Death in Albert Park (7 page)

“Anyone else she talked to like that?”

A rich smile came to Gerda's too-full lips.

“Oh lots, I'm afraid. Even to me, once or twice, for we had our tiffs. But more often to men. She rather despised men, Mr. Deene.”

“Oh, Did she know many?”

“She couldn't be bothered with them.”

“You mean—if I may put it so crudely—she never had affairs?”

Gerda looked at him.

“Curious how men's minds run on that. You can
never
believe
that you are not the prime essentials of life. Hester was beautiful in her way, you know. I daresay she was run after at different times. But since we met, eight years ago, she has never thought of all that. A friendship like ours …”

“You think there may be men who resented this?”

“Probably. But when I say she could speak her mind to men, I mean the kind of men one comes up against in everyday life. You know, parents, policemen, odd contacts one makes when travelling…that sort of person.”

“Anyone in particular?”

Gerda smiled again.

“There was a
ridiculous
incident in the park last summer. Hester had arranged to play tennis with some of the senior girls and some dreadful people from one of the avenues wanted the court. There is some sort of park-keeper and the silly man tried to interfere. You should have heard Hester. The girls told me afterwards that the people who wanted to play fled in
terror.
As for the man, I don't suppose he ever forgot it. He should have known better than to try to be cheeky to someone like Hester. She had such
dignity
when she was aroused. I've watched her handle French porters and waiters and people. Nothing spitfire about her. Just cold and dignified. I admired her tremendously.”

“Yes, I see you did.”

“You couldn't help it if you knew her.”

“That must make her loss all the more tragic for you. It was a terrible way to die.”

“Terrible. Yet there was something fine in the way she did not cry out or anything. I think I can see her walking down that avenue. She had a firm walk and held herself upright, like a soldier. Perhaps she heard this brute coming up behind her and scorned to run
away. She died instantly, I'm told. That's something. She was very brave.”

Carolus gave her a moment's silence after that, then said quietly—“And you're convinced, Miss Munshall, that it was a complete stranger?”

“How is one to tell with a schizophrenic? I understand that in these cases, in the really terrible homicidal cases, they may be absolutely normal most of the time. How can one tell?”

“I meant, you are convinced that it was not someone with a motive for killing Hester Starkey?”

“Of course! Who could have any motive? Besides, don't we
know
it was a madman? The two murders that have followed Hester's are enough to tell us that, surely. No one could have a motive in all three. The victims never knew one another and had nothing in common.”

“That's true. But you see I'm tackling each murder independently. I may be wrong, but that's my way. Would you consider Hester's death as a single crime, and tell me if anything occurs to you.”

“I did, we all did, consider it as a single crime at first. There was nothing. No motive we could possibly think of. Even then, before there were any more deaths, we decided it
must
be a madman.”

“And Hester Starkey was chosen quite by chance, you think?”

“By a tragic chance, yes. He may have been waiting for weeks till he found a woman alone and no one in sight. He certainly chose the right place. That ghastly avenue! I can never bring myself to go down it again.”

“You used to spend your holidays on the Continent together, I believe. Did you go by car?”

“No. Neither of us could drive. We were always meaning to learn but didn't.”

Again Carolus paused.

“Do you know Hester's brother?”

“Eamon? Yes. What about him? You're not going to tell me you suspect him, are you?”

“No. He has a perfect alibi. I wondered if you could tell me anything about him. I'm going to see him presently at the theatre.”

“He's weak and vain. If it had not been for him Hester and I would have been sharing a flat long ago and this might never have happened. But Hester considered him a responsibility and took it seriously. He's one of those people who simply can't
cope,
if you know what I mean. She had to look after him.”

“I see. I'm most grateful for all you've told me, Miss Munshall. It must have been a strain for you.”

“I don't know. I suppose I'm getting used to being without her now. We get used to everything in time, don't we? Or don't we? Good-night, Mr. Deene.”

Were there tears in her eyes as she stood holding the front door open? Her eyes were so large and liquid that Carolus could not be sure.

It took him some time to find Eamon Starkey's place of work which was called the Crucible Theatre and had been made from a disused warehouse in one of the remote north-western suburbs. Its facade was lit with one green arc light and instead of playbills and photographs outside it had a single hoarding on which was “Exp 19:
The Gyrostat
by Hu Nic” in starkly simple lettering. The foyer was ornamented with Europeanized African masks, curiously sophisticated and hideous versions of their primitive prototypes. The play was proceeding inside and the box-office and foyer were empty except for a young man in a scarlet shirt with a thin sad beard.

“Is there such a thing as a stage door?” asked Carolus.

“An interesting question,” said the young man condescendingly. “Perhaps your name is Johnny?”

“No. I want to see a man called Starkey.”

“We don't use names for the cast. Earn Star is Index Eleven.”

“Oh, Where could I see him?”

“Nowhere, really, till after the Black.”

“The Black?”

“We don't have curtains.”

“You mean, till the play is finished?”

“It's not a play. That's the whole point. We've got away from all that.”

“Well, the performance.”

“Still less is it a performance. It is Mutual Consciousness.”

“Till after the Mutual Consciousness is finished then? What time will that be?”

“We have no fixed time. It's the ruin of spontaneity. It depends on Index Two. Sometimes he takes half an hour over his third Visual Impact, sometimes only five minutes. Would you like to wait inside? There's plenty of room.”

Human curiosity made Carolus accept and the young man, who spelt out his name Hy Nox, led him through a door into a strange barn-like room in which the movable chairs were arranged in groups, or pairs, or singly, as the audience desired.

“No stage,” explained Hy Nox, scarcely to the surprise of Carolus, “just the two bemas.”

