Death in High Heels

by Christianna Brand

  “Well, I don’t think I ought to talk to you,” said Victoria, pulling herself together. “I’d rather see Mr. Charlesworth; and I don’t think I ought to say anything till my husband’s here. I’m not going to tell you any more.”

  “I’m afraid you haven’t got very much choice,” said Smithers, nastily. “You can refuse, of course, but you’re putting yourself in a very peculiar position if you do. I must warn you, Mrs. David, that I have reason to believe that you know more about the supposed suicide of Mrs. Best than you pretend to, and that, in fact, you are under grave suspicion of being concerned in it. I should advise you to tell me frankly what you know about it.” He disregarded her gasp of terror and went on, relentlessly, “Miss Gregory gave you a key to Mrs. Best’s flat. What did you do with that key?”

  Victoria turned her head nervously from side to side, and passed her dry tongue over her lips. Smithers repeated his question, and as she still made no reply, urged: “Come on, now, if you have nothing to conceal, you can surely tell me what became of the key.”

  “I put it through the letter-box,” said Victoria, desperately.

  “Then how do you account for the fact that it was found on the table at Mrs. Best’s bedside?”

  Victoria went terribly white. “How can you explain that?” repeated Smithers, watching the expression on her face.

  “I can’t explain it—I don’t know,” said Toria, frantically. “Gregory asked me to put it through the letter-box, and that’s what I did.”

  “I suggest to you that you did not put the key through the letter-box. I suggest that, having given Mrs. Best an overdose of sleeping powder before she went to bed, you entered the flat with the key Miss Gregory had given you, and printed on one of Mrs. Best’s own cards a confession of murder and suicide?”

  “Did Irene leave a confession?”

  “A ‘confession’ was found under her pillow before she was taken to hospital.”

  “To hospital!” cried Victoria, and now every vestige of colour had left her face, and her hands shook as though she had the ague. “Do you mean to say that Irene isn’t dead?”

  “That frightens you, doesn’t it, Mrs. David? No, she isn’t dead; you have to thank me for saving you from, perhaps, a double charge of murder.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean?”

  “I mean that it may have been to conceal your implication in another murder that you staged this apparent suicide.”

  “No, no,” cried Victoria, mad with fear.

  “How else can you account for the fact that the key you speak of had not been pushed through the letter-box at all and that a forged confession of suicide was found under Mrs. Best’s pillow? How can you account for that?”

  “A forged confession? I can’t understand what it’s all about.”

  “No, I wouldn’t expect that you could. Now, Mrs. David, I want to ask you one or two questions about the glass which was found beside the bed. When you and Miss Gregory went into the room to put Mrs. Best to bed, did you handle the glass?”

  “I didn’t touch it. Miss Gregory put the glass, full of water, beside Irene. But I’m sure Miss Gregory doesn’t know any more about it than I do.”

  “Perhaps you put the box of powders—full or empty, whichever it was—beside the glass?”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t touch them after I put the box back in the cupboard in the bathroom upstairs. Gregory took them out and brought them down with her, and she put the glass on the table and handed the box to Irene; and Irene put it on the table beside the bed. Not that I mean to suggest that Gregory …”

  “Don’t you worry about Miss Gregory, Mrs. David. You’ve got troubles enough of your own. Now, about what happened upstairs.…”

  He took her through the events of the earlier part of the evening. Who had suggested that Mrs. Best should go to the guest-room in the first place? Toria thought it had been Judy. Who had thought of giving Mrs. Best a sleeping draught? Well, that was Rachel … her eyes kept straying to the door, watching for her husband’s return, and when the telephone rang she started towards it eagerly and her face lit up with relief; but Smithers was as quick and he took the receiver out of her hand.

  “Hallo, yes? Oh, Davies, is that you? You got the two lots of prints I sent along?”

