Authors: Antonia Fraser
'In its own way I suppose it does make sense. If true,' said Jemima slowly. 'Tell me, how did he take the news, the news of her death?'
'I can only say that he howled. Gary Harwood, one of my lads, good-looking young fellow, you'll remember him - was with me. He can confirm that. A howl like a dog. And then blubbered like a baby. Still, that means nothing. You'd be surprised at the ways of some murderers. Cry like babies on being shown a corpse they themselves have battered to death. No my dear, it must be said that things do look rather black for him. First of all, lack of alibi. Then attempt to get a false one out of his friend. Between ourselves, we picture it this way. He returns to Adelaide Square. Meets Chloe Fontaine, perhaps on the stairs, perhaps in your - her own flat fetching something. More likely the latter. She has let herself in with her spare set of keys. She gets him the razor, takes it into the bedroom, they have a quarrel - perhaps she breaks him the news of her pregnancy - and he grabs a knife from the kitchen and stabs her to death.'
'Why is she in her
petticoat?
'Very hot day. Everyone is out of the building. More like a dress than a petticoat, wasn't it?'
'For obvious reasons, I don't remember it too well. Perhaps you're right. It's still unlike Chloe to wander round any building in her petticoat. She is - was - always very neatly dressed.'
'Maybe he and she were going to' - cough - 'you know. She
was
an adventurous lady, after all.' Pompey broke off discreetly. 'Anyway, continue—'
'He leaves the flat. The second half of his statement about bringing the plant and so forth is true. We've found his prints all over the scaffolding by the way.'
'I find it psychologically unconvincing, the return of a murderer -and why linger in the hall?'
'Murderers are funny people.' Pompey's voice sounded solemn down the line. Jemima could picture the shake of the head. 'Besides, he was drunk. Drunks are funny people too. And drink leads to murder. The demon drink. None of this would have happened, would it, if your friend Kevin John hadn't had a great deal more Scotch than was good for him?'
'You still have to prove it.'
'Certainly we do. Proof not psychology or feminine instinct - with due respect to you
and
Mrs Portsmouth - has always been my motto. Beyond all reasonable doubt, what's more. And we shall, we shall. He may well confess. I know the type.'
'Is he still at the station?'
'No, we let him go for the time being. We have to tie up the loose ends first. You know the form. He's staying in Chelsea now; we have the address - rather a good one: he's got rich friends as well as rough types like Dixie. No, he won't go far. I know the type.' Pompey coughed and then gave a particularly rich chuckle.
'By the way, my dear, there's something else which might interest you about your late friend's flat. Quite a way-out piece of information. We don't think the artist is involved in this. But my boys have found a spy hole through the bedroom wall. Small but perfectly formed. Behind a loose brick and right through that indecent red picture. There's modern building for you. Anyone applying their eye to it would have a good view of what went on in that bedroom.' He chuckled again. 'Easy for an outsider to come up the fire escape onto the small kitchen balcony, remove the loose brick and - er - apply the eye. The reason we don't think Athlone is involved, is nothing to do with its being his own picture, he might even enjoy damaging that in a good cause - you know artists. No, it's because there are a lot of fingerprints. We're just checking them out, but we already know two things. They all belong to the same person and that person is not Athlone.'
'What?' This time Jemima was genuinely shocked. 'My God, the caller - the anonymous caller. My secret view, he called it, something like that. It's in my statement.' She said in a controlled voice, 'curiouser and curiouser.'
'Exactly,' said Pompey with great satisfaction. 'Curious is exactly what it is.'
'To think that I slept there!'
A cough. 'I take it you
were
alone on that occasion?' Jemima reminded herself that this was to be taken as one of Pompey's little jokes, and not as a dig.
'Not only that, but you can take it that I never did like that picture,' was her fervent reply.
Pompey had had his fun. 'Now, my dear,' he continued in a graver voice, 'I'm afraid you're going to have the Press round you any minute if you haven't already. The death will be announced on the early evening news. But you'll handle that with your usual charm. They can't get into the building itself. No point in that.'
After Pompey had rung off, Jemima went to the balcony and peered discreetly over. It was true. A little knot of photographers was grouped on the pavement; there were also a few anonymous women, like extras in a crowd scene. PC Bland was staring straight ahead.
There was of course nothing to be seen except an ugly modern concrete building. The lure of murder had brought these people together; if the demonstrators returned on Monday would they mingle with this tourist crowd, still bearing their placards which vowed destruction to the Lion of Bloomsbury? In principle Jemima preferred the applied spirit of the demonstrators to the prurient curiosity of the women outside; but she wondered whether the demonstrators were as idealistic and the spectators as ghoulish as she conventionally imagined. Perhaps some of these spectators would shed real tears for the lurid death of Chloe Fontaine, beautiful, defenceless, fragile, slain by a brutal murderer, even as they goggled at the site of her death. While probably not one of the demonstrators - engaged in saving bricks and mortar -would feel much of a pang for the death of a human being, given that she had been the mistress of the Lion of Bloomsbury.
The presentation on the news programmes of both television channels was comparatively restrained. The BBC showed that still picture of Chloe under her parasol which had attracted Adam Adamson's attention. It looked highly incongruous alongside the announcement that the police were treating her death as murder. ITN rather more dashingly showed a short clip of Chloe chatting soulfully about literature, her face framed by a stiff white lace collar like a ruff; the clip must have been taken from that same programme where she met Sir Richard Lionnel. But he was not included so most likely the connection was unknown; even if there were rumours, ITN would not have risked making such a libellous inference. ITN did refer to the title of Chloe's last novel as
Fallen Woman
- a mistake corrected later in the programme - but that was probably carelessness. The BBC referred to the same novel as
Fallen Children
and did not correct their mistake later.
