Just Murdered Read online

  ‘Well, who would have thought a man would resort to violence?’ she said.

  Sparrow twitched his upper body, as though he was going to move towards Birdie, but she stood her ground.

  ‘I don’t need the gun, Birnside,’ he said. ‘I can make your life—all your lives—a complete misery and I’d barely have to lift a finger. You have no idea what I’m capable of. But for a start, I’ll be announcing to the press that your little club is a communist front: a hotbed of sedition and a breeding ground for murderers, as evidenced by the death of Barbie Jones at the hands of Florence Astor!’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Birdie sneered.

  ‘Watch me!’

  Birdie and the inspector glared at each other furiously until Peregrine stepped between them, forcing Sparrow to look at her instead. ‘What will it take for you to leave us alone?’ she asked.

  Inspector Sparrow’s eyes became calculating slits and he stared hard at Peregrine. Then a smile spread across his face. ‘Well, aren’t you a fast learner, Little Fish? Birnside should take lessons from you!’ He looked at Birdie again. ‘Because that’s how this town works. Just give me what I want and then we can all go on our merry way.’

  Peregrine’s hands curled into fists, but she took a deep breath. ‘And what is it you want?’

  ‘Your aunt created lots of problems, Little Fish. She has an item that she shouldn’t have, something that means a lot to someone very important. I promised I’d recover it for him.’

  ‘What sort of item?’

  ‘Film. Very personal film.’

  ‘Is that what you were really after when you broke in? But you couldn’t find it, could you? My aunt was way too smart for you.’ Peregrine smiled faintly.

  ‘Watch it, Little Fish. If you make me any angrier, we won’t be able to do a deal.’

  ‘But if I find this film and hand it over, you’ll leave us alone?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  Birdie snorted.

  Peregrine, Samuel and Birdie stood, unmoving, as Inspector Sparrow slowly made his way out through the front door. He paused on the porch and looked back.

  ‘Don’t keep me waiting, Little Fish. I’m not a patient man.’ He raised his greasy hat and started to walk away.

  ‘Hey, Sparrow!’ Peregrine called from the threshold.

  Sparrow turned.

  ‘I just realised: you’re named after a small pecker!’ She slammed the door.

  There was silence in the Adventuresses’ Club. Then Peregrine, her back pressed against the front door, exhaled heavily.

  ‘That actually went better than I expected,’ she said, checking to make sure the door was locked.

  ‘His gun …’ Samuel began.

  Birdie clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sparrow was never going to use it. Besides, if he’d even so much as thought about it, there’s always the umbrella stand.’

  ‘The umbrella stand?’ Peregrine asked as she came to join them.

  Birdie reached behind her and pulled a long, double-edged blade from the porcelain receptacle.

  ‘You keep a sword in the umbrella stand?’ Peregrine said, touching a careful finger to the metal.

  Birdie shrugged. ‘For emergencies only.’

  ‘Has he gone?’ Violetta had approached while they were talking.

  ‘For now.’ Samuel smiled at her. ‘What happened, Peregrine?’

  ‘I was leaving Barbie Jones’s apartment and Sparrow saw me. I wonder why he was there on a Saturday?’

  ‘Maybe he was looking for this? I hope it was worth it.’ Violetta handed the photograph to Peregrine.

  ‘Definitely. It’s proof that Barbie Jones’s mystery man was Terence Blair. The necklace and the lack of squash games were good, but this picture confirms it.’ Peregrine held the picture up so they could all see it.

  ‘And you found it in Barbie’s apartment?’ Birdie said.

  ‘Yes. It was well hidden, too! But I also found something else. And then there’s the file.’

  ‘What file?’

  ‘The police file that’s currently hidden in the Austin-Healey. I found that secret compartment in the boot.’

  ‘Secret compartment?’ Birdie’s voice shot up an octave.

  Peregrine looked from one incredulous face to another. ‘Let’s go and sit down,’ she said, leading the way into the Camelot Room. ‘I’ve got a lot to tell you.’

