After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (26 page)

The lyrics of ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ struck him with unusual force. He just hoped the significance wasn’t ironic.

They all sigh and want to die, for Sweet Georgia Brown! I’ll tell you just why, you know I don’t lie …
sang Art Burrell.

Art Burrell had a deep, powerful voice. Art Burrell …

‘Art!’ muttered Jack, missing his step.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Art! She said art!’

And a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Bill Rackham doubtfully the next day. ‘Miss Wingate thinks our mysterious Mrs McAllister who rented 22, Dorian House, may be none other than Mrs Daphne Askern herself?’ He broke off and stared at Jack. ‘You seem very pleased with yourself this morning, by the way. Have you got something up your sleeve?’

‘Me?’ said Jack, wiping the grin from his face. ‘My sleeves are completely empty, old thing. I had a very pleasant evening with Betty Wingate, that’s all. She still has the shocking bad taste to prefer Colin Askern to yours truly, but at least I was able to let her know I was in the frame.’

Bill stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Why does everyone ask me if I’m serious?’ complained Jack. ‘Yes, damnit, of course I’m serious. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘She’s a suspect in a murder investigation,’ Bill reminded him.

‘That’s a mere detail. She won’t be a suspect once I’ve cracked the case.’

‘I admire your confidence,’ said Bill dryly. ‘So your girlfriend—’

‘Colin Askern’s girlfriend, you mean.’

‘So the girlfriend thinks that the mysterious Mrs McAllister of Dorian House could be Mrs Daphne Askern?’ He drummed a tattoo on his desk with his pencil. ‘I’ll say this for the idea. Mrs Askern was very bitter about how she’d been treated.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Jack. ‘Did you think Mrs Askern’s grief yesterday was a bit excessive?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Jack frankly. ‘It could’ve been put on easily enough, but I must say she struck me as someone who was deeply shocked. As far as her being Mrs McAllister goes, she
could
be, if all we’re going off is Mrs McAllister’s description – that’s an above average height, stout, middle-aged, jowly-faced woman. I did wonder briefly if Mrs flat McAllister, if I can call her that, could be Signora Bianchi, but I don’t think that’s on the cards.’

‘Not unless she’s gained about five stone in weight and developed a double chin, no. Apart from her, though, Mrs blasted McAllister could easily be a whole raft of middle-aged women,’ said Bill moodily. ‘That had occurred to me. What d’you think?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Mrs Askern certainly had a motive to kill her husband. As you say, John Askern hadn’t treated her well, not by any stretch of the imagination.’

‘But what about this blasted vanishing letter? If – and it’s a big if – the Mrs McAllister who rented the flat is none other than Mrs Askern, then why should she pinch the letter? If she’d told me it was her husband’s handwriting, I’d have believed her without question.’

‘You may not question it in the first instance, but you very well might later on. There’s one thing for sure. Having the letter vanish hasn’t half made everything a lot more obscure.’

‘As if I didn’t know that!’

‘And therefore more difficult to pin onto one particular person,’ continued Jack patiently.

‘I suppose so,’ Bill grudgingly admitted. ‘Anyway, to put these and other speculative ideas to one side for the moment, what we do know is that Mrs Joan McAllister, petty fraudster and thief – I still haven’t forgotten that pound I put in her collecting tin – lived at 46, Purbeck Terrace until seven weeks ago or thereabouts. We saw her at the exhibition, she was admitted to Charing Cross hospital, but she was discharged on the same day.’

‘She certainly seemed in good health when I ran into her on the Strand, later that same week. She must’ve left Purbeck Terrace shortly after I saw her.’

‘Very shortly afterwards, but where she went to then, we just don’t know. That’s one of the things I want to find out. Then, some three weeks ago, she pops up at Dorian House. It’s possible, not to put it more strongly than that, that the Mrs McAllister who lived at Purbeck Terrace and the Mrs McAllister who rented Dorian House are not the same woman, but for the moment I’ve got to assume they are and work on that basis.’ He boxed his papers together in a gesture of finality. ‘Now, what’s this other idea you’ve got?’

‘It’s a question of names,’ said Jack. ‘You remember, don’t you, that Mrs McAllister – the Mrs exhibition McAllister – yelled,
Art!
before she keeled over. Now, at the Cafe de Bologna last night, the dance band was Art Burrell and his Seven Brooklyn Buddies.’

