Motives For Murder

by J F Straker

  But Pitt was accustomed to dealing with the curiosity of females. Firmly he cut short her questions and supplanted them with his own — which Dorothy, so rapidly had the tables been turned, found herself meekly answering. No, they had no maid. No, she could not say at what time her husband had returned the previous evening; she had spent the night with her parents in London. No, she did not think Philip harboured any enmity towards Colin Russell — realizing, with a quickening pulse, the threat behind the question. Philip, she said, usually spoke disparagingly of young masters. He did not consider they had sufficient respect for the experience of their elders.

  When Pitt mentioned John Connaught’s death her answers came less readily. That, he thought, might be due to the strain on her memory imposed by the lapse of time. But it puzzled him that, whereas practically every one connected with Redways grew cautious when Connaught’s name was mentioned, none, with the possible exception of Christopher Moull, displayed any sign of guilt when questioned about the previous evening. One would suppose, thought Pitt, that they had all had a hand in disposing of the old man (whose death had already been dismissed by the coroner as accidental), and that no one had put poison in Russell’s milk — neither of which suppositions could possibly be true.

  ‘I’m told you were out early on your bicycle that morning,’ he said.

  ‘I dare say,’ she agreed. ‘I know I went over there one morning, but I can’t remember which.’

  ‘Meet anyone you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Only the old man in the garden. That was Mr Connaught, I suppose; I’d never come across him before.’ She laughed, remembering. ‘He was in his dressing-gown. He wasn’t very big, but he looked so threatening that I turned tail and bolted.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘No. That was odd, wasn’t it? He just stood there shaking his fist at me. Of course, he had every reason to be angry, seeing a perfect stranger wandering round the house and peering in at the windows.’

  So it had been to Mrs Smelton, and not to his granddaughter, that the old man had been expressing his displeasure. Knowledge of that might please Miss Connaught, thought Pitt — and was promptly surprised that the thought should have occurred to him. ‘What was the purpose of your visit?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, just to have a look round. My husband had been telling me we might be offered the bottom floor as a flat when J.C. died. This house is so far from the school, and much too big for us.’

  ‘Rather an early hour to go calling, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I wasn’t calling. I went early on purpose to avoid meeting anyone. I could hardly ask to be shown over the flat with a view to occupying it on the old man’s death. That would have been most indelicate. And it never occurred to me that people might be up and about before seven. I never get up before eight-thirty. Not even then unless I have to.’

  ‘I thought Mr Connaught’s morning swim was common knowledge.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I knew about that. But I didn’t know it took place at such an unearthly hour.’

  ‘And why the bicycle, Mrs Smelton? Why didn’t you use the car?’

  ‘My husband had it,’ she said, unthinking.

  ‘So your husband had the car, did he?’ commented Pitt. ‘And before seven o’clock in the morning. Where would he be going at that hour?’

  Recognizing her slip, she realized she could do nothing to rectify it. Philip might already have been asked that same question and have given an answer. She must not try to invent one now.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, feeling helpless and inadequate.

  Pitt decided to force his hand. ‘I have reason to believe that your husband was away from home that Friday night,’ he said. ‘Can you confirm that?’

  ‘He may have been,’ Dorothy admitted — and then, deciding that it was safer to tell the truth, ‘Yes, I think he was. We had had a row that evening, and he went off in a huff.’

  ‘At about nine-thirty?’

  ‘About then, yes.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see him again until the next evening, and neither of us referred to it then.’

  ‘Might he have stayed with friends?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said again. ‘He hasn’t any real friends in this district. But if it’s important why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I have asked him, Mrs Smelton,’ said Pitt. ‘He told me he had spent the night here. He said he was late to school the next morning because he overslept.’

  That shook her. She had not realized that Philip might find it necessary to lie. But she made no attempt to retract her statement or to excuse her husband’s. If Philip were in danger he must see to his own salvation. They had grown too far apart for her to do so.

