Murder a la Mode

by Patricia Moyes

  When the mournful rites were over, Goring suggested that they should all go back to Brompton Square for tea. He extended the invitation warmly to Mrs. Sedge and, after a palpable hesitation, included Henry.

  It was not a happy gathering. Only Mrs. Sedge appeared to be enjoying herself. She was not in the least overawed by her surroundings, and her frank appreciation of tea and chocolate cake was refreshing. It was also obvious that she had been fond of Helen, and mourned her sincerely.

  “A lovely lady,” she said to Henry, extending her little finger conscientiously as she sipped from one of Goring’s Meissen cups. “A really lovely lady, and a pleasure to work for. So considerate. Mind you, everything had to be done proper. No skimping the dusting or forgetting to scrub the underneaths of the saucepans. But what I always say is—you don’t mind working hard if it’s appreciated, do you?”

  Henry murmured agreement, and Mrs. Sedge went on. “That Miss Piper, now…” She lowered her voice discreetly. “Quite a different matter altogether. Doesn’t know the difference between clean and dirty, if you ask me. Of course, she’s young yet. She wants me to stay on with her, but I really haven’t made up my mind. It’s not the same without Miss Helen.”

  “Still,” said Henry, “I don’t suppose you saw very much of either of them, did you? I mean, they were out at work all day…”

  Mrs. Sedge looked at him pityingly. “That’s not really the point, is it?” she said, gently rebuking. “Thank you, I could manage another small piece of cake. No, what I mean is, Miss Helen’s room was always so neat and tidy, except that once, and then there was a reason. And she’d leave me my instructions, all properly written out. You knew where you were. But Miss Piper’s room—well, you should see it, that’s all I can say. And she doesn’t like me going in there to tidy up.”

  Henry said, “Miss Helen sounds almost too good to be true. I’m rather glad to hear she left her room in a mess occasionally.”

  “Only the once,” said Mrs. Sedge. She smiled reminiscently. “Yes, the only time I remember in ten years. About a month ago, it must have been. I opened the door, and you could have knocked me down with a feather. Things were all over the place—papers and the like.”

  “Papers?” repeated Henry, interested.

  “Well, when I say papers, I don’t mean letters and things. Tissue paper. But then I might have known.”

  “Known what?”

  “That there’d be a good reason,” said Mrs. Sedge. “For once, you see, I’d gone straight into Miss Helen’s room instead of into the kitchen when I arrived. And when I did go into the kitchen, there was a little note from her asking me not to touch her room that day, as she was in the middle of packing her things to go away. That’s what I mean by considerate.”

  “To go away?” said Henry. “A month ago?”

  “That’s right. A business trip, I suppose it must have been. That was on the Monday. When I came again on the Friday, she was back.”

  “A little more tea, Mrs. Sedge?” Godfrey Goring appeared, charming and solicitous. Henry left him refilling Mrs. Sedge’s cup, and went over to the other side of the room, where Michael Healy was talking to Beth Connolly.

  Beth smiled quickly and rather nervously at Henry, and said, “It was nice of you to come along today, Inspector. I’m sure Helen would have appreciated it.”

  Michael gave Henry a cynical look. “All in the course of duty, I dare say, wasn’t it, Inspector?”

  “I suppose you could call it that,” said Henry. “It’s often difficult to draw an exact dividing line between duty and…” He hesitated. “Pleasure” did not seem to be the right word. “…and one’s natural inclinations.”

  “How very perspicacious you are, Inspector,” said Michael maliciously. “But of course, that’s what we pay you for, isn’t it?”

  There was an awkward silence, during which Henry began to sympathize with Horace Barry’s view of Michael. Henry himself, knowing what he did, was prepared to make every allowance, but even so, he had to admit that the photographer was an expert in the art of insult.

  It was Beth who spoke first, with typical directness. “What a beastly, snide remark, Michael. I think Inspector Tibbett has been wonderful. It must be a hell of a job, investigating a murder in a madhouse like Style.”

