A Little Murder

by Suzette A. Hill

  In fact Felix did not have to telephone his friend for at the next moment the bell on the shop door jangled and Cedric himself appeared. He was carrying the Evening Standard which without uttering a word he thrust under Felix’s nose. He jabbed his finger at the stop press: Naked corpse found on seafront at Bexhill. Foul play suspected. No identifying marks except lack of left foot and thumb. Police interviewing local naturists.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Felix breathed, ‘that explains everything!’

  ‘Hardly everything but it certainly explains why one has heard nothing. Just think, had we been so minded we could have attended the auction after all.’ Cedric gave a caustic laugh.

  Felix sighed and closed his eyes. ‘I suppose that all the while we were at your house mulling over matters with Rosy, they must have been busy sluicing down the passage and then speeding down to the south coast …’

  ‘Hmm,’ Cedric mused, ‘they didn’t waste time, did they? Quite a deft little operation it would seem. I wonder whether they removed the clothes before or after the journey; here or down there?’ He shrugged. ‘Not that it matters really, one is just curious. And what do you think they did with the fake foot … chucked it into the Channel? I mean if it had a maker’s name or number I imagine the police would find that rather handy. And I wonder—’

  But Felix wasn’t listening, for something else was in his mind. ‘Look,’ he said nervously, ‘since they were so damned quick off the mark it rather suggests there was no gap between the killing and the removal. From what the Gilchrist girl described, Sabatier had only just been attacked when she found him. It’s unlikely that they simply wandered off and then returned an hour or so later to deal with the business at their leisure. They or he must have been—’

  ‘Lurking?’

  ‘Exactly! Watching and waiting till the coast was clear – clear of us! And once we had scarpered, they could immediately begin the job of getting him off the premises.’ Felix slumped on to the lacquered patio chair reserved for his special clients (i.e. those whose floral commissions merited particular and lucrative attention). He emitted a groan. ‘I mean being there at all was ghastly enough, but to think that one was being silently observed, monitored … It doesn’t bear thinking about!’

  Cedric regarded his friend in silence and with mild sympathy, and judged it tactful not to mention that were that the case then it was very probable the killers would know who the interlopers had been. He also refrained from saying that if they had seen Rosy leaning over the dying man then they might now be wondering if their victim had revealed anything crucial in his last moments – as crucial as a name. The girl, of course, had heard only the muttered words ‘merde’ and ‘bastard’, but it was doubtful if the watchers would be aware of that … The consequent possibilities were unpalatable and on the whole better left unvoiced. It didn’t do to spread alarm and despondency, especially when based on mere presumption and least of all to the fragile Felix. It was enough to be faced with the grisly tangibles without venturing into the clammy fog of hypothesis. No, the less said the better.

  ‘Well,’ he said lightly, ‘at least that’s one less cadaver for our police to deal with. What the eye doesn’t see etc…. Imagine the shindig if it had been left there. Friend Greenleaf and his enchanting boss would have been round to us in a trice, asking more tedious questions about Marcia’s associates and doubtless even expecting us to view the body! A narrow escape, really.’

  ‘Escape?’ echoed Felix woefully. ‘If only one could!’ He chewed his thumb, gazing bleakly at a wilting chrysanthemum.

  ‘Perhaps not escape as such, but at least we can start to make plans for a nice little jaunt to the Alps. Zermatt in the spring would be idyllic – smothered in wild flowers and the air so bracing. Most therapeutic.’

  Felix looked sceptical. ‘I might like the flowers but I am not sure that I wish to be braced. What I need is to be soothed – soothed and smoothed. Anaesthetised, preferably.’

  ‘In that case perhaps the oily languor of the Nile. I rather fancy some of that Egyptian sun … But I tell you one thing, we shall both need to be braced by Thursday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Vera returns.’

  Felix said nothing but placed a wearied hand over his eyes.

  ‘And that being the case,’ Cedric continued, ‘I think we deserve a little respite. I shall book a table at Quaglino’s forthwith.’

  His friend brightened.

  ‘Berridge rang us this afternoon,’ announced Greenleaf’s superior.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, Berridge – of Bexhill.’

