A Little Murder (23 page)

Like Cedric, Rosy had also seen an item about the Bexhill ‘mystery victim’. Scanning the following day’s
Times
she had chanced upon it tucked away on an inside page. The details were sparse, though not as brief as those in the
Evening Standard
’s stop press and it did not take an Einstein to draw the inference.

‘God Almighty,’ she breathed, ‘I can’t take much more of this! How the hell …?’ She closed her eyes feeling rather weak. And then rather unsteadily picked up the phone and dialled Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms. There was no answer. Bloody man, she thought, gassing with some countess!

She glanced at the clock and saw she had about ten minutes to reach her office at the museum. She tore out, leapt on a bus to St Giles’s Circus, leapt off, and with head still numbed by the morning’s revelation hurried the rest of the way to Great Russell Street. At the museum’s steps she encountered her boss.

Dr Stanley gave an uncharacteristic beam and greeted her
warmly. ‘Ah, Rosy, good to see you. A lively sale at your aunt’s house the other morning. Thought I might have seen you there … too busy cataloguing stuff for our Etruscan exhibition next month, I daresay.’

‘Yes,’ she lied.

‘There was some quite decent stuff but nothing of riveting interest – though I have to admit to taking a shine to that umbrella stand, the one made from an elephant’s foot. No luck, though; some young chap keen as mustard and hair to match outbid me by a long chalk. Still, I did get one thing. Absurd really, but I like its face.’ He scrabbled in his briefcase and produced a particularly disagreeable effigy of a small monkey. ‘I gather she bought it in Ceylon before the war. You probably remember it.’

As it happened, Rosy did remember. It had sat on top of the piano in the morning room squinting malevolently at anyone bold enough to approach the keys. She had particularly disliked it.

‘Fascinating,’ she murmured.

‘Thought you would approve. I am going to keep it on my desk, make a handy paperweight – and, of course, a nice little memento for you.’

‘Really?’ she said taken aback.

‘Yes, every time you see it you will be reminded of your poor aunt.’ He smiled benignly.

On the whole, Rosy reflected, the day had not begun well.

At her desk sipping a vapid coffee, she applied herself to sorting the post and tried to push the less prosaic matters from her mind. She had almost succeeded in this but was foiled by a familiar voice.

‘Ah,’ boomed Vera Collinger, ‘they told me I might find
you here. I came in to cancel my order for the museum’s new publication on Roman antiquities, and as I was passing I thought I would—’

‘Why? Don’t you like it?’

‘Oh
I
like it, but Deirdre is clearly not capable of it. Before going to Rome I ordered a copy thinking it would be a nice surprise for her when we returned. Since then I have revised my view of the girl’s intelligence. Contrary to her claims, Deirdre would be hard-pressed to distinguish Julius Caesar from a Caesar salad.’

Had there been flowers in the room the note of scorn would have withered them instantly, and Rosy felt sorry for the hapless Deirdre.

‘However,’ Miss Collinger continued in a more moderate tone, ‘that is not my main reason for coming in. I wanted to know if you had heard the news of poor Sabatier.’

‘You mean about his being found in Bexhill? Yes, yes I have. It was in this morning’s
Times
but his identity isn’t known.’

‘Except by us,’ the other said dryly.

Rosy nodded, and then to her great embarrassment suddenly found her hands shaking violently. She thrust them into her lap but the older woman must have noticed.

‘All very unsettling,’ she said in a voice bordering on sympathy, ‘but the great thing is not to let those fiends defeat us! Bear up, Miss Gilchrist, we’re all in this together. Fortify yourself, my dear – go to that tavern opposite at lunchtime and buy yourself a large Scotch, you will feel so much better. Here …’ And to Rosy’s flustered surprise she drew two half-crowns from her pocket and pushed them across the desk. ‘Have it on me,’ she said gruffly.

