A Little Murder (2 page)

Rosy Gilchrist had never really liked her aunt, but news of her death – particularly in such distasteful circumstances – had aroused a level of sympathy she had not previously felt. It aroused other things too: shock, irritation and cringing embarrassment. Only Marcia would have sported a coal scuttle in which to meet her Maker, and only Marcia would have ensured that the fact was blazoned across every newspaper in the land. And it was typical that Marcia should have enacted the ultimate drama of getting herself murdered … with or without coal scuttle. Alive, her delight in attention had sometimes been amusing but more often than not tiresome; and now and again spectacularly awful. (Rosy shuddered, recalling the incident of the dead hedgehog and the French ambassador – not to mention the ambassador’s wife.) Nevertheless, being murdered seemed a high price to pay for notoriety … What the
hell
had been going on?

She poured a glass of sherry and stared in the mirror, seeing not her own reflection but her aunt’s: grey-blonde
hair, scarlet mouth and pale, lazily defiant eyes. And just for a moment she caught the sound of the drawling voice and high grating laugh. Well, she would never hear either of those again, that was for sure … Would it matter? Probably not. But you got
used
to people – even if you didn’t know them terribly well or like them much. Besides, she thought soberly, there was no one else left now, not of her own at any rate (unless you counted those distant and eccentric Oughterard cousins down on Romney Marsh or some such littoral place. Pevensey was it?) Her sister and parents were dead – caught by a bomb in the Blitz – as was the man she thought she might have married, Johnnie Steptoe, shot down over Dresden just before the end. It had been her
twenty-first
birthday and she had wanted to die. But she didn’t, and like thousands of others survived the remaining months of the war and coped as best she could with the peace.

Actually, she thought (the image in the mirror reverting to her own dark hair and eyes), she hadn’t coped badly. Coming out of the ATS she had battled her way up to Cambridge – difficult with so much competition from the returning men – and getting into Newnham had somehow wrested from that college a good-class degree in history. With that under her belt she had taken a part-time job as academic factotum to the irascible but distinguished Dr Stanley at the British Museum, and with her parents’ legacy bought the lease of a flat just off Baker’s Street. So far so good: she had friends, moderate money and an interesting job … But
now
her mother’s sister, her nearest though hardly dearest relation, was dead – and dead in appalling circumstances. It felt distinctly peculiar.

It had also felt peculiar being questioned by the police. As with most people, this was not a familiar experience;
and apart from its dubious novelty she felt somehow that she had been tested and found wanting. They seemed to assume that she must have had an intimate knowledge of her aunt’s life and would provide their enquiry with some dazzling insight. But unless you counted the acrimonious divorce from Donald, titbits of social gossip, the occasional newspaper item recounting drunken rows with taxi drivers or some ghastly brouhaha such as the embassy gaffe, Rosy knew little about her aunt – indeed had preferred to remain largely in ignorance. Had she
known
the woman was going to be murdered she might have shown greater curiosity, or indeed concern … Guilt moved stealthily within her as she recalled the dismissive impatience with which she had heard reports of Marcia’s tedious and occasionally outlandish behaviour. Yes, she had kept a wary distance. Should she have closed the gap and made kindly overtures? Tried to maintain closer links?

She sipped her sherry comforted by the thought that the older woman had never shown much interest in her niece. Their rare encounters had been cordial but essentially indifferent, their conversations limited to the trivial and humdrum. No, clearly Marcia had not found Rosy worth cultivating. She had had her own rather specialised coterie and her niece was not of it.

This lack of familial warmth had clearly been a source of puzzlement to the two investigating police officers. One of them, a Detective Sergeant Greenleaf, was keen to follow the financial angle, and Rosy had felt vaguely apologetic about the answer she had given to his question regarding Marcia’s legatees: ‘Oh no,’ she had said, ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything. Besides, my parents left me pretty well catered for and I’m sure she knew that.’

‘So where did it all go?’

‘To a donkey sanctuary,’ she had replied.

He had thought she was joking and frowned at what he took to be her flippancy. But when she had supplied the name and address of the sanctuary, a place in Ireland, and reminded him of the painting of a Jack and a Jill hanging prominently in the hall of her aunt’s house in St John’s Wood, he had nodded and ticked something off in his notebook, making a brief entry. She had almost giggled, envisaging the words:
Legal beneficiaries? Donkeys
.

