Original Sin (46 page)

She could see, too, that Miss Peverell had taken trouble with more than the meal. The blue-green patterned dress with its pleated skirt and over-blouse tied with a bow at the side was real silk and it suited her colouring. Too old for her, of course, too conventional, a bit dull, and the skirt too long. It didn’t do much for her figure, which could have looked spectacular if Miss Peverell knew how to dress. The pearls gleaming against the silk were probably real. Mandy hoped Mr. de Witt appreciated the efforts made for him. Mrs. Demery had told her that he had been in love with Miss Peverell for years. Now with Mr. Gerard out of the way it looked as if he was getting somewhere at last.

The duck came served with peas and small new potatoes. Mandy, her social insecurity swept away in a surge of hunger, fell upon it ravenously. They sat at the table with her. Neither ate but they both drank a glass of red wine. They waited on
her with anxious care as if they felt somehow responsible for what had happened and were trying to make amends. Miss Peverell pressed her to a second helping of vegetables and Mr. de Witt filled her glass. From time to time they went out together into the room she guessed was the kitchen and which overlooked Innocent Passage and she could hear the subdued mutter of their voices and knew that they were saying things they didn’t want to say in her presence while watching and listening for the arrival of the police.

Their temporary absence gave her an opportunity to look more closely at the room as she ate. Its elegant simplicity was too formal, too conventional for Mandy’s more eccentric and iconoclastic taste, but she admitted to herself that it looked all right if this was the kind of thing you liked and had the money to afford. The colour scheme was conventional enough, soft blue-green with touches of rose-red. The curtains of draped satin hung from simple poles. At each side of the fireplace was an alcove fitted with bookshelves, the spines of the books gleaming in the firelight. On each top shelf was what looked like the marble head of a girl crowned with roses and closely veiled. They were probably meant to be brides but the veils, marvellously delicate and realistic, looked more like shrouds. Morbid, thought Mandy, cramming her mouth with duck. The picture over the mantelpiece was of an eighteenth-century mother holding her two daughters and was obviously original, as was a curious picture of a woman lying in bed in a room which reminded Mandy of her schoolgirl visit to Venice. The two winged armchairs, one on each side of the fire, were covered in plain linen in a faded pink, but only one chair, with its creased seat and back, looked as if it were much used. So that was where Miss Peverell sat, thought Mandy, facing an empty chair and beyond it the river. She supposed that the
picture on the right-hand wall was an icon, but couldn’t imagine why anyone should want a Virgin Mary who looked so old and black, or an adult-looking baby who obviously hadn’t had a decent meal for weeks.

She envied neither the room nor anything in it and thought with satisfaction of the large low attic which was her share of the rented house in Stratford East, the wall opposite the bed with her hats hung on a pegboard, in a riotous flowering of ribbon, flowers and coloured felt; the single bed, just wide enough for two when a boyfriend occasionally spent the night, covered with its striped blanket, the drawing board which she used for her designs, the bean-bag cushions which littered the floor, the hi-fi and television, and the deep cupboard which held her clothes. There was only one room which she longed for more.

Suddenly she paused, fork halfway to her mouth, and listened intently. Surely she could hear the grind of car wheels on the cobbles. Seconds later James and Frances returned from the kitchen.

James de Witt said: “The police have arrived. Two cars. We couldn’t see how many people they’ve brought.” He turned to Frances Peverell, sounding for the first time uncertain, needing reassurance. “I wonder if I ought to go down.”

“Oh surely not. They won’t want anyone extra there. Gabriel and Sydney can give them the facts. Anyway, I expect they’ll come up here when they’ve finished. They’ll want to talk to Mandy. She is the most important witness. She was there first.” She sat down again at the table and said gently: “I expect you’re longing to get home, Mandy, and Mr. de Witt or I will take you later, but I think you ought to stay until the police come.”

It had never occurred to Mandy to do otherwise. She said: “That’s OK by me. They’ll think I’m bad luck, won’t they? Everywhere I go I find a suicide.”

The words were only half in earnest, but to her surprise Miss Peverell cried out: “Don’t say that, Mandy! You mustn’t even think like that. That’s just superstition. Of course no one will think you’re bad luck! Look, Mandy, I don’t like to think of you being on your own tonight. Would you like to telephone your parents—your mother? Wouldn’t it be better to go home tonight? She could come here to collect you.”

