A Little Murder (17 page)

‘I agree, but it might be difficult,’ said Felix doubtfully.
‘After all, Vera was fully aware of our coal venture, thought it quite amusing at the time. I remember her words: “That’ll take the cool smile off my lady’s face.” We are not exactly in a position to ignore her, she knows too much.’

‘In that case we must adopt a passive sympathy: interested but non-committal. On no account must we be
drawn
. Far too risky … And yes, you are right, the very worst possibility is that we could end up like Thistlehyde – or Marcia for that matter, though I trust without the additional millinery.’

His companion groaned. ‘If only one could just disappear, go away for a long, long holiday: Bermuda perhaps – so much safer now than in Eddie Windsor’s time! – or Tangier. They tell me it’s very cosy there.
Very
cosy!’ He gave a sly titter.

‘First place the police would look for you,’ Cedric replied scathingly. ‘Besides, there’s the Hyslop wedding, you wouldn’t want to miss that would you?’

‘Miss it? Of course not. I am the lynchpin of the whole event! Without Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms festooning the place the bride hasn’t a hope in hell of getting into the
Tatler
, not the size she is. And as for that mother …’ Felix shuddered.

For perhaps ten minutes they were diverted from the problem of Vera. And the tiresome exigencies of Marcia’s fate became lost in a plethora of peonies and other nuptial exotica. The vexed question of clematis versus vine leaves was raised and then dropped, anemones brooded upon, lilies extolled. Felix’s plans were poetic and costly, and Cedric was amused by his friend’s fervour. ‘Wonderful,’ he murmured encouragingly, ‘but will they pay up?’

‘Oh yes, they’ll pay up all right. With Bunty Hyslop as
the blushing bride what else can they do but drape the whole place with flowers? After all, there’s got to be
some
aesthetic appeal …’

But inevitably, as a topic of conversation Bunty Hyslop’s girth paled in comparison with the fate of Marcia and the enigma of the murdered artist; and once more the spectre of Clovis Thistlehyde intruded itself upon Cedric’s drawing room.

‘I mean he was so
mere
,’ mused Felix, ‘hardly important enough to merit murder I shouldn’t have thought. And from all accounts there was no robbery.’

‘No. The newspapers described his studio as being in a state of “artistic shambles” – a condition they fondly assume to be evidence of bohemian habits – but there was no suggestion of the place being ransacked or disturbed in any way. And certainly that detective sergeant didn’t mention it when he interviewed us.’

‘Huh!’ The memory of the sergeant’s questions piqued Felix. ‘I cannot think why he should have assumed we were remotely au fait with Thistlehyde’s private life,’ he complained. ‘Greenleaf actually seemed to think that he and I had been some sort of drinking companions. Imagine!’

Cedric smiled in recollection. ‘Oh yes … what was it he said? Something about what with you being “of a flower-arranging bent” he thought you might also have a “penchant for paintings” and so have a bit in common with the victim! There was something else too … Ah, that was it’ – he assumed a gravelly tone – ‘“So perhaps you was both of the same
artistic fraternity
, Mr Smythe?”’

Felix snorted. ‘Ridiculous!’

Cedric ceased to smile and stroked the cat meditatively.
And then he said slowly: ‘But in a way, of course, the pair of you did have something in common. Rather important, really.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘As the Gilchrist girl so politely reminded you – on the afternoon of the murder you were both at Marcia’s house at the same time.’

‘Yes but—’

‘Doubtless you are right about Clovis not being intrinsically worth murdering, but
I
think he was killed because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He saw something there – or somebody.’

‘Well it certainly wasn’t me,’ Felix exclaimed. ‘As you know, I was muffled up to my neck behind the hall curtain, and when he was in the bog I ran like a hare!’

Cedric closed his eyes. ‘I am not suggesting he saw you, Felix, or your garish mackintosh, but I do think he saw Marcia’s murderer. Which is why he was killed.’

‘But surely being Clovis he would have shouted it from the rooftops, put an advertisement in the newspaper. Anything for publicity!’

‘Not if he was unaware of the significance.’

