Carnage on the Committee (8 page)

'I thought Robert said there are some you'd like - or at least not hate.'

'Yes, but I thought I'd save them for later.' She looked at her watch. 'Put on the news.'

It was another quiet day, so the admission from the police that she appeared to have died in suspicious circumstances gave Hermione top billing.

'Family and friends can think of no reason why anyone would harm a woman so loved and respected. Asked to comment on speculation that her death might be associated with her chairing of the Knapper-Warburton Prize, the organisers refused to comment.' A photograph of the baroness waggling her finger appeared behind the newsreader. 'Lady Babcock's successor as chairperson, the controversialist, Lady Troutbeck, Mistress of St Martha's in Cambridge, was not available for interview.'

'What's a controversialist?' asked the baroness.

'Someone the BBC doesn't agree with, I guess.'

'The Irish singer and soap-star, Dervla, is a Knapper-Warburton judge. Susie Briggs spoke to her earlier this evening.'

'It's, like, weird,' confessed a worried-looking, pretty, curly-haired redhead with a bare midriff. 'It's, like, aaaaggghhh!'

'Do you think the committee will be able to function in the light of this tragedy? Especially if Lady Babcock's death turns out to be connected to the Warburton.'

Dervla looked hunted. 'I'm, like, whatever,' she proffered.

'Thank you, Dervla.' Susie Briggs faced the camera. 'Like Dervla, the rest of the committee are determined on business as usual.' A photograph of a vast head topped with wild white hair took over the screen. 'Geraint Griffiths, the well-known commentator, rang our newsroom to denounce what he described as a clear conspiracy to stifle free speech and intimidate the judges. Asked to explain what he meant, he said that all would become clear in time.'

'Thank you, Susie. Speaking in the House today, the Chancellor emphasised that...'

Mary Lou pressed the 'off' button. 'Back to work. Jack.'

The baroness surveyed the pile to the right of her chair. 'I'm usually given to tears only at the opera,' she said, 'but I'm on the verge of bursting into noisy, self-pitying sobs.'

'Troutbecks get on with it, Jack. Remember?'

The baroness managed a wan smile as she picked up the top book.

6

'It's me, darling,' said an excited Pooley. 'I've got terrific news.'

'You're coming here for the weekend?'

'Wish I were.'

'The Warburton's been cancelled?'

Pooley's forehead furrowed. 'No. Why would that be good?'

Mary Lou sighed, it would prevent Jack from running amok. I think she's about to declare war on the entire literary establishment. And she won't be using conventional weapons. More those of mass destruction.'

'Robert mentioned he didn't think she was keen on modern fiction.'

'Robert sure got that right, honey. But what's the terrific news?'

'It's the old team on the job. Jim's been asked to step in and I'll be his right-hand man.'

'How did he wangle that? Isn't a solitary murder a bit beneath him these days?'

'The Met gets very jittery when cases are high-profile. And this is high-profile. And requires tact, which even Jim's detractors admit he has in abundance. Will you tell

Jack? It might cheer her up a bit.'

'I'll tell her. Though I doubt if anything could cheer her up the way things are. When are you getting started?'

'I'm just going into Jim's office now, darling. Will ring when I can. Bye.'

'I photocopied the
Who's Who
entries of Hermione Babcock and her husband,' said Pooley to Detective Chief Superintendent Milton, as they sat in the back of a car on their way to north London to interview Sir William Rawlinson.

'Anything interesting?'

'Interesting-ish.' He held out two sheets of paper. 'Do you want to read them?'

Milton squinted at the tiny print. 'I can't. Forgot my glasses. Read them to me.'

'"Babcock of Islington, Baroness created 1997 (Life Peer) of Bloomsbury in the County of London; Hermione Joan Babcock (Lady Rawlinson); writer; born 27 November 1943, daughter of the late Revd Reginald Michael Massingham and the late

'Could you make it a bit more selective and digestible, Ellis?'

'Sorry, sir. She married first in 1964 Ralph Babcock; they were divorced in 1975 having had a son and daughter.'

'Oh, so it wasn't her maiden name.'

'No. But by the time she was divorced presumably she was well-known enough to be stuck with Babcock.'

