The Chelsea Murders

by Lionel Davidson

  He cut through to Cheyne Walk.

  Well, this was the life, Mason thought. He was a Battersea lad himself, brought up on the opposite bank of the river. He’d always admired the discreet splendour of the pads on this side. He strolled past the huge gated mansions of Cheyne Walk set back, behind trees, from the hazy flowing river.

  Henry VIII’s old estate, as he knew from school. Elizabeth I brought up here. All private houses now, of course. Marvellous brick, clad in creepers, lightly pock-marked with plaques to other illustrious residents.

  He paused at one and read the inscription. George Eliot, novelist.

  He strolled on, reading the others. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Algernon Charles Swinburne.

  Well, well, all the lads.

  In the pleasant sun, filtered through trees and falling leaves, Mason walked on, spelling out the plaques until Cheyne Walk ended and he was out on the roaring embankment, traffic thundering past.

  He watched for an opportunity to cross the road, and found it, close by a testimonial to another famous resident. James McNeill Whistler, painter. Appropriate enough: the river began its sharp turn into Whistler’s Reach at that point.

  Mason wove through the lines of huge container trucks and hit the opposite pavement, and found the position where Colbert-Greer had stood with the girl and stood there himself. He leaned on the stone coping and looked across the Thames.

  From here the abandoned wharf where they’d been filming was plainly visible. To his right, along Whistler’s Reach, the industrial skyscape, Lots Road power station. All added up.

  Weird guy, Greer. Mason hadn’t seen him but he’d heard from the Cumulative of the follow-ups. Cab-driver checked out, old woman in the toilet checked out. She’d apparently had her transistor in there with her; listening to the end of a radio play, which timed it. He was apparently in the clear. Apparently.

  Mason mused, looking about him, hands on the sun-warmed coping. He tried to imagine it the other night; a chilly night. Greer shivering, unsteady on his feet. (Independent reports of that; tall thin geezer seen with girl on the embankment, swaying. The girl had left first; independent reports of that, too.)

  Had he followed her? Could he have done?

  Not in the time, he couldn’t; not all the way to Cremorne Wharf and back. Why would he have come back, anyway? He could have cut through to the King’s Road from there.

  But the cabbie had picked him up here; just opposite, on the corner of Beaufort Street. Mason turned and looked there. The driver had seen Greer waving at him as he swayed across the road, pointing in the direction of Beaufort Street; had pulled round the corner and waited for him there. In Greer had popped, and off they’d immediately gone, to the other end of the New King’s Road.

  No, Greer had been safely home while Gabriel was still walking to her fate.

  There was something wrong with that. It took a moment to see what it was. Not Gabriel. Germaine. Diane Germaine Roberts. The other name had put him off. It took a while longer to remember the other name and where he’d seen it. Rossetti. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Same initials.

  Something stirred in his mind, another formulation of initials. Close by Dante Gabriel Rossetti had been Algernon Charles Swinburne. Familiar that. Why?

  The subject of his recent sit-downs surfaced.

  Alvin C. Schuster.

  A.C.S…. D.G.R. Funny.

  He tried to think of the other one, the old lady. Manningham-Worsley. What was her first name …? Jane. J.M.W. Anything there?

  He frowned along Whistler’s Reach, trying to think what might be there, until with slow dawning came the name of the patron of the Reach. It was James McNeill Whistler’s Reach.

  Well, Jesus, Mason thought.

  Well, hang on, he thought.

  People had to have some initials. You could get almost anything out of initials. Look at old Algernon out of a simple A. Or old Alvin, come to that.

  He wondered if he should double back and look at all the plaques again to see how many had similar initials. But Chelsea was full of plaques. There must be a list somewhere.

  He saw a number 49 bowling over Battersea Bridge and ran for it. The lights were at red but they changed just as he made it.

  ‘Right for King’s Road?’ he called.

  ‘Hop on, mate,’ the conductor said.

  He hopped on. ‘Where’s the library there?’ he said.

