The Murder of My Aunt Page 6

  ‘Yes, Aunt,’ I called from the front door.

  ‘Didn’t you have any breakfast this morning?’ came my aunt’s voice from the dining-room.

  ‘Yes, Aunt, very early.’

  ‘Nonsense, you were late as usual,’ my aunt could not resist the dig; ‘but, though I cannot say that I noticed it, you must have eaten nothing.’ And with that she clumped out of the dining-room brandishing the empty biscuit-tin in my face.

  ‘I did eat one or two, I think. I hope you don’t grudge them to me?’ Two can play at insinuation!

  ‘One or two! Three-quarters of a tinful. I happen to know because I looked after breakfast to see if the tin wanted refilling, and now, when I want one, it’s empty. It seems that you grudge me any!’ My aunt slammed the tin to and started to go off to the kitchen to see, I was glad to notice, that it was refilled. ‘In future I shall only put them out in small quantities. These rich biscuits are not good for you, Edward, when you eat pounds at a time. No wonder you get boils.’

  Now, setting aside the injustice of her remarks, and they would have been unfair even if I had eaten all the biscuits instead of only some of them, this is a distinct nuisance. How am I to get an adequate supply with which to train So-so, for there is nothing else that I know of which is certain to attract his capricious little soul, which can be relied on to draw him across the road, even if there is a car coming? Well, somehow, they must be got. I am more than ever determined on that. I can take a few every day and reserve them entirely for So-so, though it will be hard to abandon them myself altogether, for So-so’s taste is very sound – they are excellent biscuits. But perhaps a better way, and one which will avoid this self-denial, will be to persuade Mary, the parlour-maid, to bring me some occasionally direct from the larder. With a little cajoling I can generally persuade her to do what I want, tiresome female though she is. It will be a distasteful business, but in the cause of art, one must be prepared to make sacrifices. And I intend that my conduct, till this matter is over, shall be thoroughly artistic.

  4

  And indeed it is necessary that it should be so. Today I nearly made a slip. I have been now occasionally managing to conduct rehearsals for So-so. He really is extraordinarily intelligent, and I have now got him to the stage when he will sit for as long as I like, his brown body quivering with excitement, his little black tongue licking his jaws in anticipation; but, bless him, uttering no sound, ready for the moment when the string slips out from round his collar and he is free to dash for the much-wanted biscuit.

  I have been training him to restrain himself for longer and longer periods, since I may have to wait some time for my aunt when the day comes that I can put my plan into execution – it may perhaps be advisable that I should leave the house well before my aunt on that day, for I never forget that there must be no shadow of suspicion in my direction. So-so, then, is learning restraint. Once only has he broken through the discipline, and that was when Athel, wandering round by himself, hunting, I suppose, slipped up unseen by me, but noticed by So-so, and secured the biscuit. Then poor So-so made a dreadful scene, and really I can’t blame him. He almost bit me in his frantic desire to prevent the theft of his property, by one, too, who was probably incapable of appreciating it.

  Today, however, I was a bit careless. I had made So-so wait a very long while, so long indeed, that my attention had wandered. Suddenly I heard a footstep on the road, and in my surprise foolishly let go of the string that held So-so. In a second the brave little fellow had shot through the hedge and across the road almost under Farmer Williams’ boots!

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ I heard Williams mutter, ‘so Mr Edward is there. Indeed I would have thought he could have found better ways to pass the morning.’ I heard him turn from the hedge and try to make friends with So-so. ‘Look you here, you wee devil, you must not run so under my feet. Another time I might hurt you and though, to speak truth, I do not like you, I would not do that. Indeed I would not.’

