Murder in Style (4 page)

Ellie wore her best midnight-blue dress and jacket. She had no black clothes in her wardrobe, and she didn't possess a suitable hat. It occurred to her that she ought to patronize The Magpie boutique, so that she might have something in her wardrobe suitable for formal occasions.

She had arrived early and taken a seat at the back. The minister – robed, Church of England? – wandered in and set some taped music going. Nothing which you could immediately put a name to. Something in a minor key by Bach?

The senior Cordovers arrived and plodded up to the front pew, looking neither to the right nor the left. Both were in black. They looked as if they hadn't slept for a week.

Ellie remembered their proud smiles when they'd talked about the twins. Had Poppy been their favourite? The girls had not been identical, and it was possible that one had been favoured over the other.

Ellie also wondered about the arrangements for today. If she hadn't read the details in the
Gazette
, she'd have imagined that people like Gerald and Marika would have gone for a church service, with organ and choir and bells and smells and a slap-up buffet lunch afterwards. Especially since she thought it likely that Marika might have been brought up a Roman Catholic, and would have taken the rituals of passing seriously.

This felt stingy.

A middle-aged couple came in. He would be a successful businessman, not flamboyant but quietly sure of himself, in a good, grey suit. She was slender, with a tiny black toque on well-cut short grey hair. Well dressed by The Magpie? Were they neighbours of the deceased? They didn't attempt to speak to the senior Cordovers, but took seats at the back opposite Ellie.

Three women followed, also looking unsure of themselves. Two were fortyish, but the third looked as if she'd only just left school. Businesswomen? Office workers? They exchanged greetings with the couple who'd immediately preceded them – they knew one another well? – and filed into the pew directly in front of them. Perhaps that whole group were people from The Magpie shop and agency?

Another good suit arrived. A greyish man in a grey suit and an expensive haircut. A solicitor? He had the air of one who was accustomed to going to funerals and who didn't allow the hushed air of the crematorium to faze him. He took a seat behind the Cordovers. They nodded to him, and he to them. Yes, they knew one another.

A stir outside. Two more women arrived, middle-aged, not in black but in dark clothes, looking flustered. Neighbours? Close friends of the deceased? They took seats halfway down, looking around them, perhaps for faces they recognized? They didn't seem to know the people at the back or the elder Cordovers at the front.

A creaking. A wheelchair was pushed down the aisle to the front pew on the right, a pew reserved for family. The occupant of the wheelchair was a middle-aged, slender man in black. A man who would have been tall if he'd stood up. A triangular face topped by smooth dark hair with streaks of grey at the temples. Black eyebrows in straight lines over pale grey eyes. His face was paper-white and lined. There was no kindness in his face. Pain could do that to you, of course. Or, Ellie wondered, was he something of a control freak? Now, why had she thought that? A man in a wheelchair couldn't be a control freak, could he?

The pusher was a girl with a coffee and cream complexion: latte rather than cappuccino. Young. In black. A quiet face, with strong planes. Emotionless, hiding … what? Was this Clemmie, the grandchild whom Gerald hadn't wanted to talk about?

Beside them and with them came Grief.

Grief was all in black. Grief was one of the most beautiful women Ellie had ever seen. Fair, well-brushed hair in a chignon under a tiny hat. She was high of cheekbone, blue-grey of eye, commanding of demeanour. Tall, well built. Sleepwalking.

The twin sister: Juno? The man in the wheelchair would be her husband?

On their heels, in a stir of air, came the clip-clop of high heels on the tiled floor. A dark-haired girl wearing a black silk coat and a black satin bandanna round her hair. Bright red lipstick. Would this be Trixie?

At the girl's side came a fortyish, dapper man with slicked-back hair and an easy smile. Charming? Yes, but it was surface charm. Ellie disliked him on sight. She remembered Thomas saying that Cocks's Garage was dicey. No, that's not exactly what Thomas had said. He'd heard
someone else
say that it was dicey.

Would this be Poppy's bereaved husband? His head turned this way and that, eyes snapping, checking on who was there and who was not. He followed the dark-haired girl into the front pew on the left, moving the senior Cordovers along. Yes, this must be Ray Cocks, widower. His daughter tried to hand him a service book. He flicked a dismissive hand at her, and a large gold watch slid down his wrist into view. No obvious signs of grief.

