Murder of a Movie Star

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘There’ll be no need for any of that, now. What is it you were here about, anyhow?’

  ‘I’m one of Mr Langley’s investors: or rather, my husband is.’ The lies came easily now. Posie was sure Alaric wouldn’t mind her taking his name in vain, not that he was her husband yet.

  ‘Ah, I see, Madam.’ The door opened a fraction wider. Posie felt that the word ‘investors’ had worked quite a bit of magic.

  ‘Yes. We’re staying at Worton Hall tonight before this big party tomorrow. Mr Samuelson sent his own driver with me, see?’

  The woman craned her neck now, and obviously satisfied, she nodded.

  ‘And to tell you the truth,’ Posie smiled apologetically, lending an air of conspiracy to her words, ‘movies bore the life out of me. I’m more of a gardening kind of girl, you see. The Chelsea Flower Show is really the highlight of my year. And when Mr Langley heard about my hobby, he asked if I’d like to look at his orchids. As a very special favour. I understand not many are afforded such a unique privilege?’

  ‘Aye. That’s correct, Madam.’

  The door was unlatched and swung fully open. The frown had now dropped like a falling curtain from Mrs Cleeves’ face and she became amiability itself. Posie was surprised to see in the full light that Mrs Cleeves was only about forty. There was a glimmer of beauty beneath the black-and-white livery, although the years had not been kind to the woman; she was tall and too lean, and the skin around her eyes had sunken in, giving her the impression of one who permanently cries. If she had been a looker in the past, now she was as sallow as a withered lemon.

  ‘Do forgive me, Mrs…?’

  ‘Mrs Brown.’ The colour Posie wished she had worn today.

  ‘Any friend of Mr Langley’s is most welcome in his home. Now, I’ll show you through here, shall I?’

  Posie couldn’t place the faint accent, and the woman dipped and bobbed and Posie found her yellow coat and yellow hat being taken expertly from her at lightning speed and being hung on a peg next to what looked like a long, slim, silver gun-cupboard by the front door. And then she was following Mrs Cleeves through the white bungalow at a sharp trot. The woman was flat-footed but fast and Posie hurried along, trying to keep up.

  It was very bright inside the house, even in the late afternoon, mainly due to the huge glass windows on every side which let great shafts of light stream inside.

  Posie made a rapid survey of the bungalow and noted that the place was enormous, but essentially it was just a big horseshoe, with its longest side running horizontal to the road.

  Everything was open-plan, and a blinding white: the long, shaggy carpets; the walls; the lamps hanging low. It was decorated in the modern ‘deco’ style, and again, there was nothing personal anywhere. No photos or paintings or books or the usual bits and bobs which created a home and stamped a man’s personality on a place.

  Don’t these people live?

  In fact, there was nothing interesting here at all, and Posie felt a sudden jolt of annoyance that she had even bothered to come. At the waste of her time.

  They passed through a white ‘study’ area with a metal desk pulled right up against a plate glass wall which looked out over an internal courtyard, a sort of shaded atrium planted with vines and trailing trellises. A small fountain made of silver-and-white glass tinkled at its centre, the bubbles of water lending the place a calm, almost monastic air. The space was beautiful. Posie stopped and stared, transfixed.

  She had not expected this sort of tranquillity, but then if you were a man with a temperament like Brian Langley’s, perhaps you needed just such an oasis to return to, albeit occasionally.

  ‘Madam?’

  Mrs Cleeves had stopped ahead of her and was frowning. Posie realised that it looked as if she was snooping: she was standing directly in front of Brian Langley’s big chrome desk, which was littered with his papers of a personal variety. It looked, unlike the rest of the place, a total mess: as if someone had been busy searching for something, and very recently, too.

  Posie smiled. ‘Sorry. Don’t mind me. I was just admiring the courtyard. It’s so peaceful here. Lovely.’

  ‘I just thought you might think me a sloppy Housekeeper, Madam. All that mess there on the desk. It’s a right midden. Bane of my life, that is.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ Posie nodded in a reassuring manner. ‘My husband, Mr Brown, is even worse than that. He likes to leave all his papers around and I’m not allowed to touch anything.’

