Saturday 18 January
On the Saturday evening Henry went with Cynthia and Albert to the Savoy. They had travelled up to London and booked in for the night and taken Henry as a guest to a party they had been invited to. Halfway through the evening and Henry was still not entirely sure what they were celebrating but the food was good, as was the wine, and there were several people present from the lists with whom Henry had failed to gain an interview or even a telephone conversation.
Cynthia had suggested that he beard them in their own environment, where introductions could properly be made and they would be more open to his advances.
This was not even Cynthia’s usual environment; it was a little upmarket even for her and many of the guests were from old and titled families and would not normally have given house room to his sister and her husband, they being new money and from trade. But Cynthia had been invited to this party by Marguerite Perdue, whose wildly romantic novels were very much in vogue and whose circle included lords and ladies, writers and artists and those with whom she shared charitable concerns. This put Cynthia almost on a level with this old money – at least for a few hours.
The author was also, Henry gathered, a good friend of Cynthia’s and they had known each other since Marguerite had simply been Maggie Purdy and they had studied shorthand and typing at the same evening class. He guessed she was one of the few present who could claim such long acquaintance.
When the formal part of the evening was over and the dancing had begun Cynthia took the time to make introductions and Henry discovered that ‘my brother, the murder detective’ opened doors and conversation that had hitherto been closed to him. Of course, everybody now wanted to talk about Faun Moran and the great mystery of her death, her mysterious reappearance and murder. She was, after all, one of their own and young, beautiful and now at the heart of a mystery that almost seemed as romantic as one of their hostess’ novels. Or was that his cynicism speaking? Henry wondered. It also didn’t hurt, Henry realized, that his most recent investigation, in which he had been injured when rescuing his niece, was also fresh in the minds of many who knew Cynthia and were desperate to get the inside story of what had gone on and who lost no time telling how brave he must have been. Henry was not used to being cast as hero and it grated now, but he was wise enough to realize this gave him an opening.
It was easy to turn the conversation to young Faun Moran. ‘Such a sweet girl, a little foolish, of course, but who isn’t at that age. She was such a beautiful debutante, of course. A lot of young women don’t bother with that kind of thing anymore, and we all know it can be tedious, but she knew her mother would have wanted her to be presented. I remember her mother the year she came out. What a beauty she was.’
‘Of course there are all sorts of rumours about his business. They say he lost an absolute pile when the stock market crashed.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to rumours, my dear, but I have heard he’s been rationalizing. Isn’t that the word they use?’
‘What, for selling off the family silver?’
‘Did dear Faun have any special friends?’ The tilt of the head. A moment of careful consideration.
‘Well, there was young Tommy Hillby, of course.’
‘Oh no, she finished with him an age ago. He’s engaged now, I believe.’
‘And there were rumours of those dreadful parties, of course.’ The speaker leaned in confidentially towards Cynthia and whispered, ‘Petting parties, you know, come over from America. Of course, the worst things always do.’
Cynthia did her best to look shocked but then whispered back, ‘From what I’ve heard, what happens at these parties is far more innocent than it sounds. Though I’m told that a pettable girl is called a biscuit. Can you imagine that? I could see that leading to all sorts of misunderstandings.’
Henry tried not to roll his eyes. He allowed the hilarity to die down before he asked, ‘So you don’t think she was serious about anybody?’
The dowager he was speaking to and whose name he had not quite caught pulled thoughtfully on her earring and then said, ‘The person to ask, of course, is young Ben Caxton. Nice boy, such a pity about his face and hands. And his eye, of course. I did hear that he’d set his cap at Pat Moran, but of course she threw him over and married young Clifford. It was not a bad match; he’s a decent enough young fellow and they do seem happy from what I can tell. But I suppose because he liked the elder sister, he took an interest in the younger. Ben Caxton, I mean, not Clifford. He’s here tonight, of course, I saw him not a half hour ago.’
