Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense Read online

  “About the fire.” Then again, patiently, because Partridge didn’t seem to be taking it in. “The fire. There was a fire. In your kitchen. I saw the smoke as I came past. You’d left the toaster on this morning. It had got the tea towel and the curtains were just beginning to go. So I broke in.”

  Partridge now looked human again. “I understand. I’m sorry I was so suspicious. It’s just . . . Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Reg Carter, with an insouciance he’d learned from some television hero. “It was just I thought, what with your mother upstairs, I couldn’t afford to wait and call the fire brigade. What with her not being able to move and all.”

  “That was very thoughtful. Thank you.” Unconsciously Partridge was edging round the hall, as if trying to usher the postman out. But Reg Carter stayed firmly in the kitchen doorway. Partridge reached vaguely towards his wallet. “I feel I should reward you in some way . . .”

  “No, I don’t want no reward. I just did it to save the old lady.”

  Partridge gave a little smile and nervous nod of gratitude.

  “I mean, it would be awful for her to be trapped. Someone helpless like that.”

  “Yes.”

  Up until this point the postman’s tone had been tentative, but, as he continued, he became more forceful. “After I’d put the fire out, I thought I ought to see if she was all right. She might have smelt burning or heard me breaking in and been scared out of her wits . . . . So I called up the stairs to her. She didn’t answer.”

  The colour was once again dying rapidly from Partridge’s face. “No, she’s very deaf. She wouldn’t hear you.”

  “No. So I went upstairs,” Reg Carter continued inexorably. “All the doors were closed. I opened one. I reckon it must be your room. Then I opened another. There was a bed there. But there was no one in it.”

  “No.”

  “There was no one in the bathroom. Or anywhere. The house was empty.”

  “Yes.”

  The postman looked for a moment at his quarry, then said, “I thought that was rather strange, Mr Partridge. I mean, you told us all your mother was bedridden and lived here.”

  “She does—I mean she did.” The colour was back in his cheeks in angry blushes.

  “Did?”

  “Yes, she died,” said Partridge quickly.

  “Died? When? You said this morning when I asked after her that—”

  “She died a couple of days ago. I’m sorry, I’ve been in such a state. The shock, you know. You can’t believe that it’s happened and—”

  “When was the funeral?”

  A new light of confusion came into Partridge’s eyes as he stumbled to answer. “Yesterday. Very recently. It’s only just happened. I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

  “No.” Reg Carter’s voice was studiously devoid of intonation. “I’d better be on my way. Got a couple more letters to deliver, then back to the post office.”

  Humphrey Partridge mumbled more thanks as he ushered the postman out of the front door. When he heard the click of the front gate, he sank trembling on to the bottom stair and cried out loud, “Why, why can’t they leave us alone?”

  Sergeant Wallace was a fat man with a thin, tidy mind. He liked everything in its place and he liked to put it there himself. The one thing that frightened him was the idea of anyone else being brought in to what he regarded as his area of authority, in other words, anything that happened in the village. So it was natural for him, when the rumours about Humphrey Partridge reached unmanageable proportions, to go and see the man himself rather than reporting to his superiors.

  It was about a week after the fire. Needless to say, Reg Carter had talked to Mr and Mrs Denton and they had talked to practically everyone who came into the post office. The talk was now so wild that something had to be done.

  Humphrey Partridge opened his front door with customary lack of welcome, but Sergeant Wallace forced his large bulk inside, saying he’d come to talk about the fire.

  Tea chests in the sitting-room told their own story. “Packing your books I see, Mr Partridge.”

  “Yes. Most of my effects will be going to Canada by sea.” Partridge assumed, rightly, that the entire village knew of his impending departure.

  “When is it exactly you’re off?”

  “About a month. I’m not exactly sure.”

  Sergeant Wallace settled his uninvited mass into an armchair. “Nice place, Canada, I hear. My nephew’s over there.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’ll be buying a place to live . . .?”

