Wexford 10 - A Sleeping Life (7 page)

   ‘This picture wasn’t in the papers, was it? I mean, could that be where I’ve seen her before?’

   ‘It could.’

   Two people came into the bar, bringing with them a momentary blaze of sunshine before the door closed again. Vivian waved in their direction, then, turning back, gave a low whistle. ‘I say! That isn’t old Gren’s wallet, is it?’

   Vague memories of Latin lessons came back to Wexford, of forms in which to put questions expecting the answer no. All Vivian’s questions seemed to expect the answer no, perhaps so that he could whistle and put on his astounded face when he got a yes.

   ‘Well, is it? . . . Now wait a minute. I mean, this one’s new, isn’t it? You caught me out for a minute, you know. Gren’s got one like it, only a bit knocked around, I mean. Just like that, only a bit battered. Not new, I mean.’ And he had taken it with him to France, Wexford thought.

   He was making slow progress, but he kept trying, ‘This woman was almost certainly living under an assumed name, Mr Vivian, never mind the name or the face. Did Mr West ever mention to you any woman friend he had who was older than himself?’

   ‘There was his agent, his - what-d’you-call-it? - literary agent. I can’t remember her name. Mrs Something, you know. Got a husband living, I’m sure of that. I mean, it wouldn’t be her, would it?’

   ‘I’m afraid not. Can you tell me Mr West’s address in France?’

   ‘He’s touring about, you know. Somewhere in the south, that’s all I can tell you. Getting back to this woman, I’m racking my brains, but I can’t come up with anyone. I mean, people chat to you about this and that, especially in my job, I mean, and a lot of it goes in one ear and out the other. Old Gren goes about a lot, great walker, likes his beer, likes to have a walk about Soho at night. For the pubs, I mean, nothing nasty, I don’t mean that. He’s got his drinking pals, you know, and he may have talked of some woman, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea about her name or where she lives, would I? I mean, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. But you know how it is, I mean, you don’t think anyone’s going to ask, I mean, it doesn’t cross your mind, does it?’

   As Wexford rose to go, he was unable to resist the temptation. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said.

‘You’re not having much luck,’ said Baker over a fresh pot of tea. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have someone go through the Kenbourne street directory for you. If he did know her, she might have been living only a stone’s throw away.’

   ‘Not as Rhoda Comfrey. But it’s very good of you, Michael.’

   Stevens was waiting for him, but they hadn’t got far along Kenbourne High Street when Wexford noticed a large newish public library on the opposite side. It would close, he guessed, at six, and it was a quarter to now. He told Stevens to drop him and park the car as best he could in this jungle of buses and container lorries and double yellow lines, and then he got out and jay-walked in most unpoliceman-like fashion across the road.

   On the forecourt stood a bronze of a mid-nineteenth century gentleman in a frock-coat. ‘Edward Edwards’ said a plaque at its feet, that and no more, as if the name ought to be as familiar as Victoria R or William Ewart Gladstone. It wasn’t familiar to Wexford and he had no time to waste wondering about it. He went on into the library and its large fiction section, and there he was, rubbing shoulders with Rebecca and Morris. Three of Grenville West’s novels were in, Killed With Kindness, The Venetian Courtesan, Fair Wind to Alicante, and each was marked on the spine with an H for Historical. The first title appealed to him most and he took the book from the shelf and looked at the publisher’s blurb on the front inside flap of the jacket.

   ‘Once again,’ he read, ‘Mr West astonishes us with his virtuosity in taking the plot and characters of an Elizabethan drama and clothing them in his fine rich prose. This time it is Mistress Nan Frankford, from Thomas Heywood’s A Woman Killed with Kindness, who holds the stage. At first a loving and faithful wife, she is seduced by her husband’s trusted friend, and it is her remorse and Frankford’s curious generosity which contribute to the originality of this compelling book. Mr West sticks closely to Heywood’s plot, but he shows us what Heywood had no need to attempt for his contemporary audience, a vivid picture of domestic life in late sixteenth-century England with its passions, its cruelties, its conventions and its customs. A different world is unfolded before us, and we are soon aware that we are being guided through its halls, its knot gardens and its unspoilt pastoral countryside by a master of his subject.’

