by Eric Brown
Pamela smiled.
‘What?’ Maria asked.
‘Your funny glum face when you said, “And doesn’t come back”!’
‘Well, it was a strange story to give me, wasn’t it? I suppose Donald was contrasting the love we had with the love that his characters had lost.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It was sweet of him.’ She finished her soup. ‘But speaking of love, how is Nigel?’
Pamela rolled her eyes. ‘Would you believe he wants me to marry him, pack in working at the agency and have his children?’
‘No!’
‘That’s what he said, and he was awfully put out when I laughed at him and said that that was out of the question.’
‘Good for you.’
‘And wait till I tell him that I’ve asked for promotion. He won’t like that, will he?’
‘Certainly not.’ Maria laughed. ‘What did Donald say when you asked, by the way?’
Pamela shrugged. ‘He said he’d have a word with Ralph, and maybe sort something out in the New Year. I was going to ask him this morning if he’d managed to talk to Ralph, but …’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, he seemed preoccupied. I wondered whether he was plotting his latest book. He can get awfully wrapped up in his thoughts when he’s writing.’
Maria looked at the heavens. ‘Yes, I have noticed!’ She hesitated. ‘But no, it is nothing to do with his writing. Something happened last night.’
She had no notion, before she began speaking, that she needed to tell anyone about the incident at Winterfield. But she experienced a certain sense of relief as she recounted the macabre events that had unfolded over the course of the previous evening.
Pamela listened, transfixed. ‘But that’s terrible! More than terrible. He must have been mad.’
‘That’s exactly what Donald said. He thought that Fenton had killed himself to make those present feel guilty. You see, the artist thought that each of us had, in our own way, grievously wronged him in the past.’
Pamela was slowly shaking her head. ‘Even you?’
‘Even me. You see, I knew Fenton when I was a girl. I was barely eighteen, and Fenton was a renowned artist. He dazzled me and asked me to sit for him.’
‘And did you?’
Maria nodded. ‘Oh, oui. Well, I could hardly refuse. It wasn’t every day that a famous painter wanted to paint me. I think his request appealed to my girlish vanity.’
‘What happened? You said he thought his guests had wronged him?’
‘To cut a long story short, he tried to drag me to bed one evening and I grabbed the first thing to hand – a poker, as it happens – and hit him across the temple. I scarred him for life.’
‘Bully for you!’
Maria fell silent, thinking back all those years to the night in question.
Pamela said, ‘But I wouldn’t let him make you feel guilty, Maria – he shouldn’t have done what he did.’
Maria found herself murmuring, ‘But I do feel guilty, and not because of what I did that evening.’
Pamela narrowed her eyes as she regarded Maria. ‘Then, why?’
Maria sighed and pushed her empty bowl away. ‘Because I lied to Donald,’ she said. After a pause, she went on. ‘Pamela, this is between you and me. I wouldn’t want Donald to know – at least not yet.’
‘Very well.’
‘I told Donald that Fenton had painted me, and that we met only on three or four occasions …’
Pamela swallowed. ‘But?’
‘I lied, Pamela. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Donald the truth, perhaps because I was ashamed of what happened. I was young. Still a girl. Young and foolish and naive.’
She fell silent, folding her napkin over and over on her lap. She set the napkin aside and went on, ‘I did sit for Fenton, three or four times. I was flattered. He was charming, and complimentary, and treated me like a woman. No one had treated me like a grown-up before, and I suppose it went to my head. I certainly discovered I possessed something – a certain power. And when he finished the painting and I saw it for the first time, I was overwhelmed with how beautiful he’d made me appear, and he came up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder, and kissed my neck.’
She fell silent, staring down at her hands, and what she felt then was not so much a recapitulation of the heady romantic rush she had experienced all those years ago, but a combined sense of shame that she had given in to those feelings, and rage at how Maxwell Fenton had manipulated the young girl she had been.
