Witching Murder

by Jennie Melville

  She considered whom she could send. In many ways she believed a man would be best, someone alert to atmosphere, intelligent but quiet. A man who might notice what other people did not.

  She hadn’t got many to choose from and not many like that, but she thought she knew one.

  She strolled across the room. ‘ Know where Rewley is?’ she demanded to the room.

  Rewley was unique. Not many like George Rewley. Quite as it should be, some said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  One watcher dead and one man still to be looked for. This was in Charmian’s mind as she drove away to the EL building in Hatton Woods. The traffic was heavy at this time of the day, mid afternoon and midweek, so that it was a slow drive, with cars and buses pushing at her on either side. She had to drive slowly.

  This she did not mind, because she needed to think. She was aware that she was going to have to summon up all her nerve, call it cheek if you like, in the interviews she had ahead of her.

  The magic password that would get her inside the glass building was not her own name and rank, nor the note from the Assistant Commissioner, but a card with a message on it from Alistair Brinkman, one of those mysterious and powerful City figures for whom doors are always opened. And this card she had only obtained because he was a friend of Humphrey Kent. She did not admire herself for using this form of influence but it seemed the time. Her own credentials would have got her in, the police do have powers, but tongues would not have been loosened. She had telephoned ahead to make sure of her reception.

  The doors opened and closed behind her automatically; she had the strong feeling that it would have been difficult to get out of the EL building unless those inside chose to let you out. She observed that the doors had opened to let her in only because a well-dressed young woman behind a desk had nodded to a man in uniform who had pressed a button.

  In front of Charmian was a bank of flowers, pale yellow and white, mixed with lots of greenery. No smell of living plants, however, such as you got in a conservatory, and yet they were not plastic flowers, only deadened by the air conditioning.

  The elegant young person had her own private flower display on her desk, this too was yellow and white. Sitting behind her flowered embankment, with a well-controlled smile on her pretty face, the girl reminded Charmian of her cat Muff when waiting for a meal, ready to accept or spurn as the offering came up, prepared to scratch or purr as the occasion demanded.

  Probably she herself fell below the standard of appearance required in this place. She had not dressed over-carefully that morning when she left the house in a hurry, and the events of the day had untidied her hair and chewed off any lipstick she might have applied. She had left behind her a sink of unwashed dishes and a cat, locked in and contemplating her own form of revenge.

  There was a board in front of the flowers with ‘Mary Fraser’ written on it in gold. Charmian introduced herself to Mary Fraser who rose. ‘ Oh, Miss Daniels, yes. Would you follow me, please? There is a small reception room where you can talk to whomever you please. The head personnel officer, Mr Grink, will be coming down to see you.’

  All preparations had been made for her welcome, thought Charmian, and the same to you, Mr Grink.

  ‘Nice flowers,’ she said, as they got into a lift which had its own small pot plant. ‘I see it’s yellow and white week. Do you do the arranging?’

  Miss Fraser knew it was a joke and allowed Charmian to know that she knew a joke when she saw one, she gave her a gentle smile. ‘An outside company comes in and does them. They decide the colours. They’re into colourpower.’

  The interview room, which was small but comfortable with a desk, two armchairs and the flowers, had no window.

  Charmian, who had seen herself wandering about freely talking to all, realised she was to be tethered.

  ‘But it doesn’t matter as much as you might think,’ said Charmian to Miss Fraser’s back as the door closed behind her. ‘Because I know where I am going.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ she called, producing a photograph. ‘Do you know this face?’

  No, Miss Fraser had never seen Vivien. Vivien had worked across the road, they were much the same age, but Mary Fraser did not know Vivien Charles.

  An hour or so later, having passed this time in the company of Mr Grink who was remarkably similar in style to Miss Bridget O’Neill of Cay-Cay but with a higher gloss on him, so that Charmian felt there must be one role model they were both imitating, she had worked her way through a random selection of EL employees, of both sexes, varied ages, and from all departments.

  Mr Grink sat with her as a kind of chaperone. At the end of the first hour she could see on his sophisticated face the comment that a junior CID officer could have conducted these interviews so what was a woman of her rank doing them for?

  Mr Grink himself had studied the photograph of Vivien Charles and not known her. He knew about her murder though, and this knowledge, although unexpressed, was written all over his careful face as he examined the picture.

  Charmian consulted the notes she had made. ‘Can I speak to Jim Robertson again?’

  ‘From the driving pool?’ He gave Charmian the kind of bleached smile he reserved for suggestions he didn’t much like the look of and pressed a button. He spoke into the telephone. ‘Ask Jim to come up, will you?’

  The telephone muttered back.

  ‘As soon as he gets back, then.’ To Charmian, Simon Grink said, ‘He’s gone out on an errand, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘He might be some time.’

  Charmian nodded, implying she would wait all day if she had to.

  ‘Shall we have some tea or coffee while we wait?’ Mr Grink had resigned himself to more of Charmian. ‘Shall we go along to our rest-room?’

  So she was to be let out of prison? As they took another ride in yet another lift, Charmian asked, ‘This is a newish building. How long has EL been in Hatton Woods?’

  ‘About two years.’

