by Roger Keevil
“So what on earth am I to do now?” Sheila still seemed at a loss.
Constable considered for a moment. “I think the only thing to do at this point is to get everyone together. At least, that way, we can stop this turning into an epidemic. Because obviously, my deciding to keep everyone apart has given someone the opportunity to break out and kill again. So, if you will, please collect everyone – Copper will help you – and gather them all together downstairs. The drawing room is probably best, if there’s enough space.”
“I’ll get some extra chairs through from the dining room, guv,” volunteered Copper.
“Do I tell them what’s happened?” asked Sheila.
“I think not,” said Constable. “I want to see their reactions when we break the news, so it’s probably best if we can keep the element of surprise, as far as we can. Not that that will hold good for at least two of the company. Dr. Neal knows about Mrs. Nye – I got him in here to confirm that she was in fact dead. And, of course, whoever killed her.”
“Unless they’re one and the same person, of course, guv,” pointed out Copper. “I can’t think offhand of anyone who would know how to handle a syringe better than a doctor.”
“Can’t you?” replied Constable. He seemed momentarily distracted, as if a thought was hovering, just out of sight. “Well, be that as it may, if you and Inspector Deare would see to collecting everyone together, including Messrs Knightly and Daly. Sheila, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay with the group and keep them under your eye. I’ll stay here and hear what Sergeant Singleton has to say.”
“Righty-ho, guv.” Copper stood back to allow Sheila to lead the way on their mission.
“Well, Singleton?” enquired Constable heavily. “What’s the picture?”
“Here or elsewhere, sir?”
“Let’s start with here.”
“Not a lot I can say, sir. Yes, it’s highly probable that this syringe, and whatever was in it, has been the cause of Mrs. Nye’s death, but until it’s removed, there’s no way I can attempt any sort of analysis of what it contained, and I daren’t tread on the doctor’s toes by touching it. But I’ll try to scan it for prints. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of a struggle, so I’m guessing that whatever happened was very quick and surprising and almost immediately successful in at least subduing the lady.”
“No force? No evidence of violence?”
Una shook her head. “Not easy for me to tell, sir. There might be some marks which are the start of bruising round the mouth.”
“As if a hand has been held over it? Is that what you mean?”
“Maybe, sir. It’s not really my area of expertise. But if you want an answer to the question I think you’re asking, I don’t think there would have been the need for any particular degree of strength.”
“So not necessarily a man? Equally possibly a woman?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Wonderful,” grunted Constable. “Not exactly narrowing the field down, are we? So, what else do you have? I’m hoping that you’ve got something more positive to tell me about what you’ve found next door and downstairs.”
“Just a few findings, sir,” said Una. “I hope they’ll be helpful.” She cast an uneasy eye over the body. “Could we perhaps discuss them somewhere else, sir? It’s not exactly conducive to conversation in here, is it?”
“You’re right, of course, sergeant,” said Constable. “We’ll adjourn downstairs. I should imagine that Mr. Knightly’s office may be free by now, so you can let me have your thoughts in comfort before you come back up here to do what you can while we wait for the body to be removed. I dare say you’ll want to take a large number of photos and test whatever you can for fingerprints, and so on.” He smiled sympathetically. “Probably more like your usual routine, I expect. You don’t usually find yourself in at the kill, so to speak.”
Una echoed his smile in a rather shakier version. “That’s true, sir.”
“Then let’s be about it.” The inspector ushered the SOCO officer from the room, closing the door behind him, and followed her down the stairs.
Seated in Phil Knightly’s office, Constable looked at Una expectantly.
She drew a breath, pulled her tablet computer from her bag, opened it, and swiped the screen. “I’ll start with the library, sir. There were two whisky glasses on the desk, both with remnants of liquid in them, which is most probably from the decanter nearby. I’ve bagged them, and I’ve also managed to take samples of the contents for analysis, but at a guess, considering that there’s been no suggestion of poisoning, I’m not going to find anything untoward. But I do have some fingerprints. There’s one set on both glasses, so that would most likely belong to the person who poured both drinks.”
