The Saint Valentine’s Day Murders

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Tony.’

  ‘Yes, of course. My guess is rather dolled-up. There must be some reason why he’s so preoccupied with money.’

  ‘Right again. Gloria’s hairdo must have cost buckets—all streaks and elaborate curls. She was on my other side. Conversation: a three-piece suite she’s got her eye on; the job she’s sick of; Tony’s promotion chances. She’s sure he’s being pessimistic.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘No. He’s OK at this level, but he doesn’t have any of the qualities or qualifications that BCC want nowadays.’

  ‘Poor devil. Right. What’s his name?—Graham. The boring one. Presumably a dowdy wife.’

  ‘Nope. You’re fallible after all. Val’s quite a smart piece with a sharp tongue. Conversation: funny stories about the customers at the bar she works at in the evening—all malicious.’

  ‘Who’s left? Of course—Tiny. How could I forget him? No guesses this time except that his wife is probably a bit of all right.’

  ‘Fran’s not unattractive. But I really disliked her. Her main line in chat is mocking Tiny’s clumsiness.’

  ‘Did you meet Horace’s wife?’

  ‘Oh, yes—Rita. She’s lovely. Plump, sweet and terribly proud of Horace. Completely deluded about him, but that came as a relief after the others. They didn’t seem to have a civil word to say about their husbands. Oh, I forgot Charlie. He wasn’t at our table, of course, but I went over to pay my respects and have one of the more manageable dances with his wife. She seemed OK. Quite fun, really. But like all the rest, anti-husband. It was a bit late by then and she’d had a few—kept complaining that Charlie was a kill-joy. That seemed out of character, but sure enough, I caught sight of him looking at us anxiously.’

  ‘Maybe he’s ferociously jealous.’

  ‘Maybe. I doubt it, though. He knows about you. He was the one who warned me to stow the duty-free in my briefcase.’

  ‘Well, so far it sounds boring, but not deadly. What was the problem?’

  ‘Two things mainly. The social indignity of making a fool of myself on the dance floor, being bundled about by partners like Edna who really knew how to dance. Still, I didn’t mind that too much. It’s no harm to see the young master at a disadvantage. Good for marital relations. What shook me more was what I overheard of the women’s conversation.’

  ‘Complaining, you mean?’

  ‘The nature of the complaints. I’m used to hearing the blokes at it. You know the kind of thing. “Women are unreasonable.” “Women don’t know the value of money.” “The wife will kill me if I forget her birthday.” It’s almost a ritual: they stress their superiority and cement their macho relationship. They don’t often make individual complaints. But the women! As soon as any two of them got together they were off comparing husbands’ deficiencies.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, God. Let me think. Edna told Gloria that Henry didn’t seem to realize that she was a grandmother, but whatever he said, she wasn’t allowing any of THAT NONSENSE any more.’

  ‘That explains a lot about Henry.’

  ‘It sure does. And Gloria confided in return that Tony was as mean as hell and she—Edna—wouldn’t believe the fuss he had kicked up just because she bought a new pair of shoes for the dance.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Val said Graham seemed to think more of their daughter than of her and that she was properly fed up with it. Fran in return said she didn’t have that problem with Tiny because he was sterile.’

  ‘Christ!’

  Amiss was pleased to see her looking rattled.

  ‘How did you hear so much?’

  ‘I was left at the table a lot of the time while various husbands tripped the light fantastic. And I moved my place several times and listened in. You know I’m insatiably curious about all of them.’

  ‘It’s bad enough that they talk to each other about these things. How could they do it within your earshot?’

  ‘Oh, I expect they didn’t realize I could hear. I was actually having a conversation with someone else and just keeping an ear open.’

  ‘Don’t take it too seriously, Robert. Now that I think of it, I once worked in a typing pool and it was the same story. Long descriptions of their husbands’ failings in bed, their disgusting eating habits—everything. It comes of general discontent.’

