Put Out The Light

Book 446: Murder Room

by Ethel Lina White

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Behind the ominous walls of Jamaica Court, Anthea Vine rules as a provincial Queen Elizabeth, imperious and wealthy, vain and pathetic. But Anthea holds chained to her in financial dependence five discontented souls, all with a motive for murder. Her tentacles reach beyond her three wards and draw into their clutches her secretary, Sally Morgan, and the sardonically charming local doctor. Anthea's charms prove fatal to none but her. For, while people set their watches by the light in her bedroom window, Florence Pye reads death in the cards. Her prophecy comes true, silently, violently in the depths of the night. What Miss Pye has not foreseen, though, is that she will be first to find the body . . .

Release date: May 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

“THAT’S A WOMAN WHO’S GOING TO BE MURDERED.” MISS Pye
spoke with calm authority, as she poured out the breakfast coffee, in the small dining room of the Cherry Orchard. She was fair, fat and she liked to be taken for forty. A pleasant woman, of strong
character and sound common sense, she was fixed of purpose as the Pole Star, although she clouded her issue behind a Milky Way of words.

At the word “murder,” her brother, Superintendent Pye, pricked up his ears. He was bull-necked and massive in build, with great cheeks like ripe plums, and choleric blue eyes. His
reputation was that of a good mixer and a competent football referee.

For generations his people had lived in Oldtown, where they had been, originally, landowners, and Pye, himself, was essentially of the soil. His present job was one of Fate’s misdeals.
While he was in general request as judge, at every local dog show, the prevalent opinion was that, from long cold storage in Oldtown, his brain had mildewed.

Only his sister, Florence, believed in him; for she worshiped her Maker, in public, every Sunday, but she worshiped her brother, in private, every day of her life.

Oblivious of criticism, Pye’s ambition was static. He yearned to handle a subtle murder-mystery. And all Providence sent him was dog fights and drunks.

At his sister’s words he glanced across his garden, where the friable dark soil was spiked with the green tips of bulbs. On the tarred road stood two young men and a girl, engaged in noisy
conversation. The youths presented a contrast in figure, as one was short, and thickset and the other, tall and slender. Both were well-dressed in conventional country style, and betrayed more than
the usual correct slouch of boredom.

Only the back of their companion was visible to Pye, but her slim form, in its short tweed suit, held the allure and grace of girlhood. Her grass-green beret revealed short golden curls which
glittered in the pale spring sunlight. As she poised on one toe she looked like the Spirit of Youth Triumphant—hovering for one golden moment of laughter, before she winged on her eternal
flight.

Youth—never lingering—always passing on.

Superintendent Pye pointed to the girl’s back, with his pipe.

“D’you mean Miss Vine, Flo?”

“I do,” replied his sister. “She’s just asking for it. Carrying on with those boys, just like Queen Elizabeth.”

“No. Queen Elizabeth had quite a good brain—for a woman.”

As Pye spoke Miss Vine suddenly spun round on a slender stem of silken leg, revealing the painted, triangular face of an elderly woman.

He swallowed a gulp of repulsion.

“Murdered?” he grunted. “Well, she’d be the better for it. It might cure her complaint. Silly, vain old maid, pink and hollow as an Easter egg.”

His sister took no offense at his Gilbertian contempt for spinsterhood.

“You can’t call Miss Vine a fool,” she objected. “Think of the fortune she’s made.”

“Not she. Men have made her fortune for her. She’s lucky with her managers.”

“Well, doesn’t it show brains to get men to make money for her?”

“I call it a canker. She squeezes them dry and then sacks them. A very different kind of business woman to our Doris.”

Pye’s face beamed with pride as he mentioned his favorite younger sister—the proprietress of the Timberdale Arms. She had not only been a pretty girl, but, as the widow of Major Law,
she had, at one time of her life, been honored by association with a man.

Miss Pye began to collect the china and stack it together on the tray. At a sudden gust of loud laughter from the road, she stood with a teacup in her hand.

“I wonder what she’s telling those boys,” she remarked.

“Some ripe, old-fashioned story, you bet,” grinned Pye. “They say that little lady can go one beyond the limit. Not that I’ve ever heard her. Not in her class.”

