She looked at him for a moment. "Not entirely, no. Presumably Russell had some say in it." She shrugged. "Anyway, they were very discreet. I didn't find out about it till after he was dead, and by then it was water under the bridge."
"Who told you?"
"No one. She wrote him some letters which he'd hidden amongst a stack of old exam papers in the attic at Richmond. They were rather sweet," she said, remembering. "The sad thing is, I think she really did love him, but she couldn't bear the thought of being tied to one person. She was terrified of ending up in a country backwater like her mother and being the dutiful wife."
"Did you ever talk to her about Russell?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I couldn't see the point."
"Did the police know about it?"
"If they did they never mentioned it."
"Why didn't you mention it?"
"Because I didn't find the letters until a year later and by then the case was effectively closed." She plucked at her lower lip. "I don't think you realize what it's like to be part of a murder inquiry. It's not a very comfortable experience. I'd have needed something much stronger than a couple of faded love letters to make us all go through that terrible mill again."
He leaned forward. "So for the next nine years, you pretended nothing had happened, and then you learned about her and Leo and you were afraid history was about to repeat itself."
She didn't say anything. Perhaps she realized how thin it all sounded, and how odd her own behavior must seem in the circumstances.
"So what did you do, Jinx?"
"I thought it would be better if no one knew, so when we got back to London I told Leo to phone his parents and make sure they didn't say anything until he gave them the go-ahead. I said I needed to speak to my father first." She propped her chin in her hands and stared wretchedly at the carpet. "But I can't remember if I spoke to Adam or not, so I don't know whether- She broke off abruptly.
"You don't know whether you gave him a reason to have them murdered."
53 LANSING ROAD, SALISBURY-1:15 P.M.
WPC Blake inserted her foot in Flossie Hale's door and refused to remove it. "I'm not going away until you talk to me," she said firmly, "so you may as well let me in."
After a second or two the pressure against her foot lessened and the door swung open. Flossie regarded her without enthusiasm from a face rainbow-hued with healing bruises. She clasped an old candlewick dressing gown across her broad chest with a plaster-encased forearm, looking twenty years older than her forty-six years. "What do you want?"
"Just a chat. How are you feeling now?"
"So-so." She gave a wheeze of bitter amusement. "Still a bit tender when I sit down, but I'm surviving." She led the way into a tiny sitting room, stuffed with overlarge furniture. "You might as well take a seat," she said ungraciously, propping her plump arms on a television set and leaning her weight on it. "By rights I should be in my bed, but I can't say I fancy it much at the moment. I tried to persuade the hospital to keep me in a bit longer but they turfed me out for some old boy with piles." She gazed disconsolately at the young policewoman. "I suppose life's pretty grim for everyone these days."
Blake nodded. "It seems that way. I only ever hear hard-luck stories."
"I wouldn't mind so much if I didn't pay my taxes. You're entitled to expect something for all the money you shell out."
Privately, WPC Blake thought it highly unlikely that Flossie had ever declared an income in her life, but she nodded sympathetically. "I agree with you, which is why I'm here. Part of what you should expect in a civilized society is peace of mind and safety, and until we find the man who assaulted you, I'm afraid you won't have either." She ignored the expression of stubborn resistance that settled on Flossie's face, and took her notebook from her handbag. "You're not the only prostitute he's beaten up. There was another one three months ago and he was just as vicious with her. She says he paid her forty pounds. Was that what he paid you?"
"It may have been," she said grudgingly.
"She also said she thought he was expecting someone young and attractive and took against her when it turned out she was old enough to be his mother. Was that your experience?''
She shrugged. "It may have been," she said again.
"She advertises in telephone boxes and shop windows. I think that's how you get your customers too, isn't it?"
"Maybe."
