A Cure for Dying

by Jennie Melville

  ‘So that was all they were to you? Another job?’

  ‘Opened my eyes to a lot in myself that, perhaps, I had not been aware of.’

  ‘A certain faithlessness?’ Anny was dry.

  Charmian shook her head. No, that she’d known about. A kind of softness in her, rather. An unwillingness to cause pain. To Anny, she said, ‘A lot in the way I see women and women police officers.’

  All day, while engaged in her routine of work, thoughts of the murdered woman, the slain horse and the girl Joanna, had kept breaking through. Now, as she thought of Anny too, she had a picture of Anny walking on the polo field.

  Had she not spoken to Joanna as if she knew her?

  Without waiting, she telephoned Anny.

  ‘Mmm, yes. Sure. I know the Gaynors. Well, not him, but Annabel and Joanna. I did a portrait of Joanna.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘Not one of my best. She’s hard to bring out, that girl.’

  ‘Can you arrange a meeting for me?’

  ‘I don’t know what excuse I could make.’

  ‘Oh come on, Anny, you can think of something.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  Charmian did not answer. She pretended not to hear and put the telephone down. Anyway, it was the sort of question to which Anny did not expect an answer.

  But Anny had been prompted to action. In a short while, she was back on the telephone.

  ‘There’s going to be a display of books and a talk in the library in aid of a charity for disabled riders. There are also going to be stalls with produce and flowers, that sort of thing. The Sesame Club is sponsoring it. Annabel is helping, Joanna will be there. Runs till Wednesday, but get yourself there tomorrow and you will see both of them helping to set it up.’ Her turn now to ring off quickly without waiting for an answer. Charmian knew what that meant: Anny wanted no more responsibility for anything that might happen.

  ‘I’m aiming to help the child, Anny,’ she said to herself, hoping that Anny would somehow get the word.

  Muff, who had escaped to freedom in the Houdini way which she had perfected, mouthed at her from the window, demanding entrance.

  Charmian opened the door. ‘You shouldn’t be out on the street. Dangerous for cats.’ Dangerous for girls, too, she thought as she saw Les pedalling down the street. No lamp on her machine, either, and the pale summer night had arrived.

  ‘Hello, Les. Not at the party?’

  ‘I’m going in now. Not my scene, really.’

  ‘How are you? I mean after what happened the other night?’

  ‘Fine. I don’t know what came over me then, I’m usually tough as old boots. How are you? Your eye looks better.’

  ‘I’m all right. Making good use of cream and powder.’ Charmian thought the girl looked tired. ‘Johnny said you go out every night to see your father and feed your horse.’

  Les laughed. ‘I do go to see Dad, he’s not up to much. No horse though, that’s just their joke.’

  ‘Did you hear about the horse that was killed?’

  Les nodded. ‘Knew the poor old thing. I know the kid who keeps her pony there.’

  ‘Joanna Gaynor?’

  ‘She’s pony mad. Hangs around us a lot. Her father occasionally rides one of our boss’s string. Saw you on Sunday.’

  ‘It was the first time I knew what you lot did.’

  Lesley laughed. ‘It’s no secret.’

  ‘What do you make of Joanna?’

  ‘She’s a nice kid,’ said Lesley, bending down to fasten her bike to the railings. ‘Seems to prefer horses to humans. We must see more of her than her family do.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Oh well, you know what I mean. I suppose she gets a lot of freedom. She’s a bit of a loner.’

  ‘Talking of being alone, the streets round here may not be the safest place in the world just now.’

  ‘You mean because of the murder? Are you thinking of what happened to you?’

  Charmian shrugged. ‘ Be unwise not to.’ And the flasher who had been seen in Maid of Honour Row. ‘ Have you noticed anyone? Hanging around?’

  ‘There’s been a man exposing himself on and off all the summer. We don’t take any notice. He’s not dangerous.’

  You should, and he might be, thought Charmian. ‘You should have reported it.’

