First installment: A New Case
It was the mark of a gentleman, he thought, that their single spirits ought to be very dark and their cocktails very clear. In that case, any visitor to his gloomy digs would know in an instant that he was no gentleman. The tonic bottle had run dry – had indeed been drunk dry – so for the last few measures he had been taking gin and ginger beer. In the glass it made a turgid-looking cocktail. Finally he could take it no longer. He put his hat on and went out.
He crossed the street at speed, noting vaguely that the crowd outside the Fitzroy Tavern seemed stronger than usual. He entered Wilmott’s Whiskey Emporium, and purchased a bottle of the cheapest tonic. There was little cash at the moment for essentials, let alone luxuries, but he considered gin and tonic the heartiest of necessities. Climbing the stairs to his distressing rooms, he wondered whether he should take down the sign of which he was once so proud: ‘Warwick Shadbolt, private detective’. Given the lack of work undertaken in the last few months, even in the last year, it seemed misleading. Maybe I would be happier as a road sweeper, he thought. And then he looked at himself in the mirror. He was no road sweeper. He was a short man, short and erring on the side of podgy but well-made, with dark eyes and broad shoulders that could carry off the dandyish suits he favoured. Warwick also had an extensive collection of hats but for different reasons. Hats shaded his best feature, although he did not think concur: he possessed brilliant rakeish red hair. Warwick was glad that his complexion did not betray this fact, and gladder still that he did not care for moustaches. He silently despised his father for the one gift that linked them. Sighing heavily, he flung off his hat, poured himself a back-breaking quadruple gin and tonic (low on both the ice and tonic) and settled into his reading chair to contemplate life.
The dream featured, as usual, an array of viciously twisting serpents and spears, all accompanied by intense heat. He was hacking through the Amazon, wearing a fine linen suit and accompanied by a bronzed and tablet-chested Native boy when, unexpectedly, the ten-foot high lianas with which he was grappling began to emit an ungodly sound, shrill and ringing. He turned down a different path but the ringing followed him and, as he slowly came to consciousness, he realised the sound was part of the real world rather than the fictitious.
It was, he realised logically with a sudden jolt, the telephone, a luxury he had installed so that he might receive frequent calls concerning detective work in his rooms rather than be summonsed by the landlady. It had lain unused for months, so he set about tearing up the place in a frenzy to find it. Scrambling amidst the short stories, case histories, hip flasks and all the other ephemera in his Fitzrovia flat, he located the dust-covered and indeed somewhat sorry looking telephone. God, my head hurts, he thought.
‘Warwick Shadbolt’ he answered in the most confident tones he could muster.
‘Hello?’ the reply came. It was a languid, cultured and feminine voice that, he would estimate, belonged to a London-bred woman of between twenty and thirty.
‘Detective?’ she asked. ‘Do I have the right number? From the advert in The Chap’s Gazette?’
‘Yes, I am Warwick Shadbolt. How can I help you, madam?’
‘It’s a delicate matter that concerns me, and I would prefer to discuss it in person rather than over the telephone. Would you be able to come to meet me?’
‘It’s rather late. We can make an appointment for the morning’ he replied. He was having, as he did on average every other day, the fragrant gin sweats. His nostrils were full of pure juniper.
‘Detective, it’s eleven in the morning’ she replied.
He looked and, indeed, it was light outside. Quickly calculating that he had slept for twenty hours, he cleared his throat.
‘Would you be able to come to my house immediately?’ she asked. ‘My place is in Bloomsbury and, I notice from your telephone code, that you must live locally’
‘Yes, madam, it is. You might make an amateur detective’ he joshed.
The woman laughed; a high-pitched tinkle calculated to please and amuse the observer.
‘I might indeed’ she added ‘The address is 12 Burton Street. I’ll tell my maid to expect you’
‘Very well. But may I have your name so I know who to ask for?’
‘Purse. Quintilla Purse’ she said, and slammed the phone down.
Quintilla Purse, he thought to himself. She was a notorious socialite, a Bright Young Thing of the first degree, and she knew everyone and everything. Her famous looks and figure were only matched in reputation by the legendary parties she gave, whose invites were passed on by half-whispers in the right bars, taverns and drawing-rooms of London. They were held to be frenzies of conversation and sexual deviancy, and the place where one got the best drugs in town. Eton and the Houses of Parliament had taken the step of declaring her parties, and her person off-limits. Someone he once knew had claimed to have attended a party and even met her, but he couldn’t remember who.
Any case of hers, if he could solve it, would keep him in gin and notoriety for a year and, he felt, possibly more. Quintilla was always in the papers. He rather thought the dark green silk. With the cream cravat and a full shave, of course. This was a task he completely daily in a haze of gingery self-pity. Afterwards, Warwick attempt to flush the gin out of his system with peppermint tea and half thought it had worked, but a brief stumble down two flights of stairs proved otherwise. He picked up a paper on the walk over to hers. The headline was screechy as always. There was a small lithograph of a dark haired woman but the quality of print was such that he couldn’t make out her features. Her name was Nancy Canard, and she had fallen to her death from an artist’s garret above the Fitzroy Tavern. He vaguely remembered seeing a bit of a scrum outside yesterday.
Quintilla Purse had a Persian maid who flirted with him. The maid led him into a crimson drawing room decorated with cultured, immaculate, expensive and calculated taste. There were great swathes of embroidered silk covering the panelled walls, and shelves full of banned literature such as D.H. Lawrence and Saki. She had a great many volumes on chess, astronomy, Arabic art, Freud on Shakespeare and the such like, he noted. The Egyptian moulds that had been so in fashion the previous year were hidden behind two huge Edwardian ostrich feather fans. Above the fireplace rested a beautiful and striking portrait of a dark-haired woman clad in Indian dress, doing some kind of native dance, with an indecipherable expression. A chaise longue lounged provocatively before it. Deciding it might be a little forward to assume that position, he took a seat and waited.
Ten minutes passed. In that big and silent house, he could hear the maid’s heels tip-tapping across the corridors as she worked, and the gentle tick of the clock on the mantelpiece to tell him exactly how late she was and, in parallel fashion, how unimportant he was. He turned to Saki. After maybe twenty pages of the most lucid daydreams, he heard a commotion upstairs and realised the time had come. Her foot was light on the stair and then, there she was. She paused in the doorway, to glorious effect. What a sight! Even for a man of his tastes, she was spectacular. The woman was clad in white fox fur and silver satin and, although she was brunette, and a dark one at that, seemed gilded. Quintilla Purse slunk across to him, her figure like a gently padded pencil, batting the lashes that could sink a ship. Clearly she was used to men falling in love at the mere sight of her.
'You must forgive me' she said, holding her hand out for Warwick to shake. 'I've been resting. I was at a party in Chelsea when I heard the news, so I simply haven't had the time to change'
With that, she allowed a small tight smile to pass across her extraordinary white skin. He felt shifty. What on earth could this angel want or need that he could supply? They sat.
'The case I have for you is difficult and requires the utmost discretion. I see that you have read the paper. Nancy was a dear friend of mine since childhood. She had a chosen a very... different path to mine'
'Miss Canard was an artist, wasn't she?' the detective offered. .
'Yes and a prodigiously talented one. She had her biggest exhibition yet coming up in a few weeks. I refuse to believe she would endanger her own life'
'So’ he said, working quickly, for he had not yet read the article ‘it has been suggested her death was suicide. But you dispute this?'
'Yes, I do. Nancy and I met last week, and other than a mild dissatisfaction with some of her work, which was perfectly usual for her, she seemed as sunny as always. This beastly press attention is terrible for her parents and close friends to deal with, and the police seem more than particularly useless. It took six of them to break up my friend's party - a private party, I hasten to add - and yet only two attended Nancy and concluded she killed herself. I would like the matter to be... investigated, shall we say. If it were an accident, her fall, it would make it so much easier for her family to grieve and if there were any stone left unturned-'
'You would like it to be turned. I understand completely'
'Excellent. So, I suppose the first port of call would be Nancy's studio, above the Fitzroy Tavern on Charlotte Street. She lived there with her girlfriend'
With this, Quintilla looked directly at the detective.
'You're a man of the world, aren't you, Mr Shadbolt? Her girlfriend. Her female lover. Kitty Ellis. She also paints'
There seemed to be a dismissive edge to her voice.
'I'm unshockable' he replied.
'Good. Excellent. Well.. here is the key to her flat' she said, delving deep into her dress to produce, on a small silver chain, a large and rather unbeautiful key. The woman leant forward and held it out to him in a manner designed to tantalise. 'But I suppose you detectives have your own methods of entry, do you not?'
'We do indeed' he replied, with a raise of his eyebrow.
'Well then' she said, standing to indicate that his time was over, 'shall we meet in two day's time so that you may update me on progress? I have your telephone number and you may take mine from the maid. Please be as discreet as possible; Nancy's parents wish to keep her out of the papers as much as we can. And we need not discuss your fee. You shall be handsomely rewarded for your time. Do you know, Detective...'
And here she smiled, a complicit and genuine smile, and he saw that she truly was a most disarming and captivating woman, the kind who might make you do terrible things for their love and even for their favour.
'What, madam?' he replied.
'You're exactly as I thought you'd be'. And with that she swept out of the room, all pearls and furs.
As usual, he hot-footed it straight to the Reading Rooms of the British Library. His hunch was correct. She was in Debretts's. When he had first come to London, in the mid-Twenties, it had been the dream of any self-respecting, self consciously artistic middle-class child to become a real bohemian, but he had thought that it was out of fashion these days. Nancy Canard was ten years out of date. She had changed her name, he saw. Nancy Caniardiere-Wimplethorpe-Smythe was a bit of a mouthful. The daughter of Lord Wimplethorpe. Italian mother. Five years older than the age given in the Standard. For his own amusement, he looked up Quintilla's birthdate. It was ominously absent. There was a lithograph of Nancy at the Criterion attending a charitable ball with her parents several years previously. She looked like every other upper middle-class girl to him; fashionable outfit, slightly horsey face, good legs, shingled hair. So far there were no real clues or leads anywhere other than that she didn't look the type to top herself. From the payphone in the lobby he rang his friend who worked on the Hendon Gazetteer. Apart from a small gossipy piece about whether Nancy was the progeny of Augustus John (and really, out of that lot, he thought, who wasn't?) the newspaper world was just as flummoxed as he was. Warwick took a leisurely omnibus back down to Tottenham Court Road and pondered his next investigative move. After all this research he really felt like a nice lie down in a darkened room but he girded his loins and headed towards her lodgings. At the entrance to the Fitzroy Tavern he paused. Maybe just one drink first, he thought. He could collect some eyewitness accounts at the same time.
There had been a time when he had been inordinately fond of the Fitzroy. When the detective had first moved to his present lodgings, barely a day had passed when he had not drank there and worshipped before the landlord Pop Kleinfeld. There had been lock-ins, performances, parties and revels. He must have seen Nancy there frequently, although he could not remember her. But when his own luck began to change, he began to tire of the persistently glittering clientele; the actor celebrating a role, the celebrated scroungers out on the scrounge, the good-time-girl with an extra fiver in her pocket from that generous gent. The place represented the endangered and moth-like status of his breed in London - all show and no substance. Today, the place seemed subdued. Pop was in, as were Graham and Ben, the two longest-serving barmen. Graham came over. He was a broad and handsome man who always reminded Warwick of one of Lawrence's sons of soil. Today he looked uncharacteristically weakened; pale around the face and soft around the middle. These pubs always had some bohemian bug going around.
