‘All right, so it wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment thing. It was done with malice aforethought because she had been repulsing him for weeks … or do I mean repelling?’
Greenleaf glared. ‘Try rebuff, sir.’
‘That’s it, rebuffing him for weeks!’ The inspector smiled happily; and then bending over Greenleaf’s shoulder, murmured, ‘Anyway, whatever the frigging word is, I’d like him brought in again, pronto. I’ll be there myself this time, and we’ll try breaking that “cast-iron” alibi. See to it, would you? Smartish!’ Whistling under his breath, he shambled to the door, where he paused and said, ‘As a matter of fact, I think “rejecting his advances” would be best. Don’t you …?’
Sighing heavily Greenleaf reached for his notebook and started to scour the pages for the telephone number. As if he hadn’t got enough on his plate without having to pursue the dead end of Clovis Whatsit! There were more pressing matters – as, for example, the bits of coal. The char’s tale in itself had been curious, but only that morning young Harris had dug up another piece in the bottom of the woman’s wardrobe – and just like the other, all tied up in ribbon, if you please! Greenleaf grinned: perhaps she had been having a liaison with the coalman – a possibility which would also conveniently account for the scuttle. Might that have been a final blackened offering from the injured lover? Death with a dusty flourish, a sort of coup de charbon, his ultimate homage! No, an appealing fantasy all right but hardly sustainable. Central heating: no coalman. But what about that note, ‘To fuel the flames of memory’? What the hell was that supposed to mean? A fling with some arsonist or wartime firewatcher?
He pondered. Perhaps his boss was right and it might just be worth interviewing the witness again. At least he could be grilled over the woman’s reaction when undoing the parcel. According to his earlier account it had given her quite a nasty turn. With a bit of luck she might have said something revealing, something the painter had omitted to mention … He stretched for the telephone.
‘Ah, Mr Thistledown? Would you mind—’
There was a mild explosion from the other end.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rosy left the museum, and turning right walked briskly through the quiet streets towards the hubbub of Tottenham Court Road. The day had gone well: agendas completed, questing scholars satisfied, and the affairs of the department’s finance committee completed without let or hindrance. This last achievement was due largely to Dr Stanley who, through a mixture of stealth and grimly assumed charm, had finally persuaded Mrs Burkiss to relinquish the keys of the broom cupboard. The afternoon’s meeting had thus been conducted in a spirit of gin and rare benignity. Indeed, so pacific had been the proceedings and so swiftly concluded, that Rosy found herself with little more to do, and Stanley, flushed with his recent triumph, had suggested she leave early. ‘Go to the flicks, my dear. You have just time to catch the rerun of The Seventh Veil at the Odeon. Mason and Todd, what a combination!’
As it happened, Rosy had already seen the film, and while sharing Dr Stanley’s enthusiasm had no particular urge to see it again so soon. But grateful for the gesture and not wishing to upset the fragile spate of bonhomie, she had smiled her thanks and left quickly.
Oxford Street before the evening rush hour was almost pleasant, and having no particular reason to hurry she amused herself with a bit of window shopping and wondered if when she reached Bourne & Hollingsworth she should try on the blue taffeta evening skirt she had noticed there the previous day. Reduced from seven guineas to three it seemed a bargain, and in any case might be just the thing for the Fawcetts’ looming cocktail party.
This was an event she viewed with mixed feelings. The last time she had been invited to one of their jamborees had been nearly three years previously; indeed, it was there that Marcia had blotted her copybook with the French ambassador – or rather his wife. It had been the only occasion Rosy had seen Lady Fawcett at a loss, and it was an embarrassment she had no desire to be reminded of. There was also the risk of being subjected to further quizzical condolences about the ‘ghastly Beasley case’. But in a masochistic way she quite liked the Fawcetts and they certainly gave good parties; perhaps after the sobriety of the last few weeks it would be good to re-engage with the ‘social whirl’. She suspected that she owed her current invitation to Amy in gratitude for procuring the coveted mink coat.
