Dead to the World

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘No name?’ Holt asked.

  ‘Apparently not, sir.’

  Holt frowned, feeling rather irritable after a bumpy return journey on the top of a double-decker bus. ‘Well, was it a lady or a gentleman?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. I’ve only just come on duty. Would you like to telephone from the desk here? I can get the number for you straightaway.’

  Holt agreed and a few moments later the clerk nodded to him to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Hello,’ said a female voice.

  ‘This is Philip Holt speaking.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Holt, how very kind of you to ring. I tried to get you earlier but it seems you were out.’

  ‘Your voice is charming but it would help if I knew your name.’

  There came an infectious chuckle from the other end of the line. ‘How stupid of me! This is Antoinette Sheen.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘I heard you were in these parts. I think we ought to meet.’

  Holt shared her opinion but was curious to know what her motives might be. ‘May I ask why you think we ought to meet, Miss Sheen?’

  ‘Certainly, you may,’ the husky voice answered pleasantly. ‘I have two very good reasons. Firstly, I’ve something to give you – something in connection with Vance Scranton. And secondly, as I imagine you’ve been told a pack of lies about me and my relationship with the boy, I think it’s only fair that I should be given a chance to defend myself.’

  ‘I see. That sounds reasonable enough. Where can we meet?’

  ‘Could you possibly come out to my bungalow? I’m on a painting jag and if I have to leave it means cleaning myself up and all that bore.’

  ‘Very well. What’s the address?’

  ‘I live at East Dean. The bungalow is painted a dreadful shade of salmon pink – it stands alone in the middle of a field …’ She gave an ironic laugh and added, ‘Ideal for amateur burglaries.’

  ‘What makes you say that? Are you a victim?’

  ‘You could put it like that. Someone broke into my bedroom the other day when I was out, but nothing was stolen. Now, do you think you can find the way? It’s just before the road branches off for Birling Gap. You have a car, I take it?’

  ‘I had a car, but now I shall have to hire one. My own got buckled up this morning. Oddly enough, Miss Sheen, the accident took place near Birling Gap, not far from East Dean.’

  ‘Really? How strange. I haven’t heard anything about it. But then, I’ve only just got back from my daily ride.’

  ‘Your daily ride, did you say?’ Holt said quickly. ‘Do you mean – er – horses?’

  She chuckled delightedly. ‘Of course, Mr Holt. What did you think I meant – bicycles?’

  Over lunch at the hotel Holt told Ruth about the invitation.

  ‘She said she’d heard I was down here,’ he added. ‘News certainly travels fast.’

  ‘It always does in small communities,’ Ruth reminded him. ‘We’ve been here nearly twenty-four hours, remember – plenty of time for our whereabouts to have been circulated to the College and East Dean and half-way round the Sussex coast by now.’

  ‘It probably just confirms what you said about Antoinette Sheen being at the College this morning,’ Holt conceded.

  ‘So now we’re going to meet the gorgeous Antoinette! What time do we leave?’

  ‘Not we, my dear. The invitation was only for one.’ He held up his hand to cut off her protests.

  ‘But she’ll eat you alive!’ Ruth exclaimed.

  ‘I’m remarkably indigestible,’ he said happily. ‘Ask my ex-wife. Besides, it would look ridiculous if I had to lug you along as a kind of chaperone or nanny!’

  Ruth looked miserable. ‘How do you suggest I spend my time this afternoon while you’re being seduced by this … this lethal charmer?’

  ‘Ring up Inspector Hyde and tell him what happened to the Mustang’s brakes. Give him an account of our visit to the College and ask him to check up on Professor Dalesford’s background. And you can ask him when the devil he’s going to come up with some facts about the Prospero article and the Christopher postcards … and those photographs you so cleverly took of Curly’s pals in the delivery van.’ Holt beamed at her as he rose to his feet.

  She retorted with heavy sarcasm, ‘I’m so touched by the last remark. It makes me feel really wanted.’

