Take My Life (8 page)

Oh, it was there now, there in splashed headlines as he'd expected.

But not quite the headlines he'd expected. There was an unexpected complication.

Hurriedly his eyes skipped through the account, puzzled, only half believing. It seemed like a trap. Carefully he went through it again, studying every word, his blood throbbing in his head. It wasn't until he finished it for a third time that he felt fully assured that this might really for him be the easy way out.

That night
Rigoletto
went off in very good style.

The next night came
Traviata
, with Philippa in the leading role, and the Opera House was besieged. The high praise of her singing on the Monday, together with two days of intense publicity over her husband's detention at Bow Street, had fired the town's curiosity. Suave men in evening dress hurried sweating about the Opera House, afraid of a riot.

Twenty minutes late and in this curious air of notoriety, the curtain went up, and Philippa played and sang the story of La Dame aux Camélias, with no kind husband to support her, but only her own courage and her iron determination not to let the company down. The evening was another personal triumph; but when it was all over she had only the strength to tell Marie to keep everyone out of her dressing-room, and it was midnight before she recovered the stamina to go home.

Even then there were a half-dozen reporters and a curious crowd at the stage door. Flashlights hissed and flared and men tried to get in her way. ‘Miss Shelley, may we have a short statement,' and ‘Miss Shelley, what is your opinion of …' and ‘Can you help us, Miss Shelley, your plans …' Then the taxi door was slammed by the doorkeeper, and she was alone and safe again.

But safe only until the morning; for in the morning, soon after ten o'clock, Nicolas James Talbot was to be brought up in Bow Street Police Court. Although she knew nothing of the law and Mr Frobisher was trying to keep her in ignorance of it, she felt that their refusal to allow Nick bail and this quick move to bring him into court were very bad signs indeed.

And so it proved. In the small, sour, unimpressive courtroom the evidence for the police was mustered. In spite of herself she had to admit that this evidence, though all circumstantial, seemed to fit together and was full of substance. She knew that the police would never have moved if they hadn't been fairly sure of their ground. Now and then she looked at Nick and at Frobisher and at the ‘
Dieu et mon droit
' behind the magistrate's head; but for the most part she kept her eyes down to avoid the stares of the crowded court, whose curiosity seemed equally divided between her and the man in the dock. It went on and on, and then to her surprise the magistrate suddenly remanded Nick in custody until tomorrow when the hearing would be resumed.

As the court emptied, John and Joan Newcombe came across to her, and John, a middle-aged stockbroker with a matter-of-fact manner said:

‘Come along, my dear. We're going to look after you today.'

‘Oh, no,' she said. ‘ Please don't bother, either of you. I don't want to give you any trouble, and I'll be all right. Really I will.'

‘We'll go and have a meal somewhere,' Joan said. ‘I know you can't eat a thing,' she added, meeting Philippa's objection before she made it, ‘but it will do you good just the same.'

Without the will to resist further, Philippa left the court with them, and then was glad of their car as a means of avoiding the curious crowd outside.

With warm food steaming before her, she realized she had had no breakfast that morning and very little of anything the day before. Slowly she began to eat.

Joan said: ‘ You must spend tonight with us. I couldn't think of your going back to that solitary flat. Then John will drive you up again in the morning.'

‘You're very kind,' said Philippa. She suddenly found her eyes full of tears and blinked them away.

‘Well, he's my brother,' said Joan. ‘Why shouldn't we be?'

Philippa said: ‘‘Well, you see … you hardly know me, and I thought perhaps the way this had happened … It was my fault, wasn't it? Throwing that thing … and …'

‘Nonsense,' said Joan. ‘I feel it's the sort of awful thing that might have happened to anyone.'

John sat reflective for a moment. ‘Are you thinking of that time at Cannes?' he asked her.

