Murder Strikes Pink

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  ‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘Scotland Yard; bearing gifts?’

  Flecker grinned. ‘Well, hardly gifts. Returning that which was loaned or lost.’

  Marion Keswick joined them. She peered round her husband, who was blocking the doorway, to see what they were talking about; at the sight of the double boiler she flushed to a rosy pink. The three men looked at her.

  Then Laurence said, ‘My wife’s been feeling very guilty about that wretched pot, but it was a more or less altruistic lie.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ answered Flecker. ‘At least I think I do.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marion looked at him. ‘I knew that you didn’t believe me; I lived in constant expectation of a heavy hand on my shoulder, but it never came; is that why?’

  ‘I can explain that,’ said Flecker, searching in his pockets. ‘Where are my notes?’

  ‘If we’re going to go into this won’t you come in and sit down,’ suggested Keswick. ‘Or better still, let’s sit in the garden. And what about a drink? Are you permitted to hobnob now that the case is over?’

  ‘Yes, we’re off duty now,’ Flecker told him, and Browning said, ‘Just the job, sir. Inquests are thirsty work in this weather.’

  ‘Oh now, it can’t still be the inquest,’ protested Flecker. ‘Not after all the Superintendent’s tea; you practically drank the County Constabulary’s urn dry.’

  ‘That tea wasn’t made in an urn,’ said Browning scathingly. ‘The Superintendent has his freshly made in a pot.’

  Laurence led the way across the lawn to where four very new garden chairs of various shapes and types stood round an equally new table. ‘Acquired in an attempt to convince my wife that she really can sit down and leave everything to other people,’ he said. ‘Sit down, I’ll just fetch the drinks.’

  Marion sat down, looked rather apprehensively at the detectives and began to talk nervously about the garden. ‘The lawn looks like a burnt offering,’ she said. ‘That always happens here if we get any decent weather. Laurence says that we’ve got to keep the house for at least another six weeks so that he can plant some trees for posterity. We’ve always longed to do it, but we could never afford to and I don’t suppose anyone else who buys a place this size will be able to afford them either.’

  ‘What are you thinking of planting, madam?’ asked Browning.

  ‘Oh, a mixed lot,’ answered Marion. ‘Two of everything that likes chalk — planted in positions where they will block out the worst of the view; and some fruit trees.’

  Flecker said, ‘It must have been a very pleasant view once, before that lot,’ he indicated the petrol stations and Sid’s Café, ‘arrived. And it’s curious how much worse man’s work looks in the country; you’d hardly notice them in a town.’

  ‘It’s the cars which haunt me,’ Marion told him. ‘All those expensive little objects rushing up and down all day; all that energy and petrol consumed and at the end of it so awfully little is accomplished.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the occupants of the cars feel that,’ objected Flecker. ‘The hedonists have probably enjoyed themselves, and if not they’ve survived another day, so there’s still tomorrow. The materialists have done either the nation’s business or their own and are a fraction nearer steadying the economy or making a fortune. The misers have added to their hoards and the religious are one step nearer to the characters for which they will finally have to account.’

  ‘The way some of them drive they don’t deserve to survive,’ complained Browning as Laurence appeared and placed a tray of bottles and glasses on the table. When he had poured out and they were all sipping reflectively Laurence said, ‘Now, where were we? You knew that Marion had thrown the double boiler away and you didn’t accept her story that it leaked. I must say you’d make a very bad murderer, darling,’ he added, turning to his wife. ‘You ought to have made sure it did leak before throwing it away; a couple of minutes with a hammer and nail would have lent verisimilitude —’

  Flecker had spread his envelopes on his knees. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘it was the rather banal fact that the dustbins are emptied on Mondays which more or less convinced me that Mrs. Keswick wasn’t responsible for the crime.’ He looked round at them. ‘You see the murder itself was obviously premeditated and quite well-planned; it seemed to me that if that sort of murderer intended throwing the brewing apparatus into the dustbin she would have done it before committing the crime, in which case it would have been safely on the rural district rubbish tip. But if Mrs. Keswick had begun to suspect that her husband was involved, then she might try to conceal evidence after the crime was committed. I decided that most probably she hadn’t connected linseed and hydrocyanic acid until late on Monday or perhaps even Tuesday and then she’d taken panic measures.’

  Laurence Keswick was remembering with embarrassment his behaviour on the night the double boiler had been found.

  ‘I was in a hellish temper the evening I caught you poking in the dustbin,’ he said suddenly. ‘I think it was the funeral; I’d come to and realised poor Theodora had been poisoned and had died, probably in agony. Before that I’d been wandering round in a euphoric daze feeling as though I’d just come up on the pools. But you didn’t seem to suspect me particularly,’ he went on. ‘I couldn’t understand it, I seemed the obvious person.’

