The Curious Death of Henry J. Vicenzi (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 5)

by R. A. Bentley

  'Heh heh,' said Mrs Entwistle. 'Let's have a look at you, girl.'

  Whatever Dottie was expecting, it wasn't to find the walking stick skilfully hoisting her hem. Lewis stiffened in annoyance but she heard Stella give a little snort of suppressed mirth.

  'Humph, you're no good,' said Mrs Entwistle dismissively. 'Legs are too thin. You want good, sturdy legs in a servant.' She pointed her stick at Stella. 'Like that one.' This was too much for Stella, who was obliged to cover her mouth and turn away, her shoulders shaking. Oh dear, thought Dottie, another giggler. We'll never be able to look at each other.

  'Who let that old bat in here?' said a commanding voice. A man who could only be Henry Vicenzi, was standing at the door, supported by a disgruntled-looking woman whom Dottie guessed to be Esme. Though shorter than his sons and diminished by the arthritis that plagued him, the character of this grizzled patriarch instantly dominated the room.

  'I could hardly chase her off with sticks and pitchforks, Father,' complained Esme. 'She lives here.'

  'Doesn't have to ruin my dinner, does she?' grumbled Henry. 'Ah! And this must be Miss Dorothy Pickles, tales of whose charm and beauty precede her. How do you do, my dear?'

  'How do you do, sir?' said Dottie. 'Do call me Dottie.'

  'Dottie it is then,' said Henry, taking her hand in his claw-like own. 'You can sit by me. We'll go straight in, Jessup. I don't want to be up and down twice.'

  It was a delicious meal and an excellent wine, with Jessup and Mabel, the senior maid, attending sedulously upon them. The evening, however, could hardly be accredited a success. Henry, going to the head of the table, discovered Mrs Entwistle seated facing him and insisted she be relocated out of his sight, provoking language seldom heard in so venerable a personage. This caused Stella to succumb again to stifled whimpers of merriment from which she never fully recovered. Esme by contrast looked capable of biting a nail in half and said almost nothing; possibly due to the non-invitation of her young man, the Reverend Cedric Curry, which given Dottie's honoured presence must have been humiliating indeed.

  Nor were the brothers very communicative. Andrew, Dottie guessed, was a man of few words, but even Lewis was uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps preoccupied with his accountancy problem, still unexplained. For her own part she was to suffer a lengthy and robust interrogation by Henry regarding every aspect of her life and background, including some aspects she'd have preferred left unexplored. Her only satisfaction was that the senior Vicenzi seemed thoroughly to approve of her and would certainly welcome her into the family; an outcome that appeared to be taken for granted by all.

  With Dottie's ordeal at an end, civilised discourse was resumed, and she was attempting to make her peace with the smouldering Esme when Henry announced his departure.

  'But we haven't had pudding yet,' protested Esme. 'It's ice-cream.'

  'You don't like ice-cream,' snapped Henry. 'Come along, I'm tired.'

  'Heh heh, I'll have it then,' said Mrs Entwistle, who seemed perfectly capable of hearing when she wanted to.

  It appeared that one of Esme's daughterly duties was to put the old man to bed, and with a very bad grace she helped him to his feet; although if looks could kill it was doubtful if he would have left the table alive. Watching him shuffle from the room, the diners stared wordlessly at each other until Stella, unable to contain herself longer, collapsed into helpless laughter.

  'You all knew!' said Dottie accusingly. 'You knew it was going to happen!'

  'Rite of passage,' said Lewis, smiling for the first time that evening. 'All over now.'

  'It happened to me too, you know,' sniggered Stella. 'Of course, I was young and beautiful then.'

  'You're still young and beautiful, my dear,' Andrew assured her.

  'Aw, get away,' said Stella, fluttering her eyelashes.

  'This was a rare and special occasion, if you did but know it,' said Lewis. 'He usually takes his meals in his room. He seems to like you anyway.'

  'So I gathered,' said Dottie, who had silently borne his hand upon her knee.

  Andrew drained his glass with a flourish. 'Jessup, more wine!' he said. 'I think we've earned it.'

  'Lots more wine,' agreed Lewis.

  'In fact,' said Andrew, 'get us squiffy.'

  'Very good, sir,' said Jessup with butlerial aplomb.

