Diana's Altar

by Barbara Cleverly

  “I thought you’d need a cheering blaze after the night you’ve had. And I can offer other comforts! No, nothing too intimate, sadly, our friend Hunnyton is about to descend on us any minute now. Though there’s a kiss coming up the moment I can turn my attention from this. There, that’s going nicely! I always find that if you put in twice the recommended number of firelighters, it takes hold at the first attempt. Starting a love affair or lighting a fire—give it all you have right from the off, I say. Oh, I called by Fitzbillies on the way here and got a bag of sticky buns, a couple of chocolate éclairs and some ham sandwiches. Or, seeing as it’s really lunchtime, we could just nip out to the Eagle and have a pint and one of their steak and kidney pies.”

  “All of those, please! In any order—so long as the kiss comes before the sticky buns. So good to see you, Joe! Pass me my dressing gown, will you, and tell me how on earth you managed to get past Easterby. I had very strict instructions about the house rules concerning ‘gentlemen callers’ when he offered me these rooms.”

  “Well, I made him understand that I’m no gentleman! I pulled my fedora down, flourished my warrant card and threatened to arrest him for obstruction if he barred my way. He had at least half a dozen clients queuing for his attention in the waiting room so he’ll be occupied for a while yet. Plenty of time for me to squeeze a confession out of you. Though I’ll let you finish your tea first.”

  While Adelaide scuttled off down the corridor to the bathroom, modestly clutching an armful of clothes to prepare for the day, Joe looked about him, deciding his next contribution to domestic comfort. He sighed. She deserved better than this. The long, low-ceilinged room must once have accommodated a company of house servants, sleeping in ranks cheek by jowl, shivering in the winter and steaming in the summer under the leads. The single space was arranged for living, working and sleeping and managed to be at once too large and too small. Unsuitable, he reckoned, for a twenty-seven-year-old professional woman leading a gruelling and lonely life. Where were her comforts? He smiled to see Adelaide’s efforts to make it her own. The pretty quilt on her bed was a patchwork one from her father’s house, he guessed, the pictures on the walls an odd mixture of amateur—but good amateur—watercolours of the Suffolk coast and gallery prints of famous and favourite paintings. Among them was a daring Klimt featuring a red-haired woman who could have been Adelaide. Given to her by some admirer who’d noticed the similarity, no doubt, he thought with a stab of disapproval. He reminded himself that he knew very little about her and that a girl with her looks and character could not have reached her late twenties without attracting a good deal of attention.

  But this was here and now—Joe’s moment. He set about laying the kitchen table for two, grinding coffee beans and putting the cafetière on the stove. He arranged piles of cakes and sandwiches on a fresh chequered cloth and stood back to admire his work.

  “Neat and quick and the crockery all lined up and on parade, handles to the right,” Adelaide said appreciatively, appearing behind him. “Now there’s a soldier’s table! I shall expect a salute from the coffee pot.”

  The doctor was an excellent witness, Joe noted—not for the first time. Sitting opposite him at the table, cup in hand, she told her tale simply and concisely with no superfluous personal opinions or observations.

  He had started her off with the disturbing encounter in All Hallows Church, realising that this was the third time she had given her story to the ear of authority. He decided to give out a little information in reward and at the same time to divert her from offering polite condolences.

  “Aidan? Yes. I know him. Rather well. Not a bosom friend but a man I have known for some years and whom I admire. I suppose I should now acknowledge his death and say ‘admired.’ We fought in the War. He was always a rank ahead of me.”

  Enough in that dry little speech to close off any expression of sentiment. Women knew better than to enquire into a man’s military history and relationships. Out there lay a No-Woman’s Land, fenced about by tradition. Adelaide would spare him any effusions of sympathy for the loss of a friend in the knowledge that he had spent almost two decades hardening himself to death and disaster.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll find a more suitable time to honour his name. Forgive me; I only knew him for a few minutes, but I can truly say that I mourn him and will for quite some time.”

