Free The Chelsea Murders by Lionel Davidson

had to be dovetailed in with the others, which meant the least newsworthy items had to go first; hence the regular Wednesday dredge of municipal offices, churches, clubs.
    Not Fleet Street.
    ‘Well, I’m sure everyone realizes that, Monty,’ she said.
    She was talking to Montague Humboldt of the Artists’ Guild. He was giving her an earful about the national disgrace of Normanby’s widow being on public assistance.
    ‘They don’t, Mary, honestly!’ Monty said, excitedly.
    He continued raving so she cast an eye over the proof pages. VICAR RAPS CHURCH VANDALS . ‘ Beastliness’ in Vestry . Not bad, but it had only made page 7; he hadn’t specified the beastliness even to Len Offard, who had done the story.
    Len was sitting opposite her now, at the other side of the twin banks of ancient roll-top desks. He was using his own phone, and she was distracted by the need to keep an ear open for what he was saying. He wasn’t discussing the Gazette ’s business, but his own; he was talking to The Sun . She was almost sure it was about the murders because of the extremeabbreviation of his remarks and the way his eyes flitted shiftily over hers.
    Old Monty kept going.
    ‘… think the G.L.C. at least would have the grace to mark in some way the studio where he created his greatest …’
    ‘I thought they had, Monty.’
    ‘Of course you did. People do think that,’ Monty said. ‘Yet not so much as a –’
    Mooney made a note. Might be something. Nothing on the public assistance issue. Normanby’s widow hadn’t suffered in silence. Marking of studios, though: G.L.C. falling down on the job.
    ‘Where was his studio – Tite Street?’
    ‘No. You see! Glebe Place. Near where Galsworthy wrote –’
    Galsworthy, eh? Not bad. ‘Okay, Monty, I’ll look into it. Are you sure he’s not listed anywhere?’
    ‘Oh, listed possibly,’ Monty said contemptuously, ‘but I can assure you –’
    ‘Lovely.’ Bye, Monty.’ She hung up and jiggled the phone. ‘Sandra, can you put me through to Wilfred.’
    ‘He’s right here, Mary.’
    Yes, course he was.
    ‘Yes, Mary?’
    ‘Wilfred, I want something on Stanley Normanby. Is his old studio listed anywhere?’
    ‘Normanby. I’ll call you.’
    As Mooney hung up, two things struck her. One was that Len had hung up at the identical moment with a very smug look on his face. The other was the old pub slate with messages, hung on the wall. Someone had chalked on it MOONEY IS SPOONY . This could only be a reference to Otto Wertmuller. She had done a diary item on him, describing his scrumptiousness in perhaps extravagant terms.
    She brooded on this as she tidied the items collected so far.
    Wertmuller had been blond and gorgeous and gentle, despite his build, which was along cave-man lines. He had that kind of hair that needed fingers running through it. She had felt a slight itch in her fingers at sight of it. His own fingers had been beautiful, long and delicate and capable of all sorts of useful stuff on their own account.
    Mooney put together a small item from the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, relevant to unmarried mothers, still brooding. Wertmuller hadn’t evidently felt the need for an immediate grab at her; no calls, no follow-ups, though she’d been particularly careful to give him both numbers, office and home.
    What the devil was going on of late?
    Mooney was no hysterical advocate of the need for the body’s rapture, but she thought fair was fair, and that people ought to get their share. Of latter months she had been wondering what had happened to hers. This thing and that had fallen through to her considerable bemusement. She got around, saw people, chatted. Month after raptureless month had withered away.
    She had a quick look along the length of herself, and felt a compulsive need for a look at her face, too, so she got out her compact and had one.
    ‘It’s Len, old chap,’ Len said on the phone, opposite her, carefully not mentioning the old chap’s name.