‘Sergeant Crail—’ began Edwina.
‘Yes. I got the idea from him. Oh, not directly – he’s too canny for that. More by what he didn’t say.’
‘Does he know?’ Edwina hesitated. About your love affair, she meant. Cassie understood.
‘He knows.’
She didn’t mind telling Bill Crail, although perhaps it had been a shock to him. She had the idea he was still thinking it over, but Edwina she would not tell. Someone might, some time, but she’d face that when it came.
‘Let’s have some wine, shall we?’ Edwina signalled the waiter. ‘ I should think we could all do with a drink. Thanks for telling me all this. If it’s of any interest, Luke was not blackmailing me.’
‘You wouldn’t have stood for it, anyway,’ said Alice. ‘Publish and be damned, that would be your line.’
‘I might have said that once. Not so sure now.… Anyway, I’m in there with you, don’t forget. The police are looking at me with interest on account of the phone calls. Something funny there, I expect they think.’ The wine arrived and Edwina watched it set down before she said, ‘And so there is.’
‘Well, we know what happened in Deptford, we know what’s been happening to you. It’s horrid. A mystery. But can it have any connection with the murders? Do you really think so?’
‘Do you believe in coincidence? I don’t. Logically and intellectually, I might be hard put to it to maintain connection, but emotionally I know there is.’
‘I think I believe you,’ said Alice in a low voice. ‘I’m quite frightened myself. After all, I had a phone call or two to begin with. So did you, Cassie. And I saw him. Or sort of saw him. Could have been. It’s scary.’
‘I don’t think I’m scared,’ said Cassie. ‘But I don’t like it. All right, so let’s admit, it’s all one scene, so what have we got? We’ve got a murderer who is pursuing our Eddie from rather mixed-up sexual motives. He loves and hates you, Eddie.’
‘Perhaps all women.’ Edwina was thinking of what had been said: I want to teach you what love is about.
Alice shivered. ‘That’s why I’m frightened.’
‘And there is something that ties the deaths together with what’s been happening to me. Luke was killed with an aphrodisiac. And the telephone caller said: “ I have means to bring you up to scratch.” That’s what he meant.’
‘You mean Luke was killed by mistake?’
‘Yes, perhaps.’
‘And Pickles was killed because she sold the poison and knew to whom she’d sold it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we have Luke the blackmailer as the coincidence,’ said Alice despairingly.
Any way they looked at it the picture would not come clear.
They had a murderer who was a poisoner and also a strangler. They had an obscene telephone caller who was turning into a sexual pursuer of Edwina, yet expressed his love for her.
‘Come on now, Cassie, you know more than you’re saying. What do the police think?’
‘They think they’ve got a chancer.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I suppose it’s the police equivalent of what doctors call an opportunist infection.’
In other words, a killer who saw his chance and stepped in and took it without a lot of preplanning. A hard kind of killer to catch, the worst.
‘And they still think it could be one of us?’ said Alice incredulously.
‘Oh yes, one of us could be the chancer.’ Cassie was matter-of-fact. ‘Why rule us out?’
Alice turned to Edwina.
‘Have the police asked you for your bite?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘They will.’
‘What about you?’
‘Oh yes, I obliged. On a lovely piece of clean laboratory wax.’
‘I don’t think I ate any cake at all that day, I was off cake.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Alice, almost despairingly.
The sounds of the Piazza swelled all over them. Voices chattering, laughter, the sound of a rock track from the shop selling smart trash next door. Not far away someone was smoking hemp, no missing the smell even though it had been lavishly mixed with a sickly scent.
Something in the sounds got through to Edwina. They reminded her of the noises heard on one of the telephone calls. Not a bar, she thought, with conviction, not a pub. I was wrong, it was from here, from the Terrazza. That brought it right home. She could hardly bear to look at her friends, in case they could read her thoughts.
‘How are things with you, Eddie?’ asked Alice, as if she had picked up something. ‘Are you still having trouble?’
