Death in High Heels

by Christianna Brand

  “Doon would have laughed like hell if she could have seen all this,” whispered the Dazzler to Victoria, as they filed out to the graveside. “She must be enjoying it like anything, wherever she is. She had a great sense of the ridiculous, hadn’t she? and I’m sure she’d be tickled to death (not a very happy metaphor, my dear!) to see all these chaps making faces at each other across the pews and Cissie’s eye-black running with his emotion.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m so glad you suggested that! I’ve been so depressed thinking it was all ghastly and not a bit like Doon; but, of course, you’re quite right—she would simply have loved it! If only it wouldn’t rain; and how muddy and dreadful it is. Rachel looks awful—she was so fond of Doon and I think she’s more upset than she lets on. Talk to me some more, Bobby, I’m sure I shall howl very soon.”

  “Don’t do that, for goodness’ sake. That’s just what Charlesworth’s waiting for. One tear and he’ll clap you into prison, without further argument. He’s gazing at Bevan as if he expects him to yell out a confession at any moment.”

  “Oh, darling, you don’t really think that’s why he’s here?”

  “Of course, why else? He wouldn’t sweat all this way out and risk getting his feet wet and catching pneumonia just out of respect for the dear departed. No, my dear, he’s waiting for someone to get the heebie-jeebies and give themselves away, and by the look on some of these faces I should think he may be lucky.”

  A cordon of police kept the crowd at a respectful distance. They threaded their dismal way between marble angels and granite slabs, sad little wooden crosses and fresh mounds of earth, and came to a halt at a yawning square hole, surrounded by wooden boards. The solemn words were spoken and a handful of earth scattered into the grave after the coffin was lowered slowly into the ground. Charlesworth anxiously scanned the faces around him; Victoria, Rachel, and Judy stood together, quiet and still; Gregory was between Bevan and Cecil, all with white faces and downcast eyes; Macaroni and Mrs. ’Arris sobbed in unison. But none of them moved. Only Aileen, standing elegantly aloof at the foot of the grave, grew suddenly pale and sinking to her knees, toppled slowly, gracefully, languid as ever, on to the very edge of the pit, and lay there motionless, with her lovely hair in the mud.

  Eight

  IT certainly was uncompromisingly dull, being companion to old Mrs. Prout. Holly thought she never could have stuck it, if it hadn’t been for the Society people who sometimes came down with Mr. Cecil on Saturday or Sunday afternoons. It was true that they only raved a bit about the garden and made foolish noises at the budgerigars, and went away again, and it always meant a lot more work and fuss; still, it did make a change and one saw all sorts of people—“ladies” and duchesses and sometimes even an actress. Holly went all goofy at the thought of the actress who had once actually laid a hand on her arm and called her Pretty Poppet. The actress called her dog Pretty Poppet and her maid Pretty Poppet, and even her husband Pretty Poppet, on the rare occasions when she spoke to him, but Holly was not to know that, and it had quite altered her ideas about giving notice to Mrs. Prout the very moment the guests had gone. She had flown on the wings of joy to fetch the actress’s handbag—which was what the actress had asked her Pretty Poppet to fetch; and now here was Saturday again, and Mr. Cecil would be down this afternoon and would tell them all about the murder. At least he would tell his mother, Mrs. Prout, about the murder, but it came to very much the same thing since Holly had found out that, by applying her ear to the floor of her bedroom, she could catch every word that was spoken in the sitting-room below. She had made this discovery on the first terrible afternoon when she had heard Mr. Cecil weeping and it had become so absolutely imperative to know what he was weeping about. It was nothing at all really, and she had since realized that Mr. Cecil was always weeping. He wept when a dress went wrong, or when a client was displeased, or when one of his friends let him down; and every time he wept his mother petted him and comforted him and praised him into happiness again. More like a girl, Mr. Cecil; it was his mother’s fault, really, thought Holly, who had never heard of the Oedipus complex and was ignorant of the name of Freud. His father had died during Cecil’s childhood, having, during the eight years of their married life, been such a husband as Mrs. Prout despaired of replacing; and she had settled down in the country to find solace in the constant company of her only child. Mr. Cecil—his name was Mr. Prout, of course, but one could see that that would never have done—lived in a flat in London, so as to be near his work; but he had recently established his mother in the prettiest little eighteenth century cottage imaginable, and he spent his week-ends with her there. Sometimes one of the boy friends came down with him and there would be skippings about in the garden and discussions about the flowers and re-namings of the budgerigars. When he was devoid of other employment, Mr. Cecil always rechristened the budgerigars, and during the short time that Holly had been at Trianon they had already been called “Sweet and Lovely,” “Louis and ’Toinette,” and, best of all to Cecil’s mind, “Sacred and Profane.” “Let me introduce the love-birds—Sacred and Profane Love,” he would say, and the duchesses and the actresses and the “ladies” thought it delicious. “Petit Trianon” was the name of the eighteenth-century cottage; and if the villagers called it, oafishly, the “little ’ouse,” even more simply, “Prout’s,” Cecil was above such petty considerations as the preferences of the local bourgeoisie.

