A Little Murder

by Suzette A. Hill

  Rosy confessed that her own activities in that sphere were confined to tacking fallen hems and securing recalcitrant buttons, neither of which provided much balm to the fevered brow.

  ‘Oh, I am sure you have plenty of other pastimes which keep you busy – masses of picture-going and dancing and all that sort of gaiety, I expect. As a matter of fact, years ago Harold and I used to be rather nifty on the ballroom floor ourselves. Oh yes, before the war we were great fans of Victor Sylvester – at least Harold was, although I have to admit to preferring Carol Gibbons myself. He always struck me as being a little more adventurous, a little more, uhm – how shall I put it …?’ She broke off groping for a phrase.

  ‘Upbeat?’ Rosy queried.

  ‘Exactly! More upbeat.’ Mrs Gill beamed. ‘Sylvester is very smooth, of course, all very elegant and rhythmic, but just a titchy bit predictable I always feel. It suited Harold, but personally I like an element of surprise just now and again, it spices things up you might say!’ She paused and gave a little giggle. ‘Goodness, hark at me – I sound quite racy!’

  Rosy smiled and enquired politely about their plans for Kenya. ‘I imagine that might provide some spice – all those cocktails and big-game hunting. Rather different from St John’s Wood I should think.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we shall get involved in that kind of set … although, you never know, I may encourage Harold to pursue the savage wildebeest. That might cure the rheumatism!’ Rosy thought she heard her add something under her breath which sounded suspiciously like ‘and other things too’, but she couldn’t be sure.

  She got up and started to rummage in a cabinet. ‘Now, Rosy, talking of our decamping to Kenya, I want you to have this. It’s the rose bowl I told you about, the one that belonged to your aunt. I am sure you will find a use for it.’

  Rosy was less sure. As flower vases go it struck her as singularly unremarkable, a Selfridge staple – bargain basement, in fact – and she certainly didn’t recall it in Marcia’s house, with or without roses; not that that meant anything, for she had so rarely gone there. However, she expressed grateful thanks, and feeling peckish privately wondered when tea might appear.

  Mrs Gill must have read these last thoughts for she said, ‘Now, it’s high time for the cup that cheers, don’t you think? I’ll only be a tick. Shan’t need to trudge into the kitchen, we have one of those splendid Teasmade machines in the bedroom. Such a boon, in fact a veritable nonesuch – saves all that early morning palaver of traipsing up and down stairs. Have you got one, my dear?’ Rosy shook her head. ‘Oh, you should! Ask your current beau to give you one for your birthday, you will find it invaluable.’

  Rosy thought that if she had such a thing as a current beau, then a tea-making machine was the last thing she would request as a birthday present.

  While Mrs Gill busied herself in one of the bedrooms with the indispensable nonesuch, Rosy wandered over to the window and watched a couple of pigeons strutting on the balcony. They must have seen her shadow, for with a squawk they took flight, and turning back into the room her glance fell on a small ottoman stacked with books and magazines. Idly she picked up a back number of Country Life, and as she did so a thick square envelope slipped to the floor. She stooped to replace it and then stared in astonishment at the inscription – For my niece Miss Rosy Gilchrist. Personal. The lettering was in green ink, bold and clear, and underneath in brackets and smaller script was her home address. The flap was unfastened and in startled perplexity she began to withdraw its contents.

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ Mrs Gill’s voice said.

  Rosy swung round to see her hostess poised in the doorway bearing a tray of tea things and a plate of sandwiches. Before she could say anything Mrs Gill had placed the tray on a side table and advanced a few steps into the room. ‘I am afraid we need that, if you don’t mind,’ she said pleasantly, extending her hand.

  Rosy recoiled and tightened her hold on the envelope. ‘Er, well I do actually … I mean it seems to be mine. It’s from Marcia.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know that, and frankly you weren’t supposed to find it – silly of me to leave it there. But I am afraid that despite what they say, finders can’t always be keepers, so I’ll have it back please.’ The tone was firm.

  As was Rosy’s. ‘I am afraid that is out of the question. It belongs to me.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Gill sighed, ‘that’s unfortunate.’ She closed the door, locked it and slipped the key into her pocket. It was a swift movement – almost as swift as the following one: the production of a pistol, a small Beretta. She had flipped open the lid of her sewing box and in the next instant had the gun grasped firmly in her hand and pointing at Rosy.

