A Little Murder E-Book

Suzette A. Hill

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 475

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

London, early 1950s. Marcia Beasley is discovered dead, naked and covered with a coal scuttle. Sergeant Greenleaf has to solve the crime. The members of the deceased's social circle all, it seems, have secrets to hide and grudges to bear. A host of colourful and comic characters hurry to identify the murderer and unravel the mystery of Marcia's life.

Leseprobe

A Little Murder

SUZETTE A. HILL

To the happy memory of Peregrine Blomefield

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

About the Author

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

When Marcia Beasley was found dead, naked, and wearing a coal scuttle on her head eyebrows were raised and questions asked. Both were further raised when removal of the coal scuttle revealed a neat bullet wound in her left temple. Other than that defect all was seemly: toenails freshly painted, lipstick applied, and hair (except that disturbed by the ingress of the bullet) neatly permed.

When interviewed, her associates – friends would be an exaggeration – expressed surprise at the choice of headgear. ‘You see,’ said Amy Fawcett earnestly, ‘Marcia had an aversion to coal fires. There wasn’t a grate or fender in the house – all central heating, fearfully extravagant!’

‘But, my dear,’ said her mother, ‘she could afford it. The errant husband left her more than well endowed – although I have to say that was not always apparent!’ She spoke with some rancour, having once been invited to lunch by Marcia at Fortnum’s and then left to foot the bill while the other rushed off to ogle Frank Sedgman at Wimbledon. The wound had gone deep.

‘Well one thing is certain,’ opined her nephew, ‘the headdress would hardly have passed muster in the Royal Enclosure.’

His aunt regarded him coldly. ‘Can you think of nothing but horses, Edward? It wouldn’t be so bad if you won occasionally.’

Amy giggled. ‘I am not so sure about the hat – it’s amazing what they accept these days. Can’t tell you what an abomination Lily Smithers was wearing the other day – it was a sort of sick yellow and covered in masses of—’ The detective sergeant cleared his throat uneasily. The interviewing process was not going quite as he had envisaged. Clearly strong-arm tactics were required. ‘We don’t need to know those things,’ he said severely. ‘What I do need to know is when you last saw the deceased.’ His eyes swept Lady Fawcett’s drawing room and rested on a small man ensconced in a large chair. ‘For example, sir, when did you last see Mrs Beasley?’

‘Well that rather depends on what you mean,’ answered the metallic voice of Professor Cedric Dillworthy.

‘What I have just asked,’ replied his questioner evenly.

‘If you mean when did I last have contact with the lady, it was Tuesday evening via the telephone. Alternatively, if you mean when did I last physically see her … on the whole I try not to.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Although as a matter of fact it was probably about three months ago. Not one of life’s more enlivening experiences.’

‘And why was that?’

‘Tight as an owl. In one of my lectures too! It was on board the Queen Mary where I was one of the guest speakers. I was ten minutes into my topic – rock formations in upper Cappadocia – when there was a series of protracted yawns from the second row followed by a loud crash. She had keeled over into the aisle and had to be carried out – soused in gin and mouthing obscenities.’

‘I see. Lecture not to her taste?’

‘Evidently not,’ replied the professor frostily.

‘So what was the phone call about?’

‘Delphiniums. I exhibit regularly at the Chelsea Flower Show. She wanted some seeds.’

‘Just typical!’ broke in Lady Fawcett. ‘Always cadging. And what’s more she would have upstaged you next year. I hope you didn’t offer her any, Cedric!’

‘Certainly not,’ was the indignant response.

‘I see,’ said the sergeant heavily. ‘And did anyone else see or speak to her recently?’

There was a pause, and then Amy said brightly, ‘Actually, yes. I had coffee with her at the Duke of York’s last week. It was a matinee, a revival of Emlyn Williams’ Night Must Fall – awfully good! I was supposed to be meeting a friend but she didn’t turn up; and I was hanging about in the foyer feeling a bit of a fool when I suddenly saw Marcia coming through the swing doors. She was on her own – although I did just glimpse some man with her on the pavement outside. Anyway, she came in, collected her ticket at the box office and then saw me. And as there was ten minutes to go before curtain-up we decided to have a coffee.’

‘You never told me this!’ her mother said.

‘Well no, Mummy. There are lots of things I don’t tell you. Besides it wasn’t an event that ranked very highly among the dramas of my life.’ Amy smiled sweetly.

‘So this person you saw her with outside the theatre, did you recognise him?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Not at all. But I can tell you one thing, it certainly wasn’t the errant husband. This chap had a wooden leg … a war casualty, I suppose.’

‘What on earth was Marcia Beasley doing with someone with a wooden leg?’ exclaimed Lady Fawcett. ‘Mingling with the afflicted was hardly her forte.’

‘You are right there,’ the professor agreed, ‘her preferences were distinctly for the hale and loaded. Although,’ he added reflectively, ‘I don’t suppose that lifeguard on Bondi Beach was financially laden – but he was certainly extremely hale!’ He gave a quiet snigger.

There was a guffaw from Edward. ‘So was old Taps Trotter but she did for him all right – snuffed out with a heart attack in medias res, or so they say.’

‘Be quiet, Edward!’ Amy’s mother said. ‘You will embarrass our guest.’ And she smiled apologetically at the sergeant. The latter looked grim, and enquired of her daughter whether she had noticed anything distinctive about the victim when last seen having coffee in the theatre.

‘Well she hadn’t been drinking,’ Amy volunteered. ‘And I did spy an enormous ladder in her stocking. It was her own fault; she was such a snob, always had to order them from Paris. The French ones are so much flimsier than ours. Swan and Edgar’s are far tougher.’

The sergeant sighed and explained he meant had she observed anything unusual in the lady’s manner or had anything been said to suggest that all was not well.

‘He means,’ interjected Edward helpfully, ‘did she give the impression of expecting to be found dead in her birthday suit with a coal scuttle on her head?’

‘Well no, not really,’ said Amy Fawcett.

