Murder a la Mode

by Patricia Moyes

  In the midst of the disorder, Helen Pankhurst lay sprawled across her desk, her contorted face resting against the uncovered typewriter. The victims of cyanide poisoning are notoriously unattractive to look at, but even so Henry could see that this had been a striking woman, if not a strictly beautiful one. Her dark hair was set by a master coiffeur, and her slim figure, dressed in the simplest of grey skirts and a fluffy white polo-necked sweater, had even in death the mysterious mark of elegance which Style confers in some degree on all its employees. Her shoes were made of dark grey suede as soft as glove leather, and had ridiculously fragile heels; one of them had been kicked off, and lay under the desk, next to a matching grey handbag. On the desk was a pair of spectacles in rhinestone-studded frames, with one lens smashed. Helen’s left hand still rested on the keys of the typewriter; in her right hand, she still clutched the base of a shattered blue and white pottery mug, from which a dried-up stream of tea had dribbled onto the mauve whipcord carpet, making a dark stain. A shabby red Thermos stood with an air of spurious innocence on the far side of the desk.

  “Stinks in here, doesn’t it?” said the sergeant. “I daresay the Doc was glad to get out of it. He’ll be waiting next door to see you, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Henry nodded absently. He was looking at the dead woman’s hands. They seemed to be in contrast to the rest of her appearance. They were well shaped but sturdy, with cropped nails devoid of varnish. The hands of a worker. Henry noticed that she wore no rings on her left hand, but that on the fourth finger of the right hand was a little gold ring sentimentally embellished with intertwined hearts; the sort of trinket which could be bought for a few shillings in Queen Victoria’s day, and now commands an inflated price in antique shops.

  Henry turned his attention to the typewriter. Its keys were veiled in a film of pinkish powder, and there was a sheet of paper in it, on which was typed “Ink-blue roses scattered sparsely over chalk-white mousseline de soie give drama to…” Here the writing stopped. It was clear that the young man downstairs was going to have a long wait for his Paris copy. Very delicately, Henry removed the cork from the Thermos flask, first wrapping it in a clean handkerchief, in spite of the fact that it bore clear traces of fingerprinting powder. He sniffed the contents of the flask, and was not surprised that the still-warm tea smelt strongly of bitter almonds.

  “Well,” he said, “there’s not much doubt about what happened—cyanide in the Thermos flask. The tea will have to be analysed, of course, but I can smell it from here.” He put the cork back into the flask. “Have the photographers and fingerprint chaps got all they want?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you can have the poor girl taken away, but be very careful nothing else is touched. I’ll see the doctor now.”

  “He’s in there, sir—in the editor’s office.” The sergeant indicated the communicating door.

  “Right. Meanwhile, when the staff begin to arrive, keep them all downstairs for the moment. I don’t suppose we can disrupt the working of the office indefinitely, but we can’t have them up here until we’ve taken a good look round. And you’d better tell that unfortunate young man that he’ll be lucky if he gets his Paris envelope today.”

  “I’ll do that, sir,” said the sergeant, with a certain satisfaction.

  Henry went into the adjoining office. This was a sharp contrast to the room he had just left. It was considerably larger and beautifully uncluttered, with its deep violet carpet and freshly distempered lemon-yellow walls. The furniture consisted of one enormous leather-topped desk, one smaller wooden one (on which stood a shrouded typewriter), and several chairs. The inevitable filing cabinets were there, but they were unobtrusive. What took the eye were the early Picasso lithographs above the desk, the framed costume sketch by Bérard (on which the artist had scribbled “A ma chère amie, Margery”), the Forain caricature. Everything was spotless and tidily efficient, down to the newly sharpened pencils on the desk and the neat row of ball point pens in various colours. This room was everything that an editor’s office should be, with a pleasant air of femininity thrown in.

  The police doctor was sitting at the big desk. He was a large, sad man with the face of a baffled bloodhound.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said lugubriously, as though Henry were the last person he expected to see. “Good. I’d like to get off soon. Work to do.”

