A Little Murder Page 21

  He hesitated. ‘Uhm … yes, yes she did. That’s it – we had been engaged in a really good tussle. She was on to a winning streak and had celebrated by opening another bottle. We were well into that when she suddenly announced she had something to confide. And I said I certainly hoped not as I was fed up with listening to people’s dreary confessions and the whole point of the game was to escape such penance. She remarked that there was a clear difference between confiding and confessing and she was surprised that I was unaware of it. You know, Miss Gilchrist, your aunt could be quite pernickety where language was concerned. I remember once when—’

  ‘But what did she say – or were you both too pickled to notice?’

  He smiled thinly. ‘Admittedly her words were a bit indistinct and I wasn’t totally attending – trying to close my ears to any looming confession! – but from what I recall it was something like: “So I’ve shoved the bloody thing behind the main pipe under the kitchen sink. Safer than the bank any day, snooping busybodies. I did send my niece a letter telling her where it was but damned if I can remember posting it – probably lost the perishing thing. Oh well, doesn’t matter much, let’s have another drink. Who knows, I might just reveal all one day. That would jolt her up a bit!” She seemed to find that very funny and collapsed in gales of laughter. I can’t say I entirely saw the joke but thought it polite to join in and we finished the—’

  ‘Finished the bottle?’

  ‘Actually I was going to say the game, but since you mention it, yes – the bottle as well.’ He gazed at the ceiling as if in meditation, before adding, ‘That was the last time I saw her; a very mellow evening we had. In fact, come to think of it, I am not sure it wasn’t the mellowest evening I have ever spent …’ The bland face took on a look of wistful regret.

  There was a long silence. And then Rosy cleared her throat and asked casually: ‘Er, so have you mentioned this to the police?’

  ‘The police? Oh no, on the whole I tend to avoid them. Father Caspian, my superior, says it’s best that way – says one should never offer a hostage to fortune. I am not quite sure what he means by that but it is doubtless true. He is very wise, Father Caspian.’

  Bully for Father Caspian, thought Rosy. Out loud she said firmly, ‘I am sure he is right. Life is complicated enough as it is, don’t you find?’

  He nodded. ‘Indeed, a veritable vale of tears. But if I may say so, Mrs Beasley always contrived to inject a ray of joy into proceedings. I shall miss her.’

  ‘And no doubt the exotic brand of gin too,’ Rosy felt like adding, and then flushed, ashamed of so unworthy a thought. To make up for it she heard herself saying briskly: ‘Now, Lola, before I hustle you out, how about a small nightcap to speed you back to your – well to wherever you’ve come from? I’m sure it’s cold out there.’

  He accepted with alacrity and (as if still in censer mode) dealt with it in one fell swoop. She accompanied him down the stairs. And with a few more pleasantries and murmuring something about lighting her a dozen candles, he glided back into the shadows whence he had come.

  Something important under the sink? Was he mad or was she? Or was Aunt Marcia? But Marcia had been cold-bloodedly shot to death – there must have been some sanity there to prompt such an end. So what now, for God’s sake?

  She went to the window, flung it wide and glared helplessly up at the indifferent moon. Only one answer presented itself: sleep.

  Her sleep was long and dreamless; yet she awoke unrefreshed and less than eager to deal with the demands of Stanley and quips from Leo, whose curiosity over Marcia was becoming tiresome. At first his interest in the case had been of little account – if anything the well-meant levity a means of relief from her shock. But at that stage she had been ignorant of the dubious complexities of her aunt’s life, and rather like Leo merely a puzzled bystander. But now, insidiously drawn into the whole murky web, she had much to hide, and her colleague’s amiable probing had grown proportionately onerous.

