by Faith Martin
Trudy had instantly responded to this by pointing out that no matter what the cocky Duncan Gillingham thought, not everyone read the Oxford Tribune, or hung on his every word even if they did! Perhaps the possible passenger had not seen the appeal for information?
Now, as they sat outside a street that consisted mostly of elegant terraced Georgian houses that had long since been converted into spacious flats, she listened as the coroner gave her a brief history on the artistic credentials of their next witness.
‘She was influenced by Laura Knight in her early works, but then became more surrealist,’ he began, leaving her no further forward, although she nodded wisely. ‘She made her name early and was a bit of a “wild child” in London in her twenties and thirties. Had affairs with revolutionaries in Mexico and that sort of thing,’ he added casually.
Trudy, sitting in a fast-freezing car in a quiet street in Oxford, thought about hot-blooded rebellious men and tequilas and baking desert temperatures, and blinked. ‘Oh,’ she managed.
‘Then she married some upper-class twit named Fairweather with a receding chin but a large bank balance, had a child, and then divorced him. She kept using her maiden name for her career, obviously, so she’s always been known simply as Katherine Morton. After ditching the spouse, she moved here and began painting her more “clever” stuff,’ he swept on.
Trudy sighed heavily. She knew what that meant. ‘I’m not going to understand her stuff then,’ she predicted tiredly. She liked a tree to look like a tree.
‘She’d probably be disappointed if you did. The Americans currently love her and pay silly money for her canvases, but she’s on record as saying that no American ever had a true artistic taste.’
‘She sounds like a “character” all right,’ Trudy agreed without enthusiasm. She could tell that the coroner was looking forward to meeting her, however, and she only hoped the woman met his expectations.
‘Hmmm.’ Clement made a non-committal sound and reached out to open the car door. ‘Let’s just hope she’s a good witness,’ he said prosaically. ‘Artists are supposed to be observant; now we’ll see if they actually are.’
He didn’t, to Trudy’s mind, sound particularly optimistic though.
They made their way carefully up the slippery, frozen-slush steps of the pale stone building, noted that ‘Miss Morton’ had a flat on the top floor, and pressed the bell.
Nothing happened.
Clement pressed it again.
Still nothing happened.
‘She must be out,’ Trudy said. Perhaps, she mused nervously, she should get back to the station now and report the latest interesting findings to Inspector Jennings, before he became too annoyed at her prolonged absence?
Clement smiled grimly. ‘Perhaps. More likely she’s still in bed and can’t be bothered to get out of it.’ He pressed the bell again, and this time left his finger on it for nearly a minute. Eventually the door to the main hall clicked open and they stepped inside.
Trudy was surprised to find the communal area actually quite warm; they tended to be freezing in places such as this. She said as much to the coroner, who began to climb the stairs with a firm grip on the handrail and carefully lifting his feet.
‘Ah, you’re forgetting,’ he chided amiably. ‘This is an upmarket building. No caretaker would dare let the radiators stay cold in this weather. He’d have half a dozen toffs biting his ears off if he did.’
Trudy was still smiling over this image when the door to No. 8 was flung open just before they reached it.
The woman who stood in the doorway scowled at them with the ferocity of a Valkyrie that had just had a juicy steak snatched from under its nose. She was, perhaps, forty-five or so, but had the well-preserved look that meant she could have been as much as fifty. She had curves, a lot of messy brunette hair and narrow but sparrow-bright hazel eyes. She was also free of make-up, which left her face looking strangely naked.
She was dressed in a pair of silk grey trousers with a wide flare at the feet (which were bare) and a huge white knitted polo-neck sweater, the neck of which came up almost to her ears.
‘Was it you who was leaning on my bell?’ she demanded. Her voice had a definite ‘smoker’s rasp’ to it, and her eyes widened just a little as they took in Trudy’s uniform, but then her gaze stopped and stayed on Clement.
‘Guilty,’ Clement said with a slight bow. He had never looked or sounded more imperious and Trudy saw the artist quickly readjust her attitude. Instead of belligerence, a sort of grudging amusement spread across her features. Her face was pale and a pinched, triangular shape, that seemed at odds with the curves of her figure. She reminded Trudy of a peculiar sort of cat – one that had the fluffy, comfortably body of a round tabby cat, but the startling head of a Siamese.
