‘I suppose you’re going to say I should never have left the gun in that drawer.’
‘Perhaps not, but if Mr Martagon was intent on taking his life, he would have found some other way, I assure you. But as I’ve told you, like Benton, he may not have died by his own hand, though it’s looking very likely that was the gun which killed him. Did anyone else have access to that drawer? Any of your staff, for instance?’
Ireton made a show of affront that any of his staff would open drawers that were private. And anyway, he said, anyone who casually opened the drawer would not have seen the gun, obscured as it was by the thick stack of blotting paper sheets.
‘So if Eliot Martagon didn’t shoot himself, that leaves only one possibility, doesn’t it, Mr Ireton?’
Ireton looked suddenly careworn. He had created a neat little world for himself and it looked like collapsing around his ears.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It does. But it wasn’t I who killed him.’ Adelaide Crescent had not undergone any improvement since the last time he’d seen it, Cogan thought, as Smithers’ beefy fist beat a tattoo on the door. In the bright, hot sunlight it looked even more run-down. A rag-and-bone man rang his bell and called his wares, a dog lay panting on the flagstones and some children jumped over a skipping rope, one end tied to the railings, shouting noisily.
This time, it wasn’t Mrs Kitteridge who responded, but a small, very neatly dressed woman with hair drawn back into a tight bun. She told them she was the landlady’s daughter, Miss Kitteridge, Ethel. She spoke as if holding her breath while looking down her nose. Cogan understood a lot when he learnt she worked as a sales assistant in Ladies’ Hats at Whiteley’s Emporium, and occupied a room in their hostel in a virtuously unmarried state. She would no doubt give token help to her mother because she felt it her duty, while feeling such mundane tasks were well beneath her. She probably ‘cleaned’ the stairs with her eyes closed so she couldn’t be offended by their filth.
On the other hand, she was sharp and observant. She’d never seen any evidence of any women in Theo Benton’s rooms, and no, she hadn’t examined the stuff he painted, she said with a righteous expression, but she did remember admitting a foreign gentleman who’d come enquiring for Theo Benton.
‘Foreign? How did you know that?’ asked Cogan, unwisely.
She stared pityingly at him. ‘Because he didn’t speak English very well, of course. Anyway, he just looked – foreign. He had a green coat on and a hat with a little feather in it.’
‘Oh, definitely not English, then! Gentleman, was he?’ She inclined her head. This was one thing she would never be mistaken about. Judging exactly on which rung of the social ladder her customers stood was her stock in trade. ‘French, mebbe, or German?’
‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure. They all look alike, don’t they?’
She had admitted the man herself. Her mother was a little hard of hearing nowadays and didn’t always hear the bell. Mr Benton had been in and she’d sent the caller upstairs. Yes, she remembered clearly which day it was, since it was her day off. It was the day before her mother’s lodger had died. Oh yes, and the man had worn eyeglasses, the sort that fitted on the bridge of your nose. Most uncomfortable, she’d have thought, they’d have to pinch to stay on, wouldn’t they? Stood to reason.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sale of his beautiful Queen Anne house at Chiswick, and many of his art treasures, had resulted in a substantial profit for Julian Carrington. He’d made sure of that, though profit had only been incidental to the main purpose. Everyone had expected, within the next few years of his return from Vienna, that he would in his turn hand over the reins at the bank to the next Carrington in line and supposedly thereafter enjoy a contented retirement in his exquisite home, but the truth was, retirement was against his nature. He was fit and active, but not only that, the house which had once seemed to shine like a perfect jewel had come to seem like nothing more than a museum as he faced the prospect ahead. Alone in the immaculate, echoing rooms except for his manservant, his housekeeper and the rest of his well-paid staff, including two gardeners and a coachman for the private hansom which served for Julian’s journeys to and from the City, where he spent his working hours at the bank and his leisure time either at his club, dining out, or enjoying an evening of opera at Covent Garden.
