Model Murder

by Nancy Buckingham

  “Chief Inspector Maddox. In what way can I assist you?” He spoke in a rich firm voice that carried only a trace of a continental accent. Smiling with professional charm, he gestured her into a comfortable chair placed a little to one side. “It is not a serious matter, I trust? Is one of the staff in some kind of trouble?”

  He was, above all, suave. Around forty—tall and dark and very nearly handsome. His subdued grey worsted suit, if bought off the peg, had come off a very expensive peg. A slightly anachronistic touch was the corner of a whiter-than-white handkerchief showing at his breast pocket.

  “I’m afraid it’s a very serious matter, Mr. Labrosse. Earlier this afternoon Miss Corinne Saxon’s body was discovered in the woods at East Dean.”

  He jerked to attentiveness. “Her body? You mean that Corinne is dead?”

  Kate watched him, noting a complexity of emotions flickering behind the carefully controlled features. “I’m afraid I do. She had been strangled.”

  “Mon dieu! How is this possible? When was she killed? Who could have done it? Strangled, you say. How shocking! How brutal!”

  “Perhaps you can help me towards finding an answer to those questions, Mr. Labrosse.”

  “That is my wish, of course, in whatever way I can. But I don’t see what you want of me. Corinne set off from here on Wednesday for a brief holiday, but if she was found in East Dean woods she didn’t get far. Who could have waylaid her? For what motive? Was it theft, for cash or whatever else she had on her?”

  While talking, his glance had strayed a couple of times in the direction of the other desk. Corinne’s desk, presumably. Was he telling himself that, incredibly, she would never again be sitting there? Or might he be mentally sizing it up for his own occupation?

  As with the admiral, Kate did not choose to enlighten Labrosse regarding the motive. “Do you happen to know where Miss Saxon was going? And with whom?”

  “But she departed alone, Chief Inspector.”

  “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t planning to join up with someone. You haven’t answered the first part of my question, Mr. Labrosse, about where she was going.”

  He gestured his two hands apart in apology. “I have no idea where she was going. None at all.”

  “Isn’t it surprising that Miss Saxon didn’t say?”

  He raised his eyebrows, shrugged his elegantly suited shoulders. “It was her own concern, n’est-ce pas?”

  “According to Admiral Fortescue, she didn’t tell him, either.”

  His glance sharpened. “How did the admiral take this terrible news?”

  “It was a great shock to him, of course. As I imagine it must be for you.”

  “Ah, yes. Indeed, yes. A great shock.” Labrosse had another stab at getting some answers from her. “Have you any theory yet as to who could have done this dreadful thing? And why?”

  “The murder investigation has barely begun,” Kate pointed out. “And that leads me to another point. I shall need to set up temporary headquarters. Somewhere as near as possible to the East Dean woods.” Kate regarded him expectantly. “Apart from a few cottages and a pub, there is only Streatfield Park within striking distance.”

  Labrosse looked dismayed, appalled. “We couldn’t possibly have a horde of police officers traipsing around the hotel and upsetting the guests. No, no, it’s out of the question.”

  “I’m sure you could think of somewhere suitably tucked away. We’d be very discreet, I assure you.” Kate’s tone and expression was challenging. “I take it, Mr. Labrosse, that you meant what you said about wanting to do all you can to help the police in this unhappy business?”

  A faint flush coloured his smooth features. “Naturally I do. You have my word, Chief Inspector. However, the matter of making facilities available to you is up to Admiral Fortescue. He is the owner of Streatfield Park.”

  “I shall certainly ask the admiral’s permission before we set up our Incident Room. But he’s been in poor health, hasn’t he, ever since the hotel has been open? I imagine that you, as the assistant manager, would be better placed to suggest somewhere suitable that would cause the least inconvenience.”

  Labrosse rubbed his close-shaven chin, not looking at all delighted. After a minute’s thought, he said, “Perhaps the two new squash courts could be given over to you. They are removed from the house, situated at the far end of the stable block. We were planning to have them ready for use some time next week, but I suppose that could be postponed.”

