Murder of a Snob (11 page)

He replaced the canvases in the cardboard dress box, turned it so that the uncut string was outermost, and slid it back under the bed.

He went back to the studio, had to wait a couple of minutes, during which he composed himself, before Fenchurch came in, with a breadboard acting as a tray for two cups of coffee.

“Thanks awf'ly!” Benscombe accepted the cup out of policy. “I found nothing I was looking for in that room. I suppose she has some friends, or a family or something?”

“She must have,” agreed Fenchurch impartially. “She used to tell some obvious lies about the social standing of her people. I never listened. She picked me up one evening at Clapham Junction, where I had no defence. Her past did not interest me, as she had no future. D'you mind keeping still for a minute?”

Fenchurch, forgetting his coffee, was making line-notes in a sketch book.

“There's no sense in your painting my portrait—” Benscombe began.

“Portrait be damned!” He was sketching rapidly. “You can't suppose, my dear fellow, that I am touting you for a commission. It is I who should offer a fee. I can get into the Royal Academy on your head. Under a fancy title. ‘Streamline.' The modern policeman. Science, poise, breeding! Don't be offended with me. If a doctor were to tell you that your liver was marvellously interesting, you would not quarrel with him.”

“Go ahead—I'm not quarrelsome on duty,” said Benscombe. “As you've spoken pretty freely about Glenda, you won't mind telling us what her relations were with Watlington?”

“There weren't any relations. I don't believe he wanted her. And I'm certain she wasn't trying for him … Can you look a tiny bit to your left? Thanks … One acquires an ability to read women's intentions by what they think they're doing with their dress. Few have the sense to employ an artist to advise on how to dress for seduction. If it's any help to you, I'm sure Glenda didn't murder Watlington. She was too lacking in temperament.”

Benscombe, forgetting that he had been overawed by the skill revealed in the pictures of Claudia, now discovered in himself a sneaking respect for this man who was so adept at slithering off the point. To nail him down it would be necessary to take a risk. He waited until there came a pause in the sketching.

“Last night,” said Benscombe, “we found a cheque to her, signed by Watlington, for five hundred pounds.”

“God damn the dirty little crook!” The sketch book went flying. A half second later, Fenchurch looked ashamed at having made a fool of himself.

“Crook?” echoed Benscombe.

“No—no, of course not! Mercenary, not crook! Evidently I was wrong in what I said about her relations with Watlington.”

“I'm taking a bet you were
not
wrong,” said Benscombe. “And another bet that you wouldn't care tuppence if she had sold herself to Watlington, or anyone else. Yet you jumped out of your pyjamas when I mentioned that cheque. What did she sell him for that five hundred?”

Fenchurch stood up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown as if he were hiding them.

“How the hell do I know!”

“Weak!” scoffed Benscombe. “If you'd known nothing, you wouldn't have damned her so energetically.”

“My reaction, surely, was obvious! If she did succeed in nobbling Watlington, I felt she ought to have split the cash with me.”

“Thanks, Mr. Fenchurch,” grinned Benscombe, rising. “I'll be getting along.”

“Possibly—” began Fenchurch “—with your more regular way of life and unsmirched ideals—you're revolted?”

“Not revolted—a bit sore because you think I'm so green that I don't know a gigolo when I see one.”

“Science, poise, breeding!” muttered Fenchurch. “God, I must paint that picture!”

“Good luck, then! You've helped us a lot.”

“By trying to mislead you?”

“By just that! You would rather brand yourself a so-and-so than tell us what Glenda sold Watlington. That narrows the field down splendidly. Cheerio!”

The Chief Constable was waiting for Benscombe on the steps of the Town Hall.

“Sorry, sir! I've been chasing Fenchurch's girl and tumbled on something else. She's bolted, by the way.”

“Let's have the ‘appreciation' first,” said Crisp, as they got into his car.

“Appreciation!” echoed Benscombe. “Fenchurch didn't know Glenda was doing a deal with Watlington. Glenda sold Watlington something belonging to Fenchurch. Probably letters proving that Fenchurch and Claudia Lofting knew each other pretty well. On one of the many pictures of Claudia—some with an Italian-looking background—Fenchurch had written ‘Casa Flavia'.”