  Holt set off alone for the bungalow, in a hired Cortina. Driving down the exceptionally steep hill which dropped with switchback suddenness into East Dean he was forcibly reminded of the farmhand’s prediction: ‘Yew’d have been killed for sure.’ He had escaped one trap; was he walking wide-eyed into another? It seemed that Miss Sheen’s residence was conveniently close to the spot where he had parked the car that morning. Quite possibly she could have followed them from the College, then saddled her horse and … But, in that case, why admit she had been riding? And what about that glimpse of blonde hair? Antoinette was not a blonde, that much he knew even though he had never met her. A blonde wig? A yellow hat or scarf? Rule out the first two, but a scarf was quite a possibility …

  He soon spotted the bungalow, salmon-pink in a blaze of sunshine in the middle of a field (‘ideal for amateur burglaries’ – what an odd remark). He parked the car in a small copse some distance away and completed the journey on foot. He did not actually intend spying on the girl, but on the other hand there seemed no point in announcing his presence too far in advance.

  As a result, Antoinette Sheen was too engrossed in her work to notice his approach across the field. The ‘painting jag’ she had spoken of was apparently in full swing; she had her back to him as she stood at an oil-painting propped on an easel. Soft autumnal sunlight flooded in through the open French windows and rimmed her long, tawny hair with golden fire. He noticed she was wearing jodhpurs and a thin yellow shirt with sleeves rolled up. It was tied with a sash in a knot at the back and emphasised the striking slimness of her waist.

  Holt’s eyes widened when he saw what she was painting. It was a copy of one of his favourite pictures, Vermeer’s The Kitchen Maid. The painting was almost completed; only the bread and a corner of the table had yet to be tackled. It was clear that the finished result would be a remarkably accurate reproduction of the great Dutchman’s original work.

  He was startled when, without turning round, she spoke to him.

  ‘Do you like it, Mr Holt?’

  ‘I … I really must apologise,’ he began.

  ‘Whatever for? Let’s say, my painting was so arresting that it halted you in mid-stride!’ There was an unmistakable lilt of amusement in her voice. She turned to face him. ‘Or were you admiring my figure? I’m told it’s pretty good, even in this Farmer Giles outfit.’

  She took down a mirror which was perched on top of the easel and, with no attempt to hide her vanity, pushed and prodded at her hair with the handle of a paintbrush. The yellow shirt was cut alarmingly low and seemed to have been designed without the use of buttons; fold-over lapels which met in the sash at the back were supposed to take care of the proprieties. They did not do a very secure job.

  ‘Your figure is undoubtedly very attractive,’ Holt said. ‘But to tell the truth it was the canvas that stopped me. Vermeer happens to be a minor passion of mine.’

  She gave a peal of laughter. ‘How refreshing to find an honest man. Most men would have settled for easy flattery.’

  Holt went closer to the easel and looked carefully at her work. ‘The biggest test still lies ahead of you.’

  A worried frown crossed her face. ‘What do you mean, exactly?’

  ‘The bread on the table. Vermeer painted those loaves three hundred years ago and—’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say!’ she cut in with genuine enthusiasm. ‘Three centuries ago – yet if you walk into the Rijks Museum today and go straight to Room 225 you feel you can almost snatch the bread off the table and eat it, it looks so crisp and appetising.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s your challenge! Flu
nk that, and you may as well take up pop art.’

  For some minutes of animated conversation they continued to explore their common interest in art. It was a chance remark of Antoinette’s which brought the ugly present back into the room.

  ‘I don’t remember having such a good natter about painting since Vance was last here,’ she said.

  There was a pregnant silence.

  ‘Did he paint too?’ Holt asked.

  ‘No, he couldn’t handle a brush very well, but he was tremendously knowledgeable about art, its techniques, history, and so on. He was very knowledgeable about everything, to tell the truth. His real talent lay in writing: queer, twisted stuff, but I think he had in him the makings of something good. I notice, by the way, that you still speak of him in the past tense, as though you really believe he’s dead.’

  ‘And I notice that you do, too,’ he said.

  ‘Touché. You don’t believe this red herring of a newspaper rumour about Vance being alive?’