Miss Pye’s mild eyes gleamed fiercely behind her glasses.

“Does she patronize you?” she gasped.

The next second she had regained her calm.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “She’s going to be murdered.”

Her brother tapped his pipe over the grate and then stood, spread-eagled, before the fire.

“And who told you that?” he asked derisively.

“The cards tell me, Adam. Every time I lay them out I see the murder of an old woman, by night.”

At the Superintendent’s laughter, Miss Pye crossed over to the window. On the opposite slope arose a vast erection of gray stone. It had no claim to artistic architecture, but it was
solid, imposing, and kept up on a scale that advertised wealth. The glass roofs of its conservatories, billiard room, and covered entrance flashed back scores of miniature suns.

It was Jamaica Court—the residence of Miss Anthea Vine—owner of a chain of “Dahlia” lingerie shops and of terracotta Munster hotels.

“Is that a happy house?” demanded Miss Pye. “There are three young people cooped up there with that horrible old woman. All of them in her power, hating her like poison. Can
you deny that things are ripe for murder?”

Pye scratched his nose. Everyone was familiar with the situation at the Court. Years ago Miss Vine had adopted three children from poverty-stricken homes. Two of these, Charles and Francis Ford,
were her third cousins, while the girl—Iris Pomeroy—was an orphan, acquired through an adoption society.

She had surrounded them with luxury and spared no expense over their education. The boys went to public schools, and, later, qualified for professions. But when Charles’ name was on the
rolls, and Francis had completed his articles with an architect, Miss Vine, apparently, considered her obligation at an end. The boys were forced to put up their plates in Oldtown, the soil of
which was already soured with professional men of long standing. As they did not make enough income to pay their office rent, she kept them chained to her side, as her cavaliers and slaves.

When Iris returned from her finishing school on the Continent, she found herself in a hotbed of rebellion and discontent. All three were gifted with strong wills, good looks and plenty of
brains. They wanted to spread their wings and lead their own lives; but, whenever they fluttered towards freedom they found themselves hobbled by economic pressure.

“They must be a precious spineless lot to put up with it,” observed Pye.

Again Miss Pye dissented.

“They’re none of them that. Charles is a regular daredevil, with his ugly face and wicked grin, and Francis is too quiet and polite. Still waters run deep, remember.”

“Well, take it from me, Flo, and I ought to know, the last thing either of them will do is murder the old bird.”

“Why?”

“To begin with, they’ll never unite against her. She’s got them split with jealousy. People take Charles and Francis for brothers, because they’ve got the same name, but
they’re only cousins. They say blood’s thicker than water, but, in the long run, it always makes bad blood.”

“You forget the girl,” hinted Miss Pye darkly. “Look at her eyes. She’s one of your moderns, who’d think nothing of banging Miss Vine over the head with a chopper,
and then calling it a complex.”

The Superintendent’s shrug advertised his private opinion that he argued with a fool. But he could not resist the temptation of airing his views on his favorite subject.

“Listen to me, Flo. Before you can have murder, you’ve got to have two other things. Motive and opportunity. Now, I’ll grant you those three have opportunity, as they’re
on the spot. But, where is their motive?”

“Her money, of course,” replied his sister.

“And how do they know they’re going to get any of it? She’s the sort that never makes a will. If she dies intestate, her money will go to her brother in Australia.”

Miss Pye hung on to her point.

“Well, the girl’s got a motive. She and Miss Vine are in love with the same man.”

“Who?”

“The new young doctor—Dr. Lawrence.”

“And how d’you know they’re in love? Did you read it in the Herald?”

Pye’s sarcasm was wasted on his sister.

“I count on juxtaposition,” she replied. “Every day, he pays a visit to the Court, where he sees Iris Pomeroy. He must be sick of that mouthing old mummy. And think of the
opportunities he has of poisoning her.”

“And is it likely that a fellow with no practice would kill off his one good patient?” asked Pye impatiently.

Miss Pye did not continue the argument. Having cleared the table, she took up a pack of patience cards and began to lay them out in the shape of a horseshoe.

“I wonder she dares go to bed, at night,” she murmured, “never knowing if she will wake up again.”

