Last Nocturne

by Marjorie Eccles

  Lamb made a mental note of that. Jealousy was as good a motive for murder as anything else, although there had been no mention of any particular woman in the interviews with Theo’s friends and acquaintances.

  ‘How long did he stay in Vienna?’

  ‘Twelve months or thereabouts. I’ll tell you something…his mother and his sister were agog to hear about his life there – you know what women are. Some friend of theirs had been rhapsodising about Austria and how beautiful it was, and they were pestering me to make arrangements with Cook’s to take a cruise up the Danube, and to pay Theo a visit while we were in Vienna. Before we had the chance to do so, he arrived home and threw a wet blanket over the scheme. Vienna was too hot in summer, too cold in winter. The Danube wasn’t blue, it was the usual dun colour of rivers everywhere, and the food so heavy we’d feel as stuffed as Christmas turkeys most of the time. He was unlike himself, very morose, and refused to say any more. It upset his mother so much she abandoned the idea altogether.’

  Lamb had so far managed to divert his attention from the easel with the cover thrown over the spoilt painting and had wedged Tilly Tremayne in behind it, in order not to upset him further, but Benton didn’t appear to notice. He looked towards the stacked paintings for the last time. He said sadly, ‘Well, well,’ then fell silent. After a while, he blew his nose loudly. ‘I don’t want any of them, except the picture of the little girl. I must see about getting rid of the rest.’

  As the old man turned to go, Lamb said, ‘If it’s any consolation to you, Mr Benton, I’ve just been speaking to someone who believes your son’s work may well come into its own before many years have passed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I would rather have Theo alive and unknown than posthumously famous. The only consolation you can give me is to find his murderer.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Guy Martagon shut the door behind him as he left the glassed-in corner of the hall where the telephone was housed and strode to the stairs. Maids carrying plates of cakes covered with glass domes scurried out of his way; a footman carrying a silver tea urn stepped adroitly aside. The second of his mother’s ‘afternoons’ was shortly to begin. Avoiding with some agility the arrival of the plump tenor who was to give a Schubert lieder recital and the young woman who was to intersperse the songs with readings of her own poetry, he took the stairs two at a time to his room. Once there and the door closed behind him, he paced towards the window and stood looking out, unseeing, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Did this mean the case was going to be re-opened?

  The telephone call had been from Chief Inspector Lamb, the policeman who had been in charge of the investigation into his father’s death, telephoning to ask if he might see and talk to him again on the following day. He hadn’t been prepared to go into lengthy explanations, but Guy had immediately put his own interpretation on what little the detective had said. The death of the artist, Theo Benton, was not apparently as straightforward as it had at first seemed, and Lamb’s very caution sent out signals. His nerves already overstretched with worry over his mother and the missing letters, Guy had a keyed-up sense of things coming to a head – which was what he had wanted, yet he was stunned. Of all the possibilities, this was the one he had feared most of all. Was it in fact possible? Did such things really happen to civilised people? The thoughts chased one another around in his head and wouldn’t make sense. He had to pull himself together. Somehow, he had to get through the time until the next day.

  At that moment, his eye caught sight of Grace Thurley as she came down the front steps and began to walk rapidly away from the house in the direction of the main road. He realised suddenly that chance and necessity were for once coinciding: the ‘chance’ opportunity he had been trying to contrive for several weeks. He made a grab for his outdoor things, rushed down the stairs and out of the front door and was just able to catch up with her before she reached the corner of the square. ‘Miss Thurley!’

  She turned a startled face to him. ‘Why, Mr Martagon! You made me jump.’

  ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry, may I ask?’

  ‘I hadn’t really decided. Nowhere special, just for a walk, I suppose.’

  ‘Alone? Where is Dulcie?’ He frowned.

  ‘I’ve left her in peace in the schoolroom. I could see she was longing to seize the opportunity to get on with some drawing.’

