The colossal figure of a winged lion couchant which faced them, so much mightier than the bird-gods, leant picturesque credence to what he had just said. Such creatures were not to be captured lightly, but by stealth and imagination.
'Scheherazade, indeed. I can't help hoping she gets away with it.'
'That's just the trouble. At this very moment she's in danger of getting away with nothing. You see Lady Lionnel may well have rumbled the Camargue plan, and it's all my own silly fault.' Valentine gave a theatrical gesture of putting his hand to his forehead and smoothing back the fair hair. 'Or shall I blame country life in August? Nothing to do. Mischief made. First step: over comes Francesca Lionnel to tea with Mummy. Second step: she tells Mummy that Sir Lionnel's gone to the Camargue to have a real holiday, and as they're opening the gardens to the public, he's taken Tommy McKenna.
'The Camargue!' cries Mummy over the teacups, not really interested, but showing a fine natural instinct for making trouble where Chloe's concerned, since she's decided long ago - quite wrongly, alas -that Chloe's After Me. "What a coincidence. Valentine was just telling me that pretty little writer of his, that one who's always getting divorced, what is her name, darling, Clara, yes, Clara Fontaine, she's off to the Camargue. I wonder if they'll meet," she adds for good measure.
'As Francesca is beginning to burble most graciously something to do with admiring her books and isn't her name Chloe, I butt in: "Oh Mummy, the Camargue is not like a restaurant; you don't bump into people there." But the damage has been done. For one moment I've seen the glint in Medea's eye and, my dear, she knows. She must already know that Lionnel has met Chloe; he may even have told her about the original jolly dinner at the Mirabelle, in a burst of adulterous put-you-off-the-scent nothing-to-hide-you-see honesty. Possibly she knows about the penthouse flat. My dear, Tommy McKenna's story had better be good, otherwise murder might be done, starting with Chloe and probably going on to include that hapless stooge, Tommy McK. And it was in fact to warn Chloe of just that, that I rang her and arranged to meet her this morning. I couldn't come to seventy-three because of Lionnel, you see, or for that matter you.
'So here I am. And here she isn't,' Valentine had ended plaintively. 'Jemima, as you're living there, do you think you could—'
'No,' Jemima had said very firmly. 'Warn her yourself.' But in the end of course she had agreed. While finishing her work in the Reading Room, she was rather looking forward to the confrontation with Scheherazade.
When she had thought things through to their logical conclusion, Jemima found her usual calm restored. Valentine's role in Chloe's romance still intrigued her, and one or two aspects of his story struck her oddly, but that might have been the presence of his mother as a character in the tale; never having met the famous Hope Lady Brighton, she was never quite sure whether Valentine romanced about her peculiarities or merely reported them accurately.
Jemima would confront Chloe and of course warn her about Valentine's indiscretion. She felt controlled and tranquil in the sinking light of the evening, heat still rising from the pavements, but something tranquil in the atmosphere, or perhaps in her own attitude, very different from the wild imaginings and images of the Reading Room that morning. It would not do for the marriage of true minds to founder at the outset; and the hackneyed quotation which still never lost its power, suddenly reminded her that Valentine had also used it on the slip of the Brighthelmet Press book in Chloe's flat. Valentine's story gained plausibility.
Jemima unlocked the gate and let herself out. There were hardly any cars about as she crossed the broad road to the western side of the square. Nor did any demonstrators lurk outside the concrete block, for which Jemima was thankful. She was beginning to feel such personal distaste for the architecture that she was honourable enough to be ashamed of being seen to enter the building. The outer door was closed but not locked; she hesitated a moment on the doorstep. A cool collected conversation with Chloe, that was the best policy. But Jemima had already decided that she would not need to leave the penthouse flat in protest - hardly. First of all, to be honest, it would be most inconvenient to her plans; secondly, it would smack of moral protest towards Chloe's romance, which was the last thing she intended. She would merely make it clear that she could not be involved personally in any prolonged deception, be it towards Lady Lionnel (whom she did not know) or the world's Press (which she did).