  “Yes.”

  “On your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother’s no longer with you?”

  “No. She . . . she died.”

  “Yes. Quite recently, I hear.” Sergeant Wallace stretched out, as if warming himself in front of the empty grate. “It was to some extent about your mother that I called.”

  Partridge didn’t react, so the Sergeant continued. “As you know, this is a small place and most people take an interest in other people’s affairs . . .”

  “Can’t mind their own bloody business, most of them.”

  “Maybe so. Now I don’t listen to gossip, but I do have to keep my ear to the ground—that’s what the job’s about. And I’m afraid I’ve been hearing some strange things about you recently, Mr Partridge.” Sergeant Wallace luxuriated in another pause. “People are saying things about your mother’s death. I realize, being so recent, you’d probably rather not talk about it.”

  “Fat chance I have of that. Already I’m getting anonymous letters and phone calls about it.”

  “And you haven’t reported them?”

  “Look, I’ll be away soon. And none of it will matter.”

  “Hmm.” The Sergeant decided the moment had come to take the bull by the horns. “As you’ll probably know from these letters and telephone calls then, people are saying you killed your mother for her money.”

  “That is libellous nonsense!”

  “Maybe. I hope so. If you can just answer a couple of questions for me, then I’ll know so. Tell me first, when did your mother die?”

  “Ten days ago. The eleventh.”

  “Are you sure? It was on the eleventh that you had the fire and Reg Carter found the house empty.”

  “I’m sorry. A couple of days before that. It’s been such a shock, I . . .”

  “Of course.” Sergeant Wallace nodded soothingly. “And so the funeral must have been on the tenth?”

  “Some time round then, yes.”

  “Strange that none of the local undertakers had a call from you.”

  “I used a firm from town, one I have connections with.”

  “I see.” Sergeant Wallace looked rosier than ever as he warmed to his task. “And no doubt it was a doctor from town who issued the death certificate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you happen to have a copy of that certificate?” the Sergeant asked sweetly.

  Humphrey Partridge looked weakly at his tormentor and murmured, “You know I don’t.”

  “If there isn’t a death certificate,” mused Sergeant Wallace agonizingly slowly, “then that suggests there might be something unusual about your mother’s death.”

  “Damn you! Damn you all!” Partridge was almost sobbing with passion. “Why can’t you leave me alone? Why are you always prying?”

  The Sergeant recovered from his surprise. “Mr Partridge, if a crime’s been committed—”

  “No crime’s been committed!” Partridge shouted in desperate exasperation. “I haven’t got a mother. I never saw my mother. She walked out on me when I was six months old and I was brought up in care.”

  “Then who was living upstairs?” asked Sergeant Wallace logically.

  “Nobody. I live on my own, I always have lived on my own. Don’t you see, I hate people.” The confession was costing Partridge a lot, but he was too wound up to stop its outp
ouring. “People are always trying to find out about you, to probe, to know you. They want to invade your house, take you out for drinks, invade your privacy. I can’t stand it. I just want to be on my own!”

  Sergeant Wallace tried to interject, but Partridge steam-rollered on. “But you can’t be alone. People won’t let you. You have to have a reason. So I invented my mother. I couldn’t do things, I couldn’t see people, because I had to get back to my mother. She was ill. And my life worked very well like that. I even began to believe in her, to talk to her. She never asked questions, she didn’t want to know anything about me, she just loved me and was kind and beautiful. And I loved her. I wouldn’t kill her—I wouldn’t lay a finger on her—it’s you, all of you who’ve killed her!” He was now weeping uncontrollably. “Damn you, damn you.”

  Sergeant Wallace took a moment or two to organize this new information in his mind. “So what you’re telling me is, there never was any mother. You made her up. You couldn’t have killed her, because she never lived.”

  “Yes,” said Partridge petulantly. “Can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

  “Hmm. And how do you explain that you suddenly have enough money to emigrate and buy property in Canada?”

