After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (8 page)

Bill smothered a laugh but Betty looked at Jack blankly. ‘Excuse me? I don’t think I understood any of that.’

Bill intervened. ‘What Haldean is trying to tell you, Miss Wingate, is that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he’s not certifiably loopy but is actually very good at solving mysteries.’

Betty looked at Jack in disbelief. ‘You’re a private detective?’ She paused uncertainly. ‘I can’t …’ She swallowed, then met his gaze squarely. ‘I can’t afford to pay anyone to investigate.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I don’t do this as a business.’ He looked at her and grinned. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but tell me, Miss Wingate, after your adventure, did you suffer from spots?’

‘Spots?’ She looked understandably affronted. ‘What d’you mean, spots? Are you serious?’

‘I’m very serious. Spots as in little pimples, you know? I’m sorry if it’s a rather personal question.’

‘It’s certainly that.’ Betty shrugged. ‘That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever been asked. Does seeing a murder usually bring on spots?’

‘So did you? Have spots, I mean?’

Betty bridled with irritation. ‘Yes, I did, if you must know, although I—’

‘Were they round your mouth?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact they were.’

Jack turned to Bill. ‘Chloroform, Bill. You must’ve thought the same when you heard Miss Wingate’s story and she talked about the hospital smell.’

‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at—’ began Betty, when Jack interrupted.

‘You were chloroformed. That’s what knocked you unconscious. One of the after-effects of chloroform applied to the skin is a rash of tiny blisters.’

‘Gosh,’ said Betty, impressed despite herself. ‘So that’s what it was!’ She looked at Jack with growing respect. ‘It sounds as if you might be good at this, after all.’

Bill laughed. ‘He’s not bad. I told you as much.’

‘So you’re going to look into what I saw, then?’ demanded Betty.

‘Absolutely I am. Were you going back to Whimbrell Heath today?’

Betty nodded. ‘I don’t want to be away longer than I can help.’

‘Then why don’t we run down together? My car’s garaged round the corner and it should be a pleasant trip.’ He caught the expression on Bill’s face and added, ‘Can you come too, Bill? Not officially, you understand, but just for the ride.’

Bill smiled and put his hands wide. ‘As I said before, it’s my day off, and a trip to the country with friends sounds just the ticket. Thanks, Jack. I thought I could rely on you.’

Jack parked the Spyker beside the Brown Cow in the middle of the village. It was a pleasant spot, with a bench in the shelter of a shady oak tree. The post office and a parade of shops stood across the square and, behind them, a wide grassy bank led down to where a stream, nearly wide enough to be a river, gurgled against the piles of a stone bridge.

‘The car should be safe enough here,’ said Jack, climbing out and offering his hand to Betty. ‘Is it far to Signora Bianchi’s cottage?’

‘About half a mile or so, but there’s nowhere closer to park.’

Beech View Cottage was much as Jack had imagined it from Betty Wingate’s description. It was a small, brick-built Victorian building with a slate roof, a black-painted wooden porch and a small, flower-edged lawn in front. It was attractive enough in a homely sort of way, but certainly not a likely place to find the sophisticated sort of woman Betty had described Signora Bianchi as, living or dead.

The cottage stood by itself, its nearest neighbours two or three hundred yards up the road on the corner of Bridge Street. The name of the cottage faithfully represented the surrounding countryside. There were plenty of beech trees and, for that matter, lots of other types of trees to view. There were trees behind the house, trees across the narrow road and a line of trees running along the edge of the fields which bordered Greymare Lane.

It was a delightful place on this sun-filled afternoon, but Jack could imagine it having a very different atmosphere by the light of a scudding moon, with the wind soughing through the branches.

Bill looked up and down the road and frowned in disapproval. ‘This was a pretty isolated place for you to find yourself in, Miss Wingate.’

‘I know,’ she said with a shudder. ‘I don’t mind admitting, I got thoroughly rattled.’

‘Let’s take a closer look,’ said Jack, opening the gate and walking down the path. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anyone in, but you never know your luck.’

Rather to his surprise, his knock was answered. A grey-haired woman wearing a wrap-around apron and holding a duster came to the door. She must be Mrs Hatton, the daily.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Jack, raising his hat. ‘We were hoping to see Signora Bianchi.’