Thus bolstered up, she opened the front door. It was oddly dark inside the marble hall, after the golden light of the evening. Jemima made for the stairs, and stumbled over something. It was heavy, sacklike, and apparently lying half on the floor and half on a chair. Frantically, Jemima reached for the unfamiliar light switch, and as she did so, the sacklike shape stirred and groaned. Her eyes too were getting accustomed to the twilight. But in the end it was her nose which told her the identity of the person before her.
At last she found the time switch which illumined the hall for a given length of time. She found herself gazing once again at Kevin John Athlone. The smell, that same sour masculine smell of the morning, brought back the events of violence and a sense of her own battering sharply to her. She felt for a moment quite sick. His eyes were shut. He looked more dishevelled than ever. The blue T-shirt was marked with dust; it could even be that he had been in a fight. He was snoring or gasping slightly.
Furiously, Jemima shook his shoulder. Sickness and fear left her. She was aware of nothing but a desperate need to get this intruder out of the house before he somehow suspected the presence of Chloe. Then, indeed, murder might be done. Francesca Lionnel was at least graciously presiding over Parrot Park in Sussex. Kevin John Athlone, packing no mean punch as she herself could testify, was right here in the building. His long eyelashes fluttered and his eyes opened. Immediately Kevin John gave her the most ravishing smile and jumped to his feet. He appeared in no way drunk and, if dirty, indifferent to it.
'My little sweetheart! You're back. And I meant to vanish before you returned, like the good fairy I am, leaving you all to your surprise. It was just that it was all too much for me, the climb, the excitement, the fun, and I probably had a drop or two at lunch with my old mate Dixie, otherwise I wouldn't have done it at all.'
'What on earth are you doing back here?' exclaimed Jemima wearily.
'Wait and see. Wait and see. Just wait and see what a splash of red awaits you in Chloe's white heaven. I climbed, I climbed, all the way up the scaffolding, on the inside mind you, didn't feel like attracting attention, although there was no one about, might have been a ghost town, and I've left you the most magnificent present. All because I was something less than a gentleman this morning. I've copied down the telephone number by the way, so I'll be able to be in touch.'
'Oh no.'
'Oh yes, darling, oh yes. Up the scaffolding, clutching my gift, in through your balcony window, conveniently left open - just for me. In. Deposit. Out. Await you. Fall asleep. Awoken by a maiden's kiss.'
'No kiss,' said Jemima. 'No kiss at all.' But then, somewhat to her surprise, Kevin John actually did give her a kiss, not one of his rubbery kisses but a gentle kiss. It was also a kiss which preceded his departure.
'I'm a gentleman at heart,' was his parting shot, as he lumbered down the steps. 'You see if I'm not.'
Jemima closed the front door thoughtfully. She waited for five minutes in the hall in case there should be a spontaneous return of the ebullient artist. Then she climbed the broad stairs to the first floor. She knocked and called gently:
'Chloe. It's me, Jemima.' She felt extremely foolish doing so but she had her duty to do. 'Chloe. It's me, Jemima. I've got a message from Valentine.'
There was a bell. The neat plate beside the door read: Lionnel (Sussex) Offices Ltd. Hesitating, she rang the bell. The sound was extremely loud on the landing and startled her. Was it startling those within? There was no sound at all. She wondered whether this door would suddenly fall open, as had the door of the third-floor flat. Sheer curiosity about her friend's d
aring plan to storm the heights of marriage to Sir Richard Lionnel had brought with it a modicum of amusement. She was back on Chloe's side. Deception was, once more, forgiven.
After ringing once more and knocking twice, Jemima realized that Chloe must either be out or asleep; the warning would have to wait for the next day. If Chloe and Richard Lionnel were in bed, they were best left to it, without a visit from Jemima Shore, Investigator. If she suddenly interrupted some highly romantic moment, then another form of murder might be done! Jemima had absolutely no wish to be seen in such a tiresomely prurient light.
