Murder a la Mode

by Patricia Moyes

  People, Henry reflected, don’t get themselves killed for nothing. It had been always one of his maxims that most murders were committed for love or for money. In Helen’s case, the money motive seemed negligible. As for love—Helen had loved a married man. Henry went over in his mind the possible permutations of a crime passionelle. Her lover might have killed her for several reasons: if she had been unfaithful, if she had become an embarrassment, or if she was threatening to wreck a marriage which he had no intention of abandoning. His wife might have killed her out of jealousy. Another woman who also desired the lover might have struck at Helen. All these surmises seemed wildly melodramatic to Henry, and they were made somehow shabby and absurd by one incontrovertible fact. Helen had lived and died a virgin.

  Somewhere, among the facts at his disposal, lay not only the truth but the proof. Of this, Henry was convinced. Somewhere lay the confirmation of what his “nose” told him. There was only one way to get to it. The long way. Go back to the facts. Tabulate. Analyse. Make lists. Make timetables. Henry reached for his notebook, but it was no use. Fatigue and warmth and a good lunch were too much for him.

  Twice, Henry pulled himself up and jerked his eyes open just as his pen was about to slip through his fingers onto the floor. The third time, sleep was too strong for him, but since he had a bad conscience about nodding over his work, his subconscious employed the same cheating tactics that it used when he was loth to get up in the morning. On those occasions, he would dream, vividly, that he was switching off the alarm, getting up, shaving, dressing…only to wake with a start to find himself still in bed and late for work.

  So now, while Henry’s physical self snored gently, his subconscious being sat alertly on the same sofa, making precise and penetrating notes. To his dreaming mind, the key to the mystery seemed to be within his grasp when he wrote “The Duchess of Basingstoke owns the cheetah,” and the word sequence “Healy-Helen-Hell,” which he wrote down several times, assumed enormous, metaphysical significance. He was not at all surprised to glance up and see that Helen Pankhurst herself had come into the room, and was standing by the fire in her fluffy white sweater and grey skirt.

  “There you are,” he said, slightly aggrieved. “About time, too.”

  “Your trouble is that you can’t see things when they’re right under your nose,” said Helen, rather sharply.

  “Don’t bring my nose into this.”

  “It’s so simple. I can’t think how you missed it.”

  “Shut up and don’t be so smug,” said Henry, annoyed. “It’s all very well for you. You’re dead.”

  “If you’re going to insult me, I’ll go.”

  “No…don’t go. Tell me. Please tell me…”

  But Helen was walking away from him, towards the door.

  Henry tried to stand up and follow her, but in his dream his feet had become as heavy as lead, and he could not move them.

  “Helen!” he cried. “Helen!”

  “Whatever is the matter, Henry?” Emmy stopped in the doorway with the tea tray in her hands. On the sofa, in the dusky twilight, Henry writhed in uneasy sleep. “Helen…” he muttered. “Helen…”

  “Come on, old thing. Wake up,” said Emmy briskly. She switched on the light. Henry sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes.

  “Must have dropped off,” he muttered, shamefacedly.

  “Worse than that.” Emmy grinned. “You were talking in your sleep. Who is this Helen, anyway? I’m beginning to get suspicious.”

  Henry did not smile. “She’s the girl who was killed,” he said. “I’ve just had a dream about her. Tremendously vivid and real and… She seems to be impatient with me because I’m being dense about something.”

  “You’ve been brooding too much over this case,” Emmy said, determinedly matter-of-fact. “What with Ronnie being involved and everything. And you had too much Camembert after lunch. You know that always gives you nightmares.”

  “Yes, I suppose that was it.” But Henry could not get the dream of Helen out of his mind. He would be the last person to think of himself as psychic or clairvoyant, but something at the back of his mind was telling him that it was Helen herself who could help him now. Helen…her personality, her clothes, her office, her apartment…

  He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the unfinished letter that he had taken from Helen’s desk. He unfolded it and read it again, not so much from any interest in what it said, as from a feeling that something as personal as handwriting might in some way bring him closer to her. He reread the note, and then, idly, turned to the second piece of writing paper which had been pinned to the back of the first.

