‘Was that all he said?’
‘Yes, sir. He didn’t say what he meant by it but I suppose we can guess. There won’t be many tears shed for him below stairs, sir, and that’s a fact.’
‘What do you make of it, Teddy?’ said Felix. ‘Simple burglary?’
Rattigan shook his head. ‘It doesn’t seem very likely, does it? No-one is going to kill for a pair of cufflinks and a watch, however valuable, and if he’d cornered the thief he’d hardly have turned his back on them so wouldn’t have been hit on the occiput like that. It’s just about possible, I suppose, if he’d missed his footing or something, but I doubt it.’
‘Nevertheless, those items are missing, unless she’s mistaken or telling fibs. Then again, it might have been done to mislead us, or as an afterthought. Let’s get some air and visit the wife.’
◆◆◆
Nigel Cotton’s home was an elegant terrace house in Belgravia. From the left and right of the front door could be seen a pleasing vista of identical white columns and black iron railings.
‘We’re expected,’ said Felix to the footman, offering his card.
They had to wait a little while for the widow to appear. Tall, dark haired and strong-featured, Amelia Cotton looked, Felix thought, much as Nigel’s mother must have done in her youth. Perhaps that had been the attraction, short-lived though it must have been. She was wearing mourning, though nothing else about her suggested grief. ‘Do sit down, gentlemen,’ she said, and settling herself on a sofa, leaned comfortably on an elbow and waited for them to speak.
Felix began by offered their condolences.
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. Did you know we were separated?’
‘Yes I did.’
‘Then you can probably guess how I feel about this charade.’ She indicated dismissively her black dress. ‘What hypocrites we are! How may I help you?’
Felix smiled his sympathy. ‘We need to form a picture of your husband in the hope that it will lead us to his murderer. But can you tell me first of all where you were between about eight and ten o’clock yesterday evening?’
‘I was here, entertaining some friends. I can give you their particulars if you wish.’
‘If you would be so kind. Do you know, Mrs Cotton, of anyone who would wish your husband harm?’
‘Not specifically, no. I should imagine they were legion. He was a most unpleasant man.’
‘But to murder him?’
She gave a cynical little shrug. ‘An outraged husband or father perhaps?’
‘Did he ever stay here, after you separated?’
‘No. Nominally it was still his address, but we seldom saw him; nor did we wish to.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Finally? About a year ago.’
‘One assumes he still supported you, paid the household expenses?’
‘Barely. He would give me money, grudgingly, when I asked for it, but I received no regular income and hadn’t done for some years. As a result, I had to let most of the servants go. I could never keep the maids anyway. In the end I was forced to apply to his father, who was, to give him his due, appalled. I told him I wanted a divorce but he discouraged me and offered an allowance instead. I suppose it was natural he should put his family’s reputation first.’
‘Forgive me, but was it due to your husband’s attentions that you couldn’t keep the maids?’
‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘The children have a governess but she is my mother’s age and does not constitute, one supposes, a temptation.’
‘You say he kept you short of money. I apologise if this question seems intrusive but have you none of your own?’
‘None whatsoever. However, he is dead, and unless he paid me the ultimate insult of willing it to someone else, I shall inherit this house. We shall be quite comfortable in something smaller. A cottage, if necessary.’ Suddenly, perhaps despite herself, she broke into a radiant smile. ‘Then I shall be able to live again.’
‘Unless there’s a charge on the house,’ said Rattigan as they turned for the Yard. ‘She doesn’t seem to have thought of that.’
‘Queer that he kept her short. He must have done quite well as the director of a bank.’
‘Perhaps we should go through that bureau next? There may be bank statements. And he’s bound to have an address book.’
‘Did you want to make a start on that? Break those locks if you have to. I’ll just pop in and see Howard. What did you think of her anyway?’