‘She’s away for a few days, sir. I’m not sure when she’ll be back, I’m sure.’ Mrs Hatton looked up and nodded in recognition at Betty. ‘Hello, Miss. Did you get your bag back? Bert Shaw told me as how it was yours. I couldn’t think how it came to be in the parlour, but Bert told me some tale about how you’d been in the house. How the door came to be unlocked I don’t know, because I’m always careful to make sure everything’s fast before I go.’

Jack glanced to the side of the porch where there was a large flower-pot holding a straggly yellow azalea. There was a rim of earth where it had been moved. ‘You don’t leave the key under the mat, by any chance? Or under the flower-pot?’

Mrs Hatton drew back. ‘Now how did you know about that flower-pot? It’s true, as sure as I’m stood here.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t been watching me, have you?’

‘No, of course not,’ Jack reassured her. ‘It’s just that I’ve got an aunt who lives in the country and she always leaves a key under a flower-pot.’ That wasn’t strictly true but it placated Mrs Hatton. ‘And if I could guess where the key’s kept, maybe someone else could guess as well.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Hatton doubtfully, ‘although who would be wanting to break in, I don’t know, without it being one of those nasty tramps we get. It’s been dreadful since the war, with tramps looking for what they can scrounge, but I’m sure no one like that’s been in this cottage. I’d have noticed if anything was missing. Bert Shaw asked me if there was anything missing and I told him no, there wasn’t.’

‘Did you hear what happened the evening Miss Wingate left her bag here?’ asked Jack. ‘About what Miss Wingate saw, perhaps?’

Mrs Hatton glanced at Betty, cleared her throat in embarrassment, and looked away. ‘Well, I did hear something. It’s not that I listen to gossip, Miss,’ she added defensively to Betty, ‘but it’s been the talk of the village. You must’ve been dreaming, I daresay. You most probably had something that disagreed with you for supper. My mother, she could never tolerate trotters. Used to carry on awful after she had trotters, she did, and I expect you had something similar.’

Betty turned to Bill and Jack. ‘You see? Everyone thinks I’m making it up, but I’m not.’

‘I didn’t say you did it
deliberate
, Miss,’ said Mrs Hatton in a wounded sort of way.

‘That’s just it, though,’ said Jack. ‘Some people are saying Miss Wingate’s making up a story deliberately, and so she’s asked me and Mr Rackham here to see if we can get to the bottom of it. So, although I don’t want to put you out, I was wondering if we could come and have a look inside and see if there’s anything we can discover.’

Mrs Hatton looked very doubtful. ‘I’m not sure. It’s not really my place to be letting folks in to the house, what with the mistress being away.’

‘It’s all right, Mrs Hatton,’ broke in Betty. ‘You know who I am, and these gentlemen are my friends and friends of Mr Askern’s, too. You served with Mr Askern during the war, didn’t you, Mr Rackham?’ she added, turning to Bill.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Mrs Hatton wavered. ‘Well, I’m sure as it’ll be all right, being as how it’s you, Miss. You’d better step inside. You’ll excuse me getting on with my work, though, won’t you? I’ve got the upstairs windows to do yet.’

‘That’ll be fine, Mrs Hatton,’ Jack said with a smile. ‘The last thing we want to do is hold you up.’

Mrs Hatton ushered them into the minute hall, hesitated by the stairs for a few moments then, as if reassured they weren’t about to immediately start looting the place, went back upstairs.

‘It’s lucky she was in,’ murmured Bill as her footsteps sounded overhead.

‘It is,’ said Jack. ‘Although there’s usually a key around somewhere.’

‘As a guardian of the law, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that remark. What are you hoping to find, Jack? After all, if anything happened …’ He broke off as he saw Betty’s expression. ‘
Whatever
happened, I mean to say, it all happened days ago now.’

‘Yes, it did,’ agreed Jack. ‘I wish we could have been here sooner, but we have to take our crimes as we find them. I must say, I don’t really know what we’re looking for, but let’s start in the parlour. That’s where Miss Wingate saw the body.’

Betty shivered as they went into the room. ‘I wish it had been a dream,’ she said. ‘I’ll never forget striking a match and seeing that woman’s face. It was horrible.’

The parlour was a small, low-ceilinged room with dark sham oak panelling and well-used furniture. An attempt had been made to brighten the place up with some bright cushions, but the only items of real note were a grandfather clock and an unframed portrait photograph, propped up on the sideboard.

‘This is very good,’ said Jack, picking up the photograph. It showed a striking dark-haired woman, her head tilted to one side so the sunlight caught the angles of her face. She was relaxed and happy and obviously felt at ease with the photographer. ‘Is this Signora Bianchi?’

