The Twilight Hour (9 page)

eight

IT WASN'T ENOUGH FOR GERRY BLACKSTONE
just to spread rumours based on what he'd gleaned from the police. He actually managed to get down to the Mavor family's country house in Suffolk on his motorbike, in spite of the blizzards. When he returned from what was by his account a journey comparable to Scott's to the South Pole, the whole of Fitzrovia once more hung on his every word.

Mavor's mother, the family matriarch, was a terrifying woman, he said. ‘Old as the hills, but got a girl who couldn't be more than ten. Imagine a woman of that age having had sexual intercourse as recently as 1937! And the house!' he went on. ‘Victorian gothic, absolutely ghastly, worse than Balmoral.' At this point in the soon-familiar story he would pause for effect and light a Woodbine. ‘They don't want any of Mavor's Fitzrovia friends at the funeral, I can tell you that much. I managed to convince them I was from the
Daily Telegraph
, or I don't think I'd have got past the door. They blame us, you know – all our fault – we drove him to drink.
And one of us murdered him
.'

The funeral was delayed by the blizzards, and few of the Charlotte Street hangers on would have made it in any weather. It would have been quite beyond their planning capabilities or stamina to cross the freezing wastes of Essex and Suffolk to get to a funeral – even if the thought of free drinks at the end might have been an incentive.

But Hugh was determined to get there. ‘Someone has to represent us.' But it was his curiosity that drove him rather than any sense of camaraderie or group loyalty. ‘And you never know, I might pick up some useful information.'

A couple of days after he got back he came round to tell us about it. The funeral had been a macabre affair: the family formed a small procession in black, like beetles scratching along the snow. ‘It was a bit like that scene in
Ivan the Terrible
. There was a kind of Utility service in the unheated church (nineteenth century, most undistinguished) with no music or flowers, apart from “Abide with Me” at the end, accompanied by a wheezing harmonium. Don't you
hate
“Abide with Me” – it is so abysmally maudlin.' He paused for dramatic effect. ‘And you know who was there – the policeman: Bannister.'

Afterwards, he said, the dozen or so mourners all stood shiftily round the graveside in the little churchyard, staring down into the gaping black wound in the snow, not knowing quite what to do after the vicar had retreated and the gravedigger tried hopelessly to pile the frozen earth onto the coffin. ‘But then,' said Hugh, ‘just as we were about to wander away among the gravestones, with that sense of anti-climax and incompletion one always gets at the end of a funeral, you know – and I can tell you, they
didn't
invite me back to the house – guess who turned up! His floozie! That girl … Fiona! God knows how she got there. Anyway, she created an appalling scene. You should have seen the consternation on their faces, they clearly thought she was a tart, they backed away as if she was contagious, while she was screaming and sobbing hysterically, and shouting abuse at the assembled throng. Embarrassing enough that Titus was murdered, without the added
faux pas
of a hysterical mistress. Bloody good thing I was there,' said Hugh. ‘I led her away – took her to the local pub. All they had was ginger wine. We got drunk on that. Which was damn difficult, I can tell you. Good move though,' he went on. ‘The publican was a garrulous old chap – place was deserted, probably hadn't seen a customer for weeks, they were completely cut off, he told me, until a snow plough got through weekend before last. Anyway – I've no idea how he knew, but apparently the family's kicking up no end about the bungled investigation. And he insisted Titus had a
child
. Did you know that – she's down there, living with them, they're bringing her up it appears. Some ex-mistress or other … that upset Fiona. And the other thing he told me was the family had some fantasy that Titus was fleeced – by all of us, I suppose. Something about his paintings; it all got rather garbled at that point, or perhaps the ginger wine was taking its toll. Fearfully sickly. A bit rich, don't you think? They can't stand him or his art while he's alive and won't give him a penny, although they're incredibly rich, and then before he's cold in his grave they're fighting over the spoils.'

‘I'm not sure how much his stuff is worth these days,' said Alan. ‘English Surrealism was never that big, and it's all gone rather out of fashion. I know Valentine is trying to revive it, but …'

‘I left Fiona at Liverpool Street. She said she'd be all right, but … I felt a bit rotten, but I was so tired and it was so late … look – why don't you go and see her, Dinah. She's in a terrible state.'

‘We probably should talk to her anyway,' said Alan, ‘she may be a suspect.'

‘I'm sure she is,' said Hugh, and now he seemed deadly serious. ‘That policeman came round to Lavender Hill the next day, you know. He'd noticed me go off with her after the upset. He was quite unpleasant, actually.'

‘Why didn't you tell us sooner?'

‘Oh …' and Hugh shook back his flop of hair, ‘it was nothing, nothing really. I mean, I've got nothing to hide.' At all costs he had to preserve his sangfroid. ‘But he was awfully interested in Fiona.'

.........

We didn't know Fiona's surname or where she lived, but it wasn't hard to find her. Our first port of call was the Wheatsheaf, naturally. Gully the barman said she didn't drink there any more, not since she'd broken up with Mavor. He thought she might be found at the Caves de France. ‘Poor old Titus,' he said. ‘Terrible! It really knocked me for six. I mean, he was a bad lot, wasn't he, but talk about hitting a man when he's down … owed me money, too. I'll never see that now.'

The Caves de France was a dingy tunnel of a basement. Fiona was sitting by herself in a line with other solitaries drowning their sorrows in weak tea. She seemed not to recognise us at first. At least, she knew she'd seen us somewhere, but didn't recall the occasion. When it dawned who we were, she seemed pathetically pleased.

‘Let's go somewhere more cheerful,' suggested Alan.