'I’ll have a double gin and tonic, Graham'
'Very well'
Warwick nodded. He waited until Graham was at the gin bottle with his back to him.
'I'd like to ask you a few questions about Nancy Canard'
Was it his imagination or did Graham's muscular back flinch at the mention of her name?
'Very sad, that' Pop said. 'Although we can't complain, takings were double what they ought to be yesterday. All these journalists can claim on expenses, see. They pay. Not like our other customers!'
They laughed together. He received his drink, and then Graham went downstairs.
'Aha!' Warwick exclaimed on noting this. ' Closing ranks already, I see!'
'Don't be a silly bugger, Warwick, he's just gone to change the barrel'
'Oh' he replied. The landlord couldn't help much. He’d been out of the pub the previous day and his impressions of Nancy were what Warwick might expect. He thought she was a nice enough girl, they were good tenants, her and her girlfriend, but that was about it. She didn't stand out. She worked hard. They had very few visitors. Graham came back upstairs and straight over to him.
'What would you like to know?' He said, looking him directly in the face.
'What was she like, Miss Canard?'
'Nice. Quiet. Not loud like some of those lot are' Graham said.
'Yes, she kept herself to herself most of the time' Ben added.
He asked for any drunken tales, but there were none. She socialised in other areas of town, he surmised, despite having a nightly drink in the pub. She was polite. Her girlfriend was frequently not. Clearly people did not want to talk. Ben told him that the police had spoken to them all briefly, but that journalists had constantly been in the pub, persuading the pub's most talkative and desperate members to contribute to an exposé of Fitzrovia bohemian life. Warwick Shadbolt’s expert brain worked fast. If the story was written, not only would Nancy’s aristocratic family be devastated but the local pub would probably fill with vile tourists! For the first time in the case, he felt real urgency. He had to get into that studio immediately.
'Come on, I'll let you in' Pop said. They ambled outside. There was a nasty stain on the pavement, an Africa in crimson, presumably from where the body had lain.
'Gosh' Warwick exclaimed. He edged his cream shoes away from the stain.
'I know. I hope the bobbies bloody clean it up this time. For once, it's not our fault at all. There you go. The girl’s flat is on the third floor'
'Thank you, Pop. I'll be back soon, I expect, and in need of strong refreshments'
The old man grunted and returned to the bar. Warwick proceeded up the stairs with caution whilst fumbling in his jacket pocket for the key. He could have sworn he'd placed it there, but there it was no more. Nothing for it. He'd have to break in. The door was thin and gave way, with a cough, after a swift karate kick he'd learnt in the East. Well, in East Anglia. He entered cautiously. The door opened straight onto a large room with a slanting roof that he presumed acted as both living room and studio. The general air was of a cut-price, more masculine version of Quintilla Purse’s room. Barely a patch of wall was left uncovered by throws or shawls of some kind.
Several paintings of revoltingly basic talent, in many stages of their development, sat on easels about the room. Paint was everywhere, he found, as he stood on a tube of murky green and it ejaculated all over his trouser leg. Although he had at first thought there were no obvious signs of wealth in the flat, he noted that the little bed, swathed in many layers of orange, red and purple organza throws stained by red wine, was actually clothed in sheets made of Irish linen. There were no personal possessions on display. A sudden splash of displacement alerted him to a presence in the bathroom, and he had to use all of his wits not to be discovered. Holding onto the wall for balance, Warwick grabbed an exceedingly large paintbrush and advanced upon the phantom presence. Hopefully the intruding cur had not heard him. His breath quickened. He had forgotten all of the exquisite joy of the chase. Breathing in briefly, with his eyes closed, he savoured the last moment of pure clarity before he rounded the corner and readied himself to batter the villain. Everything seemed to happen at once. Brandishing the paintbrush, he made contact with a full jug of water and knocked it over with a horrendous klang, sending a torrent of foam and liquid all over everything in sight. There was a naked woman with short soapy hair in the tub, who, as she noticed him, attempted to clutch a cloth to her not inconsiderable bosom and also shriek at full volume.
Second installment: Swedes and canapes
'Who the bloody hell are you?' the stranger finally demanded in stern but faintly hysterical tones, before threatening to call for the police.
After a humiliating volley of apologies and explanations, he retreated to the other room to await her presence. Warwick was out of practice. Quintilla had said she lived with her girlfriend. Finally a burly female came forth, clad in a brown smock and with her wet dark bowl-cut hair slopping about her face. He rather wished she'd remained in the bathrobe. He knew how to behave around women in bathrobes; there is no such corresponding etiquette manual concerning women in smocks.
'I'm Kitty' she said, without extending a hand to shake. 'I live here. I'll answer some questions, but only because I want to know the truth about my dear Nan. Otherwise I'd kick you out straight away. You’ve got a bloody cheek…'
'Quite. I apologise unreservedly, madam. Shall we sit and get the questions over and done with? I needn't bother you again' he replied.
'Very well' she said and sat, cross-legged like an Indian, on the floor. The detective looked around the room.
'Sit. Nancy and I don't have chairs. We don't like them'
He realised, with a quick visual sweep of the studio, that this was true. Not a single chair. How did they entertain? Warwick instantly dismissed the idea of sitting on the floor. He had been unable to find matching socks this morning and no matter how declassé the company, he refused to entertain the idea of flashing them. He sat gingerly on the very edge of the bed.
'Your socks don't match' she said.
'What is your full name?' Warwick asked, taking his moleskin notebook from his top pocket.
'I've told you this before. Catherine – Kitty – Sutton Parker'
She stuck a thin cigarillo between her lips. He offered to light it, and she waved him away. They were so independent, these lesbians.
'And how did you know Miss Cunard? How did you know Nancy?'
'We were lovers, Detective. Nancy and I went to the Slade together. She had been living this life, this shallow existence of balls and parties and shooting weekends. You know her parents are very rich, don't you? Prigs, both of them. Wouldn't let her be herself. They wanted her to marry some bourgeois bastard, some Hoorah Henry-'
'And when the two of you met....?'
'It was fairly instant. We went to real parties, and marches, and piss-ups. You know, real life. We decided to move here and try to just paint, to just be as good as we could be... It was all so romantic...'
Kitty began to cry loudly into her dress. Warwick attempted the difficult task of comforting her without indelicately grasping her bosom or getting a cigarillo burn in his suit.
'...it's so hard' Kitty sobbed. 'We'd spent every day together for four years. Nancy would sometimes get very down about her work, about her painting. I kept saying, all it will take is one good sale and you'll have made your name, we'll be fine, but she worried so. It was hard for her, coming from such wealth, living like this... Winter was always bad. But I just... I can't believe she would do such a desperate thing...'
'Ah' Warwick said sharply, sitting back. 'So you too doubt the validity of her suicide?'
The girl sniffed. She looked tired.
'I didn't say that. I knew Nancy, I knew her like no-one else did. I know who has hired you. Quintilla Purse. Nancy's grand friends cannot seem to accept that she and I were lovers, lovers in the most pure and intimate sense’
He sighed.
‘Miss Purse seemed most comfortable with the idea when we spoke’
‘She doesn’t understand us. She’ll dabble but as for living day-to-day with a woman… She’s a gossip, and a jealous one at that’
Warwick had not thought such a brilliant woman capable of such base emotions but was her interest in the case really pure? He did not wish to give too much away so resumed questioning the girlfriend.
‘What were your movements on the fatal afternoon?’ he asked in what he hoped was an authoritative yet sensitive manner.
‘I was in the British Museum, sketching statues’
‘Were you with anyone?’
‘No, not a soul. When I sketch, I sketch. I went over after lunch and returned here at about four’
‘But there will of course be tourists, and museum officials to corroborate your story?’
Kitty gave him a brief and shifty smile.
‘That’s the trouble. I work with the more unpopular statues and the area tends to be rather deserted. But I was there… The police were sweet about it though. They didn’t seem to think I’d be in any trouble. I won’t, will I?
In a mere moment, the customary brusqueness he associated with this dangerous sort of female was replaced with a much more appealing prospect: the wet eyes and small voice of a woman in need of protection. He put his arm around her. She was rather wide-shouldered and it was not an easy task.
‘I’m sure you won’t. Do you have people with whom you can stay? Your family, perhaps?’
‘Yes. They live in Dulwich and I may stay here, or return there – I haven’t decided yet’
‘Very well’ he said, and left.
On the way home a group of rogue children insulted his hair colour on the street. He prodded one with an umbrella as hard as he dared. At home he made a list of possible motives. Warwick had not ruled out professional jealousy, and resolved to visit more art parties to see if Nancy had any high-profile rivals. Reading the police report (young bobbies were so easily charmed) he saw that the tragedy had occurred at 2pm. Did artists wake that early? The report also said that the gramophone was still playing Tchaikovsky when the police arrived. They concluded that: ‘Miss Cunard had been dancing in flowing robes in her room. She then fell from the studio window onto the pavement below. Verdict: suicide’. Yet if the woman was feeling suicidal, would she really listen to music or dance? They had uncovered no note, although in the report several of her friends had commented how under strain she had seemed. Of course, the death might have been an accident, he mused, but his eagle eyes had spotted that the studio had rat’s tail latches. He had them in his flat, and they were notoriously hard to open. Many a drunken evening had been wasted in the pursuit of fresh air as he perspiringly attempted to force them apart.
The funeral was the next day. The crowd was an assorted crew of high-society bohemians in fashionable rags and journalists, sensationalists really, from all over the world. Quintilla looked severe and remote in a black crepe dress and rakish hat. The ceremony passed without note, but on the way out he spotted Nathaniel Slipper, the evening columnist for The Times, accompanied by the faithless Jerome. It was the first time they had seen each other for several months. He attempted to slip away unnoticed but heard his own name ring out behind him. Jerome caught up with him under some yew trees.
‘Well, well, Warwick… Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?’
‘I wasn’t aware we had said hello’ he replied, once again dazzled by the smooth structure of his face. The slants and angles contained within were almost mathematical. The conversation had to be brief or he would once again be at the mercy of this handsome devil.
‘Now, now… Don’t be snippy. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t passed on your details to Miss Purse. I thought you could do with the work’
Damn! So I do know someone who attended one of Quintilla’s parties, he thought. And how humiliating to have Jerome underhandedly passing him work. The witty reply that was so needed here eluded him, and all he could do is glower in Jerome’s direction.
‘Don’t worry, no need to thank me’ Jerome said suavely. ‘Well, I’m afraid I must be going. Nathaniel and I are attending a rather smart party this evening, and must change. We just came here to put in an appearance and get the gossip. Good luck with the case!’
They nodded and parted. Warwick threw a tiny glance over his shoulder at the retreating figure of Jerome and headed to the Fitzroy to get royally drunk.
That night he dreamt, again, of jungles and mazes and puzzle pieces. When he awoke, he found a message from the landlady pushed under the door. Miss Purse’s maid had called, it said primly, and requested that you ‘phone her. Even her handwriting indicated disapproval. There was that usual morning feeling of confidence in one’s endeavours, so Warwick breakfasted well and hastened to phone Miss Purse. Perhaps an hour later – my, how quickly she worked! – he was sat in Bertelli’s café, on Museum Street, a pot of tea before him. The press had not let the case drop. Nancy’s art show was to go ahead and the papers were now focusing, and not in a discreet fashion, on her relationship with Miss Empire. Kitty also had a show coming up in a lesser gallery, he noted. A delicate and thin black umbrella lowered his paper and there she was.
