Motives For Murder Read online

  Motives For Murder

  J. F. Straker

  Copyright © J F Straker 1956

  The right of J F Straker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1956 by Harrap as ‘The Ginger Horse’.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1 - Prelude to Tragedy

  2 - A Man is Missing

  3 - A Man is Found

  4 - A Lamp Goes Bang

  5 - Murder Under Discussion

  6 - A Glass of Milk

  7 - The Swollen Door

  8 - Man With a Bicycle

  9 - Peregrinations of a Bottle

  10 - The Ginger Horse

  11 - One More Body

  12 - A Chronicle of Crime

  1 - Prelude to Tragedy

  ‘Now that that delicious repast is over,’ said Colin Russell, helping himself to sugar, ‘I can appreciate Diana’s wish to clear off for the weekend before the evening meal. Diana likes her creature comforts; in her modest way I think she’s a bit of a voluptuary. What do you suppose she’s cooking for herself tonight? Chicken soup, perhaps ... followed by fried Dover sole with shrimp sauce ... roast duck ... strawberries and cream ... asparagus tips ... a ripe Stilton.’ He sighed. ‘No perhaps not. Not on that Bunsen-burner of hers. But it sounds nice, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It sounds fine,’ Chris Moull agreed. He was a slight young man with a round, freckled face and close-cropped hair that stood stiffly erect in front. ‘But she’d be a gourmand, not a voluptuary, if she got through all that at one sitting.’

  ‘She would also be sick,’ said Smelton. ‘Pass the sugar, please.’

  Anne Connaught had been doubtful of the propriety of Colin’s description of Diana Farling as a ‘voluptuary’; for her the word conjured up visions of languorous females generously proportioned and inadequately clad. But since Chris Moull was smiling and had even used the word himself she supposed it must be all right. Chris would not countenance a doubtful reference to his beloved Diana.

  ‘It’s not fair to grumble about the food,’ she said. ‘Friday is the cook’s night out. You can’t expect Doris to dish up a banquet on her own.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Colin said. ‘But I like my fish cooked, not raw. And, talking of Doris, wasn’t she rather over-dressed for the part tonight? I mean — well, the pink dress ... and all that jewellery ...’

  ‘Probably meeting her boyfriend. You’re very critical this evening, aren’t you?’

  ‘Me? Good Heavens, no. I’m all in favour of personal adornment — it’s part of my creed. I just thought ...’

  Chris grinned. ‘You’d look rather fetching in a pearl necklace,’ he said. ‘Particularly with your green sports jacket, the one with the plunging neckline. And drop earrings, of course.’

  ‘A horse-collar would be more suitable than a necklace,’ Anne suggested, laughing. ‘He has that type of neck.’

  Colin grunted as he put down his coffee-cup, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Ugh! I don’t think much of that witches’ brew. They might at least teach the girl how to make coffee.’

  ‘It’s much the same as usual,’ said Anne, ‘and I’ve never heard you complain about it before.’

  ‘I may not complain, but that doesn’t mean I approve of it. One has to fill one’s belly with something.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t fill yours with coffee. It’s bad for your ulcer.’

  Colin winced. He was rather ashamed of his duodenum. He considered that in developing an ulcer so early in its existence (Colin was only twenty-four) it had let him down badly. ‘Seriously, though, I do envy Diana her cottage,’ he said, hastily changing the topic. ‘It must be heavenly, come Friday evening, to get away from the boys, and the school, and ... and all this.’

  He flicked the soiled table-cloth with the back of his hand and then waved an arm expansively to indicate the whole of the common room. The expression on his face made Anne want to laugh, but she restrained herself. Colin did not like to be laughed at. He was a hefty young man, short of neck and broad of shoulder, whose sense of humour was somewhat maladjusted. His opinions were sacrosanct. One might disagree with them, but one might not laugh at them.

  ‘Feeling the strain rather early, aren’t you?’ said Chris. ‘You’ve only been here a month, old boy.’

