Dance of Death

by Edward Marston

  ‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Iris. ‘And there she was, right in front of me.’

  Alice was amused by her naivety. Iris continued to talk about the woman for the next five minutes. It was only when they paused to cross the road that she changed the subject.

  ‘What sort of evening did you have last night?’

  It was a question that Alice had feared because it revived some unpleasant memories. She found it impossible to give an honest answer.

  ‘We had a lovely time,’ she heard herself saying.

  ‘How was your brother?’

  ‘Oh, Paul was starting to behave like his old self. It was a joy to see him.’

  Paul had suggested the park because the bus stopped right outside the gate. All that he had to do was to walk down a gravel pathway for a couple of minutes to one of the benches. He was relying on the fact that his letter had actually been delivered that morning and that Mavis would comply with his wishes. It never crossed his mind that she wouldn’t turn up. He was also counting on good weather but, in the event of rain, he hoped that the wrought iron bandstand would give them some protection. As it was, bright sunshine had dispelled the gusting wind and was now lighting up the park, bringing out the birds in profusion. He could hear them twittering merrily away. Paul felt better than he’d been for weeks. Inhaling deeply, he thrust out his chest. Because of his poor eyesight, he made slow, deliberate progress until he saw the vague outline of the bandstand looming up before him. In younger days, he and Colin Fryatt had played on it many times, daring each other to climb to the very top of its ornate ironwork. It was another reason why he’d selected that particular spot for the meeting. It kindled rich boyhood memories. He and his best friend had enjoyed so many wonderful adventures in the park. A different one now beckoned. Choosing an empty bench, he sat down to wait. Within minutes, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder.

  Mavis Tandy had a gentle voice with a trace of a Kentish accent.

  ‘You must be Paul,’ she said.

  Simon Wilder had taken over one of the bedrooms as his study. Marmion was glad that it was so large and had such a high ceiling. He would not have enjoyed spending time with Clissold in a confined space. Although the solicitor claimed that he was there out of curiosity, he was watching Marmion carefully and asking to examine anything that the inspector found. It was inhibiting. Wilder’s threefold passions – dance, theatre and photography – were on display in abundance. The walls were plastered with overlapping posters of dances and plays in which he’d been involved. Marmion noticed the framed poster of Bernard Shaw’s comedy, You Never Can Tell. Listed among the cast were the names of Simon Wilder and Catherine Clissold. It was during the run of that play, Marmion remembered, that the couple had first met. Clissold looked over his shoulder.

  ‘You can see why my sister was happy to change her name to Wilder,’ he said. ‘Her given name does not exactly have a theatrical ring to it, alas. Both of them were committed to a career onstage at that point. Their mutual love of dance took them in another direction.’

  ‘So I understand, sir.’

  ‘It was a big decision to make but … it was what they wanted.’

  ‘Did you ever see Mr and Mrs Wilder dance?’

  ‘No, Inspector. My taste runs to opera and orchestral music.’

  ‘But they were described as the nearest thing to Vernon and Irene Castle.’

  ‘To this day,’ said Clissold, as if taking pride in the fact, ‘those names are meaningless to me. Very little about America has a purchase on my attention.’

  The roll-top desk was littered with letters and bills, some of the latter as yet unpaid. Marmion searched the drawers and found each one crammed with theatre programmes, dance advertisements or correspondence with a solicitor.

  ‘I assumed that you would handle any legal matters,’ said Marmion.

  ‘Clients in the family are never a good idea,’ returned the other, loftily. ‘Besides, I’m not a low-grade lawyer dealing with the more mundane issues of life. I specialise in criminal law, Inspector. I’m on your side.’

  ‘I see,’ said Marmion, concealing his dislike of the man.

  He turned his attention to the two large cameras that stood on a small cabinet in a corner. Both were of good quality and partnered with a tripod. Several books on photography were piled carelessly on an oak bookcase. There were also books on dancing, one of which, Marmion noted, had been written by Vernon and Irene Castle. He could not resist thumbing through it.

  ‘I doubt that it’s an enthralling read,’ said Clissold with disdain. ‘I’m a Trollope man myself. You get a good story, engaging characters and some priceless humour all rolled into one.’

  ‘Given the circumstances,’ said Marmion, putting the volume aside, ‘you’ll understand why I’m more interested in Mr Wilder’s reading habits than in yours. Everything in this study helps to define the man. That’s why it’s important to see every bit of it.’ He reached out to take a photograph album from the bottom shelf of the bookcase. ‘Are these photographs that he took, I wonder?’

  ‘I daresay that they are. Simon was a very gifted photographer.’

  Marmion opened the album and found himself looking at a photograph of Simon and Catherine Wilder at a dance contest. Striking an imperious pose, they were standing in front of a dance band. There were several other photographs of the couple and they clearly had elegance and glamour when dressed in their finery. Marmion then came to a collection of photographs taken by Wilder himself. Featuring a series of female dancers – and the occasional male – they were of noticeably better quality. The women were of varying age and build. What they shared was an obvious delight in facing a camera with Wilder behind it.

