The Woman Who Was Not There

by Jennie Melville

  As soon as time allowed on the next day she made her enquiries and was told that she could often find him at his local, the Holly Bush on the Merrywick Road. Or, if she chose her time, then he would be in the police canteen in Crown Street. He was a man of regular habits.

  Eventually she found him in the Crown Imperial, in Empire Street, so he was not as regular in his habits after all. The pub was a quiet, cosy establishment with a snug parlour full of dark oak which looked unchanged since Victoria had sat on the throne. Charmian could understand why Frank had transferred his patronage. He was on his own, sitting in a quiet corner by the fire. He was surprised to see her, but polite.

  ‘You’ve given up the Holly Bush, then?’ Her question let him know that she had been looking for him, but he would guess that anyway.

  ‘A new landlord, ma’am,’ he said placidly, ‘and I’m not quite sure of him yet, so I’m giving the Holly Bush a rest while I make up my mind.’

  ‘It has changed a bit.’ Charmian had thought it had a splash of glitter that not everyone would like, as well as loud music.

  ‘What will you drink, ma’am?’

  ‘No, Frank, let me order.’

  ‘Right, ma’am. Thank you, I won’t say no.’

  He was amenable; she had been his superior officer, a well known figure with whom he had once worked some years ago on a child abuse case and had come to admire. He did not claim to know Charmian well, nor did he wish to – he found her formidable – but he knew her husband because his grandfather had been butler in Sir Humphrey’s grandfather’s country place, and although those days were over they still counted for something. Sir Humphrey Kent was gentry and although Charmian was not by birth she had married into it. Class had rubbed off on her. In Frank’s eyes, anyway.

  But mostly he respected her because she was a very good officer and he knew her track record. So he was polite, friendly, but in no way humble; that was not how it worked.

  She came back from the bar with beer for him and dry sherry for herself.

  Charmian, not really understanding all these nuances, was just friendly and professional to a man she liked.

  He wanted to tell her about the latest local scandal involving two doctors and a horse, but was willing to be diverted to the house in Leopold Walk.

  ‘Oh yes, we knew all about that. I knew more than most because you could say I inherited what I know from my dad. Everyone knew about the place, or everyone who wanted to; I wouldn’t say the average church-goer knew, but of course the police did. Not that it caused any trouble – kept very private and quiet so there was never any cause to go in. Waxy House, it’s called by those who want to give it a name. Or just Number One.’

  He drank his beer.

  ‘Of course, it wouldn’t rate anything now, and not everyone fancied playing with the dolls then. Although Dad said what those dolls could do was masterly.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘ I think I’ve got the wrong sex there, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Who owned it?’

  ‘A Mrs Matilda something or other … Can’t remember, but she died just after the war and Waxy House hadn’t been operating, if you get me, for years before that. I think people did go in sometimes for old times’ sake, more of a museum, like. The taste for it had died, I suppose, although Dad said it had its regulars to the end. Only not many of them.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there were ever very many of them,’ said Charmian. It must be a specialized taste, games with dolls, even highly sexually organized ones. ‘I don’t suppose there were ever any women clients?’

  Frank looked shocked, or tried to; he was in fact unshockable. ‘No, ma’am, not that I heard. Although what Mrs Matilda got up to in her spare time might be worth thinking about.’ He grinned. ‘But the neighbours never complained … There were neighbours then; now the other houses are just little businesses of one sort or another and anything could go on and they wouldn’t care. Not that it does as far as I know.’

  ‘Closed down and full of dust.’

  ‘You’ve been inside?’

  Charmian nodded, without enlightening him further.

  ‘I haven’t thought about it for years,’ he admitted. ‘And if I did, then I suppose I thought it had been turned into something else … I always thought that the old lady never really owned it, just kept it, and that the real owner was some old queer in London. Or elsewhere,’ he added generously, willing to spread the blame.

  And you made a good guess, Charmian thought, remembering how Fanny had received her inheritance. ‘Not in Windsor?’ she probed.

  ‘No, we’d have got to know,’ he said simply.