‘Yes,’ said Betty, grimly. ‘That’s Signora Bianchi all right.’ She picked up the photograph. ‘Colin must’ve taken it. He’s keen on photography.’ Her voice wavered. ‘He’s never taken my picture.’

‘I’m glad he took this one though,’ said Jack. ‘It’ll be useful if we have to find out what happened to her.’

Betty looked suddenly horror-struck. ‘Of course! You’ll need a picture of her. I’m sorry. When I think what happened to her, it seems so petty to feel anything but sympathy.’ She broke off and tossed her head impatiently. ‘Colin saw a lot of Signora Bianchi.’ She wriggled unhappily. ‘There were no end of rumours.’

Bill and Jack exchanged glances. ‘What sort of rumours?’ asked Bill.

She wrinkled her nose as if she’d smelt something rank. ‘Unpleasant ones. People said …’ She drew a short, exasperated breath. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you. The gossip was that Colin was having an affair with her. I flatly refused to believe it. I couldn’t see what the attraction was.’ She bit her lip. ‘She’s
old
, isn’t she?
Old
.’

Jack looked at the photograph. There was no denying Signora Bianchi had an indefinable air of glamour. He could see very clearly where the attraction lay.

‘You might as well know,’ continued Betty. ‘I asked Colin to stop seeing her but he said it was none of my business.’

Jack scratched his nose thoughtfully. It was nothing to do with the case, but he really wanted to know how Betty felt about Colin Askern. ‘Why should it be your business?’ he asked with seeming guilelessness.

‘Because Colin and I have become good friends,’ she said flatly. She looked at him with earnest appeal in her blue eyes. ‘Can we leave it there? I’d rather not say any more. Colin said he enjoyed her company because she’d travelled widely and knew about art and films and culture and so on. I never thought that was the whole truth.’

‘Have you any reason to think it isn’t the whole truth?’ Jack asked gently. It was obviously a very delicate topic and the last thing he wanted to do was upset her further.

‘Not real reasons, no.’ She ran her hand through her hair. ‘I don’t suppose it matters now what Colin thought of her.’

Jack and Bill swapped glances. They knew each other well enough to know what the other was thinking. If Signora Bianchi had indeed been murdered, then Colin Askern’s relations with her could be very important indeed. Rather to Jack’s relief, Bill didn’t find it necessary to point that out to Betty Wingate.

Jack went to replace the photo on the sideboard, then, changing his mind, put it in his jacket pocket.

He looked round the room thoughtfully. There was a tiny black mark on the rug beside the sofa. He stooped down and rubbed his finger over it. ‘Is this where you dropped the match? There’s a burn on the carpet.’

‘I was standing about there, yes.’

‘And the woman was on the sofa? Was she lying down or sitting up?’

Betty frowned in remembrance. ‘Sitting up, I think. Yes, that’s right. She was sitting up but with her head slumped back.’

Jack knelt down by the sofa and examined it carefully. The sofa was a cheap wooden frame, deal varnished to look like oak, with red upholstery cushions tied to it.

The cushions had evidently been plumped up, presumably by Mrs Hatton. Jack moved them to one side and examined the frame with minute care.

‘There’s a hair trapped in the angle of the frame,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be a natural place to put your head if you were merely sitting down.’ He gave the wooden arm of the sofa an experimental shake. ‘This seems firm enough for normal use.’

‘I don’t think much of a sofa that catches your hair,’ said Bill. ‘It sounds damn painful.’

‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’

Jack sat on the sofa, shifting his weight experimentally. ‘Under normal circumstances, I think the arm would remain fairly solid. Let me try something, Bill. I’ll sit here and, if you don’t mind, would you strangle me?’

‘Strangle you?’ said Bill with a grin. ‘That’s a turn up for the books. It’s usually me that gets cast as the corpse in these little re-enactments.’

‘Just do it,’ said Jack, hutching himself into the corner of the sofa. ‘Now I’m presuming, because Miss Wingate was attacked with chloroform, that Signora Bianchi was also chloroformed and therefore helpless. So I’ll look invitingly helpless, yes?’

He slumped forward. ‘Come on, Bill,’ he muttered into his chest.

Bill stepped forward, tentatively wriggling his fingers. ‘And you want to be strangled?’

‘Stop short of the
coup de grace.
’ Bill grasped Jack’s throat. ‘Ouch! Not quite so firmly, old bean. Thumbs on my windpipe – there’s no need to press! – and now force me back.’