She slipped her hand through Henry’s arm. ‘Come with me, my dear, and I will make the introductions.’
Henry caught the amused look on his sister’s face across the room as he was led away. She raised a hand and gave him a little wave and then went off to find her husband. Henry knew that Cynthia had been willing to make this introduction herself, but he knew also that she would be glad to be relieved of the responsibility. He realized also that any introduction made by this dowager would be more acceptable to Ben Caxton himself and would perhaps appeal to his vanity.
Ben Caxton was holding court, surrounded by a group of opulently dressed men and women who were laughing at something he had said. He noticed Henry, tilted his head to one side and looked thoughtfully at this man he did not know and around whose arm Millicent Pavis’s clawlike hand was wrapped. He excused himself from the group and Henry could almost hear the sigh of disappointment as they released him.
‘Millicent, how are you, my dear? And what have you brought me? I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’
‘I’ve brought you a detective.’ Millicent sounded very proud of the fact. ‘We’ve all been discussing poor Faun Moran and I told him if anybody knows anything it would be you. You know everything about everybody.’
‘Hardly that. Millicent, you were always prone to exaggeration.’ Ben Caxton extended a hand and introduced himself.
‘Henry Johnstone,’ Henry said.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Henry Johnstone,’ Millicent emphasized. She released Henry’s arm and patted him gently. ‘Now you two have a good chat, it’s been so lovely to make your acquaintance.’
The two men watched her go, disappearing into the crowd. Ben Caxton laughed. ‘You mustn’t mind Millicent, she’s quite a character. Now, can I get you a drink? Let’s try and find somewhere quiet to sit, if that’s possible in this crush.’
He glanced around and then began to walk across the ballroom towards what Henry could now see was an anteroom at the side. The crowd seemed to part before him and Henry got the strangest feeling that if he didn’t hurry to keep up the sea of bodies would simply close between him and Ben Caxton and he would be cut off and he would be becalmed.
Caxton directed Henry to a seat, beckoning a waiter as he did so and asking Henry what he would like to drink. ‘And now, what can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to ask you about Faun Moran. How well did you know her? How close were the two of you?’
Ben Caxton raised an eyebrow. Somehow, he was still handsome and certainly charismatic, Henry thought, despite the scars and his missing eye. He wore an eye patch which gave him a slightly piratical air and on the scarred side of his face the skin was pulled tight. The scars extended down on to his neck and Henry guessed continued on to his shoulder and chest. His right hand, Henry noticed as he took his glass, was also badly mutilated with two fingers missing and thick ridges of badly healed tissue crisscrossing the back.
Other men, Henry thought, would hide in the shadows and be reluctant to expose their injuries, but Ben Caxton gave the impression that he was a man almost oblivious to them. That he had undoubtedly earned these questionable badges of honour with acts of valour, but was not going to make a big fuss about it. Henry reminded himself that Caxton had gained his scars by saving the lives of others and had almost died in the effort.
He took his own whiskey and soda and then said, ‘I understand you knew the older sister, P
at Moran as she was. Pat Clifford now.’
‘I know the family. The father and I have often done business. Though not so much the past year or so when our interests diverged. Pat is a wonderful woman, happily married with two beautiful children. And I have to say she deserves the happiness. Caius gave her a hard time growing up.’ He paused, as though hesitant about what he was going to say next and then added, ‘Nothing is ever good enough for Caius. He is a hard man in many ways.’
‘And the younger daughter, Faun, she pulled against that constraint.’
‘From what I observed, she certainly did.’
‘And what is your opinion of the girl? I believe you took an interest.’
‘An interest!’ A short bark of laughter. ‘I liked her elder sister and for a time, as no doubt you have heard, I wondered if she would begin to like me as much. As it happened she found someone more to her taste, but we remain good friends and I have a lot of respect for Pat. So when Faun came on the scene, yes, I took an interest. She seemed like a very unhappy child, and make no mistake, Chief Inspector, she was a child. Naive, oddly unworldly. In some ways, of course, that was charming but it’s also very dangerous, there are always people around to take advantage and I worried for her, I will admit that. So yes, I suppose I became like a big brother.’
