“Here is a late news item which has just been handed to me. It has just been announced that Lady Ironmonger, wife of the newly-appointed Tampican Ambassador, Sir Edward Ironmonger, was found dead in her room at the Tampican Embassy here in Washington this evening, following a reception attended by many diplomats and eminent Washingtonians. The cause of death has not yet been determined. I’ll repeat that. Lady Ironmonger, wife of the newly-appointed . . .”
Winston Horatio Nelson was on his feet, and Prudence Barrington instinctively grasped his hand.
“I must go back at once,” Winnie said.
“Oh, my dear. Oh, I am so sorry . . .” It was not clear to whom Prudence was speaking. Then, as if coming out of a dream, she dropped Winnie’s hand, and said, “Yes. Yes, of course you must go. Tell Eddie that if there’s anything we can . . .”
“Anything at all. . .” echoed Matthew.
“I’ll tell him,” said Winnie, and ran out to the car.
Winnie was relieved to see that the Embassy looked very much as usual, at least from the outside. It was dark—curtains and blinds had been carefully drawn—but a glimmer of light from inside indicated that it was not deserted. A discreetly-prowling police car and a strange limousine with a sticker indicating that the owner was a doctor were the only signs that anything was wrong. The demonstrators had long since dispersed, and the ten o’clock news announcement had not as yet attracted any gawkers. Winnie parked his car and let himself in through the front door, using his own key.
The large drawing-room where the reception had been held was dark, but a light shone from under the door of the small library, and Winnie caught the sound of voices. He opened the door and went in.
An agonized conference seemed to be taking place. Eddie Ironmonger was there, his handsome black face set in lines which were not only tragic, but—as Winnie instantly recognized—stubborn. One look at his old friend was enough to tell him that Eddie was taking some sort of stand which was unpopular with his advisers, and that nothing would budge him.
Michael Holder-Watts looked more angry than upset, whereas Eleanor had obviously been weeping, and still dabbed at her eyes every so often with an inadequate wisp of handkerchief. The party was completed by Dorabella Hamilton—the goodlooking, Junoesque Tampican girl who was Sir Edward’s private secretary —and a middle-aged white American with a small goatee and rimless glasses, whom Winnie took to be the doctor.
Dead silence greeted Winnie’s entrance, punctuated only by a choked sob from Eleanor. He said, “I saw the television news. I came at once.”
“Very decent of you,” said Michael bitingly. “It might have been better if you had stayed here in the first place.”
“Shut up, Michael,” said Sir Edward sharply. Then, to Winnie, “So it’s been announced. What did they say?”
“Just that Lady Ironmonger had been found dead, following a reception here.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.” Michael seemed about to speak, but Eddie silenced him with a gesture. He went on. “The fact of the matter, Winnie, is that Mavis committed suicide. What led her to do so, I will leave up to you to guess.” He turned slowly and deliberately, and stared at Michael and Eleanor. Winnie thought he had never seen such loathing in a man’s eyes.
The doctor, who had been polishing his glasses, said, “Sir Edward, I hesitate to contradict you, but once again I must point out—”
Eddie swung round to face him. “You have examined my wife’s body,” he said. “Tell this gentleman your conclusions.”
“I was summoned by telephone to the Embassy at 8:45 p.m.,” he said, precisely. “I was taken upstairs to Lady Ironmonger’s room. She was lying on the bed, and I was able to establish at once that she was dead.”
“And the cause of death?” Eddie prompted, sharply.
“The cause of death,” said the doctor, snappily, “cannot be positively ascertained without an autopsy.” He cleared his throat and glared at Sir Edward.
Eddie controlled himself with a visible effort. In his best courtroom manner, he said, “Let me put it this way, Doctor. Is it possible that anybody could have survived a bullet wound in the right temple, such as you found on my wife’s body?”
Infuriatingly, the doctor said, “Lady Ironmonger had sustained a wound in her right temple, apparently caused by a bullet fired at close range. You notice I say ‘apparently’. Without an autopsy—”
“And could she have survived it?”
