by J F Straker
She put her arms round his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him. Colin held her close while he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the tears from her eyes.
‘I’m an awful cry-baby,’ she said, smiling faintly. And then, remembering, ‘Was it Diana?’
‘Yes.’
She shuddered. ‘Colin, it was horrible! I couldn’t do anything but watch. I couldn’t even shout — not that shouting would have helped you, I suppose. And when she fell I couldn’t see properly; I thought it was you. That’s why I fainted.’
‘You’d better get up,’ Colin said. ‘The grass is damp.’
This practical suggestion struck Anne as being very funny indeed. But she knew that if she gave way to laughter she would become hysterical, and obediently she scrambled to her feet. As she did so she gave a quick glance behind her and then looked questioningly at Colin.
‘Yes,’ he said, understanding, ‘she’s still there. The Inspector is with her. He sent the constable for an ambulance.’
‘She’s not dead?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t go down. The Inspector shouted at me to look after you.’
They began walking slowly down the hillside to the lane, their arms linked. ‘Shall we walk back to the school?’ asked Colin. ‘Or would you rather wait for the car? It won’t be long.’
‘Let’s walk.’ The fog had cleared from her brain, and she was beginning to think again. ‘Don’t be cross with me, Colin I’ve got to know. Did you — did you kill her?’
‘No.’ He helped her carefully over the stile. ‘But I meant to. I wanted to get even with her for Chris, I wanted to make sure she didn’t escape.’ He laughed shortly. ‘I guess I’m not cut out for an executioner. My nerve failed me.’
Anne pressed his hand. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘After you left the common room I asked her to go for a walk. I said I wanted to get away from the place, I didn’t want to be button-holed by inquisitive parents. She seemed a bit surprised, but I don’t think she suspected anything; I suppose I must have looked and sounded quite normal, although I didn’t feel normal. I felt as though there were several volcanoes erupting inside my head. And in my stomach.
‘I can’t remember what we talked about on the way here. Chris, I expect. I hadn’t made any definite plans, but I knew I had to get well away from the school or the police might interfere. When we came to the stile I remembered the chalk pits, and it seemed the ideal spot. But I waited until we were up there before I told her.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing. Not a word. When I accused her of having murdered Chris and J.C. she neither denied nor admitted it. She just stood there looking at me in a funny sort of way. Even when I’d worked myself into a frenzy and told her I was going to throw her over the cliff she didn’t bat an eyelid.’
Anne shuddered. ‘Colin, how dreadful! Didn’t she try to run away?’
‘No. She walked to the cliff-edge and then turned round and dared me to do it. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t that I was afraid, Anne. I just couldn’t do it.’
She pressed his hand. ‘I’m glad, darling. But what happened? Why were you struggling with her?’
‘She grabbed me as I turned away. I suppose she thought that if she could get rid of me the way she had got rid of Chris she would still have a chance. The police didn’t seem to suspect her, and no one knew we’d gone up there together; and even if they did she could have said it was an accident. She fought like a fury; and catching me off my guard like that gave her an initial advantage. She nearly had us both over a couple of times.’
‘Did you push her?’
‘No. She let go suddenly and pushed me. I was off balance and fell back — on to the grass luckily. She’d probably lost her sense of direction by then — didn’t realize that the cliff was behind her, not me. I heard her cry out, and then — well, she just disappeared.’
‘How did you know it was Diana who killed Chris?’ Anne asked, after they had walked a little way in silence.
‘I didn’t. I just guessed. I reckoned that Chris was killed because he knew too much; there couldn’t be any other reason. That meant he was shielding someone — and who could that be but Diana? He wouldn’t have lied to the police to save Smelton or the Latimers; he didn’t like any of them.’
‘But, Colin — suppose you were wrong?’
‘I wasn’t wrong. If you’d seen her up there you’d know that.’
As they neared the school gates the police car went past followed by an ambulance. Anne shivered.
‘I’ll be glad when we’re away from here,’ she said. ‘It seems a horrible place now. And once I’m away I’ll never come back. Never.’
