Mornings in London

by Janice Law

“That’s right.”

  “Although it was her decision?”

  “One can decide something and still be upset.”

  “She was upset enough to threaten to kill him. Is that correct?”

  I wondered which of our guests had added that tidbit. Maybe all four of the riders, who seemed both horrified and thrilled by events. “She and Freddie were having a row,” I said. “The ‘threat’ was in a manner of speaking.”

  He checked his notes again. “Do you know what caused the breakup?”

  I shrugged. “She discovered that Freddie was not the man she thought he was.”

  The inspector stared at me and waited. I said nothing. Ever since my Aussie lover started giving me painting lessons, I’ve been really looking at faces. Faces are very interesting to me as a subject, so I studied the inspector’s while he waited for me to reveal that I knew all about Freddie’s sexual habits, that I’d seen Signor Rinaldi coming out of his room, that Poppy had probably discovered the same relationship.

  Eyes strike one first, but, for painting, the nose is also a key feature, dividing the face and setting its length. I’m finding it easy to get proportions wrong. The shape of the lips is tricky, too, since they are so mobile during speech. The inspector’s were still at the moment, and I noticed his wide, almost squared-off mouth. Dentures, I guessed. An interesting line, broken now, as he asked, “Did you know Mr. Bosworth?”

  Tricky ground for me when our sceptered isle remains in the Dark Ages regarding erotic variety. “He commissioned a rug from me. Poppy brought him around to my showroom, maybe six weeks ago. I have the exact date in my account book. In London.”

  I tried to look eager and helpful. Could I be released to London, how cooperative I could be! The inspector narrowed his eyes still more and consulted his notes again. “You returned the engagement ring to Mr. Bosworth.”

  I nodded.

  “And spent the rest of the morning with Major Larkin?” He made that seem like a doubtful proposition. It was.

  “The major knows the history of Larkin Manor. The ruined tower was built soon after the conquest, and the church he took me to see also dates from the Norman era. He found a lot to explain.”

  “You returned, when?”

  “Time for lunch.”

  “And after?”

  “Except for stretching my legs for a few minutes in the shrubbery, I spent the afternoon in the library. It has all the classic authors.”

  I don’t think the inspector was a reader. He certainly didn’t credit that I had spent the afternoon with Shakespeare.

  “Who can confirm this?”

  “Jenkins brought me a glass of beer. Otherwise, I did not see anyone.”

  “And your cousin, Miss Dinesmor? Did you see her during that time?”

  “Not until late in the afternoon. She came down to the library around four thirty, and said she wanted to go for a walk.”

  “And you have no idea where she was before that?”

  “I believe she came down from her room.”

  The inspector stared at me without speaking for a minute, then asked, “Can you describe what she was wearing?”

  “A gray woolen skirt, a heather-colored sweater, and a Liberty print blouse. Walking clothes.”

  “And at lunch? How was your cousin dressed then?”

  “A garnet-colored day dress and high heels.”

  The inspector closed his notebook. “That will be all for the moment,” he said, but he looked dissatisfied, and conversation with the other guests revealed that except for Poppy and me, those two unsociable souls, everyone had an alibi. Of sorts. The two Conservative gents had spent the afternoon playing billiards with Rinaldi. The major had caught up on some accounts with the butler. Mrs. Grove and Mrs. Tollman had spent the afternoon in the latter’s room, reading novels and summoning the staff every so often for assistance with a frock or a cup of tea or to do a bit of sewing.

  Young Miss Larkin and her mother were engaged in preparing for an upcoming trip to Italy and making plans for extensive clothing purchases, while the elderly cousin alternately gave them advice and dozed in an armchair. Poppy had been seen at the stables immediately after lunch, but the head groom confirmed that she had walked back toward the house and that she was still wearing dress clothes, quite unsuitable for scrambling up Norman ruins.

