by Hazel Holt
‘Well – yes, in a way, but it’s not much help, there weren’t many people in – it was a Friday afternoon, you see. Well, apart from Dr Lassiter there were only two rather nice American academics – a Dr Hjelmaa from Stanford University and a Dr Fergus from Lehigh. And I honestly don’t think that either of them will do as a suspect, because they were only in on that one day and they haven’t been back since, and neither of them so much as mentioned Gwen.’
‘And that was all?’
‘Oh yes, there was Professor Mainwaring, but he’s ninety if he’s a day and almost completely gaga!’
‘So we’re left with Freda Lassiter. Was she there the whole afternoon?’
‘Well, she was certainly there when we had to clear everyone out, after I’d found…’
‘But was she there all afternoon or did she pop out for a bit?’
‘Oh dear, I think she might have gone out for a short while – I’m afraid I didn’t notice – people do, you know, to the loo or out for a cup of tea...’
‘But she would have known her way about the place? She could have found Gwen’s room?’
‘I expect so. She was in and out quite a bit.’
‘Did Gwen ever say anything about her?’
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact. She talked about her in a sort of sneering way, if you know what I mean. She often did that with people she didn’t get on well with. I gathered that she had known Freda Lassiter when they were both at the British School in Athens, but she, Dr Lassiter, that is, left – in a bit of a hurry and under a cloud if Gwen’s hints were anything to go by – a couple of years before Gwen did.’
‘What do you think of Dr Lassiter?’
‘She’s very woolly and scatterbrained, rather neurotic I should think, looks as if she’s living on the edge of her nerves. I honestly can’t see her planning a murder.’
‘But don’t you see – it needn’t have been planned. Say Gwen was blackmailing her, in her own particularly horrible way, and simply pushed her too far – over the edge, in fact. So Dr Lassiter bats her over the head,’ I found I was using Michael’s phrase and amended it, ‘I mean, she snatches up that large book, Horsley’s what-ever it is, and hits Gwen over the head. Then she realises what she’s done and tries to cover it up by dislodging the bookcases. She’s quite a hefty woman, she could have done it perfectly easily.’
I found I was building up the case against Dr Lassiter with some enthusiasm, because, my conscience said, she was someone I didn’t really know and so it didn’t seem so bad to regard her as a prime suspect.
Tony looked doubtful.
‘I suppose it’s possible – I suppose I just can’t think of a woman being a murderer.’
‘That’s your nice nature.’ I said, smiling. ‘Anyway, I’ll see what I can find out. Meanwhile, can you do something for me? Do you know anyone in the Duke Humfrey who might be able to confirm that Arthur Fitzgerald was working there on the day in question? I’m sure he’s a well-known figure. It would help if we could establish alibis – or not, as the case may be, for the major suspects.’
Tony had been very reluctant to think of Fitz or Elaine as suspects, although he admitted that they had a very strong motive for killing Gwen. He had also rejected Molly Richmond as a suspect on the grounds that she was a friend of his mother! Tony is a sweet boy but there are times when I feel that I could shake him.
‘Oh yes, I’ll ask Dick Fisher – he may well have been on duty then.’
Cleopatra, who had been sitting on the draining board lashing her tail from side to side to the imminent danger of the crockery left there to drain, decided that she had been ignored long enough and gave a loud cry. Tony turned the tap on for her and she batted at the water several times with a delicate fawn paw and then jumped into the sink and began to lap noisily at the water as it ran down the plug-hole.
‘And she’s got a perfectly good bowl of water too,’ said Tony ruefully.
‘I know! Foss is just the same – he much prefers drinking from some awful stagnant puddle in the garden!’
Tony turned the tap off, slung Cleopatra across his shoulders and went into the hall. As they went up the stairs he said, ‘Gwen once said that Freda Lassiter was a fool about men, but she didn’t go into any details so I don’t know what she meant.’
‘Oh well,’ I said, ‘I may be able to enlighten you tomorrow.’
The word ‘cosy’ isn’t the first adjective that springs to mind in connection with the Ashmolean, but because I always think of it as ‘my’ museum – one that I am very familiar with and where I feel at home – that is how I regard it. I know my way around there (give or take a rearrangement or an exhibition or two) and there are many old friends among the exhibits that I try to pop in to see when I’m in Oxford. There’s a mummified cat in the Egyptian section in the basement that reminds me irresistibly of Cleopatra, a couple of seventeenth-century paintings upstairs and a statue of a Roman matron who is the image of my friend Pauline. As I passed through the classical section I paused to greet her, marvelling as I always did at the splendidly intricate styling of her hair.
I hadn’t telephoned for an appointment with Freda Lassiter because I had the feeling that valuing coins wasn’t actually part of her job, but I hoped to take her by surprise – in several ways. An amiable young man in the Heberden Room said he thought she was in her office and would I like to follow him and I blessed my good fortune. He ushered me into a tiny office, hardly more than a glass cubby-hole, and I found myself face to face with her and suddenly rather nervous. As I always do when I’m nervous, I plunged in straight away, talking rather fast so that she really didn’t have time to query my being there.
