Shot in Southwold Read online

  ‘Oh yes, he was on crashing form – we both were, and had so much to talk about.’

  Lady Fawcett smiled (privately trusting that the other diners had enjoyed as merry a time as the young couple). Her smile wavered slightly when Amy went on to say how fascinated Bartho had been by Mr Bates’s Shropshire exploits.

  ‘Er, is that what you were telling him about at dinner?’ she enquired casually.

  Amy nodded. ‘Yes, some of the time – though, of course, I also insisted he should give me details of the murder … But do you know, Mummy, he said that obviously Mr Bates was a very gallant little fellow and clearly had a lot of stamina. And I said, “You bet – gallant and lucrative!” Bartho was very impressed.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice,’ Lady Fawcett murmured, again wondering about the other diners. With luck, most might have been deaf.

  Returning to The Swan she encountered Rosy, just returned from a perplexing session at the film studio (the film’s tortuous narrative did not get any clearer). And after her own session with Amy, Lady Fawcett suggested that some tea might be welcome.

  Thus they sat in the lounge and chatted, and Rosy raised the question of the murdered girl’s funeral. ‘It may be ages before it is announced. I mean, I suppose it all depends on when the police are happy to release the body, though maybe they’ve done that already. I wonder if it will be in private or a big public thing – and if the latter, do you think one should attend?’

  Her companion cogitated. ‘Since you were one of the unfortunate finders of the poor girl you might perhaps consider it appropriate – though certainly not a requirement. But speaking for myself, I shall feel no such obligation. A bouquet of flowers will be fitting. I normally send lilies – though dear Gregory couldn’t stand them. For his funeral I had to substitute the most garish gladioli, his favourite flowers. It was really rather embarrassing, they looked so abrasively vulgar on the coffin – red and yellow, I recall. But then anything to give the poor boy pleasure …’ Her voice trailed off and she looked wistful.

  ‘So what will you choose for Tippy?’ Rosy asked gently.

  ‘What? Oh, Tippy … well, not lilies, too dignified. Something vivid and skittish: some colourful freesias, perhaps. She might have liked those … But,’ and Lady Fawcett lowered her voice confidingly, ‘I can tell you one thing, Rosy, I have no intention of attending the service itself. After all, people might think I was in some way associated with the Carshaltons!’

  At that moment they were interrupted by a member of staff. ‘Excuse me, Miss Gilchrist,’ the girl said, ‘but there’s a telephone call for you. Will you take it in your room? I can put it through for you if you like.’

  Rosy was startled. Apart from a couple of girlfriends, she didn’t think anyone knew she had left London. ‘Male or female?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a gentleman,’ the girl answered.

  ‘In that case best take it in your room,’ Lady Fawcett whispered, ‘always safest.’

  Rosy laughed and stood up to do as suggested.

  She mounted the stairs wondering who on earth it could be. Most of her male friends lived in London or thereabouts, and in any case why should any of them want to suddenly contact her here?

  She was puzzled – and then a name struck her: Mickey Standish. He certainly knew she was staying at The Swan, and perhaps after their meeting the previous day and his slightly hasty departure, he wanted to continue the conversation. Or more likely, simply confirm the jazz club invitation. She went to the phone expecting to hear his voice, and when she didn’t, felt oddly disappointed.

  In fact, the voice she heard was familiar – too damn familiar. The caller was not Standish, but Stanley: Dr Stanley, her boss from the British Museum. Rosy cursed. Surely to goodness he didn’t want her to get him some more Southwold rock! She closed her eyes and listened to the insistent tones.

  Initially, he was all brisk bonhomie, but she knew it wouldn’t last. He wanted something: to cut short her leave? To organise an exhibition he had forgotten to tell her about? Or simply to remind him where he had left a set of lecture notes? Oh well, she would find out soon enough.

  ‘I heard that there had been a murder up there, and naturally assumed the victim was you,’ he said jovially, ‘so I thought I ought to telephone just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘In case I had lost an invaluable assistant, of course!’ There was a rasping laugh, which stopped abruptly; and the voice took on the old conspiratorial urgency.

