And So To Murder (2 page)

The first stir of the thunderbolt occurred with the delivery of a letter of acceptance and a real cheque from the publishers. The breakfast-table at St Jude’s vicarage sat as though stunned. That good man, Canon Stanton, remained with the coffee-pot poised in the air for so long that the maid could stand the sight no longer, and came in and took it out of his hand. Miss Flossie Stanton went through a variety of emotions. But the cheque convinced her.

Whereupon Miss Stanton promptly put on her hat and went round the neighbourhood to brag about it.

It was Miss Flossie’s own fault. She was very casual, but she swanked like billy-o. She crammed it down people’s throats. It did not occur to her to wonder what the book might be about. Originally ‘Monica’s-little-book; so-clever-you-know,’ bore the non-committal and genteel title of
Eve D’Aubray
, which Miss Stanton vaguely associated with Mrs Gaskell and thought rather nice. Even when the book was in print, six months later, it still did not occur to her to read it.

But the tea-tables of East Roystead had read it. They were waiting. It was on Black Friday, a day in July, when Miss Stanton at the tea-table of Mrs Colonel Granby ventured the remark that she had heard it was such a nice story and wondered what it might be about. And the tea-table – trembling with secret joy – arose as one woman and told her.

That was the end.

Miss Stanton returned to the vicarage, burst into her brother’s study like a dying tornado, and collapsed on the sofa. Canon Stanton resignedly put down his pen.

‘James,’ said Miss Stanton, in a voice like a G-man questioning a gangster under powerful lights, ‘
have you read that book
?’

Families have painfully literal minds.

3

And so Monica Stanton acquired the reputation of being an abandoned woman.

This is not to say that her reputation became entirely on a par with that of Eve D’Aubray in the book. After all, the people of East Roystead had known her all her life, and were quite well aware that her scope (for one thing) was more limited than Eve D’Aubray’s. It was not alleged that she had first sold her honour for a diamond necklace worth twenty thousand pounds, because nobody in East Roystead ever had a diamond necklace worth twenty thousand pounds. It was not alleged that she had gone cruising in the Mediterranean with an Italian count, because everybody knew that the Stantons spent their holidays at Bournemouth.

East Roystead felt that they had to be fair.

But there it stopped. Even those who conceded that the whole thing was chiefly imagination still argued – with touching faith in the sincerity of authors – that nobody could write a whole book on one subject without having
some
knowledge of it.

Furthermore, Monica was known as a ‘quiet one’; and this made it worse.

The first few weeks at the vicarage were chaotic. Miss Stanton’s anguished plaint was divided into three counts: (a) how they should survive the disgrace; (b) how a niece of hers could ever write of such things; and (c) how a niece of hers had ever learned of such things in order to write about them.

This last count appeared to be the most important. Miss Stanton dwelt on it to an almost gruesome extent.

Not that she ever had it out with Monica. She would demand details; and then, flushing, would lift her hand and refuse to hear them. When Monica, desperate, would demand to know exactly what she was talking about, Miss Stanton would reply, with powerful and sinister inflexion: ‘
YOU
know’ – and hurry in to have it out with the Canon instead.

Miss Stanton wanted to know who the man was. She reviewed, libellously, the names of all the young men in the neighbourhood. In fine, she nearly drove the Canon mad; and in him Monica found an unexpected ally.

Miss Stanton regarded him with dismay.

‘James, I cannot understand you. Good heavens, you cannot mean to say that you actually condone these horrible goings-on?’

‘What goings-on?’ said the Canon.

‘This book, of course.’

‘A book, my dear, cannot properly be described as a goings-on.’

‘James, you are the most infuriating man I have ever known. You know quite well what I mean. This awful book –’

‘It is a trifle immature, let us admit. And perhaps a little ill-advised. At the same time, I must confess that I found it mildly entertaining –’

‘James, don’t be revolting!’

‘My dear Flossie,’ said the Canon, with slight asperity, ‘I am tempted to be vulgar and say: Come off it. You appear to be confusing fiction with autobiography. Recently we both made the acquaintance of Mr William Cartwright, who writes the detective novels. He made quite a favourable impression on you, if I remember correctly. You do not seriously suggest that Mr Cartwright spends his spare time in cutting people’s throats?’

