Not to Be Taken Page 18

  We all looked at each other.

  ‘Well,’ said Superintendent Timms somewhat heavily, ‘that seems to clinch it.’

  No one contradicted him.

  In point of fact no one had a chance, for a sharp yelp from our roaming architect attracted all attention to him.

  ‘I say,’ he exclaimed, ‘I think I’ve found another cupboard.’

  We hurried over to him.

  He seemed alarmed by our eagerness. ‘It may be nothing at all,’ he retracted hastily.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ asked Alec reasonably enough.

  ‘I think,’ said the architect cautiously, ‘there may be one here.’ He was standing by the chimney breast, which projected some way into the room, leaving a long alcove on either side. At a spot about a foot above the mantelpiece on one side of the chimney projection the architect was tapping gently.

  ‘The chimney would be drawn in here, you see,’ he explained. ‘There would be a hollow in any case behind this panelling, but from the sound…’ He fiddled with the beading that bordered the panels. ‘Ah!’ A whole panel swung out, and we all crowded round. Inside was a cupboard about nine inches deep and reaching to the ceiling, fitted with shelves and full of packages neatly tied up with white tape.

  ‘Letters!’ observed the Superintendent with satisfaction, taking out one of the packets and turning it over curiously.

  With composure Alec removed it from him. ‘I think,’ he said firmly, ‘that with your permission, gentlemen, I had better take charge of these. Anything in your line will, of course, be handed over to you, but I can see at a glance that most of these concern us.’

  The Superintendent looked disappointed but did not venture to oppose the proposal. The Scotland Yard men nodded gravely.

  Casually Alec dropped the package which he had taken from the Superintendent into his pocket and shut the cupboard door.

  ‘I’ll seal this,’ he said, and did so. ‘This room had better be locked. And in view of these two discoveries, no doubt you’ll arrange to have the whole house thoroughly vetted. In fact Mr Stares could begin the job at once.’

  There was a murmur of assent, and Alec nodded to me. ‘We may as well get along then,’ he said.

  We made our farewells and left.

  ‘You expected another cupboard,’ I said as soon as we were in the drive. ‘That’s why you brought the architect.’

  ‘Something like that,’ he agreed.

  ‘And those letters didn’t concern your department at all. They were letters from women.’

  He glanced at me. ‘Not so slow as you look, are you, Douglas?’

  ‘Even I could see that. Good Lord, I should never have thought that John… Did you know he was that way?’

  ‘We know a good deal about our own chaps,’ Alec replied cautiously. ‘But so far as our work was concerned, he was perfectly safe.’

  ‘So you forestalled the police and laid a claim to his very private correspondence. Why?’

  ‘Bung the lot in the fire. Much better. No need to take up unnecessary scandal. No need to let the police in on a lot of personal secrets either.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m grateful, Alec.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘But I think you’d better hand over to me that packet you’ve got in your pocket.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I recognised the writing. Funny the Superintendent should have hit on that particular package, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Alec.

  ‘Oh yes, you do,’ I told him. ‘To put it plainly, I’d like to give them back to Frances. She may be worried over what’s happened to them.’

  Alec handed me the package.

  3

  I gave the letters back to Frances after lunch. Alec had disappeared, a little precipitately. No doubt he feared a domestic upheaval; though with Frances and myself there was small danger of anything like that.

  ‘These were found, with other packets of letters, in a secret cupboard in John’s library,’ I told her. ‘No one has seen them, and I haven’t undone the tape. I don’t want to know anything about them.’

  She looked at the package curiously. ‘Fancy his keeping these!’ She smiled. ‘How absurd of him.’

  ‘It’s always absurd to keep letters,’ I said.

