Death of a Wedding Guest

by Anne Morice

  She giggled, indulging in some more face massage, and said in a soupy voice,

  ‘Loved one doesn’t have to be put out, does he? He has his own little kitty cat door into the garden, don’t you, my angel? No, but if it was something like that, you know, I mean, they wouldn’t only ask us about yesterday, would they? What I mean is, they’d want to know all sorts of other things, like did he have any enemies and all that, you know, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘And did he?’ I asked, crossing my fingers and clasping my hands behind my back.

  ‘You bet! One in particular, I might add.’

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked, trying to speak without breathing.

  ‘Well, obvious, isn’t it? The one his girl chucked him over for. Crime passionel and all that stuff.’

  ‘What makes you think there was bad feeling between him and Desmond?’

  ‘Oh, come on! Well, they certainly weren’t blood brothers, that’s for sure,’ she said, still nuzzling the cat. ‘In fact, they had a great big row only the other day. I was bringing a lot of stuff back from the supermarket and I saw this feller come flying out of next door as though he’d got the Chinese army behind him. Then I heard Desmond shout something too disgusting to repeat and he slammed the door so hard I thought the whole rotten terrace would come down. The other one didn’t turn round, he just galloped off into the blue.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the kind of evidence to make much impression,’ I said, simulating great indifference. ‘Desmond frequently lost his temper with people over complete trifles and he usually forgot about it ten minutes later. Anyway, what makes you think this other man was the one his girl left him for?’

  ‘Because I’d seen them together, only a few weeks before. It was when Desmond gave us tickets for that play he was in at the Comedy. She and this other man were sitting a few rows in front of us. She had her hair up, which made her look different, but I recognised her because of seeing her so often going into No. 9. And they were giggling and smiling at each other the whole time, you know, so I wasn’t a bit surprised when I heard that she and Desmond had split up and she was going to marry someone else.’

  ‘And you recognised the man when you saw him here the other day? You’re sure he was the same one?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I wouldn’t swear to it, cross my heart and all that . . . but sure enough.’

  ‘All the same,’ I said, choosing my words with care, ‘I’d advise you to think it over a bit before you say anything. You might be asked to sign a statement, or give evidence at the inquest and it could lead to trouble unless you’re a hundred per cent certain.’

  The cat now displayed signs of restlessness and she removed it from her shoulder and placed it gently on the floor, whereupon it stuck its head and tail straight up in the air and stalked away in haughty disgust. The severing of this physical bond appeared to create a corresponding break in her mood, for she brushed the hairs off her smock, saying carelessly,

  ‘Anyway, it doesn’t make sense, does it? I mean, you know, it would have to be the other way round.’

  ‘What would have to be the other way round?’

  ‘Well, what I mean is, if this other man had pinched Desmond’s girl, he wouldn’t have to go and murder him as well, would he? I mean, if anyone had a grudge, it would be poor old Desmond.’

  ‘Quite right,’ I agreed, breathing normally again. ‘So, on the whole, best to say nothing about it?’

  ‘Shouldn’t dream of it,’ she answered with another yawn, and I believed her.

  There was a florist’s shop on the other side of the road and as I walked past it I had the greatest difficulty in restraining myself from going inside and asking them to send her two dozen of their finest roses.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  1

  ‘So lovely old Powell is pleased, at any rate, and so, I suspect, are a few other people,’ Robin concluded, when he had filled in the remaining details of Desmond’s death, of which the essence was as follows:

  Following the track laid down on the previous day, an officer from the Notting Hill branch had called at the house and, having failed to gain admittance, had applied next door for information. At this juncture the pattern had altered, for his repeated knocks on the door of No. 8 had met with an equally blank response. All the curtains of both houses, including those in the basement, were drawn and no clue was forthcoming as to whether any life existed behind them. Having reported this, the constable was then joined by a colleague of senior rank, equipped with the wherewithal to enter the house by force.

  Entry, as the saying goes, had been effected by way of the french window from the garden, which brought them into the dining room. There was nothing to detain them there, since it did not appear to have been used for days and there was a layer of dust on the dining table. Across the passage, however, the kitchen told a different tale. There were stacks of unwashed crockery piled up in the sink, remains of stale, burnt milk and other horrors on the stove and an empty whisky bottle among the debris on the table, as well as several of its brothers in various corners and cupboards. However, there were also half-a-dozen washed glasses standing upside down on the draining board, indicating that Desmond had not been quite lost to all the niceties, and the two rooms on the ground floor were relatively clean and tidy.

  The upper floor was the last to be investigated and there they had discovered the master of the house dead in his own bed. He was fully clothed except for his jacket and shoes and there was another empty whisky bottle on the chest of drawers, plus one more, a quarter full this time, on the bedside table. Also on the bedside table were one dirty glass and one empty bottle of sleeping pills and it was later established that a massive dose of the latter had been the immediate cause of death.

  He had left no letter and the telephone was on its hook, which is apparently uncommon in such cases. Fingerprint experts had gone over the house, but the only prints clear enough to be of any use were found to be those of either Desmond or his daily help, who had handed in her notice a few days before, being unable to stand working in such a pigsty any longer, not to mention the language.

