‘But just a minute Felix—’
‘Sorry, not a moment to lose,’ he exclaimed, hastily checking his tie in the mirror.
‘But Felix, what about the police? Surely they’ll find out about the coal scuttle. They can trace these things you know!’
He gave an impatient sigh. ‘Not this one they won’t. Cedric and I have dealt with it … Now for goodness’ sake Miss Gilchrist, if you don’t mind I have important things to attend to. We’ll discuss the matter later should the need arise. So if you would excuse me …’ He scuttled to the door, and a few seconds later frenzied feet could be heard thudding into the shop below. And then as she stood in the empty room feeling slightly dazed and clutching the pink umbrella, a car could be heard revving up in the street. She looked out just in time to see the blue Hillman moving away from the kerb, its back seat smothered in a mountain of white gardenias.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ten minutes later, bearing the pink umbrella and her mind in a whirl, Rosy presented herself at the Fawcetts’ residence.
‘I am so glad you’ve come!’ yelped Amy. ‘We’ve got the awful—’ She broke off and lowered her voice to a loud stage whisper. ‘We’ve got the awful Gills here. They want Mummy to distribute the prizes at one of their charity things and won’t take no for an answer. She’s trying her best to fend them off in the morning room, but you’ll see, they’ll wear her down in the end – or at least he will. Keeps rambling on about the starving Pygmies. Frankly, if they are so small I shouldn’t have thought that they would need to eat much … Actually I quite like Mrs, and she’s awfully sweet to Mr Bones; but somehow the two of them together do put a bit of a blight on things. Anyway, we’ll sneak up to my room and I’ll give you a mannequin show. I’ve bought some super earrings to go with the coat, you’ll love them!’
‘Wonderful,’ said Rosy dutifully as she followed the girl up the swirling staircase, ‘and, er, you’ve got the letter, have you?’
‘What? Oh the letter. Yes, yes of course … Wasn’t it extraordinary my suddenly finding it like that tucked into the little pocket? It was such a surprise, the secret pocket I mean. I was telling Mrs G about it while hubby was twisting Mummy’s arm over the Pygmies, and she said she supposed it was always handy to have a hidden pocket somewhere. And I said, “Oh yes, and so much more useful in a fur coat than in one’s gym knickers!”’ Amy emitted a shrill guffaw and ushered Rosy into the bedroom.
On the bed lay the mink coat, and next to it, on the right and left respectively, were the earrings and an envelope. With a deft movement Rosy appropriated the latter and slipped it quickly into her handbag. And then fixing the girl with a dazzling smile she exclaimed, ‘Oh Amy, these are simply enchanting. Do put them on!’
The fashion parade lasted rather longer than she had bargained for. It wasn’t simply the fur that was displayed but also numerous other sundry garments, each requiring special appraisal and approval. However, eventually the show was terminated by the appearance of a gleaming Sealyham: Mr Bones in his newly ablutioned glory. Thus the owner’s attention was immediately diverted from dresses to dog, and it was with some relief that Rosy accepted the offer of a mid-morning sherry downstairs.
The Gills were on the point of leaving – but whether they had prevailed in the matter of the Pygmies Rosy could not be sure; though judging by Lady Fawcett’s unusually harassed expression she rather thought they had.
‘We were just talking about your mother’s marvellous soirée the other week,’ enthused Mrs Gill to Amy. ‘It was such a delight, and lovely to meet old friends.’
‘Yes,’ answered Amy cheerfully, ‘but rather a shame about Clovis Thistlehyde. Who would have thought that it was destined to be his final party!’
There was an embarrassed silence. Lady Fawcett smiled at nothing in particular, while Mr Gill cleared his throat and then said, ‘Yes, all very unfortunate. Rather a nice fellow, I always thought.’ (Goodness! Did he really think that? Rosy wondered.) ‘Quite a good artist too, by all accounts.’
‘I should have thought moderate,’ murmured Mrs Gill.
‘Well, my dear, we can’t all have your discernment,’ her husband replied. The tone was jovial but Rosy thought she detected a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. ‘And in any case,’ he added, turning to Lady Fawcett, ‘it’s all a question of nil nisi bonum. Wouldn’t you agree, Angela?’