‘Nothing much since I came back from Deptford, but I don’t feel safe. Silly, I suppose, but there it is.’ She took a long drink of wine and failed to feel any better. There were too many worrying thoughts now.
‘And I can’t run away again, you see, because of the child. He needs help. I need help with him. I have to stay around. I’m hobbled.’
Hobbled by her sex and her fertility so that her pursuer could draw closer.
She knew he would.
How much was she being overimaginative, creating things that were not there? You had to ask this question, and it was hard to answer.
‘It seems so real,’ she said aloud. Some things had an objective reality, the photograph, her disturbed possessions, the caller on Mignon Waters, asking after Edwina by name. If this man is real, would the police ask to see his teeth?
‘You ought not to stay on your own,’ said Cassie.
‘Come to me,’ said Alice at once.
‘She needs a man.’ Cassie was brisk. ‘Move in with Kit Langley. He’s got plenty of room.’ He had the room where Tim had lived, but she did not say this aloud.
‘Did he put you up to this?’ Alice asked.
‘Well—’ Cassie turned to Edwina. ‘He suggested it.’
Edwina laughed. ‘I trust Kit, but it hasn’t come to that yet.’
What she could not, would not, admit to them, was that her latest impression was that she was being watched.
Continually, obsessively, perhaps with love, perhaps with hate, observed.
Chapter Eleven
To the police, what they had now was a murder hunt with a double killer. In their eyes it was a kind of family killing, only the family was the community that used the Garden, either working or living there. From past experience they were convinced that the killer and his victims knew each other well. How well, of course, was something they could only guess at, but they had to try to do more.
If they could characterise the relationship between killer and killed, then it would set some limits to their search for an identity. They knew they were dealing with a crowd. The ‘family’ of the Garden was made up of a floating population, some of whom lived there, others of whom owned businesses there or worked in them while others might do nothing more than be regular visitors, who ate in the restaurants, drank in the busy bars or bought in the shops.
Or might even, as Bill Crail said in morose speculation, be a worshipper in Canon Linker’s church. ‘I believe he does a good line in sermons. And they have lunch-time concerts or organ music.’
He did not make this remark quite without reason. He had interviewed Canon Linker several times and had noticed that the cleric had a trick of pulling a face as if the questioning was provoking dark thoughts he was not prepared to pass on. Crail had prodded, trying to purge him of these blank thoughts, but he had not succeeded.
Neither Canon Linker nor his aunt, both of whom had been at the wedding reception, ate sweet cake with icing. This was well-attested by all independent observers.
‘Never eat sweetmeats, my dear fellow, now,’ said Canon Linker, showing his neat white teeth in a smile. Crail found himself looking at people’s teeth with interest these days, although the odontologist had told him that he would get nothing by looking at people’s teeth. Apparently it was the shape of the murderer’s incisors that were so individual: he had eye-
teeth like a cat. Very, very pointed. Not everyone showed their teeth much, anyway, Bill Crail had noticed, especially women, who sometimes guarded their smiles like their purses; he knew now what a ‘ tight’ smile meant.
In the ‘family’ of the Garden, then, the police were looking for someone who moved around as a regular, without being noticed because he was always there. A person who could get into the wedding reception, either as a guest, or a worker, or simply as a person who could be accepted as having some right to be there. That was one important part of the character established. This person had been at the reception and been given (or taken) a bit of wedding cake. The murderer had not finished the cake, though, and so perhaps did not like cake, if they could ever find out. But by the time they got close enough to know they would probably know his name as well.
Another and important part of the profile was the relationships with Miss Dover and Miss Drury. The killer had bought poison from Miss Dover with which he had (one could only guess) poisoned Luke Tory. Thus his face was known to Miss Dover. But Miss Drury had, in her own words, just ‘seen him’. Not known, just seen.
