A Little Murder

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘Presumably like the other word,’ said his wife tartly.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Greenleaf levered off the cap from a bottle of Guinness, and was about to pour himself a glass when his wife said, ‘What did you say the date was?’

  ‘Of her murder? The fourteenth. Why?’

  ‘It was raining.’ She put the mince on the table with a clatter and turned to dish up the greens.

  ‘So what’s that got to do with it? And anyway, how do you know? It was weeks ago.’

  ‘I know because that was the day I visited Daisy and it poured every step of the way there and every step back. Never let up for a minute. Soaked to the skin I was. Ruined the perm! It got all frizzy.’

  ‘Which Daisy?’

  ‘Well you don’t think I mean the one in John O’Groats, do you? Daisy in Hammersmith, of course. It was her birthday and the rain put a regular dampener on things. We were going to have tea in her back garden. Had to go to the Palais instead.’

  Greenleaf grunted. ‘All very sad, I’m sure, but I still don’t see—’

  She gave a pitying sigh. ‘If you knew anything about anything, Herbert Greenleaf, you would know that people do not mow their lawns in pouring rain, old farts or not. The wet grass clogs up the blades. So you see I was quite right, it’s obvious the girl was lying.’

  ‘Hmm … Or he was,’ conceded Greenleaf. Then turning the topic, he said brightly, ‘This mince – it’s much better than it looks.’

  ‘Well, really!’

  The matter nagged him. Assuming that his wife was right about wet grass, and since Marcia Beasley was known not to have employed a gardener, the French girl’s assertion did seem curious … Perhaps the encounter had been in the street. He wondered vaguely if the denizens of St John’s Wood were given to trundling their lawnmowers along the pavements in pouring rain. It seemed unlikely. Yet despite his wife’s conviction, it seemed equally unlikely that Lulu had been lying – or for that matter Thistlehyde. Neither witness had struck him as being particularly sly or humorous. A bit of a mystery, really. But then it wasn’t the only one. There was that message attached to the piece of coal in the woman’s wardrobe: To fuel the flames of memory.

  What memory? Obviously of some past event – but how far in the past? A few months ago – or years? What exactly had been Marcia Beasley’s connection with fires? Perhaps if he turned Harris’s muzzle in that direction something would emerge. Meanwhile he must get back to that friend of the victim, Miss Vera Collinger. The two women had known each other in the war. Surely she could come up with something useful, or at any rate more useful than anything the niece had so far offered. The young woman seemed to think she was above it all – a fact that had immediately led his superior to conclude she was bound to be implicated. ‘Prime suspect, that’s what,’ the inspector had confidently pronounced. ‘One gets a nose for these things. It’s often the hoity-toity; they think themselves immune. You mark my words.’ But as Greenleaf had suspected, there was nothing in their subsequent investigations to support such assurance, and he had managed to dislodge that particular bee from his superior’s bonnet. The unfortunate thing was that as yet nothing better had taken its place …

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rosy was more perturbed by the news of Thistlehyde’s murder than she had chosen to let on to Leo. She liked her colleague and yet was conscious of the age gap between them, and though he was fun she was hesitant to confide much of her personal life or feelings. True, sitting in the staff café at the museum listening to him speculate about Marcia and the fate of Clovis had been a diverting break in the morning’s agenda; but now that she was at home alone and with time to reflect she felt once more a surge of unease.

  Why on earth had foolish Clovis met that awful end? Certainly he had always been tiresome but hardly deserving of elimination! But then, of course, the same could be said of her aunt. What was it that the two had done to goad such violence? And could the killings really be linked as Leo had insisted? She sighed. Yes, probably.

  Propping her elbows on the window sill she stared out at the sallow sky above the chimney pots and watched the leaves of the plane tree as they drifted listlessly down to the pavement. From somewhere there came the pinking of a solitary thrush, and at the street corner she could just discern the lights of the tobacconist switched on early against the gathering dusk. The smell of winter stirred in her imagination, and with a pang she knew she was afraid …

  Pathetic! She retreated into the room, switched on the standard lamp, and settled on the sofa with a copy of Picture Post. But it was not the distraction she had hoped. Images of naked Marcia absurdly crowned on the drawing room floor swam into her mind and mingled with those of blood-soaked Clovis felled at his easel. With an effort she concentrated her mind on the page in front of her, but the scenes remained.

