“SISTER BESSIE”

Wanganui Chronicle, 23 December 1950, Page 11

“SISTER BESSIE”

Detective Story by

Cyril Hare

“At Christmas time we gladly greet “Each old familiar face. “At Christmas time we hope to meet “At th’ old familiar place. “Five hundred loving greetings, dear, “From you to me, “To welcome in the glad New Year “I look to see ! ” Hilda Trent turned the Christmas card over with her carefully manicured fingers as she read the idiotic lines aloud. “Did you ever hear anything so completely palsied?” she asked her husband. “I wonder who on earth they can get to write the stuff. Timothy, do you know anybody called Leech ?” “Leech ?” “Yes—that’s what it says: ‘From your old Leech.’ Must be a friend of yours.” She looked at the envelope. “Yes, it was addressed to you. Who is the old leech?” She flicked the card across the breakfast table. Timothy stared hard at the rhyme and the scrawled message beneath it. “I haven’t the least idea.” he. said slowly. As he spoke he was taking in, with a sense of cold misery, the fact that the printed message on the card had been neatly altered by hand. The word “Five” was in ink. The original poet, no doubt, had been content with “a hundred loving greetings.” “Put it on the mantelpiece with the others,” said his wife. “Damm it, no ! ” In a sudden rage, he tore the card in two and flung the pieces into the fire. It was silly of him, he reflected as he travelled up to the City half an hour later, to break out in that way in front of Hilda; but she would put it down to the nervous strain about which she was always pestering him to take medical advice. Not for all the gold in the Bank of England could he have stood the sight of that damnable jingle on his dining-room mantelpiece. The insolence of it ! The cool, calculated devilry* All the way to London the train wheels beat out the maddening rhythm—“At Christmas time we gladly greet. ...” And he had the thought that the last payment had seen the end of it. He had returned from James’s funeral triumphant in the certain belief that he had attended the burial of the bloodsucker who called himself “Leech.”. But he was wrong, it seemed. “Five hundred loving greetings dear....” Five hundred! Last year it had been three, and that had been bad enough. It had meant selling out some holdings at an awkward moment. And now’ 500, with the market in its present state I How in the name of all that w r as horrible was he going to raise the money? He would raise it, of course. He would have to. The sickening, familiar routine would be gone through again. The cash in Treasury notes would be packed in an unobtrusive parcel and left in the cloak room at Waterloo. Next day, he would park his car as usual in the railway yard at his local station. Beneath the windscreen wiper “the old familiar place”—would be tucked the cloakroom ticket. When he came back again from work in the evening the ticket would be gone. And that would be that—till next time. It was the way that Leech preferred it, and he had no option but to comply. The one certain thing that Trent knew about the identity of his blackmailer was that he—or could it be she?—was a member of his family. His family ! Thank heaven they were no true kindred of his. So far as he knew, he had no blood relatives alive. But “his” family they had been, ever since he was a tiny, ailing boy, his father had married the gentle, ineffective Mary Grigson, with her long trail of soft, useless children. And, when the influenza epidemic of 1919 carried off John Trent, he had been left to be brought up as one of that clinging, grasping clan. He had got on in the world, made money, married money, but he had never got away from the Grigsons. Save for his stepmother, to whom he grudgingly acknowledged that he owed his start in life, how he loathed them all! But “his” family remained. expecting to be treated with brotherly affection, demanding his presence at family reunions, especially at Christmas time. “At Christmas time we hope to meet....” He put down his paper unread, and stared forlornly out of the carriage window. It was at Christmas time, four years before that the whole thin? started at his stepmother’s Christmas Eve party, just such a boring familv function as the one he would have to attend in a few dav’s time. There had been some silly games to amuse thp children—Blind Man’s Bluff and Musical Chairs—and in the course of them his wallet must have slipped from his pocket. He discovered the loss next morning. went round to the house and retrieved it. But when it came into his hands again there was one item missing from its contents. Just one. A lotter, quite short and explicit, signed in a name that had about then become fairly notorious in connection with an unsavoury inquiry into certain large-scale dealings in Government securities. How he could have been fool enough to keep it a moment longer than was necessary*—but it w’as no good gtfng hack on that. And then the messages from Leech had begun. Leech had the letter. Leech considered it his duty to send it to the princinal of Trent’s firm, who was also Trent’s father-in-law. But. meanwhile. Leech was a trifle short of money, and for a small consideration so it had begun, and so. year in and year out, it had gone on. He had been so sure that it was James ! That seedy, unsuccessful stockjobber. with his gambling debts and his inordinate thirst for whisky, had

