Death of a Gay Dog

by Anne Morice

  ‘Thank you. And how scrumptious they look! May I help myself? I am afraid I have bad news to relate, dear lady.’

  ‘. . . . Yes, two lumps, please. The fact is, we appear to have been a little ah . . . um . . . over-optimistic in our assessment, and we wondered if you could see your way. . . . Oh, thank you, I will have another. . . . Yes, perfectly genuine; there was no mistake there . . . mainly that his work is out of fashion at the moment. Xenia telephoned. . . . Sothebys. . . . they had advised her to put a reserve of two fifty on the lot.’

  ‘. . . .’

  ‘Yes, laughable . . . thoroughly agree. The point is. . . .’

  ‘. . . .’

  ‘No more, thank you . . . tiny slice, if you insist . . . whether we could make some adjustment in the original price . . . so very glad to have your opinion.’

  I should have been moderately glad of it, too, but, infuriatingly enough, the next voice I heard was Dolly’s. Exactly how and when she had got into the act was a mystery. There was no mistaking that she was in a state of harassment beyond the norm, but nevertheless there are some words which contrive to be audible, even in the most adverse conditions and they include one’s own name. Unfortunately, in craning forward to catch what was being said about me, I knocked my chair against the table and sent the volume of Punch shooting on to the stone terrace. A second later, the french window was flung wide open and Guy stood framed inside it.

  I knew him to be capable of smart reactions, but he must really have come at the gallop this time, and the exertion had quite shaken him out of his normal imperturbability. He stood rigid, in the doorway, breathing deeply through parted lips, and two hard lines had etched themselves from nose to mouth. His eyes were hard as pebbles and no one had ever looked less like an unctuous clergyman.

  ‘Oh, hallo!’ I said uncertainly. ‘Fancy meeting you!’

  He was spared the necessity of capping this brilliant opening, because Dolly had caught up with him and was scuffling about in the background, drying to attract my attention. Becoming aware of this, Guy turned and walked away, still without a word.

  ‘It’s Matron, dear,’ Dolly panted. ‘On the phone. Oh dear, I feel quite frantic. I’ve been searching all over the place for you, in your room and everywhere. I’m afraid she’ll have rung off, by now. Hasn’t got a minute to live, by the sound of it. Run along and call her back, there’s a dear, otherwise I’ll be in hot water. She’s got something very urgent to tell you about Miss Blake.’

  ‘May I have the car this evening, Aunt Moo? I have to go to the hospital to see Christabel. It seems she’s been asking for me.’

  ‘Sure, and oy’ll droive you there, meself,’ Guy said. ‘It’s on me way.’

  He was stretched out in an armchair and, in the ten minutes which had elapsed since our previous encounter, had regained every shred of his composure.

  ‘That’s sweet of you, Guy, but they don’t want me until six. They say she’s pretty well doped at the moment, but they expect her to be thinking more clearly in an hour or two. Still, on second thoughts, if it’s really on your way, you could drop me off there. It might be a good idea to wait around and catch her at the right moment.’

  Aunt Moo smiled her secretive, cat-like smile and dealt herself a hand of Demon Patience. I suspected her of being so relieved that the Princess was not to be sullied by a ten-minute drive that she even forgot to warn me about being late for dinner.

  Fourteen

  (i)

  There was a call-box in the hospital foyer, as I knew from previous visits, and I went inside and dialled Haverford Police Station. It took ages to run Robin to earth, but there was plenty to look at while I waited.

  It was evidently the day for the post-natal clinic, for I could see through to the waiting-room and it was crowded with young mothers, perpetually twitching at their babies’ shawls and casting sidelong glances at the rival progeny.

  The foyer itself was a sea of prams and portable cots, and a handful of slightly older children were clambering about among them. They were regularly reprimanded for this by passing members of the hospital staff, who chivvied them back to their mothers, but they soon came zooming in again, and I even saw one three-year-old delinquent grab a bar of chocolate from a trolley like the one I had seen Nancy with the day before.

  ‘Hallo!’ Robin said at last. ‘Where are you?’

