Rose in Darkness

by Christianna Brand

  The collage was progressing, though largely in a negative way. But that was better than nothing; to know what to discard was as important as to know what to keep in. The minions had been out and about, stuff, stones, fur, feather and haddock skin clutched in their hot hands, enquiring into the recent and past lives of everyone remotely connected with Vi Feather, Sari Morne or Phineas Devigne, abandoning here a scrap of material, there a piece of grit, as a lead proved unprofitable. And it always came back to the extraordinary business of the alleged exchange of cars; the discovery of the body in, as it were, The Wrong Box.

  On one question, however, Sergeant Ellis, returned from Herts, could offer a positive—if negative—contribution. ‘I thought I’d fish around and see whether the girlfriend could tell us anything, Mrs Harte. Well—not about the murder, she can’t, sir. She knows nothing about Vi Feather, I’ll swear to it. Frightened, yes; but that’s in case the husband discovers what’s been a-going-on. I never let on to him anything about that.’

  ‘Not much hope for her, poor bitch,’ suggested Charlesworth, ‘when all this other business comes out.’

  ‘That’s right. But anyway, like I’m saying, I went along to this Heartsease—Harte’s Ease, you see?—rather good that?—’ said Ginger, appreciatively. ‘But no dice, sir. She knew nothing about it and no reason why she should. She drove her own car. He’d give her a couple of minutes’ start, not to get the two cars identified too close together I suppose, and then follow. So she couldn’t have been in on it, sir: absolutely. You can take it from me.’ He leaned back in his chair with a look of extreme smugness on his beaming round face. It sent old Chas mad when he thought you were pleased with yourself.

  And Charlesworth did not fail him. ‘All these exertions you might have spared yourself, by simply ringing up The Heavenly Angel and asking.’

  Ginger pretended to be doing his best to conceal a smile of kindly mockery. ‘Well, no sir. The lady told me herself, sir. They didn’t know about the two cars at The Heavenly Angel.’

  But it was all, for the moment, faintly academic; for into Charlesworth’s life had come the little matter of the message from the Followers.

  The police had so far given very little credence indeed to the fantasies about the Mafia Rossa, the Followers and the ring. But now...

  Sari had been emphatic about the message. Yes, that was the seal of San Juan as far as she remembered it; she had seen it on letters to his son and heir, from the Grand Duke Juan Lorenzo. But anyway, you could look it up in Pears or somewhere, couldn’t you? Police examination showed clearly that the envelope had been stuck down and sealed with no possibility of the letter having been inserted after it was closed—only by someone, in other words, who had possessed an envelope with a seal and been able to use that for the note. The paper and envelope were of good quality, which, said Sari, quite jelled in with the Grand Duke’s habits, since he had been to Eton or Winchester or wherever it was and was madly anglicised, and entirely likely to have had his stationery sent out from Harrods. On the other hand...

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Ginger, echoing the same thought to Mr Charlesworth, ‘the woman died on Saturday night and the message arrived early on Tuesday afternoon. Not much time for it to come from San Juan, even if someone had telephoned the information about the murder. And no stamp. So that would mean that there’s someone here working for them; and that means that that same person could have sent the note themselves.’

  ‘Any further glimpses of the obvious will be equally welcome,’ said Charlesworth.

  ‘Yessir,’ said Sergeant Ellis, woodenly, but within him, rebellion rose like a bubble; I’ll show him, the supercilious sod!

  ‘No address, no handwriting anywhere on the whole message; envelope sealed with water not licked, i.e. no saliva. In other words, nothing that could be analysed—’

  ‘Nossir,’ said Ginger. What in a sergeant was obvious, in an officer was apparently merely evident.

  ‘—which would suggest that the sender was someone in this country who might be identifiable.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘The murderer, or a friend, pretending to give an air of reality to all this rubbish about the Juanese—’

  ‘—and fortunate in having the Grand Ducal seal of San Juan to add a little touch of veracity.’

