The Murder of My Aunt Read online

  I literally sang as the good English roads passed beneath me. The sun shone, La Joyeuse purred happily away, the world was mine to do what I liked with. ‘Freedom, freedom,’ I exclaimed; ‘at last you are really mine!’

  At that moment a little incident occurred which I ought to have realized was more definitely an omen. One is not free in this wretched country, ever. I was stopped by a policeman who maintained that I was ‘driving to the danger’.

  ‘To the danger of what, constable? Those sheep?’

  ‘Partly, sir, and partly of the man with the sheep.’

  This was tiresome. I did not want my licence endorsed again. I tried, therefore, to bring diplomacy to my rescue. I apologized to the representative of Bumbledom and showed him Spencer’s telegram.

  ‘I’m afraid that made me hurry. It’s made me rather anxious.’ At the same time I tried to slip half a crown into his hand. Apparently this was not enough. The ridiculous fellow even looked insulted.

  ‘No doubt, sir, the fact may be taken as a mitigating circumstance, but I shouldn’t mention that!’

  He pointed angrily to the hand that held the proffered coin, and proceeded to waste five minutes in taking my number. If the police would spend less time using long words like ‘mitigating circumstances’ and get on with their job quicker, unfortunate motorists would have less time to make up. Meanwhile, the sheep driver arrived and began to curse me in broad Salopian. Why are sheep allowed on the roads? I shall have un mauvais quart d’ heure before the Abercwm bench. I only hope they don’t take my licence away.

  It was some time before I regained my equanimity, and by then I had got on to the winding, badly repaired roads of Cwm. It was quite late in the afternoon before I crossed the bridge over the Brynmawr brook, and the afternoon sun was throwing the shadows of the trees right across the dingle. As I came up the hill the sun was straight in my eyes; I couldn’t really see Brynmawr.

  Of course, as a matter of fact, I didn’t ever really expect to see Brynmawr again. I naturally assumed that the house would be entirely burnt to the ground. A few blackened walls, perhaps, at most a shell, but probably nothing, just a pile of ashes was all I expected to see. I mention this in detail because it explains what happened.

  As I got into a patch of shade, the identical point at which I had contemplated placing an obstacle for my aunt to run into, I was able to see the house. And then I got a shock. The house was still standing apparently intact! For a moment my brain reeled and I drove a short way purely by instinct. Suddenly I was aware of the figure of my aunt standing on the road, straight in front of my car, looking exactly as she had always done in her lifetime.

  Now I was quite convinced that she must be dead. What else could Spencer’s telegram mean? With an absolute wave of horror, I realized that my aunt’s figure was standing at the identical spot where her car had left the road that afternoon a few weeks before. The conclusion seemed obvious to anyone as superstitious as I am. My aunt would always haunt that particular point on the road. Her spirit would try to force me to my destruction. That would be just like my aunt! But I made up my mind to show this ghost once and for all that I would not be intimidated. If I was not in the habit of using a very efficient Essence of Flowers, my hair would have stood on end, but as it was, with a curious tingling feeling in my scalp, I set my teeth, put my foot on the accelerator, and drove straight at this ghost.

  With a startled scream the figure leapt to the side of the road, and catching one foot on the warning white stone by the side of the road, toppled over on to the ground. It was not until I was almost at the gate of the back yard that it occurred to me that this was very curious conduct for a ghost. After all, whatever you may say about spirits from the other world, they do not trip over stones. They glide through them. Nor for that matter do they worry to get out of the way of motor-cars. I put La Joyeuse into reverse and glided quietly and quickly back to the spot, just as the apparition collected itself and got on to the road again. Once more the figure hopped off the road; I only just missed it.

  ‘Really, Edward,’ came my aunt’s voice, quite unmistakably natural and lifelike, ‘you’re becoming crude in your methods. And as for coming back again – well.’

