Chapter 16 Interrogation
Interrogation
“D-Day is approaching, gentlemen,” Denholm said, materializing in front of them. “Has anyone seen Miss Ogilvie? Is she still hors de combat?”
“Order what?” the Boy said.
“She said something about going to the Regatta Restaurant,” Flynn said. “But that was yesterday, and she also said she’d be back within the hour.”
“Perhaps she’s been kidnapped,” the Boy said hopefully.
“Who would kidnap Miss Ogilvie?”
“Martians.”
“Yes, that makes perfect sense,” Flynn said.
Although he had to admit that if he had been a Martian looking to study the human race, Maud Ogilvie might have been high on his list for abduction.
She had a wealth of knowledge in that canny corvine brain of hers, more than all of them put together probably.
“Or murdered,” the Boy said even more hopefully.
“Well, Badger hasn’t been kidnapped,” Denholm said when Flynn asked about him. “Or murdered, for that matter. He’s about to set off to a farm in Berkshire, to meet someone from the Jersey Cattle Society.”
“Why?”
“To choose the Festival Cow.”
“The what?”
“The Festival Cow.”
“The Festival has its own cow?”
“She’s to spend a week here, being led around the South Bank site on a rope so that people can admire her close up.”
“I’ve never seen a cow,” the Boy said, almost as excited by the prospect as if an actual Martian was to be exhibited on the South Bank.
“The Wandering Cow,” Evans said.
“Will there be milkmaids? On this farm?” the Boy asked.
“Probably not.”
“Can’t I go?”
“No,” Evans said.
A pair of rather woebegone Boy Scouts appeared in the office, shepherded in by one of the commissionaires, who, addressing no one in particular, said, “I think these lads belong to you.” They were each carrying a cardboard box lined in burlap, containing bedraggled-looking flowers wrapped in damp newspaper.
“Ah,” Denholm said. “The wildflowers that are to feed Miss Ogilvie’s butterflies.
I believe the butterflies themselves are due any minute. ”
“She was supposed to see us off the train at King’s Cross,” one of the Scouts said, rather bitterly.
“We hung around for ages.” Both boys and wildflowers had made the journey from Lincolnshire and seemed equally discombobulated by their adventure.
“We were told she would meet us with a taxi, but we had to walk here. We had to keep stopping people to ask the way. I wish I had a penny for everyone who said, ‘I thought you were supposed to “be prepared.” ’ ”
“Or ‘Dib dib dib, dob dob dob,’ ” the other one said, indignantly adjusting his woggle.
“Well, I don’t think the butterflies themselves have arrived, but we’ll give you some tea in the canteen and get those flowers in water, shall we?
” Evans said kindly. They were sent on their way, with the Boy assigned the task of reviving both flowers and Scouts.
Evans handed him three shillings and said, “Get them something to eat.”
“Well, chop, chop,” Denholm said to the dwindling rump of the office, clapping his hands. “Lots to do.”
—
“Someone to see you in Reception, Mr. Flynn,” the Boy said when he returned from disposing of the Scouts. “A woman. Sort of. Didn’t give a name. Not your French girlfriend,” he added hastily. “Sorry.”
Flynn found Cynthia Blinkhorn peering at the dull archaeological finds that the Royal Engineers had dredged from the riverbed. She was leaning on the glass case that contained them in a way that made Flynn worry that it might break. “Cynthia, is there something I can do for you?”
“Hello, Flynn. Daddy sent me. He wants to know if you’ve ‘got the goods yet.’ ”
There were plenty of curious eavesdroppers in Savoy Court and Flynn, in an effort to avoid them, said, “I was about to go over to the South Bank, do you want to come?”
They walked along to the entrance to the Bailey bridge. The turnstiles for the public were not in operation yet, although since Flynn crossed it yesterday the bridge had been decked out with flags and poles that bore brightly coloured spinners being driven round by the breeze.
Cynthia took his arm rather forcefully. She was wearing the freesia scent again, and he thought of the dead flowers in Delphine’s flat.
She managed to lean on him as she was walking, so that Flynn felt hobbled as though they were in a slow three-legged race together.
He gave an exasperated sigh as he caught sight of Frida steaming along the bridge towards them.
A matador’s cape would have come in handy, he thought.
“Already moved on to a new girlfriend?” she said breathlessly when she reached them. “Have you stopped looking for the old one already?”
“Oh, yes,” Cynthia said to Flynn, joining in uninvited, “Daddy said something about your girlfriend going missing.”
