The Birthday Present (22 page)

‘No. He did have a temper – everyone says so – but she believed that she could always sweet-talk him because of what they had meant to each other. He let her stay in that flat rent-free.’

He rolled his eyes and added a few words to the statement. ‘I’ll rewrite this in ink,’ he told her, ‘and then you have to read it and sign it if it’s correct. Now  . . . do you have any tickets to prove you and Mr Bennley really were in France? You could have gone to Brighton for a few days for all we know.’

Alarmed, she was silent. He seemed to be enjoying the notion that
she
might have killed Connie. Did his question mean she was a suspect? ‘I think the crew of the boat would remember us,’ she said at last, ‘because we had an invalid with us who had to be carried on and off.’

He whistled tunelessly as he wrote down her words, then scratched his head with the blunt end of the pencil. ‘So you can’t think why he might have killed her? She didn’t owe rent or anything?’

‘I told you – he let her have the flat rent-free and I gave Connie some money, just to help her, and she cooked a meal in the evening.’

Recalling the dreadful bacon and onion roll, Rose’s eyes filled with tears. ‘She didn’t deserve to die.’

He regarded her impassively. ‘Tears don’t wash with me,’ he told her, as he stood up. ‘I’ve seen too many in my time. We’ll get you down to the morgue; then when the identification’s over you come back here and sign the statement.’ He rang a small hand bell and Rose stumbled to her feet as a young man in a large green apron arrived moments later, and she followed him down a corridor, down some steps and along to a door which stood ajar. He kicked it open with a practised blow and Rose found herself in a grim room surrounded by trolleys bearing covered bodies. At the far end of the room a man was wielding a knife which he applied to the inert figure on his slab. Rose shut her eyes, sickened by the smell of cold blood and some kind of disinfectant.

‘Over here, Miss Paton.’

Shaking inwardly, Rose walked across the room as indicated. The assistant whipped back the white sheet to reveal a pale shadow of the woman Rose remembered. Gone were the careful curls – the result of all those overnight curling rags – and in their place she saw dank and lustreless hair.

The assistant said defensively, ‘We had to wash her all over. It’s the rules.’

Gone was the exaggerated rouge on her cheeks and carelessly applied lip colour. The often clown-like results of Connie’s everyday make-up had been removed and were now replaced by dull yellowing skin and pallid lips. There was a stitch in the upper lip and a bruise had started to form. Rose looked at her with growing dismay. Poor Connie would hate to be seen like this, she thought, even in death.

She whispered, ‘I’m so sorry, Connie. This shouldn’t have happened but the police are looking for him.’

There were dark marks around the scraggy neck. The assistant pointed. ‘You can see the thumb marks  . . . those bruises, there. He strangled her but he must have hit her first.’

Rose nodded wordlessly. She was aware of a deep sadness settling into her heart. This was something she could not undo. ‘If only I had been there with you, Connie,’ she said softly. ‘But at least you are at peace.’ Leaning nervously over the body, she lifted one of Connie’s thin, claw-like hands and pressed it to her cheek by way of goodbye. She was ashamed that she felt unable to kiss the ravaged face and felt the tears returning.

‘That’s enough now, miss.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Is it, or is it not, the body of Miss Constance Wainwright?’

‘Yes. That’s Connie.’ What’s left of her, Rose thought with sudden bitterness. ‘I hope they find him and string him up!’

He shrugged. ‘Most crimes like this go unsolved. They reckon this one’s long gone. Mexico or somewhere like that!’

Replacing the sheet with a quick movement, he nodded towards the door and Rose thanked him and made her way slowly back to the front desk.

‘Ah, Miss Paton!’

She nodded and the constable pushed her statement across the counter for her to read. She read it slowly, weighing every word. It seemed the last thing she could do for poor Connie. Satisfied to see that he had finally called Connie ‘a woman friend of the suspect’, she took the proffered pen, signed her name at the bottom, then hurried outside to rejoin Marcus.

‘How did it go?’ he asked.

‘Horrible  . . . terrible  . . . all of it!’

Her voice shook and she began to cry and he put his arms around her and held her close until she recovered.

Saturday 5th July dawned bright and sunny which was considered by everyone to be a good omen. In Longley Manor, home of Bernard’s wealthy uncle, preparations started as soon as it was light. Caterers had been booked for the lavish luncheon and money was considered no object as the whole event was the uncle’s wedding present to the bride and groom.

