‘I don’t know what John was thinking of,’ said Daphne Askern tremulously. ‘Why should he write to you, Miss Wingate? If he had written to anyone, it should’ve been me. I was his wife.’
‘If my father wrote the letter at all,’ said Colin darkly.
‘That’s easy enough to prove,’ said Bill. He glanced at Daphne Askern. ‘You would recognise your husband’s writing, wouldn’t you?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘Can I see the letter, Miss Wingate? I didn’t have time to look at it properly when you showed it to me before.’
‘Of course,’ said Betty, picking up her handbag. ‘I’ve got it here.’ She rummaged in her bag and Jack saw her face change. ‘Where is it? I know I had it!’
‘Honestly, Betty, come on,’ said Colin Askern brusquely. ‘It’s important.’
‘I know it’s important, Colin,’ she snapped. ‘I had it in my bag.’
Betty Wingate’s handbag, an openwork bag with a bamboo handle and a cheerful jazz design, was tipped up on the desk. There was a purse, a lipstick, a powder compact, an enamelled cigarette case with a sunburst design, a lighter and a bunch of keys, but no letter.
‘I couldn’t have lost it,’ she said despairingly. ‘I don’t know where it’s got to.’
‘Could someone have taken it?’ asked Jack. ‘Have you had your bag with you all the time?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly. ‘I suppose someone could have taken it, but why?’
‘Where is it?’ demanded Daphne Askern, her voice rising. ‘I want to see John’s letter! What have you done with it?’
‘It really is most careless of you, Betty,’ said Maud Lythewell. ‘I would’ve thought you’d have taken the greatest care of it after what happened. You must’ve known how important it was.’
‘But I did know,’ protested Betty. ‘I had it safely in my bag, I know I did.’
‘If it ever existed at all,’ Colin Askern said grimly. She stared at him speechlessly. ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘why you? Why did Dad write to you – if he did? Why is it you who supposedly discovered first my mother’s body and now my father’s? I don’t know what’s going on, Betty, but I don’t like it.’
Betty swallowed and went pale.
‘The letter certainly did exist,’ interposed Jack quickly. ‘Miss Wingate showed it to Inspector Rackham at Dorian House.’
She glanced at him gratefully. ‘See, Colin? I’m not making this up.’
Colin snorted in disbelief. ‘You could’ve written it yourself, for all I know.’ He ignored her shocked denial. ‘I thought you wanted attention, Betty. I thought that was all it was. I was sympathetic up to a point, but enough’s enough. I don’t believe and never did believe there was a murder in my mother’s cottage, and you hated me saying so. So what’s going on?’ His voice cracked. ‘My father’s dead and I want to know why.’
‘Jack,’ said Bill quietly, nodding his head towards the door, ‘can I have a word?’
As they went into the corridor, they could hear a furious argument breaking out behind them.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Bill, his face grim. ‘What else can go wrong with this ruddy case? I saw her put that letter back in her bag myself. I suppose Askern could be right, that Miss Wingate wrote it herself.’
‘Either that or she’s lost it,’ said Jack quickly. He held up his hand to ward off Bill’s protest. ‘I know that doesn’t seem likely. Or it could’ve been stolen.’ He jerked his thumb at the door. ‘If it has been stolen, it has to have been taken by one of the bright crew in there. You could make everyone turn their pockets out, I suppose.’
Bill winced. ‘I could, but where that’s going to get me, I don’t know. These people aren’t under arrest. I can’t demand a thorough search without really upsetting the apple cart, and anything else is useless. Besides that, if it has been taken, there’s been ample opportunity for any of them to have disposed of it. We’re stuck.’
‘Unfortunately, I think you’re right.’ Jack glanced round as the noise from the room intensified. ‘Blimey, that’s a dickens of a row they’re having. We’d better go back in before there’s another murder.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Well, I know what I’m going to do,’ said Jack. ‘I’m going to ask Miss Wingate out to dinner.’
Bill’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why?’
‘Why? For one thing, I think she needs a break and for another … Well, I’d quite like to get to know Miss Wingate better.’