“He’s not telling the truth, you know,” Frida said, giving Flynn her best Nordic scowl. He could imagine her with snow shoes and ski poles, grimly propelling her way across Norway. (According to Hetty, she had made a daring escape ahead of the Nazi invasion.)
“Flynn?”
“Yes?”
“The police were asking you questions, weren’t they. They must think you’re guilty of something.”
“Why are you so bothered, Frida? You didn’t even like Delphine.”
“That doesn’t mean that I don’t think someone should find out what happened to her.”
“She makes a good point,” Cynthia said. “Whoever she is.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
Frida jabbed a finger at Flynn and said, “You’ll be found out, you’ll see,” before stomping on her way.
A train passed them, caterpillaring its way noisily into Waterloo Station along the Hungerford railway bridge that ran alongside the Bailey bridge.
Cynthia raised her voice to be heard over the noise of the train, but—sod’s law—it squealed to a halt as it waited for a platform, and her question “Do the police really think you killed your girlfriend?” was shouted into the sudden silence, attracting several curious glances. So much for dodging the eavesdroppers.
“Oh my God. No, Cynthia.”
“There’s quite a few people I’d like to kill. All the girls I was at school with, for a start.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. They were horrid to me. Everyone’s horrid to me. Not you, you’re not horrid.”
“Of course I’m not. Why would I be?”
“There’s no evidence, is there? That you killed her?”
He scrutinized her bland features. Had Archie told her about the scarf? About Half Moon Street? Surely not about the photographs. “I wondered if you could tell your father—”
“You mean Daddy?”
“Yes. That no, I don’t have the goods yet.”
She began to lean even more heavily on him. Perhaps she had a medical problem. His own mother was always having “funny turns” that her GP attributed to low blood pressure. “I’m going down,” she would say, grabbing on to the nearest piece of furniture.
“You’re not feeling faint, are you, Cynthia?”
“Not a bit.” She squeezed his arm rather tightly. She would be useful in the next Olympics in Helsinki. As a shot-putter, perhaps.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” she said.
“Is it?”
“Why don’t you come to Belgravia this evening? Mummy would love to see you.”
“Would she?”
“Of course. You can chat about the arrangements you’ve made.”
“What arrangements?”
“For baking the cake at the Festival, of course.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Cynthia, but I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged.” It was something Maud Ogilvie said. He presumed that she was lying, too, when she said it.
—
He managed to shake off Cynthia and made his way to the Regatta Restaurant.
There was a frantic air everywhere on site.
The restaurant itself proved to be still little more than a shell.
It was hard to see how it would be ready in time for the majestic visit.
Flynn eventually managed to chase down a distracted man (“Mr. Brown”) who seemed to be in charge.
He was standing on the Regatta’s terrace overlooking the Thames, staring despondently at a great stack of Robin Day’s “Antelope” chairs.
“Chairs,” he said to Flynn. “No tables to sit at, though. They need each other—tables and chairs.”
Maud Ogilvie’s very existence was denied.
No, Brown said—he had never heard of a Miss Ogilvie and the delivery of the crockery had been calamitously delayed, “so if there are problems with its quality you would have to be a psychic to know what they were. I mean, look at this place,” he said, glancing around despairingly.
“People will be lucky to have a roof over their heads tomorrow, let alone a cup to drink tea out of.”
There was an enormous crash on the ground floor as if something very large had fallen over, followed by groans of despair from the workers. Brown said, “Sorry, sir,” and ran off to investigate.
—
By the time Flynn returned to the office, Badger had come back from Berkshire and left again.
“No cow,” the Boy said. He had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Festival Cow in Savoy Court, not having thought through the practicalities of keeping a beast of the field in their tiny office, and was now facing the disappointment that was a regular feature of his life.
He remained remarkably sanguine in the face of it.
She was called Orange Blossom, he told Flynn.
“Actually, her full name’s Carswell Orange Blossom,” Evans said.
“That’s a fancy name for a cow,” Flynn said.
“She’s a fancy cow, according to Badger.”
“Where is he?”
“Said something about drum majorettes.”
Flynn told him about the mysterious non-appearance of Maud Ogilvie in the Regatta Restaurant.
“Maybe she was kidnapped on her way there,” the Boy speculated. “Kidnapped and then murdered,” he added with relish.
“Hopefully not. I’m not sure that she ever intended to go there.”
“Oh, no!” the Boy surprised Flynn by slapping himself (quite hard) on the forehead. “I forgot—Mr. Denholm said something about her having a toothache or going to the dentist, or something. I wasn’t really listening. Did you know he used to be a king?”
“Denholm?”
“Yeah. He had a different name then.”
“Not Lear, by any chance?” Flynn hazarded.