Like an automaton she tidied the strewn records, wound up the gramophone and revived the elegant swooping tones of Buchanan and Lillie; and for a few merciful moments reality was suspended … Yet even before the needle had moved halfway across the surface she pushed its arm back on to the bracket and slammed the lid. ‘Oh Christ almighty!’ she breathed.
Sleep of course was impossible, or so it felt. Possibly there had been an hour of snatched oblivion before dawn, but for most of the night she was awake, her mind caught in a whirligig of incredulity and floundering fear. For a while she had wondered if the whole episode had been a ridiculous delusion brought on by too much pantomime drollery. The idea was hardly comforting: of the two – mental muddle or the man’s reality – she favoured the latter. But it was a reality she would have preferred not to confront.
The question was, what to do? Something practical as he had suggested, i.e. change the locks? At least that might be a block to further intrusions of whatever sort. If he had slipped in so casually presumably so could they, whoever they might be … always assuming that they really did exist. After all, despite his seeming intellect and decorous air the man might be a raving lunatic inhabiting a world of lurid fantasy in which she had a principal part!
But when she recalled his words the possibility seemed slight. He had shown a close knowledge of Marcia both past and present, and there was also that allusion to the matinee – a fact surely corroborated by Amy Fawcett when, according to her, she had told Greenleaf of Marcia’s limping escort outside the theatre. Besides, what about her own glimpse of him talking to Vera Collinger at the National Gallery? The latter might be a little eccentric but she had her marbles all right and did not seem the sort to be found consorting with fools or fantasists … No, on the whole it might be prudent to take Mr Whittington seriously. But other than replacing the locks, what on earth to do?
He had been right. There was one thing she would not do: put the matter in the hands of the police. To make a public revelation of her aunt’s wartime madness would be humiliation enough, but there was also this recent activity: concealment and squalid usage of the bomb plot evidence. It was a double ignominy. How could the woman have behaved like that? What idiocy, what selfishness … what dishonour!
Suddenly Rosy found herself in floods of tears. Fear for her personal safety might be coped with or suppressed. But the weight of shame, family shame, was intolerable. She thought of her mother and father during the war: patriotic to the core, humorously stoical, unflinching in the Blitz – and destroyed by it. She thought of Johnnie scudding through the clouds on those endless lonely missions, dodging the Luftwaffe, defying the scouring searchlights: wrapped in peril, armed with faith, and laughingly casual to the end. And briefly she thought of herself under fire on the south coast, and the guts and camaraderie of her colleagues, their gaiety and griefs. And she thought of the thousands who had sacrificed themselves in defence of their country at that awful time … And again she thought of her aunt’s crass treachery and the later cynical withholding and use of vital facts for personal gain. No, just as Whittington had surmised, she could tell no one. Bloody, bloody Marcia!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Well one thing is certain – dead men tell no tales. Whether or not he saw your raincoat doesn’t matter now … unless of course he had just happened to mention it to Greenleaf before the event. Have you thought of that?’ Cedric looked sternly at his companion. Felix had thought of that, thought of it several times. (Which was why he had got rid of the thing so promptly – a considerable sacrifice, for he had loved its raffish colour.) But he did wish Cedric would stop going on about it! His nerves were bad enough as it was. However, he replied airily, ‘I doubt it. If that were the case he would probably have approached me by now, bounded over lickety-split with notebook flapping.’
‘Hmm. Could be biding his time, just waiting for the opportune moment …’
‘Look, whose side are you on? You seem intent on fearing the worst and spreading alarm and despondency!’
Cedric looked pained. ‘The point is, my dear fellow, one must consider every eventuality. It doesn’t do to be complacent. Too much is at stake.’
‘You can say that again! I wish to God we had never started this charade. It was a mad idea!’
‘I don’t recall your saying that at the time. At the time you thought it was just the ticket, your exact words being: “That will give her something to think about. Serve the bitch right”.’
