The Murder Cabinet: an Inspector Constable murder mystery (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 7)

by Roger Keevil

  “And did you hear anything after you retired? Any sounds of someone moving about the house, perhaps?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “And you didn’t leave the room yourself?”

  “Why would I? Anyway, I haven’t had any chance, have I? Inspector Deare came up with the news first thing and said that everyone was being asked to stay put, so that’s what I’ve done. I haven’t even been able to call my husband, and it’s our wedding anniversary today.”

  *

  Outside in the corridor once again, Andy Constable lowered his voice. “I hope you got all that, sergeant.”

  Dave Copper looked puzzled. “I think so, guv. I’ve made notes of pretty much everything she said.”

  “But what about what she didn’t say?”

  “How do you mean, guv?”

  “Oh, all sorts of things. For example, according to her account, Mrs. Ronson seemed quite eager to get rid of the last two still downstairs after her string of meetings. What do you suppose that means?”

  Copper cottoned on. “Right, guv. She was still expecting someone. One of the players was due to come back down again for a second session.”

  “That’s what I took it to mean. But we have no idea who at the moment. And then there’s the matter of that little door.”

  “What, the one going through to her bathroom? What about it?”

  “Not that one, sergeant,” smiled Constable. “The other one, obviously left over from when it was a servant’s room. The one half-hidden behind that screen in the corner of the room. The one which almost blends into the wall because it’s covered with the same wallpaper as the rest of the room. The one which leads through into the room next door …”

  “… which is occupied by the man with whom she seemed most anxious to deny that there was anything going on,” grinned Copper. “Maybe that’s why she’s so jumpy. Illicit nookie in the corridors of power, despite what Amanda Laye said.”

  “Not quite how I would have put it,” said Constable, “but it’s one possible strand of thought. Does that sort of thing damage a politician’s prospects these days?” He shrugged. “Perhaps we’ll learn more from Mr. Neal himself.”

  Chapter 5

  Dr. Peregrine Neal looked exactly like the sort of traditional family G.P. always portrayed in films or television programmes from the 1950s. Appearing to be in his early sixties, tweed-jacketed, tall and gangling with a slight stoop, he answered the knock at his door and inspected his visitors over the top of his half-frame spectacles.

  “Mr. Neal?”

  “Doctor, actually” came the gentle correction.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. But you are Dr. Neal?”

  “Yes. How can I help?”

  “Detective Inspector Constable, sir. And this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Copper. We’ve been charged with the initial investigation into the Prime Minister’s death.”

  “Ah. Sheila Deare mentioned that you would be calling, inspector. You’d better come in.” Perry Neal stood back to allow the detectives into the room, and waved them to a sofa placed in front of a large marble fireplace, while he took a seat in an armchair alongside it.

  Constable looked around briefly. The room was a complete contrast to the one he had last visited. Spacious, dominated by a large half-tester bed with curtains in a bold regency stripe of green and gold, the atmosphere was subtly masculine, with furnishings including a classical Empire-style chiffonier, desk, and upright chairs, the walls decorated with large framed monochrome etchings of Palladian country houses and architectural details. The door which led to the previous adjoining room, the inspector noted, was also discreetly incorporated into the décor.

  “Dr. Neal,” began Constable, “you’re familiar with the situation, I think.”

  “Of course.”

  “So I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me with some additional information.”

  “What are you after, inspector? Full clinical details of how the Prime Minister met her end?”

  “Our own doctor has already given us an idea as to that,” replied Constable. He frowned. “Just a moment. Are you saying that you have seen the body?”

  An infinitesimal pause. “Certainly not, inspector. No, the instructions were quite clear when Inspector Deare came round this morning – nobody was to leave their room, so of course I sat tight in here. However much professional interest and plain human curiosity might have been calling me downstairs to examine the P.M. No, I resisted the temptation and caught up with the latest in The Lancet instead. In my position, I have to keep my finger on the pulse.” Perry winced. “My apologies, inspector. That was a very old medic’s joke from a very old medic. I’m afraid I still can’t manage to avoid the old consulting room humour.”