Rosy’s schedule for the following day threatened to be irksome: a two-hour stint filing catalogues at the museum, a rather dreaded dental appointment, and then in the late afternoon the dubious pleasure of one of Mrs Gill’s charity whist drives. Rosy disliked whist, but in an unguarded moment she had succumbed to the urgent plea to substitute for a late cancellation. ‘So inconsiderate of him,’ Mrs Gill had complained, ‘it will mean forfeiting a table unless I can find someone else. Such a waste. I don’t suppose you could possibly …?’ It was the last thing Rosy wanted, but in view of the generous role Mrs Gill had played in sorting Marcia’s affairs it had seemed churlish to refuse.

She was on the point of rushing off to the museum when she was halted by the telephone. ‘Terribly short notice, I know,’ said the voice, ‘but I don’t suppose you would be free for lunch by any chance?’ It was Maynard Latimer, evidently back from his fishing in Berkshire.

Caught on the hop Rosy hesitated, not sure of her
response. ‘Well,’ she said tentatively, ‘it’s awfully nice of you but I’m due at the dentist at twelve – not a good prelude for lunch I’m afraid. Perhaps some other—’

There was a laugh. ‘You’re not being gassed, are you?’

‘What? Oh … no, I don’t think so, just a routine check.’

‘In that case I am sure the old gnashers will be able to withstand a little caviar at Wiltons, and you can always pass up the grouse in favour of a Dover sole.’

Like hell! Rosy thought. (She was rather partial to grouse.) ‘Well, er, yes I suppose I—’

‘Excellent. One-thirty at Wiltons. I look forward with eager pleasure.’

Eagerness was not exactly what Rosy felt, but all the same the prospect was not uncongenial. His company promised to be amusing – and would at least cushion the ennui of the whist. Hurriedly she changed her workaday skirt for something more in keeping with Wiltons, replaced her brogues for sky-high heels, and as an afterthought thrust a phial of Joy into her handbag.

‘Phew,’ exclaimed Leo emitting a loud wolf whistle, ‘where’s my lady off to? Going to vamp old Stanley?’

‘I have a dental appointment,’ replied Rosy coldly.

‘Lucky dentist,’ he said appreciatively, ‘probably drill himself in the butt!’

‘Don’t be coarse,’ she admonished, but couldn’t help smiling, pleased to think that if young Leo approved, then presumably she would pass muster with Latimer … She frowned. Was that so important? Hmm.
Somewhat
, she admitted.

The dentist wouldn’t have been so bad had it not been for the drama of the waiting room: Raymond was there – perched precariously on his owner’s lap.

‘Ah,’ said Miss Collinger, ‘I suppose you have come to see Mr Dingle. I always go to Churcher myself, he’s so good with Raymond. There’s an old sock that he keeps specially, puts him in a good mood for the rest of the day.’

‘The dentist?’ Rosy asked.

‘No, Miss Gilchrist. The dog, of course.’

Rosy smiled apologetically, hoping that the old bat would soon be summoned to the drill. Her hopes were dashed.

‘I always come early,’ the other announced. ‘I prefer to reflect in peace before enduring the probe; it settles one psychologically.’

‘Oh don’t mind me,’ Rosy said hastily, ‘I’m happy with a magazine.’ She looked for a
London Life
but naturally there was only a stack of
National Geographic
s. (Did all dentists have a fetish for that publication?)

‘As a matter of fact I’ve been meaning to get hold of you,’ Miss Collinger continued. ‘There are certain matters of which I think Felix Smythe may have apprised you – matters concerning your aunt. I am not convinced of his reliability as a narrator; it would be best if I checked his account.’ She fixed Rosy with a firm stare, as did the dog.

Rosy did not think she wanted to be got hold of by Vera Collinger but suspected that any attempt to fob her off would be met with stubborn and wearying tenacity. Thus reluctantly she heard herself saying, ‘Yes – well, so what do you suggest?’

‘What I suggest is a meeting of clarification at the Pig and Bell off Brewer Street in Soho. I expect you know it. They do decent chips there and the alcoves are useful for private discussion.’ She produced a diary, scanned it briskly and proposed a date two days hence. Rosy nodded. She did know the pub, though it was some time since she had been in. From what she recalled it was a gloomy place with draughty corners and uncertain beer.

‘Good. That’s settled then. I shan’t keep you long,’ said Miss Collinger, ‘but this is a matter of some importance as you doubtless realise.’

There was a sudden yelp from Raymond, and leaping off his keeper’s lap he rushed to greet a small man in a white coat standing at the door dangling a sock. Rosy breathed a thankful sigh as the three of them disappeared into a nether region.

