Cyanide With Compliments

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  There was silence in the room for a few moments.

  ‘We don’t know for a fact that the John Bayley on the cruise didn’t paint that picture,’ Toye remarked. ‘We’ve only Mrs Lang’s word for it that he said he hadn’t, come to that.’

  ‘True,’ Pollard replied. ‘The same thought’s just hit me. I can’t see any reason why Mrs Lang should have lied about it, but it’s easy to understand why John Bayley might have. Wouldn’t you have gone to almost any length to escape getting involved with Mrs Vickers on a cruise ship? I know I would. Mrs Strode said she’d never seen the chap painting during the trip, but that could mean he’d decided it wasn’t worth the sweat of bringing his painting gear.’

  Toye agreed that all this was fair enough. ‘That arson business, sir. I suppose it can’t possibly tie up with our case?’

  Pollard sat frowning and doodling on his blotter. ‘I don’t see how it possibly can,’ he said at last. ‘To begin with, there’s absolutely no doubt that both the Bayleys were on the ship when the fire took place. Unless they had an accomplice, with all the risk of blackmail this would involve, how could they have had a hand in it? Even if we assume for purposes of argument that they had, I just can’t swallow the theory that Audrey Vickers managed to find out, and they decided to murder her to shut her mouth. Even wilder than my Donald Vickers theory, what?’

  ‘It wasn’t all that wild,’ Toye insisted loyally. ‘Why, the chap was Donald Vickers. At least, Vickers must have been in Athens when she was there, and he’s her lawful husband into the bargain.’

  Pollard stretched slowly, and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Well,’ he said without enthusiasm, ‘I suppose we’d better make tracks for Honeydew, and grill Mrs Willis… Hold on, though. I’ve just had a nasty thought that the place is shut on Wednesday afternoons. There was a notice about hours on the door. Ring through, will you? If she answers, you can say you’ve got the wrong number, or something.’

  Toye made two attempts to get Honeydew without success. ‘Seems you’re right,’ he said.

  Pollard grunted and sat staring in front of him for several moments. ‘That water-colour at Lauriston,’ he said abruptly. ‘There was a framer’s label on the back. A Redbay chap with a comic name … wait a bit … I’ve got it. Bartholomew Popkiss. Audrey Vickers was a compulsive talker, wasn’t she? It’s just on the cards that she said something to Popkiss about J. Bayley. Let’s see if we can get on to him.’

  After an interval Toye reported that the number had been found.

  ‘Bet it’s early closing in Redbay, too,’ Pollard observed gloomily, picking up the receiver of his desk telephone.

  ‘You’re through,’ said a voice.

  ‘Mr Popkiss?’ he queried, sounding surprised. ‘Good afternoon. Detective-Superintendent Pollard speaking from New Scotland Yard. You may have heard of me. I’m conducting the enquiry into the death of Mrs Audrey Vickers.’

  There were sounds of elderly agitation.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Mr Popkiss. There’s just a small matter you may be able to clear up for us. Mrs Vickers was a customer of yours, I think?’

  Now on the familiar ground of his business the picture-framer became more coherent. Yes, he’d done jobs for the poor lady from time to time.

  ‘Do you remember framing a water-colour of a famous bridge in Florence for her, a few years ago? It’s called the Ponte Vecchio, and the picture’s signed J. Bayley.’

  Mr Popkiss replied without hesitation that he remembered it well. There had been a lot of photos of the bridge in the papers when they had the bad floods in Italy, and he’d recognized it as the one he’d framed for Mrs Vickers.

  ‘Did she tell you anything about the artist? Where he lived, for instance?’

  ‘Not to tell me anything, she didn’t, but now you come to mention him, I call to mind there was a little printed label stuck on the back of the picture, down at the bottom left-hand corner with his name and address on it. But I don’t remember the address, not after all this time.’

  ‘It’s surprising you even remember the label, considering all the pictures you must handle,’ Pollard told him tactfully. ‘It was left on the back of the water-colour, I take it?’

  To his relief, it had been, and after thanking Mr Popkiss for his help, he rang off, and turned to Toye.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I know it’s a hundred to one that we’re heading for a dead end, but anything’s better than just sitting around on our backsides. The keys of Lauriston are at the Redbay station. Let’s see if we can contact Inspector Morris, and get him to go along and open up that frame.’

