transformation kit for her fantasy persona. Had she been satisfied with dressing up behind closed doors, he wondered—or could she have, had she ventured forth into the outside world? Truly, the imagination boggled.

  Thanet tucked the wig back beneath the tray, snapped shut the lid and set the little case gently on the floor. He stood up and contemplated Carrie’s secret wardrobe once more. There must be hundreds of pounds’ worth of stuff on that bed—thousands, perhaps. He couldn’t wait to see Lineham’s face when he saw it.

  Well, Thanet thought as he made his way reflectively down the stairs and let himself out of the house, he had been looking for another dimension to Carrie’s character and he had certainly found one. The question was, how did it affect his thinking about the case? And where—where, and how—had she come by all that money?

  Engrossed in speculation, he was at the gate before he realised that old Miss Cox had, for once, emerged from her self-imposed isolation. She was sweeping the front path, or trying to; crutches under armpits, with the cat Tiger weaving around her feet. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up breaking the other leg, thought Thanet as he said good morning, offered to complete the job for her.

  “I’ve just finished, thank you,” she croaked in that rusty voice of hers. Then she just stood, not looking at him, not speaking, the cat rubbing against her legs, the steady rain slicking down her hair and dripping into the upturned collar of the old raincoat she was wearing. Clearly, she was expecting something.

  Thanet realised that she had probably been lying in wait for him, that she must have seen him go into the Birchs’ house and, despite the rain, had decided to sweep the path so that she should not miss him when he came out. No doubt she was longing to know what progress he had made. Her chosen isolation must be cold comfort at the moment, with an empty house next door, her leg in plaster and a murderer at large.

  But what reassurance could he give her? He certainly felt no nearer at the moment to discovering the identity of Carrie’s killer and even if he had he could not have divulged the information. However, the degree of pressure which her unspoken demand was making upon him was extraordinary. He could feel her willing him to speak and the intensity of her need both aroused his pity and stiffened his resistance. It was all too easy in a situation like this for compassion to lead to indiscretion.

  “You’re getting very wet, Miss Cox,” he said gently. “I should go in now, if I were you.”

  She gave him a quick, puzzled glance as if he had been speaking a foreign language and then, as he turned to leave she said, “Please …”

  He paused, reluctant yet unable to ignore her plea, raising his eyebrows in hypocritically polite incomprehension.

  “Please,” she said again. “Have you found out yet …?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet, no.”

  She stood staring at him, her eyes dark with fear, her lips working as if she were trying to bring herself to ask him some further question.

  Thanet waited and when she did not speak said firmly, “We shall, though, I promise you.”

  She let him go then, abruptly turning back towards the house, the cat running ahead of her and disappearing through the half-open door.

  Thanet hunched deeper into his raincoat and set off down the lane. So certain was he that she must be watching from her doorstep that in front of the Gambles’ house he turned, half-raised his hand in a farewell salute. But her door was shut. Perhaps she was standing at the window, invisible behind the net curtains.

  He shrugged and was about to continue on his way when he caught a flicker of movement in the front room of the Gambles’ house. Now who could that be? Mr Gamble, unable to sleep? Or one of the others, home from work for some reason?

  He set off up the path to the front door.

  It was Jenny Gamble who answered his knock, eyes watering and with a handkerchief to her nose.

  “Don’t come too close,” she said. “I’ve got a shocking cold.”

  “If I had a penny for every cold germ I’d met in the course of my work,” Thanet said with a grin, “I’d be a billionaire.”

  She opened the door wider. “Suit yourself,” she said.

  Once again the sitting room was suffocatingly hot. Jenny plumped down into the armchair next to the gas fire, which was on full blast, and blew her nose. “It came out overnight,” she grumbled.

  “It’s a streamer all right,” said Thanet. It made his eyes water just to look at her. All the same, he wasn’t going to allow sympathy to deflect him from his purpose. “Why didn’t you tell me your brother was going out with Susan Selby?” he said casually.

  She fell right into the trap. Her eyes flicked open wide with shock and she became very still. After a moment, “How d’you find out?” she said. “Did … it wasn’t Major Selby, was it?”

  Thanet shook his head.

  “Thank God for that,” she breathed. “Chris would’ve done his nut.”

  “Is that why you didn’t tell me last night? Because you were afraid Major Selby would find out?”

  She nodded. “It’s supposed to be a deadly secret.” Her eyes narrowed. “How did you find out? Susan didn’t tell you, surely?”

  “No. Never mind how, I just did. But that’s not the point. The point is, it’s dangerous not to be frank in a murder investigation. It could give us all sorts of odd ideas.”

  “Such as?” she said, warily.

  “That you didn’t want us to know because there was some connection with the murder.”

  “But that’s stupid!” she burst out. “How could Chris and Susan going out together have anything to do with … what happened?”

  “Well now, let me see,” said Thanet thoughtfully. “Say your brother was determined that at all costs Major Selby shouldn’t find out about him and Susan. Then say Miss Birch saw them together somewhere, threatened to tell …”

  He saw at once that she had remembered something which frightened her. She was staring at him aghast. “No,” she breathed and then, more vehemently, “No! You can’t believe that, surely! Chris just isn’t.… He’d never hurt a fly, let alone an old woman like Miss Birch. He couldn’t.…”

  “You’d be astounded if you knew how often we hear the families of young offenders say that.”

  “I don’t care what other people say! I know Chris and I just don’t believe
he could ever do a thing like that, no matter how desperate he was. Anyway,” she went on, as Thanet remained silent, “I’m not sure they’d mind all that much if Major Selby did find out.”

  “That wasn’t what you said two minutes ago,” Thanet said gently.

  Jenny sneezed rapidly four or five times in succession before blowing her nose and mopping at her streaming eyes. “I know,” she said at last. “But that’s because that’s what they say. They both act as though it’d be the end of the world, too, but I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Chris hates all this hole-in-the-corner business. He just falls in with it to please Susan, I know that. But Susan … I can’t really make her out.…” She stopped.

  Thanet waited in what he hoped was an encouraging silence.

  “I’d go mad if my dad carried on like hers,” Jenny said. “He’s a real pig. She mustn’t have any boyfriends, she’s not allowed to go to discos, she’s always got to be in by ten o’clock at night, and she always, always has to let her parents know exactly where she is at all times. I mean, you can understand her going behind their backs, can’t you? After all, she is seventeen! But I’ve sometimes wondered … I mean, she’s really something, Susan, isn’t she? Have you seen her?”

  Thanet nodded.

  “Then you’ll know what I mean. So, what I wonder is, why Chris? He’s my brother and I’m fond of him but let’s face it, he’s no oil painting and he’s not all that brilliant, either.”

  “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”

  “Well, just lately I’ve been wondering if she’s after some kind of show-down with her father. And she’s kind of using Chris. The way I see it is, if she does something awful—awful in her father’s eyes, like having a boyfriend who’s a motor mechanic—and her dad finds out, she might be able to wangle herself a bit more freedom.”

  “You mean she’d say, ‘I’ll give him up if you let me go to discos with my girlfriends’, that sort of thing, so he’ll feel he’s choosing the lesser of two evils?”