  “I’m checking up the whole room,” said the fingerprint expert, speaking from Irene’s guest-flat. “So far I’ve only got three lots of prints, except for some old ones which I take to be a servant’s, left while cleaning the place and so forth. The others all belong either to Mrs. Best herself or to the other two lots you sent me; at least, as far as I can tell, until I get them back for testing, but I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. I haven’t finished yet, but I understood you were anxious to know about the glass which was standing on the table by the bed. The outside of it had been recently wiped absolutely clean, and there are two lots of prints on it; the thumb and four fingers of Mrs. Best, very clear, as though she had gripped the glass with her hand, possibly drinking from it; and the thumb and three fingers of the second lot you sent me—Mrs. David’s. What I think may be of special interest to you, from what I’ve heard from your man here, is that the prints of Mrs. David must have been made after Mrs. Best had handled the glass. They’re superimposed.”

  Inspector Smithers put down the receiver with a sigh of pure satisfaction and turned to Victoria, huddled in one corner of the sofa, staring at him with panic-stricken blue eyes. “Mrs. David,” he said, savouring every word, “it is my duty to ask you to come to the police-station with me for questioning regarding the attempted murder of Mrs. Irene Best; and I must warn you again that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

  2

  Charlesworth, returning gaily from his night off, was met by the persistent ringing of his telephone bell. Victoria’s husband was on the other end of the line, frantic with fear and anger. The Dazzler had taken a liking to Mr. Charlesworth, and having obtained his private number, now placed himself and Victoria unreservedly in that young man’s hands. “There’s been some ghastly mistake,” he said down the ’phone. “Do get hold of this bloody fellow, Smithers, and make him see reason. What on earth had Toria to gain by harming Irene Best?… The whole thing is so utterly monstrous and fantastic that I can’t seem to see daylight anywhere. I’m going to get hold of my mother now, she has a bit of a pull with the big noises at your place; meanwhile, be a good chap, Charlesworth, and get hold of this Smither and tell him.…”

  Charlesworth got hold of Smithers and told him. His language surprised that acute young man into a fairly accurate summing-up of Mr. Charlesworth’s feelings for the lady in question, for his reputation for susceptibility was not unknown to his colleagues. Smithers produced his proofs triumphantly, but found Charlesworth obstinately unimpressed.

  “What if her prints were on the glass? I thought you said the overdose was administered upstairs?”

  “Yes, by Mrs. David.”

  “Then what’s the significance of the finger-prints on the glass? Why should you get so excited about them?”

  “Only that Miss Gregory says that Mrs. David didn’t touch the glass while they were all three in the room.”

  “She may easily be mistaken.”

  “No, no, Mrs. David herself says that she didn’t touch it.”

  “What difference does it make, if the stuff was administered upstairs?”

  “We can’t be certain of that. Very possibly Mrs. David put an extra dose in the glass and gave it to Mrs. Best when she went into her flat later.”

  “I don’t even see why you can be so sure she did go into the flat. Anybody could have entered it after she had put the key through the letter-box, and picked up the key from the mat inside and left it on the table. It needn’t necessarily have been Mrs. David.”

  “Anyone?”

  “Well, Miss Gregory, then. She had a second key, she gave it to you herself. She even admits that she was snooping about downstairs, long
after Mrs. David had gone home. Why pick on Mrs. David? Why not Miss Gregory?”

  “For half a dozen excellent reasons,” said Smithers, joyfully. “Firstly, I’m not prejudiced in favour of Mrs. David!” He looked pointedly at Charlesworth, who had the grace to blush. “Secondly, because it was obviously a genuine shock to Miss Gregory to hear that Mrs. Best had been found dying, and it just as obviously wasn’t a surprise at all to Mrs. David. Thirdly, because Miss Gregory has, as far as I can see, told the truth all the way along, even volunteering the information that she went downstairs with the letter, which she needn’t have done, because she knows that there was nobody about to see her; fourthly, because nobody handled the key after Mrs. David for the simple reason that her finger-print is the last to have been made on it—oh, I grant you it may have been picked up by a gloved hand, but is it likely, my dear man? and lastly, because if Mrs. David didn’t leave her finger-prints on the glass when she went into the room with Mrs. Best and Miss Gregory, she must have entered the room later and left them then. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Why in the world should she wipe the glass clean and then put a full set of prints clearly upon it? A child would know better than that in these days of the public’s interest in crime.”

