‘Oh they will!’ Lady Fawcett exclaimed eagerly. ‘They are being specially ordered from Felix Smythe.’
‘Ye gods,’ croaked her aunt, ‘bound to be a queer bunch!’
As they prepared to leave with promises to return on the Monday, the patient wafted an imperious hand in the direction of Rosy. ‘I appreciate your silence, Miss Gilchrist, far too much noise from my own family. Good of you to visit a helpless old lady, especially in view of your own troubles.’
Rosy smiled awkwardly and made the appropriate responses. And then, just as they were trooping to the door, the helpless one said, ‘Oh, and by the way, if anyone is really interested – he had a wooden leg.’
‘Who did?’ Edward asked.
‘My attacker, of course.’
Lady Fawcett raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘What is she talking about? It must be the pills, they’ve obviously given her too many.’ With a sigh she turned into the corridor followed by Rosy suddenly numbed to the bone.
‘Had a wooden bloody leg?’ she had asked herself incredulously as she followed the Fawcetts to the hospital exit. ‘Surely not!’ A coincidence? A figment? An awful truth? Whatever the answer, rather as Lady Fawcett earlier, Rosy needed rest and a stiff drink.
With that in mind she had been about to detach herself from her companions and make off swiftly back to Baker Street, when Amy cried, ‘Oh gosh, Mummy, you can’t visit on Monday. Don’t you remember? You’ve got to go and open the Gills’ bric-a-brac bazaar. You promised you would and they’ll be awfully miffed if you don’t turn up.’
‘So will the Pygmies,’ sniggered Edward. ‘All proceeds go to the Fund.’
Lady Fawcett regarded them helplessly, evidently weighing up the lesser of two evils and coming to no firm conclusion.
‘And what’s more,’ continued Amy, ‘I am afraid Edward and I can’t possibly visit as we’ve got to get to Newbury. Big Bertha is running and—’
‘Newbury races are on a Saturday,’ her mother said firmly.
‘But not this year. They’ve had to change the schedule to fit in with the Queen’s …’ Her voice trailed off as all three turned to look at Rosy.
‘My dear,’ murmured Lady Fawcett sweetly, ‘I don’t suppose by any chance you would be free to visit Auntie on our behalf? I mean, I know you are working and all that sort of thing, but perhaps in the afternoon you could just manage to slip in? It would be so helpful, you’ve no idea!’
Rosy had every idea and normally she would have invented an instant excuse. But prompted by some visceral urge to learn more of Auntie’s revelation re the leg, she heard herself saying, ‘Yes, of course, no difficulty at all.’
They were visibly relieved. And with that settled Rosy took herself off to the calm of her flat. Here she poured the needed drink but also went to her desk to find the Paris telephone number Whittington had given her. She stared down at it, wondering.
Should she really try to make contact? But if so to what end? To report that she had some news of the document he had been seeking – to confirm that it was still in England and possibly at the St John’s Wood house? … Or to check that he was in France and not currently in London pushing old ladies down steps?’
In the event, mellowed by the whisky and feeling hungry, she decided against such action. So much pleasanter to just kick off her shoes, fill her glass and contemplate supper. She lit a cigarette and turned on the radio for the six o’clock news; and thus comfortably cocooned decided to shelve such troubling matters till the morning. Or the one after.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Well of course I had to tell her!’ protested Felix to Cedric when the latter returned from his annual Cambridge visit. ‘In the circumstances there wasn’t much choice. Vera was banging on in her usual way and the girl heard everything. How was I to know she would be there lurking in the shop? Vera took off smartish and I was left to field the questions. At first I tried to skirt round the matter but when I realised she wasn’t going to be fobbed off, I thought: “Oh well, what the hell, why shouldn’t Rosy Gilchrist hear the full story? After all, it was her aunt who was the traitor, so see what she makes of this, then!”’ He broke off to run his fingers through his hair and scowl at the cat. ‘She is hardly likely to go to the police.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Cedric asked. ‘I can’t help thinking you may have placed us in a highly precarious position. We have no guarantee of her silence … in fact, I really feel quite uneasy.’ He shot a suspicious glance around the sitting room as if half expecting to see size twelve boots protruding from beneath the curtains or the gleam of handcuffs caught in a shaft of lamplight.
