A Little Murder Page 5

  They said goodbye and he put her into a taxi; but before doing so he pulled a small package from his jacket pocket and rather awkwardly thrust it into her hand.

  ‘Some scent. Don’t worry, it’s not one of Marcia’s. Rather nicer, really – a Jacques Fath. Hope it suits.’ He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and saying something about seeing her in the States sometime turned and ambled back into the hotel.

  In the taxi going home she wondered why he had waited till the end of the evening to present her with the scent. Perhaps he had wanted to see what she was like these days. If so she had presumably passed muster. She smiled … It was nice of him anyway. She hoped the Boston Brahmins would not be too pernickety.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was one of those days, Greenleaf grumbled to himself, i.e. God-awful. First Mrs Greenleaf had engaged in a spectacular turn at breakfast because he hadn’t taken her to the pictures the night before, then the bus broke down halfway to work making him slog the rest of the way in the pouring rain; the superintendent was fractious and the canteen tea tasted even more dire than usual. And then just as he was easing himself quietly into his desk and taking a quick shufti at the crossword, young Harris had phoned in reporting sick: languishing in bed it seemed, valiantly parrying death and pneumonia plus any other ague you cared to mention. This meant that apart from himself there was no one to reinterview the char about the waste-paper basket in the Beasley case. All left to Muggins, Greenleaf thought grimly.

  The old girl would be due shortly, and he reminded himself to be gentle as she was bound to be nervous. Meanwhile there was just time for a quick Woodbine and to check the afternoon runners at Kempton Park. He reached for his cigarettes and the sports page but was thwarted in both by the lady arriving early. And far from being intimidated by a visit to a police station, Mrs Perkins exuded an unsettling confidence.

  ‘So what’s all this, then?’ she began belligerently. ‘I told you geezers everything I knew when I found the body. I don’t like to boil my cabbages twice you know! Besides, I’m a busy woman, I got things to do.’ Her gaze swept around Greenleaf’s office and alighted on the street map pinned to the wall. ‘Hmm, I suppose that’s where you record all them suicides and stabbings and such. “X marks the spot”. I know all about that, seen it on the films. That’s what they always say: X marks the spot. And then they goes and shoves in a drawing pin at the place where it happened.’

  Greenleaf cleared his throat. ‘I, er—’

  ‘Mind you, I don’t see no photographs.’

  ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Yes. You know – the Rogues’ Gallery. That’s what they call it. All them mugshots of the villains. Haven’t you got any of those?’ She sounded disappointed.

  ‘Well, no – I mean, at least not here. That’s in a different section …’ He felt oddly disadvantaged and asked tentatively if she would like a cup of tea.

  She declined the offer but demanded cocoa with plenty of milk and three sugars. ‘A couple of biscuits wouldn’t come amiss, neither. I like those H & P Ginger Nuts best, they’re ever so good.’

  Greenleaf nodded dutifully and got up to catch one of the constables in the corridor. When he returned to the room he saw that the witness had taken his cushion from the desk chair and put it on her own. She had also taken out her knitting: four needles and a sock.

  ‘Now, dear, what was it you wanted to ask?’ she enquired graciously. ‘I’m all ready for the third degree. Elsie Perkins can stand anything!’ She leered toothily.

  ‘I’m sure she can,’ he murmured. ‘So would you mind telling me what you found in the waste-paper basket?’

  ‘In the …? Well, blow me!’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t think I’ve been snooping around while you was out of the room do you? That’s just typical of your sort. You don’t trust no one! And here was me thinking we was going to have a nice cosy chat about that poor murdered Mrs Beasley, while all the time you was suspecting me of having a good old rummage in things what aren’t my concern. I don’t know what types you’re used to having in here, my lad, but whatever they are I ain’t one of them!’ She gave a withering glare and needled the sock with vicious dexterity.

  It was a long time since Greenleaf had been addressed as ‘my lad’ (not since his old granny, in fact) and he felt a fool, and cursed the ailing Harris huddled safely in his deathbed. However, the confusion was rectified and the injured one assured that her probity was never in doubt. The timely arrival of the cocoa aided the healing process.

