Authors: Suzette A. Hill
‘Well one thing is certain – dead men tell no tales. Whether or not he saw your raincoat doesn’t matter now … unless of course he had just happened to mention it to Greenleaf
before
the event. Have you thought of that?’ Cedric looked sternly at his companion. Felix had thought of that, thought of it several times. (Which was why he had got rid of the thing so promptly – a considerable sacrifice, for he had loved its raffish colour.) But he did wish Cedric would stop going on about it! His nerves were bad enough as it was. However, he replied airily, ‘I doubt it. If that were the case he would probably have approached me by now, bounded over lickety-split with notebook flapping.’
‘Hmm. Could be biding his time, just waiting for the opportune moment …’
‘Look, whose side are you on? You seem intent on fearing the worst and spreading alarm and despondency!’
Cedric looked pained. ‘The point is, my dear fellow, one must consider every eventuality. It doesn’t do to be complacent. Too much is at stake.’
‘You can say that again! I wish to God we had never started this charade. It was a mad idea!’
‘I don’t recall your saying that at the time. At the time you thought it was just the ticket, your exact words being: “That will give her something to think about. Serve the bitch right”.’
‘Yes and she was better served than one had bargained for! … Oh my God, this is all too dreadful!’ Felix covered his eyes with one hand and groped for a violet fondant with the other. He missed and sent the box cascading to the floor.
With a martyred sigh Cedric got down on his knees and gathered up the contents. ‘I do think you could be a little more careful, they
are
my favourites you know.’ Back on his feet and with the fondants placed firmly out of reach, he moved to a side table and poured two glasses of sherry. ‘I think these might revive the spirits –
and
prepare us for the visit of friend Collinger. What time did you say she was coming?’
‘Seven o’clock.’
‘Well as long as she’s gone by eight. Remember, I did book that corner table at Quaglino’s; they won’t keep it beyond half past.’
‘Oh, she’ll be gone,’ replied Felix confidently. ‘Vera rarely hangs about – unless it’s to indulge some female acquaintance or the dachshund. No, she’ll keep to the point all right and then take off sharpish.’
‘Well, that’s a mercy, at least … But I take it she’s not bringing the dog with her?’ Cedric looked anxiously at his pale pristine carpet and was relieved when Felix shook his head, and then added, ‘Tell me, doesn’t it bother you rather that she calls the creature Raymond? Personally I would be a trifle piqued if one of my youthful amours
were commemorated in that way, especially by a breed not known for its length of leg.’
‘One rises above it,’ Felix said stiffly. ‘And since I am not given to hobnobbing with its owner more than necessary, our paths rarely clash.’
‘But don’t you think her brother might have minded – having a succession of pet canines named after him? I shouldn’t care for it myself.’
‘There were few things that Raymond minded except not being the centre of attention. He was one of the vainest men I have ever known – until, courtesy of Marcia, his disfigurement … And as for your own feelings, I very much doubt whether anyone would dub their dog Cedric, so I shouldn’t let that worry you too much. Now if you would be so kind as to offer me a smidgen more sherry I should be
most
grateful!’ He held out his glass which his host duly replenished. ‘Actually,’ Felix continued, ‘I am not entirely clear why Vera is coming at all. It’s hardly an enlivening start to the evening.’
‘I told you,’ Cedric explained, ‘apparently the police are seeking a further interview and she wants to know exactly how much we have divulged of Marcia’s past. It’s the Raymond connection. She’s worried that they will put two and two together and make ten, i.e. put her on the suspect list.’
‘Hah! She’s not the only one who’s worried! But surely you told her that nothing had been said?’
‘Oh yes, but she wants “clarification”. Never trusts a thing, which is why she was so useful to Grimshaw’s outfit in forty-two. Besides, she also intimated that she had made a startling discovery – just recently, I gather. Apparently quite a revelation; something to do with a document belonging to
Marcia and she wants to pick our brains. Thinks we may know something about it.’
‘What document?’
‘I have no idea, but she seemed agitated.’
Felix sighed and cast a wistful glance at the violet fondants. ‘How I
wish
things were back to normal: that none of this nightmare had happened and all I had to deal with were the perversities of the Covent Garden delivery men and giving floral pleasure to the Queen Mother. As it is …’
‘As it
is
there is a strong chance of your being one of her daughter’s special guests in Parkhurst or Pentonville.’
‘Thank you, dear friend. You are such a joy.’
