Death in the Garden Page 4

  Unlike the brightly lit, organised frenzy of the hospital where Luke lay.

  Chapter Two

  At 12.50 a.m. Luke slipped into that deep coma from which he did not emerge. Eight hours later he died.

  At eight o’clock on Monday morning the police were on Edwina’s doorstep. They had taken twenty-four hours to get there; but they had had to discover her. She represented the end of a chain.

  When he was taken ill Luke had been wearing morning dress with a pretty white rose they later discovered to be made of silk in his buttonhole. The white rose had blood on it. In a breast pocket he had his wallet with his name and address. In another pocket he had his house-keys; the taxi driver had added the evening newspaper which he had folded up, and thrust into yet another pocket, believing it to be Luke’s and feeling a superstitious, even primitive, need to rid himself of any personal possession of his unlucky passenger.

  The doorbell rang and Edwina sleepily opened the door in her dressing gown.

  There were two policemen in the new mould: Detective Sergeant William Crail in a soft white shirt, short blue jacket and blue jeans, and Woman Detective Constable Elsie Lewis, also in a soft white shirt and blue denim skirt. They looked neat, clean, polite and classless. Sergeant Crail knew how to be menacing and overbearing but he did not often have to use these gifts, just to hint that he had them in reserve; WDC Lewis knew how to be tough and persistent and she used these traits all the time. They made a good pair because they liked each other enough but not too much.

  Their first call had been to Luke’s own flat, small, cosy. Bijou seemed the word. No one had answered the bell, so they looked at each other and opened the door with Luke’s own key. On the hall table was an engraved invitation to Lily’s wedding. They made a note of that: they had reason to be interested in where Luke had been in the hours before his death and where he had eaten and drunk. They might have gone straight round to Cassie then, but for the letter they found in a prominent position on Luke’s desk, as if he wanted to be sure to find it.

  On writing paper boldly headed with Edwina’s name, her private address and her gallery address, she had written:

  Dear Luke,

  Yes, if you want a meeting although I can’t think what you

  have to say about Tim. Monday at ten sharp at Packet’s

  Place as I have to get off to Edinburgh on the shuttle.

  Eddie

  Back at the station, running a quick check before being on their way, the computer turned up Edwina’s name and her report of the telephone calls.

  So for the sergeant, the anonymous telephone caller and the death of Luke were firmly knitted together in his mind from the beginning.

  Edwina knew they were police without being told and at once she thought of the telephone calls.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s about Mr Tory, I’m afraid. He’s a friend of yours? I’m afraid he’s, well, he’s dead, Miss Fortune.’ The sergeant had her name off pat, Edwina did not fail to notice that. ‘He died in St Thomas’s early yesterday.… We found the invitation to the wedding with your name and address on it.… We’re trying to trace his next of kin. We thought you might know.’

  Relief that it wasn’t the tall stranger for the moment removed all shock and surprise about Luke and she was able to answer rationally that as far as she knew he had no living relatives. Nor many friends, she added after a pause.

  ‘He works for us,’ she said. ‘For the three of us: me, Cassie and Alice. And others, publicity, PR work, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So you don’t really know much about him?’

  Edwina shook her head. ‘He knew more about us than we ever knew about him. How did he die?’ She was still trying to take it in.

  By now they were all in Edwina’s living room. No one was sitting down but standing stiffly in the centre of the room.

  ‘Ah.’ The sergeant was not committing himself. ‘Well, we’re not sure yet. About the next of kin now …’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. But I can give you the address of his solicitors. I’ve got it somewhere. I haven’t got it here. It’ll be in my gallery among my business papers, but I know it was a City firm. Oldgate Street, I think.’

  ‘Your gallery, miss?’

  ‘I have an art gallery in Covent Garden.’

  ‘Ah.’ It was his favourite word at the moment. Or seemed to be to Edwina. She wished he would change it. Then she realised that it was not a word, just a means of retaining control of the conversation.

  ‘He was at a wedding reception on Saturday? Yes. You’d be there too?’ Edwina nodded. ‘It was held at Miss Ross’s address? I think a call there is indicated. Do much eating or drinking at it, did he?’