  ‘So, the wastepaper basket in the deceased’s drawing room,’ he continued, ‘did you by any chance see whether it contained anything?’

  ‘Waste-paper baskets are not the sort of things you think about at times like that,’ was the tart response. ‘Not when there’s a corpse in front of you wearing a coal scuttle on its head – especially when she’s as naked as the day she was born. Disgraceful it was!’

  Greenleaf agreed that it was indeed disgraceful but persisted with his question. ‘But as far as you were aware there was nothing in the basket? Or were you too shocked to notice?’

  There was a long pause while Mrs Perkins appraised the sock and appeared to meditate. And then with a sudden toss of her head, she said, ‘Well, nobody bothered to say anything about it at the time, did they? No one mentioned no bleeding basket. Not to me they didn’t. How was I to know it was supposed to be important?’ Thrusting the sock aside she stared at him defiantly.

  Greenleaf gave a sympathetic smile and pushed the biscuits towards her. ‘Of course not, you were far too shocked. Must have been dreadful … but you noticed something, did you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well since you mention it, yes. But it wasn’t anything at all – leastways nothing what mattered.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But all the same you must have taken it out because my men reported that the basket was empty.’

  ‘All right, all right! Yes I did as it happens. There was no point leaving it there. After all, madam had got no more use for it.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Anyway, she’d chucked it away, hadn’t she.’

  ‘Was it a little parcel?’

  ‘Yes. A box in black shiny paper and tied with a pink ribbon, though that had mostly slipped off like it had been half opened, and some of the wrapping was torn. Still, it looked quite posh to me and I thought I might as well have it as not. And why shouldn’t I? It’s not as if we all get whopping wages!’ She eyed him with sharp truculence.

  ‘No of course not,’ he agreed hastily. ‘And what did you do with it? What was in it?’

  ‘Well I took it home, of course. Didn’t have time to open it properly, did I? Not with your lot hanging around and shouting the odds. And then … well I threw it away. It was just silly, disappointing.’

  ‘So what was it?’

  Mrs Perkins gave an impatient sigh and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘A lump of anthracite – a filthy bit of coke, if you please. I ask you, what sort of stupid present is that?’

  ‘So what sort of stupid present is that?’ Greanleaf echoed to himself after she had gone. Then recalling the dead woman’s reported response of ‘Not another effing one!’ he lit the delayed Woodbine and answered his own question: ‘Another piece of coke to put in the coal scuttle, that’s what.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rosy had spent one of those uneventful ‘domestic’ weekends; one when delayed chores were attended to, letters written, newspapers fully perused and a chance taken to enjoy a leisurely stroll in nearby Regent’s Park. It had also enabled her to mull over the events of Friday night’s dinner with Donald and his curious revelations about Marcia and the part she had played in Special Ops.

  It was the last thing she had expected of her aunt, and surely went to show how little one knew of other people’s lives and capabilities. But even more curious was the sleep-talking outburst re the coal scuttle! It was intriguing but also unnerving. Could there really be a connection between that cry in the night and Marcia’s dreadful fate eight years lat
er? Or was it simply one of those extraordinary coincidences that occasionally occur against umpteen odds? Uneasily she thought that unlikely, but shelved the matter to ponder her apparent mention in Marcia’s will.

  Did she really want to forage for mementos? Not specially. And besides, from what she remembered of her rare visits to the house, except for the snapshots of her parents there was nothing there of particular interest. Still, it would be nice to have the photos, and if Donald was right and Marcia really had remembered her surely it would seem churlish not to take up the offer.

  Thus on Monday morning, and temporarily dodging Dr Stanley’s hectoring requirements, Rosy made a hasty phone call to the executors.

  Oh yes, the girl assured her, Miss Gilchrist had indeed featured in Marcia Beasley’s will; she and Mr Beasley had both been mentioned in a codicil. Hadn’t she received a copy?

  ‘Of the will, yes. Not of the codicil,’ Rosy said dryly. ‘I have only just learnt about it from her former husband, Mr Donald Beasley.’

