A Little Murder Page 29

  ‘Totally bonkers, you see!’ interrupted the inspector with some satisfaction.

  The superintendent winced but disregarded him. ‘Thus, until she recovers – if she recovers – she has been sent to a place of seclusion and supervised rest. And so I must tell you that, in principle, the case involving your aunt is closed – or to be more accurate, relegated for the foreseeable future.’

  He looked vaguely apologetic as if assuming the grieving niece might feel short-changed or demand further explanation. Thus Rosy’s instant response of compliant understanding was clearly approved, and perhaps as a gesture of gratitude he nodded towards the bookshelf displaying the old photographs of her parents and Marcia. Pointing to the latter he observed, ‘Must have been quite a stunner as a girl, a real beauty, in fact …’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Just shows, you never know what life’s going to throw at you, do you?’

  Rosy agreed that you did not. And then promising again that she would say nothing that might encourage the press in their speculation over the mode or cause of Mr Gill’s suicide, she showed them to the door and returned to the sitting room in a state of dazed relief. Clearly the Churchill conspiracy had far outstripped the importance of the Beasley case! She opened the window and sniffed the scent of the approaching spring, sombrely triumphant that Marcia’s past could remain a secret and family honour be upheld.

  She was just basking in that realisation when her thoughts were shattered by the telephone. ‘We are coming to see you,’ announced the unmistakable voice of Vera Collinger.

  And come they did, worried and avid for news. Cedric murmured a few words of polite enquiry re her welfare and Felix flourished his flowers; but it was obvious that their main objective was to learn just how much Rosy Gilchrist or Harold Gill had let drop to the police.

  ‘Nothing,’ she told them coolly. ‘Gill topped himself without saying a word – well nothing that was relevant – and I omitted everything.’

  ‘Really?’ said Cedric. ‘You mean all references to Sabatier and to our nonsense with the coal?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Hmm. Very commendable.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ demanded Vera sceptically. ‘I don’t imagine you were in the sharpest frame of mind to cope with their questions.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Rosy asked mildly.

  ‘But what about the wife?’ cried Felix. ‘We rather assumed they were operating together. Surely they could have obtained a lot from her!’ He gazed anxiously at Rosy.

  She gave a slow grin. ‘Oh they did – and so did I.’ And she proceeded to tell them all that Mrs Gill had told her, and what apparently the lady – or her alter ego – had later confessed when interviewed in the police station.

  The account took rather a long time and when she had finished there was a heavy silence. And then Felix began to titter. ‘Who would have thought that po-faced woman could harbour such fantasies? Just goes to show, still waters run in very subterranean depths! Do you think they have to restrain her from doing a striptease in the cell or wherever she is?’ He continued to giggle loudly.

  ‘Be quiet, Felix,’ Vera barked. ‘I doubt if she’s quite the lunatic you imagine. Personally I am not entirely convinced by this business of her suffering a breakdown and all the rest of it. You will note that the version of events she gave to Miss Gilchrist diverged considerably from what she claimed to the police. She had been perfectly confident in admitting so much detail to her captive because she knew, or thought she knew, that Rosy was going to be silenced. However, events took a different turn … And having been caught attempting to blow the young policeman’s head off with the Beretta she was naturally in a dangerous position – a position that would become even more dangerous when she was taken into custody and in all likelihood confronted with her account as told to Miss Gilchrist.

  ‘But Rosy didn’t reveal any of that,’ objected Felix.

  ‘Of course she didn’t,’ Cedric said. ‘We now know that but at the time Mrs Gill did not. Do let Vera get on, dear chap!’

  The expositor gave him a gracious nod and continued. ‘In that account she revealed a whole spate of damning things: she had colluded with her husband to kill her visitor, had been closely involved in Marcia’s murder and an accessory to Clovis’s, had personally tried to kill Adelaide Fawcett – and most vital of all, had been engaged in a wartime plot to annihilate Churchill and ease the pathway to a Nazi invasion. Frankly, placed in similar circumstances I would not hesitate to fabricate a breakdown – though whether I would choose to inhabit the persona of such a one as Mata Hari I rather doubt.’ Miss Collinger frowned as if pondering the possibility.

  ‘Yes, it does stretch the imagination,’ Felix murmured, gazing with apparent absorption at Rosy’s standard lamp.

  ‘Vera could be right,’ mused Cedric. ‘Sharp of the woman to take the blame for Marcia’s murder. By freely admitting to that she probably hoped to obscure the real motive. The killing would be seen as an isolated crime passionnel, not a carefully planned response to political blackmail and all that it entailed; simply the act of a jealous crank deserving of medication instead of the gallows. The breakdown and gibberish about Mata Hari would help confirm that view … as, judging from what Miss Gilchrist’s visitors were saying, seems to have been the case. What do you think?’

  There was a short silence, followed by a lively debate as to whether Mrs Gill was indeed a raving lunatic or, as Vera had suggested, a lady of consummate guile and enterprise. No firm conclusion was reached.

