A Little Murder (16 page)

Despite her earlier resolve to shelve making contact with Whittington, Rosy gradually found her reluctance being replaced by a truculent curiosity. Suddenly she was eager to confront the man: to assess and probe, to question, even needle perhaps. In short, to get his measure. Up until that moment images of his fixed gaze, languid calm and silky tone had unsettled her; and the thought of further contact, however slight, had been distasteful. But moods change; and as she swept back the curtains and stared down at the already busy street, fears of the unknown and unwanted evaporated.

She made coffee, and then with the fragment of Marcia’s letter at the ready, picked up the telephone and asked the operator to put her through to Paris. She lit a cigarette and waited as casually as if she were summoning the plumber …

‘You are through now, caller,’ the operator announced.

Rosy braced herself for the response. It was a man’s voice: ‘
Oui?
’

‘I am calling from London,’ she began in English, ‘and
I should like to speak to—’ She had been about to say ‘to Monsieur Whittington’ but hesitated, remembering that the name, of course, had been an alias. But just as she paused, the man said curtly, ‘
Il n’y a personne ici
.’

‘But—’

‘
Il n’y a personne
,’ the voice repeated, and the line went dead.

‘Well, really,’ Rosy muttered, ‘of all the cheek!’ Having grasped the French bull by the horns she now had a distinct sense of anticlimax, and defiantly she tried the number again.

There was an incessant ringing tone eventually interrupted by the operator announcing, ‘I am sorry, caller, there is no reply from that number.’

Huh, Rosy thought, so much for all that blague about emergencies and ‘vital to contact immediately.’ She gazed down at the scrap of paper he had been so insistent in giving her. All hooey! Indignantly she ground out her cigarette, burnt her finger and winced.

But annoyance was swamped by sudden relief, for in a way the failed contact was oddly reassuring: the instruction was shown to be flawed, false even; and without such a bridge the man’s reality seemed more blurred, his warnings less urgent. A clear reply – his own or a colleague’s – would have renewed the link and confirmed his validity. As it was, her attempt to communicate had yielded nothing. Perhaps they (whoever
they
were) were all out at the Folies-Bèrgere, hatching plots and eating snails. Typical!

Yet relief was overlaid by the nagging voice of Adelaide Fawcett and her extraordinary allegation of a wooden-legged attacker. If Whittington was not available in France, as the taciturn telephone response had seemed to imply, it was
indeed just conceivable that he might be back in London; but if so, for what purpose – the annihilation of tiresome old ladies? Ridiculous! Besides, Whittington could hardly be the only man in London with a prosthetic leg … Well, perhaps she would learn something from the
soi-disant
victim later that day.

Meanwhile other matters took precedence. These were her duties at the museum organising Stanley’s monthly lecture: collating his papers and sifting the lantern slides, but, above all, mollifying those of his academic colleagues whose toes and egos he had crushed earlier in the week. If she could soft-soap them sufficiently the event would be mildly pleasurable. If not, a session of mayhem and acrimony was in store. She gulped another coffee, and grabbing coat and briefcase set out with misgivings for Great Russell Street.

Her fears were groundless for all went well: Stanley’s oratory had been as forceful as ever, his notes impeccably ordered, the acid asides and witticisms received with spontaneous mirth and his peers docile in their observations. (Perhaps, she surmised, they were keeping their powder dry for the Spring Symposium, an event not known for its benevolence.) Yes, remarkably the afternoon had passed without incident – fortunate for the harassed assistant, though possibly a matter of regret for the speaker himself.

However, a further challenge loomed: Auntie languishing in the London Clinic. Encircled by the Fawcett triumvirate Rosy had been powerless to resist the earnest plea to visit their ailing relative, and initially had felt uneasy at the prospect. But with Stanley’s lecture safely delivered and still unsettled by the old woman’s words, she was eager to face the patient and hear more. Thus, leaving the museum she
hurried off to Harley Street, and was just about to enter the clinic’s portals when she nearly collided with Felix Smythe.

