A Little Murder

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘Er, well I’m not really sure what—’

  ‘So extraordinary,’ Amy rushed on, ‘I simply had no idea it was there. It’s terribly well concealed and it’s quite by chance that I noticed!’

  ‘Noticed what?’

  ‘The pocket!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Amy, you are not making any sense. What pocket?’

  ‘The secret pocket of course, in that fabulous fur coat of your aunt’s. Everyone admires it and even Cousin Edward said it makes me look a million bucks – and he doesn’t dish out compliments easily.’ She chortled.

  ‘Well that’s nice. But what do you mean you’ve got something for me?’

  ‘Oh, I have – it’s some sort of letter, an envelope addressed to you. It was in the pocket you see, the pocket inside; but it has been sewn so beautifully that you really wouldn’t know it was there, and I found it quite by chance. I had draped the coat over the back of a chair in Scotts and it fell off, and when Edward was picking it up I suddenly noticed the tiny slit in the lining … Anyway, I know exactly what I’m going to use it for: a folded five-pound note! Mummy always says a girl ought to carry something extra for a taxi or emergencies just in case. But my five-pound notes always seem to go so quickly.’ She giggled. ‘But if I keep one in this concealed pocket I shall forget all about it until the need arises. Don’t you think that’s a jolly good idea?’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Rosy quietly, wondering how soon she could lay hands on the envelope.

  ‘If you like,’ suggested Amy brightly, ‘I could bring it round to your flat and then perhaps we could go out for a bun at that nice tea shop just near you; although it wouldn’t be till this afternoon as I simply must stay in to give Mr Bones a bath. He’s getting so smelly and Mummy says she’s not prepared to spend another day with him. So what do you think?’

  Rosy was about to agree but suddenly had an awful vision of scatterbrain Amy either forgetting to put the thing in her bag or losing it somewhere en route. Anything might go wrong with that girl!

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she lied, ‘I have to come down to Knightsbridge this morning and shan’t be very far from you, so I could easily drop in and collect it then – though naturally I shouldn’t like to trouble Mr Bones and his ablutions.’

  There was a squeal of laughter. ‘Oh, Mr Bones will love it, he’s such a show-off. And besides, it means I can treat you to a little fashion parade with the coat!’

  Thus with the matter settled Rosy sat on the sofa and brooded. Could this letter just remotely be the document Donald had mentioned, and indeed the thing that ‘Dick Whittington’ was so eager to obtain – and allegedly others? If so, what was it doing in the pocket of the coat? Put there for safe keeping prior to posting and then forgotten? Or perhaps Marcia had deliberately changed her mind about depositing such vital details with her ‘priggish’ niece, and having shelved the idea been too busy or preoccupied to remove it. But of course it might be nothing of the kind: more probably something entirely mundane such as a theatre ticket going spare, a circular advertising one of the exhibitions periodically mounted by Marcia’s art group, even a rare invitation to lunch or a cocktail at her club – although that was unlikely, and in any case such summonses had usually been delivered by an imperious phone call … No, she had a nagging feeling that it just might be the paper Donald had referred to, the paper Miss Collinger seemed so keen to get her hands on and the one avidly sought by Wooden Leg. Well, she thought grimly, one way or another she would soon find out.

  She took a compact from her handbag and started to powder her nose before setting off to catch a bus to Knightsbridge. But as she opened the front door the telephone rang again.

  ‘I say,’ said Amy’s voice once more, ‘do you think you could do me a tiny favour, or at least, one for Mummy?’

  ‘Er, yes of course. What is it?’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly drop in to Felix Smythe’s flower shop on your way here could you? Mummy was there yesterday and she left her lovely new pink brolly behind. I’ve been instructed to pick it up immediately as she is convinced Felix will start using it himself and probably cause some awful damage to the silk.’ She giggled. ‘It was a present from an old beau and she treats it like the Crown Jewels! But you see I really must stay in to bath Mr Bones. Would you mind awfully? He’s only round the corner from us. There’s generally a blue Hillman parked outside.’ Rosy laughed and assured Amy she would rescue it straight away.

  Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms was a discreet single-fronted abode just off Sloane Street, but its interior was sufficiently large to display an eclectically lavish assortment of exotic flora exquisitely arranged. The scent was overpowering.

  She had expected to find Felix there, titivating this and that, but except for a dozing cat the place was empty. She looked around for a stray umbrella, examined the flowers and hovered expectantly, her nostrils assailed by blasts from tuberoses and autumn lilies. But then, rather curiously, she thought she could detect something else: the clubby smell of cigar smoke. It mingled with the surrounding sweetness, and for a moment she was a child again in her father’s old study … But the moment was shattered by the sudden noise of footsteps and voices from behind the far door.

  ‘Well the last thing we want is to have the niece sniffing out that coal bucket nonsense! I think she suspected something the other week when I was at the house looking for those papers. So for God’s sake give her a wide berth!’ The door was flung open and Miss Collinger strode into the room cheroot aglow. Behind her stood Felix. They stopped abruptly and gazed nonplussed at the waiting customer.

  Rosy was the first to speak. ‘What a coincidence!’ she said brightly. ‘Is little Raymond with you – or does the cat put him off?’ She smiled in the direction of the snoring fur.

  ‘Er, no, not really,’ Miss Collinger replied vaguely. And then with more animation added, ‘It’s the cat’s owner: Felix is convinced that all dogs are hell-bent on spraying his flowers. Pure paranoia, of course.’ She gave a caustic laugh, cleared her throat and moved towards the shop door where she turned and issued a curt goodbye. For an instant Rosy thought she might raise her hat (now freshly feathered) and felt slightly cheated to be denied the gesture.

  After she had gone there was an awkward silence, and then Felix gave a light titter and murmured something to the effect that Vera was such an odd old thing but fearfully nice really, a claim that Rosy found hard to credit.

  She explained her mission re the pink umbrella, and with visible relief he seized the matter eagerly: ‘I know exactly the one you mean, my dear – such an elegant style. I’ve been guarding it with my very life! Dear Angela would never forgive me if anything happened to it. Won’t be a tick.’ He dived through the back door and re-emerged bearing it in triumph. ‘There you are, you see, all safe and sound!’ He beamed.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rosy. ‘And now you can tell me what Vera Collinger was talking about.’

  ‘What?’ The beam wavered.

  Rosy took a deep breath and squaring her shoulders said, ‘Why did Vera Collinger say she didn’t want me sniffing around the coal bucket?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite—’ began Felix.

  ‘Oh, come off it, you know very well what I mean! I heard her words exactly. She was talking about Marcia’s gruesome death and the part you apparently played in it. Kindly explain.’

  He regarded her in silence, blank-faced; and then with a resigned shrug muttered, ‘You had better come upstairs, it’s easier to talk about such things there.’ He went to the door, reversed the Open sign and then led the way into the back and up the staircase to his private sanctum.

  They sat at a small table by the drawing room window. At first he said nothing, staring out into the street fidgeting with his cufflinks, but then he jumped up to adjust a bowl of roses on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Look,’ she said firmly, ‘I would appreciate it if you sat down and told me whatever it is I need to know. There’s not much time, I have to get to the Fawcet
ts.’

  He frowned but resumed his seat. ‘That’s just it, I don’t really see why you do need to know. After all, it’s not my fault that you just happened to overhear a private conversation. Frankly, this is all rather awkward …’

  ‘She was my aunt,’ Rosy snapped. ‘And whatever it is, I should be told. Perhaps you would kindly enlighten me.’ She fixed him with a challenging stare.

  He sighed, started to light a cigarette, stopped and said wearily, ‘Oh well, if you must you must, I suppose.’

  ‘Good,’ she said brusquely. And leaning forward she took the lighter, lit the discarded cigarette and passed it back. He took a deep drag and began his tale.

  ‘I met your aunt in nineteen forty-three when I was employed as a rather minor cipher clerk in MI5. In those days she was amusing and what used to be known as a “good-time gal”, but via the grapevine one knew she was also engaged in some important war work—’

  ‘On her back?’

  ‘Precisely. You clearly know about that.’