Ellie told herself she could understand why Gerald Cordover had been worried on seeing his daughter marry this man, who was loose of lip and roving of eye. Then she told herself that she ought not to jump to conclusions. Ray must have some good qualities, even if they were not immediately apparent.

The coffin arrived. Plain. Cheap?

And some latecomers. A middle-aged man with a lined, monkey face, wearing a black leather jacket of all things! Trixie and her father both turned round to see who the newcomers might be. The man in the leather jacket lifted his hand to Trixie and she winked,
actually winked
back! He slid into a pew directly behind her, and for an instant laid his hand on her shoulder … an attention which she did not seem to resent.

Leather Jacket would be someone who might help Trixie in her ambition to become a film star? An agent, possibly? Slightly seedy? Not out of the top drawer.

The other latecomer was a well-padded, well-dressed, middle-aged man with tiny, blackcurrant eyes. He nodded to Ray Cocks and plumped himself down in a pew by himself. Trixie turned her head to see who it was, and so did Ray. Evidently, they both knew him, for while Ray nodded at him, Trixie gave him a fleeting smile.

A businessman, known to the family? What a sharp nose he had!

Ellie thought,
The vultures are gathering …
and then wondered why she'd thought of birds of prey. Were the businessman and Leather Jacket here to feed on the corpse of the deceased? Ellie shuddered.

The muzak was turned off. The minister was one of those who aimed to get through the service in twenty minutes and have a fag before the next coffin arrived.

Ellie felt a surge of anger on behalf of Poppy, who was being tidied away in such a perfunctory fashion. She felt tears rise in her throat, and began to pray. She thought that, appearances to the contrary, someone else was also praying.

Marika? Yes, probably.

Also the grief-bound sister? Or, perhaps, the coffee-and-cream girl? The man in the wheelchair was white, so he couldn't be her father. But if he wasn't her father, then who was he?

Muzak, muzak. A few short sentences to sum up the life of a woman who had worked hard and been much loved by her father, stepmother, and sister.

The widower fidgeted.

The man in the wheelchair gazed ahead, as still as the Sphinx. He moved once, to hold out his hand for something. A bottle of water from a bag at the back of his wheelchair? The invalid's wife and the girl of mixed race ministered to him with clinical efficiency. Not tenderness. Just efficiency.

Gerald Cordover wept, and Marika put her arm around him as far as she could. Neither of them was particularly sylph-like. Ellie was glad to see that someone, at least, was grieving for the departed woman.

The coffin slid away into the wall and it was over. More muzak. A sigh of relief from someone.

Gerald and Marika subsided into their seats. Mopping up. Recovering. Getting ready to face the world again.

With a wide gesture, the man in the wheelchair indicated that he wished to depart. He seemed annoyed that his womenfolk didn't spring to do his bidding straight away. Their movements were slow. They were both worn out with grief. Ellie told herself he might well be grieving, too. Not everyone grieved in the same way. She must not jump to conclusions.

The widower and his daughter left their pew with a nod across the aisle to Juno, and a quick word with the neighbours a couple of pews back, the couple who hadn't known anyone else. Yes, undoubtedly neighbours. Ellie could hear them saying how sorry they were, they felt they had to come; they'd known Poppy for so many years.

The widower said the right things in a subdued, suitable-for-funerals voice. ‘So glad you could come, Poppy would have been pleased. I'm sure you'll understand we're not having a public wake, just family back to the house …'

Which the neighbours didn't understand, no, not really. But they fluttered away. The widower frowned at Leather Jacket, who had attached himself to Trixie's side, and looked on the point of saying something sharp to him. The businessman thrust himself between them, saying he had his car outside, and could he give anyone a lift to the house? So the neighbours had not been invited back to the house, but the businessman had? Trixie was going in Leather Jacket's car, was that right?

Surely the funeral director would have provided at least one car for the mourners? And wasn't it supposed to be family only back at the house?

