Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology]

by Edited by Martin Edwards

  Faro then turned to Mrs Wade’s statement. ‘I have a rigid daily routine each morning. Mr Ronald insisted that I awaken him and bring fresh towels and linen before making his morning tea. I noticed that the door to the master bedroom was ajar. I tapped on it and, receiving no response, I went in quietly and opened the shutters. I saw that he was sleeping on his back with a pillow over his head. This seemed odd so I went to wake him up. His ghastly countenance told me he was dead. He had been smothered.

  ‘I went downstairs to Mrs Dora, and she began to scream, pointing to shattered glass. The sound had awakened her during the night. Oddly enough it had awakened me in my room at the end of the corridor, but we had both assumed that Mr Ronald had knocked the glass off his bedside table on his way to the WC. I just took one of my doctor’s pills and went back to sleep. We both realized there had been a break-in during the night and that the burglar had murdered Mr Ronald.

  ‘PC Brodie was going past on his early morning beat. I told him Mr Ronald had had a terrible accident.’

  Laying aside the file. Faro said to Brodie, ‘When you followed Mrs Wade into the house, what did you observe?’

  ‘I remember trying to avoid broken glass all over the path. In the kitchen, Mrs Fanshaw still sobbing. Upstairs with Mrs Wade. One look and I knew the gentleman was dead. Downstairs again, Mrs Wade made us both a cup of tea while I took down her statement about the noise the intruder had made that had awakened them. Then I went into the garden, in case there were any clues.’

  Faro said, ‘Describe exactly what you saw, if you please.’

  Brodie frowned in concentration. ‘Nothing but fragments of glass from the broken window.’

  ‘Any footprints?’

  ‘First thing I looked for, sir. We were having a dry spell. Ground was hard as a bone. Duncan was furious about having to clear the broken glass, accused me of stamping all over his flower beds. That was my last worry, with a dead man upstairs.’

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘Pretty cool, I thought. Said nothing just shrugged. I got the impression he was not particularly fond of his employer either. On my way out back to the station, I told Dr Winton and the ladies not to touch anything upstairs until the police detectives arrived.’

  ~ * ~

  Later that week, Faro went to visit the doctor again.

  Seated at the window, the empty house, scene of an unsolved murder that now intrigued him, looked gloomier than ever.

  Faro sighed. ‘If only walls - and a garden - could talk, Winton.’

  Winton laughed. ‘It is really haunting you! I’m disappointed, I thought you would have solved it by now,’ he added slyly.

  Faro shook his head. ‘There are so many baffling elements. I believe I have sorted some of them. Had Fanshaw any enemies among the neighbours?’

  ‘Hardly a popular man. But there is a great deal of difference between personal dislike and committing murder.’

  ‘Exactly so, Doctor. So the only logical motive remains -who was to gain by Fanshaw’s death; who was to inherit?

  ‘Everything went to Mrs Dora since Ronald Fanshaw, although once married, had no heirs, his wife had divorced him some years earlier.’

  ‘Ah, and the whereabouts of this ex-wife?’

  ‘Remarried, proved to be living in America at the time of his death.’

  ‘Business rivals?’

  ‘Mrs Dora had always kept in close touch with the Fanshaw shops. Shares and contacts, she would have heard of any business rivals. A difficult man but no indications that he had ever been threatened with physical abuse. As for Mrs Dora, she was aware that Fanshaw was going bankrupt thanks to his faulty speculations. She had naught to gain but the prospect of moving into a less expensive house.’

  Pausing, Winton thought for a moment. ‘You have insisted that there has to be a motive, and certainly this particular murder makes no sense without it. There is another strand to this mystery and it may indeed be the key to solving it. By opening the door to yet another murder - a failed one this time.’

  ‘Indeed! And that was?’ Faro demanded eagerly.

  Winton placed his fingertips together. ‘Mrs Dora believed that it was herself who was the intended victim.’