The latter hesitated looking perplexed, and then said obligingly, ‘Oh, every time!’
‘The thing is,’ went on Amy, ‘I can’t imagine who would want to do him in – unless he knew something.’
‘Knew what, dear?’ enquired her mother.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Something. They generally do.’
‘Who do?’
‘Murder victims, of course. They are killed to shut them up and—’
‘I daresay, but I really don’t think we need to go into such matters now. It is hardly a savoury topic just before luncheon.’
The mention of lunch was grasped politely. ‘I say, is that the time? We must be off,’ exclaimed Harold Gill. ‘A busy afternoon!’
‘And so must I,’ chimed Rosy, wondering why lunch should inhibit talk of murder any more than tea, dinner or any other occasion, but glad to have the chance to get away and investigate the contents of the envelope.
Thus once outside she was about to detach herself from the Gills and set off towards Hyde Park, when Mildred Gill took her lightly by the elbow, and with her husband busily engrossed in eying a well-endowed girl on a bicycle, exclaimed, ‘Amy is such a sweet person. And how clever of her to find something of Marcia’s for you in that coat. What a surprise! You must be delighted.’ And then lowering her voice, she added earnestly, ‘Particularly in the circumstances, if you see what I mean.’
Rosy agreed that she was indeed delighted; and before any ‘circumstances’ could be further pursued she promised to keep in touch, and took off briskly in the direction of the park with the letter burning a hole in her handbag.
In fact she didn’t get far, for despite a chilly breeze, curiosity directed her to a bench at the side of the path; and opening her bag she drew out the envelope. She stared down at the familiar scrawl: bold, careless, heavily nibbed. The letter was stamped and bore her address and full name, Miss Rosemary D. Gilchrist MA.
For some reason she was disappointed by the envelope’s flimsy thinness. What had she been expecting – a wad of foolscap? She slit it open and drew out the enclosure. It was a single sheet bearing the following words:
and so, my dear Rosy, I trust I can rely on your discretion in this matter. As said, the document is more than explicit and could blow a number of reputations sky-high (no bad thing!) My intention was to send it to Donald for safe keeping but on reflection I think it is probably best left where it is, in the more domestic location. Were I by some remote chance to kick the bucket prematurely (not exactly my intention!) I daresay the Home Office might be interested in it, though I leave that decision up to you.
I don’t really wish to speak further about this, and I am sure you will respect my wishes in the matter.
Affectionately,
Aunt M.
Rosy reread the message in baffled frustration. Obviously a sheet was missing, a sheet vital to the whole meaning. Of all the stupid things – how on earth could she have done it? The answer was, quite easily. Rosy could hear her mother’s voice of protest: ‘Oh Marcia – she’s so careless! It is too embarrassing – she has just sent our donation for the church spire fund to the bookmaker, and your father’s racing dues to the rural dean. We shall never hear the last from either. All she had to do was to read the envelopes!’ Yes, Rosy recalled, there had been quite a little rumpus over that, and at ten years old she had thought it very funny. But the present careless oversight was far from funny. It was damned maddening … Where the hell had the woman put the thing and what exactly was in it?
Frowning she read the lines for a third time. How literal was the word ‘domestic’ – within t
he country or within the house? Either could apply, but if the latter, then getting further access to the place for an extensive and secret search was hardly feasible. She frowned. And then two other details struck her: the unfortunate use of the phrase ‘kick the bucket’ and the valediction ‘affectionately’. She brooded upon the second. Was she a sentimental fool to accord it any significance? Surely it was merely a verbal convention – the sort of thing that aunts were supposed to write to nieces. Or had Marcia in spite of everything harboured some remnant of fondness for her, some vestige of familial sympathy? After all, it would seem she had meant to entrust her niece with some sort of serious confidence … For a brief moment Rosy indulged the thought and then impatiently dismissed it. Why on earth should she want Marcia Beasley to show affection for her? The woman had been a traitor – and according to Lame Leg, latterly a blackmailer. Aunts had no business to behave like that!
