The Killing of Olga Klimt

by R. T. Raichev

  Outside it had begun to drizzle. Payne turned on the wipers.

  Suddenly he had the absolute certainty that he had been presented with every fact necessary for the solving of Joan Selwyn’s murder. All he needed to do was produce one of those brilliant pieces of sustained explication for which he was famous –

  Only he couldn’t. His mind had gone blank!

  Certainty my foot, he murmured. As a matter of fact, he had absolutely no idea who killed Joan Selwyn – or why. No idea at all.

  No, that wasn’t true –

  That mobile phone … Yes … It held the key to the mystery …

  32

  L’HEURE MALICIOSE

  Lord Collingwood was having another harrowing dream, only this time it was mainly aural.

  He heard his wife’s voice say, ‘Unless God performed some kind of miracle, your darling mama would be unable to bear any more children. Her womb must be entirely shrivelled up by now. And if a miracle happened and she did procreate, it is God, via the Holy Spirit, who will be the child’s father, not a Collingwood. That’s good news for civilisation, isn’t it?’

  To which Lord Collingwood said, ‘Turgid carp, tail-walking like a sketch by Tenniel.’

  He woke up with a start. He was sitting in the swivel chair at his desk. He heard the chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs.

  Midnight?

  Lord Collingwood rose. He was wearing his smoking jacket. He felt as stiff as a board and a little nauseous. For some reason he remembered the time when he had eaten a dog biscuit by accident and how ill it had made him feel. The funny thing was that he had rather enjoyed it and felt ill only after he realised it had been a dog biscuit and not one fit for human consumption, which showed what an infernal machine the human mind was.

  He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. As a matter of fact he had been urging himself to stay awake.

  If one had to have dreams, why couldn’t they be of pleasanter things, such as of glitter, for example? Lord Collingwood liked glitter. There was nothing like the glitter of a military parade, compounded of frosted brocade, blades of ceremonial swords, bright buttons and decorations on uniformed chests …

  He noticed a large white cup standing on his desk. It contained some purplish liquid with an invasive smell. Strong, sweet, herbal. Then he remembered. It was a tisane that Deirdre had brought him. Some supposedly miraculous concoction, she had described it as, an elixir of youthful vitality, which, she insisted, everybody – including the Duchess of Cornwall, Joan Collins, the Prince of Wales and the prime minister – was mad about.

  Well, Deirdre was wrong if she imagined he would drink it!

  He felt exhausted. Why did he feel exhausted? It was as though he had come back from a ten-mile trek over wild and snowbound country …

  The next moment he heard voices. They were coming through the wall. He had been feeling depressed – the Black Dog again – but now his mood changed to one of alertness and suspicion. He might have been a fox lifting his head at the first notes of the hunt.

  He heard conspiratorial whispering … Deirdre and someone else – a man? They were next door, in Deirdre’s boudoir.

  He could hear their voices because of the hole in the wall which was covered by a picture – a Spy cartoon of one of his Victorian ancestors.

  Lord Collingwood tiptoed up to the wall and carefully took off the picture. There was a spyhole in the wall. That had been his little joke; Spy shielding the spy in the wall. A gag that was visual as well as verbal. Jolly clever! He did things like that in an effort to keep his spirits up.

  He had drilled the hole himself. He had thought it would be interesting to watch Deirdre undress when she thought no one was watching her. He had an idea that she would do it differently than on those occasions on which they were ‘together’. They hadn’t been ‘together’ for a long time and he no longer cared about the way she undressed. He had lost interest in such matters. It was one of those things, he supposed.

  It occurred to him that the situation might have been different, better, if he had been a proper writer and not just an occasional scribbler, if he’d been somebody who churned out a book or two every year. Writers got whatever it was that troubled them, even the most idiotic idea, out of their systems, by the simple expedient of putting it down on paper.

  Lord Collingwood brought his eye to the hole in the wall.