  “Are you saying you’re still practising, doctor?” enquired Constable, surprised.

  “Hardly,” said Perry. “My surgeries these days are political rather than medical. Much as I might like to keep my hand in, but it’s not really compatible with being Secretary of State for Health. Too much passing across my desk. But I still can’t seem to shake off the habit of taking my bag with me wherever I go. Because you never know, do you?” He gestured to the traditional black doctor’s bag lying at the foot of the bed. “After all, it’s only around two years since it was my daily companion.”

  “Really, sir? How so?”

  “That was when I first got elected, at the by-election. There was quite a bit about it in the papers at the time.”

  Memories stirred at the back of Constable’s mind. “Of course, sir. You were the surprise victor, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right. I’d stood as an Independent in support of the local hospital because there was a great row at the time about the possibility of its closure, and somehow, against all the odds, people decided to vote for me, and I won the seat. Trumped all expectations, you might say. And then, after the last election, Mrs. Ronson decided that she wanted somebody with proper hands-on experience to run the Health Department, so she gave it to me.”

  “Something of a meteoric rise, sir,” commented Constable.

  “As you say, inspector. I’ve had to learn the game of politics at breakneck speed. So now I am the one who has to make all the difficult decisions about financial strictures and possible hospital closures, which means that I have begun to have a sneaking sense of sympathy for my predecessor.”

  “And was this the burden of your talks with the Prime Minister during your meeting last night, sir?” Constable sought to return the conversation to the matter in hand.

  Perry shrugged. “Partly. Not really in any detail. In fact, our chat was all fairly general. I can’t think of anything that stood out. Mind you, by then I imagine the P.M. was getting pretty tired. I know I was, and I was the last but one in. There was only Marion after me. And when I came out, everyone else had vanished, so I just had a nightcap before coming up to bed. In fact, I think I may have dozed off for a moment, but I managed to pretend to be awake when Marion came out, and then shortly after that, we both came up, leaving the place deserted.”

  “No indications while you were waiting while everyone else had their interviews with Mrs. Ronson that there might be any tensions in the wind, doctor?” asked Constable, more in hope than expectation. “No remarks – tight lips – angry expressions?”

  “You’re looking for someone who emerged from their meeting snarling revenge, inspector?” said Perry with a smile. “You have to remember that, unlike me, most of these people are professional politicians. Hiding their feelings is what they do best.”

  *

  “I have an inkling,” murmured Andy Constable to Dave Copper as the two stood outside the door of the next bedroom along the corridor, “that the bluff Dr. Neal is not quite the candid innocent he would like us to believe.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing that struck me, guv,” returned Dave Copper. “That bit about not having seen Mrs. Ronson’s body. He was pretty quick to say he hadn’t, but not quite quick e
nough, and there was a bit of wriggly body language that made me wonder.”

  “Two minds with but a single thought,” agreed Constable, “but exactly what that implies will have to wait. For now, let’s see who’s occupying …” He consulted the plaque on the door. “… the State Bedroom.”

  To say that the room was grand would be to understate the facts. Every corner dripped with decoration. Dominated by an enormous four-poster bed, brocade-hung and topped with explosions of ostrich plumes at the corners and a central golden coronet, the room glinted with gilt and glass, and formed a suitably opulent setting for the woman who responded to the detectives’ knock with a languid ‘Come in!’, as she lounged elegantly on the Georgian sofa at the foot of the bed. Her appearance had a touch of the exotic – her skin tones were warm, her hair jet black and glossy, and her enormous dark eyes surveyed her visitors with a hint of challenge.

  “Forgive the interruption, Mrs. …?”

  “Ms.”

  “I’m sorry … Ms. …?”

  “Mayall. Erica Mayall. And you are …?”

