‘So no murdering ministers, as it says in Macbeth?’
‘Er . . . yes. The Colonel and Mr Steadman were watching young Thomas Steadman put a pony through its paces, when they were joined by your uncle. Mrs Verrity arrived and took the Colonel off for a few minutes. He’d promised to lend her some men to clear up the fête and she wanted to get the details sorted out.’
‘Isabelle saw them,’ put in Haldean. ‘They were by the side of the cake tent. She said they seemed to be arguing about something.’
Ashley shrugged. ‘I don’t know what they could have been arguing about, but if they were by the side of the cake tent they couldn’t have murdered Boscombe. It’s physically impossible. Your uncle and Mr Steadman say Whitfield and Mrs Verrity were only gone for five minutes, if that. Then Mrs Verrity went to give her casting vote on the cakes and the Colonel continued his conversation with Sir Philip and the vicar about which horse would be suitable for young Steadman. They carried on chatting until the news came that Boscombe had been found dead. And,’ he added, ‘I don’t mind telling you it’s a relief that none of them can be involved. You know how it is with people in that position. If they’re guilty there’s no saving them, but I’d have to be pretty damn certain of my facts. So who the devil can it be? We know he was at the fair. We know he’s murdered twice. He’ll need strong nerves, a good bit of cunning, the willingness to take risks, a large slice of luck and the ability to brazen things out.’
‘Yes . . .’ Haldean sucked his cheeks in thoughtfully. The blue sky was fleeced with brilliant heaped clouds and the hawthorn bushes that ran down to the grass verges were thick with a summer snowstorm of white flowers. The heavy scent of the bushes caught him by surprise and he smiled at the unexpected pleasure.
‘Go on,’ prompted Ashley.
Haldean half-smiled. ‘It’s this. Granted the sorts of murders they were, I think we can guess something about the murderer. You mentioned money I can’t see why, if the murders had been carried out for gain, both Boscombe and Morton couldn’t have been killed in the comfort of their own home, as it were. I think they were a danger to someone. There’s a couple of other things I could guess, but I’d like to see what we turn up in London first. However . . .’ He paused. ‘Two murders. I think someone is very, very frightened.’
Haldean drew the car to a halt outside the white edifice of Vesey Mansions. Inspector Rackham was waiting to meet them. Haldean pipped the horn cheerfully and he and Ashley climbed out. Rackham had a companion with him. She was a small, dark woman with a brisk, buttoned-up air. Not a person, thought Haldean, to stand any nonsense. ‘This is Miss Edith Sheldon,’ said Rackham, introducing them. ‘She read about Mr Morton’s death in the newspapers this morning and very kindly came round to the Yard to offer her help.’
‘I hope I know what’s the right thing to do,’ said Miss Sheldon virtuously. ‘My mum was dead against it. She said, “That Reggie Morton’s been trouble ever since you clapped eyes on him, my girl, and I don’t want you getting mixed up with no police.” Never did like him, my mum, but she always means for the best, and she’s right, in a way. She always did say he’d come to a bad end, and I suppose he has, in a manner of speaking. She said it was nothing to do with me if he’s gone getting himself killed, but I said as how it was my duty to say what I know and I’m sure,’ she added, pausing for breath and unleashing a quick smile on Rackham, ‘that no one could have been nicer than this gentleman.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ said Rackham cheerfully. ‘I just wish the circumstances had been different for you, miss.’
‘You’ve been very kind,’ said Edith Sheldon with conscious bravery, laying her hand upon his arm. ‘A real gent who knows how to treat a lady, and I’m sure,’ she added meaningfully, ‘it makes a nice change.’
Haldean smothered a grin. There was something about the big, friendly Rackham, with his untidy red hair, freckles and appealing greeny-blue eyes, that made most girls want to look after him and it was obvious Edith Sheldon was no exception.
Ashley interrupted them with a cough. ‘It’s very good of you to take the trouble, Miss Sheldon. Did you know Mr Morton well?’
