“I will ask in Dutch,” said Sweyn. He did this and apparently received a satisfactory reply, for he smiled, bowed his thanks and escorted Laura from the shop.
“Can you walk a little?” he asked. “He lives on a farm not far from here.”
“I’d love to walk,” said Laura, with enthusiasm. “Lives on a farm? That’s enterprising of him.”
“I do not suppose the farm belongs to him. He lodges there, I think.”
Milking a Frisian cow was a fresh-faced girl in a checked apron and the small lace cap of the neighbourhood. She directed them to the farmhouse and an older woman wearing glasses invited them in and said that Mijnheer Albion was resting, but that she was certain he would be pleased to have visitors. She seated them in a room containing Delft china, a silver soup-tureen, a table like a polished mirror and a dozen or so family portraits, one of which was in oils and depicted the woman who had answered the door.
“An original Albion, no doubt,” said Laura, getting up to obtain a closer look at it. “I don’t know a great deal about painting, but to my untutored eye it seems a pretty fair bit of brushwork. Do sculptors usually paint as well?”
She resumed her seat just before the woman returned with the artist. He was a tall, sturdy man of early middle age with the long mouth of a lawyer and the far-seeing eyes of a sailor. His hands were grimy, with broad, stumpy fingers, and he wore thick brown trousers and had on a pyjama jacket under a dirty grey sweater. His expression was good-tempered and cheerful.
“Well, well!” he said. “And what can I do for you? I’m full up with commissions for the next six months, but after that I might fit you in.” He reduced his eyes to slits and summed up Laura. “Magnificent,” he remarked. “You would make a splendid nude. Are you a virgin?”
“Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Laura, laughing at the naïve question. “I’ve been married for years and I’ve got a son at prep school. Anyway, I’m afraid we haven’t come to put another commission in your way. We wondered whether you could help us.”
“Not with money. My charity begins at home and stays there. You may believe you’re collecting for a good cause, but begging is begging, whether it’s for yourself or a cats’ home.”
“We are not collecting anything but a small item of information,” said Sweyn. “I believe you have recently completed a portrait bust of a young relative of mine, Florian Colwyn-Welch.”
“Oh, yes. A fellow too handsome to be interesting. I put the price up a bit when I saw him. It does my work no good to portray those sort of beautiful, mindless people.”
“The trouble is that he’s disappeared. We thought it just possible that you might know where he is.”
“Why should I?”
“We thought it was worth trying,” said Laura. “His granduncle has been ill and wants to see him, but he’s vanished, and we knew he came here to sit to you.”
“I’ll show you the painting I’ve done of his hand holding a flower. It’s rather nice. I refer, of course to my painting, not to the hand, which is that of one type of killer.”
He left them and returned shortly with a framed canvas. It depicted a beautiful, rather girlish hand holding a hyacinth between thumb and first finger. The other fingers were extravagantly cocked. Laura and Sweyn admired the painting and the artist removed it. When he came back, Laura said:
“If it’s finished, why hasn’t the family got it?
“I’m waiting to hear from them. The bust I did in my studio in Amsterdam, and they have it in their apartment.
The original order was for a bronze, but I think the price was prohibitive. Bronzes do come expensive, of course. The hand-and-flower picture was done here—the hand from nature, the hyacinth from memory, for the flowering season is over. I did a good many flower-studies at one time, so I know this is good. The hand itself looks rather silly. I gave him a pencil to hold and that’s how he held it.”
“And you can’t give us any idea of where to look for Florian?” asked Laura.
“He said he wanted to get back to England. That is as much as I know. I asked him to pay me for the picture I showed you just now, but he said he had not commissioned it. That was true enough, so I shall dun his grandmother for the money and if she won’t cough up I shall sell it for what it will fetch.”
“I’m sure she’ll cough up,” said Laura.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Towards Kinderscout
“Delay is kind,
And we too soon shall find
That which we seek, yet fear to know.”
