Last Nocturne

by Marjorie Eccles

  Cogan coughed. ‘Already done that, sir. No result, so far. Long gone, no doubt.’

  ‘Good man – but keep at it, all the same.’ Lamb pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Smithers still in the building?’

  ‘Likely gone home to his sausage and sauerkraut, by now, but I’ll see if I can catch him. I was thinking he might make himself useful,’ he said and added, ‘he has a brother-in-law works on a newspaper in Vienna.’

  ‘Hmm. We’ll remember that – but I’m not inclined to involve the press just yet. There are other ways Smithers can be of use.’

  Contact with a Viennese journalist might be useful, but for any help needed, first he would contact the Vienna police. They would no doubt be eager to help, especially since he would do them the courtesy of sending the request in their own language. Until now he’d had little to warrant asking for their assistance – no specific dates and only a few English names. Moreover, he was by no means sure even yet that whatever had occurred there, even though it might have set in train the two deaths over here, was anything but a private matter which might never have come to the attention of the police. However, this Franck who had turned up on the scene, German or most likely Austrian, altered matters, and with the prospect of at last having a prime suspect in Theo’s death, he now had reason to request information about any untoward events which may have happened fairly recently at Silbergasse 7. This was the address Joseph Benton had given as the one where Theo had stayed during his time in Vienna.

  Smithers, being duly caught before he left the building, came in with alacrity, ready to translate the last few lines of the letter, eager to have those who’d made sly digs at his German ancestry smirking on the other side of their faces. He grimaced on seeing the cramped and spidery Continental writing, but once through that, the translation was easy; there were only a couple of lines, seemingly forming the end of a sentence: ‘… if you persist in your—’ allegations, accusations, Smithers wasn’t quite sure which, and continued, ‘You are mistaken and one way or another I intend to show you how wrong you are when I see you.’

  The men looked at one another. At a pinch, this could be seen simply as an indication to expect a visit. On the other hand, in view of what had happened to Theo, it sounded more like a veiled threat. Lamb gathered his thoughts and told Smithers what he wanted.

  ‘Keep it short,’ Cogan advised the constable. ‘The electric telegraph don’t come cheap.’

  ‘Well done, Smithers,’ said Lamb when the wire had been despatched. ‘No doubt we’ll need you again when there’s a reply, meanwhile get off home to your supper. You, too, Sergeant, you’ve a busy day ahead of you tomorrow, with all those boarding-houses,’ he added slyly. ‘Good night.’

  Cogan grunted. “Night, sir. Oh, by the by, there’s a letter on your desk. Delivered by hand.’

  When Lamb opened the letter he saw from the firm signature at the bottom of the few lines on the single sheet of thick cream paper that it was from Guy Martagon. His mother knew now that the police had been told about the letters, he wrote, and perhaps the inspector would call at Embury Square as soon as convenient? Lamb thought of his supper. Then about the references to Vienna which had apparently occurred in those letters which had been stolen.

  Vienna, Vienna, Vienna. It came back to Vienna every time. Like an eternal circle, a serpent with its tail in its mouth.

  He was hungry but abandoned the idea of going straight home. His landlady was used to his non-appearances. He would pick up a pie or a hot meal somewhere later.

  He’d forgotten that Edwina Martagon would probably be dressing for one of the glittering evening occasions which were part of the daily round for socialites such as she, and that she might well refuse to see him at that hour, especially as his visit was unannounced, which she would undoubtedly see as an unforgivable breach of etiquette. But from his point of view it made sense not to give her the opportunity of refusing to let the police proceed with the recovery of the letters, as he thought Mrs Martagon might well do, recalling what her son had said at the gallery and the terse note Guy Martagon had sent.

  Still, he contemplated the meeting with her without pleasure. She was the kind of woman with whom he always seemed to come off second best, who would undoubtedly try to put him in his place. Determined this wasn’t going to happen, he pressed hard on the bell push of the handsomely painted front door in Embury Square.