‘Hello, Warwick’ she said, the smile vanishing as soon as they had greeted.
Quintilla wore red on her thin lips, a well-cut suit and large dark glasses in the style of Coco Chanel. He ordered her a black coffee but she declined any food. He was having lasagne.
‘So, to business’ she said, as the coffee arrived and their first cigarettes had been extinguished.
‘We need progress, Mr Shadbolt, and soon. I’m fearfully worried over this exposé in the papers. All of London knows about the case. It’s been said the article will concentrate on artistic suicide. Lady W’s nerves are on edge. What have you discovered?’
‘I’ve met the girlfriend, I’ve interviewed the police officers that found her and the few bystanders that would talk. I’ve no leads, that’s the problem. Everyone seems to think it was clearly an accident or suicide-‘
‘It wasn’t!’ Quintilla said forcefully, slamming her gloved fist down on the table. It made the saucers and spoons rattle. ‘I mean, I’m certain it wasn’t. She wouldn’t do that. There’s a show later tonight you might wish to attend…’
He noted the details down but it was a subdued lunch after that outburst. Every mouthful of lasagne filled him with more doubt. They parted wordlessly on the corner to Tottenham Court Road and he pondered at length the dubious Miss Purse and her reasons for pursuing this particular case. Secretly delighted to have a reason, he phoned Jerome and nakedly asked about the parties. Yes, his hunch was correct: Quintilla had been seen with women at her parties, and she was the jealous sort. There had been this one time her favourite servant boy, painted gold and clad in a loincloth, had wandered off with an acquaintance of Nathaniel’s to Quintilla’s fury and never been seen again… But then why had she involved him, a private detective? Perhaps a cunning double-bluff? Either way, he resolved to attend the party tonight and took a handsome cab down to Chelsea.
The gallery had huge glass windows and was lit up from the inside so uninvited passers-by could glimpse the place, over-stuffed with both furniture and people, and wish they too were inside. Warwick had got past the attractive young boy on the door with little problem, slipping him a note, hand in glove, and stood surveying the crowd of frauds, rogues and sheer imbeciles that, in his estimation, made up the contemporary art scene. A blustery old gentleman, complete with Victorian moustache and unsuitable tweed overcoat, came over.
‘What, what? Hello, are you one of these artists?’ the fellow asked.
‘No, sir. I am the Count of… the Count of Heidelberg’ he replied, affecting a Swedish accent and a facial twitch.
‘Aha! A European visitor! I’m Basil Thwartington’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Have you come tonight to invest in the British art scene?’
‘No, no, to join in the Season. But I am interested in art, of course. The recent story about that poor young girl artist who fell to her death… Terrible news, wasn’t it?’
‘What’s that? I don’t think I’ve heard of it, I’m afraid’
‘But it’s been all over the London papers’ Warwick replied, exasperated.
The fellow chortled.
‘My dear man, I’m not from London. I’m rather flattered you could think so. I’m from Wiltshire myself. My nephew is exhibiting so we’ve trundled up to town to see him’
Basil laughed once more and was then gone. Warwick glanced around in desperation. How did one integrate oneself into these kind of things? Glamorous types, all dressed Quintilla-style, stood in circles, braying and smoking and clutching their handsome other halves. He walked around, eavesdropping and searching out more champagne. No-one was discussing Nancy. That was old news, apparently. They were discussing the recent elopement of some Lord’s daughter. They were more concerned with the novelty of an elopement than taking any moral view of the situation. Marriage was pooh-poohed, he gathered. He leant in a doorway, hoping to ascertain who was in charge and whether there was anyone here worth flirting with. As his gaze wandered across the beautiful faces there, his brain kicked into gear: no, no, Shadbolt, concentrate on the task in hand, he told himself, and we’ll have fun after. The paintings were not to his taste, although they did resemble the daubs in Nancy’s studio: geometric in the modern style, sloppy, unbeautiful. His inner dandy sighed. A small girl in black scuttled past. He caught her arm.
‘Be a sport and get some more drinks, would you?’ he asked her.
‘Eh? Who do you fink I am?’ the girl said indignantly and turned to face him. ‘I’m showin’ here’ She was small and child-like, a sour faced cockney, and cheaply dressed, with no discernable haircut or style.
‘Pardon me. I’m so sorry. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the Count of Heidelberg’
She appeared unaffected by his use of a title.
‘I’m Lena Matthews. Those are mine over there’ the girl said, pointing out what to Warwick seemed the most depressing in the exhibition.
‘Aha! I shall go and examine them more carefully. I’m a collector’
Again she seemed unimpressed.
‘You’ll have to see the owner, that’s nothing to do with me’ Lena made to go and he caught her again.
‘Is this your first exhibit?’
‘Yes, yes, it is’ she replied. For the first time, she seemed excited. He realised this feeling. It was the realisation that one is stuck with the party bore and, that if one is stuck, one might as well make the effort with conversation.
‘How brilliant! I think you’re very talented. This show is very prestigious, you know. I’ve heard that Nancy Cunard is doing a posthumous exhibition here in a few weeks...’ the detective said, improvising.
This animated the young girl somewhat.
‘Yeah, terrible, wun’t it? She was meant to be the main artist but now they’ve asked me to be it instead. I was just meant to be in the smaller room. Good for me, but I don’t feel so right about that. I met ‘er once and she was ever so nice’
‘So I’ve heard’ he replied. He waited a moment before he deduced that Miss Matthews was the honest sort of cockney. ‘Actually, I’m quite interested in her, and her… situation. May I give you my card? If you hear anything about Miss Cunard, anything, even the smallest mention, will you call me? I shall pay you’
‘Pay me? That would be nice’ she replied, her eyes widening in an appealing manner. ‘These shows are all very well but I ain’t sold nothing yet. You know how it is’-
And, just as Lena stuffed the card guiltily into her dress pocket, a tall, thin man sidled up to them. He was as pale as an undertaker and had a face that might be as Jerome’s, but a permanent sneer rendered it unattractive. The man’s large black eyes and sharp cheekbones gave him the appearance of a feral creature despite his undoubtedly expensive clothing. His cravat was in a material Warwick particularly coveted.
‘Lena, my darling, you must mix more’ the man said insincerely. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Bertie, I’m talking to a customer. This is my agent. Cuthbert de Folkesville. This man, Bertie, he’s a count!’
Warwick smiled. He’d forgotten that.
‘Is that so? Really?’ Cuthbert replied, looking at the detective with curious eyes.
‘The Count of Heidelberg at your service’
The accent seemed slightly less convincing this time, and even more so when he remembered that he had never used an accent with Lena. Cuthbert gave him a foxy smile.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have any… counts on the invitation list tonight. My secretary and I prepared it rather tightly. And we are rather full, as you can see… So unfortunately I must ask you to leave’
Before Warwick could react, Cuthbert had motioned to a liveried and beefy footman who violently escorted the detective to the door. Try as he might, he could not catch sight of Lena and see if she had kept his card.
The next morning, he was engrossed in a pile of literature about the contemporary art scene. Time and time again his eyes widened in shock at the skulduggery apparent in that industry. Most interestingly, Cuthbert de Folkesville seemed to be involved in a large portion of this skulduggery. The bruises from last night were still discernable on his body. A full set of handprints on both arms but – alas! – not incurred doing anything pleasurable. It was not even a week since Quintilla had interrupted his wonderful dream and superseded it with her own world of mystery and amazement. That morning Lena had rung, against all of Warwick Shadbolt’s expectations. She had sounded childish and breathless on the phone, asking him to meet her later at the Lyon’s Coffee House in Soho, ‘if you’ll pay’. He reassured her and they had arranged to meet. The child appeared not to notice the discrepancy in names between the one he had given her and the one on his business card. He spent the rest of the morning making notes on links in the art world and then strolled down to Soho to receive the young lady. Perhaps she had found something out, he mused. Lena was a newcomer like himself. In Lyon’s, which was strangely deserted even for this hour of the afternoon, he took a subtle corner seat and ordered tea. She was late. The service here was terrible. He had to ask the waiter twice for his drink. Finally, the door swung open and she dashed in, red-cheeked and really rather pretty for it.
‘Sorry! Sorry, I ‘ad to run up Piccadilly from my other job’
‘That’s quite all right’ he murmured.
Lena impudently took a large sip from his tea before he had even had a chance to stir it.
‘So, why did you wish to meet me?’ the detective asked archly.
‘I stayed behind at the show, and I kept thinking about that poor girl, and I heard Bertie talking to this other gal. They didn’t see me, I’m sure. I found out that… That…’
Suddenly, her mouth gagged and Lena’s eyes widely popped with effort. She reached across and clutched his hand so tightly that both their knuckles were white and stared, with a terrifying countenance, into his eyes. Horrid impenetrable gargles came out of her corroded mouth. A mere second later, the girl slumped lifelessly forward onto the table, knocking over the milk into Warwick’s lap…
Third installment: A race against time
In an instant Warwick bounded out of his seat and towards the door. He could make out a big man in waiter’s uniform legging it down Wardour Street but his papers and, more importantly, his favourite hat, were ensconced in the booth. At the table, poor Lena looked no less dishwater-coloured in death than she was in life. Collecting his items hurriedly, he smelt the tea. It was as he had thought. There was the faint but distinct smell of white spirit, which he remembered from his childhood as poisonous. Aha, white spirit, the artist’s staple ingredient. He folded his napkin over Lena’s dead and anguished face and left quickly, so as not to be caught. His life was at stake. Someone knew he was getting to the centre of this mystery and wished to dispatch him. He had to catch the culprit, and soon.
Over a pint he pondered what to do. A pint was a clear sign of distress that any of his friends would recognise, if he had had any friends. Warwick’s research into the art world had led him nowhere, as had his numerous interviews with Nancy’s friends, colleagues and acquaintances. The only people he hadn’t met were her parents and this was under Quintilla’s strictest orders. The working men who drank here had no such worries. Perhaps he ought to become a working man. A builder, or decorator, or window cleaner. No, no, a builder’s clerk, that would do, he could sit down in a nice office, working on figures and then he would also have access to builders, day in, day out. There were a pair of them sat opposite him, workmates perhaps, drinking pints and no doubt talking about the football or whatever it was builders spoke about. Both were huge, with wide ugly faces and thickly built torsos. Warwick couldn’t help but notice the firm and tapered legs, leading up to well-built thighs, that both had. And then he saw it. Under the table. Yes, unmistakably, there it was. On the man on the left’s thigh, there was a hand, encased in a scrap of leather almost too small to be called a glove. Warwick checked. Yes, the man on the right was holding onto his pint with his left rather than right hand. The glove moved, snaking and caressing the thigh. He was aware of a response in his own trousers. The two men appeared to notice nothing different and carried talking, as men will, whilst staring into the distance and only very occasionally at one another. The glove moved repetitively and Warwick found himself hypnotised by it. The gesture appeared comforting rather than obviously erotic. It was the smallest and most familiar touch. The detective caught the eyes of the man on the right, the owner of the glove, and the man sharply looked away. The glove hid. After a moment’s consultation, the pair left and then it came to him, as he had always heard it did, in a flash.