As interviews went it was not among the detective sergeant’s better ones. In fact, he grumbled to himself, it had been God-awful useless. Tiresome women, some cretinous ass, and a snide little pansy! He hadn’t much liked the sound of the victim either – clearly one of those toffee-nosed predators and a lush to boot. Not his cup of tea at all! Still, that was the job and he must get on with it, especially if there was a chance of promotion to be had at the end of it all. He consulted his notebook. There was only one entry: Pursuethe wooden leg. Yes, well, he would do that, of course, but not before he had gone home for a nice bit of steak and onions and a game of darts.

He turned up his collar against the evening drizzle, and seeing a number 14 bus trundling past jumped deftly on to its platform. As he took his seat the naked image of Marcia Beasley came to mind, and he made a mental note to refill the coal bucket before going out for darts … That way the wife would have no excuse not to have the fire properly stoked for when he got home.

At least his scores had been good, Greenleaf thought that night as he lay in bed listening to his wife’s snoring and the rain pounding on the tool shed roof. Yes, he had a skill with the old arrows, no doubt about it; the team was lucky to have him. If only police work were as simple as hitting trebles he would be a chief constable by now, head of Scotland Yard even! As it was …

He frowned at the patch of dawn pushing its way under the curtains, covered his eardrums with the eiderdown and brooded on the fate of the Beasley woman. Why naked? Why downstairs undressed like that in the posh drawing room? And why, for God’s sake, sitting with her head in that bloody bucket? ‘A fascinating conundrum’ his boss had called it. Fascinating? Plain daft more like.

The rain stopped abruptly, as did the snoring. Cautiously Greenleaf surfaced from the eiderdown, and turning on his side began to reflect upon the scuttle. It had obviously been imported specially for the job, for as the Fawcett people had observed, the grates had been bricked up and the house run on central heating. And apart from the smeared patches of blood and such it had also looked brightly untarnished, brand new in fact – what you might call a ‘special purchase’. Needless to say there had been no fingerprints, nothing discernible at any rate. The perpetrator must have worn gloves or made good use of a duster or handkerchief … But then why bother with the thing in the first place? If you were going to shoot someone and scarper quickly with minimum palaver, why complicate matters by messing about with extraneous household articles?

The rain started again but the snoring held off, and in the comparative peace Greenleaf’s mind moved from matters of circumstance to those of motive. The bucket feature would seem to preclude casual burglary, and besides, there was no sign of disturbance; and despite the nudity neither was there evidence of sexual ‘interference’ as the newspapers would so coyly put it. Nor had there been a violent attack or even a struggle. Indeed, apart from the ramming on of the helmet the dispatch had been executed with apparent ease, an almost modest decorum – something which suggested a person known to the victim and whose presence would not cause alarm.

He shut his eyes and cogitated. Such an acquaintance was unlikely to be the milkman (well, presumably not), and in all probability came from among her own ilk – though not of the sample recently encountered – far too dippy. On the other hand he hadn’t much liked the look of that professor bloke: the others had gabbled on garrulously while he had sat silent and lynx-eyed, and from what little information he did yield it was clear he held no torch for the deceased. Greenleaf made a mental note: A POSSIBILITY.

And then he thought about the girl Amy and her tale of the man with the wooden leg. Had she really seen such a one? If so he shouldn’t be too difficult to trace – assuming she was telling the truth. But you never knew with these types, didn’t always take things seriously. He sighed. Yes, he would have to go back and quiz her a bit more. He could fit it in before the niece was questioned in the afternoon. With a bit of luck they might ferret out quite a few things from that quarter – assuming of course she was compos mentis!

With that in mind and suddenly lulled by the rain he lapsed into twenty minutes of blessed sleep before the clarion of the alarm clock.

‘This leg, then,’ he persisted some hours later, ‘are you sure it was wood? Metal is the more usual material these days.’

Amy reflected. ‘You are probably right, Officer. On the whole I would say it was a tin leg.’

‘On the whole, Miss Fawcett?’ queried Greenleaf. ‘Are you by chance suggesting it was two-thirds metal and one part wood?’

‘No, of course not,’ replied Amy with a giggle, ‘the whole thing was tin … at least I assume so. I only saw the ankle part. He was wearing trousers, you know.’

‘And what else was he wearing?’

‘The usual sort of things … darkish overcoat and hat. I really can’t remember – oh yes, he did have a stick. Something to do with the leg presumably …’ Her voice trailed off, as gazing past the sergeant she made nonsensical eyes at a Sealyham sprawled stoutly on her mother’s sofa. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Mr Bones, have you? I know he looks terribly grumpy but he’s really very sweet!’

Bugger Mr bloody Bones, thought Greenleaf angrily. Was the girl really dim or just taking a perverse delight in obstructing police enquiries? Either way that was certainly the effect. He tried again. ‘Look, Miss Fawcett,’ he said patiently, ‘I don’t want to take up your time more than necessary, but do you think you could manage to recall what Mrs Beasley was talking about when you had coffee with her? You see it is quite important. As you know, the lady was found shot only forty-eight hours later. For example, did she say she was expecting a visitor in the next couple of days?’

‘Oh no,’ replied Amy firmly, ‘we talked exclusively about the coronation and how lovely it had been. As a matter of fact she was rather excited because somehow or other she had wangled an invitation to a royal garden party later in the season. I think she thought I would be impressed. But when I said I gathered that only mayors and headmistresses went to that sort of thing she seemed a bit put out … Oh well, doesn’t even have that dubious pleasure now, does she?’ For a brief moment a look verging on sympathy crossed her face, but it was replaced by a cheery smile. ‘I tell you what, though, he wore glasses – tortoiseshell.’

‘What?’

‘The chap with the wooden leg – he had spectacles. Wasn’t very tall either – though I don’t mean a dwarf, of course.’

Greenleaf nodded, and into his notebook under the heading of Wooden Leg added glasses and not a dwarf. And then feeling that nothing further could be gleaned from the Fawcett household he took his leave, and turning into South Audley Street retreated to the darkened sanctuary of The Volunteer. Here he meditated over a pint and a pork pie, assessed the case and came to no conclusion.