‘Do forgive me barging in like this without an appointment or anything, but I was just passing, well, not just passing exactly, but in Oxford for a short time so I thought … well this mutual friend said you would be the person to ask about these coins. I’m afraid you’ll think it’s an awful cheek, but I’ve been meaning to do something about them for ages – well you know how it is – and if they are valuable then I ought to keep them in the bank or something – though that does always seem a shame – to keep things locked away when they could be giving so much pleasure, don’t you agree?’
Looking slightly dazed (as well she might) she seized on the one word that seemed to make some sort of sense to her.
‘Do you have some coins you want identifying? Do, please, sit down.’
‘If you would be so kind.’ I began to burrow in my handbag. ‘I really haven’t the faintest idea about them. My husband brought them back from the Middle East after the war.’ I fished out the plastic bag and handed it to her and she took the coins out carefully and laid them on her desk.
On her own ground she seemed much calmer and better organised than when I had seen her before, though I noticed as she spread the coins out in front of her that her nails were bitten right down to the quick.
She examined the silver coins intently and for some time.
‘What you appear to have here are some very remark-able coins. These are Antiochid tetradrachms, Syrian, first century BC; these are cistophori of Augustus; these are denarii of the Emperor Otho; and this is a silver tetradrachm of Antony and Cleopatra – very rare indeed.’
For a moment all thought of Gwen Richmond’s murder and my real reason for being there vanished from my mind and I reached out and picked up one of the coins, holding it in my hand, feeling it almost as a living presence.
‘Good gracious,’ I said inadequately. ‘Are they valuable then?’
Dr Lassiter looked at me sadly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I have misled you. I said appear to have. I very much regret – but – well they’re forgeries.’
‘Forgeries?’
‘Yes. With coins as rare as these there was at one time quite a market in forgeries – they were made in Beirut which was the centre for forgery and distribution at that time. I’m very sorry. Of course, you mustn’t jus
t take my word for it. I will give you the name of a colleague at the British Museum who will give you a second opinion…’
She scribbled a name on a piece of paper and handed it to me. Then, making conversation to give me time to recover myself she said, ‘Did you say we had a mutual friend?’
With a great wrench I pulled myself together – I would think of Peter and Michael later – and tried to find a form of words that would get the result I wanted.
‘Yes, indeed. Gwen Richmond – well I know her sister better really – but she,’ I left the personal pronoun deliberately vague, ‘told me all about you.’
Dr Lassiter’s calm authoritative manner slid away from her and an agitated note came into her voice.
‘All about me?’
‘About being together in Athens. Though, of course, you left... ‘
‘She told you about that?’
The voice was raised now and anxious. I was right about her being neurotic, I thought.
‘Yes,’ I lied, feeling rather mean.
‘She told you what a fool I made of myself.’
‘She didn’t put it quite like that,’ I said.
‘Oh, she wouldn’t – I expect she told you that I did something criminal – yes, well, stealing an artefact from a dig is criminal. It is also the most unethical thing an archaeologist can do.’
Her face was flushed and she spoke in a harsh sort of whisper. I began to feel nervous at the response I had evoked – it was as if Gwen Richmond’s name was a sort of trigger which had set her off. I had the feeling that she was talking about all this because, in some way, she had to and that my presence was almost irrelevant. I tried to speak soothingly.
‘But surely many eminent archaeologists from Schliemann on...’
She broke in impatiently.
‘It is betraying a trust. It is unforgivable.’
‘Then why did you...?’
‘For a man, of course. Women are such fools…’
‘I see.’
These simple words seemed to calm her and she spoke almost ruefully.
‘He was Greek and much older than I was, very rich and important. He had this magnificent flat in Kolonaki – full of the most beautiful things. He was a notable collector. There was so little I could give him and I was desperate to keep his interest. It was easy for me to steal it – but they found out. I had to beg for it back – you can imagine the humiliation. No one wanted to make a fuss, relations between the British School and the Government would have suffered. They simply sent me away.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, and indeed, it would have been difficult not to pity her and her misery in remembering.
‘I didn’t think anyone knew except the Director and Professor Meredith, who was in charge of the dig, but Gwen found out somehow – probably listened at a door, that’s the sort of person she is – was.’ She looked at me sharply. ‘I’m surprised that she told you about it – she usually liked to keep these secrets to herself – it gave her a feeling of power.’
‘She didn’t tell me outright,’ I said, feeling more and more uncomfortable. ‘She sort of hinted and left me to piece things together...’ My voice trailed away.
‘I don’t imagine that I’m the only one she knew secrets about,’ Dr Lassiter went on. ‘I expect quite a lot of people are glad that she is dead. I’m sorry if she was a friend of yours. But you must have known what sort of person she was.’
‘As I said, I know her sister Molly much better.’
‘In fact,’ Freda Lassiter went on, ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone killed her.’
I took a chance and said, ‘I quite agree with you. I’m almost sure she was murdered.’
She looked at me enquiringly and then gave a short laugh.
‘And you think I murdered her? Is that why you came to see me?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said hastily, ‘at least – I did want to know about the coins – but I must confess I was curious to see you...’
