A Certain Justice (36 page)

“You haven’t spoilt anything and you aren’t early. I was busy and forgot the time. Would you like some coffee?” Her voice was low and attractive, with the trace of a Welsh lilt.

“Very much, if it isn’t a trouble.” He wasn’t thirsty but it seemed kinder to accept than refuse.

She went over to a sink and said: “You want, of course, to speak to Luke. I don’t think he’ll be long. He’s been delivering some pots to Poole. There’s a shop there which takes a few every month. He should be back soon if he doesn’t get held up. Sometimes people like to talk to him, or he may go for a coffee, and there was some shopping he had to do. Please sit down.”

She indicated a wicker chair plump with cushions and with a high winged back. He said: “If you want to get on with your work, I could go for a walk and come back when your husband is likely to be here.”

“I think that might be a waste of your time. He shouldn’t be long. In the meantime I could probably tell you what you want to know.”

For the first time he wondered whether her husband’s absence had been planned. Both the Cumminses were taking his visit with extraordinary calmness. Most people, having made an appointment with a senior police officer, find it prudent to keep it on time, particularly when the time has been of their choosing. Had they wanted her to be here alone when he arrived?

He sat in the chair and watched while she set about making the coffee. On either side of the sink were two low cupboards, one holding an electric kettle, the other with a two-ringed gas stove. He watched while she filled the kettle and plugged it in, reached up for two of her own mugs and a small jug from those lined up on a shelf, then bent to the cupboard and brought out a packet of sugar crystals, a carton of milk and a jar of ground coffee. He had seldom seen a woman who moved with such natural grace. No gesture was hurried, none was either studied or self-conscious. Far from resenting her detachment, he found it refreshing. The room was very restful, the wicker chair, with its high backrest and arms, enclosed him in a seductive comfort.

He let his eyes move from her bare, bespeckled arm as it bent to twist open the coffee jar, and studied the details of the studio. Apart from the wheel the dominant feature was a large wood-burning stove, the door open, the kindling laid ready for the evening’s autumn chill. There was a roll-topped desk against the north wall with, above it, three shelves holding telephone directories and what looked like reference books and ledgers. The longest wall, opposite the door was fitted with shelves on which her pots were displayed: mugs, small bowls, beakers, jugs. The predominant colour was a greeny blue, the design pleasant but conventional. Below the shelves was a table holding larger artefacts: dishes, fruit bowls and platters. These showed a more individual, more experimental creativity.

She brought his mug of coffee over to him and placed it on the low table beside the chair, then seated herself in a rocking-chair and contemplated her child. Marie had demolished her menagerie and was now cutting a roll of clay into small pieces with a blunt knife and forming small bowls and plates. The three of them, only the child occupied, sat in silence.

It was obvious that no information would be volunteered. Dalgliesh said: “I want, of course, to speak to your husband about his late wife. I know they divorced eleven years ago, but it’s possible he may have some information about her, her friends, her life, even an enemy, which could help. In a murder investigation it’s important to learn as much as possible about the victim.”

He could have added, That’s my excuse for escaping out of London this wonderful autumn day.

She must have caught the unspoken thought. She said: “And you came yourself.”

“As you see.”

“I suppose finding out about people — even dead people — is fascinating if you’re a writer, a biographer, but then it’s always second-hand, isn’t it? You can’t know the whole truth about anyone. With some dead people, parents and grandparents, you never begin to understand them until they’ve died, and then it’s too late. Some people leave more personality behind them than they seem to have had when they were alive.”

She spoke without emphasis and as if she were divulging a private and newly discovered fact. Dalgliesh decided it was time for a more direct approach.

He asked: “When did you yourself last see Miss Aldridge?”

“Three years ago, when she brought Octavia here to stay with her father for a week. Venetia was only here for an hour. She didn’t come to take Octavia home again. Luke put her on the train at Wareham.”

“And she didn’t come again — Octavia, I mean?”

“No. I thought — that is, we thought — that she should spend some time with her father. Her mother had custody but a child needs two parents. It wasn’t a success. She was bored in the country and she was cross and rough with the baby. Marie was only two months old and Octavia actually struck her. Not a hard blow, but it was deliberate. After that, of course, she had to go.”

It was as simple as that. The final rejection. She had to go.

He asked: “And her father agreed?”

