Motives For Murder

by J F Straker

  ‘Mrs Trent is here, Inspector.’

  The slight quiver in his voice, the mute appeal in his eyes, were wasted. Pitt, lost in a conflicting whirl of evidence and suspicion, neither heard nor saw them.

  ***

  It was dark by the time the Inspector was ready to leave. As he went into the hall from the library Diana Farling, a scarf tied over her hair and under her chin, was struggling into a coat.

  Pitt helped her. ‘Going anywhere in particular?’ he asked. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m only going for a short walk before dinner, in search of an appetite.’

  ‘Not afraid of the dark, eh?’

  ‘No. Nor of things that go bump in the night.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m not even afraid of policemen.’

  Pitt believed her. ‘If that’s an invitation I’ll accept it,’ he said. ‘I could do with some exercise. And an appetite. Mind if I accompany you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she answered politely, but with no show of enthusiasm.

  ‘Fresh air might help me to some clear thinking,’ he said, putting on his coat. ‘And I certainly need it. For the past two hours I’ve been sitting in that room with my mind going round in circles and getting nowhere.’

  It was a fine night with a touch of frost in the air, and the grass was crisp under their feet as they crossed the lawn to the main gates. The day’s sun had dried up most of the previous night’s rain, but by the side of the road small pools of water glinted in the beam of Diana’s torch. They walked for a while in silence, the man’s steel-tipped shoes striking occasional sparks from the flinty surface, the girl padding beside him like an animal in her rubber-soled shoes.

  It was she who broached the subject that was in both their minds.

  ‘I don’t intend going far, Inspector,’ she said. ‘You had better say your piece, and then we’ll turn back.’

  Feeling rather foolish at the ease with which she had sized up his intentions, Pitt began to protest. But she cut him short.

  ‘I imagine that police officers don’t normally go strolling in the moonlight with young women when they’re on duty,’ she said serenely. ‘Not without a motive, anyway. You came out to pump me, didn’t you? Of course, if you’ve changed your mind that’s all right with me. But don’t try to make me out a fool.’

  Pitt grunted. He disliked being trapped.

  ‘I admit the charge, miss. But I never under-estimated your intelligence.’

  ‘You may cut out the compliments. I presume this isn’t that kind of walk. What is it you want from me, Inspector?’

  ‘I want to ask you an embarrassing and personal question, Miss Farling. Are you in love with Mr Moull?’

  He could not see her face, but he heard the quick intake of breath.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Is he in love with you?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  ‘I have always understood that it was practically impossible for a man to be in love with a woman without her becoming aware of it,’ Pitt said. ‘Women’s intuition, I believe they call it. But then most of my knowledge of romance is obtained from books. Perhaps it isn’t altogether reliable.’

  The girl made no comment.

  ‘However, reliable or not,’ the Inspector continued, ‘I fancied it must be love — either yours or his — which prompted you to tell Mr Moull what you overheard Sergeant Maddox and myself discussing in the library last night.’

  This time there was no mistaking her agitation. ‘You — you know that?’ she gasped.

  ‘Yes. So it was obvious when Mr Moull disappeared that he had been warned by you.’

  She made no answer to the charge, and they walked on steadily. Pitt decided not to press her. She’ll talk sooner or later, he thought.

  ‘So I’m not so clever after all, eh?’ she said at last, her voice once more under control. ‘You’re right; Chris was in love with me, and I knew it. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel the same way about him; and that’s something that makes a girl feel guilty. I don’t know why it should, but it does. You wouldn’t understand that, being a man.’

  ‘It seems to make some sort of sense,’ he said.

  ‘It also made me — well, more aware of him, if you can understand that too,’ she went on. ‘As soon as all this started I knew there was something worrying Chris. I tried to find out what it was, but he wouldn’t tell me. And yet he must have known I wouldn’t give him away.’

  ‘I should have thought it was fairly obvious,’ said Pitt.