Miss Stanton clutched at a tragic straw. All her troubles seemed centred on this.

‘If only,’ she wailed, ‘if only Monica had written a nice detective story!’

This deserves to be included under the head of historic remarks which start family rows.

Anyone who has had some experience with family life will testify that when the female head of a household gets hold of a remark or a piece of repartee which seems to her a good thing, she freezes to it. She never lets go. The members of her family are treated to it, in exactly the same words, on an average of a dozen times a day. Gradually it saps their vitality. They grow morbid under it. They brace themselves for its coming, each time they see the lady open her mouth.

Now Monica Stanton, to begin with, had no real grievance against that inoffensive form of entertainment known as the detective-story. She neither liked nor disliked it. She had read a few, which struck her as being rather far-fetched and slightly silly, though doubtless tolerable enough if you liked that sort of thing.

But, by the time her aunt had finished, Monica was in such a state that she had come to curse the day Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was born. It was a wordless, mindless passion of hatred. As for Mr William Cartwright – whose name Miss Flossie Stanton, with fiendish ingenuity, managed to drag into the conversation on every subject from tapioca pudding to Adolf Hitler – Monica felt that she would like to poison Mr Cartwright with curare, and dance on his grave.

As usual, a trifle did it.

Throughout the turmoil over
Desire
, Monica had kept up a stern outer front, though she was quaking with fear inside. She had had qualms long before the storm broke. The first qualm occurred when the original hot flush of literary inspiration had passed, and she realized what she had written. The second qualm occurred when she read the proof-sheets, and writhed. Afterwards it was mostly qualms.

But she was not so much apprehensive as bewildered and furious. It wasn’t fair, she cried out to the mirror. It wasn’t just. It wasn’t reasonable.

She had always wanted to write, and now she had proved she could write. And what happened? What happened? She had done an admirable thing, for which she could have expected a word of praise; and instead she was treated like a convicted felon. There returned to her some of the irrational, baffled feeling of childhood, when you do something from the very best of motives, and yet instantly every adult rises against you in wrath.

‘And I said to her father,’ declared Miss Stanton, in a heart-broken undertone: ‘“If only Monica had written a nice detective-story!”’

After all, what on earth was all the fuss about? That was what Monica passionately demanded to know. Re-reading
Desire
in the grisliness of cold print, she could see that there were certain passages which might be called outspoken. But what of it? What was there to be shocked about? It was all perfectly normal and natural and human, wasn’t it?

‘And as I said to her father,’ confided Miss Stanton, bending closer, ‘“If
only
Monica had written a nice detective-story!”’

Oh, God!

And all the worse because the book boomed into success. Tipped off by the neighbours, a newspaperman came to interview Monica. She was photographed in the vicarage garden, and her real name appeared in print. The reporter also asked her some questions about Woman’s Right to Love. Monica, confused, gave some answers which sounded worse in print than they actually were. Canon Stanton had to write to his Bishop about this; Miss Stanton was furnished with spiritual ammunition for the next three weeks; and more reporters hurried to get their share of a good thing.

‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ said the
Planet
, who was himself of a somewhat flighty literary turn. ‘Face like a Burne-Jones angel and probably a heart like Messalina.’

‘I dunno the dames,’ said the
News-Record
keenly, ‘but it sounds hot. Did you try to date her up?’

‘Of course,’ observed Miss Flossie Stanton – and for the first time a hideous note of complacency began to creep into her voice – ‘of course, the book
is
making money; oh, yes, quite a lot, I believe; but, as I said to my brother: “What is that?” What is it, indeed? After all, I believe Mr Cartwright made quite a lot of money. And, as I said to my brother: “If only Monica had written a nice
detective
–”’

For Monica, that finished things.

Towards the middle of August, before there had come any glimmer of events that were to shatter Europe by the end of the month, Monica packed her bag and went to London.