The doorbell rang.
‘Ah, that must be the Sapphic invasion,’ exclaimed Cedric.
Felix groaned.
Later that evening over coffee and Grappa in Quaglino’s Cedric observed, ‘Well that certainly puts a fresh complexion on things, I must say.’
‘Frankly,’ said Felix, ‘if Vera is right and there really was a bomb plot against Churchill here in England then I think it’s simply disgraceful!’
‘The plot or Marcia’s blackmail of the plotters?’
‘The plot, of course. What Marcia chose to do in her spare time is no concern of mine.’ Felix sniffed and looked righteous.
‘Hmm. But what she did in her spare time during the
war
has been of some concern, hasn’t it?’
‘That’s different, as you well know. Marcia’s stupidity cost me Raymond – more or less anyway. As I told you, we had parted company by then but …’
‘In particularly stormy circumstances you said.’
‘That’s as may be. But it’s the principle of the thing. Because of her absurd obsession for that tasteless fifth columnist always propping up the Ritz bar – Flaxman or whatever he called himself – she contributed indirectly to Raymond’s death, and the cow deserved to be reminded; she had kept it dark long enough! Still, I don’t suppose she acted from malice, just crass pig-idiocy … But
these
people, whoever they are, were cold-blooded conspirators deliberately out to destroy the nation and support a Nazi invasion. Just imagine, by now those of us who were spared would be gabbling Kraut lingo and chewing their beastly sausage! And as for our dear royal family … well, I can just see
their
replacements besporting themselves on the palace balcony: short-arse Goebbels ranting like a demented puppet and fat Goering waving and goose-stepping right in front of the drawing room windows. Ghastly!’ Felix’s face had gone quite pink.
‘Oh, simply ghastly,’ agreed Cedric. ‘And I don’t suppose any of them would have possessed the Queen Mother’s floral sensibilities either. Just think, you might still be flogging faded blooms in the Mile End Road.’
‘
Never
have I flogged faded—’ Felix exclaimed furiously, and then noting his friend’s sly smile took a hasty gulp of Grappa which made him hiccup.
‘What you don’t seem to have recognised,’ Cedric murmured, the smile fading to a frown, ‘are the
implications
.’
‘Well I grant you, it raises some interesting questions. I mean, just who are these frightful people?’
‘These frightful people could put us in even greater danger than we are in already. Hasn’t it occurred to you that if the Collinger woman thought that you or I might have that document with the list of names or knew something
about it, then presumably so could they. Marcia was fool enough to try blackmail and see what happened to her!’
‘Oh my God,’ yelped Felix turning white and strangling his napkin, ‘I must demand police protection!’
‘Are you mad? That really would blow the whole thing to pieces. The police would be on to things in a trice. And I doubt if your illustrious patron would be prepared to bail you out. “Ex-jailbird” doesn’t exactly embellish a Royal Appointment plaque. Besides, I have my own reputation to consider. Academia would never forgive me if they knew I was caught up in this sort of thing – and there would be no more complimentary invitations to lecture aboard the
Queen Mary
, that’s for certain!’
‘But surely if I
explained
it all to the police and told them why we had—’ began Felix.
‘I doubt if they would share your sense of humour, they are not noted for their jollity.’
‘Actually,’ Felix said, ‘you may recall that it was not
my
sense of humour that devised the scheme; I was merely the clown who took his cue from the ringmaster and performed the sodding cartwheels.’
‘But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?’ snapped his friend.
‘Yes, I did at the time. But I am not enjoying it now. Not one fucking little bit I’m not!’
Cedric was about to form a response, soothing or otherwise, when his attention was caught by a couple who had just been shown to a nearby table.
‘Don’t look now,’ he hissed out of the side of his mouth, ‘but I think that’s Harold Gill who has just come in – with someone not his wife on his arm.’
‘So where does she come from?’ asked Felix, who naturally had looked.
‘Shepherd Market I should say.’
‘Hmm, you’re probably right. But why any self-respecting tart should want to align herself with that old prune I cannot imagine. I mean he’s not exactly God’s most scintillating gift, is he? And where on earth did he find that monstrous waistcoat!’
At that moment the object of his censure glanced in his direction and was greeted with a wave and a smile of lavish sweetness.
‘So where’s his rightful lady do you think?’ Cedric enquired.
