by John Gardner
‘Seriously, Mr Vine. I can’t.’ For a second there she managed to keep her composure and immediately regretted it.
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ He told the waiter he’d order later. ‘I’m expecting Miss Tinsdale and a friend, but let’s have a bottle of the 65. He turned back to Suzie, giving her another of his twinkles. ‘We have to go on to a Christmas party. Very full diary at Christmas time.’
‘I haven’t bought a single present yet and I leave London on Monday.’ She couldn’t believe she was saying this.
‘Somewhere nice?’
‘Oh, just Hampshire. My sister’s place.’ That makes it sound like a manor house. Now he’s going to ask me where.
‘Nice county, Hampshire. Whereabouts?’
I’ll tell him and he’ll say that he knows half the village, including the cowherd’s grandmother. ‘Overchurch.’
‘Don’t know it.’ he said in the kind of voice that means complete disinterest. ‘And now what do you really want with me?’
Her throat was dry and she had to keep wiping her hands on the napkin she’d picked up. ‘This is all wrong,’ she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I should have spoken to you officially, maybe at a police station. Or my detective constable should have asked if I could see you at your home, and I really should have another officer with me. I’ll have to make it informal and get back to you after Christmas.’ Pause. Count to seven. ‘It’s about Josephine Benton,’ she said, taking a quick sip of her gin.
The smiles and twinkles faded and he seemed to transform himself into Friar Lawrence discovering the dead Romeo. ‘The horrible conceit of death and night,’ he muttered.
Suzie almost asked him what he had said.
‘What can I do to help?’ He had a slight frown and didn’t quite look her in the eye. ‘I was terribly fond of Jo. We were terribly, terribly close.’ For a second he sounded like Noel Coward, and insincere. ‘It was a great shock. Words become inadequate ...’
‘I have to ask where you were on Wednesday evening between five and seven. That was when Jo Benton was killed.’
He looked aghast. ‘But you don’t think I ...? We were the best of friends.’
‘A little more than friends I think.’
‘What ...?’
‘Mr Vine, I have to tell you that we know exactly how friendly you were with Jo Benton.’
He laughed. Like someone discovered in some small mean act. ‘Then I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention it in front of my wife. She should be here soon and I really wouldn’t —’
‘There’s no reason to concern your wife with this matter yet, Mr Vine. Unless of course she has to confirm an alibi. Where were you on Wednesday, sir? Especially between five and seven in the afternoon.’
‘Rehearsing. Chekov, The Cherry Orchard. I’m directing as well as playing Gaev. Every day this week from ten in the morning with a short break for lunch, between one and two thirty. On Wednesday I lunched with Ralph and Edith. You said between five and seven. Wednesday?’
She nodded.
‘Wednesday, we didn’t break until about six. Any of them will tell you we were all there. Had a bit of a bust-up with Edith actually. She was being a little difficult and I told her that as Madam Ranevskaya she was supposed to be vague and uncaring, not hysterical. Then she was rather rude, asked what she was supposed to do during the pause. I said what pause? And she said the pause while Ralph is speaking.’ He gave a little snort. ‘Sometimes she can be difficult. I mean she wasn’t trying to be funny.’
‘You left at six, then?’
‘More like half-past. Went on to the Garrick. Home about ten. Betty joined me at the Garrick and Ralph was there. But surely —?’ He stopped short and then gave a little shake of the head. ‘You say you know? Josephine and I? Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘She was indiscreet?’ He sighed and there was a tiny tic visible in his right cheek. ‘Jesus Christ, then everyone’ll know.’
‘I’m sure it was contained.’
‘That wasp Webster?’
‘I can’t comment, Mr Vine. But I’d like to ask you something else. Unofficially. Something just to satisfy a personal curiosity.’
‘Well?’
‘Jo Benton’s current publicity photograph?’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s wearing a small brooch. A little wooden sword, bleached wood.’
‘Mmmm?’ Happier.
‘On the left side of a dark dress.’
‘Out of focus.’ He was softer. ‘Though I doubt if you could’ve identified ivory if it had been in focus.’
‘It’s ivory?’
