Revengeful Death Page 11

  ‘Not likely to forget. I was nearly wheel-clamped waiting for you: only the fact that it was a Rolls saved me.’

  ‘They respected it too much?’

  ‘I don’t think the clamp would fit.’

  ‘Well, we were in worse trouble,’ said Joe, still laughing. ‘We did get arrested.’

  ‘Detained,’ corrected Shirley, ‘only detained, but bad enough. My fault as well.’ She took a breath, as if waiting for her cue. ‘ I had that wicker cat basket with me that my brother had borrowed to bring a falcon from Scotland … he was training it, and the cats wouldn’t go in it after that, which seemed a waste. It was an old Victorian basket with a domed lid; I was rather proud of it, so I promoted it to a theatrical touring basket – we are a touring company after all, and it made me feel quite Dickensian when I piled my clothes in.’

  ‘This time she put a fur jacket in it,’ said Joe.

  ‘That old grey one?’ said Gina.

  ‘Yes, well, you know how cold we get on tour.’ There was a faint reproach in Shirley’s voice. The usually primitive conditions in which they lived as a rule – Rosie’s house was a comfortable exception – was a grievance with the troupe. ‘It’s perfectly wearable, it’s kind of mink.’

  ‘More closely related to a rat, dear, a slight drawback – not to mention the smell of mothballs.’

  Shirley passed this over. ‘I put the box in a rack above my head, so when the ticket inspector came down the train he saw it, he stared, then he said: Is that animal dead, miss? And Joe said—’

  ‘I said, “ for many a long year”,’ put in Joe. And when we got to Waterloo we were taken off for questioning. I think they thought we were criminal or IRA.’

  In spite of herself, Gina giggled – she was a famous giggler, as her troupe knew. ‘You’re only telling me this to cheer me up.’ She gave them a suspicious look. ‘I believe you’re making it up.’

  ‘Is that such a bad motive?’

  ‘It did happen,’ said Shirley, relieved to see Gina relax. ‘More or less like that.’

  ‘We might build it up.’ Gina had changed into the theatrical mode. ‘ Make a sketch of it, see what develops.’ She believed in the idea of ‘natural theatre’.

  Someone had been pressing on the doorbell demanding admittance for some time now.

  Outside in the hall, on her way to answer the door, Rosie heard the laughter, thought she recognized Gina’s giggle. ‘ She’s cheered up. She had a face like death when she came in with the paper. Wonder if she’s on anything? Have I heard rumours or have I heard rumours?’ She drew in a deep theatrical breath. ‘Another day, another death.’ It would not be right to say that Rosie was enjoying herself but she liked drama. She held out her hand, studying her newly painted nails, done in honour of the lunch at the Savoy. She had taken her nails and her hair to a hairdresser who claimed to be Charmian Daniel’s old friend. ‘Known her for ages,’ Baby (Beryl Andrea Barker) had said, leaning over Rosie’s hands. ‘I’ll make you a special price since you’re a friend of hers.’ This was a lie – both parties knew it, but both enjoyed the flattery. ‘Knew her before she married. Lovely man, though.’

  Rosie agreed about Humphrey, he was a lovely man, but not, she had decided, suitable for the theatre world. His talents were quite other. Also his motivation. She suspected that what motivated him was a feeling that Charmian’s career was moving on, while his was dead. She would have to tell him this over lunch. ‘Listen,’ she would say, ‘I have had a splendid thought: you are an ideas man. The history of the theatres in Windsor needs writing, been years since one was done, lots to add, you could do it. There is quite a lot to say, more than you think, and I know where the records are …’ She would say this to Humphrey while she sipped her champagne. She hoped he gave her champagne.

  When she heard two clear rings at the door, she knew who it was: her friend Charmian. No one rang the bell the way she did. Police training.

  ‘Darling!’

  Charmian did not say darling back: not her style. Indeed, she looked grim-faced. Rosie could understand. Murder made you look that way. Rosie had appeared in several crime plays: one Miss Marple, a John Coffin on TV and a long-running police series also on TV, so she knew how it went. Real life was not like that, of course, she was worldly enough to know, but there was a flavour of it.