‘Very likely tucked up at home in St John’s Wood, knitting feverishly and counting her blessings that she’s free from the racket of Marcia’s gramophone!’ Felix tittered, suddenly feeling slightly better, and bending towards Cedric added, ‘Yes, it’s all a question of sitting tight, isn’t it? Not allowing oneself to get ruffled, riding out the storm as they say.’ He swirled the dregs of his
digestif
. ‘In the circumstances I think perhaps I
could
just manage a weenie replenishment …’
By the morning such was Rosy’s turmoil after her visitor’s revelations that the prospect of resuming work at the museum seemed out of the question. All she wanted was to get away, or at least take to her bed with doors locked and curtains drawn – any means to suspend thought and escape the whole odious business. The last thing she needed was to listen to the irrelevance of Leo’s quips or to soothe the querulous grumblings of Dr Stanley. Indeed, she didn’t really want to speak to anybody at all, just pull up the drawbridge and immure herself from the eyes of the world … Yes, that was it: she would call the museum immediately and report sick for at least a week.
But even as she moved towards the telephone she could hear her mother’s chiding practical tones: ‘Darling, don’t be such a goose! Escape achieves nothing. Deal with it, you’ll feel so much better!’ The years rolled away and she saw herself at fourteen, tearful by the compost heap cursing the beastliness of things. She smiled. What on earth had it all been about? She had no idea. But it was not the first time her
mother had offered such sage advice, and what held good then surely applied now. Retreat was futile and a waste of energy. Somehow she must confront the thing and cope as best she could.
Thus a little later she walked briskly through the museum’s swing doors, settled at her desk, flicked through the engagement diary and with dulcet persuasion prevailed upon Mrs Burkiss to silence the Hoover and produce some coffee. The ensuing quiet was pleasant, the coffee less so. Enveloped in the reassuring world of work Rosy applied herself vigorously to the day’s agenda.
For a couple of hours things went well, and visions of death, coal buckets and Wooden Leg Whittington were firmly erased from her mind. But by lunchtime her energy began to flag, and ducking Leo’s insistent presence she bought a sandwich from the canteen and took herself off to a bench in Russell Square. Here she sat staring up at the windows of Faber & Faber, wondering how it was that such a staidly waistcoated man could write such stupendous poetry. A line came to mind:
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Mechanically she shifted her gaze to the ground with its greying grass and wispy shrivelled leaves, and for a moment caught a whiff of returning panic.
She bit into her sandwich and looked around for distraction. Other than cavorting squirrels and the occasional strolling couple there was none. With an inward shrug she discarded the sandwich in favour of a cigarette and said to herself, ‘All right then,
deal
with the bloody thing. Work it out!’ But how, for goodness’ sake? One was so in the dark!
And yet glancing up at the blue sky, hearing the squabbles of sparrows and watching a crocodile of satchelled infants being marched from pillar to post, she felt the day
itself benignly clear. Had the episode of the night really happened? Perhaps her initial reaction had been right: she
was
delusional! Yet if Marcia and wretched Clovis could be murdered just like that why on earth shouldn’t the midnight visitor be real?
But was Whittington, or whatever his stupid name was, to be trusted? And what about the Collinger woman – what was her connection with the man? He hadn’t mentioned her during his visit, but undoubtedly it had been she he had been with at the National Gallery. And besides, the woman was also clearly after something to do with Marcia. Surely they were in cahoots. Was Miss Collinger too stalking the bomb plotters? Presumably.
But then there was only his word that there
had
been such a plot, or indeed that Marcia had been blackmailing them … But why go to such lengths to invent it, to break into her flat and spin such a tale if it weren’t true? Evidently he hadn’t intended to harm her – if anything, to warn her of possible danger. However, disinterested altruism was hardly his prime motive. Pursuit of the quarries had been that.
Yes, she mused, both he and Collinger wanted information and clearly saw herself as a potential source. Well she didn’t have any – and even if she did, it was far from likely she would care to share it with them! Thus with that if nothing else resolved she got up from the bench and walked firmly back to the museum to face the task of sorting the chaos in Stanley’s office.
The following day was free and Rosy indulged herself with a lie-in and a late breakfast. She was just wondering whether to skip the domestic chores and call a friend re the possibility of a trip to Staines or some other river haunt, when the telephone rang. It was Amy Fawcett. ‘Ah,’ the girl exclaimed breathlessly,
‘so glad to catch you in. I’ve got something to give you. I’ve had it for
ages
, but I just didn’t
realise
you see, though with luck it’s not important. I say, I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Er, well I’m not really sure what—’
‘So extraordinary,’ Amy rushed on, ‘I simply had no idea it was there. It’s terribly well concealed and it’s quite by chance that I noticed!’