Like a bloody parcel, thought Mandy. She said: “I don’t know where she is,” and was tempted to add, “You could always try the Red Cow at Hayling Island.”

But the words and the kindness that prompted them touched in her a previously unacknowledged need for female comfort, for the cosiness of that upstairs room off the Whitechapel Road. She wanted to smell the familiar frowst compounded of drink and Mrs. Crealey’s scent, to curl up in front of the gas fire in the low chair which enclosed her like a womb, to hear outside the comforting rumble of the traffic on Whitechapel Road. She wasn’t at ease in this elegant flat, and these people, for all their kindness, weren’t her people. She wanted Mrs. Crealey.

She said: “I could telephone the agency. Mrs. Crealey might still be there.”

Frances Peverell looked surprised, but led Mandy upstairs into her bedroom. She said, “It will be more private for you here Mandy, and there’s a bathroom next door if you need it.”

The telephone was on the bedside table and above it hung a crucifix. Mandy had seen crucifixes before, usually outside churches, but this one was different. The Christ, almost beardless, looked very young and his head, instead of drooping in death, was flung back, the mouth wide as if he were crying for vengeance or pity to his God. Mandy thought it was not the kind of object she would like to find hanging
beside her bed, but she knew that it had power. Religious people prayed before a crucifix and if they were lucky their prayers were answered. It was worth a try. Punching out Mrs. Crealey’s office number she made herself gaze hard at the silver figure crowned with its bush of thorns and soundlessly formed the words: “Please make her answer, please let her be there. Please make her answer, please let her be there.” But the telephone continued its intermittent ring and there was no reply.

Less than five minutes later the doorbell rang. James de Witt went down and came back with Dauntsey and Bartrum.

Frances Peverell said: “What’s happening, Gabriel? Is Commander Dalgliesh there?”

“No, just Inspector Miskin and Inspector Aaron. Oh, and there’s that young detective sergeant and a photographer. They’re waiting now for the police surgeon to arrive and certify that she’s dead.”

Frances cried: “But of course she’s dead! They don’t need a police surgeon to tell them that.”

“I know, Frances, but it’s normal procedure apparently. No, I won’t have any wine, thank you. Sydney and I have been drinking at the Sailor’s Return since half past seven.”

“Coffee then. What about coffee? You too, Sydney?”

Sydney Bartrum seemed embarrassed. He said: “No thank you, Miss Peverell. I really have to go. I told my wife that I was meeting Mr. Dauntsey for a quick drink and would be a little late, but I’m always home before ten.”

“Of course you must go. She’ll be getting worried. Ring her from here.”

“Yes, I think I’d better. Thank you.” He followed her out of the room.

De Witt asked: “How are they taking it—the police I mean?”

“Professionally. How else would they take it? They aren’t saying much. I got the impression they were none too pleased that we’d moved the body, or even read the note for that matter.”

De Witt poured himself another glass of wine.

“What the hell did they expect us to do? And the note was addressed to us. If we hadn’t read it, I wonder if they would have told us what it said? They’ve been keeping us pretty much in the dark about Gerard’s death.”

Gabriel said: “They’ll be up here as soon as the van comes to take her away.” He paused, and then added: “I think I may have seen her arriving. Sydney and I agreed to be at the Sailor’s Return at half past seven and when I reached Wapping Way I saw a taxi turning into Innocent Walk.”

“Did you see the passenger?”

“I wasn’t really close enough. I probably wouldn’t have noticed her anyway. But I did see the driver. He was large and black. The police think that will be helpful in tracing him. Black drivers are still in a minority.”

Bartrum had made his call and now returned. He said with his usual nervous clearing of his throat: “Well, I’d better be off. Thank you, Miss Peverell, I won’t stay for coffee. I want to get home. The police have said I needn’t stay. I’ve told them all I know, that I was with Mr. Dauntsey in the pub from seven-thirty. If they want me again I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning. Business as usual.”

The false jauntiness of his voice disconcerted them. For a moment, looking up from her meal, Mandy thought that he was going to shake hands all round. Then he turned and left, and Frances Peverell went to show him out. It seemed to Mandy that they were all glad to be rid of him.

