The Killing of Olga Klimt (17 page)

The next moment she saw a light come on in the coloured-glass panel of the front door.

Antonia could hardly recognise the woman who stood in the doorway.

‘Miss Frayle?'

‘It is very late. The nursery is closed.' Fenella Frayle made a peculiar gesture with her hand, at once pitifully defensive and peremptory. ‘Please, come tomorrow. Some time after nine o'clock would be best. We are closed now.' She was slurring. Antonia smelled brandy. Oh dear.

‘It is me, Antonia Darcy. Eddy Rushton's grandmother.'

‘I am sorry but the nursery is closed. All the children have been taken home. I am sure they are all safely in bed. I don't think I can do anything for you now.'

‘I would like to talk to you,' Antonia persisted. ‘It's important.'

‘I am afraid that would be impossible. This is a most inconvenient time.'

‘It's very important. I must talk to you.'

‘What is it about?'

‘May I come in?'

‘No. What is it about?' It looked as though Miss Frayle was about to shut the door. She had a dazed and disoriented air about her.

‘It is about Olga Klimt. It's about the killing of Olga Klimt,' Antonia said boldly. Sometimes, though not always, shock tactics worked.

‘I don't know anyone called Olga. I am not familiar with anyone of that name. Please go away.'

Antonia cast a glance at her watch. ‘The police will be here very soon. I may be able to help you.'

‘The police? Are the police … coming?'

‘Yes!'

There was a pause.

‘How can you help me? No one can help me.' Fenella Frayle suddenly sounded breathless. She stood peering at Antonia. ‘You are Miss Darcy. You write detective novels. You write about murders.'

‘That is correct. But that has nothing to do with why I am here,' Antonia said quickly.

‘Detective-story writers are not at all nice-minded. They always think the worst of everyone they meet, don't they? They are ghouls. You are here for “copy”, aren't you?'

‘No, that's not the reason I came. I want to help you.' Antonia knew that if she had been asked exactly how she proposed to do that, she wouldn't have been able to provide a satisfactory answer.

‘I think it is too late for help. But come in. You might as well come in,' Fenella Frayle said.

She led the way into her snuggery and slumped heavily on the sofa, making it creak. She didn't ask Antonia to sit down and Antonia didn't. It was better to remain standing, actually, in case Miss Frayle suddenly lunged at her and tried to stab her. (Perhaps there was a knife hidden behind one of the sofa cushions?
Sharp Blades and Soft Fabrics
. That could be an interesting title for a novel.)

Fenella Frayle's stoutish body was encased in a black, baggy trouser suit. Her hair had been pulled back into a tight bun. She
looked like some grotesque version of a Charlie's Angel. Her face, once so pleasantly firm and apple-cheeked, was mottled and puffy and it sagged a little – the left cheek more than the right one. From a certain angle her face gave the impression of being lopsided – she might have had a facelift that had gone badly wrong. Her eyelids were actually quite swollen, they might have been injected with some mysterious serum. The whole effect was very disconcerting.

Antonia glanced at the brandy bottle and empty glass on the coffee table in front of the sofa. There was no time to waste.

‘The body at Philomel Cottage is not that of Olga Klimt. You made a mistake. You killed the wrong girl.'

Miss Frayle frowned. ‘You were here when he came, weren't you? I mean the biscuit heir. I should never have allowed him to be brought in. Never. Then none of this would have happened. But that was the humane thing to do. One is frequently punished for one's kindness, have you noticed? I was good to him and how did he repay me?' She tapped her forehead. ‘By playing with my mind. He was very clever about it.
Very clever
. I wouldn't have thought it of a pretty boy like him, but there you are. Pretty boys are usually silly. But he was clever.'

Antonia nodded. ‘Yes. You were in a vulnerable state and he took advantage of it. We know it was Charles Eresby who came up with the idea of exchanging murders.'

‘That is correct. I am glad you believe me. I wouldn't have dreamt of asking him to kill my aunt. I am famous for my self-control, you know. For my rationality.' She gave a mirthless guffaw. ‘But he said he would kill my aunt for me. He promised. Spoilt rich boy!
I do yours, you do mine
.' Fenella frowned. ‘Are you telling me he's made a confession?'

