The Shape of Sand (23 page)
“Of course I'll tell you what little I can remember about Rose,” she was saying now, more gently. “But first, tell me something: have you any idea why they â my brother Marcus and your mother â went to Egypt and sought out Iskander?”
Tom did know now, from his earlier meeting with the police, but he was reluctant to put it into words.
“Well, I'll tell you. They went to find my mother,” said Daisy bluntly. “It was generally thought, when she disappeared and couldn't be found, that she'd absconded, possibly to Egypt, with Iskander. But as it turns out, that couldn't have been the case, the body they've just found at Charnley being hers.”
“Yes. The police inspector told me that. I'm so very sorry.”
“Ah,” said Guy. “Inspector Grigsby. What did you think of him?”
“He's O.K, I guess. For a policeman.”
They'd met that morning at New Scotland Yard. Direct by nature, Grigsby was not one to shilly-shally. But despite the man's stated intention to find the solution to such a bizarre
and interesting case, he gave the distinct impression that he didn't intend it to feature largely in his schedule. Tom hadn't initially been able to prevent the feeling that at higher levels it was not being regarded with the utmost urgency. Grigsby was obviously hard-pressed with other concerns, doing his best to keep several balls in the air at once. He'd spared time to see Tom, and reluctantly made him privy to the few facts which he thought it necessary for him to know, but the constant interruptions about more immediate matters, the telephone calls, people popping in to remind Grigsby of this and that, all seemed to indicate pretty conclusively that this particular case was unlikely to receive his undivided attention. He suspected the discovery of the body was an embarrassment rather than a task demanding instant action, and that the police would doubtless go through the motions, and that would be that. From the sergeant, too, had emanated a sense of boredom â boredom and impatience at being landed with a case whose origins were so far back that he'd decided it hadn't the remotest chance of success. Tom had begun to feel he was wasting their time. Despite this, there was one pressing question to which he needed an answer: were the police regarding his mother as a likely suspect for the murder? The response had been equivocal. No motive for the murder had yet turned up. On the other hand, they were bound to say that there had been a certain disagreement between Rose Jessamy and the murdered woman over the form the decorations of the guest rooms were to take.
and interesting case, he gave the distinct impression that he didn't intend it to feature largely in his schedule. Tom hadn't initially been able to prevent the feeling that at higher levels it was not being regarded with the utmost urgency. Grigsby was obviously hard-pressed with other concerns, doing his best to keep several balls in the air at once. He'd spared time to see Tom, and reluctantly made him privy to the few facts which he thought it necessary for him to know, but the constant interruptions about more immediate matters, the telephone calls, people popping in to remind Grigsby of this and that, all seemed to indicate pretty conclusively that this particular case was unlikely to receive his undivided attention. He suspected the discovery of the body was an embarrassment rather than a task demanding instant action, and that the police would doubtless go through the motions, and that would be that. From the sergeant, too, had emanated a sense of boredom â boredom and impatience at being landed with a case whose origins were so far back that he'd decided it hadn't the remotest chance of success. Tom had begun to feel he was wasting their time. Despite this, there was one pressing question to which he needed an answer: were the police regarding his mother as a likely suspect for the murder? The response had been equivocal. No motive for the murder had yet turned up. On the other hand, they were bound to say that there had been a certain disagreement between Rose Jessamy and the murdered woman over the form the decorations of the guest rooms were to take.
“A slight disagreement? And you suggest that's a motive for murder?”
The inspector lifted his big shoulders. He had small, intelligent eyes, very shrewd. “Mrs Jardine was reportedly delighted with the way the work was turning out â so we have to assume they'd reached some sort of amicable conclusion. However ⦔
Tom was trying to keep on an even keel, not showing how this business had shaken him. Here he was, on a simple visit to London, intending to visit Charnley merely to see something of his mother's work â and then he'd walked into this! The idea that his mother â his mother â had murdered this woman, scarcely known to her, was just plain bloody silly. It
would be convenient for them to pin it on her â someone now dead. But he was damned if he'd wear that, he thought with one of those rare, incandescent flashes of rage that sometimes beset his otherwise moderate nature. Yet someone had committed that murder, and what was more, someone competent enough, and with enough knowledge of the nature of his mother's work, to have plastered up the wall afterwards.
would be convenient for them to pin it on her â someone now dead. But he was damned if he'd wear that, he thought with one of those rare, incandescent flashes of rage that sometimes beset his otherwise moderate nature. Yet someone had committed that murder, and what was more, someone competent enough, and with enough knowledge of the nature of his mother's work, to have plastered up the wall afterwards.
