Murder has a Motive

by Francis Duncan

  Russell’s remark, addressed directly to her, brought her round to face him. The doctor’s friendly, weather-beaten countenance seemed to give her courage, and Tremaine was conscious of the illusion that he could see the life slowly flowing back into her dispirited body.

  ‘We ought to carry on,’ she said firmly. ‘We’ve worked so hard and achieved so much that it would be a pity to stop now. Lydia’—the hesitation over the name was only brief—‘Lydia wanted the play to be a success.’

  ‘That’s settled then, Sandy,’ said Russell. He looked round at the others. ‘Are you all agreed?’

  There was a murmur of assent. Even Karen Hammond, apparently prepared to yield to the fact that she had been overruled, gave a nod of acceptance.

  Pauline Conroy flashed her a triumphant glance.

  ‘Sandy’s right, of course,’ she said. ‘We owe it to Lydia’s memory to go on and do our best.’

  ‘Does that mean rehearsal tomorrow as usual?’ Phyllis Galway asked. ‘We’ll have to let Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Shannon know.’

  A look of concern came into Sandra Borne’s face at that.

  ‘I’m afraid I’d overlooked Martin and Mr. Shannon,’ she said apologetically. ‘We ought to consult them first.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be willing to fall in with the rest of us,’ said Russell confidently.

  ‘Shannon probably will,’ interjected Geoffrey Manning impulsively. ‘He’s usually ready enough to accept any suggestions. It might be a bit difficult for Vaughan, though. After all, he was in—’

  He broke off abruptly, as if he had realized that he had been on the point of saying something which would have precipitated a crisis. He reddened, made a clumsy attempt to retrieve the situation.

  ‘He was in a bad state of nerves when I saw him this evening,’ he finished hurriedly. ‘Seemed to be taking it to heart.’

  There was a silence as he broke off. An uncomfortable silence, which gradually became more uncomfortable and more oppressive. And then several people began speaking at once.

  Paul Russell signalled desperately to his wife. She rose.

  ‘It’s time for a cup of coffee,’ she observed, and Karen Hammond snatched at the straw.

  ‘I’ll come and help you, Jean.’

  The few moments of bustle and moving of chairs which were occasioned by their exit served to turn what had evidently been a dangerous corner. Tremaine glanced unobtrusively about him and saw the relief coming into faces which had been revealing traces of strain.

  He knew now that Lydia Dare’s death had not been as a stone thrown wantonly into what had been a placid millpond of village life. It had stirred into movement the dark and secret things which had been already in being beneath the calm of the surface. It had not brought evil into existence; it had revealed its presence.

  There was only one person in the room who appeared to be unaffected by the general atmosphere of strain. Tremaine had observed that not only did Edith Lorrington appear to be unaffected by it, but she even appeared to be blissfully unaware of it.

  She was an elderly spinster. Her thin grey hair, tied in an old-fashioned bun; her blouse, fastened high around her neck and held by a large and ornate brooch, emphasized her prim plainness. She was faded Victorianism dwelling diffidently among colourful modernity.

  She was not, however, of the vinegary spinsterhood which, robbed of fruition, turns its claws upon its more fortunate sisters. Here, indeed, was the mask of tragedy, not of envy disguising itself as righteous indignation. The man who would have been her husband had died of malaria in West Africa whilst she had been preparing her trousseau, and opportunity had not passed her way a second time.

  After the cable which had meant the end of her dreams had reached her, she had never known youth again. The years had watched her become more dowdy, plainer in looks and dress, until now she was a harmless, ineffectual shadow, taken for granted in life and unlikely to be missed when she eventually faded unobtrusively into death.

  Exactly what part Miss Lorrington was taking in the production of Murder Has a Motive, Mordecai Tremaine was not certain. She was the sort of person who inevitably moved vaguely in the background of such events without apparently serving any specific purpose.

  Oddly enough it was she—seemingly tranquilly unaware of the forces she was helping to unleash—who threatened to recreate the taut, explosive conditions which had so narrowly been dispelled.