  At Faro’s astonished expression, he smiled indulgently. ‘Consider for a moment that Ronald was murdered in the marital bed Mrs Dora had once shared with her late husband.’

  And Faro remembered the story of the switched bedrooms and Winton continued: ‘The intruder knew the exact layout of the house, the way to the master bedroom. Shutters closed, in the curtained bed, just a head on the pillow. Someone who knew the house during the late Mr Thomas Fanshaw’s occupancy but was unaware of the changes. A case of mistaken identity.’

  Faro thought for a moment. ‘Well, that eliminates the two Glasgow decorators. What about the gardener, Duncan? Surely he would have a fair idea of what the interior of the house looked like.’

  Winton smiled dryly. ‘Our gardeners know their place. Never a muddy boot further than the kitchen door, he wouldn’t have the faintest idea of where any of them slept.’

  Faro remembered Duncan’s brief statement that he had seen a tramp wandering about a couple of times and told him to clear off. Described him as: ‘Shabby clothes. Looked a bit simple, like.’

  ‘What about Mrs Wade’s sailor son?’ he asked Winton.

  ‘He couldn’t possibly be the vagrant, Faro, seen several times prior to the murder while he was on the high seas. That night his ship was in dry-dock at Greenock. As first mate he was on duty. It’s all on record.’

  ~ * ~

  Faro’s feeling that the doctor knew a great deal more than he was prepared to admit was confirmed next morning when discussing the case with Brodie.

  The sergeant sighed deeply. ‘Now that so many of the people have gone, sir, I can let you into a family secret concerning Mrs Wade, a skeleton in the cupboard, so to speak.

  ‘After she died shortly after Fanshaw, my wife Nell said it was common knowledge in the family that Peter Wade was in fact Thomas Fanshaw’s natural son whom he refused to recognize.’

  ‘Now that is interesting. Was Mrs Dora aware of this relationship?’

  Brodie grinned broadly. ‘I expect so, Inspector, seeing that she married him the following year. They emigrated to Australia. Nell - my wife - got cards from them at Christmas until Dora died a couple of years ago. Sad, nice family with a couple of youngsters. Peter went back to sea and didn’t keep in touch.’

  ‘And for us, Sergeant, the loss of one promising suspect, an illegitimate son with a very strong motive for resenting Ronald Fanshaw.’

  ‘You have some ideas of your own, sir?’

  ‘I have indeed, although our main suspect is still the vagrant, whom you yourself gave chase to on one occasion.’

  Faro was seized by a fit of coughing. Brodie brought him a glass of water and after drinking deeply, he replaced it on the table and referred to his notes. ‘You commented on the vagrant’s shabby clothes. You even observed his excellent footwear.’

  ‘True, sir. But none of us ever got a close look at him. He was always muffled up. Very sharp about that.’

  Faro smiled broadly. ‘But you, Sergeant, are to be congratulated in providing the one vital clue to his identity.’

  ‘I am?’ Brodie looked bewildered.

  ‘Let us go back to when Fanshaw’s killer entered by the kitchen door after breaking the window. Confirmed by both Mrs Fanshaw and Mrs Wade who heard the sound but presumed Ronald Fanshaw had upset a glass, like this one. Am I right?’

  Brodie nodded and Faro went on: ‘So if you will now observe this carefully, Sergeant.’

  So saying, Faro dropped the tumbler on to the floor and, picking it up again, said, ‘Behold, not broken. Not even a crack. Even on an uncarpeted floor and certainly not on a rich Aubusson carpet, or noise enough to awaken a sleeper in another bedroom.’

  He paused, frowning. ‘I suspect that the two ladies, overanxious to endorse the evidenc
e of an unknown intruder, indulged in a little embroidery of the true facts. True, the glass on the kitchen door was broken. But by whom?’

  Brodie looked puzzled. ‘Why, the intruder of course.’