  Philip Smelton, the senior master at Redways, had taken little part in this conversation. He was forty-five and looked older. Chin and forehead receded sharply, and the watery blue eyes and untidy wisps of ginger hair on crown and upper lip gave him a melancholy appearance.

  ‘What’s wrong with the commonroom?’ he demanded now. ‘By the time you’ve reached my age, my lad, you’ll be lucky if you haven’t lived in many a damned sight worse.’

  Colin shook his head in disbelief. The room was low-ceilinged and dark, the windows fronted by a high brick wall. The furniture was old and shabby, the carpet threadbare, the distempered walls spotted with damp. To Colin, fresh from the comforts of home, there was nothing right with it. He was about to say so when James Latimer, the headmaster’s son, opened the door and surveyed the four seated at table.

  ‘Any of my friends here tonight?’ James asked hopefully. He was a tall, good-looking man of twenty-eight with dark, bushy hair and the prominent nose and eyebrows of his father, but lacking his father’s stiffness of character and build.

  ‘Friends? You actually have friends?’ Colin looked amazed. ‘They must have an abnormally low I.Q., poor things.’

  James ignored this. ‘I want someone to take my prep with the Fourth tomorrow morning. I’m away for the night — shan’t be back until after breakfast. Hello, Anne. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sitting in for the matrons. They’ve both gone to the flicks.’

  ‘I wish I’d known. I’d have joined the hoi polloi for dinner. The family board was a little chilly this evening, something or somebody appears to have upset the old man.’ His glance roved round the table. ‘Well, now — how about this prep?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m taking the Fifth,’ said Smelton.

  ‘And I’m happy to say that I too cannot oblige,’ said Colin. ‘I’m taking the Third.’

  They all looked at Chris Moull. But Chris was sipping his coffee and frowning at the table-cloth, apparently unaware of what was expected of him.

  ‘How about you, Chris?’ asked James, after a long pause.

  ‘Sorry. Can’t be done,’ said the other curtly, between sips.

  He offered no explanation — presumably, thought Anne, because he hadn’t got one. The First and Second Forms were excused prep.

  ‘I’ll take it, James,’ she volunteered, as the silence became embarrassing. ‘I only have to sit with them, don’t I?’

  ‘That’s all. And many thanks, Anne. It’s good to know that your love for me is not entirely dead. Remind me to take you out to dinner one evening.’

  ‘Remind me to knock his ruddy block off one evening,’ Colin said angrily, when James had gone. ‘He’s got a nerve! Why do you pander to the fellow like that, Anne?’

  ‘It makes for peace and quiet,’ said the girl.

  Conversation died after that. Chris Moull’s former good humour seemed to have departed with James Latimer, and he retired into his thoughts — which, judging by the scowl on his face, were unpleasant. Smelton too was preoccupied. He had stayed for dinner at the school because he had requested an interview with the headmaster. Now, with the interview only a few minutes away, he was still uncertain how to frame his demands.

  The other two had much to say to each other, but they could not say it in public. They
were glad when first Chris and then Smelton left the common room.

  ‘James’s unwelcome entry seemed to put a blight on the party,’ said Colin, taking advantage of the opportunity to embrace his companion. They were not engaged, since she wished it that way; but neither had any doubts but that they would eventually marry. ‘I always said he was a blighter.’

  ‘I wonder why Chris refused to take his prep,’ Anne said thoughtfully. ‘He’s usually so willing to oblige, and he can’t have anything else to do.’

  ‘Chris can’t stick the fellow. Told me so.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Because he’s got sense — that’s why. Or perhaps James has been making passes at his girlfriend now that you’ve given him the cold shoulder.’

  The girl considered this. ‘You never see them together,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘No. Well, maybe it’s the other way round. Perhaps Diana used to be James’s girlfriend, and he dropped her when you came on the scene.’

  ‘That’s even less likely. If I know Diana she isn’t the girl to allow any man she covets to escape so easily. She may look stately and aloof, but inside she’s pretty intense, I imagine.’

  ‘Hidden fires, eh?’

