Choice of Evils

by E. X. Ferrars

  ‘You're sure, aren't you, that he didn't write those three books?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  ‘And someone else has known it for some time and has made him pay for it?’

  Andrew nodded.

  ‘But who could that have been but Rachel Rayne?’ Peter demanded. ‘And doesn't it supply the obvious motive for her murder?’

  ‘Have you thought of Mina Todhunter?’

  Peter gave him a startled look.

  ‘Mina Todhunter?’

  Andrew nodded gravely. ‘Why not?’

  ‘But she'd no motive for killing Rachel. And she's a friend of Amory's. And she's given him an alibi.’

  ‘Or is it he who's giving her one? They alibi each other. Anyway, they were taking a risk with that alibi. If I'd rung up a bit earlier than I did and one of them, whichever it was, wasn't there, there'd have been a silence which it might have been difficult to explain.’

  ‘I say, your unconscious is really working hard now, isn't it?’ Peter said with a little grin. ‘But it still hasn't come up with a satisfactory motive. I'm not sold on your theory.’

  ‘Nor am I entirely,’ Andrew said. ‘I'd like to find some-thing in the way of proof, and so far …’ He stopped abruptly, staring hard at Peter, but not seeing him.

  At that moment, just as it had happened the day before, a waitress came in and spoke to Peter.

  ‘Mr Dilly, you're wanted on the telephone.’

  Peter gave an irritated grunt, got up and followed her out.

  After only a minute or so he was back, but in that minute his face had utterly changed. It had turned deadly pale, while his eyes shone with a shocked brilliance. He stooped down to speak into Andrew's ear, to make sure that no one else in the lounge could hear him.

  ‘Andrew, Amory has shot himself. He came back from the hospital this afternoon, seems to have gone into the summerhouse and shot himself on the spot. Gooch has just found him, and seems to want me there. Come on, we'd better go.’

  ‘No,’ Andrew said. ‘I'm not going. You go and do what you can for Gooch. Mayhew can find me here when he wants me.’

  It was not Mayhew who later that evening came to fetch Andrew, but a constable with a car. They drove to the police station where Andrew was taken into Mayhew's office. Peter was there with Mayhew and a sergeant who looked prepared to take notes.

  'So we're to arrest Miss Todhunter for murder, are we, Professor?’ Mayhew said, after waving Andrew to a chair. ‘Do you care to enlarge on that?’

  ‘First will you tell me if it's certain Amory shot himself?’ Andrew replied. ‘It isn't murder number three?’

  ‘I'm not committing myself till there's been a post-mortem, but I think it's as certain as it can be,’ Mayhew said. ‘He let himself out of the hospital, took a taxi home, was seen arriving by Gooch, but did not speak to him, went straight into the summerhouse, not the house, and a few minutes later Gooch heard a shot. He went out and found Amory sitting at his desk, fallen forward, with a gun on the desk beside him and a sheet of paper there on which there were a few words, "I've done this because I deserve it." That was all. Gooch phoned us at once. I should say we got there not much more than a quarter of an hour later. He was shot in the temple and the blood was still oozing. I'm assuming that it was suicide and that he had his reasons, mainly that he couldn't live with two murders on his conscience, but Mr Dilly tells me that you've a different opinion.’

  ‘That's so,’ Andrew said. ‘He had other things on his conscience, and as things had turned out his life had become for him a choice of evils, whether to reveal the identity of the murderer, which would have resulted in her taking her revenge by revealing him as a fraud who had built up a reputation for himself entirely on the work of his wife, a humiliation he couldn't face, or to remain quiet and let her get away successfully with murder. In the end it looks as if he was prepared to let her do that, since he did not name her in that last scrawl of his, but he couldn't face the idea of meeting her just as usual, playing his Saturday game of chess with her and inciden-tally continuing to pay her blackmail. He's only punished her by cutting off her regular income, the protection of which was her motive for the murder of Rachel Rayne.’