  Holly had, of course, read all about the murder in the papers. It only showed how right she had been to stay with Mrs. Prout, where there was the chance of inside information as to such terrific goings-on. She spent a happy afternoon with her ear glued to the bedroom carpet, and nothing but the fact that it was Myrna Loy at the local cinema could have dragged her away from the house. At six o’clock, however, she rose stiffly to her feet and, going down to the kitchen, begged for a surreptitious cup of tea.

  “Coo, Miss Holly, I thought you was ’aving your afternoon out!”

  “Yes, I am; well, I mean, you know what I mean. Mrs. Prout thinks I am.”

  “Yes, she does, and a rare old time her and Mr. Cissel is ’aving in the droring-room. Talking and ’owling and arguing—you ought to ’ave ’eard it.”

  “I did,” thought Holly, smiling to herself.

  “I couldn’t get ’old of a word, though I don’t mind admitting that I listened for a bit outside the door; I wanted to find out about this ’ere murder, but they didn’t seem to be saying nothink about that—a lot of nonsense about that Mr. Elliot; seems ’e’s gorn orf or some think. I wish I could ’ave ’eard it.”

  “You shouldn’t listen at doors, Gladys, it’s very wrong indeed,” said Holly piously, and trotted off down the drive.

  A young man of astonishing good looks was bending over a car just outside the gate. He raised his hat as Holly appeared and, straightening himself, said, with a pleasant smile, “Good evening, miss. Would you mind me asking you if you live in that house?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I do,” replied Holly, all of a flutter. “Why?”

  “Because I seem to have run out of water and the car’s boiling a bit. Do you think you could possibly let me have a jugful?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll come back with you and get the maid to give you some.”

  Gladys obliged with a large enamel jug, filled at the kitchen sink, and with this the young man replenished his radiator. The accelerator responded to his touch and he was just about to drive off when he appeared to be struck with a sudden idea.

  “I suppose I couldn’t give you a lift anywhere?” he suggested.

  Holly hesitated. All men were beasts and a fate sometimes overtook young women which, according to her mother’s teaching, was worse than death itself. On the other hand, there was an air of impeccable respectability about the young man with the little car and, what was very much more to the point, a distinct look of Robert Taylor; there was not much adventure for a young lady of nineteen, stuck away in a Kentish village with an old lady
and a young man enmeshed in his mother’s apron-strings. “Do or die,” thought Holly, and tilting her chin in imitation of Myrna Loy, she scrambled into the car.

  It transpired from her rather feverish chatter that she was not alone at Trianon. She lived there with an elderly lady whose son had just come down for the weekend. He was staying till Monday morning.

  “How do you know that?” said the young man, with a bovine humour rather surprising in one hitherto so well conducted. “He may be going to run off to-night and when you get back he’ll be gorn.”

  “Oh, no, he won’t,” said Holly, essaying such coyness as was evidently expected of her. “He distinctly told his mother that he would be staying till Monday. He generally goes back on Sunday night, but he isn’t this time.”

