The Shape of Sand (24 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: The Shape of Sand
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They understood each other very well. They had a very comfortable relationship, given a little relish by the occasional sparring over mildly controversial matters, never serious. He was sometimes sorry, and always humble, to think that she had never fulfilled her potential, that she had blown out her own brief moment of glory like a candle flame, without any hesitation, just to marry him. She had never for one moment showed that she might have regretted that, despite the fact that the desire to have his child had never been fulfilled. Well, well, all that was water under the bridge – and he didn't think either of them had ever wished undone the decision to take the other as their partner in life.
He said suddenly, “I think there are just about two glasses of sherry left in that bottle in the cupboard. Shall we indulge?”
Putting the small crystal wine-glass, pre-war, very fine and very precious, to her lips, Daisy mused, “It must have been a very unhappy affair, I think.”
“But one that's over, I'm certain. I think she's finding her feet again.”
“And he did offer to drive her all that way home,” said Daisy, with a satisfied little smile.
For the last half hour Sergeant Fairchild, his elegant jacket removed, had been bashing away with two fingers and commendable application at the old Imperial on the corner desk. The last sheet of paper ripped out, he heaved a sigh, put on his jacket and left the room.
Grigsby looked up as he went, remembered that he had been going to tear him off a strip on the subject of how Egyptians should be referred to, and decided it would be a waste of time. Wogs, after all, was what everybody called 'em in the forces, same as French frogs, Italian wops, Irish micks and German krauts. No worse than Yanks or Limeys. But they weren't in the forces now, and if the sergeant wanted to go where he thought he was headed, it was time he learned to watch his step and not give offence.
Fairchild returned, placed a large mug of tea on Grigsby's desk, took a chair opposite, with a cup and saucer for himself. “No biscuits, sorry. The canteen's run out.”
Grigsby grunted. He liked nothing better than a ginger nut to dunk in his tea. He reached out and stirred a generous, glutinous spoonful of sweetened, condensed milk into the mug of steaming black liquid, screwed down the lid of the jar into which his long-suffering wife had decanted the milk from a tin, and put the jar back into a drawer. He licked the spoon and swigged down a big gulp of the tea, now thick as soup. Fairchild, sipping milkless, sugarless tea delicately from his own teacup, averted his eyes. When he looked again, he saw that Grigsby was watching him. “Finished typing your notes up from this morning, Sergeant?”
Fairchild shuffled together and handed over the notes he'd been transcribing since their return from Embury Crescent and their visit to Lady Wycombe, which had followed immediately on the departure of Tom Verrier from the office – simply because there was an unexpected hour unspoken for, and
Grigsby, like nature, abhorred a vacuum. Fairchild hoped his somewhat shaky shorthand had stood up to it, though he knew Grisgby didn't really need the notes – he had a memory like an elephant and Fairchild thought this could conceivably be some sort of test. He'd guessed the inspector wasn't best pleased with him for some reason, hadn't wanted to be saddled with him in the first place. Well, hard cheese. But better to keep a cautious eye on him, all the same.
“Hmm.” Grigsby put the sheaf of papers back on the desk, shoved his hands into his pockets and got up to walk about the room. He was a restless man and could never sit still for long at his desk. Talk, talk, talk, that's what this case was going to mean. Turning over ancient alibis and the dry facts of what was now history – and where would the actual proof be, at the end of it? He only ever felt really at home with action out on the streets, here in the smoke, knowing his patch like the back of his hand, working all hours God sent, if need be, on the go. Though that didn't mean he couldn't function anywhere, even in the snooty surroundings of the house in Embury Crescent.
A stroke of luck, that had been, catching the old cove, Lord Wycombe, there as well, since he apparently preferred to live for the most part on his estate in the country and his visits to his wife at their London house were few and far between. Grigsby could understand that. He thought him a cold fish, and couldn't see his sophisticated wife being content to bury herself in the country with him – he recognised her type, smart, nervy and neurotic, a Londoner by choice. The interview had taken place in the presence of a third person, a Doctor Schulman. A psychiatrist – a head shrinker. Grigsby had looked at him distrustfully, but husband and wife had both assured him the doctor was a trusted friend and they wished him to remain. Grigsby had gone along with it, since he'd seen immediately that he'd caught them all at a moment of tension. Lady Wycombe had obviously been crying her eyes out, but she'd excused herself when her husband had shown them in, and returned several minutes later, ravages repaired, and apparently in complete command of herself.