‘Finding it hard not to dance a jig,’ chuckled Rattigan. ‘You’d have expected her to cavil at the money question if only for the sake of appearances but she didn’t blink. Just wanted to be rid of us I suppose.’
‘It might suit her to have us think she’s short of the readies. When it comes to paid assassins, she’s considerably more likely to have employed one than her father-in-law. And they don’t come cheap. We’d best set a watch on the place.’
‘You think it’s likely that she did?’
‘Yes I do. Don’t you? She’s of an age to be getting desperate.’
◆◆◆
‘Where’s Charlie,’ asked Felix, looking around for the department skeleton.
Fiddling with some dental putty, a lump of Plasticine and a full set of false teeth, Howard Benyson shrugged. ‘Who knows? They’re a notably frisky intake this year. Probably in some nurse’s bed or on the Dean’s lavatory. Feeling better now?’
‘Slightly more human, thanks. Too much free bubbly I’m afraid. Anything interesting for me?’
‘Not really. Health fairly typical of his age and class. I’m assuming he’s about thirty. Slight cirrhosis of the liver. His last meal was the buffet at the ball by the look of it.’
‘He was twenty-nine. Two small children unfortunately. Any cuts and bruises?’
‘Nothing of that sort, no. Have you found out much about him?’
‘Not yet. His father clearly loathed him, as did his wife and the servants. Which reminds me — any evidence of sexual activity? Last night, I mean.’
Howard shook his head. ‘Not unless you count two fly buttons undone.’
Glancing at his notoriously dishevelled friend, Felix forbore to comment. ‘All right, I’ll be getting on.’ He briefly turned back. ‘Howard, I feel constrained to ask — why the teeth?’
‘Fellow bit his mistress with them, allegedly. Here’s the photo, quite a deep wound.’
‘Ouch! She wouldn’t want to be sitting on that. Did he do it?’
‘Darned if I can tell. They should have consulted a dentist. I’ll try and get your report to you tomorrow. Unless there’s anything else, I’m going home.’
‘Lucky you.’
◆◆◆
Felix entered Nigel Cotton’s bedroom to find Rattigan reading a novel. ‘This book has obscene content,’ he said. ‘There are several more like it in the bottom drawer.’
Felix smiled cynically. ‘So naturally you had to check every page.’
‘I felt it my duty to do so. The public must be protected from this degrading filth.’ He carefully folded in the dust-jacket flap so as not to lose the place. ‘However, I’ve been through everything else, apart from some oddments. It did mean springing the locks, I’m afraid.’ He took out his notebook. ‘I found two bank accounts: one with Cotton’s, as you might expect, and one with the Westminster. As of last month he had five thousand in Cotton’s and about nine thousand in the Westminster.’ He threw a bundle of notes on the bed. ‘And a hundred in cash.’
Felix whistled. ‘Not trivial sums. Looks like he was a skinflint in addition to his other sins.’
He certainly didn’t need to keep his missus short. Or maybe he didn’t and she just said he did. I don’t know where he was getting that cash from because his statements – all neatly filed – show no withdrawals, only deposits. Neither can you tell
what he was spending it on.’
‘Gambling and women, if his father is to be believed.’
‘Might well have been but there’s no record of it. Neither did he often write a cheque except to his stockbroker. Lots of those, all for pretty substantial amounts. He’s kept the old ones incidently, neatly docketed. There’s also a drawer-full of share certificates. Again, very organised. It would be instructive to check their current values.’
‘One wonders why he didn’t buy them through the bank, if he used a stockbroker.’
‘Perhaps Daddy didn’t approve. Some of them don’t look all that solid to me, not that I know anything about it. However, they’re not the most interesting thing from our point of view. There are some payments to him from named individuals, as opposed to, say, company dividends or pay cheques as a director. Some are regular and monthly, some are all over the place. I’ve counted thirteen of them and they amount to over five hundred pounds in the year to date. They seem innocuous enough until you read these.’
