The child was quite obviously the natural daughter of Silvia Hanro and Brian Langley. Adopted by Pamela Hanro in the autumn of 1918, most probably without her sister’s knowledge.
And to this day, Posie was certain that Silvia had no idea that her sister had the daughter she had given away.
It had been the work of a moment for Posie to put it all together, standing there beneath the hot awning of the shop, staring at the child. She ran through it again now.
In late 1917, or early in 1918, when Tom Moran was recovering from his injuries, Silvia Hanro had been rising to the top of the cinematic ladder, and part of this process had no doubt included some sort of affair with her Producer, the already-famous Brian Langley, resulting in a pregnancy.
Posie remembered Silvia’s tinkling laugh earlier that afternoon when she had suggested that Brian Langley might be behind the threats, and the movie star’s protests that there was too much between herself and the Producer for him to wish her dead.
‘I’d say!’ muttered Posie darkly.
In the late summer and autumn of 1918, Silvia Hanro had probably removed herself from the movie world for a while, given birth to Brian Langley’s child, and, desperate to retain her movie career, she had secretly arranged for the child to be given to the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury.
How much Silvia had wanted to keep the child was anyone’s guess, and Posie couldn’t fathom that out, but she suddenly remembered Silvia saying that on her death her money would pass to a children’s charity, and Posie was certain, sure as bread was bread, that the charity would turn out to be the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. That somehow, underneath it all, the memory of it gnawed at her still.
The arrangements had probably all been fairly easy. After all, it had been 1918 and a good deal was up in the air: Silvia’s parents were newly dead, and Tom Moran was still cloistered in some far-flung hospital. The Great War was entering its final stages and everyone was paying attention to that. It was a good time to have secrets and to conceal things. Even babies.
Quite what Brian Langley had thought of the pregnancy and the giving away of the child was uncertain. Posie remembered him saying earlier in the day that he didn’t really like many people. That had been a lie: at some point in 1917 or 1918 he had liked Silvia Hanro. A good deal.
A thought struck Posie.
Brian Langley didn’t know about the baby. He had no idea.
The idea rang true the more it lingered there.
Had Silvia hidden the pregnancy from him? Perhaps she had requested sudden leave from her film work, or simply disappeared? Perhaps Brian had put her strange behaviour down to the cooling off of their love affair and left her to get on with it…
But somehow, in all this mess, Pamela Hanro had found out about the child and, without Silvia’s knowledge, rushed like an avenging angel to the rescue. Pamela Hanro had discovered that the child was at the Foundling Hospital and had secured the child into her own guardianship. Despite being single, and unmarried, and with a criminal record to her name.
‘How she managed it quite beggars belief,’ Posie muttered to herself.
Posie had had some experience of dealing with the Foundling Hospital before, when she had been seeking records of children ‘given up’ by those who were later desperate to be reunited with them. And, sad cases though they were, they had been hopeless cases too, as the Foundling Hospital, although an exemplary institution, guarded its files and its children’s real identities fiercely.
And Pamela had given Posie the key to why she had done it: it was even there in that haunting painting. Pamela had said earlier that evening that her parents had ‘believed their family was all-important, and worth defending.’ Having lost her own parents, and her sister, she had grabbed hold of what she could. Her own flesh-and-blood.
Posie remembered Pamela’s angry parting-shot, which had had the awful ring of truth about it: ‘My Hilda’s all the family I’ve got.’
It was ironic that while the world had thought of Pamela as the rebel, it had been she, and not her famous sister, who had been desperate to stick to old-fashioned family principles and keep the child who had been unwanted.
Posie sighed. It was obvious that Pamela couldn’t forgive Silvia for abandoning Hilda. That had been the final nail in the coffin of their relationship, the point at which they had become truly estranged, at which Pamela had turned her back on her sister. But did Pamela want to murder Silvia now, because of something which had happened five years ago?
It seemed highly improbable. But Pamela couldn’t be ruled out as a suspect.
And it was the same for Brian Langley. Posie drummed her hands on her desk. What was his role in all of this now?
