Apparently unaware of the mild sensation she was causing, Veronica dropped into a chair, and announced, ringingly, “Gosh, I’m ravenous. I’ve had a hell of a morning with that awful little queer upstairs.”
Ignoring all Henry’s warning signs, she buttered herself a piece of bread, took a big mouthful of it, and went on, “There’s something fishy going on, Uncle Henry, you mark my words. I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but I soon will.”
“Veronica,” said Henry quietly, “for God’s sake, keep your voice down. Knight is sitting just behind you.”
“Gosh, is he? Nicholas Knight in person? Where?” replied Veronica, as loudly as ever. Henry pondered gloomily on the strange quirk of nature that had allied extreme beauty with apparent feeble-mindedness in the person of his wife’s niece.
“For heaven’s sake, be quiet,” he muttered. “Order your lunch and eat it and shut up. We’ll talk in my office afterwards.”
Veronica smiled. “Oh, very well,” she said. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to tell you today what I think I’ve found out, because I don’t know for sure yet, but by next week…”
“Veronica!” said Henry sternly.
She picked up the enormous menu, and, in its sheltering shadow, surreptitiously winked at him. Henry was greatly relieved by the appearance of the waiter, which put an end to the conversation. He was also thankful when Veronica announced that she was not hungry, although his spirits sank when she went on to say that she thought she could just manage a plate of smoked salmon, and then maybe a liqueur soufflé. However, by dint of sticking to cold chicken himself, waving the wine list firmly away, and declining coffee, he managed to leave the restaurant with one and sixpence still in his pocket and his dignity unimpaired.
About halfway through the meal, Henry had noticed the cessation of Knight’s and Barry’s voices, and when he got up to leave he saw that their table was empty. Presumably they had departed through the same private door by which they had come in. Goring had left some minutes earlier, without as much as a glance at Henry or Veronica. Olwen was still arguing earnestly with her TV celebrity over endless cups of coffee, but she took time off to stare again at Veronica as the latter walked out. Again, Henry was uncertain what lay behind her expression. Anger? Apprehension? Exasperation? Perhaps a mixture of all three.
Back in the privacy of his little office at Style, Henry proceeded to give his niece a large piece of his mind. He dwelt at some length on her foolhardiness in getting mixed up in criminal matters, her lack of tact amounting to idiocy, and the possible unpleasant consequences which might ensue if she persisted in her present line of conduct. He demanded that henceforth she should dissociate herself from any kind of detection whatsoever, and he forbade her to appear in Nicholas Knight’s show. He also asked her, several times, what she imagined her mother would say about it all.
Veronica listened penitently, with downcast eyes. When Henry paused for breath, she said demurely that she was very sorry, that she knew she had been silly, and that she wouldn’t do it again. She agreed willingly to abide by all Henry’s suggestions with the exception of quitting the Nicholas Knight show. “All the clothes have been fitted on me now,” she explained. “I couldn’t let him down at this stage. It wouldn’t be professional.”
Nothing that Henry could say would shake her on this point, but so gratifyingly chastened was her manner that he decided to let it pass, and went on to the subject of Paris and Rachel Field’s suitcase. Veronica was indignant.
“I didn’t touch her beastly suitcase,” she said with spirit, “and if she says I did, she’s lying.”
“She doesn’t say you did. She says you could have.”
“Well, that doesn’t prove anything.”
“Look, Ronnie,” said Henry, “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m sure that anything you did was completely innocent. Nevertheless, if somebody did ask you to slip something into Miss Field’s suitcase, you must tell me about it. I promise you won’t get into trouble, and in a serious case like this, you mustn’t have scruples about telling tales on other people.”
“I tell you, I never went near the wretched suitcase,” said Veronica. “I was in her room while she was packing, but I wouldn’t have dared touch anything. You know the sort of person she is—everything beautifully wrapped up and packed in apple-pie order. When I pack, I just roll things up and stuff them in anyhow.”
