Authors: Suzette A. Hill
‘Well that was a howdy-do and no mistake,’ said the inspector over supper in the canteen. ‘What you might call a surprise. Wasn’t pretty either, but at least it was quick. Which is just as well, otherwise they’d be saying it was our fault for not being more alert and anticipating things.’ He frowned, adding morosely, ‘More than likely they will say that anyway, you’ll see.’
‘Shouldn’t worry,’ Greenleaf reassured him, ‘wasn’t our fault. I mean to say, how were we supposed to know his fag was bunged full of cyanide? After all, it’s not something you expect from St John’s Wood, is it? Not even from a white slaver.’ He grinned and added, ‘I assume there was some kind of mistake there.’
The other nodded looking puzzled. ‘Yes, a mistake. Can’t quite make it out – some joker started it off, phoning the duty officer. But the odd thing is that the super hasn’t said much about it – almost as if he’s concerned with something else. But I can tell you, he’s none too pleased all the same.
Something fishy going on, I shouldn’t wonder. Heard him shouting down the phone to someone saying he was sick and tired of being the lackey of MI5 and why was he never put in the bloody picture. Anyway, what he has said to
me
is that he wants the whole incident put under wraps for the time being, and that if anyone is heard even mentioning it they’ll lose their stripes and rue the day.’
‘Do what, sir?’
‘Rue the sodding day!’
‘Ah, I see … So what about the wife?’
The inspector brightened. ‘Well, that’s the funny thing. You see, when we took her in for questioning she didn’t say a thing, literally didn’t open her mouth for two hours. In fact I was beginning to think we had a mute on our hands. Then all of a sudden she had a sort of fit – went on for quite a long time, had to be sedated.’
‘Yes, very funny sir,’ said Greenleaf dryly.
‘Ah, but it
was
you see, because when she finally surfaced from the sedation she had changed.’
‘What do you mean,
changed
?’
‘What I say. She had changed from being Mrs Mildred Gill into someone else.’ The inspector reached for the sugar and spooned half of it into his cup, while the sergeant digested his words.
‘I see. So, er, who is this someone else, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Mata Hari.’
Greenleaf dropped his knife and gaped. ‘Mata Hari!’
‘Yes. Even uses a few words of Dutch – leastways, I assume that’s what it is, sounds like gobbledygook to me.’
‘Come on, sir, you’re having me on!’
The inspector shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
The sergeant coughed and eyed his superior with some suspicion. ‘So when she’s not talking Dutch what does she say exactly?’
‘She is firmly of the opinion that Marcia Beasley was her rival – both in circles of espionage and in matters romantic, that is to say she was enjoying the favours of her husband. Finding the situation disagreeable on both counts she decided to put a stop to her discomfort by felling the rival with a coal scuttle.’
‘She was shot,’ objected Greenleaf.
‘Yes, in 1917.’
‘No, not her! The other one, Mrs Beasley.’
‘
We
know that, but apparently it is an aspect of the event Mata Hari does not recall. It’s the coal scuttle that has caught her fancy. I did try to suggest otherwise but she got a bit shirty, said I was getting above my station.’
Greenleaf grinned. ‘Not so mad after all.’
Ignoring the remark, the inspector went on to say that since the forensics had established that the gun used on Mrs Beasley was the same as that used by Mrs Gill to pulverise the Chinese vase, there was a fair chance that she had indeed been the murderer of her neighbour. ‘Somewhere at the bottom of that barminess there’s a truth lurking,’ he asserted with confidence. ‘Still, what with hubby being dead and her too sick to stand trial, I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, really. A bum case as you might say.’
‘But what about the girl – what’s she got to say? Looked pretty tearful when we arrived.’
‘As well she might, must have been a bit of a shock. When I first started to question her she was fairly vague; but then she seemed to rally and became much clearer – not that’s it’s helped much. I gather she had been invited to tea
by Mrs Gill and all was going nice and normal like, when suddenly, for no apparent reason, the woman began getting aggressive, and then out of the blue pulled a gun. Not used to being threatened across the tea table, Miss Gilchrist was taken aback and tried calming her down. But before she got very far Gill appeared and grabbed her.’
‘What for? Sex?’
‘I did ask that, but the girl said there hadn’t been time to find out as at that juncture Harris and Henry turned up, followed by us, of course.’ He flicked ash into his saucer. ‘Funny, really, the scrapes people get themselves into …’
‘I wonder why Mata Hari,’ pondered Greenleaf.
‘Oh, ask Harris,
he’ll
tell you. Reckons it’s Freudian. Says it’s very common in ladies of a certain ilk and age – sublimation or some such.’
‘How does Harris know that?’