  As for yours truly, I had Jenkins and that welcome glass of beer to confirm my afternoon in the library, not much really, but several other alibis depended solely on the word of the manor’s staff, too, so I was not surprised when we were shortly told that the house must be searched, including our rooms and our bags. Although the major frowned and said that the police were just doing their job, Mrs. Larkin was horrified, while the rest swore up and down that none of Freddie’s friends could possibly be involved.

  I reserved judgment on that. The chance that some tenant farmer in Sussex had known Freddie well enough to want to cut his throat seemed remote. And then Freddie had not been found off in the fields or along the road from the station. He had been found right below the stables. Where could he been going except back to the house? And for what reason?

  Nonetheless, I went along with the proposition that we were all innocent as lambs, and when Poppy, whose nerves were all on edge, considered indignation, I put my hand on her shoulder and said, “Very best thing. Unless the search turns up some blood-soaked garment or lethal weapon, the police will have no reason to detain us. We’ll be off to London in the morning!”

  She sat down heavily on her bed and bit her lip. “There will surely be a Sunday service, Francis. No, no, we’ll have to attend. Given the circumstances.”

  She seemed about to cry, and I had to admit that a too hasty departure suggested remorse if not guilt. “All right, afternoon, Poppy. Afternoon we’re on the train to London. No more Norman architecture, no more horses, no more endless country afternoons!”

  Just then, one of the constables knocked at the door and, with apologies, proceeded to rifle through Poppy’s suitcases and the bureau drawers—she did, I noticed, have some deliciously elegant underwear, as well as a neat little box with a contraceptive device. But there was no bloodstained blouse or skirt, and even her laundry, set aside for the chambermaid, was spotless. Just the same, the constable lifted the mattress and checked under the small Oriental rug that stood by the bed. He looked behind the drapes and into the wastebasket and made sure that there was nothing hiding in the small writing desk. I was impressed.

  My room also got the once-over. Same drill: suitcase, closet, laundry—my two suits and two shirts did not give him the same scope as he’d had with Poppy’s wardrobe. Bedding, drapes, washstand. My books and sketching equipment got a curious look before he moved on to the next rooms. I would have liked to see what Signor Rinaldi’s room held, but they must have come up empty there and in the other rooms, too. Shortly after 10 p.m., when we were finishing the buffet of cold roast and sandwiches that the cook had provided in lieu of a sit-down dinner, Inspector Carstairs came into the dining room, took a sandwich and a cup of tea, and said that we could leave in the morning but that we were to notify him if we traveled anywhere except to our legal residences.

  Chapter 3

  We attended Sunday morning service in the Larkins’ damp and chilly Norman church. The vicar, never having met Freddie, prayed for his spotted soul with touching earnestness and mentioned his grieving friends with a straight face. Aside from Poppy, who sniffled throughout and thanked the vicar profusely, I could not see that anyone felt more than inconvenience, not even Signor Rinaldi, supposedly the cause of the broken engagement.

  I kept a close eye on him, but the Italian seemed so untroubled that I began to doubt any relationship at all with Freddie. Maybe he’d told the truth. Maybe he had returned something to Freddie’s room that morning and maybe Poppy had jumped to the right conclusion on flawed evidence. />
  As for the others, the major and his lady focused on the service, prudent when scandal had visited their house. I could see that they trusted public piety to show them unimpeachable. The Tollmans and the Groves, on the other hand, were restless in their pews. They checked their watches and stared at the ceiling and suggested with every pose and gesture that none of this had anything to do with them. So I wasn’t surprised that when Basil Grove thanked the vicar afterward, he added, “Of course, I hardly knew the man. I’m not sure we’d met him before this weekend, had we, dear?” Or that she answered, “Well, unless you met him in the City. I think he moved in different circles altogether.” That, at least, was true, if nothing else.

  When we got back, the police were busy on and around the tower and in the grove of trees and the adjacent pasture. The constables had roped off the crucial area. Some were searching through the stonework and the rubble of the tower; others were walking slowly, heads down, across the grass.

  Peter Tollman appeared on the terrace with a cigar. “What the hell are they about?”

