The proceedings were gratifyingly brief. Margery affirmed that the body was indeed Helen’s, and then hurried off to take a taxi to the office. Alf described his finding of the corpse. The doctor gave the medical evidence in a deep, grudging voice. Henry himself took the stand to say that police investigations were in progress, but had reached no satisfactory conclusion, and requested an adjournment. The one constructive piece of business concluded was Henry’s agreement that, since there was no possible doubt or dispute about the cause of death, the police were prepared to let the funeral take place. The coroner obligingly signed the burial order and adjourned the proceedings. The whole thing took a bare twenty minutes, and by ten o’clock Henry was in the Style building.
On the surface, at least, the magazine seemed to have resumed its normal working rhythm. Models, messengers, and secretaries hurried along the corridors, typewriters clicked busily, and Patrick could be heard bellowing good-humouredly at Donald MacKay. Girls carrying sheaves of photographs, layouts, and proofs bustled in and out of the various offices, narrowly avoiding collision with others who made their uncertain way to or from the fashion room, half-hidden under armfuls of clothes.
Henry did not go into his particular den, but made his way straight to Olwen Piper’s office. The features editor was sitting at her desk, which was stacked with review copies of books and decorated with invitations to film shows and art exhibitions.
Olwen was on the telephone when Henry came in. She smiled at him, quickly and a little nervously, and went on with her conversation. “Yes, Mr. Hartley, three o’clock will be fine… Michael Healy will be taking the pictures… Yes, he is brilliant, isn’t he? I felt he’d be just the person… No, we’ll use the stage lighting. I’ve spoken to Mr. Dean about it. All I want is you in your second act make-up… Yes, second act… Really, I’m sure… Well, I know the third act costume is more showy, but…no, no, of course I didn’t mean that… Of course I know you’re only thinking about what will look most effective for us, but you see…I have to consider how it will fit in with other pictures on the page… Well, of course, I hope it’ll be a full page, but I can’t promise…you know what art editors are like… Oh, Mr. Hartley, I know how busy you are… Of course I wouldn’t want you to waste your time… Don’t worry, I think I can definitely promise you a full page…yes…a big close-up, naturally…yes…and in the second act make-up?… Oh, that is kind. I do appreciate it… Until three then… Goodbye.”
She rang off, looked at Henry, and made a face. “Actors!” she said, with terrible scorn. “They’re all the same. Still, I did think John Hartley might be above that sort of thing. I’m so bad at dealing with them—I always put my foot in it. I thought for one awful moment he was going to refuse to let us photograph him at all.”
“Will he get his full page?” Henry asked.
“Heaven knows. It all depends on Uncle. I’ll have to fight for it, that’s for sure. And if I don’t get it, Hartley will hate me for ever. But what could I do but promise? Oh, dear.”
“May I sit down for a moment?” Henry asked.
Olwen blushed, and jumped up guiltily. “Oh, I am sorry, Inspector. Of course. Have this chair.”
“I’m fine here, thanks,” said Henry pulling a straight-backed office chair up to the desk. “I’m sorry to disturb you when you’re so busy.”
“I’m always busy,” said Olwen simply. “I’ve been here since seven, correcting proofs. And I’ve got two film shows and an exhibition to fit in before my sitting with Hartley this afternoon.” This remark could have been offensive, implying that Henry was a confounded nuisance, but Olwen had spoken quite naturally and without malice, stating facts. Henry could see that she had no intention of being rude; he could also appreciate that her bluntness might antagonize people.
“I’ll make it as quick as I can, then,” he said. “What I want to know is the name of Helen’s doctor.”
“Her doctor? Oh, you mean about…”
“You were wrong about Helen, Miss Piper,” said Henry. “She wasn’t pregnant.”
“She wasn’t?” Olwen looked completely taken aback. “Then…what did it mean? What I heard her say?”
“I don’t know for sure,” said Henry. “That’s why I want to see her doctor. He may be able to help me.”
