A Little Murder

by Suzette A. Hill

The girl screeched a welcome, and then in a mercifully quieter tone said, ‘I say, has that old goat been at you as well? He’s dead keen to get me into his studio to pose in the buff. Same question every damn time! Mummy says he’s as mean as a monkey and that I should ask him what his rates are. Apparently that would shut him up quicker than anything.’ She spluttered a laugh and asked Rosy if she had had a chance to talk to ‘the birthday boy’. Rosy explained that she barely knew Maynard Latimer, having met him only fleetingly some years ago.

  ‘Oh, we’ll soon put that right,’ breezed Amy. ‘I’ll introduce you. He’s a great chum of my godfather. I’ll see if I can detach him from Harold Gill – such a starchy old buffer. Can’t think what they’ve got in common.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind Gill,’ said Rosy, ‘though I know Mrs rather better. They were neighbours of Marcia – rather long-suffering really – and were very helpful with the funeral arrangements and other practicalities.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Amy vaguely, ‘Mummy says that type is jolly good at things like that … Oh look! He’s moved away at last. I’ll try to catch Maynard’s eye.’ She embarked on a series of windmill gesticulations which fortunately her quarry saw before they became too frenzied. He waved back and made his way to where they were standing.

  ‘Amy, your mother has surpassed herself. I am a lucky boy!’ He beamed at them both and introduced himself to Rosy who murmured felicitations.

  ‘Oh well, when you get to my age one tries to rise above it all. It’s not good to be reminded of the onset of decrepitude. Mind you, I was reminded of it only too well the other day by my grandson. He really gave me a broadside!’

  ‘But Dickie’s so polite,’ exclaimed Amy, ‘and besides, no one could accuse you of being decrepit, you’re far too handsome!’

  Latimer grinned and wagged his finger. ‘Now don’t try that one, Amy! Oh yes, Dickie’s polite all right, that was the trouble. According to his mother, for some reason he had been singing my praises ad nauseam and concluded by declaring to all and sundry: “Oh yes, I should like to be exactly like Grandpa one day – one day when I am a very old man too.”’ He gave a shout of mirth. ‘Well that reduced me to size all right! Collapse of stout party you might say. And just when I thought I had been cutting such a fine figure in my cricket whites!’

  There was general laughter and Rosy found herself rather liking him. Pleased with himself, of course, but rather fun all the same … He beamed at her and with no difficulty she beamed back.

  ‘I see Rosy Gilchrist’s here,’ observed Felix to Cedric.

  ‘Looking quite good too, if you like the genre, of course,’ replied the professor.

  Felix shrugged. ‘But then we don’t especially, do we?’

  ‘Better than Marcia, that’s for certain. And clearly Latimer seems to think so.’ Cedric sipped his cocktail thoughtfully and added, ‘Sharper too. I wonder if she knows anything.’

  ‘About the murder?’

  ‘I was thinking of the other matter.’

  ‘Unlikely. They weren’t particularly close. I can’t see Marcia making her niece a confidante.’

  ‘Yes, but one never quite knows with women, they get sudden whims. It’s amazing what you can learn about female psychology, even in a short time. I was married to one once, you may remember.’

  ‘Oh I remember,’ said Felix dryly. The subject was an irritant he preferred not to dwell upon. Really, sometimes he felt convinced that Cedric introduced the topic just to needle him. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the wife had been normal, i.e. easily ignored, but she had been so God-awful intrusive. Putrid in fact!

  He scowled into his Martini and tried to think of nicer things, e.g. Clarence House’s approval of his latest flower arrangement. He had struggled with it for hours, valiant in the face of footmen and corgis. Yet miraculously it had all ended in fragrant triumph. And of course she had been simply charming! A momentary vision of the coveted plaque danced before his eyes: By Appointment … He glowed at the possibility, wondering whether he should order a new door in readiness, and felt so much better. That is, until Clovis Thistlehyde appeared at his side and knocked into his glass.

  Felix’s scowl returned as he watched the liquid soak an immaculate cuff, and he said waspishly, ‘A little unsteady, aren’t we? Must be the constant smell of the turps bottle. They do say it turns one squiffy.’

  ‘Nothing squiffy about me, Smythe,’ Clovis retorted angrily. ‘Taken rather a lot on board yourself, I should say. In fact, from what I’ve observed, one more Martini and we’ll be stepping over you.’ He turned on his heel and stalked as best as he could through the thickening throng.