  ‘Not if you knew Chris. It was difficult to believe anything bad of him. But I did begin to suspect, of course; one couldn’t help it. And yesterday — well, Sergeant Maddox has a very expressive face, Inspector; I guessed he was on to something. And if it was to do with Chris I had to know about it. So I listened. Despicable of me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very,’ he agreed.

  ‘Thanks.’ She laughed, but there was no mirth in her laughter. ‘My eavesdropping may have helped Chris, but it didn’t help me. I’m no wiser now than I was before.’

  ‘He didn’t explain?’

  ‘No. He thanked me very nicely for telling him, and said he was going away and would I help him. So I did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There was a policeman in the hall. I took him a cup of tea and distracted his attention while Chris left by the door next to the common room. He thought the policeman might stop him if he saw him. Would he have done?’

  ‘Yes. What time did Mr Moull leave the building?’

  ‘About eleven-thirty.’

  Either she or Russell must be lying, thought Pitt. But why? Why did it matter what time Moull had left?

  He was still pondering this when the girl said, ‘May we turn back now, please? There isn’t anything else, is there?’

  ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you that you have laid yourself open to a very serious charge, Miss Farling,’ he said, obeying her request. ‘If Mr Moull were to be convicted of murder your own penalty might be anything up to imprisonment for life.’

  ‘But I didn’t really do anything,’ she protested. ‘He could probably have dodged the constable on his own. I only made it easier for him. Anyway, why should he be convicted of murder? Colin Russell is still very much alive.’

  ‘I was thinking of Mr Connaught.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, of course. I had forgotten about J.C.’

  ‘Did Mr Moull spend that Friday night — the night before Mr Connaught was drowned — at your cottage?’

  She hesitated. ‘Since I’m confessing, I may as well confess fully,’ she said eventually. ‘Yes, he did. He arrived rather late, and quite unexpectedly. It seemed a bit mean to send him back, so I let him sleep on the couch downstairs. I don’t know what time he left the next morning; he had gone when I got up. That was at nine o’clock — and Chris had to be in school by then, of course.’

  ‘What reason did he give for his visit?’

  ‘He didn’t give any. Just said he wanted to see me. But he didn’t talk much. In fact, he seemed unusually quiet, even for Chris.’

  ‘Do you believe now that he killed John Connaught?’ Pitt asked bluntly.

  ‘I told you before, Inspector, I don’t think J.C. was murdered. It may look that way to you — I dare say it does — but I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You could be wrong, miss. Why did someone try to poison Mr Russell, do you think? And if Mr Moull has a clear conscience, why has he run away?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes, if I’m wrong about J.C., then I suppose — oh, I don’t know what I think,’ she said passionately. ‘And what does it matter? It’s what you think that counts, isn’t it?’

  ‘What I can prove — not what I think,’ he told her. ‘Were you the only person who knew that Mr Moull intended to leave last night?’

  ‘I should think so. I don’t suppose he went round broadcasting the news, do you?’

  ‘Did he mention the poison?’

  ‘I
told you, he didn’t mention or explain anything. He just said he was going and would I help him, and I did and — oh, for Heaven’s sake stop asking me questions, can’t you? I’ve had just about as much as I can stand.’

  The outburst surprised him. He had not expected such a display of emotion from the calm Miss Farling.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. It was not until he said goodnight to her at the school that he put his final question.

  ‘What was Mr Moull wearing when he left? His duffel-coat is missing, and we mentioned that in the description we circulated. But what else?’

  ‘A grey suit, I think. Or perhaps grey flannels and a sports jacket. I can’t be sure about the jacket; he had his coat on.’

  When Pitt reached the police station Maddox had gone; the Sergeant in charge thought he had returned to the Forester’s Arms for a meal. And there was still no news of Moull.

  Pitt was not ready to eat yet; he was not hungry, and he had found in the past that his brain was more nimble when his stomach was empty. Nor did he particularly long for Maddox’s company. So he stayed on at the neat brick villa that was the local police station, and tried to bring some semblance of order into the chaos of his thoughts.

