Breaking the Circle, page 18
‘Yes?’
‘Is that Inspector Kane?’ A pleasant female voice met his ear, a change from the usual aggressive tones of the desk sergeant, that much was certain.
‘It is.’
‘I was hoping that Detective Sergeant Andrew Crawford might be within earshot. I need to give him a message.’
‘I am not Detective Sergeant Crawford’s social secretary, madam,’ the inspector said with some asperity.
‘Oh, goodness, no, I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Inspector Kane. This is Dr Margaret Murray, of University College. I don’t know whether perhaps Detective Sergeant Crawford has ever mentioned me …’
‘In passing,’ Kane growled.
‘Something that we discussed earlier today has been on my mind and I hoped I would be able to talk it over with him.’
‘About a case?’
‘Oh, very much so. Is he there?’
‘I believe he is just finishing off some paperwork in the sergeant’s mess. I can give him a message, if that would suffice.’ Like most people talking to Margaret Murray for long, he felt himself getting more polite and helpful. The woman was positively contagious.
‘If you would. Could you tell him … oh, dear, Inspector. I think you may think this is a social occasion. It isn’t though, I assure you.’
‘Madam. I would love to go home. If you could just give me the message?’
‘If you’re sure you won’t misunderstand.’
‘The message.’ The voice was becoming more like its usual growl.
‘Could he meet me at the Tambour House Hotel? He’ll know where that is. Thank you so much, Inspector. Goodbye.’
And Margaret Murray put down the phone and looked up at Mrs Plinlimmon.
‘Is my hat on straight, Mrs Plinlimmon?’ she asked, anxiously. ‘Only, Inspector Reid is so very picky, dear Edmund, and I fancy I have rather a lot of persuading to do this evening. It wouldn’t do to arrive déshabillé.’
The owl said nothing. Friends don’t, when it comes to criticizing each other’s clothing.
ELEVEN
The Tambour House Hotel prided itself in its hospitality and had several small rooms set aside in which guests could entertain. Some, it had to be said, were a little grim, with the only aspect from the window being the bins in the yard below street level. But the one they always gave to their regulars was very pleasant, at the front just over the portico, so that while waiting, people could watch the coming and going in the street below. So Margaret Murray and Edmund Reid saw Andrew Crawford before he saw them.
‘Are you going to tell me why you have called us together, Margaret?’ Reid asked as they waited for the policeman to be shown up.
‘I won’t, Edmund, if you don’t mind,’ Margaret said. ‘I hate repeating myself more than necessary and this is quite a complex situation so I would prefer to say it only once, if that is all right with you.’
‘We can ask questions, I assume?’ Reid was being somewhat ironic.
‘Of course, of course.’ The door opened and Crawford peered round. ‘Do come in, Andrew, and thank you so much for coming at such short notice. It’s just that I have had an idea. Well, it began with a bit of a worry and became an idea.’
Crawford sat opposite the others, with his back to the light. He wanted to be able to assess what the situation was and how much Margaret Murray was going to try and con him into something he didn’t want to do. There was that kind of smell in the air, that kind of expression on her face.
‘This is nice,’ she said, putting her hands on her knees and leaning forward. ‘Is it too early for a small sherry, do you think?’
‘Margaret,’ Reid said, coming to the point. ‘I think that Crawford here and I are both thinking the same thing.’
‘Yes,’ Crawford came in on cue. ‘What is it and no, we’re not going to do it.’
‘Really, Andrew, you wound me,’ she said, pouring the sherry. ‘I just need to discuss something and you are always the men I would ask any ticklish question.’
The two men exchanged glances. They were on their guard, the glances said. They had each other’s backs.
‘This morning,’ she said, ignoring the display of male bonding in front of her, ‘just to recap, Andrew showed me pictures of the three mediums who have sadly been murdered in these few short weeks. I hope I wasn’t flippant, Andrew, when I suggested their similarity to each other was unhelpful, it certainly wasn’t my intention. Since then, I have been mulling things over and I think we should be taking steps to protect women – and possibly even the few men – engaged in this business.’
