Murder of a Martinet Read online

  FOR a long time Muriel Farrington had ruled the lives of her children, gathering them all together, married or single, under the same roof in the old family mansion. She made a fetish of getting her own way, and liked to do it gracefully if possible, but if there was any resistance she could always rely on the subtle effects of the time-honoured heart attack. Self-satisfied, and selfish beyond belief, she did not sense the bitter resentment that burned in the breasts of her family, and was far from realising the point of desperation reached by one of them, a desperation which was leading inexorably to her own destruction. For Chief-Inspector Macdonald this was not one of the easy cases, but it is one of E. C. R. Lorac’s best.

  MURDER OF A MARTINET

  by

  E. C. R. LORAC

  Copyright, 1951, by E.C.R. Lorac

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  CHAPTER I

  ANNE STRANGE stood in the middle of the great Regency drawing room, looking around her and trying for the hundredth time to appreciate her own good fortune. It was a beautiful room, beautiful in its proportions, its gracefully panelled walls, and its long windows with their view of Regent’s Park across the road. The room was furnished, too, with pieces of its own period, fine rosewood and mellow mahogany fashioned by craftsmen who followed the great traditions of Sheraton and Chippendale. To have such a living room (and other rooms almost equally beautiful, in postwar London was a good fortune accorded to few. Anne knew all about the “prefabs,” the “pathological flatlets,” and the “positive pigsties” in which the majority of young married people lived today: she often made a genuine effort to be grateful for her own living conditions, but below that dutiful effort there smouldered a dull resentment. “If only Tony could realise my point of view,” she said to herself. “After all, he’s my husband and he only seems able to remember that he’s her son. Oh, these jokes about mothers-in-law . . . Little did I know when I came here. It’s not my home. It’s hers.”

  She shook herself impatiently, angry that she had allowed the same old theme to dominate her again. Today was to he a good day, for Veronica Lacey was coming to spend the afternoon. Good old Ronnie—what fun they’d had together in the Services. Ronnie was utterly remote from all this tangle of family tug o’ war, this fighting for one’s gaiety and liberty against a woman who had the muffling quality of an anaesthetic.

  Anne looked round the room to see that “bits of herself” were in evidence. It was Anne who had planted the bowls of narcissus and Roman hyacinths which looked so charming on the polished tables; it was she who had arranged the tall-stemmed chrysanthemums and put up the Van Gogh print over the mantelpiece to remind herself that she hadn’t become a “genuine antique.” And the Degas Ballet Girls—so reminiscent of Paula, with her lovely legs and inscrutable eyes. “Oh, damn Paula! She’s part and parcel of all this thing,” said Anne. “I’ll get rid of that Degas print. But Ronnie will like the bulbs. She’s rather like a spring flower herself. And she’s outside all this. Glory, it’ll be nice to see her. She’s the only visitor of my own I’ve asked for ages . . .

  2

  Of course Ronnie exclaimed, “Oh, Anne, aren’t you lucky!” when she saw the lovely sitting room, and her eves looked very round—and very young. Anne laughed. “Am I?” she asked. “Ronnie, you make me feel so old. You look such an infant.”

  “Me? Oh, I know I look a rag bag. I’m just too busy to care, Anne. If you could only see the way Tom and I pig it in our foul Hat, you’d have a fit. This is so gloriously serene and dignified. You were always a fortunate wench. I do envy you.”

  “You needn’t,” said Anne. “I envy you your foul flat. It’s yours. This isn’t mine, It isn’t all beer and skittles living with in-laws, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t got any,” said Veronica, sitting herself down in a brocade-covered armchair, facing the long windows so that she could see the entrancing beauty of the bare plane trees across the road. “Tom’s parents were killed in the blitz and his only sister is out in Malaya. We’re frightfully poor, Anne. It was all right when I had a job, but when Thomas the second arrived, expenses went up and income went down, and I do like nice things—so when I saw’ all this I just coveted. It must be so marvellous to have so much space.”