Yes, she reflected wryly, possibly it was her own failure to share her aunt’s partiality to the creatures which had opened the gulf between them. She remembered as a small child being given the treat of a donkey ride on Cromer sands. The animal had stumbled. She had fallen off, and bawling like a wounded bear had refused furiously to be put back on. Her mother had been sympathetic; but not Aunt Marcia, who had expressed withering scorn, seeming to ascribe the fall to the rider’s lack of empathy with its steed.

Yes, grossly unfair … But then so was murder. And given the personal connection, distinctly frightening. However, more insistent than fear was the now overmastering curiosity. She asked herself again, ‘
What the hell had been going on?
’

The announcement in
The Times
obituary column was brief and non-committal:

It had obviously been inserted by the executive solicitors, but possibly in conjunction with Mr and Mrs Harold Gill, Marcia’s long-suffering neighbours, a quiet couple of the sort that ‘keep themselves to themselves’. Rosy had met them only twice, but both times had been impressed by their stoicism in the face of adversity, i.e. a persistently wailing gramophone, inebriate revels, lost latchkeys at midnight and the periodic attentions of the fourth estate. Life next door to Marcia cannot have been easy, but their forbearance was repaid (or explained) by the fact that she was punctilious in
feeding their cat when they were away – which was often. Presumably their role in the funeral initiative was a kind of thanksgiving for a service rendered and peace restored.

It seemed strange seeing her aunt’s name staring at her from such a context, and the starkly rendered facts conferred a cold reality to the whole shocking event. Yet the more Rosy studied the words the more remote the death became … the more remote Marcia herself became. She was of the past now, far away – over and done with. Irrevocably.
Died suddenly on 30th September.
Nothing could be clearer or more absolute.

Rosy pondered. Eight years previously, with the loss of parents and sister, and then of airman Johnnie, she had been torn apart with grief, excoriated; breathless with incredulity, anguish – anger. But this bore no resemblance to any of that. What she felt now was a discomfort, a vague regret: listless nostalgia for something or someone that willy-nilly had once been part of her and no longer was. It didn’t hurt but it was
unsettling
and she felt strangely adrift.

Well at least she could muster a floral tribute. The notice hadn’t stipulated ‘No flowers’, and in any case, being the niece surely she had a prerogative in such matters. Yes, a large sheaf of colourful dahlias and late-flowering clematis might be appropriate, something sufficiently lavish to fit the identity of the deceased. Marcia, she was sure, would have been unimpressed by a discreet sheaf of pale lilies. She telephoned Selfridges and made enquiries.

On the day of the funeral Rosy approached the church (Victorian Gothic with truncated spire) with some curiosity. It was tucked away in a secluded cul-de-sac and seemed a strange choice for Marcia whose preference one might
have assumed to be something more fashionable and conspicuous. In any case, as far as she was aware, her aunt had never shown any particular religious leanings. Not that that meant anything really; it was probably the decision of the decorous Gills. And besides, given the choice, wouldn’t one prefer one’s last appearance on earth to be spent amidst the moderate aesthetics of psalm and incense than the glum austerities of a civic crematorium?

As it happened, apart from copious incense, the alternative was not so different. The service at St Anselm’s was tepid and perfunctory: a hymn was played which clearly nobody recognised, the great sonorities of the Prayer Book gabbled and a clerical address given whose flat monotone did little to convey the
joie de vivre
of which the deceased seemed to be mildly accused. The church was dim and Rosy took scant account of the congregation, being too preoccupied with trying to revive hazy memories of her aunt in the pre-war years and censoring images of the gruesome end. One or two people she recognised, but for the most part the assembled remained faceless and shadowy.

An announcement from the pulpit invited mourners (attendees?) to a small reception being held afterwards in the adjoining hall. She decided to give this a miss, hoping to slip away unremarked – but was caught by Mrs Gill who, leaning over from the pew behind, had whispered: ‘Do hope you’ll come, my dear, not seen you for ages.’ (No, Rosy thought, you haven’t. She had made it her business not to go near Aunt Marcia or St John’s Wood ever since the ambassadorial crisis of three years earlier.) Thus caught on the hop yet wedged in the pew, there was nothing she could do except smile and nod compliance.

The ritual over it was with some relief that she filed
outside with the Gills and a handful of others to the cramped burial ground, and watched the coffin as it was lowered into the allotted space. There was in fact a good number of floral tributes and she noted that hers was prominently placed. But the observation gave little satisfaction for she knew that the flowers were no substitute for warmth, let alone real love …

After the final benediction and the sprinkling of earth she lingered diffidently by the graveside – partly through awkward respect, partly through reluctance to join the melee in the church hall. Then with the first gust of rain, and with a mixture of guilt and defiance, she turned abruptly and walked towards its door.

