Death in High Heels

by Christianna Brand

  “Do you mean that you want us to gas and gabble about poor old Doon to any morbid female that comes in here seeking for sensation?… I’m damned if I will.”

  “I don’t mean that, of course, Judy, dear, and you know it, don’t you now?”

  Judy wrenched herself free of Gregory’s deprecatory hand. “I don’t know anything except that you want us to make capital for this beastly shop out of Doon’s death. I never heard anything so filthy and indecent in my life.”

  “That’s nonsense, my dear. I simply want to prevent the business from coming to unnecessary harm.”

  “The business! You’d sell your soul for this bloody business, Gregory, I really believe you would. I believe you’re capable of murdering Doon yourself,” cried Judy, hysterically, “just to get publicity for Christophe et Cie.”

  There was a horrible silence. “Don’t be an idiot, Judy,” said Rachel at last. “The publicity’s much more likely to harm Christophe’s than to do it good, and you know it. Gregory’s only trying to do her best to save it—though I must say, Gregory, I don’t think much of your way of going about it.”

  But Gregory was staring at Judy, speechless with fury. “Since when have you been so much up in arms for Doon’s sake?” she burst out, disregarding Rachel’s efforts for peace. “Before you accuse other people of murder, you’d better examine your own conscience. What about Doon and your young man? Doon took him away from you, didn’t she? You didn’t particularly love her, did you?”

  Judy walked away without a word, but after a moment she came back. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she said, deliberately, honesty struggling with her angry pride. “I didn’t mean it when I said that you killed Doon: I happen to know that you didn’t. As for my young man as you call him, you’re on the wrong tack there; it’s true that Doon took him away, and I hated her for it; I hated her like hell, and I don’t care who knows it—but if I had killed her, I wouldn’t have poisoned her; and I’m not going to gossip about her now that she’s dead.” She walked away again.

  Rachel stood irresolute. “Have you finished your speech, Gregory? Because, if so …”

  “Leave her alone, dear; she’ll get over it. I’m afraid we’re all unstrung and say things we don’t mean,” said Gregory, apologizing a little for her own behaviour. They were indeed all of them nervy and on edge. Doon’s last hour in their midst had not been beautiful and her death was a terrible shock; moreover, among them moved a murderer—a murderer might even be one of the little group in which they stood. Aileen said, evidently following this train of thought: “Arthur wants me to leave.”

  “Oh, Aileen, don’t do that,” cried Rachel, impulsively affectionate. “Let’s all stick together and get through it somehow. Whatever should we do without our redhead?”

  Aileen looked at her in mild surprise and Rachel felt a little abashed at her own eagerness; but Gregory fell upon the embryo of emotionalism and proceeded to develop the theme of a united sisterhood until the original perpetrator could have sunk through the floor with shame, and Victoria felt cold slugs of embarrassment crawling down her spine. Irene, never averse to a little sentimentality, remained in earnest discussion with Gregory, half enjoying it, half hypnotized by the staring eyes; but Rachel and Victoria crept away and hid themselves in their little room, propping their aching foreheads upon their hands.

  “Things are getting terrible, Rachel, aren’t they?” said Victoria, miserably. “Fancy Judy flying off the handle like that. Heaven knows, she never was one to mince her words, as Mrs. Harris would say, but to go all hysterical and practically accuse Gregory of murdering Doon!…”

  “But she took it back very handsomely. She sounded very certain, Toria; why should she have said that she knew Gregory didn’t do it?”

  “You don’t think there can be any truth in what Gregory said—I mean about Judy’s Bill, and all that?”

  “Oh, my dear, no! Not Judy. Judy might have hit Doon over the head or something, but it was true when she said she wouldn’t have poisoned her. Anyway, all that fuss was ages ago—it was when Gregory was so thick with Doon; I suppose that’s how she knew—and Judy’s engaged again now.”

  “Yes, but Rachel, only since Doon’s death! Judy rang Bill up that night Doon was ill … of course, as soon as they started talking, she began to undestand that he’d fallen out of love with Doon long ago, and was only waiting and praying for the chance to come back to her… it didn’t come until Doon was dead.”

