A Splash of Red

  'I thought you were alone—' she exclaimed, startled.

  He grinned.

  'Alone except for my wife. What can I say? Lunch with my own wife. Embarrassing, wasn't it? Originally I told the police I was alone in order to keep Francesca out of it. And I kept vague about the restaurant. Chloe never knew; I only rang her beforehand, to be frank, to check she was safely stowed inside the flat. Not to invite her out. As you know, she never answered. The police know now, of course, and our friend Stavros here has vouched for me. For some reason Francesca insisted on coming up to see me before I went on holiday and I got the lunch hour off from number ten.'

  But Jemima knew the reason which had brought Francesca Lionnel pell-mell to London: the information about Chloe Fontaine's trip to the Camargue, carelessly or maliciously passed on by Valentine's mother at tea the previous day. Exactly what had transpired that fatal lunchtime? If Francesca had become 'ill' in the restaurant there must have been some kind of scene. Had she taxed Lionnel about the affair with Chloe and had he confessed? But Jemima realized she was unlikely to be told the truth of that now and it was - probably - no longer important. Sir Richard had clearly mended his fences with his own wife since Chloe's death, if not before.

  She understood however what Pompey had meant when he told her that Lionnel had proved 'after all' to have an alibi - 'Quite a good one as a matter of fact. A lady. A Nonny Mouse.' Then Pompey had chuckled. He was right. There was a kind of grim humour about Sir Richard deceiving his mistress with his own wife.

  Jemima decided to wrench the conversation back to the subject of Chloe Fontaine. She was still uncertain whether Lionnel was carefully rewriting history. With Chloe no longer around to contradict him, he was busy making it clear that their affair had never amounted to more than 'one of my little flings' as he put it. 'I fall head over heels in love, don't you?'

  Jemima in response gave her famously enchanting smile, made famous that is to say by television, curling the corners of her wide mouth, and revealing the perfect white teeth with which Nature had thoughtfully endowed her for the purposes of her chosen profession. It was also a mechanism for concealed emotion. The real answer is - yes, I do fall, and head over heels, from time to time, she thought, her mind on Adam. But not in love. Love is another matter.

  The mention of Lady Lionnel and her talents for decoration suddenly concentrated Jemima's mind. The flats, the various styles of decoration, how were they to be explained if they were not the creation of that paragon of virtuous good taste, Francesca Lionnel? In response to Jemima's careful probing questions, Sir Richard was even more startlingly frank.

  'Katy Aaronson did the office suite, I think,' he said rather carelessly. 'You know Katy, don't you? She keeps me straight, rules me with a rod of iron all day then home to mother and father in Highgate in the evening - well, most evenings, anyway. No personal life at all, well, nothing outside work, awfully pretty too, first-class brain and legs like Betty Grable. Pity in a way they didn't let her go to Cambridge like her brother. Still it's been my good luck. What more could a man ask in his private assistant? I think she decorated the office suite - she's always wanted to do something like that, it seemed. Something more feminine than her usual work. I chose the mirror and table in the hall - picked them up for a song when I was quite a young man and had time for those things. Then who did the bedroom? Was it that smashing Czech Countess I met at Jane Manfred's? Or did Katy do the bedroom and the smashing Czech do the drawing room? Do you know that Czech girl? I'm absolutely mad about her. Quite beautiful and she does it all herself with a spray-gun and scissors; amazing. Come to think of it, she certainly pinned up all that green stuff on the bedroom walls.'

  'And the third-floor flat?' Jemima hoped Lionnel would not ask her how she had penetrated it. He did not.

  'Oh that. The photographer. You know, we were just talking about her. The one who wears knickerbockers.'

  'Binnie Rapallo,' suggested Jemima in her coldest voice.

  'Ghastly, isn't it?' Sir Richard gave one of his happy grins; his black eyes flashed and bulged, like the eyes of a wrestler in a Japanese print. 'That never did work out.' Did he mean the relationship or the decor? While Jemima was still trying to puzzle this out, Sir Richard Lionnel leant forward and picked up her hand where it lay on the tablecloth, sharing it now only with a large ashtray and some untouched turkish delight on sticks, thoughtfully provided by Stavros.

