Hobby of Murder (20 page)

In case it was, however, he thought that he ought to go to the cottage next day and see if he could find the letters and if he did, find out if they stirred his imagination at all. He supposed that he would be able to get into the cottage. The lock on the front door was broken, and unless the police had put some kind of seal on it, there should be no difficulty about getting in. All the same, before doing much about it at all, he would have to discover to whom the letters belonged. He could not remember that he had heard anyone say anything about Eleanor’s next of kin, and she might not have left her belongings to her next of kin, even if she had any, but to some friend, if it happened that she had made a will. And in either case there would have to be
discussions on the matter, and probably a contract, and perhaps other complications. So it looked as if the idea was not really a good one after all.

But he must find something to do. He thought of how bird-watching had helped Ian to face the gradual disintegration of his marriage, and of how photography and making jams and chutney had helped Eleanor to face the emptiness of her solitary life, and of how he himself had been helped to endure the shrinking world of old age by writing the life of Robert Hooke. What a fool he had been ever to let it get finished. How contented he had been, working at it. Surely he could have found a lot more to say if he had not had the absurd idea that it would be a good thing to finish it. Well, he would go to the cottage tomorrow, but his hopes of what he might find there were not very high.

It was about half past nine when Ian returned to the house. They had their cold supper in the kitchen. Then Andrew made some coffee and they settled down to drink it with some brandy in the sitting-room. The meal had been almost silent. Ian muttered something about it being pretty well impossible to do anything for someone who had just gone through what Sam had, then seemed not to want to say any more about the time that he had passed with him, and Andrew did not press him to talk.

But after a little while Ian suddenly observed, ‘She’d tried it before.’

Ian’s round, cheerful face seemed to have become hollow-cheeked and his large, dark eyes, which normally looked so shrewd and observant had a dull, almost blinded look, like those of someone with the beginnings of a cataract.

‘Tried to commit suicide before?’ Andrew asked.

‘So Sam said—twice,’ Ian answered. ‘And he’s blaming himself now, because he didn’t take it seriously. The first time was soon after they first came to live here. She took
an overdose of sleeping pills, enough to scare him, but not nearly enough to kill her. Felicity was her doctor, and between them they kept it pretty quiet. Sam thought it was just the dodge some people go in for to get attention, but Felicity told him it was because they’d decided not to have children. That business of being cousins—it seems he was more scared of it than he let on. Anyway, Anna seemed to recover, and then about two years ago she threw herself in front of a car in the road near them. If the driver of the car hadn’t been a bloody genius she’d have been done for, but he managed to drive the car almost up into the hedge to get round her, then stopped and went for help, because she’d fainted. And the official story that time was that she’d slipped on an icy puddle—it happened there’d been a bit of frost in the night—and had hit her head on the road and passed out. But Sam said he guessed she’d done it on purpose even though by then she was swearing it was an accident, and he began to take the situation more seriously. But he did think just possibly she’d really slipped on the ice and he didn’t do much about it. And that’s what he’s blaming himself for now. I mean, that he didn’t pay her extra attention, but kept on with his fishing and his Parson Woodforde and his quite busy life, when she was lonely and longing for children and so on. She was very shy and didn’t easily make friends, and the things she really cared about, cricket and so on, aren’t possible for a woman to keep on with once she’s getting into middle-age. Well, that’s what Sam poured out this evening, and I suppose it may have done him good to talk. For a time he kept saying he didn’t understand what he’d been doing to her, but after a bit he just dried up and seemed to want me to go away. He’s alone in the house now.’

‘The police aren’t there?’ Andrew asked.

‘They were for a time, but they’ve left,’ Ian said. ‘There’s no question that it was anything but suicide. Sam himself
was actually down by the gate, chatting to a neighbour, when they heard a fearful scream, and both went running up to the house, and there she was spread-eagled on the ground with a top-floor window above her open. They went inside together, and of course the house was empty. So, as I said, it’s no question that it was suicide.’

‘Did Sam tell the police about those other attempts?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.’

‘Does he think that the events of the last few days had anything to do with it?’

