by Janet Brons
That shouldn’t be too hard, thought Hay, but he said nothing. You couldn’t say anything to women these days.
Wilkins returned with the drinks. “You heard from Ouellette lately?”
“Oh, right. That’s just what I was going to tell you. He’s calling me tomorrow with a full report. Said he found some interesting stuff, but he needs to do some more work and then he’ll call us at the Residence during the reception. Oh, and he finally got his bags. They’d been routed through Lisbon for some reason best known to the airlines.”
“I do hope he’s come up with something interesting,” said Hay. “I had a few lights going off about that Bosnia angle as well, but I wasn’t so quick to put them all together.”
“Comes of spending your birthday on your own, I guess.” Then she almost bit her tongue off.
“What’s that?” said Hay, taken aback. “When was your birthday?”
“Why didn’t you let anyone know?” said Wilkins, concerned. “We could have at least gone out somewhere.”
Liz muttered something about having wanted a quiet night at the hotel, but she saw Hay putting two and two together. And now he felt bad. Damn, she thought, I didn’t want to dredge all that up again. She said lightly, “My own fault. Don’t like acknowledging the years. Er—nice pub, this, isn’t it? What’s it called again?”
Hay was watching her closely. He answered slowly, “It’s called the Bull’s Head.”
“Well,” said Wilkins cheerily. “We’ll come back for a real celebration another time.” He raised his glass. “But here’s to you. Many happy returns, Inspector Forsyth.”
NINE
Luciano Alfredo Carillo had a massive headache and it was only eight o’clock in the morning. Two hundred and fifty guests. Two hundred and fifty. Hungry, and arriving at seven o’clock tonight. This was impossible. What did they think he was? A miracle worker? Of course, there were dozens of fully loaded trays in the freezer; he and his small crew had been working like things possessed all week. But some things could only be done on the day. Like the melon and prosciutto kebabs. And the caviar-stuffed quail eggs. The stuffed mushroom caps. The deviled chicken livers. Where to start? Carillo sat down at his little wooden table, head between his hands, and moaned. Where to start? Thank God at least he had all those Canadian meat pies.
Liz hated shopping. She hated it back home, and she hated it here. She stood in the tiny cubicle, her clothes in an undignified heap on the floor. Liz looked at herself in the mirror. Every book that Liz had read when she was young contained the line, “She smiled at her reflection.” Liz wasn’t smiling. The pink monstrosity that she was wearing looked exactly like what it was: a party frock. The frills and flounces were hideous, the color was silly, and the neckline was too low. She tore it off—the tenth today—and trudged to the next shop.
So far everything had been too young or too old, too tight or not tight enough, too colorful or too dreary. She was even past looking at price tags. She couldn’t understand why some women loved shopping. To her, every dress that didn’t work was a personal insult, a shortcoming, an affront. Liz didn’t know why she cared, really. Who did she want to impress anyway? Surely not Hay, she thought. She wondered what Sharon Carruthers—whom Liz had privately dubbed “Morticia”—would be wearing, the cow. Probably something quite stunning and outrageously expensive.
Hay had surprised her again, earlier in the week, she remembered. She had decided she needed a ride to clear her head after a particularly graphic forensics briefing. Having observed that horses were “great, unpredictable beasts with a nasty sense of humor,” Hay had nonetheless offered to drop her off at the stableyard. When she returned from an exhilarating canter around the park with Reckless, she had been surprised to find Hay’s Rover still parked there. He had been deep in informed discussion with old Albert Taylor about, of all things, thoroughbred bloodlines.
She entered what appeared to be a quality dress shop. When she re-emerged she carried a large bag containing something black and probably too short that had cost a week’s salary. Now came the hard part. If there was one thing she hated more than buying dresses, it was buying shoes.