  At this moment he must have leant down to pat So-so, who naturally took it as an attempt to snatch part of his precious biscuit from his mouth, for I heard Williams continue:

  ‘And what then would this be? A biscuit, indeed? And how would you find biscuits in the grass? And if then your master sleeps so soundly, he could not throw them for you. Indeed then he must have thrown you the biscuit just before I came up the side of the dingle and got on the road, and then he must have taken to sleep in one minute – or less. Indeed to goodness!’ Williams paused. ‘But look you, I would not steal your biscuit, and it may be soon your master will forget that he and I had words about cows and about fences, and so I will wish you good day, and if you come to my house, you brown dog, you, I will say as I say to all my guests, “Come in, small dog, and make yourself at home and take large mouthfuls.” ’

  So-so, I was glad to notice, scorned his clumsy attempts at a rapprochement – in fact he tried to accept the invitation to a ‘large mouthful’ at once. For myself I continued to feign sleep. It was curious to notice that Williams really thought I should dislike meeting him, simply because my aunt had made a fool of herself about me in his presence. Of course I should never forgive him for his part in that incident, but I should not put myself to the trouble of altering my conduct to him because he had acted in an avaricious manner to me. He really was not worth bothering about, and I should have liked him to know it. It was perhaps unfortunate that he should have got a wrong impression from our little encounter, but perhaps that was better than that he should realize anything of what had been happening. I know a little, unfortunately, of these Welshmen. Their curiosity is insatiable, and he would have gone on asking question after question as to why I was giving So-so biscuits, why I should want to teach him tricks, why I should want to do it on the drive, and so on endlessly. It was not an altogether desirable explanation that he had invented for himself, but at least he would make it fit all the facts, and that would stop him from speculating, from dwelling too much on the subject, and, after the event that was to come, from talking too much and causing pointless and undesirable conjectures. His pathetic and obvious attempt at reconciliation, however, I should ignore.

  But as I walked back to lunch, keeping under the shade of the oak trees, I thought the matter over. I must be careful. I must see that neither my aunt nor anyone else saw me at that point of the road again. On the whole I thought I had better put my plan into execution pretty soon. So-so was sufficiently rehearsed, and I did not think I could continue to coax Mary any more without being sick. Besides the strain was beginning to tell on my health. I am sleeping badly.

  Indeed, I gather that this is beginning to show in my looks, for my aunt commented on it at lunch. She seemed concerned about me, but I am bound to say that sympathy loses its kindness when it chiefly consists in referring to the pastiness of your face.

  This afternoon I spent, while my aunt picked the currants, nominally in overhauling La Joyeuse. My aunt asks me so often exactly what I am doing that I think it advisable always to have a ready explanation. Not, to be fair, that she is really inquisitive or suspicious, and certainly not because she is interested in what I do. It is simply her only idea of small-talk. I was therefore in a position, in case she asked, to talk easily and naturally about La Joyeuse’s carburettor – a line of conversation which I knew would quickly bore her. Actually, of course, I was examining her Morris more than my own car.

  The steering gear will be an easy job. It is, as a matter of fact, none too good now. Indeed, if I leave it much longer my aunt may notice the flaw in it herself and have it seen to, which would be awkward. There is, however, a hitch about the brakes.

  I had thought that all cars were fitted with the type of hydraulic brakes I have described, although a few models have a metal rod forming a brake pedal to the wheels. My aunt’s Morris, however, is so antediluvian (I really think that Noah must have had it on board the ark) that it is fitted with a wire cable which operates the brakes.

  There is only one th
ing to do with this. I shall have to cut through eight of the ten strands and rely on the jerk breaking the other two. It is not so sure as if I could put the master cylinder out of action, and I shall have to be very careful in my cutting through of the strands. They must be frayed, not sharply cut, for it is possible they might be inspected afterwards. With luck, however, the car will be smashed up too completely for that to be done. Anyhow, the cutting must be done gradually, for the cut must not look new for each strand. I started this afternoon very cautiously and artistically. Much can be put down to the indifferent surface of the by-roads of Cwm.

  5

  I must spend the morning writing. It will help to keep me cool, and a clear brain is needed, for I have definitely fixed on this afternoon. If I describe what happened this morning it will help to keep my imagination from running away with me.

  Breakfast can be a very charming meal. Breakfast at Brynmawr never is. In the first place a too slavish insistence on a particular hour is a mistake. A man should not be forced to rise before he has finished the sleep he really requires. Bathing and dressing should never be hurried, but at Brynmawr I am nearly always disturbed by my aunt calling: ‘Edward, Ed-ward’ (how well I know the pause between the syllables in my name. It always means trouble), ‘are you getting up?’