‘Well, I wasnt thinking specially of ourselves.
Mightn't
it have happened to almost anyone? But now you mention it …'

John said: ‘Two years after we were married, Philippa, we went to Cannes for a holiday, one of those rather vulgar holidays when one goes everywhere and does everything; and one night we were invited to a private dance by a man we had met there. During the evening Joan flirted outrageously with a little dago from South America or somewhere –'

‘A pure-bred Spaniard,' Joan said.

‘– and we had words, and I said if she felt like that I was going to leave her to it, and I said good night and went out to the car, and Joan came after me, feeling furious and humiliated, as she's told me since. Then in the car we had more words, and somehow before we realized it I'd slapped her face, and she'd scratched me with her nails: two long scratches from my left eyebrow; I fancy I can see the marks today.'

‘Fortunately it's only fancy,' Joan said, ‘but I never felt so awful in my life as when I saw what I'd done. It wasn't quite intentional even at the time – and yet …'

‘I know,' said Philippa.

‘That was fourteen years ago. But you'll see that even stockbrokers have their moments.'

‘And stockbrokers' wives,' said Joan.

They talked on, about ordinary mundane things, and for a time the enormity of the present dilemma came to stand among the other events of life and not seem disproportionate. In the end Philippa agreed gratefully to spend the night with them in Surrey. It was a great relief to her to have some sane and friendly companionship after the strain of the last three days, but she stipulated that her visit should be for one night only, for somehow she could not be comfortable so far from the centre of things at this time. And there was a rehearsal late tomorrow afternoon.

Despite the quiet and the comfort she slept badly, thinking of Nick, and was glad enough when it was time to leave. They drove up to Town, and it seemed in no time at all they were back in the stuffy, crowded police court and Nick was in the dock again looking neat and composed, and the evidence against him was slowly piling up. The morning wore on, and presently Mr Frobisher got up to make one of his brief – his all too brief – statements. Then, with a growing sensation of sick horror, she heard the magistrate's voice committing Nicolas James Talbot to stand his trial at the Old Bailey on a charge of the wilful murder of Elizabeth Rusman.

The hearing was finished, and for a moment she could not move. People were filing past her; the Newcombes had risen and were coming towards her; Mr Frobisher turned and asked her something; through a haze she saw Inspector Archer moving bulkily and neatly off.

She got up quickly and pushed past somebody and reached him as he was about to leave.

‘
Could
I have a word with you, Inspector?'

‘Certainly, Mrs Talbot.'

‘Alone, I mean.'

Archer exchanged a glance and a few words with his companion and led the way across the yard from the court to the police station, and then up the linoleum-covered stairs to a small office furnished like a provincial bank manager's with two or three group photographs on the walls.

‘Inspector Archer,' she said, getting the words out before they failed her, ‘I beg of you, how long is this farce going on?'

He fingered the documents he carried, and for a moment his eyes went over the first few words. ‘
Rex
v.
Talbot, Nicolas James. Offence: Offences Against the Person Act, 1861. Murder. Copy. Depositions of Proceedings Before Court of Summary Jurisdictions
.

He said: ‘ I'm afraid we don't look on it in that light.'

‘What we've heard this morning,' she said. ‘The same evidence … what does it amount to?'

‘Circumstantially, a very strong case, I'm afraid.'

‘So you don't believe what I have said about our quarrel?'

Archer shifted uncomfortably. These personal interviews were always trying; they would become intolerable on this level.

‘It's not for me to believe or disbelieve, Mrs Talbot. I'm a servant of the Crown, and really this case is out of my hands now. I collect the evidence, but other people decide whether that evidence is strong enough for the case to proceed to trial. Personally, and for your sake, I'm very sorry … But it's only fair to remind you that you and your husband told conflicting stories to begin with. And even if there was this quarrel –'

‘Even!'

‘– you must realize that the case for the Crown would not therefore fall through. On your own admission as to times, there was ample time for your husband to walk round to Elizabeth Rusman's flat
afterwards
and commit the murder. Your alibi is really no alibi at all, as the evidence given today amply shows.'

