by Anne Morice
I was awakened by distant thunder growing closer with every burst and, when that had died petulantly away, the rain, which had been shivering in the wings, swept forward with a soughing sigh and pounded down on the baked earth.
The temperature had dropped so dramatically that I had to get out of bed to shut the window and retrieve my eiderdown from the wardrobe, where it had been stacked away during the heatwave. This woke me up conclusively, but I did not despair, for I possess numerous remedies for insomnia and on this occasion there was just the right kind of mechanical, memory-testing task all ready and waiting. This consisted of taking myself back, step by step, through the schedule I had made for Chief Inspector Mackenzie and its purpose was the one which I had boldly attributed to him. However, I trust he found it more rewarding in this respect than I did, for I went out like a light somewhere around ten-thirty a.m. on Saturday, with Piers coming into the kitchen to make his light-hearted report on Sophie’s threatened miscarriage.
The garden next morning was a desolate sight, with branches and windfalls tossed around on the grass and every bed strewn with mushy rose petals. I visualised Mr Parkes being in a sorry humour, for, like so many people whose activities are governed by the weather, he is constantly outraged by any misbehaviour in this department. Nevertheless, I plucked up courage to relay through Mrs Parkes the request that he should put up the hood of my car.
‘Yes, that’s the trouble with these contraptions,’ she remarked. ‘Up and down, up and down, all through the summer. I shouldn’t want the bother of it.’
‘I quite agree with you,’ I said. ‘It’s the bother of it which I find detestable too. Let’s hope Mr Parkes doesn’t see it in the same light.’
Having put this matter in train, I next tried to telephone Betsy, to find out what time she would be ready to leave. I rang the Stables first and got through to Jasper, another of those outdoor workers who had failed to cultivate a philosophical attitude to the climate. His reaction to the storm was quite simply that he had been singled out by the heavens for an act of personal spite, although there was an underlying hint that I was not entirely blameless in the matter either.
‘Do you realise,’ he demanded furiously, ‘that I only needed two more days for my last shots? Five hundred feet in the can and I’d have been home and dry.’
‘Very trying for you,’ I agreed, ‘but it was ever thus, was it not? I know when we do exteriors on location we count ourselves lucky to get four hours sunshine in a fortnight.’
‘I daresay you do,’ he snarled. ‘And with your commercial budgets I can see that you could laugh it off. It’s slightly different for me.’
I was tempted to remind him that it was not so very different, now that he had Betsy’s quarter of a million to play with, but at the same time I wasn’t looking for insults so I said:
‘What about all the editing and printing? Why not get on with that instead?’
‘Mainly because you’re holding me up with your idiotic chatter. What do you want, anyway?’
‘To speak to Betsy, if she’s there.’
‘No, she’s not. At least, she was until a minute ago, dithering about and getting in my way, but she seems to have gone now. Probably over at the house.’
‘All right, I’ll try that. And, if she’s not there, I expect Albert will know where I can find her.’
‘No, Albert won’t, because he’s here, washing up the breakfast things. Which reminds me; Betsy said something at breakfast about spending the day in London. That’s probably where she’s gone.’
‘I don’t think she’d have done that without letting me know, Jasper. We were supposed to be driving up together.’
‘I don’t know anything about that, but I confess I wasn’t really listening.’
‘Well, if you see her, will you ask her to call me back? It’s important.’
‘Not to me,’ he replied. ‘But I’ll tell her if I remember.’ I dialled the Rectory number, but no one answered. Half an hour later there was still no word from Betsy and no reply when I tried the number again. I was driven to the conclusion that she had forgotten all about our engagement and gone to London by train.
I did not enjoy my solitary journey, for the rain cascaded down in buckets the whole way and the other drivers were as moody and irritable as I was, feelings which they expressed by overtaking me at ninety miles an hour and throwing up bathfuls of greasy water on to my windscreen. Long before I reached the tail of the traffic crawling over the Chiswick flyover I was bitterly lamenting having tied myself down to a twelve o’clock hair appointment but it was too late for regrets of that sort and in fact decisions involving deep rooted strategy now had to be faced.
I had intended to go directly to Beacon Square, park the car there and inject myself back into the mainstream with a few telephone calls before setting out by taxi for the next leg but, between them, the weather and Betsy’s absent-mindedness had set me so far behind that, to add to all the other woes, I was now committed to a long, losing battle with the traffic wardens.
However, there is nothing to compare with the scented, womb-like shelter of a really expensive hairdressers to create the illusion of well-being and an hour or so in the company of Mr Jackie, senior partner of Jacques et Gils, always restored the drooping spirits.
Unlike Mr Gils, who is an authentic Parisian and rather intimidating, perpetually staring with smouldering, coal black eyes at his own reflection above the client’s head, Mr Jackie is a gregarious and sentimental Englishman, with a passion for mild indiscretions, particularly those appertaining to his more celebrated clients. He received me rapturously, being agog for news about the Stirling funeral and where the money had been left.
