Rosy smiled sympathetically and with a last glance at Brightwell’s unsolicited gift followed Freda into the dining room to join the others.
The unexpected arrival of Mark and Iris was a bonus and the conversation flowed easily, though inwardly Rosy was bursting to tell Angela and Cedric what she had just seen.
Earlier she had been in two minds whether to mention Hawkins’ picture. Extraordinary though the coincidence had been, it had somehow felt like a betrayal of the old man’s trust and she had deliberately shelved the matter. Now, however, things were surely different. What had seemed a probable link between Brightwell’s photograph and the painting had become a virtual certainty – and the clue had fallen into her lap quite unsought!
She glanced at Brightwell. If he was under pressure as Freda had hinted, he certainly wasn’t showing it that evening. His manner was easy, disarming, genial – everything typical of the perfect host. But what lay beneath that smooth surface? From Freda’s comments it would seem that the picture had been an unwelcome shock. So why had Hawkins sent it? Judging from the reception it had not been a kindly gesture (or if so the gesture had backfired). Could it have been some sort of taunt? A sly reminder of more dubious times? After all Hawkins’ sojourn in Paris had overlapped with Brightwell’s, so he was likely to have known something of the widely rumoured scandals. Perhaps he had guessed or suspected Brightwell’s involvement …
‘My goodness, Miss Gilchrist,’ laughed her host, ‘you are in a brown study, as one used to say! Clearly something very deep is going on behind those thoughtful eyes!’
Rosy gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Actually I was just thinking how pleasant it is to be in such attractive surroundings and with such charming company.’
There was general laughter. ‘Oh well done,’ said Mark, ‘just the sort of thing Lucas likes to hear. You are bound to be offered second helpings of this splendid soufflé.’ He turned to Brightwell: ‘You see it wasn’t just the behaviour of enemy aircraft Miss Gilchrist was getting to know at Dover but also the essence of diplomacy!’
‘Oh I am sure our guest knows a great number of useful things – she has a keen eye,’ Brightwell replied lightly. Then changing the subject he turned to Cedric: ‘Professor, I am dying to read your book on the Cappadocian caves. Tell me, did it take you ages to research?’
Rosy was relieved to be out of the spotlight, for Brightwell’s last remark had unsettled her. Was it quite as casual as it sounded? Coming from anyone else it would have been totally innocuous. But from him? Had his word ‘keen’ been a euphemism for ‘prying’? In her mind’s eye she saw the briefcase he had been so quick to check at The Crown and the searching look he had given her in the bar mirror. Had he guessed then that she may have seen the photograph and indeed inspected the notepad? Perhaps she had replaced the items more carelessly than she meant – there had been a number of pockets in the thing so possibly she had slipped them back into the wrong one. Just typical!
Then another thought occurred and she nearly upset her glass … Oh my God, it had been Lucas who had welcomed Mark and Iris when they arrived. The study door had been ajar and she had heard the front door being opened the instant the bell had rung. Since the terrace was at the back of the house he must surely have been in the hall already, and thus could have overheard their conversation about the portrait – perhaps even noted herself looking at the thing. If he did suspect she had found the photo then presumably he wouldn’t be too pleased to know she had also seen the picture! Is that what he had meant by ‘a keen eye’ … or was she just getting paranoid?
Fortunately such thoughts were diverted by Iris insisting she should try the Pêche Melba. ‘Do you know, Freda makes this herself? It’s her speciality, we all love it!’
It was in fact delicious and Rosy’s fears were temporarily lost in the enjoyment of fruit and unguent ice cream. It was then that Lady Fawcett took the bull by the horns.
‘I wonder if the police are making any progress,’ she said conversationally to no one in particular. ‘That inspector strikes me as being a little brighter than he appears – or at least one hopes he is. He may seem a trifle dour but I suspect he is the dedicated type, a sort of plodding bloodhound. No doubt he will unearth something before too long, they generally do.’ Not, Rosy recalled, the view she had expressed earlier. Was this a gentle attempt to apply the Fawcett frighteners?
