A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

  ‘Would you mind taking off those wet clothes and I’ll bring over a few things for you to try on,’ she said as she led me towards a changing room.

  ‘I don’t want to look too fashionable,’ I warned her, worried that she was going to dress me in clothes that would make me look foolish.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I think I understand just the kind of things that would suit you.’

  As I closed the door behind me, a cartoon I had seen in a magazine sprang to mind, in which a short-sighted old lady asked a young woman dressed in mannish clothes, ‘Did you say you were going up to Trinity or Girton next term?’ I quickly opened the door and called out to her, ‘Or too like a man.’

  A few minutes later the assistant returned with a brown silk dress and a red bolero blouse, together with a pair of brown heels. After slipping into the dress and tying up the bow at the front I stepped back and took a look at myself in the glass. The effect was so pleasing I felt confident enough to open the door and stand in front of the assistant.

  ‘Oh yes, that does suit you very well indeed,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I think it does,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Now, I’ve spotted a couple of other things too, a rather gay dress with a pattern – don’t worry, it’s not too gaudy – a flower silk-crêpe dress, a lovely coat with a fur trim and a nice salmon-pink evening gown. Should I bring them over?’

  When I first saw the rather futuristic design – all red triangles, yellow squares and black oblongs – that graced the top section of the blue crêpe dress I wanted to send the assistant away with it. But I was persuaded to try it on. The delicious feel of the crêpe against my skin brought colour to my pale cheeks and the cut of the dress – with its inverted shoulder tucks, swagger tie-collar and button-trimmed hip band – showed off my figure to its best advantage. As I examined myself in the glass I could hardly believe it was me. I looked like the kind of woman I stared at with astonishment if not also a touch of envy.

  ‘Would you like to try the coat with that?’

  The assistant passed me an oatmeal-coloured coat, trimmed with lynx on the collar, cuffs and around its bottom edge.

  ‘Yes, I think that works very well indeed,’ she said.

  I had to agree. I felt enveloped if not by love then certainly by luxury. The effect was quite extraordinary. As I stood in front of the glass I noticed that my posture had changed. I was standing tall and confident, like a woman of the world. In this guise, I could walk down the street and no one would ever guess the kind of difficulties I had suffered. I probably couldn’t afford it, but I pushed thoughts of expense out of my mind.

  ‘You look like a new woman,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed?’ I replied as I admired my back view.

  ‘And here’s the flower silk-crêpe dress,’ said the assistant, whose thin face was now beaming with delight.

  Back in the changing room I slipped on the dress – a subtle orange colour printed with blue flowers and bands of blue that circled the low waistline – and I felt the transformation continuing. I gave the assistant a shy smile as I stepped out to show her.

  ‘Just beautiful,’ she said. ‘And finally the salmon-pink evening gown.’

  The lightness of the georgette fabric took my breath away; in fact the dress was so flimsy that I felt almost naked. I remembered my wedding night, the first time Archie had seen me without clothes. The thought of that night brought a blush to my cheeks.

  ‘How do you find it?’ said the assistant from the other side of the door.

  ‘It’s – lovely,’ was all I could manage. I felt too indecent to step outside to show her, but I knew that I would have to buy it. I was certain that I would find the perfect occasion on which to wear it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘I’ve told you, Miss Crowe, we have no further information relating to this case. You will have to wait for a statement, I’m afraid. There have been no further developments and I cannot be seen to be favouring one journalist over another. Goodbye.’

  As Kenward put the telephone down, he swore under his breath. Damn reporters. He didn’t think highly of the new breed of female journalist. A most unsuitable job for a young lady. And fancy the girl saying that she was the daughter of the diplomat Sir Eyre Crowe. Extraordinary what some reporters were willing to invent in order to make an impression or curry favour. He wasn’t having any of it. The more she had tried to charm him the more resistant he had become until finally he had brought the telephone conversation to a close. He had better things to be doing than chatting on the telephone to some lady reporter who obviously had no morals. Mrs Christie had been missing for two days now and still they had found no trace of her.

  The search had resumed at dawn earlier that day. Three dozen local men had been recruited and a charabanc had taken them from the police station to Newlands Corner. Kenward himself had supervised the operation. He had told the men to search the area as if their lives depended on it. It was important, he had said, to carry on walking in a straight line. There should no deviation: bushes had to be searched thoroughly and the men were told to look up into trees for anything suspicious. When he had been a young constable he had been called out to cut down a young woman who had hanged herself from a big ash tree in the family’s garden. She had got herself pregnant and the man, an older chap, had left the country and apparently she could not bear the shame of it. Kenward would never be able to forget the girl’s face, her eyes full of torture and pain, the skin ghostly but still beautiful, the red necklace of death that circled her throat.

  ‘Sir?’

  It was Hughes, one of the young constables.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Colonel Christie would like to talk to you on the telephone.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear what he’s got to say for himself, shall we?’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  A moment later, Kenward heard the Colonel’s clipped tones.