  ‘Yes. And she’s got a tongue. Obviously she’s not in love with Chris, although he’s so blind he can’t see it. But I don’t think that has anything to do with James.’

  ‘Well, I wish the long-legged ape would lay off you,’ Colin growled. ‘I’m going to poke him on the snout one of these days.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling. After all, I did encourage him. There wasn’t any you last term, and it was fun having someone to take me out and make a fuss of me. It certainly wasn’t fun spending every evening alone with grandfather. Of course, when you came on the scene I saw the error of my ways. But you can’t expect a conceited man like James to retire gracefully. He probably doesn’t believe it possible that I can prefer another man to him.’

  He kissed her. ‘He’ll get around to it eventually,’ he said, pleased at his conquest. ‘Well, how long have we got? When do you have to go home? We’re not often left alone here, so we may as well make the most of it.’

  ‘That’s because the matrons aren’t usually allowed out together,’ said the girl. ‘But I’ll have to go as soon as they return. Grandfather hasn’t had his supper yet.’

  ‘Poor old J.C. He’ll be getting peckish, won’t he? And what will you do about his breakfast tomorrow now that you’re taking James’s prep?’

  ‘I’ll leave it ready for him. I’m hoping he won’t insist on his morning swim; he seems to have got some form of laryngitis, and has lost his voice. As usual, he won’t see a doctor, so I don’t know how bad it is.’ She laughed. ‘He tried to bawl me out this morning when I told him I needed more money for housekeeping. You should have seen the look on his face when he opened his mouth and only a faint whisper emerged.’

  Colin grinned. ‘Yes, I can imagine that would hit J.C. right where it hurts him most. He’s a great one for bawling people out.’

  Some time later feet thumped purposefully along the corridor. The two young people on the settee drew apart as the door opened and Philip Smelton, still struggling into his overcoat, hurried into the room. He strode across to the fireplace, grabbed a book from the mantelpiece, and without a word or a nod went out again, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘What’s biting him?’ Anne wondered aloud, as the footsteps died away.

  ‘The interview with our revered headmaster cannot have gone according to plan,’ said Colin. ‘Not according to Smelton’s plan, that is. I wonder what it was in aid of.’

  ***

  The headmaster’s study at Redways was less dingy than the common room. It was also more spacious. The chairs, although worn, were upholstered in leather; the furniture was massive and good. But it was not a comfortable room, nor did it possess the friendliness of its inferior in the social scale. There were paint and distemper in the common room, dark stain in the study. The glass-fronted shelves which lined one wall were filled with impressive-looking tomes which gave the impression of being seldom looked at and never read; there were no gaudy dust-jackets, no paper-backed novels. The sole concession to luxury was warmth. A fire burned cheerfully in the old-fashioned grate, for the October evening was chilly and Joseph Latimer was a thin man and a cold one.

  At a knock on the study door Mr Latimer put down his pen impatiently, looked for a moment at the last paragraph he had written, and then swung round in his swivel-chair to warm his hands at the fire.

  ‘Sit down, Smelton,’ he said as his visitor entered. ‘I hope you won’t keep me long, for I have an ungodly amount of correspondence to wade through before I go to bed tonight.’

  Smelton sat down. Much cogitation had failed to suggest a diplomatic opening gambit, and he did not attempt one. ‘I was hoping you could see your way to raising my salary,’ he said tonelessly, without greeting or preamble.

  The headmaster frowned.

  ‘That’s out of the question, I’m afraid. I am already paying you a higher salary than I have ever paid to a member of my staff before. I’m sorry if you consider it inadequate, but I certainly cannot increase it.’

  Smelton nodded gloomily. This was what he had expected.

  ‘I’m not saying it’s inadequate for the job, Mr Latimer. But it’s inadequate for me. I’m getting into a financial mess.’

  Latimer’s frown deepened. He did not particularly like Smelton, but he respected his ability. Apart from the man’s occasional outbursts of violent rage, he was an excellent schoolmaster; and excellent schoolmasters were hard to come by.

  ‘Can’t you cut down your expenses?’ he suggested. ‘I do not wish to interfere in your domestic economy, but — well, is a car really necessary, for instance?’