‘No,’ replied Felix, ‘I am not sure, but I would bet ten to one that she won’t. Rosy Gilchrist may be strait-laced and not overendowed with high spirits but it is precisely that upright sobriety that will keep the lady quiet.’
‘Really? What do you mean?’ Cedric cast a speculative eye over the chocolate truffles at his elbow, selected one and as an afterthought slid the box in Felix’s direction.
The latter gave it a cursory appraisal but postponed the pleasure. ‘Look at it from her point of view,’ he continued. ‘Highly respected parents admired for their sterling war work and bastion of all that is fine and British, tragically blown to pieces in the Blitz; herself at twenty helping the boys down in Dover to keep the Hun at bay; RAF beau with medals to his name shot down just before Dresden … And now, in these quieter days, here she is leading an unimpeachable life being worthy in the British Museum. Do you imagine for one moment she would want the world to know about the crazy aunt ditching her wartime colleagues and then latterly resorting to a brisk bit of blackmail? No fear! Frankly, if I were Rosy Gilchrist I would keep very quiet indeed. Very quiet.’ He selected two of the proffered chocolates, put one aside and popped the other into his mouth.
Cedric smiled. ‘What empathy you have, my dear Felix – must come from all that aesthetic sensitivity Her Majesty so admires.’ He smiled again and then added softly, ‘But life teaches one that people do not always run true to type, that sometimes the most predictable patterns of behaviour suddenly abort or become twisted. I learnt that a long time ago in the war. It doesn’t do to assume too much. After your somewhat rash revelations to the Gilchrist girl I think it might be politic to invite her here for a friendly drink – get the lie of the land as it were, i.e. assess her discretion and if necessary gently remind her of the discomfort of her own position should anything get out about Marcia and “old times”. Yes, I think we need a word with the lady. The last thing we want is for her to go marching off to the police in the grip of moral dudgeon and civic duty. Wouldn’t do at all.’
Felix heaved a sigh and nodded. ‘Perhaps, perhaps; it seems unlikely, but you could be right …’ He stared morosely at Cedric’s smart new coal scuttle in the grate. ‘What on earth possessed us to do it? If only one had realised …’
‘More to the point, what possessed her murderer? Had it been Thistlehyde the answer would be obvious: pique and petulance. He never forgave her for being scathing about him in the Tatler.’
‘Really? When was that? … Oh, of course – yes, I remember. You mean when she said that for one who had learnt to paint by numbers he had a moderately promising future.’ Felix tittered. ‘That went deep all right, cut him to the quick. Goodness, what was it about Marcia? She had such a knack for riling people!’
‘A temptation few of us can resist,’ murmured Cedric, ‘but it did for her in the end. Vera’s right: she went too far, overplayed her hand as usual. Yes, the more I think about it the more I’m certain our original assumption was correct: the murderer was one of her blackmail victims peeved by her importunate demands.’
‘Yes but who? And in any case, why should he choose to use my coal scuttle to crown his handiwork? Mere chance I had happened to dump the thing in the hall. I mean, if his mission had been to silence the lady and get her off his back I cannot imagine why he would want to footle around with artistic embellishm
ents.’
‘Perhaps he was early for a subsequent engagement and was looking for something to fill the time. You know how it is.’ Cedric stretched an arm to retrieve the truffles and examined them thoughtfully. ‘But as to identity, I take it that is precisely what the police are pondering at this very minute – assuming that they even know about the blackmail business; we may be in advance of them there – I am not convinced of that inspector’s acumen. But it is certainly what Vera is pondering. She’s hunting that confounded paper of Marcia’s like a slavering bloodhound. Keeps muttering about the “bastard bombers” and that she’ll root them out if it kills her.’
‘Hmm. Rather a rash statement in the current climate, I should think! Besides, they didn’t actually do any bombing. Mercifully the whole plot collapsed.’
‘Ah, but it’s the thought that counts; and if the authorities ever do get wind of what they were up to they’ll probably swing, or at very best be banged up in Pentonville for the rest of their days. Hence dear Marcia’s disposal.’
