Ellis Peters - George Felse 06 - Black Is The Colour Of My True Love's Heart (11 page)

And all they knew of him, to add to that dossier, was that he had worn a silver medal on a chain round his neck, that he had told Liri Palmer it was all he had of his father’s, and that he had left it lying in the grass by the river when he vanished from Follymead.

“Not a thing in common between them,” said Duckett, “and not a thing to show that they’d ever clapped eyes on each other before Friday night. How can you get to the point of murder in only twenty-four hours?”

“How do you even get to the point of being on fighting terms in only twenty-four hours? With their kind of contact and at that kind of place?”

“There’s always the classic way,” said Duckett disgustedly. “
Cherchez la femme
!” He wasn’t serious, of course; Arundale’s past was so rigid with rectitude that the idea of connecting him with a
crime passionnel
managed to be almost funny. Besides, there was only one woman in his life, apparently, and that was his equally blameless wife, to whom he’d been married for twenty well-matched years. “Putting him on one side, just for argument, I gather there are others who might be capable of pushing this lad in the river?”

“Several, I’d say. The girl has all the necessary fire and guts, and Meurice hates him enough, given the opportunity. And either of them
could
have been there with him at round about the right time.”

Duckett breathed pipe-smoke heavily through his brigand’s moustache, and drummed a thick fingertip on the edge of his desk. “Well, I’ll keep Scott on the job. If we take anything out of the river,” he said grimly, “you’ll be the first to know about it. What can Scott most usefully be doing for you?”

George considered, frowning at the meaningless pages that yet must hold somewhere a more substantial image of the persons to whom they applied. “Seems to me that if Galt had anything to confide, the people he’d turn to would be his foster-parents, this house-father and mother – Stewart, the name seems to be. It might be worth a drive down there to see if they can shed any light. With a lot of luck he may have gone to them, or at least got in touch with them –
if
he’s alive, if this is some other sort of trouble that’s caught up with him. And Scott could call in on this service garage where the boy worked, that’s another possibility, if a thin one. Then there’s his business agent, of course. Send Scott down there, have him comb out the lot, all the people he might have turned to if he’s alive and in trouble.”

“Right, I’ll see to that. We can’t put out a call for Arundale or the car,” said Duckett reasonably, “unless we do bring the body ashore. It would be as much as my life’s worth to compromise that set-up for nothing, so let’s concentrate on finding the boy – dead or alive.”

George was smoking a cigarette moodily by the river, watching a methodical sergeant take casts – probably useless – of the one clear shoe-print and the indentation of the heel, when Dominic came to report. The dragging of the Braide had not yet reached the Follymead boundary, more than a quarter of a mile away; nor, so far, had it netted them anything more than driftwood, two long-abandoned eel-traps, and an old bicycle frame. By the quantity and size of the driftwood you could gauge the violence and indiscipline of the spring. The Braide ran down to the Comer, which was a river with its feet in the mountains; this was a tamed park stream by comparison with what the Comer brought down out of Wales. Any more rain, and Comer-water would be backing up from the confluence, churning up the muddy counter-current until they both spilled out over the whole expanse of the low-lying fields. Lucien Galt might yet fetch up on somebody’s doorstep.

George heard them coming through the trees, not one, but two, a boy and a girl talking briefly, in subdued and serious voices. He should have thought of that possibility, of course, but it came as something of a revelation that Dominic should have reached the point of taking it for granted that any privilege given to him automatically extended to cover Tossa, too. “They” were to be deflected by any means from this area by the river; but Tossa was not “they,” Tossa had become “we.” It was not quite so clear whether she also took it as her right. The moment they emerged from the trees she slipped her hand from Dominic’s and hung back, silent and tentative, but very much on the alert. She caught George’s eye and moved nearer, encouraged. Under the ornamental trees that circled the grotto she halted; the tiny blue crosses of lilac blossom drifted down into her dark hair, as the branches threshed uneasily in a rising wind.

“Well,” said George, “how are things going?”