There was a suspicion that he might also have a relationship with Edwina. Was he, or was he not, the telephone caller? The accepted police theory was that Edwina Fortune was imagining a lot. They did not rate what was happening to her as important. But there were certain details of her description of the man that matched what Miss Drury had to say.
Darkness and blackness came into it.
It all made an interesting profile of the killer. Bumpy. As if the killer had a big nose which might sometimes not be there.
He was an oddity, that was clear. And oddities did, in the end, get caught.
That was Bill Crail’s private hope. He could almost, only not quite, see his oddity walking around the Garden. However, his were not the only eyes watching; he was only one of a team, and a junior one at that, so there might be information and opinions he was not privy to. Privately, he was convinced that his eyes were the sharpest.
He thought about Cassie; he would have to go away. It was getting too serious on both sides. He didn’t know if he wanted a long-term commitment to such a high-powered lady; she might be too much for him. On the other hand, he considered himself pretty high-powered too.
He’d be seeing Cassie later tonight; they were meeting for a drink in the Duke. Afterwards – well, they’d see. What she had told him earlier had been a surprise, a shock even. You never could tell with women and Cassie was the last he’d expected to come out with that particular confession. But it was over now, she swore.
Brave of her to tell him, he thought fondly.
He knew one other person she’d be talking about: Edwina Fortune. When Cassie was not talking about herself and her plans, she was talking about Edwina. The subject seemed to obsess her at the moment, and the girl certainly had problems.
In a quiet way he was keeping an eye on Edwina. But, of course, she would never notice.
It was very odd, but as he had done this, he had had the strange feeling that other people were on the job too. He seemed to keep seeing familiar faces. Or they were getting familiar. Kit Langley – understandable that, Cassie had enlightened him on how Kit felt about Edwina, but still … Then there was Janine Grandy, she was around sometimes, and then there was someone else whose face seemed familiar, as if he might have known it once. A man? And yesterday there had been a woman wearing a red hat.
Crail knew very well that he was one little bit in a jigsaw, joggled around by other pieces that didn’t quite fit into the picture. It was an unsettling state of mind for a young policeman who had believed himself to be a competent observer. He was inclined to blame it on Cassie.
Meanwhile, across London, Mignon Waters had come to a decision. It had taken her some days to decide what to do; she was never a quick thinker or mover, but she was a trier.
She had taken a great fancy to the handsome umbrella left behind by the man who had asked after Edwina. She recognised it for an object of quality. She would have liked to keep it for ever, and had addressed the cat Tabitha who lived with her on and off (Tabitha was a cat of great appetite and many homes) about it.
‘I do like excellence, Tab. I miss the old days when I had it around me all the time at Madame’s. Not much here, puss.’
She would have liked to keep the umbrella, but it was very saleable, and money was tight with her. She took it round her circuit of buyers, the curio shop down Deptford High Street, the Almost New Outfit in Greenwich Church Street and old Lew’s stall down by the bridge. At all of them she was well known. She was often a seller, sometimes a buyer, she was a middleman in a disorderly market.
To her surprise she could find no buyer. No one wanted her treasure. It was examined, fingered, admired, but no one wanted to buy.
‘It’s no good,’ said old Lew. ‘ I don’t fancy to buy it. Sorry, love.’ He ran his fingers over the engraved silver plate with Tim’s name on it. ‘Don’t think it’d go somehow. Not for much, anyway. Forget it, that’s my advice.’
Mignon bore her trophy away; she had her superstitions. ‘ It’s unlucky, that’s what. Something’s touched it. Better get rid of it.’
In her book, the only way to get rid of it correctly was to get it back whence it had come.
Easier said than done. She looked up Tim Croft’s name in the telephone book, but he was not listed. But he had been interested in Edwina and Edwina she might lay hands on. She had no reason to like Edwina, so she was not averse to dumping bad luck on her. Besides which, she looked like a girl who had bad luck coming to her.
