The October Cabaret

by Nancy Buckingham

  “And?”

  I tried to sharpen memory by picturing Doris Lambert and her cats. The tiny woman with her grotesque face, over-rouged and lipsticked, the tortoise-shell queen cat and the other two.

  “She said he was a good-looking man, very gentlemanly. ‘Well-preserved’ I think she called him.”

  “Not a young man, then?”

  “I got the impression he was somewhere around sixty.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh yes... he wore glasses and had a beard.”

  “Hmm.” Peter got to his feet and took a turn about the room. “You said this porcelain would be worth a lot of money, Tess. How much is a lot?”

  “It’s not really possible to put a price on something like that.”

  “But at a rough guess. This is a subject I know damn all about. That set of Doris Lambert’s, say, or the entire Romanov collection ... are we talking about thousands of pounds, or tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands?”

  “Possibly even millions for the complete collection, if it still existed. Saleroom prices are rocketing these days, and this would be something utterly unique. Just the one cabaret would probably fetch a fantastic amount.”

  “Jesus! So your uncle realised he was on to something of enormous value when Luke Webster brought him that sugar box.”

  I reacted in swift defence, perhaps trying to convince myself. “Uncle Maynard wanted the credit for discovering it, not the money. That’s what Gervaise thinks, and I’m sure it’s true. Money never meant a lot to him.”

  “Lucky man,” Peter said ironically. “Pity he didn’t give Duvillard a few more details, though. Then we’d be less in the dark. Was there no clue at all about who he was going to meet that Saturday evening?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “And he wouldn’t even trust locking the thing in his safe while he was out.”

  We were both silent, thinking our own thoughts. Then Peter glanced at his watch.

  “Time’s getting on. We’d better go out and eat, Tess.”

  I shrank from the effort involved. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’ve got to have something,” he protested.

  I shrugged indifferently. “I’ll do myself an egg, that’ll be enough.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. You lay up the table, while I hop round to that takeaway in Ship Street.”

  He was gone longer than I expected. He brought back portions of Quiche Lorraine and salad, with a bottle of rose wine, and explained that he’d made another phone call while he was out.

  “You should have used mine again, Peter,”

  “Oh well... actually, I rang a chap I know in the police, and asked him for some off-the-record information ... whether there was an item of porcelain—or the remains of one—on Luke Webster’s body.”

  “And?”

  Peter shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Where does that get us?” I asked dully.

  “Not very far, I admit. It could still be that Luke smashed the thing and chucked it away.”

  “Or maybe it wasn’t Luke who took the sugar box from Gervaise’s place.” The thought had sprung into my mind from nowhere.

  Peter was pouring wine, but he stopped and looked at me.

  “Who else, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who would have known that Duvillard had it in his possession?”

  I made a helpless gesture. “No one, I’d have thought. That applies to Luke as well.”

  “But someone knew—and Luke Webster seems the most likely candidate.”

  “We’ve no proof it was him, though. It’s all based on supposition, largely from what Pearl told me.”

  “Could Pearl have invented that whole story?”

  “She was his mother,” I protested, deeply shocked. “No woman, no matter what the circumstances, would falsely brand her own son a thief and a killer.”

  “I suppose not,” Peter agreed, though he sounded unconvinced.

  “I’m certain not. You can forget that idea. Anyway, why should Pearl want to lie to me about it? Even if she’s not as innocent as she makes out, where would it get her?”

  Peter looked uneasy. “It was just a thought. Go through again what she told you, Tess, and let’s see if it throws up any new angles.”

  I sensed Peter’s analytical lawyer’s mind at work while I repeated as much as I could remember, word for word. When I’d finished, he asked, “Did Pearl mention exactly how Luke gained entry to the cottage that night?”

  “No, she didn’t, and it’s rather strange ...”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I don’t think there can have been any signs of a break-in, or the police would have been interested, wouldn’t they?” I had to think. “I suppose it’s possible that Miss Willoughby happened to have left a door or window unlatched.”

