Authors: Antonia Fraser
When Jemima finally awoke the next morning, it was with an instant sense of happiness, content. That sensation quickly vanished when she first felt, then saw, the figure of Adam Adamson, lying across the Empire bed. He was fast asleep. He looked everything he had not seemed the night before; innocent, uncorrupted.
'Oh Christ,' said Jemima Shore aloud. He did not move.
She longed absolutely and passionately for him to be gone, magicked away from the flat; as much as she had longed for him to make love to her for ever the night before. Why could not such a mythologically minded man bear in mind the story of Cupid and Psyche? Cupid had insisted on leaving the mortal maiden Psyche before the light came. Very sensible of him. After all, dreadful consequences had ensued when Psyche had attempted to defy the ban by lifting her lamp of oil to view her unknown lover.
In this case Cupid had overslept.
'Oh Christ.' Unbidden the visage of Detective Chief Inspector John Portsmouth came into her mind; unlike the Cheshire Cat he was not smiling, but deprecatingly shaking his head. It had to be admitted that there was something to shake his head about
...
shades of Chloe Fontaine (although that too was an unfortunate phrase).
She became more resolute. After all
in its own way
it was an investigation. Jemima was fond of using the phrase
in its own way
on television when attempting to justify the unjustifiable. The Press sometimes mocked her for it. The memory of such - affectionate -attacks compelled her to admit, fair-minded person that she was, that given the opportunity she would undoubtedly behave in exactly the same way all over again.
Given the opportunity: but not however on Sunday morning. This particular Sunday morning at any rate. No one was going to be given any opportunity this morning. Adam Adamson, great casual encounter as he might be, was going to the police. She, Jemima Shore, was going to - well, first of all - have a cup of coffee.
She stepped gingerly from the white bed on which there were now no bedclothes at all and pulled her navy blue silk kimono from her suitcase. Adam did not stir as she left the room.
Some minutes were occupied in searching out first the coffee and then the method of making it in the immaculate but curiously ill-appointed kitchenette. In the end Jemima discovered a tin of Nescafe stuck behind the rows of clean cocktail glasses and made do with that, there being no apparent method of filling or making work the elaborate gleaming Italian coffee machine.
She sat meditatively on the single kitchen stool - uncomfortable and the wrong height. Was this kitchen intended for anything except getting ice cubes from the fridge? The coffee was too weak and tasted disgusting. As she sipped it, she heard the noise of the front door opening. Someone was coming in.
'Oh Christ,' she said for the third time.
The intruder had to be Sir Richard Lionnel. The police, so far as she knew, did not have a key to the flat and would in any case have rung first. Awkward and embarrassing as it might prove for him to use his own key without ringing the bell first, she supposed she could hardly object. The kitchen did possess a small digital clock. It was
11.30.
Jemima tied the sash of her kimono still more tightly round her and stepped out into the little hall with its Georgian mirror and table - the prettiest and simplest room in the flat. There was no one there. The drawing room was empty and the door to the office remained locked. It took her a few moments to realize that what she had heard was the sound of someone leaving the flat rather than entering it.
It was true. The green bedroom, now lit in a theatrical manner by one shaft of intense sunlight coming through the gaps in the heavy swagged curtains, was empty.
The light fell upon a note, written on a piece of paper headed 'From the office of Sir Richard Lionnel'.
'Dear Psyche,' it read, 'I'm afraid Cupid overslept but at least you didn't pour boiling oil over him. Thanks for everything. A. P.S. I've taken all the rest of this headed paper. Rather useful in the cause of revivification, don't you think? P.P.S. Don't worry, goddess, I'm going to the police.'
The rest of Sunday was much less exciting. Jemima forced herself to read an Edwardian diary taken out from the London Library; the small print acted as a special kind of discipline.
The call she awaited was from Pompey. It came about four o'clock that afternoon.
'Well, my dear,' he began, 'we've talked to your squatter friend.' 'My friend?'
'The one you met in the third-floor flat. Adam Adamson he calls himself. That's not his real name by the way. He's Adam all right but the rest of it is not quite so plain English. He tells me you advised him to go to the police. And very proper, too.' Pompey chuckled.
'Naturally. You know me, Pompey, Honest Jemima Shore. The good citizen.' All the same Jemima was not totally happy about all this jocularity. She could picture Pompey shaking his head.
'One thing did surprise me a little. He said
you'd
asked him no questions about his movements. Simply told him what had happened and said it was his duty to go to the police. And so, being a squatter -he calls it some funny name, doesn't he? - but not a slaughterer, those were his words, along he came to the station. Now, I wondered, where was the natural human curiosity of Jemima Shore, Investigator?
No
questions about his movements, alibi if any, connection with the deceased?'
Pompey might be wondering about her incuriosity but Jemima herself was speculating how Adam Adamson had eluded the policeman at the door; not so much last night but this morning in broad daylight.
Pompey answered that question for her.
'Mind you, our chap on the door, PC Bland, is still rather baffled as to how
your
friend got into the building last night. Your boy—' Jemima wished Pompey would stop the emphasis - 'swears he just walked in, and has indeed made a statement to that effect. He noticed no policeman and, in so far as a squatter can be said to do so, minded his own business. Spent the night upstairs, emerged this morning, met you, you told him - but then you know the rest of it, don't you, my dear?'
'And the murder period?'
'His statement says that he spent the day in the third-floor flat. He even had an alibi for the first period, though we haven't checked that out yet. Says he heard nothing, neither the deceased woman entering the flat with her companion whom we assume to be her murderer, nor any sounds of a struggle or cries. You wouldn't expect the latter, not with that slash across her windpipe, she would have died more or less instantly. Says the door is exceptionally thick and the flats - he called them some very rude name and tried to incorporate it in his sworn statement - are soundproof, at least above and below. Left the flat at about five-thirty to get something to eat, confirmed by one Jemima Shore. Did know the deceased woman but as Dollie Stover, not Chloe Fontaine. No prints of his in the bedroom but the murderer wiped that clean in any case.'
