Death of an Old Girl

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  RE R.V. [it ran] WEALTHY COMPANY PROMOTER STOP NO POLICE RECORD BUT SUSPECTED BEHIND GOLDEN ACRES FRAUD STOP PROSECUTION DROPPED IN DEFAULT OF EVIDENCE STOP WIFE WELL-KNOWN AMATEUR PAINTER STOP BOTH FREQUENT VISITORS TO EUROPE STOP NO KNOWN COMMUNIST OR DRUG MARKET AFFILIATIONS STOP.

  A period of intense activity set in. Chief Superintendent Crowe expressed guarded satisfaction. The A.C. in the briefest of interviews approved Pollard’s plan to enlist the help of the F.B.I. in the event of nothing being found on Ann Cartmell at London Airport, and to urge them to make further enquiries into the activities of the Vanderplanks. Pollard, unused to making transatlantic telephone calls, experienced alternating excitement and apprehension about his own future. Ultimately he surfaced to find that it was three o’clock and that neither he nor Toye had had any lunch.

  After a hasty meal they returned to the notes of the case with renewed enthusiasm, but the morning’s run of luck had petered out. Neither intensive concentration nor discussion ad nauseam yielded the vestige of a fresh idea. Soon after seven Pollard stretched, and rubbed his tired eyes with the backs of his hands.

  ‘Let’s pack up, Toye,’ he said. ‘We’re getting nowhere. I —’ The desk telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Mrs Pollard, sir,’ the switchboard operator told him. ‘Shall I put her through?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pollard spoke curtly… Jane… The case dropped away from him.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Here,’ he said.

  ‘Come home. It’s something vital — the case.’ The telephone in the flat was in their bedroom, but she was speaking quietly. ‘Come in quite casually.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded, with a sudden disturbing vision of Clive Torrance.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Coming right away.’

  The receiver clattered down as he grabbed at papers, stuffing them into his briefcase.

  ‘My wife’s got on to something.’ he told the astonished Toye. ‘I may be ringing you.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good,’ Jane Pollard exclaimed as her husband walked in. ‘I was hoping you’d turn up. This is Tom, Diane. Diane Moss, Tom. She’s from my home town and is working at Brocatti & Simpson. It’s so exciting! When I dropped in there for a sketching block this morning she told me she actually sold Clive Torrance Ann Cartmell’s colour-box.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Diane.’ Pollard sank bewildered into a chair, and contemplated a round-faced blonde, patently naive under attempts at a with-it appearance. ‘Is he a boyfriend of yours?’

  Diane bridled with pleasure, casting up big blue eyes with immense false lashes.

  ‘Do tell Tom what he said to you,’ encouraged Jane.

  She took a deep breath and prepared to hold her audience.

  ‘Well, Mr Legge — he’s the Sales Manager — usually serves the posh customers, but we’d a rush on that morning,’ she confided. ‘I saw Mr Torrance come in at the door. He took a look round, and then he — y’know — made straight for me… Moppet, he said, you’re on commission, aren’t you? Your number’s come up. I want a Wynne 1A oil colour-box… That’s the priciest one we stock,’ she explained, turning to Pollard.

  ‘Lucky Ann Cartmell,’ commented Jane.

  ‘Then I suppose he asked you to get it packed up and sent off?’ prompted Pollard, feeling his way but completely befogged.

  ‘That’s right. I made out the docket for Dispatch, for it to go the same day, without fail. But that wasn’t the lot.’ Diane paused dramatically. ‘He said he wanted another 1A, fitted up exactly the same! Biggest commission I’ve ever had!’

  In the ensuing silence Pollard realised that his mouth had gone dry.

  ‘Where did you have to send the second one?’ he asked her.

  ‘Oh, that one didn’t have to be posted off. I just — y’know — wrapped it, and Mr Torrance took it away.’

  Twenty-One

  ‘Veritas Praevalebit.’

