Murder in oils 15 cliffie bonus

 

Chapter 15

 

Alexander was glad of the long drive with his father, to talk through his findings, his beliefs, his conjectures, and what he could prove, and what he could not.

“You’re going to have trouble linking Basil’s painting with the autopsy results,” said Simon. “If you take a piece of tracing paper and put it over, and draw out the figure and Helen falling, to show a hidebound judge how it is constructed you might get respect; I understand the Yard considers you a fairly competent art expert?”

“Yes, I’ve had cases of art theft before now,” said Alexander. “Thanks, Pater, good idea.”

“I’ll ‘Pater’ you, you scamp,” said Simon. “If the shoe print fits, that’s the sort of solid evidence that judges like.  You did bring a camera, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I plan to photograph the still room,” said Alexander. “I’ve got the vest-pocket Kodak I got during the war. It’s not the best camera in the world, but they made me give back the Zeiss on the downed Heinkel Albatross. It was a big old thing, anyway, designed to take plates eight by ten inches, for blowing up photos to see small features of the landscape from their spyplane.  It was a beauty,” he added.

“A spy camera would be,” said Simon. “The sort of thing where they take six or seven years polishing the lens.”

“Yes, and it had some photos over the enemy lines,” said Alexander. “Which, of course, a lowly major did not even get to see.”

“So I should hope,” said Simon, severely. “Above your paygrade, Tankie!”

Alexander laughed. His father had, after all, been in Intelligence during the war years.

“I’m on the right track, though, aren’t I?” he said.

“Are you asking me, son, or telling me?” queried Simon.

“Telling you,” said Alexander.

“Then you know in your own mind that you have all the pieces,” said Simon.

“The drugs business complicates matters,” said Alexander.

“Or simplifies it,” said Simon.

“Sir, are you out of your mind? How can it simplify things?” demanded Alexander.

“Well, son, you have a murder of a woman for the rather flimsy motive that her friend from university, grateful for a place as housekeeper, was in love with David. Does she strike you as so in love with David that she would kill to get him, and kill someone to whom she owes something of a debt of gratitude?”

“No,” said Alexander. “I’m just thinking that, having gone through most of her degree in chemistry, she more than qualifies as a pharmacist’s assistant, and even a female isn’t going to start on less than a hundred and twenty quid a year.  David pays Gloria eighty, because I asked, and her keep is worth another sixty-five, but she’s tied to the house. And with her studies, she could walk through any pharmacy exam.  An ordinary shop assistant gets almost twice that, so she ought to be holding out for over three hundred a year. More, if she’s willing to develop film as well. And so why would she stay as a housekeeper, when she could save up to complete her exams, even if not enough to complete university?”

“Because there’s something she wants, and David is a convenient excuse for it,” said Simon. “And that something is because she’s a druggist in a very literal sense, she has her own pharmacy, in a big house in the middle of nowhere, with a patent air conditioning system to get rid of the smells,  didn’t you write that David had extractor fans in the whole kitchen complex ducted into the sewers?”

“Yes, it seemed outrageously excessive to me, but I suspect him to suffer from dyspepsia and nausea from strong smells. He gets easily put off eating.”

“Well, less silly than it sounded, in that case. I imagine the room she has taken as a still room has the same system.”

“By Jove! It explains why the nurse hasn’t asked innocent questions about the stink of opium.”

“Exactly. The house is perfect for her. She may have intended it for a stopgap at first until she discovered what being queen of the kitchen might mean. Did you know that Foursquares has an account with Fortnum and Mason, and a lot of food is delivered? Cooked meat and pies and the like?”

“Well, I’m damned!” said Alexander. “Whew! So she’s not the fantastic cook David brags about. I should have asked the servants.”

“You should.  But you phoned and asked me to look into her parents, and I dug my nose in other things too.”

“Her parents, yes. What did you find out?” asked Alexander.

“They lost all their money on a very dodgy scheme, involving the black market during the war, so the family appear to be bad’uns all round,” said Simon. “Her mother supposedly took an overdose of sleeping pills, and her father, distraught, forgot to take his digitalin pills.”

“In other words, she murdered them both, by poisoning the mother and replacing her old man’s pills with placebos she had made,” said Alexander.

“You’ll never prove it,” said Simon.

“No, but it confirms for me that she is a ruthless operator, and that I am glad my Ida is safe.”

“Me too,” said Simon.

“I don’t know if Helen saw something, or if Gloria just got impatient waiting for her to die; she was very ill after a miscarriage... Hell’s Bells! Suppose Helen confided that she was pregnant? And the party was to celebrate that... and she gave Helen a strong abortifacient?  Getting rid of Helen, and putting Ida out of play by getting her hooked in one fell swoop. Helen is ill, might even die, Ida is blamed by David, but Ida manages to survive cold turkey, and a heart attack cause by improper treatment, and with Basil’s help, starts getting well. Controlling her is important. She is too clever to be allowed too much independence.  Using Keller fails, but a governess works well. I suspect Gloria would not even have quibbled at Ida going to university, knowing that once she shook the dirt of Foursquares from her feet, she’d be long gone.”