seemed the very stuff of which blackmailers are made. But he had got rid of James last February, and here was Leech again hungrier than ever. Trent shifted uneasily in his seat. “Got rid of him,” was hardly the right way to put it. One must be fair to oneself. He had merely assisted James to get rid of his worthless self. He had done no more than ask James to dinner at his club, fill him up with whisky and leave him to drive home on a foggy night with the roads treacherous with frost. There had been an unfortunate accident on the Kingston By-pass, and that was the end of James—and, incidentally, of two perfect strangers who had happened to be on the road at the same time. Forget it * The point was that the dinner —and the whisky—had been a dead loss. He could not make the same mistake again. This Christmas he intended to make sure who his persecutor was. Once he knew, there would be no half-measures. Revelation came to him mid-way through Mrs. John Trent’s party—gt. the very moment, in fact, when the presents were being distributed from the Christmas tree. It was so simple, and so unexpected that he could have laughed aloud. Appropriately enough it was his own contribution to the party that was responsible. For some time past it had been his unwritten duty, as the prosperous member of the family, to present his mother with some delicacy to help out the straightened resources of her house in providing a feast worthy of the occasion. This year, his gift had taken the form of half a dozen bottles of champagne—part of a consignment which he suspected of being corked. That champagne, acting on a head unused to anything stronger than lemonade. was enough to loosen Bessie’s tongue for one fatal instant. Bessie ! Of all people, faded, spinsterish Bessie .’ Bessie with her woolwork and her charities—Bessie with her large, stupid, appealing eyes. And yet, when you came to think of it, it was natural enough. Probably, of all the Grigson tribe, he disliked her the most. He felt for her all the loathing one must naturally feel for a person one has treated badly; and he had been simple enough to believe that she did not resent it. She was just his own age, and from the moment that he had been introduced into the family had constituted herself his protector against the unkindness of his elder stepbrothers. She had been, in her revoltingly sentimental phrase, his “own special sister.” As they grew up, the roles were reversed, and she became his protegee, the admiring spectator of his early struggles. Then it had become pretty clear that she and everyone else expected him to marry her. He had considered the idea quite seriously for some time. She was pretty enough in those days, and, as the' phrase went, worshipped the ground he trod on. But he had had the good sense to see in time that he must look elsewhere to make his way in the world. His engagement to Hilda had been a blow to Bessie. Her oldmaidish look and her absorption in good works dated from then. But she had been sweetly forgiving—to all appearances. Now, as he stood there under the mistletoe, with a ridiculous paper cap on his head, he marvelled how he could have been so easily deceived. As though, after all. anyone could have written that Christmas card but a woman ’. feessie was smiling at him still—smiling with the confidential air of tfih mildly tipsy, her upturned shiny nose glowing pink in the candlelight. She had assumed a slightly puzzled expression, as though trying to recollect what she had said. Timothy smiled back and raised his glass to her. He was stone-cold sober, and he could remind her of her words when the occasion arose: “My present for you. Timothy, is in the post. You’ll get it to-morrow, I expect. I thought you’d like a change from those horrid Christmas cards I ” And the words had been accompanied by an unmistakable wink. He moved away from the mistletoe and strolled round the room, exchanging pleasantries ith all the family. He could look them in the face now without qualm. He clinked glasses with Roger, the prematurely aged, over-worked GP. No need to worry now whether his money was going in that direction ! He slapped Peter on the back and endured patiently five minutes’ confidential chat on the difficulties of the car business in these days. To Marjorie, James’s widow, looking wan and ever so brave in her made-over black frock, he spoke just the words of blended sympathy and cheer.

He even found in his pockets some half crowns for his great hulking step-nephews Then he was standing by his stepmother near the fireplace, whence she presided quietly over the noisy cheerful scene, beaming gentle good nature from her faded blue eyes. “A delightful evening,” he said, and meant it. “Thanks to you, Timothy in great part,” she replied. “You have always been so good to us.” Wonderful what a little doubtful champagne would do ! He would have given a lot to see her face if he were to say: “I suppose you are not aware that your youngest daughter. who is just now pulling a cracker with that ugly little boy of Peter’s, is blackmailing me and that I shortly intend to stop her mouth for good?” Hp turned awav. What a grfig they all were ! What, a shabby out-at-elbows gang ! Not a docent cut suit or a well turned out woman among the lot of them !. And he had imagined that his

