Death in High Heels (26 page)

Supposing they hung Miss Rachel, and all through her, Mrs. ’Arris. But here was her dear Miss Victoria out on bail, and somebody had to do somethink about it. She wondered Miss Judy didn’t speak up; but Judy was a Yorkshireman and her word was her sacred bond.

Charlesworth asked her to sit down and she overflowed on to one of his small office chairs and folded her grubby old hands. “I don’t like to trouble you, sir, but you was that kind about the brooch and the bit er fish; I thought as ’ow if I ’ed somethink to tell I ought to come to you; well, I ’as got somethink to tell and ’ere I am.” She produced the black-edged handkerchief which she had taken to the funeral and which was still doing duty and, after a few preliminary sniffs, unburdened her soul.

“You actually heard Mrs. Gay admit to the murder,” said Charlesworth, flabbergasted, when she had done. “Can you be sure of that, Mrs. Harris? It’s a terribly serious thing, you know.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Mrs. ’Arris, sobbing afresh. “’Aven’t I laid awake all last night, worriting meself to a shred, trying to make up me mind what to do. But there it is, sir. ’Ere’s my pore Miss Toria out on bail and that’s decided me.”

“But, Mrs. Harris, the whole thing’s incredible. Would Mrs. Gay ever have said such a thing in front of you? Surely you must be mistaken?”

Mrs. ’Arris explained her innocent little habit. “‘Mrs. ’Arris,’ the young ladies says, very soft-like, to see if I’m listening, and if I don’t answer, they thinks I don’t ’ear and goes on with what they ’as to say. I don’t mean no ’arm, sir; it’s a bit lonely in the shop sometimes, ’aving the people all talking between theirselves, and keeping you out as you might say; of course, if I’d ’ad any idea what was to come out in the keb—but there,” amended Mrs. ’Arris, with a gleam of humour, “I suppose there’s no denying I’d ’ve listened twice as ’ard!”

“Now, tell me again, Mrs. Harris, just what Mrs. Gay said to Miss Judy … she said, ‘You know who killed Doon, don’t you?’ and Miss Judy said ‘Yes.’”

“That’s right. And then Miss Rachel she says, ‘’Ow do you know?’ and Miss Judy says, ‘I see you picking up the poison off the floor.’ And then Miss Rachel she threatens ’er not to tell, and then she says, ‘
I
’aven’t admitted anythink, ’ave I?’ and Miss Judy promises. It’s as true, sir, as true as I’m sitting ’ere.”

Mrs. ’Arris was most manifestly sitting there and, as manifestly, most earnestly telling the truth. Charlesworth could hardly believe his ears, but he remembered the pencilled note he had found among Doon’s papers and the fact that Rachel had been an actress and might be adept at hiding her real feelings. He dismissed the old woman with words of comfort, and put the whole story before Bedd.

Bedd was at first incredulous, then inclined to believe that they had the answer in their hands. “She had the opportunity to drop poison on the plate, sir, and she knew the plate was for Doon; no nonsense about meaning to murder Gregory. She was instrumental in bringing the stuff into the shop and she might easily have kept a bit back while she was cleaning the ’at; and now here’s this story about her picking some up off the floor.”

“That would be when they first brought it in, when Mrs. David spilt some on the showroom carpet?”

Bedd considered, flipping over the earlier pages of his notes. “Yes, I think it would, sir. Everybody seems certain that Mrs. ’Arris cleared up
all
the stuff that Macaroni spilt at the table where they were cleaning the ’at, and gave it
all
to Mr. Cecil.” He stopped suddenly as a sentence in his notebook caught his eye. “But this attempt at Mrs. Best’s life, sir; I don’t see ’ow Mrs. Gay could ’ve been concerned in that. Here it says: She left with Miss Judy and Miss Aileen after the party in Miss Gregory’s flat, and walked down the street with them.”

“Yes, but she parted from them at ‘her turning’; I wonder if she could have gone back? Is
that
who Victoria’s trying to protect? She’s very fond of Rachel Gay—it seems much more likely.”

“Collusion, sir?” suggested Bedd, with much temerity.

“About the keys, you mean? I suppose Toria might have given her key to Rachel; no, she must have gone into the room with her, because of the finger-prints, and that involves Toria all over again. What about Rachel and Gregory? But why? Could Rachel have threatened Gregory, as she threatened Judy? D’you think that’s possible? This Rachel’s a cool customer if the conversation in the cab is correctly reported.”

