“It would be as well, I think,” said Ardwyck Fenn, “that you said exactly what you do mean.”
“I’m quite prepared to do so, Mr. Fenn. I have to inquire into the past relations of everyone who was there on that day with Marina Gregg. It seems to have been a matter of common gossip that at the time I have just referred to, you were wildly in love with Marina Gregg.”
Ardwyck Fenn shrugged his shoulders.
“One has these infatuations, Inspector. Fortunately, they pass.”
“It is said that she encouraged you and that later she turned you down and that you resented the fact.”
“It is said—it is said! I suppose you read all that in Confidential?”
“It has been told me by quite well-informed and sensible people.”
Ardwyck Fenn threw back his head, showing the bull-like line of his neck.
“I had a yen for her at one time, yes,” he admitted. “She was a beautiful and attractive woman and still is. To say that I ever threatened her is going a little too far. I’m never pleased to be thwarted, Chief-Inspector, and most people who thwart me tend to be sorry that they have done so. But that principle applies mainly in my business life.”
“You did, I believe, use your influence to have her dropped from a picture that she was making?”
Fenn shrugged his shoulders.
“She was unsuitable for the role. There was conflict between her and the director. I had money in that picture and I had no intention of jeopardizing it. It was, I assure you, purely a business transaction.”
“But perhaps Marina Gregg did not think so?”
“Oh, naturally she did not think so. She would always think that anything like that was personal.”
“She actually told certain friends of hers that she was afraid of you, I believe?”
“Did she? How childish. I expect she enjoyed the sensation.”
“You think there was no need for her to be afraid of you?”
“Of course not. Whatever personal disappointment I might have had, I soon put it behind me. I’ve always gone on the principle that where women are concerned there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.”
“A very satisfactory way to go through life, Mr. Fenn.”
“Yes, I think it is.”
“You have a wide knowledge of the moving picture world?”
“I have financial interests in it.”
“And therefore you are bound to know a lot about it?”
“Perhaps.”
“You are a man whose judgement would be worth listening to. Can you suggest to me any person who is likely to have such a deep grudge against Marina Gregg that they would be willing to do away with her?”
“Probably a dozen,” said Ardwyck Fenn, “that is to say, if they hadn’t got to do anything about it personally. If it was a mere matter of pressing a button in a wall, I dare say there’d be a lot of willing fingers.”
“You were there that day. You saw her and talked to her. Do you think that amongst any of the people who were around you in that brief space of time—from when you arrived to the moment when Heather Badcock died—do you think that amongst them you can suggest—only suggest, mind you, I’m asking you for nothing more than a guess—anyone who might poison Marina Gregg?”
“I wouldn’t like to say,” said Ardwyck Fenn.
“That means that you have some idea?”
“It means that I have nothing to say on that subject. And that, Chief-Inspector Craddock, is all you’ll get out of me.”
Fifteen
Dermot Craddock looked down at the last name and address he had written down in his notebook. The telephone number had been rung twice for him but there had been no response. He tried it now once more. He shrugged his shoulders, got up and decided to go and see for himself.
Margot Bence’s studio was in a cul-de-sac off the Tottenham Court Road. Beyond the name on a plate on the side of a door, there was little to identify it, and certainly no form of advertising. Craddock groped his way to the first floor. There was a large notice here painted in black on a white board. “Margot Bence, Personality Photographer. Please enter.”
Craddock entered. There was a small waiting room but nobody in charge of it. He stood there hesitating, then cleared his throat in a loud and theatrical manner. Since that drew no attention he raised his voice.
“Anybody here?”
He heard a flap of slippers behind a velvet curtain, the curtain was pushed aside and a young man with exuberant hair and a pink and white face, peered round it.
“Terribly sorry, my dear,” he said. “I didn’t hear you. I had an absolutely new idea and I was just trying it out.”
He pushed the velvet curtain farther aside and Craddock followed him into an inner room. This proved to be unexpectedly large. It was clearly the working studio. There were cameras, lights, arc-lights, piles of drapery, screens on wheels.
“Such a mess,” said the young man, who was almost as willowy as Hailey Preston. “But one finds it very hard to work, I think, unless one does get into a mess. Now what were you wanting to see us about?”
“I wanted to see Miss Margot Bence.”
“Ah, Margot. Now what a pity. If you’d been half an hour earlier you’d have found her here. She’s gone off to produce some photographs of models for Fashion Dream. You should have rung up, you know, to make an appointment. Margot’s terribly busy these days.”
“I did ring up. There was no reply.”
“Of course,” said the young man. “We took the receiver off. I remember now. It disturbed us.” He smoothed down a kind of lilac smock that he was wearing. “Can I do anything for you? Make an appointment? I do a lot of Margot’s business arrangements for her. You wanted to arrange for some photography somewhere? Private or business?”
“From that point of view, neither,” said Dermot Craddock. He handed his card to the young man.
