Sins Out of School (24 page)

“Why would the Rookwoods lie about it, though? You'd have thought they'd want to distance themselves as far as they could from a man who'd been murdered. On the very night he'd been murdered.”

“I begin to think,” said Derek grimly, “that the Rookwoods will bear some very close investigation. I'll go and talk to them myself, and this time I'll get the truth out of them.”

I thought about suggesting he take Miss Simmons along, but he was in no mood for levity.

I was getting up to leave when a sudden thought occurred to me. “You might get someone to look at their account books,” I said. “The chapel's, I mean. That place takes in a good deal of money, and where there's money, there's temptation. If John Doyle found some irregularity in the books, he'd have been on it like a hound after a fox, and I can't imagine the Rookwoods would like that much.”

“You know, I had the same idea. I'm taking along an accountant.”

T
HAT
could explain a lot,” Alan agreed as we sat finishing a cottage pie for lunch. “He could have gone up to London to ask a solicitor about what he'd found.”

“He was the overseer, auditor, whatever, for the church books,” I said, “though I gather Mrs. Rookwood actually makes the entries. If something was wrong, if she was cooking the books, he might have been worried about whether he'd get into some kind of trouble for not catching it sooner. I'm sure he'd look out for his own hide first.”

“Sounds like his approach,” said Alan. “But it's all speculative at this point, and there are lots of holes. What London solicitor could he have been phoning on a Sunday morning? Or meeting before eight on a Monday morning, come to that? Solicitors don't rise at dawn, as a rule. And why go to town so early, anyway? Why spend the whole day in London? You said he didn't get home until teatime.”

“That's what Amanda said. I'm only taking her word for it, and for a lot of other things, too.”

“True, but we have Sam Johnson's testimony on when Doyle arrived in London, and it was very early. Surely he was planning something else for the day.”

“Maybe he was having lunch with his distinguished father-in-law,” I said with a straight face.

“Or the Queen,” Alan said, nodding. “Well, if the lovely lady in the car was the solicitor in question, the police shouldn't have too much trouble finding her. Solicitors are thick on the ground in London, but attractive female ones are a little rarer. And I have an idea, love. Why don't you pop over to see Carstairs this afternoon and ask him if he knows of anyone fitting that description? You know he's pining to get back into the act. Most excitement he's had in years, I shouldn't wonder.”

“Now that is a useful suggestion. It won't tell me anything about John Doyle's mysterious whereabouts Wednesday evening, though.”

“One thing at a time. Shall we toss for the washing up?”

He lost, and I left him with his hands in dishwater while I walked across the Close to the High Street and the elegant little Georgian house where Mr. Carstairs kept his office.

The day was still sunny, but growing colder by the minute. A wind had sprung up and clouds were beginning to form. I was reminded that winter was nearly upon us. My cheeks grew stiff with the cold, and were doubtless turning bright red, but I was glad I had walked. The cobwebs in my head needed clearing out.

Had I taken Amanda too much on faith? Had she made up the whole story about how she had spent that Wednesday evening? Papers to mark and sleeping pills and all?

No. I hadn't spent nearly seventy years on this planet without learning a few things about people. Ruth Beecham had said that Amanda never lied, except by omission. Well, one of the things I had learned was that anyone will lie, if the stakes are high enough. Some people will lie about anything, just for the fun of it. But to tell repeated, consistent lies, and be convincing, requires practice and a certain kind of personality.

Amanda Doyle simply didn't have that kind of personality. She might lie to protect Miriam—probably had, to John—but I was prepared to accept Ruth's conviction that those lies would have consisted of leaving things out, of not telling the whole story, rather than making things up. So when Amanda told me a long, detailed story about not being able to sleep and taking pills and so on, I believed her.

Anyhow, if I had to believe either her or her late unlamented husband, there was no doubt which I'd pick.

The law office, all white stone and green woodwork and brass fittings, gleamed in the brilliant sunshine. Entering, I was temporarily blind in the dimness of the hallway.

“Mrs. Martin! What a pleasant surprise. Do come in. Be careful of that rug; it trips me up every time. Really, we need to do something about the lighting in here.”

Mr. Carstairs tactfully guided me into his office, a refuge of oak paneling and Persian rugs and velvet draperies pulled aside from sparkling, wavy old windows. The very essence of the English legal profession, I thought, and wondered momentarily what it would be like to spend one's life in that stable, comfortable, cushioned world.

Then I looked, in the improved light, at the expression on Mr. Carstairs's face and realized that the idyllic life bored him to desperation.

“Have you news for me? Oh, I know I shouldn't pry, and perhaps you can't talk about some matters, but …” He trailed off on a hopeful note.

“Actually, I am making some progress, even though I haven't very much to report. I'm here to ask you for some help, since you were so kind yesterday.”

“The press again?”

“No, this time I want you to help me find a mysterious lady lawyer.”

“
Cherchez la femme
?” he asked in an atrocious accent.

“Something like that. I doubt she's involved in an amorous role, however. More probably simply as a solicitor, but she's proving extremely elusive, and Alan thought you might be able to point us in the right direction. You know so many people.”

“Tell me about it.”