  She made a scratch breakfast and reviewed the priest’s revelation. Was the man with his startling tale really to be trusted? Had there been an unperceived menace behind those earnest blue eyes, mischief or malice in the prissy tones? On the whole she thought not. In his own cranky way he had seemed genuine enough, a kindly lush of the sort Marcia might typically have been amused to befriend; one no doubt a trial to his superiors but basically harmless. And picturing the backgammon session she saw the two of them befuddled in matey collusion: he a little maudlin perhaps, Marcia hectoring, giggly, garrulous. So damned garrulous, in fact, and too tight to care, that she had spilt the beans about the cache under the sink! Fortunately Lola’s thoughts must have been largely fixed on the board (or occupied with parrying the threat of a confession), for he appeared to know nothing of the packet’s contents and had clearly not pursued the matter. Yet if that were the case why had he emerged only now to deliver the ‘message’? She stirred her coffee, threw in more sugar and licked the spoon, concluding that perhaps for a mind habitually cast in a haze of gin and incense the finer details of that last rendezvous were only just beginning to surface.

  Her own mind gave a sudden lurch. That last rendezvous? No wonder ‘wise’ Father Caspian had warned him off the police! If it got out that the priest had been a regular visitor at the deceased’s house, surely he, like Maynard Latimer, would join the ranks of potential suspects. Yes, more than likely – although remembering Lola’s words it sounded as if Caspian’s counsel had been general rather than specific, a pious hope that his protégé’s penchant for drink would not invite undue notice from the law with the attendant embarrassment. She imagined a newspaper item: ‘Drunk and disorderly: Jesuit priest found legless in Mayfair, reportedly resting from spiritual labours. Hailing a passing countess, the gentleman asked if she would care to escort him back to his place of sanctuary. Smiling sweetly, said countess declined and passed by on the other side …’

  Rosy got up from the table, banished such nonsense and turned instead to the vital question: if the packet was indeed where the man claimed, when could she get it and how?

  The question took on additional urgency at the museum where she was accosted by Leo, all beams and bonhomie. ‘I say,’ he announced, ‘I gather there’s to be an auction pretty soon, there’s a notice in the Marylebone Gossip. Interesting to see what the stuff fetches. I wonder if it will be well attended.’

  ‘What? Sorry – I was miles away.’

  ‘Your aunt’s house, they’ve accelerated the sale of the contents. Donkeys must be getting restive!’

  She smiled falsely, her mind in a spin. This was a facer all right.

  ‘Mind you,’ Leo continued cheerfully, ‘it’s a moot point whether the fell deed will reduce or enhance the value – all depends whether the punters are squeamish or ghoulish. What do you think? Shall we have a bet on it?’

  ‘I think nothing,’ she snapped. ‘And I certainly have no intention of betting on the contents of my late aunt’s property.’ She turned quickly into her office feeling both angry and pompous.

  Later, by way of a peace offering, she bought him a cream bun in the canteen, and watched as he scraped out the synthetic filling, replacing it with equally ersatz strawberry jam, and tentatively tried the result.

  ‘Any good?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not really, but thanks anyway. My penance for a singularly crass remark. I can quite see that this business must be pretty tough on you, not an easy time at all. But if it’s any comfort, there was another item in today’s rag which might be of interest – sort of interim statement put out by the police. Something to the effect that after conducting a thorough and sedulous investigation they are confident a breakthrough is imminent and that positive results can be expected in the not-too-distant future.’

  Rosy was intrigued but sceptical. ‘Do you think that means anything?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Either they have found a vital clue and are over the moon or it’s pure poppycock devised
to spread balm and complacency. I rather suspect the latter.’ He paused, and added with a slow smile, ‘But I wouldn’t dare to offer a bet.’

  She grinned and just for an instant wished she could tell him all about it. It would be nice to have a friendly ally … instead of the less than reliable trio of Cedric, Felix and the fearsome Vera. But pride and common sense directed otherwise. It would only need one thoughtless word, one ill-judged confidence, and the domino effect could be appalling. No, on that score her cue must be silence.

  Instead she said, ‘How’s Dr Stanley today? Since you are in the betting vein I’ll lay you a bob he’s in a huff about Mrs Burkiss. She scrubbed his desk yesterday. I warned her not to.’