   Hmm, thought Wexford, not for him. If Killed With kindness was from Heywood’s play of almost identical title, The Venetian Courtesan was very likely based on Webster’s The White Devil and Fair Wind to Alicante - on what? Wexford had a quick look at the blurb inside the jacket of that one and saw that its original was The Changeling of Middleton and Rowley. A clever idea, he thought, for those who liked that sort of thing. It didn’t look as if the author went in for too much intellectual stuff, but concentrated on the blood, thunder and passion which, from the point of view of his sales, was wise of him. There was a lot of Elizabethan and Jacobean plays, hundreds probably, so the possibilities of West going on till he was seventy or so seemed limitless.

   Killed With Kindness had been published three years before. He turned to the back of the jacket. There Grenville West was portrayed in tweeds with a pipe in his mouth. He wore glasses and had a thick fringe of dark hair. The face wasn’t very interesting but the photographer’s lighting effects were masterful. Under the picture was a biography:

   ‘Grenville West was born in London. He has a degree in history. His varied career has led him from teaching through freelance journalism, with short spells as a courier, barman and antique dealer, to becoming a highly successful writer of historical romance. In the twelve years since his first book, Her Grace of Amalfi, was published, he has delighted his readers with nine more novels of which several have been translated into French, German and Italian. His novels also appear in the United States and are regularly issued in paperback. Apes in Hell was made into a successful television play, and Arden’s Wife has been serialized for radio. ‘Mr West is a francophile who spends most of his holidays in France, has a French car and enjoys French cooking. He is 35 years old, lives in London and is unmarried.’

   On the face of it, Wexford thought, the man would appear to have little in common with Rhoda Comfrey. But then he didn’t really know much about Rhoda Comfrey, did he? Maybe she too had been a francophile. Mrs Parker had told him, that when a young woman, she had taught herself French. And there was firm evidence that she had wanted to write and had tried her hand at journalism. It was possible that West had met her at a meeting of one of those literary societies, formed by amateurs who aspire to have their work published, and who had invited him to address them. Then why keep the relationship dark? In saying that there was nothing unpleasant in West’s secretiveness, Vivian had only succeeded in suggesting that there was.

The library was about to close. Wexford went out and made a face at Edward Edwards who looked superciliously back at him. Stevens was waiting for him on the pavement, and together they walked back to the car which had necessarily been parked a quarter of a mile away. He had made a mental note of the name of West’s publishers, Carlyon Brent, of London, New York and Sydney. Would they tell him anything if he called them? He had a feeling they would be cagily discreet.

‘I don’t see what you’re hoping to get, anyway,’ said Burden in the morning. ‘He’s not going to have told his publishers who he gives birthday presents to, is he?’

   ‘I’m thinking about this girl, this Polly something or other,’ Wexford said. ‘If she does his typing in his flat, which it seems as if she does, it’s likely she also answers his phone. A sort of secretary, in fact. Therefore, someone at his publishers may be in the habit of speaking to her. Or, at any rate, it’s possible West will have told them her name.’

   Their offices were located in Russell Square. He dialled the number and was put through to someone he was told was Mr West’s editor. ‘Oliver Hampton speaking.’ A dry cool public-school voice. He listened while Wexford went somewhat awkwardly into his explanation. The awkwardness was occasioned not by Hampton’s interruptions - he didn’t interrupt - but by a strong extra-aural perception, carried along fifty miles of wires, that the man at the other end was incredulous, amazed and even offended.

   At last Hampton said, ‘I couldn’t possibly give you any information of that nature about one of my authors.’ The information ‘of that nature’ had merely been an address at which West could be written to or spoken to, or, failing that, the name of his typist. ‘Frankly, I don’t know who you are. I only know who you say you are.’

   ‘In that case, Mr Hampton, I will give you a number for you to phone my Chief Constable and check.’

   ‘I’m sorry, but I’m extremely busy. In point of fact, I have no idea where Mr West is at this moment except that he is somewhere in the South of France. What I will do is give you the number of his agent if that would help.’

   Wexford said it might and noted the number down. Mrs Brenda Nunn, of Field and Bray, Literary Agents. This would be the woman Vivian had said was middle-aged and with a husband living. She was more talkative than Hampton and less suspicious, and she satisfied herself on his bona fides by calling him back at Kingsmarkham Police Station.