‘And no more than that.’
‘As I said, she was just a child.’
‘She was nineteen. Girls are frequently married at that age.’
‘The more fool them. And the men they marry. Girls are rushed into these things, they have no chance to discover who they are before suddenly they are wives and mothers and more than often unhappy. I must admit I worried for Pat. She was only twenty-one, you know, when she married Clifford, but it has worked out well for her.’
‘From what I’ve heard Faun was fond of … unconventional venues. She was often to be found in what might be called inappropriate places, gambling clubs and less than salubrious dance halls.’
Ben Caxton laughed. ‘Oh my goodness, you do sound like a prude. I would not have expected that of Cynthia’s brother. Oh yes, I know who you are. Now there is a woman to be admired,’ he added, his eyes on Henry, and Henry knew that Caxton was gauging his response.
Keeping his voice neutral, Henry said, ‘She is remarkable.’
‘Quite so. I’ve no doubt that Faun would have been equally remarkable had she lived, but of course we will never know now. You must be aggrieved, I imagine, at how badly the incident was handled. The car crash, I mean. It does not reflect well on the police force, and now you are taking over the enquiry I imagine it does not reflect well on you. It seems to me that this is a little bit of a poisoned chalice.’
‘You could see it, as I am inclined to, as an opportunity to put things right. Mistakes were made. There were misjudgements and not just by the police. It would for instance have been helpful if a full post-mortem had been carried out rather than a simple, cursory examination. The identification could have been called into question much sooner. But apparently Mr Moran did not even take the time to identify his own daughter. He gave that task to the family doctor, who proved unequal to it.’
Henry knew that he was being provocative. He watched as the unscarred side of Ben Caxton’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘Oh, you are as fierce as your sister,’ he said. ‘But that is no bad thing. I believe Caius was away from home and thought that the matter could be better expedited by having the doctor make the identification immediately, rather than wait for his return. I also believe that the family doctor no longer holds that post. That he was found wanting, shall we say.’
‘Did Faun Moran ever come to your home?’
‘She did, yes, with her sister when she was younger. And I believe she may have come once or twice since.’
‘You believe? You can’t be sure.’
‘Chief Inspector Johnstone, from time to time people do visit my home and I don’t keep count as to who and when. Not as many as might visit your sister, of course, but then I’m not as sociable.’
‘If you’re not sociable then I’m surprised that you are here tonight.’
‘The difference, Chief Inspector, is that I can walk away from this place anytime I like. If I have houseguests then I must entertain them. I’m expected to be present and attentive and frankly that soon becomes tiresome.’ He drained his glass and then looked expectantly at Henry. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘As a matter of fact, there is. I won’t keep you but I have two more questions. The first is did you ever write letters to Faun Moran?’
‘Why would I write letters to her? She was the younger sister of a friend, that is all.’
‘Would it be possible to have a sample of your handwriting, for the processes of elimination?’
Ben Caxton looked exasperated. He searched his pockets as though looking for a pen and paper. Henry obliged him with a notebook taken from his own pocket and a stub of pencil in a little silver holder. ‘It’s not a pen, I’m afraid, but it should do.’
‘What would you like me to write?’
‘Your name and address would do. That will serve double duty of saving me to look it up later.’
Caxton sighed but did as he was asked. ‘You are becoming less entertaining by the minute,’ he said. ‘Now, what else do you want to ask me?’
‘I believe there is a man called Victor Mullins in your employ.’
‘No, Chief Inspector, there is not. Mr Mullins left me some time ago.’
‘Oh, why is that?’
‘Chief Inspector … Henry … Mullins was an employee. Employees sometimes choose to leave. I gave him good references and off he went. I believe he wanted to return home to Ireland, but as I haven’t heard from him since he left, I have no idea where he is now.’