  ‘Why are you asking me that?’ Edwina’s voice was sharp. ‘ What is all this?’

  ‘Now, Miss Fortune,’ said Elsie Lewis in a placatory way. But she didn’t push it because she recognised in Edwina’s voice the imperative, inherited from generations of the ruling class, and, against her will, responded by going quiet.

  ‘It looks as though he was poisoned, Miss Fortune,’ said the sergeant. ‘Shall we go and see Miss Ross? And would you come too? I think it would be appropriate.’

  ‘Do you mean deliberately poisoned or by accident?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. It has to be established.’ The sergeant kept his voice neutral. ‘ But we have to find out where he took the poison, and one of the last places he ate and drank before falling ill was the wedding reception. I take it he did eat and drink there?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know he did.’ Luke had certainly drunk.

  ‘And your reply to his request for an interview – what did he want?’

  Edwina said bleakly, ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘It was about someone called Tim?’

  ‘A man I was going to marry. He’s dead. He was killed in an accident about two months ago.’

  Sergeant Crail apologized. ‘I’m sorry. I can see it’s painful for you. But it might be important. Let’s leave it for now and go round to where the wedding reception was held.’

  ‘Just let me get dressed.’

  Edwina reappeared very soon in pale summer colours and white shoes. ‘We might as well walk, it’s as quick as driving.’

  At the door she paused. ‘Luke … I can’t take it in. And poisoned. No, it doesn’t seem possible … I really ought to make some telephone calls. I’m supposed to be going to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Later please, Miss Fortune. Let’s get round to Miss Ross now, if you will.’ Then he said, ‘No more unpleasant telephone calls, Miss Fortune?’

  ‘You know about those then? No, not today.’ Then Edwina went quiet as they walked round the corner to Cassie’s.

  It was a calm, hot morning, the sort of day that Edwina normally loved; there was a delicacy and gentleness about the day that suited her. It would have been a good day in Edinburgh and her pictures would have sold well, but Luke’s death altered all that. It was still hard to believe.

  Canon Linker saw them walking towards Cassie’s door as he strode through the street towards St Godrun’s. He had no difficulty in recognising that there was trouble. He knew the policeman to begin with, but he did not rush across to offer his help. Experience had taught him to keep out until asked in. You didn’t have to wait for words, he knew how to tell when he was needed and this moment was not it.

  Miss Drury and Miss Dover, just opening up their stall, also saw Edwina and the police, and were passionately interested without feeling the least desire to go forward with a sympathetic smile. They had no love of the police, had had a brush with Sergeant Crail over some drugs that had been imported, and didn’t like his style. Innocence got you nowhere with him.

  Janine Grandy saw them as she circled the Cardboard-Cut-Out Theatre which was not yet stirring for the day. She looked at Edwina who, to her acute eye, seemed to be carrying her anxiety as if she was carrying a suitcase. She shook her head and hurried on to Miss Beatrice Linker who was
her employer for the day. Janine only undertook casual, daily work. It suited her better that way and she was self-employed anyway. She noticed that in spite of her undoubted tension Edwina was dressed in a silk-twill jump suit of melon pink and looked delightful in it. Putting on weight, though. That would never do. So she smiled at Edwina who gave a tense, abstracted smile back. Janine had done temporary secretarial work for all three friends since Bee recommended her. Not their business affairs, of course, just social and personal letters.

  Edwina hardly knew she’d smiled, except that there was nice Janine Grandy and she mustn’t be rude. Noblesse oblige. She remembered that Luke too had employed Janine once or twice: she would have to be told he was dead. Damn. Dear Luke. She didn’t want to be the one to write his obituary. She turned to the sergeant.

  ‘Here we are.’

  He nodded. Of course he knew. But it was her hand that pressed the doorbell, choosing the one marked ‘House’ and not the one below the brass plate that read: ‘ C. Ross, Chartered Architect’. Not for Cassie the discreet initials, ARIBA, she put her craft big and plain.