“We have to hold all the options open, you know, though to be frank with you â which maybe I shouldn't be, but I will â at this point your mother seems an unlikely suspect,” Grigsby said, relenting. “Don't mean, though, that murder isn't done, more times than you'd think, for motives that you and me wouldn't waste a minute's thought on.”
He held Tom's gaze with his own. You didn't have to be long in his presence to sense that underneath the casual exterior, there lay a fierce energy, and an exceedingly sharp mind. A pity he wasn't going to apply it to this case. Grigsby had said âat this point' with a barely discernible emphasis, and it stung Tom into an immediate decision. “Well,” he said shortly, “forgive me if I'm not too sanguine about that. I give you warning that I for one don't intend to let the matter rest.”
The sergeant cut in, before he could be stopped, “I shouldn't worry too much about your mother's part in it. It's really fairly cut and dried.” He ignored his inspector, who looked as though he could swat him like a fly on the wall with one of his enormous hands, and would doubtless do so once they were alone. “Amory Jardine discovered his wife was having an affair with the wo â the Egyptian.” (He had been going to say wog, Tom knew it, and if he had he might have got more than he bargained for, and not from Grigsby. Lucky for him, he managed to bite it off in time.) “Jardine killed his wife, and most likely the â gentleman, too.”
“Professor Iskander, you mean? That's unlikely,” Tom said shortly, “since he's alive and well and living in Cairo.”
That made Grigsby sit up, and took the heat off the sergeant. “Tell me more, Mr Verrier.”
So Tom had told them what he knew of Iskander, that he was now a respected academic, an eminent Egyptologist. “And you're wasting your time if you think he could commit
murder â he's the gentlest soul imaginable â and he's certainly not capable of bricking up and plastering a wall! You should hear my father on the subject of his âhelp' on one or two digs!”
murder â he's the gentlest soul imaginable â and he's certainly not capable of bricking up and plastering a wall! You should hear my father on the subject of his âhelp' on one or two digs!”
Grigsby said, “That's as maybe, Mr Verrier, but what you've told us is a very helpful piece of information. We need to confirm the story of his being taken to the station in the trap, and in the event of not being able to trace any servants of the time ⦠well, we may have to get the police in Cairo to talk to him. Just to corroborate, you understand.” Tom didn't think he was going to get much more out of them and there hadn't seemed to be any point in wasting their time further, so he'd made his departure, with a final pessimistic word from Grigsby: “I promise we'll do what we can, Mr Verrier â but don't expect miracles.”
That had been this morning. It seemed a long time since. He saw now that Nina was looking at her watch, standing up. “I must be making tracks.”
“I'll see if I can get you a taxi,” her father said doubtfully.
Tom asked, “Where are you bound?”
“Paddington station, to pick up my typewriter and things, and then to Garvingden, my aunt's cottage.”
They all knew it was easier to get a sack of sugar off-ration than a London cab. “I know all about trying to get taxis in London. Let me drive you to the station,” he offered. “Better still, while we're at it, why don't I drive you right down to â where did you say? Garvingden? How far is it? Thirty miles, thirty-five?”
“Twenty-three. But what about your petrol?”
“Let me worry about where that comes from.”
She had the sort of face you could read easily. He could see her trying to suppress guilt feelings at the suspicion of black market petrol, and weighing that up with having to try her luck with a taxi. If he would simply be kind enough to drive her to Paddington, she said, it would only be a matter then of catching the main line train to Oxford, and afterwards getting herself across town for the bus to Garvingden. It wouldn't take long, and it had stopped raining.
“With all your baggage? It wouldn't be any trouble.” He was determined not to let her escape. He was already far gone.
“Well, if you're sure, it would be kind.”
“On the contrary, it would be a pleasure,” said Tom, his eyes lingering on that smile.
Â
Some hours later, just before supper, Daisy sat with her feet up, knitting one of her shapeless jerseys from another which had been unravelled, while Guy occupied himself with
The Times
crossword. Nowadays he did most of the cooking, now that he didn't have a practice to look after, and he'd become skilled at eking out the rations. The last of the mutton had been rescued from the fate of ending up as one of Daisy's sandwiches by being minced with onions, carrots and celery and would presently appear as a very acceptable shepherd's pie. A fragrant smell issued from the kitchen. Guy's pipe was going well. The lamps were lit.
The Times
crossword. Nowadays he did most of the cooking, now that he didn't have a practice to look after, and he'd become skilled at eking out the rations. The last of the mutton had been rescued from the fate of ending up as one of Daisy's sandwiches by being minced with onions, carrots and celery and would presently appear as a very acceptable shepherd's pie. A fragrant smell issued from the kitchen. Guy's pipe was going well. The lamps were lit.