  I told him, adding: ‘They say Christabel is still asleep, but they’re going to let me know the minute she’s visible. Anyway, I thought it would be a smart move to ring you from here. The Towers telephone is a bit public.’

  ‘Does that mean you have something to report?’

  ‘Not a lot, I’m afraid, and not very gristy to the mill.’

  After describing the snatches I had picked up from my verandah spy-post, I went on:

  ‘So, you see, it doesn’t look as though I’m cut out for the espionage game; although between them Christabel and Dolly would have put a spoke in anyone’s wheel. Also, Robin, their conference obviously wasn’t related to the murder. It simply confirmed our theory that Aunt Moo is quietly disposing of Uncle Andrew’s possessions and the Robinsons are taking a rake-off.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry you had to risk your reputation for nothing.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite nothing. In fact, darling, the interesting thing – Oh, just a minute. I’ll tell you later. I’ve got to go now.’

  I had been about to give a dramatic account of Guy’s disproportionately violent reaction to my presence, but Nurse O’Malley had appeared in the hall, and I guessed from her flashing glances that Christabel was now ready to see me.

  No guess could have been further from the mark, for it turned out that Christabel would never be in a position to see anyone again. O’Malley related the facts in a little cubby-hole of a room, unfurnished except for a shabby old sink and glass cupboards full of drugs and dressings.

  ‘Now, you must try not to upset yourself, you know. Poor old dear, it was just as well she did go. Her right side took a regular beating in that fire. She’d not have been fit for her painting or anything else, the state she was in.’

  ‘What was it?’ I asked. ‘Another heart attack?’

  ‘Just a wee one, but she wouldn’t have known a thing about it. Passed away in her sleep, poor lady.’

  ‘Will there be a post mortem?’

  She had evidently been unprepared for this and looked somewhat flustered:

  ‘Now that’s not a thing we need to go bothering our heads about, is it? That’s for the authorities to say. What we have to think about is how to get you safely home to your Auntie’s. Will I give her a ring and ask her to send the car down?’

  ‘Have the police been told about Christabel yet?’

  She assumed the self-consciously casual expression which accompanies an extra-energetic shake of the thermometer, saying:

  ‘Oh, they’ll be told soon enough. Now, how about a nice cup of tea to perk you up, while I get on the phone?’

  ‘No, I’m all right. I was only thinking that, if the police had been told, Robin will know about it by now and he’ll be on his way here. So I could go home with him.’

  ‘Great heavens above! The woman’s a genius! And what’s the betting you’re right? Just sit tight, now, for a few minutes, and I shouldn’t be surprised to see him rolling up before you can say Jack Robinson.’

  ‘Or Guy Robinson, or Xenia Robinson, came to that,’ I said, when relating these matters on the homeward journey. ‘Anyway, darling old O’Malley fell smack into my trap, and I realised that the police certainly had been informed of Christabel’s death. Which leads me to suppose that somebody, somewhere, is not satisfied that it was a natural one. Correct?’

  ‘Too early to say. There’ll have to be a post mortem, of course. To go back to all those Robinsons for a moment: I thought you told me on the telephone that the conversation you overheard was relatively harmless?’

  ‘So it was, and, as far as he was concerned, it could have been completely innoce
nt. Even supposing he has been helping her to unload some of Uncle Andrew’s possessions, that would be quite a normal thing for someone in his line of business. He may not know that, legally, they’re not hers to dispose of. So why is he in such a tantrum when he finds I’ve been listening in?’

  ‘You’re sure that was his reaction? Not over-dramatising things in retrospect, by any chance?’

  ‘What a suggestion! No, I’m positive, Robin. It was genuine anger and panic, too, I shouldn’t wonder. I’d really have been scared, if Dolly hadn’t been there.’

  ‘Though not too scared to drive to the hospital with him, ten minutes later?’

  ‘No, that’s true, but he’d got a hold of himself by then. There’s nothing faintly sinister about him in the ordinary way, is there? Besides, I was thinking more about Christabel, by that time. I was all worked up about why the things she had to tell me had become so urgent all of a sudden. And now I shall never know, I suppose.’

