The Alington Inheritance (11 page)

Jimmy Motttingley was a very unhappy young man. He had done wrong, and he was going to have to pay for it. He was going to have to pay very heavily. When he thought of being married to Miriam, living with her, sleeping with her at night, and sitting down to meals with her every day, he felt that he simply couldn’t do it. And he’d got to. There wasn’t any way out. He couldn’t face his father.

As he drove along in the car which his parents considered an extravagance and disapproved of, though he had got it a bargain from Chadwick who was always changing cars and had more money than he knew what to do with, he thought with a good deal of apprehension of the parental wrath. Whatever he did or he didn’t do, he would have that to face, and at the thought of standing up before his father and confessing about Miriam he felt as if he simply couldn’t do it. There wasn’t any way out of it. Not that he could see. Unless Miriam could be persuaded not to drive him. She wouldn’t be any better off if he were to commit suicide. He didn’t really mean to do it of course. It made him feel most awfully wicked even to think of offering it to Miriam as an excuse, but if she were to believe it… Yes, that would be a way out—if he could get her to see that she wouldn’t really be any better off if she pushed him too far. Yes, something could be done on those lines. He simply didn’t dare to marry her and defy his parents. And it wouldn’t be any good either. Miriam didn’t know his father. He was a man of his word. If he said he would do a thing, that thing was as good as done. He was perfectly capable of cutting Jimmy off without a penny, and that was that. Miriam couldn’t possibly want to marry him when he had made her understand.

He didn’t dare to go against his father. Why, before Miriam there had been Kathy Lingbourne. He looked right back, and there had always been Kathy. And Kathy was nice. She would never have treated him this way. She would never have made him marry her. As the thought of Kathy entered his mind it produced an extraordinarily soothing effect. How could he have left Kathy for Miriam? He didn’t know. It was like being ill and getting well again. It was like having an awful dream and waking up from it. Kathy was good. Not just going-to-church good but everyday good. Her mother had died when she was seventeen, and she had taken her place. Jimmy had always been welcome there. He was a friend of her elder brother’s. He had seen Kathy day in, day out. He knew what she was like. And then he had met Miriam. Miriam— He shuddered violently. It was no use thinking about Kathy. He wasn’t fit to lick her boots—he knew that. She would never look at him again if she knew—if she knew.

He drove on towards Hazeldon. The thought of Kathy had steadied him. He began gradually to see a little hope. Miriam wouldn’t want to get into a row any more than he did. What had she to gain from it? And then suddenly he saw Miriam’s face in his mind, the lips so firmly set that they reminded him unpleasantly of a trap, and the eyes a little too close together. As he saw them in his mind they had a fierce fixed look which made his blood run cold. When he thought of kissing her he had a shudder of disgust. The mood of apprehension closed down upon him again.

He drove through the village of Hazeldon and on up the road to the Heath.

He came to the clump of gorse and drove past it for a little way. She wasn’t there. That was curious, because he had in his mind a picture of her there, waiting for him. Come to think of it, she always had been first at their meetings, and she had usually been angry and said that he was late. He hadn’t always been late, though she had said so, but he knew that he was late today. Well, it wasn’t his fault—she would know that if she would listen to him. It wasn’t his fault that old Mrs. Marsden had come to call, and that his mother had caught hold of him and dragged him in to say how do you do. He had said that he had an appointment, and he had said that he would be late for it, but a lot his mother had cared. He could hear her now— “It’s Mrs. Marsden, Jimmy. She was so kind when you were a little boy and had chickenpox. You had it quite badly, you know, though it is usually such a simple thing. And she was more than kind. Then she moved away, and she wouldn’t be back now if it weren’t for her cousin Mrs. Dyson dying and the family things all coming to her.”

Well, I ask you, what could he do about that? He had to go in and sit there whilst his mother and Mrs. Marsden talked and talked. And every time he worked himself up to saying that he had an engagement and must be getting along, one or other of them would turn round and include him in the conversation. If Miriam would only listen. But she wouldn’t, he knew that. He had a moment of clear-sighted apprehension. If he were to marry Miriam, that was what it was going to be like. Every time he went anywhere she would know just how long he ought to be, and if he were any longer he would have to account for the extra time.. He saw what lay before him if he wasn’t firm now, and he determined, no matter what she said, to hold his ground.

He ran on past the clump of gorse and stopped a couple of hundred feet beyond it. As he walked back his courage began to give way. By the time he reached the clump of gorse it was nearly non-existent. The darkness, the silence, were undermining, but his spirits rose a little. She wasn’t here. She had told him to come, and he was quite half an hour late. Perhaps she hadn’t waited for him. His spirits soared, but only to drop again. It wasn’t like Miriam—it wasn’t like her at all. If she wanted to see him, well then she wanted to see him, and that was that. He had never known her to change her mind about anything. That wasn’t Miriam’s way. And with that a deeper wave of depression swept over him and he realized that if Miriam wanted him for a husband he had no defence against her. If she wanted him she would get him. It was as simple as that.