Maud had been an old and much-prized customer and even Betsy went to him three or four times a year, but Margot was unpopular in the shop, on account of her stinginess. She was always trying to trade on her mother’s standing to get cut rates for herself and had even been known to wash her hair at Lowndes Square, wrap it in a scarf and march into the shop, demanding to have it set. Jackie was not at all put out to learn that she had virtually been cut off with a portrait.
Sophie, on the other hand, had patronised a rival establishment, so his curiosity about her death was minimal and I was able to bundle this incident safely into the background.
‘What a terrible shock, though!’ he said, reverting to Maud. ‘That golden voice stilled for ever, as you might say. Poor old darling, dropping off like that, without any warning. Frankly, Miss Crichton, I expected her to outlive us all, truly I did. Such sparkle! I was down there only the previous week, you know.’
‘She was okay then, was she?’
‘Bright as a button. We had a lovely chat.’
‘Well, she was pretty rocky some of the time, by all accounts.’
‘Oh, I know, but I always thought that spirit of hers would carry her through for a good many years to come. That’s what I find so sad, if you see what I mean? Her dropping off the hook like that when she was still enjoying life and planning for the future. We were making a new creation for her, you know. That’s what I went down about. She wanted a fitting before we did the final trim on it. That shows you, doesn’t it? She was a regular tartar for having things perfect, you couldn’t help admiring it. Luckily, she’d kept a few wisps of her own in front, so we were able to get the hair-line looking natural. Some people might call it silly vanity to worry about such things at her age, but I’m all for it. I think it shows the right attitude to go on caring how you look right up to the end, don’t you?’
‘Certainly I do, and I must say you did a beautiful job for her. I never knew.’
‘Not a soul did, apart from Mrs Craig, of course. But that’s what we call professionalism, isn’t it? Mind you, I’d never have breathed a word, even to you, while she was alive. She’d have had me boiled in oil, most likely; but it can’t harm her now, poor old duck. The wig’s finished now and it’s a real beauty. I’ll show you, if you’re interested. Not that it�
��ll ever be worn, and so bang goes a hundred and fifty quid down the drain. Still, I’m not moaning about that, truly, Miss Crichton. It’s losing poor lovely Miss Stirling that upsets me.’
‘But, Jackie, you don’t have to lose financially as well.’
‘No? Well, I can’t see Mrs Roche coughing up, can you? Anyway, I wouldn’t want her to find out what the money was for, and I know she wouldn’t rest until she’d got it out of me. And I wouldn’t sell it to anyone else, if they went down on their bended knees. You’ll think I’m touched, I daresay, but to me that wig was just as much a part of Miss Stirling as if it had grown on her naturally.’
‘But since Mrs Craig was in the secret, why not speak to her?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to worry her, would I, with all she’s going through. I know so well what it’s like, from when I lost my own mother. No, I shall just have to keep it as a memento of happy days gone by,’ he said, brushing away a tear. ‘There we are then, that’s you done! I’ll just get Shirley to slip the net on, if you don’t mind.’
He was clearly too moved to make it a suitable time to pursue the matter, but while I was under the dryer it occurred to me that I had something more practical than sympathy to offer, for Gerald Pettigrew’s address and telephone number were written down in my diary. I fished it out of my bag, copied the details on to a blank page and wrote underneath: ‘Miss Stirling’s solicitor and executor, who will settle all accounts in strictest confidence.’
My plan was to hand this to Jackie before I left, so that he might profit by it when emotions had cooled, but meanwhile the first idea had given birth to a second, and as soon as Shirley released me from the dryer I asked her to bring me a telephone.
The switchboard operator told me that Mr Gerald was engaged with a client and put me through to his secretary. I explained that I had been requested to fix an appointment and after a bit of swishing back and forth through the engagement diary she marked me down for eleven a.m. on the following Friday. Pretending it was an afterthought, I then asked if the client with Mr Gerald was by any chance Mrs Craig, and she said no, it wasn’t.
‘Strange!’ I mused. ‘I was certain she was due to see him about now. We were to meet for lunch afterwards. I hope I haven’t made some ghastly mistake.’
There was a brief pause, while the mind on the other end of the line made itself up, and then the voice said:
‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Craig did have an appointment this morning, but she hasn’t turned up. We tried to contact her in the country, but there was no reply, so perhaps she’s on her way. Should I give her any message if she does arrive?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I may call again later, to see if you have any news.’
I gave the torn-out page to Jackie, who remarked that he hated to be mercenary, but supposed one had to live. The mood had changed during the interval and he was once more the full, dedicated artiste of the haute coiffure, endlessly twitching and tweaking at my hair, as though putting the finishing touches to a wedding cake, until I could have snatched the brush from his hand and flung it across the room.
‘Going somewhere nice for lunch?’ he enquired, evidently sensing my impatience but misinterpreting it.
‘No,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m going straight back to the country. Something tells me there isn’t a minute to lose.’
