Motive for Murder (11 page)

‘Which,' I finished with a smile, ‘disposes of several fictitious characters at least.'

‘I suppose you know all the members of Mr Menzies' family, Dawson?'

‘Oh yes, sir. Miss Lesley-that-was, and Mr Holloway, and Mr Jack Menzies and his wife –'

‘And they weren't here that night?'

‘Certainly not!' Dawson looked shocked, as well he might, considering the implications behind Matthew's question.

‘And there's no one, Dawson, no one at all, who made an impression, who arrived by himself, perhaps, or didn't seem to fit in with the others?'

‘No sir, I can't say there was.'

I said suddenly, ‘You'd have noticed, wouldn't you, if someone had come down again almost straight away?'

‘Yes, miss. But they reckon he ran down the service stairs and out the basement door.'

‘He couldn't have come in that way, and avoided being seen at all?' Matthew asked hopefully, mindful of his plot.

‘No, sir. The door was locked on the inside. The murderer unlocked it to let hisself out.'

‘No doubt wiping the handle and key when he'd done so,' said Matthew resignedly.

‘Quite so, sir.'

Money again changed hands and Matthew and I were back in the car. I gave a little shiver.

‘Cold?' he asked. ‘Or is it just distaste for the job?'

‘A bit of both, suppose.'

‘Well, let's go and have a drink somewhere, followed by a decent meal. That'll make you feel better.'

We drove to a hotel whose neon lights struck a note of cheer in the near-darkness. Matthew parked the car. ‘Now, leave your notebooks. We've done enough work for one day.'

He took my arm and led me across the gleaming wet car-park, up the steps and through more swing doors, if you'd like to leave your mac in the cloakroom, I'll meet you back here.'

Gratefully, I escaped and did my best to right the havoc the wet afternoon had done to my hair. When I returned, Matthew rose from a table near the fire.

‘What would you like to drink? Gin? Sherry?'

‘Sherry, please.' He pulled out my chair and I sat down. We were early and there were not many people about. My mind was still on the interviews we'd had that afternoon.

‘Mr Haig –'

Matthew set down his glass. ‘I think while we're on a social footing we might dispense with formality, don't you?'

‘Oh – yes, of course,' I stammered.

‘Well? What were you going to say?'

‘I was wondering how closely you intend sticking to the facts. I know neither the victim nor any of the other characters are like those in real life, but the setting is similar – the apartment block and the party.'

‘Which is why I wanted another look.'

‘Yes, but what I'm trying to say is that, in fiction as well as fact, the age of the party guests limits the choice of murderer.'

‘Choice of murderer!' He laughed. ‘What a glorious phrase! I suppose it does, yes, but let's forget about it for now. If we never speak of anything else, it'll go stale on us. Agreed? No shop talk.'

‘No shop!' I replied.

He raised his glass to me with a smile, and I realized with a sense of shock that it was the first he'd ever given me; very different from the sardonic twists I was used to. The effect was disconcerting; he seemed at once younger and more attractive. If he exercised this charm on Kate, I didn't see how she could resist him.

I relaxed in turn, and for the first time found I could be completely natural with him. Also for the first time, we were giving each other our undivided attention, as though no one else was in the room. But there were others present, of course – other women in particular, who, I noticed from quick glances, were very much aware of Matthew, and the knowledge made my self-confidence soar. We laughed a lot; I hadn't enjoyed myself so much for a long time. The evenings with Mike were never undiluted pleasure.

And hard on that thought came the realisation that I was bracketing Matthew and Mike together – which was dangerous. For Matthew was not a carefree young man with whom it was natural to flirt. He was one of Britain's best-known contemporary writers, a bitter, divorced man – with a daughter.

I laid my fork on my plate, and the little tinkle put a full stop to my laughter.

‘Had enough? Room for coffee and liqueur?'

‘I'd love a coffee, thank you, but nothing else.'

‘What a modest little mouse you are! Go on, try one!'

I did not like being called a mouse, modest or otherwise. ‘All right.'