  Samuel made coffee while Peregrine retrieved the file from the car. Once they were all seated around the oak table, Peregrine told them everything that had happened since she was last at the Adventuresses’ Club, beginning with the identical necklaces and her squash lesson.

  Then she slid the police file across the table to Violetta. ‘I was hoping you could have a look at this and see if there was anything …’

  Violetta read the label on the folder then gave Peregrine a nod, clearly impressed. ‘Of course I will look, but where did you get it?’

  Peregrine explained how she had come into possession of the damaged file as calmly as she could, stressing that Detective Steed was on their side. But when she told them what it contained, Birdie exploded, grief and fury mingled in a multilingual, expletive-laden tirade against Inspector Sparrow. The others let her rage for several minutes, until finally Peregrine went and stood behind Birdie’s chair, resting both hands on her shoulders.

  ‘That’s why we’re here, Birdie,’ she said. ‘We’re not going to let him do that to Florence. We’re not going to let Sparrow win.’

  ‘But you promised him the film,’ Birdie groaned.

  ‘For starters, I have no idea where my aunt might have hidden it, so I couldn’t hand it over even if I wanted to. And, besides, I may be young, but I’m not stupid. If I give him that, what’s to stop him harassing us anyway?’

  ‘Whatever is on that film must be how Phryne Fisher was keeping the inspector at bay!’ Violetta exclaimed.

  ‘Exactly. And that’s an edge we can’t afford to lose.’

  Peregrine gave Birdie’s shoulders a squeeze and, in return, Birdie reached up and patted her hand. ‘Spoken like a true Adventuress,’ she said, her voice low. Then she straightened her spine and got back to business. ‘But, in that case, you’d better fill us in on the rest of it. We probably don’t have a lot of time.’

  Peregrine returned to her seat. ‘Once I’d read about Barbie’s night-time signal to her landlady, I wanted to know if there was a reason for it—that’s why I went to talk to her. And I found out that Mrs Meadows had often seen a white van parked in the street at night over the past months. She thought Barbie had a stalker, but Barbie denied it. Mrs Meadows also told me she’d seen Barbie at her window on her last night alive wearing a lime green dress, but I couldn’t find a green dress anywhere in the apartment.’

  ‘Could she have worn it to the store the next day?’ asked Samuel. ‘It might still be there somewhere.’

  Peregrine frowned. ‘I doubt it. That would mean she’d worn the same dress two days in a row, and women—especially a woman whose business is based on the way she looks—wouldn’t do that. But now you’ve reminded me of something …’ She stared blankly at the opposite wall then shook her head. ‘Nope. I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘It might come to you later.’ Samuel leaned across and topped up her coffee. ‘What else?’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Violetta held up a hand, although her attention was on the police file.

  Three pairs of eyes fixed on her. She flipped a page, read some more, then flipped it back and looked up.

  ‘This doesn’t make sense,’ she said.

  ‘Peregrine’s already told us that Florence’s injuries—’ Birdie began, but Violetta cut her off with a brisk shake of the head.

  ‘Not Florence. I mean, yes, it’s clear her death was not the result of a fall. There was a certain shape to two of the head wounds consistent with being hit by a rounded object, not impact with a flat surface. Plus there were some plaster fragments in her hair, yet the elevator shaft is al
l concrete.’

  Birdie winced and sucked in a breath. Violetta’s eyes widened in shock at her own lack of sensitivity. ‘I’m sorry, Birdie, I was caught up in the science. I didn’t mean …’

  Birdie shook her head. ‘It’s okay, I know. Keep going. What doesn’t make sense?’

  ‘The time of Barbie Jones’s death.’

  ‘In the early hours on the morning of the fashion show,’ said Samuel.

  Violetta shook her head. ‘That is what it says here’—she pulled a page from the report and set it to one side—‘but when I look at the photographs of the body and read the pathologist’s report, it isn’t possible.’

  Peregrine, Birdie and Samuel looked at each other, then back at Violetta.

  ‘You’d better explain,’ said Peregrine.

  Violetta selected several photographs from the file, some of Barbie’s body at the crime scene and some taken at the morgue. She spun the images around so the others could see and then pointed with a pencil.

