No Love Lost (30 page)

Yet the really damaging passage took me by surprise. It seemed to spring out of its context and to obliterate every other
line. It was Andy's voice, calm and matter-of-fact yet full of determination.

‘
We'll have to get out of it, and out of the country, just as soon as we can. I love you. darling, more than anything in the world
,'

I did not hear my reply. I was looking hopelessly at Uncle Fred South and he was sitting up, a wide broad smile which yet had something grim in it spreading over his face. The recording went on; the Superintendent's own voice and the sound of Andy's protest as he heard it were all faithfully reproduced. We did not move.

At last the Superintendent leaned forward and switched off the recorder and there was a long silence.

I spoke first. I could not bear the suspense any longer, and the grim smile on the shrewd yet comical face of the old man seemed to fill the world

‘Well?' I said huskily ‘Now you know the – the footing we're on, what can you tell us about ourselves that we don't know?'

He rose to his feet and sniffed. Something had happened to him. His whole attitude towards us had changed. He looked tired and somehow more ordinary and when his eyes met mine there was no knowing twinkle in them. Andy sat stiffly at the table, his dark face sullen and quiet.

‘Have you found out anything you did not know, Superintendent?'

Uncle Fred South cocked an eye at him. ‘Yes,' he said distinctly, ‘I've got my man, and I'd have had him before and we'd all have had a night's rest if this young woman had thought to open her mouth earlier.'

I stared. The ground was opening beneath my feet.

‘It's not true –' I was beginning when he turned on me.

‘Now pay attention,' he said. ‘The police don't give witnesses explanations. Silent and mysterious, that's the line the police take in an inquiry, and then it's all a nice surprise for everybody when the evidence comes out in court. But because you've been very helpful, and because it won't make a mite of difference anyway in this particular case, I'll tell you. I'll be as good as my word. I'll tell you something you didn't know about yourselves.
You didn't know you could tell who killed Victor Lane. Does that surprise you?

I put my hand in Andy's and looked at the Superintendent.

‘How did I tell you?'

He shook his head at me wearily. ‘You told your young man, you didn't tell me,' he said calmly. ‘You told me who burned the sheet of paper in the fireplace in the study. That was the important thing.'

My universe performed a dizzy somersault.

‘Mr Seckker!' I exclaimed incredulously. ‘I don't believe it.'

‘I don't ask you to.' He sat down again and leant across the table. ‘I could lose my pension gossiping like this,' he murmured, lowering his voice to elude, no doubt, the long ears of Tinworth strained to hear. ‘That bit of paper was the first thing we found. It was charred but intact and we got a nice pic from it very quickly. It turned out to be a little document that this whole town has heard about, on and off, for the past year or more. It was the Pitcher boy's examination paper.'

We looked at him blankly and he laughed. ‘You two seem to be the only people in this place who don't know what goes on,' he said. ‘You're “foreigners”, that's your trouble. The Pitcher boy is a nice little boy who comes from a very strait-laced home. He had the misfortune to turn in a very silly bit of work for his end-of-term exam last winter and –'

‘Oh!' I exclaimed as Mrs Veal's story came back to me. ‘And Mr Rorke wrote something on it.'

‘That's it, that's it.' The knowing gleam had returned to the round eyes and Uncle Fred South was himself again, encouraging me as a promising pupil. ‘Mr Rorke was a bit elated, shall we say, at the time when he corrected it and he wrote a few terse Anglo-Saxon words at the bottom of the sheet and sent it back to the boy. The boy sent it to his pa, who had no more sense than to send it to the Headmaster, and the Headmaster …' He broke off and his twinkle vanished and he looked at me with unusual kindliness. ‘Mr Lane's dead, isn't he, poor fellow?' he said. ‘So we musn't judge him. But he could be hard, and, saving your presence, Mrs Lane, he could be dirty in business and no mistake. He held that bit of paper over the
man Rorke. He'd only got to show it, you see, and the man would never get another job in a good school.'

Andy drew a long breath. He looked utterly astounded.

‘But did everybody know this?' he demanded.

‘Oh yes, Doctor.' Uncle Fred South appeared equally surprised that anyone should query that point. ‘Rorke made no secret of it to his few friends, and in Tinworth if you've told one you've told all. Lane said he'd destroy the paper if Rorke went on the water wagon. Rorke did. It must have cost him something, but he had strength, that man. Then at the end of this term he went to Mr Lane and asked him for his release and a reference and for the paper to be destroyed. Lane refused but said he'd think it over. That was on the Wednesday. Rorke came down the town and told one or two people about it. I'd heard it myself before the night was out.' He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. ‘We don't have a lot to talk about, Doctor, so we talk about each other. That's human nature.'