  ‘This is very interesting,’ Mayhew said, ‘but how did you arrive at it, if one may ask that?’ There was only mild sarcasm in his tone.

  ‘I suppose it would be best if I go back to the beginning,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Usually a good place to start,’ Mayhew agreed.

  ‘Only I'm not really sure what was the beginning for me,’ Andrew continued. ‘I think it was when Rachel Rayne showed such a surprising interest in her sister's intestacy. It struck me then that that could only be if she believed that money or property of her sister's ought to have come to her. But that could only be if her sister had not been legally married to Amory, and also if her sister had had enough money to leave to make it worth Rachel's while to stir up an old scandal. The Clarkes, however, told me that they had a wedding photograph of the Amorys, so I began to think of bigamy, as you did yourself, didn't you. Inspector?’

  ‘That's right,’ Mayhew said. ‘But I've been assuming that the reason for Rachel Rayne's murder was that she'd attempted blackmailing Amory with the story of that bigamy. Why she'd waited so long to do it, because she probably learnt it from her sister on her visit to America, or perhaps even earlier than that, I didn't know, but it seemed to me an adequate motive for him to kill her. Only we'd very little evidence of it. Motive isn't enough.’

  ‘I don't believe Rachel ever tried to blackmail him,’ Andrew said.

  ‘What was she doing in the summerhouse then on the Friday evening, when Mr Dilly saw her, if she wasn't looking for evidence of some kind against him?’

  ‘Oh, she was looking for evidence,’ Andrew said, ‘but I think it was only because she wanted to put the record straight, not because in the first place she wanted money.’

  ‘You think she believed her sister had written Amory's books?’

  Andrew nodded. ‘I think she'd had suspicions of it for some time. After all, she'd probably always known that her sister had tried her hand from time to time at writing, but had had no success. Then all of a sudden, after her death, Amory started writing and his first book was an amazing best-seller. I doubt if Rachel suspected anything amiss at first and as she didn't even like him, she didn't trouble to read it. But then perhaps she did, or saw the play or the film and something in it stirred a suspicion in her. There's a scene near the beginning of the book where some children go on a boat trip together and I can't help wondering - it's only a thought - if that scene didn't come straight out of Rachel's own childhood and couldn't have been known to Amory. Anyway, I believe that at some point something made her suspect Amory of pirating his wife's books so she came down here, looking for evidence.

  And she found it, three manuscripts in her sister's hand-writing in a drawer of the desk in the summerhouse.’

  ‘And she took the manuscripts?’ Mayhew said.

  ‘No, I don't believe she did. She wasn't sure enough of herself. But next morning she called on Miss Todhunter, to ask her advice about how to handle the situation. She knew that Miss Todhunter and her sister had been friends, and Miss Todhunter was, or at least had been, a writer, with experience of the literary world. But Miss Todhunter only gave her a brush-off - that was Rachel's own expression for it, and straight after it Rachel ran into my nephew and me and we went to have a coffee together and she started to ask me for advice, only I gave her a brush-off too. That's to say, I didn't even let her get as far as telling me what she wanted advice about, but it was just then that my nephew dropped a remark about her sister having died intestate, and immediately Rachel's attitude changed. She became peculiarly excited and left us almost at once.’

  'So she did want money after all,’ Mayhew said. ‘But not by blackmail. She wanted what she thought rightfully belonged to her.’

  ‘Even more alarming to Amory, I'd have thought, than blackmail.
It would have meant he'd lose everything he had, besides being publicly hurpiliated.’

  ‘The person to whom it was alarming was Miss Todhunter.’

  ‘Would you care to explain that?’

  ‘Well, I believe she'd been living for some years on money she'd extorted from Amory because of her know-ledge that the books that had made him so famous had been written by his dead wife. I don't know what proof of this she had, other than the fact that Mrs Wale, who'd typed them for Mrs Amory, could have said it was for her and not her husband that she'd typed them. But when I spoke to Miss Todhunter about this, she had a very ingenious and almost convincing explanation of how it had come about. But I think if you know what you're looking for, you won't find it too difficult to discover it. For one thing, I don't believe her own books have been selling for a long time, yet she's been living quite comfortably. Not luxuriously, she wasn't too greedy, but she appears to have had a steady source of income that enabled her to live quite pleasantly. For instance, her car is a BMW. Of course, she may have some other source of income, but I'd advise you to investigate just where it comes from.’