‘Singleton’s murder, you mean, and Eleanor’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure what he thinks himself. I’m inclined myself to think they helped to tip her over the edge. Specially Eleanor’s. She had that schoolgirl crush on her once, and that may have boiled up again, suddenly meeting her here, and then her dying as horribly as she did. But Sam says he believes she’s been a bit abnormal ever since the death of her parents. They were killed, you know, in a plane crash, and she was brought up by grandparents.’

‘I remember her saying she was very happy with them, that evening when she was here,’ Andrew said.

‘But it could have been a blow she’d never got over, even if she didn’t know she hadn’t,’ Ian said. ‘Isn’t that common enough?’

‘I believe so. And I’d a sort of feeling, as I believe you did too, when we were with the Waldrons this morning, that when she tried to prove that Singleton’s death was suicide and that Eleanor was killed by some chance prowler, she was trying to exorcise some feeling of guilt. I’m not sure why I felt it, but I did.’

‘ “The burden of guilt”—wasn’t that what Felicity called it? But she can’t have been feeling guilty all these years for her parents’ deaths.’

‘It doesn’t seem likely. But one can feel guilty about all sorts of irrational things.’

‘I wish I didn’t feel as guilty as I do about the way my marriage has cracked up. Is that irrational?’

‘Probably.’ Andrew poured out more brandy for himself and Ian. ‘I don’t believe any marriage cracks up without a certain amount of guilt on both sides.’ He gave Ian’s haggard face a thoughtful look. The day must have put a fearsome strain on him, he looked so unlike himself. ‘But I shouldn’t nurse your guilt, if it’s there. That won’t do you any good. By the way, did you tell Sam that you and Mollie were separating?’

‘I mentioned it. I also said I’m thinking of going to a solicitor in Rockford tomorrow to get the divorce moving, and he said something about Ernest being a good man, so I suppose he was listening, but then he went straight on to ask me about Brian and how he’s taken his brother’s death. He can’t really think about much else but that murder, except for Anna. Of course, that’s only what you’d expect. And by then he was wanting me to leave him alone. Well, I think I’ll go up to bed now.’

Andrew was ready for bed too, but he slept restlessly, waking frequently, and he was glad when morning came. He went downstairs in his dressing-gown to make the coffee and the toast, and found some cheese for himself, and presently he was joined by Ian, freshly shaved and fully dressed and acting with a briskness which suggested that he had definitely made up his mind about something. This turned out to be simply the decision to make an appointment with Ernest Audley to discuss with him the steps that he must take to obtain a divorce.

‘The sooner I get things moving, the better,’ he said. ‘I’m tired of indecision. I’m going to phone Ernest as soon as his office is likely to be open to see if I can arrange to see him this morning. It means going into Rockford. Would
you care to come with me? There’s a church that’s worth looking at, and there are one or two good pubs if you feel like a drink. We could meet after I’ve seen Ernest and have lunch there.’

‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay here,’ Andrew answered. ‘I’m expecting a phone call from my nephew, Peter. That’s to say, I’m hoping for one, and it could be important, but I don’t know when it’ll come. I asked him to do something for me and I know he’ll be as quick about it as he can, but I don’t really know how long he’ll need. Anyway, I don’t want to risk missing it.’

‘But you won’t mind if I go off for a while and leave you here?’ Ian asked.

‘Not in the least.’

‘If I’m not back in time for lunch you can help yourself,’

‘That’s quite all right.’

‘I’m not sure actually if it’s a good idea for me to go to Ernest,’ Ian said. ‘He’s a queer chap and he may try to make the divorce a much more acrimonious thing than I want, but he’s the only solicitor I know in Rockford. Of course, there are the people in London whom the family have been going to for several generations, but I don’t even know if they handle divorce, and I like the idea of being able to talk things over when it’s necessary with someone near at hand. So I think I’ll risk handing the whole thing over to Ernest.’

