Authors: Suzette A. Hill
‘You mean Operation Coal Scuttle,’ Rosy interjected.
‘Yes, the coal-scuttle business. You
are
well informed. So you will probably also be aware that because of Marcia’s infatuation with one of the German agents she blew the gaff and the whole thing aborted.’
Rosy could feel herself flushing with discomfort but
said nothing, and Felix continued. ‘The demolition party was ambushed but miraculously they all escaped including Raymond. But his face was badly scarred by a bullet; I don’t mean that it was grotesquely mangled but he could kiss goodbye to those startling looks all right,
and
to his fawning satellites – of which I confess I was originally one. He spent the next few months in a nursing home recovering his face and his nerves and was then given some rather mundane desk job. When the war ended he became increasingly withdrawn – virtually reclusive. It was rumoured he had taken to drink, but nobody saw him for ages and then we suddenly heard that he had topped himself …’ Felix paused before adding reflectively, ‘I suppose he was what some would call a casualty of boredom and vanity.’
‘Yes. But you think something else as well, don’t you? I rather imagine you think his death was precipitated by Marcia, that she was ultimately responsible.’
‘Don’t you? If he had escaped unscathed things might have been very different. As it is …’ He shrugged.
‘But why on earth did you stay friends with her? Weren’t you appalled?’
‘I should say “friends” is a slight exaggeration. We were never close, simply rode the same social whirligig. But you see
then
one simply hadn’t been
aware
! In fact Vera learnt of it only a year ago through some old SOE colleague and it was she who told me. Naturally I was shocked, as was Vera, and I was also very angry. But there didn’t seem anything obvious to do. Police? Newspapers? Home Office? Hardly! The last thing I wanted was to get caught up in some tiresome brouhaha involving allegations for which there was no real proof – or at least none that was accessible. To attempt an exposure would have been tedious and doubtless ineffectual,
and in any case considerably more trouble than it was worth, i.e. not good for business. And just think, if Marcia had retaliated with a smart lawyer I might have become a laughing stock!’ Felix closed his eyes and shuddered. He opened them and added, ‘Besides, it is far from wise to rake up – how shall I put it? – old
affiliations
. The law is sensitive in these matters and takes offence easily. The penalties can be distasteful.’ The words were said quietly, but Rosy noticed their underlying bitterness.
‘So you said nothing?’
‘I discussed the matter with Cedric and we concluded that while it might be injudicious to put things on a public level, privately some sharp penalty might be exacted – something to make her sweat a titsy bit. So we devised a little scheme – or rather Cedric did – and started to make certain arrangements. To be perfectly honest it all seemed a fun idea at the time … Forgive my saying, but your aunt could be such an arrogant bitch. She deserved some grief!’
Ah, thought Rosy, that’s what it’s really about: not so much moral horror as personal hostility. ‘Oh yes? And what form did your “arrangements” take?’ she asked dryly.
‘Well at first we thought of a series of anonymous letters but that seemed a trifle dull, and Cedric said she should be confronted with her guilt in a tangible
graphic
way – something theatrical to really make her yelp!’ Felix gave a faint smile as if savouring the thought. ‘So we kicked a few ideas around and it was he who suggested sending her gifts of coal at various intervals – carbon offerings to fit the code name of the mission she had so effectively ruined. These little parcels would be the preliminaries to the ultimate offering: an actual coal scuttle – to be delivered on or near the same
date as the original betrayal. We felt the plan held a certain piquancy. Masterly really, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Masterly,’ agreed Rosy. ‘I am sure Aunt Marcia was thrilled.’
Felix sniffed and looked pained. ‘Take that attitude if you like – but you have to admit it was not exactly undeserved.’
‘No,’ Rosy agreed soberly, ‘not undeserved.’ She closed her eyes. ‘So then what happened? How did the scuttle get there?’
‘I took it of course. The house was supposed to be empty. Marcia generally went to her art group on that afternoon and I had got the house key from Vera. The plan was very simple. I would carry the thing on my arm with my raincoat slung over it and walk into the house bold as brass. I intended leaving it in the middle of the drawing room – brazen on the Aubusson rug. But as it was I didn’t get that far.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘Boorish Thistlehyde. I had just put my mac on the hall table and was about to go towards the drawing room when I heard voices from inside and somebody started to open the door. Not a happy moment, I can tell you! I just had time to slip behind the long window curtain, when out barges Clovis hell-bent for the downstairs gents. It was the last thing I had expected and I was terrified. Doubtless had I been George Sanders or James Mason I would have strolled into the drawing room, kissed Marcia on the cheek and uttered some droll pleasantry. As it was I dropped the bucket by the hall table, and while Thistlehyde was presumably still unbuttoning his flies grabbed my mac and skedaddled down the front steps like a witless rabbit.’ Felix ran his fingers
through his hair making it stand on end, and for a moment looked not unlike the creature he had described.