She tackled Sid who, at first, refused help. ‘Don’t know any address, Mignon. She didn’t leave one. Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’
His wife stood behind him, giving Mrs Waters a hostile stare: they were not friends.
But Sid on his own with Sandra out of the way was easier. He was an agreeable man, anxious to please. Pushed by Mignon he gave ground.
‘I don’t know an address but she had several letters sent here with the name Gallery Ariadne and an address in Covent Garden. That’s the best I can do for you.’
Mignon Waters put on her red hat, took a bus to the tube and then, with a change at Charing Cross, went to Covent Garden where she added her eyes to the ring of eyes watching for Edwina. She identified the gallery, saw Edwina in the back talking to a young man, and got her name from the portrait in the window. Stupid gal, she decided, if you make it all female like that you’re throwing a challenge and some man’s going to pick it up and throw it back. We knew better in my day.
No trouble; she would know how to find Edwina now. She had enjoyed the trip; she scented drama.
She adjusted her red hat in the gallery window, not caring whether Edwina saw her or not. It was nice to be back in Town, not that Covent Garden was Piccadilly exactly or even Knightsbridge. On the way past she looked in the window of Alice’s shop, recognising the quality even if not liking the style. Not exactly haute couture, she observed critically, but not rubbish, either.
Edwina had seen Mignon Waters; she went on talking to Dougie without showing emotion. When she looked again, Mignon had gone. If she had ever been there. It might have been some perfectly innocent woman in a red hat. Or no one at all, just her imagination. Either way it was alarming.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine, Dougie.’ She turned back to the work in hand. In a year’s time they would be launching an exhibition of ‘portraits of English actresses’: Mrs Siddons to Gladys Cooper was the provisional title although Dougie thought this too unscholarly. She might have to let him have his say; if she didn’t watch out, she might lose him to the Mellon Collection or some such. Young men like Dougie, acknowledged experts in English painting, had their market.
‘Glad you came in. Lonely working on my own, miss you.’
‘You’re doing splendidly.’ Yes, definite signs of complaint: she would have to look after him. ‘And yes, you’ll be seeing more of me.’ In e
very sense, she was beginning to look quite maternal. She met his eyes, and giggled; her first laugh for days. ‘ You don’t mind?’
‘No. I told you – my sister. And I like children, not babies at first, perhaps, because they are rather frightening, but I always feel I could cherish them.’
‘You are nice, Dougie.’
‘Well, look after yourself.’
The two of them spent a quiet afternoon at work. A steady stream of people came into the gallery, having heard that Edwina was back. She was popular. One picture was sold, and another sent off ‘ on approval’ to see if it could be lived with. Edwina allowed this liberty to those she knew. ‘You ought to start up a picture library,’ said Dougie idly. Edwina thought she might do it. Certainly it would move around her stock which sometimes clogged the gallery, her women artists being a prolific bunch.
They closed the gallery together, Edwina pocketing the key. Then she walked across to eat at the fish restaurant which had just opened; you could eat vegetarian or fish there, but no meat. Edwina ordered sole.
In a few minutes Cassie appeared and sat down with her; in another few minutes Alice appeared. No communication had taken place between them, but Cassie had seen Edwina, and Alice, from her shop window, had watched them both.
It was good to be together again: the self-confident, successful trio, but beyond the familiarity and pleasure perhaps a little unnatural. Suspicion and a degree of mutual distrust had bored in like worms into wood.
They shared a bottle of Sancerre, then Edwina walked home, refusing a lift from Alice.
It was early, there were plenty of people about, she had no reason to feel alarmed. But she began to believe someone was following her.
There were footsteps that seemed to echo her own. She quickened her pace, they seemed to follow; she went slower, the feet did the same.
She turned to look in a shop window full of pale pine furniture. The plate glass reflected nothing back, not even her own face.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a young couple, arms round waists, pass by. Two elderly women carrying theatre programmes and talking with animation about Verdi. A man on his own followed, but he passed on without a look at her. None of these.
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