The Killing of Katie Steelstock (13 page)

“Just to check it. Not to open it. Not even to handle it. The bag she had with her at the dance.”

Sally said, “What on earth! Why should he want that?”

“No idea,” said Esdaile. “Suppose you go and look He’s hanging on.”

“I expect it’ll be in your bedroom,” said Mrs. Nurse. She and her husband were listening to the conversation. “I didn’t see it when I made your bed that morning.”

“That’s right. I remember I just threw it into one of the top drawers when I got back. There’s nothing much in it.”

“Could you see if it’s still there. Don’t open it. Just look.”

“What does he think’s in it, for goodness’ sake?” said Sally. “A bomb?”

Mr. Nurse said sharply, “Don’t be absurd. Just do what he asks.”

Esdaile, still grasping the receiver, said, “I’ve no idea what it’s all about. But could you just check on it.”

Sally departed. The others stood in silence until she came back. They noticed she was looking upset.

“It’s there all right. Where I said.”

“Miss Nurse says the bag’s here, sir. Just where she left it.”

Knott’s voice came over the telephone so clearly that everyone in the room could hear it. He said, “Good. Now listen. Do you know where Shilling has got to?”

“I expect he’s still down at the boathouse. McCourt went down there with the keys for him. Less than half an hour ago.”

“Is the boathouse on the telephone?”

Esdaile looked at Mr. Nurse, who nodded. The excitement was beginning to get hold of them.

“Right. I’ll ask him to pick up the bag himself on his way past. I’m at Mrs. Steelstock’s house.”

He rang off. The four people in the room stood staring at each other.

The next person on Superintendent Knott’s visiting list after he left Mariner’s house had been Mr. Beaumorris, but, on reflection, he had decided to leave the old gentleman alone, for the time being at least. He could not really visualise him as having taken any part in the murder, since he had bicycled straight home from the dance and had sat until well after midnight in the bow window of his cottage in the street, seeing and being seen. He might be useful later as corroborative evidence of other people’s movements.

There was a stronger reason for leaving him alone. The Superintendent knew that he disliked him and knew the reason for his dislike. He had not forgotten Bill Connington. He would certainly not be helpful and might even be obstructive. Knott therefore decided to go straight on to the Manor and talk to Mrs. Steelstock. She ought by now to have recovered from the initial shock and should be able to give him evidence on a number of points which were beginning to interest him.

West Hannington Manor was the oldest and incomparably the most handsome house in the village. Built in the reign of Queen Anne, it lay well back from the road, protected on three sides by an old brick wall and by ornate iron railings along the front. Matthew Steelstock, who had hated all modern inventions and had preferred a horse to a motorcar, had often expressed the intention of building a fourth and higher wall along the Street, but this had proved to be beyond even his purse and the project had died with him.

As the Superintendent walked up the drive he noted on his left, at right angles to the main building, the stable block, the end part of which Katie had converted into her private living quarters. He knew from his study of the plan that it had a private exit onto the lane on the east side of the property. It would have to be searched. He proposed to do this important job himself.

The door of the Manor was opened by a boy in corduroy trousers and a blue and white checked shirt. Peter Steelstock, said the card index in the Superintendent’s mind. Sixteen. At Coverdales School. Wasn’t at the dance. An immature nose, a band of freckles above it and the sullen look which seemed to be fashionable with boys of that age; it lightened when he smiled, as he did now. It was a smile which flicked on and off again as abruptly as a sky sign. Advertising something, or nothing? Difficult to tell at that age.

“You must be the Murder Squad,” he said. “Mother’s been expecting you. She’s in the drawing room with Walter.”

He led the way down a panelled passage into the big room at the back of the house which looked out over a wide stretch of lawn. It had been furnished with a real taste for its period, a taste which came from the widow, Knott guessed, and not from her late and unlamented husband, who seemed from all accounts to have been a Philistine as well as a bully.

Mrs. Steelstock was sitting upright on a wooden-framed tapestry-covered armchair. There was bone and character in that face. A lot of it had gone into Katie. Some of it into Walter. By the time they reached Peter, maybe the wells had been running low?

