A Little Murder (25 page)

‘Exactly. It would to you and me, but not to Harold. Typical. Men can be like that, you know, they compartmentalise things – can’t see the wood for the trees, although in this case that was the problem. There
was
no tree, not one sheltering the mower, at any rate!’ Mrs Gill broke off and stared at Rosy quizzically, before saying in a solicitous tone, ‘You look pale, my dear. I expect you could do with a spot of sherry, I know I could.’

She rose to fetch the decanter from the drinks cabinet, and for a wild instant Rosy thought she might be able to grab the pistol. No chance, of course. The weapon went with its owner.

Back in her chair, Mrs Gill poured the sherry into tiny crystal glasses and offered one to her guest. Rosy regarded it dully, wondering if it was a poisoned chalice, and then decided that on the whole she didn’t much care anyway. Besides, her hostess had already taken a sip.

‘And so,’ Mrs Gill continued, ‘you can imagine what happened.’

‘Er, not entirely.’

‘Well naturally, being Harold, he had to dash out there and then and put it in the shed. I suppose he thought he could sneak it in without anyone observing. What foolishness! Inevitably, of course, he was seen – by of all people Clovis Thistlehyde. Harold said he suddenly emerged at the top of Marcia’s steps, clearly about to leave, and clutching his easel and paints which he promptly dropped. Then as he was gathering things up he glanced down over our front lawn – exactly to where Harold was standing fussing with his beastly machine … So you see, obviously he was
seen
and thus known to be at home!’

‘But surely it wasn’t definite that Clovis had noticed him. I mean he might have been gazing at the sky or at your nice rhododendrons …’

‘Rather what I said. But Harold wasn’t having it. “He saw me,” he said, “the beggar actually waved.” And that was that. It preyed on his mind, you see. I did my best to persuade him that Thistlehyde was so absorbed in himself that a casual wave didn’t mean a thing and he had doubtless forgotten the whole incident. But Harold can be very stubborn, and when he gets an idea in his head nothing will dislodge it … a bit like Mr Hitler in that respect. Anyway, it convinced him that Clovis had to go. “No point in taking chances,” he told me. Frankly, I thought that was a bit rich coming from one
who had risked all for a wretched lawnmower. However, I said nothing – it doesn’t do to question them. I expect you found the same with your young man in the war.’ She smiled knowingly, woman to woman.

Rosy gave a lying nod, terrified of causing offence. (Agree with everything, she thought desperately, be her kindly confidante and she may drop her guard.) She mustered a reciprocal smile. ‘Hmm – and, ah, I suppose he …
dealt
with him?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t difficult. Harold rang the studio and said we had a special wedding anniversary coming up and that I had begged him to have his portrait painted – can’t think where he got
that
idea from! – and he would like to go to the studio to discuss matters. So an appointment was made … and well, the rest is history, as they say.’ Mrs Gill sat back in her chair, patted her perm and took a sip of sherry.

As a general rule Rosy was not given to sweating, but it was one of those rare occasions when she felt a clamminess down her back and under her arms. Her throat started to feel tight and she sensed a quickening in her breath. Be calm, she told herself. Do not show fear, show
interest
.

Thus she leant forward and with feigned concern said, ‘That must have been quite a blow. I mean, with Marcia out of the way, presumably you felt that was the end of the whole thing – but then came another threat from Clovis. Weren’t you worried?’

Mrs Gill gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Oh, well one gets used to it. After all, if you have a mission to change the course of your country’s future, as Harold and I once did, then one learns resilience. You develop quite a tough skin – as I am sure you did in the war, my dear.’ The last words were
delivered without apparent sarcasm. ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘a tough skin is also required living with Harold, but that’s another tale …’ A flicker of distaste showed in the bland eyes. ‘But yes, you are quite right, it
was
somewhat trying – particularly as after the Thistlehyde business there was the problem with Adelaide. I rather slipped up there – or at least she did.’ A faint smile crossed Mrs Gill’s face.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ gasped Rosy. ‘Surely it wasn’t you who—’

‘Pushed her down the steps? Oh yes, indeed it was. But as said, I made rather a bish – should have pushed harder. I don’t have Harold’s dexterity in these matters.’ She looked mildly apologetic.

‘But
why
?’

‘She was really becoming rather tiresome. Always has been, of course – ask Angela Fawcett! I realised the damage she could do. Whether she intended it I have no idea, but she had the
potential
and one simply couldn’t take the risk.’