She decided to go up to the penthouse and find out what Kevin John had deposited for her, like some huge puppy leaving an unwelcome gift for its master. She gave the door of the third-floor flat a wide berth. There was no sound from there either. Indeed, the whole building had fallen silent since the departure of Kevin John. Its silence oppressed her. Perhaps it was the contrast with the busy low whispering of the Reading Room in which she had spent the afternoon. Still, silence was what she craved. It was odd how worrying it now seemed.
She opened the door quickly and a look of horror crossed her face.
A great scarlet geranium of the most violent hue possible sat in its pot in the middle of the white carpet. Already there were dirty marks round it. Earth, dirty footsteps and some water. The red glared at her. It was revolting. The bedroom door was shut. Jemima's loathing of scarlet flowers came back to her with force. A splash of blood indeed: she was reminded of Sylvia Plath's brilliant blood-stained poem about red tulips in hospital. How on earth the heavily built and debauched Kevin John had managed to scale a scaffold clutching this object was another matter. He did seem to have dropped it once or twice for she saw that the pot was slightly cracked, hence the earth and water which were seeping out. A note next to the pot read:
'A Splash of Red. Red roses would have been better, but this was all I could find in this urban desert.
The mess was distasteful, almost as bad as the garish scarlet colour of the plant. Serve Chloe right, perhaps, for fooling around with Kevin John's affections. Now, thought Jemima, she will have to have her virgin carpet cleaned. Chloe will be utterly furious about that.
She opened the door into the bedroom. Jemima stood absolutely still. She could not stop staring. Through her head ran idiotically the continuation of the same thought. Oh God, the mess, the terrible red mess, all over Chloe's white bed. But this time she did not think that Chloe would be furious about it. Chloe would never be furious about anything again.
For Chloe, little white Chloe, one high-heel dangling from a foot which had fallen over the side of the bed, was lying with her eyes open and an enormous red gaping wound across her throat. There were other red marks on her body. Blood had splashed across her white cotton broderie anglaise petticoat. Blood had formed pools on the bed. Compared to the blood on the bed, the great picture hanging above it now looked quite flat and tame. Chloe had told her last story; this time it had not saved her. Scheherazade was dead.
8
Who, Who?
For several moments Jemima stood quite still in the doorway, burned with pity. Chloe looked so tiny, there on her huge bed, her still face and the terrible gash giving her the air of a murdered child. Jemima moved forward and touched one little white hand where it had fallen on the counterpane. Her foot encountered something sharp and she saw a razor lying on the floor by the side of the lace valance. The hand, though cool, was not stiff and for a moment she thought - but no one could have survived a great gaping gash like that - something so violent, brutal and efficiently executed must have killed her more or less instantly. Besides there were other lesser wounds. Jemima felt automatically for the pulse. There was none.
Her eyes were wide open. From that sad simulacrum of life, Jemima at last accepted that Chloe was dead. She closed them with gentle fingers, knowing with one part of her mind that she should touch nothing. But still she could not bear to leave her friend with her huge eyes gazing blindly at the destruction which death had wrought on her once immaculate bedroom.
Jemima turned away and, ignoring the rise of tears and nausea, both of which were trying to claim her, ran back into the sitting room, knocking over the scarlet geranium as she passed so that more earth spattered over the carpet.
She dialled 999 and within a few seconds, in a voice which surprised her with its calm found herself asking for the police. To Scotland Yard she gave no details other than the fact that it was urgent. All the time through her head was running the question: Why, Why? It was not until Tiger suddenly awoke from the somnolent eyes-shut crouch he had adopted in the sunlight on the pale carpet, that his slow sleepy stretching mew-mew changed the note of the refrain in her head to something quite different: Not Why, Why? but Who, Who?...
