Motives For Murder

by J F Straker

  ‘You mean — about some of the staff lodging at our place?’

  ‘Yes. It would help you financially, and it would give us more room here. We could come to some arrangement about transport, no doubt.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Dorothy,’ Smelton said. ‘She wasn’t keen the last time I mentioned it.’

  That was an understatement, he thought, as he drove home. Dorothy had been furious that he should even have dared to suggest it. ‘So we are to take in lodgers now, are we?’ she had said scornfully. ‘Why, I’d never dare to look my friends in the face again! Lodgers, indeed! You’ll be asking me to go out charring next, or to take in washing. No, Philip. You can tell your Mr Latimer from me that there will be no lodgers in this house.’

  Recalling this conversation, his foot came down hard on the accelerator, and the car shot forward. Then, realizing that speed might feed his fury but would not abate it, he drove the rest of the way at a more restrained pace, turning over in his mind what he should say to Dorothy.

  A light was on in the hall, but although it was not yet nine o’clock the rest of the house was in darkness. She will have gone to bed, he thought bitterly, the same as she always does when there’s only me for company. She’s not even sufficiently interested to want to know how I got on with Latimer, despite it’s entirely because of her I had to go cap in hand to him tonight. Well, slipping off to bed won’t help her this time. We’ll settle this thing once and for all, even if I have to wake her up to do it.

  He poured himself a generous whisky, pushed his wife’s large white cat from out of his armchair, and sat down to consider what he should say. Dorothy usually got the better of him when it came to words. He must say his piece quickly and firmly, giving her no chance to interrupt.

  After a while the whisky mellowed him, and his thoughts drifted back to the first years of their marriage. Her many extravagances had then seemed amusing and even rather endearing: they had laughed at them together, he had even boasted of them with pride to his friends and colleagues. They had set Dorothy apart from the ordinary run of women, for she had considerable taste and her extravagances were never petty. But as the years passed and his capital dwindled he had become alarmed; amusement had turned to nagging worry, and he had tried to impress on her the need for economy. But it seemed that he had left it too late. She had grown used to reckless spending, and her response was trifling and ineffective; small cuts in the housekeeping bills, mostly at the expense of things he particularly liked — so that when he asked for them she could righteously remind him of the need to economize.

  It was then that the rows started in earnest.

  Dorothy had an exasperating habit of putting him in the wrong, of making thrift appear as meanness; and when he started to reprove her she somehow managed to turn the tables. There had been occasions when he had jibbed at the frequency and lavishness of her entertaining, and she had accused him of grudging her her friends; and when he had protested that he meant nothing of the sort, that she might have all the friends she wanted provided she spent less money on their entertainment, she had called him inhospitable, had accused him of expecting her to be inhospitable also. It usually ended in his begging her pardon, and later wondering why he had been fool enough to do so.

  It had been like that up to a few months ago, when ruin stared him so fully in the face that peace at home had become secondary to peace of mind. He began to dread going home; not only because of the quarrels and the atmosphere of stale love that filled the house, but also because of his fear of what new piece of foolish extravagance Dorothy might have indulged in during his absence.

  The truth was, of course, that Dorothy was incapable of appreciating how serious the situation had become. Bank statements meant nothing to Dorothy. And it was partly his fault. He had indulged her at the beginning and for too long, so that when indulgence ceased it appeared to her as meanness and the waning of love. Always in the past she had had what she wanted, and always he had accused her of extravagance; and if they could go on like that for nine years it was clear to Dorothy’s unbusinesslike mind that they could go on like that for ever.

  When eventually he went upstairs much of his anger had left him. He still resented the dilemma to which she had brought them, and his resentment needed little fuel to cause it to burst into flame; but the position was now too serious for petty squabbling. If he were to get anywhere with Dorothy he must be reasonable — and reasonable to her way of thinking, not to his. If she tried to aggravate him he must remain calm. When he lost his temper she immediately established a mastery over him.