The difficulty was: where. Reluctantly we followed him out of the fug of the basement into the frozen air of the street. I'd learned something this winter: you
never
get used to the cold. If you lived all your life in Siberia, there'd still be that shrinking into the shell each time you were exposed, that chill of its slow, relentless penetration of your whole body, its fingers sliding beneath your clothing, nipping, pinching, piercing your very soul as it slowed you down and brought you to a standstill of frozen endurance. Just grit your teeth and survive.

We stumbled along uncertainly in the re-imposed blackout until Alan said: ‘I know – we'll go to the Strand Palace. That should cheer us up.'

In fact, it did, although we looked rather out of place in the flashy mirrored grandeur of the lounge, and dishevelled by comparison with the nouveaux riches types who made up the clientele. I was quite thankful we weren't asked to leave, but Alan's commanding manner managed to neutralise his black fedora hat, my moth-eaten musquash and Fiona's threadbare coat.

Beer didn't seem quite the right drink in this glass palace, so it was spirits all round, and owing to the awkwardness of the situation – we hadn't actually known Titus well, I certainly didn't; and Fiona didn't know us – the three of us got rather drunk.

Fiona was definitely one of those young women my parents had warned me against. (If you're not careful, Dinah, you'll end up one of those bohemian women who hang around the arty crowd. Semi-professional, they'd added darkly, in some dingy bedsitter in Chelsea. Or worse.) Yet she seemed vulnerable and a bit stupid rather than evil or sinister.

It was just as well we sought her out, because Bannister had got there first. She was rattled and fearful as she told us about his visit.

When she heard about Titus she'd been so shattered she'd left town for a few days, she said. ‘We hadn't separated, not really. We had a row, that's all. I couldn't tell you what it was about,' she said, close to tears again. ‘It was just – you know – a
row
. He drank so much and he never had any lolly. We might have got back together again,' she added, and at that began to sob uncontrollably. ‘I don't know what I'll do now,' she choked.

‘For God's sake, control yourself.' And Alan looked round uneasily, hoping the waiter hadn't noticed. I put my arm round her. It felt awkward and stiff and didn't seem to help, but after a while she calmed down, sniffed and wiped her eyes.

Alan must have realised he'd been brusque, for now he was gentle as he asked her about the night Mavor had died. ‘It was a Friday,' he prompted her, ‘it was the night after that snowstorm.'

But how would she remember that! We'd had more blizzards than Siberia! She shook her head drearily. Her hair drooped over her face. She began to irritate me. She was attractive in an obvious sort of way, and could have made something of herself if she hadn't been so spineless. I wished she would stop snivelling. It was late and I was tired and I'd had too much to drink.

And I was worried. Mavor's family were cutting up rough and the police had stepped up their investigation. They were taking it very seriously now. It was turning into a major newspaper story.

Worst of all, nagging away in my mind was always the fear they were going to find out I'd been round to Mecklenburgh Square that night, that fatal night.
I
could be a suspect. At the very least, I'd concealed the truth. I'd failed to report a dead body.

To make matters worse I had, without meaning to, exposed Fiona by mentioning her to Inspector Bannister. He'd acted fast. He must be seriously interested in her. He was seriously interested in all of us.

I sat in the showy glitter of the hotel lounge and wondered how soon I'd be caught. I didn't really believe, deep down, that they'd think I'd murdered Titus, but there were other crimes: accessory after the fact, concealing evidence, well – just lying to the police was bad enough.

‘But who could have … done it?' whimpered Fiona, and in a low voice: ‘That policeman asked me about everyone I knew; all his friends – the Barcelona crowd, but I told him Titus had quarrelled with all of them – and your lot; the detective was interested in your friend and the row in that restaurant, you remember?'

‘Colin?'

‘That's right. The political one. Titus couldn't stand him.'

Alan's face darkened. ‘Who told him about the row? Did you tell him?'

She shook her head. ‘He knew already. He brought it up.'

We hadn't any more money for more expensive drinks at the Strand Palace, so we braved the cold again, and parted company with Fiona at Leicester Square. At least we knew where she lived now, and I still felt so worried and guilty about her that a couple of days later I called on her in Charlotte Street. I'd left work early – three in the afternoon – but Fiona was still in bed. She got up, frowsty and groggy in a soiled satin dressing gown, but seemed quite pleased to see me.

Her bedsitter was dismal. The curtains were grubby. There was a gas ring by the fireplace, and a little sink in a corner behind a screen, over which various garments were flung. The unmade bed took up a good deal of the room.

She apologised as she pulled up the blankets and eiderdown. I sat squashily on the mauve artificial silk counterpane. She offered me cocoa, but there wasn't any milk. Anyway, I'd brought some cheap wine I'd picked up on the way, so we opened that instead.

The room wasn't too warm. She put a thick cardigan on over her robe and I huddled into my fur. I was wondering how to launch my interrogation, when there was a knock on Fiona's door, and before she even had time to say ‘Come in,' Inspector Bannister stood in the doorway. He looked very alert when he saw me.

‘I hope this isn't an inconvenient time, miss,' he said to Fiona in a not very respectful way. ‘Would it be better,' he said, casting a dubious look round her chaotic room, ‘if you got dressed and we had a talk down at the station?'

Fiona pushed back her tumbled hair and shook her head. With more presence of mind than me, she said: ‘I'm not under arrest, am I.' It was a statement, not a question. She cleared a heap of clothes off the only chair in the room. ‘Excuse me a moment.' She disappeared behind the screen.

‘So you know Miss Johnson quite well, do you?' Bannister gave me a straight look, as though I'd been deceiving him before.

‘No; but with all that's happened, she's upset, we've tried to help,' I said righteously. I felt righteous too, although the real reason for my visit was to help us, not her. ‘Would you like some wine?'

He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Not the sort of friend I'd have thought a young lady like yourself would have,' he said prissily.