by Granger, Ann
Hum! I thought. I might have handled that better. But in the end, I needed to shake up a few people in this matter. Everyone had his or her story off pat to tell me. When Allegra Benedict died, everyone was somewhere else: Benedict at home, Miss Marchwood ostensibly looking for her or at the gallery. Angelis, also, was either at the gallery or out looking for the missing woman. Gray, the assistant, likewise. The beadle at the Arcade did not remember the ladies. Tedeschi, the jeweller, had confirmed to Morris they had been there. I’d have to talk to him again. But he was in his shop at the time of the murder. The only person to speak frankly and supply me with important information had been the crossing sweeper, Charlie Tubbs.
The same parlourmaid, still weepy, opened the door to me and told me that Miss Marchwood was upstairs in her own room.
‘She won’t come down, sir. I know she won’t. It’s very bad here. Everyone’s so upset. Mr Benedict . . . well, you can understand how he feels, poor gentleman.’ She dropped her voice to impart a confidence. ‘Miss Marchwood won’t want to meet him, sir, because the sight of her seems to irritate him.’
‘Mr Benedict has left the house,’ I said. ‘I met him halfway down the hill. I am sure it will be in order for me to talk to Miss Marchwood in the drawing room in his absence.’
The parlourmaid, whose name I belatedly remembered was Parker, looked unhappy and dithered for a moment, but as I remained firmly where I was on the doorstep, gave way.
‘You’d best come in, sir. I’ll go up and ask the lady if she can come down and have a word with you. She’s very distressed, too. I’m sure we all are!’
With that, and a sob, Parker showed me into the room I’d been in before, where the piano stood. As I waited by it for Isabella Marchwood to appear, I spent the time re-examining the photograph of Allegra Benedict. In it she looked so very young, beautiful and innocent, but perhaps also a little unpredictable. Behind those eyes staring so frankly at the camera, those lips turned up in a slight smile, perhaps intended for the photographer, what was running through her mind? Everyone, it seemed, had loved her. But what did she, still half a child, expect of her life? A passionate romance? Certainly Sebastian Benedict was no dashing hero of one of those tales. Travelling to England, now, that must have seemed an exciting prospect to a youngster. What had been her expectations of her new life? Rather more than she had found here, I suspected.
I sighed in sympathy with that young girl in the silver frame and touched the ruby vase. Italian glassware, perhaps. The red rose of my last visit had been replaced with a pink one. This was not the season for roses. This one and its predecessor had been forced under glass in some way and must be expensive.
A faint click behind me caused me to turn and I saw that Isabella Marchwood had come into the room and stood by the door, watching me apprehensively. As on the previous day she was dressed in black with the lace mantilla. She had been a very plain woman when I saw her then. Now she looked ill, white, drawn and with a nervous tic at one corner of her mouth. I wondered how far she was from complete collapse.
‘Your employer will not disturb us,’ I said reassuringly. ‘He has gone out. I saw him myself, walking down the hill towards Egham. Please, sit down.’
She came forward hesitantly and seated herself not far from the door so that, I presumed, she could bolt out if she heard Benedict return . . . or if I frightened her too much.
‘I am afraid I must trouble you again,’ I began.
‘Have you found him?’ she asked eagerly, leaning forward with clasped hands pressed against her flat bosom.
‘Not yet,’ I admitted, wondering if I was to be subjected to the reproaches Benedict had heaped on me.
But she only sighed, shaking her head. With her gaze averted, she asked very quietly, ‘Do you think it likely that you will find him?’
‘It is my job to find him, Miss Marchwood. I shall do my utmost. Perhaps, although I know it will distress you, you could tell me again about the events of that Saturday afternoon?’
She didn’t protest but began to recite her story again in a low, monotonous tone. I use the word ‘recite’ advisedly. She used very nearly the same words as before and it confirmed my suspicion that she had rehearsed all this in readiness for my first visit. When a person is afraid to deviate by so much as a phrase from an account, it often means they are afraid they will let slip something they mean to hide, contradict themselves, or become in some other way inconsistent. I have experienced the same with many witnesses. It is not what they are telling you that counts. It is what they are not.
When she had finished I asked, ‘There was no other reason for travelling up to London on that Saturday afternoon, apart from wishing to take a brooch to the jeweller?’
‘We did take the brooch to the jeweller!’ she said at once, sounding frightened and insistent at the same time.
‘Indeed, you did. An officer has spoken with the jeweller, Tedeschi.’
At this she looked up and blurted, ‘What did he say?’
‘That Mrs Benedict, with you, had visited him and left a brooch at his shop.’
‘Yes, yes!’ she said quickly. ‘That is what we did. I told you so. Why are you asking about it again?’
‘Because, Miss Marchwood, I have a problem. It is this. You left the jeweller’s about four thirty, but did not arrive at the gallery until a little after half past five. Mr Angelis is certain of the time. So, there is a period of an hour unaccounted for. Where were you both during that time? Or, more to the point, where was Mrs Benedict?’
