The Indecent Death of a Madam Page 14

  ‘Did anyone here not like her?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Cherise complains about her but Cherise complains about everyone – she doesn’t kill them, though.’

  ‘And Rosemary and Tara?’

  ‘They always seemed good partners to me.’

  ‘Partners?’

  ‘Business partners, yes.’

  ‘Yes. And do they, er, work here? You know, er . . .’

  ‘Do you mean sex, Abbot?’

  ‘Well, yes. I’m just trying to sort out the roles . . .’

  ‘Tara keeps some clients. Some she has been with for many years, they are almost married. She gets the nicest Christmas cards . . . posh ones. I don’t think she takes on new clients, though. I am not sure, she might. We do not ask about Tara.’

  ‘And Rosemary?’

  It was the question he had to ask.

  ‘No, Rosemary does not – did not have clients. I don’t think she did that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Though she has admirers. She told us about one.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We ask her if she is with a man, we were joking with her, and she said she was not, but that once she was . . . maybe a while ago. She did say she liked him. But really, she did not speak about herself and we did not ask.’

  ‘And she didn’t name this person.’

  ‘No. He was in the past, I think.’

  ‘Ah. Well, we all have a past.’ His mind was racing.

  ‘I think she was more the owner,’ said Katrina.

  ‘She was, yes.’ Though not now. According to the will, Tara had inherited Rosemary’s fifty-one per cent stake in the business, making her the sole owner of Model Service, with rent-free use of the property for five years, when it would be sold, with half the proceeds going towards relocation of the business and the other half divided among various charities.

  ‘I’m not sure anyone knew Rosemary,’ said Katrina. ‘Maybe the one who killed her knew her best of all. Who can say?’

  ‘Or maybe they knew just one thing about her,’ said the abbot, suddenly focusing on a truth. ‘And that was enough. It’s usually just one thing that does it.’

  And suddenly, he felt alive with discovery. Together, Cherise and Katrina had opened a door. ‘Are you attending Rosemary’s funeral this afternoon?’

  Rosemary’s funeral

  took place in the ancient church of St Peter’s, at the top of Blatchington Hill. It was well thought of locally as it stayed open throughout the week, when so many other churches were locked and closed, wanting company only on Sundays. Even the abbot had dropped in once or twice to sit with the Saxon silence.

  Rosemary’s family had wished for the earliest burial possible and there’d been no reason to refuse. Nothing more would be learnt from her body, unless it returned to life and spoke its hidden truth. How helpful that would be, thought Peter, walking up the hill towards the church; how helpful to hear the post-death testimony of the victim, the pleading of the dead.

  ‘This was done to me, this was done – by them!’

  It may be happening in some séance nearby even now. Did a Stormhaven clairvoyant hold all the clues? After all, a clairvoyant had solved a murder in nineteenth-century Paris, according to Conan Doyle. Peter had told Tamsin the story once, just to irritate her. As he walked, he remembered their conversation.

  ‘There were two brothers, Eugene and Paul Dupont,’ Peter had said, setting the scene. They’d each had a glass of wine in their hands – a bottle brought by Tamsin, and the label looked expensive. ‘Eugene was a banker, Paul a man of letters.’

  ‘I’ve never known what that meant,’ Tamsin had said.

  ‘Well, a writer, I suppose . . . an unsuccessful one. But then Eugene disappeared.’

  ‘As all bankers should.’

  ‘And the police couldn’t find him, so they gave up the search.’

  ‘Good. So can we talk about something else? I’ve paid for the wine and I feel a dull moral in the air.’

  ‘But Paul Dupont, his brother, did not give up so easily.’ And nor would Peter. ‘He visited Madame Huerta, a well-known clairvoyant.’ Tamsin raised her eyebrows. ‘And in a mesmerized state, she got in touch with the dinner scene where the two brothers had last met. Following?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. But happy to change places with someone who isn’t.’

  ‘She then followed Eugene’s movements, in her mesmeric state, after he left the restaurant, until he vanished into a house which, when described, Paul recognized. She then told how Eugene, once inside the house, held a conversation with two men. From her description, Paul recognized them, too.’