  When Emmy came in, a moment or so later, she found Henry sitting absolutely still, white-faced, gazing at a sheet of paper with a stunned expression on his face. It was, as Henry admitted afterwards, one of the most uncanny experiences of his life, and for a moment it took his breath away. For the sheet of paper which had been blank on Friday evening now had writing on it. Scrawled boldly across it, in the same hand which had written the other note, were the words, “See what I mean?”

  It was some minutes later, when Emmy had gone out to get supper, that Henry lifted his head and said aloud, “Yes, Helen. I see what you mean.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  INSTEAD OF GOING DIRECTLY to Style on Monday morning, Henry went to Scotland Yard, where he handed over Helen’s note, together with its mysterious addendum, to the handwriting experts for analysis. He then telephoned Style and arranged to speak to Teresa later in the morning, after which he put through a call to Paris and had a long talk with one of his opposite numbers at the Sûreté, who also happened to be a personal friend. The French detective was much interested in what Henry had to say, and promised to investigate the matter at his end. He also agreed to purchase a certain small object and put it in the post to London.

  At ten minutes to eleven, Henry was back in Earl Street, being greeted affably by the doorman, who seemed by now to have accepted him as a permanent member of the staff. Indeed, Henry was beginning to feel like one. He took the lift upstairs.

  The door of the fashion room was open, and the usual pandemonium reigned. Telephones rang and typewriters clicked and there seemed to be clothes and jewelry everywhere. In front of a long mirror, a model in the briefest of underclothes was stepping out of one dress and putting on another. This done, she struck a pose. Behind her stood Beth Connolly, studying with half-closed eyes not—Henry was interested to notice—the girl herself, but her reflection in the mirror. When, later, he asked Beth the reason for this, she explained that the reflection gave a truer impression of what a photograph would look like.

  By now, Henry had come to take semi-nude beauties in his stride. He went into the fashion room and said to Beth, “I have a favour to ask you. Can you get me a ticket for Nicholas Knight’s Press Show tomorrow?”

  “Yes, of course I can.”

  “And can you tell me the release date for this season’s Paris photographs?”

  “February twenty-seventh. That’s when we—” Beth broke off as her secretary came up. “What is it, Marilyn?”

  “Telephone, Miss Connolly.”

  “Oh, blast,” said Beth. “Hang on a moment, Inspector. I won’t be long.”

  Beth picked up the telephone. She sounded exasperated. “No, Nicholas… I told you before—haven’t the faintest idea where she is. She should have been here at ten for a job and she simply didn’t turn up… Well, I’m furious too, but what can one do? You know what these girls are like… Yes, I agree, I wouldn’t have thought it of Veronica, but it only goes to show you never can tell… Of course I’ve telephoned her home… Nancy doesn’t know either… Yes, I will, if I hear anything. Goodbye.”

  A cold hand was closing on Henry’s heart. When Beth rang off, he said, “Can you come next door and talk, Beth?”

  Beth looked slightly desperate. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Will it take long? I’ve got a sitting, and everything has been bitched up because of…”


  “Only a minute, I promise.”

  “O.K.” To the model, she added, “Take that off, and put on the yellow, with the amber necklaces and the big straw hat. I’ll be back.”

  As soon as the door of Henry’s office was closed, he said, “What’s all this about Veronica?”

  “I’m very cross with her,” said Beth. “She’s let me down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had her booked for a sitting this morning, and she didn’t arrive. I’ve had hell’s own job finding another girl, and she’s not really right for the clothes.”

  “But where can Veronica be?” Henry hoped that his voice did not betray the degree of alarm which he felt.

  “I suppose she’s decided to stay down in the country. She told me she was going to Hampshire for the week end.”

  “She was going to stay with Nancy and her parents,” said Henry. “I gather from what you said just now that Nancy is back.”