‘I was in the building when she was killed,’ she said, ‘and I did leave Room 45 for half an hour. Actually I went to Blackwell’s to buy a book – I suppose the man at the desk might remember me going in and out.’ She looked at me quizzically. ‘That is, if you think I need an alibi.’
I had no doubt George’s memory would be pretty reliable on this point. If I were to ask him. There was an embarrassed pause and then she spoke, suddenly, breaking the silence.
‘Do you think I killed her?’
I looked at her for a moment and said, ‘No. I don’t believe you did.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Why? Don’t you think I’m capable of it?’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘I had a motive, of sorts. I hated her, really hated ... and then I obviously wouldn’t want anyone here to know why I left Athens. They were very good there – they gave me references…’
‘No, you couldn’t kill anyone, no matter how strong a motive you had.’
‘What makes you so sure of that,’ she asked curiously.
‘Because you’re too like me – I would have done what you did in similar circumstances. I would have hated, as you did. But I couldn’t take a human life and I don’t believe you could either.’
‘You’re right, of course. I couldn’t have killed her. But I’m very glad someone else did!’
I thought of Pamela saying the same thing. How terrible it was to have made people so wretched that even perfectly nice people rejoice at your death.
‘Are you trying to find out who did kill her?’ Freda Lassiter asked.
‘If I can.’
‘Why? Who are you – some sort of detective?’
‘Goodness, no! I suppose it’s because I hate any sort of mystery – a dreadful kind of curiosity. And besides, my godson, Tony Stirling, who works in the Bodleian, found the body. He was very upset about it and I want to lay a ghost for him if I can.’
‘Well, I wish you luck – in away.’
‘Thank you.’
She looked down and saw the coins on the table.
‘I’m sorry about your coins. I do hope you weren’t banking on their being valuable.’
‘No. It was mostly sentiment, really. My husband, who bought them, died a couple of years ago – I just wanted them to be something special for his sake.’
With a quick movement I shovelled the coins into their plastic bag. Now there was no mystery, no magic. They were just fiat discs of metal.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and held out my hand. She shook it and we smiled at each other.
‘Goodbye,’ I said, ‘and thank you.’
I made my way back into the classical section of the museum, feeling upset and disorientated and sat down on a leather bench near my Roman matron. I felt a pang, almost a physical pain of disappointment about the coins and hoped that Michael would not be similarly distressed. I also wanted to come to grips with my reaction to Freda Lassiter’s story. For some reason it had moved me deeply, perhaps because in her I saw what I might have become if I hadn’t had the sturdy rock of a good marriage to rest upon. There but for the grace of God ... I felt churned up and unhappy. But gradually the cool stone figures around met carefully delineated representations of men and women, influential or unknown, but now all long dead, soothed and restored me. I was staring in a peaceful non-thinking way at a crumbling marble statue of a couchant lion when a voice beside me said, ‘Are you thinking deep Shakespearean thoughts?’
I looked up and saw Bill Howard regarding me with some amusement.
‘I’m sorry?’
He gestured towards the statue.
‘“Devouring Time that blunts the lion’s paws,”’ he said. ‘I thought you might be contemplating immortality.’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘just brooding.’
‘Now that is something that can be done much better in the Randolph over a delicious tea. Won’t you join me? Today’s the day for my weekly shot of culture and I�
��m longing for an excuse to have a little break.’
Feeling considerably cheered I got up from the bench, smiled approvingly at the lion and followed Bill out of the Ashmolean, across the road and into the comforting warmth and solidity of the Randolph.
Chapter Twelve
I am an absolute sucker for atmosphere. Put me in a splendid, old-fashioned hotel with panelled walls and rich dark furnishings, add all the delightful panoply of an English teatime, with a piano somewhere in the distance playing Gershwin, then I positively beam with pleasure.
‘This is nice,’ I said. ‘Just what I needed.’
‘You certainly looked pretty down when I came across you in the museum over there. Is anything the matter?’
He looked at me with some concern and I experienced once again that little tug of attraction I had felt when we first met, then I relaxed and realised that I could treat him as a friend to chat to, to confide in even. I suddenly felt the need to talk to someone who would understand.
‘I’ve had a peculiar afternoon,’ I said.
I told him about the coins and he seemed to know immediately how I felt.
‘As if you’ve lost something precious,’ he said. ‘Not the money – I can see that – but something you and your husband and son had together. I’m so sorry.’
‘The coins were only part of it,’ I said, and told him about Gwen Richmond’s murder and some of my investigations so far. Not all of them, of course. I couldn’t betray Pamela and I didn’t like to mention Fitz and Elaine for obvious reasons. I concentrated on Dr Lassiter and Molly Richmond. He listened attentively and asked the occasional question. When I had finished I was aware that it all sounded rather thin and I hoped he wouldn’t think that I was just a foolish busybody.
He stirred his tea thoughtfully and said slowly, ‘You’re really sure she was murdered – it couldn’t have been just an accident?’
‘I don’t think so. Tony was very positive about the glasses and about where that book would have been.’