After the joint onslaught from dentist and Collinger Rosy felt ravenous; and beckoned by thoughts of Wiltons’ grouse she hastily flagged down a taxi and sped to Jermyn Street.

Her host greeted her warmly, and after a few bantering remarks about the perils of dentistry ordered gin and tonics. Rosy sipped hers gratefully, the twin rasp of drill and Miss Collinger’s voice rapidly losing potency amidst the convivial drone of contented diners. Then, after the preliminaries of menu and wine list, the promised caviar materialised and she settled to the task of serious consumption and unserious chit-chat.

In fact Latimer’s blend of casual wit and easy charm gave such chit-chat an engaging edge, and her initial wariness was soon replaced by genuine interest. But she also noted that alongside the amiability there lurked a shrewd watchfulness, a manipulative energy which had doubtless played a major role in propelling the distinguished career.

Initially their conversation touched on a mix of topics – fishing and golf, an exhibition at the Tate, the phenomenal racing skills of young Lester Piggot (a fine future, Latimer predicted), Rattigan’s latest play and the Queen’s projected visit to Australia. He gave his views with forthright clarity, often laced with a sly ironic humour which Rosy rather liked. Inevitably, however, the conversation turned – or he turned it – to the subject of Marcia.

‘Absolutely appalling,’ he murmured, ‘grotesque, really. It must be simply frightful for you – and not helped presumably by the attentions of the police. It’s always the relatives they give the third degree to!’

She agreed the thing was indeed awful but that on the whole the police had been fairly restrained in their questioning. ‘You see, I knew so little of her,’ she explained. ‘I saw her as a child, of course, but during the war and after we seemed to go our separate ways – like ships in the night, really. As a source of insight or information I suspect the police think I’m rather useless.’

‘Best to keep it that way, my dear, whatever you know or don’t … or learn, for that matter. The last thing you want is to be plagued by the heavy squad! I speak as one who has had experience of that – or at least my family did. We had an uncle who committed suicide – years ago when I was a boy. All very sad of course; but even sadder was the palaver made by the police. They got it into their heads that the death was suspicious, smelt a rat where none existed – a bit like mad dogs, really. Fortunately they were proved utterly wrong, but in the meantime my poor father and sister were really put through the mill. Not a jolly time, I can tell you.’ He bent forward conspiratorially and with a broad wink said, ‘Take my advice, keep well out of it: give ’em half a chance and you won’t hear the end of it – the merest thing sets them off. Never underestimate the value of silence, Rosy, it can save a lot of pain.’

Keeping silent was precisely what Rosy had been endeavouring to do. Yet she was slightly surprised at his insistence, jocular though it was. Was her peace of mind really so important to him? And besides, why should he think that she might have ‘learnt’ anything? She
had
of
course, but he wasn’t to know that … Obviously the remark had been a mere coincidence, an innocuous generality. She gave a light shrug. ‘I like to think they’ve got a few more trails to follow other than mine, or they really will be at a dead end!’ Casually she tossed the ball in his direction: ‘But I imagine Marcia’s death must have been quite a shock for you as well; I remember your saying some nice things at the Fawcetts’ party. Had you known her long?’

‘Sort of, though we hadn’t met for ages.’ He paused fractionally, and then said, ‘As a matter of fact we had enjoyed a little walk-out during the war. She and Donald, the husband, weren’t hitting it off and she was clearly in need of some mild diversion which I was more than happy to supply. Your aunt was quite a stunner in those days and fun with it.’ He smiled in recollection. ‘But then it all rather petered out. You know how it was then – bombs, air raids, distractions etcetera. We all tended to lead rather fragile and fluctuating lives: things would change so rapidly. She got caught up elsewhere, principally with a man called Flaxman – rather an amusing chap – and I was sent overseas anyway. Connection severed. Then after the war I was in Berlin administering an engineering project in the British quarter, and when I came back to London we bumped into each other at some party – as a matter of fact I think it was one given by the Fawcetts. Sir Nicholas was alive then and my God didn’t the gin flow!’ He grinned at the memory, before adding, ‘But Angela’s still quite a gal, don’t you think?’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Rosy encouragingly, ‘such energy! But … ah, you were saying about Marcia …’