  To Inspector Pitt, whose experience had shown him more of the friction of married life than its bliss, Mrs Smelton’s explanation of her husband’s action seemed a very natural one. Even Smelton’s lie did not arouse in him undue suspicion; Smelton was a man full of his own importance, he might consider it beneath his dignity to admit to a marital squabble. But Pitt was taking no chances.

  Since Russell had seen Smelton’s car heading for Tanbury that night, he despatched Maddox there to make inquiries. Then, feeling rather self-conscious at the assiduity with which he was chasing apparent red herrings, he went in search of Bain.

  He found him clearing away the remains of his evening meal, and looking extremely miserable about it. ‘I don’t mind a bit of cooking, so long as it’s easy like,’ said the man. ‘But washing and wiping! That’s worse than housework, that is.’

  Pitt commiserated, and inquired after Mrs Bain.

  ‘She’s coming along, but it’ll be a week or two yet afore she’s out,’ said the other. He handed the Inspector a cloth. ‘You dry them things while I wash, and we’ll get along quicker. I gotta go to the ‘ospital.’

  The Inspector obeyed. ‘What’s your job?’ he asked, gingerly rubbing a plate that still contained traces of egg and mustard. Mr Bain, he thought, was not a good washer-upper.

  ‘Lampard’s, out along the Kirten road. I’m on nights — eight-thirty to six-thirty. They’re long hours, but the pay’s good.’

  Pitt looked at his watch. ‘You’ll have to hurry, won’t you, if you want to get to the hospital and back before eight-thirty?’

  ‘I’ve got me auto-cycle,’ said Bain. ‘It don’t take long on that.’

  Pitt asked him about his wife’s accident, but got little enlightenment and much suspicion. The suspicion, however, was not directed against any person in particular, and Pitt decided — somewhat regretfully, for he was still intrigued by it — that this red herring was not for him. Then an idea occurred to him and he said, ‘The Kirten road, eh? Do you go by the towpath?’

  The man nodded. ‘That’s the quickest way,’ he said. ‘But I don’t use the motor along that bit. She’s easy to pedal.’

  ‘If you knock off at six-thirty, then, you must often have seen old Mr Connaught taking his early-morning dip.’

  Mr Bain agreed. He had seen the old gentleman many a time. ‘I remember the morning he was drowned, too. Same day as that kid from Redways got run over. They was carting him off to ‘ospital as I come to the bridge.’

  ‘Did you meet anyone on or near the towpath that morning?’

  ‘Well, there was the young gent from the school. I don’t know his name. Round-faced, quiet-spoken chap.’

  Pitt nodded. ‘Short hair, like a Yank’s? Was he wearing a duffel-coat?’

  ‘He was. But I wouldn’t know about his ‘air. Always seen him in a beret.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘Far end of the towpath.’

  ‘Was he coming this way?’

  ‘He wasn’t coming or going,’ said Bain. ‘He was standing leaning against his saddle and looking at the water.’

  ‘Saddle? What saddle?’

  ‘The saddle of his bike, of course.’ The man laughed. ‘You didn’t think
he was on a horse, did you?’

  9 - Peregrinations of a Bottle

  The school was strangely silent for a Saturday afternoon, thought Anne. Normally the boys would be playing football, and, although the building itself would be empty, there would be the sound of their excited voices, the shouted instructions of the masters, and the shrilling of whistles, drifting in from the fields. But today there was no football, for Mrs Latimer and the two matrons were busy packing and there were no football clothes available. The boys were down in the woods at the far end of the grounds, playing ‘He’ and leap-frog and other boyish games. Some whose homes were near were leaving that evening, and some on Sunday; but the majority would be there until Monday. After that it will be all silence, Anne thought. Probably in a few days we shall be longing to hear the noisy shouting we now complain of. A school empty of boys must be a horribly depressing place.

  She wandered into a dormitory and offered her help to Miss Webber. But, as Miss Webber pointed out, by the time you had explained to someone else where everything was to be found it was usually quicker to do the job yourself.

  Anne sat on a bed and watched the other’s practised packing.