'It must have been rather irritating; Massingham's rather more attractive, don't you think?'

Pooley nodded. 'And so is Rawlinson. She married William Rawlinson the year of her divorce and he was knighted in 1986.'

'I don't know how these things work, Ellis. You do. She remained Mrs Babcock for proffessional reasons while first being Mrs and then Lady Rawlinson, but later became Lady Babcock. Is that right?'

'Ms Babcock, I expect, sir. She was the type. Anyway, she was educated at grammar school and Oxford, where she got a first-class BA in English and was awarded the Chiddick Honorary Fellowship, whatever that is.'

'Speed up, Ellis. I admire your thoroughness, but spare me too much academic detail. Especially since we're nearly in Islington.'

'A couple of translations of French novels and one of her own while with Babcock, and then she seems to have taken to committees in a big way.'

'All literary?'

'Broadly cultural - authors' organisations, judging literary prizes, dishing out grants, British Council activities, that kind of thing. Edited a couple of anthologies of French short stories, did reviewing and broadcasting and churned out the odd novel as well. The last one,
Virginia Falling,
won the Warburton last year. She collected a couple of honorary degrees over the last decade or so and was given a peerage in 1997.'

'Why do people want honorary degrees if they've already got one?'

'I suppose some of them like the attention and others like being called Doctor.'

'Even if they haven't earned it?'

'I don't know much about that, sir. I'll consult Mary Lou.'

'And Rawlinson? Hurry up. We're nearly there.'

'Short entry. Babcock his second wife, first one died, no children, went into Graylings Bank straight from school and became CEO five years ago.'

The car turned into a square and pulled up in front of a white, four-storey, double-fronted Georgian house. 'Unless you expect to be in there a long time, I'll wait

here, sir,' said Detective Inspector (retired) Pike.

Thanks, Sammy. I doubt if we'll be very long. Keep an ear to the news, will you? I'd like to know if any other members of the Warburton committee are sounding of.'

'Will do, sir.'

Milton pressed the bell. 'What do you reckon it's worth, Ellis? A couple of mill?'

'Easily, sir. It's the most desirable part of Islington.'

The door was opened by a tall, good-looking man with white hair so perfectly coiffed that its wings were utterly symmetrical. He led them through the narrow hall into a large sitting room and then held out his hand. 'I'm William Rawlinson. You, I presume, are Chieff Superintendent Milton.'

'Yes, Sir. William. And this is my colleague. Detective Inspector Pooley. May I offer our sincere sympathy on this tragedy.'

'Thank you.' Rawlinson waved towards one of the white sofas. 'Please sit down, gentlemen. Would you care for coffee?'

'No, thank you, sir.'

'Quite sure? I'm going to have some.'

'Oh, well, in that case, thank you.'

'And you, Inspector?'

'Yes, thanks.'

Rawlinson left calling, 'Alina.'

Milton and Pooley surveyed the room. Apart from a large number of abstract paintings, most of which featured greys or black, it was exclusively decorated and furnished in white or chrome. Pooley jumped up and rushed around the room reading the plaques under the pictures. 'Ben Nicholsons and Victor Passmores,' he reported as he sat down again.

'Mean anything to you?'

'I've heard of Nicholson. He'll be expensive.'

Rawlinson returned, threw himself into an armchair and took a packet of small cigars out of his pocket. 'Do either of you smoke?'

'No, sir.'

'Mind if I do?'

'Good heavens, no, sir.'

Rawlinson lit his cigar and looked around for a receptacle for his match. 'Damn.' He got up and went over to the mantelpiece, picked up a piece of metal, put it on the bare chrome table in front of him and dropped his match on it. He leaned back in his chair. 'So what do you want me to tell you? I've already been through the story of Hermione's illness twice.'

'I realise that, sir. And I'm loath to ask you to go through it again, but it would be very helpful if you would.'

'Hermione rang me at work on Tuesday afternoon to say she felt sick and was worried that she might be too ill to make the dinner party we were due to go to that evening if she didn't get some urgent medical help. I told her she should cancel immediately, but she didn't want to; there was some Romanian dramatist expected who's the toast of literary London and she didn't want to miss him.'

'Did she go into any details about her symptoms?'