‘He did make a confession, yes, sort of. His line is that he wasn't himself at the time. He was upset, besides he'd drunk too much of your sherry.'

‘So my sherry is to blame, is it?'

‘He said he never thought you would act on the suggestion. He never meant you to.'

‘He never meant me to? But he asked me to kill Olga Klimt! He was most specific. He said it would be foolproof. No one would think of linking us when it was all over and so on. It's been used before, hasn't it? The strangers-on-a-train scenario.'

‘It has been used, yes.'

‘He said he wanted Olga dead. I don't understand. What do the police make of it?'

‘The police haven't questioned him yet, but they will, soon. In fact, I believe they may be questioning him at this very moment.' Antonia glanced at her watch.

‘You don't look the kind of person who would volunteer to do jobs for the police,' Fenella said slowly. ‘I can't believe it was they who sent you here. They wouldn't do anything like that, would they?'

‘No. I am here entirely on my own initiative.'

‘And you believe you know exactly what I did?'

‘You phoned Charles Eresby and told him that you'd killed Olga. Then you reminded him that he should do his part of the deal. You expected him to kill your aunt. Aunt Clo-Clo.'

‘Aunt Clo-Clo.' Fenella echoed. ‘You know about Aunt Clo-Clo? You seem to know too much.' She reached for the brandy bottle, seemed to change her mind and didn't pick it up. ‘But you can't possibly know what I have had to put up with.'

‘I can imagine – if what you wrote was anything to go by,' Antonia said in apologetic tones. ‘You wrote that Aunt Clo-Clo should die – you wrote it several times.'

‘How – how do you know that? You can't possibly know that.' Fenella shook her head. ‘Well, I was pushed to the limit. I didn't know what I was doing, really. My aunt's a monster. I am facing ruin. You see, they are going to take this place from
me. My life's work. I haven't been sleeping well. I catch myself doing odd things, like the scribbling you mention.'

‘A doctor might have been able to help you.'

‘You think I need help? You are right, I damned well need help. My nerves are all to hell. Look at me, just look at me! Normally I never dress like this – never. Look at the way I've done my hair!' She sniffed. ‘But I was pushed to the limit. I had a phone call from Aunt Clo-Clo earlier today. She said some truly appalling things to me. More appalling than usual. So I thought to myself, enough is enough. Aunt Clo-Clo is a noxious weed in need of uprooting. Let's go and do it. Let's get cracking!'

‘What did you do?'

‘Well, I got up, put on this suit – I have never worn it before though I have had it for ages. I got into my car and I drove to Fulham. I knew the address. Philomel Cottage. I found it in Charles Eresby's wallet.'

‘You brought a knife with you, didn't you?'

‘A knife?' Fenella looked puzzled. ‘No, I didn't. You won't succeed in catching me out, so don't you try it! I took no weapon with me; that was the idiotic thing. I'd convinced myself I meant business, but I didn't have a weapon with me! This should show you how adept I am in the art of murder. This should show you!' Suddenly she threw back her head and laughed.

‘Did you perhaps pick up the knife on the way – perhaps you bought it? Or maybe you found it somewhere?' Antonia said after a pause. She knew this sounded feeble, but extraordinary things did happen.

‘No, I did nothing of the sort.' Fenella shook her head. ‘I didn't have a knife when I arrived at Philomel Cottage, I keep telling you. You clearly don't believe me but that's God's truth. I hadn't the foggiest what I was going to do exactly. I admit I had
fantasised about killing Olga, wondered how I might do it, but deep down I knew I couldn't do it.'

‘But you went to Fulham? You went to Olga's house?'

‘I went to Fulham, yes. I drove to Fulham. I went to Olga's house. Strange, isn't it? Or would you call it mad? I don't expect you to understand. Or perhaps you
do
understand? You write about people like me.' She shook her forefinger at Antonia. ‘I read one of your books. You like odd people.'

‘I don't like them. Not really. I find them interesting.'

‘Olga's house is in a cul-de-sac. No neighbours on either side.
Perfect for murder
. I thought that, yes – I thought it as I started walking towards the house – even though I had no weapon on me! Even though I knew very well that even if I had a weapon I could
not
kill Olga – strange, isn't it? Isn't it?'

‘Go on.'