“It is unlikely, but nothing is impossible, Sir Edward.” The doctor stood up. “I will not have words put into my mouth. Lady Ironmonger is dead. That is all I am prepared to certify unless and until I am permitted to remove the body to proper premises and perform an autopsy.”
So that’s it, Winnie thought. He went over to the Ambassador, and put his arm round his friend’s shoulders. “What can I say, Eddie?”
Sir Edward raised his left hand and clasped it over Winnie’s. Quite irrelevantly, it occurred to Eleanor Holder-Watts that the two hands—the velvet-black covering the coffee-brown—were very beautiful. She started to cry again.
Eddie said, “Don’t try to say anything, Winnie. Just get that man out of here. And come to my study, please.” His hand tightened over Winnie’s for a moment, and then he turned and strode out of the room.
The silence that followed his exit was pierced by a silvery chime from the clock on the mantelpiece. The doctor glanced at his watch, as if for reassurance, nodded to himself, and said, “Eleven o’clock. Well, it seems that Sir Edward is adamant, and of course this is Tampican territory. There is nothing more that I can do. There is nothing more that I will do while I am denied the proper facilities. Good night, ladies and gentlemen.”
He followed Sir Edward out of the room. A moment later, the front door slammed, and there was the sound of a car starting up and driving away.
“I’d better go to the study,” Winnie said. Nobody answered him.
The Ambassador’s study, which was situated at the back of the house, was lit only by a single desk lamp which threw a small, intense circle of white light onto a document which lay on the dark green leather blotter. Sir Edward himself was sitting at the desk, in the shadows outside the ring of light. His elbows were on the desk, his forehead supported in one hand.
Winnie closed the door softly behind him, and said, “He’s gone, Eddie.”
Without lifting his head, Sir Edward said softly, “Set it down . . . that one may smile and smile, and be a villain . . .”
Winnie stopped dead. Then he said, as lightly as he could, “Don’t tell me you are casting yourself as Othello, Eddie?”
The Ambassador lifted his head, and looked at Nelson. “The quotation,” he said, “is from Hamlet. Never mind. It was estimable to recognize it as Shakespeare—for a Tampican.” They both smiled at that. It was a childhood joke, something impossible to share outside the small circle of people who had experienced at first hand both the humiliation and the pride. “Come and sit down, Winnie. Give me your advice.”
Winnie sat down. He said, “That’s clearly impossible, and would be a waste of time. You have decided what to do.”
There was a long pause. Then Eddie said, “It is more complicated than you perhaps realize. Mavis shot herself with my revolver. She must have taken it from my desk, earlier on. That may or may not be significant. You remember, some of us were discussing only the other day whether or not it would be more sensible to keep the gun in our bedroom rather than here in the study. Mavis may have moved it just for that simple reason, and then . . . anyhow, she was lying on her bed with this. . . this wound in her head. Please understand, Winnie, I am not being emotional about this. At least, I am trying to be objective.”
“An apparent suicide,” said Winnie carefully, “normally requires a post-mortem examination and an inquest, in order to—”
Ignoring him, Sir Edward went on, “Michael found her. Another fact which may be interesting. The last guests we
re just leaving. He waited until they had gone, and then told me. It was only then that I discovered the truth.”
“The truth?”
“That Mavis had been guilty of some sort of silly indiscretion at the reception. Whereupon Michael and Eleanor had seen fit to . . . to manhandle her up to our bedroom and lock her in, leaving the key outside. It was over an hour later, when I noticed that she wasn’t at the reception and asked Michael about her, that it occurred to him to go and see if she was all right. He found her dead. That is his story. We shall see.”
There was a pause. Then Winnie said, “You still haven’t told me what you propose to do. Obviously, you are unwilling to involve the United States—”
“I refuse,” said Eddie quietly, “to have any American doctors or policemen interfering in Tampican affairs.”
“And yet you called the doctor?”
“Of course. Her death had to be certified.” Sir Edward paused, then added, “When I think that we might have found her in time . . .”
Winnie said, “The doctor did not consider that her death was instantaneous, then?”