  I had been through enough. I was tired and distracted, and I had just had a very terrible fright. I could only sit, I fear, with my mouth open, and gaze at my aunt. For it was my aunt. There was no mistaking it. That astounding woman was absolutely alive and well, and apparently quite convinced that I had just tried to run over her and, having failed, had tried again. In all the circumstances it was almost comic, but it was also very serious. For the one thing I had been anxious to avoid was that she should have any suspicion, and now, of course, she would have, as a result of a pure, unpremeditated and unintended accident which had had no effect whatever. It really was cruel!

  My aunt’s voice went on: ‘Damn it, Edward!’ (I dislike women swearing). ‘I believe I’ve sprained my ankle.’ She hobbled up and down the road, testing it out, and eventually stopped by the side of La Joyeuse from which I had got out to make sure it was really her. Something, however, appeared to be interesting her in the car, for she examined the contents very carefully. ‘Three suit-cases, a portmanteau, which you told me once you wouldn’t be seen dead with, a Gladstone bag – incidentally mine, my dear Edward – which I never expected to see you use. How long did you intend to stay with that Mr Innes?’

  ‘I wasn’t quite sure. And one does want such a lot of variety in one’s clothes there. They’ (I slightly accentuated the pronoun) ‘provide so many different occupations for their guests. And everyone there is always well turned out.’

  My aunt continued to rummage in the car. ‘No doubt that’s why you took your top-hat?’

  ‘Well, Guy told me there might be a local wedding while I was there.’ Rather a brilliant improvisation, I feel.

  ‘Yes. They’re often got up on the spur of the moment. Yes, yes. However, it’s always well to be prepared. So you took your bowler in case they suddenly took you up to London, and your soft hat, of course, and your black velour one – I never knew what the occasion is that you wear that thing, either in London or the country – and that horrible loud cap you drive in – and that old Panama. I hope you didn’t wear that amongst the very-well-turned-out people, Edward’ (she mimicked my voice – impertinent woman), ‘it’s rather shabby, and your umbrella, and your Malacca cane – you were prepared for every emergency.’ She paused and moved one or two things about. ‘But I never knew you had a straw boater, Edward dear.’

  I put a good face on it. ‘I bought it on the way there. In Shrewsbury. Oh, yes, it’s a London make. I wouldn’t take anything with a country name on it, of course. Servants are such snobs –’

  ‘Servants, dear.’ My aunt must needs interrupt.

  ‘Servants. They’re getting quite fashionable now – straw hats, I mean,’ I added in reply to my aunt’s raised eyebrows. ‘But don’t call them “straw boaters” please, Aunt Mildred.’

  ‘Very well, dear,’ said my aunt, with suspicious meekness. She turned away from the car. ‘Well, I can see there’s no room in it for you to take me down to Llwll. Besides, I’m not quite sure I trust your driving after the way you drove just now. Anyhow, I think it’ll do my ankle good to walk on it.’ She started off down the road. ‘Good-bye for the present, dear.’

  I could bear it no longer. ‘What’s this telegram of Spencer’s mean, Aunt Mildred?’

  ‘Tell you later, dear.’ My aunt was rapidly going off down the road. ‘Must hurry now. You should have asked me before and not kept me waiting while you explained about not calling them straw boaters. Back for dinner.’ My aunt waved her stick cheerily as she disappeared round the corner – ungrammatical, horrid, sneering, uncouth, impervious woman!

  I hurried La Joyeuse into the garage and, leaving my luggage in it, rushed up to my room. The wardrobe had completely disappeared, a large patch of the carpet was burnt, there were marks of fire on the wall. I tried
to remember what had been there. Very much to my annoyance I remembered that there had been a bookcase by the side of the wardrobe, with some of my not most precious, but still cherished books, and this had completely disappeared.

