Cynthia Manson (ed) (62 page)

“Wonder how much he got?”

“Damn all, I should think. They don’t
keep their savings in the mattress up this way.”

The constable on the scooter rode
off to report, and before long, routine investigations were well under way. The
doctor discovered no outward injuries and decided that death was probably due
to shock, cold, and exhaustion, taking into account the victim’s obviously
advanced age. Detective-Inspector Brooks of the divisional CID found plenty of
papers in the bureau to give him all the information he needed about Mrs.
Fairlands’ financial position, her recent activities, and her nearest
relations. Leaving the sergeant in charge at the flat while the experts in the
various branches were at work, he went back to the local station to get in
touch with Mrs. Fairlands’ daughter, Dorothy Evans.

In Devonshire the news was received
with horror, indignation, and remorse. In trying to do the best for her mother
by not exposing her to possible infection, Mrs. Evans felt she had brought
about her death.

“You can’t think of it like that,” her
husband Hugh protested, trying to stem the bitter tears. “If she’d come down,
she might have had an accident on the way or got pneumonia or something. Quite
apart from shingles.”

“But she was all alone! That’s what’s
so frightful!”

“And it wasn’t your fault. She could
have had what’s-her-name—Miss Bolton, the old girl who lives at Leatherhead.”

“I thought May Bolton was going to
have
her.
But you couldn’t make Mother do a thing she hadn’t thought
of herself.”

“Again, that wasn’t your fault, was
it?”

It occurred to him that his wife had
inherited to some extent this characteristic of his mother-in-law, but this was
no time to remind her of it.

“You’ll go up at once, I suppose?”
he said when she was a little calmer.

“How can I?” The tears began to fall
again. “Christmas Day and Bobbie’s temperature still up and his spots itching
like mad. Could you cope with all that?”

“I’d try,” he said. “You know I’d do
anything.”

“Of course you would, darling.” She
was genuinely grateful for the happiness of her married life and at this moment
of self-reproach prepared to give him most of the credit for it. “Honestly, I
don’t think I could face it. There’d be identification, wouldn’t there? And
hearing detail—” She shuddered, covering her face.

“Okay. I’ll go up,” Hugh told her.
He really preferred this arrangement. “I’ll take the car in to Exeter and get
the first through train there is. It’s very early. Apparently her milkman made
the discovery.”

So Hugh Evans reached the flat in
the early afternoon to find a constable on duty at the door and the house
locked up. He was directed to the police station, where Inspector Brooks was
waiting for him.

“My wife was too upset to come alone,”
he explained, “and we couldn’t leave the family on their own. They’ve all got
chicken pox; the youngest’s quite bad with it today.”

He went on to explain all the
reasons why Mrs. Fairlands had been alone in the flat.

“Quite,” said Brooks, who had a
difficult mother-in-law himself and was inclined to be sympathetic. “Quite.
Nothing to stop her going to an hotel here in London over the holiday, was
there?”

“Nothing at all. She could easily
afford it. She isn’t— wasn’t—what you call rich, but she’d reached the age when
she really
couldn’t
spend much.”

This led to a full description of
Mrs. Fairlands’ circumstances, which finished with Hugh pulling out a list,
hastily written by Dorothy before he left home, of all the valuables she could
remember that were still in Mrs. Fairlands’ possession.

“Jewelry,” said the inspector
thoughtfully. “Now where would she keep that?”

“Doesn’t it say? In her bedroom, I
believe.”

“Oh, yes. A jewel box,
containing—yes. Well, Mr. Evans, there was no jewel box in the flat when we
searched it.”

“Obviously the thief took it, then.
About the only thing worth taking. She wouldn’t have much cash there. She took
it from the bank in weekly amounts. I know that.”

There was very little more help he
could give, so Inspector Brooks took him to the mortuary where Mrs. Fairlands
now lay. And after the identification, which Hugh found pitiable but not
otherwise distressing, they went together to the flat.