  As he switched on the light she said sharply, ‘Don’t! It hurts my eyes. Use the standard lamp if you must have a light to undress by.’

  ‘I’m not coming to bed yet,’ he said, obeying her. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  His wife groaned. ‘What — again? What is it this time? The same old thing?’

  Her cheeks gleamed under the cold cream. Yet despite the lack of make-up and the sullen expression her face was still beautiful. He said, inwardly cursing the financial stress that had driven them so far apart, ‘Latimer refused to raise my salary.’

  ‘Why should he?’ She sounded indifferent. ‘He’s a mean devil, anyway. Every one says so.’

  ‘He thinks we ought to economize,’ he said. ‘Get rid of the car, for instance.’

  He waited patiently until the expected outburst evoked by this statement subsided. He had some sympathy with her wrath: it was, as she said, no business of Latimer’s how they spent their money and he nodded agreement, placating her, hoping that when fury had been spent on this red herring she would accept more calmly what he had to say next.

  And when he began to tell her about John Connaught, of his feud with Latimer and his reason for ousting the staff from Abbey Lodge, she listened quietly. Dorothy was not interested in the school itself, but she liked to hear all the local gossip. Noting her interest, he said, with a faint hope of success and trying to make his voice sound unconcerned, ‘I was wondering whether we should offer to help them out by having one or two of the staff to sleep here next term. Latimer would jump at the offer, I know; and he’d pay us what he used to pay J.C.’

  Dorothy was not deceived.

  ‘So he’s been on at you again, has he? I might have guessed. Well, I told you before — I’m not having lodgers here. That’s final. This is neither a boardinghouse nor a school annex — it’s my home, Philip, and I mean to keep it that way.’

  ‘But what’s the harm?’ he pleaded. ‘Every one would know we were doing it to oblige the school. No stigma in that, is there? They wouldn’t be in your way; there’d be no meals to cook — they would only sleep here. And you know how badly we need the money.’

  ‘No, Philip. No and no and no. Don’t ever dare to mention it again.’

  Her flat refusal was too much for his self-control.

  ‘You don’t care, I suppose, that we are practically bankrupt?’ he stormed. ‘You think you can go on writing cheques ad lib. and that the bank will honour them. Well, I warn you, Dorothy — the next cheque you write will bounce, and bounce high. That’s how bad it is. There’ll be no money for gin or new clothes. The hire-purchase people will be taking back the furniture and the T.V. and the fridge and all the other gadgets they have so kindly supplied and which you haven’t yet paid for. We’ll have to sell the car and clear out of the house; and if J.C. hasn’t conveniently pegged out and made the flat available you will probably be living in a tent in the school grounds. And if any of your fine friends care to visit you there they’ll be welcome.’

  As his anger grew so hers diminished. She yawned.

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic, Philip. It doesn’t impress me in the least. And what is all this about J.C.’s flat?’

  Impatiently he told her, too angry now to notice her interest or to profit from it. The flat was problematical, dependent on Latimer’s whim and J.C.’s death. It promised no early relief from worry.

  ‘The old man isn’t a
s tough as he likes to make out,’ Dorothy said thoughtfully. ‘Anne says so, anyway, and she ought to know. And bathing in the river all the year round can’t do him much good at his age. What’s the flat like?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been inside the place.’

  ‘It would probably be far too small for us,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think I’d like to be shut in by all those trees. Too gloomy.’

  ‘Gloomy or not, if J.C. died tomorrow we’d be out of this place in two ticks,’ replied her husband. ‘But he won’t. We’ve got to find some other solution.’

  ‘But not tonight, Philip. I’m tired, and it’s time you were in bed.’

  He made a last appeal.

  ‘Dorothy, listen. Stop behaving like a damned ostrich and face facts for once. I tell you, we’re in the soup. Small economies won’t help now — it’s got to be something really drastic. If we are to keep afloat we’ve got to chuck overboard all but the barest necessities. We’ve got to count every penny, we’ve got to —’

  With a bored sigh she turned on her side, her face away from him, and pulled the bedclothes over her head. The gesture infuriated him more than any words could have done. Inarticulate with rage and frustration, he stamped across the room, switched on all the lights in a childish gesture of defiance, and slammed the door behind him as he went out.