  ‘There’s your answer, Inspector,’ said Clissold, wrinkling his nose. ‘Look at the way they’re smiling at Simon. They’re infatuated with him. Imagine what their husbands must think. My brother-in-law was a handsome man who danced with their wives to suggestive music and had a licence for bodily contact with them. That’s enough to arouse anyone’s jealousy. Search among the husbands of Simon’s pupils. That’s where your killer is lurking.’

  ‘Thank you for your advice, sir,’ said Marmion, coolly. ‘I had already made that deduction but, in my case, it was tempered by caution. I never jump to hasty conclusions. They’re invariably wrong.’

  They’d spent a long time searching the study and tidying it as they went along. During the remaining ten minutes, Clissold maintained a resentful silence. When they’d sifted through other albums and the last pile of correspondence, he rubbed his beefy hands together.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘that’s everything, I fancy.’

  ‘Not quite,’ argued Marmion, gazing around, ‘there’s one last item.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve been through Mr Wilder’s appointments book and had a long talk to his accompanist, Mrs Pattinson. Both sources told the same story. The dance studio was very profitable. Money changed hands on a daily basis. Your brother-in-law may have been very casual with regards to everything else but he’d surely protect the day’s takings. I sense that there’s a safe in the house somewhere – most likely, in here.’

  ‘You only have to ask my sister. Catherine will tell you.’

  ‘That would be cheating, Mr Clissold. I’d rather sniff it out myself, if you don’t mind.’ He walked across to a large and rather garish painting of Spanish dancers at some kind of festival. Lifting it gently from its hook, he swung it aside to reveal a safe set into the wall. Marmion smiled at his companion.

  ‘You didn’t know that was there, sir, did you?’

  Though he would have preferred to accompany the inspector, Keedy accepted that someone had to stay at the police station for the routine task of taking statements from potential witnesses. The murder had been given a measure of prominence on the inside pages of the newspapers and there was an appeal for people to come forward if they had any information that might be of value to the police. As wa
s so often the case, Keedy had to put up with spurious witnesses who invented stories in order to feel a sense of importance they lacked in their normal lives. Keedy was brusque with them and threatened to make an arrest for wasting police time. The duty sergeant at Chingford police station saw three or four people scuttling out of the room with their tails between their legs. Keedy had seen through them at once.

  A team of detectives had been going from house to house in the area where the murder had taken place but none of them had found any useful intelligence. Those who had been out late that night had been watching the Zeppelin raid and it had been an irresistible distraction. Keedy was realistic. Nobody was going to walk into the police station with positive evidence regarding the killer’s identity because the crime had taken place in a dark alley. He and Marmion would have to beaver away until the clues began to emerge. During a long gap when he was left alone, Keedy was pleased when a young police constable brought in a cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It’s much appreciated.’

  ‘There’s a lady outside, sir. She’s asking to see you.’

  ‘Is she drunk or sober?’

  ‘Oh, she’s very sober, Sergeant.’

  ‘That will be a welcome change. Two of the so-called “witnesses” I had the misfortune to interview came in here stinking of beer.’

  ‘This lady wears perfume, sir – a very nice one, actually.’

  ‘Did she give a name?’

  ‘Yes, sir – it’s Miss Thompson. She claims to have met you.’

  ‘Send her in, Constable.’

  When the man went out, Keedy forgot about his tea and rose to his feet. He smoothed down his hair with the flat of his hand and straightened his jacket. Odele Thompson was then shown in and the door was closed behind her. She seemed pleased that Keedy was alone. For his part, he noticed how much attention she’d paid to her appearance. When they’d called on her the previous day, she’d worn little make-up and was dressed in a blouse and a loose skirt. Odele had now used her cosmetics liberally and put on a navy-blue suit that accentuated her figure. On one lapel was a gold brooch in the shape of a dancing couple.

  After an exchange of greetings, she accepted the seat he offered her and adjusted her skirt. Keedy sat down again. She held his gaze for a moment and, before he could stop it happening, he felt a frisson of pleasure.

  ‘What can I do for you, Miss Thompson?’ he asked, politely.

  ‘To begin with, you can call me Odele.’

  ‘If that’s what you prefer.’

  ‘What’s your first name, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’d rather you call me by my rank.’

  ‘At least I can know your Christian name, can’t I?’

  ‘It’s Joseph, actually, but I’m Joe to most people.’

  ‘I’m not most people,’ she said, tossing her hair. ‘Joseph is a nice name. And it’s about as Christian as it could be.’ She laughed, then became businesslike. ‘But I didn’t come here to discuss names. I’ve thought of something that may be relevant to the investigation.’

  ‘Oh – what was that?’

  ‘I was too dazed even to consider it at the time but it hit me this morning as I was looking through the programme for the British Dance Championships.’

  ‘I’m listening, Miss Thompson …’ He corrected himself. ‘Odele, I should say.’

  ‘Well, that’s it – the championships.’

  He was bewildered. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t know what a cut-throat business the world of dance can be. We may look graceful as we glide around the dance floor but most of us are intensely competitive. We have to be, in order to survive.’