  ‘That wasn’t very clever, was it?’ Cedric observed. ‘If Rembrandt has a sudden jolt to memory and something comes back to him he’ll march straight off to that Sergeant Greenleaf and drop you in it.’

  ‘He’s not bright enough and there’s no proof,’ replied Felix curtly.

  ‘Perhaps. But he has a low cunning and a vindictive spirit. It doesn’t do to antagonise those who could do you harm. Do try to be a little more restrained.’

  Felix gave a nonchalant shrug and lit a cigarette, but inwardly he was troubled. For he knew his friend was right; and worse still, something hung in his mind which he didn’t really want to think about. The hypothetical ‘telling detail’ they had touched on earlier had been largely dismissed, but now as he thought back on things he knew that there had indeed been such a detail – one not so much telling as screaming to the heavens. And though at the time it may have passed unnoticed, with hindsight who knew what that Clovis cretin might not dredge up!

  ‘How pensive you look, Felix dear,’ cried Lady Fawcett as she glided past with yet another offering of foie gras filigrees. ‘Have some of these, they’ll buck you up no end. Now do tell me, how did things go last week with your special client?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ he enthused, regaining his spirits, and proceeded to tell her in every floral detail.

  The saga had just finished when there was a commotion by the double doors. ‘Oh my God,’ the hostess exclaimed, ‘it’s Auntie, I had completely forgotten she was coming. How awful!’ Hastily apologising to Felix, she weaved her way to the far end of the room where she greeted the nonagenarian with dutiful indulgence.

  Auntie tottered in on two sticks looking a geriatric million dollars and clearly seeing herself as the Queen of Sheba. With a whirl of an ebony stick she made brief acknowledgement of those present and with hawkish eye surveyed the room. Her gaze fell on the guest of honour, and a swathe was cut as she made solemn progress in the direction of Maynard Latimer. Once there she paused, prodded his ribs with a bejewelled talon, and with a leering grin boomed, ‘Who’s a naughty boy, then?’ Delivered of this and without waiting for a response, she trundled away to one of the drinks trolleys, and ignoring its hovering minder scooped up a Bronx with unerring grip.

  The encounter elicited discreet titters from those standing next to the industrialist, and someone was heard to observe, ‘Well she’s got your number all right, Latimer!’ There was more laughter, but rather to Rosy’s surprise, the target of the old lady’s jest remained stiff-jawed. The earlier bonhomie seemed to have slipped, and just for an instant Rosy thought she saw a flash of anger in his eyes. She was slightly surprised. Why should one as confident as Maynard Latimer be discomfited by the coy banter of some frail ancient not long for this world? Indeed most men would have been flattered to be thus teased and entered jauntily into the spirit of the thing. Why hadn’t he? Had the old girl hit a raw nerve, wittingly or unwittingly pinpointed some current indiscretion – an illicit dalliance whose exposure might have embarrassing consequences? But if so, surely he had the social aplomb to affect an indifferent good humour: people like Maynard Latimer had nonchalance down to a fine art …

  ‘Not too keen, was he?’ murmured a voice in her ear. It was Professor Dillworthy.

  As it happened Rosy wasn’t too keen on Dillworthy, but she smiled politely and agreed that the g
uest of honour had seemed a bit ruffled.

  ‘Ah, but then of course Adelaide Fawcett is good at ruffling people, been at it all her life. A malicious old bitch, actually … Doesn’t let go either. Once she’s got you in her sights there’s no escaping.’ His sour look belied the cool tone, and Rosy wondered whether he too was among Auntie’s unfortunate elect. But she had no time to consider, for out of the corner of her eye she saw the Gills bearing down on her with faces of fixed solicitude.

  ‘My dear,’ Mrs Gill began, ‘how brave of you to come, but very wise too. It doesn’t do to be reclusive over these things. I always say that grief is like a riding accident – one must leap back upon the steed instantly and pursue the course! Isn’t that so, Harold?’

  Her husband looked doubtful and muttered something to the effect that Dahlia Drew had done exactly that only the month previously and it had cost her a broken pelvis, not to mention her husband’s sanity paying the bills at the King Edward’s.

  ‘Oh, you’re so literal!’ Mrs Gill exclaimed impatiently. ‘But Rosy knows what I mean, don’t you, my dear? When misfortune strikes, resolution is all. And you are a living example to us!’ She took an earnest bite from her canapé, regarding Rosy with kindly sympathy.