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “Cyanide poisoning, of course. Should have thought even you could see that. Probably administered in her tea.”

  “Almost certainly. I wonder why she didn’t notice the smell before she drank it. It almost tempts me to think it might have been suicide.”

  The doctor shook his big head, slowly. “Suicide or not, that’s your business,” he said, “but I can tell you that she had a stifling cold when she died. I very much doubt whether she could smell or taste anything, and I imagine she had a fever. Can’t think why else she’d have switched that fire on.”

  “What about the time of death?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to do a P.M. yet, you know. I can only guess. Somewhere between three and six o’clock this morning, I’d say. Can I take her away now?”

  “The sergeant’s already arranging it.”

  “Good. See you later.”

  The doctor gave the twitch of his melancholy countenance which passed for a smile, got up and went to the door. Before he could open it, however, somebody knocked smartly on the other side of it. The doctor glanced interrogatively at Henry, who nodded. He opened the door, to reveal the sergeant.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said, “but Miss Margery French is here.”

  “Must be off. See you…” mumbled the doctor, and disappeared with surprising agility.

  “I’ll talk to her straight away,” said Henry. “Ask her to come up.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HENRY HAD HAD no very clear idea of what he expected the editor of Style to look like, but the moment that Margery French walked in he realized that she filled the role to perfection. Everything was right—the beautifully cut suit, the big mushroom of a felt hat, the blue-rinsed hair, the impeccable make-up, the fine, sensitive hands embellished with one outsize topaz ring on the wedding finger. It was hard to believe that this woman, who must be nearer sixty than fifty, had been working late into the night, and still more difficult to remember that she had just been woken from her well-earned rest with news of shocking disaster. Certainly, the sergeant’s forebodings about hysterical women were unfounded in this instance.

  “Good morning, Inspector Tibbett,” said Margery briskly. “This is a terrible and tragic business. Please tell me all about it, and let me know how I can help you. Your sergeant gave me very few details, but the fact that you are here at all makes it obvious that poor Helen’s death was not natural.”

  She sat down at the big desk, and opened a tooled leather cigarette box. “Do you smoke? Please take one, and do sit down.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry, fighting off the growing feeling that it was he who was being interviewed. He pulled up a chair and took a good look at Margery French. She was lighting her cigarette, and her hands trembled very slightly. He could also see, now, the dark circles under her eyes, nearly but not quite disguised by make-up. Perhaps she was playing her part a shade too well.

  Henry said, “I’m afraid Miss Pankhurst was murdered, Miss French.”

  “Are you sure?” Margery was quite calm. “Have you ruled out the possibility of suicide?”

  “You think that she might have had some reason to…?”

  “I am not a gossip,” said Margery slowly, “and I never pry into the private lives of my staff. However, one can’t help but be aware of certain things, and I think it is my duty to tell you that I have been very worried about Helen recently.” Margery paused. Henry had the impression that she found it extremely distasteful to talk in this way, and that she was, quite literally, performing an unpleasant duty. She went on, choosing her words c
arefully. “Any organization which employs both men and women must face the fact that sentimental attachments will form from time to time between members of the staff. We are no exception. In fact, things are perhaps even more complicated here, because our employees are rather exceptional people. The men—the photographers and art editors—are artistic, volatile characters. The girls tend to be above average beautiful. And the world of fashion, for some reason, always seems to attract people of emotional temperament.”

  Henry longed to say, “Then how do you come to be in it?” but he remained silent.

  “Normally,” Margery went on, “I would never break a confidence, but the circumstances are unusual. The fact of the matter is that Helen had been having a somewhat tempestuous love affair with one of our photographers. A man named Michael Healy.”

  “Why should that drive her to suicide?”