  Chapter Two

  Dennis was kneeling on the lawn, tinkering with his aeroplane. He had it upside down and was peering disconsolately at its undercarriage.

  'Hello,' said Dottie, 'How are you getting on with it?'

  'It hit a tree this time. It wasn't much damaged but I've lost a wheel. It's hopelessly unbalanced without it.'

  'Haven't you got something else you can use?'

  'I may have; I'll have to go and look. Will you come with me? You can see my workshop.'

  Dennis's workshop proved to be a windowless alcove at the back of the garage. A mechanic's inspection lamp dangled from a hook overhead, harshly illuminating an oil-stained wooden bench laden with boxes of assorted electrical wire, scraps of wood and metal, and half-dismantled gadgets of unknown provenance. It looked a mess but Dottie knew that interesting things come from such chaos. Her father, she remembered, had once built a serviceable washing machine from an old oil-drum, a motor-mower engine and various odds and ends.

  'What on earth is this thing?' she asked, holding up a right-angled tube with bolts sticking out of it.

  'I don't know; it just looked useful. There's a ruined house where I go sometimes. There's all sorts of stuff just lying about.'

  'And this?'

  Dennis briefly glanced at it. 'Just a solenoid. And that's an old steam regulator. I thought the balls might be useful. How about this for a wheel?' He held up a large washer. 'It's the right size, more or less.'

  'Wouldn't it be rather heavy?'

  'Yes, I suppose it would, unless I drilled it out.'

  Dottie began to search through the boxes. 'Is this what you built it from, bits of this and that?'

  'Some of it. The airframe was the hardest part because it has to be light. I had to buy most of the wood for that and the elastic and the tissue for the skin, but I make a bit running errands and Dad gives me a penny on Saturdays. I don't buy sweets or anything so it mounts up.'

  'Well I think you're very clever.' She held up a scrap of aluminium. 'This is quite light and already has a hole in. You could cut a wheel out of it and use some of that rubber trim for a tyre.'

  Dennis smiled. 'Yes, that would probably do. Or I could just paint a tyre on it.'

  She watched as he scribed a neat circle on the aluminium and began cutting round it with tin snips, then walked away a little, not wishing to put him off. 'This is a nice car,' she said, peering into it.

  'The Daimler?' said Dennis, not looking up. 'No-one uses it except Miss Esme sometimes. Mr Henry never goes anywhere and the others use the Crossley mostly.'

  'The Crossley isn't Mr Lewis's then? I assumed it was.'

  'I don't know; I think it's sort of shared. Are you his girlfriend?'

  'I'm not sure yet.' said Dottie.

  'I hope you will be, then you'll be around for a while.'

  'Where exactly do you live?' she asked, changing the subject.

  'Up above,' he said, pointing. It's only one room and a bathroom so we have to share.'

  'You share it with your mum and dad?'

  'Just with dad. I haven't got a mum; she died when I was four.' He must have seen the look on her face because he said, 'I don't miss her or anything. I can't remember her.'

  There was a silence. Dottie wanted to give him a hug but thought he might be embarrassed. She didn't know much about boys. 'How old are you now?' she said, for want of anything better.

  'Eleven and a half. We've been here since I was six.'

  'You'll be wanting a file for that, she said, handing him one. I'll come and see what it looks like later. We're going swimming shortly so I must get ready.'

  'In the river?'

&
nbsp; 'Yes, we're hiring a boat apparently.'

  'That sounds fun.'

  Coming out she bumped into Jessup.

  'It's kind of you to help him, Miss Pickles,' he said. 'He doesn't get much company during the holidays.'

  'It's a pleasure. He's a nice boy. Doesn't he have any school pals?'

  'A couple, but they're away at the moment. I'd rather have him here, frankly. I don't want him running around in a gang, getting into trouble.' He indicated the Daimler. I'm here to load the jalopy. I'm driving you to the river.'

  *

  Pleasantly drowsy from her swim, Dottie Pickles lay on the grassy riverbank, letting the sun dry her out and enjoying the passing scene. Though not far from London, the prospect here could scarcely be more different from the industrial Thames familiar to dwellers in the metropolis. On the other side perfectly manicured gardens ran down to reeds, willows, and rustic landing-stages while behind her were lush meadows and distant woodland. It was not, however, peaceful, for the greenish waters were thrown into constant motion by pleasure craft of all kinds: the big steamers, crowded with Sunday trippers; the Indian canoes with their tall, raking smokestacks; the elegant, burbling slipper launches and squadrons of hired rowing skiffs like their own, filled with noisy, jolly people enjoying their day off.

