A Little Murder (6 page)

‘That bitch never mentioned me in her will you know,’ grumbled Clovis Thistlehyde, ‘and she hinted she would on at least two occasions.’ He flicked a small pebble in the direction of a basking duck.

‘How quaint,’ Felix remarked, eying the duck’s discomfort and wondering whatever had prompted him to select this particular bench. Had he kept to his usual one under the trees the encounter might have been avoided. ‘But why should you feature?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t realise you were that close. Besides, why was she talking about wills – a bit premature, wasn’t it?’

‘Obviously not as premature as all that! And as to being close, well it depends what you mean. She did owe me a few favours I have to say.’

‘Really?’

‘I was what might be termed a reliable escort – always willing to supply a supportive arm, order cocktails and taxis, tip the maître d’ – that sort of thing.’

‘And pick up the tab?’

‘Certainly not.’ Clovis looked mildly shocked. ‘I’m no mug! But quite apart from my social usefulness there was the question of the painting.’

‘What painting?’

‘You may recall that it was yours truly who was responsible for getting Marcia’s head and shoulders on the front of Sotheby’s catalogue, and—’

‘But that was
years
ago,’ Felix said, ‘and from what I remember it was a very slim catalogue and a very slim exhibition – not exactly one of their major shows. And,’ he added slyly, ‘I also seem to remember that in the ensuing auction the portrait never reached its reserve. The public are fickle creatures, they lose interest so quickly. Where is it now – in some attic?’ He smiled benignly. Clovis did not.

‘It is not in some bloody attic! If you must know, she gave it to her sister who perished in the bombing along with the picture. The house was destroyed. Which is why she recently decided to commission another … Saw herself as a sort of phoenix, I suppose. It was to be a tasteful nude and entitled
Marcia at Forty
.’

‘She was fifty if a day,’ murmured Felix.

‘Immaterial,’ snapped Clovis. ‘The point is I had given her a few sittings and it was beginning to shape up quite nicely. In fact I had already contacted that new journal
Life Lyrical
. They are bringing out a special edition devoted exclusively to “Changing times: artists and their sitters in maturity”. Marcia’s new portrait plus photographs of the earlier one was scheduled as one of the major items. I can tell you, a brisk boost to sales that would have been! As it is …’ He broke off, looking rueful.

‘Well,’ said Felix helpfully, ‘perhaps if you just submit the preliminary sketches you could call it “Marcia Unfinished”.’

Clovis gave a snort of mirth: ‘Unfinished? She was finished all right, and how!’

Felix tittered but inwardly thought: What a boor he is. One of Marcia’s better moves – to exclude him from her will. I am so glad.

‘Mind you,’ continued his companion, ‘in terms of marketing, i.e. keeping one’s name in the van of things, my having been the last person to see her may be of no small benefit. It never hurts to intrigue the punters. Little things like that can do wonders for the old reputation!’

‘It’s little things like that,’ echoed Felix snidely, ‘that can bring one to the scaffold.’

‘My dear man,’ laughed Clovis, ‘no danger of that. I was off on my annual Venetian spree. Caught the boat train that very afternoon, and the cab driver can verify picking me up well before the ghastly event, as I made clear to that rather dreary copper Greenleaf or some such. Oh no, I was en route to the seductive arms of La Serenissima. Didn’t know a thing about it till I got back. Frightful shock!’

‘Hmm … of course. So I take it you didn’t see anything?’ enquired Felix.

‘Such as Chummy brandishing a coal scuttle? No such luck – now
that
would have been something for the newspapers:
Artist provides vital clue to Marcia Beasley’s killer. “You couldn’t mistake a type like that,” declared distinguished portrait painter Clovis Thistlehyde.’

