The Corpse at the Crystal Palace

by Carola Dunn

  “What do you remember? It may help.”

  “His christian name was kind of funny and ’e had a hyphen in ’is surname. All I’m sure of is the last bit: Clark.”

  “Oh dear, that’s not much, is it. Quite a common name, too. I’ll pass it on to my husband, of course. You never know what the police can do with a tiny scrap of information.”

  “Tell ’im I’ll try to remember the rest. Only it’s been a while and I dunno…”

  “He’ll be grateful for your taking the trouble to come. I know he’d want me to reimburse your fare.” Daisy had her purse on her, having just come in. She offered Miss Fanshawe a pound, but she wouldn’t accept more than the actual fare to Hampstead and back.

  She ushered the acrobat out and went to the office to ring the Yard.

  For a wonder, Alec was in and the switchboard put her through after only a minute or two.

  “What is it, Daisy?” he asked impatiently.

  “Darling, you ought to know by now that I never ring you at work for nothing.” She continued hurriedly before he could tell her to get on with it. “Fay Fanshawe—I’ve forgotten what her real name is—she came here. You told her to ring you up if she thought of anything—”

  “I did.”

  “She tried and they wouldn’t put her through.”

  “Indeed! I’ll deal with that. Why the deuce did she go to you instead of coming here?”

  Daisy explained about the father’s prohibition. “You’d told her I was your wife, and I’d left her my card. She decided it was the best thing to do.”

  “For all the trouble she took, I hope she had something worthwhile to tell.”

  “That’s for you to decide. You asked about Teddy’s friends, I assume. She recalled that one of her partners in her act had been recommended by Teddy.”

  “An acrobat?”

  “No, a squash player who had been a gymnast at school. He went by the stage name of Ray Richmond, but his own name was so posh as to have passed through her mind like water through a sieve. All she remembers is the bit after the hyphen: Clark.”

  “Clark!”

  “It means something to you?”

  “Does it ever! Did she mention with or without an E?”

  “No, and I didn’t think to ask. Sorry.”

  “Never mind. How many hyphen-Clarks can there be in London?

  “So Mr. hyphen-Clark is a person of interest?”

  “No more so than a dozen or more others. That’s our trouble. Hold on half a tick.” The distant sound of voices cut off as he put his hand over the receiver, then he said, “I must go, love. Thanks for hyphen-Clark. ’Bye.”

  Daisy hung up and turned to the second post, which Elsie had put on her desk. Among the bills, circulars, and letters from friends and relatives was a brief note from Mrs. Gilpin’s sister.

  “Dear Ivy” had arrived safe but “exosted,” and was tucked up in bed. That was one worry off Daisy’s mind.

  She was dealing with the rest of the post when the telephone at her elbow rang.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Fletcher.” It was Ernie Piper’s cheerful voice. “Do you happen to know where we can find Miss Angela Devenish? She’s not answering the telephone at the flat and the bobby we sent round can’t get an answer at the door. Before we try the lawyer, DI Mackinnon wondered if she might be with you.”

  “No, but I know where she is. She was taking the train home today. She was anxious about her dogs. If she didn’t tell you, I’m sure it was an oversight, not with evil intent.”

  “Ever so keen on them dogs, isn’t she?”

  “She is, but I don’t believe for a moment that she did Teddy in because he once hurt one of them.”

  “That’s as may be, Mrs. Fletcher. He left her a lot of money, and money’s a powerful motive.”

  “Not for Angela.” But how thrilled she had been when their aunt left her enough to start her dog refuge. How many dogs could be saved by adding Teddy’s enormous share in that inheritance? Did they really suspect her? “Anyway, she would never run away and abandon the dogs. You’ll always be able to get hold of her there.”

  No sooner had she hung up than the bell rang again. Mackinnon this time, perhaps? She was tempted to let Elsie answer but picked up the receiver.

  “Daisy? Sakari here. Do you remember Judith Winter?”

  “The sculptor? Yes, why?”

  “She is here. May I bring her to talk to you?”

