Authors: Frederic Lindsay
Mother
was
listening
with
a
frown
of
concentration.
'Wait
now,' she
said.
'Would
that
man
be
the
man
Malcolm
worked
for?
The
one
who
was
killed
– by
that
woman,
Irene,
the
one
who
killed
the
other
man?'
'I
think
you're
right,
Mum
Wilson,'
Irene
said.
She
laid
her hand
on
Malcolm's
arm.
'I
can't
imagine
who
else
it
could
be.'
'John
Merchant,'
Peerse
confirmed.
He
was
silent
for
a
moment
and
certain
secretive
little
pouchings
of
his
upper
lip
suggested
he
was
licking
cream
from
his
front
teeth
while
keeping
his
mouth
decorously
shut.
'He
had
a
mistress.
I
was
the
one
who
had
found
out
she
existed,
and
so
I
went
to
see
her.
Talking
to
her,
I
knew
there
was
something
wrong.
I
have
an
instinct;
she couldn't
hide
it
from
me.'
'You
felt
it
was
her
that
did
it?'
Mother
asked.
With
this
topic,
it
seemed
all
her
suspicious
uneasiness
had
vanished.
Remembering
how
she
enjoyed
the
crime
series
on
television,
Murray
could
have
sworn
that
her
eyes
had
brightened.
With
something
to
make
her
alert,
she
seemed
younger;
and
it
came
to
him
with
a
pang
how
featureless
her
life
must
be.
'She
was
the
one
that
killed
him!'
'It
seems
not,'
Peerse
said,
nodding
down
at
her,
'since
she
has
this
wonderful
alibi.
Merchant
wasn't
the
only
man
she
went
to bed
with –
there's
this
other
one
who
claims
he
came
to
her
room
at
eleven
that
same
night
and
stayed
with
her
until
the
next
morning.'
'Wait,
wait,
but,'
Mother
cried,
'and
even
supposing
that's
true, she
still
could
have
killed
him,
couldn't
she?
For
I'm
sure
you
said
a
minute
ago
that
Mr
Merchant
was
murdered
about
nine
o'clock.
Well,
that's
before
this
other
man
was
there
at
all.'
'But
it's
just
the
time
when
somebody
must
have
taken
the
body and
left
it
in
the
street.'
Peerse
stretched
out
his
hand,
hesitated,
took
another
of
the
flaky
pastries
full
of
cream.
'I
know
I
shouldn't.
It's
greed.'
'There's
not
a
pick
on
you.
You're
lucky.
You
can
eat
as
much
as
you
want
to,'
Mother
said
impatiently
.
'Maybe
there
was
two
of
them,
and
the
other
one
took
the
body
away.'
Peerse
sighed.
'There's
a
general
opinion
that's
not
likely.
This
is
the
second
murder,
you
see,
and
both
of
them
were
.
..
messy.
It's
natural
to
assume
we're
dealing
with
a
madman
.
And
the
mad
don't
work
in
pairs.
That's
what
they
tell
me
–
and
it
makes
sense
.
'
'But
you
have
a
hunch,'
Mother
said,
relishing
the
word.
Before
he
could
answer,
Irene
intervened.
'Madman
?
I
thought
it
was
a
woman.
Murray's
friend
Billy
Shanks
calls
her
Jill
the
Ripper.'
'Journalists,'
Peerse
said,
offering
just
the
single
word
as
if
the disdain
he
put
into
it
were
a
sufficient
explanation;
but
then
inconsistently
added,
'Physically,
there's
no
reason
why
it
shouldn't
be
a
woman.
It
doesn't
take
strength,
not
with
the
right
knife.
With
a
butcher's
knife
properly
sharpened,
meat
falls
apart.
The
first
blow
causes
shock
–
and
there's
a
possibility
that
in
Merchant's
case
it
actually
paralysed
him
without
killing
him,
which
let
them
do
other
things
to
him
before
he
died.
That
may
mean
specialist
knowledge,
or
perhaps
it
was
nothing
more
than
luck.'
'Luck?'
Malcolm
exclaimed
incredulously.
'For
God's
sake!'
Loudly
then,
Murray
began
to
talk
about
television
.
He
had
no
set
and
so
he
had
to
talk
about
what
he
had
seen
in
the
States.
Once
started,
he
couldn't
stop;
and
heard
himself,
under
Peerse's ironical
gaze,
describe
chat
shows,
baseball,
American
football,
a
documentary
about
a
deaf
girl
that
had
stuck
in
his
memory.
He
carried
the
conversation
like
a
burden
until
the
old
lady
pushed
into
a
brief
silence
to
ask
Peerse,
'Would
you
like
to
have
more
tea
now?
Or
coffee
instead?
Malcolm
always
has
coffee
.
'
After
these
Sunday
meals,
it
was
the
custom
for
Murray
to
make
a
second
pot
of
tea
for
Mother
and
himself
and
coffee
for
Irene
and
Malcolm.
He
avoided
her
eye
until
reluctantly
she
rose
and
went
into
the
kitchen.