Authors: Christianna Brand

Death in High Heels (30 page)

BOOK: Death in High Heels

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“But she was so
surprised
. She actually fainted when she heard that Irene had been found dying. Was that just pretending?”

“Oh, no, you couldn’t get round Smithers with a fake faint. I got him to repeat, this evening, what he actually said to her; he told her first that Irene had taken an overdose, and then that she had been found while there was still time to save her. That was why Gregory fainted: at the knowledge that Irene wouldn’t die—that she would be alive to deny that she had written the ‘confession.’ Gregory didn’t know, of course, that you had been, in the room before her to leave your beautiful finger-prints on the glass; if the key was on the table then, I don’t suppose she noticed it … she had a lot to think about and it ust wouldn’t have made any impression on her. Why did you tell me, Toria, that there were no papers on the table beside the glass? It put me off horribly.”

“I thought that if I said there were it would show that I knew Irene had taken too much,” said Victoria, apologetically, “and then I should have had to explain why I left her to die—I couldn’t do that for her sake, and also, of course, for my own. If I’d had time to think I’d just have said that I didn’t notice any papers: in fact, if I’d thought it out properly and not been so miserable and worried about leaving her and so on, I could have made up a much better story altogether. When Mr. Smithers came to see me I thought at least that Rene was dead; it was terrible when I realized that she was alive and I should never be able to explain why I’d gone away and left her. I was frightened then!”

“I’ll tell you another time you were frightened, poor little thing,” said Charlesworth tenderly, “when I told you Smithers had got on to the idea that it might have been intended to murder Gregory, not Doon.”

Victoria shuddered. “I saw then that it was between Irene and myself, and as long as he suspected me of trying to kill Irene, it had to be me! The only way out would have been to tell you all that I knew or thought about Rene—and, of course, in the end that’s what I would have done. I explained that to the Dazzler, after you came to see me; we both knew that I should be safe in the end … all the same, I had some nasty moments.”

Charlesworth took a corner rather badly. “So did I!” he said.

“But, Mr. Charlesworth, what first gave you the idea that it was Gregory? What about the flashes of insight and the little grey cells? Tell me how the mind of the great detective worked. You told me it was something Gregory said that put you on the right track. What did she say?”

They were approaching Victoria’s door. Charlesworth passed it and drove slowly round the block as he explained. “She said she thought Irene had decided to make an end of her life.”

Toria shrugged her shoulders: “Well, how could that help you? You know we all thought that.”

“Thought what?” said Charlesworth.

“Thought that Irene’d decided to put an end to her life.”

Charlesworth was pleased. “Ah, there you are! When I ask you, you say that Irene had decided to
put an end to her life;
but when I asked Gregory she said she thought that Irene might have intended to
make an end of her life
. Have you ever heard the actual wording of the forged confession?”

“No, I don’t think any of us have. You wouldn’t tell us; and Mr. Smithers—well, Mr. Smithers wouldn’t tell anybody anything,” said Victoria, viciously.

“Well, don’t waste your spume on Inspector Smithers. Smithers is a very sick and sorry young man at this time, Toria, eating large quantities of humble pie …”

“I hope it chokes him,” said Victoria.

Charlesworth laughed. “Well, I think we may safely say it does. Anyway, the point is that when Gregory used that phrase I recognized it as the one used in the confession—the confession that nobody outside Scotland Yard had seen. I was sitting there innocently talking to her with nothing but beautiful thoughts of her in my mind; but when she used those words my tummy turned right over in my inside. It was a little thing—not even a wildly unusual phrase—but it seemed odd that she should have used exactly those words, and I thought the whole thing out, all over again, with Gregory in the name part, and I began to see how it would fit. Ye gods!” said Charlesworth, going quite weak at the memory of his brainwave, “I’ve never been so relieved in all my life. I thought of those little gloves of Irene’s and I looked at Gregory’s big, bony hands, and then I think I was certain. I stalled her off with fair answers, and as soon as I could get away I rang up Smithers and we got on to all the chemists in the neighbourhood. And there we were.”

“And here we are,” said Victoria, as again they approached her front door.

Charlesworth stopped the car. “I suppose this is good-bye.”

“I suppose it is, though I hope you’ll come and see us sometimes, Mr. Charlesworth. You’ve been most terribly kind and the Dazzler and I are both very grateful for all you’ve done for me. All the same, I’m thankful it’s over. It’s been so cruel and hateful and sordid—I’ve never come up against such black and terrifying things before. It’s different for you; you’re used to this kind of thing, I suppose, and it’s just another murder … our worries and fears and troubles, Gregory’s feelings now, this minute—I suppose they’re all part of just another murder case?”

“Well, that’s true in a way,” admitted Charlesworth. “Most cases are ‘just another case,’ really. The corpse is just a corpse and the murderer is just a murderer and you’re out to get him if you possibly can. But …” he hesitated and then went on with a little rush … “let me say this, Victoria, and then I’ll never mention it again, I swear. This case hasn’t been just another case to me. Every night I’ve gone to bed and thought, ‘To-morrow I shall see Victoria.’ Every morning I’ve woken up and thought, ‘To-day I shall see Victoria.’ I’ve made excuses to come up to the shop just to talk to you, and when I’ve got there my knees have given way under me and I haven’t had a word to say. I do love you, Victoria, with all my heart and soul.” He leant his forehead against the steering-wheel and looked down at the toes of his shoes. “All my life I’ve been falling in and out of love and it hasn’t meant a thing; but this time it’s serious and now, when I get it really and deeply and truly—it has to be you! Happily married and in love with your husband and utterly out of my reach—it has to be you!”

There was a small silence. Toria put her hand on his arm and gave it a little shake. “Mr. Charlesworth, dear,” she said, “I think it’s high time I said good-night and went in.”

At Scotland Yard Mr. Charlesworth’s chief pressed several buzzers and returned again to his morning’s reports. As each buzzer was answered he handed over a file with hardly a word; but to Charlesworth he murmured: “A murder in a racing yacht!” and regarded him with an indulgent eye.

“A racing yacht; that sounds rich and glamorous, sir.”

“Beware of the lovely women!” said the great man, smiling still.

“Women!” cried Charlesworth, gloomily. “Preserve me from any more women. Honestly, sir, I don’t care if I never set eyes on another girl for the rest of my life.”

The superintendent looked anxious. “Now, now, Charlesworth, you’re not still breaking your heart over that little Mrs. David in the Doon case? I know you took it badly at the time; but she was a married woman, and, after all, my dear boy …”

“Mrs. David!” said Charlesworth in accents of the liveliest astonishment. “Good lord, sir, this isn’t Mrs. David that I’m talking about. Victoria was the sweetest thing, absolutely the dearest thing, and I’m the greatest possible friends with them both to this day; but, no, this isn’t Victoria David … if all girls were like her…. Oh, well,” said Charlesworth, with a heavy sigh. “I beg your pardon, sir. The racing yacht?”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media

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New York, NY 10014

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