‘Yes and she was better served than one had bargained for! … Oh my God, this is all too dreadful!’ Felix covered his eyes with one hand and groped for a violet fondant with the other. He missed and sent the box cascading to the floor.
With a martyred sigh Cedric got down on his knees and gathered up the contents. ‘I do think you could be a little more careful, they are my favourites you know.’ Back on his feet and with the fondants placed firmly out of reach, he moved to a side table and poured two glasses of sherry. ‘I think these might revive the spirits – and prepare us for the visit of friend Collinger. What time did you say she was coming?’
‘Seven o’clock.’
‘Well as long as she’s gone by eight. Remember, I did book that corner table at Quaglino’s; they won’t keep it beyond half past.’
‘Oh, she’ll be gone,’ replied Felix confidently. ‘Vera rarely hangs about – unless it’s to indulge some female acquaintance or the dachshund. No, she’ll keep to the point all right and then take off sharpish.’
‘Well, that’s a mercy, at least … But I take it she’s not bringing the dog with her?’ Cedric looked anxiously at his pale pristine carpet and was relieved when Felix shook his head, and then added, ‘Tell me, doesn’t it bother you rather that she calls the creature Raymond? Personally I would be a trifle piqued if one of my youthful amours were commemorated in that way, especially by a breed not known for its length of leg.’
‘One rises above it,’ Felix said stiffly. ‘And since I am not given to hobnobbing with its owner more than necessary, our paths rarely clash.’
‘But don’t you think her brother might have minded – having a succession of pet canines named after him? I shouldn’t care for it myself.’
‘There were few things that Raymond minded except not being the centre of attention. He was one of the vainest men I have ever known – until, courtesy of Marcia, his disfigurement … And as for your own feelings, I very much doubt whether anyone would dub their dog Cedric, so I shouldn’t let that worry you too much. Now if you would be so kind as to offer me a smidgen more sherry I should be most grateful!’ He held out his glass which his host duly replenished. ‘Actually,’ Felix continued, ‘I am not entirely clear why Vera is coming at all. It’s hardly an enlivening start to the evening.’
‘I told you,’ Cedric explained, ‘apparently the police are seeking a further interview and she wants to know exactly how much we have divulged of Marcia’s past. It’s the Raymond connection. She’s worried that they will put two and two together and make ten, i.e. put her on the suspect list.’
‘Hah! She’s not the only one who’s worried! But surely you told her that nothing had been said?’
‘Oh yes, but she wants “clarification”. Never trusts a thing, which is why she was so useful to Grimshaw’s outfit in forty-two. Besides, she also intimated that she had made a startling discovery – just recently, I gather. Apparently quite a revelation; something to do with a document belonging to Marcia and she wants to pick our brains. Thinks we may know something about it.’
‘What document?’
‘I have no idea, but she seemed agitated.’
Felix sighed and cast a wistful glance at the violet fondants. ‘How I wish things were back to normal: that none of this nightmare had happened and all I had to deal with were the perversities of the Covent Garden delivery men and giving floral pleasure to the Queen Mother. As it is …’
‘As it is there is a strong chance of your being one of her daughter’s spe
cial guests in Parkhurst or Pentonville.’
‘Thank you, dear friend. You are such a joy.’
The doorbell rang.
‘Ah, that must be the Sapphic invasion,’ exclaimed Cedric.
Felix groaned.
Later that evening over coffee and Grappa in Quaglino’s Cedric observed, ‘Well that certainly puts a fresh complexion on things, I must say.’
‘Frankly,’ said Felix, ‘if Vera is right and there really was a bomb plot against Churchill here in England then I think it’s simply disgraceful!’
‘The plot or Marcia’s blackmail of the plotters?’
‘The plot, of course. What Marcia chose to do in her spare time is no concern of mine.’ Felix sniffed and looked righteous.
‘Hmm. But what she did in her spare time during the war has been of some concern, hasn’t it?’
‘That’s different, as you well know. Marcia’s stupidity cost me Raymond – more or less anyway. As I told you, we had parted company by then but …’
‘In particularly stormy circumstances you said.’
