Last Nocturne (33 page)

The body of a woman named Miriam Koppel had been discovered early one January morning, half covered in snow, in one of the narrow lanes in the old centre. It was estimated she had been dead for several hours, her death being due to a head wound which had bled copiously and must have caused almost instantaneous death. Neighbours in the lane where she lived, Silbergasse, reported constant quarrels between her and the man she had lived with, Bruno Franck, particularly one that had been witnessed the previous day. He had been seen following her up the lane, shouting. He was a big man and had towered over her and at one point he had grabbed her by the long hair escaping from under her hat and tried to pull her back, but afterwards they had been seen to go their separate ways.

Nevertheless, the circumstances were suspicious enough for him to have been arrested and taken to the police cells for questioning after her body was found. Statements were taken from those living in the house where they had both lived: from Viktor Franck, brother of the accused, and an Englishman named Theodore Benton, who swore that Bruno had not left the house that night, and from Mrs Isobel Amberley, who had an apartment next door, and from Miss Susan Oram, the woman who worked for her. None of them had seen or heard anything untoward that night, although the same neighbour who had witnessed the quarrel earlier in the day reported some disturbance which had woken him.

The post-mortem on Miriam Koppel was inconclusive. It revealed no injuries other than the one to her head. She might have been attacked. On the other hand, it seemed more likely she had slipped on the treacherous ice underneath the snow and fallen onto a nearby iron bollard, causing the wound to her head which had led to her death. In the absence of any proof to the contrary, the heavy snow which had fallen during the night having obliterated any traces, a verdict of accidental death had necessarily been brought in.

But the verdict came too late for Bruno Franck. He had already hanged himself in his cell.

What, Lamb asked himself, had the death of this woman, whether by the hand of her lover or not, to do with the deaths of two men here in England? Martagon had not been mentioned in the police report so presumably he hadn’t been in Vienna at the time, though Theo had.

Miss Eugenia Dart lived on the top floor of a block of small flats in Pimlico.

A bouncy, comfortably built young woman with a direct glance, a smudge of ink on her nose and a pencil stuck behind her ear, she was dressed in some kaftan-like garment, wearing quantities of barbaric jewellery and a wide smile that made you want to smile back. Cogan told her who they were and she said they had better come in.

The room they stepped into, though clearly not overburdened with furniture, was suddenly reduced to rabbit hutch proportions with the advent of the two men. When Lamb and Miss Dart were seated facing each other with only the small table between them and Cogan was perched ridiculously on the small chair before the equally small desk, notebook open and pencil licked, Lamb began. ‘You worked for Mrs Martagon of Embury Square for some time, I believe?’

‘Ah. You’ve come about that wretched china, haven’t you?’

Lamb assured her they hadn’t.

‘Oh. Well, no, I don’t suppose even Mrs Martagon would have set the police on me just for that…would she?’ She laughed and looked from Lamb to Cogan and back again and then sobered. ‘It’s Dulcie, then. There! I knew she shouldn’t have come here. What’s happened? She’s in trouble, isn’t she? Her mother’s found out she came to see me – but what’s that got to do with the police?’

‘Dulcie’s not in that kind of trouble, Miss Dart.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

‘A young man has died and we’re looking further into the circumstances of Mr Eliot Martagon’s death also, hoping it may throw some light on our inquiries.’

Her eyes were brown, intelligent and now very serious. ‘Who was he?’

‘His name was Theo Benton.’

‘I don’t know anyone of that name. Was he a friend of Mr Martagon’s, then?’

‘He was an artist. Mr Martagon evidently saw some promise in his work – before he died, he’d arranged for Benton to exhibit at his spring exhibition.’

‘It’s that man in the papers you’re talking about, the one who jumped from a window, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, only I’m afraid his death was – rather more than that.’

‘More? What does that mean?’

‘It looks as though he might have been murdered.’

Her vivid face lost some of its colour, and Lamb found himself wanting to reach out a reassuring hand to her. ‘I’m afraid I’ve shocked you, Miss Dart.’

A glass of amber liquid in a silver holder stood, half empty, on the low white table in front of the sofa. She reached out for it, tasted it and grimaced as she found it cold, then asked if they would like some tea. ‘No, thank you, miss,’ Cogan refused politely, with a suspicious look at the glass, but Lamb said he would.