‘Really?’ Bill sucked his cheeks in dubiously. ‘She does seem to have an unfortunate habit of coming across bodies. Watch your step, Jack.’
Twelve
The Cafe de Bologna, with its resident dance band, potted palms, linen tablecloths and gold-rimmed chairs, was bright and cheerful. Unlike Betty Wingate, Jack thought sympathetically, looking across the table at her strained face and troubled eyes.
Damn Colin Askern! He shouldn’t have let Betty go to that flat alone. I wish I’d been there, thought Jack. It was such a strong wish it brought him up sharp.
Bill had accused him of falling for Betty Wingate. He was honest enough to ask himself the question squarely. Was he? He felt sorry for her, intrigued by her, and enjoyed being with her. Her hair caught the light as it waved. He wanted to make her smile and see her eyes light up, as they’d lit up that first day, when he met her at the exhibition. But then, his memory warned, she’d smiled for Colin Askern.
‘I wish,’ she said, as she picked up her glass of wine, ‘you’d been there this afternoon.’
It was such an echo of his thoughts that his heart gave a leap. ‘Me in particular?’ he asked, ‘or would you rather Askern had been there?’
‘Colin?’ she said, shocked. ‘Of course not. I’d hate him to have discovered his father. It was horrible. Colin would’ve gone to pieces.’ She shuddered. ‘It was rotten enough finding Mr Askern without having to cope with poor Colin as well.’
Poor Colin. Ah well …
‘He can’t face unpleasant things. That’s why he keeps denying what I’ve seen. It would be so much easier if I really had dreamt it all.’ She gave a wan, tired smile. ‘Poor Colin. He likes everything to be just so, and if it isn’t, he just can’t cope.’
‘Can you cope?’
‘Me?’ She was surprised at the question. ‘Well, of course I can. I have to, don’t I?’
‘I think you’re wonderful,’ said Jack, with a surge of admiration. Damnit, she shouldn’t have to cope.
Someone had tried to incriminate her, to make her discover John Askern’s body. Someone had stolen that letter from her bag. Someone wanted to harm Betty.
Harm Betty … His stomach lurched. No! No one was going to harm Betty. That wasn’t going to happen. The thought was like a sudden, raging flame, so fierce it hurt. What about Colin Askern? She was in love with Colin Askern, wasn’t she?
He forced himself to smile, forced his voice to show nothing but friendly concern. ‘C’mon, funny face,’ he said gently. ‘Cheer up.’
‘Why did you ask me to dinner?’ she asked, rearranging the napkin on her knee.
‘I thought you needed some time away from everyone,’ he said, forcing the smile once more. ‘Besides that, I enjoy your company.’
She looked down, flushing. ‘I wish I could believe it was as simple as that,’ she said in a small voice. ‘You want to know what happened, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I do, but not now.’
‘Colin thinks he knows what happened,’ she said sadly. ‘I used to have such fun with him.’
Hell. Did she?
‘He used to tease me for being so solemn, but I don’t think I could’ve stood living with Aunt Maud if it hadn’t been for Colin.’ Her voice wobbled dangerously. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said with a sniff and an attempt at a smile. ‘I don’t want to cry or make a scene or anything embarrassing like that.’
This time Jack did reach out for her hand. ‘Miss Wingate – Betty – you’ve had a horrible experience. I
t’s only natural you should feel upset.’
She gave him a watery smile. ‘Thanks,’ she said eventually.
Her hand trembled in his. She could look after herself, but he suddenly realised he wanted, wanted more than anything, to shield her from harm. ‘Look, this probably isn’t the time to mention it, but I think you’re nothing short of wonderful.’
She drew back in startled wariness, her eyes narrowed.
Jack fiddled unnecessarily with his cutlery, avoiding her gaze. ‘If, by any chance, you decide to return Askern to the store, you could give me a chance, you know?’
Her wariness increased. ‘Why are you asking?’
He glanced up in surprise. ‘Because I think you’re the tops. What other reason could there be?’
‘Do you know the reason why I left my last job?’ She looked at him appraisingly. ‘And the one before that, for that matter? Men.’
