Third Party Risk

Book 785: Murder Room

by Guy Cullingford

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

When Dorothy Squirl's speech for the opening of the Fallowfield Fête blew out of her hands, she found herself under the heady influence of an overdose of pep pills, calling on all women to unite to put the world to rights. The husbands didn't like it, but once the press, and especially columnist Gabrielle Patch, had taken Dorothy to their hearts, there was no stopping the movement. The nation took notice. But soon Gabrielle Patch was disputing her rights in the Women's Party with the crime reporters as sudden death began to remove members of the committee.

Release date: November 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 219

Sample

Mrs. Squirl had never made a speech in her life. But as wife of a minor local government official she had listened to plenty. She had listened to speeches from aldermen, both
Labour and Conservative, from visiting mayors, from practising politicians and those practising to become politicians. As well as this specialised and intensive course, she had, in common with
millions of others, been bombarded with speeches on radio and television from leading actresses to dairy farmers, from diplomats to dustmen. If there had been a Diploma for Speech-Listening, Mrs.
Squirl would have stood a good chance of gaining it. When she realised that she was herself to make a speech she passed through three phases; first, one of acute wonder, then one of flattered
anticipation, and finally, as the time drew nearer, of sheer fright. If Dorothy Squirl was alarmed by her approaching début, it was nothing to the effect it had on her husband Dudley. As
assistant to the Borough Treasurer with the chance, if he lived long enough, of succeeding to that august position himself, he was always deeply conscious of how important it was not to put a foot
wrong. To take a part in local activities was a necessity—indeed it was he who had made his wife join the Ladies Luncheon League in the beginning. But it had to be a subdued part. In the same
way that, although he encouraged his wife to be present at town functions, he always advised her not to put herself forward and to dress nicely but quietly in navy blue or beige. When he heard that
she had been elected as president, his pleasure was therefore mixed with faint misgivings, and when he was told that her duties included making the speech at the Fallowfield Fête, he nearly
went out of his mind with worry.

“But that’s for the nobs,” he explained to her, “for people like Mrs. Rollo and Lady Cynthia. It’s all right for them, they’re used to it.”

When he said this, Mrs. Squirl was in phase two.

“I don’t care, Dudley,” she said with great temerity, for she had never challenged him before. “It’s always been done by the President of the League and
they’ve asked me to do it. Mrs. Dutt did it last year and she’s nobody.”

“That may be so,” said Dudley, “but her husband is in retail trade. He’s got no position to maintain. It doesn’t matter if she makes a fool of herself.”

Mrs. Squirl went rather red and said, “You can’t tell till you try. I might make quite a good speech. And if I don’t, it can’t be any worse than some I’ve listened
to.”

“You can’t even remember one councillor’s name from another,” said Dudley bitterly, “and how do you think you’re going to remember what to say next when you
get up there in the public eye? If you’re so set on it, there’s only one thing to be done. I’ll have to write it for you and you’ll have to read it.”

“Mrs. Dutt read hers last year and no one heard a word of it.”

“Well, you’ll have to speak up. You can read it over and over again to me until you’ve got it right. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll get something down on
paper straight away.”

As he said this, his brow cleared, and he began to feel better. After all, it might not be such a disaster as he had feared. When people congratulated him on his wife’s speech, he could
look amused and say in a nonchalant way, “Well, old man, it ought to be good. I wrote it for her.”

“Mr. Gunter says it should last for about ten minutes. I thought if I got in a muddle I could just say ‘I declare this Fête open’.”

“That’s just what makes me windy. You don’t seem to have any conception of the importance of the occasion. What else did Gunter say?”

“He said that I should say a few words about the aims of the Fête and some nice words about the organisers. Then I should mention the stallholders and congratulate them on the
excellence of their effort and say something light and amusing about the objects for sale. Then I could mention the side-shows and pretend I was going to have my fortune told and to try to win the
pig. And I have to ask for subscriptions. He said the main thing was to wear something special, sound charming and keep talking until he winked at me. Then I was to stop and say that now it was
open.”

