Original Sin (28 page)

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Mrs Demery when they rang for more coffee and sandwiches. It seemecl to her that there was no place in Innocent House where she was wanted or could any longer feel at home. She thought about Mandy's last words. Was that what Mandy had told the police, that Mr Gerard had treated her, Blackie, like a proper bastarct? But of course she had. Why should Mandy keep quiet about anything that had happened at Innocent House, Mandy who was the outsider, who had arrived long after the series of practical jokes had begun, who could take a detached, almost pleasurable, interest in all the excitement, secure in the knowledge of her own innocence, unmov'ed by personal affections, untouched by personal loyalties. Mandy', whose sharp little eyes missed nothing, would have been a gift to the police. And she had been with them a long time, nearly an hour, longer, surely, than her importance in the firm could justify. Once more, and fruitlessly, since nothing now could be changed, Blackie thought over her own interview. She hadn't been among the first to be called. She had had time to prepare herself, to think about what she would say. And she had thought about it. Fear had sharpened her mind. It had taken place in Miss Claudia's office and only tro of the police had been there, the woman detective inspector and a sergeant. Somehow she had expected to see Commander Dalgliesh and his absence had disconcerted her so that she had answered the first questions uncertain whether the interview had really begun, and half expectirg him to come in at the door. She was surprised, too, that the interview wasn't being tape-recorded. The police almost always did that in the detective series which were her cousin's favourite viewing at Weaver's Cottage, but perhaps that came later, when they had a prime suspect and were questioning him or her under caution. And then, of course, she would have a lawyer present. Now she was alone. This time there had been no caution, no suggestion that this was anything but an informal preliminary chat. The woman detective inspector had asked most of the questions while the sergeant had made notes, but he had intervened from time to time without deferring to his senior officer and with the quiet assurance which suggested to her that they were used to ,orking together. ]3oth had been very polite, almost gentle, with her but she hactn't been deceivei. They were still interrogators and even their formal expressions of sympathy, their gentleness, were part of their technique. She

was surprised, looking back on it, how she had known this and known them for the enemies they were even in the tumult of her fear.

They had begun by asking simple preliminary questions about her length of service in the firm, the method of locking the premises at night, the people who had keys and could control the burglar alarms, the general shape of her day, even her arrangements for lunch. Answering them she had begun to feel more at ease even while she knew that they were designed for just that purpose.

Then Detective Inspector Miskin had said: `you worked for Mr Henry Peverell for twenty-seven years until he died, then transferred to Mr Etienne when he took over as chairman and managing director in January this year. That must have been a difficult change for you and for the firm.'

She was expecting that. She had her answer ready.

'It was different, of course. I had worked for old Mr Peverell for so long that naturally he confided in me. Mr Gerard was younger and had different methods of working. I had to adapt to a different personality. Every PA does that when she gets a change of boss.'

`you were happy to work for Mr Etienne? You liked him?' This

was the sergeant, uncompromising dark eyes compelling her own. She said: 'I respected him.' 'That's not quite the same thing.'

'You can't always like your boss. I think I was getting used to him.' 'And he to you? What about the rest of the firm? He was making changes, wasn't he? Change always causes some pain, particularly in a long-established organization. We know that at the Yard. Weren't there sackings, threats of sackings, a possible move down-river to new premises, the proposal to sell Innocent House?'

She had said: 'You'll have to ask Miss Claudia. Mr Gerard didn't discuss house policy with me.'

'Unlike Mr Peverell. The change from confidante to ordinary secretary can't have been agreeable.'

She didn't reply. Then Inspector Miskin leaned forward and said confidingly, almost as if they were girls together ready to share a feminine secret: Fell us about the snake. Tell us about Hissing Sid.'

