‘Yes, sorry. I forgot you were a war veteran – explains the verbal bluntness, no doubt.’ He grinned and added, ‘I say, could I cadge a fag? Dr Stanley took my last one when he was squaring up to Mrs Burkiss over the missing gin bottle. She refuses to give him the key to her broom cupboard. He’s convinced the gin is in there but she won’t budge an inch.’
‘Ah, well, that’s a lost cause then … But, Leo, are you really serious about wanting to fish up something about Marcia? Surely the police are doing all that. And besides, you haven’t the time. I mean, quite apart from your work for Stanley, what about your own researches – something to do with Gladstone and the Bulgarians, aren’t they? I’d hate to think of Aunt Marcia standing in the way of you and your doctorate, or indeed of the Grand Old Man!’
‘Your Aunt Marcia may have stood in the way of a lot of things – or people – hence her death. But don’t worry, she won’t prevent me scaling the heights of academia, and I am sure that the venerable GOM will shut an eagle eye if I “absent” myself “from felicity awhile”.’
‘He never said that!’
‘No, it was another mighty craftsman. But let’s get back to the subject in hand: who was the assassin and why did he favour that particular brand of millinery?’
‘Or why did they?’ murmured Rosy.
CHAPTER FOUR
Leaving Leo to return to his lodgings in Bloomsbury, Rosy caught a bus to Marble Arch, but ignoring drizzle and rush-hour crowds decided to get off at Marshall & Snelgrove and walk the rest of the way. Normally exercise for its own sake held little appeal, but after the funeral and the Fawcetts et al she felt the need to stretch her legs as well as her mind. The warmth of her flat beckoned; but just for a little longer she sought the harsher stimulus of the London streets.
Skirting round the back of Marshall’s and walking briskly along Wigmore Street, she brooded on Leo’s words: Of course there was something going on under the surface … and I think you should make it your business to find out. Well yes, obviously quite a lot must have been going on (unless the thing had just been a random attack by some crazed intruder – though that seemed improbable). Still, surely there was no need for a personal pursuit. Wasn’t that the job of the police? Certainly the whole business was horribly bizarre and her natural curiosity looked for an explanation … But Leo had urged her to take some sort of initiative herself: to ‘root things out like a truffle hound’ he had said.
All very well for Leo, she thought, it wasn’t his aunt who was the victim. Did she really want to root around in Marcia’s life (least of all like some slavering canine!)? Wouldn’t it be better to leave well alone, draw a veil and get on with her own life while others did the digging? Yes, by far the most sensible course … And in any case, it occurred to her with a jolt, certainly the safer! After all, it wasn’t as if the matter were simply some abstruse conundrum, a cerebral challenge to be solved and discarded. A raw brutish thing had happened, perpetrated by someone with malicious intent: someone with an agenda which may or may not have been satisfied, and who might conceivably take things further. And whatever the motive, and whether satisfied or not, the assassin was still out there somewhere: an individual going about his (or her) daily business, to be encountered perhaps at a Tube station, on the top of a bus, in a Lyons Corner House or the little greengrocer’s off the Edgeware Road … perhaps the very next person she passed here in Wigmore Street! Rosy flinched, and then smartly sidestepped a large woman bearing down on her shoving a perambulator of tank-like girth. She gave a perfunctory smile to its twin and bawling occupants. Presumably no murderer there.
And then with Leo’s metaphor still in mind, she slipped into the Greek café to buy a quarter of rather ersatz chocolate truffles. Having firmly decided to decline the role of truffle hound she might at least safely pursue the sugary imitations.
Back at the flat she was busy sampling the third of these when the telephone rang. ‘I have a long-distance call for you from New York,’ announced the operator’s clipped tones.
New York? She didn’t know anyone there. Obviously wrong number. She waited, and mechanically stretched for a fourth truffle while priming her ear to catch an American accent.
‘I say, is that Rosy?’ asked a distinctly English voice.
‘Er, yes,’ she replied hesitantly, replacing the chocolate.
‘Good. Hoped to catch you, thought you might still be at work or something.’
Despite the crackling line the voice sounded familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. ‘Uhm – sorry, you are?’