  Lesley laughed. ‘ You ought to know how they look at women who report that sort of thing.’

  Damn you, Charmian thought. And she did know. Even in her case, there had been that something in the air.

  ‘You think the police will catch the killer? I don’t.’

  ‘Oh yes. Because the murderer was stupid?’

  ‘Stupid?’

  ‘Yes. It was a chancy killing. Opportunist and therefore fundamentally stupid.’

  ‘Oh well, if you say so. You ought to know. We were talking,’ went on Les. ‘ Johnny thinks we know the girl that was killed. We go to the Buzz occasionally.’

  ‘What even you?’

  ‘Even me. Bit pricey though. Johnny says she was a waitress there.’

  ‘She was.’ And it was to be hoped she had earned danger money. Lesley picked up the note in her voice, and responded to it.

  ‘Don’t worry about the girls, we can look after ourselves. Johnny is the tender one.’

  I must tell Kate, thought Charmian. But I thought I’d heard otherwise.

  ‘Keep an eye on the girl Joanna, will you?’ Lesley looked at her in surprise. ‘For me,’ Charmian added ironically.

  ‘OK. For you. I do anyway. She’s always around.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure. ‘ ’Bye, see you later. Come to the party. It’s going on all night.’

  ‘Celebrating something?’

  ‘Do we have to be? Oh well, yes. Our boss’s team did well in the Champagne Cup. He gave us all a rise, and we love him. That’s it for now.’

  And with a wave, Les supremely confident, bounced into the house next door with that slight lift to her walk that all good riders seem to have.

  Charmian picked up Muff and returned to her own house, where she slowly got herself and Muff to bed. The party went on for hours, so that she lay in bed listening to it. She didn’t want to join it, but it sounded good fun. Was that Johnny’s laugh?

  And exactly how tender was Johnny?

  She found herself thinking about the piece of paper and the drawing on it. It presumably meant something to the killer, and apparently it did to her too.

  Why had the phrase the ‘Frisian beard’ sprung so readily from her memory? It puzzled her, but it was something she would take care not to mention to Ulrika who would worry away at it until she dug up something that Charmian might not want to hear.

  At last the noise of the party died down and she went to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Next day, when the local paper was full of the murder in Princess Louise Park, but it had not yet hit the national headlines, there began a period which Charmian knew occurred in every case and which experienced police officers sensed without naming.

  It was a time, she said, when a lot of things were happening in a case that you never got to know about but ought to know.

  Sometimes, later, you found out. A few things always stayed underground, you made a guess that was all.

  She was in such a time and knew it, but she was not idle. Next day, as well as the normal workload entered in her diary, Charmian had an engagement to see Ulrika in the morning (‘Come to breakfast,’ that early riser had said) to talk over what her cases on violent children had turned up and then the evening was booked for a visit to the library in Crescent Street where she would see Joanna herself and Annabel her mother. No one had mentioned whether the father would be there or not, his permanent non presence seemed taken for granted.

  Ulrika, when seen, handed out strong coffee and a piece of slightly burnt toast, but not much information. She had found no cases which were helpful. A child could certainly kill a horse, a child might be strong enough to kil
l an adult and some had, but she personally had not had such a case. She could point to several American cases, but drugs or fantasy games had been involved. Charmian could check these points.

  Just watch the whole family, she had said again. If there is a hole, it may be theirs. She was cheerful, as ever, and cynical. Also, as ever, ‘One cannot always help people,’ was her attitude. Only when they admit they want help can one move forward, and when they have had enough of you and say so, then you know you have succeeded. Do not look for joy.

  ‘As if I did,’ thought Charmian sourly, as she drove away, heading for her normal day and the viewing of Joanna in the evening. She had withheld by a hair’s breadth her remembrance of the Frisian beard which placed her in the company of those not admitting they wanted help. One day, she too might say goodbye to Ulrika and then Ulrika would know she had done her job, whatever it might be.

  One of the episodes which Charmian should have known about happened that very day in the time space between her breakfast with Ulrika and arriving at the library in Crescent Street.

