‘Coralie St Malo?’ said Chief Superintendent Nicholl who, having cleared up his bank robbery, was now pursuing what he thought was a dead end. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Mrs Gavin. We’ve nothing on her at all. There’s no motive and we haven’t found the murder weapon. It’s buried deep in the river mud, we reckon. Except that it was probably a cut-throat razor, or so Forensic tell us, we know nothing about it, although, of course, we’re still making enquiries. If it was a cut-throat razor it must have been somebody’s family heirloom. Nobody buys such things nowadays, so there’s no point in trying the shops, although, of course, we’ve had a go.’
‘Coralie could have had opportunity, though,’ urged Laura. ‘She could have been in the neighbourhood at about the time of the murder.’
‘She met Lawrence in that pub before the murder was committed, and that’s all we know, Mrs Gavin. But we’ll keep the tabs on her, of course. All the same, this wasn’t a woman’s crime.’
‘Clytemnestra did in Agamemnon with an axe; Lizzie Borden finished off her parents, ditto; Constance Kent was accused of cutting her little brother’s throat, Procne killed and cooked her son…’
‘All very mythical, Mrs Gavin. Nobody knows whether it was Lizzie Borden or not. As for Constance Kent, there’s never been any doubt in my mind that it was the father who cut the child’s throat. After all, he’d slept with the nursemaid in the same room as the little boy. It only needed for the kid to wake up and start asking awkward questions. Constance was at the self-sacrificing age and so decided to carry the can. That’s my reading of it.’ He looked at Dame Beatrice for confirmation of this view. ‘You know all about psychology, ma’am. What’s your view about Constance Kent?’
‘She may have wished her half-brother dead,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘and that, in a neurotic adolescent, may have induced a feeling of guilt for which she felt expiation was appropriate.’
‘Well, what about Coralie St Malo?’ persisted Laura. ‘According to the description Dame Beatrice gave me, she was big enough and strong enough to have done the deed, yes, and tough enough, too, and probably insanely jealous, into the bargain.’
‘We shall be pursuing our enquiries, Mrs Gavin,’ said Nicholl, soothingly.
‘What do you think?’ asked Laura, when she and Dame Beatrice were alone again.
‘I think Lawrence and Miss St Malo might be well advised to re-marry,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘unless Miss St Malo joins a concert party ready and willing to go to South America and stay there.’
‘In other words, those of the scoundrel Peachum to the scoundrel Lockit, Lawrence and Coralie are in the position, you think, of having to admit; unless they marry again, “You know we have it in our power to hang each other.” And that’s about the size of it, so far as culpability is concerned. Coralie did the dirty work and Lawrence buried the body. I suppose it was a case of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth.’
‘It was Macbeth who wielded the dagger, if you remember. The play is not an analogy for the murder of Mrs Lawrence.’
‘So what?’
‘So, between them, Lawrence and Miss St Malo were responsible for Mrs Lawrence’s death and burial, but I do not think that will ever be proved.’
As though to confirm this prophecy, the spy who had trailed Coralie and Lawrence to the Bicester road public house was found dead in a ditch “with twenty trenched gashes on his head”, the result, the police concluded, of a brawl. His assailants were never brought to book.
PART THREE
Cracks in the Plaster
CHAPTER 12
« ^ »
Training their own minds and the minds of others.
… Keenly alert in disputation.
The annual general meeting of the Chardle and district amateur dramatic, operatic and literary society was winding down to its close, or so some of the more restless and impatient members hoped.
The minutes of the last annual general meeting had been read, agreed and signed, reports had been given by the secretary, the treasurer and the entertainments secretary, the balance sheet had been approved, the re-election of the president (who was chairman of the meeting), the secretary and the treasurer, had been confirmed with acclamation (since nobody wanted their jobs), the entertainments’ secretary and two members of the committee had resigned and had been replaced, and several attempts on the part of the frivolous-minded and the tedious members (the society was made up in about equal parts of both) to enter into side-issues had been repressed with admirable firmness by the chairman, so at last the final item on the agenda had been reached.
‘Any other business?’ asked the chairman. He was a florid man of fifty-five with the fleshy, petulant face of an eighteenth-century landowner and somewhat shifty grey eyes. In point of fact, he was a landowner of sorts, for he had been a prosperous local builder and had amassed a small fortune before land became too difficult or too expensive to acquire. Having purchased his own plot, however, some years previously, he had disposed of his business, built himself an impressive residence on the outskirts of the town and had become chairman of the local council as well as president of the dramatic and operatic society whose annual general meeting he was now itching to declare closed. He had a masonic dinner to attend that evening and he wanted to get home and change his clothes.
As he uttered the words ‘Any other business’ he gave a quick and apprehensive half-glance at Clarice Blaine, the new entertainments’ secretary. He had known occasions when, under her guidance, ‘Any other business’ had aroused worse passions, had led to more acrimonious arguments and had wasted more time than any other three items put together.
As though his half-glance had been a challenge, Mrs Blaine responded to it immediately. She was the elder of the two married women present, a plump, self-assertive busybody of forty-five, self-appointed leader of the local Ladies’ Guild, terror of the minister whose chapel she attended and the bête noire of the dramatic society and especially of its president and chairman, Hamilton Haynings. She, like himself, was on the town council and had managed to project herself on to three of its sub-committees. It was well-known that she was working hard to have Chardle recognised as a borough, and of this borough she intended to be the first mayor.
‘Of course there is other business, Hamilton,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m surprised it was not listed under its title when Cyril sent round the agenda.’ She looked accusingly at the handsome secretary. ‘There is the Caxton Festival to discuss.’
‘I thought your Ladies’ Guild had that in hand,’ said the treasurer, a meek man named Ernest Farrow, nervously taking off his glasses.
‘Oh, the Guild are putting on a pageant, of course,’ said Clarice, ‘but surely the Dramatic Society ought to perform a Festival play? I quite thought members would come to this meeting positively bursting with suggestions.’
‘We decided upon our next production weeks ago,’ said Rodney Crashaw, who had been given the leading part in it. ‘We’re committed to Othello. I’ve already learnt half my lines. You can’t change the play now.’
‘Oh, yes, we’ll do Othello, of course,’ said Mrs Blaine, ‘but that can come later. It is hardly what I call a Festival piece. We need something cheerful.’
‘I couldn’t agree more!’ said Melanie Cardew, who felt that, with her histrionic ability, which, for an amateur, was considerable, she should have been given the part of Desdemona, but who had been fobbed off (as she expressed it) with Bianca, mistress to Cassio, in favour of a younger, prettier Desdemona. ‘Of course we must take part in the Festival. What about doing Blithe Spirit?’ (Mentally she cast herself as Elvira.)