  ‘I don’t believe everything I see in print,’ said Holt noncommittally.

  ‘It’s an absurd story, written by an irresponsible journalist!’ She sounded angry. ‘Why try and give hope to the bereaved parents?’

  ‘You’re quite certain it was Vance who was killed?’

  ‘Of course. I identified the body.’

  ‘Did you look at it for long?’

  Antoinette pursed her lips. ‘Hardly. It was a terrible sight.’

  Holt said, ‘Mistakes sometimes happen in such cases, you know. Nobody looked for more than a few seconds – Julie Benson fainted, I believe.’

  ‘She always does, it’s standard routine with her,’ The girl laughed. ‘No wonder Vance grew out of her, she’s so determinedly helpless and still so wet behind the ears.’

  ‘Forgive me for putting it bluntly, Miss Sheen, but when Vance grew out of Julie, he – grew into you, didn’t he?’

  Antoinette’s beautiful eyes sparkled with controlled anger. ‘I rather imagined that’s what they’ve been telling you – how I seduced him, twisted his innocent mind, perverted his golden youth. Jeunesse doré indeed! Is that what you’ve heard?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What a cartload of rubbish! Vance was born with a twisted mind, a mind ten times more cynical and bitter than yours or mine will ever be. He was a little evil old man, right from the womb.’

  Holt regarded her intently, allowing her full rein.

  ‘Oh, his brain was keen enough,’ she went on, ‘but only keen to see the black side of human nature, never the good. Voltaire and the other humanists he laughed at, yet someone like Talleyrand was ideal, with his theory that diplomacy was the art of finding your opponent’s weaknesses and applying the all-powerful pressure of money at the weak spots.’

  ‘He knew the price of everything and the value of nothing?’

  ‘Yes, he admired Wilde too. Vance was crazy about money and said everyone could be bought, from a High Court Judge downwards. Heaven knows, Mr Holt, I’m no angel – I like men, I like sex, I like my freedom – but I refused to accept his cynicism. It upset me to see such good material going to rot.’

  ‘May I ask, were you lovers?’ Holt said.

  She hesitated a moment before replying, but she met his level gaze without flinching. ‘You do go in for plain speaking, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘The habit is catching,’ Holt replied.

  ‘Fair enough. Yes, we were lovers, for a while. He was handsome and virile. I liked him physically and he seemed to like me. I thought love might … I know this sounds corny, but I thought it might thaw him out, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I do see. And did it – thaw him out?’

  ‘No. The idea was naïve and quite useless.’

  ‘So you ceased to be lovers?’

  Antoinette shrugged her shoulders. ‘C’est la vie.’

  ‘Did he like that – being rejected, I mean?’

  ‘I’m several steps ahead of you, Mr Holt,’ she said, softening a little and crossing towards him. ‘Yes, I rejected him … but no, we didn’t have a quarrel.’ She smiled. ‘No, I did not present him with a rival … and no, I did not steal out of the piano recital that night and shoot him because he was pestering me … I’ve had all this out before with Inspector Hyde, you know.’ She was standing close to him now, her hands slowly reaching up to his shoulders, her eyes staring up at him, compelling him to believe her. ‘Whatever else you may think about me, Philip – and I’ve admitted I’m no angel – I want you to believe one thing. I didn’t kill Vance Scranton …’

  For a moment Holt did not move; his mind warned him that Mata Hari had used the identical technique. But his pounding blood forced him to admit that even if the wool was being pulled over his eyes it was being done in an entrancing fashion. He would think about Mata Hari afterwards …

  ‘At such close quarters … it’s rather hard not to believe you …’ he said as his arms folded over her superb body.

  ‘And I want you to continue in that belief, Philip, when we’re no longer at … quite such close quarters,’ she said softly, and raised her lips to his.

  After a very long time Antoinette released herself and stepped back. ‘I was quite right!’ she said. ‘When I saw you this morning I said, “There’s one hunk of a man!”’

