by Eric Brown
‘Very good, sir.’
A constable appeared at the door escorting a tiny, timid-looking woman in her eighties. With her high lace collar, severe black bodice and buttoned boots, she looked like an elderly maiden aunt from a Victorian melodrama.
Mallory showed her to an armchair by the window, and she seated herself and peered timorously at the four men standing over her. Mallory gestured for everyone to sit down, and Langham settled himself on a footstool in the corner.
‘But is it true?’ Miss Etheridge began, her pale hands fluttering at her throat. ‘Hermione and George? No, no it can’t be! It’s just too horrible to contemplate.’ She looked pleadingly at Mallory. ‘Arthur – that’s our concierge – told me that someone had murdered the Goudges! Please tell me he was mistaken, Inspector.’
‘I’m afraid we are investigating a double murder, Miss Etheridge,’ Mallory said solemnly. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I shan’t keep you long.’
‘Oh, my!’ She pressed her fingers to her papery cheeks, reminding Langham of Munch’s The Scream. ‘The Goudges were such nice people. She was a renowned art critic, you know, and would do anything for anyone, and her husband was so devoted to her. Who would do such a terrible thing, Inspector?’
‘That’s exactly what we’re attempting to ascertain,’ Mallory said, opening a notebook on his lap.
‘But what about the other residents? If there is a killer loose, then are we safe in our beds?’
‘Let me assure you that no one is in any further danger. The perpetrator has fled, and I’ll have my men patrolling the area until this business is cleared up. Now, I understand you’ve spoken in the past to a certain Miss Hilary Shaw who rented this very apartment.’
‘That’s correct, Inspector. Is she … please don’t say that the killer also—’
‘We’d like to know a little more about Miss Shaw in order to eliminate her from our enquiries.’
Miss Etheridge looked shocked. ‘Miss Shaw is a suspect? And to think we actually exchanged pleasantries!’
‘When did you meet her,’ Mallory asked, ‘and can you recall what was said?’
‘Oh, it was perhaps a week ago, and we exchanged the briefest of greetings. I believe I asked her how she was settling in.’
‘And what did she say?’
Miss Etheridge screwed up her pink, powdered face in concentration. ‘I believe she said she liked her rooms, Inspector, though she didn’t like the view.’
‘She didn’t say anything else? Where she came from, whether she knew the Goudges?’
‘No, nothing like that. She did ask me how long I had been in residence here – and I told her twenty years. I moved in here when I retired, you see.’
‘Now – and this is important – can you describe Miss Shaw to me?’
She pursed her lips in recollection. ‘She was small, I recall, and as slim as a wand.’
Langham exchanged a glance with Ralph. The witness who lived opposite Dr Bryce had described his female visitor that night as being petite.
‘Do you recall her face, the colour of her hair?’ Mallory went on.
‘She had a pale face, as I recall – and I do recall her hair, because it isn’t every day that you see anyone with such a striking head of ginger hair. Bright red, it was.’
Mallory made a note of that. ‘And her eyes?’
Miss Etheridge shook her head. ‘I really can’t recall, Inspector. You see, I met her in the corridor, and the lighting there is none too bright.’
‘Quite,’ Mallory said. ‘And how old do you think Miss Shaw was?’
‘Oh, very young, I should say. No older than thirty, certainly.’
‘Now, is there anything else, anything at all, that you recall about Miss Shaw? Did you see her in the street, for instance? Do you know if she drove a car or travelled by bus or taxi?’
‘Now that you mention it,’ she said, brightening, ‘I do believe I saw her using the bus. Indeed, yes. I saw her climbing aboard the sixty-three just a little while after she moved in. Might that be important, Inspector?’
Langham hid his smile as Mallory said, ‘That might be very helpful indeed, Miss Etheridge. Thank you very much for your time.’
‘Will that be all, Inspector?’
‘For now,’ Mallory said, ‘but I’ll send a police artist round a little later today, if you would be good enough to give him a detailed description of Miss Shaw.’
