The voice said that a colleague of Miss Smith’s had found the body – a Mrs Francesca Holland. A clear case of murder it was, and a very nasty business, as well. Inquiries were already in hand, but the reason for this call was to arrange for Mr Fane to give a statement. Their understanding was that Mr Fane had been at the studios with the lady earlier in the week, was that right?
‘Yes, it is,’ said Edmund, switching from shock to concern. Nice helpful Mr Fane, distressed by what had happened, eager to assist the police in any way he could. Certainly he would make a statement, he said. Of course he would. A terrible thing to have happened. A wicked world we live in, don’t we?
Well, yes, he might manage to come to Ashwood for his interview, if they preferred that, he said. When exactly might that be? Oh, within the next forty-eight hours. That was extremely short notice, but of course he understood that with a murder inquiry time was of the essence. Very well, he would see what he could arrange.
‘We could send a police car for you if transport’s a problem, sir,’ said the polite voice. ‘Or if it’s a question of expense, we do have a small budget for this kind of thing. If you wanted to submit a note of the cost – along with receipts – we can reimburse you for petrol or train tickets.’
But Edmund was not going to have a police car with its gaudy paintwork roaring up to his well-mannered house for all and sundry to see and speculate about, and he was not going to let anyone think he could not afford a piffling little tank of petrol either.
He said, coldly, that he would make his own way there, thank you very much. Would mid-afternoon today suit them? Very well, he would be there as near to half past three as possible.
He rang off thoughtfully. The family would have to be told what had happened, and it might be as well for Edmund to get his version in first. He made a few notes so that he could present the information in the way he wanted to present it, jotted down possible answers to potential questions, and then dialled the number of Lucy’s flat. It rang for quite a long time before Lucy answered, sounding a bit out of breath.
‘Hi, this is Lucy Trent, and whoever you are, sorry to have taken so long but I was washing my hair and—Oh, it’s you, Edmund – hold on a minute while I get a towel—OK, I’m with you now.’
Edmund had a sudden mental picture of Lucy curled into the deep armchair of her flat in the rackety old house, wearing a bathrobe, her wet hair tumbling around her face, turning her into a mermaid or a naiad. To dispel this somewhat disturbing image, he said in his briskest voice that he was phoning with some rather unexpected news. No, he was perfectly all right, and so far as he knew everyone in the family was perfectly all right as well. But something rather – well, rather disturbing had happened, and he was letting her know before the wretched tabloids got their paws on the thing.
‘I suppose it’s something to do with Lucretia, is it?’ said Lucy.
‘It is, as a matter of fact,’ said Edmund. ‘How did you know?’
‘The words “tabloids” and “unexpected news” were the clue,’ said Lucy. ‘In this family they nearly always add up to something to do with Lucretia. What’s emerged about her this time?’
Using his notes Edmund explained about Trixie Smith, and about how her body had been found inside Studio Twelve at Ashwood.
Lucy’s distress reached him strongly, even over the phone. ‘Oh no! Edmund, that’s dreadful. Oh God, that poor woman. Do they know who did it?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Edmund. ‘It’s barely twenty-four hours since they found her.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. Who did find her?’
‘Some woman who was staying with her, apparently. I don’t know any details, but they want me at Ashwood this afternoon.’
‘Why on earth?’
‘To make a statement. I seem to be the last person who saw her alive.’
‘If we were in the pages of a whodunnit that would be rather sinister,’ said Lucy, and Edmund replied coldly that he did not find it a subject for facetious remarks.