Annie Mallett rarely allowed herself to be stressed, but today even Annie was feeling the strain. Everything had to look just so when the guests arrived, and she had a lot of wiping and dusting and vacuuming to do. She had to do the big drawing room where the guests would have their cocktails and chat, as well as all the little rooms off to the side. The dining room and anterooms all had to be done because people always did spill over, didn’t they. It would be difficult to dust, too, with those Christmas decorations all over the place. It didn’t help that Mrs. High Commissioner kept following her around, criticizing and issuing instructions. Madame was in a bad mood today even for her, thought Annie.
And there sat Anthony Thistlethwaite, she thought, serenely polishing the silver Christmas candlesticks without a care in the world. All that he had to do tonight was see the bars were running smoothly and the waiters—hired especially for the occasion—were paid at the end of the night. Annie gingerly picked up the large Inuit carving that had fallen off the mantelpiece early in the investigation. She reddened slightly as she remembered the look on the detective chief inspector’s face when he strode out to see what the racket was.
She picked up a clean rag and wiped the surface of the sideboard. Well, she wiped around the ornaments anyway. Annie wondered what Anthony would think if he knew she once believed him to be the murderer. He was, after all, the butler, wasn’t he? She had told that nice detective chief inspector, too, but he had only thanked her for her assistance and told her he was very busy right now. Well, perhaps she had never really believed it was Anthony, but it had been a good excuse to go and have another look at the DCI. It was a shame he’d left, along with all his mates; life at the High Commission had been dead boring in the few days they’d been gone.
“I had no idea that would take so long,” muttered Liz, entering Hay’s office, where she had been installed since operations shifted to Scotland Yard. While she had initially felt uncomfortable about invading his privacy, Hay had been most hospitable, even succeeding in finding her a desk and chair in the storeroom.
“I’m glad you’re back, Forsyth. I’ve just had a phone call from Mrs. Wilmot. She wants you and me to go over there as soon as we can.”
Liz tossed her bags on the desk and trailed him back out the door. They were soon in the Rover heading toward Wimbledon. The rain hadn’t let up since last Sunday, and the windshield wipers were slapping back and forth furiously. Hay was perturbed that he had left his umbrella back at the office. The car ashtray was full of butts, his and hers, and a good deal of ash had spilled onto the floor as well. “We should empty this ashtray,” she observed.
“Or buy a new car,” he said.
“No, you shouldn’t,” she objected. “It suits you. You’re a bit alike, really.”
Now what the hell, wondered Hay, does she mean by that? Good quality, reliable, with a touch of class? Or over-the-hill, ill-maintained, and a bit cranky? He wasn’t sure what the answer would be, so he didn’t ask.
It was difficult to drive in rain like this—sheets of blinding rain slicing across the windshield in great waves. “One of these days,” he said, almost jumping an unseen stop sign, “I really must move to a better climate.”
“Don’t think about Canada, then. It’s brutal. This is like paradise to me, for this time of year anyway.”
Hay mumbled something, then almost swerved off the road to avoid an oncoming car. “Where’s that damned turnoff? I can’t see a bloody thing. Oh, here it is.”
They stood once again on the front stoop of the charming bungalow, this time like two drowned cats. Mrs. Wilmot answered the door, and now there was no Mrs. Jenkins to hinder them. Even the best of neighbors have their own lives to lead.
Mrs. Wilmot seated them graciously and brought tea. It was tranquil in the little sitting room, with its comfortable blue tapestry
armchairs and book-lined shelves. No radio or television was playing. The only sound heard in the small room was that of the rain hurtling itself against the windows.
“Thank you for coming out, especially on a day like this,” said Mrs. Wilmot softly. The hoarseness in her voice was gone. It had probably been due to too much crying, thought Liz. “I was sorting through some of Mr. Wilmot’s things earlier today—papers and such. I’ve decided to sell up and go home, you see, so I needed to locate some documents. And I found something I thought you should see.”