  ‘You’re on,’ Leo laughed, ‘five to one?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Bets were also being offered elsewhere. ‘I’ll lay you five to one,’ grumbled Greenleaf’s superior, ‘it’s a nutcase, some lunatic baying at the moon and having fun at our expense. I know that sort – fruitcakes who take to murder like the rest of us take to billiards or the flicks. A sort of pastime, you might say, a means of spicing up the day and making us all look charlies; and the worst of it is that when it’s one of them there’s no trail, no logic, nothing to give a lead or make sense. Bastard!’ He stared moodily at Greenleaf’s biscuits, stretched over and took a couple. There was silence broken only by the pounding of the rain and a remorseless crunching.

  Greenleaf cleared his throat. ‘That’s not what Harris thinks,’ he said.

  ‘Harris? What’s Harris got to do with anything?’

  ‘He’s got a theory. It’s about—’

  ‘Then he’s no right to have a theory. That little whippersnapper’s here to learn, not to teach his elders and betters to suck eggs!’

  ‘Grandmothers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s grandmothers who suck eggs – leastways, who don’t need to be taught, if you see what I mean.’

  The inspector stared at him. ‘Christ Almighty, Sergeant, no I do not see what you mean. Not one little bit I don’t!’ And so saying, he got up, filched another biscuit and stalked from the room.

  Greenleaf sighed, chewed his pencil and resumed his report on the interview with Vera Collinger.

  It was not the easiest of tasks because she had not been the easiest of women: cool, watchful, sardonic; at times seemingly cooperative and forthcoming, but more often than not curt or casually indifferent. She had answered their questions with a gruff assurance. There had been no hesitations, no stumblings or signs of tension – and yet all the time he had had the distinct impression that much could have been said that never was: views suppressed, feelings veiled. He had also sensed an air of calculation, of a mind shrewder than his own subtly directing the whole damn thing as if she had been a seasoned actor slyly controlling the producer’s intention: alert (though not necessarily compliant) to cues; finely tuned to audience response; following a script yet at the same time making subtle adjustments to suit her own whim or ego …

  Yes, he mused, the woman had yielded up the requested facts all right. (Mental state prior to death? Cheerful. Possible enemies? Only those trounced at cards and the occasional wife upstaged at the races or The Pink Flamingo. Wartime occupation? Useful work: assisting refugees … etc., etc.) But he sensed that beyond those replies there lay an undisclosed hinterland of intriguing possibility. But it was no use being intrigued if one hadn’t got a lever! How to source the unsaid and undivulged, excavate the buried shards – the bits of debris deliberately concealed?

  Still, there was one anomaly in her version: the deceased’s frame of mind. The artist chap had made a point of saying how disturbed Marcia Beasley had been by the parcel of coal. What was it he had said? That she had cursed, gone dead white and then ‘all saggy’. So saggy, in fact, that the painter (rather ungallantly, Greenleaf couldn’t help feeling) had called it a day and taken himself off. ‘Not another effing one!’ had been her cry of dismay. No, it didn’t sound much like the reaction of a woman in a state of stable cheerfulness. In fact he had said as much to Miss Collinger, but she had merely shrugged and observed that from what she recalled of Clovis Thistlehyde he would exaggerate anything to command attention. Possibly she had a point. He sighed and turned from Collinger to Harris.

  Despite the inspector’s scorn, the lad’s theory might just hold water; worth pursuing at any rate. Something might turn up – which was more than anything had so far!

  Blackmail: that was the boy’s theory. ‘It is my belief,’ he had said solemnly, ‘that that Mrs Beasley was an Arch Controller.’

  ‘A what?’ Greenleaf had exclaimed.

  ‘You know, sir – she’d got someone’s number and was giving them merry hell. Probably bleeding them white, that’s what!’

  ‘I see,’ he had said, ‘so in your estimable opinion the deceased was engaging in a spot of blackmail – but what do you mean, “Arch Controller”?’

  ‘Ah well, that’s just it, sir, it may not have been only a spot. She may have had a whole string of victims in her sights and was operating a sort of one woman Mafia … and then – and then one day they had enough, or one of them had, and did her in.’

