Fault in the Structure mb-52

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘I have no vacancies,’ she said, ‘but your card hardly suggests that you need one. The Home Office? Are you connected with the police force? If so, I am going to complain to my Member of Parliament. I really must protest about being badgered in this way.’

  ‘I am not a member of the police force, neither have I any intention of badgering you, Mrs Breaston. Did you know that Mr Lawrence has been sent to prison for dangerous driving?’

  ‘I have no wish to hear Mr Lawrence’s name spoken.’

  ‘I suppose he did leave you rather suddenly. Was he up-to-date with his rent?’

  ‘I have no complaints about that. Perhaps we had better go into my sitting-room. The servants are all ears.’ She led the way along the hall and opened a door. The room was papered in a gloomy shade of red which (thought Laura) would have been handy for covering up bloodstains. The curtains were red and so was the carpet, and such light as penetrated to the room came in through the slats of a Venetian blind. ‘Please be seated,’ the landlady continued. ‘Now what is your business here?’

  ‘If Mr Lawrence’s name is not to be mentioned, I can hardly answer that question.’

  ‘You say Mr Lawrence is in prison?’

  ‘Yes, for drunken driving and for insulting the judge.’

  ‘That astonishes me. I would not have thought he had the courage for either misdemeanour.’

  ‘Did you ever hear him mention a woman named Coralie St Malo?’

  ‘She sounds like an adventuress,’ commented Mrs Breaston remaining within the period which she and her sitting-room so ably represented.

  ‘She’s on the concert-party stage. At present she is playing in Blackpool.’

  ‘I know of no such person.’

  ‘Did Mr Lawrence have any women visitors while he was with you?’

  ‘He gave extra coaching to one or two of the female students, but one could hardly call them women visitors and, of course, I saw to it that they left at a reasonable hour. Supper here is at nine. They were always out of this house before that. What is more, if only one young woman at a time was involved, I sat in the room while the tutoring was going on. I thought it only right.’

  ‘I see. Had you any idea that Mr Lawrence was not going to renew his tenancy after the end of the summer term?’

  ‘Mr Lawrence was under notice to go.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I discovered that he was having improper relations with one of my maids.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’

  ‘Of course that sealed his fate – and hers.’

  ‘I suppose so – yes. You can be certain that he was here…’

  ‘As I have already told the police, Mr Lawrence left this house on May twenty-fourth, having no more lectures to deliver, although it was not, strictly speaking, the end of the term, and he returned here, by my permission, in order to collect the rest of his possessions and work out his notice. I have not seen him since and have no wish to set eyes on him again.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose you will, Mrs Breaston. He has been given a two-year prison sentence. Now, those last nights after his return, he was in this house all the time, I suppose?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘May I ask how you can be so sure?’

  ‘I kept my eye on him every day and my ears open.’

  ‘Can you be certain he did not slip out at night?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the landlady grimly, ‘that I can. I trusted him so little that I had all his possessions moved into the room next to mine. Since you appear to have official standing, I will show you how I can be certain he did not leave my house. Not that I should have been concerned about that. It was his morals inside my house which concerned me.’

  She led the way majestically from the room and up the well-carpeted stairs. She unlocked a door on the landing.

  ‘This is your bedroom, I take it,’ said Laura, looking around.

  ‘That is so.’ The landlady traversed the room and opened a door which communicated with it. ‘And this is where I put Mr Lawrence with the door between us securely bolted on my side of it. You will notice that there is no other method of egress from this room. I always dressed early, tidied my room and then unbolted the communicating door.’

  Laura walked over to what had been Lawrence’s bedroom window during his last short stay in the house, a stay which, according to the medical evidence, must have covered the period during which the murder of Mrs Lawrence had taken place. There was a sheer drop of more than thirty feet on to a stone courtyard. ‘He could have buried the body but not committed the murder,’ thought Laura.

