“Thought that Irene’d decided to put an end to her life.”
Charlesworth was pleased. “Ah, there you are! When I ask you, you say that Irene had decided to put an end to her life; but when I asked Gregory she said she thought that Irene might have intended to make an end of her life. Have you ever heard the actual wording of the forged confession?”
“No, I don’t think any of us have. You wouldn’t tell us; and Mr. Smithers—well, Mr. Smithers wouldn’t tell anybody anything,” said Victoria, viciously.
“Well, don’t waste your spume on Inspector Smithers. Smithers is a very sick and sorry young man at this time, Toria, eating large quantities of humble pie …”
“I hope it chokes him,” said Victoria.
Charlesworth laughed. “Well, I think we may safely say it does. Anyway, the point is that when Gregory used that phrase I recognized it as the one used in the confession—the confession that nobody outside Scotland Yard had seen. I was sitting there innocently talking to her with nothing but beautiful thoughts of her in my mind; but when she used those words my tummy turned right over in my inside. It was a little thing—not even a wildly unusual phrase—but it seemed odd that she should have used exactly those words, and I thought the whole thing out, all over again, with Gregory in the name part, and I began to see how it would fit. Ye gods!” said Charlesworth, going quite weak at the memory of his brainwave, “I’ve never been so relieved in all my life. I thought of those little gloves of Irene’s and I looked at Gregory’s big, bony hands, and then I think I was certain. I stalled her off with fair answers, and as soon as I could get away I rang up Smithers and we got on to all the chemists in the neighbourhood. And there we were.”
“And here we are,” said Victoria, as again they approached her front door.
Charlesworth stopped the car. “I suppose this is good-bye.”
“I suppose it is, though I hope you’ll come and see us sometimes, Mr. Charlesworth. You’ve been most terribly kind and the Dazzler and I are both very grateful for all you’ve done for me. All the same, I’m thankful it’s over. It’s been so cruel and hateful and sordid—I’ve never come up against such black and terrifying things before. It’s different for you; you’re used to this kind of thing, I suppose, and it’s just another murder … our worries and fears and troubles, Gregory’s feelings now, this minute—I suppose they’re all part of just another murder case?”
“Well, that’s true in a way,” admitted Charlesworth. “Most cases are ‘just another case,’ really. The corpse is just a corpse and the murderer is just a murderer and you’re out to get him if you possibly can. But …” he hesitated and then went on with a little rush … “let me say this, Victoria, and then I’ll never mention it again, I swear. This case hasn’t been just another case to me. Every night I’ve gone to bed and thought, ‘To-morrow I shall see Victoria.’ Every morning I’ve woken up and thought, ‘To-day I shall see Victoria.’ I’ve made excuses to come up to the shop just to talk to you, and when I’ve got there my knees have given way under me and I haven’t had a word to say. I do love you, Victoria, with all my heart and soul.” He leant his forehead against the steering-wheel and looked down at the toes of his shoes. “All my life I’ve been falling in and out of love and it hasn’t meant a thing; but this time it’s serious and now, when I get it really and deeply and truly—it has to be you! Happily married and in love with your husband and utterly out of my reach—it has to be you!”
There was a small silence. Toria put her hand on his arm and gave it a little shake. “Mr. Charlesworth, dear,” she said, “I think it’s high time I said good-night and went in.”
6
At Scotland Yard Mr. Charlesworth’s chief pressed several buzzers and returned again to his morning’s reports. As each buzzer was answered he handed over a file with hardly a word; but to Charlesworth he murmured: “A murder in a racing yacht!” and regarded him with an indulgent eye.
“A racing yacht; that sounds rich and glamorous, sir.”
“Beware of the lovely women!” said the great man, smiling still.
“Women!” cried Charlesworth, gloomily. “Preserve me from any more women. Honestly, sir, I don’t care if I never set eyes on another girl for the rest of my life.”
The superintendent looked anxious. “Now, now, Charlesworth, you’re not still breaking your heart over that little Mrs. David in the Doon case? I know you took it badly at the time; but she was a married woman, and, after all, my dear boy …”
“Mrs. David!” said Charlesworth in accents of the liveliest astonishment. “Good lord, sir, this isn’t Mrs. David that I’m talking about. Victoria was the sweetest thing, absolutely the dearest thing, and I’m the greatest possible friends with them both to this day; but, no, this isn’t Victoria David … if all girls were like her…. Oh, well,” said Charlesworth, with a heavy sigh. “I beg your pardon, sir. The racing yacht?”
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copyright © 1941 by Christianna Brand, renewed 1969 by Christianna Brand
cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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Death in High Heels Page 24
