Unexpected Guest (2 page)

Starkwedder looked at her with a somewhat bemused expression. ‘Well?' he prompted.

Laura took a deep breath. Then, staring straight ahead of her, she began to speak. ‘Richard used to be a big-game hunter,' she said. ‘That was where we first met–in Kenya. He was a different sort of person then. Or perhaps his good qualities showed, and not his bad ones. He did have good qualities, you know. Generosity and courage. Supreme courage. He was a very attractive man to women.'

She looked up suddenly, seeming to be aware of Starkwedder for the first time. Returning her gaze, he lit her cigarette with his lighter, and then his own. ‘Go on,' he urged her.

‘We married soon after we met,' Laura continued. ‘Then, two years later, he had a terrible accident–he was mauled by a lion. He was lucky to escape
alive, but he's been a semi-cripple ever since, unable to walk properly.' She leaned back, apparently more relaxed, and Starkwedder moved to a footstool, facing her.

Laura took a puff at her cigarette and then exhaled the smoke. ‘They say misfortune improves your character,' she said. ‘It didn't improve his. Instead, it developed all his bad points. Vindictiveness, a streak of sadism, drinking too much. He made life pretty impossible for everyone in this house, and we all put up with it because–oh, you know what one says. “So sad for poor Richard being an invalid.” We shouldn't have put up with it, of course. I see that, now. It simply encouraged him to feel that he was different from other people, and that he could do as he chose without being called to account for it.'

She rose and went across to the table by the armchair to flick ash in the ashtray. ‘All his life,' she continued, ‘shooting had been the thing Richard liked doing best. So, when we came to live in this house, every night after everyone else had gone to bed, he'd sit here'–she gestured towards the wheelchair–‘and Angell, his–well, valet and general factotum I suppose you'd call him–Angell would bring the brandy and one of Richard's guns, and put them beside him. Then he'd have the french windows wide open, and he'd sit in here looking out, watching for the gleam of a cat's eyes,
or a stray rabbit, or a dog for that matter. Of course, there haven't been so many rabbits lately. That disease–what d'you call it?–myxomatosis or whatever–has been killing them off. But he shot quite a lot of cats.' She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘He shot them in the daytime, too. And birds.'

‘Didn't the neighbours ever complain?' Starkwedder asked her.

‘Oh, of course they did,' Laura replied as she returned to sit on the sofa. ‘We've only lived here for a couple of years, you know. Before that, we lived on the east coast, in Norfolk. One or two household pets were victims of Richard's there, and we had a lot of complaints. That's really why we came to live here. It's very isolated, this house. We've only got one neighbour for miles around. But there are plenty of squirrels and birds and stray cats.'

She paused for a moment, and then continued. ‘The main trouble in Norfolk was really because a woman came to call at the house one day, collecting subscriptions for the village fête. Richard sent shots to the right and left of her as she was going away, walking down the drive. She bolted like a hare, he said. He roared with laughter when he told us about it. I remember him saying her fat backside was quivering like a jelly. But she went to the police about it, and there was a terrible row.'

‘I can well imagine that,' was Starkwedder's dry comment.

‘But Richard got away with it all right,' Laura told him. ‘He had a permit for all his firearms, of course, and he assured the police that he only used them to shoot rabbits. He explained away poor Miss Butterfield by claiming that she was just a nervous old maid who imagined he was shooting at her, which he swore he would never have done. Richard was always plausible. He had no trouble making the police believe him.'

Starkwedder got up from his footstool and went across to Richard Warwick's body. ‘Your husband seems to have had a rather perverted sense of humour,' he observed tartly. He looked down at the table beside the wheelchair. ‘I see what you mean,' he continued. ‘So a gun by his side was a nightly routine. But surely he couldn't have expected to shoot anything tonight. Not in this fog.'

‘Oh, he always had a gun put there,' replied Laura. ‘Every night. It was like a child's toy. Sometimes he used to shoot into the wall, making patterns. Over there, if you look.' She indicated the french windows. ‘Down there to the left, behind the curtain.'

Starkwedder went across and lifted the curtain on the left-hand side, revealing a pattern of bullet holes in the panelling. ‘Good heavens, he's picked out his own initials in the wall. “RW”, done in bullet holes.
Remarkable.' He replaced the curtain, and turned back to Laura. ‘I must admit that's damned good shooting. Hm, yes. He must have been pretty frightening to live with.'