  Beth gave him a curious look, and then said, “I really wouldn’t worry, Inspector. Nicholas is having hysterics because she was due there for final fittings, and it’s his show tomorrow, but I’m sure Veronica’s perfectly all right.”

  “I expect she’s just playing truant,” agreed Henry, “but I think I’ll have a word with Nancy all the same. If you do hear anything, you might let me know.”

  Nancy Blake answered the telephone in her deliciously husky, deep-brown voice. “No, she’s not here. Who is it?… Oh, Inspector Tibbett, how are you? Haven’t seen you for ages… No, I’ve no idea, I’m afraid… She went off on Saturday morning to stay with friends in the country… No, she didn’t say where… What’s that? My parents? Good heavens, no. I mean… Well, they’re in India actually, that’s why… I think you must have misunderstood her… All I can tell you is that she took a taxi from here on Saturday morning… What? Let me think…Yes, she was wearing her oatmeal tweed suit with a white sweater, and her bright red suede coat… No hat… Yes, she had her navy-blue leather suitcase with her… Goodness, Inspector, it can’t be as serious as that, can it?… I’m sure she’s all right… Yes, of course I’ll let you know.”

  Henry rang off in an extremely troubled frame of mind. Two possibilities presented themselves, and neither was pleasant. For a start, Veronica had deliberately lied to him. Why? Was she off on some madcap scheme of her own, playing at detectives? Or had she planned an illicit week end with a boy friend? In either case, why hadn’t she come back? Henry knew enough of his niece to realize that she had a strong sense of professionalism in her job.

  He telephoned the fashion room, and left a message that he would be late for his interview with Miss Manners. He then rang Donald MacKay and told him brusquely to come to the office at once. He reckoned he might have to do a certain amount of bullying to get to the truth.

  Donald looked distinctly apprehensive when he came in. Henry assumed a suitable intimidating expression. He did not invite Donald to sit down, but rapped out, “Well, Mr. MacKay. What is all this I hear about you and Veronica?”

  Donald went very red, and said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. Where is she?”

  “I’ve no idea… I mean, isn’t she at home?”

  “She’s missing,” said Henry. “It may be very serious indeed. If you know where she is, or where she spent the week end, you must tell me at once.”

  “Missing?” Donald sounded really bewildered.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “On Wednesday evening. The day after…you know. We dined together.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” said Henry. “She told me herself she was going out with you on Friday evening.”

  Once again, Donald blushed painfully. “I…that is, yes. I mean, no. We had a date to go to the movies, but I had to cancel it. My mother was taken ill suddenly…my father rang me at lunchtime, and I got away early from the office and went straight down there. I didn’t get back till last night. She’s better now…my mother, I mean.”

  “Did Veronica tell you where she was proposing to spend the week end?”

  “She…that is…no. I didn’t see her. I telephoned her to let her know I couldn’t take her out in the evening, and that was all.”

  “Where do your parents live, Mr. MacKay?”

  “In Essex.”

  “May I have their name and address and telephone number, please?”

  For a moment, Donald looked panic-stricken. Then he pulled himself together, and said with more spirit, “Certainly, if you insist, sir, but I do think it’s rather impertinent. This can’t have anything to do with Helen’s murder.”

  “It may have something to do with Veronica’s murder, if we aren’t careful,” said Henry, grimly.

  “Good God. You don’t really mean that?”

  “I do,” said Henry. “Come on, now. Your parents’ address and phone number.”

  “Rabbit End Farm, Hockton, Essex. The number is Hockton 18. Their name, funnily enough, is MacKay.”

  “Wait here,” said Henry. “I’m going to ring them now. And if I find you haven’t told me the truth…”

  “But I have!”

  “We’ll see,” said Henry, picking up the telephone.

  A gruff, amiable masculine voice with a marked Scots accent answered the phone. “MacKay here, Rabbit End,” it said.

  “This is Inspector Tibbett of Scotland Yard,” said Henry. “Can you tell me, Mr. MacKay, when you last saw your son Donald?”

