Coral nodded. What good would it do for Charles and his grieving parents to read about Marian’s illegal activities? And if she’d mentioned the fire at Riverside Lodge in her diary, it could mean a prison spell for Penny and Irene.

  ‘I understand, and I promise I’ll be discreet.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ Florence Dean’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I admire what you and your friends are doing. I wish I was as brave as my granddaughter was. It made Charles angry when I said that I supported the cause. But I’m glad I told Marian I was proud of her.’

  This made Coral reach for her own handkerchief. Marian had been brave. She’d also been a caring friend and loyal suffragette. Had she died because of this? Coral realised she didn’t just need to know who murdered Marian; she had to know why.

  15

  ‘How was the divine Miss Lacey?’ Flynn asked Goodspeed as they strode across Trafalgar Square.

  ‘Even more gorgeous close up. I went into her dressing room. It was full of clothes and make-up and stuff. She was lovely, very friendly. Kept calling me darling, which was a bit off-putting at first, but I got used to it.’

  Flynn saw to his amusement that Goodspeed actually had a dazed expression on his face. ‘She’s an actress. They call everyone darling. I hope you made it clear you were there in your capacity as a police officer. Not one of her admirers.’

  Goodspeed smiled. ‘I told her my rank, and she asked me what it was like to be a detective. She seemed fascinated by me.’

  ‘Did you manage to ask her any questions?’

  ‘Of course.’ Goodspeed looked affronted. ‘She said she supports the cause, though claims not to be a member of the WSPU as she finds their meetings too dreary. She knows Mrs Fairbanks is a member but is positive that she wouldn’t get involved in anything illegal.’

  Flynn grunted. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Who does Coral Fairbanks socialise with?’

  ‘It sounds like mainly theatrical or arty types. She said Mrs Fairbanks sometimes meets her at a bar called Teddy’s on Shaftesbury Avenue, where the cast go for after-show drinks. They both like their privacy and don’t often entertain at home.’

  ‘How long has Miss Lacey lived with Mrs Fairbanks?’

  ‘Three years. She says they get on well together and that Mrs Fairbanks is more like her best friend than her landlady.’

  ‘Did you ask about the wedding ring?’

  ‘Lavender said she thought Mrs Fairbanks had put it away for safekeeping.’

  ‘Recently?’ Flynn noted his sergeant’s familiarity in calling her Lavender. God forbid he’d told the woman his first name.

  ‘No, she didn’t think it was that recent.’

  Flynn wasn’t sure what sort of an answer that was, but didn’t pursue the matter. Lavender Lacey seemed to have avoided telling Goodspeed anything of interest. Or perhaps there really was nothing to tell.

  When Goodspeed went to mount the steps of the National Portrait Gallery, Flynn stopped him.

  ‘Before we speak with Mr Norris, let’s go around the back. Based on what Mrs Fairbanks told us, I want to go through the sequence of events before Marian Dean’s death, starting with the delivery of the painting.’

  He and Goodspeed walked to Orange Street and entered the gallery through the tradesman’s entrance. They made a tour of the Westminster, Royal and Contemporary galleries before examining the trustees’ boardroom, the director’s office, the secretary’s room, the library and trustees’ cloakroom.

  It was only a few steps from the trustees’ boardroom to the cloakroom. Could Marian Dean have seen her brother or Nathan Jennings and been forced to hide? Or could someone have dragged her in there?

  The cloakroom had been cleaned and held no traces of where the body had lain. Flynn examined the window with a tape measure. It was too small for a person to climb out, but it was wide enough for the Blanchet picture to fit through. Was it possible someone had been standing on Orange Street, waiting to take it?

  They left the cloakroom and went to the Westminster Gallery, where they’d arranged to meet Mr Norris. At their request, he told them everything he remembered about the morning of Monday the fifth of December.

  ‘In your statement, you said one of the ladies asked to see a particular painting, and that’s why you left this gallery. Could you take us to the Contemporary Gallery, following the same route you took that morning to the same picture the lady asked to see,’ Flynn instructed.

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Norris answered politely enough, but for some reason, colour suffused his cheeks.

