‘Better ballroom dancing in the warm than watching rugger matches in the cold,’ I said, thinking of Celia and Kate. ‘Look, Kay, we haven’t got a lot of time. I want to talk about Gloria Mundy. You and Roland saw her that evening you ditched your car. You saw her at the window of the old house. Can you be sure it was Gloria you saw?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why of course?’
‘Because we recognised her hair and, from all that has come out about the murdered woman wearing a wig, the wig couldn’t have been put on her head until she was dead and the bonfire had done its work on the body.’
‘You know, I ought to have realised, when the police took me to the mortuary, that they had something up their sleeves. They knew the red and black hair was a wig, but at that stage they were not giving anything away. They just wanted my reactions.’
‘Do you think that at that point they suspected Gloria of murder?’
‘I don’t know, but they must have suspected that it was to somebody’s advantage to have it thought that Gloria was dead.’
‘To put a wig on an otherwise burnt-up corpse was rather a crude way of establishing that, wasn’t it?’
‘Granted. Look, now, if it’s all the same to you, let us lay off the burnt corpses. They don’t go with this supposedly festive set-up.’
‘You don’t care that when the police catch up with Gloria — and they are bound to be hot on her trail — she may be found guilty of murder?’
‘But she is guilty of murder! You could see it in those horrible green eyes of hers. They were just life pieces of hard, green glass.’
‘ “Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?” ’ I quoted ironically.
‘ “Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?” ’ she retorted. ‘That’s what I said, Corin. Her eyes were green glass. The others are coming back to the table. Roland,’ she went on, as they seated themselves, ‘Corin is trying to whitewash Gloria Mundy.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said, ‘but she did go back to her job, you know.’
‘Needed the money, I suppose,’ said Kay. Imogen and Roland sat out the next dance and during subsequent dances Kay and I did not renew the topic. Altogether I found it a wasted evening and I wished I had made it an outing only for Imogen and myself. She was of the same opinion and voiced it when we got back to her flat.
‘What on earth made you invite those two shattering bores?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell me that Kay Shortwood has charms to soothe your savage breast.’
‘I thought you enjoyed dancing with Roland,’ I said. ‘Sorry if I was wrong.’
‘The dancing was fine.’
‘Well, then?’
‘His conversation, what there was of it, was all about himself, of whom he seems to think extremely highly. There was one item, though, which might interest you. You remember we spoke of Gloria Mundy? Well, he said he wondered what had brought Gloria, in the first place, to Anthony’s house. Did she ever tell anybody at Beeches Lawn her reason for calling there?’
‘She definitely spoke to Anthony, but I’m not sure exactly what was said. My theory is that she was out of corn financially and had come to Anthony for help.’
‘How long was she alone with him?’
‘I can’t say. I was up in my room working on McMaster’s brochures. My guess is that Celia would have been present most of the time and, as it turned out, there was only that short interval before lunch when Gloria and Anthony could have got together and then, as I say, they probably wouldn’t have been alone for long. Did they ever tell you at Trends why she left in such a hurry?’
‘No, of course not. They couldn’t, because I left weeks before she did. From what you’ve told me, I thought she left because Mr McMaster had recognised her.’
‘Yes, I know, but, on thinking that one over, I am left wondering whether she did realise that he had recognised her. He thought it was her ghost he saw, if you remember what I’ve said. ’
‘All the same, she must have seen the effect her appearance had on him. She wouldn’t have known that he thought she was a ghost.’
‘I’m going to Trends to find out more.’
‘They won’t tell you more. They’ll probably give you in charge for harassing them.’
‘I shan’t harass them. I shall only ask for more details as to why Gloria left. What do I call her? Was her “shop” name Violetta?’
‘Yes, if she’s the black-haired, green-eyed little bitch I think you mean. The other girls detested her.’
‘I wonder what reason she gave for leaving?’
‘What happened, I expect, was what I thought you had been thinking all the time. Gloria walked out on them when she realised that Mr McMaster had recognised her. From her point of view, the moment that happened the fat was in the fire. She must have been scared stiff anyway, when the autopsy was made public. She couldn’t have given her right name when she signed on at Trends, though.’
‘I suppose that she thought her completely black hair and a dead-pan white make-up were sufficient disguise if anybody turned up at the shop who was acquainted with her, but, to anybody who knew her as well as McMaster had done, they proved insufficient and the detailed autopsy report proved, as you say, that the corpse couldn’t be hers. I wonder whether it was Dame Beatrice who insisted on all those measurements and the rest of it?’
I received short shrift at Trends from the magnificent blonde. The day after McMaster’s visit (she remembered him well, for not only was he a memorable figure, but apparently he had pulled himself together after he thought he had seen Gloria’s ghost, and had lashed out as a big spender on dresses for Kate). Gloria, she told me, referring to her by her shop name of Violetta, had been so insolent to a customer later that day that instant dismissal had followed.
‘Look, I’ve already been through all this with your lot, and I’ve read the papers. I cannot help you.’
‘What did you gather from the papers?’ I asked. She was impatient to get rid of me, but I was determined to have my say and ask my questions.
‘What anybody who can put two and two together would gather. When she applied for a post here six years or so ago, her hair was a perfect sight, one half red — not a colour we encourage — and the other half black. The effect was most bizarre. However, she agreed to change it and the manager — a man, of course! — thought she had an engaging personality and would make a good saleswoman and her references (forged, I daresay, and, most mistakenly, not thoroughly investigated) were satisfactory, I suppose, so she obtained employment here.’
‘Just one more question, if you will be so good,’ I said. She tossed the blonde coiffure and told me that she supposed it was unwise to obstruct the police, but would I make it short, as she had already lost a customer to her second in command.
‘Were you surprised that Violetta, as you called her, was so rude to a customer as to get herself dismissed?’
‘Not altogether. The customer was a woman. The customers who come here are usually accompanied by gentlemen, and to gentlemen Violetta was the best saleswoman I had.’
‘I bet she was!’ I said, thinking of those usually sane and sober men, Anthony Wotton and Hardie Keir McMaster. I realised, when I had settled down again in my flat and was trying to persuade myself that it was a good time to get busy on my own work, that something had shaken itself out of my subconscious mind and was clamouring for attention.
I don’t know what had triggered off my new train of thought. Possibly I was somewhat frustrated that I could not use the Earls Court Road story about the murdered American woman, because it was too soon after that young woman had been stabbed and thrown into the sea. Apparently the murderer had never been traced and no doubt the case was still on the police files. They might not take kindly to somebody fictionalising it, I thought, and so inadvertently giving away clues.