12 - A Chronicle of Crime
It was two days before Inspector Pitt came again to Redways, and meanwhile the staff were tied to the school. Some of them were called to the police station for further questioning and to sign statements. There was the inquest on Chris Moull to attend, and later his funeral; at his parents’ request he was buried in the local cemetery. And between these spasms of activity they filled the dawdling hours with open surmise and (in some cases) secret dread of what the trial of Diana Farling might reveal. For Diana had not died of her fall — though there were some who thought it might have been better if she had. She lay in hospital, her body broken and mutilated and in constant pain. Her conscious moments were monopolized by the police, apart from whom her mother was her only visitor.
Pitt was alone. He stood with his hack to the fireplace, a stern, forbidding figure, greeting the staff with an impersonal nod as they assembled in the library at his request. Only James Latimer was absent. James, said his father, had felt unwell after lunch and had retired to bed.
‘Very wise of him,’ was the Inspector’s comment. ‘He wouldn’t derive much pleasure from what I have to say.’
Mr Latimer frowned. ‘Will any of us? Why single James out?’
Pitt’s expression did not alter. Much of his sternness was adopted as a shield against moments such as this. To cause pain, even to someone he disliked as much as he disliked Joseph Latimer, was distasteful to him.
He said slowly, ‘Your son has not told you, then, that he was engaged to Miss Farling?’
The headmaster gripped the arms of his chair, rose slightly, and then sank back. His face was grey.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said harshly; and then again, his voice firmer this time, ‘I don’t believe it.’
Pitt looked at the others. Their faces showed that they too did not believe it. He moved away from the fireplace and sat down.
‘It’s true,’ he said, his voice warmer, less brittle. Now that he had flung his first bombshell he felt less need of his shield; he could afford to relax. ‘Young Trent hinted at it; his mother confirmed it. Or she had reason to suppose it, anyway.’
Joseph Latimer, immersed in unhappy thought, was barely listening. But one word came to him clearly.
‘Trent? How can Trent know anything of this?’
‘He doesn’t, sir. Not consciously. He was merely telling me about his summer holidays. He mentioned seeing your son; and since at that time Mr James’ — unconsciously Pitt adopted the term of reference to James Latimer commonly used by the boys — ‘was under suspicion of having been connected with the murder of John Connaught —’
‘John Connaught’s death was an accident. The coroner said so.’
‘No, sir; he was murdered. There was also reason to suppose that your son might have attempted to poison Mr Russell.’ Here the Inspector glanced sharply at Colin, who grinned back self-consciously. ‘So any item of news concerning him interested me. And when the boy told me this extraordinary story about a ginger horse at the hotel —’
This time it was not the headmaster alone who interrupted. ‘A ginger horse!’ they echoed in incredulous unison.
Pitt sighed.
‘We’re not getting along very rapidly, are we? I’m a busy man, Mr Latimer; I came here for my own satisfact
ion, not yours. However, I’m prepared to relate the facts if I’m allowed to do so without all these interruptions.’
The headmaster glared at him. The man was adopting far too dictatorial a tone for a public servant, he thought. But his curiosity was whetted ... and there was this extraordinary suggestion that James ...
He contented himself with a brief nod.
‘Thank you,’ said Pitt.
He told them the odd little tale he had heard from Trent. ‘If there had been a horse he must have seen it; so obviously he had misinterpreted what was said. But how? Why did Mr James seek to avoid them? And why should the sight of this horse — or whatever it was — have angered Mr Connaught?’ He paused, recalling the knot that this particular problem had tied in his brain. And no one spoke. ‘It was the “horse” that intrigued me; “ginger” seemed less important. I was puzzling over it when we came into the hall — and the first thing I noticed was Miss Farling’s red hair! And then, quite simply, “horse” became “horsey”, and “horsey” “hussy”. The ginger hussy.’
There was a gasp from Anne, instantly suppressed.
Colin wondered whether ‘hussy’ was indeed the word Mrs Trent had used; he could think of another more easily mistaken for ‘horse’. Had Mrs Trent substituted out of delicacy the milder term of opprobrium? Or was it the Inspector who was being delicate?
