A Little Murder (19 page)

Vera Collinger’s version of Latimer’s story had unsettled Rosy, and she left the pub for the walk home in a state of some dudgeon. If the woman’s words were to be believed,
then Latimer had been lying to her throughout much of their lunch date, and lying with calculated purpose. Clearly she had been charmingly duped. Idiot!

It wasn’t the revelation of a philandering past that upset her (after all, no more than she had expected – and his own business in any case) but the fact that he had used her so cynically to lay a false trail, to spin a smokescreen.

She scowled at a passing cat, reflecting sourly that concern for reputation and the lure of public honours were lethal forces in the human psyche … but then paused, confronted by her own frail psyche with its fear of her aunt’s past activities being exposed to all and sundry. Wasn’t it concern for reputation that governed her own reluctance to aid the police? Very largely (just as Vera had discerned). But at least in her case the fear had taken a
negative
form: she had told no lies, volunteered no misleading information, merely said as little as possible and done her best to keep out of it all. In fact precisely as bloody Latimer had counselled. Besides, surely it was not so much her own skin she was trying to save as Marcia’s – wasn’t it? Not exactly: she would be tainted by association and so in a way was probably as self-preserving as Latimer, if less overtly. Yet the smoothness of his lie rankled and she still felt angry.

And then suddenly anger vanished, eclipsed by a thought as stark as it was shocking. Was it conceivable that Latimer himself had done the murder: felled his mistress to keep her quiet, to scotch the one possible bar to the coveted accolade? Had Marcia become a burden, a potential embarrassment – perhaps cut up rough and threatened to blow the gaff on the affair and so scupper everything?

She stopped abruptly, staring at her reflected face in a shop window. Could he really have done it? No, absurd!
The face frowned, even Vera had dismissed the idea:
I don’t suggest he is implicated – no reason to be
… Yet, Rosy argued, even a seasoned bloodhound could miss a scent. What Vera had stressed was Latimer’s
current
social peril should hints of his recent relations with the murder victim leak out and become a matter of police interest, however temporary. But suppose he had been bedevilled by earlier fears, fears that prompted the deed itself? Vera had said he had much at stake; but perhaps even she had underrated the value he placed on the winnings – or their loss. Rosy recalled the truism that murders are often committed for the most banal and seemingly trivial motives: it all boiled down to circumstance and personal priority. Presumably fear of lost status or forfeited accolades could be as great a determinant as hate, lust or avarice … and killings stirred by panic, for whatever cause, were legion. Broad categories there might be, but within those categories motives for murder were as many and varied as its perpetrators.

She walked on, re-living their lunchtime conversation and the patronising way he had dismissed her feelings for Johnnie:
People are more expendable than one imagines; you will learn that one day, my dear
… Had Marcia become expendable? Indeed, her death imperative? Perhaps so. And if the man had a motive she guessed he also had the nerve to exploit it. As to opportunity, well it was obvious – he could have shot Marcia during an assignation … No, not obvious: Vera had said he visited ‘under cover of nightfall’, whereas the death had occurred in mid afternoon, the body found at five o’clock. But people didn’t always keep to their routines. And besides, if he had been desperate to get the thing done perhaps he had grown bold and risked a daylight entry. Yet what about Clovis painting the portrait? Let alone
Felix muffled in the hall curtain. It would have needed pretty neat timing to avoid that pair! Yet obviously someone
had
avoided them and dispatched Marcia after their exit. So presumably that someone could have been Latimer as well as any ….

She brooded. Plausible? Just about. But if that were so it made mincemeat of Whittington’s conviction that Marcia had been killed by one of her blackmail victims haunted by the hangman’s noose. Perhaps Latimer’s own fears of exposure were as acute as those of the wartime conspirators and he had just happened to do the job first.

The next instant Rosy gasped and nearly tripped over the kerb. As acute
as those of
? Why assume a distinction? Suppose they were one and the same! She recalled Wooden Leg’s theory that with the assassination plan no longer relevant, the plotters had swathed themselves in the cloak of the British Establishment, safe in its garb of service and rectitude. Admittedly Maynard Latimer’s sexual mores may have raised the odd and envious eyebrow, but his contribution to the country’s economic recovery after the ravages of war was indisputable, and (with the exception of Adelaide Fawcett whose judgement was questionable anyway) he was generally regarded as a ‘good egg’. Yes, if anyone were wrapped tightly within the folds of the Establishment it was certainly he.