As she walked she briefly pondered the coat – or not so much that one as its expensive replacement, the sable ordered from Calman Links (and whose cancellation the executors had been quick to order). It was true Marcia’s tastes had always been lavish, especially where clothes were concerned, and financially she had been secure. But still, to jettison a perfectly elegant mink in favour of something quite as costly as a premier sable seemed a trifle extravagant even for Marcia … But then hadn’t Amy said something about her having received a sudden windfall? Presumably that was the answer – though where it had come from Rosy had no idea. As far as she was aware no relatives remained to supply a sudden legacy (except for the distant Oughterards who were not known for their bounty). Football pools? Hardly! Perhaps she had sold a redundant heirloom … A mystery. But it was one easily dismissed, for by now she was near Oxford Circus and ready to pursue more pressing matters, the taffeta skirt.
Mission accomplished and having elected to carry the purchase herself rather than have it delivered, Rosy took the lift to the ground floor. She was about to make for the exit, but hesitated and then turned towards the jewellery department in search of something blue to match the skirt. The best addition might be a brooch to set off the cream silk blouse intended as its companion. She selected a couple of items from the counter display, and just as she was holding one of them against her shoulder to judge its effect, felt a firm tap on her arm.
‘A larger one would be better. Be bold!’ someone said. Rosy spun round and was confronted by a grey-haired woman nursing a dachshund. ‘Yes,’ continued Miss Collinger, ‘if you are going to buy cheap jewellery there’s no point in being mealy-mouthed. Wear it with pride.’
What? Like your feather? Rosy felt like retorting, but said instead, ‘Oh goodness, what a surprise!’ She was indeed surprised – and none too pleased either by the term ‘cheap jewellery’. A bit much, in fact!
This time the woman was hatless (awaiting a new feather to replace the lost one?) and without the brim her squarish features seemed slightly softened. But the harsh voice was the same, as were the sharp eyes. In comparison the dachshund’s were mild and docile. ‘I have been following you,’ she announced.
Rosy was not sure she liked the idea of being followed by Miss Collinger, especially given the Sapphic persuasion, but said politely, ‘Ah – well, so now you’ve caught up!’ She smiled politely.
‘Yes,’ the woman replied, ‘I was going to telephone this very evening – found your number in the book; but just as I was turning out of Berners Street there you were crossing the road. Rather a jolly coincidence, don’t you think?’
Couldn’t be jollier, Rosy thought acidly.
‘You see,’ Miss Collinger went on, ‘I had to push off rather quickly the other day – pressing matters you know; but there are a couple of things about Marcia I’d like to discuss if you don’t mind. I suggest we confer in the tea room, they do an excellent seed cake.’ The suggestion was less an invitation than an edict.
Rosy particularly disliked seed cake, and neither was she drawn to ‘conferring’ with Vera Collinger. However, too surprised to make an effective excuse, she gestured towards the dachshund and said hopefully, ‘But I don’t think they allow dogs in there, do they?’
‘Oh yes,’ was the firm reply, ‘provided they are carried and kept out of the way. There’s never any difficulty. Now, you get on with that brooch business and I’ll go ahead and bag a table.’ Hitching up the dog she turned briskly and took off towards the tea room.
Rosy stared at the two brooches on the counter and selected the larger. The wretched woman was right, it did look b
etter. She sighed, completed the purchase and reluctantly followed her leader.
In between steady mouthfuls of seed cake Miss Collinger expatiated on this and that and nothing in particular, while Rosy thought, ‘Well if this is “conferring” why am I wasting my time?’ She sat smiling blandly and getting increasingly irritated.
And then the patter ceased and a direct question was fired: ‘Exactly how well did you know your aunt?’
It was not the question as such that annoyed Rosy, but rather its phrasing, i.e. the term ‘exactly’. The word carried a hectoring note, a note of command one might hear in a court of law or a military debriefing. It rendered the query officious and she felt reluctant to respond. However, clearly something was required, so giving a slight shrug she said casually, ‘Oh, as well as anyone knows a relation, I suppose,’ – an answer sufficiently ambiguous as to be meaningless.
