War Damage (13 page)

There was no one. She would have to rely on herself.

They drank tea in front of the fire. ‘Alan's worked so hard on the house,' said Dinah. And indeed the downstairs rooms were transformed. Cream paint had wiped out the rotting wallpaper with its Edwardian design of cabbage roses.

Neville and Regine had met the Wentworths at a private view at Noel's gallery. A friendship was established when the Milners helped the younger couple find the cottage they were now doing up. The Wentworths stood well to the left of Neville and perhaps of Regine, although she never knew where she stood politically. But Regine had taken to Dinah the moment she saw her. Dinah was so lively with her mop of black curls – rather like Cato's, in fact – and her rosy cheeks and friendly smile. She was ten years younger than Regine, of course, but that made her company all the more fun. Marriage to Neville had moved Regine into a middle-aged set, and her two closest friends, Cynthia and Dorothy, were both so serious. With Dinah she could talk clothes and novels and – desperately important, now Freddie had gone – gossip. Regine also shared a love of the cinema with the Wentworths – Alan had actually made documentary films in the war – and, as Neville was rather sniffy about films, Regine began regularly to make up a threesome with the younger couple on outings to the Academy in Oxford Street, and indeed to the Everyman, which was only five minutes away from the Wentworth cottage.

‘Tell me about the Courtauld.'

‘History of Art – you learn all about paintings – how to date them – which are the best ones – but I've only just started. Some of the other students are awfully nice.'

As Dinah described them, and her charismatic tutor, Anthony Blunt, Regine wasn't listening properly. Eugene coming up the glade, Eugene in the café, Eugene wanting money … but perhaps he wouldn't show up next week, perhaps
she
wouldn't keep the appointment, perhaps he'd go back to Ireland. Regine always hoped for the best and knew from experience that – in spite of what everyone said – sometimes the best policy was to stick your head in the sand.

‘Is she?' Dinah's question caught her by surprise.

‘Sorry – I'm so sorry – my thoughts just wandered off for a moment. What were you asking me?'

‘Alan said Cynthia brought Ernie Appleton to your party the other week. He was most intrigued.'

‘I wanted to talk to you about Cynthia.'

‘Alan says they talk about nothing else but the Board of Trade business at the Beeb. Appleton's all mixed up in that, isn't he. I don't really understand it, but – well, Alan thought it was very odd him coming with a … she works in his department, doesn't she?'

‘Dinah, you mustn't tell a soul about this, not even Alan, but she's going to have a baby.'

‘A
baby
! You mean, she is – they are …' Dinah looked horrified. ‘What on earth is she going to do? And what is
he
going to do? He can't afford another scandal on top of all this …'

‘She's annoyed with me because I tried to persuade her to get rid of it. She was determined to go ahead right from the start. She was the last person I'd have expected. They've been having an affair for months. And now – Cynthia thinks he'll leave his wife now she's pregnant.'

‘It'll ruin his career – if it isn't ruined already.'

‘There was a picture in the paper of Appleton with his wife the other day. She looked rather frumpy and dismal; wearing one of those wartime hats.'

Regine couldn't help feeling that a woman owed it to herself to keep herself attractive after marriage. On the other hand, women had to stick together. It wasn't fair to steal another woman's husband …

‘Still, that's no excuse,' said Dinah briskly. ‘And I haven't time to be sorry for Appleton. He's brought it on himself. But Cynthia …'

‘I've been trying to think how to help. What d'you think I can do?'

‘I'm sure together we can think of a plan. She'll need money, won't she, and somewhere to stay. Let's go away and rack our brains and talk it over again at the weekend. Oh dear, doesn't sex complicate things. Sometimes I think my mother has the right idea. She likes you to think she's never enjoyed it at all. And she's shocked
I'm
not expecting yet. She thinks that's what sex is for. She used to say darkly “You can get a taste for it. You can
get to like it
”, as if sex was an unpleasant sort of addiction. I suppose that's because women of her generation saw it as their main source of power. Something to withhold, to ration out. You'd weaken yourself if you enjoyed it too much. She told me, “I had to be very firm with your father.” I'm afraid I'm not firm with Alan at all. Of course, I do want children, but I want something I can go back to afterwards, that's partly why the Courtauld's so important to me. It'd be so easy to sink into domestic servitude.' She blushed, looking through her cigarette smoke at Regine with a mixture of shyness and curiosity. ‘But what about you – are you … can't you …?' She saw Regine's face close in. ‘I'm sorry – I shouldn't have asked.'

