‘Chivalry,’ said Ashley. ‘You’re suffering from chivalry.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Haldean shortly.
‘It’s not nonsense,’ insisted Ashley. ‘I’ve got it pegged now. That’s how you feel. That and a strong dash of pity. It doesn’t lead to an objective mind.’
And he was right. Honesty compelled him to meet Ashley’s eyes. ‘I don’t suppose it damn well does, no. Why the blazes shouldn’t I feel sorry for her?’
‘Because it gets in the way.’
Haldean took a deep breath and linked his fingers together, staring at his palms. ‘Let’s go back to Boscombe and Morton. We know they started putting the squeeze on in October. But Miss Vayle didn’t hear from Boscombe until January.’
‘So she says.’
‘So she says, yes. And I don’t know how much our precious pair were getting, but it’s more than she could have possibly given them.’
‘Is it? She might have been taking things from other places than Hesperus, you know. She was obviously a fairly accomplished thief.’
‘But why should she kill Morton? It was Boscombe she felt threatened by.’
Ashley leaned back in his chair with a short laugh. ‘Your prejudices are showing. All Boscombe would have needed to say to Miss Vayle was that he wasn’t the only person who knew the truth because his pal Morton was in on it as well. So she sees off Boscombe in a fit of desperation and kills Morton as well to make things nice and tidy. The diary’s in his room, so she swipes that as well. Look, Haldean, if the evidence fits, then the evidence fits, no matter how sorry you feel for her. And don’t you think there’s at least the possibility she could have seen off both Boscombe and Morton? I don’t know her well, but she seems a secretive type, the sort who bottles everything up. At a guess, that’s exactly the sort of person who does strike out.’
Caught in a trap. Ashley had seen it too. Reluctantly, Haldean nodded in acknowledgement.
‘She was frightened and she was desperate,’ said Ashley, pressing his point home. ‘I think she could have been pushed over the edge.’
Haldean looked up. ‘Don’t forget Greg and I were standing outside the tent.’ His voice was tired. ‘Neither of us saw her anywhere near the fortune teller’s.’
‘If she was just about to murder Boscombe she wouldn’t advertise the fact she was there, would she? How about Morton’s murder on Saturday night? We’ve pinned that down to quarter past seven. D’you know what she was up to then?’
‘I didn’t see her,’ said Haldean, slowly. ‘Gregory, Belle and I had gone for a walk by the river so I wasn’t actually in the house, but I don’t think she was around.’ Where on earth had Marguerite been? ‘Hang on. When we got back from the fête Marguerite was looking a bit white around the gills and said she still had a headache. She went up to her room to lie down before dinner. That’s it. I remember, now. She looked washed out.’
‘So when did you or anyone else actually see her again?’
‘At dinner. We didn’t bother to dress as it was very informal. It was more of a cold supper, actually That was about quarter past eight. Her maid would have woken her sooner, at eight o’clock or thereabouts. But she couldn’t have walked all the way to Breedenbrook and back in that time and I know she doesn’t drive.’
‘There are such things in this world as bicycles though, aren’t there?’
‘Yes, there are, damn it. She’s a fairly keen cyclist, too. Oh, hell. That would be possible.’ It was beginning to be far too possible for comfort. Haldean made another throw. ‘Look, Ashley, I can see you putting it all together and to be honest it sounds horribly convincing.’
‘Principally because you pointed the way last night.’
‘I know, I know. But there was something else I said last night. Admittedly I didn’t make much of it, but there is a chance that Tyburn himself may still be alive. After all, I told you what Boscombe said to Marguerite. What d’you think of that idea?’
‘What do you? Honestly.’
‘Damn!’ Haldean stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. ‘You weren’t meant to say that, you know,’ he said with the beginnings of a smile. All right. Let Ashley argue the case. Let’s see where the dangers lie. ‘I was going to outline the case for Tyburn’s existence with as much dazzling wit and relentless logic as I could summon to my aid and now you’ve punctured my balloon.’
Ashley grinned. ‘I didn’t want to play. Go on, though. Say your piece.’
‘The trouble is that I can’t think of much to say.’ Haldean scratched his head. ‘Yes, Tyburn could be alive. Yes, Boscombe could have known that.’