  Immediately, Michael looked contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I…I haven’t been feeling terribly well lately, and Paris is always a strain. As soon as I find myself getting bitchy, I know the time has come to take a holiday. I thought I might spend a few weeks in the Canaries when…when all this is over.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t ask,” said Beth, “but how is the case going, Inspector?”

  “Slowly, I’m afraid,” said Henry. “I’ve seldom had an assignment where it was so difficult to get to the truth.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Henry looked straight at Michael Healy. “Because,” he said, “I’m up against extremely clever people.”

  Michael returned his direct gaze. “Have you found us obstructive or unwilling to talk, Inspector?”

  “No,” said Henry. “Everybody has been garrulous, frank, and anxious to help. That’s just the trouble.”

  Michael gave a tiny smile. “You’re pretty clever yourself, aren’t you?” he said. And when Henry did not reply, he added, “Wouldn’t it be much easier for everyone if you decided that Helen had committed suicide?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “It would. It would also be untrue.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m just clever enough,” said Henry, “not to tell you that.”

  Soon after this, the party began to break up. Margery said that she must go, and offered a lift to the blonde secretary. Patrick at once cut in on this arrangement, claiming that the girl lived in his direction, and that he would not only take her home but stand her a drink on the way. Margery looked very angry indeed, but said nothing. Meanwhile, Teresa and Michael had volunteered to drive Mrs. Sedge as far as Sloane Square Underground Station, whence she could take a train to Putney. Henry was about to take his leave when Goring laid a hand on his arm, and said quietly, “Please, Inspector. Do stay and have a drink. I’d like to talk to you.”

  In the elegant drawing room, Goring put another log on the open fire, poured whisky for Henry and tonic water for himself, and said, “I’ll come straight to the point, Inspector. I want to know what progress you are making on the case. It’s no use telling me that I have no right to ask, because I think I have. The longer it drags on, the more unsettling the effect on my staff—and when people are unsettled they don’t work well.” He paused. “Margery came to see me yesterday. She says that efficiency is beginning to suffer in every department. For instance, Olwen Piper, who is usually the most meticulous of writers, let through a paragraph in her April copy which was not only inaccurate, but could have been construed as libelous. Fortunately, Margery spotted it when the proofs came through. When she spoke to Olwen about it, the girl got hysterical and said she couldn’t concentrate on anything until the murder was cleared up. Then Teresa had been behaving very strangely—reorganizing the whole of the April fashion reportage quite unnecessarily, according to Margery. When Margery protested, Teresa snapped at her and reminded her that she wouldn’t be sitting at her present desk much longer. Very distressing and most unlike Teresa. As for Patrick Walsh, he seems to have lost his grip completely, and is leaving everything to his assistant. These are my key people, Inspector. You can understand why I’m concerned.”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “I can.”

  “Now,” Goring went on, “I gave you my considered opinion when we lunched together, and I’ve seen no reason to change it. Frankly, I was disappointed at the outcome of the inquest. An adjournment merely prolongs the agony for everyone. It’s perfectly clear that Helen killed herself. Can’t you let it go at that?”

  Carefully, Henry said, “It’s for the coroner’s court to decide, Mr. Goring. I can’t possibly anticipate their verdict.”
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  Goring gave Henry a faintly conspiratorial smile. “We all know,” he said, “that the court will be influenced one way or the other by the police evidence. You can’t hide behind the coroner’s skirts, Inspector.”

  “I can assure you,” said Henry, “that in a case like this, where there is an element of doubt, the verdict may well be a surprise to us all. We can only present the evidence as we see it.”

  “And how do you see it?”

  Henry looked at Goring searchingly for a long moment. Then he said, “As you pointed out, Mr. Goring, you are in a very special position with regard to this case. I think that I am justified in taking you into my confidence, so long as you give me your word that nothing I say will go any further.”

  Goring looked pleased, and nodded with becoming solemnity. “I quite understand that.”

