I think it was Cyril Connolly who, as a sly variation on the William Congreve original, once observed that there is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.
I came across the quip years ago and at the time found it amusing, if a trifle exaggerated. However, since then events have conspired to make me revise those feelings, for I have now discovered the comment to be entirely true. I am also less inclined to find it funny. The reason for this change? Mrs Alice Markham.
Out of the blue she appeared on my doorstep one afternoon, explained that she had been driving past and wondered if I might have a few minutes to spare. Given the little fracas at Melinda’s her sudden presence rather surprised me, but as I had been reluctantly poised to scrub out the chinchillas’ hutch I was only too happy to oblige. Delay in the form of a visitor was a welcome respite. In retrospect, I realize that an hour cleansing the Augean stables of Boris and Karloff would have been peanuts compared with what I instead had to endure.
I ushered her into the sitting room, settled her on the sofa and offered tea. This she declined, and I had the impression her mind was set on more pressing matters. In this I was right. Initially she was smiling gaily and even made complimentary remarks about my vases of arum lilies and the rather imposing sketch of Pa looking fearsome above the fireplace. And then small talk over, she cut to the chase.
‘I saw you, Miss Oughterard,’ she declared accusingly. ‘I saw you with him – and very cosy you both looked!’
I blinked. ‘Er, saw me with whom – you mean Mr Ingaza?’
She gestured impatiently. ‘No, not that little barrow boy, someone of far greater worth. I mean Councillor Reginald Bewley, of course. I saw you both in that new café off the High Street. You were sitting at a table in the corner, heads together and exchanging coy looks. Wrapped up in each other, you were. Oh yes, I know the signs by now!’ She gave a bitter laugh, while I stared uncomprehendingly.
I have to say that my memory of the meeting with Reginald Bewley hardly tallied with hers. Heads together? Absurd! Exchanging coy looks? What nonsense … in fact, I don’t recall having passed one of those for quite a number of years! What on earth was the woman talking about? I was about to enquire but didn’t get the chance.
‘Oh yes,’ she snapped, ‘I’ve met your sort before – always ready to poach another’s fish, just like my dear sister. But don’t imagine you can try that with me, Miss Oughterard. It won’t work; I will not be upstaged – Reginald is mine!’ She glared and tapped her foot.
Goodness, so that was it – she saw me as a rival and the decorous Bewley was her intended catch! Did he know? I wondered. I stifled a giggle and suggested coldly that she may have mistaken me for someone else. However, she assured me that she had not been mistaken and had seen it all before.
When I asked what she seen exactly, she stormed, ‘The whole bally sexual betrayal, of course! My husband was always at it, which is why I divorced him. Still, the philandering toad suffered for it all right – I got him to pay me a pretty penny, I can tell you. Very satisfying. But later, later …’ She leant forward flushed and furious. ‘What do you think I discovered?’
I shook my head dumbly.
‘I found out that one of his mistresses had been none other than my own sister! Oh yes, he and Elspeth had been having a merry old time, had been for months – and me not knowing a thing. So what do you think of that?’
‘Oh dear,’ I said lamely.
‘Of course she had always hated me, since we were children really. Nice on the surface but deadly underneath. And can you guess what she said when I showed her the hat I had bought to celebrate the divorce?’ I shook my head. ‘She actually had the nerve to declare that it looked like a pudding and that she had always thought my face fundamentally flawed.’
‘No!’ I cried, as if aghast.
‘Oh yes, that’s what my dear sister had the brass neck to say. Smug little bitch!’ Alice’s ‘flawed’ features contorted in a spasm of rage. It wasn’t a pretty sight and I was inclined to agree with the sister.
But then, just as suddenly, the features relaxed and the eyes turned strangely blank. Unnervingly so. In a toneless voice, she said, ‘And so that was that. When I learnt of her affair with my husband it was the last straw and I knew what had to be done. There are ways and means. After all one cannot allow predators like that to thrive, can one, Miss Oughterard? It musn’t be allowed. She had to go.’
She paused, studying me intently, and I felt that something was required. ‘Er, go where?’ I enquired politely. Deep down I sensed the answer, but her words when they came still struck an icy chill.
