An Expert in Murder (5 page)

Simmons rubbed his forehead with his fingers, as if the pressure would help him to discipline his thoughts. ‘I came to meet her in the van like I always do,’ he began, ‘but when I got here one of the guards told me that the train was late and wouldn’t get in for an hour and a half or so. I often have to wait and usually I just kick my heels on the platform or have a cup of tea round the corner, but today I hadn’t finished my round and I thought an hour would give me just about enough time to drop off the last order and still be back here to meet Elspeth. That way, we could go straight home and there’d be plenty of room in the back for the new stock she was bringing down. There’s always hell to pay with Betty – that’s my wife – if anything gets squashed.’

28

By now, Penrose was lagging some way behind in the conversation. ‘What were you delivering?’ he asked.

‘Tea mostly, and coffee, but the Coventry Street shop needed some new equipment and that’s what was taking up the room.’ As the Inspector continued to look questioningly at him, he expanded a little on his explanation. ‘I’m a driver for Lyons. I’ve been with them ever since I left the regiment. It’s not the most exciting of jobs, but you get to know your way around. That’s why I was sure that a few short cuts would get me there and back in no time, but something had gone on in Judd Street. I was stuck there for ages before I could get through and make the delivery, and then I couldn’t find anywhere to park at the station. By the time I got back to the platform, you lot were crawling all over the place and I knew something had happened.’

Fallowfield opened his mouth to speak but Penrose, anticipating what he was going to say, shook his head. There would be a time to ask Frank Simmons to prove that he was away from King’s Cross when the train had pulled in, but this was not it; all the life had already been kicked out of him and there was worse still to come. Saving any further questioning for the next day, he concentrated solely on what could not be avoided. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to identify Elspeth’s body,’ he said quietly. ‘Her next of kin must be told, of course. Is that her parents?’

‘Yes. Well, her mother at any rate – that’s my sister-in-law. My brother died last year. Elspeth was adopted, though. They couldn’t have kids of their own so she meant everything to them – to all of us, really. I don’t know how Alice would have got through these last few months if it hadn’t been for her. Elspeth kept her smiling.’

As the reality of his loss came home to him, Simmons finally lost the self-control to which he had been clinging so doggedly. ‘How am I ever going to face Alice knowing that I’ve taken that away from her?’

Acknowledging the question but realising there was no answer he could give, Penrose said nothing. Instead, he led Simmons gently from the waiting room towards his niece’s body, and his worst fears.

29

Three

When Josephine awoke next morning, it had just gone nine and St Martin’s Lane was in full swing. It was Saturday and, even at this early hour, an air of obligatory enjoyment had settled on the weekend inhabitants of the West End. From her window at Number 66, she looked south towards Trafalgar Square, marvelling as she did so at the multitude of human dramas which were unfolding in the street below – far more than could possibly be played out each night in the more artificial realms of London’s theatre-land.

She shifted her gaze across the narrow street to the building opposite, and wondered how long it would be before Elspeth looked her up at stage door as she had promised. The New Theatre, where
Richard of Bordeaux
was about to enter its last week, sat imposingly between the Salisbury and the Westminster County Court, the daily necessities of ale and justice and make-believe found in companionable proximity to one another. To say it was the finest theatre in London was as pointless as electing a best church – they all served different creeds, and one was as good as another – but it was magnificent, even to an eye less partial than hers. Built only as an afterthought on a leftover plot of land that backed onto Wyndham’s, to which it was still linked by a footbridge, the New was nevertheless a splendid example of clas-sical design, its Portland stone facade, bold ornamentation and giant pilasters giving a dignity and permanence to the elusive trick of entertaining the public.

Number 66 St Martin’s Lane would be Josephine’s home for the next few days, as it often was when she visited London. It had 31

more than its convenience for the theatre to recommend it: once the workshop in which Thomas Chippendale had created understated furniture for an enthusiastic market, it was now home to another name famous for simplicity and restraint. The Motleys were two talented sisters who had revolutionised theatre design and contributed to some of the greatest successes the West End had seen in recent years. Josephine was the first to admit that the appeal of her own play lay as much in the romance of their costumes and sets as it did in her dialogue and, over the last eighteen months, the three women had become firm friends. She was astonished at how naturally she had found herself slipping into the Motleys’ cheerful domestic stage set, and arriving at Number 66

always felt like coming home.