  “Well, you have me there,” acknowledged Smithers, thoughtfully. “However, I’m not obliged to explain everything, while she can explain nothing. I suppose, like any woman, she wiped the glass, got Mrs. Best to use it, and then got a bit panicky, forgot all about finger-prints, and picked it up again. Same with the key. If she hadn’t left that on the table I should probably never have thought of her, till the finger-print complication cropped up … but I’d have been on to her then. It’s a clear case, Charlesworth, ol’ man, and you can’t talk your way out of it.”

  “It isn’t clear to me,” said Charlesworth, stoutly. “Why should she want to kill the girl? The whole thing’s absolutely pointless.”

  “Doesn’t it occur to you that she might have had another crime to conceal, that was becoming dangerous to her? Perhaps Mrs. Best had found out more about the murder of Doon than you have!”

  “Oh, don’t be a damn fool, Smithers,” cried Charlesworth, furiously. “Mrs. David no more killed Doon than you or I did. Mrs. David didn’t even know that Doon was going to be in to lunch; she thought she was going out with Bevan.”

  “But she did have ample opportunity for getting the poison?”

  “Earlier this evening you were convinced that the original poison brought into the shop wasn’t used in the murder of Doon; you’ve even discovered that Mrs. Best bought some more poison on that day. What about that, may I ask?”

  “The chemist says a small girl, very pretty. That describes Mrs. Best, but it also describes Mrs. David. He may have got mixed up in the photographs. He doesn’t remember the transaction at all clearly, only that the girl was small and pretty.”

  “Good lord, man, you’re just twisting the thing to suit yourself. When do you suggest that Mrs. David can have got it? She was in the company of several other girls during the entire morning; you don’t imagine it was a concerted plan, I suppose, got up between the lot of them?”

  “I haven’t worked that out yet; I daresay we shall find that it fits in somewhere—if we aren’t afraid of fitting it in,” added Smithers, with a superior smirk for his heartsick colleague.

  “Anyway, you can’t get away from the fact that Victoria David thought that Doon was going to be out to lunch; she was never in the dining-room after Bevan had changed his mind and said he was taking Gregory.”

  “Now, Charlesworth, don’t start that all over again. Look here—you won’t deny that the plate of food was actually served out, or partly served out, by Mrs. David?”

  “Yes, but not for Miss Doon, Smithers,” cried Charlesworth, weary and exasperated. “It was served out originally for Miss Gregory. Victoria thought that Doon was going out. Surely you can see that—Victoria thought that the plate was being served out for Miss Gregory!”

  “And how do you know,” asked Smithers, sweetly, “that your precious Victoria didn’t intend to murder Miss Gregory?”

  3

  A detective sat solemnly beside Irene’s bed and made meticulous notes of her incoherent babblings. Gradually she came out of her coma, but no sense was forthcoming until well into the morning. Then, after a long period of silence, she suddenly sat up in bed and made the usual inquiry as to her whereabouts.

  “You’re in hospital, miss,” said the constable, who had dealt with this question a number of times. “You’ve been rather ill but you’re better now. You lay down and keep still, miss, and I’ll get the nurse for you.” He made a solemn note in his book and rang for assistance.

  Irene lay very quiet again. She had taken a sleeping draught and gone off to sleep and now here she was in a different place; it was all very puzzling. She dozed off again, and when she woke there was a different young man beside her. She closed her eyes and gave herself gradually up to more lucid thought.

  Inspector Smithers got very little help from her when she finally came to. She had had something in Gregory’s flat to make her sleep and Gregory and Victoria had put her to bed and that was all she could remember. They had been ever so kind—ever so kind, repeated Irene, and drifted off to sleep again.

