Blue Murder

By Harriet Rutland

That settles it, thought Smith savagely. He shall be murdered, even if I have to do it myself!The Hardstaffe family are not the nicest people in the world. In fact, he - schoolteacher, lothario and bully, she - chronic malcontent - and their horsey unmarried adult daughter seem to be prime candidates for murder. A writer planning these deaths, on paper at least, and a young girl, chased by old Hardstaffe, are the only outsiders in a deliciously neat, but nasty, case.Blue Murder was the last of Harriet Rutland's mystery novels, first published in 1942. This new edition, the first in over 70 years, features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.'(A) newcomer of exceptional promise' Howard Haycroft

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Release date: Nov 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781910570852

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mr. Hardstaffe had reached the critical time of life when elderly gentlemen gaze at the legs of schoolgirls in railway carriages.

Mr. Hardstaffe was definitely elderly, and he looked very much like a clergyman when he read the lessons at Sunday morning services in an Oxford drawl, pitched in a slightly falsetto voice guaranteed to hit the back of the church.

But his eyes were not engaged, at the moment, in the above-mentioned occupation.

He was seated in a leather-covered armchair in front of a meagre fire in his study in the village school of Nether Naughton, to which he had succeeded as Headmaster some thirty years ago. And although the youngest and prettiest of his staff, Miss Charity Fuller, was sitting near him, wearing a knee-length skirt which showed the slim beauty of her near-silk-clad legs, his protuberant blue eyes were gazing unmistakably at her elfin-pointed face, at her green eyes, reddened lips, and waved auburn hair.

. . . and if there hadn’t been a war on, I should have suggested France or Italy, he was saying. But as I’ve no desire to meet Hitler or Mussolini, I think Scotland would be best.

I think it’s a splendid idea, said Charity. You work far too hard. It must be a strain to return to the school again after you’d retired for three years. You deserve a rest.

We do, you mean. You don’t suppose I intend to go alone, surely?

Charity looked bewildered.

You don’t mean . . . ? she faltered. Then, seeing from his expression that she had indeed interpreted his unspoken meaning correctly, she blushed. Have you gone mad? she asked.

Mad? Oh my God! That’s rich!

Mr. Hardstaffe rose to his feet, and strode across the room. Then, as if conscious that his height—he was barely five feet tall—might serve to render his behaviour ridiculous rather than impressive, he returned again to his chair.

Mad? You know I am. Mad about you! I’m like a starving dog to whom you occasionally throw a crust. I want more, more! Why not face up to it, Charity? What’s to be gained by being a hypocrite? What have we to lose, either of us? We love each other—surely that’s what really counts. Oh God! He beat his forehead with a clenched fist. Am I never to know the joys of being loved for myself alone? Am I to remain bound to one woman in a living death until I die? Are you going to condemn me to that, Charity? Are you? Are you?

He stretched out his hand, and stroked her knee. His voice grew soft and persuasive.

My dear, I have never concealed from you the secrets of my heart. You know what my life is like. You know that at home I live in hell, tied to an old woman who is too utterly selfish to consider the welfare of anyone but herself: a hypochondriac, who is never happy unless she is ill. She always keeps a copy of Medical Hints" under the Bible beside her bed, so that she can read up new symptoms at night, and awake in the morning to simulate a new complaint.

You know me, a man of generous and passionate impulses, which are never allowed to blossom in my own home. You know the loneliness I shall face tonight and every other night, unless you give me the hope of something better. My dearest, you know that I love you.

I’m sorry, said Charity, apparently unconscious of the inadequacy of her words. I know it’s simply awful for you, and whenever I see her long, white face, I could slap it with a wet rag. I only wish I could do something to help you: you know I’m very fond of you: but I can’t. You know I can’t.

But you can. Mr. Hardstaffe leaned forward, and gazed more earnestly than before into her troubled eyes. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Come to Scotland with me!

The village . . . began Miss Fuller.

Tcha! The village! What would they know? We need not travel together. We’ve been away at the same time before: everyone knows that our holidays coincide. How would they know that this was different? Besides, I’ve taught them all, man, woman, and child, all that they know. They respect me. No one would dream of tattling about me.

Oh, but they would—they do! exclaimed Charity. They’re talking all over the village already—about us, I mean, you and me. About the way I’m always staying behind after school, like this. And about you seeing me home in the black-out. Why, even the children . . .

The little bastards! shouted the headmaster, an ugly vein pulsing in his scrawny neck. I won’t have it! I shall put a stop to it! They can’t do that kind of thing to me!

