Death of a Wedding Guest

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Death of a Wedding Guest Page 12

by Anne Morice


  ‘Nevertheless, you came at very short notice, did you not? Can’t have given yourself very much time to set up any business deals?’

  Osgood was lighting a fresh cigar and he swivelled his eyes sideways without moving his head.

  ‘You’re very pertinacious, aren’t you, young lady?’

  ‘Inquisitive, you mean?’

  ‘If you like,’ he replied after a few experimental puffs. ‘No, pertinacious is really the better word, and it does cause me to wonder where your own interest lies. Not in affection for my ex-wife, I take it?’

  ‘No, I scarcely knew her.’

  ‘So there’s something else on your mind? Well, I’ve no objection to helping you shift it if you think that delving into my motives will get you anywhere. I told you I was no altruist, but the kind of feeling I had for Irene when I first knew her doesn’t just fade away and leave no trace. I still felt responsible for her, up to a point, and she damn well saw to it that I should. When the police contacted me and told me she had died suddenly and in suspicious circumstances, it didn’t take more than a minute to figure out that she hadn’t seen fit to let on that we’d been divorced for six years. That seemed kind of sad; pathetic, if you know what I mean? That tremendous vanity of hers wasn’t going to allow any of you lot to see her as rejected and unloved. She had to be on top all the time, envied and admired by all the lesser breeds. So there she was, poor little devil, ending her life among a bunch of strangers who didn’t give a damn about her, didn’t even know one single truth about how things really were for her.’

  ‘That was her fault, not ours.’

  ‘I know that, and I’m not making excuses for her, but just the same it seemed to me a sad way to go. That’s what decided me to drop everything and come over and Jay, being the sport she is, came along for the ride. Satisfied?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s all bad news, so far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘So you’d set me up as the villain of the piece and now you’ve found it won’t stick, is that the problem?’

  ‘Now you’re being pertinacious?’

  ‘Oh, I have my moments, but I wouldn’t call this one of them. That little talk I had with the local cop this morning cleared a few mists. I was expecting him to start digging for facts about Irene’s medical history, but not on your life! It was her state of mind he was interested in. There could only be one reason for that and I had to tell him that in my view suicide was out.’

  ‘Which was true?’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Her life may have been folding up on her in some departments, and she was starting to compensate with too much alcohol and too many pills, but that’s not uncommon in women of her type and she was nowhere near the stage of bowing out. The world still contained rich men, she could still look beautiful in a good light and she hadn’t given up, by any means. In fact, I’d say she took better care of herself than most.’

  ‘You’re not doing much to cheer me up,’ I remarked.

  ‘I see it, and if I’d known it would hit you like this I might have been tempted to say she threatened suicide every hour on the hour. I’m a kind-hearted man and nothing works on me like beauty in distress.’

  ‘Thank you, but it’s too late to think of that now.’

  ‘Yes, it is and it wouldn’t have done us any good, you know. They’d have checked my story and they wouldn’t have found another person in the whole wide world to back it up. All of which could have landed me in trouble and I’m not that kind-hearted.’

  ‘Why could it have?’

  ‘Well, look now, as things stand, I’m out of it: divorced, remarried, new home and family, no financial or emotional involvement with my ex, nothing to gain by her death. That’s fine, from my point of view, but the minute I start inventing tales which have no foundation, trying to mislead people, the picture changes, doesn’t it? So maybe after all I did have some motive for slipping a dose of poison in among Irene’s pills and maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try and uncover it. They wouldn’t find anything, but just looking and maybe dragging Jay into it could be unpleasant enough.’

  ‘So he told you all that, did he? That the poison could have been in her pills?’

  ‘Sure, why not? I’m the innocent party, who’s come forward of his own free will to help sort things out. Naturally I’d be curious to know how she died and what’s to prevent him telling me?’

  ‘And you can’t think of anyone else, anyone in Canada, I mean, who might have wanted her not to come back?’

  ‘Not a chance. Mind you, I’m not saying she was loved by one and all. She was very inquisitive on certain levels and she had a bad trick of nosing out dirty little secrets and spreading them around where they’d do the most harm. So naturally she didn’t have too many friends. So what? Why should anyone bother to take that kind of risk when all they needed was to keep out of her way? In fact, I’d say the real tragedy of Irene was that no one honestly cared a damn whether she lived or died. I assume from your concern that the position was a little different on your side of the Atlantic?’

  ‘True, but it’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘My goodness, you do carry a load on those frail shoulders! It sounds as though poor Irene is creating as much mayhem now as she did during her misspent life.’

  ‘It’s not altogether her fault. In fact, there’s a school of thought that rejects the idea that the poison was ever intended for her and I must admit that what you’ve told me rather strengthens that theory. Still, I’ve no right to burden you with my problems.’

  I confess to a certain insincerity here because in the first place there was no evidence that the burden was wearing him into an early grave and also he had all the charm of a good listener, which made talking to him a pleasure. I hoped to have said just enough to keep his curiosity alive, which must have been the case, for he said,

  ‘It sounds to me as though you need to burden someone with them and I have all the time in the world until Jay is ready to surface again. You could begin by showing me how I’ve contributed to this theory and what it’s based on.’

