A Certain Justice (21 page)

She said: “I’m afraid it looks like that. We shan’t know the details until the post-mortem.” She turned again to the girl. “Is there anyone you would like to have with you? Shall I ring your doctor? Do you want a cup of tea?”

A cup of tea. That English remedy for grief, shock and human mortality. She had made tea in so many kitchens during her career as a policewoman: in squalid stinking pits where the sink was piled with unwashed plates and rubbish spilled from the bin; in neat suburban kitchens, small shrines of domesticity; in elegantly designed rooms in which it was difficult to believe that anyone ever cooked.

Mrs. Buckley glanced towards the kitchen and said, looking at Octavia: “Shall I?”

The girl said: “I don’t want tea. And I don’t want anyone else. I’ve got Ashe. And I don’t need a doctor. When did she die?”

“We don’t yet know. Sometime last night.”

“Then you won’t be able to pin it on Ashe like you did last time. We’ve got an alibi. We were down in my flat and Mrs. Buckley cooked dinner for us. The three of us were there all the evening. Ask her.”

This was information Kate wanted, but she had had no intention of asking for it yet. One does not break the news to a daughter of her mother’s murder and at the same time inquire whether she and her boyfriend have an alibi. But she couldn’t resist raising an interrogative eyebrow at Mrs. Buckley. The woman nodded. “Yes, that’s true. I cooked a meal in the kitchen downstairs and we were together all evening until I went up to my room. That was after I’d washed up. It must have been ten-thirty or a little after. I remember thinking that it was half an hour after my usual time.”

So that put Ashe and the girl in the clear. They could hardly have got to the Temple in under fifteen minutes, even by a fast motorcycle and assuming the roads were unusually clear. The time could be checked but why bother? Venetia Aldridge had been dead long before ten-forty-five.

Octavia said: “So there you are. Hard luck. This time you’ll have to find the real murderer. Why not try her lover? Why not question bloody Mr. Mark Rawlstone, MP? Ask him what he and my mother were quarrelling about on Tuesday night.”

Kate controlled herself with difficulty. Then she said calmly, “Miss Cummins, your mother was murdered. It’s our job to find out who was responsible. But at the moment I’m more concerned to make sure that you’re all right. Obviously you are.”

“That’s what you think. You don’t know anything about me. Why don’t you go away?”

Suddenly she collapsed onto one of the dining-chairs and burst into a loud sobbing, as uncontrolled and spontaneous as the bawling of a small child. Kate instinctively made a move towards her, but Ashe intervened and stood silently between them. Then he moved to the back of the chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. At first, seeing a small convulsive twitch, Kate thought that Octavia would shrug him away, but she submitted to the controlling hands and after a little time the howls subsided into a low sobbing. Head slumped forward, the tears fell in a steady stream over the clenched hands. The dark expressionless eyes again met Kate’s over the girl’s head.

“You heard what she said. Why don’t you go away? You’re not wanted here.”

Kate said: “When the news breaks there may be unwelcome media attention. If Miss Cummins needs protection, let us know. We shall want to talk to you both. Will you be in later today?”

“I expect so, here or in Octavia’s flat. That’s in the basement. You could try your luck in either place about six.”

“Thank you. It would be helpful if you could make an effort to be here. It will save us wasting time by having to come back.”

Kate and Sergeant Robbins left, followed by the housekeeper. At the door Kate turned to her.

“We shall need to talk to you later. Where can we find you?”

The woman’s hands were shaking; her eyes looked into Kate’s with a mixture of fear and appeal which was all too familiar. She said: “Here, I suppose. I mean, I’m usually here from six onwards to cook Miss Aldridge’s dinner when she’s in London. I have a small bed-sitting-room and bathroom at the top of the house. I don’t know what’s going to happen now. I suppose I’ll have to move out. Well, I won’t want to 139 for Miss Cummins. I suppose she’ll sell the house. It sounds awful thinking about myself, but I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve got a lot of my things here, small things really. A desk, some of my late husband’s books, a cabinet of china I’m fond of. I put the heavier furniture in store when Miss Aldridge took me on. I can’t believe she’s dead. And like that. It’s horrible. Murder — it changes everything, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kate said. “Murder changes everything.”

She had already decided that it would have been inappropriate to question the daughter until later, but Mrs. Buckley was different. It wasn’t possible to say much while lingering on the doorstep, but the housekeeper, as if anxious to prolong the interview, moved with them towards the car.

