“Kind of her, but the papers do tend to exaggerate,” Major Payne murmured. “Murder, eh? Shouldn’t you have reported it to the police?”
Jenner’s pale cheeks coloured a little. “I know I should, but I need to be absolutely sure. I need a second opinion. The circumstances, you see, are extremely peculiar.”
“Well, I never say no to murder. Let’s have it.”
Jenner took the chair opposite Payne’s. “I must warn you I am a rotten storyteller. Now, where do I begin?”
“Begin at the beginning.”
“You make it sound so easy. Um. Did you, by any chance, watch a TV programme called Where Are They Now? They showed it a week ago on BBC4.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t. We watch very little telly these days... Was it something about former killers, perhaps?”
“No, it was about former child stars.”
“Oh. Acting stars?”
“Singing stars. From the sixties and seventies...”
“Do go on.”
Jenner’s eyes had fastened on the portrait of Wellington that graced one of the walls. He seemed lost in thought.
“I have nothing but pity for child stars,” Major Payne said. “They never seem to find happiness in later life. They often come to some sort of sticky end.” If he was surprised the turn the conversation had taken, he did not show it. “Either in rehab or in a mental institution — or they take an overdose.” Jenner remained silent. “Then the world shakes its collective head and says, used to be such a sweet little darling, wonder what went wrong? Child stars never get the chance to develop inner fortitude. Lives of early celebrity and privilege tend to implode in the most spectacular way—”
“D’you by any chance remember a ten-year-old girl called Eden Swann?” Captain Jenner suddenly asked. “She was big in the early sixties — tremendously popular in the U.K. and, for a while, in the U.S.A.”
“Eden Swann?”
“Yes. The first two songs she performed were called ‘Bad Bugs Bite’ and ‘Never Play With Trolls.’ These she followed with ‘Naughty Monkey,’ ‘Naughty Nursie,’ and ‘Naughty Daddy.’ Apparently ‘Naughty Nursie’ alone sold half a million records.”
“Good lord, did it indeed? And they say naughtiness should never be rewarded!” Payne stroked his chin. “Wait a second. Eden Swann... Eden Swann... Actually, I do seem to remember Eden Swann... Yes... Or do I? Champagne-coloured curls tinged with orange? Pink cheeks? Chubby? The perky-porky type?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Brought to mind a cherub on an old-fashioned Christmas card. I believe she wore short frilly dresses that shouldn’t perhaps have been so short? Didn’t Mary Whitehouse have something to say about it?”
“She did. The fact was mentioned on the programme, to general mirth.” Jenner nodded grimly.
“Eden Swann was being interviewed, I take it?”
“She was asked to reminisce about her days of success.”
“She must be — what? In her sixties?”
“She is sixty-three. She was wearing a champagne-coloured wig. And a short frilly dress. She’s got very fat. She looked ghastly. She spoke in a little-girl voice. Brought to mind Baby Jane. Remember Baby Jane?”
“I remember Baby Jane.”
“She pronounced ‘rose’ as ‘wose’ and ‘ribbon’ as ‘wibbon.’ All too grotesque for words.”
“Was she the only one interviewed?”
“No. There were two others — Claudia Carly — Phil Limber — some such names. Phil Limber said he attempted suicide twice after his voice broke, but he has now found fulfillment as a member of the Church of Scientology. Claudia Carly sobbed uncontrollably while watching a clip of her young self singing an insufferable piece of whimsy called ‘I’ll Lasso Santa Claus.’ But Eden Swann was the craziest of the lot. She spouted an incredible number of idiocies and irrelevancies. I believe she was tipsy. An ardent fan had managed to get into their house dressed as a monkey. She kept forgetting to lock the garden-wall door and the kitchen door. She doesn’t get up till midday. Her husband wears a tartan dressing gown. In nineteen sixty-three she had appeared on the covers of Pop Weekly and Fabulous.”
“I remember Fabulous,” Payne said.
“She then launched into ‘Naughty Monkey,’ or, rather, mimed to a playback version of her ten-year-old self singing it.”
Payne frowned. “How does Eden Swann come into your story?”
“She is my aunt.”
“Your aunt? Really?”
“Yes. I am serious. She is my uncle’s second wife. My late father’s brother. When they got married Eden Swann was eighteen, my uncle was thirty-three. Her singing career was all but over, though she had managed to make an awful lot of money. My impossible uncle certainly knew what he was doing. He had been married to someone else but it ended in divorce — his first wife had a miscarriage — he’d treated her rather shabbily — she had one of those old-fashioned jewel names — Ruby? Sorry, Payne, don’t know why I’m telling you all this!” Jenner waved his hand. “I warned you I was a rotten storyteller! I remember my parents saying they felt sorry for Eden. They learnt about the wedding from one of the papers.”
“Am I right in assuming your father didn’t get on with his brother?”
“You are. My father loathed my uncle. My uncle was irresponsible, reckless, deceitful, criminally inclined, and a showoff. He listed ‘causing pain’ as one of his hobbies. He forged cheques in my grandfather’s name — sold family heirlooms without permission — pictures and objets d’art, some of tremendous value. Some of my grandmother’s jewellery as well... A thoroughly bad egg, as they used to say... No, none of his transgressions was ever reported to the police, as it would have exposed my family to shame and contumely. My grandfather set great store by such things as family pride and public opinion. Ours is one of those ancient families that see themselves as paragons of duty, honour, and stability, even when that’s not exactly the case.”
“Your uncle was the proverbial black sheep...” Payne wondered where all this was leading.
“He revelled in evil and delighted in badness. At one time it was even whispered that he’d got involved with some gang or other — drugs or art forgeries or importing hookers from the Far East — maybe all three.” Jenner’s expression remained blank. “My uncle also killed a child while playing golf. He drove a golf ball onto the public path and it hit a child — little girl called Pinkie who’d been walking with her mother and brother. The ball cracked her skull and she died on the spot. It happened about five or six years ago at Sunningdale golf course. I read about it in one of the papers. An anonymous onlooker was quoted as saying that my uncle had been hitting the ball in the most reckless manner and laughing each time he saw people cower. But he wasn’t charged! Not even with manslaughter. Perfect example of the devil looking after his own, you might say. The verdict was accidental death. On that programme Eden Swann described her husband as ‘a trifle diffy’ — which I thought the understatement of the century.”
“Was she talking about your uncle? Couldn’t she have divorced him and remarried? Or couldn’t he have died — and she remarried?”
“That,” Jenner said slowly, “is where the mystery starts.”
“She referred to her husband as ‘Bent,’ which was Uncle Benjamin’s nickname — given to him by my father when they were young — but then she immediately corrected herself and said, ‘No, not Bent, I meant Stewart.’ For a moment she looked, well, scared. I don’t think I imagined it. She then mentioned the fact that she lived at a house called ‘The Mongoose,’ which, as it happens, used to be one of my uncle’s Franglais jokes when he was a boy. Apparently, when he was asked by his tutor the French for ‘my goose’ he said, ‘mongoose.’ He thought it so hilarious and witty that it became a word he often used, without rhyme or reason. For example, he would address my father as ‘you moronic mongoose’ and he would also refer to his new hat as ‘my marvellous new mongoose.’ ”