MOTIVE FOR
MURDER
Anthea Fraser
CHIVERS
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available
This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.
Published by arrangement with the Author
Epub ISBN 9781445830490
Copyright © 1996 by Anthea Fraser
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
This morning, my daughter came into the room holding a copy of Matthew’s book, Motive for Murder, and at once all the memories, faded over the years, came rushing back.
‘Wasn’t it through this book that you met Dad?’ she asked, as, taking it eagerly from her, I began to flick through the pages.
‘That’s right. Goodness, how formal it all was then – Mr this and Miss that.’
‘And presumably not a word processor in sight?’
‘Goodness no, this was bashed out on the old steam typewriter.’
Sophie perched on the arm of the sofa, looking at me curiously. ‘Didn’t you tell me once that there was some trouble while it was being written?’
I nodded, suddenly sober. ‘Three people died during the course of that book. In fact, the writing of it was as much a story as the book itself.’
‘Then why not write about that?’ Sophie suggested. ‘You know, “The Making of Motive for Murder.” Everyone does it nowadays, and people would be interested – it’s become a classic, after all.’
I looked across at her, startled. ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’
‘Why not? You say there’s a story in it.’
‘But it was so much a part of all our lives.’
‘An autobiography, then. Oh, go on, Mum! You said you’d be at a loose end when I go to university – here’s a way to fill in your time. And don’t try to update it – write it as it was then: formality, typewriter and all.’
I made another token protest, but the idea was taking root and, with it, a feeling of excitement. By going through it all from the beginning, perhaps I’d be able to glimpse the first, misty hints of what was to come; hints that were too obscure to notice at the time.
I went on flicking through the pages, the memories growing stronger. This was the chapter I typed after the swimming incident; this one while Kate was there. Long-forgotten incidents flickered at the back of my mind; I probably remembered more than I’d realized.
By supper time, I’d decided to give it a try. And I’ll dedicate whatever results to the shades of those no longer with us – and, of course, to my husband, who very definitely is.
CHAPTER ONE
The sun was just breaking through the early morning haze and it promised to be another long, hot day. Under the lofty ceilings of Paddington Station, however, the chill of dawn still lingered and I shivered in my thin dress, wrapping my coat more tightly about me.
‘Cold?’ Gilbert asked, turning from the booking office and handing me my ticket. His eyes were concerned.
I shook my head, and lifted my chin.
‘Emily – don’t go!’ He hadn’t put it into words before. He took my arm and led me briskly into the buffet. ‘We’ve time for a coffee,’ he insisted, as I hung back to glance anxiously up at the clock.
‘You don’t really want to go, do you?’ he said, when we were sitting looking at each other over the steaming cups, it’s just a question of pride now.’
‘Nonsense.’ I drew a long, steadying breath, it’s the chance of a lifetime!’
‘We don’t know anything about this chap,’ he went on frowningly, staring into his cup. ‘I can’t think why Father agreed to it – but you can always twist him round your finger.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘we know a lot about him.’ The coffee had warmed me and both my voice and my resolution were stronger, ‘item one:’ I ticked off on my fingers, ‘Matthew Haig is one of the country’s leading novelists. Item two: he needs a secretary for three months to help him with his latest book. Item three: he lives in Cornwall – which, incidentally, is a wonderful place to be in this kind of weather.’
‘Item four:’ Gilbert interrupted, ‘he’s been your ideal ever since you read his first book at school, and you won’t admit that when you actually met him, you didn’t like him. But it’s true, isn’t it?’
I was silent. It had always been the same; I’d been able to fool Mother and Father on occasion, but never Gil.
He reached over, his warm, strong hand on my wrist. ‘Please, Emily.’
I was surprised at the urgency in his voice. ‘Don’t fret, brother dear,’ I said lightly, ‘there’s a housekeeper, a nanny and a little girl, so I should be safe. I’m not going to be buried away alone with him – and even if I were, I should probably still be safe – the dislike appeared to be mutual.’
‘Then why did he engage you?’
‘Perhaps the others were no better,’ I suggested. ‘And he’s desperate for a secretary. Really, Gil, stop worrying. I’m a big girl now.’
But he didn’t smile as I’d expected. He said slowly, ‘I can’t put it into words, but I have a feeling of – oh, I don’t know. I’d just be much happier if you decided against going to Cornwall.’
I stared at him in amazement. Dear, down-to-earth Gilbert, with a feeling he ‘couldn’t put into words’. It was not like him to be fanciful.
The loudspeaker boomed, making us jump.
‘Heavens, come on! I’ll miss it!’ I stood up and for a moment longer he sat staring at me.
‘Then you won’t change your mind?’
‘Not a chance! Now come on, there’s a love, and see me off with good grace!’
The train was in when we arrived at the platform, and the late holiday crowds were streaming into it.
‘Lucky we reserved you a seat,’ Gilbert said.
