Rough Justice
Page 21
“The Broker?”
“Exactly.”
Miller nodded. “One way or another, I’ll have them all. But there’s the inquest first, and then Stokely, to see to my wife in the most fitting way possible.”
Roper nodded. “I’ll be there, old son, we all will.”
11
THE CABINET OFFICE HAD ARRANGED A LIMOUSINE FOR MILLER, A MERCEDES, with a driver named Arthur Fox, also an ex-soldier, Blues & Royals this time. Miller sat up front with him, and Monica and Senator Hunt were in the rear.
A scattering of people were sitting on the benches outside the inquest room, along with police officers, the odd person in legal robes passing through. A woman in her thirties, from the look of her, got up and came forward uncertainly.
“Major Miller? It is you, isn’t it? I’m Ellis Vaughan’s sister, Jean.” She had obviously been crying.
“Of course,” Miller said. “I arranged for you to go to the Buckingham Palace garden party two years ago. This is my sister, Lady Starling.”
Monica came and put an arm around her. Jean burst into tears. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. My husband, Tony, was killed in Iraq last year. My mother married again and lives in New Zealand.”
Monica sat her down and tried to comfort her, and at that moment the double doors opened and an usher called, “Court now in session.”
They filed in, along with half a dozen members of the public, and took seats. Already present were two or three people in legal gowns, a burly police sergeant, and the clerk of the court at a desk below the bench. George Langley walked in and reported to him.
Miller said to Senator Hunt, “That’s the pathologist, the one who did the autopsy.”
The clerk of the court called, “Rise for Her Majesty’s coroner,” and the coroner came in, looking about seventy with white hair. A little later, an official opened a door and the jury entered and took their seats.
The coroner said, “This hearing is a little unusual. Mrs. Olivia Miller and her chauffeur, Mr. Ellis Vaughan, died in the same unfortunate accident. The Lord Chancellor’s Office has given me permission to consider the cases together. Police evidence, please.”
A police sergeant read a long statement, pointing out the facts in the matter, and entered in five sworn statements from witnesses to the fact that the Amara had jumped the lights. The coroner had them accepted by his clerk and said, “Could there have been any mechanical reason for what happened?”
The sergeant produced another sworn statement from the police sergeant who had examined the Amara at the pound. So badly had the engine been damaged that there was no possibility of reaching a conclusion. The coroner ordered his clerk to accept that statement also.
The clerk then called George Langley, who took the stand under oath. The coroner said, “Professor Langley, I have the two autopsy reports on the matter. Did you perform them yourself?”
The clerk of the court passed copies to the jury, as Langley said, “Yes.”
“Have you any particular observation to make?”
“Both of the deceased had massive injuries sustained in the crash, which I’ve detailed in my reports. If you will permit me, there is one thing worth mentioning regarding the point that the vehicle was driven at speed through lights into rush-hour traffic?”
“Please, Professor.”
“There was no evidence of alcohol in the driver’s system, nor the slightest trace of drugs of any description.”
There was a slight pause, then the coroner said, “Over a long and distinguished career, you’ve had experience of similar cases?”
“Yes, many times.”
“So what conclusion would you draw?”
“That some kind of mechanical failure took place beyond the driver’s control, although I have no hard evidence to support that view.”
“Please accept the court’s thanks and step down, Professor.”
The coroner shuffled his papers, then started his address to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, facts are what we must consider, not conjecture, facts alone. The tragedy speaks for itself. A brilliant and talented lady at the height of her powers cruelly snatched away, as well as a young man with a gallant service record behind him.”
He put his fingers together as if thinking. “I appreciate the point Professor Langley makes and thank him for it, but we cannot say it is factual, only supposition. He is right, however, to point to the fact that Vaughan was not driving under the influence. We have a mystery here. In the circumstances, I would suggest an open verdict. You are, of course, at liberty to retire.”
They muttered to each other, heads bobbed, and the foreman stood. “The open verdict seems sensible to us.”
“Let it be so entered. Now we come to the question of next of kin. If Jean Marlowe is in court, please stand.” Jean, sitting next to Monica, did. The coroner said, “I will now issue you with a burial order as Ellis Vaughan’s sister. You have my sympathy. You may retrieve the body at your convenience.”
Jean slumped down, and Monica put an arm around her.
“Major Harry Miller.” Miller stood. “I will issue you with a burial order. You also have my sympathy.”
The clerk cried, “The court will rise for Her Majesty’s coroner.”
Everything was suddenly in motion; the jury shuffled out and the court started to clear. Miller went to the clerk of the court’s desk and Jean followed him, bewildered. They were each given a burial order. They walked out and paused beside the Mercedes.
“What are you going to do now?” Miller asked.
“I’ll be fine. I’m a nursing sister at Guy’s Hospital—isn’t it strange he should end up there? My consultant and matron have been very good. They’ve already arranged an undertaker. I’ll just have a few friends at the crematorium. Day after tomorrow. You’ll be going to Stokely, I suppose?”
“Later today. The funeral’s tomorrow,” Monica said.
