by R. N. Morris
‘Yes. That must have been it.’ Quinn was struck by the speed with which she accepted this explanation. She gave the impression of clutching at straws. ‘The man who was watching the house, the same man who came to the school – he was blackmailing my husband. If only Aidan had said something. If only he had come to me.’ This felt like her most egregious piece of playacting yet.
‘Am I to understand that you would have given your husband the money he needed, even if it was to pay off a blackmailer?’
‘Better that than embezzling funds from the choir, I think.’
‘Do you really believe Sir Aidan was capable of such a crime?’
‘Who knows what any of us is capable of?’
Quinn narrowed his eyes. Her comment was irrefutable but evasive. ‘That might have been a motive for someone to kill him – to prevent such a scandal?’
‘No, no – it was the blackmailer. I’m sure of it.’
The enthusiasm with which Lady Emma was promoting this theory puzzled Quinn. It simply did not make sense. If Sir Aidan was being blackmailed by the counterfeit piano tuner, it was hardly likely that the blackmailer would kill the victim from whom he hoped to extort money. If Sir Aidan had refused to pay, then the blackmailer would simply have exposed whatever shameful secret he was holding over him. That was the way blackmail worked.
It was conceivable that the supposed blackmailer had attempted to back up his threats with violence. Or perhaps the two men had quarrelled and some kind of struggle had ensued, resulting in Sir Aidan’s death. But the scene in the music room was not consistent with a fight. And again, there was the question of the prepared weapon. Sir Aidan’s death was not the result of a spontaneous outburst, but rather of premeditation.
There was something that needed unpicking here. But Lady Emma’s insistence on blackmail being behind it all was distracting.
‘Can you think of any grounds that this person might have had for blackmailing your husband?’
‘I am surprised you need to ask that, Chief Inspector.’
‘You mean his infidelities? But were they not common knowledge? He could have had no fear of them being exposed, because they were already out in the open. You certainly knew about them.’
‘Yes, but the blackmailer didn’t know that, did he?’
Quinn gave an involuntary wince. Like all amateur ‘detectives’, Lady Emma was piling supposition on supposition to create an exceedingly shaky theoretical edifice. It was pure hearsay that there had been a man watching the house. The only person who claimed to have seen him was dead. But even accepting that there had been such a man, there was no proof that this was the same individual who had later been seen at the school wearing false whiskers and carrying a white stick. And certainly no evidence that he had been attempting to blackmail Sir Aidan.
But Quinn did not attempt to argue her out of her position. There was little point. Besides, what he found most interesting was the eagerness with which she held to it.
‘Was it someone in the choir, this blackmailer?’
‘Oh, no. It wouldn’t be one of our choir members!’ Lady Emma seemed genuinely appalled by the suggestion.
‘Then who?’
‘Well, that’s for you to discover, isn’t it, Chief Inspector?’
‘I would appreciate it if you could draw up a list of Sir Aidan’s acquaintances.’
‘Oh, it won’t be someone I know, will it?’
‘Perhaps not. Nevertheless, it will be helpful for us to have such a list. By talking to Sir Aidan’s friends and acquaintances, a name may come up. As it is, we have nothing to go on. Other than mysterious personages whom no one can identify.’
‘Very well. I shall see what I can do.’
Quinn nodded gratefully. ‘It can’t have been easy. Living with a man who was consistently unfaithful to you.’
The liveliness that had entered Lady Emma’s expression while she had been speculating about a blackmailer suddenly drained from her features. Her lips were compressed into a thin line. ‘I did not kill my husband, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘No. I wasn’t. I simply meant there must have been times when it was difficult to be in the same house as him. You said earlier that you would have sent him away rather than lose Miss Greene. Have you ever had occasion to send him away before?’
‘No. But there were times when Aidan understood that it would be wise for him to take himself off.’
‘Where would he go?’
Lady Fonthill’s expression flickered evasively. She settled at last on avoiding Quinn’s gaze. ‘I really don’t know. That was his business, not mine.’
Once again, Quinn had the undeniable sense that she was lying. But why? That was the really interesting question. He could find out easily enough where her husband went; in fact, he already had a pretty good idea. But why Lady Fonthill was being so uncooperative, given that it was her husband’s murder that they were investigating, that was a harder mystery to fathom.
‘How did you and Sir Aidan meet?’
It was a simple question. But the micro-flare of amazement that it provoked was unmistakeable. She recovered quickly to give a burst of mocking laughter. ‘How did we meet?’ Her mouth twisted into a snarl of disgust. It seemed she considered this the most extraordinary question he could possibly ask her, though whether she thought it extraordinarily impertinent or extraordinarily stupid, he did not know. Clearly she did not think it was any of his business.
‘Yes.’
She gave him a look containing equal parts pity and contempt. ‘What possible interest can that be to you?’
‘I am trying to understand your relationship with your husband. It would help to know a little about its origins.’
