by Anne Morice
“Which he then passes over to Vera to gobble up?”
“In the form of crumbs, naturally. She’d be the bread maker. She or her contact, or whatever they call them.”
“Oh, you’ve found a contact for her too, have you? Aren’t you thorough?”
“Well, she has to have one, you know, and it’s not hard to guess who. This real or imaginary migraine certainly takes Vera through a lot of tricky situations. Eddie told me that she goes to a faith healer in the Cromwell Road and that he seems to be doing her good. Well, I ask you, Tina. Can you imagine a more ideal set-up for a spy? All sorts of strange people coming and going; no questions asked if one or two of them turn up regularly at the same time every week.”
“So now you’ve got it neatly worked out, what’s your next move?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I’d hate to get Eddie into any trouble and yet it’s hard to see how it could be avoided. Perhaps the best thing would be to wait for the inquest before I go any further. I was really just practising on you, testing for loopholes. If there were any I knew I could rely on you to pounce.”
“That’s good, because here comes one big enough to drive a coach and horses through.”
“Ah!”
“Mind you, I could be wrong, but I presume your idea is that having discovered that Hattie was in possession of this terrible secret, Vera made up her mind on the spot to murder her, dived into her bag and produced a bottle of poison labelled ‘slimming pills’?”
“No, you shouldn’t presume anything of the kind. I’m pretty sure the slimming pills will turn out to be harmless.”
“So no connection there with Vera, after all?”
“On the contrary. What I think actually happened was this: Vera gave Hattie the bottle and urged her to take one, maybe two or three, and, while she was talking, removed the stopper and pretended to shake out the correct dose; but the poisoned pills had already been concealed in her palm and it was those which she actually handed over.”
“And she just happened to be carrying this lethal dose around with her, on the principle that some such emergency might crop up any day of the week?”
“As far as the lethal dose goes, I shouldn’t wonder at all. I am sure the well-dressed spy is never without the means of certain and instant suicide at hand. As for the harmless ones, she had only to call in at one of the multiple chemists in Gillsford, pick them up off the counter, along with various other everyday things like aspirins and so on, and pay as she went out. No itemised record of the transaction, no reason why the cashier should have remembered her or what she bought. And don’t ask me how Vera could have made the journey back and forth to Gillsford with no car and without hiring a taxi, because I am now about to reveal the best bit of all.”
Strangely enough, however, Tina appeared to lose interest at this crucial point in the narrative and began looking at her watch in a furtive and anxious manner. The reason for this soon became clear.
“Well, it’s nice that you’ve got it all buttoned up,” she said, “and obviously you believe every word of it, but I’m afraid I can’t stop to listen to any more just now. There’s a film on which I’ve got to see and it starts in ten minutes.”
“Why got to see?”
“It’s about a dancer and Madam wants me to check it out for her. If it’s suitable, she’ll take some of her lot to see it tomorrow. They don’t have classes on the last day of term and she thinks it will keep them out of mischief and give them something more wholesome to talk about. Do you want to come?”
I had half hoped that Sergeant Dexter, fired by his conversation with Tina and the new insight it had provided into the ballerina’s life, might also have taken a whim to see this film, but, so far as I could tell in the few seconds before the lights went down, he was not present. And perhaps, after all, it was just as well, for he might have carried away a rather distorted picture. It was one of those perennial old fantasies about the conflict between love and career, and the heroine spent so much time glooming over it and arguing with her young man that it was hard to see how she managed to find much opportunity to practise. However, this proved to be no disadvantage at all because when the prima ballerina somewhat predictably fell down and injured her back this girl was unhesitatingly invited to take over her role. She did pretty well in it too, considering the lack of rehearsal; all of which made most people, including myself and the young man, extremely misty-eyed, but Tina’s snorts and snarls of derision could be heard all over the cinema. Furthermore, she continued to nag me about the absurdity of it the whole way home and I was so flattened by this tirade that I completely forgot to ask her what she had been doing prowling about on the river bank and whether she had found what she was looking for. So I stood my framed photograph of Robin on its head, to remind me to do so in the morning.
SIXTEEN
(1)
The aide-mémoire was superfluous, however. For one thing, the mémoire managed perfectly well without it, Tina’s strange cavortings being the first thing to hit me on waking. Secondly, when I got out of bed and sauntered through to the kitchen, it took less than a minute to discover that she had already gone out.
She had not left a note and, thinking that she might only have nipped up the road to fetch some milk or bread, I leant out of the sitting room window to try and see if her car was still parked on its regular spot. So far as I could tell, it was not, but as I was drawing my head in again a slightly more interesting sight presented itself. The white Rover, with Billy Bland at the wheel, drew up at the gate. Two stout women got out and walked up the path, as Billy drove off again.
There was nothing particularly mysterious about this, for I recognised the women on sight. They had both waited on us at the Waterside luncheon party, and during the brief periods when my attention was not fixed on more momentous affairs, I had amused myself by trying to guess whether they were sisters or mother and daughter, and whether Portuguese, Spanish or Italian. I now concluded that Billy had brought them over, probably as a matter of routine to clean out his surgery and consulting rooms, and that he preferred not to be there while they were doing it.