“Any identities?”
“Oh yes, sir. Fortunately. I was able to take a scan of Mrs. Ronson’s prints …”
“Oh yes. I remember that useful little scanner of yours from the case at the theatre.”
“… and the ones on both glasses are hers. Plus another set on the other glass.”
“So, hosting a little drinks party which we know nothing about. And the other prints?”
“Not so far identified, sir, but that’s because I’ve not had a chance to go around everybody in the house. Will you want me to do that?”
“I think it’s going to be essential, sergeant. We need to know who that other person was.”
“One thing I can tell you, sir. Those other prints are also on the plate of sandwiches which was on the desk.”
“Just those?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the sandwiches are untouched. So,” mused Constable, “we have someone coming to the library, at some time outside the programme of prime ministerial interviews with the ministers, and bringing a plate of provisions, for which the reward seems to have been a cosy drink and a chat. But who is the angel of mercy, I wonder? And did the chat lead on to more unpleasant consequences?” He pondered for a moment. “Get me those print results as soon as you can, please. So, moving on, what next?”
“Well, sir, you know about the napkin which we assumed came from the sandwich plate. I’m afraid I was right about the murder weapon – no fingerprints other than a couple of smudges, but the napkin has succeeded in erasing them pretty effectively. I’ve got the napkin bagged, and I’m sure there’ll be DNA, but I’ll be surprised if the blood on it turns out to be anything other than Mrs. Ronson’s. As for the knife, you saw for yourself. It’s very unusual. Silver, and it’s a very modern design. I can’t tell you where that came from.”
“But as it happens, I can,” remarked Constable. “According to the hotel manager, Mr. Knightly, it’s his, and belongs with the rest of that set sitting on the desk just there.” He pointed.
Una took a closer look. “Yes, sir. I can see identical design features.”
“So if you had been able to find any prints on it, I have no doubt that they would have been Mr. Knightly’s. Which, given his apparent lack of motive, does not advance us much.”
“There’s something else, sir,” pointed out Una. “There’s the other knife.”
“Yes, I know. There was a paper-knife on the library desk, but as it was plainly sitting there innocuously, I didn’t attach too much significance to it.”
“No, not that one, sir,” contradicted Una. “The other one.”
“What other one?” enquired Constable, startled. “Where?”
“On that plate of sandwiches, sir. Just a very ordinary knife - it looks as if it came from a conventional cutlery service. I dare say if I check in the kitchen, I’ll find its fellows, so I wouldn’t expect to draw any conclusions from that. Except that, although it was to hand, it wasn’t used in the murder. So I would guess that the murder weapon was taken from here to the library purposely.”
“Hmmm,” said Constable. “I missed that. Congratulations. You seem quite adept at making deductions from rather sketchy facts, sergeant. I’m impressed. Are you sure you
didn’t miss your vocation? I suspect you would make quite a formidable detective.”
With a slight blush, Una hurried on. “That’s about all I could get from downstairs, sir. I mean, there’s plenty more, but I don’t know how useful it would be to you. The door handle of the library is a mass of prints, as is the chair by the library desk, but I understand that everyone was in that room at some point because of all the meetings David … Sergeant Copper told me about, so I don’t know that there’s anything to be gained by trying to identify them. And I can’t see any real evidence that Mrs. Ronson’s body had been moved since her death … although …”
“Although what?” enquired Constable sharply.
“Well … there was something about the position of the head. It didn’t look absolutely right to me. Not as it would lie naturally if the body had just fallen and stayed there.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“I suppose it might just be that the person who found the body touched it to check whether the Prime Minister was actually dead, sir. That might account for it.”
“Except that Mr. Knightly, who discovered Mrs. Ronson, claims that he didn’t touch the body at all. So,” reflected Constable, “if he didn’t, who did?” He paused for a moment. “Anything else from downstairs?” Una shook her head. “In which case, we’ll move upstairs. What about Mrs. Ronson’s room?”