She stared angrily at a foraging pigeon and stuffed the letter back in her handbag, and was about to get up, when for no apparent reason she thought of the Fawcetts and Amy’s giggling comments on Thistelehyde: I can’t imagine who would want to do him in, unless he knew something … Murder victims, of course. They are killed to shut them up … So what had Clovis known? Something connected with Marcia’s murder? But if so, what and how?
‘Well, you do look browned off,’ a voice observed cheerfully. ‘Lost a quid and found sixpence as they say!’ Rosy looked up startled, and was confronted by the tall figure of Maynard Latimer, debonair in tweeds and trilby.
‘It’s Miss Gilchrist, isn’t it?’ he continued genially. ‘You may remember we met briefly at dear Angela’s last week. What a do that girl puts on!’
‘Er, yes,’ Rosy agreed. And then added, ‘But I think it was largely in your honour, wasn’t it? Rather a special birthday I seem to recall.’
‘Oh well, I suppose so,’ he agreed ruefully. ‘A bit embarrassing, really – but great fun all the same. People are so kind on such occasions.’ Rosy smiled and was about to say something else, when he added, ‘Actually I am about to go down for a spot of fishing in Berkshire for the weekend, but when I return may I give you a bell and offer a luncheon date? They tell me you were rather a dab hand in Dover during the war, and of course I was simply nuts about your aunt. I think we might have rather a lot to talk about. Still, must dash now … will be in touch.’ He raised his hat and strode off in the direction of Knightsbridge.
Been nuts about Aunt Marcia had he? Rosy pondered. Well, rather an improvement on Adelaide Fawcett’s acerbic ‘I knew your aunt and didn’t like her’. And then she also recalled what else the old girl had said: ‘I remember him in nappies. Beastly then, beastly now!’
‘So,’ she said to herself, ‘should the great man deign to invite me for a date after his fishing trip I must remember to ask him about his infancy.’ She stood up, and cursing the cold wind continued her way to the north side of the park.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Two days later she found herself once more at the Fawcett ménage, Lady Fawcett having telephoned to express gratitude for her daughter’s gift of the mink coat and to ask if its donor would care to come for a light lunch unencumbered by ‘you know who’. By which Rosy assumed she had meant the Gills.
‘Auntie wants a facelift,’ announced Amy in the course of the preliminary sherries.
‘Well, Auntie can go whistle,’ snapped Lady Fawcett. ‘The experience would be excruciating.’
‘For Auntie?’
‘For us. Just imagine the drama of the eyepatches and the incessant demands for looking glasses. One would be worn out!’
‘She is very determined.’
‘I should be surprised if she weren’t,’ her mother replied grimly.
‘But at ninety-two I should think it’s a bit late for the old bird, isn’t it? I mean horse has bolted and all that sort of thing,’ observed Edward.
‘It ill behoves you, Edward, to refer to your great-aunt as “old bird”,’ replied his own aunt. ‘And in any case it is never too late for a woman to make the best of herself. It just happens that Auntie has been making more than the best of herself for far too long. It cannot go on!’
‘Want a bet?’ said Amy.
‘What I need is rest and liquid sustenance. I’ve just had Harold Gill on the telephone trying to wheedle another cheque for his wretched Pygmy Fund.’
‘Did you stand firm?’ Edward asked.
‘As a matter of fact I didn’t have to because when I asked if the cheque would help supply some stilts he went rather peculiar and rang off …’
Amy’s laugh ricocheted around the room. ‘Narrow escape!’
Her mother looked puzzled. ‘Can’t think why you laugh. I should have thought stilts might be rather useful. I mean with all that jungle or whatever it is they walk about in, probably strengthen their position.’
‘What position?’
‘I don’t know! But it can’t be very high. Now do stop pestering me and bring another glass of sherry. And you can get Rosy one too. She looks parched.’
As it happened the required sherry was never delivered, for at that moment there was the clanging of the doorbell. ‘Now who can that be?’ Lady Fawcett exclaimed. ‘Nobody calls on a Saturday, everyone’s down in the country.’
‘Probably a Jehovah’s Witness,’ said Amy. ‘Edward, go and tell them we are the Pope’s first cousins. It generally does the trick.’
He got up and meandered into the hall.
