Landscape with Corpse, page 9
‘Want to go and get your shower?’ I asked, nodding towards the bathroom door.
‘Ooh—yes. I can’t wait…’ Anything to change the subject. ‘Then we’ll do that.’
‘We?’
‘Yes. You use the shower while I have a bath. Or the other way round, if you like. They’re separate. Shower stall and bath.’
‘Oh…I couldn’t. Can’t I just go and have a shower—on my own?’
‘And me wait?’
‘It wouldn’t take long,’ she assured me.
I smiled at her. ‘But I don’t want to wait, either.’
‘Then you’re wasting time just talking,’ she pointed out briskly.
There are women so shy that they don’t want even other women to see them stripped. Perhaps it’s the same with men. Yet I was equally eager for my bath or shower—and it was our room, after all.
‘Very well,’ I said, ‘I’ll go first, and with a bit of luck Oliver will be back in time.’
‘In time for what?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘I could ask him to sponge your back,’ I offered her. ‘If, as I said, he returns in time.’
That did it. At least, I had got something moving. She was in the bathroom inside five seconds, and I heard the latch thrown over.
The difficulty now was that I might lose her confidence, and I had so much to ask her. But, if my understanding of her was correct, she craved company, and I wanted to get to know her better, to a point where she would be willing to offer me confidences she would normally cherish to herself. In the first instance, I wanted to know whom she suspected of having slashed her precious painting. She had hinted that she had a good idea as to who had done it—that it was a woman’s work. But the only women in our group (and presumably in the group at the time of the slashing) had been Jennie and Pam.
Both of whom were now dead.
It was impossible that Elise could have killed Pam. She could not have found the opportunity in order to have done that. But she had found such an opportunity to kill Jennie; in fact, she had contrived the opportunity. I found it difficult to accept that, even with her extreme delicacy, she would elect to walk all the way to that ladies’ toilet, and reject the privacy of umpteen acres of woodland. Elise had (if Jennie had been the one to slash her painting) an excellent motive. She had provided herself with the opportunity. And she might have found it quite easy to come across a weapon. Anything handy and hard would have sufficed.
I realised that the shower had been turned off. ‘There’s a bathrobe over the rail,’ I called out.
‘It’s all right. I’m dressing again.’ Too modest to walk the corridors to her room in a bathrobe! Oh dear me. Yet I would have expected her, after a shower, to have wanted clean underwear next to her skin. But there was no point in arguing about it.
There was a knock at the door—or rather, a thump—and Oliver’s voice. ‘Are you decent?’
He must have meant Elise, because he would not have troubled about me.
‘Come in,’ I called out. ‘We’re decent.’
‘I can’t open the door.’
I did so, and found him with a glass of what looked like pale sherry in each hand. He had had to kick the door.
‘Where is she? Has she left us?’
‘She’s in the bathroom.’
‘I’ve brought you a drink, Elise,’ he called out, his head close to the bathroom door. ‘D’you want it in there?’
‘Oh no…no!’
‘She’s a delicately brought-up young lady,’ I told him. ‘We have to treat her with extreme care. Like porcelain.’
‘Ah yes.’ He put one glass on the bedside table and handed me the other. ‘Will that do you, my pet?’ he asked.
I wished he wouldn’t call me that. It was only recently that he had been doing it.
‘Thank you. And now tell me what you’ve found out.’
He shook his head. Nothing relevant.
The bathroom door opened, and Elise appeared. Her colour was even higher than before, and she looked startled. There had been no shower cap in there, because I had no need of one. Towel-dry my hair, and it springs back into place. Hers was still damp, and hung about her face in a tangled, auburn mass.
‘Oh!’ she said, abruptly aware of this as she caught sight of Oliver.
‘There’s a sherry for you, Elise,’ Oliver said. ‘Buck you up. It’s on the bedside table.’
‘Oh…oh, thank you, but really…at this time of day…’ She gave him a shy smile. ‘Thank you for the thought, Oliver.’