  ‘When Miss Jones was found, she was already in full rigor. That is, the body—all her limbs, everything—was stiff, yes?’

  The others nodded.

  ‘And you see here, the bruising on her neck is well developed?’ She pointed to a close-up of Barbie’s neck.

  ‘It’s quite obvious,’ agreed Birdie.

  ‘Now look at this picture, this discolouration here and here.’ Violetta’s pencil tapped on two of the morgue photographs.

  ‘It looks like heavy bruising,’ said Samuel.

  ‘Livor mortis, the pooling of blood in the body after death has occurred.’ Violetta checked to make sure everyone understood her. ‘All this’—she fanned her hand above the photographs—‘means Miss Jones could not have died on the morning of the show. She must have been killed much earlier—probably around twelve hours before the stated time of death.’

  ‘But that can’t be right,’ said Samuel. ‘The landlady confirmed Barbie was home at 11 p.m. the night before the show.’

  Violetta shrugged. ‘The science doesn’t lie.’

  ‘What if …’ Peregrine spoke slowly, considering her words. ‘What if Dulcie Meadows only thought she saw Barbie at the window?’

  ‘You think it might have been someone else—like the person from the white van?’ Samuel leaned forward.

  ‘If Violetta is right …’ Peregrine began.

  ‘Not me, the science.’ Violetta tapped the file for emphasis.

  ‘Right,’ Peregrine amended. ‘Violetta has proven scientifically that Barbie was already dead when the landlady saw a figure in a green dress at the window.’

  ‘Which means the killer was someone who knew about the signal!’ Samuel snapped his fingers.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Peregrine. ‘Someone like Terence Blair, the boyfriend.’

  ‘Or’—Birdie leaned forward—‘whoever was watching Barbie’s apartment from the white van.’

  ‘And as I discovered today, not only does Blair’s Emporium own white delivery vans, Lewis Knox, the storeman, has easy access to them.’ Peregrine put her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands. ‘I’m not sure who to suspect anymore!’

  Violetta flipped through the police report again then closed it with a snap. ‘The police only checked alibis for the morning of the fashion show, not the night before.’

  Peregrine groaned.

  ‘There’s nothing else for it,’ said Birdie briskly. ‘We’ll just have to question everyone ourselves. As soon as possible, and preferably without that excuse for a police inspector getting wind of it.’

  Peregrine groaned again.

  ‘Perhaps if we start with who might have been standing in the window of Barbie’s apartment.’ Samuel pulled off his glasses and polished them. ‘Unless the landlady is particularly near-sighted, it had to be someone with roughly the same build. One of the other models—or even Mrs Blair, perhaps?’

  ‘Peregrine, was there nothing else in the apartment that might give us somewhere to start?’ Birdie asked.

  Peregrine tipped her head up so her chin was in her hands. ‘It’s probably nothing, but when I was looking at Barbie’s couch, I found some weird orange fibres.’

  ‘Did you say orange fibres?’ Violetta asked, her voice urgent.

  Peregrine sat up. ‘Yes, here.’ She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and unfolded it, revealing the few short strands she’d collected.

  Violetta’s brow furrowed and she opened the report again, rapidly scanning documents until she found what she was searching for. She jabbed an emphatic finger on the page. ‘Florence had orange fibres caught under her fingernails!’

  ‘Does the report say what they were?’ Birdie asked.

  Violetta shook her head disdainfully. ‘Only that they were synthetic.’ She pulled the handkerchief towards her, picked up one of the strands and rubbed it between her fingers. Then she gave it a gentle tug. ‘The tensile strength seems reasonable.’ She held the fibres up to the light. ‘I must run some tests, which will take time, but it is some sort of acrylic, I think.’

  ‘Acrylic? They make wigs out of modacrylic, don’t they?’ Peregrine stared at the fibres in Violetta’s hand.

  ‘That would be logical: a synthetic copolymer of at least thirty-five per cent acrylonitrile. Violetta looked at Birdie and arched an eyebrow. ‘But only someone with hairdressing experience would know they use modacrylic for wigs.’

  ‘Touché.’ Birdie inclined her head graciously. ‘Would you care to outline your thoughts, Adventuress Fisher?’

