MOUSE (a psychological thriller and murder-mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘Help me,’ he said plaintively. ‘Help me.’

  He was aware of a shadow looming over him. He couldn’t make out the features of her face, but her hair was like a ragged halo, her breathing deep and heavy. He saw the knife in her hand. ‘I can’t feel my legs,’ he said, sobbing. ‘And my arms – I can’t feel those either. I can’t feel anything!’ He could feel tears though, as they ran hot down his temples to his ears. ‘’I think I’ve broken my back… You’ve got to help me!’

  ‘Who are you?’ she said, her voice hoarse.

  ‘Please help me – I could die!’

  She looked at the knife. ‘Yes, you could, if you didn’t get help soon. It was you who broke into my house before, wasn’t it?’ He was blubbering. ‘I knew someone had been in. Tell me it was you and I’ll call for help. You might have all manner of internal injuries. You might be bleeding to death.’

  ‘Don’t let me die,’ he pleaded. ‘I beg you – I don’t want to die!’

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he panted, ‘it was me.’

  ‘So why did you do that? Nothing was stolen.’ She bent down, closer to his face. Her breath warm on his cheek. ‘I’m sticking the point of my knife deep into your arm. Can you feel it? I’ll bet you can’t.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t! I can’t! Please…’

  ‘But something was stolen, wasn’t it?’

  He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, I stole one of your old clubs from the study.’

  Laura sat down on the step beside him. ‘One of my father’s war clubs? Whatever for?’

  ‘He paid me to do it.’

  ‘Who paid you to do what?’

  Help me, please…’

  ‘Who paid you to do what?’

  Martin Caldwell – he paid me.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Martin Caldwell,’ she said.

  ‘He’s the manager at the Empire cinema. He paid me to kill Katherine, the woman who tried to con you. He told me to make it look like you’d done it, because he said he knew you’d been harassing her.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said evenly.

  ‘Get me some help! I’m not saying anymore!’

  ‘Then you’ll die here on the stairs.’

  He tried to make his arms and legs move, but failed, gasping. ‘He wanted people would blame you,’ he said. ‘So I stole one of your clubs…’

  ‘What of Katherine? Have you killed her?’ She said it matter-of-factly, which terrified him. ‘I’m not saying any more!’

  She plunged the knife into his arm at a point where he could see it. ‘Look how deep it’s going in, and yet still you can’t feel any pain.’

  ‘OK, OK, I used the club to kill her tonight. She’s dead. The plan was to plant the club with her blood on it here then alert the police in some way. They’d find the club and put two and two together. It’s downstairs, in the study inside a chest. Martin wanted to get rid of Katherine once and for all – she was blackmailing him, and he wanted you to take the rap. Now please phone for an ambulance. You have to help me!’

  ‘You soiled my baby’s room,’ she said hollowly. ‘You defiled it. You might have woken the baby up.’

  ‘There is no fucking baby!’ he said, coughing on blood. ‘It’s a doll!’

  ‘Keep your voice down. Little ones are such light sleepers.’ She began to sing a lullaby, rose to her feet and ascended the stairs, dropping the knife. It bounced down the stairs and landed near Ray Steele’s anguished face.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he said, his voice choked. ‘Don’t leave me here. I need an ambulance! I’ve told you everything – you’ve got to help me!’

  ‘When the bough breaks the cradle will fall…’ sang Laura, going to the blue-painted door. She went inside, slowly closing the door behind her. ‘…and down will come baby, cradle and all…’

  * * * *

  34

  Rulers of an Empire

  The clod of earth thumped against the coffin lid, the hollow sound like that of someone kicking against a door, he thought. The next handful of dirt tossed into the grave sounded like rice being dropped onto an open umbrella. It fascinated him. He had been like this all morning – no real emotion, no sadness, just a series of vacuous observations, almost as if he weren’t part of the events taking place around him. Some kind of heavenly spirit sent down to observe the comings and goings of earthly mortals.

