‘Well, I can’t swear that it’s the same piece.’ She lowered the stone. ‘But it is very like the one Portia had. I can see it has a slight flaw and the same was true of hers. I happen to know that because she kicked up a fuss about it.’
‘A fuss?’
‘She thought she’d been short-changed by the gentleman who gave it to her.’ Miss Cooper’s smile was scornful. ‘She was sensitive about things like that; though not much else.’
Madden weighed the remark. It seemed he was being invited to probe further.
‘It was a present from a man, was it?’
‘Like most other things Portia possessed. She was—how shall I put it—acquisitive.’ Miss Cooper’s smile had turned wintry. ‘Her other outstanding quality was ambition, which is a terrible thing to be burdened with when it’s not allied to talent.’
‘I take it you didn’t care for her.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
She handed the pendant back to him. Madden slipped it into his pocket.
‘I just wonder why you had her as a flatmate.’
‘Do you, indeed?’ Miss Cooper removed her monocle. ‘Well, I don’t mind telling you. I was rather taken with her charms, and being a shrewd little minx, at least where that area of life was concerned, she led me to believe that she wasn’t wholly opposed to the idea.’
She regarded him quizzically.
‘Are you shocked?’
‘Not at all.’
‘What she actually needed at the time was a place to stay, and she probably also thought that I might be of some help to her in the business. She still harboured ambitions as an actress at that stage in her career.’
‘At that stage? Did her ambitions change while she was staying with you? Was she looking to make her mark some other way?’
The question seemed to intrigue Miss Cooper. She drew back to study her visitor.
‘For someone who is just doing a favour for an old colleague, you seem remarkably interested in the late Miss Blake; and better informed about this business than I would have thought possible.’
‘I spent a fascinating day with Mr Derry down in Kent.’ Madden contrived to look apologetic. ‘Although I wasn’t expecting it he showed me over the ground where the murder took place and explained how it came about. I wondered what Miss Blake was doing there; why she was included in Sir Jack Jessup’s house party.’
‘A nobody like her—is that what you mean?’
‘I wouldn’t put it that way. She just seemed out of place. According to Mr Derry she had been brought down from London by a business associate of Jessup’s. But they don’t seem to have been a couple in any sense.’
‘You’re referring to Fu Manchu?’
Seeing the look on his face, she laughed.
‘Or should I say, Mr Stanley Wing?’
‘Did you know him?’ Madden spoke after a pause.
‘Hardly.’ She shrugged. ‘I only saw him once when he came here to pick her up. “My Chink”, Portia called him. Once she actually did refer to him as Fu Manchu and said he was a wily oriental and she didn’t trust him an inch. As far as I could gather they had some sort of business arrangement.’
‘Do you know what that was?’
She shook her head. ‘Only that it had to do with jade. Portia had been wearing various bits of jewellery for some weeks, but they didn’t belong to her. They had been lent her by Mr Wing. He took her to some parties and functions. She was showing them off for him.’
‘Was the pendant one of those pieces? I thought it belonged to her.’
‘So it did.’ She lit a fresh cigarette.
‘Do you know who gave it to her?’
Miss Cooper shook her head again. ‘We didn’t share confidences. In fact we were never really on friendly terms, and after a few months I told her she ought to start looking for other lodgings.’
‘Could it have been Mr Wing?’
‘Possibly. Although he didn’t sound like the sort of man who gave girls presents. The other kind were more Portia’s cup of tea and she had no scruples when it came to making them cough up.’
Her laugh had a cruel edge.
‘Early on in our brief acquaintance she admitted that she’d put it over on one of her swains by telling him she was pregnant. He not only gave her money to take care of the problem, which was wholly fictional, but a lovely wristwatch from Cartier by way of consolation.’
She was watching his expression as she spoke.
‘Just because Portia was a rotten actress didn’t mean she wasn’t gifted in other areas. It’s true her fair limbs never graced my sheets, but they certainly found their way into other beds; or so I deduced from the hours she kept. She’d had a brief liaison with some lordling before I met her and managed to claw her way into society. She got invited to parties, and when we were still on speaking terms she would drop names like confetti, the sort you might see in the gossip columns. Little idiot!’
Miss Cooper spat out the words in disgust.
‘She thought she was one of them. But the men were just passing her around.’
‘Did you ever meet any of them?’ Madden asked.
‘Why? Does it matter?’ Her glance had sharpened.
‘Not really. I just wondered.’
‘Did any of them spend the night here? Is that what you’re asking?’ She laughed. ‘Not to my knowledge, though there were times when I was away in the provinces. As far as I know her assignations took place elsewhere and didn’t always last all night. I used to hear her coming in at three or four on the morning, so I imagine it was often a case of “Thank you, my dear, that was delightful and here’s five pounds for the taxi.”’
‘They were not what you’d call affairs, then?’
‘Affairs . . . ?’
‘They didn’t last long?’
‘About as long as the average mayfly’s earthly existence. Poor little Portia. She was out of her depth. One moment she’d be riding high, talking about Buffy, or darling Ferdie, and telling me how they were about to take her to Paris, or to go skiing in the Alps; the next she’d be dropped like a hot potato and retire to her bed in tears.’
