An Alibi Too Soon

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘No,’ she murmured.

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘But you see…’ She reached out and touched my hand, giving it the seal of truth. ‘Duncan can never have done it.’

  ‘The way things were, it could hardly have been anybody else.’

  ‘You’ve never met him, obviously.’

  ‘Inadequate?’

  ‘Now you’re teasing me.’

  ‘Trying to lure that smile back.’

  She laughed. ‘But he couldn’t, you know. Not Duncan. The poor man didn’t even live in this world.’

  ‘But he was the one to gain.’

  ‘Gain? You’re joking again…surely. I see you’re not, but Richard, Uncle Edwin had spent all his money—and there’d been quite a lot—on those last two plays. Nobody else would finance him when they heard he intended to direct them himself. So there was nothing left. The house—it was on a mortgage, and with Capital Gains Tax…heavens, it was a liability, not an asset. All that was left was the plays. All.’

  ‘And Duncan knew that?’

  ‘Better than anybody. Why d’you think he was hanging around to try to catch Uncle Edwin when he got back? Money, Richard. Uncle Edwin owed him money, and Duncan knew that if he didn’t get it straightaway, he’d finish up as one on a long list of creditors.’

  ‘Hmm!’ I said. ‘And that’s what you inherited?’

  ‘There was some legal point, about a convicted man not being able to gain by his crime. That put Duncan out of the running, and left me with a lot of trouble and an old house. He’d have been welcome to it, I can tell you.’

  She leaned back, hands on the table, then thrust herself forward.

  ‘Now there’s a motive for you, Richard. Somebody stands to inherit a pain in the neck, and he can see a suicide about to come off. It terrifies him, all that responsibility. So he gets in first and makes it murder—or makes a suicide look like murder.’

  She grinned. I grinned back at her clever use of what I’d said.

  ‘So that he’s unable to inherit,’ she declared.

  ‘I can’t see much gain there, if it meant him going to prison.’

  ‘Ah yes, but he gets an ex-policeman interested, so that it can be proved he didn’t do it, then he gets a pardon, and oodles and oodles of money in damages.’

  We laughed freely together about that, and the waiter seized the opportunity to ask whether we’d like to order a sweet or would care to see the cheese board.

  Over the chocolate mousse and then the liqueurs and the coffee we got to know each other. She told me how she’d tackled her sudden inheritance.

  ‘I loved that house, Richard. Still love it. I managed to hold on to it, just, but it’s only more recently that I’ve had any money to spare. But at first…oh heavens, the despair. And out there—nobody to share it with. Then I sat back and told myself off and tried to decide what assets I’d got and what to do about them. There were only the plays, of course.’

  ‘You mean, there were unproduced plays?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. But I went round everywhere, making a thorough nuisance of myself. A revival, I thought. The early plays, given a new identity. But they all wanted to know how. I had to think about that, so that I could give an answer. Then the chance came. One man—just the one—said he’d put the money up, but only if I’d direct it myself. It completely stunned me. There I’d been, two hours—three perhaps—round at his flat, pounding his floor with the script in my hand, explaining how it could be done…and he just laughed and said I had been directing it.’

  ‘Amazing.’ I meant she was.

  ‘So there it was—after years of trying everything—all of a sudden I discovered something I could do. You can’t imagine how exciting that can be, Richard.’

  ‘Yes I can.’ I had my pipe going, she a cigarette. ‘Somebody should have told you, years before.’

  ‘How could anybody know?’

  ‘Don’t you think that ought to be one of the essentials in education, whittling out the potentials and encouraging them?’

  ‘I wish somebody had whittled me. I got tossed in at the deep end. Terrifying, Richard. But I’d had a bit of grounding, going round with Uncle Edwin, so I wasn’t too ignorant. I knew flies weren’t things you zipped. But to tell an experienced actor how to act! Of course, you don’t tell them that. You tell them how it comes over, and suggest. Oh, I soon learned.’

  ‘I bet you did.’