“You heard what he said. He is not prepared to give any opinion, other than that she is dead, without an autopsy.”
Rather uneasily, Winston said, “It is usual in such cases, Eddie.”
“I know it is usual. The matter is being attended to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dorabella is already in touch with Tampica by telephone. I have to speak to Sam personally. I am sending for Doctor Duncan.”
“Will he. . . Winnie hesitated. . . will he get here in time?”
“In time for what?”
“I have always understood that the sooner the autopsy is performed, the better,” said Winnie, unhappily.
“My dear Winnie, what do you expect the doctor to find? The autopsy is a mere formality. Poor Mavis killed herself. I do not intend to subject her body to the barbarities of strangers. Would you?”
Winnie was saved from replying by the ringing of the telephone, followed by a single sharp buzzing note. He threw an interrogative look at the Ambassador, who nodded. Winnie picked up the receiver.
“Nelson here.”
“Winnie?” Dorabella’s voice was calm, as usual. “Please tell Sir Edward that the Prime Minister is on the line.”
Winston put his hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “Dorabella’s got Sir Samuel for you. Says he’s on the line, in person.”
For a tiny moment, Ironmonger almost smiled. He appreciated efficiency, and his personal secretary had certainly shown it. Then he picked up the desk telephone—at the same time indicating to Nelson that he should continue to listen on the other extension.
“Ironmonger speaking.”
Faintly, crackling with static electricity and annoyance, the voice of Sir Samuel Drake-Frobisher came across the ocean from Tampica. “Eddie? What on earth do you want at this time of night? I’m in the middle of an important dinner party. If Dorabella hadn’t—”
“Did she tell you, Sam?”
“Tell me what?”
“That Mavis is dead.”
For a moment, the line went so silent that Sir Edward added, urgently, “Can you hear me, Sam? Are you still there?”
“I heard you. I am very sorry, Eddie. Please accept my sympathy.” The Prime Minister’s voice had become stiff and formal. Even across two thousand miles of telephone line, Winnie could sense that Sir Samuel was controlling considerable anger. He would never, of course, say anything to wound an old friend in his bereavement, but it was clear that he did not consider Mavis’s demise a fit subject for a late-night personal telephone call.
Ironmonger said, “I want a lot more than your sympathy, Sam. I want you to get hold of Doc Duncan, put him on your private yacht and send him to Antigua at once. He should be able to catch the night flight at 4:30 a.m. and be here by breakfast time.”
There was a little pause, and then Sir Samuel said, “I understood that Mavis was already dead?”
“She is.”
“Then what can Doctor Duncan—?”
“Sam,” said Ironmonger, “there are . . . unusual circumstances. The American doctor wishes to remove Mavis to a hospital and perform an autopsy. As a result, there might well be a police inquiry and even court proceedings. In the United States.”
“Good God. We can’t have that.”
“Exactly. I thought you would see my point, Sam. I’m sure you agree that the best thing is for Doc Duncan to come here, make his examination, and return tomorrow by air to Tampica with Mavis’s body. He can perform the autopsy there if he considers it necessary. Of course, his findings will have to be made public. But whatever happens, it will happen within Tampican jurisdiction.”
The Prime Minister said, “You are quite right, Eddie. I congratulate you on your clear thinking at such a tragic moment. I’ll make it my business to see that Duncan is on that aircraft I’m sorry, Eddie. Really sorry. I heard you were both doing so well in Washington.”
“It is unfortunate,” said Sir Edward, with no emotion that Winnie could distinguish in his voice. “However, it has happened and must be dealt with as quickly and wisely as possible. Thank you, Sam. Good night.” He rang off and turned to Winnie. “Now please ask Dorabella to come. There are things to be arranged . . . the airline . . . undertakers. . .”
“Perhaps I could—?”
“No, thank you, Winnie. I would prefer Dorabella to handle this.”
“Very well.” Feeling snubbed, Winnie made his way back to the small library, pausing at Dorabella’s small office to deliver his message.
Michael and Eleanor were sitting, one each side of the fireplace, not speaking. Winnie said, “And now, Michael, perhaps you’ll tell me what actually occurred at the reception. I gather our fears were realized.”
