An Expert in Murder

by Nicola Upson

  face him at the theatre. No one had ever looked at him in fear before, and he had never imagined that they would have reason to, but Friday night had changed all that.

  He tried not to think about Elspeth too much, although that in itself felt like betrayal. He had been lucky to have known her. Betty had never wanted children and, although it was the one great sadness in his life, he had kept his disappointment quietly to himself and learned to cherish instead the time he spent with his niece.

  After his brother’s death, he had vowed that she would not go through life missing a father’s concern and had watched over her welfare more diligently than ever before without, he hoped, seeming too heavy-handed about it. He thought back to the notes that Alice and Betty had kept secret from him, the notes that Walter had never mentioned, and it pained him now to realise that there were things in Elspeth’s life about which he knew nothing. He’d known their relationship must change as she grew into a young woman and, when she met Hedley, had recognised with sadness that the moment had come for him to relinquish some of the privileges of friendship. But Hedley was a good boy and, more than anything else, Frank wanted Elspeth to be happy. He’d always wanted that.

  A motorcycle turned into Verbena Gardens but there was still no sign of a car so, for company, he got up to switch the wireless on in the kitchen. He filled the kettle and stood it on the stove, hoping that an indulgence in the habits of the morning might encourage time to pass more quickly. To his surprise, before he had a chance to light the gas, he heard the doorbell. Surely he hadn’t missed the car? He’d only been gone a few seconds and anyway, Betty would let herself in. In the brief time it took him to go downstairs and switch the lights on in the shop, Frank managed to conjure up a hundred different scenarios – road accidents, freak weather condi-tions, other murders – all of which would leave him wretched and alone in the world. When he lifted the blind he was relieved, if bewildered, to see the actor, Rafe Swinburne, standing on the doorstep, holding what looked like a doll.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you so early,’ Swinburne said, although Frank 192

  was sure his dishevelled dress and exhausted face must make it painfully obvious that he had not been to bed. ‘I’m sorry, too, for your loss. I only met Elspeth once or twice, but she seemed a lovely girl. My name’s Swinburne and I’m a friend of Hedley’s,’ he explained. ‘I’ve brought something for you.’

  Frank shook the hand he was offered. ‘Yes, I’ve seen you at the theatre. You’d better come in.’ He led the way upstairs and directed his guest into the living room while he returned to the kitchen. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he called. ‘I was just going to have one myself.’ There was no answer, so he went through to the other room and found Swinburne staring in disbelief at his collection. Realising he had company, the young man reverted to the expression of polite sympathy which he’d worn on arrival, but not before Frank had had time to see the smirk of amusement on his face as he looked into the glass cases. Suddenly, he saw his labour of love through the actor’s eyes – pathetic and ridiculous, and stripped of all its joy now that there was no one to share it with.

  He felt a surge of anger towards this man who, with his good looks and easy charm, had destroyed years of dedication in a second and, when he spoke, his voice was filled with a resentment which would, in the past, have seemed utterly alien to him.

  ‘What do you want? I’m waiting for my wife to come back and she’ll be here any minute.’

  Swinburne could hardly have missed the change in tone but he kept his composure. ‘Hedley asked me to bring you this,’ he said, gesturing with the doll. ‘He got it as a present for Elspeth and he was going to give it to her this weekend. He also asked me to tell you that he’s sorry.’

  ‘What for? Why hasn’t he come to see me himself?’ As he uttered the words, Frank marvelled at how quickly the poison of suspicion could take hold. He was appalled by the ease with which he was beginning to doubt those he had instinctively trusted, but he couldn’t help himself. Until you experienced it for yourself, he thought, it was impossible to understand how murder continued to corrode the living long after the dead were cold.

  ‘He’s with the police. Naturally, they want to speak to him 193

  about Elspeth’s death – just to see if he can help them, of course.

  Nothing more sinister than that.’ Frank listened as Swinburne talked about Hedley and Elspeth, and found that he resented the casual way in which words like ‘love’ and ‘belonging’ fell from his lips, as if he were delivering another script and had forgotten that the emotions he described belonged to real people. For Frank, these were important words and should be used sparingly, not thrown away in a performance. He doubted that Hedley – shy and inexperienced as he was – would have found it easy to express what he felt for Elspeth, but she would have known anyway, just as she had known how much he had always cared. Wasn’t that what love meant?

  Eventually, Frank took the doll from Swinburne’s hands, wishing the scene to be over. ‘Hedley really wants Elspeth to have this and he thought you’d know what to do,’ the actor said, and looked again at the cases of theatre souvenirs. ‘Although, if you don’t think that’s appropriate, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you kept it here.’

  Before he could say anything, Frank heard the shop door close and his wife called up the stairs. So he had missed their arrival after all, but at least they were back safely. When Betty came into the room, he was as surprised to see her alone as she was to discover he had company. ‘Where’s Alice?’ he asked.

  ‘She wanted to go to Elspeth straight away, spend some time with her on her own, so the car took her there first. The police have been very kind. She’s going there next – she said she had to speak to Inspector Penrose as soon as possible – so we probably won’t see her till this afternoon.’

