I Could Murder Her , livre ebook

First published in 1951 .
This edition published by Rare Treasures.
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I Could Murder Her



by


E. C. R. LORAC
ONE
Anne Strange stood in the middle of the great Regencydrawing room, looking around her and trying for the hundredthtime to appreciate her own good fortune. It was abeautiful room, beautiful in its proportions, its gracefullypanelled walls, and its long windows with their view of Regent’sPark across the road. The room was furnished, too,with pieces of its own period, fine rosewood and mellowmahogany fashioned by craftsmen who followed the greattraditions of Sheraton and Chippendale. To have such a livingroom and other rooms almost equally beautiful, in postwarLondon was a good fortune accorded to few. Anne knewall about the “prefabs,” the “pathological flatlets,” and the“positive pigsties” in which the majority of young marriedpeople lived today: she often made a genuine effort to begrateful for her own living conditions, but below that dutifuleffort there smouldered a dull resentment. “If only Tony couldrealise 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 . . . Littledid I know when I came here. It’s not my home. It’s hers.”
She shook herself impatiently, angry that she had allowedthe same old theme to dominate her again. Today was to bea good day, for Veronica Lacey was coming to spend theafternoon. Good old Ronnie—what fun they’d had togetherin the Services. Ronnie was utterly remote from all this tangleof family tug o’ war, this fighting for one’s gaiety and libertyagainst a woman who had the muffling quality of ananaesthetic.
Anne looked round the room to see that “bits of herself”were in evidence. It was Anne who had planted thebowls of narcissus and Roman hyacinths which looked socharming on the polished tables; it was she who had arrangedthe tall-stemmed chrysanthemums and put up theVan Gogh print over the mantelpiece to remind herself that she hadn’t become a “genuine antique.” And the Degas BalletGirls—so reminiscent of Paula, with her lovely legs andinscrutable eyes. “Oh, damn Paula! She’s part and parcelof all this thing,” said Anne. “I’ll get rid of that Degas print.But Ronnie will like the bulbs. She’s rather like a springflower herself. And she’s outside all this. Glory, it’ll be niceto see her. She’s the only visitor of my own I’ve asked forages. . . .”
2
Of course Ronnie exclaimed, “Oh, Anne, aren’t youlucky!” when she saw the lovely sitting room, and her eyeslooked very round—and very young. Anne laughed. “Am I?”she asked. “Ronnie, you make me feel so old. You looksuch an infant.”
“Me? Oh, I know I look a rag bag. I’m just too busy tocare, Anne. If you could only see the way Tom and I pigit in our foul flat, you’d have a fit. This is so gloriously sereneand dignified. You were always a fortunate wench. I doenvy you.”
“You needn’t,” said Anne. “I envy you your foul flat. It’syours. This isn’t mine. It isn’t all beer and skittles livingwith in-laws, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t got any,” said Veronica, sittingherself down in a brocade-covered armchair, facing thelong windows so that she could see the entrancing beautyof the bare plane trees across the road. “Tom’s parentswere killed in the blitz and his only sister is out in Malaya.We’re frightfully poor, Anne. It was all right when I had ajob, but when Thomas the second arrived, expenses wentup and income went down, and I do like nice things—sowhen I saw all this I just coveted. It must be so marvellousto have so much space.”
“I’m a selfish pig, Ronnie,” said Anne quickly. “I do realiseyou have a tough time——”
“Oh, I’m not grumbling,” said Veronica quickly. “I adoremy brat, and I’m quite domestic-minded, and I’m lucky inhaving a good ‘sitter-in’ who obliges occasionally. It wasjust seeing these lovely rooms and the sort of dignity ofthis house—it made me realise what a muck I live in, withnappies festooned round the sitting-room fire and all that.”
“I know,” said Anne quickly, and then broke off as a quietknock sounded at the door.
“Are you at home, dear?” asked a gentle voice, and thedoor opened to admit a grey-haired lady. “I beg your pardondarling,” said the newcomer quickly. “I hadn’t realised thatyou 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,” murmuredthe elderly lady, advancing to shake hands with Veronica.“I’m sure I have heard Anne speak of you—Ronnie Laceythat 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, consciousof the older woman’s quiet elegance. The beautifullycut black frock, the pearls, the diamonds on well-tendedhands, the soignée head with its expertly dressed silver haircommanded the old-fashioned word “elegance,” for Mrs.Farrington was old-fashioned herself in a way that seemedto rebuke as stridency the modern mode of lipstick, nailvarnish, and urchin cut. She had a beautiful voice, low andcharmingly modulated, and she moved gracefully, for allthat her back was held very straight and her head erect.
“Ronnie’s got a baby, and she does all the housework aswell, so I expect she does get tired,” said Anne. “I was hopingshe’d put her feet up and have a real laze.”
“An excellent idea!” said Mrs. Farrington warmly. “Howlovely to have a baby. You must let me come and see him—orit is her?—sometime. I love all babies. I should beg Anneto bring you down to tea with me, child, only I realiseit’s more restful for you up here.”
“It’s such a lovely room,” sighed Veronica. “It does megood even to see it. So few people seem to have beautifulhomes these days.”
“But how delightful to meet a modern girl who cares forbeautiful homes,” said Mrs. Farrington. “I get so disheartenedwhen the young things of today dismiss our belovedold pieces as junk, but I’m afraid I belong to the junk categorymyself. Now the last thing I want to do is to interruptyour visit. I know that you and Anne must have so muchto talk about, you were in the Forces together, were younot? Anne, dear, I just wanted to give you this little parcel.It’s only some cork mats to put underneath those bowlsof bulbs. I love growing bulbs, but if you aren’t very carefulthe bowls do mark the polished tables, and it seemssuch a pity to let that happen. I’ll leave them here, dear,and you can put them under the bowls later. I know youwon’t forget.” She turned to Veronica. “Have a good rest,child, and I do hope you will find time to come to tea withme another day. It would give me so much pleasure, andof 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 complexthan you can imagine; but you don’t want to hear aboutmy complexities. Put your feet up and have a cigarette, andtell me if you’ve seen any of the old gang lately.”
“I haven’t seen anybody, there just isn’t time, and I’mashamed of looking such a rag bag,” said Veronica, puttingher 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 somebodyelse’s problems; it’ll help me to forget my own moans—ordoes that sound frightfully mean?”
“No, of course it doesn’t. If you want to hear about thiscrazy house, I shall adore to tell you about it. I don’t riskconfidences with most people, they have a way of gettingback to ma-in-law, and then there’s hell to pay. One thingabout you and me, there’s no need to be afraid either ofus will pass anything on. We do know one another.”
Veronica nodded. “Yes. That’s why I was so glad yourouted me out. I thought you’d done with me for keeps.”
“Well, I hadn’t. I was hoping that Tony and I could getout of this place and then we could have asked you to myown 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 unkindI 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 towalk out on him , although it may come to it,” said Anne.“You see, this place suits Tony. He’s always been used toit, 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 wasdemobilised. At first I lived in an hotel, and thought I couldfind a flat or a small house, but it was frightfully difficult,and we hadn’t much money. Then the Farringtons moved backhere. The house was commandeered during the war and thefurniture stored, and they didn’t move back until 1946. Tonyand I hadn’t managed to find a home of our own, and thenI was ill, I started a baby and had a sideslip, and Ma Farringtoncame fussing along, simply oozing sympathy and helpfulness,and said: ‘Come along to us. The house is much toobig for us now, and you can have the whole first floor all toyourselves and be quite self-contained, and it’s readyfurnished, and Madge will manage the catering unt