‘To her death, of course. Where else do you imagine?’
It is curious how in moments of shock one’s attention can be caught by things entirely inconsequential. Thus I recall noticing how low the water was getting in one of the Waterford vases, that the silver salver on the bookcase could do with a polish and that Maurice, sliding in through the open window, was looking unusually amiable. Perhaps he had just done for a sparrow.
Such trivia impinged for a matter of seconds, before a sudden movement opposite returned my gaze to Alice … and to the pistol she was firmly pointing in my direction. The previous shock at her words was as nothing compared to the shock I now felt, and this time there were no distractions. ‘My God, what are you doing?’ I exclaimed in horror.
She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘What does it look like? Feeding the cat? No, I am merely demonstrating that should you persist in your intrusive attentions to my friend Councillor Bewley you just might go the same way as my dear sister. I can assure you I am not to be trifled with.’
Trifled with? Like hell. She would get more than trifle from me given half a chance! The problem was that at that moment there seemed no chance of doing anything, partial or otherwise. I was much taller than Alice and so theoretically could have easily overcome her. But height does not deflect a bullet. And in her present state I felt she could pull that trigger at the drop of a hat; it would only take one false move. The woman was clearly raving and the best thing surely was to calm her down, apply copious soft soap – and then, exploiting an off-guard moment, lunge boldly forward, knock her to the ground and grab the weapon. A graphic image of ‘Primrose Triumphant’ flashed through my mind. Yes, that was how I would proceed.
And thus in a voice of unctuous interest, I asked how on earth she had managed the dispatch. ‘It must have been fearfully difficult,’ I said earnestly, ‘and all on your own too!’
The lowering look softened and she said airily, ‘Ah, but you see, I had a loyal helpmate.’
‘Oh really? Well that must have been handy.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t try to be smart with me, Miss Oughterard – it won’t do.’
I murmured what passed for an apology and asked casually if the ‘helpmate’ was anyone I knew.
For a second she seemed to pause, and then said impatiently, ‘My good woman, you don’t think I would tell you that, do you? Besides, you wouldn’t know the name anyway – one of my London friends.’ (Her voice assumed what she clearly felt to be a rather grand tone.) ‘We’ve been friends for years. This person couldn’t stand Elspeth either and not without cause – she let them down appallingly. Such treachery deserves punishment. Anyway, what was handy – as you would doubtless put it – is that they keep a boat in Newhaven. So we did it with that. The whole thing just needed very careful planning – though I must say it was quite tiring.’
‘Oh, I am sure,’ I murmured in evident sympathy; and then, clearing my throat, enquired casually where her helpmate might be. My interest was real enough. After all, the maniac might have been skulking in the garden!
‘They have gone away,’ she replied shortly, ‘on their boat.’
Gone away? Fled the country, more like! I nodded vaguely, and then rather foolishly added, ‘Ah … a little holiday perhaps. I am not surprised after all that strenuous activity.’
My voice must have held just a dash of sarcasm for again Alice frowned and narrowed her eyes, a gesture that did little for her features. ‘Don’t be facetious, Miss Oughterard. Any more of that lip and I’ll fill you with this!’ She brandished the pistol.
I performed a hasty back-peddle, and in tones of oily empathy said, ‘But surely the whole thing must have been simply awful for you! I mean I can see it was what you planned, but at the actual time it would have been a nightmare!’
Still gripping the butt, she lowered the pistol’s muzzle and replied musingly, ‘Oh I wouldn’t say nightmare – rather exciting really. Exhilarating in fact. But latterly it seems to have got on my damn nerves. They say the aftermath is the worst, and I have to admit that sometimes I don’t know whether I’m coming or going!’ She emitted a hyena-like laugh. ‘Do you ever feel like that?’
‘Frequently,’ I replied with some feeling.
‘Luckily I have my pills,’ she continued, ‘and they buoy me up no end. Invaluable they are. Little lifesavers!’
Hmm. A pity her sister hadn’t had a few of those, I thought grimly. She might still be mistress of Needham Court. I think I may have allowed my mask of sympathy to slip – replaced perhaps by what Ma used to call the Primrose Pout.
