Last Nocturne

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘Yes. From what little Lamb did say, I gathered there may be indications of foul play.’

  ‘But that’s – dreadful.’

  ‘Yes.’ He drew himself tighter within his folded arms. ‘And there’s more.’ For a moment he sat, brooding. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve been very patient – and sympathetic – to listen to me so far like this, but there is really no need for you to be troubled by anything more.’

  ‘That’s only guaranteed to make me more curious.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘All right. If it won’t bore you, then… The fact is, some letters written to my father were found by my mother after his death. She kept them, well-hidden, and she swears that no one else was ever aware she had them, not even Manners, yet they have disappeared and—’

  ‘Mrs Martagon is inclined to be a little – absent-minded, about where she puts things,’ Grace ventured to interrupt.

  ‘It would appear not, in this case. At any rate, however it happened, they were lost – stolen or mislaid – and now they’ve fallen somehow into the wrong hands. How, is problematic, but money’s being demanded for their return.’

  She gave a shocked exclamation. ‘Was there something – compromising, in them, then?

  ‘They were from a woman, with whom it seems my father was having some sort of liaison. The importance of that may be exaggerated, but the letters could be damaging, if viewed in the wrong context – besides the obvious, there are several references to what seems to have been an unsavoury affair that happened in Vienna, maybe when my father – and Theo Benton – were there, and no doubt concerning him.’

  ‘And that’s why the police want to talk to you – about these letters?’

  ‘They don’t know they exist, as far as I’m aware. My mother won’t hear of involving them. She’s talking of sending Manners with the money and to watch for who picks it up.’

  ‘What nonsense! Oh, I’m sorry – but surely, they must be told? If she does not, you’ll have to tell them yourself.’

  ‘She won’t like that.’

  ‘Mr Martagon—’

  ‘Guy.’

  ‘You are surely not – afraid?’

  ‘Well, actually, I believe I am! But I suppose I may bring myself to do it.’

  Guy had a notion he was probably being reckless, but it had seemed to matter more that he should be honest with Grace than to try and guard his tongue, and after unburdening himself so far, he saw no reason why he should baulk at the last fence. ‘This woman who wrote the letters to my father…perhaps they had a child together.’ He explained about the document relating to provision for the unnamed child and what he thought the implications of it might be. ‘The fact that the mother was never mentioned might mean she’s dead – in which case, if the child is my half-sibling, I do have responsibilities. I need the woman’s name, and address – some indication as to her whereabouts, but I can find none. Our solicitor won’t help me. He feels my father discharged his responsibilities honourably, and more than generously. I don’t blame him. It’s a situation many another man has left behind – and as Hardisty has pointed out, the fact that he made arrangements before he died is proof that he wouldn’t have wanted it generally known, but I have this nagging feeling of unfinished business which won’t let me rest until I find the truth about the situation. Ever since I found that document, I’ve been searching through the papers he left, hoping for some clue. So far I’ve found nothing more interesting than stuff like those old ledgers and files in the cupboard in his study.’

  ‘The police may be able to help. They have more resources than you. And if this young man’s death needs investigation, maybe you have no alternative but to help them in return.’

  For a long time they looked at each other, until the frown disappeared from between his brows. ‘All right, I promise they’ll be told, one way or another. You are quite right. And very sensible, too.’

  She sighed. ‘I dare say I am.’

  The rain was showing no signs of abating, the gloom inside their shelter increased. They were trapped in the dark, dreamlike intimacy of the cathedral-like space between the weeping branches. The rain, and the unhappy subject of their discussion, had brought a melancholy sadness into the bright afternoon; perhaps he shouldn’t have introduced it, thought Guy, but he felt better for it and was sure Grace hadn’t minded. She had stopped fiddling with her gloves – what neat little hands she had! – and in a sudden, spontaneous gesture, he took hold of one of them before realising he was going too far, too soon. ‘At least we can now be friends, Grace.’