  Daisy wanted to ask why, but she assumed Judith was near enough to hear. Otherwise Sakari would have told her. That in turn suggested that she wasn’t likely to enjoy the conversation.

  It was much easier to leave someone else’s house than to evict someone from one’s own house.

  All this flashed through Daisy’s mind and she said, “I’ll pop over to your house, darling. Is Deva free? I’m sure Bel would like to see her. She’s feeling a bit lost without her cousins.”

  “Very well.” Sakari sounded amused, as if she had overheard the mental calculations. She lowered her voice. “The sooner the better.”

  “Oh dear! I’m on my way.”

  Belinda was busy showing off to Mrs. Dobson and Elsie the new afternoon frock they had picked up from the dressmaker. She was delighted to be able to show it off to Deva as well.

  They drove down the hill and were ushered into Sakari’s exotically furnished drawing room just after the arrival of the tea tray. Daisy was still full from their lunch extravaganza, but she welcomed the sight because the girls’ presence at tea must surely postpone the incipient explosion she read in Miss Winter’s face.

  By the time Deva took Belinda off to her room, Daisy had recalled the gist, if not the precise words, of her previous meeting with the sculptor.

  “I’ve just found out you’re married to Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher,” Miss Winter accused her, “who’s in charge of investigating Teddy Devenish’s murder. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I don’t make a habit of proclaiming to new acquaintances the profession of my husband. In fact I don’t believe I have ever done so. It would be a rather odd proceeding, don’t you agree?”

  “Well, yes, but in the circumstances—”

  “Nor was I the first to mention Teddy. You recognised my name as that of a journalist and asked if my interest in him was due to my intention of writing about his murder. You merely guessed that I was interested after watching me at the Café Royal, not because of anything I said.”

  “This is true,” said Sakari in a conciliatory tone. “The guess was correct, however. I, too, am interested in the murder of Teddy Devenish, though my husband is not a police officer and I do not wish to become a reporter. You see, Judith, both Daisy and I were at the Crystal Palace when it occurred. It is natural to be interested, I think.”

  “My children’s nurse was also there. I expect you’ve read in the newspapers that the victim was disguised as a nanny?”

  “And the murderer may have been, too. So your nanny is suspected?”

  “It’s more complicated than that, but I do want to find out what happened for her sake. Also, Teddy was related to two friends of mine, another reason to take an interest.”

  “You weren’t working for the chief inspector?”

  “No. He was pretty annoyed with me.” Daisy hesitated. The sculptor had calmed down, but what she had to say might reignite her ire. Still, she couldn’t avoid saying it. “I did pass on to Alec what you told us about Teddy’s nasty tricks.”

  “I knew you must have set the police on to my friends!”

  “Hold on! I didn’t give him any names. You didn’t mention any.”

  “Not one,” Sakari confirmed.

  “If you were married to a policeman, Miss Winter, you’d understand that when it’s a case of murder it’s not a good idea to withhold information. It’s a cliché that someone who gets away with one murder is very likely to kill again, but after all, clichés become clichés because they’re mostly true.”

  Miss Wint
er looked as if she were trying to come up with a counterargument and failing. “I daresay, but when it’s your friends…”

  “The sun is nearly over the yardarm,” said Sakari with the pleasure she always took in using a colloquial expression. She rang the bell. “Time for a drop of sherry.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “I still think it’s fishy that Miss Devenish left town without informing us,” said DI Mackinnon.

  “If you’d met her,” said Alec, “you’d realise that it would be much more fishy if she had notified us, because out of character.”

  “I want to meet her. I’d like to check her alibi in person. Who knows how competent the local bobby is? With respect, sir, I think you’ve dismissed her as a suspect too easily.”

  “I haven’t dismissed her. She’s just low on my list. She’s a very earnest woman and the soul of candour, with no notion whatsoever of hiding her feelings.”

  “And she’s inherited a fortune from the victim, with nothing to stop her devoting it to what she considers the best of all possible causes.”

