by Roger Keevil
“You were faced with two hazards, one current, and one historical. As for your present situation, granted, there's many a man or woman who likes an occasional drink to help them through the rigours of the day, but if the drink is more than occasional, and that leads to them not being able to perform their job satisfactorily, with a resultant showdown with the management, who knows what action might ensue? As for your personal history, perhaps the actual facts of the period you spent in France were about to become known to Miss Delaroche. Certainly Mrs. Eagle had very little hesitation in revealing them to us this morning. Maybe she had told Miss Delaroche, or was about to do so. Either way, discovery could well bring a ruined reputation and an end to your cosy and respectable position.
“On the subject of reputation, Mr. Lamb, you also certainly had a great deal to lose. Was your greatest achievement, the celebrated Pirelli Diamond award for your remarkable culinary skills, in danger because a hard-nosed businesswoman set a higher store on finances rather than talent? I know from the conversations we've had how greatly you treasure that accolade, and if it were lost because you weren't allowed to exercise your skills fully on account of cash constraints, you would be doubly damaged. Not only by the simple fact of having your prized award taken away from you, but by the possibility that the word would go round in the restaurant world – 'has Oleg lost his touch?'. Chefs are notoriously volatile – I think you'd probably admit that you are certainly no less so than most – so could a feeling of resentment boil over into drastic and violent action? You have to admit, I must consider that possibility.
“Mr. Rockard – now your relationship with Miss Delaroche was, of course, personal rather than professional. I say that, but it seems that there was a certain blurring of the lines. I think that the way matters stood between yourself, Miss Delaroche, and Miss Peel is convoluted, to say the least. Were you the user in the affair, I wonder, or were you being used? And if the latter, what self-respecting man could put up with being told to – let's say 'perform' - to order, especially when he was more used to playing by his own personal rules?”
“Look, inspector,” said Toby, “this is all rubbish. You know what I felt about Angie and me – I told you plainly enough, but I didn't expect you to go blabbing in front of everybody. But whatever the score, we were mostly pretty good together, so why would I kill her?”
“Ah, Mr. Rockard,” replied Constable. “If I were to tell you the number of people who are murdered by their own partners, I'm sure you'd be astonished. Or perhaps not. Because, yes, you and I have spoken, and I've gained the impression during those conversations, as well as from what others have told me, that you are as capable of impulsive action as anyone. Is that what happened in this case? Did something suddenly snap?
“So there we have a summary of one of the three main pillars on which I have to build a case – motive. Each of you has one. Granted, some are more obvious than others, but taken in conjunction with other details, each might be sufficient. So then we come on to means. We know the lady was stabbed – that's not a secret. But as yet, we don't have an identifiable murder weapon. There are possible candidates, including a knife discovered by chance, but Forensics are still investigating them, so perhaps I should leave that matter for the moment. Although, on the subject of Forensics, they are in possession of several items, found at or near the scene of the crime, which pose a number of questions, and which perhaps also provide a number of answers. There is, for instance, a cheque for a significant amount of money. Except that that cheque was left incomplete, so we ask ourselves why that might be. If it was of no use, why wasn't it shredded like the business letter which was also found in Miss Delaroche's office? There are bloodstains – we have questions concerning those. And there were some kitchen gloves, also not where one would expect them to be – I wonder if it is possible to account for the number of gloves used daily in the kitchen of an establishment such as the 'Palais de Glace'? Just some of several so-far-unanswered questions. There are others. Who was most affected by the restaurant's financial uncertainties? Who was most threatened by what Angelique Delaroche knew about them? And finally, what about that extremely noisy door to the back yard? It's made me jump more than once, although I dare say you are all used to it and don't give it a second thought. But somebody was heard to use that door at what might well be the crucial moment on Friday night. The question is, who?
