Leave The Grave Green

by Deborah Crombie

  “Oh no, my dear. Productions sometimes stay in rep as long as ten or fifteen years, and are often leased out to other companies. This production, for instance”-he tapped the page-“is a few years old, but if it should be done next year in Milan, or Santa Fe, their Wardrobe will be responsible for securing this exact fabric, down to the dye lot, if possible.” Gently closing the book, he sat on the edge of a drafting stool and crossed his long legs, displaying the perfection of his trouser crease. “There are some up-and-coming directors who insist that a show they’ve originated mustn’t be done without them, no matter where it’s performed. Upstarts, the lot of them.”

  Making an effort to resist the fascination of the brightly colored pages, Gemma gently closed the book. “Mr. Godwin, I understand you attended last Thursday evening’s performance at the Coliseum.”

  “Back to business, is it, Sergeant?” He drew his brows together in mock disappointment. “Well, if you must, you must. Yes, I popped in for a bit. It’s a new production, and I like to keep an eye on things, make sure one of the principals doesn’t need a nip here or a tuck there.”

  “Do you usually drop in on Sir Gerald Asherton after the performance as well?”

  “Ah, I see you’ve done your homework, Sergeant.” Godwin smiled at her, looking as delighted as if he were personally responsible for her cleverness. “Gerald was in particularly fine form that night-I thought it only fitting to tell him so.”

  Growing increasingly irritated by Tommy Godwin’s manner, Gemma said, “Sir, I’m here because of the death of Sir Gerald’s son-in-law, as you very well know. I understand that you’ve known the family for years, and under the circumstances I think your attitude is a little cavalier, don’t you?”

  For an instant he looked at her sharply, his thin face still, then the bright smile fell back into place. “I’m sure I deserve to be taken to task for not expressing the proper regret, Sergeant,” he said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I’ve known Gerald and Caroline since we were all in nappies.” Pausing, he raised an eyebrow at Gemma’s look of disbelief. “Well, at least in Julia’s case it’s quite literally true. I was the lowest of the lowly in those days, junior assistant to the women’s costume cutter. Now it takes three years of design school to qualify for that job, but in those days most of us blundered into it. My mother was a dressmaker-I knew a sewing machine inside and out by the time I was ten.”

  If that were the case he’d certainly done a good job of acquiring his upper-middle-class veneer, thought Gemma. Her surprise must have shown, because he smiled at her and added, “I had a talent for copying as well, Sergeant, that I’ve put to good use.

  “Junior assistant cutters don’t fit the principals’ costumes, but sometimes they are allowed to fit the lesser luminaries, the has-beens and the rising stars. Caro was a fledgling in those days, still too young to have mastered control of that marvelous natural talent, but ripe with potential. Gerald spotted her in the chorus and made her his protégée. He’s thirteen years her elder-did you know that, Sergeant?” Godwin tilted his head and examined her critically, as if making sure he had his pupil’s attention. “He had a reputation to consider, and oh, my, tongues did wag when he married her.”

  “But I thought-”

  “Oh, no one remembers that now, of course. It was all a very long time ago, my dear, and their titles weren’t even a twinkle in the Queen’s eye.”

  The hint of weariness in his voice aroused her curiosity. “Is that how you met Caroline, fitting her costumes?”

  “You’re very astute, Sergeant. Caro had married Gerald by that time, and produced Julia. She’d sometimes bring Julia to fittings, to be fussed and cooed over, but even then Julia showed little evidence of being suitably impressed.”

  “Impressed by what, Mr. Godwin? I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Music in general, my dear, and in particular the whole tatty, overblown world of opera.” Sliding from the stool, he walked to the window and stood, hands in his pockets, looking down into the street. “It’s like a bug, a virus, and I think some people have a predisposition for catching it. Perhaps it’s genetic.” He turned and looked at her. “What do you think, Sergeant?”

  Gemma fingered the costume sketches lying loose on the table, thinking of the chill that had gripped her as she heard Traviata’s finale for the first time. “This… predisposition has nothing to do with upbringing?”

