‘So let’s see what Muriel Owens has to tell us about the rest of the jewellery and the stolen boyfriends.’ Mickey grinned voraciously, as though relishing the idea. ‘You’ll let me take the lead on this? I think it’s time for a less gentlemanly approach.’
Muriel Owens and her husband were about to sit down to an early dinner. They were going out, Muriel explained, so were having a bite before they went. If the officers would consider coming back?
‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience,’ Mickey told them, ‘but I don’t suppose anyone asked if the time were convenient for Miss Rowe on the night she died.’
Muriel Owens turned pink with shock but she stepped back and Henry followed Sergeant Hitchens inside.
‘Inspector,’ Mr Owens began, ‘are such comments really necessary? Such a tone?’
‘You’ve not been entirely honest with us,’ Henry said. ‘So yes, I think the tone is apt.’
‘Honest?’ Muriel Owens shook her head. ‘I can’t think what you mean.’
‘Jewellery,’ Mickey said flatly. ‘And a penchant for breaking up relationships. Enticing young men, you might say.’
‘Enticing … who? What?’
‘It seems that the snake bangle we asked you about was not the only piece of expensive jewellery that passed through the young lady’s hands. You might be telling the truth when you say you’d not seen that particular piece, but you were almost certainly aware of others of a similar type.’
‘Trinkets,’ Mr Owens said. ‘Cissie was like a magpie, drawn to shine and glitter. She would wear things on a few occasions and then, I believe, give most of them away. I doubt they were of any value.’
Henry was watching Mrs Owens and the increased flush of her cheek told him that, whatever her husband might have been told, the truth was a trifle different.
‘Trinkets, Mrs Owens?’ he asked. ‘Pastes and glitter? Or were they more exclusive than all that?’
‘And we’ll have the truth this time, if you please,’ Mickey told her sternly. ‘Me and my boss, we don’t like to be treated like fools, especially not where murder is concerned.’
Mr Owens sat down next to his wife and took her hand. ‘Muriel? What are they talking about?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sakes.’ She snatched her hand away. ‘Cissie was a young woman. An attractive woman, and of course she would flirt a little with the young men. If they took this more seriously than she intended then how could she be held to blame? And if she accepted the occasional gift, then where was the harm?’
‘Muriel!’
‘It was the expectations that might follow the giving of such a gift that she should have worried about,’ Mickey said bluntly. ‘A woman that accepts such presents can sometimes get herself a reputation.’
Mrs Owens opened her mouth to make a sharp retort but then seemed to change her mind. ‘She was young,’ she said. ‘And had endured a great deal in her short life. She deserved a little fun.’
‘Not so young or inexperienced, Mrs Owens, and many of us have endured pain and loss of a kind that might well match those Miss Rowe endured. It behoves us to learn from the experiences, not exploit them as an excuse for—’
Henry had been about to say ‘stupidity’ but even he realized that might not be the most appropriate word.
‘She may not always have judged well,’ he said, hoping that would do.
‘And you are suggesting that her ill judgement made her deserving of such a terrible death?’ Mrs Owens was now incandescent.
‘Never deserving, no. But it may well have led her down the path that made it inevitable. I’m sorry, Mrs Owens, but we have to consider that possibility.’
Muriel Owens opened her mouth and then shut it again.
‘Of course we must,’ her husband said quietly. ‘Muriel, if you know anything that might shed light here then you have to say. You owe it to Cissie.’
‘Owe it to Cissie? To have her reputation sullied? Isn’t it enough that she is dead?’
‘And can’t be hurt by anything you might say,’ Mickey said sharply. ‘But what you can tell us might make all the difference to our investigation.’
‘Names,’ Henry said. ‘Of the young men she became involved with and who may have given her gifts of jewellery. And descriptions of the pieces she wore. Mrs Owens, I’m not in the least concerned about protecting people’s feelings here. Neither, Mr Owens, Mrs Owens, am I interested that you choose to make the assumption that these pieces were of little value. Information, Mrs Owens, is the oxygen of an investigation like ours. I’m sure you’d rather give it to us in the comfort of your own home than be arrested and charged with obstruction in a murder investigation.’