  ***

  Beyond the school playing fields the ground dropped steeply down the tree-lined slopes of the Wain valley to the river below. Here, at a point some two hundred yards above its junction with the Tan, the Wain was spanned by an ancient wooden bridge — out of bounds to the boys, for its timbers were rotten and in some places missing altogether. Anne always hated going home after dark; the bridge terrified her. She was glad to have Colin with her that evening.

  As they plodded up the slope on the far side of the bridge to reach the main Tanbury road a car approached noisily from the direction of Wainford. They stood to watch it pass.

  ‘That’s Smelton’s old bus,’ said Colin. ‘Where on earth is he haring off to at this time of night?’

  ‘Probably had a row with Dorothy,’ said Anne. ‘It’s supposed to be a regular occurrence. I expect he’s about to drown his sorrows in drink.’

  ‘He’ll drown them in the river if he carries on at that lick; the bend after the bridge is pretty tricky. What’s his wife like?’

  ‘Terribly smart and very attractive,’ said Anne, as they crossed the road and turned down the track that led through the woods to Abbey Lodge. ‘People say she’s selfish and bad-tempered, but I like her. She’s gay and vital — such a change from the local frumps one normally meets. I believe she’s very well connected, and knows lots of interesting people and gets asked everywhere. She entertains a lot herself, too.’

  ‘Not on an usher’s salary she doesn’t,’ said Colin. ‘She must have money of her own.’ He was silent for a moment, and then added, ‘People will be saying that about you one of these days, I suppose. I’m not sure whether I like the idea or not. I can’t get used to the fact that you are an heiress, darling.’

  ‘I don’t mind it. In fact, I like it,’ Anne confessed. ‘It’s a comforting thought.’

  ‘Maybe. But I wish we could get married soon, so that you will be dependent on me for a few years at least. I wouldn’t feel so bad about it after that I hope. Maybe I’d even get around to liking it.’

  They paused at the Lodge gates. Through the trees they could see, silhouetted against the light that shone out from the hall, two figures — one tall, one short — standing in the open doorway.

  ‘The old man has a visitor,’ said Colin. ‘Is he coming or going?’

  The closing of the front door and the sound of footsteps on gravel answered his question. Instinctively Anne drew back into the shadow of the trees, pulling Colin with her.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked, surprised at her action.

  ‘I don’t know. Shush!’

  The visitor was at the gate — a tall figure wheeling a bicycle, his fawn raincoat a pale blur against the dark sky. Then he was gone, cycling down the track away from the school.

  Colin whistled softly. ‘James Latimer, eh? Did you know it was him? Was that why you didn’t want to be seen?’

  ‘Yes. At least, I thought it might be James.’

  ‘Why? I didn’t know he and J.C. were buddies.’

  ‘They’re not. But James has already been to see him twice this week.’ She sighed. ‘I wish I knew why.’

  ‘There’s dirty work afoot if James is involved,’ said Colin. ‘And I thought he was away for the night. Leaving it a bit late, isn’t he? However, don’t let’s waste time discussing James. He leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.’

  He made to open the gate. But Anne stopped him.

  ‘I think we ought to discuss him, Colin,’ she said. ‘Him — and the money.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well — and don’t blame me for this, darling, it isn’t my fault — if I marry you before Grandfather dies it’s almost certain he won’t leave me a penny.’

  ‘You mean he doesn’t like me?’ asked Colin, astonished that anyone could feel that way about him.

  ‘Not exactly. He hardly knows you, does he? But he wants me to marry James.’

  ‘James? Marry James? Good Lord, what a horrible thought!’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? Of course I’ve no intention of doing anything of the sort you know that. But it does make things rather awkward.’