  After a lengthy wait among the potted palms and scented flowers in the impressive, richly furnished hallway, and an awareness of a flurry of activity in the house, he was informed by the tall footman who had opened the door to him that Mrs Martagon could see him for half an hour in the morning room. He followed the man’s stately progress down the hall into a predominantly yellow room, decorated with a plethora of the blue and white china which people seemed to admire lately, a room which undoubtedly would be at its best in the early part of the day. Here at the back of the house as the day was drawing in, the electric light had been turned on, and the room’s blue and yellow, no doubt pleasant enough in the morning light, looked harsh and garish in the light given by the bulbs in the suspended ceiling bowl.

  He sensed at once that he’d stepped into a domestic situation. No one was saying anything. Guy Martagon came forward to shake hands with him and offer him a seat, then took up a head of the household position with his back to the fire, standing silently with his hands clasped behind him.

  Edwina Martagon had seated herself on a fashionable settle-type piece of furniture with a high back and an exceedingly narrow seat, which appeared to offer no discomfort to her, however. It would have seemed impossible for anyone to droop on this instrument of torture, but her daughter Dulcie, beside her in a plain, unadorned, plum-coloured dress, nursing a little pug dog, asleep on her lap, managed to give that impression. She sat with her shoulders bowed and after a quick, shy smile, went back to stroking the little dog’s fur.

  His decision to arrive unannounced was seemingly not altogether the ill-timed disaster it might have been, however, since Mrs Martagon was already magnificently attired for the evening. She had on an evening gown in emerald green velvet, jewels winked in her ears and around her neck, and a matching aigrette was fastened in her abundant hair. He met the steady glance of Miss Thurley. He was pleased to see her there; from what he had previously seen of her he thought her likely to bring the proceedings down to earth although, from the occasional glance that passed between her and Guy Martagon, there was evidently a good deal more in Miss Thurley to admire than common sense.

  As soon as he was seated Mrs Martagon took charge, surprising him by graciously apologising for having brought him to the house on what she called false pretences. ‘I’m at a loss to know why my son should have bothered you with such a trifling matter,’ she added, without so much as a glance at Guy.

  Looking at that imperious face, Lamb suddenly found a totally unexpected sympathy for her. The letters were of interest to him only if they could throw any light on that Viennese affair, whatever it had been, but to Edwina Martagon they might well spell disaster. Their importance in that direction was probably exaggerated, but he could see that to be involved in a vulgar scandal would be nothing less than social suicide to her and could sympathise, though he was impatient with the curious dichotomy which turned a blind eye to licentious behaviour – as long as it was not made public – but pilloried the participants if it was. ‘She hopes to remarry,’ Guy had said. Scandal could well put an end to those hopes, at least for a very long time, and Mrs Martagon was no longer young and could hardly afford to wait until the memory faded.

  She turned to him and said, ‘I’m sorry you have been troubled with this trifling matter, Chief Inspector. I am happy to say that it has now resolved itself. I have given it a good deal of thought and I now know who has the letters.’ Into an astonished silence, she continued imperturbably, ‘I shall myself take steps to retrieve them.’

  ‘I see.’ Lamb paused. ‘May I ask the name of this person?’


  ‘It was a woman whom I once mistakenly employed…a Miss Eugenia Dart. Miss Snake-in-the-grass, as it turns out.’

  Both her children spoke together. Guy, driven to break his silence, said with an incredulous half-laugh, ‘Mother, how can you possibly know that? You can’t make these sort of unfounded allegations,’ while Dulcie simply cried, ‘Mama!’

  Mrs Martagon ignored her son, and the icy look she turned on her daughter could have frozen the Thames. Dulcie rushed on, undeterred. ‘How can you say such a thing, without proof?’

  ‘I need no more proof than the evidence of my own eyes. I never trusted her, the way she made herself free with your father, pretending to ask his opinion of those footling translations she used to waste her time on. Always with their heads together.’

  Dulcie raised what Lamb saw to be a pair of remarkably fine eyes, dark and lustrous, to meet her mother’s look. Her chin went up. ‘Those footling translations, Mama, are all she has to live on now.’

  ‘And whose fault is that, pray?’

  ‘Who is Miss Dart?’ asked Lamb, deeming it time to intervene.