  ‘Kenward, I thought you’d like to hear it first, as it may put the situation in a new light. It could even show—’

  Kenward wanted to interrupt, but years of experience had taught him it was always better to let people take as long as they needed to get to the point. In fact, often the point was not the point after all; what relatives and witnesses said as they perambulated and expostulated gave more away than they realised.

  ‘It seems to show that my wife was in London in the early hours of Saturday,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘And what is the “it” you are referring to, Colonel Christie?’

  ‘A letter. A letter that my wife wrote to my brother, Campbell. She wrote it, I presume, on the night she disappeared, Friday evening. But it seems she addressed the letter to my brother’s place of work, in Woolwich. He only just discovered today that Mrs Christie had gone missing and as soon as he learnt of that fact he telephoned me.’

  ‘And the letter? What did it say?’

  ‘Nothing more than that she was planning to spend a few days in a northern spa town.’

  ‘Northern spa town, eh? Can’t be too many of those. I’ll get my men on to it straight away. Of course, we will have to see the letter in question.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘My brother told me he burnt it after reading it or misplaced it.’

  ‘Which is it, Colonel?’

  ‘Misplaced it, yes. I’m certain that’s what he said. But the envelope survived, apparently.’

  ‘Did it now?’ It all sounded mighty queer to him. ‘Then we will want to question your brother and see the envelope to examine its postmark.’

  ‘Of course. I think you’ll agree it is a piece of good news.’

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Colonel, his voice tinged with irritation. ‘It shows that – that she didn’t do something stupid.’

  ‘Stupid?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Kenward, you know what I’m saying
. The letter shows that my wife must have been alive in the early hours of Saturday morning. And that the letter was posted in London shows that she must have left the scene of the car accident or whatever it was and made her way to town.’

  ‘But Mrs Christie is still missing.’

  ‘Yes, but – somehow she made her way to London, where perhaps she is now. Look here, Kenward, I’m sure you are doing a splendid job, but it’s obvious that these searches of the countryside are not going to turn up any clues to my wife’s whereabouts. I must thank you for all your help, but I think it’s time I called in the help of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘The Yard? Whatever for?’

  ‘If she’s in London they may be able to help. And surely it’s a better bet than dealing with—’

  ‘Yes, Colonel?’

  ‘Dealing with the force down here.’

  ‘By all means, please contact the Yard, but I doubt they will be of much use.’ Did the Colonel know that Scotland Yard would only intervene on the request of a force? Probably not. Let him find that out for himself.

  ‘Well, I intend to pay them a visit this morning,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘Very well. Goodbye.’

  The Colonel’s behaviour reminded him of another case, a Surrey banker by the name of Ledbury. One day Ledbury stormed into the police station to report his wife missing. He suspected that she had run off with a writer, a bohemian type by all accounts, who lived in the same village. Kenward had informed him that unfortunately the police could not act unless they had evidence that a crime had been committed. Had Mrs Ledbury acted of her own free will, he had asked. That was not the point, Mr Ledbury had replied. His wife hardly knew her own mind, he had said before storming out of the station, uttering a froth of profanities under his breath. The next thing Kenward knew was that the body of a woman had been found in a patch of woodland. The woman was indeed Mrs Ledbury and she had been strangled. Kenward took his car to Mr Ledbury’s red-brick palace just outside Guildford only to find that the banker had blasted his brains out in the garage.

  Colonel Christie might not be a jealous husband, like Mr Ledbury, but he was that other dangerous type of man: a guilty husband. Kenward knew that guilty husbands, like rats, reacted badly when cornered. No one knew who they might bite.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘That damn policeman,’ said Una, slamming down the telephone. ‘Wouldn’t tell me a thing. And he talked to me as if I were a child – no, not even a child, more like an imbecilic child.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ asked Davison.

  ‘I thought at least he’d show me a little common courtesy,’ she said as she ran her hands through her blonde hair. ‘Hardly reacted when I mentioned Daddy’s name.’

  ‘Sometimes these things can work against one,’ he said.

  The two friends were taking tea in Davison’s Albany flat. It was a ritual as essential to his day as shaving and reading The Times.

  ‘But if he thinks he’s going to put me off the scent, he’s wrong,’ she said.

  ‘Little does he know who he is dealing with,’ said Davison archly.

  ‘Oh, shush, you beast. Now let’s see what we know.’

  She outlined how Mrs Christie had disappeared near Newlands Corner at some point on Friday evening or in the early hours of Saturday morning. It was claimed that Mrs Christie still felt bereft at the death of her mother – something which Una said she could understand – but she doubted whether the writer would have committed suicide.