‘Right. Won’t be a tick.’

She disappeared through a door into what must be a kitchenette, from whence issued the clatter of tea being made. The two policemen took stock of the room. It did not take long. The flat was what estate agents called a bijou residence, meaning that it could be encompassed in two strides and one glance. Cogan stood up, already needing to stretch his legs, took a closer, wondering look at the icon, high up in the corner of the room by the door, then turned his gaze out of the window, over the unedifying prospect of slate roofs, a church spire in the distance, and a cat delicately walking along the ridge of a neighbouring house.

Lamb noted the absence of luxuries, the mass of papers on the desk. The room of a self-supporting, hard-working young woman, one of the new breed, he saw, observing a green, white and purple rosette pinned to the wall above the desk, the colours of the Women’s Society for Political Union – in common parlance, the suffragettes – and was neither surprised nor condemnatory. He admired independence, whether in a woman or a man. He had already rather liked what he’d heard of Miss Dart before he saw her, and meeting her in the flesh confirmed this.

She came back with a tray holding two glasses filled with steaming tea, and sugar cubes on the saucers. He had a vague idea you were supposed to suck the tea through the cubes but thought he might give that a miss and put two into the glass she offered him instead.

He was glad he’d allowed her the few minutes in her kitchenette to regain her composure and collect her thoughts. The colour had come back into her cheeks. ‘I can’t imagine any other reason why you’re asking me, of all people,’ she said, sitting opposite him as Cogan returned to his perch, ‘about Mr Martagon’s death, except that I was living in the house at the time. But fire away.’

‘I understand you left Mrs Martagon’s employment shortly after he died. Let’s start with that, shall we? You – er – left in some haste.’

‘I see my notoriety has gone before me. I’ve inherited my mother’s Russian temper and I’m afraid sometimes it gets the better of me.’

‘Russian, hmm? You work as a translator, don’t you?’

‘When I can get hold of anything to translate. It’s chancy, which was why I went to the Martagons in the first place, to earn a bit more money. I still kept up with any work I could get hold of – I could get a fair amount done at night, in my room, after I’d gone up to bed, so it suited me very well. I was there about six months. And then I ruined everything. I lost my temper and stormed out of the house.’

His lips twitched, recalling what he’d been told of the circumstances.

‘It wasn’t very dignified, I see that now, but Mrs M had accused me of breaking one of some quite horrid majolica dishes she kept in the morning room. I wasn’t to blame, it must have been one of the servants, or been knocked off by the cat or something, but she’d once overheard an uncomplimentary remark I’d made about the ghastly stuff and automatically assumed I’d done it deliberately. Well, it rankled that she wouldn’t believe me, and the next morning I packed my bags and left, but not before I’d smashed all the other wretched plates and things.’

She met Lamb’s amused glance and sighed. ‘I know, it was childish and unforgivable, and it did more harm to me than Edwina – it would take more than that to dent her armour plate.’

‘But you’ve continued to see Dulcie Martagon?’

‘With the sheltered life she leads? No, but I write to her – not often, because I don’t want her mother to see the letters. I was – am – very fond of Dulcie, and besides, I’d made a promise to her father.’

‘What sort of promise?’ She looked steadily at him but didn’t answer. ‘It’s important, Miss Dart. I think I can rely on you to tell me the truth,’ he said, holding her glance.

‘Yes,’ she replied at last, with a sigh. ‘Yes, I suppose you can.’

There was an odd little silence. ‘What were the relations between you and the late Mr Martagon?’

‘Not the sort that question implies,’ she answered calmly. ‘We were friends. He adored Dulcie, and he knew she was unhappy, and rather lonely. He used to come into the schoolroom sometimes and sit talking to us both while she painted. It was part of my job to act as a sort of companion to Dulcie, so I used to take my own work along while she was drawing and painting. Mr Martagon picked up a book of poetry I was working on once, and said he’d met the poet – Bruno Franck. I was finding it a bit difficult because it was written in German, and I didn’t honestly think it was very good work, either. He laughed and said he agreed, that subversion didn’t make a very good subject for poetry and after that we always chatted. I think we were both right. I’ve never come across any more of Franck’s work.’