  They moved off, Posie following the woman’s straight-backed black-and-white figure through a sort of linking corridor. Posie thought about the absolute pit of a room in her flat which was Alaric’s: it was more than the desk which was messy, it was every single available inch of space. She smiled at the memory of it.

  ‘I suppose the only difference is that Mr Brown has his own room for his paperwork and affairs. I can close the door on his mess. We don’t live in such a modern, open-plan sort of a house.’

  Mrs Cleeves nodded. ‘It’s a strange layout here, I’ll give you that. The worst thing for me is the kitchen, which is miles away from anywhere useful. Mr Langley has all his film work papers sent to him wherever it is that he’s filming, and his secretary, Reggie, sorts it all out. But, as you can see, his own affairs are sent here. Good job he trusts me and that we don’t have a large staff here. Prying wee eyes and all that…’

  ‘Quite. Just you here, is it, Mrs Cleeves?’

  ‘Aye. I do everything. That’s how Mr Langley likes it. He employs Shay, of course, but that’s mainly for outside.’

  ‘Shay?’

  ‘The Chinese gardener, when he bothers to put in an appearance. He often disappears, mainly at night. But I’ve seen him today: I’m sure he’ll be along in a minute.’

  Mrs Cleeves dropped her voice to a confidential whisper:

  ‘Don’t trust him, Mrs Brown. If you find yourself alone with Shay, even for a few seconds, be very careful. I’ve seen him meeting with different people in the grounds lately, passing across packages. A woman once, very fashionably dressed, and then a man in a straw summer hat. That was just yesterday.’

  ‘Oh? What is he doing, do you think? Selling orchids without Mr Langley’s consent?’

  Mrs Cleeves tapped her nose. ‘I shouldn’t say this but I think he arranges things. I’ve definitely seen money being passed across. Drugs, I’ll warrant. A nice little side-line. But then, what do you expect? I expect its opium.’

  ‘Goodness! I didn’t realise opium was still in fashion!’

  ‘Oh, it’s not. But its not being taken as a fashion statement now, is it? Just as a way to forget…like most drugs.’

  Mrs Cleeves coughed sanctimoniously. ‘Not that I’d know anything about any of that, of course. But there are rumours of an opium den having started up in Richmond. Who’s to say Shay isn’t running that and supplying private clients, too?’

  The woman had pursed her lips up tight dissaprovingly and moved off again before Posie could utter a single thing in response.

  ‘Here we are then, Mrs Brown.’

  Up ahead, Posie could see a huge glass room running horizontally to the rest of the bungalow, forming a sort of ‘missing’ arm of the horseshoe shape. It was a large specially-constructed greenhouse, and the view of the gardens and the spectacular view of the Thames beyond was almost obliterated by the hundreds upon hundreds of blooms which filled the place with their gorgeous colours.

  Orchids trailed from the roof, grew up the sides of the greenhouse, rose in masses from specially-constructed tables and wall-stacks. Purples, reds, yellows, indigo: every colour imaginable was present, but by far the most common colour was white. It was like looking at a crazy theatre of dancing butterflies, running riot.

  ‘My gosh!’ Posie was genuinely moved. She wished that Fred, sitting patiently outside, could share in the marvel. ‘How spectacular!’

  ‘I’ll leave you with Shay, then. He’ll be in shortly. But remember what I said: don’t let him sell
you anything, a nice girl like you could be caught out. Would you like a drink, Mrs Brown?’

  Mrs Cleeves half-curtsied. ‘We do have coffee, if you like.’

  Posie smiled. ‘That would be most welcome, thank you.’

  She moved towards a particularly violently-coloured yellow plant and made a show of looking at it admiringly, in case the Housekeeper decided to give her a look as she departed.

  Posie hoped that it would take the woman a good few minutes to percolate the coffee. She also hoped that Shay would stay well away. As soon as she heard the sound of the woman’s retreating steps die away, and remembering that the kitchen was, conveniently for her at least, a good way off, she darted back to the desk area which formed Brian Langley’s study. She calculated she had about two minutes before she needed to get back to the greenhouse again and stand riveted, gazing at flowers.