‘I’m not sure how,’ Reid said. ‘It isn’t as if they have a trades union, is it?’
‘They don’t, that’s true,’ she agreed. ‘But the world in which they move is small and I think that if we ask one or two Circles to disseminate the need for care, we can reach everyone, after a time. However, I am not sure that time is something we have at our disposal.’
Crawford leaned forward, his finger in the air. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘The gap between Muriel Fazakerley and Evadne Principal was longer than that between Mrs Principal and Mrs Rook. Also, and this is the worrying thing, the violence is escalating, from a simple poisoning to a savage beating. And we mustn’t forget the incident with Christina Plunkett.’
Reid raised an eyebrow. ‘A non-fatal attack?’ he said. ‘That could be important.’
‘Not as such,’ Crawford said. ‘We believe that the attack was connected, but it was on a woman who was mistaken for Margaret.’
Reid’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘And you’re walking around, woman? Without any protection?’
Crawford nodded wryly. ‘I know, I know. She insists she is safe.’
‘And I am. Look.’ She spread her arms. ‘Safe as houses. And if Thomas doesn’t soon stop popping in with biscuits and other supplies, I shall scream. However, that’s not why we’re here. I have a moral dilemma I need your help with.’
The policemen, current and ex, looked expectant.
‘I have been asked by the Bermondsey Spiritualist Circle to contact Eusapia Palladino and ask her to do a sitting for them … us, I suppose I should say.’
‘Why?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Why you?’ Reid liked to have his facts straight. ‘You’ve only just joined. Is it some kind of test?’
‘Goodness me, I don’t think so. Your time as a policeman has made you a cynic, Edmund. No, it’s because they think I know Sir Oliver Lodge.’
‘And do you?’ Crawford knew the answer but thought he would ask anyway.
‘No. But it’s possible I gave them that impression. I have managed to find Miss Palladino’s address, but I don’t feel I should invite her. Despite her looking nothing like any of the departed, I think I would be putting her at risk if I deliberately invited her into the arena, so to speak.’
‘I don’t think I have ever seen a picture of the lady,’ Reid said. ‘Is she really nothing like the others?’
Margaret rummaged in her reticule and brought out a pasteboard carte de visite. On it, there was a picture of a very forbidding lady of some fifty years old, with a mouth like a rat-trap and thin hair padded out with combings. She proffered it to the men.
‘Ah. I see. So she should be safe, surely?’
‘I see Margaret’s point,’ Crawford said. ‘She said this afternoon that the likeness between the others is very slight, based on no strong physical attributes, so it may be a coincidence. But this lady …’ he glanced at the picture again ‘… looks well able to look after herself.’
‘No one is safe from a blunt object round the side of the head,’ Reid said, with accuracy. ‘I think Margaret is right. If she hasn’t already been invited, then I think the best plan would be for Margaret to say she has replied and can’t come. No point in putting the woman in harm’s way unnecessarily, is there?’
‘Quite.’ Margaret smiled. ‘But my PhD student, Jack Brooks, has a lovely mama who is really looking forward to hosting a very grand séance with Miss Palladino in the chair. And I don’t want to disappoint her.’
Crawford gave her an old-fashioned look. He could sense that the punchline was only minutes away.
‘If you think you’re going to take her place,’ Reid blustered, ‘you have another think coming. Look at yourself, woman, you’re five foot nothing in your thickest socks. This woman is known to hurl tables around. Look at her – she’s got shoulders like tallboys.’
‘I had no intention of taking her place,’ Margaret said, calmly. ‘For one thing, I know Lady Sylvia quite well and of course all of the Bermondsey Circle would spot the deception immediately. But replacing her is a very good idea, Edmund, well done.’
Crawford could hardly suppress a laugh. Here it came, delivered straight to the jugular in fine Murray style.
