by Anne Morice
‘Since it is safe to assume that she died intestate,’ he replied, ‘I understand that the greater part of it will clatter into the coffers of the national exchequer.’
‘And the smaller part?’ Viola asked. ‘Who gets that?’
‘No idea, but at least she’ll have the privilege of paying for her own funeral and legal expenses, poor girl. I daresay there’ll be a thousand or two going begging when it’s all wound up, and then they’ll have to advertise for any relatives who may care to step along and hear something to their advantage. I gather that in a case of that sort countless people feel the urge to step along, but since most, if not all, will be charlatans, they will be wasting their shoe leather.’
‘How about the Orphanage, though?’ I suggested. ‘Can’t they dig up someone?’
‘Not a vestige. She was that classic case of the almost new born baby dumped outside a police station in the dead of night. Not so much as a label pinned to her shawl, and they never found out where she came from. She was called Melanie Jones after the heroine of a novel the Matron of the Home happened to be hooked on at the time.’
‘All the same,’ I said, ‘it’s possible that she formed some kind of relationship of her own after she got away from there. She could even have made a will, for all we know. There’s a cheap kind of printed form which one can buy at a stationer’s and it’s perfectly legal.’
‘Most unlikely,’ Viola said. ‘Even if she had known she was an heiress, and I agree that she probably did, disposing of her money when she was dead would have been the last thing to enter that young person’s head. She’d have been putting her mind to spending it while she was alive. In any case, people of that age never believe they’re going to die.’
‘But supposing she’d got married, Viola? In that case, it wouldn’t have been necessary to think about death, or make a will either. The money would pass automatically to her husband, wouldn’t it?’
Jamie had evidently come to a tricky bit of shading in his tapestry, for he was holding it up to the light, tilting it this way and that and prodding it with his needle:
‘Who said she was married?’ he asked in an abstracted voice.
‘No one, dear,’ Viola assured him soothingly, ‘Just another of Tessa’s little flights of fancy. Take no notice.’
‘I don’t see why you should call it that,’ I protested. ‘People are doing it all the time and she was over the age of consent.’
‘Well, it certainly introduces a new element,’ Jamie said, ‘which is something to be grateful for, perhaps. If I were you, Tessa, I’d pass that one on to the Inspector. He could easily turn up the records and find out if there was a marriage and then, as far as I can see, it would simply be a matter of finding the young man and arresting him for the murder of his bride. If he first married Melanie and then killed her to get his hands on her money, he won’t get very far by concealing himself. In fact, it sounds to me as though he had behaved rather rashly.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘If he sticks to it that he has never been in Dearehaven and that Melanie had gone back there on her own to collect her belongings, then, so long as no witness could be found to prove otherwise, there’d be nothing much they could do about it. A motive of that kind would certainly be seized on by the prosecution, but I doubt if it would be enough. They’d need circumstantial evidence as well and, if he’s a bright lad, he’ll doubtless have fixed himself up with an alibi. Since the timing of her death gives a margin of forty-eight hours, that shouldn’t present much of a problem.’
‘The thing is that we always forget how well versed Tessa is in the complexities of crime, don’t we, Viola? Was it Robin who suggested that Melanie might have a husband?’
‘No, as a matter of fact, it was you.’
‘Me? My darling girl, I promise you, such an idea never entered my head.’
‘It was the way you described them, walking along the cliff. You said they were swinging along hand in hand. Somehow that didn’t sound like a casual pick-up. More like two people who’d known each other for some time and liked what they knew.’
‘It is possible to achieve that without wedding bells.’
‘Yes, I know, but there was something else. You . . .’ I began, but Viola was growing impatient.
‘Why waste time arguing about it? As Jamie rightly says, if she had acquired a husband at some point in her varied career, there will be records to show who he was, but personally I can’t see that it affects us, one way or another.’
