Honeybath's Haven (20 page)

But ought it to be? Honeybath was certain that he owned no impulse to funk a confrontation, even if it ended with Prout taking a swipe at his skull with a poker. But Prout, he had decided, was tough. A nut, in fact, harder to crack than most craniums would be. It was Michaelis who might be said to represent the soft underbelly of the mystery. Before Prout was alerted to any imminent danger, it would be good tactics to have a go at the Medical Superintendent at Hanwell Court.

That there was danger not far off, both men must surely know. It was likely that there existed constant communication between them. They could not possibly be in any doubt that, once the hanky-panky over the lost pictures was suspected and came under investigation, they would themselves be in the front line of suspects in the mind of anybody who believed Edwin's death to have been a matter of foul play. So had they a strong sense, Honeybath wondered, that the tide was turning against them? Were they in constant fear that, in one way or another, they might slip up?

And there was another question about the pair. Had they planned Edwin's death from the start? Looked at one way, their whole project could be thought to have required it. They were proposing to steal, and Prout was proposing to assert his legal ownership of, a number of paintings which Edwin had, for reasons hidden in the depth of his own strange personality, concealed and presumably cherished. How could they hope simply to make off with them without his becoming so much as aware of the fact?

There was an answer to this. Michaelis had the cocksureness about the inside of other people's heads that was a kind of professional risk with persons of his kidney. Prout had for long harboured the notion that Edwin's mind, and particularly his memory, were quite extravagantly in decay. Together they might have decided that they could so work things that their depredations might never transpire. Indeed, the simple psychological likelihood lay here. There was something excessive and unverisimilar in the notion of amateur sneak thieves planning deliberate murder from the start. They had killed Edwin as an emergency measure when he turned out to be much more alert than they had supposed. It was fatally that he had returned to Hanwell Court instantly upon the report that Prout hadcome into the possession of three early Lightfoots. Rapidly altering and augmenting their design, the thieves had promptly made away with him.

It was a situation more hazardous than they had bargained for. But although both were equally involved, it had been only Michaelis who had been thrown into patent panic. Yes, Michaelis was the weak spot. Michaelis was the man to go for now. Having come rapidly to this conclusion, Honeybath resolved to pick up a taxi the moment he quitted Prout's flat, drive straight to Paddington, and make for Hanwell by the first available train. Prout would probably take a little time to ponder the significance of Honeybath's visit before taking any action. It might even be possible to corner Michaelis before any contact between the conspirators had been made.

‘I'm delighted to have seen the zinnias,' he said pacifically, ‘and I look forward to seeing the others. But they are no substitute – are they? – for Edwin himself, poor fellow.' Honeybath felt bad as he thus endeavoured to administer a kind of Machiavellian bromide to the doubtless suspicious Prout. ‘Incidentally, Ambrose, what is your own idea about the manner of Edwin's death? From time to time, you know, I really have a suspicion that foul play was involved. But it scarcely seems a rational notion – for what enemies could a man like Edwin have? I'd like your opinion. Was it plain misadventure, would you say – just a matter of a false step in the dark?'

‘It seems far the likeliest explanation.' Prout paused – decidedly wary now. ‘Yet I sometimes doubt it too. Edwin, after all, had that thing about women. He had fits when he couldn't resist them. You remember how he even had in tarts when he was living alone in Holland Park.'

‘Yes, I do remember that,' Honeybath said – and wondered whether he had lured Prout into some rather stupid double bluff. ‘But I think that may just have been a matter of his feeling lonely, and having in a girl from the street to chat to. Scarcely a matter of a sexual urge at all. It does often happen, I believe.'

‘No doubt. But don't forget, Charles, that it was a very rum place you landed him in.'

‘Hanwell?'

‘Yes, Hanwell. Half of the people clear nutters, including plenty of idle women. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that Edwin had got tangled up with two or three of them, and that some crazy fit of jealousy did the rest.'

‘I see.' Honeybath offered this thoughtfully and judiciously, although he thought it even more absurd than Melissa's daft notion about Lady Munden. ‘We must leave it all to the police,' he added vaguely, and got up to take his leave.