  ‘It is of little consequence,’ Felix opined, ‘the essential thing is that they have closed the case! Do you realise what that means? We are now all free. Free as the veritable birds of paradise!’ he cried gaily, executing a little jig on the hearthrug.

  ‘Just watch your plumage,’ Miss Collinger growled, ‘you could come a nasty cropper doing that.’

  Cedric cleared his throat. ‘I propose,’ he announced, ‘that in view of the fortuitous outcome we might go a burst and avail ourselves of luncheon at the Berkeley. What do you think, Miss Gilchrist – Rosy? Perhaps you will be our guest?’ He flashed a rare smile.

  Rosy replied that she thought it a lovely idea and she so appreciated his kind invitation, but in view of the recent shocks and theatricals she wasn’t quite up to such festive ventures. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I think I will just stay here quietly for the time being – still rather a lot to think about.’

  ‘You do look pretty haggard,’ Felix agreed. ‘Another time perhaps …’ He turned to Vera. ‘I hope you are not going to wear that hat!’

  They trooped out leaving Rosy alone and in peace. For a few moments she contemplated the empty air, her mind still a bemused jumble. And then she smiled as a thought struck her. One good thing had emerged at any rate: at least Lady Fawcett would be spared any further donations to the Pygmy fund!

  The thought vanished as her eye was caught by the photograph of Marcia on the bookcase. She picked it up and studied the firm features and wide challenging eyes. What was it the police superintendent had said? Must have been quite a stunner as a girl – a real beauty … Yes, he was right, she had been beautiful once – attractive too, as even Vera had acknowledged: I was frightfully fond of your aunt. And so it seemed had others. The words of Brother Ignatius echoed in her mind: Your aunt was always very kind to me. I think we had a bond. But she had been a lot of other things too, less endearing, less amusing …

  Rosy continued to gaze down at the face, perplexed and ambivalent. What the hell had the girl been up to? What had she been pursuing all those years? What had she been seeking or feeling? Impossible to tell. But one thing was certain: whatever her faults, vices even, she hadn’t deserved that bloody bucket!

  She stretched out on the sofa, and for the umpteenth time scrutinised and tried to decipher the contents of the packet she had slipped into her handbag during the police shindig at the Gills’ house. The difficulty was the language. It was German – of which she knew four terms: ja, nein, s
chweinhund and hände hoch. None of these seemed to feature in the text and she was hanged if she would go to the expense of buying a Kraut dictionary!

  That the documents were important she had no doubt. Yes, they were patently Marcia’s blackmailing ‘dynamite’, for apart from the name of Churchill appearing on virtually every page there was a small plan of central London with Downing Street and the War Office heavily marked, plus a short list of names including those of a Brig. H.M. Gill, an F.D. Pitlake and a K.D.A. Clerk-Herbert – all of whom she recognised.

  Kerridge Clerk-Herbert had been a minor politician and poet of large ego and small talent, whose verses might have been dubbed tub-thumpingly jingoistic had they been less turgid. Two weeks previously he had attracted some mild attention by expiring from a heart attack in his bath at the Savoy. (Another of Marcia’s indirect casualties?) Lord Pitlake, on the other hand, she knew to be alive. Only that morning The Times had featured a large photograph of him on the tarmac at London Airport bidding a fond farewell to ‘dear old England’ as he flew off to spin out the rest of his days in Kenya (a part of Africa evidently popular with a certain brand of quisling). Asked by a reporter what he intended to do in his adopted homeland, the noble lord had replied that he would write his memoirs, keep the British flag flying and pursue his favourite sports of stalking, trapping and shooting.

  Rather guiltily Rosy had also scanned the text for any mention of the name Maynard Latimer. To her relief she saw none … and then for no apparent reason an image of Adelaide’s ill-served cat flashed upon her mind, followed randomly by a picture of the rich and saintly Silvia. She mused not for the first time how it was the woman had managed to fall out of that ‘not very tall’ tree.

  Then sniffing the last residue of the Schiaparelli on her wrist, she returned her attention to the document in hand and slowly and precisely tore it into shreds. These she placed in an empty fruit bowl, and clicking open her cigarette lighter set fire to the lot. Suppressing evidence? The thing was her own to treat as she chose. It had been given to her by her aunt.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  POSTSCRIPT

  A short while after Mata Hari’s confinement the following exchanges took place – in police station, flower shop and drawing room.

  ‘So what did Berridge have to say this time?’ asked Greenleaf of his boss.

  ‘Complaints as usual. Says it’s freezing on the south coast, that he’s already caught a cold and they have left him to deal with that stiff-in-the-deckchair case. You would think that having to interview all those nudists would have perked him up a bit. But not Berridge, oh no! Nothing but grumble, grumble …’

  There was silence as they considered Berridge and his woes.

  And then Greenleaf said, ‘But what I don’t understand about our case is why God suddenly turned all brisk and galvanised. Last time I saw him he was rambling on about dining with the chief constable. But then all of a sudden you would think he had been fired by a Bofors … So somebody must have been getting at him.’