  ‘So what pleases Powell about all that?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, perhaps that was making him out to be more callous than he is,’ Robin conceded, ‘but even if you can’t go so far at this stage as to equate it with an admission of guilt, you can see how satisfactory it is in other ways? A perfectly plain case of suicide, quite in character with the victim’s temperament and reputation, no complications or frills anywhere, so that wraps that one up. Conceivably, it may turn out to have no bearing whatever on Irene’s death, but even so it has removed part of the undergrowth, and I might add that there are now some grounds for believing that Irene could also have taken her own life.’

  ‘She chose an odd time for it! What prompted that pretty idea?’

  ‘Several factors and one being that, as you know, she wasn’t Mrs Osgood Lewis at all, hadn’t been for years and her financial affairs had gone down a lot in recent months. She seems to have had remarkably few friends and she must have been lonely. The theory is that coming here for Ellen’s wedding, at some expense to herself, could have been a last throw, gambling on the chance of being able to rebuild her life here. She might even have believed it possible that, with Ellen married and Toby on his own too, they could pick up the pieces and make a fresh start. When she saw how hopeless that was, and perhaps unable to face the prospect of returning to her dreary life in Canada, she threw in the sponge.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine that even Irene could be so self-deluding as to entertain such hopes where Toby was concerned. She was married to him for five years and she must have known better.’

  ‘Well, age could have mellowed him, you know. Unlike the rest of us, she was in no position to know that it had done the reverse.’

  ‘In any case, Osgood won’t have anything to do with the suicide theory and he’s another who ought to know. He was far more au courant with the situation than
any of us.’

  ‘Oh, I dare say, but he may have axes to grind which we know nothing of.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’ve got such a down on Osgood, Robin. No one could have been more frank and sympathetic and he was under no sort of obligation to tell me anything. However, if it’s any comfort to you, I don’t rely solely on Osgood’s opinion. I’m pretty sure that Irene was deliberately murdered and I happen to believe that Desmond was too.’

  ‘Fancy that! And do you also know who by and why and all those various other little details it is so useful to possess?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ he said sadly. ‘That’s bad. Powell will not be pleased. Still, you may not be able to provide any proof, there’s always that.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, there isn’t. I wouldn’t claim I could prove anything at this minute, but I regard myself as on the brink.’

  Robin fidgeted about the room for a bit, and then he said,

  ‘You wouldn’t care to tell me what it is you’ve hit on and what you’re proposing to do about it?’

  ‘Quite right, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘In God’s name, Tessa, why not?’

  ‘Because I know you, my darling, and you could not love me, dear, so much, loved you not law and order more. If I were to tell you what I know, sooner or later you’d take it into your head that it was your duty to pass it on to Powell and that could be disastrous. This is a real tricky one and hearts are going to be broken and lives laid in ruins when it all comes out. Things are bad enough already without that ham-fisted, flat-footed old porcupine sticking his oar in.’

  ‘Who gives a damn about Powell? It’s you I’m thinking of.’

  ‘Okay, so it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? You start worrying about me and whether I’m going to get myself in some kind of fix and the next thing we know is that you’re thinking the best way to protect me is to bring Powell into the act and I’m not having it. I’ve told you, there are more things at stake here than simply catching a criminal.’

  ‘And you absolutely refuse to tell me what they are?’

  ‘For the moment, yes. As I said, I can’t prove anything at this stage and anyway you might not believe I was on the right track, if I were to tell you. It all hinges on so many small things. I think they add up to the right answer, but there are a few more questions to be asked before I can be sure. However, I promise you that asking them won’t bring me into physical contact with the murderer. I shall be working on the fringes and my suspect won’t even guess what I’m up to. There, does that satisfy you?’

  ‘Not remotely, but I suppose I know when I’m beaten. All I ask is . . .’

  ‘That I mind how I go and try to stay out of trouble?’

  ‘Why do I bother?’ he asked.

  2

  As I had stated, there were one or two questions still to be asked before I could tie up the remaining loose ends and, on the principle of starting with the simplest and working up to the climax by degrees, I telephoned Ellen and requested her to cast her mind back. She was quite equal to the task and had no difficulty or inhibitions in recalling the occasion I referred to.

  ‘Yes, I remember it well,’ she said. ‘It was just after I got engaged. It was his birthday, as a matter of fact.’ We then went on to speak about Desmond, saying how sad and dreadful it all was, but I was relieved to hear her discussing it in dispassionate terms, with no transports of grief. Doubtless, it was some consolation to her that she had fought to the bitter end to protect him and there was also the incontrovertible fact that, as with Powell, one major complication had now been removed. Towards the end of our conversation she admitted, in only marginally shamefaced tones, that she and Jeremy were now going ahead with their honeymoon plans.

  ‘Oh, really? When do you leave?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow. We’re not taking the ferry, though. We’ve missed out on all the earlier bookings, so Jeremy thought the sensible thing would be to fly direct to Nice. We can hire a car when we get there.’

