The Murder of My Aunt Read online

  Apparently my entry had caused a break in some conversation the other four were having – probably discussing me; it’s a way my aunt has – but I soon managed to start some other subject. I flatter myself on my savoir-faire. As a matter of fact there was a subject I wanted to start, or rather on which I wanted to pick young Spencer’s brains, and I had decided to do it in public! Toujours l’ audace! Done openly, no one would ever suspect my motives. Sure enough the talk during dinner veered round to a case which was exciting a good deal of interest at the time, in which a group of people were accused of setting fire deliberately to obsolete stock in order to defraud the Insurance Companies.

  ‘From what I know of them,’ said young Spencer, ‘most Insurance Companies jolly well deserve to be robbed. They’re a shocking lot of robbers themselves, and never pay up if they can possibly help it.’

  ‘Don’t be cynical, Jack. My Insurance Company have paid over my car like lambs.’

  ‘And why not, Aunt dear?’ I wanted to turn the conversation to a different by-path, and this, I thought, was a good moment. The Doctor was looking very hard at his plate, and Mrs Spencer was suffering from some peculiarly dreadful paroxysm of doubt. I continued: ‘But what always beats me is how they start these fires. It seems so clever of them, but I suppose it’s simple if you know how.’

  ‘Quite, I suppose.’ The Doctor’s tone rather damped continuance of the subject, but I was not to be denied.

  ‘All the same, I suppose none of us here knows how to do it – unless you do, Jack?’

  ‘I – why should I?’

  ‘Well, don’t they teach you in the Territorials how to blow up dumps, or put down delayed action mines, or something like that? After all, I suppose the principle’s the same.’

  Jack Spencer’s cypher face of rounded foolishness – the best phrase Tennyson ever used – expressed blank astonishment. ‘But, my dear fellow, I’m in the Infantry, not the Engineers.’

  How like the Territorials! They’re never useful. I had been counting on young Spencer to give me the information I wanted. At this moment, however, I received an unexpected ally in old Spencer.

  ‘All the same, Jack, it would be very useful to know how to destroy any works or material you had to leave behind in a retreat, and you can’t always count on having the R.E. to help you. Don’t they tell you somewhere something about it? Manual of Field Engineering, for instance? The Boche used that trick an awful lot when they fell back to the Hindenburg line in ’17. Nasty business it was too.’

  I chipped in quickly lest the rest of dinner should become a chapter from old Spencer’s unpublished war reminiscences, a subject of incredible dullness.

  ‘But I suppose your textbooks, like all other textbooks, never teach you anything useful?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Edward. I’m sure they’re excellent books.’

  Now what could my aunt know about it? Jack Spencer looked in a startled way from his father to her, and succeeded in splashing some gravy on to his shirt front. This, however, I felt, was not of great importance. That shirt should have gone to the laundry, in my opinion, before the evening, not after. However, it would have to go now.

  ‘I suppose I could find out somehow,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s very difficult. I think this fellow we were talking about did it with a clock.’

  ‘A clock?’ said I. ‘How?’ For a moment I had a curious impression that Mrs Spencer was about to try to stop the conversation, but changed her mind after a glance at her husband. Young Jack continued:

  ‘Oh, you put a little bit of solder somewhere on the face of the clock so that when the hands get to a certain hour the connexion’s made.’

  He seemed inclined to stop, but once more old Spencer prompted him. Really the old man was being quite useful! I could almost feel inclined to like him for once!

  ‘Connexion to what?’ went on Jack, answering his father’s question. ‘Oh, to a battery, or to the electric-light system, if you choose, I believe. You can just fit the two wires of your circuit into a plug in the wall.’

  ‘But what starts the fire?’ I asked.

  Jack made a futile attempt to remove the gravy-stain, which he had only just noticed. He became a little vague.

  ‘Oh, you don’t make your circuit entirely of wire that carries the current properly. You break it with a bit of thin wire which will glow – I’m not sure what kind of wire, but anyhow, something that gets red-hot.’

  ‘But a glow isn’t a fire, Jack.’

  ‘No, Miss Powell, but you put something on top of the thin wire which will catch fire if it’s touched by anything hot.’

  ‘What, just a bit of paper?’ I put in. This sounded too easy!

  ‘No. I don’t think that’s good enough. This fellow used some kind of celluloid substance, but I’m not quite sure what. The Engineers, I believe, use shredded guncotton.’

  ‘Bravo, Jack. You do seem to know a good deal about it. Apparently your textbooks are better than Edward thinks.’

  My short-lived admiration for the doctor died away quickly, but apparently the conversation was too much for Mrs Spencer.

  ‘I think it’s a horrid thing to talk about,’ she broke in. ‘We might all be burnt in our beds the way you’re all talking. These horrible infernal machines. You’re going to the County Show, of course, Mildred dear?’