“After she struck Marie? Of course. As I said, the visit wasn’t a success. He was never allowed to be a father to Octavia when she was young. She was at prep school by the time she was eight and they rarely spent time together after the divorce. I don’t think she ever really cared for him.”

Dalgliesh thought: Or he for her. But this was dangerous and private ground. He was a police officer, not a family therapist. But it was part of that stark black-and-white sketch of Venetia Aldridge which he needed to fill in with living colour.

“And neither you nor your husband has seen Miss Aldridge since then?”

“No. Of course, I would have seen her on the night she died if she had come to the gate.”

Her voice was gentle, unemphatic. She spoke as calmly as if making a comment on the strength of the coffee. Dalgliesh was trained not to show surprise when a suspect came out with the unexpected. But, then, he had never seen her as a suspect.

He put down his mug and said quietly: “You’re telling me that you were in London that night? We’re talking about this Wednesday, the ninth of October?”

“Yes. I went up to see Venetia at Chambers. It was at her suggestion. She was supposed to unlock that small door in the gate at the end of Devereux Court for me, but she never came.”

The words shattered Dalgliesh’s mood of almost indolent acquiescence in the seductive peace of the room, her undemanding fecund femininity. He had expected little from his visit but background information, the routine checking of an alibi which was never seriously in doubt. But now his self-indulgent excursion into rural peace was proving illusory. Could any woman really be as näive as this? He hoped that his voice was equally calm and uncensorious.

“Mrs. Cummins, didn’t you realize that this is important information? You should have spoken to me earlier.”

If she saw the words as a rebuke, she made no sign. “But I knew that you were coming. You telephoned. I thought it better to wait until you arrived. It was only a day’s delay. Was that wrong?”

“Not wrong, perhaps. It was unhelpful.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re speaking now, aren’t we?”

At that moment the child slipped from her chair and came over to her mother, showing on her plump outstretched palm what looked like the model of a flat tart filled with small pellets. Perhaps they were meant to be currants or cherries. She raised them to her mother, waiting for her approbation. Mrs. Cummins bent down and whispered in her ear, drawing the child to her. Marie, still without speaking, nodded, went back to her chair and began again her self-absorbed modelling.

Dalgliesh said: “Can you tell me exactly what happened from the beginning.” It begged the question, what beginning? How far did the story go back? To their marriage? To the divorce? He added, “Why you went to London. What happened.”

“Venetia telephoned. It was early on Wednesday morning, just before eight. I hadn’t started working. Luke was getting into the truck to drive over to a farm outside Bere Regis to collect some manure he’d been promised for the garden, and was going to do some shopping in Wareham on the way home. I suppose I could have run out and stopped him, but I decided I wouldn’t. I told Venetia that Luke had left, so she gave me the message. It was about Octavia. She was worried about this boy that Octavia had got involved with, someone Venetia had defended. She wanted Luke to intervene.”

“How did she sound?”

“More cross than upset. And she was in a hurry. She said she had to leave for the Crown Court. If it had been anyone but Venetia I would have said she was in a panic, but Venetia doesn’t allow herself to panic. But she said it was very urgent. She couldn’t wait until Luke was home. I was to give him a message.”

Dalgliesh asked: “What did she want your husband to do?”

“To put a stop to it. She said: ‘He’s her father, let him take some responsibility for a change. Buy Ashe off, take Octavia abroad for a time. I’ll pay.’” Mrs. Cummins added, “The boy’s name is Ashe, but I expect you know that.”

“Yes,” said Dalgliesh, “we know that.”

“Venetia said, ‘Tell Luke we have to talk about this. In person. I want to see him in my room at Chambers this evening. The gate to Middle Temple Lane is closed, but he can get in through the gate at the end of Devereux Court.’ She gave me very detailed instructions exactly where it is. The passage — Devereux Court — is opposite the Law Courts and there’s a pub called the George at the end. You go up the passage then take a small turn to the left, and then right, and opposite another pub, called the Devereux, there’s a black studded gate with a small door in it. We agreed that Luke would be there at quarter past eight. Venetia said the gate would be locked by then, but that she’d come and let him in. She said, ‘I shan’t keep him waiting and I don’t expect to be kept waiting myself.’”

Dalgliesh said: “Didn’t it strike you as odd that the appointment was at Chambers, not at her house, and at eight-fifteen, after the gate would be locked?”