“And then there was Basil,” said Simon.

“Yes, and she tried to get him to take opium, but he did not like being out of control,” said Alexander. “I think she always meant to kill him at the same time as Helen. Perhaps she intended for him to be found dead, having fallen from his chair, at the bottom of the stairs; but Campbell got home early. And Basil was strong enough to do more than she could have possibly imagined.”

“He was an amazing man,” said Simon, quietly.

“And I will look after Ida – for him, as well as for me,” said Alexander. “Turn left, here, it’s quicker.”

“David won’t like a strong, managing woman, from what you’ve told me,” said Simon.

“No, and therein the flaw in her plan,” said Alexander. “I fancy she believes she is making herself indispensible to him, where actually, she’s irritating him. She wants to get her hands on Ida’s money, but more than that, she wants Ida out of the way.”

“The money counts, though.”

“Yes, she’s greedy, and it hurts her to have to see nearly fifty thousand quid flutter out of her reach. I think her attempt to gas Ida was in order to save her at the last minute, so that she could posit that Ida was not in her right wits, had not the capability to run her own  affairs, and therefore should be declared an imbecile in David’s protection, unable to sign a will, unable to marry, and with the right drugs given and withheld, she could even have convinced a board of psychologists that Ida needed care. And then David would get the money. Now I think of it, there was a light under her door; she hadn’t gone to sleep. But Campbell’s nose is uncannily good, and he picked up what was going on, and me thundering up the stairs put the kibosh on her felonious little plans.”

“From East End slang to Gilbert and Sullivan?”

“Have you got anything against Gilbert and Sullivan?”

“No, it just amused me.”

“I am a product of my time,” said Alexander. “So, Gloria’s motive is to keep her drug factory secret.  Helen was just an impediment to her long term plan, and Basil and Ida mere incidentals.”

“More or less, in a nutshell,” said Simon. “A ruthless woman of esuriently venal rapacity.”

“I knew I didn’t like her,” said Alexander.

 

 

Alexander directed his father down a cart track to park.

“No way the lights are going to shine into the windows of the house, and if we cut across a field, we are into the property. Round the garage, and then in through the access panel. What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“By the time we’re there, it will be eight. Dinner is at eight, sharp, or David will know the reason why,” said Alexander.

“I suppose once she marries him, he will have a tragic accident,” said Simon.

“Well, I could almost understand that one,” said Alexander. “He’s a tick. He was lucky in Helen, in that she found his inherent tickishness endearing; or at least, she didn’t mind it. I don’t know what she was doing at university, she doesn’t seem to have had many brains, and certainly no gumption, but I suppose there are the little fools who swan through and somehow manage to avoid learning anything.”

“Too many, and it isn’t just the girls,” said Simon. “Good grief! Is that the house?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Alexander.

“Ida flattered it,” said Simon. “Any self-respecting sewerage works would die of shame to look like that.”

“He had some great ideas, but no vision to make it attractive as well as clever,” said Alexander. “I think I’m sorry for David. He has no idea what a little tick he is, or how he manages to be one.”

“You’re probably the only person who is.”

“More than likely.  Now, Ida told me how to do this...” Alexander found the rivets that were no such thing, to unlock the access panel.

“Looks tight in there,” said Simon.

“Less so than in a tank,” said Alexander. “And probably a reasonable temperature throughout, not baking in the sun, freezing in the cold and always wet from condensation. I know that the tank was a game changer, but I doubt it will catch on; not unless they can get it going faster than walking pace, and with a better field of view. It’s a novelty, but not much use against modern munitions.  You’d have to be able to build hundreds of them, going at a decent speed to make any serious tactical advantage, and backed up by men on equally mobile transport.”

“Who knows,” said Simon, who was a bit more knowledgeable about the planned mass tank attacks of improved vehicles for the final push of 1919 which never happened, once Germany began losing faster than the allies could win. Such things were still top secret, even from his son.

Simon followed Alexander down the ladder, pulling the hatch back into place.

“No point letting a draught in, or letting anyone out see that we’re in,” he said. Alexander had switched on an internal light, which was dim, but sufficient, and led him out of another panel into a large, meticulously clean room, with benches, cupboards, and work surfaces, including a gas stove.

“I can smell the ruddy opium,” growled Alexander. “It’s coming in raw; how are they getting a stink like that past customs?”

“Something stronger smelling?” suggested Simon.

Alexander frowned.

“Someone went into the haberdasher’s as I passed it,” he said. “I was almost bowled over by the scent. He’s importing scent legally, and paying the duty, to cover the smell of opium.”