But whatever the look Alice clearly didn’t like it, for, leaning forward, she waved the gun under my nose and hissed, ‘And you’re a nasty piece of work too, Miss Oughterard! I know your type – all snooty and full of airs and graces but interfering and deadly! And if you think you are going to trump me over Reginald Bewley, you can think again. I had your measure the moment I set eyes on you. Oh yes indeed, a nasty piece of work altogether. I’ve told my friend and they agree.’
Whether that final comment was supposed to be the coup de grâce I wasn’t sure and didn’t care. Frankly, what enraged me was to be called ‘a nasty piece of work’, if you please! No Oughterard has ever been thus described, and to have that insult hurled at me by a rampant harpy who by her own admission had just drowned her sister in the English Channel was a bit much. I was incensed! My immediate instinct was to stand up and administer a good clip round the ear.
Fortunately prudence prevailed: the thought of Elspeth’s fate and the proximity of the pistol having a somewhat sobering effect. Thus although inwardly seething I contained myself, and instead of delivering the deserved clip enquired soothingly if she would like to confide the logistics of the dispatch. ‘After all,’ I said, ‘it must have been awfully tricky … and given her dislike of the sea how on earth did you entice her on to the boat? Quite a feat, I imagine.’ To my relief this seemed to defuse her wrath, and whether it was a matter of pride or the instinctive need to ‘unburden’ herself (as Peggy’s daughter would doubtless say), she gave a surprisingly succinct account.
Apparently the sisters’ birthday had been imminent, and to celebrate the event Alice and her accomplice had made a surprise visit to Elspeth announcing that a champagne supper and a visit to the casino at Le Touquet had been arranged for that very night. A smart hotel had been booked and instead of flying they would go by sea. Elspeth enjoyed the bright lights – provided they were sufficiently stylish – and in the past had made some lucky gains at roulette. Thus other than being assured of a calm crossing, it hadn’t taken much to persuade her to take the trip. ‘All she needed was her overnight bag, hair curlers and an evening dress, and she was ready,’ Alice chortled. ‘We set off at once in a very merry mood!’
I have to admit that despite feeling vaguely sickened I was totally gripped. Was she really telling the truth? Perhaps after all, this whole tale was just some lurid wishful thinking, one of those signs of early dementia people talk about.
‘You look surprised,’ she said.
I cleared my throat. ‘Er, isn’t Le Touquet rather far from Newhaven, I mean—’
‘Oh, that didn’t matter. Elspeth’s geography was hopeless! We could have told her Timbuctoo and she’d have believed us.’
‘But what about her other clothes – the ones that were found on the beach? How did you—’
‘Simple enough,’ she replied casually. ‘Once we returned to Newhaven we drove hell-for-leather back to Lewes where we picked them up and then went over to Birling Gap and strewed them on the rocks. At that time in the morning it was pitch dark and not a soul about.’ She paused, and then said ruefully, ‘Quite a marathon really, but it was worth it; but my goodness I was fagged out!’
‘I can imagine,’ I said dryly.
She seemed not to hear, for without pause she had launched into additional details: ‘And then you see there was the disposal itself – not half as difficult as I had expected.’ She beamed. ‘In fact, the whole thing went off like clockwork!’
I said nothing, vaguely wondering whether I should suggest she took another ‘lifesaving’ pill. With luck that might be a distraction and provide the chance I had been waiting for. However, in her febrile state such a suggestion might be injudicious, for having already accused me of being interfering she might see it as yet further proof of my villainy and unleash God knows what. Thus I kept silent but raised my eyebrows in quizzical surprise.
‘Oh yes, it was quite simple really,’ she explained. ‘My companion gave her a rabbit punch behind the ear, followed by a quick bash on the temple. And then while she was nicely stunned we thrust her head into a bucket of water and held her there. It didn’t take long.’
I shut my eyes.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said breezily, ‘there was no thrashing around or anything beastly like that – well, only mildly, otherwise I couldn’t have stood it … No, she was amazingly pliable really. That first blow on the neck must have made her pretty groggy and the other was simply a sort of belt and braces job. Anyway, once it was obvious she was dead we put her into the bathing togs and then … uhm … well, slipped her over the side.’ Alice spread and closed her hands as if to say, ‘And that was that.’