  ‘If it’s the Grand Ducal seal,’ said Charlesworth, playing straight into the outheld hands.

  ‘Oh, certainly sir, it’s the genuine seal,’ said Ginger, with an air of quiet confidence which he knew to be most maddening to his Chief Superintendent. He turned the envelope over in his pudgy hands. ‘Designed by Tomaso di Goya, you’ll recognise his touch, sir? But some years ago—you can see that the seal is well-worn; this is a good strong impression but it’s blurred at the edges and Tomaso di Goya never blurred anything at the edges. The modern Cellini, they call him nowadays—’

  ‘You don’t say!’ said Charles worth.

  ‘—direct descendant of Goya, the painter. I mean, where was Goya during those three years between the time he escaped from Madrid and turned up in Italy—?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Charlesworth.

  Ginger had every intention of doing so and at as much length as possible. ‘Almost certainly on the island of San Juan el Pirata. The murals in the Duomo—that would be the Cathedral—’

  Charlesworth finally lost patience. ‘Never mind the bloody murals—’

  ‘Well, they are rather bloody, sir; the cathedral was built by the original Juan the Pirate, to his own glory, and he was a proper old sadist; and Goya, having just got out of Spain, was at his most gory—’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Charlesworth, ‘must we have the whole damn travelogue—?’

  ‘Of course it’s only my theory, sir,’ said Ginger, limpidly apologetic. ‘I get a bit carried away.’

  ‘Well, will you kindly carry yourself back and apply your theories to a little matter of murder in rural Hertfordshire; and never mind San Juan el Pirata...’

  ‘San Hoowarne, sir, if you’ll excuse me, sir,’ said Ginger, giving the aspirate all he’d got.

  ‘So what you’ve taken three thousand words to say is, that the seal appears to be genuine.’

  ‘Yessir,’ said Ginger, meekly.

  ‘No doubt you know every detail of its composition, but could you answer in one word—is this a correct drawing of the ring?’

  ‘Allowing for a slight error in perspective—’

  ‘I don’t mean as a bloody work of art. Is this the ring?’

  ‘Yessir. With all its additions in place. The extra jewels slot in on sort of concealed springs, very ingenious. But then of course, Tomaso di Goya—’

  ‘All right, forget Tomaso di Goya, for God’s sake! All I care is—this is the genuine seal and this is a correct representation of the Juanese, all right Hoowarnese, ring? Complete with sketch—rather amateurish but spare me further excursions into the realms of Art—of the dead woman’s body?’

  ‘Yessir,’ said Ginger. He seemed about to continue but closed his mouth again.

  ‘You were going to say—?’

  ‘No, sorry, sir. Obvious again.’ And obvious indeed it was. So let the old bugger work it out for himself.

  ‘Miss Morne has always insisted that she was being followed by these Hoowarnese enemies and the woman was killed in mistake for herself.’

  ‘It enlarges the circle,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Yes, well we won’t get weaving on the right angle of the hypotenuse... They follow her, they kill the wrong woman... Where do they find her?’

  ‘They find her outside the cinema,’ suggested Ginger, diffidently shrugging. ‘Kill her there, discover they’ve got the wrong woman, bundle her into their car and set off after the right one. She dodges them, gets back home, parks her car, they move the body into her car—’

  ‘Why?’ said Charlesworth.

  ‘By way of a warning,’ said Ginger; and added sweetly, ‘Obviously?’

  ‘And then bat of
f safely back to San J—Hoowarne?’

  ‘Cleverly contriving, however, to be here on the Tuesday, pushing notes through her letter-box.’

  ‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Charlesworth, finally exasperated. ‘You’re huffed because I made a crack about something you said being obvious. You can now come down to earth, please, we’re not playing games.’

  ‘Yessir, nossir, I’m sorry sir,’ said Ginger, continuing, however, to play games. He assumed the pose of chastened small boy, sitting looking down at the hands clasped between his knees; and twiddled his thumbs, awaiting the next pronouncement of all-cognisant God.