  It was a perfect August afternoon, and the popular bathing spot was busy with all ages and classes; some happy to disport themselves in the shallows, while the more competent amphibians, including Lewis and Stella, thrashed athletically back and forth further out. They had stopped now, she noticed, and were treading water. Lewis waved. Dottie waved back.

  'I was a good swimmer once,' said Andrew, who'd been quiet for a while. 'They said it might help, and I've tried, but it's too darned painful.' He was ensconced, awkwardly twisted as usual, in one of the folding chairs they'd brought with them, not finding it comfortable to sit on the ground.

  'Was it a shell?' asked Dottie.

  'Sniper bullet. Then I got gangrene.'

  'What beasts we humans are.'

  He smiled. 'You're a sweet girl, aren't you? You always know exactly what to say.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'No cloying sympathy. I hate that.'

  'I'm a bit inclined to blurt actually, and then regret it. Hello, here's Jessup.' She got up to help him with the hamper. 'Gosh! Are we going to eat all that?'

  'Cook clearly thinks so, miss. Where should I spread the cloth?'

  'Here will probably do. Let me take an end.'

  'Ugh!' complained Stella, emerging from the river. 'It's all right until you come out and then it's like wearing a wet dishcloth. I prefer the sea and no-one around.'

  'You don't . . . ?' began Dottie.

  'Yes, why not?'

  'You're dripping on the sandwiches,' said Andrew.

  'Sorry. Where are the towels?'

  Lewis, who was close behind, threw her one.

  How fine he looks in his swimsuit, thought Dottie, especially when it's a wet dishcloth! She was not so sure about herself. Bathing clothes didn't flatter her neat figure as they did the generously endowed Stella. Evening dress she suited, the slinkier the better. She'd brought with her a rather daring little number in blue moiré silk for the party. Let's see Stella upstage her in that. She wasn't sure why she felt herself in competition with her friend but somehow she did.

  'You didn't stay in long,' said Lewis, settling down beside her.

  'I'm not much of a swimmer really; I prefer to watch the boats and the people. 'Egg and cress or salmon and cucumber?'

  'Salmon please.'

  'Do you wish me to put the kettle on now, madam?' asked Jessup.

  They had a pleasant tea, interrupted by Dottie's rescue of a wandering tot. Stella went with her to find its apparently oblivious mother. 'Do you like children?' she asked.'

  Dandling the wailing infant, Dottie nodded and smiled. 'I've decided I want four.'

  'I'd settle for one,' sighed Stella.

  'Oh dear. Is it the war wound?'

  'I don't suppose it helps.'

  'What does everyone want to do?' asked Lewis as they reboarded the skiff.

  'Can we go through the lock?' asked Dottie. 'I never have.'

  'Then heave ho me hearties,' declared Andrew, 'and we'll lay a course for the Spanish Main.'

  'Aye aye, Capt'n,' said Lewis, saluting.

  With the women sitting in the stern the two men rowed the hundred yards or so to the lock cut. The gates were against them, and together with numerous other craft they milled around waiting to go in.

  'Watch that oar yer scurvy lubber!' protested Andrew, as they narrowly avoided entanglement with another boat.

  'Who're you callin' a 'ore?' demanded the man's companion, a large young woman in a floppy sun-hat. 'Wash yer mouth out.'

  Further badinage was prevented by the egress from the lock of a river steamer and a clutch of kayaks. 'Quick, beat them to it!' cried Lewis, and pulling manfully they just managed to squeeze in; their rival being obliged to back out again for lack of room.

  Well pleased with themselves, they sat and watched the turmoil of incoming water as they rose between the dark and weed-grown walls.

  'Tell them your story, Andy,' said Lewis.

  Andrew chuckled in reminiscence. 'It was when we were coming back down one day. We were sharing the lock with an old chap in a launch, just him and his wife. He went in ahead of us and tied up. Unfortunately he neglected to pay out the line as the water dropped and the launch ended up suspended against the side by its mooring cleat. Something had to give and it was, of course, the cleat. The launch suddenly dropped a foot or so to the water and the old fellow, who'd been looking over the side, lost his false teeth.'

