A Certain Justice

by P. D. James

  The four rooms on the first floor had outer doors of stout oak banded with iron. Behind the outer oak of Venetia Aldridge’s room was an inner door with a keyhole but no push-button security system. The key turned easily and as they entered Dalgliesh put out his hand to the left of the door and switched on the light.

  The scene that met their eyes was so bizarre that it might have been a tableau in Grand Guignol, deliberately contrived to confront, astonish and horrify. The desk chair in which she sat slumped had swung round so that she was facing them as they entered, the head a little forward, the chin pressed against the throat. The top of the full-bottomed wig was covered with blood, leaving only a few stiff grey curls visible. Dalgliesh moved close to the body. Blood had flowed down over the left-hand side of the face to soak the fine wool of her black cardigan and stain with reddish brown the edges of a cream shirt. The left eye was obscured with globules of viscous blood which, as he watched, seemed to tremble and solidify. The right eye, glazed with the dull impassivity of death, was fixed beyond him as if his presence was unworthy of notice. Her forearms rested on the arms of the chair, the drooping hands with the two middle fingers a little lowered frozen into a gesture as graceful as a ballet-dancer’s. Her black skirt had rucked up above the knees, and knees and legs were held close together and slanted to the left, a pose reminiscent of the deliberate provocation of a fashion model. The fine nylon tights sheened the knee bones and emphasized every plane of the long elegant legs. One black court shoe with its medium heel had fallen or been kicked off. She was wearing a narrow wedding ring, but no other jewellery except for an elegant, square-faced gold watch on the left wrist.

  There was a small table to the right of the door. It was covered with papers and briefs tied with red tape. Dalgliesh went over and placed his murder bag in the only clear space, then took out and put on his search gloves. Kynaston had, as always, taken his from his suit pocket. He tore off the end of the envelope and put them on, then drew very close to the body, Dalgliesh at his shoulder.

  He said: “I’ll state the obvious. Either the blood was poured over the wig within the last three hours or it contains an anticoagulant.” His hands moved about the neck, gently rotated the head, touched the hands. Then with extreme care he lifted the wig from her head, bent low over her hair, sniffed as if he were a dog and as gently replaced the wig. He said: “Rigor well developed. Probably dead twelve to fourteen hours. No obvious wound. Wherever it came from, the blood isn’t hers.”

  With extraordinary delicacy the stubby fingers undid the buttons of her cashmere cardigan to reveal the shirt. Dalgliesh saw that there was a narrow, sharp-edged cut just below a button on the left side. She was wearing a bra. The swell of the breasts looked very white against the creamy sheen of the silk. Kynaston placed his hand underneath the left breast and gently released it from the bra. There was a puncture wound, a narrow slit about one inch long, a little depressed and with some superficial oozing but no blood.

  Kynaston said: “A thrust to the heart. He was either very lucky or very skilled. I’ll confirm it on the table, but death must have been almost instantaneous.”

  Dalgliesh asked: “And the weapon?”

  “Long, thin, rapier-like. A narrow dagger. Could be a thin knife, but that’s unlikely. Both sides were sharp. Could be a steel paper-knife provided it’s sharp, pointed, strong and at least four inches long in the blade.”

  It was then that they heard the running footsteps and the door was flung open with force. They turned towards it, their bodies shielding the corpse. The man who stood in the doorway was literally shaking with anger, his face a white mask of outrage. He was holding a pouch like a clear plastic hot-water bottle, and now he shook it at them.

  “What’s going on here? Who has taken my blood?”

  Dalgliesh, without replying, stood to one side. The result in other circumstances would have been risible. The newcomer stared at the body in a wide-eyed parody of disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, moved quietly, cat-like, into the room as if the corpse were a figment of his imagination which would disappear if only he could bring himself to confront it. When he did speak he had his voice under control.

  “Someone has a curious sense of humour. And what are you doing here?”

  Dalgliesh said: “I would have thought that was obvious. This is Dr. Kynaston, who is a forensic pathologist. My name is Dalgliesh. I’m from New Scotland Yard. Are you a member of these Chambers?”

