by Carola Dunn
Alec closed his eyes. “Are you serious?” he asked in a failing voice.
“Serious, but far from certain. I think I’ve got it right, but this was all in a heavy accent and interspersed with bits of Spanish, remember.”
“And dramatic gestures.”
“Of course. Anyway, Gower assured Consuela he hadn’t done it. She believed him, and wanted to esplain to me that she hadn’t really meant it when she screeched, ‘¡Asesino!’ So that I could tell you, which I’ve now done, and let’s move on to the next, please.”
“Motive for Gower: Bettina was pestering him about some broken promise. You don’t by any chance … ?”
“Yes, but in its proper place or I’ll get all mixed up.”
“Motive for the señorita: wild jealousy.”
“She said she wanted to scratch out Bettina’s eyes. Mrs. Gower’s next, isn’t she?”
“First, would you like pudding? Coffee?”
Daisy had managed to clear her plate despite all the talk. Head tilted, she considered her options. “I’d better stick to coffee,” she decided regretfully.
“Two coffees, please,” Alec said to the waitress, and added apologetically to Daisy, “I still owe you a slap-up dinner, to make up for last night.”
“A pie and a pint’ll do me, Chief,” rumbled Tom Tring, suddenly appearing on silent feet and winking at Daisy. “You make him take you to the Ritz, miss. Got that key for me, Chief?”
“Here. If Miss Fotheringay’s not there, you have Miss Dalrymple’s permission to search the darkroom.”
“I never said that!” Daisy objected. “Oh, all right, Sergeant, you have my permission. But Lucy will be there and she’ll be in a tearing rage.”
“You leave her to me, miss.”
She smiled at him, transferring the smile to Alec as Tring left. “I must say I’d like to see them meet. Never mind about dinner, Alec, we’ll manage it some time. But we’d better not make plans in advance. Just give me half an hour’s notice to dress up and powder my nose.”
“I’ll try to give you a whole hour.” What a dear she was! Surely Belinda couldn’t help liking her, nor his mother, however much she deplored his getting mixed up with the aristocracy. She was sure he’d be let down in the end. Well, maybe, but in the meantime … .
“Mrs. Gower,” said Daisy, as the waitress deposited two cups on the table and departed again. “Poor woman, she knows about her husband’s straying. She claimed to be resigned to it, since he always returns to her and their children. She said it would be unfair to make the children suffer for the sins of their father. All the same, I can’t help feeling she’s at least a little bit bitter. She called Consuela a Spanish hussy.”
“She saw them embracing on the stage? It’s possible she hadn’t realized till then that Miss de la Costa had replaced Bettina in Gower’s affections.”
“Yes, but I don’t think she knew about Bettina.” Daisy sounded distinctly dubious. “She talked about foreign divas who go home to their own countries, leaving Gower to her.”
“If she poisoned Bettina, that’s the impression she’d want to give,” Alec pointed out. “Especially as Bettina, not being foreign, must have seemed a much greater threat to her marriage. A more than adequate motive for murder—if any motive can ever be considered adequate. Did she say anything else of interest?”
Daisy pulled a face. “She and Gower and their children all had their photographs taken by Lucy.”
“Did they, indeed! Means, motive, and opportunity, as she admits she was in the soloists’ room. We’ll have to take a close look at Jennifer Gower.”
“And at Gilbert Gower. He admitted to his affairs with Consuela and Bettina. Do you know, Alec, Mrs. Gower said Gower had told her how devoted Roger Abernathy was to Bettina, and the two men were supposed to be friends, yet Gower seduced Abernathy’s wife!”
“Perhaps it was the other way round.”
“Bettina seduced Gower?” Daisy frowned. “Could be, considering his preference for exotic foreigners, and … but I’ll get to that in a minute. Anyway, Gower told me it was all over between him and Bettina and he was sure Marchenko had killed her.”
“Marchenko!” said Alec, startled. “I’d pretty much written him off, in spite of his refusal to communicate. What’s his motive supposed to be?”
