Cassie’s motives she could only guess at, but since Cassie was hard to bully, they had to be powerful indeed. Even in the extremity of her own discomfort Alice found time to wonder what Cassie had been up to.
But Cassie was not saying, not to her anyway, any more than she was herself. They had agreed not to swap tales.
‘No, not Eddie,’ said Cassie in a decided voice. ‘ She’s been too sunk in her own troubles to notice anyone else. Besides, she had Lily and the wedding on her mind.’
‘We did most of that … You did the reception and I did the clothes.’ Even when agitated, Alice did not forget what was due to her.
‘So we have to tell her. Clear your mind of confusions, love, and dwell on this fact: we are right back in the frame as murderers. Have you got an alibi for the night in question?’
‘Now you’re talking like a detective.’
‘It’s rubbed off on me. But have you?’
No, Alice had not got an alibi for the night of Miss Dover’s murder. Neither had Cassie. Both of them had been at home and alone. This was the state with them more often than they chose to admit: they knew what loneliness was. Successful women had their own brand of solitariness to experience. Because they had achieved prominence each in their sphere, everyone took it for granted that they had a glittering social life. Alice (and she suspected Cassie too) knew better. She remembered how in her very early days of starting out, when she had thought that the mark of a successful woman was to have a London club, she’d encountered in the cloakroom of Groucho’s one of the most prominent women barristers of a generation older than hers, a byword for beauty, charm and success. This woman was in tears: she was crying, as she let Alice know, because she hadn’t been asked to a dinner party, because she was lonely and afraid. She had dried her eyes, implying: forget it, just hormones. ‘You’re new,’ she’d said bitterly. ‘You’ll find out.’
Perhaps it was this sense of outer darkness that made their group’s adhesion so strong. Alice knew it was why she submitted to blackmail rather than be thrown outside.
‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘ Set it up then if you must. But let it be in the open air. If I’ve got to bare my soul then I shall need to breathe deeply.’ Or get up and run, she told herself.
‘We’ll make it the Terrazza in the Garden then. I’ll get hold of Eddie.’ The Terrazza had a large open terrace where you could eat a light meal. ‘ I’ll book a table.’
‘Where I can breathe, mind.’
‘Don’t build up the drama,’ said Cassie crisply.
‘Sorry.’
Sorry; the word seemed to dissolve a temporary block inside her and she was able to put down the telephone and even contemplate getting on with her own life. She wasn’t sorry, that was hardly the word, what she felt was immeasurably stronger than that, like rage or despair.
Vindictiveness came into it too: she really hated having her life dug up. It was almost a pity, she thought, that Eddie had come back. She stood up, her figure tall and thin. People were apt to think of Alice as small because she had a small, delicately boned face, but in fact she was tall for a woman.
Cassie gave herself a pause for thought before she got in touch with Edwina. She knew she was pushing Alice, perhaps dangerously so. Alice could be so stupid sometimes. She had a couple of little blind spots which Cassie had found useful before.
Her hand caressed the telephone; it had always been her preferred instrument of communication.
Her hand dropped away from the telephone. Leave it, let it be for the time being. Her own feelings of guilt were stronger and more hideous than any Alice could know because at the base lay love like a golden egg at the bottom of a dirty basket.
She had to telephone Edwina several times before she got an answer. Dougie had told her this was how it would be. ‘We’ve set up a system now,’ he said, ‘a secret, but I’ll tell you. Initiate three calls, one after the other with no time gap. She’ll answer on the fourth. It’s a pattern, see.’
On the fourth call Edwina duly answered. She sounded all right but vague, as if she was not really listening. Cassie wondered if the clinic had prescribed her any drugs, but after listening to Edwina’s dreamy tones, decided that pregnancy was its own drug.
‘I just feel quiet today, sleepy,’ said Edwina as if answering this thought. ‘Yes, the story that the killer of Luke might be one and the same as the killer of poor old Pickles, yes, I’ve heard. Did you think I wouldn’t have done?’ Her tone was mildly ironic. ‘News like that gets about, you know. Dougie told me, as a matter of fact. He said Janine told him. I don’t know who told her but it was probably Bee Linker, that woman knows everything.’