  ‘Manresa Road, five pence.’

  *

  Mason made inquiry at the central counter and was directed upstairs to the reference library. He went up the two flights, pushed the swing doors and entered a rather oppressive silence.

  People were scattered about the large room, sitting at mahogany desks. There was no one at the counter, so he looked around and presently espied a girl stacking books on shelves on a gallery at the far end. He gave her a cough and she turned and motioned that she’d be down. She came immediately.

  Oh, yes. Very nice little bird, Mason thought. Victorian looking, yellow hair, parted in the middle; something a bit classical happened to it at the back.

  ‘I was wondering if you had a list of plaques,’ he said.

  ‘Plaques?’

  ‘A list of the famous people who have –’

  ‘Oh, yes. We have. Would you like to come upstairs with me?’

  Not half, Mason thought. He followed her behind the counter, through a door, up a steep flight of stairs. Not bad legs; hips a bit plump. All the sweeter. Very refined little thing; quick, neat, clean. Oh yes; have a helping there, any time.

  She led him to a stuffy attic, crammed with books. It was dark and she put the light on.

  ‘This section is local records,’ she said. Shelves filled with booklets, pamphlets, parish magazines. She fingered neatly through. ‘Here we are. Would you like to see it here?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She left him and Mason sat and studied the list. It was a three-pager, duplicated, in a cover. It took him only one look through to see that nobody else had the same initials as the three sets he’d got. Astounded, slightly stunned, he went through it again.

  No. Just those.

  Well, damn it, he thought.

  He took the list and went below.

  ‘Can I borrow this?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry. Nothing can be taken from the reference library.’

  ‘Well.’ He had to have it. ‘I noticed a copier below. Can I just go and copy it?’

  ‘Nothing’s allowed to leave this room.’

  ‘I’d leave you my driving licence,’ Mason said, smiling.

  ‘Sorry …’

  Jesus. He’d have to show her. He took his wallet out and withdrew enough of his warrant card for her to see. The girl’s eyes went curiously over him.

  ‘Go on, I’ll only be a tick,’ Mason said, wrinkling his nose as he smiled, which he knew often worked.

  ‘Be ever so quick, then.’

  Mason was quick. Five minutes later he was out in Manresa Road again, with the copy, his heart thudding.

  Two things had occurred to him. One was that whatever the significance of his find, it couldn’t fail to do him a power of good. Scotland Yard and Fleet Street combined had so far failed to discover a single connecting factor between the murders.

  He had just gone and discovered one.

  It could rocket a young cop up through the firmament.

  The other thing was that he might have a dab at the pussy cat in the reference library. She’d told him her name: Brenda. She was interested in him, he could see that.

  First things first, though.

  10

  MASON was right about the pussy cat, but for the wrong reasons. Brenda was interested. She hated sitting like a dummy all night with the clever talk going on round her. Sometimes they had the actors and actresses, which she much preferred. She knew she was prettier than a lot of the girls, but they had more to say. She was flattered they asked her, really.

  She had been asked to The Potters for that night, so she w
as glad she had something to say.

  The only thing was, Frank was there, and he made her sick.

  ‘Did he fancy you, darling?’ Frank said, nodding at her. ‘You know, sniff-sniff. Did he go sniff-sniff?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ Brenda said.

  ‘Bet he did. Take my word for it. I’ve developed a taste for detectives. I feel a frisson when one is near.’

  Something had happened to Frank, they’d all noticed it. Steve had told him to wrap up a couple of times, and she wished he would. He made her physically ill.

  ‘Why a list of plaques?’ Steve said.

  ‘It isn’t just plaques. It’s all the famous residents – all the dead ones, Sir Thomas More and Thomas Carlyle. It’s partly the Greater London Council list, you know, G.L.C., and partly –’

  ‘What did he want with it?’ Steve said.

  She wished she could say ‘Darling, I don’t know,’ like the actresses. She couldn’t make herself form the words, despite the two gin-and-tonics she’d had. She wished some other girls would show up. She felt exposed with the three men.

