A Little Murder (20 page)

Bets were also being offered elsewhere. ‘I’ll lay you five to one,’ grumbled Greenleaf’s superior, ‘it’s a nutcase, some lunatic baying at the moon and having fun at our expense. I know that sort – fruitcakes who take to murder like the rest of us take to billiards or the flicks. A sort of pastime, you might say, a means of spicing up the day and making us all look charlies; and the worst of it is that when it’s one of them there’s no trail, no logic, nothing to give a lead or make sense. Bastard!’ He stared moodily at Greenleaf’s biscuits, stretched over and took a couple. There was silence broken only by the pounding of the rain and a remorseless crunching.

Greenleaf cleared his throat. ‘That’s not what Harris thinks,’ he said.

‘Harris? What’s Harris got to do with anything?’

‘He’s got a theory. It’s about—’

‘Then he’s no right to have a theory. That little whippersnapper’s here to learn, not to teach his elders and betters to suck eggs!’

‘Grandmothers.’

‘What?’

‘It’s grandmothers who suck eggs – leastways, who don’t need to be taught, if you see what I mean.’

The inspector stared at him. ‘Christ Almighty, Sergeant, no I do not see what you mean. Not one little bit I don’t!’ And so saying, he got up, filched another biscuit and stalked from the room.

Greenleaf sighed, chewed his pencil and resumed his report on the interview with Vera Collinger.

It was not the easiest of tasks because she had not been the easiest of women: cool, watchful, sardonic; at times seemingly cooperative and forthcoming, but more often than not curt or casually indifferent. She had answered their questions with a gruff assurance. There had been no hesitations, no stumblings or signs of tension – and yet all the time he had had the distinct impression that much could have been said that never was: views suppressed, feelings veiled. He had also sensed an air of calculation, of a mind shrewder than his own subtly directing the whole damn thing as if she had been a seasoned actor slyly controlling the producer’s intention: alert (though not necessarily compliant) to cues; finely tuned to audience response; following a script yet at the same time making subtle adjustments to suit her own whim or ego …

Yes, he mused, the woman had yielded up the requested facts all right. (Mental state prior to death? Cheerful. Possible enemies? Only those trounced at cards and the occasional wife upstaged at the races or The Pink Flamingo. Wartime occupation? Useful work: assisting refugees … etc., etc.) But he sensed that beyond those replies there lay an undisclosed hinterland of intriguing
possibility. But it was no use being intrigued if one hadn’t got a lever! How to source the unsaid and undivulged, excavate the buried shards – the bits of debris deliberately concealed?

Still, there was one anomaly in her version: the deceased’s frame of mind. The artist chap had made a point of saying how disturbed Marcia Beasley had been by the parcel of coal. What was it he had said? That she had cursed, gone dead white and then ‘all saggy’. So saggy, in fact, that the painter (rather ungallantly, Greenleaf couldn’t help feeling) had called it a day and taken himself off. ‘Not another effing one!’ had been her cry of dismay. No, it didn’t sound much like the reaction of a woman in a state of stable cheerfulness. In fact he had said as much to Miss Collinger, but she had merely shrugged and observed that from what she recalled of Clovis Thistlehyde he would exaggerate anything to command attention. Possibly she had a point. He sighed and turned from Collinger to Harris.

Despite the inspector’s scorn, the lad’s theory might just hold water; worth pursuing at any rate. Something might turn up – which was more than anything had so far!

Blackmail: that was the boy’s theory. ‘It is my belief,’ he had said solemnly, ‘that that Mrs Beasley was an Arch Controller.’

‘A
what
?’ Greenleaf had exclaimed.

‘You know, sir – she’d got someone’s number and was giving them merry hell. Probably bleeding them white, that’s what!’

‘I see,’ he had said, ‘so in your estimable opinion the deceased was engaging in a spot of blackmail – but what do you mean, “Arch Controller”?’

‘Ah well, that’s just it, sir, it may not have been only a spot. She may have had a whole string of victims in her sights and was operating a sort of one woman Mafia … and then – and then one day they had enough, or one of them had, and did her in.’

‘Why several and not just one – wouldn’t it have been simpler?’ Greenleaf had enquired.