  “Very convenient for him, if so. You’d expect an old lady living alone in a country cottage to be careful about locking up at night.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “She was quite a tippler, don’t forget.”

  “Even so ... it’s the sort of thing old ladies get neurotic about.”

  “And it’s odd, too, now I come to think about it, that the china cabinet wasn’t broken into, either.”

  “It would have been locked?”

  “Definitely. That woman Maggie Ayling told us that Miss Willoughby always kept it locked, with the key on a ribbon round her neck.”

  “Then how did Luke Webster manage to pinch that sugar box in the first place?” Peter asked.

  “The way I figure it, Miss Willoughby must have had the cabinet open one day when Luke called on his delivery round, and this gave him the chance to snaffle something small while she wasn’t looking. But that would hardly apply at night.”

  “Maybe he took the key after he’d killed her.”

  “Not according to Pearl’s story. She said that Luke told her he was already packing up the cabaret when he heard Miss Willoughby coming downstairs.”

  Peter was silent, with an intense look of concentration that suggested that he understood more than he was telling.

  “You’re on to something, aren’t you?” I said accusingly.

  His face clammed up at once. “Put it this way, Tess—I’ve got a theory. A suspicion, if you like.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can’t tell you. I might be completely wrong.”

  “For God’s sake, let’s talk it over, then. See if I can help throw any light.”

  “No!” The word came out sharply, irritably, but immediately Peter softened and his voice took on a warm, tender note of pleading. “Trust me, Tess, won’t you? Just for a little while.”

  “It looks as if I’ll have to.” I guess I sounded sullen and resentful. Peter looked at me reproachfully, then got up from the table and came to stand behind my chair.

  “Don’t be like that, Tess darling. You must know how I feel about you. I’d tell you if I could, honestly.”

  He bent and kissed me lightly on the forehead, then tilted my face up and found my lips. I didn’t pull away, but I gave him no encouragement. His kiss lit no fire in me, and I knew I wasn’t ready yet for a new commitment.

  When Peter let me go he gave me a small, rueful smile. “I’d better get moving. See you tomorrow?”

  “If you want to.”

  “I’ll phone you in the morning and we’ll fix something. Sleep tight, dear.”

  Long after I’d gone to bed, I still couldn’t dismiss the niggling suspicion that Peter had left so abruptly like that to avoid me asking him any more questions.

  * * * *

  Instead of phoning, Peter arrived in person while Vera Catchpole was still cleaning the shop.

  “Tess, I’ve got to talk to you.” His significant look at Vera meant alone, and she took the hint.

  “I’ll just pop upstairs, then, and ...”

  “No, Vera, it’s all right. Come up to the flat, Peter, and I’ll make you some c
offee.”

  But once upstairs, he wouldn’t let me put the kettle on but pulled me into the living room, shutting the door.

  “I came to tell you that I’m flying to Prague today,” he said. “On a midday flight.”

  I was astonished, but I felt curiously bereft, too, as if he was walking out on me when I needed him. “Why, Peter? What’s happened?”

  “All night long I’ve been going over in my mind what we were talking about,” he explained. “I’ve got a feeling that the answer to all our questions might lie in Prague.”

  “How on earth does Prague come into the picture?” I asked, bewildered. “What’s the connection?”

  “I can’t tell you that, not yet. The whole thing is too complicated, and I might be making a crazy mistake. But I’ve got to go and talk to a man out there.”

  “Who?”

  He dismissed the question with a shake of his head. “I’m hoping to get some facts straight. And when I do—if I do—then I’ll know whether what I suspect is true or not. Until then ...”

  Peter’s urgency, his desperate seriousness, came through to me, and I asked in a hoarse voice, “What... what is it that you suspect?”

  He hesitated, then reached out and gripped me by the shoulders. “Tess, I think we’ve got to consider the possibility that your uncle didn’t die accidently. I believe you’re right—he wasn’t the sort to be careless.”