The unaccustomed drink brought back my confidence and made me more than a little heady. Matthew lit a cigar and the pungent smoke cocooned us in our small world of candles and coffee cups. I wished that we could drift for ever shut off from all uncomfortable influences. No Mike, no Derek, no Kate.

But Matthew was already looking at his watch. ‘Well, since it's a two-hour drive home in the dark, we'd better be going. Would you like to collect your mac while I get the bill?'

In the cloakroom mirror I caught sight of my face, unusually flushed and bright-eyed. Not, I thought tartly, the face of a secretary who has just been given dinner by her boss. Hastily I shrugged on my mac and went out into the hall. Matthew was waiting by the door. The rain had lessened and was now a misty drizzle. He took my arm and guided me over to the car, and we eased our way out of the car park into the still-busy streets of the town. It was only about nine o'clock, but the wet darkness made it seem later. Matthew switched on the radio and my eyes, smarting still from the cigar smoke and the sweet potency of the liqueur, closed. I leant back, half-listening to the quiet music, aware of the turning and swaying of the car. Against my eyelids swam jumbled pictures of the day's events – work that morning in the library, the drive out – Mrs Statton – Dawson in the thick-carpeted passage – Matthew's smile above the candles.

I think I slept for a while. I was jerked awake by the car swerving, and heard Matthew swear under his breath. I pushed myself upright.

‘Sorry. A dog ran across the road.'

Moorland now stretched on either side of us and the headlights carved a gleaming path over the wet road. In their beam the rain fell glancingly. The wipers burred rhythmically, almost in time to the soft music on the radio. They reminded me of the metronome during music lessons at school.

The thought of school brought Sarah to mind. She would be home tomorrow, Saturday. I'd promised to play with her. If only Matthew would spend some time with her. I glanced at him. He was softly whistling the tune on the radio, his eyes on the road. The air of companionship was still between us. I began tentatively, ‘I suppose it's none of my business –'

He smiled. ‘Then whatever it is, forget it!'

I should have taken his advice. Instead, foolishly counting on the evening behind us to give me immunity, I went on, it's about Sarah –'

‘What about Sarah?' He spoke pleasantly, but the danger signal was there. I chose to ignore it. I should have remembered his reaction to my speaking of boarding school on the outward journey. I should have remembered any number of things, and kept quiet.

But I didn't. ‘I wish you were nicer to her!' I blurted out.

I felt rather than saw his eyebrows rise. ‘Aren't you presuming rather, Miss Barton?'

Even the resurrection of ‘Miss Barton' couldn't stop me now. This had been on my mind so much that once I embarked on the subject I was powerless to stop. ‘I'm sorry if you're annoyed, but she tries so hard to get a bit of your attention. Yet if you notice her at all, it's only to say, “Go to bed, Sarah.” Or, “Haven't you any homework?” or, “I'm busy.” ' I paused for breath.

‘Quite a speech.' There was a dangerous note in his voice, but I plunged recklessly ahead.

‘She showed me her photograph album, and there's not a single snap of the three of you as a family – not one. Because she was never with you! First her mother deserts her, then you –'

‘That will do!' Matthew's voice was a whiplash. I had gone too far.

Panic-stricken, I belatedly tried to withdraw, to gloss over. ‘She once –'

‘I said
that will do!
' The car suddenly swerved into a lay-by and shuddered to a halt. Matthew turned towards me. His face was in shadow but I could see the tightness of his jaw, and I knew he was very angry.

‘Now, Miss Emily Barton,' he said with biting deliberation, ‘let's get one thing straight. I engaged you as my secretary, not as a child-welfare officer. I will take no advice on bringing up my daughter from a tinpot little typist. Is that clear?'

I could only stare at him while the vicious words lashed the air between us.

‘Is that clear?'

‘Yes,' I whispered aridly.

‘Good.' Without warning his arm snaked along the back of the seat towards me and pulled me roughly against him. I fell with a little gasp and as I did so, his mouth came down on mine, bruisingly and ruthlessly. I clung to him more to keep my balance than for any other reason.