Rosy was just stammering her thanks, when pausing at
the door her benefactor said, ‘Oh, a word of warning: you may need that drink sooner than later. That Gill woman was hanging around in the entrance. I got the impression she might be looking for you – burbled something about a vase and wanting you to go to tea tomorrow, but I wasn’t really listening. Not my type – nearly as stupid as Deirdre!’

After she had gone Rosy regarded the overgenerous
half-crowns
in some awe, and then thought of the visitor in the hall. She did not share Vera’s antipathy to Mildred Gill – dull, perhaps, but pleasantly well meaning. One had known worse. She wondered what she wanted. Vera had said something about a tea invitation … Not another whist drive, surely – that would really be too much! But hadn’t Vera also mentioned a vase? Perhaps the woman had an urge to have a private view of the Portland! Thus to break the chore of the correspondence and to distract herself further from current anxieties, she went to have a look in the entrance hall.

Vera had been right, Mrs Gill was indeed there, and talking animatedly to Leo. She caught a few of her words: ‘What a wonderful place to work in, so absorbing, and most inspiring for your own researches. I think Rosy said you were doing something on Gladstone – not, of course, that Gladstone was an
antiquity
exactly, but I am sure the ethos must fuel the muse!’

Looking deeply solemn Leo replied something which Rosy could not catch; but it was clearly well received for Mrs Gill gave a silvery laugh and cried, ‘Well I never, who would have thought!’

At that moment the young man glanced up, saw the watcher and hailed her quickly. ‘Good morning, Rosy – this lady is dying to get hold of you. I was just wondering where
you might be, wasn’t sure if you had arrived or not. Anyway, I’ll leave you both together, I simply
must
find Professor Burkiss.’ He strode off purposefully.

‘Is Professor Burkiss his supervisor?’ asked Mrs Gill.

‘Er, not exactly, just a colleague.’ (She thought it best not to explain that the professor was in fact the department’s charlady who had yet again lifted the community gin bottle.) ‘So what brings you here?’ she said hastily, ‘I am afraid the lecture catalogue isn’t out yet but I’m sure I can find an advance leaflet if you like—’

‘Oh no, nothing so cultural I am afraid. But as I was seeing my chiropodist in Gower Street I thought I might drop in here on the off chance to ask if you would be free.’

Rosy smiled. ‘Really? Free for what?’

‘Free to come to tea tomorrow. You see, when I was at your aunt’s sale earlier in the week I couldn’t resist bidding for one or two of the items, including that pretty little clock in the hall.’

‘You mean the one under the donkey painting?’

‘Yes. I’ve always admired it – rather nicer than the donkeys, I always felt!’ She gave a little grimace. ‘Anyway, I also purchased some other things – those linen sheets were such good quality; one doesn’t see many of that kind these days. But I also bought a charming rose bowl – had to fend off a rival bidder, in fact, so I felt quite triumphant! But it has since occurred to me that it might be the sort of thing
you
might like … a little memento of Marcia, she was so fond of roses.’

Rosy thought of the straggling unpruned rose trees in her aunt’s neglected garden and rather doubted the claim. However, she smiled politely but before she could say anything, Mrs Gill went on: ‘And – dare I say it – it might be a little souvenir of us too.’

‘Of you? Oh …’ She was uncertain what to say.

‘We are packing up, you see, and thought it would be nice to distribute a few odds and ends among friends.’

‘Packing up?’

‘Yes. Harold says he finds it too unsettling living next door to where that awful thing happened. And besides, there are rumours that the new owners, the donkey sanctuary people, are going to sell it to an Arab sheik and his entourage. Frankly I think I would rather see donkeys grazing there than a posse of camels!’ She shrieked with mirth, something Rosy had never heard her do before. And then recovering herself she said, ‘Oh dear, I’m afraid one is being rather naughty! But seriously, camels apart, we are in fact planning on moving to Kenya. We always said we would, and now that Harold’s rheumatism is getting worse a warmer climate would suit us so much better. We have friends there in a very nice set and I am sure we shall fit in well.’

‘So you are going soon, are you?’