She said, “I expect the Superintendent wants to speak to me privately. He may want to talk to you afterwards.”

When the boys had removed themselves, she indicated a chair for Knott to sit in and composed herself for questioning. A little too composed, perhaps, for a mother whose only daughter had been savagely killed less than forty-eight hours before?

She said, “Yes. Walter drove me home. I’m told by various people who have been busy checking other people’s movements”—a slight smile touched her thin lips—”that we left at eleven twenty. I have no exact recollection of the time myself. When we got here I went straight to my room. Walter stayed up. He usually makes himself responsible for locking the house up.”

“Would he have been waiting up for Kate?”

“No. Kate lived her own life. We didn’t interfere with her in any way.”

Lived her own life. Died her own death.

“I only wondered whether you could see her windows from this house. I mean, so that you would know, seeing lights go on, whether she got back.”

“No. Her house is the far end of the old stable block. It used to be the coachman’s cottage. It’s completely hidden from the house. She preferred it that way.”

“Was Peter up when you came back?”

The sudden switch did not disconcert Mrs. Steelstock. She said, “Peter was in bed. He had told us he had a headache. I think it was only an excuse. He’s not of an age to find dances amusing.”

“And you didn’t wake him up when Sergeant McCourt came round with the news?”

“I discussed it with Walter. But there seemed no point in doing so. We told him next morning.”

The Superintendent was not really interested in Peter. He had been devoting most of his mind to the question he had really come to ask. It had to be put in exactly the right way.

He said, “You’ll understand that in a case of this sort – a girl being killed – the very first thing we have to consider is men who were . . . well . . . interested in her. In particular, I wanted to ask you about one of them. Jonathan Limbery.”

“Yes?” said Mrs. Steelstock, her mouth set in a tight line.

“He was friendly with her?”

“At one time he was round this house so much that I got the impression he considered himself a member of the family. I appreciated that Kate didn’t fancy entertaining him in her own little place. That would have been altogether too intimate. So she used to bring him in here. I really didn’t know what to do with him. He hardly seemed to fit. Of course, there were things he could talk about. The firm Walter is articled to in Reading, Hoist and Mariner, they happen to be the accountants for his paper. And he knew Peter. He’d taught him at one time at Coverdales. And he sometimes even condescended to talk to me, but since it usually developed into a lecture on politics or economics I can’t say I found it very entertaining.”

“But it was Kate he really came to see?”

“So I assumed.”

“I’d be interested to know how he first got to know her.”

“Sooner or later, Superintendent, in a place like West Hannington, everyone gets to know everyone else. In this particular case, of course, there was the song he wrote for her.”

“Song?”

“’What Are They Like in Your House?’”

“Good heavens! Did he write that?”

There had been a time, two or three years earlier, when you could hardly cross the street without hearing someone humming or singing or whistling the curiously seductive lilt: “What are they like in your house . . . your house . . . your house. Rich house . . . poor house.”

“Kate used it as a sort of theme song when she started on television. I imagine the music publishers took most of the profits. They usually do, don’t they?”

“So I understand.”

“But it made a bit for both of them. I don’t suppose Jonathan gets paid much for that stupid paper he plays at editing. I doubt if it sells a hundred copies outside this area. He uses it as a sort of pulpit for his views.”

“Not very popular views?”

Mrs. Steelstock considered the point coldly. She was a curiously dispassionate woman, the Superintendent decided.

“Since they were mostly attacks on older people who were doing responsible jobs, they must have had a certain attraction for the young, I imagine.”

A very faint echo flicked through the Superintendent’s mind. Something he had overheard. It would come back if he didn’t chase it. He said, “You’ll have heard all about the quarrel Kate had with Jonathan at the Tennis Club.”

“Certainly I heard about it. From the people who were there, and from a lot of people who weren’t there but wished they had been.”

“I’d appreciate your view of the reason for it.”

“The reason?”