  ‘Where’s this going?’

  ‘Feeling threatened?’

  ‘More bored than threatened.’

  ‘Madame Huerta then described how Eugene signed some papers and received a bundle of banknotes. She then saw him leave the house, followed by the two men he’d met there, who attacked him, killed him and threw his body in the River Seine.’

  ‘Did anyone believe her? She’d get short shrift in Lewes nick.’

  ‘And she got short shrift from the police in Paris as well – until Eugene’s body was picked out of the river and identified at the morgue.’

  ‘Ta-da!’

  ‘Mind you, the police still thought it was suicide. But Paul, his brother, carried on the investigation, going to the house she’d described in her mesmeric state. And there he discovered that the occupants, two men, did business with Eugene’s firm . . . and also found the receipt for the money handed over in the clairvoyant’s vision.’

  ‘A fairy tale.’

  ‘It wasn’t a fairy tale for the two men in the house, who were then arrested.’

  ‘Really?’ Tamsin seemed genuinely surprised.

  ‘Yes, really. They were father and son, named Dubechet, and further evidence quickly appeared. The pocket book that Eugene had in his possession the night of his death was found in the Dubechets’ bureau. With other evidence against them, they were found guilty of murder and sent to penal servitude for life.’

  ‘And the nutcase? How did her evidence work in court?’

  ‘Well, it didn’t. Madame Huerta was not summoned as a witness on the grounds that she was not conscious at the time of her vision.’

  ‘Hah!’

  ‘But conscious or not, her revelations undoubtedly brought about the discovery of the crime. Hard to disagree, isn’t it?’ Tamsin shrugged, hiding her discomfort. ‘Who needs the CID, eh?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Tamsin, getting up to find some crisps in the kitchen. She’d heard enough. ‘Much better to hand over detection to attention-seeking crackpots, the deluded or the insane.’

  ‘That’s no way to talk about your colleagues.’

  They’d laughed. But here in the church, there was no clairvoyant to hand . . . though someone attending this funeral knew what had happened, and without the need for a mesmeric state.

  They knew, because they’d been there.

  *

  The church was now full.

  St Peter’s was not a large space, having been designed for private prayer rather than gatherings. It could hold ninety souls at a squeeze – perhaps more at Midnight Mass, in the Christmas Eve crush. Stormhaven did expand at Christmas; children coming home to the sea, squeezed into the hard wooden pews to see in Christmas Day. But somehow this building felt happiest, most itself, when hosting one or two frail souls seeking solitude from the rush of life, seeking answers to prayers, lighting candles in the ancient stillness. It had the quality of a cave.

  Peter looked around as the congregation waited. The Etiquette Society were out in force; and, while they would not be mentioned by the priest, the staff of Model Service were also present, closing for half a day out of respect for their entrepreneurial founder.

  ‘Forty-two per cent of business start-ups fail because there’s no market need,’ whispered Martin Channing to Geoff. ‘That’s never going to be true of a brothel, is it?’ />
  Geoff nodded appreciatively, always glad to be in on a joke, though it would have been better had he been the one to make it. He began to think of a smart reply with which to impress Martin.

  ‘I’m all for supporting local business!’ he said too loudly, and immediately regretted it. His words sounded clumsy and Martin’s was only a half-smile.

  Meanwhile, Blessings sat at the back, having made it – and with some flair – only just before Rosemary. She liked to be the last to arrive, whether in court or out. It made people pay attention to her.

  ‘She’ll be late for her own funeral, that one!’ joked Geoff, straining again for comedic effect, though Martin’s smile remained weak and slightly condescending. He’d prefer not to be sitting next to this rather needy clown. He’d prefer to be sitting next to the late arrival, Blessings, who did look stunning in black with the yellow earrings. And Martin pondered her love life for much of the service.

  The coffin arrived to Nimrod. It was a professional recording, much to the annoyance of the parish organist, Oliver, who felt he could have handled it. After hearing him try that morning, however, the vicar had disagreed, with quiet force.

  ‘I think we’ll go with the recording, Oliver,’ he’d said, as they stood together in the chancel.