  “So?” I whispered, my heart suddenly pounding.

  “I think it was a case of murder.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Murder? The naked word hung in the air between us. This was the second time I had been compelled to face the ugly suspicion, first with Ben, now with Peter. If I was honest, it had been lurking on the edge of my mind almost from the beginning, but I had kept it at a distance as too horrible to contemplate.

  I said faintly, “Peter, you’ve got to explain. What makes you think that Uncle Maynard was murdered? Who would have done it ... why?”

  “I can’t say any more, not until I have something definite to go on. So no more questions, please.” He paused, his eyes intent as they met mine. “Tess, I want you to come with me to Prague.”

  I stared back at him, and Peter continued urgently, “You must come with me, darling, and there’s no time to lose. I’ve already booked the flight for us both, so just throw a few things into a bag.”

  One thing I knew already—that if Peter was going, then I wanted to go with him. It would be infinitely worse to be left here on my own to wonder and speculate. But everything was happening too fast.

  “If you aren’t going to tell me what you plan to do in Prague,” I said slowly, “then why is it you want me with you?”

  “Because I’m scared to leave you here on your own.” He spoke with a chilling simplicity, and I gasped, “You mean ... I’m in some sort of danger?”

  “I hope not. I pray to God I’m wrong about all this. But I don’t want to take any risks as far as you’re concerned. So you’ve got to come with me. Given any sort of luck, we’ll only be away for a couple of days.”

  “‘But don’t you need a visa to get in Czechoslovakia?” I stammered. “Surely we can’t...”

  “No problem. They’re available on demand at the airport.”

  My mind spinning, I snatched at another thought. “I’d better ring Pearl and explain that I’ll be away.”

  “No, I don’t want anybody told. Anyway, Pearl’s not due to come in again until Tuesday, is she? And we’ll be back by then. It’ll do no harm for the shop to stay closed.”

  “I must tell Gervaise, though,” I said. “I promised to visit him again, and he’ll wonder what’s wrong.”

  Peter gave me a dark frown for being difficult. “Go and see Duvillard if you must—but you’ll have to make it damned quick. Just tell him you’ve decided to take the weekend off, and steer clear of details.” He checked his watch. “I’ll give you ten minutes flat to get ready.”

  “Ten minutes?” I protested.

  “That’s all the time we’ve got if you’re determined to go to the hospital first.”

  Vera had come upstairs to make a start on the kitchen, and I told her that I was going away for a couple of days.

  “I suppose you know what you’re doing, Tess,” she fretted in a breathy whisper. She shot a dark, suspicious glance over my shoulder at the door of the living room, where Peter was waiting. “That man ...”

  I cut her off briskly. “I’m sorry, Vera, but it’s no business of yours.”

  As Peter and I dashed off, I knew she was watching us with that same doubtful expression on her face, and I felt mean for being rude to her. But I had other things to worry about.

  Peter drew up outside the hospital, and glanced anxiously at his watch again.

  “I’ll wait for you here, Tess. But be quick.”

  I found Gervaise sitting up in a chair beside his bed. I told him I was just paying him a hasty call, and I’d decided to go to London for the weekend. “I... I feel as if I need a break.”

  “London, eh? Are you going on your own?”

  Curse it, why did my face have to flood with colour? “Well, no. Actually I’m going with Peter Kemp.”

  Now that Gervaise was in less pain, the smile was back in place. My announcement made it gleam more brightly than ever.

  “I am happy for you, ma chère. I was sad to think of you being distressed over Ben Wyland.”

  “Look, there’s nothing serious between me and Peter,” I insisted, uncomfortably aware of the reputation I must have acquired with Gervaise by this time. “It’s just...”

  He twisted so that he could pat my hand. “I understand, Tess.”

