‘Damn,’ he muttered, using a rare expletive; an Estwich number he noted automatically, as he answered it.
‘Inspector? I’m so sorry to phone you this time of the evening, but...’
His interest suddenly sharpened as he recognised Marian DeLancy’s aristocratic tones.
‘That’s perfectly alright, Mrs DeLancy; how can I help?’
‘It’s...it’s... Arabelle, Inspector – she’s dead!’
Chapter 33
‘Not an easy death,’ murmured Bulmer quietly, his gaze travelling up from the broken form of Arabelle DeLancy to take in the once beautiful room, itself smashed almost beyond recognition. This was most definitely the ‘big sitting room’, he thought wryly, his eyes sweeping the huge space. The room stretched across almost half of the ground floor of the big old house. Both men could see that, unlike the decorations in its smaller sibling, the walls here had been host to many lovely paintings, gilded antique mirrors and beautifully shaped crystal wall sconces that had housed pretty antique lights.
Had been.
But all that had now gone. In place of the near priceless and beautiful things was a wasteland of destruction. Valuable pictures were on the floor, trodden underfoot; glass from the smashed lighting had been ground into the canvases, destroying sublime images beyond any chance of repair. Ornaments once gracing the lovely side tables scattered artistically around the room, were now reduced to smashed, jumbled piles of worthless plaster, china and stone. The rare and once beautiful carpet, which covered much of the richly polished wooden floor, was now utterly destroyed, its graceful woodland images the recipient of lamp oil, dust – and blood; a horrifying amount of blood.
Such was the devastation that the SOCO team, swiftly on site, couldn’t yet say whether it had been deliberate vandalism or as a result of the fierce fight Arabelle DeLancy had put up for her life. For fight she certainly had, thought Calderwood, judging by the marks on her head and body. Her hands also showed signs of her desperate struggle. Even from a distance, the two detectives could see how torn and covered in blood her nails and fingertips were.
She herself lay with her body grotesquely twisted, her head and torso partially covered by the heavy brass coffee table that seemed to be what had finally killed her.
‘No,’ Calderwood agreed quietly. She died neither easily nor gently, he thought, the words of the Dylan Thomas poem echoing in his mind, and, judging by the disorder in the room, had certainly fought and raged at what she saw coming.
‘About the only good thing, about this,’ Bulmer murmured, as he looked at the destroyed room, ‘is that I can’t see how our killer, or killers, could have failed to leave quite a few traces around.’
The young DI nodded; blood spatters, samples under Arabelle’s fingernails, fingerprints, even saliva, would all be looked for. Such a savage and, it seemed, prolonged, attack could scarcely fail to leave something either on her body, or on some of the many smashed surfaces in the room.
‘What do you reckon, guv? It looks like a robbery gone wrong,’ Bulmer added. ‘All this, and the broken window in the cellar the uniformed guys found.’
‘Yes, although it’s curious that this is the only room ransacked,’ Calderwood remarked. His sergeant’s emphasis matched his own doubts. It seemed too coincidental that only days after recent events, all making lurid headlines, a random robbery was behind the attack. Unless, of course, that very publicity had itself sparked the idea.
He needed to speak to Marian DeLancy as soon as possible, but hesitated to go into the small sitting room where a policewoman was sitting with her. Stepping out into the hallway with Bulmer, his dilemma was solved, when he saw the young officer come out and move towards the kitchen. ‘How is Mrs DeLancy?’ Calderwood asked.
‘It’s strange, sir,’ she replied, a puzzled frown on her round features. ‘If you’d asked me five minutes ago, I’d have said she was almost completely destroyed by what she found when she got home. But in the last few minutes she seems to have rallied a bit.’
Calderwood nodded. He wasn’t entirely surprised. She’d had to be tough to survive the traumas of fifty years ago, so she was clearly not the type to keel over easily.
Knocking gently, he entered a room he’d not expected to see again so soon, particularly in such dramatic and horrific circumstances.