‘So I was … Well naturally by then quite a lot of water had passed under both our bridges. She was divorced and leading a life of colourful but aimless distinction, and I was on my second marriage and starting to be rather successful
at what I’m doing now – running half the country’s steel industry. Or so they tell me!’ He laughed and splashed some more wine into Rosy’s glass. ‘But we found we still rather liked each other – in a sort of non-committal way – and in both our lives there were what you might call certain lacunae. So to cut a not very exciting tale short, we briefly resumed our earlier acquaintance.’ He paused, and then added, ‘It was an irregular arrangement in both senses of the word … yes, an arrangement of mutual convenience to alleviate bouts of boredom. Not one that you would be familiar with, Rosy, I am sure!’ He gave her a mocking smile.

She regarded him in silence, and then said quietly: ‘Perhaps not. My fiancé was shot down in the war. I loved him with all my heart. I don’t think we had an “arrangement” and certainly not one to fill a gap. We just wanted to be together.’

‘What it is to be young!’ he laughed. ‘People are more expendable than one imagines; you will learn that one day, my dear.’

Rosy thought of Adelaide Fawcett and the old woman’s words:
I knew him in nappies. Beastly then, beastly now
. Had she a point?

However, the burgundy and prospect of grouse ensured that her host received a polite smile and they steered into less choppy waters.

‘Still,’ he continued, ‘all buried in the deep past now. We rather lost touch, I’m afraid. Strange how one’s life goes in phases, and things that seem real enough at the time fade and then suddenly become totally irrelevant. Well, that’s certainly what happened between myself and your dear aunt: a brief reckless fling, great fun at the time but without staying power. An age away, I fear!’ He laughed easily and hailed the wine waiter to offer his compliments on the Chambertin.

‘So what do you do when you are not running half the country’s steel industry?’ Rosy enquired. ‘You have a house in Yorkshire, don’t you?’

‘Yes, rather a rambling place and damned draughty. I try to escape to Malta whenever possible.’

‘Malta?’

‘Yes, my wife has a house there. Just outside Valletta with wonderful views over the bay. Weather’s warm and with our two islands’ wartime links the natives are delightfully friendly. They cook well too. Have you ever been?’

‘No, but I—’

‘My dear you must come and visit us! Silvia is a good hostess and loves showing off the gardens. I
think
you might love it. Do you the power of good to get away from your sober museum duties, not to mention all this ghastly business over poor Marcia. It must be so draining.’ He gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze.

Rosy wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘Er, well – no it’s not much fun really … but of course we weren’t particularly close. I mean, as I explained—’

‘And then of course there was poor old Clovis
whatever-his
-name. Simply extraordinary the way that happened, and so soon afterwards!’ He stopped abruptly, looking embarrassed. ‘I say, you two weren’t involved or anything, were you? If so I’m terribly sorry if I’ve—’

‘Good Lord, no!’ exclaimed Rosy, mentally recoiling at the thought, and then felt herself going red: not so much at the idea of herself and Clovis than at the vehemence of her denial. It had been an involuntary response, yet somehow seemed churlish – an unfair betrayal of the dead man.

‘No, not your type I shouldn’t think. You are too intelligent, too – how shall I put it – discerning?’ He regarded
her quizzically, and for a moment Rosy feared he was going to ask what her type was. She prepared to deflect the overture but needn’t have bothered for he passed smoothly on to something less personal. If Maynard Latimer still practised a seduction technique then it clearly took a more delicate form.

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, with Rosy’s own remarks being met with amusement and appreciative interest. By the coffee stage she felt sufficiently mellow to indulge her curiosity about Adelaide Fawcett’s antipathy. ‘Dreadful business about Angela’s aunt,’ she began casually, ‘poor old girl fell down the steps recently and is walled up in the London Clinic. But I suppose at that age—’

His normally mobile face assumed a blank expression and the genial eyes hardened. ‘So one has heard,’ he replied coolly. ‘By far the best place for her: at least people will have a respite from those malicious fantasies she weaves.’

Rosy was startled by the sudden change. She had been on the verge of making tactful enquiry about his earlier contact with the old woman, but thought better of it. The censure echoed that of Cedric Dillworthy and Felix; but unlike theirs his held no hint of relish or readiness to be drawn, only an icy disdain. Clearly it was not a subject to be pursued.