“I must say, sir, I don’t think collusion in the murder
is
very likely. Two girls don’t get together to murder another girl, do they? If they do it at all, they do it secretly, ’iding it almost from themselves, if you get my meaning, ’alf pretending even to themselves that they’re not doing it … of course that’s psychology,” said Bedd, proudly, “and it don’t ’old in a court of law; but there’s somethink in it, sir. As for Mrs. Gay threatening ’er—well, Miss Gregory’s a strong young woman with ’er ’ead screwed on all right, Mr. Charlesworth. She wouldn’t have no funny ideas about honour and promises and things, Miss Gregory wouldn’t. She’d pretend to agree and then she’d come straight to the police.”

“
She
couldn’t have given Mrs. Gay a key? I wonder if she did, quite innocently, and that’s why she passed out when she heard of the attempted murder. I think I’ll go and see Miss Gregory, Sergeant.”

Gregory had come home a little early from the shop. She was sitting darning a pair of stockings in her chintzy room, with a vase of roses, arranged without skill or imagination, by her side. Gregory was of the school who, never having missed a meal in their lives, are wont to declare that they would rather go without food than without flowers. She greeted Charlesworth with her joyless smile and begged him to have a glass of sherry.

“No, thanks, Miss Gregory, I don’t think I will. I don’t really like to drink on duty.”

“Well, let’s pretend this is pleasure!” said Gregory, archly.

It was not much pleasure for Charlesworth. Once again-he ploughed through the story of the previous evening, and the porter was summoned to assist in the matter of the keys to the guest-flat. There were no duplicates and no other means of access to the flat. The windows? Impossible, said the porter, and obviously thought Charlesworth a fool for asking. The main door to the flats would be open until midnight and anyone might have come in or gone out without being observed; but he believed that, after the young ladies left that evening, nobody had. “I made a few inquiries on my own, sir, ’aving a bit of a theory, you see …”

“Ah! and what was that?” said Charlesworth, politely.

“The same as you’re getting at—one of them young ladies came back; but it won’t wash,” said the porter, and sadly took his leave.

Charlesworth refused a second offer of sherry and embarked on a new tack. “Tell me, Miss Gregory, you’re all very fond of Irene Best, aren’t you? I was wondering how anyone can have brought themselves to try to murder her; they must have had a very strong reason. She seems to be such a kind, affectionate little person—can you think of a grudge anyone might have held against her, sufficiently bad to have led them to do such a thing? Leaving out all question of the first murder, of course.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Charlesworth, everybody’s devoted to her. I must say she isn’t a girl I could make a friend of—she has no, well, no person
al
ity, has she? But, as you say, she’s a kind-hearted little thing, and the girls in the showroom are all devoted to her. She was extremely good to Rachel over her divorce. I don’t know the ins and outs of it,” confessed Gregory, who would dearly have liked to find out, “but Irene has a brother who is apparently a bad hat, and he has made her life a misery, sponging on her and turning up at awkward times; she was very anxious that Rachel should not come to some sort of half-and-half arrangement with her husband and leave herself open to the same kind of thing; and she persuaded her to try and get a divorce, and took care of the child while it was actually going on, and I think even lent her some money…. She’s not exactly Rachel’s soul-mate and they get terribly on each other’s nerves, but Rachel has often said what a debt she owes to Irene and that she can never be grateful enough for all she did. Rachel is perhaps a little given to exaggeration, and she is always unnecessarily frank about her affairs.”

“What about the others? What about Judy and Aileen?”

“Oh, Aileen—I don’t think she has it in her to care for anyone; she’s a very common little girl, Mr. Charlesworth, as I expect you’ve discovered in spite of her airs and graces. Not that I mean to say that for that reason she isn’t fond of Irene; I think she is quite, and of course I always say that the lower classes probably feel just as much as we do, though perhaps not so
intensely
…”

“And Judy?”