‘It is ivory and, yes. I gave it to her. You can’t see the diamonds either. There are six small diamonds set in the hilt. It’s a very romantic piece — a sabre by the way, not a sword. What did you need to know? That I’d given it to her?’
‘I wanted to know why it was special. Jo Benton was a clever woman. She wouldn’t have chosen any old thing for her new publicity photo. There had to be a story behind it. A reason.’
He nodded. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘I think I was the reason. That little sabre was very romantic.’ The smile was back, eyes glittering. Were those tears? ‘We had a complicated and profound relationship. Lots of peaks and troughs, if you know what I mean. There was a time — well, a number of times really — when we could have run off together. Happily we didn’t because it would have inevitably ended in tears.’
They had times when they simply wanted to discover things together. ‘We’d talk ’til all hours; see exhibitions, paintings, sculpture. We spent a lot of time in theatres as well, and we’d read books together. Jo knew a great deal about the theatre and always wanted to learn more.’ He stopped for a second or two. ‘And we were lovers of course. The sex was wonderful, inventive. I shall never have her like again.’
Suzie glanced away, a little embarrassed, conscious of what Webster had told her — the extreme sado-masochism.
‘We’d dress up, act out little dramas. We even went through a phase of reciting poetry while we made love. I remember one afternoon when she started to declaim Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky”.’ The smile was tender, the memory obviously thrilling —
‘And as in uffish thought he stood.
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood.
And burbled as it came!’
She was surprised again, for she could see, intuitively, how that worked. Perhaps she was starting to understand the finer points of sex without ever having any experience.
‘The brooch, Mr Vine. You said it had a romantic story.’
‘It belonged to my great-great-grandmama. It was bought for her by my great-great-grandpapa who picked it up from a French prisoner of war in Portsmouth. A Captain de Clessy of the — 1st Chevau-léger-lanciers.’
Captain de Clessy was held in one of the prison hulks and allowed ashore to sell his carvings. How the diamonds were obtained was ingenious — ‘They’re quite small stones. Can’t even see them in Jo’s photograph’ — de Clessy had trained a crow to steal for him, like a jackdaw.
‘There are many well-documented incidents of French prisoners using birds to steal by proxy.’ Vine told her of the famous one near Edinburgh. ‘This was also a crow but it stole only clothes from a washing line. The crow trained by de Clessy was offered pieces of metal and beads, gold braid from his epaulettes; brass buttons from his uniform until it got the message. ‘Eventually the crow became so audacious that it would fly up to the bedroom windows of ladies whom de Clessy fancied, and they would feed it, then wondered how their rings and necklaces had disappeared.’ He said that these ladies were either married or were very young girls. Ladies who would never dare talk about the young French officer on parole, or what they were doing together.
‘How wonderful.’ Suzie was entranced by the story.
‘It was passed to my great-grandmother and on to my grandmother, who, oddly, left it to me,’ he told her. �
��Whenever we arranged to meet, Jo wore it. I was most touched that she had it on her dress for that photograph, though the idiot of a photographer didn’t do it justice. She was wearing it the last time I saw her.’
‘Which was, Mr Vine?’
‘Did she tell Webster, her agent?’ It was like a sudden squall, the friendliness ebbing away in an instant.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve told you, I can’t comment.’
He gave a sad little laugh. ‘That’s as good as a yes. She was always gossiping with Webster and I don’t trust any agent. Did she give him details?’
‘I can’t comment.’ She sounded quite angry.
‘Merciful heavens!’
‘Mr Vine, if your wife’s coming then we should get on. Or perhaps we should do this another time. You could, possibly, see my detective inspector when he’s back after Christmas.’
‘I’d rather we got this over with now.’ The pleasant geniality had disappeared altogether now, replaced by an iciness.
‘You’ll have to see him anyway, my detective chief inspector.’
‘Please get on and ask what you have to.’ He was a different man.
The waiter arrived with the wine and they were held up for another couple of minutes while he went through his little routine. Suzie put her hand over the glass he placed in front of her.
‘None for you, madam?’ the waiter asked and she snapped, ‘No,’ rather rudely. He thinks I’m a cretin, she thought. He thinks I don’t know how to behave at a dinner table.