So she had told them how the snake had been brought into the office about five years previously at Christmas by a temporary shorthand typist whose name and address no one now could

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remember. She had left it behind after the Christmas party and it hadn't been discovered until six months later stuffed into the back of the drawer of her desk. Blackie had used it to wind round the handles of the door between her office and that of Mr Peverell. He liked the door to be kept ajar so that he could call for her when he wanted her. Mr Peverell had never liked using the telephone. Hissing Sid had become something of a house mascot, taken on the river outing in the summer and to the Christmas party, but she no longer used the snake to keep the door ajar. Mr Etienne preferred it closed. The sergeant asked: 'Where was the snake usually kept?' 'Usually curled on top of the left-hand filing cabinet. Sometimes it would be hung or curled round one of the handles.' 'Tell us what happened yesterday. Mr Etienne objected, didn't he; to seeing the snake in the office?' She said, trying to keep her voice calm, 'He came out of his room and saw Hissing Sid drooping from the handle of the top filing' cabinet. He thought it looked inappropriate in an office and told me to get rid of it.' 'And what did you do?' 'I put it in my top right-hand drawer.' Detective Inspector Miskin said: 'This is very important, Miss Blackett, and I'm sure you are intelligent enough to know why. Who was in the office when you put the snake into the drawer?' 'Only Mandy Price who shares the office with me, Mr Dauntsey and Miss Claudia. Afterwards she went with her brother into his office. Mr Dauntsey gave Mandy a letter to type, then left.' 'And no one else?' 'No one else in the room but I expect some of the people who were mentioned what had happened. I don't think that Mandy would have kept quiet. And anyone looking for the snake would probably have thought of my right-hand drawer. I mean, that was the natural place to put the snake.' 'And you didn't think of throwing it away?' Thinking back on it she knew now that she had reacted too forcibly to the suggestion, that there had been in her voice a note of angry resentment. 'Get rid of Hissing Sid? No, why should I? Mr Peverell used to like the snake. He found it amusing. It wasn't doing any harm in the office. After all, my office isn't a place where the public normally

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come. I just put it in the top drawer. I thought perhaps I might take it home.'

They had asked about the earlier visit of Esm Carling and her insistence on seeing Mr Etienne. She realized that someone must have talked, that none of this was new to them, so she told the truth, or as much of the truth as she could bear to speak.

'Mrs Carling isn't one of our easiest authors and she was extremely angry. I think her agent had told her that Mr Etienne didn't wish to publish her latest book. She was insistent on seeing him but I had to explain that he was in the partners' meeting and that it was impossible to disturb them. She retaliated by being extremely offensive about Mr Peverell and our confidential relationship. I think she thought that I had exerted too much influence in the firm.'

'Did she threaten to come back and see Mr Etienne later in the day?'

'No, nothing like that. Of course, she might have insisted on staying until the meeting was over, but she had a signing at a bookshop in Cambridge.'

'Which was, of course, cancelled by a fax from this office sent at twelve-thirty. Did you send that fax, Miss Blackett?'

She stared straight into the grey eyes. 'No, I didn't.'

'Do you know who did send it?'

'I have no idea. It was during our usual lunch hour. I was in the kitchen heating up a Marks & Spencer packet of spaghetti bolognese for my lunch. People were in and out all the time. I can't remember where anyone was at twelve-thirty precisely. I only know I wasn't in the office.'

'And your office wasn't locked?'

'Of course not. We never lock offices during the day.'

And so it had gone on. Questions about the previous practical jokes, questions about when she had left the office the previous night, her journey home, the time she had arrived, how she had spent the evening. None of that was difficult. Eventually Detective Inspector Miskin had brought the interview to an end but with no sense that it had really finished. When it was over, Blackie had found that her legs were trembling and she had had to grasp the side of her chair firmly for a few seconds before she could be confident of walking to the door without staggering.

She had tried twice to ring Weaver's Cottage but there had been no

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reply. Joan must be somewhere in the village or shopping in the town; but perhaps that was just as well. This was news best broken in person, not over the telephone. She wondered whether there was any point in ringing again to say that she would be home early, but even picking up the receiver seemed too much effort. While she was trying to rouse herself to action, the door opened and Miss Claudia put her head round.

'Oh, you're still here. The police are happy for people to go now. Didn't anyone tell you? The office is closed anyway. Fred Bowling is ready to take you to Charing Cross in the launch.' Seeing Blackie's face, she added: 'Are you all right, Blackie? I mean, do you want someone to go home with you?'