‘Your house is quite remote and out of the way, I imagine that might cause problems in terms of getting people to work there. Do you have a high turnover of staff?’
‘What an odd question. As a matter of fact, I inherited most of the staff from my father, and they had been with him for many years. The only turnover, as you put it, is with the kitchen maids. Cook takes them on, trains them up and they usually find positions in other houses. As I’m sure you know, young girls don’t want to go into service these days, but my household has a reputation for good treatment, and first-class training. They don’t even have to pay for their uniforms. I happen to find it very offensive that a young woman might enter service, but it might take two full years to pay back the cost of her uniform and her training, such as it often is. The wages are egregious. Most domestic maids get little more than ten shillings a week. Don’t you think that is disgraceful?’
The conversation had taken an unusual turn, Henry thought.
‘I like to treat my staff well because that builds loyalty. My father thought the same and as I say we have members of staff that have been with the household for twenty or thirty years. My father disliked change, and I admit to similar feelings so the arrangement suits everybody. On retirement they know that they will have a cottage on one of the estates and a small pension. They are grateful for that, Chief Inspector.’
Someone spoke his name and Ben Caxton inclined his head towards Henry and then went off to join the young man who had called out to him. There was no backward glance towards Henry, who knew he’d been thoroughly dismissed. And he knew also that a message had been delivered. Don’t poke about in my affairs, Ben Caxton was telling him. You won’t find anybody to speak out against me. Which meant, Henry thought, that there must be something to speak out about. He glanced at the piece of paper on which was written the name and address of Ben Caxton and he realized immediately that the handwriting was quite different from that of the love letters.
‘Damn,’ Henry muttered. ‘So if not him, who the hell wrote them?’
Vic
In a sixteenth-century trunk in an unused part of the house there were certain items that from time to time Vic felt the need to examine. Certain items of feminine c
lothing, a small mirror, a comb. A tiny but rather beautifully enamelled music box which when opened revealed a little bird which twittered and sang. A silver bracelet and a gold brooch. A cheap lipstick in a brass holder and a pretty hair clip shaped like a leaf.
He would remove these items and lay them out on the floor, stroking the little fox fur, the smooth silk of an evening dress, remembering and imagining, the memory of those women he had brought to this place before Faun had become Ben’s latest chosen one. And then he would replace them, laying them carefully in the trunk before locking it, covering it once more with one of the ubiquitous dust sheets. It always seemed strange to Vic that his employer, though he saved these souvenirs, seemed not to need to look at them again. Ben’s memory, it seemed, did not need refreshing.
It always seemed a shame to Vic that the house was not better used. Fires were lit occasionally in the unused wings just to keep the place aired and in the summer the windows were thrown open and the fresh air blew the stale winter away. The house was far too big for Ben Caxton, but Vic always knew that Ben would never be prepared to give it up.
FIFTEEN
Faun, December
Martha has agreed to take my letter. Oh God in heaven, I am so grateful. She will post my letter for me and Pat, I know that you will come and find me. You might not believe that your little sister is still alive but I know you will recognize my most terrible handwriting and you’ll know that the letter comes from me. I don’t have an envelope to give her or a stamp but she tells me she can manage to find those and will copy your address faithfully on to the envelope.
I am so grateful I could hug her, but I know if I tried she would skitter out of my reach like some scared little mouse. She cares for me and is kind, but she still thinks me mad.
I’ve been thinking about that book, Jane Eyre, you know the scene about the mad wife kept in the attic and how she sets fire to the house? I wish I could do that, but I’m not permitted a fire. When Martha is here she is permitted to bring an electric fire and the room is then warm for a little while, but he insists that she must take it away with her when she goes. She begged him to give me warmer covers for the bed and eventually he agreed, but the room is so cold that frost forms on the glass, curling like fern leaves. Do you remember when we were children and we would go up to the attic rooms to look at the frost ferns?
Bright Young Things Page 16