The Twilight Hour (10 page)

I ignored this rude remark. Fiona was only behind the screen and must have heard it. When she emerged she was wearing slacks with the cardigan and had combed her hair and put on a bit of lipstick. She bent over the gas ring to boil the kettle.

‘Please don't bother, miss,' fussed Bannister, but she insisted on making him a cup of tea. I wished we'd stuck to tea too, for the wine was making me feel somewhat befuddled.

Fiona handed him the cup and saucer. ‘There isn't any milk.'

When Bannister looked crafty he reminded me more than ever of Neville Heath. ‘Perhaps, Mrs Wentworth might like to get some milk while we have a chat.'

The cheek of the man! I wasn't running errands for him. Fiona wasn't having it either. ‘If this is just an informal chat, I'd rather she stayed. I've nothing to hide, but I know the tricks you lot get up to.'

‘I hope you're not suggesting I'd falsify a statement,' he said with his Cheshire-cat smile. He began to ask questions about Titus, especially the evening Titus died. It was obviously to see if Fiona had an alibi. She said she'd spent the evening with a friend. The more he pestered her to be more specific, the more uneasy she became.

Perhaps, I thought, she hadn't been with anyone at all. Perhaps she'd just sat in this dreary bedsit and cried – and got drunk, and smoked and possibly taken drugs. Perhaps she'd sniffed ether or chloroform, which I hadn't even realised you could use as a drug until all this had happened. Perhaps she'd set out for Mecklenburgh Square with the bottle – even in this weather it wasn't that far – found her ex-lover in a drunken stupor and simply finished him off; except that it appeared that he hadn't been in a drunken stupor. And anyway, it would have had to be in the afternoon, because he was already cold when I'd … but I had to forget about that. Although the room was chilly, I was sweating now.

‘I was seeing a friend,' she finally admitted sulkily. ‘I can't tell you their name.'

‘Was that a gentleman friend?' said Bannister, nastily. Fiona nodded reluctantly.

I was shocked. So she was a tart, after all, or at least a kind of good-time girl. I'd been too naïve to believe that at first, or rather, I couldn't believe that
I
could ever come into contact with a prostitute. Then I was shocked at this thought too; what a miserable little middle-class prig I was, after all, beneath my veneer of sophistication. Colin was quite right when he criticised me for my ‘bourgeois consciousness'.

‘You mean you don't know his name, or you don't want to tell me his name because it'll damage your business?' persisted Bannister.

Fiona began to look a bit scared, but she said defiantly: ‘I don't know what you mean by business. I hope you're not suggesting anything.'

The detective looked at her speculatively. ‘Suggesting what? I've spoken to the people downstairs. Men in and out. You'd better think carefully,' he said. She flushed up. He let the humiliation sink in.

‘What else d'you want me to say? I've nothing more
to
say. So if you wouldn't mind, I'd like you to leave now.'

‘Certainly.' He turned to me. ‘I'm glad to have seen you, Mrs Wentworth. There were one or two more points I wanted to take up with you and your husband. Perhaps a convenient time – tomorrow evening?'

‘I don't know if my husband'll be in.'

He smiled. ‘I might just look in on the off chance. I'll see myself out.' And he was gone.

Fiona became tearful again. ‘I suppose you think I'm a tart too,' she sniffed. ‘But it's only … when I was with Titus I was ever so pure, I never went with anyone except him. And now – what's he been saying to Giorgio? Stirring up trouble …' She pressed her lips together, trying not to cry.

‘Giorgio?'

‘My landlord – he owns the restaurant downstairs.'

We're in this together, I thought. I hadn't liked her to begin with, but she'd dealt with Bannister pretty well, all things considered: better than I had.

‘I
couldn't
have murdered him, I
was
with a friend, I was here,' she said miserably. ‘You believe me, don't you?'

‘Of course I do,' I murmured. ‘But what I believe doesn't matter. It's what the police believe that matters. Isn't there someone else in the house who could back up your story?'

‘Yes … maybe Giorgio, possibly, but he's never liked me much, and now that policeman … but thanks, it's an idea anyway. Oh God, I hope they don't give me notice. What'll I do then?' And now she began to cry in earnest.

I felt both chilly and sweaty in the stale room. I looked at my watch. Stan might still be in the office. I somehow wanted to talk to him. I wanted to get away. But I had to stay to try and cheer her up. ‘I expect it'll be all right,' I said feebly. ‘Here, have some more wine.'

She wiped her eyes and swigged wine from the bottle. ‘Was he really murdered? Do you really believe that?' She looked at me.

