Chapter 20 And So To Bed
And So To Bed
“Oh, hello, you,” Lydia said when she opened the door to him. She seemed in a more welcoming mood than earlier.
Veronica was sitting on the sofa, reading a copy of The Lady, clutching a half-eaten tube of Rolos.
She was dressed in different clothes from when Flynn had left her this morning—a smart blue dress with white piping on the collar and cuffs.
It buttoned without straining and the hem hung modestly beneath her knees.
Her shoes were new, too. She waved the Rolos at him in greeting.
“Well, I can see you went shopping,” Flynn said to Lydia. “I’ll pay you back, obviously.”
“Don’t be silly—my treat.”
Mrs. Betty had also undergone a—rather alarming—transformation and was now less of a dog and more of a large ball of clean white fluff.
“Oh, yes, I asked a friend to pick her up and take her to that dogs’ beauty parlour in Mayfair,” Lydia said. “She looks like a new dog, doesn’t she?”
Mrs. Betty gazed impassively at Flynn. She could have been thinking anything. Or, more likely, nothing at all. From despair to elation, they all tended to present much the same on those long-suffering canine features.
“I didn’t want to leave her alone in the flat while we were at the theatre.”
“You went to the theatre?”
“Yep,” Veronica said. “A ‘matinée,’ that means in the afternoon, and it was called—what was it called again?” She turned to Lydia, who supplied, “And So To Bed.”
“And So To Bed. It was all about a man called Peeps—funny name—who wrote a diary. Sounds really boring, but you don’t have to watch him writing it or anything.”
“It’s a musical,” Lydia said. “Very light-hearted.”
“So this Peeps,” Veronica continued, waving the Rolo tube around to illustrate, “rescues this woman—Mrs. Knight—from a pickpocket and they arrange a…thingummy…?” She looked to Lydia.
“Tryst,” she supplied.
“Tryst. He says to make music with her, ha ha, but he really means lawks-a-mercy.”
“Sounds a bit risqué to me.”
“Harmless fun,” Lydia said.
“Only, the thing is, Peeps is married,” Veronica continued doggedly, “and his wife guesses he’s up to something, ’cos wives always do, and she follows him. So by now Peeps is in Mrs. Knight’s house and flirting with her when who should arrive?”
“Literally no idea.”
“King Charles! The second one, because there was another one before him. See—I’m learning history, you should be pleased.
Anyway, the King’s sweet on this Mrs. Knight as well and Peeps has to hide in a cupboard, but then Mrs. Peeps arrives, and the King has to hide behind a curtain, and Mrs. Peeps is furious and thinks it’s Peeps that’s hiding behind the curtain but it’s—the King!
And then more stuff happens, bit boring, and then Peeps discovers he’s left his flageolet at Mrs. Knight’s house, which sounds dirty, I know, but it’s a musical instrument, so Mrs. Peeps knows Mr. Peeps has been in Mrs. Knight’s house and they have a big row and then—guess what? ”
“She kills him?”
“No. They make up.”
“And so to bed?”
“Yes. It was good—apart from the boring bits. Not as good as a pantomime—obviously—but they had ices. I had two.”
Lydia laughed. “We had a splendid time. Thank you, Flynn. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in a long while. Your stepdaughter is a one-off. But now I have to get ready to go out, so I’m going to shoo you away.”
“I’m going to have a wee before we go,” Veronica said to Flynn. “Lydia has a lovely bathroom. All marble. And warm. It’s not like washing at your kitchen sink with carbolic and an old rag of a flannel.”
“One for the road, then?” Lydia said, pouring whisky for them both when Veronica had disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.
“It isn’t Archie,” he said to her.
“What isn’t Archie?”
“Archie isn’t Delphine Dubois’s lover.”
“Sounds like you know who is.” She didn’t look at him, busying herself with fixing the drinks in a way that seemed overdone. An actress preparing to put on a performance. Or a liar preparing to deceive. She turned to face him at last, handed him a glass and said, “So do you? Know?”
“Giles Dangerfield.”
She didn’t express surprise. Flynn would have preferred it if she had. She knew, Flynn thought. Lydia knew. Lydia had known Delphine was dead. She knew who killed her. And, perhaps more to the point, who didn’t kill her. She knew everything. She always had, right from the beginning, probably.
“I know all about Delphine and Dangerfield,” he said. “I know about Columbine and Dangerfield’s ‘war record,’ if you can call it that. Badger told me.”
“Did he, now?”
“He also told me that he discovered her body in Half Moon Street the night she was killed. He phoned you, didn’t he?
Told his childhood playmate, who helpfully works for the Secret Service, and then—hey presto—you made a dead body magically disappear.
Is Dangerfield—or his brand of politics—being protected in some way?