  Most of Holt’s senses were still surging in the land where Antoinette’s splendid attractions had led them, but his mind reacted swiftly enough. ‘I thought you said you knew nothing about my accident?’

  ‘What accident?’

  ‘To my car, between here and Birling Gap this morning.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything about it! I was out riding, I go out riding most mornings. No, I saw you up at the College. In fact, I even passed you and that little popsy of yours on the steps.’

  ‘But Professor Dalesford told me—’

  ‘He’s an old booby who’s afraid of his own shadow! He probably said he hadn’t seen me for days. Am I right? He doesn’t like to have our names linked too much in public, and he doesn’t really like me going up to the College at all.’

  ‘For fear you will pervert the entire youth of Southern England?’

  They both laughed.

  Then Holt asked, ‘Why do you go up there? You’re not on the staff, are you?’

  ‘No, but I have permission from the College Secretary to use the library.’ She pointed casually at the bookshelves which ran the length of one wall. ‘I need it, for research on those things.’ She laughed again. ‘Bottom row, far corner – push those canvases out of the way and you’ll soon see who my favourite author is.’

  Holt followed her suggestion and examined the shelves. Tumbled in complete disorder, some in paperbacks and some in hard covers, were nine or ten historical novels, all written by Antoinette Sheen. He took out two and glanced at their contents. Deep-bosomed Plantaganet beauties and impossibly muscular French musketeers gleamed from the glossy dust-jackets very much as he had anticipated; but the books bore the imprint of a good publishing house. He was also surprised to see how wide a range of history the novels covered and what excellent reviews some of them had received, to judge by the critics’ quotes which the jackets carried.

  ‘Don’t embarrass me by looking at them too long,’ she said. ‘They’re just my bread and butter. A girl has to live.’

  Holt stood up. An interesting new theory was beginning to form at the back of his mind. As he turned to face Antoinette he found that she was holding out an envelope. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘I mentioned on the phone that I had something to give you – something in connection with Vance’s death. You’ll see now why I can’t believe in this fairy story that he’s still alive. This is a letter from the man who murdered him. I got it yesterday.’

  Holt opened the envelope. Inside was a typewritten note, and a small object wrapped in tissue paper. He read the message aloud: ‘Dear Miss Sheen, I feel quite sure that you, more than anyone else, would like to ha
ve the enclosed. It belonged to Vance Scranton.’

  Carefully he unfolded the tissue paper and held the contents in the palm of his hand.

  ‘And this did belong to Vance?’ he said at length.

  ‘Yes, that was his signet ring.’

  Back in Eastbourne, Holt turned the Cortina into the hotel drive and found a place to park. In a deeply pensive mood he approached the entrance to the hotel, where a young man with flaxen hair blocked his way.

  ‘Monsieur Holt?’ asked the stranger, with a slight foreign accent.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Please forgive me for stopping you like this. The hotel concierge pointed you out to me. My name is Henri Legere. I am a student at Deanfriston College. Please tell me,’ he went on, producing a copy of the newspaper which contained Abe Jenkins’ article, ‘is it true that Vance may be alive?’

  ‘I wish I could answer that question, Monsieur Legere. The writer of that article seems to know more than I do.’

  The young French student was not really listening, he was anxious to continue with his own story. ‘I must tell you – I am not absolutely certain – but I think I saw Vance myself this morning.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Here in Eastbourne.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘No, I was up in my room. I did not go to the College today.’

  ‘Oh, you have lodgings in the town, then?’

  ‘Lodgings?… Ah, oui, ma chambre! Yes, I share rooms with another student called Graham Brown. We have a window that looks out onto the back of a restaurant – The Golden Peacock, it is called. The door to the kitchens is in a narrow alley which is nearly always dark. That is why I am not sure that it is Vance I see. But it looked much like him. Please tell me, Monsieur Holt: is it possible that he still lives?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that one. Does this friend of yours – Graham Brown – also think he saw Vance?’

  ‘Ah no … Graham is in Scotland, visiting his parents.’

  ‘I see. So we only have your word for it. Well, keep your eyes skinned, Monsieur Legere!’