Pamela had insisted she hadn’t had anything to do with the man in years, but that was quite obviously a lie. The yellow orchid in her house and the letter from Pamela on Brian Langley’s desk told a different story.
Posie tried to force herself to recall anything which might be useful about Pamela’s letter, but all she could remember was the signature. Her mind wandered over the memory of the bank account statement she had had sight of. She remembered the strange entry about school fees, a cheque paid out every month to QUEENSGATE SCHOOL.
‘Of course!’
Queensgate School was near to Kensington Palace Gardens, but it was also very close to Pamela Hanro’s flat. A two-minute walk away. Posie remembered how Pamela had said the area was good for Hilda because she was ‘well-catered for.’ Hilda must have been in attendance at the school for almost ten months now, since last September.
‘That’s it! He’s paying his daughter’s school fees, which cost a pretty penny. So he knows. At least, he’s known since before last September when Hilda started at that school. He now knows what Silvia did. At some point Pamela Hanro must have caved in and gone to him, swearing Brian Langley to secrecy and begging him for financial help for the school fees.’
Posie nodded to herself.
‘She’d touched her sister for money on a couple of occasions, but it was unreliable, or else, it just wasn’t enough. Silvia is stingy, that’s what has shocked me in all of this: Silvia doesn’t like to spread her riches around. Pamela needed more than the occasional hand-out. She wanted to bring her daughter up as a lady, despite the fish and chip shop. So somehow or other Pamela and Brian have muddled through, in a highly unorthodox way, raising Hilda. I wonder how well they get on? Or how often they see each other? Or if this is merely a financial agreement and Brian Langley never comes near the girl?’
Whatever the case, Pamela and Brian shared a precious secret. One worth protecting. No wonder Pamela was so protective of Brian Langley; he had come up trumps. Posie smiled to remember Pamela’s defence of Brian Langley; her insisting that he was one of the most reliable and trustworthy people you would ever meet.
But that didn’t fit with the angry man Posie had met today, a man possibly fuelled by the terrible knowledge that he had been deprived of a child, without having had any say in the matter. He had had that knowledge for at least ten months now, if not more.
Posie wrote ‘HATE’ on an empty page.
Was the Producer angry at Silvia still, after ten months?
If so that would be very awkward: Silvia was his ex-lover and his daily work colleague, not to mention the star keeping his company afloat. Could he afford to hate her? And was he angry enough to want to kill her? But if so, why now, exactly? Why not when he had first found out about Hilda?
Posie nibbled at her pen-lid and tried to think a little wider. Could it be that Brian Langley was still in love with Silvia Hanro? That he couldn’t shake it off or forget it?
He hadn’t married, and he didn’t seem to have a girlfriend. A long-harboured love for Silvia would be equally inconvenient for a successful working relationship. But if so, why threaten her now? Surely it would be simpler and more effective to get rid of Tom Moran, the boyfriend who had had to be ‘hidden away’?
She wrote ‘LOVE’ on the open
page.
‘No.’ Posie shook her head reluctantly, pulling herself away from thoughts of Brian Langley hankering after some long-ago love affair. She half crossed the word ‘LOVE’ out.
‘It doesn’t figure. This thing isn’t about love. He’s not sentimental enough. More likely it’s a case of Brian Langley cashing in on Silvia’s death if he’s got an insurance policy on her life; a simple motive of needing money to fix Sunstar. And Silvia can be replaced: it seems he’s already scouting for someone new for the position of his leading lady.’
Posie wrote ‘MONEY’ on the same page, too.
She sighed. ‘How utterly, utterly depressing.’
Whatever the story, in Posie’s view, Brian Langley towered head and shoulders above everyone else as the most likely suspect, even though he had called Posie in to investigate the death threats himself.
But thinking of money as a motive, there was something about money in general in this case that didn’t add up.
Everything pointed to the fact that Silvia was mean. Tight with a capital ‘T’.
Posie had heard from Pamela how her sister had refused to give her money from her Trust Fund in 1918, and how Pamela had later received two hand-outs from her sister in 1922. For what Pamela had needed the payments Posie didn’t know, but Silvia Hanro seemed, even in her own telling of the tale, to have given them very grudgingly.