‘You’re waking up.’
‘I believe I am.’
‘Meet us at the Terrazza in the Garden. Twelvish. I’ll give you lunch. Alice and I have something to tell you.’
‘About cake?’
‘Not about cake.’
A piece of iced bun on the stairs was changing all their lives, would go on changing them until there was nothing left of what they had been, and everyone’s life was different.
Janine and Bee Linker had been working together all the morning. Not in total harmony because Bee was in one of her irritable moods. She was reluctant to admit she had them, preferring to think of herself as the gentle-tempered invalid around the house, but all those about her recognised her bad days when they came along. As far as Janine was concerned, it was like going for a row in an open boat on a day when the wind was against you. She felt ruffled and tired. So, presumably, did Bee or she wouldn’t have carried on so.
‘Janine, did you eat any cake at the wedding?’ demanded Bee.
‘No, I did not. I wasn’t there, remember?’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten.’
No, you hadn’t, thought Janine irritably. You remember very well, you just felt like asking.
‘It worries me. Doesn’t it you?’
‘No,’ said Janine.
‘Oh I think you like a bit of drama in your life.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Ah well, if you say so. Let’s get down to work again, shall we?’ They had just completed the first draft of Bee’s book. ‘ I think I’ve got all the pieces, don’t you? Not perhaps in the right order yet, but I shall achieve that. I like fitting them together.’
Janine wondered if Bee was saying this to get a response; she did not answer.
‘That’s one of the things I do with my days now: put all the pieces of the jigsaw into order and make a picture … I think I’d make a good detective, don’t you?’
‘Well …’ began Janine doubtfully.
‘Oh you mean because I can’t see? People would have to tell me things, of course. But then they do, much much more than they know, my dear. Jim does, the postman does, so does the milkman for that matter. Those nice young actors and actresses … just talk, of course, but I pick things up. And Cassie and Alice are always popping in with the news.’
‘But not Edwina Fortune.’
Bee said, almost sadly, ‘Ah, but then Edwina had already told me all she knows and perhaps more than she knew herself.’
‘My word, you’re a dangerous lady.’ Or you would be if I believed half of what you said, Janine added to herself. She knew her employer for a prize romancer. Probably she was trying out her next book for size on her secretary.
Bee got to her feet; she was soft and nimble in her movements, and able to guide herself round very well, but she liked company and the touch and sound of people.
‘Let’s go for a walk.’
‘Are you sure?’ Janine was doubtful.
Her employer knew what she meant. What pleasure is there in it for you? she was saying.
‘I have some sight. I can see outlines. Besides, I like the air on my face.’ She always wore a beautiful Italian silk and tweed cloak for summer walking. ‘ I do hear things too,’ she said as she arranged herself on her secretary’s arm.
And want to hear more, no doub
t, thought Janine who was beginning to entertain considerable doubts about her employer.
‘Someone ought to keep an eye on that girl Edwina. Not me, of course. I couldn’t quite do that. But you, Janine, what about you?’
‘You think I should watch Edwina?’ said Janine in a serious, quiet, incredulous voice. She did not know what to make of Bee Linker today; she did not trust her employer.
After she had finished talking to Edwina, Cassie stood by her upstairs window, still holding the telephone and looking out. She got a good view of the Garden with its shops and restaurants. Today the area seemed more crowded than ever. Two women, one heavily pregnant, the other older and possibly a mother or an aunt, were stepping out of an olive-green Rolls and going into Alice’s shop. Even as they arrived another woman holding a toddler by the hand and carrying one of Alice’s famous carrier bags left by taxi. Trade was clearly good. Two buskers were playing a lively tune on flute and cello. Cassie, a keen operagoer, recognised the unmistakable music of Richard Strauss. Not Rosenkavalier as so often; indeed from no opera, but the lively, bitter sweetness of Til Eulenspiegel. Almost immediately underneath her own window Cassie could see that a flower-seller carefully got up to look like Eliza Doolittle had set up her basket in the gutter and was already making a steady sale of buttonholes to a group of young men in jeans and jazzy blazers, also wearing boaters. One young man tucked a rose in his boater.