“Miss Field was called away in the middle of packing, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. Teresa came and knocked on the door and asked her to go along to her room to check on something. She was away for about ten minutes.”
“And all that time you stayed in Miss Field’s room?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody else came in?”
“Not a soul.”
“Well,” said Henry, “it certainly looks as though whoever ransacked Rachel’s case didn’t find what they were looking for. Unless,” he added, sternly, “there’s something that you haven’t told me.”
Veronica’s big eyes grew even bigger, in exaggerated innocence. “Oh, no, Uncle Henry. I’ve told you everything.”
“I hope you have,” said Henry. “Now you’d better run along. I have some calls to make. Remember what I told you, and keep your nose out of trouble. Are you coming round to the flat for a drink tonight?”
“I can’t. I’m going to the pictures with Donald.”
Henry hesitated. He was more worried about Veronica than he wanted her to know. Yet he could hardly forbid her to go out with a young man against whom he had no definite grounds for suspicion, apart from a feeling that his evidence had not been entirely truthful. At length, he said, “Don’t discuss the case with anybody, Ronnie. Not even Donald. Above all, don’t tell him that you think you may have discovered something. Incidentally, what was all that nonsense you were talking at lunchtime?”
“Oh, nothing.” Again the innocence was slightly overdone. “Just a very vague something. Anyway, you said I wasn’t to meddle in…”
“If you’ve stumbled on something, you must tell me.”
“No, honestly. It’s nothing.”
Henry was aware of conflicting pressures. As Veronica’s uncle, he wished her to have nothing to do with the affair; as a policeman, he realized that she was extraordinarily well-placed for finding out just the sort of significant detail which could be invaluable. In the end he said, “Come and see us tomorrow and we’ll talk it over then.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Henry. I can’t. I’ve promised to go and spend the week end with Nancy at her parents’ place in the country—you remember Nancy Blake, don’t you? The girl I share my flat with.”
“Well, that should keep you out of harm’s way at any rate,” said Henry. “Till Monday, then.”
“Till Monday,” said Veronica. She put on her coat, kissed Henry’s nose, and departed.
Henry made a phone call, and then took a bus to Onslow Street in Kensington, to the residence of Dr. Walter Markham.
Dr. Markham was a stout, fatherly man in his late fifties, who greeted Henry with an expression of worried concern on his normally jovial face.
“A great tragedy,” he kept repeating, as he ushered Henry into the comfortable, leather-upholstered consulting room. “A great tragedy. Such a charming woman, and so young. And yet, which of us can blame her? If she saw fit to take her own life…” He sighed.
Henry was intrigued. Again the suggestion of suicide. “What makes you say that?” he asked.
“Well…” Dr. Markham hesitated. “I presume that the P.M. will have revealed her state of health…”
“You were her doctor,” said Henry. “What was her state of health?”
Dr. Markham looked surprised. “I imagine,” he said, “that she was suffering from an incurable cancer.”
“You imagine?”
“I had better explain.” The doctor settled back in his chair. “Miss Pankhurst was one of my registered patients. Fortunately, I saw little of her in a professional capa
city. Occasionally, she would come to me if she had a cold or some such small ailment. Nevertheless, we were neighbours, and I think you can say that we were friends. About two months ago, she came to see me in a state of great distress.” He paused. “She would not let me examine her, but she asked me, in confidence, to give her the name of the best cancer specialist in London. Naturally, I was very concerned. She maintained that she was asking on behalf of a friend…that is very usual. People who suspect they may be suffering from such a disease are often anxious to keep it hushed up until they know for certain. They do not wish to distress their family and friends unnecessarily. Helen confirmed my suspicions by being most insistent that I should tell nobody of her visit. In particular, she wanted to make sure that Miss Piper did not hear of it. Her flat-mate, you know—another patient of mine. There was nothing I could do except give her the information she wanted, and let her go. When I read of this tragedy in the papers, I naturally assumed…”
“Which specialist did you recommend to her?” Henry asked.