Nothing else happened that evening till about ten o'clock. Jemima deserted the slightly frivolous narrative and small print of the Edwardian diary for the more rewarding disciplin
e of Nadine Gordim
er's novel.
When the telephone rang, she found that with concentration on such a spare and stern book had come peace. She therefore received Valentine Brighton's late-night call with equanimity. It had been, all things considered, a bloodless Sunday. Not that Valentine himself sounded bloodless. He was breathing heavily; his voice was agitated and quite jerky compared to his usual airy tones. He did not sound at all himself.
He began at once: 'I've got something I've really got to heave off my chest about all this. I need advice, your calm approach, Jemima darling. You know about the police, don't you? That man Portsmouth, I seem to remember you worked with him in the past. You see, I've always given them a wide berth - in London that is. Our local man at home is quite a decent fellow. Mummy does the Right Thing and asks him to lunch at Helmet from time to time. But up here I've always tended to agree with Mrs Madigan in
Juno and the Paycock
that "the Polis as Polis in this city is Null and Void".'
His badly rendered accent represented a ghastly attempt at his usual light-heartedness: there was nothing properly light about Valentine's approach.
He proposed a meeting the next day. 'Now how would you like to do it? I hardly want to come to Adelaide Square. Poor divine Chloe. Surrounded by Press, I daresay. The building I mean. I don't expect you want to come to the Brighthelmet Press. How would you like the Reading Room of the British Library? I imagine you'll be trying to get back to work on the Golden Goodies.' He gave the impression of having planned it all out in a way she could hardly refuse.
It was while listening to Valentine's unaccustomedly emotional accents, and above all his rendering of O'Casey, that Jemima made a discovery. In not sounding like himself, Valentine Brighton had not exactly sounded like a total stranger. Curiouser and curiouser. Taking into account Pompey's final rich revelation of the peep-hole through the picture, it was not too difficult to make the connection.
The Irish accent clinched it; this was the intense voice of the anonymous telephone caller on the night before and the morning of Chloe's death. One phrase in particular was almost identical: 'Now how would you like to do it
...'
'Now how would you like it
...'
had breathed the unknown caller. 'In that bed
..
.' Yes, she would certainly meet Valentine Brighton in the Reading Room the next day. She had become very curious indeed about the role of Valentine Brighton in the life of Chloe Fontaine.
12
Shattered
Jemima, heading straight for Row B at the end of the Reading Room by pre-arrangement, spotted Valentine's fair head from a long way off. He was engaged in reading something which looked like a typescript. On this occasion he was not slumped down upon the dark polished desk. Nor, for that matter, was Jemima herself disturbed by premonitions of violence. The habitual mental litany, as she ticked off the rows of seats, manifested itself in words of comfort: A for Adorable, B for Better and Better
...
This time no secret shapes of dread intervened to kidnap her private alphabet.
On Monday morning, early, the Reading Room was already filling up rapidly. But as readers strode about purposefully looking for a seat, interweaving amongst assistants carrying piles of books marked by white slips, the confusion and slight noise created a favourable impression upon Jemima. The Reading Room, on this occasion, offered a haven even for Jemima Shore.
The noiseless surface of Adelaide Square had been shattered for ever by the murder of Chloe. Whatever the interior turbulence of the building before her death, it was as nothing compared to the maelstrom which now held it in its sway. It was as though the doll's-house front of the building had been stripped away, leaving Jemima, the last inhabitant - except for Tiger - exposed to the prying gaze of the outside world.
Thanks to the jolly camaraderie which existed between Fleet Street and the police, Jemima's own role in the discovery of the corpse had become known. Her present location, even the private telephone number of Sir Richard Lionnel's office suite, had also not proved beyond Fleet Street's powers of discovery.
Since she had a great many friends in Fleet Street, Jemima regarded the approaches of the journalists as quite inevitable. As a professional herself, she certainly wasted no time in resenting them (although her own kind of journalism was very different). She was after all quite capable of looking after herself, giving pleasant noncommittal answers where necessary, as well as confirming facts. She refused for example to be drawn on the question of Chloe's colourful private life beyond what was known already.
'I only know what I read in the papers,' Jemima would say charmingly. Having time and space at their disposal - unlike the television channels the previous evening - the morning papers had indeed provided their readers with some titillating details of
la vie bohemienne
as it had been apparently lived by the late Chloe Fontaine. Chloe's taste for having herself so frequently and so dramatically pictured, made love to as it were by the camera, brought unexpected financial benefits to the photographers concerned, who found their studied romantic portraits, veterans of Chloe's book jackets, pressed into service once more in the coarser medium of newsprint.
'Isabelle's pet, young Binnie Rapallo, must have made a killing,' thought Jemima. 'Evidently she was still able to sell her pictures even from darkest Capri surrounded by wild princes.'
The word Bohemian was employed quite lavishly to describe Chloe's life style. Her two marriages provided some of the material. Lance Strutt, an actor who had been at Cambridge with Chloe and Jemima, was on tour in Canada. He described himself as 'utterly shattered' in the
Mail
and 'very shocked' in the
Express.
Both statements were probably true. The further statement that he and Chloe had remained good friends after their break-up was to Jemima's certain knowledge not true.
Lance, at any rate until he became wise to Chloe's errant conduct, had been a nice but rather dim character. Igor, on the other hand, although his travel books and articles never quite raised him out of the medium-dim class as a writer had not been nice at all. About the only thing to be said for him was that he had at least been more satisfactory than Kevin John Athlone for whom Chloe had left him. Igor speaking from Venice was however nice enough to be 'shocked' in the
Mail
and 'shattered' in the
Express.
And he was honest enough to admit to having been on bad terms with his ex-wife.