She reached into a legal-sized brown envelope and withdrew three sheets of paper. “These were hidden away at the back of his file drawer,” she said. “I never went into Mr. Wilmot’s files before, you see, and I’ve never seen these letters. He didn’t show them to me. I expect he didn’t want to worry me. He was . . . like that.” She handed the sheets to Hay, who read them with considerable interest. They were of the type described by Colonel Lahaie—threats made up of words and letters cut from magazines. The first one read:
STOP TORTURING AND KILLING ANIMALS FOR FASHION AND PROFIT. NEVER UNDERESTIMATE US. CLOSE YOUR DOORS OR YOU WILL REGRET IT. WE INSIST ON ACTION NOW.
Liz looked over the other notes, which were largely the same. She agreed with Lahaie: they were a bit corny, but they were chilling as well, especially in light of Lester Wilmot’s fate.
Hay looked over at Mrs. Wilmot, who was sitting silently, deep in her chair. He said unexpectedly, “Mrs. Wilmot, I am going to say something that perhaps I have no right to say. But may I ask you to reconsider, just for a while, your decision to sell up and go home?” Both Mrs. Wilmot and Liz looked at him in surprise. He continued gently, “It’s always a great temptation after such a terrible loss to make a big change in your life. Please believe me when I tell you that such decisions are very often the wrong ones. You may well decide to return to Canada, but this may not be the right time to make that choice. I apologize for being so personal, but I would hate to see you make a mistake. And I wonder if Mr. Wilmot might not agree with me.”
Mrs. Wilmot gazed at Hay for a long moment, then gave him a grateful smile. “I don’t know if you’re right or not, Chief Inspector. But I will think it over, I promise you that. Thank you for caring to mention it.”
Liz sipped her tea, experiencing an almost physical pang of guilt. She had fancied herself a little frightened of this man just a few days ago. Her instincts were all wrong these days.
“Well,” said Hay, ducking the rain on the way back to the car, “we may have something to go on here.” He slammed the driver’s side door shut. “We’ll have the lab boys go over these. I doubt there are any prints, but perhaps they can trace the typefaces to some particular magazine or magazines. Cox’s publication Ecology Now would be a good start.”
“At least it seems to tie the two crimes definitively together, even though we don’t have the Guévin letters.”
Hay nodded and almost knocked down a sodden cyclist. He hated this climate.
Mary Kellick was having trouble concentrating on her work. She was too excited about the reception tonight. Of course she would be on duty, like everybody else at the High Commission—ensuring everyone was fed and had someone to talk to—but it was awfully exciting just the same. All those important people, gathered together in one place, dressed up to the nines. This was the best night of the year, thought Mary.
She had been to the Christmas reception every year since she had started working here. The Residence, she knew, would be festooned with garlands and twinkling with lights. And candles, lots of candles. Carols would be playing. One year there had even been a quartet of strolling carolers, all dressed up in Elizabethan clothes. But she doubted that would happen this year. She doubted that Sharon Carruthers liked strolling carolers.
Mary had only a tiny office, but it was comfortable and she liked it. There was even a view, of sorts, consisting largely of buildings, but then she knew she was lucky to have a window at all. Not even the diplomatic staff had windows. Her office was tucked away at the end of a long corridor, hidden from view. She had brought in some prints of flowers in vases, a calendar with photos of young animals in it, and several pretty houseplants, too, which seemed to like the office as much as she did.
She was compiling the proposed guest lists sent in by the heads of section for “A Reception in Honor of the Visit of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,” which was supposedly taking place on the eighteenth and nineteenth of this month. She knew the visit might be canceled again, but the work had to be done just the same. Mary was really thinking about what she would wear to the Christmas reception tonight. It was the biggest event of the year, and she had selected her floor-length black skirt with the buttons all the way up the front and her sparkly black-and-gold top with the high, stiff collar. She would wear her real gold hoop earrings and her new black pumps. That should be perfect. This was to be, after all, the best night of the year.
“I swear that woman will drive me mad!” cried Sharon Carruthers in the general direction of her husband. The High Commissioner was seated at his desk in the study, trying to read his morning traffic.
“What woman?” he asked absently, leafing through the pile of papers before him.