  “I expect they are looking for the murder weapon.”

  “Fat chance they’ll find it,” he said, and I looked at him. The usual line, now that we were free to go, was that the police would soon sort out the matter.

  I shrugged. Privately, I agreed that the weapon that had opened Freddie’s throat was unlikely to be found. The manor had plenty of hiding places, and the fields beyond offered more.

  “You can’t think they’ll find anything,” Tollman persisted.

  “Needle in a haystack,” I said, “even here.”

  “Here? You can’t be serious. Chap will have taken it with him if he’s a transient of some sort.”

  “Why would such a person have killed Freddie?”

  “He had money on him,” Tollman said, and then he coughed as if flustered that he’d given something away. “That’s right. You’d already gone up. We had a few hands the other night, and Freddie won some money at cards.”

  “Do you know for sure he was robbed?” I very much regretted not checking Freddie’s pockets.

  “No other reason I can see, and if he was robbed, whoever did it will be far away by now. Headed for the Continent I shouldn’t wonder.”

  I doubted that desperate rural poverty would operate that way, but I said nothing. Tollman took a deep drag on his cigar then turned to me. “Did you know him?”

  “Freddie? Not really. He bought a rug from me.”

  Tollman sniffed. “Strange duck. Really more Lea’s friend than mine.” He threw the butt of his cigar onto the drive and walked off to see about his car.

  The plan for the day was that Poppy and I were to stay for lunch with the major, his wife, and her superannuated cousin. The Groves were taking a noon train, and the Tollmans were to drive back with Signor Rinaldi. I saw him tipping my agreeable friend, Jenkins, as I stepped into the hallway with my bag. “A moment, Signor Bacon, if you please.”

  I waited. Jenkins took my bag, pocketed my tip, and gave me a wink. Did Rinaldi notice? Although the Italian had been standoffish the whole weekend, clearly too important for a small fish like me, he was suddenly friendly, even confidential. “Such a sad ending to the Larkins’ charming party,” he said.

  I agreed with that.

  “And unfortunate that you and I have had so little time to talk.”

  I expressed my regret with a straight face and added, “Under the circumstances—”

  “The distress of your fair cousin! Most certainly. I wonder, Signor Bacon, was the rupture a complete surprise?”

  “What do you mean, Signor Rinaldi?”

  “I did not get the impression that you knew the Larkins well. Nor the other guests, either. Perhaps your cousin arranged your invitation?”

  I didn’t see what business that was of his, but I was interested in his attitude. “How perceptive you are. You’re right, Poppy got me invited; she was maybe having second thoughts.”

  Signor Rinaldi nodded vigorously and seemed relieved in some way, as if there had previously been something vaguely sinister about my presence. “To have a relative beside her, a young man of the world—an inestimable benefit! She is a fortunate young lady.”

  I am not often endorsed so glowingly, and I was tempted to mention some of the fine products of Avant Design. But I was raised to be a gentleman, a drawback for someone hustling for trade. “She is most unhappy at the moment,” I said and moved toward the stairs.

  “Of course, you must escort the lovely Miss Dinesmor. But Freddie Bosworth, did you know him well?”

  The question of the morning! “I sold him a rug,” I said.

  Rinaldi bit his lip. I could see he was dissatisfied, but all he said was, “You would have found him fascinating.”

  “You were good friends?”

  “Alas no—although your cousin thinks so.” He said good-bye with a lazy, suggestive smile.

  Interesting. Rinaldi had managed to suggest both casual acquaintance and erotic entanglement. He even seemed pleased that a supposed frolic with Freddie had broken up Poppy’s engagement. Such undiplomatic behavior made me wonder about his agenda, because I certainly didn’t believe the current line that Freddie had been a closed book to the other guests.

  I broached this on the train. Poppy and I had a compartment to ourselves most of the way, and I asked her about the Tollmans and the Groves.