  Despite the smile, he looked old and lonely and forlorn. I felt bad about deceiving him, and I stooped to kiss his plump cheek.

  “I’ll be in to see you again as soon as I’m back,” I promised.

  We barely had time to make to Heathrow. Peter drove in silence, but I couldn’t just sit there beside him and remain quiet. I kept throwing out questions ... why, why, why? What exactly made him suspect that my uncle might have been murdered?

  In the end he said wearily, “It’s a long shot, Tess ... lots of guesswork and nothing solid to go on. But last night I contacted one of my clients who’s a doctor. I asked him if there was any way of contriving the death of someone who was diabetic, to make it appear accidental. He agreed it would be perfectly possible, provided the murderer knew what he was up to and had the wherewithal. By forcibly injecting a large dose of insulin, and then denying the extra carbohydrate to balance it out, the victim would go into a coma and die.”

  I pressed my hands to my face, shocked and sickened. “So Uncle Maynard might have been killed first, and his body carried up to the place where it was found?”

  “It’s feasible, Tess.”

  “But who? Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what I hope to find the answer to in Prague.”

  We stopped at traffic lights, and it wasn’t until we moved on again that I said, “You still haven’t explained, Peter, what made you suspicious in the first place.”

  “Various things. But mostly it was those photographs of the Sèvres sugar box. Last night I got my photographer pal to do a rush job on the negatives you lent me, and looking at the prints came near to clinching something in my mind. But that’s all I’m going to tell you at the moment. Just trust me, Tess, please. I’m hoping that I’m wrong, that everything can be explained. Perhaps when we come home, the nightmare will be over.”

  Peter’s use of that word silenced me at last. I felt as if I’d been living through a nightmare for a long time now.

  The short flight to Prague was smooth as a dream, unlike my all-night ordeal from Canada less than two weeks ago. Once landed, the entry formalities were soon dispensed with and we took the airport bus to the city centre. Then a taxi to a hotel which Peter had used previously.

  “How often have you come to Prague before?” I asked him.

&n
bsp; “A few times.”

  Then, before I could slip in another question, he changed the subject in that decisive way he had and began to point out landmarks.

  The baroque splendour of the Hotel Zobor, all gilt and plush and sculptured marble, was overlaid by a film of drab indifference. Only a faint echo of its gold past remained ... the age of dashing hussars in scarlet and gold, sky-blue dolmans flying from one shoulder, their women be-jewelled and richly clad. It was an era long since gone.

  Peter negotiated in German with the fussy desk clerk, and told me we had been allocated two rooms on the fourth floor. We ascended, creakily, in a glorified gilt birdcage.

  I threw my handgrip and bag onto the bed and stood for a few moments on the balcony, gazing out across the city. Here, way above the greyness of the present day, the view was as picturesque and romantic as it must have been in those better times. But somewhere down there, beneath one or other of those crowded rooftops, lay a grim reality ... the truth about my uncle’s death according to Peter.

  I had unpacked and changed when he came knocking at my door to see if I was ready. Peter and I went down together, and left the hotel in the westering sunshine and lengthening shadows of late afternoon.

  “For the rest of today,” he said, “we’ll just enjoy ourselves.”

  “Enjoy ourselves?”

  “Well, as best we can. We’re supposed to be tourists, remember, so we’d better behave like tourists. In a country like this you never know who might be keeping an eye on you. Let’s stroll around for a bit, Tess, and find somewhere pleasant to have a glass of Pils. It’s said that Czech beer is the best in the world.”

  At this time of day the public buildings were mostly closed, but there was still plenty to see. Peter was knowledgeable about Prague, and as we wandered through wide squares and narrow, stepped streets, he filled me in about its chequered history—to prevent, I knew, the conversation getting back to why we were here. In Wenceslas Square we sat for a while at an outdoor cafe, drinking our beer and watching the crowds go by. At the far end of the wide thoroughfare, on guard before the National Museum, was an equestrian statue of the Good King himself.