“He was in full pursuit of Bettina, gave her valuable gifts—I mean really precious stuff he’d smuggled out of Russia—and then she turned around and publicly humiliated him. Gower said she slapped his face and called him a disgusting Russian pig. It was at a rehearsal, so other people must have seen it.”
“Now I know what to ask about, I’ll doubtless get confirmation. Motive for Marchenko, and opportunity. What about means?”
“I don’t think Lucy photographed him. She’d have mentioned such an unusual client.”
“Well, if he bought cyanide at a chemist’s, for photography or as a pesticide, we shouldn’t have any trouble tracing him.”
“No, he’s certainly memorable. He was the next one I talked to, wasn’t he? He accused me of being a police spy. He’s got spies on the brain, and Bolsheviks, and Jews, and Russians.”
“Russians?”
“I told you, he’s a Ukrainian. I don’t know their history much, but I dare say the Russians have been oppressing the Ukrainians for centuries. Yakov Levich being a Russian and a Jew, Marchenko’s convinced he’s a Bolshevik spy, too. He must have murdered Bettina because murder is what Jews, Russians, Bolsheviks, and spies like to do. Q.E.D.”
“Great Scott! He didn’t accuse Levich of having an affair with Bettina?”
“No, not a hint. I wonder how he missed that one?”
“Then we can safely assume that Levich did not have an affair with Bettina. Unless someone else … ?”
“No, no one even suggested the possibility.”
She wouldn’t lie to him outright, but Alec was convinced she was withholding something Marchenko had told her. Protecting Muriel Westlea?
“Mrs. Cochran, on the other hand, doesn’t believe it was murder at all,” Daisy rushed on, making Alec the more sure she had something to hide from him. “Murder at Eric’s concert would be bad for Eric’s career, might even prevent his being knighted one day, therefore Bettina had a seizure.”
“So the lady informed me.”
“I asked her about the effect on the soloists’ careers. She said the foreigners can always go home and Gower’s career is fading anyway because he’s losing his voice due to dissipation. Which ties in with what Cochran told me about …”
“Wait a minute. I can’t see how it would affect the case, but does she know about Cochran and Miss Blaise?”
“If so, she won’t admit it. She was frightfully condescending about what poor Jennifer Gower puts up with from her husband.”
“In any case, it wouldn’t give her a motive for doing away with Bettina.”
Daisy sat bolt upright, eyes gleaming with excitement. “But Alec, suppose she thought it was Bettina, not Olivia, who was Cochran’s mistress! I told you they used to meet at the Abernathys’, remember? I bet she found out he kept going there, and drew the wrong conclusion.”
“Do I gather you dislike Mrs. Cochran?” Alec asked dryly.
“Yes,” she admitted, abashed. “She’s overbearing and self-centred, and the only reason she cares about Cochran’s career is that she desperately wants him to be knighted so she’ll be Lady Cochran.”
“Which makes it still more unlikely that she’d wreck his concert.” He reached across to pat her hand as her face fell. “But you could be right about her mistaking the object of her husband’s affections, and jealousy might outweigh the desire for honours. It’ll have to be investigated. Now what’s this Cochran said about Gower’s fading career?”
“He said Gower promised Bettina to land her a rôle at Covent Garden, but he couldn’t possibly do so since he has no influence with the management. If they had found out about his promise, it would have put paid to his caree
r because he’s already on the way out. Cochran thought Gower had managed to string Bettina along so far, but it was only a matter of time before she went to Covent Garden to find out what was going on.”
“So Cochran’s pointing at Gower. Daisy, why on earth do these people tell you these things?”
“In this case, because they want the police to know but they can’t quite bring themselves to sneak on each other directly to you. I didn’t ask leading questions, honestly. All I did was sit there looking interested and it all came pouring out. Eric Cochran led up to Gower’s fading career by way of sympathy for Roger Abernathy, whose career he reckons is finished. He talked about conducting a benefit concert for him—it sounds charitable but I’m sure he was just thinking of the publicity.”
“Whoa!” Alec grinned. “He’ll be having you up for defamation of character. Why should Abernathy’s career be over? His heart? Or because people don’t want to associate with a man whose wife was murdered?”