Mr. Gunter was the chief organiser of the Fallowfield Fête which was a joint effort made by the various bodies in Wytt’s End to offset a debt that they had combined to incur by
building a very large hall for their mutual use. At first it had been thought that one all-out effort would cover the cost of erection, but unfortunately wages had risen and with them the
builder’s estimates. Also it had somehow been overlooked that the hall once built would become a constant liability and eat up more in rates, lighting and heating than it ever made in hiring
fees. So the Fête had to become a hardy annual and the organising committee a permanency. Mr. Gunter was sorry that it had managed to get linked up with the Ladies Luncheon League at all but
this was because Mrs. Rollo had opened the first one when she was President. The year after, Lady Kestrel had followed suit, and by then the association seemed inevitable. As the status of the
presidents declined, Mr. Gunter thought he would have done better with Sabrina or Nancy Spain, but the ladies put in the bulk of the work and he didn’t like to offend them.

“I suppose that old Gunter knew that he could rely on me to see you through,” said Dudley. “But it seems to me to be running a great risk. It’s a good job the
chief’s wife is bedridden. It would never have done for you to have taken on something which might have been capable of being interpreted as an attempt to steal a march on her.”

Dudley was as good as his word. As the result of a deal of profound meditation in the dining-room after the evening meal had been cleared away, he emerged with a sheaf of tinily-written, much
corrected, lined foolscap which, next day, he bore off to the office to be typed by the girl who worked for him. Finally, with a modest gesture of triumph, he presented his wife with the finished
product, ten sheets of double-spacing, numbered and attached to each other by a paper clip.

“I think you’ll find that this will meet the case, my dear,” he said. “Just run through it and let me have your comments. I can alter anything you want altered, although
I doubt whether we shall improve upon it. I don’t see how it can give offence to anyone.”

His wife tried to read it whilst he stood over her but she was so conscious of his regard that she couldn’t make head or tail of it. As her eyes passed uncomprehendingly from word to word,
he hung there avid for praise and ready to fight to the death to preserve every syllable of his creation.

On conclusion all she could find to say was: “Very nice, I’m sure, dear.”

“Is that the best you can do after I have sweated my guts out on your behalf?” he asked bitterly.

“What do you want me to say, Dudley?”

“A man looks for a little appreciation after his labours.”

“You seem to have got it all in.”

“Yes, I flatter myself I have covered all the points.”

He had, too. It was a pity though, that when she came to read the script through on her own, she found it so horribly disappointing. It had about as much charm as a rate receipt. In secret she
passed it on to her son who was taking his G.C.E. that year.

“If you ask me,” said Owen, “it’s Dudley dull.”

“You’re a naughty boy to make fun of your father,” she said severely.

But she had to admit to herself that Owen had placed his finger on the weak spot. The speech read like Dudley. Like some hats she tried on from time to time, it wasn’t her. And if
it wasn’t her, it might just as well be something more exciting—something that would make people say “Well, that little Mrs. Squirl, I didn’t know she had it in her!”
Like many another timid and repressed woman she was a great fantasy-harbourer.

In the bath, the one place where she could privately float her imagination, she mouthed to herself some of the sort of phrases she had heard and would have preferred, giving them just the sort
of winning intonation she fancied Mr. Gunter had in mind.

“On this momentous occasion . . .” she began, gazing upwards with a beatific smile. “On this momentous occasion . . . oh dear, how discoloured this ceiling is getting with the
steam.” She re-arranged her smile again and went on:

“It is with a feeling of the utmost personal pleasure and . . .” here she gazed modestly down at the soap, “with a sense of my own inadequacy that I venture to pay tribute to
all those who have been engaged in this stupendous undertaking. It is, as I am sure you are all aware, an all-out endeavour to raise funds for . . . for . . .” and here she finished up with a
burst of candour addressed to her big toe, “for a silly old hall that nobody wants now they’ve got it.” With a further grimace she added, “Do help. Send your
cheques to me here, Lady Dorothy Squirl, The Bath, 18, Hill Crest Avenue. Oh dear, I shall never do it. I suppose I shall have to stick to Dudley after all.”