CHAPTER TWO

Rosy Gilchrist had never really liked her aunt, but news of her death – particularly in such distasteful circumstances – had aroused a level of sympathy she had not previously felt. It aroused other things too: shock, irritation and cringing embarrassment. Only Marcia would have sported a coal scuttle in which to meet her Maker, and only Marcia would have ensured that the fact was blazoned across every newspaper in the land. And it was typical that Marcia should have enacted the ultimate drama of getting herself murdered … with or without coal scuttle. Alive, her delight in attention had sometimes been amusing but more often than not tiresome; and now and again spectacularly awful. (Rosy shuddered, recalling the incident of the dead hedgehog and the French ambassador – not to mention the ambassador’s wife.) Nevertheless, being murdered seemed a high price to pay for notoriety … What the hell had been going on?

She poured a glass of sherry and stared in the mirror, seeing not her own reflection but her aunt’s: grey-blonde hair, scarlet mouth and pale, lazily defiant eyes. And just for a moment she caught the sound of the drawling voice and high grating laugh. Well, she would never hear either of those again, that was for sure … Would it matter? Probably not. But you got used to people – even if you didn’t know them terribly well or like them much. Besides, she thought soberly, there was no one else left now, not of her own at any rate (unless you counted those distant and eccentric Oughterard cousins down on Romney Marsh or some such littoral place. Pevensey was it?) Her sister and parents were dead – caught by a bomb in the Blitz – as was the man she thought she might have married, Johnnie Steptoe, shot down over Dresden just before the end. It had been her twenty-first birthday and she had wanted to die. But she didn’t, and like thousands of others survived the remaining months of the war and coped as best she could with the peace.

Actually, she thought (the image in the mirror reverting to her own dark hair and eyes), she hadn’t coped badly. Coming out of the ATS she had battled her way up to Cambridge – difficult with so much competition from the returning men – and getting into Newnham had somehow wrested from that college a good-class degree in history. With that under her belt she had taken a part-time job as academic factotum to the irascible but distinguished Dr Stanley at the British Museum, and with her parents’ legacy bought the lease of a flat just off Baker’s Street. So far so good: she had friends, moderate money and an interesting job … But now her mother’s sister, her nearest though hardly dearest relation, was dead – and dead in appalling circumstances. It felt distinctly peculiar.

It had also felt peculiar being questioned by the police. As with most people, this was not a familiar experience; and apart from its dubious novelty she felt somehow that she had been tested and found wanting. They seemed to assume that she must have had an intimate knowledge of her aunt’s life and would provide their enquiry with some dazzling insight. But unless you counted the acrimonious divorce from Donald, titbits of social gossip, the occasional newspaper item recounting drunken rows with taxi drivers or some ghastly brouhaha such as the embassy gaffe, Rosy knew little about her aunt – indeed had preferred to remain largely in ignorance. Had she known the woman was going to be murdered she might have shown greater curiosity, or indeed concern … Guilt moved stealthily within her as she recalled the dismissive impatience with which she had heard reports of Marcia’s tedious and occasionally outlandish behaviour. Yes, she had kept a wary distance. Should she have closed the gap and made kindly overtures? Tried to maintain closer links?

She sipped her sherry comforted by the thought that the older woman had never shown much interest in her niece. Their rare encounters had been cordial but essentially indifferent, their conversations limited to the trivial and humdrum. No, clearly Marcia had not found Rosy worth cultivating. She had had her own rather specialised coterie and her niece was not of it.

This lack of familial warmth had clearly been a source of puzzlement to the two investigating police officers. One of them, a Detective Sergeant Greenleaf, was keen to follow the financial angle, and Rosy had felt vaguely apologetic about the answer she had given to his question regarding Marcia’s legatees: ‘Oh no,’ she had said, ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything. Besides, my parents left me pretty well catered for and I’m sure she knew that.’

‘So where did it all go?’

‘To a donkey sanctuary,’ she had replied.

He had thought she was joking and frowned at what he took to be her flippancy. But when she had supplied the name and address of the sanctuary, a place in Ireland, and reminded him of the painting of a Jack and a Jill hanging prominently in the hall of her aunt’s house in St John’s Wood, he had nodded and ticked something off in his notebook, making a brief entry. She had almost giggled, envisaging the words: Legal beneficiaries? Donkeys.

Yes, she reflected wryly, possibly it was her own failure to share her aunt’s partiality to the creatures which had opened the gulf between them. She remembered as a small child being given the treat of a donkey ride on Cromer sands. The animal had stumbled. She had fallen off, and bawling like a wounded bear had refused furiously to be put back on. Her mother had been sympathetic; but not Aunt Marcia, who had expressed withering scorn, seeming to ascribe the fall to the rider’s lack of empathy with its steed.

Yes, grossly unfair … But then so was murder. And given the personal connection, distinctly frightening. However, more insistent than fear was the now overmastering curiosity. She asked herself again, ‘What the hell had been going on?’

CHAPTER THREE

The announcement in The Times obituary column was brief and non-committal:

BEASLEY – Marcia (née Winter). Died suddenly on 30th September. Funeral 12 noon 9th October at St Anselm’s Church Brierly St London W1. Enquiries to Messrs Box & Simpson. Tel: KNI 6858.

It had obviously been inserted by the executive solicitors, but possibly in conjunction with Mr and Mrs Harold Gill, Marcia’s long-suffering neighbours, a quiet couple of the sort that ‘keep themselves to themselves’. Rosy had met them only twice, but both times had been impressed by their stoicism in the face of adversity, i.e. a persistently wailing gramophone, inebriate revels, lost latchkeys at midnight and the periodic attentions of the fourth estate. Life next door to Marcia cannot have been easy, but their forbearance was repaid (or explained) by the fact that she was punctilious in feeding their cat when they were away – which was often. Presumably their role in the funeral initiative was a kind of thanksgiving for a service rendered and peace restored.