  “It sounds ideal. Are the toilet facilities there working yet?”

  “Oh, yes. And the changing rooms are finished, too. But there’s only one telephone line, and that goes through the hotel switchboard.”

  “No problem,” Kate said briskly. “We’ll have our own direct lines installed. I’ll get one of my officers to come and look things over right away. And I’ll square matters with Admiral Fortescue. Now, Mr. Labrosse, I want to take a look around Miss Saxon’s private apartment, which I understand is at the top of the house. I’ll ask your secretary to find a spare key and take me up, shall I?”

  “I’ll take you myself, Chief Inspector,” he said, all affability now.

  “Thank you, but I have no wish to disrupt the running of the hotel more than is necessary.” In reality, Kate thought that a chat with the secretary might be productive.

  * * * *

  Corinne Saxon’s apartment, transformed from what had once been attics, was now a super penthouse. Set a little back behind the screen of the house’s balustrade, the large dormer windows looked out past the Grecian urns and gave a clear view of the grounds and most of what was going on therein. Yet the apartment itself was completely private, even with its own roof garden that offered the possibility of nude sunbathing or, alternatively, sitting in the leafy shade of tubbed trees. Luxury was the name of the game here, and Corinne Saxon must have judged she was on to a good thing.

  The decor was ultra modern, ivory and turquoise, with billowy-soft, satiny leather sofas and matching armchairs. A few choice pieces of furniture (on loan from the admiral?) were set around tastefully, and likewise several original oil paintings on the walls.

  Coming up in the lift with the secretary, Kate had put her in the picture. Mrs. Deidre Lancing had seemed shocked by the news of Corinne Saxon’s death—but not, perhaps, unduly distressed.

  “Do you happen to know where Miss Saxon was intending to go when she set off on Wednesday?” Kate asked her, while they stood together in the spacious sitting room.

  “I’m afraid not.” She adjusted her large-lensed spectacles with a delicate lift, using the tips of both third fingers. “She wasn’t one to discuss anything personal ... not with the staff, that is.”

  “How was she regarded here? Was she popular?”

  “Well ...” That one word said a lot, and Kate didn’t press the question.

  “Did Miss Saxon have any special friends? How did she spend her free time?”

  “I really wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Come now, you must have some idea. Are you telling me the staff don’t talk among themselves about the doings of the management?” Kate smiled encouragingly.

  “Well, she must have spent a lot of her time shopping, to judge from all the new clothes she was always appearing in. Then she mixed with the guests quite a bit ... in a social way, I mean. Though I suppose that would be regarded as part of her job.”

  “Can you give me any specific instances?”

  Mrs. Lancing considered. “There’s an American couple staying here, the Rubinsteins. They were talking about wanting to visit Bath while they were in the district, and Miss Saxon offered to go with them to show them around. Someone overheard them arrange it. That was last week.”

  Kate jotted down the name in her notebook.

  “Anybody else?”

  “Well, I believe she went to Blenheim House with some guests a couple of weeks ago. I’ve forgotten their name, they’re not here now.”

  “Look up the name and addr
ess, will you, and let me have it later.” Kate gave the secretary a straight look. “What about men in Miss Saxon’s life? Was there anyone currently?”

  Another quick lift of her spectacles. “There must have been, I should think, but I don’t know who.”

  “How about phone calls?” Kate pointed to a telephone on a neoclassical writing table. “Does that go through the hotel switchboard?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it would be known what incoming calls she received?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that. Who’d bother to remember?”

  “If any man called her regularly, it would be noted, wouldn’t it?”

  She shrugged. “June Elsted’s the one to ask. I’m not on the switchboard often, only as a relief.”

  “June Elsted would be the girl I saw downstairs at the reception desk?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me, did you see Miss Saxon at all on Wednesday, before she left?”