‘Neville isn't keen. He's over ten years older than me, you know. And I'm thirty-four, a bit past it, really.'

‘Oh nonsense,' said Dinah.

But there was an awkward little silence.

eleven

M
URIEL JORDAN'S EMPLOYER
, Aynsley Denham, ran a small print works in the basement of his dilapidated house in the Gray's Inn Road. On this particular Friday she had extra letters to type, while Aynsley made urgent calls. Plagued by the ongoing paper shortage, he was desperate for the ream needed to print off an important leaflet. Everything had to be done before the weekend.

Muriel was afraid Hilary would get home before her with no meal ready, but she couldn't refuse to stay late. Aynsley was ‘one of us', keeping the flame alive with the publication of leaflets and news-sheets under cover of the firm's less controversial products. And hers wasn't just a job, it was a calling. Hilary didn't like it, but it was a higher priority than her domestic chores.

By the time Denham left, it was nearly seven o'clock. She was often the last person to leave the office, but she never liked being there alone, although she was not an imaginative woman. The glare of unshaded lights couldn't dispel the eerie emptiness of the print room with its idle machines and the silence where there should have been clatter. In fact, her unease had more to do with the semi-clandestine nature of the enterprise than with a nervous disposition. It was also related to growing anxiety about its incipient failure, the dragging decline of a once glorious movement. But she must pull herself together. Depression was a cancer. There
would
be a new dawn.

She pulled on her mac and tied the belt tightly. After a last look round she switched off the lights and stood for a second in darkness. Only the dim twilight from the street beyond the basement windows illuminated the office and its looming cupboards.

She heard footsteps, saw a shadowy someone descending the area steps. The door rattled. Someone was in the corridor. ‘Who is it?' Her voice sounded shrill. A figure emerged in the shadows beyond the room. Her hand shook as she switched the lights back on.

‘Oh, it's you.'

Arthur Carnforth blinked in the unexpected glare. He seemed bewildered by her presence. ‘I didn't think anyone would be here. I was surprised the door was unlocked. Aynsley gave me a key, you see.'

‘I've been working late. What are you doing here?'

‘He said there'd be some material.'

‘Well, there isn't. We've had trouble with the paper people again. Everything's delayed.'

‘Oh.' He frowned. He held his wide-brimmed black hat as if he didn't know what to do with it. ‘That's not good enough.'

‘Don't blame me.' Muriel had to remind herself not to feel nervous. Arthur could be unpredictable, but you had to be very calm with him. And basically he needed looking after. ‘I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to come round here.' Her concern was as much for him as for the enterprise. ‘You want to be careful, Arthur. You don't want to jeopardise your job, do you. You were lucky to get it. I daresay they're still keeping tabs on you, you know.'

He didn't answer at once, but continued to stand there, looming in a way that was just short of threatening, and yet at the same time somehow nonplussed. After a while he said: ‘Are they really that interested now? They think we're defeated, a spent force.'

‘Don't talk like that. That's defeatism, not defeat. The Leader—'

Carnforth leaned against the table that ran the length of the room. ‘Oh … the Leader.' He looked around as if he thought the Leader might manifest from some neglected pile of old newsprint. ‘O'Connell doesn't think much of the Leader. Not a patch on – the great one, he says. But I think what's needed is a more spiritual approach. That side of it's been neglected – the sense of vision, the spirit of self-sacrifice.'

‘O'Connell's an adventurist. I don't like him. Who is he, anyway?' Muriel fiddled with her handbag. ‘It's late, Arthur. Hilary'll be wondering where I am. I've got to lock up.'