I soon found myself in sympathy with this prejudice because it was staggering how much noise they contrived to make as they went about their business and I wondered how it could be that, in a house of such solid construction and separated from these toilers by three storeys, I could still hear them shouting at each other, in whatever language it was, over the sound of running water and the hum of the vacuum-cleaner.
The answer came two hours later, when I went downstairs on my way out to spend the day at Roakes Common. There had been no word from Tina and, growing bored at the prospect of waiting around for her indefinitely, or else mooning about Gillsford on my own, I had telephoned Toby and invited myself to lunch. The two women were still at it, although it was not the ground floor which was the scene of their operations, but the one below Tina’s. The front door was wide open and the younger of the two was singing an old-fashioned ditty as she pushed the vacuum-cleaner up and down the hall. She grinned at me in a friendly way, then switched off the machine and went into a series of exaggerated gestures to illustrate her fatigue and exhaustion, puffing and blowing, fanning herself and going through the motions of mopping the sweat from her brow, having become conditioned, no doubt, to communicating largely in sign language.
“Too much work,” she groaned, in case I had missed the point, and I made a bet with myself about the accent.
“Yes, indeed! Do you come from Portugal?”
“No, Spain. España.”
“Ah! And I suppose you’re getting the place ready for a new tenant?”
“Ten-hant?”
“Has the flat been let? Rented? Someone coming to live here?”
“Oh yes, two three days only, but still all this work.”
“Must be hell. Do you know who it is?”
“Oh yes, very big man. Ambassador. Mrs. Bland say everything must be just so. You know?”
“Only too well. When is he coming?”
“Tonight. When we finish here we go back to Waterside. Afterwards we must come here again to prepare his dinner.”
“Then I’d better not keep you. Sounds as though you’ll have your work cut out.”
She looked bewildered, so I made a scissors movement with my fingers, turned it into a wave and continued on my way.
“So, presumably, Connie’s idea was that it would be distressing for him to stay at Waterside, so close to the scene of his child’s death, but at the same time he couldn’t be put up at the hotel like an ordinary mortal and this was her solution. Really, she’s a marvel, that woman. In good times and in bad, drunk or sober, she still thinks of everything.”
“Why drunk or sober?” Toby asked.
“There’s a popular theory in some quarters that her troubles are due to alcohol, and I suppose that might account for those mysterious black-outs and also for the fact that she appears to be living in a financial dream world.”
“Does your friend, Tina, subscribe to this theory?”
“She flares up like a forest fire at the mere mention of it, which probably means she does. What really worries her, though, is not so much Connie hitting the bottle as my suggestion that Billy, so far from restraining her, is busily pouring out the drinks.”
“So that eventually the poor lady will either kill herself or be tucked away in a home, leaving the field clear for the Madam of his dreams?”
“Exactly! And I don’t think that, secretly, Tina would be averse to such an outcome, as it happens. She’s on Madam’s side, in so far as she disapproves of the snobbery and extravagance of the present regime. Waterside represents something special for her too, the place which gave her the first taste of happiness and fulfilment, and she’s bent on preserving it, at all costs. The trouble with Tina, though, is that she’s a bit of a Puritan, and I dare say what really makes her so sensitive on the subject is that, however desirable, the end doesn’t justify the means. However, I haven’t come here to bore you about all their troubles.”
“Oh really? What have you come here to bore me about, then?”
“About Vera being a fraud, a spy and a murderess.”
“Oh good! That sounds like a passable ten minutes’ worth.”
Thus encouraged, I gave him the full Vera saga, very much as I had reeled it off for Tina. I had been relying on him for a different response from hers and I was not disappointed.
“Splendid,” he announced, having heard me through without interruption. “You are at the top of your form and I’ve no doubt you’re absolutely right in every particular. The only snag is . . .”
“Yes?”
“It sounds to me as though it will be so pitifully easy to prove or disprove and, if you should turn out to be absolutely wrong in every particular, you will have such a very short run for your money. Surely it would be the work of a moment for Robin to find out whether Vera is a genuine refugee or not and, if she is, doesn’t the whole theory come clattering to the ground?”
“Not at all,” I said firmly. “You surely don’t imagine that the spy manipulators leave such matters to chance? I have no doubt whatever that there was once a real Vera something or other, about the same age as our spurious one and similar to her in appearance. I expect she died in an asylum or prison camp, or something terrible, but they gave it out that she’d been released and then passed all her papers, birth certificate and so on, to Vera number two. I’ll bet you anything that her documentation is impeccable.”
“Oh, well done!” Toby said. “You’ve never been better!”
“Do you honestly think so?” I asked, gratification faintly shadowed with doubt in the face of such unqualified praise.
“I honestly do. You have my word.”
“I’m pleased, of course, but you know, Toby, I do find it a little weird. I didn’t expect you to be so contentious as Tina, but I was sure you’d find one or two flaws.”
“Ah well, you see, I wouldn’t want to do that, because everything you’ve said ties in so neatly with my own views.”
