Murder in a Good Cause (6 page)

“Harriet, my dear, why are you cowering—that is the right word, is it not?—here in the corner?” She opened an eye and saw her hostess looming over her. “You look splendid this evening. I don't know how, with your dark skin, you can wear gray and not look dead or jaundiced.” Clara glowed with health and expansive energy.

Harriet rose politely to her feet. “Frau von Hohenkammer, you were magnificent. I cried over your Lady Macbeth. She was so real, so beautiful, that she was almost painful to watch.”

This elicited a gratified smile. “You must call me Clara, you know. And you are quite right. I have always done Shakespeare well, I thought. Such a pity he wasn't German. Or I wasn't English, perhaps.” She winked at her. “You mustn't be shocked at my egotism. I can't help it when I have given a good performance and carried everyone along with me. Even just a small audience like this one. I am drunk with success tonight.” Then she grasped Harriet by the arm. “Now come and see these pictures; you promised me you would, you know. I have a splendid album of them in the library. Bring your drink.” She was propelled at high speed through the door into a small room, softly lit and pleasant looking, just behind the living room. In one corner, at a small round table, there was a pile of old-fashioned photo albums, one of which the actress picked up and spread open. Harriet walked behind the table, pulling a small chair with her, and opened up the next book.

“These are all of you, aren't they?” she said. “May I look at them?”

The actress waved an imperious hand. “Only after you have seen Michael and Mariana; then you may look at them. That's just a collection of old publicity shots. Rather a mess. The children wanted to see them, or so their mother led me to believe.” Her sardonic expression made Harriet wonder if her devotion to her family was as blind as she permitted people to assume.

“What is this?” asked Harriet, pointing to a black-and-white of a young and very slender Clara dressed in a black leotard and tights, crouching by a gray plaster rock, staring upward. “It's beautiful. Superb tones.”

“The fool,” she said, a dreamy look on her face. “
Lear
, you know. I played the fool once, at a drama festival in Chichester, when I was young and thin enough to be taken for a boy. The director wanted a girlish voice with an accent—to make the fool seem more vulnerable, he said. It was a lovely part. That picture was taken by—” Her face softened for a second; then she turned abruptly back to the first album, pushing it in front of Harriet.

“It doesn't matter. But now that I have you to myself,” she said, “I—”

There was a knock at the door, and a sour voice murmured, “Frau von Hohenkammer . . .”

Clara frowned. “Anyway, I shall leave you here, because pictures of children are self-explanatory, and the others are not really improved by being discussed. Don't go away. I have questions to ask you about my nephew Klaus.”

Harriet was left alone to plough through the two albums. The children's pictures were like children's pictures anywhere and everywhere. She refused categorically and without exception to photograph children herself and found no solace in looking at other people's work. The subjects themselves were neither surprisingly homely nor surpassingly beautiful. Nice children, no doubt, and a credit to their parents, but as photography, basically dull. She made quick work of that one. The other album stopped her completely. There were publicity shots, extravagantly posed and not quite human. Among them was interspersed a wildly varied collection of pieces, some of them done by people whose names made her pause in awe: of Clara working, face twisted with agony, or clowning for the camera or smiling archly. She was clad in everything from elaborate historical costume to the most casual of rehearsal garb. Hers was a face and body that the camera loved. Harriet smiled. What a hell of a manipulator that woman was, leaving all this temptation lying out on the table. And if I ever had any inclination to do some studies of people, she began, looking at a shot of Clara standing in trousers and a sweater, alone on a stage, desolate in the harsh light of the spot, she'd certainly be— But her thought remained unborn.

Outside the room a pair of female voices, spitting angrily at each other in subdued tones, approached the library. At first, all Harriet could hear was meaningless babble, but as they came nearer, the babble formed itself into words—snarled words in rapid and almost incomprehensible German. Curious, she strained to catch the drift, and her ear began to adjust itself to the dialect. One voice, slower and more defined in speech, was easier to understand, and that voice suddenly said, deliberately and clearly, “You two won't succeed in this. I'm going to make sure of it.” One pair of footsteps clicked angrily away down the uncarpeted hall; another swept a couple of steps into the room where Harriet still sat in front of the photo albums. It was the dark young woman who was obviously Clara's daughter. Her cheeks were scarlet and her lips tight, but as soon as she saw Harriet, an automatic smile of welcome flashed across her face. “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn't realize there was anyone in here. I am Veronika von Hohenkammer,” and she approached, hand outstretched, graciousness intact.