Rosy visualised the scene in silence. And then she asked slowly: ‘But the bucket – how precisely did it arrive on my aunt’s head?’
‘How should I know?’ he replied defensively. ‘I can assure you it had nothing to do with me!’
‘Perhaps not directly but you took it there! Besides, aren’t you curious?’
‘In principle, yes. In practice my main concern is ensuring that my small part in this nightmare is kept well under wraps. How was I to know that some homicidal lunatic would appropriate
my
coal scuttle to adorn the head of his victim? It’s too ghastly for words. And so humiliating if our little ruse ever became public knowledge. It would mean the end of everything!’
‘You mean the Royal Appointment plaque?’
‘Well naturally. But more than that – the entire business would collapse: Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms would be withered weeds in a matter of days. I’d be lucky to sell a bunch of heather to a Gypsy! Just think, no royal patronage, no more columns in the
Tatler
and one would never be asked
anywhere
again. Oh my God, the shame of it!’ There passed into Felix’s eyes a look so stricken that Rosy almost felt sorry for him. But not quite.
‘Rather a mean trick, if you don’t mind my saying,’ she observed tartly, ‘sending those ridiculous lumps of coal and then sneaking into her house and—’
Felix gaped and then glowered. ‘Mean trick? Well that’s rich coming from one whose aunt betrayed her country! But yes, you are right, it probably was a mean trick; almost as mean as Marcia allowing her comrades to be ambushed
and nearly killed, and of being indirectly responsible for Raymond’s subsequent suicide. Have you considered that by any small chance?’
Rosy was mortified and wondered how she could have made so crass a comment. And like Felix, but for far different reasons, she felt herself engulfed in a tidal wave of shame. ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered.
There was a brief silence as Felix appeared to reflect; and then nodding graciously he observed, ‘Ah well, everyone speaks out of turn occasionally, I daresay. Cedric does it all the time … in fact, do you know what he had the
gall
to say to me the other day?’
Rosy didn’t know and wasn’t interested; but repentant of her earlier criticism assumed an expression of rapt curiosity. She needn’t have bothered, for at that moment the telephone rang and Felix leapt up like a scalded cat.
‘Oh my God, the Queen Mother’s housekeeper,’ he cried, ‘she wants the gardenias replenished, I’d quite forgotten!’ Rosy too was quite forgotten, as in a flurry of anguished anticipation he rushed to the phone, and smiling unctuously, crooned ‘Of course, of course, dear lady, three dozen immediately – and I can assure you all as fresh as the proverbial daisy! I’ll deliver them myself this very instant …’ He threw down the receiver and turning to Rosy gasped, ‘Must dash, duty calls! Let yourself out, will you? Just pull the door to, it’s on a Yale.’
‘But just a minute Felix—’
‘Sorry, not a moment to lose,’ he exclaimed, hastily checking his tie in the mirror.
‘But
Felix
, what about the police? Surely they’ll find out about the coal scuttle. They can trace these things you know!’
He gave an impatient sigh. ‘Not this one they won’t. Cedric and I have dealt with it … Now for goodness’ sake Miss Gilchrist, if you don’t mind I have important things to attend to. We’ll discuss the matter later
should
the need arise. So if you would excuse me …’ He scuttled to the door, and a few seconds later frenzied feet could be heard thudding into the shop below. And then as she stood in the empty room feeling slightly dazed and clutching the pink umbrella, a car could be heard revving up in the street. She looked out just in time to see the blue Hillman moving away from the kerb, its back seat smothered in a mountain of white gardenias.
Ten minutes later, bearing the pink umbrella and her mind in a whirl, Rosy presented herself at the Fawcetts’ residence.