  Charmian nodded, understanding.

  ‘Nor Cheasey?’ she suggested. ‘They go in for practically anything there, don’t they?’ Cheasey was the area beyond Merrywick and Eton, where crime was part of the way of life. Nothing grand, just endemic. Cheasey men were famous for it.

  Frank was clear on that idea. ‘ Not their style … It’s straight up and down and no frills there.’ He gave a chuckle; the drink and the gossip were relaxing him, and he let a little hint of the bawdy creep in, ‘They can be wicked enough, as you and I know, but not fancy. No, Waxy House wouldn’t do for Cheasey. Each place has its own taste in sin, you know.’

  Charmian knew what he meant. In her career, she had worked in the Midlands, London and now here in Berkshire, and she had come into contact with all varieties of sin. There were tastes in sinning which seemed to be geographical. More of one thing in the north, more of another in the south. It was interesting, she thought, that both of them, experienced in all manner of ill-doings, could still use the word sin. Sophistication did not wipe out the concept, after all, but only served to strengthen it. You still believed in evil as well as crime.

  Frank looked towards her, wondering if at last she was going to tell him what this was all about. He was well aware that he had been pumped – he was experienced in the process, was known as the memory man with a fund of anecdotes. He had always played with the idea that when he retired he would say: No, sorry, can’t let you have that story, I’ve sold my memoirs to the News of the World.

  He finished his drink. ‘May I get you one now, ma’am?’ he asked.

  Charmian declined. ‘No, I’d better be on my way, but thanks. You’ve helped.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘The house has been inherited by an old lady I know, that’s why I’m interested.’

  His eyebrows went up. ‘Some inheritance. I hopes she knows what she’s got.’

  ‘She’s finding out.’

  ‘Mind you, if she ran it as a museum it would be a money-spinner with the tourists … If the town would let her do it, that is; not quite the Kings and Queens of England, is it?’

  ‘Did you ever hear any other stories about it? Apart from the sex games? Was it ever said to be haunted?’

  ‘I am sure it is, ma’am, but not with anything you and I would see, just something of the smell of it, I should think. Houses that get used that way never quite throw off the smell, I don’t think. Not that I’m an expert.’

  Charmian wondered what the other inhabitants of Leopold Walk made of it. They must be an oblivious bunch, she thought.

  ‘Who else is there in the Walk?’

  ‘All business places, only there between nine in the morning and six in the evening. Number four is Bacon, Accountants, number three is C. and C. Architects, and number two is a Computer Wizard.’ He had it all summed up.

  ‘And you tell me none of them notice Waxy House?’

  ‘Oh … ah … maybe.’ He grinned at Charmian. ‘ Look at it as they pass, I daresay, think what a dirty neglected house, wonder who owns it, and move on.’

  What his comment told Charmian was that he himself had watched Waxy House over the years, and continued to do so. Interesting, she thought.

  He continued with his survey of the inhabitants of the road. ‘Number four: Bacon, Accountants, a smallish firm as you’d expect, the boss Bertie Bacon, and a couple of other workers and a junior, n
ice kid with curly hair, Angela Bishop.’ He grinned. ‘Well, she’s my granddaughter, so of course I like her. Number three, Mr and Mrs Fenwick … Chose the name from their Christian names, I suppose. Just them, run the firm alone. Designing a new church, I’ve heard. Got a big cross in his workroom, I guess for inspiration. Mrs is a beauty. Strange sense of humour. Blackish.’ He laughed. ‘My joke. Number two: the computer chap, Harry Aden.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I call him Daddy Christmas.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘He’s got a round, chubby face … And he was Father Christmas at a charity show I was on duty at. He likes kids, I suppose. That’s him, then. The gossip was he fell for Mrs Fenwick, but I don’t know about that.’

  Charmian got the fleeting impression that he did not really like Daddy Christmas.

  ‘The real owner of number one did live in London,’ she said, ‘in the West End, or so I’ve been told.’

  ‘Yes, never saw him myself but my father said he was a gentleman of the old school and he had inherited the house himself and didn’t know what to do with it, but I don’t know about that … William Beckinhale, that was his name.’

