person she had come to question was busy with another customer. She gave her order with many pauses to consult a piece of paper on which she had written down the items she intended to purchase. The pauses were to gain as much time as she could in the hope that the shopkeeper himself would soon be free.
Halfway through her list and while she was still playing for time, she said:
‘You’re not the one who served me about a couple of years ago, are you?’
‘Hardly,’ said the girl. ‘I’ve only been here six months.’
‘Ah,’ said Laura, inspecting the brushes which had been placed before her, ‘that would account for it. I’ll take, yes, this and this – or shall I? – perhaps – well, what do you think?’
‘It depends what you want them for. I mean, the kind of picture and the size of it, and whether you’re a splasher or a niggler, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would. I’m not buying for myself, you see, but for somebody who is elderly and finds shopping difficult.’
‘Surely he told you the numbering of the brushes he wants?’
‘He’s only an amateur. Dabbles about just to have something to do, you know.’
‘You’re his nurse, are you?’
‘Oh, general factotum,’ said Laura, trying to imagine Dame Beatrice needing a nurse. At this moment the other customer left and the proprietor came up to them.
‘Can I help?’ he enquired.
‘The lady is shopping for somebody else and isn’t quite sure what is wanted,’ said the girl.
‘Oh, well, I’ll take over, Miss Wareham, if you’ll attend to the customer who has just come in.’
Laura completed her purchases under his advice and then said:
‘You used to have an assistant named Smith – Thomasina Smith – about two years ago.’
‘Certainly. She had to go into hospital and left shortly after she was discharged.’
‘
‘She preferred to discharge herself. She still shops here occasionally. She is quite a casual visitor, though.’
‘A casual visitor?’ said Laura. ‘I wonder what you mean by that?’
‘She came at intervals. It is some weeks, I believe, since we saw her. She brings us purchasers, of course.’
‘Apart from what I feel sure you have indicated with regard to her character and general demeanour—’
‘Please, please! You are not a woman police constable, are you?’
‘No, no. Why should you ask that?’
‘Because Miss Smith has not called here for some time. I wondered whether she was in trouble with the police.’
‘Well,’ said Laura, ‘why should
‘I do not care. She was a very immoral young woman. She had to go into hospital, and I had good reason to be glad for her to leave. She was not a desirable employee. And now I am sorry, but I’ve got a customer, if you’ll excuse me.’
‘Right. Thanks for your help. I’m sure my employer will like the brushes and things.’
‘We have a long list of satisfied customers, I am glad to say.’
Laura went back to Dame Beatrice, wondering, as she went, whether the art dealer knew more about Camilla’s death than he could be expected to admit.
‘How went your errand?’ Dame Beatrice enquired.
‘Only so-so. Anyway, it’s a very good shop, two large front windows, some decent originals and some very good copies on display and so many different kinds of artists’ materials that beshrew me if I don’t start up in the plaster, dab and palette knife routine myself, come the long winter evenings.’
‘Woodcarving would suit you, but tell me about the interview.’
‘I soft pedalled, as you told me, and two things emerged. The man has no idea that Thomasina Smith and Camilla Hoveton St John are one and the same, for he still talks of her in the present tense. He certainly hasn’t a clue about the death, unless he has become suspect number one.’
‘Is that really the impression you received?’
‘Well, no, it isn’t, but there’s no doubt about two things. The girl did not go into hospital because of a car crash or any accident of that sort. He turned very cagey, as a matter of fact, about the hospital angle. I suspected she went into a maternity ward or had an abortion. One thing he did make clear. If she had not given in her notice at his shop, she would have been sacked.’
‘Her notice, yes,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘According to the artists with whom she shared an apartment, she was able to give up paid employment only because she was blackmailing somebody.’
‘And the somebody turned nasty and made away with her? Do you think there is any point in pursuing the thing any further?’
‘Probably no point at all. The women in the flat have no proof of what they told me, anybody at the art school could have known that the girl was to spend a fortnight’s holiday with the Kirbys, and I do not suppose that Mrs Kirby made any secret of the fact that the holiday was to be spent at Saltacres. The girl herself may have told her murderer where she would be.’
‘Leaves a big field to cover.’
‘I will let the police know of the rumour that blackmail could be involved and then, unless some bit of clear evidence turns up, which seems unlikely after all this time, I shall sit back and allow the police to solve the problem, or not, as they see fit.’
Laura looked at the sharp black eyes and beaky little mouth and said,
‘I believe that in your own mind the problem is already solved.’
‘Yes,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘in my own mind it is, but there is not a shred of proof. Besides, I dislike blackmail and I always feel sympathy for a worm which has the courage to turn.’
‘All the same, you can’t be blackmailed unless you’ve done something silly or naughty, can you?’
‘True. Well, to other matters. We have several invitations to spend Christmas with relatives and friends. What are your plans?’
‘Paris with Hamish, and Hogmanay with Eiladh and Tom, unless you want me with you.’
‘You are included in my invitations, of course.’
‘Thanks, but Gavin thinks he can snaffle a few days at the beginning of January.’
‘Then I shall go to Carey in Oxfordshire.’
‘You wouldn’t like to give me a hint about our murderer, would you?’
‘No.’
The weeks passed. Christmas, and Palgrave’s unexpected meeting with Morag and Cupar Lowson, came and went. By the middle of January both Dame Beatrice and Laura were settled down again in the Stone House and the vexed subject of Camilla’s death was not raised again by either of them. One pale, early spring morning, Dame Beatrice, coming into the room her secretary used as an office, said:
‘Authors are the most egoistic of human beings, with the possible exception of politicians.’
‘You’re thinking of Palgrave?’
‘In more ways than one. He has telephoned me about this book he has written. He calls it a psychological treatise in the form of a novel and would like my blessing on it.’
‘You’ll have to write him a preface, then, if you agree to sponsor the thing. It’s a bit of a cheek for him to ask you. Shall you do it?’
‘Not until I have read the book, of course. Tomorrow morning we will draft a reply.’
‘May be too late,’ said Laura bluntly.
‘I wonder what you mean?’
‘I don’t know what I mean. Maybe we shall both know when we have read the book. Have you seen the evening paper?’
‘No. Why?’ Dame Beatrice looked curiously at her secretary.
‘The mudflats appear to have claimed another victim,’ said Laura.
‘At Saltacres?’
‘No, at low tide on the Thames.’
