A Little Murder (11 page)

The pantomime had been delightful, absurd as only pantomimes can be, and Tommy Trinder’s act with the wheelbarrow hilarious. The young had been in their element, entranced with the elves and diminutive prancing ponies, and Leo and the other grown-ups had been transported by their own complicity in the make-believe.

Rosy took out her latchkey, the strains of the ludicrous ditties and shrieks of children’s ecstatic laughter still echoing in her ears. Yes, an absurdly magical evening, and a rousing start to the Christmas season. So now all that remained was a quick nightcap and a warm bed before the next day and the rather less magical antics of her benefactor Dr Stanley.

She switched on the hall light and mounted the stairs to the sitting room. The door was closed as when she had left, but even before reaching it she could hear the music: one of her old records of Jack Buchanan and Bea Lillie singing ‘Who Stole My Heart Away?’

She stopped, frozen with incredulity as the notes from
the gramophone seeped out from within. (Later she would recall how, even in the midst of paralysed shock, the song still exerted its insidious jaunty charm.) She gazed at the door’s white panelling, gripped by a fearful sense of unreality. No one could be in her flat at that hour, it was impossible! Besides, only she had access. But the music and the faint gleam of light from the keyhole said otherwise … For an instant she wondered if it might be Leo, somehow intruded to give her a stupid surprise. But even as the thought struck her she knew it was nonsense: he had taken a late train to the country to be dutiful among grandparents. She hesitated, biting her lip. And then in a spasm of boldness closed frightened fingers on the handle and flung open the door … The music swelled, and Buchanan’s long held ‘
Who-oo
—’ flooded the passage and her ears.

The first thing she saw was indeed the gramophone – on the table with its lid propped up and the empty 78 sleeve and other records lying next to it … And then she saw the listener.

‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ the man said. ‘But you know, these days you could probably find it on an LP – or even get it transcribed. It’s amazing what these boffins can do.’ He moved the needle-arm back to its bracket and closed the lid. Then getting up from the chair he limped towards her, hand outstretched: ‘My name is Richard Whittington – or, at least, that’s as good as any, and given your recent activity one you are bound to recognise.’ He smiled faintly. And too stunned to do otherwise, Rosy found herself mechanically reciprocating the proffered hand. Briefly she touched his fingers – four only, the thumb was missing.

‘Oh Christ,’ she thought, ‘no thumb, sallow complexion and a heavy limp – it’ll be Fu Manchu at the window next!’ She wasn’t sure whether she was going to scream with
hysterical laughter or faint with fear. The walls of the room suddenly seemed curiously fluid and the overhead lamp unbearably bright.
Faint or flight, flight or faint?
her heart thumped out. He must have seen her indecision, for he asked politely if she would like some whisky.

That did it! Pulling herself together she said squeakily, ‘If there is any whisky to be dispensed I think I can do it myself – it
is
mine after all!’ She forced her legs towards the cabinet, and with shaky hand took the stopper out of the decanter and poured a small glass, annoyed at the uncustomary spillage. She was about to replace the stopper but hesitated. Was there an etiquette for such occasions?

Old courtesies die hard, and besides, it was a kind of distraction. ‘You’d better have one too,’ she muttered ungraciously.

‘How kind,’ he murmured, ‘just a very small one.’

‘What else had you in mind?’ she wished she was able to say, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. She compensated by taking a large gulp of her own, which made her cough.

‘I apologise for the intrusion, it’s disgracefully late I know—’ he began.

‘How did you get in?’ she snapped, suddenly steadied by the drink. ‘And what in hell do you want?’

He shrugged. ‘I gained entry in the usual way, with a key, of course. But as to what I want, well that is a trifle more complex – or at least it might be. That rather depends on you, Rosy.’

She gazed at him, taking in the slight frame, the pale skin, heavy brows and shrewd unswerving eyes. Annoyance at the familiar use of her first name was overlaid by something else: memory. She had seen this man before – talking to
the Collinger woman at the National Gallery. Her eyes fell on the walking stick at his side. Yes, he had had that in the gallery too. She felt another pang of fear: suppose he tried to use it on her! But even as the thought came she dismissed it. She may not have been any taller but she was the more strongly built, and somehow he didn’t look the type to threaten physical violence. All the same she felt deeply apprehensive. He had a quiet sinewy poise which she found unnerving … And how on earth did he have a key? And how did he know she had been to the theatre? Been watching her, obviously. But
why
, for God’s sake?

‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she replied as coolly as she could. ‘Why should anything depend on me? Not that it matters because if you are not gone in two minutes I shall ring the police.’ But even as she made that last remark she felt how foolish it sounded. Didn’t such intruders
always
cut the telephone wires – or so the books said.

He took a reflective sip of whisky and said mildly, ‘Yes, I suppose you might, but I rather doubt it – not when you hear what I have to say. You see it might prove a little embarrassing. At least I assume so.’

This was not what she had expected: no snarl of scornful mirth as he taunted her with the usefulness of his trusty penknife, no dangling of severed flex in front of her frightened eyes. Instead the response was of the kind to be had from one manipulating a delicate deal in the boardroom: polite, apologetic but quietly confident.

‘Embarrassing?’ she queried. ‘I hardly think—’

He nodded. ‘It’s your aunt, you see – your late aunt, Marcia Beasley. She’s presented us with a bit of a problem; and I imagine you might find it unsettling if things were to leak out and your name be linked with hers – particularly as
I gather you were rather a stalwart in the war.’ He regarded her steadily, while Rosy stared back, struggling to grasp, to make sense of the man’s words.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked faintly. ‘What sort of problem, and why should it affect me?’

He sighed. ‘Look, sit down, have a cigarette and I’ll tell you a story.’ The four fingers deftly snapped open a silver case. Mechanically she took one while with equal deftness he struck a match for her.

‘Did your aunt ever mention to you she was in the SOE?’

‘No, but I have been told that she was – by her husband, quite recently as a matter of fact. Well, he was her husband once, but they were divorced and—’

‘Ah yes, of course, Donald – nice man. And did he tell you what her role was?’

Rosy hesitated, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Not much – I … er … gather she was used as – as pillow bait. Isn’t that the term for ladies who wheedle out enemy secrets in bed?’

He nodded. ‘One of them. And Marcia did a lot of wheedling, very effective she was too. A number of fifth columnists fell for her charms. Indeed, some of her work was invaluable. Mind you, she was never really liked in the outfit – too self-centred perhaps; but she was highly regarded all the same. One of the top operators. Still, all good things come to an end.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Blotted her copybook – rather badly. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, she made a monumental cock-up.’ The words were said quietly but Rosy thought she detected a flash of anger in his eyes.

‘What sort of cock-up?’ she enquired carefully.

For a few moments he was silent, and then said, ‘At the
time there were some who called Marcia Beasley a traitor, a turncoat. They still do, in fact. I never saw it in that light myself. She was just very, very stupid. Appallingly so. And it cost us dear – a few of us, at any rate.’

Rosy moistened her lips which had suddenly gone bone dry.
Traitor? Turncoat?
The words hung in front of her – leering, jeering, cavorting accusingly before her eyes. It couldn’t be! Traitors were other people, not those one knew and certainly not one’s aunt. The idea was obscene!

She ground out her cigarette and confronted him furiously. ‘What are you
doing
coming here and saying these dreadful things? How dare you!’

‘I dare because it has to be said. Because given the situation, it is expedient you should know. And as I have just indicated, I do not myself think there was any deliberate intention or malice in what she did. It was an ignorant blunder that led to, shall we say, unfortunate consequences …’

Rosy gazed at him, absorbing the words, noting the edge in his tone. ‘So … what did she do?’ she asked falteringly. ‘What happened?’

‘What happened was that she fell wildly in love with the man she was sleeping with, i.e. one of her dupes. She got hopelessly tight one night, lowered her guard and in an access of maudlin idiocy, let slip the name of one of our sabotage projects in France. Her bedfellow – who I suspect had already sensed he was being set up – promptly relayed this to his spymasters. They in turn moved smartly and had the saboteurs ambushed before they could reach their target, a big gun emplacement on the Normandy coast.’ Richard Whittington paused, and then added dryly, ‘Fortunately for us the German defence unit proved almost as witless as your babbling aunt. They intercepted the raiding party all right,
but in the melee messed up their hand grenades, and by the time they had sorted things out we had managed to escape with only a few casualties and no one dead or captured – which was just as well for Marcia.’