Arthur didn't move. ‘I'm worried. It's worse now than in the war. I feel I'm in a spiritual prison, a prison of the mind. And Buckingham – I'm not sure—'

Muriel interrupted him sharply. ‘Buckingham was an evil man. Don't waste time thinking about him. He got what he deserved.'

Carnforth stirred, moved towards her. There was something alarming about the uncertainty of his bulk and she instinctively moved back. ‘Vivienne was so upset,' he said.

Mention of the dancer irritated Muriel beyond endurance. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Vivienne Hallam – now there is a lost cause if ever there was one. You're wasting your time. She's married.'

Carnforth looked shocked. ‘Oh, I don't … she needs spiritual comfort – I hope you're not suggesting –'

This was too much for Muriel. ‘Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be so wet. Your trouble is, Arthur, that lunatic you met in the war – Battersby and the League of Christian Reformers –'

‘He's a deeply spiritual man. And utterly misunderstood.'

‘Battersby's in a mental asylum, Arthur. All that crackpot stuff sent him right round the bend.'

Carnforth frowned. ‘Don't talk about that,' he muttered.

Muriel feared she'd gone too far. It was tactless to have mentioned the hospital. ‘Cheer up, Arthur. Things aren't that bad. Triumph of the will. Remember –
“Wir kommen wieder”
.'

They parted company at King's Cross, only five minutes' walk from Carnforth's flat. Muriel took the Northern line to Hampstead.

Their garden flat was in a side road off East Heath Road. The light was on, so Hilary must be home now. She called his name as she entered the passage. There was no reply, but she could hear voices. He wasn't alone.

At first she thought the two strangers in her front room might just possibly have come from the organisation, but both sprang smartly to their feet and introduced themselves: detectives.

Murray had expected a place like the Milners', but the Jordans' living room was spartan, furnished in modern light oak and devoid of pictures and books.

Muriel subsided in an easy chair with wooden arms. Her husband looked at her intently: a note of warning, but what about? Not Arthur, she hoped it wasn't Arthur …

‘Chief Inspector Plumer wants to know about Freddie Buckingham's will,' he said. ‘I explained that so far as I'm concerned it's all in the past.'

Of course: the murder. Muriel said repressively: ‘We didn't see eye to eye with Freddie. Our paths didn't cross.'

‘Yet you were at a party with him the day he was murdered!'

Muriel flushed. ‘Yes, well, it wasn't my idea.' The waspish look she cast at her husband was not lost on Murray.

‘I met Buckingham through the Milners, Regine's an old friend of mine,' said Hilary. ‘I'm a solicitor, I sorted out his will. But our offices were bombed right at the end of the war – a V2 – and by that time Muriel and I were married. I explained to Buckingham what had happened and I think there was an implicit understanding that he'd find another solicitor. We'd been quite friendly, well, in the war one let a lot of things go, but Muriel had made me see he was a rather unsavoury character.'

‘Did he make another will?'

‘No idea. You could ask Neville Milner. He might know. It's possible he died intestate, I suppose.'

‘No will has been found,' said Plumer, ‘but some items that certainly did exist are missing from Mr Buckingham's house. We can't discount the possibility the will has been taken as well.'

‘If a will was stolen, it would be most likely in order to suppress it, wouldn't it?' said Hilary.

‘That remains to be seen, sir.'

They'd hoped for useful information from this interview. Instead, they'd come up virtually against a brick wall. Murray knew you had to be prepared for all eventualities, take nothing for granted, rid your mind of expectations, but he felt intensely frustrated.

Muriel had taken out her knitting. The clicking needles irritated Murray, as though she wished purposely to draw attention to herself; to display her industriousness, perhaps, or the fact that they were wasting her time. ‘You say you'd fallen out with Mr Buckingham?'

‘I didn't say that,' she snapped, ‘I said we hadn't much in common.'

