Death in the Garden

by Jennie Melville

  Edwina washed her face and tidied her hair.

  Over a simple meal of omelette and salad, they talked at first on general topics, books and music. Afterwards Edwina told Mrs Croft of the death of Luke Tory, who was a blackmailer, and might have been blackmailing Tim. She told how Luke Tory had wanted to see her, Edwina, just before he died which was perhaps why he had been killed. She did not say how she and her two friends had been suspected of poisoning him. But she did briefly mention how Miss Dover had died, and how one murderer was suspected of both deaths.

  Mrs Croft poured some wine and let Edwina tell her about her own particular problem: the man who harassed her. She shook her head. ‘All one. It has to be.’

  Then Edwina said, ‘ Who is she? This other person. I do want to know.’

  Mrs Croft got up. ‘I’ll make some coffee. You say – she – as to the sex of the person, I was never quite sure.’ She turned round. ‘There, I’ve said it now.’

  Edwina said, ‘I find that hard to take.’ Tears appeared in her eyes unbidden and rolled down her cheeks. ‘Damn it all, why did you have to say that?’

  Hesitantly, Tim’s mother said, ‘ I don’t know that Tim responded. About that I’m not sure. Somehow, I got the idea that the other person was – well – more of a kind of voyeur.’

  That night Edwina lay in bed in the green chintz bedroom which, in spite of what Mrs Croft had said, probably was Tim’s room since there appeared to be no other bedroom.

  She was thinking of the story so carefully handed over to her by Mrs Croft. She did not understand it all, it needed contemplation, but she had certainly found Tim. Not quite the Tim she had expected and hoped him to be, but one she had to admit she certainly found recognisable.

  But into the picture had moved another figure: nameless, faceless, sexless, but who might be her pursuer, and a double murderer.

  She turned her head into the pillow and tried to sleep. Tomorrow she would go home.

  After breakfast, Mrs Croft stood by the car as Edwina packed herself in. ‘ Tell you something,’ she said. ‘There is something I have remembered about the ambiguous person we discussed. There was a connection with either the stage or the Church, or perhaps both.

  That was the way to the prison-visiting.’ She gave Edwina a kiss with more than a hint of whisky. ‘Goodbye.’

  As she drove south, Edwina thought: Poor old Tim, he had a lot of the qualities that women are traditionally supposed to have, and I have a lot that belong to men, and I don’t know that we did either of us any good.

  As she drove home to whoever awaited her there, she reflected that out of Tim’s past she and Mrs Croft had created a double-headed monster. Like a child’s puzzle where there is a face with menace when you look at it one way, and love when you hold it another. It couldn’t be the way life was.

  No, it was all a question of vision: see it properly and the two faces would fuse together and she would recognise it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Miss Drury, having roused herself to issue her invitation to Edwina, settled back more comfortably to her convalescence, confident that Providence would bring Edwina to her. She was getting better fast, but still not talking much. She was oddly content; she had an idea the story was drawing to a close and that her friend would be avenged. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, into a dream where vengeance, although complete and perfect, was somehow not painful. The police would write it all down in a notebook, and then come and tell her. Lovely.

  The police too, although not asleep and most certainly not content, thought they could see their way to the end of it all. They were doing it the straight way: talking to witnesses, checking statements, placing people where they had been at the time of both deaths. Here the investigations of both police teams met. It was tricky work, a question of judgement and luck. But on the whole their mood was up.

  They visited Cassie again, Sergeant Crail being advisedly elsewhere, the task went to another CID sergeant who was both his friend and his enemy. To Sergeant Crosby, Cassie said:

  ‘Yes, we asked the Cardboard-Cut-Out players to send us two kings. And I had three other guests who, one way or another, counted as kings. Five kings in all, or so I thought, but only two dressed up. It was a joke. No, I don’t know precisely whom they sent. Just the two. You couldn’t see in that get up. Loose robes and so on. I paid the bill, that’s all.’