Surveying the room and its occupants Rosy wasn’t entirely enamoured of what she saw – an ill-assorted crowd who, collectively at least, held little promise of appeal or interest: a few elderly indeterminates downing minuscule glasses of British Sherry as if their lives depended on it (which they probably did); a small coterie of what she took to be members of Marcia’s ‘so talented, my dear’ art group (distinguished by their studiedly ‘bohemian’ attire, i.e. florid colours and cultivated beards); a trio of heavily cassocked priests all wearing the same expression of benevolent indifference; a fair number of the louche and raddled, and a sprinkling of Haslemere types looking out of place and out of sorts. Slightly to her surprise, Donald the
ex-husband
was not in evidence, and neither were the Oughterard cousins (too busy wrangling among themselves on Romney Marsh, she supposed).

But the cranky Fawcetts were there all right – asinine Edward, Amy of whose mentality she had never been quite certain, and of course the genial but astonishingly tactless mother. (Once known to enquire of the young
Princess Margaret if she didn’t occasionally tire of playing second fiddle to her sister. The fact that the princess most certainly did seemed of little help in defusing the ensuing furore.) Gobbling a cucumber sandwich, Lady Fawcett was also talking intently to the ubiquitous Professor Dillworthy, looking superior as usual and casting sidelong glances at his companion Felix Smythe, ‘the wittiest florist in Knightsbridge’. Felix, however, was busy scanning the other guests, and catching Rosy’s eye blew a kiss. ‘Huh,’ she bridled to herself, ‘we’ve hardly ever met and the last time was when he was ginned up to the eyebrows with Aunt Marcia outside the Ritz. I’m surprised he remembers me.’

But he evidently did, for detaching himself from the group he slithered over to Rosy and in unctuous tone murmured a blend of compliment and condolence. She thanked him politely; whereupon, lowering his voice and with a glint of relish, he said, ‘But, oh my goodness, it must have been
excruciating
for you to learn the precise circumstances! Very odd. Poor girl, I hope she didn’t suffer much.’

Rosy inwardly agreed with both observations but was disinclined to pursue the matter with Felix, and instead enquired brightly after his horticultural pursuits, wondering vaguely whether she should have placed her recent order with his own firm Bountiful Blooms instead of Selfridges. (In fact, she learnt later that Felix never catered for funerals, these apparently being too stifling of the spirit.)

‘Well, my dear,’ he confided eagerly, ‘
trade
, as they say, is booming! The
Tatler
, of course, is always begging me to write articles for their house and garden section, but just recently the dear Queen Mother has rather honed in on things. She gave a cocktail party last week and wanted nothing but sweet peas … Just a titchy bit vulgar I thought.
But then who am I to question a royal diktat?’ He paused and with a light laugh added, ‘Although as a matter of fact that is exactly what I did: “Oh Ma’am,” I said, “do you really want
every
bloom a sweet pea?”’

‘And did she?’ asked Rosy.

He nodded. ‘“Indeed I do, Mr Smythe,” she said, “I like the smell and so do the corgis.”’

Rosy giggled. ‘Well that put you in your place, didn’t it!’

Felix shrugged, and taking her by the elbow steered her towards a small group which included Professor Dillworthy and the Fawcetts.

They welcomed her with interest and suitably sympathetic faces. ‘Weren’t you terribly surprised?’ asked Lady Fawcett. ‘I mean it’s not the sort of thing one expects of an aunt, is it?’

Of course I was bloody surprised, thought Rosy irritably, what does she imagine? But she agreed politely that yes she had certainly been surprised, and it was all very mysterious.

‘Ah,’ said Edward darkly, nodding in the direction of his own aunt, ‘but you never can tell. Sometimes they step out of character.’

Lady Fawcett regarded him coldly. ‘I don’t know what sort of character you have in mind, Edward, but another absurdity like that and I shall indeed step out of it and box your ears!’ She took a sharp bite from her sandwich.

‘Dear Marcia,’ exclaimed Cedric Dillworthy, ‘she leaves such a gap in our lives.’ Rosy rather doubted this but nodded in dutiful agreement.

