Such Bright Disguises

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781914150722
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Literatura de crímenes y misterio

"Murder? Is that how you see it? Well-I don't! Justifiable homicide more like it!"

Hubert Grant is a fairly unpleasant man. He also thinks he is happily married.

Dorothy Grant despises her husband but finds consolation in the handsome Laurence Weston. In order for the lovers to be happy, however, the intolerable Hubert needs to be cut out of the picture. Permanently.

Dorothy and Laurence start plotting. But the best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley and by the end of the scheming, there will be more than one body. Enter detective extraordinaire Anthony Bathurst...

Such Bright Disguises was first published in 1941. This new edition features an introduction by Steve Barge.

Book One
HUBERT

CHAPTER I

The time was four o’clock in the afternoon of Friday, the twenty-first of December. The Friday before Christmas. It was cold in the extreme. The sky was dark grey with the chill promise of snow that must fall before long. People who stamped their feet and swung their arms remarked sagely that it would be warmer after the snow had fallen. But despite the rigours of the weather, they hurried upon their business and upon their errands with cheerfulness. The great festival of Christmas was but four days ahead. There would be a welcome break from work. For almost everybody there would be an abundance of food. There would be more than the usual quantity of drink. It was true that in some circumstances unpleasant relatives would have to be suffered in closer proximity than usual, but the conditions of this suffering would help to alleviate matters. Flesh and wine are great healers. Since noon the wind had increased in severity and by now had acquired an edge like a razor. It was going to be a good night to be indoors.

Dorothy Grant went to the window of her dining-room and, lifting the casement-curtain, looked out into the dusky chillness. She was annoyed because she was waiting for something which should have already arrived. Her husband’s hamper, which he ordered annually from Pegram and Manson’s. That is to say she actually ordered the hamper, but Hubert always selected the various items which made it up. This selection was made with a meticulous care and precision, seasoned with the anticipation of delight. The turkey, the brace of pheasants, the ribs of Scotch beef (from the King’s farm), the York ham, the Melton Mowbray pork-pie (large size), the ox tongue, the various cheeses which tickled Hubert’s palate, Cheddar, Camembert, Stilton, Port du Salut, and Gouda, the confectioneries and sweetmeats and, lastly, the different wines and spirits. Champagne, whisky, port (Old Rich Tawny), sherry (Amontillado), beaune, gin, Hollands (Bols—not De Kuypers—Hubert was dignifiedly insistent on the distinction), rum, brandy and the various liqueurs which appealed to him. Hubert’s especial favourites were Green Chartreuse and Kümmel.

During the week that followed the despatch of this annual order, Hubert invariably lived in a malaria of delightful anticipation. Until the day when the consignment arrived. On the evening of the day that happened, Hubert decanted the wines, put the spirits in the different bottles of the tantalus and generally made himself a nuisance who got in Dorothy’s way. The birds would be hung up, the meat placed in the refrigerator, the other parcels and packages emptied and their contents arranged and all the time this was going on Hubert would fuss and bustle and perspire and knock things over and pick them up until Dorothy seethed with indignation in the thought that food and drink were her husband’s almost only source of inspiration.

He was forty-two and already showing the flaccid signs of middle-age deterioration. She was eleven years his junior and had been but twenty when she had married him. Their only child, Frances, was ten. Dorothy Grant herself was still nearly beautiful. Almost miraculously, she looked scarcely a day older than when Hubert had married her. She had kept her figure, her intelligence had matured, her eyes were as darkly blue as they had been when she had first turned them on to Hubert, her hair had retained its sheen and lustre and her poise and balance and vivacity had developed with the years.

On this twenty-first of December, Dorothy was looking her demure best. She had been for some time. There was a reason for this. Six months ago, to her own utter surprise and astonishment, she had taken a lover. When she looked back on this amazing occurrence, as she frequently did, calmly and dispassionately, she had come to the conclusion that such a happening was inevitable. That it was simply a question of time when it took place. Now she counted herself fortunate. Fortunate to have discovered what so many of her friends and acquaintances had so obviously failed to discover. What life could mean, as compared with what life had usually meant. There were disadvantages, of course. Certain nightly scenes with Hubert that were increasing in acuteness which shamed and shocked her and hurt her. For it was now physically impossible for her to go on in every way as she had been accustomed. Up to the moment, neither she nor Laurence had faced up seriously to the full contemplation of their future. Sufficient for the day was the ecstasy thereof! The future would have to be faced—in time—but why worry? She had Frances whom she loved devotedly, she had Laurence Weston whom she loved passionately, she would see him before Christmas (that arrangement had already been made between them), why, therefore, should she wear forebodings on her brow and meet trouble before trouble came to meet her?