“People don’t indulge in a public slanging match on the spur of the moment. They must have been building up for it”

“I think the reason was very simple. Kate had moved ahead of him. The fact that he was unsure of himself might have a certain appeal to young people who are unsure of themselves. But Katie was growing up. She was meeting people in London with adult minds. People who had really done something, not just talked about doing it. It was bound to alter her perspective.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“If there had been some man, she would not have discussed him with me. We hadn’t that sort of relationship. Of course there were girlfriends. People she was at school with, people like Venetia Loftus. Not Loftus now, of course. She’s married. I forget the name.”

Mrs. Steelstock smiled again as she mentioned this. She knew, and she knew that Superintendent Knott knew, that Venetia’s father was the Assistant Commissioner in charge of Criminal Investigation at Scotland Yard: the man most directly responsible for Knott’s professional future, the man whose influence had brought him so quickly to West Hannington and who would be watching the progress of the case with more than superficial interest.

Knott said, “Any men friends at all?”

“The only name I can remember being mentioned more than casually was Mark Holbeck.”

“Her agent?”

“Yes.”

“But he might have known if she had other close friends.”

“He might,” said Mrs. Steelstock. “But I think it was simply a business relationship.” As the Superintendent got to his feet she added, with the first hint of personal feeling she had shown, “You will find the man who did it, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Knott. “I’ll find him.” He opened his briefcase and took out the evening dress bag. “This was in the grass near Katie. I’ve no doubt it was hers, but I’d like you to identify it formally, please.”

He stopped. Mrs. Steelstock had opened the bag and had started to examine the contents. Now he saw that her hand was shaking. He said, “I do apologise. I realise it must be painful for you—” and was interrupted.

Mrs. Steelstock said,
“This isn’t Katie’s bag.
She’s never used lipstick of that colour in her life. She couldn’t. Anyway, I know the bag well. I gave it to her. I think I can tell you who it did belong to. Sally Nurse. She had a crush on Katie. Copied her clothes and everything.” She stared at Knott, the horror beginning to build up in her eyes. “Do you think . . . is it possible . . . my God, how cruel.”

Knott, who was still trying to grapple with what had happened, stood staring at her. Then he said, “What do you mean?”

“That he made a mistake. That he killed the wrong girl.”

“No,” said Knott. “I don’t believe that. But he certainly made a mistake. And if he did, he’s going to pay for it a lot sooner than he expected. I’ll have to use your telephone, please.”

“Of course they think it’s Jonathan,” said Walter.

“Why should they?” said Peter furiously.

“Because he’s the obvious person. He was keen on her. She turned him down flat. He’s not the sort of person to stand for that.”

“It’s not true.”

“How can you possibly know?”

“Because . . . because I know Jonathan better than you do.
And
I liked him. You and Mother hated him.”

“That’s a stupid thing to say,” said Walter. “Why should we hate him?”

“No more stupid than saying Johnno would have killed Katie.”

“All right,” said Walter pacifically. Whenever Peter flew into a rage he found it easier to back down. “I’m not saying I thought he did it. I’m saying it’s what the police will think.”

The bags looked very similar, but when they were placed side by side on the drawing-room table in the clear afternoon sunlight, the small differences in the beading and metalwork were clear enough.

“I gather,” said Shilling, “that Sally came home about one in the morning, had a flaming row with her parents, went up to her room, hurled this bag, which she thought, of course, was her own, into the drawer of her dressing table and hadn’t touched it or thought about it again until you telephoned.”

Knott seemed to be in no hurry to open the bag. He said, “You’ve read all the statements, Bob. And you can help us here, too, Mrs. Steelstock. I seem to remember that Katie had a chair fairly close to the main exit door. The one on the west side of the hall.”

“I think that’s right, sir.”

“And that Sally Nurse had a chair close to hers. But even nearer to the door.”

Mrs. Steelstock said, “Her chair would be as close to Katie’s as she could possibly get it.”

“So that it’s perfectly possible that when Katie left in rather a hurry she picked up the wrong bag and took it with her. It partly explains one point that had been puzzling us. When we examined the bag we found near the boathouse we did notice”—Sergeant Shilling grinned at the use of the royal “we”—”that there were no keys in it.