“Helen was hardly ever ill,” said Olwen. “She and I were both registered with Dr. Markham in Onslow Street, but I don’t think she’s been to see him for ages. She obviously wouldn’t have gone to him about…”
“I told you, Miss Piper—Helen was not pregnant.”
“But there’s no other explanation.”
“There is, and I intend to find out what it is,” said Henry. He made a note of the doctor’s name and address. “Thank you very much. That’s all for the moment.” He stood up. “I’m glad,” he added, “to find you in a more cheerful frame of mind. I felt sure…”
“I decided brooding wouldn’t do any good,” said Olwen briskly. “Helen’s dead and nothing will bring her back. I’ve written to her sister in Australia, and advertised for someone else to share the flat with me. I can’t do any more.”
“You don’t think it might be better to move somewhere else? I mean…”
“It’s a good flat and the rent is reasonable,” said Olwen. “I’d never find anywhere like it for the money.” She stood up a solid determined little figure, and put on her coat. “Excuse me. I really must go now, or I shall be late.”
As he walked back to his own office, Henry considered Olwen Piper. Her violent outburst of emotion two days ago contrasted strangely with her dry-eyed common sense of today. Was it that her calm, deep-rooted country heritage had reasserted itself, or was it heartlessness? Had the tears and near-hysteria been genuine or a calculated effect? He was not sure.
The desk in his office had been dusted and tidied, and fresh white paper inserted in the blotter. On it lay an envelope addressed to him. Inside, a typed note on Style notepaper read, “Dear Inspector Tibbett, May I see you as soon as possible on a matter which may be important? Rachel Field.” He dialed the number of the editor’s office.
“Miss French’s office…oh, Inspector Tibbett. At last. You were not here yesterday.” Miss Field’s voice was reproving.
“I’m sorry,” said Henry. “I had other things to do.”
“I’ve been trying to contact you since yesterday,” said Miss Field accusingly. “I have something very serious to tell you.”
“Come along and see me,” said Henry.
“Very well, Inspector.”
Tempting though it might be to display omniscience by revealing that he already knew what Miss Field had to say, Henry decided against it. He did not intend to have Veronica mixed up in the affair more than was strictly necessary. Consequently, he put up a very good show of surprise when Rachel Field said, “Inspector, my key to the building has been stolen.”
“Stolen? You’re sure you haven’t just mislaid it?”
“Positive. It was definitely in my handbag on Tuesday when I got back from Paris. I keep it on the same ring as my house keys.” She produced a neat key ring from her black handbag. “You see? You have to open the ring to get a key off. The others are still there.”
“When did you first notice that it was missing?”
“Yesterday morning, when Miss Connolly came and asked me if she could borrow it.”
“And you are positive that you had it on Tuesday evening?”
“Quite positive. The front door was already locked when we arrived here from the airport, and I used my key to open the door.”
“Did anybody have the opportunity of stealing it from your bag on Tuesday evening?” Henry asked.
Miss Field looked uncomfortable. “Yes,” she said.
“When?”
“I…well, I always have my handbag on the floor beside my desk when I’m working…”
“Exactly,” said Henry. “And I’m told that you didn’t leave the office once during the evening. Don’t you think the key
may have been taken later on…at Mr. Goring’s house, for instance?”
Rachel Field looked startled. “At Mr. Goring’s? Oh, no. Certainly not.”
“Just a moment, Miss Field,” said Henry. He opened his notebook and began hunting through the previous entries. Rachel watched him with the slight contempt of the quick, efficient worker for the slow, fumbling one.
Looking up, Henry said, “When I spoke to Horace Barry, he said, apropos of his departure from Brompton Square…” Henry glanced at his notebook, and then read aloud, “ ‘…while Miss Field went to collect her things.’ What things, Miss Field?”
“My coat and gloves. They were in the hall.”
“Not your handbag?”
“Of course not. I kept that with me.”
“I see. But you say that somebody could have tampered with it earlier on.”