‘But I don’t know!’ she wailed. ‘I don’t know what time we left Tedeschi’s shop. We were separated in the fog. I wandered up and down looking for her. I have no idea how long it took me!’ She scrabbled at her sleeve and dragged out a lace-trimmed handkerchief. ‘How can I tell you where poor dear Allegra was? I had lost her, lost her forever. She may already have been lying dead on the cold ground . . . oh, it’s more than I can bear!’
I felt sorry for the poor little woman but I had to ask my questions.
‘Then let me ask you bluntly, was there any other reason for travelling up to London on that afternoon? Some other errand? Did either of you hope to meet someone?’
‘No, no!’ she cried, looking terrified. ‘It’s just as I said.You don’t believe me, but it’s true, I swear it! I lost Allegra in the fog. Mr Benedict blames me, of course he does. After you came here yesterday, he flew into a terrible rage. He said some dreadful things but nothing could be worse than the things I’ve said to myself in my head. I blame myself! Since your visit, he won’t see me. I am to stay in my room and take my meals there. If I go out into the garden, then I am to walk out of sight of his study windows. If I am in the garden and see him coming, I am to turn back and go some other way. I have written letters to all the ladies of my acquaintance, asking if they know of a situation. I want to leave. I don’t want to stay here! He hates me! I hate myself! It is all my fault, all of it!’
Tears had begun to roll down her cheeks as she spoke. Now she was sobbing uncontrollably, just as according to Angelis she had been when she arrived at the gallery to report Mrs Benedict’s apparent disappearance. The tiny lace-edged square was inadequate to stem the flow.
A sobbing witness can’t give any kind of coherent account. I attempted to soothe her. ‘Come, come, it is not your fault a murderer was at large. But I must know how it came about that Mrs Benedict was in Green Park. That she was wandering up and down Piccadilly, yes, I can understand that. But that she should go into the park in such dreadful weather and when, as you tell me, the intention of the pair of you was only to go as far as the gallery . . .’
There was a scurrying outside the door and it opened to reveal the parlourmaid, Parker.
‘Sorry, Miss Marchwood, and sorry, Inspector. But the master is coming up the drive. He’s just stopped to have a word with the gardener, but he’ll be here directly.’
Isabella Marchwood jumped to her feet. ‘He mustn’t see me. He will throw me out on
the spot! I have nowhere to go! Please, Inspector, leave now. I can’t talk to you any more!’
With that, she rushed out of the room and I could hear her running up the staircase.
I picked up my hat and walked out of the front door as Benedict arrived at it.
‘I trust,’ he said when he saw me, ‘that this journey has proved worth your while, Inspector. The next time you come, I shall expect you to have news of some progress to report to me.’
He stalked past me into the house. The door was shut and I was alone on the doorstep.
‘Damn, damn, damn . . .’ I muttered to myself as I walked away. ‘Another ten minutes and I might have got something useful from that woman. She’s terrified of him, that’s clear. If she had been helping Allegra to do something Benedict would not have approved of, she’ll be determined he won’t find out. She’d rather the murderer went undiscovered!’
All the way back to the station and on the train back to London, I turned over in my head every word spoken by Isabella Marchwood that afternoon. The first time I’d spoken to her, she had been much more in control of herself. This time she could barely keep from breaking down. Surely, in that distressed state, she must have said something, if only one word . . .
Then there was Benedict’s attitude towards her to be considered. When I had first called at the house, Miss Marchwood had been the one to go up to his study and tell him I was downstairs and to conduct me to him. She had seemed to be in charge of the household.
All this had changed dramatically after I’d left. Benedict had, so she’d just told me, flown into a rage and ordered her to keep out of his sight. Why the sudden change in his attitude towards her? I couldn’t help but think it was because of my visit. What had I said? Was it just that his rage had initially been muffled by his sorrow and shock? But with my presence and my questions, he had realised this was now a police investigation and all that meant? He would not be permitted to grieve in private. There would be the attendant publicity engendered by our investigation, his relationship with his wife put under a microscope, his privacy invaded not only by us, but also by the press. That, in turn, might affect his business. He needed someone to blame. He could not blame himself; I suspected it was not in his nature. So he had turned on Isabella Marchwood. She had been hired to keep Allegra from harm and she had not done so. For Benedict it was as simple as that. That a murderer wandered in the fog did not excuse her lapse.
Or had I, despite my caution, planted the notion in his mind that this sorry affair might be down to more than unlucky chance? It was not simply that his wife, lost in the fog, had met a dangerous man out to kill. Such dreadful coincidences happen. But had Benedict now allowed the suspicion that there was more to it to take root and grow? That his wife’s presence in the park, still unexplained, was not due to her taking a wrong turn in poor visibility. That he might have been deceived and that Marchwood must have been party to it? It would explain his rage.
I reflected that Isabella Marchwood had been afraid from the first. Distressed, shocked, grief-stricken, all of those things . . . but also afraid. She had good reason to fear Benedict; and me, too, if she was hiding something. My questions that afternoon had clearly terrified her. But what else frightened her? Who else? What had I missed?