  ‘You see, Rosy, being in Southwold I think you may be in a position to help me,’ he began earnestly.

  ‘Oh, I see, you want me to procure a stick of rock, do you?’

  ‘Since you mention it, no. Though if you could procure me some Adnam’s ale, I should be grateful. You have a car, I gather. So transport shouldn’t be a problem.’ (Huh, she thought, walked right into that, didn’t I?)

  ‘Ale apart,’ he continued, ‘I want you to help me with a little project I have in mind. I have persuaded the museum Gauleiters that our department should mount a display of nineteenth- and twentieth-century travel writing. We have an excellent collection and many of the works are accompanied by some fine sketches and photographs. But in addition to the material itself, I am proposing that we should invite three eminent travel writers to give a short series of lectures on the subject. By way of introduction, I myself will deliver a general overview of the genre and its development. And by dint of my consummate charm I have managed to persuade the splendid Freya Stark and James Morris to honour us with their presence. As you know, they are two of the most brilliant exponents of the genre. It will be a most prestigious affair.’ A smug chuckle reached her ears. ‘You must admit, it’s amazing what a little judicious tact can achieve. The museum is lucky to have me! Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Without your saving presence there would be mayhem and utter ruin. So who’s your third contributor?’

  ‘Ah … as yet unsecured. Which is where you come in, Rosy. Naturally, he is not in the same league as the other two (far too lush and florid) – but the chap is popular, colourful, a lively communicator and commands a very high radio rating. Does the name Vincent Ramsgate mean anything to you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied grimly, ‘it does.’

  ‘Good, good. Thought it might. You see what we need is diversity. Thus, in my capacity as senior curator I shall supply the scholarly wit and insight, Stark and Morris the literary brilliance and integrity – and Ramsgate will pull in the more impressionable and less discerning (of which there are many) plus their wallets.’ He chortled happily, and Rosy could almost see him rubbing his hands together.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Go and see him, of course. Present your credentials. Tell him you are an emissary from the British Museum, specifically from the notable Dr Stanley, and that your superior would be delighted if he would consent to join his little venture. Butter him up a bit and tell him you swoon every time you hear his voice on the wireless. He’ll believe every word: he’s notoriously vain, you know.’

  Rosy gave a wry smile. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Oh yes, very pleased with himself … but some people are like that. Funny, really. But perhaps you’ve met him already? He lives just outside Southwold, near a place called Reydon, I believe.’

  Rosy admitted that she had met him and indeed had been to his house – an admission that was met with a roar of delight. ‘There you are, then! You are as good as old friends. Approach him as soon as possible and tell him it will be in the first week of November, and then report back to me with sparkling news. I knew I could count on you, Rosy.’

  ‘Well, I am not sure if—’ she began doubtfully, but didn’t stand a chance.

  ‘Splendid! Splendid! We’ll hear from you soon.’ There was a click and the line went dead.

  Rosy sighed, kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed. She pondered the possibility of putting strychnine in his Adnam’s a
le.

  That evening Rosy sustained a blow. She had decided to have an early night and was just getting undressed when there was a gentle knock on the door. She put on a wrap and went to open it. Lady Fawcett stood there.

  ‘I am so sorry, Rosy dear, I know you had wanted to get on with the latest Graham Greene, but I have just heard something rather strange – unfortunate, in fact. It was on the news. I thought it might be of interest to you. May I come in?’

  Somewhat surprised, Rosy ushered her in and gestured to the armchair, while she sat on the bed. ‘So what’s this, then,’ she asked, ‘has someone set fire to the British Museum?’

  ‘No,’ replied Lady Fawcett soberly. ‘No, not that, but something as dramatic, I suppose, and certainly more personal. It’s to do with somebody we know … well, not know exactly, but we’ve certainly met him.’

  Rosy was startled, and all manner of names started to race through her head. But at the next moment she heard Lady Fawcett say, ‘In fact, I think you said you had bumped into him only yesterday. It’s that nice man we met at Vincent Ramsgate’s party, Mickey Standish – he’s dead. Attacked by a chance intruder in his flat and money stolen. The announcer said he was found at seven o’clock this morning by the postman. Apparently, the door to his flat was open, and as the postman had a parcel to deliver he went in – and then saw the poor man in a heap on the floor. Hit on the head, I gather.’ She frowned. ‘Oh dear, it seems so awfully unfair. He struck me as most agreeable; and so tall,’ she added irrelevantly.