The thought appalled Blackie. Who was there anyway? Mrs Demery, she knew, was still on the premises making endless jugs of coffee for the partners or the police, but she certainly wouldn't welcome being detailed to make an hour and a half journey into Kent. Blackie could picture that journey, the chatter, the questions, a-riving together at Weaver's Cottage, Mrs Demery reluctantly escorting her as if she were a delinquent child or a prisoner under surveillance. Joan would probably feel that she had to give Mrs Demery tea. Blackie imagined the three of them in the cottage sitting-room, Mrs Demery giving her highly coloured version of the day's events, garrulous, vulgar, solicitous in turn, almost impossible to get rid of. She said: 'I'm perfectly all right, thank you, Miss Claudia. I'm sorry I was so stupid. It was just the shock.'

'It was a shock for all of us.'

Miss Claudia's voice was colourless. Perhaps the words weren't meant as a rebuke; they only sounded like one. She paused as if there was something else she needed to say, or perhaps felt she should say, then she added: 'Don't come in on Monday if you still feel distressed. There's no real need. If the police want you again they know where to find you.' And then she was gone.

It was the first time that they had been alone together, however briefly, since the discovery of the body and Blackie wished she had found something to say, some word of sympathy. But what was there to say that was at once truthful and sincere? 'I never liked him and he didn't like me, but I'm sorry he's dead.' And was that really true?

At Charing Cross she was used to being borne along on the rush-hour stream of commuter traffic, purposeful and confident. It was

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strange to be there in the mid-afternoon with a concourse surprisingly quiet for a Friday and a muted air of indecisive timelessness. An elderly couple, overclad for the journey, the woman obviously in her best, were anxiously scanning the departure board, the man dragging a large suitcase on wheels, the case heavily strapped. At a word from the woman he jerked closer and immediately it thudded over. Blackie watched for a second, as they tried unsuccessfully to right it, then moved across to help them. But even as she grappled with its unwieldy top-heavy bulk she was aware of their anxious and suspicious eyes, as if fearing that she had designs on their underwear. The task completed, they murmured their thanks and moved off, supporting the case between them and from time to time patting it as if pacifying a recalcitrant dog.

The board showed that Blackie had half an hour to wait, just comfortable time for a coffee. Sipping it, smelling the familiar aroma, comforting her hands around the cup, she thought that this unexpected and early journey would normally have been a small indulgence, the unfamiliar emptiness of the station reminding her not of rush-hour discomforts but of childhood holidays, the leisure for coffee, the reassuring certainty of getting home before dark. But all pleasure was now overburdened by the memory of horror, by that nagging, insistent amalgam of fear and guilt. She wondered whether she would ever again be free of it. But at last she was on her way home. She hadn't made up her mind how far she would confide in her cousin. There were things that she couldn't and mustn't tell her, but at least she would be sure of Joan's common-sense reassurance, of the familiar ordered peace of Weaver's Cottage.

The train, half empty, left on time, but later she could recall nothing of the journey or of unlocking the car in the car park at East Marling, nor of the drive to West Marling and the cottage. All she remembered later was driving up to the front gate and what then met her eyes. She stared in unbelieving horror. In the autumnal sunshine the garden lay before her, violated, desolate, physically torn up, ripped and thrown aside. At first, disorientated by shock, confused by a memory of the great storms of earlier years, she thought that Weaver's Cottage had been struck by a bizarre and localized tornado. But the thought was momentary. This destruction, more petty, more discriminate, was the work of human hands.

She got out of the car, her limbs seeming no longer part of her, and

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walked stiffly to the gate, clutching at it for support. And now she could see each separate barbarity. The flowering cherry to the right of the gate, its autumn palettes of bright red and yellow staining the air, had been stripped of all its lower branches, the scars on the bark raw as open wounds. The mulberry tree in the middle of the lawn, Joan's special pride, had been similarly violated and the white slatted bench round the trtmk smashed and splintered as if jumped on by heavy boots. The rose bushes, perhaps because of the spikiness of their branches, had been left whole but torn up by their roots and thrown into a heap, and the bed of early Michaelmas daisies and white chrysanthemums, which Joan had planned as a pale drift against the dark hedge, lay in swathes over the path. The rose over the porch had defeated them, but they had ripped down both the clematis and the wistaria, making the front of the cottage look oddly naked and defenceless.