She turned her head, looking leftwards to where the Cardboard-Cut-Out Theatre had its place. They were all set up and ready to go, a placard said ‘Harlequin’, but no one was playing.
Instead, a police car was parked outside. More investigation. The Cardboard-Cut-Out team were getting their share. Having their teeth and bite checked, no doubt. Cassie wondered very much what was being said. There was a
hole in the canvas structure through which you could overhear
what was going on inside if you placed yourself right.
But she turned away from the window, deciding she could not
go and listen. Bill Crail might tell her something.
Or might not.
Edwina, still bemused, walking slowly to her appointment with Alice and Cassie, saw the police car parked near the canvas structure of the tiny theatre. Like Cassie she knew that if you lingered in a certain spot you could catch snatches of what went on inside.
She was walking so slowly it was hardly necessary to linger. In the shade behind the theatre the air seemed to have collected into itself the concentrated essence of several old oranges, a hint of onions, and a smell of wine. There was an empty wine bottle in the gutter.
She could hear a voice which she recognised as that of Joly French, the oldest of the team and the one she knew best. ‘ Yes, I was one of the kings at the wedding but I didn’t eat any cake. I took a bit, but lost it.…’ His voice faded away. Either he moved or another solid body came between him and the aperture.
Edwina went on, she knew what they must be talking about. Yes, two of them had been at the wedding reception, not guests, but paid performers. Part of the fun, should have got the whole outfit in one of the glossy mags, but it hadn’t quite done that. Plenty of publicity of a sort, although it didn’t happen to have helped the theatre troupe, they were on their uppers.
Edwina filled in the conversation for herself; she knew Joly so well, she could almost hear the begging bowl rattling. It was Joly’s expertise in this line that kept the troupe going. It was because of this skill of his that Luke and Edwina had booked him to perform at the wedding. He had magicked the idea out of them or into them. Probably he regretted it now. Joly had been one king in a paper crown and Fergus Frame had been booked for the other; they matched in height. But Fergus had got a part in a TV serial and left for Birmingham, so some other luckless chap must have filled in, and was no doubt equally regretting it. The theatre had a floating group of actors and actresses to call upon, they came and went. It was considered quite a cachet to work with the CCs, as they were called, and people boasted about it. It didn’t get you an Equity Card but it got you noticed. People might be less keen now; actors were a superstitious lot.
In the distance Edwina saw Bee Linker on Janine’s arm going in the direction of the theatre. Bee seemed to be moving with her usual purposeful dignity, Janine looked the perfect secretary, with her hair in a neat, pale chignon as always, and wearing a dark, loose linen dress.
She ought to lose some weight, thought Edwina absently, she’s too heavy for her bones, somehow. And she could dress better.
Edwina wanted to be first at their meeting-place but she could see Cassie approaching and Alice was already sitting at a table in the corner looking quiet and pensive.
Edwina sat down. ‘Has anyone seen poor old Ginger?’
‘I tried.’ Cassie had arrived. ‘But they wouldn’t let me.’
‘I sent flowers,’ said Alice.
‘I’ve done nothing.’ Except think, endlessly think. There was a constant rumble at the back of her mind, like a train going through in the distance, not always heard clearly, but not forgotten and never stopping.
‘You’re meant to be looking after yourself,’ said Alice protectively.
‘Doing the best I can.’ Sometimes I am full of confidence in myself, sometimes full of nervous apprehension, but always I know that I shall bring the child to life. Only what child? I am beginning to be worried about its parentage. I know that genetically my family is all right, but what about Tim? Perhaps there is something on Tim’s side I ought to know more about.