  ‘Maybe I’m a romantic. But not one of the couples at my table seemed to be happy. It’s worrying. All these guys are bitterly disappointed by what’s happened to their careers. If they haven’t got anything at home to look forward to either, what have they got? And despite Shipton’s injunction, I can’t help thinking about that Twillerton business. And the anonymous letter about Tiny. Maybe most of them accept their lot, but one of them is turning nasty. It frightens me.’

  ‘We’ll talk it through tomorrow,’ said Rachel abruptly, signalling for the bill. ‘I think you’re getting it out of perspective. I meant what I said about your sheltered life. At least I worked in grotty places during my vacations. You swanned off on VSO. That didn’t equip you to understand how the failures survive in our society. Now let’s go home to bed.’

  ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all evening. Just promise not to tell the embassy women all about it on Monday.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday, 14 February

  All through the weekend Amiss had dithered about whether to send Rachel flowers for St Valentine’s Day. Well, why not? He loved her, didn’t he? But wouldn’t she think it suburban sentimentality? Well, why shouldn’t he be sentimental if he wanted to be? But would she laugh at him? Or be touched by the gesture? But she was always playing down the romantic side of their relationship. But was that because she thought that was the way he wanted it? How did he want it anyway? Why were they both so frightened of talking about love? Because they’d both been hurt before? Or because they weren’t properly in love? Or because neither of them was prepared to be first one to mention the word?

  The dilemma was still unresolved on Monday as he sat leafing through The Times over breakfast. The page of St Valentine’s messages finally decided him. If Times readers could address each other unblushingly as ‘Tweety-bum’ and ‘Woozle-face’, he didn’t see why he shouldn’t join in the general spirit of the thing. Live dangerously. He’d been turned sour by the coarseness of Tiny’s comments on the festival and the moanings from Henry and Tony about having to waste good money on outsize velvet hearts.

  He swallowed the last of his cereal hastily and grabbed his coat. What an idiot he’d been to leave it so late. Now he’d have hell’s delight finding a shop near the office that could cope with getting flowers delivered to the Paris embassy before the end of the day.

  He reached the office fifteen minutes late and was instantly dragged into Horace’s command module for an interminable meeting about the pros and cons of holding another PD seminar. He didn’t have the heart to condemn the idea out of hand, but he did manage to persuade Horace that it would be better to forget about it for a few months until memories of the last one had finally been erased. He hoped Horace wouldn’t notice that he had a vested interest in its being postponed until he quit the BCC in May.

  The rest of his day was routine: a mixture of tedious paperwork and coming the heavy with difficult suppliers, with enough time over to write a long letter to his parents.

  Tiny poked his head through his door at two o’clock. ‘I’m off to the dentist now, Robert. See you tomorrow.’

  Amiss made noises indicative of fellow-feeling and returned to work. It was very pleasing that Tiny was so friendly now. Even the others were loosening up with him gradually. He wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up quite sorry to see him leave. He couldn’t say he’d really be sorry himself. He couldn’t go on doing pointless work for ever. But he’d certainly become almost attached to his staff by now. The glimpse of their domestic sufferings had excited his compassion. He was even doing quite well with Melissa since he’d stopped goading her
and had admitted to having read some feminist literature. That reminded him to return to her the book she’d just lent him about the treatment of women in pornography.

  He called her in and managed to talk about the book without acknowledging that he thought its author had gone right over the top into paranoia. Melissa took it and smiled at him. She was clearly pleased with his progress.

  ‘Would you like to borrow Dale Spender’s analysis of sexism in language?’

  He groaned inwardly. Trying to build bridges with Melissa was a taxing business. He certainly did not want to borrow Ms Spender’s book, but there was no getting out of it. ‘Oh, thanks. I read a few reviews of it and it sounded really interesting.’

  ‘Good. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.’

  She got up to leave. A thought occurred to him. ‘How do you view St Valentine’s Day, Melissa? I mean ideologically.’

  ‘Well, of course it’s a real rip-off. But I don’t object to it in principle. In fact, I sent someone a card myself.’