  “I’m a selfish pig, Ronnie,” said Anne quickly. “I do realise you have a tough time—”

  “Oh, I’m not grumbling,” said Veronica quickly. “I adore my brat, and I’m quite domestic-minded, and I’m lucky in having a good ‘sitter-in’ who obliges occasionally. It was just seeing these lovely rooms and the sort of dignity of this house—it made me realise what a muck I live in, with nappies festooned round the sitting-room fire and all that.’ “I know,” said Anne quickly, and then broke off as a quiet knock sounded at the door.

  “Are you at home, dear?” asked a gentle voice, and the door opened to admit a grey-haired lady. “I beg your pardon darling,” said the newcomer quickly. “I hadn’t realised that you had a visitor. Oh, please don’t get up. . . .”

  “May I introduce Mrs. Coniston to you?” said Anne. “Veronica, this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Farrington.”

  “How do you do? This is a very great pleasure,” murmured the elderly lady, advancing to shake-hands with Veronica “I’m sure I have heard Anne speak of you—Ronnie Lace; that was, surely? I think I met your mother at one time Dear child, do sit down. How tired you look.”

  “She means what a mess I look,” thought Veronica, conscious of the older woman’s quiet elegance. The beautiful cut black frock, the pearls, the diamonds on well-tended hands, the soignée head with its expertly dressed silver hand commanded the old-fashioned word “elegance,” for Mrs Farrington was old-fashioned herself in a way that seemed to rebuke as stridency the modern mode of lipstick, nail varnish, and urchin cut. She had a beautiful voice, low and charmingly modulated, and she moved gracefully, for all that her back was held very straight and her head erect.

  “Ronnie’s got a baby, and she does all the housework as well, so I expect she does get tired,” said Anne. “I was hoping she’d put her feet up and have a real laze.”

  “An excellent idea!” said Mrs. Farrington warmly. “How lovely to have a baby. You must let me come and see him—or it is her?—sometime. I love all babies. I should beg Anne to bring you down to tea with me, child, only I realise it’s more restful for you up here.”

  “It’s such a lovely room,” sighed Veronica. “It does me good even to see it. So few people seem to have beautiful homes these days.”

  “But how delightful to meet a modern girl who cares for beautiful homes,” said Mrs. Farrington. “I get so disheartened when the young things of today dismiss our beloved old pieces as junk, but I’m afraid I belong to the junk category myself. Now the last thing I want to do is to interrupt your visit. I know that you and Anne must have so much to talk about, you were in the Forces together, were you not? Anne, dear, I just wanted to give you this little parcel. It’s only some cork mats to put underneath those bowls of bulbs. I love growing bulbs, but if you aren’t very careful the bowls do mark the polished tables, and it seems such a pity to let that happen. I’ll leave them here, dear, and you can put them under the bowls later. I know you won’t forget ” She turned to Veronica. “Have a good rest, child, and I do hope you will find time to come to tea with me another day. It would give me so much pleasure, and of course I should love you to bring baby. Don’t get up, dear child. Good-bye for now.”

  3

  “I see,” said Veronica.

  “I wonder if you do?” said Anne. “It’s much more complex than you can imagine; but you don’t want to hear about my complexiti
es. Put your feet up and have a cigarette, and tell me if you’ve seen any of the old gang lately.”

  “I haven’t seen anybody, there just isn’t time, and I’m ashamed of looking such a rag bag,” said Veronica, putting her feet up on the pouf which Anne provided. “Goodness, how lovely to put the old legs up!” went on Veronica. “But, Anne, do tell me about things here. I’m so frightfully interested, and it’ll be such a comfort to hear about somebody else’s problems; it’ll help me to forget my own moans—or does that sound frightfully mean?”

  “No, of course it doesn’t. If you want to hear about this crazy house, I shall adore to tell you about it. I don’t risk confidences with most people, they have a way of getting back to ma-in-law, and then there’s hell to pay. One thing about you and me, there’s no need to be afraid either of us will pass anything on. We do know one another.” Veronica nodded. “Yes. That’s why I was so glad you routed me out. I thought you’d done with me for keeps.” “Well, I hadn’t. I was hoping that Tony and I could get out of this place and then we could have asked you to my own foul flat or whatever it was. I hate asking people here. That old devil always gets at my friends. You wait. She will ask you to tea, ‘and do bring baby,’ and then she’ll tell you, oh, so gently and persuasively, just how ungrateful and unkind I am.”