The old lady almost beamed her delight, the horror of the Goudges’ murder apparently forgotten. ‘Oh, how exciting, Inspector!’
Mallory gestured to the constable, who took Miss Etheridge’s elbow and escorted her, still expressing her delight at the prospect of assisting the artist, towards the door.
Ralph said, ‘We’re on to something. That Miss Kerwin described Bryce’s visitor as a dark-haired, petite woman. Ginger would appear dark at night.’
Mallory was frowning down at his notes. Langham said, ‘You’re not convinced, Jeff?’
The detective sighed. ‘I’m not sure. The kind of murders they were …’
‘Come on,’ Ralph said, lighting up a Capstan, ‘women can be just as psychopathic as men, you know. I’ve seen them do some bloody awful things in my time, I can tell you.’
‘I’m not dismissing this Miss Shaw,’ Mallory said, ‘but I’m not going to concentrate on her to the exclusion of other possibilities. OK, she gave a fictitious previous address. But people can do that, you know, without being killers.’
‘We need to link this Miss Shaw to Maxwell Fenton,’ Langham pointed out. ‘A last fling in his old age, a protégée?’
‘A lover or a protégée who’d be willing to slay for him?’ Mallory grunted.
‘He did seem to have a certain allure over women,’ Langham said.
‘Some bloody allure!’ Ralph said.
The constable appeared at the door again, this time with another uniformed constable and the elderly, moustachioed concierge in tow.
Mallory gestured to a couple of seats, and the men sat down.
The inspector directed his first question at the concierge. ‘We understand this apartment was rented by a certain Miss Hilary Shaw?’
‘That’s correct, sir, though she isn’t often here. In fact, she hardly uses the place.’ He shook his head. ‘Some people have more money than sense, if you ask me.’
‘How often have you seen her?’
‘Since she took the place a fortnight ago?’ He shrugged. ‘Two or three times.’
‘And have you ever spoken to her?’
‘Nodded and said “morning” and “evening”, as you do.’
‘But nothing more?’
‘No, not that I recall, no.’
‘Could you describe her to me?’
The concierge shrugged. ‘Small – small-boned, she was. A redhead, pale-faced, not particularly attractive.’
‘Would you go so far as to say ugly?’
‘No, not ugly. I’d say more plain than anything. Certainly not a head-turner.’
‘And did you see Miss Shaw at any time yesterday?’ Mallory asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I did. She came down in the lift around nine last night and left the building. I remember that because I recall thinking it was odd because I didn’t know she was at home.’
‘Around nine, you say? Can you be any more specific?’
The concierge shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. Must’ve been around nine, thereabouts, ’cos the news had just started on the Third Programme.’
The uniformed constable nodded. ‘I saw a small woman leave the building just as the church bells’d finished striking the hour. Arthur’s right, it was nine.’ He looked sheepish. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was told to keep an eye out for people entering the building, not leaving.’
Mallory grunted something non-committal and asked, ‘Did Miss Shaw seem in any way agitated, nervous?’
‘I can’t really say, sir. She seemed normal enough. I tipped my helmet, said go
od evening, and watched her down the street.’
‘In which direction?’
The constable frowned. ‘East, sir. I believe she hailed a taxi.’
‘Can you recall what she was wearing?’
‘A blue raincoat. And a beret – a purple beret, as I recall.’
‘Excellent. Venables, send someone round to all the local taxi ranks and see if they picked Miss Shaw up from outside the Tivoli just after nine.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘I take it there’s a back entrance to the building?’ Mallory asked the concierge.
‘That’s right, Inspector. We use it for deliveries and such.’
‘Is it kept open?’
‘No, it’s locked at all times.’
‘And who has copies of the key?’
‘Just me and Bert.’
‘On your person or in the office?’
‘Hanging in the office, Inspector, on account that we don’t use the back door very often.’