She saw Miss Vine’s wealth as cheese—bait to tempt the rats from their holes in her own larder, or the sewers of the underworld. But her brother only laughed.

“You’ve only got two ideas in your head, Flo. Servants and sentiment. Leave crime to them that understand it. Stick to your Betsy.”

“Perhaps it takes some brains to have a Betsy, at all, these days when every girl calls herself ‘Betty’,” said Miss Pye quietly.

As she counted her cards, she watched the group on the road. Charles Ford had untidy hair, with a cowlick stirring in the wind; but, although he was ugly, there was definite charm in his
expression.

His eyes were not in complete alliance with his impudent grin. They called his bluff. One had but to divide his face to read the history of his frustration in two chapters; the upper-half, which
supplied the capital, and the lower-half, which denied the labor.

Francis was better looking than his cousin, with regular features and satin-smooth hair, but his nose was too long and his mouth too small. His expression betrayed complete boredom as he stood,
silent, while Miss Vine and Charles capped each other’s story.

Presently he betrayed his first sign of animation at the sight of a tall man in gray plus-fours, who was swinging down the road, his hat in his hand.

Dr. Glyn Lawrence was handsome and possessed a Southern poise and grace; it was easy to imagine him dancing a tango or fighting a duel. Yet there was a hint of the Orient in his slanting eyes,
drooping lids and thick chiseled lips.

“Here’s your friend Lawrence,” remarked Francis.

He scarcely opened his lips, yet his diction was so perfect that his words were clear-cut and cold as icicles, dropping into the rapid current of Charles’s slurred speech.

Miss Vine’s eye lit up, for her court was never large enough to satisfy her. As she pouted and gesticulated, she always carried with her an invisible companion—her imaginary self.
She saw a rose-flushed face, piquant with mischief, soft with the bloom of youth.

“You’ve a smut on your nose, Anthea,” remarked Francis.

Instantly, she pulled out her pocket mirror. In the tiny circle of glass she saw no smut, but two little old eyes, like shriveled nuts, peering through a feathery foliage of artificial
lashes.

“You are supercritical, Francis,” she said quietly. “But thank you for your interest. And here’s my faithful Lawrence. Don’t you envy a doctor his opportunities,
Francis? He can cure, kill, or kiss.”

“No,” was the prim reply. “I’d rather be a parson. It must be so nice to tell people not to do the things one does oneself.”

“He’d make a dashed good parson, too,” grinned Charles. “We’ve shocked this pure young lad with our smutty tales, Anthea.”

“Oh, darling.” Anthea spun round to Francis. “Sorry I was coarse.”

“Don’t apologize,” remarked Francis in his cool, precise voice. “I’m always interested in the revelation of character.”

Miss Vine’s eyes gleamed between narrowed lids. While Charles charmed her, Francis held her interest. He was never boorish like his cousin, but, under his invariable politeness, she sensed
his hostility.

Her smile grew possessive as Dr. Lawrence joined the group.

“You’re the man I want,” she said. “Come up to the Court, Wednesday afternoon, and reassure me about my heart.”

Dr. Lawrence’s smile was too suave, as he shook his head.

“It would be my personal delight to reassure you, my dear lady,” he said, “just as it is my duty to preserve the health of such a valuable member of the community.”

“He means your butcher’s bill, Anthea,” cut in Charles. “I’ve always got to translate this bloke.”

“But,” went on the doctor, taking no notice of the interruption, “I have to operate on Mrs. Learoyd, Wednesday afternoon. Adenoids.”

“Oh—the grocer’s wife?”

“Exactly. May I suggest coming up to the Court in the morning?”

Miss Vine’s eyes gleamed. These were the moments for which she lived, when she directed destinies from her own altitude.

“And may I suggest that another doctor is capable of performing a minor operation?” she said.

“I agree. Williams is probably more capable than myself. Unfortunately, he is also capable of pocketing the fee.”

“In that case,” declared Anthea, “you can charge me double your miserable adenoid charge. But you must come to the Court, in the afternoon. I have two board meetings for the
morning.”

“How dare a wretched grocer’s wife stop the way of a guinea pig?” asked Charles. “I used to know Mrs. Learoyd when she was barmaid at the Crown. Pretty woman, eh,
Lawrence?”