  “Detective Inspector Constable.” Constable, slightly disconcerted, fumbled for his credentials, and nudged his colleague to do likewise. “I’ve been ordered to investigate the matter of the sudden death of the Prime Minister, and I’m beginning by speaking to everyone who was in the house last night. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient moment.”

  “No more than any other, inspector.” Erica rose, wrapped her long silk robe, embroidered with fantastical dragons, a little more firmly around herself, and swayed across the room to pour herself a cup of coffee from her otherwise seemingly untouched breakfast tray. She did not offer any to her visitors. Coffee in hand, she perched on the stool of her dressing table while waving the other hand vaguely in the direction of the sofa she had just vacated. She raised her finely sculpted eyebrows expectantly. “Well?”

  “This is a magnificent room, Ms. Mayall,” said Constable, declining to be intimidated by the slightly confrontational atmosphere.

  “The best in the house, actually.” Erica was unable to conceal a note of self-satisfaction.

  “Anyone might have thought that this would have been reserved for the Prime Minister, rather than one of her more junior colleagues,” suggested Constable.

  “Oh, it was probably just the luck of the draw,” replied Erica airily. “And Doris was perfectly happy for me to have this room. She said it all looked rather too froufrou for her tastes.”

  “I can see that,” said Constable easily, surveying the décor. “I must say, if it were me, I’d also prefer something rather more masculine. So, I take it you were close, you and the P.M.?”

  “I’m sorry? What exactly do you mean, inspector?” There was an unexpected hint of hostility.

  “I simply mean, were you particularly close colleagues? I gather that it’s not always easy having genuine friendships in politics.”

  “Well, I suppose we may have been closer than many. We did come into the House of Commons at the same time, a couple of elections back, and we shared an office for a while when we were both on the opposition benches. And, of course, as a woman Prime Minister, she was intensely interested in my portfolio.”

  Constable gave an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Ms. Mayall, but I’m afraid I’m not one hundred percent up to speed with what everyone does. And unfortunately the nature of your ministerial job has so far escaped me.”

  “How like a man,” retorted Erica waspishly. “I am the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs, inspector. I think you’ll find that my ministry is destined to be one of the more important ones in the future.”

  “Despite the talk I’ve heard that one of the reasons for this gathering of ministers might have foreshadowed a reshuffle? You had no concerns for your own future on that score?”

  “None whatsoever.” The response was swift and frosty.

  “You had no areas of conflict with Mrs. Ronson?”

  “As I said, Mr. Constable, none. How often would you like me to repeat it?”

  “And how about your other colleagues, Ms. Mayall? After all, I am afraid that there is no denying the fact that either you or one of your colleagues has killed our country’s Prime Minister.”

  Erica bit her lip. “Must you be so brutal, inspector?” She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. When she resumed, her voice was softer. “No, I have no idea why anyone would do such a thing.”

  Constable glanced at his junior. “Copper, correct me, but I think that Ms. Mayall was in the other car, not Mrs. Ronson’s, when the party adjourned to the village for dinner?”

  A brief riffle of the pages of Copper’s notebook. “That’s right, sir. Together with Miss Laye, Mr. Stalker, Mrs. Nye and Dr. Neal.”

  “I just wondered if there was anything said during the journey, or over dinner, that might give me a pointer towards any tensions in the party.” Constable looked enquiringly at the minister.

  Erica shook her head. “Nothing that seems relevant, inspector. And Lewis and Perry were so busy dominating the conversation at dinner that it was difficult to get a word in edgeways. I exchanged a few words with Doris and Mandy, but nothing that would help you, I think.”

  “Nothing significant in the talk about shoes, then?” smiled Constable.

  “I don’t know what you mean by that.” Erica shifted slightly, and there was a sharpness in her tone which surprised the inspector.

  “Nothing in particular, Ms. Mayall. I was just remembering a snippet of your conversation which someone overheard. That’s all.”

  “Oh. I see.” Erica gave a small and slightly false laugh. “No, that was just girl talk.”

