by P. D. James
The hall was wide, sparsely but impressively furnished, masculine, the only pictures a series of prints of historic London which covered both the hall and the staircase walls. But the first-floor drawing-room into which they were shown could have belonged to a different house. It was a conventional room, the dominant colour a soft greeny blue. The looped curtains framing the two tall windows, the linen covers of sofa and chairs, the small elegant tables, the richness of the rugs against the pale wood of the floor, all spoke of comfortable wealth. The oil over the fireplace was of an Edwardian mother, her arms round her two daughters, the sentimentality of the subject vindicated by the skill of the painter. Another wall held a series of water-colours, a third a miscellany of pictures, skilfully arranged but giving evidence of a personal taste indulged without much thought of artistic merit. There were Victorian religious scenes embroidered in silk, small portraits in oval frames, silhouettes and an illuminated address which Kate had to resist the temptation to go over and read. But the crowded wall saved the drawing-room from being too obviously a model of conventional good taste and gave it an individuality which was attractive because it was not self-conscious. One of the tables held a collection of small silver objects and the other a group of delicate porcelain figures. In the corner was a grand piano, the top covered with a silken shawl. There were flowers: smaller arrangements on the low tables and a large vase of uncut glass holding lilies on the piano. Their scent was pungent but, in this domestic ambience, not funereal.
Kate said: “How does he do this on an MP’s salary?”
Dalgliesh was standing in front of the window, apparently in thought, and taking little interest in the details of the room. He said quietly: “He doesn’t. His wife has money.”
The door opened and Mark Rawlstone came in. Kate’s first thought was that he looked smaller and less handsome than on the television. He had the strong clean-cut features to which the camera is kind, perhaps, too, the egotism which can psych itself up for a performance, producing an aura of confident glamour which, in the flesh, loses substance and vitality. She thought that he was wary but not particularly worried. He shook hands with Dalgliesh, briefly and without a smile, giving the impression, intentionally, Kate felt, that his thoughts were elsewhere. Dalgliesh introduced her, but all she received was a brief nod of acknowledgement.
Rawlstone said: “I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. I didn’t expect to find you in here. My wife’s drawing-room isn’t really an appropriate place for the sort of conversation that we’re likely to have.”
It was the tone rather than the words which Kate found offensive.
Dalgliesh said: “We have no wish to contaminate any part of the house. Perhaps you would prefer to come to my office at the Yard?”
Rawlstone had too much sense to compound his mistake. He flushed slightly and gave a rueful smile. It made him look both more boyish and a little more vulnerable, and went some way in explaining his attractiveness to women. Kate wondered how often he used it.
He said: “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming up to the library.”
The library was on the floor above and at the back. When Rawlstone stood aside to let them in Kate was surprised to find a woman obviously waiting for them. She was standing in front of the single window but turned as they entered. She was slim and gentle-faced with fair hair intricately wound and plaited, looking too heavy for her delicate features and long neck. But the eyes which looked into Kate’s with a first glance of almost frank curiosity were steady, unchallenging and not unfriendly. Kate was not deceived by her apparent fragility. Here was a woman of force.
The introductions made, Rawlstone said: “I think I can guess what this visit is about. I had a telephone call from a colleague in my Chambers just before you rang this afternoon. He told me the news about Venetia Aldridge’s death. As you can imagine, it got round the Inns of Court pretty quickly. It’s both deeply shocking and unbelievable. But, then, violent death always is when it touches someone you know. I don’t see how I can help but, obviously, if I can I shall be glad to. And there is nothing you can ask which can’t be said in front of my wife.”
Mrs. Rawlstone said: “Please sit down, Commander, Inspector Miskin. Is there anything you would like before we start? Coffee, perhaps?”
Dalgliesh thanked her but, looking across at Kate, declined for them both. There were four chairs in the room, one behind the desk, a single small armchair with a table and reading lamp beside it, and two solidly upright, their uncushioned seats and high carved backs promising little comfort. Kate thought: They’ve been brought in here for this interview. He always intended to have it in this room.
Lucy Rawlstone seated herself in the low armchair, but sitting well forward, her hands folded in her lap. Her husband took the chair behind the desk, leaving Dalgliesh and Kate to sit facing him. Kate again wondered if this was a ploy. They might have looked like two candidates before a prospective employer, except that it was impossible for her to see Dalgliesh as a supplicant. Glancing at him, she knew both that he had seen through the stratagem and that he was unworried by it.
Dalgliesh asked: “How well did you know Venetia Aldridge?”
Rawlstone took up a ruler from the desk and began rubbing his thumb along the edge, but his voice was calm and he kept his eyes on Dalgliesh.
“In one sense very well, for a time. About four years ago we began an affair. That was, of course, long after her divorce. It ended just over a year ago. I’m afraid I can’t give you the precise date. My wife had known of the affair for about two years. She didn’t, of course, condone it and about a year ago I promised her that it would end. Happily Venetia’s and my wishes coincided. Actually it was she who ended it. If she hadn’t brought matters to a head I suppose I should have taken the initiative. The affair can have no possible bearing on her death but you asked me how well I knew her and I have given you, in confidence, an accurate reply.”
Dalgliesh asked: “So there was no bitterness about the ending of the affair?”
“Absolutely none. Both of us had known for some months that what we once had, or thought we had, was dead. Both of us had too much pride to scrabble over the carcass.”
And that, thought Kate, is as carefully thought out a piece of justification as I’ve heard. And why not? He must have known why we wanted to see him. He’s had plenty of time to get his act together. And it was clever of him not to have his lawyer present. But why should he need one? He knows enough about cross-examination to make sure that he makes no mistakes.
Rawlstone put down the ruler. He said: “It’s clearer to me now how the affair happened. Venetia had—still has—an attractive man, Drysdale Laud, to squire her to theatres and dinners, but she occasionally wanted a man in her bed. I was available and willing. I don’t think any of it had much to do with love.”
Kate glanced across at Lucy Rawlstone’s face. An almost imperceptible flush passed briefly over the delicate features and Kate detected a brief spasm of disgust. She thought: “Can’t he see that she finds that crudity demeaning and humiliating?”
Dalgliesh said: “Venetia Aldridge has been murdered. Whom she did or did not need in her bed is no concern of mine unless it relates to her death.” He turned to Rawlstone’s wife: “Did you know her, Mrs. Rawlstone?”
“Not well. We met from time to time, mainly at law functions. I doubt that I exchanged more than a dozen words with her at any time. I thought that she was a handsome woman but not a happy one. She had a very beautiful speaking voice. I wondered if she was a singer.” She turned to her husband: “Did she sing, darling?”
He said shortly: “I never heard her. I don’t think she was particularly musical.”
Dalgliesh turned again to Mark Rawlstone. He said: “You were with her at her house late on the Tuesday night, the day before she died. Obviously anything that happened during the days preceding her death is of interest to us. Why did you call on her?”
If Rawlstone was disconcerted by the question, he didn’
t show it. But, then, thought Kate, he must know that Octavia had seen him and heard part of the quarrel. To deny it would be futile; it would also be unwise.
He said: “Venetia called me around nine-thirty. She said she had something to discuss and that it was urgent. When I got there I found her in an odd mood. She said that she was thinking of trying for the Bench—did I think she’d make a good judge, and would it help if she took over from Hubert Langton as Head of Chambers? She hardly needed to ask me the latter. Obviously it would help. As to whether she’d make a good judge, I told her I thought she would, but was that really what she wanted and, more to the point, could she afford it?”
Dalgliesh said: “Did you think it strange that you should be called out at night to discuss something which she could have talked about with you or others at a more convenient time?”
“It was odd, certainly. Thinking about it on the way home, I decided that she probably had something quite different to discuss but had either changed her mind when I was on my way, or had decided after I arrived that I couldn’t help and she wouldn’t bother to raise it.”
“And you’ve no idea what that could have been?”
“None. As I said, she was in a strange mood. But I left no wiser than when I arrived.”
“But you did quarrel?”
Rawlstone was silent for a moment, then he said: “We had a disagreement, I would hardly call it a quarrel. I expect you’ve been talking to Octavia. You don’t need me to tell you how unreliable that kind of information based on eavesdropping can be. It had nothing to do with the ending of the affair, or at least not directly.”
“What was it about?”
“Politics mostly. Venetia wasn’t a political creature, but she never pretended to me that she voted Labour. As I’ve said, she was in a strange mood that evening, and she may have been looking for a quarrel. God knows why. We hadn’t seen each other in months. She accused me of neglecting human relations in pursuit of political ambition. She said that our affair would probably have lasted, that she wouldn’t have been so keen to end it, if I hadn’t always put her second to the Party. It wasn’t true, of course. Nothing could have kept it alive. I replied the criticism was cool coming from her, that she’d neglected her daughter for her own career. It was that bit Octavia probably caught. We saw her standing at the open door. It’s a pity, but she only heard the truth.”
Dalgliesh said: “Can you tell me where you were between half past seven and ten o’clock yesterday?”
“I assure you I wasn’t in the Temple. I left my Chambers in Lincoln’s Inn shortly before six, met a journalist, Pete Maguire, in the Wig and Pen for a quick drink, and was home here shortly after seven-thirty. I had an appointment to meet four of my constituents in the Central Lobby of the House at eight-fifteen. They’re keen on hunting and wanted to lobby me about the future of the sport. I left here at five minutes to eight and walked to the House down John Islip Street and through Smith Square.” He put a hand into a desk drawer and took out a folded piece of paper. “I’ve written the names of my constituents here in case you feel the need to check. If so, I’d be glad if you’d do it with some tact. I had absolutely nothing to do with Venetia Aldridge’s death. I shall regard it as a serious matter if gossip gets around that I had.”
Dalgliesh said: “Gossip, if there is gossip, will not come through us.”
Mrs. Rawlstone said quietly: “I can confirm that my husband arrived home just before seven-thirty and left for the House before eight. He was back for dinner an hour later. No one called during the evening. There were a couple of telephone calls, but they were for me.”
“And there was no one here with you between seven-thirty and the time your husband returned about nine o’clock?”
