Died and Gone to Devon Page 17

  ‘I’ll take mine off if you like,’ volunteered Terry. ‘Who’ve we got instead?’

  ‘Well, I know Mrs Phipps was thinking of Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson.’

  ‘Better than a cup of Horlicks,’ said Terry dismissively. ‘They’ll have the audience asleep in five minutes flat.’

  ‘But she changed her mind and we’re going to have Marty Wilde.’

  ‘And his Wildcats?’

  ‘The whole cats’ home for all I know.’

  The chief perpetrator of civil unrest in Temple Regis lit a Player’s Navy Cut and exhaled the first puff straight into her gin glass. Mrs Phipps, nearing her ninth decade, looked with scorn on convention and on those who, in these changing times, struggled to maintain pre-war peace and gentility.

  Her management of the Pavilion Theatre since the departure of Ray Cattermole, her erstwhile companion and partner in business, had been lively and lucrative. Not surprisingly for a woman who once lifted her skirts as a Gaiety Girl, she needed the constant stimulus of new ideas.

  And if not new ideas, then interesting old ones. ‘When you came to see me before Christmas,’ she said, chidingly, ‘we had such a lovely time. But, darling, you did promise me you’d find out about dear Pansy Westerham.’

  ‘I did, I did,’ replied Miss Dimont, ‘and I’m sorry, Geraldine. Life’s been rather hectic.’

  ‘Well, I’ve done some of your sleuthing for you,’ said the old girl triumphantly. ‘I bumped into Bobbety Thurloe the other day and, d’you know, he’s got such a wonderful memory and he’s nearly ninety!’

  You’re not doing so badly yourself, thought Judy, though it would be rude to draw attention to your advancing years.

  ‘I thought he was dead.’

  ‘Let me tell you what he said, and then you can judge for yourself. He told me what Pansy couldn’t – that she was having an affair with the Prince of Wales’s brother, Prince George!’

  ‘I think you mentioned…’

  ‘Of course, it all fits now. I first met her in the Embassy Club and in those days she would sit on the edge of the royal table – you know, the one just down from the bandstand. In a place like that, people move around talking to this person, then that, then they go on the dancefloor and disappear in the crowd.

  ‘Now I come to think of it, she was always near Prince George – oh, he was gorgeous, darling, and not at all like his pipsqueak older brother! Tall and – how shall I put it? – muscular. Do you know the phrase NSIT?’

  ‘Not Safe In Taxis,’ said Judy, who’d known one or two like that herself.

  ‘The phrase was invented for Georgy. I danced with him a couple of times myself and – well, let’s just say he left you in no doubt.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘Oh! Ha! Ha! Wasn’t he married?’

  ‘What difference does that make? So were most of the women. In those days, husbands thought it their bounden duty to lay down their wife for their country.’

  ‘Good Lord.’ Now I sound like Uncle Arthur, thought Judy.

  ‘Anyway, Bobbety Thurloe told me that Pansy was desperately in love with Prince George. They’d met in Paris and she chased him back to London and set up home there. He’d been in hot water with girls before, but now he was newly married and supposed to be a reformed character. So it was all very hush-hush.’

  ‘I saw some photographs of her,’ said Judy. ‘She always seemed to look as if she was under some kind of strain.’

  ‘As I think I told you, apparently she’d left behind her child – a boy, I think. She never told me about that – at the time she was determinedly playing the role of rich bachelor girl. I rather envied her; she had a lovely house behind Harrods, small but beautifully done.’

  ‘So what happened to her?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. What I hoped you’d be able to find out for me. She was standing on the balcony of an upstairs room, and fell. Bobbety said it happened the day she was made bankrupt. None of us knew about that, of course.’

  ‘But you said she was rich?’

  ‘Whatever she had, she’d gone through the lot.’

  ‘Well, what a very sad tale,’ said Judy, her mind starting to think about her next job – she’d only popped in for a quick cup of coffee.

  ‘No, but here’s the interesting bit – Bobbety said she was murdered. That, of course, was the rumour at the time – that’s why I asked you to try and find something out about it. You know all about murders, after all.’