  On the face of it any of them — the Latimers, Smelton, Moull, Miss Farling, even Russell or Miss Connaught — could have murdered the old man. So, he supposed, could Mrs Smelton. Any of them, Miss Farling and Mrs Smelton excepted, could have made the attempt on Russell’s life. But motive and opportunity were of little avail, since they were more or less common to all; and the evidence against each was conflicting. Most of it pointed to Moull — but how much of it was reliable? How many witnesses had doctored their statements — not necessarily with any intentional bias against Moull — to suit their own ends? And why was it, wondered Pitt, that the few tiny scraps of evidence in Moull’s favour seemed to him to outweigh the more solid evidence against the man?

  Well, at least he knew the answer to that. He was not now building up a case with which to convince a jury; he was trying to convince himself. Most of the evidence made a pattern in which he himself did not believe. He had his own pattern; he had had it since early that afternoon (for Diana Farling had told him little that he had not known or guessed); but a pattern was useless unless you had the material with which to complete it. If he could find that ...

  Moull was involved — he could not be entirely blameless; despite the contradictions there was too much positive evidence against him for that. But there was someone else ... there might even be two ...

  With a sigh he began to wade once more through Russell’s statement and his own copious notes.

  ***

  It was after ten o’clock when Sergeant Maddox, intrigued rather than worried by Pitt’s non-appearance, eventually disturbed him. ‘They told me you were here and that you didn’t need me,’ he said; ‘but I was thinking you must be feeling a bit peckish. There’s some sandwiches for you over at the pub when you’re ready.’

  Pitt had put away his papers and was gazing into the dying fire. He nodded and stood up. ‘Now you come to mention it I’m starving,’ he said. ‘And I could do with a pint of beer.’

  As they walked through the quiet village to the Forester’s Arms Maddox said, ‘I hope they pick Moull up soon. This is my part of the country, but I don’t like this village and I don’t like the folks up at the school. The women and kids are all right, but the men give me the willies.’

  ‘We’ll find him tomorrow,’ Pitt promised.

  ‘Well, that’s a ... Eh? Did you say we’ll find him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go stick a pin in me old Aunt Lucy!’ exclaimed the Sergeant piously. ‘You mean to say you know where he is?’

  ‘I don’t know where,’ Pitt said, ‘but I think I know how. I think he’s dead.’

  11 - One More Body

  There were no lessons that Monday morning. Text and exercise books had been stored away; the desks were empty. But since the boys were dressed in their best suits they could not be left to their own devices. Mr Latimer knew that he was due for several unpleasant interviews before the day was over; he did not wish to add to the unpleasantness by confronting an already displeased parent with a grubby and untidy son.

  About a third of the school had already left early for London by train under the care of Mrs Latimer — a journey which that lady had welcomed, since it took her away from school at a time when visitors would be there in plenty. The remainder of the boys sat in their classrooms, occupying themselves as the masters or mistress in charge saw fit. The top form, full of an indignation which they dared not express, were translating a piece of Latin prose written on the blackboard by Smelton; their indignation was stretched to almost mutinous lengths as they listened to the laughter of the two middle forms playing paper games with Mr Russell. The Fourth Form either drew or read or played with cotton-reels converted, by means of elastic bands and a piece of candle end, into army tanks. They could do what they liked, James Latimer had told them as he spread his newspaper on the desk, provided they were silent and did not disturb him.

  Anne was reading aloud to the bottom form. ‘Being read to’ was something they loved, the only tried and trusted method of keeping them still and quiet. Even with the exciting prospect of meeting fathers and mothers and of a long holiday stretching blissfully ahead, the magic still worked.

  But not, on this occasion, for long. At first there was only a soft whisper, instantly stilled at her command. Then the whispering started again. Heads were turned to peer out of the far window; one or two of the smallest boys were standing up and pointing excitedly.