  Twelve

  1

  THE Dazzler, having concluded his appeal to Charlesworth, rang up his mamma, who was a lady of title, and besought her to pull some strings. The lady of title reminded him that she had always known what would come of his mixing with that terrible artist lot, and marrying a girl who actually worked for her own living (“And for mine,” put in Bobby Dazzler, blinking his sleepy brown eyes), but ended by replying that she would see what she could do. She then had recourse to a bottle which was kept hidden in her bathroom, a close secret from all but her husband, her servants and most of her acquaintances, and, fortified by this unfailing friend, proceeded cheerfully to disturb the midnight slumbers of the great. Whether it was the whisky or the title or a combination of both, a promise was finally extracted that her daughter-in-law should be treated with every consideration consistent with the rigours of the law; and should, moreover, be released as soon as her questioning was over, and not detained under any pretext whatsoever.

  This was no more and no less than Smithers had originally intended, but it enabled him to make a tremendous favour of Victoria’s release. He obtained an undertaking that she would hold herself in readiness to return for further questioning if required and, in the early hours of the morning, permitted her to return to her home.

  The Dazzler put his wife to bed and the next morning rang up Bevan and informed him that Victoria would not be returning to the shop; he glanced in at the bedroom door and, seeing her sleeping quietly, let himself, with something of an air of mystery, out of the flat.

  Half an hour later Charlesworth rang the bell, and Toria, once more wrapped in the blue dressing-gown, opened the door. “Oh, Mr. Charlesworth, I am so glad to see you; all this is too ghastly, it’s the most awful mistake…. Of course I didn’t kill Irene—how could anyone think I would do such a thing? Mr. Charlesworth, you don’t believe all these terrible things, do you? Do say that you don’t believe them! I couldn’t bear it if you were against me too.”

  She caught his arm and dragged him into the studio. “Do come and sit down; I can’t tell you how glad I am you’ve come.…”

  Charlesworth struggled hard against a longing to take her small, forlorn figure into his arms. “Of course I don’t believe a word against you, Victoria,” he said. “I ought not to say so, I’d get the sack if anybody knew—but nothing on earth would make me believe you were a murderess; in fact,” he added, belligerently, “I’d chuck up my job before I’d be party to such an idea!”

  “Oh, you are kind, Mr. Charlesworth; now do tell me, I’m so worried about this confession they’ve found: what on earth was in it?”

  “That I can’t tell you, Toria. Smithers has got a bee
in his bonnet about not revealing the contents and as it’s his own particular bit of fun and games I can’t very well refuse. It’s perfect nonsense, but I suppose it can’t do any harm; the important thing is this: was it there when you went into the room?”

  “But I didn’t go into the room,” said Victoria, avoiding his eyes.

  “My dear, you must have. Smithers has proved that you went in. I’m on your side, Victoria, and I’m doing all I can to clear you, but I can’t do a thing if you don’t tell me the truth.”

  She looked at him wistfully. “I do want to tell you the truth, but—well, I put the key through the letter-box. I didn’t go into the flat.”

  “Toria,” said Charlesworth, patiently, “I know you went into the flat. I’m not asking you—I know it. What I want you to tell me is: why did you go in and what did you do while you were there?”

  “I didn’t go in.”

  “My dear, look. The key which you say you put through the letter-box was found on the table. How did it get there, if you didn’t go into the place?”

  “Somebody might have gone in afterwards and picked it up and put it on the table,” said Victoria, as he himself had argued so short a time before.

  “But your finger-prints? You and Miss Gregory left Irene with a glass full of water which you yourself say you hadn’t touched. When Smithers found her, the glass was empty and there were no prints on it but hers and yours. And yours were what’s called superimposed—they were on top of hers. In other words, between the time you and Miss Gregory left her and the time Smithers found her, Irene had drunk the water and you had handled the glass. Nobody can deny that.”

  “I don’t see why only my marks were on it. Gregory put it on the table and it was she who filled it with water; she didn’t wipe it then, because I was there with her the whole time. Not that I mean to suggest anything against Gregory … personally I think that Rene tried to commit suicide and there was no question of murdering her at all.”