After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (2 page)

But it was her business – or she’d like it to be, anyway. Betty had no doubt that Signora Bianchi was a man-eater, pure and simple. Colin had aquiline cheekbones, butter-coloured hair and vivid green eyes. He was a very good-looking man; exactly the sort to attract Signora Bianchi as a sort of … of
hobby
, she supposed.

She really had her hooks into him, Betty thought savagely, her sewing suffering as a result. She
couldn’t
have any real feelings for him and, if she did, that would be just pathetic. She was years older than Colin. She was like a cat, dark, sleek and sophisticated. Colin thought Signora Bianchi was glamorous. He referred to Betty as a
nice kid.

It wasn’t, thought Betty, reaching for her scissors, as if Colin was the only one. She hadn’t mentioned this to Colin, as it really wasn’t any of her business, but Colin’s father, John Askern, had been seen leaving Signora Bianchi’s cottage more than once. Mr Askern was still a very good-looking man. Daphne, his wife, was indulgent and pleasant and worth two of Signora Bianchi.

Men were fools, she decided, putting her dress on to a hanger. The hem would have to do. Signora Bianchi really was rotten to the core. Mrs Askern was a nice woman. She might not be sophisticated or glamorous, but she was generous and kindly and didn’t deserve to be treated like that.

With a feeling of grim determination, Mrs Daphne Askern went into her husband’s dressing-room.

John Askern paused in the act of adjusting his braces and looked at her enquiringly. At the sight of her expression his heart sank. She couldn’t have found out, could she? He looked at her with a consciously enquiring smile. ‘What is it, my dear?’

‘Never mind the
my dear.
I want a word with you, John.
I thought there was something wrong.’

Askern’s stomach twisted. She couldn’t know. She just couldn’t know. ‘Something wrong? You’re mistaken, Daphne. I realise I may have seemed abstracted recently …’
Abstracted! That was an understatement!
‘… but you must realise how busy I’ve been with the exhibition coming up. I’ve had a tremendous amount to do.’

‘Never mind the exhibition,’ said Daphne Askern. She swept a coat off the dressing-room chair onto the bed and sat down, glaring at her husband. He fell silent under her accusing stare. ‘It’s not the exhibition I want to talk to you about, it’s
this.
’

To Askern’s horrified gaze she produced an envelope addressed to him. The envelope was written in a flowing hand in violet ink. He knew exactly what it was and who had written it. Carlotta Bianchi. How the devil had Daphne got hold of it?

‘I found this,’ said Daphne, ‘in your coat pocket.’ There was a steely glint in her eyes. ‘I’ll read it, shall I?’

Askern’s mouth was suddenly dry. He made a noise in his throat as she took the letter from the envelope. ‘I haven’t got time to discuss the matter now, Daphne,’ he blustered.

Daphne Askern’s eyes were like gimlets. ‘Oh yes you have. You never have faced up to unpleasant facts, John, but you are going to face up to this.’ She unfolded the letter.

‘
Mio caro John,
’ she read, glaring over the top of her spectacles. ‘That, I presume, is some sort of foreign greeting.
I can see you this afternoon at three
.
We shall be alone.
Carlotta.
Well?’

Askern pinched his forehead between his thumb and his fingers. How could he have been such a fool as to leave that letter in his pocket? Anger, futile and ineffective, flared. ‘What were you doing, poking round in my things?’

If Daphne Askern had been angry before, she was furious now. ‘Poking round in your things! How dare you? I looked in your coat pockets because you had left your coat on a chair. I was hanging it up. I was looking after it for you. That, John, is the sort of thing a wife does. A
wife
, John.’

‘It’s … it’s not what you think,’ he began weakly. ‘No, it really isn’t.’ Sudden inspiration struck and, raising his head, he met her blistering stare. ‘It’s Colin.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Colin,’ he repeated, with growing confidence. ‘I heard rumours he’s been seeing the woman. I didn’t want them to come to your attention. I … I thought you’d be upset.’

He saw her expression change. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said grudgingly, ‘I know there’s been some talk.’

Daphne Askern, a comfortably off widow, had married John Askern, a widower with a growing son, some years after her first husband had died. She’d thought John rather a romantic figure. He was an artist, a gifted artist, but a respectable one, a partner in Lythewell and Askern. Her more worldly friends, dwelling on both his lived-in good looks and his profession, warned her that there might be incidents, as they phrased it. Daphne had dismissed their warnings. She enjoyed having a husband, a stepson and a house to look after and, so far, she’d been very happy.