“Watlington's blotting pad! Good!” said Crisp. “Now the details!”

Benscombe reported everything, except the nude study of Claudia.

“Does it add up, sir?”

“You've earned your pat on the back.” Crisp was pondering as he spoke. “It's a loop-line, of course. If you can find out when and why Watlington noted Casa Flavia, you'll come back to the main line. You see what the main line is, don't you, boy?”

“To discover who had the greatest interest in Watlington's death.”

“Not a bit of it! The main line is the clock. That's what we keep barking our shins on. There's a catch somewhere in all these clock-times, and so far we haven't spotted it.”

He negotiated a corner and continued:

“Look how we've had our noses rubbed in the time! That chiming stable clock works out as a sort of ballet master. Mrs. Cornboise, Claudia, Ralph, Querk! Each of 'em hears it strike before or after doing or seeing something, so that we can fit everything into place. The wrong place! It strikes five o'clock and the curtain rises, with Claudia going into the library. We hang on to that clock until it strikes five-thirty—when we find we've by-passed the murder.”

About to turn into the drive, Crisp was held by a Rolls coming out.

“That's probably the specialist she sent for to look at Cornboise,” said Crisp. “Sanson phoned me about it. Maybe she's playing for insanity—prevent him giving evidence.”

The front door was open, as usual. In the hall, they heard Querk's voice coming from the first, floor landing.

“I would never have suggested it, my dear Miss Lofting, if I had the slightest fear that I would excite him. On the contrary, I feel confident—absolutely confident—that I can help the poor fellow to clarify his thoughts. Sir William has told us how important that is. I'm so glad he was able to come to our help—I admit I had to put it to him as a special favour.”

“Very well, Mr. Querk. I don't want to be difficult, especially as you've been so kind about Sir William. But I do think Ralph ought to rest this morning. Say four o' clock this afternoon. I'll take tea to his room for the three of us.”

Crisp passed to the gunroom, Sanson's office. After hearing a routine report, which included the stalling of Pressmen, he asked:

“What about that registered parcel? Nothing eh? Stir up the servants. Send a man with them to search every room again—except Cornboise's. Lock all unoccupied rooms, label the keys and bring 'em to me.”

“Very good, sir.” Sanson added: “There's a message that Miss Lofting would be grateful for an interview at your convenience.”

“As soon as she likes—in the other room.” Benscombe followed him into the morning-room, opened the dossier and log book.

“I want the blotting pad—not the typed notes,” said Crisp.

Benscombe stood over him as he studied it. When the figures were grouped, they were in neat columns. But the columns were set at various angles, due to Watlington's habit of twiddling the blotting pad.
‘Girl bosses Ralph'
was at right angles to the most recent column of figures. At right angles again, appeared (1)
Tarranio:
(2)
Fabroli: Casa Flavia
. This was in one line, except for the last word, which had been partly written then struck out and rewritten in full underneath the cancellation. Below ‘Flavia' was a date in May of the previous year.

“Now, let's see how far we can time this stuff. Check what I say. Querk says all the figures were made before lunch. After lunch there's
‘Girl bosses Ralph.'
That marries up with what she told us about her smoothing Ralph after the alleged insult to herself.

“Now this Italian stuff! Watlington had turned the pad again. I think he took this note at dictation, because it's written much more carefully than anything else, and he didn't know how much space it would take. He wrote ‘Fla' of ‘Flavia,' then saw he was going to crash into the ‘ph' of Ralph. So he struck out the ‘Fla' and re-wrote the word in full underneath.
Therefore
—therefore what, boy?”

“Therefore the Italian note was made after the note about Ralph.”

“Right!” approved Crisp. “Hold that! Check it if you can. Maybe the girl will help.”

In a few minutes, Claudia appeared. In the same morning frock, but without the apron, she threw the suggestion of a social adequacy which was not only a protection to herself but a challenge to others. Herself a normal woman in abnormal circumstances, she demanded to be taken at her own valuation. Crisp found himself addressing her as a social acquaintance.

