As if by Magic

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Absorbed in his thoughts, he turned into Leicester Square. The usual street entertainers were performing for the passing crowds of Saturday afternoon shoppers. There was a man with a dog that could jump through a hoop and die for the King, a man who looked like an ex-prize-fighter being unexpectedly gentle with a flock of trained canaries, and a man who was offering to sell real, genuine gold watches as worn by the crowned heads of Europe. He wasn’t doing much trade. There was a magician who put a dove into a box where it was mysteriously transformed into handfuls of red, white and blue handkerchiefs. The handkerchiefs joined together in strings before patriotically knitting themselves into a Union Jack and were, in turn, stuffed back into the box which, when opened, proved to be empty. The box was ceremoniously closed and, when it was opened, revealed the long-suffering dove once more.

  With a flourish the magician doffed his hat and held it out to the crowd. Moved by a sudden impulse, Jack took out half a crown and dropped it in. The man’s eyes gleamed. ‘Why, thanks. You’re a gent.’

  ‘That act of yours. It’s an illusion, isn’t it? I mean, you’re deluding us, aren’t you?’

  The magician winked broadly. ‘What do you think?’ He raised his voice. ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gennel’men, thank you very much.’ He looked up and groaned as rain spattered heavily about them. ‘I wish this blinking weather was an illusion.’

  Jack opened his umbrella, drew his collar up and started for home, head down against the driving rain. It was an illusion, nothing more. It was the second time that afternoon he’d thought of swearing to the truth on oath. He’d just seen an illusion; he knew that but, if he’d been asked to testify in a court of law, he would have sworn he had seen a dove come from an empty box . . .

  Chapter Nine

  It was after four o’clock when he arrived home. Rather to his relief, George was still out. Mrs Pettycure had long since cleared away the coffee cups and the tray. She couldn’t rightly swear to it but she thought that Mr Lassiter had had a visitor that morning. She’d heard Mr Lassiter come in and then heard voices in the hall. She knew it was Mr Lassiter by the way Boots behaved, scratching and meowing to get out. The way Boots watched out for Mr Lassiter was more like a dog than a cat. She’d heard Mr Lassiter say something like, ‘This old lady’s taken me to heart,’ and it was remarkable how attached Boots had become, wasn’t it?

  Jack, who wasn’t feeling nearly as attached to Mr Lassiter as Boots evidently was, was glad to be alone in his room. He picked up his guitar, feeling the pleasure of the smooth wood in his hands and the strings beneath his fingers. The guitar was a beauty, brought from Spain. George was dishonest . . .? He fretted a succession of chords, strumming the strings idly, his hands occupied and his eyes abstracted. Somewhere, somewhere so close that he could nearly reach out and touch it, there was an explanation; a rational, coherent explanation. George was deluded . . .? The music became a discord and he put down the guitar and sighed. George was a problem . . . He had to give himself time.

  It was only because of an earlier promise that Jack joined George for Sunday lunch at Eden Street. He felt an odd reluctance to concern himself any further with the Lassiter family’s affairs. The feeling was so indefinable he couldn’t express it – certainly not to George – but he shied away from the thought of witnessing yet another argument between Nigel and David. That was something he could say and did.

  ‘We’re safe enough, by all accounts,’ said George cheerfully, who was looking forward to lunch. ‘I don’t think Nigel will be there. According to Stella, he’s virtually moved into the factory. It’s perhaps as well because Anne said Mrs Culverton was coming and he’d only start bally-ragging her about his wretched aeroplane again. By the way, Jack,’ he added, ‘is there anything wrong? You don’t seem yourself somehow.’

  No, I bloody well don’t, thought Jack sourly and you should know why. And yet, seeing George’s friendly, puzzled and seemingly rational face made the whole affair of that damn coffee cup even odder. So what if Stella Aldryn had called? All he wanted was for the man to admit it. George, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten it altogether.

  Even without Nigel, the main topic at lunch was, predictably, the Pegasus.

  ‘I grant that the Pegasus will look all right,’ said David Lassiter, reaching for the horseradish sauce to go with his roast beef. ‘Looks aren’t the problem. Tuesday should be fine. The press will love it, I’m sure, but I think he’s taking a big risk by announcing this airborne dinner. The Pegasus has to be totally airworthy by a week on Friday and I’m not at all sure it can be.’