Dr. Markham looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know whether I should…” he began.
“Doctor,” said Henry, “there was nothing at all the matter with Miss Pankhurst, and she did not commit suicide. She was murdered.”
“Good God. Murdered? What a terrible thing.” The doctor looked really shaken. “But who?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Henry, “and this information may help me.”
“Well, since you put it like that… I advised her to go to Sir James Braithwaite. He’s the acknowledged expert. In Wimpole Street, you know. My goodness…murdered…”
“Thank you,” said Henry. “You’ve been very helpful. And please—keep quiet about all this. I’ve given you certain information in strict confidence.”
“Of course, Inspector. Naturally. Murdered…what a tragedy…what a great tragedy…”
Sir James Braithwaite, Henry was informed by a crisp young brunette in a white uniform, was extremely busy and could see nobody until the end of next week. He had only today returned from a conference in Vienna, she added, and therefore had a lot of work to catch up on.
At the sight of Henry’s card, the brunette opened her brown eyes very wide and looked scared. She asked Henry to take a seat in the waiting room, and disappeared, at what was almost a run, through a heavy oak door which led off the hallway of the solid Wimpole Street house.
Henry took a seat. He was alone in the waiting room, with only a bronze figure of Diana the Huntress and a pile of elderly magazines to keep him company, and he became more and more aware of the insistent ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and the softly muffled roar of the traffic outside. If one believed, as Henry did, that buildings could catch and retain some echo of the events and emotions which they witnessed, then this must be one of the most tragic rooms on earth. The measure of human agony, apprehension, and despair which had flowed through it, he reflected, gave it a far better chance of being haunted than had a house which had seen a solitary, swift act of violence. In spite of himself, Henry shivered. He thought of Helen Pankhurst sitting in this same room, waiting… He thought of Michael Healy.
The door opened, and the brunette said, “Sir James can spare you a few minutes straightaway, Inspector.” Henry got up and followed her into the consulting room.
The room was deliberately unclinical and reassuring. Its big bow windows overlooked a quiet garden, and the thin January sunshine, struggling to penetrate the white muslin curtains, gave an impression of light and warmth. Apart from two filing cabinets and a leather-topped desk, it might have been a pleasantly furnished drawing room. As Sir James Braithwaite rose from behind the desk to greet Henry, it was clear that he, too, radiated the same air of comfort and good cheer. He was a tall, handsome man with white hair, a smooth pink face which seemed to be always smiling, and blue eyes that twinkled behind horn-rimmed glasses. The sort of man before whom, one felt, insuperable problems would melt away to nothing. A man to be trusted.
“My dear Inspector,” he said. “Please come in and sit down. What can I do for you? I trust your visit has no sinister significance?” The blue eyes sparkled merrily.
“It’s very kind of you to make time to see me, Sir James,” said Henry. “I understand you are very busy just now.”
“Yes, I fear I am. I think Miss Bennett explained to you that I’m just back from a Vienna conference, and I know I don’t have to tell you, Inspector, how things mount up the moment one’s back is turned.”
“When did you leave England?” Henry asked.
“At crack of dawn on Wednesday morning, by air,” answered Sir James, with a wry smile. “That’s the way life goes. I’d promised to speak at a professional dinner in Surrey on Tuesday night, and yet I had to be in Vienna for the opening of the conference at eleven on Wednesday. It was a two-day affair, but do you think I could slip quietly back yesterday evening and get a good night’s sleep? Not a bit of it. Another dinner had been arranged for me in Vienna last night. I got back this morning, just in time to attend another luncheon here. Sometimes I feel I’m being turned into a sort of mountebank. My job is treating patients, not making speeches.”
“So,” said Henry, slowly, “you presumably haven’t seen an English newspaper since Tuesday. You don’t know that Miss Pankhurst is dead.”
“Miss—?” Sir James leant forward, polite and puzzled. “I’m so sorry, Inspector. I don’t grasp quite what you… Miss Pankhurst? Who is she?”