  ‘Oh him … What’s he want, then?

  ‘Nothing much except to moan about his transfer. Says there’s too much sea air down there and it gets on his wick. I told him that when he applied. “You won’t like it, you know,” I said, “it’s full of ozone and old ladies.” But of course, being Berridge, he thought he knew it all. Well he’s made his bed and he’s got to stick with it now, I daresay. No more bright lights for that one! … Mind you, he said that a funny thing had happened this afternoon. On the seafront it was, close to the De La Warr Pavilion.’

  ‘Oh yes, what was that?’

  ‘They found a chap.’

  ‘Remarkable!’

  ‘Ah, but this chap was in the buff. Dead in a deckchair.’

  ‘Huh. A bit chilly I should have thought at this time of year, even for a nudist. What did he die of – heart attack from the ozone, or did the old ladies get him?’

  ‘Not unless they carried a clasp knife. His throat had been cut.’

  Greenleaf sucked in his breath. ‘Hmm, that won’t suit Berridge, he has a thing about blood. Do you remember that time when—’

  ‘He said this was old blood, not new. Congealed. Said something about a gammy leg, but I had switched off by then. You know what Berridge is like when he gets going.’

  Greenleaf nodded and watched as the inspector deftly probed a back molar with a toothpick. ‘Well that’s Bexhill’s problem,’ he said, ‘we all have our crosses. And at the moment mine is Mr Clovis blooming Thistlehyde. Why did he tell that French girl he had seen someone with a lawnmower? Doesn’t seem to be any trace of such a person and no one’s come forward. But you see he might just be a key witness.’ He frowned.

  ‘Unless, like I said, the girl was lying.’

  ‘I didn’t get that impression – she seemed pretty emphatic.’

  ‘Ah well,’ the other replied, pocketing the toothpick, ‘can’t hang about. I’ve got an appointment with God. He wasn’t in the best of moods when last seen, something to do with shoddy progress reports and fouling up his golf handicap. Wouldn’t do to be late, so I’ll leave you to your cogitations … Oh, and by the way – ask Harris about the phantom mower, he’s bound to have some bright ideas.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Greenleaf bleakly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  As predicted, Vera Collinger was none too pleased to learn about the death of her colleague. And since, contrary to expectations, her travelling companion had signally failed to pass muster amidst the Roman ruins, little comfort could be derived from that quarter. Indeed, Felix found it difficult to tell whether the anguished repetitions of ‘Ghastly! Ghastly!’ applied to the fate of Sabatier or the inadequacy of the girl. Charitably – and possibly correctly – he assumed the first.

  ‘What strikes me as curious,’ Cedric mused as the three sipped tea in Felix’s flat, ‘is why Sabatier should have been at Marcia’s house in the first place. What made him go there on a freezing night on the eve of the sale?’

  ‘For the same reason as Rosy Gilchrist, I imagine,’ Felix said, ‘to get hold of the papers before the auctioneers took over.’

  ‘Yes, but Gilchrist knew it was there because the priest person had told her. How did Sabatier know?’

  There was silence. And then with a clatter Vera upset her teacup, the dregs seeping into her host’s best damask. He winced. She righted the cup and said quietly, ‘He didn’t k
now, he surmised. He must have gone at my suggestion: if I hadn’t said anything he would be alive now.’ Her face had turned grey, and Felix experienced a rare twinge of sympathy.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘I thought you had already searched the house the day you bumped into Rosy. What stopped you getting it then or going back later?’

  ‘Because,’ Vera replied despondently, ‘I had totally forgotten the treasure hunt. It seems years ago now.’

  The two men regarded her blankly and exchanged puzzled looks.

  Cedric cleared his throat. ‘I don’t quite follow …’ he began.