‘I am so glad you’ve come!’ yelped Amy. ‘We’ve got the awful—’ She broke off and lowered her voice to a loud stage whisper. ‘We’ve got the awful Gills here. They want Mummy to distribute the prizes at one of their charity things and won’t take no for an answer. She’s trying her best to fend them off in the morning room, but you’ll see, they’ll wear her down in the end – or at least
he
will. Keeps rambling on about the starving Pygmies. Frankly, if they are so small I shouldn’t have thought that they would need to eat much … Actually I quite like Mrs, and she’s awfully sweet to Mr Bones; but somehow the two of them together do put a bit of a blight on things. Anyway, we’ll sneak up to my room and I’ll give you a mannequin show. I’ve bought some super earrings to go with the coat, you’ll love them!’
‘Wonderful,’ said Rosy dutifully as she followed the girl up the swirling staircase, ‘and, er, you’ve got the letter, have you?’
‘What? Oh the
letter
. Yes, yes of course … Wasn’t it extraordinary my suddenly finding it like that tucked into the little pocket? It was such a surprise, the secret pocket I mean. I was telling Mrs G about it while hubby was twisting Mummy’s arm over the Pygmies, and she said she supposed it was always handy to have a hidden pocket somewhere. And
I
said, “Oh yes, and so much more useful in a fur coat than in one’s gym knickers!”’ Amy emitted a shrill guffaw and ushered Rosy into the bedroom.
On the bed lay the mink coat, and next to it, on the right and left respectively, were the earrings and an envelope. With a deft movement Rosy appropriated the latter and slipped it quickly into her handbag. And then fixing the girl with a dazzling smile she exclaimed, ‘Oh Amy, these are simply enchanting. Do put them on!’
The fashion parade lasted rather longer than she had bargained for. It wasn’t simply the fur that was displayed but also numerous other sundry garments, each requiring special appraisal and approval. However, eventually the show was terminated by the appearance of a gleaming Sealyham: Mr Bones in his newly ablutioned glory. Thus the owner’s attention was immediately diverted from dresses to dog, and it was with some relief that Rosy accepted the offer of a mid-morning sherry downstairs.
The Gills were on the point of leaving – but whether they had prevailed in the matter of the Pygmies Rosy could not be sure; though judging by Lady Fawcett’s unusually harassed expression she rather thought they had.
‘We were just talking about your mother’s marvellous soirée the other week,’ enthused Mrs Gill to Amy. ‘It was such a delight, and lovely to meet old friends.’
‘Yes,’ answered Amy cheerfully, ‘but rather a shame about Clovis Thistlehyde. Who would have thought that it was destined to be his final party!’
There was an embarrassed silence. Lady Fawcett smiled at nothing in particular, while Mr Gill cleared his throat and then said, ‘Yes, all very unfortunate. Rather a nice fellow, I always thought.’ (Goodness! Did he really think that? Rosy wondered.) ‘Quite a good artist too, by all accounts.’
‘I should have thought moderate,’ murmured Mrs Gill.
‘Well, my dear, we can’t all have your discernment,’ her husband replied. The tone was jovial but Rosy thought she detected a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. ‘And in any case,’ he added, turning to Lady Fawcett, ‘it’s all a question of
nil nisi bonum
. Wouldn’t you agree, Angela?’
The latter hesitated looking perplexed, and then said obligingly, ‘Oh, every time!’
‘The thing is,’ went on Amy, ‘I can’t imagine who would want to do him in – unless he
knew
something.’
‘Knew what, dear?’ enquired her mother.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Something. They generally do.’
‘Who do?’
‘Murder victims, of course. They are killed to shut them up and—’
‘I daresay, but I really don’t think we need to go into such matters now. It is hardly a savoury topic just before luncheon.’
The mention of lunch was grasped politely. ‘I say, is that the time? We must be off,’ exclaimed Harold Gill. ‘A busy afternoon!’
‘And so must I,’ chimed Rosy, wondering why lunch should inhibit talk of murder any more than tea, dinner or any other occasion, but glad to have the chance to get away and investigate the contents of the envelope.
Thus once outside she was about to detach herself from the Gills and set off towards Hyde Park, when Mildred Gill took her lightly by the elbow, and with her husband busily engrossed in eying a well-endowed girl on a bicycle, exclaimed, ‘Amy is such a sweet person. And how clever of her to find something of Marcia’s for you in that coat. What a surprise! You must be delighted.’ And then lowering her voice, she added earnestly, ‘Particularly in the
circumstances
, if you see what I mean.’
Rosy agreed that she was indeed delighted; and before any ‘circumstances’ could be further pursued she promised to keep in touch, and took off briskly in the direction of the park with the letter burning a hole in her handbag.