  ‘Sit down, my dear, we have much to talk about.’

  With stunned mind and uncertain legs, Rosy did exactly as she was told. She gazed in stupefied horror at her hostess.

  ‘I suppose I should apologise,’ murmured Mrs Gill, ‘I had hoped this wouldn’t be required. You see, I had only invited you here to ascertain certain facts, i.e. whether that tiresome man said anything to you the other night. But I’m afraid one has been overtaken by events – your finding that.’ She nodded towards the thick envelope still clutched in Rosy’s hand, and gave a rueful smile.

  ‘What man?’ Rosy asked in dazed incredulity.

  ‘Sabatier, of course. Don’t tell me you didn’t see him, you were only about a foot away. I saw you from our bathroom window – bending over him after Harold had slipped back into Marcia’s kitchen. You gave us a nasty turn, I can tell you!’

  Rosy closed her eyes and swallowed; opened them and was dazzled by the afternoon sun pouring in from the French window. Was this real? she wondered, but immediately supplied the answer: ‘Of course it bloody is, and I’m not going to let the old bitch frighten me!’

  She smiled sweetly across the table. ‘Ah, Sabatier. Yes, I did discover him; and no, he said nothing.’

  Mrs Gill nodded. ‘That could have been helpful to you, but alas not any more.’ She gestured to the envelope. ‘Put it on the table, if you wouldn’t mind, it’ll be safer there. We haven’t finished with it yet – and though you may think this odd, those papers do have a certain nostalgic value.’ The tone was casual, the Beretta looked lethal.

  Rosy put it aside, and taking a deep breath said, ‘So you killed my aunt, did you?’

  ‘Well we had to, you see, she really was becoming quite impossible. I mean, the amount of money she was demanding was ridiculous! And besides, Marcia being Marcia there was no guarantee that even if we did produce the “fee” she wouldn’t come back for more – or worse still blab it all to the government anyway! … No, Rosy, I am afraid it has to be said that your aunt was a fearful liability.’ Mrs Gill looked indignant. But relaxing her hold on the gun she placed it carefully on the lid of the sewing box and enquired if her guest would like a sandwich. ‘I always like a couple at this time of day, keeps one going till supper. I can recommend the lemon and fish paste.’

  The guest eyed the sandwiches and felt sick.

  ‘To be perfectly frank,’ Mrs Gill continued, ‘I have to admit to having found your aunt distinctly wearisome, and I don’t just mean her discovery of our political activities. Had I known that she owned the house next door we would never have moved here – nothing but noise and parties and that wretched gramophone! She caused me enough trouble in the war as it was – slept with Harold, you know.’

  Rosy must have looked startled for Mrs Gill gave a dry laugh. ‘Oh yes, quite smitten with her he was. Naturally it didn’t last, she soon threw him over. Still, it was not something I found agreeable – makes one look rather a fool. Frankly it rankled – and not just with me. Harold was most resentful when she discarded him, grumbles about it even now … But then he grumbles about a lot of things, particularly the current state of the country. It’s all very well having a pretty young queen gracing the pages of the Tatler and being kowtowed to by Winston Churchill, but what the nation needs is discipline. There’s
too much indulgence these days, we’ve gone flabby; that’s always a danger with a great race – as Mr Hitler well knew. If things had been different he might have achieved something here … Oh well, too late now, those days are long gone.’ She gave a pensive sigh and took a bite of her sandwich. Rosy wished it were poisoned.

  She also wished she had the means of distracting the woman from her immediate purpose, which on the face of things struck her as not being particularly to her own benefit. The obvious thing was to keep the conversation swinging along: while the woman talked she couldn’t act!

  ‘Was it difficult,’ she asked, ‘I mean the planning and execution? Must have been quite tricky.’

  Mrs Gill reflected. ‘No, I wouldn’t say difficult really – exacting would be a better term. So much depended on the timing. We had put it about to the neighbours that we were going away for a couple of days, me to my sister in Maidstone and Harold to his club in Pall Mall. Nothing unusual in that, he stays there from time to time on business or a late-night dinner; saves me being woken up when he comes stumbling back in the small hours. Thus the house was thought to be empty at the time of Marcia’s accident.’ (Mrs Gill coughed discreetly.)