I did so, as succinctly as possible, bearing in mind what lawyers charge by the minute. “And I don't,” I wailed, “have any idea who the woman is, or how Doyle managed to reach her on a Sunday, or why he arranged to meet her so early, or
anything
.”

“An attractive female solicitor, in London. Hmm. How old?”

“I don't know with any certainty. Sam Johnson isn't good at description. When pressed, he thought she had brown hair. She reminded him of the Botticelli Venus, he said. Really, I wouldn't have thought he had so much imagination! Anyway, that would seem to say she was young, or youngish at least, unless his memory was wildly colored by his daydreams.”

Mr. Carstairs chuckled. “No, I would say his description was quite accurate.”

“You know the lady, then?” I said eagerly.

“There is only one solicitor in London, perhaps in the whole of England, who could possibly remind even the most romantic man of the Botticelli Venus. Her name is Vanessa Thompson, and she is quite, quite lovely. Better men than Sam Johnson have dreamed about her, I daresay.”

“Mr. Carstairs, you are a treasure! I should have thought to come to you ages ago. What else can you tell me about Ms. Thompson? I can't imagine how a man like John Doyle would have met someone like that.”

“Ah, now, that's where the story gets really interesting. Ms. Thompson is not just a pretty face, she is also an extremely competent lawyer, indeed rather famous in the profession. She's in her forties, though one wouldn't think it to look at her. She is particularly expert in constitutional law and in finance, and those specialities have led her to a profound interest in politics.” He sat back in his chair, pushed his glasses back on his nose, and looked at me encouragingly.

It was exactly the way I used to wait for an answer from a promising pupil who hadn't quite figured it out yet. I thought for a moment and then smacked my hand on the desk. “Politics! Of course! You're telling me that Ms. Thompson works with Anthony Blake.”

“For a good many years, now. They're from the same part of the world, and I believe she began working with his campaigns when he was an anonymous backbencher. Now she's a trusted aide, or so I am told.”

“And that, of course, is how she met John Doyle. He was a campaign worker at least once. Amanda's sister told me. So if Doyle wanted to consult a good lawyer, someone who knew a lot about finance, and wanted to be cagey about it, he would think of Ms. Thompson. Not only good, but in London, and with the family connection, he could probably get her services free. Oh, he was a sly one, was John Doyle.”

“The family connection may also explain why he went up to town so early. He might well have wanted to spend some time with the Honorable Mr. Blake.”

“I said he might have planned lunch with his father-in-law, but I thought I was kidding. How do you happen to know about that family connection, by the way? It isn't exactly advertised.”

Mr. Carstairs smiled gently. “Pure happenstance. I'm interested in family histories. I was looking up Blake one day on the Internet, the other Blake, you know—”

“William? ‘Tyger, tyger' et cetera?”

“Exactly. I came across Anthony and followed it up.”

“I wish I'd known. I'd have come to you first, instead of navigating the shoals of cyberspace myself. Well, you could just be right about Doyle's intentions that day, though I can't imagine Blake would have relished a meeting with him. Doyle would have been too powerful a reminder of an episode Blake has tried his best to forget.”

“Ah, but Doyle hadn't forgotten, had he? I think he would have welcomed an opportunity to remind his esteemed relative by marriage of just how much he, Blake, owed Doyle. I'm not suggesting blackmail, mind you.”

“No, I think the righteous Mr. Doyle would have found blackmail beneath him. There's never been any hint that he was extorting money from Blake, beyond that first payment Gillian said her father made when John married Amanda. And that could well have been just enough to get them set up in modest housekeeping. Certainly the Doyles aren't rich. Or Amanda isn't, anyway. I suppose John could have been squirreling away money for some nefarious purpose or other.”

“Don't you think he might have donated a fair amount of money to the chapel?”

“Oh, of course. Silly of me not to think of that. And if he did, he would have been even more upset if he discovered that there was something rotten in that particular state of Denmark.”

“As you say.”

Mr. Carstairs's clerk appeared in the doorway. “I'm so sorry to interrupt, but Miss Simmons is on the telephone. She wants to change her will again.”

“Heavens, I mustn't keep you from Miss Simmons! I didn't know she was a client of yours. I met her just this morning. Amazing, isn't she?”

“Ab-so-lute-ly unique. And an extremely impatient lady. You must excuse me, Mrs. Martin, but you will keep me informed, will you not?”

He waved me genially out the door and picked up the phone.

T
HE
police station was only a few steps away, and I thought I'd better stop in and give Derek my new information. It was important that they talk to the lovely Ms. Thompson as soon as possible. We were, it seemed to me, much closer to solving at least one mystery, the secret of what John Doyle had done in London two days before he was murdered.

Derek wasn't in; I was directed to a functionary I hadn't met. When I introduced myself and asked if Derek was still talking to the Rookwoods, I was given a bland smile. “I couldn't say, I'm sure, madam.”

“When will he be back?”

“Ah, now, as to that, I'm not quite certain. I'd be happy to take a message, or is there someone else who can help you?”

I'd had enough of leaving messages that were delivered too late to do any good. I had also had enough of being obsequious. “Ask him to call me the moment he gets in. I have information he badly wants and needs, and I will give it to no one but him. You should understand that he will be seriously displeased if you delay in giving him this message. Have I made myself clear?”