‘He was,' Laura replied emphatically. With almost hysterical vehemence, she rose from the sofa and approached her uninvited guest. ‘Must we go on talking and talking about all this?' she asked in exasperation. ‘It's only putting off what's got to happen in the end. Can't you realize that you've
got
to ring up the police? You've no option. Don't you see it would be far kinder to just do it now? Or is it that you want me to do it? Is that it? All right, I will.'

She moved quickly to the phone, but Starkwedder came up to her as she was lifting the receiver, and put his hand over hers. ‘We've got to talk first,' he told her.

‘We've been talking,' said Laura. ‘And anyway, there's nothing to talk about.'

‘Yes, there is,' he insisted. ‘I'm a fool, I dare say. But we've got to find some way out.'

‘Some way out? For me?' asked Laura. She sounded incredulous.

‘Yes. For you.' He took a few steps away from her, and then turned back to face her. ‘How much courage have you got?' he asked. ‘Can you lie if necessary–and lie convincingly?'

Laura stared at him. ‘You're crazy,' was all she said.

‘Probably,' Starkwedder agreed.

She shook her head in perplexity. ‘You don't know what you're doing,' she told him.

‘I know very well what I'm doing,' he answered. ‘I'm making myself an accessory after the fact.'

‘But why?' asked Laura. ‘Why?'

Starkwedder looked at her for a moment before replying. Then, ‘Yes, why?' he repeated. Speaking slowly and deliberately, he said, ‘For the simple reason, I suppose, that you're a very attractive woman, and I don't like to think of you being shut up in prison for all the best years of your life. Just as horrible as being hanged by the neck until you are dead, in my view. And the situation looks far from promising for you. Your husband was an invalid and a cripple. Any evidence there might be of provocation would rest entirely on your word, a word which you seem extremely unwilling to give. Therefore it seems highly unlikely that a jury would acquit you.'

Laura looked steadily at him. ‘You don't know me,' she said. ‘Everything I've told you may have been lies.'

‘It may,' Starkwedder agreed cheerfully. ‘And perhaps I'm a sucker. But I'm believing you.'

Laura looked away, then sank down on the footstool
with her back to him. For a few moments nothing was said. Then, turning to face him, her eyes suddenly a light with hope, she looked at him questioningly, and then nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Yes,' she told him, ‘I can lie if I have to.'

‘Good,' Starkwedder exclaimed with determination. ‘Now, talk and talk fast.' He walked over to the table by the wheelchair, flicking ash in the ashtray. ‘In the first place, who exactly is there in this house? Who lives here?'

After a moment's hesitation, Laura began to speak, almost mechanically. ‘There's Richard's mother,' she told him. ‘And there's Benny–Miss Bennett, but we call her Benny–she's a sort of combined housekeeper and secretary. An ex-hospital nurse. She's been here for ages, and she's devoted to Richard. And then there's Angell. I mentioned him, I think. He's a male nurse-attendant, and–well, valet, I suppose. He looks after Richard generally.'

‘Are there servants who live in the house as well?'

‘No, there are no live-in servants, only dailies who come in.' She paused. ‘Oh–and I almost forgot,' she continued. ‘There's Jan, of course.'

‘Jan?' Starkwedder asked, sharply. ‘Who's Jan?'

Laura gave him an embarrassed look before replying. Then, with an air of reluctance, she said, ‘He's Richard's young half-brother. He–he lives with us.'

Starkwedder moved over to the stool where she still sat. ‘Come clean, now,' he insisted. ‘What is there about Jan that you don't want to tell me?'

After a moment's hesitation, Laura spoke, though she still sounded guarded. ‘Jan is a dear,' she said. ‘Very affectionate and sweet. But–but he isn't quite like other people. I mean he's–he's what they call retarded.'

‘I see,' Starkwedder murmured sympathetically. ‘But you're fond of him, aren't you?'

‘Yes,' Laura admitted. ‘Yes–I'm very fond of him. That's–that's really why I couldn't just go away and leave Richard. Because of Jan. You see, if Richard had had his own way, he would have sent Jan to an institution. A place for the mentally retarded.'