  He could scarcely blame Miss Thurley for quitting the house this afternoon, nor Dulcie for hiding herself away – both would undoubtedly have been pressed into service had they not done so. He admired their tactics and suppressed a smile. ‘It’s very commendable of you to be so considerate of Dulcie, but nevertheless, ladies shouldn’t walk alone,’ he remarked severely.

  ‘Aren’t you a trifle out of date, Mr Martagon? Haven’t you noticed that we twentieth century women are now – theoretically, at least – free to do as we please?’

  Guy was by nature inclined to regard the feminine sex as the gentler one, despite his mother and the many other women who were nowadays doing their best to prove the opposite, and he still harboured notions of old-fashioned chivalry which had been instilled into him as a boy. And of course, women did go out independently, without a male escort, but Guy was not about to demolish his case by admitting this. Besides, he was very much afraid Grace Thurley might regard his ideas as regressive. She was quiet and composed and had a charming smile, yet he had already discovered she had a gleam in her eye and a sharp turn of phrase which he was sure it would not do to underestimate. She was looking at him now with mild amusement and he thought she might laugh outright if he were to mention the danger of pickpockets or thieves, or strange gentlemen who might try to strike up an acquaintance – though it also struck him that the look he had noticed before in those smoky blue eyes might well be the only effective deterrent needed for anyone attempting anything of the sort. He suddenly became aware of where her amusement was directed, and rather hastily buttoned his coat, adjusted his hat. He had forgotten his gloves.

  She seemed to have a way of discomfiting him. He never liked to be at a disadvantage and determined to do better as he fell into step with her, unashamedly employing the social dexterity he had learnt at his mother’s knee and had since impatiently disregarded whenever he could. ‘So you see yourself as one of these emancipated modern women, do you, Miss Thurley? I wouldn’t have thought it of you. No, of course you don’t, or you would be wearing an uncompromising hat and something disagreeable in serge, instead of that charming new outfit.’

  He was pleased to see that she wasn’t averse to the compliment, despite her self-assurance. He didn’t make pretty speeches easily but in this case he’d meant what he said. The costume she was wearing, in some sort of dark brown silky stuff, fitted her slender figure to perfection. It also showed off her honey-coloured hair, and the biscuit-coloured straw of her hat gave a glow to her fair skin. She seemed determined not to pay too much attention to the flattery, however. ‘Thank you, but my outfit isn’t new, Mr Martagon – merely as a matter of interest.’ (Had he but known it, it was the same outfit she had worn on that cold spring evening when she had given Robert his ring back – poor Robert, to whom she had scarcely given a thought since then.)

  ‘Hm. Well, merely as another matter of interest, I repeat, I don’t think you should be alone – especially on such a lovely day. You must let me escort you to wherever it is you wish to go.’ In an instant this became, neither a duty nor a way of getting through the afternoon, but a consummation of something which had been for some time devoutly desired.

  ‘I’m afraid that would be an undue trespass on your time.’

  ‘Then you may regard it as taking pity on me, if that makes you feel better. I’m presented with a free afternoon, too, and nothing to do. I daren’t stay in the house in case I get roped in. The sound of a sobbing tenor brings out the worst in me.’

  ‘Which must, of course,’ she returned, straight-faced, ‘be avoided at all costs.’

>   ‘Must it? Dear me, I didn’t believe I was so frightening. You’re not afraid of me, are you?’ People often seemed to be on the defensive where he was concerned, as if they expected for some reason to be gobbled up by him. He couldn’t think why. But Miss Thurley was not easily intimidated. ‘No, I believe you’re laughing at me. Where were you intending to walk?’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t made up my mind.’ In the short time since her arrival in London, Grace had been experiencing a heady sense of freedom and was determined to make the most of whatever time she had to herself. She went to galleries and museums; she walked, a richly rewarding pastime of which she’d grown very fond, not aiming for anywhere in particular but enjoying the prospect of coming across some new place, some gem of church architecture, an unexpected city garden. She relished going as an independent lady into teashops, alone or with Dulcie, or riding on the top deck of an omnibus. The Crown Jewels were on her list. ‘I thought I might go down to the river,’ she told him. ‘There’s practically the whole of London I’ve yet to see, and long to.’