  ‘I am sorry, but not surprised, that you had your journey for nothing,’ said Dame Beatrice.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t quite for nothing, because I’ve satisfied myself that Lawrence must be in the clear so far as the actual murder of Mrs Lawrence is concerned. We know he went to Wayneflete College, where Sir Ferdinand spoke to him about the money that was embezzled, and Mrs Lawrence certainly wasn’t killed while he was there.’

  ‘No. The session at her university was not over, so she certainly would have been missed if she hadn’t turned up at Abbesses College during the last few days of term.’

  ‘Then we know that Lawrence spent a week with Sir Anthony in Norfolk. His alibi is clear for that time, too, and also for the five days which followed, for these included all the arrangements for Sir Anthony’s funeral and also the funeral itself. Still, according to Miss Runmede’s evidence, Lawrence may be covered for his wife’s murder, but he isn’t cleared of that business of the sack and the cloister garth. That means he had guilty knowledge of the murder, even if he didn’t commit it. For long enough we have been agreed upon that.’

  ‘Coralie St Malo?’ said Chief Superintendent Nicholl who, having cleared up his bank robbery, was now pursuing what he thought was a dead end. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Mrs Gavin. We’ve nothing on her at all. There’s no motive and we haven’t found the murder weapon. It’s buried deep in the river mud, we reckon. Except that it was probably a cut-throat razor, or so Forensic tell us, we know nothing about it, although, of course, we’re still making enquiries. If it was a cut-throat razor it must have been somebody’s family heirloom. Nobody buys such things nowadays, so there’s no point in trying the shops, although, of course, we’ve had a go.’

  ‘Coralie could have had opportunity, though,’ urged Laura. ‘She could have been in the neighbourhood at about the time of the murder.’

  ‘She met Lawrence in that pub before the murder was committed, and that’s all we know, Mrs Gavin. But we’ll keep the tabs on her, of course. All the same, this wasn’t a woman’s crime.’

  ‘Clytemnestra did in Agamemnon with an axe; Lizzie Borden finished off her parents, ditto; Constance Kent was accused of cutting her little brother’s throat, Procne killed and cooked her son…’

  ‘All very mythical, Mrs Gavin. Nobody knows whether it was Lizzie Borden or not. As for Constance Kent, there’s never been any doubt in my mind that it was the father who cut the child’s throat. After all, he’d slept with the nursemaid in the same room as the little boy. It only needed for the kid to wake up and start asking awkward questions. Constance was at the self-sacrificing age and so decided to carry the can. That’s my reading of it.’ He looked at Dame Beatrice for confirmation of this view. ‘You know all about psychology, ma’am. What’s your view about Constance Kent?’

  ‘She may have wished her half-brother dead,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘and that, in a neurotic adolescent, may have induced a feeling of guilt for which she felt expiation was appropriate.’

  ‘Well, what about Coralie St Malo?’ persisted Laura. ‘According to the description Dame Beatrice gave me, she was big enough and strong enough to have done the deed, yes, and tough enough, too, and probably insanely jealous, into the bargain.’

  ‘We shall be pursuing our enquiries, Mrs Gavin,’ said Nicholl, soothingly.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Laura, when she and Dame Beatrice were alo
ne again.

  ‘I think Lawrence and Miss St Malo might be well advised to re-marry,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘unless Miss St Malo joins a concert party ready and willing to go to South America and stay there.’

  ‘In other words, those of the scoundrel Peachum to the scoundrel Lockit, Lawrence and Coralie are in the position, you think, of having to admit; unless they marry again, “You know we have it in our power to hang each other.” And that’s about the size of it, so far as culpability is concerned. Coralie did the dirty work and Lawrence buried the body. I suppose it was a case of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth.’

  ‘It was Macbeth who wielded the dagger, if you remember. The play is not an analogy for the murder of Mrs Lawrence.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So, between them, Lawrence and Miss St Malo were responsible for Mrs Lawrence’s death and burial, but I do not think that will ever be proved.’

