Murder in Waiting (Augustus Maltravers Mystery Book 5)

by Robert Richardson

  “Lady Penelope’s here, Miss Louella.”

  “Thank you, Emma. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  Louella Sinclair took a deep breath and forced a smile at the mirror on the wall in front of her. A Duke’s daughter buying new spring outfits had to be given all her attention, but over the next two hours, during which she sold three thousand pounds’ worth of clothes, she never completely stopped thinking about Barry Kershaw and Caroline Owen.

  *

  “Do you remember Louella Sinclair from the old days?” Maltravers asked casually as he poured the last of a bottle of Chablis into Jenni Hilton’s glass. Lunch had been a success, all her guards down as they had talked about the theatre, music and films and had laughed together at the manners of the Sixties, so daring and vibrant when they had lived them, slightly quaint and mannered as the Twenties now that they had also passed into history.

  “Louella Sinclair?” She frowned. “I don’t think so. Should I?”

  “Not necessarily,” he replied. “She was one of what must have been an awful lot of people milling around. Worked in the fashion business for someone called Hilly Janes.”

  “Oh, I remember Hilly Janes. She made an absolutely gorgeous dress that I wore for the Hollywood Oscars ceremony. I’ve still got it somewhere. Couldn’t possibly wear it again, but there was no way I was going to throw it out. But I can’t remember this Louella person. Why do you ask?”

  “I met her the other day. She owns a dress shop on the King’s Road — only a few minutes’ walk from here — and Tess is one of her customers. I was taken along to provide the credit cards. It came out that I was seeing you and she mentioned that she used to know you.” There was enough truth in the explanation to make it a seamless lie.

  Jenni Hilton shrugged. “Well, I might recognise her if we met, but I can’t place her.”

  “A few other names came up as well,” Maltravers added, producing his cigarettes. She accepted one and he leant across the table to light it for her. “There was someone called … Larry, or … ” the lighter flicked a couple of times before igniting, “ … Barry Kershaw.”

  It was only because he was so close and watching carefully that he saw the fleeting reaction. Dipped towards the flame, the cigarette momentarily trembled and alarm darted through her eyes and was gone. Maltravers lowered his face to light his own cigarette, apparently indifferent.

  “Barry Kershaw?” Smoke was inhaled and expelled, then she coughed slightly. “Sorry, they’re stronger than mine. No, I can’t remember him, either. Anybody else?”

  Maltravers turned away and caught the waiter’s eye, gesturing with a scribbling motion across his palm that he wanted the bill. “Can’t recall all of them. People I’d never heard of. Don Currie was one, I think. And … Lindy Sharpe?”

  His mind was racing as he randomly threw out the names of a couple of journalists he knew. Jenni Hilton might not remember Louella Sinclair, but it was unbelievable that she should have forgotten Kershaw; she had been a witness at his inquest. So she was lying. He moved away from the subject as though it was irrelevant.

  “Anyway, Louella asked me to send her love,” he said. “Look, this has been absolutely marvellous, but I’m not going to overstay my welcome. Thanks for the interview. I understand they’ve agreed to let you read it first. Frankly, I’m not over the moon about that, but went along with it because I wanted to meet you. If there’s anything you’re not happy about, could you call me direct so we can sort it out?”

  “At the office?”

  “No. I’m a freelance don’t forget. I’ll give you my home number.” He found an old petrol receipt in his wallet and scribbled on the back of it. “There you are. I never seem to get around to having cards printed.”

  “I don’t imagine there’ll be any problems.” She put the slip of paper into her bag. “I’ll be interested to see how you handle it.”

  “Can I walk you home?”

  “No thanks. I want to do some shopping and … ” She paused as the bill arrived and Maltravers put thirty pounds on the plate, indicating that the balance could cover the tip. “I’d like to thank you as well. You’ve made it much less painful than I thought it would be. Now I’ve only got to worry about the photograph tomorrow.”