He climbed ahead of me into the carriage and swung my case up on the rack. Then he handed me my magazine, kissed my cheek, and jumped back down on to the platform. ‘Emily, if there’s anything that worries you – anything at all – phone home and I’ll come straight down. Do you promise?’
‘What could possibly worry me? I’ll be fine, really.’
A whistle blew farther down the platform and there was the sound of slamming doors. The train shuddered, rocked, and started to inch forward.
‘Take care,’ Gilbert said, and I nodded reassuringly.
‘Goodbye!’
I waved out of the window till we rounded a bend and he was out of sight. Behind me, the compartment had filled, and my own place was the only empty one. I sat down and smoothed the pages of my magazine with fingers that shook a little. Strange, that Gilbert should be so much against my going to Cornwall, and Matthew Haig.
About me, my fellow travellers settled down for the long journey. I sat back, watching the dusty suburbs slide past with increasing speed, and my m
ind went back over the last few weeks to the advertisement that had appeared in the evening paper.
‘Writer in Cornwall requires residential secretary for three months. Mutually acceptable salary.’
It had been an airless, sweltering day in London and the dusty offices of Messrs Penshurst and Dacombe had never seemed so dull. I’d spent the best part of the day helping Marcia with a conveyance and I was thoroughly bored and dispirited.
‘Cornwall!’ I’d said to her on the train home. ‘That’s the place to work!’
‘Well, write after it then.’
I stared at her. ‘Shall I?’
‘Why not?’
Why not, indeed? Together we composed a crisp, efficient application, giving my typing and shorthand speeds. I sent it off the same evening and then, convinced I would hear no more, forgot it. A week later the typewritten note arrived. Matthew Haig would be grateful if Miss Emily Barton could attend for an interview at the Grafton Hotel on Tuesday next, 29th August.
Matthew Haig! I could hardly believe it. As Gilbert remarked, I’d been an avid reader of his books long before he became so widely acclaimed. Now, he was established as one of the foremost writers in the country, and it was he who wanted a secretary!
I made tentative enquiries at the office. My own boss was away in South America for three months and I was tired of whittling away the time by helping out the other girls. Would a leave of absence be feasible? I should be back in time for Mr Dacombe’s return after Christmas. The office manager hummed and haaed, consulted the partners, and finally vouchsafed the opinion that they could see no reason why I should not take a temporary job, provided I gave them a month’s notice if I decided against returning to them.
Seething with excitement, I presented myself at the Grafton, cool and, I hoped, efficient-looking in my grey linen dress. And there my elation dissolved.
Cool I may have been; Matthew Haig obviously was not. The heavy green curtains had been drawn across the window to keep out the sun, but the resulting airlessness struck me in the face like a blast from an oven.
The man at the table had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, but there were beads of perspiration on his forehead and his face was blotchy with the heat. A pile of cigarette stubs, some only half-smoked, filled the ashtray at his elbow, and an empty water-jug and glass stood beside it.
He did not look up as I entered, but waved vaguely in the direction of the chair in front of him. My self-confidence ebbed away, wilting in the oppressive heat. I sat down and waited. A fly buzzed aimlessly over the table, the whirr of its wings the only movement in the room. Matthew Haig turned over the page in front of him. He had still not raised his head. I began to wonder whether the message that he was ready for me had been a little previous. Cautiously I settled back in my chair and looked across the table.
I had seen his picture on the dust cover of his books, but the face in front of me was sterner, more rebellious than the facile photograph had shown. There were grooves from nose to mouth and tiny lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. Now, as he frowned down at the papers before him, the mouth was hard and unyielding. A strong face, I decided; attractive, but disillusioned.
‘Well, Miss Barton.’
My eyes lifted guiltily to his, as though he had been able to read my thoughts.
He was regarding me appraisingly. ‘Your shorthand and typing speeds seem adequate.’ He paused, apparently for my comment, but I could think of none. I’d been under the impression that my skills were more than ‘adequate’.
He leant back in his chair, studying me in his turn. ‘The position is this: I’m working on a book, and I need someone right away. Would you be able to start at once?’
Quite suddenly, I was not sure that I wanted to. The old-fashioned courtesy of Messrs Penshurst and Dacombe seemed all at once infinitely preferable to working for this man, who was abrupt to the point of rudeness.
‘Well?’
‘I – think so,’ I stammered, furious with myself.
‘Then perhaps you’d make up your mind. I’m anxious to get on with my work as soon as possible, but I can’t concentrate if my secretary is unsettled. If it would be too quiet for you at Touchstone, or you feel on reflection that you would not be suitable for the job, please say so now. There have already been – interruptions – in the course of this book.’
Put like that it was a challenge, as though he’d carelessly tossed the job at my feet and was not particularly interested in whether or not I accepted it.
