A Little Murder

by Suzette A. Hill

  Rosy wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘Er, well – no it’s not much fun really … but of course we weren’t particularly close. I mean, as I explained—’

  ‘And then of course there was poor old Clovis whatever-his-name. Simply extraordinary the way that happened, and so soon afterwards!’ He stopped abruptly, looking embarrassed. ‘I say, you two weren’t involved or anything, were you? If so I’m terribly sorry if I’ve—’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ exclaimed Rosy, mentally recoiling at the thought, and then felt herself going red: not so much at the idea of herself and Clovis than at the vehemence of her denial. It had been an involuntary response, yet somehow seemed churlish – an unfair betrayal of the dead man.

  ‘No, not your type I shouldn’t think. You are too intelligent, too – how shall I put it – discerning?’ He regarded her quizzically, and for a moment Rosy feared he was going to ask what her type was. She prepared to deflect the overture but needn’t have bothered for he passed smoothly on to something less personal. If Maynard Latimer still practised a seduction technique then it clearly took a more delicate form.

  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, with Rosy’s own remarks being met with amusement and appreciative interest. By the coffee stage she felt sufficiently mellow to indulge her curiosity about Adelaide Fawcett’s antipathy. ‘Dreadful business about Angela’s aunt,’ she began casually, ‘poor old girl fell down the steps recently and is walled up in the London Clinic. But I suppose at that age—’

  His normally mobile face assumed a blank expression and the genial eyes hardened. ‘So one has heard,’ he replied coolly. ‘By far the best place for her: at least people will have a respite from those malicious fantasies she weaves.’

  Rosy was startled by the sudden change. She had been on the verge of making tactful enquiry about his earlier contact with the old woman, but thought better of it. The censure echoed that of Cedric Dillworthy and Felix; but unlike theirs his held no hint of relish or readiness to be drawn, only an icy disdain. Clearly it was not a subject to be pursued.

  Fortunately, at that moment the waiter appeared suggesting brandy and liqueurs, and in a trice Latimer had resumed his earlier bonhomie. ‘I insist you have one for the road, Rosy – or at least for the path to the dreaded whist drive. It’ll strengthen your hand and make you play like a demon!’

  She accepted a cognac, and with ease restored was able to say her goodbyes with genuine warmth. He hailed a taxi, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and as she climbed into the cab said, ‘Remember now, I shall expect to see you in Malta. Promise me!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  More than a little mellowed by the luncheon libations, Rosy found Mrs Gill’s whist drive less of the ordeal than she had feared. True, she did not play like a demon as Latimer had confidently predicted, but was nevertheless sufficiently insouciant to put up a moderate show and thus earn relieved gratitude from her hostess.

  ‘My dear,’ breathed Mildred Gill, ‘so good of you to fill a gap, these last-minute cancellations are maddening and disrupt everything. I mean, one goes to such lengths to muster the numbers and organise the tables, and then one is let down! People are so thoughtless. But you’ve been an absolute brick and saved my bacon!’ She emitted a merry laugh and gave Rosy’s arm an appreciative squeeze. And then lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, said, ‘Tell me, how are things? I trust the police are not being too tiresome. You know they’ve interviewed us again, if you please! But there’s simply nothing more we can add. After all one can hardly conjure facts out of thin air – though I think that’s what Mr Greenleaf rather expects. Still, I suppose he’s only doing his job. Can’t be easy, especially with that second horror coming so soon after. Dreadful!

  ‘Anyway, my dear, as I was saying to Harold just the other day, you do seem to be coping awfully well. “Harold,” I said, “that Rosy Gilchrist is a model of stoic dignity. A lot of young women would have gone to pieces in those circumstances, but not our Rosy. A chip off Auntie’s block if you ask me!”’

  Rosy was not entirely easy with the term ‘our’ but was even more discomfited by what she took to be an allusion to Marcia.

  ‘Er, well, I don’t know about that,’ she muttered awkwardly.