He caught my eye, and I inclined my head. We were at the stage where we were very nearly able to converse without words.
‘I’ll leave you two girls together, then,’ he said, ‘and I’ll go and give myself a good old soak.’
Elise smiled weakly.
Oliver sings in his bath. At home, it is more often than not something a little risqué, but in deference to company he ventured into: ‘On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep’, which, he had told me, his father used to sing. Randolph Sutton’s song, surely!
It did occur to me that singing, at this time of loss and distress, was not exactly appropriate. But actually, neither of us had known the dead women with any intimacy, and we could not be expected to mourn for them. To do so might even have been considered as cynicism. And Oliver was ex-police, after all. He was trained to consider murder in a dispassionate manner.
Yet Elise frowned her disapproval.
‘Do you always come here alone?’ I asked her.
She walked over to stare out of the window again. ‘Well…yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t know any other painters, back home.’
‘Aren’t you a member of an artists’ group?’ I asked casually, sitting myself on the edge of the bed.
‘Well…Sort of. Evening classes.’
‘And no particular friend you could bring with you?’
She discovered she would like a little sherry, after all. She used it to blur her response. It was difficult for her to shake her head with the glass to her lips, and I had to guess that she meant no.
‘No young gentleman friend?’
‘Oh—my father wouldn’t approve of that.’
‘Approve? How do you mean?’
‘Going away for a week with a man!’ Her eyes were huge. ‘Of course.’
It sounded as though she approved of this attitude.
‘But you’re surely old enough to make your own decisions on things like that,’ I said. ‘How old are you, Elise?’
‘I’m twenty-two, if it’s any of your business.’ She lifted her head. I was supposed to flinch, but refrained.
‘I was just chatting,’ I told her. ‘If we’re to be friends…’ I shrugged, letting it go at that.
‘Oh…are we?’
‘Surely. You have my complete sympathy, you know, in regard to your slashed painting.’
‘I don’t want your pity, thank you.’ She was trying to maintain her dignified front, but the cracks were showing. She needed somebody, desperately needed a woman friend, but was too proud to admit it.
‘I said sympathy,’ I reminded her. ‘Not pity. Pity’s shallow. Sympathy is supportive. For instance…you’ll have realised by now that I’m a very nosy person, and can’t prevent myself from trying to dig out facts. Well—as an example—I’d like to help you to discover who slashed your painting.’
I had an uneasy feeling that this slashing episode might be linked with the present violent deaths. Two people were most certainly not involved, but if it had been Jennie, and Elise had discovered that, she was, though she might not have realised it, in a very delicate situation.
She stared at me, then turned away to look out of the window and murmured something to the glass. Oliver was now on: ‘My Old Man Said Follow The Van’. Marie Lloyd?
‘Pardon?’ I said, having missed something she’d said.
She turned. Her expression was empty of emotion. ‘I don’t need your help.’
‘Surely you need somebody’s.’ Then I realised what she’d meant. ‘You mean you’ve already got somebody helping you?’
She tossed her head, as though about to deny that, with dignity of course. Then she whispered, ‘Yes.’
My mind did a rapid run through the possibilities. A man, certainly. Her rejection of me suggested that she didn’t wish to confide in another woman. So…who? Not the twins. She had implied a person, whereas the twins were never singular. Not Paul, either. His interests were—or had been—centred on Jennie. So…who else was there? Geoff?
‘Geoff?’ I asked gently.
I could hear the bath water running away. Oliver, in a very short while, would be sweeping out, wrapped—no doubt inadequately—in the bathrobe. Then I would have lost her.
She tucked her lower lip between her teeth, and nodded.
‘So it’s Geoff who’s your friend? Geoff you come here to meet?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘He’s not married, then?’
‘No.’ Then it registered. ‘Oh—no! Of course not.’
‘Otherwise you wouldn’t for one moment…’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Because he doesn’t respond?’
‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’ She was all dignity again.