‘I gather she was supposed to be writing a book,’ Cedric said.
‘Oh you mean that one on gardening?’ Iris asked.
‘No not that. Wasn’t it rumoured there was a novel floating about somewhere?’
Freda laughed. ‘Oh yes it was rumoured. I heard of it myself from a couple of friends in London ages ago. They said it was supposed to be rather racy and even potentially slanderous. But like all good rumours not a shred of detail of course. I told Lucas and we had a bit of a laugh. Somehow the idea of Delia penning a novel seemed most unlikely: she was too impatient. Besides, as I said to Lucas, who on earth would she slander!’ Freda turned to her husband: ‘You remember, don’t you?’
He gave a perfunctory nod and got up to deal with the cheese which the maid had left on the sideboard. Glancing out of the window he remarked: ‘It’s getting rather too dark for coffee outside. I’ll ask Gillian to serve it in the drawing room.’ Excusing himself he went out to the kitchen.
The conversation returned to broader topics and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly.
‘Well at least we now know how Brightwell got wind of what Delia was up to even if it doesn’t explain how he got access to the material,’ Cedric remarked as they drove away. ‘Obviously he had known about her project for some time having heard of it from Freda.’
‘But only as the vaguest of rumours,’ said Lady Fawcett.
‘I imagine that if you had quite a lot to hide even the vaguest rumour would be worrying. It would certainly set you thinking; and possibly planning … Yes at least that’s one thing we’ve established.’
‘Actually there is something else,’ Rosy murmured and she proceeded to tell them about her discovery in the study.
When she had finished Cedric said to Angela: ‘My goodness, our genial friend was absolutely right – she does have a keen eye! A keen nose too – perhaps we should rent her out to the local hunt as a pointer.’
As they neared Laurel Lodge Lady Fawcett emitted a deep sigh, one less of fatigue than perplexity.
‘I do agree that the matter of Hawkins’ painting is most peculiar,’ she said, ‘and his sending it to the Brightwells certainly seems to confirm Lucas’s link with the wretched Randolph. But Rosy dear, I take it you are absolutely sure that the faces were the same? I mean mistakes can be—’
‘Quite sure,’ Rosy replied firmly. ‘Besides, Hawkins said he had known the man in Paris: it’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be the same.’
‘Hmm. But even if Delia’s proposed revelations did give him the idea of murder, how did he get hold of the cyanide and how on earth could he personally have administered it? I mean, like Hugh, I gather he wasn’t there when it happened – chairing some charity meeting apparently.’
‘Yes,’ Cedric agreed, ‘this has been bothering me too. Yet he certainly has the motive, and judging from Delia’s depiction of him he also possesses the necessary ruthlessness. Your term “personally” is crucial … I suspect he had a minion or accomplice. He devised the plan, the other carried it out.’
There was a silence as they digested this. And then Rosy said thoughtfully, ‘In that case do you think this A. N. Other was simply a hired lackey, a sort of professional hitman – or did he also share a vested interest in Delia’s death?’
‘Ah, a leading question! But I note you say he. Perhaps if there is a collaborator it is someone of your own fair sex: the lady who took the tickets at Felix’s last lecture for example. She looked distinctly shady to me – I mean, an Alice band at seventy?’ He laughed and switched off the engine. ‘And talking of Felix I must make haste for Al
deburgh, he’ll be avid to regale me of his musical evening. But before I go would it be too much trouble if you gave me Delia’s notes? I’d really like to take a closer look. We shall be in Southwold tomorrow so we can drop them back then.’
‘If it would help,’ offered Lady Fawcett graciously, ‘you could deliver them to me at the hairdresser. I have an appointment at eleven and it would save your coming here.’
‘How thoughtful,’ he replied, ‘but won’t you be incognito?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Camouflaged as a hairdryer. One would hate to give them to the wrong person!’
When Cedric finally reached The Sandworth it was to find Felix sitting alone in the cocktail bar nursing something or other. It was very late and Cedric was surprised to find the bar still open.