Carolus saw that where one would expect to see the stage-boxes there was, on each side of the far wall, a semi-circular construction, on which figures were visible.
These were masked and clad in somewhat Greek attire and seemed to be proceeding in competition, those on the left bema apparently unaware of those on the right, so that a loud jumble of words was audible.

“To tell you the truth,” said Hy Nox, “I find
The Gyrostat
a bit corny. All that Greek drag. It gives a wrong impression.”

“Has Starkey … Index Eleven, a large part?”

Hy Nox looked pained.

“We don't have parts. Exegeses.”

“I see. Has Index Eleven a large exegesis?”

“Highly significant. Two quadruple reiterations. That's the method we use to give emphasis. He says ‘Live, live, live, live,' in Execution One, and ‘Die, die, die, die,' before the last Black.”

“Is that all?”

“All? It's an important Exegesis.”

“He wears a mask, of course?”

“Of course. All indexes in
The Gyrostat
are masked.”

“Does he use his natural voice?”

Hy Nox smiled.

“You're very naif,” he said. “You don't seem to be at all in touch with the modern movement. He speaks as he feels, of course. It may be almost a lion's roar or a tired murmur. That's why every Mutual Consciousness is different.”

“Why not have the stage … stages… bemas at the
hack
of the auditorium?” suggested Carolus. “So that the play … the Mutual Consciousness proceeded behind the audience?”

“We did think of it,” said Hy Nox, “but it wouldn't work here. The audience—you've no idea how bourgeois they are—would simply turn their chairs round and the whole effect would be lost.”

“Can I buy a programme?” asked Carolus, feeling pretty bourgeois himself.

“Certainly,” said Hy Nox and handed him a single sheet on which was a reproduction of a painting by Francis Bacon. “Index Three's being terse tonight,” he observed. “I think it'll be over before half past ten.” Then added unexpectedly—“We like to get round to the Wheatsheaf before it closes, when we can.”

“Do you think I might wait for Starkey—I mean Index Eleven—round there? I'm dying for a drink, you see.”

“Yes,” said the young man huffily, “but you'll miss the big Interloc between Indexes Eight and Five. It's the best thing they've done so far.”

“Another night, perhaps?” suggested Carolus. “You know what it is when one wants a drink? Most interesting, I'm sure.”

“Next week we've got
Oedipus Limbo
on again. It's the most neoteric thing we've done.”

“I mustn't miss that,” said Carolus, “but just now, if you don't mind …”

“Very well. I'll tell Index Eleven. Who shall I say wants him?”

Carolus had an inspiration.

“C-a-r D-e-e,” he spelt out and left Hy Nox looking a little happier.

But Eamon Starkey, when he reached the Wheatsheaf later, was something of a disappointment. A rather ordinary-looking man in his early forties, he wore conventional clothes and talked in a tiresomely refined voice.

“I wonder if you'd mind telling me a little about your sister,” Carolus said when drinks were bought and Carolus had explained himself as tactfully as possible.

“I suppose so,” said Starkey wearily. “To tell you the truth I'm getting a little bored with the whole subject. I was quite fond of my sister, but to find oneself involved in a sensational murder case is not funny.”

“Involved?”

“What else could you call it? The press never stopped asking me questions. I might have been the murderer, the way they went on.”

“Oh no,” Carolus pointed out. “You had a cast-iron alibi.”

“That, yes. I got to the theatre at six o'clock that evening and did not leave till about this time. But that hasn't stopped them asking questions. That man Dyke is a menace. Now what do you want to know?”

“Rather an odd thing, really. When you first heard of your sister's death, before anyone knew it was one of several murders, what did you think about it? Had you any suspicions at all?”

“Suspicions? Do you mean of anyone in particular?”

“Yes.”

“Not really. I suppose if I thought anything at all it was that…well, something to do with that school, I suppose. All those terrifying women. Poor Hester wasn't popular, you know.”

“I see. Anyone in particular?”

“I didn't know them well enough. I met that appalling Munshall once or twice. Capable of anything, I should have thought. But all that's been wiped out, hasn't it, by the other murders? If anyone at the school
could
have been suspected—and I don't seriously see how they could—they were certainly out of it when the other murders happened, weren't they?”

“That's the general and I must say quite logical view. Tell me, had your sister any men friends?”

Eamon Starkey smiled in a rather superior way.

“Hester? Surely you must have realized that she and that appalling.Munshall spent
all
their time together and thought men altogether inferior beings?”

“That doesn't quite answer my question.”

“No, I don't think she had. Unless you count old Scatton.”

“I have never heard of him.”

“I don't expect you have. He's our solicitor. Known us since we were children. Father's executor. All that sort of thing. He's a bachelor and I suppose in his funny old way been in love with Hester all his life.”

“Where does he live?”

“Blackheath. Owns a lot of property there. Our flat belongs to him, as a matter of fact. That's why we lived there.”

“You say ‘old' Scatton. How old is he?”

“Oh, not decrepit. Sixtyish, I should say.”

“Did your sister see much of him?”

“Mmm. Fair amount.”

“Do you know whether he had ever proposed to her?”

“Oh yes. Often in the old days. I think once, years ago, they nearly got married, but it all blew over. Hester was a great one for what she called her freedom.”

“One other thing, Mr. Starkey. I hope you won't think me impertinent but I am trying to work on this thing in my own way. What were your sister's financial circumstances?”

“She had none. Just her salary. Munshall has money, I believe, and of course old Scatton's a rich man. But Hester didn't worry about money.”

“Had she, any expectations?”

“If you could call it that. There's an old great-aunt
down at Bournemouth with a good deal of money. We were about the only relatives she had. But we didn't count on anything. It will probably all go to a dog's home.”

“Thank you.”

“I think you're wasting your time,” observed Eamon. “I don't mind answering questions but I can't see the point in them. Poor Hester was just a chance victim. How does it help you to know all this about her?”