Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  ‘Well, thank you,’ I stuttered, ‘but I’m afraid I’m not really here on a social visit.’

  ‘You’re here on a social visit whether you like it or not, Peter. I’ll round up some tea in a moment, or would you prefer something stronger? I know some men do about this time of day.’ She smiled. ‘Like something stronger, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, maybe later. That would be nice.’ I was starting to regret I had arrived unchaperoned to see Mrs Lavinia Saunders. ‘But I’ve really come about Ben Maxwell’s death.’

  She put on an expression of shock/horror and raised her hands in the air.

  ‘Oh Peter, don’t remind me. What a dreadful tragedy! Poor darling Lana-Lee. What on earth can have made Adam Longhurst do it? I mean — jealousy is one thing, but murder is quite another, quite another.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m here, really,’ I explained. ‘I agree with Lana-Lee. I don’t believe Adam Longhurst did kill Maxwell.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Lavinia adjusted her position slightly in the chair, and revealed yet more nylon. ‘But the police, from all accounts, think he did it. And everything seems to point to his guilt. He has constantly made threats against Ben. His car was seen down by...’

  ‘Yes, I know all about that. Things certainly look bad for him.’

  ‘So why don’t you think he’s guilty? Wishful thinking? Don’t like someone you’ve met turning out to be a murderer? None of us, Peter, like to think of Adam being a killer, but the fact remains, he might well be.’

  ‘That’s true, Lavinia, but, for the moment, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.’

  She swung her legs down to the floor, and leant towards me.

  ‘So what are you being right now, Peter? An amateur sleuth? I thought you were just into — old toys, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’m just trying to help Lana-Lee.’

  ‘Did she ask you?’

  ‘In a way, but that’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘So why are you here?’ Her green eyes focused on mine.

  ‘I want to hear everyone’s views on the tragedy, in case there’s something the police have overlooked.’

  ‘Something that might help Adam Longhurst and Lana-Lee, or something that will actually nail the killer?’ She smiled again. ‘They’re not the same objectives, you know.’

  ‘I know. Maybe I want to help the innocent rather more than track the guilty.’

  She smoothed a hand down her leg, thoughtfully. ‘My, Peter dear, you are an amateur, aren’t you?’ Then she laughed. ‘Not even as good as Inspector Plodder.’

  I recognised the name, but for a moment, could not place it.

  ‘Inspector Plodder?’

  ‘Oh Peter, don’t tell me you don’t know. It was only on television a few nights back. The night of poor Ben’s murder, in fact.’

  I cast my mind back. Then it hit me. Arabella and I had decided not to watch, as, despite our love of Olivier and Caine, we had seen it twice already.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m slow today. Sleuth — the fake inspector in Sleuth.’

  ‘Didn’t you see it the other night? I did. Riveting. It’s incredible how sexy Olivier is in it, considering his age. Twice as sexy as poor Michael Caine.’

  ‘Arabella and I had seen it a few times before.’

  ‘Oh, you must excuse my going on. It was the first time for me, you see. Wonderful film...’

  I was starting to become a trifle impatient. ‘Look, Lavinia, however good Sleuth may be, I really want to talk about Maxwell’s death. Now can I start by asking you who you think might have done it?’

  ‘I’ve told you. Adam Longhurst. Everything points to him, poor lad.’

  ‘But Ben must have had other enemies?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone has enemies. Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’ I smiled. ‘And no doubt I’ll have more after my little investigations.’

  She rose languorously, crossed over to my settee and sat down.

  ‘I doubt it, Peter. You’re not the type to ruffle people into hatred, I would have thought. Anyway, who do you think killed Ben?’ She put a hand on my knee. ‘Me?’ she piped in a little girl voice.

  ‘No. Why should I? I just don’t know. All I think I know is that Longhurst didn’t.’

  We were both silent for a moment, and I could hear her breathing. For some unknown reason, it sounded sexy. It certainly did not aid my thought processes. ‘Do you know Ben well?’ I came out with, at last. She sighed. ‘You’re getting personal now, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean to, Lavinia, believe me. I’m just after background facts.’