“In case you can help us to note any
more objects of value you find are missing,” Brooks explained.

The rooms were in the same state in
which they had been found. Hugh found this more shocking, more disturbing, than
the colorless, peaceful face of the very old woman who had never been close to
him, who had never shown a warm affection for any of them, though with her
unusual vitality she must in her youth have been capable of passion.

He went from room to room and back
again. He stopped beside the bureau. “I was thinking, on the way up,” he said
diffidently. “Her solicitor—that sort of thing. Insurances. I ought—can I have
a look through this lot?”

“Of course, sir,” Inspector Brooks
answered politely. “I’ve had a look myself. You see, we aren’t quite clear
about motive.”

“Not—But wasn’t it a burglar? A
brutal, thieving thug?”

“There is no sign whatever of
breaking and entering. It appears that Mrs. Fairlands let the murderer in
herself.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“Is it? An old lady, feeling lonely
perhaps. The doorbell rings. She thinks a friend has called to visit her. She
goes and opens it. It’s always happening.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. It could have
happened that way. Or a tramp asking for money—Christmas—”

“Tramps don’t usually leave it as
late as Christmas Eve. Generally smash a window and get put inside a day or two
earlier.”

“What worries you, then?”

“Just in case she had someone after
her. Poor relation. Anyone who had it in for her, if she knew something
damaging about him. Faked the burglary.”

“But he seems to have taken her
jewel box, and according to my wife, it was worth taking.”

“Quite. We shall want a full
description of the pieces, sir.”

“She’ll make it out for you. Or it
may have been insured separately.”

“I’m afraid not. Go ahead, though,
Mr. Evans. I’ll send my sergeant in, and he’ll bring you back to the station
with any essential papers you need for Mrs. Fairlands’ solicitor.

Hugh worked at the papers for half
an hour and then decided he had all the information he wanted. No steps of any
kind need, or indeed could, be taken until the day after tomorrow, he knew. The
solicitor could not begin to wind up Mrs. Fairlands’ affairs for some time.
Even the date of the inquest had not been fixed and would probably have to be
adjourned.

Before leaving the flat, Hugh looked
round the rooms once more, taking the sergeant with him. They paused before the
mantelpiece, untouched by the thieves, a poignant reminder of the life so
abruptly ended. Hugh looked at the cards and then glanced at the Christmas
tree.

“Poor old thing!” he said. “We never
thought she’d go like this. We ought all to have been here today. She always
decorated a tree for us—” He broke off, genuinely moved for the first time.

“So I understand,” the sergeant said
gruffly, sharing the wave of sentiment.

“My wife—I wonder—D’you think it’d
be in order to get rid of it?”

“The tree, sir?”

“Yes. Put it out at the back
somewhere. Less upsetting—Mrs. Evans will be coming up the day after tomorrow.
By that time the dustmen may have called.”

“I understand. I don’t see any harm—”

“Right.”

Hurrying, in case the sergeant
should change his mind, Hugh took up the bowl, and turning his face away to
spare it from being pricked by the pine needles, he carried it out to the back
of the house where he stood it beside the row of three dustbins. At any rate,
he thought, going back to join the sergeant, Dorothy would be spared the
feelings that overcame him so unexpectedly.

He was not altogether right in this.
Mrs. Evans traveled to London on the day after Boxing Day. The inquest opened
on this day, with a jury. Evidence was given of the finding of the body.
Medical evidence gave the cause of death as cold and exhaustion and bronchial
edema from partial suffocation by a plaster gag. The verdict was murder by a
person or persons unknown.

After the inquest, Mrs. Fairlands’
solicitor, who had supported Mrs. Evans during the ordeal in court, went with
her to the flat. They arrived just as the municipal dust cart was beginning to
move away. One of the older dustmen came up to them.

“You for the old lady they did
Christmas Eve?” he asked, with some hesitation.