  I was right to come to you, decided Charmian quietly. You know all there is to know. May not be much, but what there is you’ve got it.

  ‘Have you looked in the window from the street?’ she asked, sure that he must have done.

  ‘Too dusty to see much.’

  Charmian nodded. ‘The dust of years, I suppose.’ Still, she and Fanny had managed to see through the windows.

  ‘So it is … One odd thing, might be my imagination … The windows seem a bit cleaner than they did. Not clean, I wouldn’t say that for a minute. No, but last time I passed …’ He hesitated. ‘Not that I do often, you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Charmian, helping him out. She thought he was more interested in Waxy House than he was admitting. ‘Of course not. But when you did last?’

  ‘I thought that ground-floor window, the one that gives straight on to the street, and the little panel of glass in the door … They seem cleaner. Strange, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Possibly Fanny had cleaned them – unlikely, but it might be worth asking. But if she was asked, would she not start to wonder whether one of the wax ladies had risen to do a little cleaning? Charmian might laugh at the idea but Fanny probably would not.

  Frank gave her a sharp look. ‘Perhaps your friend has done a bit of cleaning?’ He had read her thoughts.

  ‘I don’t believe so; she doesn’t like being in the house on her own.’

  ‘Is that so’

  ‘Could anyone get into the house?’

  ‘If they wanted to, Leopold Walk is dead quiet late afternoon and weekends … Any sign of a break-in?’

  Charmian shook her head. ‘None that I noticed. But we didn’t look.’

  Frank left it there, but she guessed he was wondering at her interest. They parted quietly, Frank going back to his drink.

  ‘Goodbye, m’lady,’ he said as she left, revealing in his own way that he knew she was now Lady Kent and that, off duty, he liked to call her that.

  I don’t know if I did much good there, Charmian thought as she got into her car, except to amuse Frank. But he certainly has had his eye on Waxy House and that’s of interest in itself, because Frank is known to be a man who does not waste his energy. She had the strong impression that he knew more about Leopold Walk and Waxy House than he was saying.

  She wondered how personal was his knowledge of Waxy House. No, surely not. She accelerated and drove on smartly, allowing herself a small giggle at the idea of Frank disporting himself among the ladies of wax. Was he married? She had an idea that he was a widower. Easy to find out, but really no business of hers.

  At the moment no business of hers, but it might be one day. That was the thing about being the boss of SRADIC; you never knew what you might be obliged to take notice of.

  She drove back to her office, feeling guilty (a guilt she was sure Frank did not share), like a child who had skipped a lesson.

  It was after six when she arrived. Everyone else had gone; her junior assistants Amos Elliot and Jane Gibson had departed, leaving tidy desks. Inspector Dolly Barstow had gone from the small alcove which was her private area, hot so tidy there, and George Rewley, who came and went, had come and gone leaving no sign of his presence. Except that there would probably be a pile of notes from him for her to read and inwardly digest.

  She pushed open the door to her office, and, yes, there on her desk was a blue folder with a scribbled note on it in Rewley’s writing.

  She had made her room attractive with bookshelves lining the walls and a handsome antique desk that had been her present to herself when she got the position as head of SRADIC. The room looked scholarly, though she was not a scholar; she had a good degree from a Scottish university and another from an English university, but she liked to be out in the world taking action, stirring things, asking questions and getting answers. And then she needed this quiet room to withdraw to, somewhere to do her thinking.

  A scholar she might not be, but a thinking woman she was. You could not do the job she did, which was essentially one of analysis and resolution of puzzles, using the sceptical mind, without being a thinker.

  At the moment, they had on board (and the simile was not inapt – they were a kind of ship) a probing into a suspected fraud, a suicide in Cheasey which might be murder, and possible arson in Merrywick.

  She threw her coat over the chair and read the note that Rewley had left her. Although she would never admit it, she found Rewley an attractive but intimidating man. The only hearing member of his family, he could lipread. More, he seemed to read minds.