“How perfectly rapturous,” said the young man. “CID! I believe, you know, I’ve seen pictures of you. Are you one of the Big Four or the Big Five, or is it perhaps the Big Six nowadays? There’s so much crime about, they’d have to increase the numbers, wouldn’t they? Oh dear, is that disrespectful? I’m afraid it is. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful at all. Now, what do you want Margot for—not to arrest her, I hope.”
“I just wanted to ask her one or two questions.”
“She doesn’t do indecent photographs or anything like that,” said the young man anxiously. “I hope nobody’s been telling you any stories of that kind because it isn’t true. Margot’s very artistic. She does a lot of stage work and studio work. But her studies are terribly, terribly pure—almost prudish, I’d say.”
“I can tell you quite simply why I want to speak to Miss Bence,” said Dermot. “She was recently an eyewitness of a crime that took place near Much Benham, at a village called St. Mary Mead.”
“Oh, my dear, of course! I know about that. Margot came back and told me all about it. Hemlock in the cocktails, wasn’t it? Something of that kind. So bleak it sounded! But all mixed-up with the St. John Ambulance which doesn’t seem so bleak, does it? But haven’t you already asked Margot questions about that—or was it somebody else?”
“One always finds there are more questions, as the case goes on,” said Dermot.
“You mean it develops. Yes, I can quite see that. Murder develops. Yes, like a photograph, isn’t it?”
“It’s very much like photography really,” said Dermot. “Quite a good comparison of yours.”
“Well, it’s very nice of you to say so, I’m sure. Now about Margot. Would you like to get hold of her right away?”
“If you can help me to do so, yes.”
“Well, at the moment,” said the young man, consulting his watch, “at the moment she’ll be outside Keats’ house at Hampstead Heath. My car’s outside. Shall I run you up there?”
“That would be very kind of you, Mr—”
“Jethroe,” said the young man, “Jo
hnny Jethroe.”
As they went down the stairs Dermot asked:
“Why Keats’ house?”
“Well, you know we don’t pose fashion photographs in the studio anymore. We like them to seem natural, blown about by the wind. And if possible some rather unlikely background. You know, an Ascot frock against Wandsworth Prison, or a frivolous suit outside a poet’s house.”
Mr. Jethroe drove rapidly but skilfully up Tottenham Court Road, through Camden Town and finally to the neighbourhood of Hampstead Heath. On the pavement near Keats’ house a pretty little scene was being enacted. A slim girl, wearing diaphanous organdie, was standing clutching an immense black hat. On her knees, a little way behind her, a second girl was holding the first girl’s skirt well pulled back so that it clung around her knees and legs. In a deep hoarse voice a girl with a camera was directing operations.
“For goodness’ sake, Jane, get your behind down. It’s showing behind her right knee. Get down flatter. That’s it. No, more to the left. That’s right. Now you’re masked by the bush. That’ll do. Hold it. We’ll have one more. Both hands on the back of the hat this time. Head up. Good—now turn round, Elsie. Bend over. More. Bend! Bend, you’ve got to pick up that cigarette case. That’s right. That’s heaven! Got it! Now move over to the left. Same pose, only just turn your head over your shoulder. So.”
“I can’t see what you want to go taking photographs of my behind for,” said the girl called Elsie rather sulkily.
“It’s a lovely behind, dear. It looks smashing,” said the photographer. “And when you turn your head your chin comes up like the rising moon over a mountain. I don’t think we need bother with anymore.”
“Hi— Margot,” said Mr. Jethroe.
She turned her head. “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here?”
“I brought someone along to see you. Chief-Inspector Craddock, CID.”
The girl’s eyes turned swiftly on to Dermot. He thought they had a wary, searching look but that, as he well knew, was nothing extraordinary. It was a fairly common reaction to detective-inspectors. She was a thin girl, all elbows and angles, but was an interesting shape for all that. A heavy curtain of black hair fell down either side of her face. She looked dirty as well as sallow and not particularly prepossessing, to his eyes. But he acknowledged that there was character there. She raised her eyebrows which were slightly raised by art already and remarked:
“And what can I do for you, Detective-Inspector Craddock?”
“How do you do, Miss Bence. I wanted to ask you if you would be so kind as to answer a few questions about that very unfortuante business at Gossington Hall, near Much Benham. You went there, if I remember, to take some photographs.”
The girl nodded. “Of course. I remember quite well.” She shot him a quick searching look. “I didn’t see you there. Surely it was somebody else. Inspector—Inspector—”
“Inspector Cornish?” said Dermot.
“That’s right.”
“We were called in later.”
“You’re from Scotland Yard?”
“Yes.”
“You butted in and took over from the local people. Is that it?”
“Well, it isn’t quite a question of butting in, you know. It’s up to the Chief Constable of the County to decide whether he wants to keep it in his own hands or whether he thinks it’ll be better handled by us.”
“What makes him decide?”
“It very often turns on whether the case has a local background or whether it’s a more—universal one. Sometimes, perhaps, an international one.”
“And he decided, did he, that this was an international one?”
“Transatlantic, perhaps, would be a better word.”
“They’ve been hinting that in the papers, haven’t they? Hinting that the killer, whoever he was, was out to get Marina Gregg and got some wretched local woman by mistake. Is that true or is it a bit of publicity for their film?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much doubt about it, Miss Bence.”