As thoughts of breakfast drew her from her room into the large central studio, she was amused to find that the space was even more chaotic than usual. Exhausted from her journey, she had retired before her hosts arrived home and slept the sleep of the dead, utterly oblivious to the furious burst of activity which had clearly continued long into the night. The walls were now covered in deft costume sketches for a new
Hamlet
which she knew was due to go into production later in the year and, even at this early stage, it was obvious that the Motleys had surpassed themselves.

The designs were divided into contrasting sections, each extrava-gantly styled in a picture of medieval Denmark which could not have been further from the Depression-worn shapes of the current age, and she was instantly captivated by their ingenuity. On the floor, work had already begun on materials for the costumes: bits of scenery canvas covered in dye and metallic pigments were strewn across the floor, punctuated by squares of thick felt which had been heavily treated with kitchen soap and paint to look uncannily like leather.

She was pleased to see that the architect of this glorious disorder was, as usual, on the telephone and centre-stage in her own cre-ation. Veronique Motley – or Ronnie, as she was more often called

– had inherited her mother’s beauty and her father’s disregard for convention. Reclining on a peacock-blue chaise-longue which the 32

sisters had dyed themselves, and covered by an enormous bearskin cloak as if in deference to the cold Scandinavian climate in which she had spent the night, Ronnie was in full flight.

‘My dear, we’re only just recovering from the shame,’ she purred into the handset. ‘We should have known from the minute they brought the monkey in that the whole production was going to be a fiasco from start to finish. The creature bit everybody at the dress rehearsal and we were all absolutely terrified. Hephzibar threw out her arms in such a fright that her stitching gave up and we had to sew her back in. She still isn’t at all herself. And don’t even ask about the cost – we’d spent four thousand pounds before the curtain went up, and still the whole thing looked more like the Trocadero on a Friday night. Never mind the
Dream
, it was our bloody nightmare!’

Catching Josephine’s bemused expression, she made a face of studied
ennui
and hurriedly brought the call to an end. ‘Anyway, dear, I must go. We’re seeing Johnny soon and you know what he’s like – he’ll want to go straight to Ophelia’s death-scene and we haven’t even got a costume for the poor girl to live in yet.’

‘Were the Crummles in town for the gala week, then?’ Josephine asked wryly as Ronnie replaced the receiver and picked her way through mounds of upholstery cloth and calico to wrap her friend in a hug.

‘Something like that,’ Ronnie said, laughing and leading her over to the breakfast table. ‘It
is
lovely to see you, you know. Lettice and I were saying only the other day that you’ve spent too long up in dry old Inverness this time.’

Smiling, Josephine heaped sugar into her coffee. ‘It’s good to be here,’ she said. ‘At least in London I don’t feel I need to apologise constantly for having a hit. The English are much more generous-minded than the Scots.’

‘Oh, all small towns are the same, dear. It doesn’t really bother you, does it?’

‘Honestly? Yes, I suppose it does a little. It’s all this “grocer’s daughter made good” business, as if I’ve no right to a life down here with different friends and a different outlook. For them, it’ll always be barrow first and pen second.’

33

‘Hang the lot of them, then. Any more trouble and Lettice and I will come and sort them out. They won’t know what’s hit them.’

‘Don’t make rash promises – I haven’t told you about the woman who runs the post office yet.’

‘Talking of formidable women,’ Ronnie said, still laughing, ‘I feel I should warn you that the Snipe is in a foul temper today and not exactly on her best form. We used the advance from
Hamlet
to treat her to a new gas cooker because she’s always complaining that she misses her old Eagle, but she hasn’t quite taken control of the regulo yet. God knows what we’ll get for breakfast.’

A curse of confirmation emanated from the small back room that the Motleys had transformed into a makeshift kitchen and the door crashed open to reveal a stout woman of indeterminate age who had obviously already used up what little patience she allowed herself each day. Employment in a household which thrived on colour and changing fashions had cut no ice with Mrs Snipe: her uniform

– black alpaca dress, bibbed apron, worsted stockings and house slippers – was as familiar up and down the country as that of a policeman or nurse and, apart from the length of her skirt, she could easily have been serving toast to a Victorian household.