‘My dear,’ he exclaimed, ‘what a coincidence – though I trust your destination is not from where I’ve just come. Too wearing for words! Those superb lilies! And she actually had the gall to complain that three were fading – and after all the trouble I had taken to select the very best. Wilful, that’s what. If you ask my opinion, except for a few hedgerow weeds she doesn’t deserve a thing.’ He sniffed angrily, and Rosy rather guessed the name of the recipient.

‘Was it Adelaide Fawcett?’ she enquired.

‘Who else?’ was the grim reply. ‘Angela rang in an awful state saying the aunt had taken a header and would I deliver a large bouquet of Regale lilies as soon as possible. Naturally one was only too happy to oblige, and you can be sure it certainly was large – and exquisite.’ (And expensive, too, no doubt, thought Rosy.) ‘But was she grateful? Not a jot; all she could do was cavil. And I had been so ready to be
utterly
charming!’ He pouted.

‘Ah, but it’s the overall effect and the glorious scent that matters,’ Rosy said soothingly, ‘and I am sure as she gazes at them from fevered pillows delight will flood upon her.’

‘You mean you think she might drown in rapture?’ Felix asked hopefully. ‘Now that would be encouraging.’

Rosy smiled and was about to go, when he suddenly said, ‘Oh, by the way, glad to have met you, saves a phone call. Cedric was wondering – well both of us, actually – if you would care to drop in for a drink one evening, Sunday ideally. There are, er, one or two things to discuss. You may remember our little talk the other day …’ He looked slightly uncomfortable, and Rosy politely assured him she could manage it.

‘Good, good,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll be chez Cedric. I’ll
give you the address.’ He produced a minuscule notebook from his breast pocket and scribbled the details. ‘Six o’clock. How nice, it will be lovely!’

Rosy was unconvinced of the loveliness but contrived to look willing; and after mutual farewells she turned towards the clinic and Auntie.

The patient lay staring woodenly at the lilies, and on Rosy’s entry observed, ‘That man Smythe has just been here with Angela’s offerings. One has seen far worse but I wasn’t going to let
him
know that. Too pleased with himself that one.’

‘Oh, but they are gorgeous,’ Rosy exclaimed, genuinely impressed.

‘Yes they are, really,’ agreed Auntie reluctantly.

They talked of other things: the state of the casualty’s shins, the bleakness of the bar facilities, the peculiar youthfulness of doctors, the bossiness of nurses, the outlandish habits of other patients and the barbarity of life in general. Rosy listened dutifully, bored with the content but impressed by the verve of the delivery. Carefully she steered the ‘conversation’ round to the accident itself.

‘It must have been horrifying,’ she ventured, ‘I mean, plunging headlong like that.’

‘You mean like Alice down the rabbit hole? Rather less interesting and certainly more painful.’

‘Oh, I’m sure, but it must have been an awful shock as well – so sudden and unexpected. The fog and damp pavement can’t have helped. I suppose you must have missed the top step and—’

‘I did not miss the top step. I was poised on the brink deciding whether to enter my house by the flight down or the flight up. I had just elected the latter, i.e. to mount the
steps to the front door, when I was grabbed from behind and thrown forward. The next thing I knew I was on my back by the kitchen door staring up at those awful black railings. It was exceedingly uncomfortable. Ankle broken and bruises everywhere. Do you want to see my legs?’

Like Lady Fawcett previously, Rosy was able to parry the spectacle and instead expressed indignant concern: ‘How appalling! So you really think someone did it deliberately?’

‘Without a doubt,’ Auntie replied firmly. ‘Didn’t I say so yesterday?’

Rosy hesitated. ‘Well, er, yes, I think it was mentioned but I—’

‘Weren’t attending, I suppose. Typical of the young these days, they don’t concentrate. Still, I daresay it was ever thus. But it is something you should practise, Miss Gilchrist: you will find it exceedingly useful, listening to what people say. It can be a handy skill, most people don’t have it.’