  But Mrs Spencer’s well-meant attempt to turn the conversation was not entirely successful. Her husband headed her off from the County Show to another topic.

  ‘By the way, talking about machines, Miss Powell, I was looking at the clock on the remains of your old car today. Herbertson showed it to me. It had stopped at seven minutes to four, so you wouldn’t have been late for that hospital meeting, after all.’ He turned to me. ‘Must preserve your aunt’s reputation for punctuality, you know, Edward. You may have noticed that she’s rather particular about it. Especially at breakfast-time, eh, Edward?’ He changed a sly tone for a boisterous laugh.

  I should have wanted to have put a pin in the bubble of that reputation anyhow, but remembering him saying that he noticed that I had rung him up on that afternoon at five past four, it was necessary to do something about it. The news was rather staggering, but I kept my head, and quick as thought went straight for the difficulty. Toujours l’ audace, toujours l’ audace!

  ‘I don’t think that can be right, or I should have got through to you on the phone sooner than I did. Sorry to spoil your reputation, Aunt, but I remember noticing the day before that that clock was a good five minutes slow.’

  My aunt looked at me angrily, almost disdainfully. ‘Really, Edward, I have no such recollection.’

  If we had not had visitors I could see we should have had a row, merely because she was not prepared to admit she might possibly have been late for her wretched meeting. What conceit that woman has!

  The conversation returned to the County Show, and ultimately, many weary hours afterwards, those boring Spencers departed. But it had been for me a very successful evening. Firstly, I had dealt naturally and in my stride with the tiresome and unexpected little point of the clock on the old Morris. Secondly, I had learnt that the Insurance Company had not made any difficulties as to my aunt’s claim, and that meant that neither Herbertson their agent, nor they, had noticed anything curious in the steering gear or the brake cables. It would indeed have been odd if they had, seeing how completely smashed up the car was. Still, it was a relief. And thirdly, I had got a great deal of very good information quite casually from young Spencer’s description of the use of clocks for starting fires. Acting on his hints I could work out the rest. Perhaps it was a pity that Mrs Spencer had actually mentioned ‘burning in their bed’, but with luck the unfortunate remark would be forgotten. I wonder what put the idea into her head? It has been in mine for some time now, an off-shoot partly of this fire trial, and partly of my previous idea of an explosion in the petrol tank, which I see now would have been a better idea. Fire! Fire! Beautiful tongues of living, leaping, da
ncing flame, destroying everything, obliterating everything. I see now that my earlier dreams were right. Those flames dwell with me night and day.

  3

  It is a pity that one is never taught anything useful at school. Not that I remained very long at school, or even took more than a casual interest, unless I was obliged to, in any of the dreary subjects put down in the curriculum. I could see very early on that it was impossible to work sympathetically with teachers whose minds were so narrow, and whose whole spirit was so tiresome and fatiguing.

  But one never knows what may be useful to one. It has already been awkward that I have had to discuss the question of setting fire to things with the Spencers, and though I flatter myself that I did it so casually that the conversation will not be remembered, yet I would have liked to have known it all for myself. And anyhow, my information is by no means complete, and I shall have to carry out experiments, always a difficult thing to do with so inquisitive a person as my aunt about. Moreover, I want to know something about sleeping draughts.

  Today, therefore, in the pursuit of knowledge – it’s wonderful how this sort of thing sharpens up one’s intelligence – I went shopping. Local gossip being so terrific, I took the precaution, not only of avoiding Llwll, naturally, but even of omitting Abercwm. Shrewsbury, however, I felt was large enough to forget my trivial purchases. They consisted of a cheap clock, a boy’s set for soldering things (it was touching how solicitous an uncle I was in this purchase!), some lengths of electric flex, some very thin wire (alleged to be for the hanging of miniatures on a wall in which I did not wish to drive nails, and where I wanted the wire to be almost invisible), a small electric battery (for experiments only; when it comes to the point I shall use the electric-light system, for which the Brynmawr brook provides an inadequate supply of power), a hundred shotgun cartridges, several very ugly celluloid toys (dear uncle again for a younger and imaginary nephew), and a copy of a medical paper with a repellent name suggesting the painful operations which befall those who come into the clutches of Spencer’s fraternity. This business is getting expensive.

  All these I shall keep locked up in the tool-box of La Joyeuse. I simply dare not conduct any experiments in the house except one dress rehearsal, so to speak. But there are plenty of by-roads and lanes nearby to which I can drive and pursue my researches without the least chance of being molested or observed.