After he had completed the tasks necessary to prove his new theory, he approached the pub very carefully. The answer lay, as perhaps he had always known subconsciously, in this place. It was late and the place was full of the usual burbling drunks. Warwick kept a low profile for a change, observing who came and who went. The bohemians gradually left to attend fashionable night-clubs and house parties. Kitty arrived back at her quarters by bicycle at half eleven, with a female friend in tow, and went straight upstairs. She was a sack of a girl, he thought. Graham appeared tired tonight. Still. It had to be tonight. Time was of the essence, after all. His drink tasted alternately of success and failure. As they went to draw the shutters, he stayed a hand upon Graham’s arm.
‘I say, Graham, include me in the lock-in, would you?’ the detective asked.
‘Very well’ the barman replied and resumed his post, drawing the beers he had accumulated throughout the day and half-heartedly wiping down surfaces. Warwick slunk over to join him at the bar.
‘Gin and tonic, please’ He felt sure Graham would crack. ‘I’m still working on that case, you know’ he added, casually.
‘The girl from upstairs?’ Graham enquired, but to Warwick’s attuned ear the burly barman’s voice masked his interest.
‘Yes. Quite interesting, you know’
‘Oh. I thought you’d given up hope. You shouldn’t, you know… I never thought she was the type to do away with herself’
‘Did you know her then? I rather got the impression she kept her distance from the bar’ the detective stated.
‘The bar, yes. She didn’t drink and we’re a rowdy lot down here. But we were friends’
‘Very well’
The barman eyed him. Warwick could tell he was moments from bursting. In his pocket he had his secret weapon. He flopped his paper, the one from the week before that broke the news, onto the counter, picture up.
‘Pretty girl, wasn’t she?’ he said, cautiously.
‘Yes. Yes, she was’ Graham appeared troubled. ‘Detective, may I have a word with you in quiet?’
Warwick nodded yes and they headed to the downstairs bar. There were few in tonight, but he still noted a few unfriendly eyes about the place, and wondered for the millionth time if Quintilla were the type to persuade a servant to follow him. This afternoon’s poisoned tea weighted heavily on his mind as Graham motioned towards the lamp-lit storage room. It was a small room and, as he perched delicately on a barrel of beer, Warwick felt most claustrophobic. As Graham slid the lock across the door, he noticed once more just how big the man was. His back appeared to be shaking. Was this a trap perhaps? Certainly from down here his screams might be ignored. He began tensing and untensing his muscles in turn, preparing himself for a fight to the death if necessary. Yet as the barman turned, Warwick realised that far from anger, the man was shaking because of emotion. He was moved; moved almost to the point of tears or as near as a man of his type got to that state.
‘Sit, sit’ Warwick said in wonderment.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me’ Graham replied, squatting next to him on a keg. Their faces were very near. ‘Nancy… Nancy and I were very close’
‘I thought as much. You were lovers, weren’t you?’
Graham gasped.
‘We were. How did you know? We’d kept it so quiet. We had to’
‘Why? Why did you have to? Did you have to hide your affair from her girlfriend?’
‘She’s not her girlfriend! Kitty! Urgh!’ he said, expressing disgust. Warwick allowed the man some of his gin. ‘Nancy said she had to do it for the art. She had to be more controversial, more… more bohemian. She tried, she really did. But it made her feel a bit sick, and she couldn’t handle all the mood swings. We’d go on day trips to Brighton just so we could hold hands in public without attracting scorn, and even then she would insist on wearing a hat’
Graham’s initial hysteria had given way to a calm yet tragically desperate sadness. It was a situation with which Warwick was only too familiar.
‘But why did she not leave Kitty for you?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘She said I was just a barman. But I’m working on a book, you understand? I’m a writer. I just work here for the money. I don’t know… I thought we were in love. But she said she couldn’t be with me’
‘Aha! So you were angry with her?’
‘Yes, yes, I was. The last time I saw her-‘
Warwick’s hands tightened on the whistle in his pocket, the whistle that would summon the six plainclothes policemen that were positioned about the pub at this very moment.
‘So you admit you were with her on the day of her death?’
‘Well, yes I saw her that morning. We met for coffee. But if you’re suggesting, Detective, that I had any hand in her death then you’re most mistaken. I would never, could never, lay a hand on the woman I loved. And on my child’
Warwick spluttered and a mouthful of tonic went over the slate floor.
‘She was pregnant?’
‘She was. Yes. She… we’d just found out. If it were a boy we were going to call it Geronimo. But this is it. If the pregnancy came out it would ruin everything. Everyone would know she was a closet heterosexual. With the show coming up, it was a complete disaster. There was no way she could hide it. But I wanted to do the right thing by her. In the morning I’d asked her to leave Kitty and marry me and have the child and she said she’d let me know. Well, the landlord came with a sealed note for me. I think I still have it…’
Graham went through his pockets methodically, producing till receipts and pens of various forms until he came across a small folded scrap of paper. Although it was a mere week old, the creases were worn deep as though it had been taken out and re-read a million times. Warwick remembered his drawer full of lover’s notes, ranging from lengthy dispatches to the briefest, most unromantic of scraps. On the paper was written: ‘Darling. I agree. The answer is yes. I’ll tell her right away. Nx.’
‘Well’ Warwick mused. ‘This changes everything’
‘I know. You must believe, I would never harm my own child, or my darling wife-to-be. She must have told Kitty that morning’
‘Do you suspect her girlfriend?’
‘I never knew her and I was always, truth to be told, a little scared of her. I think Nancy was as well’
‘How did they meet?’
‘They were at university together. Nancy rarely spoke of her. It was Kitty who devised the plan for them to appear as lesbians so that they might achieve artistic success. Yet it was always Nancy who garnered the most critical acclaim simply because she was better. It made Kitty mad. There were fights. Once Nancy had a black eye’
‘So you do suspect her’
‘How could I not? A violent temper and a betrayal of their secret plan? Believe me, detective, but for my fear of her and her powerful friends, I would have confided this in you long ago – ‘
‘Exactly. Why did you not do so?’
‘She… she came to see me in the pub. Threatening terrible things. She was crying. I think she loved Nancy in her own way. Her people… those people, Warwick, they can do things… They can do anything… Ruin my life. But I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. You must work fast!’
Warwick exited the room as fast as possible and had words with his detectives.
Moments later a struggling and enraged Kitty Parker Ellis appeared in the main bar, flanked by the two largest policemen. The sniggering men confided in him that when they apprehended her, she had been engaging in some decidedly unheterosexual behaviour with her female friend who even now was being held by the other policemen down at the local station. Nancy was not the only one with the wandering eye, it seemed.
‘How dare you, detective? You have no right to come in my flat at any time! You need some sort of warrant!’
‘Not at all, my dear’ he replied. A crowd had gathered to witness his moment of triumph.
‘What do you want? Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’ she railed on, red in the face. ‘Tell me what you want now, or I’ll telephone my father. He’s a judge, you know’
‘You won’t intimidate me, Kitty. Graham, come forward’ Warwick said, gesturing.
‘You!’ Kitty reacted angrily as the barman came forward, matching her in height. Kitty spat on the floor at his feet.
‘You… you murderess!’ Graham shouted. ‘You killed my dear Nancy!’
‘Don’t you dare mention her name!’ Kitty retaliated ‘You’re a damned liar, Graham! I would never have harmed her. She loved me. Only me!’
‘She would never love someone who treated her as you did…’
‘Rubbish!’ Kitty cried. ‘Detective, I would never have hurt her. This… this yob, this barman, he was obsessed with her. He wouldn’t leave her alone’
‘Do you deny her murder?’ Graham asked again. He was circling the girl like an animal.
‘Yes! Of course!’
Kitty began to cry softly. Then, as one of the detectives reached in his pocket for a handkerchief to dry her tears, she sprung free of their grip and set upon Graham. The barman was caught unawares and hit his head against a table as the pair fell onto the floor. Kitty was like a wild beast, spitting, scratching his face and easily setting off the men who tried to tear her away. Warwick grasped her under the arms but was dispatched swiftly. The pair were a whirl of blood and rage. All of a sudden, just as the situation looked hopeless, Graham turned the pair over and trapped the woman’s hands behind her head. This swift movement ended the fight. The two lay there, breathing heavily in perfect compliance, as the pub fell deathly silent.
‘Admit it’ Warwick demanded.
‘It was’ Kitty said, eyes closed, in the smallest of voices ‘an accident. I was angry. She said it was all over. We were fighting, and I pushed her. The window wasn’t locked. Bloody never locked it, even though I asked all the time! I looked… and she was… On the pavement’
The woman began to sob, genuinely this time. Graham nodded grimly and Warwick passed him a pair of handcuffs. Kitty sat up, defeated, and was passed to the policemen. The detective lay a comforting hand on Graham’s wide shoulders. They turned to go.
‘Please don’t expose me’ Kitty said suddenly. ‘Please, detective. It was an accident. If you turn me in, I’ll be ruined. My work will never be shown again. Have a heart’
‘That, my dear, is a matter for the police. I am not interested in judgement; only justice.
And with that, a fine epithet he thought, he allowed the policemen to lead Kitty outside to a round of applause from waiting bohemians and drunkards. The blonder, rattier of the policemen congratulated him.
‘Compliments of the force. We were getting nowhere with this, sir’
Warwick made a brief phone call to Quintilla and explained everything. She sounded relieved, although not particularly surprised.
‘As we both know’ he stated. ‘Nancy was slight and Kitty is not. There was a struggle and she was overpowered, and propelled to her death’
Over the ‘phone line, he could sense her shuddering. He imagined she was not a woman given to displays of unnecessary emotion.
‘Well, she was hiding that well. Graham, you say? I met him at her last opening. He’s rather a dish. Good old Nancy. I knew that girl wasn’t right. And I knew you could do it’
For a few hours, he was in seventh heaven. Every other moment brought another pat on the back, another drink slapped down on the counter, but he felt strangely empty. Warwick had forgotten this essential truth about working: that one felt vibrant and useful whilst engaged in solving a case, but that the moment one concluded it, there was time on one's hands and questions to be asked. Perhaps he would never see Quintilla again. That would be a shame, he thought. At that moment there was a sharp rap on the shutters. It was past three and to be caught drinking at this time in the morning would end his run of good luck. Graham cautiously opened the door, and a small portly gentleman in chauffeur’s outfit entered.
‘I’ve got a message for a Mr. Shadbolt’
‘Very well. You may come in. The hero of the hour is just over there’ Graham replied, gesturing.
‘Mr Shadbolt? Warwick Shadbolt? Make yourself known, sir!’ the man said, a big smile plastered across his face.
Warwick was a little drunk by now.
'I'm here' he said, wearily, from his seat.
'Compliments of Miss Purse, sir' he said, handing over a thick creamy envelope.
Inside it was £200 in cash – enough to keep the wolf from his door for a good couple of months – and a handwritten note. She had beautiful handwriting, as he had thought.
'I knew you could do it!' she wrote, with an exuberant whorl to the exclamation mark.
'Do come to the Café Royal. We can celebrate and I'd love to introduce you to some of the people here. Yours, Quintilla'
The instant he read the line, he decided against it.