‘Absolutely!’ cried Felix Smythe. ‘I mean she was so – so, well …’ He wafted a limp hand in the air, indicating God knows what.

‘
Game?
’ suggested a deep voice at Rosy’s shoulder.

Rosy turned and was confronted by a middle-aged woman clad in tweeds, lisle stockings, and wearing a rather battered pork-pie hat with a small scraggy feather. Felix raised his eyes to the ceiling and murmured sotto voce, ‘Well not for you, dear, that’s for sure!’ And then in a louder voice and addressing Lady Fawcett, he introduced the newcomer as ‘Vera Collinger –
such
a stalwart and an old pal of Marcia’s.’

‘But you’ve just implied …’ interrupted Edward clumsily.

‘Just one of Felix’s feeble little witticisms,’ said the newcomer. ‘You see,’ she added, thrusting out her jaw and lighting a small cheroot, ‘
I
am of the Sapphic persuasion.’ The announcement elicited a brief silence and blank expressions.

‘How nice …’ said Lady Fawcett, ‘… and er … what does that entail?’

‘Oh, Mummy,’ protested Amy, ‘surely you know about that! She doesn’t like men.’

‘Few of us do, dear, but one must be charitable … I mean, I know that they are not awfully good at fixing things, but they
are
quite smart at playing footsie under the luncheon table … Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Bollinger?’

‘
Collinger
,’ muttered the other, scowling and emitting a cloud of acrid smoke.

There was a stifled snigger from Cedric Dillworthy, who, projecting his voice and addressing the room in general, said ‘It’s
such
a fascinating island, you know. In fact in my opinion by far the best of all the Aegean ones, and of course there is that extraordinary petrified forest. I remember once—’

‘What
are
you talking about?’ asked Edward.

‘Why Lesbos, of course. Didn’t you come to my course
of lectures, “Denizens of Lesbos”, at the National Gallery?’

‘No,’ Edward replied.

‘Ah well, missed a treat,’ sighed the professor. ‘But I expect Miss Collinger may have.’ He turned to her and added slyly, ‘Rather up your street, I imagine, dear lady.’

‘Hardly,’ the lady answered. ‘I avoid abroad, and I also make a particular point of avoiding the National Gallery – it attracts so many charlatans.’

Cedric pursed his lips in displeasure, while Rosy thought,
Perhaps not abroad, but she does go to the National Gallery. I saw her there last week talking to a man with a gammy leg under the Titian in the third room – and wearing this same pork-pie hat with mangy feather
…

‘It was quite awful!’ she later confided to Leo, the young research assistant in Dr Stanley’s archives department. ‘The most dreary service, a vacuous address by some priest with adenoids, and nobody there who seemed remotely concerned about Marcia’s death – except for the actual circumstances, of course. The food was stale too,’ she added as an afterthought.

They were huddled at a small table in the pub opposite the British Museum, consuming pickled eggs and Guinness to offset the autumnal damp and their employer’s exacting demands. It had been a more than busy afternoon in the office, and the rigours of the earlier obsequies had not exactly fortified Rosy for dealing with fractious scholars and the earnest, frequently meandering telephone enquiries from the public. Along with arranging conferences and keeping her boss insulated against the more deranged of his fellow academics, such matters were all in a day’s work, and normally she coped with cheery efficiency (sometimes,
indeed, with mild fervour). But today was different. She felt tired, flat – oddly dispirited. Ennui induced by Marcia, she thought wryly …

‘But then you’re not specially concerned either, are you?’ asked Leo, biting into one of the rubbery eggs. ‘I thought you said you had nothing in common and hardly ever saw her.’

‘Hmm,’ agreed Rosy soberly, ‘but that was
before
…’

‘Before the coal scuttle?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I feel guilty somehow.’

‘Can’t think why. I mean it wasn’t you who shoved it on her head, was it?’

She smiled. ‘No, of course not. Nor did I shoot her. But maybe if I had been more aware, more
involved
, made more of an effort to get to know her, things might have been different.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. From what you say she clearly wasn’t very interested in your life. Didn’t even send condolences when your chap was killed – too busy pursuing her own ends, whatever they may have been.’

Rosy lit a cigarette, considering his words. ‘Well, yes, that’s it, isn’t it: what
were
her own ends? From what I could make out she seemed to spend her days wrapped in a veil of alcohol pursuing what the moralists would call folly and trivia.’

Leo laughed. ‘Sounds pretty good to me – assuming you manage not to get bumped off in the process.’