The Package Included Murder (26 page)

‘I am!'

Superintendent Mellor took over again. ‘Have you any evidence?'

‘Tons!' declared the Hon. Con roundly. ‘Take the cigarette smoke!'

‘The cigarette smoke?'

‘Penny Clough-Cooper is a non-smoker. Right? So, why did she buy her ration of duty-free cigarettes on entering the Soviet Union?'

‘I can think,' said Superintendent Mellor wearily, ‘of a thousand reasons.'

The Hon Con flung down the gauntlet. ‘Name one!'

‘As a present for somebody.'

‘Precisely!' The Hon. Con's yelp of triumph cut straight through Superintendent Mellor's head. ‘And somebody is Mr Norman Beamish, Esquire! He's the recipient! Smokes like a chimney. At least forty a day on my calculation. Now,' – she saw the superintendent's mouth open and hurried on – ‘work it out for yourself. The duty-free ration is two hundred cigarettes – right? So his carton lasts him five days. His wife was a non-smoker and her ration would last him another five days. Follow me? Making a total of ten days, after which Norman Puff-puff Beamish should have been smoking Russian cigarettes, but he wasn't. When we were hanging round Moscow airport yesterday, Beamish was smoking
English
cigarettes. Everybody else in our party who smokes has been on Russian cigarettes for days.'

‘Oh, blimey!' groaned Superintendent Mellor, gripping his hands until the knuckles went white. ‘Look, even if your hypothesis is correct – and there's not proof that it is – it still doesn't make Miss Clough-Cooper an accessory to murder. She could have given those blasted cigarettes to Beamish for a dozen perfectly innocent reasons.'

The Hon. Con chuckled. Really, this chap didn't half walk right into it! ‘ Name one!' she invited him again, joking this time. ‘No, never mind, because I agree with you. The duty-free cigarettes are little more than a straw in the wind. There is also the matter of the smell of cigarette smoke in Penny Clough-Cooper's hotel bedroom.'

Superintendent Mellor looked for help to the heavens, but none came.

‘My chum, Miss Jones, spotted it one day when she called unexpectedly on Penny Clough-Cooper. In Tashkent, it was. Somebody had been smoking in her bedroom. Now, who else could that have been except Norman Beamish? He can't go five minutes without lighting up, as we have all had ample opportunity to observe over the last fortnight. Another straw in the wind, you will say. I agree, but it still puts Beamish in Penny Clough-Cooper's bedroom on at least one occasion – and we all know what
that
means.'

‘Maybe they're old friends,' said the superintendent, just to remind himself and everybody else that he was still there.

‘Oh, I don't doubt that for one minute!' snorted the Hon. Con. ‘But they did their best to hide that particular fact, didn't they? And what about the golf?'

Superintendent Mellor swallowed his better feelings. Much better let the old girl get it all off her chest, he supposed. ‘What about the golf?'

‘You may well ask!' blustered the Hon. Con. ‘ Norman Beamish is a golf fanatic. His wife complained about it on several occasions. Said he spent more time on the golf course than he did in his office – you know the sort of thing. Now, on one occasion somebody – one of the Intourist guides, I think – asked Penny Clough-Cooper if she played golf. She got curiously hot under the old collar and said, quite definitely, no – she didn't. It was a black lie!'

‘You don't say!'

‘Just before we set off for home, I happened to come across one of those silk head-scarves. It belonged to Penny Clough-Cooper. No doubt about that at all because I handed it over to her with my own paws. Funny looking thing. It was a kind of Paisley pattern but, when you examined it closely, you saw it wasn't at all the usual sort. Having played a bit of golf myself, I recognised it at once, you know. It was a special scarf for those lucky dogs who've done a hole in one and so, naturally, it's a pretty rare old item. Actually, I've only ever come across one other woman who was entitled to wear one.'

‘But what about her brother or her father or a boy friend? They might have won it, mightn't they? Couldn't they have given it to her, perhaps? Some men do hand their trophies over.'

The Hon. Con threw this suggestion right out of the window. ‘Men get
ties
, not silk head scarves, laddie! No, Penny Clough-Cooper is a golfer all right and, by all appearances, a pretty keen one. Why deny it?'

‘Because it might link her with Beamish?' Superintendent Mellor was mildly interested in spite of himself. ‘It's still frightfully thin.'