They heard the sound of the front door being opened and then Edward’s voice calling them. ‘I say,’ he boomed, ‘there’s a policeman here. You’ll never guess what’s happened: it’s Auntie, she’s fallen down the area steps!’
Lady Fawcett closed her eyes. ‘You don’t think he is making it up, do you?’ she asked hopefully.
Her nephew appeared in the doorway, his alarmed face dispelling such hopes. ‘Found at the bottom in a heap. Ankle broken and fuming.’
‘Goodness, at least she is conscious!’ Rosy exclaimed.
‘Oh Lord, yes. In the London Clinic apparently and giving them merry hell. Claims she was pushed.’
‘Pushed?’ Rosy cried.
‘Extremely likely,’ murmured Lady Fawcett. She turned to Amy. ‘You had better get on to Moses Stevens. Tell them to send two dozen lilies.’
‘They won’t be there on a Saturday, it’s the Sabbath. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to try Felix Smythe and Bountiful Blooms? He might sulk if he’s not asked, and he is bound to find out.’
Her mother closed her eyes again. ‘Whatever you think best, but be quick about it. At all costs Auntie must be quelled!’ She turned to Rosy. ‘My dear, do you think you could possibly summon a taxi? We shall have to go and …’
Having done as she was bid Rosy found herself somehow caught up in Auntie’s visiting party; and rather diffidently she accompanied the family as they trooped up the hospital stairs to one of the large private suites. Ushered by the nurse they entered hesitantly and stared solemnly down at their relation.
The old lady lay propped on pillows, face pinched but eyes sharp. ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ she greeted them. ‘I might have been dead by now.’
‘We came as soon as we heard, Auntie. Taxis are difficult on a Saturday,’ protested Lady Fawcett. ‘Anyway, how are you?’
‘How would you be if you had been pushed down a flight of steps? I am shattered from head to toe.’ And then addressing Edward, she said graciously, ‘You can put the grapes on that table for the time being, I shan’t want any just yet.’
‘Er … well I would, only we haven’t actually—’ began Edward.
‘Auntie, I’m sure you can’t have been pushed!’ broke in Lady Fawcett hastily. ‘Who on earth would have done such a thing? I expect you slipped – the pavements are so treacherous after rain and it’s really quite misty.’
The patient narrowed her eyes and said frostily, ‘I did not slip, I was pushed. And as to who did it, I name no names.’ She placed
a scrawny finger against the side of her nose and closed one eye.
‘Well, at least that’s something,’ muttered Edward to Rosy. ‘No libel damages.’
‘I say,’ Amy exclaimed, ‘how awfully thrilling! Were you being followed?’
The old lady seemed to ruminate. ‘Unlikely. I had just left the house to post a letter in the box ten yards away. (One can still manage that you know!) So I don’t think the question of following arises. I should have thought “being watched” is the better description. Yes, watched and set upon.’ She articulated the phrase with throaty relish.
There was a silence. And then Lady Fawcett coughed and murmured something about a nice pot of tea. ‘I am sure the nurse can bring one – there’s bound to be a bell somewhere …’ She stood up and looked about with an air of mild desperation.
Auntie waved a dismissive hand. ‘Can’t abide tea. But a cocktail would be acceptable, though doubtless I shall be told it is too early.’ She contrived to look both hopeful and martyred.
‘Well, it is rather,’ her niece answered doubtfully. ‘Besides, they probably won’t allow it on account of the pills they’ve given you. Nurses tend to be stuffy about that kind of thing and—’
‘Anyone having suffered the sort of ordeal I have been through deserves indulgence; my shins are black and blue! Do you want to see them?’
‘Not really.’
The patient turned to Edward. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to give your poor suffering great-aunt a nip from your hip flask.’ She flashed him what once upon a time might have been a dazzling smile.
The recipient looked nonplussed, while Amy giggled and answered for him: ‘But Auntie, Edward doesn’t have a hip flask.’
‘How disappointing. In my day all bright young men carried hip flasks.’
Amy giggled again. ‘But you see Edward isn’t terribly—’
‘Yes, yes I know,’ was the weary reply. ‘Never mind, I shall just have to await the flowers of sympathy you will all be sending me. Doubtless they will be exquisite.’
A Little Murder Page 15