The Language of the Dead (27 page)

“Excuse me, Jeffrey,” Parkinson said. “Chief Inspector Lamb has arrived.”

Pembroke lowered the paper. “Good morning, Chief Inspector,” he said. He gestured for Lamb to sit and then folded the
Times
and laid it on the table.

“Would you like coffee?”

Lamb looked at the rich, dark coffee in the carafe. He smiled. “No, thank you.”

“I've only heard this morning about Emily,” Pembroke said. “I've been in London. It's horrible. I can't tell you how terrible it is for us here. We all liked Emily very much. It seems you have your hands very full. I shouldn't wonder that it's partly due to the coming of this dreadful war—all of this sudden killing. People have lost their bearings.”

“Yes,” Lamb said. He sat. “I wonder if you can tell me what Emily did here, exactly, in the summers.”

“She acted as a kind of helper for the children—that's the best way I can put it.” He paused to light a cigarette that he pulled from a light blue packet. “The orphanage with which we work is for boys, and so therefore we host only boys in the summer. Until Emily, we had no girls here. But I decided we needed at least a little female presence around the place. Some of these boys never knew their mothers and have grown up around only male caretakers and other boys. Having Emily on the place was, frankly, a bit of an experiment. And although she was wonderful with the boys, I'm not certain the experiment worked.”

“Why?”

“Well, I'm afraid that too many of the boys fell in love with her. I should have seen it coming. The only one who didn't, of course, was her brother, Donald, who worked here as a counselor to the boys—though I've often wondered if Emily's presence didn't sour the experience for Donald as well.”

“How so?”

“Well, I can't say as I know, exactly. All I know is that during the summer that Emily worked here, Donald became—how should I put this?—rather less easy to get along with. Before, he'd been a model and a wonderful mentor to the younger boys particularly. But he became irritable and, to be frank, a bit of a complainer, a negative influence.”

“This would have been last summer, then?”

“Yes. Last summer.”

“Has Emily contacted you recently—or tried to contact you?”

“No. I haven't seen her since last summer, when our season ended here and the boys returned to the orphanage.”

“What about Peter? Do you know if she contacted him or if he attempted to contact her?”

“If so, I'm not aware of it.” He took a drag from his cigarette, then placed it into a glass ashtray next to the coffee carafe. A dozen or so butterflies moved among the flowers behind him. “As I explained earlier, Chief Inspector, I don't control Peter's movements. I only
provide for his needs—those he cannot provide himself. Otherwise, he is free to live his life as he sees fit.”

Lamb produced the small drawing of the spider he'd found in Emily's purse. “I'm certain that Peter drew this, just as he drew the sketch I found in Blackwell's shed,” he said. “Do you agree?”

Pembroke looked at the drawing. “Yes, this is Peter's work.”

“I found the drawing in Emily Fordham's purse,” Lamb said. “Do you know why Peter might have sent her such a drawing?”

Pembroke's brow furrowed. “I'm afraid I don't. Peter liked Emily. He, too, might even have fallen in love with her—in his own way, of course.”

“Emily had told several people in recent days that she was worried about Peter in some way, though she didn't say specifically what that worry was. Do you know what might have upset Peter?”

“As I said, Chief Inspector, Peter is very private—a conundrum, really. I'm not sure that anyone, myself included, can say with any certainty what he might actually be feeling.”

Lamb nodded at the drawing. “Is it possible that Peter might have become jealous of the fact that Emily had a man in her life, someone whose presence made it obvious to Peter that she didn't love him in the way that he might have imagined she did?”

“I suppose it's possible. He's no longer a child, after all.” Pembroke looked again at the drawing. “I suppose the spider might have been his way of telling Emily that he was angry with her. As I think I said last time, he doesn't like spiders.”

Lamb produced the photograph of the boy that Lydia Blackwell had identified as Thomas and laid it next to Peter's drawing. “Do you recognize this boy?”

Lamb saw surprise briefly flash in Pembroke's eyes. “Where did you get this?”

“I'm not at liberty to say at the moment.”

Pembroke nodded at the photo. “That is Thomas Bennett. He is one of the boys who spent summers here before the war.”

“Had you had any trouble with Thomas Bennett?”

“Yes, we had a bit of trouble with him last summer, though the matter worked itself out in the end.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“He ran away. The boys had been here only a month or so at the time.”

“And you didn't think to call the police?”

“I didn't consider it necessary. We've had boys run off before, but they always return. I hope you won't take this in the wrong way, Chief Inspector, but many of the boys who come to us have had negative experiences with the police, who tend to see them as vagrants and troublemakers. When we've had trouble with the boys who come here, we've tended to handle it ourselves. Most of our boys are frightened of the police, frankly, and I saw no reason to frighten them further.”

“What prompted Thomas to run away?”

“Well, he had a bit of trouble with Donald Fordham, to be honest. Donald caught Thomas stealing melons from the garden—or so Donald claimed. Donald said that he'd caught Thomas throwing the melons into a stream that runs through the estate and that, when he'd confronted Thomas about it, that Thomas at first denied stealing the melons; Thomas said that he'd merely found them near the stream. When Donald said he doubted that, Thomas basically told him to sod off.”

Pembroke retrieved his smoldering cigarette and took another drag from it. “Admittedly, Thomas was a difficult boy,” he continued. “Donald was the leader of Thomas's group, and Thomas challenged his authority from the beginning. That said, I thought that Donald's punishment of Thomas for the melon business was harsh: he confined Thomas to barracks alone for an entire day. I didn't intervene, however, though I wish now that I had. I wanted Donald to handle it. I considered the thing a learning experience for both of them. But in the end, Donald handled it badly. He overreacted.”

“And so Thomas ran away?”

