On the Edge [= Dead Gorgeous]

15

Rose’s nerves had given her another bad night. On Wednesday morning she needed to do something to occupy her mind so she went to Gorringe’s and blued two clothing coupons and some of her new wealth on a roll of parachute silk. She’d decided to run up a set of under-clothes on the sewing machine. Her dreary Utility things would go into service as floorcloths. Walking around the shop she drew up a mental shopping list, a wardrobe for the good times ahead. After a decent interval she would get a ‘long look’ coat, a suit with padded hips and shoulders, a couple of day dresses in bright prints and some shiny sling-back shoes. But the silk undies came first. It would create a bad impression to break out too soon after burying Barry. She didn’t want the likes of Mr Sharp spreading rumours. Yet she couldn’t wait to blot out every memory of Barry, throw out all the clothes she’d worn while she was married to him and start afresh. Well, some silk undies would be a start. No one need know what she was wearing underneath. Not without an invitation, she told herself in an effort to be frivolous. People were always telling her she was too solemn. She went straight up to Haberdashery and bought five yards of lace trimming.

She snipped and machined all afternoon with the firm intention of wearing her handiwork on Saturday when Antonia and Hector took her out to dinner. Up to now she’d been intimidated by Antonia’s clothes. It would be a confidence boost to wear silk under her dreary old suit.

She was going to have no nonsense from Antonia, she decided. A week’s respite from that domineering presence had given her a chance to think for herself. Antonia was clearly playing some elaborate and tasteless charade. She had always enjoyed shocking others, but that remark about having Hector cremated had been the limit. And that dangerous escapade to obtain the blank death registration certificate was obviously part of the same ghoulish game.

Wasn’t it?

It was horrid to talk about doing away with Hector as if he were just as expendable as Barry. The two couldn’t be compared. Barry had degenerated dangerously. He’d started to get violent. There would have been no escape. But Hector offered no threat whatsoever. He’d done nothing despicable that Rose had heard of. In fact he appeared rather charming. His worst fault, it seemed, was that he talked too much about his work — hardly a capital crime. Antonia was bored with him. She wanted to be rid of him, but there was a catch. She also wanted his money, to keep on living like a countess. Not a nice reason for killing anyone.

That, in Rose’s eyes, would be a very wicked murder. Of course it was nonsense. It had to be.

She had an unpleasant shock on Friday. The doorbell rang at lunchtime and when she answered it she saw two children with the lifeless body of an adult man between them. They were trying with difficulty to support him at the armpits. His head hung over his chest and his knees had buckled under him. He was dressed in a grey trilby, shirt, trousers and boots. The elder child grabbed the head and jerked it upright.

‘Penny for the Guy, miss.’

The face was a crudely drawn mask. The body was stuffed.

‘Bonfire Night.’

‘Isn’t it rather early for that? It’s still October.’

They were the Irish children from two doors along. They stood staring at her.

‘I’ll see what I’ve got in my purse. Did you make him yourselves?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘He doesn’t look very warm, dressed like that, in just a shirt. Wait a minute. I’ve got an idea.’

She returned presently with Barry’s demob jacket, the garment Ronald had been caught in the act of trying on. ‘See if this fits.’

‘That’s too good for the Guy, miss.’

‘I’ve no use for it. Look, it suits him.’ She laughed. ‘And here’s a tie. He’ll look smart in a tie.’

In Barry’s jacket and RAF tie, he looked distinctly smarter.

Antonia phoned on Saturday morning and suggested they met at the restaurant at eight.

‘Reggiori’s, in Euston Road, practically opposite St Pancras, darling. It’s my regular haunt, red plush and brass, suits me down to the ground, terribly decadent, but the food is as good as you’ll get anywhere. Can you make it, or would you like me to collect you?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘Reggiori’s at eight, then.’

‘Antonia...’

‘What, darling?’

‘Will Hector be there?’

‘God, yes. I haven’t bumped him off yet.’

The fine silk stirred against her skin as she moved. She’d made French knickers and a slip and trimmed them with the lace. To complete the ensemble, she was wearing the one pair of nylons she owned. Over it all, she had the severe black suit with the false shirt front she’d worn for the inquest. And her soon-to-be-discarded tweed coat.

She left the house about twenty to eight with the intention of walking along to Vauxhall Bridge Road and finding a taxi. First, her attention was caught by the road safety poster opposite. Something else had been added to it. She crossed the street. They’d carefully coloured the widow’s face, giving her lipstick, rouge and mascara. The eyes were now light blue. The falling tear had been blocked out entirely. If not a merry widow, she was certainly less bleak than before.

Rose smiled at her.