  ‘Sit down,’ Anne said sharply. ‘What’s the matter with you all?’

  ‘Please, Miss Connaught, there’s a man.’

  Her eyes followed the pointing fingers. ‘There’s no one there,’ she said. ‘Don’t be so silly.’

  ‘Yes, there is, Miss Connaught. He’s in the bushes. Look! You can see his legs.’

  Horror filled her as she thought of Chris. Had he too been murdered? She hurried to the open window. Yes, they were right — there was someone lying in the bushes.

  The boys left their desks and came crowding round her, their shrill voices arguing excitedly. Anne was about to shoo them away, to go for help, when the legs moved and horror was turned to astonishment. The legs wriggled slowly backward, turning from side to side; and presently a man’s body appeared, and he stood up, dusting the soil from his clothing.

  It was Inspector Pitt.

  Anne began to laugh — a low giggle which developed into a shrill peal. She could not help it. The relief had been so great that it had left her weak and slightly hysterical. The boys, taking their cue from her, joined in the laughter.

  Inspector Pitt turned and saw them. At first he frowned. Then the frown changed to a smile, and he walked across the terrace to the window.

  ‘I’m glad you found it funny,’ he said, shaking a fist at the boys in mock severity. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘But what were you doing,’ asked Anne, ‘rummaging about in the shrubbery with that stick?’

  He still held it in his hand; now he looked down at it. ‘That? I was just searching for something.’

  ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ He looked at the now silent boys and then at the girl. ‘Can you leave them for a few minutes, miss? I want a word with you in private.’

  ‘I ought not to,’ she protested. ‘They’ll get up to mischief.’

  ‘You can keep an eye on them from here.’ He turned to the boys. ‘Go and sit down, the lot of you. Any larking about and I’ll put handcuffs on you,’ he said sternly.

  He put one hand in his pocket and rattled an imaginary handcuff. They boys laughed delightedly.

  ‘You don’t know how to handle them,’ Anne told him. ‘Now they’ll be as naughty as they can. There’s nothing they’d like better than a pair of handcuffs.’

  She restored such order as she could and hurri
ed out to the terrace. ‘I can’t leave them for long,’ she said. ‘What was it you wanted?’

  ‘It’s about that bottle, miss; the one you found. Remember you told me there was an M embossed on the base? What kind of an M was it?’

  Anne was puzzled. ‘Just an ordinary M. A block capital, with the two uprights spread out a little at the feet.’

  Pitt handed her notebook and pencil. ‘Draw it, please.’

  She obeyed. He took the notebook from her, looked at it from several angles, and nodded. Anne thought he looked pleased.

  ‘Thank you, miss. Now, just one thing more. Did your grandfather receive many letters?’

  She was surprised at the sudden switch.

  ‘No, not many. I was his only relative, and he had few friends. Most of his correspondence was with bookmakers and football pool firms. He betted a lot.’

  ‘Mr Russell was telling me about an occasion last April when your grandfather accused you of spying because you interrupted him when he was reading a letter.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But whatever —’

  ‘Would you recognize that letter now?’

  ‘No. I never saw it. Only the envelope. And I didn’t see the writing on that, either. J.C. was standing some distance away, and I only just glanced at him casually. I wasn’t really interested, you see.’

  ‘How far away was he?’

  She looked round. ‘About from here to the wall, I should say.’

  Pitt walked to the wall, followed by the curious eyes of Form One. They had abandoned all pretence at obedience and were once more crowded round the window. But they were reasonably quiet, and Anne let them be.

  The Inspector took something from his pocket and held it up. ‘Was it anything like that?’ he asked.

  ‘That’ was an envelope. Anne screwed up her eyes and craned forward.

  ‘Yes, it was. It was the same shape and colour, certainly — but I think there was a white edging to the blue. And it had that blue stamp, whatever it is.’

  ‘There’s a white edging to this also,’ he said, replacing the envelope in his pocket. ‘Maybe it doesn’t show up in this light, but it’s there.’