The Blind Side (26 page)

And then I found Ross's key sticking in the door of his flat, and I nipped it out and put it in my pocket. I got my opportunity a day or two after that. Peterson had the day off, and Ross went out after breakfast and said he wouldn't be back till late. Rush had Peterson's key, but he keeps his times like a piece of clockwork, so I knew just when he'd be out of the way. Well, I had a piece of luck. Ross had left his bunch of keys lying out on the writing-table, so I only had to help myself. I went through the drawers, but there wasn't anything there. All I found was the pistol he kept in one of them, and I didn't bother about that till afterwards. And then I opened the despatch-box, and there, right on the top, was a letter from the lawyer, Mr. Prothero, wanting Ross to make his will. It was all wrapped up very politely, and my name not mentioned, but what it amounted to was that he'd better hurry up and make a will if he didn't want me to come in for all that money of his mother's that wasn't tied up. I knew what it meant well enough, and I knew that the law had been altered, and that a widow got her rights now and not just the third that she used to get when her husband died without making a will. And it came over me that if Ross were to die before he made that will, I'd be a rich woman.

I went on turning out the despatch-box. The bottom of it was full of letters from other women. He had kept theirs—he hadn't kept any of mine. That's when I made up my mind to kill him. I put everything back, and I went away and thought out the best way of doing it.

I got it all planned. Being on the stage gives you an insight into that sort of thing. If I could get the scene set right, then it was just a matter of timing. I made up my mind I'd do it the next time he brought a girl home to supper, because I meant it to look as if they'd quarrelled and he'd shot himself. In some ways it went better than I'd planned, and in some ways it went worse. Anyhow it went different—but I suppose that's what always happens, no matter how carefully you plan.

The way I planned it was this. I'd been cleaning up Mr. and Mrs. Connell's flat after they had gone away on their holiday. That was the Tuesday, and I knew Ross was bringing someone back, because I heard him tell Peterson to put out champagne and two glasses. Miss Lucy Craddock was going off abroad, so it all suited well enough—one less person on the landing. But when I came past just to make sure she was gone I found Miss Lee Fenton was there. I told her I'd got one of my turns and I didn't think I'd be fit to come on the Wednesday. Then I went off and stayed about in the King's Arms till about a quarter past nine, and when I got to my room, there were half a dozen people besides the woman of the house ready and willing to swear I'd drunk myself stupid and was good for a dozen hours' sleep.

I'd a ground-floor room, and I always locked my door. I let them hear me snoring for a bit, and then I got out of the window and came along back to Craddock House. Rush doesn't lock up till eleven, and for twenty minutes before that he'll be putting his wife all ready for the night. I had only to watch for the street being clear and walk in. Craddock House has an alleyway running between it and the next house. I watched from there. Then I just ran in and up the stairs and let myself into the Connells' flat, which was number five and right underneath Ross's. If I'd met anyone I was going to say I'd dropped my purse, but there wasn't anyone about, so I just sat down and waited.

I heard the front door round about twelve o'clock. I stood on a chair and looked through the fanlight over the door. That was Mr. Peter Renshaw coming in. It was an hour later when Ross came, and he had Mavis Grey with him. They went on up the stairs, and I opened my door and listened. I heard them go into his flat and shut the door, and right there it came over me, what was I going to do if she stayed there all night? I hadn't thought of that before somehow, and it made me mad with rage. I made up my mind that I would shoot them both and try and make it look as if Ross had done it—I thought I owed him that. You see, I'd planned to shoot him with his own pistol. I once had to practise shooting for a show I was in, and I turned out quite a good shot, so I knew I could manage it all right. I waited a bit so as to let them get on with the champagne, and then, just as I was thinking about it, I heard a crash right over my head. I ran to the door and opened it to listen, and there was Mavis Grey calling out, and Mr. Renshaw out of his room hushing her up, and Ross talking queer and thick as if he was drunk. And in the end Mavis went into Mr. Renshaw's flat and they shut the door.

Nothing could have been better for me. I made up my mind to wait till two o'clock, and as soon as I heard Mrs. Connell's dining-room clock strike I came out of the flat. I turned off the light on that landing, and when I got up on to Ross's landing I turned out that light too—that was in case I had to run for it. I had the key of Ross's flat all ready, but I didn't have to use it, because the door was ajar. He must have gone back in and left it like that, and when I looked round the sitting-room door I could see why. The light was on, and Ross was sitting right underneath it straddling across a chair with his arms along the back and his chin down on them. There was a lot of dried blood on his forehead and cheek, and his shirt was in such a mess that I thought someone had done my job for me. He didn't move his head or take any notice of my coming in, he just sat there staring. There was something to stare at too. The table with the drinks had been pushed over, and there was a smashed decanter, and bits of broken glass everywhere. There was some in Ross's hair—I saw it glitter under the light.

I had gloves on my hands. I went to the writing-table and got the pistol out of the drawer where Ross kept it. It was loaded when I was there before, but I opened it again to make sure. And all the time he never moved. He just kept on staring. I came over with the pistol in my hand, and when I was a yard away he put up his head with a jerk and said, ‘Who's there?' He took hold of the back of the chair to pull himself up, and I thought, ‘It's now or never.' There was something very heavy passing along the Embankment—all the windows rattled with it. I shot him like that, and he fell down on to the floor and never moved. That was the only mistake I made. I was on the left of him, and I fired too soon. I ought to have come round on his right, and then everyone would have believed he had done it himself. But I had to think about the lorry, because that was what I was counting on to cover up the sound of the shot. I put the pistol in his hand quickly and came away. I left the light burning, and the door of the flat ajar. I crept downstairs and opened the street door. I didn't make a sound. I was afraid to risk shutting the street door in case of waking Mr. Pyne, so I left it just pushed to, and ran down the steps and along the alleyway. It took me half an hour to get back to my room. I got in through the window and went to bed. I didn't see how anyone could possibly suspect me, and I don't see now how they did.

