Sarah Caudwell - Thus Was Adonis Murdered

“That,” said Ragwort, “is a possibility which, regrettably, we cannot altogether discount. But wouldn’t Julia have been there with him?”

“Temporarily absent,” said Cantrip. “In the loo or somewhere.”

“I’m rather doubtful,” said Timothy, “about the timing. You rang the Corkscrew at about twenty past eight, Cantrip. So I take it the news must have been on the teleprinter by quarter past. If the murder happened after dark, I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.”

“Don’t know,” said Cantrip. “Depends what time it gets dark in Venice.”

Timothy paid the bill. We rose to leave.

“By the way,” said Selena, “if you don’t mind, I’d still like to get to Heathrow in time to meet the flight Julia should have come back on.”

“Yes, of course,” said Timothy. “If it turns out she’s on it after all—”

“That, certainly, would be a great relief. But if she isn’t, then I think, you know, in the light of what Cantrip’s just been suggesting, that I’d like to be sure that all the other Art Lovers are.”

It was thus at a comparatively early hour on Saturday morning, considering the lateness of our retirement, that Selena collected me from my borrowed residence in Islington. She had received, but not yet had time to read, a further letter from Julia, evidently posted on Wednesday. She proposed, by reading it aloud, to improve the otherwise idle hours at Heathrow.

Taking my place beside her, I resigned myself to being driven through the traffic of North London at the pace she describes as brisk. Still, we arrived without accident at Middle Temple Lane.

Timothy had already spoken by telephone to Julia’s travel agents. They had confirmed that their customer, Miss Julia Larwood, was experiencing certain difficulties with the Venetian police, but were happy to reassure him that she was not actually in custody: she had merely been asked to surrender her passport and not to leave the Veneto. Arrangements were being made for her accommodation. Relieved, I dare say, to find that they were not solely responsible for the poor creature, they had given Timothy the name and address of their representative in Venice — that was to say, Graziella — and had promised that she would give him every possible assistance in his efforts on Julia’s behalf.

To save Selena an unnecessary detour, Cantrip had offered to make his own way to Ragwort’s house in Fulham, where we would collect them both. It had not been, perhaps, a wholly altruistic offer: Ragwort is known to make excellent breakfasts. Indeed, I had rather hoped — but Cantrip had already finished the scrambled eggs, and Selena did not think we had time for coffee.

Ragwort and Cantrip joined me in the back seat of the vehicle and we continued westwards, Selena negotiating with wonderful insouciance — I suppose that is the expression I am looking for — the series of roundabouts which seems designed to prevent the motorist, once in London, from ever leaving it.

Cantrip had also been making telephone calls. Claiming the privileges of a part-time employee, he had used the information service of the Scuttle to find out the time of sunset in Venice. It was eight o’clock.

“In that case,” said Timothy, “the mistaken identity theory must be out of court, mustn’t it?”

“Local time,” said Cantrip. “The Italians are an hour ahead of us. So by London time it would only be seven. And then I rang this chap I know at the news agency and asked how long it would take for a story like that to get on the teleprinter. I said I’d got a bet on about it. And he reckons they’ve got a chap in Venice who’s hot stuff newshound-wise, so once someone called the fuzz it’d be on the wire in an hour or so.”

“Still cutting it fine,” said Timothy.

“Not that fine,” said Cantrip. “Look, the way I see it is this. Friday evening, about quarter to eight Italian time. This American bird and her husband changing for dinner. There’s a row — you know, starting with an argument about who left the top off the toothpaste or something and going on from there. And as you’d expect, Julia’s name crops up. ‘And on Sunday afternoon,’ says Stanford, ‘when I found you and Julia lying on the bed in a newtlike condition, don’t you tell me she was just explaining an interesting point of Chancery procedure. Pigs might fly,’ says Stanford. ‘There were goings-on going on.’ And Marylou says all right, if that’s his attitude, she is happy to say that she and Julia actually spent the whole afternoon in nameless debaucheries—”

“We are given to understand,” said Ragwort, “that that is not the case.”

“That wouldn’t stop her,” said Cantrip. “I mean, when a girl’s having a row with her husband, she’s not going to admit that all the years they’ve been married she’s been absolutely faithful to him — too humiliating. So they always say they’ve been having it off with someone else, even when they haven’t. Of course,” he added with some bitterness, “this often causes a lot of distress and embarrassment to innocent third parties. But they don’t think about that.”

“We defer to your experience,” said Ragwort, “as a potential co-respondent.”

Cantrip construing this remark as offensive, there ensued a scuffle.

“Please,” said Selena, “this isn’t Monday morning in the Companies Court.”

“Sorry,” said Cantrip. “Where was I? Oh yes — Marylou says that as a matter of fact Stanford is quite right and she spent Sunday afternoon in bed with Julia. Going on to say that if he really wants to know this was about seventeen times more fun than anything along similar lines with Stanford. Good exit-line, so she sweeps out of the matrimonial bedroom and goes down to dinner. And Stanford, in a frenzy of jealous passion, seizes the nearest weapon — the dressmaking scissors or whatever — and goes off to Julia’s room to avenge his honour.”

“Surely not,” said Selena.

“No use your saying ‘surely not’ like that — Americans get jolly steamed up about these things. Meanwhile Julia’s lured the chap from the Revenue to her bedroom — made a lot of wild promises, I expect, about submitting her returns on time and so on — and had her way of him. Feeling, in consequence, all bright and breezy and full of the joys of spring — you can defer to my experience on that, too, Ragwort — she is now having an invigorating shower. Singing, I dare say.”

“Singing?” said Ragwort, apparently deeply shocked.

“Well, she thinks it’s singing, poor grummit. Her voice doesn’t actually go up and down much the way it’s supposed to, but you can’t tell her that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether she’s singing or not, the point is she’s having a shower. And the chap from the Revenue is still lying on the bed. Enter Stanford, in a frenzy of jealous passion as aforesaid. It’s just got dark, but he doesn’t turn the light on, because he wants to creep up on Julia without her knowing. He’s a simple-minded sort of chap, the way these executives mostly are, and he thinks whoever’s in Julia’s bed must be Julia. So he stabs the chap from the Revenue. Exit Stanford. Julia comes out of the shower, still singing, I expect, and goes over to the bed with a view to burbling a few affectionate words at the Revenue chap—‘How about a swift drink?’ or something. And after a bit she notices there’s a lot of blood about the place and the chap seems to be dead. She screams — well, she makes a sort of gargling noise, the way she does with spiders — and goes out into the corridor. Where shortly afterwards someone finds her pootling up and down saying ‘I say, there seems to be a corpse in my bed.’ Enter the fuzz and arrest her. And that could all happen in a lot less than ten minutes, so there’d be plenty of time for the agency chap to have it on the wire by quarter past eight London time.”