The Crimson Rooms (53 page)

“When exactly did you give it to her?”

“I’d say in spring, sometime. I don’t recall.”

“An extravagant gift for a girl you barely knew.”

“I thought it would amuse her. She had looked after me so well.”

“A rather suggestive gift, I think.”

“Suggestive? I see it as a rather fine work of art.”

“Sir David, did you know that the wife of one of your clerks, Stephen Wheeler, had been murdered?”

“Of course I knew.”

“And that Wheeler had been arrested?”

“I not only knew about it but I took every possible step to give him my support, financial and otherwise.”

“Then perhaps you’d tell the court why you didn’t inform the police that you knew the dead girl.”

Sir David smiled. “As I recall, I did. I told them it is one of the privileges of my position to meet most of the wives and girlfriends of my employees. I believe my company is admired for its family spirit.”

“And did it never occur to you to mention to the police about your gift of the dancer?”

“Forgive me but I had well-nigh forgotten about it. And had I remembered, I would have wondered what possible relevance the dancer might have.”

“Sir David, I’m nearly finished, if you’ll bear with me. We have heard from a witness that one morning in April not long before her marriage, Stella came to work very late. Do you have any knowledge of why that might have been?”

Sir David blinked twice, as if working through a mental calendar, then shook his head.

“Was that a no, Sir David?”

“It was.”

“You were never with Stella Hobhouse, as she then was, other than in Lyons, during an evening in mid-April?”

“I have said: our relationship was within the boundaries I have already described.”

“If you would answer the question, Sir David.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Please answer yes or no, Sir David. Did you spend an evening in April with Stella Hobhouse?”

Sir David smiled patiently. “The third time of denial. I did not spend any evening with this Stella Hobhouse.”

“Two more questions. Did you ever visit Miss Hobhouse at home, I mean Mrs. Wheeler, after her marriage?”

“I had no idea where Mrs. Wheeler lived.”

“Where are your staff records kept, Sir David?”

“In my secretary’s office, I think.”

“Could you have access to them if you asked?”

He shrugged. “Presumably.”

“And just for the record, Sir David, where were you on the day that Stella was murdered, Saturday, May 17, of this year?”

There was a long pause while Hardynge seemed to be counting back across the weeks. “I would have to check with my secretary but I believe I was at home with my wife. Late in the afternoon I would have gone to visit my son, as I do every Saturday. He is in a type of hospital, near Princes Risborough.”

“And for the sake of the jury, where is Princes Risborough?”

“I would have thought the jury would know well enough. It’s a town in this county of Buckinghamshire.”

Warren was obsequious.
“The jury will forgive me if I am somewhat ill-prepared, but perhaps I could begin by having Sir David Hardynge elaborate a little, by way of background, on an extraordinary career in both business and public service.” Hardynge was charmingly modest but after ten minutes it had been established that he served on committees concerned with the financial support of veterans and widows, that during the war his company, Imperial Insurance, had been responsible for a number of charitable endowments to do with refugees, and that having recently been selected as a candidate for a North London constituency regarded as a safe seat for the Conservative Party he was about to embark on what promised to be a distinguished life in politics.

“And now, Sir David, I have to put it to you that my friend, at a very late stage in this trial and for motives that I would suggest are less than commendable—notably to cloud the glaringly obvious—is suggesting that you had an improper relationship with the unfortunate young waitress Stella Wheeler, née Hobhouse. How do you answer that accusation?”

“I’m afraid I find myself so incredulous that I am at a loss how to reply.”

“Much has been made of this gift, the dancer in bronze. Yet, from your point of view, it was simply a rather generous wedding present. Could you tell the court what was going through your mind when you gave it to Stella?”

“Obviously not quite enough was going through my mind. It was, in retrospect, an ill-judged gift. But I knew how the girl liked dancing, so I thought she would love the dancer. It also crossed my mind that should she grow tired of the present, she could perhaps sell it for quite a significant sum. For instance, if she should become a mother, I thought she might well need extra funds. You see, her husband, Wheeler, had been an outstanding employee and a gallant soldier. I thought the dancer would be a way of helping them both informally—I did not want to make a precedent of such largesse to all my employees. I’m afraid I simply couldn’t afford to make exceptions to the favored few for fear of exciting jealousy.”

“Did it occur to you, Sir David, that such a gift might cause Stella embarrassment?”

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me, but, after all, I’m surrounded by ladies, wife, daughter, sisters-in-law, and I can never resist buying beautiful things for beautiful women.” Here his nearsighted eyes scanned the women in the galleries, the jury, Carole Mangan, even me in the lawyers’ benches. Although there was no flicker of recognition, in the split second that I had his attention I suspected that I was assessed as a possible object of desire and dismissed. “If you came to my house you’d see it is full of artifacts. I have an eye for them and I like to share my pleasure with others. My daughter is an artist and I’m afraid we egg each other on when it comes to buying art.” His gaze flickered back to me and his brow contracted with momentary irritation, presumably as he tried to work out what I was doing amid the defense team.

“My friend has tried to suggest that you had some slightly sinister motive in not mentioning the gift of the bronze dancer before now. I wonder if you could again give the court your views on the matter.”