‘Still, when you said she had other ambitions, is that what you meant?’
She picked up the monocle again and fixed it to her eye.
‘How quick you are, Mr Madden.’ She studied him. ‘Not quite the farmer, are we, or not altogether? Are you sure you’re not with the police still?’
‘Quite sure.’ He held her gaze.
‘Yes, Portia’s ambitions had shifted from the stage by then. I think she saw herself as married to one of these sprigs of the aristocracy she met at the parties she went to; she began to picture herself in tweeds managing a great country house; Lady Muck in all but name. I told her she was losing touch with reality, but I don’t think she listened. She would have hated to hear me say it, but underneath it all she was still little Sadie Mott from Ipswich.’ She caught her questioner’s eye. ‘Yes, that was her real name, but she ditched it early on. She must have found it hard to picture in lights.’
Madden was silent. He was thinking about what she had told him.
‘Do you remember when she was given the pendant?’ he asked, after a pause. ‘Was it around the time she met Wing?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’ Miss Cooper stifled a yawn. ‘The only time I saw it was just before she went off to Kent with him. She was wearing it. I hadn’t noticed it before and she showed it to me. That’s when she complained about the flaw. “You’d think he could have afforded something better,” she said. She was quite put out.’
‘But you don’t know who “he” was?’
This time she didn’t bother to hide her yawn.
‘I’ve already told you I don’t. By that time I was simply putting up with her presence until she found new digs. We seldom exchan
ged more than a few words.’
She put out her cigarette and removed the monocle from her eye.
‘So? Is that it? Have you tied up your loose end?’
‘I believe so.’ Madden made to leave.
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Return the pendant to Mr Derry and tell him what you’ve told me: that it could be the one that belonged to Portia Blake. It’ll be up to him to decide what to do with it.’
‘And you’re sure there’s nothing more you require of me?’ Her tone was mocking.
Madden hesitated.
‘There is one thing I’m curious about,’ he said. ‘How did Portia come to meet Stanley Wing?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I never asked her. Does it matter?’
‘Can you describe him for me? What was your impression of him that time when he came to collect her?’
‘Now, that is an interesting question.’
She reached again for her cigarettes.
‘He was here when I got back from wherever I had gone that afternoon. I found him waiting while Portia got ready. They were going somewhere together. She had mentioned him before so I wasn’t surprised when he introduced himself. From what Portia said I had thought he was pure Chinese; but it was obvious from his features that he had European blood in him. His eyes were very dark, almost black. He made little effort to converse with me. He wasn’t rude exactly, but his manner was dismissive. My presence was an irritation to him. He kept looking at his watch as though every moment he was forced to spend in my company was tedious and distasteful to him. It was a memorable few minutes.’
Her laugh was hollow.
‘There I was in my own sitting-room being quietly despised by a male of dubious origin. I had half a mind to ask him to leave; but he hadn’t quite given me cause. Then Portia appeared with a flurry of excuses and apologies. She’d been delayed somewhere and had been late getting back to change. It was plain she was nervous in his presence.’
‘Nervous . . . ?’
‘I’d never seen her like that with anyone before. On the whole she tended to hide whatever insecurities she felt behind a mask of pretended confidence and she certainly thought that she knew how to deal with men—the kind she mixed with, anyway—flirting with them one moment and scolding them the next. But it was plain Mr Wing was a horse of another colour. He didn’t respond to any of her chatter. He simply looked at his watch and said: “You are late.” And with that they left.’
She drew thoughtfully on her cigarette.
‘I say nervous, but I think I’m being overly generous to Portia. I had the distinct impression that underneath it all she was just the teeniest bit afraid of him.’
• • •
Audrey Cooper stood on the landing listening to the footsteps of her visitor as he went down the stairs. After she had heard the street door open and close she went back inside. Lighting another cigarette, she stretched out on the chaise longue and stared at the ceiling.
‘I wonder . . .’ she mused aloud.
Just then the door at the rear of the sitting-room opened and a young woman stuck her head in.
‘Has he gone, Aud?’
‘Like the wind, my sweet. Were you listening?’
‘No, of course not.’
The young woman came in. Pretty in a doll-like way, with blonde curls and bee-stung lips, she wore a blue cocktail dress cut lower than was customary, showing the rounded tops of her breasts.
‘Who was he?’
‘A farmer, he said, though I found that hard to swallow.’
Miss Cooper drew thoughtfully on her cigarette.
‘What did he want?’
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t know what to make of him: a bit of a dark horse, our Mr Madden. Very polite on the surface; but I can’t help feeling there was more to him than met the eye. And more he could have told me as well.’
Miss Cooper expelled a long plume of tobacco smoke into the air. The girl came around the chaise longue and stood in front of her. Born Gladys Wainwright, she now went by the name of Pixie Du Pre, and until its recent demise had been dancing in the chorus of a West End musical.
‘Good God!’ Audrey Cooper’s eyebrows went up. ‘Why are you dressed that way? You look like a tart.’
