Murder a la Mode

by Patricia Moyes

  “It matters very much,” said Henry. “That is, it mattered to somebody who wanted to get hold of a key to the Style building to know that Miss Field’s office was empty and her handbag unattended.”

  Donald went first white and then red, and when he spoke, it was with considerable anger. “If you’re implying what I think you are,” he said, “it’s a monstrous lie.”

  “As a matter of interest,” said Henry, “what did you do next—after Miss Field had put her head round the door?”

  Looking uncomfortable, Donald said, “I think I came in here. I can’t exactly remember.”

  “Leaving the others still in the darkroom?”

  “Well…yes…”

  “And having come in here, you didn’t go on into the editor’s office, which you knew would be empty?”

  “Certainly not. Did I, Patrick?”

  “Don’t ask me. I haven’t the remotest idea what you did.”

  “Well,” said Henry, pleasantly, “think about it. If you decide to change your story, I’ll be in my office.”

  Quietly, Patrick Walsh said, “Get out and stay out.”

  “With pleasure,” said Henry. He went back to his own room, dialed Miss Field’s number, and asked whether Miss French could spare him a few minutes.

  “She’s extremely busy, Inspector,” said Rachel defensively.

  “May I speak to her?”

  Before Rachel could reply, a crisp voice cut in. “Miss French here. What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “Spare me a little of your precious time, if you can.”

  “Of course.” There was no hesitation. “Just a moment, while I check my engagements.” Henry heard a subdued murmuring, in which Miss Field’s voice could be distinguished saying sharply, “No, Miss French, you can’t put it off. It’s very important.” Eventually, Margery returned to the phone. “I’m interviewing a candidate for Helen’s job at a quarter past twelve, and I have a luncheon date at one,” she said. “I wanted to cancel it, so that we could lunch together, but Miss Field won’t let me. She’s a terrible bully, you know. I think the best thing is for us to meet straightaway.” Apparently there was an interruption at this point, for Margery added, not to Henry, “I know the early form has to be O.K’d today. I’ll do it after lunch…well, tell Miss Manners it must wait until tomorrow…” Then, to Henry once more, “Shall I come along to your office?”

  “I think that would be best.”

  Margery walked briskly into the little office, her big topaz earrings sparkling under her mink-trimmed hat, her dark brown suit and crocodile shoes as faultless as ever. She sat down and glanced at her watch.

  “You will forgive me if I keep an eye on the time, won’t you, Inspector?” she said. “I’m afraid my life is more than usually hectic, because I’m doing Helen’s job as well as my own. I hope this girl will be suitable. I feel as though I had lost my right arm.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Henry. “I’ll try to keep it short. You told me before that you are not a gossip, and I’m certain that is true. However, now that I’ve met your staff for myself, I would greatly appreciate your help.”

  “In what way?” Margery sounded on her guard.

  “In assessing their characters.”

  “Well?” This time Margery’s voice was definitely unfriendly.

  Henry started gently. “Let’s take Olwen Piper first,” he said. “My impression is that she is clever but not very tactful; that she was extremely fond of Miss Pankhurst—almost to the point of hero worship—but that she has a toughness and resilience of character which can carry her through even a tragedy like this. I think she is headstrong and impulsive, and quite capable of violence. Whether she could or would commit a premeditated crime is another matter. What do you think?”

  “I won’t conceal from you, Inspector, how distasteful all this is to me,” said Margery.

  “Murder is distasteful,” said Henry grimly.

  They looked at each other steadily for a moment. Then Margery said, “Well. Go on.”

  “You haven’t anything to add to my portrait of Olwen?”

  “She’s an idealist,” said Margery. She seemed to find the words painful. “She’s naïve as only a brilliant person can be. She never stops to consider whether an action may be inexpedient…politically or in any other way. She goes ahead and does what she thinks should be done, regardless of the consequences.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “A dangerous characteristic. She must have quite a few enemies.”