It seemed as though an army of servants had moved in. In the ballroom, where the luncheon would be served, men were to be found on ladders set against the walls, as they hung gold ribbons and trails of green ivy at suitable intervals. Above them down the centre of the room, three elaborate chandeliers had been taken down and washed in vinegar and water and these now sparkled in the sunlight. Two women were busy arranging flowers in sparkling crystal bowls; pink, white and dark red was the chosen colour scheme interspersed with sprays of gold-painted leaves.

A trolley was pushed into the room bearing china and cutlery, to be set out when the polished table had been covered with the white, gold-edged tablecloth. Dozens of glasses waited on the top of the sideboard, alongside piles of dark red serviettes and a bowl of place names waiting to be set out.

At seven fifty-four, Henry da Silva entered the ballroom and patrolled the room with a critical frown on his face but he was quickly hustled away by his wife.

‘Do please go, Henry! You make people nervous. They all know what they’re doing.’

‘I’m just looking, dear,’ he murmured as she steered him firmly towards the door.

‘That’s what I mean! Now leave this side of things to the professionals and to me. Go and see how Bernard is faring. He might appreciate a wise word or two on the joys and woes of marriage from his favourite uncle.’

‘Bernard? Is he here? Should he be here?’

‘Bernard. Your nephew, remember!’ Her tone was exasperated. ‘He slept here overnight.’

‘Oh Lord! So he did. I’d quite forgotten.’

‘Alicia couldn’t stand any more of his dithering. She was worried about him. Thought he was feeling a mite desperate. She asked if he could come over here. Thought it might buck him up.’

Outside the door he stopped. ‘He’s not going to jilt her, is he? That blasted Carlotta  . . .’

‘Hush dear!’ She glanced round, uncomfortably aware that his voice would carry, but thankfully everyone seemed to be engrossed in their work. ‘Of course he’s not going to jilt her. That little awkwardness is in the past so please don’t refer to it again.’ She gave him a gentle push and went back into the ballroom.

Bernard was pacing the room when the knock came. ‘Come in.’

It was his uncle and Bernard forced a smile.

Henry said, ‘The big day, eh? Quite an occasion, what!’

‘It seems somehow unreal.’ Bernard was sitting on the bed, still wearing his dressing gown, and his feet were bare.

‘You don’t look old enough to be getting wed.’

‘I’m twenty-seven! But I admit I’ll be glad when it’s all over.’ He sighed as he turned away and walked to the wardrobe. He pulled out his outfit, dark suit, crisp white shirt, brand new shoes.

His uncle said, ‘Don’t forget your buttonhole. The florist is coming at eleven, the hairdresser will be here in an hour or so for my wife, the photographer is already flitting around the grounds, planning his backgrounds.’ He shook his head. ‘I tried to take a look at the ballroom but your mother saw fit to chase me out.’

Bernard nodded gloomily. ‘Did you go through all this fuss when you married?’

‘Of course we did, old boy! In the time it took I could have organized a battle and won it! Still, never mind. Look on the bright side. You and Letitia will be off to Torquay for your honeymoon and will forget all about the hassle of the wedding. Damned nice place, Torquay. You’ll like it. But take my advice and steer clear of the sea. All that nonsense about the benefits of salt water! Poppycock! I caught the devil of a cold last time I was there. A real beast, that was. Laid me low for three days. Didn’t please your aunt, I can tell you that for nothing! Rather restricted her socializing.’ He laughed. ‘Still. Women are funny creatures. We can’t live with them but can’t live without them. Know what I mean, do you?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Er  . . . no worries, then? Nothing I can say to set your mind at ease?’ Without waiting for an answer he went on. ‘That’s the ticket. Good lad!’

A maid knocked on the door and came in with a large jug of hot water.

Seeing his nephew’s surprise, he said, ‘I’m afraid that damned geyser thingy in the bathroom isn’t working again but Ellen will bring you up a second jug of hot water if you stand the first outside the door when you’ve emptied it into the bowl.’

‘Right you are, Uncle. Thank you.’ He summoned up another smile.

Henry, feeling that he had done rather well, took his chance and left his nephew to his ablutions.