  ‘Why several and not just one – wouldn’t it have been simpler?’ Greenleaf had enquired.

  ‘Psychology,’ was the sage reply.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read a lot about it. Blackmailers, they get a sort of urge. They like it, it gets a hold; and so one client leads to another. And then sometimes they get blaize—’

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘Blaize – sort of smug and complacent and think they can try it on anywhere. She probably had the whole of St John’s Wood on its knees. Yes, I bet that’s what she was,’ he had repeated darkly, ‘an Arch Controller!’

  Greenleaf had watched with interest as Harris withdrew a couple of toffees from his pocket and started to chew them thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. You seem very well informed – where do you get it from?’

  ‘Encyclopaedias … and then, of course, there’s my old gran.’

  ‘Your old gran! What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘Writes detective novels.’

  ‘Does she now,’ he had said sardonically, ‘so what’s her name?’

  ‘Delilah del Rio.’

  ‘Delilah del—’ Greenleaf had gasped. ‘But she’s the bodice-ripper writer with all those saucy covers. You’re having me on!’ But even as he spoke he knew that was unlikely. Harris’s flair for comedy was nil.

  The blackmailing idea had stuck in his mind, though initially he had been more taken with the image of Harris’s granny churning out hot rubbish on an ancient typewriter – or even with a quill. Either way it didn’t seem quite nice, not proper … Still, he mused, with a bit of luck and flannel he might persuade the lad to get him a signed copy (not that the wife would approve) and wondered vaguely what brand of toffee Harris favoured.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  For the rest of the day Rosy could think of only one thing: the package under the sink – assuming it was still there or if it existed at all. Still, the priest had seemed sincere enough in his tale, but it would be typical of Marcia’s caprice to change the hiding place or destroy the thing altogether. In any case, even if it were there would it amount to anything? After all, there was no guarantee that this was the evidence pursued by Vera and Whittington and indeed by the collaborators. It might be something quite other – something personal: a collection of letters and family memorabilia, or even a letter to herself regretting their rift, a belated attempt to retie the knot of kinship …

  Rosy sighed. No, that last conjecture was a fantasy and she knew it. Compared to that possibility the ‘dynamite’ data seemed a far better bet. And in which case she needed to get hold of it pronto. Once the house contents were disposed of and the donkey people took formal possession the thing was anybody’s, as sooner or later it was bound to be discovered. And while she had no desire to shield those implicated she certainl
y didn’t want Marcia’s name to feature. Questions would naturally be asked as to what it had been doing in the house, why had the former owner possessed such sensational intelligence? Questions which could lead to frightful revelations. Yes, at all costs it had to be retrieved. Besides, she thought with a surge of defiance, wasn’t it her right to have the thing, to learn its exact nature and to do with it as she felt fit? Marcia Beasley had been her aunt, for God’s sake. And according to Loitering Lola it had been placed there for her to read – not for the police or Whittington or any other snooper!

  She frowned. The problem was getting the key: she had handed it back to the solicitors and it was doubtful they would like the idea of someone with no formal claim poking around at this stage. And even if they could be persuaded, they would never allow unchaperoned access. The last time had been a fluke.

  Desperate cases needed desperate remedies: Vera Collinger. Despite what the woman had said earlier, Rosy was sure she still had her own key – regard for officialdom not being Vera’s style. The snag would be her reaction. She was unlikely to produce it without asking the reason and would doubtless guess the truth. But the truth, of course, was the bait, the one thing that would ensure cooperation: cooperation at a price as she was bound to insist that she came as well. In which case, Rosy told herself, so be it. ‘Let her, but I’m hanged if I’ll let her get her paws on the thing!’

  There was a further snag: she was ex-directory and Rosy had lost her card. She went to the telephone and dialled Felix. ‘I need Vera’s number,’ she announced, ‘it’s urgent!’

  ‘That’s a novelty,’ he replied. ‘Personally I have always found the urgency lay in flight rather than contact.’

  ‘Perhaps. But as it happens I need it rather quickly.’