The Black Cat Murders: A Cotswolds Country House Murder (Heathcliff Lennox Book 2)

by Karen Menuhin

  ‘Yes.’ I opened my notebook and began jotting down a few thoughts, and then paused to wonder again how I could gain entry to the Long Gallery.

  ‘Dicks,’ I said.

  ‘Sir?’ He was brushing out the hearth.

  ‘I believe the preparations have started for tomorrow’s wedding?’

  ‘Oh, sir, it’s going to be marvellous.’ He turned to look at me, eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘The ballroom is coming on a treat and the hall is full of flowers. We’re starting on the dining room after lunch. Cold collation for the family tonight, sir, before the opera.’

  I looked askance at him but he’d returned to setting the fire. ‘Is Benson overseeing any of this?’

  ‘He is, sir. He is directing the footmen in the dining room while Lady Ruth is commanding the chapel, and then we all go to the ballroom for the final preparations, sir. It’s very exciting to see the house being festooned. Just like the old days, Mr Benson says, when Lady Grace was alive.’ Dicks grinned happily at me.

  ‘Hum,’ I replied as Swift stepped back across the threshold. It was beginning to feel like a railway station in here. I gave up trying to write and returned my pen and notebook to the drawer.

  ‘Ready?’ Swift said, almost chirpy. I took it to be a good sign and followed him out. We made rapid steps across the hall, which was indeed decked with flowers, and more were being carried in by flustered maids and footmen as we escaped the commotion.

  I have a great fondness for my Bentley, and after taking one look at Swift’s police-issue Austin Seven I insisted we go in my car. Admittedly it was rather draughty, and it wasn’t my fault Swift didn’t have goggles and gloves. Fortunately I couldn’t hear his complaints above the wind rushing past our ears.

  We didn’t find the Black Cat Club; with hindsight, I probably should have asked Andrew Dundale where it was. We drove around the city and eventually, as we nosed down a gentrified back street, we came across a place named the Black Cat Art Gallery. I drew up outside.

  ‘Didn’t you ask your police chaps where it was?’ I asked Swift as we made our way up the front steps of the handsome Georgian house.

  ‘Said they’d never heard of it,’ he muttered. ‘Thought you knew.'

  A limp specimen greeted us at the door. Swift whipped out his police badge and shoved it under his nose.

  ‘Oh, I say. Is this a raid?’ The lad wore a pink cravat – what is it about these arty types that they feel they must sport the strangest get-ups?

  ‘Need to ask a few questions,’ Swift told him, and kept on walking forward, causing the fop to retreat backwards ahead of him. ‘Are you the owner?’

  ‘No, I’m Nigel,’ the fop replied. ‘Are you going to arrest me? Really, I’m quite innocent, you know. Wouldn’t harm a fly, ask anyone. I can call one of my friends. Sir Crispin Gibbons, he’s very top drawer, he would tell you –’

  ‘Sit down,’ Swift interrupted as he backed Nigel into a cramped office behind a stately staircase.

  Nigel slid into a chair behind a small antique desk, rather a handsome one actually – somebody had good taste – and I glanced around. The back wall had files stuffed into fitted shelves, but my eye was drawn to a large painting on the wall beside the window, a pleasing landscape of sheep, trees and meadows. There were more framed canvases leaning haphazardly below it. Swift and I took a chair each and drew them up opposite Nigel as he watched us, wide-eyed in a pale face under a fringe of blond hair hanging languidly over his brow.

  ‘Who owns this building?’ Swift demanded again.

  ‘Sir Crispin Gibbons,’ Nigel replied. ‘Such an absolute darling, you know. Doesn’t come here often, but he doesn’t need to because he has moi,’ he pointed a limp hand toward himself. ‘Trusts me absolutely. “Nigel,” he says, “you are my right hand. Run the place as I would, that’s all I ask.” And of course he knows my taste. “Just buy the best and the sales will follow.”’

  Not only was he a fop, he was a garrulous fop and a fidget, too – he brushed aside his hair and smoothed his trousers, crossed and uncrossed his legs and waved his hands about as he prattled. ‘And, I must tell you –’

  Swift cut him short. ‘He’s dead,’ he said expressionlessly.

  Nigel’s jaw dropped; at least he stopped talking.