  He saw Deirdre and – and – no, impossible! It couldn’t be Charlie’s man, could it? That villain Bedaux! No, impossible! He blinked. Well, it was Bedaux! No mistake about it. That blasted flunkey! Not that he disapproved of servants as a class – he didn’t! The ghillies at Collingwood were a delight, faithful old dogs to a man! Why, his mother had had the same ghillie sleeping outside her bedroom door for the past sixty-five years. But they never said a word and their expressions remained deferential at all times. They knew their place.

  He remembered that earlier on that evening he had heard his wife talking to someone on the phone. Deirdre hadn’t used any names but she had referred, rather obliquely, to ‘the arrangement’. He knew now that she had been talking to Bedaux.

  It was outrageous. Bedaux under his roof! The blighter should be in jail, not in Deirdre’s boudoir. Lord Collingwood had already phoned the police and informed them that Bedaux had been spotted outside Philomel Cottage in the aftermath of Joan Selwyn’s murder. He’d also told them about Bedaux’s pimping activities and that Joanie had been investigating the matter. He’d also told them about the phone call Joanie had received on the morning of the murder – from someone who’d actually asked her to go to Philomel Cottage. He had said he strongly suspected the caller had been Bedaux … Should he ring the police now and tell them Bedaux was at his house? No, he felt exhausted. He couldn’t face any visitors.

  Deirdre couldn’t be having an affair with Bedaux, could she? She wouldn’t stoop that low, would she? Such a grotesque idea, a woman of Deirdre’s standing having an affair with her son’s valet. But he wouldn’t put anything past Deirdre. She might be seeing herself as la nouvelle Lady Chatterley or something.

  Deirdre and Bedaux looked so cosy together, ensconced on the sofa, heads together, whispering. They had an air of absolute agreement about them. But why couldn’t he hear a word of what they were saying? He saw their lips move but not a sound came out. It felt as though he were watching the box and someone had turned off the sound. Perhaps they were aware of him observing them and doing it to annoy him? Or had his hearing suddenly gone? He tapped his right ear, then his left.

  As a matter of fact he didn’t think there was anything amorous or sensual about their pose. They were not canoodling, merely conferring. It looked as though they were waiting for something. The next moment he knew – the tisane! A pill or a powder had been slipped into the tisane, some doping agent, some powerful soporific, most likely, and now they were waiting for him to pass out.

  Well, he’d already decided he wouldn’t touch the tisane. They were planning to dispose of him in some way or another, yes. They looked as thick as thieves! Well, Deirdre had had an odd air about her when she brought him the tisane. She had been dressed in one of her flowing golden draperies that made her contours sway and she was wearing her high heels and she had put her hair up in the way that, once upon a time, he used to find terribly alluring.

  The most likely explanation was that they wanted to bump him off, so that they could share his fortune.

  He stood very still, deep in thought. He rubbed at his eyes. When he looked through the spy hole again, he saw that the boudoir was empty. In a nanosecond Deirdre and Bedaux seemed to have vanished into thin air! The cushions on the sofa were plumped and prettily arranged. The sofa bore no signs of having been disturbed in any way. How was that possible? Had they ever been there? Were they playing games with him? Or was there a more sinister reason for it? It wasn’t another one of his lapses, was it?

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ Lord Collingwood said aloud. ‘I am sick and tired of it all.’


  Then suddenly he saw them again. They had reappeared and were now standing in his room! There they were, by his bookshelves, blast them, pretending to be admiring his collection of first editions while watching him covertly out of the corner of their eyes … It seemed they still expected him to drink the tisane … They were willing him to drink it … They were trying to hasten him to his doom!

  But how had they entered the room? His door was not only locked but bolted! By some process of transubstantiation? They probably had demonic powers …

  Then Lord Collingwood had his idea. He’d make them look foolish! He knew exactly how. He would steal a march on them! A little giggle escaped his lips, though of course he was far from happy. No, happiness didn’t come into it at all.

  He sat down at his desk and glanced at his copy of Audubon’s Flowers and Birds, at the silver scissors and the strips of paper, then at the framed photograph of his father. He nodded. Well, it had to be done. His world was crumbling all round him. He took a sheet of thick cream-coloured writing paper and picked up his pen. His hand, he was glad to see, was perfectly steady.