  Her heart pounding, her nerves on fire, she scanned the desk quickly. In truth Posie had simply no idea what she was looking for.

  A bottle of green ink? Documents which would show that Brian Langley had taken out insurance on Silvia Hanro’s life? Other missing body parts?

  This was a game of chance. And a risky one at that. The paperwork was heaped up at least a couple of inches thick, in places held down by large round glass paperweights which, unsurprisingly, held dried specimens of orchids. She started to flick through.

  The usual paper detritus of a normal man’s life were all here: receipts from dentists, and doctors, and carbon copies of prescriptions for tonics against the flu, and advertisements for ridiculous products which had come in the post and never been thrown away.

  There was strong evidence of the passion for flowers: a couple of magazines about gardening, and a brochure in French about growing orchids.

  But there was nothing at all about Silvia Hanro, and nothing at all about films, or Sunstar Films, which was surprising, as this was Brian Langley’s whole life, apart from the orchids.

  But Posie remembered the division of mail which Mrs Cleeves had mentioned, and she supposed it made sense.

  She had almost reached the layer of the blotter when something caught her eye. It was a neatly typed bank statement, a half-year’s worth, from Hoare’s Bank on the Strand. Posie grabbed at the thin blue sheet gratefully, aware of the time. She couldn’t take it, but she read it quickly. It was a record of cheques sent out, and Posie noted that it was all fairly routine. But then something caught her eye.

  It was highly unusual and stood out a mile.

  A monthly cheque, paid out to QUEENSGATE SCHOOL.

  The annotation typed next to it simply read ‘SCHOOL FEES’.

  Posie knew that Queensgate School was near to Kensington Palace Gardens and all the museums, and that it was a private school for privileged, rich girls, whose parents, rather unusually, had an eye to the education of their daughters as well as to their social manners. So whose school fees was Brian Langley shelling out for?

  Posie dropped the bank statement and rifled through the rest of the papers, grabbing up a handwritten letter written in a large, looping hand.

  In green ink.

  But there was no chance to read it, or even to snatch the thing, for just then she heard the distinctive, flat-footed tread of Mrs Cleeves in the distance. She hurried to cover the letter and dart away back to the greenhouse.

  But in replacing it she managed to read the signature at the bottom.

  P. HANRO

  ****

  Back in the greenhouse Posie accepted her coffee gratefully, and she ate the whole plate of lemon puffs which were supplied.

  ‘Not been feeding you today, has she?’ asked Mrs Cleeves, a downwards snag of the mouth lending her an even more worried look than before. Posie was fingering a trailing blue plant with studied awe.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Mrs Thynne. The cook up at Mr Samuelson’s place. They say she keeps a good table but then that can’t be true, can it? You’re obviously starving to want to eat a plate of shop-bought biscuits like that.’

  Posie was about to admit that she was just a glutton when it came to anything sweet, especially biscuits, when an image of the very fat cook she had met earlier in the day came to mind, and the absurdity of the name almost made her laugh aloud. Mrs Thynne!

  She sensed, however, that she was being tested. Her answer to Mrs Cleeves was important. Posie remembered just in time that Isleworth and Richmond were close, and that people employed roundabout were all bound to know each other, or of each other. So she should be careful.

  ‘Oh, I’m being fed fabulously, thank you, Mrs Cleeves. Especially the homemade buns; far better than anything from Lyons, for sure. I’m afraid that as you can see I’m just a first-class pig. Truly, I am.’

  Mrs Cleeves nodded and looked satisfied, even relieved. Posie realised she had given the right answer.

  ‘I can’t think what’s got into Shay,’ Mrs Cleeves was saying, going over to the window and looking down to the river. ‘I did call him from the kitchen. I can’t see him from here. Perhaps he didn’t hear me? Shall I go out onto the lawns?’

  Posie made a show of looking at her watch and shook her head.

  ‘Oh, no. Please don’t bother. I’ve seen plenty. Thank you so much. This has quite made my day.’