‘It’s nice of you to keep me up to date with your social calendar,’ muttered Bill. ‘Do let me know if you’ve any more excursions planned, won’t you? I love to hear all about you and your little outings.’

‘Keep up, old prune,’ said Jack pityingly. ‘Don’t you get it? Art Burrell, yes?’ Bill looked blank. ‘You see?
Art.
Art isn’t just art, it’s a name as well.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. Art? That’s a rum sort of name.’

‘It’s the American abbreviation for Arthur. It’s not an abbreviation anyone English would normally use, but Mrs McAllister had lived in America. She might very well address an Arthur as Art.’

Bill looked frankly puzzled. ‘I suppose she
might
, if there was anyone called Arthur in the case, but there isn’t. Besides that, I thought you’d worked out that the wretched woman yelled
Art!
because she associated John Askern with art. Now, I did like that idea.’

‘Don’t you like my art is Arthur idea?’

Bill hesitated. ‘It’s interesting, Jack, but I can’t see how it’ll help me pin down how John Askern came to be murdered by a woman you were convinced was dead in a flat off the Tottenham Court Road yesterday.’

‘Put like that, it’s awfully deflating,’ complained Jack.

‘Well, pick up your ball and go and play somewhere else,’ said Bill. ‘I’ve got some work to do. What I could really do with is a photograph of Mrs McAllister, but there isn’t one. There isn’t even a passport photograph of her, for all the fact she lived in the States.’

‘No. She wouldn’t have needed a passport before the war, and afterwards she could’ve travelled on her husband’s passport, if he had one.’

‘Exactly. It all adds up to no photo.’ Bill sighed heavily. ‘What are you up to for the rest of the day?’

‘I thought I’d have another look at those mottoes I copied down from the chantry. You know, the ones inscribed on the flagstones. Are you at home this evening? I’ll ankle round to your rooms if you are and let you know what, if anything, I’ve come up with.’

‘I should be in, unless anything crops up in the meantime. What are you hoping to find?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Some sort of meaning in the mottoes, I suppose.’ He grinned. ‘That sounds a bit twee, but you know what I mean. I might have to go down to Whimbrell Heath again. It could be that the mottoes only make sense when you see them in context.’

Bill blinked. ‘Just as you like. Er … I’m sorry to repeat myself, but I can’t see how that’ll help me work out how John Askern came to be murdered by a woman you were convinced was dead in a flat off the Tottenham Court Road yesterday.’

‘It might,’ said Jack, with dignity.

‘As you say,’ said Bill. ‘I can’t see the point, but don’t let me stop you.’

Jack creaked open the door of the chantry and stopped. He’d parked the Spyker under the tree by the pub in the village and walked along to Lythewell and Askern. Rather than call in at the offices to get the key, he decided to see if the chantry door was unlocked. It was. He expected to see Henry Cadwallader but, to his surprise, it wasn’t Henry Cadwallader inside the chantry but Daphne Askern.

She was sitting on one of the pews, gazing at the flights of painted angels.

She gave a little start as he came in. ‘Mr Haldean? It is Mr Haldean, isn’t it?’ She tried to smile. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

‘Not really,’ said Jack. ‘It was more the chantry itself I wanted to see.’ She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I wanted an insight,’ he explained. ‘An insight into old Mr Lythewell’s character.’

She shuddered. ‘This place is a monument to old Mr Lythewell. Colin hates the chantry, but I was thinking of John.’

‘What did Mr Askern think of it?’ asked Jack. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

She moved along the pew. ‘No, please do.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘John admired the workmanship, but the whole thing struck him as too …’ She frowned and hunted for the right word. ‘Ornate? Would that be fair to say?’

‘Very fair,’ agreed Jack. ‘When Mr Askern was a young man he worked for Mr Lythewell, didn’t he? Did he get on well with him?’

She looked at him sharply, then her gaze dropped. ‘Old Mr Lythewell was long before my time,’ she said quietly. ‘Funnily enough, I’ve been trying to understand what sort of man he was, too. I’ve been in here a lot, recently. I’ve been thinking about old Mr Lythewell a great deal.’ She smiled once more, an odd, tight smile. ‘You asked me if John got on well with him.’ She hesitated, picking her words carefully. ‘I think it’s fair to say he didn’t.’

Her eyes met his. It was as dramatic, as sudden, and as illuminating as a flash of lightning.
She knew!

Jack felt a shiver of expectation and waited.