'So' said the chauffeur. 'What shall it be? I'm to take you there straight away'
'I rather think not' he replied. 'I've had quite enough of bohemians for one week'
With that, he tottered off home for a late night of gin and thoughts, followed by a drowsy day tomorrow.
Sarah Drinkwater
He crossed the street at speed, noting vaguely that the crowd outside the Fitzroy Tavern seemed stronger than usual. He entered Wilmott’s Whiskey Emporium, and purchased a bottle of the cheapest tonic. There was little cash at the moment for essentials, let alone luxuries, but he considered gin and tonic the heartiest of necessities. Climbing the stairs to his distressing rooms, he wondered whether he should take down the sign of which he was once so proud: ‘Warwick Shadbolt, private detective’. Given the lack of work undertaken in the last few months, even in the last year, it seemed misleading. Maybe I would be happier as a road sweeper, he thought. And then he looked at himself in the mirror. He was no road sweeper. He was a short man, short and erring on the side of podgy but well-made, with dark eyes and broad shoulders that could carry off the dandyish suits he favoured. Warwick also had an extensive collection of hats but for different reasons. Hats shaded his best feature, although he did not think concur: he possessed brilliant rakeish red hair. Warwick was glad that his complexion did not betray this fact, and gladder still that he did not care for moustaches. He silently despised his father for the one gift that linked them. Sighing heavily, he flung off his hat, poured himself a back-breaking quadruple gin and tonic (low on both the ice and tonic) and settled into his reading chair to contemplate life.
The dream featured, as usual, an array of viciously twisting serpents and spears, all accompanied by intense heat. He was hacking through the Amazon, wearing a fine linen suit and accompanied by a bronzed and tablet-chested Native boy when, unexpectedly, the ten-foot high lianas with which he was grappling began to emit an ungodly sound, shrill and ringing. He turned down a different path but the ringing followed him and, as he slowly came to consciousness, he realised the sound was part of the real world rather than the fictitious.
It was, he realised logically with a sudden jolt, the telephone, a luxury he had installed so that he might receive frequent calls concerning detective work in his rooms rather than be summonsed by the landlady. It had lain unused for months, so he set about tearing up the place in a frenzy to find it. Scrambling amidst the short stories, case histories, hip flasks and all the other ephemera in his Fitzrovia flat, he located the dust-covered and indeed somewhat sorry looking telephone. God, my head hurts, he thought.
‘Warwick Shadbolt’ he answered in the most confident tones he could muster.
‘Hello?’ the reply came. It was a languid, cultured and feminine voice that, he would estimate, belonged to a London-bred woman of between twenty and thirty.
‘Detective?’ she asked. ‘Do I have the right number? From the advert in The Chap’s Gazette?’
‘Yes, I am Warwick Shadbolt. How can I help you, madam?’
‘It’s a delicate matter that concerns me, and I would prefer to discuss it in person rather than over the telephone. Would you be able to come to meet me?’
‘It’s rather late. We can make an appointment for the morning’ he replied. He was having, as he did on average every other day, the fragrant gin sweats. His nostrils were full of pure juniper.
‘Detective, it’s eleven in the morning’ she replied.
He looked and, indeed, it was light outside. Quickly calculating that he had slept for twenty hours, he cleared his throat.
‘Would you be able to come to my house immediately?’ she asked. ‘My place is in Bloomsbury and, I notice from your telephone code, that you must live locally’
‘Yes, madam, it is. You might make an amateur detective’ he joshed.
The woman laughed; a high-pitched tinkle calculated to please and amuse the observer.
‘I might indeed’ she added ‘The address is 12 Burton Street. I’ll tell my maid to expect you’
‘Very well. But may I have your name so I know who to ask for?’
‘Purse. Quintilla Purse’ she said, and slammed the phone down.
Quintilla Purse, he thought to himself. She was a notorious socialite, a Bright Young Thing of the first degree, and she knew everyone and everything. Her famous looks and figure were only matched in reputation by the legendary parties she gave, whose invites were passed on by half-whispers in the right bars, taverns and drawing-rooms of London. They were held to be frenzies of conversation and sexual deviancy, and the place where one got the best drugs in town. Eton and the Houses of Parliament had taken the step of declaring her parties, and her person off-limits. Someone he once knew had claimed to have attended a party and even met her, but he couldn’t remember who.
Any case of hers, if he could solve it, would keep him in gin and notoriety for a year and, he felt, possibly more. Quintilla was always in the papers. He rather thought the dark green silk. With the cream cravat and a full shave, of course. This was a task he completely daily in a haze of gingery self-pity. Afterwards, Warwick attempt to flush the gin out of his system with peppermint tea and half thought it had worked, but a brief stumble down two flights of stairs proved otherwise. He picked up a paper on the walk over to hers. The headline was screechy as always. There was a small lithograph of a dark haired woman but the quality of print was such that he couldn’t make out her features. Her name was Nancy Canard, and she had fallen to her death from an artist’s garret above the Fitzroy Tavern. He vaguely remembered seeing a bit of a scrum outside yesterday.
Quintilla Purse had a Persian maid who flirted with him. The maid led him into a crimson drawing room decorated with cultured, immaculate, expensive and calculated taste. There were great swathes of embroidered silk covering the panelled walls, and shelves full of banned literature such as D.H. Lawrence and Saki. She had a great many volumes on chess, astronomy, Arabic art, Freud on Shakespeare and the such like, he noted. The Egyptian moulds that had been so in fashion the previous year were hidden behind two huge Edwardian ostrich feather fans. Above the fireplace rested a beautiful and striking portrait of a dark-haired woman clad in Indian dress, doing some kind of native dance, with an indecipherable expression. A chaise longue lounged provocatively before it. Deciding it might be a little forward to assume that position, he took a seat and waited.
Ten minutes passed. In that big and silent house, he could hear the maid’s heels tip-tapping across the corridors as she worked, and the gentle tick of the clock on the mantelpiece to tell him exactly how late she was and, in parallel fashion, how unimportant he was. He turned to Saki. After maybe twenty pages of the most lucid daydreams, he heard a commotion upstairs and realised the time had come. Her foot was light on the stair and then, there she was. She paused in the doorway, to glorious effect. What a sight! Even for a man of his tastes, she was spectacular. The woman was clad in white fox fur and silver satin and, although she was brunette, and a dark one at that, seemed gilded. Quintilla Purse slunk across to him, her figure like a gently padded pencil, batting the lashes that could sink a ship. Clearly she was used to men falling in love at the mere sight of her.
'You must forgive me' she said, holding her hand out for Warwick to shake. 'I've been resting. I was at a party in Chelsea when I heard the news, so I simply haven't had the time to change'
With that, she allowed a small tight smile to pass across her extraordinary white skin. He felt shifty. What on earth could this angel want or need that he could supply? They sat.
'The case I have for you is difficult and requires the utmost discretion. I see that you have read the paper. Nancy was a dear friend of mine since childhood. She had a chosen a very... different path to mine'
'Miss Canard was an artist, wasn't she?' the detective offered. .
'Yes and a prodigiously talented one. She had her biggest exhibition yet coming up in a few weeks. I refuse to believe she would endanger her own life'
'So’ he said, working quickly, for he had not yet read the article ‘it has been suggested her death was suicide. But you dispute this?'
'Yes, I do. Nancy and I met last week, and other than a mild dissatisfaction with some of her work, which was perfectly usual for her, she seemed as sunny as always. This beastly press attention is terrible for her parents and close friends to deal with, and the police seem more than particularly useless. It took six of them to break up my friend's party - a private party, I hasten to add - and yet only two attended Nancy and concluded she killed herself. I would like the matter to be... investigated, shall we say. If it were an accident, her fall, it would make it so much easier for her family to grieve and if there were any stone left unturned-'
'You would like it to be turned. I understand completely'
'Excellent. So, I suppose the first port of call would be Nancy's studio, above the Fitzroy Tavern on Charlotte Street. She lived there with her girlfriend'
With this, Quintilla looked directly at the detective.
'You're a man of the world, aren't you, Mr Shadbolt? Her girlfriend. Her female lover. Kitty Ellis. She also paints'
There seemed to be a dismissive edge to her voice.
'I'm unshockable' he replied.
'Good. Excellent. Well.. here is the key to her flat' she said, delving deep into her dress to produce, on a small silver chain, a large and rather unbeautiful key. The woman leant forward and held it out to him in a manner designed to tantalise. 'But I suppose you detectives have your own methods of entry, do you not?'
'We do indeed' he replied, with a raise of his eyebrow.
'Well then' she said, standing to indicate that his time was over, 'shall we meet in two day's time so that you may update me on progress? I have your telephone number and you may take mine from the maid. Please be as discreet as possible; Nancy's parents wish to keep her out of the papers as much as we can. And we need not discuss your fee. You shall be handsomely rewarded for your time. Do you know, Detective...'
And here she smiled, a complicit and genuine smile, and he saw that she truly was a most disarming and captivating woman, the kind who might make you do terrible things for their love and even for their favour.
'What, madam?' he replied.
'You're exactly as I thought you'd be'. And with that she swept out of the room, all pearls and furs.
As usual, he hot-footed it straight to the Reading Rooms of the British Library. His hunch was correct. She was in Debretts's. When he had first come to London, in the mid-Twenties, it had been the dream of any self-respecting, self consciously artistic middle-class child to become a real bohemian, but he had thought that it was out of fashion these days. Nancy Canard was ten years out of date. She had changed her name, he saw. Nancy Caniardiere-Wimplethorpe-Smythe was a bit of a mouthful. The daughter of Lord Wimplethorpe. Italian mother. Five years older than the age given in the Standard. For his own amusement, he looked up Quintilla's birthdate. It was ominously absent. There was a lithograph of Nancy at the Criterion attending a charitable ball with her parents several years previously. She looked like every other upper middle-class girl to him; fashionable outfit, slightly horsey face, good legs, shingled hair. So far there were no real clues or leads anywhere other than that she didn't look the type to top herself. From the payphone in the lobby he rang his friend who worked on the Hendon Gazetteer. Apart from a small gossipy piece about whether Nancy was the progeny of Augustus John (and really, out of that lot, he thought, who wasn't?) the newspaper world was just as flummoxed as he was. Warwick took a leisurely omnibus back down to Tottenham Court Road and pondered his next investigative move. After all this research he really felt like a nice lie down in a darkened room but he girded his loins and headed towards her lodgings. At the entrance to the Fitzroy Tavern he paused. Maybe just one drink first, he thought. He could collect some eyewitness accounts at the same time.
There had been a time when he had been inordinately fond of the Fitzroy. When the detective had first moved to his present lodgings, barely a day had passed when he had not drank there and worshipped before the landlord Pop Kleinfeld. There had been lock-ins, performances, parties and revels. He must have seen Nancy there frequently, although he could not remember her. But when his own luck began to change, he began to tire of the persistently glittering clientele; the actor celebrating a role, the celebrated scroungers out on the scrounge, the good-time-girl with an extra fiver in her pocket from that generous gent. The place represented the endangered and moth-like status of his breed in London - all show and no substance. Today, the place seemed subdued. Pop was in, as were Graham and Ben, the two longest-serving barmen. Graham came over. He was a broad and handsome man who always reminded Warwick of one of Lawrence's sons of soil. Today he looked uncharacteristically weakened; pale around the face and soft around the middle. These pubs always had some bohemian bug going around.