  She sighed. ‘You may recall that Marcia was notorious for her parties – rollicking affairs with lethal cocktails and lethal guests. She went through a phase of forcing us to play party games. You know the sort of thing, Sardines, Dumb Crambo – silly children’s stuff; but when you’re squiffy it all seems frightfully amusing. Anyway, there was one occasion when she had organised a ridiculously elaborate treasure hunt – all over the house, with a couple of fivers as treasure trove. Quite an inducement – imagine the champagne that could buy! She even threw in another quid as a bet that no one would discover the hiding place. I can hear her voice now: “Darlings, you will never find it, not in a month of Sundays. Trust little bright arse to keep things safe!”’ Miss Collinger broke off, and the stern features relaxed into a pensive smile. ‘Yes, I was fond of Marcia in those days, very fond. She could be good company in a rather awful way …’ She regarded the biscuits abstractedly, and then with a dismissive shrug continued: ‘Anyway, as you can imagine, with a challenge like that the place was virtually ransacked. But she won her bet all right and of course retained the treasure.’

  ‘Ah!’ Felix exclaimed. ‘I can guess: she had shoved the fivers under the sink, behind the pipe.’

  ‘Exactly. And that’s where I suggested Sabatier should look. “It’s a long shot,” I told him, “but it’s worth a try. It’s the sort of thing Marcia might do.” At the time he didn’t say much. Just nodded and muttered “perhaps”. But he obviously thought about it later. If only I had remembered earlier things could have been different. Can’t think why it never occurred to me … Blighters!’ She drummed her fingers angrily on the table and glared at the tea-stained cloth. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said gruffly.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Felix magnanimously, ‘one mustn’t do the laundries out of a job. Would you care for another cup?’

  The guest declined the offer intimating she had some urgent business to attend to and needed to get home early.

  After she had gone Cedric observed that presumably the urgent business involved either feeding the dog or preparing her arsenal for the hounding of Sabatier’s killers.

  ‘They had better watch out,’ Felix remarked absently.

  He got up and began to pace about the room straightening ornaments, tweaking cushions, while Cedric watched in mild annoyance. ‘Could you possibly stop fidgeting? It rather disturbs my train of thought.’

  Felix returned to his chair. ‘Well,’ he said testily, ‘if having your train of thought disturbed is your only problem then all I can say is you are extremely lucky. Frankly, my whole life is in upheaval because of this business. Can’t concentrate on anything – even lost a customer today.’

  ‘Really?’ said Cedric with interest. ‘That’s unusual. Who was it? I trust not the royal personage.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Felix looked askance. ‘Actually it was the Barnes-Ripley woman – I’ve never liked her. She asked if I could get her scarlet begonias for the ornamental urns on her terrace. When I enquired if she wouldn’t like something more tasteful, she took umbrage and flounced from the shop.’ He sniffed. ‘Oh well, no great loss, one does have to maintain standards, after all.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Cedric. ‘And you do have the Royal Appointment plaque to consider.’

  A smile of anxious bliss flashed upon his friend’s face. ‘Indeed I do! And what’s more a little bird has told me that it is virtually in the bag. Just think, I may be hearing from the awards committee any day now …’ He became lost in a reverie of royal accolades and kindly corgis. But it was short-lived, disagreeably banished by the vision of Sabatier chilly on the south coast.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Cedric, his train of thought evidently resumed, ‘is why the murderer or murderers should have been there at all. Sabatier may well have been following up Vera’s idea, but that doesn’t explain the presence of anyone else. Rather odd, I should say …’

  ‘It is also horrible,’ exclaimed Felix, ‘and I really do not wish to discuss the matter any further!’ He picked up his tapestry and started plying the needle with dedicated attention.

  Cedric sighed and continued to ruminate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Like Cedric, Rosy had also seen an item about the Bexhill ‘mystery victim’. Scanning the following day’s Times she had chanced upon it tucked away on an inside page. The details were sparse, though not as brief as those in the Evening Standard’s stop press and it did not take an Einstein to draw the inference.

  ‘God Almighty,’ she breathed, ‘I can’t take much more of this! How the hell …?’ She closed her eyes feeling rather weak. And then rather unsteadily picked up the phone and dialled Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms. There was no answer. Bloody man, she thought, gassing with some countess!