‘Like he knows everything: it’s that set of encyclopaedias his gran gave him for Christmas.’
‘Well if he knows so much, what does he make of Gill and his suicide?’
‘As a matter of fact he hasn’t said a word about it – which given the super’s embargo is just as well. In fact he’s been very silent all day, keeps frowning.’
‘Perhaps he’s not had time to consult his oracles!’
They laughed and turned to other things, namely Clovis Thistlehyde.
‘So,’ Greenleaf said, ‘if Mrs Gill
did
murder the Beasley woman as she alleges, do we assume that being barking mad, i.e. in her Mata Hari mode, that she also went to the studio and dealt with the painter?’
‘Oh
no
. I think that’s something quite separate: a coincidence, certainly, but no connection. If you recall,
Sergeant, it was you that kept going on about him being a witness to something at the victim’s house and seeing that mythical geezer with a lawnmower … a bit of a red herring, if you ask me.’ The voice held a note of reproach.
‘I seem to recall,
sir
,’ said Greenleaf stoutly, ‘that you gave me firm instructions to follow it up. You seemed quite interested at the time.’
‘Well I am not now,’ snapped the other. ‘Look, we’ve got a confession, haven’t we? That’ll do. Don’t let’s muddy the waters!’
Greenleaf was not entirely convinced, but on the whole thought it best to say nothing. Instead he suggested that Harold Gill’s suicide was doubtless prompted by the strain of living with one fixated on the idea that she was an exotic spy and insatiable siren.
The inspector agreed that it was more than likely.
‘Do you think we should send flowers?’ asked Felix eagerly. ‘I’ve just had the most ravishing consignment of early azaleas, just the thing for an invalid.’
‘She is not an invalid,’ replied Vera.
‘But might have become a corpse,’ said Cedric.
Felix nodded. ‘Exactly! And we’ve had far too many of those as it is. From what she said on the phone it sounds as if it was quite a close-run thing. It was really very shrewd of you, Cedric, to suspect the Gills. I trust she is suitably grateful … Now, what about the flowers?’
‘Forget the flowers,’ snapped Vera. ‘There are more pressing matters. We are not in possession of the
details
– and the details could be very disagreeable for us. Very disagreeable. The only information we have so far is what Rosy Gilchrist gabbled down the telephone, i.e. that there had been a ghastly fracas at the house, that Gill had committed suicide and she was safe. Yesterday’s paper merely says that the house owner had died in unusual
circumstances and that two women were escorted from the premises. Obviously the press have been kept at a distance, or even muzzled – they are not normally so reticent. What isn’t clear is whether Gill divulged anything to the police before his death, or indeed whether the girl herself has said anything. For all we know she could have blown the whole gaff – about Sabatier and everything else. It is not unknown for people to go to pieces in such situations.’
‘Well I doubt whether Miss Gilchrist—’ began Felix.
Vera glared. ‘Don’t you see? We can rely on nothing! We only have the vaguest notion of what went on in that house and have no idea what was said in the police station afterwards. Anything might have emerged! Gill’s death may be a blessing but equally it may open up a whole can of embarrassing worms. If the authorities get even a sniff of the Sabatier murder and our part in the coal business we could be accused of all manner of things such as misleading the police, hindering their enquiries and concealing crucial evidence. The law takes a dim view of that sort of thing. And as for myself, I could be facing a murder charge.’
‘But Vera,’ Felix exclaimed, ‘that’s not very likely; I mean presumably Gill did it and—’
‘Huh! Simply because Gill committed suicide and was found attacking the girl does not necessarily mean that he murdered Marcia … I daresay he did, but the
police
may not be sure; and until they are they will be examining other possibilities, one of which is myself. As said previously, I’m not too keen on my brother’s role being rooted up: there’s a potential motive there which, failing anything better, they’ll be sure to seize on … I tell you, we are
totally
in the dark as
to how much they know, and that means being in a position of extreme delicacy. I don’t like it.’ She paused, adjusted the pork-pie hat and scowled.
‘In that case,’ said Cedric briskly, ‘we must get out of the dark and into the light.’ He rose from his chair. ‘Gather your flowers, Felix. We shall visit Miss Gilchrist’s flat and hear things from the horse’s mouth!’
The horse meanwhile was sitting on her sofa thanking her lucky stars she was all right and brooding on what she had recently learnt. After the interview with the inspector following the dreadful event, she had been driven home and left to her own devices. But that morning the inspector, plus a tall officer she had never seen before, appeared on her doorstep and enquired if it was convenient to speak to her. Since their demeanour suggested that her convenience was of little interest, she resigned herself to a further interview. In fact, this turned out to be less onerous than expected.
