The Lately Deceased

  THE LATELY DECEASED

  BERNARD KNIGHT

  When super-rich Margaret Walker is found dead after a wild party, people assume it was an overdose - until a knife wound, almost invisible, is discovered on her body. But who would have wanted to murder her?

  As the investigation progresses, it is discovered that some of the party guests may have had a motive to kill Margaret…but were those motives enough to make someone a murderer - or was it a case of mistaken identity?

  Author’s note

  The Sixties Mysteries is a series of reissues of my early crime stories, the first of which was originally published in 1963. Looking back now, it is evident how criminal investigation has changed over the last half-century. Though basic police procedure is broadly the same, in these pages you will find no Crime Scene Managers or Crown Prosecution Service, no DNA, CSI, PACE, nor any of the other acronyms beloved of modern novels and television. These were the days when detectives still wore belted raincoats and trilby hats. There was no Health and Safety to plague us and the police smoked and drank tea alongside the post-mortem table!

  Modern juries are now more interested in the reports of the forensic laboratory than in the diligent labours of the humble detective, though it is still the latter that solves most serious crimes. This is not to by any means belittle the enormous advances made in forensic science in recent years, but to serve as a reminder that the old murder teams did a pretty good job based simply on experience and dogged investigation.

  Bernard Knight

  2015

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Crime Fiction from

  Chapter One

  The wide, low room was filled with warmth, cigarette smoke and the clamour of a successful party in full swing. A tall, stoop-shouldered young man ambled over to the tiny bar, his fingers filled with empty, sticky glasses.

  ‘Do me a couple more whiskies, Gordon, and three brandies for the girls.’

  His ripe Australian accent rose against the background of boisterous chatter and tipsy giggles, as he slid the glasses on to the polished bar, its top wet with spilt drinks. The host, Gordon Walker, was behind the bar, feverishly dumping empty bottles, opening fresh ones and scrabbling in the small refrigerator below. He came up with a couple of bottles, and as he filled the glasses, he found a moment to talk.

  ‘I’ll be more than glad when that damn barman gets back, Abe. I had to send him over to Geoff’s place to borrow a few more gins. This batch of popsies must have the original hollow legs!’

  Abe Franklin grinned one-sidedly and scooped up his fresh drinks.

  ‘Not to worry, chum, the party’s going like a bomb. I don’t know how you do it every time. There’ll be a few folks real crook with hangovers around the studios tomorrow.’

  As Abe rolled away towards a group of young men and some extremely attractive girls, Gordon looked around at the thirty or so people that were his guests that night. The majority of them were from the commercial television organisation of which he was both a director and general manager. His parties were a frequent feature of life at the studios for the younger and more lively members of the staff, though the more staid members thought of them as sophisticated debauchery.

  His eyes followed the figure of the lanky Australian and he grinned at memories of Abe’s complete lack of inhibition at previous celebrations. Abe Franklin reached the group without losing too much from his brim-full glasses and distributed them around.

  ‘Gordon’s in good form tonight, got things well lubricated early!’

  ‘He looks a bit out of it, stuck there behind the bar. The poor chap’s missing the best of his own party,’ remarked one of the young men of the group.

  ‘He’ll make up for it later on, don’t worry,’ replied a pretty brunette standing with them. ‘Pearl Moore will get hold of him in a moment and he’ll start enjoying himself then.’ There was an undertone of jealousy in her voice and Abe thought that she could well have added a ‘miaow’ to her words. The other girl, a redhead, was staring appreciatively towards the bar.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being in her shoes myself,’ she said, ‘Gordon’s just my type. I love that slow smile of his and the way he looks at you … a long steady look that seems to get right inside you … makes me go weak at the knees!’

  The other girl laughed as the men made derisive noises.

  ‘Any man as good-looking as that is your type, darling, especially when he’s as rich as Gordon,’ said another girl.

  ‘I wish he were younger and didn’t have that dull old wife of his.’