  She cast the magazine aside and tried to rally herself. ‘This will not do, Rosemary!’ Memory of her mother’s brisk voice rang in her ears. ‘No time for mopes!’ Rosy agreed but could do little. What was happening to her, for goodness’ sake? After all, she had faced some pretty grim times operating that searchlight at Dover – terrifying really; yet she didn’t recall feeling quite so disturbed then as she did now. Somehow she had always coped, risen above the fears, and facing the death-laden skies simply got on with the job. But this was different – a different sort of fear, and certainly a different situation … In the war the threat had been known, obvious, and she had shared it with others; it had been their common plight. But in this she was alone, and what at first had been shocking but manageable had suddenly taken on a macabre taunting insistence.

  She tried to rationalise matters. Yes, her aunt had been murdered but there was absolutely no reason to think that the niece would be the next victim – and certainly the police had made no such assumption. And despite having known Clovis she was hardly what one would term a bosom pal. (Had there been any?) Careful to keep her distance she had ensured their association had been tenuous in the extreme. No, clearly she was not in personal danger. But all the same it was unnerving to think that being familiar with both victims, the killer would have an awareness of their shared circle and its associates. Indeed, could perhaps be one of that circle!

  For the first time Rosy began to wonder if she should volunteer additional information to the police and generally show greater eagerness to assist their enquiries. Initially she had been loath to get more involved than was absolutely necessary; but the new turn of events put an even murkier complexion on things. It was surely her duty to be as useful as possible. When interviewed by Greenleaf about Marcia she had answered his questions and cooperated as best she could, but her contribution had been minimal – precisely because she had known so little. But since then things had moved on: there was, for example, Donald’s story of her aunt shouting about the coal scuttle in her sleep, his revelation that she had been in the SOE in the war, and his tale of the document that she wanted to place securely. There was also Miss Collinger’s evident search of Marcia’s desk – possibly in pursuit of that same document – and the woman’s insistent curiosity regarding Marcia’s recent activities or preoccupations. And what about that lump of coal she had found in the wardrobe? The more she thought about it the odder it seemed – and it struck her that in some bizarre way it was to do with the coal scuttle.

  Were these matters the police needed to know? Perhaps they were aware of them already. Or perhaps not. Surely it would be sensible to take the initiative and tell them all she knew … Except, of course, she didn’t actually know anything. Nothing tangible, nothing first hand: mere suspicions and other people’s words. She pondered the odds of being seen as an officious crank seeking the limelight, as against those of upright citizen keen to assist the solving of two horrific crimes. Even-stevens, she concluded, and shelving the matter turned back to her perusal of Picture Post.

  An item caught her eye: a retrospective article on the launching of the Festival of Britain accompanied by a
graphic picture of the Skylon and the Battersea funfair on the banks of the Thames. Despite what the writer insisted, she knew that the most awesome ride had not been the Big Dipper, let alone the flying Zeppelins. It had been the giant Rotor, that huge rotating drum in which willing victims would be spun at dizzying speed until the floor dropped away, and by centrifugal force be then pinioned like helpless flies against its whirling walls. Yes, that had been the real excitement: to be stuck to the walls of the Rotor, screaming with delicious terror – and being sick as a cat afterwards. She had tried it out once accompanied by a friend’s child. The child had been in seventh heaven; Rosy had not. She shuddered at the memory … And then shuddered again, as with cringing embarrassment she recalled the photograph in the Evening Standard of Marcia wedged between two sailors, her skirts up round her suspenders, blonde hair streaming in the slipstream and mouth gaping wide. The caption had read: ‘Society gal has the ride of her life!’ Yes, the memory was embarrassing all right, and yet it suddenly brought tears to Rosy’s eyes. She brushed them aside impatiently and was about to go into the kitchen to forage for supper, when the telephone rang.