  ‘He’s been testing the plane all week,’ said his father. ‘He’s pleased with the latest results. You can’t judge anything by last month’s flying trials. That was a blow, I admit, and there are still some faults, but he’s addressing those.’

  ‘At least he’s flying the plane himself instead of relying on a test pilot,’ said Anne.

  ‘There’s that about it,’ conceded David. ‘Mind you, I really would have put my foot down if he’d tried to persuade anyone else to take her up at this stage, particularly after what happened last month.’

  ‘What did happen?’ asked George curiously, cutting his Yorkshire pudding into neat squares. ‘Last month, I mean.’

  ‘The starboard side strut buckled. If he’d only use bracing wires like everyone else instead of trying to rely on fixed struts alone then he wouldn’t have had the problem in the first place.’ He sighed in exasperation. ‘I know it’s a new design but there are too many innovations.’

  ‘We have to try new designs,’ objected Mr Lassiter. ‘If we never tried anything new we’d still be bumbling round in glorified gliders.’

  Jack, visualizing the artist’s impression of the giant biplane that had appeared in Modern Flight, frowned. ‘I can understand why he’s trying to do without bracing wires because they can be an absolute pest to rig, but I’d have thought it’d cause more problems than it solved.’

  ‘Exactly, Haldean,’ said David in satisfaction. ‘Because the Pegasus is so large, the wing is very flexible and, to make matters worse, the flexing point is on the centre-line of the top wing. The strut runs between the lower wing panel outboard of the engine attachment and the upper wing overhang. The wing twisted and buckled when he engaged the aileron because he’d exceeded the compression strength of the long diagonal strut.’

  George blinked. ‘The wings tried to come apart, you mean?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ agreed David. ‘Fortunately he was over the river and able to get down in one piece.’

  ‘Nigel sorted it out,’ said Mr Lassiter. ‘He’s worked endlessly on this, David. You have to give him credit for how hard he’s working.’ He looked at Mrs Culverton. ‘He’s slept at the factory for the last few nights.’

  ‘It’s his choice,’ said David. ‘He’s convinced that once the Pegasus is airworthy you’ll buy it.’

  Peggy Culverton put down her knife and fork. ‘I can’t promise anything of the kind.’ She saw Mr Lassiter’s unhappy expression and looked away. ‘I’m sorry but I simply can’t. I know that Nigel wouldn’t have started the project in the first place if Alexander hadn’t been so keen on the India route.’ She sighed. ‘I know that, but I have to say it’s looking increasingly doubtful the more Gilchrist Lloyd and I discover about the real state of the firm.’

  Mr Lassiter looked crestfallen. ‘I wondered if that would prove to be the case.’

  ‘I’m meeting Mr Lloyd tomorrow,’ said Mrs Culverton. ‘He’s been working hard too, trying to establish exactly what the situation is. Alexander liked to play his cards very close to his chest and it’s taken Mr Lloyd ages to work out where we stand.’

  Mr Lassiter looked at her in resignation. ‘You must do what you think best, of course.’

  ‘I can only do what’s possible. Alexander’s much-vaunted talents as a businessman seem to have deserted him in the last few months.’ She picked up her glass but paused before drinking. ‘I
’m not looking forward to the meeting tomorrow. I think I might have to make some very hard decisions.’

  Mr Lassiter took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. ‘You can only do what is right for your own concerns, Peggy, my dear. There’s one thing: Tuesday should be a real gala occasion and we’ve got the dinner to look forward to as well. The press will be out in force and the publicity should help to stimulate some interest amongst other air passenger companies.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Would you like to join us for the presentation, Major? I wish I could invite you to the dinner as well but space is extremely limited.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘You’ve arranged all the social side of things, haven’t you, Anne?’ said George. ‘Miss Aldryn was telling me about it.’

  ‘I’ve booked Howgrave and Cheriton to do the catering,’ said Anne. ‘They do a wonderful job.’

  David Lassiter looked puzzled. ‘Miss Aldryn? Stella Aldryn, you mean? I didn’t know you knew her. Not socially, I mean.’