‘Psychology,’ was the sage reply.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes, I’ve read a lot about it. Blackmailers, they get a sort of
urge
. They like it, it gets a hold; and so one client leads to another. And then sometimes they get blaize—’

‘Get
what
?’

‘Blaize – sort of smug and complacent and think they can try it on anywhere. She probably had the whole of St John’s Wood on its knees. Yes, I bet that’s what she was,’ he had repeated darkly, ‘an
Arch
Controller!’

Greenleaf had watched with interest as Harris withdrew a couple of toffees from his pocket and started to chew them thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. You seem very well informed – where do you get it from?’

‘Encyclopaedias … and then, of course, there’s my old gran.’

‘Your old gran! What’s she got to do with it?’

‘Writes detective novels.’

‘Does she now,’ he had said sardonically, ‘so what’s her name?’

‘Delilah del Rio.’

‘
Delilah del
—’ Greenleaf had gasped. ‘But she’s the bodice-ripper writer with all those saucy covers. You’re having me on!’ But even as he spoke he knew that was unlikely. Harris’s flair for comedy was nil.

The blackmailing idea had stuck in his mind, though initially he had been more taken with the image of Harris’s granny churning out hot rubbish on an ancient typewriter – or even with a quill. Either way it didn’t seem quite nice, not proper … Still, he mused, with a bit of luck and flannel he might persuade the lad to get him a signed copy (not that the wife would approve) and wondered vaguely what brand of toffee Harris favoured.

For the rest of the day Rosy could think of only one thing: the package under the sink – assuming it was still there or if it existed at all. Still, the priest had seemed sincere enough in his tale, but it would be typical of Marcia’s caprice to change the hiding place or destroy the thing altogether. In any case, even if it were there would it amount to anything? After all, there was no guarantee that this
was
the evidence pursued by Vera and Whittington and indeed by the collaborators. It might be something quite other – something personal: a collection of letters and family memorabilia, or even a letter to herself regretting their rift, a belated attempt to retie the knot of kinship …

Rosy sighed. No, that last conjecture was a fantasy and she knew it. Compared to that possibility the ‘dynamite’ data seemed a far better bet. And in which case she needed to get hold of it pronto. Once the house contents were disposed of and the donkey people took formal possession the thing was anybody’s, as sooner or later it was bound
to be discovered. And while she had no desire to shield those implicated she certainly didn’t want Marcia’s name to feature. Questions would naturally be asked as to what it had been doing in the house, why had the former owner possessed such sensational intelligence? Questions which could lead to frightful revelations. Yes, at all costs it had to be retrieved. Besides, she thought with a surge of defiance, wasn’t it her right to have the thing, to learn its exact nature and to do with it as she felt fit? Marcia Beasley had been her aunt, for God’s sake. And according to Loitering Lola it had been placed there for
her
to read – not for the police or Whittington or any other snooper!

She frowned. The problem was getting the key: she had handed it back to the solicitors and it was doubtful they would like the idea of someone with no formal claim poking around at this stage. And even if they could be persuaded, they would never allow unchaperoned access. The last time had been a fluke.

Desperate cases needed desperate remedies: Vera Collinger. Despite what the woman had said earlier, Rosy was sure she still had her own key – regard for officialdom not being Vera’s style. The snag would be her reaction. She was unlikely to produce it without asking the reason and would doubtless guess the truth. But the truth, of course, was the bait, the one thing that would ensure cooperation: cooperation at a price as she was bound to insist that she came as well. In which case, Rosy told herself, so be it. ‘Let her, but I’m hanged if I’ll let her get her paws on the thing!’

There was a further snag: she was ex-directory and Rosy had lost her card. She went to the telephone and dialled Felix. ‘I need Vera’s number,’ she announced, ‘it’s urgent!’

‘That’s a novelty,’ he replied. ‘Personally I have always found the urgency lay in flight rather than contact.’

‘Perhaps. But as it happens I need it rather quickly.’

‘Hmm. It’s not exactly one of those I hold in my head, but I’ll see what I can do.’ There were sounds of a drawer being opened and papers shuffled. ‘Ah, here it is,’ he muttered, ‘Langham 4849. But she may not be there. She’s off, or about to be.’

‘Off? What do you mean?’