  Rosy suspected that Mildred Gill had never been near a horse in her life, and was embarrassed at being cast in the role of gallant griever. She felt both fraudulent and guilty, and wished they could turn to lighter topics.

  ‘She was a fascinating person, your aunt,’ persisted Harold, ‘a little eccentric perhaps, contrary even, and uhm – well, what you might call forthright, but …’ He hesitated, groping clumsily, ‘but wonderful with Temper of course. Yes, very good-tempered with Temper. Ha! Ha!’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Rosy, ‘I’m not quite sure—’

  ‘Our cat,’ explained Mrs Gill. ‘Marcia had a knack, you know, and whenever we were away she would take him over. In that respect she could always be relied upon. Well, I mean …’ There was a confused pause. ‘I mean she was reliable in every way, of course, but especially with cats.’

  ‘Hmm,’ thought Rosy wryly, ‘is that to be Aunt Marcia’s epitaph: Always reliable with cats? Still, given the circumstances, at least preferable to She wore her laurels with style.

  She was about to thank them again about the funeral arrangements but was forestalled by Harold Gill saying darkly, ‘Very funny business if you ask me. All very peculiar, keeps one awake at night. At least, it does me – don’t know about Mildred, she’s made of sterner stuff, but personally I find it very unsettling. Can’t help imagining—’

  ‘Yes, well Rosy doesn’t want to know what you imagine,’ cut in his wife briskly. ‘It’s enough that the thing happened. It doesn’t have to be dwelt upon; that’s the province of the police, who I’m sure are doing a splendid job. At least, I suppose they are. That’s what we are always told at such times … But what do you think, my dear? Are they making any progress?’

  Rosy shrugged. ‘I have no idea. And I doubt if they would say much to me even if they were.’ She tried to think of a way of detaching herself. Well intentioned though Marcia’s neighbours were, she really didn’t want to spend further time with the topic, especially in the middle of Lady Fawcett’s drawing room. The whole point of the party was enjoyment, and things had taken a turn which she could do without.

  ‘The police, they move in mysterious ways,’ observed Harold Gill tritely, ‘but my wife is right, you show great fortitude. We admire your spirit.’ (What spirit? Rosy wondered, discomfited by their misplaced praise.)

  ‘And do remember,’ chimed Mildred Gill, ‘if there is anything else we can help you with at this sad time you have only to ask – anything you want to discuss concerning your poor dear aunt, and we’ll be here.’ She squeezed Rosy’s arm and Harold gave a sombre nod.

  Rosy thanked them gravely, feeling a heel and a charlatan. Mumbling an excuse she melted away in search of strong drink – a relief encountered via the agency of Auntie.

  The old lady waylaid her, and grinning through the mask of panstick and rouge proffered a glass of champagne. ‘Hellish Harold and Meddling Mildred; you’ll need this, I daresay,’ she cackled.

  Rosy did need it, but despite her earlier embarrassment, couldn’t help thinking that Auntie was being a trifle unkind. Dreary, perhaps, but hellish and meddling? Hardly. However, she accepted the glass gratefully, and was about to make some polite remark, when the donor announced, ‘I knew your aunt. I didn’t like her.’

  Rosy was startled and could think of only one thing to say: ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Marcia Beasley,’ the other continued, ‘was bright in some ways, stupid and dangerous in others. Her end was unsurprising.’

  ‘Really?’ said Rosy, recovering herself and feeling indignant. ‘And have you mentioned this to the police?’

  ‘The police? Certainly not. I have never spoken to a policeman in my life and have no intention of starting now!’ She sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘But if you think my aunt’s death was not unexpected, don’t you think they might find your views helpful?’

  The old lady gave a careless shrug. ‘People rarely find an old woman’s views helpful, and besides I have no intention of doing their work for them. Coppers must earn their coppers,’ she quipped smugly, adjusting the dazzling rocks at her throat.

  ‘Auntie, your taxi has arrived, and you must be so tired!’ Lady Fawcett cajoled. ‘Edward will take you home, he’s not had a chance to talk to you all evening.’

  ‘So why should he want to begin now?’

  There was no real answer to that, but handing Rosy her sticks and clutching the young woman’s arm, the old lady permitted herself to be propelled towards the amiable care of her great-nephew. But just as she was going she turned to Rosy, and in a precise but barely audible undertone, said, ‘You want to watch that one, Miss Gilchrist, a dubious piece of work if ever there was one.’