  “But, Anne, if it’s like that, why don’t you just walk out?” “Because I’ve got a husband, and I don’t really want to walk out on him, although it may come to it,” said Anne. “You see, this place suits Tony. He’s always been used to it, and he likes being comfortable and secure and peaceful, and he thinks I’m just being awkward.”

  “Then you’ve been here ever since 1946?”

  Anne nodded. “Yes. We got married before Tony was demobilised. At first I lived in an hotel, and thought I could find a flat or a small house, but it was frightfully difficult, and we hadn’t much money. Then the Farringtons moved back here. The house was commandeered during the war and the furniture stored, and they didn’t move back until 1946. Tony and I hadn’t managed to find a home of our own, and then I was ill, I started a baby and had a sideslip, and Ma Farrington came fussing along, simply oozing sympathy and helpfulness, and said: ‘Come along to us. The house is much too big for us now, and you can have the whole first floor all to yourselves and be quite self-contained, and it’s ready furnished, and Madge will manage the catering until you’re really strong, dear.’ And it all sounded utterly marvellous. Tony was fed up with living in digs, and I was still a bit of a flop, and so we came here, and here we’ve stayed.”

  Veronica nodded. “I see. It just happened. Is it only you and Mr. and Mrs. Farrington here?”

  “Oh, lord, no. It’s complicated beyond words. The house is bungfull. Do you really want to hear about all the inlaws?”

  “I want to hear all about everything. Why is Tony’s name Strange when his mother’s named Farrington?”

  Anne laughed. “Take a deep breath, love, and get a good hold on yourself before I plunge in. Mrs. Farrington was first married in 1912 to a Captain Strange. Tony is their only child. In 1914 Captain Strange was killed, in the retreat from Mons. In 1915 his widow met Captain Farrington, who’d just lost his own wife, and who had a baby girl, Madge. Well, I suppose it seemed like providence all round. Captain Farrington married Muriel Strange, who had a nice little fortune of her own, plus this house, and she took Baby Madge into her loving arms and consoled bereaved widower simultaneously.” Veronica laughed. ‘‘Well, it sounds quite sensible, and it must have worked, seeing they’ve lived together ever since.” “Oh, yes, it worked very well. Old Eddie—my father-in-law—is the most amiable and accommodating old boy you ever met. He’s quite a peach and I really do love him. After the 1914-1918 to-do, he got a job as Appeal Secretary to one of the ex-Servicemen’s Associations, and it suited him beautifully to have a lovely home and a dignified wife who was a very good mother to the growing family.” “How many children did they have?”

  “They started off with the two, Tony, who was Muriel Strange’s son, and Madge, who was Eddie Farrington’s daughter by his first wife. Then they produced Joyce, and finally the twins—Peter and Paula, poor lambs. The twins were a sort of afterthought, or else never intended. They weren’t born until 1930, when Tony was sixteen and Joyce was eight.”

  “Five of them—quite a quiverful,” murmured Veronica. “And do they all still live here?”

  “Yes, love, all of them. Joyce is married to Philip Duncan. They also have a flat here. So this commodious residence houses three married couples—Pa and Ma Farrington, Tony and me, and Joyce and Philip. Plus Madge, who was trained as a hospital nurse and who runs the house for dear mother, and the twins, who are as mad as hatters and inhabit the attics. And there you have it.”

  Veronica’s eyes had been getting rounder and rounder. “Glory! What a houseful! And how does it work? Do you all eat together, as in a high-class catering establishment, or what?”

  “What, love. When Tony and I first came, before Joyce got married, we all had meals together in the family dining room, very ceremonious and punctual and all that. Madge did the catering, and she did it jolly well, although she’s an outsize in snakes. Then, when I realised I couldn’t winkle Tony out of here in a hurry, I struck. I said if I couldn’t have my own home, at least I’d have my own kitchen and my own meals. I hoped Mrs. F. would blankly refuse to have her small boudoir turned into a kitchen, but she didn’t. She knows just how far she can go, and she realised at that time that if I really did walk out, Tony would come too. You see, she worships Tony. She’s always owned him. She’s like that. The only reason we were able to get married was that we were both in the Services and got married by Special Licence just before Tony went overseas. She couldn’t stop us, but she had the time-honoured heart attacks and all that. Of course, when I agreed to come and live here, I hadn’t the first idea what main-law was like. It took me quite a while to learn.”