It seemed strange seeing her aunt’s name staring at her from such a context, and the starkly rendered facts conferred a cold reality to the whole shocking event. Yet the more Rosy studied the words the more remote the death became … the more remote Marcia herself became. She was of the past now, far away – over and done with. Irrevocably. Died suddenly on 30th September. Nothing could be clearer or more absolute.

Rosy pondered. Eight years previously, with the loss of parents and sister, and then of airman Johnnie, she had been torn apart with grief, excoriated; breathless with incredulity, anguish – anger. But this bore no resemblance to any of that. What she felt now was a discomfort, a vague regret: listless nostalgia for something or someone that willy-nilly had once been part of her and no longer was. It didn’t hurt but it was unsettling and she felt strangely adrift.

Well at least she could muster a floral tribute. The notice hadn’t stipulated ‘No flowers’, and in any case, being the niece surely she had a prerogative in such matters. Yes, a large sheaf of colourful dahlias and late-flowering clematis might be appropriate, something sufficiently lavish to fit the identity of the deceased. Marcia, she was sure, would have been unimpressed by a discreet sheaf of pale lilies. She telephoned Selfridges and made enquiries.

On the day of the funeral Rosy approached the church (Victorian Gothic with truncated spire) with some curiosity. It was tucked away in a secluded cul-de-sac and seemed a strange choice for Marcia whose preference one might have assumed to be something more fashionable and conspicuous. In any case, as far as she was aware, her aunt had never shown any particular religious leanings. Not that that meant anything really; it was probably the decision of the decorous Gills. And besides, given the choice, wouldn’t one prefer one’s last appearance on earth to be spent amidst the moderate aesthetics of psalm and incense than the glum austerities of a civic crematorium?

As it happened, apart from copious incense, the alternative was not so different. The service at St Anselm’s was tepid and perfunctory: a hymn was played which clearly nobody recognised, the great sonorities of the Prayer Book gabbled and a clerical address given whose flat monotone did little to convey the joie de vivre of which the deceased seemed to be mildly accused. The church was dim and Rosy took scant account of the congregation, being too preoccupied with trying to revive hazy memories of her aunt in the pre-war years and censoring images of the gruesome end. One or two people she recognised, but for the most part the assembled remained faceless and shadowy.

An announcement from the pulpit invited mourners (attendees?) to a small reception being held afterwards in the adjoining hall. She decided to give this a miss, hoping to slip away unremarked – but was caught by Mrs Gill who, leaning over from the pew behind, had whispered: ‘Do hope you’ll come, my dear, not seen you for ages.’ (No, Rosy thought, you haven’t. She had made it her business not to go near Aunt Marcia or St John’s Wood ever since the ambassadorial crisis of three years earlier.) Thus caught on the hop yet wedged in the pew, there was nothing she could do except smile and nod compliance.

The ritual over it was with some relief that she filed outside with the Gills and a handful of others to the cramped burial ground, and watched the coffin as it was lowered into the allotted space. There was in fact a good number of floral tributes and she noted that hers was prominently placed. But the observation gave little satisfaction for she knew that the flowers were no substitute for warmth, let alone real love …

After the final benediction and the sprinkling of earth she lingered diffidently by the graveside – partly through awkward respect, partly through reluctance to join the melee in the church hall. Then with the first gust of rain, and with a mixture of guilt and defiance, she turned abruptly and walked towards its door.

Surveying the room and its occupants Rosy wasn’t entirely enamoured of what she saw – an ill-assorted crowd who, collectively at least, held little promise of appeal or interest: a few elderly indeterminates downing minuscule glasses of British Sherry as if their lives depended on it (which they probably did); a small coterie of what she took to be members of Marcia’s ‘so talented, my dear’ art group (distinguished by their studiedly ‘bohemian’ attire, i.e. florid colours and cultivated beards); a trio of heavily cassocked priests all wearing the same expression of benevolent indifference; a fair number of the louche and raddled, and a sprinkling of Haslemere types looking out of place and out of sorts. Slightly to her surprise, Donald the ex-husband was not in evidence, and neither were the Oughterard cousins (too busy wrangling among themselves on Romney Marsh, she supposed).

But the cranky Fawcetts were there all right – asinine Edward, Amy of whose mentality she had never been quite certain, and of course the genial but astonishingly tactless mother. (Once known to enquire of the young Princess Margaret if she didn’t occasionally tire of playing second fiddle to her sister. The fact that the princess most certainly did seemed of little help in defusing the ensuing furore.) Gobbling a cucumber sandwich, Lady Fawcett was also talking intently to the ubiquitous Professor Dillworthy, looking superior as usual and casting sidelong glances at his companion Felix Smythe, ‘the wittiest florist in Knightsbridge’. Felix, however, was busy scanning the other guests, and catching Rosy’s eye blew a kiss. ‘Huh,’ she bridled to herself, ‘we’ve hardly ever met and the last time was when he was ginned up to the eyebrows with Aunt Marcia outside the Ritz. I’m surprised he remembers me.’

But he evidently did, for detaching himself from the group he slithered over to Rosy and in unctuous tone murmured a blend of compliment and condolence. She thanked him politely; whereupon, lowering his voice and with a glint of relish, he said, ‘But, oh my goodness, it must have been excruciating for you to learn the precise circumstances! Very odd. Poor girl, I hope she didn’t suffer much.’

Rosy inwardly agreed with both observations but was disinclined to pursue the matter with Felix, and instead enquired brightly after his horticultural pursuits, wondering vaguely whether she should have placed her recent order with his own firm Bountiful Blooms instead of Selfridges. (In fact, she learnt later that Felix never catered for funerals, these apparently being too stifling of the spirit.)

‘Well, my dear,’ he confided eagerly, ‘trade, as they say, is booming! The Tatler, of course, is always begging me to write articles for their house and garden section, but just recently the dear Queen Mother has rather honed in on things. She gave a cocktail party last week and wanted nothing but sweet peas … Just a titchy bit vulgar I thought. But then who am I to question a royal diktat?’ He paused and with a light laugh added, ‘Although as a matter of fact that is exactly what I did: “Oh Ma’am,” I said, “do you really want every bloom a sweet pea?”’