  “I suppose she might have seen the poison lying about.…”

  “Rachel, this is ghastly, isn’t it? How can we be saying such things and about dear little Judy of all people? But it’s all so dark and beastly—I shall start suspecting myself next. Thank God I’ve got you, Ray,” she added, soberly. “I can say with absolute faith that I know you didn’t do it, and I know I didn’t do it, so that does make two of us at least. And Rene, of course,” she added, hurriedly.

  “Toria, you haven’t noticed anything funny about Rene? She’s been terribly queer since this affair, hasn’t she?”

  “She’s upset about Doon, that’s all. She’s a tenderhearted little thing.”

  “Yes, but, Toria, she did want to go to Deauville most terribly.…”

  “But Doon wasn’t going to Deauville, Rachel. Gregory was.”

  “Gregory won’t go now. Bevan can’t possibly spare her. It means that Irene will go—it comes to the same thing.”

  “But, my dear, nobody would kill anyone for such a round-about reason as that; it’s fantastic! And, anyway, Irene, of all people; she’s terribly sentimental—she wouldn’t kill a mouse.”

  “There’s a lot of difference between sentiment and sentimentality,” said Rachel, slowly. “Irene’s sentimental, and lots of sentimental people have a very hard streak in them. She wouldn’t kill a mouse, it’s true; but she’d set a trap for one, and if it got caught by its leg and squeaked and struggled, she’d go away somewhere where she wouldn’t hear it—but she’d leave it to die. I’d set a trap for it myself; but if it wasn’t killed outright I’d—I’d release the trap and let it go or at least put it out of its pain.”

  “And I’m so sentimental that I wouldn’t even set the trap,” said Victoria, smiling. “But Rachel, don’t worry about Irene. I did, too, but it’s all right, I’m sure it is. After all, she couldn’t have had any of the oxalic acid…”

  “She did pick up a few grains off the floor,” said Rachel, “but it was awfully little, because I saw it. And she was right in her corner when Macaroni spilt it; she never moved at all.…”

  “And also,” began Victoria, but the words froze on her lips; she looked up and saw that Rachel had gone very white—they stared into each other’s eyes, and at that moment Irene came out of Bevan’s room and Bevan himself, standing at the door, called out pleasantly: “Mrs. Gay, come over here, will you? I want to have a word with you.”

  Irene looked excited, but not entirely happy. Gregory, still in the glow of their recent confabulation, caught her hand and poured out congratulations on her getting the post at Deauville; but Irene released herself coldly and, with a brief word to Victoria, took her handbag and went downstairs to the cloakroom. A clock struck six. The doors were locked, frocks and hats removed from their stands and carefully put away in cupboards, and all but the window lights extinguished one by one. Blue satin overalls were hitched on to pegs, silk-stockinged legs twinkled up the area steps: the traffic of London held out its greedy arms.

  Left to herself, Gregory walked home in an agony of self-examination. She knew that she was unpopular. Everywhere she went, she met with the same spirit of distrust and frustration. “I can’t understand it,” she thought, drearily, stepping along in her sharp, businesslike way, leaning forward a little from the hips, grasping her uncompromising handbag by its handle; “can it really be only because they’re silly and shallow and not worth while? Look at Aileen: a brainless little idiot and not even a lady; and yet Rachel is quite upset at the idea of losing her. R
achel herself—she’s as generous and warm and good-natured as a child; but she closes up her heart when I come near. Victoria’s voice changes and they all stop laughing and talking; and then when I move away everything’s free and natural and friendly again.” She began to pray to some half-forgotten personal gods of her childhood: “What can I do to make them like me more? Is it because they recognize that I’m, perhaps, in a different class from them, that I’ve got a better brain, more—more depth … maybe if I pretended to be just as silly and aimless and easy-going … oh, God! I really believe I’d do that, if I could feel that they would be friends with me, be fond of me … if only I needn’t walk through the world so utterly, and unbearably, alone.…” Her heart was humble and her eyes full of tears as she put her key in the latch and opened the door of her room. Over a biscuit-box peeped two pointed ears and a pair of startled eyes. She caught up a heavy slipper and, holding it by the heel, gave chase.

