The Corpse at the Crystal Palace

by Carola Dunn

  “From our point of view. She’d better get in touch with the solicitor pretty quick, though. He’s in charge there at present. Cranford, Quentin Cranford, of Lincoln’s Inn.”

  “Thanks, Ernie. I’ll let her know.”

  “I’ll have to tell the Chief she’s coming.”

  “Try to keep my name out of it.”

  “I’ll do me best, Mrs. Fletcher. No promises.”

  “Of course. I take it their parents are in town? Angela and Teddy’s, that is.”

  “Lady Devenish is staying at Brown’s, prostrated with grief. Sir James came up for a day, officially identified the deceased, and went back to Leicestershire to supervise the drainage of some field or other. No love lost between father and son, I gather, but the Chief doesn’t reckon him for filicide.”

  Daisy hooted with laughter. “Even if he’d wanted to do his son in, the thought of Sir James dressing up as a nanny … No, too outré for words.”

  “I daresay, Mrs. Fletcher. If there’s nothing else, I’d best get back to work. By the way, that young lad Ben—Miss Bel’s cousin, is he?—he’s a marvel with a map. No end of help narrowing down the search. DI Mackinnon was thinking he’d somehow have to get hold of dozens more men. He’s gone off happy, I can tell you.”

  “I bet Ben’s cock-a-hoop.”

  “Pleased as Punch with himself, right enough.”

  “Are the children still at the Yard?”

  “I sent ’em off to the waxworks in one of our cars just a few minutes ago.”

  “Thank you.” Ringing off, Daisy instantly thought of lots more questions she should have asked while Ernie was being communicative. Just as well she hadn’t, though. She didn’t want to get him into trouble.

  She was struggling with her reply to Violet’s letter, trying to avoid any mention of the events in the Crystal Palace, which would only upset her sensitive sister, when Elsie came in to tell her Dr. Ransome was ready to see her. Daisy welcomed him with open arms and a cup of coffee from the pot the parlourmaid had brought in a few minutes earlier.

  The young doctor, who had recently taken over the practice, was cheerful. “Another day or two of peace and quiet and Mrs. Gilpin should be quite restored to health.”

  “In body and mind?” Daisy asked hopefully.

  “Well, no. That is, I’m no expert when it comes to memory loss occasioned by trauma, but I’ve been reading up about it. There doesn’t seem to be any cure, or even any widely accepted treatment. Sometimes the memory comes back, and sometimes it doesn’t. Of course, if you want to call in a brain specialist…”

  “No, I’ve heard the same from other people.”

  “You could take her back to where she was the last thing she remembers before the gap. However, there’s always a risk that the shock might do more damage.”

  “That’s out, then.”

  “In fact, I recommend that she go away to somewhere quiet, the country perhaps. Not that it’s likely to help her fill in the gap, but a complete rest can’t but do her good. As long as she’s at her place of employment, she’s bound to feel she ought to be busy, quite apart from worrying about the memory loss.”

  “She has a married sister in Somerset. Unless it’s Dorset. If she can’t go there, I’m sure my cousin Lord Dalrymple would take her in for as long as she needs to convalesce. I’ll see what I can arrange. Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I popped in to see Oliver and Miranda,” he mentioned. “They seem to be as healthy and happy as ever without their nanny, ungrateful creatures! The nursery maid is a sensible girl. You needn’t worry about the twins.”

  He finished his coffee and left. Abandoning her letter to Vi in midstream, Daisy hunted through her address book for Mrs. Gilpin’s sister and wrote her a note. There was no point troubling Nanny about it before she knew whether the woman agreed to the visit.

  With several letters to post, Daisy and Bertha walked the twins and Nana to the letter box in Well Walk. Both Miranda and Oliver were endlessly fascinated by the lion and the unicorn fighting for the crown on the royal coat of arms. Miranda liked to be lifted up to put the letters in the slot, but Oliver wasn’t convinced the box wouldn’t swallow his hand along with the letters, and then pull the rest of him in after it.

  Daisy had much the same feeling an hour or so later, as she stepped from Regent Street into the Café Royal with Sakari.