“What do you want to ask me? Have I got to come to Scotland Yard?”
He shook his head. “Not unless you like. We’ll go back to your studio if you prefer.”
“All right, let’s do that. My car’s just up the street.”
She walked rapidly along the footpath. Dermot went with her. Jethroe called after them.
“So long darling, I won’t butt in. I’m sure you and the Inspector are going to talk big secrets.” He joined the two models on the pavement and began an animated discussion with them.
Margot got into the car, unlocked the door on the other side, and Dermot Craddock got in beside her. She said nothing at all during the drive back to Tottenham Court Road. She turned down the cul-de-sac and at the bottom of it drove through an open doorway.
“Got my own parking place here,” she remarked. “It’s a furniture depository place really, but they rent me a bit of space. Parking a car is one of the big headaches in London, as you probably know only too well, though I don’t suppose you deal with traffic, do you?”
“No, that’s not one of my troubles.”
“I should think murder would be infinitely preferable,” said Margot Bence.
She led the way back to the studio, motioned him to a chair, offered him a cigarette and sank down on the large pouffe opposite him. From behind the curtain of dark hair she looked at him in a sombre questioning way.
“Shoot, stranger,” she said.
“You were taking photographs on the occasion of this death, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“You’d been engaged professionally?”
“Yes. They wanted someone to do a few specialized shots. I do quite a lot of that stuff. I do some work for film studios sometimes, but this time I was just taking photographs of the fête, and afterwards a few shots of special people being greeted by Marina Gregg and Jason Rudd. Local notabilities or other personalities. That sort of thing.”
“Yes. I understand that. You had your camera on the stairs, I understand?”
“A part of the time, yes. I got a very good angle from there. You get people coming up the stairs below you and you could swivel round and get Marina shaking hands with them. You could get a lot of different angles without having to move much.”
“I know, of course, that you answered some questions at the time as to whether you’d seen anything unusual, anything that might be helpful. They were general questions.”
“Have you got more specialized ones?”
“A little more specialized, I think. You had a good view of Marina Gregg from where you were standing?”
She nodded. “Excellent.”
“And of Jason Rudd?”
“Occasionally. But he was moving about more. Drinks and things and introducing people to one another. The locals to the celebrities. That kind of thing, I should imagine. I didn’t see this Mrs. Baddeley—”
“Badcock.”
“Sorry, Badcock. I didn’t see her drink the fatal draught or anything like that. In fact I don’t think I really know which she was.”
“Do you remember the arrival of the mayor?”
“Oh, yes. I remember the mayor all right. He had on his chain and his robes of office. I got one of him coming up the stairs—a close-up—rather a cruel profile, and then I got him shaking hands with Marina.”
“Then you can fix that time at least in your mind. Mrs. Badcock and her husband came up the stairs to Marina Gregg immediately in front of him.”
She shook her head. “Sorry. I still don’t remember her.”
“That doesn’t matter so much. I presume that you had a pretty good view of Marina Gregg and that you had your eyes on her and were pointing the camera at her fairly often.”
“Quite right. Most of the time. I’d wait till I got just the right moment.”
“Do you know a man called Ardwyck Fenn by sight?”
“Oh yes. I know him well enough. Television network—films too.”
“Did you take a photograph of him?”
“Yes. I got him coming up with Lola Brewster.”
“That would be just after the mayor?”
She thought a minute then agreed. “Yes, about then.”
“Did you notice that about that time Marina Gregg seemed to feel suddenly ill? Did you notice any unusual expression on her face?”
Margot Bence leant forward, opened a cigarette box and took out a cigarette. She lit it. Although she had not answered Dermot did not press her. He waited, wondering what it was she was turning over in her mind. She said at last, abruptly:
“Why do you ask me that?”
“Because it’s a question to which I am very anxious to have an answer—a reliable answer.”
“Do you think my answer’s likely to be reliable?”
“Yes I do, as a matter of fact. You must have the habit of watching people’s faces very closely, waiting for certain expressions, certain propitious moments.”
She nodded her head.
“Did you see anything of that kind?”
“Somebody else saw it too, did they?”
“Yes. More than one person, but it’s been described rather differently.”
“How did the other people describe it?”
“One person has told me that she was taken faint.”
Margot Bence shook her head slowly.
“Someone else said that she was startled.” He paused a moment then went on, “And somebody else describes her as having a frozen look on her face.”
“Frozen,” said Margot Bence thoughtfully.
“Do you agree to that last statement?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“It was put rather more fancifully still,” said Dermot. “In the words of the late poet, Tennyson. ‘The mirror crack’d from side to side; “The doom has come upon me,” cried the Lady of Shalott.’”
“There wasn’t any mirror,” said Margot Bence, “but if there had been it might have cracked.” She got up abruptly. “Wait,” she said. “I’ll do something better than describe it to you. I’ll show you.”
She pushed aside the curtain at the far end and disappeared for some moments. He could hear her uttering impatient mutterings under her breath.