A New Lease of Death (12 page)

There had been nothing about that in the trial transcript. Archery caught his breath in the excitement. ‘You couldn’t hear yourself think …’ While you were choked with smoke and deafened by hissing you might not hear a man go upstairs, search a bedroom and come down again. Alice’s evidence in this matter had been one of the most important features of the case. For if Painter had been offered and had taken the two hundred pounds in Mrs Primero’s presence in the morning, what motive could he have had for killing her in the evening?

‘Well, we had our lunch and Mr Roger came. My poor old leg was aching from where I’d bruised it the night before getting a few lumps in on account of Beast Painter being out on the tiles. Mr Roger was ever so nice about it, kept asking me if there
was
anything he could do, wash up or anything. But that isn’t man’s work and I always say it’s better to keep going while you can.

‘It must have been half past five when Mr Roger said he’d have to go. I was up to my neck what with the dishes and worrying if Beast would turn up like he’d promised. “I’ll let myself out, Alice,” Mr Roger said, and he come down to the kitchen to say good-bye to me. Madam was having a little snooze in the drawing room, God rest her. It was the last she had before her long sleep.’ Aghast, Archery watched tow tears well into her eyes and flow unchecked down the ridged sunken cheeks. ‘I called out, “Cheeri-by, Mr Roger dear, see you next Sunday”, and then I heard him shut the front door. Madam was sleeping like a child, not knowing that ravening wolf was lying in wait for her.’

‘Try not to upset yourself, Miss Flower.’ Doubtful as to what he should do – the right thing is the kind thing, he thought – he pulled out his own clean white handkerchief and gently wiped the wet cheeks.

‘Thank you, sir, I’ll be all right now. You do feel a proper fool not being able to dry your own tears.’ That ghastly cracked smile was almost more painful to witness than the weeping. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. Off I went to church and as soon as I was out of the way along comes Madam Crilling, poking her nose in …’

‘I know what happened next, Miss Flower,’ Archery said very kindly and quietly. ‘Tell me about Mrs Crilling. Does she ever come to see you in here?’

Alice Flower gave a kind of snort that would have been comical in a fit person. ‘Not she. She’s kept out of my way ever since the trial, sir. I know too much about her for her liking. Madam’s best friend, my foot! She’d got one interest in madam and one only. She wormed that child of hers into madam’s good books on account of she thought madam might leave her something when she went.’

Archery moved closer, praying that the bell for the end of visiting would not ring yet.

‘But Mrs Primero didn’t make a will.’

‘Oh, no, sir, that’s what worried Mrs Clever Crilling. She’d come out into my kitchen when madam was sleeping. “Alice,” she’d say, “we ought to get dear Mrs Primero to make her last will and testament. It’s our duty. Alice, it says so in the Prayer Book.”’

‘Does it?’

Alice looked both shocked and smug. ‘Yes, it does, sir. It says, “But men should often put in remembrance to take order for the settling of their temporal estates whilst they are in health.” Still I don’t hold with everything that’s in the Prayer Book not when it comes to downright interference – saving your presence, sir. “It’s in your interest too, Alice,” she says. “You’ll be turned out into the streets when she goes.”

‘But madam wouldn’t have it, anyway. Everything was to go to her natural heirs, she said, them being Mr Roger and the little girls. It’d be theirs automatically, you see, without any nonsense about wills and lawyers.’

‘Mr Roger didn’t try to get her to make a will?’

‘He’s a lovely person is Mr Roger. When Beast Painter had done his murdering work and poor madam was dead Mr Roger got his bit of money – three thousand it was and a bit more. “I’ll take care of you, Alice,” he said, and so he did. He got me a nice room in Kingsmarkham and gave me two pounds a week on top of my pension. He was in business on his own then and he said he wouldn’t give me a lump sum. An allowance, he called it, bless his heart, out of his profits.’

‘Business? I thought he was a solicitor.’

‘He always wanted to go into business on his own, sir. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but he came to madam one day – must have been two or three weeks before she died – and he said a pal of his would take him in with him if he could put up ten thousand pounds. “I know I haven’t got a hope,” he said, speaking ever so nice. “It’s just a castle in the air, Granny Rose.” “Well, it’s no good looking at me,” says madam. “Ten thousand is all I’ve got for me and Alice to live on and that’s tucked away in Woolworth’s shares. You’ll get your share when I’m gone.” I don’t mind telling you, sir, I thought then, if Mr Roger liked to do his little sisters down he could try getting round madam to make that will and leave him the lot. But he never did, never mentioned it again, and he’d always made a point of bringing the two mites just whenever he could. Then Beast Painter killed madam and the money went like she said it would, to the three of them.

