An Expert in Murder (33 page)

redoubtable – we’ll see. But don’t worry – if she turns up while you’re still here, I’ll look after you. Not that you need protecting –

that parting shot you delivered last night was chastening to the point of humiliation. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble.’

She gave up trying to find an uncluttered space on the room’s incongruous collection of chairs. ‘Let’s sit on the floor, but I’ll get you some coffee first. You look shattered.’

‘No, don’t bother. I need to talk to you and it sounds like we haven’t got much time on our own. You are on your own? There’s no one lurking in the kitchen?’

‘No, the girls have gone out to lunch with George and the Snipe is with her maker – in the temporary sense, I mean. You know how it is on a Sunday.’

‘Of course.’ Archie laughed but only half-heartedly, and Josephine had an ominous sense of déjà vu. What was he going to tell her now? Surely there was no room left this weekend for yet more tragedy? ‘Is this about Hedley White?’ she asked. ‘I gather you’ve caught up with him.’ Archie raised an eyebrow questioningly, so she explained. ‘That’s where Marta said Lydia had gone –

to the Yard, to see if you’ll let her see him. You must have just missed her. Apparently she’s worried about him. Are you as convinced as she is that he’s done nothing wrong?’

‘I certainly don’t think he’s killed anybody,’ Archie said. ‘I’m fairly sure he’s lying about where he was when Elspeth died and, if so, he’s persuaded Rafe Swinburne to give him an alibi, but I don’t honestly believe there’s anything sinister in that. He wouldn’t be the first suspect to assume things would look better for him if he could prove he wasn’t on his own. We’re doing the usual tests but I don’t think he’s got anything to fear from the results.’ He told her how upset White had seemed at the news of Aubrey’s death, and added, ‘His troubles won’t go away just because we think he’s innocent, so I’m pleased Lydia’s supporting him. He’ll need help to get him through losing two people he loved. But Hedley’s not why I’m here – things have moved on since I spoke to him. I got your message about the iris. Was the reference to the flower of chivalry in Vintner’s book, by any chance?’

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‘Yes it was,’ she said, surprised. ‘I started to read Marta’s manuscript this morning and it reminded me of Vintner’s novel – not the story, that’s modern and completely different – but the style. I know she admired his first book. But how on earth did you guess?’

‘Because he’s raising his ugly head in the unlikeliest of places, and judging by what I’ve heard about him in the last couple of hours, irises would have been on his mind when he sat down to write
The White Heart
. Chivalry, on the other hand, wouldn’t be something he was qualified to talk about.’ He noticed that her face had clouded over as it always did when Vintner’s name was mentioned, and the anger he had felt since speaking to Alice Simmons was only partly tempered by the knowledge that he could now dispel Josephine’s guilt once and for all. ‘I need you to listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you, and to believe me,’ he said. ‘You are not responsible for Elliott Vintner’s death.’

‘It doesn’t help to keep going over this, Archie,’ she said dismis-sively, and started to get up. ‘You and I will always disagree about it and it just makes it worse for me if . . .’

He caught her arm and gently turned her face towards him. ‘But this time it’s not just my voice. Would you believe it from someone who knew Vintner? Someone who would swear that his suicide was down to something that happened years ago, long before you ever wrote a play or heard his name?’

Josephine looked at him, confused by his words and hardly daring to acknowledge that they hinted at a reprieve for her. ‘But he left a note explaining why he did it,’ she said. ‘It was read out at the inquest. He claimed that losing the court case had ruined him, financially and emotionally, and the papers went to town on it because he blamed me for everything.’ Contrary to the advice of all her friends, Archie included, Josephine had attended Vintner’s inquest, determined to face her demons. Not even in her worst nightmares could she have predicted how unpleasant it would be, though, and she would never forget the anger she had felt when she first heard the contents of that suicide note. Sitting in a swel-tering court room, flanked by Ronnie and Lettice who had insisted on going with her, she had listened as the last words of a dead man 233

accused her of stealing his work, and the law of sanctioning her theft. What frustrated her most, however, was not the smug, self-righteous tone or the unfairness of the charge but the irrational sense of shame which overwhelmed her then and which had dogged her ever since. Afterwards, despite numerous requests from journalists and several newspaper stories which painted her as the villain of the piece, she had adamantly refused to speak out in her own defence, partly from a determination to guard her privacy but mostly from a fear that she would not be very convincing. ‘It was a masterly piece of prose, that note,’ she added bitterly now. ‘Much more affecting than most of his books. He even asked for God’s forgiveness on my behalf. He could afford to be benev-olent, I suppose, because I’m sure he knew I’d never forgive myself.’