‘I suppose so. It must be true, it's a murder inquiry.' Why did we all find it so hard to believe? But deep down I still didn't believe it, remembering his sprawled, peaceful body – like that painting of Chatterton the poet, only in black and white in the livid light from the moon.

When Fiona was calmer, I left with a promise to come and see her again soon, and hurried back to the office. Stanley was still there, doing deals on the phone. ‘I didn't expect you back, Di. How did the visit to Mavor's shiksa work out?'

‘I didn't have time to ask her much. The detective came while I was there. She's upset. We had some wine. I've got a headache.'

He shook his head. ‘All this drinking, Di …' Then as the penny dropped: ‘The
police
?' His fingers crept to his lips and he began to gnaw. A bad habit – it made him look furtive. ‘That's awkward. But they're bound to go round asking everyone questions, aren't they?'

‘The inspector wants to talk to us again – me and Alan. Someone saw me leave the house in Mecklenburgh Square.'

‘I got you in trouble, Di. That's bad, that's really bad.'

‘It's not
that
bad. They don't know it was me. It was dark. I had a scarf round my head.'

‘Just in case, though, we need an explanation. What were you doing there? What time was it? You'll have to say he was still alive – or you thought he was still alive – asleep, you didn't like to disturb him. But why were you
there
in the first place?'

‘A message from you,' I said stupidly.

‘I told you before, my name can't be brought into this. Don't get me wrong. If I'd known this was going to happen I'd never have asked you to go round.'

‘I'm sure you wouldn't, Stan.'

‘But that's why I did it; I didn't want to seem to be involved.'

‘Could I say it was something to do with Radu – the film – something like that?'

‘No, no, that won't do, girl. It'll have to be your hubby or one of his chums.' He paused, watching me, and I made a decision.

‘Stan – tell me the truth. He wasn't blackmailing you, was he?'

His gaze didn't waver, yet there was a blankness in his eyes. ‘Blackmail? What gives you that idea? If he was a blackmailer, why was he so hard up?'

‘Maybe he wasn't very good at it. Something Colin said about the sort of person he was made me think …'

‘Your friend Colin should be careful what he says.'

I'd said the wrong thing. The conversation stalled. After a while Stanley said: ‘You'll stick to your story, won't you. Say nothing about the Friday evening. Remember: it didn't happen. You were never there.'

nine

YOU WERE NEVER THERE
.

Inspector Bannister came to see us again the next day. Of course I should have taken Stan's advice, but by the time I realised, it was too late. I'd made the fatal mistake.

Why had Bannister come back so soon? It scared me. He asked us again about finding the body on the Saturday morning, which was all right – to be expected. He then started asking all sorts of questions about our friends and acquaintances. Finding me
chez
Fiona had obviously convinced him I knew her better than I was letting on. He asked all sorts of questions about her to which I didn't know the answers, but the more I insisted I didn't really know her the more I sounded as if I was just stonewalling.

He said suddenly: ‘The woman seen near the house in Mecklenburgh Square that evening – it wouldn't have been you, would it, Mrs Wentworth?'

My heart pounded. I felt it must be visible, jumping like a fish, and I was a fish out of water, gasping for air with my mouth open. How had he
guessed
? ‘I–'

Alan swiftly stepped in. ‘What are you implying? Why should it have been my wife? You don't know who it was.'

‘I'm not implying anything.' The inspector looked at me attentively. ‘No need to rush to her defence like that is there, though, Mrs Wentworth, especially since you say you hardly know her.'

I could feel I'd blushed scarlet. I looked away.

‘It's just that she was consorting with the late Mr Mavor and then it seems he ended the relationship.'

That wasn't what she'd told me. ‘How d'you know that?' I asked rather too sharply.

He looked at me. ‘Do you know different then?'

His knowing look annoyed me. I felt quite angry. His case against Fiona was a house of cards. Yet why should I care? Fiona was nothing to me, just a miserable, silly girl leading a silly rackety life. Yet – I felt so guilty. I couldn't get an innocent person into trouble. It would be so dishonourable not to tell him the truth. I was no good at concealing the truth.

‘What's the matter, Mrs Wentworth?' The inspector was gazing at me sparrow-like, his head slightly on one side. He knew something was up.

I swallowed. ‘The thing is –' I saw Alan's horrified expression and stopped. He knew I was about to go too far, to advance from the honourable to the mad.

‘What is it, Mrs Wentworth? You've something more to tell me?'

‘The thing is – it
was
me. I was there that night. The Friday.'