  “Yes, I did. Just before she had lunch with the admiral, she popped into the office. She was short of cash, she said, and asked me for a hundred pounds. I took it from the safe for her. We always keep a large float.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “She had on a new outfit. Well, I think it must have been new, I’d never seen her in it before. It was very smart. The skirt was a lightweight wool in a sort of dark olive shade and the jacket was check, in paler toning greens. And under it she wore a cream silk blouse that had little pleats down the front. Black accessories ... a shoulder-bag, court shoes with a tiny gilt band on the heels.”

  Praise be for observant women! They didn’t crop up very often. Mrs. Lancing’s description fitted exactly with what Corinne Saxon had been wearing when found dead. Which added weight to Kate’s interim theory that she was raped and strangled sometime on Wednesday, not later.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lancing, that’s a big help. I’ll need a formal statement from you, and from the other members of the staff, too, but my sergeant will arrange that. Meanwhile, I’d better have the key to this apartment.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure that I ought to ...”

  “If you please.” Kate held out her hand. “Are there any other spare keys? Would the hotel passkey open this door?”

  “No, that’s the only one. This lock isn’t in the same series as the hotel ones.”

  “Good. Well, I won’t keep you, Mrs. Lancing. I just want to have a look around up here.”

  Alone, Kate gave the room a rapid search for anything that might assist her. The drawer of the writing table was locked, but one of the keys on Kate’s own bunch opened it easily. It yielded, among an assortment of items, a book of cheque stubs (mostly payments to clothes stores and boutiques, Kate saw, riffling through), and an envelope containing a couple of bank statements covering transactions over the past three months. A sum credited on the first of each month would be Corinne’s salary from the hotel. The amount made Kate blink. Detective chief inspectors weren’t paid nearly as much. The only other sizeable credit was another regular one. Four hundred a month. The bank would have to provide an explanation of that.

  Kate passed on in rapid perusal. A few bills, some paid, some not. A couple of picture postcards, one from Tenerife from someone named Bunny; the other, from the Scottish Highlands, was signed illegibly with just a scrawl. There was no other personal correspondence, no letters from friends or possible relatives. She left the little pile on the table and went through to the bedroom.

  Wow! A real boudoir, this. The big bed was canopied with pale peach satin, daintily ruched, and similar drapery festooned the windows. The bathroom was adjoining, lavishly appointed.

  A bedside cabinet produced nothing of interest, the dressing table drawers only cosmetics and so on. A section of the fitted wardrobes along one wall consisted of sliding trays, each stacked with sweaters, underclothes and accessories, all of good quality. In the hanging spaces were dresses, suits, slacks, coats, jackets. Kate wondered what Corinne had packed for her few days away. The female staff of the hotel would have to be quizzed, to see if they could work out which items were missing. Deidre Lancing should be a good bet for that.

  Kate found a folded plastic carrier-bag at the bottom of a wardrobe. Back in the other room she stuffed it with the collection of papers she wanted to take away with her. She picked up the phone and pressed 5 for the hotel office. Deidre Lancing responded.

  “Did Miss Saxon keep any personal items in the hotel safe?” Kate asked.

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

  “You’d be sure to know, I suppose? Might she have put something in there without mentioning it to you?”

  “That’s not possible. Miss Saxon herself made the rule that I have to keep a strict record of everything placed in the safe.”

  “Thank you. What number do I dial for Admiral Fortescue?”

  “Oh, number one.”

  Appropriate, Kate thought, as she pressed the button. Apologizing to the admiral for disturbing him again so soon, she explained the need for an Incident Room that was near to the scene of the crime.

  “It really would help if we could be accommodated at Streatfield Park, sir. I spoke to Mr. Labrosse who suggested that the squash courts might be suitable, as they are not yet in use.”

  “Oh?” The admiral sounded somewhat put out.

  “He stressed, of course, that your permission would be required first.”

  “Well ... if Labrosse has no objection, I suppose ...”