‘Its origins, you say? Well, believe me, its origins have nothing to do with our meeting.’ She must have noticed his confusion. ‘What you have to understand, Chief Inspector, is that people like Aidan and I, we do not meet in the way that someone like you might meet a person. Nothing is allowed to happen by accident when it comes to such an important matter as arranging the union of a member of the aristocracy.’ She snorted a bitter laugh, making it clear that her choice of word was laced with irony. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not claiming such distinction for myself. I was not the member of the aristocracy, though I might be considered to be one now. I have married into that class, I suppose. And it was only by doing so that I realized how much I despised it. My father was a successful industrialist. I was an only child. He left me a considerable fortune. That is how we met, Chief Inspector. Does that answer your question?’
‘But you shared a common interest? In music?’
‘Yes. That certainly helped in the beginning. It fooled me into believing that I loved him, and that he loved me, when in reality we simply shared a passion for something else. Something external to us both. It was a great distraction, you see, music.’
‘A distraction? From what?’
‘From the fact that he married me for my money and I married him because I was a fool. I didn’t remain a fool, and that in a way was the great tragedy of our marriage.’
‘Are you sorry that he’s dead?’
She looked at him for a moment as if she didn’t understand the question. Then remembering herself, answered, ‘I’m not sorry that he’s out of my life.’
For the first time in the interview, Quinn had the impression that she was being completely honest with him. And yet, at the same time, there was still something strangely evasive about the answer that he could not quite put his finger on.
FORTY
The Red Lion on Parliament Street was a favourite of many classes of people who had a role to play in the nation’s life.
Parliament was not in session at the moment; besides which, it was a Sunday, so there was not the usual throng of MPs and peers at the bar. Also absent were the political journalists who stuck closely to the coat tails of those illustrious beings, like pilot fish surrounding sharks.
And so the saloon
was left to the men who laboured tirelessly on the public’s behalf without recognition or gratitude, the Treasury officials and Admiralty mandarins, innocuous-looking individuals from all the various Whitehall departments, in particular the War Office, who dispensed the fates of millions at home and abroad in the flick of a pen nib and the fold of a paper docket. Who could begrudge them a pint or two of ale in the middle of the day, if it eased the crippling weight of responsibility that no doubt bore down on them, even if they managed to hide it so well? The laughter and conviviality that invariably prevailed in the pub was surely testament to their fortitude and resilience.
The Red Lion was close enough to Scotland Yard to have among its regular clientele a scattering of CID detectives, whose plain clothes protected them from censure. Willoughby had come here often with his former boss, DCI Coddington, who considered a spot of lunchtime ‘lubrication’ (as he put it) to be a necessary part of the investigatory method. ‘Sherlock Holmes has his pipe. I have my dimple pot,’ he had been known to say. Leversedge had never been sure that the habit led to any great clarity of thinking.
He rarely set foot in the place any more, not since transferring to SCD under the apparently abstemious Quinn. Now and then, he would meet one of his former colleagues to chew the fat. It didn’t do any harm to keep up his contacts in CID. You never knew when you might need to pull in a favour.
It was on one of these occasions that Leversedge had first spotted Irons at the bar. He remembered looking at the man and thinking I know you without being able to put his finger on where he knew him from. Then, when he had turned his back on Irons, it came to him. This was the fellow who had lurked unannounced at the back of the room in various briefings. At the end of one of them, he’d seen him parleying confidentially with Quinn, and, despite their lowered voices, had managed to overhear enough to work out their relationship.
When Leversedge had looked back towards the bar to check whether he was right, he saw that the man was gone, the empty pot the only evidence that he had been there at all.
Even though that had been the first time Leversedge was consciously aware of noticing Irons in the Red Lion, he had the distinct impression that he had been there every time he had come in with Coddington. He was like one of those fixtures in a room that is so constant that you no longer see it.
What made it all the more impressive was that Commander Irons was quite a good-looking man: athletic build, chiselled features, compelling gaze. He was in fact just the sort of person you thought you would have noticed.
As soon as Leversedge entered the saloon, he saw that Irons was in his usual place. He kept his gaze fixed on his target as he hurried towards him. He knew from experience that if he let him out of his sight for a moment he was likely to disappear.
‘Can I get you another to go in there?’
Commander Irons did not look up from his pint, which he was staring into as if it held a fascinating secret. ‘Not unless you want to fall foul of the law.’
‘Oh, yes. DORA.’ Leversedge understood the reference to the Defence of the Realm Act. One of its less enforceable provisions was a ban on standing drinks for pals. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
‘Ah, well, you see, Inspector Leversedge, the thing is, you never know who’s watching.’ Irons had still not looked at him, so it was especially unnerving to hear him use his name. Not only had Irons seen Leversedge, he knew who he was.
Leversedge could not help remarking on this. ‘Well, at least that saves me the bother of introducing myself.’
Irons gave a loaded nod but otherwise remained tight-lipped, his face devoid of expression. The beer in his pot still held his attention.
‘May I at least join you?’
‘Join me in what?’
‘Here at the bar.’
Irons pursed his lips. ‘You may stand where you like.’
‘Might I have a word with you while I stand here?’