There'd been a pile of old photos on the low table in front of the sofa to which he and Fairchild were directed, the
topmost one showing three young girls dancing barefoot in the open air, dolled up in some sort of flimsy costumes. He had no difficulty in recognising the other two Jardine sisters, Harriet and Daisy, but it was mainly because of the family connection that he'd identified the third as the woman now in front of him. The similarities between that girl and her mature self were there, when you looked, but she'd changed a lot. Still an eyeful, but a million miles from that young, smiling, happy girl. Underneath that self-possessed veneer she had now, she was jumpy as a flea on a hot tin plate.
All Grigsby could hope for was that this investigation would be short and sharp, with a conclusion that was acceptable, if not categorical. He wanted it off his back, but he could be very patient when necessary, and patience was what he needed when it came to sorting out what this lady remembered of the night of the murder. Her story tallied in every way with those of her sisters – except when it came to the end of the evening. At that point she became oblique and evasive for a reason that soon made itself manifest: the party over, farewells had been said, the guests had bowled off in their motor cars or carriages, the family and those guests who were staying overnight had gone to their various rooms to sleep the sleep of the just. Except – and here it came! – for the young Vita.
After some reluctant skirmishing, she'd at last admitted that this was on account of the young fellow she was at that time engaged to, name of Bertie Rossiter, who had lived only a few miles away. After escorting his mother and sisters home in his motor car, he had returned for a pre-arranged assignation with Vita, who had been waiting for him in the garden. They'd then found themselves an empty room in the guest wing, temporarily being used as storage space for furniture from the other rooms while they were being decorated. “Sofas and things, you know,” she'd said with an airy nonchalance that didn't quite conceal a blush. She cast a quick, rather defiant look at her husband. But he was sitting rigidly upright, staring fixedly at his shoes, as if trying to see his face mirrored in their highly polished toecaps. “I'd forgotten about it until – until yesterday,” she said.
Grigsby found that hard to believe. “Go on, please.”
It seemed that matters had not gone very far when they were disturbed by noises, apparently coming from the next room.
“And you now think they could have been the sounds of someone bricking up that chimney?”
“I suppose it might have been the sort of noise you'd expect from something like that – but it couldn't have been.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because my mother was still alive long after that.” This time, after an encouraging nod from Schulman, the rest came out in a rush. “You see, much later, when I was tiptoeing back up to my room, hoping not to be noticed, you know, her maid was just coming out of Mama's bedroom, saying something to her.”
Grigsby's eyes sharpened. “What time was this?”
“Probably about two, or quarter past, I can't remember exactly. It gave me a terrible fright, and I muttered something about the bathroom, hoping she wouldn't notice that I was still fully dressed. But she didn't say anything and I couldn't help noticing how tired she looked. I felt how thoughtless it was of Mama to have kept her up so late. She looked positively wrung out.”
“Can you recall the exact words the maid used to your mother?”
“I suppose she said ‘Goodnight, Mrs Jardine,' – or something like that. I can't really remember. Why? Is it important?”
“Only in getting the facts straight. Was it usual to keep her maid up so late?”
“On occasions. She did tend to keep late hours, my mother.”
“And you – you were in that guest room with your young man all that time?”
No, it seemed not. Rattled by that noise from the next room, the young lovers had fled out into the garden and thence into the folly by the lake. They'd only stayed there for about twenty minutes, she admitted lamely. Probably true, thought Grigsby. They seemed to have been an inept pair of conspirators, and the interruption had likely been a timely deterrent, pouring cold water over the young man's passions, and Vita's own daring
having deserted her by that time. Even Grigsby realised it
had
been daring for a well-brought up young lady of the pre-1914 years to go even as far as she had.
“You can check with Bertie if you need to. He'll remember, but I warn you, he'll probably wriggle out of admitting that he does.” She added drily, “He's in Parliament now and very much in the public eye.”
“So if you don't think someone was in that room breaking open – or bricking up – that fireplace, how do you account for the noises you heard?”