  “Desmond Ulrick. And yes, I am a member of these Chambers.”

  “And you arrived when?”

  Ulrick’s gaze was still fixed on the body but with a look which Dalgliesh thought held more fascinated curiosity than horror. He said: “My usual time. Ten minutes ago.”

  “And no one stopped you?”

  “Why should they? As I have said, I’m a member of these Chambers. The door was closed, which is unusual, but I have a key. Miss Caldwell was at her desk as usual. No one else was around as far as I could see. I went down to my room. It’s in the basement at the back. A few minutes ago I opened my refrigerator to take out a carton of milk. The pouch and the stored blood were missing. The blood was taken three days ago and was being stored for a minor operation I’m due to have on Saturday.”

  “When did you put it in the refrigerator, Mr. Ulrick?”

  “On Monday, at about midday. I came straight from the hospital.”

  “And who knew it was there?”

  “Mrs. Carpenter, the cleaner. I left a note warning her not to touch it. I told Miss Caldwell in case she wanted to put her milk in my fridge. I have no doubt she passed the news round Chambers. Nothing is secret here. You had better ask her.” He paused and then said: “I take it from the presence of you and your colleague that the police are treating this as an unnatural death.”

  Dalgliesh said: “We are treating it as murder, Mr. Ulrick.”

  Ulrick made a movement as if about to approach the body, then turned to the door.

  “As you no doubt know, Commander, Venetia Aldridge was much concerned with murder, but she could hardly have expected to be so intimately involved. She will be greatly missed. And now, if you will excuse me, I’ll get down to my room. I have work to do.”

  Dalgliesh said: “Mr. Langton and Mr. Laud are in the library. I would be glad if you would join them. We shall need to examine your room and to dust for fingerprints. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s free.”

  He thought for a moment that Ulrick was about to protest. Instead he held out the pouch.

  “What am I supposed to do with this? It’s no use to me.”

  Dalgliesh said, “I’ll take it, thank you,” holding out his gloved hands.

  He carried it by the corner over to the table and, taking out an exhibit bag, placed the pouch inside. Ulrick watched, seeming suddenly reluctant to leave.

  Dalgliesh said: “While you are here, perhaps you could tell me something about the wig. Is it yours?”

  “No. I have no ambitions to be a judge.”

  “Did it belong to Miss Aldridge, do you know?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Few barristers own a full-bottomed. She’ll have worn one once before, when she became a QC. It’s probably Hubert Langton’s. It used to belong to his grandfather and he keeps it here in Chambers to lend to any member who takes silk. It’s kept in a tin box in Harry Naughton’s office. Harry’s our Senior Clerk. He’ll be able to check for you.”

  Kynaston was peeling off his gloves. Ignoring Ulrick, he said to Dalgliesh: “I can’t do anything more here. I have a couple of PMs this evening at eight. I could fit her in then.”

  He turned to go but found the doorway temporarily blocked by Kate Miskin. She said: “The SOCOs and the photographers are here, sir.”

  “Good, Kate. Take over here, will you. Is Piers with you?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s with Sergeant Robbins. They’re taping off this part of the court.”

  Dalgliesh turned to Ulrick. “We shall need to sear
ch your room first. Perhaps you would be good enough to join your colleagues in the library.”

  More meekly than Dalgliesh had expected, Ulrick went out, almost colliding with Charlie Ferris in the doorway. Charlie Ferris, inevitably nicknamed the Ferret, was one of the most experienced of the Met’s scene-of-crime officers, reported to be able to identify by sight threads normally discernible only under a microscope, and to smell out a decaying body at a hundred yards. He was wearing the search garb which in the last few months had replaced his former, somewhat eccentric, outfit of white shorts, with the legs cut to the crotch, and a sweat-shirt. He now wore a tight-fitting cotton jacket and trousers and white plimsolls, and his customary plastic swimming-cap, tight-fitting to prevent the contamination of the scene with his own hairs. He stood for a moment in the doorway as if assessing the room and its potential before beginning his meticulous kneeling search.