  ‘That at least is a very refreshing attitude.’

  ‘You sound very cynical. Don’t you like London?’

  ‘Oh, I like it pretty well. As long as it isn’t confined to Mayfair. But listen, I have a better idea than looking at the Thames. It’s very dirty, you know. Have you visited Kew yet? No? Then we can go and see the lilacs and I’ll show you the Pagoda Vista, now it’s been replanted,’ he announced, and swung round to face the road and an oncoming hansom, waving his stick.

  ‘Cab, sir?’

  Before she could find reasons to demur, he had her seated next to him in the buttoned-leather interior.

  The driver didn’t seem in any hurry to draw away, and it soon became obvious that they must wait until all the passengers from a motor omnibus which had broken down in the centre of the road were transferred to a more reliable, horse-drawn one, a not unusual occurrence.

  His manoeuvring her into the cab like that had been rather high-handed, to say the least, but the silence as they waited was not at all uncomfortable. Yet even as the thought struck Grace, his pre-occupied frown returned and a tense, held-in mood seemed to come over him. His knuckles were white around the silver knob of his stick and she couldn’t help wondering if by now he were not regretting the impulse which had caused him to take pity on his mother’s little secretary. She wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be so easily coerced into this situation. There was, however, nothing else to do now but wait until their driver, perched on his high outside seat at the rear, finally cracked his whip and they were off at a smart pace towards Kew and its gardens, and Guy was being agreeable again and pointing out to her things and places of interest.

  Dulcie waited only until she was sure Grace would be quite clear of the house before settling her little dog, Nell, in her basket, pulling on her tam-o’-shanter, buttoning her coat and running out of the house, pausing only long enough at the top of the stairs to peer over the banisters and make sure the hall was, for the few moments she needed, empty. She wasn’t afraid of any of the servants seeing her because she’d taken the precaution of slinging her satchel over her shoulder, so they would presume she was going out into the square-gardens to sketch, as she so often did – but she would not have been able to explain herself had she encountered her mother.

  Her exit safely negotiated, she ran to the main road. At the first opportunity, she hopped onto an electric tram as if she’d been doing it all her life. Not at all the done thing for girls of her age and social class, and certainly not for a daughter of Edwina Martagon. But Dulcie had travelled by this mode before, with Grace, and ran up the steps to sit on the open top deck and enjoy the view and the breeze blowing on her face, trying to ignore her fright at the thought of what would happen if she were caught, but rejoicing in her dangerously snatched moment of freedom. The leaden weight of oppression that was fast becoming an almost insupportable burden, the thought of how her future life was already inexorably mapped out began to lift a little. She hardly ever had any time to herself – and she had never in her life been further afield than the square-gardens without being accompanied by a nanny or a governess, her mother or someone like Grace Thurley. Her daily life was ordered, strictly supervised, and too utterly boring and meaningless. Apart from an occasional sortie with Grace, her outings consisted almost entirely of shopping with Mama, or being commanded to take tea with other girls of whom her mother approved. She was supposed to make friends and exchange girlish confidences, discuss dressmakers and new hats and learn to curtsey in the coming-out dresses their mamas, like Dulcie’s, had already chosen, even though Dulcie herself wasn’t to come out until next year. She submitted, but did not make friends…was there no one of her own age who had their minds on anything other than giggling together and dressing up and talking of simply nothing else but the day they could be launched into society to catch a husband? She found them as unutterably boring as they evidently found her. This was much more fun, she thought, trying to prevent herself from sliding sideways on the slippery, polished wooden slats of the seat as the tram swayed round a corner.