‘I see,’ I said faintly. ‘You make it sound so easy.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, on the whole it was. Although of course there was the problem with the cap, that frothy thing I bought from Plummers in Eastbourne; now that did complicate things a bit.’
I was intrigued. How murder should be incommoded by a floral swimming cap I was at a loss to know.
She must have seen my surprise, for with a little gasp of annoyance, she said, ‘Yes, it was that wretched girl behind the counter. I expressly told her the size I wanted but she obviously hadn’t listened, because when we tried to put Elspeth’s head in it the thing was far too small and made the whole process rather tricky – she had very thick hair, you know. So we had to do quite a bit of shoving. Still, we managed it in the end.’ Alice smiled, evidently reliving the tricky moment.
I gazed silently at the plump, complacent face, wondering what means of disposal she had in store for me. A simple squeeze of the trigger? Or something more challenging? Perhaps I should take the bull by the horns and make that sudden foray after all. It might just work … But studying the plump finger caressing the thin trigger, I fear I lost my nerve; and so still playing safe (or safer) remarked how rarely things went according to plan but that this had obviously been one of them. The comment produced an unexpected response. For in a moment of careless good humour she laid the gun aside and, leaning forward, swept up the unsuspecting Maurice crouched quietly on the rug. ‘He is such a sweet little boy,’ she crooned. ‘I so love cats!’
That was her mistake. There is nothing sweet or especially little about Maurice, and I think he objected to being patronized. He reacted with a fractious hiss followed by a brisk right hook to her cheek while his left paw struggled to pull the feather from her hat. The hat came off. Bouncer came in.
Seeing the hat, the dog promptly pounced upon it, emitted a whoop of joy, and with tail wagging full-tilt bore it triumphantly back to his lair in the kitchen. At last this was my chance, a chance which I deftly exploited. I leapt to my feet, and in a trice had lunged forward to grasp the discarded revolver, levelling it at her in menacing mode.
However, standing there like James Cagney I was somewhat nonplussed to see that she seemed more perturbed by loss of hat than by loss of gun, and was clearly intent on pursuing Bouncer into the kitchen. I cleared my throat to stay her exit and waved the weapon assertively. ‘Can’t you see the game is up, Alicia,’ I cried, ‘this is the end of the line!’
She stopped abruptly and, looking me up and down, snapped, ‘The name is Alice, not Alicia, you may recall. And if you think you are going to harass me with a toy gun I fear you will be disappointed.’ With those words she turned, and with surprising agility for one so plump, swung her leg over the windowsill and hared off across the front lawn to her car. The next moment, with a crash of gears and churning of gravel, she was speeding up the drive like a demented Fangio.
I stared after her in numbed wonder, and then looked down at the now obviously toy gun in my hand. My eyes turned to the desecrated gravel; and a sense of weary déjà vu enveloped me as I recalled Eric’s niece on her motorbike and the gardener’s extortionate bill. Should I be bold and have the whole surface spread with tarmac? If the future held such similar comings and goings it might be wise (though admittedly less aesthetic, but definitely cheaper in the long run). As I pondered the matter, from the top of the drive there came a searing screech of tyres. I winced, gritted my teeth and hastily retreated inside for a fortifying brandy.
Of course, maddening though it was, the issue of the drive was hardly the only thing that occupied me. There were other issues: issues which danced before me in the now chewed remnant of Alice Markham’s ridiculous hat. Tired of his trophy, Bouncer had thoughtfully laid it upon the hearth rug in front of my chair.
I took a sip of my drink and contemplated the macerated headgear. Was the woman barmy? Short odds – up the bleeding spout, as the eloquent Eric would doubtless say. Was I barmy? Oh, assuredly long odds. Would I tell the police? Absolutely zero odds. My ‘story’ with no corroborative details except for a child’s pistol of the sort Sickie-Dickie might brandish would be laughed out of court and I should look a fool to say the least. True, Alice had made an elaborate confession (well, less a confession than a brazen admission), but without a shred of evidence it would be my word against hers. Naturally I am not averse to fighting my corner (one has to in this life) or, as Pa would have said, ‘giving ’em what for’; but frankly unless the ‘what for’ is likely to be constructive and one is assured of triumph what is the point? Far better to be cautious and canny like the sterling Montgomery: bide my time, make an assessment, wait for an opening in the enemy’s flanks and then capitalize like hell with no holds barred.
