Lonely Road Murder Read online

  LONELY ROAD MURDER

  John Russell Fearn

  © John Russell Fearn 1954; Philip Harbottle 2011.

  John Russell Fearn has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1954 by Brown Watson.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER I

  GRUESOME DISCOVERY

  It was a foggy grey morning. The November air had an icy bite, and the sound of the passing traffic rose in a muffled roar through the open window.

  I shut out the disagreeable sight, put the light on, and started to prepare my breakfast. I was very annoyed. All the week, we had basked in wintry sunshine, and now on my day off — fog. Stephen had planned to take me for a drive in the country this afternoon, before our usual Saturday night date, and this beastly weather would stop it. Hopefully I peered again through the curtains, but no, the fog was obviously here to stay.

  Perhaps he would phone, he always did if anything went wrong. That was one of the things I liked about him. He was so reliable, you could count on him in any emergency.

  Stephen was my boss, at the office, and I had been very flattered and thrilled, when he singled me out. The competition there is unbelievable, we are practically knee-deep in beauties! Saturday was a standing date, and for the last three months he had given me a wonderful time. No one knew that we saw each other outside the office, somehow with a lot of luck we managed to keep our secret from the gossips. It was Mr. Lane and Miss Lennox there but Stephen and Rosemary when we were alone.

  The kettle boiling interrupted my reverie, and while I was making the tea, the hall phone with perfect timing began to ring. An ear-splitting yell from the hall nearly made me drop the teapot.

  “Rosie! Rosie! Wake up girl. You’re wanted on the phone!”

  I froze with indignation, and then hurried downstairs.

  Bob McDonnell from the top flat, was chatting amiably down the phone, and doodling “Mrs. Rosie Lane” all over the pad!

  I snatched the receiver from him and hissed:

  “How dare you shout like that, and if you call me Rosie any more — ”

  He grinned. “Temper! Temper! Don’t let old Moneybags hear you.”

  Trying to quell Bob is like trying to hold back Niagara with an eggcup. I gave up the attempt, and turned my back on him in a dignified manner.

  “Hello Rosemary, Stephen here.”

  “Oh, darling, I was hoping you’d ring. We won’t be able to go now will we?” There was a chuckle.

  “I’m afraid not, my dear. Still never mind, I’ve booked a table at Lou’s to cheer you up. You love that place, don’t you? I’ll call at seven. Will that be alright?”

  I heaved an ecstatic sigh. “Oh Stephen, that will be lovely. I was so disappointed before and now I don’t mind a bit. Yes seven, darling. Goodbye.”

  I mooned happily back up the stairs. Lou’s was a heavenly little nightclub. All soft shaded lights. To me it was the most romantic spot I knew, and to crown my happiness, I possessed a new evening gown waiting for just this kind of occasion. I walked into my kitchen glowing with contentment, and then stopped dead. That wretched Bob McDonnell was sitting in the best chair calmly drinking my tea, and reading my paper!

  He looked up as I came in, and gave me a sardonic smile. “Hello, sweet. I’ve put you out another cup and saucer. Help yourself.”

  “You’re quite comfortable, I hope?” I said with laboured politeness. “Wouldn’t like an egg or something?”

  “No thanks. I’m not hungry. I’ll have some toast though. Don’t you ever have anything but tea and toast? That’s all I ever seem to find round here. Trying to keep your figure, I suppose.”

  I breathed fire and fury at this remark, but I kept my temper, which is rather a difficult feat, when Nature has landed you with red hair, green eyes and a temperament to match. Bob stretched out his long legs and put down the paper. I eyed him covertly. He was looking exceptionally smart this morning. The unruly black hair that generally defied his effort was smoothed crisply back. He wore a grey suit and a slightly unconventional pink shirt, which on anyone else would have looked common.

  Altogether he was quite presentable.

  He caught my glance and laughed. “Don’t look like that my pet. I’m going in a minute. Got to see Mr. Osborne about my novel.”