"Okay, well, I've done a bit of legwork in the last couple of days around the girls who advertise the same way, and while no one else seems to have suffered in quite the way you and the other woman did, three of them gave me a description of a well-spoken, handsome young man who became aggressive during his climax." She consulted her notebook. "One described him as twisting his hand in her hair and almost pulling it out by the roots. Another said he hit her about the face with her own hairbrush, and the third said he pulled her wig off, then got so angry with her he stuffed it into her mouth. She said he apologized afterwards and paid her an extra ten pounds for her trouble." She looked up. "All three girls are in their twenties, but they all agreed he had a thing about hair and hairbrushes. Does this sound familiar, Flossie?"
She sighed. "Seems you've been working overtime, love. Go on then, what's the description?"
Blake read it out. "Height, about five feet eleven. Slim, muscular build, with hairs down the center of his chest. Good-looking, boyish face with dark blond, slightly curly hair, possibly highlighted at the sides, and blue or gray eyes. No facial hair. One girl suggested he plucked his eyebrows, because they were very fine and nicely shaped. Clothing varied between a dark suit and white shirt to Levi's and white T-shirt. They all described him as clean, well-spoken, and probably the product of a public school. Is that about right, would you say?"
"He looked as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but God, he was a vicious little brute." She touched a hand to her bruises. "I'll tell you something-he couldn't sustain himself for half a second. All the shouting and yelling and hitting he went in for was his way of pretending he could keep it up. It didn't occur to me the first time around-I mean, let's face it, you don't feel much when you've been on the game as long as I have-but the second time around he never even got it in he came so quick. And he didn't half punish me for that. It wasn't just that I was old enough to be his mother-though I guess that had something to do with it-mostly it was because he was inadequate."
"Is there anything you can add to the description?"
She shook her head. "Sorry. He was very good-looking, beautiful really, reminded me a bit of Paul Newman in The Hustler. Not that that'd mean anything to you. You're too young to remember it." She paused for a moment. "But there were some odd things he said. 'It's not my fault, my father made me evil.' That was one of them. And then when he was leaving: 'I never had to kill a woman before.' "
"Before what?"
Flossie regarded her morosely. "I guess he meant he'd beaten up on lots of girls but that none of them had died." She shivered suddenly. "Gawd, he was mad, one of them split personalities. Looked like a little angel when he arrived and turned into a zombie with staring great eyes the minute he got a hard-on. Bloody miracle he hasn't killed someone yet, that's my view."
Blake agreed with her. "Any idea how he got here? Car? Did he walk?"
"I don't know. I just wait for the bell to ring and let them in." She frowned. "Mind, he did have some car keys with him. I remember him fishing them out of his pocket when he left. He had a really nice jacket on, tight fit, padded shoulders, and he pulled his keys out and held them in his palm while he told me to keep my mouth shut." She screwed her forehead in concentration. "There was a black disc on the key ring. It was hanging down between his fingers and I remember staring at it because I didn't want him to think I was staring at him." Her eyes gleamed suddenly. "It had an F and an H on it in gold lettering, same initials as mine, which is why I noticed them. You know what? I reckon F.H. are the little sod's initials."
THE
NIGHTINGALE CLINIC-1:30 P.M.
There was a tap on the door and Hilda poked her head inside. "I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Protheroe, but there's a Detective Inspector Maddocks, and a Detective Sergeant Fraser here. I've told them you're busy but they say it's too important to wait."
"Five minutes," said Alan.
The door opened wide before Hilda could answer, and Maddocks pushed past her into the room. "It is important, sir, otherwise I wouldn't insist." He stopped when he noticed Jinx. "Miss Kingsley."
Alan frowned angrily. "Since when did being a policeman give you the right to barge, uninvited, into a doctor's consulting room?"
"I apologize, sir," said Maddocks, "but we've already waited fifteen minutes and we do need to talk to you rather urgently."
Jinx stood up. "It's all right, Dr. Protheroe. I'll come back later."
"I'd rather you stayed," he said, looking up at her with a clear message in his dark eyes. "I can't help feeling this is very poor psychology."
"For whom?'' she asked him, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Illi intus out illi extra?"
He dredged through his Latin for a translation. The insiders or the outsiders, he decided. "Oh, illi extra, of course," he said with a barely perceptible nod towards Maddocks. "Caput odiosus iam maximus est.'' His odious head is already maximum size, was what he hoped he'd said.