“Yes.” For once, Rachel appeared hesitant. “It’s not quite true that I didn’t leave the office at all. I was out of the room for about ten minutes, soon after one o’clock.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went into the art department first. Mr. Walsh was there on his own. I asked him if he knew where Miss French was, as I had a query about the copy I was typing. He said she was in the darkroom. I then opened the door leading to the storeroom, where the…the Thermos flask was, you know.” Henry nodded. Rachel went on. “Miss French, Mr. Healy, Miss Manners, and Donald MacKay were all in there, looking at prints as they came out of the wash. I didn’t like to disturb them—my query wasn’t very important, and I decided it could wait. So I just walked through the darkroom and out of the other door into the corridor, and went to…” Rachel stopped, and reddened.
“Where?” prompted Henry gently.
“To the Ladies’ Room,” said Rachel, embarrassed.
“Very sensible,” Henry remarked, “since Miss French was busy and wouldn’t be needing you for a while.”
“Exactly. Yes,” said Rachel gratefully. “After I’d…I mean, while I was there, I decided to comb my hair, and that was when I realized that I’d left my handbag in the office. When I got back, Miss French was there, and we started work at once. My bag was in its usual place beside my desk. I can’t tell you whether it had been moved or not.”
“Tell me,” said Henry, “did the people in the darkroom see you when you opened the door?”
“Donald did,” Miss Field answered positively. “He was facing the door, and he looked up when I opened it. The others had their backs to me and they were absorbed in looking at the pictures. I don’t think they saw me.”
“Would Mr. MacKay have recognized you?” said Henry. “I mean—you were coming from the brightly lit art department into the dim darkroom. He’d only have seen a silhouette…”
“That would have been quite enough,” said Rachel, with a sudden and unexpected twinkle of humour. “My outline, even in silhouette, is markedly different from that of any of the editorial staff, Inspector.”
Henry grinned. “We’ll take it that he recognized you, then,” he said. More gravely, he added, “And Donald MacKay was the only person in the building who did not have his own key to the front door.”
“What worries me, Inspector,” said Rachel, “is why anybody should want to take my key. I mean, any of us could have put cyanide in the flask. The murderer didn’t need a key. It couldn’t be, could it, that he’s planning something else…?”
“The murderer did need a key, Miss Field,” said Henry. “He—or she—may have put poison in the flask during the evening’s working session, but somebody—presumably the murderer—came back again later. Much later. After Miss Pankhurst was dead.”
“What?” Rachel gave a little gasp.
“The reason that the murderer came back,” Henry went on steadily, “was to look for something…something which he expected to find in your suitcase.”
“In my…” White-faced, Rachel gripped the arms of her chair, and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them, looked at Henry and smiled. “I’m sorry, Inspector. You gave me rather a shock. What could anybody have hoped to find in my suitcase?”
Henry was puzzled by her obvious distress. “You knew the case had been rifled the day before yesterday,” he said.
“Yes, but…I never realized…somebody actually killed her in order to get hold of something in my case…”
“It looks like it,” said Henry. “And the fact that your key was stolen narrows the field. Now, I want you to think hard. I know I’ve asked you this before, but I need a more precise answer. Who, of the people in Paris, could have slipped some small article into your case without you knowing it?”
With very little hesitation, Rachel said, “There’s only one person, Inspector. Veronica Spence. Now I think of it, neither Miss Manners nor Mr. Healy came into my room at all on the last day, and my case was quite empty when I started packing. But then Veronica was in and out all the time, and I actually left her in my room alone when Miss Manners called me away in the middle of my packing…”
Henry suddenly felt very cold. It was ludicrous to connect Veronica with any sort of criminal activity, but he was haunted by the thought that she might have become implicated, unwittingly, in something illegal—something that had led to murder.
“Thank you, Miss Field,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful. I need hardly ask you to keep certain facts to yourself—about the murderer returning later, and so on.”
“Of course, Inspector. I appreciate your confidence,” said Rachel.
Before the door had closed behind her, Henry’s hand was on the telephone. It seemed to him that he should talk to his niece without further delay. He dialed the number of the fashion room, and asked to speak to Beth Connolly.