  Now she was getting used to the building she was aware of the air of prosperity it exuded. No expense spared. This idea was reinforced by the comfortable rest-room furnished in deep green leather. The tea too, when it came, was presented in good china. Apart from two young men sitting at a table before the window with a pile of papers between them, no one else was in the room, which did not look much used. Probably no one rested much in EL.

  Jim Robertson was waiting for them when they got back, a small, stocky and now slightly anxious man. Why was he wanted again?

  ‘I showed you this photograph before.’

  ‘Yes, and I said I did not know her,’ said Robertson quickly.

  ‘What you actually said was: “Never spoke to her in my life.’ ”

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Not really.’

  They sat in silence for a minute, during which Jim Robertson looked from Charmian to Grink and then down to the floor. He shifted his feet uneasily.

  ‘I’ll let you off the hook by telling you what I think,’ said Charmian. ‘I think you are an honest man, Jim, who would like to tell the truth if he could.’

  Jim’s face slowly reddened.

  ‘So you did the best you could. I don’t think you have spoken to Vivien Charles, but you have seen her.’

  He looked down at the floor and muttered something. ‘Speak up.’

  ‘I might have driven her.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I do sometimes get asked to drive visitors around. In one of the company cars.’

  Charmian looked at Simon Grink who nodded, he was beginning to show more and more tension.

  ‘It would have to be someone in the top echelon who could ask,’ he said.

  Charmian turned to Jim Robertson. ‘Where did you collect her?’

  ‘The door here.’

  ‘And where did you take her?’ she asked.

  He thought for a moment, but she guessed he knew the answer. ‘Out Windsor way.’

  ‘And a
t whose request?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know that, I wouldn’t have to know. Just one of the bosses. I’d just get a call on the blower from one of the secretaries.’

  Charmian looked again at Simon Grink who nodded. ‘Could be.’

  ‘One more thing, what age are the cars in the pool?’

  ‘We change every year. This year’s registration,’ he said. ‘G.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She let Robertson go. As he left the room, she said, ‘All the same, I think he knows who the boss figure was.’

  Grink looked as if he might know too.

  ‘I think it’s time to see Mr Eden, don’t you?’

  ‘Mr Eden? … Oh, I don’t know if …’ he began.

  Charmian stood up. ‘Don’t say it, Mr Grink, don’t say it. Just show me the way.’

  She managed to shed Mr Grink in the ante-room to the great man’s office. She felt he was glad to melt away.

  And yet Eden himself when she had been let into his room by his secretary, a straight-faced, grey-haired lady, was polite and gentle. A surprise.

  As the room was also. Plainly the interior decorator had got into the room first and provided the sleek desk and matching chairs together with the sleek fall of silk curtains. The same hand had selected the two big pictures on opposite walls which might or might not be a Lowry and a Sidney Nolan, but all this had been disarranged and overlaid by the owner of the room.

  He appeared to have created a comfortable clutter of papers, books and coffee cups. Across the room a bank of screens flashed quietly at intervals, but he seemed content to ignore them. His secretary shook her head and removed two cups and a mug as she went out.

  He didn’t smoke and he didn’t like air conditioning. His jacket was off and hanging over a chair, and the window was open.

  Also, there were no flowers. Either he did not like flowers or was allergic to them.

  Leonard Eden, whose initials had certainly contributed to the name of his business, was tall, fair-skinned but without the deceiving tan so many business men seemed to find obligatory, and had allowed his faintly greying hair to develop a bald spot with no attempt to hide it. Charmian had known toupees worn for less.

  She had seen him once already as he made a hurried departure from the estate agents in Merrywick, but probably he had not even noticed her presence that day. Then he had looked abstracted and busy, not someone she would take to. Now she was surprised to find herself liking him.

  That he didn’t remember her was apparent.

  But he showed himself well briefed. He held out a friendly hand. ‘Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent. Let’s take those seats by the window, shall we?’

  A view across the rooftops to Hatton Woods railway station looked more romantic from his eyrie than it had any right to do. A warm breeze came through the window, not smelling of flowers or trees as it might have done in Windsor, but of London traffic.

  ‘Tea? Coffee? No, let’s have a drink.’ He went over to a small refrigerator which was not pretending to be an art deco cabinet but still managed to look dark and elegant. From it he took a bottle of white wine. ‘ Ice? Soda water? Spoils the wine but makes a good drink … Alistair and I used to share an office years ago.’

  That explained something, she thought.

  ‘Thank you for giving me the freedom to talk to whom I wanted.’

  ‘Did you find anything helpful?’

  Charmian sipped her chilled and watered wine. ‘Possibly. I think I did.’

  ‘Ah. Good.’

  He seemed relaxed, leaning back in the wide chair, letting the breeze blow over his face. A telephone rang briefly on his desk, then was quickly silenced from outside. He ignored the interruption, as Charmian felt he would always ignore what he did not want to be bothered with.

  She had the idea that what she was seeing was a carefully composed appearance, a mask behind which the man hid himself. There were plenty such in the police and she had learnt that it covered up a good deal of emotion. Such men often had a soft centre.