“And that brings me to the third principal question – opportunity. We know all the suspects were in the restaurant at some time during the day on Friday, except for Elle Eagle. At least, we know where she was at midday – at her office taking a call from Miss Ladyman. What she did before arriving at the restaurant in the evening, and who else she spoke to, we have no idea. Not, of course, that it is particularly relevant, because the time we have to consider is the evening. And with the assistance of the notebook of my colleague, Sergeant Copper, I believe I have been able to reconstruct a sequence of events which accounts for all the facts. And this is where the leaps of faith which I spoke of earlier come in. I believe I know the truth. And if you can tell me I'm wrong … well, let's see about that.”
“Inspector,” said Georgie Ladyman, leaning forward so that her face moved into the pool of light over her table, “you keep talking about possibilities and considerations and questions, but is this actually getting us anywhere? Do you intend to tell us what these deductions of yours are, or is this all just for dramatic effect, like some final scene in a film?” Her expression held a challenge.
“I wish I could call them deductions, Miss Ladyman,” responded Constable. “But deductions are arrived at from provable facts. The best I can offer everybody is abductions – the sort of conclusions which seem to be the only ones to fit the available information. The difference was once explained to me by a very pedantic law lecturer – someone even more pedantic than I am sometimes accused of being.” He smiled gently. “And thank you for your use of the word 'dramatic', because we have a situation here which is not unlike a play. We have a backstage area, as well as what some of you call 'front-of-house'. And we have the players, who, to quote Shakespeare, 'have their exits and their entrances'. So let's take it from the rise of the curtain at seven-thirty on Friday evening, when the restaurant opened as usual. Everything was ready for the guests to arrive – the tables were immaculate, the ice sculpture in pride of place. At quarter to eight, Toby Rockard was seen having heated words with Miss Delaroche. Was she insisting that he adhere to her request, or was he digging his heels in? Did she have a change of heart? We can only speculate. A few minutes later Candida Peel arrived, and she and Mr. Rockard were in full view of everyone in the restaurant until ten to ten. So were Georgina Ladyman and Elle Eagle, who arrived together at around quarter to eight. Miss Delaroche, we know, joined them between eight-thirty and nine-thirty, before going through to her office to work, reminding Miss Ladyman of her wish to speak to her later. Oleg Lamb was of course in the kitchen, working together with Pepe Roni, until at least quarter to ten – at some time after that he was to and fro between the kitchen and the dining room, and his movements cannot be confirmed. And Carey Agnew's duties meant that he could be anywhere at any time.
“So, the last time Angelique Delaroche was verifiably seen alive by more than one person was when she went into her office. At around ten minutes to ten, Candida Peel was witnessed entering Miss Delaroche's office. Was it merely to compliment her on a pleasant evening? I don't think so. I believe that there was a much more business-like intent, judging from what we have been told concerning what we might call the commercial value of her writings. A value of one thousand pounds, apparently, to judge from the cheque which was found in the office. So I think that Miss Peel demanded her payment, either in cash or in kind, in the form of Mr. Rockard's services. But I think Miss Delaroche was in no mood to be bullied – we know that she must have refused to complete the partially-written cheque, instead tearing it defiantly in two, and no doubt threw Miss Peel out with, I imagine, an exch
ange of harsh words. Perhaps she sought to turn the tables on Miss Peel with the threat to expose her to her editor and finish her career unless she backed off. At any rate, Miss Peel was seen to leave the office with a face like thunder, and she swept through the restaurant and out of the front door, ignoring Mr. Rockard. How many blows to his self-esteem can one man be expected to take during the course of an evening? So it's not surprising that he himself was seen storming out towards the back door, past the ice-carving on its trolley, at five to ten.
Constable briefly consulted the notebook in his hand. “According to my sergeant's notes – and I have to pay tribute to the meticulous way he has compiled these ...”
All eyes turned to Dave Copper, with expressions which varied from unease to bewilderment. He ducked his head in a sort of embarrassed half-bow of acknowledgement.