She shrugged. ‘I fell under his spell, and we had an affair, and for a little over a month I saw him every weekend. I was a little fool, thinking myself a sophisticated woman.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, he tired of me, Pamela. Men like that, who can make women fall at their feet, soon get bored with one conquest and move on to the next. He didn’t tell me, of course – he was too arrogant to do that – but I could tell from his aloofness, his disregard of me. And when I asked a mutual friend what might be happening, I learned that he was seeing someone else.’
Maria paused, recalling the day she discovered his treachery, then went on, ‘And so the following Saturday I left London and took the train to Winterfield and confronted him. I asked him if there was any truth in the rumours that he was seeing this woman. And do you know what he told me? Can you guess?’
Pamela shook her head and mouthed a silent ‘No’.
‘He didn’t deny it, and said that beside me this other woman meant nothing, that she was just a fling, and then he tried … he tried to … It was as if he thought that I was his by rights. He tried to drag me off to bed …’ She stopped, gathered her thoughts, then continued, ‘And that’s when I snapped. I snatched up the poker and swung it at his head with all my strength. I very nearly knocked him out. I thought I’d killed him at first, but when he struggled to his feet and laughed at me – laughed. It was all I could do not to hit him again. I dropped the poker and ran away from Winterfield and never went back. Never went back, that is, until last night.’
She stopped, and Pamela just stared at her, open-mouthed. At last the girl said, ‘Golly,’ and Maria had to laugh.
Maria reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘And when Donald asked me about Fenton, I lied to him. I lied.’ She shook her head. ‘I love Donald so much that I couldn’t tell him the truth for fear that he’d hate me – hate me for the silly wanton little fool I was. And as soon as I lied, it came to me that if I did one day tell him the truth, then he’d hate me for lying to him in the first place!’
She felt her eyes brim with tears and dashed them away with her napkin.
Pamela took her hand. ‘Donald loves you,’ she said quietly. ‘He could never bring himself to hate you, either for what Fenton did to you then or for not telling him the truth now. I know he’d understand.’
Maria smiled bravely. ‘But would he? A small voice in the back of my head keeps on saying, “What if I tell him and he doesn’t understand, and it changes what he feels for me?” Oh, that would destroy me, Pamela!’
‘Donald is a good man. He would understand. I think I would tell him, if I were you.’
‘I know you’re right; I know I should.’ She brightened, smiled across at the young girl, at the concerned expression on her pretty face, and said, ‘I feel in need of a strong coffee, Pamela, and do you know what else? I might even order a big slice of chocolate gateau.’
‘Let’s!’ Pamela said.
Life is strange, Maria thought, and love is even stranger.
SIX
Langham was alone in the office when the clouds parted to let a shaft of unseasonal sunlight come slanting in through the window. Pamela was meeting Maria for lunch, and Ralph was still investigating Major Bruce’s purloined diamonds.
He’d left the communicating door open in order to hear anyone knocking on the door of the outer office, and he was trying to concentrate on his manuscript. The events of the previous night, however, conspired to ma
ke that impossible.
Aside from the sheer horror of the artist’s death, Langham was troubled by something else. Maxwell Fenton’s hate-filled diatribe, culminating in his suicide, did not ring true. Fenton had staged the show in order to threaten his guests – and yet the climax of the Grand Guignol was not an act of revenge but his own suicide.
And the threats he had issued? You have earned the end that awaits you … You, too, will suffer the fate you fear most of all … You, too, will pay for your misdeed …
But perhaps, Langham thought, what he had said last night was not that far from the mark: Maxwell Fenton had indeed been insane.
He set the manuscript aside and contemplated lunch. He had a bottle of Double Diamond in his desk drawer, and he was debating the relative merits of a pork pie from the butcher’s around the corner and an eel pie from the shop across the street, when a faint tapping sounded on the outer office door.
‘Come in!’ He sat upright and tried to look professional.
One of the perks of this line of work, he often thought, was its unpredictability. He never knew who might next step into the office. He was taken aback, seconds later, when the door opened and a familiar face peered through.