  She made a move to turn and go, and then Mrs Cleeves called out again:

  ‘Oh, there he is! He’s cutting more of that Foxtrot! Wretched stuff. I won’t have it in the house, although some fools like to have it all around them. It’s deadly. For all its beauty. But then of course, you know that, being a gardening expert.’

  And staring out of the window at the place she had indicated, Posie saw a neat little man dressed all in white, with white gloves and a pointed black beard and a white cap, dressed much like many of his compatriots who lived in China Town in London, where Posie often walked.

  But it was not the oriental gardener she was staring at, it was rather the flowers he was carrying in his arms: huge bouquets of pink and red blooms.

  Identical to those in Silvia Hanro’s dressing room and in her borrowed flat at Worton Hall.

  ****

  Back in the car, Posie talked blithely about the wonders of the greenhouse, but her thoughts were already elsewhere, running over the strange papers on Brian Langley’s desk.

  She was thinking of green ink and school fees and strange and impossible connections between people she didn’t know at all, but who were all linked together by Silvia Hanro, caught in a web in which the movie star sat presiding over, spider-like.

  After a short silence, something struck Posie which she thought Fred, being a local, might help her with: a silly detail, but it nagged at her anyhow.

  ‘I say,’ Posie asked in a mild tone. ‘Is there any reason why Mrs Cleeves would ask me about the cook, Mrs Thynne, up at Worton Hall? Does she know her at all?’

  Fred laughed as he drove. ‘I’ll say: them two are thick as thieves. Best pals. Spend their days off together, too.’

  ‘Oh?’ Posie was slightly reassured that she had at least said the right thing.

  Fred warmed to his theme. ‘She’s a funny fish, is Mrs Cleeves; bit of a mystery really roundabout. There’s a lot of heartache there, same as there is for many a lass these days. Folks say she came down from Edinburgh to marry someone in London. Trouble was, he got himself killed in the war, didn’t he? So Mr Langley took her on as his Housekeeper after the war, five years ago. They seem to rub along together just fine, though: both as dour as each other.’

  ‘And Mrs Thynne?’

  ‘Oh, Bertha Thynne is a local lass, married to one of the gamekeepers up at Richmond Park, a rum chap, always on the right side of the law, but only just, if you get my drift. Mrs Cleeves and Mrs Thynne go to the movies together when they’re off on the same days: my Vera’s seen them out and about, all dolled up apparently. But more often than not Mrs Cleeves is up at Worton Hall. I see her coming and going. Perhaps she’s helping Bertha in the kitchens, but I’ve never asked.
Not my place to, is it? Besides, it must be awful lonesome at that big house back there of Brian Langley’s, just her and one gardener about the place. He seems a shifty sort, too. I don’t blame her for wanting to get out and about, do you?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all.’

  Posie’s thoughts drifted, then came sharply into focus again. Something that Fred had told her jarred: it wasn’t quite right. But whatever the discrepancy was, it eluded her.

  And anyway, there was no time for that. Right now she had to get her brain in order and think about the remarkable, elusive, estranged – and potentially dangerous – woman she was about to meet.

  Pamela Hanro.

  Just what was it that she was going to say to her?

  ****

  Twelve

  Posie looked up and down the street.

  She had bidden thanks and goodbye to Fred and was now standing outside a blue-painted front door which led to two flats upstairs.

  The door was squeezed right next to the already steamed-up window of Tacy’s, a fish and chip shop in the heart of London, SW7.

  HADDOCK SPECIAL! screamed the sign in the window.

  Tacy’s was obviously doing a roaring trade, and their patient customers queued right back up the street past the blue front door, politely making room for Posie on the dusty pavement when she blundered through, shattering the queue.

  It was half-past six, after all, and for most people that meant tea-time. Posie sniffed the air longingly: the perfumes of acidy vinegar and thick salty batter made her mouth water. But her hunger pangs would just have to wait.

  Posie consulted the address which Sergeant Binny had given her again: 15, Bute Street, South Kensington. Next to the blue front door were two handwritten name cards with two identical black bells: the first read ‘SMITH–FLAT ONE’ and the second read ‘HANRO–FLAT TWO’.