Here Lies Gloria Mundy

16

Attempt at a Volte-Face

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My activities following my return from Beeches Lawn to my flat were of no interest except to myself until I went to visit Miss Brockworth again. I took Imogen to look at Will Smith’s cottage and outlined the improvements which would be needed if the school would let me have it. To my surprise she vetoed most of them.

‘Electricity, yes,’ she said. ‘I expect they have it already in the village. I noticed a doctor’s brass plate on that nice house as we turned into the lane; he is sure to have electric light. As for a bathroom and indoor sanitation, no. I am not going to spoil the character of the cottage like that. We will look about for an old-fashioned hip-bath, boil kettles of water over the fire and I will wash your back and you can wash mine.’

‘Before or after we’re married?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘You won’t like going to an outside privy in the snow,’ I pointed out.

‘We shall spend the summers here and the winters in London, so that question will not arise.’

I felt I had crossed the Rubicon and sold myself not to a pitched battle but into slavery. There was no going back. One good thing had happened while I was with the Wottons. I had met Marigold Coberley again and discovered that, greatly though I still admired it, her remarkable beauty made no emotional impact on me at all. In fact, studying her from what I hoped was an unprejudiced angle, I thought I could detect, in her wonderful eyes and her beautiful mouth, the ruthlessness which had led her to kill her first husband.

My effort at Trends and at Culvert Green had been fruitless so far as tracing Gloria was concerned, and, Imogen having retired to her sister’s house to write, I found myself at a loose end and not in the right mental state to settle down to my own new book. Having time to kill, therefore, before the compulsion which all writers know came upon me again, I decided to go and visit Miss Brockworth, who was still immobile. I knew which were Celia’s visiting days, so I was fairly certain that I could get the old lady to myself for an entertaining chat.

There was no doubt about her pleasure at seeing me and she received my package of peppermint creams and a perfume spray with approval. She then grinned wickedly at me.

‘You have not come courting me, I hope,’ she said. ‘Chaucer’s prioress is not for the marriage market, even though she be called madame.’

‘Dear Madame Eglantine, I wish I had thought of you in time,’ I said, ‘but, alas and alack! — I am bespoke.’

‘ “And a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch”,’ said the reprobate old lady, with hearty laughter. So, when she quietened down, I told her about Imogen.

‘Is she good enough for you?’ she asked.

‘Much too good.’

‘Well, I would trust you to pick out a sound apple from a basket of bruised ones,’ she said. ‘I should like to meet your Imogen. Did I tell you I had a visit from a priest yesterday?’

‘Good heavens! You mustn’t indulge in these morbid fancies. You’re as sound as a bell.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I didn’t send for him. He came of his own accord to ask me some questions I couldn’t answer. They were about his brother who was supposed to have committed suicide a year or two ago.’

‘Not an Italian?’

‘Yes, of course an Italian. What a volatile people they are! And so disorganised.’

‘I wonder why he came to see you? You didn’t know this man who committed suicide, did you? — or know that it was because of Miss Mundy?’

‘Certainly not. I should not dream of knowing the type of person who commits suicide. Apart from its being extremely wicked, it is in mighty poor taste. It gives the impression that one thinks it matters whether one lives or dies.’

‘I suppose it matters to the individual concerned, but what did this priest have to say?’

‘He said he was the brother of an artist whom the witch took up with and then murdered.’

‘Suicide, not murder.’

‘I know better and so does the priest. Tell me more about this Imogen of yours. When do you intend to marry her?’

So we abandoned the subject of the Italian priest and the remainder of my visit was passed in questions and answers about Imogen and authors’ clubs and literary societies. I also gave her a description of Will Smith’s cottage, which I hoped to purchase or rent from the school. On my way out I met one of the doctors.

‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘whether you can confirm something the patient in there’ — I gestured towards Eglantine’s room — ‘has just told me.’

‘Oh, Granny Brockworth will say anything,’ said the young man. ‘Not that we dare call her Granny to her face. Sister tried it once to make her feel at home here, you know. She wanted to let the old lady feel that we would look after her, but she said that Sister had “impugned her honour and conferred on her a title of ignominy”. She had never married, she told us, and certainly had never had children, let alone grandchildren. If she has said anything in complaint of her treatment here, you can disregard it, because it simply isn’t true. She’s a holy terror to the nurses, but she lacks for nothing in the way of care and attention, I can assure you.’

‘It was nothing like that. She declares she has had a visit from an Italian priest and there are reasons why I would like to know whether that is true.’