Felix smiled wanly, wondering if he could risk savouring the lush choux bun he had bought specially for his luncheon snack from the new French patisserie on Sloane Street. (Such a delight after the rigours of rationing!) The young man had been most civil. Indeed now he came to think of it,
most
. He smiled again, warmly not wanly. At the same time he decided
to delay the confectionary treat: it would go nicely with a cup of Earl Grey at four o’clock. Thistlehyde was such a cadge and was bound to demand a piece. Yes, a much better idea: tea and a treat consumed
alone
. ‘Divulge nothing’: Cedric’s warning echoed in his head. Well, presumably such advice could apply equally to a cream bun as to matters of a more
complex
kind. And regarding the latter, judging from what he had just gleaned, at least Thistlehyde would pose no threat. One mercy at any rate!

‘Yes, that would have made a handy little headline,’ Clovis prosed on, ‘and what’s more—’

‘Actually,’ Felix said hastily, ‘if you don’t mind I simply must fly. I have a client at two o’clock and there’s a delivery of orchids from Covent Garden. The new van man is utterly clueless and if I’m not there to supervise he’ll leave the whole lot in next door’s dustbin.’ He rose and by way of apology added vaguely, ‘See you at the Fawcetts’ party, I expect …’ Clutching the boxed bun and deftly sidestepping the ducks, he trotted briskly in the direction of Knightsbridge.

‘Prissy little bugger,’ thought Clovis.

In fact it was not a client that Felix was expecting at two o’clock but Cedric Dillworthy. Recent events had given the pair much to discuss, and as Felix hurried towards his premises he wondered anxiously what fresh insights his friend might bring to ‘the problem’, and indeed whether such insights might be advantageous. After all, it was no use having an insight unless it had some material application. And fond though he was of Cedric (well, on and off) the latter’s observations did tend to favour the academic rather than the practical … And oh God, didn’t one just need something practical now!

He checked his watch. Just time to change the flowers and
titivate the drawing room. Not that Cedric would care. The pristine austerity of the professor’s ménage was far removed from Felix’s own rococo tastes. But it was all a matter of
principle
: abrasive topics needed emollient settings. And given the current situation, emollience was exactly what Felix craved.

‘And are you
quite
sure he didn’t notice anything?’ Cedric asked an hour later.

‘Evidently not. Attention obscured by his own ego, I imagine.’

‘Let us hope so. The last thing one wants is that yahoo Thistlehyde shoving his hoof in matters. And unfortunately one can never be sure. Memory is a capricious thing – it suppresses and resurrects on a whim. Who knows what telling detail may have lodged in his subconscious. I remember an extraordinary case when I was doing a debriefing at the ministry just after Arnhem; quite Proustian really, and so—’

‘Look,’ said Felix testily, ‘I do not need to be reminded of the quirks of memory. If Thistlehyde produces any “telling detail” then we are in the soup. The consequences could be dire.’

His visitor gave a discreet cough and observed that actually the consequences might affect Felix rather more than himself, but naturally should things prove difficult he would do his best to lend support – assuming that were possible.

Felix felt himself going pink with indignation and he glared accusingly at Cedric. Really, there were times when the man was utterly impossible! ‘I take it that remark was intended as a joke,’ he replied icily, and to steady his nerves stared hard at the porcelain Pierrot on the console.

‘Of course, my dear fellow. Just testing!’ Cedric smiled soothingly.

‘Well don’t fucking test!’ Felix nearly yelled, but restrained himself with another glance at the Pierrot, and instead asked calmly whether the professor had formulated any further vi
ews
on the matter since their last appraisal.

‘As it happens I
have
,’ replied his friend leaning forward intently. ‘You see I’ve been considering that idea of yours – a crude tactic admittedly and a long shot, but if it works it could just be our saving grace … I’ll see what I can do about it.’

Five days later Felix sat in Cedric’s sitting room immersed in a game of solo patience. The hall door slammed and a few minutes later his friend appeared.

‘Did you get it?’ Felix asked, glancing up from the spread cards.

‘Oh yes, no difficulty – except for the wretched salesgirl. I cannot imagine where they get them from these days. You would have thought that Gorringes might produce a better class,’ replied Cedric.

‘Really? What was wrong with her?’