‘That’s not how it works. If you have something to communicate to us, it must come through Quinn.’
‘What if it is to do with Quinn?’
At last Irons looked up. Leversedge felt himself under scrutiny. It was an uncomfortable sensation. But at least he had the man’s attention now.
FORTY-ONE
‘Please sit down, Miss Greene.’ Quinn held the door open and turned to the other woman in the room. ‘Would you excuse us, Lady Fonthill?’
‘Excuse you?’
‘I wish to speak to Miss Greene alone for a few minutes.’
‘You are ejecting me from my own drawing room!’
‘If there is somewhere else you would rather we conduct the interview?’
Lady Fonthill was on her feet. ‘No, no. Please don’t trouble yourself on my account. I wanted to look in on the children anyway. If you need me, I shall be in the nursery.’
Quinn closed the door behind her, with a slow nod to Macadam who stood with his hands behind his back, looking for all the world as if he had no interest in the proceedings.
Hattie Greene looked up at Quinn nervously. It seemed to him that she was not much more than a child herself. She sat with her feet placed together primly, her hands clasped tightly to still their fidgeting, lips sucked in and tightly clamped.
A bundle of suppressed nerves, in other words.
Quinn did his best to smile and as usual could only hope the effect was reassuring. ‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.’
One shoulder came up in a childlike shrug that struck Quinn as unspeakably poignant. ‘Mr Callaghan said it was important.’ Her voice was small, barely more than a whisper.
‘I understand how frightening this must be for you.’
‘It’s the children I’m worried about.’
‘Of course. How are they bearing up?’
The other shoulder now jerked up, as if yanked by an invisible wire. The movement initiated a wider spasm. This was more than a shrug. It was a silent howl of despair. ‘They are asking a lot of questions. Naturally. I don’t know what to say to them. It’s so horrible. How do you explain something like this to children?’ It appeared to be a genuine question. She gave Quinn a look of such exposed hopelessness that he couldn’t take it any other way.
He wished he had an answer for her, but all he had was a question he knew she wouldn’t like. He felt a heel asking it, especially now, because he knew that now it would have the greatest impact. ‘How would you describe your relationship with Sir Aidan?’
Her look was one of sheer panic. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I understand that he made advances to you?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Is it not true?’
‘He came to the nursery and asked me to audition.’
‘For the choir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he make you feel uncomfortable?’
Miss Greene furrowed her brows as if thinking deeply. ‘I didn’t want to do it. I’m not … I’m not a natural singer.’
She was choosing her words carefully. Quinn suspected that she was acting under the principle of never speak ill of the dead, which had no doubt been impressed on her by some older, wiser relative. He wondered how he could induce her to abandon it. ‘And that’s all there was to it?’
Now both shoulders rolled in a gesture that said more than any words could. She flashed him a look in which the whites of her eyes featured hugely, a revelatory as well as beseeching glance.
‘Did you tell anyone about what had happened?’
Her face coloured with embarrassment at the thought of such a thing. ‘Tell? Who would I tell?’
‘I don’t know. A friend, perhaps? A gentleman friend? Someone who might not take too kindly to your employer putting you in such an invidious position.’
‘You think I told … someone who … who, who killed him!’ The heat of emotion lent force to her voice. That first hesitation, however, told him that he was on to something.
‘There is someone, though?’
‘
Jack wouldn’t hurt anyone. Couldn’t.’ Miss Greene closed her eyes and shuddered. ‘That’s what’s so terrible about this war.’
‘He’s in the army?’
Miss Greene’s eyes were still closed as she nodded.
‘Is he at the Front?’
At last she met Quinn’s gaze. Her eyes glistened with tears. ‘No, thank God. Well, not yet at least. He’s at a training camp in Gravesend.’
‘I understand. But we will have to check. Just to rule him out of our investigation. What’s his name?’
‘Jack. Private Jack Delaware.’
Quinn noted the name. ‘Regiment?’
‘He’s with the Middlesex.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell anyone,’ she insisted, shaking her head in fierce denial.
‘What about the children? Were the children present when he …’
‘Yes.’ Again the colour flooded into her cheeks.
‘They saw everything?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘They didn’t understand.’
‘No. How could they have?’
‘It must have been a very unpleasant experience.’
She rolled in her lips so that they disappeared from view. Her eyes flicked in all directions except at Quinn.
‘How do you think it affected them?’
Her gaze steadied and at last dared to meet his. ‘Children notice things, even if they don’t fully understand them. It’s as if they have emotional antennae.’ She made a little mime of antennae with her hands. Then, remembering herself, clasped them together in her lap. ‘Afterwards, John withdrew into himself. He became sulky. He is … well, little boys, you know, sometimes, they form attachments. He’s very affectionate.’
‘He’s a little bit in love with you?’ Quinn came close to adding, I can understand that.
‘Don’t mock him. His emotions are just as real to him as yours or mine are to us.’
‘You think he was jealous of his father?’
‘You’re not accusing John now, surely?’ She gave an incredulous, gasping laugh.