‘Dashed if I know. Patients’ visitors are no concern of mine unless they upset the patient and I have to give orders that that particular visitor shall be discouraged from coming here. You had better see Sister if this priest was a nuisance.’

Sister was forthright.

‘Her visitors have been yourself and, twice a week, her niece. Nobody else has been. She seems rather friendless, and that’s not surprising,’ Sister said.

‘The priest couldn’t have slipped in without your knowledge?’ I asked.

Sister froze me with a glare which would have turned Medusa herself to stone. I apologised and made my way out, wondering what story old Eglantine had got hold of and how she had come to know about the suicide at all. I discounted her claim that it had been murder. The verdict must have been clearly given at the time and had gone unquestioned ever since, so far as I knew. I decided to go back to Beeches Lawn to find out how Aunt Eglantine had come by her knowledge of the suicide.

‘I go twice every week to the hospital,’ said Celia, ‘and it’s difficult to keep finding fresh subjects of conversation, so we mostly talk about Gloria. I must have told her about the artist and I suppose she pondered over the story and has added to it. I suppose she gets bored in that room alone, and makes up fairy tales to amuse herself.’

‘So Aunt Eglantine had the story from you and embroidered it.’

‘And I had it from Anthony and he had it from the newspapers.’

‘And there was no question of murder?’ I asked Anthony.

‘Good Lord, no! If there had been, I’m sure the boot would have been on the other foot and the artist chap would have murdered Gloria, not vice versa.’

‘All the same,’ I said, ‘suppose some new evidence has come to light? Such things are not unknown. Suppose it was murder and Gloria had reason to believe that she would be involved? Wouldn’t that be sufficient reason for her to have wanted it to be assumed that she was dead and that it was her body which was found among the ashes of the old house?’

‘Trust a writer to build up a story! The constructive brain is never at rest,’ said Anthony. ‘Still, the hue and cry has gone out for Gloria, so all we can do now is to wait upon events and hope that the police will soon drop the case against Coberley. If Gloria is alive, there cannot be a case for him to answer.’

‘Of course, the case against Gloria,’ I said, ‘rests solely on the substitution of that red and black wig for the victim’s own hair.’

‘What more do you want in the way of evidence, man? The sooner they find and convict Gloria, the better.’

From that moment I committed myself, rightly or wrongly, to Gloria Mundy’s cause. My reason for doing so I still cannot explain. It was instinctive, reactionary and, on the face of it, absurd. I suppose Anthony’s attitude irritated me.

I began to think of all the things there could be in Gloria’s favour. We had no proof that, after her tempestuous leaving of the table at lunch that day, she had remained on Anthony’s premises. It was true that Roland Thornbury claimed to have seen her at the window of the old house, but he could have been deceived. He had met her so briefly at Beeches Lawn that his identification of her rested largely, possibly solely, on her extraordinary bi-coloured hair, and, as we now knew, that could be counterfeited by a wig. It was also true that McMaster claimed to have seen her in the grounds and he, unlike Roland, knew her well and was not likely to have mistaken a stranger for her, particularly as the stranger, in other words the burnt-up corpse, had been so much taller than the real Gloria. All the same, he had seen little of her except the top of her head.

I put these thoughts aside and turned my attention to Aunt Eglantine. She had lied about the visit of an Italian priest; therefore it was more than possible that she had lied about having met Gloria in the old house.

Whether it would be of any use whatsoever to get in touch with her again and try to find out whether she would be prepared to change her story, I did not know. I thought I would ask the advice of Dame Beatrice about that. All I got over the telephone, though, was a cackle of laughter and her sardonic good wishes for the success of my efforts.

Reading this as advice not to trust either Aunt Eglantine’s moral sense or her memory, I went to see McMaster.

‘Good Lord! Of course I saw her,’ he said. ‘I saw her as certainly as I saw her in that dress shop.’

‘But you didn’t speak to her on either occasion, did you?’

‘What does that matter? You had not spoken to me when you recognised me at Kilpeck church that day, yet you had no doubt, even from a back view, who it was. I only saw Gloria over the top of some bushes in Wotton’s grounds, it’s true, but I could not have been mistaken, I assure you.’

‘But she didn’t attempt to hide from you, did she?’

‘My dear fellow, she was off like a surprised snake. One flicker and she was gone. That happened in Wotton’s grounds and again in Trends. Look here, what is all this?’

‘Only that I think somebody ought to play devil’s advocate. As things are, Gloria Mundy stands in all our minds as the murderess of that bewigged woman who was found burnt and dead in the remains of the old house in the grounds of Beeches Lawn. I don’t think the evidence is good enough, that’s all.’

‘But what more do you want? The woman was got up to impersonate Gloria. Right?’