“Ellis loved it at Stokely. It’s a funny old life, isn’t it?” She turned suddenly and walked away.
“Poor girl,” Monica said. “Now what?”
Miller held up the burial order. “We’ll deliver this to the undertakers Henry Frankel arranged for me. Ten Vine Street, Arthur.” They all got in the Mercedes.
HOWARD AND SON it was called, an imposing Victorian townhouse, like another world once you stepped inside—a world of polished mahogany-paneled walls, an abiding smell of lilies, just a hint of music. They were greeted by a well-shaved, dark-haired man named Jarvis, wearing a black suit. “Would you care to view the deceased?” he inquired.
It was Senator Hunt who suddenly came to life, having hardly said a word all morning and nothing in court. “Oh, yes, most definitely.”
They were led to an arcade, chapels on each side and several occupied. Olivia was in the third. She lay at rest, garbed in a white robe, her hair neatly arranged, her face a mask of makeup.
“Our embalmer, Joseph Bilton, has done his very best with Mrs. Miller, Major. She required careful work, I’m afraid. There was damage.”
Miller looked down at her for only a moment or so, but this wasn’t his wife, not Olivia at all. The Senator said, “She looks lovely. She could be sleeping.”
Miller turned to the door, and Jarvis followed him and took the burial order he was offered. “You’ve been in touch with the vicar at Stokely, Mark Bond?”
“Yes, Major, we’re taking her down early tomorrow morning. The service will be at noon. Mr. Frankel from Downing Street arranged everything. He assumed that as a Catholic you would not want cremation?”
“Excellent.” Miller didn’t argue. “Anything else you need, deal with my sister, Lady Starling. I’ll be in my car.”
“Yes, Major, of course.” He turned back into the chapel, where Monica was hugging a very disturbed man indeed.
THE DRIVE DOWN to Stokely was a miserable affair, mainly because Senator Hunt was really grieving, despair finally breaking through. Monica did her best to comfort him.
Which it didn’t. He couldn’t be told the blunt truth. His heart was not good at the best of times; he’d already had one bypass. The knowledge that his daughter had met her death as the innocent victim of an assassination plot to kill her husband could well be enough to push him over the edge.
The very idea of having to tell Monica filled Miller with horror, and yet at some stage it would have to be done. He was here being driven through the Kent countryside, and his wife was in her coffin, and the truth was it should have been the other way around. He had chosen a way of life with great risks inherent to it, and it was Olivia who’d paid the price.
AUNT MARY WAS like a ghost, drifting around the house, her voice a whisper. She and Hunt sat by the fire, totally at a loss. Fergus Grant and Sarah were deeply touched by events, already in mourning. They saw to Arthur Fox, giving him the second spare bedroom at the cottage, leaving the one Ellis had occupied locked out of respect.
Miller was having a cup of tea in the kitchen and Monica came in. “So, Badger’s End has been booked for the whole day.” It was a country hotel close to the church. “They’ll do a buffet for a hundred and fifty.”
“A lot of people will drive up from London, I suppose.”
“Of course they will, and many of her theater friends.”
“Have you spoken to the vicar?”
“He’s been very good. Managed to get Cooper’s to rush out an order of service. He’s choosing the hymns, because he said he knew what she’d like. I’ll go round and check the hotel. What about you?”
“I thought I’d look in at the constituency office. If there’s nothing doing there, I’ll drop in at the pub, get a sandwich, show my face.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Why not?”
THE CONSTITUENCY OFFICE was closed. The notice on the door said Out of Respect and there was a black-ribboned mourning wreath with it. People passed to say how sorry they were, some actually dodged out of the way as if embarrassed; older women were the most upset, many of whom had known Miller since boyhood. He wandered into the churchyard of St. Michael’s. It was quite beautiful and dated from the fifteenth century. St. Michael’s was Church of England, not Catholic, but Olivia had always loved the place, had regularly put flowers on the family plot by the far wall, an old cypress tree extending over it. His father’s and mother’s remains were there by special dispensation, and the church verger was there with the local gravedigger. Everything was obviously ready, neatly covered with a green tarpaulin.
“Thank you,” he said.
The vicar, Mark Bond, came out of the side entrance, wearing a black cassock. He was bound for the rectory, but saw Miller and threaded his way through the stones, his face grave. He shook hands warmly.
“Are you coping?”
“Just about. We had the coroner’s inquest this morning on both of them. I presume you heard that the chauffeur died?”
“Yes, I heard from Howard’s in Westminster.”
“You realize the Prime Minister will be here, and that means the press?”
“It had come to my notice. A full house, Harry, she was greatly liked in Stokely. They’ll all turn out.”
“Obviously, Monica was at the court this morning, and Olivia’s father, Senator George Hunt.”
“Whom I met a couple of years ago. I’ll call round later on if I may?”
“Of course you can.” Miller shook his head. “I don’t know how you cope, Mark. The death business is a constant in your profession.”
“True.”
“But then, you have faith to support you.”
“And you don’t, Harry?”