  ‘Being married doesn’t seem to interfere with his activities much,’ said the first young woman. ‘The way he carries on with Pearl, one would think that Margaret didn’t exist!’

  Abe tried to break up the developing scandal session. ‘Aw, give it a rest, girls. Everyone chews over this angle day in, day out. He’s a hell of a good guy, we’re in his flat drinking his liquor, so if he and his girlfriend want to whoop it up, good luck to ’em, I say!’

  The subject of their conversation poured himself a drink and saw with relief that the bartender hired for the evening had just returned with the extra bottles.

  Leaving him to look after the bar, Gordon moved over to the tape recorder to change the background music for something more suited to the awakening of the party mood.

  ‘Hello, darling, nice of you to find time to bother with me,’ he said to a young woman who had left the crowd to come over to his side.

  ‘Beast,’ she pouted, ‘I can’t race across to you all the time, even if our spouses couldn’t give a damn about it.’

  ‘So we’re just good friends, Pearl? Is that the way you want it to appear?’ Gordon asked. ‘Tell that to anyone in this outfit and they’ll fall flat on the floor with laughter!’

  Pearl Moore flushed under her perfect make-up.

  ‘To hell with you then!’

  She jabbed her cigarette viciously into an ashtray and swung back to the crowded room, the undulations of her slim figure accentuated by the vivid red cocktail dress she wore. She was very lovely. Gordon thought this again as he watched her go, in no way disturbed by her parting words. Dark gleaming hair, fine complexion, wonderful figure; all the clichés of the glossy magazines sprang to mind as his eyes followed her clipping across the room on stiletto heels. Perfect to look at, and as hard as a diamond!

  Her lovely face must have sold several tons of ‘Glama’ soap through plugs on the system’s television commercials; but away from the cameras, it showed the ruthlessness that had lifted her in a few short years from a gauche schoolgirl to a successful artist.

  On the way up, she had married Colin Moore, a quite talented scriptwriter. That was three years ago, but it was an open secret in Metropolitan Television that she had been Gordon Walker’s mistress for at least two of those years.

  Gordon continued to stand in the corner near the tape recorder, smoking and looking around the room with a faint smile on his face. Just turned forty, he was good-looking enough to be the perfect escort for Pearl’s immaculate beauty. Taller than average height, he was the popular image of the succe
ssful company director, even to his possessions, which included this smart flat in the West End, a country house and a new Bentley.

  Some of the guests had started to dance to the new tape and a small area cleared of the contemporary-style furniture was sufficient for a few couples to cling together and sway to the rhythm without moving perceptibly. He saw his wife take the floor with a corpulent, grey-haired man named Martin Myers, who ran a small advertising agency with whom he did some business. Margaret looked a bit tight, he thought. Her face was flushed and her normally untidy hair was even more disarranged than usual. It wasn’t like Margaret to drink too much; probably Myers had been over-attentive in urging drinks on her, he decided.

  They were the only ones attempting to dance properly. The younger people were using the opportunity to hold their partners as close as possible for as long as possible, but old Myers was trying to be gallant to the wife of his host, no doubt with an eye to future business opportunities. As Gordon watched, Margaret’s cousin from across the Atlantic came over to him.

  Webster Leigh was usually well-saturated with alcohol and his normal state of mind was one of benign confusion. Tonight he had already taken an enormous quantity of Gordon’s liquor but, apart from a slight slurring of his habitually thick voice, he seemed quite unaffected.

  ‘Say, Gordon, who are all the class young dames you’ve got here tonight? Wish I was twenty years younger!’

  He took a great swallow of neat whisky as he spoke. Gordon murmured something non-committal; he disliked Webster’s brash manners.

  ‘Who’s the little girlie with the blond straw?’ Webster was presumably referring to Eve. She was the most eye-catching girl present, her silver hair and her gaiety being more noticeable than even Pearl’s sultry beauty.

  ‘One of the studio girls, a friend of Pearl’s,’ answered Gordon grudgingly.

