‘Well, if you remember, she had accused Maynard of being a “naughty boy” – something to do with that invalid wife, I think – but later she sidled up to Harold when no one else was near, and said: “Nice of Angela to give Latimer this party, don’t you think? Birthday boy, naughty boy!” She sounded highly amused. And then when Harold made some jocular response, she tugged at those tasteless diamonds she always wears and added: “But of course, he’s not nearly as naughty as Brigadier Harold Gill, OBE, is he? Not by a long chalk, he isn’t – you and your blonde bombshells!” She actually had the nerve to tweak his tie! Then after one of those grating cackles she hobbled off to plague someone else. It wasn’t very pretty.’ Mrs Gill looked pained.
And Rosy was perplexed. The old lady’s comment to Harold seemed relatively innocuous – vulgar, perhaps, but hardly dangerous.
There was a pause while Mrs Gill took a contemplative sip of sherry. ‘Frankly, I was rather annoyed, assuming it to be a crude allusion to Harold’s distasteful proclivities.’ She sniffed and pursed her lips in a manner which suddenly made Rosy want to giggle, but she stifled the urge and looked suitably sober-faced. ‘However,’ the other continued, ‘when I was thinking about it later that evening I remembered the curious way she had enunciated the word “bombshells”: she gave it a slow lingering emphasis as if savouring the term … And do you know, my dear,’ Mrs Gill leant forward confidingly, ‘I had this sudden stab of sheer horror. Oh my God, I thought, she knows!’
So vivid was her re-enactment of the horror, that Rosy felt an involuntary flash of sympathy. One had known such moments … ‘But how?’ she asked in awe.
The other shrugged. ‘People like Adelaide Fawcett make it their business to know everything, and what they don’t know they invent. She thrives on human frailty: gossip, innuendo, scandal, whispered confidences. You wouldn’t remember, perhaps, but before the war she was a notable political hostess, on a level with Margot Asquith, and a formidable source of all types of social intelligence. She snapped up secrets and tittle-tattle like others collect bric-a-brac. People of any eminence would flock to her soirées: the grand and bland, the great and the good (and the far from good), the old guard and the Johnny-come-latelies – they were all there; but above all the nation’s insiders, those with power and a tale to tell if they chose. Yes, Adelaide learnt a lot from horses’ mouths, and what she wasn’t told directly she absorbed or guessed. Such social acuity is a talent and she had it. And now in old age, with that accumulated “wisdom” and her ear still clamped to the ground, she palliates her boredom by making people uncomfortable.’
A note of disapproval had entered Mrs Gill’s voice, and again Rosy saw a slight pursing of the mouth. Whether she included her husband’s bomb plot in the category of human frailty was not clear (though perhaps she ranked his ‘proclivities’ a greater affront); but either way, the object of her censure had certainly succeeded in spreading discomfort all right! Diffidently Rosy observed, ‘But none of that is actual proof, is it? I mean, you could only surmise that she knew.’ And feeling emboldened she added, ‘After all, it does seem rather a lot to have inferred from an emphasis.’
Mrs Gill looked at her blankly and then with a slight frown exclaimed, ‘But in our situation one could hardly afford to take risks. Surely you realise that. That push, ineffectual though it proved, was what Harold likes to call a “belt and braces job”. And besides,’ she added tartly, ‘it just goes to show how carefully people should watch their words, especially Adelaide.’
Dear God, thought Rosy, if ever I get out of this alive I’ll never open my mouth again!
The prospect of not getting out alive had begun to trouble her more than a little, and she cast furtive looks around the room seeking means of exit. Other than hurling herself from the balcony there seemed none. The key to the locked door still nestled securely in Mrs Gill’s pocket, and the pistol now resting casually on her lap would surely forestall any lunge to grab it.
A random thought struck her, and playing for time she said, ‘But if it was you who pushed Adelaide, what about Sabatier? In the hospital she kept saying she had been attacked by a man with a wooden leg …’
‘Typical,’ Mrs Gill sniffed. ‘Adelaide Fawcett would say anything if she thought it would put her in the limelight or make a good story. She obviously thought such an absurd detail would embellish the tale. I’ve told you, a very mischievous woman and not to be trusted!’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Rosy agreed faintly, eying the gun on the pale tweed lap.