‘Chief Inspector, really. I—’
Henry silenced Mr Owens with a look and Mickey took out his notebook.
Mrs Owens had turned deathly pale and she fanned herself with what looked like the same lace handkerchief she had used the first time they had met her. The scrap of linen surrounded by the wide border of lace.
Mickey waited, pen in hand.
‘When you are ready, Mrs Owens,’ Henry said.
They left almost an hour later. One name had emerged which was familiar to Mickey. Evelyn Cunningham, who had lost her beau to Cissie, had also been a name coaxed out of Becky Stephens when Mickey had spoken to her earlier.
Evening light crept across the open water, shadows stretching diagonally across the strand as the sun sank below the wooden buildings of Bungalow Town. The light was violet and golden and, in Henry’s eyes, marked the transition towards autumn. He both loved that particular time of year and dreaded it. Loved it for the childhood memories of playing in the woods behind the house and the sounds and smells of crushed leaves and bonfires; hated it for the later memories, for the fact that autumn presaged a change in weather. Brought dark and rain and mud and cold.
‘Back to the present, if you please,’ Mickey said quietly. ‘You’ve got that look in your eye again that I’d rather not see, especially when we need you to have all your wits intact.’
‘My wits are just fine, Mickey,’ Henry told him. ‘So, we have the local force track down these young lotharios and see what they have to say about Cissie Rowe and her liking for shiny treasures.’
‘I hardly think any of them will qualify as lotharios,’ Mickey chuckled to himself. ‘They’re just as likely to be drivers and bank clerks, if her friendship with Selwyn Croft is anything to go by.’
‘And Selwyn Croft certainly could not afford to be lavish … perhaps Mr Owens is right, the brooches and bracelets and such were nothing more than cheap imitations and she just liked to pretend they were more. Maybe none of it is relevant.’
He felt suddenly tired and deflated.
‘You need food and drink,’ Mickey told him sternly. ‘Your brain ceases to function, and so does your good temper, when you’ve not been fed.’
‘You don’t need to mother me, Mickey.’
‘I know I don’t need to,’ Mickey defended, ‘but some things just get to be a habit after all this time. And habits are comfortable. I hope you’d not deny me my little comforts.’
Henry managed something that was almost a laugh.
Back across the footbridge, two new constables stood on watch. ‘Our friends in the press must be gone for the night.’
‘Be too late for them to make the morning editions, even if anything does happen overnight,’ Henry said.
‘True. Anyway, it’s Sunday tomorrow. The Sundays will already have been printed and be on their way out to the newsagents. They’d get nothing in before the Monday editions now, unless they struck lucky and got a brief mention on the wireless.’
They paused for a quick word with the constables and then went to make their reports to both the local police and the central office at Scotland Yard.
There was nothing new on the mysterious Geoffrey and his blue car. Several new sightings of Philippe only a couple of days before Cissie’s death, but little that Henry deemed of immediate use.
Those investigations could be taken care of by local constables doing further house-to-house enquiries.
They left Shoreham just after seven and drove back to Cynthia’s house, knowing that even if dinner had been missed, something would have been put aside for them. ‘And a beer,’ Mickey said in anticipation. ‘Wine with your dinner, like your sister and her husband enjoy, well, it’s all very good and nice, but you need a pint at the end of a day like this. Your sister told Cook that I should have a beer with my dinner if I wished it.’
Henry laughed and shook his head. ‘Anything you wanted would be just fine with Cynthia,’ he said. ‘And, by extension, with my brother-in-law.’
‘And quite right too,’ Mickey said complacently. ‘You think your sister or the Honourable Albert will know of anyone called Geoffrey with a posh blue car?’