  ‘If Miss Morne is being truthful about that, perhaps all the rest is true. She did change cars at the tree. Either with Phineas Devigne or with somebody else.’

  ‘The conjunction of three identical motor cars at the same place at the same time on the same night, does seem to stretch credulity to a fairly unacceptable limit,’ suggested Ginger in a voice that said, to a distinctly unacceptable limit, Don’t be a bloody fool!

  Charlesworth chose to ignore it. He desperately needed cooperation. ‘I agree.’ And mollifyingly using the familiar name, ‘And there’s another odd thing, Ginger. Miss Morne now says that on the Monday, the day she met him at The Fox and went off with him—Devigne wasn’t driving a Halcyon at all. He was driving a Rover, which is why she never connected him with the man at the tree. Had you realised that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir, I thought everyone knew it. He was using his old car just for a day or two. He’d been running the Halcyon for a week and he wanted it checked over: not quite as smooth as might be expected.’

  ‘If you ask me, Mr Devigne is quite as smooth as might be expected and a good deal more so. He’s got an answer to everything.’ But a further little matter had arisen to which Mr Charlesworth could get no answer at all. ‘She’s not charged with anything, she’s not even seriously a suspect, I don’t see how I can prevent it; but what do you think the latest is?—la Morne has now decided that she wants to go off for a few days to Rome.’

  ‘To Rome?’ said Ginger, startled at last out of all affectation. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Well, apparently it’s to get her wiggy fixed,’ said Charlesworth, sighing.

  Nan, meanwhile, was in a state of blissful anticipation of all the preparations in the days to come, before they could be off and away to the complicated delights of a visit to Rome. They were off and away on the following afternoon without any preparation at all. Sari carried no luggage but the inevitable huge, bright painted canvas bag, into which she had presumably stuffed, along with all its other clutter, a nightie and large quantities of make-up; she was submerged deep in tragedy because in trying to extract the last farthing from the bright blue pig, she had dropped and broken it and might this not be an omen of something simply frightful? She and Rufie had been up all night, crawling about the floor converting the kaftan into a voluminous tunic, brilliantly flowered, to be worn over tight pink trousers, with a huge straw hat covering the horrors of the penicillin hair. Thus arrayed, with only just comfortable time to spare, she strolled into the airport, asked for two tickets and in due course presented herself with Nan at The Sardines’ hotel and requested accommodation; nor, despite a certain lack of charm, could Nan perceive in the proprietors any answering ferocity.

  To Nan, Abroad was somewhere where you went to see things; but first, insisted Sari, they must go together to Luigi—Nan couldn’t imagine what wonderful things he would do with that, let’s face it, darling, slightly dull dark hair—Luigi proved to be a swarthy little man, all nose and after-shave, one of several identical little men who scurried about attending to customers apparently interchanging at random; but Sari was reassuring, ‘Darling, yes, I know it looks awful at the moment, puree’d spinach, there’s no other word for it. But it will be wonderful when they’ve done with you, honestly, all gloss and sheen, you’ll see!’ And indeed it did look rather beautiful though not a bit, thought poor Nan, me. ‘So now, a bit of lunch, Sari? and then—I’ve got my guide book, but I expect you know Rome better than I do. St Peter’s of course, and the Sistine Chapel, one can’t ever miss those. And the Gesù?’