  Jack caught the disapproving look Mr Lassiter gave his grandson.

  ‘We’ve been out a couple of times,’ said George, colouring slightly. He had seen the look too. ‘You know, dinner and the theatre, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You saw Hurry Along!, didn’t you?’ put in Jack, trying to steer the conversation away from the thorny topic of Stella Aldryn. ‘It’s an excellent show.’

  ‘I’ve seen Hurry Along!,’ said Anne, helping him. ‘I really enjoyed it. The music’s terrific. I only wish Stephanie Granger had been on the night I went. Her understudy was all right, but Stephanie Granger’s meant to be really something.’ She turned to Peggy Culverton. ‘You’ve not seen it, have you? We must go.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Peggy Culverton. ‘It’s ages since I’ve been to the theatre,’ she added, and George, on safer ground, relaxed.

  After lunch George went for a game of billiards with David. In the drawing room Mr Lassiter slumbered under the newspaper and Peggy Culverton, supported by Anne Lassiter, sought out Jack.

  He was sitting on the sofa. He had a cup of coffee but he’d drunk it scarcely noticing the taste. There was something he had missed, a little niggling something, and he couldn’t figure out what it was. He looked up as Peggy Culverton and Anne Lassiter sat down by his side, grateful for the distraction.

  ‘Forgive me, Major,’ said Mrs Culverton quietly, ‘but I was hoping to have a word with you.’ She hesitated.

  ‘Fire away,’ said Jack, putting his empty cup on the table in front of him.

  She hesitated once more. ‘I’m not quite sure how to put this, but you know about Alexander’s death, don’t you? More than the rest of us, I mean.’

  ‘I only wish I did,’ said Jack, with feeling.

  ‘You do, though, don’t you?’ said Anne. ‘George has mentioned how friendly you are with Inspector Rackham and Roger says you’re a real Sherlock Holmes.’

  Jack could have made a joke but he didn’t. Instead he looked expectantly at Mrs Culverton. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  Her hands were clasped very tightly together. ‘Have the police any idea who killed Alexander?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I’m afraid they haven’t, Mrs Culverton.’

  ‘In that case . . .’ She hesitated and plunged on. ‘Do they know what was behind it? Have they discovered any motive, I mean?’

  Jack looked at her harried eyes. She was strapping down her emotions but she seemed brittle with worry. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why?’ she demanded bitterly. ‘Major Haldean, if you really are close to Inspector Rackham, you must know what sort of man my husband was. Surely, surely there must be a motive linked to his way of life.’

  ‘Can’t you make a guess?’ asked Anne. ‘An intelligent guess, I mean.’

  Jack put his hands wide. ‘That’s exactly what we can’t do,’ he said. ‘We haven’t anything to go on. The lack of motive is a real sticking point. If Rackham could find someone with any sort of a motive, even one which might seem trivial at first sight, then he would have a real chance of finding the killer.’

  Peggy Culverton’s eyes widened, dark against her pale face. ‘That’s what he’s looking for? But . . .’ She swallowed and sat for a few moments without speaking, her brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Does he think I’ve got a motive?’

  ‘Peggy!’ cried Anne, shocked.

  Peggy Culverton turned to her swiftly. ‘It’s true. You must know it’s true, Anne. I told Inspector Rackham everything. Perhaps that was stupid.’

  ‘You needn’t worry, Mrs Culverton,’ said Jack reassuringly. She was right, though. She did have a motive, as Rackham had seen very early on. She had been pleased that Culverton was dead but that was understandable. Besides that, motive alone wasn’t enough; she needed the opportunity. ‘I can assure you that Inspector Rackham doesn’t suspect you. After all,’ he added, ‘as well as motive, Rackham’s looking for someone with the opportunity and you were with Mrs Lassiter all evening, weren’t you?’

  Anne put her hand on her friend’s arm. ‘It’s all right, Peggy. It’s going to be all right.’

  Peggy breathed deeply. ‘I hope so.’ She tried to smile. ‘I wish it could all be forgotten. That would probably be the best for everyone. I’d like to forget about it.’

  She tried to smile once more but her eyes were still dark-shadowed; and Jack felt, as he had felt earlier, that there was something he had missed.