Thomas Stanley
Laura made haste to contact Dame Beatrice, who told her to stay in Amsterdam where she would join her on the following day.
“I think Sweyn knows something,” said Laura, when they met. “All that guff about Saxon crosses in Derbyshire is so much mashed potato, you know.”
“You surmise that these Saxon crosses do not exist?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure they do, but why should he be so anxious to refer to them and to advise me so strongly to go and see them?”
“You have led him to believe that you are interested in rune-stones.”
“Yes, but Saxon crosses don’t bear much resemblance to rune-stones, except that lots of rune-stones have a religious bias, and can be found in churchyards. No, he was giving me a broad hint. I want to know why.”
“We could go to Derbyshire and find out, child.”
“I hoped you’d say that. Of course, my hunch may be quite wrong. I may be taking you on a wild-goose chase.”
“I have great faith in your hunches. Purchase steamer tickets. By tomorrow night, at the latest, we can be back in London. There you shall hie you to a public library and read all about Derbyshire, a county of great charm and with some delightful natural scenery, and one with which I have only the most superficial acquaintance. Indeed, except for a tea once in Glossop and a lunch, on another occasion, in Matlock Bath, I know nothing about it at all.”
“Read up all I can find about Derbyshire? A job after my own heart,” said Laura. “You shall know the county from A to Z by the time I’ve finished.”
What she came up with at the end of her researches was of significant interest. Dame Beatrice listened as, after dinner, Laura read her notes aloud.
“Most interesting stuff,” she said, before she began her recital, “and, if Florian was really keen on caves and holes and things, definitely germane to the issue.”
She proceeded to describe deep fissures, eerie caverns, abandoned lead mines, underground lakes, stalactites and mysterious streams.
“You will enjoy yourself,” said Dame Beatrice, at the end of the recital.
“You’re not thinking of coming with me, then?”
“No, I have decided that my work lies in North Norfolk, and that, in any case, you will be happier without me. I should be very much obliged, though, if you would take a companion. Can you think of anyone who might like to go?”
“Most people, I suppose, are otherwise engaged at this time of year. Old Kitty wouldn’t be any good at pot-holing, and it’s the wrong time of year for Alice—bang between her summer holiday and the break at half-term.”
“Suppose I could arrange for our dear Robert to accompany you, would you like that?”
“Gavin?” said Laura, referring to her husband, as usual, by his surname. “Could you really wangle it?”
“I could try.”
As Dame Beatrice’s infrequent but powerful representations to the Home Office or to New Scotland Yard invariably received respectful attention, Laura had little doubt of the result of this one. Her confidence in her employer was justified. Detective Chief-Inspector Robert Gavin presented himself at Dame Beatrice’s Kensington house and reported for special duty.
“And what’s it in aid of, Dame B.?” he enquired, after giving her an affectionate kiss.” They didn’t seem too sure what you wanted me for, when they told me you’d asked for me. Something to do with those Dutch people you
and Laura have been seeing so much of lately?”
“Possibly. I want you and Laura to go to Derbyshire.”
“That sounds within our scope. What do we do when we get there?”
“Laura will brief you. I don’t know how long you will need to stay, but, at any rate, you have been lent to me for at least a week, so Laura will arrange hotel accommodation for a week and then you can see how you get on. I want to write up some case notes, so I’ll leave you together to make your plans.”
“Where shall I try to book us in?” asked Laura, when Dame Beatrice had gone.
“Don’t know. What have you found out so far? Is it a murder hunt? Dame B. seems to have hinted as much to the Assistant Commissioner.”
“Well, it’s a common or garden disappearance, on the face of it, but some of the relatives don’t seem too happy about it, and Mrs. Croc, has been asked to trace the missing youth. We went over to Holland, as that’s where he was last heard of, but there I was given what I regarded as a tip-off that he might be in Derbyshire.”
“Who tipped you off?”
“The younger uncle, Professor Sweyn van Zestien.”
“Oh, the chap who collects rune-stones. You mentioned him and his brother in your letters. What’s he like?”