  The huge room was dingier than ever, its proliferating gilt tarnished, the green pillars dulled by smoke, though the many mirrors were well polished. They reflected a clientele that varied from the famous—Daisy recognised Hugh Walpole and Jacob Epstein—to the would-be famous to smart onlookers, and a coterie of obvious foreigners.

  Though once a denizen of Chelsea, she had little frequented Bohemian circles since her marriage, and not at all since the birth of the twins. As a journalist, she had little in common with the literary and political writers who flocked to this mecca along with artists and musicians of all stripes. Add the fact that she had come in search of a murderer, and it was hardly surprising that she felt like a fish out of water.

  Not so Sakari. The head waiter hurried to her and she followed him into the cacophonous throng and swirling tobacco smoke as if into her natural element.

  He led them towards one of the small marble-topped tables set along the walls. On the way, three or four people waved in casual greeting to Sakari, then a woman with a thick greying braid tossed over her shoulder called, “Mrs. Prasad, won’t you join us? And your friend, of course.”

  Sakari glanced back at Daisy, a mischievous look in her eyes. Daisy nodded. It was just what she had hoped for.

  They joined a group at a long table. Several people squeezed together to make room for them, while others greeted Sakari as an old friend. Two men were arguing vigorously at one end. One of them, a youngish man with a vast ginger beard that would have done a Victorian pater familias proud, broke off to say, “Miss Dalrymple, isn’t it? We were neighbours a few years ago.”

  Daisy searched her mental files. “Mr. Purdue. You sculpted, I think?”

  The bald man who had been arguing with him said, “And still does, or so he claims.”

  A burst of laughter greeted this feeble sally. Unruffled, Purdue remarked sadly, “The avant-garde is always misunderstood.”

  “So is the rear guard.”

  “And Futurism is utterly passé.”

  “Neo-Romanticism is coming back.”

  “Neo-Neo-Romanticism?”

  “Modernism, whatever that means in modern terms.”

  “Look at this!” A newcomer dropped a newspaper in the middle of the table, an early edition of an evening paper. CRYSTAL PALACE CORPSE IDENTIFIED, blared the lead headline, with a blurred, virtually unidentifiable photo below it. “Guess who!”

  As people shuffled up again to make room for him, the woman with the braid—whose name Daisy hadn’t caught in a hurried introduction—seized the paper.

  “Teddy Devenish! ‘Only son and heir of the notable hunting baronet.’ Well, well, well, some general benefactor nailed the bastard at last.”

  “Don’t be so bitter, Judith,” said a thin dark girl who looked as if she painted watercolours of fairies.

  “She has every reason,” the bald man said hotly.

  “She’s not the only one,” said someone else, “not by a long chalk.”

  Daisy’s head swivelled back and forth as she tried to make mental notes of all those who agreed with Judith.

  “But none of us is a homicidal maniac,” protested a man with a Crippen moustache. “The artistic temperament precludes physical violence.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “That’s tommyrot!”

  The argument swirled away from the personal to the abstract and Daisy’s attention strayed. A couple more people came in with newspapers, but nowhere else did she see the same degree of reaction.

  Waiters came and went. Daisy found herself with a drink she hadn’t ordered, which she sipped cautiously, wondering whom
to thank for it. She did manage to order and pay for her own food, choosing a bowl of chicken and vegetable soup. The menu had some strange foreign dishes on it, but how far could one go wrong with chicken soup?

  The newspaper lay forgotten on the table, headline uppermost. Though she would have liked to see what it said, Daisy didn’t want to draw attention to her interest.

  The arrival of two bearded men caught her eye. The younger wore a long, belted shirt over tight-cuffed trousers, a round, peakless cap on his head; the other was very point-device in a dark suit of Continental cut, with a bow tie and a bowler hat. The latter waved a newpaper and was speaking animatedly in a language abounding in rolling Rs that Daisy was pretty sure was Russian. Or Ukrainian: She recalled the anger of a certain Ukrainian singer who had repeatedly been referred to as Russian.