‘Donald. Donald Beasley. Once married to your aunt. Remember?’
‘Oh yes, of course! I am so sorry – it’s been a long time and—’
‘Look, I’ve just heard the awful news. There was a small item in the Tribune, colourful to say the least, but in its way oddly flattering. Describes her as the “fashionable high-spirited English belle”. I suppose that’s because she was once seen on the arm of old Joe Kennedy at the Waldorf. “High-spirited” is a bit of a euphemism if you ask me … Still, that’s beside the point. I just wanted to give you my sympathy, and to say that I’m coming over to London next week to negotiate a publishing deal for my firm. Perhaps we could meet for a drink – there are one or two things I need to discuss.’ He paused, and then clearing his throat added, ‘As you know, she and I didn’t get on – not latterly at any rate – but it’s a bit of a shock all the same, particularly in those appalling circumstances. It’s grotesque, and I’d just like to …’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ Rosy said hastily. ‘I only work part-time so I can be fairly flexible: a Wednesday or Thursday afternoon, perhaps. Or an evening if you prefer.’
He settled for the Friday evening at his hotel, saying he would call to confirm after arrival. Then muttering something about it being a ghastly business, he rang off.
Exchanging truffle for a small whisky, Rosy went into the narrow kitchen, switched on the wireless and started to chop cabbage and remnants of boiled potato for a bubble and squeak. She felt quite hungry, and levered open a tin of corned beef to add to the mixture in the pan. Later, sitting at the kitchen table, half listening to the absurdities of Much Binding in the Marsh, she reflected upon Donald and his imminent visit.
She could not quite remember when Marcia had introduced him as her husband – 1944, early 1945? No, of course it had been ’44 – not long after the D-Day Landings. Rosy had been on leave staying (rather strainfully) with the Oughterard cousins in Sussex, and Marcia had appeared from out of the blue dragging Donald on her arm. Their arrival had caused a minor upheaval, i.e. requiring Mrs Oughterard to curtail her afternoon rest, and her husband to forego his daily session with their soldier son’s abandoned train set. However, things had settled down and the next few hours had passed pleasantly enough. The newly-weds were clearly pleased with each other and generated an air of mild jollity in a household not noted for its exuberance.
At first Donald had struck Rosy as rather stolid and, certainly from her standpoint, distinctly aged. (He had been a little older than Marcia, about forty-seven perhaps, and previously married.) However, under the staccato barrage of Charles Oughterard’s interrogation he had responded with wit and patient good humour. (Charles himself had been later heard to mutter that a chap so knowledgeable about the manufacture of parts for Hornby rolling stock must be all right, and it just went to show that ‘these Air Ministry bods know a thing or two!’)
Subsequently there had been the occasional brief encounter with both of them in London … though one rather embarrassing occasion when she had bumped into Donald in a nightclub, distinctly the worse for wear and with another woman on his arm. Gradually there had emerged rumours of Marcia’s own infidelities, public skirmishes between the two of them and finally the divorce. After which he had faded from the scene. Until now. Yes, he had been an unremarkable presence in Rosy’s life. But one thing she recalled clearly: his words of shy concern when she had once let slip a reference to Johnnie’s deat
h. It was a concern which she could not recall Aunt Marcia ever showing.
Rosy frowned, considering sartorial possibilities for their meeting. What would be the most suitable? Turquoise satin with paste diamonds and snazzy bolero? He might think that frivolous – especially given the subject of their meeting. Perhaps something more svelte was required: the grey silk with pearl choker, navy wrap and matching handbag. Yes, probably better. Her new stockings had fashionable black seams but reluctantly she discounted these in favour of conventional ones, hearing her mother’s now distant voice murmuring: ‘Just a trifle fast, dear, don’t you think?’ She smiled sadly, remembering the battles over the blue eyeshadow.
