A Little Murder (9 page)

‘The police, they move in mysterious ways,’ observed Harold Gill tritely, ‘but my wife is right, you show great fortitude. We admire your spirit.’ (What spirit? Rosy wondered, discomfited by their misplaced praise.)

‘And do remember,’ chimed Mildred Gill, ‘if there is anything else we can help you with at this sad time you have only to ask – anything you want to discuss concerning your
poor dear aunt, and
we’ll
be here.’ She squeezed Rosy’s arm and Harold gave a sombre nod.

Rosy thanked them gravely, feeling a heel and a charlatan. Mumbling an excuse she melted away in search of strong drink – a relief encountered via the agency of Auntie.

The old lady waylaid her, and grinning through the mask of panstick and rouge proffered a glass of champagne. ‘Hellish Harold and Meddling Mildred; you’ll need this, I daresay,’ she cackled.

Rosy did need it, but despite her earlier embarrassment, couldn’t help thinking that Auntie was being a trifle unkind. Dreary, perhaps, but hellish and meddling? Hardly. However, she accepted the glass gratefully, and was about to make some polite remark, when the donor announced, ‘I knew your aunt. I didn’t like her.’

Rosy was startled and could think of only one thing to say: ‘Oh dear.’

‘Marcia Beasley,’ the other continued, ‘was bright in some ways, stupid and dangerous in others. Her end was unsurprising.’

‘Really?’ said Rosy, recovering herself and feeling indignant. ‘And have you mentioned this to the police?’

‘The police? Certainly not. I have never spoken to a policeman in my life and have no intention of starting now!’ She sounded genuinely surprised.

‘But if you think my aunt’s death was not unexpected, don’t you think they might find your views helpful?’

The old lady gave a careless shrug. ‘People rarely find an old woman’s views helpful, and besides I have no intention of doing their work for them. Coppers must earn their coppers,’ she quipped smugly, adjusting the dazzling rocks at her throat.

‘Auntie, your taxi has arrived, and you must be
so
tired!’ Lady Fawcett cajoled. ‘Edward will take you home, he’s not had a chance to talk to you all evening.’

‘So why should he want to begin now?’

There was no real answer to that, but handing Rosy her sticks and clutching the young woman’s arm, the old lady permitted herself to be propelled towards the amiable care of her great-nephew. But just as she was going she turned to Rosy, and in a precise but barely audible undertone, said, ‘You want to watch that one, Miss Gilchrist, a dubious piece of work if ever there was one.’

Rosy was bewildered. ‘Who?’ she whispered back. ‘Do you mean Edward?’

‘
No
, not that buffoon! Latimer, of course.’ And she nodded in the direction of the broad shoulders and swirling cigar smoke. ‘I remember him in nappies. Beastly then, beastly now.’ Then turning to her hostess, she gave an imperious wave and in a louder voice declared, ‘One of your better efforts, Angela: guests questionable but drink commendable.’

‘Vicious old bat,’ muttered Cedric.

It was too bad, fumed Clovis, pacing irritably in front of his easel. Not one single guest at the Fawcetts’ soirée had shown the slightest interest in his current work; and the gold fountain pen all primed for a coyly requested autograph had proved redundant. As for that cocky little swine Spernal from the
Telegraph
, he had actually had the gall to say, ‘How’s tricks, Thistlehyde? Still churning ’em out?’ The cheek of it! Jumped-up little pipsqueak. To think that at one time when he was being lionised all over Belgravia for his ‘robust perceptions and startling technique’ Clive bloody Spernal was some provincial cub reporter grubbing away on a local rag with a solitary School Cert. in Arts & Crafts. And now here he was rubbing shoulders with the Fawcetts and Latimers of this world, making fatuous quips on the
Telegraph
’s arts page and trying to be clever with yours truly, C. Thistlehyde FAG. It was a bit effing much!

