Last Nocturne

by Marjorie Eccles

  He thought of what she had told him about seeing Viktor, and his promise to find him, which he had not yet implemented.

  As he stood looking out, he saw Lamb (an unusually intelligent type, for a policeman – personable, too, with his understated tailoring and a small gold pin in his tie, not the clodhopper he had expected) glance along the street before crossing, hesitate, then take his opportunity between the traffic. Having reached the other side, he saw him pause and glance back again in the direction of the bank, and Carrington saw where – or rather, to whom – his attention was directed. To the man who was evidently having difficulty finding the correct small change to pay off his motor-cab driver. Carrington turned from the window with a cluck of annoyance. It didn’t matter in the long run, of course, but he would rather Lamb had not seen him entering Carrington’s before the negotiations for the purchase of the Pontifex Gallery were completed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Grace was horribly aware she might have been instrumental in helping to precipitate the thundercloud which presently hung over the hitherto outwardly agreeable, civilised, well-mannered Martagon household, when it became known that Guy had told the police about the stolen letters – and had, moreover, requested Chief Inspector Lamb to come round at some convenient time to discuss the matter. Dulcie was also in disgrace, adamant in her refusal to tell the truth about her visit to Miss Dart, insisting she had simply been for a tram ride – an explanation Edwina found singularly unconvincing, as well she might.

  His mother’s distress was causing Guy some qualms of conscience, which he dealt with by repeating, calmly but firmly, that the situation went beyond personal inclinations. Edwina was furious, for once regarding this action of his as something more than a young man’s maddening perversity, and declaring that nothing would make her speak to that policeman about what was purely a private matter. The servants discreetly shut their eyes and ears. Dulcie retreated into her painting. And Grace escaped one weekday afternoon to attend the four-thirty Evensong, a service she liked better on weekdays than on Sundays, when the church was crowded with the fashionable, there to see and be seen.

  It was dim and peaceful in the church and gradually the soothing beauty of the familiar chants and responses of the quietly ordered ritual began to have its usual calming effect, the tumult of the last few days receded and she felt able to view things in better perspective. She could not, however, devote her whole attention to what was going on. She watched the white-robed priest at the altar, while thinking about the lovely afternoon at Kew and the subsequent meeting with the chief inspector at the Pontifex Gallery, and began to see that, really, Guy had needed very little, if any, persuasion to tell the police about those letters. There was no doubt at all that his own instincts would have led him to the same conclusions, given time. All the same, she would try to think twice before giving her opinions again.

  When the service ended and she came out of church, she was agreeably surprised to find Guy waiting to walk her home. They might go by way of Green Park, he suggested.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be on your way from Richmond, escorting your mother home from Lady Elverdon’s luncheon party?’

  ‘I sent my regrets. My presence is abhorrent to my mother at the moment.’

  ‘You would have had a chance to change that if you’d gone with her.’

  The late afternoon was calm and very beautiful. The sun was throwing lengthening shadows across the expanse of grass, the cherry trees were foaming with blossom and tulips were standing to attention in scarlet and gold rows. Every other lady seemed to have issued forth in her new spring creation. Grace herself was again wearing her otter-brown costume and had been feeling not dissatisfied with how she looked, which was not how she felt about her actions. Her last words had shown her that she had already forgotten her vow in the church, but it was too late to alter that now.

  ‘You mean I should apologise?’ His brows came down in the familiar frown.

  ‘Would that be so difficult?’ At that moment she did feel very sorry for Mrs Martagon. ‘It would please your mother if you did.’

  ‘My poor Grace,’ he said suddenly, as if reading her thoughts, ‘I don’t suppose you bargained for this sort of thing when you left your mama and came to Embury Square. Finding yourself in the midst of a battle-ground rather than a family home.’

  ‘Your mother is as anxious as you are to have peace again. Yes, I do think you should apologise.’

  He walked on, eyes intent upon the gravel path. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve already done so, but it’s taking her a little time to accept it, since it’s too late now to alter things with the police. And I’m afraid I’m soon likely to be doing something else which will displease her if she finds out.’ He paused. ‘Grace, will you do something for me?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise unless I know what it is.’