  “Certainly not in my case. Although my mother had a fondness for dance bands during the war.” Hands still in his pockets, he did a graceful little box-step, then gave Gemma a sideways glance. “I always imagined I was conceived after a night spent swinging to Glen Miller or Benny Goodman,” he added with a mocking half-smile. “As for Caroline and Gerald, I don’t think it ever occurred to them that Julia wouldn’t speak their language.”

  “And Matthew?”

  “Ah, well, Matty was a different story all together.” He turned away again as he spoke, then fell silent, gazing out the window.

  Why, wondered Gemma, did she meet this stone wall every time she brought up Matthew Asherton? She remembered Vivian Plumley’s words: “We don’t talk about that,” and it seemed to her that twenty years should have provided more solace.

  “Nothing was ever the same after Caro left the company,” Godwin said softly. He turned to Gemma. “Isn’t that what they always say, Sergeant, the best times of one’s life are only recognized in retrospect?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. It seems a bit cynical to me.”

  “Ah, but you’ve contradicted yourself, Sergeant. I can see you do have an opinion.”

  “Mr. Godwin,” Gemma said sharply, “my opinion is not in question here. What did you and Sir Gerald talk about last Thursday night?”

  “Just the usual pleasantries. To be honest, I don’t remember. I can’t have been there more than five or ten minutes.” He came back to the stool and leaned against the edge of its seat. “Do take the weight off, Sergeant. You’ll go back to your station and accuse me of dreadful manners.”

  Gemma kept firmly to her position, back against the worktable. She was finding this interview difficult enough without conducting the rest of it on a level with Tommy Godwin’s elegant belt buckle. “I’m fine, sir. Did Sir Gerald seem upset or behave in an unusual way?”

  Glancing down his long nose, he said with mild sarcasm, “As in dancing about with a lampshade on his head? Really, Sergeant, he seemed quite the ordinary fellow. Still a bit charged up from the performance, but that’s only to be expected.”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  “We had a drink. But it’s Gerald’s custom to keep a bottle of good single-malt whiskey in his dressing room for visitors, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen him any the worse for it. Thursday night was no exception.”

  “And you left the theater after your drink with Sir Gerald, Mr. Godwin?”

  “Not straight away, no. I did have a quick word with one of the girls in Running Wardrobe.” The coins in his pocket jingled softly as he shifted position.

  “How long a word, sir? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Do you remember what time you signed out with Danny?”

  “Actually, Sergeant, I didn’t.” He ducked his head as sheepishly as an errant schoolboy. “Sign out, that is. Because I hadn’t signed in, and that’s quite frowned upon.”

  “You hadn’t signed in? But I thought it was required of everyone.”

  “In theory it is. But it’s not a high-security prison, my dear. I must admit I wasn’t feeling entirely sociable when I arrived on Thursday evening. The performance had already started when I came in through the lobby, so I just gave one of the ushers a wink and stood in the back.” He smiled at Gemma. “I’ve spent too much of my working life on my feet, I suppose, to feel comfortable staying in one position for very long.” As if to demonstrate, he left the drafting stool and came to stand near Gemma. Lifting a swatch of tartan satin from the table, he hefted it, then ran his fingers over its surface. “This ought to do nicel
y for Lucia-”

  “Mr. Godwin. Tommy.” Gemma’s use of his first name caught his attention, and for an instant she saw again the stillness beneath his surface prattle. “What did you do when the performance finished?”

  “I’ve told you, I went straight to Gerald’s-” He stopped as Gemma shook her head. “Oh, I see what you mean. How did I get to Gerald’s dressing room? It’s quite simple if you know your way around the warren, Sergeant. There’s a door in the auditorium that leads to the stage, but it’s unmarked, of course, and I doubt anyone in the audience would ever notice it.”

  “And you left the same way? After you spoke to Sir Gerald and”-“Gemma paused and flipped back through her notes-“the girl in Running Wardrobe.”

  “Got it in one, my dear.”

  “I’m surprised you found the lobby doors still unlocked.”

  “There are always a few stragglers, and the ushers have to tidy up.”

  “And I don’t suppose you remember what time this was, or that anyone saw you leave,” Gemma said with an edge of sarcasm.

