He frowned and brooded on the victim: a nice enough woman, but too gushing and intense; being patronised by assertive females was not to Floyd’s taste, and the generational difference had added to the social gap. Thus on the whole he had had little in common with the deceased – except of course until recently when he certainly did.
It had been the blessed novel, or, as she would coyly describe it, ‘my naughty bit of nonsense’. When she had first approached him with the preliminary chapters he had been dubious (debut novels by elderly ladies of a certain ilk not being noted for their commercial value), but since the thing was relatively literate and she had not flinched when he had mentioned his considerable fee he had graciously accepted her proposal and mooted a print run of one thousand.
‘You won’t regret it,’ she had cried eagerly. ‘I assure you, there is more in this than meets the eye!’ (A claim he had firmly doubted). And swearing him to secrecy, she had rushed from the office threatening to deliver fresh material the instant it was penned.
By and by such deliveries were made and Floyd had grown moderately interested. The thing was less bland than he had expected, indeed in places was surprisingly risqué; and the setting – largely Paris – was well established. At one point he had enquired if she wanted her own name on the cover. ‘Oh I think not,’ she had replied, ‘it mightn’t be wise.’ She had paused, and then with a little smirk added, ‘You see, speaking confidentially, Mr de Lisle, it is not entirely of my own devising.’
He had been disappointed and immediately revised his idea of offering the old trout a small fee reduction. Why should he lose money to some collaborator or ghost-writing crony? ‘Ah,’ he said coolly, ‘so a friend has written it with you, has she? What one might call a shared muse, I suppose.’
Delia Dovedale had looked indignant. ‘Nothing shared about my book, I can assure you,’ she retorted. ‘Barely a word or thought touches these pages that is not my own!’ She had looked rather fierce, and Floyd had smiled in swift apology. ‘My point is that this is only partially fiction: a great deal of it is material that I have transmuted into the fictional mode. I believe “faction” is the term your trade uses.’
Floyd was impressed that she should know the term; it was only just coming into vogue. ‘I see,’ he said slowly, ‘so these characters, these events, have been part of your own life – part of your life in Paris after the war?’
‘Precisely. And with luck I’ll have another two chapters for you in the next fortnight. Now I can’t stay any longer – the pugs are in the car and they’ll get fractious and cause a riot. So tiresome!’
Other than her welcoming speech on the festival platform those were the last words Floyd heard the authoress utter, and he certainly never received the promised new chapters.
Nevertheless, after that last encounter he had reread the manuscript more carefully and done a lot of thinking. Current business was not all that marvellous – there being a limit to how much effete poetry and ‘fascinating’ life stories readers were prepared to swallow, or, more to the point, purchase. Admittedly he charged enough up front for producing the damn things but the real kudos lay with the subsequent sales, a handy 50% of the takings. Of such sales, latterly there had been precious few and the local bookshop owner was becoming bored with his clients’ mediocre ‘vanity’ offerings. The section the shop allocated to the Select Publishing Co. was becoming irritatingly sparse. Something new was required – something original, racy and of sound commercial value; a book whose obvious success would bring would-be authors pounding to his door, would please the bank manager and earn him a nice little vacation … skiing in Austria would be fun, he hadn’t done that for ages. He saw himself begoggled on the slopes, ski-sticks slung casually over his shoulder and a pretty Fräulein on his arm. Yes, he mused, it was time he had a bit more of that … after all he wasn’t getting any younger.
The old girl’s tale was intriguing, not simply because of its risqué element but because he got the distinct impression that it was based on someone she had known well – indeed she had hinted as much – someone quite likely still alive: after all Paris just after the war was not so long ago. Delia had moved in high circles so whoever it was could presumably be of some standing or distinction. Never having been to Paris nor moved in such circles Floyd hadn’t a clue (though presumably de Gaulle could be ruled out!) but he knew people who might have: publishing chums in London. It was amazing what could be picked up via the Soho and Fitzrovian grapevines. Admittedly she had sworn him to secrecy – as so many of his aspiring authors did – too shy to reveal their dreams until the thing was a glossy reality – but it was hardly an immutable embargo. Besides, she was bound to have confided in one or two cronies, they always did. Indeed for all he knew sly gossip was already insidiously doing the rounds – gossip that he could certainly exploit when the time for publication arrived. A few discreetly worded phrases on the back cover and a well-judged press release might net invaluable returns. Meanwhile he would make subtle enquiries. The ski slopes and the pretty Fräulein beckoned.