Daphne Askern was quiet for a moment, then sighed. ‘Yes, I’ve been in here a great deal. I’ve been trying to understand.’ She waved her hand to indicate the building. ‘Mr Lythewell had all these religious feelings, I know, but when you look around, it’s not about religion or holy things, it’s all about him.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s a bit frightening, I think. Instead of Mr Lythewell looking up to God, God is looking up to Mr Lythewell, and that’s wrong.’

‘That’s the definition of the old sin of pride,’ said Jack softly, moved by her insight.
Closer. Getting closer …

Daphne Askern nodded. ‘Pride is a sin. It poisons things. John …’ Her voice broke. ‘John could be proud.’

Again, she was quiet.

Now for it.

‘Mrs Askern,’ said Jack, very gently. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I know more than you think.’

She looked at him in startled apprehension. ‘Go on,’ she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

‘I think,’ said Jack, looking directly at her and keeping his voice level, ‘that you’ve been doing a lot of hunting around in old papers recently.’

He sensed rather than saw her body stiffen. She was very much on her guard and if he said the wrong thing he’d lose her. He didn’t want to lead her, but to make her feel it was safe to speak.

‘You wanted to find out if your husband had known that Carlotta Bianchi was alive when he married you.’

‘He knew,’ she said with sudden vehemence. ‘He knew all right, but John never would face up to things. He always buried his head in the sand and hoped they’d go away. Still …’ Her voice wavered again. ‘Signora Bianchi’s magic, her glamour, whatever you call it – that had worn off when he married me. That’s what makes it so bitterly ironic.’ She stopped abruptly.

‘I know,’ said Jack, still keeping his voice level, ‘that you know why that was so ironic. After she’d left him, abandoned him for another man, leaving him to look after their baby son, your husband desperately wanted Carlotta Bianchi to return to him. He was employed by Josiah Lythewell, an old man driven by pride, a man who had hidden away great wealth, a man who, by any objective standard, could only be thought of as insane.’

Her eyes were fixed on him and he could feel her tension, waiting for his next words.

‘It must,’ said Jack, allowing nothing but sympathy in his voice, ‘in many ways, have seemed like a mercy.’

She leapt to her feet. ‘It wasn’t! That’s kind. Much too kind! I
knew
John, knew him through and through. He wanted Lythewell’s treasure – wanted it desperately – so he could entice her back to him. He loathed facing unpleasant facts and, when he was forced to face them, when he couldn’t avoid facing them any longer, he would get suddenly, irrationally angry. He was always so amenable, so easy-going, that it was a dreadful shock to see him in a rage. Then, afterwards, when he’d calmed down, he would never admit that he’d lost his temper. Mr Lythewell might’ve been all those things you said – old, mad, eaten up with rotten pride, anything you like – but he was
alive
and John killed him.’

She stood trembling, twisting her hands together. ‘He pushed old Mr Lythewell down the stairs. It was a complete impulse and he never regretted it. It was as if someone else had done it. All he ever regretted was that he never did find the treasure and he still couldn’t get Carlotta Bianchi back. Once I found out what he’d done, I knew there could be no going back, not ever. It’s only …’ She stopped, breathing quickly, then gathered herself together. ‘I’m sorry John’s dead,’ she said wonderingly. ‘I don’t know what he was doing in that woman’s flat yesterday or how or why he died, but for a long time I was happy with him. Who would want to kill John?’

‘You haven’t any idea?’ asked Jack.

She shook her head. ‘No. I thought, when I got the news, that he might’ve killed himself, but it seems he couldn’t have done.’

‘No, he couldn’t,’ agreed Jack.

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

That seemed to be the constant refrain. ‘Mrs Askern,’ asked Jack, after a pause. ‘How d’you know about your husband and Mr Lythewell?’

She pushed the hair out of her eyes and gathered her thoughts. ‘There was a series of letters, letters to that woman, Carlotta Bianchi. He told her quite openly what he’d done.’ Her face twisted. ‘He said that it proved how much he cared. He must’ve been mad.’ She shrugged. ‘In the end, it didn’t matter. The letters were returned with
Not known at this address
on them, so I don’t suppose she ever knew. She did write to him, two years before we were married, to ask for money and for news of Colin. He kept that letter and he must’ve replied to it, because there’s a brief note from her thanking him.’

‘Have you still got those letters?’

‘Yes. I was going to give the letters from that woman to my solicitor, as it proved my case. He knew she was alive when we married. The other letters – well, I thought I might burn them. I wouldn’t like Colin to see them.’