‘Noticed
what?
’
‘The pocket!’
‘I’m sorry, Amy, you are not making any sense. What pocket?’
‘The
secret
pocket of course, in that fabulous fur coat of your aunt’s. Everyone admires it and even Cousin Edward said it makes me look a million bucks – and
he
doesn’t dish out compliments easily.’ She chortled.
‘Well that’s nice. But what do you mean you’ve got something for me?’
‘Oh, I have – it’s some sort of letter, an envelope addressed to you. It was in the pocket you see, the pocket
inside
; but it has been sewn so beautifully that you really wouldn’t know it was there, and I found it quite by chance. I had draped the coat over the back of a chair in Scotts and it fell off, and when Edward was picking it up I suddenly noticed the tiny slit in the lining … Anyway, I know exactly what I’m going to use it for: a folded five-pound note! Mummy always says a girl ought to carry something extra for a taxi or emergencies
just in case
. But my five-pound notes always seem to go so quickly.’ She giggled. ‘But if I keep one in this concealed pocket I shall forget all about it until the need arises. Don’t you think that’s a jolly good idea?’
‘Excellent,’ said Rosy quietly, wondering how soon she could lay hands on the envelope.
‘If you like,’ suggested Amy brightly, ‘I could bring it round to your flat and then perhaps we could go out for a bun at that nice tea shop just near you; although it wouldn’t be till this afternoon as I simply must stay in to give Mr Bones a bath. He’s getting so smelly and Mummy says she’s not prepared to spend another day with him. So what do you think?’
Rosy was about to agree but suddenly had an awful vision of scatterbrain Amy either forgetting to put the thing in her bag or losing it somewhere en route. Anything might go wrong with that girl!
‘As a matter of fact,’ she lied, ‘I have to come down to Knightsbridge this morning and shan’t be very far from you, so I could easily drop in and collect it then – though naturally I shouldn’t like to trouble Mr Bones and his ablutions.’
There was a squeal of laughter. ‘Oh, Mr Bones will love it, he’s
such
a show-off. And besides, it means I can treat you to a little fashion parade with the coat!’
Thus with the matter settled Rosy sat on the sofa and brooded. Could this letter just remotely be the document Donald had mentioned, and indeed the thing that ‘Dick Whittington’ was so eager to obtain – and allegedly others? If so, what was it doing in the pocket of the coat? Put there for safe keeping prior to posting and then forgotten? Or perhaps Marcia had deliberately changed her mind about depositing such vital details with her ‘priggish’ niece, and having shelved the idea been too busy or preoccupied to remove it. But of course it might be nothing of the kind: more probably something entirely mundane such as a theatre ticket going spare, a circular advertising one of the exhibitions periodically mounted by Marcia’s art group, even a rare invitation to lunch or a cocktail at her club – although that was unlikely, and in
any case such summonses had usually been delivered by an imperious phone call … No, she had a nagging feeling that it just might be the paper Donald had referred to, the paper Miss Collinger seemed so keen to get her hands on and the one avidly sought by Wooden Leg. Well, she thought grimly, one way or another she would soon find out.
She took a compact from her handbag and started to powder her nose before setting off to catch a bus to Knightsbridge. But as she opened the front door the telephone rang again.
‘I say,’ said Amy’s voice once more, ‘do you think you could do me a
tiny
favour, or at least, one for Mummy?’
‘Er, yes of course. What is it?’
‘You couldn’t possibly drop in to Felix Smythe’s flower shop on your way here could you? Mummy was there yesterday and she left her lovely new pink brolly behind. I’ve been instructed to pick it up immediately as she is convinced Felix will start using it himself and probably cause some awful damage to the silk.’ She giggled. ‘It was a present from an old beau and she treats it like the Crown Jewels! But you see I really must stay in to bath Mr Bones. Would you mind awfully? He’s only round the corner from us. There’s generally a blue Hillman parked outside.’ Rosy laughed and assured Amy she would rescue it straight away.
Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms was a discreet single-fronted abode just off Sloane Street, but its interior was sufficiently large to display an eclectically lavish assortment of exotic flora exquisitely arranged. The scent was overpowering.