  “That’s no problem,” he assured her as they rose to leave. “Chronicle photographers win awards all over the place. Just relax and let whoever it is get on with it.”

  They parted on the pavement outside the wine bar, Jenni Hilton to go up to the King’s Road and Maltravers to walk back along the Embankment. He could have gone with her part of the way, but wanted time to think. She had lied about Kershaw so smoothly that he was convinced she had anticipated his name coming up and was prepared for it. What would she have said if he had challenged her with what he knew — and why hadn’t he? Because after talking to Louella Sinclair, he was not sure what he was dealing with and wanted to tread carefully. For the time being he had all the material he needed for his piece and, if she liked it enough, Jenni Hilton might agree to see him again. Perhaps for dinner with Tess when he could … He watched a pleasure boat on its way up river to Hampton Court, the sound of the amplified commentary distantly audible across the water against the background rumble of traffic.

  “ … our left is Battersea Park. Colonel Blood hid in the reeds on the bank when he was planning to shoot Charles II in 1671 and in 1829 the Duke of Wellington fought a duel here with Lord Winchilsea. All very gentlemanly; they both deliberately fired wide. Today the annual veteran car run to Brighton starts in the park. Ahead is the Albert Bridge, originally built by R. M. Ordish in 1871-3. It is curious in that it is both cantilever and suspension. Beyond the bridge you can see … ”

  Fragments from London’s chequered history faded and the waves of the boat’s wake sloshed against the Embankment below where Maltravers had stopped. Why had she lied? Don’t know, but think it through. She must have realised he had done his homework; enough had come out during the interview to show he had checked out her past. Therefore she should have guessed that he would have unearthed Barry Kershaw and her connection with him. So lying had been stupid, which was totally out of character. She should have admitted knowing Kershaw and produced some story to explain it away — but explain what away? Maltravers walked past the grounds of the Royal Hospital, his mind ferreting for explanations. His instinctive knowledge of London north of the river — on his mental map, anywhere south of the Thames, apart from the National Theatre, was marked “Here be dragons” — took him through Pimlico and past Victoria Station and he only consciously became aware of where he was again when he reached Grosvenor Place. He contemplated options for a moment, then walked to Hyde Park Corner, through the underpass and along Piccadilly to catch a Victoria Line train at Green Park. He saw a newspaper placard reading TUBE DEATH WOMAN NAMED, but took no notice. By the time he reached Highbury and Islington, the only certainty he had come up with was that Jenni Hilton must know that her lie had been inept and suspicious. So what would she do? What would he do?

  *

  Do nothing. He could have been telling the truth about being told Barry’s name by chance. He had not pressed it, and surely no journalist would leave something like that alone if they knew anything. But he wasn’t like other journalists she had met. They were cunning but clumsy; he was intelligent — and disarmingly charming. It was easy when you could see how their sordid minds were working, but he had been much more subtle … subtle, false and treacherous? Staring blankly at supermarket shelves of vegetarian dishes, Jenni Hilton felt she had been fooled, her vanity flattered by a handful of quotations. He had smoothly manoeuvred her into a corner over Barry Kershaw — and then backed off. Why? Because he had not realised what he had done? Possibly, but she could not rely on that … Who was the woman he had mentioned? Louella Sinclair, and she had a shop somewhere nearby. If she’d worked with Hilly Janes, it was almost certain to be an upmarket dress shop — but which one on the busy King’s Road? Would it help if she found
it? Did Maltravers know anything else which he had not mentioned? How dangerous was he? Suddenly he had made the risks of coming out into the open again appear very real.

  *

  “Is that you?”

  “No, it’s a pickpocket who stole my keys.” Maltravers went through to the kitchen where Tess was at the sink, scrubbing new potatoes. “Who were you expecting?”

  Tess twisted round and nodded towards an open copy of the Evening Standard on the table. “Look at the bottom of page two. Louella left a slightly panicky message about it on the ansaphone.”