  “As one might expect from a government minister in charge of policy regarding women’s affairs.” Constable risked a small jibe, moving swiftly on before Erica could react. “And when the party returned here to the Hall, I suppose nothing emerged from the individual meetings you all had with Mrs. Ronson?”

  “Everything was completely confidential, inspector. The P.M. made that perfectly clear to all of us, I think. Certainly nobody said anything to me.” She thought for a moment. “I was about halfway down the list, I suppose. Yes, because Milo had his session before me, and Benny followed on after me.”

  “Benny?”

  “Benjamin Fitt. The Social Security Secretary. He’s in the room next door to this one.”

  “Which means that we shall be speaking to him shortly, Ms Mayall.” Constable got to his feet. “Perhaps he’ll be able to give us more information as to anything that may have happened later.”

  Erica shrugged. “Maybe. I certainly can’t. I went out to the front door because I wanted to go out for a breath of air, but then I found that we’d all been locked in, and there was no sign of the manager to let me out, so I just came up here and read a magazine.”

  “You saw no-one else after that? And no-one else saw you?”

  Erica gave a cat-like smile. “Wanting an alibi, inspector? Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t provide one. And after last night’s sessions, I doubt if anyone else can. Probably all too busy licking their wounds in private after the P.M. had finished with them.”

  *

  “What on earth do you reckon she meant by that last remark, guv?” enquired Dave Copper in a discreet undertone as he closed the door of the State Bedroom behind him.

  “I think that she has perhaps confirmed what we probably already suspected,” replied Andy Constable. “In other words, that everything that we’ve been told about light inconsequential chats about nothing in particular between Mrs. Ronson and her ministers is just a load of old guff. If there was nothing more important to discuss than football coverage and fashions in footwear, it could all have been done over a glass of government-issue sherry in Downing Street.”

  “Yes, but nobody’s told us anything helpful yet on that score, have they, guv?”

  “They will in time, Copper. Just trust the old adage – the more people talk, the more they give themselves away. And do
n’t forget, we’ve got a few overheard snippets, which I’m willing to bet will bear closer inspection, if past experience is anything to go by. So, let us speak to this Mr. Fitt, who if my calculations are correct, is the last one in our parade of ministers.”

  Copper checked his notebook. “He is, sir.” He grinned. “The last of our wise monkeys, all busy seeing, hearing, and speaking no evil. Ah, but what about ‘doing no evil’?”

  “That, sergeant,” said Constable with an answering smile, “we shall discover.” He tapped on the door, which bore the legend ‘The Cedar Room’, and in response to the cheery ‘Come in’ from within, entered the room.

  A large window gave spectacular views across the lawns leading down to the lake, with the prospect graced by the enormous cedar tree which lent the room its name. Delicately carved wooden panelling featuring a profusion of birds, fruits, and foliage adorned the walls, and the theme was continued with a suite of delicate eighteenth-century furniture which Constable surmised could quite easily be genuine Chippendale.

  The sophisticated atmosphere of the room was in complete contrast to its occupant, who virtually bounced across the floor to greet the detectives. He was short and round-faced, reminiscent of an eager bulldog pup, plump of frame but quick in his movements. His age could have been anywhere in the forties or fifties.

  “At long last!” he cried. “The Old Bill has finally arrived! I’ve been sat here waiting for you to turn up for ages.” The voice made no compromises – the accent was pure East End of London, with a rasp which hinted at a history of heavy smoking.

  “Mr. Benjamin Fitt?” enquired Constable.

  “That’s right,” confirmed the man. “But for goodness sake, call me Benny. Everyone else has, ever since I was a kid. Well, I say everyone. I can’t get some of this lot to do it.” A nod of the head to indicate his colleagues in the rest of the house. “Too stuck in formality for their own good. In my opinion, they’ve all got their heads shoved too far up their own … well, you get the idea.”

  “I think I do, Mr. Fitt,” said Constable, amused almost against his will. “But if you don’t mind, considering the circumstances, I think I’d prefer to be a little more formal in my approach.”