‘Bruno Franck is dead.’

‘What? Not because of the sort of thing he wrote?’

‘No,’ said Lamb.

She gave him a long stare. ‘What has he to do with Mr Martagon?’

‘Maybe nothing.’ He changed the subject. ‘What about that promise you made to him, Miss Dart?’

‘I’ve thought a lot about that. He asked me to give my word I’d never lose touch altogether with Dulcie, saying she might stand in need of a good friend very shortly. I’d no idea what he meant, but of course I agreed. Nothing happened, until—’ She didn’t go on.

‘The name of a Mrs Isobel Amberley has cropped up in our investigations. Miss Martagon believes you may know where we can find her.’

‘Does she?’ Miss Dart’s ink-stained fingers twisted themselves in the long string of carved wooden beads that hung nearly to her waist. ‘Well, Dulcie’s no fool.’

‘Does that mean you do know?’

‘Weeks after her father had extracted that first promise from me he gave me Mrs Amberley’s name and address. He reminded me that I’d said I would always be a friend to Dulcie. He said if ever she needed to get hold of him urgently and he wasn’t here then that was the lady I should contact. He often went abroad on business, you know, so I supposed that was what he meant. Naturally, I wondered, after he died, if I should try to see Mrs Amberley, and in the end I did. I’ve come to know her a little. She’s half French but speaks perfect English. We actually get on very well.’

‘What was the relationship between her and Eliot Martagon?’

‘They were in love,’ she said simply. ‘They met in Vienna but she came to England before he died. I don’t know why she left – something tragic happened, I think, but she doesn’t talk about it, because of Sophie, I suppose… You know Sophie?’

The two men exchanged a look. ‘I think we may have seen her portrait, miss,’ Cogan said.

‘Her portrait? Just a moment – Theo, you said? That was the name of the young man who died, wasn’t it? It’s coming back to me – a young man leaving the house, coming down the garden path as I arrived at Mrs Amberley’s one time. We passed and he smiled, but we didn’t speak. She said it was someone she’d known in Vienna, and that he was an artist. His name may have been Theo now I think of it.’

She had caught on quickly. ‘Is Sophie her daughter?’

‘No, she lives with her, but Mrs Amberley’s not her mother. And Mr Martagon,’ she added, anticipating his next question, ‘wasn’t her father, either.’ She hesitated. ‘Sophie’s mother is dead.’

‘Was her name Miriam Koppel?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘Will you tell me where we can find Mrs Amberley? It’s quite important that we see her.’

‘She has a little house near Richmond.’ Cogan moved aside to enable Miss Dart to open one of her desk drawers and rummage for paper to write down the address. She hesitated before handing it over, looking worried. ‘She isn’t in any danger, is she? She – well, she always seems to be looking over her shoulder, as it were.’

‘No danger that I know of. It’s information about Mr Martagon we need.’

She threw them one of her quick looks. ‘You mean it’s possible he didn’t kill himself – you think he’s been murdered, as well as that young artist, don’t you?’ She looked down into what remained of her tea. ‘Yes, well, I never did think he was the sort to leave that kind of sorrow behind him.’

He regarded her with approval as he pocketed the paper and rose to go, her opinion echoing his. A fine, well-balanced man such as Eliot Martagon had appeared to be did not suddenly blow out his brains, for no obvious reason. ‘Thank you, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Dart. I’ll let you know how we get on.’

He might make a special point of it, he thought, avoiding Cogan’s broad smile as they left.

Edwina Martagon had remained in the sanctuary of her room all that afternoon, on plea of a headache, having issued orders to Manners that she was on no account to be disturbed until she rang. At a quarter to five, a time when most of the servants were likely to be busy elsewhere, she descended the staircase and commanded the footman on duty to call her a hansom cab, defying him with a look to show surprise that she should appear at this hour, known to all the household as being sacrosanct to her rest, which even Manners dared not interrupt. Quelling him with her eye to question why she should need a cab. Threatening him silently with retribution should he ever speak of it.

‘The Midland Grand Hotel on the Euston Road,’ she said to the driver through the trap, ‘and a sovereign if you get me there within twenty minutes.’