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’ the ex-policeman asked. ‘One of your lady students, perhaps? Except that … the age difference is tricky. It’s not always easy to do, even with clever makeup. And you do need someone the same build. Do we know her height?’
‘I would estimate about five feet four, from other photographs I have seen.’
Crawford turned his laugh into a cough.
‘Hmm. It will take quite a consummate actress to carry it off. I suggest you just cancel, Margaret. You’ll lose a bit of face, but so what? Worse things happen at sea.’
‘The thing is, though,’ Margaret said, a tad plaintively, ‘I was hoping that such a big event might draw out our man. It would be such a shame to miss the opportunity.’ She sighed and closed her eyes, then opened one, just a tiny bit, and watched Reid like a blackbird with the morning’s fattest worm.
Reid looked at her and Crawford, glancing from one to the other, saw the light dawning. Before the older man could speak, he leaned forward and patted his knee.
‘Come along now, Inspector Dier,’ he said. ‘Just how attached are you to the face fungus? It’ll soon grow back, won’t it? Come along. In the interests of justice.’
Reid’s expression grew mutinous.
‘Yes indeed, Edmund. In the interests of justice. And it will be fun. What about it, Edmund? Eh?’
Reid looked from one to the other, like a rabbit flanked by two very determined stoats. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.
They continued to hold him with their eyes.
‘Well, all right then, in the interests of justice. And I’m not wearing stays.’
‘I’m not sure Italian ladies are that enamoured of stays,’ Margaret offered, on no foundation whatsoever.
‘And I won’t do the accent.’
Margaret cocked an eyebrow and smiled sweetly.
‘All right, I’ll do the accent. But …’
‘But?’ Crawford sounded like the angel on his shoulder.
‘If you tell anyone it’s me, I’ll never speak to either of you again.’
Two hands snaked out to shake his.
‘It’s a deal,’ Crawford said, quickly, before he could change his mind.
Margaret Murray looked at the fob watch suspended from a brooch worn high on her bosom. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘We must get a bit of a hurry on. Angela will be waiting at the restaurant.’
‘Angela?’ Crawford said.
‘Restaurant?’ Reid chimed in.
‘Yes, indeed. Mama’s Trattoria off Baker Street. You need to work on the accent, Edmund, and what better way to do it than while eating linguine?’
‘You’d reserved a table?’ Crawford muttered as they went down the stairs.
‘Of course.’ She raised innocent eyes to his. ‘Mama’s is very busy in the evenings and I would have been foolish to leave it to chance.’
Crawford shook his head and followed her down the stairs, looking at Reid stumping on ahead. He pictured him in the bombazine and lace; he would be the most perfect Eusapia Palladino in the world, possibly better even than the original!
Angela Crawford was waiting when they got to the restaurant and her face lit up when she saw her husband. She had not been at all sure that he would go along with Margaret Murray’s idea but one look at him told her all she knew; he was looking forward to it as much as she was. Murder always cast a pall over their home. They had had more than their fair share, even allowing for his calling, so anything to lighten the mood was welcome and she could already see Edmund Reid in full fig.
He gave her an old-fashioned look as the three newcomers were ushered to their seats. ‘Nice to see you again, Mrs Crawford. You’re looking well. How are the children?’
‘And good to see you, too, Mr Reid.’ She paused, a smile hovering on her lips. ‘I assume as you are here that you have agreed …’
‘Not to say agreed, as such,’ he said, quickly. ‘In principle, perhaps. There are still a lot of details to iron out.’
Angela and Margaret looked at each other with the look that mothers often use when their offspring says something clever. No words were needed, nor were any said.
‘Did you fish out those things?’ Margaret said, obliquely.
Angela reached down and held up a small travelling bag. ‘Everything but the wig. Nanny is proud to have all her own hair still. But we can pick up a wig anywhere along Bond Street, I would imagine. We’ll get a better fit if Mr Reid would go into the shop.’
Crawford hid his guffaw behind the menu.