‘Mr Roger’s doing very well now, sir, very well
indeed
, and he comes to see me regular. I reckon he got the ten thousand from somewhere or maybe another pal came up with something else. It wasn’t for me to ask, you see.’

A nice man, Archery thought, a man who had needed money perhaps desperately, but would do nothing underhand to get it; a man who provided for his dead grandmother’s domestic while he was struggling to get a business going, who still visited her and who doubtless listened patiently over and over again to the tale Archery had just heard. A very nice man. If love, praise and devotion could reward such a man, he had his reward.

‘If you should see Mr Roger, sir, if you want to see him about the story you’re writing, would you give him my best respects?’

‘I won’t forget, Miss Flower.’ He put his hand over her dead one and pressed it. ‘Good-bye and thank you.’ Well done, thou good and faithful servant.

It was gone eight when he got back to The Olive and Dove. The head waiter glared at him when he walked into the dining-room at a quarter past. Archery stared about him at the empty room, the chairs arranged against the walls.

‘Dance on tonight, sir. We did make a point of asking residents to take their dinner at seven sharp, but I expect we can find you something. In here, if you please.’

Archery followed him into the smaller of the two lounges that led off the dining-room. The tables had been crammed in and people were hastily gobbling
their
meal. He ordered, and through the glass doors, watched the band take its place on the dais.

How was he to spend this long hot summer evening? The dancing would probably go on until half-past twelve or one and the hotel would be unbearable. A quiet stroll was the obvious thing. Or he could take the car and go and look at Victor’s Piece. The waiter came back with the braised beef he had ordered, and Archery, resolutely economical, asked for a glass of water.

He was quite alone in his alcove, at least two yards from the next table, and he jumped when he felt something soft and fluffy brush against his leg. Drawing back, he put his hand down, lifted the cloth and met a pair of bright eyes set in a golden woolly skull.

‘Hallo, dog,’ he said.

‘Oh I’m sorry. Is he being a nuisance?’

He looked up and saw her standing beside him. They had evidently just come in, she, the man with the glassy eyes and another couple.

‘Not a bit.’ Archery’s poise deserted him and he found himself almost stammering. ‘I don’t mind, really. I’m fond of animals.’

‘You were here at lunch, weren’t you? I expect he recognized you. Come out, Dog. He doesn’t have a name. We just call him Dog because he is one and it’s just as good a name as Jock or Gyp or something. When you said, “Hallo, dog,” he thought you were a personal friend. He’s very intelligent.’

‘I’m sure he is.’

She gathered the poodle up in her arms and held
him
against the creamy lace of her dress. Now that she wore no hat he could see the perfect shape of her head and the high unshadowed brow. The head waiter minced over, no longer harassed.

‘Back again, Louis, like the proverbial bad pennies,’ said the glassy-eyed man heartily. ‘My wife took a fancy to come to your hop, but we must have a spot of dinner first.’ So they were married, these two. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before, what business was it of his and, above all, why should it cause him this faint distress? ‘Our friends here have a train to catch, so if you can go all out with the old speed we’ll be eternally grateful.’

They all sat down. The poodle mooched between diners’ legs, scavenging for crumbs. Archery was faintly amused to see how quickly their dinner was brought to them. They had all ordered different dishes, but there was little delay and at the same time little hustle. Archery lingered over his coffee and his bit of cheese. Surely he was no bother to anyone in his small corner. People were coming in to dance now, passing his table and leaving in their wake the faint scent of cigars and floral perfume. In the dining room, a ballroom, now, the garden doors had been opened and couples stood on the terrace listening to the music in the tranquillity of the summer night.

The poodle sat on the threshold, bored, watching the dancers.

‘Come here, Dog,’ said his owner. Her husband got up.

‘I’ll take you to the station, George,’ he said.
‘We’ve
only got ten minutes, so get a wiggle on, will you?’ He seemed to have a variety of expressions to imply the making of haste. ‘You don’t have to come, darling. Finish your coffee.’