There was a taxi at the corner of the road. He hailed it, said ‘Paddington!' to the driver, and jumped in. He doubted whether Prout had been deceived. But at least he was himself now vigorously on the move.

 

 

 

In the train a disconcerting reflection came to our investigator. When that letter had arrived in Rome from Prout announcing the discovery of Edwin's zinnias Edwin had declared roundly that he had no memory of the thing, and had doubted whether he would recognize a zinnia if he saw it. But was this possible if the flower piece had been among those few undeclared canvasses that he had secretly cherished – or at least hidden away? Surely he must have taken a glance at them from time to time? It was hard not to suppose that his disavowal had been disingenuous; that he had quite pointlessly prevaricated. And this was unlike Edwin. He could be perverse and elusive, and he could happily spin you what were patent fantasies. But he didn't tell lies. Brooding on this small explicability, Honeybath felt rather hurt in his mind.

It was a sultry day, and had followed a sequence of sultry days. As soon as he had got out of London (where there is never anything to speak of that can be called weather in the common sense) Honeybath was aware of approaching storm, of thunder in the air. He was even a little nervous about it, since he was setting out on this unpremeditated expedition without a raincoat or even an umbrella. The train was heading west, so only the engine driver had much of a view in that direction. It was probably distinctly louring.

Although Honeybath had left Paddington shortly after noon, he had been able to buy what was absurdly called an evening paper, and he took this unexacting reading matter along with him to the dining car when he decided that lunch on the train was preferable to a late refection once more at the bar of the Hanwell Arms. He consumed some soup, while simultaneously absorbing what the paper had to announce about the state of the nation. It wasn't much. He turned a page, and found himself looking at Lady Munden.

Yes, here the ill-used lady was again – and again as represented by Edwin Lightfoot. This time she was presented straight, although in effective caricature; and at the bottom of the very indifferent reproduction it was just possible to read the words
Soggy Sabrina
. They rang a bell, and Honeybath was so startled by this singular bobbing up of the late Edwin Lightfoot's censurable hobby that it was moments before he realized that Lady Munden was only one in a little picture gallery of Hanwell notabilities. Next to Lady Munden was Colonel Dacre, who was labelled
Barmy Bang-bang
; next to Colonel Dacre was Michaelis, who was
Signor Cipolla
; and last came Mr Brown, who was apparently
Nasty Ned.

Feeling (as elderly people do) that no outrage was beyond the reach of the press, Honeybath looked for justification or enlightenment in the article below the reproductions. It was a fairly reasonable recapitulation of the circumstances of Edwin Lightfoot's still recent demise, and it was more informative on the general conditions of life at Hanwell Court than concerned to speculate other than very circumspectly on exactly what had happened. That luxury accommodation for elderly gentlefolk was provided by the establishment in an impressively stylish way, and that a great deal that was mildly but expensively eccentric went on among them, were clearly the circumstances that had prompted somebody to the notion that Hanwell was good for a brisk and bright write-up. On how the drawings had come into the possession of the newspaper no information was supplied.

Through a mist of indignation, Honeybath penetrated to the fact that he
knew
. There had been reporters around remarkably soon after the discovery of Edwin's body. And there had been that break-in, and that mysterious laugh. The laugh had come when the intruder's eye had fallen, say, on Soggy Sabrina, and the scoundrel had got away with the drawings in his pocket. He must obviously have had an effective lie to tell about them when he sold his effort to an editor, since newspapers even of a rubbishing sort are chary of purchasing stolen goods. Apart from this, the thing was innocuous by the common standards of the day. Honeybath didn't at all care for it, all the same. If, as he suspected, a letter from a solicitor should presently turn up with the news that Edwin had appointed him as his executor on the professional side of his estate, that paper – he told himself – would be booked for trouble. Indeed, it could probably become a police matter at once. There had been extraordinary hardihood, surely, in such an act of pilfering within hours of Edwin's mysterious death.