  “He’s not accepted?” I cried.

  Bob made a magnificent gesture. “Not definitely, but the man knows talent when he sees it!”

  I clapped my hands gleefully. Bob’s novel was widely known and believed in, throughout our little block of flats. Its progress from publisher to publisher had been watched with anxious eyes, and this was the first time he had met with anything like encouragement.

  I forgot how much he infuriated me and rejoiced for him. His eyes were exultant, but his voice betrayed no excitement as he said casually: “The interview’s at eleven so I’d better be on my way. Wish me luck!”

  “Of course I do, Bob.”

  He straightened his tie, and brushing off a few toast crumbs walked over to the door. “Goodbye Rosie.” He paused, frowning slightly. “By the way does Old Moneybags know that you entertain gentlemen to breakfast in your dressing gown?”

  I blushed and pulled it closer round me. “Must you, Bob? And please don’t call Stephen “Old Moneybags”. It’s most rude. He’s a charming well educated man, not like that vulgar blonde you’ve been running around with for the last month!”

  He raised a mocking eyebrow. “Now darling, don’t be catty, Stephen thinks she’s very nice. He told me so this morning.”

  “Oh you — !” I gasped furiously and my temper going fast, I grabbed the tea cosy and threw it. He dodged of course and making a final rude comment at my aim slammed the door. I could hear him laughing as he ran down the stairs. It took me quite a while to simmer down, it generally does after Bob and I have had a little discussion.

  I tidied up the flat and by eleven thirty was dressed and ready to go out shopping. I knocked next door to see if Elly wanted anything. She answered the door, wiping floury hands on her apron. “Hello dear, just off to the shops?”

  “Yes, Elly. Do you want anything?”

  “Well, there is something if you’re sure it’s no bother. I’m right out of gravy salt. Better get me a large packet.”

  A heavenly smell was wafting round my nostrils. Elly is a marvellous cook, and her kitchen always sends forth enticing odours.

  She smiled at me, her plump rosy face crinkling pleasantly. “I’m making a rabbit pie. Why don’t you come back and have your lunch with me? It’ll be ready by one o’clock and there’s far too much for me to eat on my own.”

  I tried to resist. I’m always eating at Elly’s, but she wouldn’t hear of it, and laughingly pushing me out of the door told me I was expected at one, and not any later.

  Elly had mothered me since the day I moved in. She was such a comfortable person, and I often thought what a loss the male sex had suffered in allowing her to remain unmarried. Plump, kindly, she should have a large family to care for. Not that she ever bothered. Oh no, Elly was far too busy and active. Her life was a happy one.

  The fog was really thick, and if I hadn’t known my way to the market backwards, I should very soon have been lost. Our “market” as we call it, was originally a select little backwater, comprising about a dozen small shops. But a few enterprising people pitched their
stall there and gradually the idea had taken on, until the shops were outnumbered and the cheeky cockney reigned supreme.

  Boxes of tangerines and packets of sticky figs spiked with holly gave a Christmassy air to the fruit stalls, and the fat chickens and slabs of sausage stuffing made me feel quite reckless. I wandered from stall to stall and was just trying to tell myself that the highly priced mushrooms were an unnecessary luxury, when a voice said, “I should have them, Rosemary — you know you can’t resist much longer!”

  I turned round in surprise and then laughed as I saw who it was. “Get thee behind me Satan!”

  Mary smiled. “Well, I’m having some anyway. John adores them.”

  We ended up by both buying mushrooms and walked back home together.

  Mary was rather quiet as we strolled along. I thought she might be tired and didn’t push the conversation. She and her husband John worked in a small nightclub just off Berners Street. They were the vocalists with Les Roberts’ Band, and I envied them their Bohemian life, and late hours. But as if to dispute my thoughts Mary gave a large yawn and said wearily, “I’m going to spend the rest of the day in bed. This eternal night life is getting me down.”