‘And did she?’ asked Rosy.

He nodded. ‘“Indeed I do, Mr Smythe,” she said, “I like the smell and so do the corgis.”’

Rosy giggled. ‘Well that put you in your place, didn’t it!’

Felix shrugged, and taking her by the elbow steered her towards a small group which included Professor Dillworthy and the Fawcetts.

They welcomed her with interest and suitably sympathetic faces. ‘Weren’t you terribly surprised?’ asked Lady Fawcett. ‘I mean it’s not the sort of thing one expects of an aunt, is it?’

Of course I was bloody surprised, thought Rosy irritably, what does she imagine? But she agreed politely that yes she had certainly been surprised, and it was all very mysterious.

‘Ah,’ said Edward darkly, nodding in the direction of his own aunt, ‘but you never can tell. Sometimes they step out of character.’

Lady Fawcett regarded him coldly. ‘I don’t know what sort of character you have in mind, Edward, but another absurdity like that and I shall indeed step out of it and box your ears!’ She took a sharp bite from her sandwich.

‘Dear Marcia,’ exclaimed Cedric Dillworthy, ‘she leaves such a gap in our lives.’ Rosy rather doubted this but nodded in dutiful agreement.

‘Absolutely!’ cried Felix Smythe. ‘I mean she was so – so, well …’ He wafted a limp hand in the air, indicating God knows what.

‘Game?’ suggested a deep voice at Rosy’s shoulder.

Rosy turned and was confronted by a middle-aged woman clad in tweeds, lisle stockings, and wearing a rather battered pork-pie hat with a small scraggy feather. Felix raised his eyes to the ceiling and murmured sotto voce, ‘Well not for you, dear, that’s for sure!’ And then in a louder voice and addressing Lady Fawcett, he introduced the newcomer as ‘Vera Collinger – such a stalwart and an old pal of Marcia’s.’

‘But you’ve just implied …’ interrupted Edward clumsily.

‘Just one of Felix’s feeble little witticisms,’ said the newcomer. ‘You see,’ she added, thrusting out her jaw and lighting a small cheroot, ‘I am of the Sapphic persuasion.’ The announcement elicited a brief silence and blank expressions.

‘How nice …’ said Lady Fawcett, ‘… and er … what does that entail?’

‘Oh, Mummy,’ protested Amy, ‘surely you know about that! She doesn’t like men.’

‘Few of us do, dear, but one must be charitable … I mean, I know that they are not awfully good at fixing things, but they are quite smart at playing footsie under the luncheon table … Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Bollinger?’

‘Collinger,’ muttered the other, scowling and emitting a cloud of acrid smoke.

There was a stifled snigger from Cedric Dillworthy, who, projecting his voice and addressing the room in general, said ‘It’s such a fascinating island, you know. In fact in my opinion by far the best of all the Aegean ones, and of course there is that extraordinary petrified forest. I remember once—’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Edward.

‘Why Lesbos, of course. Didn’t you come to my course of lectures, “Denizens of Lesbos”, at the National Gallery?’

‘No,’ Edward replied.

‘Ah well, missed a treat,’ sighed the professor. ‘But I expect Miss Collinger may have.’ He turned to her and added slyly, ‘Rather up your street, I imagine, dear lady.’

‘Hardly,’ the lady answered. ‘I avoid abroad, and I also make a particular point of avoiding the National Gallery – it attracts so many charlatans.’

Cedric pursed his lips in displeasure, while Rosy thought, Perhaps not abroad, but she does go to the National Gallery. I saw her there last week talking to a man with a gammy leg under the Titian in the third room – and wearing this same pork-pie hat with mangy feather …

‘It was quite awful!’ she later confided to Leo, the young research assistant in Dr Stanley’s archives department. ‘The most dreary service, a vacuous address by some priest with adenoids, and nobody there who seemed remotely concerned about Marcia’s death – except for the actual circumstances, of course. The food was stale too,’ she added as an afterthought.

They were huddled at a small table in the pub opposite the British Museum, consuming pickled eggs and Guinness to offset the autumnal damp and their employer’s exacting demands. It had been a more than busy afternoon in the office, and the rigours of the earlier obsequies had not exactly fortified Rosy for dealing with fractious scholars and the earnest, frequently meandering telephone enquiries from the public. Along with arranging conferences and keeping her boss insulated against the more deranged of his fellow academics, such matters were all in a day’s work, and normally she coped with cheery efficiency (sometimes, indeed, with mild fervour). But today was different. She felt tired, flat – oddly dispirited. Ennui induced by Marcia, she thought wryly …

‘But then you’re not specially concerned either, are you?’ asked Leo, biting into one of the rubbery eggs. ‘I thought you said you had nothing in common and hardly ever saw her.’

‘Hmm,’ agreed Rosy soberly, ‘but that was before …’

‘Before the coal scuttle?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I feel guilty somehow.’

‘Can’t think why. I mean it wasn’t you who shoved it on her head, was it?’

She smiled. ‘No, of course not. Nor did I shoot her. But maybe if I had been more aware, more involved, made more of an effort to get to know her, things might have been different.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. From what you say she clearly wasn’t very interested in your life. Didn’t even send condolences when your chap was killed – too busy pursuing her own ends, whatever they may have been.’

Rosy lit a cigarette, considering his words. ‘Well, yes, that’s it, isn’t it: what were her own ends? From what I could make out she seemed to spend her days wrapped in a veil of alcohol pursuing what the moralists would call folly and trivia.’

Leo laughed. ‘Sounds pretty good to me – assuming you manage not to get bumped off in the process.’

‘Exactly. People don’t get murdered for being silly (well, not usually). There must have been something else, something going on beneath the surface.’

Her companion cleared his throat and in a mild tone said, ‘If you don’t mind my saying, that is a remark of the most fatuous triteness.’

‘Well really!’