  There was a pause while the girl inspected her files – or formulated some excuse. Eventually she said, ‘Well, your name is ticked off, but there may have been some slight misunderstanding. I’ll send it immediately if you—’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary. I gather my aunt simply says I may select a couple of items, mementos as it were. Perhaps you would just confirm that and give me a date when I could have access to the house.’

  The girl replied that they were currently short-staffed, that she was ever so sorry about the oversight but if Miss Gilchrist cared to come to the office in a week’s time she was sure somebody would be available to accompany her around the property. (Huh! Rosy thought, terrified I might nick something prior to probate – take a picture off the wall and replace it with another, I suppose!) A time was fixed. And she started to hasten back to the dramas of Stanley’s heated domain but was waylaid by Leo clearly eager for a chat.

  ‘I shouldn’t go in there,’ he warned, ‘not just yet at any rate. He and Smithers have had a set-to and the old boy’s having the vapours. Talk to me instead.’ He beamed ingratiatingly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Thought you might have something to report about “things”.’

  Rosy hesitated, and then briefly gave him an account of her meeting with Donald and what the latter had revealed about Marcia’s startling allusion to the coal scuttle. She was on the point of mentioning the SOE connection, but discretion prevailed and she merely said, ‘It was obviously a reference to something worrying her then and which presumably has some special significance now. It’s all pretty odd.’

  ‘The husband sounds a bit odd too,’ said Leo darkly. ‘Are you sure he was in America when it happened?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Rosy exclaimed.

  ‘What I say. It’s nearly always somebody known to the victim, i.e. husband or boyfriend. If he is so keen to marry this smart American bird the existence of a flamboyant ex-wife popular on the casino circuit might be a bit of a liability. For all their sophistication, Americans can be pretty strait-laced about these things, especially “old money” Bostonians. And although Marcia’s reputation might have been a bit wild – from what you’ve suggested – I doubt if his past was exactly like driven snow. Who knows what jolly tales your aunt might have had up her sleeve! I bet she could have scuttled his Priscilla chances if she had wanted. Definitely a potential hazard I should say, and getting rid of her could smooth his matrimonial prospects no end … Mark my words!’ He grinned smugly.

  ‘What nonsense you talk,’ Rosy replied irritably. ‘Total fantasy. I hope you don’t treat your poor Mr Gladstone to such lurid speculation. Entertainment for the examiners, no doubt, but hardly likely to secure that doctorate.’

  He saluted her in mock deference. ‘Yes, ma’am! I stand corrected. Just trying to be helpful, that’s all.’

  ‘Well go to someone else’s aid. I’ve got work to do,’ she retorted, and continued in the direction of Stanley’s lair.

  She opened the door to be greeted by a barrage of protest: ‘Have you any idea what I have been subjected to?’ stormed her boss. ‘He actually had the gall to suggest I omit the third footnote in my appendix as it was redundant to all but the culturally blinkered! And then when I naturally started to put him right on that particular point, do you know what he said? Can you imagine?’

  Rosy shook her head knowing speech to be pointless.

  ‘He said: “In fact I rather question the point of the appendix at all – it’s not as if anyone is likely to read it.” I can assure you, Rosy, the fellow is totally off his head! There’s nothing for it, he will have to go. Can’t you arrange it?’

  She sighed. ‘Probably not. But I could arrange a nice gin and tonic. It’s nearly twelve o’clock. Would that do?’

  He fixed her with a pitying glare. ‘No it will not do. The tonic is flat and Mrs Burkiss still refuses to yield her keys to the broom cupboard. Thus, until we can obtain said articles all drink is out of the question.’

  ‘Then in that case she will have to go as well,’ Rosy replied briskly.