“Lost it during the Falklands War, when the wind blew the mist away at Tumbledown and I saw the dead and wounded, heard the cries from both sides. I think that wind blew away my faith, too. Strange, as I’d been raised a Catholic, but I found I couldn’t pray anymore.”
Bond put a hand on his shoulder. “Then I’ll have to pray for you. I’ll come round later.”
He walked away and Miller stayed there, thinking, aware of the rooks calling to each other in the trees above, and he walked across to the Stokely Arms. Holly Green, the publican’s wife, another childhood friend, was behind the bar, it being the quiet half of the afternoon. She came around instantly and put her arms around him.
“God bless you, Harry,” she said, and that was all.
“I’ll have a large scotch.”
“Go and sit down, and I’ll bring it.”
There were perhaps a half a dozen people scattered around the ancient bar, a fire smoldering in the open hearth. He sat in the old oak booth in the corner and she brought the whiskey and Monica came in.
“That looks good, I could punish one. How are you, Holly?”
They embraced and Holly went to get another, and to Miller, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Monica received her drink. “Everything’s organized. What about you?”
“I’ve seen Mark Bond. It’s all in hand, he’s even got God on his side.”
“And you, Harry, are you all right?”
“I don’t think I ever will be again, but that isn’t the point. You’re still my dearly loved sister, even though you heard something about me from Olivia that truly shocked you. Now I’m going to shock you again, but it has to be done.”
“Then tell me.”
“It wasn’t an accident. The Amara was interfered with. The crash was an assassination attempt on my life in revenge for my success in doing away with some very bad people.”
There was horror on her face. “Oh, dear God.”
“There is no God, not for me. The Amara was waiting for me, but Olivia wanted to get to the hairdressers fast to prepare for her television appearance, and she asked me if she could have it. It was as simple as that.”
She took a breath. “Do you know who?”
“There are several possibilities, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going to get the lot if I can. It’s all my fault, you see that? If I hadn’t hurt them so badly, they wouldn’t have tried to get me. The guilt is on my head and not to be shared, but I’ll make them pay.”
“What about the Senator?”
“I’m not trying to avoid anything, I’ve proved that by confessing to you, but I don’t think it would help to tell him.”
“I agree.” She was quite calm now. “Tell me something. Is your friend Sean Dillon included in this business?”
“Well, he usually is. Does that bother you?”
“Not at all. If you’re going to war, you need the right troops.” She got up. “Don’t worry, love, whatever else, I’m your sister and I’m on your side. Now let’s get back.”
THE CORTEGE ARRIVED at the house in good time and parked in the grounds, the great and the good arrived steadily from London, and in the unusual circumstances, Miller left Monica in charge at the hall and headed a reception committee at the church comprising a team of local men supplied by the constituency office.
Cars parked all over the place as people flooded in, so many from London. The cast of the play headed by the director, Colin Carlton looking pale and drawn, Ferguson, Roper in his wheelchair, Dillon, Harry and Billy Salter, a number of MPs, and Simon Carter, of all people, who shook Miller’s hand and said, “I had to pay my respects, and the PM offered me a lift.”
“Kind of you to come.” They touched hands, and then the Prime Minister arrived with his wife and several photographers stepped forward.
The ushers packed them in until it was standing room only and then the moment came; Mark Bond emerged from the door in his robes and stood waiting. Miller joined him, and the cortege came down the hill, and the men from London, headed by Jarvis, took over.
Monica, Aunt Mary, and the Senator got out of the fron
t funeral Rolls and came forward. Miller gave Aunt Mary his arm, Monica and Hunt joined together, and they walked in behind Bond as the organ burst into sound.
WHEN IT WAS OVER in the church, and the interment took place, the weather still held up. Standing with Monica at the graveside, Miller murmured, “They say it always rains at funerals, and especially with bad March weather. I was certain it would.”
She squeezed his hand. “Well, it didn’t, God rest her. Now let’s allow others to pay their respects and go and put a brave face on it.”
Which they did. The Prime Minister stayed for half an hour at the reception, then put an arm around Miller and kissed Monica. “So glad we could come. Sorry to rush off, but duty calls.”
Carter nodded, and looked a little frosty as Ferguson appeared and followed the Prime Minister and his wife to their limousine and the small entourage of security people and they were driven away.
Miller turned to Ferguson, who had been joined by Roper, the Salters, and Dillon. “Well, at least he came. Carter, I mean.”
“Come on, it would have looked bleeding bad if he hadn’t,” Harry Salter said.
Monica had joined them. “Succinct as usual, Harry.” Miller turned to Monica. “These are friends of mine you haven’t met, General Charles Ferguson and associates.”
“Lady Starling,” Ferguson said. “Your fame precedes you. I expect you know my cousin, another archaeologist, Professor Hal Stone of Corpus Christi?”
“Of course I do, the biggest rogue in Cambridge. Somebody shot him last year and—” She stopped, looked at them all, and said to Miller, “Are all of these people spooks?”
“No, the other Harry there used to be a gangster and then discovered it was just as easy to be rich in the business world.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that.” Monica suddenly discovered she was enjoying herself. “Is somebody going to offer me a glass of champagne?”