  Motto of Meldon School

  Mr Jonathan Risley, Manager of Brocatti & Simpson’s, created a flutter by arriving at the shop at eight-thirty on Monday morning. He went straight to his room and immediately summoned Mr Legge, the Sales Manager. After an interval of ten minutes or so, the latter emerged looking portentous, and vanished into Accounts, where he remained closeted for a considerable time. In the shop speculation flourished, and the morning’s first customers received service much below the normal standard. The Accounts typist sent down to make an enquiry whispered to a crony that all sales dockets for the week before last were being vetted. The news was rapidly disseminated and conjecture became rife. Was it a customer or something inside?

  Mr Legge’s appearance was the signal for a feverish concentration on customers and their requirements. He did not, however, return to his normal stance, but made for the store. He was soon out again, a large, flat object wrapped in brown paper under his arm, and, almost beyond belief, left the premises wearing his hat and still carrying the parcel. He was seen to hail a passing taxi.

  A bright spark suggested having a look at the withdrawal book…

  The station platform slid slowly out of Ann Cartmell’s sight, bearing away her parents. She returned to her compartment, grateful at having secured a corner seat in a crowded train. Her mind was a confusion of relief, excitement and nervous apprehension. The Avon valley glided past unnoticed as she stared unseeingly out of the window: meadow, river and canal … bright patterns of boats moored in clusters and awaiting hirers … old grey appropriate houses and harsh new discordant ones…

  He’d said he’d come to the airport if he possibly could. Ann thrust to the back of her mind that seeing her off wasn’t a priority. If he really cared… And she’d been able to dissuade her parents from postponing the start of their own holiday and coming to see her off. Her thoughts rested on them for a brief moment…

  It was marvellous to feel a sense of leisure. She hadn’t for ages, really, not since the end-of-term rush started. For the first time she found herself giving the murder of Beatrice Baynes her full attention. Honestly, it was the most extraordinary thing she’d ever heard of … in the studio, of all places. It was difficult to believe that it could possibly be true… But it was. Next term… Would one keep thinking about it? And the girls? What would be the best line to take, she wondered? Rennie would say something at the staff meeting before term … talk to the School…

  The train journey ahead of her seemed to stretch to eternity. She looked at her watch. It must have stopped. With some annoyance she intercepted an amused glance from a man on the opposite side as she held it to her ear. It hadn’t stopped. She opened a book resolutely and tried to concentrate…

  As the train ran through the outer suburbs of London she restrained herself from assembling her belongings too quickly. Sudden panic seized her. Would a uniformed policeman be meeting her? She hadn’t thought of that. If not, how would they know each other? Surely Inspector Pollard wouldn’t come himself? She hoped not: he was kind, but something about him frightened her. Not that he could be much good really … a whole week and they still hadn’t found the murderer.

  Detective-Sergeant Toye had made so little impression on her preoccupied mind that she did not recognise him at once when he came towards her as she got out of the train at Paddington…

  ‘That isn’t locked,’ she said anxiously on arrival at London Airport, as her canvas hold-all was labelled and swept away with the rest of her luggage. ‘It’s my painting things.’

  Toye reassured her. ‘No need to carry it round, Miss Cartmell. You can pick it up again after the Customs. I’ll be along to fetch you for that. You’ve plenty of time to go and have some lunch now.’

  He escorted her to the restaurant, and indicated the departure lounge before leaving her.

  Almost too tense and excited to eat, Ann ordered an omelette and some coffee. As she ate, she wondered what was the earliest moment at which she could reasonably hope to see Clive Torrance. Her plane left at three-thirty, and you’
d have to board it soon after three surely? Say half-past two, or perhaps a minute or two later… Another whole hour to spin out… She dallied over her coffee, looking about her and sometimes forgetting her anxieties in the interest of the kaleidoscopic movement of people around her. All the same, she thought, there was something eerie about an airport. Not quite earth and not quite air. A sort of limbo, with hollow voices from nowhere issuing summonses which set up sudden surges of travellers on the first lap towards improbable destinations. And the sinister background music of revving-up engines, going straight through nerve and flesh to your very bones.

  She had moved to the departure lounge, and settled herself in as conspicuous a seat as she could find when the incredible happened. One of the hollow voices called her name. ‘Attention, please. A message for Miss Ann Cartmell. Miss Ann Cartmell,’ it repeated, with the unhuman blend of emphasis and unconcern. ‘Will Miss Ann Cartmell, passenger to New York, go to the Enquiries desk, please.’