  ‘But you were both there, presumably?’

  ‘Oh, not me – at least, not until afterwards. But Harold was, of course. The plan was that he should slip away from his club unobserved, return to our house incognito, wait until that wretched artist man had gone, do the deed and melt back to his club again.’ (The idea of the solid Harold Gill melting anywhere struck Rosy as exceedingly unlikely, but she refrained from comment.) ‘But,’ Mrs Gill added acidly, ‘there was an unforeseen hitch.’

  ‘Ah,’ Rosy remarked sagely, ‘best laid plans and all that …’

  The other sniffed. ‘One could say that, but frankly it was Harold’s fault. Admittedly he is awfully good at actual dispatches. The war helped him in that enormously, and of course there was also his experience with the military police in Palestine – but just now and again he will make what I believe is vulgarly termed a monumental cock-up.’ She smiled faintly and added, ‘I don’t know whether you have noticed, but in my experience, although men are wizards at so many things, they do need to be steered – or, at least, Harold does! As said, I was not at home at the time of your aunt’s disposal, not immediately, at any rate. Had I been so then I can assure you that his stupid blunder with the lawnmower would never have happened.’

  Rosy moistened her lips which were becoming uncomfortably dry. ‘What blunder was that?’ she enquired politely.

  ‘Well up until then things were going exactly to plan. Having left his club unobserved by the hall porter he returned to St John’s Wood in mild disguise, wearing a brown trilby and a navy-blue blazer – normally he wouldn’t be seen dead in either. Always a dark homburg and a double-breasted. And when he felt the coast was clear he slipped back into our house and—’

  ‘So where did he change his clothes?’ Rosy asked. ‘At the club?’

  ‘What? Oh no, in a public lavatory. Not a savoury experience … Anyway, as I was saying, he slipped back into the house and hovered discreetly behind the drawn blinds – we always close them when we go away, people can be so nosy – and waited for the appropriate moment to visit Marcia. He knew Clovis was there and would be leaving at some point; as of course he did, though rather earlier than expected. However – and this is what really annoys me – it was raining very heavily, pouring, in fact, and for some reason Harold happened to take a peek out of the hall window … and what did he see? His lawnmower, if you please!’ She raised her eyes to the heavens.

  Rosy was bemused. ‘Oh … was that important?’

  ‘It certainly was. It’s his pride and joy, the latest model and frightfully costly, and it was getting wet! Fred – our weekly gardener – had omitted to put it away and left it on the gravel at the edge of the front lawn, “open to the skies”, as Harold put it.’ Mrs Gill tapped an impatient finger on the pistol butt, a gesture which made Rosy flinch. ‘And do you know what?’

  ‘No,’ Rosy replied meekly, eying the drumming finger.

  ‘Well, after all our plans for secrecy, the stupid man felt impelled to rescue the confounded thing, rescue it from the ravages of rust … I ask you!’ She shook her head in disbelief as if inviting her listener for fellow sympathy.

  Rosy cleared her throat and ventured to say that yes, given the situation, i.e. the prospective shooting of a neighbour, the fate of the lawnmower did seem a mite irrelevant.

  ‘Exactly. It would to you and me, but not to Harold. Typical. Men can be like that, you know, they compartmentalise things – can’t see the wood for the trees, although in this case that was the problem. There was no tree, not one sheltering the mower, at any rate!’ Mrs Gill broke off and stared at Rosy quizzically, before saying in a solicitous tone, ‘You look pale, my dear. I expect you could do with a spot of sherry, I know I could.’

  She rose to fetch the decanter from the drinks cabinet, and for a wild instant Rosy thought she might be able to grab the pistol. No chance, of course. The weapon went with its owner.

  Back in her chair, Mrs Gill poured the sherry into tiny crystal glasses and offered one to her guest. Rosy regarded it dully, wondering if it was a poisoned chalice, and then decided that on the whole she didn’t much care anyway. Besides, her hostess had already taken a sip.

  ‘And so,’ Mrs Gill continued, ‘you can imagine what happened.’