  ‘And it’s gone on from there. Now there’s barely a break, one revival after the other…and now the house comes in useful. For rehearsals, the early ones, I can have the whole cast living in.’

  ‘Apart from weekends.’

  ‘They like to tear off home and check on the pet canary, or whatever.’

  ‘And chase after poor old ex-coppers, to belt ‘em on the head.’

  ‘Now I thought…’

  ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist it.’

  ‘You could if you tried. The whole evening, you’ve been resisting like mad.’

  I quickly changed the subject. ‘And this hacker of yours…’

  ‘We now share the financial aspects, fifty-fifty. The only condition is that he’s in every play. You’ve met him. Dear Drew.’

  ‘Drew Pierson?’

  She smiled at me. ‘Fooled you, didn’t he? But he’s really very shrewd. Take my word for it.’

  I had no difficulty in doing that. Shrewd. A man can be shrewd in business matters and a complete idiot in personal relationships.

  We sat on. The waiter did not hover suggestively. Very discreet they were, at the Rendezvous, or perhaps a little short of business. I told her about the mill at Tyn-y-bont, and so it went on, until I reverted to business.

  ‘Has he been to see you?’ I asked. Then, at her look of blank incomprehension: ‘Your cousin, Duncan.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s been out of prison two or three months now. And you haven’t visited him?’

  Her eyes watched her fingers pressing out a cigarette. She simply shook her head. She had spoken about him kindly, even in eager support.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t know where he is,’ I suggested.

  Her eyes came up to meet mine. ‘I believe he’s gone back to Lichfield.’

  I smiled at her, waiting.

  ‘So I heard,’ she said. ‘Somebody told me. Duncan was an organist, so it’s reasonable…’

  ‘Somebody?’

  ‘Please don’t interrogate me, Richard,’ she appealed.

  ‘Sorry, but you seem to be reluctant. I can’t understand why.’

  ‘Your friend came, Mr Hughes—oh, two months ago. Enquiring, just as you have been. It seemed he’d been asking around—all the people who were here that night.’

  ‘You see,’ I said, patting her hand. ‘That wasn’t very difficult, was it?’

  ‘Yes, if you want to know. It’s another connection, and I can just see you grabbing at it. And I don’t want you to…I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t want me digging?’

  ‘If you want to put it like that.’

  ‘In case you find it places us on different sides? But…it wouldn’t be like that, would it? The only person on the other side is the person who killed your Uncle Edwin, and killed my friend Llew Hughes, and bashed me on the head with a bottle. And that couldn’t be you, Rosemary. Now could it?’

  She held my gaze for a few seconds before shaking her head.

  ‘It’s late,’ she said, probably to prevent me from pursuing it further.

  ‘Yes.’ I’d had the bill for so long it was curling at the edges. I put money on the plate, and we left. The head waiter wished us good-night, thankfully I thought.

  Two lone cars in the car-park. She opened her door.

  ‘Thank you, Richard,’ she said. ‘I’ve enjoyed it. Really I have.’

  ‘Me too. We’ll have to do it again.’

  She pouted at me, and I thought her head shook in disbelief. ‘I have my loyalties, that’s the trouble,’ she said. Then
, so as not to waste the pout, she planted it on my lips, got in the car, and drove away without even a wave.

  Oswestry to Welshpool—twenty miles. It was ten-forty-five. Say forty minutes to the hotel, perhaps less, a quick change into something looser, and I could do the run to Devon in five to five and a half hours. Say five in the morning when I got there. Time for a nap, and be up and about getting lunch by the time Amelia arrived, assuming she got going after breakfast, at around ten.

  By the time I’d sorted that out in my mind we were on the fast road with my foot hard down. I walked into the hotel at eleven-twenty-seven. The night porter produced my key, and a message from the slot.

  ‘Please phone your home urgently.’

  For a moment my mind went blank. Then I managed to say:

  ‘What time was this?’

  He pointed to the notation at the foot of it. 22.19. That’s continental, and I had to explain to myself that it meant ten-nineteen p.m. An hour ago.