‘Do you think anyone could have taken the key long enough to have made an impression from which a copy could have been made?’
The concierge frowned. ‘Well, I can’t rightly say, Inspector. S’pose anything’s possible.’
Mallory looked from the concierge to the constable. ‘Is there anything else, anything at all, that you can recall which might shed light on this business?’
The men stared at the floor for a time, frowning, then shook their heads. Mallory thanked them and said that a police artist would be in touch in due course to sketch the likeness of Miss Shaw.
When they were alone again, Ralph said, ‘So, we have two theories: Miss Shaw and the possibility that someone nabbed the back-door key from the office and had a copy made.’
Mallory climbed to his feet. ‘That just about wraps things up here. I’m going to write up a report for the Super, then have a natter with forensics. I’ll be in touch if we come up with anything.’
As they passed number twelve, on the way to the lift, Langham recalled the last sight he’d had of the Goudges alive, side by side and staring at the sympathy card.
He stopped in his tracks and stared at Mallory. ‘Why didn’t it occur to me earlier?’
‘What, Don?’
‘The invitation cards the six guests received from Maxwell Fenton … They were numbered, one to six. As were the backs of the chairs in the library, and Joseph Gittings, the butler, had been instructed by Fenton to show the guests to their own individually numbered chairs. Bryce was the first, George and Hermione Goudge second and third, Holly Beckwith the fourth, Crispin Proudfoot the fifth, and the sixth, Maria.’
Mallory pointed at him. ‘And Bryce was knocked off first, the Goudges second and third. And Beckwith’s next …’
Ralph said, ‘We’d better hotfoot it to the actress, Don.’
‘They rehearse in rooms on Archer Street behind the Lyric,’ Mallory said. ‘At least, that’s where I found her yesterday. I have a man on the door and someone inside, and I’ve arranged to have a couple of men watch her friend’s place in Dalston.’
Langham led the way to the lift and they hurried out to their respective cars.
SIXTEEN
Maria set aside the manuscript she was working on and stared into space. The story of romance among the dreaming spires of Oxford, while well written, failed to hold her attention, its depiction of academic privilege at odds with her present situation. She felt more like a character from one of Donald’s thrillers, with the killer on the prowl and her life hanging by a thread.
She jumped up and paced the room, considering what Donald had told her over the phone an hour ago. The Goudges were dead, which put paid to her notion that the death of Dr Bryce had been a coincidence, or that the police had got it wrong and it had been no more than a tragic suicide after all.
The lulling, back-and-forth drone of the Hoover from upstairs, as Pamela busied herself with the housework, was oddly reassuring, a familiar reminder of everyday domesticity. It reminded her, also, of her childhood in Paris in the twenties, when her father had made a present of an electric vacuum cleaner to their housekeeper. The memory made her smile.
She moved to the kitchen and made a cup of tea, then returned to the sitting room and tried to read the manuscript.
She finished her tea and paced the room again, biting her bottom lip as her thoughts raced. The drone of the Hoover ceased and she heard Pamela singing to herself on the staircase. She wondered if the girl was polishing the woodwork now, and if she should offer to help.
The previous night, at the Italian restaurant after her third glass of wine, she had almost told Donald what had really happened between Maxwell Fenton and her before the war.
She considered how close she had been to telling him – and winced at the thought of how Donald might have reacted, hating her either for submitting to the artist’s charms back then or for lying to him now.
There was no way, she thought, that she could emerge from this situation without damaging their precious relationship. He would either hate her for a slut or for a liar.
And if she continued to keep her secret, she would hate herself all the more.
But wasn’t her assessment of how he might react demeaning to Donald himself? Pamela had said that she was sure he would understand if Maria told him the truth.
But could she be sure he would understand?
She was too afraid to take the risk.
She sat down on the sofa and held her head in her hands.