‘I told you. I’m going to Bobby Bishop’s party. Hugh Grantham will be there. He’s casting Fortune’s Child next week and it’ll be a chance to meet him.’
‘Well, you won’t catch his eye in that get-up, darling. Hugh dances at the other end of the ballroom. I know whereof I speak. And take some of that lipstick off, for heaven’s sake, or he’ll think you’re auditioning for a corner on Curzon Street. Here—you can use my handkerchief.’
She drew the somewhat soiled object from her shirt pocket and held it up. The girl snatched it from her.
‘Ooh, you can be nasty.’
She went to a mirror hanging on the wall at the side of the room and set to work on her face.
‘And just because dear Hugh’s eye will be occupied elsewhere, don’t imagine for a moment that there won’t be other men on the prowl, or women, come to that, with quite different thoughts in mind. Behave yourself.’
‘You know I will.’ The girl glanced over her shoulder. ‘You can trust me.’
‘Can I, my little Pixie?’ Miss Cooper yawned. ‘Funny how that word always brings betrayal to mind.’
Without warning she got up suddenly and went to a writing-desk in a corner of the room. Sitting down in front of it she began to go through the small drawers, pulling them out one at a time and scrabbling through the contents.
‘I’m sure I put them here,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I couldn’t have thrown them out.’
‘What are you looking for?’ The girl was examining her reflection in the mirror.
‘Nothing you need bother your pretty little head about.’
Miss Cooper slammed the last drawer shut.
‘Damn!’
She sat scowling at the wall. Then her face changed.
‘Hang on, though . . . !’
Springing to her feet, she strode across the room and disappeared through the door which Pixie had left open. The girl, meantime, had finished with her face. After a last glance in the mirror she took a light coat from a hook by the front door and slipped it on.
‘I’m going now, Aud,’ she called out.
Miss Cooper reappeared. She had a small wooden box in her hands. Clearing a space on the table in the middle of the room where the scripts lay piled, she emptied the contents onto it. They proved to be an assortment of costume jewellery—rings, bangles, necklaces—plus some odds and ends in the shape of loose beads, a broken wristwatch and a bunch of keys. She stared at them for a long moment.
‘I don’t believe it.’
Unsure what she was supposed to do, Pixie hovered by the door. ‘Aud, I have to go . . .’
‘Shhh . . . !’
Miss Cooper’s frown came back, fiercer than before.
‘Let me think.’
She lifted her gaze from the table and stared out the window. Then, with a gesture that might have been rehearsed for the stage, she slapped her forehead audibly.
‘But of course . . . you idiot, Audrey!’
She picked up the box, an ornate object whose lid was decorated with a leafy intaglio design, and searched with her fingertips along its bottom edge until she found what she was looking for. There was a pause, and then, like magic, a shallow drawer slid out of the box. Miss Cooper stared at its contents for a long moment. A smile came to her lips.
‘Bingo!’ she said.
• • •
Late getting back from Chelsea—at that hour, near the end of the working day, taxis were hard to come by—Madden returned to St John’s Wood to find the pavement outside Aunt Maud’s house crowded w
ith pieces of furniture that were being loaded by three men into a removal van bearing the name of an auction house painted on its panelled sides. Alice stood on the doorstep with her arms folded, watching them with an eagle eye.
‘This is the first lot from upstairs, sir,’ she told Madden when he had picked his way through the clutter and joined her. ‘They’ll be back next week for the heavy stuff. I’ve told them to leave our beds until last.’
His daughter was already home from work and impatiently awaiting his return.
‘What did she have to say? Is it Portia’s pendant? Are we on the right track?’
Busy in the kitchen choosing a supper for them from among Aunt Maud’s hoard of contraband delicacies, Lucy paused in her examination of the tins she had lined up on the table to interrogate her father.
‘Did she swallow your story about Mr Derry wanting to send the pendant back to Portia’s family?’
‘As I remember, that was your story,’ Madden replied stiffly. ‘And I thought for a moment she’d seen through it. It would have served me right for telling fibs.’
‘Well . . . ?’ Lucy waited impatiently. Her father had disappeared into the larder. ‘Did you like her? Miss Cooper, I mean? Was she another glamorous actress, like Portia Blake?’
‘Far from it.’ He reappeared with a bottle of beer in his hand. ‘She was spiteful and mean-spirited . . . and dressed like a scarecrow to boot.’
‘Oh, dear . . . !’ Downcast for a moment, Lucy bit her lip. ‘But what did she have to say? What did she tell you?’
‘Oh, I can’t go into that.’ Frowning, Madden removed the cap from his beer. He searched for a glass. ‘It wouldn’t be proper.’
‘Not proper . . . ?’
‘It was too squalid for your tender ears.’ Smiling, he took a glass from the cupboard and began to fill it with beer.
‘Daddy . . . !’ There was a warning note in her voice.
‘You don’t want to know about the seamy side of life. Not yet.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ Lucy exploded. ‘What makes you think I don’t know about it already?’
Madden drew back. ‘I’m glad your mother didn’t hear you say that.’
The Death of Kings Page 7