  ‘Ah but I do, and so does Maynard Latimer. Only recently he was saying what a sterling sort you were. And he’s not the only—’

  ‘Maynard?’ said Rosy in surprise. ‘But he hardly knows me, I can’t think that—’

  ‘Oh, Maynard Latimer’s very shrewd, you can be sure of that. Such a sound fellow, and handsome with it! Not many like that these days.’ She gave a rueful laugh, before adding dryly, ‘Harold could take a leaf out of his book.’ There was another laugh but this time the mirth seemed a trifle forced.

  Before Rosy could think of a suitable response Mrs Gill was seized by a rabid-looking whist-driver clearly intent on debating some obscure rule beyond Rosy’s ken – or interest. And sensing there was little she could contribute she wandered off in search of sherry and sandwiches.

  The dining room was filled with a throng of guests making a dedicated raid on their hostess’s refreshments. Rosy wondered whether the success of such an event could be judged by the speed at which the participants demolished the prandial offerings, i.e. the greater the speed, the greater the need to replace energies lost in fervid combat. Of course, she reflected, the converse might also be true – greed prompted by crashing boredom. But in this case it seemed it must be the former, for the room resonated with a buzz of muted approval and decorous gaiety.

  Mingling politely and hoping she wouldn’t be cornered by anyone avid to learn more of Marcia’s fate, she edged her way towards the refreshment table where she was handed a glass by a tall man wearing a pallid expression and a clerical collar. She couldn’t recall seeing him among the card players yet he looked vaguely familiar; but before she had a chance to speak he had melted away to dispense more sherry. Not counting parsons among her acquaintances Rosy was puzzled as to where she might have seen him.

  ‘Oh, that’s Brother Ignatius,’ explained the woman standing next to her, ‘he’s a regular at these sessions, invaluable with the drinks. Always happy to offer his services. Handy, really – takes care of the dregs too. No half-empties left when Ignatius is in charge!’ And draining her own glass she roared with laughter.

  And then of course Rosy remembered: the man had been one of the trio of clerics presiding at Marcia’s funeral – though whether also in charge of the drinks on that occasion she couldn’t recall. Drear and discomfiting, the details of her aunt’s obsequies had faded into a darkened blur …

  She was just on the point of gathering her things for a quiet getaway, when a finger dug her in the ribs. ‘Hope you’ve had a successful afternoon, Miss Gilchrist,’ said the voice of Harold Gill. ‘My wife tells me you stepped into the breach at the last minute. Most generous. These charity things are always a little tricky to manage and one never knows what might go wrong before the off – or during the middle for that matter!’ He emitted a loud chortle while Rosy looked blank. Seeing her puzzlement, he exclaimed, ‘Oh, didn’t she tell you? One of our group keeled over in the middle of proceedings last month and had to be carried out. Quite a little drama. Too good a lunch, I shouldn’t wonder, plus the novelty of playing well for once. Obviously proved too much. Lady Trumper was most put out and vowed she would never partner her again … Mind you, I was a trifle miffed myself. The Pygmies, you see. I had got her down for at least a fiver and of course she left without contributing a shilling!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Rosy replied vaguely.

  ‘Personally,’ he prosed on, ‘had I been in that unfortunate position I would have immediately sent a cheque with my apology. The least one could do. As it was, no apology, no cheque. Extraordinary manners people have these days! I put it down to the war: people dropped their standards then and they’ve never been picked up since.’

  Rosy smiled sympathetically, wondering how she could disentangle her
self before being touched for a donation. She was blowed if she was going to yield up the crisp ten ten-shilling note nestling in her handbag. Would half a crown look mean? Probably.

  Fortunately the question was academic for he had turned to another topic, though not one entirely reassuring. ‘We had another visitation the other day, you know.’

  ‘Visitation?’

  ‘Yes, from Her Majesty’s Law Enforcers, i.e. Messrs Greenleaf and – oh, who’s the other chap? – the inspector fellow, the one that looks like Boris Karloff on a bad day. They suddenly appeared out of the blue at nine o’clock in the morning. I had barely finished my breakfast. And as they had already checked our alibis I couldn’t think what they wanted. It turned out they were interested to know what we knew about Marcia’s past. Naturally I told them that being a gentleman I never delve into a lady’s past. I mean, there are some questions one simply does not ask!’ He emitted a bellow of laughter, while Rosy felt a stab of dismay. The line of enquiry was inevitable, of course, what else had she expected? It had only been a matter of time before the police embarked on their ‘historical research’, digging down the years, raking up old associations, collating bits of God-knows-what … But knowing something in theory was different from being told it directly. The news was not welcome.