“Seriously? You mean you’d already come to the same conclusion about Vera?”
“Not Vera, no, not at all. I’ve hardly given her a thought, except to notice in passing that she has an unfortunate tendency to exhibitionism, but I’ve known for years that Eddie was a spy.”
“You’re joking?”
“Certainly not. I don’t wish to malign him in any way, but I should have said it was obvious.”
“I must say, Toby, for someone who doesn’t wish to malign someone, you’re not doing particularly well. And I simply cannot go along with such an extraordinary idea. I’ve always suspected that Eddie was in the wrong business; I feel sure he could make a vast fortune doing commercials for British gin on American television. But a spy! And Eddie, of all people! It wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years. You can’t possibly know any such thing.”
“Well, when I say I know, perhaps that is a slight exaggeration. Let us say I have always assumed it to be so. It is really the only way one can explain him.”
“Why is it? I don’t understand you.”
“Then consider the facts. He has an important and responsible job. In fact, you could say that he was at the very top of his own rather specialised profession. To have come so far in that cut-throat world you would need to be a tough and shrewd manipulator. Able to size people up, too, and handle awkward situations with the suave and tactful touch. You agree?”
“Yes, I’m not arguing about that. I still don’t see why it makes him a spy.”
“Then you’re not trying very hard, because the man I’ve just described, the working Eddie, so to speak, must be the true one; clever, ambitious and sharp as a needle. Now, at what point does that description fit the Eddie we know and love?”
“Nowhere at all, but then I’ve always suspected that the silly-fool manner was a bit of a pose.”
“Of course it’s a pose; the most gigantic pose ever invented. It must be fifty years since that type of Englishman existed, if he ever did, and in case you’re about to ask why he created such a fairy-tale, outdated character for himself, I shall tell you. When you are leading the double life and in constant fear of giving yourself away, you need to cover your secret one with a thick layer of pretence and the thicker it is the deeper your secret is buried. If you ever permitted yourself to behave naturally you would be in imminent danger of betraying yourself every time you opened your mouth.”
I told him that for all I knew he could be right, in general terms, but that it did not follow that all poseurs were spies. There could be dozens of other reasons for the thick layer of pretence, and nothing would ever convince me that this particular one applied to Eddie. Nevertheless, I was more shaken by his argument than I cared to admit and on the drive back to Gillsford I was struck by a memory which depressed me still further.
One little incident which had occurred on the morning after Hattie’s death had never been properly explained, nor slotted into the general scheme of things, and I found myself reliving once more the moment when Eddie and Vera came into the hotel lounge, where Robin and Toby and I had just met, and heard again Eddie’s lighthearted voice asking whether it were true that a Waterside girl had drowned herself.
I had not thought much about it at the time, having been prepared for some such rumour to be gaining currency before long, and it was not until much later, when we realised how successful Connie Bland’s hushing-up tactics had been, that I became puzzled by the fact that Eddie, and Eddie alone, had stumbled on this near-truth.
No doubt, Toby would have explained to me that it was an instance of the real man peeping out from behind his cover and that Eddie, being already aware of Hattie’s death for the very good reason that he had devised it, had invented the rumour out of a compulsive need to discover what developments had resulted.
However, I did not need Toby to spell all this out for me and drove on to Queen Anne House in a s
tate of deep and utter gloom.
(2)
Tina’s car was still not in evidence, its usual space now being occupied by a decrepit-looking Volkswagen, and when I opened the front door I found Pauline seated in the hall, looking every bit as despondent as I felt. She was clutching the handle of a trug which rested across her knees and, since it contained scissors, secateurs and other tools of the florist’s trade, I concluded that she had been sent by her mother, perfectionist to the last, to arrange the ambassadorial flowers.
The toothy grin went into top gear when she saw me and she sprang up with such verve and alacrity that the trug tipped over, scattering its contents on to the moss green Wilton pile.
“Oh, blissikins, Tessa!” she gabbled, as I helped to pick them up. “I can’t ever tell you how relieved I am to see you! You’ve saved the day!”
It was nice to know that I had brought some sunshine into her drab life, but the greeting was over-effusive, even by Pauline’s standards, so I waited for the pill to emerge from all this jam. It did not take long.
“Could you be an absolute angel, Tessa, and let me into Tina’s flat? I mean, you have got a key, haven’t you? Oh Lord, please don’t say you haven’t.”
“I won’t because I have, but what do you want to get in there for?”
It was probably none of my business, but one fell so naturally into the habit of treating Pauline like a retarded imbecile and she never seemed to resent it.
“Well, you see, the thing is, Tessa, Mummy suddenly remembered that the ormolu clock in the flat which Sir Charles is going to use has gone to be repaired and it’s left a horrid gap on the mantelpiece. So she wanted me to pop up to the top flat, when I came to do the flowers, and borrow the mahogany one from there. It’s about the same size, you see, but the frightful thing is that I’ve come without the key and the great man might turn up at any moment. Mummy will simply skin me if I go back and report that I haven’t been able to do it, so please be a darling and wave your magic wand.”