Murder needs a detective inspector, doesn't it? We have amateur sleuths Isabella and Flick. We also need someone in an "official" capacity.
That's Michael Wainwright, first introduced in Christmas with Death, returning now in Portrait with Death. He was a side character without much development in the earlier book. He becomes a primary character now.
from Chapter 3
Friday Evening, 27 February
Michael Wainwright did not normally dine with his
superior on a Friday evening. A murder investigation solved that very morning,
no new case to mull over, he’d been trapped into an affirmative when the chief
inspector cornered him to be the spare man at a celebration. Since he liked
Chief Inspector Malcolm and had no plans for the evening, he didn’t try too
hard to winkle out of the invitation.
His tuxedo fit loosely. He hadn’t regained the
three stone lost in the last years of the war, looking into the fanged maw of
hell and surviving only by a screech of talons.
When he woke in the night, darkness surrounding
him like a predator monster lurking silent and still, he would forget where he
was, when he was. Then an automobile’s revving engine would filter from the
street below or an ambulance’s clangor would peal distantly. He would remember
he had returned to London. The next seconds reminded him the Armistice was signed,
and most of the soldiers were demobilized. On those nights he thanked God and
dropped back to sleep.
Malcolm offered to pick him up, but Michael
refused, saying he would make his own way to the Fitzwilliam Victoria Hotel. He
hopped a bus and was glad of his overcoat that hid his tuxedo from the workers
heading home.
The hotel’s marble edifice flew international
flags. The Fitzwilliam was beyond his monthly budget except for special
occasions, but he had dined there enough to know to walk through the elaborate
lobby to the frosted glass doors that led to an atrium and thence to the
restaurant with its exclusive dining and dancing. The string orchestra played a
foxtrot rather than the international tango gradually replacing it.
Subdued conversations flowed under the strings’
harmonies. An occasional flute created a counterpoint. Not for the Fitzwilliam
the clarinet and brass.
He was early but recognized by the maître d’,
a dour man who adopted the mien of a stiff butler.
“Mr. Wainwright, if you will follow me.” He walked
the fringes of the dance floor to a long table in the corner. “Do you wish a
highball or John Collins to start the evening?”
He avoided the proffered chair that set his back
to the room. “Whiskey and soda, please. Forgive me, have we met?”
“On the occasion of a wedding, sir. You dined with
the bride and groom. Last autumn, I believe. And Easter last, you escorted an
elderly couple. The happy couple also attended that evening.”
He had treated his brother and new sister-in-law
to a celebratory evening here at the Fitzwilliam. He didn’t hide his surprise
at the maître d’s memory. His grandparents were the elderly couple.
“You’ve an excellent memory.”
The man allowed a small smile. “Our guests to the
Fitzwilliam change rarely, sir.” Then he faded away.
While he waited for his superior and the rest of the party, Michael watched the dancers and discretely examined at the other diners. The tables around the dance floor were for couples, with tables for four and six farther back, and larger tables widely spaced behind columns.
A flash of red silhouetted against somber black
caught his eye. He watched a couple taking a table behind a column. The woman
wore the red, a dress that looked demure until she turned her back and he saw
an expanse of pale skin above the draped back. The waiter drew out her chair,
sitting her behind the marble column so that he had the barest look at her
pretty face and dark hair, bobbed but not crimped as so many women did now. The
man looked familiar. Michael caught an edge of trouble associated with his memory
of the man.
A waiter delivered his drink. Sipping it, he
reminded himself that the day was done, labor ceased. He could shed his role as
an investigator. Tonight, his chief had cast him into the role of the charming Spare
Man.
Chief Inspector Malcolm arrived, led by the maître
d’. Malcolm escorted his wife. A lone woman followed then came three other
couples, all chattering. He would be Spare Man for the unescorted woman. She
wore one of the shapeless styles that were becoming popular, feminized with
swirling embroidery that reminded him of India.
Michael stood and greeted them. He bothered to
remember last names only, including the single woman’s. His job as a detective
inspector had built his memory for names. He had to shift down table, away from
the couple being celebrated, but that gave him a better view of the woman in
red. Attractive rather than beautiful, he judged, her waif look imparted by her
bobbed hair. She smiled as she responded to her escort’s conversation, smiled
when the waiter delivered a sidecar to her and a highball to the man. Yet she
kept looking around the dining room, as if she looked for someone.
He needed to focus on his own party, but his
subconscious kept watch. He knew the instant the man stood, coming around to
draw out the woman’s chair. They joined the couples gathering for another
foxtrot. The man spoke. Her expression appeared frozen, without its earlier
animation.
“Enjoy dancing, Wainwright?” his chief asked.
“Sir, no, sir. Not my thing, especially now.”
“No?” the single woman queried. Mrs. Pomphrey.
Margaret, Margret, Margot, something like that. A widow. “Did you suffer an
injury in the war, Mr. Wainwright? You seem healthy now.”
Margot Pomphrey, he remembered. “No injury,” he
confessed. “I’ve turned stodgy since the war. My sergeant despairs of me.”
“Yet you were watching the dancing. Or the
dancers. Has someone caught your eye?”
“Actually, I wondered if the Fitzwilliam had moved
into the new decade and would shock us all with the Tango. They’ve tamed the
Foxtrot, I see.”
The comment earned muted laughter and turned
conversation from him to dancing.
The celebratory couple joined the next dance.
Michael felt honorbound to ask Mrs. Pomphrey to dance, and she accepted with an
alacrity that kept him distant on the dance floor.
The young woman and her escort had returned to
their table. The waiter had presented the entrée. As the evening progressed,
the couple received their services more quickly than Michael’s table did. Yet
the number of times that they danced kept their progress through the dinner at
a similar pace.
Mrs. Pomphrey rattled on about after-parties. He
listened with half an ear and waited for his glimpses of the dark brunette. He
had no hope that he would ever meet her. She would not deign to enter his local
pub or dine at the humble restaurants he frequented. He rarely ventured into
the society to which the Fitzwilliam Victoria catered.
Their worlds were far apart.
Yet he found himself lingering at the restaurant’s
entrance as the party dispersed for the evening. The chief expressed his
appreciation for Michael playing Spare Man. He clapped Michael on the shoulder.
His wife said, “Margot enjoyed the evening. Your idea was brilliant, my dear.”
Then she patted her husband’s chest and clattered through the atrium to the
hotel’s lobby.
His chief hesitated, as if he knew he needed to
say more. Michael quickly said, “Thank you for the invitation and dinner, sir.
I will see you on Monday.” That put him back in lower status, and Malcolm
nodded and followed his wife.
He lingered a few minutes longer, giving the
others time to collect their checked evening wraps while their automobiles were
brought to the entrance.
The maître d’ appeared. “Sir. Have you need
of anything?”
“A bit of information, if you please. The couple
that were seated across the dance floor from us. The table was beside a column.
The woman wore a red dress. I have met the man somewhere, but I cannot recall
his name.” He edged a bob across the lectern.
That last comment and the doucement cleared
the maître d’s expression. “Yes, sir. The gentleman is Alan Rettleston,
managing editor of the London Daily. We do not see him often. The young
lady, however, is well known to us. She has dined several times, usually with
her parents of a Sunday, once a quarter, I would say.” Then he stopped, waiting
for the question that he had guessed prompted the first question.
“Her name?”
“Miss Felicity Sherborne. A photographer, I
believe.”
“For the London Daily?”
“That I do not know, sir.”
Michael thanked him and left.
Portrait with Death is available now at this link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0973GVKSQ
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