  ‘And what did they say to that?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Not much. No humour, the police. I’ve noticed it before. Anyway, they kept going on about this coal business, i.e. could we throw any light on the matter? As if we could! “Certainly not,” I said, “Mrs Beasley was our neighbour, not an intimate; we were not in the habit of discussing the details of her problems and predilections.” We hardly—’

  ‘What problems?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, my dear, I should have thought that anyone in the habit of using their wardrobe as a coal cellar was bound to have some sort of problem, wouldn’t you?’ He gave a faint leer and tapped her playfully on the shoulder.

  She recoiled and said coldly, ‘I think you rather exaggerate. A single piece of coal was found, that’s all. It doesn’t do to get things out of proportion.’

  He looked slightly abashed. ‘Yes, that’s what the police said … Oh well, just a little joke. Anyway, far more pressing matters – how about a little something for the Pygmies? We’ve very nearly reached our target!’ He beamed encouragingly.

  Rosy wanted to say bugger the Pygmies. Instead she replied, ‘Ah, in that case I must consult my accountant; he gives such sound advice on that sort of thing.’ And with a reciprocal beam she squeezed past a hovering couple and thence to the front door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The prospect of the evening’s appointment with Miss Collinger in a cheerless Soho pub did not lend enchantment to Rosy’s day – although when she came to think of it, the pub was immaterial, cheerless or otherwise. The problem was Vera herself. She was not someone Rosy felt readily drawn to. Character might be all right (perhaps) but it was the manner that was daunting – hectoring, humourless, curt. Besides, there was a relentlessness about the woman which she found unnerving. In the course of his Marcia revelations Whittington hadn’t mentioned her, but from what had been said by Felix and Cedric it was plain that the two were in cahoots and hell-bent on the same quest: the bomb plot document and wreaking nemesis on the collaborators. Rosy recalled her sighting of the pair huddled in close conference at the National Gallery. Had it been the merits of the Titians that so occupied them? She thought not. Far more likely aspects of strategy! The man’s purpose might be overlaid by bitterness at his cousins’ treatment by the Nazis – and thus the more obsessive – but Vera’s impersonal outrage was nevertheless of a kind to make her a formidable pursuer. Thus Rosy guessed that the evening’s meeting had been suggested not simply for ‘clarification’, as the woman had intimated, but to see whether the Gilchrist girl really was as ignorant of the elusive evidence as she claimed to be.

  ‘Oh well,’ Rosy sighed, ‘prepare for a grilling … Better start exercising the old brainbox!’ She picked up the crossword.

  The pub was largely as she remembered – charmless and draughty – and she looked in vain for new radiators. The snooker table by the window had disappeared but the alcoves were still there. And in one of them, firmly buttoned in tweeds, sipping a pint and nursing the dog, sat Vera. In front of her was a plate of fat and flaccid chips.

  She greeted Rosy cordially enough but made no suggestion of buying a drink, and recalling the indifferent quality of the beer, Rosy ordered herself a large whisky; safer, and in the circumstances more fortifying.

  Ignoring preliminaries, Miss Collinger got down to brass tacks. ‘Thanks to Felix Smythe’s rash disclosures I gather you are now fully au fait with the situation, i.e. his abortive pantomime with the coal scuttle at your aunt’s house and the more vital issue of nailing those treacherous swine Marcia was blackmailing. One will get them you know. Oh yes!’ She spoke with fierce certainty, a glint in her eye not so much of malice as of relish.

  ‘Perhaps,’ murmured Rosy, ‘unless, of course, they get you first – as they did Marcia and presumably Clovis Thistlehyde.’

  Vera shrugged. ‘Marcia was a fool and Thistlehyde was doubtless in the way. He generally was.’

  ‘But they might think you are. In the way, I mean.’