‘Off to Rome with her new protégée, the adenoidal Deirdre. Wants to show her the delights of the Forum, or what’s left of them after Mussolini’s capers. They’re going tonight on the Golden Arrow. Apparently the girl is fascinated by antiquities, though I should think that sharing a couchette with Vera is a high price to pay for culture. Not my idea of fun!’ He gave a snide titter.

‘I don’t care where she is going or with whom, I just want the key!’ Rosy exclaimed.

‘What key?’ he asked curiously.

‘The
key
to Aunt Marcia’s house. I’m sure she’s got it.’

‘But I thought there was going to be an auction there at any minute.’

‘
Precisely
: the day after tomorrow, which is why I want it now. There is something there that needs to be rescued and—’

‘Rescued? You mean like a stray dog?’

‘Of course not,’ she said impatiently, ‘it’s an envelope or a sheaf of papers – oh, I don’t know, it’s …

‘Ah,’ he said slowly, ‘daylight dawns. It’s the stuff she’s been after, I suppose. Not that one wishes to get involved in
that
little mission. I mean when all’s said and done I—’

‘Look, Felix,’ she said hastily, ‘thank you so much for
your help. Now if you don’t mind, I really must try to catch Vera. It’s important.’

She rang off and tried the number. After an interminable time the phone was answered. ‘Whoever you are you will have to be brief,’ the gruff voice announced, ‘I am about to depart.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Rosy said, ‘Felix told me. You see it’s to do with Aunt Marcia’s house …’

When she had finished there was a cough followed by a silence. And then Miss Collinger said, ‘This is all very difficult. In normal circumstances I would go there myself instantly, but it really isn’t feasible. Therefore, Rosy Gilchrist, I shall entrust the key to you—’

‘Oh, thank you so much—’ Rosy started to say in relief.

‘On
condition
that Felix Smythe goes with you. It is essential that you find whatever it is and bring it to me when I return. A person on their own is not to be relied upon. One cannot risk amateur bungling. Not that I rate Smythe to be the best of accomplices, but in the circumstances he will have to do.’

Amateur bungling! Rosy was indignant. But she knew from the woman’s voice that argument was fruitless. However, she did point out that Felix was loath to get involved and would be far from willing.

‘Oh, he’ll be willing all right, or at least malleable. You’ll see.’

‘Really?’ said Rosy with some scepticism.

‘Felix will do most things to further his floral career and I happen to have one or two useful contacts. He can’t rely on the patronage of royalty for ever; he needs other strings to his bow and he knows it. For example, there’s a certain
gentleman I happen to be acquainted with who has a passion for orchids and gardenias. Most of the time he lives on Cap Ferrat writing and, er, other things … But on the few occasions when he’s here in London he
has
to be surrounded by sheaves of flowers – only the very best. They remind him of the south I suppose, and his tastes are very fastidious. Yes, I think Felix might supply Mr M’s requirements quite well …
were
one to slip in a good word. And who knows, he might even get an invitation to the villa.’ There was an imperceptible chuckle.

For a brief moment Rosy was intrigued by the unlikely synergy of Vera and Mr M and wondered how they had met, but the prospect of the key and access to the papers eclipsed everything. ‘Yes, all right then. Give Felix the key and tell him to call me. Enjoy Rome.’

‘What I shall enjoy, Miss Gilchrist, is examining those papers when I get back next week. Do not fail me!’ The line went dead.

‘Well really!’ muttered Rosy.

In fact Felix was not overly impressed by the hints of Mr M’s patronage; not because he was indifferent to the prospect but because he had an inbuilt suspicion of Vera.

‘One has no guarantee that any such introduction will be made, and without it I really don’t care to waste time and effort returning to that awful house. I haven’t recovered from the last visit.’ He winced, remembering the excruciating time spent behind the hall curtain paralysed in case he should be observed by the oafish Clovis (not to mention his narrow escape from the subsequent horror!).

‘But I’ve heard Cedric say that Vera has a kind of bastard integrity,’ Rosy said.

‘Very bastard. If Vera gets a bee in her bonnet she can be quite unscrupulous. However, one doesn’t wish to be ungracious. She’s given me the key so I suppose I had better do as she wants.’ He gave a vexed sigh, adding, ‘But I just hope it won’t take too long, I
had
hoped to listen to dear Johnnie Gielgud on the radio tonight – he is giving a talk
on milestones in the theatre. Rather up my street. I would prefer not to miss it.’