  Five

  1

  CHARLESWORTH, with a sigh of relief, abandoned all thoughts of a Bevan-Victoria alliance. After all, he told himself, the laughing voice in the office had given no indication of consent; and, whatever lay behind that little mystery, there was a minus B registered against Victoria’s name in the list of suspects: she had not known that Doon was going to be in to lunch, so she could not possibly be guilty of murdering her. Moreover, he could think of no conceivable reason that she might have had; the job at Deauville had not been remotely within reach, nor on account of her marriage could she have accepted it. Her husband’s work had hitherto proved meritorious rather than profitable, but she lived with him on terms of extravagant devotion and was apparently perfectly happy to continue with her job until the day when his genius should burst upon an astonished and undeserving world…. Jealousy? It was true that Doon had sat to him and that he had “been terribly thrilled with her,” but Charlesworth had the sense to know that admiration of his model is by no means invariably a cause of disruption in a painter’s home. Besides, if she were interested in Bevan—but Charlesworth fought against that.

  No, he could confine his attentions to the six suspects who had all had the two famous Opportunities: Cecil, Bevan, Rachel; Judy, Aileen, Mrs. Harris. Despairing of discrimination he shut his eyes tightly and applied a pin. The lot fell upon Cecil and, without wasting time on needless speculation, Charlesworth drove himself round to the bijou service flats to begin his battle anew.

  Cecil was out and was not expected back that night. Charlesworth proceeded to pump the servants, but without result; he was turning away when the housekeeper, disappointed at having been of so little assistance, casually added that it was a pity they couldn’t have asked Mr. Cecil’s friend about it, as he had been ever such a friend of that Miss Doon; but that he, of course, had disappeared.

  “Disappeared!”

  “That’s right, sir, and neither Mr. Cecil nor anyone else knows where he is.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” asked Charlesworth, heatedly.

  “You never asked, sir; and I’m sure I couldn’t know there was any connection, or I’d ’ve told you at once. Tuesday night, it was; the night after the pore young lady died.”

  Mr. Cecil and Mr. Elliot, they’d been as devoted as could be. Fair sloppy, was the housekeeper’s private opinion, but this she did not communicate to the gentleman. Never a cross word, however, it was not too much to say; never a cross word until the terrible week-end, when high voices had been heard from behind the communal door; high voices and angry words and the terrible, embarrassing sound of a man in tears.

  “On the Monday Mr. Cecil went off to the shop, sir, as gloomy as could be; as soon as ’e’d gone, Mr. Elliot came downstairs and the porter saw ’im go off with his little suitcase, and no one’s set eyes on him since. None of us ’ere, that’s to say; though ’e came back that evening and had supper with Mr. Cecil, I believe. They didn’t eat much, I can tell you; and next morning all his things had been packed away and there were his suitcases and a big, old-fashioned trunk in the ’all of the flat.”

  “Didn’t anyone see him leave after supper?”

  “No, sir. I went up to the flat in the morning as Mr. Cecil didn’t ring for ’is breakfast—we looks after our gentlemen very careful ’ere, sir, and I thought they might ’ave overslept. Mr. Elliot wasn’t there and his bed hadn’t been slept in, as I found afterwards. Mr. Cecil came to the door looking ’orrible ill; ’e was just going off to the shop without ’is breakfast, saying ’e didn’t want none. Ill all night ’e’d been, ’im or Mr. Elliot, and the mess in the bathroom was somethink awful, sir, if you’ll forgive me mentioning it; Mr. Cecil ’e looked as if ’e’d seen a ghost. He come ’ome early and took the suitcases and the trunk in a taxi and …” At this second mention of the trunk, realization suddenly dawned upon Mrs. Boot and she was took so faint as to be of no further assistance.

  The porter, a smart young Welshman with his wits about him, corroborated this story. He remembered showing Mr. Charlesworth up to the flat on the previous evening; Cecil had then only half an hour returned from his expedition with the luggage, but of course he had not thought of mentioning it.

  “Did he take a cab off the rank?”

  “No, sir, it was a passin’ one’e called.”

  “I suppose you didn’t hear what address he gave?”

  “No, sir, indeed; I’m verry sorry, but I couldn’t know it was important, could I? I’m verry sorry indeed, sir.”