‘But' – Andy thrust his long hands through his wiry black hair – ‘if you knew all this why didn't you suspect Rorke in the first place?'

‘We did. I made sure of it.' The Superintendent's eyes were round as shillings. ‘Naturally, as soon as I heard that Rorke was the last person to see Lane alive I made sure of it. But as soon as I got into the study, what did I find? Why, the document destroyed. If the body had been there beside it, well, it would have been simple. But it wasn't there. Lane was known to have been at the golf club for lunch. When he left Rorke he was alive. We worked it out that he'd destroyed the document in front of Rorke when they were both there together, so we didn't expect the young man to go after him and kill him once he'd got what he wanted. It wouldn't have been reasonable, would it?'

He was silent for a moment. ‘Now, of course, I can see it all,' he went on. ‘Lane refused Rorke and went off to the golf course. Rorke took the Headmaster's gun and followed him.' He nodded at Andy. ‘You were quite right when you said someone must have waited for Mr Lane in the cottage and shot him as soon as he appeared. That's what Rorke did. Then he hitchhiked
to London and – well, poor fellow, it's saved us a lot of trouble. He can't last. His back's broken.'

‘Bickky Seckker,' I began slowly and the Superintendent caught me up.

‘Bickky Seckker hasn't been questioned. No one saw any point in asking
him
anything. But I bet I know what
he
did. I've known him for years. It's just what he would do. I bet he was up in his classroom waiting to see what happened at Rorke's interview with Lane. I'll be bound he saw the Headmaster drive off and Rorke come reeling out just after him, and I bet he went down to the study to see if things had been settled. He found the exam paper hadn't been destroyed, and it so shocked him that he took matters into his own hands, burned it there and then, and was caught redhanded when Mrs Lane appeared. That's about it.'

‘But how would he know where it was?' I demanded, fascinated by this pyrotechnic display in the art of deduction. ‘If Rorke didn't know, how would Bickky?'

Uncle Fred South laughed outright. ‘Bickky has been in this school for more years than I've been in Tinworth,' he said. ‘Depend on it, there ain't much he doesn't know.'

He moved towards the door, a plump and even joyous figure on his light feet.

‘Doctor,' he said, holding out his hand to Andy, ‘you made a very intelligent remark on that there machine of mine. You said that you young people ought to get out of Tinworth right away, and afterwards out of the country. Good luck to you. But later on, in a year or so maybe more, come back and see us all.' He grinned. ‘You'll find you'll know a lot more about us then, and we're remarkably nice people once you get to know us. A little bit inquisitive perhaps, but, think of the time it saves. Good night to you both. If there's anything I can ever do for you, you know where to find me.'

When the door had closed behind him, Andy turned to me.

Margery Allingham took to writing naturally; in her family no other occupation was considered natural or indeed sane. Educated at the Perse School and Regent Street Polytechnic, she wrote her first novel while still in her teens. She began to leave a lasting mark on modern fiction in 1928 when, at the age of twenty-three, she wrote the first of her Albert Campion detective novels. Her early books, such as
The Crime at Black Dudley, Mystery Mile
and
Look to the Lady
, had to be written in spare time hard won from her film work. At that time her books were beloved by the few advanced spirits who enjoyed her gay and distinctive approach to the problems and pleasures of post-war youth. Since then her gentle detective and his strong-arm colleagues have become known and loved by readers of all ages all over the world. She also acquired a reputation as a more serious writer. In an
Observer
review of
The Fashion in Shrouds
Torquemada remarked that ‘to Albert Campion has fallen the honour of being the first detective to feature in a story which is also by any standard a distinguished novel'. Her novels cover a broad field. They vary in treatment from the grave to the frankly satirical, yet each example contrives to conform to the basic rules of the good detective tale.

Margery Allingham was married to Philip Youngman Carter and lived for many years on the edge of the Essex Marshes. She died in 1966.

 

Blackkerchief Dick
The White Cottage Mystery
Dance of the Years
No Love Lost

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

Copyright © 1954 by Margery Allingham

All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The moral right of the author is asserted.

eISBN: 9781448211708

Visit
www.bloomsburyreader.com
to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can
sign up for
newsletters
to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers.