by P. D. James
“Did you think that the murder was news to her? I realize that it’s hardly a fair question.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, I did. I think Robbins will say the same.”
“And she asked no questions?”
“Neither in the flat nor on the way here. She just said, ‘I’m ready, Inspector. I can start right away.’ We didn’t speak on the journey—oh, I did ask if she was all right and she said she was. She sat in the car with her hands folded in her lap looking down at them. She gave the impression of thinking.”
Sergeant Robbins put his head around the door.
“Mr. Langton is anxious to see you, sir. He’s worried that the press will get hold of it, or that the news will break in some way before he’s had time to tell the other members of Chambers. And he’s asking how long Chambers will have to be closed. Apparently they’ve got some solicitors arriving this afternoon.”
“Tell him I’ll be with him in ten minutes. And you’d better ring Public Relations. Unless some interesting news breaks tomorrow this is likely to make the front page. And, Robbins, what was your impression of Mrs. Carpenter’s reaction when she first heard the news?”
Robbins took his time; he always did. “Surprise and shock, sir.” He paused.
“Yes, Robbins?”
“I thought there was something else. Guilt perhaps. Or shame.”
8
At three o’clock Dalgliesh had a meeting at the Yard of the working party set up to discuss the implications of the Security Services Act, but had arranged to meet Venetia Aldridge’s solicitor at Pelham Place with Kate at six o’clock, and then to go on to Pimlico to see Mark Rawlstone.
Kate had spoken to the solicitor, a Mr. Nicholas Farnham, when the meeting was arranged. The man’s voice had been deep and with some of the measured authority of late middle age, so that she was expecting to meet a long-standing family solicitor, cautious, conventional and probably inclined to keep a suspicious eye on any police activities in his client’s house. Instead Nicholas Farnham, who came leaping up the steps as Kate rang the bell, was revealed as surprisingly young, vigorous, cheerful-faced and apparently not greatly distressed by the loss of a client.
Mrs. Buckley opened the door to them and told them that Miss Octavia was in the basement flat but would come up to see them later. Then she led them upstairs and showed them into the drawing-room.
When she had left, Dalgliesh turned to Nicholas Farnham. “We’d like to go through your client’s papers now, if you have no objection. It’s helpful having you here. Thank you for making the time.”
Farnham said: “I’ve been here already, of course, late morning. I wanted to see if there was anything the firm could do for Miss Aldridge’s daughter and assure her that we’d arrange for her to have money paid from the bank. It’s almost the first thing the bereaved ask—’What do I do for money?’ It’s natural enough really. Death puts an end to a life. It doesn’t put an end to the need to eat, settle the bills, pay the wages.”
Dalgliesh asked: “How did you find her?”
Farnham hesitated. “Octavia? I suppose the conventional answer is bearing up remarkably well.”
“More shocked than grieved?”
“I’m not sure that would be fair. How can you tell what people are feeling at a time like this? Her mother had only been dead a matter of hours. She had her fiancé with her, which didn’t help. He asked most of the questions. Wanted to know the terms of the will. Well, I suppose that’s natural enough, but it struck me as insensitive.”
“Did Miss Aldridge consult you about her daughter’s engagement?”
“No she didn’t. Well, there was hardly time. And there wouldn’t be much point, would there? I mean, the girl’s of age. What could we or anyone else do? When I got her on her own for a few moments this morning I did murmur that it wasn’t wise to make important decisions about one’s future life when in a state of grief or shock, but the hint wasn’t well received. It’s not as if I’m an old family friend. The firm has acted for Miss Aldridge for twelve years but mostly it’s been the divorce and conveyancing. She bought this place just after her divorce.”
“What about the will? Did you draw that up?”
“Yes we did. Not the one drawn up when she married, but she revised it after the divorce and we acted for her then. There should be a copy in the desk here. If not, I can tell you the main provisions. It’s very simple. A few bequests to legal charities. Five thousand pounds to the housekeeper, Rose Buckley, provided she’s in her service at the date of death. Two of her pictures—the one in Chambers and the Vanessa Bell here—to Drysdale Laud. All the residue goes to her daughter, Octavia, in trust until she comes of age and then absolutely.”