  ‘I intend to get Mrs Amberley’s address from Miss Dart – Dulcie seems to think she must know where she is – and I’d esteem it a great favour if…I believe it would be more appropriate if you were to be with me when I go to see the lady.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise? She might not want to see you.’

  ‘Probably not, but I feel it incumbent on me to find out the truth about this child. If he or she is my sibling, well then, provision must be made. But I don’t wish to incur my mother’s wrath again – nor to pain her – by making her aware of what I intend to do.’ Mistaking her hesitation, he added, ‘I sympathise with your position in the house at the moment, believe me. To tell the truth, just now I heartily wish I was out of it myself.’

  She was silent, thinking what his last words must mean. He had journeyed beyond the mighty Himalayas and lived on the roof of the world. He had met the Dalai Lama and seen the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas. He had lived among adventurous men as free-thinking as himself, and had been part of unravelling the centuries old mystery of where the great rivers of India originated. After that, how could he be content with a life here? ‘You wish you were back in Tibet, I suppose.’

  Abruptly, he stopped and turned to her, reached out and covered her hand, little leather prayer book and all, with his large, strong one, so that she herself was forced to stop and look up. She met the grey eyes looking directly into hers with an unfathomable expression and found she couldn’t look away. Then he said, with a half-exasperated laugh at himself and a slight tremble in his voice, ‘No, I don’t wish myself back in Tibet. I have fallen in love with you, Grace.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said, catching her breath and hoping that the pounding of her heart hadn’t sent the tell-tale blood rushing to her cheeks.

  ‘Nonsense?’ He laughed. ‘But I have. I love you and I want to marry you, Grace, more than anything on earth. Why not?’

  Sweet words, but what could imagining himself in love, flirting with her, have to do with marriage, in his world? It would never do. Marriage for a man like him must be to the right person, not to someone with neither wealth, nor birth, nor a position in society. Someone who was merely the daughter of a minor canon. His mother would say that he was out of his mind, this wasn’t the way marriages were arranged. Even penniless Virginia Cadell would be a better choice.

  She tried her best to appear cool and unemotional, a little amused, as she repeated his words, ‘Why not? Because we still hardly know each other. For all you know I may well be a – a – oh, I don’t know, a secret suffragette.’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what an argumentative disposition I have. We should be constantly at each other’s throats.’

  ‘Now it’s my turn to say nonsense, which all this is. You must promise to marry me.’

  ‘Indeed, I shall do nothing of the kind,’ she returned crisply.

  ‘You will,’ he said maddeningly. ‘And I’m prepared to wait until you do.’ She smiled, despite herself. Waiting was not much to his inclinations. ‘But not too long. Only until all this matter of these confounded letters – begg
ing your pardon – is over. You’ll break my heart if you don’t, and I’m not willing to die just yet. Meanwhile, what about Mrs Amberley, hmm?’

  He held her glance until, reluctantly, she agreed.

  They were blocking the path and were forced to move on, which she was glad to do while she rescued what was left of her composure. But she was horribly afraid her eyes had given her away. They continued towards Embury Square, her emotions in turmoil, and she never afterwards had any idea how they had got there.

  Lamb had in the end taken the Underground back to the station from Lombard Street. Dusk was beginning to fall as he passed under the blue lamp over the door into the tiled, echoing foyer. It was warm inside, and unusually quiet, its natural gloom relieved by the gas already having been lit. Under its yellow, hissing glare, a constable was quietly writing at the front desk, taking advantage of the evening lull before things warmed up and the place became filled with the usual rowdy crop of drunks thrown from public houses, and prostitutes, pimps, pickpockets and other miscreants were pulled in from dark corners, sleazy streets and alleys.

  He found Cogan patiently waiting for him. ‘Still here, Sergeant? You should be away home to your supper.’