‘Although the verdict was wilful murder,’ I pointed out, ‘and if the young man Jamie saw her with didn’t kill her, then someone else did, and I should have thought that mattered quite a lot.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, listen, Viola, this is murder, as I say, and it won’t just be wiped off the slate because the victim happened to be a rather troublesome nonentity. There’ll be a full investigation and it could go on for months.’
‘Let it. I don’t care.’
‘Nonsense, Viola, of course you care,’ Jamie said, wagging his needle at her. ‘I can see quite well what Tessa is getting at.’
‘Then kindly explain.’
‘What I’m getting at,’ I told her, not over-keen to have my punch line snatched away, ‘is simply this: since Melanie hadn’t been raped or disfigured, it’s probable that this wasn’t the act of some drunken thug. More likely deliberate, committed for a purpose, and for that you need more than just a passing acquaintance with your victim. So just ask yourself who in Dearehaven, apart from Elfrieda, knew Melanie well enough to have such an urgent need to remove her?’
‘Oh,’ she muttered, looking perfectly appalled. ‘Yes, I must admit that hadn’t occurred to me . . . but it’s utterly ridiculous.’
‘Of course it is, but it remains a fact, nonetheless, and one which I promise you will not be overlooked. That painstaking investigation I referred to is going to be centred on the Rotunda and all the people who work there, so you’d better start getting used to the idea.’
FOURTEEN
The warning evidently had its effect, for it was not hard to recognise Viola’s hand in the decision to send a wreath to Melanie’s funeral, complete with a card bearing the inscription: ‘With love and sympathy from all at the Rotunda Theatre’. Perhaps she was counting on its being seen by Inspector Watson, who would instantly realise that we had all been devoted to the deceased and that it would therefore be unnecessary to pester us with tiresome questions about whether we had any reason to wish her dead.
The cremation was to take place on Friday afternoon at three o’clock, a time which made it quite easy for all her loving and sympathetic friends to find adequate excuses not to attend. Unfortunately, though, this idea of the wreath had been arrived at rather late in the day and, in accepting the order, the florists declared themselves unable to complete and deliver it on time. The most they could promise was to have it ready for us to collect at one o’clock, when they closed for lunch. So someone had to take it from there to the crematorium and, after some further discussion, this task was allotted to me.
Although expressing herself somewhat hesitantly, Viola appeared to feel that, being a comparative newcomer and one who had scarcely known Melanie personally, I should not suffer the same emotional strain as would afflict the rest of them in performing this ceremony.
‘I am perfectly willing to sacrifice my lunch hour to oblige you,’ I told her, ‘but don’t go too far, please! I’m not such a dotty comparative newcomer as to be unaware that every single one of you hated her like poison. It’s a bit thick to pretend that the sight of her last resting place would have you all in tears.’
‘Well yes, exactly! That’s more or less what I mean,’ she explained uncomfortably. ‘You can afford to be detached about it, naturally, but there would be something so bizarre about any of us turning up there with a wreath. One would feel such a ghastly hypocrite, if you see what I mean?’
I told her I did and she thanked me again an
d handed over the money that had been raised by the whip round. I reckoned that it might just about cover the cost of the wreath, or the taxi to the crematorium, which according to Len was discreetly located eight miles from the town centre, but certainly not both. However, luckily for me, Kyril’s sentiments were not quite so delicate and he offered to drive me there in his car.
‘Not wishing to sound ungrateful,’ I told him, ‘but if you’re prepared to do that much, why not just deliver the damn thing yourself?’
‘Oh no, that would be so odious and boring,’ he replied in his lazy fashion. ‘Besides, it would be impossible to get to the shop in time. I have someone coming to see me at noon and he is so often quite late. If you bring your bouquet to my flat, I shall give you something to fortify you and then I will take you there and wait for you in the car.’
‘Okay, it’s a deal, so long as you promise to get me back within the hour. Otherwise, I’ll be in trouble with Len, which is the last thing I need. He’s been in a frightful fluster these last few days. I suppose it dates from that dreadful shock of finding Elfrieda dead in her wheelchair.’