  He turned it over and gazed at the palm. What he saw there either reassured or inspired him. The next thing he said, black eyes fixed hypnotically upon her, was:

  'Miss Shore, Jemima - may I? My friends call me Dick by the way -why don't you redecorate it for me? Any way you like. Just let Katy know about the bills. Don't worry about the expense, just talk to Katy as and when it's necessary. She looks after all the empty flats.'

  The role of decorator of Adelaide Square in the life of Sir Richard Lionnel had suddenly become alarmingly clear to Jemima. Hastily she extricated herself from what might have been an embarrassing situation, - although for one moment, was she perhaps tempted? .. . No, definitely not, she reminded herself sternly, definitely not to clear up the area of decorative disaster created by Binnie Rapallo. And she would not call him Dick either. Which meant she could hardly revert to Sir Richard without being rude; she would have to call him nothing at all for the time being.

  'What will become of Chloe's flat?' she asked at the end of lunch in a suddenly sad voice. She had the answer to her original question now: Chloe, the great deceiver, in her last relationship had been deceived. Or at least had deceived herself. This man had never intended to marry Chloe Fontaine.

  'The lease belonged to her. Not the freehold of course. Katy tells me there's probably no will. No husband, no children. That means it goes to her parents, and they will presumably want to sell it. We'll buy it back - we have first refusal. I'm trying to persuade Katy herself... time for even the nicest Jewish girl to leave home ... Highgate can be quite awkward sometimes . .. Stifling environment, no wonder the brilliant brother dropped out.'

  Sir Richard Lionnel was shown the bill by Stavros but was evidently too grand even to sign it; he waved it away with a smile, merely adding to it a large note.

  'It would never have done,' he said, leaning back easily in his chair. 'Not because of me, but because of her. She was so wayward, wasn't she? That's what attracted me in the first place. You see, I'm surrounded by strong women. Francesca - very strong in her own way; Katy, a Tartar; my mother - still as strong as a horse at eighty-three. You're a strong woman, we should get on very well together—'

  Jemima smiled at the flattery. But the compliment proved to be double-edged.

  'Love is another matter. I've always been fatally drawn to the other type. A dash of adventure in my life - I need it. There was nothing strong about Chloe, was there? She was like an eel. And a liar! She lied as she breathed. She was pregnant, did you know that?'

  Jemima nodded. A splash of red. Kevin John to Chloe, Adam to her, Chloe to Richard Lionnel. Apparently they all needed it.

  'Not my child. Then who was the father?'

  'You're sure? I know the dates make it improbable—'

  'Quite sure. We have no children, Francesca and I. It's not her fault, it's mine. Boyhood illness. It's never bothered me; and Francesca has come to terms with it - as I told you, she is a strong person.' He paused. 'Then who was the father? I would like to know that before I close the books.'

  'I haven't the slightest idea,' replied Jemima quite truthfully. She really did have no idea who might have been Chloe's lover, or even her partner in a casual encounter, about three months ago. At least Adam Adamson was out of the question since their relationship had developed only within the last few weeks.

  'I suppose the bastard killed her.'

  Afterwards Jemima refused the offer of a lift; it was after all only a step from 'The Little Athens' to Adelaide Square. She watched Sir Richard's Rolls-Royce purr away in the direction of Whitehall. Sir Richard
himself, bent over some papers, was accompanied by an exceptionally attractive young woman with auburn hair who apparently had been waiting for him in the back of the car. Katy Aaronson? Or any one of the other innumerable women Lionnel surrounded himself with. As far as he was concerned, the incident of Chloe Fontaine was clearly closed. His attempts to pump Jemima about Chloe's lover having failed, he would probably spare the dead woman no further thoughts.

  When Jemima let herself into the office suite, the telephone was ringing. Detective Chief Inspector Portsmouth was in a jovial mood.

  'The artist fellow, Athlone,' he said merrily. 'We're charging him with murder tomorrow. Witness saw him leaving the building between one-thirty and two. Besides, he's admitted it. He was there all right.'