  It was her boss Dr Stanley. ‘I say,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I don’t suppose you want to go to the pantomime, do you?’ (The pantomime! With him? Was he mad?)

  ‘Well,’ she faltered, playing for time. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been to one … But, uhm, isn’t it a bit early? I thought they started later in the season.’

  ‘It’s at the Palladium. Apparently they were let down by some other production so they are bringing the pantomime forward a couple of weeks. My mother’s got a spare ticket and we wondered whether …’

  The idea of the pantomime with Dr Stanley had been startling enough – but with his mother too?

  She started to stammer an excuse, but before she had gone far, he explained, ‘There’s a small family group organised. A mixture of adults and assorted children, and somebody has dropped out at the last minute and so I thought of you. Leo’s going too,’ he added. (A hopeful enticement?)

  Still not sure of her reply, she gave a faint laugh and said she hadn’t realised that such revels were his sort of thing.

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m not going. No fear! This is all mother’s doing. It’s her annual treat to the family and she gets ratty if her plans are upset … So you will take the spare ticket, won’t you, Rosy? Otherwise I shall find myself being roped in … Look on it as my early Christmas present to you.’ (Oh yes? When had he ever given her a Christmas present, early or late?)

  ‘Well …’ she began weakly.

  ‘Excellent,’ he boomed, ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Come to my office first thing tomorrow and the ticket will be placed in your eager hands.’ Before she had a chance to say anything he had rung off.

  That’s all I need, she thought grimly, one pantomime after another! Yet feeling oddly cheered she continued into the kitchen to sort out supper.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The pantomime had been delightful, absurd as only pantomimes can be, and Tommy Trinder’s act with the wheelbarrow hilarious. The young had been in their element, entranced with the elves and diminutive prancing ponies, and Leo and the other grown-ups had been transported by their own complicity in the make-believe.

  Rosy took out her latchkey, the strains of the ludicrous ditties and shrieks of children’s ecstatic laughter still echoing in her ears. Yes, an absurdly magical evening, and a rousing start to the Christmas season. So now all that remained was a quick nightcap and a warm bed before the next day and the rather less magical antics of her benefactor Dr Stanley.

  She switched on the hall light and mounted the stairs to the sitting room. The door was closed as when she had left, but even before reaching it she could hear the music: one of her old records of Jack Buchanan and Bea Lillie singing ‘Who Stole My Heart Away?’

  She stopped, frozen with incredulity as the notes from the gramophone seeped out from within. (Later she would recall how, even in the midst of paralysed shock, the song still exerted its insidious jaunty charm.) She gazed at the door’s white panelling, gripped by a fearful sense of unreality. No one could be in her flat at that hour, it was impossible! Besides, only she had access. But the music and the faint gleam of light from the keyhole said otherwise … For an instant she wondered if it might be Leo, somehow intruded to give her a stupid surprise. But even as the thought struck her she knew it was nonsense: he had taken a late train to the country to be dutiful among grandparents. She hesitated, biting her lip. And then in a spasm of boldness closed frightened fingers on the handle and flung open the door … The music swelled, and Buchanan’s long held ‘Who-oo—’ flooded the passage and her ears.

  The first thing she saw was indeed the gramophone – on the table with its lid propped up and the empty 78 sleeve and other records lying next to it … And then she saw the listener.

  ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ the man said. ‘But you know, these days you could probably find it on an LP – or even get it transcribed. It’s amazing what these boffins can do.’ He moved the needle-arm back to its bracket and closed the lid. Then getting up from the chair he limped towards her, hand outstretched: ‘My name is Richard Whittington – or, at least, that’s as good as any, and given your recent activity one you are bound to recognise.’ He smiled faintly. And too stunned to do otherwise, Rosy found herself mechanically reciprocating the proffered hand. Briefly she touched his fingers – four only, the thumb was missing.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ she thought, ‘no thumb, sallow complexion and a heavy limp – it’ll be Fu Manchu at the window next!’ She wasn’t sure whether she was going to scream with hysterical laughter or faint with fear. The walls of the room suddenly seemed curiously fluid and the overhead lamp unbearably bright. Faint or flight, flight or faint? her heart thumped out. He must have seen her indecision, for he asked politely if she would like some whisky.