That’s what I thought, agreed Charity. That’s why I’ve sent in my application to be transferred to another district.

You’ve—what?

Charity looked at him with fear in her eyes. Then she looked down at her restless hands.

Oh, I know you think I’m a coward, she said. Don’t think this has meant nothing to me. It’s been marvellous to work here with you. I’ve admired you ever since I came to this school, and lately I—I’ve learned to love you. But I simply can’t stand the idea of any scandal. I couldn’t face it. It’s better for me to go away where we can’t meet. You’ll forget me. There’ll be other women in your life.

She pulled her skirt over her knees, and giving it a decisive pat, stood up.

Mr. Hardstaffe rose also, and put his arms round her.

I’ll never let you go, do you hear! Never! I forbid you to leave. I won’t accept your resignation. I shall say that you’re indispensable, and it’s your duty to stay.

She did not resist him. She was head and shoulders taller than he, and knew from experience that his embrace, to be successful, needed co-operation from her.

That won’t stop me, she said coolly. I’m not coming alone to your study again, either. I can’t stand people’s looks in this place. That caretaker, for instance. She’s always waiting at the door when we go out. She looks at me as though I were—dirty. I can’t stand it any longer.

I’ll dismiss her to-morrow! he blustered.

"No, it would only make matters worse. Everyone is sorry for her."

He knew that this time she did not refer to the caretaker. He took her hands in his, and pleaded with her.

Charity, have pity on me. Don’t send me back without hope to my prison. If you do, I shall do something desperate. I know that all the little things you speak of seem important to you, but, darling, that’s only because you’re so young. I’m so much older than you, and when love comes to a man late in life, he has to snatch at the chance of happiness it offers to him, quickly and greedily. He knows that it is far more important than trying to build up a respectable life in the eyes of other people.

Charity shook her head sadly.

We could be so happy, Charity, you and I. What does it matter what other people think? I’d do anything in the world for you. You don’t realise how much you mean to me. Come away with me!

No.

Knowing that her lips were out of reach, he bent down, and covered her hands with kisses.

My darling, come with me!

But however much Mr. Hardstaffe might invite comparison with Faust, Charity had no intention of becoming another Marguerite.

I can’t, she said firmly. "Not as long as she is alive."

Hardstaffe dropped her hands, and moved away from her.

I was afraid you would say that, he said. Well, now I know what to do.

CHAPTER 2

While all this was taking place, she was sitting alone in the drawing-room, frowning over a Service helmet, with earflaps, on which she had been engaged since the outbreak of war.

It was a long, graceful room, exquisitely furnished and decorated, for Mrs. Hardstaffe had excellent taste, and Mr. Hardstaffe believed in living up to his wife’s income.

Although the day was mild and sunny, a huge fire burned in the grate, and Mrs. Hardstaffe shivered audibly as she sat as near to it as she felt she could do without appearing unladylike. Soon the door opened, and a rosy-cheeked maid in black uniform with white apron, cap, and cuffs, wheeled in the tea-trolley with an apologetic air.

Mrs. Hardstaffe looked up at her over the horn-rimmed spectacles she habitually wore when knitting or reading.

Tea? Are you sure it's five o’clock, Briggs? You know the master doesn’t like tea brought in a minute before five. He’s never in to tea, I know, but that makes no difference. He would be most annoyed if I didn’t wait until five.

Yes madam. Briggs inclined a respectful, neat head. But it’s after five by the wireless. They’d started talking in Welsh when I wetted the tea.

Mrs. Hardstaffe brightened, and thrust her knitting down the side of the chair.

Is it? she smiled. Well then, I can have a cup of tea. Not that I can say I enjoy it so much these days— you make it so weak now that it’s rationed—but still, it will be hot, and I feel so cold to-day, so very cold.

She raised the heavy, hall-marked Georgian teapot over a pink-patterned Limoges cup, then hesitated.

You’re sure the master hasn’t come in? she asked.

Quite sure, madam. There’s a gentleman waiting for him in the morning-room. A Mr. Smith. He seemed a bit upset-like at not being expected, but I’m sure no one told me or Cook that he was coming, and I’d be obliged if you’d say as much to the master, madam, so that he won’t be for putting it on to me.

Mrs. Hardstaffe frowned.

Oh dear! she exclaimed. "Now what ought I to do? I do wish they’d tell me when they’re expecting people: it does look so bad when I don’t know who is supposed to be coming to my own house—and at tea-time especially. It’s really most inconsiderate of anyone to call at tea-time unless they’ve been asked. They know it means sharing other people’s rations, and it isn’t fair to expect it. Is he a gentleman?"