Pompey did not pause before adding in a completely different almost official voice: 'Ah, well, all this is of no great moment, because you see, we've picked up the artist.' Immediately Jemima's professional curiosity drove out all other considerations. 'Beyond that, we've checked out two alibis. Sir Richard Lionnel - he does prove after all to have an alibi, quite a good one as a matter of fact. The restaurant was called "The Little Athens", and he did have lunch there, no question of that, with a lady - now that's amusing - not your friend, naturally, seeing as her throat had been cut at the time, b
ut a lady, A Nonny Mouse.' Pompe
y chuckled. 'Second alibi, Mrs Mantovani, Mancini, whatever, the female editor. You mentioned her. Perfect alibi. Plane lands at Heathrow at one-fifty. Bus reached the airport proper - due to delays - at two-ten. She can't be in Central London before two-fifty and that's stretching it. She's out - as we see it.
'And I've another piece of news for you,' he continued remorselessly, 'my boys have spoken to the maid, Rosina Whatnot or whatever her name is. Visited her this morning. Another funny piece of deception there. No sick child. Very healthy child bawling away out of sheer bloody-minded healthiness according to my boys. They don't know how to bring up kids without spoiling them to death, Italians, do they? Be that as it may,
your
friend Miss Fontaine gave her a few weeks' holiday. Out of the blue. Said you didn't want anyone disturbing you.'
'I probably didn't,' Jemima felt bewildered. 'But I certainly didn't say so. I never had a chance. No, wait, Pompey, don't you see? She, Chloe, didn't want Rosina Whatnot hoofing about, talking to me perhaps about Lionnel, or about anything. Much safer not. She's a great talker, I gather. Is that true?'
'One of the greats. Screamed, cried, screamed again, told my boys everything, absolutely everything they wanted to know. All about Lionnel. The Sir she called him. The Big Sir - isn't that a hippy place in California? And one or two other details which may be useful. However, she's no good for the actual murder, of course, because she'd been on holiday all the previous week. Still she is valuable background material.'
'I might visit her: I should perhaps sort out financial arrangements with her, cleaning up the flat and so on. I hardly imagine old Mrs Stover will want to do that.'
'Why not visit her, my dear?' Joviality was the order of the day.
'And Athlone?'
'That's a very different story. Picked him up in a pub this morning. Twelve o'clock. Opening time. Very much the worse for wear. Slept rough I should imagine, or as near to it as you can get. You could smell the drink a yard off. No alibi for the vital time, beyond a confused story about drinking with someone called Dixie. Then we picked up Dixie in the next-door pub and he was the worse for wear too, but not so much that he was prepared to vouch for his mate. Very shifty character, Dixie, and knew which side his bread was buttered where the police were concerned; no alibi there, oh no. Won't swear beyond the fact that he met Athlone some time before lunch, but rather fancies it was between eleven and twelve. Very damning, Dixie. Particularly the last part of his statement.'
'Which was?'
'Athlone asked him for a razor.'
'Ah, the razor.' Jemima let out a long sigh. The whole question of the razor on the floor by Chloe's bed could not be pushed to the back of her mind for ever.
'Dixie couldn't help. Did the silly bugger think he carried a razor about with him to every pub he visited? Those were Dixie's exact words. Not the words of the sworn statement, however. Besides, Dixie has an enormous beard which shows no sign of having had a razor near it in years. Athlone swigs down two double Scotches, departs, swearing that he'll first find a razor to make himself beautiful for her Royal Highness the Lady Jezebel, and then tear her to pieces like the cur he is. And he won't even need the assistance of all the other curs in her life.'
'The latter being a Biblical reference, as I don't need to remind you,' was Jemima's tart comment.
'As well as hearsay evidence, as I don't need to remind
you.
Dixie - I repeat, a nasty piece of work - only tells us that Athlone made those remarks.'
'Go on. Kevin John certainly never made any secret of his violent intentions towards Chloe and even had a dress rehearsal with me. What's his story about the razor?'
'Athlone takes the line that he doesn't need a story about the razor because he obviously hasn't shaved for several days. That at least is true. Athlone fervently denies returning to the building until about four o'clock. According to his own statement, he spent the intervening hours wandering about Soho looking for flowers. Wanted red roses. Red roses not available. Finally found a pot plant, to wit Exhibit J.H.P.
10
,
one red pelargonium found on the floor of the lounge of the deceased, climbed up the scaffolding, found the balcony window unlocked, deposited the aforesaid plant and let himself out of the door. Felt a little weary after the climb and maybe the drink, as he used to be an athlete but described himself as none too fit these days - accurate that. Slept in the hall. Never went into the bedroom.'
'And of course he
didn't
need the key to get out of the flat. Because it wasn't double locked. You've suddenly reminded me that when I returned from the Library I didn't need to use the second Chubb key. Yet I'm almost certain I double locked it when I went out.'
'We found the deceased's own set of keys in the bedroom. Two keys to the flat, one to the front door of the building, and two more which we have identified as fitting the office suite.'
But Jemima pursued the subject of Kevin John. 'And
never
looked in the bedroom? When he was searching for Chloe?' This time Jemima was incredulous and Pompey was calming.
'Ah, my dear, but according to his statement he wasn't looking for Chloe Fontaine. He'd already cased the flat in the morning, hadn't he? No, he thought you might be resting in the bedroom. Being a gentleman he didn't like to disturb you. Deposited the plant and quit. As you have pointed out, the second lock was not in operation. It was easy to let himself out.'