  It took some unravelling, each member of the family wanting to put forward their own interpretation on some event which had occurred some time before, involving this person, but the facts emerged in the end: Miss Dart, it appeared, was a young woman whom Mrs Martagon had employed as a social secretary, who had left – or been dismissed, this point of view differing according to who stated it – after an unfortunate incident concerning some smashed pottery. Sensing this was a touchy issue, Lamb didn’t allow it to progress. The young woman, who had Russian antecedents and spoke that language and several more, now earned her living by translating foreign literature into English, and vice versa, he was told.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen her since she left?’

  ‘She has been very brave and has taken an apartment of her own in Pimlico,’ said Dulcie, with a quick glance at her mother, nervous again.

  ‘Pimlico!’ echoed Edwina, triumphantly. ‘So there we have it. Miss Dart! I might have known – but we will not, Mr Lamb, speak of my daughter’s underhand and unseemly action!’

  ‘It may have been unseemly, but I didn’t mean to be underhand, Mama,’ Dulcie said quietly, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘You went to see Miss Dart without permission, knowing I would not have given it.’

  Her daughter, though looking acutely miserable, went on bravely. ‘What you are saying – about Papa and Eugenia – is, is monstrous!’ she said chokingly. ‘And as for her stealing those miserable letters and, and asking for money—! Oh, it’s simply too bad!’

  Grace Thurley spoke for the first time. ‘Mrs Martagon, I believe Dulcie can explain—’

  ‘Dulcie has said quite enough on the subject already, thank you, Miss Thurley!’

  Miss Thurley’s colour rose, and Lamb saw those lovely blue eyes flash a little. She looked about to say something else but, meeting Guy’s glance, she bit her lip and remained silent.

  ‘Let Dulcie speak, Mother,’ said Guy quietly.

  Without waiting for permission, Dulcie gulped and said, ‘You haven’t heard everything, Mama. You wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell you. I don’t believe you really think those things you have accused Eugenia of are true. No one could think that, either of her or of Papa! But I do believe she may know something about this Mrs Amberley—’

  There was a silence. ‘Mrs Amberley?’ said Edwina, dangerously.

  ‘Mama, she’s a lady Papa and I met by chance on my last birthday, after he’d taken me out to lunch. I think – I believe, she may have been the one who wrote those letters. When I saw Eugenia that day at her flat, I told her about the meeting and – and I’m sure the name was no surprise to her.’

  Mrs Martagon did not flinch. Nor did she enquire further into the circumstances of the meeting, or what had been said. It was as if, now having heard it, she’d immediately erased the name of Mrs Amberley from her mind. ‘This makes no difference. I still believe it was Miss Dart who stole the letters. She was always snooping around when she was with me, and who else had the opportunity? There, there, Dulcie, that’s enough. Dry your eyes.’ She rose majestically. ‘And that’s really all there is to it. I am sorry for incommoding you, Inspector, with what is after all little more than a domestic matter.’

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs Martagon. There’s more to this than appears on the surface – matters which may concern more than your own family. The letters – whether they prove of any consequence or not – must be retrieved by the police. So, if we may get down to practicalities, I would like to see the ransom note which I believe was sent to you.’

  ‘My dear Mr Lamb, one doesn’t keep rubbish like that. Apart from anything else, it was illiterate, and the handwriting appalling. Naturally, I threw it in the fire.’

  ‘So it couldn’t have been from Miss Dart. She can scarcely be called illiterate,’ said Guy, earning himself a grateful glance from his sister.

  ‘But you do remember what it said, Mrs Martagon?’

  He thought for a moment she was going to refuse to say, but then she lifted her shoulders and shrugged. The letter had stated she would be allowed time to obtain the two hundred pounds which was demanded, she said. On the designated day, at six o’clock, the money was to be left in the ladies’ waiting room at the St Pancras station hotel. Once the blackmailer was in possession of the money, the letters would be returned.

  A woman, of course, thought Lamb: the ladies’ waiting room; the disguised spelling and handwriting, probably written with the left hand; an amateur attempt with more holes in it than a leaky bucket.

  ‘But there is no need for all that tarradiddle. I shall see Miss Dart myself.’