“I was just looking at some pictures of your mother and her grandchildren,” Harriet said, taking the proffered hand and feeling, irrationally, that she had an obligation to explain why she was hiding around the corner, listening to a quarrel in the hall.

“Aha,” Nikki replied brightly, “you have fallen victim to Mamma's pride in her grandchildren. On behalf of the family, I apologize. They are really quite awful kids, you know, spoiled and horrid, but Mamma can see no flaws in them. She'll be devastated if you don't tell her that they are the most beautiful children you ever saw.”

“Don't worry,” said Harriet, “I will. I'm Harriet Jeffries, by the way. The person responsible for that,” she added by way of justifying her presence, pointing to a sixteen-by-twenty black-and-white print of the staircase hanging on the wall.

“Ah,” said Veronika. “The photographer. My cousin Klaus is very interested in meeting you. Did you enjoy the reading?” she asked.

“I was overwhelmed by the Shakespeare,” she said. “The German passages went by me, I'm afraid. I don't understand the language as well as your mother thinks I do,” she added, not quite truthfully. The taut expression on Nikki's face relaxed suddenly, and the social temperature in the room rose by several degrees.

“Yes, Mamma's pretty extraordinary, isn't she?” her daughter remarked as she dropped into a comfortable chair.

“I'm impressed with your English,” said Harriet. “I wish my German were half as good.”

“Oh, well, Papa insisted that we both go to English schools and learn the language properly. I didn't care for it at the time,” she said, “but, as usual, he was right. And now I'm grateful that he did.” Suddenly, the door across the hall from the study opened, and a man in evening dress with two bottles of wine tucked neatly under his arms walked in.

He nodded in the direction of the two women. “Hello, Frank,” said Veronika casually. “Keeping the party oiled?” She leaned forward to peer at the partially obscured labels. “I hope that stuff isn't too good. The drinkers are at the point where they couldn't tell the difference. But there's no point in bringing it in here. Miss Jeffries and I are not that desperate for booze. Take it to the bartender.” Harriet noticed his cheeks whiten as the girl continued to speak. “Have you met Frank Whitelaw, Miss Jeffries? He's my mother's man of business, as they used to say.” Now the contempt in her voice was impossible to miss.

“Miss Jeffries and I met when she was photographing the house,” said Whitelaw stiffly. Trying to lump me in with the servant class, thought Harriet with amusement. For company.

“How nice,” said Nikki, and leapt to her feet. “But, Miss Jeffries, Klaus is dying to meet you, and here I am, keeping you to myself. Now, don't move. I'll be back with him in a second.” She left the room without a glance at Frank Whitelaw.

“I'm afraid I should go as well,” said Whitelaw. “To deliver the wine to the bartender.” There was considerable irritation in his voice under the amiable half smile. Harriet wondered if he had been planning on opening one of those excellent bottles and drinking it peacefully by himself in the quiet of the study.

Veronika was true to her word. Before the atmosphere Whitelaw had brought with him had dissipated, she was back in the study, pulling a handsome young man after her. “Miss Jeffries,” he said with flattering emphasis, clasping her hand in both of his. “I am overwhelmed. You must let me tell you how impressed I was by your show at city hall. Particularly that set of industrial buildings. What format were you working in?”

As he chattered on, it became clear that he had seen the show, probably more than once, and had examined her work with great care. He now looked just as intensely at her with large, soft brown eyes. Careful, Harriet, she said to herself as he talked on. Softly, softly. He is about to con you into giving him hours of free help and advice. You don't need that right now. In spite of herself, his infectious enthusiasm was chipping away at her automatic defenses, and she began to expound on some of her pet topics. As they drifted from 35mm to the merits of large-format photography—“Good or not,” said Harriet cheerfully, “it impresses the hell out of clients”—to processing, she found herself being swept remorselessly down to his basement darkroom.

