‘Perhaps a nod was as good as a wink,’ Felix suggested. ‘Having learnt what she was up to he decided to nip it in the bud – like a twinging tooth: whip the thing out before it can get worse or cause collateral damage.’
‘Rather an extreme reaction surely,’ Rosy remarked. ‘He was hazarding a hell of a lot for a mere guess … No, I agree with Cedric: he must have had access to the thing, but how?’
There was a faint movement from the sofa as its occupant replaced her sherry glass on the stool and cleared her throat. ‘It seems to me,’ Lady Fawcett said, ‘that we are being a little precipitate.’ She glanced at Cedric: ‘That is the word isn’t it …? You see while our suspicions may be fully justified we don’t really know, do we? Personally I am not mad about the man and never was, but that would hardly stand up in a court of law. It would be frightful if we were barking up the wrong tree – just think of the waste of time and energy!’ She closed her eyes. ‘“Watch and wait” is what my dear papa used to say. He was in the Intelligence Service during the Great War and caught an awful lot of spies that way by just hanging about propping up lamp posts, and I think that is what we should do now.’
‘As it happens,’ she continued, ‘we shall have an opportunity of doing a little watching tomorrow evening. After I had spoken to Edward just now Freda Brightwell rang to say we should all be welcome to dinner at their house in Blythburgh. I gather she wants to discuss Rosy’s forthcoming talk to their Literary Circle … or was it the Ramblers’ Society? Something like that anyway.’
‘The Blythburgh Friends,’ said Rosy tersely.
‘Oh yes of course, I knew it was something affable … So you see, dining with the Brightwells will give us an excellent chance to look sharp and be on the qui vive!’ She beamed and glanced vaguely towards the cocktail cabinet.
In the car going back to Aldeburgh Felix turned to Cedric and clearing his throat said, ‘Actually if you don’t mind I think I might give tomorrow evening a miss.’
‘Why?’
‘Ah … well I may have other plans.’
‘What plans?’
Felix pursed his lips. ‘Well they certainly don’t involve being patronised and snubbed by that murderer!’
‘But Felix, dear boy, we have no proof that he is a murderer! So far it is all supposition, albeit not ill-based. That is the whole point in accepting their invitation – to see if we might establish a firmer base. With the four of us there – propping up lamp posts as Angela put it – one of us is bound to notice any verbal slip or careless allusion. And even if we deduce nothing tangible at least we can form a better impression of the man, get his measure as it were. Naturally a closer inspection may yield nothing at all; indeed we may conclude that our target is entirely blameless – a man of utter probity as he purports to be. Thus in either case further acquaintance could be most beneficial.’
Felix sniffed. ‘Not to me it wouldn’t … Besides, I am bespoke.’
Startled, Cedric slipped his foot from the pedal. ‘“Bespoke”? What are you talking about?’
‘I rather think I may have a prior engagement,’ the other replied stiffly.
‘Really? Since when?’
‘Since this morning. I was walking on the promenade and happened to bump into one or two of the musicians – you know the group I mean, B.B. and people …’
‘Including the tenor?’
‘Oh yes, he was there of course,’ Felix said casually, and catching his reflection in the wing mirror flicked his hair. ‘They were most affable, and I rather inferred they would not be averse to my attending a little soirée being held at Crag House tomorrow.’ He folded his hands and gazed out of the window. ‘How enchanting the trees are at this time of year,’ he murmured.
There was no contest, Cedric thought wryly. Given the choice of being socially snubbed by a putative murderer or clinking musical glasses with the attractive and eminent, his friend would naturally elect the latter. Besides perhaps it was only fair: hadn’t he himself ratted on the Claude Huggins’ invitation! A fair exchange he supposed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Betty Morgan sat in the High Street café sipping her coffee and staring rather pensively at the door. The last time she had sat at this table Mr de Lisle had come in and she had handed him the typing she had done. He had been very complimentary and bought her a tea cake; even kissed her hand. He could be like that when he was in a good mood and things were going well with the business. He had said something about a run of luck and an arrangement to meet a chap who was going to fix him up with some foreign firm wanting an English publisher. When he was pleased with life he spoke at the rate of knots so she hadn’t really been paying all that much attention – too busy planning her date with Algie … Huh! That had been a disaster and no mistake.