  ‘We’re all Lydia’s friends here,’ she announced suddenly. ‘It’s up to us to help the police.’

  She might have been opening their eyes to catastrophe. No one moved or spoke. Even Paul Russell seemed momentarily at a loss.

  It was Sandra Borne who first found words.

  ‘What do you mean, Edith?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I mean that we should do all we can to find out who committed this horrible crime.’ Miss Lorrington was sitting very upright in her chair. Her hands were clasped in her lap and on her face was the rapt, innocently engrossed expression of a child who sees things simply and very clearly. ‘Lydia was murdered. She was our friend. We can all help to avenge her.’

  ‘How?’

  It was Pauline Conroy’s voice—a little harsh, a little—fearful? Mordecai Tremaine was not sure. As yet he was still groping, still assimilating facts, still feeling his way in the morass of human emotions into which he had deliberately tried to sink himself.

  Edith Lorrington turned to regard her questioner. Her eyes were shining. Deep inside her old instincts were stirring. The shadow was taking on substance.

  And then, quite suddenly, the fire died down. The habit of self-effacement, engendered by the passage of more than forty years, overcame her brief resolve. She made an ineffectual gesture.

  ‘I—I don’t know,’ she said helplessly.

  Over Pauline Conroy’s dark head Paul Russell’s eyes caught Moredecai Tremaine’s. Their glances held—significantly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘Edith’s hit upon a sound idea. Perhaps we can help the police. We know Dalmering—we know the people who live here. It’s by the putting together of all the simple things, all the apparently unimportant details, that the police solve crimes. It’s like a jig-saw puzzle. One tiny piece can make the whole thing fit. If we pool our knowledge we may be able to uncover something which will give us a clue as to who killed Lydia.’

  ‘But who,’ said Sandra Borne, bewilderment struggling with horror in her voice, ‘who could have wanted to kill her? Lydia didn’t have any enemies.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Russell quietly, ‘that she didn’t have any enemies—as far as we know.’ He accentuated the last words, giving them a grim significance. ‘I’m afraid this is likely to be painful for you, Sandy,’ he went on, ‘but if we want to arrive at the truth it means that we’ve got to ask each other questions. At what time did Lydia leave the house last night?’

  ‘The police,’ she said, ‘will ask questions. In fact, they’ve already started. So you don’t have to worry about me, Paul. To answer questions among friends will be a help. A sort of dress rehearsal,’ she added wryly. ‘She left just before seven o’clock.’

  ‘You knew where she was going?’

  ‘Of course. She was dining with Martin. It was still quite light when she left. She must have been seen by someone on her way there.’

  ‘I saw her crossing the common,’ said Karen Hammond, who had made a brief reappearance. ‘From my bedroom.’ She shivered. ‘It—it was the last time I ever saw her.’

  Paul Russell gave her a curious glance as she went out again, and Mordecai Tremaine wondered just why she had made that last remark. It had had the ring of an alibi.

  ‘Did Lydia say what time she was coming back?’ asked the doctor.

  There was just the faintest suggestion of hesitation in Sandra Borne’s manner before she shook her head.

  ‘No—she didn’t say. I stayed indoors, knitting and listening to the wireless. I didn’t notice how the time was passing. I felt myself gettin
g sleepy so I went up to bed—it must have been after eleven. Lydia had her key, of course. It wasn’t until this morning that they told me—that I heard what had happened. It was Briggan who came. He said that they’d—that they’d found Lydia . . .’

  Briggan was the local constable who had been immediately roused by the farm labourer who had discovered the body in the early hours of the morning on his way to his work.

  Russell nodded sympathetically.

  ‘That seems clear enough, Sandy.’

  But to Mordecai Tremaine it didn’t seem clear. Not at all clear. There were two questions at least he would have asked of Sandra Borne.