  ‘If you're right,’ Mayhew said, 'that income has now come to an end.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Andrew agreed. 'She murdered to protect it, but things went too far and Amory couldn't stand the strain.’

  ‘Even though what she did was in a way to protect him.’ ‘Yes, I wonder how often that's happened. I think it must be unusual for a blackmailer to murder to protect his victim.’

  ‘But how do you believe she set it up? And that alibi - that wasn't very reliable, was it?’

  ‘No, there she was taking a big risk. And of course she was relying on Amory to back her up, which but for that second murder I think he might have done, but that was more than he could stand. Of course, this is all most shocking guesswork, but I think what happened is that some time on Saturday afternoon she telephoned Rachel Rayne, told her she'd been thinking over the situation about her sister's books, and would like to meet Rachel in the summerhouse so that she could take a look at the manu-scripts herself, then went up there to meet her, knowing that Amory would be out of the way, because he'd have arrived at the bookshop for his usual game of chess.’

  ‘Queer to go on playing a friendly game every week with the woman who's bleeding you,’ Mayhew observed.

  ‘Remember, he was in her power,’ Andrew said. ‘He had to do what she told him, or that exposure that he dreaded so much could have happened. Well, I think Miss Todhunter met Rachel, shot her, collected the manuscripts and made off for the path down the cliff behind that strip of woodland. Perhaps she'd slightly disguised herself, put a scarf over her hair and dark glasses on or something like that, but on the whole trusting to luck that she wouldn't meet anyone. And she walked straight into Magda Braile. So Magda went over the edge of the cliff, and Miss Todhunter hurried home. And only a short time after she got in I telephoned. If I'd telephoned only ten minutes or so earlier I wouldn't have got any reply, because Amory wouldn't have answered for her and neither she nor Amory would have had any alibi. But she was just successful.’

  ‘Do you think he knew what she'd gone out to do?’ Mayhew asked.

  ‘That's something we're never going to know for sure, isn't it?’ Andrew answered.

  ‘My guess is that he didn't know what she'd gone to do, but she told him when she got back, and warned him that he'd better back up her alibi, as she would his, or she'd expose him.’

  ‘And what did she do with the manuscripts?’

  ‘My belief is that if you get a search warrant and make a really thorough search of Todhunter's Bookshop, you'll find them hidden somewhere, perhaps in some attic, or under some floorboard, or somewhere you clever policemen will ultimately unearth them.’

  'She may have burnt them.’

  ‘It's possible, yes.’

  ‘Well, I've found this a very interesting discussion,’ Mayhew said, standing up, which Andrew took as a sign that the interview was at an end. He stood up too. ‘We'll certainly look for those manuscripts in the bookshop, because if you don't mind my saying so. Professor, they're the one bit of solid evidence of which you've spoken. But I'm most grateful for all you've suggested.’

  T hope you'll find some of it of use,’ Andrew replied. ‘Good night. Inspector. Coming, Peter?’

  They returned to the hotel in Peter's car.

  Next morning Peter drove Andrew to the station to catch the 11.13 to Paddington. After all he had stuck to his intention to return to London, though Peter was staying in Gallmouth. Andrew held that he had done all that he could there and would be of no further use. If it happened that he was needed, which he did not think to be likely. Detective Inspector Mayhew had his telephone number in St John's Wood.

  He treated himself to first class on the train, which he did not often do. Usually, he believed, in these days first class was as crowded and uncomfortable as second. But there was always the chance that in a mid-morning train he would find a seat in a reasonably quiet carriage. He was fortunate, and found a seat at a table with no one facing him. Leaning his head back, closing his eyes, he let himself believe that he was just setting out on a brief holiday of peace and quiet.