  ‘Well, you see, there’s always the possibility that the poison was in one of the glasses and, if so, that Irene got it by mistake, and that narrows the suspects down to a tiny group of people who were all present at the time. I’d been hoping, you see, that it would turn out that someone in Canada had a beautiful motive for murdering her, but was nowhere near when it happened.’

  ‘That someone being myself?’ Osgood asked, sounding perfectly friendly about it.

  ‘Well yes, I must confess that you would have done nicely. I should apologise for that, I suppose, but I got the idea before I met you and found out the truth about your marriage. If only it had turned out that she’d got all the money and was refusing to divorce you or something of that kind, it would have been plain sailing. If it makes it any better, I should add that, having met you, I no longer believe you would be capable of such a mean trick, whatever the circumstances, but I wasn’t to know that, was I?’

  ‘No, but I accept the compliment and I congratulate you.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘For putting it so nicely that I end up feeling indebted. Something like the prisoner in the box must feel towards the judge who’s sentenced him to five years when he was expecting life. So how can I show my gratitude?’

  ‘I don’t see any way, frankly. The big trouble is that it’s almost inconceivable that anyone in this country could have felt a strong enough animosity towards Irene to want to murder her. Most of the people involved were meeting her for the first time and not one had set eyes on her for fifteen years. Besides, what the hell? She was due to fly back to Winnipeg the day after the wedding.’

  ‘You know that for a fact?’

  ‘Well no, since you ask, I suppose I simply took it for granted, but the people she was staying with down here certainly weren’t expecting to keep her for one more night and, as far as I know, she had no rea
son to remain in England.’

  ‘She could have found one.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, life back home hadn’t been all that exciting recently. If she’d seen the chance of a comfortable berth over here, she might have been planning to stay and work on it.’

  ‘Another rich husband, do you mean?’

  ‘Or someone else’s rich husband. It’s hard to say, but if I were you I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that she was getting in someone’s hair, or threatening to. It would be just like her.’

  It was also just about the most unwelcome advice he could have given me and it says a lot for his personality that even at that moment I felt no personal resentment. In fact, I found myself thinking that in some ways he rather reminded me of Robin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1

  The inquest opened at eleven sharp on Wednesday morning and closed again precisely ten minutes later, the police having requested an adjournment, pending further enquiries. Formal identification was made by Osgood and the cause of death established as poisoning by paraquat and back in London again that evening Robin told me that Scotland Yard had been asked to help in the investigation. Naturally enough, he had not been invited to work on the case which was to be handled by Detective Superintendent Powell, a member of the old brigade, for whom Robin had respect, but no special affection.

  Toby was eventually badgered into attending the cremation ceremony and was supported on one side by Dr Macintosh and on the other by Jeremy. Robin also managed to snatch time to swell the pathetic numbers and he told me afterwards that Osgood had been present, though not Jay, and that Alison had sent a wreath, which was remarkably handsome of her, in view of her straitened circumstances and probably proof that she was the only one of us who had felt any genuine liking for Irene and truly regretted her death.

  Ellen also stayed away and, seeing this as a rare chance for a private consultation with her, I went round to Hans Place as soon as the cortège had started on its way.

  I found her at the ironing board, battling with one of Jeremy’s shirts and presenting such a fairy tale image of the wee bride in her first home that it required an effort to remember that her mother had recently been violently done to death and that she lived in dread of the same thing happening to her husband.

  However, I was not given much time to dwell on this irony, for someone else had also gambled on its being a propitious moment to catch Ellen on her own and she had no sooner put the ironing board away and filled the coffee percolator than the front door bell rang. I went to answer it for her and found Superintendent Powell and his underling, Sergeant Blaikie, standing on the mat.

  His request was for a few words in private, but Ellen implored him to let me stay and hear them as well and she looked so pitiful and appealing that his stony heart visibly melted.

  ‘She is my cousin, after all, and she’s very discreet, you know,’ Ellen told him.

  ‘Oh yes?’ he replied, looking at me sourly and getting a question mark into it.

  ‘Besides, there’s nothing I can tell you that she doesn’t know already.’

  This was obviously a rather more cogent argument than the previous one and the superintendent made no further objection. Ellen tripped back to the kitchen, accompanied by the sergeant, who had been commanded in a meaning voice to give a hand by carrying the tray.

  ‘Nice and quiet round here,’ the superintendent then remarked, having cleared his throat once or twice and strolled in a nonchalant manner to the window.

  ‘Not bad,’ I admitted. ‘Where do you live, by the way?’

  ‘Parsons Green, if you know where that is? None of your posh Knightsbridge,’ he added aggressively.

  ‘That must be fairly quiet too,’ I said, hoping that Ellen wouldn’t start chatting up the sergeant and forget to press on with the coffee.

  ‘Are you acting in anything at present, then, Mrs Price?’

  ‘Not just at the moment. I’m between productions.’

  ‘Ah! What they call resting. Lot of that in your profession, I understand?’

