Death of a Delft Blue

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Death of a Delft Blue

‘And she’s minded her on a little pen-knife

That hang’d below her gare,

And she has gi’en Young Hunting

A deep wound and a sair.

‘The deepest pot in Clyde Water

They got Young Hunting in,

With a green turf tied across his breast

To keep that good lord down.’

Old Ballad

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At Gavin’s request, Dame Beatrice had caused Laura (who, from long practice, was almost the only person who could decipher her calligraphy) to transcribe the notes she had made from time to time on Florian and his affairs and let Gavin have a copy. He wrote to Dame Beatrice from Derbyshire:

‘The landlady refuses to confirm that F. gave the chocolate-cream to the barmaid. Says she herself was suffering from a heavy cold at the time, had understood that the sweet had come from Florian, but had not been in the bar when the stuff was handed over. Put it to her that the barmaid might have received it via Gertie Summers and she agreed that this was most likely. As you can see, this is not conclusive. Some people will fall in with any prompting if the suggested idea seems at all possible. Still, for what it’s worth, I’m certainly going to have a word with Gertie Summers. I don’t know why we didn’t think of her before.’

Gertie herself opened the door to him. She was an insipid-looking, hazel-eyed girl who became extremely alarmed when the visitor presented his credentials.

‘It wasn’t my fault! I’d no idea!’ she declared. ‘I just don’t like chocolate-cream.’

‘Perhaps I might come in?’ suggested Gavin. ‘You wouldn’t prefer to come to the police station, would you?’

‘I’ve never been to a police station in my life. Yes, come in, then. But I do declare to you…’

‘There’s no need. I believe you,’ said Gavin soothingly. He followed her into a small sitting-room which smelt of mothballs. A voice from the kitchen called out:

‘Who is it, Gert?’

‘A policeman, ma!’

‘Half a mo, then, while I change me apron.’

‘I don’t want you, ma. He believes what I says.’

‘So would anybody with any sense, but you hang on before you tells him anything. I’ll be with you in a couple of ticks.’

She was as good as her word, and joined them — a small, resolute woman with hair going grey and a mole on the left cheek. She had the air of one going into battle.

‘I have only one question to put to your daughter, madam,’ said Gavin, getting his shot in first.

‘And that is?’

‘From whom did she receive the chocolate-cream which she tendered as a gift to Miss Effie Harlow?’

‘From him, of course, the dirty little (expurgated) hound!’ replied Gertie’s mother, with the venom that these words suggested. ‘Got our Gert here into trouble, which, lucky enough, her new boy’s willing to marry her quick and the vicar not to be told because I’ve set my heart on a white wedding, and such early days yet as the little ’un can be passed off as premature…’

‘Thank you, madam. That’s all I wanted to know. You need fear no more visits from the police. We now have all the evidence we need.’

‘What for, then?’

‘To charge Mr Colwyn-Welch with the attempted murder of your daughter and with the deaths of Miss…’

‘Oh, yes, Effie and that there other gal, poor souls. But when I think it was meant for my Gert — and all because he didn’t have no honourable intentions

Gavin extricated himself and went back to the Superintendent.

‘My only fear,’ he said, ‘is that Gertie may tip him off and he’ll slip through our fingers.’

He telegraphed Dame Beatrice:

‘Enough on Florian may bolt.’

‘So now for North Norfolk!’ said Laura.

‘No, no. We go to Amsterdam,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Our dear Robert can take care of affairs in England. If Florian has been warned by the girl he seduced — how extremely odd girls are, by the way! — he will make for Holland and throw himself on the mercy of his relatives there.’