Dalgliesh said: “She is, I understand, now of age.”
“Eighteen on the first of October. Oh yes, I forgot—there is a bequest of eight thousand pounds to her ex-husband, Luke Cummins. Considering that the total value of the estate apart from the house is three-quarters of a million, he may well feel it should either have been nothing or something more.”
Dalgliesh asked: “Has he kept in touch with her or the child?”
“Not as far as I know. But, then, as I’ve said, I don’t really know much about the family. I think he was pushed out of her life pretty effectively. Or maybe he didn’t need pushing. There’s something spiteful about that eight thousand quid and she never struck me as a petty or spiteful woman. But I didn’t really know her. Of course, she was a very fine lawyer.”
“That seems to be her epitaph.”
Farnham said: “Well, you can’t really wonder. Perhaps it’s the epitaph she would have chosen herself. It was the most important thing about her. Look at this house, for example. It isn’t exactly lived in, is it? I mean, you don’t get much impression of the woman from these rather conventional rooms. Her real life wasn’t here. It was in Chambers and the courts.”
Dalgliesh drew up a second chair at the desk and Kate and he began their methodical search of the cubbyholes and drawers. Farnham seemed content to leave them to it, wandering round the room and inspecting each item of furniture with the air of an auctioneer assessing the possible reserve price.
He said: “Drysdale Laud should be happy with this Vanessa Bell. She could be a slovenly artist at times, but this is one of her best. Odd that Miss Aldridge was so keen on these Bloomsbury painters. I’d have expected her to go for something more modern.”
The thought had crossed Dalgliesh’s mind. The painting was an agreeable picture of a dark-haired woman in a long red skirt standing at the open window of a kitchen and gazing out over flat countryside. There was a dresser holding a variety of jugs and a vase of cornflowers on the window-sill. He wondered whether Drysdale Laud knew of the bequest; he wondered, too, why it had been made.
Farnham continued his pacing, then he said: “Odd job you have, grubbing through the leavings of a life, but I expect you get used to it.”
Dalgliesh said: “Not altogether.”
His and Kate’s task was almost finished. If Venetia Aldridge had been able to predict the exact time of her death, she could hardly have left her affairs in better order. A locked drawer held the statements of her various bank accounts, her will and details of her investments. She paid her bills promptly, kept the receipts for six months, then obviously destroyed them. A manila file marked “Insurance” contained the policies for the house, its contents and her car.
He said: “I don’t think there’s anything we need to take away, and I don’t think there’s anything more we need to do here. I’d like to see Miss Cummins and Mrs. Buckley before I leave.”
Farnham said: “Well, you won’t need me for that, so I may as well be on my way. If there’s anything else you want to know, give me a ring. I’d better have a word with Octavia before I leave. I’ve already told her the terms of the will but she may have questions and, of course, she’ll probably need help and some support at the inquest and funeral. When is the inquest, by the way?”
“
In four days’ time.”
“We’ll be there, of course, although it’ll probably be a waste of time. I assume you’ll ask for an adjournment. Well, goodbye and good hunting.”
He shook hands with Dalgliesh and Kate and they heard him bounding down the stairs, and caught his muttered words in the hall with Mrs. Buckley. He couldn’t have spent long with Octavia. Within five minutes they heard footsteps and the girl came in. She looked pale but perfectly calm. She sat down on the edge of a chaise longue, rather like a child instructed how to behave in a strange room.
Dalgliesh said: “Thank you for your co-operation, Miss Cummins. It’s been helpful to go through your mother’s papers, but I’m sorry that we’ve had to bother you so soon after her death. There is one question if you feel able to talk to us.”
She said rather sourly: “I’m all right.”
“It’s about the quarrel between your mother and Mr. Mark Rawlstone. Do you remember precisely what they said?”
