Barry Maitland - The Marx Sisters

‘Come, then.’

The front upstairs room was furnished as a small sitting room, which became uncomfortably overcrowded with the four of them in it. Adam Kowalski was seated in a cane chair by the window, which had a shallow bow front and was hung with heavy dark curtains. Beside him stood a telescope trained at the shimmering sea on which hovered several long grey ships. The gauntness of his frame was emphasized by the length of his right leg which stuck out stiffly to one side, the foot encased in plaster. As Brock and Kathy entered the room, he tried to struggle to his feet and the newspaper on his lap slid to the floor.

‘Don’t get up, don’t get up.’ Brock went over and shook his hand, despite an attempt at a blocking move from Mrs Kowalski.

The two visitors sat together on a sofa while Mrs Kowalski positioned herself on an upright chair between them and her husband.

‘You follow the shipping movements up the Channel, then?’ Brock indicated the page of the newspaper lying on the floor.

‘Yes.’ Kowalski gave a faint smile. His eyes were rimmed with pink, and his skin was like pale, translucent parchment. He spoke slowly, with a scholarly precision. ‘The novelty of a view of the sea.’

‘We’ve never lived beside the sea,’ Mrs Kowalski broke in. She seemed to feel it necessary to underscore his account with her own more combative statements. ‘That’s why we came here. A complete change. Why not? It’s what we’ve always dreamt of.’

Kathy looked around at the awkwardly furnished room. ‘What did you do to your foot, sir?’ she asked, hoping to return the conversation to Adam Kowalski.

‘ He didn’t do anything to it,’ his wife intervened once again. ‘It was that clumsy son of ours who dropped a box of books on it and broke a bone.’

‘It was a small accident.’ Kowalski fluttered long fingers to mollify her bad temper. ‘But painful.’ He smiled bravely at their visitors.

‘Would that have been at the weekend, then, sir?’

He frowned. ‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps I should explain why we’re here.’

‘About time,’ Mrs Kowalski said crossly.

‘Did you know that Mrs Winterbottom in Jerusalem Lane died on Sunday?’

This stunned Mrs Kowalski into silence. She turned and looked at her husband, as if to see from his face whether he knew and could therefore be accused of not keeping her informed. But there was no sign of foreknowledge. In fact, no sign of anything.

‘The circumstances of her death aren’t clear at the moment, and so the police were called in. We are interviewing everybody we can find who was in the area of Jerusalem Lane between the hours of 2 and 4.15 last Sunday afternoon. We understand that applies to you, Mr Kowalski.’

‘You mean… somebody killed her?’ Mrs Kowalski spoke in hushed tones, her eyes round.

‘We’re not sure yet.’

‘But why else are you involved? Oh, my God! Meredith Winterbottom!’

‘You had no idea about this, sir?’ Kathy inquired.

‘Of course he didn’t. Are you blind?’

Kathy bit her tongue, and turned to Brock. ‘Sir, the news has probably been a bit of a shock. Maybe if you and Mrs Kowalski went and made some tea…’

Mrs Kowalski looked with horror at the big frame of Brock. ‘I stay here!’

‘Marie,’ Adam Kowalski said wearily, ‘we must be hospitable to our guests. They have come all the way from London. Make a cup of tea

… please.’

Grumbling, his wife left the room.

‘She means well,’ Kowalski said without much conviction to Brock, who stayed where he was. Then, turning to Kathy, he said, ‘No. I didn’t know. I’m sorry for the lady, and for her sisters.’

‘Could you tell us what you were doing in London?’

‘We went up to clear the last of the stuff from my shop. We actually sold it about six months ago, but the new owners allowed us time to remove the stock. They said they weren’t ready to let the place again yet, so they didn’t mind as long as I was responsible for insurance of the contents.’

‘Excuse me, sir, you said “we went up”. Was your wife with you in Jerusalem Lane, too?’

‘Yes, we both went.’ Kowalski shifted his gaze around the room as he spoke, avoiding eye contact. Every so often he would look at the window, as if considering an escape out into the sunlit morning. ‘We’d arranged to sell the last boxes of books to a dealer in North London, so Marie and I went up to town on the train last Saturday and stayed overnight with our son, Felix, in Enfield, and then he helped us sort and pack on Sunday morning and load up the van he had hired. We delivered the boxes to the dealer, and then returned to the shop to tidy up. Then we went to the station and caught the train home. We left the shop at about 4, because I remember we worked out that that would give us plenty of time to catch the 4.46.’

‘So your son was also in the area on Sunday afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember seeing anyone, anyone at all, in Jerusalem Lane between, say, noon and 4 that afternoon?’

Kowalski thought, his eyes travelling back to the window. Eventually he shook his head. ‘No, we were in the back room of the shop for most of the time till 1 and then we left, and returned around 2.30, I should think. I don’t remember seeing anyone in Jerusalem Lane. It’s very quiet on a Sunday afternoon.’

‘A man in a bow tie?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you remember ever seeing a man wearing a bow tie in the area?’

Kowalski shrugged. ‘No.’

‘A customer, in your shop? About two or three months ago?’

He looked startled. His eyes darted to Kathy and then veered away again quickly when he saw her staring intently at him. ‘Oh. A customer, you say? Well, you may be right, I do seem to recall… Was there something special about him you were interested in?’

‘Just tell us about him, please, Mr Kowalski.’

The pale skin of Kowalski’s head coloured slightly. ‘I do seem to remember a customer with a spotted black and white bow tie, some time ago. I think… that he came back later, perhaps.’ He looked hesitantly at her.

She nodded, as if she knew this. ‘Go on.’

‘Oh, six or seven weeks ago, I’d say.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’ His expression had become vague.

‘What did he want?’

‘Well, I seem to remember that he bought something the first time.’

‘And the second?’

‘I’m not sure. I think not.’

‘If he did buy something the first time, you might have his name on your books?’

Kowalski looked doubtful. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, not unless he particularly wanted me to look out for something for him.’

‘But if he used a credit card?’

‘I wouldn’t have a record of that now.’

‘Well, could you describe him?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I just remember the bow tie.’

‘Young, old? Tall, fat?’

‘Youngish, I think.’ He shook his head, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t really remember.’ He was becoming slightly flustered. He seemed to search in his mind for something to give her, to satisfy her. ‘When he came in the first time he was looking for something… travel, no… art

… No-architecture books, that was it, architecture books.’

‘And you sold him some?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’

His wife bustled back into the room, carrying a tray with four cups of milky instant coffee.

‘You like sugar?’ she asked Kathy, thrusting a cup at her.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Well, don’t stir it, then.’

Her husband’s gaze shifted uncomfortably away back to the window.

She answered Kathy’s questions about their visit to Jerusalem Lane curtly, confirming her husband’s account. Like him, she could remember seeing no one in the area, and she knew of no one who wore a bow tie. She hadn’t been in the shop when the man her husband remembered had called.