“All O.K., so far. Everybody’s come along to the lectures, and they all seem to be enjoying themselves. I told the professor what you said, and Mr. Marshall, too. It’s working smoothly enough up to now. Nobody’s let anything out to the others, and they don’t suspect anything’s wrong. The professor made a sort of vague apology for Lucien’s having to leave, but he managed not to say anything definite about the reason. But you were right about the rumours. There’s a murmur that Lucien ran out because he couldn’t take the Liri situation… You know, she’d followed him here with a grudge, and the atmosphere was tense, and he preferred to duck out. It makes good sense, and it tickles them, so they like it. And it lets the professor out, too, because of course the authorities would simply have to accept whatever excuse Lucien offered, even if they thought privately he’d run for cover from a situation he couldn’t manage.”

“That ought to serve pretty well,” agreed George with a wry smile. “Go along with it. Who started it?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure it came from Dickie Meurice in the first place. That way, you see, he makes a good show of helping you to keep the thing wrapped, and at the same time he churns up a little more dirt to stick to Galt when he does reappear.
If
he does reappear,” he corrected himself, very soberly.

“He will,” protested Tossa, her eyes fixed confidently on George’s face. “Won’t he? This is just something quite stupid, that only
looks
like that sort of trouble, isn’t it?”

“We hope so,” said George gently. “You keep on thinking so. What about this afternoon?”

“That’s all fixed. We’re in session again at two-fifteen. We slipped out by the back way as soon as we got away from lunch, and came down through the trees. Nobody’s any the wiser.”

“Good! Has Felicity attended this morning?”

“We sat with her,” said Tossa, “the first time. I think she only came at all because nobody can talk to her while there’s a lecture going on, or people singing. She looks terribly wretched and sick. She dodged us in the second session, after coffee. And as soon as we’re out of the music-room she goes off somewhere out of sight. I’m worried about her. But she doesn’t want anybody, she only wants to be left alone.”

“Keep an eye on her,” said George, “all the same. Did Mrs. Arundale show up?”

“Yes. She looked pretty pale and anxious, too,” said Dominic, “but she’s keeping the thing rolling. It must be rather awful for her, having something like this happen, especially when the warden isn’t here. I bet she’ll be glad when he comes back to-night.”

George said nothing to that; there was no need to burden them with even more secrets to keep, however trustworthy they might be. As for accounting for Arundale’s non-return this evening from those meetings in Birmingham, leave that bridge to be crossed when the time came.

His mind had been much on Audrey Arundale, ever since he had talked to Duckett this morning.
Cherchez la femme
, indeed, but what an unlikely woman to look for at the heart of a
crime passionnel
. And yet she had everything but the temperament; beauty, a gentle appeal about her, even youth – she was only forty, and older women have changed history in their time. Maybe this wasn’t the first time
she
had met Lucien Galt.

No, it was crazy. He couldn’t picture her in the role, however objectively he tried. Nevertheless, he found himself asking, with deliberate and crude abruptness: “Have you seen any signs of a special relationship between Lucien Galt and Mrs. Arundale?”

Dominic was too startled to side-step, and too shaken to hide his discomfort. He stood staring in consternation, seeing again the ardent hands touch and clasp, seeing Arundale walk imperviously and majestically on his wife’s left, while she gripped Lucien Galt’s fingers on her right. The question was so unexpected, the incident had begun to seem so irrelevant, that the sudden attack took his breath away. After all, Arundale didn’t enter into the affair they were investigating. He was the one person who was out of it, surely. The only person.

“I… what on earth has that got to do… I mean, nothing, really, nothing of any significance.”

“Come on,” said George quietly, “tell it, and we’ll see.” Tossa was looking from one to the other of them, lost, a small, hurt frown contorting her brows. Whatever Dominic had seen had certainly passed her by.

“Well, I don’t know… It was just that on Friday night, when we left the drawing-room after coffee, and were walking along the gallery, we were behind the Arundales and Lucien Galt. Mrs. Arundale was in the middle. They were talking, just like anybody else, and Lucien’s hand brushed…” Dominic’s voice baulked at that half-willing distortion, and backed away from it. “He touched her hand, and she opened it, and they clasped hands,” he said grudgingly. “Only for a moment, though.”