  'Oh dear, poor man!' said Dottie.

  'There's more. There he is, trying to see them lying on the bottom, and in go his specs as well! You should have heard his wife giving him what for.'

  They were still laughing when they arrived at the river's next level. 'I won't be long,' said Andrew as the gates opened. 'I'll meet you on the towpath.'

  'Hang on a minute,' said Stella, and scrambled out to help him.

  Left in the boat, Lewis rowed himself and Dottie out of the lock. 'Enjoyed yourself?' he asked.

  'It's been lovely,' said Dottie. 'Andrew can be quite funny can't he?'

  'He has been today; I wish . . .' Abruptly his expression changed. 'What the blazes!'

  Facing in the wrong direction, Dottie missed the beginning of the fracas. She turned to see Andrew lying on the ground with Stella attempting to shield him while Lewis traded blows with a stocky but smaller man whom she recognised as from the rival skiff. His sun-hatted companion was screaming at them to stop and a couple of loungers were attempting rather half-heartedly to intervene. Hastily securing the boat, she watched Lewis pick the man up bodily and raising him above his head hurl him savagely into the water. He then stood panting, arms akimbo, as the lock-keeper and his mate unceremoniously gaffed the vanquished combatant with a boat hook and dragged him semi-conscious ashore.

  'Oh, Lewis!' said Stella, much shocked. 'You might have killed him!'

  'I'll 'ave you in court for that, see if I don't,' said the woman. 'You're a bleedin' hanimal, that's what you are.'

  Leaving them to raise and dust-down Andrew, Dottie took her quietly aside. 'Would you consider three pounds to be suitable compensation?' she asked. They settled for four.

  Having arranged for the skiff to be collected, they returned along the towpath to the car, Laurence leaning heavily on his brother. 'I could have handled it,' he protested.

  'How would you have done that?' asked Lewis. 'Bite his ankles?'

  Dottie said nothing. Such unbridled aggression was disturbing, but also, she had to admit, rather exciting. She hadn't realised just how strong he was.

  *

  The furniture in the drawing room had been temporarily rearranged to create a small dance floor. There was a piano, but only Mrs Entwistle and Esme Vicenzi could play it to
an adequate standard. Esme refused to do so at her own party, which was fair enough, and Mrs Entwistle said she couldn't be bothered with that newfangled jazzy stuff. Music was therefore provided by a gramophone tended by Mary, the second maid, though at present there was a break in the programme while she went in search of the new box of needles. These had been inadvertently packed away with the room's breakables and refused to be found. Conversation in the interim was somewhat desultory and Jessup had been instructed to regularly recharge people's glasses in order to liven things up.

  After a duty dance with the alarmingly ill-coordinated Reverend Curry, Dottie had retired, slightly bruised, to retrieve her drink and perch on the arm of a chair, trying to look as if she were enjoying herself. Eventually a fair-haired girl to whom she'd not yet spoken appeared at her elbow. 'Hello, I'm Helen. You're Dottie, aren't you, Lewis's girlfriend?'

  'That,' grumbled Dottie, 'depends on whether he condescends to honour me with his presence tonight.'

  'Oh dear. Where has he gone?'

  'That's what I'd like to know.' She smiled wryly. 'I expect this is what matrimony is like.'

  'Sorry?'

  'Being abandoned for long periods. Work, golf . . . mistresses.'

  'Yes, I suppose it is.'

  They were silent for a while.

  'Are you a friend of Esme's?' asked Dottie brightly.

  'Not exactly. I work at the library. She asked me last year and I came and she asked me this year so I came again. One hopes to meet a man.'

  'You can have mine if you like. You'll never see him, of course, but at least it means you won't tire of each other.'

  'Er no, I suppose one wouldn't.'

  'Joke,' explained Dottie.

  Helen smiled thinly. 'Oh I see. Sorry.'

  Mary reappeared, triumphantly waving the box of needles, and shortly thereafter a foxtrot started up. Esme and Cedric wandered over, hand in hand.

  'Not dancing?' asked Esme.

  'First we need partners,' said Dottie.