“... the next move in the drama came just before ten o'clock. Carey Agnew entered the kitchen, where he found Oleg Lamb. The two discussed the arguments between Georgina Ladyman and Elle Eagle which Mr. Agnew had overheard at their table, and Mr. Lamb was heard to declare that he would follow the matter up with Miss Delaroche. In his own words, he was intending to 'sort it'. Mr. Agnew returned to the dining room to see Miss Ladyman and Mrs. Eagle out of the front door at ten o'clock, leaving Mr. Lamb alone in the kitchen, having dismissed his colleague Mr. Roni. The two ladies said their goodbyes to one another outside the front door. And so it appears that, one by one, four of our actors have left the stage, with just Mr. Agnew and Mr. Lamb remaining. Except, that is, for one small piece of information. Vi Leader heard the back door crash closed again a few moments later. She didn't see who it was. But in my view, only one person could plausibly have been responsible.
“Miss Peel had left at the end of a conversation at which there was probably very little remaining to be said. Mr. Rockard, in the mood he seemed to be in, would surely not have been minded to return for a renewal of the earlier scene after his swift and noisy exit. Mr. Agnew was busily attending to the remaining customers in the restaurant, and after his earlier contretemps with Miss Delaroche, was probably wisely keeping out of her way. And Mr. Lamb, despite his manifest dislike of the requirement, was engaged in his 'social round' of the dining tables. Which leaves us with just one person - Mrs. Ladyman, with whom Miss Delaroche had expressed a desire to speak further about an important matter.”
“Just a moment, inspector,” intervened Elle Eagle. “That can't be right. Georgie didn't leave the table after Angie left us. And you yourself just agreed that Georgie and I left here together.”
“But for one thing which you yourself told us,” countered Constable. “True, you left together, but you were not together after that. You told us were parked around the corner, so you couldn't witness Miss Ladyman's actions. And this is what I believe them to have been. And no doubt,” he said, turning to Georgie, “you'll point out any flaws in my logic.” The gallery owner sat stock-still, her face expressionless as she gazed at the inspector.
“You returned to the restaurant via the back door, hoping thereby to remain unseen. And I think at that point, you were careful to close it very softly behind you. Despite the considerable amount of to-ing and fro-ing, you succeeded in entering Angelique Delaroche's office without anybody else being aware of the fact, and were confronted with the revelation that you had feared – a letter addressed to you from Christeby's, the prominent London auction house. It really wasn't particularly clever of you to have given them your address as the restaurant rather than your gallery, but if people who commit crimes didn't make mistakes, my job would be a great deal more difficult. So why should they be writing to you? Well, as the letter has been thoroughly shredded, I do not have the definitive answer to that, but a few pieces of it have been reconstructed so far, and they were enough to start a train of thought. The word 'court' was identified – not, as I immediately thought, a reference to Mrs. Eagle, but a pointer to the identity of a certain painting. One which you recently removed from the restaurant for a time to undergo cleaning, and which has never hung properly since it returned. 'The Queen's Diamonds' – the court portrait of Marie Antoinette in all her finery, which everybody else believed to be a copy. But I think you suspected it might be an original eighteenth-century work by a celebrated artist and, as such, an extremely valuable item. And so you removed it, had a copy made which you placed in the restaurant, and sent the genuine portrait to Christeby's for verification. Tell me, Miss Ladyman, how am I doing so far?”
“It's by Louise Elizabeth Vigée Lebrun,” said Georgie calmly. “It was in a job lot I bought at auction when we were setting up the restaurant, with a lot of other thoroughly mundane things. Well, look around you. Nobody thought any of them were anything other than copies, and sometimes not very good ones at that. And in the dim light of a restaurant ...” She tailed off.
“But his one was different?” suggested Constable.
“It was the eyes,” said Georgie. “Ever since the 'Palais de Glace' opened, they have followed me – they seemed almost to be pleading to be rescued from anonymity. So I did some research, and in the end there was nothing to do but take the picture itself to be authenticated.”
