She had got her hand bound up and resting in a padded bandage before she began to wonder about her accident. Accidents like that could be fixed. A bit of string tied to the garage door and whenever she opened it there she would be: a sitting duck. You couldn’t be sure it would be fatal, and indeed it hadn’t been, but it made a promising beginning. She could almost hear Emily’s voice framing the words; then she checked herself.
‘I mustn’t let Emily put things into my mind. Mumsy and Janet would certainly never …’ She didn’t finish the sentence but at the back of her mind the thought that here she was, she was the survivor. There was a bit of triumph in that conclusion.
All the same her self-assurance was a little cracked: she was on the edge of panicking. It’s all very well to be Kathy up early, the girl who knows best, but suppose, if somewhere along the line you miscalculated badly?
You can’t see into the future, and just lately, Kathy had been glad enough of this, but now she wished you could, yes, and into the past too.
For the first time since she had come into the house that afternoon she started to think seriously about Janet and Mumsy.
Mumsy had married Kathy’s father ten years ago when Kathy had been already grown up and Janet, the second Mrs Birley’s own girl, aged ten, a leggy big-eyed ten, who had taken to Dad (or been wise enough to pretend to, thought Kathy) and been shy with Kathy. But they’d got along all right then; the strain had been felt afterwards when Mr Birley died and there was no real bond between the three women.
‘But they like me,’ murmured Kathy. ‘I know I got mad, found them irritating, I wanted my place to myself, but I thought I covered up; I thought they liked me.’
Mumsy set the tone of the house and she seemed warm and impulsive and loving: a darned nuisance, a muddler and a poor cook, Kathy freely admitted, but not cunning, not calculating, not a killer.
Janet seemed tender and girlish and shy, although Kathy had every reason to believe that with men she was not shy, but shrewd and hard and scheming.
Yet that was how Emily had seen them.
Who was right?
But just as they stood between Kathy and the peaceful enjoyment of her home so she stood between them and the old man’s money.
I do just wonder how much and what Emily Carter knows, thought Kathy, nursing her wounded hand; does she speak from knowledge or guesswork? Emily could be a mighty dangerous neighbour.
Bother Emily, thought Kathy, she’s got me wondering where I stand, and until I know where I stand I can’t act. She caught sight of her face in the mirror and saw a white grubby earth-stained face with grass in its hair.
I’ll have to tidy up before I ring the police and say Mumsy and Janet are missing or goodness knows what they’ll think.’ Kathy rehearsed what she would say, as she had already done two or three times before. She would put the case logically and reasonably, not be panicky and silly and they could do the thinking about it. As she creamed her face and put on fresh lipstick (all with one hand) she felt steadier and more sure of herself. She pinned her hair up awkwardly – it would have been nice to have Emily look at her finger, but no more of Emily tonight, thank you – and found to her surprise she looked younger, prettier, with it hanging more softly about her face.
She knew very well that she looked prettier without the competition of Janet. Janet was lovely, you had to admit that, in spite of all the make-up she piled on her face, in spite of her wild hair-do’s her looks had to be admitted. It reminded you, too, how pretty Mumsy must have been as a girl, still was really, in spite of plumpness and hair dyes.
Kathy held up her arms, and watched, in the mirror, the upward movement draw up her breasts and tighten her waist. What a time really, to feel that a little love would be a very nice thing; Kathy had not been entirely without experience. She had been in love once and could be again; and that was something. The young man had been a traveller in scents, and it had seemed natural enough for him and Kathy to team up. He had been very good too about letting Kathy have scents at cost price and this had been the time when Kathy went about smelling of ‘Je Reviens’ and ‘Miss Dior’ and ‘Réplique’ with the best of them. It had been a happy time and leading naturally, so Kathy thought, to love and marriage. To this day she really couldn’t see what had gone wrong. She had everything arranged: his life, her life, and their wedding day, when she would wear white and her dead mother’s veil. She wouldn’t alter much – heavens, she wanted him to enjoy being married, he could keep up his golf but give up his bachelor business lunches; she would concentrate on their home, with children maybe later, but for the first two years she’d work. She was not sure that she had communicated every detail to Bert but he must have got the gist of it; she had certainly told him of their financial arrangements to be: how they would live here in this house which was her own (exit Mumsy and Janet) and he would pay the running expenses and she would pay for food and domestic help and they would both buy their own clothes which was generous of her because naturally hers would cost her more. It was unkind of Bert to upset all this. Surely there had been a quarrel in which she had said unkind things to Bert and he had gone off hurt and never plucked up courage to come back, although Kathy would certainly have forgiven him? There must have been a quarrel. In the end Kathy had convinced herself that this was what had happened. Thus fortified she was able to turn a deaf ear to reports of his marriage (and a happy one at that) to a girl from the other side of the county.