  Flynn exchanged a quizzical glance with Goodspeed as they followed him down the corridor.

  At the entrance to the Contemporary Gallery, Mr Norris hesitated. ‘I realise I should have mentioned this earlier, but the lady is in the painting.’

  ‘In the painting?’ Flynn frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Mr Norris had now turned a deep shade of red. ‘It’s best I show you.’

  Flynn looked at Goodspeed, who appeared equally confused. When they reached Dawn Beauty, they understood the reason for his embarrassment.

  ‘Ahhh.’ Goodspeed made a strangulated noise. ‘Mrs Fairbanks.’

  ‘The lady said she’d sat for the artist, Algernon Posner. She told me she’d only recently found out it was on display here. I guessed this was the painting in question, so I was able to take her right to it.’

  Flynn could appreciate why Mr Norris had been so easily lured away from his post. It must have given him quite a thrill to stand beside Coral Fairbanks and admire her curves on display in this picture. Since meeting her, she’d plagued his thoughts, and this portrait was as if someone had taken an image from his mind and put it on canvas.

  Flynn dragged his attention away from the picture in case it seemed as though he were staring at it too intently.

  ‘Dawn Beauty by Algernon Posner,’ he read aloud, glancing around to find Goodspeed still gaping at the painting while Mr Norris had turned away as if he couldn’t bear to look at it.

  ‘I had no idea what was going to happen,’ Mr Norris muttered.

  Flynn’s eyes roamed the rest of the gallery. The Sylvie Blanchet self-portrait had been on the opposite wall, on the same side as the door, so the thief wouldn’t have been seen by anyone walking along the corridor. A simple job to wrench it from the wall and make their escape while everyone was preoccupied in the Westminster Gallery.

  ‘What did you do once you’d showed the lady this picture? Did you leave her here?’ Flynn asked Mr Norris.

  ‘I… er… we chatted for a few moments about the artist, then I heard voices in the foyer and went out to see what was happening. I have a feeling the lady followed me into the foyer, but I can’t be sure. I didn’t see her again after that. My attention was taken by the two gentlemen from the press. One of them had a camera, and when they went towards the Westminster Gallery, I went after them.’

  Flynn asked Mr Norris to walk them back to the Westminster Gallery and describe the actions of Sid Watson and Luke Chaplin. It became clear that in the chaos, no one had noticed what had happened to the four women who’d entered the gallery that morning. Only the young man who’d delivered the Churchill portrait had been seen leaving by the doorman at the tradesman’s entrance. Coral Fairbanks, Marian Dean’s companion and even Marian herself, could have been involved in the theft of the painting. And so could Lady Carstairs.

  Flynn had booked a table at L’Escargot on Greek Street. The small French restaurant was a favourite of Oscar Lambourne’s, and his old friend was already seated when he arrived.

  Oscar was dressed in his customary distinctive style in a fitted green velvet smoking jacket over slim-leg black velvet trousers that highlighted his svelte figure.

  ‘What’s this all about then?’ Oscar asked after the waiter had left them to browse the menu.

  ‘I told you in my note. I wanted to thank you for introducing me to Countess Stanmore. She’s sold three of my paintings already.’

  Oscar brushed this aside. ‘If that’s the reason, I shall walk out. If, however, you wish to discuss recent events at Trafalgar Square, I would be delighted to accept your offer of dinner. And, of course, provide what assistance I can.’

  Flynn smiled. He was hoping Oscar could shed some light on Coral Fairbanks’ character. ‘I had a visit from a Mrs Fairbanks. How well do you know her?’

  ‘Coral? I’ve known her for years. She’s appeared in some of my productions, as did her late husband, Ernest.’

  ‘She’s an actress?’ Had Coral Fairbanks been putting on a performance in his interview room, Flynn wondered. ‘How long has she been on the stage?’

  ‘About twenty years. She started in her youth and had a few memorable roles in her salad days. Mostly hired for her looks. Producers made her the ingénue or the femme fatale. I always put her in comedies. She could have the audience in stitches. Her last big part was as Barbara Undershaft in Shaw’s Major Barbara. The casting director originally thought she wasn’t serious enough for the role, but Coral proved him wrong. She was excellent and got rave reviews.’