‘You’d better have a bloody good reason for disturbing me, no matter if you do look and sound like James Mason,’ she warned him flatly, standing aside to let them pass.
Clement seemed to take the compliment in his stride, and Trudy briefly wondered if the coroner even knew who James Mason was. Did he ever watch films? Would he be flattered at being compared to a movie star?
‘Is death and disaster, mystery and the pursuit of prurient gossip a good enough reason?’ he asked her mildly.
The artist again gave him another approving glance.
Realising that this was going to be one of those ‘sophisticated’ affairs that she could never quite get the hang of, Trudy was happy to settle down and play second fiddle this time. Let Clement flirt and enjoy himself – she was no spoilsport!
‘Hmph,’ the artist said, but her lips twitched in a grudging smile. ‘You’ve intrigued me. Well, you might as well sit down,’ she said gracelessly, indicating the chairs that were littered haphazardly around the large, white living room into which she’d shown them. A window overlooking the street and a large weeping silver birch tree that was growing in the garden of the house opposite, lent a suitably ‘artistic’ view of the city and some of the ‘dreaming spires’ in that part of town.
Their hostess literally threw herself into a rather scruffy-looking black leather wingback chair that creaked at the mistreatment. In front of the chair was a low coffee table all but overflowing with stuff: a poinsettia (bright red and already wilting due to lack of water), magazines, empty coffee cups, and a large leather handbag that looked stuffed to the gills with items. There were also three packets of cigarettes, all of them open, a large table lighter in the shape of an eagle, and a large onyx ashtray brimming over with ash and stubbed-out cigarettes. There was one slipper in pink satin scuffed at the toe, some nutcrackers and a bowl of walnuts and various pens with their tops off. There was even, Trudy noticed with a grimace, a copy of the Oxford Tribune, opened at the crossword page.
‘Well – where do we start?’ Katherine Morton demanded, reaching for one of the cigarette packets and lighting one up. She vaguely offered the packet to them, shrugging when they both declined. ‘Is it to be death, mystery, gossip or what-have-you first?’ She lifted her head slightly to blow the smoke towards the ceiling. Her fingertips were yellow and nicotine-stained and she tapped one bare foot on the floor in a vigorous tempo without, apparently, having any idea that she did so.
Clement noticed that the walls were conspicuously bare of any paintings at all – either her own creations or anyone else’s. Obviously, the painter liked to be free of artistry when she was relaxing in her own private living room.
‘First of all, I’m Dr Clement Ryder, city coroner, and this is WPC Loveday,’ Clement said. Trudy could tell he was enjoying himself. He liked people who challenged him, and something about the way the artist notorious for her free spirit was regarding him, told her that Katherine Morton felt the same way.
‘Dr Death no less? Now I am impressed,’ Katherine drawled.
‘Let’s start with gossip, shall we?’ Clement said, magnificently ignoring the jibe. ‘You attended a New Year’s Eve party at Mrs Millicent Vander’s house recently.
’
‘I did, but don’t hold that against me,’ the artist begged mockingly, taking another ferocious draw of her cigarette. Trudy noticed that she sucked on it so hard that it made the sides of her cheeks pull in. Clearly, the woman lived on her nerves and cigarettes. And maybe alcohol, for there was a distinct smell of spirits in the air.
Trudy let her eye wander briefly around the room, surprised to find it bare of almost any personal touches. No books, no paintings, just a photo of a lovely young girl of about twenty or so, that was perched in isolated splendour on top of a sideboard. She looked a bit like Katherine, but Trudy didn’t think it was a photograph of the artist as a younger woman. Her daughter maybe, a younger sister or perhaps a favourite niece?
‘You’re not a fan of Millicent, I take it?’ Clement deduced with a twinkle in his eye, and Trudy hastily drew her attention back to the matter in hand.
Katherine shuddered. ‘Don’t be nasty,’ she admonished.
‘So why did you go to her party? I did think, when I was told you were on the guest list, that it wasn’t the sort of … event … that would be likely to appeal to you,’ Clement admitted.