‘Most things. But principally lack of interest. She seemed less concerned with me than with her nails. When I explained I was looking for one with a square handle she said she had never seen that type and they were usually curved. And then when I pointed out that I knew for a fact the store kept them because a friend had bought such a one only recently, she shrugged and said she wouldn’t know about that. To which naturally
I
said that perhaps she might gain enlightenment were she to investigate the stockroom.’

‘And did she?’

‘Gain enlightenment? I shouldn’t think so for one minute … but she did eventually produce the goods, as you can see.’ Cedric gestured towards the large parcel he had
deposited in the middle of the floor. ‘It’s the absolute replica of the original.’

‘That’s a relief, then – but I take it you didn’t put it on your account this time?’

‘No, of course not. Cash, naturally. You don’t think I would make that mistake twice, do you?’

The other said nothing, contemplating the box. ‘But you are sure it is exactly the same?’

‘I’ve told you, the self-same model. Look.’ Cedric cut the string and eased the object from its wrappings.

Felix inspected it carefully and then nodded in satisfaction. ‘That should do the trick all right. We’ll grubby it up a bit, put it by the grate, and Greenleaf and his heavies will never know the difference.’

‘Let us trust things won’t get that far. It seems rather excessive. Are you sure one isn’t being a trifle fussy?’

‘Were you ever in the Boy Scouts?’

‘The Boy …? No, certainly not.’ Cedric sounded slightly indignant. ‘Why?’

‘Because had you been so you would recall the injunction “Be prepared”. You must admit it has a certain relevance.’

‘Possibly. But I doubt if our predicament is quite what Baden-Powell had in mind.’

‘It still holds good,’ replied Felix grimly.

As indeed it did. For when later that week Sergeant Greenleaf called at the house asking to see the coal scuttle purchased from Gorringes four weeks previously, Cedric was able to flaunt the item with pride, even going so far as to point out the unusual design of its handle. ‘What a thankless task,’ he exclaimed, ‘having to check all those grimy coal buckets, and how clever of you to have my name on your list. How on earth did you find it, officer?’

‘Wasn’t me,’ replied the sergeant. ‘That was young Harris’s job. He likes doing that sort of thing – foot slogging with lists and ticking off names and such. Gives him a thrill. Can’t think why … Anyway it wasn’t too difficult. The thing was brand new and there are only two shops in the London area that stock that sort – Gamages and Gorringes. Eight scuttles were bought on an account and yours happened to be one of them. Funny coincidence really, you being a friend of the deceased. Of course, what Harris was
hoping
was that one of those buyers would not be able to produce the item – it having been left on the murdered woman’s head. But as I told him, “Things don’t happen like that, old son. It’s a long shot too far!” And besides, I said, what about the three cash buyers? Odds on it was one of them … Still, he’s as keen as mustard is Harris, doesn’t do to damp his snout, all good practice.’

‘Good gracious,’ cried Cedric, ‘but just think, he might have been right! I mean supposing I had not been able to show you the thing. Whatever then?’

‘Ah well, then we would have had to take you in for questioning, wouldn’t we, Professor?’ Greenleaf gave a slow smile and wondered if he might wangle a cup of tea. He suspected not.

When Rosy arrived at the solicitors’ office things seemed in a state of some disarray. Phones were ringing unheeded, an elderly female clerk was tutting and clucking, and a rather desiccated man was mopping his brow and muttering, ‘Disgraceful, disgraceful!’ It was unclear whom he was addressing and nobody seemed to care in any case. A young girl on the front desk smiled cheerfully at Rosy and said, ‘It’s all go, isn’t it!’

‘Er, yes, I suppose so,’ Rosy agreed doubtfully. ‘I have an appointment to visit my aunt’s house, The Larches. She, uhm, died recently and …’

‘Oh yes,’ the girl said, ‘I’ve got a note on that. Here’s the key.’ She fumbled under the counter and produced an envelope. ‘That will get you in but it must be back by five o’clock. Mr Hughes is very particular.’

‘But I thought somebody would be accompanying me—’ Rosy began.