  Rather contritely, Tommy Godwin said, “I’m afraid not, Sergeant. But then one doesn’t think about having to account for oneself, does one?”

  Determined to break through his air of polished innocence, she pushed him a little more aggressively. “What did you do when you left the theater, Tommy?”

  He propped one hip on the edge of the worktable and folded his arms. “Went home to my flat in Highgate, what else, dear Sergeant?”

  “Alone?”

  “I live alone, except for my cat, but I’m sure she’ll vouch for me. Her name is Salome, by the way, and I must say it suits-”

  “What time did you arrive home? Do you by any chance remember that?”

  “I do, actually.” He paused and smiled at her, as if anticipating praise. “I have a grandfather clock and I remember it chiming not long after I came in, so it must have been before midnight.”

  Stalemate. He couldn’t prove his statements, but without further evidence she had no way to disprove them. Gemma stared at him, wondering what lay beneath his very plausible exterior. “I’ll need your address, Mr. Godwin, as well as the name of the person you spoke to after you saw Sir Gerald.” She tore a page from her notebook and watched as he wrote the information in a neat left-handed script. Running back through the interview in her mind, she realized what had been nagging her, and how deftly Tommy Godwin had sidestepped.

  “Just how well did you know Connor Swann, Mr. Godwin? You never said.”

  He carefully capped her pen and returned it, then began folding the paper into neat squares. “I met him occasionally over the years, of course. He wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, I must say. It baffled me that Gerald and Caro continued to put up with him when even Julia wouldn’t, but then perhaps they knew something about him that I didn’t.” He raised an eyebrow and gave Gemma a half-smile. “But then one’s judgment of character is always fallible, don’t you find, Sergeant?”

  CHAPTER 8

  The High Wycombe roundabout reminded Kincaid of a toy he’d had as a child, a set of interlocking plastic gears that had revolved merrily when one turned a central crank. But in this case five mini-roundabouts surrounded a large one, humans encased in steel boxes did the revolving, and no one in the Monday morning crush was the least bit merry. He saw an opening in the oncoming traffic and shot into it, only to be rewarded by a one-fingered salute from an impatient lorry driver. “Same to you, mate,” Kincaid muttered under his breath as he escaped gratefully from the last of the mini-roundabouts.

  A holdup on the M40 had delayed him, and he arrived at High Wycombe’s General Hospital a half-hour late for the postmortem. Kincaid tapped on the door of the autopsy room and opened it just enough to put his head in. A small man in green surgical scrubs stood facing the stainless-steel table, his back to Kincaid. “Dr. Winstead, I presume?” Kincaid asked. “Sorry I’m late.” He entered the room and let the door swing shut behind him.

  Winstead tapped the foot switch on his recorder as he turned. “Superintendent Kincaid?” He edged the microphone away from his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Sorry I can’t shake,” he added, holding up his gloved hands in demonstration. “You’ve missed most of the fun, I’m afraid. Started a bit early, trying to catch up on the backlog. Should have had your fellow done Saturday, yesterday at the latest, but we had a council housing fire. Spent the weekend identifying remains.”

  Tubby, with a mop of curly, graying hair and boot-button black eyes, Winstead lived up to his sobriquet. Kincaid found himself thinking that his vision of Pooh Bear with scalpel in hand hadn’t been too far off the mark. And like many forensic pathologists Kincaid had come across, Winstead seemed unfailingly jolly. “Find anything interesting?” Kincaid inquired, just as glad that Winstead’s body blocked part of his view of the steel table. Although he’d grown accustomed to the gaping Y-incision and peeled-forward scalp, he never enjoyed the sight.

  “Nothing to jump for joy over, I’m afraid.” He turned his back on Kincaid, his gloved hands again busy. “One or two things to finish up, then we could nip over to my office, if you like.”

  Kincaid stood watching, the cold air from the vents blowing in torrents down the back of his neck. At least there wasn’t much smell to contend with, cold water and refrigeration having done a good bit toward retarding the body’s natural processes. Although he could look at almost anything, he still had to fight the gag response triggered by the odor of a ripe corpse.

  A young woman in scrubs came in, saying, “Ready for me, Winnie?”