  “I’d seen them around, you know how one does, but I only knew the Larkins—old friends of my parents—and Freddie. Of course, I didn’t really know Freddie at all.” Her lip trembled and she turned to stare out the window and the fields whipping past. “That was what was so odd,” she said after a few minutes.

  I waited.

  “Do you know that the Tollmans wanted me to ride back to London with them?”

  “With Rinaldi?”

  “No, even Lea wouldn’t go that far. He was their second choice. But Lea was quite insistent with the offer. I explained I had a return ticket and was going back with you. And do you know what she suggested?”

  I shook my head.

  “That they take my luggage and deliver it. Save you all the nuisance with porters and such. I could scarcely keep my bags away from her. What do you think of that?”

  I thought that was peculiar, but there are people who love to take the lead in any crisis. “People don’t always know how to show concern.”

  Poppy sniffed. “Don’t be softheaded. Does she strike you as full of concern for anybody but herself?”

  I had to admit that Mrs. Tollman had enlivened the weekend with cutting and amusing remarks. She was a woman best taken in small, bracing doses.

  “Unless you think she has a hidden heart of gold,” Poppy added, and we both laughed.

  “They were all odd,” I said, though I mentally exempted Jenkins. “Stay away from the country house set. You’re far safer in London.”

  “I met Freddie in London.” Poppy turned again to look out the window.

  I dropped the subject of the disastrous house party, happy to forget about country living and our unlamented companion and to get my feet back onto pavement.

  London is always a tonic for me. I had a jolly reunion with Maurice—he’s my Aussie bloke, bloke being a proper Aussie word. Maurice is a tall, well-built fellow with a red face that he claims is from his former life in the sun Down Under, but which I know is also from his alcohol consumption, which is impressive. He has dirty-blond hair straggling down to his collar, and when he’s in the mood, he wears green corduroy pants with a red sash and an open-necked shirt, so everyone knows he’s a bohemian and a queer one at that.

  “Here’s my Pommy bloke!” he shouted when I walked in the door. We made use of his model’s studio couch before songs (him) and general gaiety (me) and a good deal of wine (both of us). Afterward, I took one of his smaller canvases, dipped into
his paints, and started in on Carstairs. I soon commenced swearing: I couldn’t get his face at all.

  “I really looked, too,” I told Maurice, who has been schooling me on the importance of concentration and visual memory. He came and put his hand on my shoulder. I must say that without his shirt and trousers, Maurice really is a proper bloke, and when he suggested a break to “clear your head,” that was fine with me. Back for rapture on the studio couch. All very well, I absolutely approve of rapture whenever, but my painting problem remained.

  Later, Maurice lit a cigarette and watched the smoke ascend. “Too bad you haven’t got a photo.”

  I was surprised because Maurice believes in disciplining the hand and eye with sketching. Making lines on paper is practically a religious exercise with him.

  “Exceptions to every rule,” he said. “You could hardly whip out your sketchbook during a police interrogation.”

  Maurice had been very taken with my role in the police investigation. He’s a Catholic who was educated by some robe-wearing order preoccupied with sin, and I wonder if he sees interrogation as related to confession—or maybe the Inquisition. Though he claims he cast off all rules and superstition as soon as his ship left Australia, I’m not so sure. I think he was even a little disappointed that I hadn’t spent time in some ghastly nick. I had to recount Inspector Carstairs’s examinations more than once, each time producing a telltale gleam in Maurice’s eyes. I hoped he wasn’t going to become like Armand, my design mentor in Paris, who was an absolutely all-right lover except for his appetite for playacting.

  But if Maurice is sometimes focused on what he calls “naughty bits,” this time he was being helpful. He began poking around in the studio, lifting drawings, turning over paintings, and shaking painting rags. I really like the studio. If I am honest, the studio is a big part of Maurice’s attraction. I like the smell of turpentine and good-quality oils. I like the big professional easel with the crank that raises and lowers canvases and the textured bolts of linen, which I really appreciate now that I’ve been entrusted with stretching his canvases.