  ‘Yes, Pearl. That’s another one out of the same stable.’ Webster winked roguishly at his host, an expression which didn’t suit his sagging leathery face. Gordon felt like kicking him.

  ‘Still waters run deep, eh, boy?’

  Webster cackled and to Gordon’s intense relief, went back to the bar for another drink. Turning his gaze back to the dancers, Gordon watched the perspiring Myers struggling to foxtrot amid the swaying clinging pack of young couples. He was holding his partner in a prim, upright pose, trying to look as if he was enjoying himself.

  Margaret Walker was a thin, pallid woman five years older than her husband. She dressed abominably, she was very plain and she was very, very rich. Ten years ago, Gordon had met her in Canada at a time when he was trying to raise money by any means that presented themselves. The fact that she owned her late father’s mineral empire in northern Quebec helped to reconcile him to her unattractiveness. Courting her with speed and success, Gordon soon had all the money he needed and the founding of Metropolitan Television was the result.

  On the surface they lived in amicable if passionless union, every luxury being theirs for the taking, Gordon’s initial inroad on the family fortune having surprisingly repaid itself twice over. Margaret now spent most of her time in their Oxfordshire house, leaving Gordon to console himself with the company of his many friends at the London flat.

  It was unusual for her to attend her husband’s parties, and she was only there now because she had come to town to attend a horse show on the next day. Her cousin Barbara Leigh, and Barbara’s husband Webster, on holiday from Montreal, had come up from Oxford with her and were now sitting with the Australian cameraman and a few others, rapidly getting drunk.

  ‘Better than ever, Gordon,’ said a voice almost in Walker’s ear. ‘But if it was costing me the better part of a hundred pounds, I’d join in and get some value for my money.’

  A tall man in his early thirties had moved across to stand with him and watch the room. His face was long and he had a twisty, humorous mouth that invited one to laugh with him. His pleasant smile, twinkling eyes, and easy, soothing personality were well suited to his job of Public Relations Officer for Metro TV.

  Gordon responded easily. ‘It’s all very well for you to talk, Geoff,’ he said. ‘You aren’t plagued by ulcers. You don’t have to watch how much you drink.’

  ‘I know, it’s rotten for you,’ Geoff sympathised, ‘though tomorrow morning I shall be envying you; I always do. Hell, my head still aches from the last binge we had here.’ He rummaged in his pocket and brought out a bulbous pipe, which he began to stuff with coarse tobacco from a leather pouch.

  ‘God, Geoff!’ exclaimed Gordon in mock alarm. ‘You’re not going to light that thing in here, are you?’

  ‘He’s afraid of the “fallout”, Geoff,’ laughed Eve, who had come over and now clung on Tate’s arm.

  ‘Come and dance with me, please,’ she said.

  Eve Arden’s normally glistening eyes were even brighter with the party spirit, but Geoff refused to budge until he’d had his pipe of tobacco.

  ‘Dance with old man Walker here, Eve. He’s in need of some stimulation.’

  ‘Pig!’ she replied. ‘I know when I’m not wanted. Come on, Gordon, let’s leave the old grouch to stew.’ She hauled Gordon away to the floor and, as they swayed and clung together on the diminutive space, Gordon saw Pearl dancing on the opposite side with a muscular young man from Features. As they came nearer, Pearl glared at him over her partner’s shoulder.

  Deliberately, he pulled Eve closer and slid his arm farther around her. Satisfied with Pearl’s expression of anger, he winked at her, piloted Eve to the edge of the floor and restored her to Geoffrey Tate.

  As soon as Pearl could get free from her large partner, she came sizzling over to the bar where Gordon was speaking to the barman.

  ‘Listen, Mr Walker,’ she hissed, ‘You’re not married to me yet, so don’t try to treat me like your wife.’ She was a little drunk and very angry.

  Gordon smiled at her possessively. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he said ‘Come and have a drink.’

  ‘Keep your bloody drink,’ she replied. ‘Give it to your damn blonde.’