  ‘Quite a lot, yes. Are you keen on the theatre?’

  ‘So so. Can’t take too much of this modern stuff, though. I like something I can get my teeth into. Shaw, Ibsen, that lot. Something to make you think, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘Still, I suppose you get around a bit, see a good many stage people and all that, even when you’re resting?’ he suggested, with such studied offhandedness as to warn me that the light banter was now over and we were skating round a subject near to his heart, although I could not imagine what it might be, unless by ill chance he belonged to those legions whose niece had written a play.

  ‘Well yes,’ I agreed cautiously. ‘I’ve got a few friends in the business, naturally. Most of them are struggling actors like myself.’

  ‘Ever come across one named Desmond Davidson?’ he asked, with another onrush of calculated casualness.

  When my mind had completed a couple of twirls, I endeavoured to kill his act by saying cheerfully,

  ‘Oh, frequently. We were in a play together at Nottingham about two years ago.’

  ‘Is that when he met Mrs Roxburgh?’

  For a moment I thought he was talking about Stella and was wrestling with this new complication when it came to me that he was referring to Ellen.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, pretending to have been considering the matter from all angles, ‘I suppose it must have been. I do remember that she came up and spent a weekend with me during the run. Why do you ask?’

  ‘What sort of character is he, in your opinion?’ the superintendent asked, ignoring my question, as I had expected.

  ‘It’s probably the same as most people’s. He can be very good, brilliant on occasions, but he’s too uneven and undisciplined to hit the heights, and he’s bad at taking direction. Always thinks he knows best how a scene should be played and it often involves everyone else standing about with their backs to the audience.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid I’m out of my depth now, Mrs Price. These technical details are above my head. What I wanted was your assessment of his character.’

  ‘I realise that and what I’ve told you isn’t irrelevant because, in so far as he exists off stage, the pattern is identical. He can be very generous and affectionate, but he’s too volatile and egotistic to sustain a deep friendship and he’s permanently at the mercy of his moods. I hope that helps?’

  ‘Maybe. Anything else occur to you?’

  ‘He’s rather given to practical jokes during certain of these moods.’

  ‘Is he now?’ the superintendent asked, allowing a gleam of genuine interest to peep through for the first time, but no opportunity to follow this up was granted to him, for the door was flung wide and the coffee makers returned, Sergeant Blaikie virtuously carrying the tray. It was plain from his superior’s irritable expression that he had jumped his cue, but, no bugging devices having been wired up in the kitchen, he could scarcely be blamed for that.

  ‘Do you like milk and sugar in yours?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘A dash of both, please,’ Superintendent Powell replied and then, as she brought the cup over to him and placed it on the table by the window, his hand went to his pocket and produced a sheet of writing paper, which he flashed in front of her nose, saying,

  ‘Do you recognise this, Mrs Roxburgh?’

  If he had been relying on shock tactics to get results, he may have been gratified by their effect, although it was a hollow victory, for Ellen took one look at the letter, let out a small scream and fell to the floor in a dead faint.

  I was afraid it would not do her much good and I was right, for although the sergeant looked very guilty and bothered, as he helped me lift her on to the sofa, the odious Powell merely sighed, put the sheet of paper on the table and wearily picked up his coffee cup.

  As though sensing that her performance had fallen rather flat, Ellen opened her eyes af
ter a couple of minutes, though not omitting to put the conventional question in the conventionally petulant voice.

  ‘Right here, just where you were two minutes ago,’ I assured her. ‘And all the same people are still here with you. How would it be if you were to lie still for a bit, while I look around for the burnt feathers?’ I suggested, in case she needed further time.

  However, this appeared not to be the case for she sat up smiling weakly like a true little heroine and said in a brave voice:

  ‘No, I’ll be all right now. Sorry to be so stupid. How did you come by that letter?’ she asked the superintendent in slightly stronger tones.

  ‘I’ll come to that in a moment,’ he replied, picking it up again. ‘First of all, there are one or two questions I’d like to put to you, if you’re sure you’re feeling well enough?’

  ‘Oh yes, thanks, I think I’ll be all right now.’

  ‘Then am I correct in believing that you recognised this handwriting?’

  ‘Yes, of course you are, no one could mistake it.’

  ‘And also that you had seen this particular letter before?’

  ‘No, not as far as I know.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Could you repeat that?’

  ‘I said “not as far as I know”, but of course I didn’t have a chance to study it at all carefully.’

  ‘Then perhaps you would kindly do so now?’

  She nodded and the superintendent handed the letter to the sergeant, who brought it reverently to the sofa.

  It was a single sheet, covered on both sides with large, flamboyant script, liberally scattered with dashes, capital letters and underlinings, such as Queen Victoria would have felt quite at home with, but although Ellen obligingly spread it out flat on her lap I was unable to decipher more than an odd word or two, not enough to get even the gist of its message.

  She read it through very slowly, glancing up at me briefly as she turned the page to begin on the reverse side, and when it was done folded the sheet again and held it out to the sergeant for the first lap of its return journey.

 

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