She was enough of a realist to know that John wouldn’t have married her if she’d been badly off, but she had never troubled herself overmuch with ifs and buts and how things would be if the circumstances were different. Such speculations were, she thought, a complete waste of time.

She sighed deeply, considering the matter. She wasn’t entirely reassured. Finding that note had been an awful shock and, although the note was short, it seemed very familiar in tone. For one thing, the woman had addressed him as John and signed it with her Christian name, but …

Daphne Askern had a comfortable life and didn’t want it disturbed. She had asked John to account for the letter and he had accounted for it. She knew her husband cared very deeply for Colin. That
was
believable.

‘So you went to see Signora Bianchi to find out the truth of these rumours about her and Colin?’

‘Exactly,’ said Askern in relief. ‘I wanted to know what was going on.’

‘I see,’ said Daphne guardedly.

‘So I … er … made an appointment with Signora Bianchi.’

There was a pause while Daphne Askern took this in. ‘And what is the truth behind the rumours about her and Colin?’

‘Signora Bianchi assured me that there was nothing more than friendship between her and Colin.’

‘Friendship?’ Daphne Askern was incredulous. ‘How on earth can they be friends? They can’t have anything in common.’

Askern swallowed. ‘Art, you know? And films. You know what a keen film fan Colin is. He talks to her about films and art and culture and photography and so on.’

Daphne considered this. It sounded credible. Colin, although he hadn’t inherited his father’s talent, was enthusiastic about modern art. He was certainly an avid film fan and was a keen amateur photographer.

John Askern saw her expression change. ‘She takes a great interest in his photography,’ he continued, pressing home the advantage. ‘She’s very cultured and she’s travelled widely.’

‘I see,’ repeated Daphne. ‘Is this the truth?’ she asked sharply.

‘Of course it’s the truth, my dear. Do you honestly think a woman like that would hold any attraction for me?’ He gave a laugh which, even to his own ears, sounded unconvincing.

Daphne hesitated for a long while, then folded up the letter. ‘It’s a great pity, John, you didn’t see fit to confide in me.’ She sniffed. ‘I consider it to be a most unsuitable friendship for Colin, but he’s a grown man and that’s his own affair.’

‘Unfortunately, I have to agree, but you can see why I was worried about the boy.’

Daphne sighed deeply and stood up. ‘Your breakfast is on the table, John.’ It was the white flag, if not of surrender, but certainly of a truce.

After she had left the room, John Askern leaned against the dressing table and took a deep breath. After a few moments he shook himself, then lit a cigarette with trembling hands. That had been
close.

Colin Askern adjusted the camera on its tripod, ducked under the black cloth, checked the focus and re-emerged. ‘Don’t move,’ he pleaded. ‘The sunlight’s catching your face at just the right angle.’

Carlotta Bianchi sighed and readjusted her posture. ‘Like this?’

‘That’s the ticket! Bingo,’ he muttered.

Signora Bianchi frowned. ‘Bingo? What does that mean?’

‘It means,’ said Colin, ‘that I’ve very nearly finished.’ He glanced up once more. ‘Stay exactly as you are …’ He pressed the bulb on the camera and counted the seconds for the exposure. ‘That’s it!’ He smiled. ‘You can relax now.’

Signora Bianchi stretched her arms in an extravagant gesture. ‘When can I see the picture?’

‘When I’ve developed it.’

‘You take too much trouble for a photograph.’ She snapped her fingers together. ‘Photographs, they should happen like that.’

‘I wanted a proper portrait, not a snapshot,’ said Colin.

‘A portrait?’ She laughed, then stopped as she saw his hurt expression. ‘I shall have it with a – what do you call it? A surround, yes?’ She indicated a square in the air.

‘A frame?’

‘Yes, I shall have it beside …’ She looked round the room. ‘Beside the clock.’

The grandfather clock was one of the few pieces of furniture in the sitting-room of Signora Bianchi’s cottage that Colin didn’t think of as cheap rubbish. Even so, the clock was far too large and, Colin thought, far too noisy for the room.

