‘Exactly,’ Rosy said, ‘so what stroke of luck brought you to my rescue?’
‘That was me, really,’ Amy explained. ‘I’m trying to lose a bit of weight, and Mummy thought that a brisk bike ride might be a “Good Thing”. Bartho had been telling me about Ramsgate’s party and some of the weird statues in his grounds, so we borrowed another bike with a front basket for Mr Bates, and pedalled over here for me to take a dekko. When we saw your car parked in the drive we thought it would be all right to join you – drop in on him like proper visitors and perhaps cadge a cup of tea. We rang the bell but nothing happened, so that’s why we started to do a recce round the back. And, as they say, the rest is history.’ She glanced down at her arm. ‘Actually, the ride was very pretty, but I jolly well didn’t expect to get a bloody sleeve at the end of it!’ There was another yelp of mirth.
‘I think you’ve been fearfully brave,’ said Bartho admiringly.
Rosy also thought the girl brave, but was not sure whether this was an innate virtue or something she inherited from her mother and other members of the Fawcett tribe: the ability to sail through life brightly impervious to all but the most exceptionally tiresome (a cancelled dinner date?). Perhaps it was a bit of both.
The young constable had been right about Nathan’s reaction to the damaged police vehicle.
‘Huh,’ he grumbled, as they watched Ramsgate’s body being shrouded and stowed, ‘it looks as if we may have to send you back on another driving course, old son. And the super will take a dim view too. Still,’ he added grudgingly, ‘there’s one mitigating factor, I suppose: you probably saved their lives. That could work in your favour.’ He gave a lugubrious wink.
‘All in the line of duty,’ Jennings replied modestly. And then in a casual tone, he asked: ‘Do you believe in déjà vu, sir?’
‘In what?’
‘Déjà vu,’ Jennings explained patiently, ‘it’s when something happens to you, and then you feel that it’s happening all over again, and you can’t really distinguish the first time from the second.’
‘Sounds a bit complicated, if you ask me. And besides, what’s that got to do with all of this?’ Nathan gestured to Ramsgate’s house and its surrounding terrain.
‘This, sir!’ Jennings thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a long crescent-shaped object. ‘I found it on the lawn just near where he topped himself.’
Nathan stared at it pondering. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said at last, ‘it’s another of your bloody orthotics. What’s it doing here?’
‘A very good question,’ Jennings said briskly.
Clever me, thought Nathan wryly, and looked enquiringly at the younger officer.
‘It is the twin to the one we found near the murdered girl: same colour, same size, same make – and it is made for the left foot, not the right.’ Jennings fixed Nathan with a triumphant gaze.
‘So what? There’s probably a lot of ’em around. I suppose it fell out of his slipper when he tripped in the middle of the lawn. I take it the other one is still intact?’
‘But that’s just it!’ Jennings cried. ‘There isn’t another one: the one for the right foot is missing. It’s what I’ve got in my desk drawer, the one I picked up from the beach. Like I said, they match exactly. He’s probably been walking at a list for some time!’
Nathan regarded the other soberly. ‘Tell me, Jennings, should you ever decide not to continue as one of Her Majesty’s police officers, might you ever consider chiropody as a career?’
Impassively, Jennings replied that his current career suited him down to the ground. ‘Anything else would be far too pedestrian,’ he explained, carefully retrieving the insole from his superior’s grasp. ‘It’s the challenges, you see: you never know where they will come from next. What you might call the constant adversity from high and low, inside and out – sort of keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it, sir?’ Without waiting for an answer he walked over to the damaged police car, leant on its bonnet and began to scribble busily in his notebook.
Nathan sighed.
He sighed again when an hour later he was giving a verbal report to the superintendent about the goings-on at the Ramsgate residence.