  ‘Yes … yes, he was tall,’ Rosy answered faintly, inwardly reeling. It was ridiculous! He had been her guide around St Edmund’s, they had chatted and eaten sandwiches together in the King’s Head, and he had nearly tripped over the spaniel by their table. He had been going to take her to Ronnie Scott’s. And now – and now he was dead. Just like that.

  For a moment she closed her eyes, and then opening them, she said conventionally, ‘How simply dreadful. Poor chap, I hope it was quick.’

  ‘Oh, bound to have been,’ the other replied, ‘they don’t mess about, these types. A quick in an out, that’s what they’re after. A smart bash on the head, grab the money and off they go.’ Lady Fawcett nodded firmly to make her point.

  How Angela had obtained this information Rosy had no idea (the bobby on the Knightsbridge beat?) but she found such assurance comforting nevertheless.

  Left alone, Rosy remained sitting on the bed staring listlessly at the wall. It was awful, unreal – incredible. For a few absurd seconds she wondered if Angela had got it wrong, misheard the name or confused him with someone else. But she knew that was nonsense: Angela could be vague but she wasn’t addled. No, it was surely Standish. Presumably, there would be more on the news tomorrow, or some reference in the newspaper. Tangible proof that she couldn’t question.

  Rosy frowned, puzzled by her own reaction. She had barely known the man, so why so bleak? So felled? Had she been a little in love with him? Certainly not (or at least she didn’t think so). But in his cool, urbane way he had been amusing and strangely attractive. She had enjoyed talking with him: he had been witty, casually assured, interesting – and, she suspected, very shrewd. Unnervingly so. Why had he probed her connection with Aunt Marcia? He had obviously sensed the case was more complex than reported. Casual interest, or had there been something deeper? Perhaps he had been one of her ex-lovers – there had been several. Or conceivably, as she had first fleetingly wondered, had he been engaged in some covert investigation by MI5, digging up unfinished business … Could that have been it? Oh, hardly!

  She continued to stare disconsolately at the wall. Well, whatever the facts, he had been so real, so damned alive. Far more truly alive than that poor foolish girl had ever seemed … And now, now he was no more. Extraordinary.

  One thing was pretty certain: she would never go to Ronnie Scott’s now. Any other jazz club, but not that one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was a beautiful day and Rosy would have liked to spend it visiting Minsmere or perhaps pottering about at Walberswick, or watching the boats down at Southwold’s harbour. As it was, she was required to chat up Vincent Ramsgate and persuade him that his presence would be vital to the success of Stanley’s project. It wasn’t a particularly attractive prospect. Right from the start the man’s unctuous manner had rather irritated her; and although she was no prude, after the revelation of Tippy’s letter her initial distaste was increased. Still, all in the cause of culture, she supposed – that and Dr Stanley’s good temper! She looked at her watch … Better get a move on; she was due there at two-thirty.

  The drive to his house in Reydon was pleasant, albeit at times perplexing. The last time she had been there was for the party when she had been a passenger and indifferent to direction. This time she took a couple of wrong turns in the twisting lanes that crossed the marshes, but eventually (and she suspected, via a circuitous route) arrived at the entrance to his grounds.

  Moving slowly up the treelined drive she noticed again the rather peculiar statues dotted about the front lawn. Seen in broad daylight they seemed even more crude and charmless than they had in semi-darkness. Who on earth, for example, would want to live with a headless ape? Or for that matter a brass Pegasus bearing a clearly inebriated Peter Pan on its back – especially as the horse seemed to have only three legs and one wing. Deeply symbolic? Or had the sculptor simply lost interest? Perhaps the owner considered them witty and whimsical, a sort of reflection of his own intriguing persona … She parked the car and walked up the steps.

  The door was opened by a woman in a hat and coat, and who introduced herself as the housekeeper.