Well—

The girl hesitated, but her mistress answered the question herself.

Of course, he’s not likely to be, with a name like that; no hyphen, just plain Smith—no!

He’s brought a suitcase with him, said Briggs, trying to be helpful.

Mrs. Hardstaffe turned with relief to her tea.

Oh, then he’s a commercial traveller. Something to do with school-books, or pencils, or perhaps chalk. In that case, I don’t have to ask him to tea.

I don’t think so, madam. I think he’s a visitor.

A look of consternation spread across Mrs. Hardstaffe’s face.

"I do hope he’s not been invited to stay here, she said. I really don’t feel able to cope with visitors. I feel so ill all the time, though no one believes me. Well, I’m not going into that cold morning-room. You’d better bring him in here, Briggs, and I can decide about tea then." Briggs went out quietly.

Mrs. Hardstaffe selected two cakes, placed them on her plate lest the unknown visitor might choose them, and began to eat a piece of bread-and-butter.

Just like him, she thought. He never considers me. I mean no more to him than a dog: far less: he’s fond of dogs. The only time the house is free from the creatures is when he’s out. It’s the only chance I have of any peace at all, but then it’s so lonely. Oh, he’s a hard man and a cruel man, too. Well, if he’s come to stay, I shan’t let him have my best linen sheets.

Her thoughts were as inconsequent as her speech.

Mr. Smith, announced Briggs’ voice from the door, and Mrs. Hardstaffe looked up to see an insignificant-looking man coming towards her, wearing a burberry, and carrying a bowler hat in his hand.

She smiled frostily.

I’m so sorry my husband is out, but he’ll be back soon, she said. I expect something has delayed him at the school.

Then, with more warmth in her voice, she exclaimed: Why, you look cold! I feel cold to-day, too, but no one else has seemed to notice it. Sit down by the fire, and have a cup of tea; it’s freshly made. Oh no, not in that chair, if you don’t mind—that’s Mr. Hardstaffe’s chair. He’d be most annoyed if he came in and found someone sitting there. He won’t use any other in this room, though I’m sure they’re all comfortable. Sugar?

No, thanks. I never take it. Just a little milk.

Mrs. Hardstaffe beamed at him.

"Really! How very convenient that much be in wartime. One is allowed such a little bit—a quarter of a pound, or half, or is it a pound? I never can remember, but I know it isn’t enough. For all I know, I may not have my full ration. My daughter will give sugar to the dogs, and she does all the catering. I haven’t been able to do anything of that kind since my operation. It has left me very weak. Really, sometimes I feel so ill at night that I feel I shall never get out of my bed again alive. And however well I sleep, I always wake up tired."

Sounds like one of those pictorial advertisements they run in the daily papers, thought Smith, but he said sympathetically enough. I’m very sorry. I hope it wasn’t a very serious operation.

Just one of those things we poor women have to bear. I’ve had three miscarriages, you see. But I won’t go into details. (Thank God for that, thought Smith). I have to take care of myself. My doctor insists that I should take very great care indeed. But how can I do that in these days, and in this house? I usually go abroad for the winter: I can’t stand this climate, but what can I do? I don’t want to go to a place where I shall be bombed, yet I feel I shall die if I stay here. Indeed, Mr. Smith, this war is very hard on us invalids.

She became quite animated. She so rarely found a new audience to listen to the recital of her troubles, or, having found one, was even more rarely allowed to monopolise its attention.

A tinge of colour came into her pale cheeks, and Smith, looking at her squarely for the first time, thought how pretty she must have looked in the befrilled skirts and bodices of the early Georgian days of his own youth.

Her hair, though nearly white, still curled about her head. Her eyebrows were delicately traced by Nature, her features small. But pale pouches, criss-crossed with fine lines, curved in baggy half-moons beneath her pale blue eyes, and there were deep lines from her nose to the corners of her down-turned mouth.

She was, reflected Smith, either a very ill, or a very ill-tempered woman.

He sat on the extreme edge of a low chair, cup balanced in hand, and plate on knee, scarcely knowing how to broach the purpose of his visit, when the sound of doors banging, of dogs barking, and of a loud, cheerful voice raised in greeting, came from the hall.

Mrs. Hardstaffe’s face resumed its habitual aggrieved expression.

Oh dear! That’s Leda—my daughter, you know, though I never can think why we ever chose such a name for her, for I’m sure she isn’t in the least swan-like, more’s the pity. I think you’d better put your cup and plate on the table, she added, inconsequently, I hope you like dogs.

