The Corpse at the Crystal Palace

by Carola Dunn

“Spiteful would suit.”

  “Spiteful man is not likely only one time to do such thing. Make plenty enemies, da?”

  “Da. Nicely argued, sir. You’re right. We know of a number of people with no cause to love him. We’re asking all of them the same questions, more or less. Including the most important, of course: Where were you last Wednesday morning?”

  “Again!” Petrov sounded exasperated. “I have said already that I was at home, in my workshop, working. I checked order book; now I can tell you exactly what I made—what I was making and show you. This will prove nothing.”

  “Very true.” Mackinnon glanced at Alec, who nodded. “I’d like to see, all the same.”

  “You come to workshop.”

  They crossed the courtyard in a light drizzle that made the paving stones slick. Alec noticed Petrov’s knee-high boots, worn over his trousers, which appeared to be made of some sort of rough fabric.

  “Your boots are Russian, Mr. Petrov?”

  “Da. They are valenki, made of felt, like hats. Very comfortable.”

  “They look quite new.”

  “Made by Russian shoemaker in London. Plenty Russians here to buy.”

  Many, maybe most, émigrés stuck together with their fellow countrymen, a fact worth remembering when any of them became involved in an investigation.

  Petrov unlocked the workshop door and ushered them in. Mackinnon looked round with interest. “Nice setup you have here, sir.”

  “Is good business. Would be stupid to risk for … little revenge. Is better word…”

  “Petty revenge, we say.”

  “Petty, like French petit.”

  “You speak French?” Alec asked.

  “A little. From Russia we go to China. China was not good place. Prince was badly beaten by thieves and princess very ill. When she died, we go to France. Was good, but Stepan Vladimirovich hear of old friend from Russia now living in England so we come here. Same old friend that he visits tonight.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask how you happened to join the prince after the revolution.”

  “Was during revolution. Bolsheviki come to workshops, I run away, go to estate of prince, Bolsheviki come to estate, all run away. Some day when you not think I killed Devenish, you come drink vodka like friend, I tell you stories will make hair curl.”

  “Thank you.” Oddly enough, Alec felt honoured by the exile’s offer of friendship. “I hope that day will come. In the meantime, may we see your book with the record of last Wednesday?”

  The order book was very neat, but of course it was written in Russian, in a tiny hand. No wonder Petrov hadn’t balked at letting them see it. However, after poring over it for a few minutes, he and Mackinnon deciphered the dates and found the page they were pretty sure was last Wednesday’s.

  It had several small, rough sketches and a good deal of writing on it, at least as much as any other page, suggesting that as much work as usual had been accomplished. The writing was as firm and regular as the rest, without waverings that might have indicated unsettled emotions. All in all, as Petrov had pointed out, it didn’t prove anything, but it certainly leaned towards indicating innocence.

  On the other hand, a man who had survived hair-raising experiences, who retained his composure when suspected of murder, could conceivably have killed in the morning and worked late into the night with a steady hand.

  “You wish to see also detail sketches of Zinaïda Stepanovna by which I work this piece?”

  “That won’t be necessary at present,” said Alec.

  “Thank you, sir, perhaps later,” said Mackinnon. “Would I be correct in assuming this gives the name of the customer for whom you were working?”

  After taking a moment to work out this convoluted question, Petrov shook his head. “Nyet. Number only. Is not need I know name. You can read in Zinaïda Stepanovna’s book.”

  “You wouldn’t know whether it was one of the people Devenish introduced to your work?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Did you meet any of those customers?”

  “Nyet. Is not my job to meet customers.”

  “Never?”

  “Nu, now and then I meet by chance in shop if go to speak to Zina. Sometimes she introduce me. I do not remember names.”

  “You don’t recall a man named Clark?”

  “Clark? Da, him I remember. But he was not customer. Was friend of Devenish, but not rich, no jewelry.”

  “Do you remember his full name?” Mackinnon asked eagerly.

  “Nyet. Was introduced as Mr. Clark.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “I saw one time only. Fair hair. Face not … rememberable. Like any young English gentleman. I would not recognise. His clothes I remember: good when new; now old, wore out.”