Starkwedder slowly circled the wheelchair, looking down at Richard Warwick's body, and pondering. Then, ‘I see,' he murmured. ‘Is that the threat he held over you? That, if you left him, he'd send the boy to an institution?'

‘Yes,' replied Laura. ‘If I–if I believed that I could have earned enough to keep Jan and myself–but I don't know that I could. And anyway, Richard was the boy's legal guardian of course.'

‘Was Richard kind to him?' Starkwedder asked.

‘Sometimes,' she replied.

‘And at other times?'

‘He'd–he'd quite frequently talk about sending Jan away,' Laura told him. ‘He'd say to Jan, “They'll be quite kind to you, boy. You'll be well looked after. And Laura, I'm sure, would come and see you once or twice a year.” He'd get Jan all worked up, terrified, begging, pleading, stammering. And then Richard would lean back in his chair and roar with laughter. Throw back his head and laugh, laugh, laugh.'

‘I see,' said Starkwedder, watching her carefully. After a pause, he repeated thoughtfully, ‘I see.'

Laura rose quickly, and went to the table by the armchair to stub out her cigarette. ‘You needn't believe me,' she exclaimed. ‘You needn't believe a word I say. For all you know, I might be making it all up.'

‘I've told you I'll risk it,' Starkwedder replied. ‘Now then,' he continued, ‘what's this, what's-her-name, Bennett–Benny–like? Is she sharp? Bright?'

‘She's very efficient and capable,' Laura assured him.

Starkwedder snapped his fingers. ‘Something's just occurred to me,' he said. ‘How is it that nobody in the house heard the shot tonight?'

‘Well, Richard's mother is quite old, and she's rather deaf,' Laura replied. ‘Benny's room is over on the other side of the house, and Angell's quarters are quite separate, shut off by a baize door. There's young Jan, of course. He sleeps in the room over this. But he goes to bed early, and he sleeps very heavily.'

‘That all seems extremely fortunate,' Starkwedder observed.

Laura looked puzzled. ‘But what are you suggesting?' she asked him. ‘That we could make it look like suicide?'

He turned to look at the body again. ‘No,' he said, shaking his head. ‘There's no hope of suicide, I'm afraid.' He walked over to the wheelchair and looked down at the corpse of Richard Warwick for a moment, before asking, ‘He was right-handed, I assume?'

‘Yes,' replied Laura.

‘Yes, I was afraid so. In which case he couldn't possibly have shot himself at that angle,' he declared, pointing to Warwick's left temple. ‘Besides, there's no mark of scorching.' He considered for a few seconds and then added, ‘No, the gun must have been fired from a certain distance away. Suicide is certainly out.' He paused again before continuing. ‘But there's accident, of course. After all, it could have been an accident.'

After a longer pause, he began to act out what he had in mind. ‘Now, say for instance that I came here this evening. Just as I did, in fact. Blundered in through this window.' He went to the french windows, and mimed the act of stumbling into the room. ‘Richard thought I was a burglar, and took a pot shot at me. Well, that's quite likely, from all you've been telling me about his exploits. Well, then, I come up to him'–and
Starkwedder hastened to the body in the wheelchair–‘I get the gun away from him–'

Laura interrupted eagerly. ‘And it went off in the struggle–yes?'

‘Yes,' Starkwedder agreed, but immediately corrected himself. ‘No, that won't do. As I say, the police would spot at once that the gun wasn't fired at such close quarters.' He took a few more moments to reconsider, and then continued. ‘Well now, say I got the gun right away from him.' He shook his head, and waved his arms in a gesture of frustration. ‘No, that's no good. Once I'd done that, why the hell should I shoot him? No, I'm afraid it's tricky.'

He sighed. ‘All right,' he decided, ‘let's leave it at murder. Murder pure and simple. But murder by someone from outside. Murder by person or persons unknown.' He crossed to the french windows, held back a curtain, and peered out as though seeking inspiration.

‘A real burglar, perhaps?' Laura suggested helpfully.

Starkwedder thought for a moment, and then said, ‘Well, I suppose it
could
be a burglar, but it seems a bit bogus.' He paused, then added, ‘What about an enemy? That sounds melodramatic perhaps, but from what you've told me about your husband it seems he was the sort who might have had enemies. Am I right?'