  Maltravers read the story in seconds. “Christ! Caroline Owen!”

  “Do you know her?”

  “She used to be my editor. She was working for my publishers when I wrote my first novel, but left a few months after it came out. I went to her launch party for Scimitar Press.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m sorry.” Tess turned from the sink in dismay. “I didn’t realise she was a friend of yours. Have I ever met her?”

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her for God knows how long, but she gave me a lot of help when I was starting and we got on very well. We used to have lunch from time to time. What did Louella say about it?”

  “Just that she wants you to ring her.”

  “And she sounded panicky?” Reading the story again, Maltravers walked towards the door.

  “Certainly agitated, but she didn’t say why.”

  The girl who answered the phone at Syllabub first of all said that Louella was with a customer, but when Maltravers mentioned his name to leave a message, she immediately asked him to wait and Louella came on.

  “Gus? Thanks for calling. You’ve seen the paper? About Caroline?”

  “Yes. I knew her as well, incidentally. Nice lady. I didn’t realise she was a friend of yours.”

  “I first met her in the Sixties and we became very close, probably the nearest thing I had to a sister.” Louella sobbed abruptly. “Christ, I daren’t cry. I’ve got a customer to attend to.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand if you tell them … and why are you letting me know about this? Did Caroline ever say she knew me?”

  “No, that’s not the point.” Louella sniffed. “The thing is that she was one of the guests at Barry Kershaw’s last party.”

  “You’re throwing me here,” Maltravers said. “What are you trying to say? Are you suggesting there’s some connection?” “I’m not sure, but … I keep telling myself I’m being stupid, but was it really an accident?”

  “The police seem to think so,” he replied. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know! It’s just that Barry’s been in my mind a lot since we talked and … God, I’m beginning to sound neurotic. I just don’t like it. It … worries me. Am I making any sort of sense?”

  “Frankly, not much,” Maltravers told her. “But why not come round and have supper so we can talk about it?”

  “Do you think there is something to talk about?”

  “I think that you think there is. That’s enough.”

  Louella sighed gratefully. “If I can just … get it out of my system with someone, perhaps I’ll be all right. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not,” he assured her. “We’re at fourteen Coppersmith Street just off Liverpool Road. We’ll expect you here about seven. If you’re coming by car, you’ll have no trouble parking at that time.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you then.”

  She rang off and Maltravers went back into the kitchen where Tess had finished the potatoes and was preparing a Waldorf salad. “Make extra. I’ve asked Louella round for supper.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not sure. It seems that Caroline Owen was at Barry Kershaw’s famous party and she’s getting in a state about it.” Tess glanced at him sharply. “What’s she suggesting?”

  “She wasn’t specific, but presumably she thinks there could be a connection with Caroline’s death.”

  “After twenty-odd years? Come on. It’s just a coincidence.”

  “Perhaps that’s what she needs someone to tell her. Anyway, you’ve known her for some time. Is she the over-imaginative type? I didn’t get that impression.”

  “You’re right,” Tess acknowledged. “It’s completely out of character for her to start getting hysterical … Incidentally, did you mention Barry Kershaw to Jenni Hilton?”

  “I casually threw his name at her, and she ducked.” Maltravers helped himself to a piece of celery off the chopping board. “I still haven’t acquired a taste for walnuts, share mine between yourself and Louella. In fact, she instantly lied, because she said she didn’t remember him, which is ridiculous. I let it pass, but it’s interesting.”

  Tess dropped a handful of diced apple into the bowl and continued mixing the salad. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Perhaps play at being a crime reporter and see if anything turns up. Whatever’s on Louella’s mind about Caroline, she’s certainly convinced that Kershaw was murdered and … ” He broke off as the telephone rang. “I’ll get it. It might be Mike asking how I got on with the interview.”

  It wasn’t; it was a police sergeant who wanted to ask him about the death of Caroline Owen.