‘Of course something was going on under the surface. And what’s more I think you should make it your business to find out. I’ll give you a hand if you like.’ He stood up abruptly, unwound the muffler from around his neck, shrugged off his raincoat and shapeless cardigan, and before she had a chance to speak, pushed his way to the bar to order more Guinness.

When he returned she gestured to the heap of garments. ‘I thought you were cold. Do you propose taking anything else off?’

He looked rueful. ‘Not for some time I shouldn’t think. She’s chucked me again.’

‘Who? Polly?’

‘No, the one before – Miranda. It was just coming right again; and then all of a sudden, pouf! Off she goes with some creeping Jesus from the gas board who is going to convert her to piety and six children, the sod.’

‘Does she want either?’

‘Seems so. Anyway she certainly doesn’t want me – which is why to allay my spleen and melancholy I propose helping you pursue the mystery of the murdered lady.’

‘The murdered lady happens to have been my aunt; I am not sure I take kindly to your using her as a sort of palliative to hurt pride.’

‘Far more than hurt pride,’ he retorted plaintively, ‘a broken heart no less.’

‘Broken heart, my arse. That’ll be the day!’

He looked at her in mock surprise over the rims of his reading glasses (for some reason invariably donned when sipping stout). ‘I am not used to hearing such language from females of a certain age, it shatters my illusions.’

‘Of a certain age!’ she yelped. ‘I’ll have you know I’m not yet thirty. And I know how to use a searchlight and strip an ack-ack gun. I bet they didn’t teach you that in the Boy Scouts!’

‘Yes, sorry. I forgot you were a war veteran – explains the verbal bluntness, no doubt.’ He grinned and added, ‘I say, could I cadge a fag? Dr Stanley took my last one when he was squaring up to Mrs Burkiss over the missing gin bottle. She refuses to give him the key to her broom cupboard. He’s convinced the gin is in there but she won’t budge an inch.’

‘Ah, well, that’s a lost cause then … But, Leo, are you really serious about wanting to fish up something about Marcia? Surely the police are doing all that. And besides, you haven’t the time. I mean, quite apart from your work for Stanley, what about your own researches – something to do with Gladstone and the Bulgarians, aren’t they? I’d hate to think of Aunt Marcia standing in the way of you and your doctorate, or indeed of the Grand Old Man!’

‘Your Aunt Marcia may have stood in the way of a lot of things – or people – hence her death. But don’t worry, she won’t prevent me scaling the heights of academia, and I am sure that the venerable GOM will shut an eagle eye if I “absent” myself “from felicity awhile”.’

‘He never said that!’

‘No, it was another mighty craftsman. But let’s get back to the subject in hand: who was the assassin and why did he favour that particular brand of millinery?’

‘Or why did they?’ murmured Rosy.

CHAPTER FOUR

Leaving Leo to return to his lodgings in Bloomsbury, Rosy caught a bus to Marble Arch, but ignoring drizzle and rush-hour crowds decided to get off at Marshall & Snelgrove and walk the rest of the way. Normally exercise for its own sake held little appeal, but after the funeral and the Fawcetts et al she felt the need to stretch her legs as well as her mind. The warmth of her flat beckoned; but just for a little longer she sought the harsher stimulus of the London streets.

Skirting round the back of Marshall’s and walking briskly along Wigmore Street, she brooded on Leo’s words: Of course there was something going on under the surface … and I think you should make it your business to find out. Well yes, obviously quite a lot must have been going on (unless the thing had just been a random attack by some crazed intruder – though that seemed improbable). Still, surely there was no need for a personal pursuit. Wasn’t that the job of the police? Certainly the whole business was horribly bizarre and her natural curiosity looked for an explanation … But Leo had urged her to take some sort of initiative herself: to ‘root things out like a truffle hound’ he had said.

All very well for Leo, she thought, it wasn’t his aunt who was the victim. Did she really want to root around in Marcia’s life (least of all like some slavering canine!)? Wouldn’t it be better to leave well alone, draw a veil and get on with her own life while others did the digging? Yes, by far the most sensible course … And in any case, it occurred to her with a jolt, certainly the safer! After all, it wasn’t as if the matter were simply some abstruse conundrum, a cerebral challenge to be solved and discarded. A raw brutish thing had happened, perpetrated by someone with malicious intent: someone with an agenda which may or may not have been satisfied, and who might conceivably take things further. And whatever the motive, and whether satisfied or not, the assassin was still out there somewhere: an individual going about his (or her) daily business, to be encountered perhaps at a Tube station, on the top of a bus, in a Lyons Corner House or the little greengrocer’s off the Edgeware Road … perhaps the very next person she passed here in Wigmore Street! Rosy flinched, and then smartly sidestepped a large woman bearing down on her shoving a perambulator of tank-like girth. She gave a perfunctory smile to its twin and bawling occupants. Presumably no murderer there.

And then with Leo’s metaphor still in mind, she slipped into the Greek café to buy a quarter of rather ersatz chocolate truffles. Having firmly decided to decline the role of truffle hound she might at least safely pursue the sugary imitations.

Back at the flat she was busy sampling the third of these when the telephone rang. ‘I have a long-distance call for you from New York,’ announced the operator’s clipped tones.

New York? She didn’t know anyone there. Obviously wrong number. She waited, and mechanically stretched for a fourth truffle while priming her ear to catch an American accent.

‘I say, is that Rosy?’ asked a distinctly English voice.

‘Er, yes,’ she replied hesitantly, replacing the chocolate.

‘Good. Hoped to catch you, thought you might still be at work or something.’

Despite the crackling line the voice sounded familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. ‘Uhm – sorry, you are?’

‘Donald. Donald Beasley. Once married to your aunt. Remember?’