  ‘What do you think of all this, Webby?’ she asked. Not because she really wanted to know. She was depressed, and needed someone to talk to.

  ‘I don’t let myself think of it, dear,’ said Miss Webber, rummaging under a pile of clothing. ‘I’d probably go crazy if I did. But I locked my door last night. And I looked under the bed.’ She stood up. ‘No, it isn’t there.’

  ‘What isn’t there?’

  ‘Derwent’s other boxing-glove,’ said Miss Webber, holding up the one. ‘I’ve never yet known that boy have everything ready for packing.’

  ‘Why does he take them home?’ asked Anne. ‘I thought they usually left them here.’

  ‘He has boxing lessons in the holidays. Well, his trunk must wait. But I reminded him about his gloves before lunch. I suppose one was in its right place and the other wasn’t, and he simply couldn’t be bothered to look for it. That’s just typical of Derwent.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find it,’ said Anne, standing up. ‘It must be somewhere in the gym.’

  ‘Don’t bother, dear,’ said Miss Webber. ‘Let him look for it himself later.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’ve nothing else to do.’

  The boys’ boxing-gloves were hung on pegs at the far end of the gymnasium. Anne examined them all; they were clearly marked, but none had Derwent’s name on it. Looking round the bare walls, it seemed impossible that the missing glove could be anywhere in the gymnasium; apart from some coiled rope, the vaulting horse, and a few mats, there was nothing on the floor. The mats were heavy, but there was no need to lift them. They lay quite flat; there could be no lumpy boxing-glove hidden underneath.

  Just to make sure, she laboriously tilted one end of the horse. She saw the glove at once. With some difficulty she fished it out, wondering how it had got there. Yes, it was Derwent’s. Well, perhaps he had hidden it on purpose, she thought. Perhaps he doesn’t like boxing. Imagining the boy’s scared disappointment when he learned that his ruse had not succeeded, she felt rather mean.

  Idly wondering what it would feel like to be punched on the nose with such a solid piece of leather, she tried to slip her hand into the glove as she went upstairs. Her fingers encountered something cold and hard, and she pulled it out. It was a small glass bottle, empty with a rubber stopper.

  Funny place to hide a bottle, thought Anne.

  It was not until she reached the open dormitory door that she connected it with the poison. Clutching the bottle tightly in one hand, she proffered the glove to Miss Webber with the other.

  ‘Thanks, dear,’ said Miss Webber. ‘That’s a great help. But I’ll see that Derwent —’ She paused, eyeing with concern the girl’s pale face. ‘Are you feeling all right, Anne?’

  ‘Just a headache,’ said Anne. ‘I think I’ll go outdoors for a bit, though. The fresh air might blow it away.’

  ‘I hope you’re not sickening for measles,’ said the other. ‘If you don’t feel better after tea I’ll take your temperature.’

  Anne escaped to her room and examined the bottle. It was hexagonal in shape, with a plain white label devoid of printed matter. Underneath embossed on the base, was what appeared to be the letter M. She pulled out the cork and sniffed warily. Was she mistaken, or was there really a faint odour of bitter almonds? Or was that the wrong smell for cyanide?

  She pushed the cork back firmly, slipped the bottle into her jacket pocket, and, since neither the Inspector nor the Sergeant was about, went out into the grounds to look for Colin. There was no one in sight, but in the distance she could hear the boys’ voices. They seemed to come mainly from the direction of the valley, and she ran down through the trees towards the wooden bridge.

  Colin was there. He stood on the bridge, his hands resting lightly on the broken rail, gazing pensively down into the water foaming past underneath. Along the banks of the stream the boys were scattered, chasing each other and playing hide-and-seek among the trees.

  Colin saw her coming and walked off the bridge to meet her. He caught her in his arms as she slid involuntarily down the slope and, forgetful of the boys, bent to kiss her.

  Anne turned her head sharply and struggled out of his embrace.

  ‘Colin, do be careful, please! The boys are watching us.’ She put her arm through his and led him away. ‘Come along, I’ve got something to show you.’