“Veronica?” Beth sounded slightly harassed. “No, she’s not working for us today… Yes, as a matter of fact I can… She’s over at Nicholas Knight’s for fittings. She’s modelling his new Collection next week… What?… Excuse me a moment.” Henry heard a clatter as the receiver was laid down on the table, and then, indistinctly, Beth’s voice again saying, “I told you to order the pink and not the green, Marilyn. No, it will not do… All right, I don’t care whose fault it was… Just get the pink and get it fast…” The receiver was picked up again. “I’m so sorry, Inspector. Things are a bit chaotic this morning.”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” said Henry. “I’ll try to reach Veronica at Nicholas Knight’s.”
The telephone at Knight’s showroom was answered calmly by the super-Mayfair blonde, who was polite but firm. “Ay’m afrayde,” she said, “that Ay can’t connect yew with the aytelier today. We’re rehearsing the show, yew see. Everywan is fraightfully busy. Veronica Spence? One of the models? Oh, no…quayte out of the question. Ay’m so sorry.”
“Can’t you at least tell me when she’ll be free, and give her a message?” Henry asked. He had no desire to invoke the magic name of Scotland Yard in order to gate-crash the atelier; he had already seen it on a quiet day. The idea of what it would be like when fraightfully busy was enough to make the strongest man quail.
Reluctantly, the blonde said, “She should be able to get out for lunch about wan, but Ay can’t promise, yew know.”
“This is her Uncle Henry speaking,” said Henry. “Please tell her I shall be lunching at The Orangery, and would like her to join me. I’ll be there from half past twelve until half past two.”
The mention of The Orangery produced a certain, respectful reaction. “Certainly Ay’ll tell her. With pleasure,” said the blonde cordially. She obviously envisaged Henry as a plutocratic uncle, and Veronica as a prospective customer. You never knew who the model girls were these days. “Ay’m sure we can arrange for her to be free. Ay’ll speak to Mr. Knayte mayself.”
“Thank you,” said Henry, and rang off. He was acutely conscious of the fact that he had exactly four pounds ten in his wallet, and would probably have to borrow from Veronica to pay for the lunch. Meanwhile, it was still only half past ele
ven, and there were things to be done in the Style office. Henry picked up his notebook and went along to the art department.
Patrick Walsh was standing with his back to the door, sketching something on a drawing board. As the door opened, he said loudly, without looking round, “Can’t you read? Go away. No admission to anyone.”
Donald MacKay, who was pasting up layouts by the window, looked up and smiled rather shyly at Henry. “Good morning, Inspector,” he said.
“Oh, it’s you again, is it?” said Patrick. Still he did not turn round. “What d’you want now? We’re busy.”
“I want both of you to cast your minds back to Tuesday night, if you will,” said Henry. He looked at Donald. “Mr. MacKay, you told me that Rachel Field did not leave Miss French’s office once during the evening. If you think for a bit, I imagine you’ll realize you were mistaken.”
Donald considered. “There was one moment,” he said, “when we were all in the darkroom, and the door opened for a couple of seconds and then closed again. I had a feeling that it was Rachel, but she saw we were busy and beat a retreat.”
“Her account,” said Henry, “is that she crossed the darkroom and went out of the other door, into the corridor, and down to the ladies’ cloakroom.”
“I’m certain she didn’t,” said Donald. He sounded nervous.
“What was your impression, Mr. Walsh?” Henry asked.
Without looking up, Patrick replied, “D’you really think I spent Collections night worrying about whether our Rachel had gone to spend a penny or not? Good God, man, I had things to do.” After a pause, he added, “She did come in here once. Asked me where Margery was. I told her, in the darkroom.”
“What did she do then?” Henry asked.
“She went out again, I presume. I didn’t notice.”
“By which door?”
“I tell you, I haven’t the remotest idea. I went on working, and she just disappeared efficiently, the way she always does.”
Henry said, to Donald, “Miss Field is certain that you saw and recognized her.”
“Well, I’ve told you I did. But she simply put her head round the door and then went back to her own office. Heavens, Inspector…” Donald sounded at once exasperated and slightly amused. “Why should I lie about it? What does it matter?”
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