She had expected to find Felix there, titivating this and that, but except for a dozing cat the place was empty. She looked around for a stray umbrella, examined the flowers and hovered expectantly, her nostrils assailed by blasts from
tuberoses and autumn lilies. But then, rather curiously, she thought she could detect something else: the clubby smell of cigar smoke. It mingled with the surrounding sweetness, and for a moment she was a child again in her father’s old study … But the moment was shattered by the sudden noise of footsteps and voices from behind the far door.
‘Well the last thing we want is to have the niece sniffing out that coal bucket nonsense! I think she suspected something the other week when I was at the house looking for those papers. So for God’s sake give her a wide berth!’ The door was flung open and Miss Collinger strode into the room cheroot aglow. Behind her stood Felix. They stopped abruptly and gazed nonplussed at the waiting customer.
Rosy was the first to speak. ‘What a coincidence!’ she said brightly. ‘Is little Raymond with you – or does the cat put him off?’ She smiled in the direction of the snoring fur.
‘Er, no, not really,’ Miss Collinger replied vaguely. And then with more animation added, ‘It’s the cat’s owner: Felix is convinced that all dogs are hell-bent on spraying his flowers. Pure paranoia, of course.’ She gave a caustic laugh, cleared her throat and moved towards the shop door where she turned and issued a curt goodbye. For an instant Rosy thought she might raise her hat (now freshly feathered) and felt slightly cheated to be denied the gesture.
After she had gone there was an awkward silence, and then Felix gave a light titter and murmured something to the effect that Vera was such an odd old thing but fearfully nice really, a claim that Rosy found hard to credit.
She explained her mission re the pink umbrella, and with visible relief he seized the matter eagerly: ‘I know exactly the one you mean, my dear –
such
an elegant style. I’ve been guarding it with my very life! Dear Angela would never
forgive me if anything happened to it. Won’t be a tick.’ He dived through the back door and re-emerged bearing it in triumph. ‘There you are, you see, all safe and sound!’ He beamed.
‘Thank you,’ said Rosy. ‘And now you can tell me what Vera Collinger was talking about.’
‘What?’ The beam wavered.
Rosy took a deep breath and squaring her shoulders said, ‘Why did Vera Collinger say she didn’t want me sniffing around the coal bucket?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite—’ began Felix.
‘Oh, come off it, you know very well what I mean! I heard her words exactly. She was talking about Marcia’s gruesome death and the part you apparently played in it. Kindly explain.’
He regarded her in silence, blank-faced; and then with a resigned shrug muttered, ‘You had better come upstairs, it’s easier to talk about such things there.’ He went to the door, reversed the
Open
sign and then led the way into the back and up the staircase to his private sanctum.
They sat at a small table by the drawing room window. At first he said nothing, staring out into the street fidgeting with his cufflinks, but then he jumped up to adjust a bowl of roses on the mantelpiece.
‘Look,’ she said firmly, ‘I would appreciate it if you sat down and told me whatever it is I need to know. There’s not much time, I have to get to the Fawcetts.’
He frowned but resumed his seat. ‘That’s just it, I don’t really see why you do need to know. After all, it’s not my fault that you just happened to overhear a private conversation. Frankly, this is all rather awkward …’
‘She was my aunt,’ Rosy snapped. ‘And whatever it is, I
should be told. Perhaps you would kindly enlighten me.’ She fixed him with a challenging stare.
He sighed, started to light a cigarette, stopped and said wearily, ‘Oh well, if you must you must, I suppose.’
‘Good,’ she said brusquely. And leaning forward she took the lighter, lit the discarded cigarette and passed it back. He took a deep drag and began his tale.
‘I met your aunt in nineteen forty-three when I was employed as a rather minor cipher clerk in MI5. In those days she was amusing and what used to be known as a “good-time gal”, but via the grapevine one knew she was also engaged in some important war work—’
‘On her back?’
‘Precisely. You clearly know about that.’
Rosy nodded.
‘At the time I was stepping out with one Raymond Collinger – probably the most handsome man I have ever met and certainly the vainest, and if truth be told an absolute bastard. Still, it is amazing how entangled one becomes and for a time I really couldn’t keep my hands off him!’ Felix gave a little giggle and blew what might have been a commemorative smoke ring. ‘But all bad things come to an end and the affair finished in fireworks and fury … Still, that is hardly the point. The point
is
that he was a first-class sapper and a member of an SOE outfit engaged on a sabotage raid in Normandy.’