“No, because his eyesight is so bad he can’t read music any longer, apparently, and the shock of losing Bettina will make him give up the struggle. Alec, he told me himself he wanted to die when Bettina dropped dead. It was simply frightful.”
“Poor chap.”
“I suppose he’s still on your list, though.”
“It’s my job to suspect everyone, you know that. Hasn’t anyone tried to implicate Muriel Westlea?”
Daisy hesitated, fidgeted with her empty coffee cup. “Actually, Mrs. Cochran said if it was a murder, which of course it wasn’t, then Muriel must have done it because Bettina left her everything she possessed.”
Alec studied her face. She failed to meet his eyes. Was she ashamed for having tried to keep that from him, or was she still hiding something? Surely she knew he’d find out about Bettina’s will from her solicitor—as in fact he already had that morning. No, the will was a sop to Cerberus, to stop him questioning her further about Muriel.
Daisy wouldn’t withhold facts from him. Hearsay or her own speculations she was more than capable of keeping to herself if she feared they might damage a friend in whose innocence she believed.
“And that just leaves Mr. Finch,” she said brightly, “who didn’t say a word to me. I don’t think there’s much room in his head for anything but music.”
“None,” said Alec, whose questions had somehow led to a learned disquisition on the differences between playing the organ as a solo instrument or as an accompaniment. “That’s everyone from the choir room,” he agreed, “but surely you talked to Abernathy, Miss Westlea, and Levich last night or this morning?”
Before she could answer, the waitress brought the bill. Alec paid and helped Daisy on with her coat, and they set off back to the house. Taking out his pipe, he filled and lit it, and smoked as they walked.
The shops in the King’s Road had reopened after the lunch hour; the pavement was thronged with housewives, baskets or string-bags over their arms, children in tow or running ahead. Whistling errand-boys on bicycles whizzed past, dodging horse-drawn drays and motor-vans. Daisy waited until they turned down a quiet side street before she responded, elliptically, to Alec’s question.
“Muriel, Mr. Abernathy, and Mr. Levich aren’t the sort of people to pass on gossip or make wild accusations.”
“Perhaps not, but you can’t have sat in silence the whole time, and I can’t believe that with the lady of the house newly murdered, you indulged in nothing but idle chatter.”
“Well, no.” Daisy sighed. “In fact, I’d better warn you: Muriel says her parents didn’t know about Bettina’s lovers, so will you try not to disillusion them?”
“I’ll try; no promises. Miss Westlea knew, obviously. What about Abernathy?”
“He knew. He said so, and so did Muriel. I don’t think Bettina ever made any effort to keep her unfaithfulness from him. He was resigned, like Mrs. Gower, only it didn’t seem to me there was any bitterness in his resignation. He pretty much expected it when he married her, being so much older. Dull and homely and not even rich, he said—it was so sad, Alec—and she was young and beautiful and talented.”
“Why on earth did she marry him?”
“To escape from home and develop her talent. Her parents wouldn’t let her leave if she wasn’t married. Abernathy offered marriage and voice lessons, so she accepted him. Even then, she made no secret of it. He knew what she was and loved her anyway.”
“That all ties in pretty well with what her maid told Tom,” Alec said. “On the face of it, he has no motive for killing her now rather than any time in the past ten years. The same goes for her sister—Mrs. Cochran was right, incidentally. I saw the solicitor this morning: Bettina left Muriel everything and she hadn’t changed the will in years. Odd, really, that she made one at all at her age and without vast riches to consider.”
“It’s not much?”
“Not enough to live on. A nice nest-egg. I expect Bettina felt Muriel was more in need of it than her husband.”
“Mrs. Cochran suggested she tried to use it to keep Muriel under her thumb,” Daisy admitted grudgingly.
“She seems to have succeeded. The maid said Bettina treated her sister as an unpaid housekeeper and general dogsbody.”
“Muriel didn’t put up with it because of the will! She’d promised her parents to look after Bettina and she’s the sort of person who keeps promises. And honours her father and mother, which I’m not at all sure they deserve,” she added, her tone severe.