Jinx smiled at him. "If you recognize that, Dr. Protheroe, then I don't think it's poor psychology at all. It means you hold the advantage. In any case, I really am starving, so with apologies for desertion, I think I'll go and find myself some lunch." She gave him a brief nod, then slipped past Fraser and Hilda, who were standing irresolutely by the door.
"All right, Hilda, thank you very much." He gestured towards the sofa. "Sit down, gentlemen."
"May I ask what Miss Kingsley said to you?" inquired Maddocks as he took a seat.
"I've no idea, I'm afraid," said Alan amiably. "It was all Greek to me."
"You answered her, sir."
"I can run that stuff off by the yard," he said. "Vos mensa puellarum dixerunt habebat nunc nemo conduxit. I haven't a clue what it means but it always sounds intelligent. What can I do for you?"
Maddocks eyed The Times, which was folded neatly on the coffee table. "Presumably you've read that?"
"I have."
"So you know that Mr. Leo Wallader and Miss Meg Harris are dead."
"Yes."
Maddocks watched his face closely. "Does Miss Kingsley know?"
Alan nodded. "I told her after I read it."
"What was her reaction, sir?"
He stared the Inspector down. "She was very shocked."
"Did you also tell her that the man who attacked you was wielding a sledgehammer?"
Alan thought about that. "I can't remember," he said honestly. "I mentioned the disturbance to all my patients this morning, but I really can't recall whether I gave precise details or not." He eyed Maddocks with curiosity. "Why?" he asked. "Do you see a connection between the assault on me and the deaths of Mr. Wallader and Miss Harris?"
Maddocks shrugged. "We certainly find it interesting that Miss Kingsley and a sledgehammer appear to be the only common factors between three murders and a vicious assault," he said bluntly.
"The third murder being Miss Kingsley's first husband?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm afraid I don't follow your logic. Let's say, purely for the purposes of the argument, that there is a connection between the murder of Russell Landy and the murder of Mr. Wallader, and that the connection is Miss Kingsley's attachment to both men. Marriage in the first instance and marriage plans in the second. And let's go on to say-again purely for the purposes of argument-that because Mr. Wallader changed his mind and decided to marry Miss Harris instead, someone decided she also had to die. How does the assault on me fit into this hypothetical scenario? I have known Miss Kingsley as a conscious and functioning individual for a week. We have a doctor-patient relationship. I am neither married to her nor engaged to marry her. I have not slept with her, nor do I have plans to sleep with her. I know none of her friends and she knows none of mine. She is a paying guest under my roof who is free to leave whenever she chooses." His eyes narrowed in speculation. "Have I missed something that makes this spurious connection even halfway believable?"
"Yes sir," said Maddocks evenly. "Coincidence. It's not something that we, as policemen, can readily ignore. Our experience shows that where there's smoke there's fire." He smiled slightly. "Or to put it another way, where there's Miss Kingsley there is also a sledgehammer."
"Are you suggesting she wields the damn thing herself?"
"I'm not suggesting anything at this stage, sir, I am merely drawing your attention to the coincidence. You would be foolish to pretend it doesn't exist."
"Well, it certainly wasn't Jinx who took a swing at me last night. She's not big enough or strong enough, and judging by the build and the height, it was a man."
"We understand you had a visit from her father's solicitor yesterday."
"It wasn't him, either. Inspector. He's a tiny little chap with dainty feet and hands. I'd have recognized him immediately, ski mask or no ski mask."
Maddocks smiled. "I was thinking more in terms of Mr. Kingsley himself. Perhaps you said something to the solicitor that his boss didn't like."
"I wouldn't know. I've never met Mr. Kingsley, so I've no idea what he looks like." He thought for a moment. "In any case, I'm sure it was a young man, and Mr. Kingsley's sixty-six."
"What about Fergus Kingsley? He's on your list."