  ‘What does she want to talk to the police about so urgently?

  Does she know something?’

  Betty looked at Swinburne, clearly not wanting to discuss their business in front of strangers. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Sorry, this is Rafe Swinburne.’

  ‘I just came to give my condolences, Mrs Simmons, and to bring something for Elspeth. I can see you need to be alone, though. I’ll see myself out.’

  Betty removed her hat and went to deal with the kettle, while 194

  Frank listened to the fading sound of a motorcycle engine and waited to hear what Alice had said to his wife.

  Dead, then, thought Esme McCracken, trying to come to terms with the news as she sat alone in a poky, depressing room on the ground floor of New Scotland Yard. That would teach him to be so fucking smug.

  It was a shame the police had found the letters, though. If she’d thought about it, she could have removed them – she’d had plenty of opportunities – but it never occurred to her that Aubrey would care enough to keep them. She cast her mind back over what she had written, and was pleased to recall nothing to be ashamed of.

  Admittedly, the threats were unfortunate in hindsight – unfortunate but not unjustifiable, and she certainly didn’t regret having made them. No, when somebody did at last have the decency to come and see her, she’d be ready and happy to talk. What was keeping them, she wondered? Surely she must be a priority?

  To pass the time, she tried to take in all she could of her surroundings. It was important for writers to make the most of every experience and she often played this game with herself, standing outside life, observing. It was second nature to her, really. Ironically, the one time the trick had failed her was when it mattered most, when her father died and she found herself unable to escape her own heart, torn between grief at his loss and resentment that she had had to postpone her writing to care for him. But that was a while ago now.

  No cell – or interview room, as they had euphemistically called it –

  could equal that for a prison. She found it hard to imagine a time when a visit to Scotland Yard would have a place in her work, but she would s
tore it up anyway. If the worst came to the worst, she could always knock off one of those sad little detective stories –

  God knows, everyone else did and Tey had managed it, so how hard could it be? Not exactly something to be proud of, though. No wonder she didn’t want her own name on it. Or on Richard of bloody Bordeaux for that matter.

  It was outrageous, though, the way they were making her wait.

  She was just contemplating making a fuss when the door opened 195

  and two men entered the room. One was the fat idiot who had brought her in for questioning, the other was clearly his superior

  – in every possible way, she hoped, if he expected her to talk to him. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Penrose and, as he spoke, she recognised him from the theatre as the man who occasionally hung around Tey. He was handsome, she had to admit, with a richly textured voice and an intelligence in his eyes that must make him enviable company. What on earth did he see in a second-rate scribbler from Scotland?

  Although she was too clever to let it show, Penrose’s first question surprised her. ‘It’s clear from your letters to Bernard Aubrey that you were dissatisfied with how things were run at the New Theatre. Would you be happier if John Terry were in charge?’

  She thought for a moment before answering, but saw no reason to lie. ‘The issue isn’t the running of the building but the philosophy of what’s on stage,’ she said. ‘Theatre is about sharing ideas and expanding people’s horizons. It’s not about making money. Aubrey had cash, but Terry has vision. So what do you think, Inspector?’

  ‘Does entertainment have a place in your vision, Miss McCracken?’

  ‘People make do with what they’re given, but they need to be led. How can they be taught to appreciate better things if they’re never given a chance to experience them?’ Her habit of answering a question with a question was beginning to frustrate him, she could tell, but she was enjoying the chance to act out the debate that she had rehearsed so many times in her head.

  ‘Did anyone else share your views about Aubrey?’

  ‘If you mean was he unpopular, that’s hard to say. Wealth tends to distort the boundaries of like and dislike, don’t you find?

  Bernard Aubrey was one of those men who people use. He could do so much for so many, and that’s never a recipe for true friendship. Anyway, no relationship is ever what it seems in the theatre: you learn that when you work backstage and see what they’re really like. Some alliances are built on very shaky foundations, and a pretty face can turn the most unlikely heads.’

  ‘Would you care to expand on that?’

  196

  ‘Not really. Ask Terry or Fleming or Lydia Beaumont what they really thought of Aubrey. Or of each other, for that matter. I think there’d be a few surprises.’

  ‘I’ll do that. In the meantime, where were you on Friday evening between six o’clock and eight o’clock?’

  Penrose had changed his approach and, for the first time, McCracken felt at a disadvantage. What did he know, she wondered? ‘I was in Charing Cross Road, browsing in the bookshops until they closed. I suppose the last one shut at around six-thirty.

  Afterwards, I went for a walk round the theatres to see what the queues were like, and got to the New just after seven. I like to be there in plenty of time.’

  ‘Did you buy anything in the bookshops?’

  She hesitated. ‘No, not this time.’

  ‘I gather you’ve written a play of your own. What’s it about?’

  She expected better from him. The question was disappointingly simplistic, and she gave it the contempt it deserved. ‘It’s not a simple narrative that can be summed up in a couple of sentences, Inspector. If I could sit here and paraphrase it, what would be the point of going to the trouble of writing it at all? It’s a play of ideas.’ She thought again of Tey, and wondered how much he cared for her. ‘But at least they’re my own ideas and I haven’t had to borrow them from someone else.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, no doubt we’ll find out what they are if the play goes into production.’

