Thus Was Adonis Murdered (18 page)

“My dear Benjamin,” said Ragwort, “how charming of you to join us.”

“My dear Desmond,” said Benjamin, “how sweet of you to invite me.”

Ragwort pulled an extra chair into the convivial radius of light created by the candle on our table, filled another glass with Nierstein and effected introductions between Benjamin and Cantrip.

“I gather,” said Benjamin, “that I am expected to make myself useful. Are you proposing to invest in antiques?”

“No,” said Ragwort, “not at the moment, Benjamin.”

“Silver?”

“Not just at present,” said Ragwort.

“My dear Desmond,” said Benjamin, “you really had better come to the point, or I shall begin to think that you love me for myself alone.”

“But of course we do, Benjamin,” said Ragwort. “Still, since you insist—do you happen to know a woman called Julia Larwood?”

“Woman who knocks things over?” Ragwort nodded. “Yes, of course I do. I would go so far as to say that we are twin souls. The last time I saw her was at a party in Balliol—we both got very drunk and sat on the stairs all evening, talking about you, Desmond. We began by talking about your virtues and went on to talk about your vices.”

“But Benjamin,” said Ragwort, “I have no vices.”

“It was,” said Benjamin, “our mutual regret in reaching that conclusion which established that we were twin souls.”

“Well, since you have so much in common, you will be sorry to hear that she is at present detained in Venice on suspicion of murder.”

“Dear me, how disagreeable for her. Has she, as a matter of interest, actually murdered anyone?”

“It appears,” said Ragwort, “to have been, as murders go, a perfectly tidy, competent murder.”

“Oh, in that case, certainly, Julia can’t have done it. Well, who is the victim?”

“Do you happen to have heard of a sculptor called Kenneth Dunfermline?”

“My dear Desmond, of course. He’s rather important. I have gone so far as to advise my readers that they might have a little flutter on him. But Dunfermline can’t have been murdered—people would have told one.”

“Not Dunfermline himself. The young man he was travelling with.”

“Oh dear,” said Benjamin. “Oh dear—not the lovely Ned?” This notion of twin souls seemed to have something in it. Ragwort nodded. “Oh dear, how sad, how very sad. Because he really was lovely, you know, one of the loveliest things anyone ever saw. Present company excepted, of course. But if anyone was going to murder him, I’m afraid one would rather have expected it to be Kenneth.”

“It seems,” said Selena, “that it couldn’t have been.”

“Still,” I said, “it would be interesting, Benjamin, to know why you think so.”

“Oh—Kenneth takes things so seriously. He’s a Scotsman, you know, from Ayrshire or somewhere like that. I think his father was a miner. There are certain hardships to which such a background does not, I suspect, inure one. In particular, to having one’s most tender feelings made the object of mockery and contempt by heartless young men with charming profiles. Now, when that happens to someone like, say, Julia or myself, who is well accustomed to it—”

“Do have some more wine, Benjamin,” said Ragwort.

“Yes, thank you, Desmond, how kind. As I was saying—Julia and I, being used to that sort of treatment, can take it philosophically. Not so, I fear, Kenneth Dunfermline. For Kenneth, the affair with Ned was the grand passion, the real thing, the first and last, the once and for always.”

“And Ned,” asked Selena, “did not reciprocate?”

“Well, I don’t quite say that, exactly. But at parties and so forth, when people started telling Ned how beautiful he was and wondering if he might be free for lunch sometime, he didn’t altogether give the impression of being unavailable due to prior commitments. On the contrary, he showed a tendency, on such occasions, to blossom like the rose and be fairly free with his telephone number. And Kenneth would stand there looking all sombre and Celtic, like the Grampians in a thunderstorm.”

“In short,” said Ragwort, “you would be inclined to describe young Ned as something of a flighty piece?”

“My dear Desmond, what a flair you have for the
mot juste.
‘Flighty’ is the very word. So if Kenneth had got peeved to the point of violence, one wouldn’t really have been too surprised. Still, I’m glad you say he didn’t do it—he’s an awfully good sculptor. And he hasn’t had much luck since he came South, poor boy, what with falling for Ned and getting mixed up with Eleanor Frostfield. Just a minute, I’ll get another bottle of Nierstein.”