After a moment he pushed me unceremoniously away, turned round again and switched on the ignition. ‘Now will you shut up?' he said shakily, and the car leapt ahead into the night.

I sat immobile, my face burning and the rest of my body like ice. So the party was over. I had expended my ration of his charm. I was a tinpot little typist who had presumed upon his relaxation to butt in where she was not wanted. Right, Mr Matthew Haig, that's the last time I'll presume, I promise you!

Once or twice, I felt Matthew glance at me, but we did not speak again during the whole, interminable journey home. He was driving extremely fast. Trees and houses rushed towards us along the beam of our headlights, towered over us like monstrous shadows, and were gone, swinging crazily as we slewed round corners with a scream of rubber on wet tarmac. I didn't care. If Matthew was in such a hurry to get this evening over, that went for me too.

It was, of course, my own fault, I assured myself. Who did I think I was, to criticize Matthew Haig? A few drinks and smiles in the candlelight did not entitle me to speak to my employer as I had done.

I did not let myself think about the kiss.

I had my front door key ready when we finally hurtled up the road and through the gates of Touchstone. He still had his foot on the brake as I wrenched open the car door and ran up the steps into the house.

When I had eaten as much as I could face of my breakfast the next morning, I took a moment or two to screw up my courage before going down to Matthew. I'd spent most of the night lying staring into the dark till my eyes burned, trying to think of the right thing to say to him. It was partly his fault I told myself; if he'd not been so charming and attentive all evening, I should never have dared speak to him as I did – and even then, it was only my fondness for Sarah that had compelled me to put in a word for her. Though what had possessed me to mention Kate – I went hot at the memory.

As for the kiss, it had been simply a working off of his bad temper; since he could hardly have hit me, he'd used an alternative means of bringing me to order. Through the closed door I heard the hall clock strike nine. The time for decisions had run out; I'd have to take my cue from him. With hammering heart I went down to the library.

It was at once apparent that my heart-searching had been needless. Whatever his mood last night, this morning Matthew Haig was fully in control of himself and the situation. He was sitting at his desk as usual, reading some papers.

I said, ‘Good morning, Mr Haig,' and marvelled at the steadiness of my voice.

‘Good morning. Would you type out yesterday's notes first, please?'

‘Of course.' I seated myself at my desk, and took the cover off my typewriter with shaking fingers. He had not raised his head. I shot a furtive glance at the intent face, black brows drawn together in concentration, and tried to equate it with the charming companion of the previous evening. Then I closed my mind to the comparison and settled down to work.

After a while I rose and put the completed pages on his desk.

‘Thank you. Have you got your book?' He looked up and my own eyes automatically dropped.

‘Yes.'

‘Well, it looks as though, after what we discovered yesterday, we'll have to do a spot of rewriting. The daughter and the brother episodes will have to be altered. Obviously the doorman would have known them both.'

I spoke before I remembered my resolution to volunteer nothing. ‘Does there have to be a doorman in the novel?'

He gave a short laugh. ‘Admittedly it would be easier without him.' He paused, stroking his chin. ‘The point is, though, that I'd wanted to work as much as possible within the framework of the case, to see if I could pinpoint the motive. I like to think I'm as intelligent as the average murderer.'

I did not rise to that one but waited silently, my eyes on my book. He seemed to be expecting some comment, and I realized that we'd developed the habit of discussing problems which arose in the plot. Well, not any more. Tinpot typists don't have any ideas of their own.

I sat smarting under my hurt pride, and after a moment he said, ‘Well, leave the rewriting for now and I'll think about it when I've had time to study these notes. Where were we up to?'

I read back the last page I'd typed before we left for Salchester. He dictated steadily until it was almost twelve.

‘That will do for now.'

I stood up.

‘Emily –' He made a movement with his hand to detain me, and I stiffened. But before either of us could speak, the sound of flying footsteps reached us from the passage, and the door burst open as Sarah fell into the room. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright with excitement.

‘Daddy, Mummy's come! She's here now!' Matthew rose slowly to his feet. His face went scarlet, then the colour ebbed away, leaving it very white.