Choice of Evils (10 page)

‘If you'd come down with me now, Mr Amory,’ Mayhew said, ‘and take a look round the summerhouse, I'd be grateful. You'll be able to say if anything's missing besides those manuscripts you mentioned.’

‘Very well,’ Amory moved towards the door. 'Though there's never been anything there of the least value.’

‘But possibly someone thought there would be,’ Andrew said. ‘Did you never keep money there?’

‘Never. I keep my money in the bank, except for what I need for day-to-day expenses, and that stays in my wallet.’ Amory gave a slight slap to his hip pocket.

‘Well, we'll go into that in more detail when Mr Amory has had a chance to look around,’ Mayhew said. 'Shall we go, Mr Amory?’

‘Inspector, just a moment,’ Andrew said. ‘I'd like to get back to my hotel, if you've no objection. I don't think I can be of any help to you here. You'll be able to find me there if you want me.’

‘That's all right. Professor,’ Mayhew said. 'There's no reason for you to stay here.’

‘And I'll drive my uncle down to the Dolphin, if that's all right too,’ Peter said. 'Then I'll come back here.’

Miss Todhunter rose to her feet.

‘No one has thought of introducing us. Inspector,’ she said, ‘but my name is Mina Todhunter and I very much want to have a talk with you.’

‘Certainly, Miss Todhunter - presently,’ Mayhew said. T just want Mr Amory to take a look round the summer-house, then I'll be very grateful for anything you've got to tell me.’

Amory strode out of the room and the inspector and the sergeant followed him.

Peter prepared to follow them too, but Andrew, looking at Mina Todhunter, paused.

‘Perhaps we should wait till they come back,’ he said.

‘I don't like the thought of leaving you alone in this empty house.’

‘That's very kind of you,’ she said, ‘but you really needn't worry. I'm used to being alone. And the garden is still crawling with policemen.’

That's true,’ Andrew said. ‘But if we don't leave at once, perhaps I could ask you something. You were interrupted when you'd just started to tell us what advice Miss Rayne came to ask you for this morning. You'd just said it was something to do with the market in children's books, but Amory came in then and you didn't finish. But perhaps that was really all it was. Is that so?’

‘Well, yes, more or less,’ she answered. ‘It seems she wanted to make a bit of extra money by writing, and she'd thought of trying her hand at children's books. A great mistake, I told her. You've got to have a peculiar sort of mind to pull it off. Some people can do it and some can't. Knowing much about children has nothing to do with it. I advised her not to waste her time over it. I think she was a bit put out, anyway she left very abruptly. I said I was sorry I couldn't help, but after all, my own books don't sell much nowadays, so I'm hardly the right person to consult.’

‘I see. Thank you,’ Andrew said. ‘Well, come along, Peter, if you're really going to run me down to the Dolphin. Good evening. Miss Todhunter.’

‘Good evening. Professor. I hope we'll meet again.’

‘I should think that's inevitable,’ Andrew said, and set off for the front door with Peter following him.

Peter's car was in the garage. He led the way there. As Andrew had supposed on his first visit to the house, the garage was what had once been stables. They got into the car there and Peter drove out into the steep road by which he had brought Andrew up on the previous evening. A wind had risen and the tall beeches by the roadside tossed their heads against the cloudy darkness of the sky.

They were both silent until they had almost reached the hotel, then Peter said, ‘I suppose she was lying?’

‘Miss Todhunter? Probably,’ Andrew said. ‘But why do you think so?’

‘Only because if Rachel had wanted advice on writing
for children, and the Todhunter gave her a brush-off, she'd hardly have turned to you for advice on a subject like that. You don't seem quite the appropriate person.’

‘That's quite true, but suppose she hadn't absolutely made up her mind that she wanted to write for children. Suppose she was wondering about biography, and she'd somehow heard, though I don't know how, that I'd been dabbling in that, she might have thought of questioning me about it.’

‘As a matter of fact, I told her about your book,’ Peter said. ‘When she heard you were coming to dinner yesterday, she wanted to know all about you. But I still think Todhunter was lying.’

‘I'm inclined to agree with you, though I'm not sure why,’ Andrew said. ‘Perhaps it was because Rachel said she found writing even a paper a strain.’ The car had reached the Dolphin and had stopped at the entrance. ‘Feel like coming in for a drink?’