money had been going to support some of them ! Why, they all simply reeked of honest poverty: He could see it now Bessie explained everything. It was typical of her twisted mind to wring cash from him by threats and give it all away in charities. "You have always been so good to us." Come to think of it, his stepmother was worth the whole of the rest put together. She must be hard put to it, keeping up father’s old house, with precious little coming in from her children. Perhaps one day, when his money was really his own again, he might see his way to do something for her. But there was a lot to do before he could indulge in extravagant fancies like that. Hilda was coming across the room towards him. Her elegance made an agreeable contrast to the get-up of the Grigson women. She looked tired and rather bored, which was not unusual for her at parties at this house. "Timothy,” she murmured, "can’t we get out of here My head feels like a ton of bricks, and if I’m going to be fit for anything to-morrow morning— Timothy cut her short. “You go home straight away, darling,” he said. "I can see it’s high time you were in bed. Take the car. I can walk, it’s a fine evening. Don’t wait up for me.” “You’re not coming? I thought you said —.” “No I shall have to stay and see the party through. There’s a little matter of family business I’d better dispose of while I have the chance.” Hilda looked at him in slighty amused surprise. “Well, if you feel that way,” she said. “You seem to be very devoted to your family all of a sudden. You’d better keep an eye on Bessie while you are about it. She’s had about as much as she can carry.” Hilda was right. Bessie was decidedly merry. And Timothy continued to keep an eye on her. Thanks to his attention, by the end of the evening, when Christmas Day had been seen in and the guests were fumbling for ’ their wraps, she had reached a stage when she could barely stand. “Another glass,” thought Timothy from the depths of his experience, "and she'll pass right out.” "I’ll give you a lift home, Bessie,” said Roger, looking at her with a professional eye. We can just squeeze you in.”

“Oh, nonsense, Roger 1 ” Bessie giggled. “I can manage perfectly well. As if I couldn't walk as far as the end of the drive ! ” "I’ll look after her,” said Timothy heartily. “I’m walking myself, and we can guide each other’s wandering footsteps home. Where's your coat, Bessie? Are you sure you’ve got all your precious presents?” He prolonged his leave-takings until all the rest had gone, then helped Bessie into her worn fur coat, and stepped out of the house, supporting her with an affectionate arm. It was all going to be too deliciously simple. Bessie lived in the lodge of the old house. She preferred to be independent, and the arrangement suited everyone, especially since James, after one of his reverses on the turf, had brought his family to live with his mother to save the expense. It suited Timothy admirably now. Tenderly he escorted her to the end of the drive, tenderly he supported her into the little sitting-room that gave out of the hall. There, Bessie considerately saved him an enormous amout of trouble and a possibly unpleasant scene. As he put her down upon the sofa she finally succumbed to the champagne. Her eyes closed, her mouth opened, and she lay like a log where he had placed her. Timothy was genuinely relieved. He was prepared to go to any lengths to rid himself of the menace of blackmail, but if he could lay his hands on the damning letter without physical violence he would be well satisfied. It would be open to him to take it out of Bessie in other ways later on. He looked quickly round the room. He knew its contents by heart. It had hardly changed at all since the day when Bessie first furnished her own room when she left school. The same old battered desk stood in the corner, where from the earliest days she had kept her treasures. He flung it open and a flood of bills, receipts, charitable appeals and yet more charitable appeals came cascading out. One after another, he went through the drawers with over-increasing urgency, but still failed to find what he sought. Finally, he came upon a small inner drawer which resisted his attempts to open it. He tugged at it in vain, and then seized the poker from the fire-place and burst the flimsy lock by main force. Then he dragged the drawer from its place and settled himself to examine the contents. I was crammed as full as it could be with papers. At the very top was the programme of a May Week Ball for his last year at Cambridge. ' Then there were snapshots, Presscuttings—an account of his own wedding among them —and, for the rest, letters. Piles of letters, all in his handwriting. The wretched woman seemed to have hoarded every scrap he had ever written to her. As he turned them over, some of the phrases he had used in them floated into his mind, and he began to apprehend for the first time what the depth of her resentment must have been when he threw her over. But where the devil did she keep the only letter that mattered? As he straightened himself from the desk he heard close behind him a hideous, choking sound. He spun round quickly. Bessie was standing behind him, her face a mask of horror. Her mouth was wide open in dismay.