‘We were supposed to be engaged, not that I had anything to show for it. No ring or nothing. I didn’t mind at first, because I knew he was hard up. That’s how I met him. I’m a waitress, you know, a nippy as they call us, at the Lyons in Piccadilly, and Reggie’d come in and . . . Well, he was all sweetness and light, and . . . and good fun, too.’ She swallowed and blinked rapidly. ‘I don’t suppose you want to know all that, but . . . but . . . you could have a laugh with Reggie. He liked the Lyons, all bright and cheerful and with an orchestra and all. He said it was as good as a dance hall, any day. He was a good dancer, he was. I said he’d get me sacked, trying to get me to do the tango in uniform, but Reggie just laughed and said it was worth the risk. Funny, that was. He liked the food, too. I used to slip him a bit extra on his plate when no one was looking. Appreciated that, he did, and no harm done. I thought Reggie might as well have it as it go in the pig swill. But later, when he come into his money and there’s still no ring and no good times neither . . .’ Her mouth set in firm line. ‘I’d had enough, I tell you.’
‘Shall we go into the flat?’ suggested Ashley. ‘I can see your evidence is going to be very valuable, miss, but we might as well talk indoors.’
Rackham had spoken to the manager of Vesey Mansions on the telephone that morning, and the porter was waiting to show them into the flat. Once in the sitting room, Edith Sheldon looked round. She gave a shiver.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Haldean.
She shivered again and squared her shoulders. ‘Yeah. Silly really, but I was only here on Friday and I was that angry with him. I was just feeling sorry, now he’s not here any more, that I couldn’t have said something nicer to him, but I couldn’t have known what was going to happen, could I?’ She gave him a deliberately bright smile. ‘Thanks for asking. It’s hard to think of him not being here.’
‘Were you engaged for long?’
‘Since last summer, only, as I say, it was informal like.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘It all changed when he moved in here, him and his high and mighty-friend, Jeremy Boscombe. I couldn’t stand him at any price and he treated me like dirt, him and his wandering hands, I wasn’t having any of that and I told him, straight. Oh yes, he didn’t try that twice, no fear. Still, it’s a nice flat, innit?’ She looked round, again, wistfully this time. ‘I used to tell Mum what it was like, but she thought I was making it up, all about the gold taps in the bathroom and a special lift to bring the meals up, all cooked and ready, and no fires to make, just these radiators, a char to clean up after them – kept it nice, she did – and carpets everywhere and a toilet inside and a telephone, too. Yeah, it’s nice.’
It wasn’t exactly nice, thought Haldean, but it was striking. The sitting-room window looked out on to Hyde Park and only the sound of traffic below told them they were not in the country but in the heart of London. The room was fashionably furnished in primrose and black, with a large black sofa and two armchairs. A vast mahogany gramophone, its soundbox faced with mother-of-pearl, stood against one wall. It was painfully ostentatious, but it looked expensive and, that, presumably, was the desired effect. The walls were hung with modern pictures in which planes and cubes jostled uncomfortably together, and across the room from the gramophone stood a sideboard with chromium fittings, two bookcases and a black lacquered roll-top desk.
‘Yes, Reggie’s ship came in all right,’ said Edith Sheldon. ‘One moment he was sucking up to me for free tea and toast, the next he had money to burn. He used to have lodgings in Bloomsbury and wasn’t above asking for help with the rent. Then he moved in here and I wasn’t good enough any more.’
‘That’s rotten,’ said Haldean. ‘I don’t think Mr Morton knew when he was well off. I’m surprised you stuck it for so long.’
She smiled at him again. ‘Thanks. But I wasn’t going to be made a doormat of
, oh no, and if Reggie had had a bit of good luck, it was only right that he should share some of it with me, after all I’d done for him. To tell the truth, Reggie was all right when he didn’t have Jeremy Boscombe egging him on. Bad influence, he was. I couldn’t see what Reggie saw in him. He was always sneering and had a real down on things. You know, a chip on his shoulder. He used to rave about America, how he’d be properly appreciated over there. I said to him, well, if America’s that good, why don’t you go then, hoping he’d push off altogether and leave us to get on with it, but he never shifted. He hardly ever went out of London. I think it was all talk, this carry-on about America and New York and so on, to make him look big. I think most of the time he was saying it to get Reggie worked up, knowing that Reggie wouldn’t be allowed to go, not since he had his little bit of trouble, so to speak. Terrible strict they are, aren’t they, about who they’ll let in, I mean?’
‘How did Mr Morton and Mr Boscombe come by their money?’ asked Ashley.