  Peregrine flashed Birdie a quick smile. ‘Either someone is using a wig just to disguise their own appearance, or they used it specifically to mimic Barbie Jones’s red hair. We know Florence was holding a wig just before she died. Maybe she saw someone carrying it or wearing it, put two and two together and then …’

  Birdie shook her head. ‘Why? Florence was in a department store surrounded by models and dummies and wigs! Why would she think one red wig was suspicious?’

  Peregrine closed her eyes, trying to picture the scene. ‘Perhaps there was more to it than just the wig. Or perhaps,’ she said slowly, ‘Florence didn’t know there was anything odd about the red wig, but she said something or asked a question that made the murderer think she did.’

  ‘Knowledge can be a dangerous thing,’ said Violetta sombrely.

  The room fell silent. Birdie closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair and, as Peregrine watched, the mask of control dropped from her face, leaving Birdie’s emotions exposed. It was almost too much, and Peregrine quickly moved her attention across the table to Violetta and Samuel. They quietly slid pages of the file to each other, communicating with looks and gestures.

  Out in the hall, the grandmother clock marked the half-hour. Time was running out.

  Mentally, Peregrine ran back over everything she’d discovered at Barbie’s apartment and her thoughts snagged on the white van. She gasped.

  ‘What, Peregrine?’ Violetta asked.

  ‘Lewis Knox!’

  ‘The storeman?’ Samuel said. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Not only does he have access to Blair’s white van …’ Peregrine looked at the three faces staring back at her. ‘But when Detective Steed and I saw him last, Knox was messing around with the mannequins. And one of them was wearing a green dress.’

  They all stared at each other as Peregrine’s words sunk in.

  ‘I have two things to say,’ said Birdie. ‘For God’s sake, Peregrine, promise me you’ll carry your aunt’s gun at all times.’

  Peregrine nodded. ‘I promise.’

  ‘What’s the second thing?’ Samuel asked.

  ‘I never thought I’d say this’—Birdie rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands—‘but I think Peregrine should call the police.’

  James Steed was sitting in the back corner of the coffee shop when Peregrine, dressed in her Blair’s uniform, pushed through the door. At eight o’clock on a Monday morning the room was half full, men and women in
suits mingling with shopgirls and blue-collar workers, everyone stretching out the last minutes before the start of the working week. Steed had a newspaper propped on the table in front of him, so engrossed in what he was reading that he didn’t look up when Peregrine came in. She stopped where she was and took a moment to study him. For someone who always seemed so stressed, his high forehead was remarkably smooth, although even from where she stood, Peregrine could see lines of fatigue around the detective’s green eyes. If he’d only let his hair grow a fraction longer and let it get a bit tousled, she thought, James Steed would look quite at home on a surfboard. Peregrine was just contemplating his lips when Steed glanced up and caught her eye. She wove her way across the cafe and he half stood as she sat down.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Fisher. Would you like a cup of tea? There’s plenty.’ He gestured to a large pot of tea sitting in the middle of the table, steam drifting lazily from its spout. ‘I also ordered toast.’

  As if on cue, a harried waitress dashing past with a laden tray deposited a rack of toast, a dish of butter and a couple of plates and knives on the table and rushed off.

  ‘Just tea, please. And good morning to you too, Detective.’

  ‘Did you find something in the file? You were very cryptic when you phoned yesterday.’ Steed put the strainer over a fresh cup and poured Peregrine’s tea.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be.’ She added sugar to the cup, watching as Steed slathered butter on his toast. ‘I just thought you might need your weekend.’

  He paused, toast triangle halfway to his mouth. ‘That was very considerate of you. So, what’s this all about?’

  ‘Lewis Knox.’

  ‘The storeman?’ Steed crunched into his breakfast.

  ‘Why does everybody always ask that?’ Peregrine sighed with mock exasperation. ‘Yes, that Lewis Knox.’

  Steed gestured with his toast for her to continue.

  ‘Barbie’s landlady, Mrs Meadows, said there’d been a white van parked in their street several nights a week for the past few months and—’