  He started writing.

  When he finished, he signed it: Collingwood. One might as well observe the proprieties. He sat scowling at his signature for a full minute. The flourish underneath was like the tail of a comet and the three dots brought to mind stars.

  33

  EYES WIDE OPEN

  Although it was getting late, Antonia and Major Payne sat in the drawing room at their house in Hampstead, drinking coffee and comparing notes.

  ‘Deirdre Collingwood suggested that her husband had been having an affair with Joan Selwyn who was his daughter and whom he subsequently killed. She said she feared he was completely unhinged and might be contemplating suicide. Lord Collingwood had been talking in his sleep and some of his words could be interpreted as pointing that way.’ Antonia paused. ‘She was extremely interesting to watch.’

  ‘I am sure she was. I don’t think an affair between Collingwood and Joan Selwyn terribly likely, do you? Wrong psychology,’ said Payne. ‘Joan was plain and appears to have had a somewhat stern if not harshly dominant personality whereas Collingwood’s amorous tastes incline towards luminous beauties and whores of Babylon crossed with holy virgins.’

  ‘Deirdre gave a magnificent performance, real masterclass … She played the ditzy dowager to perfection, though at one point I caught her looking at me from under her eyelids, as though watching for my reaction … I think she was acting on someone’s instructions.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘She had already been at some café or tea rooms. I mean before our meeting. There were tiny granules of sugar on her left lapel. She had been eating a pastry or something. I know it was sugar because she picked one up with her forefinger and licked it. She did it quite unconsciously. She then gave a little smile – reminiscent – pleased – sly.’

  ‘She was remembering the person she had been with, you think? Someone she respects and admires? You think it was an accomplice?’

  ‘I do. And I have an idea as to who that person might be,’ Antonia said. ‘You see, there was a man at a neighbouring table reading Wodehouse, one of the Blandings novels, but then he left the book behind on the table. When we were about to leave, Lady Collingwood reached out and picked it up. The cover showed Beach the butler, I think, next to Lord Emsworth’s pig. Deirdre shook her head and said, “The idea of the portly butler is so passé. Butlers can be slim and saturnine and distinguished looking. They can have a full head of hair and they can be dark.” And again I saw the reminiscent look.’

  ‘How fascinating.’

  ‘Then she asked me if I thought valets could ever be butlers. I said I didn’t see why not. My answer seemed to please her. Again she smiled and nodded and she picked up another sugar granule off her lapel and put it in her mouth. Well, the next moment I had my brainwave. I knew. And I don’t think I was letting my wondrously prolific imagination get the better of me. I knew who her partner in crime was. A bit obvious, really.’

  ‘Bedaux?’

  ‘Yes. She was thinking of Bedaux. Who is a valet on the loose …’

  ‘The sugar granule was Deirdre’s madeleine moment, eh? I salute thee most heartily for a supremely ingenious piece of deduction! Well, it all makes perfect sense.’ Payne nodded. ‘Collingwood did refer to Bedaux as “Deirdre’s Svengali”. Deirdre was put in mind of the person she had been with earlier on at some patisserie, prior to meeting you, and then she made a connection with the illustration on the book cover.’

  ‘Yes. Bedaux’s is tall, dark, saturnine and quite distinguished looking. She’s clearly considering making him her butler.’

  ‘Which she can only do after her husband’s death,’ Payne said slowly. ‘Collingwood told me Deirdre had been pestering him to get a butler and he said, “Over my dead body.” Well, well, well. It all adds up. It seems they have been busy plotting Collingwood’s murder, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They have been over-egging the pudding a bit, haven’t they? I mean, an incestuous affair followed by murder followed by suicide … Too rococo … Most rococo schemes are doomed to failure …’

  ‘Bedaux is the evil puppetmaster operating behind the scenes. I also suspect it was Bedaux who recommended me as a possible patsy,’ said Antonia.

  ‘They underestimated you!’

  ‘What was a “patsy” originally, do you remember? Not some sort of cake?’