The questions were mild and easily parried, but she was given information of a startling nature and also issued with a stern warning. This latter was that if she were not to fall foul of the Official Secrets Act it was imperative that she revealed nothing about the recent incident. When she expressed quizzical surprise the inspector had said woodenly that ‘them that ask no questions are told no lies’.
Fortunately his commanding officer, i.e. the superintendent, was more civil and forthcoming. ‘You see, Miss Gilchrist,’ he had said in a confiding tone, ‘some rather interesting facts have recently come to light regarding our friend’s activities during the war … Gill was not entirely what you might think and I gather has been the subject of some
rather close scrutiny from MI5. In fact, there is currently a very intensive enquiry being conducted which is
absolutely
top secret. The Cabinet – our prime minister and his advisors – are determined that nothing should be said that would compromise its proceedings. Thus I must advise you that any breach of this directive will be met with the severest sanctions.’ The tone had been pleasant, the point unmistakable.
Rosy had nodded meekly and indicated she would of course be suitably discreet. But curiosity prevailed and she had asked cautiously, ‘But what about Mrs Gill? She was certainly acting very strangely when I last saw her.’
‘Ye-es,’ he had replied slowly, ‘the lady seems to have had a breakdown of sorts – permanent probably – and is talking very wildly.
Very
wildly. She is under the impression that she is the spy Mata Hari.’ He gave a wintry smile. ‘But she has also indicated that it was she who had been responsible for the murder of your poor aunt; seems most emphatic about it … some sort of domestic jealousy, one gathers. Despite her patent confusion we are inclined to believe what she says. Among other things the gun in her possession was the same as that used on Mrs Beasley, but she has also been most explicit about how – as Mata Hari, you understand – she had been biding her time for months to get revenge on her “arch rival”. Apparently it began with the beribboned bits of coal and went on from there … all calculated to a nicety it seems, as is the style with your better class of assassin.’ He allowed himself another chilly smile.
‘Totally bonkers, you see!’ interrupted the inspector with some satisfaction.
The superintendent winced but disregarded him.
‘Thus, until she recovers –
if
she recovers – she has been sent to a place of seclusion and supervised rest. And so I must tell you that, in principle, the case involving your aunt is closed – or to be more accurate,
relegated
for the foreseeable future.’
He looked vaguely apologetic as if assuming the grieving niece might feel short-changed or demand further explanation. Thus Rosy’s instant response of compliant understanding was clearly approved, and perhaps as a gesture of gratitude he nodded towards the bookshelf displaying the old photographs of her parents and Marcia. Pointing to the latter he observed, ‘Must have been quite a stunner as a girl, a real beauty, in fact …’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Just shows, you never know what life’s going to throw at you, do you?’
Rosy agreed that you did not. And then promising again that she would say nothing that might encourage the press in their speculation over the mode or cause of Mr Gill’s suicide, she showed them to the door and returned to the sitting room in a state of dazed relief. Clearly the Churchill conspiracy had far outstripped the importance of the Beasley case! She opened the window and sniffed the scent of the approaching spring, sombrely triumphant that Marcia’s past could remain a secret and family honour be upheld.
She was just basking in that realisation when her thoughts were shattered by the telephone. ‘We are coming to see you,’ announced the unmistakable voice of Vera Collinger.
And come they did, worried and avid for news. Cedric murmured a few words of polite enquiry re her welfare and Felix flourished his flowers; but it was obvious that their
main objective was to learn just how much Rosy Gilchrist or Harold Gill had let drop to the police.
‘Nothing,’ she told them coolly. ‘Gill topped himself without saying a word – well nothing that was relevant – and I omitted everything.’
‘Really?’ said Cedric. ‘You mean all references to Sabatier and to our nonsense with the coal?’
She nodded.
‘Hmm. Very commendable.’
‘Are you sure?’ demanded Vera sceptically. ‘I don’t imagine you were in the sharpest frame of mind to cope with their questions.’
‘Don’t you?’ Rosy asked mildly.
‘But what about the
wife
?’ cried Felix. ‘We rather assumed they were operating together. Surely they could have obtained a lot from her!’ He gazed anxiously at Rosy.
She gave a slow grin. ‘Oh they
did
– and so did I.’ And she proceeded to tell them all that Mrs Gill had told her, and what apparently the lady – or her alter ego – had later confessed when interviewed in the police station.
The account took rather a long time and when she had finished there was a heavy silence. And then Felix began to titter. ‘Who would have thought that po-faced woman could harbour such fantasies? Just goes to show, still waters run in
very
subterranean depths! Do you think they have to restrain her from doing a striptease in the cell or wherever she is?’ He continued to giggle loudly.