‘Mr Reid will be doing no such thing,’ he said. ‘In fact, at this very moment, Mr Reid may well be heading off home to Hampton-on-Sea and never speaking to any of you again.’ He shot his cuffs and picked up the menu. ‘Any recommendations?’ he asked of the table at large.
‘I shall be having the pasta primavera,’ Margaret said. ‘It may not strictly speaking be spring any more, but it is so delicious.’
‘I’m having squid ink risotto,’ Angela said. ‘It’s such fun to have black food. Andrew?’ She was a little worried; her husband was such a conservative eater and insisted that his packed lunch be kept as simple as possible every day. She was proud of him for having given up his usual bacon sandwich.
‘I will have … hmm.’ He looked down the menu and then chose his usual. ‘I’ll have the fried lamb chops.’ They weren’t chops as his father and grandfather would recognize them, but they were close enough to English to pass muster.
‘Me too,’ Reid said, with some relief. He didn’t really enjoy foreign food.
When the food was ordered, Margaret Murray leaned forward. ‘It’s going to be tricky, Edmund, because I don’t want to make a big thing of it, but I would like you to listen to the accents this evening and see if you can pick out some of the main characteristics. You are a performer, after all, and you have sung opera. It should be easy enough.’
Reid couldn’t quite see how being a conjuror and having sung a bit of opera learned by rote made him a natural mimic, but he was beginning to be taken up with the idea of fooling a whole houseful of people into believing that he was a middle-aged female Italian sensitive.
‘I will certainly try my best not to let you down, Margaret,’ he said. ‘Whereabouts in Italy does the lady come from?’
Margaret Murray smiled. She had not chosen wrongly – she knew that Inspector Reid would take it seriously once he got into the spirit of the thing, as it were. However, there was such a thing as being too much of a stickler. ‘I don’t think we have to worry about that too much, Edmund,’ she said. ‘She won’t be known to anyone at the séance, or at least, not intimately. I think we should go for a generalized Italian feel, broken English, that kind of thing.’
She was interrupted by a bustle at the door from the kitchen and two waiters approached their table, carrying covered plates aloft in a theatrical style. They wove their way between the other diners, with many cries of ‘Scusi!’ and ‘Venendo attraverso’. The first waiter beamed down at them and proffered the first dish.
‘Righto, then. Who’s having the rice?’
Reid was startled. ‘What part of Italy are you from?’ he asked in some confusion.
‘I ain’t from Italy at all, sir,’ the waiter said, deftly placing the risotto in front of Angela in response to her raised finger. ‘Hornsey, me, born and bred.’
‘What about you?’ Reid asked the other man.
‘I’m Italian, yes,’ he said.
‘Thank goodness for that.’ Reid was eyeing his fried chops with disfavour. They seemed to smell of cheese for some bizarre reason. ‘What part of Italy are you from?’
‘Tuscany,’ the man said. ‘Left there when I was two, mind. Until last Christmas, I’ve lived in Swansea. That’s why my accent may sound a bit strange, isn’t it?’
Reid looked at Margaret with a raised eyebrow. ‘Perhaps we can work on the accent some other time,’ he sighed. ‘Meanwhile, let’s enjoy our dinner, shall we? If that’s even possible.’
The waiters, confused, backed away. There was always one weird table, every night. It was just that it didn’t usually arrive until later on, when more drink had been taken.
The little party ate their food with varying degrees of pleasure and called it a night, Reid promising to practise his stage Italian, using a libretto for Rigoletto he had handy; he was performing it with the Hampton-on-Sea glee club and was brushing up on his arias. Perhaps it would inspire him.
The Crawfords escorted Margaret Murray home and they sat in her parlour drinking sherry to round the evening off.
‘He seemed quite keen, in the end,’ Angela said, trying to make the best of a baddish evening.
‘He’ll be wonderful,’ Margaret said. ‘He always is, whatever he does. All it needs now is for me to persuade Lady Sylvia she needs to host her séance as soon as possible and let me be in charge of the guest list. That may prove to be more of an uphill struggle, but we’ll get there.’