Feeling vaguely apologetic Rosy assured him that things could be managed quite quickly. And it was agreed that they would meet at eight-thirty by the telephone box outside Marcia’s house, slip into the kitchen via the basement, take the package from under the sink and then scoot like hell.

In principle the agenda sounded fine; in practice things were less straightforward. For a start the weather had turned bitterly cold, and the pavements were glossed with patches of black ice lying in wait for the hurried and unwary. Rosy hated the cold, and although she had come shod for walking her progress towards their rendezvous had been slow and slippery. The second annoyance was the key-bearer: he was late. She felt both perished and foolish loitering by the telephone box hoping she would not be taken for anything other than the lady she was. (In fact the street was deserted, its denizens warmly ensconced behind stout walls and thick blinds.) And then when Felix did eventually arrive it was to announce that his car had a flat battery and that it would be impossible to get a bus or taxi back in time to hear ‘dear Johnnie’.

He was clearly put out and the grievance in his voice annoyed her. She looked at him – pinched and disgruntled; hardly the ideal companion to go creeping about within the murk of Marcia’s kitchen. ‘Look,’ she said firmly, ‘why don’t you give me the key and I’ll go down and have a good rootle and you can stand on guard up here. After all, it would be a bit tricky if Brigadier Gill were to suddenly appear walking their cat or whatever he does.’ She grinned and held out her hand.

Felix hesitated. ‘Well, I’m not sure if Vera …’

‘Chop, chop! You’ll see, I won’t be ten minutes and then we can be off.’ Without further urging he handed her the key.

She turned towards the wrought-iron gate with its flight of steps down to the side door, and pausing at the top peered into the depths barely able to see a thing. Rather absurdly she had a vision of Virgil’s descent into the gaping jaws of Avernus and just hoped she wouldn’t trip and fall flat on her face: the anaemic ray of her pocket torch served little purpose.

She started to edge down the steps, clutching the rail with one hand while pointing the flagging torch with the other. Like Tinkerbell its feeble beam darted ineffectually in the gloom, and then with a wearied flicker finally expired. At first the darkness seemed total and Rosy experienced a pang of vicarious déjà vu: Adelaide Fawcett being grabbed by unknown hands and thrust headlong on to granite flagstones … She flinched and tightened her grip on the handrail before taking a further tentative step downwards.

At the bottom things became a trifle clearer. She had arrived in a narrow passageway poorly lit by the pallid glow from a distant street lamp. She could just discern what was presumably the kitchen door and the shadowy shapes of a pair of dustbins. She moved forward, key at the ready; and then stopped.

There was something else by the door in addition to the dustbins: something on the ground, big and bulky – and not so much by the door as lying across its threshold. Lumber from within? Stuff not wanted in the sale and awaiting collection by the bin men? Tiresome: she would have to step over it to reach the lock.

But irritation turned to fear. For as Rosy approached,
the bundle produced a sound, a gurgled moan; and with a flash of revulsion she realised the thing was not lumber but a human form, and a form evidently animate. She recoiled with a gasp and stood rooted. What was it – a tramp, a drunk? An intruder like herself, blundering about on the steps and fallen prey to the ice and darkness? Her immediate instinct was to turn tail and scramble back the way she had come, but shame at such feebleness thrust her forward to investigate.

She edged towards the recumbent shape, and peering down whispered, ‘C-can I help? Are you all right?’

There was no response. She hesitated, poised over the figure but reluctant to touch it. And then she registered two things. The first was a flow of liquid seeping from the collar, viscous runnels caught in the street light’s sickly beam. The second was the sight of the left trouser cuff – hitched up slightly to expose the rivets and metal fastenings of an artificial foot …

She gazed blankly, stripped of all feeling; and for a few seconds she could have been an icicle, hard and insentient. And then paralysis was broken by a sound, a voice faint yet clear: ‘
Merde
, the bast …’ She stared down at the bloodied face, gashed neck and the four clawing fingers, as with a twitch and a gasp Dick Whittington gave up the ghost.

