I got my breath back and took in the fact that Alice was standing staring at the kitchen sink. I followed her over there and was struck, immediately.
“Is this how they found it, or has someone ... ?”
“No!” Alice interrupted, “This is how it was.”
“But,” I stopped myself, not wanting to embarrass Alice.
“Go on,” she implored.
“It’s never ever been like this. Look!” I picked up the gleaming milk saucepan then dropped it back immediately.
“There are no finger prints, I made them check,” said Alice.
“I wonder,” I began, “if I could be perfectly and completely honest and you not take offence?”
“If you’re going to say that my mother kept a filthy, shambolic kitchen and her disgusting sticky, never-washed milk saucepan was the talk of the street, then don’t worry, I knew.”
I really didn’t know what to say. Mrs Wilcox’s housekeeping, or rather lack of it, had been legendary in our suburb. A view of her milk saucepan was regarded as a coup and would be the talk of the street. As a rule I didn’t join in gossip, but I have to confess to being fascinated by her complete disregard for, or any attempt to, keep up appearances. There was something delicious about living next door to a woman who didn’t give a hoot about convention generally, and housekeeping in particular.
Mrs Wilcox’s milk saucepan became the symbol for this. It was unbelievably filthy. Thickly encrusted with ring after ring of stale milk, I never saw it clean. While her friends would often be imbibing large quantities of alcohol, she’d be heating up more milk for yet another of her rich, dark, hot chocolates. She said the chocolate stimulated her creativity and, if she wanted to stay up all night to keep going on a piece of work, that was what she used. She offered me one once and ridges of aged, yellowy milk popped into my mind and I almost gagged.
Alice and I sat on either end of the sofa where Mrs Wilcox had done so many of her drawings. We put the gleaming milk saucepan on the coffee table in front of us.
“I know it looks like suicide. An empty bottle of sleeping pills was on the draining board.”Alice swallowed tears. “But ... the kitchen, the milk saucepan, was as you see it.”
“You don’t think, if she had decided to take her life, that she may have had one final clean up?”
As soon as I said it, I knew it was absurd. Mrs Wilcox had that rare talent, among women anyway, of not noticing mess. When I think of how many hours I’ve put into keeping house, cleaning, wiping, tidying for visitors! It probably adds up to years. Scratch the surface of every housewife and you may well find a talented painter, sculptor or writer, if only she had the time!
“The delivery girl who found her called the police. They were here when I arrived. When I explained to the detective how a clean up was totally out of character, he laughed. ‘Foul play suspected on account of a clean milk saucepan? Sorry love. The doctor had no hesitation in signing the death certificate’.”
‘But Alice, the alternative ... it’s just too awful to contemplate. It means ...”
“Someone killed her,” Alice finished the sentence.
We were both absolutely stunned. Although I’d found the idea of Mrs Wilcox’s taking her own life hard to swallow, I hadn’t let myself think about what it meant if it wasn’t suicide. I certainly hadn’t let the word ‘murder’ enter my consciousness. A prickle of fear crept up my neck.
“Can we be absolutely sure it wasn’t suicide?” I asked.
“She didn’t leave a note. She abhorred drugs. She wouldn’t even take an Aspirin,” Alice continued. “Where would she have got prescription sleeping pills? She didn’t see doctors.”
“Alice, she did get some sleeping pills. She went to the doctor about two weeks ago.”
Alice’s face was stricken.
“Two weeks ago,” I said gently, “your mother told me she was having trouble sleeping. She asked me if I had I noticed any unusual noises at night? I wondered if it could be a prowler and offered to call the police. She refused and, when I telephoned next day, although she was edgy, she said everything was alright. She’d been to the doctor, who prescribed sleeping tablets.”
This timing struck a chord with Alice.
“Two weeks ago mother called my work, said she needed help. This was totally unprecedented. She never called me, nor asked for help. We had hardly any contact. We met so rarely, all we had were brief conversations about our work. Anyway, I was in South America picking up a colony of ants when I got the message. I called immediately and she said ‘You’re no use to me on the phone’. I tried to cut my trip short but there were no planes. As soon as we landed here, I settled the ants and dashed to her side. She said, ‘Problem solved’. I pressed her, but she refused to tell me, and we had a blazing row. That was the last time we spoke.”
Alice took off her glasses and sobbed. Deep, throaty moaning sobs. I found tissues, fetched a glass of water and patted her until she calmed down.
“You’re not feeling responsible, are you, Alice? When the police came next door and questioned me about her mental state ...” I hesitated then said, “I told them she’d been pretty fed up about her eyesight fading.”
“She wasn’t depressed,” countered Alice. “Worried, yes. The last time we spoke about her work she said, ‘I’m in my Monet phase’. He struggled with blindness, you know. I know she didn’t do it. I want an autopsy. I’m not having a funeral until I’m convinced that there was no foul play. I’m sorry to burden you, Mrs T. I couldn’t think of anyone else to tell.”