  Rosy nodded.

  ‘At the time I was stepping out with one Raymond Collinger – probably the most handsome man I have ever met and certainly the vainest, and if truth be told an absolute bastard. Still, it is amazing how entangled one becomes and for a time I really couldn’t keep my hands off him!’ Felix gave a little giggle and blew what might have been a commemorative smoke ring. ‘But all bad things come to an end and the affair finished in fireworks and fury … Still, that is hardly the point. The point is that he was a first-class sapper and a member of an SOE outfit engaged on a sabotage raid in Normandy.’

  ‘You mean Operation Coal Scuttle,’ Rosy interjected.

  ‘Yes, the coal-scuttle business. You are well informed. So you will probably also be aware that because of Marcia’s infatuation with one of the German agents she blew the gaff and the whole thing aborted.’

  Rosy could feel herself flushing with discomfort but said nothing, and Felix continued. ‘The demolition party was ambushed but miraculously they all escaped including Raymond. But his face was badly scarred by a bullet; I don’t mean that it was grotesquely mangled but he could kiss goodbye to those startling looks all right, and to his fawning satellites – of which I confess I was originally one. He spent the next few months in a nursing home recovering his face and his nerves and was then given some rather mundane desk job. When the war ended he became increasingly withdrawn – virtually reclusive. It was rumoured he had taken to drink, but nobody saw him for ages and then we suddenly heard that he had topped himself …’ Felix paused before adding reflectively, ‘I suppose he was what some would call a casualty of boredom and vanity.’

  ‘Yes. But you think something else as well, don’t you? I rather imagine you think his death was precipitated by Marcia, that she was ultimately responsible.’

  ‘Don’t you? If he had escaped unscathed things might have been very different. As it is …’ He shrugged.

  ‘But why on earth did you stay friends with her? Weren’t you appalled?’

  ‘I should say “friends” is a slight exaggeration. We were never close, simply rode the same social whirligig. But you see then one simply hadn’t been aware! In fact Vera learnt of it only a year ago through some old SOE colleague and it was she who told me. Naturally I was shocked, as was Vera, and I was also very angry. But there didn’t seem anything obvious to do. Police? Newspapers? Home Office? Hardly! The last thing I wanted was to get caught up in some tiresome brouhaha involving allegations for which there was no real proof – or at least none that was accessible. To attempt an exposure would have been tedious and doubtless ineffectual, and in any case considerably more trouble than it was worth, i.e. not good for business. And just think, if Marcia had retaliated with a smart lawyer I might have become a laughing stock!’ Felix closed his eyes and shuddered. He opened them and added, ‘Besides, it is far from wise to rake up – how shall I put it? – old affiliations. The law is sensitive in these matters and takes offence easily. The penalties can be distasteful.’ The words were said quietly, but Rosy noticed their underlying bitterness.

  ‘So you said nothing?’

  ‘I discussed the matter with Cedric and we concluded that while it might be injudicious to put things on a public level, privately some sharp penalty might be exacted – something to make her sweat a titsy bit. So we devised a little scheme – or rather Cedric did – and started to make certain arrangements. To be perfectly honest it all seemed a fun idea at the time … Forgive my saying, but your aunt could be such an arrogant bitch. She deserved some grief!’

  Ah, thought Rosy, that’s what it’s really about: not so much moral horror as personal hostility. ‘Oh yes? And what form did your “arrangements” take?’ she asked dryly.

  ‘Well at first we thought of a series of anonymous letters but that seemed a trifle dull, and Cedric said she should be confronted with her guilt in a tangible graphic way – something theatrical to really make her yelp!’ Felix gave a faint smile as if savouring the thought. ‘So we kicked a few ideas around and it was he who suggested sending her gifts of coal at various intervals – carbon offerings to fit the code name of the mission she had so effectively ruined. These little parcels would be the preliminaries to the ultimate offering: an actual coal scuttle – to be delivered on or near the same date as the original betrayal. We felt the plan held a certain piquancy. Masterly really, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Masterly,’ agreed Rosy. ‘I am sure Aunt Marcia was thrilled.’