  Dalgliesh said: “The carpet is scuffed just to the right of the door. It’s possible she was killed there and dragged to the chair. I’d like that patch photographed and protected.”

  Ferris muttered, “Yes, sir,” but did not take his eyes from the part of the carpet he was examining. He wouldn’t have missed the scuffmark and would get to it in time. The Ferret had his own way of working.

  The photographers and fingerprint officers had arrived now and went silently about their business. The two photographers were an efficient couple, used to working together, who wasted no time on the niceties but did their job and got out. As a young detective sergeant Dalgliesh used to wonder what they made of it, this almost daily recording of man’s inhumanity to man, and whether the photographs they took when they were off duty, the innocent holiday pictures and records of family occasions, were overlaid by the images of violent death. Taking care to keep out of their way, Dalgliesh began his examination of the room, Kate at his shoulder.

  The desk was not modern, a solid mahogany partner’s desk, leather-topped, the wood showing the patina of years of polishing. The brass handles on the two sets of three drawers were obviously original. In the top left-hand drawer was a handbag in soft black leather with a gold clasp and a narrow strap. Opening it, Dalgliesh saw that it contained her cheque book, a thin wallet of credit cards, a purse with twenty-five pounds in notes and a few coins, a clean folded handkerchief in white linen and a bunch of miscellaneous keys. Examining them, he said: “It looks as if she kept her house and car keys on a separate ring from her keys to Chambers’ front door and this room. It’s odd that the killer locked these two doors and took away the keys. You’d expect him to leave the door open if he wanted this to look like an outside job. But he could get rid of them easily enough. They’re probably in the Thames or dropped through a grating.”

  He drew open the two bottom drawers and found little of immediate interest. There were boxes of writing-paper and envelopes, notepads, a wooden box containing a collection of ballpoint pens and, in the bottom drawer, two folded hand towels and a toilet bag containing soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste. A smaller zipped bag held Venetia Aldridge’s makeup, a small bottle of moisturizer, a compact of pressed powder, a single lipstick.

  Kate said: “Expensive but minimal.”

  Dalgliesh heard in her voice what he himself had so often felt. It was the small chosen artefacts of daily life which produced the most poignant memento mori.

  The only paper of interest in the top right-hand drawer was a copy of a thin pamphlet, inexpertly printed, and headed Redress. It was apparently distributed by an organization concerned with opportunities for women in senior posts in the professions and industry, and consisted mainly of comparative figures for some of the most prominent corporations and companies, showing the total number of women employed and those who had achieved directorships or senior managerial posts. The four names printed beneath the name Redress meant nothing to Dalgliesh. The secretary was a Trudy Manning with an address in North-East London. The pamphlet consisted of only four pages; the last bore a brief note:

  We find it surprising that the chambers of Mr. Hubert Langton at Eight, Pawlet Court, Middle Temple, employ only three women barristers from a total of twenty-one members. One of them is the distinguished criminal lawyer Miss Venetia Aldridge, QC. May we suggest to Miss Aldridge that she shows a little more enthusiasm than she has to date for ensuring fair treatment for her own sex.

  Dalgliesh took out the pamphlet and said to Ferris: “Put this among the exhibits, will you, Charlie.”

  Venetia Aldridge had obviously been working when she was killed. There was a brief on the desk supported by a thick wodge of papers. A cursory glance at the brief showed Dalgliesh that it was a case of grievous bodily harm set down for the Bailey in two weeks’ time. The only other papers on the desk were a copy of the Temple News Letter and the previous day’s Evening Standard. It looked untouched, but Dalgliesh noted that the pink financial insert, “Business Day,” was missing. A stout manila envelope, neatly slit and addressed to Miss Venetia Aldridge, QC, was in the waste-paper basket to the right of the desk. Dalgliesh thought it had probably held the Temple News Letter.

