Diana's Altar

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Sit down, lad,” he said. “I haven’t time to wrap this up. So take this in now and think about it. I’ll give you my number and you can ring me up to talk about it any time you like. It may take a while to adjust. Anyhow—here goes . . .

  “I told you I’m your father’s executor. He’s had the same unchanged, boring old will for many years now. Suddenly, yesterday, his lawyer, Giles Fairbain, in London got a message through to me saying he’d heard the news of Aidan’s death and would I contact him as his executor regarding the will. I assumed this was the usual harrying from a solicitor eager to clear his in-tray and collect his fee, and I didn’t jump to answer it. When I saw you in the college this evening and the bursar told me your name was Hereward, I put two and two together. I dashed back to my hotel, skipping the coffee, and rang old Fairbain at home. Dragged him away from his game of bridge and demanded some answers. We coppers can get away with stuff like that. Upshot is, in a new will drawn up last week here in Cambridge, all shipshape, signed and legal, he’d named you as his heir. Don’t get too excited—he wasted much of his family money and you’re not inheriting a fortune. All the same, there’ll be a bit to get you started in life or just make this one more comfortable for you and your gran. Entirely up to you. If you’d like me to take you to see Mr. Fairbain in his office, I can lay that on.”

  Receiving no answer but a horrified, staring incomprehension, Joe finished, “You murdered a dear man with anger and brutality and will never have my forgiveness, but—sod it!—you had your father’s forgiveness, and that’s what counts. Aidan made certain that you could not be pursued in law but, believe me, you will be pursued. You’re going to have me on your case for the rest of your days. You’re going to use the opportunity he’s handed you to earn his respect—to earn my respect.”

  The boy went on sobbing and Joe went on grieving for father and son.

  Chapter 22

  “It’s midnight, sir, here in Mayfair,” Mr. Barnes explained, sarcasm lightly veiled by formality. “Miss Despond retired to her room two hours ago. Perhaps you would like to ring back in eight hour’s time?”

  “Terribly sorry! Yes, of course.” Joe was mortified. Bloody butlers! In his agitation he’d somehow thought Dorothy would pick up the phone herself. She kept late hours and was rarely in bed before midnight. Perhaps she was not alone? He knew very little about her private life although he felt free, because he had never been discouraged, to joke with her in an intimate way. He assumed too much.

  “I can offer you Mr. Despond. The master is recently returned from New York and is at present in the snooker room entertaining his transatlantic guests.”

  “No, no. Don’t disturb him. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “A moment, sir!” Barnes caught Joe a second before he cut the connection. “If the assistant commissioner’s call chanced to relate to a matter of business—law enforcement business, that is—I should feel at liberty to count this one of those occasions on which duty might compel me to divert the communication to Miss Despond’s own private extension in her bedroom. If she is awake she will answer within three rings. More than that and I would advise you replace . . .”

  “Mr. Barnes! Let’s enforce a little law, shall we? I’m about to charge her butler with aggravating circumlocution! Will that qualify?”

  Dorothy picked up the receiver on the second ring. “Hello. Dorothy Despond here.”

  She sounded wide awake, as though her day were just beginning.

  “It’s Joe. I’m in Cambridge. Are you alone?”

  “Let me check. Well there’s Barnes somewhere about the place but he’s not in my bed. My companion for the night is a handsome, hard-bitten (and hard-biting) private eye that my father brought back from New York for me. Hunter is quite sweet but he will call his women ‘Lady’ and he sleeps in his boots. By page ninety he’s beginning to bore me. Give me a moment while I chuck him at the wall, will you? Well, now—it’s good to hear from you, Commissioner. I was wondering . . . Are you still upright and holding your shield?”

  “No. I’m collapsed on my hotel bed and my shield’s as full of holes as my socks.”

  “I’m sad to hear that. I hope you managed to deflect all the blows?”

  “No. Two took me by surprise and got through. I’ve taken serious wounds in the region of the solar plexus and the heart. I’m pure done in! Not sure I’ll recover, Dorothy.”