  ‘Oh, no, darling, no, not all those fearful churches with people’s legs hanging out of the pictures on the ceilings as though they were trying to scramble down, using one’s poor head as a stepping stone...’ And who could blame them? said Sari, so overcrowded up there, and such unsuitable company, any old saint clutching lilies or crosses or whatever, and far too many children for anyone’s comfort, who could wish for a lot of stout-bottomed cherubim incessantly interrupting the conversation, wanting to go and wee or whatever...? ‘You can do all that stuff while I’m at Luigi’s. Otherwise, let’s just sit in cafes and be here.’ And indeed it was lovely in the sunshine of an autumn evening, Rome with her tall, narrow buildings gazing at each other across the teeming streets, the colour of autumn itself, all ochre and gold. ‘Arrived safely,’ wrote Nan, scribbling postcards to such friends at home as were sufficiently liberal to be informed of this latest adventure. ‘Easy flight. Writing this at marble-topped table in cafe in Piazza del Popolo, drinking a cappuccino and watching the world go by.’ The world was going by at shattering speed with a roar and clamour of traffic, driving them behind the glass screen on the pavement; but Nan saw now that it was much, much better to just be in places than to run about looking at things. ‘Arrived safely. Lovely here. Just moved up from P. del Popolo to P. Navona and having a campari soda, watching the world go by...’

  Sari also wrote home, to Rufie. ‘Have you ever noticed what a nippetty way Nan eats? Love, Sari.’ To Phin she sent off a flock of cards, each simply following the other in mid-sentence so that, taken out of order, they made difficult reading. What Nanny and the Monster might make of them it did not occur to her to wonder. She had got through to Phin and they had talked for hours and they were in love and going to be married and everything was wonderful. ‘So you see, Nan, breaking my blue wiggy-pig wasn’t a dire omen after all.’

  ‘But, Sari, dear, one can’t help saying—’

  ‘Oh, darling, you’re on about that tree business and poor Vi Feather. But it was all my Followers, we know that now, and even the police have had to take them seriously so, God knows I’m sorry for poor wretched Vi, especially getting killed in mistake for somebody else, but there it is, what can one do?’ She dismissed it all. They were in Rome now, not even the Followers could know about that and, just for a little while, she could afford to be happy.

  And she was happy. The anxiety and strain that Rufie had recognised as they fooled about over the Garden-of-Eden pants had been lifted by Phin’s assurances of love. Warm and safe in their glow, her spirits scared up and away above the terrors of the past six days; blotted out for a moment at least the ever-present sick memory of that stiffened thing with its brittle, crooked limbs, crammed down into the narrow space, into the silence and darkness behind the driving seat of the car. And her Pore Horse was here.

  They had moved to the Piazza Navona purely on account of the Pore Horse. ‘It’s always here, poor love, with its drooping head waiting to drag its beastly fiacre off somewhere, though no one ever seems to hire it. And the man is so horrid, just sitting up on his box, not worrying about it.’ So every time she was in Rome she came here and gave the Pore Horse at least one tremendous meal, to last it till the next time, sending out a waiter with a basket of raw carrots from the kitchen and rolls and any fruit there was about; feverishly unwrapping the squares of crumbly sugar from the bowls on the table, adding them to the load. The waiter considered her to be mad and was terrified of the horse, but had long adored her, so beautiful and with such handfuls of lire to be handed over when the job was done. ‘This is out of my money,’ she said earnestly to Nan. But they couldn’t eat with the Pore Horse still standing outside, even knowing he had had a good meal. ‘Just a quick wee, darling, and I’ll take you to a ristorante in Trastevere, it’s simply frightful, ap-solutely not fit f
or two women to go there alone. You’ll adore it.’

  Nan would frankly rather have been somewhere less fraught with dangers, but she was learning and only said gallantly that that would be ap-solutely super.

  ‘It’s a really gorgeous place, not like anywhere else, you’ll go beresk.’ They’d have chicking, said Sari, if there was any in the kitching; and she laughed and thought of darling Rufie (currently holding the fort in the flat with Pony, recent differences apparently patched up, to keep him company) and wished he were here. Not that Nan wasn’t heavenly, trying so hard not to like the things she really liked, and it was wicked to tease her because in fact one liked them oneself; only she was so sort of guide-booky about them... But dammit, poor love, she was paying for it all. ‘When I get away from Luigi tomorrow, Nan, we’ll go to St Peter’s, let’s do that! You can look at everything, the only thing I really hate is all that barley-sugar baldacchino stuff; but I can always skip that and just go and goop at the Pieta and cry.’