‘I understand from PC Simmonds that you’re feeling a little stronger, Mrs DeLancy?’ he asked quietly, his calm features hiding his shock. The young PC may have felt the old lady was getting back her strength, but both Calderwood and Bulmer, who’d seen her scant days previously, were stunned at the change. Then, though obviously old, she’d still had a vigour, a vitality about her, that had taken years off her age. Now, propped up and half-lying on the settee, all that had gone, leaving behind a husk, a frail shell of the vibrant old lady she’d so recently been. ‘We wondered if you feel up to answering a few questions?’ Calderwood asked gently.
‘Not really,’ she replied, with a ghost of her usual humour, ‘but I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight, or feel any better when I do wake, so we’d best get it over with. I know you need to talk to me, and the Lord knows I need to have something to occupy my mind,’ she ended, struggling to sit up, then, finding the effort beyond her, sighed and lay back.
‘I appreciate that, but if you feel, at any point, that you would like to delay talking to us, please say so,’ he added, as they took seats near her.
She gave a weak nod of appreciation, as he continued. ‘I understand that you’d been out for around three and a half hours when you returned home and found Miss DeLancy. Is that correct?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Wednesday, is one of my bridge nights.’
‘Who would know that you’d be out?
‘All my family; a few of my friends – a diminishing circle, alas! – my bridge partners, obviously; and the car company I’ve used in recent years. Arabelle used to drive me, but, well, you saw her the other day and, poor girl, that was, increasingly, her usual state,’ she added, sadly.
‘Was Miss DeLancy expecting anyone this evening?’
‘She rarely had visitors these days. I’m not entirely sure,’ she continued, ‘but she would, I think, have told me.’
‘Had she had any callers, either in person or by phone, during the last few days?’
‘No. I’d have known, had either occurred.’
‘Was her behaviour different, in any way?’
‘No,’ she replied after a short pause.
‘Nothing different at all, however insignificant?’ he pressed gently. ‘It’s nothing, virtually nothing, anyway. It’s just that over the last day or two she’s been muttering to herself a little, that’s all. Not all day, just later on, when she’d had more to drink.’
‘Did you hear what she was muttering?’
She shook her head. ‘Not clearly, even with my hearing aid switched on! It was somewhat incoherent as she seemed to have begun stuttering again; she started to as a child, but then grew out of it,’ she added in explanation.
Calderwood nodded, hiding his disappointment. ‘So you’ve no idea what she was saying, or what it was about?’
‘It was something along the lines of “N...n...never. N...n...Never”. I’m sorry, that’s the nearest I can get to it; not very useful, I’m afraid!’ she apologised, her distress clear.
‘It’s something, at least,’ Calderwood reassured her, ‘and it may be that something else will occur to you,’ he added, before continuing. ‘Our people are going to be around all night, searching for anything that can help us; scarcely the most restful environment. Is there somewhere else you can stay for a day or two?
‘Loath as I am to be forced out of my own home, Inspector, I agree with you. I’ll stay at The Falcon,’ she added.
He nodded. The Golden Falcon was the town’s best hotel. A good place if you couldn’t, or didn’t want to, stay with family, he thought. ‘We’ll drive you there and have someone stationed at the hotel until we have a clearer idea as
to why Miss DeLancy was killed,’ he said aloud. ‘No,’ he added, in response to her enquiring look. ‘We’ve no reason, at present, to believe you, yourself, are in any danger, but it’s a precaution that we’d better take.’
As Calderwood left, his overriding feeling was of unease, great unease. The attack had been brutal to an extent far beyond that necessary to kill Arabelle. There had been a fury, a viciousness, behind it, that he found unsettling; even more unsettling was his strong feeling that, not only had the killer indeed been angry, for reasons not yet clear, but that he’d actually enjoyed taking his fury out on the increasingly defenceless woman.
Chapter 34
‘Thank you for coming in, Mrs Timpson,’ Bulmer said politely, the next morning, as he and Cerian entered the small interview room. Already seated were a nondescript man and a dumpy woman, both in late middle-age. The latter was nervously clutching a large wicker basket to her chest.