  The Cardboard-Cut-Out troupe were in a good mood: their patron and principal paymaster had handed over a good contribution to clear their debts. They were polite to Sergeant Crosby, and interested to see a new face and not Crail whom they had been educating in their encounters to their own system of being kind to actors. Bill Crail they liked, this chap they did not take to, so their replies to him were cautious, accurate and kind. But reserved.

  ‘Just the two of us. I went and Joly,’ said Hal Everett, the leader of the troupe, if such a democratic group had a leader. Joly gave a confirmatory nod.

  When he had gone, not entirely satisfied, Joly said nervously, ‘Do you think we should have said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’m sure I saw three kings: you, me and one other.’

  ‘An optical illusion.’

  ‘I can count,’ said Joly sulkily. ‘At one point; I swear.’

  ‘Think how much champagne you’d had. No, forget it.’

  Quarrelling cheerfully, because they were really feeling much happier now, they got down to discussing their next production. The Flood and Mrs Noah, for five actors and a donkey. Nina had agreed in her absence to play Mrs Noah, traditionally a part for a man but Nina was tall.

  Leaving them behind, the police enquiry passed on, Sergeant Crosby throwing out a high deck of questions with the one ace carefully hidden amongst them. Canon Linker was no help to him. ‘I left the wedding reception early; I had work to do. I returned in time to take my sister home. Didn’t notice all that much.’

  But Bee Linker smiled. ‘I can’t see, so you will be surprised that I can answer your question. Yes, I would say there were three different kings present at that wedding. I felt and smelt and heard three different people.’

  I wonder how that would stand up in court? the sergeant asked himself. But he was grateful to Bee. She’d be a sincere witness who believed in her own evidence.

  All the activity was low-key, nor was there much communication between the people in question. The Cardboard-Cut-Out Theatre troupe knew what they had been asked, and Bee Linker knew what she had said.

  She had uttered with deliberate, sad thought, ‘ Sometimes you have to betray even your nearest and dearest.’ As a theologian of repute, her nephew Canon Linker would bear her out in this. The temptation to have said nothing, and to cling on to the person who enabled her to have life and identity, still was strong, but had to be resisted.

  Miss Drury rested comfortably on her pillows, awaiting the return of Edwina. She was dreaming of a king’s hands. I will tell Edwina, she told herself, to look for a strong hand with square polished nails, she must watch out for that hand.

  None of this was known to Edwina as she telephoned around her group of friends to tell them she was back. It was their usual way when one or other had been away: you reported in. But they all knew the old closeness was gone. Edwina had started it, but the other two were naturally and simply drifting loose. Cassie was involved with Sergeant Bill Crail, while Alice … But it was not clear about Alice. Alice, as usual, was keeping her own counsel. She was probably still after Kit Langley. Kit Langley, in Cassie’s opinion, was hopelessly lost to Edwina. For all three, their cosy, private Garden was opening up and letting the aliens in.

  Kit Langley was not answering his telephone, but Edwina kept trying. His chambers said he was away on a case in York, but they expected him back. His clerk did not seem to recognise Edwina’s voice; she felt saddened, chilled. Perhaps Kit too was moving away. Just when she wanted him close.

  ‘Why are you telling me, Ginger?’ asked Edwina. She had got to the hos
pital at last; it was the day after her return, and she still had to see Dougie.

  It wasn’t one of Ginger’s better days, she seemed to be drifting in and out of sleep. Why not the police? was what Edwina meant, but she had lost Ginger by then and had to wait for her to surface again.

  She looked around as she waited, glad to sit, she was beginning to feel her weight. It was a pleasant, sunny hospital ward; and she would have no objection to being in one when her time came. She was beginning to think ahead about that appointment not to be broken. A natural childbirth? Or all the painkillers she was allowed? She was enough of a realist to expect she’d go for the latter.

  Ginger woke up. ‘Did I drop off?’

  ‘Only for a minute.’ It had been fifteen. ‘ Can you remember what you were saying?’

  Ginger looked thoughtful. ‘Hands. I was telling you. And you said: why me?’ She reached out and took Edwina’s wrist. ‘Because you are it. That’s what Pickles said: It’s Edwina who’s it.’

