Last Nocturne (38 page)

‘Have no fear of Viktor Franck.’ Lamb smiled. ‘I’ve already assured Mrs Amberley there’ll be someone here within the hour to watch the house. If he does come, we’ll be waiting for him.’

She still looked a little doubtful. ‘I’ve been out long enough. I must go and find something to buy to explain where I’ve been.’

‘One question before you go, if you don’t mind. Did Theo paint a portrait of the little girl, Sophie?’

‘He began one. But it was Viktor Franck who finished it.’

‘I’ll set Brownrigg to watch for Franck,’ said Cogan as Susan disappeared towards the shops.

‘No, I’ve other ideas for Brownrigg.’

Cogan looked at him curiously but Lamb didn’t want to elaborate at that moment. His growing frustration with the investigation seemed to have disappeared and he felt the sudden spurt of energy that always came when he began to see the end of a case in sight. He had it now, the elusive association he’d been chasing. It had been there, in those letters, all the time. The kaleidoscope had been shaken and a new pattern had emerged. It was dangerous to try to make a theory fit the facts and he didn’t see where he was to find any proof at all. There was a long way to go yet, but it was beginning to look at least possible. That was as far as he dared to go.

‘Mr Lamb, sir?’

He blinked, and suddenly smiled. ‘Loose ends, loose ends, Sergeant. I’ll tell you what, let’s go and see Mr Ireton.’

‘There is something I should very much like to ask you to do for me, Miss Dart.’

‘Ask away, Inspector.’

Lamb was unusually hesitant to speak. He eased himself back into his chair in the confined space of Miss Dart’s sitting room, another glass of Russian tea before him on the small table. He wondered if he might venture to stretch his cramped legs, or if he might in so doing accidentally come knee to knee with Miss Dart, sitting opposite. The notion didn’t entirely discomfit him but he managed to ease his legs sideways.

She was looking slightly less eccentric today, in an ankle-length, V-necked dress, albeit vividly patterned in midnight blue and green, again with a bandeau,
à la
Romney, in emerald green, bound around her dark curls. No distracting long beads to play with this time, but an outsize bunch of velvet leaves tucked into the wide sash at her waist. Her fingers were free of ink-stains, too, but then, she had been expecting him after the note he had sent to say he would be coming. He had not brought Cogan with him. One large policeman was more than enough in this tiny room, he’d told himself.

She was looking at him expectantly. Some impulse had brought him confidently here, but now he felt unsure how she was going to respond to his request. ‘You remember our last talk, when we spoke of Mrs Amberley?’ he began, and then went on to tell her of the idea he had had. There was a silence when he finished.

‘You’re asking me to question Sophie, aren’t you?’

‘No, that would scarcely be appropriate, Miss Dart.’

‘Oh, Eugenia, please.’

‘I would not ask you to do that, Eugenia.’

She smiled. ‘Then what is it you want me to do, Inspector—I suppose you do you have a Christian name?’

‘Philip,’ he heard his red-faced reply, adding rather quickly, ‘No, it’s Mrs Amberley herself I’d like you to talk to…if you would.’ He finished his tea. ‘Do you know anything about the way Sophie’s mother died?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a sad little story, but you may understand why I am asking for your help when you’ve heard it. May I tell you?’

‘I can never resist a story.’ She pushed the table out of the way so that he was able at last to stretch his legs properly. Throwing a cushion onto the floor opposite where he sat, she settled herself on it, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms round them, prepared to give him her whole attention. He told her, as briefly as possible, what there was to know about Miriam Koppel’s death and why the consequences of it might be important for his present investigations. He kept nothing back and her eyes grew wide.

‘Poor little Sophie, I had no idea. If she did see anything, it’s not surprising she doesn’t want to talk about it. Have you considered that she could have buried it so deep she’s actually forgotten?’

‘You may be right. But I also think there’s a possibility she may have told Mrs Amberley.’