“I wish I’d never let them make me president of their wretched club,” she moaned to her next-door neighbour and friend, Ivy Duke, who had come in to look at the dress she had
bought for the great occasion.

“Why ever not, ducks?”

The exchanges between Dorothy Squirl and her friend always sounded like Gert and Daisy, raised to an ever so slightly higher social and intellectual level. They both spoke with North London
accents, than which there is nothing nastier but West London, or perhaps South London.

“Well, then I shouldn’t have had to make this stupid speech.”

“It’s an honour, dear,” said Ivy, fingering the material. “You ought to be proud to be asked. Do you think this sort of swathed effect is really your style? I should have
thought you might have felt happier in something simpler.”

“Oh, don’t put me off it. I went all down Oxford Street looking for the right thing. It’s a pretty colour, isn’t it?”

“It’s a bit brighter than your usual. Has Dudley seen it yet?”

“No. No. Why should he?”

“No reason at all. You go your own way, dear. Take no notice of Dudley. He’s just an old stick-in-the-mud.”

“I daren’t even let him see the bill.”

“Did you pay a lot for it then?”

“More than I usually do,” replied Mrs. Squirl cautiously. “Mr. Gunter told me to get something special. He said it gave confidence.”

“So it does. And you can always cut down on the housekeeping till you’ve paid for it. It’s this floating panel I’m not quite sure about. Suppose it’s a windy
day?”

“I couldn’t buy different outfits for different kinds of weather. It’s June, anyway.”

“I’ve known blizzards in June. And don’t forget you’ll be up above us all on the platform. You’ll have to remember your knees when you sit down.”

“I shan’t be able to think about anything but the speech.”

“Are they giving you a microphone?”

“I don’t know. Does it make any difference?”

“You want to be sure that it’s the right height. You have to speak right into it. The trouble is that they’re always going wrong.”

“You aren’t much comfort to me, I must say. All you do is make me feel more and more nervous.”

“If you’re really nervous I know the cure for that.”

“If you’re going to suggest a double whisky before leaving the house, you may as well keep the thought to yourself.”

“Whoever said anything about drink,” said Ivy virtuously. “These are some wonderful pills that my doctor gave me. They can’t do a scrap of harm but, oh boy, do they make
you feel able to face the world. I took two before I went on in The Maid of the Mountains. And you know what the reporter said about that. ‘Ivy Duke took her top notes like a
professional.’ Hoo, I could have sung at the Albert Hall and not turned a hair. They’re tiny little things . . . heart-shaped.”

“They might not have the same effect on me as they did on you.”

“I’ll bring the bottle round and you can try them out.”

“All right. I will. But I don’t promise to take them on the day. You know Dudley. I can’t risk making a mess of it. He was awfully against it in the first place.”

“He’s just jealous. He can’t bear you to be in the limelight for once. It puts his nose out of joint.”

“Do you really think that’s it?”

“Of course I do. It’s a man’s world. They’re always trying to keep us down. Well, it’s no good. You take my word for it. The day of the woman is coming. They
can’t keep us for ever chained to the kitchen sink.”

“Dudley is such an old fidget. He never gives me credit for having any discretion of my own.”

“You pander to him too much. You should stand up for yourself. Your brain is as good as his any day.”

“Sometimes I think it’s better,” said Mrs. Squirl. “Of course,” she added hastily, “that doesn’t mean that I’m not fond of him.”

“We can be fond of them,” said Ivy, “but we can know them for what they are. I’m cleverer than my James and you’re cleverer than your Dudley. That’s just two
of us living next door. What does it amount to, when you add it up road upon road?”

“I’ve never thought of it like that.”

“Well, I have. If women had had a hand in things d’you suppose we should have been in the muddle we are today?”

“I thought they did have a hand in things.”

“Bah! A little finger is all they have. And they’re only allowed that to keep them quiet.”

“Do you think that if women really got together they could alter the course of history?”