“I know her only as a patient,” replied Dr. Lawrence stiffly.

“And patients don’t count as women. What have you got to say to that, Anthea?” flashed Charles.

Her face radiant with triumph, Anthea enjoyed the scene. She loved to incite her menagerie to fight, for it stimulated her with a sense of power. If, sometimes, they turned on her, she could
always crack her whip.

As she looked at them, in turn, she wondered which was most dangerous. Charles was good-tempered, but inclined to snap. You could put your head into the lion’s mouth once too often. One
day, he might, by pure accident, snap too hard. . . . Francis was the intractable tiger, who slunk from her and watched her with unfriendly eyes. Yet, at a pinch, he might prove the most reliant of
the three. And what of Lawrence—the graceful, beautiful beast, who never growled, or showed his teeth? He was the unknown quantity.

Inside the dining room of the Cherry Orchard, Miss Pye continued to lay out the cards.

“There it is again,” she murmured. “Plain as plain. Queen of spades, which means an elderly woman. Of course, it should be diamonds, but who can tell what her real color is?
Surrounded with treachery—all the knaves in the pack. Ace and nine of spades, both reversed. It only means one thing. Murder.”

Miss Pye stared across at the great stone mansion which topped the rise. The humble Cherry Orchard was overshadowed by it, like an impudent white dog that dares to stand up to the gray bulk of a
crouching beast of prey.

Its chimneys seemed to bristle and its smoke curl upwards with defiance—as though to suggest a plucky little animal that would fly at the throat of its adversary, and hang on until
death.

The Pyes—brother and sister—always hung on.

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK, THAT NIGHT, THE LIGHT GLOWED, like a beacon, from the
dark pile of Jamaica Court. The bored porter at the high-level station, shouted to his mate.

“Eleven, Jim.”

Jim glanced at his watch.

“Gosh, I’m five slow. Not Wednesday, is it?”

On Wednesday night they had learned to expect irregularity in the appearance of the light, although it never failed to go out at the stroke of twelve.

As he moved the hands of his watch on to eleven, he heard the faint chimes of the Town Hall clock, which were only audible when the wind was in the rainy quarter.

For the past twenty minutes, Eames—Miss Vine’s maid—had been busy behind the drawn curtains of the spectacular blue-and-silver bedroom. Although she was never allowed to assist
at the rites of the evening toilet, she had to make the preparations and foresee every possible need.

Face cream here. Skin food by the side. Astringent behind, but where it could be seen at a glance. Ice on the plate-glass slab. Strips of plaster, cut into assorted sizes. Powder. Perfume.

The maid took the temperature of the bath, making allowance for slight cooling, and added the correct proportion of aromatic salts. Then she glanced at her watch—for there was no clock in
the bedroom—and crossed to the window.

The gesture with which she drew aside the curtains was almost dramatic, as though she were in league with the darkness and were giving a signal to the shadows lurking in the black bowl of the
valley.

Although, viewed from the station, the Court rose up as a bleak rock, behind the blinds, it was a stronghold of youth, blazing with lights and vibrant with noise. A group of young people were
gathered round the roulette table in the drawing room, shouting against the blare of the loud-speaker. With the exception of a girl, they were greedy youths, drawn to the Court by the bait of
unlimited free drinks and tobacco.

A few had an eye to bigger profits—a Stock Exchange tip, or even a furtive fiver, given and accepted, as a boon. Not even the boldest attempted to pluck his hostess at cards, for she
played poker too well. Her monetary favors were bestowed on those endowed with the silver tongues of diplomatists, or else the jargon of the gutter. She was only responsive to contrasts. She could
assimilate large doses of flattery, and also of abuse; the first was a tribute to her charm, the second a challenge to her power.

According to her custom, at this hour, Anthea was alone in the dimness of the Moorish library. Almost lost in its carven magnificence, she sat at her desk, under one green-shaded light.

In front of her was a sheaf of papers, containing the figures for the board meetings which had taken precedence of Mrs. Learoyd’s adenoids. From time to time she jotted a note on the
margin; but for several minutes she had ceased to write.

Her golden head was sunken on her breast, when Charles put his head round the corner of the door.