  McCracken tried to keep her fury in check and was helped by a knock at the door. The Sergeant, who might as well have been struck dumb for all he was contributing to the interview, got up and returned a few seconds later. He whispered something to the Inspector, who closed his file.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss McCracken, but we’ll have to leave it there for now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she cried indignantly. ‘Surely you want to ask me about Aubrey’s death?’

  ‘I do indeed, but not at the moment. You won’t mind waiting, I’m sure. I’ll get the constable to bring you a cup of tea.’

  197

  She began to tell him what she thought of his hospitality, but the door closed in her face before the second adjective was uttered.

  Despite the brief euphoria of his performance the night before, John Terry knew he would not be happy until he had settled things with Aubrey. Yesterday’s meeting had left him restless and frustrated. Now, as he lay in bed, he found reassurance in his lover’s presence but knew that this easy solace was only temporary: the fear he had felt during his encounter with Fleming was stronger than ever. He hated confrontation and would go to any lengths to avoid it, but too many things were going wrong in his life; the only way to get back on track was to face his demons one at a time, and he might as well start now. Aubrey was often at work at the weekend, and by now he’d probably have calmed down. Quietly, Terry got up, dressed and left the flat.

  Out in St Martin’s Lane, he began to feel better. The area was different altogether on a Sunday, with the shops shut and no prospect of life in the theatres, but he still felt at home here and the familiarity brought with it a sense of permanence which made the future less intimidating. Was his position really so bad? He had had fights with Aubrey before – never as serious as this, admittedly

  – but the two of them had always worked out their differences.

  Why should this be any different? He had no reason to suppose that Aubrey now doubted his talents or his importance to the stage. There was Fleming, of course, but perhaps he should even come clean to Aubrey about that? After all, it wasn’t him doing the blackmailing and he doubted that such a stunt would be looked upon favourably. The lie he had told Fleming in the heat of the moment yesterday might yet prove to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  His optimism was short-lived. He was surprised to find the stage door open on a Sunday and even more astonished to find it manned by a policeman who refused to let him in or explain his presence. Irritated and a little alarmed, he walked down St Martin’s Court and into Charing Cross Road, and stopped at the first telephone box. Unless Aubrey was inside the theatre with the police, he would be at home and would know what was going on.

  198

  It was Aubrey’s wife who answered, however, and when Terry replaced the receiver five minutes later, he was at a loss to know how to make sense of what she had told him. How could Aubrey be dead? Terry had never known anyone with a greater sense of vitality, a stronger grip on life.

  There was a sharp rap on the glass and he looked up to discover that people were waiting to use the telephone. Apologetically, he stepped outside and took none of the usual gratification in noticing how their attitude changed when they recognised him. It had begun to rain again, so he stepped into a doorway to shelter while he tried to come to terms with conflicting emotions: sadness at the loss of a friend and mentor, who had taught him so much and from whom he still had plenty to learn; shock at the brutal reality of another murder following so swiftly on the heels of the one at King’s Cross; and relief that, in death, Bernard Aubrey had offered him a way out of the mess he was in. Grace Aubrey had been gracious about her husband’s generosity towards him and had wished him well with the future of the theatres. He was more grateful than she could possibly have realised.

  Suddenly a whole new world of opportunity opened up in front of him, and Terry felt both exhilarated and t
errified at the prospect of having to prove himself without the cushion of Aubrey’s back-ing and judgement. He knew, however, that he would not be able to think about it properly until he had sorted Fleming out, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t do that now. He knew where he lived and didn’t doubt the truth of Grace Aubrey’s words; he had enough money to shut Fleming up once and for all, and the sooner he did it the better. He would offer him a one-off payment for his silence and then have to trust the man to keep to his word; if the sum was large enough, he couldn’t see a problem.

  It didn’t take him long to get to Bloomsbury and find Fleming’s street but, as he was looking for the house number, the man himself emerged from a door about a hundred yards ahead of him.

  The strong build was unmistakable but, even at this distance, Terry could see that he looked awful, hunched into a scruffy old brown coat. Instead of calling out to Fleming, Terry decided to fol-199

  low him, enjoying for once the role of hunter rather than hunted.

  In any case, it would be no bad thing to have the discussion in a public place; Fleming’s anger yesterday had unnerved him. He looked at his watch and saw it was nearly opening time; the nearest public house was where they were most likely to end up.

  But no. Fleming passed three pubs on his way up Guilford Street and into Gray’s Inn Road, and didn’t give any of them a second glance. Where the hell was he going, Terry wondered? And why, if it was so far, hadn’t he taken a bus? Fleming was intent on his destination, so at least he was unlikely to look behind, but Terry was struggling to keep pace with him; then, just as he was about to abandon the chase, Fleming slowed down and took what appeared to be a photograph out of his pocket. He glanced at it briefly, then mounted the steps of a large, red-brick building and disappeared through its doors. When Terry caught him up, he stared in confusion at the discreet notice to the right of the entrance. What could Lewis Fleming possibly be doing in the Edith Kent Nursing Home?