  By a stroke of good luck Inspector Morris was available, and sounded pleased at a request for help from the Yard. He undertook to go to Lauriston at once, and ring back with the address.

  ‘Now for the address of the cruise Bayleys,’ Pollard remarked, trying to suppress a feeling of excitement which seemed to him quite unjustified. ‘Dart — no, Odyssey Tours, of course. Cheaper call for the taxpayer to foot.’

  This time he handled the call himself, and was put through to Mr Hedley.

  ‘Easy,’ replied the latter, on hearing what was wanted. ‘Hang on a few minutes, and I’ll have the address looked up for you right away.’

  He was as good as his word, and soon back on the line.

  ‘Ready to take it down?’ he enquired. ‘Here goes. Mr and Mrs John Bayley, Ten Trafalgar Terrace, Camden Town, London NW1. Got it?’

  ‘Thanks very much. I’ll read it back…’

  ‘Always glad to help the police. Mustn’t ask how you’re getting on, I suppose?’

  ‘Sure you may. We’ve a handy stock answer: the police are continuing their enquiries.’

  They concluded the call on the best of terms.

  ‘Inspector Morris is the slow but sure type,’ Pollard remarked, looking at his watch. ‘We shan’t hear anything from him for half an hour at least. I’d better tackle the in tray while we’re waiting.’

  In the event it was forty minutes before the switchboard operator announced that Redbay station wanted Superintendent Pollard. Inspector Morris reported back with exasperating deliberation.

  ‘The printed label,’ he concluded, ‘measuring approximately one inch by one inch and a half, is affixed to the bottom left-hand corner. It bears the following inscription: J. Bayley, Ten Trafalgar Terrace, Camden Town, London NW1. I made a temporary repair to the frame, and rehung the picture pending your further instructions.’

  Pollard thanked him, and rang off as soon as he decently could. He found Toye, who had been listening in at the extension, looking at him with admiration on his normally impassive face.

  ‘I’ll hand it to you, sir,’ he remarked.

  ‘Don’t let’s kid ourselves that we’ve got anywhere, though, old chap. If it turns out that John Bayley really is J. Bayley, and lied to Audrey Vickers in self-defence, we’re no further on. If by any chance there’s another J. Bayley living at the Trafalgar Terrace address, he might possibly be worth following up. We’ll go along there now, on chance. Better not to alert them by ringing first. I think the best line to take is that we assume the two J.B.s are the same chap. Hence our call. We wonder if by any chance he knew the late Mrs Vickers, etc, etc. Then, if it turns out there are two chaps, we ask if the non-cruise one is in, because we’d just like a word with him. Play it by ear, of course. Not like me to plan an approach like this, is it? But we’re going to sound a bit thin, let’s face it.’

  ‘Won’t they think it’s a bit odd that we haven’t discussed it all with the Langs?’ Toye asked. ‘After all, they would know if Mrs Vickers had seen much of the Bayleys.’

  ‘That’s certainly a point,’ Pollard agreed. ‘If it strikes them, they’ll probably conclude that we’re checking up on the Langs’ statements. I’m quite sure popular opinion has cast the Langs as the obvious suspects in the case. Harking back to the fire, I shan’t mention it. The Bayleys may, of course, and we’ll watch out for anything that might be useful to
Dart. Let’s find out now if the local lads know anything of interest about the Bayleys, and then we’ll go and have some grub before we start off.’

  A telephone call produced the information that as far as the local police were concerned, the Bayleys of Ten Trafalgar Terrace, were in the clear, even where motoring offences were concerned. Would Superintendent Pollard like any enquiries made?

  Pollard explained that he was at the early stages of a doubtful lead, but might be glad of some help later. If so, he’d get into touch. He rang off with thanks for the offer, and turned to Toye.

  ‘I rather fancy a preliminary snoop round on our own,’ he said. ‘We might drop into a shop, or a pub for a quick one when they open. It’s no good getting to the house until John Bayley’s had reasonable time to come home from his job.’

  This programme was duly carried out. The car journey was slow in the heavy northbound traffic of the late afternoon, in spite of Toye’s skilful diversions among the network of side-roads beyond Portland Place. Eventually they arrived in the neighbourhood of Trafalgar Terrace, and succeeded in parking. Pollard, who had had plenty of time to meditate on the probable uselessness of the trip, and the wisdom of his handling of the case, looked about him rather gloomily.