Rather as if he were a demoniac figure taking the stage in grand opera, Honeybath descended from his railway carriage to the sound of great peals of distant thunder. He inquired hastily about return trains (since he wasn't going to risk another night at the Hanwell Arms) and then got himself into a cab. Just how to tackle Michaelis was something on which he hadn't made up his mind, and he realized that he had about ten minutes in which to do so now. This time, he didn't think that improvisation would quite do. Michaelis, although a less resolute man than Prout, was also a much cleverer one. If he were to be led into any betrayal of wrongdoing, a plan of campaign was required. And in the first place he had to be
seen
clearly. He had fallen into some sort of panic at the time of Edwin's death, but this didn't mean that he might not be quite a dominating personality on his own ground. Had he dominated Edwin – a pliable man in some ways, although an obstinate man in others? Honeybath felt that he knew very little about their relationship, except that Michaelis had applied what might be called the theory of occupational therapy to Edwin. In fact he had badgered him into painting – perhaps when he didn't feel in the least like it – simply to prevent his wandering round and being a nuisance. Or course, Edwin
could
be a nuisance. There had never been any doubt about that. The treatment had been extremely demeaning, all the same, and it was probable that Edwin hadn't liked it a bit. Edwin had nicknamed Michaelis Signor Cipolla. Honeybath couldn't place the reference, although he had an obscure sense that he ought to be able to do so. But it was unlikely that the original Cipolla was an amiable character.

All this didn't really get far, and it certainly didn't suggest what would be, with Michaelis, the best point of attack. It would possibly be wise to go straight to the matter of the lost pictures – and perhaps a little to stretch the probability that Charles Honeybath RA was going to be required to assume some legal responsibility in the administration of Edwin's estate. He'd make this point at once, and then go straight on to announce his conviction that highly suspicious circumstances were now known to him about the handling of certain important paintings which had almost certainly been in Edwin's possession until his death or very shortly before his death. Shock tactics, in fact. That would be the thing.

He found Michaelis in his Gothicized and opulently appointed room. The man didn't look well. In fact he looked like one living with something not at all comfortably to be lived with. And this, no doubt, was exactly the state of the case.

‘Good afternoon,' Honeybath said. ‘I think it likely that I shall be required to deal with Lightfoot's artistic affairs. The works remaining in his hands, or otherwise legally his, at the time of his death; and various questions of copyright and the like. I have reason, Dr Michaelis, to suppose – I fear I must say “suspect” – that you can help me. Do I make myself plain?'

‘Far from it.' Michaelis licked his lips nervously. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘I am talking, in the first place, about certain pictures painted by Lightfoot long ago, and now certainly of great value, which have disappeared. Or, rather, some have disappeared – I have reason to suppose from Hanwell Court – and their whereabouts are at present unknown to me. Others have similarly disappeared, but have turned up again where they have no business to be. In the possession, in fact, of Lightfoot's brother-in-law, Ambrose Prout. And as you now appear to enjoy Prout's more or less intimate acquaintance, I judge it likely that you know a good deal about the matter.'

‘Surely at the time of Lightfoot's death his brother-in-law was his appointed, or at least customary and acknowledged, agent in the marketing and general handling of anything he produced?'

‘That is, in a manner, so.' Honeybath was a shade disconcerted by this move. It had been a formidably precise statement of a very imprecise relationship. And it suggested that there might be legal snags ahead. Honeybath decided to plank more cards on the table. ‘But I have to tell you, Dr Michaelis, that only this morning Prout was constrained to show me a painting of Lightfoot's, a flower-piece with zinnias, executed some twenty years ago, for which Prout could provide a provenance only of the plainest cock-and-bull sort. I think it probable that you have heard of a certain Mrs Gutermann-Seuss, who lives in Brighton. I have interviewed her, and inspected her establishment. It is clear to me that Prout has concocted supposed dealings with her which would be adequate to his all-too-evident purposes in the common commercial way, and in a situation where no grave suspicions of criminal conduct were involved. They will certainly not stand up to investigation by the police. And that investigation, I shall see to it that the police undertake. I have to remind you – and, I think, no more than remind you – that my friend has been murdered.'