  ‘And on the drive to the hospital did Guy allude to the other thing? Try to pump you about what you might have overheard, for instance?’

  ‘Not really. He said something vague about old people getting curious fixations and what not, but he was all soft soap and treacle at that point. Pretended to be very concerned about Christabel, too; and he was madly quizzy about her wanting to see me. It was quite a lark, really.’

  ‘Was it? Why?’

  ‘Because I can put on an act, too, when I want to; and I made out I was just as much in the dark as he was.’

  ‘Well, you were, and still are, surely?’

  ‘Not on your life!’

  ‘Oh, come now! A minute ago I heard you say, “And now I shall never know.”’

  ‘Not true, Robin. I said I should never know what had made it so urgent. That’s still a puzzle, unless, of course, she knew she was dying and wanted to cleanse her soul; but that doesn’t really fit with Christabel. On the whole, I incline to the view that she had every intention of recovering.’

  ‘Cleanse her soul by confessing to the murder?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no. Although, as it happens, it was something which gave her a first-class motive; and she may have begun to realise that I would soon see that for myself, and maybe pass the facts on to you.’

  We were within a hundred yards of The Towers, as I spoke, but Robin pulled the car into the side of the road and switched off the engine.

  ‘If so,’ he said, ‘it sounds to me as though she over-estimated you. You still haven’t explained about that mad excursion to the barn, and presumably it’s tied up with these hints you’re throwing out now. But let’s get things straight, Tessa. If you know or suspect something. which Christabel knew or suspected, that relates in any way to the murder, you must tell me about it and stop fooling around. It’s not merely your duty to do so, it’s your own safety that I’m even more concerned about.’

  ‘Oh, why, Robin? Do you imagine that Christabel has now been killed because of this knowledge or suspicion of hers? That’s absolutely out, I promise you. Besides, O’Malley assured me it was a straightforward heart attack.’

  ‘Maybe, but we’re not prepared to take Nurse O’Malley’s word for it just yet. There have been too many oddities about Christabel’s behaviour and it’s becoming hourly more apparent that you’re mixed up in whatever game she was playing. Now, for the last time, are you going to come clean, or aren’t you?’

  ‘Keep your wool on! Of course, I am.’

  ‘Good. Then now’s the time. And do try, just for once, to begin at the beginning.’

  Just for once, I did so.

  (ii)

  ‘It all began before the murder, you know; exactly a week ago, in fact. You remember Christabel’s burglary and how cagey she got when you advised her to report it?’

  ‘Indeed, I do. It was one reason for saying that she’s been acting funny all along. I never could decide whether she invented it and, if so, why.’

  ‘There have been too many burglaries, that’s the trouble,’ I told him. ‘It has clouded our vision, because some are connected and some are not. Just count them. Leaving aside the kind of armchair racket, which Aunt Moo seems to be conducting, we started with the one at Sir Maddox’s flat, which brought you down here.’

  ‘Followed by Christabel’s contribution, which may or may not have been genuine.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it was, and that’s where the connections start, because there was a similar episode, the following night, at Haverford Court.’

  ‘Immediately after the murder, in fact.’

  ‘Yes; and note the parallels. Once again the thief went to some trouble to break into premises where there were stacks of valuables lying around, and appears to have gone away empty-handed.’

  ‘And where does all that lead you?’

  ‘To the conclusion that it wasn’t valuables he was after?’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Evidence.’

  Robin lifted his hands off the steering-wheel and turned round to shake his head at me:

  ‘No, that won’t do. The murder hasn’t been committed when Christabel’s thief made his call. So he can hardly have been looking for evidence at that stage.’

  ‘Not evidence of murder; I don’t mean that, although there is a kind of motive tucked away in all this, which is why I have hesitated to pass my findings on. But it can’t hurt her, now she’s dead.’

  ‘You sound pretty confident, Tessa; but let’s face it, your findings, as you call them, can only be surmise. Christabel died before you had a chance to talk to her, so how can you actually know anything?’

  ‘But I do,’ I protested. ‘And Christabel knew that I knew. No talking was necessary. The mere fact of her sending for me proved it.’