  ‘Come in, dear.’

  Charmian was already in, with her official face full on.

  ‘What a life, dear. I know why you’ve come.’

  ‘I wonder if you do.’

  ‘Not to see me, or to talk about Humphrey,’ said Rosie shrewdly. ‘Official business. Who are you after? If it isn’t me, then it must be one of my lodgers, and since there’s no one here except old Monty Minder, who more or less lives here, then it must be one or all of the Trojans.’ For a wild and horrible moment, she wondered if she had a houseful of murderers under her roof.

  ‘No, just one – Gina Foster.’ Charmian sounded weary.

  ‘You’re dead tired,’ said Rosie with sympathy, as she nodded towards the sitting-room door. ‘Help yourself: she’s in there, they all are. Want me to announce you?’ She did a good line in announcing, the product of a long life on the boards, in which, in the early days at least, parlourmaids had played a part.

  Charmian shook her head. ‘No, no need.’ She pushed open the door. The laughter had died away when the doorbell was heard; silence greeted her.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Charmian said. ‘Not interrupting a meeting or a rehearsal?’

  Gina stood up. ‘Nothing like that.’ She came forward slowly. Shirley and Joe, who always did everything together, stood up too: they moved to stand behind her. ‘Sit down, you two,’ she said, without turning her head. ‘It’s me she wants.’ She stood there, tall, handsome, awkward with defiance. ‘Go ahead, I sort of expected you.’ There was a slight tremble in her voice, whether deliberate or not you could not tell. You always had to remember, Charmian told herself, that she was an actress.

  Charmian looked around the room at the assembled Trojans, where even Emma had crept in at the last minute. Her unwanted audience. ‘Can I speak to you alone?’

  ‘I don’t mind them listening.’

  ‘I do,’ said Charmian gravely.

  Rosie was at the half-open door, ready to hear all and be helpful. ‘There’s a small room across the hall, you can have that. Not too warm, I’m afraid, but private.’

  A dark, dusty, unloved room with stiff chairs and a dead rug, which might once have belonged to some animal. It felt like a mausoleum, Charmian thought, as she and Gina went in. She closed the door firmly upon Rosie.

  Gina sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs and burst into speech. ‘ I know why you want to see me: I knew Pip, I know Mary March, and I knew the girl that’s just been killed … Well, not knew, she came here, she was in the street waiting for me, and told me she wanted to go on the stage … That’s all I know of her. We get people like her all the time. I said what I could – not much – and she went away.’

  Charmian nodded. It fitted in with what she already knew.

  ‘Just one contact too many,’ said Gina bitterly.

  ‘Where were you yesterday evening?’

  ‘Here. On my own.’

  ‘Someone saw you around, I dare say?’

  Gina shrugged. ‘ I don’t know. I went to bed early.’

  ‘What were you wearing yesterday?’

  ‘Jeans, shirt.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In my room.’ Gina did not move.

  ‘I need to take them away for examination. Can anyone confirm you were wearing them?’

  ‘Rosie, I dare say, probably Shirley too. I doubt if anyone else noticed.’

  ‘I’ll come up to your room to collect them.’

  As they walked up the stairs, Charmian observed Gina closely; the woman was controlled but nervous. Why so nervous, she asked herself, unless there is indeed reason for it?

  Gina’s room was tidy, but t
he table in the window was piled with books, files of papers, bundles of scripts and several back copies of The Stage. Gina went to a wall cupboard. ‘I don’t have many clothes … these are the jeans, and here’s the sweater.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Charmian took them to the window where the light was better. The jeans were clean but had clearly been worn several times. She examined them carefully, then folded them over her arm, while she turned to the sweater. On the pale sleeve there was a reddish-brown streak. She raised an eyebrow as she looked at Gina. ‘This looks like blood.’

  Gina began to shake. ‘I didn’t know … I don’t know …’ She was frantically pushing up her sleeves, studying the flesh. ‘I must have cut myself.’ Charmian added the sweater to the jeans. ‘You’ll have to come

  down to the station with me, Gina.’

  Gina did not answer.

  Into the silence, Charmian said: ‘I’d better take the keys to the

  Rolls too, so we can have a look at it.’