Finally weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of the situation he decided there was no reason why he should continue to squander money on an under-occupied house and servants who had nothing much to do except eat their heads off at his expense. He put the house on the market, took a spacious apartment in the Albany, and transferred himself and the best of his art collection there. Rather than feeling a sense of loss, he was astonished to find himself liberated: to realise that it was possible to enjoy more by possessing less. How had it taken him so long to find out this simple truth? And why could he not view his relationship with Isobel in that light? But that was a question to which he could find no answer. Otherwise – if indeed there could be an otherwise in his situation – he continued to enjoy a pleasant and well-regulated existence, satisfied that his plans had, as usual, turned out as he’d confidently expected. In due course he would retire from the bank, yes, but without regrets. He had another, quite exciting, prospect in mind.
Why the police wished to talk to him was puzzling, but he agreed to see them at the bank as being the least invasion of his privacy. Eyebrows might be raised but the staff were used to queer customers from time to time, after all.
Lamb was discreetly ushered into Julian Carrington’s private office by a clerk who assumed a carefully blank expression after learning who he was.
Unlike the cold marble splendours and hushed reverence that faced you when you entered the bank’s front doors from Lombard Street, leaving the City’s noise and bustle behind, here in the office were thick carpets and velvet curtains, bookshelves in one of the fireplace alcoves. It looked like anyone’s comfortable, affluent sitting room, though books were sparse on the shelves and apart from one or two small, gilt-framed pictures on the pale walls, only a single ornament graced the room, a greyish-green pottery vase set in a dark-green-painted niche in the second fireplace alcove. It looked Chinese, and valuable. In front of the empty fire grate was an embroidered silk panel, also Chinese in appearance, framed as a firescreen. A large ebonised desk occupied a position near the window, its chair placed strategically with its back to the light, but rather than face Lamb across it, Carrington, after a firm handshake, indicated easy chairs grouped around a table where tea was already waiting…Indian, and much too strong for Lamb, but which Carrington sipped with every appearance of enjoyment. On a small table against a wall stood hospitality to offer clients: glasses and bottles, pale sherry, fine cognac, obviously too fine to be offered to the police. Or perhaps because it was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon, after all.
Carrington was the precise and authoritative figure one might have expected of a man in charge of one of the most respected private banks in the City, looking very much part of his surroundings in his immaculately tailored suit, a yellow rosebud in his buttonhole. Nothing effete about him, though: his handshake had been firm and vigorous, he had the trim figure of a man who kept himself fit – a tall, lean, bespectacled man with silver-threaded hair whom Lamb judged to be in his well-preserved late fifties. Courteous and kindly, he listened attentively to Lamb’s preamble, after Lamb had thankfully finished his tea and declined a refill.
‘Mr Carrington, we’re inquiring into the death of an artist by the name of Theo Benton. Whom I believe you knew, through this latest exhibition at the Pontifex?’
‘The young man who committed suicide? Acquainted would be a better word. I met him only a few times. Have you seen his work? What a tragedy, what a waste of talent! Such foolishness to throw away his life when he was only on the brink of it,’ he said sadly.
‘Yes.’ Lamb let his gaze travel over the delicate water-colours, and the celadon vase. ‘I see you’re a
n art lover. You have some interesting pictures.’
‘Nothing important – except that watercolour over there. A Cotman.’ His face grew animated as he pointed to a wide-skied landscape. ‘And this little etching. Perhaps by Corot, I would like to think, but most likely not.’
‘And that one over there?’
‘Oh, that’s a little thing I stumbled across by some unknown artist. Not in the same class as the others, but there was some quality about it – something elegiac, perhaps – which attracted me.’
Lamb looked at the soft, muted colours, the light softly shining onto it in its little corner. It did indeed give forth a haunting, mournful feeling. ‘This interest of yours is how you come to be connected with the Pontifex Gallery, I presume?’