‘It’s a wonder the staff aren’t all in bed,’ he said.
Felix beamed. ‘They were about to batten down the hatches but I told them that I had spent such an enchanting evening and just had to relax for half an hour before retiring to the Land of Nod and would they mind granting the weeniest extension.’
‘And presumably they didn’t mind?’
‘Well I wouldn’t go so far as that but they were certainly very obliging.’
‘Hmm. So I suppose you want to tell me all about your soirée.’
‘Not just at this very moment,’ the other replied. ‘I need to mull things over and hone my report for tomorrow – after all one wouldn’t want to miss anything out.’
‘Oh heaven forbid!’ murmured Cedric greatly relieved. ‘A little shut-eye will do us both good.’
They exchanged solemn winks and made for their rooms.
The following day, rather to his surprise, Cedric woke early. The sun was already sidling under the curtains, and he knew there was no point in trying to return to sleep. Thus reaching for his spectacles he sat up in bed, and with pillows propped comfortably began to reread Delia’s excerpts.
In fact there were four pages, not the original three that Rosy had first shown them. Yes, in addition to the narrative part and its brief memo list there was another one with additional notes and jottings. Being a writer himself, albeit not of the lurid fiction Delia seemed to espouse, he knew that such squiggles and desultory phrases could have meaning – sometimes indeed crucial to the theme of a whole chapter or section. Thus settling his glasses more firmly he began to make careful inspection.
As perhaps to be expected, the name of Lucian Lightspring had been doodled a couple of times in the margin, and on the page itself those of Ralph and Randolph. But there was another name too that Delia had presumably been toying with – Klaus the character in the bar, plus what looked like two surnames with question marks after them: Hogarth and Huguenot. The latter was circled – a sign of approval? In brackets was written: K selects & vets the ‘employees’. Non-participant but voyeur.
There followed a list of scribbled words and jottings. Under the heading Cigarettes she had jotted Gauloises, and then crossed it through and in capitals written ABDULLA. This was followed by the note: Blue eyes – change to brown but retain the naevus on cheekbone and manicured nails. If further confirmation were needed, which it wasn’t really, the allusion to the naevus and manicured nails certainly fleshed out the persona of Lucian – and indeed of his counterpart Lucas whose features of naevus and neat nails Cedric remembered noticing. He tried to recall the latter’s eyes. They were rather good – and yes, distinctively blue. A prudent amendment. Delia had clearly been very definite about the brand of cigarette. Did Lucas smoke? He didn’t know – only Mark and Freda had smoked with the coffee that evening, but that didn’t mean anything. He would enquire of Rosy Gilchrist, she might know …
So far things fitted with what they had guessed. But what about the German Klaus (or with the name of Huguenot perhaps French)? Now that really was interesting. What part did he play in this absurd drama? And was he fact or pure fiction?
He was about to put the page aside but spotted a final item: NB. Ask Fl. about chapter headings. So who was this ‘Fl.’ that she intended to consult?
Cedric removed his glasses, lay back on his pillows and gazed at the ceiling … Perfectly obvious: Floyd de Lisle of course. It was to him she must have taken the bulk of the manuscript and that was why the dead man’s premises had been broken into and ransacked – and very likely why he had been killed …
Cedric brooded; and then glanced at his watch. Yes, perhaps he could just manage half an hour’s shut-eye before his newspaper was brought: after all, energy would be needed for breakfast. With Felix’s report on his own evening’s sortie it was bound to be rhapsodic!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Cedric and Felix had spent a most congenial evening with three ladies whom they had met at the festival. The women were friends up from the metropolis and seeking sea air, bird life, golf, music and ‘anything else that takes our fancy’. Whether Cedric and Felix were of that last category was not entirely clear, but they had evidently met with approval, for the ladies had invited them for a light supper of crab and cocktails in their rented cottage near St Edmund’s.
They were a lively trio and rather to their surprise the two friends had found their company most convivial. Indeed Felix had gone so far as to say that should they ever be passing his Knightsbridge premises he would be delighted to present them with some of his choicest blooms. (Cedric felt a trifle sceptical of this.)