‘Oh, not today they can’t,’ the girl replied, ‘there’s what you might call a
crisis
. As a matter of fact we get a lot of
those and this time it’s Barbara. She’s had a turn and won’t be in so we’re short-staffed. You won’t mind will you?’

‘Er, no … no, not at all,’ said Rosy gratefully, grasping the envelope and preparing for rapid flight. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll bring it back in good time!’ The girl waved vaguely and picked up a nail file.

She walked into the shadowy hall where, just as she had remembered, the portrait of the two donkeys, Jack and Jill, gazed down benignly from their place above the staircase. Whatever one’s view of donkeys, it had to be admitted that the picture was really a rather good likeness, and she wondered who the artist had been. Possibly one of the painting coterie Marcia had seemed so chummy with … though presumably not the ghastly Clovis Thistlehyde, first encountered at a Royal Academy private view and to whom she had taken an instant dislike. It had been an event which Marcia had also been attending, along with a few cronies including the Clovis person. He had been holding forth loudly – patronising, consciously witty and employing a jargon clearly designed to confuse rather than enlighten. It had been a tiresome display and matters had not improved when detaching himself from Marcia’s group he had made a beeline for Rosy and attempted to pick her up.

‘What’s a nice girl like you doing amongst us old codgers?’ he had oozed, placing a confident arm around her shoulders and leering hopefully.

She had told him that even old codgers had their uses and would he kindly fetch her another glass of champagne. Alas, the requested champagne never materialised, for rather sourly he had wafted off to waylay a duchess in diamonds … No, she doubted whether Clovis Thistlehyde
would ever sully his paintbrushes with anything as simple as donkeys.

She moved into the drawing room, its blinds half drawn, and which despite the once undoubted style was already wearing an air of embalmed indifference. Pausing diffidently in the centre of the Aubusson carpet, she scanned the stiff settees, console tables, tasselled standard lamp, and the art deco cocktail cabinet assertive in a corner. On its top stood a trio of half-finished bottles – gin, vermouth, Cointreau – a collection of dusty glasses and a tarnished cocktail shaker. These, plus a pile of
Tatlers
loosely stacked on a coffee stool, a tattered Edgar Wallace and a discarded cigarette box, were the only signs of the room having recently housed a human presence – unless one counted the photographs.

There were four of these, grouped together on one of the consoles: a snapshot of Marcia and Donald on a beach, looking more than fond and which must have been taken early in the marriage; one of a man she did not recognise (a lover?), and the two she had come for – the snapshot of her parents clasping herself and her sister as tiny tots, and a studio portrait of them on their own looking absurdly young (younger than herself now) giggling into the camera. She examined the photographs, studying the past with its faces frozen palely in time and already alien, and felt an unbearable spasm of loss … Yes, she would rescue those two all right. And taking the frames from the table she placed them carefully in the holdall; and then surveyed the room again.

Was there really nothing else she wanted? Ornaments, cushions, the art deco wall clock, the Japanese vase? No, not really: there was nothing there that couldn’t be found at Heals, and certainly nothing of any sentimental value. But the photos were nice and would be nicer still enhanced by
silver frames. She hesitated, wondering whether to add the one of Marcia and Donald. Left here it would presumably only be discarded, lobbed into a dustcart. She stared down at her aunt’s bold features, the wide laughing mouth and heavy Veronica Lake hair – and caught unawares in a wave of inexplicable nostalgia, thrust it into the bag with the others.

Then, remembering her mission for the wretched fur coat, she was about to turn away, but stopped, gripped by the thought that it was presumably in this very room that the charlady had discovered the body. Where – by the window? Next to one of the sofas? Perhaps the spot where she was actually standing! She shifted uncomfortably, but with relief recalled the police sergeant saying it had been in the anteroom, the curtained alcove where Marcia kept her writing desk and the mammoth radiogram … No, she had no need or desire to investigate there. So retreating to the hall and the placid donkeys she started to mount the staircase.