She was silent then, staring out at the cloudy spring sky. His eyes went over her. She was wearing a little black hat today with a half veil which, by cloaking the upper half of her face, made her warm sensitive mouth more attractive than ever. Not like a singer somehow, he thought. Too slender; they usually ran to fat. Great breasts on them. Or was that an outdated idea? The papers had made a fuss about her. Evidently she was going to be one of the big noises. They were making a fuss about this case too. He could see the headlines today:
‘ Ex-Guards Officer Committed for Trial'. ‘Husband of Opera Star for Old Bailey'
. Flogging all the conventional horses to keep the public's interest sharp. Oh, well, he supposed the publicity would do her no harm. At least she must be given the credit for seeming to hate it. Hadn't given a single interview so far. She was very much in love with this chap, one could see that. She would lie her eyes away to save him.

Philippa said: ‘The Crown has quite made up its mind it has caught the murderer?'

He blew some air out of his cheeks. ‘ The Crown thinks it has a good case. Twelve ordinary citizens will decide whether it's good enough.'

She turned from the window. ‘Can you try just for a minute to see it as I see it. I
know
you're mistaken. I
know
Nick couldn't have done it. Then don't you see how I must feel, knowing that there must be a real murderer and knowing that he's having all this time to put himself farther and farther out of your reach?'

‘Let me reassure you that intensive inquiries are still going on.'

‘How much do you know about Elizabeth Rusman?' she asked. ‘Surely more than was told in court?'

‘Well, strictly speaking, Mrs Talbot, I don't know that I'm in order giving you these details; but in the circumstances … We know that she was thirty-one and born in London. Her father, a Dutchman, was a naturalized British citizen and represented a Dutch steamship company. He was in Rotterdam at the time of the 1940 German raid, and was killed there. Her mother was English and died young. Elizabeth was an only child and early broke away and earned her living playing in small orchestras. In 1942 she went to America in charge of some Dutch children. She stayed with the family until last year, and seems to have come back to this country a month or two ago, though she must have travelled under an assumed name, since there is no record of it. Her first traceable appearance in this country was four weeks ago, when she called on her old agents, Messrs Till and Barrett, and asked them to find her employment.' Archer laid down his notes.

‘When did she leave this family in America?' Philippa asked.

‘About nine months ago, we're told.'

‘So that she may actually have been back in England nearly nine months?'

Archer shook his head. ‘Nine months ago it was almost impossible for a private citizen to travel. Even today she must have been fairly ingenious to get a passage.'

‘But she may have made all sorts of contacts while she was in America. She may have been with half a dozen men since Nick.'

‘Indeed she may,' Archer conceded. ‘The medical evidence shows that at some time she has had a child. But her character with the Dutch family in America was quite exemplary.'

‘Why did she leave them?' Philippa asked.

‘Their children were growing up and they no longer needed her.'

Philippa turned from the window. She knew that this big tidy man was waiting for her to go.

‘I suppose you've – circulated a photograph and done everything possible?'

‘Up to now we haven't been able to lay our hands on one. A description, of course.'

‘Well, she shouldn't be hard to describe. I only saw her once …'

Archer said: ‘Unfortunately the fire, you know. She wasn't …'

Philippa made a grimace. ‘That may make it more difficult.'

‘A little, perhaps.'

‘Well, thank you. Inspector. You've been very patient with me.'

From the station Philippa went straight across to the Opera House. The Newcombes had gone, and although there were a number of people about she was lucky enough to slip across without being recognized. She went straight through to Ravogli's office, knowing he would be there at this time of the morning.

Aware of the opposition she would face, she plunged straight into her decision, and for three minutes Giuseppi Ravogli sat unspeaking behind his big desk watching her with his soulful but astute brown eyes. Then, like a time-bomb which has reached the end of its fuse, he blew up into passionate Italian. For five minutes they argued in a mixture of languages, Ravogli gradually coming round to speaking English, as she refused to be moved either from that or from her decision.