  The room, about fifteen feet square, was sparsely furnished for a barrister’s chambers. Along the left-hand side a long elegant bookcase, also mahogany, stretched almost the whole length of the wall facing the two Georgian windows, each with its twelve panes. The bookcase contained a small library of law books and bound statutes, with beneath them a row of barristers’ blue notebooks. Drawing one or two out at random, Dalgliesh saw with interest that they covered the whole of her professional career and were meticulously kept. On the same shelf was a volume of the Notable British Trials series dealing with the trial of Frederick Seddon. It was a somewhat incongruous addition to a library otherwise completely dedicated to statutes and criminal statistics. Opening it, Dalgliesh saw a brief dedication in a small cramped hand. “To VA from her friend and mentor, EAF.”

  He moved over to the left-hand window. Outside, in the morning light which was beginning already to hold the promise of sunshine, he saw that part of the court had been taped off. No one was about, yet he seemed to sense the presence of watching eyes behind blank windows. Briefly he surveyed the rest of the furniture. To the left of the door there was a four-drawer metal filing cabinet and a narrow mahogany cupboard. A coat hanger held a coat in fine black wool. There was no red robe bag. Perhaps she was in the middle of a case and had left her wig and gown in the locker room of the Crown Court. In front of the windows was a small conference table with six chairs, while the two leather high-backed chairs in front of the marble fireplace suggested a more comfortable ambience for consultation. The only pictures were a line of Spy cartoons of nineteenth-century judges and barristers in wig and gown and over the fireplace an oil by Duncan Grant. Under an impressionistic late-summer sky it showed a haystack and wagon with low farm buildings and a corn field beyond, the whole painted in clear bold colours. Dalgliesh wondered whether the cartoons had been there when Miss Aldridge took over the room. The Duncan Grant suggested a more personal taste.

  The photographers had finished for the present and were ready to go, but the fingerprint officers were still occupied with the desk and the jamb of the door. Dalgliesh thought it unlikely that any useful prints would be found. Anyone in Chambers would have had legitimate access to the room. He left the experts to their task and went to join the company waiting in the library.

  There were now four men present. The addition to the company, a large red-haired man, powerfully built, was standing in front of the fireplace.

  Langton said: “This is Simon Costello, a member of Chambers. He wanted to stay and I wasn’t prepared to keep any member of Chambers out of this building.”

  Dalgliesh said: “If he stays in this room he won’t be in the way. I had rather assumed that busy men would prefer to work elsewhere for the morning.”

  Desmond Ulrick was seated in a high-backed chair by the fireplace. A book lay open on his lap and, with his thin knees pressed together, he looked as doc
ile and absorbed as an obedient child. Langton was standing at one of the two windows, Laud at the other, and Costello had begun a restless pacing as soon as Dalgliesh entered. All except Ulrick fixed their eyes on him.

  Dalgliesh said: “Miss Aldridge was stabbed in the heart. I have to tell you that we are most certainly dealing with a case of murder.”

  Costello’s voice was roughly belligerent: “And the weapon?”

  “Not yet found.”

  “So why almost certainly? If the weapon isn’t there how can it be anything else but murder? Are you suggesting that Venetia stabbed herself and someone else conveniently removed the weapon?”

  Langton sat down at the table as if his legs had suddenly lost power. He looked at Costello, silently imploring him to be tactful.

  Dalgliesh said: “Theoretically Miss Aldridge could have stabbed herself and the weapon have been removed later by someone else, perhaps the person who put the wig on her head. I don’t for a moment believe that’s what happened. We are treating the case as murder. The weapon was a sharp stiletto-like blade, something like a small thin dagger. Has any of you seen such a thing? The question may seem absurd, but obviously it has to be asked.”

  There was silence. Then Laud said: “Venetia had something very like it. A paper-knife, but it wasn’t intended as a paper-knife. It’s a steel dagger with a brass handle and guard. It was given to me by a grateful if undiscriminating client when I took silk. I think he had it specially made and imagined it was something like the Sword of Justice. An embarrassing object. I was never sure what I was expected to do with it. I gave it to Venetia about two years ago. I was in her office when she was opening her letters and her wooden paper-knife snapped, so I went down to my room and brought up the dagger. I’d put it at the back of one of my desk drawers and had almost forgotten about it. Actually it made a very effective paper-knife.”