'I’ll have a double gin and tonic, Graham'
'Very well'
Warwick nodded. He waited until Graham was at the gin bottle with his back to him.
'I'd like to ask you a few questions about Nancy Canard'
Was it his imagination or did Graham's muscular back flinch at the mention of her name?
'Very sad, that' Pop said. 'Although we can't complain, takings were double what they ought to be yesterday. All these journalists can claim on expenses, see. They pay. Not like our other customers!'
They laughed together. He received his drink, and then Graham went downstairs.
'Aha!' Warwick exclaimed on noting this. ' Closing ranks already, I see!'
'Don't be a silly bugger, Warwick, he's just gone to change the barrel'
'Oh' he replied. The landlord couldn't help much. He’d been out of the pub the previous day and his impressions of Nancy were what Warwick might expect. He thought she was a nice enough girl, they were good tenants, her and her girlfriend, but that was about it. She didn't stand out. She worked hard. They had very few visitors. Graham came back upstairs and straight over to him.
'What would you like to know?' He said, looking him directly in the face.
'What was she like, Miss Canard?'
'Nice. Quiet. Not loud like some of those lot are' Graham said.
'Yes, she kept herself to herself most of the time' Ben added.
He asked for any drunken tales, but there were none. She socialised in other areas of town, he surmised, despite having a nightly drink in the pub. She was polite. Her girlfriend was frequently not. Clearly people did not want to talk. Ben told him that the police had spoken to them all briefly, but that journalists had constantly been in the pub, persuading the pub's most talkative and desperate members to contribute to an exposé of Fitzrovia bohemian life. Warwick Shadbolt’s expert brain worked fast. If the story was written, not only would Nancy’s aristocratic family be devastated but the local pub would probably fill with vile tourists! For the first time in the case, he felt real urgency. He had to get into that studio immediately.
'Come on, I'll let you in' Pop said. They ambled outside. There was a nasty stain on the pavement, an Africa in crimson, presumably from where the body had lain.
'Gosh' Warwick exclaimed. He edged his cream shoes away from the stain.
'I know. I hope the bobbies bloody clean it up this time. For once, it's not our fault at all. There you go. The girl’s flat is on the third floor'
'Thank you, Pop. I'll be back soon, I expect, and in need of strong refreshments'
The old man grunted and returned to the bar. Warwick proceeded up the stairs with caution whilst fumbling in his jacket pocket for the key. He could have sworn he'd placed it there, but there it was no more. Nothing for it. He'd have to break in. The door was thin and gave way, with a cough, after a swift karate kick he'd learnt in the East. Well, in East Anglia. He entered cautiously. The door opened straight onto a large room with a slanting roof that he presumed acted as both living room and studio. The general air was of a cut-price, more masculine version of Quintilla Purse’s room. Barely a patch of wall was left uncovered by throws or shawls of some kind.
Several paintings of revoltingly basic talent, in many stages of their development, sat on easels about the room. Paint was everywhere, he found, as he stood on a tube of murky green and it ejaculated all over his trouser leg. Although he had at first thought there were no obvious signs of wealth in the flat, he noted that the little bed, swathed in many layers of orange, red and purple organza throws stained by red wine, was actually clothed in sheets made of Irish linen. There were no personal possessions on display. A sudden splash of displacement alerted him to a presence in the bathroom, and he had to use all of his wits not to be discovered. Holding onto the wall for balance, Warwick grabbed an exceedingly large paintbrush and advanced upon the phantom presence. Hopefully the intruding cur had not heard him. His breath quickened. He had forgotten all of the exquisite joy of the chase. Breathing in briefly, with his eyes closed, he savoured the last moment of pure clarity before he rounded the corner and readied himself to batter the villain. Everything seemed to happen at once. Brandishing the paintbrush, he made contact with a full jug of water and knocked it over with a horrendous klang, sending a torrent of foam and liquid all over everything in sight. There was a naked woman with short soapy hair in the tub, who, as she noticed him, attempted to clutch a cloth to her not inconsiderable bosom and also shriek at full volume.
Second installment: Swedes and canapes
'Who the bloody hell are you?' the stranger finally demanded in stern but faintly hysterical tones, before threatening to call for the police.
After a humiliating volley of apologies and explanations, he retreated to the other room to await her presence. Warwick was out of practice. Quintilla had said she lived with her girlfriend. Finally a burly female came forth, clad in a brown smock and with her wet dark bowl-cut hair slopping about her face. He rather wished she'd remained in the bathrobe. He knew how to behave around women in bathrobes; there is no such corresponding etiquette manual concerning women in smocks.
'I'm Kitty' she said, without extending a hand to shake. 'I live here. I'll answer some questions, but only because I want to know the truth about my dear Nan. Otherwise I'd kick you out straight away. You’ve got a bloody cheek…'
'Quite. I apologise unreservedly, madam. Shall we sit and get the questions over and done with? I needn't bother you again' he replied.
'Very well' she said and sat, cross-legged like an Indian, on the floor. The detective looked around the room.
'Sit. Nancy and I don't have chairs. We don't like them'
He realised, with a quick visual sweep of the studio, that this was true. Not a single chair. How did they entertain? Warwick instantly dismissed the idea of sitting on the floor. He had been unable to find matching socks this morning and no matter how declassé the company, he refused to entertain the idea of flashing them. He sat gingerly on the very edge of the bed.
'Your socks don't match' she said.
'What is your full name?' Warwick asked, taking his moleskin notebook from his top pocket.
'I've told you this before. Catherine – Kitty – Sutton Parker'
She stuck a thin cigarillo between her lips. He offered to light it, and she waved him away. They were so independent, these lesbians.
'And how did you know Miss Cunard? How did you know Nancy?'
'We were lovers, Detective. Nancy and I went to the Slade together. She had been living this life, this shallow existence of balls and parties and shooting weekends. You know her parents are very rich, don't you? Prigs, both of them. Wouldn't let her be herself. They wanted her to marry some bourgeois bastard, some Hoorah Henry-'
'And when the two of you met....?'
'It was fairly instant. We went to real parties, and marches, and piss-ups. You know, real life. We decided to move here and try to just paint, to just be as good as we could be... It was all so romantic...'
Kitty began to cry loudly into her dress. Warwick attempted the difficult task of comforting her without indelicately grasping her bosom or getting a cigarillo burn in his suit.
'...it's so hard' Kitty sobbed. 'We'd spent every day together for four years. Nancy would sometimes get very down about her work, about her painting. I kept saying, all it will take is one good sale and you'll have made your name, we'll be fine, but she worried so. It was hard for her, coming from such wealth, living like this... Winter was always bad. But I just... I can't believe she would do such a desperate thing...'
'Ah' Warwick said sharply, sitting back. 'So you too doubt the validity of her suicide?'
The girl sniffed. She looked tired.
'I didn't say that. I knew Nancy, I knew her like no-one else did. I know who has hired you. Quintilla Purse. Nancy's grand friends cannot seem to accept that she and I were lovers, lovers in the most pure and intimate sense’
He sighed.
‘Miss Purse seemed most comfortable with the idea when we spoke’
‘She doesn’t understand us. She’ll dabble but as for living day-to-day with a woman… She’s a gossip, and a jealous one at that’
Warwick had not thought such a brilliant woman capable of such base emotions but was her interest in the case really pure? He did not wish to give too much away so resumed questioning the girlfriend.
‘What were your movements on the fatal afternoon?’ he asked in what he hoped was an authoritative yet sensitive manner.
‘I was in the British Museum, sketching statues’
‘Were you with anyone?’
‘No, not a soul. When I sketch, I sketch. I went over after lunch and returned here at about four’
‘But there will of course be tourists, and museum officials to corroborate your story?’
Kitty gave him a brief and shifty smile.
‘That’s the trouble. I work with the more unpopular statues and the area tends to be rather deserted. But I was there… The police were sweet about it though. They didn’t seem to think I’d be in any trouble. I won’t, will I?
In a mere moment, the customary brusqueness he associated with this dangerous sort of female was replaced with a much more appealing prospect: the wet eyes and small voice of a woman in need of protection. He put his arm around her. She was rather wide-shouldered and it was not an easy task.
‘I’m sure you won’t. Do you have people with whom you can stay? Your family, perhaps?’
‘Yes. They live in Dulwich and I may stay here, or return there – I haven’t decided yet’
‘Very well’ he said, and left.
On the way home a group of rogue children insulted his hair colour on the street. He prodded one with an umbrella as hard as he dared. At home he made a list of possible motives. Warwick had not ruled out professional jealousy, and resolved to visit more art parties to see if Nancy had any high-profile rivals. Reading the police report (young bobbies were so easily charmed) he saw that the tragedy had occurred at 2pm. Did artists wake that early? The report also said that the gramophone was still playing Tchaikovsky when the police arrived. They concluded that: ‘Miss Cunard had been dancing in flowing robes in her room. She then fell from the studio window onto the pavement below. Verdict: suicide’. Yet if the woman was feeling suicidal, would she really listen to music or dance? They had uncovered no note, although in the report several of her friends had commented how under strain she had seemed. Of course, the death might have been an accident, he mused, but his eagle eyes had spotted that the studio had rat’s tail latches. He had them in his flat, and they were notoriously hard to open. Many a drunken evening had been wasted in the pursuit of fresh air as he perspiringly attempted to force them apart.
The funeral was the next day. The crowd was an assorted crew of high-society bohemians in fashionable rags and journalists, sensationalists really, from all over the world. Quintilla looked severe and remote in a black crepe dress and rakish hat. The ceremony passed without note, but on the way out he spotted Nathaniel Slipper, the evening columnist for The Times, accompanied by the faithless Jerome. It was the first time they had seen each other for several months. He attempted to slip away unnoticed but heard his own name ring out behind him. Jerome caught up with him under some yew trees.
‘Well, well, Warwick… Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?’
‘I wasn’t aware we had said hello’ he replied, once again dazzled by the smooth structure of his face. The slants and angles contained within were almost mathematical. The conversation had to be brief or he would once again be at the mercy of this handsome devil.
‘Now, now… Don’t be snippy. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t passed on your details to Miss Purse. I thought you could do with the work’
Damn! So I do know someone who attended one of Quintilla’s parties, he thought. And how humiliating to have Jerome underhandedly passing him work. The witty reply that was so needed here eluded him, and all he could do is glower in Jerome’s direction.
‘Don’t worry, no need to thank me’ Jerome said suavely. ‘Well, I’m afraid I must be going. Nathaniel and I are attending a rather smart party this evening, and must change. We just came here to put in an appearance and get the gossip. Good luck with the case!’
They nodded and parted. Warwick threw a tiny glance over his shoulder at the retreating figure of Jerome and headed to the Fitzroy to get royally drunk.
That night he dreamt, again, of jungles and mazes and puzzle pieces. When he awoke, he found a message from the landlady pushed under the door. Miss Purse’s maid had called, it said primly, and requested that you ‘phone her. Even her handwriting indicated disapproval. There was that usual morning feeling of confidence in one’s endeavours, so Warwick breakfasted well and hastened to phone Miss Purse. Perhaps an hour later – my, how quickly she worked! – he was sat in Bertelli’s café, on Museum Street, a pot of tea before him. The press had not let the case drop. Nancy’s art show was to go ahead and the papers were now focusing, and not in a discreet fashion, on her relationship with Miss Empire. Kitty also had a show coming up in a lesser gallery, he noted. A delicate and thin black umbrella lowered his paper and there she was.