Is Delphine’s murder being covered up by the Establishment?
The Security Services? Wasn’t it you who said that Fascism in this country was ‘as dead as the dinosaurs,’ and now you’re helping to safeguard it? ”
“You’re digging yourself into a hole with all this, Flynn.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m trying to save my neck here, Lydia. I might end up swinging for something I haven’t done.”
She surprised him by unexpectedly reaching out and touching his cheek. “Oh, Flynn,” she said softly. He thought she was going to kiss him, but instead she said, “You’re such a fool.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re dealing with something you don’t understand.”
“Dark arts?”
“Politics. Same thing.”
—
Veronica returned from the bathroom, reeking of Lydia’s perfume, and said, “Let’s go home. I’m starving.”
They had just finished eating their tea of egg and chips when there was a knock on the door.
“Friend or foe, do you think?” Veronica said. “That’s what Uncle Gerry says every time the doorbell goes.”
“And which is it usually?”
“Hard to say. Bit of both, really. He’s got some funny friends.”
Flynn opened the door. Foe. Definitely. The all-too-familiar figures of Vigo and Tapper, bolstered by two uniformed constables who were bouncing on the balls of their feet, truncheons out at the ready, prepared for battle.
No polite greetings from any of them, instead Tapper held out a piece of official-looking paper and said, “Harry Flynn, this is a warrant to search your premises. Stand aside, please.” He caught sight of Veronica sitting on the sofa.
“Who’s this, then?” he asked suspiciously.
“My daughter.”
“Really? You don’t seem the sort to be a father,” Tapper said.
“So I’ve been told.”
“He’s definitely my dad,” Veronica said. Despite the circumstances, Flynn felt a little pulse of pride at this public affirmation.
The two constables began rooting around the room like keen bloodhounds while Flynn took a seat next to Veronica on the sofa.
He was acutely aware of the gun in the sideboard drawer; so was she, he supposed, although she seemed curiously nonchalant as she offered him a bite of an apple that Lydia had given her as a parting gift. (“Children need fruit, Flynn.”)
One of the constables started tugging at the guilty drawer. Why in God’s name hadn’t he got rid of the gun? He supposed the saving grace was that the photographs were no longer in there.
“This drawer’s locked, sir,” the constable said.
“Do you have a key, Mr. Flynn,” Vigo asked, “or do we need to force the drawer open?”
“I’ll get it,” Veronica said, jumping eagerly off the sofa. “Dad keeps the key in the tea caddy. Thinks I don’t know.” She tapped the side of her nose—a ridiculous gesture, Uncle Gerry’s probably. “It’s where he keeps his ciggies. Doesn’t want me to start smoking.”
His own daughter, a traitor. Flynn could hardly believe it.
Veronica ran into the scullery and came back with the key, which she handed to Tapper, who proceeded to unlock the drawer with unnecessary ceremony.
Flynn wondered if he would ever be able to look at a drawer again without feelings of trepidation and dread.
Tapper, unable to conceal his disappointment, found only a half-empty pack of Players that he held up for Vigo to see.
Flynn glanced at Veronica. She looked unspeakably pleased with herself.
“No knife, sir,” Tapper said.
A knife? They were looking for a knife?
“Never mind, we’ll arrest him anyway,” Vigo said. “We’ve got enough to charge him.”
“Charge me with what?” Flynn protested.
“Do you want to do the honours, Tapper?”
“Harry Flynn,” Tapper said, “I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder—”
“What? I did not murder Delphine Dubois. How many times do I have to say it?”
“Delphine Dubois? Oh, dear me, not Miss Dubois, Mr. Flynn,” Vigo said. “What makes you think that? Tapper—proceed.”
“Harry Flynn, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Arthur Stamp—”
“Arthur Stamp? Oh, for heaven’s sake. That’s absurd.”
“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“I didn’t kill Arthur Stamp. He attacked me.”
“Yes, an altercation between you and Mr. Stamp was witnessed by…” (Vigo consulted his notebook) “a Constable Hopkins—”
“I know him,” Tapper said. “He’s a reliable sort.”
“You were then observed chasing after Mr. Stamp, who was later found dead in an alleyway close to where the altercation took place.”
“Stabbed in the neck,” Tapper said, with an expression that could best be described as sentimental.
“You gave Constable Hopkins a false name and address.” Vigo consulted the notebook again. “ ‘George Smith’—not very original—residing in Fitzroy Court. Did you think you could fool us, Mr. Flynn?”
“Takes more than that,” Tapper laughed.
“Do you think, Mr. Flynn,” Vigo said, “that if we were to find the knife that killed Mr. Stamp, it would have your prints on it? We do have Mr. Flynn’s prints, don’t we, Tapper?”