She smiled a little anxiously but, beyond gripping the basket even more tightly, made no response.
Having introduced himself and Cerian, Colin continued. ‘We’re involved in investigating the discoveries in the old Dolphin Theatre.’ He paused, and as she still remained silent, he continued, ‘I understand that you contacted the station saying you had some information which may be of help? Is that right?’ he pressed, as she still said nothing.
She nodded, gulped, took a deep breath and spoke at last. ‘Well, I think I said “of interest”, actually,’ she said, her voice quiet and unexpectedly educated. Then, as though the act of speaking was itself giving her confidence, she relaxed and placed the basket on the small table separating them.
‘Did you know the DeLancys or anyone connected with the Dolphin in the weeks before it closed?’ he asked.
‘No, not really,’ she replied.
‘I see, Then how is it you think you can help?’ he pressed gently, puzzled by her response.
‘It was my aunt, Mary Batley, who knew them, not me,’ she explained.
‘Go on.’
‘She ran the Box Office. She had started at the theatre years before and worked her way up from usherette and waitressing, that sort of thing.’
‘So she would know the theatre and the family quite well, then?’ Bulmer asked.
‘Oh yes. In fact, they always said she was one of the family herself,’ she replied. ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘my aunt always said that when toffs say that, what they mean is they know you well enough to take even more advantage of you than they do of everybody else!’
‘She wasn’t a fan of the family then?’
‘Oh yes! She loved them! But she hadn’t many illusions about them. I suppose in that way they were like family!’ she added, with unexpectedly dry humour.
‘So she was aware of the growing romance between Gerald DeLancy and Ariana Kujenikov? Aware of how the rest of the family viewed it and so on?’
‘Yes, but that’s just it. That’s why I’ve come in today,’ she said with growing urgency. ‘There wasn’t.’
‘Wasn’t what?’ Bulmer queried, more than a little confused.
‘A growing romance. Not between Gerald and Ariana, anyway.’
‘But it was common knowledge, surely?
‘That’s what everyone thought had been going on. Because that’s what Gerald himself thought, or what he wanted everyone to believe, anyway. Or maybe he did believe it,’ she said confusedly. ‘But it wasn’t what was actually going on; at least, not according to my aunt, and she should know,’ she ended firmly.
‘And why would that be?’
‘Because Ariana lodged with her and she’d helped her settle in.’
‘So she got to know her quite well?’
‘Oh yes. Much better than any of the family anyway, whatever they thought. All except one, of course.’
‘One?’
‘Yes, that’s what my aunt said. You see, there was a romance but it wasn’t between Gerald and Ariana – it was between her and Daniel: Daniel DeLancy.’
Chapter 35
‘But we’ve been led to believe that the affair was between Gerald and Ariana!’ Bulmer said, hiding his surprise.
‘Yes, but my aunt was adamant that it wasn’t. What she was less sure of, like I say, was whether Gerald genuinely thought there was, or if he was just fooling himself.’
‘What made her so certain? So sure that everyone was wrong?’
‘Because, as I say, Ariana was staying with her.’
‘She confided in her?’
The elderly woman shook her head. ‘No. She was too private a person for that. My aunt didn’t know much detail, but from what she picked up, Ariana’s family had suffered a lot, particularly just after the war. She’d learned, young as she was, to keep her own counsel, according to my aunt.’
‘So how did your aunt come to believe – know – it was Daniel she was in love with?’
‘Because she saw them together; not long before he ran off with some money; just the once, when he’d walked her home; but she could tell.’
‘Tell? How?’
‘Surely you’ve seen people in love, Sergeant? Young people, especially,’ she added, smiling softly.
He nodded. Indeed he had. And there was no mistaking the sweet, utter absorption in each other, the dreaminess; the little touches, the small, secret smiles. Hell, he thought, it made him feel old just thinking about it.
‘As I say, she saw them together only the once and then very briefly. They stood, for a moment or two, just outside her gate and then Daniel hurried off and Ariana came in, holding something he’d just given her.’