Kate said: “When did you last see Miss Aldridge?”

“Yesterday morning at breakfast. She likes — she liked to get her own. Just orange juice, muesli and toast. But I always came down to ask about the day, what meals she would be in for, any instructions. She left just before eight-thirty to go to the Crown Court at Snaresbrook. She usually told me if she’d be out of London in case she was wanted urgently and they rang here instead of Chambers. But that wasn’t the last time I spoke to her. I rang Chambers at seven-forty-five last night.”

Kate was careful to keep her voice calm. She said: “Are you sure of the time?”

“Oh, quite sure. I told myself that I’d wait until seven-thirty before I worried her. And then, when seven-thirty came, I lifted the receiver but put it down again. I waited until a quarter to eight. I’m quite sure of the time. I looked at my watch.”

“Did you actually speak to Miss Aldridge?”

“Oh yes, I spoke to her.”

“How did she seem?”

Before Mrs. Buckley could answer they heard footsteps and, turning, saw Octavia Cummins running down the garden path, glaring like an angry child.

She shouted: “She rang my mother to complain about me! And if you want to talk to my housekeeper, do it inside, not on the street.”

Mrs. Buckley gave a startled exclamation, and without another word turned and scurried into the house. The girl took one last look at Kate and Robbins, then followed her. The door was firmly closed.

Fastening her seat belt, Kate said: “We mismanaged that, at least I did. Disagreeable little beast, isn’t she? Makes you wonder why people bother to have kids.”

Sergeant Robbins said: “The tears were genuine.” He added quietly: “Never the easiest part of our job, breaking the bad news.”

“Tears of shock, not grief. And was it such bad news? She’s an only child. She’ll get it all — house, money, furniture and that expensive oil over the fireplace. And no doubt a lot of the same upstairs in the drawing-room.”

Robbins said: “You can’t judge people by their reaction to murder. You can’t know what they’re thinking or feeling. Sometimes they don’t know themselves.”

Kate said: “All right, Sergeant, we all know you’re the humane face of policing, but don’t lay it on too thick. Octavia Cummins never even bothered to ask exactly how her mother died. And think of her first reaction. All she worried about was that we wouldn’t be able to pin it on to her fiancé, so-called. That’s an odd set-up. Young people today don’t have fiancés, they have partners. And what exactly is he after, d’you suppose?”

Robbins thought for a moment, then he said: “I think I know who he is. Garry Ashe. He was acquitted about four weeks ago of murdering his aunt. The woman was found with her throat slashed in her house off Westway. I remember the case because a friend of mine was a detective constable working on it. And there’s something else that’s interesting: Venetia Aldridge was defending counsel.”

The car had been halted at a traffic light. Kate said: “Yes, I know. Drysdale Laud told us. I should have mentioned it on the way here, before we got to the house. Sorry, Sergeant.”

She felt angry with herself. Why on earth hadn’t she told Robbins? It was hardly the kind of information which slipped the mind. Admittedly she hadn’t been expecting to find Garry Ashe at the house but that was no excuse. She said again: “Sorry.”

The car moved on. They were travelling now along the Brompton Road. There was a silence, then Robbins said: “D’you think there’s a chance of breaking that alibi? Mrs. Buckley struck me as honest.”

“Me too. No, she was telling the truth. Anyway, how could Ashe or the girl have got into Chambers? And what about the wig and the blood? Would they know where to find either? We’ve been told that Octavia never showed her face in Chambers.”

“What about this supposed lover? Spite or truth?”

“A bit of both, I imagine. Obviously, he’ll have to be seen. He isn’t going to like it. Up-and-coming MP. Not in the Shadow Cabinet but a possible candidate for junior office. Majority of under a thousand to defend.”

“You know a lot about him.”

“Who doesn’t? You can hardly catch a political programme without seeing him pontificating. Take a look at the map, will you? These roads are tricky. I don’t want to miss the turning into Sedgemoor Crescent. Let’s hope that we find Mrs. Carpenter at home. The sooner we talk to these women, the better.”