She hardly missed Bert, but love, even what he had accomplished, she did miss.
And now there was someone else. She felt a lift of her spirits at every thought, and unconsciously stretched out her hands … and the fingers reached out to touch … and what Kathy touched, she gripped very hard.
The house shivered in the strong wind that had got up; down below in the basement the old furnace lit itself up and roared and then fell silent.
Kathy moved her head. She could feel movement, suddenly sense it. The sound was coming from beyond the front door. Her sore left hand, carefully wrapped up, began to throb.
It was then that she saw the little white package dropped through the letter box and resting in the wire letter-cage. It must have come while she was busy; she bent down to pick it up. It was white paper sealed with red sealing wax and bore the printed label: ‘T. Shore, Chemist.’ Inside was a little bottle of dark brown medicine.
Mumsy’s medicine. Nothing would have got Mumsy away without her bottle of medicine; it wasn’t that she really needed it either, the doctor had said over and over again her chest was better, but Mumsy was superstitious about the medicine. Kathy stood there clutching it and working out the implications when the front door bell rang.
Robert stood on the doorstep. He was a shortish, thick-set man of about thirty odd, nearer forty probably, with a pleasant homely face. He was a strange choice for flighty young Janet. He had a nervous trick of clearing his throat. He did it now.
‘Hello Kathy,’ he said, shifting his brown hat from hand to hand; he had on a thick brown tweed overcoat, too hot for the evening really. Robert always had good clothes and treated them well. But he made them last. I don’t know how he’ll go along with Janet and the way she uses clothes, Kathy had thought.
‘Hello Robert,’ this dialogue didn’t exactly scintillate, however much she wanted to shine for Robert she just couldn’t do it.
‘Can I come in?’ He was moving the hat about a bit faster now.
She stood aside and let him in.
‘Is Janet here?’ he said anxiously. ‘I’ve been waiting for her.’ Robert was in Insurance: the job suited his quiet methodical temperament: he was not emotional and took things as they came: it was unusual for him to show anxiety.
‘I’ve been down there at our usual meeting-place, waiting.’
‘Was she going to meet you tonight?’
‘Yes, of course. Didn’t you know?’
‘Janet didn’t say,’ cried Kathy, the words ground out of her.
‘
Well, is she sick or something? Where is she?’
Kathy shook her head, unable to speak.
‘I’ve got seats for a show, we were going to “ My Fair Lady,” you know we were, Kathy.’ Fie added with feeling, ‘It’s my birthday.’
Oh boy, thought Kathy. It is his birthday, they were going out, he’d have that date marked up in Red Letters. And ‘My Fair Lady.’ So would Janet. For a moment she felt a sharp irritation with Janet. She’d been talking about seeing that for weeks, and then when she was going she never mentioned it.
‘Kathy,’ he said giving her a good hard look, ‘speak up, what’s wrong?’
‘I lost Janet at the bus station, I thought she’d be home before me, but she wasn’t and she hasn’t come home yet. I’ve been waiting and waiting, just like you.’
Robert put down his hat.
‘Then she’s had an accident, or something,’ he said briskly. ‘We must get on to the police.’
‘But Rob …’ Kathy paused. ‘Mumsy’s not home either … they’ve both gone …’
‘I don’t like this, Kathy,’ said Rob. ‘There’s something bad in it somewhere.’
