A Little Murder (21 page)

Bleakly Rosy surveyed her options: stoical indifference, escape to the Antipodes under an assumed name, abject capitulation to her companions’ persuasion … and knew which one she would choose. She turned her gaze away from the cat and back to Cedric. ‘You are so right,’ she said with gritted sweetness. ‘Under the circumstances saying nothing is the best one can do.’

‘Excellent,’ smiled Cedric, ‘an intelligent decision if I may say so. Now, let us freshen our glasses, as the Yanks so quaintly put it.’ He unstopped the decanter and proceeded to pour lavish replenishment, while Felix relaxed his hunched pose and with a look of relief settled back in his chair.

Rosy had no illusion that the two might be selflessly concerned for her reputation or loss of job. Cedric’s warnings were simply a means of preventing her going to the police and opening up the trail to their coal-scuttle enterprise.
Their safety depended on her ‘intelligent’ reticence … as did hers on theirs. But meantime what about bloody Vera?

‘What about Vera?’ Felix asked. ‘She’s not going to like this. I mean from what you were saying she rather admired him.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Cedric, ‘it will be a nasty shock all right. But I suspect that any sense of personal loss will be largely palliated by her new acquisition – the young woman Deirdre of simpering mien and execrable voice.’ He shuddered. ‘However, in terms of her professional pursuits, i.e. nailing the plotters, if anything the news may well goad her into more frenzied effort. She will now have the honourable prospect of avenging Sabatier’s execution and of furthering the crusade which he had instigated. It will all be very exhausting.’

‘Yes, but on the other hand it might even persuade her to go to the police,’ Felix said nervously.

‘She won’t. Vera has a rooted objection to the boys in blue, goes back to childhood when she was caught sabotaging her neighbours’ air-raid shelter in the First World War. The authorities took a dim view and cut up rough.’

‘Why was she doing that?’ asked Rosy with interest.

Cedric shrugged. ‘You know Vera. Something about the hypocrisy of civilians cringing in private shelters while hoarding stocks of white feathers to dole out to the frail and defective. She had a point, I suppose … Also, like her mentor, she is convinced that her own quarrying skills are infinitely superior to anything the law might employ.’

‘And,’ murmured Rosy, ‘there is always the spectre of brother Raymond and Marcia’s contribution to his end: a motive which the police might seize. Vera knows that.’

‘Precisely.’

There was a snort from Felix. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘doubtless Vera’s reaction will bring universal penance, but what I want to know is what was Sabatier doing outside Marcia’s side door, and who the hell did him in and why! Frankly, my poor nerves can’t stand much more. I mean, what is the swine doing now,
at this very moment
? It only happened this evening!’ His glance veered towards the decanter but was deflected by a handily placed box of nut truffles whose contents he proceeded to demolish at spectacular speed.

‘I do suggest you leave one, for manners,’ remarked Cedric coldly.

‘Fuck manners,’ was the response.

They chewed it over: the whys, wherefores and what nexts. The general view was that both killer and victim had somehow got wind of the document’s hiding place, and like Rosy each had been bent on its swift retrieval before the house fell to the auctioneers and their equine clients. A race for possession and a fight to the death. That the death had been Sabatier’s and not his quarry’s slightly surprised Rosy. From what she recalled of her midnight visitor he had not seemed the type to be easily wrong-footed (an ill-judged term perhaps?) and presumably his time in Special Ops would have prepared him for sudden ambush. Still, no one was infallible. Perhaps he had grown complacent or his opponent was similarly versed in dealing out death – probably had military training like so many. Return to Civvy Street did not erase old skills.

‘Do you think it is just one person or several?’ she asked. ‘I rather assume it’s the same hand at work; though perhaps they are all involved and taking it in turns: one for Marcia, one for Clovis and one for Sabatier.’

‘A sort of pass-the-parcel system or a game of forfeits,’ Cedric mused. ‘Don’t suppose it matters, really. The aim is the same: concealment of their role in the Churchill conspiracy and suppression of this specific piece of evidence. As long as that is achieved it doesn’t really make much—’

‘Of course it bloody matters!’ exploded Felix. ‘It’s bad enough knowing there’s one homicidal maniac out there. Now you are suggesting there are three of the buggers. I tell you, we’re surrounded by them, all lurking with weapons primed!’ He stretched for a now non-existent chocolate, a discovery which visibly increased his woe.

Rather to her surprise Cedric had asked Rosy if she would care to stay the night. Admittedly it wasn’t an invitation issued with the greatest enthusiasm but she appreciated the gesture nevertheless. However, what she really craved was to be by herself at home, doors firmly locked, and mind and limbs cocooned beneath the fug of heavy blankets. She might even indulge in the luxury of a sleeping pill – there could surely be no better excuse. Thus she thanked him but declined.