On the landing she paused trying to get her bearings. She had only once before been upstairs – to comb her hair and use the lavatory – and now felt oppressed by the silence, the listless shafts of yellowing light from the small Pugin window, and the blankly closed doors. She opened one of these to find a bathroom familiar from her previous visit: a guest bathroom with green linoleum tiles, piles of faded monogrammed towels and an elderly splay-footed bath harbouring a spider. The next door opened into a bedroom, but like the bathroom obviously a spare one intended for guests and of a bleakness Rosy had often encountered:
north-facing
, chilly and cheerless, with marble washstand, a bare mahogany chest of drawers and a couple of divans looking
distinctly of the utility mode. The air held the faintest whiff of mothballs.

She wandered back to the landing and tried another door … Ah, much more like it. No mistaking this for a spare room! It was spacious, well padded and well mirrored, with modern chromium wall lights, thick cream carpet and an enormous bed draped in a coffee-coloured satin counterpane. Piled on a small chaise longue were a couple of hat boxes and three delivery cartons marked
Harrods
and
Debenham & Freebody
. Tissue paper and bits of string festooned the floor.

Rosy regarded these sombrely, curious as to her aunt’s last purchases yet somehow disinclined to take a look. Besides it was nothing to do with her: that was Mrs Gill’s elected domain – it was her task, hers and that of the Red Cross people. She examined the dressing table with its plethora of pots, powder and scent bottles – Chanel, Schiaparelli, Molineux. She could take some if she chose, shove it in the bag with the photographs. Nobody would notice or care.

Surveying the choice Rosy felt guilty … Not because she was tempted but precisely because she was not. That was just it, she didn’t want the damn stuff! The moment of sudden sentiment experienced in the drawing room did not revive itself here; and though surrounded by the intimacies of a life so recently extinguished, her sympathy was abstract rather than personal. Yes, she mentally saluted the wearer of the scent, the woman who had so eagerly unpacked the dress boxes; but she felt no real affinity. The link with Marcia was too fragile: her aunt had been like an actress seen from afar, notable but never known, never really
felt
…

Abruptly she turned from the dressing table to the wide mirrored wardrobe; and sliding back the panels started to flick through the racks of clothes. Jackets, skirts, two pairs
of linen slacks, floral tea frocks, evening gowns, and finally coats: a couple of tweeds, a Burberry, and a grey sealskin bolero. But next to them, encased in a plastic cover, was indeed the full-length mink. She removed it from its hanger, laid it on the bed and started to close the cupboard doors. But as she tried to slide the panels one of them jammed; something had got in the way – a shoe, a fallen coat hanger?

She peered beneath the trailing hems to the clutter of footwear below; a shoebox lay caught against the runner. Impatiently she pushed it aside, but as she did so the lid fell off to reveal not evening slippers or sandals … but a large, black, glistening lump of coal – a piece of coal tied up in a jaunty tartan bow.

Rosy gazed down at it stunned by the raw incongruity. The adornment alone was strange enough, but what the hell was such an object doing among the silks and furs of her aunt’s wardrobe? A scrap of paper was stuffed beneath the thing, and gingerly holding a corner of it between finger and thumb, she drew it out and studied the begrimed inscription:
To fuel the flames of memory,
the scrawled writing announced.

Absurd! Meaningless! The sort of vapid punning cliché one might find in a Christmas cracker … But perhaps that’s what it was: some jocular souvenir, a piece of arcane festive ephemera. Come to think of it, she did remember Marcia babbling about a magnificent Hogmanay ball she had attended in Edinburgh just before the war. Didn’t they do something with coal up there – first-footing or some such ritual? Yes, probably that was it – a rueful keepsake from gayer times. It was amazing the sentimental value people attached to bits of junk … And with a pang she recalled the squashed half-smoked cigarette found in Johnnie’s wallet after his death, and which even now she kept lovingly wrapped in a box by her bedside. Again she felt a flash of empathy with the dead woman. But the flash
was doused by the thought of the outlandish helmet gracing Marcia’s demise, and for one risible instant it crossed Rosy’s mind that her aunt might have been a carbon fetishist.

Dismissing such shameful frivolity, she glanced at her watch and firmly slid the door shut. Then lifting the coat off the bed she slung it over her arm, and without a backward glance left the bedroom and started to walk down the stairs.