Dorothy craned her neck to see if the carrier’s cart were turning the corner into Ridgway Gardens. Hubert would be more intolerable than ever that evening if the Christmas fare upon which he had set his heart were still delayed. Christmas! If only she and Laurence could spend it together—alone! Even without Frances. She admitted to herself, quite calmly and dispassionately and altogether without turning a hair, that were she forced to choose between Frances and Laurence she would choose this man, this complete stranger of but six months since, before her own daughter and that the choice, moreover, would be made without the slightest hesitation. Dorothy shrugged her shoulders.

She had begun by loving Christmas, then she had learned to endure it, now she hated it! All because of her love for Laurence. It was strange how one’s outlook changed. How things made one change it.

On Christmas Day she would be hostess to the usual crowd of people who received their invitations to the house. Hubert’s mother and father (her own parents were dead), Dick and Ella Fanshawe (Dick Fanshawe was an office colleague of Hubert’s), Ethel and Roy Thornhill (before Ethel Thornhill had married she had worked with Dorothy), Maureen Townsend and Gervaise Chard. Maureen Townsend was her own friend whose marriage had turned out disastrously and who was now separated from her husband. Chard was a freelance journalist just beginning to make his way up the rungs of the ladder. Dorothy and Hubert had met him on a holiday three years before. He was always good company. A short year ago, this Christmas gathering might have attracted her, contemplatively, but now she hated and loathed even the idea of it.

As she watched by the curtain for the hamper that hadn’t come, with her rioting thoughts disturbing her mind, the long-awaited van turned into the road, and Dorothy saw it approach and then, at last, draw up outside “Red Roofs”. The house, needless to say, had been given its name by Hubert. She heard Alice, her maid, go to the front door. There came the usual accompanying noises. The man’s hoarse cough, the dumping of the packing-case in the porch and Alice’s interested treble as she took the stump of pencil and scrawled her initials on the line indicated to her. Dorothy heard the man’s voice.

“I’ll give you a ’and with it into the ’all, miss. It’s on the ’eavy side for you.”

Shuffling sounds followed. Dorothy called out:

“Alice, come here a minute.” Alice obeyed. Dorothy handed coins to her. “Give this to the man—and ask him whether he’d like a cup of tea. I expect he’s cold.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know he’s cold. He’s blowing on his hands and his breath’s all steaming.”

Dorothy smiled. Her well-shaped mouth was sensitive and attractive. When the man had gone, she went into the kitchen. Hubert’s case had been placed on the table. The carrier, his enthusiasm stimulated, evidently had carried it right through to the kitchen from the front door.

“Shall we open it, ma’am?” inquired Alice.

Again Dorothy smiled. Alice had been with her but ten months. “I don’t think we will, Alice. We’ll leave that job to the master. He enjoys opening packing-cases at Christmas. It would be a shame to disappoint him.”

Alice nodded vigorously. It was clear that on the last count she was in agreement with her mistress. Dorothy looked at her wrist-watch. Dully she comprehended that Hubert would be home and with her in less than a quarter of an hour. He held the position of Deputy Treasurer and Accountant to the neighbouring Borough of Tudor. Although he constantly worked late in attendance on various Committees, things were more or less quiet for him at this time of the year from the business standpoint and he arrived home these nights comparatively early. Frances, on the other hand, would be in late. She was at the breaking-up concert of the Tudor High School for Girls.

Dorothy wondered where Laurence was at that particular moment. Laurence worked in the city—thirty miles away. Just as well—she had always thought. There wasn’t a soul in Bullen who could connect him with her. Or in Tudor. Both ends were sealed. That was right. As it should be. Both ends in an affair of this kind should be sealed. Then there was but little danger. Possibilities of disaster were minimized. Brought to zero point. She wasn’t at all concerned that she was in any way deceiving Hubert. She had given herself to Laurence and she guarded herself, and that exalted secret, night and day, lest she should be unworthy of him or unfaithful to him. Every one of her present loyalties was to Laurence. That was all that mattered to her.