In fact she didn’t get far, for despite a chilly breeze, curiosity directed her to a bench at the side of the path; and opening her bag she drew out the envelope. She stared down at the familiar scrawl: bold, careless, heavily nibbed. The letter was stamped and bore her address and full name, Miss Rosemary D. Gilchrist MA.
For some reason she was disappointed by the envelope’s flimsy thinness. What had she been expecting – a wad of foolscap? She slit it open and drew out the enclosure. It was a single sheet bearing the following words:
and so, my dear Rosy, I trust I can rely on your discretion in this matter. As said, the document is more than explicit and could blow a number of reputations sky-high (no bad thing!) My intention was to send it to Donald for safe keeping but on reflection I think it is probably best left where it is, in the more domestic location. Were I by some remote chance to kick the bucket prematurely (not exactly my intention!) I
daresay the Home Office might be interested in it, though I leave that decision up to you.
I don’t really wish to speak further about this, and I am sure you will respect my wishes in the matter.
Affectionately,
Aunt M.
Rosy reread the message in baffled frustration. Obviously a sheet was missing, a sheet vital to the whole meaning. Of all the stupid things – how on earth could she have done it? The answer was, quite easily. Rosy could hear her mother’s voice of protest: ‘Oh Marcia – she’s so careless! It is too embarrassing – she has just sent our donation for the church spire fund to the bookmaker, and your father’s racing dues to the rural dean. We shall never hear the last from either. All she had to do was to read the envelopes!’ Yes, Rosy recalled, there had been quite a little rumpus over that, and at ten years old she had thought it very funny. But the present careless oversight was far from funny. It was damned maddening … Where the
hell
had the woman put the thing and what exactly was in it?
Frowning she read the lines for a third time. How literal was the word ‘domestic’ – within the country or within the house? Either could apply, but if the latter, then getting further access to the place for an extensive and secret search was hardly feasible. She frowned. And then two other details struck her: the unfortunate use of the phrase ‘kick the bucket’ and the valediction ‘affectionately’. She brooded upon the second. Was she a sentimental fool to accord it any significance? Surely it was merely a verbal convention – the sort of thing that aunts were supposed to write to nieces. Or had Marcia in spite of everything harboured some remnant
of fondness for her, some vestige of familial sympathy? After all, it would seem she had meant to entrust her niece with some sort of serious confidence … For a brief moment Rosy indulged the thought and then impatiently dismissed it. Why on earth should she want Marcia Beasley to show affection for her? The woman had been a traitor – and according to Lame Leg, latterly a blackmailer. Aunts had no business to behave like that!
She stared angrily at a foraging pigeon and stuffed the letter back in her handbag, and was about to get up, when for no apparent reason she thought of the Fawcetts and Amy’s giggling comments on Thistelehyde:
I can’t imagine who would want to do him in, unless he knew something … Murder victims, of course. They are killed to shut them up
… So what had Clovis known? Something connected with Marcia’s murder? But if so, what and how?
‘Well, you do look browned off,’ a voice observed cheerfully. ‘Lost a quid and found sixpence as they say!’ Rosy looked up startled, and was confronted by the tall figure of Maynard Latimer, debonair in tweeds and trilby.
‘It’s Miss Gilchrist, isn’t it?’ he continued genially. ‘You may remember we met briefly at dear Angela’s last week. What a do that girl puts on!’
‘Er, yes,’ Rosy agreed. And then added, ‘But I think it was largely in your honour, wasn’t it? Rather a special birthday I seem to recall.’
‘Oh well, I suppose so,’ he agreed ruefully. ‘A bit embarrassing, really – but great fun all the same. People are so kind on such occasions.’ Rosy smiled and was about to say something else, when he added, ‘Actually I am about to go down for a spot of fishing in Berkshire for the weekend,
but when I return may I give you a bell and offer a luncheon date? They tell me you were rather a dab hand in Dover during the war, and of course I was simply nuts about your aunt. I think we might have rather a lot to talk about. Still, must dash now … will be in touch.’ He raised his hat and strode off in the direction of Knightsbridge.
Been nuts about Aunt Marcia had he? Rosy pondered. Well, rather an improvement on Adelaide Fawcett’s acerbic ‘I knew your aunt and didn’t like her’. And then she also recalled what else the old girl had said: ‘I remember him in nappies. Beastly then, beastly now!’
‘So,’ she said to herself, ‘should the great man deign to invite me for a date after his fishing trip I must remember to ask him about his infancy.’ She stood up, and cursing the cold wind continued her way to the north side of the park.