Unnatural Causes

9

They left her at the door of Rosemary Cottage and she watched them disappear into the night. Justin’s high voice and Latham’s laugh came back to her long after their figures had merged with the darker shadows of hedgerow and tree. There were no lights in the cottage and the sitting room was empty. So Elizabeth was in bed. She must have driven home fast from Tanner’s Cottage. Her aunt was uncertain whether to be glad or sorry. She had a sudden need of company but she couldn’t face questions or arguments. There would be much to discuss, but not tonight. She was too tired. She switched on the table lamp and, kneeling on the hearth rug, poked ineffectually at the slates and ashes of the dead fire. Then she got unsteadily to her feet, grunting with the effort like an old woman, and let herself down into an armchair. Opposite her an identical chair loomed squat and solid, plump with cushions, empty and poignant. Here Maurice had sat on that October afternoon six years ago. It was the day of the inquest; a day of cold and sudden squalls. There had been a good fire that evening. She had been expecting him and had taken care that both she and the room were ready. The firelight and the one discreet lamp had shed a nicely calculated glow over the polished mahogany and cast soft shadows on the soft pinks and blues of cushions and carpet. The tray of drinks had been set ready to hand. Nothing had been left to chance. And she had waited for him as eagerly as a young girl before her first date. She had worn a dress of soft blue-grey wool. It had really made her look quite slim, quite young. It still hung in her wardrobe. She had never cared to wear it again. And he had sat opposite her, stiff and black in his formal mourning, an absurd little mannikin with his black tie and armband, his face rigid with grief. But she hadn’t understood then that it was grief. How could she? It was impossible that he could be grieving for that shallow, egotistical, monstrous nymphomaniac. Of course, there had been the shock of hearing that Dorothy was dead, had killed herself, the horror of identifying the drowned body, the ordeal of the inquest, of facing the rows of white, accusing faces. He knew what they were saying all right, that he had driven his wife to suicide. No wonder he had looked shocked and ill. But grief? It had never occurred to her that he might grieve. Somehow she had taken it for granted that there must, in his heart, have been a spring of relief. Relief that the long years of torment and self-control were over at last, that he could begin to live again. And she would be there to help him, just as she had helped with her sympathy and advice when Dorothy was alive. He was a writer, an artist. He needed affection and understanding. From tonight he need never be alone ever again.

Had she loved him, she wondered. It was difficult to remember. Perhaps not. Perhaps it had never been love as she imagined love to be. But it had been as close as she would ever get to that longed-for, elusive, oft-imagined cataclysm. She had dealt with its counterfeit in nearly forty novels; but the coin itself had never come within her grasp.

Sitting in front of the dead fire she recalled the second when she had known the truth, and her cheeks burnt at the memory. Suddenly he had begun to cry, awkwardly as a child. In that moment all artifice had been forgotten. Only pity remained. She had knelt beside him, cradling his head in her arms, murmuring her comfort and love. And then, it had happened. His whole body stiffened and withdrew. He looked at her, catching his breath, and she saw his face. It was all there. Pity, embarrassment, a trace of fear and-hardest of all to accept-physical repulsion. In one bitter moment of complete clarity she had seen herself with his eyes. He had been grieving for that slim, gay, beautiful creature; and an ugly middle-aged woman had chosen that moment to throw herself into his arms. He had recovered himself, of course. Nothing had been said. Even the dreadful sobbing had been cut off in mid-gasp like that of a child suddenly offered a sweet. She reflected bitterly that there was nothing like personal danger to take the edge off grief. Somehow, gracelessly, she had stumbled back to her own chair, her face burning. He had stayed for as long as politeness dictated and she had handed him his drinks, listened to his sentimental reminiscences about his wife-dear God, had the poor fool forgotten so soon?-and feigned interest in his plans for a long holiday abroad, “to try to forget.” It was six months before he had thought it prudent to revisit Rosemary Cottage alone and even longer before he began tentatively to establish the understanding that she would be available whenever he wanted to escort a woman in public. Just before he left for his holiday he had written to tell her that she was named in his will “in appreciation of her sympathy and understanding on the death of my dear wife.” She had understood all right. It was the kind of crude, insensitive gesture which he would consider an adequate, appropriate apology. But her first reaction hadn’t been anger or humiliation; she had merely wondered how much it would be. Since then she had wondered increasingly, and now the question had a fascinating immediacy. It might, of course, be a mere hundred or so. It might be thousands. It might even be a fortune. After all, Dorothy was reputed to have been a wealthy woman and Maurice hadn’t anyone else to leave it to. He had never had much use for his half-brother and lately they had grown even further apart. Besides, didn’t he owe it to her?

A slant of light from the hall fell across the carpet. Silently, Elizabeth Marley came into the room, her feet bare, her red dressing gown glowing in the half-light. She stretched herself out stiffly in the chair opposite her aunt, her feet towards the dying fire, her face deep in the shadows. She said: “I thought I heard you come in. Can I get you anything? Hot milk? Ovaltine?”

