There was much he still wanted to know, but he sensed she was a determined woman, and he believed she had reached the limit of what she was prepared to tell him. ‘Before we go, may I suggest we have a word with Sophie herself?’
‘I think not, Mr Lamb.’ She rose and held out her hand. As far as she was concerned, the interview was at an end. Cogan snapped his notebook together, but Lamb said, ‘Please sit down, Mrs Amberley.’
She said in some agitation, ‘It would not be helpful, for Sophie. She is beginning to get over what happened to her mother and I will not have her disturbed again. I do not in any case see how it would help you regarding Theo’s murder.’
‘Perhaps not. But please consider this. The least little thing is important in a murder case. One never knows where it might lead. We would not have thought at first, for instance—’ He broke off and gave her a long, considered look and then said suddenly, ‘I believe you were acquainted with the late Mr Eliot Martagon?’
What little colour she had in her face drained away. ‘That is so.’
‘It would have seemed at first in this inquiry that his unfortunate death and the murder of Theo Benton had nothing in common. But we are now beginning to believe each may throw some light on the other.’
‘How can that possibly be?’ Her hand groped for the chair behind her and she sank into it. ‘What are you trying to tell me? Are you saying that – Eliot – that he may not have taken his own life?’ Her French accent had grown more pronounced. ‘That he may have been murdered?’
‘The possibility cannot be ruled out.’
There it was again – relief. The same relief Joseph Benton had shown, that the stigma of suicide had been lifted. He saw it in her eyes and understood precisely why it was there. Ever since Martagon’s death she had been living with the knowledge that he might have taken a gun and blown out his brains rather than carry out and embrace the consequences of what they had planned to do together.
‘But it is not possible! Who could have wanted to take away the life of a man like Eliot?’
‘That I can’t tell you, yet. But think about what I’ve said, Mrs Amberley.’ He stood up. ‘Anything whatsoever that you, or the child, or anyone else can recall may be the one thing which leads us to the murderer. I tell you, I am constantly amazed at how the emergence of one small, significant detail eventually leads to solving the mystery.’
She nodded in a dazed kind of way. She had lost what little colour she had, and Cogan said, ‘Shall I ring for your companion?’
‘No, thank you. I would like to be alone for a while.’
Lamb said solemnly on leaving, ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Amberley. Take care, but have no fears that Viktor Franck will succeed in abducting the little girl. If he does come here, there will be someone ready to intercept him. Unlike you, we are very anxious to talk to him.’
The breeze blowing up from the river was stiff and Cogan squashed his bowler squarely over his forehead as they walked down the street towards it after leaving Mrs Amberley. Reaching the narrow embankment which ran along the river at that point, they stopped by mutual consent and leant against the railings. Not so much commercial traffic here as down river and at the port of London, heavy cargo ships and the like, but it was still busy with pleasure boats and Thames barges plying their route and delivering merchandise: coals, or brandy for one of the riverside inns or grain for the flour mills. The day was overcast, with a capriciously cold wind, as often in May, cracking the sails of the sailing boats. The water was choppy and lapped at the stones of the embankment with vicious little slaps.
‘Well, we’re a stride or two further forrard, aren’t we, sir?’
‘Are we, Cogan?’
‘Seems to me, in spite of what Mrs Amberley thinks, Benton discovered something when he went out again that night. And I reckon what he discovered was that Viktor Franck had killed the Koppel woman. That’s why Franck’s come over here, to shut Benton up.’
‘Her body was found streets away. And why should he have waited until now?’
‘Maybe Franck didn’t want her found too near his own house and dragged her to where she was found to get her out of the way. Maybe Benton didn’t want to get mixed up at first. Likely he was afraid of Franck – and with good reason, seemingly. But it bothered him. Everyone we’ve spoken to seems to think he’d had something on his mind for some time. And there’s that letter Franck sent him. Maybe he told Franck he was going to spill the beans.’
‘That’s a lot of maybes.’
Lamb spoke absently. He wasn’t giving his sergeant the attention he ought; he was too busy trying to recapture something that was floating on the edge of his consciousness, like a leaf in the wind glimpsed from the eye corner. Something that had been said during the course of the interview with Mrs Amberley, a word or two that had brought back something else from one of the letters she had written to Eliot Martagon. Only the more he tried to catch the fleeting memory, the more maddeningly it slid from his grasp.
That those letters in the bundle Mrs Martagon had handed over to him were love letters was without doubt, not by any means flowery effusions, though here and there a loverlike phrase crept through. ‘I exist for the time when we can be together forever,’ Isobel Amberley had written at one point, ‘though I know you are intent on doing the right thing for your wife – and above all for Dulcie.’ References to ‘her dearest Sophie’ cropped up regularly. In one letter which, although it was undated, he thought might have been the last, she had written: ‘The sleepwalking is continuing. I must get her away from him. Remembering what he did to Miriam once before, I can have no doubts.’ And then, ‘That impossible night, after Julian left me – it has marked us all, especially Theo. He has left for Paris. Viktor is inconsolable over both deaths.’
He stared at the khaki grey Thames, then slapped the washleather gloves he held against his palm. ‘And where does Eliot Martagon come into all this?’