  “I’ll just leave the tidying up to my assistant,” Winstead said over his shoulder to Kincaid. “She likes to do the pretty work. Don’t you, Heather darling?” he added, smiling at her. “Gives her a sense of job satisfaction.” He peeled off his gloves, tossed them in a rubbish bin and scrubbed his hands at the sink.

  Heather rolled her eyes indulgently. “He’s just jealous,” she said sotto voce to Kincaid, “because I’m neater than he is.” She slipped on a pair of gloves and continued. “This chap’s mum would be proud of him by the time I’m finished, isn’t that so, Winnie?”

  At least Connor Swann’s adoring mum had been spared admiring Heather’s handiwork, thought Kincaid. He wondered if Julia would defy convention to the extent of avoiding the mortuary and the funeral.

  As Winstead ushered Kincaid from the room he said, “She’s right, I’m afraid. I get the job done, but she’s a perfectionist, and her hand is much finer than mine.” He led Kincaid down several halls, stopping on the way to retrieve two coffees from a vending machine. “Black?” he asked, pushing buttons with familiarity.

  Kincaid accepted the paper cup and sipped, finding the liquid just as dreadful as its counterpart at the Yard. He followed Winstead into his office and stopped, examining the human skull which adorned the doctor’s desk. Attached to the facial surface by pins were small cylinders of rubber, each of varying height with a black number inked on its tip. “Voodoo or art, Doctor?”

  “A facial reconstruction technique, lent to me by an anthropologist chum. A guess as to sex and race is made by measuring certain characteristics of the skull, then the skin depth markers are placed according to information from statistical tables. Clay is added to a thickness that conforms to the markers, and Bob’s your uncle, you have a human face again. It’s quite effective, actually, even if this stage does look like something from Nightmare on Elm Street. Heather is interested in forensic sculpture, and with her hands I don’t doubt she’d be good at it.”

  Before Winstead wandered too far on the subject of the lovely Heather’s attributes, Kincaid thought he had better redirect him. “Tell me, Doctor,” he said as they settled into worn leather chairs, “did Connor Swann drown?”

  Winstead knitted his brows, an exercise which made him look comical rather than fierce, and seemed to bring himself back to the body in question. “That’s a pretty problem, Superintendent, as I’m sure you very well know. Drowning is
impossible to prove by autopsy. It is, in fact, a diagnosis of exclusion.”

  “But surely you can tell if he had water in his lungs-”

  “Do hold on, Superintendent, let me finish. Water in the lungs is not necessarily significant. And I didn’t say I couldn’t tell you anything, only that it couldn’t be proved.” Winstead paused and drank from his cup, then made a face. “I’m an eternal optimist, I suppose-I always expect this stuff to be better than it is. Anyway, where was I?” He smiled benignly and took another sip of his coffee.

  Kincaid decided Winstead was teasing him deliberately, and that the less he fussed the faster he’d hear the results. “You were about to tell me what you couldn’t prove.”

  “Gunshot wounds, stabbing, blunt trauma-all fairly straightforward, cause of death easily determined. A case like this, however, is a puzzle, and I like puzzles.” Winstead uttered this with such relish that Kincaid half-expected him to rub his hands together in anticipatory glee. “There are two things which contradict drowning,” he continued, holding up the requisite fingers. “No foreign material present in the lungs. No sand, no nice slimy river-bottom weeds. If one inhales great gulps of water in the act of drowning, one usually takes in a few undesirable objects as well.” He folded down one finger and waggled the remainder at Kincaid. “Secondly, rigor mortis was quite delayed. The temperature of the water would account for some degree of retardation, of course, but in an ordinary, garden-variety drowning the person struggles violently, depleting the ATP in their muscles, and this depletion speeds up the onset of rigor considerably.”

  “But what if there was a struggle before he went in the water? His throat was bruised-he might have been unconscious. Or dead.”

  “There are several indications that he died quite a few hours before his body was discovered,” Winstead admitted. “The stomach contents were only partially digested, so unless your Mr. Swann ate a very late supper indeed, I’d guess he was dead by midnight, or as close to it as makes no difference. When the analysis of the stomach contents comes back from the lab you may be able to pinpoint that last meal.”