  Round the corner Edwina could see that the caterer’s van from the Maison Blanchette was parked. So they had arrived to clear away the débris.

  ‘Must have been a lovely wedding,’ said the woman detective, volunteering an independent remark for the first time. ‘Lily Dex. I saw her walk into the church.’

  Lily had gone in at a fast trot, unwilling for once to be photographed. This was her life, private, no pictures, please.

  ‘I saw her picture in the Sunday paper next day. Of course, she’ll have lots of other weddings, I suppose.’ A tiny trace of spite.

  ‘Oh I hope not,’ said Edwina. ‘It’s my father she married, this time.’

  Cassie opened the door. The little grey cat was with her, both were yawning. Cassie had on a striped linen skirt that emphasised her height.

  ‘Early, aren’t you?’ Then she saw the policeman and her face changed. ‘Edwina, what’s up? Are you all right?’

  ‘No. Yes. Let’s come in.’

  As Cassie stood aside, a young woman with a crest of purple and yellow hair set in a cockade above her brow bounced up. She wore, a white tabard overall with the words Maison Blanchette splashed across. Behind her were two other young women.

  ‘Hi. Millie Cane. We’ve arrived to do the chores. Super party.’ Her accent was pure Sloane Ranger. ‘Bit late. Sorry about that.’ She gave a radiant smile. ‘ Was at the Windsor Horse Show last night. Kept it up a bit. Definitely fragile this morning.’ She didn’t look it, she looked as strong as one of those horses she so much admired. ‘Must get to work.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Cassie. ‘The door at the head of the stairs is yours.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ said Sergeant Crail sharply.

  Millie Cane opened her big eyes wide so that the black kohl that ringed them showed to full strength.

  ‘Look here,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Everything’s to be left undisturbed.’ He faced Cassie. ‘ Mr Tory died of poison. By the timing he could have taken it in at this wedding reception.’

  Cassie drew back, her eyes met William Crail’s on a level. She was about his height. ‘I’m confused.’ But her eyes did not look confused, he thought. Only sharp and observant. She motioned them forward. ‘Come on then, up the stairs.’

  Millie Cane padded up behind them. ‘I’m being paid, you see.’

  Cassie said to William Crail, ‘You needn’t look me through and through and up and down. I’m a woman. Another look will confirm it.’

  ‘I know,’ said William Crail. And he did. So Cassie was the second of them to learn about the death of Luke.

  Alice was the last of the three to hear of the death. She heard when she went into her shop to start the day. Her assistant, Nesta, a tiny Welsh girl, had already opened up.

  ‘Telephone,’ said Nesta, handing it over. ‘ No,’ she said as Alice raised an eyebrow. ‘ Nothing of that sort.’ Nesta knew all about the telephone calls. ‘ It’s Miss Ross.’

  She had watched cracks begin to appear in the solid wall of her employer’s friendship with the other two. She was one of those who had found their strong bond annoying, perhaps she envied them. Now she was surprised how sad it made her feel to see the tiny splits opening; one appeared now as Alice slowly picked up the telephone. Once she would have hurried.

  ‘Alice here.’ She listened. ‘That’s terrible. I’ll come right round.’ She sounded shocked.

  She got up and went to where her diary rested on Nesta’s desk. A meeting with her accountant, a call from an American buyer, luncheon appointment with a big manufacturer.

  ‘Cancel all that, please.’ She closed the book. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll be with Miss Ross. Get me there if you have to.’

  ‘It’s Mr Luke, isn’t it?’ asked Nesta, bright of eye.

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘Word gets around.’ Nesta was not willing to admit that her source was a certain taxi driver whom she was seeing a lot of these last weeks. It might be something or nothing, their relationship, and to talk about it could bring bad luck. Sometimes her dark Welsh blood stirred beneath her London chatter.