He stood quite still, the realization that he was for it seeping in and depriving him of any chance of resistance. It was some minutes before he could rouse himself. Gradually it came to him that the silence was an ominous thing. Where was Miriam? He had been walking up and down on the road side of the gorse bushes. It came to him that she might be on the other side. Watching him, letting his anxiety mount, waiting for the moment to break in. The thought made him angry, and the anger did him good. He had a torch in his pocket. He took it out, switched it on, and went round the clumps of gorse. He saw a foot and stopped dead. The torch seemed frozen in his hand. He called her name, and the sound of his own trembling voice scared him.

“Miriam—”

But Miriam lay there and didn’t move or speak. He moved the torch. It showed her bare hands, her coat. She was lying on her side, her head at an unnatural angle.

Fainting. Yes, that was what it must be—she was fainting. Why? He didn’t know. He didn’t know at all. His mind was confused. Things like that didn’t happen to you. Things like what? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do. He took her by the shoulder and shook her.

“Miriam—Miriam—”

The head fell sideways on its broken neck.

Jimmy Mottingley sprang back. He didn’t know much, but he did know that much. Your head didn’t fall like that if you were alive. Your head didn’t fall like that unless your neck was broken. He stood back shaking with terror. He must get help—a doctor. He must get someone. The dizzy thoughts clamoured in him. He didn’t know what to do, or where to go.

He found himself back on the roadside without any clear idea of how he had got there. The torch in his hand shook. He must get help. An under voice in his mind said, “No good to get help. She’s dead. Miriam is dead.” He covered that voice up by lifting his own. He called out before he knew that he had seen the bicycle. Then he called again, because he had seen the light and knew it for what it was—a yellow bicycle lamp coming quickly down the slight slope towards the village.

Mr. Fulbrook, who had been out to see his daughter on the other side of the Heath, stopped, jumped off, and enquired in his loud hearty voice,

“What’s up?”

He had no thought of being nervous. Man and boy he had lived in Hazeldon for forty-five years, and he had never been afraid of anything yet, nor had reason to be. He had a good farm, and a good wife, and good children. It was his eldest he had been out to see—Elizabeth married a year and abed with her first baby, a boy and likely to bring credit to the family if he was any judge of young stock, which he thought he was.

He turned to the wavering light of Jimmy Mottingley’s torch. The nervous voice that came back to him in the darkness would have reassured him had he been in any need of reassurance.

Jimmy stammered out, “I think she’s d-dead—”

“Who is dead? Have you had an accident?”

“N-no. I f-found her. I th-think she’s dead.”

“Where?”

“This way.”

Jimmy led the way back. The ground was rough. He stumbled and nearly fell. Mr. Fulbrook put out an arm like a crowbar and pulled him up.

“Hi—steady!” he said. And then the wavering light of Jimmy’s torch slid over the hillocks and the holes and touched the still shoulder and the unnatural turn of the head.

“Hi—give me that light!” said Mr. Fulbrook, and Jimmy handed it over.

Mr. Fulbrook stooped over the body. He knew at once that the girl was dead, and he knew how. She had had her neck broken. The question was, who had done it? He said,

“She’s dead. Know who she was?”

Jimmy said, “Yes—she’s Miriam Richardson. She’s staying with Mrs. Merridew. I came down to see her.” He spoke blankly. Miriam was dead. It was a deliverance, but he hadn’t got as far as thinking of that. He hadn’t got any farther than the fact that she was dead. That one terrible fact killed everything else—Miriam was dead.

Mr. Fulbrook straightened himself and took Jimmy by the arm.

“You know her then?”

Jimmy answered him, still in that blind, bewildered way.

“Yes. I came here to meet her. But she was dead.”

“And you are?…”

“I am Jimmy Mottingley.”

It didn’t seem real—not in any way. It was like questions and answers in a dream. The whole thing was like a dream.

Mr. Fulbrook said, “How did you get here? Is that your car up the road?”

“Yes, it is.” For the first time the thought came to him. He could have got away. But it was too late now. He had had his chance and lost it.

Mr. Fulbrook took him by the arm.

“Well then, come along. I’ll leave my bike here, and you can come with me to the police station.”

Jimmy stared blankly.

“The police station?”

“That’s what I said. They’re the people to see into this, and you found her. Come along now!”

The news came to the cottages at the edge of the Heath nearly three quarters of an hour later. Mrs. Merridew had been home nearly half an hour. She had been in to Miss Danesworth twice to say that Miriam wasn’t in, and what did they think had happened to her. She was just prepared to go in for the third time, when there was a loud rat-tat on her front door, and when she opened it there was Mr. Dobbs the policeman with a very grave face, and he was telling her, only she simply couldn’t believe it, that Miriam had been murdered up on the Heath. She didn’t believe it, but hearing it made her feel queer. She held on to the back of the nearest chair and stammered,

“W-what’s this? I d-don’t believe a word of it. Y-you’re making it up. M-Miriam—”

“It’s a shock,” said Dobbs in his slow voice. “Bound to be when you didn’t expect it. But it’s true.”