And then to distract herself as much as her captor, she asked, ‘But regarding Marcia, why on earth did your husband bother with the coal bucket? After all, he had already killed her so why waste time with something like that?’
‘Oh that wasn’t Harold, that was me. You see, I arrived home from Maidstone about ten minutes after it had happened and found him in the study pacing about and throwing down whisky. It worried me that he may have left things in a mess or overlooked some vital detail – you know how careless men can be. So I packed him off back to his club via our rear entrance, and then slipped next door to check that all was well … and it was then that I saw it.’
‘The coal scuttle?’
‘Yes. It was there by the hallstand, which struck me as rather odd as I knew Marcia didn’t have any fires – all oil. But I was hardly there to debate her heating arrangements, and it suddenly looked most enticing. So I seized the thing, took it back to the drawing room and rammed it on her head …’ A faraway look came into Mrs Gill’s eyes, and she said, ‘You may not understand, but doing that gave me immense satisfaction. In fact, I am not sure that it wasn’t the best thing I have done in my entire life. I can think of only one improvement … to have rammed it on Harold’s.’
A door slammed downstairs and there was a sound of jaunty whistling. ‘Ah, that must be him now,’ Mrs Gill murmured, rising to unlock the door. ‘Late, as usual; been with one of those frightful women, I daresay.’ She sniffed disdainfully, before adding, ‘Although it’s not that he gets carried away – it is simply that it takes him so long these days.’
Rosy was startled by the information, but given the circumstances was less concerned with Harold Gill’s problems than with her own. She continued to contemplate the pistol while listening to Harold’s heavy (and possibly weary) tread as he mounted the stairs.
He entered the room still clad in overcoat, and bearing a bunch of flowers which clearly afforded little pleasure to his spouse. ‘Oh, do ring the changes,’ she exclaimed irritably. ‘Always carnations – so predictable!’
He seemed about to protest, but seeing Rosy said, ‘Oh, Miss Gilchrist, I didn’t realise you might still be here, I—’
‘Where did you think I might be,’ Rosy retorted, ‘six feet under?’
His gaze fell on the gun and he raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Gill, ‘I fear we were careless – left the documents lying around. Rosy saw the thing and wanted it back. Naturally I had to explain that that was out of the question …’ she paused ‘… and then of course I also had to explain a number of other things. A pity, really.’
He nodded. ‘Hmm – we can’t have that I’m afraid; not at all.’ Together they regarded her with a look of thoughtful regret.
It was a look which seemed to signal Rosy’s fate and she was filled with overwhelming dread, earlier truculence shed in an instant. Up till then, though fearful, she had felt she could somehow handle matters: that by keeping calm and her wits about her she could devise a way of dealing with the older woman. But with the return of Harold and seeing the pair gazing at her with such quiet assurance it was clear that escape was impossible. She thought of Marcia, of Clovis, of Sabatier … There wasn’t a chance in hell: like the others, she knew too much.
Her thoughts were echoed by Mr Gill. ‘You see, my dear, I am afraid you know too much. We really can’t take the risk. You are a bright girl – brighter than your aunt, really – so you must understand th
at.’ He paused. ‘You do understand, don’t you?’
‘Of course she does!’ exclaimed Mrs Gill impatiently. ‘You hardly need to press the point, Harold.’ And turning to Rosy she said, ‘It is really most unfortunate – we rather liked you; but I fear that’s the way of things. It happens too much in life: being in the wrong place at the wrong time – like that interfering Sabatier, for instance. He had been on our trail for some while. We saw him snooping around in Marcia’s tradesmen’s passage – it’s overlooked by our landing windows – but his investigations backfired, led us straight to what we wanted, in fact. He had the thing in his hand when he came out of her kitchen. Harold had sneaked down and was there waiting for him.’
However, by that time her words were irrelevant to Rosy. ‘So which way am I going to go?’ she asked listlessly.
