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

by R. A. Bentley

'I suppose we could dance with each other,' said Helen doubtfully.

  Recalling Miss Agatha Dunston's dancing classes at school, Dottie shuddered. The cellar with its spiders, she thought, would be preferable.

  'Cedric,' commanded Esme, 'dance with Dottie.'

  'I already have,' said Cedric rudely.

  'Well dance with Helen then.'

  Pulling a face, Cedric led the somewhat taller Helen away.

  'Honestly!' said Esme, watching them go. 'Where's Lewis?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Typical!'

  'Is it typical?'

  'Typical that he's not here for my party.'

  Queen Victoria! thought Dottie, who knew she'd seen her somewhere before. Taller, of course, but with the same disagreeable expression. Did Cedric resemble Albert? She supposed he did a bit, being rather lacking in the hair department. 'There don't seem to be many here,' she said, and instantly felt guilty. So much for always saying the right thing.

  'It's not my fault,' said Esme defensively. 'I never get out except to church and the library. I asked the other girls as well but they haven't come. Have you spoken to Father?'

  'We had a little chat. Then he announced he was going to bed. Mabel's doing him.'

  'Typical! He doesn't want to see me enjoying myself, and he doesn't like Cedric.'

  'Is it serious with Cedric?' asked Dottie diffidently.

  Esme hesitated. 'We're unofficially engaged. It's all right to tell you now because tomorrow it'll be official, whatever he says!'

  'How exciting!' said Dottie. 'I hope you'll be very happy.'

  But the expression on Esme's Hanoverian features was not a rapturous one. 'If you don't mind,' she said 'I ought to circulate.'

  Jessup came by, and Dottie dutifully held out her glass to him. 'In the garden,' he whispered, 'in conclave with Mr Andrew.'

  'Thanks, Jessup, you're a brick.' She crossed the room to Stella, who was talking to a pair of grey-haired sisters and an earnest-looking young man with an air of messianic fervour about him. She drew her to one side. 'Have you been saved, sister? Take the pledge and join us.'

  Stella rolled her eyes. 'You too? You wouldn't think one could get so much pleasure out of not doing something. Would he be any good for Helen, do you suppose, or would that be too cruel?'

  'I wouldn't advise it; she might drive him back to the bottle. I have news. They're in the garden, talking.'

  'But it's dark! Who told you?'

  'I never reveal my sources.'

  'Jessup, then. What should we do?'

  'I don't know; you're the local expert.'

  'I'd say leave them to it. They can't talk forever.'

  'But I'm so bored!'

  'Here comes your knight in shining armour,' said Stella, and was gone.

  'Miss Pickles, good evening! Would you do me the honour?' said Charles Drake, giving her a little bow.

  'I'd be delighted,' said Dottie resignedly.

  Mr Drake proved to be a quite tolerable dancer and they continued into a waltz before retreating to a corner of the room.

  'May I unburden myself of something, Miss Pickles?' asked Charles. 'It's a little delicate, I'm afraid.'

  'Dottie smiled. Of course you may, Mr Drake. Or mayn't I like it?'

  'Perhaps you will not. I would simply observe that there are two pairings here tonight that concern me.'

  'Oh? Who are you thinking of?'

  'Miss Vicenzi and the tiresome Mr Curry for one.'

  'The curate? He seems harmless enough, if you avoid his size nines.'

  'He may be. But it's also clear to me that he cares little for her. He tries to appear attentive but I am not deceived. He wants financial security and hopes she will provide it. There is no love on his side.'

  Dottie laughed. 'How wonderfully Dickensian! Still, she's old enough to take care of herself, I daresay. Who are the others?'

  'With them, Miss Pickles,' said Drake, looking meaningfully at her, 'the case is possibly similar.'

  'How intriguing! Who can that be? . . . Oh! I see. Well it's a bit early to worry about that, you know. We've not long met.'

  'I'm relieved to hear it. The lady deserves better.'

  'Thank you. But the gentleman is heir to a thriving business, is he not? Part of it anyway. Surely your concerns don't apply?'

  'He is heir to a business certainly. But perhaps I've been indiscreet. I hope you won't repeat this conversation, Miss Pickles.'