“I’m her daughter,” Dorothy said,
her eyes filling again, as they still did all too readily.

“What d’you want?” asked the
solicitor, who was anxious to get back to his office.

“No offense,” said the man, ignoring
him and keeping his eyes on Dorothy’s face. “It’s like this ’ere, see. They put
a Christmas tree outside, by the bins, see. Decorated. We didn’t like to take
it, seeing it’s not exactly rubbish and her gone and that. Nobody about we
could ask—”

Dorothy understood. The Christmas
tree. Hugh’s doing, obviously. Sweet of him.

“Of course you must have it, if it’s
any use to you now, so late. Have you got children?”

“Three, ma’am. Two younguns. I
arsked the other chaps. They don’t want it. They said to leave it.”

“No, you take it,” Dorothy told him.
“I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to be reminded—”

“Thanks a lot, dear,” the dustman
said, gravely sympathetic, walking back round the house.

The solicitor took the door key from
Dorothy and let her in, so she did not see the tree as the dustman emerged with
it held carefully before him.

In his home that evening the tree
was greeted with a mixture of joy and derision.

“As if I ’adn’t enough to clear up
yesterday and the day before,” his wife complained, half angry, half laughing. “Where’d
you get it, anyway?”

When he had finished telling her,
the two children, who had listened, crept away to play with the new glittering
toy. And before long Mavis, the youngest, found the brooch pinned to the star.
She unfastened it carefully and held it in her hand, turning it this way and
that to catch the light.

But not for long. Her brother Ernie,
two years older, soon snatched it. Mavis went for him, and he ran, making for
the front door to escape into the street where Mavis was forbidden to play.
Though she seldom obeyed the rule, on this occasion she used it to make loud
protest, setting up a howl that brought her mother to the door of the kitchen.

But Ernie had not escaped with his
prize. His elder brother Ron was on the point of entering, and when Ernie flung
wide the door, Ron pushed in, shoving his little brother back.

“ ’E’s nicked my star,” Mavis
wailed. “Make ’im give me back, Ron. It’s mine. Off the tree.”

Ron took Ernie by the back of his
collar and swung him round.

“Give!” he said firmly. Ernie
clenched his right fist, betraying himself. Ron took his arm, bent his hand
over forwards, and, as the brooch fell to the floor, stooped to pick it up.
Ernie was now in tears.

“Where’d ’e get it?” Ron asked over
the child’s doubled-up, weeping form.

“The tree,” Mavis repeated. “I found
it. On the star— on the tree.”

“Wot the ’ell d’she mean?” Ron
asked, exasperated.

“Shut up, the lot of you!” their
mother cried fiercely from the kitchen where she had retreated. “Ron, come on
in to your tea. Late as usual. Why you never—”

“Okay, Mum,” the boy said,
unrepentant. “I never—”

He sat down, looking at the
sparkling object in his hand.

“What’d Mavis mean about a tree?”

“Christmas tree. Dad brought it in.
I’ve a good mind to put it on the fire. Nothing but argument since ’e fetched
it.”

“It’s pretty,” Ron said, meaning the
brooch in his hand. “Dress jewelry, they calls it.” He slipped it into his
pocket.

“That’s mine,” Mavis insisted. “I
found it pinned on that star on the tree. You give it back, Ron.”

“Leave ’im alone,” their mother
said, smacking away the reaching hands. “Go and play with your blasted tree.
Dad didn’t ought t’ave brought it. Ought t’ave ’ad more sense—”

Ron sat quietly, eating his kipper
and drinking his tea. When he had finished, he stacked his crockery in the
sink, went upstairs, changed his shirt, put a pair of shiny dancing shoes in
the pockets of his mackintosh, and went off to the club where his current
girlfriend, Sally, fifteen like himself, attending the same comprehensive
school, was waiting for him.

“You’re late,” she said over her
shoulder, not leaving the group of her girlfriends.