  He would have said:

  ‘Was it usual for Lydia to stay out so late on her own? ’

  And:

  ‘Didn’t you become alarmed when she didn’t come back? ’

  For it seemed to him that there was something missing in Sandra Borne’s story. Was it likely that if her friendship with Lydia Dare had been so close, she would calmly have gone to bed without taking any steps to discover why she had not returned at a very late hour? After all, it was reasonable to assume that Lydia would at least have left a tentative time of her return with her companion. There was, he thought, room for elaboration of the story Sandra had told.

  The re-entry of Karen Hammond with a tray bearing a number of coffee cups which she proceeded to set out upon a small table served to terminate Russell’s cross-examination. There was a brief silence whilst everyone watched the setting out of the china in the self-conscious manner of people who are searching for something in which they can pretend an interest in order to hide their unease.

  ‘Was Philip here last night, Karen?’

  There was a clatter. A cup rattled noisily against its saucer. Karen Hammond’s hand was still shaking as she replaced it. It was a moment or two before she replied to Paul Russell’s obviously casual question, and Tremaine saw that even then her nerves were not quite steady.

  ‘Yes,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Yes, he was here. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just friendly curiosity,’ said Russell, with a smile. ‘After all, we’re neighbours, you know. Has he been able to get down tonight?’

  ‘He’s at home now. He had to bring some work away with him from the office. That’s why he didn’t come along.’

  She gave the explanation hurriedly, as if she feared that it would be challenged. She had the same hunted expression she had worn during her brief duel with Pauline Conroy a few moments previously. Ostentatiously she busied herself with her task. Her fear was evident in the taut lines of her body.

  Pauline Conroy was regarding her oddly.

  ‘I saw Philip’s car come in this evening,’ she said. ‘He’s been in town all day?’

  Karen Hammond compelled herself to look round with an appearance of unconcern.

  ‘Yes. As a matter-of-fact he’s been very busy lately. He wasn’t at all sure that he’d be able to run down here tonight.’

  ‘He must have left very early this morning. I usually hear his car going off.’

  Pauline Conroy’s dark eyes had opened wide in an innocent, questioning stare. But it was, Mordecai Tremaine noted shrewdly, a little more innocent, a little more bewildered than the situation required. The alluring Pauline was overplaying again.

  But by now Karen Hammond had succeeded in gaining a hold upon herself. Blue eyes met dark without faltering.

  ‘I don’t suppose you did hear him go this morning,’ she said levelly. ‘He had to leave very much earlier than usual and he did his best not to disturb anyone.’

  Instinctive suspicion replaced cultivated innocence in the dark eyes. But it was an obvious stalemate, and Pauline Conroy did not try to press the point.

  In a few moments the coffee made its appearance, and whilst it was being handed round there was another opportunity of relieving the tension. But primitive emotions were too nakedly exposed for them to be covered up too easily or for long. Once again Mordecai Tremaine was conscious of the feeling that the shadow of evil lay heavily over the loveliness of Dalmering; that its beauty was threatened by black horror.

  It surprised him to find the remembrance of Martin Vaughan vividly in his mind and the echo of the words he had used in his ears. He saw the big man as he had stood facing Jonathan Boyce, his powerful hands tightly clenched and that strange, half wild look upon his face.

  Sandra Borne was slowly stirring her coffee. She had lost something of the bird-like appearance he had noticed at their first meeting. Her pale face was pinched and haunted.

  ‘There was something worrying Lydia,’ she said. ‘There was something on her mind. She was glad that she was leaving Dalmering. She was afraid . . .’ She looked up suddenly, and her voice sharpened, became possessed of a shrillness which verged on hysteria. ‘That was it. She was afraid! She knew that something was going to happen! She said—she said that underneath Dalmering was evil and rotten!’

  Once again it was an echo of Martin Vaughan that Mordecai Tremaine heard. He would have liked to have asked the questions which were clamouring at the back of his mind. He would have liked to have known with more certainty what it was of which Lydia Dare had been afraid. But he feared that if he spoke it would inevitably draw attention upon himself, and then the resulting remembrance that there was a stranger among them would effectively close the conversation between his companions. And if it closed—or rather, became stilted and guarded—he would hear no more of interest.