‘Oh, don’t worry, my dear,’ was the bolstering reply, ‘it will be quite quick. Harold can be very deft when he tries. You won’t feel a thing.’
‘And then what? Plonked in a deckchair at Bexhill – or Brighton, perhaps?’
‘Brighton? Oh hardly! There’s a nice bench just outside the Grand Hotel at Eastbourne, much more suitable.’ Mrs Gill began to smile, and then stopped and looked genuinely contrite. ‘Oh dear, it’s hardly a laughing matter. Unpardonable of me. I am so sorry!’
Rosy closed her eyes. Death was bad enough, but to be killed on a wave of facetiousness was the last straw … She glanced at Gill. He had taken out his pipe and was in the act of lighting it, but the gesture held no homely comfort, for the eyes that met hers were hard and expressionless. It could not be much longer, and she wondered again how it would happen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
As Rosy spoke with her captors and pondered her last moments much discussion had also been going on in Felix’s flat.
‘I bumped into Rosy Gilchrist at the museum this morning,’ announced Vera. ‘She seemed pretty cut up about the Sabatier disappearance – as well she might. To have found a corpse, let alone his, and then to hear it had turned up naked in Bexhill cannot have been particularly jolly. I began to feel somewhat sorry for her.’
‘Doubtless you fought down the impulse,’ remarked Cedric.
She glared at him. ‘Sometimes, Cedric, your observations are so ill timed! I am extremely shaken by his fate myself, as well you know. And if Miss Gilchrist is even mildly disturbed, then I for one can understand her feelings.’ She lit a cheroot and expelled the smoke with a violent swirl.
Felix began to cough. ‘Huh,’ he spluttered, ‘she’s not the only one that’s disturbed. The whole thing is awful! One’s great fear is that she will go to the police – nerve bound to crack sooner or later.’
‘I’m not so sure. Not my type, of course, far too pleased with herself, but I think she has a certain fibre – not likely to buckle under strain.’
‘Unlike your young friend Deirdre,’ Cedric observed softly.
Vera scowled but said nothing.
‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘Felix is right. One cannot take anything for granted and that includes Rosy Gilchrist’s nerve. What is she doing now?’
Vera shrugged. ‘Probably gassing with the Gills. I bumped into the wife yesterday who said something about wanting her to go to tea this afternoon. They are moving, apparently; said she had some vase or other for Rosy.’
Cedric leant forward in his chair suddenly alert. ‘She’s there now?’
‘Quite possibly, I daresay.’
‘I am not entirely sure that is a good thing. Is there anyone else there – cronies or anybody?’
‘How should I know? No one else was mentioned. Does it matter?’
Cedric was silent, frowning. And then he said slowly, ‘It probably doesn’t matter one jot. On the other hand it just might.’
‘Why?’ they demanded.
‘An idea has been in my head for some time, but I didn’t mention it as there’s no proof, just “a gut feeling”, as the Americans would say.’ He cleared his throat and looked stern. ‘Has it occurred to you that in all this business there has been a common factor?’
‘What factor?’ Vera asked.
‘The Gills. Marcia lived next door to them and had known Harold Gill in the war. Being neighbours they probably had the key. We assume that Clovis may have seen something or someone when he was with Marcia on the afternoon she was killed – her steps and veranda overlook the Gills’ garden. You may recall that Marcia’s house is on the corner and, other than the Gills’ place, has nothing next to it. Very little time elapsed between Clovis’s departure and the shooting. Thus somebody must have entered the house between his going and the char’s coming. Such entry could be quickly and discreetly managed by an alert close neighbour, but less so by a stranger. I mean, where would one loiter – crouched behind a pillar box?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Felix said doubtfully, ‘it all sounds a bit far—’
‘Ssh! Just listen and think about Sabatier’s murder as well … It happened in the passage that runs between the two houses. Somebody must have seen him enter Marcia’s kitchen and had the time and opportunity to mop up and dispose of the body after the deed was done – and after you and Rosy had hared off down the road. Which rather suggests the killer had seen Rosy discovering the dying Sabatier. That little alley is on Marcia’s property but can be seen from the Gills’ upper windows. It cannot be seen from the road unless you go down the private side steps. It is, to quote some poet or other, a fine and private place.’ Cedric paused and cleared his throat, before adding, ‘You will also note that two of the murders occurred merely yards from the Gills’ house and that two of them involved people they knew. Interesting, really.’