  14

  Back to Athens

  Lunch with Isabelle Mancini the next day, Friday, was dominated by the news of the arrest and charging with murder of Kevin John Athlone. After a brief early-morning appearance at Bow Street Magistrates' Court, he was remanded and taken to Brixton.

  As Jemima walked once again in the direction of 'The Little Athens' -for her own reasons she was minded to pursue her acquaintance with that restaurant - she speculated on Kevin John's present whereabouts. She hated the thought of that great handsome bull's head butting against fate; horns now tangled officially with the police. It was curious how sympathetic to Kevin John she had become, now that he was in a sense Chloe's victim as well as her alleged assassin. It was particularly odd, since she had never felt even covert sympathy for him before, and regarded the memory of their two encounters in Adelaide Square with distaste. The fact was that as Chloe's webs-after-death began to pull him down, she saw his involvement with her late friend in clearer colours.

  Whatever a jury would find - and they were hardly likely to view his undeniably violent proclivities with favour - she would always believe that Kevin John had struck down Chloe in the face of some kind of intolerable provocation.

  Oddly enough, Isabelle Mancini shared Jemima's view: another woman who had never been a fan of Kevin John's in the past and had, for example, never dreamt of featuring the artist in her cherished Taffeta.

  "E was forced to ke-e-el 'er' she declared passionately after their first contretemps over the menu at 'The Little Athens' had been resolved. 'Chloe made everyone who loved 'er want to ke-e-el 'er. Danger - it turned 'er on ... Ah, Chloe, ee-ee-diot child.'

  Isabelle's eating was temporarily afflicted by two quite different considerations. In the first place the ethnic nature of any given restaurant had to conform to her somewhat confusing but strongly held political views. Laura Barrymore having made the new appointment and dropped her employer at 'The Little Athens' in her chic smoky-glassed black Mini, Isabelle was apparently unaware of the nature of the venue. There were some moments of difficulty while Isabelle sorted out her political attitude to that particular geographical area represented by this particular restaurant. And where might that be?

  'You know, Athens, darling,' murmured Jemima sardonically, 'Athens, Greece.' Her voice was not heard as Isabelle eagerly questioned the proprietor. Stavros, handsomer, heavier and gloomier than ever under this treatment, was transparently in a mood to agree with whatever opinion it was that Isabelle so strongly held. The exact nature of this was however rather more difficult to elicit. At last Isabelle relaxed.

  'Bien. 'E agrees with me about l'Armenie, 'e says, and 'e's never 'eard of l'Albanie,' she declared. 'Agh, eet's probably not true—' She stopped. Jemima did not dare ask what agreeing with Isabelle about Armenia involved - was that really a topic of the day? But by now Isabelle's attention was distracted by her second consideration, that of food.

  Isabelle was on a diet, a diet almost as particular as her political views. Furthermore, as a former cookery writer and restaurant guide, Isabelle was not to be fooled by bland discussions of ingredients. Stavros' courtesy remained impeccable throughout their long-drawn-out negotiations, while Jemima covertly drank a great deal of retsina, a wine that Isabelle, it seemed, despised both for its content and its political implications.

  Finally, with a rather good French wine to reassure her - how fortunate it was for Isabelle that France, her native country through all its vicissitudes remained mysteriously politically and gastronomically OK - Isabelle settled herself back in her chair and turned back to conversation. In her flowing grey draperies she made a dignified if substantial figure; the pretty pearl handled fan with which she cooled herself ('Perfect for zose boiling collections, darling') was perhaps a little too delicate for her looks, which were, like those of Kevin John, on a large scale. The heavy silver bracelets which clanked in time to the airy motions of the fan were more suitably massive. But as the talk flowed, Jemima derived all over again that pleasure from Isabelle's company in which her ample physical presence was merely the outward manifestation of her generous spirit. The loyalty Isabelle demanded, she certainly also dispensed.