  ‘Er, not entirely.’

  ‘Well naturally, being Harold, he had to dash out there and then and put it in the shed. I suppose he thought he could sneak it in without anyone observing. What foolishness! Inevitably, of course, he was seen – by of all people Clovis Thistlehyde. Harold said he suddenly emerged at the top of Marcia’s steps, clearly about to leave, and clutching his easel and paints which he promptly dropped. Then as he was gathering things up he glanced down over our front lawn – exactly to where Harold was standing fussing with his beastly machine … So you see, obviously he was seen and thus known to be at home!’

  ‘But surely it wasn’t definite that Clovis had noticed him. I mean he might have been gazing at the sky or at your nice rhododendrons …’

  ‘Rather what I said. But Harold wasn’t having it. “He saw me,” he said, “the beggar actually waved.” And that was that. It preyed on his mind, you see. I did my best to persuade him that Thistlehyde was so absorbed in himself that a casual wave didn’t mean a thing and he had doubtless forgotten the whole incident. But Harold can be very stubborn, and when he gets an idea in his head nothing will dislodge it … a bit like Mr Hitler in that respect. Anyway, it convinced him that Clovis had to go. “No point in taking chances,” he told me. Frankly, I thought that was a bit rich coming from one who had risked all for a wretched lawnmower. However, I said nothing – it doesn’t do to question them. I expect you found the same with your young man in the war.’ She smiled knowingly, woman to woman.

  Rosy gave a lying nod, terrified of causing offence. (Agree with everything, she thought desperately, be her kindly confidante and she may drop her guard.) She mustered a reciprocal smile. ‘Hmm – and, ah, I suppose he … dealt with him?’

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t difficult. Harold rang the studio and said we had a special wedding anniversary coming up and that I had begged him to have his portrait painted – can’t think where he got that idea from! – and he would like to go to the studio to discuss matters. So an appointment was made … and well, the rest is history, as they say.’ Mrs Gill sat back in her chair, patted her perm and took a sip of sherry.

  As a general rule Rosy was not given to sweating, but it was one of those rare occasions when she felt a clamminess down her back and under her arms. Her throat started to feel tight and she sensed a quickening in her breath. Be calm, she told herself. Do not show fear, show interest.

  Thus she leant forward and with feigned concern said, ‘That must have been quite a blow. I mean, with Marcia out of the way, presumably you felt that was
the end of the whole thing – but then came another threat from Clovis. Weren’t you worried?’

  Mrs Gill gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Oh, well one gets used to it. After all, if you have a mission to change the course of your country’s future, as Harold and I once did, then one learns resilience. You develop quite a tough skin – as I am sure you did in the war, my dear.’ The last words were delivered without apparent sarcasm. ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘a tough skin is also required living with Harold, but that’s another tale …’ A flicker of distaste showed in the bland eyes. ‘But yes, you are quite right, it was somewhat trying – particularly as after the Thistlehyde business there was the problem with Adelaide. I rather slipped up there – or at least she did.’ A faint smile crossed Mrs Gill’s face.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ gasped Rosy. ‘Surely it wasn’t you who—’

  ‘Pushed her down the steps? Oh yes, indeed it was. But as said, I made rather a bish – should have pushed harder. I don’t have Harold’s dexterity in these matters.’ She looked mildly apologetic.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘She was really becoming rather tiresome. Always has been, of course – ask Angela Fawcett! I realised the damage she could do. Whether she intended it I have no idea, but she had the potential and one simply couldn’t take the risk.’

  Rosy’s shock yielded to curiosity. What was the woman getting at?

  Mrs Gill must have seen her puzzlement for she continued quietly: ‘You see, it was at that party the Fawcetts gave. I suddenly saw how dangerous she was. It wasn’t only Maynard Latimer’s feathers she ruffled that night – yes, I rather thought you had noticed that – Harold came in for a few barbs too. At first I didn’t take them too seriously, just Adelaide being her waspish self. But afterwards I suddenly saw the implications.’

  ‘Why, what had she been saying?’ Despite growing fear, Rosy was fascinated: not just by the narrative but by the narrator’s extraordinary sangfroid. It was as if she were exchanging confidences at a vicar’s tea party.