Maybe, just maybe, when all this was over and she had time to think about it rationally, she might be able to tell him then.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Pamela entered the living room and moved quickly to the window. She stood against the wall beside the curtains like a heroine in an espionage film, moving the material a bare inch and peering out.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Maria asked.
‘She’s still there.’
Maria’s heart seemed to miss a beat. ‘Who is?’
Pamela let the curtain drop and turned to her. ‘I noticed her when I was Hoovering the bedroom. She walked along the road, on the other side, and back again. Then she stopped and looked across at the house.’
Maria swallowed. ‘Are you sure? I mean – are you sure she was looking at this house?’
‘I’m sure.’
Maria stood up and casually glanced through the window but saw no one in the rain-washed street.
‘I don’t see—’ she began.
‘Come here!’ Pamela hissed, beckoning her.
Maria joined Pamela, moved the curtain back and peered out.
‘To the left,’ Pamela said, ‘just beyond the postbox.’
Maria made out a grey shape in the mist fifty yards away. ‘She’s walking away from us,’ she said. ‘Maybe she was just posting a letter?’
‘I saw her walking up and down the street, and then she stopped and stared across at this house.’ She looked at Maria, wide-eyed. ‘Didn’t Donald say the other night that a woman had been seen at the doctor’s house on the night he died?’
Maria shrugged, uneasy. ‘The old lady thought she’d seen a woman. But people often walk up and down the street—’
‘In the pouring rain?’ Pamela said. ‘Back and forth, and stop and stare?’
‘Anyway,’ Maria said, taking another peek, ‘she’s gone.’
Pamela peered out. ‘For now,’ she said.
Maria moved to the kitchen and asked Pamela if she wanted a cup of tea, more for something to do than because she wanted another cup herself.
‘No, not now,’ Pamela said.
Maria boiled the kettle and mashed the tea, wondering if her friend had been imagining the woman’s odd behaviour. She poured herself a cup and resumed her seat on the sofa. She would read for a while, then distract herself by making an elaborate evening meal.
‘She’s back!’ Pamela cried from the window. ‘There she is, passing the house again, looking across …’
&
nbsp; Maria’s heart thudded, her mouth suddenly dry.
Pamela moved away from the window with grim-faced determination. ‘I’m going out there to ask what on earth she’s doing.’
Maria stood and took Pamela’s hand. ‘You’re doing nothing of the kind! I won’t let you. If she – if she is the …’ She gestured, unable to say the word. ‘You’d be foolish to take the risk, Pamela.’
They stared at each other. Maria reached up and cupped Pamela’s cheek. ‘Please, stay here.’
Pamela hesitated, then nodded.
Maria glanced through the window. She saw a vague shape in the mist on the other side of the street, walking away from the house.
Pamela moved to the kitchen. ‘I think I will have that cuppa now.’
Maria sat back down and took up the manuscript.
She heard the kettle bubbling as she read of effete undergraduates sipping Darjeeling from china cups in genteel tearooms. The kitchen door swung shut.
She had read another five pages when she became aware of the silence. She looked up and called the girl’s name. There was no reply.
‘Pamela?’ she said, leaving the sofa and opening the kitchen door.
The room was empty.
Pamela had closed the back door but had left the Yale unlocked.
The knife drawer, beside the larder, was open a couple of inches, which it certainly hadn’t been ten minutes ago.
Maria opened the door and stared out into the grey, twilit afternoon. All she saw was the yard, the alley beyond and the line of terraced houses across the way.
She returned to the sitting room and peered through the window.
There was no sign of either Pamela or the mysterious woman. A car passed, sluicing a wave of rainwater on to the pavement. A postman, hunched against the weather, hurried along on his second round of the day.
She began pacing again, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. When Pamela returned, she’d tell the little fool what she thought of her.
She saw the phone on the occasional table in the corner of the room. She wondered if Donald had left the Goudges’ apartment and gone to the Earl’s Court office. She crossed to the table and snatched up the receiver, dialling the number from memory with trembling fingers.