  ‘I did suspect you, in so far as I suspected everyone,’ answered Flecker; ‘one can suspect without being unpleasant or aggressive about it. But there were so many red herrings urgently awaiting investigation that I didn’t have much time to spare for you. Also it seemed to me that you were rather involved at that show and I felt that you could hardly have poisoned the milk shake without an accomplice. If Mrs. Keswick was your accomplice then we were back at the foolishness over the double boiler.’

  ‘I see,’ said Laurence hastily, when he realised that Flecker was trying — out of tact — to avoid any mention of Helen Farrell. ‘And I gather that you produced a terrific case against Charity, but she said that at the same time you seemed to cast doubt on it and she felt that you knew the real truth.’

  Flecker looked through his envelopes. ‘From the moment I knew that either Miss Hemming or Miss Thistleton might have drunk the milk shake Mrs. Chesterfield became less suspect as she would have had to risk getting the wrong person — and Miss Hemming and Miss Steer more suspect. Miss Steer, you see, would have poisoned the milk shake on its way to Miss Thistleton. The rest of you would imagine that only T.T. drank it and so your position was unchanged. Miss Hemming became the most suspect of everyone because Friday’s drink remained untouched; possibly that was poisoned too. However, she didn’t at first sight seem to have any particular motive; except that she might have had enough of the rather bullying treatment to which, I gather, all the staff were subjected. But gradually the vague likeness between Mrs. Chesterfield and Miss Hemming dawned on me and I was also struck by a certain affinity between their Christian names. Then Hugh’s escapade came to light. He told me about his adoption and he also pointed out to me that he bore a slight resemblance to his adopted mother. After a visit to Somerset House I found I could make a case against Mrs. Chesterfield for the attempted murder of her half-sister, but there were various points which made me doubt whether this was the right answer. First, the fact that she knew there was a risk of T.T. drinking the stuff and to risk that before the will was altered seemed to me madness. Then there was her behaviour; she seemed so very obviously afraid and if it was herself she was afraid for why was she thrown into such a state by Hugh’s behaviour? And why when she had learned about the theft of the scrapbook was she still afraid?’

  ‘Poor Charity, she has had a life,’ said Marion sadly when Flecker paused. ‘After Joy’s death she told us about the row they’d had when Joy went over to tell her that T.T. was disinheriting Laurence and dividing the money between the children. She said that when Hugh was rich Charity couldn’t expect her to keep quiet any longer and of course he’d want to support his mother. At first Charity just tried to persuade
T.T. not to disinherit Laurence but when she refused to listen she had to tell her about Hugh and Joy.’

  ‘I gather that my cousin was equally furious with all of them and accused Charity of trickery,’ Laurence broke in. ‘But later on she cooled down and decided to divide her money between Charity, Sarah and Marion.’

  ‘Yes, and that must have been too much for Miss Hemming. That her sister should have money on top of marriage and both children was the last straw,’ said Flecker. ‘It was Cain and Abel again, hate and jealousy — the oldest and blackest of sins. Only Miss Hemming killed T.T. to prevent her sister from having the money and partly, I suspect, out of revenge for some very hard words. I gather that Mrs. Chesterfield had managed to persuade Miss Thistleton not to fire Miss Hemming out of hand, but she had it hanging over her and I understand from your solicitors,’ he looked at Laurence, ‘that any of T.T.’s employees who had been with her for more than a year at the time of her death will collect a couple of hundred pounds; that may possibly have hurried things up a bit.’

  ‘What about those almonds in my mackintosh pocket?’ asked Marion.

  ‘That seems to have been just a stupid and malicious afterthought,’ answered Flecker. ‘We doubt whether she used almonds at all. When we came to look through her room we found, in the waste paper basket, an empty corn solvent bottle which smelt far more as though it had contained hydrocyanic acid than anything to do with corns. The wash basin also smelt as though it had recently received a stiff dose. Luckily she was in such a hurry to leave that she didn’t rinse out the bottle and our lab was able to extract and identify one tiny drop. They tell us that it was pure acid and not mixed with an anonymous liquid as stuff brewed from almonds or linseed would have been. It’s a Schedule One poison and she certainly hasn’t signed a poison register under her own name but that doesn’t mean very much.’

  ‘What about Mrs. Pratt?’ asked Laurence, refilling Flecker’s glass. ‘It’s rumoured that you’ve put the B.S.J.A. on to her and she’s down to appear before the Stewards.’

  ‘It was Miss Thistleton,’ Flecker explained, ‘who found her out. The night before she was murdered T.T. sent for this scrapbook.’ He opened it and turned the pages until he came to a group of four horses all wearing rosettes and a sturdy-looking duchess proffering a cup to the rider of the winner. The rider in second place was Christina Scott. Underneath, in neat block capitals, was a caption which read ‘Cockchafer, second to Bay Buccaneer at Wembley’, and below that, in T.T.’s sharply angular writing, had been added ‘Top Ten?’