And then she thought of Donald himself: would she recognise him? Had he altered – put on weight, gone white-haired or bald, lost his teeth? Might he turn up in crêpe soles, sporting a loud American jacket? Like Marcia he had used to drink quite heavily. Supposing he had gone teetotal, joined a temperance society and appeared with a badge on his lapel proclaiming the fact! Unlikely: after all, he was with a firm of publishers now. Still, it was amazing how people changed. She recalled a chance encounter in Piccadilly a couple of years previously with a girl she had once known in the ATS – a wild pretty kid they had dubbed Molly the Minx. Six years after the war’s end she had suddenly reappeared outside Fortnum & Mason, draped in a nun’s habit and carrying a cat. It was the cat that had been the greatest shock: the girl could never abide them.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘So why have you come forward only now?’ asked Detective Sergeant Greenleaf sternly. ‘Mrs Beasley was found dead a good two weeks ago, it was all over the papers. If you’ve got what you believe to be vital information you should have reported it immediately.’
Clovis Thistlehyde cleared his throat and explained rather impatiently that he had been abroad when the news broke – ‘Venice, actually. I like to browse the Accademia periodically, it stimulates the Muse, you know.’
Greenleaf didn’t know and he wasn’t too sure about the Accademia either; but nodding briefly, said, ‘So what have you to tell me?’
‘I should like to tell whoever is in charge of the case,’ replied Clovis tartly, ‘is that you?’
‘I am one of those immediately responsible for its handling,’ Greenleaf informed him stiffly. ‘Anything relevant to our enquiries will be given all due attention, you can be sure of that, sir.’ He didn’t think he liked this man very much. He certainly didn’t like his tie which was scarlet (obviously a Bolshie) and his hair could do with a good chop too.
‘In that case,’ said Clovis, settling back in his chair and crossing a green corduroyed leg, ‘I have reason to believe that apart from the murderer I was quite probably the last person to see Marcia Beasley alive.’ He gave a deprecating smile, clearly expecting his questioner to express grateful amazement.
‘And what makes you think that?’ asked Greenleaf woodenly.
‘Because I just happened to be there that afternoon, not long before the poor woman was found. Just before I set off for abroad.’
‘Oh yes? Why?’
‘She was my model.’
‘What?’
‘My model. I happen to be an artist – portraits mainly. She was a keen patron of our group. I realise that this sort of thing may not be your line of country, so you might not have heard of me, but I have a modest claim to fame – quite a following in fact, especially from abr—’
‘Abroad?’
‘Precisely.’
‘I see. So you went to paint her at her house?’
Clovis nodded.
‘In the nude?’
‘Oh yes. One has to admit that for a woman of her years she was in pretty good shape – only moderate sagging at the thighs and tum; lines on the neck, naturally – but, between you and me, still remarkable breasts. Very paintable one might say! Indeed I had every intention of doing a couple of studies for my next exhibition at the Islington Attic – rather a modish little joint. Perhaps you know it?’
Greenleaf shook his head and confessed he didn’t. ‘So while this painting was going on, was the deceased with or without the coal scuttle?’
‘Without … What? Well of course she was without! You don’t imagine I would select a sitter wearing a coal bucket do you? For God’s sake, man!’ Clovis scowled and tugged at the scarlet tie.
‘We have to check these details,’ Greenleaf explained patiently, ‘it’s a question of getting things just right, building up a picture, as you might say.’ He smiled and added, ‘But mind you, these days you artist gentlemen seem to put anything into your pictures. Take that Picasso bloke, for example – some very rum ideas he seems to have. All a bit bizarre to a layman’s eye if you ask me … But then, of course, you’re not a layman are you, Mr Thistledown?’
‘I am not,’ snapped Clovis. ‘And the name is Thistlehyde.’
He supplied further details, and Greenleaf made notes to the effect that the witness had arrived at the victim’s house at about one-thirty in the afternoon, stayed for a couple of hours, and then left a little earlier than usual to prepare for his trip to Venice, picking up a taxi at the nearby rank.
‘And during this time,’ Greenleaf continued, ‘would you say Mrs Beasley was acting in her normal way?’
‘Entirely. Throwing down gin and cursing the government.’
‘Cursing the government?’
‘The previous one, Attlee’s. A hobby horse. Couldn’t stand the man and she generally started on him sooner or later, especially if she was bored with other topics or had had a few. Naturally one agreed but it could get a bit repetitive all the same.’