   ‘Well, now we’ve done all that,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I really can’t be much help to you. I don’t have an address for Mr West in France and I’d never heard of Rhoda Comfrey till I read about her in the papers. I do know the name of this girl who works for him. I’ve spoken to her on the phone. It’s - well, it’s Polly Flinders.’

   ‘It’s what?'

   ‘I know. Now you can see why it stuck in my mind. Actually, it’s Pauline Flinders - heaven knows what her parents were thinking about - but Grenville - er, Mr West - refers to her as Polly. I’ve no idea where she lives.’

   Next Wexford phoned Baker. The search of the electoral register had brought to light no Comfrey in the parliamentary constituency of Kenbourne Vale. Would Baker do the same for him in respect of a Miss Pauline Flinders? Baker would, with pleasure. The name seemed to afford him no amusement or even interest. However, he was anxious to help, and in addition would send a man to Kenbourne Green to inquire in all the local shops and of Grenville West’s neighbours.

   ‘It’s all so vague,’ said Dr Crocker who came to join them for lunch at the Carousel Cafe. ‘Even if the Comfrey woman was going under another name in London, this girl would have recognized her from the description in the papers. The photograph, unlike as it is, would have meant something to her. She’d have been in touch, she’d have read all your appeals.’

   ‘So therefore doesn’t it look as if she didn’t because she has something to hide?’

   ‘It looks to me,’ said Burden, ‘as if she just didn’t know her.’

   Waiting to hear from Baker, Wexford tried to make some sort of reasonable pattern of it. Rhoda Comfrey, who, for some unknown motive, called herself something else in London, had been a fan and admirer of Grenville West, had become his friend. Perhaps she performed certain services for him in connection with his work. She might - and Wexford was rather pleased with this notion - run a photocopying agency. That would fit in with what Mrs Crown had told him. Suppose she had made copies of manuscripts for West free of charge, and he, in gratitude, had given her a rather special birthday present? After all, according to old Mrs Parker, she had become fifty years old on 5 August. 

   In some countries, Wexford knew, the fiftieth birthday was looked on as a landmark of great significance, an anniversary worthy of particular note. He had bought the wallet on the fourth, given it to her on the fifth, left for his holiday on the seventh, and she had come down to Kingsmarkham on the eighth. None of this got him nearer finding the identity of her murderer, but that was a long way off yet, he thought gloomily. Into the midst of these reflections the phone rang.

   ‘We’ve found her,’ said the voice of Baker. ‘Or we’ve found where she lives. She was in the register. West Kenbourne, All Souls Grove, number fifteen, flat one. Patel, Malina N. and Flinders, Pauline J. No number in the phone book for either of them, so I sent Dinehart round, and a woman upstairs said your Flinders usually comes in around half-four.

   'D’you want us to see her for you? It’s easily done.’

   ‘No, thanks, Michael, I’ll come up.’

   Happiness hadn’t eroded all the encrusting sourness from Baker’s nature. He was still quick to sense a snub where no snub was intended, still looking always for an effusively expressed appreciation. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said gruffly. ‘D’you know how to find All Souls Grove?’ Implicit in his tone was the suggestion that this country bumpkin might be able to find a haystack or even a needle in one, but not a street delineated in every London guide. ‘Turn right out of Kenbourne Lane Tube station into Magdalen Hill, right again into Balliol Street, and it’s the second on the left after Oriel Mews.’

   Forebearing to point out that with his rank he did rate a car and a driver, Wexford said only, ‘I’m most grateful, Michael, you’re very good,’ but he was too late.

   ‘All in a day’s work,’ said Baker and put the phone down hard.

Wexford had sometimes wondered why it is that a plain woman so often chooses to live with, or share a flat with, or be companioned by, a beautiful woman. Perhaps choice does not enter into it; perhaps the pressure comes from the other side, from the beautiful one whose looks are set off by the contrast, while the ill-favoured one is too shy, too humble and too accustomed to her place to resist. In this case, the contrast was very marked. Beauty had opened the front door to him, beauty in a peacock-green sari with little gold ornaments, and on hands of a fineness and delicacy seldom seen in Western women, the width across the broadest part less than three inches, rings of gold and ivory. An exquisite small face, the skin a smoky gold, peeped at him from a cloud of silky black hair.