‘That’s as may be. But it’s the principle of the thing. Because of her absurd obsession for that tasteless fifth columnist always propping up the Ritz bar – Flaxman or whatever he called himself – she contributed indirectly to Raymond’s death, and the cow deserved to be reminded; she had kept it dark long enough! Still, I don’t suppose she acted from malice, just crass pig-idiocy … But these people, whoever they are, were cold-blooded conspirators deliberately out to destroy the nation and support a Nazi invasion. Just imagine, by now those of us who were spared would be gabbling Kraut lingo and chewing their beastly sausage! And as for our dear royal family … well, I can just see their replacements besporting themselves on the palace balcony: short-arse Goebbels ranting like a demented puppet and fat Goering waving and goose-stepping right in front of the drawing room windows. Ghastly!’ Felix’s face had gone quite pink.
‘Oh, simply ghastly,’ agreed Cedric. ‘And I don’t suppose any of them would have possessed the Queen Mother’s floral sensibilities either. Just think, you might still be flogging faded blooms in the Mile End Road.’
‘Never have I flogged faded—’ Felix exclaimed furiously, and then noting his friend’s sly smile took a hasty gulp of Grappa which made him hiccup.
‘What you don’t seem to have recognised,’ Cedric murmured, the smile fading to a frown, ‘are the implications.’
‘Well I grant you, it raises some interesting questions. I mean, just who are these frightful people?’
‘These frightful people could put us in even greater danger than we are in already. Hasn’t it occurred to you that if the Collinger woman thought that you or I might have that document with the list of names or knew something about it, then presumably so could they. Marcia was fool enough to try blackmail and see what happened to her!’
‘Oh my God,’ yelped Felix turning white and strangling his napkin, ‘I must demand police protection!’
‘Are you mad? That really would blow the whole thing to pieces. The police would be on to things in a trice. And I doubt if your illustrious patron would be prepared to bail you out. “Ex-jailbird” doesn’t exactly embellish a Royal Appointment plaque. Besides, I have my own reputation to consider. Academia would never forgive me if they knew I was caught up in this sort of thing – and there would be no more complimentary invitations to lecture aboard the Queen Mary, that’s for certain!’
‘But surely if I explained it all to the police and told them why we had—’ began Felix.
‘I doubt if they would share your sense of humour, they are not noted for their jollity.’
‘Actually,’ Felix said, ‘you may recall that it was not my sense of humour that devised the scheme; I was merely the clown who took his cue from the ringmaster and performed the sodding cartwheels.’
‘But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?’ snapped his friend.
‘Yes, I did at the time. But I am not enjoying it now. Not one fucking little bit I’m not!’
Cedric was about to form a response, soothing or otherwise, when his attention was caught by a couple who had just been shown to a nearby table.
‘Don’t look now,’ he hissed out of the side of his mouth, ‘but I think that’s Harold Gill who has just come in – with someone not his wife on his arm.’
‘So where does she come from?’ asked Felix, who naturally had looked.
‘Shepherd Market I should say.’
‘Hmm, you’re probably right. But why any self-respecting tart should want to align herself with that old prune I cannot imagine. I mean he’s not exactly God’s most scintillating gift, is he? And where on earth did he find that monstrous waistcoat!’
At that moment the object of his censure glanced in his direction and was greeted with a wave and a smile of lavish sweetness.
‘So where’s his rightful lady do you think?’ Cedric enquired.
‘Very likely tucked up at home in St John’s Wood, knitting feverishly and counting her blessings that she’s free from the racket of Marcia’s gramophone!’ Felix tittered, suddenly feeling slightly better, and bending towards Cedric added, ‘Yes, it’s all a question of sitting tight, isn’t it? Not allowing oneself to get ruffled, riding out the storm as they say.’ He swirled the dregs of his digestif. ‘In the circumstances I think perhaps I could just manage a weenie replenishment …’
CHAPTER TWENTY
By the morning such was Rosy’s turmoil after her visitor’s revelations that the prospect of resuming work at the museum seemed out of the question. All she wanted was to get away, or at least take to her bed with doors locked and curtains drawn – any means to suspend thought and escape the whole odious business. The last thing she needed was to listen to the irrelevance of Leo’s quips or to soothe the querulous grumblings of Dr Stanley. Indeed, she didn’t really want to speak to anybody at all, just pull up the drawbridge and immure herself from the eyes of the world … Yes, that was it: she would call the museum immediately and report sick for at least a week.