  As though to confirm this prophecy, the spy who had trailed Coralie and Lawrence to the Bicester road public house was found dead in a ditch “with twenty trenched gashes on his head”, the result, the police concluded, of a brawl. His assailants were never brought to book.

  PART THREE

  Cracks in the Plaster

  CHAPTER 12

  « ^ »

  Training their own minds and the minds of others.

  … Keenly alert in disputation.

  The annual general meeting of the Chardle and district amateur dramatic, operatic and literary society was winding down to its close, or so some of the more restless and impatient members hoped.

  The minutes of the last annual general meeting had been read, agreed and signed, reports had been given by the secretary, the treasurer and the entertainments secretary, the balance sheet had been approved, the re-election of the president (who was chairman of the meeting), the secretary and the treasurer, had been confirmed with acclamation (since nobody wanted their jobs), the entertainments’ secretary and two members of the committee had resigned and had been replaced, and several attempts on the part of the frivolous-minded and the tedious members (the society was made up in about equal parts of both) to enter into side-issues had been repressed with admirable firmness by the chairman, so at last the final item on the agenda had been reached.

  ‘Any other business?’ asked the chairman. He was a florid man of fifty-five with the fleshy, petulant face of an eighteenth-century landowner and somewhat shifty grey eyes. In point of fact, he was a landowner of sorts, for he had been a prosperous local builder and had amassed a small fortune before land became too difficult or too expensive to acquire. Having purchased his own plot, however, some years previously, he had disposed of his business, built himself an impressive residence on the outskirts of the town and had become chairman of the local council as well as president of the dramatic and operatic society whose annual general meeting he was now itching to declare closed. He had a masonic dinner to attend that evening and he wanted to get home and change his clothes.

  As he uttered the words ‘Any other business’ he gave a quick and apprehensive half-glance at Clarice Blaine, the new entertainments’ secretary. He had known occasions when, under her guidance, ‘Any other business’ had aroused worse passions, had led to more acrimonious arguments and had wasted more time than any other three items put together.

  As though his half-glance had been a challenge, Mrs Blaine responded to it immediately. She was the elder of the two married women present, a plump, self-assertive busybody of forty-five, self-appointed leader of the local Ladies’ Guild, terror of the minister whose chapel she attended and the bête noire of the dramatic society and especially of its president and chairman, Hamilton Haynings. She, like himself, was on the town council and had managed to project herself on to three of its sub-committees. It was well-known that she was working hard to have Chardle recognised as a borough, and of this borough she intended to be the first mayor.

  ‘Of course there is other business, Hamilton,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m surprised it was not listed under its title when Cyril sent round the agenda.’ She looked accusingly at the handsome secretary. ‘There is the Caxton Festival to discuss.’

  ‘I thought your Ladies’ Guild had that in hand,’ said the treasurer, a meek man named Ernest Farrow, nervously taking off his glasses.

  ‘Oh, the Guild are putting on a pageant, of course,’ said Clarice, ‘but surely the Dramatic Society ought to perform a Festival play? I quite thought members would come to this meeting positively bursting with suggestions.’

  ‘We decided upon our next production weeks ago,’ said Rodney Crashaw, who had been given the leading part in it. ‘We’re committed to Othello. I’ve already learnt half my lines. You can’t change the play now.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we’ll do Othello, of course,’ said Mrs Blaine, ‘but that can come later. It is hardly what I call a Festival piece. We need something cheerful.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more!’ said Melanie Cardew, who felt that, with her histrionic ability, which, for an amateur, was considerable, she should have been given the part of Desdemona, but who had been fobbed off (as she expressed it) with Bianca, mistress to Cassio, in favour of a younger, prettier Desdemona. ‘Of course we must take part in the Festival. What about doing Blithe Spirit?’ (Mentally she cast herself as Elvira.)

  ‘Not possible,’ said a young man who was responsible for the lighting and stage effects. ‘The effects for that are a pro. job. We’d never be able to pull off all the ghost stuff and the rest of it. It’s out of the question.’