  Amiss nearly asked if he’d sent her one and remembered just in time that in this case Dale Spender would have been justified in rapping him over the knuckles for insensitivity in the choice of the male pronoun. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say ‘she’ so he compromised. ‘Did you get one in return?’

  ‘No. But I did get a box of chocolates this morning.’

  ‘That’s nice. I even sent a present to someone myself.’

  She smiled tolerantly and withdrew. She didn’t seem to mind heterosexuals any more. Maybe she was in love herself and was feeling more secure.

  He was held up by Horace, who had had a new thought about seminars, and didn’t manage to leave the office until half past five. He hurried home, nursing a hope that Rachel might ring him soon and indicate that he hadn’t gone too far by sending with the roses a message saying ‘I love you’. He’d stay at home for the evening in case she phoned. He had nothing better to do anyway and he had a promising-looking thriller to read.

  As he walked into his living room, the phone was ringing. Already? That flower-shop assistant was more efficient than she looked. He ran across to it, trying to quell his nerves.

  ‘Hello. Robert Amiss.’

  It wasn’t Rachel. It was a voice he couldn’t recognize, even though its owner was saying ‘It’s Tiny.’ Good Lord. What had the bloody dentist done to the poor fellow? He sounded as if he was choking.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Robert. I’m just ringing to say I won’t be in for a while.’

  This was unprecedented. Even thought they all had each other’s private numbers, no one ever phoned a colleague at home. It would have been regarded as a frightful breach of etiquette. Amiss was puzzled, but he said encouragingly, ‘Thanks very much for letting me know. Nothing much wrong, I hope. Is it your teeth?’

  ‘No. It isn’t my teeth.’

  Amiss was seriously worried by now. Tiny sounded as if he was crying. ‘What is it, Tiny?’

  ‘It’s Fran…’

  ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Dead! My God. What happened? Did she have an accident?’

  ‘I came home,’ said Tiny tonelessly. ‘She was lying on the floor of the lounge. I thought she’d fainted. When I tried to prop her up she was rigid. Then I realized she was dead.’

  ‘But what had happened, for God’s sake?’

  ‘The police think she ate a poisoned chocolate.’

  Amiss was gabbling incoherent sympathies when his mind made the connection. He set his teeth. ‘I’m sorry, Tiny. It’s awful to have to ask you this, but I must know. Where did she get the chocolates?’

  ‘They came by post this morning.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, Tiny. I’m really desperately sorry, but I can’t talk any more. I don’t think she’s the only one. I’ve got to make a phone-call. Have you someone with you?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.’

  Amiss felt wretched as he rang off, but then panic began to take over. He rushed to his desk and scrabbled for his list of PD numbers. Oh God. It had to be a coincidence, didn’t it? If it wasn’t…? As he dialled Melissa’s number frantically another fear struck him almost speechless. He could hardly identify himself to her when she answered, despite relief that she was alive.

  ‘Those chocolates. Have you eaten any?’

  ‘No. I’m saving them for after dinner.’

  ‘Don’t eat any. Whatever you do, don’t eat any. I haven’t time to explain. I’ve got to phone the police.’

  He slammed the receiver down and picked it up again almost immediately. No dialling tone. Oh God. Oh God. He jiggled the buttons feverishly until he got a line. As he dialled 999 he was trying to think of some way of explaining this sensibly. He almost screamed with impatience at the time the operator took to answer and put him through to Scotland Yard.

  The policeman was soothing. Amiss realized he must sound like a madman. His frustration made him shout. ‘I haven’t got time to tell you why I think these women are in danger. You’ve got to get people ringing them now.’

  ‘Of course, sir. But you must give me some more details first. You haven’t even said who you are.’

  Amiss’s training reasserted itself. Pull strings, that was the thing to do. ‘I’m Robert Amiss. Detective Superintendent James Milton of the Murder Squad will vouch for me. Now will you please take these telephone numbers and get to work.’

  Milton’s name had the effect he had hoped. The man became imbued with his sense of urgency and took down names and numbers in double quick time.