  Then someone moved into the seat opposite him and he opened his eyes to see what sort of a person it was. It was a small, slim, middle-aged woman who gave him a smile and said, ‘Good morning,’ when she saw that he was looking at her, but then settled down in her seat with a book that she was carrying. It was a paperback copy of Death Come Quickly and she was about halfway through it.

  Perhaps because she was small and slim and middle-aged, with brown hair turning grey and spectacles for reading, Andrew found himself thinking of the woman who he was sure had written the book. He had heard her described as shy and quiet and intelligent and observant. Of the shyness he knew only what he had been told, but of the intelligence and power of observation he was quite certain, but added to them understanding and com-passion, as well as a sardonic sense of humour.

  He thought of Simon Amory with deep dislike, thinking of how shabby a trick he had played on his dead wife, stealing her work, and on the public. Yet he did not feel sure that the woman who had written the book would have grudged him his success. It might even have appealed to her, partly out of generosity and partly out of amusement at the very success which she herself had probably never anticipated.

  Andrew had brought nothing to read except a copy of the Financial Times that he had bought at the station and with which he was finished by the time he was halfway to London. He leant back once more and again closed his eyes. But he had no sooner done so than the lines that had bothered him during the earlier part of his stay in Gallmouth, but of which he had been free for the last day or so, when his thoughts had been much occupied with other matters, took a firm hold on his mind once more.

  Among them was a bishop who

  Had lately been appointed to

  The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo …

  It clung to him all the rest of the way to London, and except when he was queueing for a taxi at Paddington, presently paying the driver and letting himself into his flat and looking round there to make sure that all was well, went on and on repeating itself absurdly in his mind. But once inside the flat he had other things to think about, for instance whether he should go out for lunch, or just go out to the delicatessen round the corner to buy some bread and butter, some cheese for his breakfast, some ham or some pate and perhaps a tin of mangoes of which he was rather fond.

  In the end that was what he did. He would go out for dinner, he thought, and presently, while he was eating the mangoes, it occurred to him that pleasant as they were, fresh ones would be a great deal better and that there was really no reason why he should not set off to one of the places where they grew. In fact, there was no reason why, if he wanted a peaceful holiday, he should not set off round the world. He had done that once before, but that did not prevent him doing it again, going perhaps in the opposite direc
tion. And with winter coming shortly, it would be very agreeable to arrive in one of the places where they were just expecting summer.

  After his light lunch he dropped into a doze in his chair, and then had a peculiarly vivid dream of Mr Thinkum, as he had never thought of him before, standing in a field with his battered top hat above a hideous mask of a face, with his muffler round his neck and his umbrella up over his head, with rain dripping off it. That the colour of the rain was red did not seem strange, only distinctly disagreeable. Andrew was glad to wake from the dream and make himself some coffee.

  It was some days before he saw on the television news that an arrest had been made for the murders in Gallmouth and that the person charged was Mina Todhunter, the once famous children's writer. Since the news of the arrest had been broadcast there had been a greatly increased demand for her books. Naturally nothing was said concerning her possible motive. Peter had returned to London by then and told Andrew that he had been right about the hiding place for the missing manu-scripts. They had been found under a heap of rubbish in the attics of Todhunter's Bookshop.

  Another discovery was that the gun that had killed Simon Amory was the same one that had killed Rachel Rayne. It seemed probable that he had taken it from Mina Todhunter, though where she had obtained it was unknown. Just possibly it had been a souvenir that she had somehow acquired during her days in the ATS. As Rachel Rayne, like her sister, had died intestate and as she had no close relative, it would end with all the proceeds from Death Come Quickly going to the Crown.

  Detective Inspector Mayhew had let on to Peter that he was hoping for promotion as a result of his solution of the murders. At the same time Edward Clarke was already making plans for an Arts Festival for next year, as the one this year had had so much publicity that he felt confident of its success.

  By then a new and meaningless verse had taken possession of Andrew's mind. The bishop was forgotten.