  'I'm not a tittle tattle . . .' began Dottie. 'Ah! Here are the truants at last. Where have you boys been?'

  'Just talking,' said Lewis. 'Come and dance.'

  Dottie allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor. 'What were you talking about?' she asked. 'Did it need to take half the evening?'

  'We had to sort something out. What was Drake on about?'

  'People in the room mostly.'

  'Not work?'

  'Lord no! I shouldn't have let him. Why is he here? I mean, at the party. He seems a little out of place.'

  'He's always hanging about here. Ostensibly it's to help Father, but whenever I see him he's making up to Esme. Not that she encourages him. Look, I'm sorry I abandoned you, and I'm really sorry about this afternoon. I was a complete ass, losing my rag like that. Can you forgive me?'

  Dottie gazed skeptically up at him. 'Perhaps I might,' she said. 'Would you like your other crimes taken into consideration, before I pass sentence?'

  'What do you mean? What other crimes?'

  'That poor little counter girl for one.'

  'Oh her. One has to maintain discipline, you know. I'll reinstate her if it upsets you.'

  'That won't be necessary. I've sorted her out.'

  'You've sorted her out?'

  'I told her I'd help her, if necessary. She's not staying at Pumfreys to be bullied.'

  Lewis looked cross. 'Quite the little philanthropist aren't you?' he snapped. 'I understand you've been paying for broken windows as well.'

  'These are hard times. I like to help where I can.'

  'They're going to get a lot harder for Jessup,' said Lewis coldly. 'Father sacked him. He's working out his notice.'

  'I have to go,' said Dottie, and left him standing.

  *

  Dottie sat in bed and listened to the sounds of the night: an owl (twit), an answering owl (twoo), and a passing car or two. For want of anything better, she was reading a long-forgotten Victorian romance, but even its turgid and predictable prose had failed to lull her to sleep. She never slept well in strange houses at the best of times, and there was much to think about. The Jessup business was particularly disturbing but she decided not to dwell too much on that until she'd spoken to the unfortunate butler. He might, for aught she knew, have secured another position already. If not, then finding something for him was probably feasible, though it would require more effort than the relatively straightforward shopgirl and the woman in the skiff. Really it could be quite exhausting sometimes, sorting out the messes people got into!

  She wondered if Cedric was really after Esme for her money. What did one call a male gold-digger? Was there even a term for it? Superficially they seemed well matched: two plain and rather characterless people, neither in the first flush of youth. Mr Drake was clearly smitten, even if the curate was not, but the curate was the more desirable bedmate, she supposed. Not that either was very appealing.

  Which brought her to Lewis. Lewis the bully. Lewis who got into fights. Lewis who had abandoned her to a truly ghastly party. Dottie firmly believed in the redemptive power of a good woman, and he was very handsome (here she was diverted for a time by a little fantasy of herself in his arms) but would he repay the investment in time and effort? She was rather aggrieved that he hadn't yet tried anything. It wasn't much of a compliment to her youth and beauty. He'd kissed her on their earlier dates with a gratifying degree of ardour, and nothing much since. Considering his uninhibited behaviour in other respects, that was rather odd, particularly given the opportunities provided by a weekend
under the same roof. She wondered what she'd do if he knocked on her door now. It would be interesting to find out.

  Dottie sighed and returned to her book. Thoughts of sex were not conducive to sleep. She ploughed through another half chapter, then frowned. What was that she could hear? An almost subliminal sort of scratching. Mice? But now there came a decided thump, as of something being dropped, and a muffled curse. She glanced at the clock. Three thirty! She must have dozed without realising it. Who on earth would be up and about at this time of night? Whoever it was, they seemed to be directly beneath her. She tried to picture the layout of the house. The study, she decided.

  She swung her legs out of bed and tiptoed to the window. This being London, the night was not entirely dark. Dark enough, however, to observe a thin and wandering light coming from the room below. Even as she watched, it went out. A torch, one supposed. But why use a torch when the house was wired for electricity? A burglar! She stood undecided, her heart thumping. Should she raise the alarm? It would be so easy to make a fool of oneself. And now, she was sure, someone was approaching along the landing. A minute or two more and there was a slight sound from the far end, possibly a door closing. Seizing a coal shovel from the fireplace she put off the light, quietly opened her own door and peered out. All the others on the landing appeared to be closed, nor was there any light coming from beneath them. There was a dim glow from downstairs, but that, she guessed, was from the porch light over the front door. Kept on all night, it would no doubt shine through the fanlight into the hall. There was, however, no-one to be seen. Nor was there any further sound.