‘Just because one foot support matches another does not make a man a murderer,’ the superintendent said sternly. ‘Neither, for that matter, does running berserk with a shotgun before topping yourself in full view of pursuing officers. Perhaps he was in despair at having his front steps rammed by DS Jennings.’ The superintendent gave a superior smile. ‘I agree that his behaviour was very odd – most unfortunate, given the result. But he was obviously experiencing some sort of breakdown. An aunt of mine went like that once – quite barmy and quite out of the blue, though fortunately she didn’t have a shotgun. Of course, I was only a nipper but I remember the fuss and—’ He stopped abruptly, and with a discreet cough returned his mind to the present. ‘Anyway, there is nothing to suggest that Ramsgate had any reason to want the Tildred girl dead; he had only met her that one time at his party. And despite DS Jennings’ “evidence”, may I remind you, Nathan, that two orthotics do not make a summer. I think we can do better than that, don’t you?’ With a curt nod of dismissal, he picked up his pen and resumed writing to the chief constable, modestly requesting the latter’s support for his membership of the golf club.
Once outside the office Nathan both sighed and cursed. The problem was that the man was right. Jennings’ ‘evidence’ might be a supporting factor if other elements could be established, but without those elements the foot things proved nothing – except that the world was full of coincidence or that the dead man should have patronised a better chiropodist.
He thought gloomily of his interview with Hackle and the two women. From what he could make out they had been paying a casual social call – the Gilchrist woman taking him some message from her boss at the British Museum, and the other pair dropping in from their bicycle ride in the hope of being offered a cup of tea. They said they were ‘taken aback’ when he suddenly turned nasty and started to bawl his head off and threatened them with the pistol. The girl with the dog said she was convinced he was going to shoot it … Well, yes, Nathan reflected, he could understand that all right; he wasn’t too keen on dogs himself and that one had looked distinctly shady. Still, there was no need for Ramsgate to threaten its human companions. Unless, of course, he was mad – as his superior had assured him.
But did people often go suddenly mad like that? Not in his experience they didn’t (though perhaps the aunts of police superintendents had such a tendency). From what he knew of Ramsgate the man had been sane enough, or at least nobody had complained before. Broken under pressure, perhaps? What pressure? An acclaimed writer and broadcaster, plenty of money to travel to foreign parts, and living comfortably in a large country house in Suffolk away from the public gaze – what pressure had he been under, for God’s sake? Difficult to imagine, unless it was from the deadline for a new travel book!
Nathan scowled and began to light his pipe (also a failure and he had to start again). On the whole, he mused, those three hadn’t been the most reliable witnesses: perfectly polite and willing, of course, but he couldn’t help feeling that there had been a collective vagueness, an air of reticence that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The girl with the dog was the daughter of that Lady Fawcett staying at The Swan. She had been in the area before, when the Dovedale woman had been murdered; as had the younger one, Rosy Gilchrist. Funny that those two should be in the vicinity again with the Tildred case in full swing, and now the Ramsgate drama. Still, as he had tried to instil into young Jennings, coincidences were more frequent than assumed.
He relit the expiring pipe as he reflected upon this fact … For example, what about that florist fellow, Felix Smythe, and his sidekick Dillworthy? They had been around last time as well – and damned difficult they had been too! Not obstructive, exactly, but bordering. This time they had been more amenable, which wasn’t saying a lot.
He heaved anothe
r sigh. Yes, strange that they should encounter that quartet again. Perhaps they were sort of camp followers – always turning up at a crime scene to discomfit and bemuse. Doubtless, Jennings would have a theory …
CHAPTER THIRTY
All things considered, Tommy Carshalton reflected, matters had turned out remarkably well. Just occasionally fate dealt a winning hand, and in this case it had been in the form of a trilogy of happy accidents for which one was profoundly grateful.
Despite its shocking manner, Tippy’s demise had been especially fortunate – the girl had become such a millstone, and not just because of the whingeing blackmail but her absurd public display. It had started to attract comment from the press. And inevitably whenever she featured in the gossip columns it was always stressed that the MP for North Finsborough was some kind of relation. Oh yes, they couldn’t wait to drag in the Carshalton name! What a stroke of luck he had been at the conference when the wretched thing happened, otherwise he might have been a suspect! After all, wasn’t one always reading of relatives or family members murdering their young and frail elderly? And in his position there was bound to have been malicious rumours – started by Figgins, no doubt, oily little toerag. Yes, he had had a lucky escape all right.