Kyril responded to this with one of his pensive, melancholy looks, his eyes clouding over, as they invariably did when he appeared to be concentrating:
‘Yes,’ he agreed with a deep sigh, ‘I had noticed it.’
It was a modern, vaguely ecclesiastical looking building, like so many of its kind, but departed from the norm by being set in a huge, meticulously tended garden, laid out with dozens of flower beds in every variety of size and shape. The macabre feature was that every single one was planted with roses, all now blooming in such magnificent profusion that they looked quite artificial. Not only macabre either, but somehow typical of Dearehaven and it was impossible not to wonder which of these gorgeous bushes was about to receive another shot in the arm, in the form of some more human ashes.
All was silent and deserted, not even a gardener or attendant in slight, indicating that the lunch hour was as strictly observed here as in the world of the living. I wished I had taken this contingency into account, for I was now in some dilemma as to how to dispose of my wreath. Looking about me, I saw an arrow pointing to the car park, evidently at the back of the building, so set off in that direction, in the hope of finding someone to guide me.
It contained only one car, which at the very moment of my rounding the corner began to move towards the exit. I flung up my free arm in an attempt to catch the driver’s attention, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t want to know, for gathering speed all the time, he turned into the short, rose bordered drive down to the road and disappeared from sight.
However, by this time my eye had been caught by something else of much more practical value. Stacked against the chapel wall and quite close to where I was standing was a large pile of wreaths and cellophane wrapped flowers. I read the card on one of them and learnt that it had come, with deepest sympathy, from Cis and Norman. Resisting the temptation to toss my own tribute on to this collection, I walked on a little further and was rewarded by the sight of what could only be its proper destination.
This second pile was much smaller and contained only three offerings, but one of them provided all the clue I needed, since it was a bunch of singularly repellent looking mauve tulips. Although there was no card attached and it was surprising to find them there at all, there could be no doubt of their having been sent by the Henshaw family.
Next to this was a cross shaped wreath, mainly composed of laurel leaves, the gift of the Matron and Staff of the Brackley Place Children’s Home, but the third offering was in complete contrast to its shabby companions. It was a small, white, basket shaped vase, filled with miniature pink roses. There was something a little sad and touching about it. Mysterious too, for it also bore no card.
Kyril was slumped in his seat with his chin on his chest when I returned to the car, and gave the impression of being in a deep slumber. This was a setback, because I had intended to put him through an observation test, although I should have remembered how short sighted he was, or pretended to be, and how unlikely, asleep or awake, to be of much use.
Tell me something,’ I said climbing in beside him, ‘did you see a car come out of here a few minutes ago?’
He was fiddling with a bunch of about twenty keys, searching for the one for the ignition, and took his time: ‘Yes, now you mention it, I believe there was one.’
‘Did you recognise it?’
‘No. Why? Should I have?’
‘I’m not sure. I only saw it from a distance, but it looked familiar to me.’
‘So? Whose do you think it was?’
‘Len’s.’
‘Really? And was Len driving it?’
‘Presumably, although I was too far off to see. What do you suppose he could have been doing there?’
‘Nothing, my dear. I don’t believe for a moment that he was there. You were mistaken, that’s all; but if it bothers you so much, why not ask him?’
‘Because, whether it were true or not, he would deny it. I was hoping you’d be my witness.’
‘And I must regretfully disappoint you. All cars look alike to me. And why should he deny it? He may go where he chooses, I suppose?’
‘Yes, but he obviously wouldn’t want anyone to know about this. Otherwise, why didn’t he offer to take the blasted wreath himself, instead of thrusting it on to me?’
‘Why, indeed? Which, for me, is enough proof that you were mistaken. You do not make sense, you see, ma chère Tessa. How could he have gone there, hoping to keep it a secret, when he knew that you would also be coming and would be bound to see him?’