  She was about to turn back when she saw a shadowy, nightgown-clad figure approaching, her height proclaiming it to be Stella Vicenzi. Was it Stella she had heard below in the study? She didn't think so. Whoever it was had passed in the opposite direction, from the head of the stairs. My, what a busy night it was becoming at number thirty-three! Standing stock still in the darkness she was surprised to see Stella enter, without ceremony, Lewis's bedroom, which was almost opposite her own. What to make of that?

  With infinite care she crept across the landing and listened, still, absurdly, grasping her coal shovel. Five minutes later she heard the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings. Dottie sighed. No knock on her door tonight, then.

  Chapter Three

  Monday morning saw a Vauxhall Velox tourer winding at speed through London's south-western suburbs.

  'Have a care sir,' cried the normally unflappable Sergeant Nash. 'I've nothing to hang onto but Yardley.'

  'There he is!' shouted Detective Inspector Felix, drifting the car sideways round a bend. 'If he gets stuck at the crossroads we'll have the beggar.'

  'That's if we don't meet a policeman,' muttered Sergeant Rattigan, who at least had the windscreen to cling to and was making good use of it.

  'We're gaining!'

  'Ha! Got you now my friend!'

  'Wait a minute, he's turning!'

  'That's queer,' said Felix, jamming on the brakes. 'There's no road there.'

  'Well I'm blowed! It's an alley. Did you know there was an alley?'

  'Must lead somewhere; he's disappeared. Crafty little toad.'

  Backing up, Felix turned cautiously into the narrow thoroughfare. Negotiating with difficulty the parked cars and massed ranks of dustbins they emerged at last into a familiar street.

  'So this is where it leads to. Who'd have guessed?'

  'Quick! There he goes!' cried Sergeant Yardley. 'Turning again!'

  Felix put his foot to the floor, but their quarry, never more than a glimpse of red in the distance, continued to elude them. Suddenly he smiled. 'He's not so clever,' he said. 'If we go next left, and second right . . .'

  'I know it: Cawden, then Hurdcott.'

  'Done it at last! He can't beat us now.'

  Moments later they turned into tree-lined Baverstock Avenue.

  'Must be this side; that was number seven.'

  'Big places,' observed Yardley, looking about him. 'It'll be a few yards yet.'

  They pulled up outside number thirty-three, a many-gabled Victorian pile with a gravel drive curving between "in" and "out" gates.

  'Here we are then. Oh, bloody hell!'

  'How the blazes?' growled Rattigan. 'That's impossible!'

  'Supernatural help,' averred Yardley. 'Devil's work.'

  For parked by the front door was a familiar red Morris Cowley.

  They were greeted by a grim-faced Jessup. 'Doctor Benyson is already here sir,' he said. 'Will you come this way?'

  Felix noted automatically that the first part of the hall was quite large and almost square, with a central hexagonal table sporting a heap of library books, some unopened letters, and a couple of trade periodicals, still in their paper bands. There was a door to what appeared to be the dining room and another, green baize covered, to "below stairs." Passing the foot of the staircase they turned at right-angles into a narrower part with a number of rooms off it, the first being the study, into which they were directed.

  Henry Vicenzi's study was of substantial size, oak panelled throughout, with a glazed garden-door giving onto a terrace of York stone. The rest of the room was almost entirely lined with open bookcases filled with labelled box files and paper folders; some neatly in rows, others simply stacked on top of each other. A sofa faced the marble chimneypiece, while one or two upright chairs and a very large desk completed the furnishings. The desk, with further bookcases behind it, faced into the room, and sitting slumped over it, one arm thrown diagonally sideways, was the deceased.

  'All right, Benyson, what's your secret?' demanded Felix.

  Doctor Howard Benyson, senior forensic surgeon to Scotland Yard, twinkled impishly. 'Done the Knowledge, ain't I guv? And even a London cabbie will be able to tell you that this poor gentleman died of a gunshot to the back of the head, and from not more than four feet away. That being, as you will observe, the furthest it could have been.'