  But it was Russians who had been involved with Teddy Devenish, so wishful thinking insisted that these were Russians. Even, perhaps, the Russians she was interested in.

  Certainly, they were wrought up over the newspaper. As they passed close by on the way to the far side of the room, Daisy noted that it was definitely the front page that excited them. She watched them join a group—all men—in a corner at the back. By then, as far as she could tell, the paper had disappeared into a coat pocket and the pair had calmed down. Fascinated, she saw them exchange kisses of greeting with their friends.

  “Daisy? Are you with us?”

  “Uh … Sorry, darling, I was thinking.”

  “Judith has invited us to go and see her studio. Do you wish to come or have you another engagement?”

  How tactful of Sakari to present a possible excuse—as if she didn’t know Daisy would like nothing better. “Oh yes, I’d love to see your work, Miss … Judith.”

  FOURTEEN

  Judith, whose surname turned out to be Winter, had a studio occupying the entire space behind a small terrace house in Chalk Farm. As they entered, an enormous marmalade cat came to meet them, meowing loudly. Daisy stooped to stroke it but it slipped past her and out of the door.

  “He’s very much ‘the cat that walked by himself,’” Judith explained. “He’s not mine, though he occasionally condescends to visit. I don’t think he belongs to anyone.”

  The room was stone-flagged, the walls whitewashed. Into it were crammed a large central table covered with red-checked American cloth, a workbench, a cupboard, shelves, a sink, and a massive kiln. Judith Winter was a sculptor.

  On the bench were several objects ranging from a few inches to a couple of feet in height and width, all draped with random pieces of cloth. A larger mound sat in the middle of the table. The shelves bore finished pieces, from beautifully glazed bowls and vases (“My bread and butter,” Judith said ruefully) to small bronzes.

  At a glance, Daisy decided to buy a bowl or two, both because she liked them and for the sake of goodwill. She moved on to examine the sculptures, wondering the while how she was going to reintroduce the subject of Teddy Devenish.

  Some of the bronzes were abstract, some semi-abstract. Their outlines were sleek, but a myriad of very fine grooves gave them texture and somehow suggested more complex shapes. Daisy wanted to stroke them. She didn’t understand them all and didn’t know the proper terms to describe them, but of a few she could say honestly, “They’re beautiful!”

  “My best are in galleries,” said the creator. “At least, the ones the gallery owners think are the best. Will you have a cup of tea? The kettle is just on the boil.”

  She had a gas ring by the kiln. Sakari had found a seat on a tall stool by the table and was pouring milk from a bottle into mugs—made by their owner, by the look of them.

  “Yes, please.”

  “You’ll find another stool under the table. Sorry there isn’t anything more comfortable.” She brought over the full teapot, also apparently her own work. “I hope you don’t mind mugs.”

  “Not at all. They’re very attractive, and I love your bowls. I was thinking I might write an article about artists’ studios in London, the ones that don’t mind visits from the public. It would be something a bit different for tourists to do. I’ll have to see if my American editor likes the idea.”

  “You’re a journalist, aren’t you? I thought I recognised the name. Is that why you’re interested in Teddy’s death?”

  “Oh no, I’m not that sort of journalist, not a reporter. What makes you think I’m interested?”

  “It was obvious, back there at the café. You’re not a scandal writer, like Teddy?”

  “Good gracious, nothing like that!”

  “You didn’t seem that sort. He was a horror. We didn’t cotton on to it for ages and he was always made welcome because he pretended to admire our work and occasionally bought something expensive. Then he’d write something nasty in his beastly column—you couldn’t call it scandal. Horrible, snide remarks, not about us but about our creations. He went for performers, too, actors, musicians, singers. Even ballet dancers.”

  “How mean-spirited!” Sakari exclaimed.

  “Of course, in general creative people care far more about what’s said of their work than of themselves. I don’t know that he did much harm. People who appreciate the arts don’t go to gossip columnists for serious criticism.”

  “One can’t help wondering what he had against creative people,” Daisy mused.