‘Martagon?’ Cogan barely suppressed a sigh. ‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first, nor the last, to have got himself into a tangle over a woman, would he? All fine and dandy, talking of giving up everything for love and sailing away for a new life and leaving his responsibilities behind. Then when it comes down to it, it don’t look so rosy, eh? But he’d got himself into a cleft stick – damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t.’
‘Hmm.’
Cogan took out his pipe and as he turned from the breeze to light it he saw someone approaching them. ‘Miss Oram! What can we do for you?’
She had a shopping basket over her arm and was slightly out of breath. ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you.’ She hesitated, seeming not to know quite how to begin. Then she said abruptly, ‘I doubt she’s told you everything. Mrs Amberley, I mean.’
Lamb regarded her gravely. She wore a nice grey coat trimmed with sealskin cuffs and collar. Her matching hat was prettily decorated with a bunch of velvet violets, but wasn’t perhaps at the neat angle she would normally wear it, as if had been thrust on without the aid of a mirror, and strands of blonde hair escaped from it. He said gently, ‘I didn’t think she had.’ There was a wrought-iron bench just behind them, facing the river. ‘Please, sit down.’ He extracted a spotless handkerchief from his pocket, flicked it over the seat and waited while she seated herself, then sat beside her, while Cogan stood with his back against the railings, puffing at his pipe, facing them.
‘You mustn’t blame her. She’s not been well, you know. Someone very close to her died fairly recently, and it nearly broke her heart. She’s better now, but she could do without all this worry about Sophie, and that man.’
‘As far as Viktor Franck goes, I’ve already told Mrs Amberley we will set someone to watch the house immediately.’
‘I should hope so, too! The man’s a murderer! Miriam Koppel and – and most likely poor Theo, too.’
Cogan took his pipe from his mouth. Lamb said, ‘Mrs Amberley seems to cling to the theory that Mrs Koppel’s death was an accident.’
A paddle-steamer packed with Londoners returning from a day out to Greenwich or Kew was passing, the passengers huddled together on deck. It hooted dismally. Not much fun on a day like this.
‘Sophie had nightmares for a long time after the night her mother was killed, you know. And Isobel – Mrs Amberley – blames herself. She thinks if she hadn’t gone out that night, Sophie would have slept in her little room with us as usual. Our doors were always kept locked and she couldn’t have strayed out into the snow like that. But if anyone was to blame it was me. She was feeling depressed and I was the one who persuaded her to go out with Mr Carrington. He was going back to London the next day and wanted to take her out to dinner, and I thought it was time she had a bit of enjoyment.’
‘Carrington?’
‘Mr Julian Carrington – he’s a great friend of Isobel – Mrs Amberley. It’s plain as the nose on your face he hopes she’ll marry him one day, only there was someone else, this person who died – and there’s Sophie, you see. She’s wary of people, poor lamb, and he…well, he’s a good man, but he isn’t used to children, and it makes her shy of him. And you can’t expect him to be able to change his ways at his time of life.’ She stood up. ‘What if Viktor does come for Sophie?’
‘Have no fear of Viktor Franck.’ Lamb smiled. ‘I’ve already assured Mrs Amberley there’ll be someone here within the hour to watch the house. If he does come, we’ll be waiting for him.’
She still looked a little doubtful. ‘I’ve been out long enough. I must go and find something to buy to explain where I’ve been.’
‘One question before you go, if you don’t mind. Did Theo paint a portrait of the little girl, Sophie?’
‘He began one. But it was Viktor Franck who finished it.’
‘I’ll set Brownrigg to watch for Franck,’ said Cogan as Susan disappeared towards the shops.
‘No, I’ve other ideas for Brownrigg.’
Cogan looked at him curiously but Lamb didn’t want to elaborate at that moment. His growing frustration with the investigation seemed to have disappeared and he felt the sudden spurt of energy that always came when he began to see the end of a case in sight. He had it now, the elusive association he’d been chasing. It had been there, in those letters, all the time. The kaleidoscope had been shaken and a new pattern had emerged. It was dangerous to try to make a theory fit the facts and he didn’t see where he was to find any proof at all. There was a long way to go yet, but it was beginning to look at least possible. That was as far as he dared to go.
‘Mr Lamb, sir?’
He blinked, and suddenly smiled. ‘Loose ends, loose ends, Sergeant. I’ll tell you what, let’s go and see Mr Ireton.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
‘There is something I should very much like to ask you to do for me, Miss Dart.’
‘Ask away, Inspector.’
Lamb was unusually hesitant to speak. He eased himself back into his chair in the confined space of Miss Dart’s sitting room, another glass of Russian tea before him on the small table. He wondered if he might venture to stretch his cramped legs, or if he might in so doing accidentally come knee to knee with Miss Dart, sitting opposite. The notion didn’t entirely discomfit him but he managed to ease his legs sideways.
