Hobby of Murder (11 page)

‘Oh, it isn’t a case of helping
me
, it’s someone else. Someone I’ve grown very fond of in the short time I’ve been here. Do you think Mollie’s in love with Brian Singleton?’

Of all the questions that she could have thought of asking
him, it was the one that he would least have wanted to have to answer. But he knew that he must answer quickly, or she would become suspicious.

‘That’s an extraordinary question,’ he said. ‘Whatever made you think it?’

‘Perhaps just that observant way I have of looking at people,’ she said, and there was irony in her tone, as if she recognized that he had dodged her question.

He left as soon after that as he could and set out on the walk that she had interrupted.

He had gone only a little way along the pleasant country road, noticing that here and there among the trees the first copper tints of autumn were beginning to appear, when the verse that he had been keeping at bay all the morning gained possession of his mind and insisted on filling it.

He strode faster, hoping to defeat the rhyme by action. But apart from the lines, the thought of blighted affection was strongly present in his mind. But whose? Mollie’s? Brians? Or most all, perhaps, Ian’s?

Then a quite different thought, without his even noticing that it had happened, took over his attention. It was the question of why, momentarily, Eleanor Clancy had seemed to be almost frightened when he told her that she had a way of looking at people as if she were committing them to memory. Why should she have minded it? She must know that she did it. There was something odd about the way that she had looked at him. Something rather odd too about the woman herself, though he did not know why he felt this.

When Andrew returned to the Davidges’ house he found that Ian had returned before him, and that he had Sam Waldron with him in the sitting-room. Mollie was in the kitchen, busy with the lunch. Sam Waldron had the tiredness in his face that afflicted everyone whom Andrew had seen that morning. He thought it likely that neither of the Waldrons had been to bed at all the night before. The police had probably been in their home all night.

Sitting down, more tired himself than he had realized that he would be when he set out, he asked, ‘Has anything at all been discovered yet about what happened last night?’

Sam made a grimace in answer.

‘I think they’ve come to the conclusion that neither of the Bartletts had anything to do with it. And I think they believe the Bartletts that neither Mollie nor I gave them any special instructions about putting any particular cup down in front of Singleton. That was one of the bright ideas they had, you see—that we put cyanide into a cup in the kitchen, then instructed one of the Bartletts that that cup was to be given to Singleton. That would have made things nice and simple, wouldn’t it? I think they’ve given it up now. They’ve found nothing useful in the way of fingerprints on Singleton’s cup, or anywhere else, and all they’ve got is a small crop of motives, of which, of course, Audley’s is the best. Only they don’t pretend to be able to guess how someone sitting at the far end of the table, as Audley was, could have dropped anything into Singleton’s coffee. It would have had to be done by magic. And talking of magic, they’re fairly interested in Brian, because they know in a small way he’s a so-called magician, and he did reach out
across the table, I’m told, to pick a flower out of that arrangement on it, and might have done something tricky in the way of sleight of hand. If Brian had known the hours Anna took creating that arrangement, he might not have done anything so thoughtless, and would be saving himself some trouble now. But what I’d particularly like to know about that is whether Miss Clancy saw anything. If she did, she’s keeping very quiet about it.’

‘You know where she was sitting, then,’ Ian said.

‘Oh yes, the police have made a map of where everyone was sitting and I was given a copy of it, to see if it stimulated any ideas in my head. But I’ve really only one idea, you know, and that is that I’ll never be able to look Parson Woodforde in the face again. To have tried to lay on a dinner in his honour, and have it turn out as it did! I think his diary will go back on to my bookshelf and stay there for a long time to come.’

Andrew was wondering if anything special had brought Sam Waldron to visit the Davidges that morning, or if it was something that might happen at any time without any special reason.

‘I’m interested in why you should particularly want to know what Miss Clancy may have seen,’ he said, ‘rather than Dr Mace. She was actually sitting next to Singleton, Miss Clancy had the Inspector between her and him.’

Sam Waldron nodded, looking thoughtful.

‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said, ‘and I suppose the only reason why I’m a bit suspicious of Miss Clancy is that I don’t know her. I’ve known Felicity Mace for several years and I feel she’s a person of complete integrity. But except that Miss Clancy once taught my wife lacrosse and cricket, and how to vault over horses in the gym and do clever things on horizontal bars, I don’t know a thing about her. I think Anna once had a bit of a crush on her, but
that doesn’t mean she had the least understanding of her. What do you actually know about her, Ian?’