She went back to the dining-room after telling Alice to start laying the tea. This had been one of the days when Hubert had dined at midday. Usually they had dinner when he came in. “Poach two eggs for Mr. Grant and put them on toast. And there’s a pot of new cherry jam in the cupboard—bring it in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dorothy sat in an armchair and turned on the radio. As she looked at the time again, she realized that Hubert would be with her in less than five minutes.

CHAPTER II

Punctually to the minute Hubert entered—complacent, self-satisfied and smiling. Although Dorothy had taken Laurence Weston into her life and heart six months ago, to the entire and eternal exclusion of Hubert, Hubert was supremely unaware of the fact. Even the bare bones of the idea, if presented to him, would have astounded him and he would have rejected them instantaneously. Damn it all—what reason could there be for such a grotesque absurdity! As he came into the dining-room he bent over his wife and kissed her. Dorothy submitted to the intimacy as an act of supreme resignation. Hubert performed the duty in exactly the same manner as he signed an official letter. Just as though that particular letter was exalted amongst all other letters in that its fate was to be approved by Hubert.

“’Evening, my dear. What’s for tea?” Hubert took off his horn-rimmed glasses and polished them assiduously. He had evidently temporarily forgotten the matter of the delayed hamper. When he had gone out that morning, it had filled his horizon.

“Alice is poaching you two eggs.” Her voice was cold and flat. So much so that Hubert glanced shrewdly at her. She looked all right, however. To his eyes.

“Where’s Frances?”

“I told you yesterday evening that she’d be late. She’s staying for the School Concert—with Molly Neame. They’ll come home together.”

Suddenly, as she spoke, Dorothy felt a twinge of mischief. “Where’s your memory going, Hubert? Don’t tell me you’re losing grip.”

The particular phrase was one that he was inordinately fond of using. Hubert frowned.

“A merely domestic matter of that kind is hardly comparable with—” He hesitated.

“With what, Hubert?”

Hubert’s frown deepened. He evaded the direct issue. “I have many more, and, if I may say so, many more important matters to remember than where Frances has tea. Actually, I should have thought there was no need to remind you of the fact.”

His eyes brightened as Alice came in with his poached eggs on toast. “Ah,” said Hubert, “that’s better.”

At the sight of his tea, his mood of momentary irritation passed. More truthfully, it had suffered a process of engulfment by one of his strongest emotions. Dorothy poured out his tea for him. He took his cup and a warm feeling of greater satisfaction began to spread all over him.

“What have you been doing today, my dear? Reading?”

“I read a little. After lunch. Not a lot.”

“Book not too interesting—eh?”

“Yes. The book was all right. It’s a play, as a matter of fact. Expect I wasn’t in the mood.”

Hubert shook his head as his teeth crunched a generously buttered portion of toast. “Don’t agree! You should read the best stuff. Confine yourself to the best stuff. Er—Priestley and . . . Wells . . . and—er—Dickens. You don’t pick and choose enough.”

“I certainly don’t read the books that I’m told to read—if that’s what you’re trying to say. I read because I love reading. Just as you yourself enjoy . . . say . . . eating.”

Hubert affected indignation. “Here, I say—that’s a bit spiteful. Not like you. Can’t compare the two things. One’s a necessity. The engine won’t go, you know, unless you stoke it up.”

For some reason which she would have been unable to explain, Dorothy felt that she wanted to argue fiercely. To tear Hubert’s smugness and complacency to pieces! This feeling had been coming over her for weeks now.

“That applies to the brain as well as to the body.”

“The brain’s part of the body,” countered Hubert.

“That’s difficult to realize—in a good many people.”

Then the desire to cross swords with him suddenly vanished. His dull, municipal “parish-pump” mind wasn’t worth her powder and shot, she thought, and then smiled inwardly at her mixture of metaphors. With a half-sense of relief she knew that she could adroitly change the subject. She would do! As he passed his cup up for re-filling she said quietly, “oh—by the way—the hamper’s come from Pegram and Manson’s.”

Hubert’s rather protuberant blue eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Good! About time, too! Did you open it?”

Dorothy shook her head. “No. It hasn’t been here long and I’ve left that job to you. I know how you always enjoy doing it.”

Hubert simulated disinterest. “Oh—I don’t know. I don’t mind, really. In a way it might have been more business-like if you had seen to it. You could have checked the delivery then, with the order. It’s always as well to do that. You know how careless people are.”