  “I’m most grateful, sir. I’ll have my officers set things up without delay. There’s one other thing. I’ve been unable to find an address book in Miss Saxon’s room, and we need to arrange a formal identification of her body. With no relatives available I would in normal circumstances turn to you, as her employer. But in view of your state of health, perhaps you could suggest someone else.”

  “No, no, I will attend to the matter myself. I feel that I should.”

  “It isn’t necessary, you know, sir. Are you sure you feel up to it?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “What precisely is involved? Where do I have to go?”

  “Marlingford. I’ll have the necessary arrangements made. We would pick you up and bring you back, of course.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Larkin can drive me. I shall await your instructions, Chief Inspector.”

  There was little more that Kate could usefully do at Streatfield Park for the moment. She returned to her car and drove to Divisional HQ in Marlingford. As she’d anticipated, Sergeant Boulter had already arrived there after finishing up at the scene of the crime.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about the dead woman’s missing car, Tim? A red Escort Cabriolet. Anything on it yet?”

  “Not a whisper, guv.”

  “Damn! Where the hell’s it got to?” Appearing unexpectedly, Kate had caught her sergeant with his mouth full. Amused, she watched him hastily swallow down a half-chewed chunk of pastry, flakes of which still clung to his lips. “How have you been filling in your time? Apart from stuffing your face, that is.”

  “It was only a sausage roll,” he said, aggrieved.

  “And the rest. Well?”

  Now Boulter looked pleased with himself, producing his news like a rabbit from a hat. “I’ve been on the blower to Wye Division, checking to see if Inspector Massey would be available as office manager. Luckily, he is. He said he’ll be here in the morning, first thing.”

  “Oh, well done, Tim.”

  Male officers with whom Kate could work in complete harmony without the male/female thing rearing its head in one form or another were thin on the force’s ground. Frank Massey was one of the precious few. No chauvinism from Frank, sly or blatant; no assumption that because she was a long-time widow she must be panting to get herself laid. Frank Massey was content with his own career achievements, and contentedly married. He respected Kate’s rank, respected the intelligence and drive that had got her there. Furthermore, he was a hard worker w
ith a good analytical mind.

  “Get back to Inspector Massey, will you, and tell him I’ve arranged for the Incident Room to be set up in the stable block at Streatfield Park. Two squash courts with changing rooms and toilets.”

  “Sounds ideal.”

  “I want us to make a start on interviewing the hotel staff and guests first thing tomorrow, Tim. Get things organised sharpish, will you? Admiral Fortescue has agreed to identify the body, so get on to him and fix a convenient time. Tonight, if possible.”

  “Will do, guv.”

  There was a warmth in Tim Boulter’s “guv” which Kate liked. Nowadays, his use of “ma’am” was normally reserved for when others were present; or, ominously, to indicate serious displeasure with his chief inspector. Not another Frank Massey, the sergeant had initially been prickly to work with, and still could be on occasion.

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope,” she said, “that the Scenes of Crime lads have found that missing handbag?”

  Boulter gave a negative grunt. “No sign of the second shoe, either. Queer, isn’t it? I mean, if it came off in the struggle. But cheer up, guv, I’ve got one bit of good news that’ll help things along. When the body was finally carted away, we found that the ground underneath it was dry, as also the parts of the clothing she’d been lying on. Otherwise, her clothes were quite dampish.”

  “Ah. Now, what rain have we had in the past two days? None today, and I don’t recall any yesterday.”

  “Right. The last rain was on Wednesday evening. Quite a heavy shower, but it didn’t last long. I was over this way to interview a farmer about those sheep thefts, and we had to take shelter in his barn. The rain started a minute or two before six, and it was all over by half-past. Just to be sure, I’ve confirmed the times with the local Met station.”

  “Nice work.”

  The first real break in the case. Corinne Saxon’s body must have been lying where it was subsequently found prior to six o’clock on Wednesday. She’d left Streatfield Park at about two-fifteen. Therefore, she was raped and killed somewhere between those times.