A Dangerous Deceit

by Marjorie Eccles

  For a split second nobody said anything. Mutually taken aback, they all stared. Finding his voice, Joe announced their business.

  ‘Well,’ said Judy Cash. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in.’

  ‘You do get around, Judy, don’t you?’ Joe remarked, exchanging a look with Reardon as they followed her down a short, narrow passage. She didn’t seem to think his comment worthy of a reply. What the devil was she doing here, Miss Christmas Tree Fairy? She appeared quite at home, the skirt of her bright green dress swishing confidently as she danced lightly in front of them.

  They reached another door at the end of the passage where she stopped abruptly with her hand on the knob, the glass slave bangle high on her bare arm glinting in the light of the one unshaded electric bulb in the ceiling. Momentarily hesitant, revealing herself more shaken than she had appeared, she murmured, ‘Go carefully, won’t you? It’s not what you think.’

  Reardon digested this enigmatic statement, making no comment. In return, something flashed in the depths of her eyes. Perhaps it was the colour of her dress that made them seem catlike, almost golden green.

  She turned the knob. As the door swung open, the woman kneeling on the floor beside a half-packed suitcase looked up and then froze, as if in a tableau, a folded skirt lying across her outstretched palms, like a priestess making an offering to some deity.

  The day was beginning to fade and in the uncertain half hour before dusk began, the north-facing room was full of shadows. All the colour seemed concentrated on the rigid figure of Vinnie Henderson, kneeling motionless before the suitcase in a red jumper, with her bright gold hair loose around her face. Slowly and with great care she placed the skirt in the case, shut the lid and stood by the fireplace, her hand resting on the mantel. Behind Reardon, Judy switched on the light and the room was revealed in all its tawdriness, a shabby little bed-sitter that had seen better days, as had the furniture, a gimcrack collection assembled no doubt to make rented accommodation from what had once been a bedroom. Sugary as golden syrup, the throbbing tenor continued to pour his heart out.

  ‘It’s the police, Plum.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve met before, haven’t we, Inspector … Sergeant?’

  ‘Leaving us, are you, Miss Henderson?’

  Vinnie had quickly recovered from whatever shock their entrance had given her. ‘Actually, yes,’ she replied easily. ‘What brings you here?’

  As the love song reached louder and more passionate heights, ‘Your life divine … brings me ho-ope anew …’, he gave the standard formula: ‘We’ve reason to believe you can assist us with our enquiries and we’d like to have a word with you – if you’ll please turn that music off.’

  Judy went to the gramophone in the corner and lifted the arm, but not gently enough; the needle screeched across the record and Richard Tauber groaned to a dying fall. ‘Ouch! Sorry.’

  ‘Have a seat, gentlemen – if you can find one. I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a mess.’ There was indeed hardly anywhere in the room that wasn’t strewn with clothes and other possessions, presumably waiting to be packed. ‘What is it you want? Why are you here?’ Vinnie repeated.

  ‘I’d very much like to know the same thing,’ intervened Judy Cash, briskly sweeping books to the floor from a high stool and perching on it.

  Joe settled for propping himself against the table while Reardon pushed aside a pile of clothing on the sofa. ‘I think we might well ask the same thing of you, Miss Cash,’ he remarked mildly.

  ‘It’s Judy,’ she said, slightly irritated. ‘Well, in case it had escaped your notice, this is actually my home.’

  ‘Yours? The King’s School gave this as Miss Henderson’s address.’

  ‘So it is – for the present,’ Vinnie said. ‘When I gave in my notice I naturally had to give up my live-in accommodation there. My friend Judy offered to put me up,’ she added with the wide, bright smile Reardon had been so taken with.

  Her friend Judy?

  The incurious person at the school who had answered Joe’s polite request for her address hadn’t thought it necessary to say that leaving her job as the headmaster’s secretary had involved Miss Henderson in a change of address – or indeed that she had even left her position there at all.

  ‘But before living at the school, you lived at number eighteen Henrietta Street.’