  She had meant it to sting. Joe tried again. “We were out of touch for years—apart from occasional sightings at reunions. His life took him on a very different course from my own.” He caught her expression and acknowledged that he was being evasive. He gave an apologetic smile. “In fact, the man was what my sergeant would call ‘a right villain’ at times. Qualities that were valued in the front line—daring, cunning and optimism—lose their currency in the sober world back home. Aidan was ever the charming companion. The best of educations: Radley and Cambridge, I think. Witty, free-thinking, a womaniser, a teller of stories so fantastical you might be excused for assuming they were not true. Incredibly, on investigation, most of them turned out to be nothing less than the truth and, sadly, some a great deal more. He was an instigator, a plotter, an activator, a joker . . .”

  “He sounds hell,” Adelaide commented.

  “You weren’t seeing him at his best moment exactly,” Joe pointed out, quick though inconsistent in defence of his friend.

  “Quite. Though I have to admit some very special quality shone through in his last minutes of life. Gallantry? Humour? He must have been in agony—of body and soul—and yet he tried to put me at my ease . . . take an interest . . .” She looked away for a moment.

  Joe smiled. “I’m glad his last encounter was with a pretty girl he could charm. There’s no way he could have arranged it, but that’s the kind of luck the old rogue had. Consistent to the last. But why he should have chosen that place, that night and that method of doing away with himself I have no idea.”

  “It’s always the brightest-burning candles that gutter out first,” Adelaide said sententiously. “According to my grandma. What was he doing in Cambridge, Joe? Adam said that he was ‘your man.’ Are you free to tell me why you had this fire-cracker on a lead? Or was it a noose you had about his neck?”

  Once again, Adelaide had got straight to the nub of a problem. And she was a difficult girl to lie to.

  “Noose, actually, is nearer the mark. He owed me a favour and I had a particularly unsavoury undercover job that needed doing here in Cambridge. Luckily, ‘unsavoury’—for Aidan—would always be something of an attraction. He had the background, the status, and the reputation which qualified him for a spot of infiltration into a group of gentlemen whose activities risk becoming more than just a political and social scandal. They may constitute a Threat to the Realm.”

  Joe realised that Adelaide was laughing at him. “In Cambridge? Joe, can you be certain of that? Frisky dons running amok? Dirty deeds in deserted churches? What is the place coming to? You must write a letter to the editor of the local paper and warn him.”

  “There’s more than debaggings and dunkings in the Cam going on, you know. Always has been. I’m talking about a convergence of wealth, privilege, intellect and evil that could gain momentum and harm society. Possibly even bring down the government.”

  Joe watched her bite back a saucy comment and then ask soberly, “And we are now to conclude that his involvement with this group may have led your friend to take his own life? That you, Joe, are holding yourself responsible for putting him into a lethal situation? Are you allowed to tell me who’s at the heart of this conspiracy . . . nexus . . . whatever it is?”

  “No. Not professionally. But—what the hell!—you’re involved now, though I’ll try to keep the effects to the minimum. I’m going to ask—with a declared personal interest: are you acquainted in any way with a bloke called Pertinax? Gregory Pertinax, baronet and all-round bad character? He holds an estate in Cambridgeshire, I unde
rstand . . . Adelaide?”

  She had fallen uncharacteristically silent, staring at him in disbelief. Finally, “Yes, Joe,” she said. “He’s on our list, as Easterby would say. I’ve never met the man but I remember the name. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Once heard, never forgotten. Can it be real? I made a point of inspecting the practice’s list of clients before I signed up for the partnership. It’s a very impressive lineup, Joe. The old goat’s surprisingly popular. Whenever I have the office to myself, I look through the records to familiarise myself with the cases. I’ve got as far as the letter ‘S.’ So, yes, I have seen Sir Gregory’s case notes. No, I’m not allowed to reveal the contents to you without a court order or a gun to my head. I will only say that, aware of the scandalous information those notes contained—I mean, really dire—I was doubly on my guard yesterday evening when Doc Easterby sent me out to respond to a call for medical attention in the village of Madingley, just west of here. A house call was urgently required by the lord of the manor. I cycled out there and spent a hellish night at Madingley Court. Sir Gregory Pertinax’s country seat.”