  Smelton knew it was not. Neither the car nor so many other of the extravagances on which Dorothy insisted. But he would not admit this to Latimer. Anger rose in him — anger against his wife for her stupid subservience to social prestige, against Latimer for exposing the weakness of his case.

  ‘I think so,’ he said coldly. ‘It is over two miles from here to my house. I don’t intend to tackle those hills twice daily on a push-bike.’

  ‘It could be motor-assisted,’ said Latimer.

  Smelton checked the angry retort. Quarrelling would get him nowhere, and real trouble lay ahead unless he accomplished something quickly. ‘It’s the rent on the house that’s crippling me,’ he said. ‘Together with the rates it comes to over a hundred and sixty a year. I’ve tried to find something cheaper, but there just isn’t anything suitable to be had.’

  It depends on what you call suitable, Latimer felt like saying. Only it would be no use. He had known the Smeltons for eight years and was under no delusions as to the cause of his senior master’s financial difficulties. If Smelton were ever to become solvent it was his wife he would have to get rid of, not his house or his car.

  He offered the other a cigarette and refrained from comment.

  ‘Some time ago you mentioned the possibility of converting the ground floor at Abbey Lodge into a flat for us,’ said Smelton, flipping the dead match into the fire. ‘Any chance of that yet?’

  ‘None whatever.’ Latimer spoke curtly, irritated as he always was by any reference to Abbey Lodge or its occupant. John Connaught was at the root of most of his present worries. ‘Not until J.C. dies.’

  ‘A pity.’ Smelton hesitated, uncertain how to persuade the other to satisfy his curiosity further. Until the previous April most of the staff had been housed at Abbey Lodge, and now there were only J.C. and his granddaughter living there. Why? Maybe the old boy had been a master at Redways for donkey’s years, but that did not entitle him to monopolize accommodation that belonged to the school and was so urgently needed. ‘I know it is none of my business, Mr Latimer; but it seems a shocking waste of space. Can’t you turn the old man out — or at least take over part of the house?’

  ‘No.’
It was Latimer who was angry now. As Smelton had said, it was a shocking waste. With the school so crowded, that in itself was galling enough. Still more galling was the knowledge that he could do nothing to remedy the position. ‘My father left him the tenancy of the house until his death. I thought that was common knowledge.’

  The other shook his head.

  ‘There’s a lot of life in him yet, I imagine, despite being all skin and bones,’ he said gloomily. All his hopes had been set on that flat. ‘He can’t be much over seventy.’

  ‘He’s sixty-nine.’

  ‘But why did he turn the staff out? He didn’t object to them before. I know he won some enormous sum in a football pool last March, and obviously he no longer needed the money you were paying him for their lodging. But he must have known it would make things difficult for you, and after all those years as a master here you’d think he would have some regard for the school.’

  ‘Maybe he has. But not for me. He holds me responsible for the fact that my father left him only the tenancy of Abbey Lodge and a small pension instead of the partnership he had expected. Well, he has some justification for that. J.C. and I never liked each other — it would have been a most unhappy partnership.’ Latimer’s voice was bitter. ‘He would not even have had the Lodge if I could have prevented it. But my father thought he knew better than I — and this is the result. In order to accommodate the staff here I have had to reduce the number of boys — which is one very good reason why I cannot raise your salary.’

  You hate him, don’t you, thought Smelton, eyeing the other curiously; he had never before heard the normally detached Latimer speak so bitterly. You may be a pillar of society and the headmaster of a well-known preparatory school, but I wouldn’t care to be in J.C.’s shoes if you bumped into him one dark night when no one else was around. And more power to your elbow, I’d say. Blast the old devil! He’s the nigger in the woodpile all right — for me as well as for you. As it is —

  ‘I’m sorry, Smelton, but there is really no point in discussing the matter further.’ The headmaster spoke briskly, his voice once more dry and indifferent. ‘You see how things are. Unless you care to reconsider the proposition I put to you last term there is nothing I can do to help, I’m afraid.’