A Prospect of Vengeance

'Tell me, Mr Robertson . . . what is all this about?'

He had won. Or, if he was careful now, and gentle with it, he could win. 'I am concerned with a legacy, Mrs Champeney-Smythe — ' He touched his spectacles, as though slightly embarrassed ' — one of those difficult next- of-kin family affairs, which could go on for years . . . which could swallow up most of the money in legal fees, and all the other costs.

But, you know, I don't believe that's what my job ought to be about, you see — ?' He gave her his most innocent look, which Jenny always said almost melted her heart. Only now, when he came up against all Marilyn Francis's contradictions, he found to his surprise that he was no longer quite pretending, even in the midst of this elaborate tapestry of lies. Because, if he'd been in the law and clever little Marilyn had had a blue-eyed Mills-and- Boon offspring, he really would have been fighting for its inheritance. 'Do you see — ?'

She frowned so hard that the make-up on her forehead cracked. 'No.'

He was surprised as well as disappointed. Because she didn't seem to be rejecting his appeal. 'No?'

'Her brother took all her things . . . afterwards, Mr Robertson.'

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'Her — ?' Damn! He should have expected that. 'Her brother?'

She shook her head. 'She telephoned me — of course . . . But that was the next day, after she didn't come back from work.

She said how sorry she was . . . She always phoned me, when she was working late, or when she had to go away — she was always thoughtful . . . Because she knew that I worried about her, when she was late . . . But she didn't phone that time —

when she went away, the last time. Not until the next day, very late — ' She stared at him, and then through him. And then at him. 'Such a lovely girl, she was — in spite of all appearances to the contrary — ' The stare fixed him, demanding his agreement ' — so intelligent — so thoughtful. . . She knew I worried. Especially when it was dark, at night.'

The image of Marilyn-in-the-dark jolted him. Because Gary had worried also for his darling Miss Francis, when she worked late. He had even followed her all the way back here, one late October evening when the mist was up, to make sure she got home safe: that had been how Gary knew about 'old Mrs Smith'.

'She phoned you — ? The next day?' They had both loved her: in quite different ways they had both loved her.

'Yes.' She nodded. 'After her dinner — or, if she was late, after her supper, which she'd often take with me, in this room . . .

after that she'd often stay, and we'd talk . . . About her day at work, sometimes. Or about what was on the nine o'clock dummy2

news, or in the papers — she was always very well-informed, about what was going on ... And then we would read our books, until it was time to go to bed — ' She inclined her head upwards ' — her room was right at the top of the house, and not really very comfortable — not for reading, anyway. So she'd stay down here with me. And we'd have a cup of cocoa

— so much better than coffee, or tea, which are stimulants.'

From getting nothing, now he was almost getting too much.

Or ... cocoa and reading before bed-time mixed as inappropriately with see-through blouses and 'anything in trousers' as with Red Indians and the army's new rifles. But there was something much more important than all of that.

'She had a brother — ? He took her things, you said.'

Her mask tightened. 'That was unfortunate.'

'How — unfortunate?'

'He came when I was out, Mr Robertson.'

'When — ?' But, then, it wasn't unfortunate, of course: it figured exactly, that Marilyn's 'brother' would have watched for his moment.

'When I was out. She said he would be coming — ' The mask softened ' — and that she would be coming back to see me, some time. But she'd obtained this new position, up north —

not a temporary one, but a permanent post, with a pension and opportunities for promotion, you see-'

Ian nodded. There had been no pension, and no opportunities. But it had certainly been up north. And it had dummy2

been permanent, too. But, in those last hours of her life, Marilyn Francis had been nothing if not professional, sewing up all her loose ends tightly.

'My maid — my house-keeper — was here.' Mrs Champeney-Smythe corrected herself. 'Her brother cleared everything out . . . And, of course, she — Miss Francis . . . she was paid up to the end of the month — she always insisted on that, even though it was quite unnecessary — ' She stopped suddenly, as she saw his face fall.

Dead end! thought Ian. Just when he had thought he was there, too. But ... it had happened before, and it would happen again. And maybe Reg Buller would still come up with something, from 'up north', where someone might have been careless — now that he knew, anyway, that there really was something to be careless about with the real Marilyn Francis, who didn't exist in Somerset House, or anywhere else except here, in the Elstree Guest House, and in the sad recollections of Gary and his 'old Mrs Smith'.

'Well . . .' He smiled at her sadly, and sat up in his chair.

When one lost, one cut one's losses gracefully. And, in any case, he hadn't wholly lost. 'Well, I'm most grateful to you, Mrs Champeney-Smythe — for your time, and your help.' On impulse he decided to give her more than that, as he stood up. 'I'm glad . . . Miss Francis had such a happy time, before . . . before the tragedy occurred.'