She even seemed to have bought her boyfriend a flat somewhat grudgingly, using it more than he did, and not willing to give him anything else. But was this meanness a motive for murder in itself? Had it upset someone that much?
And what about the capital of the Trust Fund? Where exactly would that go when Silvia died? Was that a motive for somebody to be sending death threats?
Posie knew from experience that Trust Funds usually didn’t go the same way as people’s Wills, and that it would most likely have a separate destiny, all of its own. Posie might be able to find out from the lawyers, Carver & Nicholas, if she was lucky. They’d probably still be working: lawyers kept crazy hours, too.
Going through to Prudence’s desk Posie placed a call.
Posie had told Pamela Hanro she knew the firm of solicitors, Carver & Nicholas. But that wasn’t strictly true. She knew only the younger Mr Nicholas, in a personal capacity; she’d met him from time to time at formal legal drinks functions in the city, mainly with the Chief Inspector.
Sebastian Nicholas had reminded Posie immediately of Harry Briskow, whom she had been engaged to, before the war, another lifetime ago. The two men shared a wicked sense of humour, thin sandy hair and dark blue eyes which betrayed a hankering to run away from the very respectability they had sought out in their profession: for before the war and before his death Harry Briskow had been a lawyer too. A couple of years back the similarity had led to a handful of trips to a Lyons Cornerhouse on the Strand together and a few inconvenient weeks of Posie believing herself to be in love with Sebastian, until good sense and the rather more captivating thrills of Len Irving had convinced her of her mistake. Still, she smiled at the prospect of talking to Sebastian again.
‘Wotcha, Posie. Long time, no hear! How lovely to hear from you. Bit late, isn’t it?’
After they had exchanged a few more routine pleasantries in which Posie found out that Sebastian had married and was about to become a father any day now, and he, likewise, congratulated her on her own engagement, Posie asked him quite bluntly about the destiny of the Hanro Family Trust Fund. She didn’t tell him about the death threats, of course. Instead, she spun what she hoped was a likely tale:
‘I’m having a quiet patch at the Detective Agency and so I’m working for Silvia Hanro herself at the moment; you know, I’m a sort of glorified secretary, tidying up all her personal bits and pieces. She’s getting everything organised in big black files and she needs to know about the Trust Fund. So can you help me, Seb? Where does it end up?’
‘Yikes, Posie. You don’t ask much, do you? I’m so sorry but you know I can’t break client confidentiality like that. Not even for you. Not without written permission from Miss Hanro herself. Now, if there had been an actual death…’
Posie almost screamed in exasperation. She tried to remain unflustered. ‘Well, let’s hope not. Please? Pretty please?’
Sebastian Nicholas sighed in defeat down the telephone line. ‘Tell you what, if you put your questions very clearly to me in writing, whereby I answer in plain ‘yes’ or ‘no’, that might be a way around this.’
‘I don’t have time to write you a letter, Seb, I really don’t…’
‘Sorry old thing. But you know, can’t you just ask Miss Silvia Hanro herself? We have written to her about this exact matter, you know. She’s been informed about things, very recently, in fact.’
Posie frowned. Had Silvia been in contact with her lawyers about her Trust Fund? If so, she hadn’t mentioned it to Posie. But then, why would she have done? The subject of the Trust Fund hadn’t cropped up at all in their conversations. It had been Pamela Hanro, not her sister, who had been more than forthcoming about the matter.
Posie rang off among a flurry of slightly insincere promises to meet up again soon and had just started to scribble out a written request for information to Sebastian Nicholas when she heard the doorbell to the office ring from the street entrance.
‘Horrors!’ she cursed. ‘It’s way past anyone’s opening hours.’
She opened the sash window and craned her neck to look down into Grape Street below. She just made out a gleaming black Rolls Royce Phantom parked up on the kerb, its painted body glistening and gleaming in the evening sun, its flying lady symbol on the front a darting globule of silver catching the light.
A white-gloved driver was visible at the wheel and Posie saw a tall man in full evening dress, complete with black top hat and gold-tipped cane, walking impatiently backwards and forwards on the pavement below.