  To hide his agitation and distress, though unconsciously betraying it, Joe leapt to his feet and went to poke energetically at the fire. There was no point in alarming the girl further by communicating his own fear, and he would do well to master his urge to hold her close and croon comforting nonsense in her ear. Staring into the flames, he composed his features, even managing a slight smile, and went back, wearing it, to join her at the table.

  She looked at him intently. “Oh, dear! What a face! I really did have the bad experience I imagined I was having, then?”

  “You’re here now, safe and sane and within arm’s reach, Adelaide. Nothing else matters. Well, it does, though . . . Easterby is going to hear from me. I shall require him to account for his criminally careless behaviour in sending a young woman out by herself at dead of night into the . . . lair of an infamous scallywag.” Joe tried to keep his tone light. “You read the medical notes and that must have been warning enough! The man who composed those notes—Easterby—we must presume to have had full sight and intimate knowledge of the depths of the man’s turpitude!”

  “It’s all right, Joe. I didn’t even shake hands with Pertinax let alone get a sight of his turpitude. I was never granted an audience. He wasn’t the patient. The patient was female. I only saw the butler who admitted me, the sick woman herself and a terrified little maid the whole time I was there.

  “The call came through, unfortunately for me, right at the change of shifts—as far as we have shifts. You can’t run a medical practice entirely by the clock. Doctor Jones, Easterby’s second in command, had been on duty in the morning and was spending his afternoon on the golf course. Easterby was just coming to the end of his afternoon and looking forward to his evening meal and bridge party. I had arrived, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and early for the night hours. Easterby was talking on the telephone when I went to his office to clock on. He waved me to a seat and sort of invited me into the conversation he was having. You know . . . lots of: ‘so you’re telling me that . . .’ and, ‘have I got this right?’ and concluding with, ‘I believe I may have the solution to your problem, Sir Gregory,’ with a beaming smile at me. ‘No, no. That’s well understood. Many females actually prefer the attentions of a lady doctor. We have recently engaged the services of such a one to cover these occasions.’

  “Well, the upshot was—I was despatched on my bike. Easterby doesn’t trust a woman to drive his Bentley—and there is no practice car. I was told I was to attend the housekeeper, who was complaining of stomach pains.”

  “Stomach pains? Would that be a pressing concern? Serious enough to send someone out at night to treat it?”

  “Clearly it was. You don’t call out the doctor on the night shift lightly. Oh, not out of concern for us medics! Such a visit would be charged at a sum more than the price of an upper servant’s wages for a month. And those symptoms can be a sign of a much more serious condition, so we would always be alert. I assumed the latter in the light of over-encouraging advice to me before starting out. It was a bit strange, Joe. Easterby usually waves me in and out without bothering to look up from his desk. On this occasion, he asked me to check the contents of my medical bag. ‘Make sure you’re armed with a bottle of Milk of Magnesia and a death certificate. That’ll get you through.’

  “He warned me to try at all costs to avoid summoning an ambulance. The party concerned was of high standing in the county and would want to avoid any display of emergency. They kept a Rolls-Royce, he told me, and an old game van and either would be perfectly capable of making a run in to Addenbrooke’s depending on the condition of the patient, should it come to that. But that would be a last resort, he warned me. ‘Discretion, Doctor Hartest!’ he advised. ‘Our client moves in the very highest circles. He is known to entertain members of the royal family as well as politicians and foreign gentlemen of ambassadorial rank.’ Then, having frozen me with fear, he relaxed, probably realising he’d over-steered. This would turn out to be no more than a case of female hysteria, judging by the symptoms described, he said, suddenly offhand. The wretched female had probably had a difference of opinion with the butler and this was her way of showing her displeasure.”