Marcus and Steven eyed each other across the breakfast table. Both had finished eating but neither felt inclined to start the rest of the day. It was just before ten and the rest of the house appeared to be in a state of turmoil. The hairdresser had arrived and Letitia had retired to her room to have her hair dressed by Mrs Stimpson. At breakfast Letitia had eaten almost nothing, complaining that she felt slightly sick with nerves and could only manage half a slice of toast.

Rose had come down late, having overslept, and was now coming to the end of her scrambled egg and bacon. When the front door bell rang they glanced at each other. Steven said, ‘It might be for me,’ but hesitated, making no move to enquire further.

Rose laughed. ‘It certainly won’t be for me,’ and glanced at Marcus.

‘I hope not!’ he said in answer to her unanswered question. They waited for footsteps in the hall which would indicate that Mrs Bray was on her way to answer it. There were none.

Steven said, ‘If it’s for me, I’m not here.’

Rose swallowed the last mouthful, dabbed at her mouth with her serviette and jumped up. ‘I’ll go!’

The man standing on the front step looked remarkably like Andrew Markham but she told herself that was not possible because since Connie’s murder, he had not been seen. Unless he was trying to disguise himself.

‘I want to speak to Steven Bennley,’ the man said truculently. ‘Tell him it’s Bart Markham.’

‘He’s not here, I’m afraid.’ Rose tried to look honest.

‘Just tell him it’s best he comes to the door. I’m in a—’

‘I’ve just told you – he’s not here, Mr Markham.’ So this was the other part-owner. She regarded him curiously. He looked slightly younger and was slimmer in build.

‘And I know he
is
so tell him to—’

‘I could take a message. Would that help?’

‘You can tell him he must settle his debts or expect serious consequences. Say next time he might not get off so lightly. He’s been warned.’ He turned on his heel but then had second thoughts and turned back. ‘You his sister?’

‘No I’m not. I’m Rose Paton. My stage name is Miss Lamore. I shared a flat with Connie.’ She gave him a hard look. ‘So where is your brother? The police think he killed her.’

For a moment he looked disconcerted, then his surly manner returned. ‘None of your ruddy business! Just give Steven Bennley my message or he’ll live to regret it – or maybe he won’t!’ His laugh grated in an ugly way and in spite of herself, Rose shuddered.

She watched him go, then returned to the dining room to pass on the message. Steven groaned.

Suddenly Marcus said, ‘Rose, could you leave us if you’ve had enough to eat? I need to speak with Steven.’

She was mortified at being excluded but went without a word.

Left alone Steven said, ‘I know what you’re going to say and—’

‘No you don’t. I have a proposition for you. I wasn’t fooled by your reason for the beating. I’m afraid that next time you might be killed.’

‘Killed?’ he blustered. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Who’s going to kill me?’

‘Markham’s thugs – I can put two and two together, Steven, so please don’t treat me like a fool. Just listen. I’m prepared to borrow the money you need to pay off the debt but on one condition – that you enlist in the army.’

‘Enlist in the  . . . Are you out of your mind?’ Steven regarded him incredulously. ‘Join the army? For God’s sake, Marcus! I’d rather chop off my right arm!’

Marcus remained calm. ‘I’m perfectly serious, Steven. You may not realize it, but you would make a very fine officer. It’s a first-class career. One that  . . .’

Steven’s eyes hardened. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Marcus?’ To get rid of me! Well, you can forget it! Nothing would persuade me to—’

‘You owe a lot of money and I’ll get it for you. That’s the quid pro quo. I don’t want an answer right now. We’ve got Letitia’s wedding to think about and you need time to think the offer over.’ He looked at his brother, his expression enigmatic. ‘Please at least think about it. We know what Andrew Markham did to Connie and what his thugs did to you – oh don’t bother to deny it! You’re not a very good liar and I’ve known you all your life. Lord knows what they’ll do to you next time. Just think about it, Steven. A commission in the army is not a bad alternative.’

‘Why can’t you simply lend me the money?’

‘Because I haven’t got it and will have to arrange a loan – and also because we both know it won’t end there, Steven. Firstly, you’ll never pay me back and secondly, you’ll ask me again and again. I’ve given this a lot of thought—’

‘And why spring it on me today of all days?’

‘I didn’t mean to but that visit from Markham’s brother brought it home to me. If he sets his bullies on to you and they half kill you  . . . I don’t want to see that happen, Steven. I’m trying to help you. Think about it.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘I’ll ask Rose to go up and help Letitia. I’ll be glad when today is over and she is happily wed!’