The artist broke off her concentrated smoking to give a great guffaw of genuine laughter. ‘Not only a James Mason lookalike, but a true gentleman as well. My, my,’ she said admiringly, and reaching forward to extract another cigarette, lit it straight from the one that she’d almost finished.
She regarded the glowing tip of this latest cigarette with a vague look. ‘Why did I go? Yes … Why did I go? Because I was feeling masochistic? Or was I lonely?’ She seemed to be having a genuine debate with herself. ‘Or was it because nobody else had invited me out? No, that can’t be right, the sycophants never let up. So they must have, but because of the weather maybe I couldn’t … Oh. I know. I simply found myself at seven o’clock on New Year’s Eve in Oxford, on my own, and panicked. Yes, that must have been it. In those circumstances, I think one can be forgiven for attending even a Millie Vander party, don’t you?’ Her eyes opened wide in a challenging smile. ‘Also, of course, I wanted to be with people who would be so in awe of my talent and fame that they’d fawn on me like …’ She took a drag of her cigarette, tried to come up with some words, but shrugged instead.
Seeming to tire of the game, she sighed heavily. ‘Most likely I could see I was running out of booze and knew dear old Millie could be trusted at least to have ordered much, much champagne.’
She cocked her head to one side and regarded Trudy, quietly taking notes, then looked back at Clement. ‘Now I’m becoming intrigued. Let’s get on to the mystery, do,’ she appealed.
‘All right,’ Clement agreed amiably. ‘What can you tell us about the mysterious gate-crasher at the party?’
‘Oh her!’ the artist said, nodding her head admiringly. ‘Now we’re talking! Yes, she certainly had some nerve, that one,’ Katherine agreed, getting up and walking to the sideboard, where she reached inside and drew out a decanter of something pale and golden, still talking all the while. ‘She could have sold herself out as an artist’s model, even if she wasn’t exactly a teenage rose anymore. Good bone structure, and she had style, you know? Held herself well, walked well, and had a look in her eyes that would make you think twice. I can think of several men who’d have been panting to paint her. Malt?’ She jiggled the spirit bottle temptingly, but Clement merely smiled and shook his head.
She shrugged and poured herself a hefty slug into a chunky, cut-glass tumbler and brought the nearly full glass back to the chair. She then flung herself down in it again, without – miraculously – spilling a drop. ‘Of course, her clothes were handmade, but she made them look as if they’d come straight from Paris. It was clear as day that dear Millie had no idea who she was, and neither had anybody else.’
So David O’Connor had been right about that, at least, Clement mused. Millie had had an uninvited guest in her house that night.
‘Did you speak to her?’ he asked curiously.
‘Not I,’ the artist shot back at once. ‘I was too busy making inroads into the champagne and being outrageous. Which is the unspoken agreement, isn’t it?’ The artist opened her eyes wide in mock innocence. ‘Staid society matrons provide a bit of scandalous company at their parties, and the said scandalous company doesn’t disappoint. I flirted with some very married men just enough to upset their wives, and said one or two libellous things to the more stick-in-the-mud-types, then settled down with a bottle of Moët’s best efforts and commenced to get decently plastered. Besides, I was not on the mystery woman’s radar. Which stands to reason,’ Katherine Morton said, taking a swig of whisky. ‘Lions in the jungle tend to avoid one another. It’s a courtesy thing.’
Trudy turned a page on her notebook, but privately wondered if you got lions in jungles. Didn’t they tend to roam about on the plains? Her lips twisted into a smile as she scribbled assiduously. Whimsy, it seemed, was infectious.
‘So who was on her agenda?’ Clement interposed smoothly.
‘Oh, Millie’s fancy man, I rather think,’ Katherine said, sounding bored. ‘I didn’t realise, until that night, that dear old Millie had it in her! A younger swain, no less! I can tell you she went up several notches in my estimation when I finally figured it out.’
‘One of the guests rather thinks Terrence Parker and the gate-crasher were having a discreet spat. And that you might have overheard it,’ Clement said, watching Katherine yawn mightily. She opened her jaw so wide he fancied he could almost hear the delicate bone in her lower mandible crack.