Una pulled a face. “Sorry, sir, but it’s either a case of too little information, or too much. It’s pretty clear that the room had been cleaned comprehensively, but I’m assuming that that was in anticipation of the Prime Minister’s arrival. I’ve got her prints all over the bedroom and the bathroom – taps, wardrobe door-handles and the like – but virtually nothing else except a few partials. My guess would be that the chambermaid probably wore rubber gloves to do her work – there are some traces of the sort of powder they use inside those one-use gloves. Oh, and quite a number of Mrs. Ronson’s prints around the desk and its chair, sir – it looks as if she spent some time seated there.”
“I think we were already pretty sure of that, sergeant,” said Constable. “There was the draft of a letter she had been writing left in the waste-bin. It’s up there on the desk.”
“I saw it, sir. But – I hope I didn’t overstep any bounds – I also took a look at the P.M.‘s briefcase, as it was lying there open. I thought you’d want to know if it had been handled by anyone unauthorised.”
“Apart from me, you mean?” enquired the inspector with grim humour. “And …”
“Mrs. Ronson’s prints all over the outside, sir. Plus another set, which I might be able to identify if …” She looked at Constable hesitantly.
“If …?” Constable caught on. “All right, sergeant. Produce your little machine, and let’s see if we can eliminate me. Funny,” he remarked, as Una busied herself with her equipment, “I’m not sure I’ve ever been fingerprinted before. Apart from at the gates of an American theme park, that is, but that’s another story. Interesting to have a new experience at this stage in my career.” A bleep seemed to indicate the arrival of a result.
“Yes, overwhelmingly you, sir,” said Una with what sounded like relief. “The contents of the case are another matter. A mass of prints all over the folders of government papers, but I suppose you’d expect that. And I noticed the hotel’s register, which seemed rather an odd thing to be there, so I took a look at that, but as you’d expect, it’s got prints all over it from goodness knows how many people.”
“It’s more the contents of that which interest me,” replied Constable. “I want to find out what Mrs. Ronson was expecting to learn from it, so that’s on Copper’s list of to-dos. Anything else?”
“No, sir. That’s about it so far.”
“Then I suggest,” said Constable, getting to his feet and stretching, “that we go and find your … go and find Copper, check that he’s marshalled all our suspects in one place, and you can get on with fingerprinting them while I set him about other tasks. Let’s see what’s afoot in the drawing room.”
Chapter 14
The faces which turned to greet Andy Constable as he passed through the door of the drawing room wore expressions which ranged from weary to wary, with variations of impatience and resignation along the way.
After a momentary pause and a brief survey of her fellow ministers, Amanda Laye appeared to elect herself spokesman, and advanced towards the detective with determined steps. “Inspector Constable,” she challenged, “your superiors will most certainly be hearing from me over this completely unacceptable situation. My colleagues and I have been kept under virtual lock and key while being subjected to what amounts to an unwarranted inquisition, and then we are brought here, by your orders, I gather, by police personnel who appear to be under some vow of silence. I think you may be in danger of forgetting who you are dealing with. I warn you, inspector, the consequences of your actions could be very serious indeed.”
“Miss Laye,” returned the inspector mildly, “I think you need not remind me of the seriousness of the situation. In fact, it has become more serious than you realise – most of you, that is.”
Amanda frowned. “What on earth do you mean, inspector? Are you saying that you have identified the person who was responsible for killing the Prime Minister?”
“As yet, no,” admitted Constable.
“Then what are you saying? Why do you speak of most of us?” The Foreign Secretary looked around the room. “And why isn’t Deborah Nye here? Are you holding her separately?”
“I’m afraid the absence of Mrs. Nye is the reason why I say that the situation has become more serious,” replied Constable, “and also why I have had you all gathered together here. No, we are not holding Mrs. Nye – I regret to say that she too has been killed.”