I planned to disappear as soon as it was safe. Annie was getting worried, and I didn't dare leave her alone too long. But I had to wait till after the inquest. I wrote to her to come down and meet me on the Saturday. She was to give up her room, and I sent her a letter for my old landlady at Doncaster to say I was coming back. Annie brought me down a suit-case and my own clothes and a transformation to cover my hair. I was puzzled to know what to do with Mrs. Green's things, but I made sure I was safe, so I just brought them along. I thought I could get rid of them later on. Annie went back to her home. She'd given out she was away nursing a sister who was ill. She never knew anything—I'm dying and I swear she didn't. She only thought she was helping me to get my divorce. I'm sorry about Annie, but I'm not sorry about Ross. I'd do it again tomorrow.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Lee let the typewritten pages fall.

“It was you who began to suspect her! Oh, Peter—what put it into your head?”

“It was that business about the key. She was listening whilst Ross went for old Rush about his papers being disturbed, and she could tell the Inspector all about the row. But she didn't say a word about one of the keys of the flat having been pinched. Well, when Rush told me about his row with Ross he laid great stress on this missing key, and said he'd reminded Ross about it then. He said a thing which stuck in my mind. He said, ‘Find the one that pinched that key and you'll find the one that shot Mr. Ross.' When I saw old Lamb at Scotland Yard I asked him whether he'd heard anything about this missing key, and he said he hadn't. He read me the bit out of Mrs. Green's statement, and she never mentioned it. I began to wonder why. Rush had been flinging it up at Ross, and it was such an obvious thing to take hold of—I didn't see how she could have missed it. But she never said a single word about that key. When I came to wonder why, I could only find one answer. It was because she had taken it herself.”

“How horrible!” said Lee with a shudder in her voice.

“She very nearly brought it off,” said Peter—“very, very nearly. And it might have been you, or me, or Bobby, or Lucinda, or Mavis, or Rush, or even blameless Bingham who had to face the music. It seems to me they could have made out a pretty good case against any one of us. In fact, my dear, the only thing that saved us was the undoubted fact that we couldn't all have done it. But Bobby certainly did his best to get the rope round his neck. He and Mavis are a pair.”

“Oh,” said Lee, “Lucy has heard from Mavis.”

“Lucy has
what?
”

“Heard from Mavis in a letter, quite calm, placid and comfortable.”

“Where is she?”

“In Cornwall. She's quite casual about it, and she doesn't seem to have any idea that there's a warrant out for her arrest. She went out on the Friday morning—”

“As per Aunt Gladys—to get a breath of air?”

“Several breaths. And she met Joyce Lennox—you know, the girl with all that money and a Bentley—so Mavis told her what a fuss there had been about Ross, and how frightful Aunt Gladys and Uncle Ernest were, and what a bore the inquest was. And Joyce said, ‘Well, why go to it? Why not hop in and come along down to Cornwall with me?'—just like that. So she did. And neither of them seem to have thought it mattered in the least.”

“Well, I hope they give her six months for contempt of court or whatever it is.”

Lee got up, wandered to the fireplace, looked back over her shoulder.

“I used to think—I very nearly thought—you liked her—”

“
Me?
My good girl!”

“
She
would have liked you to.”

“Ross and Bobby not enough for her?”

Lee shook her head very slightly, was caught by the shoulders, and twisted round.

“Why are we talking about Mavis?” said Peter violently. “I haven't seen you for twenty-four hours, and first we talk about murders, and then we talk about Mavis. I want to talk about Me.”

Lee looked up at him, and felt her colour rise.

“Only you?”

“Me first. Afterwards, if you are very good, we may devote a few moments to you. We begin with me because I shall burst if I can't get someone to listen to all the things that are positively seething in me about my wedding, my honeymoon—”

“Peter!”

“I shall get a licence. I've always liked the sound of a licence—a sort of off-the-deep-end flavour. I don't know where you get one, but old Prothero will know. I must ring him up. A licence, and a wedding ring—gold, or platinum? Take your time, because you'll have to wear it all the rest of your life. Honeymoon—I say, that's an atrocious word if you like—vulgarity incarnate! Cut it out! We'll go on a wedding journey instead, like the early Victorians. You can have a poke bonnet, and if you insist, I'll wear a stock. ‘The bridegroom, Mr. Peter Renshaw, looked excessively handsome in a black satin stock. The bride—'”

“Peter, are you mad?”

Peter said, “Yes, darling,” and swung her off her feet.

From the doorway Lucy Craddock viewed the scene with indulgence.

“Oh, my dear boy!” she breathed.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Ernest Lamb Mysteries

CHAPTER I

“I always get what I want,” said Lucas Dale. He stood with his back to the fire, a tall, well setup man in his easy forties, and smiled at his guests.

In the chair beside the fire Mrs. Mickleham, the Vicar's wife, was balancing rather unhandily the glass of sherry which she had not liked to refuse but did not really want to drink. She had the air of a hen confronted by a worm of some unknown species. She was not exactly a teetotaller, but she did not drink wine. Her expression became that of a hen with grave moral scruples.

Next to her, but farther from the fire, a square, dumpy woman with boot-button eyes and short grizzled hair. She wore the roughest of rough tweeds, shoes with square heels and soles half an inch thick, and ribbed hand-knitted stockings, all in a fierce shade of ginger. She was the wife of the thickset man with a thatch of white hair who was on the far side of the fire talking to the cheerful, rosy-faced Vicar. They were Sir John and Lady Vere, and they owned between them as much of the neighbourhood as did not belong by recent purchase to Lucas Dale.