  I could feel her turn towards me on the settee. I didn’t dare look across.

  ‘Well, all right, if you want to know, there’s hardly a woman around here, married or unmarried, Ben Maxwell did not make a pass at. All in such a short space of time, too.’

  ‘And he made a pass at you?’

  ‘Of course. Am I that unattractive you thought he wouldn’t?’

  I didn’t rise to it. ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘You don’t mean that, do you, Peter? You mean, did I fall for his pass?’

  ‘Okay.’ I looked round at her. ‘I know it’s an impertinent question, but did you?’

  She laughed quietly. ‘Well, I suppose it’s an open secret. My husband and I have this arrangement, you see. Have had since we first met. We allow each other certain freedoms. We believe it’s the best way to prolong and cement a marriage — prevent one or other of us running off just for the novelty of a new lover or a new whim.’

  ‘And you...?’

  ‘Yes. Not often. Three times, in fact. He was a good lover. Rotten man, maybe, but good in bed.’

  For the first time, she sounded genuinely upset about his demise, and I started to feel sorry for her.

  ‘Do you know of any other women who...?’

  ‘Peter, I don’t need reminding of Ben’s other lady friends right now,’ she interrupted, rather icily. ‘No doubt there were many. I’m glad to say Ben was not one of those lovers who feed their egos and virility by describing past conquests.’

  I notched up one for Ben Maxwell. Just the one. And nought for myself for getting my timing wrong, a mistake that would now prevent me from proceeding on to my next risky line of enquiry — whether she still carried a torch for her ex-lover, Adam Longhurst, and, if she did, whether it was in remembrance, or to be used as a firebrand with which to burn him. I regretfully changed the subject.

  ‘Did your husband enjoy Sleuth?’

  She looked at me in surprise, then burst out laughing.

  ‘You have changed tack, haven’t you, Peter? Did I frighten you? I wouldn’t want to frighten you.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t frightened. I was just being a little more tactful, that’s all. You were right to admonish me.’

  She edged a little closer to me. Her perfume, now at point blank range, was difficult to ignore. However, I tried.

  ‘Now, what was that about my husband?’

  ‘Did he see Sleuth with you?’

  ‘No. He flew to Paris that morning, and stayed overnight. He had a meeting with Jean-Paul. You met him, remember, at that strange party.’

  I remembered. ‘So he did not return until after Maxwell’s body had been found?’

  Lavinia smiled, and put her hand on my arm. ‘Sorry, Peter. I’m not helping you, am I? I was watching Sleuth that night, and John was in Paris. Neither of us was on the beach at Osmington Mills.’

  ‘I hope I did not sound as if I thought you were.’

  She sat round towards me on the settee, until her knee touched mine. ‘Of course you didn’t. If you are to help Lana-Lee and, of course, Adam, you have to ask questions. I understand that. I’m just so sorry the finger still seems to point to Adam.’ She put her own red-tipped finger to her matching lips. ‘Unless—’ she added, ‘unless he’s covering for someone.’

  This time it was my turn to move round to face her.

  ‘Who?’ I asked
, trying to conceal that I guessed the answer.

  ‘Oh no, forgive me. It’s too far-fetched.’ She looked demurely down at her lap. I have seen that expression many times before. It nearly always precedes a pretty massive indiscretion.

  ‘Murder is far-fetched to begin with,’ I said quietly, and leaned forward. She looked up.

  ‘Don’t whisper it to a soul, will you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, there’s more than one person who gained from Ben’s death, isn’t there?’

  I pretended to look mystified.

  ‘Oh, come on, Peter, just because she is employing you...’

  ‘Lana-Lee?’

  ‘Precisely. No, I’m not saying she did it, you understand. But she no doubt had enough cause to, without the added motive of freeing herself for Adam Longhurst. Maybe, even, she killed him by accident — didn’t really intend to. You know, had an argument on the beach or something. Told Adam immediately. He came down in his Range Rover, stayed long enough to be seen, then went home. Perhaps they both reckoned it would be easier for Adam to escape a murder charge than Lana-Lee and so...’