She was looking slightly less eccentric today, in an ankle-length, V-necked dress, albeit vividly patterned in midnight blue and green, again with a bandeau, à la Romney, in emerald green, bound around her dark curls. No distracting long beads to play with this time, but an outsize bunch of velvet leaves tucked into the wide sash at her waist. Her fingers were free of ink-stains, too, but then, she had been expecting him after the note he had sent to say he would be coming. He had not brought Cogan with him. One large policeman was more than enough in this tiny room, he’d told himself.
She was looking at him expectantly. Some impulse had brought him confidently here, but now he felt unsure how she was going to respond to his request. ‘You remember our last talk, when we spoke of Mrs Amberley?’ he began, and then went on to tell her of the idea he had had. There was a silence when he finished.
‘You’re asking me to question Sophie, aren’t you?’
‘No, that would scarcely be appropriate, Miss Dart.’
‘Oh, Eugenia, please.’
‘I would not ask you to do that, Eugenia.’
She smiled. ‘Then what is it you want me to do, Inspector—I suppose you do you have a Christian name?’
‘Philip,’ he heard his red-faced reply, adding rather quickly, ‘No, it’s Mrs Amberley herself I’d like you to talk to…if you would.’ He finished his tea. ‘Do you know anything about the way Sophie’s mother died?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a sad little story, but you may understand why I am asking for your help when you’ve heard it. May I tell you?’
‘I can never resist a story.’ She pushed the table out of the way so that he was able at last to stretch his legs properly. Throwing a cushion onto the floor opposite where he sat, she settled herself on it, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms round them, prepared to give him her whole attention. He told her, as briefly as possible, what there was to know about Miriam Koppel’s death and why the consequences of it might be important for his present investigations. He kept nothing back and her eyes grew wide.
‘Poor little Sophie, I had no idea. If she did see anything, it’s not surprising she doesn’t want to talk about it. Have you considered that she could have buried it so deep she’s actually forgotten?’
‘You may be right. But I also think there’s a possibility she may have told Mrs Amberley.’
‘And what makes you think Isobel would tell me, if she had?’
‘I don’t know that she will. But I think she may only be keeping back from us what she knows – or maybe merely suspects – out of a desire to protect the child. She won’t talk to us – the police – but she may open up to you as a friend.’
‘I see.’ She considered this for a moment then said abruptly, ‘Would you like some more tea?’
He wouldn’t really, but it was obviously a mainstay as far as she was concerned, and he nodded. She went into the kitchenette and in a few minutes she came back with a laden tray. He jumped up to relieve her of it but she had it on the table before he could reach her. As well as the glasses of tea, there were two crumpets, butter and a two-foot long copper wire toasting fork on the tray. ‘Since it’s tea-time,’ she said with a smile, kneeling in front of the fire, and lighting it with a match. When the bars grew red, she expertly inserted the fork into a crumpet and held it towards them and very soon a warm, toasty smell filled the little room. She tossed a napkin to him, buttered the crumpet and passed it to him on a plate before proceeding with the next one. ‘Don’t wait. This won’t be a tick.’
He’d forgotten how difficult it was to eat a crumpet with any sort of poise, and how satisfying it was. She had been lavish with the butter and it had melted into all the little holes; he sighed with pleasure and bit into it again. Her face was rosy and her eyes glowed as she bent towards the fire. She looked extraordinarily fetching. He was damned glad he hadn’t brought Cogan with him.
She finished toasting and eating her own crumpet, wiped her fingers and sat for some time, saying nothing, twisting one of the barbaric rings she wore. At last she raised her eyes to his. ‘It wouldn’t be ‘appropriate’ for me to question Sophie, but it would be all right for me to gain t
he confidence of my friend and then pass it on to you – is that it?’
He regarded her gravely. ‘Don’t you think the end might justify the means?’
‘That’s always a specious argument.’
‘One that might hold good in this case, nevertheless.’
‘No, Chief Inspector Lamb. I suspect I’ve already done more than I should, in giving you Isobel’s address. I can’t do any more, and there’s really an end to it.’
‘I’m sorry for that.’
‘So am I – sorry I can’t help you, I mean.’ She began to stack the tea things. ‘There’s butter on your chin.’
He scrubbed at his chin with his napkin until it was as red as the rest of his face. ‘Are you quite sure you won’t do it? I know Mrs Amberley is holding something back that may very well help us.’
Her big brown eyes looked reproachful. ‘You have no right to ask me such a thing, you know.’
‘None at all. Except that—’
‘Except that nothing. No, definitely not.’
‘Then I must respect your wishes – however mistaken I feel you are. But you are right, of course, I should not have asked you.’
‘Well, that’s settled, then.’
Just how am I supposed to approach this, Eugenia thought as she sat opposite Mrs Amberley in her pretty room. Isobel isn’t just going to talk to me about a subject like this, out of the blue. I shall have to have some reason for asking.
She was not, of course, here because he had persuaded her, not in the least. A picture of the rather proper Chief Inspector Philip Lamb, sitting opposite her, trying to avoid dripping butter onto his tie, came to her and made her smile, then blush. She had wanted to tell him to tuck the napkin into his pristine collar but hadn’t liked to. He wasn’t like any policeman she’d ever met before. Odd, but he had seemed less out of place in her humble little room than the homely, burly sergeant. Her cheeks grew warm again.
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