  Gina said: ‘I feel like spitting.’

  Chapter Eight

  Charmian had arranged to meet Jack Headfort early that evening for an unofficial case conference, before which she sped home to Maid of Honour Row to feed the cat and to see her husband, who had an engagement of his own that night.

  Humphrey had already departed, leaving a note on the kitchen table.

  Sorry to be out. I missed you all day. Had long talk with Rosie, she sees me as too intellectual for the stage, and suggests I write a history book. But I want the smell of the theatre. Talk about this when I get back?

  She opened a tin for the cat, changed her skirt and shirt for jeans and another shirt, sprayed on some Guerlain (for Jack Headfort? a voice inside asked. What are you thinking of?). Not for Jack Headfort, she answered herself as she got into her car. For me, just for me.

  ‘We’ve got a woman question here,’ said Charmian ruefully.

  ‘Too many women, two too many,’ Jack answered. ‘And thank you for wishing them both on me.’

  ‘I thought I ought to distance myself, I was getting too close.’

  It was late evening. The two were sitting over a drink, which was tea, although both of them would have preferred whisky, in Headfort’s office. In the distance, down the corridor, came the noise of officers going about their business but this did not disturb the talkers.

  Headfort poured them both some more tea. His wife, who seemed more loving lately and might stay with him, was out that evening at her weekly dance class, while, as he knew, Sir Humphrey was doing duty as a Gentleman Usher at a royal reception in the Castle – one of the obligations that fell upon a trusted courtier. It was held as an honour but it could be boring, for your duty was to look after the arriving and departing guests and to see that no one got lost or looked unhappy.

  So since both spouses were respectably occupied, it gave Charmian and Headfort a chance to talk.

  ‘How did you manage?’ Charmian asked.

  ‘Well. With sympathy.’ Headfort spoke with satisfaction. ‘ I said: “What I should like from you, Miss March, if you feel up to it, is some background information.”’

  ‘And did she provide any?’

  ‘Not to speak of, but it got us started.’ He was pleased with himself. ‘As I say, I took March first; neither woman knew the other one was in the building. March had been allowed home after my first questioning this morning and was not too pleased to be called back. I could have done with Dolly Barstow’s soothing presence.’ This was a joke – both of them knew that Dolly was not always soothing, nor intended to be. ‘But she was at the dead girl’s school. She’ll tell you about that herself.’

  Charmian nodded: she knew she could rely on Dolly Barstow. Very soon now, she must see that Dolly moved to higher things in her career, especially if her own career was going to take a dip. She owed it to Dolly.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I let March off lightly this morning because she became hysterical. I wasn’t sure if it was genuine or put on.’

  ‘One never is with her,’ said Charmian with feeling.

  ‘But I played it safe.’ Without a word he had changed what they drank to whisky, which Charmian accepted with a shrug. Perhaps he drank more than he should, but it was the end of the day and he knew that he could be looking forward to some heavy days ahead: these murders sent up signals of tension, with bad tempers and overwork on the way. ‘She was crying so I offered her coffee, talked a bit, asked a few questions. She stuck to it that she knew nothing about the girl, who was all the same found outside where she lived.’ Unconsciously, he put an emphasis on this comment. ‘Or her death which, she said again, was a complete mystery to her. Or the blood on her garage door – she didn’t know anything about that either. It is the girl’s blood, by the way, tests confirmed it.’

  ‘I never doubted it.’

  ‘No, nasty business. March insists that not only does she know nothing, but it is all aimed at her, and she points to the letters. Says she fears for her life.’

  ‘What about the letters? I suppose you have them?’

  ‘Yes, just two scribbled notes, and not much to be gained from their study. No fingerprints, paper nothing special, and the handwriting …’ he shrugged. ‘Could be hers. Or not. Our expert says it’s hard to establish anything without more material.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I did get her to provide more material, got her to write out a statement. It’s gone off to be studied. I’m not hopeful. So I’m suspending judgement there. She went home about an hour ago. She was calmer, I think.’

  ‘Off to consult her solicitor, I expect.’