  ‘By all means,’ she answered rather breathlessly.

  The dangerous silence began to echo with vibrations, like the throb of a great organ long after the last note has been played. But she let her hand lie there for several seconds before withdrawing it gently. He thought her blush the most lovely thing in the world.

  The hansom which took them home was within a hundred yards or so of Embury Square when Guy, with a sharp exclamation, banged his stick on the roof and shouted instructions through the trap for the driver to stop. He sprang out and held a hand to help Grace out after him. ‘You don’t mind getting out here?’ he asked, with some superfluity.

  The driver was paid off and they stood on the pavement, waiting for the girl walking towards them. Wearing a bottle-green coat with a velvet collar and a tartan tam, it was undoubtedly Dulcie. She stood hesitating as if for flight when she saw them in front of her. Then she approached them slowly and apprehensively, looking slightly puzzled at the sight of the two of them together.

  ‘What were you doing in that cab, Dulcie?’ Guy demanded. ‘Don’t attempt to deny it, I saw you getting off.’

  ‘Let go of my arm, Guy, you’re hurting me. Why should I deny it? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  He freed her arm from his grasp, but stood looking down at her sternly. ‘Well? Where have you been, child?’

  ‘I presume I’m not a prisoner in the house. And I am not a child.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that, if this is the way you act when you’re left alone.’ She flushed at censure coming from such an unexpected quarter. Their confrontation was attracting curious glances, smirks, and one or two pointed remarks, from passers-by who had to step aside to avoid them.

  Grace said, ‘Don’t you think we should go back to the house where you can sort this out in private?’

  He took a deep breath, and abruptly began to walk towards the square. The other two followed, Grace having tucked Dulcie’s trembling arm within her own.

  A horse-drawn van was parked outside and Wilkinson’s men were removing the hired gilt chairs from the drawing room. The huge vases of flowers had been moved back to their original places, and the housekeeper was there to see it was all done properly, her gimlet eye on the servants as they sped about, clearing away cake crumbs and the curled-up remains of sandwiches, removing the big silver urn which had dispensed tea. Guests and artistes had long since departed and Mrs Martagon was presumably resting from the exigencies of the occasion in her bedroom.

  Grace made to leave them alone, Dulcie and her brother. This was a family matter, though she was not sure that the poor girl should be deprived of support in the coming confrontation with Guy, who was still looking judgmental, though his initial annoyance had been got under control. Grace sighed. How ridiculous, how pompous men were – even the best of them – when their authority was questioned, though she suspected Guy was actually more concerned than angry with Dulcie. He imperiously motioned Grace to join them in the morning room, the only unoccupied place at the moment, a sunny, yellow-papered room where a vast array of blue and white Delft had replaced the despised majolica upon which the former secretary had wreaked such vengeance.

  ‘Well,’ he said, closing the door and standing against it with arms folded. Oh dear, thought Grace, wishing he would at least sit down. She looked pointedly at the right-angled settle in the angle of the fireplace and he took the hint, though it w
as a mistake, since the table was now between him and Dulcie, judge and defendant. After a moment, however, he sighed and leant back. ‘Oh, Dulcie, didn’t you at least think of Grace?’ Dulcie blinked. ‘It was deceitful, letting her think you were innocently occupied, when all the time—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Grace.’ Dulcie squeezed Grace’s hand, asking forgiveness with imploring dark eyes. ‘I didn’t look at it like that…but I simply had to go out.’

  ‘And where did you simply have to go?’ Guy sat up, and she looked understandably frightened.

  ‘Only to visit Eugenia Dart at her flat.’

  ‘Miss Dart? At her flat? In the name of God, why? I beg your pardon, but Dulcie – that woman?’

  ‘She’s my friend, Guy,’ Dulcie replied, gathering her dignity. ‘The only one I’ve ever been able to talk to, about – about Papa. You know how well he and Eugenia always got on.’ She turned to Grace, explaining, ‘She used to live here, you see, doing the same sort of thing for Mama and me that you do.’