  Adelaide smiled to see Joe’s raised eyebrow, ignored it and carried on. “So I arrived, feeling very chirpy after my ride. Cycling is invigorating. Everybody does it in this town. There was a good road, a bright full moon, no one about. It only took me fifteen minutes. The house was easy to find. Almost in the centre of the village. Just off the road behind a wrought-iron fence and gate. Splendid house. I’d like to see it again in the daylight. By night, in moon shadow it looked a bit creepy. It’s very old and has pediments, even a cheeky turret or two. But it’s hardly the Castle of Otranto.

  “The gate was standing open. I went in and parked my bike discreetly in the shrubbery out of sight of the lineup of very posh cars. There was a Hispano-Suiza, two Bentleys, a Dodge . . . others . . . I’m not very good at cars. There was definitely an evening do of some sort on. Most of the rooms were lit and the place was humming. Someone was playing jazz piano—rather well—women were laughing . . . My first thought was: what a rotten time for the housekeeper to come down with something nasty.”

  “Your second?”

  “I hoped it wasn’t anything catching! Housekeepers, like the cooks, have their fingers in every pie. The thought of a whole house party coming down with food poisoning was alarming.”

  “Who greeted you?”

  “The butler, of course.”

  “Name of butler? Did you . . . ?”

  “Yes, I asked him. I always do. He’s Mr. Jennings.”

  “Mmm . . . like a thousand other butlers . . .”

  “Herbert Jennings.”

  “Like a hundred others.”

  “That would be bad news! This one is cold, silent and hostile. Perfectly correct in everything he said and did—well trained, all right—but I didn’t take a shine to him and he, clearly, would have been happier to admit me at the tradesmen’s entrance. He accepted my card and studied it without comment, then he rang a bell. A young maid appeared, still wearing her afternoon uniform and looking rather dishevelled. He gave her her orders, ‘Collins, this is Doctor Hartest here to see Mrs. Denton. You will take her to the housekeeper’s room and stand by to fetch anything she needs in the way of equipment.’”

  “Was there electric lighting out there in the country?” Joe thought to ask.

  “Oh, yes. The corridors were all lit and the room—to the side and rear of the building, well away from the company rooms—was well-illuminated. A typical housekeeper’s room. A combination of work and living space. Nothing unusual.”

  Adelaide frowned as she remembered the sight that had greeted her.

  She cleared her throat and began again firmly. “The stench from the doorway was warning enough tha
t something was terribly wrong. Unpleasant, but you learn to analyse and use the elements you detect in your diagnosis. Having something to work on takes the edge off . . . Sorry, Joe! I don’t need to explain. You’ve encountered more than a few obnoxious stinks in your working life . . .”

  He smiled and nodded. “These elements were . . . ?” he prompted.

  “A cocktail of vomit, diarrhoea and sweat. With a musky, foreign undertone I couldn’t at first identify because it was so out of place. The room had the usual layout of office section—desk and filing cabinets—in one half and living quarters in the other. Luckily, it also had the benefit of a small bathroom attached—housekeeper’s perk, I suppose. We would never have managed otherwise. There was an armchair, a dining table and a bed. The patient was lying on the bed. Not in it. On top of the coverlet as though she’d collapsed there or been placed there. She was a woman somewhere in her late thirties, I guessed, with fair hair, marcel-waved but so messed about and damp with sweat it was hard to tell. She was bent into a hairpin, arms clasped around her abdomen, groaning and barely conscious.”

  “Was Jennings any help? Did he fill you in?”

  Adelaide narrowed her eyes. “No! The fiend just turned on his heel and abandoned me with a muttered, ‘Collins will be your runner . . . tell you anything you need to know . . .’ Joe, there’s sometimes a moment—less often, I’m glad to say—when, confronted by a problem of a gross nature, I still think, ‘Help! Someone fetch the doctor!’ Then I remember someone has and it’s me. I roll my sleeves up and get on with it.”

  “Did she manage to communicate her problem? Did she speak to you?”