The tone was ungracious, embarrassed, but the offer was unexpected and Miss Calthrop was touched.

“No thank you, dear. You go back to bed. You’ll catch cold. I’ll make the drink and bring yours up.”

The girl did not move. Miss Calthrop made a fresh attack on the fire. This time a tongue of flame hissed round the coals and she felt the first welcome warmth on hands and face. She asked: “You got Sylvia home all right? How did she seem?”

“Not too good. But then, she never does.”

Her aunt said: “I wondered afterwards whether we ought to have insisted that she stay here. She really looked very ill, not safe to be alone.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I did tell her that we had a spare bed until the new au pair girl comes and that she was welcome to it. She wouldn’t consider it. When I pressed her she became overwrought, so I left it. After all, she’s thirty, isn’t she? She’s not a child. I couldn’t force her to stay.”

“No, of course not.” Celia Calthrop thought that her niece would hardly have welcomed Sylvia in the house. She had noticed that most women were less sympathetic to the girl than were men, and Elizabeth made no secret of her dislike. The voice from the armchair asked: “What happened after we left?”

“Nothing very much. Jane Dalgleish seems to think that he may have been killed with her chopper. Apparently she missed it about three months ago.”

“Did Inspector Reckless tell you that he was killed that way?”

“No. But surely…”

“Then we still don’t know how he died. He could have been killed in a dozen different ways and his hands chopped off after death. I imagine that they were. It wouldn’t be an easy thing to do if your victim were alive and conscious. Inspector Reckless must know if it happened that way. There wouldn’t be very much bleeding for one thing. And I expect he knows the time of death to an hour or so even without the PM report.”

Her aunt said: “Surely he died on Tuesday night? Something must have happened to him on Tuesday. Maurice would never walk out of his club like that and spend the night away without a word to anyone. He died on Tuesday night when Sylvia and I were at the pictures.”

She spoke with stubborn confidence. She wished it to be so, therefore, it must be so. Maurice had died on Tuesday night and her alibi was assured. She added: “It’s unfortunate for Justin and Oliver that they happened to be in town that evening. They’ve got alibis of a sort, of course. But it’s a pity all the same.”

The girl said quietly: “I was in London on Tuesday night too.” Before her aunt could speak she went on quickly: “All right, I know what you’re going to say. I was supposed to be on a bed of sickness in Cambridge. Well, they let me up earlier than I told you. I took the first fast train to Liverpool Street on Tuesday morning. I was meeting someone there for lunch. No one you know. Someone from Cambridge. He’s gone down now. Anyway he didn’t turn up. There was a message of course, very polite, very regretful. It’s a pity, though, that we arranged to meet where we were known. I didn’t much enjoy seeing the head waiter look sorry for me. Not that I was surprised really. It isn’t important. But I wasn’t going to have Oliver and Justin gossiping over my affairs. I don’t see why I should tell Reckless, either. Let him find out for himself.”

Celia thought: “But you told me!” She felt a surge of happiness so acute that she was glad that they sat in the shadows. This was the first real confidence she had ever received from the girl. And happiness made her wise. Resisting the first impulse to comfort or question she said: “I’m not sure, dear, that it was sensible of you to spend the whole day in town. You’re not really strong yet. Still, it doesn’t seem to have done you any harm. What did you do after lunch?”

“Oh, worked for the afternoon in the London Library. Then I went to a news theatre. It was getting lateish then so I thought I’d better stay the night. After all, you weren’t expecting me at any particular time. I had a meal at the Coventry Street Lyons and then managed to get a room at the Walter Scott Hotel in Bloomsbury. Most of the evening I spent just walking in London. I suppose I collected my key and went to my room just before eleven.”

Miss Calthrop broke in eagerly: “Then the porter will be able to vouch for you. And perhaps someone will remember you at Lyons. But I think you were right to say nothing about it for the present. It’s entirely your own concern. What we’ll do is to wait until we know the time of death. We can reconsider the whole matter then.”

It was difficult for her to keep the ring of happiness from her voice. This was what she had always wanted. They were talking together, planning together. She was being asked, however obliquely and unwillingly, for reassurance and advice. How odd that it should take Maurice’s death to bring them together. She babbled on: “I’m glad you’re not upset about the luncheon date. Young men today have no manners. If he couldn’t telephone you by the day before at the latest, he should have made it his business to turn up. But at least you know where you stand.”

The girl got up from the chair and walked without speaking to the door. Her aunt called after her: “I’ll get the drinks and we’ll have them together in your room. I won’t be a moment. You go up and get into bed.”

“I don’t want anything, thank you.”

“But you said you’d like a hot drink. You ought to have something. Let me make you some Ovaltine. Or just hot milk perhaps.”

“I said I didn’t want anything. And I’m going to bed. I want to be left in peace.”

“But Eliza…” The door closed. She could hear nothing more, not even a soft footfall on the stairs. There was nothing but the hissing of the fire and, outside, the silence, the loneliness of the night.