  Apparently not, thought Judy.

  ‘It was just a rumour, though – the word went round the Embassy Club and we all ooh’ed and aah’ed, but it must have been around the time of the abdication or something – anyway, it soon got swept away by another scandal, and poor Pansy was forgotten about. The funeral was held in Esher and that was the end of it.’

  ‘Why did you ask me about her, then, when we were at Wistman’s Hotel?’

  ‘Oh, I’d been stuck there by myself for a couple of days with nothing to do – not like here,’ she said, looking around at the disorder of her manager’s office. ‘And Pansy came to mind. I really liked her, and I think she took to me. I felt somehow she was the victim of an injustice – not because I knew she’d been killed, I didn’t know that then – but because she’d been forgotten. I thought you could discover…’

  Judy shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  ‘Sorry, Geraldine. Did Bobbety Thurloe say anything else?’

  ‘He explained the whole thing. Georgy’s love affairs were a bit of a nuisance to the royal family – he was always getting into hot water. One particular girl who clung too tight had a visit from some very determined characters from the Palace, and pretty soon she was on a boat to France. Another was offered who knows how much money to do a flit, and she did.

  ‘Bobbety said these people appeared to be gentlemen, but weren’t – they could be ruthless when necessary. They visited Pansy in the dead of night and told her several things – first that now Georgy was married, her continued presence was an embarrassment and would cease forthwith. Second that in any case, now she’d been made bankrupt, she couldn’t be seen in royal circles. And third, something about telling her husband.’

  ‘All grounds for her to want to do away with herself, you think, especially the bankruptcy?’

  ‘Not really. All Bobbety would say is those royal henchmen talked softly but carried a big stick, if you know what I mean. He’s convinced she was murdered.’

  ‘How long was she in London?’

  ‘Oh, only a couple of years, I think.’

  ‘So she must have arrived quite soon after Prince George’s wedding – think of that!’

  ‘Men,’ said Geraldine. The word, as it emerged from her carmine lips, was weighted with a lifetime’s experience.

  ‘Well, women, too,’ said Judy. ‘They’re not the—’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. I think, with Pansy, there may have been someone else. Not because I know there was, it’s just the way she’d make appointments – we’d meet at Gunter’s for tea every Tuesday and Thursday – and sometimes she just wouldn’t show up. Or she’d turn up late and all hot and bothered – you know.’

  ‘So she left behind a husband in Paris, and a child, and just upped sticks to come to London to chase after a royal prince? And then had someone else on the side?’

  ‘It would appear so.’ Mrs Phipps was enjoying this hugely.

  ‘And either she took her own life, or it was taken by those gentlemen with the big stick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t have been anything to do with the other man in her life?’

  ‘Ah. A very good point. No reason why not, I suppose. But since I don’t know who that was…’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ said Miss Dimont. ‘And I’m sorry I haven’t done anything about it – domestic affairs got in the way, I simply won’t bore you. May I talk to your Bobbety? Do you think he’ll see me?’

  ‘Of cours
e he will. You know he lives out near Tavistock, I’ll telephone him and make an arrangement. But aren’t you busy, dear, with this election?’

  ‘That’s the day job,’ said Miss Dimont distantly. ‘Murder is much more interesting!’

  Eighteen

  Any hopes Miss Dimont may have had of pushing the day job to one side evaporated the moment she walked out of the Pavilion Theatre. Racing towards her along the promenade was Denise, the soon-to-be liberated sub-editor.

  ‘Judy! What luck! Come and see!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘An impromptu catfight. Your favoured candidate, Mirabel Clifford, versus mine, Lilian Smee. They were both out canvassing and bumped into each other. They’re at it right now, with Round One to Lilian. I was just off to see if I could find Terry.’

  ‘Carry on, then. Unless you’d rather come and join in the fireworks – I doubt you’ll find Terry in a hurry.’

  ‘Oh, well – in that case…!’