  For Vince Moody this was his first funeral. A rite of passage he could tick off his list. He’d been to weddings and christenings and this was the final piece of the trilogy. Poor Laura. He didn’t have to attend, of course. He wasn’t family. He never really knew her and she never knew him. Their lives had only brushed by each other for brief moments in the Empire cinema. Ships in the night, and all that. But he was over Laura Leach now, thankfully. It had been a passing phase, a temporary madness from which he’d recovered, and Edith had been crucial in helping him down the recovery road.

  Edith was standing beside him, looking down at Laura’s coffin. He thought she looked even more beautiful dressed in black, with her hair tied up into an elegant knot, not unlike Audrey Hepburn from certain angles. She moved her hand closer to his and he felt her cold fingers enmesh with his. Their breath came out in clouds to mingle, become one, breath that drifted gossamer-like over the open grave. She’d been eager to attend the funeral, and he’d no idea why. Perhaps she wanted to make sure she was gone from their lives, see it with her own eyes; eyes which were curiously moist, he thought.

  Laura had been found dead in the stream near Devereux Towers. She’d taken her own life a few weeks after she’d told the police everything. No foul play suspected, they said. She was depressed, on medication, had been for years. She’d been in Bartholomew Place for a long time. Inevitable, was a word someone used. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. In her will she’d left all her money to a children’s home somewhere, which Vince thought was very thoughtful of her. Devereux Towers was up for sale and already a prospective buyer was interested in turning it into a hotel. But he couldn’t dredge up a single ounce of the feelings he once had for Laura. Why was that? Surely there should be something he could let her have, a last tear, a final tiny morsel from his heart? But no, not a single thing could he release for her, and maybe it was because Edith had become the centre of his attentions now; she soaked up everything he had like a black hole swallows up light.

  Before the funeral service in church, Edith had told him how handsome he looked. She openly admired his new haircut, his new shirt, his new suit. How different he looked, she said. A real change had come over him, and it was a change for the good. He was manager now and looked the part, too.

  His promotion had come as a surprise to him. It was, in part, recognition of his long service with the cinema, his positive actions on the night of the flood when his manager was asleep and drunk in his office – actions Edith had been all too eager to embellish when interviewed by the bigwigs from HQ. But of course they also needed someone to replace the thoroughly disgraced Martin Caldwell, a safe pair of hands. They wanted to lay the memory of Martin Caldwell to rest as quickly as they tumbled earth into Laura’s grave.

  The police arrested Caldwell within a day or two of the flood and the discovery of the two bodies in the well. They charged him with their murder. The evidence was clear – pregnant Monica had been blackmailing him – Vince had told the police as much, told them all he knew. And they found his missing Oscar statuette in the well, its base dented from where it had caved Monica’s skull in before he disposed of her body. And the other body, the man’s, this belonged to the guy whom Caldwell was living in fear of. Caldwell’s sordid past came flooding out as quickly as the water did from the well; how he’d used the fire-axe by the door to finish-off Felix before dumping him in the well too. They say he wasn’t dead when he was pushed in, but that he drowned. The fire-axe was also found in the well. The thing was, Caldwell might have evaded detection hadn’t a botched attempt to frame Laura for the mur
der of Felix’s girlfriend sealed his fate. The man who broke into Devereux Towers with the intention of planting the murder weapon, confessed everything to the police.

  Caldwell denied everything, very convincingly, but the evidence against him was overwhelming. They had motivations, they had murder weapons, they had bags of evidence from interviews with Empire employees, and now Martin Caldwell was about to serve a life sentence for committing three murders. Who’d have thought it?