  ‘Does Mrs Fairbanks still act?’

  ‘Not so much. She stopped work to nurse Ernest when he became ill with tuberculosis. I know Minerva paid some of their doctors’ bills, so Coral could stay at home with him until the end. He was only thirty-four when he died. Taken far too soon. He could have been one of the greats. He was a fine actor with a wonderfully melodic Scottish accent.’

  Flynn thought about the Celtic symbols on the wedding ring he’d found at the Hurlingham Club.

  ‘And she didn’t go back to acting?’

  ‘Producers have short memories. By the time she was ready to return, the parts had dried up. She’s thirty-six now – a tricky age for an actress. Past the ingénue stage but not quite an old hag.’

  ‘Nearly an old hag at thirty-six!’ Flynn exclaimed. ‘I’m glad I was never drawn to the acting profession. I’d have been put out to pasture by now.’

  ‘A man of forty? You’d be considered in your prime.’

  Flynn was glad Teresa wasn’t there to hear this imbalance between the sexes. She needed no further encouragement to enter the fight for equality.

  When the waiter appeared to take their order, they opted for familiar dishes they’d enjoyed many times before. Oscar chose oysters, followed by côte de veau in a sage and caper sauce with asparagus, while Flynn ordered langoustine bisque, followed by roast rack of lamb with a herb crust and haricots verts – and a large dish of dauphinoise potatoes to share.

  ‘So Mrs Fairbanks is reliant on her job at the gallery?’ Flynn asked once the waiter had poured them each a glass of Bordeaux.

  ‘Ernest left her a nice house on Adelphi Terrace. He was able to ensure she had a roof over her head, and one that could provide her with income as she can take in lodgers. But he wasn’t wealthy enough to leave her any sort of nest egg. Coral works for Minerva at the gallery and still gets offered the occasional acting role, mainly bit parts. Oh, and she’s also somewhat of an artist’s muse.’ Oscar smiled as he picked up his glass to admire the rich red hue of the wine.

  ‘An artist’s muse,’ Flynn repeated as the waiter placed a bowl of langoustine bisque in front of him. He’d never been entirely sure what was meant by this phrase. Until today.

  ‘She’s modelled for a few painters.’ Oscar carefully covered his green velvet jacket with a napkin before tackling his oysters. ‘She’s a particular favourite of Algernon Posner. You can’t have failed to notice that curvaceous figure.’

  ‘I’ve tried very hard not to notice it. However, this morning I saw more of it than I expected.’ Flynn told him how Coral had lured Mr Norris away with the help of Dawn Beauty.

  Oscar’s shout of laughter caused the other diners to look in their direction. ‘I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t find it amusing under the circumstances. But that’s priceless.’

  Flynn was glad their table for two was tucked away in a corner. He had no desire to be overheard.

  ‘Coral Fairbanks and at least two other suffragettes, Marian Dean being one of them, were responsible for displaying the Churchill portrait.’

  ‘Dreadful what happened to that poor girl.’ Oscar dabbed at his lips with a napkin. ‘In case you suspect her, I would swear Coral wasn’t involved.’

  ‘I suspect anyone who was in the National Portrait Gallery that morning. Mrs Fairbanks was there, engaged in an illegal activity.’

  Oscar made a dismissive gesture. ‘Was it that illegal?’

  Flynn wasn’t entirely sure on this point. ‘It offended public decency,’ he hazarded, with no clear idea if this were true. ‘And damaged the wall.’

  Oscar laughed again. ‘You don’t have enough room in your cells for all the people in London who offend public decency. Coral’s a moderate. Committed to the cause but wary of the militants. She’s a member of the WSPU, though not in the inner circle. She’s not the type to get involved in anything too illegal.’

  ‘Too illegal? In my book, there’s only legal and illegal.’

  ‘I don’t believe Coral is capable of murder. But I suppose your job would be easy if we knew what murderers looked like.’

  ‘What about Countess Stanmore?’

  ‘Minerva?’ Oscar chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her, although I think she’d draw the line at murder.’

  ‘I meant… is she involved with the WSPU? After all, Mrs Fairbanks works for her.’