  “Sour grapes,” said Judith succinctly. In response to their questioning looks, she elaborated. “I’ve heard he had aspirations to be a second Lord Berners. He found out he has no talent in any direction.”

  “So he takes it out on those of you who do. Not nice. All the same, you say his words broke no bones, which doesn’t sound bad enough to make people actually pleased to hear of his death.”

  Judith flushed. “I didn’t mean … I suppose it was rather a brutal thing to say, though I didn’t mean I was glad he’s dead. But if you knew what he did!”

  “Tell me.”

  “People say, ‘Oh, it’s just a practical joke.’ Until it happens to them. When it’s your livelihood, it’s about as unfunny as it could be. I had a commission; they’re few and far between, I can tell you. A bronze, about thirty inches tall, lots of fiddly bits. I spent ages on the clay model. It was all but ready to make the mould, just a few last touches, when that bastard came to call. He wanted me to coach him in walking like a woman for some amateur theatrical affair. Idiotic, when I’ve got barely room to move in here.”

  “Amateur theatricals?” Sakari forestalled Daisy. “He enjoyed amateur acting?”

  “So he said. Don’t ask me, I’ve never had time for that sort of thing.”

  “Displacement,” said Sakari profoundly. “Having failed to become a second Lord Berners, he played at acting, pretending—and perhaps convincing himself—that his ambition was never serious.”

  “At any rate, he minced about, declaiming some sort of rubbish and making sweeping gestures, until he managed to knock my model to the floor. Of course it was wrecked. I could have killed him! I really might have if I’d done it right away, on the spur of the moment.” She looked down at her clenched fists and carefully opened them. “You can’t kill anyone with a wooden scraper.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?” Daisy asked.

  “Dead certain. He claimed it was, of course, and apologised, but the look on his face…” Words failed her. “Even so, I might have thought I was mistaken if I’d been the only one.”

  “He made a habit of such ‘accidents’?”

  “Never quite the same thing. He bought coals for Mon—for a friend of mine, saying her room was far too cold to write in, and then used a manuscript to start the fire. That was really bad, but there was petty stuff, too: arranging a meeting at an address that didn’t exist, for instance, or making an appointment to buy something and sending a note hours later to say he’d bought something else instead.”

  “But didn’t—”

  “I’d rather drop the subject, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry I spoke
like that about Teddy, but I can’t pretend I shall be sorry never to see him again. More tea? I can easily boil some more water.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “No, thank you,” said Sakari. “We ought to be going, Daisy.”

  “Yes, but I would like to buy some bowls. They are for sale?” Daisy slipped down from the stool and stepped over to the shelves.

  Judith brightened. “Oh yes. One must eat. Which, in particular?”

  “The blue with lavender swirls and the green with yellow. They’d make lovely fruit bowls.”

  The transaction concluded, Judith asked, “If you’re not a reporter, what is your interest in Teddy?”

  “His sister is a friend of mine,” Daisy told her disingenuously. “She’s coming down from Yorkshire, and I’ll be seeing her later today.”

  “You’re not going to tell her what I’ve said about him!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I shouldn’t have spouted off. I talk too much. It’s one of the perils of spending a good deal of time alone. I even talk to the cat when he pops in.”

  Daisy and Sakari took their leave, Daisy carrying her bowls, well wrapped in newspaper and stuffed into a sturdy brown paper bag. Kesin was waiting for them. He relieved Daisy of the package, nodding gravely when she warned him it was fragile, and handed them into the big car.

  “Ah, that’s better,” said Sakari, sinking back on the seat. “I have not the figure to perch on a stool. That was interesting, was it not? I am sorry my friend was so badly treated by the corpse. I cannot believe she was responsible for his transition to the next world.”

  “It does seem unlikely.” Daisy frowned. “I can’t see her plotting revenge, and she wouldn’t have joined Teddy in his prank just for fun after what he did.”

  “The murder must have been plotted, must it not? Anyone who hated him enough to kill him would not wish to support him in such a childish exploit.”

  “True, unless he did or said something unforgivable when they were already in the ladies’.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure Teddy could think of something really insulting if he put his mind to it.”