He was gratified to be told that the result of the investigation at Somerset House was exactly what he had predicted, for it had been a long shot, deduced from frail evidence. Strengthened now in his conviction that he had solved the case correctly, he began to look forward to the afternoon with almost pleasurable excitement. It was at this point that an urgent call came through from the Essex police.
When Henry reached Nicholas Knight’s salon, the Style team were already assembled there, although it was some time before the show was scheduled to start. A few other journalists and photographers sat on their tiny, uncomfortable chairs or stood in gossiping groups, but Style was in the majority, clustered together, as if in self-defence, at the far end of the long black and white salon. The room presented a very different appearance from the last time that Henry had seen it. Now, rows of gilt chairs lined three of the four walls, and down the whole centre of the room ran a ramp draped in black velvet, which burgeoned into a little apron-stage before disappearing behind the black curtains which, Henry knew, led to the atelier.
The salon had been liberally decorated for the occasion with huge sprays of mimosa, yellow and fluffy as newly hatched spring chickens, which had been flown over at great expense from the South of France. This idea, which had seemed brilliant to Nicholas at the time, was in fact proving unfortunate—for the dry, centrally heated atmosphere was causing the mimosa to shed clouds of fine dust onto those sitting beneath it, to the detriment of many a chic felt hat and worsted suit.
Henry paused at the head of the stairs, looking in through the open doorway. His interest was centered on the contingent from Style. They had turned out in force, and most of them looked nervous and unhappy. Indeed, the atmosphere of slightly frenetic excitement which accompanies any press show seemed here to be heightened to screaming pitch.
As usual, Margery French appeared to be the most composed of the group. She was wearing her mink hat with a dark red suit, and was managing to keep up an easy flow of conversation to the junior fashion staff with only the faintest trace of strain. Teresa, not surprisingly, looked wretched and sat by herself, a little away from the others. Henry saw Beth go up to her and say something. Teresa managed a small smile, and then went on doodling aimlessly on the back of her programme. She was evidently in no mood for conversation.
A little further down the room, Henry spotted an incongruous couple talking earnestly together—Rachel Field and Horace Barry. Rachel seemed more animated than usual. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and she was talking eagerly. About cats, probably, thought Henry.
As Henry still hesitated on the threshold, he heard a cheerful booming of masculine voices on the stairs behind him, and turned to see Patrick Walsh coming up with Michael Healy. Both seemed in high spirits. Henry surmised that they had lunched together, and lunched well, especially as regards liquid refreshment. Other people were beginning to arrive now, and the two men passed Henry, apparently without recognizing him.
Patrick went up to the Mayfair blonde, who was acting as doorkeeper. “Now, me darlin’, we’ve no invitation cards and we’re not pretending we have, but you’re not the hard-hearted hussy who wouldn’t take pity on a couple of poor, honest gatecrashers, now are you? And I can tell you, if you don’t let us in, we’ll break the place up, God’s truth we will.”
The blonde simpered delightedly. “Oh, Mr. Walsh…of course Mr. Knayte will be delayted…and Mr. Healy…we’d have sent yew cards if we’d dreamt yew’d be able to come…”
“You’re new since I was here last,” said Michael. He sounded slightly tipsy. “I must say Nicholas has surprisingly good taste in girls. What’s your name?”
“Elvira, Mr. Healy.”
“Ever thought of taking up modeling yourself, Elvira? I might be able to use you.”
“Oh, Mr. Healy!” squealed the blonde, enraptured.
“Come and have a drink after the show. We’ll talk about it.”
The two men went in. Henry saw Teresa look up sharply. Michael’s appearance had obviously taken her by surprise, and there was a terrible look of pain in her eyes as she watched him come across the room to join the group from Style.
Henry decided that the moment had come to make his own entrance; he was not looking forward to it. He approached the blonde, who gave him a warm smile of recognition.