  “Tall? Short?”

  “Not very tall. Perhaps more than me, is hard to be sure. Thinner, make to look taller.”

  “He sounds far from memorable,” said Alec, “yet you remember him in spite of seeing him only once.”

  “He came many times, first with Devenish, then alone. Stepan Vladimirovich tell me always when they will come. Then he not need me to play nardy—is game like backgammon I play often with him. He does not want me to be there.”

  “That must have rankled,” Mackinnon commented.

  “Please?”

  “It must have upset you.”

  Petrov shrugged. “I am not aristocrat. Is way of world.”

  “What about Clark, is he an aristocrat?”

  “So I am told. He will be lord—and rich—when relative dies. This is what he says. Is true perhaps. Stepan Vladimirovich wishes to believe.”

  “Did they play backgammon together?” Alec wondered aloud. “I assume neither Devenish nor Clark speaks Russian and the prince doesn’t speak English.”

  “He understands English. He will not speak for not wanting to make mistakes, look foolish. Zinaïda Stepanovna must always be there to interpret for him. She said to me he tells stories of old life in Russia, and sometimes they play cards because he will not learn English backgammon game.”

  The prince had not admitted to understanding English when Alec spoke to him. Nor had Miss Zvereva admitted the fact. She had translated everything Alec and Piper said into Russian for him.

  Whatever was going on, Petrov didn’t seem to be part of it. He had freely admitted to speaking English, though Miss Zvereva had claimed he didn’t. Whether her obfuscation had anything to do with Devenish’s death was obscure. It would probably have to be sorted out sooner or later, but at present they had more than enough on their hands.

  Mackinnon pulled him out of his reverie. “Any more questions for Mr. Petrov, sir?”

  “Not just now. We’ll probably have to come back, I’m afraid, Mr. Petrov. This is a complicated business.”

  Impassive, Petrov bowed without speaking. He ushered them out, across the courtyard and through the shop. Alec heard the shop door’s heavy lock clunk behind them as they turned away.

  “What do you think of that, Mac?”

  “The soul o’ candour wrapping a secret that may or may not hae aught to do wi’ the case.”

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself. If he knew, or suspected, that Miss Zvereva had killed Devenish, would he try to protect her, if only to preserve his own livelihood? Those customers whom she says she saw that morning will have to be thoroughly questioned. Would they even have noticed if someone—another woman with a Russian accent—had stood in for her? How often does one really notice someone serving in a shop? It’s a pity she’s out this evening.”

  “Ye won’t want to disturb the deathbed, sir?”

  “No. I can’t see Miss Zvereva fleeing the coop with a cripple and no luggage. We’ll catch her tomorrow, Piper and I, while you’re in Yorkshire. Who’s next on our list?”

  “Desmond Mathieson. He’s probably the author whose manuscript Devenish had used to light a fire, by Miss Winter’s account. She didn’t name him, mind you. Piper’
s narrowed it down from all the reports that have come in. Mathieson refused to talk to the DC who went to see him, but the lad says he’s clean-shaven and not outlandishly tall to pass as a nanny. He writes thrillers, so there’s a good chance he’s studied a bit of anatomy.”

  “Mathieson it is.” Alec sighed. He was going to miss the twins’ bedtime again, and Bel was off to school in a couple of days. The superintendent’s job looked more and more attractive.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  After dinner, Daisy and Belinda listened to a play on the wireless. When it ended, Alec had still not come home. Bel went reluctantly to bed. Daisy picked up a book, but her mind kept drifting to the mysterious hyphen-Clark. The name dredged from Fay Fanshawe’s memory obviously meant something to Alec.

  He had heard it from another suspect, she presumed. The question was, whom? He was investigating all sorts of people.

  Though Miss Fanshawe regarded him as a toff, that might mean merely that he didn’t drop his aitches. He could well be middle class. The police probably wouldn’t waste time checking through Debrett’s, a huge job when the initial letter was unknown, except as a last resort. Even if Daisy had a copy she wouldn’t tackle it.