‘Yes, we’ve had it in mind for some time and I am afraid your aunt’s tragedy has rather hastened things.’ She looked apologetic and added, ‘So you will come to tea, won’t you, my dear? The next few weeks are going to be so hectic attending to this and that, and I would hate not to be able to squeeze you in before we go.’

Rosy was not entirely sure she wanted to be squeezed into the Gills’ busy removal schedule, nor was she especially keen to have the proffered rose bowl. And after the awful events in that vicinity she was even less inclined to go at all. However, caught on the hop and bowing to the diktats of social courtesy she mustered a receptive smile and said she would be delighted.

Arriving home that evening she picked up the afternoon post from the mat and found between the bills and circulars a hand-delivered note. She slit open the envelope and was surprised to see the enclosed sheet bore the engraved London address and bold signature of Maynard Latimer.

What with the startling encounter with the priest ‘Lola’ and the dreadful Sabatier event, her recent lunch companion had faded from her mind. Now, however, he came hurtling back as she recalled with a jolt what Vera Collinger had told her about his seeing Marcia to within weeks of her death. She also recalled the troubling suspicions which had dogged her walk home from the pub in Soho. These, she was sure, were histrionic and groundless; but his mendacity over Marcia had rankled and she began to scan the note with a dismissive eye.

Its content was disarming. Could she possibly join him for a drink that evening? He was catching a late flight to Malta and would be honoured to have his last cocktail
in London shared with one so charming. Unless he heard otherwise he would pick her up just before seven. He had, he added, something special for her …

‘One so charming, my foot!’ she muttered. ‘Does he think I can be flattered?’ She could, of course, and went up the stairs two at a time to turn on the bath.

Lying there in bathcap and curlers, she wondered idly what the gift could be. Provided it wasn’t another rose bowl she didn’t much care … funny the way people were suddenly so eager to give her things. Even Dr Stanley seemed to think she would be gratified by the sight of that awful monkey!

He arrived driving himself in a Rover and took her to the Connaught. She watched him talking to the barman and had to admit that for one who had recently had his seventieth birthday there was still a lot to be said for Maynard Latimer’s looks. Whether she actually liked him she was still not sure: amusing and attractive certainly, but
likeable
? Well, she would have to wait and see …

As before, she found him an easy conversationalist and like many such he sparked lively responses from his listener. She asked him more about his house in Malta and how close it was to Valletta.

‘It’s my wife’s, actually. She loves it there, and being an invalid prefers the sun and peace of the island to the abrasive clatter of London – or the fogs of Yorkshire. She comes over very rarely so I go there on a fairly regular basis, for a couple of weeks usually – as I am doing tonight.’ He paused and gave a rueful smile. ‘But to tell the truth, one is always glad to get back to London. I’m a restless soul and I like the stimulus of the capital – too much peace can make one turgid.’ He gave a wry laugh,
and Rosy wondered if the observation had possibly been a veiled reference to the ‘sainted Silvia’ so disparaged by Vera. It would not, she felt, be quite the right moment to enquire more deeply about his visits to Marcia … In fact she had no intention of broaching the subject: he had lied about it once, and to probe further would possibly jeopardise the offer of a second Martini. Instead she asked him about her present.

‘From what I could make out from your note I think you said something about having something for me. I am terribly intrigued!’ Her eye must have fallen on the slight bulge spoiling the line of the elegantly cut jacket and he had evidently seen her glance.

‘I say, Rosy,’ he laughed, ‘you’re not doing a Mae West on me, are you? I can assure you that is not a gun in my pocket!’

She blushed and mumbled something inaudible as he drew out a small packet wrapped in silver tissue and ribbon. ‘There you are, tied with my own fair hands.’

Opening it up she was confronted by an elegant scent bottle – an exquisitely stylish Schiaparelli. She recognised it immediately: one of the collection on Marcia’s dressing table, and the same one surely that Amy had seen him bid for at the auction.