Kathy nodded dumbly. She knew it.
‘Where is Mumsy?’ said Robert. His eyes wandered to the clock, ten to nine it said, and it kept excellent time; Kathy wouldn’t have anything in the house that didn’t work efficiently, although Mumsy had a sentimental way of hanging on to old equipment, because she’d bought it with her first earnings, or had it for thirty-five years, or bought it from an old man with a nice face. One of the worst quarrels that had ever blown up had been over a broken down old sewing machine. To this day Kathy didn’t ever see what Mumsy got worked up over. The good new machine she’d provided was so much nicer.
‘There’s no doubt about it, we’ll have to get the police.’ He looked at Kathy. ‘You’d better ring them Kathy.’
‘Oh, I don’t want to.’
‘Yes,’ he was firm, ‘I’ll get you the number. You must.’ He led her to the telephone, and they stood for a moment together; Kathy leant her head against his shoulder, then he gave her a gentle nudge, a push, and she picked up the telephone.
‘Miss Birley here,’ she said. ‘Yes, Miss Katherine Birley from Twenty-two Hill View Gardens. I want to report that my sister and mother are missing … yes, I think they must have taken my grey car with them.’
‘What’s this about a grey car?’ said Robert quite sharply.
‘I don’t know myself,’ said Kathy, ‘but it seems to be gone as well. It’s a very old car, they might have had an accident with it. Do you think they’ve had an accident?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Robert shortly. ‘I don’t see how it fits in at all. You say you lost Janet at the bus station, she couldn’t have been near the car at all.’
‘Mumsy could have driven it off … but no, that’s no good is it? Mumsy couldn’t drive.’
‘They could have been kidnapped or something?’
‘Who would want to kidnap Mumsy,’ she wailed. ‘ Who could kidnap Mumsy?’ And indeed, thinking of Mrs Birley’s build and spirit, it was quite a question.
Kathy sat down at the kitchen table remembering the car-hire man on the telephone, and the other nameless man who had called for Mumsy. It looked as though Mumsy expected to go somewhere; and the other call suggested she had a place to go to, friends and plans Kathy knew nothing about. Kathy didn’t like it. She covered her face with her hands.
Robert looked at her, he was too anxious and serious about this business to smile but he looked satisfied. He had brought Kathy up to scratch.
The telephone rang.
Chapter Four
Without seeming to hurry Rob had got to the telephone before Kathy. She had to stand there and listen.
‘Hello?’ he said, ‘who’s that speaking? … What? … You can say that again.’ He was breathing heavily and although Kathy could hear a voice coming over the lines she couldn’t hear the words. But she recognised the tones: it was Old Throaty Voice calling her again. ‘ Hello, hello …’ He put the receiver down and turned to face Kathy.
‘He said to me “Are you the police?” and when I asked him to repeat that he rang off. Can you imagine that,’ Robert looked dazed. ‘Asking me if I’m the police?’
‘Why should he expect the police to be here?’ whispered Kathy, her injured hand was throbbing badly, she tottered.
Robert, dragged back from his own preoccupations, looked at her. ‘Hey, you look sick.’ He got her into a chair and bustled off to get brandy. He knew where it was, of course.
‘Coffee,’ said Kathy weakly.
‘When did you last eat?’ said Robert suddenly.
‘I don’t know. I think I had some bread and butter. Oh, and some ham.’
‘You’d better have something more solid.’
‘There’s stuff about, the larder, the refrigerator …’ began Kathy.
‘I know my way about,’ said Robert, disappearing.
As soon as he had gone Kathy got to her feet and went over to the desk that stood in the window. It was a desk that Mrs Birley kept all her bills and letters in. It was a pretty pale piece of furniture, very light and graceful, and was one of the few good things Mrs Birley owned. Kathy always regarded it as charming. Now she opened it and she gave a little sigh of irritation at the mound of papers, letters and photographs that were piled up within. But she knew what she was looking for. For some minutes past a dim elusive memory had been stirring and she just had to track it down. Six months ago Ray Birley had gone to a dinner dance: she had been invited there by a married couple, old friends of hers from the days of her first marriage. Now at this dinner dance she had sat next to a man called Fox. Mumsy had talked about nothing else for days. Then she’d shut up. Kathy had always thought this was because Fox faded himself out. Now she wondered.