Peter said that he did, and when Andrew had got out of the car, drove it into the car park, then rejoined Andrew. They went together to the bar, which was empty just then. Both of them had double whiskies and settled down at a table by the window. The long, brightly patterned curtains had been drawn over it, shutting out the reflections on the darkness of the glass.

‘But if she was lying,’ Peter resumed, ‘what advice did Rachel really go to her for?’

T dare say we shall never know that,’ Andrew answered.

‘Oh, come on, you can make a guess, can't you?’

‘Can you?’

‘Well, no, but you're much cleverer at that sort of thing than I am.’

‘I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea,’ Andrew said. T only have that guilty feeling that I ought to have let her ask me whatever it was she wanted to. It might have saved
her, for instance, from going to that summerhouse in the afternoon. I've no reason for thinking that it would have, but it seems likely she wanted help of some sort and I might have been able to give it.’

‘Did you tell the inspector about Rachel's visit to Todhunter in the morning?’

‘No, it didn't occur to me.’

‘I suppose we ought to tell him.’

‘Yes, we probably ought to tell him anything we can think of about the woman.’

‘Like her visit to Clarke in the afternoon. I suppose it was Clarke she went to see and not one of the other partners.’

‘Of course, he may tell them about that himself.’

‘But if he doesn't?’

Andrew drank some of his whisky. ‘You're in a very suspicious mood this evening, Peter,’ he said. ‘It isn't like you.’

‘I've never been mixed up in a murder before - really mixed up. I mean, possibly the prime suspect.’

‘Yet perhaps she only went to Clarke for the advice that Miss Todhunter and I wouldn't give her.’

‘I'd still like to know what it was.’

The door of the bar opened and someone came in. Andrew was sitting with his back towards the door and did not see who it was, but Peter looked up and made a little gesture of greeting. The newcomer came to their table. It was Desmond Nicholl.

‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Please do,’ Andrew said and Desmond Nicholl pulled up a chair and sat down at their table. His haggard face was looking even more drawn than usual. Like Andrew and Peter he was drinking whisky. ‘Are you going to the theatre this evening?’

‘Yes - yes. I suppose so - yes, of course.’ Nicholl sounded confused and worried. ‘Have to hurry, actually. That's to
say, if Magda comes here. We won't have time for dinner, just a sandwich, perhaps. Or she may have gone straight to the theatre. I'd have expected her to let me know if that's what she was going to do, but I've been in all the afternoon and she hasn't telephoned. Disturbing, rather.’

'She's been out, has she?’ Andrew asked.

‘Yes, she went out in the afternoon for a walk. She likes to do that. She said she was going up on the cliffs. And I'd have expected her back an hour or more ago, so I can't help worrying. Stupid, probably. She's almost certainly gone straight to the theatre. Are you going to it, by the way?’

‘Oh yes, certainly, wouldn't miss it for anything,’ Andrew said, then suddenly pulled himself up. ‘No, actu-ally I'm not sure that I can. I've said I'll be here all the evening, if I'm wanted. How very annoying.’

‘I think possibly Nicholl doesn't know what's happened,’ Peter said. ‘Do you?’ he asked Nicholl. ‘Do you know what's happened up at Barnfield House?’

Nicholl gave him a puzzled look and shook his head. ‘No, has something happened?’

‘I'm afraid so,’ Andrew answered. 'Sometime this after-noon that sister-in-law of Amory's, Rachel Rayne, was shot in the summerhouse up there.’

'Shot!’ Nicholl exclaimed. ‘Not - you don't mean shot dead!’

‘Yes, shot dead,’ Andrew said.

'Suicide? Accident? Murder?’

‘Murder.’

‘Christ!’ Nicholl's face looked even more skull-like than it usually did. ‘What happened?’

‘I don't think anything much is known about it yet,’ Andrew said, ‘except that my nephew found her dead body in the summerhouse this afternoon, called in the police, and they've questioned us both, then let us go. She had been shot in the head, but the gun, I understand,
is missing, which makes suicide or accident even more unlikely than does the fact that she was shot in the back of the head. I know the fingerprint people and the photographers and some forensic people were busy up there, but we weren't told what, if anything, they'd found out. The murder certainly happened sometime between three and five o'clock, because she was seen in the town about three and my nephew discovered her body about five o'clock.’