‘I imagine they’ll know several. But with a horse mascot? Maybe not so many. Though Albert’s chauffeurs might be worth talking to. The drivers and mechanics are more likely to know of any particular marque of car that uses a horse mascot. Personally, I think it’s as likely to have been bought as an addition. Mascots seem a popular thing. Cynthia told me of friends of hers who had a Lalique fish attached to the bonnet of their Bentley. She thought it looked a little vulgar, I think.’
‘So long as she doesn’t want to spoil the lines of hers,’ Mickey said.
FIFTEEN
Sunday morning was bright and clear but with a chill breeze coming in off the sea.
Henry and Cynthia both rose early and went out before breakfast, walking together along the promenade. Cynthia’s cheeks were reddened by the sharp wind and Henry’s hands felt surprisingly cold when they paused beside the rail and looked out to sea.
‘So, how are you feeling this morning?’ Cynthia asked him.
Henry heard the tone, the edge of concern in her voice. ‘My sergeant has been gossiping behind my back again?’
‘I asked him a question and he replied, honestly,’ Cynthia told him. ‘We both care about you, Henry, and we both know how difficult anniversaries can be.’
‘I’m fine, Cyn. Truly I am.’ He brushed the curls back out of his eyes and made a mental note that he must get his hair cut. It was the only unruly, uncontrolled element of either his personality or his appearance – or so people said of him. Henry knew that the rest of his facade could be characterized as austere, from his manner of dress to his pebble grey eyes.
‘Your sleeves are fraying,’ Cynthia observed. ‘Henry, must you wear that coat day in, day out? It makes you look like an unsuccessful undertaker.’
‘It’s comfortable,’ he told her. ‘And it has deep pockets. A man needs deep pockets.’
‘I can have one made for you. An identical coat. How would that be?’
Henry thought about it. ‘That would be nice,’ he said, knowing that this response would please his sister. ‘Cynthia … if one of your friends or acquaintances needed to get cocaine, more than for personal use, would that be easy?’
‘Down here or in London? In London I know of a half dozen physicians who might be persuaded to provide a little more than was strictly necessary. Down here, I’m not so sure. There is an element of conservatism in Worthing compared to the city. I could ask around, if that would help.’
‘Wouldn’t that arouse suspicion?’
‘Oh, Henry. Everyone knows I pass information on to you. I’m quite candid about it, so nobody minds. They find it exciting, I suppose, the idea that a little bit of casual gossip might help to solve a murder. I know you find the attitude distasteful, Henry, but for most people, murder is a rather exotic happening. So long as they are not directly affected, of course.’
‘And they’re not afraid that it might rebound on them, this information you might be passing on to me?’
Cynthia laughed. ‘Henry, most of Albert’s friends view themselves as untouchable. It never occurs to them that anything in life might rebound. I thank the Lord that Albert is a more cautious man, that he opens his eyes to possibilities.’
‘Possibilities?’
‘That life is not a menu; just because you order a certain dish does not mean that life will oblige.’
Henry nodded, remembering the conversation he’d had with Cynthia’s husband a couple of days before. ‘Albert has great respect for your opinions,’ he said.
‘Oh, I know. Enough to change the odd word here and there and make them his own.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘Occasionally. But I’m a pragmatist, remember? I’m satisfied that he takes notice of what I say. I can live without the full credit.’
They turned and began to walk slowly back to the house. The town was awake now, but there were still only a few people on the streets. Most would not choose to leave home on a Sunday morning until it was time to go to church. He and Mickey would be long gone before then.
‘I wonder how many individual habits our father fed,’ he said.
‘Many, I would have thought. Even in a small, country community like ours. The vicar’s wife couldn’t sleep without her powders. Our schoolmaster was dependant on morphine – for the pain in his leg, apparently. The master of the hunt took cocaine before he rode out …’
‘And you know these things, how?’
‘Henry, before our father decided to torture you by making you spend hours in his study grinding powders and making up pills, that was my task. I saw the scripts he wrote before he sent the medicines out. And I saw the account books. He might have taken pleasure in keeping Mother and us children short of everything from food to warm clothing, but that didn’t mean the money wasn’t coming in.’