  ‘This was murder,’ his scribbled note said of the Cheasey death. ‘We must work on it.’ An Irishman had come into Cheasey to work and had been killed. Thrown himself in front of a train, a self-killing the verdict had been, but Rewley thought otherwise. Not political, he said, no IRA connection (it wouldn’t be in Cheasey, Charmian thought; they never even used their votes), but hate. Yes, that was Cheasey, hate. Hate especially for outsiders. Cheasey men did not like foreigners.

  Charmian put the folder aside, to be studied later. She trusted Rewley’s judgement. The reopening of the case would not be done by SRADIC; it would go back to the original investigating team. She looked in the folder. Oh yes, Inspector Paul Perfect had headed the team; a nice man, and a hard worker, but not one to see far into the wood.

  She was glad that Rewley was back on form. He had had a tough year since losing his young wife Kate in childbirth. As Kate had been Charmian’s much-loved god-daughter she had shared his pain. The baby, a daughter, was in the care of her wealthy grandmother, who was providing two nannies and a nursery suite together with much possessive love. Rewley would have to fight to claim his child. Anny Cooper was both rich and an internationally successful artist, which made her formidable. She was also an old college friend of Charmian, who was perhaps the only one who knew how much softness and affection there was inside Anny. Certainly Anny’s husband Jack did not always see that side of her, but he had his own ways of making life tolerable, times in which he disappeared and did who knows what?

  Rewley had sophisticated, intellectual tastes: he read poetry, was interested in philosophy, and had, of all things for a policeman, a degree in mathematics. He would go right to the top, she had no doubt.

  As Charmian finished her work and made her desk tidy for the next day, she found herself deciding to have a talk with Rewley on the subject of wax figures that moved.

  Had he heard of such? Could it happen and how? A mechanism inside each doll, perhaps. That would certainly have given Edwardian perverts a thrill.

  She corrected herself: might have done, you don’t know what went on in Waxy House.

  On an impulse she called him at home. ‘Rewley? Tell me, do you know anything about waxworks that move?’

  Rewley was cautious: ‘Is this something occult?’
/>   ‘I don’t know … It may be something purely mechanical.’

  ‘Well … I believe in nineteenth-century Germany they were making figures that moved. Dresden, I believe, was the city … Always a great place for such objects as well as fine porcelain.’

  ‘They may have china faces,’ said Charmian, wishing she had been more observant. Each figure had a pretty face; she’d assumed that face and body both were indeed of wax.

  ‘They?’ enquired Rewley.

  ‘There’s more than one figure.’

  He was amused. And you don’t know what these figures are made of?’

  ‘Faces and possibly hands may be of porcelain.’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Waxy House?’

  On a long, thoughtful note, he said: ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know myself.’ She did so, in as few words as possible.

  He listened. ‘Go on … They sound erotic, these creatures, waxen or china as may be. And your friend thinks they move? I think she has a vivid imagination.’

  ‘Mmm. I believe she’s beginning to think they have a kind of life.’

  ‘Becoming human?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Or the dead returning to life?’

  ‘You’re laughing,’ said Charmian suspiciously.

  ‘No, not me. Or maybe she thinks the figures stepped out of another dimension … The Fourth, I believe it was – capital letter, please. There was a lot of talk about it at one time … about sixty years ago,’ he added. ‘Gone out of fashion now. It was a thing of the thirties.’

  ‘I can’t believe Fanny has heard of the Fourth Dimension.’

  ‘Fanny, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, Fanny Fanfairly. Do you know her?’

  ‘Of course I know Fanny. Who doesn’t? Not professionally, I may add,’ he said hastily. ‘She hasn’t been in the game for years. Except, I believe, there were always a few old admirers for whom it was Fanny, Fanny and no one else.’

  ‘So I’ve been told. Well, it is an old admirer who has bequeathed Waxy House to her. He must have been in the same sort of business as she was, or his father or grandfather were, judging by what I’ve seen. A real old curiosity house. Well, the pursuit of pleasure has many ways is all I can say. If the figures move, never mind how, Fanny will know. She tells me she keeps an eye on the house.’