She frowned recalling her beau’s morose silences and stinginess over the cinema seats. He had bought the cheapest – the one and ninepennies if you please – and they had sat at the front staring at a screen so blurred you could hardly see a thing. She had a crick in her neck for days afterwards! Well one thing was for sure, she wouldn’t go out with him again. No class – that was it. Not at all like that smart Mr Brightwell. Now he did know how to treat a lady.
She took another sip of her coffee being careful to crook her little finger like her mother always advised her to do. ‘It looks more refined,’ she would say. Actually Betty found it a rather awkward gesture and had twice burnt her knuckle and nearly lost hold of the cup. Still, practice made perfect as her mother was also fond of saying. Thus with finger carefully poised Betty thought about Mr Brightwell and his nice manners.
The first time she had met him she had been sitting on Gun Hill during the lunch hour checking her typing of a longhand script before taking it back to the office for Mr de Lisle’s close perusal. God, he had been so pernickety! She had been in a hurry as she was planning to get away early to meet Algie. But then this tall man had sat down beside her and started to make conversation. At first she had been wary – a girl knew all about such overtures! But it became obvious he was not one of them, far too polite and classy and had shown a real interest in what she was saying. He said he had seen her a couple of times going into the office and asked if she enjoyed working for a publisher. She had told him it was quite nice but there was a lot of pressure due to the stacks of typing her boss slung at her and what with him being so picky. ‘Although he is all right at the moment,’ she had said. ‘A client has offered some chapters about Paris after the war and he says he intends making it top priority. So that’s put a smile on his face though I don’t know why really.’
Mr Brightwell had laughed saying it must be something rather special. She had laughed too and said that as a matter of fact they happened to be the chapters she had typed that morning and was about to take back to the office. ‘Are they exciting?’ he had asked. She had shrugged and said that since she was only the typist and not an editor she wouldn’t know, adding that there were other things on her mind. She had giggled, thinking of Algie. ‘I bet it’s a lucky chap!’ he had joked. And then when she mentioned she was in a hurry to get the typescript to her boss before meeting Algie he had kindly offered to deliver it himself: ‘I shall be passing there shortly and can easily drop it in; that’ll give you extra time to prepare for that date.’ So that’s what she had done: given him the manuscript and gone home early. And much use that had been! Rotten Algie hadn’t even complimented her on her new hair style, and she had taken ages pinning it up.
Well, she mused, no one could say Mr Brightwell was short on compliments. He was most charming. Like when he had shown her the Sailors’ Reading Room the other day and asked her all about her work at Mr de Lisle’s office. ‘Don’t you find it rather complicated dealing with so many different submissions?’ he had asked. ‘It would get me terribly confused. I’d be bound to mess the whole lot up!’ She had explained that it was quite easy really as Mr de Lisle had a very exact filing system where everything was put in its proper place. Mr B. had seeme
d most interested in the organisation of the cabinets and what stuff went into which; and told her he was surprised that one so pretty was also so practical. ‘You have to be bright to manage a system like that,’ he had said. Beauty and Brains didn’t always go together he had assured her. She had blushed a bit at that, but he seemed to have meant it because just as they got up to leave he had touched her hand and murmured that he wished he could have such a secretary as her …
She finished her coffee, and with an approving glance in the mirror decided that if the police station didn’t want her efficient services (and her beauty!) then perhaps Mr Brightwell would. With luck she would see him again. She hoped so.
‘How is the portrait coming on?’ Rosy enquired politely. She was sitting in the morning room reading her book when Hawkins had come in to refresh the flowers.
‘It is finished, madam,’ the old man replied, ‘or at least as far as it ever will be. There are always tiny nuances which one can rarely recapture especially if working only from memory and a photograph, indeed not a very good photograph – one gleaned from a newspaper. However, it is a fair resemblance and I think the recipient will be satisfied.’ He bent to pick up a toy discarded by one of the pugs.