  'Paris - a nightmare. Where was I, darling? Yes, Kevin John - 'ee was forced to ke-e-el 'er. For 'e loved 'er. Valentine too, 'e loved 'er; she wanted that, you know, violence, she loved it; that's what poor Valentine could never give 'er. Swee-e-et boy. Even I—' Isabelle paused only for a moment. 'Even from me she wanted something, some 'atred perhaps, when all I 'ad for 'er was love. Why be so cruel to me? Why? I ask myself now, with zat book, zose letters - steell, we don't want to talk about that now, do we?' Isabelle rushed on, 'Poor Valentine. If only 'e 'ad been able to give her something like that. If only ... But then 'e would not have been so sw-e-et, would he? And life - ah life—' Isabelle paused again and then plunged on, 'Life would 'ave taken a different turn for Chloe.'

  At the end of lunch, Laura Barrymore arrived to fetch Isabelle. She was wonderful and long-legged in grass-green trousers and matching T-shirt, down which irregular green glass beads set in gold cascaded, revealing every tense sinew of her muscular but graceful body, she must have been every inch of six feet and barely weighed more than eight stone. Jemima watched Laura coiling herself back into the black Mini like an elegant green snake.

  Through the smoked glass Jemima could not even discern the heads of the two women, as she had been able to watch Sir Richard and his female companion being borne away on Thursday. Nevertheless it occurred to her that both Isabelle and Lionnel, highly successful in their respective spheres, understood the necessity of binding their acolytes to them. A loyal acolyte was something Chloe Fontaine had not even desired unless one counted poor Valentine and even he, rightly or wrongly, had detected in her a provocation: 'She made me watch her. I had a feeling she wanted it.'

  Jemima was due to visit Chloe's domestic acolyte, Rosina, later that afternoon: perhaps there would be a loyalty there. In the meantime she had some unfinished business at 'The Little Athens'.

  'Mr Stavros—' she began, flashing her television smile. But it was hardly necessary. Stavros was quite enchanted at the presence - two days running - of Jemima Shore, Investigator. The exact significance of her title did not bother him as he brought some more wine - 'a present for a lovely lady', given with a smile as wide and ravishing as Jemima's own. He also banished the restaurant's traditional sweetmeats on sticks at Jemima's request - what would Isabelle have made of these glutinous lumps, politically and gastronomically? With the departure of Isabelle, and in the absence of Sir Richard Lionnel, Stavros' melancholy had quite vanished. He became a mine of information on the restaurant trade, on which he was delighted to think that Miss Shore might be planning an autumn programme.

  The transition to the subject of Sir Richard Lionnel was made without too much difficulty and somehow even Lady Lionnel was introduced . . . Stavros rolled his eyes. After all he had had to answer similar questions from the police; a television enquiry was not so different after all, just rather more comforting to its subject. Jemima made it clear that in her case lunch with Lionnel had been in the line of business ... since she was not concerned to pump Stavros about Lionnel's ladies, but only his movements on that particular
Saturday, the task proved relatively easy.

  Yes, poor Lady Lionnel had become ill. 'She was a little upset, yes, upset, definitely.' Yes, Sir Richard had summoned the chauffeur to take her to the station but it was too early, the chauffeur had not yet come back. In fact he had only just gone for his own lunch.

  'About half-past one?'

  'Something like that. It was a one o'clock booking. But Sir Richard was early. He always is.' 'I noticed.'

  'And Lady Lionnel arrived soon after that. She just had time to taste some taramasalata - then, pouf—' Stavros' face was expressive. 'Tears.' 'And - how did she leave then?'

  'Ah, then no car. He looks angry. He does not say so. I know it. He thinks, the car should be there all the time. He goes out, himself, I cannot stop him. He moves very quickly that man, and looks for a taxi. He comes back and puts her in it. Face of thunder. Both Sir Richard and the lady. He comes back, sits here. "No reason to waste an excellent meal, Stavros," he says. But he eats and drinks nothing. Later he says: "I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well, Stavros." He reads a magazine, a book maybe. Very calm. When the car comes back he is no longer angry. He waits reading until about two-thirty, and then his car takes him away.'

  'To number ten Downing Street', concluded Jemima thoughtfully. 'And you told all this to the police, just as you told me.' Stavros smiled and flung his hands open.