‘Did your aunt know what that was?’ Bulmer asked, more to be thorough, than from the expectation it would lead anywhere.
Her reply stunned him.
‘Yes, it was some papers, which she showed to my aunt later. Aunt Mary couldn’t make head nor tail of them, but apparently they were some music and also the steps and a lot of drawings and funny squiggles and lines, for some dances he’d... what’s the word...? Oh yes, choreographed for her.’
Dances! The word electrified him. Could it be? he wondered. Could it actually be that the mystery of who really created the six dances was now answered? Maybe also the mystery of who was behind the camera? Or was he reading too much into what was, after all, merely one elderly woman’s recollection of another elderly woman’s memories?
Big as that surprise was, the afternoon held one more for him – an even bigger one.
‘I have some stuff here,’ she said, suddenly loosening her hold on her basket, and opened its clasp, ‘papers and some boxes that my aunt always said were Ariana’s. Along with her clothes – she didn’t have many, my aunt said – these had been left behind when she, well, when everyone thought they’d run off,’ she added, passing over six small boxes and an elegant leather folder, with, Bulmer noted, the Kujenikov crest on it. ‘I heard that her mum’s still alive, so it’s right they go to her,’ she finished.
Bulmer nodded, as, opening the file and, using the tip of his pen to separate its contents, he quickly scanned the few sheets of paper it held.
Well, that answers one question, at least, he thought, as, at the bottom of a little pile of papers, he caught sight of an envelope, unopened and crested with the Kujenikov seal.
Chapter 36
He spoke in some further detail with the elderly lady, but it soon became clear that she’d told all she knew and she left, with her still silent husband, shortly after dropping her twin bombshells.
‘A very brave woman, that,’ Bulmer remarked quietly, as the door closed on the couple, ‘very brave.’
‘Sir?’ queried Cerian, puzzled.
‘You weren’t here when her husband phoned, so I didn’t have time to tell you,’ he said. ‘But I offered to go to her home when I realised who she was, but he, or rather she, said no.’
‘Why would you do that, sir?’ asked Cerian startled by the pained look on the usually smiling and easy-going features of her superior.
‘Because, Cerian, the last time she was in this station, fifteen years ago, she was raped by one of the duty officers, while his mate stood by and egged him on,’ he replied quietly, dark memories reluctantly re-surfacing.
The shock, almost bordering on disbelief, on Cerian’s face, brought back other bitter memories too. How it was only due to himself and another young officer, who, stumbling across the horror, via overheard canteen bragging, had, at great risk to their careers and, also, it turned out, physical risk as well, demanded an investigation.
He knew that it was almost certainly that same perseverance, that same simple belief in justice, that had almost crippled both their careers. Suddenly they were both damaged goods; promising futures not just blocked, but possibly heading for free-fall; a future of, at best, a deliberate slowing down of long over-due promotions.
Both had hung on, stubbornly refusing to either withdraw their charges or resign. Both had been threatened with physical violence. In his case, indeed, it had gone beyond threats and he’d been beaten up by men he thought were both good friends and good coppers, but who’d put loyalty to a known rapist before being either.
Reluctantly, the powers-that-be suspended the two offenders. Slowly, ever so slowly, they investigated the allegations. Before the two men could be charged, however, both opted to leave the force, one by early retirement, and the other by resignation. Both entirely permissible under a system that seemed, to the disillusioned young officers, to value protecting criminal officers more highly than the integrity of the force or, indeed, justice itself.
They’d both been posted to other stations for a couple of years, but the story of their breaking of ranks followed them, so life was still far more uncomfortable than it should have been. Eventually, the other man resigned and now worked, for a considerably larger salary, as a private detective with one of the bigger agencies. Bulmer flatly refused to do so and, eventually, memories faded enough to enable him, despite a permanent blighting of his career prospects, to both return to Estwich and to function more or less normally again, as a police officer and, with some at least, as a colleague.
Death of a Dancer Page 14