I said a little stiffly, ‘I don’t mind the quiet, and I’m sure the work would be very interesting. I’ve read –’
‘You realize, of course, that it’s a residential position?’ he interrupted, ‘It’s no good thinking of taking lodgings in Chapelcombe, because I work irregular hours, often in the evenings, and Touchstone is some way out of the town. Of course –’ a flicker of sardonic amusement – ‘you will be suitably chaperoned. My daughter and her nurse live with me, as well as the housekeeper.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ I said, furiously conscious of my heightened colour. My father had made enquiries before allowing me to attend the interview.
He stared at me a moment longer, then he reached out and closed the file in front of him. ‘All right,’ he said.
I hesitated. ‘You’ll – let me know?’
‘The job is yours, if you think you can do it.’
‘I’m sure I can,’ I replied with dignity.
* * *
I moved restlessly. The sun which had been so constant a companion in London for the last month had given way, as we moved west, to a dull oppressiveness. The air thickened, and by the time we reached Cornwall about two o’clock, we were in the midst of a thick sea mist which blotted out everything. So much for the sunny south.
The last of the other people in the compartment had left the train at Plymouth; a browning apple core and a crumpled newspaper were all that remained of them. I was alone, hurtling through the mist to an isolated house and a man I did not like.
Some of Gilbert’s unease washed over me. Why had I let myself be stung into accepting a job which, in the moment of truth, I’d found I did not want? Pride, as Gil had rightly deduced. I could not, whatever the cost, have looked across the table at those dark, assessing eyes, and whispered humbly that I had changed my mind.
Time passed. I sat huddled in my corner seat staring out at the mist and thinking forlornly of home – comforting and uncomplicated. The rhythm of the train changed, slowed, then ground to a jerky halt.
‘Chapelcombe!’ shouted a voice out of the mist. In a panic I pulled down the heavy case, wrenched open the carriage door, and half-fell out. The white, drifting shroud enveloped me, clogging the breath in my throat. A whistle blew. Behind me the train lurched, responding to the signal like a rusty old war-horse. It lumbered away along the length of the platform and disappeared. My last link with London and Gil had gone.
No one else seemed to have left the train at this stop. I heaved up my case and started uncertainly in what I hoped was the direction of the exit. Perhaps the ticket collector or someone would find me a taxi. I put the case down for a moment to change hands, and the sound of hurrying footsteps reached me.
‘Miss Barton?’
I jumped. My own name had somehow been the last thing I expected to hear in this eerie place. But perhaps Mr Haig – I strained my eyes in the direction of the voice, and was in time to see two figures materialize; one tall and broad, the other small and slight.
Under the smudge of the lamp they came into focus: a man with his coat collar turned up, the mist lying thickly on his hair, and a little girl of eight or nine who clung to his hand, staring up at me.
‘You are Emily Barton? I’m Mike Stacey, and this is Sarah. I’ve got the car outside.’
He held out his hand and its warmth enveloped my cold fingers.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ I said gratefully. ‘I was just wondering how to find a taxi.’
He picked up my case and I followed him and the child through the barrier and out of the little station to the yard beyond. A large old saloon stood waiting, roomy and comfortable. The little girl climbed into the back and her companion swung the heavy case easily into the boot. Then he came round and opened the door for me.
‘You’ll have to excuse Matthew, it would never occur to him to arrange for you to be met.’ He climbed in beside me and slammed his door. ‘Luckily, Sarah told me you were expected today. Well, now that we can see each other, hello again!’
He turned towards me and smiled. The mist was shut out of the car, and in the white light we looked at each other. I hoped he liked what he saw as much as I did. He was a few years older than I, probably twenty-seven or eight, with thick brown hair that had the hint of a wave in it. His eyes were grey and laughing, and fringed by the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on a man, but their dreaminess was contradicted by the firm mouth and strong, jutting jaw.
‘Are you a friend of Mr Haig’s?’ I asked, as he turned back to the controls of the car.
‘His cousin, actually. I live at Chapel Farm, farther along the headland.’ A quick grin. ‘Matthew doesn’t really approve of me!’
I raised my eyebrows but he did not elaborate. We were climbing now up what was presumably the High Street. Shop windows starred the mist and bent figures hurried along the pavements.
The child spoke suddenly. ‘Miss Barton’s going to sleep in Linda’s room.’
Beside me Mike moved involuntarily and his foot came down hard on the accelerator. The old car lurched forward with a surprised grunt.
‘Who’s Linda?’ I enquired.
‘She was Daddy’s secretary, too. She –’
‘Sarah poppet, did I tell you Pinkie’s had her litter? If you come over tomorrow you can see them.’
‘Oh, yes, that’d be lovely!’
‘Pinkie’s our prize sow,’ Mike said to me. ‘Sarah’s known her since she was a piglet herself – Pinkie, that is!’ He laughed, and I smiled dutifully, but I was wondering why he’d not wanted the child to speak of my predecessor.
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