‘Mrs Trent confirmed the details later. She and Mr Connaught had seen the girl behind Mr James, but the boy had not. And at that I might have lost interest in Miss Farling; her association with Mr James was no concern of mine, however shocked Mrs Trent might be. But although I could appreciate Mr Connaught’s annoyance — I had been told that he hoped Mr James would marry Miss Connaught —’ here Joseph Latimer glanced swiftly at the flustered Anne — ‘I couldn’t understand how he could say with such certainty, “I’ll see this is the last time this happens.” As he did, apparently.’
‘Didn’t he explain to Mrs Trent?’ asked Colin.
‘No, unfortunately. It would have made my task a lot easier if he had.’
Mr Latimer was not interested in J.C. The bitter realization had come to him that it was James who had been behind Mrs Trent’s threat to remove her son — a threat which had since become a reality. ‘When did this disgraceful association begin?’ he asked.
‘Between Miss Farling and your son? Shortly after she came here, I believe. But they were both anxious to keep it a secret. That was why he bought the cottage at Chaim.’
‘You mean James paid for it?’
‘Certainly. It was in her name, but he put down the cash. Otherwise she would have had to return to Ireland for her holidays. That wouldn’t have suited either of them.’
Mr Latimer, Anne thought with pity, looked a beaten man. And with what James and Diana had done between them he was probably also a ruined man. She wondered what would become of him if he had to leave Redways.
‘A few days after the end of the Easter term, when Miss Farling had left Abbey Lodge for the cottage, a letter for her arrived at the Lodge from her mother in Ireland.’ Pitt looked at Anne. ‘That was the letter you saw your grandfather reading, Miss Connaught. The one with the blue stamp.’
‘But he wouldn’t open someone else’s letter,’ she protested.
‘The envelope wasn’t properly sealed. And there are people who cannot resist reading the correspondence of others. Perhaps he was one of them. Anyway, he did read it.’
‘He would,’ growled the headmaster, relieved at this deviation, however temporary, from his own burdens. ‘What good did it do him?’
‘None, ultimately. But from it he learned that Miss Farling hoped to marry your son. He also learned that three years previously she had been sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment for embezzling money belonging to a London firm of contractors by whom she was then employed.’
‘Good God!’ ejaculated Mr Latimer. ‘A gaolbird!’
The realization that he had actually employed such a person obviously appalled him. Miss Dove, who caught only a fraction of what was being said and showed little interest in the rest, continued to knit busily. The others were as shocked as their headmaster, although Smelton appeared somewhat embarrassed at this reference to gaol.
‘If the facts weren’t all in the letter there were enough for him to ferret out the rest when he made inquiries in London,’ Pitt went on. ‘And he then told Miss Farling that unless she broke off her engagement he would expose her. I gather there was a lot of tearful pleading from her — but she had to agree. Or pretend to agree.’
Perhaps that was why J.C. left her the money, thought Anne, ashamed. Conscience money.
‘She didn’t give James up, then?’ she said. It was more a prayer than a question. At that moment it seemed vitally important to her that J.C. should not have succeeded in his blackmail.
‘No. She merely insisted that they must take greater precautions against being found out — without, of course, telling Mr James the reason.’
‘I bet that suited James down to the ground,’ Colin said angrily, voicing his thoughts regardless of the hurt it might cause Mr Latimer. ‘It gave him a chance to have a crack at Anne and her money without blotting his copybook with Diana, the skunk.’
Anne flushed; Miss Webber looked happily scandalized. Pitt expected another outburst from the headmaster, but none came. He did not even look at Colin, but sat slumped in his chair, his eyes fixed on the detective’s face, his thin lips pressed tightly together. Friend James is going to find life rather trying after this, thought Pitt, if that expression bodes what I think it does.
‘Mr Russell has put it rather crudely, but he may not be far off the mark,’ he said. ‘Miss Farling believed Mr James when he assured her that his purpose in paying attention to Miss Connaught was to conceal their own liaison. His true purpose, however, is known only to Mr James himself. So far he has not been at all informative.’