  ‘What about…?’ began another voice. The chairman rapped on his table.

  ‘Please, please!’ he said. ‘This is not the time. The secretary will convene another meeting if members want to put on a special play for the Caxton Festival. Will someone propose? – Thank you. Seconded? – Thank you. Those in favour of a Festival play? Carried. I declare the meeting closed.’ He glanced at his watch and hurriedly gathered up his papers. ‘The secretary will convene a special meeting.’

  The special meeting took place at the end of a fortnight, during which time there was much private canvassing, especially on the part of the women members, most of whom had a favourite part (the leading one, of course) for which she fancied her talents fitted her. Nobody was anxious to boost a rival’s claims, however, and no agreement had been reached. The members, armed with arguments and scripts, assembled in the school classroom which had been booked for the meeting and there was an air of uneasiness mixed with hostility abroad.

  The gathering was a smaller one than the annual general meeting. The president, the secretary, the treasurer and Mrs Blaine were present and so were those members who thought they stood any chance of a part in the Festival production. So also were Laura Gavin and another recently joined member, a lecturer in music and drama at the Chardle College of Education. His name was Denbigh and he had been invited – in fact, almost begged – to join the society, and had decided to do so.

  Cyril Wincott, the secretary, was a rising young schoolmaster who had set his sights on a lectureship at the College and thought that a friend at court would be an advantage. The treasurer, Ernest Farrow, was equally anxious to take advantage of Denbigh’s membership, but for a different reason. Ever mindful of the society’s finances, he thought that perhaps Denbigh could see to it that a rehearsal room at the College would be placed, free of charge, at the disposal of the society in place of the school classroom for meetings and the school hall and stage for rehearsals, where both room and hall had to be rented.

  Laura, who was almost as new a member as Denbigh himself, did not anticipate that she would be offered a part. She had come to enjoy the fun when the fighting started and the vested interests began to clash. Denbigh was there because, although he had brought no script, he was prepared with a suggestion if it should be called for.

  Clarice Blaine, in her new capacity as entertainments’ secretary, made a spirited bid to take charge of the proceedings.

  ‘Well,’ she said gail
y, ‘if everybody will take a seat, we can get on without wasting time. I think Hamilton is ready to open the meeting. There seem to be a good many books and scripts in evidence, so that means plenty of suggestions, I hope, for the Festival play. Of course, the subject matter must not compete with my ideas for the Guild pageant, but I shall be able to put the brake on there, as the Guild plans are almost complete. Now, Hamilton, I think we are all ready to begin.’

  ‘Thank you, Clarice,’ said Hamilton Haynings angrily. ‘Well, I am open to – I mean, I declare the meeting open for any suggestions. First of all, we have to decide whether we are to do a Festival play at all. Most of you seemed to be in favour, but some may have changed their minds.’

  ‘Of course we’re going to do a Festival play,’ said Melanie Cardew, that haggard, intense spinster of twenty-nine. She received a chorus of support from the women members. The men were less enthusiastic.

  ‘I thought I’d mentioned at the last meeting that we’d settled on our next production,’ said Rodney Crashaw. ‘I repeat that we have settled upon Othello and that I’ve already learnt half my lines. Why go back on our arrangements?’

  ‘I never agreed with Othello,’ said Melanie, still sore that she had not been offered the part of Desdemona, although this was for reasons obvious to everybody except herself.

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Stella Walker, a dark-haired, pretty, witless girl of twenty. ‘Look what a frost Hedda Gabler was! The classics are all very well, I suppose, but you don’t want to overdo them just because royalties don’t have to be paid.’

  ‘If you had to manage the finances of this society,’ began Ernest Farrow.

  ‘Please, please!’ said the chairman.

  ‘I agree,’ said Sybil Gartner, who was studying to become a professional singer. ‘Othello was a mistake. It isn’t a play for amateurs, any more than Hedda, and Hedda was a complete mess. Why can’t we do a musical?’