But what about the use of Felix’s wretched coal scuttle? Surely an unduly crude gesture for one as poised as Latimer. It suggested either a debased sense of humour or a vindictive impulse. Neither seemed in character. In any case, she mused, could one really suspect a man simply because he happened to fit a social category – or indeed that he was anxious to conceal his relationship with the deceased? No, of course
not. She was doubtless barking up the wrong tree, i.e. indulging in outlandish speculation brought on by injured pride and too much drink with the likes of Vera Collinger!

By this time she had reached her front door and was about to insert the key when there was the sound of a cough and a voice from the gloom said, ‘Ah, that’s lucky, I was just about to give up. Wasn’t quite sure if your bell was working.’

Rosy spun round, visions of a murderous Latimer immediately re-forming. ‘What the—’ she began, but stopped, as out of the shadows glided not Latimer but a man wearing what at first sight appeared to be a dressing gown. She blinked and then realised that the apparel was in fact some sort of cassock and that its owner was the priest she had seen at the Gills’ whist drive.

Flustered, she exclaimed, ‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. It’s Brother Ignatius isn’t it?’

‘It’s the habit,’ he replied apologetically, ‘it doesn’t show up in the dark – and by and large most people call me Lola.’

Oh Christ, thought Rosy, that’s all I need! She said dryly, ‘Do they? Now I wonder why that is.’

‘Short for Loyola – Ignatius Loyola, you see.’

‘But he was a Jesuit. What were you doing in the Anglican church at my aunt’s funeral – you were there, weren’t you? Or have the Anglo-Catholics appropriated the names of Roman saints? Newman’s notion, I suppose – they always said he was excessive.’

‘Oh no, nothing to do with Newman. You see I
am
a Jesuit but the Saint Anselm lot asked me along to help out. Their censer-bearer had broken his wrist and they needed a swift replacement. I am rather a dab hand at swinging the lead – or the censer for that matter!’ He gave a bray
of mirth, produced a handkerchief and began to trumpet loudly.

Rosy took a step back, and before she could ascertain why exactly he had been ringing her doorbell at that late hour, he said, ‘Actually, I am quite a pal of the Reverend Keithley there, and it was he who persuaded me to participate – said there was likely to be some rather fine wine served at the wake, and knowing my partiality for—’

‘
I
don’t remember any,’ broke in Rosy accusingly, visualising only the British Sherry and rancid fruit cup.’

‘No,’ he said sadly, ‘you’re right, there wasn’t any.’ He looked pensive and Rosy grasped the moment to ask what he wanted.

‘It’s a bit complicated,’ he replied slowly, ‘and er, well it’s getting rather chilly. Do you think we might …?’ He gestured hopefully towards the front door. She hesitated, far from sure that such hospitality would be prudent. He must have seen her concern for he smiled and said, ‘Oh, have no fear Miss Gilchrist, my only weapons are my tracts.’

‘Tracts? What tracts?’ she exclaimed nervously. ‘I hope you are not going to bombard me with literature from the Catholic Truth Society!’

‘Hah! Don’t worry, only my little joke. Actually, I have a message for you.’

If anything the little joke made her even more doubtful; but noting his chattering teeth and intrigued by the mention of a message (from God?) she allowed charity and curiosity to prevail. So crossing fingers that this wasn’t to be her last mistake on earth, she unlocked the door and invited him in.

‘So what’s this message, then?’ she asked warily, once they were seated in the sitting room.

Brother Ignatius cleared his throat and threw a wistful glance at the half-bottle of whisky on the sideboard.

Certainly not, thought Rosy, I’m sick of strangers coming in here at night and guzzling my Scotch uninvited. It was bad enough with the other one! Thus she affected not to notice, and repeated the question.

‘Well I don’t have the message
as such
, but I think I know of its likely whereabouts,’ he replied, crossing his ankles and gazing at her earnestly.

‘Really,’ said Rosy tersely. ‘And who is it from?’

‘It’s from your aunt. I meant to—’

‘Aunt Marcia?’ she yelped in astonishment. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘What I say. She gave me to understand that—’

‘So where did it come from, this message? Beyond the grave – the
other side
, perhaps?’ she enquired acidly.

‘Oh no, this side. Entirely this side. She told me about a week before her unfortunate—before her unhappy accident; said she had left you something important, a packet and—’

‘
Where?
’

‘What? Oh under the draining board, well the sink, actually.’