Mrs. Merridew sat down on the sofa and burst out crying. It took Dobbs quite a while to get anything coherent out of her, but in the end she pulled herself together and went with him to the police station, where she identified the body and Jimmy Mottingley.

“Yes, he was a friend of hers. I didn’t know that he was coming to see her. She never said a word about it. I suppose they had a quarrel—”

“No—no!” gasped Jimmy. “I never saw her. She was lying there dead!”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Merridew. “No one would hurt her here. And what was she doing up on the Heath—you tell me that, young man!”

“She’d gone there to meet me. But when I came to the place she was dead. I never touched her. She was lying there dead, I tell you. I had nothing to do with it!”

Mrs. Merridew laughed. The laugh shocked Mr. Dobbs extremely. He said in his most repressive tones, “Now, now, Mrs. Merridew—” but all he got by that was that she did it again louder and more scornfully.

“You had nothing to do with it? That’s what you say! The girl goes to meet you and she’s found murdered, and you have nothing to do with it? Of course not!”

Mr. Dobbs acted with decision. This wasn’t no way to go on—no way at all. He said so, and he got Mrs. Merridew out of the room and told her to go along home. Then he went back to his office, where he found Jimmy Mottingley crying like a schoolboy. When he saw Dobbs he turned round on him.

“That’s what they’ll all say, won’t they? They’ll say I did it! And I didn’t—I didn’t! I swear I never touched her!”

“That’s not for me to say. I’ve rung up Headingley, and the Chief Constable will be over. You’d better just think what you’re going to say for yourself.”

Jimmy rolled his wet handkerchief between his fingers.

“There’s nothing I can say,” he said in a hopeless tone.

Mrs. Merridew went along the dark road. The anger which had supported her died slowly. She began to take note of every movement, every breath in the darkness. It wasn’t quite dark either. She began to think it would have been better if it had been. She had only a very little way to go, but murder can be done in the least possible space. Dobbs had no business to fetch her down here and leave her to come home alone.

She came to the last house but one, and felt suddenly that she could not go any farther. She stopped at the wicket gate and went in. They were having supper. Richard had not been home very long. He had come back with an eager feeling. As he drove along the lane he was conscious of suppressed excitement. In half an hour—in twenty minutes—in ten minutes—now—he was going to see Jenny again! And when he came to the cottage and put the car away, it was now—now—now that he was going to see her.

But Jenny was cold. She didn’t respond. He mustn’t startle her. He must go slowly. He helped to carry soup from the kitchen. Caroline was a dab at soup. He told her so. And then as he was clearing away the plates, there came that exasperating tap on the door, followed immediately by the entrance of Mrs. Merridew, her eyes reddened and her hat on one side.

In a moment all was confusion. Mrs. Merridew subsided upon a chair. She wept, and all the time discoursed in a high shaken voice.

“I never liked him or—or trusted him. I said so to Miriam—but she wouldn’t listen. Young people never do listen—until it’s too late. And what’s the good of it then, I ask you—what’s the good of anything when you’re dead?” She began to sob very loudly. “I said to Miriam, ‘Be careful what you’re doing,’ and she only laughed and said, ‘He’s nothing but a boy.’ And I told her then—three months ago when she was staying here I told her. She said he was only a boy, and no harm in him, and I told her, ‘That’s what you think,’ I said.”

Caroline Danesworth was appalled, but competent. She told Richard to get Jenny away, and when they had gone she ministered to Mrs. Merridew. It was some time before she discovered what had happened. She hadn’t liked Miriam Richardson, but it was too shocking to think that it was from her house that she had gone to her death. It really didn’t seem possible. She said so.

“But she was here! She came in to see Richard, but he was out and she couldn’t wait. It was dark when she went. She said she couldn’t stay.”

Mrs. Merridew sat up and dabbed at her eyes.

“That was because she had an appointment with this murdering wretch.”

“You knew of it?”

“Of course I didn’t know of it! I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen if I had known—the wicked murdering creature!”

In the next room Richard stood by the window and looked at Jenny. She was trembling a little. He didn’t see how he could bear it. There were things you could bear, and things that you couldn’t. He came across the room to her and knelt down. She was sitting on the sofa, looking down at her hands which were shaking a little. When Richard touched her she looked up. Her eyes were big with unshed tears. Her hands clasped each other tightly, as if she needed something to hold on to.

He said, “Jenny—” in a moved voice, and she spoke in a trembling way.

“She was here. She couldn’t wait. She said so. She wanted to see you, and you weren’t here.”

“Jenny—darling—”

The tears overflowed and rolled down her cheeks. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He put his arms right round her and held her close.