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘I’m just not sure our organ is up to it.’

  ‘Of course it’s up to it.’

  ‘I mean, you achieve wonders with the instrument, Oliver, but . . .’

  ‘You’re killing live music,’ said the organist.

  No, that’s what you do every Sunday, thought the priest. Oliver had taken himself and his huff off down the red-carpeted aisle, and for the rest of the day the vicar had received the silent treatment of a musician thwarted.

  The coffin carriers made their careful way to the front – it was a narrow aisle – and the coffin was then set on the wooden plinth in the knave. There was an audible gasp, however, when the coffin was opened. The undertakers took the lid off; and there she was!

  ‘What’s he doin’?’ asked Cherise, shocked.

  ‘It is not so strange,’ said Katrina. She had seen this before, in her homeland.

  ‘It’s bloody weird. There’s a dead body in there!’

  ‘That is the point. Sometimes the coffin is open so people can see the body and kiss the dead person goodbye.’

  ‘Kiss a dead person? Like I’m doin’ that,’ said Cherise. ‘That’s gross.’

  Tara glared at her. Like some Mother Superior, thought Cherise, when she isn’t superior to anybody . . . and then the service got under way. Tara was glad she didn’t recognize the vicar; that was always embarrassing.

  Closest to the priest and the coffin, in the front row, was Terence, militarily square-shouldered. He was familiar with death, but not with churches. He had avoided army chaplains throughout his soldiering career, with no interest in their God of love, who offered sweet visions in the trenches to those with half a face or spilling innards. Their God of love was a beguiling fantasy for the weak; or for those coughing blood and shortly to die.

  ‘Does God love me, Major?’

  He’d never been able to say yes, even when the eyes screamed for it, pleaded for reassurance. But he’d sit in the front row now and give Rosemary a proper send-off, which she deserved.

  Peter looked discreetly across at Tara. Women could look so demure at funerals, and Tara took demure to its extreme. Maybe death does this to males; mortality makes sex all the more urgent before the final dimming of the light. But he also looked at Terence, and with different thoughts. What to do with the material Rosemary had given him over their lunch together? Terence would not be glad he had it, nor could he admit to having it. It was really a set of therapist’s notes, focusing on the poor man’s relationship with his mother.

  It had all been very difficult, apparently.

  ‘You must look after him,’ she’d said. But how was he to do that? Terence was not a man who invited help. And then, without a second thought, Peter was walking up the aisle towards the coffin.

  After brief thoughts on resurrection, and edited highlights of Rosemary’s life and work, the priest had invited any who wished to, to come forward and offer their personal goodbyes to Rosemary. The abbot had allowed one or two family members time and space to stand with the corpse in distant grief. It seemed that they found it hard to look at her, turning away in barely hidden revulsion.

  And then for Peter, as he waited his turn, the shock of seeing Rosemary alive at her own funeral. She was walking up towards the coffin, her own coffin, the strangest of feelings – it was Rosemary! Only it wasn’t Rosemary . . . of course it wasn’t, just someone who looked extraordinarily like her. So was this her sister, Sarah? It must be her sister, the one Rosemary had mentioned, the one who’d ‘gone her own way’, a little younger perhaps, quick-eyed, embarrassed to be in front of everyone. There was a shyness about her, aware of watching eyes, not staying long by the coffin before hurrying back to her seat. So what was her story?

  Peter knew he must speak with her; he was almost physically drawn to her. He’d catch her afterwards, he’d make sure he did. But with the family now seated, the abbot followed their path up to the chancel and the waiting corpse of Rosemary. Unlike her family, however, he did not wish merely to stand, or to remain distant; he wished to stoop and to kiss her . . . kiss her goodbye.

  The face was a shock, though better than the one seen in the asylum gloom on that terrible night. They’d done their best, the undertakers, but only so much beautification was possible, given Rosemary’s wounds. He paused, oblivious to all things but the woman before him. He had gone to the desert, and spent the years meant for her in the rocks and the sand. She’d been right not to come; she’d had another life to lead.