Taking the proffered bundle of letters, Felix sat down to study them. ‘These are pretty aggrieved people,’ he said at last.
‘You haven’t read the best one yet. Listen to this, “You might think you’ve found a nice little milch cow, Cotton, but you’re not blackmailing me. Do your worst.”’
‘And if that’s not a motive for murder,’ said Felix, ‘I don’t know what is. It might be easier to find someone who didn’t want to kill him.’
‘Pity it’s only initialled.’
‘Yes it is. We might still be able to trace him, or her. Depends on the bank. Come on, I’ll buy you a pint. Don’t forget your dirty book; you’ll want to know how it finishes.’
‘Haha,’ said Rattigan. ‘That reminds me — address book.’ He fished it out of his pocket. ‘Quite a well-filled one.’
They supped their pints and took turns in perusing the little book. There were about forty addresses and telephone numbers but Nigel seemed in most cases to have followed his victims’ example and recorded only his acquaintances’ initials.
‘Sinister or just laziness?’ wondered Rattigan. ‘This one has moved several times. He’s had to go onto a new page for them. Hmm, Giselle, no surname. I don’t think we need to guess what she does do we?’
‘What a filthy mind you have,’ chuckled Felix. ‘She could be his French tutor. Ah! R. H. I know who that is.’ He took out his own notebook. ‘Yes it is — Robin Holland.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Our next port of call, disgraced ex-director of Cotton’s bank. Sir Blaine slipped it to me.’
Chapter Eight
Mr Holland, a big, florid-faced man, lived in a fashionable faux Tudor property, close to the Surrey bank of the Thames. He was waiting for them on his lawn with a golf club and a buried tin can, practising his putting.
‘I wouldn’t exactly describe us as friends,’ he said, neatly holing a ball. ‘My connection with Nigel Cotton was purely professional. Unfortunately we completely misjudged that old devil Sir Blaine.’
‘Misjudged in what way?’
‘Nigel and I wanted to drag the bank into the twentieth century — make customers’ money work for them. Us too, come to that. There are millions languishing at derisory rates when they could be doing so much better, all for the want of a bit of imagination. We hoped to carry the rest of the board with us – would have done, I think – but somehow he found out, and that was that. Guns spiked. We weren’t alone by any means in feeling the way we did but our co-conspirators have been keeping their heads down since and I can’t blame them for that. For one thing they’ve got old Alfie Biggs spying on them. Nothing is likely to change now.’
‘Is that how you saw yourselves — conspirators?’
‘That’s how the old man saw us. He’d bring back wigs and quill pens if he could. No vision at all. He’ll pay for it in the end though, see if he don’t. Anyhow, I’m out of it and good riddance.’
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Improving my handicap and tending my roses. I’ve retired.’
Felix smiled. ‘You’re a bit young for it.’
‘Oh, I’m well padded, thanks to Nigel’s advice. His was a brilliant mind, you know. Terrible loss to banking.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have murdered him, any enemies?’
‘Not among my colleagues, and that’s all I’m qualified to comment on. He had a rather abrasive personality, which might not have done him any good in his private life. Of which, I must say, I know nothing.’
‘Did you like him? You personally, I mean.’
‘Not much. I don’t think anyone did. You don’t have to like someone to agree with their financial views. We never fell out or anything like that. No cause to.’
‘Can you tell me where you were on Saturday night from about nine to ten?’
‘I would have been at the golf club.’
He saw them to the gate. ‘There is one person you might consider, for which I have not a shred of evidence to offer — his father. That man is quite ruthless.’
◆◆◆
They interviewed the Cotton ladies in a small sitting room probably set aside for business visitors. It seemed strangely familiar until Felix realised that the decor and furnishing of both it and Nigel’s apartment betrayed the same hand, probably that of Kitty Cotton.