Hilary Jordan looked a little uncomfortable. ‘During the war things got very lax, I suppose. One didn't notice so much at the time, but looking back – and Reggie invites all sorts of people to her little tea parties. For instance, on that particular Sunday that Labourite minister turned up, the one who's in trouble over the Sidney Stanley affair. Reggie herself is delightful, of course, but—'

‘Regine can do no wrong as far as you're concerned.'

‘Well, I go round on a Sunday from time to time for old times' sake as much as anything.' Jordan looked sheepish and uncomfortable.

‘No one says you have to go, dear.'

‘Which government minister is that?'

‘Oh – what's-his-name – Appleton.'

His wife chimed in. ‘That's absolutely typical of Regine. If she gets a government minister to one of her gatherings, it has to be a crooked one.'

‘We don't know that,' protested Hilary mildly.

‘Did
he
know Mr Buckingham?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘But
you
used to know him well? The dead man, that is,' persisted Plumer.

‘I certainly didn't,' snapped Muriel.

‘He fought in Italy, you know,' said Hilary, ‘but he was very flamboyant. Always booming away doing his Oscar Wilde imitation and – well – I can only call it flaunting himself. I don't know how Reggie put up with him, quite honestly. They were a sort of self-indulgent, mutual admiration society. Though actually I suspect he sponged off her. She hinted he had serious money problems.'

‘What about the original will?'

‘What about it?'

‘Did that seem to indicate money problems?'

Hilary frowned. ‘It wouldn't necessarily, would it, even if he had them. I don't remember much about it now, but I think he left the bulk of everything to Charles Hallam.'

Murray found that interesting, but he wasn't letting on.

‘Just for the record, sir, where were you on the evening he was killed?'

A strange expression passed across Muriel's face; almost, thought Murray, a whiff of panic, and it was she, not her husband, who replied, ‘We were here all evening. A friend of ours came round to see us.'

‘This friend would be able to corroborate that?'

‘What?' Again Jordan looked startled.

‘He would,' said Muriel.

‘Perhaps you could give us his name, then?'

‘His name's Arthur Carnforth,' said Muriel.

Murray wondered why she looked so anxious.

‘Can you be exact about the time,' said Plumer, ‘that is, when he arrived and when he left?'

The Jordans looked at each other. ‘Quite late,' said Muriel, unhelpfully.

This Carnforth, thought Murray, must be someone they could rely on to cover up for them if necessary. Yet it was probably all irrelevant. It was most unlikely this couple had had anything to do with the murder. ‘And Mr Carnforth's address?' he enquired carelessly.

‘Number 20 Handel Mansions, Handel Street.'

At the knock on the door, Regine sprang to her feet. At this hour, past nine, it could only be – the police … Eugene …

If she pretended not to be there – but the light was on, he'd have seen the light. She steeled herself as she opened the door.

Hilary Jordan stood on the step.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you so late, but – is Neville about?'

‘He'll be home soon. He's having dinner with Noel.'

‘The thing is – the police have just called round. Asking about Freddie – the murder, and all that.'

He refused a drink, so Regine had to make him a cup of tea. He followed her into the kitchen and they sat at the table. ‘I expect it's just a routine visit,' she said. ‘They don't seem to be getting anywhere, so they're delving into Freddie's background … well, I suppose that's what it is. Or perhaps they think one of us did it, I mean, someone Freddie knew, but of course that's ridiculous.'

‘Mind if I hang about for a bit? I want to have a word with Neville about it.'

‘Of course, but … surely …' She paused, hoping he'd tell her more.

‘They were asking about Freddie's will.' Hilary was obviously agitated.

‘It's unpleasant, the way they question you, isn't it,' said Regine, hoping it would encourage him to say more.

Hilary cleared his throat. ‘You know, I feel rotten – saying what I did about Freddie – that afternoon …'

‘I know you and Muriel didn't get on with him, but it's hardly your fault he was murdered.'

‘Well … it's a motive, isn't it. If the police got to hear …'

Regine laughed. ‘Oh, for goodness' sake, I can't even remember what you said. Disapproving of someone is hardly a motive!'