  I wouldn’t have this. “Only the other day you were saying how much you loved it all,” I accused.

  She smiled. Mary has a very sweet smile, slanting and sort of pixie-like. “I do really. Just that I’m a bit fed up. John and I had a row when he got back this morning, and now he’s gone off somewhere in a huff.”

  I made sympathetic noises and said. “I shouldn’t worry Mary, he always comes back with a bunch of roses.”

  She laughed outright. “Well, let’s hope so. It’s all so silly. He keeps getting jealous of Les Roberts and accusing me of being too friendly. What can I do? Les is our boss and if he’s nice to me, I can’t very well be rude to him. Anyway, he’s an awful pet and I like him.”

  “Don’t let John hear you say that,” I chuckled.

  She tossed back the long ash blonde hair that fell in a gleaming sweep to her shoulders. “Perhaps it would do him good. Oh, that man of mine. I only hope these mushrooms melt his hard heart.”

  We had reached the flats by now and after a few more words Mary opened her front door and bade me goodbye.

  I glanced at my watch. Yes, it was just on one, Elly would be expecting me.

  She was ready and waiting. The table was laid with gleaming silver, and a comforting glow was coming from the fire. “Did you find your way dear? It’s a terrible day. I was surprised at you going out. I know how nervous you are in a fog.”

  “Oh, it’s only at night that I really hate it. There’s something rather thrilling about the foggy London street by day.”

  Elly shook her head at me. “Romancing again! Come on now, sit down to your dinner, it’ll do you more good than all that silly talk.”

  It was a beautiful meal. We finished up with large cups of Elly’s special coffee and took them over by the fire to complete the enjoyment. Once settled in the two easy chairs we got down to what Bob rudely calls a “mothers meeting.” I told Elly all about Stephen, and my new dress and the nightclub we were going to. She was very impressed. Stephen had met her a couple of times, and Elly took to him on sight and loved to hear all the little details of our outings. He was, she informed me, very like an old beau of hers who unfortunately died early in life.

  “Oh, I saw Mary Francis this morning,” I said. “I meant to tell you before.”

  “I’ve not set eyes on her for three days,” Elly declared. “How is she?”

  When I finished the brief story of Mary’s troubles, she shook her head and said pityingly, “Poor thing. I’m sure he hasn’t come in yet. I’d have heard him. Perhaps she’s sitting there all alone crying.”

  “Well, she didn’t look much like it when I left her,” I said rather cold-heartedly.

  “Now that’s thoughtless,” Elly reproved. “How do you know what was in her mind?”

  I shrugged the question aside feeling slightly guilty, and the conversation turned to other things.

  It was nearly five before I left but I still had two whole hours to beautify myself. I lazed in my bath delighting in the warm scented water, and the luxury of apparently limitless time. If only life could be as easy and simple all the week through and not just a Saturday wonder!

  When I was finally dressed and ready I opened the wardrobe door and surveyed myself with a critical eye in the full-length mirror. The result was surprising. For weeks the dress had tempted me, and now I was thankful that I’d given in and bought it. It was a tawny gold lace shading into leaf brown. The sort of dress that other people seem to have, the sort you never find yourself. I twirled happily and watched the shaded skirt billow and flounce. In happy confidence I waited for Stephen’s ring.

  *

  He was on time. Tall, handsome, everything I admired in a man. As he took me in his arms, and bent his fair head to kiss me, I felt a wave of happiness and excitement run through me at the thought of the evening ahead.

  We had a little difficulty in getting to Lou’s. The fog, though clearer, was still thick enough to slow the traffic down to a crawl, and our taxi seemed to take ages. However once safely arrived, everything went like a charm. The headwaiter, by good fortune, remembered Stephen, and took us to our table, beautifully placed; near for the floor show, and yet reasonably excluded. Stephen himself was very attentive, and scarcely took his eyes off me throughout the meal. He ordered a special wine, and I drank a lot of it. There was music and laughter everywhere, and I was so happy, I could have danced all alone in the centre of the floor.