Rosy’s shock yielded to curiosity. What was the woman getting at?

Mrs Gill must have seen her puzzlement for she continued quietly: ‘You see, it was at that party the Fawcetts gave. I suddenly saw how dangerous she was. It wasn’t only Maynard Latimer’s feathers she ruffled that night – yes, I rather thought you had noticed that – Harold came in for a few barbs too. At first I didn’t take them too seriously, just Adelaide being her waspish self. But afterwards I suddenly saw the implications.’

‘Why, what had she been saying?’ Despite growing fear, Rosy was fascinated: not just by the narrative but by the narrator’s extraordinary sangfroid. It was as if she were exchanging confidences at a vicar’s tea party.

‘Well, if you remember, she had accused Maynard of being a “naughty boy” – something to do with that invalid wife, I think – but later she sidled up to Harold when no one else was near, and said: “Nice of Angela to give Latimer this party, don’t you think? Birthday boy, naughty boy!” She sounded highly amused. And then when Harold made some jocular response, she tugged at those tasteless diamonds she always wears and added: “But of course, he’s not nearly as naughty as Brigadier Harold Gill, OBE, is he? Not by a long chalk, he isn’t – you and your blonde bombshells!” She actually had the nerve to tweak his tie! Then after one of those grating cackles she hobbled off to plague someone else. It wasn’t very pretty.’ Mrs Gill looked pained.

And Rosy was perplexed. The old lady’s comment to Harold seemed relatively innocuous – vulgar, perhaps, but hardly dangerous.

There was a pause while Mrs Gill took a contemplative sip of sherry. ‘Frankly, I was rather annoyed, assuming it to be a crude allusion to Harold’s distasteful proclivities.’ She sniffed and pursed her lips in a manner which suddenly made Rosy want to giggle, but she stifled the urge and looked suitably sober-faced. ‘However,’ the other continued, ‘when I was thinking about it later that evening I remembered the curious way she had enunciated the word “bombshells”: she gave it a slow lingering emphasis as if savouring the term … And do you know, my dear,’ Mrs Gill leant forward confidingly, ‘I had this sudden stab of sheer horror. Oh my God, I thought,
she knows
!’

So vivid was her re-enactment of the horror, that Rosy felt an involuntary flash of sympathy. One had known such moments … ‘But how?’ she asked in awe.

The other shrugged. ‘People like Adelaide Fawcett make
it their business to know everything, and what they don’t know they invent. She thrives on human frailty: gossip, innuendo, scandal, whispered confidences. You wouldn’t remember, perhaps, but before the war she was a notable political hostess, on a level with Margot Asquith, and a formidable source of all types of social intelligence. She snapped up secrets and tittle-tattle like others collect bric-a-brac. People of any eminence would flock to her soirées: the grand and bland, the great and the good (and the far from good), the old guard and the Johnny-come-latelies – they were all there; but above all the nation’s
insiders
, those with power and a tale to tell if they chose. Yes, Adelaide learnt a lot from horses’ mouths, and what she wasn’t told directly she absorbed or guessed. Such social acuity is a talent and she had it. And now in old age, with that accumulated “wisdom” and her ear still clamped to the ground, she palliates her boredom by making people uncomfortable.’

A note of disapproval had entered Mrs Gill’s voice, and again Rosy saw a slight pursing of the mouth. Whether she included her husband’s bomb plot in the category of human frailty was not clear (though perhaps she ranked his ‘proclivities’ a greater affront); but either way, the object of her censure had certainly succeeded in spreading discomfort all right! Diffidently Rosy observed, ‘But none of that is actual proof, is it? I mean, you could only surmise that she knew.’ And feeling emboldened she added, ‘After all, it does seem rather a lot to have inferred from an emphasis.’

Mrs Gill looked at her blankly and then with a slight frown exclaimed, ‘But in
our
situation one could hardly afford to take risks. Surely you realise that. That push,
ineffectual though it proved, was what Harold likes to call a “belt and braces job”. And besides,’ she added tartly, ‘it just goes to show how carefully people should watch their words, especially Adelaide.’

Dear God, thought Rosy, if ever I get out of this alive I’ll never open my mouth again!

The prospect of not getting out alive had begun to trouble her more than a little, and she cast furtive looks around the room seeking means of exit. Other than hurling herself from the balcony there seemed none. The key to the locked door still nestled securely in Mrs Gill’s pocket, and the pistol now resting casually on her lap would surely forestall any lunge to grab it.