“That Mallett woman, of course.” She flopped into a wing chair next to the desk. “Will you listen to me, Wesley? I want her fired, that’s what. First thing tomorrow. At the rate she’s going she’ll still be dusting while the guests are arriving. Wesley?” Wesley Carruthers nodded and continued reading. “Wesley.” Sharon Carruthers stood up again and leaned over her husband’s desk. With one swift motion she swiped viciously at the stack of papers. They fluttered about for a while, then landed gently on the floor. “Now will you listen to me, Wesley?”
Hay and Forsyth were back at Scotland Yard, examining the letters given to them by Mrs. Wilmot.
“You know, Forsyth, I don’t think we should hand these over to the lab boys just yet.”
“No? Why not?”
“I think we should use them to bring in our favorite eco-warrior one more time.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said thoughtfully. “We haven’t really grilled the guy yet. Maybe we can get something more out of him this time.”
“Shake him down, do you mean, Inspector?” asked Hay in mock astonishment. “You do surprise me. I always took you for such a civilized woman.”
“I have my moments. But I promise to behave with total respectability at the reception tonight,” she said gravely.
“Even in the company of Sharon Carruthers?”
“Especially in the company of Sharon Carruthers. You won’t recognize me.”
“This I’ve got to see,” muttered Hay as he dialed Wilkins’s extension.
Dr. Julian Cox was not altogether surprised to be called back to Scotland Yard, but he was somewhat inconvenienced. His small daughter, Samantha, was visiting, and now the little girl had to be dropped back at her mother’s house en route. Samantha’s delight at riding in a police car was matched only by her mother’s shock at seeing her arrive in one. What she’d ever seen in that Julian, she thought, she’d never know.
Liz had never seen anyone quite so comfortable in an interview room. Even she was affected by its starkness and apparent isolation. It was even worse than those back home, but Cox might as well have been sitting in his own living room. “So, officers”—he had insisted on calling them “officers” the last time, too, Liz remembered—“what can I do for you today?”
Their pre-arranged game plan had no effect. Liz tried to empathize with Cox, to understand and to reason with him, while Hay tried to needle him, mock him, provoke some anger. No reaction. He seemed impervious. After some forty minutes of this, Hay, in frustration, shoved the three letters under Cox’s nose. “What do you know about these?”
Cox glanced at the papers and replied, “They’re mine. They look like the ones I sent to that furrier.”
“Christ!” growled Hay under his breath.
“And have you sent others? To Natalie Guévin, for instance?”
“Sure. And to a number of those other bastards as well. My daughter likes to make them,” he smiled indulgently. “She likes gluing things to bits of paper.”
It wasn’t the most satisfying interview either of them had ever had, but at least Cox would remain in custody for uttering threats. “I wish I’d bloody asked him up front,” said Hay. “What a bleeding waste of time. Come to think of it, maybe I should have just asked him straight out if he murdered Guévin and Wilmot. He might have admitted it.” Their eyes locked in sudden surprise. Maybe that wasn’t such a dumb idea after all.
Colonel Lahaie had picked up his dress uniform from his favorite cleaners. Spot Less was close to the Embassy and was run by an enterprising couple from Malaysia. Ali and his wife, Fawziah, were an attractive young pair who took great pride in their work. Everything came back clean, on time, and at a reasonable price. Theirs was the only shop in reasonable proximity that did uniforms. Lahaie realized with a small jolt that they also cleaned furs.
He was heading home early to help his wife, just back from her trip, with the Moose Milk. Just a particularly potent form of eggnog, but it had become an established tradition for Canadian military attachés to supply it for their Embassies’ Christmas parties. Enough to intoxicate a battalion, thought Lahaie with a grin.
And transporting it to the Residence was always a major logistical challenge. His wife had bought enough ingredients to ensure a nasty hangover for the entire diplomatic community. He smiled to himself, thinking of Ruth. He had missed her when she was in Canada. He was glad she was back. Especially now.
They were reviewing the most recent press articles the case had inspired. “No,” said Hay, shaking his head. “It sounded like a good idea for a minute, but even if Cox confessed would you believe him? Would I ? I really think he’s just attached himself to these cases for the publicity.”