Rosy very nearly asked where he was sending it, but thought better of it. After all it was none of her business and presumably if Hawkins had wanted to tell her he would have. In all probability it was to the subject. But out of curiosity she enquired if she might see it. Judging from the one he had done of Delia it might be rather good.
Hawkins hesitated, and then with a slightly shy smile said, ‘If madam is really interested I will fetch it. It is always useful to have a disinterested appraisal of one’s efforts.’
When he returned she was surprised to see he was carrying a relatively small canvas of no more than a foot or so in diameter. What had she expected – some socking great thing like the one on the stairs? He propped it against the wall on a side table.
Rosy stood back absorbing the delicate colours, the subtle brushwork, the finely executed features, and the merest smile playing tauntingly around the subject’s mouth. She judged it to be very good.
It was also familiar – astoundingly so. The pose was different and the eyes cast a fraction to the left whereas in the other they had confronted the viewer directly. But there was no mistaking the subject: the person in Hawkins’ portrait was the same as the person in the photograph found in Lucas Brightwell’s briefcase.
Despite her shock Rosy betrayed no recognition, and instead exclaimed, ‘How alive you have made him – just like the one of Mrs Dovedale. And yet the characters are obviously so different … Did you know him well?’ she asked casually.
Hawkins paused, and then murmured, ‘Sufficiently well.’
It was an ambiguous response and Rosy was unclear as to whether he meant sufficient for the execution of the painting or sufficient to satisfy his acquaintance with its subject. It could have been either and since he didn’t enlarge it would have been intrusive to ask.
However, it was as if Hawkins had sensed his own reticence, for as if to compensate he added vaguely that the man was someone briefly encountered in Paris just after the war. ‘When I was there with Mr and Mrs Dovedale,’ he explained. He gave no further details and Rosy tried another tack.
‘Did you like Paris?’ she asked. ‘There must have been an awful lot going on at that time!’
‘It was not entirely to my taste – too noisy and too French. I was glad to get back to England, as of course was my employer poor Mr Dovedale.’
‘Why poor Mr Dovedale?’ she couldn’t resist asking. ‘From what I have heard he rather liked noise especially the trumpet. You mentioned that yourself.’
‘Oh yes. He liked the trumpet all right and used to visit some of the jazz clubs in Montparnasse. But he didn’t like what happened as a result.’
‘Why, do you mean he went deaf?’ she enquired facetiously.
‘There was rather an unpleasant incident. It is common enough knowledge so I am not speaking out of turn. It happened one evening when Mr Dovedale was returning home from one of those clubs, Sydney Bechet had been playing if memory serves me right, and he had the misfortune to witness a brawl, rather a vicious one in which one of the participants was knifed, albeit not fatally. The attacker – I gather a somewhat distasteful semi-degenerate – was apprehended and sent for trial and subsequently to gaol. Being the only witness Mr Dovedale was required to give evidence; in fact the French authorities recalled him to Paris for the purpose. Tiresome really, it was the start of the grouse season and he missed the opening week. It was a great inconvenience.’
‘Yes, I suppose that was a bit of bad luck. Er, was the man in gaol for long?’
Hawkins cleared his throat and seemed to reflect. ‘You could say that: he died there. He was found hanged in his cell. Suicide. Mr and Mrs Dovedale were most distressed when they heard.’
After he had gone Rosy sat down and stared into space her mind in a whirl. All very unfortunate about Dovedale and the suicide business, it must have been most unsettling for them. But far more unsettling was Hawkins’ painting! Was it really of ‘R’? If Brightwell’s photo was indeed that of the river victim then so was Hawkins’ portrait. Despite the latter’s artistic embellishment the two were virtually identical.
She lit a cigarette and gazed at the ceiling reflecting on the old man’s words. He said he had encountered him in Paris when he had been there with the Dovedales – a time which fitted with both Delia’s and Angela’s account; and of course when Brightwell had been at the Bourse. Yes, same face; same period. She thought of the portrait and Hawkins saying he had used a newspaper picture, so not the same as Brightwell’s. Why should the young man have been in the paper? For winning some sports event in the Bois de Boulogne? Hardly! Far more likely for reasons of tragedy or notoriety.