‘Don’t be daunted by the Sergeant,’ said Felix. ‘He’s just here to take notes. I’ll try to keep this as brief as I can. First, permit me to ask you both if there’s anything you can tell me about last night, or at any time, that may help my investigation. Was there anything that was said or done that seems a bit queer in retrospect? Any strange people about the place?’
They both shook their heads. ‘We’ve racked our brains,’ said Lady Cotton, ‘but we can’t think of anything. Unfortunately we spent most of the evening either greeting people or dancing, so we scarcely left the ballroom.’
‘Except to visit the ladies’ room,’ said Betty.
‘Except that,’ agreed Lady Cotton, looking slightly embarrassed.
‘Forgive me. Where exactly is that?’
‘It’s on the floor below us. You have to go up one flight of stairs, from the ballroom.’
‘And did you see anyone coming up here, or coming down, while you were in the vicinity?’
‘No, no-one,’ said Lady Cotton.
‘Not even servants?’
‘I don’t believe so. They’d have had no reason to come up here anyway, since we were all at the ball.’
‘Unless your son had rung for one,’ suggested Felix.
‘Unless that,’ agreed Lady Cotton.
‘I think I’d have noticed a strange man,’ said Betty, ‘but I didn’t.’
‘There were numerous strangers at the ball, of course,’ said Lady Cotton, ‘because of asking people to invite their friends, but they were all correctly dressed. All the men, I mean. No-one looked suspicious.’
‘Anyone drinking too much or making a nuisance of themselves?’
‘Some of the boys did get a bit merry,’ said Betty, ‘but not to murder somebody. I know most of them and they just wouldn’t. They scarcely knew Nigel anyway.’
‘You moved in different circles, so to say?’
‘Yes we did really. He was married, of course, and much older than me, and they had their own friends, but even when he came home’ – she looked awkwardly at her mother – ‘well, we didn’t see him much.’
Lady Cotton sighed heavily. ‘I might as well tell you, Mr Felix, that my husband and Nigel didn’t get on. He would dine with us occasionally when Blaine was out for some reason, but we almost never saw him apart from that. He got on well with my eldest son, Benjamin – my husband, I mean – but he . . . died in the war.’
She’s getting upset, thought Felix. Best end it
soon. ‘Did either of you see Nigel during the evening?’ he asked.
They nodded.
‘We both had a word with him when he first came down,’ said Lady Cotton. ‘In fact my husband did too. I don’t know what about. And I occasionally saw him dancing.’ She looked questioningly at Betty.
‘I only ever saw him dancing after that,’ said Betty. ‘Not to speak to. I think the last time, he was dancing with Sonia, the cabaret girl.’
‘Yes, he brought Miss Butterworth back to our table just before you came to speak to us,’ said Felix. So you don’t think you saw him again after that?’
‘No, I don’t think I did.’
‘My Lady?’
‘No, I don’t think I did either, that I can remember. No wait! Now I think of it, I saw him watching the cabaret.’
‘Can you remember what time that was?’
‘They started at about nine, I think.’
‘Did Nigel ever have people visit him in his apartment, do you know? Not just last night, but at any time. Business associates, perhaps. Or just friends.’
They shook their heads again. They both had a similar way of doing it, he noticed.
‘We wouldn’t really know unless we happened to bump into them or if someone told us,’ said Lady Cotton. ‘And he never did himself. He never told us anything.’
‘My Lady, I hope you won’t take this amiss, but am I right in thinking that neither of you had much to do with Nigel?’
‘I suppose we didn’t really,’ admitted Betty.
‘But we loved him,’ said Lady Cotton, ‘didn’t we, darling?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Betty, ‘we loved him.’ And they both nodded.
‘No they didn’t,’ said Rattigan as they made their way downstairs. ‘They couldn’t stick him.’
‘Sad, really. The only time she became upset was when she thought about her other son. And his sister didn’t even pretend to care. Rather a cold fish, I thought, and perhaps not very grown up yet. She’s only eighteen after all.’
Death in Patent Leather (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 7) Page 5