  ‘Isn’t Mary Mooney coming?’ she said.

  ‘Mooney-Mooney-we-won’t-tell-Mooney,’ Frank chanted.

  Steve looked at him. ‘Why not?’ he said.

  ‘We won’t,’ Frank said, with a little nod. ‘That’s all.’ He kept nodding, and also twirling a little string of worry beads that he had lately taken to carrying.

  Brenda felt her head going round with the beads, and the gin-and-tonics. She picked up her handbag. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said, and headed for the Ladies’.

  ‘What are you thinking of?’ Steve said.

  ‘We could have fun,’ Frank said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll think. I will have a little chat with Brendah,’ Frank said, camping up the name. ‘Tell her to forget it.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s bound to from you,’ Artie said.

  Frank looked at him with dislike. ‘Why are you being such a beast this evening?’

  ‘Oh, bugger off,’ Artie told him.’

  ‘Well, thank you, fans.’

  Steve was watching Artie. He was certainly bugged. Steve knew what was bugging him, and he thought it childish. He’d already privately explained why he hadn’t been able to tell him about Frank until the matter was straightened out.

  ‘I will have a chat with Brendan,’ Frank said again.

  ‘No, skip it,’ Steve-said. He could see this was bugging Artie, too. Everything was bugging him lately. Anyway, he knew the girl would forget the matter if nobody said anything. He saw Brenda appearing, distantly, and got up himself. ‘I’ve had enough for one night,’ he said.

  ‘So soon?’ Frank said. ‘What’s up with everyone? What you all need is a session with the detectives. They perk a fellow up. In fact, everything needs perking up. Isn’t that right, darling?’ he said, as Brenda, rather pale, stood beside them.

  ‘What?’ Brenda said, despite herself.

  But playful Frank wouldn’t tell her. He just twirled his beads as they left the pub. That was lateish on Monday night.

  *

  The envelope arrived on Wednesday. Because it was addressed just to Murder HQ, Chelsea Police Station, it went first to the clerks in the Incident Room. It was a long white envelope, and inside was a sheet of cartridge paper folded in three.

  On the sheet were four lines of Letraset Gothic lettering, carefully placed. They read:

  She had three lilies

  in her hand

  And the stars in her hair

  were seven.

  There was nothing else in the envelope, so the clerk who had opened it simply recorded its arrival in the Journal, with the day and the time, Wednesday, 2.30 p.m.; which marked the official start of the Chelsea Murders (Series II).

  Two

  To dance to flutes,

  To dance to lutes,

  Is delicate

  And rare.

  11

  TWO miles up the road, Mooney was in her customary position for the day and the hour. The day was the same Wednesday, the hour ten. She was looking along her jeans-clad legs, stretched on the next chair, and nodding glumly at what was coming at her out of the phone.

  Taking one with another, Wednesdays were bloody terrible. Everything started again on Wednesday. It was like Sisyphus rolling his stone to the top of the hill and never getting there. Something of an anti-climactic nature did actually happen here once a week, but it happened on Tuesday. The last pages went off to Dorking then, for printing on Wednesday, publication dated Friday.

  The Gazette was one of a chain of eight suburban papers sharing common advertising and features. Their own news pages had to be dovetailed in with the others, which meant the least newsworthy items had to go first; hence the regular Wednesday dredge of municipal offices, churches, clubs.

  Not Fleet Street.

  ‘Well, I’m sure everyone realizes that, Monty,’ she said.

  She was talking to Montague Humboldt of the Artists’ Guild. He was giving her an earful about the national disgrace of Normanby’s widow being on public assistance.

  ‘They don’t, Mary, honestly!’ Monty said, excitedly.

  He continued raving so she cast an eye over the proof pages. VICAR RAPS CHURCH VANDALS. ‘Beastliness’ in Vestry. Not bad, but it had only made page 7; he hadn’t specified the beastliness even to Len Offard, who had done the story.