‘Quite right.’

‘Well, who would have wanted an impersonation of Gloria except Gloria herself?’

‘Somebody who wanted to murder Gloria a bit later on, perhaps. Once she was presumed dead and her remains supposed to be in the grave, nobody was going to bother what happened to her after that.’

‘Then why not have killed her there and then at Beeches Lawn?’

‘Because the murderer may have been known to have been on the premises at about the same time as Gloria was there.’ As I said this, I could see what an insubstantial argument it was, but I let it stand, although I wanted to add a bit to it in an attempt to justify it. He forestalled me.

‘Oh, dash it all, Corin,’ he said. ‘The murderer must have known that, with forensic medicine at its present high level of knowledge and skill and all the facilities it has for the scientific study of dead bodies and the injuries which they have suffered, the substitution of another body for that of Gloria was bound to be discovered. The fact that the head was unrecognisable, whereas the wig was only badly scorched, was such a significant clue that the experts were bound to be suspicious and to make the most thorough investigation.’

‘Perhaps you’ve got something there,’ I admitted.

‘Of course I have. It comes back to the same thing. Gloria Mundy murdered that woman and chanced her arm that a mistake would be made in identifying the corpse, as, apparently, it was at first, but it’s rectified now, so her hunch has not come off.’

There was no denying this. I thought of tackling Roland Thornbury again, but shelved this in favour of getting in touch with Kay Shortwood. I got her address from Celia and telephoned Kay to ask for an interview, suggesting that we might have dinner together somewhere.

‘Not unless Roland comes, too,’ she said primly. ‘I don’t go out with unattached men now that our engagement has been announced.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring my fiancée. Will that clear the decks? We’ll make a foursome of it.’

It proved to be a very expensive outing, but I got a private session with Kay because Roland loved dancing and Kay was not up to his standard but Imogen was, and he took the floor with her not once but four times, and left the two of us to talk.

‘I really shall have to polish up my ballroom stuff,’ Kay said. ‘I don’t intend to let this sort of thing go on much longer. It’s either that, or weaning Roland off dancing, and I don’t think that would be a very wise move.’

‘Better ballroom dancing in the warm than watching rugger matches in the cold,’ I said, thinking of Celia and Kate. ‘Look, Kay, we haven’t got a lot of time. I want to talk about Gloria Mundy. You and Roland saw her that evening you ditched your car. You saw her at the window of the old house. Can you be sure it was Gloria you saw?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why of course?’

‘Because we recognised her hair and, from all that has come out about the murdered woman wearing a wig, the wig couldn’t have been put on her head until she was dead and the bonfire had done its work on the body.’

‘You know, I ought to have realised, when the police took me to the mortuary, that they had something up their sleeves. They knew the red and black hair was a wig, but at that stage they were not giving anything away. They just wanted my reactions.’

‘Do you think that at that point they suspected Gloria of murder?’

‘I don’t know, but they must have suspected that it was to somebody’s advantage to have it thought that Gloria was dead.’

‘To put a wig on an otherwise burnt-up corpse was rather a crude way of establishing that, wasn’t it?’

‘Granted. Look, now, if it’s all the same to you, let us lay off the burnt corpses. They don’t go with this supposedly festive set-up.’

‘You don’t care that when the police catch up with Gloria — and they are bound to be hot on her trail — she may be found guilty of murder?’

‘But she is guilty of murder! You could see it in those horrible green eyes of hers. They were just life pieces of hard, green glass.’

‘ “Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?” ’ I quoted ironically.

‘ “Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?” ’ she retorted. ‘That’s what I said, Corin. Her eyes were green glass. The others are coming back to the table. Roland,’ she went on, as they seated themselves, ‘Corin is trying to whitewash Gloria Mundy.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I said, ‘but she did go back to her job, you know.’

‘Needed the money, I suppose,’ said Kay. Imogen and Roland sat out the next dance and during subsequent dances Kay and I did not renew the topic. Altogether I found it a wasted evening and I wished I had made it an outing only for Imogen and myself. She was of the same opinion and voiced it when we got back to her flat.

‘What on earth made you invite those two shattering bores?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell me that Kay Shortwood has charms to soothe your savage breast.’

‘I thought you enjoyed dancing with Roland,’ I said. ‘Sorry if I was wrong.’

‘The dancing was fine.’

‘Well, then?’

‘His conversation, what there was of it, was all about himself, of whom he seems to think extremely highly. There was one item, though, which might interest you. You remember we spoke of Gloria Mundy? Well, he said he wondered what had brought Gloria, in the first place, to Anthony’s house. Did she ever tell anybody at Beeches Lawn her reason for calling there?’