Thus with such a rosy prospect in mind the news of Delia’s fate had initially hit Floyd hard. Certainly he had come to quite like the lady and was genuinely upset by her fate, but on the whole his feelings were more acutely engaged by his own loss: barely half of the thing being in his possession and its author now dead. Frustratingly the golden goose had turned a delicate shade of grey … It was only later that he recognised the platinum potential.
Later that day Rosy came across Hugh sprawled in the greenhouse – not contemplating his late mother’s plants but sprawled in a deckchair reading a book. She noted its title: Bulldog Drummond Strikes Again.
‘Ah,’ she said diffidently, ‘I expect you can do with some relaxation. It must be awful having to deal with all the police enquiries.’
‘Not half as bad as having to cope with Snelgrove,’ he informed her.
‘Who?’
‘Reginald Snelgrove, our esteemed undertaker. I thought I would never get rid of him. Kept wanting to know what I thought Mother’s wishes would have been. “Wishes?” I said. “To be left in peace presumably and the sooner the better.”’ Hugh frowned. ‘I got the impression that wasn’t the right answer. He kept hovering around and mumbling something about did I want a Grade One or a Grade Two interment and did I have any destination in mind for the wreaths after the ceremony … Frankly it was all quite bothersome.’ Hugh put the book down and heaved a sigh.
‘I can imagine,’ Rosy said sympathetically. ‘You’ve so much to cope with. Are you really sure you want Angela and me to remain? We could slip away quite easily you know.’
‘Oh no,’ he said startled, ‘you must stay at least for the funeral. After all, Mother needs all the support she can muster! She approved of people rallying round in time of need.’
Rosy nodded slightly nonplussed. ‘Well, if you are sure—’ she began.
‘Oh absolutely. Besides I’m going to go to London shortly for a couple days. Got one or two things to sort out. You can hold the fort with Peep and Bo and make sure that old Hawkins doesn’t play the giddy goat!’ he emitted a snort of mirth.
The picture of Hawkins playing the giddy goat was difficult to envisage, but Rosy smiled and then said something to the effect that she was glad the police weren’t being unduly restrictive about the movements of witnesses. ‘One hears they can be quite pernickety in such matters.’
‘You forget, Miss Gilchrist,’ Hugh replied coolly, ‘I was elsewhere when it happened and thus not a witness – although possibly that does not preclude me from being a suspect.’ He tapped the book. ‘After all according to this chap, killers quite often mastermind disposals from afar – though rarely of their mothers it seems. Still, I am sure the police are aware of that. Thus should they – or indeed anyone else – want me I shall be at my club.’ He flashed a formal smile and returned to his book, while Rosy cursed herself for being so inept.
She returned to the house vaguely disconcerted
. Hugh’s seeming insouciance in the face of his mother’s shocking demise was puzzling. Was he as indifferent as he appeared, or was the flippant exterior simply the product of tight schooling and emotional discretion? Either was possible. But it wasn’t just that that nagged her, there was something else. Much of the time he appeared the genial buffoon, shallowly good natured. Yet very occasionally – as just now for instance – she detected a hint of hardness and a flinty intelligence he seemed at pains to conceal. It was strange, and on the whole she felt she would be glad when the funeral was over and they could return to London.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rosy did not dislike the Brightwells, in fact she found Freda Brightwell quite engaging in a limited way. Her bulky figure was not especially enhanced by the expensive coat and skirt and stylish brogues, but she exuded a brisk benevolence which, given the situation, Rosy found cheering. And compared with the languorous Angela her personality verged on the almost bubbly.