  Tuesday, the day of the press presentation, brought a change in the weather. Jack’s spirits lightened. The depression which had been sitting over London for over a week, bringing a succession of dreary, damp days, had lifted and blown away in the night and the morning was crisp, clear and invitingly sharp. Far too inviting, thought Jack, as he turned into the Strand, to sit indoors. He seemed to have done nothing for days but scurry from room to room. He was looking forward to his trip to Tilbury. Apart from anything else, the Essex marshes should blow his cobwebs away.

  He walked past the bulk of Charing Cross hospital. A surge of anger gripped him as he thought of Katherine Forrest and her lonely death. Poor kid, she would have been helpless against a predatory swine like Culverton. Unconsciously he quickened his step and came, almost before he realized where he was, to the King Edward’s theatre, where Hurry Along! was playing, as the poster outside said, to ecstatic audiences. Stephanie Granger, it added, was simply wonderful. Trying to put Katherine Forrest out of his mind he concentrated on the poster. How did the song go? Whoops, Daisy, that was me, he hummed under his breath, then the tune died on his lips. He stared unbelievingly at the poster. He knew it! He knew what he had missed on Sunday and yet it couldn’t be true. If it was, it turned everything upside down.

  Bill Rackham gaped at him. ‘Are you sure,’ Jack?’

  ‘Of course I’m damn well sure,’ said Jack unhappily. ‘When I was at the Lassiters’ for lunch on Sunday I knew I’d missed something but I couldn’t place what it was. I still haven’t got to the bottom of it. There’s something else I’ve missed but what, I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, I’ve checked with the theatre. You’d better do the same, of course. The only time Stephanie Granger hasn’t appeared in Hurry Along!, the only time her understudy has been on in the entire London run of the show, was the night of 31st October, the performance Isabelle and I saw, the performance Anne Lassiter saw, and the night Culverton was murdered.’

  ‘And the night Anne Lassiter stated she was with Mrs Culverton in her flat in Kensington.’ Rackham shook his head in disbelief. ‘Hold on a minute.’ He crossed the room to a filing cabinet, rummaged in the drawer and produced a manila folder. ‘I’ve got both Mrs Lassiter’s and Mrs Culverton’s statements here.’ He flipped open the folder and found what he was looking for. ‘This is Mrs Culverton’s. Called on Anne Lassiter at Eden Street . . . went to my flat together . . . had dinner . . . Anne stayed with me until about half past twelve. Let’s see what Anne Lassiter has to
say for herself. Dined in the flat with Peggy . . . stayed with her all evening . . . took a taxi home after midnight.’ He looked up, his lips a thin line. ‘Can you credit it? I believed them. I believed the pair of them and all the time they were stringing me along. It’s a service flat; there are no servants to say if they were there or not.’ He pushed his chair away from the desk and walked angrily round the room. ‘All we had was their word and I took it. Damn it, Jack, I told you Mrs Culverton looked pleased that her husband had died.’

  ‘I can hardly blame her for that,’ said Jack.

  Rackham’s face twisted. ‘Neither can I, knowing what we do about him.’ He leaned his elbow on the filing cabinet, drumming his fingers on the metal. ‘Those injuries were savage, Jack, and she hated him, right enough. She’s made no secret of the fact.’ He rubbed his hand though his hair. ‘There’s a lot we don’t understand about this, though, an awful lot.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll get on to the theatre and then I’d better go and see her. This isn’t going to be pleasant.’

  Jack glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll be on her way to the Lassiter factory by now for the press presentation.’

  Rackham clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘I don’t want to interrupt that. It’s going to be difficult enough without having most of Fleet Street watching my every move. I’ll see her and Mrs Lassiter this evening.’

  Jack got up. ‘I’ll have to go, Bill. I’ve been invited to the factory too. I’m taking George in the Spyker.’ He winced. ‘I’m not looking forward to meeting either Mrs Culverton or Anne Lassiter there, knowing what I do. Damn it, I like Anne Lassiter, and Mrs Culverton must have gone through hell. I think she’s a remarkable woman.’ He looked thoroughly unhappy. ‘If it wasn’t for knowing you, I might have kept quiet about Anne’s broken alibi.’