‘Very little,’ Ian answered. ‘We put an advertisement in the local paper that we’d a cottage to let, and she answered it, then came to look it over and said she’d take it. She didn’t argue about the rent or make trouble of any kind. She gave the headmistress at the school where she used to teach as a reference and moved in, and she’s been a very good neighbour. She brings us homemade chutney and jam and she’s taken our photographs and she gives me advice about the garden. Mollie likes her.’

‘But you don’t,’ Sam said.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ Ian replied. ‘We’ve nothing much in common, but I should say she’s an admirable person.’

Sam nodded again, as if Ian’s answer only confirmed what he had just said. He turned to Andrew.

‘You haven’t been very fortunate in the time of your visit,’ he said. ‘I assure you we haven’t had another murder here in living memory. I’d like to invite you up to our house for a quiet drink, but I don’t see much hope of quiet for the present.’

‘Thank you,’ Andrew said. ‘You’ll have plenty of visitors shortly, I imagine, without having me there to complicate things. Haven’t the press descended on you yet?’

‘By telephone, and that’s partly why I came out. They were threatening to appear in person. Tell me, Professor, what’s your impression of Eleanor Clancy?’

Andrew gave a shrug of uncertainty.

‘I can’t say why it is,’ he said, ‘but I’ve a feeling that there’s something odd about her, apart, I mean, from her obvious eccentricities, which she rather likes to show off. Actually, I find myself in agreement with you that she may have seen something last night about which she’s chosen
to keep quiet. A dangerous thing to do. But I really don’t know why I feel it. I may be totally wrong.’

‘Yes, we may both be wrong,’ Sam said, ‘but I’m interested that you should have the same feeling as I have. Ian, do you know if she’s wealthy?’

‘Far from it, I should say,’ Ian replied.

‘I only thought …’ Sam began, then stopped himself.

‘Were you wondering if she might make use of her knowledge?’ Andrew asked.

‘What, blackmail, d’you mean?’ Ian looked extremely startled.

‘I only thought it might be what Waldron had in mind,’ Andrew said.

‘Well, for a moment I did think …’ But Sam paused again. ‘No, on our almost non-existent knowledge, it’s outrageous to make such a suggestion. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. Ian, I’ll be going now. I left Anna in bed, with her door locked against possible intruders, and the Bartletts to protect her, but I’d better see how she is. She got no sleep at all and she’s not very strong. I’m worried about her. We’ll see each other again soon, I expect.’

Ian saw him to the door.

Returning, he said, ‘I think we’ll have some sherry. Mollie—’ He went to the hall and called, ‘Mollie, we’re going to have some sherry. D’you want to join us?’

There was no suggestion in his voice that he and Mollie had been close to a quarrel earlier, which had been avoided only by his deciding to go out for a walk. If he guessed what Mollie might have said to Andrew while he was gone, he gave no sign of it.

But that might be because he did not dream that Mollie would talk about her private feelings to Andrew. In answer to his call she came into the room and Ian poured out sherry for the three of them. She was looking her normal self, with no trace of tears on her face.

‘What did Sam want?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry I disappeared, but I felt I couldn’t stand another dose of hashing up this murder. I suppose it was what he wanted to talk about.’

‘What I thought he seemed to want,’ Ian said, ‘was to put it into our heads that Eleanor saw how Singleton was poisoned and is keeping her knowledge to herself in order to be able to blackmail whoever it was who did it. You know her a great deal better than I do. Would you say that’s possible?’

‘Eleanor?’ Mollie gasped. ‘Blackmail!’ She began to laugh. ‘Oh, she isn’t that sort of person at all.’

‘You think you know what sort of person a blackmailer is?’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever actually met one,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what was there for Eleanor to see? No one’s come up yet with a reasonable suggestion about that. I’m beginning to think that after all, Luke Singleton committed suicide, and deliberately did it in a way that would get his death maximum coverage in the press. I wonder what his religious beliefs were. He may have thought he’d a chance of looking on while that was happening.’

‘I doubt if anyone’s ever committed suicide with that in view,’ Andrew said. ‘But he may have had reasons we know nothing about for doing it. Suppose he’d discovered he’d got an incurable illness. AIDS, for instance.’