  “I wouldn’t say enemies. She exasperates people, chiefly because she despises them. For instance, she won’t accept that Teresa must occasionally feature a dress that she doesn’t admire one hundred percent, if the manufacturer is spending thousands on advertising with us. And then there was a terrible scene at the party after Nicholas Knight’s last Collection, when he asked her what she thought of it, and she said that everything was either hideous or a direct pinch from Paris. I thought Nicholas was going to have hysterics. Perhaps it wasn’t his best Collection ever, but one can’t go round saying things like that. In her own sphere, I think she does make some effort to be a little tactful, but I honestly believe she’s incapable of telling an actor or a dramatist that his work is good if she doesn’t think so. It makes life very difficult. She’s so…so unforgiving.”

  “That’s very interesting,” said Henry. “Now, what about Teresa Manners. Or rather, what about Mr. and Mrs. Michael Healy?”

  There was a short silence, and then Margery said, “Well? What about them?”

  “I have been told,” said Henry, “until I’m sick to death of hearing it, that Helen was having an affair with Michael Healy. You yourself, if you remember, were the first person to draw my attention to it. Why?”

  Henry rapped out the last word in a stern, policeman-like manner. If he had hoped to intimidate Margery French, however, he was due for a disappointment. She merely smiled slightly, and said, “Because I thought it would help you in your enquiries, Inspector. That is the right phrase to use, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think,” said Henry, “that you told me the truth.”

  Margery regarded him calmly. “What an extraordinary statement,” she said. “Why on earth should I lie to you?”

  “I didn’t say you lied,” said Henry. “I said that you didn’t tell me the truth. That is, not the whole truth. Now, I want to get this business of Helen’s love life cleared up, once and for all, because it’s confusing the issue.” He paused. “I won’t mince words, Miss French. Have you not known for some time that Michael Healy is desperately ill—dying, in fact? Weren’t you aware that while you and Helen and Patrick all knew about it, neither Michael Healy nor his wife had any idea of the truth? Weren’t you trying to gloss over a very serious and tragic situation in order to spare Michael and Teresa pain?”

  Margery French did not answer at once. She was looking at Henry with what appeared to be perfectly genuine astonishment. Finally, she said, “I have no idea where you got hold of this extraordinary story, Inspector, but I can assure you that there’s not a word of truth in it. There’s nothing wrong with Michael that I know of, except perhaps slight strain due to overwork. If somebody has been spreading unfounded rumours…”

  “This is not an unfounded rumour,” said Henry. “It came directly from Helen herself.”

  “From Helen?”

  “She told Mr. Walsh about it on the telephone the evening before she was killed.”

  Margery seemed unable to grasp the meaning of the words. “She told…” she repeated.

  “She told Mr. Walsh that the man she loved was dying of cancer, that he did not know about it, and neither did his wife, and that…”

  Suddenly, without warning, Margery slumped forward in her chair. Her face had gone deadly white under its protective layer of make-up, and her mink hat was tilted ludicrously over her eyes. Henry, who in spite of long experience had never been able to accustom himself to the sight of people who fainted under quest
ioning, was somewhat shaken. He was on his feet in an instant, but before he could move Margery had opened her eyes.

  “No…” she said, faintly. “Don’t… I’m perfectly all right.” She sat up straight, put a hand to her forehead, and automatically rearranged her hat. “Perhaps you would just get me a glass of water from the cloakroom, so that I can take a pill. I’m afraid I get these silly fainting fits occasionally. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Of course—I’ll get the water right away,” said Henry. He was fascinated by the woman’s courage. He could sense the sheer will power which had straightened up the small, slight backbone and ironed the tremor out of the slender hands. Mingled with his admiration, however, was a more reluctant thought—that here was somebody perfectly capable of committing murder if she considered it justified. The question was, would such an intelligent and civilized person ever feel entitled to take another’s life? To this, Henry did not know the answer.