  ‘Extraordinary hotchpotch,’ he remarked. ‘I can’t see people knowing much about each other. Look at these Regency houses on the up and up, after going to seed before the war. Taken over by the new young-prosperous, and cheek by jowl with pricey little shops and chain stores and genuine working-class streets. Here’s Trafalgar Terrace.’

  They walked its full length, unobtrusively taking in the decorous three-storied houses with their pleasing proportions and good windows. The majority had obviously been carefully restored and modernized, and the row had a moneyed appearance. One house was enveloped in scaffolding, and in actual process of renovation. As they passed Number Ten Toye remarked that it had been given the full treatment.

  ‘It’s early yet,’ Pollard said. ‘Let’s have a look at them from the back if it’s possible.’

  Investigation showed that the Trafalgar Terrace houses had small gardens at the back without separate access from the road, and joining on to the larger gardens of detached houses in Trafalgar Drive. Through a gap between two of the latter, they could see a single-storey building in the Bayleys’ garden.

  ‘Can’t be a garage,’ Toye said. ‘There’s no road.’

  Pollard suddenly felt an inexplicable stir of excitement.

  ‘Could be a studio,’ he replied. ‘I can’t make out if it’s got a north light, though.’

  At the far end of Trafalgar Drive they came out again into the busy thoroughfare at right angles to the two roads of Regency houses, which contained a number of shops. He glanced critically at Toye.

  ‘We might have a bash at that newsagent’s,’ he said. ‘Try to look brisk and pursuing, and a bit as though you’ve had a busy day. You’re an insurance chap, wanting Mr John Bayley. You’ve got an appointment and are muddled about Trafalgar Terrace and Trafalgar Drive. Get me?’

  Commenting that play-acting wasn’t really up his street, Toye adjusted his collar and jacket buttons, ran a hand through his sleek hair, and dived into the little shop, briefcase under his arm. In a couple of minutes he emerged again, and joined Pollard, who was studying the window of a delicatessen.

  ‘Not much luck,’ he announced. ‘One of those women who talk to you with their minds on something else. But the Bayleys get their papers there, and by saying that I thought I was late, I got out of her that he gets back from the place he works at about now, and that it’s up near the North Circular somewhere.’

  ‘Posh,’ Pollard remarked a few minutes later, as they paused to admire a Jaguar Mark IV outside Number Ten, Trafalgar Terrace. ‘He’s back, anyway.’

  After waiting briefly for Toye, a car enthusiast, to gloat, he rang the bell.

  ‘Here goes,’ he said.

  The door was opened by a tall blonde with a kind of lacquered perfection about every detail of her appearance. She looked at him enquiringly without speaking.

  ‘Good evening,’ Pollard said. ‘Mrs John Bayley?’

  She replied briefly in the affirmative, conveying the impression that he had been weighed in the balance and found wanting.

  ‘We’re CID officers from New Scotland Yard, Mrs Bayley,’ he told her. ‘Detective-Superintendent Pollard, and Detective-Sergeant Toye. May we have a word with you and your husband?’

  The pupils of her rather hard green eyes narrowed, and an exasperated expression came over her face.

  ‘You can’t mean this blasted business about the fire has got to Scotland Yard level?’ she exclaimed. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Without waiting for an answer she led the way to an open door at the rear of the hall, through which a news broadcast was audible. Following her, Pollard caught a waft of an expensive perfume. A man was sprawled in an armchair by the open french window giving on to the garden, a half-empty tumbler on a small table at his side. As his wife came in he turned his head and stared.

  ‘Scotland Yard,’ she announced loudly and laconically, going over to the television set and switching it off. ‘Detective-Superintendent Pollard and Detective-Sergeant…?’

  ‘Toye,’ Pollard supplied.

  ‘Thanks. My husband, John Bayley,’ she added.

  The man, also tall and fair, struggled to his feet. Pollard placed him in his late thirties or early forties.

  ‘Evening,’ he said. ‘I suppose we’ll get to the end of this confounded affair someday. Sit down, won’t you? Any use offering you a drink?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, as we’re on duty,’ Pollard told him, taking the chair indicated. ‘Thanks all the same, though. I’d better say at once that I’m not with you about the fire Mrs Bayley mentioned just now. We’ve come along about something quite different.’