  I ran up the stairs, once more bursting into the room—but this time pausing to close the door behind me, pressed the button that gave me an outside line, and dialled my own number.

  It rang twice. She must have been sitting by it, waiting.

  ‘I’m here, Richard,’ said Amelia, in those three words conveying exhaustion, disillusionment, and worry.

  7

  ‘You drove on,’ I said accusingly, annoyed because of my own embarrassment.

  ‘The car arrived ten minutes after I called you, so I thought it would be silly to hang around.’

  ‘But there was no need…’

  ‘I’ve discovered that for myself. I’ve read the letters from your friend, and there’s nothing in them you don’t already know.’

  ‘Never mind that. How are you? You sound tired.’

  ‘It’s quite a while since I did such a long run in one day. Where were you, Richard?’ she asked wearily.

  ‘I had to go out. Something I wanted to follow up.’ My mouth was dry.

  I was not telling a falsehood, but neither was I telling the truth. I was feeling wretched. ‘Did you get something to eat—on the journey?’

  ‘I take it you did.’

  ‘I’ve eaten. Yes. But Amelia…’

  ‘Richard, I’m very tired. Just let me read you these letters, then I can get to bed.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Never mind the letters. I was just about to change, and drive down myself.’

  ‘Now that’, she said positively, ‘would have been very foolish. Change? What are you wearing?’

  ‘My blue suit.’

  ‘Formal, then? You dined out?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must tell me. Some other time. Just let me read you these letters. There are three.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear the damned letters.’

  A pause. I was just about to apologise for my anger, when she said, very coolly: ‘But you see, Richard, you won’t be able to rest until you know I’m safe, with all these people waiting to attack me to get the letters.’

  ‘Amelia!’

  ‘…so if I read them now, I shall be able to place them on the front step with a stone on and a little note: “I’ve read these to my husband, and you’re welcome to them.” Don’t you see—then we’ll both be able to get some sleep.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Unless you’ve got to go out again.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then listen.’

  As you can imagine, I listened.

  The first one was dated ten days before.

  Dear Richard,

  I have not heard from you recently, and hesitate to approach you when you could be very busy. As you know, I have been working on my memoirs, and I seem to have come across a discrepancy in one of my cases. The Inspector involved does not appear sympathetic, which is only to be expected, as he was responsible for most of the brain work. But I hope that you, coming to it with an open mind, will see the disturbing detail in the photographs without any prompting.

  I hope you can come and visit me. I have a bed for you and your wife. But please, have a drink at the last pub before you cross the border into Wales.

  Yours,

  Llew.

  Nothing irrational in that, except the peculiar reference to having a drink. The next one was dated three days later.

  Dear Richard,

  I have not heard from you. There’s nobody else and I hoped—I didn’t tell you that there has been more than one attempt on my life in the past few weeks. I didn’t wish to pressure you, but now I feel there is some urgency.

  For your information, I have given no hint to Duncan Carter. Phone me, please.

  Llew.

  That one was a little worrying. He’d felt his danger. The third was dated two days later.

  Richard,

  If I do not hear from you, and anything has happened to me, ask yourself where the beer came from. I am faced…(scribble-scribble, not readable)…blank impossibility. A completely new interpretation.

  Phone me. Please.

  Llew.

  ‘And that’s all?’ I asked gruffly.

  ‘Yes. And it doesn’t help a bit, does it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Now…Amelia…please get some rest. And thank you.’

  ‘For reading them so prettily?’

  She’d never have used such a word, except in sarcasm. She was clearly exhausted, and I was to blame, and I couldn’t take her in my arms.

  ‘Just for being you, my love.’

  Her voice held a smile. ‘Good-night, Richard. Sleep well.’

  ‘And you.’

  We hung up. Sleep well, she’d said. Not much chance of that. Llew had given me a couple of clues, that it was in the photographs, and that it related to beer.