“But…warmly?”

After a moment of silent debate Dominic admitted: “Yes.” He went on rapidly: “But it needn’t mean much, you know. Just big-headedness on his part, and maybe she felt a bit irresponsible for once… an accidental touch…”

“Did it look accidental?” asked George quite gently.

Reluctantly but honestly again: “No.”

“And they went on making conversation to cover it?” No need to answer that, it was in his mutely anxious face. “Did anyone else see this?”

Almost to herself Tossa said: “
I
didn’t.”

“Yes, I think… I’m almost sure Liri saw it. She was sitting in a dark alcove in the gallery, quite still. I think she saw.”

Add about fifty per cent to that, and you might have some approximation of the ardour of that episode. Dominic had a very natural and human reluctance to admit to having witnessed a show of affection between two people who thought themselves unobserved. And it was no more than a crumb of a connection, at that, though a very suggestive one.

“All right, don’t worry, as you say, it probably means virtually nothing.”

But Liri had seen it, Liri of all people. Maybe the emerging pattern, after all, argued a man at the heart of it, not a woman.
Cherchez l’homme
! Women can be jealous, too, and dangerous.

“You’d better run,” said George, “or you’ll be late for your class. If you should want me later, I’ll be in the warden’s office.”

And they ran, Tossa looking back doubtfully at George for a moment with her chin on her shoulder. The lilac tree slapped a stray cone of blossom into her face as she turned, and she flung up her free hand – Dominic had taken possession of the other – and brushed it from her. The twig broke, leaving the spray of falling flowers in her hand. She allowed herself to be towed along the leafy ride still holding it.

“You never told me!”

“You wouldn’t have told me, would you? I never
wanted
to see it.” He wasn’t happy. “What put it into Dad’s mind, anyhow? I don’t get it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he thinks
Liri
…”

“What, just because of that?”

“But it isn’t
just
because of that. Liri was already mad with him about something, what could it be but another woman?”

“You mean she followed him here because she knew about him and…? I don’t believe it! It wouldn’t be like Liri, anyhow.” He had never realised until now how firm an idea he was forming of Liri Palmer’s character. “If she’d broken with him, she wouldn’t follow him around to
watch
him perform… not to torment herself, not to hit him again, not for anything.” They had reached the footbridge; their hurrying footsteps clopped woodenly over it, and the flood below sent up a low, hollow echo.

“To get him back, she might,” said Tossa without thinking, and instantly drew back from a statement so revealing. She shook the loose blossoms from her spray of lilac with unnecessary care. “This must be a very early kind, look, dropping already, and it’s only late April. Did you ever see lilac quite such a pure blue?”

Even then she didn’t realise what she had said, it was simply a pleasant, superficial observation, something blessedly remote from the ugly mystery that was bedevilling this week-end. They were skirting the open meadow when the truth hit her. She halted abruptly, pulling back hard on Dominic’s hand; he turned in surprise to find her gazing at him in consternation.

“Dominic
… she was there
! Don’t you remember? I said then, how blue, really blue, not purple at all…”

She thrust the tattered cone of blossom at him, brandishing it before his astonished eyes.

“Have you seen this kind anywhere else? There’s lilac by the drive, and up by the pagoda, too, but it’s all white or mauve, and it’s only in bud yet. Nothing at all like this. But Felicity had some fallen flowers just like this in her hair yesterday! Don’t you remember, she was combing them out with her fingers?”

“Good lord!” he said blankly. “She had, too!
Just
like these!”

“I picked them up, afterwards. It was the
colour
…”

He remembered now with aching clarity how Tossa had turned her hand sadly, and let the small blue crosses float back into the grass.

“But she told Dad… she told
us
…”

“I know! She told us she parted from him where the paths cross. She said she left him there and came on over the stone bridge… She didn’t know where he went afterwards, but
she
left him
there
. But she didn’t,” said Tossa with absolute conviction, and very quietly, “Because before she met us she was under that lilac tree. She was there by the river with him.
She knows what happened
!”