She gazed at it with genuine pleasure but was slightly embarrassed that he should give her something so personal. Pleasure and embarrassment mingled further when he said, ‘I rather think there is still a drop inside. Try it and see.’

She took out the stopper and sniffed. Yes, it was the old familiar ‘Shocking’ – sharp, potent, sensual. She knew and loved it; and while she did not especially recall it on Marcia it was a fragrance certainly typical of her aunt – bold and
unmistakable. She stammered her thanks while he regarded her with a lazy smile.

‘Thought you might like it. And when you come to Malta we could perhaps replenish it …’ He rose and went to the bar to order more Martinis.

Huh! When you come to Malta, indeed – the cheek of it! But she couldn’t help feeling a little pleased all the same. And then she felt less pleased as she recalled Amy’s surmise that it was one he had once bought for Marcia … A gift now repurchased and presented to the niece. Well really! She stared indignantly at the tall broad back at the bar, and then down at the crystal bottle in her lap. Oh well, better than a flower vase or a leering monkey!

Latimer returned to the table and without preamble said, ‘I say, did you read about that headless corpse on Bexhill promenade? It was sitting in a deckchair. Amazing what they do on the south coast these days.’

Rosy almost choked on her drink. ‘What!’ she squeaked. ‘But it wasn’t headless, just naked!’

‘Oh, is
that
all!’ he laughed. ‘You’ve obviously got a better memory than I have – or doubtless a less lurid imagination. So you saw the item too, did you? But there was something else the paper said about him, something odd. What was it?’ He frowned. ‘Oh yes, that was it, he was missing a foot. Of course –
footless
not headless. I knew he was minus something’

Rosy forced a smile, but it was a subject she cared neither to discuss nor joke about. Latimer, however, was clearly taken with the topic and seemed intent on pursuing it, for his next comment discomfited her even more. ‘Didn’t the abominable Adelaide claim she had been thrown down the steps by a man with a limp – a wooden leg, in fact? Perhaps
it was the same one: limped out of the mist to do her in, foolishly botched the job and then in a fit of pique went down to Bexhill to sunbathe in the buff … What do you think, Rosy? A neat little theory, wouldn’t you say?’

The question was asked jovially enough and yet for a reason she could not define she was suddenly unsettled. Perhaps it was her acute sensitivity to the subject or the fact that he seemed to be regarding her closely, but either way she felt a flash of irrational fear. Why on earth had he brought up the incident at all? The item in
The Times
had been tiny. Why should he pick on that when there were other issues of so much more obvious interest?

She returned his gaze and said coolly, ‘Since he was also reported as having his throat cut I would prefer not to think about it at all. I am rather squeamish about that sort of thing.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry, rather a feeble joke. I am obviously becoming clumsy in my old age! One forgets that others have finer sensibilities than oneself.’

Was there an edge of sarcasm to the voice? She couldn’t be sure but her instinct was to smile and say nothing. However, instead she heard herself asking bluntly, ‘Why do you dislike Adelaide Fawcett so much?’ And remembering their earlier meeting and his icy response to the mention of the old lady, feared she might have made a stupid move.

But he seemed unruffled. ‘Oh it’s reciprocal, I can assure you. She has always hated me since I killed her cat,’ and taking a sip of his Martini added, ‘a malign creature, as you might expect.’

‘Her cat!’ Rosy gasped. ‘When? How?’

‘When I was about twelve and with a catapult – an absolute bullseye. I was rather pleased with that, though the adults cut up rough of course. Especially Adelaide.’

‘Ye-es,’ Rosy said slowly, ‘I suppose she would. I think I might have too. But
why
?’

He shrugged indifferently. ‘There’s a standard answer to that. As Mallory said – because it was there.’

‘Mallory was a brave hero,’ she retorted tartly, ‘and he was confronted by a mountain, not a harmless cat.’

‘It wasn’t harmless, it belonged to Adelaide.’

Despite herself, Rosy burst out laughing. ‘You’re fixated on that woman!’