It was also, he brooded, a bit much that his offer to send preliminary sketches of the Marcia portrait to
Lyrical Life
had been summarily declined. Apparently it had to be the
finished work or nothing, and since recent events precluded the former they were scrapping the whole project and replacing it with an ‘exciting’ profile of the ‘young, dynamic and amazingly talented’ Chico Boulez from Bolivia … Well, he resolved, if ever he had the misfortune to meet said Boulez from Bolivia he would kick his arse!

No, things were not exactly romping along at the moment. The Burley Gallery had been annoyingly vague about his inclusion in their next print exhibition, and even the bedroom zeal of his latest pickup was cooling visibly. She seemed to have developed a sulk and a propensity for yawning … and was that a stifled titter he had heard the last time he had bounded from the shower, tackle all poised for the fray? Surely not. Doubtless it had been the girl’s way of squeaking in ecstasy, though one couldn’t be too sure …

Naturally it was all just an unfortunate phase but nevertheless it wouldn’t do. The public (but increasingly girls, too, he had noticed) were becoming fickle and undiscerning – probably manipulated by that wasp Spernal. It was time they were re-educated, alerted once more to the special gifts of rapscallion Clovis Thistlehyde! It was largely Marcia’s fault, of course. If only he had had the chance to complete it, that picture would have been a veritable star of contemporary portraiture and a timely reminder of his artistic worth. Indeed, it could have heralded what might be termed a Clovisian
risorgimento
! The critics would have gone crazy and even little shit Spernal forced to nod in his direction. But that had been typical of Marcia: always let you down at the last minute. He scowled, recalling bitterly her failure to introduce him to the renowned Sir Gerald Kelly, having promised for weeks that she would. With Kelly as his patron all manner of things might have been secured. As it was …

He jabbed his brush into the canvas making a particularly virulent splodge of vermilion, and ruminated on his last encounter with the victim. She had been all right until that damned parcel business – surprisingly cooperative, in fact. But after that everything had gone to pieces and it was obvious he would get no further. Ironic really: had he remained in the house she might be alive now and he could have finished the thing … But then, he reflected, whoever had come to do the deed might have finished him off too! He shuddered. No, looked at in that light it had definitely been a timely exit.

He continued brooding on those final moments with his sitter. And it occurred to him vaguely that there had been something unexpected in the hall when he had gone through for a pee, something that hadn’t been there when he had first entered. Yes, there had definitely been something there. But what was it? Quite an ordinary thing, he thought; unremarkable and yet strangely incongruous. He frowned in concentration, mechanically adding another blob to the vermilion … Of course, that was it: there had been a
mackintosh
dumped on the hall table, thrown carelessly. A yellow mackintosh – well, virtually yellow, a sort of raucous ochre. Unusual really; he had only ever seen one that colour before. Yes, only once before and that had been worn by … He started. Good God! Was it possible? Surely not!

Brush suspended in mid-air, Clovis stood stock-still staring into space, his memory galvanised by excitement. The scene crystallised in his mind’s eye, and what he was damn sure of was that the mac had
not
been there when he had returned from the bog … Good Lord, that could be a tale to tell! The previous session with that dreary policeman had been unfruitful, his information about the parcel failing to cause the stir he had hoped, and there had been
nothing else he could contribute. But
now
there was indeed something he might report: a matter surely of vital interest!

The Greenleaf chap had telephoned earlier requesting a second interview. At the time it had annoyed him, thinking there was little to add to his previous statement and loath to become embroiled unless it led to his advantage. But things had suddenly changed. Oh yes, indeed they had! And if he played his cards right he might be a star witness. Once again he saw the bright glow of publicity:
Eminent painter’s testimony nails the killer
. Yes, conceivably his date with PC Plod might just prove productive! He stood back, making a careful assessment of his handiwork, and then craning forward applied a triumphal flourish to the canvas.

‘I say,’ a voice said from the doorway, ‘may I come in? Been caught up in one or two things, all rather a rush. Hope I’m not late.’

‘What? Oh no, of course not,’ the artist replied abstractedly. ‘Sit down there for the moment, would you? I’m just putting the finishing touches to this. It’s nearly done.’

‘Artist bludgeoned to death in own studio!’
screamed the morning headlines.
‘Victim’s body found drenched in paint and gore …’

Disgusting, thought Lady Fawcett, biting firmly into her buttered toast, what extraordinary things happened to people! She poured a second cup of coffee, adjusted her reading glasses and settled herself more comfortably upon her pillows. What a relief there was nothing pressing to do until the visit to Barkers to help Amy choose a new hat. The girl had such execrable taste that if she didn’t accompany her she was bound to pick something totally unsuitable. Doubtless there would be strife, so it was just as well she could stay a little longer in bed to muster her strength …

She glanced again at the newspaper, and this time her eyes grew round with disbelief. ‘
No
,’ she gasped, ‘it can’t possibly be. Ridiculous!’ Ridiculous, perhaps, but more than possible, for there it was, confronting her in black and white.

Slowly she reread the article and scrutinised the accompanying photograph of Clovis Thistlehyde. Taken at least ten years ago, she surmised, fifteen probably. She had noted at her party how his features were growing less than juvenile – getting very jowly, in fact. Still, one didn’t bludgeon a man for losing his looks – at least, not generally. Presumably there was another reason. Suddenly bed and buttered toast seemed awfully boring, and throwing back the covers she reached for her wrap and then the telephone.

‘My dear, have you
heard
?’ she breathed.

Her auditor had not heard, and thus with the relish of the news-breaker Lady Fawcett proceeded to inform.

‘I must say,’ Leo observed, ‘your associates do have an unhappy habit of being felled before their time. I shall have to watch out! Did you know this artist chap well?’

‘One tried not to,’ replied Rosy shortly. And then feeling guilty at her dismissive tone, she added, ‘He was a bit tiresome, you see, rather pleased with himself: thought he was the cat’s whiskers of the art world and a gift to any female over the age of seventeen. Boring, really. Still, one didn’t take him seriously and he hardly deserved that fate.’

‘Hmm. No more did your aunt,’ said Leo.

Rosy sighed. ‘No she didn’t, not at all.’

There was a silence as they sipped their coffee and Leo hacked at one of the museum’s joyless cakes.

‘But you must admit,’ he continued, ‘it’s an extraordinary coincidence that both model and artist should have the same
murky end. Pretty damned odd, in fact. I bet the police are after a link, and the newspapers will be in their element. Better watch out, reporters at your door before you can say knife!’

‘Well, they’ll get short shrift,’ Rosy snapped. This was exactly what she feared: pursuit by a posse of press clamouring for insights and ‘angles’. So far she had managed to remain in the background of her aunt’s death, luckily seeming to be of small account in the police investigation. And apart from the Fawcetts, some of her own circle and a few of Marcia’s cronies, no one knew of her kinship with the dead woman – or cared. But the Thistlehyde killing was likely to add a fresh dimension to the whole business; and along with others associated with Marcia (and now indeed with both victims) she could well become a target of wider curiosity. God, what a prospect!

‘Look, Leo,’ she pleaded, ‘do you think you could possibly play this down? I mean, I know it’s all very intriguing, but I would rather you didn’t say anything to anyone about my involvement.’ She paused, and then said defensively, ‘Not that I am involved, of course – well, not in any material way – but I just don’t want idiots asking questions and nosing around making a meal of it all. I couldn’t bear it.’

‘I understand entirely,’ he said solemnly. ‘Just like Greta Garbo: methinks the lady wants “to be
alone
”.’ He turned up the collar of his jacket and with a theatrical flourish shaded his face with his hand.

‘What? Oh really, you do talk rubbish!’

‘It’s working in this place, one absorbs the style. Now, tell me all about poor crummy Clovis and we’ll put two and two together …’

‘Pipped at the post,’ lamented Greenleaf’s superior. ‘I thought we might be on to a good thing with that Thistlehyde
fellow, i.e. either nab him for the murder itself or at least get him to spill a few more beans about what happened that afternoon. Now the geezer’s gone and got himself killed as well. Nothing’s bloody simple, is it?’

Ignoring the obvious, Greenleaf said, ‘Presumably there must be a connection between the two, though it doesn’t do to jump the gun – could be entirely unrelated, I suppose, different matter altogether.’

‘Oh yes? So what’s the motive?’

Greenleaf shrugged. ‘Perhaps somebody didn’t like his brushwork. Like you’ve said before, funny lot these artistic types; they get
passions
and take offence easily. Not normal like you and me. They’ve got what we haven’t:
delicate sensibilities
. I remember that case of the Russian ballet dancer who defected here just after the war. There was a hell of a shindig in the chorus line because they didn’t like the way he did his pas de whatsit, and one of the swans drew a knife, and then just as he was going to lift—’

‘This is not some ruddy ballet!’ fumed the inspector. ‘It’s a serious case of murder – very serious indeed, because if we don’t solve it tootie-sweetie we’re going to look even bigger charlies than we do already with the Beasley case. The super is starting to give me some very funny looks. There’s got to be a link – and you and me, sonny boy, have got to come up with it pretty damn quick!’ As if to underline the point he began to knock his pipe out among the biscuit debris on Greenleaf’s desk, but stopped abruptly, and frowning asked, ‘What do you
mean
the swan drew a knife? Where’d she keep it?’

‘Down the front of her tutu.’

‘Cor!’

Later over tea in the canteen the inspector asked hopefully, ‘I don’t suppose your chaps found any bits of coal hanging about in his studio, did they?’

Greenleaf shook his head. ‘No such luck: just paint and Durexes, nothing to write home about.’

The inspector sighed. ‘Thought not. Only dreaming. What about that flat of his in Islington – find anything useful there?’

‘Not so far, but we’ve still got a fair way to go. It’s the size of a shoebox but my God you should see the mess! It’ll take some sifting, that will. Mind you, apart from clothes and such, most of the other stuff seems to be piles of old press cuttings and photographs. Took himself very seriously did our Mr Thistlehyde.’

‘Presumably somebody else did as well,’ observed the other dryly. He stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘There’s just got to be a link somewhere … Perhaps he had been having it away with the Beasley woman and someone took exception.’

‘On her side or his?’

The inspector shrugged. ‘Either way – jealous boyfriend, jealous mistress.’

‘But not much point in killing him if she was dead already. End of the affair – waste of time, really. Besides, from what he said to me when he came down to the station that time he hadn’t been too keen on the deceased. She may have sat for him in the nude but I didn’t get the impression that anything was
going on
. I think she was a bit long in the tooth for him. Liked ’em younger; easier to impress.’

‘Perhaps, but somebody didn’t like him. So get weaving and find out his enemies. Trawl through his address book –
when
you have found it – and dig out a list of his girlfriends, married or otherwise. Even if it wasn’t to do with the Beasley woman it may have involved some other bird.’

‘Yes, but one thing’s certain – even if it was sexual jealousy it’s unlikely to have been a woman who did it. According to the latest pathologist report the assailant used a rabbit punch before bashing the victim with the equivalent of a good-sized truncheon. Doesn’t sound like a woman’s work to me.’

A slow grin spread over the inspector’s face. ‘Good Lord, Greenleaf, a
truncheon
you say? If I remember rightly you weren’t too fond of Mr Thistlehyde yourself, were you? Not your perishing cup of tea, you said …’

‘And when did the news come through?’ asked Cedric.

‘Half past nine this morning,’ Felix replied. ‘Angela Fawcett telephoned. Caught me on the hop. I was just arranging the special displays and I was so unnerved I knocked one over. Water everywhere! It took me ages to mop up.’