“And that sounds all very noble, Miss Ladyman, but I have an idea that it was not quite as simple as that. Because tied up with all this is the fact that the finances of the restaurant have, for one reason or another, fallen on hard times. You yourself told me that you have next to no money invested in the establishment, but I believe that you thought that was no reason why you shouldn't be able to take a great deal out. An ethical partner would have shared the good fortune with her old friend and colleague – a selfish one would have taken everything for herself. So when you entered Miss Delaroche's office, she confronted you with the letter. I imagine that she would have been furious, considering that she was about to lose everything if the restaurant failed – I'm guessing that she quite possibly threatened you with reporting your actions to the police.”
“I begged her not to,” said Georgie. “I pleaded with her. We'd been friends for so long. Couldn't she just overlook one stupid error of judgement? We were so close once – so good together. Why not again? But she said that cut no ice with her - she was adamant.”
“So you took your fatal decision. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', was that it?”
“Think what you like, inspector. I'm not responsible to you for the way I live my life.”
“No, Miss Ladyman,” replied Constable heavily. “But you have to answer for the way you ended Miss Delaroche's life. And here is the closing act of the tragedy. You had reached a dead end as regards your former friend. I think you left the office, boiling with rage and rejection, and came face to face with the ice sculpture in the rear hall. St. George and the Dragon, with the saint's hand raised, holding a still formidable ice lance. And in that tiny window of opportunity you seized the lance, burst back into the office, stabbed the startled Miss Delaroche with a single blow to the heart, shredded the incriminating letter, and fled, slamming the back door behind you, at five past ten.”
“Congratulations, inspector,” said Georgie wryly. “You paint a very convincing picture. I don't suppose there's any point in attempting to deny what happened – you seem to have covered everything. So what happens now?”
“May I suggest,” said Elle Eagle, rising to her feet, “that what happens now is that you do not say another word. Excuse me, inspector, but I am now speaking as Miss Ladyman's legal advisor.” She turned to Georgie. “That is, if she'll have me?”
“For old times' sake?” Very quietly, the tears began to flow down Georgina Ladyman's face.
“For old times' sake.” agreed Elle. She took Georgie in a prolonged hug, but then resumed a brisk and businesslike attitude, surveying the stunned faces around her. “I hope everyone will agree that any talk regarding the future of the 'Palais de Glace' will have to be put on hold. Georgie, I think we are going to go with the inspector now. Mr. Constable has his duty to do �
� and I have mine. Will you lead the way, inspector?”
The small procession, Dave Copper bringing up the rear, made its way out of the front door.
*
“So, George really did kill the dragon, then, guv?” The two detectives, mugs of canteen tea in their hands, were taking their seats at their desks at the police station, as Andy Constable prepared for the tedium of putting the case into a written report for his superiors.
“It's a slightly unchivalrous way to describe the late Miss Delaroche, sergeant, but yes.”
“Anything you want me to do?”
“Not really. Although … yes, you can call Dr. Sicke and tell her to put her investigations into that kitchen knife on the back burner for the moment.”
“How so, guv?”
“Well, I'm pretty sure, and you can confirm it for me by having a word with Vi Leader and Oleg Lamb, that the knife will turn out to be one of his set. And I bet that chefs spend a fortune replacing their precious knives because the wash-up staff are forever throwing them away in the food waste by accident. And while you're on to Vi, just ask her as a matter of interest how many pairs of yellow gloves she gets through in the average week. I don't think Forensics are going to have to trouble themselves overmuch with those rubber gloves either.”
“So no worries about who was wearing them?”
“Supremely irrelevant, sergeant. Who needs to worry about fingerprints when the murder weapon is going to melt away in minutes into a little pool of water?”
“Which is why ...” A smile spread across Copper's face as light dawned. “So that's how you figured it out.”
“Exactly. How else were we going to account for what you yourself noticed, which was that the blood around the wound looked as if it had been partly washed away, plus the diluted bloodstain on the blotter where the body had fallen forward. We saw how Pepe Roni cut his finger on an edge of ice, so we knew it could be sharp – and the heat of the dead woman's body effectively removed the evidence.”