When the waiter had gone she said, ‘Look, sir, we’re trying to speak with anyone who had an intimate relationship with Jo Benton. I’m sorry but it’s important.’
‘You’ve got your work cut out if you’re going to speak to all of them. Go on.’
‘When did you last see her?’
He lit another cigarette. ‘Four, maybe five, weeks ago. I don’t keep track.’
‘Where?’
‘We speak to each other every four or five weeks — about once a month. Depending on what we’re doing, we meet by arrangement. I often give her dinner. Sometimes we do a show.’
‘This has been going on for a long time?’
‘Years.’
‘And it was an arranged meeting?’
‘No. I’m using rehearsal rooms, for the Chekhov, off Broadwick Street. I came out one evening and bumped into her. That was Jo. She appeared and disappeared on a whim. It was meant to look like an accident, but I knew she’d arranged it. Not that I minded.’ He had become distant: too far to measure.
‘So you spent the evening together?’
‘Yes. I telephoned Betty and said I’d be late. I told her I was having a meeting with Baynard Blair — he’s doing the sets.’
‘Wasn’t that a little dangerous? He could have —’
‘Rung me at home? Of course Baynard could have rung, and Betty could have answered. That was the point. We both enjoyed the danger. It gave us an extra frisson. That’s really what a lot of it was about.’
‘Where did you go? Together, I mean.’
He smiled and his shoulders moved as though he was laughing. ‘To her place, of course.’
‘Out to Camford? Coram Cross Road?’
‘No, of course not. We went to her flat in Derbyshire Mansions, Marylebone.’
Suzie went very still, cold inside and repeated, ‘Derbyshire Mansions?’ Knowing she had been there only yesterday. Trying to seek out Emily Baccus.
Fourteen
She felt giddy, and for a moment wondered if it was the drink. Then she rose above it, angry with herself for going weak at the knees.
Everything came back into focus.
‘What number Derbyshire Mansions?’
‘Oh,’ he made a gesture, like a conjurer plucking a card out of the air — ‘two hundred and twenty.’
‘You’re sure? Two-twenty?’
‘Absolutely. I ought to be. Used to subsidize the rent. Paid it completely for a couple of years.’
Two-twenty Derbyshire Mansions, she repeated in her head. The flat, very likely, directly below three-twenty where Emily Baccus lived. Nobody had thought to tell them that the late Jo Benton, murder victim, had a fashionable flat in the centre of London as well as her nice house in Camford. Jesus! She thought to herself, and she rarely blasphemed. Nuns had made her wary of blasphemy.
‘Mr Vine, I have to use a telephone.’ It came out in a flurry and she had to repeat it. ‘Is there one here d’you know, a public telephone?’ Looking around, eyes everywhere.
‘Oh? What’s wrong? Have I said something I ...?’
She squeezed out a thin smile. ‘Really, Mr Vine, it’s my own fault. I’m likely to get into some trouble. I didn’t know about Jo Benton having a flat as well as the Coram Cross Road house.’
‘Why should you?’ He seemed to be delighted that she was so discomfited. ‘She didn’t rent it in her own name. At Derbyshire Mansions, she was known as Mrs FitzGerald. Sheila FitzGerald. Capital f. Capital g. It’s not very subtle. I know.’
He signalled to the headwaiter, explained what she needed, so that was how she found herself using a telephone in a passage next to the kitchens.
She got straight on to the Yard and found Tommy Livermore hadn’t yet left his office.
‘I think we should take a look, sir.’ she said after giving him the news.
‘Yes, so do I. Damn it. Never mind. You’ve been there you say?’
‘Looking for the other woman. Emily Baccus, yes sir.’
‘Any contacts?’
She wondered if the little nutbrown former NCO counted as a contact — Cyril Nutkin. ‘Yes, sir, the porter.’
‘Right, you make your way over there. I’ll get weaving on the search warrant. I’ll bring a couple of the lads from here. You want anyone from Camford?’
‘I rather think I do, sir. My Detective Constable. WDC Cox — C-O-X.’ Sorry, Shirley, she thought. ‘If you can arrange that for me, sir, please. It’s difficult here.’