  The fire, then, had started. It had burnt the wardrobe. Well, there was nothing of value in that. It had destroyed some of my books. That was sad, but not very material. My carpet was ruined. I doubt if I shall ever exactly get that shade again. But that was all. Nothing very material, providing – There is the catch. How was it put out, and what did my aunt suspect was the cause of the fire? It was most unfortunate that she had examined the luggage in my car. I had taken everything I could get in, but I really think it would not have been noticeable but for that unlucky last straw of the straw hat which I genuinely had bought on the way. And I ought to have sacrificed my top-hat; but I had better write to Guy and get him to confirm the possibility of a hypothetical wedding. I needn’t explain it all to him, but I could trust him to back me up if I told him what was wanted, without knowing all the circumstances.

  But there is one phrase of my aunt’s I do not like: ‘You’re becoming crude in your methods.’ ‘Becoming … methods.’ Now what exactly did she mean? Am I to imply from that all the unpleasant possibilities that one might deduce, or was it just chance? Well, my aunt will be back soon from Llwll, and then presumably I shall know. I have never found it difficult, at any rate, to read every thought in my aunt’s head.

  7

  My aunt is becoming very mysterious. She simply will not explain. Indeed, she treats the whole matter as if there was nothing to explain. Apparently she seems to think that, as my wardrobe had been burnt, it was quite natural that she should summon me back. As for why Spencer sent the wire, or why his name was at the foot of it, she has given absolutely no hint at all as yet. In some ways I should be content to leave things just as they are, and let the incident slip from her mind; but there are two reasons against this. First of all, would it be entirely natural to accept the whole thing as a matter of course? Supposing that the fire was quite accidental, shouldn’t I be asking all sorts of questions, making all sorts of fuss? I think I should, and would like to start making the fuss that I should be likely to make, only I am not quite sure how I should tackle it. In short, I’m a bit afraid of overacting.

  The second point, which worries me much more, is my aunt’s almost unnatural avoidance of the subject. Usually, if she has a grievance, there is no mistaking it. There is no lack of directness, no finesse about my aunt at all. She says what she wishes to say like the proverbial bull in a china shop. She approaches those difficult situations where angels might well fear to tread, with the delicacy and deliberateness of a steam-roller. Poor Aunt Mildred. She has little savoir-faire – normally.

  But it is not so certain that she is not being rather diplomatic at the present moment. She is lying so miraculously low, and keeping so unnaturally quiet, that I am in danger of having not the worst of the argument – there is no argument – but the worst of the silence. And I really feel as if soon I shall say something indiscreet!

  Let me record the few conversations we have had on the subject.

  The first one was at dinner on the night I came back. I opened by hoping she had enjoyed her walk into Llwll. Rather a futile remark, I must admit, as she always does, and I never do, and anyhow she must have known I was quite indifferent as to whether she did or not. On the whole, I must admit I rather deserved the retort I got – the opening was too easy.

  ‘Yes, dear, thank you, despite my ankle.’

  I ignored that. ‘You were going to tell me why you, or rather why Dr Spencer, sent that wire for me to come back.’

  My aunt raised her eyebrows. ‘Haven’t you been upstairs?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt. Having dressed. I gather there was a fire in my room. But why bring me back for that?’

  A complete silence reigned. My aunt gazed at a moderate little picture, an ancestress of ours with a blue hat with a grey feather in it, powdered hair, and a quite pleasant smile. On the wall opposite me was a less attractive canvas. It represented some Scriptural character. Jacob, I think, meeting a young woman, Rebecca, I believe, at a well. The well is surrounded by dark smudges which faintly resemble oak trees with a luxuriant foliage, unlikely, I should imagine, in Palestine. Jacob is making the sort of bow practised at the Court of Louis-Quatorze, and the young woman is simpering abominably. Behind Jacob is his faithful camel – a starved-looking animal with a sly smile. The camel appears to be the only person with an idea in his head, which is to take a large mouthful out of the dirty and inadequate brown cloak which Jacob has hitched round him. After which, as Jacob wears apparently nothing else, there will, I imagine, be a scene. I have always hated that picture since my earliest days. My grandfather took it over, I have been told, for a bad debt. It must have been a very bad debt, and on the whole I think that housing the atrocity increased rather than diminished it, but there it remains. ‘It isn’t very beautiful, but it always has hung there, dear,’ was my aunt’s inevitable reply when I did once venture to protest.