“Ah, Inspector Tibbett…that’s rayt…Miss Connolly telephoned…everything is in order…yew’re over there in the corner, with the Style people…may Ay tayk yewr coat?”
Henry surrendered his raincoat, and then went slowly across the salon. He looked and felt grim and strained. He knew he was the bearer of the worst possible news, but there was only one course open to him. As for his own personal feelings, they were numb. He felt the detachment of a man under a local anaesthetic, watching dispassionately while a surgeon eviscerates him.
Margery broke off a conversation with Patrick to turn to Henry and say in a friendly voice, “Ah, there you are, Inspector. You’re developing quite an interest in fashion, I see.”
“Miss French.” Henry’s voice was quite steady, but it sounded to his own ears as if it came from a great distance, “Miss French—I’m afraid I have some very bad news. I think it’s only fair to tell you people about it straight away, before the official announcement. Veronica Spence has been found.”
“Found?” Margery’s voice faltered. Everybody else stopped talking. Henry sensed that the whole room was holding its breath. Almost in a whisper, Margery added, “Alive?”
“No,” said Henry.
There was a gasp, almost a sob, from Beth. A moment of terrible silence, and then everybody started asking questions at once. Henry held up his hand, and said, “Please. I’ll tell you all I know, but it’s not much. I got the message at lunchtime and I’ve had no time to investigate. As most of you know, this is especially painful for me, because Veronica was my niece.”
There were murmurs of sympathy. The whole room was listening eagerly now, and Nicholas Knight himself had broken the unwritten law that a designer should never appear until after his Collection has been shown. He came almost running through the black curtains and down the ramp to join the group which clustered round Henry.
Henry went on. “The news came in a telephone call to Scotland Yard from the Essex police. She was found hidden under a haystack near Hockton. She had been strangled. They think she was doped first, so that she wouldn’t put up any resistance.”
“Essex?” It was Nicholas Knight who spoke, in a high-pitched, excited voice. “Whatever was she doing there?”
“The spot where she was found,” said Henry, “is only a few miles from the home of Donald MacKay’s parents.”
“Donald…” Patrick began, and then stopped short. “Look here, Inspector…he spent the weekend down there. I happen to know.”
“So do I.”
“And he didn’t turn up to the office this morning. I thought he must be ill. God…the murdering little bastard. Have you got him?”
“Not yet,” said Henry, “but we’re close behind him.”
“But how…how did he manage it?” Teresa spoke in a slow, wondering voice.
“I’ve decided,” said Henry, “that since you have all been through the very unpleasant experience of being under suspicion, I owe it to you to tell you exactly our reconstruction of the case. The only redeeming feature of this tragedy is that at least we now know the truth, and everyone can relax and go back to work in peace.” Nobody spoke or moved. Henry went on. “Veronica’s murder was only too simple to arrange. As many of you know, Donald had arranged to take her to Porchester for the week end, but he had to cancel it because of his mother’s illness. That was perfectly genuine, and at first it must have seemed to him that all his plans had been upset, but then he realized how he could carry them out with even less risk to himself.
“He went to Hockton on Friday evening, all right, but he slipped out of the house after his parents were asleep, and drove back to London in a hired car. Meanwhile,
he had arranged for a female accomplice to send a telegram to Veronica, purporting to come from him, telling her that he could get away after all, and arranging a rendezvous at Waterloo.”
In a small voice, Beth said, “Did you say a…a female accomplice, Inspector?”
“Yes, Miss Connolly.” Henry looked straight at her. “A female accomplice who certainly didn’t realize what she was doing. I hope she does by now.”
“What happened then?” Margery French spoke quickly, impatiently, as if resenting the interruption.