“That’s cheek,” said Simon.

“Here she’s boiling it in lime to make into tablets, and there’s a kitchen grater to grate it into tobacco,” said Alexander. “Hell’s bells!”

“What?” said Simon.

“Acetic anhydride... chloroform... sodium carbonate... ether... hydrochloric acid. She has the works to turn it into heroin,” said Alexander. “These look fairly new; I think that’s a more recent endeavour.”

“There are plenty of young men, injured, and with less fortitude than Basil, who would pay anything for its brief oblivion,” said Simon.

“A pound of that would sell, once broken up and cut, for more than her yearly wage,” said Alexander, soberly. “I hope she’s careful; the last part is rather volatile.”

“I’ll be glad when you’ve made your pinch,” said Simon. “Take your pictures, and let’s leave.”

Alexander fished out his folding camera, and his somewhat less concealable flash gun. He recorded everything onto the tiny 127mm film, being careful what he chose to photograph in case his flash gun failed, and because of the limited number of pictures.

“What’s this diary?” asked Simon.

“Paydirt,” said Alexander, opening it.  There were dates of anticipated visits to France, meetings with Jonathon Grantham, and parties he wanted to attend. Alexander copied out dates and venues in his own notebook.

 

Then the two men retreated, leaving everything as they had found it.

“Time?” asked Alexander.

“Almost eight thirty,” said Simon.

“I’m going to risk throwing gravel at my bedroom window where Campbell should have returned,” said Alexander. “And the bathroom.”

There was a light in the room in which he had been sleeping, just beyond the end of the balcony which served the studio. Alexander threw some gravel from under the balcony.

The light went out. Shortly thereafter was the ominous click of the cocking of a weapon.

“Orroight, ‘oo’s muckin’ abaht out there?” came Campbell’s voice from the balcony.

“Me, Campbell, and my father,” said Alexander, meekly. “I’m glad you’re on the ball, and I heard no such thing as a weapon cocking if you don’t have a licence for it.”

“I dunno what sahnd you mean,” said Campbell. “Come on in, an’ I’ll make a nice cuppa.”

Alexander led his father up the steps, through the half-light of the studio, and into the bedroom, which was decidedly cosy with three of them.  Campbell disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with three steaming mugs of tea.

“I been developing the pics of all them shoes,” he said. “Gladdie got them all back afore they was missed, nipping in to collect Lady Baskerville’s with Cyril in tow. Ain’t hers, nohow; her foot’s too small. But, I got a nice curved print off of them thin curved heels That Bloody Woman wears, them triple-strap Mary Jane’s o’ hers.”

“They’re called ‘Louis heels’ because they resemble those worn in the seventeenth century by King Louis the fourteenth,” said Alexander.

“Well, you can’t trust the French to do nuthin’ straightforward and sensible,” said Campbell. “Look at their cooking.”

Alexander decided not to get into a discussion on Campbell’s prejudices.

“And for the record, the nurse?” he asked.

“Ho, well, the whole lot’s like Goldilocks an’ the three bears,” said Campbell. “Nursie’s feet are too big; Lady B’s are too small; but Glory Hallelujah, hers are jus’ right.”

“Excellent,” said Alexander. “You photographed each shoe in relation to the photo of the wound?”

“Front on, side on, shoe on its side to show the end o’ the heel, stood on the photo, and a photo of the plaster-of-Paris cast an’ all, each one wiv the name o’ the shoe’s owner held up clear in a place-setting thingy,” said Campbell.

“Good work,” said Alexander. “Can I take them all? I don’t want to leave you with the responsibility.”

“I’ll be glad to get rid of the bleedin’ lot,” said Campbell. “Uh, Major?”

“What is it, Campbell?”

“Are you sure Miss Ida ain’t got no more opium?” asked Campbell, diffidently.

“What makes you say so?” asked Alexander. “I’m not angry.”

“Well, I went and had a good butcher’s[1] arahnd her room, an’ I turned up a box under her piller wiv some o’ them funny cigarettes in,” said Campbell.

“Ohho,” said Alexander. “And did you ask Gladys about the box?”

“Yerse, it weren’t there when Gladdie made the bed, but she never checked when she ‘elped miss to check out an’ relocate,” said Campbell.

“I think it was hidden before the gas incident as ‘proof’ that Ida was backsliding,” said Alexander. “What did you do with it?”

“Picked it up in me ‘ankie, and bagged it up in a grocer’s bag for you,” said Campbell.

“I doubt Gloria left any prints, but at least it shouldn’t have Ida’s on it,” said Alexander. “Gloria’s in the drugs business, Campbell, and we need to move slow enough to catch her.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” said Campbell.

 

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[1] Butcher’s hook = look, Cockney rhyming slang