‘And what makes you think Isobel would tell me, if she had?’

‘I don’t know that she will. But I think she may only be keeping back from us what she knows – or maybe merely suspects – out of a desire to protect the child. She won’t talk to us – the police – but she may open up to you as a friend.’

‘I see.’ She considered this for a moment then said abruptly, ‘Would you like some more tea?’

He wouldn’t really, but it was obviously a mainstay as far as she was concerned, and he nodded. She went into the kitchenette and in a few minutes she came back with a laden tray. He jumped up to relieve her of it but she had it on the table before he could reach her. As well as the glasses of tea, there were two crumpets, butter and a two-foot long copper wire toasting fork on the tray. ‘Since it’s tea-time,’ she said with a smile, kneeling in front of the fire, and lighting it with a match. When the bars grew red, she expertly inserted the fork into a crumpet and held it towards them and very soon a warm, toasty smell filled the little room. She tossed a napkin to him, buttered the crumpet and passed it to him on a plate before proceeding with the next one. ‘Don’t wait. This won’t be a tick.’

He’d forgotten how difficult it was to eat a crumpet with any sort of poise, and how satisfying it was. She had been lavish with the butter and it had melted into all the little holes; he sighed with pleasure and bit into it again. Her face was rosy and her eyes glowed as she bent towards the fire. She looked extraordinarily fetching. He was damned glad he hadn’t brought Cogan with him.

She finished toasting and eating her own crumpet, wiped her fingers and sat for some time, saying nothing, twisting one of the barbaric rings she wore. At last she raised her eyes to his. ‘It wouldn’t be ‘appropriate’ for me to question Sophie, but it would be all right for me to gain the confidence of my friend and then pass it on to you – is that it?’

He regarded her gravely. ‘Don’t you think the end might justify the means?’

‘That’s always a specious argument.’

‘One that might hold good in this case, nevertheless.’

‘No, Chief Inspector Lamb. I suspect I’ve already done more than I should, in giving you Isobel’s address. I can’t do any more, and there’s really an end to it.’

‘I’m sorry for that.’

‘So am I – sorry I can’t help you, I mean.’ She began to stack the tea things. ‘There’s butter on your chin.’

He scrubbed at his chin with his napkin until it was as red as the rest of his face. ‘Are you quite sure you won’t do it? I know Mrs Amberley is holding something back that may very well help us.’

Her big brown eyes looked reproachful. ‘You have no right to ask me such a thing, you know.’

‘None at all. Except that—’

‘Except that nothing. No, definitely not.’

‘Then I must respect your wishes – however mistaken I feel you are. But you are right, of course, I should not have asked you.’

‘Well, that’s settled, then.’

Just how am I supposed to approach this, Eugenia thought as she sat opposite Mrs Amberley in her pretty room. Isobel isn’t just going to talk to me about a subject like this, out of the blue. I shall have to have some reason for asking.

She was not, of course, here because he had persuaded her, not in the least. A picture of the rather proper Chief Inspector Philip Lamb, sitting opposite her, trying to avoid dripping butter onto his tie, came to her and made her smile, then blush. She had wanted to tell him to tuck the napkin into his pristine collar but hadn’t liked to. He wasn’t like any policeman she’d ever met before. Odd, but he had seemed less out of place in her humble little room than the homely, burly sergeant. Her cheeks grew warm again.

She had actually made up her mind to come here in the sudden, impulsive way she had. She would, however, not induce Isobel to confide in her and then pass on what she had been told – impossible! – but she would try to persuade her to talk to Lamb, she had decided, though she had not told him so. He had left saying he was leaving it to her feminine intuition (by which she thought he meant conscience) whether she did anything about it or not. She thought that had been rather clever of him, though she didn’t know whether her conscience could or would allow her to do what he wanted, even now, or that she possessed all that much intuition, feminine or otherwise.