A dart of impatience showed in the woman’s eyes, but leaning forward she said in a kindlier tone, ‘You see, I had the impression that latterly Marcia wasn’t quite herself. Seemed to have lost some of the old spark: quieter, more pensive. It was as if she was preoccupied with something but not saying anything. I asked her once but typically she just laughed, filled up the gin and said I was imagining things … But I wasn’t, you know. I knew Marcia, and there was definitely something on her mind. I also think she was lonely, or at least felt isolated.’
‘Lonely?’ exclaimed Rosy. ‘I hardly think—’
‘Oh, I don’t mean in a pathetic sense, crying into her pillow or anything like that – but it was as if she knew something that she couldn’t divulge, something she was concealing. And it was this that was distancing her from old pals.’
‘Such as yourself?’ asked Rosy, intrigued as well as sceptical. (The woman hadn’t seemed eager to claim close friendship on their first meeting.)
‘Well yes, me, but others too … And so I rather wondered, Miss Gilchrist, whether you, being her only close relative, had also been her confidante. Had she, for example, mentioned anything to you … or even,’ she paused, ‘entrusted something, perhaps?’
The latter part of the question was put lightly yet the gaze was fixed, and Rosy had the distinct feeling of something important being pursued of which she was unaware. She wondered to what extent the apparent solicitude was genuine. But she was also suddenly caught by the memory of Donald telling her that Marcia had spoken of a vital paper she wanted to send him – a document she wanted out of the country. Could this possibly be the point of Miss Collinger’s question? One thing was certain at any rate: she could reply with absolute truth that she knew nothing of Marcia’s affairs and even less of anything tangible that needed to be ‘entrusted’. Yet even as she formulated the response she felt a wave of annoyance and a reluctance to cooperate. Why should she reveal anything to this woman about her relationship – or non-relationship – with her aunt? It was a private thing, not for the ears of outsiders. And besides, she didn’t like her much.
The other must have noticed the hesitation, for lowering her voice slightly she said, ‘Naturally one doesn’t wish to intrude, but given the circumstances of poor Marcia’s death I think it is one’s duty to be as honest as possible. Don’t you? We owe it to her – so if you do happen to have anything or know of anything I am sure you will let—’
‘Of course,’ Rosy assured her earnestly, ‘I’ll tell the police immediately.’
Judging from the stony expression with which this was greeted (and as she had rather predicted), it was not the response being sought. But luckily further enquiry was forestalled by the dachshund. From under the table a cold and questing nose had pressed itself against Rosy’s ankle, and she squeaked in surprise. It was a timely diversion and she made the most of it.
‘Oh, is that your little dog?’ she exclaimed. ‘She did give me a surprise!’ And lifting the tablecloth and thrusting her head down, she made the appropriate cooing noises. ‘She’s delightful – what do you call her?’
‘His name is Raymond.’
‘Oh dear,’ Rosy laughed, ‘with luck he didn’t hear!’
‘He hears most things,’ the owner said tersely.
Still trying to dodge the subject of Marcia, Rosy pursued the topic. ‘Raymond: what a dignified name for a dog! So much better than Bouncer or Billy or that sort of thing.’
‘He is named after my brother,’ Miss Collinger replied soberly. ‘All my dogs have been – or at least, since the war they have.’
‘Was your brother a hero?’ Rosy asked brightly – and then immediately felt a fool, for she could guess what was coming next.’
‘A dead one,’ was the cold answer.
‘I am so sorry,’ Rosy murmured sincerely.
‘Yes, he got shot up in Normandy in a sabotage raid. Jaw partially paralysed – nothing too dreadful by many standards. But it left its mark; he was never the same afterwards. Couldn’t face Civvy Street, couldn’t face women – or anything really. He was given a medal but it didn’t do much for him. He started to drink and went, as they say, to the dogs.’ She stared at Rosy, looking both at her and through her, before adding, ‘And then one day he died. Couldn’t cope. He was just thirty … about your age, I should say, Miss Gilchrist.’