  “But, Anne, if you feel like that about it, doesn’t Tony understand?”

  “No. He doesn’t. I told you it was complex, Ronnie. Tony has always been devoted to his mother: he says she has been a marvellous mother, and it’s true. She loves him with a devouring love that’s almost terrifying. If she can only get his socks to mend she’s blissfully happy. I’m very fond of Tony, and I intend to keep him, but I know all his little ways. He likes being mothered. He’s lazy so far as his home is concerned, and he likes things to run smoothly and to find everything comfortable and dignified when he gets home after a hard day’s work. I can see his point of view.”

  “And he can’t see yours?”

  “No. He can’t—or won’t. It’s inconceivable to him that I should criticise his mother or find her difficult. He says she’s always so courteous and considerate and unselfish; and her health is so frail that it’s only right to give her the only happiness she asks for, having her dear children around her.”

  “Cripes,” said Veronica. “It’s just beyond me. Tom and I have only each other—”

  “And the foul fiat,” put in Anne. “Give me a foul flat every time. I shall achieve it one day. I just won’t be beat, but I think patience :s more likely to win than high strikes. Now I’m going to get you some tea, and you just stay put and study the lovely room.”

  “It is lovely, Anne.”

  “I know it is, love, but I’d still prefer a utility suite. I’ve had enough of antiques and how to care for them.”

  Veronica laughed. “If it were me, I believe I’d bash it all to blazes, just out of temper.”

  “I’ve thought of that, but it wouldn’t get me anywhere,” replied Anne.

  4

  “Oh, don’t go yet,” begged Anne. “I want you to see Eddie—pa-in-law, you know. He’s a darling, and you’ll love him, Ronnie. He always comes in and sees me after tea.”

  “Is he still an Appeal Secretary?”

  “Oh, lord, no; he retired in 1938. Then from 1939 to 1940 he raged round trying to enlist in something and at
last got tagged on to the Pioneers, training a marvellous selection of toughs and ex-C.O.s. I believe he had a glorious time and enjoyed it no end. Then in 1945 he was retired and had to come home, very hard up and frightfully bored, because he’s still got any amount of energy and character.”

  “Why very hard up?” inquired Veronica.

  “Well, he’s got hardly any money of his own, and he’s a very independent-minded person. It’s Mrs. Farrington who has the money: she owns the house, and of course she takes the rent Philip and Tony pay. She’s as mean as what not. Anyway, Eddie never has a bean to spend on himself, although his wife still makes him change into a dinner jacket every evening. This is a marvellous house, Ronnie. It just beats the band. Oh, there he is! Come in, Eddie. I want you to see Ronnie.”

  The elderly gentleman who came across the room smiling at Veronica was what the latter described as “a dear old boy.” He was still very erect, thin and whipcordy in figure, with silver hair and merry blue eyes.

  “My father-in-law, Colonel Farrington,” said Anne. “Mrs. Coniston, otherwise Ronnie.”

  “Delighted,” murmured the Colonel; “but I feel a gatecrasher. Anne and I always have a date after tea, but it’s an understood thing that visitors have precedence. It’s all too easy to get into bad habits in a house like this.”

  “You’re not gate-crashing, Eddie.” said Anne. “I invited you. Now we’re all going to have a quick one while the going’s good.”

  “Ah . . . that reminds me. A little present,” murmured the Colonel, producing a flat bottle from his pocket. “Scotch, my dear. I won it. A: darts.”

  “But how clever of you,” put in Veronica. “D’you think I could play darts? Think how Tom’s eyes would shine if I won prizes like that.”

  “At the club?” asked Anne, laughing across at the old man. “Tell Ronnie about the club: she’ll love it, and she’s the world’s safest confidante.”