  Detective Officer Tomlinson heaved a sigh of relief. That meant that he could take a room at the local pub and at least have a decent night. Meanwhile, he might as well cultivate the companion and see if he couldn’t dig any information out of her. He inquired as to her plans for the evening.

  “Well, I was going to the flicks, as a matter of fact,” replied Holly, who found it necessary to qualify a great many of her statements with this, frequently meaningless, phrase.

  “Oh, don’t do that. It’s far too lovely a night to spend in a stuffy cinema. Why don’t you let me take you for a run and perhaps have a bite and a cup of coffee somewhere?”

  Here was adventure with a vengeance. Supposing that he should stop the car and suddenly produce a tin of black-lead and cover her with it from head to foot! Holly had heard of such incomprehensible occurrences and even worse, and for a moment her heart failed her. A sideways glance at the young man’s face, however, showed such an indubitable resemblance to Robert Taylor as caused caution to be thrown to the winds. She settled herself more comfortably in the seat beside him and, tilting the chin until it ached, cried with a pronounced American accent: “Drive on, big boy!”

  The rain that had made a muddy heap of poor Doon’s grave had brought out the sweet scent of the Kentish orchards, where the fruit hung ripely upon the boughs and the whitened stems of the trees were gentle ghosts in the twilight. There was a magic over the rolling countryside and the boy felt guilty and a little ashamed at the game he was playing with this foolish girl. However, duty was duty and he could not go back to Mr. Charlesworth with a tale that the summer evening had gone to his head; he plied her with innocent questions, and she, flattered and fluttering, poured out her story of small woes and delights; of petty triumphs and trifling heartaches and still-childish longings. The actress who had called her Pretty Poppet; the “ladies” who came down from Town; the doting old mother and sloppy young man, and the overwhelming excitement of the murder in the very shop that Mr. Cecil worked for.

  Mr. Tomlinson had heard of the murder, of course, and was thrilled to meet someone in close contact with so famous an affaire. Not that Holly could tell him much, she admitted. She had expected Mr. Cecil to be full of it, but instead he had kept talking about his own affairs—as usual, just like him! and something or other which he had done, something rather awful—he wouldn’t even tell his mother what it was.

  “Whatever could it have been?” asked Mr. Tomlinson, no longer obliged to show more interest than he felt.

  “I can’t imagine. Something awful, anyway. He kept saying that she would never forgive him if she knew, which was perfectly silly because she would forgive him whatever he did. They spend their lives forgiving each other.”

  “Perhaps he did the murder himself?”

  “Good gracious, no. He’d faint at the sight of blood.”

  “There wasn’t any blood,” pointed out the young man, laughing. “It was done by poisoning.”

  “I meant it metterphorically,” said Holly, with much dignity. “Anyway, it was nothing to do with that; I think he must have been to a fortune-teller or something. He kept talking about crystals.”

  The young man stopped the car so suddenly that Holly expected the blackleading to begin at any moment, and a half-pleasurable excitement rose within her at the thought that she might be about to find out at last what was worse than death. However, Mr. Tomlinson’s interest seemed to be confined to Mr. Cecil and his stupid maternal confidences. He ran the car gently down a little grass slope at the edge of the road and, putting his arm along the back of the seat behind her shoulders, asked, in a strangely excited voice: “What about the crystals?”

  “It’s all nothing,” said Holly, piqued. “He told Mrs. Prout that somebody had given him some crystals or a crystal, I couldn’t hear that part very well; and that he had done something dreadful with them, or it. It must have been it because nobody could possibly want more than one crystal.”

  “Did he say who he’d given it to?”

  “He didn’t say he’d given it to anybody. He said he’d done something dreadful with them or with it, and that his mother would never forgive him if she knew. Then he got all sloppy and asked her if she’d mind if he left her for ever, which was simply fishing, because he knows perfectly well that the old girl would die without him; but, of course, she got frightfully het up and said that he mustn’t say such dreadful things.”

  “Did he mean that he might be going away—abroad, perhaps?”