There was silence. And then as if from a long way off Rosy heard the voice of a little girl – her own voice, whimpering over and over again, ‘Oh Christ, oh my Christ, oh Christ Almighty …’

But these words too were interrupted by yet another voice: Felix’s, from the top of the steps. ‘Oh do hurry up, Miss Gilchrist! It’s frightfully cold here and one really can’t hang about all night. And besides I really do need to – well
I rather need to answer a call of nature.’ The information was delivered in tones of querulous reproach, but the words had a galvanising effect, and turning from the awful scene Rosy hauled and stumbled her way back up the icy steps to the street above and the impatient Felix.

‘Whatever kept you?’ he began testily. ‘I thought the thing was supposed to be under the kitchen sink. Couldn’t you find—’

‘I never went in. There’s something dreadful down there,’ she wavered, gripping the railing to steady legs and nerves.

‘What? I’m sorry I don’t get you … Look, I don’t want to be rude but I really must go and spend a—’ He broke off and scuttled hastily around the corner, leaving Rosy to realise that if the blood was so freshly flowing then the assailant could still be close by. She gripped the railing harder, peering frantically into the lonely dark.

Despite such terrors, on Felix’s return she was able to ask in biting tones, ‘Tell me, do you normally pee in a crisis?’

Rather to her surprise he seemed to give the question some thought, before answering, ‘On the whole not … but then this is not a crisis. One simply wants to get in the warmth and—’

‘But it
is
a crisis!’ she cried.

He sighed. ‘In what way, exactly?’

‘Sabatier,’ she said tightly. ‘He’s down there at the bottom of the steps with his throat cut. He’s dead and it’s only just happened.’

Flickering street lamps cast odd shadows, and for an instant it really did seem as if Felix’s hair stood on end, though it was probably simply the
en brosse
style cut with more zeal than usual. But the sudden whitening of his
features was unmistakable, as was the strangled squeak of ‘
No!
’

‘Yes,’ said Rosy firmly. ‘Do you want to take a look?’

Clearly this was not his wish, for clutching her arm he whispered hoarsely, ‘No time for things like that, we must get away from here at once!’ Wild-eyed and desperate, he hustled her along the freezing pavement, and rounding the corner looked vainly for a taxi. They kept going, slipping and sliding along the street, breath rasping against the cold air, and not a cab in sight. Eventually a well-lit pub broke the gloom and she suggested plaintively that perhaps that would do instead.

‘Are you mad?’ he gasped, and pounded on while Rosy stumbled behind feeling that retreat into madness might well be the answer to everything.

At last a free taxi appeared, and without pausing to consult his companion Felix directed the driver to Cedric’s house in Pimlico. But Rosy was in no mood to debate the decision; and in any case, given the circumstances, the option of being dropped off alone at her flat held little appeal. She leant back against the cold leather and closed her eyes. From the silence she assumed Felix had done the same.

But closed lids were powerless to blot out the hideous vision of the murdered man, nor indeed the aural memory of his expiring oath. She suspected she would never again meet that particular French expletive without reliving those dreadful moments … Gruesome images vied with whirling questions: what had he been
doing
there? Trying like herself to get into the house? If so, had he been followed there? Or had there been some prearranged meeting – a sprung trap into which he had confidently limped? (Down those steps?
Perhaps there was a less hazardous back entrance!) But if indeed a meeting, why on earth outside Marcia’s basement door? It seemed an odd place for a rendezvous.

For some reason she thought again of Adelaide Fawcett and the woman’s wild words of being attacked by a man with a wooden leg. She had assumed that part of the old baggage’s tale had been pure invention. But perhaps it was true after all, and bent on revenge she had escaped the deluxe bondage of the London Clinic to deliver rough justice beside a kitchen door and on flagstones not dissimilar to her own. A sort of tit-for-tat nemesis; although typically, being Adelaide, she had gone too far … Yes, that was it, of course! Obvious. Another problem for the Fawcett family! Rosy opened her eyes and giggled.

Engrossed in his own imaginings, Felix was startled by the sound and for a delicious second thought that maybe the girl had made the whole thing up. He wasn’t sure whether to show relief or fury. However, displaying neither and glancing at the driver’s partition, he observed mildly, ‘Given the situation, Miss Gilchrist, I fail to see the joke – unless, of course, the joke is on me, i.e. that there was no corpse at the bottom of those steps at all.’