‘I don’t quite follow …’ began Jack.
‘There’s plenty of men,’ continued Betty, ‘who think a single girl is fair game. That’s why I liked Colin so much. He wasn’t after anything, unlike most men. Married men,’ she added bitterly, ‘are the worst of all.’
Jack flinched and she drew back, so startled she nearly knocked over her wine glass. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised, ‘but you looked so fierce that it was a bit of a shock.’
Jack took a deep breath and got a grip on his temper. That fire inside had flared at her words. He wanted to shout, I’m not like that!, but he couldn’t shout, not here in the Cafe de Bologna, so instead he settled for making her smile.
He put his hands to his heart in a deliberately florid gesture. ‘I’m not married. You see before you a totally blameless bachelor with a completely clean record. Snow white, in fact. I’m guaranteed one hundred per cent wholesome, free from all contamination and any inspection is welcomed.’
Much to his relief, she giggled. ‘Idiot! Are you serious?’
‘Completely and utterly so,’ he declared. ‘My intentions are pure.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’m glad to hear it. What are your intentions?’
For a fraction of a heartbeat the question caught him off-guard. Until that moment he’d intended nothing more than to see she had a fair deal, to enjoy her company, to get to know her better, to simply spend time with her, but that wasn’t what he wanted.
He wanted her. He wanted to come home to her. It was simple, straightforward, life-changing and shattering.
He picked up the bread roll and crumbled it between his fingers. ‘My intentions? Just the usual, I suppose.’ He wanted to come home to her. ‘Two hearts that beat as one, as you might say.’ He heard her intake of breath and looked up with a smile. ‘I’m sorry if it seems a bit soon to mention it, but, what with one thing and another, I’ve never been married. I wouldn’t mind,’ he added, his smile widening at her expression, ‘giving it a try. How about you?’
Betty stared at him. ‘Marry you, you mean?’
Jack nodded. ‘That’s the general idea, yes.’ Betty glanced around quickly and he knew she was on the verge of picking up her things and leaving. ‘Mind you, that’s about chapter two or three of how I see the future,’ he added, leaning back in his chair. ‘We go out to dinner a few times or perhaps take a picnic to the park. We go dancing, you’re overwhelmed by the fact I don’t tread on your feet, and there we are. A perfect union.’
Betty subsided. ‘But we hardly know each other,’ she said weakly. ‘You can’t possibly expect me to marry you.’
‘Why not? I told you my intentions were pure. Come on, Betty – you don’t mind me calling you Betty, do you? Miss Wingate seems absurdly formal when I’m offering you my hand and heart, don’t you think? What with one thing and another, granted I am offering the aforesaid hand and heart, it only seemed polite to mention it. I didn’t want to escape your attention.’
Betty gazed at him, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t think you could ever escape my attention.’
‘I’ll take that as a positive sign. In case it makes a difference, I can also do a wide range of farmyard imitations. Oh, and I can recite the whole of “The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God”.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Betty with a giggle.
‘Don’t you?’ Jack cleared his throat. ‘There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu. There’s a little marble cross below the town. There a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew. And the yellow god forever gazes down. I can do the second and subsequent verses upon request. The second verse introduces what you may call the love interest, in the person of the Colonel’s daughter. Mad Carew came to a sticky end as a result of pinching the green eye of the little yellow god for the Colonel’s daughter, but she loved him madly, all the same. You could follow her example.’
‘You can’t possibly be serious,’ said Betty, laughing.
‘Well, if you don’t fancy poetry, what about dinner from time to time?’
‘And what about Colin?’
‘Forget about Colin,’ he said, rather more crossly than he intended.
‘I can’t! I care for him – care for him a lot.’
Jack swallowed. ‘Just for the time being?’ he pleaded. ‘Tell me about yourself instead.’
Three quarters of an hour later they had covered Betty’s early life and interests. She answered his questions shyly at first, unused to talking about herself. ‘You write, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘I love reading. Colin loves your stories, but mysteries aren’t much fun in real life. It’s all so horribly puzzling and real.’