Alec grinned. “Be that as it may, as I was about to say, having put up with that treatment for years, why should the worm turn now? And as I was about to answer myself, in two words, Yakov Levich. Come on, Daisy, what haven’t you told me about those two? I saw them together with my own eyes at the Albert Hall last night, and then there he is again this morning.”
“He’s a friend, of both Muriel and Abernathy, and he came to see what he could do to help,” she insisted. Then under his sceptical gaze she conceded, “Well, if you must know, I scent the beginning of a romance. But only the beginning, mind. There wasn’t anything serious between them before last night. Certainly Levich couldn’t have counted on profiting by Muriel’s inheritance.”
“Perhaps not,” Alec said grimly, “but what I ask myself is, why the sudden blossoming after Bettina’s death? Is it simply that Levich now does hope to profit? Or did Muriel hope her inheritance would help friendship to ripen into something warmer? Or was Bettina so anxious to keep her unpaid housekeeper that she blighted her sister’s romance? Possible motives galore; means—Lucy’s unlocked darkroom next door; opportunity—your Miss Westlea poured the fatal drink.”
“No one else’s fingerprints on the decanter?”
“We haven’t taken anyone’s yet, it’s one of the things that has to be done today. But there’s only one person’s prints, presumably hers, a clear set on top and several blurred underneath. Which means no one wiped the decanter before she handled it for the last time.”
“The murderer probably used gloves, or a handkerchief. Everyone knows about fingerprints these days.”
“You’d be surprised how many don’t know, or forget in the heat of the moment. But then, if criminals never made mistakes, we’d never catch any of them. We’ve considered gloves or a handkerchief, of course, though either would risk drawing attention if someone else came up.”
“With a handkerchief, you could pretend to be blotting up something you had spilled.”
“True, and ingenious. I hope you’re not going to take to crime. Tom and I hadn’t got any further than pretending to blow our noses.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, then turned serious again. “Who took the glass from the soloists’ room to the stage?”
“Another good point. It was an elderly usher of unblemished reputation who had never in his life exchanged a word with Bettina. Tom saw him this morning. No, I’m sorry, Daisy, the fingerprints aren’t proof positive—we haven’t been able to get away with that since Dr. John Thorndyke and The
Red Thumb Mark—but Muriel Westlea has to be placed at or near the top of my list.”
10
As Daisy and Alec turned into the alley, she was feeling decidedly pipped. Alec had wormed out of her the romance between Muriel and Levich which she hadn’t meant to reveal. Worse, he’d guessed that Bettina had tried to spoil things between the two, and Marchenko would surely confirm it now that he could no longer claim not to speak English.
Muriel hadn’t killed her sister, Daisy was certain. She simply wasn’t capable of it, even though she had stopped loving Bettina—at least Daisy had managed to keep that confession from Alec.
She stopped at the back door to Abernathy’s music room.
“Here’s the key,” said Alec. “You go on in. I just want to see if Tom’s still next door.”
Daisy took the key but followed him, stopping beside him as he paused to knock the dottle from his pipe. The door of the studio stood open. Through it floated Lucy’s high, clear, irate voice.
“It’s bad enough you should lock me out of my own premises and make a filthy mess in there with your beastly powder, which will take me hours to clean up. But this is really too much!”
Sergeant Tring’s soothing rumble: “It won’t take but a minute, miss.”
Alec stepped in. “Miss Fotheringay, I’m Alec Fletcher. Is there some difficulty?”
At his heels, Daisy saw Lucy look him up and down as she said coolly, “Kindly call off your minion, Chief Inspector. I shan’t … Daisy, did you really give this man permission to ransack my darkroom?”
“Yes, darling. No need to get hot under the collar. After all, he’s hot on the trail of a murderer. Well, not to ransack, but to check for dabs.”
“Dabs!” Lucy exclaimed in disgust.
“What’s up, Sergeant?” Alec asked.
“I’ve dusted for dabs, sir, and I must say there’s not many, considering.”
“I use rubber gloves to handle chemicals.” Irritable yet complacent, Lucy spread her perfect, unstained hands with polished nails. “I’ve no intention of messing up my fingers with your ink.”