“The assistant editor of Style,” said Henry.
Sir James gave a helpless little laugh. “I’m afraid all this is quite beyond me,” he said. “My wife reads Style, of course, but it’s hardly my line. Am I expected to know something about this young woman? I assume she was young. I imagine all fashion writers as being twenty-five and ravishingly beautiful.”
“She was not, then, a patient of yours?” Henry asked.
Sir James shook his head. “I don’t pretend that I can recall offhand every patient who has ever visited me,” he said, “but I can tell you that she is not under treatment at the moment. There’s a very simple way of finding out if she ever has consulted me…” He got up and went over to one of the green filing cabinets, where he flicked expertly through a series of cards. “No. I have never had a patient of that name.”
“I think,” said Henry, “that she may have used an assumed name.”
Sir James sighed. “That is not unusual,” he said.
“So,” said Henry, “I’ve brought along a couple of photographs of her for you to see. They’re not very good, but I hope you may be able to identify her.”
Sir James studied the two pictures gravely. No trace of surprise crossed his face, but for several seconds he sat regarding the snapshots, frowning slightly. He said nothing.
“Well?” said Henry. “Do you recognize her?”
Without taking his eyes off the photographs, Sir James said, “Yes.”
“Who was she?”
Sir James looked up and met Henry’s eye squarely. There was no laughter in his face now. “You tell me,” he said, “that her name was Pankhurst, and that she was unmarried. I knew her as Mrs. Charles Dodgson. She was not my patient, but her husband was…and still is.”
Henry looked up. “Charles Dodgson?” he repeated.
“Yes,” answered Sir James. “Is that name familiar to you?”
“It certainly is,” said Henry. “Isn’t it to you?”
“I have just told you that Charles Dodgson is my patient. Why are you smiling?”
“It’s always pleasant,” said Henry, “to encounter an informed sense of humour, even in grim circumstances.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Never mind. It’s not important. Tell me, what was your diagnosis of Mr. Dodgson’s condition?”
“Really, Inspector, I hardly think that…”
“This is a murder investigation,” said Henry. “You can speak absolutely freely.”
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br /> “Murder?” Sir James looked up, startled. “I thought perhaps that… No. No, that would not have been in character. A very courageous woman, I thought. Even when…”
“Please,” said Henry, “tell me your diagnosis.”
“Mr. Dodgson,” said Sir James slowly, “is suffering from a malignant growth in the stomach. At the moment, its effects are only such as to cause mild discomfort, but it is so situated as to be inoperable. Short of a miracle…which does sometimes happen…nothing can prevent it from developing in the usual way. I would give him a year to live.”
“Have you told him so?”
“No.” Sir James pondered. “In such a case, I always consult with a near relative as to whether or not the patient should be told. I first examined Mr. Dodgson on…wait a minute, I will check the date.” He went back to the filing cabinet, and sorted through the cards. For a moment he looked bewildered, then he smiled. “Oh. Stupid of me. Mr. Dodgson’s card is not here. I quite forgot. The circumstances were slightly unusual. Mrs. Dodgson—forgive me if I go on calling her that—telephoned me to make the appointment, but emphasized that she and her husband were both busy working people, and could only come to me on Saturday or Sunday. I explained that I spend every week end in the country—a vain attempt to preserve a private life. She said that this would suit her admirably. Her husband had no suspicion that he might be suffering from cancer, and she did not want to alarm him. She had already persuaded him to consent to a general medical checkup, and she could easily arrange for them to spend the week end near my country house. In this way, she could get him to come and see me informally, as it were, with no idea that…”
“Your country house is at Hindhurst, isn’t it?” said Henry.
“Yes. Well, just outside, to be precise.”
“I don’t know when you first saw Mr. Dodgson,” said Henry, “but you certainly examined him just over a month ago, on December 28th.”
“That’s right.” Sir James looked surprised. “I remember it now, because it was during the Christmas holiday. That was his first visit.”
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