No such bubbles, latent or actual, could be detected in her husband. Lucas Brightwell had the look and demeanour of a man who knew what he was worth – and according to Iris he was worth quite a lot. In his youth he had made a substantial killing on the stock exchange, and following a briefly successful spell at the Paris Bourse after the war had returned to London to make more money in the City. But Lucas’s talent for spotting a good deal did not make him a mere city slicker, for he had combined his financial acumen with sound public service – being occasional financial advisor to the government, sitting on a couple of hospital boards and supporting a number of high-profiled charities. Worthy, able and respected, he was destined for higher things – a permanent post as government advisor, and, it was whispered, a possible recipient of a newly created baronetcy. The previous evening Hugh had made a comment in questionable taste to the effect that Brightwell had better get his smug act together before the rug of elevation was pulled from under his feet. ‘You’ll see,’ he had said darkly, ‘the days of the hereditary system are numbered and they are already docking mere knighthoods. Old Lucas may just slip through the closing door but he had better be quick about it otherwise he’ll be left without a handle to his name. No perks for jerks!’ He had roared with laughter and passed rapidly on to something else.
Sitting next to Lucas at lunch it had certainly not struck Rosy that her neighbour was a jerk, nor indeed that he was smug – or at least not in any crude sense: there was assurance most definitely, and, as Lady Fawcett had hinted, a whiff of self-regard … but then many people had that. Some sign of leavening humour would have been welcome but she could not detect any. Still, he was pleasant enough and his descriptions of his charitable activities interesting. She couldn’t help thinking that her host’s observation had been uncalled for – but perhaps Hugh’s disparagement of his guests was customary. She wondered wryly what he might have to say about herself and Angela once they had departed.
The conversation at lunch had been bland and general – hard to be otherwise given the shattering absence of the hostess. The air hung heavy with unspoken comment and question; but an aura of practised normality prevailed and food and drink consumed with pleasure and compliments.
After the coffee Lucas Brightwell murmured an excuse and took himself off, leaving his wife to accompany Iris to Delia’s bedroom to sort the dead woman’s personal belongings. Turning to Lady Fawcett, Freda Brightwell observed, ‘Such a sad task but needs must, I fear. Should we save you some small memento, a reminder of happier days perhaps? A little knick-knack to keep on your desk or a handkerchief sachet?’ She gave a kindly smile.
Lady Fawcett looked startled. ‘Er … well,’ she replied doubtfully, ‘I am not sure whether – I mean, well it was nearly forty years ago …’ And then in a firmer voice and with equally firm smile, she said quickly, ‘How thoughtful! Any little trinket would be most welcome.’
When they had left the room, she said to Rosy sotto voce: ‘I cannot imagine why it should be supposed I might want one of Delia’s bits and pieces. Anyone would think we had been bosom pals; and why I should be interested in her handkerchief case I cannot imagine! She had one at school I recall – badly embroidered and always grubby.’
Rosy suppressed a smile. ‘Oh I am sure Mrs Brightwell meant well.’
‘Oh doubtless … just like Amy.’ Lady Fawcett sighed. ‘I do hope that girl is all right. She has never been camping before and I can hardly telephone her in a tent.’
‘But she is bound to be fine,’ said Rosy encouragingly, ‘after all wasn’t she in the Girl Guides?’
‘Hmm, but not for long. She wasn’t suited – kept unravelling all those knots they would insist on tying. I thought it showed dexterity but they called it sabotage. Ridiculous! Her father was most indignant but they stood their ground and she had to go.’ She frowned in bemused recollection.
An hour or so later when Rosy had returned from her ramble with Peep and Bo she encountered Iris and Freda Brightwell coming down the stairs burdened with holdalls and loaded carrier bags.
‘Well that’s broken the back of it at any rate,’ Iris announced triumphantly. ‘Most of the clothes can be collected by the Red Cross and much of this can go to the Mothers’ Union, they are always glad to get good stuff for their bazaars. I think we’ve had a pretty good sort-out, don’t you Freda? We deserve some tea. I’ll ask Hawkins to bring a tray.’
Freda, who now looked rather less soignée than when she had arrived, agreed eagerly. ‘Oh yes a cuppa, as they say, would be most restorative! You’re right, we do seem to have dealt with most of it.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘But I am rather surprised that we didn’t come across her book.’