The evening over they took their leave amid fond farewells and mutual compliments.
‘I think we made rather hit there, don’t you?’ Cedric said.
‘Oh they found us charming,’ Felix agreed. ‘And I must say they were better company than Claude Huggins and that dreadful woman who keeps pestering you to recommend materials for her rockery!’
They had parked the car in Bartholomew Green, and as they strolled in that direction they saw a tall figure emerge from the King’s Head. To say it was walking unsteadily would be a euphemism: the man reeled and staggered as if the victim of a shoot-out in a Wild West film. With much muttering and moaning he lurched towards them.
Cedric gripped Felix’s elbow: ‘Avoid,’ he hissed.
They pressed themselves into a doorway hoping the drunk would pursue his tortuous way. He didn’t of course but stopped a couple of yards from where they stood and leant against the wall breathing heavily. A street light threw into focus an unkempt beard and mane of hair.
‘Oh my God,’ breathed Felix, ‘it’s him!’
‘Who?’ whispered Cedric, ‘not an associate I trust.’
‘It’s Huggins – the brother, the one at Walberswick where I dined the other night.’
They remained stock still in the shadows, and then to Felix’s dismay heard the hiccupping sound of sobs. ‘Oh God,’ he muttered, ‘that’s awful.’
Huggins must have sensed their presence for the next moment he had raised his head and stared directly at them.
‘It’s Felix,’ he declared tearfully. ‘What are you doing there – having a pee?’
Felix assured him that was not the case and they had just paused to admire the contents of the shop window (ladies’ vests and bloomers) before going to their car. ‘Er, are you all right?’ he enquired diffidently.
‘Oh yes, chirpy as a cock sparrow,’ was the slurred reply. He looked at Cedric. ‘So who are you?’
Cedric explained he was a friend of Felix and visiting the area.
The other blew his nose, and leaning towards Cedric slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Any friend of Felix is a friend of mine!’ he boomed.
Regaining his balance Cedric smiled wanly. He could have done without the accolade. Politely he asked if Fabius was on his way home.
‘Not with a punctured tyre I’m not,’ the other replied morosely, ‘besides, given my present state it might be problematic,’ he hiccupped.
There was a long pause at the end of which Felix coughed, and avoiding Cedric’s eye said, ‘Perhaps we could give you a lift, we shall be passing t
he turn.’ In view of the man’s earlier hospitality it seemed churlish not to make the offer.
Cedric sighed inwardly. Yes it had been inevitable, but he just hoped the chap wouldn’t be sick in the car! ‘Have you eaten?’ he enquired warily.
For some reason the question seemed to elicit more sobs and a spate of muttering which consisted mainly of the words ‘bastard’ and ‘sod’. Cedric liked to think they were not directed at him.
Thus slowly they weaved their way back to the car and bundled the lachrymose Fabius into the back seat, Cedric taking the precaution of spreading an old mackintosh over their passenger’s knees.
Once on the main road Fabius seemed to recover himself; alarmingly so, as the muffled sobs were suddenly replaced by raucous singing. The folk song ‘The Foggy, Foggy Dew’ was rendered with ear-splitting verve.
On the whole Felix considered it lacked some of the refinement of the Pears/Britten version and he could see Cedric’s jaw tightening. ‘I say,’ he said, in an attempt to quell the noise, ‘do you know any lullabies?’
‘Dozens,’ he replied airily, ‘I used to sing them on my missions. It steadied the nerves.’
‘What missions?’ Cedric asked.
‘Flying against the Hun, of course. A bit hair-raising that was, especially when we dropped into France … Curtains if they caught you, after the interrogation, of course. Still, I was one of the lucky ones. It was the lullabies – brought me luck. I’ll sing one if you like,’ he offered graciously.
The first notes of ‘Hush Baby Bunting’ were struck, but Felix headed him off: ‘You produced a magnificent supper the other night, and what a superb table-setting!’
A Southwold Mystery Page 17