Boldly Rosy grasped the cue. She smiled and said gently, ‘Perhaps I do have a little of it. For example, when we were leaving yesterday I
thought
you said that your assailant had a wooden leg. Was I right?’

The other looked slightly surprised and then seemed to cogitate, gazing at the lilies. A faraway look came into her eyes. ‘Did I say that?’ she asked mildly.

‘Yes, you did,’ Rosy replied.

There was a silence. ‘Well in that case perhaps he did. Who knows …?’ She continued to contemplate the lilies, before remarking, ‘In the old days we used to have whole beds of those, just under the drawing room windows. The scent was utterly overpowering – decadent, really.’

‘Delightful,’ Rosy said tersely. ‘But I still don’t see what made you think he had a wooden leg.’

‘Perhaps it was the sound of the tap, tap, tapping in the fog, like Long John Silver – or was it Blind Pugh? One gets them so mixed up. Do you know your
Treasure Island
, Miss Gilchrist? Stevenson, such an
inventive
storyteller!’ She fixed Rosy with a challenging stare, and somehow the latter knew the subject was closed.

Vague pleasantries were exchanged and a barbed reference to Marcia made: ‘Too clever for her own good, I always thought; still, I don’t suppose she deserved that fate. No, I’m wrong – not clever, dangerously reckless. Always was. I
think
you have more sense. One should always be wary. Remember that, Miss Gilchrist. Now if you don’t mind you could ring for the nurse: a lumpen girl, but like my great-niece Amy, a kindly donkey. One must be grateful for such people.’ She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘Off you go now; I have much to think about.’

Duty done but curiosity unsatisfied, Rosy walked home in a mood of puzzled frustration. She also had much to think about. Was Auntie just an addled old trout imagining or inventing nonsensical tales to tease and pass the time? Or did she really know or suspect something that she was unwilling to reveal? Certainly she had been insistent about the push itself (though that was not necessarily a guarantee of its truth) but her evasiveness about the alleged assailant had been tantalising. How much had been deliberate, how much confusion? Was the whole thing merely a concoction of one too proud to acknowledge the frailty of old age? But if so, why on earth introduce the detail of the wooden leg? A mischievous sense of theatre? Possibly. But if so, Adelaide Fawcett certainly possessed an uncanny nose for coincidence!

She was beginning to regret accepting Felix’s invitation to drinks. At the time it had seemed a practical suggestion, and from their point of view she could see how it might be useful. But could the same be said of hers? Surely the more she consorted with Marcia’s associates, the more she was being dragged into the whole unsavoury business. Ignorance might be bliss, but more to the point it could also be a kind of protection: distance lent a modicum of safety. On the other hand, she brooded, forewarned was forearmed, and given the circumstances she certainly felt the need for some kind of armour! Thus quelling the impulse to telephone and cancel, she decided to plunge in and see what more could be learnt. In for a penny in for a pound, she told herself tritely.

Hence at the prescribed time she presented herself somewhat nervously at the address Felix had given her. This was a narrow stuccoed town house on the edge of Pimlico, tucked discreetly into a paved cul-de-sac. Beneath its portico there lurked a small cat, sleek and grey – a little
like Dillworthy himself – and she assumed it was part of the establishment. This proved the case, for when her host opened the door it streaked inside with a peevish squeak, and eyes tightly closed settled itself Buddha-like in the centre of an oriental rug.

‘What a pretty little cat,’ she exclaimed. ‘What is its name?’

Cedric looked slightly puzzled. ‘Name? Er, well it doesn’t have one really, it’s just the cat.’

Rosy gave a polite laugh. ‘Doesn’t it mind – not having a name?’

He shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t think so … at least, I’ve never enquired really.’