‘Could he?’
‘Oh yes.’ And that was true enough. ‘He could have come across him and, for all we actually know, Petrie’s diary might have a clue to where Tyburn is now.’
‘The diary of a man who was taken prisoner in 1916 and spent the rest of his life in and out of sanatoriums for TB? How could he know anything about it?’
Haldean wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t suppose he could, unless Tyburn landed up in hospital with him. But if the diary did say that, I don’t suppose Morton would have let Edith Sheldon anywhere near it.’ That wasn’t going anywhere. ‘No, scrub that idea. It won’t wash. But if Boscombe ran into him that would be different. He would have known Tyburn because he served with him. As a matter of fact, he’d be one of the few people who knew him in the war who would recognize him. The battalion took an awful battering on the Somme and we’d be hard pressed to find anyone else who’s alive and could identify him, especially if he’s changed his appearance by growing a beard or something. Actually . . .’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, Ashley. That doesn’t make sense. We’d worked out that Boscombe and Morton had to pool their information to make anything of it. If Boscombe had merely seen Tyburn he wouldn’t need Morton. He’d go into business on his own account.’
‘That’s what you said last night,’ agreed Ashley. ‘I think you’re on the right lines there. But coming back to this identification business. Would Colonel Whitfield, for instance, recognize him?’
Haldean shrugged. ‘Blessed if I know. I suppose you could ask him. If nothing else it’d make the Chief Constable think you’d followed his advice and asked for Whitfield’s help. Mr Lawrence would recognize him, but he’s certain Tyburn’s kicked the bucket because otherwise he’s sure Tyburn would have asked him to help.’
Ashley thoughtfully tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with his thumb. ‘So what it boils down to is this. That Boscombe, an acknowledged blackmailer, who was in the process of screwing more money out of Marguerite Vayle on the strength of who she was, frightened her silly by telling her that her father was still alive. Is that it?’
‘Yes,’ said Haldean reluctantly. ‘It is.’
Ashley scratched his chin. ‘Convinced?’
‘No. Happy?’
Ashley shrugged. ‘I’m not happy or unhappy. I’m just making a point, that’s all. And the point I would like to make is that whether you like it or not, she does have a motive for wanting Boscombe dead. And Morton.’
Haldean ruffled a hand through his hair, leaving it in a spiky quiff. ‘Oh, to hell with it. Yes, she has a motive. I presume she has the means and I suppose she had the opportunity. Yes, she could have done it. Why shouldn’t she murder Boscombe? I’d have murdered him myself if I’d spent much longer with the little sweep. I fancy a drink.’ He stood up and took his jacket from the peg. ‘Do you want to see Colonel Whitfield today? He said he was going to take Miss Vayle back home. We’ve got a bunfight at Mrs Verrity’s tonight so she can’t stay out all afternoon. Why don’t we have some lunch at the pub and go on to Hesperus afterwards? All shop talk forbidden.’
‘Good idea,’ said Ashley, rising to his feet. ‘Look, Haldean, I know you find it tough to imagine a young girl like Miss Vayle being involved, but I’ll have to question her again. In light of what you’ve told me, I haven’t any choice. But I do think your sympathy might be misplaced.’
Haldean shrugged his jacket on. ‘I can only hope it isn’t. Come on.’
‘Hold on a minute. All that stuff about Tyburn was nothing but a smokescreen. Despite how she acted and despite what you said, you think she could be guilty, don’t you? Why?’
Haldean didn’t say anything for a few moments. He seemed to be concentrating on buttoning his jacket. Then he raised his head, meeting Ashley’s gaze reluctantly but squarely. ‘All right. Marguerite’s character’s against her. She’s intense. She’s crackers about Whitfield and I believe would do nearly anything to marry him. She’s passionate about things but keeps it all screwed down inside. You said so, and you’re right. It’s very hard to know what she’s thinking. She fits a possibility I outlined last night. Yes, Ashley, I was flying a kite when I mentioned Tyburn, yes, Ashley, I believe she could have done it and yes, Ashley, I didn’t want to say so. Does that make you feel any happier?’
‘Not really,’ said Ashley, picking up his hat. ‘I’ve got feelings too.’