“No I don’t. I didn’t hear what they said. I could only hear them quarrelling. I don’t want to think about it and I don’t want to remember it. And I’m not going to answer any more questions.”
“I understand. This is a terrible time for you and we’re very sorry. If you do remember more about it, please let us know. Is Mr. Ashe here? We rather expected that he would be.”
“No he isn’t. Ashe isn’t very fond of the police. Do you wonder? You stitched him up for his aunt’s murder. Why should he talk to you now? He doesn’t have to. He’s got an alibi. We’ve already explained all that.”
Dalgliesh said: “If we need to speak to him, then I’ll be in touch. I’d like to see Mrs. Buckley before I leave. Would you be good enough to tell her?”
“You could try her sitting-room. Top floor at the back. But I shouldn’t take much notice of anything she tells you.”
Dalgliesh, who was beginning to get up, sat down again and said in a voice of calm interest: “Wouldn’t you? Why is that, Miss Cummins?”
She reddened. “Well, she’s old.”
“And therefore incapable of coherent thought, is that what you’re telling us?”
“It’s like I said, she’s old. I didn’t mean anything.”
Kate saw with satisfaction the girl’s angry discomfiture, then told herself quickly to control her dislike; antipathy could cripple judgement in a police officer as easily as partiality. And it was only hours since Octavia had learned of her mother’s murder. Whatever their relationship, the girl must be in shock.
Octavia repeated sullenly her last words: “I didn’t mean anything.”
Dalgliesh’s voice was gentler than his words.
“No? May I give you some advice, Miss Cummins? When you’re talking to a police officer, particularly about murder, it’s wise to ensure that your words do mean something. We’re here to try to find out how your mother died. I’m sure that’s what you want too. We’ll find our own way up.”
They mounted the staircase without speaking, Dalgliesh waiting for Kate to lead the way. She had noticed from her first day in the squad that he always did let her go first except when there was danger or unpleasantness to face. She saw it as an instinctive courtesy, but knew that she would have felt more comfortable with the macho thrusting of a typical male officer. Climbing the stairs, aware of him disconcertingly close behind her, she thought once again about the ambiguities of their relationship. She liked him—she would never allow herself a stronger word—she admired and respected him. She passionately needed his approval and sometimes resented that need. But she had never felt completely at ease with him, because she had never understood him.
The stairs to the top flight were carpeted, but Mrs. Buckley must have heard their footsteps. When they reached the top floor she was waiting for them, and welcomed them into her sitting-room as if they were expected guests. She was calmer than when Kate had first seen her, perhaps because she had recovered from the initial shock of the murder; perhaps, too, she was more at ease with them away from Octavia and on her own ground.
“It’s rather crowded, I’m afraid, but I have three chairs. If Inspector Miskin doesn’t mind taking this one—it’s rather low. It was my mother’s nursing chair. I was given the basement flat when I first arrived but Miss Aldridge explained that I might later have to move if her daughter needed it when she left school. That was only right, of course. May I offer you coffee? Miss Aldridge had this mini-kitchen made for me in what was a cupboard. I can make hot drinks and even cook a light meal in the microwave. It saves me the trouble of going down to the kitchen. If Miss Aldridge has—had—a dinner guest I could serve the main course and then come upstairs and eat here. If it was a large party she usually got in outside caterers. My job here isn’t really arduous, just shopping, cooking the evening meal and a little light housework. We have a woman in twice weekly for the rough.”
Dalgliesh asked: “How did you come to work for Miss Aldridge?”
“Forgive me if I wait until I’ve ground the coffee beans. One can’t hear anything above the noise. That’s better. The smell is wonderful, isn’t it? That’s one thing my husband and I never economized on, our coffee.”