It had, however, been intuition of a sort which had made her call on Isobel the first time, after Eliot Martagon’s death. Then, she had expected the Mrs Amberley he’d spoken of to be some comfortable, motherly, middle-aged body who would be prepared to take Dulcie under her wing if the circumstances arose – though what they could be was beyond her. She could not bring herself to believe that they had included Mr Martagon’s own suicide when he’d extracted that promise from her – perhaps he hadn’t known himself – but she had thought Mrs Amberley should know what had happened. When she had first set eyes on her she had seen immediately what the situation was, but never having been one to judge, she found herself quite comfortable with Isobel and the life she had created with Susan and the child Sophie in her pretty little house, and at Isobel’s instigation she had taken to dropping in whenever she felt like it.

Today, however, Isobel seemed uncharacteristically nervous, to have lost that cool amused poise which was part of her charm. She got up to adjust the hands of the little clock on the mantelpiece, she fiddled with the combs in her hair, her glance kept straying to the window. Eugenia wondered if she were expecting someone.

Before they might be interrupted, she had to get something off her chest. She burst out in a great rush, ‘I know you’ve had a visit from the police. It was I who gave them your address. I’m very much afraid I have abused your friendship and I am very sorry for it.’

‘I suspected it was you who gave it them. Dear Eugenia, don’t distress yourself. I was expecting them. One cannot hide from the police for ever. Besides,’ she added, ‘I am rather glad you did.’

‘What?’

‘You see that house across the way?’ Eugenia followed the direction of her pointing finger, to a house with a ‘For Rent’ sign planted in its small front garden. ‘A large policeman has taken up residence behind the lace curtains there for our protection.’

Eugenia’s expressive face could not hide its consternation. ‘Isobel, what can you mean? You are not in danger? Protection from whom?’

‘From a man called Viktor Franck. The police are willing to have me guarded because they want to apprehend him for…murder.’ She paused then went on in a sudden quick agitation, ‘Sophie may come in any minute. She was looking very peaky this morning and Susan has taken her out to help in the garden at the back, for some English fresh air. Susan,’ she added with a faint smile, ‘seems determined to grow enough cabbages and salads to withstand a siege. But before they come in, there is something I must warn you about. The murder was that of a young artist friend – I believe you once met him leaving the house – he supposedly fell from a window and died but the police do not think so now. Ah, I see the inspector has told you about it.’

‘Yes.’

‘It was in all the newspapers. I encourage Sophie to read them for the sake of her English, but we’ve tried to keep them from her until I find the right moment to tell her. Theo was a great favourite with her, so I would be pleased if you would not speak of it. Did your policeman friend also tell you how her mother died?’

‘Yes. He said…he said you didn’t want him to speak to Sophie.’

‘He thinks her mother did not die by accident, that she was killed,
n’est ce pas?
And that Sophie saw it happen. She will not talk about it – and I will not have anyone trying to make her do so. She will speak when she is ready – if she ever is. But it does not matter whether she does or not. I know who killed Miriam Koppel. It was Viktor Franck. I once before saw him half killing her. He would have done so, had I not been there to stop him, I am convinced.’

‘But – the brother?’

Isobel shrugged. ‘What proof did I have? But still, I was about to go to the police, only it was too late. Bruno was dead before anyone had time to think. After that, what was the point? I still had no proof. There was nothing to be done but leave everything behind. Try to help Sophie forget.’

The sun dappling through the lace curtains rested cruelly on Isobel’s face, making her look suddenly older.

There were sounds outside the room and then the sitting room door opened and Sophie burst in, followed by a flustered-looking Susan, still in her gardening apron and a battered straw hat. They both came to a halt when they saw Eugenia, but then Sophie rushed straight to Isobel and flung herself against her.

‘Eugenia!’ said Susan, registering her presence, pulling herself together and divesting herself of hat and apron. ‘It’s quite a time since we saw you. What have you been doing with yourself?’