He climbed to his feet and moved to the communicating door. ‘Miss Beckwith, this is a surprise.’ He gestured for her to take a seat.
The actress appeared hesitant. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I exchanged phone numbers with your wife last night, and then on hearing that you were a detective’ – she gave a dazzling smile and sat down across the desk from him – ‘I rang Maria this morning and she gave me your office address.’
‘This is about last night, I take it?’
She bit her lip, nodding. ‘That’s right.’
‘First of all, would you care for a tea or coffee?’
‘That’s awfully kind, but I can’t stay long. I’ve taken time off from rehearsals.’ She glanced at a tiny silver watch on her slim wrist. ‘I have to be back in half an hour.’
‘How can I help you?’
She stared past him, through the window, as if gathering her thoughts.
Her beauty, he thought while he waited, was quite unlike Maria’s: while his wife was dark and sultry, Holly Beckwith was slight and pale. Her quick, hesitant movements as she lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke suggested a barely controlled hysteria.
‘I wanted to explain – about last night, I mean.’
‘Explain?’
‘What he said about me …’
‘What he said?’ Even to himself, he sounded like a psychiatrist cajoling a patient into self-disclosure.
‘He said some terrible things about all of us, but what he said about me – that I was selfish and cruel …’ She shook her head, on the verge of tears. ‘They were lies, Mr Langham, all lies.’
‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘You really don’t have to justify yourself, you know.’
‘But that’s just it, Mr Langham. I feel that I do.’ She inhaled on her cigarette, blowing the smoke high into the air, and went on. ‘I first met him when I was rehearsing a play at the Phoenix. He’d been commissioned to design the set.’
‘And when was this?’
‘’Thirty-five. I was in my early twenties, and to tell the truth I was inexperienced when it came to romance. Oh, I dreamed of meeting someone I could fall in love with, but all the men I did meet seemed to be utter cads.’
He smiled. ‘Until you met Fenton?’
She returned his smile. ‘He seemed different. He was kind, attentive. He bought me things, spent money on me. I was on my uppers at the time, and he bought me expensive stockings and dresses … Well, it wasn’t long before I was head over heels.’
‘Fenton would have been in his forties at the time?’
‘Oh, he was an older man.’ She laughed. ‘He was in his mid-forties, well over twice my age, and famous. And I was a scatterbrained little fool. I understood nothing, not even myself, my own needs and desires. Oh, I thought I did, but I didn’t really know what I wanted, deep down. And then …’
Langham recalled that Fenton had accused the actress of a wanton act of vandalism. ‘Yes?’
She regarded the glowing tip of her cigarette, then located an ashtray on the desk and deposited a length of ash. ‘Six months into our relationship, one of the stage-hands at the Phoenix told me that Fenton was married and had a child. I was incredulous at first, but then an actress friend admitted that it was true and hadn’t told me in order to spare me the pain. Call me a fool. I thought I was in love, and then to find out he’d been deceiving me …’
‘What did you do?’
‘I’m not proud of my actions, Mr Langham. The next time I was down at Winterfield at one of his big parties, I sneaked off to his studio in the conservatory. He was preparing for a big exhibition in London.’
She shook her head, her eyes wide as she considered what she had done all those years ago. ‘I took my cigarette lighter, piled half a dozen canvases in the centre of the floor, poured primer over the lot and set fire to them. Someone saw the blaze, saw me running away, and while the other guests extinguished the fire and saved a few canvases, Fenton caught me and …’
Her words ran out and she stared at Langham, slowly shaking her head. ‘He was livid, and I was suddenly frightened at what I’d done, and angry with Fenton for all his lies, his deceit. And we fought, verbally and physically. He hit me and I retaliated and screamed my hatred at him. To cut a long story short, someone intervened, or I swore he would have killed me. I took a taxi from Winterfield and never saw Fenton again, until last night.’