‘If you were hoping for kidneys, you can forget it,’ Mrs Snipe announced in what would, at any normal volume, have been a west country burr. ‘It’s cockled ’em with the heat. I expect you wanted fish, Miss Josephine, but the fact is there isn’t any, so it’ll have to be bacon and eggs, and you’ll be lucky to get those by the time that thing’s finished with ’em.’

Josephine was not easily intimidated, but there was something about Dora Snipe which turned the normal guest and housekeeper relationship on its head, so she smiled and nodded and accepted what was on offer. Her familiarity with Number 66 had not made her any less wary of the Motleys’ cook. The sisters had never known life without her, yet Mrs Snipe had remained an enigma throughout the thirty-odd years that she had been with the family, first in Cornwall and now in London, where she ‘did’ for Ronnie and Lettice and was housekeeper to their cousin, Archie, to whom she was devoted. As she banged a rack of perfectly browned toast 34

down on the table and returned to the kitchen to beat her new arrival into submission, the front door slammed and there was a squeal of joy from the hall. ‘Darling, how absolutely gorgeous to see you! We’ve been so looking forward to your visit, and don’t you look well!’

Josephine smiled as Lettice blew into the room towards her, dragging in her wake her long-suffering fiancé, George, and four large carrier bags. ‘Trust you to bring a mystery with you,’ Lettice said cryptically as she hugged her friend and threw the morning paper onto a chair, where it soon disappeared under a pile of shopping. ‘Life’s always so much more exciting when you’re south of the border. I’m sorry we weren’t here to welcome you properly this morning, but it’s the Selfridges shoe sale today and you have to get there early if you’re to stand any chance of finding a pair.’

‘Don’t they sell them in pairs, then?’ Josephine asked, exchanging an amused and sympathetic wink with George as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

‘Oh no, dear, that would take all the fun out of it,’ said Ronnie, who was born with her tongue in her cheek. ‘It’s a shilling a shoe but you’re not so much paying for footwear as for the chance to spend a morning as some sort of modern-day Cinderella.’

‘Except that this Prince Charming usually ends up having to carry home enough leather for the entire pantomime,’ George chipped in good-naturedly.

As always, Lettice took the teasing with good grace and found refuge in her breakfast. Buttering her toast thickly on both sides but, with uncharacteristic self-denial, confining the Silver Shred to the top, she looked cheerfully at her sister. ‘You’ll be smirking on the other side of that ravishing face of yours when Lydia’s got through her third pair of brogues in the first week. You know how clumsy she can be if she has to dance.’ Turning to Josephine, she added: ‘We called in at the theatre to pick up the mail. A letter each for Ronnie and I, but that whole bag is yours.’

Josephine groaned and walked over to the sack of correspondence that Lettice had jabbed at with her toast. ‘You know, I hardly have to read them these days,’ she said, taking a handful of 35

letters off the top of the pile. ‘I can tell from the handwriting on the envelope which category they’re going to fall into: complimen-tary and undemanding – they’re the ones I always answer; pedantic and smug – usually with suggestions as to how I might strive for greater historical accuracy next time; and worst of all, the invita-tions – they’re what I use to save on coal. God help me when the Mary Stuart brigade springs into action.’

‘How is the casting going for
Queen of Scots
?’ Ronnie asked.

‘Have they found Lydia her Bothwell yet?’

‘No. Lydia and I both think Lewis Fleming would be perfect, but I gather there’s another pretty face on the horizon whom Johnny would prefer,’ Josephine replied, ‘and we all know what that means. Swinburne, his name is, but the only thing I know about him is that he’s made quite an impression at Wyndham’s recently.

Anyway, that’s one of the things on the agenda this afternoon.

Johnny’s asked Fleming to stand in as Richard for the matinee so we can go over and thrash it all out with Aubrey. After all, it’s his money. They’re hoping to open in June, but now that Johnny’s got it into his head to try for a film of
Richard
, it’s all a bit up in the air. And I don’t know how he thinks he’s going to direct
Queen of
Scots
, work on a film and tour as well. Even our young meteor can’t be in three places at once.’