  “My premium bond came up. I got the letter on the morning of the fire. That’s why I forgot to turn the toaster off. I was so excited.”

  “I see.” Sergeant Wallace lifted himself ponderously out of his chair and moved across to the window. “Been digging in the garden, I see.”

  “Yes, I put some bulbs in.”

  “Bulbs, and you’re about to move.” The Sergeant looked at his quarry. “That’s very public-spirited of you, Mr Partridge.”

  The post office was delighted with the news of Partridge’s arrest. Mrs Denton was firmly of the opinion that she had thought there was something funny going on and recognized Partridge’s homicidal tendencies. Reg Carter bathed in the limelight of having set the investigation in motion and Sergeant Wallace, though he regretted the intrusion of the C.I.D. into his patch, felt a certain satisfaction for his vital groundwork.

  The Dentons were certain Reg would be called as a witness at the trial and thought there was a strong possibility that they might be called as character witnesses. Mrs Denton bitterly regretted the demise of the death penalty, feeling that prison was too good for people who strangled old ladies in their beds. Every passing shopper brought news of developments in the case, how the police had dug up the garden, how they had taken up the floorboards, how they had been heard tapping the walls of Partridge’s house. Mrs Denton recommended that they should sift through the ashes of the boiler.

  So great was the community interest in the murder that the cries of disbelief and disappointment were huge when the news came through that the charges against Partridge had been dropped. The people of the village felt that they had been robbed of a pleasure which, by any scale of values, was rightfully theirs.

  But as the details seeped out, it was understood that Partridge’s wild tale to Sergeant Wallace was true. There had been no one else living in the house. He had had a large premium bond win. And the last record of Partridge’s real mother dated from four years previously when she had been found guilty of soliciting in Liverpool and sentenced to two months in prison.

  The village’s brief starring role in the national press was over and its people, disgruntled and cheated, returned to more domestic scandals. Humphrey Partridge came back to his house, but no one saw him much as he hurried to catch up on the delay to his emigration plans which his wrongful arrest had caused him.

  It was two days before his departure, in the early evening, when he had the visitor. It was December, dark and cold. Everyone in the village was indoors.

  He did not recognize the woman standing on the doorstep. She was dressed in a short black and white fun-fur coat, which might have been fashionable five years before. Her hair was fierce ginger, a strident contrast to scarlet lipstick, and black lashes hovered over her eyes like bats’ wings. The stringiness of her neck and the irregular bumps of veins under her black stockings denied the evidence of her youthful dress.

  “Hello, Humphrey,” she said.

  “Who are you?” He held the door, as usual, ready to close it.

  The woman laughed, a short, unpleasant sound. “No, I don’t expect you to recognize me. You were a bit small when we last met.”

  “You’re not . . .?”

  “Yes, of course I am. Aren’t you going to give your mother a kiss?”

  She thrust forward her painted face and Partridge recoiled back into the hall. The woman took the opportunity to follow him in and shut the front door behind her.

  “Nice little place you’ve got for yourself, Humphrey.” She advanced and Partridge backed away from her into the sitting-room. She took in the bareness and the packing cases. “Oh yes, of course, leaving these shores, aren’t you? I read in the paper. Canada, was it? Nice people, Canadians. At least, their sailors are.” Another burst of raucous laughter.

  “’Cause of course you’ve got the money now, haven’t you, Humphrey? I read about that too. Funny, I never met anyone before what’d won a premium bond. Plenty who did all right on the horses, but not premium bonds.”

  “What do you want?” Partridge croaked.

  “Just come to see my little boy, haven’t I? Just thinking, now you’re set up so nice and cosy, maybe you ought to help your Mum in her old age.”

  “I don’t owe you anything. You never did anything for me. You walked out on me.”

  “Ah, that was ages ago. And he was a nice boy, Clinton. I had to have a fling. I meant to come back to you after a week or two. But then the council moved in and Clinton got moved away and—”

  “What do you want?”