He took her coat and ushered her up the stairs into a drawing room made spacious by its pale walls and absence of superfluous embellishment. The few pieces of furniture were impeccably chosen and symmetrically placed. There were no flowers, but a warm glow was shed by a briskly burning fire and a tall standard lamp, under which sat Felix plying a piece of tapestry.

On seeing Rosy he laid it aside and rose to greet her with a little bow. ‘How delightful to see you again, Miss Gilchrist, and how well you look!’

‘Do I?’ said Rosy, startled by such effusion but vaguely flattered all the same.

‘Radiant!’ He fussed about, drawing up a chair by the fire and placing a small table at her elbow while Cedric busied himself with the sherry. He certainly seemed more relaxed than when they had ‘discussed’ matters in his flat above the flower shop.

She glanced over at the discarded canvas. ‘I never had the patience for that sort of thing but I believe one can become quite addicted.’

‘Oh, one can,’ Felix assured her, ‘utterly. It’s so soothing; more so than petit point which requires greater concentration. I do that as well, but after a day’s work toiling amidst my blooms – not to say toiling with the public – there is nothing so calming as plying one’s needle with rhythmic repetition. With Cedric, of course, it’s the crossword – you might say that
thought
is his therapy. But for a busy bee like me, what better than a skein of wool and a blank mind to ease the day’s travails!’ He beamed and proffered a plate of cheese straws.

Cedric glided forward with a glass of sherry. ‘I hope this is to your liking. There is a fino should you prefer, but a medium seems to suit most of our guests – unless, of course, you would rather have something more abrasive …’ He raised a polite eyebrow.

She assured him that the sherry suited admirably, wondering when and how exactly they would broach the evening’s theme, i.e. the subject of Marcia’s end.

It didn’t take long. After enquiring if she had found the house easily and making some vague remarks about the weather (which happened to be unremarkable), Cedric cleared his throat, and leaning forward said, ‘As I am sure you realise, we have asked you here for a specific purpose: to discuss a topic of mutual interest, i.e. the manner of your aunt’s demise and the situation it leaves us all in.’

Rosy nodded but said nothing, and he continued. ‘As Felix has already explained, it is a matter of some delicacy and indeed general embarrassment. To us, of course, though I rather imagine to you as well …’

He gave a discreet cough, at which point Felix broke in and said affably, ‘What Cedric means is that you wouldn’t be too keen on the police and press learning of her wartime
services
. The public can be so sniffy about that sort of
thing … and who knows, were they to start delving they might actually suspect
you
of doing the deed itself! It’s often a family member, I am told. After all, none of us actually knows that you didn’t. And once the police get the bit between their—’

Rosy put down her glass and fixed him with a wintry stare. ‘Neither does one
actually
know that it wasn’t you either. On your own admission you were there that very afternoon, skulking with the coal scuttle. One has only your word that you didn’t also gun her down and ram it on her head.’

‘Well, really, that’s a bit much!’ He looked deeply wounded.

‘Be quiet, both of you,’ Cedric admonished. ‘Despite my friend’s blundering tongue we do not believe that you were responsible, Miss Gilchrist, and I am fairly sure that you do not suspect us. What we need to know is exactly who
was
responsible, not only for Marcia’s death but also for Thistlehyde’s; and in particular we have to decide how best to protect ourselves from the inquisitive probings of the police, or even, indeed, from personal peril.’

Rosy said nothing, wondering whether to tell them about Whittington’s midnight visit. But as she cogitated, Cedric said softly, ‘One rather gathers you were recently approached by someone, someone seeking information …’

She was startled. ‘How do you know?’

Cedric shrugged. ‘Obvious. Felix said that you seemed to know all about Operation Coal Scuttle, so you had clearly learnt it from somewhere. But it so happens that Vera has intimated as much. She knows the man. She also said that you had been told about the Churchill bomb plotters and that you were being closely “marked by the Master”. Really, that woman has such a histrionic turn of phrase!’