Alan nodded. "Yes, he was about the right size. So was the waiter who served me at dinner, but my conversations with both were perfectly friendly and I can't see either of them taking the trouble to hang around the clinic waiting to belt me." But was that right? He had run up against Fergus twice now, and neither time had he felt comfortable with him.
Maddocks saw the sudden thoughtfulness in Protheroe's expression. "Tell me what you and Fergus Kingsley talked about," he invited.
"Nothing very much. He was waiting beside my car when I came out. He expressed an interest in buying it, as far as I remember, then asked me to meet his brother. I explained I was in a hurry and suggested we leave it to another time. Then I left."
Fraser looked up with a frown. "But you weren't in a hurry, sir. According to the report we've seen, you decided to go for a drive and treat yourself to a decent meal because it's some time since you've had an evening off."
Alan gave another amiable chuckle. "So I made a polite excuse and left. Is that so odd? I'd spent a long time talking to his father's solicitor, I was hungry, and I had promised myself a slap-up meal. At the risk of sounding churlish, I didn't particularly want to spend another half hour making small talk with a total stranger."
"You've never met Miles Kingsley then?"
"No."
"But both brothers have visited their sister here." It was a statement rather than a question and Alan wondered how Maddocks knew.
"As I understand it, Miles came last Wednesday at about nine o'clock when I was off duty. Fergus came on Saturday."
"So they both know their way around." Another statement.
Alan frowned. "Fergus spoke to Jinx in the garden, so presumably he could find his way back to the tree they sat under, and Miles, who saw her in her room, could probably find his way back there. Does that amount to knowing their way around? I wouldn't have thought so."
"I was thinking more in terms of the layout of the driveway, sir."
"Oh for God's sake!" Alan snapped impatiently. "Any moron can wait in the bushes near a gate in the hopes of someone driving in. You don't need to be acquainted with a place to follow a car going at five miles an hour, which is all I was doing because I didn't want to wake the patients by crunching the gravel." He sighed heavily. "Look, unless you've got something a little more concrete to put to me, I really can't see the point of continuing. My own view is that you should put your suspicions to Miss King
sley herself, to her father, and to her brothers." He nodded towards The Times. "In fact, if, as you are implying, there is such a strong link between all three murders, I share Sir Anthony's and Mrs. Harris's surprise that you haven't done it already."
"You're very defensive of this family, sir. Is there any particular reason for that?"
"Such as?"
"Perhaps you're more partial to Miss Kingsley than you pretend and perhaps that's why someone saw fit to attack you with a sledgehammer."
Alan smoothed his jaw reflectively. "But wouldn't I have to have told someone I was partial to her to provoke such a response?"
"Not necessarily, sir. You looked pretty matey to me when you were spouting Greek at each other. Perhaps someone else sussed that your feelings aren't quite as reserved as you say they are."
Alan's booming laugh brought a responsive twitch from Fraser's lips. "I'm afraid I was teasing you, Inspector, when I said it was all Greek to me." He stood up. "I am doubtful, ipso facto, whether any conclusion you've drawn can be relied upon. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to see."
Outside, Maddocks scowled angrily as he reached into the car for the handset. "Put me through to Detective Superintendent Cheever," he grunted into the mouthpiece, "and tell him it's urgent, girl. DI Maddocks and I am at the Nightingale Clinic in Salisbury." He drummed his fingers impatiently on the roof. "Yes sir ... No, look, we've run into a spot of bother here. The doctor's playing hard to get and the whole setup stinks. He and the girl were having a very cozy little chat when we arrived and our view is he knows a damn sight more than he's telling ... Yeah, Fraser agrees with me." He glared at the Sergeant, demanding support. "No, I think we should talk to her now. We're on the spot, she's seen us, and she knows Wallader and Harris are dead. If we leave it any longer she'll have a solicitor in tow guarding her interests. Matter of fact, I'm amazed her old man hasn't parked one here already, although maybe he's set the doctor up as watchdog." His eyes gleamed triumphantly. "Will do, sir." He listened for a moment. "Yes, got it. Letters from Landy ... abortion '84 ... Wallader or Landy the father."
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