“We thought it might have been Miss Jessamy, coming down to do some work on her murals —”
“That time of night? Dear me, she must have been conscientious!”
“I know it sounds quite ridiculous, but it was just the sort of thing she would do. Odd, yes, but so was she. She was quite obsessive and often worked at very peculiar times. Anyway, whatever it was, I panicked, and so did Bertie.”
“There were other people sleeping in that wing. Did they not hear anything?”
“Well, I didn't ask them! In any case, they were right at the other end of the corridor – a couple of Marcus's friends, if I remember – and Kit. The noise could have been them larking about, I suppose, but it didn't sound like that.”
Fairchild wrote down the name of Marcus's friend, John Townshend, now a stockbroker. The other had been killed at Ypres. “And ‘Kit'?” asked Grigsby. “That would be Mr Sacheverell?” On receiving a nod, he asked, “You know where he can be contacted?”
She hesitated. “My sister Daisy can probably let you have his address.”
Grigsby resumed his questioning. “You didn't think to mention the noise you heard, later? When the search was on for your mother?”
“Why should I? Who'd have imagined it had anything to do with her disappearance?”
No one, at that time, Grigsby allowed. And if they had, it wouldn't have saved her life, though it might have saved a good deal of trial and tribulation. “What did you think of this
Mr Iskander?” he asked suddenly.
He had caught her off-guard, which was what he had meant to do. “Oh, Iskander! He was really rather awful – he used
scent,
you know. You've no idea what he was like, always touching, getting too close, I don't know why Mama ever invited him to Charnley, no one could understand it. Daisy thinks we might all have been rather beastly to him. All of us except Papa, who was always courteous with everyone.”
“He was a particular friend of your mother's, I gather?”
She returned coldly, “If you mean was she having an affair with him, well, that's outrageous. I know it was suggested at the time – but if you'd known my mother, you'd realise she would
never
have allowed anyone like Iskander … and anyway, it doesn't seem now as though he was much of a friend, does it? Isn't it obvious he killed her?”
The Jardine family, it seemed, were united in seeing Iskander as a convenient scapegoat. “He was invited to Charnley as a guest, though, wasn't he?”
Wycombe, hitherto silent, put in austerely, “As I understood it, he more or less ingratiated himself into being invited. One of those who take advantage of a holiday acquaintance. In actual fact, he was simply one of the crew on the houseboat hired for sailing up the Nile. Or perhaps,” he added fairly, “a little more than that, more of a guide, though he was only a student. He appealed to Beatrice because he was, I must admit, extremely knowledgeable and very passionate about his country's affairs.”
“You were there, sir, on that trip?”
“Not on the Nile. I joined them in Luxor for a while, but I met Iskander. I wondered at the time if he wasn't perhaps one of those hot-headed Nationalists.”
And therefore quite capable of murder? “He's now a professor at the university in Cairo,” said Grigsby.
 
All very interesting, he remarked to Fairchild as they made their way back to the station, but it hadn't got them very far. He'd noted that Wycombe, throughout his wife's story, had said scarcely a word, that whenever she'd needed encouragement to go on, her eyes had sought Schulman's. So that's the
way of it, he'd thought. As it always had been, a young wife and an elderly husband, May and December. But he was inclined to think it wasn't as simple as that. There was more going on there than met the eye – for one thing, the lady had only told them half a story. Nothing new in that, either – witnesses as often as not believed that if they told the police everything they might find themselves as suspects – but Grigsby was alerted. Something had set alarm bells ringing in his mind. Why, he couldn't yet see, but he'd worry at it until he found out.
 
After doing what she'd come to London for, Harriet found herself with time to spare before the next train back that would make a connection in Oxford with the Garvingden bus. She'd been lucky enough to find a cab, but on impulse she'd paid it off at Green Park, weighing up the advantages of half an hour spent there rather than one in the racket of Paddington station. The weather had confounded predictions and after its early morning gloom had steadily improved throughout the day. Now, mid-afternoon, the sun touched the falling leaves of the plane trees with gold, its light flashed from the windows of red London buses as they trundled down Piccadilly. She drank in the warmth and sunlight like someone who has been deprived of either for months. A couple of hours ago, she had thought she might never be warm again.

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