“You’re not to worry on my account,” I chastened Alice. “I’m honoured to be in your confidence. But, what can be done? If the police accept that it’s suicide ...?”
Alice looked defeated.
“Alice, I don’t want you to worry anymore,” I said in my most positive voice. “If the police won’t do anything, we’ll investigate it ourselves.”
Alice’s smile broke through her tears.
“I knew I could rely on you.”
I must confess, lying in the dark, hours later, wound up like a clock and unable to keep still let alone sleep, I wondered if, given my high blood pressure and the fact that I’ll be eighty next month, I hadn’t taken on rather too much.
Alice and I speculated about Mrs Wilcox’s worries and our case for the rest of the afternoon. Perhaps Mrs Wilcox had been worried about security? A few years ago Alice insisted her mother upgraded ail her locks. She’d refused an alarm system, but security screens had been fitted over all windows. Given that there’s a great deal of valuable art in the house, this was an excellent idea. Many of Mrs Wilcox’s paintings are in art galleries and private collections, but she’d held onto favourites. Add friends’ work, many well known, and you have a valuable stash. Maybe the ‘unusual noises’ Mrs Wilcox heard were from someone trying to get in?
“There’s something very odd in here,” said Alice and she took me into her mother’s bedroom. The room, unlike any other in the house, was completely bare of art. However, there were distinctive marks on the wall that showed where the paintings had been.
“There were twenty-five,” said Alice. “All of Beatrix. She said she’d never part with them. I know they were here before I left for South America.”
“Do you think they’ve been stolen?” I asked.
“No,” said Alice and showed me a book her mother kept of who bought her paintings and where they were. Under ‘Beatrix X 25’, it simply said: ‘Lent Out. Safe Place.’ It was clearly Mrs Wilcox’s handwriting.
Other works were listed as in the State and national art galleries and with individuals. The Remingtons, of course, had the most substantial collection.
The Remingtons, Honey Remington specifically, had been Mrs Wilcox’s patron. She’d recognised Mrs Wilcox’s genius right from the beginning and it had been a mutually beneficial relationship. Mrs Wilcox’s work was the instigation for the now famous Remington Gallery. The Remingtons’ money had allowed Mrs Wilcox to flourish a
nd not have to worry about teaching to make ends meet.
It hadn’t been without its pressures, though. When Honey Remington decided to mount an exhibition, she’d be here on a daily basis making sure that Mrs Wilcox was applying herself and meeting her deadlines.
“Given that whatever happened is most likely related to your mother’s work, our first investigative port of call should be Mrs Remington.”
But when Alice looked in her diary, she couldn’t find a spot for us to meet with Mrs Remington until the middle of next week. Not only did Alice have her usual busy schedule, but she was on call to observe special activities in the South American ant colony. Just then, as if to prove how busy she was, her emergency beeper went off.
“You go, dear. I’ll let you know what I find out,” I said.
Next morning, not early—I was acquainted with Mrs Remington’s habits from years ago—I headed for the best street in town and knocked on her door.
I would have recognised Mrs Remington anywhere, although I hadn’t seen her for more years than I cared to count. She was a tall woman, still very upright, and she cut a striking figure with her blonde hair (although that would be dyed these days) and piercing, blue eyes. She still favoured beautifully cut beige suits, understated jewellery and the glow that comes from being exceedingly pampered.
She didn’t recognise me, which wasn’t surprising. However, the length of time she took to register who I was reminded me how rude she was if she thought you not worth bothering with.
At first, walking past matching luggage in the hallway, I had a flash of amateur detective glory, thinking I’d come to the right place at the right time. I imagined apprehending a guilty Mrs Remington as she tried to escape the country.
She sat me down, ordered me tea and explained she’d just come back from a three-month cruise (so much for my citizen’s arrest), then shed a few tears about Mrs Wilcox.
I asked her if she thought Mrs Wilcox had committed suicide?
“Anita would never take her own life! Her work may have taken a dive in popularity over the last two decades and prices dropped, but she was still working, healthy, positive! No!”
I ventured to suggest that if it hadn’t been suicide, then foul play must have been involved. Mrs Remington was so horrified she all but pushed me out the door. On the way I did glean that she no longer had anything to do with the Remington Gallery. Her son Stewart had the reins. I also detected hostility. Stewart was always a difficult child, neglected, despite being surrounded by wealth. He’d performed oddly spiteful acts of which Mrs Remington never believed him capable.
On the doorstep, I asked about Miss Duke. She hesitated, then said, “Beatrix is well looked after. She’s at ‘The Laurels’
Then she closed the door.
There was only one ‘The Laurels’ in the phone book. I rang, said who I was, that I was the neighbour of the recently deceased Mrs Wilcox, ‘Anita’, and asked did they have a Miss Beatrix Duke? I was informed that I wasn’t on any of their inhabitants’ visitor lists. Visits weren’t encouraged as disruptions to routine caused distress. I asked, did The Laurels specialise in dementia? Although there was no absolute ‘yes’ reply, there was enough hesitation to convince me that this was indeed the case.