  Flecker passed the book over to Laurence Keswick. ‘You’ll probably get there quicker than I did,’ he said.

  ‘I remember Bay Buccaneer well,’ remarked Laurence, looking at the photograph. ‘He won practically every class that year at Wembley, but they over-faced him or over-jumped him or something and he took to stopping. They brought him out again next year, but he wouldn’t have it and when he’d jibbed all round the ring at Windsor, Gerry Luxton sold him as a hunter.’ He looked at the photograph again. ‘You mean Betty Pratt has got hold of him, hogged his mane, dealt with a couple of white socks and registered him as a Grade C horse; a nice new novice called Top Ten?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ agreed Flecker, as Laurence handed the scrapbook to Marion. ‘They’ve managed to trace the horse through half a dozen owners and it’s definitely the one. Mrs. Pratt may be able to wriggle out by pleading ignorance, but I don’t think she was ignorant. The fact that the horse went mysteriously lame on Saturday morning but made a complete recovery after T.T. died, doesn’t sound like ignorance. What will she do now that I’ve deprived her of her rather shady living?’

  ‘You needn’t worry about that,’ said Laurence Keswick, getting up to refill Browning’s glass. ‘She has a boy friend who runs his own fish delivery business and I hear that if she’s suspended he’ll take over the ownership of the ponies and the little Pratts will jump as before. Top Ten, or rather Bay Buccaneer, won’t be allowed to jump while he’s suspended, of course, and afterwards he would have to return to Grade A classes, but still, he can always go back to hunting.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we’ve taught Mrs. Pratt a lesson without much harm to her finances then,’ said Flecker. ‘I don’t want to be haunted by three starving and spectral little Pratts.’

  ‘I don’t think Mrs. Pratt is capable of reform,’ remarked Laurence. ‘She’ll just think the B.S.J.A. is being utterly unreasonable and when she’s weathered the storm, she’ll go back to her old ways.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for the children,’ said Marion sadly. Then she asked. ‘What happened about Christina? You remember you said that I wasn’t the only person telling lies?’

  ‘Yes, very indiscreet of me,’ answered Flecker. ‘Well, I’m afraid that she’s motivated entirely by demon pride, she can’t bear to let anyone see what actually goes on inside her. It’s not a criminal offence, but it must be a very uncomfortable state to be in. How is Hugh doing?’ he inquired after a pause.

  ‘You know that Charity told him everything?’ asked Marion.

  ‘She told me she was going to.’

  ‘Poor Hugh, it was a terrible blow to him,’ said Marion sadly. ‘But one good thing has come out of it, his real father got in touch with Charity when he read about the case; he seems to have turned into rather a nice man and he’s going to take an interest. No, two good things,’ she corrected herself. ‘Hugh is being much kinder to Charity, now he’s stopped imagining that he belongs in top circles.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Flecker, ‘for she seemed prepared to put up with an incredible amount for his sake.’ He got to his feet and added, ‘We must be on our way.’

  ‘You’re planning to move, I hear,’ said Browning to Laurence Keswick as they walked towards the car.

  ‘Yes, early next year I hope. I’m looking for a farm, something big enough to be economic, not like this place.’

  ‘There’ll be a drought,’ objected Marion, ‘and successive plagues of foot and mouth, fowl pest and swine fever. And all the crops will be struck with wilt and rust and blight. I hate farming, it’s so depressing.’

  ‘Now don’t start that again,’ answered Laurence, cheerfully unmoved. ‘I’ve promised you your share in gilt-edged securities and solid-looking equities and I can’t do more. If the farm goes bust you can say “I told you so” and dole me out a weekly allowance for the rest of my life and if there’s a recession in the States and slump here at least the farm will feed us. I don’t see how you can have greater security than that. Though, what with the bomb and lung cancer and the rapidly approaching indignities of old age, I really don’t think money matters much, do you?’ he asked, turning to the detectives.

  ‘I suppose it gives one a warm and comfortable illusion of security,’ answered Flecker, ‘but perhaps that’s a bad thing.’

  And Browning said, ‘A nice little bit behind you makes all the difference. I don’t believe in living hand to mouth.’

  They shook hands as they said goodbye and then the Keswicks stood close together, Laurence with an arm round Marion, waving until the police car was out of sight.

  ‘Well, nice to see that all patched up, I must say,’ observed Browning warmly. ‘I never thought he’d do it, not when I saw Mrs. Farrell.’

  Flecker, feeling suddenly sentimental, quoted,

  ‘“Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, the old, old love we knew of yore”’, and then a sharp pang of unexpected jealousy made him wonder whether Lesley had written.

  If you enjoyed Murder Strikes Pink check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.

  For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.

  Follow us on Twitter and Goodreads.

 

 

  for reading books on Archive.