What could one say? Poor woman. Poor young man. And yet even as she thought such things, Rosy was ruffled by the pointed age comparison. After all, damn it, she had been in the war herself and didn’t need lessons in personal empathy! However, she made the appropriate responses, but couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment at having been dragooned into B & H’s tea lounge to hear about Vera Collinger’s family misfortunes, or indeed to be catechised about her own relations with Marcia. Unfettered she could have been at home by now gloating over the new skirt and telephoning her friend Diana for a long overdue chat.
The waitress appeared offering more tea, but to her relief Miss Collinger shook her head and requested the bill. She scrutinised it closely and announced triumphantly, ‘Just as I thought, they have been forced to reduce the price of the seed cake; too many complaints, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s down to one-and-twopence again.’ She looked at Rosy’s plate. ‘Aren’t you going to finish yours?’
‘Uhm, well I—’
‘Good. In that case Raymond and I will have it.’ She appropriated the piece, thrust a morsel at the dog and scoffed the rest. And then with Raymond once more clamped under her arm, she turned and said, ‘Nice to have met you again, Miss Gilchrist. I don’t suppose it will be the last time … And as said, if anything does occur to you about Marcia and what it was that was on her mind I should be most grateful if you would contact me. I’m not in the book but here’s my card. Your aunt and I went back a long time – one is naturally concerned.’
‘Naturally,’ Rosy echoed taking the card, and added, ‘I do hope you found what you were looking for in her house.’
‘What?’
‘In the house – the books you were searching for.’
Miss Collinger hesitated, and then with an uncharacteristic smile said, ‘Ah … yes, indeed I did, thank you. They are all back safely on my bookshelves! Now, I really must rush, got to take Raymond to the vet.’ Dog and owner moved quickly towards the swing doors.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The decibel level was dire but the drink was good – a fact that doubtless accounted for the former. Lady Fawcett was one of those hostesses who throw parties like other people throw tantrums, i.e. with insatiable relish and single-minded abandon. And as with the tantrum throwers the occasions were frequent and finely orchestrated. For one not known for her tact or intellectual acuity, Lady Fawcett’s grip on the finer points of party dynamics was formidable. It was, Rosy concluded, something bred in the bone, some sort of biological gift to obscure from the possessor the tiresome claims of the sensible and humdrum. Yes, the Fawcetts were the sort who, clad warmly in a cloak of myopic self-absorption, sailed through life on a tide of blinkered cheerfulness. Vapid yet resolutely good-natured, entirely confident and larg
ely frivolous, they were both enviable and maddening.
‘Well,’ said a voice at her elbow, ‘he’s doing all right, I must say. I doubt if anyone will bother to throw a party for me when I reach seventy!’ Clovis Thistlehyde gestured with the remains of a caviar canapé in the direction of a large man smoking a cigar and talking to Harold Gill at the far end of the room.
Rosy wondered whether she was supposed to disabuse him of the assumption but decided not to. Instead she said, ‘Ah, but you are not one of the nation’s major industrial magnates labouring to revive the country’s fortunes after the deluge. Even Churchill paid him a tribute in The Times the other day, and they say he’s in line for a K.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Clovis acidly, scooping up more caviar, ‘I’m just a bloody artist. Creative sensibilities rarely get the recognition they deserve. We live in an age of the philistine.’ Glancing at his tie, Rosy felt he fitted the age admirably. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘I don’t hold with all this title rigmarole; one is so tired of capitalist values.’ He tapped a passing waiter smartly on the shoulder and appropriated a glass of vintage Krug. And then before Rosy had time to make an excuse and slip away, he had gripped her by the elbow and said in a low voice, ‘You know, my dear, I was frightfully fond of your aunt. You have no idea how shocked I was to hear about it when I got back from Venice. All very disturbing – particularly as I was engaged on a rather fascinating portrait of her. I had only done a couple of sketches but it held such promise … and now, and now alas it will be lost for ever!’ He gazed earnestly into her eyes, and then said smoothly, ‘As a matter of fact I am looking for a replacement sitter and you look so like her, though heaps younger of course. I don’t suppose you would care to …?’
‘Replace Aunt Marcia on the podium? No thank you,’ said Rosy, ‘I feel the cold.’ She turned away and promptly bumped into Amy Fawcett.
A Little Murder Page 8