  ‘You mean they more or less fixed it that he would be arrested to cover for her...?’ I said, in a rather disbelieving way.

  ‘...then she gets you, and maybe there are others, to help get him off, and, supposedly, track down the real murderer...’

  ‘...which helps throw suspicion even further away from her doorstep, for what murderer ever commissioned a sleuth to track down himself, or, in this case, herself?’

  ‘Far-fetched, I know. But...’

  I suddenly realized she had been trying to seduce me into going along with her hypothesis.

  ‘There are a thousand “buts”, Lavinia. Not the least of which is the strong risk that Adam might end up being found guilty.’

  She took my hand in hers. ‘Maybe she thought of that too.’

  ‘You mean, it’s better to lose a lover than to be arrested yourself?’

  ‘Precisely. Lovers can be very cruel sometimes, Peter.’

  I felt the pressure on my hand increase. I decided I had learned all I wanted to that afternoon.

  ‘I ought to go,’ I said, ‘before we have any more wild theories.’ I tried to rise from the settee, but her hand restrained me.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.’

  ‘You haven’t upset me. I have an open mind at the moment.’

  ‘Won’t you stay for a drink?’ her eyelashes asked.

  ‘I ought to get back.’ I tried to rise once more and, to my relief and surprise, succeeded.

  ‘Next time then,’ she smiled, and got up to stand beside me.

  ‘Yes. Great. I’m sorry to have interrupted your afternoon.’

  ‘I like being interrupted,’ she almost winked. I didn’t almost wink back. ‘Let me know how your investigations proceed.’ She continued lazily, ‘I still think the police are right, you know. Sorry and all that. But I wouldn’t want our theorising of a moment ago to be proven correct, would I?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ She led me out past the elephant’s foot and the bull’s horn gong, the undulation of her lips matching their unashamed impudence. At the door, I extended my hand, to be met with proffered lips and a ‘Oh come, Peter, we know each other well enough now for a goodbye kiss, surely.’

  I have no ready comeback to that, so I kept my mouth closed whilst I obliged.

  7

  As I drove away, raindrops started pearling on my windscreen, and I could hear their pitter-patter on the Beetle’s soft top. For some reason, I guess preoccupation, I did not switch my wipers on right away. Soon the raindrops began joining together in wind-tortured rivulets, and vision became as blurred and full of stray images as my mind. I slowed, then pulled to a stop in the first convenient gateway to a field. A clap of thunder resounded around me the instant I switched off the engine. I smiled, as it reminded me of Gus’s old Ford Popular, and the remembrance made me feel slightly better. I shook my head as if to clear my mind of all the trashy ideas and theories it had been accumulating ever since Ben Maxwell’s death, for their continued presence would, I felt, eventually disease my mind if I wasn’t careful — or at least foul my imagination, and thus my life. My quiet rural life. I laughed out loud at the thought.

  A raindrop eventually slurped its way through the stitching in the rag top above my head, and plopped, icy cold, on to my forehead. I was grateful to it, and did nothing to hinder its dribble down my nose, and on to my top lip, for it woke me from my mental and physical paralysis. Didn’t tell me what to do, just what not to do, which was get so worked up about the problems of an actress I hardly knew that I sat around in damp cars in muddy gateways, listening to the thunderclaps of Zeus reverberate around me. I half switched on the ignition and operated the windscreen wipers. Away in the distance, I saw a tiny rend of blue in the black backcloth of the thunderclouds (but not enough, as my mother would say, ‘to make a sailor a pair of pants’). Across the blue were the while contrails of a high flying jet winging its way above the dark troubles of this world. I envied it, then blessed it, for I now knew what I was going to do. I turned the ignition the whole way, and the motor rumbled to life. The wheels slithered in the mud and then I was back on the road — to sanity.

  *

  Luckily, he was in when I arrived. The sky had shrugged off the autumn storm, and now had enough blue to open a dozen sailors’ outfitters. The Beetle’s soft top steamed in the sun, as I got out and walked up to the front door. Mr Muir had seen me pull in, and was there in the porch to greet me.