  ‘I’ll say it does! What on earth put that idea into his head? What’s James got that I haven’t?’

  ‘Nothing — at present,’ said the girl. ‘But one day James will be headmaster of Redways, and you know how keen Grandfather was to have a share in the school. He didn’t get it when old Jacob Latimer died — now he hopes to get it through me. If I marry James he reckons that one day, when Joseph dies or retires, I will provide him with a sort of second-hand interest in the place.’

  ‘Optimistic, isn’t he? He’ll probably peg out long before Joseph. Does James know about this?’

  ‘Grandfather hasn’t actually asked him to marry me, if that’s what you mean. But he has thrown out plenty of hints — encouraged James to take me out, that sort of thing. He even told him he was going to leave me his money, just in case James didn’t find me attractive enough without it.’

  ‘The dirty old so-and-so!’ Colin was genuinely horrified. ‘So that’s why James thought he was on a good wicket with you. And that, I suppose,’ he said, with sudden insight, ‘is the reason for these nocturnal visits of his. He and that wicked old grandfather of yours — oh, hell! Why on earth didn’t you tell me about this before?’

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. I just kept you out of Grandfather’s way so that he wouldn’t discover how we feel about each other. But you can see now why an early marriage has its drawbacks. I’m not mercenary, darling, but I just hate the thought of losing all that money. I’m tired of being poor, I want to travel and enjoy life. Of course, if it comes to a choice between you and the money, then it’s you every time. But I was hoping I’d be able to have both.’

  ‘It’s tricky,’ said Colin. ‘Damned tricky. The old man is liable to live for years yet. And even if I were prepared to wait that long — which I’m not — you can’t stall him off indefinitely about James.’

  ‘I could try. However, it’s up to you, darling. If you want a wife with no prospects say so. I’ll marry you whenever you like.’

  ‘But it isn’t as easy as that,’ he protested. ‘I can’t ask you to chuck away a fortune just to marry me.’

  ‘I’d rather do that than marry James,’ she said, squeezing his arm. ‘But we don’t have to decide tonight, do we? After all, we haven’t known each other long, we can afford to wait a little while. And who knows? Something may turn up to put it right.’

  He kissed her goodnight, although some of his normal ardour was lacking.

  ‘The only thing that could do us any good would be for either James or J.C. to p
eg out suddenly,’ he said gloomily. ‘Preferably both. And that isn’t likely to happen unless someone has the kindness to assist them.’

  2 - A Man is Missing

  Redways Preparatory School for boys stood on a hill in the angle formed by the river Tan and its tributary the Wain, south of the Tanbury road and two miles east of the little village of Wainsford. It was a two-storey building in the form of an E, and had been built by Jacob Latimer, father of Joseph (the eldest sons of the Latimers were invariably named after biblical characters whose names began with J), to accommodate some sixty boarders. There were no day-boys at the school in Jacob’s time; but John Connaught’s action in ousting the staff from Abbey Lodge, where three of them at least had always been housed, had forced Joseph Latimer to reduce the number of boarders. In an effort to mitigate to some extent the financial loss resulting from this reduction, he had, against his inclination, admitted as day-boys to the school the sons of a few local residents.

  Mrs Latimer, as thin and angular as her husband, was seldom in evidence as a person, however much her work behind the scenes contributed to the smooth running of the school. She was a timid woman with no conversation, and she left the interviewing of parents to her husband. Mr Latimer complained bitterly on occasions of her lack of spirit and her habit of effacing herself when visitors called, failing to realize that it was his domineering manner and Victorian notions of a woman’s place in the home which had effectively killed what little spirit his wife might once have possessed.

  It was a reasonably successful school, although the headmaster’s treatment of both staff and boys was too formal and unbending to make it an entirely happy one. To these unfortunate characteristics had lately been added financial concern and a sense of bitter frustration that made him irritable and unreasonable. Old John Connaught, secure in his retirement at Abbey Lodge, would have been maliciously content had he known how complete was his triumph over his enemy.