D
algliesh and Piers saw Harry Naughton in his office. It seemed to Dalgliesh that the clerk would be more at ease there, in the room where he had worked for nearly forty years. Terry Gledhill, the Junior Clerk, had been questioned and told that he could go home; Naughton would stay to deal with anything urgent. He sat now at his desk, hands on his knees, like a man in the extremes of exhaustion. He was of medium height and build but seemed smaller, the tired anxious face looking older than his body. The thinning grey hair was carefully brushed back from a lumpy forehead. There was a strained look in the eyes which Dalgliesh thought was more long-standing than the result of the day’s tragedy. But there was in his bearing the innate dignity of a man who is at ease with his work, does it well and knows that he is valued. He was carefully dressed. The formal suit was obviously old but the trousers were immaculately creased, the shirt was freshly laundered.

Dalgliesh and Piers had taken the other two chairs and they sat among the usual apparently disorganized clutter of the clerk’s room, the heart of Chambers. Dalgliesh knew that the man before them could probably tell him more about what went on in Number Eight, Pawlet Court, than any of the tenants; whether he would choose to do so was more debatable.

On the floor between them was the tin which had held the full-bottomed wig. It was about two feet high, very battered, and with the initials J.H.L. painted on the side beneath a coat of arms now almost indecipherable. The tin was lined with pleated fawn silk with a central padded column to support the wig. The lid was open and the tin empty.

Naughton said: “It’s always been kept in the clerk’s office as long as I’ve been here, and that’s as long as Mr. Langton — nearly forty years. It belonged to his grandfather, who was given it by an old friend when he took silk. That was in 1907, There’s a photograph of him wearing it in Mr. Langton’s room. It was always lent to members of Chambers when they took silk. Well, you can see, sir, from the photographs.”

The framed photographs, some old in black and white and the most recent in colour, were hung to the left of Naughton’s desk. The faces, all but one male, grave, self-satisfied, broadly smiling or with a more controlled satisfaction, gazed at the camera above the silk and the lace, some with their families, one or two obviously taken in Chambers with Harry Naughton, rigid with vicarious pride, at their side. Dalgliesh recognized Langton, Laud, Ulrick and Miss Aldridge.

He said: “Was the tin kept locked?”

“Not in my time. There didn’t seem a need. It was locked in old Mr. Langton’s time. Then the clasp got broken, I think about eight years ago, maybe more, and there didn’t seem any point in getting it mended. It’s always kept closed to preserve the wig and isn’t usually opened until a new QC is appointed. And sometimes a QC will borrow it if he’s invited to the Judges’ Annual Service.”

“And when was it last worn?”

“Two years ago, sir. That’s when Mr. Montague took silk. He works from the Salisbury Annexe. We don’t often see him here in Chambers. But that wasn’t the last time I saw the wig. Mr. Costello was in the office last week and he tried it on.”

“When was that?”

“Wednesday afternoon.”

“And how did it happen?”

“Mr. Costello was looking at the photograph of Miss Aldridge. Terry, my assistant, said something like ‘You’ll be next, sir.’ Mr. Costello asked whether we still had Mr. Langton’s wig. Terry dragged it out of the cupboard and Mr. Costello opened it to look, then he tried it on. It was only on his head for a moment. He took it off and put it back almost at once. I think it was intended as a humorous gesture, sir.”

“And as far as you know the tin hasn’t been opened since?”

“Not to my knowledge. Terry put it back in the cupboard at once and no more was said.”

Piers asked: “Didn’t you think it odd that Mr. Costello should ask whether you still had the wig? I thought it was generally known in Chambers that the wig was kept in your office.”

“I think it was generally known. Mr. Costello was probably speaking lightly. I can’t be absolutely sure of the exact words. He may have said: ‘You’ve still got the full-bottomed wig here, haven’t you?’ Something like that. He’ll be able to be more accurate, I expect.”

They then went over Naughton’s first account of the finding of the body. He had recovered from the worst of the initial shock, but Dalgliesh noticed that his hands, which had been resting on his knees, began a restless plucking at the trouser creases.

Dalgliesh said: “You acted with great sense in an appalling situation. You realize that we are still anxious that the business of the blood and the wig shouldn’t be spoken of by the few people who’ve seen the body?”

“It won’t be spoken of by me, sir.” He paused and then said, “It was the blood, that’s what got me. The body was cold, stone-cold. It was like touching marble. And yet the blood was wet, tacky. That’s when I nearly lost my head. I shouldn’t have touched the body, of course. I realize that now. I suppose it was kind of instinctive, to make sure she was dead.”