  ‘I see,’ said Grace, trying not to look too obviously at the large number of willow pattern plates and dishes displayed on the mantel, in the corner cupboard, and on a plate rack around the walls, imagining the chaos of the smashed majolica, and meeting Guy’s glance instead.

  His face was a study. He’s wondering as well, Grace said to herself, if Eugenia Dart is the woman who wrote those letters to his father. But all he said to Dulcie, nonplussed, was, ‘You went across London, alone?’

  ‘There were other people on the tram!’ She added hastily, when his brows came together, ‘But Eugenia insisted I came home in a cab. She came down and found one for me and lent me sixpence for my fare.’

  She then told them simply all that she’d related to Eugenia.

  By the time she’d finished, Guy’s anger had dissipated. ‘You know you shouldn’t have done it, Dulcie,’ he said tiredly. ‘Nor should you have eavesdropped on the private conversation I was having with Mother. And I’m more than sorry you didn’t feel you could come to me rather than Eugenia Dart. But never mind all that now. Just promise me you won’t do such a thing again.’

  ‘I won’t go to see her without permission, but I won’t stop seeing her, or at least writing to her. Nobody could object to that, not even Mama.’ Dulcie met his eyes bravely.

  ‘All right, let’s leave that until everyone is cooler.’

  Grace took a deep breath and said, ‘Don’t you think Dulcie should be told the rest?’

  For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse. ‘Guy,’ said Dulcie, looking at first bewildered, then determined. ‘Remember what I said – I am not a child.’

  ‘Very well,’ he acceded at last.

  ‘The question now is,’ he ended, ‘how are we going to find this woman – Mrs Amberley? She must be the mother of the child – and if so, has that anything to do with Father’s death? If he had one secret he may have had others.’

  Grace looked up to see Edwina standing in the doorway. How long she had been there, how much she had heard, it was impossible to say. She eyed Dulcie’s outdoor clothes and said, ominously, ‘Will someone kindly inform me what is going on?’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After being closed for a week as a token mark of respect, the Pontifex Gallery had reopened its doors with another private view of the current exhibition, the idea apparently being either to draw in a different set of people, or those who would be happy enough to attend once more, attracted by the promise of several new acquisitions to the original display, plus free champagne. Chief Inspector Philip Lamb hadn’t received an invitation, but he went along anyway, leaving it until he judged the crowds would have thinned and the exhibition would soon be closing.

  He walked towards the gallery, deep in thought. Conscious that at some point or other he was going to have to re-question the Martagon family, he’d taken the first step that afternoon by making arrangements to see Guy Martagon the following day. It wasn’t a prospect he relished: delving much further into the private life of Eliot Martagon than the previous enquiry at the time of his death had warranted wasn’t likely to be welcomed. After the first interview with Martagon’s widow following her husband’s death, she’d refused to see Lamb again. The daughter had been of no use either, completely crushed by the tragedy, and the son had been out of the country in some far-flung outpost of the British Empire at the time – so far away that he hadn’t been able to reach home in time for the funeral.

  Would further questioning be of any use? The link between the two dead men was tenuous enough, in all conscience: merely Sickert’s assertion, now confirmed by Joseph Benton, that Theo had come back from Vienna a changed man, plus the fact that it was apparently in Vienna where the two men had met. And, of course, that final, inescapable fact – that both men were now incontrovertibly dead. Theo, murdered – motivelessly, so it still seemed, and Martagon, equally without motive, by his own hand.

  Lamb was acutely conscious that his own circumspection when speaking to Guy Martagon on the telephone had aroused curiosity, but he had deemed it better not to enlighten him at that point, principally because he might be persuaded by his mother not to be cooperative. She was a strong-minded woman and Lamb didn’t know how much sway she had over her son, though having once met Guy Martagon he was inclined to dismiss the extent of this.