  She glanced at the clock and saw she had about ten minutes to reach her office at the museum. She tore out, leapt on a bus to St Giles’s Circus, leapt off, and with head still numbed by the morning’s revelation hurried the rest of the way to Great Russell Street. At the museum’s steps she encountered her boss.

  Dr Stanley gave an uncharacteristic beam and greeted her warmly. ‘Ah, Rosy, good to see you. A lively sale at your aunt’s house the other morning. Thought I might have seen you there … too busy cataloguing stuff for our Etruscan exhibition next month, I daresay.’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied.

  ‘There was some quite decent stuff but nothing of riveting interest – though I have to admit to taking a shine to that umbrella stand, the one made from an elephant’s foot. No luck, though; some young chap keen as mustard and hair to match outbid me by a long chalk. Still, I did get one thing. Absurd really, but I like its face.’ He scrabbled in his briefcase and produced a particularly disagreeable effigy of a small monkey. ‘I gather she bought it in Ceylon before the war. You probably remember it.’

  As it happened, Rosy did remember. It had sat on top of the piano in the morning room squinting malevolently at anyone bold enough to approach the keys. She had particularly disliked it.

  ‘Fascinating,’ she murmured.

  ‘Thought you would approve. I am going to keep it on my desk, make a handy paperweight – and, of course, a nice little memento for you.’

  ‘Really?’ she said taken aback.

  ‘Yes, every time you see it you will be reminded of your poor aunt.’ He smiled benignly.

  On the whole, Rosy reflected, the day had not begun well.

  At her desk sipping a vapid coffee, she applied herself to sorting the post and tried to push the less prosaic matters from her mind. She had almost succeeded in this but was foiled by a familiar voice.

  ‘Ah,’ boomed Vera Collinger, ‘they told me I might find you here. I came in to cancel my order for the museum’s new publication on Roman antiquities, and as I was passing I thought I would—’

  ‘Why? Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Oh I like it, but Deirdre is clearly not capable of it. Before going to Rome I ordered a copy thinking it would be a nice surprise for her when we returned. Since then I have revised my view of the girl’s intelligence. Contrary to her claims, Deirdre would be hard-pressed to distinguish Julius Caesar from a Caesar salad.’

  Had there been flowers in the room the note of scorn would have withered them instantly, and Rosy felt sorry for the hapless Deirdre.

  ‘However,’ Miss Collinger continued in a more moderate tone, �
��that is not my main reason for coming in. I wanted to know if you had heard the news of poor Sabatier.’

  ‘You mean about his being found in Bexhill? Yes, yes I have. It was in this morning’s Times but his identity isn’t known.’

  ‘Except by us,’ the other said dryly.

  Rosy nodded, and then to her great embarrassment suddenly found her hands shaking violently. She thrust them into her lap but the older woman must have noticed.

  ‘All very unsettling,’ she said in a voice bordering on sympathy, ‘but the great thing is not to let those fiends defeat us! Bear up, Miss Gilchrist, we’re all in this together. Fortify yourself, my dear – go to that tavern opposite at lunchtime and buy yourself a large Scotch, you will feel so much better. Here …’ And to Rosy’s flustered surprise she drew two half-crowns from her pocket and pushed them across the desk. ‘Have it on me,’ she said gruffly.

  Rosy was just stammering her thanks, when pausing at the door her benefactor said, ‘Oh, a word of warning: you may need that drink sooner than later. That Gill woman was hanging around in the entrance. I got the impression she might be looking for you – burbled something about a vase and wanting you to go to tea tomorrow, but I wasn’t really listening. Not my type – nearly as stupid as Deirdre!’

  After she had gone Rosy regarded the overgenerous half-crowns in some awe, and then thought of the visitor in the hall. She did not share Vera’s antipathy to Mildred Gill – dull, perhaps, but pleasantly well meaning. One had known worse. She wondered what she wanted. Vera had said something about a tea invitation … Not another whist drive, surely – that would really be too much! But hadn’t Vera also mentioned a vase? Perhaps the woman had an urge to have a private view of the Portland! Thus to break the chore of the correspondence and to distract herself further from current anxieties, she went to have a look in the entrance hall.