  Geoffrey Manning was leaning forward, a trace of excitement in his manner.

  ‘When you say that Lydia was afraid, Sandy, do you mean that she was definitely afraid of someone?’

  Sandra Borne shook her head.

  ‘Not exactly that. She didn’t speak of any particular person. It was just a vague sort of idea she seemed to have.’

  ‘What’s in your mind, Geoffrey?’ asked Paul Russell.

  ‘Have any of you noticed a stranger about the neighbourhood?’ asked the other man. He glanced enquiringly around him. ‘A short, ferrety-looking fellow in a pair of grey flannels and a sports coat?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ returned the doctor slowly. ‘At least, I don’t remember seeing him. I’ve been too busy with my old patients to have the time to go around looking for likely new ones!’ he added with a smile.

  Sandra Borne gave a little cry.

  ‘Yes—I remember him, Geoffrey! I saw him talking to Lydia. It was a few days ago. They were standing just outside the cottage.’

  ‘Did Lydia say anything to you about him?’ asked Manning.

  ‘No, she didn’t. It was rather strange. It seemed as though she didn’t want to talk about him. So, of course, I didn’t ask any questions.’

  ‘I’ve seen him, too.’ It was Edith Lorrington who spoke, and her words shifted the centre of interest towards her once again. ‘It was one day last week. He asked me where Mr. Hammond lived.’

  So engrossed were the others with what she was saying that Mordecai Tremaine thought that he was the only person in the room who heard the faint, stifled gasp which came from very near at hand.

  He gave a cautious glance sideways, taking care not to be observed. Karen Hammond was bending over the trolley. She was pretending to be busy with the empty cups and her blonde hair had fallen forward so that her features were partially concealed.

  But from where he sat Tremaine could see that beneath her sun-tan her face had become possessed of a taut, deathly paleness, and that the blue eyes held the pleading terror of a creature who could see the remorseless closing of a trap.

  5

  THERE WAS STILL enough light to make walking easy, so that there was no question of stumbling blindly into ditches and hedgerows, and yet it was dark enough to encourage thought. Or so Mordecai Tremaine considered as he strolled pensively in the direction of the village hall and his rendezvous with Inspector Boyce of Scotland Yard.

  He eyed the twinkling pattern of the stars reflectively. His first evening in Dalmering had undoubtedl
y been a full and intriguing one. And not the least of its incidents had been the arrival at ‘Roseland’ of Martin Vaughan and Howard Shannon.

  The two men had arrived just in time to save Karen Hammond from embarrassment—from what might, indeed, have proved more than mere embarrassment. Edith Lorrington’s statement that the stranger in the grey flannels had asked for Philip Hammond had brought the limelight of curiosity full upon his wife.

  Critical eyes had searched her face. Tremaine acknowledged admiringly that, despite the agonized, hunted look he had surprised, she had faced the situation with courage.

  ‘That’s odd,’ she had said. ‘He hasn’t called at the house. Are you sure he asked for Philip?’

  Nevertheless, it had been a desperate moment for her. There might have been other questions. Pauline Conroy, for instance, might have fastened upon it, and her overpitched but compelling tones would have played viciously and cunningly upon tight strong nerves, extracting the last grain of drama, searching for a weakness in the defences through which the flood of her malice could pour.

  The sudden, shrill sound of the doorbell must have echoed through Karen Hammond’s mind with the raw clamour of an unexpected reprieve. It had halted the questions for a few painful seconds, and then it had been too late for questions because Martin Vaughan had arrived.

  The big man’s entry into the drawing-room had been something in the nature of a challenge. He had stopped on the threshold and surveyed the gathering as though he was facing potential enemies whom he had determined to intimidate by taking the offensive from the start. And then he had smiled and had introduced himself easily, with no suggestion of antagonism.

  ‘Hullo, everybody. Sorry I couldn’t get along before. I’ve been entertaining Scotland Yard. I bumped into Shannon along the road and we finished the journey together.’