Lady Rivers looked round the brilliantly lit, noisy ballroom, sipped her champagne and sighed. It was a wonderful ball. Who cares about money, sang the vocalist with the dance band, when love is free. I care about you, baby, it’s enough for me.
From the look of the ballroom Who cares about money seemed to be not so much an appropriate sentiment as an unnecessary one. The bright colours of the dresses spun and mingled on the dance floor, punctuated by the black-and-white of the men, with the occasional scarlet exclamation mark of a dress uniform. The light from the chandeliers refracted and shone from the polished wood floor – a properly sprung floor which was a pleasure to dance on – from the glasses of champagne hurried clinking past on silver trays by the waiters and most of all from the decorations of the men and the jewels of the women. It was wonderful, but . . . She was trying to put her finger on what it actually was that made the ballroom at Thackenhurst look so, well, ravishing. She sighed again. It was not a contented noise.
Isabelle, who had achieved exactly the effect she wanted in her green georgette, rid herself of Mark Stuckley, shook her head at two other hopefuls and came to stand beside her. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
Her mother turned to her and smiled. ‘I’m afraid I was allowing myself a moment of sheer envy about how lavish everything is. Silly of me really.’
Isabelle looked round. ‘It’s like a stage set,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s beautiful but I’m not sure if I like it. I mean, look at the flowers.’
‘But we have flowers at home.’
‘Of course we do, but not like this. All those cascades of red and white roses must have cost an absolute fortune. Have you seen the supper room?’
‘No.’
‘The champagne’s in specially carved buckets, all made out of ice. It’s red and white ice, to go with the roses and the decorations, and they’re all in different shapes such as cars and aeroplanes. It’s stunning.’
‘Yes,’ agreed her mother in a doubtful voice.
Isabelle put her hand on her mother’s arm. ‘It really is stunning, but I prefer the way we do things, you know. When we have a ball, it’s lovely and it looks super, but it isn’t intimidating. This is, in a way. Gorgeous but intimidating. Rather like Mrs Verrity herself.’
Lady Rivers exchanged a guilty smile. ‘I suppose I should tell you not to criticize your host, but really, Isabelle, I do know what you mean.’ She cast another doubtful glance round the room. ‘I should simply appreciate all the trouble which has been taken, I suppose. After all, it’s all for the Red Cross and it’s absolutely splendid. It’s just that I remember coming to balls here when Michael Verrity was still alive, before the war. They were grand enough but grand in a different way. In a funny way it was easier to feel at home.’
‘Let’s go to the supper room and have an ice,’ said Isabelle. She was used to the idea that nothing after the war could match up to anything which had gone before. ‘Archie Clows-Hunt’s bearing down on me and he’s got two left feet. I must say,’ she added, as they threaded their way round the dance floor, ‘that Jack doesn’t seem to be intimidated. In fact,’ she said, glancing to where the crowd allowed her a glimpse of where her cousin and Mrs Verrity were dancing, ‘completely the reverse.’
Haldean wasn’t aware of Isabelle’s scrutiny. The only thing he was actually conscious of was Anne-Marie Verrity. She had large, very deep blue eyes which were fixed on his from a distance of eight inches away. The body in his arms was slim without being angular and the skin on her bare shoulders sheened with a delicate glow from the Chinese lanterns decorating the ballroom. Her auburn hair was coiled round and held with a ruby clasp and another necklet of rubies decorated her perfect throat. Her steps matched his exactly in the rhythm of the dance and Haldean felt the unmerited if natural satisfaction which came from holding the most outstanding woman in the room. To say she was beautiful was not to say enough; and all other adjectives – grace, elegance, style – seemed like clichés. Which meant, of course, like most clichés, that they were true. He had been prepared for beauty but what had taken him by surprise was her wit and charm. She had the gift of listening intently as if his conversation was the most important event of the evening, then taking a light-hearted remark and capping it.
The dance came to an end and they applauded. The band leader glanced round, tapped his baton, and started on ‘The Sheik of Araby’. Mrs Verrity slipped an arm through his and looked up with a brilliant smile. ‘A foxtrot. This is a little quick for me. Shall we sit it out?’ They walked to the side of the room. Mrs Verrity looked at the dancers and gave a slight shake of her head. ‘It’s fun but I prefer more elegance. I’ve been spoiled, of course. I remember Vienna before the war.’ She half-laughed. ‘I must be careful or you’ll think I’m very, very old and I don’t feel old at all.’