  The smile faded from his face. ‘If you want to be jealous, start with your own husband.’ he said. ‘He seems to be doing pretty well for himself over there.’

  Pearl’s husband, Colin, was sitting on a settee with an arm round a girl on either side. All were laughing and talking with every appearance of complete enjoyment.

  ‘Oh, to hell with him,’ flared Pearl, ‘he knows where he stands with me.’

  She swayed a little and her voice rose again.

  ‘It’s you I want, you rotten devil, though God knows why! When are you going to get rid of that dowdy wife of yours and marry me?’

  Gordon swore under his breath and reached for her wrist to force her to sit down. Though the noise of the party made it difficult to hear much in the room, a few nearby heads were turned curiously in their direction.

  ‘Another lovers’ tiff, by the look of it,’ Eve said to Geoff Tate. ‘Poor Gordon certainly has to put up with a lot for his little bit of love from Pearl. She can be a real devil when she’s in one of her moods!’

  ‘I thought she was a friend of yours, darling,’ put in a rather languid young man from the studios.

  ‘She is, Arthur, but I can still say she’s a bitch if I want. I know she’d do the same for me!’

  As they watched, the row between Pearl and Gordon became more acute. She was still bristling in front of him and began to start another tirade about his wife.

  ‘Shut up, you fool,’ he said fiercely, ‘Sit down and behave.’

  Pearl staggered under his grip, then swung her free hand across his face with a resounding smack. Her glass dropped to the floor and smashed. They were rapidly becoming the major attraction in the room, when Geoff hurried across to them, a broad smile on his face.

  ‘That’s the stuff, friends, a new party game, called “Punch the Host!”’

  Slapping the glowering Gordon on the back and putting his arm around Pearl’s quivering shoulde
rs, he saved the situation as only he was able. With an infectious smile at the surrounding faces, he turned to Gordon who was struggling to regain pose and temper. Pearl was still tight-lipped with fury, but Geoff could see that she too would cool off if given the chance.

  ‘Some of us humble guests think it’s about time for one of the famous Walker party games, Gordon,’ he said. ‘What about it? I think everyone is sufficiently well-cut by now.’

  Gordon covered his subsiding anger with an air of flippancy, grateful for his friend’s intervention.

  ‘OK Geoff,’ he said, ‘Set ’em up, will you? You’re the best at this sort of thing.’

  Pearl had realised that her exhibition had reached the limit even for such a free and easy crowd as were present there, and had now quickly pulled herself together. She went to Gordon’s side and slipped her arm through his, looking up at him with an expression of beautifully assumed contrition.

  Eve prodded Geoff with her elbow and whispered in admiration.

  ‘Dear Pearl! Isn’t she a wonderful little bitch, clouting him one minute and giving him the thousand-dollar look the next? Wish I could act like that.’

  Geoff nodded; he knew from experience that Pearl could play on her emotions like a musician on a tenor sax. She had the whole octave from blind rage to sensuous affection at her fingertips and used them unhesitatingly to get her way.

  Some of the less inhibited guests began shouting to Geoff.

  ‘What about this game?’

  ‘“Cave Men”. Let’s play “Cave Men”,’ insisted someone.

  ‘No, let’s have “Courting”,’ urged another. ‘That was a scorcher last time!’

  The discussion rapidly degenerated into a shouting match, until Geoff held up his hands and called for quiet.

  ‘All right, all right, we’ll have ’em both, all in good time. We’ll make it “Cave Men” first. You all know how to play it, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t!’ said someone.

  Gordon was amazed to hear his wife’s voice answer. Myers’ watchful attention to her glass seemed to have brought her to a state of alcoholic playfulness. For the first time he could ever remember, Margaret was full of the party spirit. Gordon watched her now as she rose awkwardly from her chair and walked with unsteady steps towards him. He noticed that she was holding on to the furniture as she went, and that she had a determined, if glassy, look in her eye. He wondered just how much she’d had to drink.