‘Be quiet, Felix,’ Vera barked. ‘I doubt if she’s quite the lunatic you imagine. Personally I am not entirely convinced by this business of her suffering a breakdown and all the rest of it. You will note that the version of events she gave to Miss Gilchrist diverged considerably from what she claimed
to the police. She had been perfectly confident in admitting so much detail to her captive because she knew, or thought she knew, that Rosy was going to be silenced. However, events took a different turn … And having been caught attempting to blow the young policeman’s head off with the Beretta she was naturally in a dangerous position – a position that would become even more dangerous when she was taken into custody and in all likelihood confronted with her account as told to Miss Gilchrist.
‘But Rosy didn’t reveal any of that,’ objected Felix.
‘Of course she didn’t,’ Cedric said. ‘
We
now know that but at the time Mrs Gill did not. Do let Vera get on, dear chap!’
The expositor gave him a gracious nod and continued. ‘In that account she revealed a whole spate of damning things: she had colluded with her husband to kill her visitor, had been closely involved in Marcia’s murder and an accessory to Clovis’s, had personally tried to kill Adelaide Fawcett – and most vital of all, had been engaged in a wartime plot to annihilate Churchill and ease the pathway to a Nazi invasion. Frankly, placed in similar circumstances I would not hesitate to fabricate a breakdown – though whether I would choose to inhabit the persona of such a one as Mata Hari I rather doubt.’ Miss Collinger frowned as if pondering the possibility.
‘Yes, it does stretch the imagination,’ Felix murmured, gazing with apparent absorption at Rosy’s standard lamp.
‘Vera could be right,’ mused Cedric. ‘Sharp of the woman to take the blame for Marcia’s murder. By freely admitting to that she probably hoped to obscure the real motive. The killing would be seen as an isolated
crime passionnel,
not a carefully planned response to political blackmail and all
that it entailed; simply the act of a jealous crank deserving of medication instead of the gallows. The breakdown and gibberish about Mata Hari would help confirm that view … as, judging from what Miss Gilchrist’s visitors were saying, seems to have been the case. What do you think?’
There was a short silence, followed by a lively debate as to whether Mrs Gill was indeed a raving lunatic or, as Vera had suggested, a lady of consummate guile and enterprise. No firm conclusion was reached.
‘It is of little consequence,’ Felix opined, ‘the essential thing is that they have
closed
the case! Do you realise what that means? We are now all free. Free as the veritable birds of paradise!’ he cried gaily, executing a little jig on the hearthrug.
‘Just watch your plumage,’ Miss Collinger growled, ‘you could come a nasty cropper doing that.’
Cedric cleared his throat. ‘I propose,’ he announced, ‘that in view of the fortuitous outcome we might go a burst and avail ourselves of luncheon at the Berkeley. What do you think, Miss Gilchrist – Rosy? Perhaps you will be our guest?’ He flashed a rare smile.
Rosy replied that she thought it a lovely idea and she so appreciated his kind invitation, but in view of the recent shocks and theatricals she wasn’t quite up to such festive ventures. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I think I will just stay here quietly for the time being – still rather a lot to think about.’
‘You do look pretty haggard,’ Felix agreed. ‘Another time perhaps …’ He turned to Vera. ‘I hope you are not going to wear that hat!’
They trooped out leaving Rosy alone and in peace. For a few moments she contemplated the empty air, her mind still a bemused jumble. And then she smiled as a thought struck her. One good thing had emerged at any rate: at least Lady Fawcett would be spared any further donations to the Pygmy fund!
The thought vanished as her eye was caught by the photograph of Marcia on the bookcase. She picked it up and studied the firm features and wide challenging eyes. What was it the police superintendent had said?
Must have been quite a stunner as a girl – a real beauty
… Yes, he was right, she had been beautiful once – attractive too, as even Vera had acknowledged:
I was frightfully fond of your aunt.
And so it seemed had others. The words of Brother Ignatius echoed in her mind:
Your aunt was always very kind to me. I think we had a bond.
But she had been a lot of other things too, less endearing, less amusing …
Rosy continued to gaze down at the face, perplexed and ambivalent. What the
hell
had the girl been up to? What had she been pursuing all those years? What had she been seeking or feeling? Impossible to tell. But one thing was certain: whatever her faults, vices even, she hadn’t deserved that bloody bucket!
She stretched out on the sofa, and for the umpteenth time scrutinised and tried to decipher the contents of the packet she had slipped into her handbag during the police shindig at the Gills’ house. The difficulty was the language. It was German – of which she knew four terms:
ja, nein, schweinhund
and
hände hoch.
None of these seemed to feature in the text and she was hanged if she would go to the expense of buying a Kraut dictionary!