  “All right, Mac, if you want to trek to darkest Yorkshire. We haven’t a shadow of grounds for making her come back.”

  “I hope you like dogs, sir,” Piper put in cheekily.

  “I and my wife have two terriers, Sergeant, a Scottie and a Westie. Find the best train for me, please.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Alec. “This evening I want your opinion of the Russians. Ernie, we’ll need a copy of the list Miss Zvereva sent over. And let my wife know I won’t be home for dinner, would you?”

  “Right, Chief. I’ll tick off the duplicate names from other lists, the ones we’ve already vetted. Mr. Mackinnon, here’s the last train tonight and the first in the morning, and all the changes.”

  “Already? You’re a wonder-worker.”

  “I had it ready in case of need.”

  The sandy-haired Scot regarded him with approval. “Verra efficient.”

  * * *

  The jeweller’s shop was still open when Alec and Mackinnon reached it. At least, the sign still read OPEN and the door was unlocked. The jangle of the bell as they stepped in out of the chilly drizzle failed to bring anyone from the backroom, however.

  The inspector looked round with interest. “That’ll be the back o’ the Russian stove?” he asked, indicating the tiled wall. “A fine thing that would be in a Scottish winter! Shall I knock on the door behind the curtain, sir?”

  “You can try, but it’s a heavy steel door. If it’s closed, we’ll have to try the doorbell again.”

  Mackinnon drew the curtain aside. The steel door was open, the room beyond empty.

  Stepping through, Alec swung towards the safe. As far as he could see it was closed as it should be. He frowned. “I wonder what’s going on. I hope—”

  A clatter of footsteps rushing down the stairs cut him off. Petrov appeared, his hair in disarray. “Kto—? Eh, police! I go fetch taxi.” He strode past Alec, but Mackinnon stood square and solid in the doorway.

  “Where are you off to, sir, if I might ask?”

  “I fetch taxi. Most oldest friend of Stepan Vladimirovich dies—is dying. He must go say farewell, da?”

  “Whose friend?”

  “The prince,” said Alec. “Let him pass.”

  “Spacibo, gospodin.” Petrov dashed off.

  “But sir, he may be doing a flit!”

  “Possibly. What do you want: a knock-down fight, roll about on the floor and clap on the darbies? We haven’t a ghost of a justification, you know. I never took you for an impetuous man.”

  “I’m not! I’m a dour, canny Scotsman. It just goes against the grain…”

  “I know. That’s life. Come along, we’ll go up.” He crossed to the stairs, treading softly.

  He was halfway up the steep narrow flight, Mackinnon close behind, when an irate roar in Russian emanated from above. A firm response in a female voice indicated that two of their birds were still in the coop. The old man muttered fretfully. Alec wished he understood what was being said.

  The door at the top was ajar. He knocked, producing a sudden silence within.

  “Kto—Who is there?”

  “Police.” He pushed open the door and stepped into the hot, low-ceilinged room. “Good evening, Miss Zvereva, sir. I’m sorry to trouble you at this time—”

  “Mr. Policeman, is good time! My father very agitating—agitated. Cannot talk to you. You help my father down the stairs, yes? He goes to visit dying friend. These stupid girls he not trusting and I am not strong enough to go down. Is more harder than up.”

  Alec gave in. As she said, the prince was in no state to answer questions. She was also correct about the difficulty of getting the hefty old man down the stairs. It was a struggle even for two reasonably fit coppers—given the manservant’s lack of English, Alec helped Mackinnon. From the bottom of the steps it was easier. The prince, muttering what sounded like imprecations all the way, could walk after a fashion and needed only support on each side. A cab backed into the alley as they reached the street.

  Petrov jumped out. Alec stepped back and let him and Mackinnon get Zverev into the back seat. That accomplished, Mackinnon was about to close the door when Miss Zvereva slipped past him to join her father in the taxi. Saying something to the driver that Alec didn’t catch, she pulled the door out of the inspector’s hand. It shut with a thud and they were off.

  Mackinnon uttered something very Scottish that sounded blasphemous. “I thocht the lassie was biding here,” he said.