Rosy regarded him thoughtfully, taking in the thin primly crossed ankles, sparse eyebrows, nicotined fingers and slightly stained soutane (vestiges of ‘good wine’?), and reflected ruefully that it was indeed a great mistake taking this man in. She resolved to ring the Reverend Keithley first thing in the morning and advise him to select his friends more carefully. Meanwhile, how to get rid of him?

But she had no time to ponder for at the next moment he said simply, ‘Your aunt was always very kind to me. I think we had a bond. I taught her to play backgammon, you know.’

‘She hated backgammon.’

‘Not with me she didn’t. We would take it in turns.’

‘Take what in turns?’ Rosy asked irritably.

‘Well, one week she would supply the gin bottle and the next week I would. Though I have to say that I fear my offering was vastly inferior to hers. In my line of work one can only run to a standard blend from the off-licence, whereas she always produced the most exotic stuff. Delicious!’ He crinkled his nose as if scenting vestigial fumes. ‘Ah well, nothing lasts does it?’

‘No,’ Rosy agreed pointedly, glancing at the clock, ‘it doesn’t.’ And then a thought struck her: ‘Tell me – Lola,’ she said cautiously, ‘this message – did she tell you about it during one of these jolly sessions, e.g. over the dice and the gin?’

He hesitated. ‘Uhm … yes, yes she did. That’s it – we had been engaged in a really good tussle. She was on to a winning streak and had celebrated by opening another bottle. We were well into that when she suddenly announced she had something to confide. And I said I certainly hoped not as I was fed up with listening to people’s dreary confessions and the whole point of the game was to escape such penance. She remarked that there was a clear difference between confiding and confessing and she was surprised that I was unaware of it. You know, Miss Gilchrist, your aunt could be quite pernickety where language was concerned. I remember once when—’

‘But what did she
say
– or were you both too pickled to notice?’

He smiled thinly. ‘Admittedly her words
were
a bit indistinct and I wasn’t totally attending – trying to close my ears to any looming confession! – but from what I recall it was something like: “So I’ve shoved the bloody thing behind the main pipe under the kitchen sink. Safer than the bank any day, snooping busybodies. I did send my niece a letter telling her where it was but damned if I can remember posting it – probably lost the perishing thing. Oh well, doesn’t matter much, let’s have another drink. Who knows, I might just reveal
all
one day. That would jolt her up a bit!” She seemed to find that very funny and collapsed in gales of laughter. I can’t say I entirely saw the joke but thought it polite to join in and we finished the—’

‘Finished the bottle?’

‘Actually I was going to say the game, but since you mention it, yes – the bottle as well.’ He gazed at the ceiling as if in meditation, before adding, ‘That was the last time I saw her; a very mellow evening we had. In fact, come to think of
it, I am not sure it wasn’t the mellowest evening I have ever spent …’ The bland face took on a look of wistful regret.

There was a long silence. And then Rosy cleared her throat and asked casually: ‘Er, so have you mentioned this to the police?’

‘The police? Oh no, on the whole I tend to avoid them. Father Caspian, my superior, says it’s best that way – says one should never offer a hostage to fortune. I am not quite sure what he means by that but it is doubtless true. He is very wise, Father Caspian.’

Bully for Father Caspian, thought Rosy. Out loud she said firmly, ‘I am sure he is right. Life is complicated enough as it is, don’t you find?’

He nodded. ‘Indeed, a veritable vale of tears. But if I may say so, Mrs Beasley always contrived to inject a ray of joy into proceedings. I shall miss her.’

‘And no doubt the exotic brand of gin too,’ Rosy felt like adding, and then flushed, ashamed of so unworthy a thought. To make up for it she heard herself saying briskly: ‘Now, Lola, before I hustle you out, how about a small nightcap to speed you back to your – well to wherever you’ve come from? I’m sure it’s cold out there.’

He accepted with alacrity and (as if still in censer mode) dealt with it in one fell swoop. She accompanied him down the stairs. And with a few more pleasantries and murmuring something about lighting her a dozen candles, he glided back into the shadows whence he had come.

Something important under the sink? Was he mad or was she? Or was Aunt Marcia? But Marcia had been
cold-bloodedly
shot to death – there must have been some sanity there to prompt such an end. So what now, for God’s sake?

She went to the window, flung it wide and glared helplessly up at the indifferent moon. Only one answer presented itself: sleep.

Her sleep was long and dreamless; yet she awoke unrefreshed and less than eager to deal with the demands of Stanley and quips from Leo, whose curiosity over Marcia was becoming tiresome. At first his interest in the case had been of little account – if anything the well-meant levity a means of relief from her shock. But at that stage she had been ignorant of the dubious complexities of her aunt’s life, and rather like Leo merely a puzzled bystander. But
now
, insidiously drawn into the whole murky web, she had much to hide, and her colleague’s amiable probing had grown proportionately onerous.