‘Let's move on to a consideration of Mrs Beamish, then,' said the Hon. Con, used to being surrounded by Doubting Thomases. ‘Was she the sort of woman a husband would want to murder? Well, she was an inveterate grumbler and she nagged Beamish day and night without cease. She was also ten years older than him and he obviously couldn't stand the sight of her.'

Superintendent Mellor shook his head. ‘Those are grounds for divorce these days, Miss Morrison-Burke, not murder.'

‘Money!'

‘Money?' Superintendent Mellor leaned back in his chair. ‘She held the purse strings, did she?'

‘Tightly,' said the Hon. Con. ‘The Beamishes lived pretty well, you could see that. But she was footing all the bills – or her father was, which comes to the same thing. If Norman Beamish had got a divorce, he would have lost all that – and his job, too. The partnership in his father-in-law's firm was a wedding present. If Mrs Beamish died, though …'

Superintendent Mellor beat a ruminative tattoo with a pencil on his teeth. ‘I wonder if they made wills leaving everything to the other? Lots of married couples do. Still,' – he shook his head – ‘it's not what you might call evidence, is it?'

‘Miss Clough-Cooper didn't look to me like a girl who'd be satisfied with love in a cottage, sir.' Sergeant Mortimer's speciality was the female psyche and he pushed his instant analysis even further. ‘Or that she'd go much on being the other woman in some mucky little divorce case.' He noticed the look on Superintendent Mellor's face. ‘It's just the sort of impression she gave me, sir.'

The Hon. Con nodded in agreement. ‘And Mrs Beamish would have kicked up a real stink,' she pointed out. ‘Dirty washing and everything. The newspapers would have had a field day.'

Superintendent Mellor stood firm. ‘This is still all theory.'

‘It's jolly well not theory that Penny Clough-Cooper went out of her way to look as much like Mrs Beamish as she could,' objected the Hon. Con hotly. ‘Her clothes and everything. People were always mistaking them for each other and that green raincoat was just the most obvious example. She changed her hair style, too, so that she would look exactly like her victim.'

‘Oh, come on!' interrupted the superintendent sceptically. ‘How on earth could you possibly know that? You told me you'd never met Miss Clough-Cooper before.'

‘Saw her passport picture!' retorted the Hon. Con. ‘She used to have her hair quite long. You check it! Bet you'll find she only switched to this short, wavy style just before coming on this holiday.'

Behind the Hon. Con's broad back Sergeant Mortimer held up his watch and tapped it. Superintendent Mellor took the hint. He put his pencil away in his waistcoat pocket. ‘Anything else?' he asked briskly.

‘Holy cats!' exploded the Hon. Con. ‘what more do you want? Jam on it? Look, I'll spell it out again for you. Beamish and Penny Clough-Cooper were jolly good friends long before they came on this package holiday. It's my guess that they probably met playing golf, but, however it came about, they know each other well enough for her to help him out with cigarettes and for him to visit her in her bedroom. Now, Mrs Beamish obviously didn't know what was going on and the only way Norman Beamish and his paramour could spend the rest of their lives together and still eat was to murder Mrs B.' A thought struck the Hon. Con. ‘A pound to a penny,' she said, ‘that Mrs Beamish was heavily insured and that her husband stands to collar the lot. You'd better check that, too. Now, where was I?'

‘Was it Mr Beamish's idea to go to Russia?' asked Superintendent Mellor.

The Hon. Con couldn't remember. ‘Of course it was!' she said firmly. ‘They wanted an environment where it seemed the sensible thing to do not to report these murderous attacks to the police. Then they could build up the idea that Penny Clough-Cooper's life was in danger. Where better for a lark like that than the Soviet Union?'

‘They were lucky to find you in their party,' said Sergeant Mortimer with a grin. ‘In a way,' he amended quickly as he caught sight of the look on the Hon. Con's face.

‘In what way?' demanded the Hon. Con through a stiffening jaw.

‘Only that you salved everybody's conscience by promising to carry out a proper, police-type investigation,' said Sergeant Mortimer, trusting that the sky wouldn't come crashing down on his head. ‘With your experience as a – er – private eye, you see. Otherwise somebody might have insisted on going to the police.'

‘True,' said the Hon. Con.