  Poor Laura; she’d suffered so much at their scheming hands, had no idea what she was involved in, what part she was to play. And now she was dead, just like Ophelia, said Edith. Vince had no idea who Ophelia was, but didn’t say anything so as not to betray his ignorance. But he ought to forget Laura now, because Edith and he were together now, a couple, a unit; they were soul-mates. They even whispered tentatively of marriage in a year or two. In the meantime Vince was taking driving lessons, and by the end of the New Year he hoped to have passed his driving test. There was a lovely MGB-GT he had set his sights on. A beauty, only a year old. As manager of the Empire he could afford to take out a bank loan now. By Christmas he’d be driving around Somerset in his very own sports car. Who’d have thought that, too? Even his mum and dad started to smile at him when they spoke, and finally began to say encouraging things about him to other people.

  HQ had suggested that once Monica’s body had been released for burial Vince should attend the funeral. He didn’t have to, they said, not really, but now he was manager he had obligations. She had been an employee. He should show his face, for outward appearances if nothing else. After all, it had been a tragic affair, and no one deserved to get murdered, not even Monica. Buy a wreath, on behalf of the company. Not too expensive though, because budgets were tight, what with the planned refurbishment and all. So he’d get to go to his second funeral soon.

  Vince looked up. There was no one else stood around the grave but the vicar, Edith and himself. Not one relation to mourn Laura’s passing. Standing some distance away he saw Leonard Kimble. He had his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the bitter cold. And he was smiling, which Vince thought a little odd. Smiling at Edith and him. Kimble gave a quick wave and then walked away. What was he doing here? Was that business or personal, thought Vince.

  Edith and Vince walked back to the Empire. It was currently closed because of the refurbishment. Builders were coming in the next day to cap off the old well with concrete and re-concrete the entire basement floor as part of the planned changes. Vince also had a couple of interviews to carry out with prospective new projectionists. HQ thought it best if fresh faces were brought in. a clean slate. Vince had argued the case that he should have a deputy manager and had managed to shoehorn Edith into the new role, making the most of her brave actions and utter commitment to the Empire on the night of the flood. HQ agreed with scarce a bat of an eyelid. He guessed they were simply glad to get things moving along and get back to normal.

  That afternoon, Edith and Vince informed a young man that he was to become the new projectionist when the cinema reopened for business.

  ‘The future’s going to be big for the Empire,’ Vince said to him. ‘We’ve got great plans for the place – more screens, more X-rated films in an evening, more bums on seats, securing your future and mine…’

  Edith smiled openly at Vince’s newfound confidence.

  ‘You and I, we’re going to make this place special,’ she said when the new projectionist had left.

  ‘We are,’ he agreed, kissing her and never failing to marvel at how cushion-soft her full lips were. ‘It belongs to us now. We’re rulers of an Empire!’

  * * * *

  35

  Truly, Madly, Forever

  Edith left Vince making a phone call regarding the building work going ahead the next morning. She was so happy, and decided to wander the empty corridors to take in all that they had achieved. She could hardly believe the swift turn of events. There was so much to be done, she thought. The Empire would be transformed under their joint managership. Once more it would become a place of dreams.

  ‘Ah, mine, all mine,’ said a voice behind her as she stood before the massive cinema screen imagining all the movies as yet to be projected upon it.

  She turned. ‘Leonard,’ she said. ‘You surprised me.’

  ‘Lenny,’ he said. ‘Why so formal all of a sudden?’ Leonard Kimble strolled down the centre aisle towards her, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. ‘The flood did a lot of damage,’ he observed, nodding at the muddy-grey gunge on the ruined carpets in front of the stage. ‘Going to cost something to get it all fixed.’

  ‘It was being refurbished anyway,’ she said. ‘I saw you today, at Laura Leach’s funeral. Did you know her?’

  ‘I knew her better than most, I guess. The entire story was good for the Gazette, though; good for me too, if I’m honest. That level of scandal in Langbridge will not come around again in a hurry.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you,’ said Edith.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you, Edith?’

  The comment wasn’t expected. ‘What on earth makes you say that?’

  He shrugged. ‘The way you look at me. The way you talk to me. Little things.’

  ‘What is it you want, Leonard? If you need to speak to Vince he’s up in his office.’

  ‘Yes, good old Vince. Done well for himself out of this, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He deserves to do well,’ she said.