  “How did you get on to me?” Maltravers asked.

  “Just a routine check, Mr Maltravers. We’re contacting everyone who’s listed in Mrs Owen’s personal address book to see if they can tell us anything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Had she been depressed or worried about anything lately?”

  “You mean was she suicidal? I can’t help you there. I haven’t seen her for … I’m not sure … about a year. As far as I’m aware, her business was doing all right and I know nothing about her private life.”

  “Do you know her husband?”

  “I knew she was married, but all I know about him is what I’ve read in the Standard. I’m a writer, she used to work for my publisher. That’s about it. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right, Mr Maltravers. We have to check these things out.”

  “Of course.” Maltravers hesitated. “The Standard says you’re treating her death as an accident. Is that right?”

  “At the moment we are. Do you know of anything that might make us think differently?”

  “No. As I said, I haven’t seen her for some time.”

  “Well, if anything occurs to you, perhaps you’ll call me.” The sergeant gave his name and the station telephone number. “Sorry to have troubled you. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Maltravers rang off and rationalised his reaction to the unexpected call. On reflection, the police contacting anyone who knew Caroline Owen seemed obvious once it had happened. Suicide was an option and they had to ask people who knew her how likely it was. If they were working through the address book in alphabetical order, they would soon reach Louella Sinclair’s name. He wondered what she would tell them. She was convinced that Barry Kershaw had been murdered; was she now thinking the same about Caroline Owen?

  Chapter Six

  Maureen Kershaw had stopped grieving and begun to hate the moment she had watched the purple velvet crematorium curtains close on her son’s coffin. Fed by obsession, that hatred had first, perversely, comforted her and later become a touchstone to which she could always return. As the years passed, outwardly it seemed she had forgotten, but she would frequently sit alone, smoking and sipping her tea, finding again a purpose to live by drawing on its malevolent energy.

  She had been born into and become inescapably part of the values and lifestyle of a pre-war Docklands terrace sliding into a slum, penny-pinching, groceries on tick, petty theft, cheap furniture on the never-never, the tacky glamour of Southend or egg flip in noisy saloon bars of grimy corner pubs. Barry had escaped and entered a foreign world “up West”, neon lights, flats of unimaginable luxury, people who wore suits on weekdays — people who had suits — smart bars and the dazzle of show busin
ess. But she had still been his Mum, fierce with pride when he had arrived in his white Jaguar and dirty nets had twitched jealously at every window in Etruria Street; the tearaway who had first been put on probation when he was ten years old, the son they said would end up in Borstal or worse was sticking two triumphant fingers up at them.

  And however rich he had become, however many stars he had met, he had still been her Barry. Flowers, presents, money, love. He had kept wanting to buy her a bungalow in Essex, send her on a world cruise, put young Terry through a posh school, but had accepted that she was content with the only life she had known. Just once she had been persuaded to enter his world. The warm, sleek limousine had picked her up and taken her to some theatre — the name had long gone — where she had stepped nervously out into a glare of lights and an excited crowd on the pavement. Barry had led her up the steps and through the entrance then left her with one of his girls and after that it had all whirled around her until she began to feel sick with helplessness. The girl had said something about the new show being brilliant and kept pointing out famous and beautiful people as the flashlights had exploded, but hardly anyone else had spoken to her. She had known that her dress, chosen with agonising uncertainty out of a mail order catalogue, which had brought cries of approval from her neighbours, was like cheap paste in the company of diamonds. Long before she had escaped back into the safe, anonymous darkness of the limousine for the journey home, she had known she did not belong and swore never to try again.

  And after that it had been all right. Barry had still called from time to time, quietly leaving an envelope of money — never too much — where she would find it after he had gone, kicking a football with Terry and the other kids out on the street, throwing off the cloak of his other life and joking with old Mrs Wilson from next door as if he had never been away. And Maureen Kershaw had been happy, living where the sun of his success warmed her but did not scorch.