‘Oh yes, of course! I am so sorry – it’s been a long time and—’

‘Look, I’ve just heard the awful news. There was a small item in the Tribune, colourful to say the least, but in its way oddly flattering. Describes her as the “fashionable high-spirited English belle”. I suppose that’s because she was once seen on the arm of old Joe Kennedy at the Waldorf. “High-spirited” is a bit of a euphemism if you ask me … Still, that’s beside the point. I just wanted to give you my sympathy, and to say that I’m coming over to London next week to negotiate a publishing deal for my firm. Perhaps we could meet for a drink – there are one or two things I need to discuss.’ He paused, and then clearing his throat added, ‘As you know, she and I didn’t get on – not latterly at any rate – but it’s a bit of a shock all the same, particularly in those appalling circumstances. It’s grotesque, and I’d just like to …’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ Rosy said hastily. ‘I only work part-time so I can be fairly flexible: a Wednesday or Thursday afternoon, perhaps. Or an evening if you prefer.’

He settled for the Friday evening at his hotel, saying he would call to confirm after arrival. Then muttering something about it being a ghastly business, he rang off.

Exchanging truffle for a small whisky, Rosy went into the narrow kitchen, switched on the wireless and started to chop cabbage and remnants of boiled potato for a bubble and squeak. She felt quite hungry, and levered open a tin of corned beef to add to the mixture in the pan. Later, sitting at the kitchen table, half listening to the absurdities of Much Binding in the Marsh, she reflected upon Donald and his imminent visit.

She could not quite remember when Marcia had introduced him as her husband – 1944, early 1945? No, of course it had been ’44 – not long after the D-Day Landings. Rosy had been on leave staying (rather strainfully) with the Oughterard cousins in Sussex, and Marcia had appeared from out of the blue dragging Donald on her arm. Their arrival had caused a minor upheaval, i.e. requiring Mrs Oughterard to curtail her afternoon rest, and her husband to forego his daily session with their soldier son’s abandoned train set. However, things had settled down and the next few hours had passed pleasantly enough. The newly-weds were clearly pleased with each other and generated an air of mild jollity in a household not noted for its exuberance.

At first Donald had struck Rosy as rather stolid and, certainly from her standpoint, distinctly aged. (He had been a little older than Marcia, about forty-seven perhaps, and previously married.) However, under the staccato barrage of Charles Oughterard’s interrogation he had responded with wit and patient good humour. (Charles himself had been later heard to mutter that a chap so knowledgeable about the manufacture of parts for Hornby rolling stock must be all right, and it just went to show that ‘these Air Ministry bods know a thing or two!’)

Subsequently there had been the occasional brief encounter with both of them in London … though one rather embarrassing occasion when she had bumped into Donald in a nightclub, distinctly the worse for wear and with another woman on his arm. Gradually there had emerged rumours of Marcia’s own infidelities, public skirmishes between the two of them and finally the divorce. After which he had faded from the scene. Until now. Yes, he had been an unremarkable presence in Rosy’s life. But one thing she recalled clearly: his words of shy concern when she had once let slip a reference to Johnnie’s death. It was a concern which she could not recall Aunt Marcia ever showing.

Rosy frowned, considering sartorial possibilities for their meeting. What would be the most suitable? Turquoise satin with paste diamonds and snazzy bolero? He might think that frivolous – especially given the subject of their meeting. Perhaps something more svelte was required: the grey silk with pearl choker, navy wrap and matching handbag. Yes, probably better. Her new stockings had fashionable black seams but reluctantly she discounted these in favour of conventional ones, hearing her mother’s now distant voice murmuring: ‘Just a trifle fast, dear, don’t you think?’ She smiled sadly, remembering the battles over the blue eyeshadow.

And then she thought of Donald himself: would she recognise him? Had he altered – put on weight, gone white-haired or bald, lost his teeth? Might he turn up in crêpe soles, sporting a loud American jacket? Like Marcia he had used to drink quite heavily. Supposing he had gone teetotal, joined a temperance society and appeared with a badge on his lapel proclaiming the fact! Unlikely: after all, he was with a firm of publishers now. Still, it was amazing how people changed. She recalled a chance encounter in Piccadilly a couple of years previously with a girl she had once known in the ATS – a wild pretty kid they had dubbed Molly the Minx. Six years after the war’s end she had suddenly reappeared outside Fortnum & Mason, draped in a nun’s habit and carrying a cat. It was the cat that had been the greatest shock: the girl could never abide them.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘So why have you come forward only now?’ asked Detective Sergeant Greenleaf sternly. ‘Mrs Beasley was found dead a good two weeks ago, it was all over the papers. If you’ve got what you believe to be vital information you should have reported it immediately.’

Clovis Thistlehyde cleared his throat and explained rather impatiently that he had been abroad when the news broke – ‘Venice, actually. I like to browse the Accademia periodically, it stimulates the Muse, you know.’

Greenleaf didn’t know and he wasn’t too sure about the Accademia either; but nodding briefly, said, ‘So what have you to tell me?’

‘I should like to tell whoever is in charge of the case,’ replied Clovis tartly, ‘is that you?’

‘I am one of those immediately responsible for its handling,’ Greenleaf informed him stiffly. ‘Anything relevant to our enquiries will be given all due attention, you can be sure of that, sir.’ He didn’t think he liked this man very much. He certainly didn’t like his tie which was scarlet (obviously a Bolshie) and his hair could do with a good chop too.

‘In that case,’ said Clovis, settling back in his chair and crossing a green corduroyed leg, ‘I have reason to believe that apart from the murderer I was quite probably the last person to see Marcia Beasley alive.’ He gave a deprecating smile, clearly expecting his questioner to express grateful amazement.

‘And what makes you think that?’ asked Greenleaf woodenly.

‘Because I just happened to be there that afternoon, not long before the poor woman was found. Just before I set off for abroad.’

‘Oh yes? Why?’

‘She was my model.’

‘What?’

‘My model. I happen to be an artist – portraits mainly. She was a keen patron of our group. I realise that this sort of thing may not be your line of country, so you might not have heard of me, but I have a modest claim to fame – quite a following in fact, especially from abr—’

‘Abroad?’

‘Precisely.’

‘I see. So you went to paint her at her house?’

Clovis nodded.

‘In the nude?’