But even as she moved towards the telephone she could hear her mother’s chiding practical tones: ‘Darling, don’t be such a goose! Escape achieves nothing. Deal with it, you’ll feel so much better!’ The years rolled away and she saw herself at fourteen, tearful by the compost heap cursing the beastliness of things. She smiled. What on earth had it all been about? She had no idea. But it was not the first time her mother had offered such sage advice, and what held good then surely applied now. Retreat was futile and a waste of energy. Somehow she must confront the thing and cope as best she could.
Thus a little later she walked briskly through the museum’s swing doors, settled at her desk, flicked through the engagement diary and with dulcet persuasion prevailed upon Mrs Burkiss to silence the Hoover and produce some coffee. The ensuing quiet was pleasant, the coffee less so. Enveloped in the reassuring world of work Rosy applied herself vigorously to the day’s agenda.
For a couple of hours things went well, and visions of death, coal buckets and Wooden Leg Whittington were firmly erased from her mind. But by lunchtime her energy began to flag, and ducking Leo’s insistent presence she bought a sandwich from the canteen and took herself off to a bench in Russell Square. Here she sat staring up at the windows of Faber & Faber, wondering how it was that such a staidly waistcoated man could write such stupendous poetry. A line came to mind: I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Mechanically she shifted her gaze to the ground with its greying grass and wispy shrivelled leaves, and for a moment caught a whiff of returning panic.
She bit into her sandwich and looked around for distraction. Other than cavorting squirrels and the occasional strolling couple there was none. With an inward shrug she discarded the sandwich in favour of a cigarette and said to herself, ‘All right then, deal with the bloody thing. Work it out!’ But how, for goodness’ sake? One was so in the dark!
And yet glancing up at the blue sky, hearing the squabbles of sparrows and watch
ing a crocodile of satchelled infants being marched from pillar to post, she felt the day itself benignly clear. Had the episode of the night really happened? Perhaps her initial reaction had been right: she was delusional! Yet if Marcia and wretched Clovis could be murdered just like that why on earth shouldn’t the midnight visitor be real?
But was Whittington, or whatever his stupid name was, to be trusted? And what about the Collinger woman – what was her connection with the man? He hadn’t mentioned her during his visit, but undoubtedly it had been she he had been with at the National Gallery. And besides, the woman was also clearly after something to do with Marcia. Surely they were in cahoots. Was Miss Collinger too stalking the bomb plotters? Presumably.
But then there was only his word that there had been such a plot, or indeed that Marcia had been blackmailing them … But why go to such lengths to invent it, to break into her flat and spin such a tale if it weren’t true? Evidently he hadn’t intended to harm her – if anything, to warn her of possible danger. However, disinterested altruism was hardly his prime motive. Pursuit of the quarries had been that.
Yes, she mused, both he and Collinger wanted information and clearly saw herself as a potential source. Well she didn’t have any – and even if she did, it was far from likely she would care to share it with them! Thus with that if nothing else resolved she got up from the bench and walked firmly back to the museum to face the task of sorting the chaos in Stanley’s office.
The following day was free and Rosy indulged herself with a lie-in and a late breakfast. She was just wondering whether to skip the domestic chores and call a friend re the possibility of a trip to Staines or some other river haunt, when the telephone rang. It was Amy Fawcett. ‘Ah,’ the girl exclaimed breathlessly, ‘so glad to catch you in. I’ve got something to give you. I’ve had it for ages, but I just didn’t realise you see, though with luck it’s not important. I say, I hope you don’t mind?’
A Little Murder Page 13