‘Marked by the
what
?’ Rosy exclaimed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You might well ask. Vera’s words, not mine. Sabatier. Odd fellow. He is—’

‘Who the hell is Sabatier?’

‘Exactly what dear Felix asked. Sabatier is Vera’s erstwhile boss and he who approached you; and thanks to your intemperate aunt, one who goes minus an ankle.’

There was no answer to that and Rosy felt slightly sick. She gazed abstractedly at her empty sherry glass. Felix must have noticed, for instantly he had leapt up saying, ‘Do let’s have something a little more sustaining! How about a whisky for our guest? I rather fancy one myself. I am sure you’ve got a bottle somewhere, Cedric.’

Whisky was duly produced and lavishly poured. Sips were taken, followed by an awkward silence. And then Felix tittered and said, ‘Let’s toast Vera and the awful dachshund!’

‘Why?’ Cedric enquired.

‘Because they are not here. Such a relief!’

Rosy was inclined to agree but the mention of the dog jolted her mind, and she heard herself saying coolly to Felix, ‘But this Sabatier – or Whittington, as he chose to call himself to me – wasn’t the only casualty of the coal-scuttle operation. According to you, Vera’s brother Raymond was also an indirect victim of my aunt’s blabbing tongue. Mightn’t that give
her
a motive for murder? After all, you did say that she had pretty well colluded with you in sending those lumps of coal, so perhaps her desire for revenge went much further than that.’

For a few moments neither answered, and then Cedric said musingly, ‘Doubtless that is exactly what the police might assume should they get to hear of it.’

‘But their assumption could be right!’

‘Unlikely. You see Vera hated her brother.’

Rosy was taken aback. ‘But surely … So in that case why on earth name her dogs after him? She seemed to imply it was some sort of homage.’

Cedric shrugged. ‘Guilt more likely: a sort of posthumous remorse for loathing his guts. He was very beautiful and she was not, a fact he never allowed her to forget. Played on it constantly.’ He turned to Felix. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

The latter nodded, but added, ‘I’m not so sure about the guilt part. Knowing Vera I suspect the dog-naming may be a form of revenge: Raymond was tall with classical features and graceful deportment. The dogs are invariably short-arsed snuffling little tikes; affectionate and cute, no doubt, but hardly distinguished. It’s not as if they’re even the long-haired sort. The disparity may appeal to Vera’s puerile sense of humour.’

‘Doubtless,’ agreed Cedric dryly. He turned to Rosy. ‘Vera Collinger is a mix of fervid patriotism and gritty integrity on the one hand, and cussed awfulness on the other. Along with the awfulness goes a sly intelligence. It makes relations with her a trifle problematic and on the whole we find flight or circumvention the best tactic. However, despite the lady’s shortcomings, murdering an old buddy – as your aunt once was – is not her style.’

‘But if she is as fervidly patriotic as you say, that in itself might have prompted her to kill Marcia. She must have been appalled when it emerged that her friend had been responsible for the coal-scuttle failure!’

‘Oh, I think she was. But in those days she was close to Marcia, doted on her you might say. Thus she convinced herself that Marcia’s treachery was simply a besotted blunder and not a hostile calculation.’

‘Which I am sure it wasn’t,’ Rosy said quickly.

He shrugged. ‘That’s as may be, but in any event Vera forgave her – up to a point at any rate.’

‘But not
quite
enough not to appreciate the justice of our little ruse,’ cut in Felix.

Rosy was far from sure of such justice but said nothing, not wishing to ruffle uncertain feathers.

‘Poor Vera,’ observed Cedric pityingly, ‘she’s got this document of Marcia’s on the brain. Convinced it’s the vital key to the identities of the bomb plotters and won’t rest till she’s sniffed it out and delivered it to Sabatier.’ He paused and added reflectively, ‘One has to admit she has a talent for that sort of thing – quarrying and pursuit. It’s what made her useful in the war and she can’t forget it.’