  ‘Henrietta Street? Where’s that? No, sorry, I’ve never lived there.’

  Reardon smiled. ‘Well, you know, I don’t think that’s true, is it? I believe you did live there for some time, Mrs Mauritz.’

  An odd look crossed her face, to be replaced almost instantly by one of barely controlled amusement as she caught Judy Cash’s eye. Reardon had long since acquired immunity to this sort of levity through interviewing countless witnesses who thought it clever to know something the police didn’t. But neither of them were to know that, and she sobered instantly when it became clear that neither he nor Gilmour shared their amusement. ‘Mrs Mauritz? What on earth gave you that strange idea? You’ve surely got the wrong person if that’s who you’re looking for.’

  She had barely uttered two words when they had met her previously, during the interview with Felix at Alma House, when she had come into the room with a vase of spring flowers and been prevailed upon to stay. Now, hearing the clipped vowels as she spoke, he took it to be the South African English that Eva Smith had put down as ‘swanky’, though it wasn’t all that noticeable and he didn’t think he would have remarked on it had he not been looking for it.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Henderson, why are you leaving?’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid I’m a footloose sort of person,’ she answered carelessly. ‘I soon get bored with living in one place, you know? Folbury’s just hunky dory, I’ve enjoyed living here, but it’s time to make tracks for home.’

  ‘And home is South Africa?’ Another look, secret and complicit, passed between the pair. Their relationship intrigued him. ‘For both of you, I take it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you’ve never made it known to anyone that’s where you were from? Not even to your friends, the Rees-Talbots?’

  She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. ‘They never asked.’

  What about Felix, the young man he had previously assumed she was attached to? Weren’t young lovers supposed to be desperate to know every last detail about their beloved? She had probably lied to him, inventing an imaginary past to satisfy any curiosity he might have had. Yet he had an odd fancy, despite the flippancy, that she might have regretted the deception, as if she might be sad at the way things were turning out, that she had hoped they might have been different. In fact, neither woman was as casual as they were making out, however much they tried to appear so.

  He went back to his previous question. ‘Sergeant Gilmour here has interviewed witnesses who can prove that a man named Wim Mauritz lived at Henrietta Street. The same witnesses will be able to identify the woman who claimed to be his wife. He was from South Africa, too, which seems an unlikely coincidence – unless you can explain what you are doing over here, for instance, and why you’re now leaving so suddenly?’

  ‘You don’t have to answer that, Plum.’

  ‘Let Miss Henderson speak for herself.’

  Vinnie Henderson – or Mrs Mauritz – or Plum – replied composedly, ‘Well, I don’t know where you’ve got all these ideas from, but I certainly wasn’t married to that man, whoever he was. I’m not married to anyone.’

  All this time she had remained standing, her elbow propped casually on the mantelpiece of the small black cast-iron fireplace in which a sulky fire smouldered. Presently she lowered herself with apparent nonchalance to the hearthrug where she sat with her feet curled under her. He had noticed an odd thing: each time she spoke, it was preceded by a glance at her friend, almost, you might have thought, as if she were seeking guidance – or even permission. He would not underestimate either of them, but the feeling that it might be little Judy Cash who was the dominant personality i
n this room didn’t altogether surprise him.

  In fact it was she, cool as water, who now demanded of Reardon, ‘Is it too much to ask again why you’re here? And what gives you the right to interrogate my friend like this? As far as I can see, she’s done nothing to warrant it.’

  ‘Good question.’ Reardon slipped a hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the photograph Lady Maude had produced. Both pairs of eyes were drawn to it, but for the moment he kept it turned face downwards in his hand. ‘Before I answer it, we first need to talk about Arthur Aston.’

  ‘Oh, your latest murder?’ Judy came back maliciously. ‘Unsolved, like the last?’

  ‘Neither unsolved for much longer, I hope.’

  ‘Really? Well, it’s good to see the police recovering from their inefficiency at last.’