And that, of course, brought them back full circle to the events of the day, focusing on the missing letter.
‘Did you have your bag with you all the time?’ asked Jack, as he led her round the dance floor. He raised his voice to carry above the noise fuelled by the clarinets, drums, saxophones and trombone of Art Burrell and his Seven Brooklyn Buddies.
‘I thought I did,’ she said, ‘but I wasn’t keeping an especial guard on it. Who would want to steal Mr Askern’s letter? Mrs Askern might want to see it, but she wouldn’t steal it, surely. Why should she? Why should anyone?’
‘Because if Mr Askern didn’t write it, someone else did, and if we could tie up the handwriting, it’d give us a dickens of a clue, wouldn’t you say?’
‘But that’s stupid, too,’ said Betty, wrinkling her nose. ‘I could’ve easily handed it over to Inspector Rackham at the flat. It’s only a matter of complete chance he didn’t take it there and then. I wish he had done,’ she added moodily. ‘If he had done, Colin wouldn’t be able to make such idiotic suggestions. He says … I can’t believe he really thinks this, but he says that I’m doing it to attract attention. Anyone would think I wanted to discover dead bodies all the time and I most certainly don’t.’
‘That seems a very reasonable aspiration,’ said Jack, executing a daring glide past four couples who were blocking the way. ‘I can see it’s not something you’d want to make a hobby of.’
She giggled and it was lovely to hear her laugh. ‘Jack,’ she said shyly. ‘Inspector Rackham said you were good at finding out the truth about things. I wish you could find out the truth about all this.’
‘I will,’ he said firmly. Come hell or high water, he was going to get to the bottom of this business. She needed him. She needed him to find out what was going on, and he only wished he had more of a clue.
What Betty said was absolutely right. It was merely a matter of chance that Bill hadn’t taken the letter from her when she’d shown it to him at the flat. So therefore it was either a very good imitation of John Askern’s handwriting or John Askern really had written the letter. But both of those solutions seemed to raise as many problems as they solved. He shook his head impatiently. There must be an answer but he couldn’t think of it.
‘The other thing I don’t understand is, who is Mrs McAllister?’ asked Betty. ‘I thought she was dead but she can’t be, can she? I suppose,’ she added, her brow wri
nkling doubtfully, ‘that Mrs McAllister – the one who had the flat, I mean – could really be someone else, someone pretending to be Mrs McAllister, but then who is she?’
‘She’d have to know Mr Askern,’ said Jack.
Betty bit her lip. ‘Do you mean Mrs Askern? She’s the only one who really fits the bill. I can’t think of anyone else. Not that we know.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Jack.
The dance came to an end. Everyone applauded, the band tipped out the moisture from their instruments and struck up with ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’.
Betty shook her head impatiently. ‘None of it makes any sense! Can we forget about it all for a while?’ She tapped her foot to the music. ‘I like this one,’ she said. ‘Can we dance again?’
Mrs Askern? thought Jack as he led Betty round the floor in a foxtrot. As Betty said, like everything else in this affair, it didn’t make much sense.
The lyrics of ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ struck him with unusual force. He just hoped the significance wasn’t ironic.
They all sigh and want to die, for Sweet Georgia Brown! I’ll tell you just why, you know I don’t lie … sang Art Burrell.
Art Burrell had a deep, powerful voice. Art Burrell …
‘Art!’ muttered Jack, missing his step.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Art! She said art!’
And a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
‘So let me get this straight,’ said Bill Rackham doubtfully the next day. ‘Miss Wingate thinks our mysterious Mrs McAllister who rented 22, Dorian House, may be none other than Mrs Daphne Askern herself?’ He broke off and stared at Jack. ‘You seem very pleased with yourself this morning, by the way. Have you got something up your sleeve?’
‘Me?’ said Jack, wiping the grin from his face. ‘My sleeves are completely empty, old thing. I had a very pleasant evening with Betty Wingate, that’s all. She still has the shocking bad taste to prefer Colin Askern to yours truly, but at least I was able to let her know I was in the frame.’
After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) Page 20