  She’s clever, thought Miss Dimont as they hurried back along the Promenade to a large gathering by the bandstand. Maybe she’s going to be a politician herself one day – self-assured, still young enough to believe one political party can make less of a mess of it than another.

  As they neared the crowd, the two candidates were shouting slogans at each other in much the way politicians do and to an unbiased eye they seemed evenly matched.

  ‘Unfit to govern!’ hooted Lilian Smee into a megaphone.

  ‘Cannot be trusted – just look at their record!’ cried Mrs Clifford, not to be outdone.

  Well, that’s good, thought Miss Dimont – whoever wins will serve us well. And we haven’t even seen the Liberal candidate yet!

  ‘L – A – B – O – U – R!’ shouted Denise, getting straight into the spirit of things. Miss Dimont stood back, weighing up what each candidate was saying, stripping away the hopeless promises and the scornful asides. Where Lilian has passion, Mirabel has reason, she judged. And when Mirabel spoke the crowd listened, whereas when Lilian spoke, the crowd cheered. It was almost as if the two opponents were boxing by different rules.

  But I do admire Mirabel, she thought. Her strong chin, her clear eye, her ability to take a joke against herself (Lilian was good with her poisoned darts) – she has the makings of a prime minister. No matter that we only have twenty-five women in the House of Commons, maybe this election will finally change things.

  For heaven’s sake, it’s been thirty years since Margaret Bondfield became the first female cabinet minister – isn’t it time we hurried things along a bit? We’ve had the vote long enough – it’s time our voices were heard!

  Denise was wasting no time in making sure hers was. ‘OUT! OUT! OUT!’ she was shouting, with an exuberance that the fusty old Rudyard Rhys would have deplored. Judy got out her notebook and scribbled a few hieroglyphs before yelling in Denise’s ear, ‘Enjoy yourself! I’m going back to the office!’

  ‘Denise’ll be in a bit later,’ Judy lied to John Ross as she seated herself behind the Remington QuietRiter. ‘Had to go to the doctor.’

  ‘Ay well. Mebbe the thought of leaving us has proved too much. Enfeebled her.’

  ‘On the contrary, John. Leaving the Riviera Express is probably the most liberating thing that could have happened to her. She feels free.’

  ‘Wummin!’ barked the chief sub, angrily yanking open his bottom drawer and rattling his whisky bottle.

  ‘Mr Rhys!’ called Judy, as she spied her editor sliding into his office. ‘May I have brief word?’

  Rhys nodded and she followed his tweed-suited figure with its too-short trousers into the editor’s office.

  ‘I’ve just seen Mirabel Clifford out canvassing,’ she began, ‘a lively time had by all down on the Promenade! But in amongst all the cut and thrust, she said something quite important – she said she was going to give up her legal practice if elected, so as to concentrate on her constituents.’

  ‘Rr… rrr,’ said the editor, who was bemused by the thought of women politicians.

  ‘I think that’s pretty important, don’t you? She’s spent twenty years building up that practice in Temple Regis, but she’s prepared to throw it away to concentrate on the town.’

  ‘A useful stunt,’ said Rhys. ‘Let’s see if she does.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good line to kick off our election coverage.’

  ‘Watch the balance,’ replied Rhys, nodding his assent, ‘equal coverage for all the candidates. Even if we want Mrs Clifford to win.’

  Judy had her nose in her notebook as she made her way back to her desk, but when she looked up there was David Renishaw, plonked in her chair looking as if he’d taken possession.

  ‘David.’

  ‘Hello, Judy, I was wondering if you’d like to go for a drink this evening.’

  No thanks, thought Judy.

  Little had changed between the pair in the months since Renishaw’s arrival. The pair maintained a competitive distance, like two heavyweight boxers retiring to their corner between editions, only to come out sparring for the Page One splash each week. Renishaw was good, but so too was Miss Dimont; and so the paper prospered from this needle match, even if their personal relationship did not.

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Just some things I’d like to chat over. I may be moving on soon.’

  ‘Moving…?’