  There was an audible click, and silence. She scrambled to her feet, clumsily scattering her gloves and stooping impatiently to snatch them up. He wasn’t coming … but he’d sent a message … a message, anyway…

  Then the anti-climax. A man in an official uniform, saying she was wanted in the Customs.

  ‘But I’m expecting a friend to see me off,’ she protested frantically.

  ‘Leave a message with us, madam,’ an Enquiries clerk suggested helpfully.

  She left Clive Torrance’s name, giving it with a kind of pride, and turned to follow.

  To her surprise they did not go into the Customs Hall, but through a door marked Private, and on to another. Her escort knocked, and opened it for her to pass through. It was a small room and seemed rather full of people. Inspector Pollard who was standing at a table turned as she came in.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You wanted me to sign some papers, didn’t you, Inspector?’

  There was an odd little pause, during which she noticed Toye in the background, and it struck her that Pollard looked expressionless.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Cartmell,’ he said. ‘No, we won’t worry about your statements for the moment. Unless you’d like to make one about this.’

  He moved aside. Neatly stacked on the table were the contents of the hold-all in which she had packed her painting gear. The paint-box lay apart, and Pollard indicated it and looked at her interrogatively.

  ‘About my paint-box?’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t understand. There’s nothing dutiable in it, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Are you prepared to swear that, Miss Cartmell?’ he asked her gravely.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she said impatiently. ‘What on earth is all this fuss about?’

  Pollard nodded curtly at another man, who stepped forward and picked up the box. He opened it, produced some small and delicate tools from his pocket, and began to work on the inside of the lid.

  ‘You’ve no right to damage my property,’ Ann burst out angrily. ‘It’s a brand-new colour-box — an expensive one. A present. And why have you taken the paints out?’

  She turned indignantly to Pollard, to find his eyes fixed on her.

  ‘Any damage we do will, of course, be made good,’ he replied. ‘The paints are quite safe.’

  The man at the table skilfully removed several screws of microscopic dimensions and took up a thin blade.

  ‘Oh, please be careful!’ Almost in tears, Ann took a step forward. There was an imperceptible closing-in of the other spectators. The wafer-like blade working round the inner side of the lid appeared to be loosening a thin panel of wood. With infinite care it was prised up and removed, revealing a blueness showing through a sheet of something semi-transparent. Ann uttered an incoherent exclamation.

  ‘Get that up too, Rogers,’ Pollard ordered. ‘You can’t be too careful. Put the lid flat.’

  The paper was lifted out with a pair of tweezers … a small patrician face looked up at them, radiant with childhood’s glow, charmingly conscious of the sky-blue bonnet crowning the flaxen hair.

  There was an almost tangible silence, finally broken by Ann Cartmell.

  ‘But it’s Raeborough’s Blue Bonnet,’ she gasped, ‘the one that was stolen from the Wrexham Collection.’ Looking round in bewilderment her eye lighted on Pollard. ‘It must have been put in at Brocatti & Simpson’s. The box was sent from there.’

  ‘No, Miss Cartmell, it wasn’t,’ he told her. ‘You see that isn’t the box which you received from Brocatti & Simpson.’

  ‘But it is,’ she insisted, her face a study in sheer incomprehension. ‘It came to Meldon — I’ve had it ever since. It must be the same.’

  ‘It was only the same until the evening of last Saturday week, when this box on the table was substituted for yours by Mr Clive Torrance.’

  Her faced flamed with anger.

  ‘How dare you,’ she stormed, ‘I never heard of anything so preposterous! Anyway, he’s coming to see me off…’

  Something in Pollard’s expression made her break off.

  ‘He isn’t coming, Miss Cartmell,’ Pollard said. He glanced round at the others with a movement of his head. The next moment they had left the room.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ he suggested.

  Speechless and trembling Ann subsided on to a chair.

  ‘I think you know my wife,’ Pollard went on. ‘She was Jane Holloway before she married me. You were both on an art course at Wendlebury Manor two years ago. Do you remember her?’

  Ann nodded dumbly, realised that she was gripping the edge of the table, and released her hold.