The table was veiled in smoke. They had smoked throughout the courses. He would be gone perhaps only half an hour but he bent over and kissed his wife. She smiled at him, lit another cigarette. When they had gone, she and Archery were alone. She moved into her husband’s chair from where she could watch the dancers, many of whom she seemed to know, for she waved occasionally and nodded as if promising she would soon join them.

Archery suddenly felt lonely. He knew no one in this place except two rather hostile policemen. His stay might be for the whole fortnight. Why hadn’t he asked Mary to join him? It would be a holiday for her, a change, and – heaven knew – she needed a change. In a minute, when he had finished his second cup, he would go upstairs and telephone her.

The girl’s voice startled him. ‘Do you mind if I have your ashtray? Ours are all full.’

‘Of course not, take it.’ He lifted the heavy glass plate and as he handed it to her the tips of her cool dry fingers touched his own. The hand was small, childlike, with short unpainted nails. ‘I don’t smoke,’ he added rather foolishly.

‘Are you staying here long?’ Her voice was light and soft, yet mature.

‘Just a few days.’

‘I asked,’ she said, ‘because we come here so often and I hadn’t seen you before today. Most of
the
people are regulars.’ She put out the cigarette carefully, stubbing it until the last red spark was dead. ‘They have these dances once a month and we always come. I love dancing.’

Afterwards Archery wondered what on earth had induced him, a country vicar nearly fifty years old, to say what he did. Perhaps it was the mingled scents, the descending twilight or just that he was alone and out of his environment, out of his identity almost.

‘Would you like to dance?’

It was a waltz they were playing. He was sure he could waltz. They waltzed at church socials. You simply had to make your feet go one, two, three in a sort of triangle. And yet, for all that, he felt himself blush. What would she think of him at his age? She might suppose he was doing what Charles called ‘picking her up’.

‘I’d love to,’ she said.

Apart from Mary and Mary’s sister, she was the only woman he had danced with in twenty years. He was so shy and so overcome by the enormity of what he was doing, that for a moment he was deaf to the music and blind to the hundred or so other people who circled the floor. Then she was in his arms, a light creature of scent and lace whose body so incongruously touching his had the fluidity and the tenuousness of a summer mist. He felt that he was dreaming and because of this, this utter unreality, he forgot about his feet and what he must make them do, and simply moved with her as if he and she and the music were one.

‘I’m not very good at this sort of thing,’ he said when he found his voice. ‘You’ll have to overlook my mistakes.’ He was so much taller than she that she had to lift her face up to him.

She smiled. ‘Hard to make conversation when you’re dancing, isn’t it? I never know what to say but one must say something.’

‘Like “Don’t you think this is a good floor?”’ Strange, he remembered that one from undergraduate days.

‘Or “Do you reverse?” It’s absurd really. Here we are dancing together and I don’t even know your name.’ She gave a little deprecating laugh. ‘It’s almost immoral.’

‘My name’s Archery. Henry Archery.’

‘How do you do, Henry Archery?’ she said gravely. Then as they moved into a pool of sunset light, she looked steadily at him, the glowing colour falling on her face. ‘You really don’t recognize me, do you?’ He shook his head, wondering if he had made some terrible
faux pas
. She gave a mock sigh. ‘Such is fame! Imogen Ide. Doesn’t it ring a bell?’

‘I’m awfully sorry.’

‘Frankly, you don’t look as if you spend your leisure perusing the glossy magazines. Before I married I was what they call a top model. The most photographed face in Britain.’

He hardly knew what to say. The things that came to mind all had some reference to her extraordinary beauty and to speak them aloud would have been impertinent. Sensing his predicament, she burst out laughing, but it was a companionable laugh, warm and kind.

He smiled down at her. Then over her shoulder he caught sight of a familiar face. Chief Inspector Wexford had come on to the floor with a stout pleasant-looking woman and a young couple. His wife, his daughter and the architect’s son, Archery supposed, feeling a sudden pang. He watched them sit down and just as he was about to avert his eyes, Wexford’s met his. The smiles they exchanged were slightly antagonistic and Archery felt hot with awkwardness. Wexford’s expression held a mocking quality as if to say that dancing was a frivolity quite out of keeping with Archery’s quest. Abruptly he looked away and back to his partner.