He made the phone call for an appointment soon after he and Andrew had finished breakfast, but was unable to arrange to see Ernest Audley before twelve o’clock. Andrew had spent most of the morning reading
The Times
with half his attention on the telephone. As it remained silent, his impatience grew. He knew that this was foolish. What he had asked Peter to do for him might well take him more than a day. Yet he felt as if by concentrating on the instrument in the hall, he must surely be able to make it ring.
At the same time, he felt that this very behaviour of his might actually prevent it doing so. He tried to stop himself thinking about it and gave his attention to
The Times
crossword, but he was never very clever at crosswords at the best of times and that morning he was badly defeated by it.

A bell ringing suddenly brought him instantly to his feet, only to realize at once that it was not the telephone but the front doorbell. Ian, who had not yet set off for Rockford, went to answer it and brought in Inspector Roland. He took a chair by the fireplace and looked around the room. It almost suggested that he was looking for signs of Mollie’s departure, though Andrew did not know for sure if the Inspector would have heard of this by now. What he said first, however, made it plain that he had.

‘So your wife’s gone,’ he said to Ian. ‘I heard about it from Waldron. Seems you told him about it yesterday evening. I’ve been in with him again this morning and found him pretty shattered, as you might expect. I went along to see him to find out if he could explain a rather curious fact we’ve stumbled on, but that’ll have to wait. He isn’t in a state to talk rationally about anything much. I believe he was devoted to that wife of his, though he blames himself for her suicide. He told us she’d tried it twice before. If that’s true and he didn’t get her into the hands of a psychiatrist, perhaps he’s right. Not that I’ve all that much faith in those boys, but there doesn’t seem to be any alternative.’

‘That curious fact you’ve stumbled on,’ Andrew said, ‘are we allowed to know what it is?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Roland said. ‘It’s just that Mrs Waldron happens to have cashed a cheque for a thousand pounds several days ago.’

‘A thousand pounds!’ Ian exclaimed. ‘The amount that was in that handbag of Eleanor Clancy’s that they fished
out of the river! But look, that doesn’t make sense. Why should Mrs Waldron have given Eleanor a thousand pounds?’

‘That’s what I hoped I could find out from Waldron,’ Roland said. ‘But he stubbornly refused to believe she’d done that. Said it must have been coincidence, and of course he could be right. The bank hadn’t got the numbers of the notes. And if Mrs Waldron did give the money to Miss Clancy it seems most probable that it was an act of generosity, and not, as one can’t help thinking, the situation being what it was, the payment of blackmail. By the situation being what it was, I mean the fact that Miss Clancy must have got herself killed very soon after she received the money, because I can’t imagine her going about the countryside with a thousand pounds in her handbag. However, there’s something against the blackmail idea, but which is difficult to explain. It was last Friday that Mrs Waldron cashed that cheque.’

‘Friday?’ Ian said questioningly, not immediately grasping what that implied. Then he suddenly understood it. ‘Friday! That was the day
before
the Waldrons’ dinner-party.
Before
Luke Singleton was murdered. So if by any chance Anna Waldron was paying blackmail to Eleanor Clancy, it had nothing to do with his murder. They’d met here at a party we gave on the Thursday and recognized each other, though they hadn’t met since Anna was a schoolgirl. If you’ve been thinking that Anna could somehow have been involved in the murder, though God knows how she could have been, she wouldn’t have cashed a cheque for a thousand pounds in the expectation of being blackmailed for that, would she? I believe you’re going to find it was what you’ve just suggested yourself, an act of generosity.’

Andrew leapt to his feet and reached it before Ian was out of his chair. But it was not Peter Dilly who was on the line. A man’s voice asked if Inspector Roland was there. Andrew returned to the sitting-room.

‘For you, Inspector,’ he said and subsided into his chair again.

Roland went out to the hall, was heard to say, ‘Yes,’ and ‘All right,’ and ‘Right away!’ Then he came back into the room.

‘That may be interesting,’ he said. ‘A sister of Miss Clancy’s has turned up. A Mrs Jevons. She’s at the police station in Rockford and I’d better get there as soon as I can to see her. Meanwhile, Professor—’ he turned to Andrew with a faintly ironic smile—‘if you have any bright idea about why that thousand pounds was cashed before the murder, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know. I’ve been waiting hopefully for you to have one of those bright ideas of yours which have been so helpful in the past, but you don’t seem to have come up with anything yet.’