‘Hello, Warwick’ she said, the smile vanishing as soon as they had greeted.
Quintilla wore red on her thin lips, a well-cut suit and large dark glasses in the style of Coco Chanel. He ordered her a black coffee but she declined any food. He was having lasagne.
‘So, to business’ she said, as the coffee arrived and their first cigarettes had been extinguished.
‘We need progress, Mr Shadbolt, and soon. I’m fearfully worried over this exposé in the papers. All of London knows about the case. It’s been said the article will concentrate on artistic suicide. Lady W’s nerves are on edge. What have you discovered?’
‘I’ve met the girlfriend, I’ve interviewed the police officers that found her and the few bystanders that would talk. I’ve no leads, that’s the problem. Everyone seems to think it was clearly an accident or suicide-‘
‘It wasn’t!’ Quintilla said forcefully, slamming her gloved fist down on the table. It made the saucers and spoons rattle. ‘I mean, I’m certain it wasn’t. She wouldn’t do that. There’s a show later tonight you might wish to attend…’
He noted the details down but it was a subdued lunch after that outburst. Every mouthful of lasagne filled him with more doubt. They parted wordlessly on the corner to Tottenham Court Road and he pondered at length the dubious Miss Purse and her reasons for pursuing this particular case. Secretly delighted to have a reason, he phoned Jerome and nakedly asked about the parties. Yes, his hunch was correct: Quintilla had been seen with women at her parties, and she was the jealous sort. There had been this one time her favourite servant boy, painted gold and clad in a loincloth, had wandered off with an acquaintance of Nathaniel’s to Quintilla’s fury and never been seen again… But then why had she involved him, a private detective? Perhaps a cunning double-bluff? Either way, he resolved to attend the party tonight and took a handsome cab down to Chelsea.
The gallery had huge glass windows and was lit up from the inside so uninvited passers-by could glimpse the place, over-stuffed with both furniture and people, and wish they too were inside. Warwick had got past the attractive young boy on the door with little problem, slipping him a note, hand in glove, and stood surveying the crowd of frauds, rogues and sheer imbeciles that, in his estimation, made up the contemporary art scene. A blustery old gentleman, complete with Victorian moustache and unsuitable tweed overcoat, came over.
‘What, what? Hello, are you one of these artists?’ the fellow asked.
‘No, sir. I am the Count of… the Count of Heidelberg’ he replied, affecting a Swedish accent and a facial twitch.
‘Aha! A European visitor! I’m Basil Thwartington’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Have you come tonight to invest in the British art scene?’
‘No, no, to join in the Season. But I am interested in art, of course. The recent story about that poor young girl artist who fell to her death… Terrible news, wasn’t it?’
‘What’s that? I don’t think I’ve heard of it, I’m afraid’
‘But it’s been all over the London papers’ Warwick replied, exasperated.
The fellow chortled.
‘My dear man, I’m not from London. I’m rather flattered you could think so. I’m from Wiltshire myself. My nephew is exhibiting so we’ve trundled up to town to see him’
Basil laughed once more and was then gone. Warwick glanced around in desperation. How did one integrate oneself into these kind of things? Glamorous types, all dressed Quintilla-style, stood in circles, braying and smoking and clutching their handsome other halves. He walked around, eavesdropping and searching out more champagne. No-one was discussing Nancy. That was old news, apparently. They were discussing the recent elopement of some Lord’s daughter. They were more concerned with the novelty of an elopement than taking any moral view of the situation. Marriage was pooh-poohed, he gathered. He leant in a doorway, hoping to ascertain who was in charge and whether there was anyone here worth flirting with. As his gaze wandered across the beautiful faces there, his brain kicked into gear: no, no, Shadbolt, concentrate on the task in hand, he told himself, and we’ll have fun after. The paintings were not to his taste, although they did resemble the daubs in Nancy’s studio: geometric in the modern style, sloppy, unbeautiful. His inner dandy sighed. A small girl in black scuttled past. He caught her arm.
‘Be a sport and get some more drinks, would you?’ he asked her.
‘Eh? Who do you fink I am?’ the girl said indignantly and turned to face him. ‘I’m showin’ here’ She was small and child-like, a sour faced cockney, and cheaply dressed, with no discernable haircut or style.
‘Pardon me. I’m so sorry. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the Count of Heidelberg’
She appeared unaffected by his use of a title.
‘I’m Lena Matthews. Those are mine over there’ the girl said, pointing out what to Warwick seemed the most depressing in the exhibition.
‘Aha! I shall go and examine them more carefully. I’m a collector’
Again she seemed unimpressed.
‘You’ll have to see the owner, that’s nothing to do with me’ Lena made to go and he caught her again.
‘Is this your first exhibit?’
‘Yes, yes, it is’ she replied. For the first time, she seemed excited. He realised this feeling. It was the realisation that one is stuck with the party bore and, that if one is stuck, one might as well make the effort with conversation.
‘How brilliant! I think you’re very talented. This show is very prestigious, you know. I’ve heard that Nancy Cunard is doing a posthumous exhibition here in a few weeks...’ the detective said, improvising.
This animated the young girl somewhat.
‘Yeah, terrible, wun’t it? She was meant to be the main artist but now they’ve asked me to be it instead. I was just meant to be in the smaller room. Good for me, but I don’t feel so right about that. I met ‘er once and she was ever so nice’
‘So I’ve heard’ he replied. He waited a moment before he deduced that Miss Matthews was the honest sort of cockney. ‘Actually, I’m quite interested in her, and her… situation. May I give you my card? If you hear anything about Miss Cunard, anything, even the smallest mention, will you call me? I shall pay you’
‘Pay me? That would be nice’ she replied, her eyes widening in an appealing manner. ‘These shows are all very well but I ain’t sold nothing yet. You know how it is’-
And, just as Lena stuffed the card guiltily into her dress pocket, a tall, thin man sidled up to them. He was as pale as an undertaker and had a face that might be as Jerome’s, but a permanent sneer rendered it unattractive. The man’s large black eyes and sharp cheekbones gave him the appearance of a feral creature despite his undoubtedly expensive clothing. His cravat was in a material Warwick particularly coveted.
‘Lena, my darling, you must mix more’ the man said insincerely. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Bertie, I’m talking to a customer. This is my agent. Cuthbert de Folkesville. This man, Bertie, he’s a count!’
Warwick smiled. He’d forgotten that.
‘Is that so? Really?’ Cuthbert replied, looking at the detective with curious eyes.
‘The Count of Heidelberg at your service’
The accent seemed slightly less convincing this time, and even more so when he remembered that he had never used an accent with Lena. Cuthbert gave him a foxy smile.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have any… counts on the invitation list tonight. My secretary and I prepared it rather tightly. And we are rather full, as you can see… So unfortunately I must ask you to leave’
Before Warwick could react, Cuthbert had motioned to a liveried and beefy footman who violently escorted the detective to the door. Try as he might, he could not catch sight of Lena and see if she had kept his card.
The next morning, he was engrossed in a pile of literature about the contemporary art scene. Time and time again his eyes widened in shock at the skulduggery apparent in that industry. Most interestingly, Cuthbert de Folkesville seemed to be involved in a large portion of this skulduggery. The bruises from last night were still discernable on his body. A full set of handprints on both arms but – alas! – not incurred doing anything pleasurable. It was not even a week since Quintilla had interrupted his wonderful dream and superseded it with her own world of mystery and amazement. That morning Lena had rung, against all of Warwick Shadbolt’s expectations. She had sounded childish and breathless on the phone, asking him to meet her later at the Lyon’s Coffee House in Soho, ‘if you’ll pay’. He reassured her and they had arranged to meet. The child appeared not to notice the discrepancy in names between the one he had given her and the one on his business card. He spent the rest of the morning making notes on links in the art world and then strolled down to Soho to receive the young lady. Perhaps she had found something out, he mused. Lena was a newcomer like himself. In Lyon’s, which was strangely deserted even for this hour of the afternoon, he took a subtle corner seat and ordered tea. She was late. The service here was terrible. He had to ask the waiter twice for his drink. Finally, the door swung open and she dashed in, red-cheeked and really rather pretty for it.
‘Sorry! Sorry, I ‘ad to run up Piccadilly from my other job’
‘That’s quite all right’ he murmured.
Lena impudently took a large sip from his tea before he had even had a chance to stir it.
‘So, why did you wish to meet me?’ the detective asked archly.
‘I stayed behind at the show, and I kept thinking about that poor girl, and I heard Bertie talking to this other gal. They didn’t see me, I’m sure. I found out that… That…’
Suddenly, her mouth gagged and Lena’s eyes widely popped with effort. She reached across and clutched his hand so tightly that both their knuckles were white and stared, with a terrifying countenance, into his eyes. Horrid impenetrable gargles came out of her corroded mouth. A mere second later, the girl slumped lifelessly forward onto the table, knocking over the milk into Warwick’s lap…
Third installment: A race against time
In an instant Warwick bounded out of his seat and towards the door. He could make out a big man in waiter’s uniform legging it down Wardour Street but his papers and, more importantly, his favourite hat, were ensconced in the booth. At the table, poor Lena looked no less dishwater-coloured in death than she was in life. Collecting his items hurriedly, he smelt the tea. It was as he had thought. There was the faint but distinct smell of white spirit, which he remembered from his childhood as poisonous. Aha, white spirit, the artist’s staple ingredient. He folded his napkin over Lena’s dead and anguished face and left quickly, so as not to be caught. His life was at stake. Someone knew he was getting to the centre of this mystery and wished to dispatch him. He had to catch the culprit, and soon.
Over a pint he pondered what to do. A pint was a clear sign of distress that any of his friends would recognise, if he had had any friends. Warwick’s research into the art world had led him nowhere, as had his numerous interviews with Nancy’s friends, colleagues and acquaintances. The only people he hadn’t met were her parents and this was under Quintilla’s strictest orders. The working men who drank here had no such worries. Perhaps he ought to become a working man. A builder, or decorator, or window cleaner. No, no, a builder’s clerk, that would do, he could sit down in a nice office, working on figures and then he would also have access to builders, day in, day out. There were a pair of them sat opposite him, workmates perhaps, drinking pints and no doubt talking about the football or whatever it was builders spoke about. Both were huge, with wide ugly faces and thickly built torsos. Warwick couldn’t help but notice the firm and tapered legs, leading up to well-built thighs, that both had. And then he saw it. Under the table. Yes, unmistakably, there it was. On the man on the left’s thigh, there was a hand, encased in a scrap of leather almost too small to be called a glove. Warwick checked. Yes, the man on the right was holding onto his pint with his left rather than right hand. The glove moved, snaking and caressing the thigh. He was aware of a response in his own trousers. The two men appeared to notice nothing different and carried talking, as men will, whilst staring into the distance and only very occasionally at one another. The glove moved repetitively and Warwick found himself hypnotised by it. The gesture appeared comforting rather than obviously erotic. It was the smallest and most familiar touch. The detective caught the eyes of the man on the right, the owner of the glove, and the man sharply looked away. The glove hid. After a moment’s consultation, the pair left and then it came to him, as he had always heard it did, in a flash.