  ‘Dead? You mean … Crispin? No, it can’t be true!’ His hand rose to his cheek. He seemed genuinely shocked. ‘How could he be dead?’ he spluttered. ‘I saw him only a fortnight ago, and he was perfect, as always; how could –’

  ‘Squashed,’ I told him. ‘By a soprano.’

  He stared incredulously. Swift frowned at me.

  ‘A bad fall caused by a collapsing trap-door. He fell first and the leading lady landed on top of him,’ Swift explained.

  Nigel’s eyes widened. ‘Not that dreadful woman Dame Gabriel Forsyth? She’d be the death of anyone! Oh, this is too much. I have to go and lie down.’ He rose to his feet and put his hand to his brow. ‘I need to mourn,’ he wailed.

  ‘Sit down,’ Swift told him rather unsympathetically to my mind. ‘Did Crispin supply the artworks here? The stuff you have for sale?’

  Nigel pulled a pink polka-dot handkerchief from his pocket and sniffed into it. ‘No, not at all. Crispin never actually did anything. He was awfully rich, I mean quite hideously wealthy, and generous to a fault … Oh, I can’t believe it. I’m developing one of my headaches …’ He trailed off and blew his nose loudly.

  ‘So where did all this come from?’ I asked, indicating the paintings in the room and then toward the rest of the gallery, which was hung with some very fine pieces in proper frames, not one of which had a price ticket attached.

  ‘Well,’ Nigel sniffled, ‘when we first opened two years ago, the local landowners would send a man in with something they had to sell off. Repairs, taxes and these horrendous death duties, you know. It absolutely kills the poor souls, although I must say it has rather opened the market up. Anyway –’ he crossed his legs ‘– when Crispin started the Noble House of Opera he would leave his card with the patrons and they would telephone me and I’d go and take a look around, give them advice about what would sell and what was more valuable. The art market is awfully good now that the Americans have developed a taste for it. We pack most of our stuff off to the United States, it’s positively booming.’ He gave a watery grin.

  ‘You imply that something changed,’ Swift said.

  ‘Dame Gabriel elbowed her way in. No class at all, no refinement.’ Nigel expanded with a wave of the hand. ‘She began to take along Count von Graf, a self styled “expert”, and she introduced him to the opera patrons. Well, it wasn’t long before they were cutting in on our business. And she had the nerve to come in here asking me to sell their stuff. Naturally I complained to Crispin, but he really didn’t care. “Nigel, darling,” he would say, “we will prevail. Nobody will stomach these parvenus for long.” And he was quite right. These last few months all our old clients have come back, and I have not had to suffer that woman or the pompous Prussian since Christmas.’

  I suspected Jarvis and von Graf had found bigger fish to fry by then, but I didn’t say anything because there was something else I had on my mind.

  ‘If Crispin was so wealthy, he must have had another reason other than profit, for opening this gallery,’ I asked of Nigel. ‘What was it?’

  He dabbed his handkerchief across his eyes. ‘Well, he wanted first choice on the goodies,’ he admitted. ‘He would say, “Nigel, if anything special comes up, I have first dibs, dear boy. Save the very best for me.” Crispin was a collector, you see, he had such exquisite taste – well, we both have you know, although it’s rather immodest to admit it. Naturally I held the choicest pieces for him to peruse before they went up in the gallery.’

  ‘Anything recent?’ Swift demanded.

  ‘Not from me,’ Nigel said. ‘But last time he was here he was very excited about something. He said it was probably one of the most extraordinary works of art that had ever been offered to h
im.’

  ‘What was it?’ Swift had his notebook on his lap and was jotting this down.

  Nigel suddenly became coy. ‘Am I required to speak? Because I’m not sure what my rights are. I mean, really, this is still a free country, I can remain silent, can’t I?

  ‘No,’ Swift snapped.

  Nigel’s face fell. ‘Oh, very well. It was an “off-market” piece. Risqué, you know; and lacking provenance; so it couldn’t be sold in public. That meant it would go at a knock-down price. It’s the way certain connoisseurs acquire a first-class work of art for very little actual money.’

  ‘Is this quite normal? In the art world, I mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, there has always been a very healthy black market. It’s probably bigger than the real one,’ Nigel admitted.