  He turned into a Bond Street quieter than in the daytime. Shops were now closed, some of them still profligately wasting electric light to display their luxurious, seductive wares. Temptingly on view to any illicitly inclined passer-by, he thought, professionally disapproving, while his mind was still elsewhere, recalling the last time he had seen young Martagon, which had been almost as soon as he had arrived home.

  It was he who’d requested an interview with Lamb, an angry young man, impatient with what he saw as the police’s failure to explain his father’s death. Lamb had been unable to offer extenuations since he shared Martagon’s discomfort to a certain extent. Why Eliot Martagon had left no explanation, and why he had chosen that particular way to end his life, given his reputed phobia against guns, remained a mystery, but then, no one contemplating such an action was in their right mind. It had to be accepted he had chosen that way to die and that was that. The question had remained, however, irritating like grit in the shoe.

  Young Martagon, impatient, angry and hurt, had declared, ‘My father, of all people, was absolutely the last person to have taken his own life. As for an accident – he abhorred firearms of any kind, he refused to have a gun in the house. Ask anyone who knew him.’

  ‘Nevertheless, one was found under his hand. He must have obtained one from somewhere.’

  ‘That implies the assumption of suicide, certainly. Which I don’t believe, either.’

  Lamb sighed. ‘Accidents can happen all too easily with guns, especially if you’re not familiar with them.’ He had paused. ‘What else do you want me to say?’

  Martagon glared, then said stiffly, ‘I’m sorry. You’re only doing your job. But there has to be an explanation for my father to have acted so out of character, and one way or another, I’m going to find it.’

  He was clearly a man of action, used to attacking a situation and dealing with it, and not inclined to accept things could be left in the air like that, unresolved. Lamb understood but couldn’t help him. Everything that could be done to find a cause for Martagon’s suicide had been done. There had been no cogent reason for Lamb, other than his own intuitive belief that something was out of kilter, to carry on with the investigation, no call to waste more police time on the case. There was nothing more to be told, nothing more to be said, really. He didn’t think it would serve any useful purpose, or be kind for that matter, to tell the young man that his disbelief was a universal reaction when a loved one decided to end his troubles in this way.

  Arriving at the gallery, he left his hat and stick in the foyer, showed his warrant card at the reception desk, and went through. Either his judgement was at fault, or it was the notorie
ty brought to the gallery by Benton’s death, but he walked, not into the quiet hush one might have expected in a place where people were presumably making considered decisions about the purchase of an adornment for their drawing room walls, the price of which might feed a family of four for a month, but into a milling crowd. All of whom were talking at the tops of their voices, most of them holding drinks and taking no notice at all of the violent splashes of colour displayed against the subtly neutral walls.

  Making his way round the edges of the room, Lamb couldn’t help thinking that this modish assembly might in itself serve as a subject for any one of these works of art, after the manner of the music-hall audience watching Miss Tilly Tremayne. Some artist was surely missing an opportunity of capturing the desperate determination to enjoy themselves on the faces of the overdressed women and their bored, sophisticated escorts. Perhaps it would not be the sort of picture you’d want to have hanging on your walls, but then, neither was anything else that Lamb could see. His overall impression was that the main purpose of most of the pictures displayed was to shock, with their violent, bold colours and disturbing subjects. And then he came to the back wall. It seemed Sickert had not been the only one to see the possibilities of making capital out of the shocking circumstances of Theo’s death. The whole wall was devoted to Theo Benton. The paintings chosen to be displayed were those of his which were very nearly – though not quite – as raw and garish as those of the other exhibitors, unlike those few small canvases which, undistinguished as they seemed, had yet intrigued Lamb on that first visit to Theo’s studio, and for which his eyes now searched in vain. Were these hanging on the wall here what Sickert had meant when he had spoken about Theo succumbing to commercialism? If so, they’d succeeded – or someone had, in selecting them. Several displayed red ‘Sold’ stickers: the world suddenly finding the hitherto unregarded, scorned young artist had been a genius, after all?