Before Smith had time to assimilate the significance of these remarks, the door opened, and Leda Hardstaffe walked into the room, surrounded by a pack of delighted, yelping Sealyhams, whose squirming jumps left fine streaks of white hairs on the hem of her navy-blue uniform. Then, perceiving a stranger, they hurled themselves at Smith, knocking both cup and plate on to the carpet.

The bitches indulged in snarling matches for the cake Smith had been eating, while the dogs shared the spilled tea, licking cup, saucer, spoon, and carpet, with equal care. When the last crumb of cake and drop of tea had been consumed, the dogs dispersed to their several favourite chair-legs in order to dispose of other liquid previously imbibed.

Mrs. Hardstaffe threw her knitting at the nearest dog. Leda! I will not have the dogs in here. It’s positively disgusting—and with a visitor here, too. You must forgive us, she said, turning to Smith. These are kennel dogs. Leda breeds them, and I have had the most beautiful kennels built for them outside, but she ** keep bringing them into the house.

I’ve got to house-train them, Mother, if I’m to sell them, said Leda. "They only do this kind of thing when I’ve been out, and I’ve told you before that it’s because you will shut them up as soon as my back’s turned. If you’d only leave them alone, they’d be all right."

Well, I don’t like dogs in the house, replied Mrs. Hardstaffe. I’ve never been used to it. Just look at them! She pointed to the Sealyhams who now, with panting tongues, and paws draped over the edge of every available chair, were engaged in completing various stages of their toilet. They’ll ruin the covers, and these were expensive ones. She turned again to Smith. "Do you like dogs all over a room, like this?"

I’m very fond of dogs, Smith replied, fondling the ears of a young puppy which had curled round on the chair, behind him, especially Sealyhams.

They are splendid little fellows, aren’t they? said Leda, smiling down at him from the corner of the hearth where she was standing. They’re easily the best of the terriers, in my opinion—such loyal chaps. These are very well-bred, as a matter of fact. I’ve two champions already in the kennels, and I was hoping that Cherub—that’s the puppy you’re stroking—would do well, too, but the war’s knocked all the big shows on the head.

I think that you ought to get rid of them, Leda, said Mrs. Hardstaffe, With all this shortage of food, it’s most unpatriotic, I think, to breed them. Don’t you agree, Mr. Smith?

Well, I believe the question has been raised, and that the Government has asked breeders not to give up their stock, said Smith.

Leda regarded him with interest.

That’s quite true, she said, although very few people seem to know it. I’ve done very well with my puppies since the war. My customers are mostly men in the forces who want to give their wives or sweethearts a present. Of course, they’re fed on scraps. My Sealyhams will eat anything.

Sugar, murmured her mother, but Leda ignored her, and went on.

It’s difficult to make people realise that if you’ve got valuable bitches, it’s very bad for them not to be mated periodically.

Mrs. Hardstaffe shuddered.

That word! she exclaimed. And the way you discuss their family affairs in public! It’s coarse!

Leda laughed.

Well, I’m not going to call them lady-dogs, even to please you, Mother, she said. You ought to be used to it by now.

I shall never get used to it, replied Mrs. Hardstaffe, with dignity.

Leda turned to Smith.

Are you waiting to see Daddy? she asked.

Smith hesitated.

Well, yes, in a way, he said, although I believe I had all the correspondence with you. I’m Arnold Smith.

Good Lord! You’re our evacuee! exclaimed Leda. You must forgive me, but seeing you there, talking to Mother . . . It just didn’t occur to me somehow. Do you mean to say you never even asked him to take off his coat, Mother? she demanded.

Evacuee? murmured Mrs. Hardstaffe vaguely. I’m sure he doesn’t look in the least . . .

You mustn’t mind my calling you that, laughed Leda. It’s only my fun. You must have thought us very rude not to make you more welcome.

But Leda, you never said a word to me about an—about Mr. Smith. Briggs said he had brought a suitcase, but I never thought—

You never do, sighed Leda. That’s the trouble. You really are most exasperating.

It’s my head, moaned Mrs. Hardstaffe, "I don’t remember things. I feel so ill all the time."

You’d better go and lie down, or you won’t be fit for dinner, returned her daughter, and Mrs. Hardstaffe, with an apologetic smile towards Smith, rose, and went out.

Leda seated herself in the chair just vacated by her mother, and, flinging off her black tin hat with the white- painted W. in front, began to run a small pocket-comb through the long bob of her waved, golden hair. Smith was old-fashioned enough to be irritated by this, for he considered