  ‘You were right not to come,’ he said quietly. ‘Every second you lived was quite right and quite perfect.’ And he then bent down and kissed her on the cold cheek offered.

  It was not until he’d returned to his seat and the priest had announced the closing hymn that he realized his last kiss of Rosemary Weller had also been his first.

  ‘Gallows humour,’

  said Martin to Tamsin, noting the house name, gothic script carved in wood: Black Cap. The funeral that afternoon had been quickly forgotten. This was now a world without Rosemary, as the priest had said; and life must go on, as Martin had said. And here they were outside the judge’s posh home. ‘And I can quite see her wearing one! She’d enjoy sending someone to the noose and drop.’

  Tamsin and Martin had arrived at the house in Firle Road together – or rather, at the same time, and this was not ideal. She’d wished to make her own entrance, unattached to a suspect.

  ‘Have you seen her honour at work?’ asked Martin as they crunched their way across the gravel drive towards the front door.

  ‘No.’ It somehow felt like a defeat.

  ‘Oh, you should, really you should. She looks entirely fetching – even without the cap. Violet robe with delicate lilac trim, a short horsehair wig and a simply gorgeous red sash over the left shoulder.’ Martin could sound very effete. ‘She could try me any day!’

  ‘And perhaps she will, Martin. I’d certainly be there for that one. Do you anticipate your conviction any time soon?’

  ‘I think you’d have to catch me first and you’re some way from doing that.’ They were now standing at the door in the blaze of the security light. ‘Blessings did look splendid at the funeral, didn’t she? Made everyone else look quite the frump!’

  And if anything, the judge was even more resplendent tonight, welcoming them in a Ghanaian robe of startling reds and yellows.

  ‘You’re on fire, Blessings!’ said Martin. He seemed to have got over his missed piano lesson.

  Waiting inside were the other members of the Stormhaven Etiquette Society. Estate agent and amateur dramatist Geoff Berry; war hero Major-General Terence Blain and their colourful host for the evening, Judge Blessings N’Dayo. Ab
bot Peter was also present, having walked the mile or so from his seaside home.

  ‘Fashionably late, Martin,’ said Blessings.

  ‘Pot and kettle, my dear.’

  ‘But rather stealing the inspector’s thunder, perhaps?’

  ‘Better than stealing Rosemary’s!’ said Geoff, followed by an embarrassed silence. Had he gone too far?

  Blessings ignored him. ‘I believe the inspector may have been counting on a dramatic entrance. We judges know all about those.’

  And yes, a dramatic entrance had crossed Tamsin’s mind. She liked people to stew a little before she arrived, for tension to build. Into this limbo of fear and unknowing, she arrived as both prosecutor and saviour.

  ‘Never my intention, I assure you, Blessings,’ said Martin. ‘I doubt I could ever outshine the detective inspector!’

  While Blessings, Martin and Tamsin jockeyed for position, Peter looked around at the faces in the circle, and was struck by the incongruity of the gathering. He looked at each in turn: a war hero . . . an attention-seeking estate agent . . . a cold-as-Alaska judge . . . and an outrageous journalist. How had they ever come together? Rosemary had sat in this circle, of course. And what had she been in this strange alliance? Was she its conscience, perhaps? And if she was the conscience, then what was everyone else? Terence, he was its noble bravery, Blessings its savage legal clarity, and Martin its shameless community mouthpiece. But Geoff? What the hell was Geoff doing here? There was an inadequacy about him that made his presence strange. This group was clearly Martin’s creation, gathered for his own purposes. But why Geoff?

  ‘I’m grateful to you all for giving up your evening to be here,’ said Tamsin. She wasn’t grateful; it was required of them. They couldn’t have said no. ‘And, of course, our thanks to Blessings for being our kind host.’

  Blessings’ gracious smile was soon wiped from her face when she saw Fran loitering in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘What are you doing here, Fran?’

  ‘Just wondering if anyone needed anything,’ said Fran, Welsh and proud. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

  ‘The only thing we need is for you to go away, Francisco,’ said Blessings. ‘This is not your space, as you well know, and this is a private meeting.’