  Easier than searching Debrett’s would be asking Lucy, though even for her, identifying half a surname might present difficulties. Worth trying, perhaps. Was it too late to telephone?

  She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. A bit on the late side, considering Lucy’s condition. If she felt well, she’d be out at some dinner party. If not, she’d be asleep in bed. Besides, Daisy was warm and comfortable in the big armchair by the fire. Why move? Especially as she had decided, after the awkward business with Judith Winter, that she was going to stop meddling—as Alec called it—in his cases. She was going to try to stop, at least.

  Though with Nanny Gilpin involved …

  Mrs. Gilpin had seen the second nanny, and had paid sufficient attention to her to notice something that induced her to follow the woman—or man—all through the building and down to the bottom of the park. Had she witnessed the murder? Surely in that case she would have notified the authorities, or asked the advice of ex–DS Tom Tring, or at least told Daisy, rather than put herself in danger by sleuth-hounding.

  Had she seen the murderer’s face? Would she recognise him if she saw him again? Or her, as the case might be. It hardly mattered as long as she couldn’t remember. But he didn’t know she had lost her memory. Was she still in danger?

  He couldn’t possibly know who she was, Daisy reassured herself, let alone trace her to her sister’s in Dorset.

  If she hadn’t seen the murder, what had she seen? The question that most interested Daisy was whether the nurse had been justified in haring off without a word. And that question was, at present and perhaps forever, unanswerable.

  “Wake up, Daisy!”

  She blinked up at him. “I wasn’t asleep, I was thinking.”

  “Deep thoughts,” Alec teased.

  “I just didn’t hear you come in. Have you found Mr. hyphen-Clark?”

  “Is that what you’ve been thinking about? I assume your thoughts were fruitless or you would have greeted me with the bit before the hyphen.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about Nanny.”

  “Don’t, love. It only upsets you.”

  “I can’t help it. Gosh, it’s late. Shall I make cocoa? Have you made any progress?”

  “Yes to cocoa.” He took her hands and pulled her out of the chair, into a hug. “No to progress, unless you count eliminating a lot of people.”

  “It counts as long as you haven’t eliminated your whole list so you don’t know where to turn.” Daisy led the way down to the kitchen.

  “It’s not that bad. We still have hyphen-Clark in the offing, for one. So far, he’s not much more than a rumour.”

  “You heard of him from someone else apart from what I passed on from Fay Fanshawe? If you see what I mean.”

  “We did, but I’m not telling you who. You haven’t heard from Petrie, I take it?”

  “Not so much as a telegram saying when he’ll be back.”

  “Blast the man! Here, let me pour the milk. You’re half asleep still. By the way, I’ve got to go in early tomorrow. Mackinnon won’t be there to do his share of the organising. He’s hopped it to Yorkshire.”

  “Not to hound poor Angela! Bad choice of words: Harass her, I mean.”

  “No, to ask her a few questions. He has a bit of a bee in his bonnet about her.”

  “You can’t possibly suspect her!”

  “You must see that she has to be on the list, love. She’s a rich woman now. Look out, don’t let the milk boil over!”

  He refused to say another word about the case. But he did promise to be home for dinner the next day, to say good-bye to Bel.

  * * *

  In the morning, Alec left early, before Daisy looked at the post. The top envelope was meticulously addressed in a round schoolboy hand to Mr. and Mrs. A. Fletcher and Miss B. Fletcher. It contained two letters, a short one from Ben and a long one from Charlie.

  Daisy read Ben’s aloud to Belinda. “‘Dear Aunt Daisy, Uncle Alec, and Belinda,’” Ben’s began. He thanked them for an enjoyable visit, which he had enjoyed very much. Only in the post script was any sign of his personality. “‘I put Charlie’s letter in the same envelope to save the stamp. It’s awfully long. Please don’t mind the spelling, he’s always in a hurry.’”

  “Let me see Charlie’s spelling. Gosh, it is long. Shall I read it to you?”

  “Just the best bits, darling. Here’s one from Angela Devenish that I simply must read.”