  Stephen whispered foolish things in my ear as we moved round slowly to the band and held me tightly, and I felt his lips brush against my hair. Oh, it was a wonderful evening. When the music stopped we went reluctantly back to our table. My glass was empty and the waiter brought along another bottle. Stephen raised his glass and toasted me as his “lovely bewitching Rosemary” and I sat in a dreamy haze.

  He was talking, very seriously, and gradually his words began to penetrate…

  “My Mother naturally wants to meet you.”

  His Mother! This brought me down to earth with a definite jolt, and I gave him my full attention.

  “I’ve told her so much about you. She’d like you to come down for a weekend very soon. You’ll love her darling. She’s a wonderful old lady.”

  I was really sitting up and taking notice now. Stephen’s mother was the talk of the office. Not that I’d ever paid much attention to gossip, but the old adage “where there’s smoke there’s fire” has an uncanny knack of being true, and there was an awful lot of smoke around Stephen’s mother. Only last week, Sandra, our typist had declared: “He’s properly tied to his Mummy’s apron strings. That old lady rules the roost. I’ll bet she’ll pick his wife for him personally, and then tell him to go ahead and propose.”

  At the time I’d laughed and asked where she got her information, but now thinking back, I wasn’t laughing.

  Obviously a visit to Stephen’s home was tantamount to a proposal. There was nothing I wanted more, but, supposing I didn’t come up to his mother’s standards?

  I gazed at Stephen aghast. He apparently saw no change in me, and continued. “How about next week, darling? Will that suit you?”

  “That would be lovely,” I stammered, but my voice was not exactly enthusiastic; and I was thankful when the subject dropped.

  Somehow after that, the stardust was gone from the evening, and the wine made me feel hot and flushed, not exhilarated. Quite a lot of people were leaving. It was barely eleven, and I remarked on it to Stephen.

  “The fog I expect,” he answered and began to look worried.

  The fog! I’d completely forgotten the weather, but as more and more people began to get up and go, I grew a little apprehensive. “Perhaps we ought to leave now Stephen,” I said with an anxious glance. “It must have got thicker.”

  He was quite agreeable, and while he attend
ed to the cheque, I hurried into the cloakroom. All chaos was let loose there. An elderly woman in a mink coat cried hysterically that the traffic had come to a standstill and she knew it was the end of the world. A slinky brunette was bewailing her fate and saying there was nothing for it but the underground and her shoes would be ruined. Others were searching for torches and in one corner about half a dozen battled for possession of the phone. I got my coat and bag as quickly as possible and left them to it. Stephen was waiting. “Come on darling, we’ll have to go home by tube, and we’d better hurry, there’ll be a terrible crush.”

  Out in the street, the fog had closed right in, enveloping everything in a thick impenetrable gloom. We could scarcely see a hand in front of us, but after a lot of false starts and bumping into people, we managed to reach the station.

  The platform was crowded, and I tried vainly to keep my skirt away from all the shuffling feet but someone caught their heel in it and I heard a horrible rending noise. This, on top of everything else, nearly reduced me to tears, and when Stephen hesitantly suggested that he should stay on the train (it was a direct line for him) when I got off, I could have wept in earnest.

  A little sober thought soon made me realize how foolish I was being. My flat was just round the comer from the station, and I knew the way blindfolded. Of course once I agreed to his suggestion Stephen began to worry and say that he would come with me; but I settled the question by patting his hand, whispering: “See you Monday, darling,” and slipped quickly through the doors when we arrived at Baker Street, before he could follow me.

  He waved frantically from behind the closing doors. I blew him a kiss, and gathering my skirts, made for the escalator. Once arrived at the top, a new mishap awaited me. I realized the purpose of Stephen’s frantic gestures — he still held my ticket! By the time I had explained my plight to the collector, and paid my fare for the distance the little crowd of people who had come up with me had melted away, and a curious sense of isolation seemed to invade the station.