  ‘But what did she mean? Don’t go to sleep again, Ginger.’

  But Ginger already had: she had told Edwina to look out for hands with peculiar-shaped nails and by them she would know the murderer. Satisfied, her duty done, Ginger slept. ‘Tell the police tomorrow. You tell them.’

  ‘Tell them what?’

  ‘Tell them that it is you that is the victim; Pickles said so.’

  The gospel according to Pickles having been delivered, Ginger settled back.

  Then, before Edwina could go, she woke up again, looking surprised at herself for being asleep at all. Aren’t I funny? her look said. But think nothing of it. The old Ginger is back here with you.

  Edwina waited. I like the old duck, she thought.

  ‘Something else I meant to say,’ said Ginger. ‘Come back to me now. Think it might concern you.… I saw someone sitting in one of those photograph booths. You have to sit, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘To me he looked like the chap who was such a trouble to you. Nasty, I thought, now he’s getting his phiz taken, and what’s he going to do with that?’

  He sent it to me, thought Edwina.

  ‘So I told Pickles, and I think Pickles guessed who he was, and that was one reason she was killed. She was clever, my poor old Pickles. Not quite honest, but clever.’

  ‘Do you really think that was the reason?’

  ‘One of them. The other being I think he may have hated Pickles. You could hate her. Even I did sometimes, and I loved her.’

  Her eyes closed, but she managed to say loudly, ‘Darling, don’t forget the hands.’

  Edwina gave her a kiss on her smooth innocent cheek. ‘You big baby,’ she said, ‘ leaving it all to me.’ But what rubbish it was. Hands indeed. Was she to look at hands and teeth now?

  Dougie was not in the gallery when she got there, leaving Alison, their fragile assistant, in charge, but he had left a note of explanation on her desk.

  Have gone to an EGP. [This stood for an Extremely Grand Party in Dougie’s parlance and meant the presence of either a megastar or HM herself.] Vital to go, expect to do business. Look on my desk for a letter from Kit; he wanted to be sure you got it. Also, note the other object?

  Edwina went across to Dougie’s desk, orderly and clean as usual. On it rested a long, thin object wrapped in brown paper with another note from Dougie attached.

  I bought this from a weird old biddy in a red hat: she said you’d asked for it. When I say ‘paid’ no money passed hands, but she’s coming to your next private view. I think you’ve got her for life.

  I think so, too, decided Edwina, as she unwrapped Tim’s umbrella. Nor did she mind; predestined, a thing that had to happen. As with the child. She quite looked forward to a future of knowing Mignon Waters.

  The letter from Kit was short, but somehow commanding. An end to nonsense, he was saying, let’s wind this up.

  Darling Edwina, I love you. Quite seriously, and what used to be called honourably, words which, I suppose, people don’t use now, but you know what I mean.

  You need this year to yourself, I see that, but at the end of this time.…?

  There were more sentences, but Edwina put her hand over them as if they were bright, and must be protected. She wouldn’t forget them because Kit’s sincerity burnt the page. There was a legal sound to one or two of his phrases. Edwina laughed as she put the letter back in the envelope. The old thing would probably end up on the Woolsack. Life with Kit could be good, but she’d have to see; she might prefer to go it alone. But he was right, he deserved an answer. He certainly sounded as if he meant to have one. He always did. Perhaps that was what worried her about Kit: his force. Or whatever it was, something strong certainly – I want to love and trust you, Kit, she said, but I did that once with Tim, and it was dangerous. You could be dangerous, too. You knew Tim; he was your friend; you lived together. Perhaps like called to like.

  There was one other note from Dougie. It said:

  The typing bureau could not complete the catalogue, Actresses in Paint: 1900–1984, so Janine offered. She will bring it round tonight when finished.

  ‘Damn,’ was Edwina’s reaction. She had intended to finish her work on the catalogue raisonnée that night.

  She worked on in the gallery as late as she could, sending Alison across to Tuttons to bring her pâté and salad before letting her go home. She drank a glass of white wine as she worked, and while she worked she thought.