  “Because, apparently, things were going wrong. Very wrong. I am afraid that Michael is something of a philanderer, and I can’t believe that he ever intended anything more serious than a passing flirtation. In fact, I was extremely surprised when the rumour of their affair started leaking out—they were certainly an ill-matched couple. Helen was a passionate and intense person, and several years older than Michael. Lately, she really began to go to pieces. She was obviously in a state of nerves and worried to distraction, and—once again according to rumour—it was because Michael was attempting to disentangle himself from a situation which had gotten out of hand. In fact, between ourselves, I was planning to send Michael to America for a few months, until things calmed down. Not, of course, that that would have cured the atmosphere in the office, but…”

  “What do you mean by that, Miss French?”

  Margery was silent for a moment. She took a long pull on her cigarette, and then said slowly, “Michael Healy, I should explain, is married to my fashion editor, Teresa Manners.”

  “Is he indeed?” said Henry. “So there was no love lost between Miss Manners and Miss Pankhurst?”

  “On the contrary. They were very good friends.”

  “That seems rather unusual, in the circumstances,” said Henry.

  “Not at all,” said Margery sharply.

  “Then why were you expecting the unpleasantness in the office to go on, even after Mr. Healy went away?”

  Margery studied her scarlet-painted fingernails with some concentration. Henry had the feeling that she was aware of having made a slip, and was intent on correcting it. At last she said, “I must have expressed myself badly. I meant that Helen would naturally have taken some time to get over her infatuation. In fact, for the first few weeks she would probably have been worse than ever.”

  “Well,” said Henry, “this is all most interesting, but I’m still inclined to rule out suicide, for several reasons.”

  “How,” Margery asked steadily, “did Helen die?”

  “She was poisoned,” said Henry. “Somebody put cyanide in her tea.”

  “I see.” Margery did not appear shocked. Just thoughtful. “Poor Helen. But could she not have put it there herself?”

  “She could,” said Henry, “but I don’t think she did. For several reasons. First, there was no note of any sort. Second, it would seem an extraordinary time and place to choose—right in the middle of a working session. Third, her office appears to have been rifled—not only her papers but her personal possessions…”

  “Her personal possessions?” Margery looked up. “What on earth do you mean, Inspector?

  “Perhaps you would come and take a look next door. You might be able to throw some light on…”

  “Certainly.” Margery stood up and walked over to the door which led to Helen’s office. “Is she still there?”

  “No,” said Henry. He noticed that she had not shown any signs of alarm or distress at the thought of seeing Helen’s body. She had merely asked a question.

  Margery opened the door, and stood for a moment quite still, looking at the scene of confusion. Then she turned to Henry, with a slight smile. “I think I can throw some light,” she said. “For a start, I’m inclined to agree with you that Helen was murdered.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of all this.” Margery swept out a hand to indicate the confusion. “Because she had not finished her work. Helen would never have left the Paris copy half done. If I had found a tidy office, all the captions and layouts neatly in their envelope and a list of carefully typed instructions to the printers, I should have been inclined to think she had killed herself. It would have been typical.” Margery paused, and looked at the paper in the typewriter. “Incidentally, Inspector, I shall have to finish this captioning myself and get everything sorted out and down to the printers as soon as it’s humanly possible. You must realize that this is our most important issue of the year, and our deadline is stretched to the limit already.”

  “I know that,” said Henry. “I’m being as quick as I can. Please go on. What other light can you shed?”

  “Well, I can tell you that the office wasn’t rifled. The state of the papers is quite normal. Helen always worked surrounded by chaos, especially when she was under pressure, and then tidied everything up most meticulously afterwards. Perhaps you don’t realize that this—” Margery gestured towards the drifts of paper on the desk—“this represents a whole sixteen-page form, with all the merchandizing details and…”

  “How do you explain the suitcase then?”

  “That isn’t Helen’s suitcase,” said Margery. “It belongs to my secretary, Miss Field. She was in Paris yesterday, and came straight from the airport to the office. She must have left her case in here owing to a somewhat exaggerated idea of the sanctity of my office.”

  “Why didn’t she take it home with her?”