“Veronica turned up at the rendezvous,” said Henry, “where Donald met her with the news that he had a car and would drive her to Porchester. Once out of the station, I imagine he suggested coffee, and slipped the dope into her cup. He then hustled her quickly back into the car, where she soon became unconscious. He drove quickly to this remote spot in Essex, strangled her, and hid her body. He could reasonably hope that nobody would find her for months. It was only because certain suspicions made us alert the Essex police that…however, I can’t go into all that now. MacKay went on to the village pub, where he played darts, and then went back to his parents’ home for lunch. He had told them the night before that he intended to get up early and go for a long walk, and they, in all good faith, told the police that he had done so. They were also speaking the plain, unvarnished truth when they said that he had spent the whole week end with them. They really believed he had.”
“Are we then to assume, Inspector…” The voice was Michael’s, and it sounded light and heady with relief, “…are we to assume that Donald MacKay also killed Helen?”
“That would seem the inevitable conclusion, Mr. Healy.”
“I hope to God you get him soon.”
“We will,” said Henry.
“But for why, Inspector?” Horace Barry spoke for the first time. “For why this MacKay kill first Miss Helen and then Miss Veronica?”
“That,” said Henry, “is the crux of the matter. He was clever—almost too clever for me. He himself suggested that certain things I had been told about Helen were a smoke screen to hide another story, another man. I was far too slow in tumbling to the fact that the other man was Donald himself. He had fallen in love with Helen, with all the intensity of a young man who conceives a grand passion for an older woman, and she had finally and definitely turned him down. She had also told him that she loved someone else. Sooner than lose her, he killed her. And there were other reasons… I should have guessed that a man who would think up the ingenious idea that one supposed flirtation was being used as a smoke screen for another, would probably be basing the idea on something in his own life. And so it was. Donald was flirting with Veronica purely as a cover to hide his passion for Helen. Now Veronica was a bright girl, and she had worked out certain facts about Helen’s murder, without carrying them to their logical conclusion, which would have given her the murderer’s identity. She was foolish enough, in spite of all my warnings, to confide her theories to Donald, and in doing so, she signed her own death warrant.”
“What had she found out?” Surprisingly, it was Rachel Field who spoke. “And what about my suitcase?”
“I can’t go into all that now,” said Henry. “It’ll all come out at the trial. I’ve told you what I think you deserved to be told. Now I think we should get on with the show.”
Margery French said, with a little shudder. “That poor child… Inspector, I think we should ask Mr. Knight to cancel the show.”
“My dear Miss French.” Henry was absolutely firm now. “I wouldn’t dream of allowing the show to be put off. It would be grossly unfair to Mr. Knight, and Veronica certainly wouldn’t have wanted it. You all know what a professional outlook she had. And let’s be honest—isn’t it true that most of us have known, in our hearts, that there was little or no hope of finding her alive? All we can do now is to get on with our work.”
There was some demur, but Henry finally made his point. Nicholas, who looked understandably shaken by what had happened, made no attempt to go back to the atelier, but remained sitting with the Style group. The blonde receptionist, assisted by several minions, pulled the heavy black curtains, shutting out the daylight, and turned powerful spotlights toward the ramp. This idea of quasi-stage lighting for his shows was a gimmick which Nicholas Knight had established some years before, and which had become a tradition of the house.
The audience, still somewhat stunned by what they had heard, took their seats, and soft music began to play through concealed loud-speakers. The big double doors to the corridor were closed, and the blonde mounted to the stage apron and stationed herself under a convenient pink spotlight. She held a paper in her hands.
“Number Wan,” she announced, in fluting tones. “ ‘Park Lane.’”
The girl called Rene, as lovely and apparently undernourished as ever, stepped out from behind the curtains, pirouetted on the rostrum, and began a mincing walk down the ramp, pausing every few yards in order to revolve gracefully. She was wearing a navy blue spring suit with an emerald green ruffled blouse. All around the room, notebooks were opened and pencils flashed. Work had started again, and the tragedy of Veronica Spence was already retreating into the background of consciousness.
“Number Tew. ‘Lilac Time.’”
The Chinese girl slipped gracefully through the curtains and revolved elegantly, in a lilac velvet three-piece ensemble with an enormous white hat. There was a little burst of applause. With a quick, sure movement, she slipped off the coat to display the suit, and strolled down the ramp, dragging the beautiful silk-velvet coat after her in the dust.