  With a trace of suspicion and laughter in her voice, she asked, “So, you’re treating the condition with whisky, are you?”

  Joe eyed his half-empty glass of Islay Malt. “How did you know?”

  “You come over all Scottish. Don’t worry—I like it! Slainté ! Have another swig.”

  Dorothy had the knack of making her presence immediate, friendly and forgiving. He did as she suggested, making the glass ring as he picked it up, to oblige her.

  “That’s better! Now, let me examine your solar plexus . . . Oh, nasty! Who delivered the blow?”

  “An eighteen-year-old college servant. A killer who stabbed a dear friend of mine to death and would have dispatched me the same way. No . . . No, I confiscated his knife before worse occurred. It wasn’t physical skirmishing that knocked the wind out of me—it was the psychological shock. The killer turned out to be the son Aidan never knew he had. Nearly two decades of poison, allowed to fester, reached bursting point, leaving yours truly to clear up the mess and mourn for two unhappy souls.”

  “Poor Joe! Have a hug. A careful hug—I don’t want to open wounds.”

  Joe smiled. Face to face, she would never have attempted such an intimacy—one shake of the hand was the only physical contact they had shared, but at a distance of seventy miles a nanny-ish hug to raise the spirits of a suffering man was perfectly acceptable.

  “Thank you. Gratefully received and, believe me, it helps. I did my best but I’m left with the backwash. Aidan had been working undercover in this Cambridge affair and he’d set me on the right trail. I’d assumed his death was connected and would unravel the problem of Pertinax but no—it was totally unconnected with our mutual art-loving friend. The motive was a personal one. So now I have a neat solution, but it puts me no further forward with gathering events.”

  “I shall try to pretend I understand all that. Are you going to reveal your heart wound?”

  “No. I’ve smothered it under layers of bandages.” Into the silence on the other end he added lamely, “There was a girl I was hoping to marry. She’s turned me down.”

  “Adelaide Hartest? Well of course she did! Any woman would. Especially a talented and outstanding woman like Adelaide. I’m not a bit surprised that you fell for her. But the man who deserves her has never been born. It’s certainly not you, Joe.”

  Joe gobbled, sat up and took another gulp of his whisky. “Oh. Ah. How do you know about Adelaide?”

  “You seem to have blanked out the fact that I was very much present last summer when you demolished my plans to marry Sir James Truelove. You stripped my fiancé, in front of my eyes, of his . . . well, everything. His position, his self-respect, his family, very nearly his life. Of course the man deserved it, the country owes you a huge debt and I’m eternally grateful . . . though there was a moment when I could have cheerfully smashed your skull. You’ve forgotten I was there—because Adelaide was on the scene. Every woman fades into the background when they’re sharing a stage with Sarah Bernhardt, an Iceni queen and the goddess Athena all rolled into one. But, bless her, she’s never aware that the spotlight follows her about. She noticed me and realised what I must be feeling. She came to see me and gave me some very good advice along with her sympathy. We stayed in contact and we’ve become friends. She’s not my best friend—she would scorn such a schoolgirl notion—but she’s the best of my friends.”

  “Oh, Lord!”

  “Yes. It’s bad!” Dorothy chortled. “For you, it’s alarming! No man wants to hear th
at the women in his life know each other . . .” Her voice lost its confidence for a moment as she hurriedly added, “I mean, that’s to assume I am in your life somewhere. Confidante? Agent? Agony aunt? Whatever my role—do admit—I’m not given to gossip and social stirring. I couldn’t do my job if I were. I hear all and say nothing. I only mention it now because I think you need advice from an expert on surviving heart wounds. With my perspective on things from three angles, perhaps I can say—and perhaps, for once, you’ll listen: you’ll have to think again, won’t you? Joe, you’re just terrible when it comes to choosing women.”

  “You’re right, Dorothy. I’ll never choose one again,” Joe agreed quickly, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken.