  ‘Harris,’ said the inspector. ‘It was Harris. Little bugger had been doing some snooping of his own. Quite unsanctioned. The super got wind, and feeling like a spare coat hanger made enquiries of the powers that be who then gave him a briefing about their Gill surveillance. But apparently Harris had been harbouring suspicions for some time. Not a word to me, of course!

  ‘Nor me,’ Greenleaf said huffily. ‘Bit of a brass neck really.’

  There was silence as they cogitated upon Harris and his brass neck.

  ‘Mind you,’ said the inspector, ‘he had obviously picked up some gen from that uncle of his.’

  ‘What uncle?’

  ‘The one in MI5. Been giving him a nod and a wink, if you ask me. Still, you have to give him his due.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Single-minded, that’s what.’

  ‘You mean his single-minded pursuit of Gill?’

  His colleague sighed. ‘Including him, but it goes further than that.’

  ‘What do you mean further? He nailed him didn’t he … well sort of. I wondered why he was so keen to go on that routine reconnaissance when we had the crank call. No one else volunteered! Must have been smelling a rat for some time.’

  ‘Yes, but what he really wants to nail – and will – is the top job: “Harris of the Yard”, that’s what he has in mind. You’ll see, a decade from now and the name will be on everyone’s lips: Harris of the Yard.’ The inspector repeated it dolefully.

  There was another silence. And then Greenleaf said, ‘What I want on my lips just now is a nice head of Guinness.’

  ‘You’ve got something there, Herbert,’ said his superior, matey all of a sudden, ‘and then we can raise a jar to the next case – that darts player with his head bashed in at Wapping. Now that’s what I call a decent assignment – none of this poncey West End nonsense!’

  Greenleaf nodded, and with squared shoulders they set off briskly for the Nag’s Rump.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Felix said casually, ‘it’s come through.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘My plaque, of course.’

  Cedric put down The Times. ‘You mean the Royal …?’

  ‘What else?’

  Felix bent his head to the tapestry, but not before Cedric had glimpsed the smirk of pleasure suffusing his friend’s features. ‘Cap Ferrat, here we come!’ the professor cried.

  ‘It’s really been rather a trying period, don’t you think?’ enquired Lady Fawcett. ‘I don’t know about you, Rosy, but personally I feel quite wrung out!’ (She looked remarkably hale.) ‘In fact, so much so, that I have a booked a voyage to New York on one of the Cunards. We have cousins there who keep pestering me to pay them a visit. I gather they live somewhere on Park Avenue – not sure where that is, but Edward assures me it is very safe. In any case, I thought that a few days cruising on board the Queen Mary – or is it the Queen Elizabeth? One gets them so mixed up – would be most helpful.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘The only problem is that dear Amy is accompanying me, which will be lovely, of course, but she is not the most restful of girls … So I was wondering, Rosy dear, whether by any chance you might care to join us – as our guest, naturally. Edward is taking a Pan Am flight, and the moment we have docked he will be there waiting on the quayside to steer us through the gaieties and guiles of Manhattan. Quite an adventure!’ She beamed encouragingly.

  It wasn’t simply the prospect of Edward’s tutelage in New York, nor the staggering volume of Amy’s guffaws that made Rosy decline Lady Fawcett’s most kindly meant offer, but rather her own need to recuperate. She was not ‘wrung out’ exactly, but the last few months had taken their toll and she needed to reflect and take stock; and suddenly the sodden lonely marshlands of Norfolk or Kentish Romney presented an image of tranquillity which New York and the Fawcetts could never yield.

  Thus with gratitude and genuine regret she heard herself pleading a prior arrangement. Yet even as she made the excuses a thought struck her: ‘How about asking Felix Smythe? They have had to postpone their jaunt to the Riviera, their host is indisposed, and meanwhile the professor is off to examine Carpathian rock monasteries, but Felix won’t go. Says he can’t stand monks … or was it heights? One of them. Anyway he’s not going. But I am sure he would love New York.’

  There was a silence as Lady Fawcett considered the suggestion. ‘Well he is emollient,’ she murmured, ‘and he would be frightfully handy with the cocktails – Amy gets so muddled at sea!’ She hesitated, before adding, ‘But if he were away what would the Queen Mother do?’

  ‘Oh, I am sure she would manage somehow,’ replied Rosy smiling.

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  About the Author

  SUZETTE HILL was born in East Sussex, and spent much of her childhood playing spies and smugglers on Beachy Head and picnicking at the foot of the Long Man of Wilmington. Hill worked as a teacher in both public school and adult education before retiring in 1999. She now lives in Ledbury, Herefordshire. At the age of sixty-four and on a whim, she took up a pen and began writing. Hill has since published six novels, including the Reverend Oughterard series.

  www.suzetteahill.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2013.

  This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.

  Copyright © 2013 by SUZETTE A. HILL

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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