  She looked at me quickly. ‘Douglas…you didn’t think there was anything wrong, did you?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘They’re just friendly notes, and…’ She ruffled hastily through the bundle. ‘Yes, here’s one postmarked Kirby Moorside. And one from Venice. And…oh, I remember writing this one, at a café in Territet. Darling old idiot he was to keep them. You know, I was always sorry for John.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it wasn’t really Angela’s fault, but…well, what is the perfect wife? Thirty per cent companion, thirty per cent housewife, thirty per cent mistress, and – what’s that make? – oh yes, ten per cent charming individual, I suppose. And Angela wasn’t any of them. As a wife Angela was a hundred per cent failure. I knew John went with other women.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘He told me. In fact he asked if I thought it was a rotten trick on Angela. I said it wasn’t: if Angela couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do her proper job, she could have no complaints. Poor old John! He took things a bit heavily, you know. We used to discuss ethics for hours. In fact I believe I deputised for the thirty per cent companion part of Angela. Mitzi did most of the housewifery. As for these, poor old darling,’ Frances added, holding out the package to me, ‘you can read every word of them.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Naturally I believe you, absolutely.’

  In any case Frances might have known that I would not read the letters.

  We never referred to them again.

  4

  It is strange, almost terrifying, how different each one of us is from our friends’ conception of us. What is one to make of the charming stranger one has just met? Of one thing we may be certain: he is totally unlike the idea we formed of him – ludicrously unlike. Under that genial exterior is he a mean-spirited, vicious brute? What is his secret weakness? For, depend upon it, he has one, if not a dozen. What is his private hell?

  I was beginning to learn more about John after his death than I had ever known during his life. Who would have imagined that bluff, paternal old dabbler in concrete and mortar was a shrewd agent of the Military Intelligence, a secret womaniser who kept a paid girl in Torminster? What extraordinary episodes might not lurk in the past of such a man? And had the past ever risen up to take its revenge in the present?

  It was the thought of that girl in Torminster that worried me. Heaven knows I am no Puritan, and it was not with the moral aspect that I was concerned. I just could not see John with a girl at all, let alone a paid one. What manner of woman was she? Was there real affection between them? Did she make up in some way for Angela’s deficiencies? Normally I am not a curious man, but these questions irked me, for I had been fond of John myself once. In any case, excuse it or not, before Alec left Anneypenny that day I had got from him the girl’s name and address, and the next time I was in Torminster, two days later, I called upon her.

  What I hoped to gain I do not know. It was really no more than a rather impertinent inquisitiveness that took me to her door. But I have been glad since that I yielded to it.

  Torminster is not a modern town, but already it has been invaded by a few tall, red brick blocks of flats. It was in one of these, on the Anneypenny side of the town, that Miss Lily Upcott lived. I rang the bell, noted the well-polished brass of the letter box and handle, and waited. The door was opened almost at once.

  ‘Miss Upcott?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ was the cheerful response. ‘Want to see me? Come inside.’

  I followed her into
the little sitting-room, made even smaller than it need have been by a superfluity of furniture but undeniably cosy. We sat down, and I had a good look at my hostess.

  She was a large, tall, bonnily built woman, with one of those broad faces with prominent cheekbones that betoken at the same time a lowly origin and a good nature. She was older than I had expected: I put her age at twenty-nine or thirty.

  ‘Well?’ she said with an easy smile. ‘Is it business or a friendly call?’ I must not give a false impression of her. There was no invitation in her smile. It was one of frank friendliness and nothing more.

  ‘The latter,’ I said. ‘I’ve come really about – John.’

  The smile was wiped off her face. Her look became definitely hostile.

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’ she demanded. ‘If you’re one of them Nosy Parkers of reporters, you can clear out now.’ She looked quite capable of throwing me out, too.

  ‘No, no,’ I said hastily. ‘Nothing like that. It’s simply that John was – well, I suppose in a way he was my closest friend. I just thought I’d call to make sure that you were quite all right and had – er – everything you needed.’

  Her face cleared instantly. The Cockney accent, which had become more pronounced with her anger, grew less noticeable again.

  ‘Oh, I see. Nice of you. John told you about us, then? Well, he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t known he could trust you, so I can too.’