  ‘Mrs Martagon,’ said Lamb, ‘your children are right. Recovering the letters is not an amateur business, if you’ll forgive my saying so. It’s not just a matter of getting them back – we must apprehend the person who wrote them, and as yet there’s no reason whatever to suppose that is Miss Dart. More evidence than mere supposition is generally required before acting,’ he added sternly. ‘Added to which – if not caught, that person is under no obligation to return them after they’ve got the money. This could be only the first step to demanding more.’

  ‘There is such a thing as moral obligation. I am inclined to believe that even Miss Dart would not stoop so low.’

  ‘Blackmailers are not noted for their morality. Come, Mrs Martagon, let the police, who are equipped to deal with this sort of thing, do so.’ He sensed she was wavering. ‘I’ll find a lady we can trust to leave the attaché case, who can keep watch afterwards to see who picks it up. When are you supposed to leave it?’

  ‘Very well, then. Six o’clock next Tuesday,’ she said, with a promptitude which made him wonder, for a moment, what he’d done to bring about her cooperation.

  As he was leaving, he encountered another visitor just entering the house: Mrs Martagon’s escort, he surmised from the evening clothes, the silk hat. A foolishly amiable-looking man; rings on his fingers as he handed over his hat to the footman; a motorcar and a chauffeur outside, waiting to drive them to wherever they were to spend the evening. He and Lamb had no cause to speak, but the impression of foolishness was banished by a swift look from measuring eyes.

  PART FOUR

  Vienna 1907 – 1908

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As the Viennese summer drew to its close, the sweet chestnuts ripened, and fell onto the cobbles with their spiky green shells split open. The fan-shaped leaves yellowed, turned russet then drifted down, blown by the increasingly cold wind into the corners of the courtyard into great, dusty, rattling heaps, which no one bothered to sweep up. Isobel no longer heard the clatter of the printing press; the gatherings in the courtyard became less frequent, then stopped altogether as the weather grew more chilly. The number of visitors making their way across to the studio seemed fewer and far between. And, as if blown in by the autumn wind, there came another resident in
to the Francks’ house.

  ‘This is Miriam,’ Bruno announced one day, coming to Isobel’s door with a woman on his arm. ‘Do you not recognise her?’

  Isobel had never seen her before, but indeed she had no difficulty in recognising her. She was the woman in those paintings of Viktor’s. He might have used the bodies of the Traudls and Helgas and Anna-Maries as models, but the face he had superimposed on each and every one was this one – white, pointed, with hooded eyes – as if he were haunted by her. Wearing a multitude of bright colours and a great quantity of garish jewellery, she was tiny, dark, Jewish, pale and with a mass of curling black hair, at first glance almost plain, until she smiled. It was a slow, hidden sort of smile – enigmatic, if you like, and somehow intensely irritating. Later, she came to see just why Miriam was Viktor’s favourite model. With her dark hair unloosed and wild, her tempestuous, changeable moods, dressed in the flowing robes Viktor chose for her, she could become anyone: Venus, Circe, Salome…anyone Viktor had wished her to be.

  ‘Well, you’ll be seeing more of each other. She’s come to stay this time,’ said Bruno, holding her gaze.

  ‘Maybe,’ Miriam answered, giving him a slow look and pushing forward a reluctant little girl who was hanging behind her and clutching her skirts. ‘This is Sophie.’

  ‘Hello, Sophie.’

  Sophie, who was perhaps about eight years old, looked down at her feet and muttered an incomprehensible reply. Miriam gave her a sharp poke in the ribs. ‘They don’t teach little girls manners where she’s been lately. But now she’s with her mother again she’ll soon learn some, eh?’ This last was accompanied by a smile directed towards Bruno and a rather hard squeeze of the child’s shoulders.

  It was difficult to imagine this exotic creature as anyone’s mother, never mind the mother of this little girl. Sophie was a plain, awkward child, thin as a match, who made Isobel think of some wild, trapped creature ready to bite anyone who tried to rescue it. She looked from Bruno’s warm brown eyes and red hair to the russet lights in the thick, vibrant brown hair of the child, her only beauty. She looked for other similarities, too, but there the resemblance stopped. Sophie’s delicate build and her pale, intense face came from her mother; the long, almond-shaped eyes of an unfathomable colour and depth spoke of a Magyar, or perhaps gypsy, inheritance.