But if it was the dead Randolph why on earth had Hawkins chosen to paint him now? And who was the intended recipient for God’s sake, and why? Had it been specifically commissioned or was it an unsolicited gift?
She brooded. And then a thought struck her and she grinned. Perhaps Hawkins harboured a secret yen to be an exhibitor at the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition and he was sending it to the selection panel for assessment. That would certainly solve part of the mystery! With that in mind she stood up and went to find the pugs. At least they were straightforward.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Like several of Blythburgh’s houses the Brightwell residence looked charming. Set back from the road it was a rambling mixture of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, its walls covered in strands of Virginia creeper and the front door surrounded by frothy wisteria. The Brightwells greeted them warmly, and the day still being fine they were invited to take drinks on the terrace.
An agreeable half hour was spent admiring the garden and engaging in social chit-chat; the deaths of Delia and the publisher being studiously avoided. Cedric gloated over the splendour of their delphiniums and Lady Fawcett congratulated Freda on the peace and quiet – ‘Knightsbridge is becoming so loud these days. Sometimes I think even louder than in the war.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ her hostess agreed, ‘peacetime can be so raucous! That’s why we retreat here whenever possible – a bolthole from London. If Lucas had fewer business engagements I think we would make this our permanent home.’ She turned to Rosy: ‘Miss Gilchrist, it’s so good of you to agree about that talk, a number of our retired military have shown considerable interest. I think you can count on a full house.’
Rosy wasn’t quite sure whether to be reassured or otherwise. Confronting Dr Stanley was one thing; addressing rows of veterans on the logistics of guns and searchlights might be even more of a challenge! However, she smiled and said how much she was looking forward to it.
‘Actually,’ Freda whispered, ‘if you don’t mind perhaps you and I could slip away before dinner and have a little pow-wow about the usual procedure. I always like to prim
e our speakers well in advance, and then you can also tell me if you want a lectern and whether you would require water or something stronger such as Lucozade.’ (Lucozade? Rosy thought. Brandy more like!)
Thus ten minutes later Freda beckoned Rosy to follow her into her husband’s study to discuss ‘logistics’. She produced a list of the audience members, suggested a small fee – which Rosy waived – and began to explain how the event would be managed. Rosy listened attentively … And then something caught her eye which made her lose interest immediately.
On Lucas’s desk lay a flat package partially unwrapped, a pair of scissors lying by its side. The crumpled brown paper was pulled back exposing the contents. As Freda chatted on busily Rosy’s eyes were riveted on the desk. Although parts of the thing were obscured by the wrapping, she recognised it instantly: Hawkins’ painting of the young man.
She stared blankly. What on earth …? Freda followed her gaze and stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Do you know,’ she exclaimed, ‘the most extraordinary thing has happened, it’s really most peculiar. You see that over there?’ she gestured towards the parcel. ‘Well the postman brought it this morning. It’s a watercolour portrait, and neither of us has a clue who the sitter is or why it’s been sent. There’s no name or address of the sender, no note – no nothing! An absolute mystery.’
‘Er, wrong address?’ suggested Rosy faintly.
‘Well no not really – it’s addressed to Lucas. But clearly there’s been some mistake. I was going to ring up the Post Office and make enquiries though Lucas said it wasn’t worth it. In fact when I came into the study he was on the verge of shoving it in the basket for the dustmen! But I said that was ridiculous as it’s really quite a striking face and presumably someone must have taken trouble over it.’ She lowered her voice. ‘As a matter of fact I think I might show it to Mr Finchley, he lives in the village and is a bit of an expert. But I shan’t mention that to Lucas – he was getting rather huffy about it though I’ve no idea why.’ She paused, and then added, ‘Actually between you and me he seems to have been rather on edge lately – probably worrying about that wretched knighthood. Honestly, as if one cared!’
A Southwold Mystery Page 16