  Felix sniffed and looked pained. ‘Take that attitude if you like – but you have to admit it was not exactly undeserved.’

  ‘No,’ Rosy agreed soberly, ‘not undeserved.’ She closed her eyes. ‘So then what happened? How did the scuttle get there?’

  ‘I took it of course. The house was supposed to be empty. Marcia generally went to her art group on that afternoon and I had got the house key from Vera. The plan was very simple. I would carry the thing on my arm with my raincoat slung over it and walk into the house bold as brass. I intended leaving it in the middle of the drawing room – brazen on the Aubusson rug. But as it was I didn’t get that far.’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  ‘Boorish Thistlehyde. I had just put my mac on the hall table and was about to go towards the drawing room when I heard voices from inside and somebody started to open the door. Not a happy moment, I can tell you! I just had time to slip behind the long window curtain, when out barges Clovis hell-bent for the downstairs gents. It was the last thing I had expected and I was terrified. Doubtless had I been George Sanders or James Mason I would have strolled into the drawing room, kissed Marcia on the cheek and uttered some droll pleasantry. As it was I dropped the bucket by the hall table, and while Thistlehyde was presumably still unbuttoning his flies grabbed my mac and skedaddled down the front steps like a witless rabbit.’ Felix ran his fingers through his hair making it stand on end, and for a moment looked not unlike the creature he had described.

  Rosy visualised the scene in silence. And then she asked slowly: ‘But the bucket – how precisely did it arrive on my aunt’s head?’

  ‘How should I know?’ he replied defensively. ‘I can assure you it had nothing to do with me!’

  ‘Perhaps not directly but you took it there! Besides, aren’t you curious?’

  ‘In principle, yes. In practice my main concern is ensuring that my small part in this nightmare is kept well under wraps. How was I to know that some homicidal lunatic would appropriate my coal scuttle to adorn the head of his victim? It’s too ghastly for words. And so humiliating if our little ruse ever became public knowledge. It would mean the end of everything!’

  ‘You mean the Royal Appointment plaque?’

  ‘Well naturally. But more than that – the entire business would collapse: Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms would be withered weeds in a matter of days. I’d be lucky to sell a bunch of heather to a Gypsy! Just think, no royal patronage, no more columns in the Tatler and one would never be asked a
nywhere again. Oh my God, the shame of it!’ There passed into Felix’s eyes a look so stricken that Rosy almost felt sorry for him. But not quite.

  ‘Rather a mean trick, if you don’t mind my saying,’ she observed tartly, ‘sending those ridiculous lumps of coal and then sneaking into her house and—’

  Felix gaped and then glowered. ‘Mean trick? Well that’s rich coming from one whose aunt betrayed her country! But yes, you are right, it probably was a mean trick; almost as mean as Marcia allowing her comrades to be ambushed and nearly killed, and of being indirectly responsible for Raymond’s subsequent suicide. Have you considered that by any small chance?’

  Rosy was mortified and wondered how she could have made so crass a comment. And like Felix, but for far different reasons, she felt herself engulfed in a tidal wave of shame. ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered.

  There was a brief silence as Felix appeared to reflect; and then nodding graciously he observed, ‘Ah well, everyone speaks out of turn occasionally, I daresay. Cedric does it all the time … in fact, do you know what he had the gall to say to me the other day?’

  Rosy didn’t know and wasn’t interested; but repentant of her earlier criticism assumed an expression of rapt curiosity. She needn’t have bothered, for at that moment the telephone rang and Felix leapt up like a scalded cat.

  ‘Oh my God, the Queen Mother’s housekeeper,’ he cried, ‘she wants the gardenias replenished, I’d quite forgotten!’ Rosy too was quite forgotten, as in a flurry of anguished anticipation he rushed to the phone, and smiling unctuously, crooned ‘Of course, of course, dear lady, three dozen immediately – and I can assure you all as fresh as the proverbial daisy! I’ll deliver them myself this very instant …’ He threw down the receiver and turning to Rosy gasped, ‘Must dash, duty calls! Let yourself out, will you? Just pull the door to, it’s on a Yale.’