Greenleaf was about to observe that he had always thought Mr Attlee a rather sane fellow, when Thistlehyde suddenly leant forward and said, ‘Tell you what, though, she did get a bit queer towards the end.’
‘Queer? In what way?’
‘Well, she said that she was getting tired from holding the position and wanted to stretch her legs and have a fag. As said, I was rather pressed for time, but agreed anyway and we took a break. I nipped off to the lavatory, and when I came back she was pulling the brown paper off a package which must have arrived earlier. From what I saw it seemed to be a black box, gift-wrapped with a pink bow. She began to open the lid and then suddenly shut it and cried, “Oh Christ Almighty, not another effing one!” When I asked, “Another effing what?” she sort of shrugged and simply said, “Oh nothing really – all just so boring,” and chucked it into the waste-paper basket. Then she stubbed out her cigarette, resumed her pose and I picked up my brushes … But I can tell you, it was no good. Her face was white, eyes blank, and she had gone what you might call all saggy. No good for Clovis Thistlehyde! So I packed up my things and said I would see her when I got back from Venice.’
‘Hmm … So you left, and didn’t see anyone on your way out or in the street?’
Clovis shook his head. ‘Personne, as our Gallic friends would say.’
Greenleaf didn’t have any Gallic friends but assumed the answer was intended as a negative. ‘Tell me, Mr Thistlehyde,’ he asked, ‘did you often visit the lady in her home?’
‘Visit the lady? Only to paint her, if that’s what you mean.’ He looked slightly put out.
‘But I thought you artists had studios for that sort of thing, with easels and canvases and such … and … er, skylights,’ Greenleaf added vaguely. ‘But I daresay they’re a bit pricey; don’t suppose everyone can afford one, especially these days – not after the war and Mr Attlee’s austerity drive. Mind you, I don’t think Mr Churchill is going to—’
‘Of course I can bloody well afford one!’ retorted Clovis angrily, ‘I’m not some jobbing little tyro, you know! Not far off an RA – an FAG actually.’
Greenleaf was intrigued. ‘What’s that?’
‘Fellow of the Artists’ Guild, naturally.’
‘Ah yes, stupid of me … So why didn’t she come to your studio, then?’
The latter paused, frowning slightly. ‘Well, as I�
�ve told you, I have a place, of course – but it’s near Paddington station, not exactly the most enticing area. Absolutely nothing to do with cost, you understand,’ he added firmly, ‘but it’s a question of the right light. Such things are difficult to come by and you have to grab them when you can. Anyway, Marcia – God that woman was such a thumping snob – declared she had no intention of being seen lurking around the backstreets of Paddington and visiting some rabbit hutch three floors up. When I said that there was no need to lurk and that by some standards my atelier was no hutch but a unit of penthouse proportion, she replied that anyone seen on foot in that area was bound to be thought lurking, and that the concept of size was entirely relative, thus it would be far more convenient if I visited her in St John’s Wood. Which I did.’ He folded his arms.
‘Often was it?’
‘Often enough – and it cost her!’ Clovis grinned. ‘Yes, one has to admit Marcia was pretty generous with the old expenses, not bad at all! In fact, come to think of it, she owes me the taxi fare for the last session. I’d better get on to the executors pronto …’
‘I see. So she took her clothes off, you took out your paintbox and she paid you big compensation for the inconvenience?’ Greenleaf gave a kindly smile which was not returned.
‘I must say,’ Clovis said testily, ‘the police do have a raw way of putting things. But I suppose that’s all part of their training – cut the cackle and nail the poor buggers!’ He gave another wrench to the red tie and stared defiantly at Greenleaf. And then with a sudden smirk, ran a hand through the trailing hair and, adjusting his voice to a confidential murmur, said, ‘As a matter of fact it wasn’t just Marcia’s snobbery that persuaded me to visit her, least of all what you clearly like to see as my mercenary intent. It’s my current mistress: she is insanely jealous and has a wild imagination. I fear that visits from Marcia would have been grist to her suspicious mill. She harbours visions of wild orgiastic frolics being enacted in my modest garret.’
A Little Murder Page 3