  “You know, of course,” Henry went on, “that Miss Field’s suitcase, which was in Helen’s office, was rifled at some time during the night?”

  “I had heard that. But I don’t see what…might not Helen herself have done it, before she…?”

  “No,” said Henry. “Helen collapsed over her typewriter, in the middle of typing a sentence; but the typewriter keys were covered with face powder from a box out of Miss Field’s suitcase. There was powder on every key, except those on which Helen’s fingers were resting. This, together with the fact that Miss Field’s key to the building has disappeared, makes it virtually certain that somebody returned to the office later on, after Helen was dead, and ransacked the suitcase.”

  Goring considered this for a moment in silence. Then he said, “I am forced to agree with you, Inspector. Nevertheless, this by no means proves that Helen was murdered. Let us suppose that she committed suicide, and that later this mysterious person turned up and found her.”

  “And didn’t raise the alarm?”

  “They wouldn’t have dared. They had no right to be there. They were bent on stealing something from the suitcase. Naturally, they were unnerved at finding a dead body in the room, which would explain the frantic haste with which the case was apparently rifled.”

  “That would sound convincing,” said Henry, “if it weren’t for the evidence of the fingerprints.”

  “What fingerprints?”

  “The ones that weren’t there. The Thermos flask had only Helen’s prints on it, and the cyanide bottle had none at all. You see what that means?”

  “That the person who poured out the cyanide was wearing gloves?”

  “It’s rather more complicated than that. We know that Ernest Jenkins, the darkroom boy, handled the Thermos earlier on, when he refilled it, so his prints would be on it—if it hadn’t been wiped clean later on, after the cyanide was put in, and before Helen carried it along to her office. Then, Ernest also used the cyanide earlier in the evening, so his prints should have been on that bottle, too. If Helen had really poisoned herself, would she have taken the trouble to wipe the Thermos clean and then put her own prints on it, and would she have cleaned her prints off the cyanide bottle?”

  After a long pause, Goring said, “So that is to be the police evidence, when the inquest is resumed?”

  “That among other things. I hope to have a great deal more evidence by then.”

  “Well,” said Goring, “in that case, I suppose we can only be patient. Dare I ask if you have a…a line on anybody?”

  “Certainly you may ask,” said Henry, pleasantly, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

  “Of course not. I do understand.” Goring hesitated, and then said, almost diffidently, “By the way…when the inquest is resumed…will the business of Helen and Michael Healy be dragged up?”

  “Only if it’s strictly necessary,” said Henry. “I’d like to think that we shall be able to avoid it.”

  Goring looked profoundly relieved. “I’m thankful to hear that,” he said. “It’s the kind of publicity we want to avoid at all costs.”

  “But,” said Henry, “I can’t promise that it won’t be mentioned later, in another court. At the murder trial, in fact. If the prosecution doesn’t use it, the defence almost certainly will.”

  “Before a trial, there must be an arrest.”

  “Of course.”

  “It sounds to me,” said Goring, “as though you were pretty confident of making one soon,” he said.

  Henry smiled, “I hope to,” he said.

  Suddenly, Goring said, “My wife tells me you called on her in Downley.”

  “That’s right,” said Henry. “I just wanted to clear her completely by establishing that she was in the country at the time of the murder.”

  “Clear her? My dear man, you surely don’t connect Lorna with…?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” said Henry hastily. “It was pure routine. In any case, she has a perfect alibi. She was playing bridge into the small hours that night with a host of witnesses.”

  Goring looked relieved. “That’s good,” he said. “I mean, in circumstances like these, one is always worried that one’s family may be dragged in.”

  “Don’t I know it,” said Henry feelingly. He was heartily thankful that Veronica was safely out of the way, even if only for the week end. Then he added, “That’s a lovely house you have at Downley, Mr. Goring. It must be sad for you not to be able to spend more time there.”

  “Work is work, alas,” replied Goring. “Still, I hope to get down there later this evening, for what’s left of the week end. It’s lonely for my wife… I really must try to persuade her to spend more time in London.”