  “I told you. I want to be looked after in my old age. I read in the paper about how devoted you were to your old mother.” Again the laugh.

  “But you aren’t my mother.” Partridge was speaking with great care and restraint.

  “Oh yes, I am, Humphrey.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Yes. Ooh, I’ve had a thought—why don’t you take your old mother to Canada with you?”

  “You are not my mother!” Partridge’s hands were on the woman’s shoulders, shaking out the emphasis of his words.

  “I’m your mother, Humphrey.”

  His hands rose to her neck to silence the taunting words. They tightened and shuddered as he spoke. “My mother is beautiful and kind. She is nothing like you. She always loved me. She still loves me!”

  The spasm passed. He released his grip. The woman’s body slipped down. As her head rolled back, her false teeth fell out with a clatter on to the floor.

  Sergeant Wallace appeared to be very busy with a ledger when Humphrey Partridge went into the police station next morning. He was embarrassed by what had happened. It didn’t fit inside the neat borders of his mind and it made him look inefficient. But eventually he could pretend to be busy no longer. “Good morning, Mr Partridge. What can I do for you?”

  “I leave for Canada tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Well, may I wish you every good fortune in your new life there.”

  “Thank you.” A meagre smile was on Partridge’s lips. “Sergeant, about my mother . . .”

  Sergeant Wallace closed his ledger with some force. “Listen, Mr Partridge, you have already had a full apology and—”

  “No, no, it’s nothing to do with that. I just wanted to tell you . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “. . . that I did kill my mother.”

  “Oh yes, and then I suppose you buried her in the garden, eh?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Fine.” Sergeant Wallace reopened his ledger and looked down at the page busily.

  “I’m confessing to murder,” Partridge insisted.

  The Sergeant looked up with an exasperated sigh. “Listen, Mr Partridge, I’m very sorry about what happened and you’re entitled to your little joke, but I d
o have other things to do, so, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  “You mean I can just go?”

  “Please.”

  “To Canada?”

  “To where you bloody well like.”

  “Right then, I’ll go. And . . . er . . . leave the old folks at home.”

  Sergeant Wallace didn’t look up from his ledger as Partridge left the police station.

  Outside, Humphrey Partridge took a deep breath of air, smiled and said out loud, “Right, mother, Canada it is.”

  PARKING SPACE

  “YOUR WIFE TELLS me you’re going to take up shooting,” said Alex Paton, during a lull in the dinner party conversation.

  Kevin Hooson-Smith flashed a look of annoyance at his wife, Avril, but smiled casually and responded, “Well, thought it might be rather fun. You know, at some point. When I’ve got time for a proper weekend hobby. Old Andersen keeps us at it so hard at the moment, I think that may be a few years hence.”

  He laughed heartily to dissipate the subject, but Alex Paton wasn’t going to let it go. “But Avril said you’d actually bought a shotgun.”

  “Well . . .” Kevin shrugged uncomfortably. “Useful thing to have. You know, if the opportunity came up for a bit of shooting, one wouldn’t want to say, No, sorry, no can do, no gun.” He laughed again, hoping the others would join in. Surely he’d got the words right. If Alex Paton or Philip Wilkinson had said that, the other would certainly have laughed. But they didn’t, so he had to continue. “You shoot at all, Alex?”

  “Not much these days. Pop off the occasional rabbit if I go down to the country to see Mother. Father left me his pair of Purdey’s, which aren’t bad. What make was the gun you got, Kevin?”

  “Oh, I forget the name. Foreign.”

  “Dear, dear. Some evil continental pop-gun.” They all laughed at that.

  “Absolutely,” said Kevin. At least he’d got that right. “More wine, Alex?”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s a seventy-one—Pommard.”

  “I noticed.”

  Kevin busied himself with dispensing wine to his guests, but Alex was still not deflected from the subject. “Avril said she thought you were going off shooting this weekend . . .”