‘The war or her usefulness?’ Rosy asked.

‘Both. She lives in the past: thrives on intrigue and righteous indignation. A bit like Adelaide Fawcett. Not that there’s anything righteous about that piece of mischief – should have been put down years ago.’

The reference to Auntie prompted Rosy to ask why the latter should be so hostile to Maynard Latimer; but before she had a chance to speak, Cedric said softly, ‘As a matter of fact, Miss Gilchrist, Vera firmly believes the thing is in your possession.’ He regarded her speculatively, and from the corner of her eye Rosy saw Felix crane forward.

‘Well,’ she replied evenly, ‘she has certainly been pumping me.’ Images of the teatime tête-à-tête in Oxford Street came to mind.

‘Ah, but now she is convinced that you have it.’

‘Oh really, why?’ Rosy affected a cool indifference.

‘Edward Fawcett. They—’

‘Edward Fawcett! What does he know about anything?’

‘Good question,’ Felix broke in with a snigger. ‘I have been asking myself that for years.’

Cedric ignored the interruption. ‘They belong to the same club – the de Vere, one of the few mixed establishments in London – and Fawcett was babbling about a fur coat of Marcia’s which you had given Amy, and how she had found a letter addressed to you in a concealed pocket. Apparently he made a joke suggesting it was a missing will or something equally vital. Vera thought the joke feeble but the assumption fair.’ He paused. ‘Was it?’

Rosy gazed at him not sure of her response. Flat denial? To what end? He probably wouldn’t believe her, and more to the point neither would limpet Collinger. The woman was right and doubtless knew it … Still, it was bad enough being interrogated by the police without also being drawn into the dubious sleuthing activities of Collinger and Dick Whittington. She felt a sudden surge of anger at the way the pair had assumed they could insinuate themselves into her life and make covert demands for cooperation and data. If Whittington/Sabatier wanted vengeance then he could damn well get it without involving her – and Vera Collinger could do the same. Presumably the latter was eager to impress her erstwhile boss and stick another feather in her stupid hat. Well, she could do it without Rosy Gilchrist’s help!

She smiled ruefully at Cedric. ‘Nothing so exciting. It was just a personal note and a couple of spare theatre tickets – wildly out of date now, of course. She obviously forgot to post the thing. Just goes to show, one should never put messages in secret places, they only get lost!’ She noted the sceptical lift of Cedric’s eyebrow and added earnestly, ‘Mind you,
had
it been anything to do with the plot I would naturally have put it in my bank’s safe deposit straight away.’

‘Most sensible,’ exclaimed Felix. ‘It would never do to leave something like that lying around. The best place for it in my view.’

‘Hmm, but not in Vera’s,’ said Cedric. ‘She would probably try to force entry by blitzing the place with Mills bombs.’ He gave a thin laugh.

‘So what do you think of that?’ Felix asked after Rosy had left.

‘Lying, obviously,’ replied Cedric. ‘The theatre tickets were just a feint; she has found something all right, though whether it’s quite the devastating evidence Vera assumes, one can’t be certain, and I am far from inclined to ask questions – or mention matters to Vera. Frankly, the less we know the safer we are. Detachment is all.’

‘You mean otherwise we might end up smeared with gore like Thistlehyde?’

Cedric winced. ‘How baldly you put things! No, I wasn’t thinking of anything quite so gross. Simply that in the current scheme of things it would be prudent to be as elusive as possible. We are in enough danger from the authorities as it is. That little sleight of hand with the new coal bucket the other day may have gone smoothly enough but there’s no guarantee the police won’t come gallumphing back again. Admittedly it seemed to satisfy them at the time but one can never be sure. The last thing we need is to court further problems by allying ourselves to Vera Collinger and her wild pursuits. The next thing we shall have is Sabatier paying us his dubious respects as he did Rosy Gilchrist. No, there is a whole can of worms there and multiple dangers. We should keep our distance.’