Nicholl glanced at his watch, as if to make sure that the hours of three and five were registered upon it, then the sight of it made him exclaim, ‘It's late - much too late for Magda to think of coming here. She must have gone straight to the theatre … I'm sorry, I can't help worrying, in spite of this awful thing you've just told me. Who had anything against that poor woman? Not Amory, surely?’

‘There's no reason really to assume it was anyone in Gallmouth,’ Peter said. ‘None of us here know anything about her. It might be someone who'd followed her from London. Or even from America. We don't really know why she left America, do we?’

‘That's the sort of thing the police will have to find out,’ Andrew said.

‘There's nothing we can do about it.’

‘No, and if you don't mind, I think I'll just go and telephone the theatre,’ Nicholl said. ‘I'm sorry, but I can't help worrying. So if you'll excuse me for a moment, I'll just go and do that.’

He got up and went hurrying out.

‘Not much concerned at murder,’ Peter remarked.

‘On the contrary, I thought very much concerned,’ Andrew responded. ‘Didn't you see his face?’

‘It's the sort of face that makes you think of murder, even when he's being friendly,’ Peter said, ‘"Alas, poor Yorick … ?" He should sell his skull to a theatre.’

‘That's a gruesome thought, but I know what you mean.’

A moment later Nicholl came running back. He picked up the glass that he had left half full and swallowed its remaining contents at a gulp.

T must go,’ he said. 'Something's gone wrong. I don't know what it is, but Magda isn't there.’

‘Not at the theatre?’ Andrew asked.

‘No. And you're staying here, are you? You don't want to come with me.’

Andrew stood up.

‘As a matter of fact, I was just changing my mind about that,’ he said. ‘I'll leave a message with the porter, so that the police can find me if they want us. But I don't think that's likely. We'd be glad to go with you.’

‘But, Andrew-’ Peter began, protestingly, then at something he saw in Andrew's face he stopped himself. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘We'll be glad to go.’

Andrew and Peter let Nicholl drive off ahead of them. On the way to the theatre both were silent. Andrew knew that Peter was uneasy, disturbed by his change of mind, but he did not try to explain it since he would have found some difficulty in doing so even to himself. A strong impulse had moved him and they were nearly at the theatre before he began to think that there was not much reason for what they were doing. Peter parked the car and they went in at the entrance together, Peter buying the tickets at the box office. The little theatre was almost full. Their seats were near the back of the auditorium and as they settled into them Andrew noticed that they were a few minutes late for the opening of the play. But it had not yet begun.

Ten minutes later it had still not begun and the audience was beginning to grow restive. On the whole they were being very patient, as if they recognized that in an entertainment of the kind for which they had come such a thing as punctuality was not to be expected. But the sound of coughing and of the shuffling of feet was increasing. Once or twice a voice was raised in protest, a demand that something should start happening. A quarter of an hour had gone by before Edward Clarke stepped out in front of the curtain and raised a hand for silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, T have some very grave news for you. I'm afraid our performance this evening must be cancelled. Our leading lady, Magda Braile, has been taken ill. We had hoped, up to the last moment, that
she would recover sufficiently to be able to take her part in our play, which as you know, is the central part, but unfortunately that is impossible. So we must ask you to forgive us and to go home. Your money will be refunded at the box office.’

A silence had settled on the audience. For a moment after Clarke had finished but still stood where he was, watching to see how his announcement would be taken, there was no movement. Then with a few mutters of resig-nation the little crowd began to move, filing out slowly past the box office, recovering their money there and drifting away along the lamp-lit street. Here and there someone tried to push his way out more hurriedly, but on the whole the departure from the theatre was quiet and entirely orderly. Andrew and Peter both stood up, waiting for their chance to leave. There was no sign of Desmond Nicholl in the audience. It seemed certain that he was behind the scenes with the disappointed actors and actresses.

‘What do you suppose has really happened to her?’ Peter asked.

Andrew shook his head. ‘Who can say?’

‘Do you think she's really ill?’

‘It's possible.’

‘I suppose she could have had an accident of some sort while she was out on her walk, and not been able to let Nicholl know where she was.’