‘She definitely spoke to Anthony, but I’m not sure exactly what was said. My theory is that she was out of corn financially and had come to Anthony for help.’

‘How long was she alone with him?’

‘I can’t say. I was up in my room working on McMaster’s brochures. My guess is that Celia would have been present most of the time and, as it turned out, there was only that short interval before lunch when Gloria and Anthony could have got together and then, as I say, they probably wouldn’t have been alone for long. Did they ever tell you at Trends why she left in such a hurry?’

‘No, of course not. They couldn’t, because I left weeks before she did. From what you’ve told me, I thought she left because Mr McMaster had recognised her.’

‘Yes, I know, but, on thinking that one over, I am left wondering whether she did realise that he had recognised her. He thought it was her ghost he saw, if you remember what I’ve said. ’

‘All the same, she must have seen the effect her appearance had on him. She wouldn’t have known that he thought she was a ghost.’

‘I’m going to Trends to find out more.’

‘They won’t tell you more. They’ll probably give you in charge for harassing them.’

‘I shan’t harass them. I shall only ask for more details as to why Gloria left. What do I call her? Was her “shop” name Violetta?’

‘Yes, if she’s the black-haired, green-eyed little bitch I think you mean. The other girls detested her.’

‘I wonder what reason she gave for leaving?’

‘What happened, I expect, was what I thought you had been thinking all the time. Gloria walked out on them when she realised that Mr McMaster had recognised her. From her point of view, the moment that happened the fat was in the fire. She must have been scared stiff anyway, when the autopsy was made public. She couldn’t have given her right name when she signed on at Trends, though.’

‘I suppose that she thought her completely black hair and a dead-pan white make-up were sufficient disguise if anybody turned up at the shop who was acquainted with her, but, to anybody who knew her as well as McMaster had done, they proved insufficient and the detailed autopsy report proved, as you say, that the corpse couldn’t be hers. I wonder whether it was Dame Beatrice who insisted on all those measurements and the rest of it?’

I received short shrift at Trends from the magnificent blonde. The day after McMaster’s visit (she remembered him well, for not only was he a memorable figure, but apparently he had pulled himself together after he thought he had seen Gloria’s ghost, and had lashed out as a big spender on dresses for Kate). Gloria, she told me, referring to her by her shop name of Violetta, had been so insolent to a customer later that day that instant dismissal had followed.

‘Look, I’ve already been through all this with your lot, and I’ve read the papers. I cannot help you.’

‘What did you gather from the papers?’ I asked. She was impatient to get rid of me, but I was determined to have my say and ask my questions.

‘What anybody who can put two and two together would gather. When she applied for a post here six years or so ago, her hair was a perfect sight, one half red — not a colour we encourage — and the other half black. The effect was most bizarre. However, she agreed to change it and the manager — a man, of course! — thought she had an engaging personality and would make a good saleswoman and her references (forged, I daresay, and, most mistakenly, not thoroughly investigated) were satisfactory, I suppose, so she obtained employment here.’

‘Just one more question, if you will be so good,’ I said. She tossed the blonde coiffure and told me that she supposed it was unwise to obstruct the police, but would I make it short, as she had already lost a customer to her second in command.

‘Were you surprised that Violetta, as you called her, was so rude to a customer as to get herself dismissed?’

‘Not altogether. The customer was a woman. The customers who come here are usually accompanied by gentlemen, and to gentlemen Violetta was the best saleswoman I had.’

‘I bet she was!’ I said, thinking of those usually sane and sober men, Anthony Wotton and Hardie Keir McMaster. I realised, when I had settled down again in my flat and was trying to persuade myself that it was a good time to get busy on my own work, that something had shaken itself out of my subconscious mind and was clamouring for attention.

I don’t know what had triggered off my new train of thought. Possibly I was somewhat frustrated that I could not use the Earls Court Road story about the murdered American woman, because it was too soon after that young woman had been stabbed and thrown into the sea. Apparently the murderer had never been traced and no doubt the case was still on the police files. They might not take kindly to somebody fictionalising it, I thought, and so inadvertently giving away clues.

Anyway, as I sat there at my writing-table trying to rough out a very different plot, the Earls Court and Hastings story came back to me and, although I could do nothing with it at that time in the way of turning it into a book, it got between me and my powers of invention and held me mentally a prisoner.

So I wrote to Dame Beatrice about it and at the end of the letter I put a large question mark and beside it I wrote Gloria’s name. It took me a long time and several drafts before I was satisfied with what I had written, but at midnight I went out and posted it.