4

Sitting now in the office of Mr Thomas Hackett, Monica was in almost a fever of impatience to begin work. And she would do something good, she swore to herself; she would make the script of
Desire
a screen masterpiece. For she was being treated with consideration, with courtesy, even with deference, by the man who had been described as the Young Napoleon of the British film industry. In pure gratitude for this, her loyalty went out to Mr Hackett’s curt practicality, his smooth, sure good sense.

‘Then that’s settled,’ said Mr Hackett, leaning across the desk to shake hands with her. ‘And now that you’re one of us, Miss Stanton, what do you think of it?’

‘I think it’s wonderful,’ answered Monica, with sincerity. But –’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I mean – how do I work? That is, do I stay in town and write the script and send it to you? Or do I work here?’

‘Oh, you’ll work here,’ said Mr Hackett; and Monica’s joy bubbled clear to the top. It had been her one remaining anxiety. The mere sight of Pineham Studios had put the film-germ into her blood.

‘It’d hardly do to have you in town,’ the producer went on dryly. ‘I’ve got to have you under my eye. And I’ve got a fellow here who can teach you the hang of the game in no time. We’ll put you in the room next to him.’ He made a note. ‘But it means work, you know! Good, hard, solid work. And quick work, too, Miss Stanton. I’m keen about this. I want to go into production’ – his hand hovered over the desk, and descended on it with a flat, business-like smack – ‘just as soon as possible. Four weeks, if we can. Three weeks, maybe. What do you say?’

Monica was not yet used to film tactics. She took him at his word, and was staggered.

‘Three weeks! But –’

Mr Hackett considered, and made a grudging concession.

‘Well, perhaps a bit longer. Not much longer, though, mind! That’s the way we work here, Miss Stanton. I want this production to follow
Spies at Sea
, our present anti-Nazi espionage film.’

‘I know, Mr Hackett, but –’

‘
Spies at Sea
should be finished by that time. I hope.’ A shade of hideous gloom went across his face. But he cheered up a moment later. ‘Say four to five weeks,’ he urged persuasively, ‘and give ourselves plenty of time. That’s it. That’s settled, then.’ He made another note. ‘What do you say?’

Monica smiled.

‘I’ll try, Mr Hackett. All the same, please! Whether I can learn all I’ve got to learn, and still do you anything like a decent script for
Desire
, all in four weeks –’

Mr Hackett regarded her rather blankly.

‘For
Desire
?’ he repeated.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘But, my dear young lady,’ said Mr Hackett, bustling out at her with a bland, paternal air, ‘you’re not going to work on the script
of Desire
.’

Monica stared at him.

‘Oh, no, no, no, no!’ continued Mr Hackett, as though wondering what could have put such an idea into her head. He was almost reproachful about it. His dental smile flashed. He shook his head. All the force and radiance of his personality, which seemed to animate even his toothbrush moustache, was directed towards disabusing her mind of this fantastic notion.

‘But I thought – I understood –’

‘No, no, no, no, no,’ said Mr Hackett. ‘Mr William Cartwright is to work on
Desire
, and he’ll teach you what you need to know about the business. You, Miss Stanton, are to do us the screen-play for Mr Cartwright’s new detective novel,
And So To Murder
.’

1

I
F
Mr Dunne’s theory is correct, some very peculiar things go on in the subconscious mind. Monica, even though for a moment she was breathless with shock, had nevertheless the feeling of being able to say: ‘I have been here before.’ The whole scene – the white-painted office, the chintz curtains at sunny windows, Mr Hackett’s voice mouthing and echoing – all returned to her with horrible familiarity, as though she had been through the same scene somewhere before, and should have known what was coming.

The real reason was that, secretly, she had feared it couldn’t last. It was much too good to be true. Somewhere, ran her secret conviction, the fates must be waiting to spoil her dreams again with some poisonously dirty trick.

And, when it occurred, this dirty trick would of course concern the name of Cartwright. It was inevitable. She was haunted by Cartwright. Her universe was blackened by Cartwright. At the end of every pleasant avenue, up there popped Cartwright’s detestable face.

Yet she fought against it.

‘You don’t mean that,’ she pleaded, hoping against hope. ‘Mr Hackett, you can’t mean it!’