  When at last she reached the modern block of small flats in Pimlico which was her destination, she found a card beside the door marked with several names, one of which was ‘Dart’. Yes, she had found the right place. Exhilarated at having successfully and safely negotiated unfamiliar and possibly alien territory on her own, she ran eagerly up the stairs, but her spirits sank when there was no immediate answer to her ring on the bell of the upstairs flat. Somewhat belatedly the horrid possibility occurred to her that she might have made the journey for nothing. All at once, her adventure did not seem quite so thrilling. But what else could she have done? Miss Dart had no telephone.

  She stood indecisively for some time and was about to turn away, disappointed, when the door was suddenly flung open, and after a moment’s astonished surprise an equally astonished voice was crying, ‘Darling! What on earth…?’ And there was Miss Dart herself, standing on tiptoe in order to clasp Dulcie to her bosom in a softly plump embrace.

  ‘Oh, Eugenia, may I come in? I’m so sorry if I’m disturbing you, but I simply had to see you!’

  ‘Of course you must come in, my dearest girl. You don’t think I’m going to leave you on the doormat? Come in, come in.’ She was led inside and given several more hugs and kisses. ‘But promise me you won’t be shocked and criticise my poor little bachelor-girl flat.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,’ Dulcie said as she pulled off her tammy and let Eugenia take her coat, looking around the small box-like room with something very akin to envy. ‘But in any case, it’s lovely, so modern.’ Apart from a small, old-fashioned desk under the window, replete with inkstand and pen-wiper, and from which papers flowed onto the floor, the room was furnished only with a low white table and a small matching sideboard, a sofa and an easy chair covered in pale green linen. There was only a single picture – storks and long-stemmed water lilies in an elongated frame – on the lavender-tinted wall above the gas fire. And a vivid Russian icon, which seemed very oddly placed to Dulcie, high up in one corner by the door, but perhaps that was traditionally the place for it. ‘How nice you’ve made it.’ It was a room such as this Dulcie would very much like to have for herself.

  ‘Nice enough, my dear. It’s just as well that the last word is to have everything plain and no ornaments, since that’s all I can afford. And having no distractions to my work is very restful.’ It was also an exceedingly complimentary foil to the vibrant looks and personality of its owner.

  Eugenia Dart was a small and lively person with bright, quick dark eyes. At the moment she was wearing a curious wrap-around garment in a Liberty-ish fabric, and her wild mane of curly black hair was wound around by a bandeau in the style of Romney, which singularly failed to contain its unruliness. She admitted to thirty-four, not minding about adding quite five years to her real age for added gravitas, since it also served the purpose of keepin
g away callow young men. She had never been without admirers but she was not interested in marrying. Not unless someone should turn up with a fortune and a willingness to let his wife pursue her own interests and have her own opinions – an unlikely possibility on both counts, given that she mixed with the male sex so little nowadays, and clung so determinedly to her independence. Miss Dart was a great admirer of the women’s suffrage movement.

  The extravagance of her gestures, her vivid dark looks and her volatile temperament might have marked her out as a gypsy, but both were in fact due to her mixed Russian and English parentage. She was now entirely alone in the world, which Dulcie thought very romantic, in keeping with the story of how her mother had met her father, a young author in search of copy, in St Petersburg, and how they had defied her parents by marrying. Thomas Dart had then brought his wife back to England, where Eugenia was born and where he had later died.

  She was looking expectantly at Dulcie, but now that she was here, Dulcie’s courage felt to be draining away like water through a sieve. She wasn’t at all sure now that Eugenia would be able to help her, even though she had once been her dearest friend and confidante, and despite appearances to the contrary (and certain deplorable lapses) was basically very sensible and down-to-earth. She really ought not to have troubled her, and she couldn’t think how to come to the point. She said, temporising, gesturing towards the piled desk, ‘I’m afraid I’ve interrupted your work, Eugenia. I do think it’s so awfully courageous of you to live alone and support yourself this way.’

  ‘Well, I’ve done it before – and I didn’t really have much choice, this time, did I?’ Eugenia replied drily. ‘Does your mother know you’re here, Dulcie? I’m sure she doesn’t.’