  ‘What was this painting? The one Sir Crispin was after?’ Swift asked.

  ‘Are you sure I have to tell you, because –’

  ‘Yes,’ Swift snapped.

  ‘Oh, really, you are quite the brute,’ Nigel complained. ‘Well, he said it was an early Gainsborough. Commissioned when the artist was just starting out and was something out of his ordinary line. Crispin wouldn’t tell me any more, but he said he would show it to me once he got his hands on it.’

  ‘Did you see it?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’

  ‘Who was he buying it from?’ Swift snapped.

  ‘I have no idea, he was going to tell me all about it,’ Nigel began to wail. ‘That was the last conversation we had. Oh, I shall never be able to look at another Gainsborough again now.’ He howled and started sobbing into his handkerchief.

  Swift and I exchanged looks. The Gainsborough was almost certainly the one from the Bloxford Beauties – something must have gone wrong with the transaction and led to Crispin’s murder.

  ‘Where are your books?’ Swift cut across Nigel's loud lamenting.

  Nigel wiped his eyes and turned mulish, crossing and recrossing his legs. ‘Well, I suppose I have no choice but to show you. But I must protest. And I’m in shock. Now I’ll be left all alone to run this place without Crispin's guiding hand …’ He broke off to blow his nose loudly again.

  ‘Think I’ll go and take a look around,’ I told Swift, and stood up.

  ‘Lennox,’ the Inspector called after me, but he was too late – I’d made my escape.

  It was a very nice art gallery, I must say. The rooms were painted white, the floors were highly polished wooden boards. The paintings were quite excellent, being mostly country scenes with cows and whatnots, and there were portraits of horses and dogs – nothing boring at all. I strolled around, hands behind my back, peering at this and that, and then went to stand at the bottom of the staircase. A small note stating that it was private was propped on the first step. No doubt it was the fop’s quarters, and I really didn’t want to go up there, but, I reasoned, Holmes wouldn’t have held back.

  I took the stairs two at a time. It wasn’t so much a bedroom as a boudoir, all modern furniture, pale silks and mirrors. At least it was tidy and everything was put away neatly. It didn’t take long to uncover a couple of paintings squirrelled away in the back of a cupboard, but they were both ghastly modern stuff, with heavy lines and dark colours. I could barely make out the artist’s name – Picasso, or something. I tossed them back into the wardrobe. If that was an example of Nigel’s taste he wouldn't get very far.

  I returned to the gallery and could hear Swift remonstrating with Nigel, who was still sniffling. There was a cellar door near the rear of the building, behind a small kitchen; it was locked. I had my new lock picks in my pocket and jangled them thoughtfully. I ran my hand over the lintel first and was almost disappointed to discover that the key was there.

  It was well oiled, as were the hinges, and I opened it silently. Broad stone steps descended, and I followed them down into a dark corridor. I fumbled a bit, not being able to find any sort of light switch, then bumped into another door. It was unlocked; I pulled it open and stepped into light. Or rather lights – lots of them, of the electric sort, which were arrayed about the room. Some were in crystal chandeliers and others in table lamps, and there was a long row of them lining a stage at the far end of the very large room.

  Behind the long bar was a picture of a lounging black cat wearing a red ribbon, and below it, painted in red, were the words ‘The Black Cat Club’.

  Chapter 22

  ‘Hello?’ A lady was mopping the floors. I may not have heard her straightaway, as I was staring around at what was undoubtedly a genuine den of iniquity.

  Circular wooden tables with four chairs each filled the area facing the stage, which was a simple raised platform with red curtains draped each side. The rear wall was gaily painted with a fresco of ladies doing the can-can – I recognised it from a boisterous visit I’d once made to Paris – which, despite it being abroad, had been a thoroughly enjoyable experience. It all looked rather jolly, actually.

  ‘Excuse me, old chap. But we’re closed, you know.’

  The lady with the mop had come closer and was now attracting my attention. I eyed her warily. It was a man, in a curly blond wig.

  ‘What?’ I replied.

  ‘Closed.’ He came up to me. ‘I say – Heathcliff Lennox! It’s you! How marvellous to see you again. Made it through the War then?’

  ‘Um …yes ... Awfully sorry, but you couldn’t refresh my memory, old chap, um, old girl …?’