“Eleven, Anthea,” he said, consulting his watch.

A feature of the Court was its absence of clocks, except in the servants’ quarters. Anthea disliked any reminder of the passage of time, so that it was her secretary’s duty to see
that she was punctual for her appointments.

As she made no reply, Charles clapped his hands together, in a pretense to slaughter a moth.

Miss Vine started upright and stared at him blankly. Her blurred eyes made her appear defenseless, and almost pitiful.

“Bedtime, Anthea,” announced Charles.

“So soon? How quickly the time passes when one is working.”

“Quicker still when one’s asleep.” Charles perched on the arm of her chair and threw one hand carelessly on her bare shoulder. From this point of vantage his eyes roved over
the papers on the table.

“Been dreaming of your lovers, past and present?” he asked.

She slapped his hand playfully, but her eyes grew shrewd.

“No,” she replied, “it’s for them to dream of me. I’ve been deep in finance. Ah, Charles, this little head. All I have to help me. And so much to do.”

“You need a man,” suggested Charles. “Why not let me in on the ground floor of your next scheme?”

“No, Charles. I trust no man.”

“Not even me?”

“You, least of all.” She tilted his chin with her finger. “You see, I’m rather fond of you. That’s fatal. A woman should always be on guard against her
heart.”

“What do you trust? Your corns?”

“Don’t be vulgar. I trust my head.”

She scooped together her papers.

“I’m making more money for you, Charles. Look at all these figures. No, that’s enough. I did not say ‘read them.’ ”

As she spoke, she locked the documents in a drawer. Charles watched her, while the smile faded from his lips. In that gesture she had put him definitely in his place.

A minute before she had been his puppet, posturing and smiling as he pulled the strings of flattery. His arm was around her shoulders, in careless possession. But her manner of turning a key
reminded him, not only that the wealth which surrounded them had been created by her own vision and enterprise, but, also, of his own position.

Tonight she might be the conquest of his curly hair and insolent smiles; but tomorrow he must go to her, cap in hand, to beg for a new pair of flannel bags.

At that moment he hated her with all the force of his young manhood. As he withdrew his arm roughly she smiled up at him.

“What’s the matter, sonny-boy?”

He blurted out his request, like a sulky schoolboy.

“I’m short on my allowance, Anthea. And decency demands trousers.”

Miss Vine pulled his hair.

“Slip them in on my own bill, Charles,” she advised. “Tell Phibbs the old woman will never notice.”

“You, an old woman, Anthea? I like that. Now—how old are you? I mean—how young?”

She probed the mockery of his eyes.

“Young enough to retain my faculties,” she told him. “I’m neither deaf nor blind.”

Then she passed her hand over her brow.

“But—I’m tired.”

The scorn faded from the young man’s smile.

“You slog too hard,” he said. “Why the hell don’t you retire? You’ve all the money you want. What’s the good of it if you croak, and leave it to others,
who’ve never made a penny of it?”

Miss Vine’s smile was inscrutable, as she stared at her cousin.

“Are those your true views, my noble boy?” she asked.

“They are.”

“Then you want me to leave you out of my will?”

Charles laughed.

“Now, you’re being funny,” he said. “You bet, little Charles wants his share of pie, with the rest. . . . Only, that’s a long way off. And, honestly, Anthea,
it’s a bit raw to be slacking while you are slaving, day and night.”

“And where would you be without my money, Charles?”

He reddened to his eyes.

“In the gutter—where I belong—judging by the company I keep,” he muttered.

His insolence seemed but to amuse her. She loved a clash of wills, because she could always force her opponent to his knees.

“It’s sweet of you to offer me your grandfatherly advice,” she said, “but my health is Dr. Lawrence’s affair. I don’t keep a dog and do my own barking. Ring
the bell for Morgan.”

Charles hesitated with his finger on the electric button inserted in the desk.

“You’re not going to keep that girl up late again, are you?” he protested.

“That is my own business.” There was a rasp in Miss Vine’s voice. “I don’t pay a secretary and do my own typing.”

Miss Sally Morgan entered the library with such promptitude that she might have been waiting for the summons, outside the door. She was a pretty girl, dressed in black satin, but h. . .