“Number Three. ‘Burnt Sugar.’”
The show was under way. Henry watched with fascination, despite himself, as suits and topcoats gave way to spring dresses of various degrees of formality. Once he glanced at his watch, and was surprised that the time was slipping away so fast. It was obviously a successful show. Subtly, the atmosphere warmed. The applause became more frequent. Tiny, appreciative whispers ran round the room. Nicholas Knight, in the opinion of the experts, had pulled it off at last. He had arrived.
“Number Twenty-ayte. ‘Ragamuffin.’ ” This was Rene again, in a pink chiffon dress whose hemline was jagged, in the sophisticated manner of the rags worn by a pantomime Cinderella. There was a long burst of applause. Knight had really shown himself on the heels of Paris. In the half light, however, Henry noticed Teresa lean over and whisper something to Margery, who nodded, a little grimly.
“Number Fawty-wan. ‘Peek-a-Boo.’”
As the show proceeded, the salon settled down to a relaxed atmosphere of enjoyment. Henry’s remarks had been perfectly true. One did not have to be hypersensitive to feel the enormous relief brought by the removal of the load of suspicion which had bedeviled so many of these people for the past week.
“Number Sixty-six. ‘Sugar Plum.’ ”
They had reached the evening dresses by now. “Sugar Plum” drifted by in a cloud of frosty tulle.
“Number Seventy-wan. ‘Forget-Me-Not.’ ” A shimmer of blue and silver lamé flashed along the ramp, to enthusiastic applause.
The programme was nearing its end now, and the lights were dimmed for the entrance of the last model—the traditional finale, the wedding dress.
“Number Seventy-fayve. ‘Sweet Mystery.’”
From behind the black satin curtains, illuminated by a single spotlight, stepped a model in what appeared to be a floating cloud of ethereal white. On her head she wore a coronet of artificial orange blossoms, which secured the long tulle veil covering her face. There was a strong burst of applause.
The girl seemed to float rather than to walk down the ramp. Then she paused, and with a sudden joyous gesture, threw back the veil to reveal her face. It was Veronica.
For a moment, there was a terrible silence in the salon, broken only by the relentless strains of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” In the half light, Veronica glided towards the far end of the ramp. Her face was grave and serene.
Suddenly, horribly, somebody began to scream. “Don’t come near me!… Go away!… Take her away!… She’s dead… I tell you, she’s dead!”
Henry jumped up and pulled back one of the curtains, flooding the room with daylight.
It was Nicholas Knight who had screamed. He sat now with his face buried in his hands, as if trying to ward off the sight of Veronica, who was moving inexorably towards him. As she stepped gracefully down from the ramp and approached the Style group, Nicholas shrank back as though overcome by superstitious terror. It was not to him that Veronica addressed herself, however. It was to his next-door neighbour, Teresa Manners. From the protective camouflage of her bouquet, she brought out a small bottle of colourless fluid. This she proffered to Teresa.
“I came back to give you this, Miss Manners,” she said. “It’s what Miss Pankhurst asked you to bring from Paris. Of course, Miss Field is the person who can tell you all about it. She was telling me while I was helping her to pack at the Crillon.”
Nobody, except Henry, was prepared for what happened next. Nicholas Knight jumped to his feet and flung himself at Rachel Field in a paroxysm of hysterical fury.
“You lying, cheating bitch!” he screamed. “Making me think you’d killed her…and all the time you were working with them…you double-crossed me…you…” Choking with rage, he turned to Henry. “There’s your murderess! There’s the woman who killed Helen Pankhurst! I can prove it! I can…”
Rachel Field stood up. She was perfectly calm, and she looked at Nicholas with infinite contempt mingled with a strange sort of exasperated affection. “You poor little fool, Nicky,” she said. “Didn’t you realize from the beginning that it was only a trick to catch us?”
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