  Later that afternoon she just had time to get to the Royal Academy for the closing hours of its Lautrec exhibition. The paintings had been ravishing, the crowds less so; and emerging into the sunlight she decided to amble in Green Park before catching her bus home. Entering at the gate by the Ritz end she started to walk slowly in the direction of Hyde Park Corner watching the squirrels and scenting the first whiff of autumn. But the sun was still warm and it was pleasant to stroll with only an occasional passer-by or scurrying dog for distraction. With Lautrec’s scenes still in her mind she found herself conjuring up absurdly romantic images of fin de siècle Paris with its glowing gas lamps, gay elegance and raffish brasseries …

  But the reverie was broken by a sudden clatter of heels on the path and the sound of her name being called. ‘I say,’ cried Amy Fawcett breathlessly, ‘I thought it was you – just the person I’ve been wanting to see. What luck!’

  ‘Oh … yes,’ Rosy replied guardedly, not overeager to become embroiled in the girl’s effusions. ‘Er, how are you?’ she enquired dutifully.

  ‘Oh, pretty chipper,’ Amy replied with enthusiasm, ‘and all the more for seeing you!’

  Why? thought Rosy with some unease, it’s not as if we’re bosom pals.

  Aloud she said, ‘I’m flattered, Amy. Any particular reason?’

  ‘Well, it’s the fur coat, you see.’

  ‘Fur coat? I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand—’

  ‘Marcia’s, your aunt’s.’

  Rosy stared nonplussed. What on earth was the girl talking about?

  ‘Yes,’ Amy continued still breathless, ‘the one she said I could have. I quite forgot to ask you about it at the service the other day.’

  Rosy was none the wiser but thought it fairly typical of Amy Fawcett to have considered mentioning such matters in the church hall with the said donor only recently delivered to her grave.

  ‘I am afraid I don’t know anything about my aunt’s things,’ she said politely. ‘Have you asked the solicitors?’

  ‘Well that’s just it, you see,’ replied Amy earnestly. ‘I am sure it didn’t feature in her will because it was only just before her death that she said I could have it. I bumped into her at the theatre and she told me all about it.’

  ‘The coat?’

  ‘Yes – about the fact that she didn’t want it any more as she had just ordered a fabulous new sable one from Calman Links which made her old mink look positively ordinaire.’ She giggled and added, ‘Frankly, I don’t mind prancing about in a mink coat – ordinaire or otherwise – and Mummy said never to look a furry gift horse in the mouth!’ The giggles expanded to gales of hiccupping mirth. ‘Anyway, Marcia told me – in strictest confidence of course – that she had received an unexpected windfall (rather a big one, I gather), which was why she was going to chuck the mink and flaunt the sable … As a matter of fact she did say she had been thinking
of giving it to you but had remembered you were only five foot three and would probably look like an Eskimo.’ Amy gave a further splutter of mirth, adding, ‘You have to admit, she was probably right.’

  Rosy did not admit but inwardly agreed all the same. She had no desire for Aunt Marcia’s cast-offs (furry or otherwise) but irrationally could not help resenting the fact that idiot Amy had been chosen over herself. However, she reflected, being a good decade older than Amy it was only fitting to be aloofly magnanimous. Thus piqued but poised she replied, ‘Well that’s absolutely lovely, Amy, but I really don’t see how I can be of any help …’

  ‘Oh, but you can,’ exclaimed the other eagerly. ‘I mean to say, I assume you’ve got access to your aunt’s house. So next time you are there – making inventories or whatever it is people do at these times – couldn’t you just sneak up to her bedroom, pick up the thing and come out with it casually over your arm as if it were your own?’ (As opposed to yours, thought Rosy grimly.) ‘Nobody would know,’ the girl continued, ‘least of all the solicitors and I would so love it!’

  She gazed at the older girl, wide-eyed and hopeful; and Rosy, despite her irritation, thought, ‘Oh well, anything for a quiet life. If it’s that important to her I daresay I can get it when I go to pick up the photographs.’

  Thus promising to do her best, and with Amy’s shrieks of gratitude ringing in her ears, she hurried on towards Park Lane and the bus for Baker Street.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘That bitch never mentioned me in her will you know,’ grumbled Clovis Thistlehyde, ‘and she hinted she would on at least two occasions.’ He flicked a small pebble in the direction of a basking duck.