‘It’s a question of timing, Kyril. You see, Len knew that I’d ordered a taxi at ten minutes to one, to take me to the florists and then on, but that’s all he knew. Naturally, he would assume that I’d collect the flowers, go to the crematorium and straight back into town again, stopping for only two minutes to shed my load. The whole operation wouldn’t have taken more than forty minutes at the outside, so by setting out himself at one-thirty he’d have felt quite safe.’
‘Oh well, yes, that is true, I suppose.’
‘If it was he, I imagine he must have been a bit put out to find no wreath from the Rotunda, but maybe he concluded that I’d handed it over to someone in charge. Perhaps he was only pretending not to see me waving like a lunatic? Perhaps he knew quite well who I was, realised the timetable had gone wrong and shot off in panic? The more I think of it, the more certain I become that it was his car.’
‘Never mind! Why worry about it? He was not committing any crime.’
‘But don’t you find it curious, Kyril?’
‘Not so much as you.’
‘Why not?’
He became silent for a minute or two, as though debating with himself, and finally he said:
‘If I tell you what I believe is the explanation, you must promise not to say a word to Lennie, or anyone at all. It is all over now, all in the past.’
While privately regarding this statement as somewhat optimistic, I did not interrupt and he went on:
‘You must have noticed by now that Len is very demented about his work. It is the great love of his life and I would even say that it means more to him than any human being, man or woman.’
‘You could well be right, but what’s that got to do with it?’
‘Silence, please, and let me finish! He is also, as so often in affairs of the heart, very jealous and insecure, always terrified that someone is going to spring out and snatch his beloved away from him. As you will also have noticed, he is inclined to be over-emotional and impulsive and this sometimes gets him into trouble and creates misunderstandings.’
‘Which is more or less what you are creating now, but go on!’
‘Well, this is what happened with Melanie. When she first came along some of us were quite amused and we did our best to like her and teach her some good manners and so on; also something about the theatre, which she pretended to be
so crazy about, but no one tried harder in this way than Len. You understand?’
‘Beginning to.’
‘Well, of course after some while most of us gave up. One saw through her and ceased to be amused. Also she did not need us. She may have had these dreams of becoming the big star, but she did not intend to achieve it by hard work. Influence would do more for her, she thought, but of course Elfrieda was completely taken in. She never knew the score and neither, in a sense, did Len.’
‘You imply that he went on helping her in order to do himself a bit of good with Elfrieda?’
‘Oh, that is too blunt! Perhaps we should say that he found it easier to like her because this would please Elfrieda. He worked hard at it, too, poor boy. Took her to these film society shows and made her learn bits of Shakespeare and walk up and down with a pile of books on her head. You know?’
‘So well.’
‘And yet, although it began in that way, I feel there was some affection as well. She did not lack a certain charm, you know, and she had vitality and high spirits. Len is the withdrawn, moody kind, so maybe it was an attraction of opposites.’
‘And you think that could have induced him to go there this morning? To say goodbye, as it were?’
‘I do think it’s possible, if he had become a little bit attached to her, and also perhaps because of some feelings of remorse that he had not tried harder, now that she had died in this horrible way. Being so introspective, he might now feel that he had used her in just the same way as she had used Elfrieda. So now you understand, Tessa, why this is such a sensitive subject, and why you should keep perfectly quiet about what you saw?’
I agreed to this, although making private reservations in the case of Robin and Toby, and in a somewhat distrait fashion, for I had much on my mind.
Quite apart from the revelations about Melanie, which were beginning to crop up on all sides, it had not escaped me that, having started by scorning my suggestion that Len had been at the crematorium, Kyril had then turned right round and produced a complete set of credible reasons to show that I had been right. Credible, that is, but not wholly convincing, for it had also occurred to me that it would have needed a very severe attack of remorse to have prompted Len to make this secret, solitary pilgrimage to a place which must have filled him with loathing and horror. Moreover, remorse was not an emotion which one readily associated with that charmingly sentimental little vase of pink roses.