  ‘You know only too well how the loss of Daddy nearly proved too much for me, and I would have done something silly had it not been, well, for the thought of all the people I would have left behind,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t bear the idea of hurting Mama so, and then there was Eric and Asta and dear young Sybil. And then you too . . . ’

  ‘Me?’ Davison sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘Yes. You know what a good friend you’ve been to me. And I hope I’ve been one to you, too.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’ He didn’t want to talk about how Una had supported him. In fact, he felt uncomfortable with Una’s new spirit of honesty which had from time to time possessed her since her breakdown. ‘But let’s talk about what needs to be talked about – Mrs Christie.’

  ‘Yes, the mysterious Mrs Christie. We need to find out who she was close to. Is there anyone in your office who could help?’

  ‘There may be. I can check, but I would say it’s best not to rely on any more information coming our way from that direction.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s not something that need concern you, my dear.’

  ‘You sound exactly like that dreadful Superintendent Kenward. The old stuffed shirt.’

  ‘Stuffed shirt now, am I?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I was hoping for some little titbit of information from him, some snippet of gossip.’

  ‘You know very well that men don’t gossip. You need to get a woman on your side.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. But who? I expect Miss Fisher, the secretary, has tightened up like a clam. Too busy worrying about her job to engage in idle chit-chat.’

  ‘Yes, I suspect you are right.’

  ‘The first thing I’m going to do is approach the servants. They always have the loosest of tongues, don’t you think? Mama’s maid was always the person who knew best what was going on in our house. She pretended to be all high and mighty, but if you buttered her up the right way she would tell you everything. You should have heard some of the things she told me about some of Daddy’s guests. She even knew something of the bedroom habits of the Cabinet ministers.’

  ‘Now you’re making me blush, Una.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Davison. You know as well as I do that—’

  ‘I know no such thing. Now, back to the matter in hand. If you try and talk to the servants, I will make a few enquiries at the office and see what I can find out about Colonel Christie.’

  ‘Do you suspect he’s a brute?’

  ‘I expect so. Must husbands are, aren’t they?’

  Una laughed, a sound Davison had not heard in such a long time. He had missed the spontaneous expression of joy, the chaotic guffawing and unladylike snorting that had once defined Una’s personality. For a long time he had assumed that part of her had been lost, gone to the same grave as her father in that lonely churchyard in Swanage. If this little game could help restore something of her joy for living then he would do everything in his power to help her.

  ‘I don’t think I will ever marry,’ said Una, breaking the silence between the two friends.

  ‘Why ever not?’ said Davison, feeling quite shocked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s like you say, husbands can be terrible bores. I’ve never met one yet who I thought I could imagine marrying myself.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Davison, laughing.

  ‘You know what I mean – even Daddy. Even though I loved him deeply, he could be awfully annoying to Mama sometimes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And the bohemian types you see nowadays are no better than the traditional ones. They pretend to believe in freedom, but they control their wives or girlfriends just as fiercely as the stick-in-the-muds.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find some suitable gentleman. One day you’ll fall in love and look back on what you’ve said today as silly nonsense.’

  ‘I doubt it somehow. I wish I could marry a man who just let me be myself, without any kind of restrictions or expectations. I doubt I’ll meet anyone like that.’

  Again, the two fell into silence. Should he say anything? wondered Davison. Was now the moment? Was she trying to force him to speak? He opened his mouth to ask her a question, a question only half formed and opaque, when Una patted him on the knee and jumped up from the sofa.

  ‘Listen to me, prattling on like a schoolgirl. We’ve got a case to crack. I’m determined to beat that dimwitted Kenward to it. That will show him.’ She paused
. ‘Oh, sorry, Davison, were you about to say something?’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘No, nothing, nothing at all.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  What had possessed Kurs to choose this particular place? I couldn’t imagine him stepping foot on sacred ground. But then was I any better?

  He had arranged to meet me here, at Christ Church on the Stray, to talk about the worst crime imaginable: murder. I felt relieved that there was no one else in the churchyard; I could not bring myself to look another Christian in the eye. I glanced at the clock on the church tower: I had a quarter of an hour to spare. The east wind was harsh and bitter and had begun to freeze my lips, but I did not feel comfortable taking shelter inside the church. I pushed my hands deep into the pockets of my new coat and started to walk around the graveyard.

  As the clock struck the half-hour I noticed a figure clad in black open the gate and walk towards me. It was Kurs, but it could so easily have been the spectre of death himself. Non-existence seemed like an attractive option; I would rather perish than carry out Kurs’s orders.

  ‘How are you settling in? I hope you are quite comfortable?’ he said as he approached and stood by my side at a gravestone.

  A perfectly respectable question, yes, and in most situations it would have been a highly appropriate one, but now the enquiry seemed sick and perverse. What could I say? That I found the hotel to my satisfaction? That I enjoyed the band? And that I was looking forward to a massage? I merely nodded my head.

  ‘Good. I was worried that you would find it, I don’t know, a little too unsophisticated for your tastes. I’m sure some of the guests are a little provincial, but it won’t be for long.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you – when—’

  Kurs lowered his voice to a whisper, though there was no need to do so as the churchyard was, apart from us, empty.