  “Mr. Goring,” said Henry suddenly, “what do you know about smuggling designs out of Paris?”

  Goring looked completely taken aback for a moment, and then smiled. “You’ve been hearing rumours, have you, Inspector?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Well…” Goring poked the fire. “I don’t believe it myself, but these things are bad for the whole industry, and should be cleared up. I am naturally anxious to get to the bottom of the whole matter, but in my position, you understand, it’s difficult…”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “I can see it is.”

  A few minutes later he took his leave. It was a raw, bitter evening, and Knightsbridge was totally devoid of taxis. He ended up by queuing for a bus, and arrived home chilled to the marrow.

  Emmy was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Since it was by far the warmest room in the flat, Henry was only too pleased to comply with her request that he should go in there and talk to her while she cooked. Standing as close to the blazing gas stove as he could without actually setting fire to his clothes, Henry told her about the funeral and recounted the gist of his conversation with Goring.

  “I do feel sorry for him,” said Emmy. “Poor man. He must be terribly worried. Henry, do you think—?”

  She was interrupted by the telephone ringing. Henry went to answer it.

  “Inspector Tibbett? This is Lorna Goring.”

  “How nice to hear from you, Mrs. Goring,” said Henry.

  “I’m sorry to bother you… I just wondered about that doctor in Hindhurst. My friend has been onto me again. Did you have any luck?”

  Henry hesitated. “Yes and no,” he said. “I found out who the doctor was, but he’s a London man who happens to have a country house at Hindhurst. He works at the hospital there for a day each week, but I doubt if he would take on any private patients.”

  “Well…you never know. Could you give me his name, in any case?”

  “I really don’t think there’s any point, Mrs. Goring,” said Henry. “You see, you told me that your friend was looking for a G.P., and this man is a specialist.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see. Well, never mind, it was just a thought.” Lorna paused. “How did the funeral go?”

  “It wasn’t exactly gay,” said Henry. “Not unnaturally. However, your husband was very kind and gave us all a delicious tea afterwards.”

  “Ah.” Lorna gave what sounded like a tiny sigh of satisfaction. “I don’t suppose he
happened to mention whether he was coming down here this week end, did he? He never lets me know. I’ve been trying to ring him, but he’s out.”

  “In that case,” said Henry, “he’s probably on his way to you. He told me he was coming down this evening.”

  “This evening? Oh, that’s good. Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Inspector. So sorry to have been a nuisance. Goodbye.”

  Henry went back to the kitchen in a thoughtful frame of mind. Emmy was mashing potatoes.

  “Who was it?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Goring.”

  “Good heavens. What did she want?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” said Henry, “but I have a pretty good idea.”

  Henry had intended to take Sunday off, as a much-needed day of rest and refreshment, but he found he could not get the case out of his mind. He was markedly silent over the lunchtime beer which he and Emmy took at their local pub, and his lack of concentration on the dart board caused them to lose several games to notoriously mediocre players.

  In the afternoon, instead of settling down to his usual session with the Sunday papers, Henry began making notes on the case. Whereas his official reports had been confined strictly to facts, these private jottings were basically character studies—Henry’s personal impressions of people and their reactions. One character, however, eluded him. Helen Pankhurst herself.

  Henry fell into a drowsy reverie. It was warm in front of the fire, and the dancing flames threw flickering shadows onto the walls. It was beginning to grow dark, but he did not put on the light. He thought about Helen. He had seen her just once, distorted and ugly in death. He thought of her as she had apparently appeared to the outside world—precise, tidy, dedicated to her work, and endowed with clinical good taste and complete emotional control; he contrasted this with what went on behind the “enameled intellectual shell” which Michael had talked about. He remembered that she worked among incredible confusion when under pressure; that she was capable of leaving her room untidy once in ten years. He tried to understand the real Helen—emotional, passionate, perhaps even violent, but above all vulnerable. And somebody had killed her.