“If you mean to ask whether he’s engaged in any funny business, I can only say that, in my opinion, nothing is less likely. He’s got his suspicions, though, and so has Professor Derde van Zestien, his elder brother. I’m bound to admit that it’s all rather odd and, to my mind, very hole and corner. This missing boy’s grandmother and his two maiden aunts had set their hearts on having a bronze bust of him and a painting of his lilywhite paw clutching a blue hyacinth, the hyacinth (according to them) being the same colour as his eyes.”
“Good Lord! Spare us from our female relatives! What revolting ideas women have! Colour of his eyes, indeed!”
“Less of that! What about men getting a kick out of strip-tease?”
“That’s understandable and natural. Male mauleys gripping blue hyacinths are not!”
“Very well, if you say so. Anyway, the sittings for the bust were given in Amsterdam and the hand and flower (sounds like a pub) was painted in the artist’s other studio at a farm near Hoorn. The farm has Frisian cattle and milkmaids and he likes it there much better than his place in Amsterdam, but, of course, it’s in Amsterdam that he gets his commissions, I’m told. I went to Hoorn to see him, and he seemed pretty certain that Florian . . .”
“Who?”
“Florian.”
“Good God!”
“Well, his mother’s name’s Flora, so I expect that explains it.”
“It explains the pansy-like fistful of bluebells, too! Well, well! Go on.”
“He thought Florian had gone back to England.”
“Gone back to England?”
“Yes. He lives in Norfolk with his sister and his granduncle. The granduncle is head of the family of van Zestien and apparently stinkingly wealthy. He’s a diamond merchant.”
“Is he, by Jove!”
“There couldn’t be any connection between that and Florian’s disappearance.”
“Why not?”
“When Florian walked out on him and went to the grandmother and the aunts in Amsterdam, old Bernard disinherited him, so it couldn’t be to anybody’s advantage to do Florian in, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Who’s the present heir?”
“A rather decent Jew-boy named Bernardo Rose. The Rose family are also in diamonds. I don’t think he’ll get the lot, of course, but even half would be a pretty hefty chunk of dough.”
“Does this young fellow Rose know he’s going to inherit that much of the kitty?”
“Oh, yes, of course he does. Actually, I believe it’s merely a restitution of original rights. I think the old man cut Bernardo out and substituted Florian when there was a row and the engagement between Bernardo and Florian’s sister Binnie sprang a leak. Bernardo, you see, handed Florian a punch in the ribs and Binnie took a dim view and slung back the ring. But it’s all right now. Mrs. Croc, worked it so that they kissed and made friends.”
“Who? Bernardo and Florian?”
“No, Bernardo and Binnie, chump!”
“Well, if nobody had a reason for sending Florian to heaven, why does anybody think he’s been murdered?”
“Well, they probably only think he’s ordinarily dead, and I suppose it’s conceivable also that he’s lost his memory and wandered off, but he hadn’t lost it when he went over to Amsterdam this last time. He sat for the sculpture—it’s in plaster painted over in gold, incidentally. It was supposed to be done in bronze, but the price was too high. Well, he told his grandmother and his aunts that he was going to explore caves, grottoes, and abandoned mines in Maastricht and Valkenburg. The older aunt, however, said he had also told her that he would be going on to explore similar spots in the Dolomites. She claims she lent or gave him the money to go, but her mother avers that she did not have any money, and, having met old Binnen, I bet she’s right. Her daughters are entirely dependent on her and, from my observation of her, I should hardly class her as a willing spender. I suppose she’s afraid they’d leave home if she allowed them enough money to live on.”
“I see. Did this—er—Florian realise that he would be offending his granduncle by prancing over to Amsterdam like that?”
“I shouldn’t think he could have done, but he’s very cocky, and cocky people are apt to be obtuse where other people’s feelings are concerned.”
“Very true. One other thing strikes me. These two professors—didn’t I get the impression from one of your letters that they are the old man’s sons?”