  ‘Mildew,’ he replied, then grabbed his hair and yanked off the wig revealing an entirely bald head. ‘I was the rowing cox at college. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Chap with a bit of a hair issue?’

  ‘That’s it. Used to be ribbed mercilessly when I tried that oil on it. Didn’t work, by the way.’

  ‘No.’ I regarded his pate shinning in the overhead lights. ‘Never quite caught your actual name? Can’t be Mildew.’

  ‘No, well, it’s Rupert really, but I’m Mildred here. We’ve all got exotic names, you know. Comes with the job.’

  ‘Right.’ I was thoroughly confused now. ‘You work here, then?’

  ‘I’m the manager – I work the bar, too. Lulu isn’t in today so I’m having to do the mopping. Would you like a drink? We have some super wines here, absolutely top-notch.’

  ‘I think a brandy would be a good idea,’ I told him, her, whoever it was. I sat on a bar stool as Mildew tugged the wig back onto his head and poured some amber liquid into a goblet.

  ‘Cheers,’ he raised his own glass and I echoed the sentiment.

  Actually, it was very fine brandy indeed and by the bottom of the glass I felt decidedly improved.

  ‘I assume you know Crispin Gibbons and Andrew Dundale?’ I asked leaning on the long mahogany bar.

  ‘Oh, yes. They were our star act – the Darling Sisters. A great loss, we were all devastated.’

  ‘You know he’s dead, then. Crispin, I mean.’

  ‘Andrew came and broke the news. Shocking. I had to completely change the acts around. Fortunately there’s no shortage of talent in this town. Plenty of chaps willing to put on a song and dance.’

  ‘In frocks?’ I replied.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s very poplar. The members are all from the Oxford colleges. They love dressing up. But we’re very discreet, you know. Private club and all that. Just boys being boys, ha-ha. Letting our hair down and having a fine time together.’

  ‘Mm.’ Well, he wouldn’t be letting much hair down, I mused. Must say this shone an entirely new and unexpected light on the Oxford colleges. ‘But Crispin owned this place and the gallery upstairs?’ I asked as Mildew poured another tot of brandy into my glass.

  ‘Yes, he did. It was one of his pet projects. I run the club and Nigel has upstairs. Always kept them separate, though. There’s a discreet entrance into here from the rear of the building. Different clientele, you know – well, mostly. By the by, I haven’t had the heart to tell young Nigel about Crispin. Perhaps the police might do it, they have training in that sort o
f thing. Sensitive – Nigel, I mean. Thought I’d better let the professionals break it to him gently.’

  Obviously he hadn’t met Swift.

  We spent a comfortable half hour over a couple more brandies, reminiscing about our rowing and rugger days at college when Mildew suddenly jumped up.

  ‘I must the put the music on,’ he announced.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Gramophone! We’ve just acquired one — they’re all the rage, you know.’ He went to a rather handsome cabinet in the corner of the bar area and opened it up to reveal a mechanism with a round turntable and a large trumpet type thing. I went over to take a better look. I’d heard about these contraptions and was keen to see it in action.

  ‘Right,’ he said, frantically turning the handle, ‘here we go!’

  We watched in fascination as the sound-disc slowly revolved. I observed carefully as the needle followed grooves on the disc to produce the music. It was the can-can and a very merry rendition it was. As it crackled slowly to a halt a door slammed at the rear of the building and I looked up to see a rare sight. A group of chaps wobbled in on high heels, sporting unlikely wigs and dressed in assorted frocks — one of bright green, a couple of reds, a dashing yellow, a turquoise blue and a rather ghastly orange. Some of the dresses were sewn with sequins and they glittered in the bright lights.

  ‘Mildred, darling,’ one of them called out. ‘You’re playing our song.’

  ‘Oh, hello, girls,’ Mildew greeted them, his voice warmed by the brandy.

  There was general laughter and loud chatter as they made their way onto the stage.

  A few more chaps trickled in through the door, followed by a small crowd. They all sported frocks in the feminine style, with differing degrees of success.

  I raised my brows at Mildew in enquiry.

  ‘Dress rehearsals, we always get some of our regulars, and it’s free!’ he said while frantically pouring pints of beer for the new arrivals.