  Windsor has a small but elegant branch of Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks. It is housed in one of the two railway stations, both of which were used by Queen Victoria. She is the principal character of the display there, although you may also see her eldest child, the Empress of Germany, and one of her prime ministers, the Marquess of Salisbury, beside other relations and courtiers whose features you may recognise after a little work.

  You can see the Royal Train arriving with its burden of illustrious guests, peer in through the window to observe the cosy interior of the carriages, and then stand to watch and listen as the National Anthem is played and the guard of welcome present arms.

  A visit there by the elder girls in the private school attended by Joanna Gaynor had been both popular and educational. Even the sleepiest and least interested girls (which Joanna was not, although everyone who taught her felt an occasional loss of contact with her) had responded. For a while, a keen interest in Victorian social history had swept through the upper forms.

  Miss March, who taught history and was also Deputy Headmistress of The Brockington School, had been so encouraged by her success that she arranged, by popular request, a visit to the main Madame Tussaud’s in London.

  ‘I am so grateful,’ she said earnestly to the Headmistress, who was an elegant administrator but not much of a scholar, ‘for anything that arouses a spark of academic interest.’ Most of her pupils, charming, well-bred girls, were heading for a finishing school and then a husband for whom they would gracefully entertain. Joanna, elusive as she could be, was an exception. But then both her parents, elusive as they were too, were intellectuals.

  So a booking was made, a coach hired, a guide engaged, and the party, carefully selected to weed out those who might slope off and go shopping in Harrods. Or worse. There had once been a child who took off for New York and Bergdorf Goodman’s, but she was an heiress, with thrice divorced parents. One forgave her.

  While not wanting or expecting it to happen again, nevertheless Miss March kept her eyes open. A small group of girls made a spirited rush to view the model of Madonna, recently introduced, but Miss March soon foiled this and led them on a carefully planned tour of historical interest. The guide did the talking, she did the watching.

  She did not miss Joanna until nearly the end. They were going to regale themselves with a session of tea and cakes in a nearby restaurant, so she was counting heads.

  ‘Where is Joanna?’ she demanded. The usual silence followed by a small mutter of ill-informed speculation reached her. ‘Who saw her last?’

  ‘I did, Miss March.’ A hand went up. If Joanna had a close friend in the school, and this was not to be taken for granted, it was Maria Andrews. Maria had travelled, knew her way around the world, and had been heard telling everyone on the coach that she had visited a tiny waxworks museum in Rome where there was not a single woman depicted, what a disgrace! Maria was a spellbinder. ‘We were together in the Chamber of Horrors. I think she may have gone back.’

  Maria was well informed as usual. Miss March found Joanna staring silently at the figure of Jack the Ripper. She must have been there some time.

  ‘What are you doing, Joanna?’ Miss March said sharply.

  ‘It’s really interesting.’

  ‘You’re a bit on the young side to be interested in all that.’ Not the cleverest remark in the world, Miss March realised as she spoke. You could be interested in ‘that sort of thing’ at almost any age. She was herself. All the same …

  On the way home Miss March thought, I wonder if I ought to tell her mother? But she decided not.

  That evening, Joanna made a more than usually hurried visit to the stables where Lesley and the others worked. ‘Can’t stay. Got to help mamma with an Exhibition.’

  ‘We can manage,’ said Lesley tersely. Joanna got on her nerves sometimes.

  Joanna helped with fetching buckets of water, assisted in rubbing the ponies’ coats down with a wisp of straw to massage the skin, checked the feet and carried food. Ponies like small meals often.

  She did it all silently, expecting no thanks and getting none. They were so used to her that they hardly saw her. Sometimes she was there, sometimes she wasn’t. When she was, they made use of her, and at other times forgot her.

  Completing a small errand connected with disinfectant for Lesley, she said softly, ‘We went to Madame Tussaud’s today.’

  Lesley did not answer.

  ‘I saw Jack the Ripper. Face to face.’