Dorothy pushed the pot of cherry jam towards him. “Try some of this, It’s new. The last time I was in Tudor, old man Wallace strongly recommended it. I fell to the temptation.”

She spoke as a mother might to a recalcitrant child. As though she were offering a new toy to lure him from the shades of sulkiness. Hubert clutched the pot avidly.

“Jolly good. I’ll pass judgment on his recommendation. There’s one thing you must admit—old Wallace certainly stocks the right stuff.”

He helped himself generously to the jam. Dorothy found herself thinking of Laurence. Hubert chose the moment to expand.

“Spoke to Linklater today with regard to the Christmas break. We’re closing Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. For most of the staff, that is.”

Hubert’s mouth being uncomfortably full, he hesitated for a moment. “But we must have some in on Thursday for the preparation of the wages sheets, so those who have to come in on the Thursday will be allowed to take the Monday. That’s the Christmas Eve.”

Dorothy began to listen. She was vitally concerned in this matter, although Hubert didn’t know it. Linklater was Hubert’s chief. Usually it was Linklater’s habit to keep Hubert guessing. Indeed, the only certainty that Hubert ever felt about Linklater was that how much better he could do Linklater’s work if he were in Linklater’s position. With an edge of nonchalance sharpened specially for the occasion, Dorothy made an attempt to discover what she so badly wanted to know. She asked an indirect question.

“Which day is Linklater taking himself?”

“The Monday. That’s Christmas Eve. So I shall be off on the Thursday. Not so bad, old girl. That means three successive days for us. Suits me down to the ground.”

“Holiday for you, Hubert. ‘You’ is truer than ‘us’.” Dorothy assumed an air of annoyance. Secretly, however, she was delighted. With Hubert at the office on Monday until fairly late in the afternoon, the way was clear for her and Laurence Weston.

Hubert bridled. “Oh—I say—come off it. What’s scaring you? The cooking, as usual? Don’t tell me that the effort isn’t worth it! Good Lord—the Christmas dinner too! Christmas only comes once a year, you know, and when it does come, we can’t make too much of it. That’s where we owe such a debt to Charles Dickens.” (Hubert had read this somewhere). “By Jove—yes—those words of his. Marvellous! What are they now? We don’t get writing like it nowadays. My old dad used to quote them every Christmas dinner—‘“God bless us all,” said Tiny Tim’.”

Hubert made a clucking noise that denoted supreme satisfaction. Dorothy searched her heart. She wondered at herself. How had she endured him all these years?

“I suppose you’ll close early on Monday?” she ventured. At the same moment she poured hot water into the teapot.

“The rank and file may—I doubt whether I shall be able to. Must be there, you see, with Linklater away. You never know what may turn up and, of course, there are always the letters to be signed. Anyhow—what does it matter? All the presents have been bought and you say the grub’s come. We can sit pretty, my dear.”

Hubert pushed away his plate and made for his armchair by the fire. “Jolly good that cherry jam and you can tell old Wallace I say so.” He patted his pocket and produced his pipe and pouch. Hubert smoked a pipe. Not for the reason that he particularly ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page/About the Book
• Contents
• Introduction by Steve Barge
• Book One HUBERT
• CHAPTER II
• CHAPTER III
• CHAPTER IV
• CHAPTER V
• CHAPTER VI
• CHAPTER VII
• CHAPTER VIII
• CHAPTER IX
• CHAPTER X
• CHAPTER XI
• CHAPTER XII
• CHAPTER XIII
• CHAPTER XIV
• Book Two LAURENCE
• CHAPTER II
• CHAPTER III
• CHAPTER IV
• CHAPTER V
• CHAPTER VI
• CHAPTER VII
• CHAPTER VIII
• CHAPTER IX
• CHAPTER X
• CHAPTER XI
• CHAPTER XII
• CHAPTER XIII
• CHAPTER XIV
• CHAPTER XV
• CHAPTER XVI
• CHAPTER XVII
• CHAPTER XVIII
• CHAPTER XIX
• Book Three INVESTIGATION OF THE WESTON MURDERS BY ANTHONY LOTHERINGTON BATHURST
• CHAPTER II
• CHAPTER III
• CHAPTER IV
• CHAPTER V
• CHAPTER VI
• CHAPTER VII
• CHAPTER VIII
• CHAPTER IX
• CHAPTER X
• CHAPTER XI
• About The Author
• Titles by Brian Flynn
• Copyright