‘My God, but you gave me a fright!’ a voice said. ‘Thought the place was haunted!’

Rosy froze, her free hand clutching the banister. She peered down into the hall and saw the crown of a brown pork-pie hat – and then the short neck and squared shoulders of the Collinger woman (or was it Bollinger?) whom she had met at Marcia’s funeral and glimpsed earlier in the National Gallery.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she called down nervously, ‘I didn’t realise there was anyone here!’

‘No more did I,’ replied Miss C or B accusingly. ‘You’re the niece, aren’t you?’

By this time Rosy had reached the foot of the stairs and was able to confirm that she was indeed the niece.

‘Hmm,’ said the other, appraising her quizzically, ‘I wondered if you would turn up again. Collecting some of her things, I suppose.’ She gestured towards the coat on Rosy’s arm.

‘Oh, nothing really, just a couple of items – this coat is for someone else,’ Rosy explained, and felt ridiculous for sounding so defensive. Why should she have to explain herself to this person? And then emboldened by her own annoyance, she said coolly, ‘I am sorry, I know that we have met but I’m afraid I don’t remember your name. You are …?’

‘Vera Collinger,’ the woman answered. ‘My own memory being good, I know yours to be Rosy Gilchrist.’ The latter
observation was delivered rather as a magistrate might address a reluctant witness.

Rosy nodded, not sure what was expected, but inwardly asked herself what the hell the woman was doing in the house. ‘You were obviously a friend of Aunt Marcia’s,’ she began tentatively.

‘I knew her well,’ responded Miss Collinger (a remark which, Rosy noticed, did not actually admit of friendship). ‘We were together in the war and afterwards kept in touch on and off for old times’ sake. As a matter of fact I lent her a number of books which I am rather keen to get back before the
scavengers
set in, hence my being here.’ She indicated a bulky haversack by the hall table.

‘Ah, good,’ said Rosy politely (wondering uncomfortably whether the word ‘scavenger’ held a personal reference), ‘glad you found what you wanted. But, er, how did you get …’

‘Get in? Well I have a key of course, to the basement door. Had one for ages. I’m going to drop it off at the solicitors on my way back, they are on my route. No use for it now, not after what happened.’ She paused, staring hard at Rosy as if challenging her to pursue the subject of the murder.

But other than murmuring something about how frightful it had all been, there was nothing that Rosy felt she wanted to say about the business, particularly to a comparative stranger and let alone one as abrasive as Miss Collinger. She shot a covert glance at the haversack. What books? Had Marcia been a keen reader? Apart from the Edgar Wallace in the drawing room she did not recall seeing any – crowded bookshelves being conspicuously absent. Her mother’s voice came back to her saying laughingly: ‘Despite my sister’s brains she never reads a thing other than the columns of
Harper’s Bazaar
!’ An exaggeration no doubt; but all the same it seemed curious
that Marcia should have been the recipient of so large a loan of Miss Collinger’s reading material …

‘Anyway,’ the latter said brusquely, ‘I must be off. Things to do. Glad to have met you again.’ (She didn’t sound particularly glad.) And shouldering her literary swag she marched off in the direction of the basement kitchen, from where the distant slamming of the door announced her exit.

The house returned to its silence and Rosy was left standing irresolutely in the hall, clutching the fur coat and contemplating the now darkening donkeys.

As with the other intruder, she had retrieved what she had come for and there was nothing to delay her further. And yet she hesitated, curiously loath to detach herself for ever from surroundings which, after all, held no special meaning. So not quite knowing why, she found herself wandering back into the drawing room, its corners fading in the gathering dusk. But what still remained clear was the brightly jacquard curtain dividing the rest of the room from the alcove housing her aunt’s desk and radiogram. Earlier, knowing that this was where the victim had reportedly been found, Rosy had carefully avoided the area. But whether it was the startling encounter with Miss Collinger or simply an access of morbid curiosity, she now felt impelled to confront the space. She swished back the curtain and stared into its depths.