  “Donald? The boy’s not in any trouble is he? He was just telling us all about this murder…”

  “No, he’s in no trouble. Don’t worry. I just want to know when you last saw him.”

  “Why, he was here until yesterday evening. He left on the 8:15. We hadn’t expected to see him, but my wife had a bad turn on Friday…she suffers from her heart, poor lassie. I rang Donald, and he said he’d be down right away. He got here around teatime, and stayed the whole week end. She’s better now, I’m glad to say. You never can tell with this heart trouble. Once, it’ll blow over in a few hours, another time she’ll be in her bed for weeks.”

  “I see. Thank you very much, Mr. MacKay. I just wanted to check…yes, he’s fine. He’s here with me now…yes…yes, I’ll tell him… Goodbye.”

  He rang off and grinned at Donald. “I apologize,” he said. “It seems you were telling the truth. Your father says to tell you that you forgot your toothbrush. He says not to bother to buy another, because he’s sending it.”

  Donald looked relieved. He smiled. “Well, I’m glad you believe me at last,” he said. “The question is—where’s Veronica?”

  “Precisely,” said Henry. He was trying hard to keep his sense of proportion. After all, Veronica had deliberately deceived him, and had gone off on her own, voluntarily. Reprehensible though it might be, it seemed to rule out the possibility that she had been kidnapped.

  At that moment, the telephone rang again. “Inspector Tibbett?” purred a velvety, familiar voice. “This is Nancy again. You may as well call off your hunt for Veronica.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because I know where she is. And when you said you might get the police onto her trail…”

  “Yes, yes, get on with it. Where is she?” Henry was growing impatient. He liked what he knew of Nancy, but she could be maddeningly slow in getting to the point.

  “She’s at the White Hart Hotel in Porchester.”

  “Porchester? In the New Forest? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Well…” Nancy hesitated. “You see, she’s not alone…”

  “Oh, isn’t she?” said Henry, ominously. He was thinking of an imminent interview with Veronica’s mother, and not relishing the prospect. “Who is she with?”

  “Donald MacKay,” said Nancy.

  “But…” for a moment Henry could find no words. Then he said, “How do you know?”

  “Well, actually,” said Nancy, “I’ve known all along. I didn’t know what
to say when you rang, so I called Beth—she knew about it, too, you see—and she said she’d been wondering whether to tell you or not, and eventually we decided that we’d better. Beth said you were so sweet, you’d be sure to understand.”

  “I understand less and less,” said Henry. “One of the things I don’t understand is how Donald MacKay contrived to be at the White Hart in Porchester and in his parents’ home in Essex at one and the same time.”

  Donald, who had been contemplating the toes of his shoes, looked up, startled, and began to say something. Henry silenced him with an impatient gesture.

  Nancy said, “Oh, that’s easy. I can explain that.”

  “Can you, indeed? It should be interesting.”

  “Well, you see,” said Nancy, “she got this telegram…”

  “What telegram?”

  “I’d better start at the beginning. I was out at a cocktail party on Friday evening, and when I got in, I found Ronnie very depressed. She told me that she and Donald had arranged to go to Porchester for the week end, and that he’d telephoned to say that the whole thing was off, because his mother was ill and he had to go down to Essex to see her. But then on Saturday morning first thing a telegram came. One of those night-letter things. I think it’s still in Ronnie’s room. Shall I get it and read it to you?”

  “Yes, please do,” said Henry. Putting his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, he said sternly to Donald, “Well may you look ashamed of yourself, young man. I shall have plenty to say to you in a moment.”

  “Are you there? I’ve got it.” Henry could hear the crackling of paper as Nancy pulled the telegram out of its envelope. She read, “ ‘Mother better can get away Saturday meet me eleven-eighteen Porchester train Waterloo love kisses Donald.’ ”

  Henry said, “Where was that handed in?”

  “Just a moment. I’ll look.” There was a little pause. “That’s funny.”