He echoed her laugh but there was little mirth in the eyes. ‘When I was young we happened to move to a house very close to hers. By our standards it was a large house and our new neighbourhood had seemed very “posh”. Adelaide was, and is, an inveterate snob and she made it abundantly clear that we were not the sort of people she approved of. She spread a lot of malicious gossip about my parents which was untrue and unfair. Hence my killing of the cat – a kind of surrogate, I daresay.’

‘So you both carry on a vendetta because of the cat business and because she snubbed your family when you were a child? But surely after all these years and you having achieved so much – in line for a peerage it’s being whispered – you’re not really hurt by an addled old lady are you?’

‘Forgive the alliteration, but I can tell you there is nothing addled about Adelaide. She has the sharpest tongue and eye I have ever encountered, and if you get caught in her sights it can be very painful. It happened to me once.’ There was a fractional pause, and then he added musingly, ‘You know, my dear, there
are
people who deserve to fall upon flagstones … the righteous and meddlesome. In their way they can be quite ruthless – the sort who foul up life for others. Beware of such people, Rosy.’

A genial smile accompanied the warning, but the preceding words had held a raw resentment, and Rosy was suddenly chilled. Surely he couldn’t be alluding to Sabatier
as well
as Adelaide, could he? After all, both might be said to fit the category of the righteous and meddlesome … An image of the former choking to death on the icy flagstones outside Marcia’s house slid before her eyes; and as she faced the man’s amiable gaze all the earlier fears came plunging back. Yet even as they did she felt a fool. ‘Come on, Rosy, for God’s sake take a hold on yourself,’ she exclaimed inwardly, ‘you’re getting obsessive like Adelaide!’ And thus to Latimer she said, ‘This has been such a lovely evening and the scent bottle is beautiful. Thank you so much … I do hope you catch your flight all right – you may have to hurry!’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I have it down to a fine art. Glad you like the present, a souvenir of your aunt – and perhaps one of me.’ He gave a slow wink. (Hmm, she thought, should I want that?)

He drove her home at a speed which suggested a greater urgency than he had admitted. As she eased herself out of the passenger seat he stretched across, and gripping her wrist, said, ‘Rosy, I was fonder of your aunt than I may have suggested. I believe she did some stupid things. If you learn anything don’t think too badly of her and for Christ’s sake don’t get involved. It could be unlucky for you.’ He engaged the gear, blew her a kiss and drove off.

She stood on the pavement listening to the dwindling whine of the engine. Five seconds ago they had been talking and laughing, and now there was nothing but silence and the dark street. She took the key from her handbag and walked slowly to the front door.

It was a wretched night, rent with dreams of cats and catapults, headless sunbathers and people saying again and again
It could be unlucky for you
…

She woke at five-thirty tense and exhausted and still haunted by those parting words. What were they – genuine expressions of solicitous concern? Or a veiled threat to watch her back and keep her snout out of things? She thought again of Adelaide’s comment at the Fawcett party:
a dubious piece of work if ever there was one
. Had the remark been merely an allusion to the unfortunate cat, a memory lodged in the old woman’s brain to grow and fester over the years, or had it a deeper significance? Did Adelaide know of darker elements in Latimer’s past – elements that might make him run any risk to secure his own interests? A risk, for example, of throwing an old lady down stone steps to ensure her silence … or to flatter and subtly direct a much younger one to keep her eyes and mouth shut for fear of ending up butchered in a dark alley? Despite the warmth of the bed, Rosy shivered and drew the blanket over her head.

Two hours later she awoke slightly more refreshed and in slightly better spirits. The fears of the night seemed remote and largely ridiculous. She focused half-closed eyes on the scent bottle now gracing her own dressing table … Yes, no doubt about it, it did lend a certain distinction to the surrounding paraphernalia; she really should tidy things up! And then once again she thought of its donor – presumably safely landed in Malta and sharing breakfast with the sainted Silvia on a sunny veranda. All right for some, she supposed.