Daisy was glad enough to sit quietly, even though she hadn't been into Hope House today, since Athene had threatened to send her straight back home if she appeared. She was still unsettled by that visit to Vita the night before, which had upset her so much she hadn't slept properly, an unheard of occurrence with Daisy. Vita, after listening to what Daisy had gently told her, had insisted on being left alone, though one knew it was the worst possible thing, remembering what had happened ⦠once before. But Vita was well again now, wasn't she? And even this couldn't be as terrible a shock as that awful, tragic misfortune she'd suffered. And it had been a misfortune, an act of God that no one could have prevented, though Vita had always held herself responsible for it, which was ridiculous. The boys had been at school when the epidemic started â but she'd blamed herself for sending them there, though what else could she have done? Boys went away to school, and that was that. But the way mothers reasoned was something unaccountable, as Daisy knew, suddenly recalling Lorna and her baby.
It wasn't right, though, leaving Vita alone. It had worried Daisy, and she'd felt no better after ringing her again this morning, when she wouldn't even talk about the subject any more. “I've already been lectured by Harriet, so please, not you as well, Daisy. I'll be all right. I'll cope with this in my own
way,” she'd insisted.
way,” she'd insisted.
Which was what Daisy was afraid of.
“She has Schulman,” Guy said now, comfortably, when she mentioned it. “He's a good chap, even though he's a German, won't let her do anything silly”
“Austrian.”
“Same thing,” said Guy. “Nearly.”
“Guy!” But yes, Vita had her doctor friend, though Daisy couldn't help wishing it was she, who was so well-equipped for helping women and girls through crises, on whom Vita was prepared to lean.
“Come on, don't let this business get you down, old girl,” said Guy. That silly expression â old girl, indeed! â had always irritated Daisy. She was not old, she was fifty-three, and neither was she a girl. But she'd never told him how she hated it. Dear Guy, he meant so well. “And nor must you let Harriet upset you,” he added.
“I've no intentions of letting either of them do that!” She was more than glad to get her thoughts off the subject of Vita. “But I might as well say it as think it, I'm not happy about Harriet deciding to play Miss Marple.” Daisy was a great reader of detective stories and had a collection of Agatha Christie's books, which she kept by her bedside and read and re-read, because, she was wont to say ambiguously, they helped to send her off to sleep. “Don't mind doing my bit to help, but it was all so long ago. Let the police get on with it, I say. To tell the truth, it's my opinion we might all sleep easier in our beds if we never do find out who did that fearful thing to Mama.”
There! She'd said it, the notion that had been nagging at her, the thing she could never have said to anyone but Guy. She added fearfully, “What if it should turn out to be someone we
know?”
know?”
He stopped her with a touch on her arm. “It's out of our hands now.”
“Yes, but Harriet doesn't trust the police to find out. She always thinks she can do things better. And I do wish she wasn' t involving Nina in it.”
“Nina will be in her element. It'll take her out of herself.
Besides, I rather think that young man isn't going to let the matter rest in the hands of the police, either, so I doubt they'll be on their own,” Guy said. Tom Verrier had struck him as being impatient with authority and quite prepared to circumvent it where necessary. “Very taken with Nina he was, did you notice?”
Besides, I rather think that young man isn't going to let the matter rest in the hands of the police, either, so I doubt they'll be on their own,” Guy said. Tom Verrier had struck him as being impatient with authority and quite prepared to circumvent it where necessary. “Very taken with Nina he was, did you notice?”
“Well, Guy darling, who wouldn't be? And a good thing for her if he is. I've never said anything to you before about this, thought it better not to worry you, but you know, she hasn't been very happy over the last few years. Began to suspect it when she broke that soup tureen that belonged to your mother. I think she's been having an affair.”
Guy, who was quite used to following his wife's non-sequiturs, merely said, “My dear, I've known that for years.”
“Oh, you have, have you? Did she tell you?” she demanded, taken aback. He shook his head. “Then how did you find out?”
“In the same way as you did, I suspect,” Guy said drily, “I saw the letters addressed to her when she came home on leave, and since she used to go all colours when she saw them and put them straight into her pocket, and since she never spoke to us of anyone, and there were times when she looked quite ill with misery â and broke tureens â I put two and two together.”
“Oh, Guy, and you never said!”
“There wasn't anything we could do if she didn't want to talk to us â and you have quite enough on your plate with those naughty girls of yours.”
Other books
Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Episode 16 by Chautona Havig
Attic Clowns: Volume Four by Jeremy Shipp
The Sugarless Plum: A Memoir by Zippora Karz
One Night With You by Shiloh Walker
Overkill by Robert Buettner
Twisted: The Collected Stories by Jeffery Deaver
Falling for You by Heather Thurmeier
Anastasia by Carolyn Meyer
Ecstasy Wears Emeralds by Renee Bernard
Shameless by Annie Stuart