  “‘Dear Bell’ with two Ls,” Belinda read, “‘and Ant Daysy’—D-A-Y—I rather like it that way—‘and Uncle Alick,’ with a crossed-out K. ‘I had a fritefly good time at your house.’ The spelling of ‘frightfully’ has to be seen to be believed! And then he writes about all the things we did, all spelled wrong.” She giggled. “‘So thank you very much and please can I come again one day lots of love from Charlie.’”

  “Has he written about the Crystal Palace?”

  “Yes, let me find that bit. Here it is: He just says he wishes he’d had time to look at the monsters properly.”

  “Nothing about chasing the nannies or the police?”

  “He wrote something about hoping Mrs. Gilpin is feeling better. I only skimmed through because of you reading Miss Devenish’s letter, but I think I would have noticed if he’d mentioned the police. Why?”

  “I was a bit worried that he was more upset than he seemed here.”

  “I don’t think so, Mummy. I’m sorry Mrs. Gilpin got hurt and Aunt Lucy’s cousin got killed, but when it was happening it was just like a real live adventure story.”

  “That’s all right, then.” Daisy turned to Angela’s letter.

  After a normal salutation, Angela, never one for roundaboutation or social niceties, plunged headlong into the iniquity of Teddy’s lawyer. Cranford not only refused to hand over her inheritance immediately, offering instead to advance a piddling sum pending legal formalities, he was trying to prevent her handing over the bulk of the fortune to the RSPCA as soon as she got her hands on it. He was a coldhearted, unfeeling brute, who had no compassion for the dogs and other animals who would suffer in the meantime.

  Angela knew Daisy had the welfare of mistreated dogs at heart and she was sure Daisy must know how Cranford could be made to knuckle under. She counted on receiving her advice by return post.

  Daisy decided the best advice she could give was to herself, not to get stuck between the obdurate lawyer and the unworldly Angela. She felt for both. Now that she was able to vote, she read the political news, and she knew that whatever the government said about negative inflation, prices kept rising. Angela might give away her money and find herself in a few years with no means of supporting her own rescued dogs. Whether she could be made to see things that way when her heart was bleeding for the immediate suffering …

  But Dai
sy wasn’t going to try to explain it to her. Should she advise her to consult the Devenish family lawyer? Her family’s lack of sympathy made it unlikely that he’d approve of her plans.

  No, she’d sic Angela onto Tommy Pearson. The Fletchers’ lawyer was a family friend, stuffy at times but with an unconventional streak that just might make him able to appreciate her point of view. He had been very helpful and knowledgeable when it came to setting up a trust for the twins and Belinda, and a trust, come to think of it, might be the very thing for Angela’s dogs.

  That settled, Daisy turned her mind to the implications of Angela’s urgent desire for instant cash.

  Was DI Mackinnon right? Was it possible she had killed Freddy for the money? But why on earth would she have agreed to join him in such a pointless prank? She certainly wasn’t the sort of person to find it funny or clever. Before the dog-kicking incident, she might have gone along to indulge him or to try to keep him out of trouble. Not now.

  Daisy had a feeling she was caught in circular reasoning. It had always been one of her failings. She dismissed Angela temporarily from her mind and asked Belinda what she was going to do on her last day before the start of the summer term.

  “Mostly pack,” Bel said mournfully. “And take the twins and Nana to the Heath if it stops raining. Why does it always rain on the last day of the hols?”

  * * *

  Phillip telephoned at noon to invite Daisy to lunch. He had just got back to town and found several messages from Scotland Yard awaiting him at his hotel.

  “Dashed if I’m poking my head into that hornets’ nest,” he told Daisy. “They’d probably keep me for hours answering questions and I’ve got to be on my way to Bristol. So I’ll tell you and you can pass it on.”

  “Why don’t you come here, Phil? It’s Belinda’s last day of the hols and I don’t want to go out.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Over lunch, Phillip was avuncular, asking Bel about school and answering her questions about life in America. When he and Daisy adjourned to the sitting room for coffee, he started telling about the new type of automobile glass being developed in Sunderland. “Think of it, curved windscreens!” he said rapturously.