‘Dear me, I’ve no connection there – or only insofar as I’m acting in an advisory capacity to Mr Guy Martagon in the winding up of his father’s affairs.’
‘You were, I understand, a close friend of Eliot Martagon?’
‘Another tragedy – and a particular sadness for me. It’s hard to lose a friend of so many years, especially a man of Eliot’s calibre. He was a fine man, respected by everyone, another who had everything to live for. We were at school together, you know.’ The memory of his friend brought tears to his eyes. He took out a spotless linen handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘You must have speculated on why such a man should take his own life.’
‘Of course. But who can read another man’s mind? What drives him to despair? We’re all unknowable, in the end.’
‘Indeed. So, since you were an intimate friend, I can take it you would have been in the habit of meeting in Vienna when he made his trips there?’
‘Naturally.’ Carrington threw him a sharp glance. ‘I see you’re aware that I ran the bank’s Vienna branch for many years.’
Lamb nodded. He had taken some trouble to find out what he could about Mr Carrington and was well briefed. ‘And, of course, you knew Mrs Amberley there, too.’
There was a fractional pause. ‘Mrs Amberley?’
‘Mrs Isobel Amberley.’
‘Oh yes, I know who you mean. Of course I knew her there. I was simply surprised that you’d heard of her.’
‘It wasn’t common knowledge, then, her association with Eliot Martagon?’
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean by ‘association’.’ Carrington regarded him over the top of his spectacles. His lips pursed and he suddenly looked rather formidable, less affable. Lamb had learnt that he played tennis, took fencing lessons, played a redoubtable game of bridge and thought he wouldn’t like to face him across that desk, asking for a loan. ‘There was no reason why their acquaintance should have been known, as far as I’m aware, but that’s hardly surprising. The friends Eliot made in Vienna – or anywhere else abroad, for that matter – would have been of no interest to anyone here. Sure you won’t take more tea, Chief Inspector?’ Lamb raised a hand and Carrington poured himself a third cup. ‘Forgive me,’ he went on, selecting two lumps of sugar and replacing the silver tongs neatly in the bowl, ‘but I was under the impression you were here to talk of this young man, Benton?’
‘I am. We’re anxious to know what led up to his death, and need to find out as much as we can about his time in Vienna. Apparently it was there that Benton first met Mr Martagon, perhaps through Mrs Amberley?’ Carrington shrugged and spread his hands, saying nothing. ‘At any rate, we’ve reason to believe she might now be in England, and we should like to talk with her. It seems a reasonable assumption, since you were such a good friend of Eliot Martagon’s, that you might know where we can find her.’
‘Do you usually go to such lengths to investigate a suicide?’
‘We do all we can to find out why it happened – if only for the sake of those who are left. But I think I must tell you’, he paused a little, carefully watching Carrington, ‘that Theo Benton didn’t take his own life.’
As he made this announcement for the second time that day, Lamb suddenly became conscious of one of those strange momentary hushes when the world seems to stand still. For a moment only, then from St Paul’s came the first stroke of five; other clocks followed, a great jangle above the noise of the City at work. But Carrington, to whom this background noise must be so familiar he was unaware of it, like anyone else on hearing such an ambiguously worded statement, seemed to be running through the possibilities of what he’d just been told. Unlike most other people, he didn’t automatically snatch at the most palatable alternative. ‘Are you speaking about an accident, or is it foul play, then?’ he asked quietly.
‘It couldn’t have been an accident. That’s been ruled out.’
‘I see. Well, I’m exceedingly sorry it’s come to this, but I can’t help you. I fail to see how this young man’s unfortunate death concerns Mrs Amberley.’
‘All the same, I’d be obliged for her address, if you please, sir.’
‘She’s entitled to her hard-won privacy. To think she has anything to do with this affair is ludicrous, if not outrageous.’
‘Mr Carrington, I’m not suggesting she is in any way to blame. It appears that Theo Benton was very much disturbed by something which happened while he was living in Vienna, and Mrs Amberley may be able to tell us what that was, and that’s all there is to it.’