‘Wouldn’t you agree, Bouncer?’ I asked.
A fruitless question. It was of course greeted by an inane leer and a resounding burp.
I had just closed my eyes to soothe the pounding in my addled brain when the doorbell rang: not lightly, but with brisk insistency. I caught my breath. Surely it couldn’t be the wretched woman returned to demand her revolver?
Warily (and wearily) I rose and went to the door and opened it a fraction.
The figure confronting me was not the mad woman, but rather, to my surprise, Charles Penlow.
He raised his hat and before I had time to greet him, said, ‘I say, Primrose, do you know about that car at the top of your drive?’
‘What car?’
‘The one that has smashed into one of your gates. It’s slewed across the path with the driver’s door open. A couple of struts are buckled and the top of one of the posts has fallen over. I wondered if you were aware.’
‘Is the top broken?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes,’ he said cheerfully, ‘it’s in little pieces.’
‘What make of car?’ I heard myself asking in chilly tones.
‘A Sunbeam Talbot – blue.’
Yes, it was hers all right. Not content with putting the fear of God in me with a fake pistol, she now had to destroy my gates and gatepost. With manners like that no wonder Elspeth had pinched her husband!
‘But there doesn’t seem to be any sign of the driver,’ Charles went on, ‘so I suppose having done the damage he took off – or she did. Anyway, it couldn’t have been a visitor, otherwise I assume they would have mentioned it.’
Huh, I thought grimly, you don’t know my visitors. But I nodded in agreement and then asked casually in what direction the car was facing.
‘Well, that’s the odd thing, it looks as if it may have been coming from down here’ – he gestured at the drive and flower beds – ‘though I daresay it was some silly ass charging at an absurd speed who took a wrong turn and tried a lightning three-point turn. Drunk, probably.’ He then suggested that I went with him to take a look, after which we should call the police.
Still dazed by Alice’s bizarre behaviour and shocking revelations (assuming indeed they were true), I accompanied him up the drive saying nothing. My instinct of course was to blurt it all out in relief and anger. Charles has a steady mind and is a good listener, but for some reason I held back. The crashing of the car and Alice’s obvious flight might well have strengthened my tale of her confession and the threats to me, but one couldn’t be sure. She could still brazen it out and there might be repercussions not exactly to my benefit. (Having had a homicide for a brother one knows the value of reticence.) So for the time being I kept quiet, trying to arrange my churning thoughts.
The silence was broken by Charles taking my elbow and saying, ‘There you see, the damn thing is virtually blocking your entrance, and just look at that gatepost!’ He paused, and then added, ‘I don’t suppose the cat will like it.’
‘Blow the cat, what about me?’ I exclaimed irritably. ‘Maurice will just have to sit on the other one.’ I glared at the wreckage, mentally cursing Alice Markham and cursing the insurers who were bound to be difficult.
Charles made a reconnaissance of the abandoned car, scrutinizing the broken wing-mirror, dripping radiator and dented bonnet. He looked inside to see if there were any signs of ownership. He needn’t have bothered: once the number plate was identified Alice’s name would come up in a trice. I frowned. But where the hell was the woman and what on earth had she been playing at!
We were just about to retrace our steps – and at Charles’s insistence to telephone the police – when there was the drone of an engine and glare of headlamps. We stepped aside, but the vehicle drew up and two uniformed figures emerged wielding flashlights.
‘Ah,’ the taller figure said, ‘it’s Miss Oughterard, isn’t it – and if I am not mistaken Mr Penlow. Perhaps you heard the shot, did you? Or maybe there was more than one.’
I stared at Chief Superintendent MacManus. ‘What shot? What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Miss Oughterard, the shot that has just killed Mrs Alice Markham.’