‘Oh, I am afraid there was,’ Rosy replied contritely. ‘I’m sorry. A sort of delayed nervous reaction I suppose.’

Felix sighed heavily. As he had feared. ‘So you should be,’ he replied tartly. ‘Hysteria is neither helpful nor seemly.’ It was a mean jibe, but cheated of the clutched straw he didn’t care. What about his own nerves, for God’s sake!

Stung by the reproach Rosy said that she so agreed – but he would be better fitted to pass judgement had he himself been faced with such a scene and forced to cope with the image of its beastly details.

He made no response, but lighting a cigarette graciously offered her one. They puffed away in shared relief and arrived at Cedric’s house in a soothing smog of Turkish Abdullah.

The owner was none too pleased to see them. ‘It’s late,’ he protested, ‘I was just going to bed. You could at least have telephoned.’

‘Not in the circumstances,’ explained Rosy.

‘Really? Why not? You’ve disturbed the cat arriving like this.’

‘The cat’s disturbance,’ said Felix with sudden asperity, ‘is of little account. Unlike the cat, your friend Sabatier has had his throat cut and
we
are in pressing need of drink and emotional sustenance.’

For once Cedric had no answer but led them silently up the stairs and into the drawing room. Here he produced a decanter of whisky, and then turning to Felix said quietly, ‘Before we proceed further let me correct you: Sabatier was not
my
friend but Vera’s. I merely encountered him a couple of times in the war before his foot was blown off. Afterwards I saw him just once, in the distance – limping. That is the extent of my acquaintance.’

‘Well it hardly matters,’ Rosy said wearily. ‘The man’s dead, murdered. I found him an hour ago in a pool of blood outside Aunt Marcia’s basement door.’

Cedric raised an eyebrow. ‘The amazing thing about your aunt was not only did she generate drama when alive but even now contrives to stage-manage effects from beyond the grave. Remarkable, really.’

‘It is not remarkable,’ Felix burst out, ‘it’s bloody
hell-awful
! What are we going to do?’

There was a brief silence punctuated by petulant sounds from the cat and the clinking of ice cubes in Felix’s shaking glass.

‘Actually,’ Rosy ventured, ‘perhaps it really is time we told the police everything. It’s getting simply too dreadful. I mean, I don’t want to, but don’t you think it might be sensible?’

‘Certainly not!’ they cried in unison.

The swiftness and consensus of their response startled her, and she faltered, ‘Well it just seems that with three deaths—’

‘Provided they are not ours the number is immaterial,’ said Cedric. ‘As I have emphasised before, the essential thing is to keep quiet and maintain our distance.’

‘Huh!’ Rosy snorted. ‘Try doing that the next time you encounter a freshly butchered body in a dark alley!’

Cedric winced. ‘Yes, doubtless all very grisly and unfortunate; but the fact remains that it would be more than rash to confess knowledge of anything. If the police get the slightest whiff of our connection with events, or indeed of Marcia’s unseemly past, we shall be ruined.’ He paused, fixing Rosy with a hard look. ‘And that includes you, Miss Gilchrist. You may not have been party to our little coal parcel joke, but were your aunt’s activities to become public knowledge I very much doubt if the British Museum would see its reputation being enhanced by such an employee, or indeed would any reputable institution.’

‘He means you would be booted out,’ said Felix helpfully.

‘I know exactly what he means,’ she retorted, and stared angrily at the cat. She hated the pair of them; she hated the dead Sabatier; she hated bloody Vera; she particularly hated Aunt Marcia, but above all she hated
herself for being so craven. Cedric was perfectly right: she would lose her job at the museum and very likely the chance of getting anything similar. She would also lose the pleasure of social invitations – or where she was still accepted would be the butt of pity and curiosity. She could hear the voices –
My dear, that’s Rosy Gilchrist, isn’t it? Marcia Beasley’s niece. I wonder if she minds being related to a traitor – rather ghastly I should think. So good of Daphne to invite her
… How long had the war been over – seven, eight years? Too short a period for it to be forgotten; it ran in the veins of the nation, its welts and casualties insistent reminders of those terrible days … No, this was no time to be linked to a quisling, however thoughtless or gullible: niceties of motive cut little ice with the scarred and bereft.