  She beamed at me. I felt a little mean over the deception, but did not contradict her assumption.

  ‘Certainly you can trust me.’

  She leaned back in her chair and stretched her strong, magnificent body, smiling at me with an easy camaraderie which I liked. In five seconds, it seemed, she had adopted me as an old friend. It struck me that she was a born adopter. Some women are. She had probably adopted John.

  ‘Let’s talk about him,’ she said. ‘I’ve been fair starved for someone to tell me the news. Poisoned! Well, fancy that. Whoever could have wanted to poison John? Real upset I was when I heard about it. I was ever so fond of John.’

  That means, I thought, that you weren’t in love with him. He certainly wasn’t in love with you. That would have allowed you to respect and feel affection for each other in a perfectly calm way, without all those complications which love, that curse of mankind, must inevitably introduce: an ideal relationship.

  We talked for a time of John’s death, and I told her so much of its inner history as I judged it good for her to know. Then she began to reminisce about him, and I was content to listen.

  The police!’ she exclaimed with great scorn, in answer to some casual remark of mine. ‘Oh yes, they’ve been here. But I didn’t tell them anything. Not likely! I didn’t even tell them I’d been in service at Oswald’s Gable. Let them find it all out for themselves if they want to know.’

  ‘Indeed? I didn’t know that either.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t John tell you? Why, that’s how I first knew him. Ever so sorry for him I was, too, with that good-for-nothing wife of his, always pretending to be ill and no more wrong with her than you or me. Oh yes, I saw through her all right. That’s why she gave me my notice. Couldn’t bear anyone to see through her, she couldn’t. Upon my word, I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t poison him after all.’

  ‘Oh no; that’s quite out of the question… Er – John used to visit you here often?’

  ‘He usually dropped in when he was in Torminster. Generally of a Thursday, and any other day convenient. He knew he’d always find me in of an afternoon.’

  ‘Why Thursdays, particularly?’ I asked idly.

  ‘That was the day I made my caramels,’ smiled the girl, not without pride. ‘Every Thursday morning, regular as clockwork. You wouldn’t believe how John used to like them. I made them specially for him, of course. Used to take away a boxful every week, he did, and if he didn’t come in of a Thursday afternoon I’d post him some, just so as he wouldn’t be without. Regular sweet tooth he had. They’re good, too, though I say it as shouldn’t. Here, I’ve still got some left, though I haven’t had the heart to make any more, not since… Oh well, it’s no good crying, is it? Here, try one.’ While speaking she had jumped up, knocked over a small table, wiped her eyes, blown her nose, extracted a tin box from a drawer and was now offering me the contents.

  I took one of the large, sugary lumps with appropriate thanks. It was certainly very good, for those who like such things: and I’ll admit it was a surprise to me to learn that John did.

  While I was still engaged in manoeuvring it round my mouth, trying to find a place where it would fit, there was a ring at the bell. Up jumped the lady again, and bounced out to the front door, leaving the door of the room ajar. I could not help reflecting that she must have made a somewhat dynamic parlourmaid.

  From where I was sitting I could see her talking at the door to a short, rather pimply young man. The talk was in the nature of an altercation. The young man seemed to want to come in, and Lily would not let him. She dealt with him firmly but very kindly, and from the sulky expression on the young man’s face I gathered that he was used to being dealt with thus and knew that protest was useless. Finally the door was shut upon him, and Lily returned to me.

  ‘That was Bert,’ she announced cheerfully.

  ‘Bert?’

  ‘That’s right. We’re getting married now. I wouldn’t marry him before because it wouldn’t have been fair to John. John needed me more. Bert’s young and he could wait, and so I told him many a time when he was pestering me to give up John.’

  ‘Did John know about Bert?’ I asked with secret amusement at this curious romance.