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  Joanna shrugged. ‘Just wanted to.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘Thought it might interest you. It was interesting. He looked so ordinary. Of course, it’s just imagination. No one really knows. He was never caught.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Lesley. Basically her reaction was the same as Miss March’s. ‘I suppose it’s because of the horse?’

  ‘ ’Suppose so.’

  ‘Tell your mother. Not me.’ Kids picked things up sometimes like an infection. Especially this one.

  ‘No,’ said Joanna, roughly.

  No, thought Lesley. It’s not the sort of thing you do tell your mother. Like your first brush with sex.

  ‘You’re an imbecile sometimes for an intelligent girl. Get off home.’

  ‘I’m just going.’

  Lesley proceeded with her work. There was still plenty to do and, in spite of what she had said to Charmian, with her deliberate lightness, there would be much to do looking after her father. He was sicker than she liked to admit. And he was not the only one. The boss was not too good. He had looked bad today, a colour no one liked the look of. Which after their party of yesterday when all had seemed well, made them sad.

  But as she worked she thought, Wonder if I ought to tell the kid’s mother what she said about the Ripper? Or possibly the policewoman.

  But you did not always do what you were supposed to do. She would think about it.

  Charmian inserted herself quietly into what the architect had called ‘the reception area’ where the display of books and photographs, together with the stalls, were being set out by the Sesame Club. Charmian saw at once that these were what attracted the crowd already surging through the door to pay their entrance fee. A few people were looking at the books, most had their purses out ready to buy. Home-made cakes and jam, old books and second-hand clothes made a brave display. Joanna and her mother had a flower and pot plants stall, with trays of seedlings.

  Miriam Miller together with Flora Trust and her twin sister had no stall, shifting around as required, and were now bustling around behind the tea and coffee stall. Flora was buttering scones. ‘ How much are we charging for biscuits?’ Charmian heard her ask.

  But the price was already written up: ‘Tea and biscuit 15p.’, and Miriam was already pointing this out to her.

  No sign of Mr Pilgrim, which ought to make Miriam and Flora feel better and perhaps Emm
y feel worse. Charmian had already observed that in a quiet way Emmy encouraged him. Perhaps it was an old-fashioned courtship going on after all. Not everyone wanted a talkative wife. On the other hand, not everyone wanted two for the price of one which is what he might be getting here.

  No Mr Pilgrim then, but to her surprise she saw Sergeant Wimpey walking towards her.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘The wife’s got a stall,’ he said with slight embarrassment. ‘That’s her over there with the home-made jam.’

  ‘Mr Pilgrim is not here.’

  ‘He is, though. He’s over there.’ He nodded towards one corner. Sitting quietly on a chair was Mr Pilgrim, wearing a dark suit and a small smile.

  ‘No sign of a bruise or a broken nose,’ said Wimpey.

  ‘So I noticed,’ said Charmian. ‘ He’s in the clear then for the attack on me. He’s a puzzle, though.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll find out,’ said Wimpey confidently. ‘I mean to. He’s up to something. I smell it. Maybe he’s a con man. He’s got the cut for it.’

  He did have the smooth, cheerful air of a man who knew how to get away with what he wanted.

  ‘I’ve got a nice line-up of chummies ready for you to have a look at,’ went on Wimpey. ‘Quite a few broken noses and bruised faces have turned up among some of my friends. You’d be surprised. Worth your taking a look. I’ll set it up, give you a bell. Right?’ He looked across the room, ‘I’d better get over there and help the wife with the jam.’ He added, ‘And on the way I might just have a word with Mr P. He’s just bought a pound of my wife’s marmalade. That shows initiative on his part.’

  ‘And I thought you came to get a look at Joanna Gaynor.’

  ‘And I thought you did.’

  ‘I came to see if she was on drugs or into fantasy games.’

  Wimpey grimaced. ‘You do have nice ideas.’

  ‘My expert says to look.’

  ‘First, let’s both talk to Mr Pilgrim.’