‘Which book?’
‘That one she was writing.’
Iris laughed. ‘Oh you mean the precious nature notes or whatever they were. Probably thrown in the dustbin ages ago. Delia was a creature of whim and passing fad. Something would occupy her for a while and then she would lose interest and rush on to something else. Mind you, this latest fad did seem to be occupying her rather longer than usual, but it was probably jettisoned … Come on, let’s go and sit down. I need a cigarette.’
She led the way into the drawing room and the two women followed. Rosy noted that Freda still looked preoccupied and was not surprised when she pursued the matter by asking if anyone had searched the writing desk. Iris assured her that this had already been done by Hugh and that nothing of interest had emerged least of all a literary manuscript.
Freda had looked slightly disappointed and seemed about to take the subject further but was forestalled by Iris. ‘Actually,’ she said apologetically, ‘do you mind awfully if we move on to something else? I think I have had rather enough of poor Delia for one afternoon. Sifting through those things upstairs was quite difficult.’ She suddenly looked tired and drawn, and Rosy was reminded of her link to the murdered woman. Being the cousin’s wife and living so near, she must have known her in-law quite well. Despite the outward calm, she was probably finding the whole affair excruciating. Tactfully Rosy started to ask about the garden festival and other matters of local interest.
Later, with Lady Fawcett retired to her room – assiduously resting – and Iris and Freda departed for Blythburgh, Rosy was left to her own devices. She scanned the large bookcase, and, taking down a copy of Punch and a volume of short stories by W. Somerset Maugham, decided also to spend a quiet hour in her bedroom.
She went into the hall en route for the stairs, pausing to confront a large portrait of Delia hanging above the banisters. The sitter, wearing a filmy grey cocktail dress and assertive pearls, gazed down benignly. The picture was likely to have been painted at least a decade earlier for the carefully waved hair was still a resolute brown, and on her lap sat not a pug but a small cairn terrier – probably the beloved ‘Arthur’ of yesteryear that Hugh had mentioned in passing.
Rosy gazed at the face with its placid innocuous expression, and wondered how on earth such a one had been fated for murder. Admittedly, Angela Fawcet
t’s recollection of her school friend had been one of loudness and robust vigour – so perhaps Delia had been more aggressive than the portrait implied; and certainly from what hints Rosy had gleaned from Mark and Iris it would seem that she had been no shrinking violet. Had the artist deliberately softened the features to give a milder countenance? Or conceivably he had discerned something in his subject not generally apparent, some aspect fundamentally mellow and kindly and to which he was stirred to pay tribute … Well whatever it was, the poor lady had hardly deserved that sort of fate. For the first time since her arrival Rosy felt a surge of indignant anger on behalf of her deceased hostess, a feeling not of conventional pity but a raw stab of pain and a sense of loss for one she had never known.
She resumed the stairs, curiously troubled. And then just as she was about to enter her room she sensed a slight movement from the other side of the landing. ‘I see you were appraising madam’s picture,’ Hawkins said. ‘It’s quite well hung there, just catches the light from the transom.’
‘Er – yes, yes I was … and it does,’ Rosy replied startled. She had been completely oblivious of his presence. Crikey, he crept about like an ageing centipede!
‘It’s quite good, isn’t it?’ he murmured politely.
Rosy agreed that it was most effective; and still ruffled by his sudden appearance she smiled vaguely and quickly turned the handle of her door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That night Rosy had difficulty in sleeping. It wasn’t just the details of Delia’s dreadful end that haunted her, nor indeed the questions of motive and perpetrator – disturbing though these certainly were. It was Hawkins’ confident assertion about the novel that intrigued and kept her frowning into the darkness. Dinner over and Hugh and Lady Fawcett retired to the drawing room, Rosy had remained behind for a few minutes indulging the pugs’ insistent overtures. She had asked Hawkins if he knew anything of Delia’s gardening book: ‘I gather she was terribly enthusiastic about it.’
A Southwold Mystery Page 5