  Now the right answer is ‘No, I’m staying in bed this morning,’ but somehow I never have the courage to give it. At least I did once, and my aunt by dint of badgering and cross-questioning me got me to admit I was ill. Whereupon, instead of sympathy, tea, and toast, and peace, she gave me a large dose of castor oil and no breakfast.

  However, I answered as usual. ‘Yes, Aunt. Just coming. I – er – lost my collar-stud.’ Why do I make excuses? My aunt never believes me.

  ‘All right, then. Hurry up. Breakfast is getting cold.’

  ‘Can’t it be kept hot?’

  My aunt ignored this palpable hit. I know quite well that she deliberately lets it grow cold. I gave her a breakfast heater last year as a Christmas present, but she refuses to use it.

  ‘I thought you hadn’t heard the gong.’

  This, I might say, is one of my aunt’s unvarying remarks. She knows perfectly well that no one can fail to hear the frightful instrument which no decent household has; Mary, by her special direction, beats it till I hope the brass will burst. But she also knows quite well that the stupidity of the pretence that there is her reason for calling to me has a curiously ruffling effect on my nerves.

  I ought to have completed in my own time the business of dressing, but somehow or other, as usual, I allowed my aunt’s action to influence me and scurried through the rest of the process without giving that attention to the question of whether my tie and socks really matched that I should have liked. At any moment my aunt might call again, and that I felt I couldn’t bear.

  With a feeling that something had been forgotten, I flew down the stairs, only after all about twenty-five minutes late. What a fuss about a trivial matter! I felt almost virtuous at my punctuality.

  My aunt surveyed me coldly. ‘Well, I’m glad you had the grace to hurry. You can brush your hair afterwards.’ She poured out my tea and sat with the air of a martyr to watch me finish my meal. Now I am quite capable of passing myself the marmalade and giving myself my own second cup of tea – I prefer coffee anyhow – but I can never persuade my aunt to leave me in peace. Whether it is that she wants to make me hurry, whether she likes to rub in the fact that I am causing her a (largely imaginary) piece of inconvenience, or whether it is simply a desire to make me feel uncomfortable, I do not know, but she does it regularly, heaving deep sighs at intervals and finally invariably saying, ‘Finished, dear?’ and making for the kitchen with a great show of activity.

  Of course breakfast should be eaten slowly and the pictures of one of the illustrated morning papers glanced at casually, but no paper reaches Llwll until lunch-time, and my aunt reads nothing but the Daily Telegraph. I can’t think why. Accordingly my options were to eat my lukewarm scrambled eggs and hardened toast in silence, or talk to my aunt. Thank heavens that if all goes well this afternoon I shall never have to endure such a meal again.

  At first the silence was icy – so icy that I decided to break it.

  ‘And what are you doing today, Aunt Mildred?’ Not that at that moment my aunt’s movements interested me much – of course I should be glad to know when she was out of the way so as to keep So-so fully rehearsed – but otherwise I was not really thinking much. One must, however, say something.

  ‘Household duties in the morning, dear. There’s the washing to do today, and that will take all that is left of the morning.’ (Brute.) ‘And this afternoon, of course, my hospital meeting.’

  ‘Hospital? Oh, that committee you’re on. Really this toast isn’t fit to eat. When’s that?’

  ‘Four o’ clock. Really, dear, that’s your own fault. It was excellent. Why so interested all of a sudden in the hospital, dear?’

  ‘Oh, I just wondered. It’s burnt anyhow.’

  My aunt eyed me grimly. She hates any criticism of her beloved cook, and I am bound to say that it is seldom that there is any need. Still, I don’t think she is the paragon my aunt pretends she is. As I think I have said before, she has no imagination, no finesse.

  ‘I suppose,’ she – my aunt, not the cook – said suddenly, ‘you want to know when I am out of the way.’