‘They had a big win on the horses. Always did like his betting, did Reggie, and this time he picked the right one and no mistake. I don’t know how much, but it must’ve been a mint. Last October, it were. The pair of them moved in here and started acting as if money was water. Nothing was too good for them. Clothes – beautiful clothes they always had – dancing at all the posh places, the Ritz and what-have-you – and parties with enough champagne to sink a ship.’ She laughed. ‘Not that that made them popular. They’re stuffy here and didn’t like the noise, nor Jerry’s arty friends.’
‘Arty friends?’ asked Haldean.
‘Yes, all painters and writers and suchlike.’ She indicated the pictures on the walls. ‘Not that I call that real painting. You can’t see what it’s meant to be half the time, can you, and where you can it doesn’t look much like.’
‘Rupert Lister,’ put in Rackham, reading the signature on the portrait of a lady who seemed to be composed solely of triangles.
‘That’s one of them, yes. Big bloke with a beard and holes in his jersey.’
‘Boscombe had written a book, hadn’t he?’ asked Haldean.
She half-laughed. ‘You’d have thought he was ruddy Shakespeare, the way he carried on. All about the war, it was, and not even made up. Well, anyone can say about what’s happened to them. It’s not proper writing, that. Were you a friend of his, then?’
‘I knew him, if not very well,’ said Haldean. ‘I haven’t disagreed with anything you’ve said so far.’
‘Do you know what happened to his book?’ asked Ashley.
She walked to the desk and opened the top drawer. ‘I think it’s in here. Yes, that’s right.’ She took out a cardboard folder and held it out to Haldean. ‘This is his book. You’re welcome to it. I’ve heard enough about it to last me a lifetime.’ She turned back to the drawer. ‘That’s funny. The diary’s gone. It was here on Friday, I know it was. Reggie was waving it about.’
‘What –’ began Haldean, but Ashley interrupted him.
‘Why don’t we sit down, Miss Sheldon, and you can tell us what happened. Now,’ he said when they were settled, ‘what brought you round here on Friday?’
She accepted the cigarette Haldean offered her and sat back in the chair. ‘I’d got tired of it all,’ she said. ‘I knew Reggie wasn’t playing straight and I’d had enough. Like I said, I’d stuck to him through thin times and it wasn’t fair how I was being treated, so I decided to sort things out once and for all, tell him he wasn’t the only fish in the sea. Anyway, when I got here – that was about eight o’clock – I was pleased at first because Jerry Boscombe wasn’t around, so I thought that’s all right, then, but it wasn’t, not really. Reggie hadn’t known Jerry was going away and he was furious. He said that Jerry Boscombe was a double-crossing . . . Well, I won’t say what he said, but I had to remind him there was a lady present. Awful language he used and he was in a terrible state, proper worked up. Not that I minded that much, because it was Jerry Boscombe he was shirty with. All about what he’d do if he got his hands on him and so on.’
‘Did he say how Mr Boscombe had double-crossed him?’ asked Ashley, pen poised over his notebook.
She shrugged. ‘It was something to do with that diary, but what I don’t know. Funny about that diary, he was. Always had been. Reggie got it from a friend of his who’d died. I don’t know when that was, but it was ages ago. It was because of that diary he got to know Jeremy Boscombe, worse luck.’ Haldean looked a question. ‘Somehow or other – I don’t know how – Jerry knew Reggie had the diary. You know his book that he was always going on about? Well, he said he’d been a friend of this man who’d died and he wanted to look at his diary so he could put it in his book or something. Anyway, he and Reggie got together.’
‘When was that, Miss Sheldon?’ asked Ashley.
She frowned, considering. ‘It must’ve been August or September. Yes, that’s right. End of August, it was. Reggie was meant to come to Margate with me and showed up with Jeremy Boscombe in tow. I didn’t like him much, even then, but Reggie said he was all right and he was a bit curt with me, saying they had a bit of business together and I wasn’t to mess things up. I don’t believe in holding back, you see. I speak my mind, and Reggie was afraid I’d put Jerry Boscombe’s back up.’ She sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t have minded if I had, but Reggie was very particular about it. Anyway, Reggie thought he was wonderful at first. The sun shone out of him, according to Reggie. I bided my time, but then, as I say, they had this win on the horses and they moved in here and that was that. I wish he’d never cast eyes on the blessed diary, no, and Jeremy Boscombe neither.’