There was an immediate intake of breath from around the room, followed by a shocked silence.
Lewis Stalker was the first to find his voice. “What, murdered? But … where? Was it up in her room?”
A nod from Constable. “I’m very much afraid so, sir.”
“And you think … that it was one of us?”
“There can be no other explanation, Mr. Stalker.”
“So somebody went in there … I mean, I said I heard a door … Oh my god.” Lew subsided, apparently stunned.
“And therefore, ladies and gentlemen,” resumed Constable, “I have to ask for your further co-operation. There are certain items at the scenes of both deaths which may be relevant to our enquiries. Sergeant Singleton here,” he indicated the young woman standing behind him, “is an experienced Scene Of Crime Officer, and she will be taking scans of your fingerprints. With your permission, naturally. And largely for elimination purposes, of course.” He gazed around the assembly as if challenging any of those present to object, and then turned to Sheila Deare, who had been seated unobtrusively in a corner of the room. “Inspector Deare, perhaps you would be kind enough to oversee the process. And perhaps you would send Singleton to report to me in Mr. Knightly’s office when she’s finished.” He turned away. “Discreetly, if you please, sergeant,” he added in an undertone to Una. “Whatever you happen to find by way of matching prints, please keep it to yourself until you’ve spoken to me. No giveaway reactions.”
“Understood, sir.” Una began to unpack the equipment from her case.
“Mr. Knightly!”
“Yes, inspector?” Phil looked up from his position seated at the bureau by the window.
“I shall be wanting to use the computer in your office. I hope that will present no problem.”
“No, of course not, inspector. Except that it’s password-protected.”
“Then I shall be needing your password, sir, if you’d be good enough to jot it down for me,” insisted Constable firmly. “But you can rest assured, it will go no further.”
“Oh. All right.” Phil took a sheet of paper from the desk and swiftly wrote the required details.
After a brief glance at the paper and a small smil
e, Constable turned to his junior colleague. “Sergeant Copper!”
“Sir?” Dave Copper came smartly to attention from where he had been leaning alongside the fireplace.
“We shall leave the ladies to their task. You’re with me.” Constable led the way back out into the hall. “Well, at least there’s one further possibility eliminated.”
“What’s that, guv?”
“The writing on the mysterious note about the infiltrator. It doesn’t match Mr. Knightly’s, so at least we can be sure he wasn’t the author. I’m not sure what that tells us, but every little helps.”
Copper peered over his superior’s shoulder at the few jotted letters and symbols and shrugged. “So now what, guv?”
“I want you to retrieve the hotel register from Mrs. Ronson’s room and go through it line by line. There’s something in there, and I want to know what it is.”
“On my way sir.” Copper started up the stairs. “I’ll come and find you in the office.”
“No,” ordered Constable. “I want some quiet time on my own. Let me have your notebook to peruse, and then you can go and ensconce yourself in the library, now that Singleton has finished in there.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll let you know if I turn up anything.” Copper handed over his notebook, now becoming rather battered, and disappeared in the direction of the Chinese Bedroom.
Constable opened the door, almost undetectable in the hall’s wood panelling, which led to Philip Knightly’s office and settled himself behind the desk. He closed his eyes for a moment and drank in the precious silence. Time to take stock.
How on earth, he wondered, did this situation come about in the first place? What could have prompted a prime minister, still relatively new in the job, to call together a seemingly disparate group of her cabinet ministers in an unusually secretive manner? Mention had been made of a possible pending government reshuffle. Perhaps some of the ministers were in their positions more through inertia than choice – maybe some of them had been kept on in their former jobs under the old government in the interests of continuity, but Mrs. Ronson had decided that this was not an acceptable arrangement for the long term. Constable didn’t feel himself to be sufficiently well-informed regarding the political ins and outs of the previous few months to judge. So, simply a show of strength by the new broom at Number 10? And why the cloak-and-dagger scenario? Prime ministers were surely more notorious for wielding the axe in a highly visible manner when rearranging their team.