  ‘No, not a cake. Patsy Bolivar was the brainchild of vaudevillian Billy B. Van … Early twentieth century, I think. Patsy Bolivar was an ingénue who became the victim of some unscrupulous or nefarious characters.’

  ‘They are planning to get rid of Lord Collingwood. They are setting the scene for a suicide. I was being used as a possible witness – someone who, when the time comes, will be able to say yes, poor Lady Collingwood was terribly worried about her husband’s state of mind. Her husband had been talking in his sleep and he came up with a shocking confession.’

  ‘Collingwood said Deirdre had been eating out of Bedaux’s hand. You yourself had him marked down as a Machiavel when you ran into him at that nursery place, didn’t you?’

  ‘I most certainly did. I didn’t like his eyes.’

  ‘Their motive is of course money. Collingwood is a very rich man. Lady Collingwood is afraid that he is going change his will and leave his fortune to someone other than her. She is still the current beneficiary,’ Payne went on in a thoughtful voice. ‘He told me about it. He also said he didn’t think Deirdre deserved a penny. He had been planning to leave his fortune to Joan … Yes, it all fits in perfectly … Incidentally, my love, why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet Deirdre?’

  ‘Sorry, I was in a rush.’

  ‘You could have phoned or sent a message. I was worried. I kept trying to ring you.’

  ‘Oh I am so sorry but I’d left my mobile at home. Were you really worried?’ She reached out for his hand. ‘Sweet of you to worry.’

  Payne picked up a sheet. ‘I have made more jottings. This is how the case stands at the moment. Joan Selwyn meets Lord Collingwood at Richoux’s in Piccadilly for morning coffee. She gets a phone call. She tells Lord Collingwood that someone has asked her to go to Philomel Cottage at five-thirty that same afternoon. She says she has no idea who the caller is. Lord Collingwood tells her it’s probably a trap and begs her not to go. She promises she won’t, but she does go. She is killed as she is about to enter the house. She is stabbed in the back. Olga Klimt is not at the house at the time.’

  ‘We still believe Olga is innocent, don’t we?’

  ‘We most certainly do. Olga’s story is that she received a call from a stranger who told her to go to Dr Bishop’s clinic in Bayswater as Charlie wanted to see her.’ Payne looked up. ‘Well, I strongly believe that the person who phoned Olga is the killer. What do you think?’

  ‘Phone calls can be tracked down, can’t they?’

  ‘They can
– but I suspect that particular call was made from a public phone or from a disposable mobile that has since been dropped into the Thames.’

  ‘Is Olga’s caller the same person who rang Joan Selwyn?’ Antonia frowned. ‘I am getting a bit confused. It must be the same one. Yes. It’s the killer.’

  ‘Here’s a theory.’ Payne leant back. ‘The killer gets Olga out of the way. He tells her to go to Dr Bishop’s clinic. He – or she – sets the stage for Joan Selwyn’s murder. The killer wants Joan to die at Philomel Cottage, to make it look as though Joan was taken for Olga and that her murder was a mistake. Both girls are of a similar height and built and they have fair hair. Easy to mistake one for the other in the growing darkness, especially from the back.’

  ‘Bedaux had a motive for wanting to kill both Olga and Joan,’ Antonia said. ‘The former out of jealous revenge – the latter, because she happened to be on his pimping trail. But it could also have been Lady Collingwood. She also had a motive. Deirdre had read the draft of her husband’s new will. She saw Joan as her financial rival …’

  ‘Talking of rivals, we should also perhaps consider Sieg Mortimer. He clearly regarded Joan as his rival for Billy Selkirk’s affections,’ said Payne. ‘He wouldn’t have liked it if Billy Selkirk had married Joan. He was infuriatingly flippant on the subject of Joan’s mobile phone and the messages that he’d deleted –’ Payne broke off. His hand went up to his forehead. ‘Why, oh why, do I keep thinking that Joan’s mobile phone is the key to the puzzle? For some reason I am convinced that Joan’s mobile should not have been at Sieg Mortimer’s flat!’