  Oscar shook his head. ‘She knows all the key players. But then Minerva’s well connected in all walks of life.’

  ‘Would she ever take part in a suffragette protest?’

  ‘Not a chance. Besides, I was with her that morning. We were invited to a breakfast at Irving’s to celebrate the unveiling of the Henry Irving statue.’

  Flynn felt somewhat reassured by this. ‘Could she have been involved in the theft of the painting? After all, she’s a dealer and was nearby at the time.’

  ‘So was I.’ Oscar finished his oysters and removed the napkin from his front. ‘I’ll swear it wasn’t Minerva. I don’t see how it could have been.’

  ‘She isn’t one of your paramours, is she?’ Flynn knew Oscar, a confirmed bachelor at forty, engaged in a lively but discreet love life.

  ‘I’m not her type,’ Oscar replied with a twinkle. ‘Minerva prefers the fairer sex.’

  ‘Oh.’ Flynn was somewhat taken aback. ‘But she was married to Earl Stanmore.’

  ‘Very happily. Her husband preferred his own sex, too. It made for a harmonious marriage. She was devastated when he died; comforted only by the large fortune he left behind.’

  They paused their conversation while a waiter removed their plates and another delivered their main course, garlic and herb-scented steam rising from the dishes.

  Once they’d been served, Oscar attacked his côte de veau with relish, his serrated knife reminding Flynn of the wound sustained by Marian Dean. His rack of lamb suddenly didn’t look as appetising.

  Flynn spooned dauphinoise potatoes onto his plate. ‘It’s possible Marian Dean witnessed the theft of the Sylvie Blanchet painting. Do you know what it’s likely to fetch?’ Oscar was an avid art collector and frequented most of the galleries in London.

  ‘Possibly thousands to the right buyer. The artist died fairly young, if I recall. There aren’t many of her works around. Minerva would be able to give you a more accurate answer. But there are far more valuable and sought-after pictures in the National Portrait Gallery. Only a collector of Blanchet is likely to be interested.’

  ‘Do you know of any collectors?’

  Oscar shook his head. ‘I’ll ask around and see what I can find out. Honestly, it’s really not a painting to murder for. I’d look for other motives. Isn’t it always love, sex or money?’

  ‘The Dean family is well off, but no one had anything to gain financially from Marian Dean’s death. She was a pretty young woman, so if the killing was personal, it’s more likely to be a crime of passion. A jealous lover or something like that.’

  Oscar smiled quizzically. ‘When is murder not personal?’

  ‘When it’s war. Deeds not Words. That’s the suffragette motto. The Pankhursts have created a military-style operation. They even award their members medals, for goodness’ sake. They’re waging a war, and when that happens, the other side will retaliate.’

  Oscar raised his eyebrows. ‘In this case, surely the opposition is the British government. Or even the police.’

  ‘Or someone who hates the suffragettes – some unknown.’ Flynn prayed this wasn’t the case for two reasons. The first was because they were likely to strike again if that was their motivation. And second, they would be extremely hard to find if they had no connection to their victims. If he failed to catch the killer soon, Flynn would be facing difficult questions, and not just from Bally. The pride Teresa had shown that morning at the Stanmore Gallery was indeed proving to be short-lived. He said as much to Oscar.

  His friend just laughed. ‘You’ll catch them – I have no doubt about that. What you need to find out is what made them go to the National Portrait Gallery that day? How did they know what was going to happen that morning? I presume it couldn’t have been a member of staff?’

  Flynn shook his head, touched by Oscar’s faith in him. ‘No one had the opportunity, and from what I can tell, none of them had a motive. You’re right. Why choose there when it was the focus of so much attention with that ridiculous portrait?’ Flynn finished his meal, refusing the waiter’s entreaties to inspect the dessert trolley but accepting the offer of coffee.

  ‘The Daily Mirror photograph made it look like a glorious work of art,’ Oscar observed.

  ‘It is an impressive piece in its way.’ Flynn watched him tuck into a pear and almond tart topped with cream, wondering how he stayed so slim. ‘It wasn’t some amateur, whoever did it knew how to paint. You wouldn’t have any idea who the artist might be?’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26