‘Sorry? Oh, yes, you’re quite right. At one point in the night they were hissing at each other like a pair of kettles, behind me – I was on the sofa …’
She reached into her handbag suddenly, which was so full that items instantly began to tumble out as she rummaged around inside it. More pens, a notebook, a bottle of aspirin, a hairbrush, a set of what looked like crayons, a packet of tissues … It all tumbled onto the already full table, until with a cry of triumph, Katherine pounced on the required object, which turned out to be a tube of lipstick.
‘Ah,’ she said with satisfaction, twisting the bottom, revealing a deep red tube of colour.
‘What was the argument about, could you hear?’ Clement asked, watching, fascinated, as the woman, still holding the glass of whisky in one hand, and utterly without benefit of a mirror, very neatly and effectively outlined her mouth with the vibrant red.
‘Yes I did, as a matter of fact. Oh, you’ve no reason to look so pleased, I assure you. It’s disappointing – very,’ Katherine warned him. ‘In fact, it was downright sordid. They were arguing about another woman.’
Chapter 18
‘Infidelity? You’re right, that is dreary,’ Clement drawled, not batting an eyelid. ‘Which one of them was being accused of it?’
‘Oh he was, definitely,’ the artist said, gurgling with laughter around the glass, which had been pressed to her lips. ‘I heard the name Vicky mentioned, I believe. And he wasn’t happy about it, I can assure you. Millie’s charmer wanted nothing more than to get her out of there before she could spill the beans good and proper. Kept hissing at her that they’d discuss things tomorrow.’
‘What things?’
‘Alas, that I can’t tell you,’ she apologised vaguely. ‘They didn’t actually say. That is, our gate-crasher intimated, hinted, suggested and downright threatened, but never actually came out with specifics.’
‘But Terry Parker understood the threat?’
‘I’d say so!’ the artist said with another delighted gurgle. ‘If I hadn’t already been three sheets to the wind, I’d have been more appreciative. The last thing I’d have expected at a Millie Vander party would be actual entertainment! So, what’s next? You promised me – what was it … tragedy or death and something-or-other? We’ve done the gossip and the mystery, so let’s get on to the tragedy,’ she said with relish.
Clement reached forward and picked up the Oxford Tribune. ‘Read the papers lately
?’
‘Hah! Not I!’ Katherine snorted. ‘I go straight to the “funnies” then the crossword. So-called news is hardly ever that, is it – news, I mean?’
‘Ah, then you missed the death bit. Millie’s charmer, to be precise.’
For a second Katherine Morton went very still and then she tossed off her drink and said flatly, ‘So he died?’
‘You don’t sound surprised,’ Clement said quietly.
The artist shrugged. ‘Dying isn’t really so surprising, is it? People do it all the time,’ she stated dully. The sparkle had definitely gone now, and it seemed to Clement that she reached forward and lit yet another cigarette more out of habit than anything else.
‘We found his body in his crashed car early on New Year’s Day,’ Clement informed her. ‘We believe he died shortly after leaving Millie’s house that night. Or early morning, I should say.’
Trudy, watching her, saw the artist turn her head and stare at the sideboard. Was she going to pour herself another large whisky? How much did the woman drink during the day? But perhaps she was doing the older woman a disservice, for the artist made no effort to rise.
‘Poor old Millie,’ Katherine Morton said quietly instead. ‘To have your grand affair, your gloriously defiant pie-in-life’s-face moment end before it had even properly begun … What a damned shame. The woman will probably never work up the courage to actually “live” again.’
She sighed heavily.
‘Did you see Terry leave the party?’ Clement asked next. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with Katherine’s sentiments, just that, at that moment, Millie Vander’s troubles were not his priority.
‘Nope.’
‘There’s some debate over whether or not he had a passenger with him in the car.’
‘Did he?’ Katherine asked quickly – if a little indistinctly – around a mouthful of whisky.
‘We don’t know,’ Clement admitted briskly. ‘Certainly nobody other than himself was found in the car. Is there anything else you care to tell us – about Millie or the mystery woman? Did you know Mr Parker?’