But it was strange Mickey Standish being attacked like that, and possibly there was more to it than met the eye. Quite a bit, probably, given what his Home Office pal had recently let drop. He had always thought the man was a bit of an enigma, too damn cool for his liking. In fact, instinct had suggested he had been as shady as hell. And according to this recent whisper his instinct may have been spot on: gunrunning, that had been the chap’s little sideline, apparently, or so his source had hinted. And if so, what an infernal coincidence when that was his own moral hobbyhorse!
Tommy brooded grimly on the irony, recalling the time when he had casually raised the subject at a dinner they had both been attending. ‘Appalling,’ Standish had earnestly agreed, and had congratulated him on making such an issue of it in parliament. ‘It’s time someone took a lead,’ he had said. Hell, if what his source had hinted was correct, then the sod must have been mocking him all the time! Tommy scowled.
But still, that was neither here nor there: the main thing was that he was out of Ida’s orbit now. She had lately become nuts about the chap, stupid girl, and he had feared an elopement. No, Tommy corrected himself, it wouldn’t have been an elopement, Standish had been far too cool: but a dalliance, quite possibly – with Standish detached and Ida fixated. Either way it would have led to gossip and ridicule. Not the most helpful thing in the current circumstances.
He smiled. So that possibility had hit the dust – and a good thing too. Ida could revert to her normal role: playing the devoted political wife, loyal, supportive and unerringly diplomatic. Yes, good old Ida – he really must take her to Paris and anaesthetise regret about Standish with pearls and a new fur coat.
And what about Vincent Ramsgate, for God’s sake? Extraordinary behaviour for a man of his success. It just went to show that other than Figgins (whose aspirational motives were painfully obvious), you could never know about anyone really. In the old days the chap had been a frightful old goat, and fun in a rollicking way. But those days were over – Anno Domini for Ramsgate and growing political status for himself.
But it wasn’t just Ramsgate’s physical decline, he mused. There had been something else. When Ida returned from her recent visit to Southwold, she had declared that in her opinion he was going dotty, or peculiar at least. And it hadn’t just been the usual habit of wearing that absurd fez thing and other sartorial affectations. Apparently, his whole manner had altered.
Ida had reported that beneath the usual suave bravado he had apparently seemed edgy and abstracted, as if there was something nagging in his mind that wouldn’t go away. At first she had assumed it was connected with the details of that damned letter Tippy had sent him regarding the nonsense in the Fawcetts’ house, and naturally they had discussed it. But she had felt the edginess went deeper than that. He had been a perfectly attentive host, and had dined her lavishly. Yet she couldn’t help feeling that beneath the amiable facade there had been something distinctly off key. There had been uncharacteristic silences, little bursts of illogical agitation; and on two occasions she had heard him talking to himself – admittedly, a common enough habit, but not generally indulged in the presence of guests.
Well, if Vincent Ramsgate had been losing his grip, then his suicide could be seen as a merciful deliverance. After all, with a mind verging on the unhinged who knew what the chap might have let slip – or deliberately divulged? And not just about that particular business either, but some of the other little charades they had all once enjoyed. Naturally, a stiff denial would have been issued, but the public loved nothing better than to be titillated and things could have become a bit bumpy. The past had been fun but he had a shiny political future now and it wouldn’t do to have it tarnished, however faintly. Yes, all things considered, Ramsgate’s death was probably just as well.
Tommy took a ruminative bite of his biscuit and was suddenly struck by a fresh thought and didn’t know whether to be shocked or amused. Perhaps it was old Vincent who had done for Tippy! Maybe beneath that airy nonchalance he had been so obsessed about his precious name being linked with sexual high jinks that in a moment of wild despair – or vicious premeditation – he had decided to stop her little mouth for good. After all, stranger things had happened!