  “No, no, of course you couldn’t know; possibly it wasn’t important, after all. Isn’t it odd that you didn’t see Mr. Elliot leave on the Tuesday night, after he’d had supper with Mr. Cecil?”

  “Well, I dunno, sir. We ’aven’t got a lot of porters ’ere, only me, bein’ a small block, you see; and of course I’m not in the ’all the whole time. ’E might ’ave gone out without my seein’ ’im, sir.”

  “You’re sure he came, I suppose?”

  “I dunno, indeed, sir. I didn’t see ’im, but Mr. Cecil ordered dinner for two, and Mrs. Boot was sure it was for Mr. Elliot because Mr. Cecil ordered a duck, sir; Mr. Elliot was very fond of duck, but Mr. Cecil didn’t like it at all, accordin’ to Mrs. Boot; you see ’ow it is, sir, we can’t say for certain.”

  To Charlesworth it was certain enough. “I must get hold of that trunk,” he thought. Aloud he said to the porter, “Did you bring the luggage down from the flat?”

  “Yes, I did, sir. I ’ad to get the valet to ’elp me with the trunk; Mr. Cecil would never put ’is ’and to a thing like that;’e just stood and looked on … indeed, I never saw a man look so ill! ‘It’s very heavy!’ ’e said.”

  “They always say that,” thought Charlesworth, joyfully. He climbed into his car and, sitting stationary at the wheel, gave himself up to a good deal of anxious thought.

  There was a certain young man at the Yard who, by his smug efficiency, had earned for himself the deadly loathing of all his colleagues; he had recently added to his laurels by unearthing, in a murder case, not only the murderer but a haul of long-missing jewelry. Charlesworth had a vision of this gentleman’s face when he, Charlesworth, should appear at the Chief’s office for congratulation and approval on his single-handed apprehension of a totally unsuspected trunk murderer, over and above the little matter in hand; and he straightway determined that, for the remainder of that day, at least, he would see it through alone.

  He put himself mentally into the position of a trunk murderer, with a body to hide. In this case, he thought, the gruesome baggage would have been deposited at a large railway station as far as possible from the scene of the crime, and he headed the car for Liverpool Street. Here, however, he drew a blank and, after a heated and infuriating half-hour, found himself once more obliged to assume the mental outlook of a man with a load of mischief; by eight o’clock that evening he had decided that his mind and Cecil’s must work along totally different lines; and at nine, somewhat belatedly, he rang up Scotland Yard. It was agreed that a search should be
made for the taxi-driver and investigations carried out at all likely baggage depositories. “Good work,” said the authority, to whom he gave his own somewhat prejudiced version of the affair. “Quite a feather in your cap, Charlesworth.” Charlesworth, glowing with modest satisfaction, returned to his muttons.

  He had developed a passionate desire to discover the nature of the week-end row between Cecil and Elliot. He rang Bevan’s number but there was no reply, and with a pleasant excitement he tried Victoria’s. A voice, presumably that of the detestable painter, explained that Victoria was out, and mumbling an apology, he rang off. Rachel, however, answered his call, and after a rambling explanation he embarked upon his questionnaire. Rachel adopted the feminine attitude, all too familiar to Scotland Yard, of reluctance to say anything that might incriminate anybody, guilty or otherwise; but she could see no possible connection between Cissie’s friend Elliot and the murder of Doon, and she readily admitted that Doon had frequently enlarged to them, with much humorous detail, upon the attentions of that aesthetic young man.

  “But you don’t think Cissie would have killed Doon, just because she wouldn’t be kind to his boy friend?” she asked, half-laughing, down the ’phone.

  “More likely to have killed the boy friend,” suggested Charlesworth, lightly.

  “Oh, Mr. Charlesworth, have a heart! Poor Cissie—he’d faint at the sight of blood.”

  Charlesworth had a vision of Cecil appearing white and distraught at the door of a bedroom where someone had been ’orrible ill all night; of the trunk in the tiny hall and of Cissie remarking that it was “very heavy” and driving off with it in a taxi, heaven only knew where. A subdued mutter at the other end of the line roused him from these reflections and Rachel announced: “Victoria says that, anyway, Cissie’s boy friend has left him and disappeared.”