A random thought struck her, and playing for time she said, ‘But if it was you who pushed Adelaide, what about Sabatier? In the hospital she kept saying she had been attacked by a man with a wooden leg …’

‘Typical,’ Mrs Gill sniffed. ‘Adelaide Fawcett would say anything if she thought it would put her in the limelight or make a good story. She obviously thought such an absurd detail would embellish the tale. I’ve told you, a very mischievous woman and not to be trusted!’

‘No, no, of course not,’ Rosy agreed faintly, eying the gun on the pale tweed lap.

And then to distract herself as much as her captor, she asked, ‘But regarding Marcia, why on earth did your husband bother with the coal bucket? After all, he had already killed her so why waste time with something like that?’

‘Oh that wasn’t Harold, that was me. You see, I arrived home from Maidstone about ten minutes after it had happened and found him in the study pacing about and
throwing down whisky. It worried me that he may have left things in a mess or overlooked some vital detail – you know how careless men can be. So I packed him off back to his club via our rear entrance, and then slipped next door to check that all was well … and it was then that I saw it.’

‘The coal scuttle?’

‘Yes. It was there by the hallstand, which struck me as rather odd as I knew Marcia didn’t have any fires – all oil. But I was hardly there to debate her heating arrangements, and it suddenly looked most enticing. So I seized the thing, took it back to the drawing room and rammed it on her head …’ A faraway look came into Mrs Gill’s eyes, and she said, ‘You may not understand, but doing that gave me immense satisfaction. In fact, I am not sure that it wasn’t the best thing I have done in my entire life. I can think of only one improvement … to have rammed it on Harold’s.’

A door slammed downstairs and there was a sound of jaunty whistling. ‘Ah, that must be him now,’ Mrs Gill murmured, rising to unlock the door. ‘Late, as usual; been with one of those frightful women, I daresay.’ She sniffed disdainfully, before adding, ‘Although it’s not that he gets carried away – it is simply that it takes him so long these days.’

Rosy was startled by the information, but given the circumstances was less concerned with Harold Gill’s problems than with her own. She continued to contemplate the pistol while listening to Harold’s heavy (and possibly weary) tread as he mounted the stairs.

He entered the room still clad in overcoat, and bearing a bunch of flowers which clearly afforded little pleasure to his spouse. ‘Oh,
do
ring the changes,’ she exclaimed irritably. ‘Always carnations –
so
predictable!’

He seemed about to protest, but seeing Rosy said, ‘Oh, Miss Gilchrist, I didn’t realise you might still be here, I—’

‘Where did you think I might be,’ Rosy retorted, ‘six feet under?’

His gaze fell on the gun and he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Gill, ‘I fear we were careless – left the documents lying around. Rosy saw the thing and wanted it back. Naturally I had to explain that that was out of the question …’ she paused ‘… and then of course I also had to explain a number of other things. A pity, really.’

He nodded. ‘Hmm – we can’t have that I’m afraid; not at all.’ Together they regarded her with a look of thoughtful regret.

It was a look which seemed to signal Rosy’s fate and she was filled with overwhelming dread, earlier truculence shed in an instant. Up till then, though fearful, she had felt she could somehow handle matters: that by keeping calm and her wits about her she could devise a way of dealing with the older woman. But with the return of Harold and seeing the pair gazing at her with such quiet assurance it was clear that escape was impossible. She thought of Marcia, of Clovis, of Sabatier … There wasn’t a chance in hell: like the others, she knew too much.

Her thoughts were echoed by Mr Gill. ‘You see, my dear, I am afraid you know too much. We really can’t take the risk. You are a bright girl – brighter than your aunt, really – so you must understand that.’ He paused. ‘You
do
understand, don’t you?’

‘Of course she does!’ exclaimed Mrs Gill impatiently. ‘You hardly need to press the point, Harold.’ And turning to Rosy she said, ‘It is really most unfortunate – we rather liked you; but I fear that’s the way of things. It happens
too much in life: being in the wrong place at the wrong time – like that interfering Sabatier, for instance. He had been on our trail for some while. We saw him snooping around in Marcia’s tradesmen’s passage – it’s overlooked by our landing windows – but his investigations backfired, led us straight to what we wanted, in fact. He had the thing in his hand when he came out of her kitchen. Harold had sneaked down and was there waiting for him.’