‘Oh yes. One has to admit that for a woman of her years she was in pretty good shape – only moderate sagging at the thighs and tum; lines on the neck, naturally – but, between you and me, still remarkable breasts. Very paintable one might say! Indeed I had every intention of doing a couple of studies for my next exhibition at the Islington Attic – rather a modish little joint. Perhaps you know it?’

Greenleaf shook his head and confessed he didn’t. ‘So while this painting was going on, was the deceased with or without the coal scuttle?’

‘Without … What? Well of course she was without! You don’t imagine I would select a sitter wearing a coal bucket do you? For God’s sake, man!’ Clovis scowled and tugged at the scarlet tie.

‘We have to check these details,’ Greenleaf explained patiently, ‘it’s a question of getting things just right, building up a picture, as you might say.’ He smiled and added, ‘But mind you, these days you artist gentlemen seem to put anything into your pictures. Take that Picasso bloke, for example – some very rum ideas he seems to have. All a bit bizarre to a layman’s eye if you ask me … But then, of course, you’re not a layman are you, Mr Thistledown?’

‘I am not,’ snapped Clovis. ‘And the name is Thistlehyde.’

He supplied further details, and Greenleaf made notes to the effect that the witness had arrived at the victim’s house at about one-thirty in the afternoon, stayed for a couple of hours, and then left a little earlier than usual to prepare for his trip to Venice, picking up a taxi at the nearby rank.

‘And during this time,’ Greenleaf continued, ‘would you say Mrs Beasley was acting in her normal way?’

‘Entirely. Throwing down gin and cursing the government.’

‘Cursing the government?’

‘The previous one, Attlee’s. A hobby horse. Couldn’t stand the man and she generally started on him sooner or later, especially if she was bored with other topics or had had a few. Naturally one agreed but it could get a bit repetitive all the same.’

Greenleaf was about to observe that he had always thought Mr Attlee a rather sane fellow, when Thistlehyde suddenly leant forward and said, ‘Tell you what, though, she did get a bit queer towards the end.’

‘Queer? In what way?’

‘Well, she said that she was getting tired from holding the position and wanted to stretch her legs and have a fag. As said, I was rather pressed for time, but agreed anyway and we took a break. I nipped off to the lavatory, and when I came back she was pulling the brown paper off a package which must have arrived earlier. From what I saw it seemed to be a black box, gift-wrapped with a pink bow. She began to open the lid and then suddenly shut it and cried, “Oh Christ Almighty, not another effing one!” When I asked, “Another effing what?” she sort of shrugged and simply said, “Oh nothing really – all just so boring,” and chucked it into the waste-paper basket. Then she stubbed out her cigarette, resumed her pose and I picked up my brushes … But I can tell you, it was no good. Her face was white, eyes blank, and she had gone what you might call all saggy. No good for Clovis Thistlehyde! So I packed up my things and said I would see her when I got back from Venice.’

‘Hmm … So you left, and didn’t see anyone on your way out or in the street?’

Clovis shook his head. ‘Personne, as our Gallic friends would say.’

Greenleaf didn’t have any Gallic friends but assumed the answer was intended as a negative. ‘Tell me, Mr Thistlehyde,’ he asked, ‘did you often visit the lady in her home?’

‘Visit the lady? Only to paint her, if that’s what you mean.’ He looked slightly put out.

‘But I thought you artists had studios for that sort of thing, with easels and canvases and such … and … er, skylights,’ Greenleaf added vaguely. ‘But I daresay they’re a bit pricey; don’t suppose everyone can afford one, especially these days – not after the war and Mr Attlee’s austerity drive. Mind you, I don’t think Mr Churchill is going to—’

‘Of course I can bloody well afford one!’ retorted Clovis angrily, ‘I’m not some jobbing little tyro, you know! Not far off an RA – an FAG actually.’

Greenleaf was intrigued. ‘What’s that?’

‘Fellow of the Artists’ Guild, naturally.’

‘Ah yes, stupid of me … So why didn’t she come to your studio, then?’

The latter paused, frowning slightly. ‘Well, as I’ve told you, I have a place, of course – but it’s near Paddington station, not exactly the most enticing area. Absolutely nothing to do with cost, you understand,’ he added firmly, ‘but it’s a question of the right light. Such things are difficult to come by and you have to grab them when you can. Anyway, Marcia – God that woman was such a thumping snob – declared she had no intention of being seen lurking around the backstreets of Paddington and visiting some rabbit hutch three floors up. When I said that there was no need to lurk and that by some standards my atelier was no hutch but a unit of penthouse proportion, she replied that anyone seen on foot in that area was bound to be thought lurking, and that the concept of size was entirely relative, thus it would be far more convenient if I visited her in St John’s Wood. Which I did.’ He folded his arms.

‘Often was it?’

‘Often enough – and it cost her!’ Clovis grinned. ‘Yes, one has to admit Marcia was pretty generous with the old expenses, not bad at all! In fact, come to think of it, she owes me the taxi fare for the last session. I’d better get on to the executors pronto …’

‘I see. So she took her clothes off, you took out your paintbox and she paid you big compensation for the inconvenience?’ Greenleaf gave a kindly smile which was not returned.

‘I must say,’ Clovis said testily, ‘the police do have a raw way of putting things. But I suppose that’s all part of their training – cut the cackle and nail the poor buggers!’ He gave another wrench to the red tie and stared defiantly at Greenleaf. And then with a sudden smirk, ran a hand through the trailing hair and, adjusting his voice to a confidential murmur, said, ‘As a matter of fact it wasn’t just Marcia’s snobbery that persuaded me to visit her, least of all what you clearly like to see as my mercenary intent. It’s my current mistress: she is insanely jealous and has a wild imagination. I fear that visits from Marcia would have been grist to her suspicious mill. She harbours visions of wild orgiastic frolics being enacted in my modest garret.’

‘And are they?’ Greenleaf asked with interest.

‘Ah well, that would be telling,’ was the roguish reply, and he gave what was evidently meant to be a man-of-the-world laugh. Greenleaf took his pencil and scribbled something on the blotting pad: ‘Berk’.