  “Never mind, Petrov didn’t go with them.” The goldsmith was standing in the middle of the alley, looking very much as if he wished he had departed with his employers. “Did you get the address?”

  “The street. Not the number.”

  “We’ll find the dying friend if we want him. Mr. Petrov, we’d like a few minutes of your time, if you please. I suggest we go indoors.”

  Without a word, he passed them and entered the shop. He held the door as they went in, then shut and locked it and turned the sign to CLOSED.

  “Please to come in, gospoda,” he said with an ironic bow, holding back the blue velvet curtain.

  In the back room, he seemed as at-home as in his own quarters on the other side of the courtyard, going straight to the samovar. Like the kettles eternally on the hob in England, the Russian apparatus seemed to be kept ever-ready to supply tea.

  “This is Detective Inspector Mackinnon, Mr. Petrov.” Again Alec avoided mentioning his own name. “The inspector would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “How do you do, sir,” said Mackinnon, accepting a glass of tea without any sign of misgivings. “Thank you. Let’s start with everything you know about Edward Devenish.”

  “He was diletant. Is same word in English, da? He think he knows all, he criticise all, he makes—nyet, he creates nothing.”

  “You didn’t like him.”

  “I despise him. He is not worth two thoughts.”

  “‘A second thought.’ Your English is very good, sir. Do you meet many English people?”

  “Vo-cab-u-lary is good. Grammar not so much, is difficult. I go to evening class to make better. Is not sense to live in country, not learn to speak language.”

  “Very true, sir. Miss Zvereva knows you take these English lessons?”

  “Konechno! Of course. Is not secret.”

  “Yet when the chief inspector and DS Piper came to interview you, Miss Zvereva said your English was very poor and she was determined to interpret for you.”

  “She is interested—curious to hear, perhaps.” He shrugged. “Who can understand what is in woman’s mind?”

  Or man’s. Though calmly composed, to Alec he sounded evasive. It was hard to judge since his speech in general was deliberate, careful, halting, as he hunted for the right words in a foreign tongue.

  “You have known Miss Zvereva a long time?”

  “Since child. I grow up on estate of prince. My father was servant, my grandfather was
serf. I live there until sent to be apprentice in Fabergé workshop.”

  A situation that might lead to eternal loyalty or to undying resentment, Alec thought, or to an uneasy mix of both. Loyalty to the prince and resentment of his daughter’s privileged childhood? It certainly complicated the question of what motive Petrov might have for murdering Devenish.

  “I understand Devenish didn’t admire the skills you learned under Fabergé.”

  “If Mr. Chief Inspector tell you this, he say also that I care nothing for opinion of this diletant whose opinion is not worth to have.”

  “Naturally, sir, I’ve read DS Piper’s report. You said Devenish was crazy.”

  “I have learn new word—egzentric. This better perhaps than crazy. But Zinaïda Stepanovna believe he court her with meaning from start to jilt, only because she dislike his wish for tiepin. But is not better reason we can guess. Is crazy, nyet?”

  “Sounds pretty crazy to me. And very upsetting.”

  “For her, not. Was more relief. She did not like, and Stepan Vladimirovich wanted that she marry him.”

  “Stepan—oh, her father. The prince must have been angry.”

  “First angry with daughter that she did not encourage, then more angry with Mr. Devenish for insulting. Was insult to both. In Russia, would be duel. Here is legal matter, but Devenish did not write promise to marry, and Zinaïda Stepanovna will not swear he said this. She does not wish to marry. Prince can do nothing.”

  “Someone did something. Do you have any inkling who—”

  “Excuse: ‘inkling’ is what?”

  “Sorry. Do you have any idea—can you make a guess—who might have killed Devenish?”

  “I? Why you think I have idea?” He sounded surprised, not at all agitated. “I meet him two-three times, not know who are his friends, who are his enemies.”

  “But you know he had enemies?”

  “I see what he did to Zinaïda Stepanovna. He is … ‘spiteful’ is the proper word?”