‘Exactly. I’m not saying that Vintner didn’t resent you. He was a spiteful bastard and I’m sure he took a great deal of pleasure in knowing he could go on hurting you long after he was dead, but that isn’t why he killed himself. It was a smokescreen, Josephine.

You were caught up in a deadly game between two powerful men and it was convenient for them both to use you, one more mali-ciously than the other.’ He paused to make sure she was taking in what he was saying. ‘You see, if Vintner had given the real reason for deciding to take his own life, it would have been a confession to murder.’

She listened, at first incredulous and then shocked, as Archie outlined the connection between Elliott Vintner and Bernard Aubrey. He had not got far before her relief was dispelled by an immense sadness. She had thought nothing could be worse than the burden of responsibility which she carried, but she had reckoned without an act of pure evil that had cut so many lives short and filled others with pain and loss. Now, who could say when this new nightmare would be over? Several minutes passed before she was aware that Archie had stopped talking and was waiting for her response. The truth had been his gift to her, she knew, and he wanted her to be comforted by it, but all she felt was grief – grief for those who had died so suddenly and for the horror which she 234

felt sure was still to come, and a deeper, less tangible sorrow for the fundamental cruelty of the world.

‘Are you all right?’ Archie asked gently.

‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘I will be, but all I can think about now is how sorry I feel for Elspeth. I keep remembering something she said about hoping her real family had some theatrical blood in it.

Never in her wildest dreams could she have hoped to be related to the father of the West End. She would have been so thrilled, and yet it’s the very reason she’s dead.’

‘Aubrey set up a trust fund for her from the profits of
Richard of
Bordeaux
, you know.’

‘That makes sense. Lydia said he’d given money to a charity to help families who’d suffered losses in the war. Funny, isn’t it, how something that’s broadly true can hide so much.’

‘Yes. In this case, the charity really did begin at home. Elspeth would have come into the money next month when she turned eighteen – and he planned to tell her everything then, as well. Alice Simmons was terrified of the effect it would have on their relationship. She thought she was going to lose the only thing that mattered to her.’

‘I can understand that. It’s so hard for anyone on the outside to know how families work, but Elspeth didn’t strike me as a girl who’d forget love. There’s no doubt she would have embraced a connection to something she was so passionate about, but not at the expense of the life she already had. If anything, knowing where she came from might have settled her and satisfied the restless curiosity that Betty spoke about.’ She sighed heavily. ‘It hardly feels right to sit here speculating over lives we didn’t understand and people we didn’t know when there’s no future left for any of them. Elspeth didn’t make it to eighteen, for God’s sake, and I can’t even begin to contemplate what hell Alice Simmons is going through. In all of this, I think it’s her I feel for most. What a burden that must be to carry. Confession is a very selfish thing, it seems to me. I’m sure Walter felt much better afterwards, but I can’t help thinking it would have been kinder of him to take his secret to the grave rather than pass the guilt on to his wife.’

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‘That’s all very well, but are you honestly telling me that if you were in her position you’d rather not be told the truth?’

There was an urgency in his words and Josephine understood that he was asking two questions, only one of which was about Alice Simmons. She thought before answering, realising what was at stake, and said eventually, ‘You’re right, of course. I would have wanted to know – when the time was right. But I’d rather not have had to wait until one of us was on our deathbed.’ Archie had walked over to the window now, and she had no way of knowing if he realised the significance of what she was saying. When he did not speak, she continued, but on safer ground. ‘I wonder what happened to Elspeth’s real mother? Or how much she knew about what happened to Arthur?’