  ‘It’s my half-day,’ she explained, ‘and I’m just off to catch the bus. But if you would like a cup of tea, I’ve left things on the kitchen table. Mr Ramsgate likes a cuppa, so be sure to remind him. He boils the kettle beautifully!’ She laughed. ‘He is in the study at the moment practising one of them broadcasts on his Dictaphone thing. Very particular, he is; always likes to get it just right – every pause and syllable. Mind you, sometimes he’ll try bits out on me. “What do you think of this, Dilly? Now, be honest, my girl.”’ She giggled. ‘Girl, indeed! He isn’t half an old flatterer – when it suits him!’

  Rosy smiled. ‘And what do you say?’

  ‘Oh, I always says the same: “Couldn’t be better, sir!” That’s why he asks me. No point in saying anything else really, is there?’ She gave a sly grin and took Rosy along to the study.

  As she entered the room, Ramsgate turned off his gadget and rose to greet her with the same effusiveness he had shown at the party.

  ‘What an unexpected pleasure, Miss Gilchrist,’ he enthused, shaking her hand vigorously. ‘I hadn’t thought we should meet again – or certainly not so soon!’ He offered her a chair and returned to his desk, from where he beamed and (so it seemed) appraised her dress and ankles.

  ‘But,’ he continued, wagging a mock finger, ‘you never mentioned the other evening that you worked at the BM and were one of Dr Stanley’s satellites. This is indeed an honour!’

  Rosy was slightly stung, and had wanted to protest: ‘I am not his blooming satellite!’ But instead she merely raised an eyebrow, remarking that ‘satellite’ was a bit of an exaggeration, although she much enjoyed his stimulus – a statement that was not without truth.

  ‘Oh, I am sure you do,’ he chimed, ‘a considerable scholar, by all accounts, and a most formidable custodian – though not without his quirks, one hears. A bit of a tricky cove, I imagine!’ He winked.

  Ramsgate was perfectly right on both counts: Stanley was both a good scholar and a tricky cove. But somehow Rosy was irritated by the man’s attitude. He exuded a kind of smug patronage that grated. Dr Stanley’s vanity seemed healthy in comparison, and his eccentricity often comic. They were features born of an innate, almost innocent, self-confidence. Whereas Ramsgate’s seemed cultivated, striven for. He was the showman, Stanley the natural.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed,
‘he has his moments. But as I explained on the phone, he is mounting this travel exhibition and is terribly keen to have a contribution from you. I think it could work very well if you would be willing to participate. You would lend a certain …’ she paused to flash a winning smile – ‘a certain panache.’ In her mind’s ear she could hear Stanley’s voice: That’s it, Rosy, soften the sod!

  He gave a modest smirk. ‘Well, shall we say that I rather suspect that I could hold my own amid such illustrious names. It shouldn’t be too onerous – rather amusing, really. My current book is doing remarkably well: its author could be quite a draw!’

  Good, Rosy thought, it’s in the bag and I can go home. ‘So you will do it?’ she said.

  ‘Ah well, that’s another matter,’ he replied coyly. ‘Never mistake interest for acquiescence. I shall have to consult my schedule – one is rather busy at the moment. And then of course, if you don’t mind my mentioning it, there is also the small matter of the fee; though doubtless Dr Stanley is fair-minded in such matters.’ He cocked an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Rosy lied airily, ‘awfully fair.’

  ‘Ah well, in that case I had better go and consult the diary. It’s amazing how one’s life is controlled by its diktats! Will you excuse me? I think I left it in the sitting room; shan’t be a tick.’

  He rose and went to the door, and Rosy couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing the most lurid shade of purple socks; socks that clashed with a pair of well-worn scarlet bedroom slippers. She was intrigued. Goodness, she thought, had the man delusions of papal grandeur?

  Left alone, she took stock of the room. It was fairly predictable: book-lined shelves, a filing cabinet, unremarkable prints on the wall, a large reading lamp and a pair of department store leather armchairs. More arresting was a richly patterned Turkey rug in front of the desk. A souvenir from Istanbul, perhaps? She vaguely recalled hearing one of his broadcasts from that city.