Carrington twisted the heavy gold signet ring on his little finger and closed his eyes. Finally he said, ‘You don’t need to disturb Mrs Amberley for that. I can tell you. Some sort of unfortunate incident apparently occurred – nothing that involved young Theo or Mrs Amberley personally, you understand, but extremely upsetting for all involved, and best forgotten.’
‘What sort of incident? What can you tell me about it?’
Carrington shrugged. ‘I know nothing more about it than that. I’d already ceased to run the bank in Vienna and was living here at the time. But Mr Lamb, I repeat, I really don’t think I can allow you to disturb Mrs Amberley.’
‘No intrusion, I promise. No pressure. I simply want you to tell me where she is living.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then we shall still find her, but it will take longer.’
The banker rose suddenly and went to the window, where he stood looking out over the street. This time the silence was ominous. Lamb let it continue. Finally Carrington turned round. ‘You must understand, I’ve no wish to be obstructive, but this is difficult for me. Mrs Amberley came to England to find anonymity. To tell you where she is would be a betrayal of trust. Give me time and I’ll ask if she will speak with you.’
‘Time is something we don’t have.’
‘Mr Lamb,’ Carrington replied, smiling, ‘I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other at the moment.’ He looked at his watch, not the usual pocket watch, but a gold one with a wide expanding bracelet, strapped to his wrist, generally regarded as a feminine affectation, though there was nothing effeminate in the steely determination with which Carrington ended the conversation. ‘I promise I will be in touch, but now, I think this interview is at an end.’
Although Lamb hadn’t deemed it appropriate to point out the fact to Carrington, it couldn’t have escaped an astute man such as the banker appeared to be that the police were seeking connections between Theo Benton’s apparent suicide, which had turned out to be murder, and Eliot Martagon’s suicide, and that the connection, once established, might lead to similar conclusions. Lamb, however, was glad he’d held back on that for the moment.
A detective, he thoroughly believed, should listen carefully, not only to the answers to his questions, but to what was behind the answers, and what he had heard from Carrington was evasion. His refusal to be cooperative about Mrs Amberley’s whereabouts made Lamb all the more anxious to speak to her himself and find out why. He’d observed something rather more than merely a gentlemanly desire to protect a lady from unwelcome police intrusion behind that refusal. It was, perhaps, only a guess, but he believed it to be an educated one, and that almost certainly th
ere was something more than just acquaintance, or friendship, between them, a romantic liaison, perhaps…or even complicity of a sort. Other ways of finding her would have to be found, and soon.
He was more than ever certain that Isobel Amberley and whatever it was that had happened in Vienna was going to be crucial to his inquiry and he couldn’t entertain the idea of her disappearing, even, perhaps, leaving the country before he had the chance to speak to her. He was certain that Carrington would try to warn her of the police interest at the first opportunity. If she was the unlikely possessor of one of the relatively few private telephones in London, he had probably spoken to her already, or even sent a note by hand, but he thought this fairly remote, and the notion persisted in his mind that Carrington would want to see her face to face.
The rush to get home from the City’s offices and other commercial premises would soon be starting, but he must first find a public call office to telephone the station and speak to Cogan. He did so, gave his instructions and tossed up which way to get back. Omnibus? Underground? Shanks’s pony? A taxicab was drawing up further back along the street from where he had just come, just outside the bank, and someone was getting out, but he resisted the temptation. Expense accounts which showed expensive cab fares weren’t looked upon kindly by his superintendent.
When Lamb had left, Carrington crossed to the window and stood gazing down the street. He wondered if he hadn’t been unnecessarily foolish in refusing to give Isobel’s address. The police, as Lamb had pointed out, had means of tracing her sooner or later, and his refusal must have been put down as obstructive, not to say suspicious. But what of Isobel’s privacy? His belief in the necessity to protect her as far as ever possible came from the very bottom of his deepest instincts.
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