“She wouldn’t want to see Luke at Pelham Place and he wouldn’t want to go there. I expect she didn’t want Octavia to know that she’d called in her father, not until they’d worked out a plan. And I was the one who fixed the time. I didn’t see how I could catch a train before the seventeen-twenty-two which gets in to Waterloo at nineteen-twenty-nine.”

Dalgliesh said: “So you had already decided that you would go to London, rather than your husband?”

“I decided that before we stopped talking. Then, when Luke returned, he agreed. I was afraid that Venetia would persuade him into something he didn’t want to do. And what could he do? She had never treated him as a father when Octavia was small, and there was no point in calling for his help now. Octavia wouldn’t have taken any notice, and why should she? And he can’t take Octavia abroad even if she would go. His place is here with his family.”

Dalgliesh said: “He is her father.”

The comment was not intended to be censorious. Venetia’s matrimonial affairs were not his concern except in so far as they were relevant to her death. But divorce legally separated husband and wife, not father and child. It was odd that a woman so obviously maternal as Mrs. Cummins should so casually reject Venetia’s claim on her ex-husband’s interest in his daughter’s welfare. Yet she had spoken entirely without apology or apparent regret. She seemed to be saying: This is how things are; there is nothing now to be done about them. This is no longer our concern.

She said: “We couldn’t both go to London, because of Marie and the studio. Customers expect to find us open when they turn up. I don’t think those difficulties occurred to Venetia when she spoke.”

“So how did Miss Aldridge react to the news that her ex-husband wouldn’t appear?”

“I didn’t tell her. I let her think that he would. It seemed the best way. Of course, she might refuse to see me, but I didn’t think that was likely. I’d be there and Luke wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have much choice and I could explain what I felt — what we both felt.”

“What did you feel, Mrs. Cummins?”

“That we couldn’t impose ourselves on Octavia or interfere in her life. If she asked us for help we’d try to give it, but it was too late for Venetia to begin treating Luke as a father. Octavia’s eighteen, she’s an adult in law.”

“So you went to London. It would be helpful if you could tell me exactly what happened.”

“But nothing happened. As I said, she didn’t come out to the gate. I caught the seventeen-twenty-two from Wareham. Luke drove me to the station with Marie. I knew it might not be convenient to get back that night. Luke couldn’t leave Marie and I didn’t want him to drive with her to Wareham Station long after her bedtime. I didn’t want to spend money on a hotel — London is so expensive — but I have an old school friend who lets me use her flat near Waterloo Station when she isn’t there. She’s often abroad. I hardly ever use it, but when I do I telephone her neighbour to let him know I’ll be arriving. That’s in case he hears me in the flat and thinks Alice has burglars. I have a key so I can let myself in.”

“Did he see you arriving?”

“No. But I did see him next morning, just before eight-thirty. I rang his bell to let him know I was leaving and that I’d put my sheets in the washing machine. He has a key too, and he said he’d go in later and put them in the drier. He’s very helpful like that. He’s an elderly bachelor who’s fond of Alice and takes a proprietary interest in her flat when she’s away. I told him, too, that I’d left some milk in the fridge, and I’d also left a small jug I’d made as a present for Alice.”

So there was confirmation of her presence in the flat on the Thursday morning. That didn’t mean she’d been alone. Her husband could have crept quietly out before eight-thirty. Whether this obliging neighbour would be able to say if he’d heard one or more people in the flat would depend on the thickness of the walls. But, then, there was Marie; she couldn’t be left. If husband and wife had gone together to London someone would have had to look after the child, and it shouldn’t be difficult to discover who. Or had they taken her with them? It would have been hard to conceal the presence of a child in the flat, however quiet. Had Mrs. Cummins stayed with Marie while her husband kept the appointment — kept it and killed? But what about the wig and the blood? He might possibly have known where to find the wig, but how could he have known about the blood? But that was to assume that the murderer had also desecrated the body. And what of motive? Dalgliesh had yet to meet Luke Cummins but presumed that the man was sane. Would a sane man have killed to avoid the inconvenient importunities of an ex-wife — ex by eleven years? Or for eight thousand pounds? That too was interesting. In relation to her estate the sum was almost insulting. Had Venetia Aldridge been saying: “You gave me some pleasure. It wasn’t all disaster. I value it at a thousand a year”? A sensitive woman would have made it more or nothing. And what did this bequest say about their relationship?