  ‘That’s not a word I would use.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you would, but a murdered man is found, and nearly two months later you still don’t know who did it. And now another one, equally unsolved. I’d say that was inefficient, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not interested in bandying words. This isn’t a game. We’re investigating two murders and I need some answers from both of you.’ He was annoyed with himself for being drawn and let a moment or two pass before saying abruptly to Vinnie Henderson, ‘I’d like you to take a look at this photograph, please, and tell us who you recognize.’

  She held it steadily, taking her time, then shook her head.

  ‘You see no resemblance to anyone you know?’

  ‘You don’t have to answer that!’

  He silenced Judy with a look, her feet twisted around the rungs of her seat, not so much a fairy now as a wicked gremlin perched on a toadstool.

  ‘It’s all right, Judy.’ Vinnie scanned the photo but in the end shook her head. ‘The way these people are dressed, this photo must have been taken before I was even born. Why should I know any of them? Who are they?’

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me. What about you, Judy?’

  ‘No.’ She scarcely looked at it before returning it.

  They were both lying, he was sure, and Judy Cash was beginning to irritate him seriously. ‘Look here, it’s been a long day, and I’m not prepared to waste any more time with either of you. Perhaps you might be more accommodating if I asked you, both of you, to accompany us down to the police station. We have a car waiting.’

  Neither of them answered. Some tense, unspoken communication was passing between them, almost a battle of wills. At last Vinnie gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and unwound herself from her position on the floor. Unconsciously echoing Judy’s words at the door, she said, ‘To begin with, it isn’t what you think—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Plum! Are you crazy?’

  ‘It’s OK. I know what I’m doing.’ She began again, ‘Nothing turned out as we expected. You see—’

  Judy jumped off her stool so quickly it fell over behind her on to the floor. ‘Take no notice of her! She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Her wits have gone haywire.’

  But Vinnie looked entirely sensible, an odd, stoical look on her face as she opened a drawer in a rickety sideboard and took out a writing pad, tearing off a wad of sheets, folding them in two and offering them to Reardon. ‘There’s nothing for either of us to be afraid of, Judy. It’s for the best.’

  Judy, however, sprang forward, snatched the papers from her and would have tossed them into the fire, had Joe not grasped what she was about to do and intercepted her, grabbing her wrist until she let go and the pages scattered loosely and harmlessly to the floor in front of the hearth.

  Reardon bent and gathered them together. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a letter to the Rees-Talbots … Felix and Margaret. It’s not finished yet, but I think it’ll tell you all you need to know.’ She faced Judy. ‘Burning it wouldn’t have solved anything.’ To Reardon she said, ‘Since you know so much, there’s no point in not telling you.’

  A sound came from Judy that might have been either an exclamation of temper or a dry sob. She jerked her wrist from Joe’s grasp, stalked to the window and turned her back on the room, looking out over the street. Every line of her narrow back expressed outrage.

  Reardon glanced briefly through the neat but closely handwritten pages he’d picked up. He didn’t much fancy reading what might turn out to be a confession, here under the silent scrutiny of three pairs of eyes, even if one pair did belong to Gilmour. On the other hand, he knew he had as yet nothing against either of the two women to warrant an official interrogation. ‘You can both remain silent while I read this,’ he told them, ‘or I must ask you to come down to the police station. It’s your choice, though in any case there’ll be more questions after we’ve read this, and statements to make, I dare say. Which is it to be?’

  Judy spun round to face him, taut as a bowstring. ‘Does that mean me, as well?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Cash. It does.’

  ‘Are you arresting us?’

  ‘Not unless you resist. At the moment, you’re merely helping us with our enquiries.’

  She turned back to the window as Vinnie said, ‘Please read the letter.’