  ‘Mustn’t go far,’ said Colin. ‘I don’t want those damned kids falling into the river in their Sunday suits.’

  ‘If they fell in in their birthday suits they’d be no better off,’ said Anne. ‘They’d drown either way.’ She fished the bottle from her pocket and held it out to him. ‘There!’

  He took it from her. ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘In the gym. It was inside one of Derwent’s boxing-gloves, under the vaulting-horse. It’s the bottle the police are looking for, isn’t it? The one the poison was in?’

  ‘Probably. You can tell by the shape that it’s a medicine bottle.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call potassium cyanide a medicine,’ Anne retorted, rather nettled that he had not commended her on her discovery. ‘Come on, give it back. I’ll keep it until the Inspector returns.’

  ‘I suppose it never occurred to you that there might be fingerprints,’ said Colin, still holding the bottle and ignoring her outstreched hand. ‘Now it will be plastered all over with yours and mine.’

  ‘They will be able to trace where it came from, anyway.’ She was annoyed with herself at having forgotten so elementary a precaution. ‘And I don’t suppose the poisoner would be so careless as to leave his fingerprints on it.’

  ‘You’d be surprised at the damned silly mistakes criminals sometimes make. Even the cleverest of them.’ He juggled the bottle up and down thoughtfully. Then, acting apparently on impulse, he slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘I think I’ll keep this for a while,’ he said.

  ‘Colin!’ Anne was horrified. ‘The police must have it. The Inspector said that if he could find the bottle he would be half-way home. Don’t you want him to find out who tried to poison you?’

  ‘I’d rather find out for myself — if I can. Anyway, I’m not going to keep it — I only want to borrow it. The Inspector can have it later.’

  ‘Colin, you mustn’t. It’s wrong and it’s dangerous. And you promised me you wouldn’t meddle any more; you know you did. Please, darling, let me have it.’

  ‘Why? You can’t give it to the Inspector yet — he’s not here. And I don’t call it meddling to want to nail the blighter who tried to poison me. That’s just getting my own back. I promise not to run any risks; but I might be more successful than the police simply because they are the police — if you get me.’

  ‘No, I don’t. And the Inspector would be furious if he knew.’

  ‘Then we’ll see that he doesn�
��t know. Don’t you breathe a word about this to anyone, or we’ll both be for it.’

  He gave her a brief smile and then turned to walk back to the bridge.

  ‘But what are you going to do?’ asked Anne, following him; and, when he did not answer, ‘If you don’t tell me I shall go straight to the Inspector as soon as he gets back. I mean it, Colin. I won’t have you —’

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ he said. ‘Not now. It’s time these kids were indoors.’

  She waited until he had rounded up the boys and herded them towards the school, and then walked beside him in silence as he harried and chivvied the laggards up the valley slope. But once they were on level ground and the boys were well ahead she again pressed him to explain.

  He seemed embarrassed.

  ‘I will if you insist, of course. But honestly, darling, it would be better if you didn’t know. You would react more naturally, you see. Of course, if you don’t trust me ...’

  It was mean of him to put it like that, she protested. It was the wisdom of his intentions, not the intentions themselves, that she distrusted. ‘I don’t want last Thursday night all over again, Colin. You were lucky then, but next time —’

  He gripped her arm. ‘There won’t be a next time, ducks, I promise you that. Nobody’s going to — hallo, what’s up with Brother James? He looks rattled.’

  James Latimer bore down on them with long, purposeful strides.

  ‘I have been wanting a word with you two since last night,’ he said, his tone suiting his expression. ‘Someone has been telling tales out of school. I found the police extremely well informed on our little fracas of Wednesday night.’

  ‘I didn’t even consider it worth mentioning,’ said Colin. ‘What’s the matter — wind up?’

  ‘Somebody mentioned it,’ said James, looking pointedly at Anne and ignoring the taunt. ‘The Inspector had it all cut and dried, and only we three were in the room when it happened.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ Anne said, slightly red of face. ‘I certainly discussed it with him, but it was the Inspector who referred to it first, not me.’