  ‘Is there a big reward for the winner of this dance championship?’

  ‘It’s not the money that matters, Joseph, and it’s not the gold medal or the cup. It’s the kudos. To be able to say that you are British Champions lifts you above the herd. Simon won the title on two occasions with Catherine,’ she said, ‘and he promised me that our turn would be next.’

  ‘I’m sorry that Fate robbed you of it, Odele.’

  ‘It wasn’t fate who stabbed him to death. It was someone who’d stop at nothing to prevent us winning the title.’

  ‘Do you have any particular person in mind?’

  ‘I have two possible suspects to offer you.’

  ‘Which of the two is the prime suspect?’

  ‘That would have to be Allan Redmond. No, no,’ she went on as he started to write the name down, ‘there’s no need for that.’ She opened her bag to extract a piece of paper. ‘I have both names here and the addresses where you’ll find them.’ She gave him the paper then clasped his hand before he could move it away. ‘Don’t tell them that I put you on to them, will you?’

  ‘There’s no need for you to be mentioned at all.’

  ‘If it’s known that I’m behind this, there could be repercussions.’

  ‘In that event, you’ll be offered complete protection.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Realising that she was still holding his hand, she let it go. Keedy was a trifle disappointed. ‘I could be wrong, of course, but I’ve seen the lengths people will go to. Both of the people I’ve named there were close rivals of ours. Question them, Joe.’

  ‘We will, don’t worry.’ He glanced down at the first name. ‘Do you really believe that Allan Redmond is capable of a savage attack?’

  ‘I know only too well that he is.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  She rose from her chair. ‘Let’s just say that we used to be … acquaintances,’ she said, evasively. ‘Please keep me informed of any developments.’ She held his gaze once more. ‘You know where I live.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Paul Marmion had only ever seen her through the prism of Colin Fryatt’s eyes. His friend had described her in glowing terms and – because of his impaired sight – that was how Paul now viewed her. He truly believed that Mavis Tandy was beautiful. Through his milky vision, he couldn’t see that she was, in fact, a rather plain, thin-lipped young woman with an ugly mole on her cheek. She, however, had been given a far more accurate description of Paul and had been able to pick him out instantly. Until she got close to him, he seemed to have survived action at the front without any visible injury. It was only when she sat beside him on the bench that she saw the telltale scars on his face and the constant fluttering of his eyelids.

  ‘What happened, then?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Mavis. The explosion knocked me senseless. I’ve no idea how long I must have been there. I felt like death. I had shrapnel wounds all over.’

  ‘Where was Colin?’

  ‘He was quite close. I was able to crawl to him.’

  ‘In his last letter, he told me that the two of you had agreed that, if you had to die, you’d rather do it together.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Paul, ‘we did agree that. To be honest, there’ve been times when I wish I had been killed alongside him at the Somme.’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s a terrible thing to wish for.’

  ‘It’s like hell some days.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand, Mavis.’

  ‘Do you feel guilty?’

  ‘That’s part of it.’

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it does. You can tell me, Paul.’

  Some children were playing with a ball nearby and making a lot of noise. One of them kicked the ball and it bounced off Paul’s shin. He flinched slightly.

  ‘Can we go somewhere else?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘There’s a cafe not far away. We can have a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’d like that, Paul.’

  ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘If you’ve got somewh
ere to go …’

  ‘I want to stay with you as long as I can,’ she said, taking him by the arm and easing him off the bench. ‘I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Let’s have that cup of tea, shall we? I want to hear a lot more about Colin.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Can you manage?’

  ‘It’s easier if you hold me, Mavis,’ he said, relishing her touch and warming to her with each second. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

  When Marmion returned to the police station, he found that Keedy was interviewing a man. He did not have to wait long. The door soon opened and Keedy more or less propelled his visitor towards the exit, thrusting him out into the street.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘It was someone who came to confess to the murder.’

  ‘That was obliging of him.’

  ‘All he had was a ridiculous cock-and-bull story.’

  ‘We usually get one or two fantasists.’

  ‘This idiot gave himself away completely,’ said Keedy. ‘He claimed to have stabbed the victim once in the chest because of an unpaid gambling debt. You saw him. A skinny little runt like that wouldn’t have the strength to do what the real killer did. That’s why I threw him out.’

  ‘Did I catch a whiff of alcohol as he went past?’

  ‘He was reeking of it.’

  In order to compare notes, they went into the room that had been set aside for them. After hanging his hat on the back of the door, Marmion sat down and talked about his search of the victim’s study.

  ‘Mrs Wilder’s brother stood over me all the time,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t give me a bill for his services afterwards. You know what solicitors are like.’

  ‘I avoid them like the plague.’

  ‘We uncovered some interesting things but nothing that gave me an idea of who the killer could possibly be. My hopes rose when I discovered the safe but we were unable to open it. Mrs Wilder didn’t know what the combination was or where her husband kept it hidden.’

  ‘In the safe, perhaps?’ joked Keedy.