  This was so perfectly true that I started and spilt some very hot tea on my grey flannel trousers. It was painful, but that passed off; the stain, I am afraid, will not. However, let that be. My aunt’s voice continued:

  ‘Understand once and for all I will not have it. Mary’s a very good girl and, besides being an excellent maid, is a daughter of Hughes of the post office, and I will have no unpleasantness for her under my roof.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I really was surprised.

  My aunt looked me straight in the face. ‘The way you’ve been pestering Mary. I can tell you your attentions are unwanted, and even if they were, I wouldn’t allow it.’

  I tipped my chair back, which always annoys my aunt, and taking a cigarette from my lacquered green case, fairly laughed in her face.

  ‘Attentions?’ I trilled.

  ‘Can you deny that you’ve been doing your best to fascinate Mary for the last ten days, ogling her and trying to make little secrets and assignations all day long? Why, I’ve seen you at it under my very eyes. And don’t tip that chair up – you’ll break the legs.’

  This must be stopped. I am very fond of Mary, and life would be very dull at Brynmawr without her. I forgot for the moment what has hardly ever left my mind recently, that I am not going to live at Brynmawr much longer.

  ‘Really, my dear aunt, what a mountain out of a mole-hill. Perhaps I had better explain. Won’t you have a cigarette?’

  ‘You know I never smoke your scented horrors, Edward.’

  She went to the mantelpiece and got herself a Gold Flake. My aunt never uses a cigarette-case. It always makes me blush to see her produce a crumpled yellow packet and shamelessly offer it to other people. I paused while she struck a match on the sole of her shoe – another ungenteel habit of hers.

  ‘Well, explain away,’ she added.

  ‘It’s an entire misunderstanding of course. You may remember a few days ago that you saw fit to dole out the sweet biscuits in small and miserly rations. I have no doubt that the ration was really adequate, had I been content to submit to the arrangement; but one has one’s pride, so I thought, to put it shortly, that the simplest way was to arrange that Mary got some for me. It was an amusing little comedy, and I have no doubt we have smiled over it. I suppose that is what you unpleasantly refer to as “ogling”.’ She was hardly likely to guess what I wanted the biscuits for!

  My aunt let out a puff of smoke right into my face. ‘Ingenious, Edward. Quite ingenious. And no doubt there is some foundation of truth in it, or you would not have thought of it so quickly. In fact I know there is
. I naturally know all about the extra biscuits, but that was only the cover for your nastiness, the excuse in case you were questioned. It wasn’t the real reason for your behaviour, I know perfectly well. In future that behaviour will stop, or’ – and she fixed me with that stony glare and produced the phrase that always seems to paralyse me – ‘or, I shall take action. Meanwhile, in order that even the excuse may not exist, I shall give orders to Cook this morning that no more of those biscuits are to be made for the present. I shall take what she has made down to the hospital this afternoon, and as for those in the tin’ – she walked across the room, and calling to her beastly pigeons, crumbled them up in pieces and scattered them outside the dining-room window.

  There was a fine rumpus outside as Athel and Thruthel dashed up too, and drove the pigeons off, while poor little So-so, scenting perhaps his favourite food, but ignorant that it was possibly the last, came as fast as his short legs would carry him, only to be scared away like the pigeons by those ill-bred fox terriers. I caught him up in my arms. ‘Never mind, So-so,’ I whispered into his silky ear, ‘I’ve got two more hidden upstairs and you shall have one this afternoon shortly before four, and tomorrow – well, perhaps Cook will receive different orders tomorrow.’

  A liaison with Mary indeed! And even if I have flirted, ever so mildly, with her, what business is it of my aunt’s? Really, she is too Victorian. All this business is intolerable. This morning I shall cut the brake-cable and this afternoon the Gordian knot. By scattering those biscuits on the ground, my aunt herself has precipitated matters. With only two biscuits left I must act before So-so forgets his part, or wait indefinitely till my aunt changes her orders to Cook. It must, then, be this afternoon before those biscuits are stale – I would not like to reward So-so with a stale one – and before my aunt finds out that I have these precious two, and throws them away, which really might happen when next my room is turned out.