The inspector stared. ‘You
were
there?' He hadn't expected this. His question had just been a shot in the dark. ‘Why didn't you tell me this before?'

Alan burst in: ‘The fact that my wife saw Mavor the previous evening is completely irrelevant to his death.'

‘Not necessarily. And what is or isn't relevant to a murder investigation is for me to judge.' After a moment's rather horrid silence, he continued. ‘What were you doing in Mecklenburgh Square, Mrs Wentworth?'

I swallowed. But at least I'd thought of a reason for the fatal visit. ‘I went round to see Titus Mavor after work, because I wanted to buy one of his paintings. I mean, I couldn't really afford to – well, I wasn't sure how much they cost, but … anyway, I wanted one as a present for Alan, for my husband. And I thought, perhaps my parents could lend me some money towards it.' I stopped. The memory of the moonlit room was choking me.

‘So –?' he prompted me.

I pulled myself together. ‘I – I went round. I knocked – there was no answer. But the door wasn't properly shut, it was jammed, and I went in and … found him. He was asleep,' I said firmly. That would make it all right – no reason to report to the police; it was just a friend, an acquaintance, rather, asleep. That was all. ‘I didn't like to wake him up,' I rushed on, astonished at my inventiveness. ‘So I just tiptoed away.'

Inspector Bannister looked sceptical. ‘What time was this?' he said.

I had to tell the truth about that, because I'd been seen.

‘So he was still alive at seven in the evening,' said the inspector.

Then
I saw the chasm I'd dug for myself. At that moment I'd have given anything to stuff the words back in my mouth, to swallow them, never to have said them. I'd blindly walked to the edge of a precipice:
because my lie inexorably pointed in the wrong direction
. He must have already been dead for
hours
when I'd found him. Now they believed the opposite. I'd hindered the police in the course of their investigation. I was frightened. I was out of my depth.

‘You're
sure
he was still alive?' The inspector was watching me closely.

I nodded frantically. Silence. Alan uncrossed and recrossed his legs. I reached for the Craven As, and offered the packet to the inspector. He shook his head but reached forward to light the cigarette I placed between my lips. I inhaled, exhaled. It steadied my nerves. Perhaps the story didn't sound so crazy after all. In fact, it was very plausible. The more I considered it, the truer it seemed.

‘You may have been the last person to see him alive,' said Bannister in a pleasant tone of voice. ‘Now – don't get me wrong – but the last person to admit to seeing a murder victim alive is always a very crucial witness, a very crucial
figure
shall we say.'

Alan sprang to his feet. ‘Now look here,' he thundered, ‘I won't have you making insinuations of that kind. How dare you suggest that my wife might have had anything to do with this.'

I was speechless.

‘I'm not insinuating anything,' said the detective, as pleasant as ever. ‘I just want you both to understand that this piece of information is more important than you seem to have realised. You will have to make another statement, but we'll leave that for the moment, shall we?'

I misunderstood, and thought that meant he was leaving; but he was far from finished with us yet. He wanted to know about all our friends: how long Radu had been in Britain, whether he was or had been a displaced person, what his film plans were and how they were to be funded. The nature of his connection with Titus Mavor came almost as an afterthought. Then the inspector was keen to know more about Alan's relationship with Titus before the war, whether Hugh had also known the artist at that time, what Mavor had done during the war and all about his relationships with women. Then there was Hugh.

Finally he came to Colin. Was it true that Colin had threatened Mavor?

Stiffly, Alan questioned the need for all this.

‘Just trying to build up a picture of the circles he moved in,' the policeman replied with his neat little smile.

It was difficult to object. Already in trouble, we didn't want to appear even more unhelpful, but the questions ranged so widely, even extending to Colin's politics: ‘Mr Harris writes a column for the
Daily Worker
I understand?'

‘I'm not sure he's doing that any more.' Alan was cagey about Colin in a way he hadn't been about the others.

‘But he didn't want Mr Mavor working on the film?'

I sneaked a glance at Alan. He looked very disconcerted. ‘Why do you say that?'

Bannister didn't reply.

Alan made an attempt to change the focus. ‘Have you spoken to any of the Surrealist group – the painters he used to know? They were at daggers drawn with Mavor.'

‘We have interviewed a number of artistic gentlemen, yes.'

Marius Smith and someone I didn't recognise had been with the art dealer Noel Valentine in the Café Royal on the night of the quarrel, I remembered. They'd witnessed the quarrel, so they might be the source of Bannister's information. But why should they wish to cast suspicion on Colin?