  After gazing at this masterpiece for some minutes I repeated my question. There was quite a perceptible pause before my aunt deigned to reply.

  ‘The Insurance, dear; but as you took everything away with you, you won’t, of course, put in a claim.’

  ‘But surely that could have waited?’

  Another silence ensued. At any moment the camel would snatch those rags. I’ve been waiting for it, fascinated, for years.

  ‘Could you, dear?’

  Now I should like to be certain if my aunt said ‘Could you’ or ‘Could it.’ ‘It’ would be more reasonable, but ‘you’ is terribly near true, when I remember the state of suspense I was in at Guy’s. I shouldn’t like to think that had occurred to my aunt’s mind. Surely she must have said ‘it’, and yet I could have sworn she said ‘you’.

  The next morning I opened the subject again. My aunt had started the conversation by saying she felt better.

  ‘The night before last, you know, Edward, I felt so sleepy after drinking my coffee, just like you did the other night, you remember. The coffee tasted a bit funny, too.’ I looked sharply at her, but her expression was blandly unconscious. ‘And then, of course, the fire kept me awake.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell me what happened, Aunt.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to tell you, Edward. The wardrobe caught fire, and then the bookcase, and then I put it out – with a fire-extinguisher.’

  ‘I never knew we had a fire-extinguisher in the house – except on the cars.’

  ‘No, we usen’t to. Wasn’t it lucky, I’d just got one in. Something I read made me think of it.’

  ‘In the paper, Aunt Mildred?’

  ‘Yes, or was it a magazine, or a book? Anyhow it was a good thing I had one. The wardrobe burnt tremendously quickly. Finished, dear?’ My aunt prepared to rush off on her busy pursuit of nothing.

  ‘Just finished. I shall see about the claim on the Insurance Company this morning, I think.’

  ‘Better not, Edward. There was nothing in the wardrobe. The books are not covered by the policy, and the carpet is really mine, though I know you think it’s yours. So on the whole, Edward, better not claim, I think. Don’t you?’

  She departed, carrying a tray, and shutting the door by winding her toe round it as she went – two odious habits. The servants are under worked without her helping them, and the door trick is definitely vulgar.

  Really, though, I am getting a little nervous. Is it possible that there is any significance to be attached to her remarks? Of course I don’t intend to claim – I merely thought it would seem unnatural if I didn’t pretend to - but as a matter of fact Insurance Companies do ask such awkward questions, and I had no desire to have them prying round. But I don’t like to think that my aunt knows that I ‘had better not’. Is it possible she suspects something?

  I wish I could get a more coherent account from her, or from Cook, or from Mary
, of what happened; but both Cook and Mary just look blank and ignorant. They maintain they slept through whatever did happen, and my aunt is evasive. I rather gather that those cubes tasted the coffee – I can only say they didn’t taste mine – and consequently my aunt drank only a little of it. So she got sleepy, and then the drowsiness passed off, leaving her probably even more wide awake than usual. With the result, I suppose, that the first signs of fire woke her, or roused her, as she tossed about restlessly. That would be just about when the wardrobe was well ablaze; and then she put it out with these unlucky extinguishers. I wonder where and what she read which made her go to that unwonted extravagance. Something, I suppose, about a country house being burnt down. Good thing it wasn’t this diary she read! That really is an amazing thought! I laugh as I write it. But what bad luck she had got them just in time, and yet not so very unlucky, because there would have been little point in burning down the house while she was awake. No, it was those rotten Somnoquubes that let me down. But yet I can’t understand that, I know they’re effective, and I swear they don’t taste. It’s rather worrying. I suppose she doesn’t know more than she pretends? Life would be intolerable if she did.

  I have just made one more try to find out more. I asked her again why Spencer signed the wire.

  ‘Oh, he was going into Llwll, so I asked him to do it.’