In Selena’s cry of protest, as he rose and moved to the bar, there was more anguish than is commonly inspired by the sight of a guest contributing to the expenses of the evening; but Benjamin failed to perceive it. He became lost, to communication if not to view, among a little crowd of journalists from Great Turnstile and lawyers from Old Buildings.

“Now,” he said, returning at last to our table, “tell me about poor Ned and why people think Julia did it.”

“In a moment,” said Selena. “You tell us first what you mean about Kenneth being mixed up with Eleanor Frostfield. Do you mean they’re married to each other?”

“Good God, no,” said Benjamin. “What a horribly bizarre idea, Selena. No, I simply meant that he’s under contract to her. Frostfield’s, as you doubtless know, is a long-established firm of dealers in art and antiques. Since her late husband took refuge in mortality, Eleanor has been the majority shareholder and guiding spirit. Well, Frostfield’s gave Kenneth his first exhibition—not all to himself, but as one of a group of promising young artists just out of art school. Part of the contract for the exhibition was that Kenneth shouldn’t sell his work except through Frostfield’s for—well, I don’t know how long exactly, but it’s certainly got several years to run.”

“That, I suppose,” said Selena, “would be the usual arrangement, when a gallery exhibits the work of a particular artist.”

“An arrangement along those lines, yes, naturally. In the particular case, however, I understand that the percentage taken by Frostfield’s is unusually high. And that the contract extends over an unusually long period. Well, when people are just out of art school, they’ll sign anything to get an exhibition, or even a little bit of one. A few years later, when your work’s selling rather well and you find the gallery is still taking the lion’s share of the proceeds, it must get rather galling. Particularly, I imagine, if one is trying to retain a hold on the affections of someone like Ned.”

“Are you suggesting,” asked Ragwort, “that the unfortunate young man was of a mercenary disposition?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But fond of nice things, you know—silk shirts and good seats at the theatre and doing the shopping at Fortnum’s. These, you will agree, my dear Desmond, are not unreasonable expectations for a young man with a charming profile—but a trifle expensive.”

“This contract of Kenneth’s with Eleanor,” said Selena. “I should have thought that arguably it involved an abuse of superior bargaining power. I rather think, you know, that on a good day, with the right Court of Appeal, one might give oneself a fair chance of getting it set aside.”

“Oh, my dear Selena,” said Benjamin, “I don’t doubt if Faust had had the good sense to consult you about his contract with Mephistopheles you’d have thought of a way of getting him out of it. But it’s not the sort of thing Kenneth would have thought of—it’s only lawyers, you know, who think that contracts are things you can get out of. And Kenneth wouldn’t even know any lawyers.”

“Except Ned,” said Selena, looking dreamily at the dark ceiling.

The notion that Eleanor had done away with Ned to prevent him advising Kenneth on the possibility of breaking his contract seemed to me, if anything, rather more far-fetched than the theory that she had done so in order to secure a marginal tax advantage. Still, the discovery of any connection between her and the murdered man was a matter for some satisfaction.

“One doesn’t like,” said Benjamin, “to appear vulgarly inquisitive. But if everyone one knows has suddenly started murdering everyone else, it would be terribly nice to know about it.”

“My dear Benjamin,” said Ragwort, “of course. You shall have a full account.”

Regret for Ned, sympathy for Kenneth, solicitude for Julia—all these seemly and appropriate sentiments Benjamin expressed and no doubt entertained. But the mind, like the compass, swings back to its centre of attraction: in the whole of Ragwort’s narrative, what chiefly engaged his attention was a casual reference to the purpose for which Eleanor and the Major had been in Venice. Miss Tiverton’s collection of antiques and objects had been, since her death, the subject of much speculation; and yet Benjamin had had no idea that it was available to inspection. He was at a loss to know how they could have learnt of it; and wounded in his professional pride.

“The most likely explanation, surely,” said Selena, “is that Frostfield’s had been instructed to value the collection for the purposes of probate, or whatever they have in Italy.”

“No,” said Benjamin, “no, I don’t think so. If Frostfield’s were doing the valuation, Eleanor wouldn’t have been doing it herself. She’d have sent some downtrodden employee to sort things out first and make an inventory.”

“Well, perhaps Kenneth was doing the donkey-work. Or wouldn’t he know how to?”