  ‘Proved what? I rather wish I hadn’t been so insistent on your starting at the beginning. It might have been better if you had stuck to your usual method of plunging in somewhere around the middle. Just tell me what it was that Christabel had to say to you, and which you already knew.’

  ‘In a word, that it was Sir Maddox who broke into the barn.’

  ‘That’s quite a word, I must admit; and, if it’s the middle, I’d just as soon you began at the end. What the hell would he do a thing like that for?’

  ‘To steal some of her paintings. I’m not sure how many. Two or three, maybe.’

  ‘It’s a relief to hear there’s something you’re not sure of. Of all the crazy notions! And how do you account for the fact that Christabel was so keen to hush it up? She loathed Brand, didn’t she? It would have been a splendid stick to beat him with.’

  ‘A double-edged one, unfortunately, so she couldn’t use it. All she could do was to get the stolen pictures back again, as fast as she could and with the minimum of fuss.’

  ‘Forgive my saying so, but I should have thought the bigger the fuss the faster she’d have got them back?’

  ‘In other circumstances that might be so, but it had to be done without anyone examining the pictures and without their knowing who’d pinched them. Otherwise, he would have retaliated by exposing her to a jeering world for the old fraud that she was.’

  ‘Really? And what sort of old fraud was that?’

  ‘I don’t know the technical name, but it’s the one who passes off spurious works of art as genuine. Those pictures weren’t painted by Mott at all. She did them herself. At least, not the whole lot, but most of them, and certainly those which Maddox took away.’

  ‘With what object, for God’s sake? If what you say is true, they would have no particular value.’

  ‘That wasn’t the attraction. What he wanted was to get such a hold over Christabel that she would have been completely in his power. Giving up Mill Cottage would doubtless have been his first demand. And, so long as she toed the line, he probably wouldn’t have given her away. Much more fun to keep the threat of exposure hanging over her head.’

  ‘I should love to hear how you arrived at these extraordinary conclusions.’

  ‘W
ell, to begin with –’

  ‘No,’ Robin said, ‘if you don’t mind, I’ll begin this time. First tell me what possible reason she could have had for passing off her own work as Mott’s, and then how she managed to get away with it?’

  ‘Well, it might not count as a reason for any thoroughly sane person, but she was a bit cracked, in some respects. Possibly, she was always a bit eccentric and the life she led with old Mott made her a sight worse. That’s guessing, because it was before my time; but it is a fact that a lot of people are now getting around to the idea that she was very talented, in her own right. I maintain that she always was. I can’t believe that a flair of that kind, in someone perpetually surrounded by artists and artists’ materials, would have stayed dormant until she was pushing seventy. In the early days, I expect she learnt a lot from Mott and was influenced by him, but then I think it must have dawned on him how very good she was getting, and, mean-spirited old beast that he was, he became frightfully jealous. She never had a single exhibition and nobody ever saw her work when he was alive, and yet there’s stacks of it piled up in her studio alone, far more than one person could have produced in three or four years.’

  ‘Then why put up with it? They weren’t married. She could have cut loose and branched out on her own any time she liked.’

  ‘I know, but she was besotted about the old bastard. Everyone agrees on that. He was her whole life and, although he made sure that she had no artistic standing of her own, she did bask in his reflected glory and hobnobbed with the cream of the art world. That was specially true in the last years, when he was so dependent on her. Well, you can see what would happen as soon as he died?’

  ‘Bang goes the power and the glory?’

  ‘Yes, and I think she must have resented that; specially since they weren’t married and he only left her a pittance. I suppose she could have concentrated on her own work, at that point, but it’s a bit rough to start building up a reputation when you’re over sixty, and going blind into the bargain. I think she preferred the easier distinction of making herself sole custodian of more than half his life’s output; ninety per cent of that, of course, having been compiled by herself during the thirty years they lived together. She even spread a few romantic tales about having stolen the pictures, when he was on his death bed, presumably in case it should occur to anyone that it was somewhat out of character for him to have bequeathed her such a goldmine.’