  ‘And all you’ve got to say is if they got any chocolates through the post they mustn’t touch them.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Now your number, please. We’ll be in touch with you again shortly.’

  Amiss rang off. Now what could he do? Start ringing himself? It would be a few minutes before the police could organize enough people to get on to all those in danger. Who should he start with? He couldn’t make life and death decisions himself. He’d just work down the list.

  Shipton: on answer.

  Horace’s wife was bewildered by his call. ‘No, Robert. I haven’t had any chocolates. What is all this about?’

  ‘Can’t tell you now. I’ll explain later.’

  No chocolates. Was all this a figment of his overstrained imagination? Please God it was. But if it wasn’t? He’d concentrate on his own staff. Henry was next on the list. No answer. He wouldn’t be home yet, but where was his wife? Out of the house or dead?

  Tony: no answer.

  Graham: same again. Would no one answer him? Only Bill left. But he doesn’t have a wife. What has that to do with it? Why should this be directed only against women?

  To his relief, Bill answered. Amiss had time now to speak at greater length. By now the Yard would have taken over.

  ‘No. I haven’t had any. It’s dreadful about Tiny’s wife, Robert.’

  ‘We must just pray that she’s the only one, Bill.’

  ‘Of course. If there’s anything I can do…?’

  ‘There’s nothing any of us can do except wait.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ said Bill automatically. He sounded as stunned as Amiss had been.

  ‘Yes. See you tomorrow, Bill. Goodbye.’

  He put the receiver back and gazed at the phone, willing it to ring with the news that he had been jumping to wild conclusions. Within a couple of minutes it began to ring. He snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Your line’s been busy. I rang to thank you for…’

  ‘Oh God, darling. Something awful’s happened.’

  She listened as he poured out the story and then cut in. ‘I’m coming over. You’re not fit to be on your own. Stay put and I’ll be with you as quickly as I can. I love you, darling. Try to be calm.’

  As she rang off, Amiss had a moment of bitterness at the thought that the words he’d been waiting for her to say should come at such a ghastly moment. What could he do now? Should he try
any of the numbers again? No. Keep out of it.

  When Milton got through a couple of minutes later, Amiss had slumped exhausted into a chair and taken a large slug of neat whisky.

  ‘What’s the news? Are they all all right?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Robert. Brace yourself. One of Tony Farson’s children is dead.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ asked Amiss dully.

  ‘We don’t know yet. All those we got through to hadn’t received chocolates. The local police are sending cars to the other houses. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s any more news.’

  ‘Melissa’s all right. And Bill. It’s only Graham and Henry’s wives now. Or their children.’ He could hear the unsteady note in his own voice.

  ‘Have you anyone with you?’ asked Milton sharply.

  ‘No. Well, not at the moment. Someone’s coming later on.’

  ‘You can’t be alone. Ann’s already on her way. Just hang on till she arrives. I’ll be over when I can.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim. But don’t worry about me. Worry about the others.’

  ‘I am,’ said Milton grimly, and rang off.

  ***

  Rachel had made good time, but it was still almost ten o’clock before she rang the doorbell of Amiss’s flat. It was answered by a dark-haired woman with a haggard face.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re here. I haven’t known what to do with him. He’s in a terrible state. Just drinking and crying.’

  ‘So it’s not just Tiny’s wife, is it?’

  ‘No. Tony Farson’s son and Henry Crump’s wife. That was bad enough, but we’ve just had another call to tell us…’

  Rachel was already through the door of the living room. She flung herself beside Amiss, who clung to her in misery and despair.

  ‘Did Ann tell you? Charlie too. And it’s all my fault. I never thought of him.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tuesday, 15 February

  The alarm went at 7:15. Rachel snapped it off and looked anxiously at Amiss. Reassured by his complete immobility, she lay and contemplated her first job of the day. Unable in conscience to delay it any further, she climbed out of bed, found a dressing gown and went into the living room to hunt for his parents’ telephone number. She blessed his poor memory when she found it written in the address book that lay beside the telephone.