He turned round, and she was sad to see how relieved he seemed to pull back from the conversation he had tentatively begun. ‘I don’t know. Alice Simmons thinks Vintner was capable of finding a way to dispose of her, and she could well be right. I was hoping you might be able to help me there. Did you learn anything about Vintner’s background during the trial? Anything that might help us link what we know about Arthur’s death with the current murders?’

‘Well, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to be impartial about him, but I remember being surprised by how arrogant and manipulative he was. I know hindsight’s a wonderful thing but I can easily see now that he would be capable of murder, and confident of getting away with it. At the time, though, what struck me was how at odds his personality was with the sensibility of his book. It seemed extraordinary that someone so narcissistic – and now, as it turns out, so evil – could have written a novel with such compassion and insight.’ She thought about what Marta had said on the subject, and added, ‘His later books were much more in character – very masculine, almost to the point of misogyny. But
The White Heart
showed a real understanding of women. He painted the historical relationship between Richard and Anne in very human terms and made them real people. That’s supposed to be what I stole from him. There was nothing like that in his other books – they tended 236

to be full of relationships founded on power, even cruelty. I suppose he’d argue now that his wife’s betrayal with Arthur changed his view of women.’ She considered that for a moment. ‘Who’s to say what effect it had? But you didn’t ask for a literary critique of his work, did you?’

‘No, although it’s interesting that his outlook changed so radi-cally. I’m sorry to revert to something more superficial, but did he remind you of anybody? Did he look like anyone you know from the theatre?’

She smiled at the thought that someone who prided himself on his intellectual and emotional approach to detection had been forced to fall back on such a storybook line of enquiry. ‘Not that I can think of, but you were in court for a while as well. What do you think?’

‘I only saw him briefly. You had a chance to study his manner-isms, and I suppose I was hoping for some miraculous moment of revelation when you realised that he scratched his head in exactly the same way as Terry, say, or Fleming.’

Now they were both laughing at the absurdity of his question, and some of the earlier tension between them disappeared.

‘Definitely not Johnny,’ she said. ‘Vintner would never have entertained all that feminine grace. Fleming’s dark-haired, I’ll give you that, but it’s not much to go on.’

‘What about Esme McCracken?’

‘Who?’

Archie smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how furious she’d be if she knew you weren’t even aware of her existence. She speaks very highly of you. She’s the stage manager and about Vintner’s age.’

‘Oh yes, I know. The pinched woman who writes plays. Johnny says they’re actually quite good. I’m afraid I can’t recall precisely what she looks like, though, so I can’t help you there.’

‘What about family? Do you remember any relatives from the trial? Was there anyone there to support him?’

‘No, only his lawyer.’ She thought for a moment. ‘He did have a family, though. I remember now – he played the big sympathy card about having to bring up his son on his own. That’s why he started 237

writing, apparently – he needed to stay at home and earn money.

But there was no indication of how he lost his wife.’

‘And the son wasn’t in court?’

‘No. I don’t think he was even mentioned by name. I certainly don’t remember it if he was.’

‘Any idea what he does or where he might be?’

‘No. There were obituaries after the suicide, of course, but nothing very significant. Vintner’s reputation soon dwindled when each book turned out to be a bigger flop than the last. By the time he died, the general feeling was that the most exciting plot development he’d come up with in years was to shoot himself. Still, the papers might tell you something about his family life.’

‘Yes, they might. It’s a good place to start, at least.’

‘Do you know how he found out about the affair?’ Josephine asked.

‘He read a letter that was meant for Arthur. I remember letters from home getting mixed up all the time – it was a miracle they got there at all. They arrived in one big pile, and there was such a stampede to get to them. You can just imagine it, can’t you?

Vintner automatically reaches for something in his wife’s handwriting and then notices it’s not for him; he’s hardly likely to put it back on the pile and say nothing. It was a stupid thing to do, really

– to send something so damning with no guarantee of its getting to the right person.’ There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs.