An Expert in Murder (12 page)

ter with Fallowfield’s gentle banter, Josephine realised how much he had changed in the five years since the book was written. He had even started to look like a policeman, whereas it was Grant’s greatest asset that he did not.

‘Do you think you might write another one?’ Fallowfield asked as he turned onto the Hammersmith Road, where the smell of chocolate from the enormous Lyons factory on the left-hand side reached them almost immediately, taking Josephine back to her own war years – which she had spent at Cadbury’s, teaching physical education – with a sudden intensity that only an unexpected sensory experience could evoke. ‘Perhaps all this will spur you on?’ he added hopefully.

‘I don’t know about that, Bill. I only wrote the first one for a bet.

A friend of mine swore it would be impossible to murder somebody in a crowd and I begged to differ, but I’m not sure in retro-spect that she wasn’t right. I had to write it in a fortnight and it nearly killed me, up till all hours every day. I swore I’d never do it again, but I have to admit – I do quite like Grant. He may turn up again if Brisena’s willing.’

‘Brisena?’ Fallowfield looked blank.

‘My typewriter. I dedicated the book to her because she worked so hard to finish it. It was all a bit of a joke, really. Making death up does have a knack of taking your mind off the real thing, though, so perhaps you’re right – now might be a good time to start.’

As they drove past Cadby Hall, the vast headquarters of Messrs.

J. Lyons & Company Limited which took up the entire street frontage between Brook Green and Blythe Road, Josephine noted its air of Saturday peace and fell silent, thinking of the one employee who would certainly not be enjoying his day off. As if reading her thoughts, Archie said: ‘I’ll be interested to know what you make of Frank Simmons. He seemed genuinely devastated last night, but I want to get an insight into how the family fits together.’

‘Elspeth certainly spoke about him with affection,’ Josephine said, ‘and I didn’t get the impression that there was any tension there, but there’s no such thing as an uncomplicated family. You and I both know that, and I imagine those complications are even 82

more intense when adoption’s involved.’ She was quiet for a moment, imagining Elspeth’s life at home. ‘The father’s sickness must have taken its toll on the family, even if they managed to shield Elspeth from the worst of it. It would be nothing short of a miracle if they had less than their fair share of doubts and regret, but that doesn’t make the family closet any darker than most, I suppose.’ Even so, she thought to herself, the combination of suspicion and grief was bound to make their visit to the family an uncomfortable one.

Suddenly, she and Archie were jerked from their seat as the car drew to an abrupt halt, taking its place in the long line of traffic waiting to cross Hammersmith Broadway. ‘Bugger,’ said Fallowfield. ‘I’d forgotten it was the bloody Boat Race.’

‘So had I,’ groaned Penrose, who usually took a partisan interest in the event. ‘Why do they have to live in Hammersmith, for God’s sake? The world and his wife will be here this afternoon.’

And indeed they were. From where the Daimler stood, they could see the crowds making their way to Hammersmith Bridge or heading towards the river to get a place on one of the barges that offered the best view as the crews rounded the great bend. It had always been beyond Fallowfield’s comprehension that this purely private affair between two universities could draw tens of thousands of Londoners – more than any horse race or football match

– but today he took it as a personal slight.

‘I don’t see how I’m going to get through this lot in a hurry,’ he said as they crawled along. ‘We’re not far off now, but we could be here for hours. You’ll get there quicker if you walk, Sir. I’ll meet you at the house as soon as I can.’

Penrose turned to Josephine. ‘Is that all right with you?’ She nodded, and he saw her safely onto the pavement, glad to be doing something more positive than sitting in the back of a car. They set off together in the direction of the river, leaving Fallowfield to swear quietly to himself behind the wheel. He glanced at her as they walked along, wondering how others saw them. To a stranger, they probably looked for all the world like a couple out for a weekend jaunt.

83

‘Where are we going?’ shouted Josephine above the bustle of traffic on the Broadway.

‘Verbena Gardens,’ Archie replied, and smiled as Josephine afforded the name the grimace it deserved. ‘Number twenty-six, to be exact. It’s just off the Great West Road, about fifteen minutes away.’

In fact, it took them nearly twice as long to negotiate the crowds gathered under the elms which stretched all the way along the Mall. When they found the road they were looking for, Penrose was relieved that, after all, they had arrived on foot. Verbena Gardens was the sort of curtain-twitching street that monitored its comings and goings with infallible diligence, and two reasonably nondescript pedestrians were much less of an intrusion than an unmarked but not unidentifiable police car. Frank and Betty Simmons would be going through enough at the moment without having the curiosity of their neighbours to contend with.

‘What an odd place to have a shop,’ said Josephine, voicing his own thoughts exactly. ‘I suppose I should have expected that, having seen a sample of the Lillibet lines. They could never be described as conventional.’ Certainly, number twenty-six had been imaginatively if improbably transformed from its unpromising beginnings as a red-brick terraced house, moderate in size and much like the ones that stood either side. The upper storey had managed to maintain an air of residential normality, but that only served to accentuate the enthusiastic attempts to turn the lower living quarters into a temple of fashion. If you knew where to look, London was actually full of little shops known to a special clientele and run by women who designed and made their own wares. Even so, Josephine could not imagine that there was another boutique quite like this anywhere in the city. The lack of passing trade had not deterred its proprietor from making the same efforts with her window-dressing that characterised the more fortunately placed outlets in Kensington and Regent Street. The harmonies of light and colour, the daringly original ideas were bountifully evident and, if her waxen smile was to be trusted, the figure in the window who beckoned the doubtful to step inside 84

seemed to bear no resentment at being asked to market her goods away from the mainstream. The standard wooden front door which was repeated up and down Verbena Gardens had been replaced here by a glass frontage, onto which the name was elaborately painted in gold. But today the closed sign deterred any prospective shoppers and the blinds at the door, still firmly pulled down, contrasted poignantly with the evening frocks and picture hats that spoke of such gaiety on either side.

With a sigh, Penrose stopped outside and, as a discreet card in the window invited him to do, rang for attention. For a minute or two, the bell brought no response then, as he was about to try again, a light came on at the back of the shop and someone shot the bolts back on the door. When it opened, the wretched night that Frank Simmons had spent was written on his face and in the creases of the clothes which he had worn the previous evening.

‘I’m sorry we’re a little late, Mr Simmons,’ Penrose said. ‘We were held up by the Boat Race crowds.’

Simmons looked blankly past him, and Penrose wondered if he expected to see people suddenly thronging into Verbena Gardens.

‘The Boat Race? Ah yes, it’s today isn’t it? Cambridge are favourites, I believe, but they say that both crews are strong this year.’ He paused, still looking off down the road. ‘Normally we’d have gone down to have a look but we just haven’t had time today.

There seems so much to do, what with Betty having to go up to Berwick to fetch Alice down. You did say that would be all right, Inspector? She’s too upset to travel on her own, and Betty’s so good with her. They’ve always got on well.’

‘That’s fine, Mr Simmons,’ said Penrose gently. ‘It’s important that she has someone with her at a time like this. But we’d just like to have a chat with the two of you first. May we come inside for a bit?’

‘Of course. How stupid of me. Please, come in,’ he said and led them into the shop, past the overnight bag which stood packed and waiting by the door and into a tidy, unexpectedly spacious sales area. As they moved towards the back of the shop, where a red velvet curtain was pulled to one side to reveal stairs to the liv-85

ing quarters above, Penrose made the formal introductions. ‘I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mr Simmons,’ said Josephine, and her words carried such genuine warmth and regret that Simmons relaxed immediately, forgetting for a moment the presence of an inspector of Scotland Yard. ‘Elspeth was a lovely girl,’ she continued, ‘and I’m only sorry not to have known her better. We talked a great deal on our way down here, though, and she was very excited about her visit. She obviously enjoyed her time in London with you.’

‘You’ve no idea what a comfort that is, Miss Tey,’ Simmons replied. ‘We had some happy times together at that theatre, Elspeth and me, and many of them were thanks to you. It will have meant a lot to her to have met you at last – she always wanted to.

Alice – that’s my sister-in-law, Elspeth’s mother – she’s not so keen on plays as we are, but she asked me to thank you for your kindness. There’s not much that can console her at the moment, but when I told her what the Inspector said about you making friends with Elspeth so quickly, that helped a bit, I think.’

At the top of the stairs they were met by a small, birdlike woman, dressed immaculately in a sober but well-cut suit.

Comparing her with her husband, Josephine would have considered her to be in her early forties but she had that sort of face which had never been truly young and which had probably changed very little over the years. Never in all her life could she remember seeing anyone quite as neat as Betty Simmons: her clothes, her dark auburn hair, the way she stood were all judged with a careful precision that was reflected in her manner of speech; not a word was out of place in those frugal sentences of welcome.

How Elspeth’s exuberance had fitted into this small house with its tidy containment, Josephine could not imagine.

She could, however, envisage the pleasure that the girl would have found in the eccentric streak which drove Frank Simmons to acquire every bit of theatrical memorabilia he could lay his hands on. When Elspeth had spoken about the collection on the train, Josephine had imagined it to consist of nothing but pile after pile of theatre programmes and magazines gathering dust in a corner. On 86

the contrary, what drew her attention almost as soon as she entered the Simmonses’ sitting room was a vibrant pocket of history which told the story of the stage for the last fifty years or more. All along one wall of the room, in a series of glass-fronted cases originally designed to protect precious books, hundreds of small objects were proudly displayed. While Betty disappeared into a tiny kitchen to make tea, Josephine took advantage of a pause in the formalities to look at them more closely. Each was carefully labelled like an exhibit in a museum, and certainly as valuable to anyone with a passion for theatre: the items were laid out chronologically, beginning with a property book used by Ellen Terry as Portia in 1875

and, next to it, a pair of the invisible spectacles which her leading man, Henry Irving, had worn. On the wall in between the first two cases, the mirror from Herbert Beerbohm Tree’s dressing room reflected a wax figurine of Edith Evans as Millamant in
The Way of
the World
, but so evocative was the setting that the glass still seemed to hold echoes of the extraordinary character make-up that Beerbohm Tree had created for the likes of Fagin and Falstaff. The new stars of the stage were well represented, too; next to a 1925

edition of
The Sketch
, which showed Noël Coward on the cover breakfasting in bed, there was a flask in the form of a book, one of several which the playwright had given to the cast of his operetta,
Bitter Sweet
, on its opening night.

It really was an extraordinary display and, in spite of the som-bre nature of the afternoon, Josephine and Archie could not help but be fascinated. Simmons, gratified by their interest and pleased to grasp at any distraction from the real world, joined them by the cases and showed them the intricate workings of a silver plate cruet in the shape of Grimaldi which came to pieces to reveal salt and pepper pots in his pantaloons and a glass bottle for dressing in his chest; as the goose-heads appearing from his pockets were revealed to be the handles of spoons, Archie momentarily forgot his profession and exclaimed in delight. ‘This must have taken you years to build up,’ he said. ‘Where on earth did you get it all from?’

‘It’s a labour of love, Sir,’ Simmons replied. ‘I’ve been lucky in that an old pal of mine got a stage door job when he came out of 87

the army, and he always keeps his eyes open for me. You’d be amazed at what people chuck away – some of this stuff didn’t cost me a penny. And when people start to know you collect something, they get in touch with you if they’ve got something of interest. Come and look at this – it’s too big to keep in here.’

Penrose followed Elspeth’s uncle into another room to view the pride and joy of his collection – the drum which Irving had used to create the sound of many a battle at the Lyceum. Josephine, who had never had the remotest inclination to open herself up to strangers, nevertheless admired the natural way in which Archie found a common ground with everyone.

‘I still can’t believe she’s dead,’ said Betty Simmons, returning with the tea tray and pouring four neat cups without spilling a drop. ‘She just wasn’t the sort of girl that things happen to. When she was little, she’d make up stories about herself. Alice used to say it was because she was adopted – there was always something that she couldn’t know, so she invented it differently every day.

They wondered if they’d done the right thing in telling her, but you can’t keep that sort of thing secret forever, can you? The shock of finding it out later might have destroyed her, and it wasn’t as if she was unhappy with Alice and Walter. She was such a sweet girl to them, so kind and thoughtful. But not knowing who she really came from made her curious about everything.’