  “Because of Mr. Goring,” said Margery.

  “Mr. Goring?”

  “May we go back into my office?” Something in Margery’s voice made Henry look up sharply. He saw that she had gone very pale, and had put one hand on the desk for support. “I’m so sorry, Inspector. It’s just the heat in here.”

  “Of course. Let’s go back,” said Henry.

  Margery walked quite steadily through the doorway and back into her own office. She seemed to have recovered completely. “Mr. Goring,” she said, “is our managing director. I should tell you that he will be here soon. Naturally, I telephoned him as soon as I heard the news.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting him,” said Henry. “Meanwhile, how is he connected with your secretary’s suitcase?”

  Quickly and accurately, Margery described Godfrey Goring’s arrival at the office in the early hours, his invitation, and the reason why the luggage had been left behind.

  “Miss Pankhurst was not included in the invitation?” said Henry.

  “Of course not. She was staying here to work.”

  “What happened then? You all went back to Mr. Goring’s house…”

  “Yes. Two other friends of his were there also—Nicholas Knight, the dress designer, and Horace Barry, the manufacturer. We had a glass or two of champagne, and then Mr. Goring’s chauffeur drove us all home.”

  “All of you?”

  “All except for Nicholas Knight and Mr. Barry. Mr. Knight had his own car. Oh—and he gave a lift to Miss Field, as he was going in her direction. The three of them left a little before the rest of us. Barker, the chauffeur, dropped Teresa and Michael in Chelsea first, and then took me on to Sloane Street. After that, he was to take Mr. Walsh to Islington.”

  “What time was this, do you remember?”

  “Ten to three,” Margery answered promptly. “I noticed the time as I went into my flat.”

  Henry considered for a moment. Then he said, “I’m afraid there are still a great many questions I must ask you, Miss French. First of all, can you give me some idea of Miss Pankhurst’s background—her family, where she lived, and so on? We haven’t yet been able to inform—”

  “She had no family, that I know of,” said
Margery. She lit another cigarette. “Her parents were dead. I believe she had a married sister in Australia. She shared a flat in Kensington with Olwen Piper, my features editor. Helen was with Style for ten years. She came to us as a secretary, and worked her way up to her present post. She was an excellent worker, and rather more…more businesslike than some of the others.”

  “Did she have any enemies on the staff?”

  “Certainly not. The secretaries were frightened of her—she could be very ferocious at times.” Margery smiled. “I must confess I found it useful. She relieved me of the necessity to be a martinet myself. She wrote well, but she had no fashion flair. Of course, that wouldn’t interest you.”

  “Apart from her affair with Michael Healy, what do you know of her private life?”

  “Helen had no private life,” said Margery, quickly and decisively. “She was entirely absorbed by her work here—by the office and the people in it.” She stopped for a moment. “I do realize what I’m saying, Inspector. If she was killed, it was certainly one of us who did it. Who—or why—I cannot imagine.”

  “Let’s talk about how,” said Henry. “Where would anybody in this office be able to get hold of cyanide?”

  “I’m afraid that’s very simple. There is a supply of cyanide in the darkroom. It is used for reducing prints. Michael can tell you all about it.”

  “Doesn’t that point, then, to somebody who worked in the darkroom?”

  “Not necessarily. All of us here are in and out of the studio and the darkroom all the time, and it’s a matter of routine that every new employee, however humble, is warned about the cyanide and shown where it’s kept and how to recognize the bottle, just in case of accidents.”

  “Isn’t it kept locked up?”

  “Normally, yes,” said Margery, “but there are occasions when the rules go by the board, I’m afraid, and Collections night is one of them. Michael was making his own prints, and I can remember that the store cupboard was open. I may as well tell you, too, that the cupboard is in the room where the tea is made, and that we were all popping in and out of the darkroom all the evening. All except Miss Field, that is, and Helen herself. I don’t think either of them left their offices. But any of the rest of us could easily have poured poison into the Thermos.”