“That’s right. But there’s a daughter named Maarte, who married Bernardo’s papa and so kept diamonds in the family, whereas the two sons had no such idea, but, instead, went into the lecture-room-and-church-mouse business, to the ire and irritation, doubtless, of their sire. They’re fond of him, but at one time I believe he cut them off with a solitary Dutch guilder and, from what I gather of their characters, nobody cared less than they did. They’re quite unworldly and live only for their work.”
“Research can be expensive. Didn’t you tell me one of them goes to Mexico for his?”
“I don’t suppose he spends much, except for his fare, and I dare say he goes with a party and they charter a plane. Anyhow, if you’re thinking of them as possible criminals, well, they just aren’t, and that’s all there is to it.”
“You’re not often wrong about people, so I accept that as a working hypothesis. What about the rest of the family?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past Auntie Opal. I’m sure she’s nasty, but I can’t see what she could gain by putting Florian out of the way. The old man would never leave her his money. I’m pretty certain of that!”
“But what about her mother? The old boy’s sister, isn’t she? Could she have expectations?”
“I should hardly think so, but, of course, I don’t know. Anyway, she dotes on Florian, so does Opal. I don’t know about Ruby, the other aunt, but she’s such a rabbit that she wouldn’t put anybody out of the way, no matter what she might hope to gain by it.”
“Crippen was a rabbit, remember—or so it was thought. Ever been bitten by a rabbit?”
“Not so far as my memory serves me, but I take your point. My point is that Ruby wouldn’t stand to gain anything by Florian’s death, any more than Opal would.”
“I suppose Florian’s dad is named Sapphire!”
“He answers to the perfectly ordinary name of Frank. He and his wife live in Scotland and own some hotels there.”
“Well, parents don’t often sacrifice their offspring, except for ritual purposes, so I think we can rule them out. Who else is there?”
“Simply nobody who could gain anything from Florian’s death, so far as I can see.”
“Revenge?”
“On Florian? He’s cocky, as I said, and a bit of a poop, I admit, b
ut I can’t see why anybody would want to be revenged on him.”
“Could the Jewish element be involved in any way? Anti-Semitism on his part?”
“Good gracious, no! Bernardo socked him once, as I told you, but that was simply man-to-man. The only people left—and neither of them fits the picture of a murderer—are the rather terrible grandmother Rebekah Rose and her incredibly quiet and beautifully dressed daughter Petra. You’d adore old Rebekah. She offered to buy Mrs. Croc’s emerald ring at a tenth of its value. Haggling over money is her only interest. She’s utterly outrageous and the most gorgeous fun, but, apart from doing it down over a monetary transaction, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Oh, well, I’ll take your word for it. How does she get on with her grandson?”
“Bernardo? They fight with one another all the time, but Mrs. Croc, is certain that really they love each other dearly.”
“You can’t imagine old Rebekah trying to clear the way for Bernardo by removing Florian? I mean, if money is her god…’
“No, I can’t imagine it, but that doesn’t make it out of the question, I suppose. Anyway, Bernardo is definitely in the will.”
“One other point occurs to me. When was the broken engagement mended and Bernardo reinstated as part heir presumptive—before or after there was this hue and cry after Florian?”
“Oh, Lord!” said Laura, dismayed. “Yes, there is that, isn’t there?” Then she brightened up again. “Oh, it doesn’t make any difference, though,” she added. “It was Florian’s walking out on his granduncle, and not the mended engagement, that got him disinherited.”
“It doesn’t seem a strong enough reason for disinheriting him,” said Gavin, frowning. “What’s old van Zestien like?—crusty, irascible, autocratic?”
“Well, he takes his position as head of the family quite seriously, of course, but, actually, although on the non-talkative side, he’s an old pet.”
“Did he know where Florian was going when he left his house?”
“Oh, I think so. There wasn’t any secret about it, so far as I gathered.”
Death of a Delft Blue (Mrs. Bradley) Page 13