  ‘Why him, Edith, eh? I mean, he’s a born loser, a nobody. He looks like a baboon wearing a suit. Why would you choose someone like him over someone like me?’

  ‘Vince is a nice, gentle-hearted man. I don’t think you ought to be saying such things. You shouldn’t even be in here. You’re trespassing, so I think you should leave.’

  ‘You really think you’re someone, don’t you? I know your mum and dad; they think they’re better than anyone else with their fancy Volvo, avocado-coloured bathroom suite and lawn sprinklers.’

  Edith made as if to walk past him. ‘It’s time you left now, Leonard, before you say something you shouldn’t. If you don’t leave, I’ll – ‘

  ‘You’ll what?’ he said, grabbing her by the arm, jamming his face close to hers.

  ‘I’ll tell Vince.’

  ‘I’m so scared!’ he mocked. ‘You’re all the same, you women – you girls. Tarts, every last one of you, only good for one thing.’

  ‘Let me go, you’re starting to hurt me! What’s gotten into you?’

  ‘What would your precious Vince say if he knew the truth about you?’

  She frowned deeply. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Let me go!’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  She yanked her arm free. ‘You’re crazy, Leonard!’ she said, storming away up the aisle. ‘I’m going to get Vince.’

  ‘Your mum and dad – they aren’t your real parents, Edith.’

  Edith stopped in her tracks and turned round. ‘What are you babbling on about? Of course they’re my real parents. Are you ill or something?’

  ‘Ever wondered how your mother managed to conceive, given that she’d had a hysterectomy a few years before you were born?’

  ‘That’s not true! I’m going to get the police.’

  ‘But it is true, Edith. I’ve seen hospital records and spoken to the woman who knew your real mother. You were adopted, Edith. They’re not your real parents. Mad Laura Leach was your real mother.’

  Edith was speechless, the words she wanted to say drying up on her tongue. A swarm of strange, disturbing thoughts stung her mind. ‘Why are you creating all these absurd lies, Leonard? What do you hope to gain from it?’

  He came towards her. ‘They’re not lies, Edith. You were the result of an affair between Laura and a married driving instructor. He killed himself because of it; she was put into Bartholomew Place because of it. Want to know what your real name was going to be? Alex – Alexandra, that’s what Laura called you, but that was never th
e name they were going to christen you. You were taken from her at birth and given like so much unwanted and troublesome baggage to a nice, discreet couple who couldn’t have children. You’ve been living a lie all this time. Just think if word got out you were actually loony Laura’s bastard child, your mother the suicidal Witch of Devereux Towers. Why, Vince wouldn’t want you, would he? Not now he’s a manager and on the up. You’d become the laughing-stock of the town, someone people would point out when you walked down the street. There’s that bastard, Edith – or is it Alex? They love that sort of thing around here. And think about it; proper legal channels weren’t followed when you were adopted, either. All done on the quiet. On the sly. Your dad was a crafty old geezer. Pulled the right strings to make it happen, keep it hush-hush. Your mum and dad might even go to court for it. At the very least they’d have to leave Langbridge. You all would. So you see, everyone’s been living a lie. You’re a nobody, Edith; the result of a sordid affair with so-called parents that were willing to take a child to satisfy their own shortcomings and help cover the whole thing up. Technically, you don’t belong anywhere.’

  She sat on one of the cinema seats. She often wondered why there was no resemblance to her mother and father. Why they avoided talking about her birth, or why they couldn’t provide a birth certificate – destroyed, they said, or lost; or why they talked so cruelly about Laura Leach when she came back to Devereux Towers. And of course it made sense why her Aunty Liz always referred to her as the Miracle Baby. Her mother had been barren, she said; she couldn’t have children and God had smiled upon them…

  ‘You have proof of all this?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oh yes, lots of it. It’s all true.’

  ‘Does anyone else know about this?’

  ‘Not yet. And they needn’t,’ he said, reaching out and putting a hand on her thigh.