‘Yes,’ Felix said impatiently, ‘it is what one calls coincidence. Anyway, what about their alibi? The inspector let drop that they were elsewhere for Marcia’s murder, or, at least, Gill was. In fact I rather gather from the grapevine that neither was at home at the crucial time.’
Vera was less sceptical. ‘Hmm. Personally I wouldn’t set much store by that inspector’s researches! And, in any case, alibis aren’t everything; they only need a bit of nous to concoct.’
‘Or, indeed, to break,’ replied Cedric, ‘but from what I’ve seen of this investigation the nous seems a trifle lacking.’
‘Well, I really cannot see the ghastly Gills being the type to engage in treasonable plots, let alone savage murders. Utterly absurd!’ Felix exclaimed.
‘If people ran true to type life would be considerably simpler,’ Cedric retorted. ‘Besides, this is not the moment to debate the matter: three killings have already occurred, and of people either in our circle or known to us. Another could happen at any time. It would be unfortunate if the next victim were to be Marcia’s niece. We should feel uncomfortable. I think some intervention is called for.’
‘Oh really, Cedric,’ Felix protested, ‘I am sure the two ladies are calmly carding wool and discussing what to wear for the Boat Race or some jolly event. And in any case, what can one possibly do? If we go to the police they won’t believe a single word, and it will take so long to explain that the deed could be done by the time they’ve shut their notebooks! Besides, as we’ve said before, one is hardly in a position to voice such suspicions, far too compromising … No, all very fertile, your theories, but hardly convincing. I am sure Rosy Gilchrist is perfectly all right – that sort generally is.’
‘What, like Sabatier?’ asked Cedric.
‘Easy enough to find out,’ Vera remarked casually, ‘and we shan’t need to get involved at all. The police will act promptly and we can keep our distance.’
‘Oh? How?’
‘White slavery.’
‘What?’ The two men gaped at her.
‘We will make an anonymous call to the police and say we have every reason to believe that the Gills are engaged in buying and selling young women for gross profit and base purpose, and that to our certain knowledge one such unfortunate is being restrained in their house at this very minute.
’
There was a heavy silence as her proposal was digested.
‘Well I can tell you one thing, Vera Collinger,’ Felix cried, ‘you are certainly not using my telephone. They’ll trace the call immediately!’
Cedric sighed. ‘I think we can assume that Vera has a public telephone in mind, not yours.’
‘Naturally,’ she said. ‘Now somebody – not Felix – must go immediately to the box on the corner and report our suspicions. Of course one won’t be believed; they’ll assume the caller is a harmless crank, but they will still have to act on the information – daren’t do otherwise. If by chance our fears are founded and the Gilchrist girl really is in danger, then the sudden appearance of a couple of constables should do the trick. Naturally if all is normal then it will simply place the Gills in an embarrassing position with no harm done – not to us anyway.’
Before either could speak, she rose and strode smartly to the door clearly casting herself as informant. As she grasped the handle, Felix said, ‘I say, Vera, I suggest you remove your hat, that awful feather might attract attention.’
When she had gone he turned to Cedric and asked scathingly, ‘Did she say a harmless crank?’ But slightly to his surprise his friend said nothing, seemingly lost in thought and gazing absently out of the window.
CHAPTER FORTY
Rosy was not religious but a residual impulse awoke the childhood words: ‘Our Father which art in heaven,’ she inwardly faltered, ‘hallowed be thy—’
There was a heavy knocking from below followed by a prolonged shrilling of the doorbell. Gill spun round, scattering sparks and ash. ‘What the hell’s that?’ he snarled.
Beretta in hand, his wife rose and peeped from the window. She looked troubled. ‘It’s the police,’ she declared. ‘I can see a helmet on the other side of the privet. One of them must be in the porch.’
A Little Murder Page 27