  Rosy was bewildered. ‘Who?’ she whispered back. ‘Do you mean Edward?’

  ‘No, not that buffoon! Latimer, of course.’ And she nodded in the direction of the broad shoulders and swirling cigar smoke. ‘I remember him in nappies. Beastly then, beastly now.’ Then turning to her hostess, she gave an imperious wave and in a louder voice declared, ‘One of your better efforts, Angela: guests questionable but drink commendable.’

  ‘Vicious old bat,’ muttered Cedric.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was too bad, fumed Clovis, pacing irritably in front of his easel. Not one single guest at the Fawcetts’ soirée had shown the slightest interest in his current work; and the gold fountain pen all primed for a coyly requested autograph had proved redundant. As for that cocky little swine Spernal from the Telegraph, he had actually had the gall to say, ‘How’s tricks, Thistlehyde? Still churning ’em out?’ The cheek of it! Jumped-up little pipsqueak. To think that at one time when he was being lionised all over Belgravia for his ‘robust perceptions and startling technique’ Clive bloody Spernal was some provincial cub reporter grubbing away on a local rag with a solitary School Cert. in Arts & Crafts. And now here he was rubbing shoulders with the Fawcetts and Latimers of this world, making fatuous quips on the Telegraph’s arts page and trying to be clever with yours truly, C. Thistlehyde FAG. It was a bit effing much!

  It was also, he brooded, a bit much that his offer to send preliminary sketches of the Marcia portrait to Lyrical Life had been summarily declined. Apparently it had to be the finished work or nothing, and since recent events precluded the former they were scrapping the whole project and replacing it with an ‘exciting’ profile of the ‘young, dynamic and amazingly talented’ Chico Boulez from Bolivia … Well, he resolved, if ever he had the misfortune to meet said Boulez from Bolivia he would kick his arse!

  No, things were not exactly romping along at the moment. The Burley Gallery had been annoyingly vague about his inclusion in their next print exhibition, and even the bedroom zeal of his latest pickup was cooling visibly. She seemed to have de
veloped a sulk and a propensity for yawning … and was that a stifled titter he had heard the last time he had bounded from the shower, tackle all poised for the fray? Surely not. Doubtless it had been the girl’s way of squeaking in ecstasy, though one couldn’t be too sure …

  Naturally it was all just an unfortunate phase but nevertheless it wouldn’t do. The public (but increasingly girls, too, he had noticed) were becoming fickle and undiscerning – probably manipulated by that wasp Spernal. It was time they were re-educated, alerted once more to the special gifts of rapscallion Clovis Thistlehyde! It was largely Marcia’s fault, of course. If only he had had the chance to complete it, that picture would have been a veritable star of contemporary portraiture and a timely reminder of his artistic worth. Indeed, it could have heralded what might be termed a Clovisian risorgimento! The critics would have gone crazy and even little shit Spernal forced to nod in his direction. But that had been typical of Marcia: always let you down at the last minute. He scowled, recalling bitterly her failure to introduce him to the renowned Sir Gerald Kelly, having promised for weeks that she would. With Kelly as his patron all manner of things might have been secured. As it was …

  He jabbed his brush into the canvas making a particularly virulent splodge of vermilion, and ruminated on his last encounter with the victim. She had been all right until that damned parcel business – surprisingly cooperative, in fact. But after that everything had gone to pieces and it was obvious he would get no further. Ironic really: had he remained in the house she might be alive now and he could have finished the thing … But then, he reflected, whoever had come to do the deed might have finished him off too! He shuddered. No, looked at in that light it had definitely been a timely exit.

  He continued brooding on those final moments with his sitter. And it occurred to him vaguely that there had been something unexpected in the hall when he had gone through for a pee, something that hadn’t been there when he had first entered. Yes, there had definitely been something there. But what was it? Quite an ordinary thing, he thought; unremarkable and yet strangely incongruous. He frowned in concentration, mechanically adding another blob to the vermilion … Of course, that was it: there had been a mackintosh dumped on the hall table, thrown carelessly. A yellow mackintosh – well, virtually yellow, a sort of raucous ochre. Unusual really; he had only ever seen one that colour before. Yes, only once before and that had been worn by … He started. Good God! Was it possible? Surely not!