  When he returned with the glass of water, Margery was sitting bolt upright, powdering her nose in a small hand-mirror. She smiled, apologized again, and quickly swallowed a pill from a silver pillbox. Then she said, “To go back to our conversation. I assure you, Inspector, that this story is nonsense, and I do beg you not to spread it abroad. You can imagine how hurtful it would be, not only to Michael and Teresa but to the magazine. Why Patrick should have invented it, I can’t imagine—but, as you know, he’s a wild Irishman and he loves to spin a tale. Take it from me…I know him very well…”

  “You certainly should,” said Henry, grinning. “Although, of course, thirty-two years is a long time.”

  “So you know about that, do you?” Margery was completely self-possessed. “Of course, it was inevitable that you should find out. I do hope you will be discreet. It could be very awkward if it became common knowledge.”

  “I’m always as discreet as I can be,” said Henry. “What interests me is why you should make a secret of it.”

  Margery hesitated. “I’ll be frank with you,” she said, at length. “Mr. Goring is very much against employing husbands and wives in the same office. When one of our fashion staff wanted to marry a man from the advertising department last year, they were told bluntly that one of them would have to go. It’s company policy.”

  “But what about…?”

  “Exactly. Teresa and Michael. That is a very special case, and I suspect that Godfrey isn’t entirely happy about it, even now. I was determined not to lose Teresa, and I was equally keen to get hold of Michael, who had started to produce some of the most interesting work in London. Even so, I had to campaign for nearly a year before I got Mr. Goring’s approval, and then I don’t think he’d have done it if he hadn’t been personally friendly with Teresa and her family. I had just won that battle when I—I met Patrick again. Shortly afterwards, my art editor resigned. I knew that Patrick was exactly the person for the job, and I knew that I could work with him, but I also knew that I could not possibly go to Mr. Goring and propose my husband for the job. So we agreed to let the past remain dead and buried for the time being.”

  Henry leant forward. “What do you mean, for the time being?” he asked.

  “I’m very fond of Patrick,” said Margery. “I always have been. This is a great secret, Inspector, but when I retire in March, Patrick and I are going to live together again. As far as the people here are concerned, I shall marry him. They need never know that we have been married all along.”

  “I see,” said Henry. He hesitated. “Forgive me for saying this, but… I take it that Mr. Walsh is just as enthusiastic as you are about this project?”

  “Of course,” said Margery coolly. She studied her scarlet fingernails for a moment. “He’s an irresponsible character, but I know what’s best for him. He’ll be far happier leading a sane, orderly life than pigging it in that terrible studio of his.”

  “I was most impressed by the studio,” said Henry.

  Margery looked up. “You’ve been there?”

  “Yes. Last night.”

  “Then you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” said Henry, thoughtfully. He added, “Mr. Walsh was exceptionally fond of Helen Pankhurst, wasn’t he?”

  “In a purely platonic way,” said Margery, a little sharply.

  “Oh, yes,” said Henry. “Yes, I’m sure of that…

  CHAPTER TEN

  AT TWELVE THIRTY precisely, Henry walked into The Orangery. The maître d’hôtel recognized him at once, and approached, all smiles. Basking undeservedly in Goring’s reflected glory, Henry experienced briefly the pleasures of the privileged. Deferential hands divested him gently of his raincoat, cigarette lighters appeared as if by magic before he had time to open his case, his chair was pulled back and his napkin flicked open and spread on his knee. Feeling fraudulent, but enjoying himself, Henry ordered a martini and then turned his attention to his fellow lunchers.

  He could see only two familiar faces. Olwen Piper was eating at a corner table with a burly, grey-haired man whom Henry recognized from his television viewing as a currently popular novelist, wit, and player of panel games. The two of them were in the middle of an animated discussion, which had started smilingly enough. But as it progressed, Henry could see Olwen’s mouth setting into a stubborn line, while the man passed from amused bickering to genuine annoyance. Evidently, Olwen’s sincerity was causing her to put her foot in things yet again. She was probably, Henry thought, giving him her frank opinion of the latest bit of infantile but harmless nonsense in which he was engaged.