  Cogan shrugged philosophically. ‘I won’t deny that I’m ready for it – it’s hotpot night. Mrs Cogan’s a Lancashire lass, you know, and if you haven’t tasted her hotpot, you haven’t lived! Wouldn’t do for it to be all dried up again, like last week – so I’ll be off as soon as we’ve had a word, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Or Mrs C will give you what for, eh?’

  Cogan grinned, fancying he detected a certain wistfulness in Lamb’s tone. It was nothing to the sergeant to work on a case morning, noon and night, tracking down criminals with his own personal brand of dogged perseverance, and he was a desperate man in a fight, but he trembled, or said he trembled, at his Lizzie’s wrath. Yet he’d been happily married to her for twenty-five years, and what he privately thought was that Lamb also needed a wife. Sometimes, he fancied Lamb thought this, too, but he was too intent on rushing ahead with his career to see the wood for the trees. Cogan hoped he wouldn’t wake up too late.

  ‘Who did you send to watch Carrington?’ Lamb asked immediately he had hung up his hat.

  ‘Brownrigg. He’s a good lad, he’ll stick to him like a postage stamp. He called in to say Carrington left the bank about six in a cab. Brownie got another and followed him to the Albany. They’re both still there.’

  ‘That’s where Carrington lives. But I doubt he’ll stay in long. After which, he may lead us to Isobel Amberley, the woman Martagon and his daughter met in the park. He knows where she is but won’t say. I think he’ll get in touch with her as soon as he can.’

  Cogan looked at him speculatively. ‘Likely to be our man, is he, sir?’

  ‘I doubt it – seems to me he’s a sight too subtle to resort to murder to get what he wants, too finicky as well, I shouldn’t wonder, but he’s a deep character, our Mr Carrington, all the same.’ Lamb paused. ‘He has one of Theo’s paintings in his office, one of those little things he called nocturnes. Carrington pretended he didn’t know who the artist was. A man like that, bit of a connoisseur, you’d think he’d have some idea, wouldn’t you?’

  Especially when Lamb, a careful policeman even if he was a rank amateur when it came to art matters, had recognised it immediately as being very like one of the small canvases of Theo’s which had left such an impression on him – or so like as to be indistinguishable to his amateur eye. Elegiac, Carrington had called it. Which, considering all the information which was coming up regarding Theo’s state of mind, was not, perhaps, inappropriate. A word that captured exactly the mood of the little pictures. ‘He also drinks expensive French brandy, by the way – but along, I might add,’ Lamb finished with a sigh, ‘with our own revered super, the police doctor, Mr Ireton and anyone else who can afford it, I suspect.’

  ‘Talking of the brandy,’ Cogan said, ‘I’ve had the two men Benton dined with checked out. McIver, the Scotchman, has a young wife and a new baby. His wife’s still lying-in and after he got home he was pacing the floor most of the night with the baby screaming its head off, poor devil. The people in the flat below couldn’t sleep, either, what with his footsteps going all night, and the baby crying – and McIver singing to it at one point.’ Lamb’s expression said all too clearly what he thought of this glimpse of connubial bliss, and Cogan grinned. ‘The other bloke, Boynton, lives with a woman who’s prepared to swear he never left her bed all night, for what that’s worth. Oh, and the gun, sir. No luck.’

  He’d expected to see disappointment on Lamb’s face when he delivered this information, but soon understood why there was none when he’d heard what had passed between Lamb and Ireton at the gallery.

  ‘Been barking up the wrong tree then, haven’t we, sir? Martagon did shoot himself, after all,’ nodded Cogan, not without satisfaction. He’d never by any means been as wedded to the idea of Martagon’s death as murder as Lamb.

  ‘Maybe so.’ Maybe it was time, as the sergeant obviously thought, to draw a line under the Martagon case and not allow it to muddy the waters of the main investigation. ‘But if he didn’t, we might be looking for two quite different murderers, criminals tending to be creatures of habit – if one method has been successful, why change it?’

  ‘Two different killers? Oh now, that would be nice!’

  ‘I know, I know. Or maybe one very clever one. Using different methods for that very reason. All right, yes, I know—’

  Cogan grunted. ‘What about this Mr Ireton? Is he up to that sort of thing?’