For a few moments Tommy fantasised upon the possibility. And then with a sheepish shrug pulled himself together. Really, the idea was as absurd as it was unsavoury. Anyone would think he was one of those crude crime writers Ida so enjoyed … And in any case, there were matters of far greater immediacy: devising the next stage in his anti-arms-dealing crusade. A sound ethical cause was always useful, and that last speech on the topic had been well received by colleagues and constituents alike. He must capitalise on that and make another thrust upwards (while Figgins went down).
Thus, imbued with fresh energy and dismissing thoughts of the three deceased, he grasped his pen and wrote: It is a crying scandal that the iniquitous trading in illicit arms should be so carelessly ignored. The public has a right to know that …
Elsewhere (reclining on the sofa in their flat and toying with an overly strong gin) Ida too was ruminating.
What extraordinary twists life held, she mused. Take Vincent, for example. Admittedly, as she had told Tommy, he had seemed a bit odd the last time she had seen him, but hardly odd enough to have committed suicide, or at least certainly not in that spectacular manner. They hadn’t seen him for quite a while, so perhaps something had been going on in his life of which they knew nothing, and which had eventually tipped him over the edge. Could it really have been that stupid letter Tippy had sent him? Surely he was far too robust to have reacted in such an extreme way. Vincent was not one to be felled by prurient rumour – or at least he certainly wouldn’t have been in the old days: hide like a rhinoceros and hands like an octopus! No, it must have been something else, something more serious. But presumably they would never know; and after all, other than satisfying natural curiosity, did it really matter? The reality was that he had gone, out of the world and out of their lives; had become another colourful piece of the past to be occasionally revisited or quoted.
Ida closed her eyes and thought of something more personally painful: the bludgeoning of Mickey Standish. A dreadful shock. Its manner had been beastly, of course, but far worse was the blow to herself. She had been robbed of her target: that maddening enigma whom she had known she would never have, but whom she had wanted so absurdly. Would she ever feel quite so tantalised again, so deliciously and sickeningly provoked?
Ida took a large slurp of gin knowing the answer, and for a moment felt the pricking of tears. It had been one of those insane yens, something self-induced; for after all, she had received nothing from him – no goad other than a sly wink, a steady look, a knowing smile. Bastard! But oh God it
had been good, and she would miss the tension, the ancient thrill of the chase … And now? What now, for heaven’s sake? She sighed, confronting the sudden lacuna and staring bleakly at the ceiling.
Ah well, she supposed, there would always be Tommy and the old political game. She was good at that. And after all, he was doing awfully well these days. If they both played their cards right, who knew what mightn’t be achieved. Anything really, especially now the child was off their hands … Yes, once she had stage-managed the girl’s funeral she would put the maddening Mickey out of her mind and concentrate fully on securing something more attainable: Tommy’s premiership, of course, and then the knighthood – or with luck a peerage.
Taking another sip, Ida wafted a languid hand in the air. Yes, au revoir to sex and hello to salubrious honours! She smiled faintly. But along with the smile came a look of steely determination.
Tommy had promised that after the funeral business he would take her to Paris for a new fur coat plus some pearls. Pearls? Like hell! He could damn well buy her some diamonds. And good ones too, not like those meagre things worn by Figgins’ smug little wife!
And with that happy thought, Ida rose (a trifle unsteadily), picked up the telephone and contacted her husband. ‘Tommy, darling,’ she wheedled, ‘I think it’s time I booked our Paris hotel, don’t you? After all, once we have said our goodbyes to dearest Tippy I think we shall need to get off quickly; it will all have been such a fearful strain, don’t you think? So what shall it be, the George Cinque or the Crillon?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Three days after the Reydon drama Bartholomew announced the successful completion of The Languid Labyrinth. And after expressing his undying gratitude to his ‘stellar’ companions, he declared that its eventual release would mark a memorable stage in the history of British film-making.
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