“No one. I have one live-in cook and a daily woman. Wednesday is my cook’s night off, and the daily woman leaves by five-thirty. I always cook dinner for my husband on Wednesday, that is if he hasn’t an appointment elsewhere or isn’t in the House. We prefer to dine at home rather than go out. We so rarely get the opportunity. And he didn’t leave the house after I went to bed at eleven. He has to pass through my bedroom to get to the landing and I am a light sleeper. I should have heard him.” She looked at Dalgliesh steadily and asked: “Is that what you want to know?”
Dalgliesh thanked her and turned back to Mark Rawlstone. “You must, of course, have known Miss Aldridge well over the four years of the affair. Were you surprised at her murder?”
“Very. I felt the usual emotions—horror, shock, grief at the death of someone who’d been close to me. But yes, I was surprised. It’s always a surprise when something bizarre and horrible happens to someone you know.”
“She had no enemies?”
“No enemies in the sense that she was hated. She could be difficult—well, we all can. Ambition in a woman, success in a woman, sometimes attracts envy, resentment. But I know of no one who wished her dead. I’m probably not the best person to ask. They can probably tell you more in Chambers. I know it sounds odd, but for the last two or three years we didn’t see each other often, and when we did our talk—when we did talk—wasn’t personal. We each had a private life and liked to keep it that way. She spoke about her friendship with Drysdale Laud and I knew she was having trouble with her daughter. But who doesn’t have trouble with adolescent daughters?”
There was nothing else to be learned. They said their goodbyes to Lucy Rawlstone, and her husband went with them to the front door. Unlocking it, he said: “I hope it will be possible to keep this private, Commander. It concerns only my wife and myself, no one else.”
Dalgliesh said: “If your relationship with Miss Aldridge has nothing to do with this inquiry, then it need not be known.”
“There was no relationship. It had been over and done with for more than a year. I thought I’d made that clear. I don’t want telescopic lenses aimed at my windows and my wife followed whenever she goes shopping, particularly now that sections of the press have become so intrusive and malicious. I suppose we are now entitled to believe that every press baron has lived an impeccable life of chastity before marriage, and of fidelity afterwards, and that the expense sheet of every journalist will bear the most scrupulous examination. Surely there has to be a limit to hypocrisy.”
Dalgliesh said: “I’ve never found one. Thank you for your help.”
But Rawlstone lingered at the door. He said: “How exactly did she die? Obviously there are rumours but no one seems to know.”
There was no point in withholding at least some of the truth. The news would break soon enough.
Dalgliesh said: “We won’t be absolutely sure until after the post-mortem, but it looks as if she was stabbed in the heart.”
Rawlstone seemed about to speak, then changed his mind and let them go. As they turned the corner of the street, Kate said: “Not much sympathy shown there by either of them. But at least neither told us that she was a fine lawyer. I’m getting tired of that bleak epitaph. How much is that alibi worth, sir?”
“It won’t be easy to break. But if you mean, did they conspire to murder Venetia Aldridge, I’d take a lot of convincing and so would a jury. Lucy Rawlstone is a paradigm of virtue: devout Roman Catholic, active on behalf of half a dozen charities mostly concerned with children, spends one day a week working in a children’s hospice, self-effacing but efficient, generally regarded as the perfect MP’s wife.”
“And the perfect mother?”
“They haven’t any children. I imagine that could be a grief to her.”
“And incapable of lying?”
“No, who is? But Lucy Rawlstone would only lie for what she saw as an overwhelming reason.”
Kate said: “Like keeping her husband out of prison? That story of why he was summoned by Aldridge doesn’t ring true. She’d hardly ring him at night out of the blue just to ask his advice on whether she should become a judge. But he was clever when you pointed that out. His explanation was ingenious.”
Dalgliesh said:
“And could be true. It’s more likely that she wanted to discuss something important and urgent and then thought better of it.”
“Like Octavia’s engagement. Then why didn’t he suggest that as the reason? Oh, of course, if she didn’t tell him, then he probably doesn’t know about it yet. I suppose she could have had that in mind and then decided that he’d be useless to her. After all, what could he do? What can anyone do? Octavia’s of age. But it sounds as if her mother was pretty desperate. She tried to get Drysdale Laud to help and got no joy.”
Dalgliesh said: “I wish I knew when that affair ended. Over a year ago, as he claims, or on Tuesday night? Probably only two people know the answer. One of them isn’t telling and the other is dead.”
12
Desmond Ulrick usually worked late on Thursdays and saw no reason to vary his routine. The police had locked and sealed the murder room and had left, Dalgliesh taking with him a set of keys. Ulrick worked steadily until seven and then put on his coat, pushed the papers he needed into his briefcase and left, setting the alarm and locking the door behind him.
He lived alone in a charming small house in Markham Street, Chelsea. His parents had moved into it on his father’s retirement from his job in Malaysia and Japan, and he had lived there with both his parents until their deaths five years earlier. Unlike most expatriates, they had brought nothing back with them as mementoes of those alien years except a few delicate water-colours. Few of these now remained. Lois had taken a fancy to the best of them; his niece had an almost regal skill in transferring to her ownership those items of value in Markham Street which caught her eye.