“As I said earlier, I had no idea the gift was of any relevance. Good Lord, if I had to appear in court to account for every present I’d given, I’d rarely be at home.”

Wainwright got ponderously to his feet. “A few additional questions, Sir David. When did you say you’d given the bronze dancer to Stella?”

“A few days before her wedding, I believe. I can’t recollect for sure.”

“Isn’t it odd that none of the other waitresses noticed you giving her the present and that she didn’t show it to any of them?”

“As to the latter question, I can only assume she preferred not to excite jealousy. As to the former, I really can’t say.”

“And finally, you told my learned friend that you knew that Stella liked dancing. How did you know?”

Another smile. “I expect because she told me so.”

“I have no further questions, Your Honor, but I wonder if Sir David might be required to remain in court while we call the next and final witness.”

I saw Meredith and Carole leave the court as Mrs. Ball, a pop-eyed, fullchested neighbor of the Wheelers in Byron Street, came in. Presumably, despite the drama in Aylesbury, Meredith could not resist a chance to view the flat in Pimlico and I had no doubt that Lyons had demanded Carole return to work immediately after her services were no longer required by the court.

Mrs. Ball was first asked to give her opinion of the Wheeler marriage. “I hardly had time to get to know them,” she said. “The young girl was very quiet. Came in for a cup of tea once but didn’t say much. To be honest, I thought twice about asking her again. Of course had I known what was about to happen to her, I’d have tooken more trouble.”

“Did she receive many visitors, Mrs. Ball?”

“Well, I can’t say, obviously, because I spend most of my time in the back. Her mother came sometimes, I think, and
his
family. And there was one gentleman caller, I noticed.”

“Can you describe this gentleman to us?”

“Not really. I only seen him from the side and back. He was very smart, I know that.”

“I wonder if you could look around the courthouse, Mrs. Ball, and tell me if you see that gentleman anywhere here.”

She cast her eye solemnly over everyone present, even the jury, even Stephen in the dock. It seemed to me she took a very long time scanning the public benches, perhaps dwelling longest on Sir David, but in the end shook her head. “I seen the gentleman from the side and back, not the front. I couldn’t say for sure.”

“That is very honest of you, Mrs. Ball,” said Wainwright, though I sensed his disappointment. There was no cross-examination.

By now it was four thirty, too late to hear from a succession of character witnesses: fellow soldiers and workmates. The judge, looking thunderous (on account of his Friday afternoon golf match being doomed, muttered Breen), thanked Hardynge with unnecessary effusion for bearing witness and announced that the court would reconvene at ten o’clock sharp tomorrow.

As soon as Wheeler had been taken down and the bench risen, Hardynge, assuming the demeanor of benefactor and future MP, shook hands with both defense and prosecution, thanked them for their trouble, told Wolfe he’d been commendably thorough and that it was only right that the defense should leave no stone unturned in so tricky and painful a case. Altogether, his attitude was that of a wealthy patron participating gamely in the fathers’ race on sports day.

Afterward, Breen told me I might go home. He had a meeting with Wolfe and Wainwright and I was not required. So I was left to make my lonely way to the station, bewildered by this continued ostracism and thwarted in my need to discuss the sensational events of the day.

D
espite my weariness and confusion,
I had a dogged sense that I must fulfill my commitment to Meredith, so from Marylebone I took an omnibus to Pimlico, where I found a narrow street of shabby houses and had to hunt long and hard among a cluster of bells at 11A. After a wait of several minutes, Meredith appeared at the dusty front door, eyes ablaze with excitement. “I was so hoping you’d make it, but that trial was so riveting I thought you probably wouldn’t. The girl who lives here has gone out for an hour and left me to get a feel of the place and it’s just perfect, you wait and see.”

She led me up four flights of stairs until we came to the top landing, which was narrow and had a door on either side, the one on the left ajar. My first impression was that the flat was oppressively small and low-ceilinged, though full of light, being in the roof. Meredith had certainly made herself at home—a gramophone was playing a tune called “Margie” and a kettle was heating on the gas ring. The cubbyhole of a kitchen was far more modern, with its neat little cupboards and enamel surfaces, than the vault of a basement kitchen in Clivedon Hall Gardens; there was a very small room for Edmund and another room with a sloping roof and skylight, which Meredith and I would have to share.

The glory (as Meredith said) of the apartment was the long living room overlooking the street, from which, if one craned one’s neck slightly, one could see the Thames through a gap in the buildings opposite. In this room, said Meredith, we would live, eat, and work. She would have an easel at one end and I would have a desk of my own. We might even use screens to give each other a little privacy. And we could hold parties; it would be possible for two dozen people to cram into this room with no difficulty at all.

She made a pot of tea, which we drank from unevenly shaped cups with rough edges and designs that seemed to have been created by spattering them with colored glaze. As she talked, Meredith played “I’m Goin’ South” and hopped from side to side, picking up the rhythm. The present tenant, Sylvia Hardynge’s friend, was obviously blessed with a bold, artistic nature, because the flat was filled with cushions in brilliant colors, curtains in bottle-green velvet, striped rugs on the bare floors, and on the wall an assortment of paintings, some very primitive indeed.