Again he glanced at the headmaster. Mr Latimer’s eyes narrowed a little, his breathing had grown heavier; but still he did not speak.
‘It was at the end of August that Mr Connaught saw Miss Farling and Mr James at Whitby,’ Pitt went on; ‘and on his return he told the girl that she was to give notice at half-term and leave in December. Either that, or he would let every one know that she was an ex-convict; she was having no second chance to doublecross him. Again Miss Farling had to pretend to agree. But this time she could see no way out — until, as the weeks passed and she became more and more desperate, she decided to kill him.’
‘But how do you know all this?’ Colin asked.
Pitt found himself welcoming the question. He was no longer in haste to be done. Although not conceited, he considered he had done well to unravel so much from so little. There was no reason why others should not be given an opportunity to think the same.
‘After my talk with Mrs Trent I asked Mr Connaught’s executors if they had found his papers any correspondence concerning the girl or Mr James; I was looking for tangible proof that he had some hold on one or the other of them. All they could produce was this blue envelope — and that at least was something. The Dublin police were asked to make inquiries there, and in the meantime I got in touch with Scotland Yard. There was nothing to suggest that Miss Farling had a criminal record; it was merely one of numerous possibilities that occurred to me. It was also the easiest to check; so I checked it. And I got what I needed — a strong motive for murder.’
‘She might have changed her name since,’ Colin said.
‘She might, but she didn’t. And fingerprints are more reliable than names,’ Pitt told him. ‘Of course, all this only hinted at the bare facts — the skeleton, as it were. Miss Farling added the flesh later when I saw her in hospital.’
‘She confessed, then?’
‘She made a statement,’ Pitt said cautiously.
‘And how did she kill J.C.?’ asked Smelton, now recovered from his embarrassment.
But Pitt was not as yet prepared to explain that. He knew
that Colin, and possibly others, had distrusted his handling of the case, had suspected that the denouement had come as a surprise to him. So he told them first how the evidence had piled up against Christopher Moull, making it appear almost certain that he was the murderer of John Connaught. Let them get that into their heads first, he thought, and then maybe they’ll appreciate better what we were up against.
‘But there was just enough contradiction in the evidence to make me doubt,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t then seen the envelope, so I knew nothing of Miss Farling’s past; but from what Mrs Trent had told me I guessed that she or Mr James had a reason for wanting Connaught out of the way — whereas Moull had not. He had made no attempt to hide when Bain met him on the towpath; and what was he doing there, anyway? If he had just committed a murder one would expect him to vanish from the river. But most decisive of all was the milkman’s insistence that the cyclist he had seen was wearing brown trousers. Moull, you see, possessed no brown trousers. Neither does Mr James.’
‘But what about the beret and the duffel-coat?’ asked Colin. ‘And who was the chap seen by the gardener the night before?’
‘James, no doubt,’ Mr Latimer said grimly.
‘That’s right, sir. Mr James had cycled over with the intention of staying the night at the cottage; but that didn’t suit Miss Farling, and at some time after midnight she sent him packing. The beret was one of Moull’s that he had left there some time ago; she wore it to conceal her red hair, hoping, if seen, to be mistaken for a man. The duffel-coat was her own, bought earlier that month. None of you could tell me about it, since she had never worn it before or since. But neither beret nor coat was chosen to implicate Moull. That happy idea came later.’
‘And did the actual murder happen as I thought?’ asked Colin.
‘It did, sir.’ Pitt smiled faintly. ‘I’ve no doubt you have already told the others.’
‘Yes, but what about the identity-disc?’ asked Smelton. ‘How did that get there?’
‘I don’t know, and neither does she. Probably the string became entangled in the ring she was wearing — it had a very large stone — and fell off as she put her hands on the bank to hoist herself out of the water. That was just before young Cuttle arrived on the scene. When she heard him coming she slipped back into the water — and then remembered that she needed Connaught’s keys. She had to get into the Lodge and retrieve that incriminating letter before anyone else read it. So after Cuttle had gone she swam across to the other bank, took the keys, and swam back. She had dressed and was cycling home along the towpath when she met Moull.’