‘The brooch!’ I exclaimed, startling my fellow train passengers who looked at me with some apprehension.
‘Excuse me!’ I muttered and they returned to their newspapers or books or to studying the passing scenery, but keeping a wary watch on me at the same time.
Isabella Marchwood had been alarmed when she heard we had checked with Tedeschi that the two women had indeed visited his shop. She didn’t fear the jeweller would have contradicted her story, because he had already confirmed it. The women had been there. Why, then, so frightened? What did he say? That had been her question to me. What had Tedeschi actually said to the police? What could he possibly have said that would have invalidated her story in some way?
There was only one way to find out. I must call on the jeweller without delay. I went to the Burlington Arcade as soon as I got back to London, but Tedeschi had already left the shop for the day. He would not, the assistant told me, return until around eleven o’clock the next morning. I left word that I would call then to see him.
I stepped out of the Arcade into Piccadilly and consulted my watch. It was a quarter to five, the light fading fast. But Angelis should still be at the gallery. I turned my footsteps in that direction.
Chapter Seven
Inspector Benjamin Ross
CHARLES GRAY, still wearing his expression of otherworldly serenity, greeted me in the gallery and said that Mr Angelis would be pleased to see me in the office.
‘Things are quiet?’ I remarked, looking round. I was the only visitor.
‘Apart from the press, very quiet,’ agreed Gray. ‘Though even those gentlemen seem to have found somewhere else to be today.’
‘Your usual clients don’t care to be associated with vulgar crime, I suppose,’ I remarked.
He nodded. ‘We won’t see any business until all this is over.’
‘How about the owner, Mr Benedict. Has he come into the gallery since the sad event?’
‘No, sir. But one wouldn’t expect it, would one?’ was Gray’s cool response. ‘Mr Benedict is in mourning. Come this way, sir, if you would.’
Put in my place, I followed him.
Angelis greeted me civilly but this time I wasn’t offered sherry.
‘How can I help you, Inspector? I really can’t add anything to what I told you on your last visit.’ He sat back in his chair and folded his manicured hands over his waistcoat, today made of black and gold brocade. A thick gold ‘Albert’ chain was draped across it to secure his pocket watch. He wore rings, too, I noticed, also gold. As before, he struck me as far too exotic for smoky London.
‘I am wondering,’ I said casually, ‘whether among your clients you number a Mrs Scott, who lives in Clapham. She is a widow. Her husband, I understand, was a military man.’
After some lengthy pause Angelis inclined his head. ‘The name is familiar.’
‘She has bought pictures here?’ I asked him.
He raised a thick black eyebrow. ‘May I ask the reason for your interest, Inspector?’
It wasn’t for him to ask me questions, as I could have pointed out. But I didn’t want to antagonise him.
‘You’ll appreciate, Mr Angelis, that our enquiries seldom proceed in a straight line,’ I explained apologetically. ‘All kinds of tangential matters crop up. Most can be disposed of quickly and dismissed from the proceedings.’
It was as good an answer as he was going to get and he knew it.
‘Mrs Scott has bought here. Not often, perhaps, but on a few occasions.’
‘She has a good eye for a painting?’
He pursed his lips but he could not but answer frankly. This was the area of his expertise and he had a reputation to maintain.
‘I will be frank, Inspector, trusting it will go no further than these walls?’
I nodded. Whatever he had to tell me, I doubted it would ever be necessary to reveal Mrs Scott’s taste, or lack of it, in court.
‘The late Major Scott was, as you rightly said, a military man. Both he and Mrs Scott were among those Europeans trapped for five whole months when the garrison at Lucknow was besieged during the Indian Mutiny of fifty-seven and fifty-eight. Major Scott took a fever during the siege and died. Mrs Scott had also taken the fever but recovered when the garrison was relieved and better medical care could be had. She travelled with her husband throughout their marriage and, despite her terrible experience at Lucknow and the death of her husband there, she has retained a liking for pictures of oriental scenes: caravan halts, nomads camped in a desert among the ruins of ancient civilisations, bazaars, the women of the seraglio, that sort of thing. There are plenty of examples to be had. It is a fashionable subject. But not all are of the best quality. Mrs Scott . . .’ Angelis pu
t his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat delicately as he sought the words. ‘The lady cares for the scene depicted and is generally indifferent to the brushwork and ability of the artist, shall we say?’
‘I see,’ I said.
Hastily, Angelis added, ‘We don’t sell daubs here, Inspector. I beg you won’t think that! But the lady has a liking for certain artists, not necessarily ones I would recommend. But I have her instructions that if a work by one of them should become available, I am to let her know.’
‘Money is not an obstacle, then?’ I observed.
‘I don’t think so, Inspector, although I have no knowledge of the lady’s fortune. There are no children.’
‘You’ve visited her house at Clapham yourself, perhaps, delivering some work?’
Angelis was no fool. The heavy lids drooped over his lustrous eyes and then opened again. If I asked this, it was because I already knew the answer.