But in this desk should be the programme, the group photographs and the newspaper report in the social column.
With any luck she might be able to find the name and face of Mr Throaty Voice.
Yes, dear little magpie Mumsy had the programme, the newspaper cutting and what looked like a bit of old leaf but had once been an orchid all clipped together. A faint smell of patchouli rose from it: which was another thing Kathy had against Mumsy. If you went out anywhere with her, people could smell you both coming. Such a very Indian smell taken in conjunction with Mumsy’s rather exotic eye make-up was inclined to make people wonder whether Mumsy was quite European.
So here was the picture in the newspaper with Mumsy’s intent little mask staring out and there next with his arm actually round her shoulders was the man, fiftyish, thick-set, with greying hair, a square blunt featured face, and with his over-wide lapels, his too curly bow-tie, he was slightly vulgar. But what he also looked, undeniably, was prosperous. He was in the money.
The picture did not give his name, however, but reading through the list of guests and who came with whom Kathy decided he was probably Mr Charles Fox.
Another little cutting of newspaper came fluttering down on her lap. It was only a few lines saying that the charge of fraud brought against Charlie (Fingers) Fox, 52, proprietor of the High Jacky Club, had been dismissed. You couldn’t tell just from the cutting whether Mumsy had kept it because she thought it was something to be proud of, or whether she held it against Charlie (Fingers) Fox.
Only when she heard Rob clinking in from the kitchen did she notice that the cutting about Charlie Fox preceded in date the dinner party.
So Mumsy hadn’t met Charlie then, she’d probably taken him to it. Quiet sneaky little Mumsy.
‘Coffee, here, rolls and ham,’ said Rob, handing over the food in a matter of fact way. ‘Go on, eat it up. Don’t say no: eat. The condemned woman ate a hearty breakfast.’
‘That’s not funny, Rob.’
‘I don’t know if I meant it to be,’ said Rob, sitting down and taking off the apron he was wearing – even in his anxiety Rob didn’t get his clothes messy. ‘This is tro
uble, Kathy.’
‘The police said they’d ring up in half an hour to tell us what, if anything, they’d got. They should ring any minute now.’
The call was a little late, not much, but just enough to set Rob walking up and down the carpet. ‘Do you think they’ve had an accident, Kathy? Or been hurt in some way? Can you think of anything?’
Kathy kept quiet.
‘When the police ring we’ll have something to go on,’ she said eventually.
‘I keep thinking of Janet,’ groaned Rob. ‘She’s so little and gentle.’
Perhaps Kathy’s quietness got through to him then and he stopped his walking up and down. ‘ Don’t cry,’ he said.
‘Oh Robert,’ she said, getting up. ‘I’m so miserable. Help me.’
‘Can I do that?’ he said more gently. He made a slight movement with his arms.
That was all Kathy needed: she was nestling in them like a chicken.
‘I don’t get you, Kathy,’ said Robert. ‘One time you look at me as if you’d like to bite me and another time you act pretty nice to me.’
As this was a fair resume of how Kathy felt about poor, dense, lovable Robert, she didn’t answer.
‘You’re a puzzle,’ he went on. ‘Know that?’
—Only because you don’t look at me properly, cried Kathy inwardly, I’m simple, simple, but you never really see me. Life could be nice for us, my darling, if you really wanted it to be.
The telephone rang at that moment. Kathy and Robert both moved to answer it. Robert got there first.
‘Hello,’ he said anxiously. ‘What?’ His shoulders drooped and Kathy could tell that there had been no news.
‘They’ve got nothing?’
‘They want me to go down,’ he said, turning to Kathy.
‘Why.’
‘I don’t know. Something to show me, maybe.’
‘But they’ve no news?
He shook his head. ‘No news … No real news.’
Come Home and Be Killed Page 4