  Dear Felix and Margaret,

  Events have compelled me to leave Folbury suddenly. This is not a good way to tell you, after all your kindness, but I could not bring myself to do so in person. I know you’ll feel I have behaved badly, and believe me, I have felt badly about deceiving you – as well as having to leave without saying proper farewells. I have good reason for this, as you’ll see when you have read this letter. I deeply regret having done what I have done – the repercussions have been more than any of us bargained for. Bear with me if I begin with a long preamble. I’m writing it in the hope it will help you to understand, if not to forgive …

  I was born and raised in South Africa, something I believe no one here has guessed up until now. I never knew my mother – or only as an elusive shadow that darted across my mind at unexpected moments, quick as the blink of an eye, impossible to catch, but bringing with it a feeling of being held, close and warm, and then leaving me with an immense sadness.

  I didn’t realize that fleeting shadow was a memory of my mother – not then, not until I had been living with Tant Sophie and Oom Cornelis Joost for most of my thirteen years, when Tant Sophie, in a moment of temper at my refusal to accompany her to one of her prayer meetings, told me I was not their child, but her sister’s. I had never had any reason to suspect they were not my parents. Up until then, but never afterwards, I had always called them Mama and Papa – but I was not unduly upset when Sophie told me; in fact I soon realized it was something of a relief. It explained why I had always felt so different from them, why we had never been able to connect.

  I suppose I had imagined it had simply been an accident of birth that I had been landed with the parents I had – dutiful but distant, concerned with their own lives and especially, in my uncle’s case, his exporting business … or in recent years, to be more precise, its failing, since the European demand for elephant tusks, lion skins, ostrich feathers and native artefacts was falling off considerably. We were not well off, but I was never actually deprived of anything – except affection. As an adult, I came to realize that perhaps it was an inability in either of them to show any such emotion, rather than a deliberate withholding of it, but when my younger self saw my friends and the fun and laughter they had with their families, I used to feel curiously empty, and envious, while not knowing what it was I envied.

  My uncle and aunt had no children of their own. I never found out whether she minded this or not, but now I fancy resentment and jealousy of her sister played a good part in her attitude towards me. She had done her Christian duty, taking me in when my mother died, but I was not, and never could be, her own child. She cried a good deal, Tant Sophie, a woman who felt circumstances were always against her: she had married a man who had fallen on hard times … he was forever preoccupied with his business tro
ubles … she had been forced to accept an infinitely less affluent lifestyle than the one in which she had grown up and had had every reason to expect would continue … I was an ungrateful and uncooperative child. This last was true enough quite often, at home, but at school, where I was happy, I pleased my teachers, I was popular and had plenty of friends.

  The red leather family photo album that held so many memories for Sophie and sat prominently on top of the gramophone cabinet was scuffed, its pages grubby from being thumbed through so many times, marked with the tears that constantly fell on it. I used to think I might have cried too, if I had been married to Oom Cornelis, who was a farmer’s son from near Pietermaritzburg, an uncommunicative man with a strongly developed streak of Voortrekker Christian pig-headedness.

  ‘Is there a photo of my mother?’ I asked on that momentous day she told me who I really was – when I had got my breath back, that is. I’d never paid any attention to the album before, having no desire to look through anything which could cause so much misery to anyone.

  She opened the album and showed me the photographs then. Dozens of them, on the ornately decorated and gilt-edged pages of thick card. I was amazed to see how pretty Sophie had once been, though she could not hold a candle to her sister, Bettje, in my opinion. Even more amazing was how happy and smiling everyone in those pictures was – except for my grandparents, whom I saw for the first time: he, Titus de Jager, a tall, stern-looking man, and she prim and proper with a buttoned-up mouth. But it was Sophie’s younger sister Bettje, my mother, who held my attention. She wasn’t beautiful, but even through the dim sepia tones of those faded old photos, I could see she had a smile that hinted at mischief, she looked like a girl who would be full of fun and bubbling with happiness, the exact opposite of her sister, my aunt. I knew I should never get my fill of looking at her.

  But, duty done, Sophie closed the album. ‘Well, now you know. You came to us when she died, and that’s all there is to it,’ she concluded, reaching for yet another of the indigestion remedies she was always swallowing.