‘Vera’s a fool,’ said Felix. ‘Given the situation, playing detective is the last thing she should be doing; courting trouble. It’s dangerous enough with the police – if they learn that her brother was a casualty of Marcia’s wartime outrage they’ll be on to her like a ferret with a rabbit. Unlike us she may not have played silly beggars with a coal bucket, but in their eyes she would still have a strong motive. Speaking as one similarly placed, I should think she has quite enough to worry about without gratuitously inviting the same fate as Marcia!’
‘Ah, but then I suspect she is being egged on by Sabatier.’
‘Who?’
‘Sabatier, her wartime boss. The only man she ever really respected. It was quite a pash one gathers, though I can’t think why.’ Cedric sniffed dismissively. ‘From what I remember he looks like a taller version of Goebbels and with the same limp. Not one’s type at all! But it’s not the physique so much as the mentality. In those days he had the reputation as a brilliant operator, but it’s a brilliance that has lost its sparkle and been replaced by obsession. There are certain people who can never get the war out of their system and he is one such. Rumour has it there is some family grudge he’s engrossed with, though I don’t know what – something to do with the names on this document presumably. Vera would know I suppose …’
‘So you think it was from him that she heard this tale of the plot and Marcia’s blackmailing?’
‘More than likely. According to the grapevine he lives in France these days but periodically comes over here on business, i.e. to trail his enemies, and then slips back to France again. Very discreet, very elusive – a bit like a shuffling Scarlet Pimpernel, you might say.’
‘Well, just as long as he doesn’t shuffle in our direction I don’t care,’ Felix said sharply. ‘Personally I am finding this whole business more than vexing. If wretched Marcia had behaved herself in the war none of this would have happened and our lives could be cool and unencumbered just as they used to be. As it is, I have a heart attack every time I see a policeman; and now that the press has sniffed out the “mysterious” lump of coal found in the victim’s wardrobe with its “tantalising” message I can’t even read a newspaper without feeling sick.’ He picked up a truffle and discarded it impatiently. ‘You might have bought a mixed selection; you know I prefer the white chocolate!’
‘I think,’ said Cedric soothingly, ‘it is time for a couple of very dry Martinis. What shall it be – a Gibson or the usual?’
Felix considered and opted for the usual.
‘Excellent. And then you can tell me all about your having to deliver flowers to Adelaide Fawcett in the London Clinic.’
Felix brightened. ‘Indeed I will. She fell down her steps, you know. So careless. Claims she was pushed.’
Cedric gave a deft swirl of the cocktail wand. ‘Hmm. Nice to think so …’ He beamed. ‘Now, try that for size!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Despite her earlier resolve to shelve making contact with Whittington, Rosy gradually found her reluctance being replaced by a truculent curiosity. Suddenly she was eager to confront the man: to assess and probe, to question, even needle perhaps. In short, to get his measure. Up until that moment images of his fixed gaze, languid calm and silky tone had unsettled her; and the thought of further contact, however slight, had been distasteful. But moods change; and as she swept back the curtains and stared down at the already busy street, fears of the unknown and unwanted evaporated.
She made coffee, and then with the fragment of Marcia’s letter at the ready, picked up the telephone and asked the operator to put her through to Paris. She lit a cigarette and waited as casually as if she were summoning the plumber …
‘You are through now, caller,’ the operator announced.
Rosy braced herself for the response. It was a man’s voice: ‘Oui?’
‘I am calling from London,’ she began in English, ‘and I should like to speak to—’ She had been about to say ‘to Monsieur Whittington’ but hesitated, remembering that the name, of course, had been an alias. But just as she paused, the man said curtly, ‘Il n’y a personne ici.’
‘But—’
‘Il n’y a personne,’ the voice repeated, and the line went dead.
‘Well, really,’ Rosy muttered, ‘of all the cheek!’ Having grasped the French bull by the horns she now had a distinct sense of anticlimax, and defiantly she tried the number again.
There was an incessant ringing tone eventually interrupted by the operator announcing, ‘I am sorry, caller, there is no reply from that number.’