  ‘Well, we’ve only his word for it that the gun was in that drawer, ready for Martagon to find. And if so be he’s guilty, why draw attention to it?’

  Lamb had not liked Mr Ireton. There’d been a cold self-interest about him he had found repellent, and he thought he might well have been capable in the right circumstances, despite his protestations of friendship, of killing Martagon, except that he had apparently nothing to gain by it and everything to lose: a gallery on the market which it was questionable he could afford to buy, or the probability of its being closed and the certainty of losing his job.

  As for Theo…his death had benefited the Pontifex Gallery in the short term, though possibly not spectacularly. A certain morbid attraction was obviously attaching itself to the purchase of his pictures in the wake of his death, and the publicity was keeping the name of the gallery in the public’s mind, but as a motive for murder, it was wobbly to say the least. To believe that Theo could have been killed in the expectation of posthumous fame was surely ludicrous. Farfetched, as Cogan would say. Nor had any personal connection between Theo and Ireton turned up; they seemed to have met only in the course of making arrangements for Theo’s work to be hung. Yet an uncomfortable feeling of having missed something in his meeting with Ireton kept nudging at Lamb.

  ‘He says the name Isobel Amberley means nothing to him, but he was lying. He certainly knew there was a woman involved. Martagon told him he was planning to sell up some time since, and he’d been trying to raise money to buy the gallery – and by the way, I saw him going into Carrington’s bank as I left… If he’s hoping for a loan to buy it now, all I can say is good luck to him. I’ll wager Martagon was intending to cut and run with Mrs Amberley, which makes his suicide look all the more debatable.’

  Cogan had saved his own news-gathering and now, with the air of pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he told Lamb of his visit to Adelaide Crescent and his conversation with Miss Kitteridge. Lamb snapped to attention when he heard of Theo’s visitor.

  ‘A foreigner? What sort, French, Italian – German?’

  ‘She couldn’t say. But her description of the chap set me thinking. Might be nothing in it, but it put me in mind of something I noticed when I was looking through Benton’s papers – you know, the ones on that trestle table of his.’

  ‘I remember. Go on.’

  Cogan produced a single she
et of paper from the desk where it had been lying, weighted down with his bunch of keys. ‘I dug it out, sir. It was with everything else of his that we’ve kept. A drawing under the last couple of lines of a letter, by the looks of it. I didn’t take much heed of it at the time, thinking it was just a doodle, and being as how the writing was in a foreign language – might have been Chinese for all I could make of it. Though I did think that a man ought to know how to spell his own name – he’d put a ‘c’ in his signature – F-r-a-n-c-k. But DC Smithers tells me that’s a German surname – or Austrian.’

  ‘Smithers? How does he know that?’

  ‘His mother’s a German, but he don’t like being reminded of it, and I can’t say as I blame him for keeping quiet, folks being what they are about Germans just now. Speaks the lingo himself.’

  Lamb took the sheet of thin, onionskin paper with the two lines of spidery foreign writing, and the scrawled signature, a squiggle of an initial which could have been anything, followed by ‘Franck’. Beneath that was a rough sketch. Done absent-mindedly, perhaps, while thinking over the contents of the letter. It showed a man wearing a stiff collar and a pair of pince-nez. A thin face, but unremarkable.

  ‘Not much help. Could be anyone – except that it does seem to tally with the description Miss Kitteridge gave you. Pity he used charcoal on this paper. It’s too smudged to be a lot of good, I should think. But it might just help in tracing him, which it looks as though we need to do, urgently. It’s worth a try, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cogan, with a decided lack of enthusiasm. How many hotels and boarding houses did that mean? Even if limited to establishments kept by Germans, where the language was spoken and the food acceptable to foreign palates unaccustomed to kidneys and kedgeree for breakfast? Where a man wearing pince-nez, a green coat and even with a feather in his hat might pass unremarked?

  ‘And I want all the Channel ports alerted to be on the look out for him. Now that we have a name and a description.’