  As I drove back to Brynmawr, a little incident occurred which proved to me how necessary it was that I should keep well away from prying eyes. I found Williams staring intently at the spot where my aunt had met with her accident. I was compelled to slow down because his dog would not get out of the way, and so I could not avoid a conversation with him; besides, I was rather anxious to know what he was doing there.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mr Edward,’ came his sing-song voice. ‘It was indeed a grand mercy to all of us that Miss Powell was not injured. Look you, she has asked me to see what can be done that no one shall go over here again. She says it is not enough that we have white posts to mark it at night, but there must be something which will prevent it. She will not have iron fencing here, or hurdles, look you, because, indeed, she says she will not have the view spoilt.’

  ‘Why not plant a hedge then?’

  ‘Indeed, yes, but it will not grow in three weeks, and Miss Powell seems nervous after her’ – he paused as if at a loss for a word – ‘adventure. Perhaps it will be best if I bank up the road, I think, and yes, perhaps it can be done. But indeed, Mr Edward, you should not have thrown that biscuit to your dog, for it is looking for another he must have been that made him cross the road so. And poor dog, he was killed, and Miss Powell, she was indeed nearly killed too – and for a biscuit whatever.’ His change of subject in the middle had been a bit startling, but I showed no surprise.

  ‘Oh, nonsense, Williams. I believe I did once chuck poor So-so a biscuit somewhere near here, but he wouldn’t expect to find another there just because he’d once had one here. I think he was chasing a rabbit.’

  ‘It may be so, but it was just here that I talked to your small brown dog before while he ate a biscuit.’

  ‘Did you? Oh, well, the world’s full of coincidences.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep my aunt waiting for her lunch.’ And I glided on, having, I hope, kept my tone as light as the movement of La Joyeuse.

  But I hope that old fool will keep his mouth shut!

  This afternoon I have been reading this medical paper: at least, the advertisements, and very odd reading they are. I have, for a long while past, realized that several little pains of mine have been neglected by old Spencer, and now, fortunately, I can obtain the remedies. I must buy this thing more often. But I have had to change my mind as to one opinion I have long held. I was once told that the wording of advertisements was written by people called ‘advertising agents’, a vulgar lot of people. These things are obviously too learned for them to have composed. I wonder who does it? I mean sentences beginning: ‘In sepsis followed by extreme leucopenia or neutropenia –’ or ‘composed of Staphylococcus aureus and Bacillus acnes – ’ must be written by very clever men.

  But best of all I did find in it what I was seeking for. What I really wanted to know was whether a mere layman could walk into a chemist’s and buy a sleeping draught. Naturally I did not find a direct answer to that. I did not expect to. Of course the simplest way to find out was to go to the nearest chemist and try to buy one. One would find out and possibly get the stuff, but I was afraid to do this in case the chemist should start making inquiries. It might be part of the law that he should. Anyhow, I was not going to risk it within a hundred miles of Brynmawr. In London, perhaps, one could give a wrong address.

  But I felt that if, instead of asking vaguely for something to put one to sleep, I was able to ask for a definite product, it would sound so much more convincing. It would be easy to get hold of a sheet of Dr Spencer’s notepaper and write a letter recommending its use for myself under some other name. Probably no such formality was necessary, and I hoped it would not be necessary to produce the letter, but it would be wise to be prepared. I know so little about these things. As I said before, school education is appallingly deficient.

  Anyhow, in this matter, the paper did not let me down, for here, fortunately, was something, the very newest and latest idea – little tablets which could be put into any liquid and would dissolve at once and be taken without the patient knowing. Apparently the great thought was to avoid offending the susceptibilities of the patient, a very proper, worthy, and meritorious wish. And these Somnoquubes were guaranteed to ensure really sound sleep. Apart from the fact that I dislike seeing ‘cubes’ spelt ‘quubes’, I was all in favour of it.

  Things are working out nicely.

  4

  The great disadvantage of the plan I have in mind is that practically everything I possess will be destroyed. I have got a small insurance on my personal belongings. I took it out because I found that sparks fly out so easily from the wood fires we have, and once or twice dozing in front of the fire on a winter’s afternoon a small hole has been burnt in the leg of my trousers before I detected the presence of the spark, and of course that ruins the suit, for I cannot wear patched clothes, even in the depths of this desert.

  But the policy is only for a small amount, and it will not start to cover all the clothes I have, a wardrobe, I may say, chosen with great care and taste. I suppose it is replaceable, and certainly nothing is more interesting than buying clothes – one can spend hours planning it – but all the same I hate the idea of losing things which I have taken such trouble to collect and to match. Besides, there is always the financial question. Degrading, but true.

  And besides clothes, I have other things. There are my books, for instance. Many of the most charming I have bought in France and brought through the customs with difficulty. I might not be able to get them again, for these things, little masterpieces though they are in their own way, are gossamer trifles that app
eal not to the many-headed and, naturally neglected by the multitude, drift away down the breeze of time. I have never met a bestseller yet that I have managed to finish. It is not surprising. One’s taste is, I hope, superior to the average.