  'Time of death?'

  Almost certainly within the last hour or so.' He glanced at the returning butler, as if for confirmation.

  Jessup nodded. 'Just after ten, sir. Between five and ten past. We all heard the shot. He hasn't been moved.'

  'His position therefore suggesting, gentlemen,' said Benyson, 'that he was reaching for the bell button.'

  'Perhaps to call for help?' suggested Rattigan.

  'That would be the obvious inference.'

  'Handy to have it on the desk.'

  'Mr Vicenzi suffered from arthritis,' explained Jessup. 'It was to save him getting up.'

  'Type of weapon?' asked Felix.

  'Service revolver is my guess,' said Benyson. 'Good-sized bore anyway. Point of exit, as you see, through the lower frontal. The bullet must be lying about somewhere.'

  'Here, sir, on the carpet,' said Nash. He already had his camera directed at it and they turned away from the flash. Yardley quickly scooped it into a pill box and labelled it.

  'Who found the body?' asked Felix, addressing the butler.

  'I was first into the room, sir, but Mabel, the senior maid, was right behind me. I sent her to telephone to the police, as it was very evident that he'd been shot dead.'

  'Was this open, do you know?' asked Rattigan, going to the garden door. 'Pinned back now, I see.'

  'Yes, sir. I opened it myself first thing. Mr Vicenzi liked fresh air. We think the murderer must have entered and left that way as he could scarcely have come through the house. I can't tell you how long he might have been in here but we arrived within a minute or so of the shot. We heard no voices.'

  'Did you look outside?' said Felix.

  'Yes, briefly. But being unarmed . . .'

  'Quite so. Mr Jessup, would you like to sit down? You look unwell.'

  'I'm all right, sir, thank you,' said Jessup, who was visibly shaking.

  'So you saw no-one out there?'

  'Only Mrs Entwistle. She was coming up the garden from her morning walk. There's a back gate to the next road. She
saw no-one either, though her eyesight is not the best. She's a very elderly lady, sir, eighty-seven. She heard the shot though.'

  'And who is she?'

  'Mr Vicenzi's mother-in-law, sir.'

  'Lives here?'

  'Yes she does.'

  'Did she come in here, into this room?'

  'No. She wanted to but I wasn't keen to let her. Fortunately Miss Pickles, who is staying with us, turned up and led her away. Miss Pickles is a friend of Mr Lewis Vicenzi, sir, the younger son.'

  'Does he live here too?'

  'Yes, sir. Both the sons live here.'

  'Who else was in the house at the time?' asked Felix. 'Do you know?'

  'I'm not entirely sure, sir. There should have been a number of people here, but as far as I can ascertain there were at that moment only myself and the other servants. Miss Esme Vicenzi, Mr Vicenzi's daughter, was here earlier, together with her friend, the Reverend Curry. I saw them a matter of minutes before it happened but they are not to be found. Neither is Mr Andrew Vicenzi's wife, Stella. Mr Andrew is Mr Henry Vicenzi's eldest son, sir. I'm expecting both brothers momently as they were to have a business meeting at twelve.'

  'I see. Any other residents?'

  'Not apart from the servants — three maids, Cook, myself and my son. He's eleven.'

  'So who let this person into the house?'

  'Not a servant, Inspector. I can vouch for that.'

  'All reliable and trustworthy?'

  'Totally. None employed for less than three years.'

  'What about your son?'

  'He's not allowed to do that sort of thing, sir. He wasn't here anyway.'

  'Is there a Mrs Henry Vicenzi?'

  'No, sir. Long gone.'

  'Are the Vicenzis English?' asked Rattigan, furiously scribbling.

  'Yes, they are.'

  Sergeant Nash knocked on the door. 'Two gentlemen and a lady to see you, sir.'

  Felix came out to discover a distinguished-looking but rather stout man in his late forties, accompanied by a smaller, older companion. Both were carrying briefcases. 'I'm Charles Drake, Henry Vicenzi's business partner,' he said. 'And this is Mr Crossland our company accountant. This is the most terrible news, Inspector. We had no idea.'