She made a scratch breakfast and reviewed the priest’s revelation. Was the man with his startling tale really to be trusted? Had there been an unperceived menace behind those earnest blue eyes, mischief or malice in the prissy tones? On the whole she thought not. In his own cranky way he had seemed genuine enough, a kindly lush of the sort Marcia might typically have been amused to befriend; one no doubt a trial to his superiors but basically harmless. And picturing the backgammon session she saw the two of them befuddled in matey collusion: he a little maudlin perhaps, Marcia hectoring, giggly, garrulous. So damned garrulous, in fact, and too tight to care, that she had spilt the beans about the cache under the sink! Fortunately Lola’s thoughts must have been largely fixed on the board (or occupied with parrying the threat of a confession), for he appeared to know nothing of the packet’s contents and had clearly not pursued the matter. Yet if that were the case why had he emerged only now to deliver the ‘message’? She stirred her coffee, threw
in more sugar and licked the spoon, concluding that perhaps for a mind habitually cast in a haze of gin and incense the finer details of that last rendezvous were only just beginning to surface.

Her own mind gave a sudden lurch.
That last rendezvous?
No wonder ‘wise’ Father Caspian had warned him off the police! If it got out that the priest had been a regular visitor at the deceased’s house, surely he, like Maynard Latimer, would join the ranks of potential suspects. Yes, more than likely – although remembering Lola’s words it sounded as if Caspian’s counsel had been general rather than specific, a pious hope that his protégé’s penchant for drink would not invite undue notice from the law with the attendant embarrassment. She imagined a newspaper item: ‘Drunk and disorderly: Jesuit priest found legless in Mayfair, reportedly resting from spiritual labours. Hailing a passing countess, the gentleman asked if she would care to escort him back to his place of sanctuary. Smiling sweetly, said countess declined and passed by on the other side …’

Rosy got up from the table, banished such nonsense and turned instead to the vital question: if the packet was indeed where the man claimed, when could she get it and how?

The question took on additional urgency at the museum where she was accosted by Leo, all beams and bonhomie. ‘I say,’ he announced, ‘I gather there’s to be an auction pretty soon, there’s a notice in the
Marylebone Gossip
. Interesting to see what the stuff fetches. I wonder if it will be well attended.’

‘What? Sorry – I was miles away.’

‘Your aunt’s house, they’ve accelerated the sale of the contents. Donkeys must be getting restive!’

She smiled falsely, her mind in a spin. This was a facer all right.

‘Mind you,’ Leo continued cheerfully, ‘it’s a moot point whether the fell deed will reduce or enhance the value – all depends whether the punters are squeamish or ghoulish. What do you think? Shall we have a bet on it?’

‘I think nothing,’ she snapped. ‘And I certainly have no intention of betting on the contents of my late aunt’s property.’ She turned quickly into her office feeling both angry and pompous.

Later, by way of a peace offering, she bought him a cream bun in the canteen, and watched as he scraped out the synthetic filling, replacing it with equally ersatz strawberry jam, and tentatively tried the result.

‘Any good?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Not really, but thanks anyway. My penance for a singularly crass remark. I can quite see that this business must be pretty tough on you, not an easy time at all. But if it’s any comfort, there was another item in today’s rag which might be of interest – sort of interim statement put out by the police. Something to the effect that after conducting a thorough and sedulous investigation they are confident a breakthrough is imminent and that positive results can be expected in the not-too-distant future.’

Rosy was intrigued but sceptical. ‘Do you think that means anything?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Either they have found a vital clue and are over the moon or it’s pure poppycock devised to spread balm and complacency. I rather suspect the latter.’ He paused, and added with a slow smile, ‘But I wouldn’t dare to offer a bet.’

She grinned and just for an instant wished she could
tell him all about it. It would be nice to have a friendly ally … instead of the less than reliable trio of Cedric, Felix and the fearsome Vera. But pride and common sense directed otherwise. It would only need one thoughtless word, one ill-judged confidence, and the domino effect could be appalling. No, on that score her cue must be silence.

Instead she said, ‘How’s Dr Stanley today? Since you are in the betting vein I’ll lay you a bob he’s in a huff about Mrs Burkiss. She scrubbed his desk yesterday. I warned her not to.’

‘You’re on,’ Leo laughed, ‘five to one?’