Huh, Rosy thought, so much for all that blague about emergencies and ‘vital to contact immediately.’ She gazed down at the scrap of paper he had been so insistent in giving her. All hooey! Indignantly she ground out her cigarette, burnt her finger and winced.
But annoyance was swamped by sudden relief, for in a way the failed contact was oddly reassuring: the instruction was shown to be flawed, false even; and without such a bridge the man’s reality seemed more blurred, his warnings less urgent. A clear reply – his own or a colleague’s – would have renewed the link and confirmed his validity. As it was, her attempt to communicate had yielded nothing. Perhaps they (whoever they were) were all out at the Folies-Bèrgere, hatching plots and eating snails. Typical!
Yet relief was overlaid by the nagging voice of Adelaide Fawcett and her extraordinary allegation of a wooden-legged attacker. If Whittington was not available in France, as the taciturn telephone response had seemed to imply, it was indeed just conceivable that he might be back in London; but if so, for what purpose – the annihilation of tiresome old ladies? Ridiculous! Besides, Whittington could hardly be the only man in London with a prosthetic leg … Well, perhaps she would learn something from the soi-disant victim later that day.
Meanwhile other matters took precedence. These were her duties at the museum organising Stanley’s monthly lecture: collating his papers and sifting the lantern slides, but, above all, mollifying those of his academic colleagues whose toes and egos he had crushed earlier in the week. If she could soft-soap them sufficiently the event would be mildly pleasurable. If not, a session of mayhem and acrimony was in store. She gulped another coffee, and grabbing coat and briefcase set out with misgivings for Great Russell Street.
Her fears were groundless for all went well: Stanley’s oratory had been as forceful as ever, his notes impeccably ordered, the acid asides and witticisms received with spontaneous mirth and his peers docile in their observations. (Perhaps, she surmised, they were keeping their powder dry for the Spring Symposium, an event not known for its benevolence.) Yes, remarkably the afternoon had passed without incident – fortunate for the harassed assistant, though possibly a matter of regret for the speaker himself.
However, a further challenge loomed: Auntie languishing in the London Clinic. Encircled by the Fawcett triumvirate Rosy had been powerless to resist the earnest plea to visit their ailing relative, and initial
ly had felt uneasy at the prospect. But with Stanley’s lecture safely delivered and still unsettled by the old woman’s words, she was eager to face the patient and hear more. Thus, leaving the museum she hurried off to Harley Street, and was just about to enter the clinic’s portals when she nearly collided with Felix Smythe.
‘My dear,’ he exclaimed, ‘what a coincidence – though I trust your destination is not from where I’ve just come. Too wearing for words! Those superb lilies! And she actually had the gall to complain that three were fading – and after all the trouble I had taken to select the very best. Wilful, that’s what. If you ask my opinion, except for a few hedgerow weeds she doesn’t deserve a thing.’ He sniffed angrily, and Rosy rather guessed the name of the recipient.
‘Was it Adelaide Fawcett?’ she enquired.
‘Who else?’ was the grim reply. ‘Angela rang in an awful state saying the aunt had taken a header and would I deliver a large bouquet of Regale lilies as soon as possible. Naturally one was only too happy to oblige, and you can be sure it certainly was large – and exquisite.’ (And expensive, too, no doubt, thought Rosy.) ‘But was she grateful? Not a jot; all she could do was cavil. And I had been so ready to be utterly charming!’ He pouted.
‘Ah, but it’s the overall effect and the glorious scent that matters,’ Rosy said soothingly, ‘and I am sure as she gazes at them from fevered pillows delight will flood upon her.’
‘You mean you think she might drown in rapture?’ Felix asked hopefully. ‘Now that would be encouraging.’
Rosy smiled and was about to go, when he suddenly said, ‘Oh, by the way, glad to have met you, saves a phone call. Cedric was wondering – well both of us, actually – if you would care to drop in for a drink one evening, Sunday ideally. There are, er, one or two things to discuss. You may remember our little talk the other day …’ He looked slightly uncomfortable, and Rosy politely assured him she could manage it.
A Little Murder Page 16