  ‘I thought you might not be able to wait, Mr Marklin,’ he smiled. ‘Do please come in.’

  ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ I said a bit sheepishly. ‘Not at all. I’m actually working on your master at the moment. So all you are interrupting is your own work.’ He chuckled and I felt distinctly better.

  I followed his short figure down the hall, and remembered to duck my head as we went into the so neat and tidy sitting-room.

  ‘If you make yourself comfortable, I’ll go and get it.’

  As I sat down in an armchair, I noticed quite a few of the items I had originally seen on his dining-room table were now back in what I assumed were their normal places: the brass Sherman tank and Montgomery’s staff car on the front window ledge, the Saracen armoured car and the Chieftain tank on a small formica-topped coffee-table, two of the better dog models, bloodhounds, on a side window ledge. But it was the angel centred on the mantelshelf above the tiled fireplace that riveted my attention. And, at first, I did not really realise it was an angel, for the spread of its wings and its hovering attitude were more those of a merciless predator such as an eagle, than a merciful emissary of God. I did not remember it from my previous visit. It was hardly something to be easily forgotten.

  I heard what I took to be the back door slam shut and a moment later Muir returned with a small object wrapped in crumpled tissue paper in his hand. I felt genuinely excited, and inched around in my chair with anticipation. Muir leant forward, removed the tissue paper and handed me the small brass aeroplane. I turned it over carefully in my hands. Though certainly by no means finished, it was still quite recognisably the elusive Flamingo, all four-inch wing-span of it. Muir’s sinewy finger pointed at one wing.

  ‘You’ll see the wings are still over thick, Mr Marklin. That is because I have, as yet, not started the lettering you wanted on the undersides.’ His finger moved across to the slim fuselage. ‘And, of course, I have not yet detailed the cockpit or cabin windows. But...’

  ‘No buts, Mr Muir. It’s wonderful, even as it is.’ I turned it over in my hands, and the brass glinted in the light from a standard lamp. ‘I’m just surprised you’ve got so far already.’

  Muir pulled up the hard, upright chair he had used the first time I’d called, and leaned forward towards me, his close-set eyes alive with what I took to be enthusiasm.

  ‘Every task one takes on in life should be started as soon
as one can possibly manage it. Procrastination, Mr Marklin, profits no one — except perhaps...’

  ‘...the devil.’ I had a sudden inexplicable compulsion to complete his sentence.

  Muir sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together. ‘Precisely, Mr Marklin. If there was less procrastination in this world, if we all actually completed everything we state we wish to undertake, there would be more employment and far fewer idle hands to make mischief.’ He shook his head, and then pointed back at the aeroplane in my hands.

  ‘But I digress, I’m afraid. You’re happy with my work so far?’

  ‘Very happy. Excited even.’ I handed the Flamingo back to him. ‘It’s a satisfying feeling to see a dream one has had becoming a reality stage by stage, even a little dream, like a reproduction toy aircraft.’

  ‘Little dreams are often the best, aren’t they? They so often come closer to being realised.’ His tone was reflective now, and he transferred his gaze to something outside the windows. Way, way outside, I had the feeling.

  ‘Anyway, thanks,’ I said quietly. ‘When do you think...?’

  ‘About another ten days, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s fine. I can understand the lettering underneath the wings...’

  ‘It’s not the lettering.’ Muir pointed to the mantelshelf. ‘You may have noticed my new angel. I was on the point of completing that, when you commissioned the Flamingo. It’s a kind of prototype for a much larger brass figure that is to be fixed to the front of a pulpit in a place of worship, near where I used to live in Buckinghamshire. I have to go there and take measurements, devise how it is to be fastened to the pulpit and so forth, before I start work on the final full-size angel.’ He grinned. ‘Luckily, like yours, it’s a commission. The cost of the brass alone would more than bankrupt me otherwise.’

  ‘Congratulations. You must be very pleased.’

  ‘I am. Especially as it’s where my father used to worship, in his last years. We’re all serious, you see, Mr Marklin, about religion. Belief is important to us.’

  His mention of his father reminded me of something Adam Longhurst had told me the morning after the eventful party.