She looked at him. ‘And to think,’ she said quietly, ‘that he’d let it fester over the years, his hatred of me. And then it all got too much and he …’ She closed her eyes. ‘Perhaps he did do it to make us feel guilty, and if that is so, he succeeded.’
Langham sighed. ‘What happened last night …’ he began. ‘I know it’s a cliché – and that what he did was appalling – but if I were you, I’d do my best not to dwell on it, and certainly don’t blame yourself. I really do think Fenton was clinically insane.’
‘And his threats, to myself and to the others?’
‘Confirmation, if any were needed, that he wasn’t in his right mind.’
The actress hesitated, and Langham gained the impression that she was considering the wisdom of telling him something she had hitherto withheld.
He said, ‘Was that the only reason you came to see me today, Miss Beckwith, to tell me about Fenton’s treatment of you?’
‘I …’ She paused, staring at him. ‘Yes, it was, Mr Langham. I needed to tell someone, get it all off my chest. Thank you for listening.’
‘That’s quite all right.’
She stood abruptly. ‘I really must dash,’ she said.
She moved to the door and hesitated, a hand on the handle. Then she turned. ‘There is …’ she began.
‘Yes?’
‘No, I’m being silly. It’s nothing, really. Goodbye, Mr Langham, and thank you again.’
He stood. ‘One moment …’
She slipped from the office before he could question her further.
Langham sat down and stared at the cigarette ash piled in the tray.
At one thirty, as he was about to nip around the corner for a couple of pork pies, he heard the familiar sound of Ralph’s quick footsteps on the stairs. The outer door opened and his partner breezed in, tossing his hat at the stand and missing.
‘You look chipper,’ Langham said.
‘Case solved, jewels in the major’s bank vault, and twenty nicker in my back pocket. Oh, and an extra tenner as a thank you from the old soldier.’
‘Just the ticket.’
‘Tell you what, let’s shut up shop and have a couple round the Bull in celebration.’
‘You’re a man after my own heart, Ralph. I’ll grab a pie on the way.’
Ralph retrieved his hat from the corner. ‘And how about telling me all about last night?’
‘Where to begin? The invitation to a death turned out to be just on the button. I’ll give you the whole sordid story over a pint.’
They were leaving the office when the phone rang.
Ralph swore. ‘Ignore it, Don.’
Langham hesitated. ‘Might be Maria.’
He returned to the desk and snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Don, Jeff here.’
‘Mallory, as I live and breathe. It’s been a while.’
‘I need to see you pronto,’ Jeff Mallory said. ‘I’ve heard all about last night at Maxwell Fenton’s place, and I understand you were present?’
‘That’s right.’
‘This is important. Can you get down here lickety-split? I’m in Lower Malton, staying at the White Lion.’
‘Now, you mean?’
‘Now,’ Detective Inspector Mallory said.
‘Well, I was just about to go for a pint with Ralph—’
‘I’ve been called in to investigate the death of one Doctor Roger Bryce,’ Mallory interrupted. ‘He hanged himself in the early hours, only the local boys thought it looked a bit fishy and called in the Yard. And I agree with them. He was murdered.’
So much for a quiet afternoon pint.
‘We’re on our way,’ Langham said.
SEVEN
They drove into Lower Malton at three o’clock, just as the White Lion was opening its doors for the afternoon trade. The rain had held off and a watery sunlight illuminated a row of small cottages and a honey-coloured church on the main street.
Ralph had been silent while Langham recounted the events of the previous evening. ‘One thing I don’t get, Don,’ he said as they pulled up outside the pub.
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘If this Fenton geezer was doolally, and he had a gun, and hated these people he invited, why didn’t he just have done and shoot them, instead of topping himself?’
‘Who knows what goes on in the head of a madman?’
‘But these threats he made?’
‘That’s the part I don’t understand. I thought maybe he wanted the guests to feel guilty – but it seems a very unsatisfying way of getting one’s revenge, doesn’t it? There’s something damned odd about the whole situation.’ He indicated the public house. ‘Shall we?’
