Chapter Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
Opening the Jessups’ front door to Alec and Mackinnon, Elsie’s sister Enid bristled. He hoped her obvious disapproval would not be transferred to his own parlour maid.
“The mistress is resting, sir,” she announced forcefully. “She’s already talked to them other policemen and she’s wore-out.”
“I know. I’m afraid I have a few more questions to ask her.”
“It’s not right to keep on at her like this!”
“It can’t be helped. We have a job to do. Mrs. Jessup may be able to help us catch a murderer. You wouldn’t want to leave him running around, would you?”
“No-o. Long as you don’t think the poor lady did it.” Enid changed her tack. “I hope as my sister’s giving satisfaction, sir?”
“Absolutely.” He assumed he’d have heard from Daisy if she wasn’t.
“She didn’t tell me nothing about this dead body she found,” the maid said resentfully, “her and the little dog. Not till after the police came here and I knew anyway, she didn’t.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” From a police point of view, Elsie was definitely giving satisfaction if she’d managed to hold her tongue in such circumstances.
“She had strict instructions not to talk about it and would have been in serious trouble if she had. Did Mrs. Jessup instruct you not to let us in?”
“Oh no, sir, it just doesn’t seem right.”
“Then be a good girl and tell her we’re here to see her.”
“Beg pardon, I’m sure.” The girl allowed them across the threshold and went off up the stairs.
His gaze following her, Alec saw at the top of the first flight a most attractive painting of a vineyard, a grape-harvest scene, in the French Impressionist style. Hanging there, it was at the perfect distance for proper appreciation, and he allowed himself to be distracted for a moment.
He tore himself away. He needed to put his thoughts in order and he didn’t know how quickly Mrs. Jessup would put in an appearance.
“D’ye know Mrs. Jessup well, Chief?” Mackinnon asked.
“I’ve met her three or four times, but always in passing or in a social setting.”
Where, he thought, it was impossible to gauge anything but her social proficiency, and that she had aplenty: charming, good-looking (well preserved, one might say, but he disliked the phrase, with its suggestion of mummification), well dressed and groomed, and an excellent hostess.
“Best face forward, as you might say,” Mackinnon suggested.
“She’s always seemed very pleasant. Bear in mind the fact that she was a serious actress.
” The ability to project unreal emotions was a skill like riding a bicycle—once learnt, never wholly forgotten.
“Mrs. Fletcher likes her,” Alec continued, “and she knows her much better than I do. However, she’s been acquainted with her for only a few weeks, and I gather she spent more time with the daughter-in-law, Audrey, than with Mrs. Jessup herself. ”
True, Daisy always expected to like people. At the same time, she was a fairly shrewd judge of character. She would disregard minor flaws and quirks, but face her with people like the Bennetts …
After that first meeting on the Heath, Daisy had looked for an excuse for Mr. Bennett’s rudeness. After the party, she had written him and his sister off as irredeemable. Though he didn’t suspect them of murder, Alec had a nasty feeling they were going to cause problems.
Mrs. Jessup, on the other hand, was likable. The trouble was, the most likable and otherwise-admirable people frequently had—or imagined they had—reasons for trying to bamboozle the police. On present evidence, Mrs. Jessup’s reasons might be sound.
Enid came down. “If you’ll come this way, sir, madam will be with you in a minute.” She turned towards the back of the house.
Alec had been shown the Versailles room on the occasion of the Jessups’ party for the neighbours.
He remembered well its startling, bewildering effect.
He wondered whether Mrs. Jessup had chosen to see Tom therein.
Tom hadn’t mentioned it, but with Daisy constantly interrupting his report, that was hardly surprising.
Bedazzlement might explain why he had extracted less information from the interview than Alec expected of his right-hand man.
The endless mirrored reflections were confusing and distracting.
How could one concentrate on a person’s expression when she was repeated ad infinitum in all directions?
Alec did not intend to be lured into a similar situation.
Instead of following the girl, he opened the door to the drawing room and said firmly, “We’ll see Mrs. Jessup in here.”
She turned back. “Oh, but—”
“I don’t mind if you haven’t dusted yet.”
“Of course I’ve dusted!” she said, bridling. “Hours ago.”
“Then we needn’t worry.” He went on into the room, Mackinnon at his heels.
Another painting caught his eye, a bar scene in the style of Renoir.
In the crush of people at the party, he hadn’t noticed the pictures on the walls.
This one was quite small, so he went closer to have a good look.
He didn’t know much about art, and most of what he did know was about the artists of the period he had studied, Gainsborough (of the Gardens) and Constable (of the Circle) among them.
He had no idea what Impressionists sold for in these days of Cubism, Surrealism, Expressionism, or whatever the latest fad might be, but he recalled a terrific fuss when a couple had been stolen. Presumably they were valuable.
“The real thing, d’ye reckon, Chief?”
“It’s not a print. It could be a good copy, or ‘after the school of Renoir,’ but I’m inclined to think it genuine. The wine business must be much more lucrative than I had imagined.”
Or Jessup the other sergeant said you’re certain it was not an accident.”
“So it would appear.”
“And not random. Not a robbery, that is, or a madman.”
“We can never rule out a madman, Mrs. Jessup, but in this case, it seems highly unlikely.”
“So we needn’t be afraid to leave the house, for fear of meeting a like fate?” she asked, wide-eyed.
Alec was taken by surprise. If he were not already fairly sure that one or more members of her family were involved, the question would tend to disarm suspicion. In the actual circumstances, it made him wonder whether whatever had happened had somehow been kept from her.
Or was it a calculated, subtle plan to throw him off balance, and if so, was the subtlety hers, her husband’s, or that of one of her sons? The best way to find out, he decided, was not to ask questions but to get her talking.
“You’re more likely to be run down in the street by a careless motorist than attacked by a madman,” he assured her. “I gather you had a busy evening yesterday. Tell me about it.”
Her face lit up. Alec could see her as Nerissa, reunited with Gratiano, as Hero, exonerated and reunited with Claudio, but it was no young lover she had awaited; it was her son.
“Patrick came home!” she said joyfully. No hint of unease marred her delight.
“My younger son—no doubt you’ve heard he was travelling? ”
She paused. Alec looked at her attentively but did not speak. For the first time, a shadow of anxiety crossed her face. Silence must be peculiarly difficult for actors to bear, he thought. In the theatre, it usually meant someone had fluffed his lines.
At any rate, only a few seconds passed before Mrs. Jessup resumed.
“I was rather worried about him. Silly, really. He’s not a boy anymore.
But I must admit I was quite annoyed, when at last he came home, to find he’d stopped in at a public house on the way from Euston.
As though we didn’t have here any drink he could possibly want!
Young men can be very thoughtless, can’t they? ”
She stopped again, and again Alec provided no answer.
“And then, to top it all, instead of all the family under one roof for a change, Aidan decided he couldn’t postpone his business up north any longer. He dashed off to catch the night express from St. Pancras.”
St. Pancras was a terminus for trains to the North, but also for boat trains to Tilbury. If Aidan had run for the Continent, he’d have been well on his way across the Channel by the time Castellano’s body was found. The family had plenty of acquaintances on the other side to give him shelter.