  “Oh, no, it sounded more as if he might die or be killed or something. It was all mixed up with Mr. Elliot in some way.”

  “Not with Miss Doon?”

  “Yes, it was something to do with her, too. He was telling his mother that it was all Miss Doon’s fault that Mr. Elliot had left him; he said that Elliot had told him that he was in love with Miss Doon and was going to ask her to marry him. I’m sure she wouldn’t have, because she seems to have been rather a bright sort of a person and he was nearly as girlish and silly as Cecil himself. He tried to squeeze my hand once, when he came down here, and Cecil saw him and got quite worked up about it; Elliot told him that he ought to make friends with some girls himself, and Mrs. Prout was furious and said that her darling was much better without a lot of designing women, and Cecil cried and said that his Faerie was the only woman in the world he needed; he always calls her Faerie, isn’t it sick-making? It’s out of Shakespeare, I think.”

  “Did Mr. Cecil seem to be angry with Miss Doon for taking Mr. Elliot away from him?”

  “Well, I know he was, as a matter of fact, because last Saturday he was down here, and he was in a terrible flap about it. He kept on saying that he would die if Elliot broke up their friendship, or that he would kill Elliot sooner than see him married to that cruel girl, or that he Would kill Miss Doon. I say,” cried Holly, as the import of her own rapid gabble burst upon her, “I never thought of that—I wonder if he could have killed her, after all.”

  “If he was saying only the day before that he would like to—it does seem funny, don’t it?”

  “Yes, but he couldn’t—I mean, he would pass out at the sight of—at the thought of poison; besides, he’s always saying wild things like that; I don’t think it really means anything. You don’t honestly believe that he could have done it?”

  “Well, it does seem funny, don’t it?”

  “I wish he wouldn’t keep on saying that,” thought Holly. “It goes give him away a bit. He isn’t a gent at all, really. What Mother would say if she could see me now, a parson’s daughter, with a strange young man who can’t even talk the King’s English, sitting in a car and arguing about a murder.” “I tell you what,” she exclaimed aloud, the King’s English eluding even the parsonage upbringing in the intensity of her sudden excitement, “I tell you what—I believe you’re right; because now I come to think of it, at one time he started to blub and say that he would never have done it if he’d known she would die like that, and it was a terrible thing to take life and a lot of intense stuff like that, and about the spark of life and put out the light and then put out the light, which comes out of Hamlet, I think, and a lot more tripe like that. The old lady was nearly as keen to find out what he was talking about as
I was, and she kept calling him my boy, my boy, and saying that he mustn’t upset himself and that she knew he had nothing to reproach himself with, and so on; and he blubbed more and more and said, ‘Ah, Faerie, you don’t know what I’ve done!’ Fancy calling her Faerie—it’s too revolting, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Tomlinson led her skilfully back to the “crystal,” but nothing more definite was forthcoming. He decided that it would be best and safest, for all parties, to allay her fears, and accordingly made out a very good case for Cecil’s innocence in the murder. This he found not difficult, for, on analysis, his evidence to the contrary proved extremely vague. Holly allowed herself to be comforted, and after the promised bite and cup of coffee, was deposited back at the gate without even a smell of blacklead. She wandered disconsolately up to bed; the evening post had brought a reply from “Margot” about her spots, but she threw it aside and went to the window, where she could catch the last faint phut-phut-phut of the departing car. Voices came from below and once more she crouched, bottom up, with her ear to the ground; they were still at it, or if they had stopped they had started all over again; this time it was Mrs. Prout who was in tears and she was saying over and over again: “Of course your old mother understands, my precious; of course she understands. But oh!—it’s dreadful to think of the risks you ran—and even now, what are we to do? Supposing the police find out? How could you have done such a thing, Cecil, my darling? The descriptions of what the poor girl suffered were terrible—terrible. I can’t bear to think of it: it was a dreadful thing to do, a dreadful, dreadful …”

  Here was confirmation beyond her wildest dreams. Holly leapt up and rushed to the window. But the phut-phut-phut of the car had died away.