‘Consider it done. Meet you there in about — what? An hour?’
‘Right, sir.’
Vine’s wife. Betty Tinsdale, had arrived at the table — Medusa, as she was known in the trade, Suzie remembered. She went over and stood waiting like a lemon and Gerald Vine didn’t even look up: all his attention on his wife.
‘So I said to her, “Boo, you know Binkie’s never going to stand for it, not with Larry already playing the king as if it were the ace.”’ Betty Tinsdale speaking, loud and haughty. ‘And she said, “Well it’s never stopped him before!” Not even a smile out of her.’ She looked up, hard glinting little eyes and a lot of make-up. Plucked and heavily pencilled eyebrows. The hair short, straight and dark. Mousy really. Suzie hardly recognized her and wondered why for a second or two. It was the hair, she decided. When she’d seen her in films or — once — with a school party to Stratford to see her playing Desdemona opposite a great star just about peaking, the hair had been long and golden. Wigs, she thought. All wigs. All a fraud.
‘A new little friend, darling?’ Mrs Gerald Vine asked her husband, drawling out the words.
Vine looked up, surprised for a moment that Suzie had returned. ‘No, a policewoman, dear.’ he said.
‘Get younger every day, don’t they sweetheart?’ She smirked, lighting another cigarette.
Suzie did not wait for an introduction. ‘We’ll be in touch. Mr Vine,’ she said, and, ‘Goodnight, sir. Madam.’
It was quiet at Derbyshire Mansions. She hoiked Cyril the porter out and told him to stand by. ‘And not a word to anyone. Certainly not the press, even if they offer you Fairy Gold.’ She all but made him swear by St Peter, who held the keys to the Kingdom, so was, by default, Patron Saint of Porters. They paced the entrance hall together. Cyril Nutkin quizzing her about what was going on.
‘I mean it’s all right.’ He walked too close to her. ‘I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ else in particular this evening. Well, listening to the play on the wireless, that’s all. I love them pl
ays. You know, I can see clearly what people look like and what the scene is when I’m listening to a good play on the wireless. I’ve got a wonderful imagination for them plays. See it all, vivid.’ Pause. Turned with her. Like a bloody dance, she thought. ‘What’s all this about, miss?’ Crafty, trying to catch her by surprise.
‘You’ll see soon enough. Got your keys?’
‘Oh yes. You’ll have a warrant then? For Miss Baccus’ place, where you was trying to get in before?’
‘You’ll see. Just keep it under your hat.’
Shirley arrived in a rush. ‘That was impressive, Skip. Though I don’t think I should be speaking to you. I was in the middle of something quite important.’ She made a coy little face, a lot of mouth and eye movement.
‘Don’t get stroppy with me,’ Suzie warned. ‘What was impressive?’
‘They didn’t ring or anything. The car just arrived: pulled up outside Mrs Gibson’s. Your future gentleman friend had told them to go right ahead and bring me here with the bell going at the speed of light. And it was my night off. So, what’s going on?’
She eased Shirley away from Cyril Nutkin and told her about Jo Benton’s flat and Gerald Vine’s long association with her — ‘Directly below Emily Baccus’s place. Love nest. She rents it in the name of Sheila FitzGerald. Capital f. Capital g.’
‘That’s not very subtle.’ Shirley shook her head. ‘With Gerald Vine and all. How was he by the way?’
‘I thought he was a little, what’s the word? Mannered?’
‘Well, he’s an actor. What d’you expect, a shrinking violet?’
‘He was a bit overpowering. And his wife turned up. Medusa.’
‘His wife’s Betty Tinsdale. She was smashing in Make Love Deathless.’
‘No, that’s what Cap’n Flint said, don’t you remember? Medusa?’
‘Oh, well, how were the snakes?’
‘Speaking with forked tongues? You amaze me, Shirley.’
‘What? Knowing Medusa had snakes for hair?’
A wartime reserve constable — what they called an auxiliary constable — arrived with a thick manila envelope. ‘Looking for Detective Chief Superintendent Livermore or WDS Mountford?’ he said in a soft voice when Cyril Nutkin stepped forward.