‘Oh…come on, Elise. You’re in love with him. Don’t deny it.’ She made no attempt to, but her eyes told me everything.
‘And he?’ I asked. ‘Does he reciprocate your feelings?’
She tossed her head, and the hair flopped about heavily. ‘You don’t have to wrap it up in fancy words, Philipa. Yes—we want to get married. I come here as often as I can, and he’s got a cottage, round the back of the Glasshouse. He does other courses, you know. Oh…he’s ever so clever. There’s a ramblers’ group he does, and a photography one. He’s got his own darkroom in his cottage. I book a single room here, and just untidy the bed each morning. There! I’ve shocked you.’
I very nearly laughed, and would thereby have lost her for ever. But I managed to remain quiet and involved.
‘Not shocked, Elise,’ I assured her. ‘Don’t be foolish. It’s your life. So why not marry him, and move in with him?’
‘Oh…I couldn’t do that. It would upset my father.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘He thinks artists are drunken louts.’
‘Does he? That hardly describes our lot.’
‘But look at the Impressionists, he’d say. Spent all their time in bars and nightclubs. Look at their pictures, if you don’t believe it. And always painting women having baths or sitting naked on the grass with men friends. How could I take Geoff to him?’
‘Offhand,’ I told her, ‘I can’t think of anybody more respectable than Geoff. Except Oliver, of course. You ought to try throwing a few more artists’ names at your father. Reynolds, Turner, Gainsborough. Surely they were respectable enough for anybody. Don’t you think you’re being…but it’s not my business. Now—tell me—has Geoff got anywhere with discovering who slashed your wonderful painting?’
She shook her head. I didn’t believe her. Yes, he had, her eyes told me.
‘And he told you who?’
She nodded, lower lip between her teeth.
‘When did he tell you, Elise?’
She turned her head away.
‘Last night, for instance?’
I thought then that I had lost her. She put a hand to her untidy and damp hair.
‘I’ve brought along a hair-dryer,’ I offered.
‘It’s all right. I’d better get along…’
‘Did he tell you last night, Elise?’ I had to be very gentle with her.
She stared at me numbly. She had revealed a sacred confidence. I put a hand to her arm. ‘Who?’
‘Jennie,’ she whispered.
I released her, and she was out of the door in a flash. I closed it after her.
Oliver came up behind me, the bathrobe wrapped around him.
‘And that’, he said, obviously not having missed a word of it, with the bathroom door opened just a crack, ‘really puts the cat amongst the pigeons.’
I said nothing, but headed for the bathroom. My turn at last.
8
We were in the otherwise empty and silent bar, what was left of our group. It was four o’clock, and we were gathered in one corner, with Geoff as the chairman. It was he who had arranged this meeting.
I assumed that Geoff had accepted that he was still our leader, and thus carried a load of responsibility on his shoulders, not simply in regard to the continuity of our painting programme, but even for the deaths. If he had been earlier and more alert with his routine tour of our sites, he might have prevented, or in some way averted, the double tragedy.
The twins seemed to have adopted a detached attitude, as though they were there merely because their presence had been requested, yet they plainly felt it was none of their affair, at all. They wished to be no more than spectators.
Paul was repressed, pale and morose, there because he had been requested to attend. In one short period he had been deprived of both a wife and a mistress. He seemed bemused, his brain paralysed by the double impact.
And Elise was there—now for some reason unable to look me in the face. Perhaps she was resenting the fact that I had drawn from her more information than she had really intended to confide.
‘What’s all this about, Geoff?’ I asked, to get things moving.
He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and now looked up at me from beneath his brows. ‘Oh…it’s something that’s been mentioned to me by one or two.’ He didn’t indicate by whom. ‘They want to go home. The policeman said he’d be round, this evening, and it’s all going to be very unpleasant. We want to know how we stand. He said he didn’t want any of us to leave, but…’ He lifted his shoulders in an expressive shrug. ‘I mean…can he prevent people from leaving, if they feel like it? That’s what they all want to know. I mean…the whole setup’s ruined now. They haven’t even got their painting equipment.’