At that very moment she heard the sound of a police siren in Adelaide Square. While she was still talking to the female voice on the other end of the telephone, a policeman in uniform - no jacket but his bright white shirt looked equally formal - came sharply into the flat. His voice and movements were brisk but not hurried, with that special kind of negative courtesy - an absence of all kind of delaying emotion, good or bad - she associated with the police. He was quite young with very smooth pink cheeks.
'Mrs Shaw,' he began. 'You dialled nine-nine-nine? We answered your radio call.' Then he recognized her. 'Ah, Miss Jemima Shore. It was your call—'
'The body's in there. I found her. I can identify her. This is her flat.' Suddenly Jemima felt she could not re-enter the bedroom until she had fought down both her pity and her nausea. 'I don't think there's much to be done for her.' He went swiftly through. Jemima picked up Tiger. She could not endure the idea of the cat picking its delicate curious way into that sullied chamber. She put him, scrabbling in her arms, onto the balcony and regardless of the heat, shut the window. As Kevin John had reminded her, she had left it unlocked. He had entered the flat by that route. And who else?
Who, Who?... was beginning to beat in her head with more force as the cat mewed angrily against the glass.
She heard the policeman talking into the black radio link on his shoulder, the thick black plastic wiring curling out of the machine like a snake. He was talking to Bloomsbury Police Station. In between crackles and other little squeaking sounds, she heard him calling for the CID. And a police surgeon. At that moment, he returned to the sitting room.
'I'm afraid I closed her eyes,' Jemima said rather woodenly. 'I shouldn't have touched anything.' The policeman was kind.
'The shock. I presume you and the deceased were acquainted. Detective Chief Inspector Portsmouth will be here in a few minutes. In the meantime, Miss Shore, it is Miss Jemima Shore, Investigator, isn't it?' He gave a faint rather embarrassed smile. 'No question of your identity - I'll leave the questions to him.' He was writing in his notebook.
He looked round the flat.
'Excuse me, Miss Shore, is this all there is?'
'And the kitchen.' She waved her hand, and he trod in his quick authoritative way towards it, his heavy black shoes making no noise on the carpet. His manner, and his confidence, belied the extreme youth of his appearance. Through the open kitchen door, Jemima saw that the glass kitchen door leading to the fire escape was still shut and bolted.
The police and their work, including that of a murder squad, were familiar to Jemima Shore. In particular she enjoyed good relations with Detective Chief Inspector John Portsmouth (Pompey as he was familiarly dubbed) of the Bloomsbury Police. It was a friendship which had begun several years back when it had suited Pompey's purpose to issue an appeal on television for information concerning a missing child. Later he discussed the case in a brief interview. Jemima had handled both appearances.
Still later, in view of the unusual nature of the case, there had been a discussion group on television in which Pompey had featured. Even the Guardian, in rather a dazed way, had described Jemima's organization of this as 'fascinatingly fair-minded'. Pompey had evidently agreed with the Gua
rdian, since with his help, Jemima had been able to make a programme about women detectives, and another about detectives' wives. A friendship had been struck, based on the odd drink, the odd chat, the odd consultation from both sides about each other's work. On at least one occasion these conversations had resulted in the solution of a mystery temporarily baffling to Pompey. No, the arrival of Pompey held no fears, only a kind of reassurance for Jemima.
Nor was death itself a stranger to her. She had seen it in many guises, and helped to track down its begetter in her private investigative capacity. But this time it was her friend who was dead, murdered in that very room where only twenty-four hours before the living, graceful Chloe had moved lightly about in her high-heeled shoes, packing her bag. After so many years of friendship, it was as though something of Jemima's own past had been slain.
Who, Who? - the question was still going through her head when the police surgeon in the shape of a local CP arrived, followed by a police photographer; another policeman, identity and role unknown; a young man in plain clothes, probably a detective; someone she recognized as the fingerprint expert from Bloomsbury Police Station; and presiding over it all, Detective Chief Inspector John Portsmouth - Pompey - who with great urbanity took over the whole case and, as it seemed, the whole flat.
A Splash of Red Page 9