‘I can’t imagine you ever being old.’
‘Why, thank you, Major. And yet, think of it. Before the war. It seems a lifetime away. I’m sure that child who Colonel Whitfield is dancing with would think I belong in a museum.’ She giggled. ‘They would have me in a glass case with a label, Rara Avis: Pre-war Woman, and everyone would stare and say things such as “Look, my dear, they had women before the war. Fancy that! She looks quite different from how we do nowadays.”’
‘Which is the loss of nowadays and a perfect example of change unaccompanied by progress.’
She laughed unaffectedly. ‘What a lovely thing to say. Do you want to dance again, Major? You dance very well but – excuse me – are you slightly lame?’ She spoke with a concerned hesitancy that robbed the question of any possible offence.
‘Oh dear, was it as bad as that? I thought I avoided your feet most of the time.’
‘All of the time, but with my hospital experience I notice such things. Shall we sit in the conservatory for a while? Perhaps you would be kind enough to bring me a glass of champagne?’ He watched her walk across the room, seeing her pause as Colonel Whitfield, who was dancing with Marguerite, detached himself and stood in her way. She shook her head quickly and walked on. Whitfield, annoyance clear on his face, turned back to Marguerite.
Haldean collected two glasses of champagne and went to join her. The conservatory doors were standing open and a welcome whisper of night air mingled with the heavy scent of flowers. He sat down beside her in a cane chair and raised his glass. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Verrity. Your ball is a great success.’
She acknowledged the compliment with a quick and wickedly attractive smile. The music was softer out here, quiet enough to talk in an ordinary voice. ‘I’m glad you think so. This is only a small affair, of course, but enjoyable, I hope. Parties – balls – I love them, you know. It’s fashionable to pretend to be bored, but why bother to pretend something you don’t feel?’ She stretched out her hand and picked up the glass from the table beside her. ‘And you, Major Haldean, I think you dislike being bored, yes? And so you have a hobby.’ She pronounced the word with a twist of an accent that made �
��a hobby’ seem an enchanting occupation. ‘You are looking for the killer of that poor man, Mr Boscombe, yes? And that other man who was killed in the pub. You have decided to become a hunter of men.’
‘Well, I don’t know if I’d put it quite like that myself,’ said Haldean, squirming slightly. I mean, she was a lovely woman, but this was a bit much, wasn’t it? ‘Er . . . How did you know?’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘But everyone knows! Marguerite Vayle, she tells Richard and Richard, he tells me, and everybody is talking about what you are doing.’
Haldean said nothing but the mention of Marguerite made him wince. Mrs Verrity mistook his expression.
‘You do not like that people should talk about you? Why not? We are interested, you understand? An author who is now a detective. You are famous, yes?’
‘Hardly,’ said Haldean.
‘But you are, Major. Please do not be English and embarrassed and say “Oh, it’s nothing. Really, it’s nothing to shout about. Anyone could do it. It’s just luck, don’t you know.” You were going to say that, weren’t you?’
Haldean grinned. ‘Something like that.’
‘But why?’ She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. ‘The English have many virtues but they’re so silly about their accomplishments. And to find you being gruff and modest is ridiculous. You look as if you could be a level-headed Latin. Are you really nothing more than a bluff Anglo-Saxon or am I talking to a member of one of the really sensible races? Please tell me I’m right.’
‘My secret is out. My mother was Spanish.’
She sat back and clapped her hands together in delight. ‘I knew it! But now you have even less excuse for this pretence. In France we are so much more clear-headed about what we do. You should say with pride that you are a great detective and that no one can escape you for long. For what is detection, after all? Logic and intelligence. You have both those qualities and you must succeed. And privately you know that is the truth, don’t you? That no criminal could match himself against you and hope to win.’ Haldean made an embarrassed and totally British noise in the back of his throat. ‘This murder at my fête and the poor man in the inn – what chance does the murderer have? None. And why? Because you are on their track.’
A Fête Worse Than Death Page 15