“Yes. We searched the estate but didn't find him. It turned out that he'd gone to Manscome Hill and that Will Blackwell had found him. Somehow Blackwell persuaded Thomas to come with him to
his cottage and then contacted me. I went to Quimby and retrieved Thomas from Blackwell. The director of the orphanage then came down and took Thomas back to Basingstoke with him.”

“And so Thomas did not return to Brookings that summer?”

Pembroke exhaled. “No. We thought it best he not return.”

“So he stayed in Basingstoke, at the orphanage?”

“Yes. Frankly, I left the decision on the matter up to the discretion of the director. We would have welcomed Thomas back, but the director thought it best to forego a return.”

“And what is the name of the director of the orphanage, sir?”

“Gerald Pirie. A good man. He and I have worked together for years. He's a Baptist, you see, and the orphanage is run by the Baptists. The Resurrection Home for Boys.”

“Do you know where Emily might have gotten this photograph of Thomas?”

“I'm afraid I don't. I suppose it's possible that she got it from Donald. It's also very possible that Thomas himself might have given it to her. As I said, the boys here all were in love with Emily.”

“Is it possible that Peter gave her the photo—that he might have sent it to her with the drawing?”

“I don't see how, unless Thomas gave it to him,” he said. “But the two of them never were close, from what I saw.”

“Why did you fail to mention the incident with Thomas when I spoke to you before? I asked you then if you knew Blackwell and you said that you didn't, really.”

“I suppose I felt that the incident with Thomas was irrelevant, if I thought of it at all. Surely Thomas had nothing to do with Blackwell's killing. He's just a boy.”

“You paid Will Blackwell one hundred seventy-five pounds for returning Thomas. It seems an unusually large amount.”

“I was very grateful to Blackwell for having done us the favor,” he said. “As I think I told you before, what I'd written in my book had hurt him and I hadn't meant for that to happen. I believed I owed him something—perhaps you'd call it restitution of a kind. His finding
Thomas and contacting us turned out to be an invaluable help to Mr. Pirie and me and everyone connected with the program we run here. He did us an inestimable favor, when he might just have washed his hands of the matter. And frankly, Chief Inspector—you'll excuse me if this sounds wrong somehow—but one hundred seventy-five pounds is not a large sum of money to me. I've plenty of money. Much more than I need. I give away large sums of it every year.”

“I'd like to try to speak with Peter again,” Lamb said.

“I'd rather you didn't, if that's possible,” Pembroke said. “The last time frightened him more than I imagined it would. He didn't come home at all that night and when he did return on the following morning, he wouldn't let me near him. I understand why you feel you must speak to him. However, I'm sorry to say that, in any case, he's not around. He's gone off on one of his butterfly explorations.”

“Does Peter know what has happened to Emily?”

“I don't know for certain. He's been gone for the last two days. I plan to tell him when the time seems right. I expect the news will be a blow to him.”

“I wonder if I might have another look around the summerhouse,” Lamb asked.

“Well, I suppose it will be all right, if you think it will be worth your while,” Pembroke said. “But you mustn't enter the cottage, as I'm sure I made clear the last time.”

“Of course.”

“Very well, then. I'll let Parkinson know to expect you back in a little while. He'll show you out, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all.” Lamb stood. “Thank you again for your time.”

“It's my pleasure to be of assistance,” Pembroke said. “Hopefully, your luck will improve.”

“I'm counting on it.”

Lamb made his way down the cliff path to Peter's cottage.

He went to the front window but found it shrouded by blackout curtains. The front door was locked. He walked to the back and stood in the middle of the small space between the cottage and the base of the hill. He looked up the path along which Peter had fled from him and at the lonely tree at the hill's crest. He turned toward the house and peered into the back window but again found his view blocked by curtains.

Peter seemed to have left no sign of himself—of his habitation or habits—outside the cottage. With the exception of his drawings, he seemed to prefer invisibility.

Lamb tried to imagine a scenario in which Emily Fordham might have upset the delicate psychological and emotional balance of Peter's ordered existence. Had she done so, she likely hadn't meant to frighten or anger him. Then again, perhaps she possessed a cruel streak. Perhaps she'd told Peter that she intended never to return to Brookings. Maybe she'd even told him of her RAF pilot. Perhaps Peter saw Emily as the spider and himself as the butterfly. Maybe, too, Will Blackwell had rejected or upset Peter.

He went to the back door of the cottage and tried the knob. To his surprise, he found the door unlocked. He decided that he must see inside the cottage, despite Pembroke's objections. He was not yet convinced either of Peter's guilt or innocence in the deaths of Will Blackwell and Emily Fordham. But he was certain of Peter's
involvement
in the events of the past few days. And yet his chances of speaking to Peter seemed dim. Believing that he had no choice but to act, he pushed open the door to the summerhouse. A fly seeking sunlight buzzed past his head into the summer air and a musty smell assailed him. Moving by the light that filtered in through the open door, Lamb went to the window and parted the heavy, black curtains. Sunlight spilled into the cottage's single, small room.

An unmade wooden cot, piled with a crumpled white sheet and feather pillow, lay along the far wall. To the right of this was a sink with a water pump; a metal bucket sat empty in the sink. The rest of the interior consisted of an array of shelves and small tables and a pair of wooden chairs. Some of the shelves were built into the walls, while
others were freestanding. All were stuffed with illustrated guidebooks to the flora and fauna of England, along with notebooks and sheaves of paper. The wall opposite the one that held Peter's cot was dominated by a table of about six feet wide on which was spread an array of paints and brushes and pens and pencils and boxes of pastel crayons. Sketchpads of various grades of paper were stacked near the right edge of the table; several small blank canvases leaned against its legs.