“Well, Judy again was very much attached to Irene. She’s a bit irritated by some of her fussy ways, but some time ago, as you may have heard, there was a little trouble between Doon and Judy, when Judy’s fiancé fell in love with Doon. Irene actually took it upon herself to see this wretched boy and tell him that he was breaking Judy’s heart or some such nonsense; it was very unnecessary and did no good at all, but Judy thought it was kind. As for Victoria, she likes everybody and I think she is devoted to Irene. She hasn’t got very much
depth
—I don’t think many of these universally loved and loving people have; it’s mostly that they haven’t got the intelligence to see the faults in other people or to have any in themselves…. I mean, there’s nothing to
dislike
in Victoria …”

“I quite agree,” said Charlesworth, pointedly, and changed the subject. “Now, what do you think yourself about this business of Mrs. Best? You’re a very intelligent girl and you see more clearly than most, I should say. I wish you could give me your own opinion as to how she came to take this overdose.”

Gregory was flattered and delighted. To be considered intelligent and level-headed was second only to being considered attractive and marriageable. “I have a brain like a man’s,” she would say, spreading out hands also regrettably like a man’s. “I’m not taking any credit for it, I was just born like that; but I really do reason things out more than most women, I think, and Mr. Bevan says …” What Mr. Bevan said would keep Gregory happy for hours.

She gave her whole attention to answering Charlesworth’s question. Then she said, weightily: “Have you ever heard of an involuntary suicide, Mr. Charlesworth? Does such a thing ever happen? Because, do you know, I really think that that is what must have happened to little Irene. She went to bed worn out and miserable after a terrible day. She was dopey and confused by the draught which she had had upstairs, and she only knew enough to tip the rest of the powders into the glass by her bed and swallow them. Perhaps she came to a little bit with the cold water and, realizing what she’d done, she thought she might as well make capital out of it for the sake of her friends; she scrambled out of bed and scrawled on one of her cards that she had decided to make an end of her life, and she tucked the card under her pillow and went back to bed. Perhaps the confession was even true. It’s a terrible thing to say, but I’ve sometimes wondered whether—well, Mr. Charlesworth, I realize that Irene Best could not have intended to murder Doon, but it was
I
that was going to Deauville.…”

Charlesworth sat staring at her unseeingly, and as he stared his eyes grew bright with excitement. He stared and stared and stared and thought and thought and thought and when, ten minutes later, he left her and stumbled out into the evening, the whole thing was crystal clear in his mind.

Fourteen

1

“I
WANT
to go home,” said Irene, sitting up in bed.

“Now, Mrs. Best, you must lie down again and keep quiet and comfortable. We’ll send you home just as soon as you’re fit to go.”

“I want to go home,” repeated Irene, obstinately.

The nurse sent for the staff nurse and the staff nurse sent for the sister. Finally the sister sent for the house physician, and a young man in untidy grey flannels and a tweed coat came and stood by her bed.

“What’s all this, Mrs. Best? Sister tells me you want to leave and go home.”

“I’m going now,” said Irene, firmly. “I’ve just remembered something and I want to go at once. What’s the time?”

“It’s nearly seven o’clock. Why not just stay for the night, and to-morrow morning I’ll make arrangements for you to leave?”

“I want to go now.”

“Well, Mrs. Best, we can’t stop you; but we don’t think you’re fit to go and you’ll have to sign a statement that you go at your own risk and against our advice. Are you willing to do that?”

“I’ll sign anything,” said Irene, impatiently.

“And we shall have to notify the police.”

“Tell them anything, I don’t care. Only do let me go, I’m late already.”

She crept down the wide steps, a pathetic figure in the thin summer dress she had worn to Gregory’s flat the night before; with troubled eyes and a pale, pinched face under her big straw hat. Beneath one arm she clutched a bundle containing Gregory’s pyjamas and a few things Aileen had brought round to her from the shop; she scrambled on to a bus and jogged wearily home to her flat.

Once indoors she flung the bundle on to the bed and, running to her little desk, got out her diary and feverishly searched through the pages of addresses. When she had found what she wanted, she took a warm coat from her wardrobe and hurried off out of the flat again. The diary remained lying open on the mantelpiece.

Charlesworth saw it there when, arriving twenty minutes later, he finally obtained entrance by means of the hall-porter’s key. He glanced round the room, noted the bundle on the bed, and went quickly back to his car. At an address in South Kensington he knocked on. the door and a lugubrious maidservant answered his call. “Yor late,” she said.

“Has the séance begun?” asked Charlesworth, breathlessly.

“Yers, I think she’s gorn orf,” said the woman, casting an anxious glance at a closed door to her left. She said again, severely, “Yor late.”