  ‘Yes, I see. What time is your plane?’

  ‘Four o’clock flight, so that we can have lunch at Roakes first and say goodbye. And listen, Tess, we’d like you to be there too. Think you can manage it?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. Do you want me to drive you to the airport?’

  ‘No, thanks. That’s all organised. Simon’s coming too, so he can drop us off at Heathrow afterwards and take the car back to London.’

  We then exchanged our à tout a l’heures and à bientots and I rang off, feeling tolerably certain that my original question had sunk like a stone in this sea of forward looking activity and would be most unlikely to surface again.

  Jez came next on my list. I had two queries for her and she was inclined to be scathing about the first one.

  ‘You could hardly expect me to give you that kind of analysis without a lot more data,’ she informed me, in the stuffy voice of a surgeon who had been requested to perform an operation by telephone. So I explained that I was only interested in general trends and potentials and she grudgingly came up with some information which, while in no way confirming my theory, did nothing whatever to undermine it.

  However, all this was by way of being the frill round the cutlet and when we got down to the bones of the matter she became much more decisive and was able to give me a clear and detailed account of her movements on the morning of the wedding.

  I thanked her and rang off and then applied myself to working out ways and means to carry out the next item on my agenda, which, diplomatically speaking, was easily the trickiest of the lot.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Got your sheets back?’ I asked, stopping to pass the time of day with Alison, who was toiling up and down the strip of grass between her hedge and the lane, bent double over the hot hand-mower.

  ‘What?’ she asked, straightening up. ‘Oh yes, I did, as it happens. They came back last week, which just shows that it pays to raise the roof occasionally. Not a word of apology, mind you, but one can’t expect miracles in this day and age. And what are you doing in these parts again? You seem to be very fond of us all of a sudden.’

  ‘Lunching at Toby’s. It’s a sort of family reunion. Besides, I like it here.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t bother to look me up next time you come, because I shan’t be here. I’m going up to Stoke-on-Trent tomorrow, to stay at my daughter’s.’

  ‘Oh, really? How long for?’

  ‘Two or three weeks.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be nice.’

  ‘Think so? Bleeding hard work, if you ask me,’ Alison retorted, wiping the sweat from her brow with an oily hand. ‘She’s having another baby, did I tell you? Due at the end of the month. So old Mum’s been roped in to cope while she’s in hospital.’

  ‘Oh well, makes a change, as they say. Is Phil going with you?’

  ‘No, he’s off on holiday tomorrow.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘Yes, hitch-hiking on the Continent. But he’ll be staying in youth hostels, so he’ll probably get in with a young crowd before long. Strikes me as a good idea, on the whole, since he can’t seem to settle to anything here. That holiday camp idea fizzled out.’

  ‘So he won’t be taking the car?’

  ‘Couldn’t afford to, my dear. We haven’t all been blessed with the Roxburgh millions. He’s going to lend it to me while he’s away. Dear old Phil, he wouldn’t admit it to save his life, but I think that’s what triggered off the idea of this trip. The Mini will be a godsend up there in Staffordshire, with my son-in-law out at work all day. Save me a packet in fares too. Well, I must love you and leave you, Tessa. Some of us have work to do, even if you haven’t. The lunch won’t cook itself and packing for both of us is no joke when you haven’t a clue what the weather’s going to do.’

  ‘Pity,’ I said, ‘I’m too early for lunch and I was hoping to entice you up to the Bricklayers’ for a quick one. Still, it’s a good day for a walk on the common.’


  When I had left her I drove on for another hundred yards and then took a side turning to the left, down an even narrower lane, which passed through a grove of beech trees before emerging on to open common. At this point it degenerated into a stony track, winding its way past half a dozen widely separated houses, whose front gardens fringed the common, Toby’s being roughly in the centre. I could just make out Jeremy’s red sports car standing by the gate.

  As I had told Alison, I was in no hurry, for it was not much after midday, and a particularly halcyon one, despite her forebodings, so I parked the car on the edge of the grass and set out on foot along a path going off at right angles to the track.

  Most of the surrounding flora consisted of hawthorn, brambles and gorse but at one time, before some vandal saw fit to cut it down, a magnificent sycamore must have dominated the whole area, for the stump of its trunk, which time had worn to a dark grey polish, was about ten feet in diameter. This was the spot which had been known in Ellen’s childhood as King Arthur’s throne and, as it was out of sight of the house, being concealed on three sides by bushes and saplings, it had made an ideal setting for all kinds of apocryphal exploits in the career of her hero. I sat down on the trunk, remembering how Ellen had sat there on her wedding morning and how she had been discovered by Jeremy, out for an early morning stroll on the common.

  It so happened that I too was now about to be discovered by someone strolling on the common, although he was not the one I was expecting. Even before he approached I could see from the cloud of candy floss hair that it was Simon.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, as he saw me and came nearer. ‘What a coincidence to find you here! And looking every inch the belle dame sans merci, if I may pass the remark.’

  ‘Why is it a coincidence?’