Michael smiled, a tired smile. “The understatement of the century,” he said. “If it hadn’t been unspeakable, it would have been terribly funny.” He proceeded to relate the circumstances of Lady Ironmonger’s introduction to the Israeli diplomat, illustrating the anecdote where appropriate with bursts of song. Eleanor removed her handkerchief from her red-rimmed eyes and let out a sudden, high-pitched giggle. It sounded more shocking than Mavis’s honest obscenities.
“So you see, Winnie,” Michael concluded, “there was really nothing for it but to remove the lady as quickly and quietly as possible. You had left by that time, of course—’’—there was a light but bitter irony in his voice—“and so I had to rely on Eleanor. It was she who got Mavis upstairs.”
Winnie Nelson was looking puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why should Lady Ironmonger single out Mr. Finkelstein for her attack? As I understand it, she had never even met him—and our country is on excellent terms with Israel.”
Wearily, Michael said, “She didn’t single him out, Winnie. She was as tight as an owl, and it was his bad luck to be called Finkelstein.”
“I still do not see—”
“Then I’ll explain. Mavis Watkins—in the interval between graduating from a cheap school of modeling and her election as Miss Luscious Lollipop—worked as a mannequin in a wholesale dress establishment in Poland Street.”
“Poland Street?”
“Or thereabouts. It is,” Michael explained, “an area of London which is thickly populated by the cheaper end of the garment trade, which is almost entirely in Jewish hands. The life of a model girl there is a million miles away from the glamour of couture shows and fashion magazines. It’s an ill-paid and exhausting life, working long hours in stuffy, cramped quarters, struggling endlessly in and out of nasty cheap clothes and parading them to bored provincial buyers. Of course, some firms treat their girls very well, but others don’t. Like all oppressed minorities, the girls let off steam by thumbing their noses at the bosses, in one way or another. The mythical Mr. Finkelstein is, to them, the epitome of all money-grubbing, slave-driving, bottom-pinching garment manufacturers—and the song you have just heard is a
dressing-room favourite.”
“You are very well-informed,” said Winnie, stiffly.
With no trace of embarrassment, Michael said, “Oh, Mavis told me all about it. She often used to sing that song—when we were alone, of course. You might almost say it was her signature tune. So, of course, when she was actually introduced to a Mr. Finkelstein in person—”
Changing the subject, Winnie said, “You say that she was drunk. I thought she had promised to stick to tomato juice.”
“So did I,” said Michael grimly. “The waiters all swear blind that they served her nothing else, but she might easily have got around one of them, and now, of course, he’ll never admit it. No, I don’t know how she managed it, but she must have been drinking almost neat vodka, to get into the state she did in such a short time. Eleanor says she could hardly stand by the time she got to her room.”
“It was horrible, Mr. Nelson,” said Eleanor. “Disgusting. She kept on singing all the way up the stairs—dreadful, vulgar songs, you never heard such words. I thought we’d never get to the bedroom. Then she just flopped down on her bed and seemed to be sound asleep. I thought it was the best thing she could do. I simply came away as fast as I could. I locked the door behind me and left the key in it, as Michael told me to.”
“Eleanor did splendidly,” said Michael, defensively. “Of course, Eddie’s breathing fire and brimstone at both of us now, but that’s only to be expected. When he comes to his senses, he’ll have to agree that we did the only possible thing.” He paused, and then added, “Funny. You know, I think he was really fond of her, in spite of everything.”
“She was his wife,” said Winnie, coldly. This remark brought no response, so he added, “Well, go on. What happened next?”
“Nothing, really,” said Michael. “Eleanor and I went around the room trying to smooth things over with anyone who might have noticed the incident. Mr. Finkelstein left in a huff, and I can’t say I blame him. The evening limped toward its longed-for close. Around half-past eight, when Eddie was making his polite farewells, he asked me where Mavis was. I told him. He insisted she must come down and make a final appearance. I couldn’t really argue with him. I went upstairs, unlocked the door—and found her dead.”
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