  Len was sitting opposite her now, at the other side of the twin banks of ancient roll-top desks. He was using his own phone, and she was distracted by the need to keep an ear open for what he was saying. He wasn’t discussing the Gazette’s business, but his own; he was talking to The Sun. She was almost sure it was about the murders because of the extreme abbreviation of his remarks and the way his eyes flitted shiftily over hers.

  Old Monty kept going.

  ‘… think the G.L.C. at least would have the grace to mark in some way the studio where he created his greatest …’

  ‘I thought they had, Monty.’

  ‘Of course you did. People do think that,’ Monty said. ‘Yet not so much as a –’

  Mooney made a note. Might be something. Nothing on the public assistance issue. Normanby’s widow hadn’t suffered in silence. Marking of studios, though: G.L.C. falling down on the job.

  ‘Where was his studio – Tite Street?’

  ‘No. You see! Glebe Place. Near where Galsworthy wrote –’

  Galsworthy, eh? Not bad. ‘Okay, Monty, I’ll look into it. Are you sure he’s not listed anywhere?’

  ‘Oh, listed possibly,’ Monty said contemptuously, ‘but I can assure you –’

  ‘Lovely.’ Bye, Monty.’ She hung up and jiggled the phone. ‘Sandra, can you put me through to Wilfred.’

  ‘He’s right here, Mary.’

  Yes, course he was.

  ‘Yes, Mary?’

  ‘Wilfred, I want something on Stanley Normanby. Is his old studio listed anywhere?’

  ‘Normanby. I’ll call you.’

  As Mooney hung up, two things struck her. One was that Len had hung up at the identical moment with a very smug look on his face. The other was the old pub slate with messages, hung on the wall. Someone had chalked on it MOONEY IS SPOONY. This could only be a reference to Otto Wertmuller. She had done a diary item on him, describing his scrumptiousness in perhaps extravagant terms.

  She brooded on this as she tidied the items collected so far.

  Wertmuller had been blond and gorgeous and gentle, despite his build, which was along cave-man lines. He had that kind of hair that needed fingers running through it. She had felt a slight itch in her fingers at sight of it. His own fingers had been beautiful, long and delicate and capable of all sorts of useful stuff on their own account.

  Mooney put together a small item from the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, relevant to unmarried mothers, still brooding. Wertmuller hadn’t evidently felt the need for an immediate grab at her; no calls, no follow-ups, though
she’d been particularly careful to give him both numbers, office and home.

  What the devil was going on of late?

  Mooney was no hysterical advocate of the need for the body’s rapture, but she thought fair was fair, and that people ought to get their share. Of latter months she had been wondering what had happened to hers. This thing and that had fallen through to her considerable bemusement. She got around, saw people, chatted. Month after raptureless month had withered away.

  She had a quick look along the length of herself, and felt a compulsive need for a look at her face, too, so she got out her compact and had one.

  ‘It’s Len, old chap,’ Len said on the phone, opposite her, carefully not mentioning the old chap’s name. ‘Anything doing?’

  It was looking a bit old, her face, leathery, experienced. But as faces went, it was full of character, intelligent, amusing, falling easily into a smile. She let it fall into one to see what it looked like. It looked fine. It had laughed its head off, had that face, for the benefit of likely-looking rapturists.

  Her phone rang.

  ‘News room,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got that list,’ Wilfred said.

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Your initials here, M.M.’

  She had had the list – a little story about Augustus John, three weeks ago – but it had gone back. She was certain of it. He had come and taken it back himself.

  ‘It isn’t here now,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you’re not signed out.’

  Of course she wasn’t signed out. He’d taken it. Probably gone down and hung around Sandra at the switchboard. He’d got it filed under something else by now, mind full of rapture.

  ‘Aren’t there any other copies about?’ she said.

  ‘At Manresa Road. How about this one, though?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got it, Wilfred. I haven’t sold it.’

  ‘Your initials, you see.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, Wilfred.’

  Silly little clot.

  All the silly little clots were getting their rapture.