“If you mean could they stop wars and end the traffic problem—yes.”

“Then why don’t they do it?”

“Because they’re kept shut up in their little homes feeding the cat and washing out the drip-drys.”

“I always knew women were different,” said Dorothy Squirl, “but I never thought of them as being more sensible.”

“That’s because Dudley does nothing but suggest to you that you’re a complete moron. I’ve seen him at it. He buys you your ticket and puts it in your bag and says
don’t lose it. And he tries the door after you’ve locked it. And then goes back himself to see if you’ve left on the electric light.”

“That’s right,” said Dorothy Squirl in a surprised voice, “that’s just what he does do.”

“It’s a plot . . . a dastardly male plot. When you get up on your hind legs at Fallowfield, you just think how much superior you are to the average man and that it’s only a
matter of time before he’ll have to acknowledge it. What with that and my tablets, you’ll make the speech to end all speeches.”

“But it will be Dudley’s speech. He’s written it all down for me.”

“Oh, Dot, you’re a hopeless case. Well, I must be off. If I don’t start preparing a meal for my domestic tyrant, he’ll beat me black and blue. Be seeing you,
dear.”

At the door she turned back. “You know why I’m like this? I waited in all the morning for the plumber to fix a washer on the kitchen tap. Then the chap never showed up.”

But her friend scarcely heard her. When she heard the door close, “This is a great day in the life of the people of Wytt’s End,” she recited dreamily. Then she lifted the dress
on its hanger and bore it upstairs to tuck it away in a corner of the wardrobe, far away from Dudley’s inquisitive gaze.

The ebullient Ivy never gave this conversation a second thought; though the day before the big event, she remembered to hand the bottle of tablets over the garden fence.

“How is it going, dear?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Dudley is going to rehearse me tonight.”

“Then you take a couple of my pep pills half an hour before. You’ll need them.”

“I’ve promised to go over it this afternoon.”

But in the afternoon, in the sitting-room with her familiar objects about her and Dudley’s script in her lap, she found it impossible to concentrate. Her thoughts, ostensibly in one place
darted to and fro like the individual members of a flight of gnats. And she had to keep jumping up to answer the telephone.

Much to Dudley’s surprise the rehearsal went off remarkably well. When Dorothy read to him even the smallest paragraph from the morning paper she would hurry and stumble and mispronounce;
but tonight she read her speech—his speech—as if she were a television announcer. Still he didn’t like to give her unqualified praise.

“Not bad,” he said. “You’d better practise pausing at the end of each sentence to allow for any applause. I can’t see anything wrong with the speech as it stands. I
think I’ve made a good job of that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the speech,” agreed his wife. She practised pausing. “Except that it’s as dull as ditchwater.”

Dudley goggled at her.

“They’ve all been on the phone this afternoon,” continued Mrs. Squirl blithely. “First Mrs. Rollo; then Lady Kestrel and then that Amy Asshenden; not to mention Doris
twice. They seem to be anxious about something. I can’t think what.”

It was Dudley’s turn to take a pause.

“I suppose you’re feeling quite well?” he asked at last.

“I never felt better in my life,” said Mrs. Squirl.

“Quite sure you want to go through with it?”

“Quite sure,” said Mrs. Squirl. She was sure of something else too. Ivy’s tablets did everything that she had claimed for them.

The day of the Fallowfield Fête arrived, fine but blustering. Yes, it was windy. For a moment, Dorothy Squirl suspected Ivy of wishing it on her. This morning she was ready to believe the
worst of anyone. The Olympian mood of yester-night had vanished completely. She couldn’t eat her breakfast toast and found her cup of tea chattering on its saucer. Her knees also betrayed
her. Dudley went off full of forebodings and glad that his work kept him from attendance. The curious thing was that he had been shaken by his wife’s criticism. He was sure that his speech
wasn’t dull but he wondered whether other people might find it so.

“You’re quite certain that you made it clear to them up at the cab-rank that you must be collected before two-thirty?” he asked before depart. . .