  ‘Could be. I don’t think so. I came round, I have to say, to believing her. I’m not saying that I believe she’ll be the next victim or that it is directed at her, but I believe she believes it. She asked for police protection. I said we would keep a watch. We are doing so, of course, for our own reasons.’

  ‘So she’s in the clear?’

  ‘No, by no means,’ Headfort said thoughtfully. ‘In view of what came out later.’

  It was not like Headfort to play games, especially of the ‘I know something that you don’t’ sort of thing.

  ‘You had better tell me.’

  He nodded. ‘Foster is still here, I think I’ll let her tell you herself.’

  ‘Right. In here?’

  ‘Why not, she’s probably calmed down by now. I don’t know whether hysteria is contagious but she and March seemed to have similar symptoms: first refusing to say much and then refusing to stop.’ He was philosophical. ‘Still, I prefer a talker to a mute – you have a better chance of getting something positive out of the interview.’ He stood up. ‘ I’ll bring her along myself. She hasn’t asked for a solicitor yet, but perhaps we should bring the matter up or we might have the Court of European Justice on to us.’

  ‘Wait a minute: the blood on her sleeve does match the murdered girl’s, that’s established. So what about her car?’

  ‘Nothing there,’ said Headfort regretfully. ‘Pity. Would have sewed it up nicely. Life’s a bugger. She keeps saying so herself … more than once.’

  ‘You’re doing a fair bit of talking yourself,’ Charmian observed.

  ‘I know. The thing is, I like Foster. Can’t help it. She’s got something.’

  ‘She’s an actress.’ Charmian’s voice was dry.

  ‘I know; that’s it, I suppose.’ He was standing by the half-open door. ‘She knows how to play the audience.’

  ‘What about March? Do you like her as well?’

  ‘In a way. But Foster, now …’ As he went through the door, he said: ‘The last woman I felt like that about ended up in a cardboard box, with her head in another.’

  It was hard to know whether to believe him when he handed out an anecdote, but experience had led Charmian to accept that there was always a grain of truth. He had done a period in an undercover unit, the source, probably, of most of his tales. There was an attractive wife, who had seemed to know how
to manage a difficult husband (although she had heard those rumours of a divorce), while maintaining her own independence. The worst thing you could do with a policeman like Headfort was always to be at home with a meal on the table. It was what he expected and shouldn’t get.

  That’s my philosophy at least, thought Charmian. The technique had been used by both parties in her first marriage to a much more senior policeman. The result had been disaster, but she still thought it worked if only one of you was operating it. At a time, anyway. You were the housekeeper one week, the spouse the next.

  She smiled to herself, deriding her own thoughts. You had to make your life the best you could – none of it was perfect.

  There were voices outside. The door was pushed open by Headfort, who let Gina Foster go into the room before him. She had herself under control.

  ‘I know now what it means when you hear that someone has been “helping the police with their inquiries”, Gina said loudly. ‘It means you have to give all your personal details – I don’t think I was asked my weight at birth, but not much else was missed out. Then you’re questioned at length about what you did and why and where, at what are presumably the times and places that matter. Then you get a cup of tea and sandwich if you want it, after which you sit alone for what seems like hours, then you go over all the questions again. It’s like a rehearsal where you don’t quite know what the director is after, nor does anyone give you the moves.’

  ‘There’s a reason for it,’ said Charmian. ‘We have to check.’

  ‘Oh yes, and after a time, well, things pop out.’

  ‘It’s a good technique,’ agreed Charmian. ‘For getting at the truth. So what popped out, Gina?’

  ‘I did go out the night of the murder … last night, was it? I’ve lost my sense of time. I didn’t stay in my room reading, or whatever other lie I told you.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I went out to meet a friend.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘I didn’t want to talk about it … didn’t seem fair to bring him into this case … I hardly know him, he’s just a man I met on tour, in the bar of the West Ascot Theatre … we got talking. He’d lived for a bit in the part of south-east London where I come from; we talked about it and other things. He liked the theatre and the show-business world. He said how much he’d enjoyed our show, that he had come specially to see it. That was …’ she hesitated, ‘pleasing. I told him we were headed for Windsor and we agreed to meet for another drink.’