  At a quarter to one exactly, Godfrey Goring came in. He nodded to Henry, ignored Olwen, and made his way to his usual table, where he sat alone, engrossed in the Financial Times.

  Just before one o’clock, Henry became aware of familiar voices coming from the table behind his own. The speakers were hidden from him—and he from them—by a looped curtain of tangerine velvet and a potted orange tree, but there was no mistaking the gruff, accented English of Horace Barry and the high, light tones of Nicholas Knight. Henry was intrigued by the fact that they had not come in by the front door, which he had under observation. He remembered the small staircase which ran down from Knight’s atelier, and decided that there must surely be a direct way from it to the restaurant.

  Barry was speaking, and he sounded agitated. “I am frank with you always, no, isn’t it?” he demanded. Emotion seemed to have weakened his command of English. “Why you not so be frank with me, eh? Is it I pay you not enough?”

  “I tell you, I haven’t an idea what you’re talking about. Not the faintest.” Knight’s voice rose, pettishly. “You’ve been listening to gossip from those terrible Style people. Even Godfrey was hinting the other night…don’t think I wasn’t aware of it…”

  “Gossip, no.” Barry’s deep rumble was decisive. “I keep open my eyes and my ears, is all.”

  At this point, a diversion was caused by the arrival of the waiter, and the two men ordered their meal. As soon as the waiter’s back was turned, however, Knight began again in an agitated squeak. “Who told you?” he demanded. “That’s what I want to know. Who told you these wicked lies? As if it wasn’t bad enough having my show next week, and half the fabric not arrived yet, and policemen all over the place…it’s enough to give a person a breakdown…”

  “Nobody tell me,” said Barry. “This tell me.” There was a smacking sound, as of a magazine or newspaper being placed emphatically on the table.

  “That’s American,” said Knight, more calmly. “That has nothing to do with London.”

  “Listen, my friend.” Barry cleared his throat, and began to read. “ ‘Are Paris designs being pirated? This is the big question raised by persistent rumours that some wholesalers are producing suspiciously accurate copies of Paris models without having bought the toiles, and before the official release date for photographs. This magazine deplores gossip, and thinks that the question should be brought into the open and thoroughly aired.’ Then follows much about the high ethics of Amer
ican wholesalers, et cetera…the lack of any sort of proof…then…ah, here… ‘We are not denying that a few recent incidents in New York and London are difficult to explain away, nevertheless it is our opinion that wholesalers and designers in both countries can be exonerated, for one very good reason—the sheer impossibility of smuggling out of Paris a sufficiently detailed design to be useful. Granted the corruptibility of the occasional midinette, the great couture houses now have security checks of such severity that the smuggling of toiles—which has been alleged—would be, quite simply, a physical impossibility.”

  Barry stopped reading, and there was a silence. Then Knight remarked, “Well, what are you so worked up about? They say it’s impossible, and we’re exonerated.”

  “They say.” Barry’s voice was low now, so that Henry could barely distinguish the words. “They say it is impossible. But you see, I happen to know that it is not.”

  “What do you mean?” Knight’s voice was an excited squeal.

  “Not so loud,” said Barry warningly. “We speak no more of this now. One thing only I say to you. I will have no scandals. I employ you, I use your name—therefore, your reputation is the reputation of Barrimodes. I do not accuse you. I do not question you. I say only—no more scandal, no more rumours, or…”

  It was at this moment that Henry saw Veronica making her way across the restaurant, escorted by the bevy of smiling waiters who always seemed to materialize when she entered a public eating place. She waved cheerfully, and called out, “Hello, Uncle Henry! Sorry I’m late. I’ve been sleuthing for you.”

  At his corner table, Godfrey Goring looked up slowly from his newspaper to give Henry and Veronica a long, hard stare. There was no expression whatsoever on his face. Olwen Piper, however, reacted with more emotion. She broke off in the middle of a sentence to turn round and gaze with unashamed curiosity at Veronica. Her square-jawed face had gone very pink, and the look on it, while hard to define, might well have been anger.