  ‘I’ve some bad news for you, Miss Cartmell. I think when you’ve heard it you may want to postpone your journey for another day or two. Jane asks me to say that if you don’t feel like going back to Bath tonight, she’ll be very happy to put you up.’

  ‘Is it about — Mr Torrance?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes. He wrote me a letter this morning, telling me how he stole the Blue Bonnet over three years ago. I needn’t explain why you were to take it to America, need I? In his letter he made it absolutely clear that you knew nothing whatever about it.’ He paused, seeing the colour draining out of her face.

  ‘You haven’t told me everything.’ The words were barely audible.

  ‘Miss Baynes who was spying on you — hiding in the puppet theatre — saw Mr Torrance change over the boxes before you arrived in the studio from supper that evening. When he went back to fetch the copy of Artifex she charged him with it. He couldn’t face the risk of exposure, either then or this morning, when he found out that I had discovered it too…’

  He caught Ann as she slipped from her chair to the floor.

  Jane Pollard looked up as her husband came into the sitting-room.

  ‘Jordan passed,’ she said.

  ‘She got off all right, then?’ he enquired, coming over to the window and sitting down.

  ‘Yes. Her father picked us up here in a taxi, and we found Miss Renshaw waiting at the airport, so she had a good send-off from the three of us. The stiff upper lip was a bit in evidence, but she had herself well in hand and was very composed and sensible with the Press. She’s got guts, all right. I hope everything goes smoothly at the other end.’

  ‘It should do. Being met by a plain clothes man ought to get her through the formalities at the double, and then he’ll see her on to the right train for the place where the summer school is.’

  ‘What intrigues me,’ Jane said, ‘is the line the Vanderplanks are going to take.’

  ‘Horrified incredulity, and attempts to shower hospitality on Ann is my guess.’

  ‘She says nothing will induce her ever to meet them. I suppose there isn’t a hope of bringing a case against them?’

  ‘Not a hope. There isn’t a shred of evidence as far as I can see. But you’ll be interested to hear that during the week they were in London, staying at the Washington, Brocatti & Simpson sold an identical oil colour-box to an American lady for cash… No, not the unbelie
vable Diane this time. A more senior assistant, who remembered the sale quite clearly. I take it that a second substitution would have taken place when Ann arrived at the Vanderplanks. Neat?’

  ‘One of the neatest things I’ve ever heard of. Of course there are endless questions I’m dying to ask you, but shall we get off ourselves now? The car’s all packed up and there’s a picnic supper on board.’

  ‘God, yes,’ said Pollard. ‘I’ve never wanted a week’s leave more.’

  The Pollards’ refuge for short holidays was a farmhouse in a fold of the Wiltshire Downs, remote from traffic and crowds. During the days they walked the ancient trackways, two moving specks in the vast, rolling landscape under immense skies. They ate their sandwiches reclining against the grassy ramparts and burial mounds of a vanished world, and afterwards sprawled happily in the sun listening to cascades of larksong overhead.

  ‘By the way,’ Jane said one day, ‘I never asked you if the Old Man said anything.’

  ‘He threw out a casual statement about going down to Devon to look at a bungalow for his retirement, but of course it mayn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘Sez you,’ she commented.

  Stretched out on the turf side by side they looked at each other…

  ‘How do you feel about it all in retrospect?’ Jane asked presently.

  ‘It’s been an absolutely fantastic case,’ Pollard replied after a pause. ‘The murder itself was pure Grand Guignol, to start with… A fascinating case, too. Personalities have counted for so much. Poor old warped B.B., for instance, and Torrance himself, absolutely obsessed with his own image: a sort of fleshy middle-aged Narcissus. And Ann — an extraordinary mixture of ability and immaturity. Then there’s the unfortunate Madge Thornton and the skeleton in the Baynes cupboard, like a Victorian novel.’

  ‘You’ve made them all so real. George Baynes seems to have been one of the most attractive. I should like to meet George.’

  ‘Just try, that’s all! Young scoundrel! I admit his charm, though. As a matter of fact I think all this may have sobered him down. Yelland — the solicitor — rang me up about one or two points, and said Madge is having Applebys as part of her share, and is making a home for George whenever he wants one. She proposes to retire and spend her time gardening. Helen Renshaw will be overjoyed.’