Her heart sank.
****
Sixteen
It was Rufus, Lord Cardigeon. Dolly’s ridiculously wealthy husband.
Normally Posie would have been delighted to see him; he was her dead brother’s best school chum from Eton and one of her only links to her brother now. It was fair to say that she loved Rufus to bits.
And yet here was another conundrum, one she didn’t have time for.
Posie remembered her promise to Rufus earlier about looking after Dolly and she grimaced: something else she had failed at.
Just what on earth was going on to make Rufus so worried about his wife? Perhaps he had come to enlighten her.
‘Coming!’ she shouted down, all falsely bright.
As she went, she was suddenly aware of the overwhelming stink of the fish and chip supper emanating from the tiny kitchen, a greasy fug of scent wafting through the airless office. Diving into the kitchen she saw that Mr Minks had curled up for a nap in a shadowy spot by the curtains. She grabbed at the odious bits of newspaper, scooping up the gobbets of fish all around the place, gathering the whole lot up into an oily ball. There was a large refuse collection point at the end of the road, where the lane hit Shaftesbury Avenue, and she’d put it there.
Out on the street she found Rufus still pacing on the piping hot pavement.
‘What ho, Nosy!’ He kissed Posie in a distracted fashion. His eyes were darting up and down her office building in a kind of nervous panic, and peering towards her open doorway.
‘Rufus, darling. Always a pleasure. It’s been an age. I used to see you all the time.’
‘I know, Nosy. Dashed sorry and all that. And how’s the delightful Alaric? I thought you two were going to get hitched pretty quickly…’
‘Don’t you start.’
‘Sorry, old thing.’ Rufus put his hands up as if in mock apology.
Posie crumpled the fish wrapper.
Something wasn’t right. Not at all.
She shot a quick glance at Rufus, noticing how his previously rakishly thin good looks were giving way to something else now: somethin
g more substantial, weightier, more serious. His blonde hair beneath the top hat was shorn shorter than before and he wore a small clipped beard, which somehow suited him. His blue eyes were harder and clearer than before, and they burned with a fire which Posie couldn’t quite place.
Posie’s heart lurched: she hoped to goodness Rufus hadn’t taken up drinking again. Despite having won the Victoria Cross twice in the Great War, for untold acts of bravery in the trenches, he had sunk into a deep depression and become an alcoholic after the war, as had many men who couldn’t forget the sights they had seen, and were haunted in equal parts by ghosts of comrades lost and intense waves of guilt at simply surviving. But after meeting Dolly in 1921 he had stuck to his promise not to touch a drop ever again.
Posie was standing very near to him. She sniffed discreetly. She couldn’t smell anything remotely alcoholic.
‘So what have you been up to, Rufey?’
‘Oh you know, a bit of this, a bit of that. I’ve got more involved in the estate business up at Rebburn Abbey, now that the old devil is so ill and out of it all. I don’t think he’s long for this world, to be honest.’ Rufus sniffed. ‘Poor blighter, I actually feel sorry for him. Makes you consider your own mortality and all that. You know, the future…’
‘Oh? Yikes. Sorry to hear that.’
Posie hadn’t heard that Earl Cardigeon, a curmudgeonly old buffer of an aristocrat was ill and on the wane. Somehow it had seemed that he would go on forever.
Posie was scared and fond of the old Earl in equal parts, once having worked for him in recovering a priceless family jewel. Having been terrorised by him throughout the whole case, she had found herself wishing never to set eyes on the man again, only to find herself rewarded so handsomely by the Earl that she was set up for life as an independent woman. She owed him an enormous debt for his generosity. It had changed her life, which before had been very uncertain.
Rufus was still casting glances up at Posie’s office on the top floor. He looked at Posie, suddenly aware of her presence again.
‘I’m getting more involved in government, too. I really feel it’s my time to make a difference, Nosy. Help people out. I’m usually at the House of Lords at Westminster chewing the fat with the other fellas. I feel I’ve finally found my niche.’
Murder of a Movie Star Page 15