‘All right,’ said Oliver. ‘The position at this stage is that he’s only at the beginning of his investigation, and of course he needs to have everybody available. So he’s asked us to stay, to be here when he wants us. And after all, we’re booked in for the week, and there’s really no reason for us to sit around being miserable, and staring at each other. I expect Geoff can find us something to do…’ He turned his attention to Geoff, raising his eyebrows in interrogation.
I noticed that Oliver had simply dismissed any consideration of leaving, and was taking the practical angle of deciding what we would actually have to entertain us, and fill the empty hours.
‘Well…yes,’ said Geoff. He looked round at all our faces, trying to discover any sign of enthusiasm—and seeing none.
‘But can he make us stay here?’ asked Philip. ‘That’s the point.’
‘He can only ask,’ Oliver told him. ‘At this stage.’
Then everybody started talking at once, to offer their individual grievances. Oliver had to hold up a palm to silence them.
‘Shall we just wait and see what Mr Llewellyn’s got to say about it,’ he suggested. ‘I expect he’ll make everything clear.’ He seemed very confident about that.
They all nodded, though a little reluctantly. It was sensible and valid, but they were not comforted.
Then Paul drew himself up, sitting stiffly, and looked around the group. ‘Shouldn’t we get a solicitor in on this?’ he asked.
I had expected some such suggestion, but hadn’t decided from whom we might get it.
‘A solicitor?’ Oliver made rejection gestures. ‘What on earth for?’
‘To protect our interests,’ Paul explained politely. There were half-hearted mutters of agreement.
Oliver held up his hand, again putting a halt to the sudden flow of ‘yes’s and ‘no’s. ‘Surely it hasn’t come to that. By no means. If you’re actually taken in for serious questioning at the station, then you could ask for a solicitor to be present. But…shall I tell you something? When I was in the force, we always took a request for a solicitor as an indication that we had our man—or woman. If we had any doubts about the arrest, that is. I mean, looking at it psychologically, why would they need a solicitor if they’re innocent? There’d only be the truth to tell, and that doesn’t need outside help. Having a solicitor beside you implies that you’ve got something to hide. No. No solicitor—at this stage, anyway.’
They stared at him, as though he had refused them a glass of water when they were parched.
‘I’m a solicitor,’ put in Philip politely, gesturing with his pipe. There was silence. They looked at each other, and shook their heads. Philip was too close to us, too involved.
‘And I’m an accountant,’ Martin put in. ‘I do Phil’s accounts, and I can tell you, he charges the earth.’
‘And I’m civil. I’ve never done any criminal work.’ Philip nodded, dismissing the idea finally and positively.
Oliver sighed. ‘Let’s leave the question of solicitors for now,’ he suggested. ‘Let’s just wait and see what the superintendent’s got to say for himself.’
That seemed to put an end to our little conference. They got to their feet and moved around aimlessly.
And as Geoff stood and stretched, I said quietly, ‘Could we just have a word, Geoff?’
‘Why not?’ He looked from Oliver’s face to mine. ‘What’s this about?’
I suggested that we should go outside and do a little walking. Geoff nodded. ‘There’s something I wanted to do in the Glasshouse, anyway,’ he said. ‘Shall we go there, and talk if you want to?’
He led the way through a rear door, which proved to provide a short cut to the Glasshouse, and held open the door for us to precede him.
Once we were inside, I asked, ‘What was it you wanted to do?’ All was neat and tidy.
He shrugged. ‘I’m trying to keep ahead of things, so I’m wondering what painting we can do, without going out of the grounds. Two choices—work in here from photographs that I’ve taken in the district, over the years. It would be something to do. Or I could set up a still life, or a number of them. The grounds are packed with flowers. Or…of course…’ he went on gravely, inserting a third idea, ‘we could do some nude studies, if one of our two ladies cared to oblige.’