That night as I was having my sandwiches, Alice called and said, “Switch on the TV news.” When I did, there was Stewart Remington, grin barely concealed, standing outside the Remington Gallery, being interviewed alongside another man who looked just like him. Stewart said that even though only a few days had passed since her death, Anita’s work was enjoying a massive upturn in demand and Remington Gallery was mounting an exhibition in response.
I was particularly alerted when he said that there was a glaring hole in his collection. The ‘Beatrix’ series, paintings Anita made of her muse, were missing. He made a plea that anyone holding them comes forward, for they were essential for the retrospective and would command a high price.
Minutes later, Alice was on my doorstep in a flap. There was something she hadn’t told me.
“Actually, until that news broadcast, I hadn’t put it together,” Alice wouldn’t sit but paced, hands clasping and unclasping. “Did you notice the man standing next to Stewart?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I noticed how alike they are.”
“That’s Marcus. Marcus appeared at my gym.”
It was so difficult to imagine Alice at the gym, I must have made a face.
“I have to go because I get back pain. Hunching over at the lab, computer,” she justified.
“That’s marvellous, Alice. Everyone recommends it,” I encouraged.
“Marcus said he’d been an aerobics instructor and wanted to help me. He thought the gym was lax with people who weren’t sporty. He asked me out, took me shopping, to his hairdresser. Recommended contact lenses. He’s twenty years younger and I was waiting for the catch. After a couple of months I abandoned caution and I asked him, begged, practically, to come to bed. Immediately afterwards, he started in about mother. Where were the Beatrix paintings? I knew, or rather assumed, they were in mother’s bedroom, but said I didn’t know. Next day he came to the gym and barged into the ladies’ change rooms. ‘Where are the paintings?’ he shouted. I was naked, frightened. I said, ‘I don’t know!’ Suddenly he seemed to believe me. ‘You really don’t, do you? You disgusting, old ... ‘ There was more. I left for South America that night. If only I’d told mother!”
That evening Alice accepted tea and some of my home-baked biscuits before going next door to stay.
Early next morning Alice called, distressed. When I offered to come over she said no, she’d come to me, for my house had always been a haven.
Apparently Alice, wearing only her mother’s nightie, had been going through some papers when Stewart rapped on the glass doors. Alice got quite a shock and she had the feeling that this was just the effect he’d wanted. He barged his way in and wanted to know where were the missing twenty-five paintings?
She got rid of him, but she was very shaky.
Alice and I discussed everything we’d found out so far and decided to call the police. But when Alice recounted our story to the detective, that Mrs Wilcox had telephoned Alice in South America and had called in on me, of Marcus’s aggression, and of both his and Stewart’s obsession with the missing paintings and, of course, the clean milk saucepan, I could tell she wasn’t making much of an impression.
Alice was very down when she got off the telephone.
I wanted to cheer her up and decided to show her my painting. I didn’t say it was me and, given her reaction, I’m glad I didn’t.
“Another person totally besotted by Anita,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” I was thrown.
“Leaning forward, look of intense longing, parted lips, parted legs,” Alice spoke as if ticking items off on a list.
“You’re reading too much into it,” I defended.
“Erect nipples?”
“She was cold.”
“There’s a huge fire burning behind her.”
Not able to bear any more, I put the painting away.
After Alice left, a memory of sitting for the painting appeared, unsummoned. As if it were yesterday, I felt the touch of Mrs Wilcox’s cool fingers as she adjusted my hair, the ripples of desire that flooded through me.
The first time I’d become aware of Mrs Wilcox’s varied love life was when Mrs Honey Remington, having commissioned an exhibition, was panicking about Mrs Wilcox not meeting her deadlines. She insisted I use my spare key to let her in next door.
There’d been a party at the Wilcox’s for days, but the noise had died down overnight and I thought they’d all left for one of their mad camping trips.
Much against my better judgement I unlocked the studio and Mrs Remington barged past me. Bottles, glasses, full ashtrays were strewn everywhere and there, in beautiful morning light streaming down from the skylight, were Mrs Wilcox and Mrs Duke naked on the rug (doing exactly what, I�
�ve never been able to fathom). Mrs Remington gave forth a stream of profanities and left. It took Mrs Wilcox weeks to forgive me and she never gave me the spare key again.
It was much later that night, when the memories began to fade and our present fix loomed large that I, unable to sleep, came up with my plan.
Strictly speaking, Remington’s Gallery wasn’t open while the huge exhibition of Mrs Wilcox’s work was being mounted. The treacherous Marcus let me in when I told him I had one of the paintings they talked about on the television.
I was shown upstairs to Stewart’s swanky office with its view of the park. Behind his desk in a neat kitchen, galley style, I think they call it, was Stewart, sporting rubber gloves, scrubbing away at a stainless steel percolator.
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