  Faro shook his head. ‘Think again, Sergeant. You have already described your search that morning, treading very carefully to avoid shattered fragments of broken glass. And we have Duncan’s statement about having to clear up all the pieces - off the grass. Very inconvenient, but very convenient for Mr Fanshaw’s killer who we can only presume was ignorant of the laws of gravity.’

  At Brodie’s bewildered expression, Faro continued: ‘When a window glass is broken from the outside the fragments will fall into the room, while a glass shattered with a mighty blow from inside, perhaps using a hammer, will fall to the outside. A deduction somehow overlooked in the original evidence.’

  Brodie shook his head, murmuring, ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  Faro went on: ‘All the evidence points to one thing and one thing only, Sergeant. And that is that our vanishing vagrant was a convenient invention—’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, I saw him and so did Mrs Dora and Duncan. It’s in the statements.’

  Faro held up his hand. ‘Sergeant, all you saw was someone you were meant to see. Someone dressed to look like a vagrant. Your careful observation about the boots was the first clue.’

  Brodie did not look convinced. ‘He could have stolen them—’

  ‘One moment, Sergeant. You did not actually see him leap over the back wall, did you now?’

  ‘No, sir, he was too quick for me. As for Duncan—’

  Faro interrupted, ‘But take a moment and consider if you will, any other means of apparently vanishing into thin air.’ Brodie shook his head again and Faro went on: ‘It is quite simple really, Sergeant. While you were struggling to unlatch the gate our vagrant had slammed shut, he dashed into the kitchen, the door having been left open for this purpose…’ Pausing, he continued grimly, ‘The murder of Ronald Fanshaw was no tragic result of a break-in by an unknown intruder, Sergeant. It was a matter of utmost planning and execution. That was why it was essential for you and others to get a glimpse of him - from a safe distance.’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ Brodie protested.

  ‘Then let me tell you. Mrs Dora, something of an actress, took on the guise of the vanishing vagrant and either she or Mrs Wade, or both of them, were guilty of Fanshaw’s murder.’

  ~ * ~

  At their next meeting. Faro told Winton of his findings; the doctor congratulated him and then solemnly produced his trump card.

  ‘On her death bed, Mrs Wade told me that Dora and her Peter had been in love for years. Peter, the illegitimate son with Ronald squandered the fortune he believed was rightfully his as well as Dora’s inheritance. Fanshaw’s cruelty was the last straw, so Mrs Wade took matters into her own hands. She insisted that Dora was innocent.

  ‘Doctor-patient confidentiality, Faro, but I wanted to see you solve the mystery yourself. You didn’t disappoint me and I believe your version is nearer the truth. Dora’s abilities as an actress were essential to the plot. They got away with murder, but no one would ever be able to prove it.’

  No one, except Inspector Faro. But it was only for his own and Winton’s satisfaction. The main participants were dead and the case of the vanishing vagrant would remain in police files as murder by person or persons unknown.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  DECK THE HALLS WITH POISON, IVY

  Susan Moody

  Susan Moody published her first crime novel in 1984 and later chaired the Crime Writers’ Association. She also served as President of the International Association of Crime Writers. In addition to mysteries, she has also published historical fiction.

  ~ * ~

  W

  hen her sister picked up the phone, Veronica Lewis said, ‘What time will you arrive at Mother’s for Christmas?’

  ‘I’m not going to Mother’s for Christmas,’ Teresa said. ‘What?’

  ‘I already told you that,’ said Teresa patiently. ‘Several times.’

  ‘But why not?’ Although Veronica already knew the answer, she couldn’t resist the question.

  ‘Because every year,’ Teresa said, ‘every single year, Mother’s managed to ruin Christmas for me and my family. Now the worm has turned.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting that this is the season of goodwill to all men?’

  ‘Mother is not a man. I sometimes wonder if she’s even a human being.’

  ‘Well,’ Veronica said, ‘I’m not going to go without you there.’

  ‘And I’m not going, period.’