She busied herself with kettle and percolator while she told her story. In essentials it was common enough, and where she was reticent neither Dalgliesh nor Kate had difficulty in filling in the details. She was the widow of a country vicar who had died eight years previously. She and her husband had inherited a house in Cambridge from her grandmother but after her husband’s death she had sold it in order to hand over a substantial sum to her son, and had moved into a cottage in rural Hertfordshire, the county in which she had been brought up. The son, an only child, had bought a house, sold it well within two years and had moved to Canada with the profit, apparently with no intention of returning. The country cottage proved to be a mistake. She was lonely among strangers and the village church on which she had pinned her hopes became uncongenial under the ministry of a new young vicar.
“I know that the church has to attract the young and there was a new housing estate on the fringes of the village which the vicar was anxious to bring in. We had a great deal of pop music and choruses, and we used to sing ‘Happy Birthday to You’ when anyone in the congregation had a birthday that week. The family communion was more like a concert than a service, and there really wasn’t much for me to do in the parish. So I thought I might have a more fulfilled life if I came to London. I could let the cottage, that would bring in a little extra money. I read the advertisement for this job in The Lady and Miss Aldridge interviewed me. She agreed that I could bring some of my furniture with me, and my own things do help to make me feel at home.”
The room, thought Kate, was indeed homely, if over-cluttered. The substantial desk at which Mrs. Buckley’s husband must have written his sermons, the display cabinet crammed with patterned china, the small polished table crowded with family photographs in silver frames, the glass-fronted bookcase of leather volumes and the row of rather anaemic water-colours provided, even for her, a stranger, a sense of continuity and security, of a life which had known love. The single divan bed placed against the wall with a small shelf and a wall-mounted light above it, was covered by a patchwork quilt in faded silks.
Looking at Dalgliesh’s grave face, at the long fingers curled round the coffee mug, Kate thought: He’s perfectly at ease here. He’s known women like this all his life. They understand each other.
He asked: “You have been happy here?”
“Contented rather than happy. I had hopes of evening classes, but it isn’t really possible for an elderly woman to go out alone at night. My husband started his ministry in London but I hadn’t realized how much has changed. But I do get to a matinée occasionally, and there are the galleries and the museums, and I’m close to St Joseph’s and Father Michael is very kind.”
“And Miss Aldridge. You liked her?”
“I respected her. She could be a little frightening at times, a little impatient. If sh
e gave an instruction she didn’t like to have to repeat it. She was very efficient herself and she expected it in others. But she was very fair, very considerate. A little remote, but, then, she advertised for a housekeeper, not a companion.”
Dalgliesh said: “That call to her yesterday evening. Forgive me, but you are sure about the time?”
“Quite sure. I made it at seven-forty-five. I looked at my watch.”
“Could you tell us about it, why you made it, what exactly was said?”
She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke it was with a pathetic dignity. “Octavia was quite right in what she said. It was to complain about her. Miss Aldridge disliked my telephoning her at Chambers unless it was really urgent, and that’s why I hesitated. But Octavia and that young man, her fiancé, came up from the basement flat and demanded that I cook them dinner. She isn’t a vegetarian but she decided that it had to be a vegetarian meal. The arrangement is that Octavia looks after herself in the flat. Of course, normally I wouldn’t mind helping out, but she was very peremptory. I thought that if I gave way once she would expect me to cook for her on demand. So I came up from the kitchen into Miss Aldridge’s study and telephoned Chambers, and explained the problem as briefly as I could. Miss Aldridge said, ‘If she wants vegetables, cook her vegetables. I’ll talk to her and sort it out when I get home. That will be in about an hour’s time. I’ll get my own dinner. I can’t discuss it now, I have someone with me.’ “
“And that was all?”
“And that was all. She sounded very impatient, but she never liked me to ring Chambers, and of course it wasn’t a good time when she had someone with her. I went down to the basement kitchen and cooked a thick onion tart for them. It’s one of Delia Smith’s recipes and Miss Aldridge always liked it. But of course I had to make the pastry first and it’s best to leave the dough in the fridge for half an hour while you prepare the filling, so it isn’t a quick meal. Then afterwards they wanted pancakes with apricot jam. I made these after they’d had the onion tart, and served the pancakes straight from the pan.”