An uneasy silence fell; ordinary conversation, the small talk of a dinner party, chat about work, all seemed inappropriate,
almost indecent. Innocent House and the horror of death were all they had in common. Mandy sensed that they would have been more at ease without her, that the bonds of shared shock and terror were loosening and that they were reminding themselves that she was only the temporary shorthand typist, Mrs. Demery’s companion in gossip, that the whole story would be round Innocent House next day and the less said by them now the better.

From time to time one of them went to telephone Claudia Etienne. From their brief subsequent conversations Mandy gathered that she wasn’t at home. There was another number they could try but James de Witt said: “Better leave it. We’ll get her later. There’s nothing she can do here anyway.”

And now Frances and Gabriel went out to make coffee and this time James stayed with Mandy. He asked where she lived and she told him. He said he didn’t think she ought to go back to an empty house. Would there be anyone at home when she got there? Mandy, lying to save explanations and trouble, said that there would. After that he seemed unable to think of a further question and they sat in silence, listening to the small sounds from the kitchen. Mandy thought that it was like waiting in hospital for some dreaded news, as she had with her mum when her gran underwent her last operation. They had waited in a sparsely furnished, anonymous room in uncompanionable silence, perched on the edge of their chairs, feeling as ill at ease as if they had no right to be there, knowing that somewhere out of sight and sound the experts in life and death were going about their mysterious business while they themselves were powerless to do anything but wait. And this time the wait was not long. They had hardly finished their coffee when they heard the expected ring on the front door. Less than a minute later Inspector Miskin and Inspector Aaron were with
them. They were both carrying what looked like large attaché cases. Mandy wondered if these were their murder bags.

Inspector Miskin said: “We’ll talk at greater length after we’ve got the results of the PM. There are just a few questions now. Who found her?”

“I did,” said Mandy, and wished she wasn’t still sitting at the table with the smeared and empty plate in front of her. There seemed something indecent in this evidence of appetite. And why ask anyway, she thought with a spurt of resentment, you know bloody well by now who found her.

“What were you doing here? It was late to be working.” It was Inspector Aaron who spoke.

“I wasn’t working.” Mandy was aware that her voice was sulky and took herself in hand. Briefly she described the events of her ill-fated evening.

Inspector Miskin asked: “When you found your purse where you expected, what made you go to the river?”

“How do I know? Because it was there I suppose.” She added: “I wanted to look at my watch. It was lighter by the river.”

“And you saw and heard no one else either then or when you arrived?”

“Look, if I had I’d have said so by now. I didn’t see anyone or hear anything except the paper on the railings. So I went over to take a look, and that’s when I saw the shoulder bag lying on the ground at the foot of the railings and the straps going down into the river. When I looked down I saw what was at the end of the strap, didn’t I?”

Frances Peverell broke in quietly. “It’s human instinct to go to see the river, particularly at night. I always do when I’m near. Does Miss Price have to answer any more questions now? She’s told you all she knows. She ought to be at home. She’s had a terrible experience.”

Inspector Aaron didn’t look at her, but Inspector Miskin spoke, and more gently. “Do you know what time you arrived back at Innocent House?”

“Eight-twenty. I looked at my watch when I got to the river.”

Inspector Aaron said: “It was a longish way to come back from the White Horse. Didn’t you think of ringing Miss Peverell or Mr. Dauntsey and asking them to look for the purse?”

“I did. There was no reply from Mr. Dauntsey and Miss Peverell had the answerphone on.”

Frances Peverell said: “I do that sometimes if I have a visitor. James arrived by taxi just after seven, and I suppose Mr. Dauntsey was at the Sailor’s Return with Sydney Bartrum.”

“So he has already told us. Did either of you see or hear anything unusual, any sound from Innocent Lane, for example?”

They looked at each other. Frances Peverell said: “I don’t think we’d hear footsteps on the cobbles, not from this room. I was in the kitchen briefly at about eight to prepare the salads. I always do that at the last moment. The kitchen window overlooks Innocent Lane, and I would have heard a taxi then if it had set her down at the usual door to Innocent House. I heard nothing.”