  That did it! Pulling herself together she said squeakily, ‘If there is any whisky to be dispensed I think I can do it myself – it is mine after all!’ She forced her legs towards the cabinet, and with shaky hand took the stopper out of the decanter and poured a small glass, annoyed at the uncustomary spillage. She was about to replace the stopper but hesitated. Was there an etiquette for such occasions?

  Old courtesies die hard, and besides, it was a kind of distraction. ‘You’d better have one too,’ she muttered ungraciously.

  ‘How kind,’ he murmured, ‘just a very small one.’

  ‘What else had you in mind?’ she wished she was able to say, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. She compensated by taking a large gulp of her own, which made her cough.

  ‘I apologise for the intrusion, it’s disgracefully late I know—’ he began.

  ‘How did you get in?’ she snapped, suddenly steadied by the drink. ‘And what in hell do you want?’

  He shrugged. ‘I gained entry in the usual way, with a key, of course. But as to what I want, well that is a trifle more complex – or at least it might be. That rather depends on you, Rosy.’

  She gazed at him, taking in the slight frame, the pale skin, heavy brows and shrewd unswerving eyes. Annoyance at the familiar use of her first name was overlaid by something else: memory. She had seen this man before – talking to the Collinger woman at the National Gallery. Her eyes fell on the walking stick at his side. Yes, he had had that in the gallery too. She felt another pang of fear: suppose he tried to use it on her! But even as the thought came she dismissed it. She may not have been any taller but she was the more strongly built, and somehow he didn’t look the type to threaten physical violence. All the same she felt deeply apprehensive. He had a quiet sinewy poise which she found unnerving … And how on earth did he have a key? And how did he know she had been to the theatre? Been watching her, obviously. But why, for God’s sake?

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she replied as coolly as she could. ‘Why should anything depend on me? Not that it matters because if you are
not gone in two minutes I shall ring the police.’ But even as she made that last remark she felt how foolish it sounded. Didn’t such intruders always cut the telephone wires – or so the books said.

  He took a reflective sip of whisky and said mildly, ‘Yes, I suppose you might, but I rather doubt it – not when you hear what I have to say. You see it might prove a little embarrassing. At least I assume so.’

  This was not what she had expected: no snarl of scornful mirth as he taunted her with the usefulness of his trusty penknife, no dangling of severed flex in front of her frightened eyes. Instead the response was of the kind to be had from one manipulating a delicate deal in the boardroom: polite, apologetic but quietly confident.

  ‘Embarrassing?’ she queried. ‘I hardly think—’

  He nodded. ‘It’s your aunt, you see – your late aunt, Marcia Beasley. She’s presented us with a bit of a problem; and I imagine you might find it unsettling if things were to leak out and your name be linked with hers – particularly as I gather you were rather a stalwart in the war.’ He regarded her steadily, while Rosy stared back, struggling to grasp, to make sense of the man’s words.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked faintly. ‘What sort of problem, and why should it affect me?’

  He sighed. ‘Look, sit down, have a cigarette and I’ll tell you a story.’ The four fingers deftly snapped open a silver case. Mechanically she took one while with equal deftness he struck a match for her.

  ‘Did your aunt ever mention to you she was in the SOE?’

  ‘No, but I have been told that she was – by her husband, quite recently as a matter of fact. Well, he was her husband once, but they were divorced and—’

  ‘Ah yes, of course, Donald – nice man. And did he tell you what her role was?’

  Rosy hesitated, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Not much – I … er … gather she was used as – as pillow bait. Isn’t that the term for ladies who wheedle out enemy secrets in bed?’