‘Or finally failed with some woman with whom for once he was really in love, and felt he couldn’t face the humiliation,’ Mollie suggested. ‘Oh, it isn’t difficult to find motives for suicide, any more than it is to find motives for his murder among the people who were in the room that evening. But the question remains,
how
was it done, unless it was done by one of the Bartletts.’

Ian nodded thoughtfully. ‘I doubt if the police have really made up their minds about them yet, whatever they may
be saying about them. Andrew, have some more sherry.’

‘Thank you.’ Andrew held out his glass. ‘Now I want to ask you something, and I want you, please, to be absolutely honest in your answer. If the police don’t want me to stay around, would you sooner I went home? It’s a very disastrous thing that’s happened to you, and you might feel better if you didn’t feel you had to bother about me.’

‘Oh no!’ Mollie cried with a note of shrill alarm in her voice. ‘I mean, unless you want to. If you do, of course, you must go home. But really it feels so helpful to have you around. You keep your head so well, you’re a tremendous help.’

It was Mollie’s view of the matter that Andrew had really wanted to know, for there was more than a possibility, he had thought, that by now she might be sorely regretting her confidence to him earlier in the morning. But he noticed that Ian had not answered.

‘Are you sure?’ Andrew said. ‘You aren’t going to hurt my feelings if you say you’d sooner be alone.’

Ian answered then with a kind of reluctance. ‘You’d hardly be human if you didn’t want to go, but Mollie’s right, having you here is helpful.’

‘If you’re sure then …’ Andrew said.

‘Oh, we are,’ Ian replied.

Andrew left it at that. It was more or less what he had expected, in spite of his uncertainty about Mollie, and he did his best to tuck away to the back of his mind a slight regret that he had not been given leave of absence.

What he himself would have felt in their position he did not know. Probably, he thought, he would have eagerly seized the opportunity of not having to cope with a visitor, but then he had become so used to solitude that it seemed to him a normal thing to desire. However, his real use at the moment to the Davidges, he thought, in spite of what he had thought Mollie’s feelings might be, was as a sort of
buffer between them, because the problem of Brian Singleton was coming to a head. Ian, he thought, knew all about it and was deeply depressed. Mollie was almost desperate, scared and insecure in the grip of stronger emotions than she had ever felt before. What Brian felt was something that Andrew knew nothing about, and he did not much want to know any more about it. He reflected that in the afternoon he might call on Eleanor Clancy and ask her to show him some of her great-grandfather’s photographs.

But after lunch he decided to lie down for a little while before setting out, and he had no sooner lain down than he fell sound asleep. The lack of sleep in the night had really caught up with him, and it held him now, deep and dreamless, and when he woke he had to spend a little while trying to remember where he was. There seemed to be no reason for a window to be where it was, or a dressing-table to be in the corner of the room, or for its walls to be pale grey. Then memory returned with a jerk and he sat up hurriedly, thinking of his intention of visiting Eleanor Clancy. But looking at his watch, he saw that it was half past five. He had slept for about three and a half hours, and a visit at this time seemed inappropriate. He got up, combed his hair and went downstairs.

He was only half way down them when he became aware, from voices in the sitting-room, that the Davidges had a visitor. It was a man’s voice he heard, and thinking that it might be Brian, he considered returning to his room and taking refuge in Agatha Christie. But something about the voice convinced him that it was not Brian, and he continued downstairs. The visitor was Ernest Audley.

It sounded as if he had only just arrived, for he was explaining to the Davidges why he had come.

‘I thought to myself, I’ll call in on the Davidges,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll find out if they’ve been badgered by the police as much as I have. To the best of my belief you don’t keep
a supply of cyanide on the premises, as I do.’ He saw Andrew at the door and immediately stood up. ‘Good afternoon, Professor,’ he said. ‘I was just telling Ian and Mollie that I’ve been most infernally troubled by the police today, and all because I still happened to have kept one or two of the killing bottles my father used to use when he went out after his butterflies. They insisted on removing them, I can only assume to check whether there were any signs of some of the stuff having been abstracted. Would they be able to find that out, do you think? And you’re a scientist. Can you tell me if the stuff would have retained its potency, or by this time have become innocuous?’