After he had completed the tasks necessary to prove his new theory, he approached the pub very carefully. The answer lay, as perhaps he had always known subconsciously, in this place. It was late and the place was full of the usual burbling drunks. Warwick kept a low profile for a change, observing who came and who went. The bohemians gradually left to attend fashionable night-clubs and house parties. Kitty arrived back at her quarters by bicycle at half eleven, with a female friend in tow, and went straight upstairs. She was a sack of a girl, he thought. Graham appeared tired tonight. Still. It had to be tonight. Time was of the essence, after all. His drink tasted alternately of success and failure. As they went to draw the shutters, he stayed a hand upon Graham’s arm.
‘I say, Graham, include me in the lock-in, would you?’ the detective asked.
‘Very well’ the barman replied and resumed his post, drawing the beers he had accumulated throughout the day and half-heartedly wiping down surfaces. Warwick slunk over to join him at the bar.
‘Gin and tonic, please’ He felt sure Graham would crack. ‘I’m still working on that case, you know’ he added, casually.
‘The girl from upstairs?’ Graham enquired, but to Warwick’s attuned ear the burly barman’s voice masked his interest.
‘Yes. Quite interesting, you know’
‘Oh. I thought you’d given up hope. You shouldn’t, you know… I never thought she was the type to do away with herself’
‘Did you know her then? I rather got the impression she kept her distance from the bar’ the detective stated.
‘The bar, yes. She didn’t drink and we’re a rowdy lot down here. But we were friends’
‘Very well’
The barman eyed him. Warwick could tell he was moments from bursting. In his pocket he had his secret weapon. He flopped his paper, the one from the week before that broke the news, onto the counter, picture up.
‘Pretty girl, wasn’t she?’ he said, cautiously.
‘Yes. Yes, she was’ Graham appeared troubled. ‘Detective, may I have a word with you in quiet?’
Warwick nodded yes and they headed to the downstairs bar. There were few in tonight, but he still noted a few unfriendly eyes about the place, and wondered for the millionth time if Quintilla were the type to persuade a servant to follow him. This afternoon’s poisoned tea weighted heavily on his mind as Graham motioned towards the lamp-lit storage room. It was a small room and, as he perched delicately on a barrel of beer, Warwick felt most claustrophobic. As Graham slid the lock across the door, he noticed once more just how big the man was. His back appeared to be shaking. Was this a trap perhaps? Certainly from down here his screams might be ignored. He began tensing and untensing his muscles in turn, preparing himself for a fight to the death if necessary. Yet as the barman turned, Warwick realised that far from anger, the man was shaking because of emotion. He was moved; moved almost to the point of tears or as near as a man of his type got to that state.
‘Sit, sit’ Warwick said in wonderment.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me’ Graham replied, squatting next to him on a keg. Their faces were very near. ‘Nancy… Nancy and I were very close’
‘I thought as much. You were lovers, weren’t you?’
Graham gasped.
‘We were. How did you know? We’d kept it so quiet. We had to’
‘Why? Why did you have to? Did you have to hide your affair from her girlfriend?’
‘She’s not her girlfriend! Kitty! Urgh!’ he said, expressing disgust. Warwick allowed the man some of his gin. ‘Nancy said she had to do it for the art. She had to be more controversial, more… more bohemian. She tried, she really did. But it made her feel a bit sick, and she couldn’t handle all the mood swings. We’d go on day trips to Brighton just so we could hold hands in public without attracting scorn, and even then she would insist on wearing a hat’
Graham’s initial hysteria had given way to a calm yet tragically desperate sadness. It was a situation with which Warwick was only too familiar.
‘But why did she not leave Kitty for you?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘She said I was just a barman. But I’m working on a book, you understand? I’m a writer. I just work here for the money. I don’t know… I thought we were in love. But she said she couldn’t be with me’
‘Aha! So you were angry with her?’
‘Yes, yes, I was. The last time I saw her-‘
Warwick’s hands tightened on the whistle in his pocket, the whistle that would summon the six plainclothes policemen that were positioned about the pub at this very moment.
‘So you admit you were with her on the day of her death?’
‘Well, yes I saw her that morning. We met for coffee. But if you’re suggesting, Detective, that I had any hand in her death then you’re most mistaken. I would never, could never, lay a hand on the woman I loved. And on my child’
Warwick spluttered and a mouthful of tonic went over the slate floor.
‘She was pregnant?’
‘She was. Yes. She… we’d just found out. If it were a boy we were going to call it Geronimo. But this is it. If the pregnancy came out it would ruin everything. Everyone would know she was a closet heterosexual. With the show coming up, it was a complete disaster. There was no way she could hide it. But I wanted to do the right thing by her. In the morning I’d asked her to leave Kitty and marry me and have the child and she said she’d let me know. Well, the landlord came with a sealed note for me. I think I still have it…’
Graham went through his pockets methodically, producing till receipts and pens of various forms until he came across a small folded scrap of paper. Although it was a mere week old, the creases were worn deep as though it had been taken out and re-read a million times. Warwick remembered his drawer full of lover’s notes, ranging from lengthy dispatches to the briefest, most unromantic of scraps. On the paper was written: ‘Darling. I agree. The answer is yes. I’ll tell her right away. Nx.’
‘Well’ Warwick mused. ‘This changes everything’
‘I know. You must believe, I would never harm my own child, or my darling wife-to-be. She must have told Kitty that morning’
‘Do you suspect her girlfriend?’
‘I never knew her and I was always, truth to be told, a little scared of her. I think Nancy was as well’
‘How did they meet?’
‘They were at university together. Nancy rarely spoke of her. It was Kitty who devised the plan for them to appear as lesbians so that they might achieve artistic success. Yet it was always Nancy who garnered the most critical acclaim simply because she was better. It made Kitty mad. There were fights. Once Nancy had a black eye’
‘So you do suspect her’
‘How could I not? A violent temper and a betrayal of their secret plan? Believe me, detective, but for my fear of her and her powerful friends, I would have confided this in you long ago – ‘
‘Exactly. Why did you not do so?’
‘She… she came to see me in the pub. Threatening terrible things. She was crying. I think she loved Nancy in her own way. Her people… those people, Warwick, they can do things… They can do anything… Ruin my life. But I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. You must work fast!’
Warwick exited the room as fast as possible and had words with his detectives.
Moments later a struggling and enraged Kitty Parker Ellis appeared in the main bar, flanked by the two largest policemen. The sniggering men confided in him that when they apprehended her, she had been engaging in some decidedly unheterosexual behaviour with her female friend who even now was being held by the other policemen down at the local station. Nancy was not the only one with the wandering eye, it seemed.
‘How dare you, detective? You have no right to come in my flat at any time! You need some sort of warrant!’
‘Not at all, my dear’ he replied. A crowd had gathered to witness his moment of triumph.
‘What do you want? Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’ she railed on, red in the face. ‘Tell me what you want now, or I’ll telephone my father. He’s a judge, you know’
‘You won’t intimidate me, Kitty. Graham, come forward’ Warwick said, gesturing.
‘You!’ Kitty reacted angrily as the barman came forward, matching her in height. Kitty spat on the floor at his feet.
‘You… you murderess!’ Graham shouted. ‘You killed my dear Nancy!’
‘Don’t you dare mention her name!’ Kitty retaliated ‘You’re a damned liar, Graham! I would never have harmed her. She loved me. Only me!’
‘She would never love someone who treated her as you did…’
‘Rubbish!’ Kitty cried. ‘Detective, I would never have hurt her. This… this yob, this barman, he was obsessed with her. He wouldn’t leave her alone’
‘Do you deny her murder?’ Graham asked again. He was circling the girl like an animal.
‘Yes! Of course!’
Kitty began to cry softly. Then, as one of the detectives reached in his pocket for a handkerchief to dry her tears, she sprung free of their grip and set upon Graham. The barman was caught unawares and hit his head against a table as the pair fell onto the floor. Kitty was like a wild beast, spitting, scratching his face and easily setting off the men who tried to tear her away. Warwick grasped her under the arms but was dispatched swiftly. The pair were a whirl of blood and rage. All of a sudden, just as the situation looked hopeless, Graham turned the pair over and trapped the woman’s hands behind her head. This swift movement ended the fight. The two lay there, breathing heavily in perfect compliance, as the pub fell deathly silent.
‘Admit it’ Warwick demanded.
‘It was’ Kitty said, eyes closed, in the smallest of voices ‘an accident. I was angry. She said it was all over. We were fighting, and I pushed her. The window wasn’t locked. Bloody never locked it, even though I asked all the time! I looked… and she was… On the pavement’
The woman began to sob, genuinely this time. Graham nodded grimly and Warwick passed him a pair of handcuffs. Kitty sat up, defeated, and was passed to the policemen. The detective lay a comforting hand on Graham’s wide shoulders. They turned to go.
‘Please don’t expose me’ Kitty said suddenly. ‘Please, detective. It was an accident. If you turn me in, I’ll be ruined. My work will never be shown again. Have a heart’
‘That, my dear, is a matter for the police. I am not interested in judgement; only justice.
And with that, a fine epithet he thought, he allowed the policemen to lead Kitty outside to a round of applause from waiting bohemians and drunkards. The blonder, rattier of the policemen congratulated him.
‘Compliments of the force. We were getting nowhere with this, sir’
Warwick made a brief phone call to Quintilla and explained everything. She sounded relieved, although not particularly surprised.
‘As we both know’ he stated. ‘Nancy was slight and Kitty is not. There was a struggle and she was overpowered, and propelled to her death’
Over the ‘phone line, he could sense her shuddering. He imagined she was not a woman given to displays of unnecessary emotion.
‘Well, she was hiding that well. Graham, you say? I met him at her last opening. He’s rather a dish. Good old Nancy. I knew that girl wasn’t right. And I knew you could do it’
For a few hours, he was in seventh heaven. Every other moment brought another pat on the back, another drink slapped down on the counter, but he felt strangely empty. Warwick had forgotten this essential truth about working: that one felt vibrant and useful whilst engaged in solving a case, but that the moment one concluded it, there was time on one's hands and questions to be asked. Perhaps he would never see Quintilla again. That would be a shame, he thought. At that moment there was a sharp rap on the shutters. It was past three and to be caught drinking at this time in the morning would end his run of good luck. Graham cautiously opened the door, and a small portly gentleman in chauffeur’s outfit entered.
‘I’ve got a message for a Mr. Shadbolt’
‘Very well. You may come in. The hero of the hour is just over there’ Graham replied, gesturing.
‘Mr Shadbolt? Warwick Shadbolt? Make yourself known, sir!’ the man said, a big smile plastered across his face.
Warwick was a little drunk by now.
'I'm here' he said, wearily, from his seat.
'Compliments of Miss Purse, sir' he said, handing over a thick creamy envelope.
Inside it was £200 in cash – enough to keep the wolf from his door for a good couple of months – and a handwritten note. She had beautiful handwriting, as he had thought.
'I knew you could do it!' she wrote, with an exuberant whorl to the exclamation mark.
'Do come to the Café Royal. We can celebrate and I'd love to introduce you to some of the people here. Yours, Quintilla'
The instant he read the line, he decided against it.
'So' said the chauffeur. 'What shall it be? I'm to take you there straight away'
'I rather think not' he replied. 'I've had quite enough of bohemians for one week'
With that, he tottered off home for a late night of gin and thoughts, followed by a drowsy day tomorrow.
Sarah Drinkwater
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