Unlike Felix’s, Cedric’s car did work, and he dutifully drove her back to the flat and waited while she let herself in. Little was said during the journey, but as they rounded the corner into Portman Square, he said quietly, ‘Nothing to be done now, Miss Gilchrist – er, Rosy – other than to keep quiet and await developments. After this the police will be bound to approach you again, so be
prepared
. Do not for one instant give them cause to think you were in the St John’s Wood area last night or they’ll never leave you alone.’

‘Supposing someone saw me?’

‘Do you think they did?’

‘No, I shouldn’t think so—’

‘In that case they probably didn’t. Anyway, if necessary brazen it out – say it was your twin or some such. Oh, and do rinse your stockings!’

Thus with such helpful advice in mind she climbed the stairs and went into the kitchen to fill a hot-water bottle. She opened a packet of Craven ‘A’, inhaled deeply, and to the sound of the spluttering kettle gingerly inspected her legs and skirt for specks of blood. She contemplated the looming future. Awful.

The auction was scheduled for ten o’clock, but the officials would obviously arrive before then to set things up – ninethirty, nine o’clock? That was when the body would be found; earlier perhaps if a luckless errand boy missed his way and tried the wrong house, or an inquisitive dog on a dawn run with its owner caught the whiff of a cadaverous scent. And after that? All hell let loose! Police, press, public, auction officials – all horrified (delighted) by the corpse at ‘the fated house’. And then the questions would begin. Endless, endless. Cedric was right: this time she wouldn’t be left to hover in the shadows, anxious but ignorant. This time Greenleaf & Co. would descend with renewed curiosity, convinced now that ‘that niece must know something’ … Well she did know something, but not half as much as they thought or hoped. Nevertheless she was bound to be roped in for more interrogation, to join the ranks of those pertinent to the enquiry.

Still, better to be an object of police interest than lying dead in an alley! She remembered Felix’s anguished question: ‘So what is the swine doing
now
?’ And with a leap of fear
her thoughts echoed his. What
was
(
were
) the swine doing? By killing their pursuer had they got what they wanted? Was Sabatier silenced the end of their worries? And what of the packet in the kitchen? Still there? Or had Sabatier
pre-empted
them and at the point of triumph found it wrested conclusively from his grasp? If so, two birds were felled: the enemy silenced and the evidence suppressed … in which case, surely, the business was over: they could rest easy and slink back into their salubrious lives and be a threat to no one.

She lifted the kettle and poured a stream of water into the bottle and corked it up. And then suddenly thought – but suppose there was
unfinished
business? Suppose they had failed to find the evidence, and despite eliminating the obvious dangers of Marcia and Sabatier, were now poised to deal with other potential threats, real or imagined. After all, presumably that was what poor Clovis had been – someone in the way, someone who even unknown to himself had had the means to foul things up. Was his disposal a precautionary measure? If so, who else was being eyed – Felix? Vera? Herself?

‘I am not going to panic,’ she told herself wildly, ‘not one little bit!’ She thought of Dover in the war and heard the rasping voice of the CO as the enemy planes swarmed overhead: ‘Keep the beam steady, Gilchrist. Aim high.’

Yes, well just at the moment her unflinching steady aim was for temporary oblivion: bed and the sleeping draught …

She awoke to a blaze of sunlight, and with dazzled eyes could discern the hands of the bedside clock pointing to
eleven-thirty
. The auction would be well advanced … No, not advanced,
cancelled
due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’. Yet
somehow the mix of sun and sleep gave the previous night’s episode a spurious unreality, and for a brief moment she indulged the thought that it had been merely a nightmare of epic proportion.

But the fancy could not be sustained. And with a groan she got out of bed, and with the effects of the sleeping pill still upon her, went a little unsteadily into the kitchen to make coffee. This was not so much a physical need as a delaying tactic, a means of putting off whatever the day might yield.

She sipped the coffee but tasted little, being too gripped by the fear of sudden approaches from police and press, or enquiries from startled friends to whom the news had already filtered through … She closed her eyes. How would the silence be broken? A blast from the telephone? The insistent buzz of the doorbell? A thunderous knocking, perhaps. At any minute the noise would start. She drank more coffee and waited …

The phone rang. She let it ring three times, and then resignedly lifted the receiver.

‘I say,’ a voice said, ‘I thought you might have been there.’

‘Where?’ she replied dully.

‘Your aunt’s auction, of course,’ Amy said, ‘we’ve only just left. It was awfully good. And do you know, I actually made a bid – and got it! What do you think of that?’ The question was clearly rhetorical but the next was not. ‘Shall I tell you what it was?’