‘Then I stopped. I saw the body lying there, half in half out of the door. I got closer. I saw the blood on her back. She was wearing some light-coloured coat. I saw the dark patch on the back. I bent over her. I touched her neck. She was warm but there was no pulse. I have had first-aid training, so I knew she was dead.
Olga was dead
. It never occurred to me that the body might not be Olga. You said it wasn't Olga, didn't you? I was shocked to find her dead but I was also delighted – you see why, don't you?'

‘Go on,' Antonia said again.

‘This, I thought, was an answer to my prayers!
Olga Klimt was dead
. She had been killed. Someone else had gone and killed her. That was all that mattered. Oh the relief! It was exactly as Charles Eresby wanted it. I knew I couldn't do it and now I didn't have to do it! It had already been done. Someone else had done it for me – I didn't care who or why. That was the only thing I could think of as I ran back to my car. It has been
done for me. And I knew what I should do next.
I should claim it
. That's what I told myself.'

‘Claim it?' Antonia echoed.

‘Yes, claim it,' Fenella said firmly. ‘Well, I drove away – then I stopped the car – no idea where I was – in some small street. I took out my phone and I rang the clinic where I knew Charles Eresby was. I asked the nurse to tell him to ring me, I gave my number, and when he did phone, I told him I had done my part of the deal.' Fenella took a deep breath and blew out her cheeks. ‘I told him Olga Klimt was dead. I then reminded him that now it was his turn.'

Antonia stood looking at her in a fascinated manner. Why, she believed Fenella Frayle was telling the truth! In fact she was convinced of it. But that meant –

‘I don't know what possessed me, I really don't. I should never have made that phone call. It was utterly idiotic of me. Utterly! I knew I had made a mistake as soon as I rang off. I was terrified – but it was too late. I was beset by doubts. I saw the madness of it. How could I think Charles Eresby would go and kill Aunt Clo-Clo for me? But, as I said, it was too late. The fat was in the fire. I knew I was in for it. I had confessed to a murder I never committed. Well, there you are, Miss Darcy. I don't think you believe me, do you?

‘As a matter of fact I do,' Antonia said.

‘You do?' Fenella looked startled. She made an effort to sit up. ‘Well, that's something! Would the police believe me though?'

‘I am sure they will listen to your story very carefully.'

‘So that wasn't Olga Klimt … Well, I never saw her face. The fact that she had fair hair seemed to be enough for me … Such a stupid mistake … I was rushing … I was terribly nervous about the whole thing … I am hopeless, hopeless! Who is she then?'

‘Charles Eresby's former girlfriend. Her name is Joan Selwyn.'

‘His former girlfriend? Would she have been Olga's “love rival”, by any chance?'

‘They were love rivals, yes,' Antonia admitted.

‘She died at Olga's house,' Fenella said thoughtfully. ‘It was most probably Olga then who killed her, wouldn't you say? The obvious solution, as you probably call it … I mean, it stands to reason … Doesn't it?'

‘Odd that she should have said that. The police also seem to think that it was poor Olga who killed Joan Selwyn,’ said Major Payne after listening to Antonia’s story. ‘But perhaps it was her? I know she has turned out to be extremely sweet-natured, nice and likeable, in addition to her luminosity – and she clearly loves Charlie very much – but the police are notoriously down-to-earth and unsentimental. Their hearts refused to be warmed by the sight of young love.’

‘No, it isn’t Olga.’ Antonia shook her head. ‘How could she have killed Joan Selwyn? Why should Olga Klimt have wanted to kill Joan Selwyn? She had no motive. It was the other way round!’

‘I know, I know – but there you are.’

‘Did the police actually voice that suspicion?’

‘Well, yes. I happened to overhear an indiscreet remark the sergeant made to one of the plain-clothes chaps. It was not meant for my ears. And then of course there was the sight of Olga emerging from her interview with the inspector in floods of tears. She seemed distraught. She looked really scared. Charlie did his best to comfort her, but I could see he was rattled too.’

‘So they didn’t take his story of the exchanged murders seriously?’

‘I don’t think they did, no. They didn’t seem to regard Charlie as someone whom they could entirely trust. There was a time when toffs could do no wrong, now it’s the other way round, have you noticed? I saw the way they looked at his monogrammed dressing gown.’