“And why is that?”
Miranda clumped in with a tray with a pot of coffee and cups, thumped it down, and banged her way out.
“I wasn’t sure when I heard about the shooting. But poison! I could well see Diana doing that. She threw every kind of fit when Peter broke off the engagement. She followed him to a night-club and made the most awful scene. He told me about it. The poor boy was worried, I could see that.”
“You were fond of your nephew,” said Hamish gently.
Mrs Frobisher’s old wrinkled face crumpled like a baby’s, and for a moment Hamish thought she was going to cry. But she eased herself to her feet and poured two cups of coffee.
“Yes, very fond,” she said. “He was not always so wild, so irrational. He was quite bright at Sandhurst, and seemed set for a good military career. He was always taking up hobbies and then dropping them. I always told him he was turning my home into a graveyard for his abandoned hobbies. There’s his stamp collection, his model airplanes, his computer, his wood carvings, his…oh, so many things.”
“I would like to see them, if I may,” said Hamish.
“His parents died when he was still at school,” said Mrs Frobisher, her eyes staring past Hamish to days of long ago. “I took care of him. I don’t have any children of my own. But after he left Sandhurst, I couldn’t really have him staying here. I’m too old–fashioned and he always brought girls home.”
“Jessica Villiers?”
“No, he hasn’t stayed here since he was a young man. I haven’t heard of her.”
“The Helmsdales? Did he talk of them?”
She shook her head.
Patiently, he took her through the names of all the members of the house party. Diana Bryce and Vera were the only names familiar to her.
Hamish then led the conversation off on to more general subjects, hoping that when he guided her back to Peter Bartlett, she might remember something to give him just one clue.
She became animated as she talked, and he guessed she was lonely. She asked him to stay to lunch, much to Miranda’s obvious fury.
They were just finishing a miserable little lunch of cold quiche and limp salad when Mrs Frobisher suddenly said, “I’ve just remembered. You mentioned the name of Throgmorton. Sir Humphrey Throgmorton?”
Hamish nodded.
“I’ve just remembered something about him. He hurt Peter’s feelings very much. Peter called around to his home. Tea, I think it was. Wait a bit. It’s coming back to me. Well, poor Peter broke a cup and saucer by accident, and not only did this Sir Humphrey throw a terrible scene, but he wrote to Peter’s colonel-in-chief and complained. The colonel never liked Peter and this was jam to him. Peter said the old man used it as an excuse to give him the dressing down of a lifetime. Peter said Sir Humphrey was a closet homosexual and as vengeful as sin. Can you imagine anyone making such a fuss over some old china?”
“No,” said Hamish, although he privately thought that any collector would see red, given the same set of circumstances.
Mrs Frobisher looked at him almost shyly. “I have two tickets to Duchess Darling – for the matinee this afternoon. I did not feel like asking someone to go with me because of Peter’s death. But if you have the time…?”
Hamish groaned inwardly. Seeing Henry’s play would remind him of Henry and that would lead to thoughts of Priscilla. He had been able to put her out of his mind while he concentrated on the case, and he did not want thoughts of her to muddle up his brain.
But the longer he spent with Mrs Frobisher, the more chance there was of her remembering more.
“I would be delighted to go,” he said. “May I telephone someone first?”
“Of course. There’s a phone over on that desk by the window. I’ll go and change while you make your call.”
Hamish phoned Rory Grant at home and listened patiently while the reporter grumbled about being woken up.
“When do you start work?” asked Hamish, when he could get a word in.
“Seven o’clock this evening.”
“I might go round to the office with you. I want to look at some of the library cuttings.”
“Oh, you do, do you? They aren’t cuttings any more. Everything’s on computer. What’s in it for me?”
“Background on these murders.”
“OK. Do you want to come to the office, or call round here first?”
“I don’t know how I’ll be placed for time. If I haven’t turned up at your place by six, I’ll meet you at the office.”
Hamish found it hard to concentrate on the play. He was gloomily sure that Henry had somehow managed to persuade Priscilla to become re-engaged. He decided at the end of the play to go back with Mrs Frobisher and see if he could winkle any further information out of her.
The old lady was tired and leaned heavily on her cane, but there was a faint flush on her old cheeks. She had obviously enjoyed the outing.
When they got to Flood Street, Hamish said tentatively, “I won’t keep you much longer, Mrs Frobisher. I have another call to make. Could I just see some of Captain Bartlett’s things?”
“I have them all in a room upstairs. The police have been through them already, of course.”
She led the way upstairs and pushed open a bedroom door. The room was, as Mrs Frobisher had said, a graveyard of hobbies. The model airplanes swung from the ceiling, a collection of rocks and fossils lay on a table, albums of stamps were piled on a chair.
“What’s this?” asked Hamish, crossing the room to a little china cabinet in the corner. It contained several dainty porcelain figurines. “Was this one of his hobbies?”
“Yes, he started collecting bits of china from the salerooms after he had been to Sir Humphrey’s. Funny I should have forgotten all about Sir Humphrey until today. Peter had a sort of magpie mind. His hobbies were all other people’s enthusiasms. He would take something up for a bit, throw himself into it, then he would get bored and cart the lot around to me for safekeeping.”
“Isn’t it a wee bit odd,” said Hamish, studying the pieces of china, “to think that the captain would become a collector of porcelain and yet everyone seems to think he deliberately broke a rare cup and saucer?”
“If he did do it deliberately,” said Mrs Frobisher loyally. “But it’s hard to explain. I do not think he had the soul of a collector, unless you call collecting other people’s hobbies collecting. The china phase did not last long. What’s that you’ve got?” she said seeing Hamish had a ragged bunch of manuscript in his hand.
“Seem to be regimental reminiscences,” said Hamish. “Another of his enthusiasms?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs Frobisher. “He scribbled from time to time.”
“Is that a fact?” said Hamish slowly. He carefully went through the room, checking any papers, reading letters, until he heard Mrs Frobisher stifle a yawn.
“I’d better be on my way,” said Hamish. He thanked her for lunch and the theatre outing and took his leave, promising to visit her the next time he was in London.
He walked back to Sloane Square and took the District Line to Blackfriars and walked along to Fleet Street. He stood for a moment at the corner of Ludgate Circus and looked up towards the great bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral.
Images of the different people connected with the murder whirled around and around in his brain, facts jostled against facts, and then the kaleidoscope of bits and pieces slowly stopped revolving and settled down into a pattern.
But he had to be sure.
He set off for the Daily Chronicle offices at a run.
“You been drinking?” asked Rory impatiently, as he led Hamish upstairs to the reporters’ desk. For Hamish was walking like a blind man, bumping into walls, his eyes fixed in an odd inward-looking stare.