XIII
By one of life’s hideous ironies, it was Albert who found her. On him of all people, whom she had striven so hard to shelter and protect, she had perpetrated the worst outrage of all. Almost the cruellest part of it, as he tried to explain to me in an English which had suddenly fallen apart, was his impotence to cover her indignity from the prying eyes of strangers, for he knew that he must not disturb the naked body which lay stretched out in the bath, nor even put a hand in the water which covered it; and that everything, including the red-hot bars of the electric wall fire, had to be left exactly as it was for the police.
The story which led up to his dreadful discovery eventually emerged as follows:
Having finished washing up the breakfast dishes at the Stables, he had been obliged to remain there for a further fifteen or twenty minutes because Jasper had needed help in moving some tins of exposed film which he intended to spend the morning developing, and in blacking out the bathroom to make a temporary laboratory. It was therefore half past nine or thereabouts before he returned to the Rectory. On his way upstairs he had passed by Betsy’s room and through the open door had seen her London clothes laid out on the bed. The door of her bathroom was shut and he could hear the water running. He had continued upstairs to his own flat on the top floor, presumably to do a little quiet brooding, for it was nearly ten-thirty before it occurred to him that he had heard no sounds from below and, stranger still, that Betsy had not called out to say goodbye to him and let him know what time she would be home.
So downstairs again he went and found the bedroom door open, just as before, and her clothes still lying on the bed. There was no sound of running water from the bathroom, signifying, although he did not know this until later, that the taps were already submerged; and there was no response when he tapped on the door. He tried the handle, but found it locked.
At this point a slight panic must have set in for, instead of going to fetch Jasper, he had gone out to the garage to find the tall ladder, meaning to try and climb in through the bathroom window. However, for some inexplicable reason the ladder was not in its usual place and still more valuable time had been wasted in a fruitless search for it. He estimated that it was around eleven o’clock when it finally occurred to him to enlist Jasper’s help, and by that time the stable door was open and the horse had trotted off to the pub. Albert had then returned to the Rectory, stopping off at the woodshed to collect an axe and, although almost fainting with terror, had managed to hack his way in through the bathroom door.
The remaining details were filled in some hours later, after the police had completed their gruesome business. Albert, by then, had been treated for shock and despatched to his own quarters. Meanwhile Jasper, having walked in during the middle of the third act, had at first refused to believe what had happened and then collapsed on the staircase in a storm of sobs, literally wailing like a child for its lost mother.
Even before I turned into the drive I knew that I was too late and that the terrible forebodings which had sent me hurtling out of London had all been justified. There were two police cars parked outside in the lane and two more inside the gate. Dr Macintosh was standing beside his own car, talking to one of the officers as I drove in. I was trembling so violently that it was an effort to move, but when I finally staggered out of the car he walked over, grabbed my arm and led me at a brisk pace to the morning-room. There, in brief and factual terms, he told me that Betsy was presumed to have died between nine and ten o’clock, although it was difficult to establish this with complete accuracy because the intense heat from the electric fire had kept up the temperature of the water, interfering with the normal onset of rigor mortis. He also told me that the actual cause of death was drowning, but the water and taps had been heavily charged with electricity and there could be little doubt that in getting into the bath she had received a severe enough shock to render her unconscious.
When I asked him how such a thing could have happened he tried to explain to me about short circuits being conducted by water when the wiring was faulty, as had been found to be the case with the two bathroom plugs, one connecting the fire and the other the towel rail, both of which had been switched on.
‘Which means that someone messed them up deliberately?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s for the police to find out, if they can. It could have been accidental. Amateurs can be mighty careless about electrical equipment. Still, it’s odd that they should both have been wired up wrongly.’
‘And it could have been done days ago, without causing harm to anyone, so long as the hot weather lasted?’
‘Suppose so, but that�
�s not our worry, is it? Take things one step at a time, that’s my principle. They’re bad enough without our trying to delve into all the sinister implications, even if they have to be faced in the end. Margot’s on her way down, incidentally.’
It was a curious incidental, in view of the reflections which had prompted it, but I let it pass and he told me that the police had arranged for one of their men in Knightsbridge to go round to Lowndes Square and break the news and that Piers had telephoned half an hour later to say that they were leaving London immediately in his car. Dr Macintosh then told me that he had personally been in touch with Gerald Pettigrew and, judging by the poor chap’s reactions, he considered himself to have had a sight more unpleasant task than the Knightsbridge policeman.
‘Is Gerald coming down too?’ I asked.
‘Not immediately. I’m to ring him this evening to let him know what . . . um . . . the arrangements are. He’s sending one of his junior partners to Sophie’s inquest tomorrow.’
When his ghastly tale was done, he stood for a while with his back to me, jingling some coins in his pocket and staring out on to the terrace, and I guessed he was rehearsing his speech about there being nothing I could do by hanging around and should now pack it in, go home and try to stay out of mischief. It would not have been the first time he had delivered it, but on this occasion he turned back to me with a worried look on his face, and said:
‘Look here, Tessa, you appear to be taking this very calmly. It’s unlike you and I hope it’s not deceptive. Quite right to keep a grip on yourself up to a point, but if you feel like breaking down, go ahead and don’t mind me. I’d rather that than have another case of shock and hysteria on my hands.’