'Just said she felt feverish and nauseous and had difficulty breathing. She tried to get hold of our doctor but he was out and she didn't think much of his partner, so I arranged for the bank's doctor to call her. He reported that he thought she'd picked up a virus and had told her to go straight to bed and drink plenty of water and see her doctor in the morning if she wasn't better. I checked with her, and, reluctantly, she'd given up on the Romanian and agreed she'd go to bed as soon as she'd finished whatever she was doing with the long-list. At about five-thirty Alina rang to say she'd found Hermione slumped over her desk.

She was very alarmed, since Hermione had fallen on the piles of Warburton novels she'd been sorting and had knocked them all over the place.' He gave a slight smile and gestured towards their surroundings. 'As you can see, untidiness was not my wife's style.'

The door opened and a tiny, pleasant-faced, middle-aged Filipino in a black dress and white apron came in carrying a chrome tray. She looked with alarm at Rawlinson's ashtray, which he removed and placed on the floor. She put down her tray. 'Shall I get you an ashtray from your study, sir?'

Rawlinson smiled. 'Thank you, Alina, but this will do for the moment.' He indicated Milton and Pooley. 'These gentlemen are from the police. They may want to have a word with you later.'

She bowed slightly. 'I will be downstairs. May I pour you coffee?'

'Thank you,' said Milton. 'White, no sugar, for me, please.'

'And me, please,' said Pooley.

She served the three of them deftly and withdrew. 'I'm sorry,' said Rawlinson, 'we don't keep biscuits.'

'We're fine, thank you. Sir William,' said Milton.

'So Alina revived Hermione with some cold water and helped her to bed. By the time I got home, at around six-thirty, Hermione had been vomiting and looked dreadful, but she insisted she'd be fine and wanted to be left alone to sweat it out. Hermione was a very determined woman, and one tended to do as instructed. Still, I kept checking, and when at about ten her breathing became more laboured, I called an ambulance. The hospital also thought it just a virus and treated her accordingly and it was not until her kidneys and liver began to fail early on Thursday morning that the alarm bells were sounded. I arrived to see her at about eight-thirty to find her already on a life-support machine. As you will know, she died at two p.m.'

Thank you, sir,' said Milton. 'Now, as you know, the pathologist seems to think the ricin - which was a very large dose - was administered some time in the twelve hours before she became ill.'

'And I've already given your colleagues all the information I have about my wife's movements during that period.'

indeed. You've been most helpful and we are working on it. But could I ask you if you've had a chance to think further about who might have wanted to kill Lady Babcock?'

Rawlinson finished his coffee and put down his cup. 'Not a clue, Mr Milton. Hermione's life was in the literary world and the Lords and while obviously she made some enemies, I had no reason to think there was anything personal going on. You know what they're like, those literary people ... Or maybe you don't?'

Milton shook his head.

'Well, it's like any other kind of work, I suppose, it's just that ambition and greed and achievement and so on take different forms from what you'd get in industry or banking. Or probably the police. That is to say, there's an extraordinarily random element at work. For instance, I got to the top of a merchant bank because I'm reasonably clever, I understand the money market, I'm diligent, I get on with clients and I have the ability to convince people I know what I'm talking about. I expect you've done well for equivalent reasons.

'But the literary world is completely different. You can be a brilliant and hard-working writer and never get anywhere, while others with a tenth of your talent and industry bask in adulation and wealth. It's a mixture of luck and self-promotion. Thomas Gray had it right. "Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest" and all that... Oh, sorry, Mr Milton. I forgot. You must get very fed up with that quotation.'

'Not really, sir. Police and criminals don't quote much poetry.'

'Gray, of course, was talking about illiterates, who don't know they could have been Milton. But what about those writers who've produced the book, believe it's good and can't get it published, or iff it does get published, it's ignored and they see contemporaries streaking ahead of them for no reason except that they're young, sexy, lucky in their timing or geniuses at self-promotion or networking. So that's why there's so much anger and backbiting in that world - far more in my experience than you get in normal life - and for all I know some of it was directed at Hermione because of her success.'

Milton looked at Rawlinson rather uncertainly. 'Are you suggesting, sir, that there were those who might have felt that Lady Babcock had been more successful than she deserved?'