‘Do,’ she heard herself say.

‘It is
the
most lovely plaid rug. A sort of motoring rug, I think, pretty well brand new. I bought it for Mr Bones, actually. He’s such a lazy old thing and he does feel the cold so. He’ll simply adore it! You probably remember it, I expect; I think she kept it in the small sitting room.’

‘Not really, I didn’t visit the house much.’

‘Ah. Well anyway, it’s just the thing for him … And I must say it was a rather jolly sale, quite a number of attractive things, even Maynard said so, and you know how scathing he can be!’ There was an eruption of mirth.

As if in a trance Rosy murmured, ‘Maynard Latimer? What was he doing there?’

Amy giggled. ‘Same as the rest of us, I suppose: curious. But he made a successful bid too: for the most
exquisite
Schiaparelli scent bottle. I think it was one of their rare special ones, quite the most—’

‘Why did he want it?’ Rosy asked absently.

‘Don’t know – although I
suspect
he may have given it to her himself years ago …’ Amy lowered her voice ‘… you know, before the
second
Mrs Latimer, and he wanted it for old times’ sake. Perhaps when it suddenly appeared under the chap’s hammer – or is it a gavel? – he simply couldn’t resist!’ Another snort came down the line.

‘How nice,’ Rosy muttered. ‘And, uhm, it all went smoothly, did it? No hitches?’

‘What do you mean? Like a fight between the punters? No, not at all. People were very mannerly – except perhaps for two old girls who were bidding against each other for a set of kitchen plates and utensils. The things weren’t actually on show but I gather had been available for scrutiny in the basement beforehand and the women had taken a fancy to them. They got fearfully fierce! Can’t think why. It’s extraordinary what people will go after.’

The word ‘basement’ tolled in Rosy’s mind like a passing bell, but swallowing hard she said faintly, ‘And were Felix and Cedric there?’

‘No. But I tell you who was – your boss. Or, at least, I
think he’s your boss – Stanley or something.
He
wanted the elephant foot umbrella stand but was pipped at the post by … Guess!’

Rosy closed her eyes wishing she would get off the line. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Cousin Edward!’ screeched Amy. ‘He can be awfully determined when he really wants something.’

‘Well, good for him … So, er, all very successful, presumably?’

‘Oh
yes
– topping. Must have made a mint, I should think. I’m sure the donkeys will get extra rations!’ More merriment. And then lowering her voice again, she added, ‘Mind you, I expect a lot of people went just to take a look, to have a good old gawp at where your aunt was murdered. Mummy says people have no shame.’

‘Possibly. Was your mother there?’

‘Yes, but only for a little while. She scarpered quite quickly – terrified she might bump into the Gills jawing on about their beastly Pygmies!’

Rosy said nothing, wondering how she could get rid of the girl. ‘Sweet of you to ring, Amy. I’ve, uhm, got a tiny bit of a headache, I …’

‘Thought you sounded a bit seedy,’ was the cheery reply, ‘it’s probably the strain of it all.’ (You bet it is, Rosy thought darkly.) ‘What you need is plenty of rest. Mummy’s always doing that, she says it’s invaluable. Anyway, I’ll leave you in peace, so “ciao for now”, as the Eyeties say. Oh, I can’t
wait
to give that rug to Bones. Cia-o!’ She rang off and Rosy slumped into a chair.

What the hell did it mean? Surely the auction could not have gone ahead with the corpse lolling on the pathway outside
the basement door! Somebody would have been bound to notice … wouldn’t they? If not, then the bloody thing must still be there. Impossible!

She glanced at the clock. Half past twelve. Lunch was an irrelevance but a preprandial drink suddenly became more than vital. She poured a medicinal brandy and stared into space.

For the rest of the afternoon she remained in a state of mystified apprehension. According to Amy the auction had taken its normal course, conventional procedures untainted by the presence of a freshly killed corpse. But discovery must surely happen – indeed quite possibly already had and the police were just being secretive. Perhaps an early morning bobby, noting the open iron gate, had taken a casual look down the steps, saw the thing and with exemplary speed whistled up HQ to have it whipped off to the forensic morgue. But it seemed unlikely. Didn’t they cordon off half the streets when such discoveries were made, redirect traffic, impede pedestrians and place a stony-faced constable outside the premises? (According to
Pathé News
, anyway.) No, a rumpus must surely be stirring by now!

She was tempted to go out to make a casual reconnaissance of the area or at least hear if the newsboys were exercising their lungs (‘Read all abaht it! Another corpse found at the Beasley ’ahse!’), but in spite of her curiosity and the night’s pill-induced sleep she suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired and in no state to do anything except drink cocoa and listen to the wireless.