“Good morning, Miss Lofting. I hope the doctor was encouraging?”

“He has told us how we stand,” she answered. “I called Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist.” She smiled. “Mr. Querk lent me his enormous fee for coming out here. Turvey said that it wouldn't affect the hallucination whether we moved Ralph from here or not. So that washes out my request.”

“Then Turvey confirmed that it was hallucination and not—well, a plumb lie?” asked Crisp.

“We told him—that is, Mr. Querk and I—that Ralph had confessed, and that you had rejected the confession because you had evidence that it was not true.” She gave Crisp a chance to protest and continued: “When Turvey had finished with Ralph, he explained to us that hallucination is only a symptom. It's not a thing you can have by itself. Like any other symptom, he said, it remains until the cause is removed.”

“Hm! But as the cause happens to be the murder of his uncle—”

“The cause,” interrupted Claudia, “is his fear that I murdered his uncle. Turvey said it would be idle to look for any other cause until that has been eliminated to the patient's satisfaction. That is where I hope you will be willing to help us, Colonel.”

Crisp permitted himself to show irritation. “You would like me to hurry up and find the murderer for you?”

Claudia was better at that kind of thing than Crisp.

“I expressed myself clumsily—and I have been punished.”

Benscombe came near to feeling sorry for his Chief.

“I meant—it might take you some time to complete your investigation,” continued Claudia. “I hoped you would be willing to tell me if you have proved that I did not kill Lord Watlington. And to give me the proof.”

Crisp's glance held something of admiration, though it was as uncompromising as her own.

“I will gladly give you that proof,” he answered, “as soon as I have it.”

“Oh!” For a moment she looked grave; then, in a quick little laugh, her defensiveness vanished. “How stupid of me! I thought I had been struck off the list. I suppose the weak spot is whether I dashed into the library, after Querk left it. There would have been just time.”

“So you've been discussing the case with Querk?”

“Yes. After you had gone last night. He raised that point, and this morning I tackled Bessie. She remembered hearing the bath taps running. But I couldn't get her to admit she had heard the water running out—which, as it was at about twenty to six, would have carried me over the hurdle. It's one of those awfully noisy bath wastes, too. But Bessie simply would not rise.”

“The next time you attempt to suborn a witness,” said Crisp, with stage severity, “don't tell the Chief Constable all about it. Can you pin down any of your movements after turning on the water? I have no personal doubt that you behaved as described. But, theoretically, you might have run the water as a blind, then slipped downstairs, hiding somewhere, and waiting your chance.”

“Yes, of course!” agreed Claudia. “The wretched Bessie is useless—she was probably asleep. I didn't hurry in the bathroom, and when I was back in my own room I pottered a little, and then lay down. There's nothing we can catch hold of.”

“Nothing through yourself. We may be able to cover the period through other evidence. Things dovetail conveniently sometimes—that's why we ask so many questions. Now, I have here Watlington's blotting pad. On it there is a puzzling note. ‘Casa Flavia.' Can you throw any light?”

Benscombe found himself hoping she would not lie—with the evidence of those pictures against her.

“N-no!”

Benscombe sighed. As Crisp was about to ask another question, Claudia added:

“It's a small market town on the Bay of Naples. I've stayed there and know it very well. But it didn't crop up in the conversation after lunch.”

Crisp glanced again at the blotting pad.

“‘Tarranio'. Does that mean anything to you?”

“It means to me a wine merchant in Casa Flavia.”

“And ‘Fabroli'?”

She repeated the name, groped in memory. “Why, yes! He is also a wine merchant in Casa Flavia.”

“Can you give us a helpful guess why all that should be noted on the blotting pad, followed by a date—May 2nd last year?”

“I was there from April to June last year.” Her eye roamed the room, resting for a moment on Benscombe. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “I see what must have happened. Only, you've obviously got the wrong time.”

“Time again!” Crisp's remark was for Benscombe.