Juno, slowly pushing her husband in his wheelchair back down the aisle, spotted the group at the back, whom Ellie had guessed might work at The Magpie. Juno abandoned her husband in his wheelchair to greet them. She took their hands one by one and said how good it was of them to come, and she was so sorry but they were only having family back at the house. They all three said they quite understood, and they were so, so sorry … and disappeared.

Which left the middle-aged business couple in the back row.

Juno embraced the woman. ‘Oh, Celine! I'm so glad you …' And broke off to blow her nose. Celine returned the hug. Celine had been crying, too. They had both cared for Poppy? Juno and Celine were close friends?

Juno held out her hand to the man. ‘Thank you for coming. You understand, don't you? I can hardly take it in.' To which he responded with a firm pressure of both his hands around hers, and a pass at her cheek by way of a social, token kiss.

A harsh voice broke in. Not patiently. ‘Juno! I don't like to hurry you, but …' The man in the wheelchair didn't like to be kept waiting, did he?

‘Sorry, sorry!' Trying to smile through her tears, Juno took hold of the wheelchair again, saying to the woman in black, ‘See you back at the house? You will come, won't you?'

‘If you want me?' Celine didn't seem sure of her welcome. The man with her said something, making his excuses.

The girl of mixed race stepped up. ‘Please come, Celine. My mother needs you.'

Celine – whoever she might be – gave in, saying, ‘If you really want me? Charles has something else on.' And to the man, ‘Can you drop me off? I'll get a taxi back, afterwards.'

They left in a huddle, arguing about who was going in which car.

Now there was no one left but Ellie, the solicitor, and the senior Cordovers. The solicitor was conferring with Gerald and Marika. He hadn't taken any notice of Ray, but he seemed to know the senior Cordovers well. He was their solicitor, and not Ray's?

Gerald looked around. A blind look, unfocused. He said, ‘Ready for the fray? Do you have your car with you? You know that we're going back to Poppy's … to Poppy's.' His voice had broken on his daughter's name, but he kept going. Good for Gerald.

There was a stir outside, and a large woman came in, breathing heavily. She must have weighed twenty stone at least. ‘Are we the first?'

Another funeral service was about to begin. Ellie hoped it would be more meaningful than the one she'd just attended.

The Cordovers walked slowly back down the aisle, looking strained and unhappy but resolute. The solicitor kept pace with them. He glanced at Ellie, and glanced away. She meant nothing to him.

Marika spotted Ellie and held out her hand. ‘So glad you are here. Come in the car with us?'

Hadn't any cars been ordered for the mourners? The senior Cordovers apologized to the solicitor, and to Ellie. ‘It appears there are no cars. So embarrassing. An oversight, of course.'

The solicitor said, ‘I have my own car. I'll meet you at the house.'

Apologizing still, the senior Cordovers wafted Ellie into the back of their limousine, which purred off back to the heart of Ealing. Their way led along the Avenue, a pleasant shopping parade not far from the A40. Ellie spotted The Magpie boutique. Closed, and the blind drawn down. When would it open again? If ever?

The car turned into a busy road of large detached houses. Late Edwardian, red brick, a small turret perched on the top floor to one side, and a spacious forecourt on which several cars were already parked. Gerald eased the limo off the road, parked, turned off the ignition but seemed in no hurry to get out of the car.

Ellie looked the house up and down. She had a pretty good idea how much it would cost to run, having a similar if slightly larger house herself. She tried to keep the doubt out of her voice as she said, ‘It's a big house for the three of them.'

Gerald sighed. ‘Poppy never asked us for a penny, even at the beginning.'

Marika said, ‘Unlike
him!
'

Ellie said, ‘You mentioned gambling debts?'

‘Poppy used to say that he ought to have sold the garage when he inherited it and gone into something else. She said working there didn't fulfil him. The truth is that he's lazy to the core and thinks hard work is for dummies and that he can gamble his way to a fortune. When they were first married, he only used to bet on the big races every year. He said everyone did that, and that you had to have a little flutter now and then to keep the old adrenaline going. Only, the occasional flutter turned into a weekly and then a daily occurrence. Sometimes he won, but not often. It wasn't an enormous problem until someone introduced him to a private gaming club, and told him he had a flair for playing poker. That was two years ago and I don't think he's thought about anything much else since.'