  One of her fantasies – that Tim was still alive – had ebbed away, disappeared like a nightmare in daylight.

  The way Tim’s umbrella had turned up in Deptford was disturbing. Kit’s story was that he had lost it. He also said he had given all Tim’s clothes to the Salvation Army.

  She believed it, but it suddenly struck her that she could have proof. She could ask Janine.

  Somewhere she must have the telephone number, but it was not to be found. But Bee Linker must know, and the telephone was always answered in the Linker household.

  ‘Jim Linker here.’ He listened to her request. ‘Of course. I don’t know it myself but I’ll ask Bee.’ Presently he came back with the number. ‘How are you, Edwina?’ His voice sounded deep and quiet.

  It was strange how the telephone emphasised certain qualities in people’s voices. Because he was celibate she had not thought of Jim Linker in terms of a man, but he was very much one, she now realised from his voice.

  ‘I’m fine, feeling really well.’ She said hastily, embarrassed by her own thoughts, ‘I’m just going to ring Janine.’

  She could hear Janine’s telephone ring out; she had never been there but Dougie had and he reported it as a snug little outfit over a shop and Janine living above that, all cosy.

  It always took time for her telephone to be answered, as if she had to come running downstairs. She answered at last, not breathless, just quiet.

  ‘Janine? Edwina here. I need to talk to you. Come to my flat, will you? Not the gallery. I’ve nearly finished here, then I’ll go home.’ When Janine hesitated, Edwina said, ‘I’ll come to you, if you prefer. Oyster Row, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oystead,’ Janine corrected. ‘But no, I’ll be over. It would be better. I was planning to, anyway, as you know. But what is it you want?’

  Edwina let the receiver rest in her hand. Why can’t I ask a straight question, here and now?

  Because I am frightened of what I might hear.

  ‘Do you want to talk now?’ Janine sounded concerned, anxious, as if somehow she knew what Edwina wanted and was not surprised.

  Perhaps she does, judged Edwina, perhaps everyone knows all the questions and some of the answers too. Cassie, Alice, Kit, not forgetting Sergeant Bill Crail, all with their bits of answers.

  To Janine, she said, ‘Let’s talk when you come. I’d rather.’

  For after all, it’s such a silly-sounding question. I shall have to work up to it. ‘Did Canon Linker give you any clothes belonging to Tim from Kit to give to the Salvation Army?’<
br />
  And if he did not, was it Kit who was lying? Just tossing off an easy answer to keep her quiet?

  She did a little more work, then tidied her desk before leaving. A tidy desk, a peaceful mind, she told herself. Yes, nanny, good little Edwina.

  As she was turning to go, the telephone rang on her desk; she was nervous about answering. Life had been quiet lately but she sensed it would not stay that way. For the moment she was to be left alone, but not for ever.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Bee Linker here. Jim is coming round.’

  ‘Bee – I won’t be here; I’m just going home.’

  ‘He’s coming,’ repeated Bee, as if she had not heard, as if she was saying: I didn’t say you wanted him, I said he was coming. ‘Oh, Edwina, I’ve suspected for such a long time.… Look after yourself, Edwina.’

  Then the telephone went dead. Telephoning was not one of Bee’s skills, it was an effort for her to do it. Her fingers remembered certain places on the dial but she did not always find them. It had taken her some minutes to reach Edwina.

  Edwina hurried home, debating what Bee had meant. It had alarmed her considerably. There were still people about, the curtain had just come down at the Opera House and the audience was beginning to trickle out. As always at this time of the night, in this place, there was a happy atmosphere as of a party near at hand. No sense of anyone following troubled Edwina.

  She was almost at the top of the long flight of stone steps to her flat when she heard footsteps below. A few more steps, and she had her front door open.

  She stopped, turned to listen. Something about the sound of the moving feet was familiar.

  ‘Kit?’ No answer, but the feet stopped for a minute, and then came

  on, more slowly.

  Edwina went down a few steps and called again. ‘ Canon Linker,

  is it you?’

  Jim Linker turned the corner of the stairs. ‘Edwina – I’ve been