Looking at her as if she could read these thoughts, Alice said: ‘I’ve ordered coffee,’ and made it sound as though she had ordered her own execution.
‘Oh come on, love.’ Cassie was brisk. ‘ This is business. Treat it as such. Let’s get it over with.’
‘So what is it?’ Edwina could see a tray of coffee coming their way, carried by a minute and fragile waitress whom she knew to be an actress sometimes to be seen performing at the Cardboard-Cut-Out. ‘ What’s it all about?’
‘Let’s drink our coffee first,’ said Alice nervously.
‘We have a confession to make.’ Cassie put her hand on Alice’s, she could be protective also. ‘We have been paying blackmail.’
‘Doesn’t sound like my idea of business. Unless, of course, you were blackmailing each other.’
Cassie ignored the attempt at a joke. ‘We were paying Luke, had been for quite a few months. In my case at least, I can’t answer for Alice.’
Alice muttered something inaudible.
Edwina drank her coffee, her eyes fixed on a distant view of rooftops across the open square of the Garden. Not particularly beautiful roofs, but a good everyday view which belonged to real life. She didn’t feel that she did herself at the moment. This was not real life, it was a bit from a soap opera. She took a deep breath and turned to gaze at her friends.
Alice looked sick; Cassie had on that air of tough insouciance that usually masked an inner turmoil. Her eyes met Edwina’s, then dropped; she had engineered this meeting, would go through with it as ‘business’ but she did not enjoy it.
‘I won’t ask what you were both paying blackmail for.’
‘I shall tell,’ said Alice, looking down at the table. ‘Rather get it off my mind.… I stole a set of designs – they launched my first solo show. Got me noticed.… The girl who did them was a friend.… She was ill at the time and on drugs.… She died later. I don’t know if she ever knew what I had done. She was pretty far gone. But we’d worked together a lot, and I had them in my possession when I wanted them.… I had a chance of a backer but suddenly couldn’t do it. I’d gone dead. Didn’t have an idea. So I took hers.’ Even now she found it hard to say the name aloud.
Edwina wanted to help her. ‘But after that, it was your own,’ she reminded her. ‘All your hard work, all the grind, all the risks.’
‘Oh yes, once started I was all right. Even better. But there you are.’
‘How did Luke find out?’
‘He did poke,’ said Edwina, remembering. ‘That was a part of him I never liked.’ Her gaze fell on Cassie and she was unable to keep the speculation out.
‘A love affair,’ said Cassie shortly. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
Edwina found it hard to speak for a moment, Alice said nothing, and all three sat silent. Edwina broke the silence.
‘You’ve shocked me.’
‘Ah.’ Cassie gave a wry smile.
‘No, not you. Luke. How could he do it? And how could you let him do it?’
‘It wasn’t hard, we all have our dirty secrets we want to cover up. And he didn’t ask much.’
Edwina said, ‘What did he ask?’
‘A bit of money, an object he fancied, little favours.’
Edwina gave her a quick look: ‘ What sort of favours?’
Cassie laughed. ‘Oh, nothing like that. Nothing sexual. That wasn’t Luke’s scene at all. No, just help him get the invitations he wanted, that sort of thing. This job, for a start.’
‘Yes. It was you that recommended him,’ said Edwina thoughtfully. ‘So – well, you two have told me. Thanks. I’d rather not have known. Sorry I had to. But why?’
Not for the first time recently Cassie thought that Edwina’s mind was not working as sharply as usual. The baby again, no doubt, all the wrong, mind-deluding, comforting, protective hormones flooding in.
‘Murder, love. It brings a lot of things out. Alice and I think this might be one of them. The police will find out about Luke. Probably have done so already.’
Bill Crail has told her they know, decided Alice, whose mind was not dulled by motherhood; she knows.
Cassie confirmed this.
‘They will find out about us. We shall be under suspicion. They are bound to think that someone whom Luke was blackmailing killed him.’
‘And poor Pickles?’
‘She must have known who the killer was. He may have got the poison that killed Luke from her.’
Death in the Garden Page 16