  In the background a soda-water siphon gave an explosive splutter.

  ‘Damn!’ Mrs Bayley joined them, mopping herself with a handkerchief. ‘Well, it’ll be a change.’ She sat down between Pollard and her husband.

  ‘It certainly will,’ the latter agreed, throwing himself back in his chair, and crossing his legs, while staring at Pollard with interest. ‘Let’s hear what it’s in aid of, then.’

  ‘We’re probably wasting your time as well as our own,’ Pollard replied, ‘so I’ll be as brief as possible. You’ve recently been on a Mediterranean cruise with Odyssey Tours, I understand?’

  As he paused, both Bayleys made acquiescent noises while registering astonishment.

  ‘In that case,’ Pollard went on, ‘no doubt you’ve read in the papers of the death of a fellow passenger, a Mrs Audrey Vickers, from eating poisoned chocolates sent to her through the post?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ Mrs Bayley said. ‘We were staggered. We keep coming back to it, don’t we John?’

  ‘I don’t quite see how we come in, though,’ replied her husband.

  ‘You probably don’t come in at all, Mr Bayley,’ Pollard told him. ‘I’ll explain. There are some odd features about the case which you’ll understand I can’t discuss at the moment. One line we’re working on is to contact people Mrs Vickers may have talked to recently, possibly mentioning fears for her safety. We found a water-colour in her house signed J. Bayley, and his address, which was this house. As there were also a Mr and Mrs John Bayley on the cruise, again with this address, we wondered whether you and he were the same person, and might have known Mrs Vickers.’

  Illumination spread over the two faces regarding him attentively.

  ‘I get you,’ John Bayley said, ‘but I’m afraid you’ve been led up the garden path, just as Mrs Vickers herself was. She accused me of painting the thing one day during the cruise, didn’t she, Lorna? J. Bayley who paints is my cousin James Bayley. My brother-in-law, too, incidentally. My wife and I are cousins, you see. James and my having the same initial is a darned nuisance. We often have muddles over letters and bills, and so on.’
<
br />   ‘Oh, well, that’s one point cleared up, anyway,’ Pollard said, a note of resignation in his voice. ‘Can I have a word with Mr James Bayley, then, in case he can tell me anything about Mrs Vickers?’

  ‘By all means, if you can run him to earth,’ Mrs Bayley replied. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t a clue about where he is at the present moment.’

  ‘But doesn’t he live here, then?’

  ‘Not in the usual sense,’ John Bayley said. ‘We’ve given him a couple of rooms on the top floor as a pied-à-terre, and he uses the studio out there when he’s around, but he only turns up at intervals. The rest of the time he roams about abroad, painting when he feels like it. In Italy mostly, wouldn’t you say, Lorna?’

  ‘Mostly,’ she agreed. ‘I sometimes think my brother cultivates the popular image of an artist. He’s casual and lazy, unless he’s got a working fit on, and as he’s got a little money he can afford this footloose thing. He’s a good painter, though.’

  ‘I could see that from Mrs Vickers’ water-colour,’ Pollard replied, amused as always to see the public’s reaction to a policeman’s interest in art. ‘We may feel we want to contact him, though. When was he here last?’

  ‘While we were on the cruise,’ John Bayley replied, getting up to fetch himself another drink. ‘I can’t tell you the exact date, as our Mrs Mop doesn’t come in when we’re away. James can never be bothered to keep in touch, so there was no means of letting him know we were going on holiday. We just left a note on the mantelpiece on chance.’

  ‘Which was just as well,’ Lorna Bayley added, ‘seeing that he wanted to see us about lending his rooms here to a pal.’

  Under her half-flippant references to her brother Pollard thought he could detect genuine feeling. She’s fond of the chap, he thought, hard-boiled though she looks.

  ‘Did Mr James Bayley wait here until you came home?’ he asked.

  John Bayley gave an amused snort as he returned to his chair.

  ‘Much too rational for old James, that. We’d given him our dates and plans in the note, saying we were having a week in Venice after the cruise, so he thought he’d join us, and flew straight out again. He might have saved himself the trouble: we had to come back as soon as we docked, and only had a morning with him.’