Crime at Christmas (22 page)

'You're not
coming? I thought you said—‘

'No. I
shall have to stay and see the party through. There's a little matter of family
business I'd better dispose of while I have the chance.'

Hilda
looked at him in slightly amused surprise.

'Well, if
you feel that way,' she said. 'You seem to be very devoted to your family all
of a sudden. You'd better keep an eye on Bessie while you are about it. She's
had about as much as she can carry.'

Hilda was
right. Bessie was decidedly merry. And Timothy continued to keep an eye on her.
Thanks to his attentions, by the end of the evening, when Christmas Day had been
seen in and the guests were fumbling for their wraps, she had reached a stage
when she could barely stand. 'Another glass,' thought Timothy from the depths
of his experience, 'and she'll pass right out.'

'I'll give
you a lift home, Bessie,' said Roger, looking at her with a professional eye.
'We can just squeeze you in.'

'Oh,
nonsense, Roger!' Bessie giggled. 'I can manage perfectly well. As if I
couldn't walk as far as the end of the drive!'

'I'll look
after her,' said Timothy heartily. 'I'm walking myself, and we can guide each
other's wandering footsteps home. Where's your coat, Bessie? Are you sure
you've got all your precious presents?'

He
prolonged his leave-taking until all the rest had gone, then helped Bessie into
her worn fur coat and stepped out of the house, supporting her with an
affectionate right arm. It was all going to be too deliciously simple.

Bessie
lived in the lodge of the old house. She preferred to be independent, and the
arrangement suited everyone, especially since James after one of his reverses
on the turf had brought his family to live with his mother to save expense. It
suited Timothy admirably now. Tenderly he escorted her to the end of the drive,
tenderly he assisted her to insert her latchkey in the door, tenderly he
supported her into the little sitting-room that gave out of the hall.

There
Bessie considerately saved him an enormous amount of trouble and a possibly
unpleasant scene. As he put her down upon the sofa she finally succumbed to the
champagne. Her eyes closed, her mouth opened and she lay like a log where he
had placed her.

Timothy was
genuinely relieved. He was prepared to go to any lengths to rid himself from
the menace of blackmail, but if he could lay his hands on the damning letter
without physical violence he would be well satisfied. It would be open to him
to take it out of Bessie in other ways later on. He looked quickly round the
room. He knew its contents by heart. It had hardly changed at all since the day
when Bessie first furnished her own room when she left school. The same old
battered desk stood in the corner, where from the earliest days she had kept
her treasures. He Hung it open, and a flood of bills, receipts, charitable
appeals and yet more charitable appeals came cascading out. One after another,
he went through the drawers with ever increasing urgency, but still failed to
find what he sought. Finally he came upon a small inner drawer which resisted
his attempts to open it. He tugged at it in vain, and then seized the poker
from the fireplace and burst the flimsy lock by main force. Then he dragged the
drawer from its place and settled himself to examine its contents.

It was
crammed as full as it could hold with papers. At the very top was the programme
of a May Week Ball for his last year at Cambridge. Then there were snapshots,
press-cuttings—an account of his own wedding among them—and, for the rest,
piles of letters, all in his hand-writing. The wretched woman seemed to have
hoarded every scrap he had ever written to her. As he turned them over, some of
the phrases he had used in them floated into this mind, and he began to
apprehend for the first time what the depth of her resentment must have been
when he threw her over.

But where
the devil did she keep the only letter that mattered?

As he
straightened himself from the desk he heard close behind him a hideous, choking
sound. He spun round quickly. Bessie was standing behind him, her face a mask
of horror. Her mouth was wide open in dismay. She drew a long shuddering
breath. In another moment she was going to scream at the top of her voice. . .

Timothy's
pent-up fury could be contained no longer. With all his force he drove his fist
full into that gaping, foolish face. Bessie went down as though she had been
shot and her head struck the leg of a table with the crack of a dry stick
broken in two. She did not move again.

Although it
was quiet enough in the room after that, he never heard his stepmother come in.
Perhaps it was the sound of his own pulses drumming in his ears that had
deafened him. He did not even know how long she had been there. Certainly it
was long enough for her to take in everything that was to be seen there, for
her voice, when she spoke, was perfectly under control.

'You have
killed Bessie,' she said. It was a calm statement of fact rather than an
accusation.

He nodded,
speechless.

'But you
have not found the letter.'

He shook
his head.

'Didn't you
understand what she told you this evening? The letter is in the post. It was
her Christmas present to you. Poor, simple, loving Bessie!'

He stared
at her, aghast.

'It was
only just now that I found that it was missing from my jewel-case,' she went
on, still in the same flat, quiet voice. 'I don't know how she found out about
it, but love—even a crazy love like hers—gives people a strange insight
sometimes.'

He licked
his dry lips.

'Then you
were Leech?' he faltered.

'Of course.
Who else? How otherwise do you think I could have kept the house open and my
children out of debt on my income?

No,
Timothy, don't come any nearer. You are not going to commit two murders
tonight. I don't think you have the nerve in any case, but to be on the safe
side I have brought the little pistol your father gave me when he came out of
the army in 1918. Sit down.'

He found
himself crouching on the sofa, looking helplessly up into her pitiless old
face. The body that had been Bessie lay in between them.

'Bessie's
heart was very weak,' she said reflectively. 'Roger had been worried about it
for some time. If I have a word with him, I daresay he will see his way to
issue a death certificate. It will, of course, be a little expensive. Shall we
say a thousand pounds this year instead of five hundred? You would prefer that,
Timothy, I dare say, to—the alternative?'

Once more
Timothy nodded in silence.

'Very well.
I shall speak to Roger in the morning—after you have returned me Bessie's
Christmas present. I shall require that for future use. You can go now,
Timothy.'

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