‘And you say Mr Morton still had this diary on Friday night?’ asked Ashley.
‘Like I told you, yes. He was ever so precious about it. He kept it in that desk, all wrapped up. It was a big thing, more like a book, really, with a leather cover.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘He found me reading it once. My word, you’ve never heard such a carry-on. I wasn’t having that, so I threw it at him, said he could keep his old diary. I said a few other things, too.’
‘I bet you did,’ put in Haldean.
‘Yeah. Ruddy cheek. Anyway, I had the best of it. He picked it up and said something very offensive about pearls before swine, then he laughed and said I wouldn’t understand a word of it. I didn’t half tell him. He slung it back at me and said I could read the whole thing for all he was concerned. I tell you, if there’d have been a fire I’d have chucked it on, speaking to me like that.’
‘Good for you,’ said Haldean warmly. ‘Who was the friend? The one who died, I mean?’
‘Goodness knows, Funny name. Peter? No, that’s not right. Petrie, that’s it. The thing is, there was nothing in it to get worked up about. This Petrie had died, as I say, and left Reggie some money – not much – and his bits and pieces, including this diary. It was wartime stuff, all about the army and so on. Who wants to read all about that now? I said, I’m the one who’s important, not some old book, but he wouldn’t have it. Not Reggie.’
Haldean went to look in the desk. ‘I’ll just check it’s not here. A leather-covered book, you say?’
‘Yes. It looks like a map case.’
He opened the top drawer. ‘Not in there.’ He looked through the other drawers. ‘It’s not here,’ he said eventually. ‘Address books . . .’
‘I’ll have those,’ said Ashley.
‘And campaign medals and a photo album.’ He opened it, holding it so Edith Sheldon could see. ‘There are some pictures of you in here.’
She bit her lip. ‘That’s right. That top one. Him and me. That was on a boat last year. We’d gone up the river for the day and had a picnic. It was nice. I was fond of him in his way. Poor Reggie . . .’ She sniffed and, taking a hanky from her bag, blew her nose. ‘Can’t you find the diary, then?’ she asked after a pause. ‘He must’ve taken it with him to . . . Where was it? Breedenbrook? I don’t know why he should, but it had something to do with it. He got it out the desk and said,
“I’ll show him” – meaning Jerry Boscombe – “I’ll show him. I’ve got this and he’d better not forget it. It’s mine.” Don’t ask me what it’s about because I don’t know.’
Haldean slid back the roll-top part of the desk. ‘I don’t suppose it’s in here. No, there’s not enough room. Pens, stamps, pencils, bills – lots of bills – and a collar-stud box. Odd place to keep it. I suppose it’s got paper-clips in.’ He opened it idly and then stood, his body rigid, staring into the little box in his hand.
‘Jack?’ asked Inspector Rackham quickly. ‘What is it?’
Edith Sheldon craned her head to see. She gave a startled gasp. ‘It can’t be real.’
Haldean looked up. His voice was quiet. ‘It is.’ He tipped the contents of the box on to his hand and showed them to Rackham.
‘Jewels,’ said Rackham in surprise.
‘Not just jewels,’ said Haldean grimly. ‘This is my cousin Isabelle’s emerald pendant. It was made for her and I’d recognize it anywhere. But for heaven’s sake, Bill, what the dickens is it doing in Boscombe’s desk?’
Chapter Four
Inspector Rackham leaned against the windscreen of Haldean’s Spyker, watching Edith Sheldon’s departing back. ‘That woman,’ he said with great feeling, ‘ought to have a prize for talking. Good God, I thought she was never going to shut up.’
‘I thought her tongue was running on wheels,’ put in Ashley.
Haldean grinned and climbed into the car. ‘Some people are never satisfied. After all, Ashley, it was only this morning you were yearning for someone to Tell All about our two blue-eyed boys. Why don’t you hop in the car, by the way? Don’t hang about on the pavement. And now the loquacious Miss Sheldon has answered your prayers, all you can do is grumble.’ He reached in his pocket for his cigarette case. ‘Smoke?’
A Fête Worse Than Death Page 7