  I slipped them out of the envelope. These would not be the best of the pictures that the technical section had obtained. The good ones would have gone with the main file to the Director of Public Prosecutions. One or two were slightly out of focus. The one with the beer crate and the bottles of spirit on the rear seat was not clear at all. It was possible to detect that the loose bottles were gin and whisky, and four or five small ones of tonic water, a couple of ginger ale. But the bottled beer was in a crate, which almost obscured the bottles themselves. Another detail was that none had slipped out of place, indicating that Edwin’s braking had not been fierce.

  One thing caught my eye. There was something about the colour of the labels. I rescued the empty brown ale bottle from the flowered waste bin and held it up. A brown label, with yellow lettering. The labels—the top edges of them—of the bottles in the crate were yellow.

  It’s likely that yellow and brown would be the most-used colours for beer bottle labels. Green and blue would clash with the contents. Feeling a stir of interest, I looked closer at the photograph. The name on the label was obscured by the top edge of the crate. But on the side of the crate, as raised letters on the brown plastic, I could just detect the word: BURTON.

  I went out and down to the lobby, where the night porter was dozing. I rubbed two pound coins together between my fingers, and he woke at once.

  ‘Not retired, sir?’

  I was sliding the coins along the surface of the desk.

  ‘You’re a drinking man,’ I said.

  ‘You want me to get you something?’

  ‘No. It was a question. Are you a drinking man?’

  ‘It’s been known.’

  ‘So you’ll know the beer of the district.’

  He eyed the coins, looked up at me. ‘Intimately, sir.’

  ‘And if you were drinking beer, what would be most likely?’

  ‘Draught bitter.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Evan Thomas’s at the Sheep’s Head.’

  ‘What brewery?’

  ‘Oh…I see. It’d be Wem, I suppose.’

  ‘We’re in Wales, here. Oswestry’s in England.’

  ‘Until we take over.’

  ‘Would it be W
em there?’ I knew the answer, I’d tried it.

  ‘Oh yes. Indeed it would. Wem for miles around. The brewery’s only fifteen or so miles away.’

  ‘Ah!’ I said. ‘There wouldn’t be any from Burton, perhaps?’

  ‘Burton? Never heard of it. No such brewery around here.’

  ‘Then I suppose’, I said, turning away and leaving the coins behind, ‘you’ll have to do with Wem. Good-night.’

  ‘Good-night, sir.’ He sounded as though he thought me to be quite mad. As I suppose I was, mad to make assumptions on one word. But I’d worked for years in the Midlands, where Burton wasn’t simply a brewery, it was a town full of breweries. Burton upon Trent. The whole town smells of the fermentation. Rumour has it that, pound for pound, the Burtonites are heavier than their fellow Britons. It’s the smell.

  All right. I paced the room and tried to reason myself out of it. An empty crate from Burton upon Trent could well have found its way as far as Oswestry, and there been filled with Wem ale. Possible. They get mixed up. But…from a hundred miles or so? That seemed unlikely. And the beer bottles in the crate had labels on them that did not look like Wem’s. Suppose they were from Burton. What could I make of that?

  The basic assumption was that Edwin Carter, on the night he died, had not gone out and bought that beer at the nearest pub across the border, nor the spirits and the rest. Yet it had been there, on the back seat, visible, crying out its message for all to see. The message was that he’d gone for drinks and returned with them. But…it now appeared that this was not so, and that message was therefore false. But it had been such a definite message, so I had to assume it had a purpose. Therefore its message had to be inverted.

  So Edwin Carter had not gone out at all. He had not even driven away from that garage. It had been said—by Rosemary—that she heard him drive away. What she must have heard was the sound of the engine dying as the door slowly closed, imprisoning him with the car.

  That meant he had died earlier than had been assumed, before the party games began. At that time, nobody had had alibis. They were round and about, not yet having gathered in the dining room. The only people who now had alibis for the time Edwin left—or was thought to have done—were Rosemary and Duncan, who had been within sight of each other as the engine sound died away.