Signora Bianchi had taken Beech View Cottage, complete with furniture, for three months. It didn’t suit her and neither, thought Colin, did Whimbrell Heath. She belonged somewhere modern, with large windows, full of sun and air, not in this small, dark, cramped space. Signora Bianchi was elegant, modern and gracious and her setting should reflect her personality.

Although well into her forties – perhaps older – she looked, with her healthy complexion, perfect make-up and dark chestnut hair, far younger. It was still early and she looked delightful in a cerise negligee, her feet enclosed in elegant kid leather slippers and her hair tied loosely back with a ribbon.

A large tabby cat jumped up on the chair beside her. She reached out and idly scratched it behind the ear.

‘Where on earth did that cat come from?’ asked Colin.

‘He came all by himself. I like him. Mrs Hatton – you know Mrs Hatton?’ Colin knew Mrs Hatton, the daily. ‘She tells me he catches the mouses.’ She shuddered. ‘I don’t like them, the mouses.’

‘Mice,’ corrected Colin with an affectionate grin. ‘He doesn’t go with your style. If you must have a cat, it ought to be something sleek and glamorous.’ He grinned. ‘Witches always have black cats.’

‘A witch?’ demanded Signora Bianchi, affronted. ‘You think I have a hooked nose and the green skin?’

‘You’re not that sort of witch,’ said Colin.

Signora Bianchi scratched the top of the tabby’s head to a fusillade of purring. ‘A witch,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You think so?’

‘An enchantress, I’d say. Have you any idea,’ he asked abruptly, ‘how glamorous you are? I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about you that knocks most other women into a cocked hat. You could be the star of any film.’

Signora Bianchi smiled in genuine pleasure. ‘That is nice, yes?’

‘Yes, and it’s true.’ He hesitated. ‘I … I don’t know if it’s altogether a good thing. People are bound to ask questions.’

She gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Ask the questions? They ask so many questions, Colin. The women who live here!’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘They are small, I tell you, small!’

‘What have you told them?’

She laughed again. ‘Nothing much. They are of no account. I tell them I am Italian and my husband, he is dead.’

‘Dead?’ questioned Colin.

She shrugged. ‘What should I say? Marco is dead. I was so sad. Even though he was not my husband by the church, I was so sad when he died.’

She was obviously in earnest, but the mention of the affair still made Colin Askern uncomfortable.

‘You do not like me to say Marco and I were not married, do you?’ she said acutely. ‘You are very strict in many ways, I think.’

Colin Askern looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Appearances matter,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Especially for you. I know people have rotten, low minds and I don’t want them saying rotten, low things about you.’

She laughed once more. ‘You are sweet,
tesoro mio
.’ She suddenly became serious. ‘You are sweet and so very ’andsome, too.’ Colin looked rebellious. ‘No, no, no, no, no! I like it, the good looks on a man. They will be useful to you, the good looks. It is nice, also, that you worry about my reputation, that you want me to be respectable. I do not think you would worry about such things. You like the art, yes? Artists, they are not respectable.’ Her smile faded. ‘They are easily frightened, the respectable.’

‘My father’s an artist and he’s respectable,’ said Colin thoughtfully. ‘I’d say he’s worried.’

A calculating look came into her eyes. ‘
Buono.
That is very good.’

‘Thanks for coming to the exhibition, Jack,’ said Chief Inspector William Rackham as he and Jack Haldean negotiated their way through the crowds on Oxford Street.

The two men, although both dressed in formal morning wear, in black coats and grey trousers, provided a real contrast in appearance.

Bill Rackham, solid and ginger-haired, with an easy-going manner and good-natured face, somehow always managed to look slightly rumpled and unmistakably British, whereas Jack, taller and slimmer, with olive skin and intelligent dark eyes, looked as if he’d be at home in Barcelona or Madrid. Although his mother had been Spanish, Jack had been born and brought up in England and it sometimes came as a shock to those meeting him for the first time, to hear his completely English voice.

‘Yes, it’s good of you to come,’ continued Bill. ‘Colin Askern asked me to bring a pal to the opening. I couldn’t think of anyone who’d be interested, apart from you.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Jack Haldean. ‘I can see that the amount of blokes who’d leap at an opportunity to attend an exhibition of church art would be pretty limited. I’ve never heard you mention Askern before. Have you known him long?’

‘Absolutely ages, but we haven’t seen each other for years.’ Bill gave a sudden grin. ‘I first met him when he was flung at my feet.’