They walked in silence for a while and then Henry asked, ‘Do you hate him?’
‘Of course I do. I always did. And while I know I wouldn’t be the person I am today had our circumstances been different, I see absolutely no reason to thank him for that. Our father was mean and cruel and I was glad when he died.’
Henry nodded. Cynthia’s honesty sometimes took him by surprise, but not in this case. ‘I wish it could have been different, especially for you. I know that all the responsibility fell to you.’
‘Oh, Henry. Don’t be such an idiot. We worked our way through together. Believe me, darling, I could not have coped had I been alone. I think, in truth, that we kept one another alive, don’t you?’
Breakfast was a noisy affair. It was a Sunday custom that the children should eat with their parents before church and so Albert hid behind his newspapers and Henry, Cynthia and Mickey found themselves in conversation with the younger members of the family. Melissa had settled herself beside Henry and was telling him about the books she had been reading. It seemed that she was a fan of Dickens but that she also borrowed her father’s detective stories and his Jeeves and Wooster books.
‘Aren’t they a little old for you?’ Henry enquired.
‘Mummy says that if I’m capable of reading them than I should be allowed to,’ she said. ‘Mummy says that if there is anything I don’t understand, then I should go and ask Daddy, because they’re his books.’
Henry exchanged a glance with his sister and could see the laughter behind her eyes. Mischief maker, Henry thought. ‘You and I must go book shopping,’ he said. ‘Would you like that?’
‘I would like that very much.’ Melissa speared a lump of sausage and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘After you have finished with this murder, I’ll write you a letter to remind you.’
From across the table Cynthia smiled at her daughter and Henry reflected on how alike the two female members of the household were. Somehow, he was glad of that. If Melissa grew up to be anything like Cynthia then he would be very happy.
‘Do you believe in fairies, Uncle Henry?’
Henry considered. ‘I’m not sure that I do. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I’ve been reading Mr Conan Doyle’s book about the Cottingley fairies. Have you heard about it?’
Vaguely, Henry recalled that the Sherlock Holmes author had p
roduced such a book about six years before, but he didn’t know the details.
‘It’s about these two little girls who went out with a camera and they photographed some fairies. The pictures are in the book. I’ve asked Daddy if I can have a camera for my birthday and he says he will think about it.’
‘And are you thinking of going out and trying to photograph fairies?’ Henry asked her.
Melissa shook her head. ‘I think that might be too difficult,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard of anybody else photographing fairies and there are a lot of people with cameras. So, Uncle Henry, do you think it strange that these two little girls should go to the bottom of their garden, or into the woods near the bottom of their garden, anyway, and manage to photograph fairies just like that? I don’t think I’d be that lucky.’
‘And do you believe these are pictures of real fairies?’ Henry asked her.
‘I don’t know. I think Mr Conan Doyle must be a very clever man and so perhaps that is evidence that they are really photographs of fairies because clever men should not be fooled so easily, should they? But Mummy says that just because he is clever about some things, that does not mean he is going to be clever about everything. She says that you told her that sometimes people just see what they are looking for.’
‘That’s true,’ Henry said cautiously. He was aware that both Cynthia and Mickey were now observing him closely and that even Albert was peering around the edge of his newspaper. ‘Perhaps the evidence that you should be thinking about is whether these girls knew how to create photographs that made it look as if fairies were really there. Or if perhaps they had a friend that did. Evidence can be a very tricky thing, Melissa.’
His niece considered that and ate some more of her breakfast while Henry wondered if he had given her a useful answer. Cynthia nodded at him so he decided he hadn’t done too badly. Mickey just looked amused and Albert had disappeared back behind his newspaper. The boys were still talking about cricket.
Henry picked up his coffee and sipped slowly. It was very hot and the roast was rich and he knew it was probably the last decent cup he’d have all day. It seemed that Melissa hadn’t quite done with him yet.
Death Scene Page 14