“I'm impressed,” she said as she looked around the two rooms that Klaus had set aside for his work. “For an impromptu darkroom, it's well set up. You need a decent enlarger, though. That toy isn't going to get you anywhere. I got a new Beseler a while back, and I still have my first one tucked away in a corner. Come and see me. Bring a car.” She pulled a small evening bag out from the pocket she had unceremoniously stuffed it into and extracted her wallet. After a certain amount of effort she pulled out her business card. “Call me first,” she added. “I tend to be out a lot.” She looked around her again. “What happens when the family charges in to use the washroom, though?”

He grinned and shook his head. “They don't. Not a chance. I don't think Aunt Clara's ever been down here. She doesn't concern herself with basements. And Bettl—have you seen Bettl?” Harriet nodded. “I think Bettl has problems getting down those stairs. She doesn't try very often. Anyway, the only other thing down here of any interest to anyone is the wine cellar,” he said, leading the way out of the full bathroom where he washed prints and film. “Oh, and the freezer and some storage, I think.”

As they moved toward the stairs, the basement door opened again. “Ah, Klaus,” said a voice from the top. “Are you getting the wine? We have some complaints that— Oh, good evening,” the man said to Harriet as she climbed the stairs with Klaus just behind her. “Down seeing our boy Klaus's etchings? I admire your taste, Klaus old man.” The man stood where he was, half filling the doorway, expecting Harriet to press by him.

“Move, Milan, you son of a bitch,” said Leitner, leaning forward and giving him a not-so-friendly push out into the hall. Milanovich staggered to regain his balance and then stayed where he was for a moment, glaring resentfully at the young man.

More time must have passed than Harriet had realized, because the crowd had thinned out to about fifteen hardy souls by the time she got back into the living room. She felt the first faint stirrings of hope that she might be able to slip away soon. She stifled a huge yawn and looked around for her hostess.

The party had broken up into three groups by now. Nikki and a lively-looking blond girl collected Klaus Leitner when he came back into the room. The wispy brown-haired one, now definitely identified from the baby pictures as the mother of the grandchildren, was leaning apathetically against the fireplace, talking to a group of three or four people. Clara was holding court in the front of the room, in apparently tireless conversation with a pleasant-looking middle-aged couple. Frank Whitelaw sat on the arm of the couch, leaning over her in a proprietary way. Harriet approached the group hesitantly, reluctant to break up the relaxed fag ends of the party but desperate to get away.

“Frau von—Clara—this has been delightful, but—”

“No, my dear. Do not say it. Here, you must sit down by me and chat for a few minutes before you go.” She drew her down on the small couch beside her. “These are my neighbours, Bill and Lilian MacGregor”—she waved in the direction of the couple—“Harriet Jeffries, and perhaps you have already met my friend and business manager, Frank Whitelaw.”

Once more they murmured acknowledgments of prior acquaintance. Bill MacGregor finished off the glass in his hand and looked around. “Miss Jeffries,” he said in mock horror, “you have nothing to drink. Nor do you, dear lady,” he said with a flourish in the direction of his hostess. “Let me suggest Scotch and water, just this once. Very settling and soporific at this time of night.”

Harriet nodded, helpless, but thinking that the last thing she needed now was something to put her to sleep. Clara von Hohenkammer, however, shook her head gently. “I really never touch alcohol, except a tiny bit of wine on ceremonial occasions.” She turned to Harriet confidentially. “I follow a very strict regime, you know, of exercise and diet. Otherwise, I would not be able to work as much as I do. It gives one great energy. And I am never ill. You must let me tell you about it someday.” She looked around her. “Bettl should have brought me my tea by now, in fact. Bill, while you're fetching Harriet her drink, do you think you could see if my tea is there? Or if Bettl is in the kitchen?”

“Would you like me to go and get it for you?” asked Whitelaw, slowly beginning to move as he spoke.

“It hardly needs two people to do it,” she said tartly, and turned back to Harriet. “It really isn't a tea, actually, it's my tisane; you must let me get you the recipe.” Harriet, who had once tried the mixture in question, smiled as bravely as she could. Her head was now pounding with exhaustion, and the sounds of conversation were hitting her ears, muffled, distorted, and unbearably loud. Just as she pulled herself together to leave again, a Scotch glided into her hand, propelled by the smiling Mr. MacGregor.