‘I'm making enquiries in a number of directions. But why do you mention them especially?' Bannister paused, his bright eyes alert with interest.

‘Mavor was unpopular, he became a drunkard, he alienated all his friends, he was a pain in the neck, he provoked. It's not them in particular – it's everyone.'

‘I see. So you didn't like him either.' Bannister let that sink in. Then: ‘And now, let's return to when you last saw Mr Mavor, Mrs Wentworth.'

Just when I'd thought he was about to leave! He made me go through the whole thing again. I had to concentrate very hard indeed to make sure I hadn't changed my story in any way.

At last he left us in peace. Well, not in peace; Alan was extremely agitated by the questions concerning Colin. ‘Bet it's that Surrealist group,' he said. ‘They've got it in for Colin – he was rude about them in the
Daily Worker
.' He paced up and down. ‘But there's so much loose talk, all those idlers and layabouts sitting around drinking, with nothing to do but gossip. Poisonous lot. I'm going to boycott the Wheatsheaf in future.'

I'd thought he might be angry with me for blurting out a new version of the truth that was actually just a different lie, but he was very sweet to me, protective. I sat on his knee with his arms round me and my arms round his neck. He stroked my hair. ‘You know what Gerry Blackstone said about the police having botched up the post mortem. He thought to begin with they might even hope to get away without doing one at all, which sounds pretty far-fetched, but apparently there's such a shortage of pathologists … So you see if it was delayed, if the death had been treated too casually to begin with, then they're uncertain about the time of death, or at least the parameters are very elastic. And anyway, it was so cold. I suppose that would delay decomposition.' If he thought that would cheer me up, he couldn't have been more wrong. It just made my lie more important. In trying to edge closer to the truth, I'd moved fatally further away from it.

.........

I told Stanley the following day. He glanced at me sideways from under his lashes – a disarming, little boy look. ‘Why did you do that?' He seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘You don't really know her.'

‘It seemed unfair, that's all. Why should she get into trouble? It was me the neighbour – or whoever it was – saw.'

He shrugged, and pretended to read a letter, but after a minute or two he started again. ‘You're a caution, Dinah, you know that? I can't make you out at all. I thought you were a nice ladylike young woman. Now I'm not so sure. More like one of those tomboy types in the movies. All scouts honour and stiff upper lips.'

‘What tomboy types?'

He spread his hands. ‘Well, you know …
The Thirty Nine Steps
…
Bulldog Drummond
– you know what I mean, Girl Friday types, getting into trouble.'

‘It was
you
got
me
into trouble, if you remember.' I couldn't resist adding: ‘That was a lot of money, that cheque.'

‘If I was paying him money, I wasn't going to bump him off, was I.'

That was an odd remark. ‘But no one suspects you, Stanley.'

‘Good. I'm glad to hear it.' Was he joking or not? I couldn't tell. He added: ‘I tell you one thing, Dinah, we alibi each other, don't we. If the stiff was cold when you found him, that means he'd been dead since the afternoon, and we were together in this office until you went round there.'

I thought about it. ‘That isn't quite true. You went out for a late lunch, remember?'

He looked at me oddly. ‘Why, so I did.'

‘Whatever's the matter with you, Stan? You're being so peculiar. Are you joking, or what, because if you are, it isn't funny.'

‘Feeling a bit rundown, that's all. And – well I'm worried about this film business. Wish I'd never got involved, if you want to know. The British film industry's going under, the government's not closing the dollar gap, the country's going bankrupt and the movies'll go down with it. J Arthur Rank'll be okay with all his cinemas, he'll just show Yankee films, but Radu and your friends –
nada
. Not a word to Gwenny or Enescu, mind, I'm in it now, the die's cast and all that, but – was I crazy, or something? You tell me.'

I was stunned. So he was financing the film after all. I was sure he hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. A moment later he said: ‘Mum's the word, eh? I don't want it getting around.'

Later Gwendolen rang, and it seemed to cheer him up. He put the handset down briskly and said: ‘I'm finished here for the day, Mrs Wentworth. What say you and I go to the movies?'

That seemed like a rather jolly idea. It was quite cosy in the cinema in the late afternoon, though the film we saw was perfectly dismal:
It Always Rains on Sunday
. Colin would have liked it: neo-realism, ordinary people, working-class lives. But what an understatement the title was! It didn't just rain on Sundays, it rained for the
whole of the film
! And Googie Withers, although she was in love with a robber on the run, settled for her dreary husband in the end, which wasn't very romantic.