  ‘Time to skedaddle. Pastures new. I’m a bit of a rolling stone, you may have gathered that.’

  ‘But David, you’ve only been here, what, six months?’

  ‘The Riviera Express isn’t quite my speed, Judy, I see that now.’

  Why ever did you think it was in the first place? thought Miss Dimont. You’re a square peg in a round hole, and have been since the day you arrived.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have a number of ideas.’

  ‘So you don’t have a job to go to?’

  ‘I live simply, Judy, I don’t have to work all the time.’

  Miss Dimont sat down at the desk opposite, pushing aside the debris. Betty’s hair curlers – really! Couldn’t she do all that before coming into the office?

  ‘Well, you’re an extremely accomplished journalist, David. You won’t have any difficulty.’

  ‘I want you to put in a good word with old Rhys. I’ll need a decent reference.’

  Wait a minute, thought Judy… this hasn’t got anything to do with Denise leaving the paper? Two resignations in two days is the kind of coincidence that never happens at the Riviera Express, normally a place where clapped-out old journalistic carthorses come to rest their bones.

  ‘It was Denise’s resignation that prompted it,’ said Renishaw, reading her mind as usual – that’s why she hated talking to him. ‘I thought, I’ve been here too long.’

  ‘Most people wouldn’t start thinking that till they’d clocked up at least twenty years.’

  ‘I might go back to London. Or France. I once lived there as well.’

  ‘Really? I worked in Paris before the war – whereabouts?’

  ‘A place called Saint Cloud. In some ways I wish I’d never left.’

  ‘What an interesting life you’ve led, David. I knew some people in Saint Cloud – diamond merchants.’ Her statement was more of a question – Saint Cloud is a place for very rich people: are you very rich, you conundrum? With your cheap suits and your funny haircut and your ability to pick and choose where and when you want to work?

  ‘Ah!’ said the reporter, quickly getting up. ‘I wasn’t there long. Must be getting along. Not a word to anyone – I haven’t finally made up my mind. But if I do, will you speak to old Rhys? I know you were once very close.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way. You’ll come and have a drink?’

  ‘Only as long as no mice are involved.’

  They went to The Albion. ‘Is this where you come? I never see you in the Fort or the Jawbones,’ said Judy.

  �
��Too much drinking in those places.’

  ‘The point of them, surely. Pubs are where people can get pent-up emotions off their chests without too much damage being done. Though, David, I will be frank and say there’s little evidence of that in you.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’re a pretty controlled person, on top of your feelings, in charge. Most journalists aren’t like that – they’re free and easy with their opinions and their hearts, they’re passionate and pompous, flawed and regretful, and always looking for a better way. You’re none of those things, so how come you strayed into this profession?’

  And why, thought Miss Dimont, am I bothering to ask you this just when you’re doing us all a favour and walking out of the Riviera Express? I should just be grateful that you’re off, and of course I’ll give generously to your leaving present – but why am I sitting with you in the bar of The Albion, ginger beer for me, tomato juice for you?

  He looked at her without saying anything, in no hurry to give anything away, and suddenly Judy was determined to get it out of him – the mystery of where he came from, why he was there.

  She decided to go for the old soft-soap technique: ‘You know, you made everybody feel pretty nervous when you first showed up.’

  ‘Did I?’ The faintest smile curled round his mouth.

  ‘Those news stories you brought in – they changed the game. Sent everyone scuttling for the bunker. You were frighteningly good.’

  I will make you talk, she thought, I will get to the bottom of your story before you fly away. After the way you showed the rest of us up, making people who’d enjoyed working here for years sit at their desks consumed by guilt jealousy and an overpowering sense of inadequacy.

  ‘Were you frightened?’ asked Renishaw, levelling his gaze at her.

  ‘Not me. Others. Betty. Why did you come here?’

  ‘Let’s talk about Geraldine Phipps instead.’

  ‘I thought we were talking about the office.’

  ‘I think we were talking about me. But since your conversational technique seems to consist of question, question, question, I thought I’d switch tack.’