  ‘Oh no. Not likely. It would have spoiled things for him. John was so generous. He’d have wanted me to marry and settle down while I had the chance. It would have made him miserable to know I was keeping Bert off for his sake. Not but what the legacy won’t come in useful now. John always said I ought to use it to get married on, and that’s just what I’m going to do.’

  ‘You knew about the legacy, then?’

  ‘Oh yes. That was part of the arrangement John made. Very generous, he was, and told me from the beginning he would make provision for me after he was gone. Oh dear: I can’t hardly believe it even now. I miss him ever so.’

  ‘You’ve still got Bert,’ I ventured to point out.

  ‘That’s different. Not but what Bert isn’t a nice young chap, and doing well at his job, too. Assistant to Lorder’s, he is – you know, the big chemists in the High Street – and expects to be manager before he’s done. Oh yes, regular ambitious, Bert is, and properly set on getting on. It’s his afternoon off today; that’s why he came round; to take me to the pictures.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have sent him away, if it was on my account. I have to be off in a few minutes myself.’

  ‘Not till you’ve had a cup of tea,’ exclaimed Lily, jumping up once more. ‘Besides, I haven’t talked nearly enough about John. Poor old John! And I hadn’t seen him, not for a whole week before he was taken bad. Now you just sit there and look at the paper, and I’ll have tea in a jiffy.’

  I sat.

  When I finally left, an hour later, I carried away the impression of a singularly honest, good-natured, sincere soul. John had chosen wisely.

  So, for that matter, had Bert.

  chapter twelve

  Revelation to a Fruit Farmer

  The case was over, the mystery at an end.

  ‘Accidental death.’ Most disappointing to all the sensation-seekers in the daily press. The newspapers, knowing their public, dropped the thing like an unclean rag: their implied disgust was obvious. The report of the short proceedings which concluded the adjourned inquest was relegated to a very back page.

  As a news item they deserved little more. Alec had evidently done his job well. The Coroner, with an air of childlike innocence, cal
led his evidence. The statement made in Mr Waterhouse’s letter had been fully confirmed. A brown bottle, containing the remains of a strong solution of arsenic, had been found where he had written that it was; the bottle had been tested for fingerprints and shown those of Mr Waterhouse alone; the police were satisfied, the Coroner was satisfied, everyone was satisfied. Accidental death.

  The Coroner was not absolutely correct. Everyone was not satisfied. It is to be doubted, for instance, whether the insurance company was satisfied; but if not, it could no longer do anything about it. Cyril Waterhouse was definitely dissatisfied; but he too could do nothing. (Nothing had been said to him of the secret issues involved, which were indeed known in Anneypenny to me alone, and I, of course, was bound to secrecy.) He departed with his son, only just managing to restrain, behind thinly compressed lips, his obvious conviction that his sister-in-law was a murderess who had succeeded in bamboozling the law, the police and everyone except himself. I think none of us were sorry to see the last of the man.

  Not even Cyril had been able to ignore his brother’s letter to the Coroner; but he had fitted it ingeniously into his theory of Angela’s guilt by supposing that John had written it to shield his wife, after discovering that Angela had poisoned him. According to Harold, this view was also held in amateur criminological circles in London; but it was certainly not current in Anneypenny. Not one of us had ever seriously believed that Angela could be guilty, and most of us were content to accept John’s letter as literal fact; though I, knowing too much, could not be so easily satisfied.

  There were others, knowing ones, who opined that John really had committed suicide after all, and his letter was a brilliant and successful effort to cover the fact. These people gave as his motive the discovery of Angela’s infidelity. The fact that Angela and John, though fond enough of each other in a way, were certainly not in love was not allowed to weigh.

  On the whole, however, there was singularly little talk, and within a week of the verdict the whole affair had passed more or less into history. Angela, making, exactly as Glen had foretold, a miraculous recovery, rose from her bed and departed unobtrusively for the South of France; and we all took it comfortably for granted that her black-avised lover was to join her there; though in point of fact, as I heard later, he did nothing of the sort, remaining more sensibly in London to work for his finals.