Rosy stared at him, transfixed. ‘My God,’ she whispered, ‘and – and I take it you were one of these raiders, one of the casualties?’

He stretched out the shortened leg with its metal ankle brace. ‘Scars to prove it.’

‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered helplessly.

He shrugged. ‘Not your fault. These things happen – part of the hell of war. And after all, it could have been so much worse.’

There was no answer to that. But she had a question: ‘The project, did it have a name?’

He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘“Operation Coal Scuttle”, of course. An apposite title, don’t you think?’

She nodded. As she had guessed. ‘Yes, that rather fits with something Donald told me, about Marcia shouting the word in her sleep. It must have preyed on her mind.’

‘Oh yes, it preyed all right. Preyed for the rest of the war and afterwards. Of course, it was never
proved
that the tip-off came from her, but it doesn’t take long to sniff these things out, especially if you’re trained in that sort of thing as we were. Eventually she admitted it to me herself, but by then I’d guessed anyway. She merely confirmed what one had thought for some time. Naturally I was angry – furious – to think she could have been so stupid. But I knew it wasn’t malevolent or deliberate and so didn’t bother to pursue things. No point really. I just made damn sure she was never used again. By that time the war was virtually ended anyway, her job was already surplus to requirements.’

‘But,’ Rosy said slowly, ‘somebody
was
ready to pursue things, weren’t they? Ready enough to take their revenge years later by killing her and leaving a calling card in the form of the coal scuttle!’

He shook his head. ‘Not exactly.’

‘What do you mean “not exactly”? Presumably that’s what you’ve been telling me: that she was shot in revenge for this bloody awful thing she did! The police did say something about the bullet being from a service revolver.’

‘Oh no, my dear Rosy, that’s not it at all. The headgear was an irrelevance, a sort of additional embroidery it would seem, perhaps the gift of someone with an arcane sense of fun. Who knows? She was killed for something entirely different; something which I fear may have dangerous repercussions. She wasn’t killed for anything she had done in the past but for what she might have done in the present – had she been allowed to live.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Rosy exclaimed. ‘First you tell me she was responsible for some shameful action in the war, and now you say she was killed not for that but to prevent her doing something dastardly now, in peacetime … Poor Marcia, clearly a walking time bomb. Goodness, one had no idea!’ The sarcasm of these last words belied the vortex in her mind. Could it be true what the man was saying? What sort of life had Marcia been leading? And in any case, why was he telling her about it … What the hell did he
want
?’

‘What I mean,’ he continued quietly, ‘is that your aunt held data whose publication would have been more than embarrassing to certain people. She had at her disposal facts that were they to become known to the British authorities would result at best in these people’s imprisonment and at
worst a walk to the scaffold. Most likely the latter. It was imperative she be silenced.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Rosy evenly. ‘What data would that be? And how did they know she had it?’

He gave a sardonic smile. ‘As you may have realised, despite her training in the SOE discretion was not your aunt’s forte. Had she kept silent all might have been well, but foolishly she chose to disclose her knowledge – to the gentlemen themselves. She started to blackmail them. Big house in St John’s Wood, extravagant evenings at the Ritz, trips to Deauville … it all had to be paid for. Marcia was no pauper, but hedonism on that level invariably needs the occasional financial boost, and that’s what she proposed giving herself via this lucrative little sideline.’

He passed her a cigarette which she declined, lit one for himself and watched the smoke as it spiralled to the ceiling. Rosy also watched it, thinking, ‘Stupid idiot woman: first a traitor – or as good as – then a blackmailer. My God, Ma and Pa would turn in their graves!’ She felt slightly sick.

‘I suppose,’ she said coldly, ‘it was something sexual – the targets being past conquests, fringe members perhaps of her wartime “clientele” and now fearful of their respectable personas being blown apart.’