“He couldn’t do a professional valuation, of course. He’d probably be a good person to go through the Collection and sort out what was important—he’s rather erudite artistically. If he’d been on very good terms with Eleanor, he might have done that for her as a favour and for the fun of the thing; but, for the reasons I have indicated, relations between them are thought to be strained. Besides, it still wouldn’t explain how Bob Linnaker knew about it. No one in their senses would ask Bob to value a collection—well, not unless they wanted it to be much smaller after the valuation than before. Oh dear, I suppose you’ll all tell me that’s slander or something.”

“Benjamin,” I said, “when you make these remarks reflecting on the probity of Major Linnaker, are we to take it that they have some basis in fact?”

“Hilary,” said Benjamin, large-eyed with reproach, “we are colleagues—fellow scholars—I hope I may say, friends. Do you think me the sort of man to say such things if they were not true? Or at least partly true? Or at least widely believed to be at least partly true?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “But which?”

“Ah,” said Benjamin, taking a deep draught of Nierstein. “Now that, I am bound to admit, is a little hard to say. Bob’s military career was spent for the most part in North Africa and the Middle East. Various places where the British used to have a military presence. When he first went into the antique business, the bulk of his stock consisted of things more or less looted by himself and his friends from those parts of the world. And oddly enough, quite a lot of what they’d picked up was very nice indeed. So the word got round that if you wanted something rather good for a reasonable price and weren’t too fussy about provenance, Bob was the man to go to. It’s a reputation he’s rather traded on ever since.”

“You are surely not suggesting,” said Ragwort, “that an antique dealer might actually wish to have a reputation for dealing in stolen goods?”

“Well, yes, Desmond dear—a certain kind of antique dealer. You see, what people like best—that is to say, what collectors like best—is to think they’re getting a bargain. Now, if you see something that looks nice going terribly cheap—let us say, since we speak of things Venetian, a piece of furniture made by Andrea Di Brustolon or a Cozzi teapot for £1,000 or so—then the obvious conclusion is that it’s a fake.”

“Cheap?” said Cantrip. “A thousand quid? For a teapot?”

“Oh, certainly—after all, a Cozzi coffeepot made £17,000 at Christies a few months ago. So the obvious conclusion, in such a case, is that the thing’s not genuine. But another possible explanation is that it’s been come by dishonestly—and that’s what the collector wants to believe, because that means it’s a bargain. So that’s the belief that Bob sets out to encourage. He doesn’t actually say, of course, that anything is stolen—just looks mysterious about where it came from and uses a lot of phrases like ‘nod’s as good as a wink’ and ‘no names, no pack drill.’”

“I see,” said Selena, “and if, after all, it turns out simply to be a fake, the purchaser can hardly bring proceedings under the Trade Descriptions Act on the ground that the goods were falsely represented to have been stolen.”

“Quite so. And I would guess that a good seventy per cent of what Bob sells is quite simply fake. On the other hand, I hardly think he could maintain his reputation in the trade unless some of it were genuinely stolen. Besides, the reputation is to some degree self-fulfilling—I mean, if I’d acquired something in dubious circumstances and wanted to dispose of it, I suppose I’d probably go to Bob.”

“Really,” said Selena, “this is all very encouraging. We have established a connection between Ned and Eleanor; and we have learnt that the Major is by no means respectable. Benjamin, you are a most admirable witness—where shall we take you for dinner?”

“Of course,” said Cantrip, “we already knew the Major was a jolly suspicious character. Because of him stealing the holdall.”

“As it happens,” I said, “what is suspicious is that he didn’t steal the holdall.”

It was, I readily admit, an enigmatic remark: I should have been happy, if asked, to offer an explanation. Engrossed, however, in making arrangements for dinner, they did not ask for one.

In the event, we again dined at Guido’s. It took some time to order the meal: the waiter who served us being of decorative appearance, Benjamin chose to prolong the process. When it was concluded, he gave his mind once more to considering how, without arousing suspicion, we might be introduced to Eleanor and the Major, with a view to their discreet interrogation.

“As far as Bob’s concerned,” he said, “I think you should just turn up at his shop on Wednesday, pretending to be ordinary customers.”

“Why not tomorrow?” asked Selena.

“Closed,” said Benjamin.

“Bother,” said Selena.

“And when I say ordinary customers—it would perhaps be useful to suggest that you were interested in something particular. Something which could not be acquired by methods altogether above board, or at any rate, not without great expense. I’ll try to think of something suitable.”