  ‘Grink show you round all right? He’s a decent sort behind the bow-tie. Lost his wife last year. Childbirth. Still happens sometimes.’

  The comment underlined something about Simon Grink, Charmian thought, and also about his boss that he had mentioned it. ‘He did fine,’ she said.

  She held the photograph of Vivien Charles in her hands for a moment before showing it to him.

  ‘This girl was murdered. Someone here knew her. Knew her well, I think.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as I can be of anything. And pretty sure I know who.’

  He didn’t rise to this comment but picked up the photograph and studied it silently, ‘I can’t help you. No.’ And he handed back the photograph.

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’ Charmian stood up. ‘ I had a feeling you were going to be helpful.’ She put down her wine glass, ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  She closed his door gently but decisively behind her. The anteroom was empty.

  She stood for a moment with her back to the door. Then she opened it quickly and marched in.

  Eden had his back to her and was standing staring out of the window. When he heard her entrance, he turned round abruptly.

  ‘Oh, it’s you again.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’ Charmian walked to where he stood. Her face had a graver, harder look now. ‘You didn’t think I’d really gone, did you? Have a look at this photograph again, please. And now look at this one too.’ She held out the picture of the dead figure of Josh Fox who was really Edward Elder. ‘ Do you know him? You do, don’t you?’

  A grey colour had crept into Leonard Eden’s face.

  ‘He’s dead too, Mr Eden. He too was murdered.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ He sank down into the chair behind him, knocking over the glass of wine which Charmian had not finished so that wine and water stained his trousers. He stared at the stain without touching it.

  I was right about the soft centre, Charmian thought. A lot of deep emotion here, more than he can control. He’s trained himself to be one sort of person, but he can’t keep it up now.

  ‘For some time,’ said Charmian, ‘I have had the feeling that there was someone unidentified in this case. Someone unnamed pulling the strings. I think that person was you.’

  The breeze blew through the window, disturbing the curtains, but for a measurable moment neither of them spoke. Charmian was determined not to break the silence.

  ‘I did know Vivien,’ said Leonard Eden in a low voice. ‘I knew her. And as you’ve guessed, I knew Josh Fox as well.’

  Charmian picked the glass off the floor and put it on the windowsill. ‘Come on, you can’t leave it there.’

  ‘I don’t know how much you know, or have put together. I loved Vivien, but I have a wife. I love her too, respect her for what she is, but my feelings for Vivien were …’ He seemed to have difficulty with his words. ‘Quite uncontrollable,’ he said at last. ‘Sounds trite, doesn’t it? I expect you might say that I would have got over it. But I didn’t and I hadn’t.’

  ‘It was you who arranged her move to Dulcet Road?’

  ‘Yes. You could almost say that I bought up Bloods so that Vivien could have Dulcet Road. But it wasn’t quite like that. Not so simple. Nothing ever is, of course.’

  ‘No.’ She thought that with him, business would always be business. It would not necessarily come first, it would be slipped into its appropriate place but it would never be totally overlooked. ‘Were you going to leave your wife and marry Vivien?‘

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Or was it just Vivien who thought so?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was firmer. ‘It was both of us.’

  ‘But it was going to take time?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was surprised now. ‘You know?’

  ‘I’ve heard the story before.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I’m not pretending to be original. We weren’t, Viv and I.’ He spoke with some dignity
. ‘As a story it’s old hat, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.’

  ‘No, don’t be. I like you for speaking out, for taking the woman’s side. Thank you.’

  Oddly enough, she believed him, and it silenced her in her turn.

  Across the room the bank of screens, which had been almost quietly conversing with themselves, suddenly burst into agitated life.

  Charmian saw them. ‘The stockmarket’s crashed. Or an atomic bomb has dropped.’

  He barely turned his head. ‘Just New York coming into the market.’ Or San Francisco or Taiwan or another outpost whose voice had to be listened to.

  ‘I didn’t kill her. I loved her and the child.’

  ‘Ah yes, the child.’

  ‘I wanted Vivien and the child. I grieve for the loss of that child as much as for her.’

  ‘You know how she died?’

  ‘Yes. I was in the house.’

  ‘Of course, you must have a set of keys. But the locks were changed.’

  ‘I simply helped myself to keys from Bloods, when my own set did not work. They are not too careful with their keys.’

  ‘I noticed. What did you think you were doing?’

  ‘I knew she’d been killed. I had someone watching her.’

  Josh Fox.

  ‘Why did you have her watched? She wasn’t going to run away.’ Or was she, poor Viv?

  He took a deep breath, ‘I thought she might be tempted to have an abortion. I didn’t want that. I wanted to know. Fox had orders to stop her. Or anyway tell me.’

  He had Charmian silenced once again. But she knew how to be cruel.

  ‘Did you know that she probably wouldn’t have had the child anyway? It came up in the post mortem. There was something wrong. The embryo was malformed.’

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Charmian let the silence last a moment, then she spoke:

  ‘You say you went to the house when you knew she had been found dead? Yes?’

  He nodded. ‘Her body had gone, but the room hadn’t been cleaned up. Not totally. There was no one around. There may have been a man on the front, but I got in round the back, the way I always used.’