‘I expect Beamish and Miss Clough-Cooper were thrilled to bits,' Sergeant Mortimer went on, warming to his fantasies. ‘They probably thought they could fool you as easy as pie so that, when Mrs Beamish was finally killed, you'd conclude that it was in mistake for Miss Clough-Cooper.'

Superintendent Mellor might have been a bit weak with the Hon. Con but he had no intention of extending this indulgence to his sergeant. ‘That'll do, Tom!' he said heavily. ‘It's not our job to go around jumping to unfounded conclusions.'

Sergeant Mortimer accepted the rebuke. ‘Sorry, sir.'

Superintendent Mellor stared at the Hon. Con. ‘If,' he said, ‘Beamish and Miss Clough-Cooper were really plotting to murder Mrs Beamish, why didn't they do it in Russia? I should have thought they stood a better chance of getting away with it over there. Once they were back in England, they must have realised that they'd have a full-scale murder investigation on their hands and that there was a fair chance it would uncover their illicit relationship, if any. I mean, once that's been established, we're home and dry, aren't we?'

‘Oh, I think the reluctance to let the Russian cops get in on the act was quite genuine, don't you?' asked the Hon. Con. ‘Innocent or guilty, none of us wanted to get involved with that lot. That's why the murder really had to take place here at the airport – and while we were all still together, of course. That was very important. If they'd waited any longer, we should have all dispersed to our homes and this elaborate scheme they'd dreamed up would just have collapsed.'

Superintendent Mellor was becoming painfully conscious of time's winged chariot. The pubs would be shut soon and, if he didn't get rid of this … He scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘Well, thank you very much for your help and cooperation, Miss Morrison-Burke!' The sincerity rang in his voice like a cracked cup. ‘I'm sure you've given us a great deal of food for thought and I can assure you that we shan't forget you and your invaluable assistance.'

The Hon. Con had risen to her feet, too. Her disappointment was obvious. ‘I thought I might sort of work alongside you,' she said.

Superintendent Mellor flashed her a frank, open smile. ‘But you've already done all the work for us!' he told her heartily. ‘All that's left is for us to do a few dull, routine checks. Not your line of country at all. Far too tedious and …'

‘Checks?' The Hon. Con's frown was horrible to behold as the worm of suspicion began to gnaw. ‘What I've given you is the plain, unvarnished truth.'

‘We can't afford to leave any avenue unexplored or stone unturned,' said the superintendent lamely.

‘Ah, now I get it!' The Hon. Con grinned as comprehension dawned and she sat down again. ‘You're worrying about the other chaps in our party! Well, I suppose they count as suspects of a sort but you really don't have to go bothering your head about them.'

‘I don't?'

‘Good grief, no!' The Hon. Con's grin became complacent. ‘I ran the old slide-rule over 'em ages ago. I've cleared them all.'

‘You – er – have?'

‘Oh, not that I didn't have my doubts earlier on,' admitted the Hon. Con, settling back in her chair, prepared to make a day of it. ‘That Frossell boy and his mother, for example. Now, he behaved in a most suspicious manner but, eventually, I managed to root out what the trouble was. He was attempting to smuggle one of these illicit manuscript things out of Russia so that his uncle or somebody could publish it in the West. Frankly,' – the Hon. Con was a bit of a Philistine and occasionally it showed – ‘I dunno why they bother. Still, it wouldn't do for us all to be the same, would it? I did wonder, you see, if Penny Clough-Cooper had somehow latched onto what the lad was up to and threatened to blow the gaff on him, but it all began to look a trifle far-fetched. Then there was Mr Withenshaw, the artist. Did you know he was the only person who admitted to having known Penny Clough-Cooper before?'

‘Yes,' said Superintendent Mellor hurriedly. ‘As a matter of fact, we did. He told us all about it and …'

‘My goodness, I kept an eye on him, all right!' chuckled the Hon. Con. ‘You see, on this weekend painting course where he was a teacher and Penny Clough-Cooper was a pupil, the lady he was with was not his wife! Get it? And you've seen Mrs Withenshaw. She'd make mincemeat of him if she ever found out what he'd been up to. I did toy with the idea that he might have tried to kill Penny Clough-Cooper to stop her spilling the old beans, but somehow I couldn't quite make the whole thing jell. You know how it is. For one thing, you see, Penny Clough-Cooper didn't seem to know anything about the presence of this Other Woman so she could hardly let that pussy-cat out of the bag, could she?'