  Alice strode the few yards to Cassie’s establishment. She was very frightened. She had a strong feeling in her guts that something bad awaited her. In her own way she was as superstitious as Nesta and that morning she had seen a blackbird on her bedroom windowsill, perched there staring at her as she made up her face. Worst of all, she had first seen it reflected in her mirror. That was really bad. She was too sophisticated to admit this to herself, but it was there, and behind it all she heard her grandmother’s voice saying to her, aged ten: Never walk on the left-hand side of the street on a Thursday, and spit when you see a blackbird. Come to think of it, it was her grandmother’s wincey petticoats and tucked muslin blouses that had influenced Alice’s first collection. Or the second, anyway, the first had been different.

  Even as Alice got to Cassie’s door a police car drew up behind her and three men got out and were past her and into the house before her. Cassie met her on the stairs.

  ‘Come on up. It’s open-house day.’ She sounded resigned.

  ‘And what are they doing?’

  ‘Searching.… Glad you’ve come.’

  ‘I ought to be working,’ said Alice.

  Edwina appeared silently at the head of the stairs. ‘No work today. I ought to be in Edinburgh, Cassie was going to design a country house, but the police say No.’

  ‘You make it sound easy.’

  Now they were all together it was easier for them to face whatever there was to face.

  They had faced terrible things together before. It had been bad when Cassie had been sued by an assistant for sexual prejudice and unfair dismissal, with enough truth to make Cassie cringe. When Alice had been accused of copying another designer’s model; stealing, that had been called, but it had not been true, and Alice with many a pang of conscience (Alice had suffered then not for this, but for things done earlier) had brazened it out. Yes, they had gone through bad times together.

  One of the worst had been when Tim died and his mother swept in taking him away for burial, in a way that seemed like a condemnation of them all, and Edwina in particular. That still wanted looking into.

  ‘Poor Luke,’ said Edwina. ‘Poor Luke.’

  ‘It was in our horoscopes,’ said Cassie gloomily. ‘Remember? After Saturday it was never going to be the same again. It won’t be.’

  ‘He wanted to see me,’ said Edwina. ‘He said he wanted to talk to me about Tim. This morning it would have been. About now.’

  ‘I wonder what he wanted?’

  ‘I shall never know.’ Edwina kept her voice level. ‘Not now.’

  ‘We could consult our horoscopes.’

  ‘Don’t, Cassie. It’s not funny.’

  Alice said, ‘You two know more than I do. You’ve seen the police, they’ve
talked to you.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Tell what you know,’ she commanded. ‘So Luke is dead. He was poisoned. What sort of poison and how?’

  Edwina and Cassie looked at each other and it was Cassie who answered. ‘They don’t say much but Luke died of a dose of an irritant poison. I think they have had a guess at what it may be, but they did not name it while I was listening. Funny note in the voice, though, as if it meant something odd to them. Almost jokey, damn them.’

  She paused. ‘And now they are looking to see if they can find traces of the poison here. Going through every glass and dirty coffeecup, I suppose.’

  ‘I wonder if they expect to find anything that way?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose these forensic scientists have techniques. Perhaps they just use their noses to begin with. Or the sense of taste.’

  Edwina said, ‘I’m going to see what’s going on.’

  She went out of the sunlit room, up the short flight of stairs and through the big double doors to the room where the wedding party had been held. She saw the police squad spread around the room, not tasting the remains in every glass and dish – that had been entirely a flight of Cassie’s fancy – but instead neatly packing away everything that had contained food and drink in flat containers ready to be removed for forensic study. The reality of it all hit her then. Until that moment it had been a horrible dream, but now the total professionalism of what was going on carried a worse conviction. This was not only real, it was threatening. She felt the threat, she felt menace in the air.

  She turned her head to where she could get a view of Cassie’s kitchen. Sergeant Crail was in there doing his own inspection. He had his gloved hand on the decanter of whisky and was sniffing a glass. His gaze was on Edwina. If she expected him to make some comment or offer an explanation, none was forthcoming.

  ‘Can I make some coffee?’

  ‘Not just at the moment if you don’t mind. Miss Fortune.’ There was no hint of mirth in his voice. Some people made jokes about Edwina’s name. This he would never do, not his style at all, but he managed to convey that he felt her name to be strange. He never tried to put people at ease. Rather the reverse.