  ‘Huh!’ the other snorted, ‘not with my training they won’t. We were taught how to take a back seat in SOE, how to melt into a crowd.’ Her fingers closed on a particularly bulbous chip. It evidently met with her approval for she immediately grasped another, and as an afterthought pushed the plate in Rosy’s direction.

  Rosy declined and was not pressed further. She took a sip of whisky, reflecting doubtfully on Miss Collinger’s claim to melting anonymity. Her flair for self-effacement was not easily discerned.

  ‘I also gather from Felix that you had already learnt something of Marcia’s activities in the war and her crass stupidity over the Flaxman fellow and its consequences. I must say that came as a shock to us all. Personally I have found the whole thing extremely painful – I was very attached to your aunt at one time. Very.’ She sounded bitter (as well she might) and scowled at Rosy with a look of belligerent defiance.

  Rosy nodded mutely, knowing there was nothing she could say in defence of Marcia and wishing she were somewhere else. But before she could formulate a response, however weak, Miss Collinger continued, ‘I suppose you got your information about Marcia from Gilbert Sabatier when he paid you that visit. I didn’t know he had done that, only told me about it recently. Plays his cards close to his chest, always has … Anyway, I gather he instructed you to contact him if you discovered anything concerning your aunt’s blackmail data – a letter perhaps, a list of names. At the time you apparently denied all knowledge … I assume that was correct?’ She stared hard at Rosy, jaw working on another chip but eyes never leaving the girl’s face.

  ‘Yes,’ Rosy replied coolly, ‘perfectly.’

  ‘And is it still?’ she persisted.

  ‘Of course,’ Rosy lied.

  Miss Collinger said nothing but continued to regard her with steady gaze. ‘You do realise that it is imperative we get our hands on whatever it is Marcia had. We need that evidence, it’s crucial. I trust you realise that.’

  ‘Actually, what concerns me,’ replied Rosy, ‘is not so much your need of the evidence but the need of those with most to lose, i.e. Marcia’s “victims”. Unlike yours, their need isn’t for justice, it’s to save their skins, and we have already seen what they are capable of. As such, they are highly dangerous and I for one have no intention of getting involved in amateur war games. Should anything of relevance come into my hands I would go straight to the police.’ She took a gulp of her drink and tried to look assertive.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the other thoughtfully, ‘you said something to that effect during tea at Bourne and Hollingsworth. At the time it irritated me rather, but with hindsight I realise that the likelihood of your taking that particular step is rem
ote. Revelations too distasteful. After all, it’s not everyone who wants it blazoned abroad that their aunt was a traitor to her country. Speaking for myself I shouldn’t like to have that slur on my family name. And from what I have observed, Rosy Gilchrist, neither would you. It’s the one thing we have in common: a sort of cussed pride.’ She gave a wintry smile, shoved her plate aside and fed Raymond the remaining chip.

  Rosy sighed. The old bat was right and she knew it. Still, she was damned if she was going to be entirely squashed: Vera herself had something to worry about and it wasn’t just hurt pride!

  ‘You are right,’ she admitted, ‘it would all be most unsavoury. But not as unsavoury as being put on the suspects’ list for Marcia’s murder … Were the police to learn that your brother had been a casualty of the coal-scuttle operation, had taken his life, perhaps, as a result of Marcia’s action, they might well think you had a motive for wanting her dead.’ She looked down at the floor, adding quietly, ‘And who knows, perhaps you might have been justified …’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Miss Collinger tersely. ‘But yes, you are perfectly correct. One is indeed only too aware of the delicacy of one’s position. Vengeance is a common enough reason for murder, especially in families. Which is why I tread carefully and ensure that I reveal nothing more to the police than they need to know – a feat not too difficult with that inspector in charge. So in that respect you and I are similarly placed. We share an uncomfortable secret and each is dependent on the other’s discretion for its safekeeping. An amusing irony, don’t you think?’ Rosy did not think. But with a reluctant nod conceded the woman had a point re their shared position.

  She was just casting about for an excuse to leave, when the other said in a voice that was almost jovial, ‘I trust your lunch with Latimer wasn’t compromised by a petrified jaw. That man Dingle always pumps in too much stuff!’