  ~ * ~

  Ivy Lewis carried the box of Christmas decorations down from the attic. She loved Christmas. These days, you could buy peaches in January and strawberries in March, but Christmas was different. Christmas decorations only appeared at Christmas time, and for the rest of the year were put away. Which was how it should be.

  And the best bit of Christmas was the tree. Mind you, this year, there’d been a bit of trouble. She’d had to take hers back, at considerable expenditure of time and effort, because when she got it home, the top sprig, on which the final, last-minute angel would be placed, had a definite kink in it.

  ‘It’s not the only thing round here with a kink in it,’ the man at the yard had said, adding that she must have done it herself, cramming it into her car; it had been perfectly straight when it left his yard, and anyway, she was going to put a fairy on top, wasn’t she?

  When she shuddered delicately at the thought of anything so vulgar as a fairy, and murmured something about angels, he’d said rudely, ‘Angels, fairies, same difference, innit? Point is, you’re going to stick it up her backside, so nobody’s going to see it anyway.’

  So common . . . She’d tried to insist that he replace the tree, and he’d said he hadn’t any trees left at the price she’d bought hers, only the more expensive ones, and when she refused to pay the extra, he’d told her to get lost. So in the end, she’d had to stuff the original tree back in the car and take it home again.

  Her ruffled mood was soothed by her work. Even if they begged, it was a job she’d never let the girls help with, in case they broke something. She loved hanging the crystal icicles, the opalescent glitter-dusted globes, the plaited straw ornaments. She loved squinting into the sides of the silver balls at her own distorted image, enjoying the curve which made her look like some evil old goblin rather than the well-preserved, immaculately turned-out woman of sixty-three which, though she said it herself, she was.

  How Teresa and Keith could slop about in slacks and a shirt all day, she really couldn’t understand. She’d even said as much to her, last Christmas, but it hadn’t made any difference. And as for the children, allowed to appear at the dining table in those uncouth trainers and baggy jeans, well; she’d refused to bring in the turkey until they all went and changed. Christmas comes but once a year, she told them, and when it comes, we try to make a ceremony of it, we try to rise to the occasion. And it wouldn’t have hurt Keith to have made an effort by putting on a tie and jacket, either.

  And there was Teresa saying, “Relax, Mother, for God’s sake,’ in that tight-lipped way, and sighing heavily when she, Ivy, said that while they were in her house they ought to conform to her standards, no matter what kind of lax behavior was permitted in their own home. And Em, her very own sister, acting in her usual mousey way, fluttering about and trying to get everybody to smile until she, Ivy, had quite understandably snapped at her, which of course made Em dissolve into tears. All of which meant that by the time they’d got the turkey carved - Keith, as usual, making a complete disaster of the job and spilling fat (so difficult to remove, as she’d pointed out) all over the lace tablecloth - nobody ate a thing. Ivy had served it up again at suppertime: she wasn’t going to see good food going to waste, even though Keith refused to come to the table, preferring to drink himself stupid, as per usual, and Tere
sa kept telling the children not to worry, they’d soon be home again.

  Ivy reached forward with another silver ball. When she had been a child, Christmases were mean and awkward, her mother usually sulking, her father shouting. She’d tried to make everything different for her own children, but a more ungrateful, sullen pair of girls it would have been hard to imagine.

  ~ * ~

  ‘Hi, Terry, it’s me again. Look, if you’re not going to Mother’s, what are you doing instead?’

  ‘Staying at home with my loving family, Veronica. Where you’re welcome to join us.’

  ‘I wish I was as brave as you are.’

  ‘Brave doesn’t come into it. It’s a matter of survival. Last year, Keith said he’d divorce me if I ever made him spend Christmas at Mother’s again. And I said I’d divorce him if he allowed me to. So this Christmas, we shall stay home and eat what we like, when we like. Wear what we like. Spend Christmas in the bath, if we feel like it, without all the snide comments about the cost of hot water. Make love in the mornings without Mother knocking on the wall.’