  “You concede too quickly,” Dorothy reproved. “Like a good doctor, I’m not going to accept the patient’s diagnosis or prognosis. Grit your teeth! Hold on to the bedpost! I’m going to pull out the arrowhead, which is still stuck inside you. Here goes . . . Adelaide is an Acolyte of Diana.”

  “Eh? What’s that? Not another weird Cambridge society? She’s already got the Hellfire Club and the Ladies Against Public Indecency vying for her attention.”

  “No. I was assuming you knew some Shakespeare. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. One of the girls . . .”

  “Hermia or Helena,” Joe supplied in an effort to show he still retained a hold on the exchange.

  “Hermia . . . is given the choice of marriage to her father’s nominee or being a sacrifice on the altar of Diana. Goddess of chastity and the single life. In other words she has to marry a suitable man or renounce all men for ever and become a nun. Now, Adelaide is supremely attractive to the opposite sex and they assume she must be taking her time finding someone worthy of her to settle down with. She finds you and everyone smiles. A perfect match. There’ll be a pretty house somewhere green and just out of range of the city soot and fog, a Bentley in the garage, a string of children and a husband who comes home occasionally when the demands of his work and his club permit. With a knighthood in the offing he has to spend much of his time earning it.”

  “So? You’ve just described every man’s ideal life. Paradise, so long as you include a brace of long-legged dogs.”

  “But not the ideal of a well-educated woman with very particular life-enhancing—life-preserving—skills. Skills acquired as a result of seven years of expensive and demanding work. A career which she would be compelled by society to shelve were she to marry. She’s weighed the two choices of Hermia, made up her mind and thrown herself on Diana’s altar.”

  “Nonsense! The nunneries are nearly empty! We’re not in the Middle Ages any longer, Dorothy. You’ve been reading Ivanhoe again.”

  “You’d be surprised! I blame the war. The idiocy of men, slaughtering each other in some ancient spasm of rage and blood lust. Ugh! And now the brutes have put themselves in short supply by their efforts. They’ve acquired a rarity value which they don’t deserve.

  “I have a wide circle of friends, Joe. Many of the girls my age are bright and well educated. Some of them even have degrees from the more forward-looking universities. I heard something heartbreaking from one of them the other day. Twirling her new engagement ring on her finger over celebratory buns at the Ritz, Lois announced she was marrying one of her fellow students. Leo would be pursuing his career while she would be learning how to make toast until her husband could earn enough money to employ a full domestic staff.

  “I asked her why she had worked away all those years to get to graduation point.

  “‘Oh, it wasn’t for the degree,’ she told me. ‘I wanted to meet some clever and eligible young men. And now I have! There they all were, heaps of them at University College in London! And at least I shall understand what my husband’s saying, as we took the same course.’”

  “Enough, Dotty! The arrowhead’s out. You forced it clear through and out the other side.”

  “Good. Lace up your corset and pick up your shield again. I want to hear about Pertinax. Did you get the painting? What have you done with it? Did it end in fisticuffs?”

  “I got it. I offered what you suggested. It’s here in my room with me now, propped up against the wall, a rather disturbing image. Lord knows what the room maid makes of it. I expect she’s reported me to the management.”

  He caught the eye of the satyr leering over the pink innocence of the sleeping nymph. Then he took a deep breath and plunged in. “Listen, Dorothy. Your friend and client Pertinax—were you aware that he claims to be in love with you? This might be the moment to invoke the goddess and run for cover behind her altar yourself because I fear he may have plans to include you in his future.”

  “Joe! That’s the least of your troubles. Gregory has plans to include the world in his future. Haven’t you got there yet? I’m flattered and touched that you find the time to think of one woman’s discomfort when faced with the brazen hideousness of his schemes. He says he loves me, though ‘claims’ is more accurate—he doesn’t really understand the word. Yes—he’s asked me to marry him once or twice. I’ve refused, but he doesn’t expect ever to be thwarted in anything. I was hoping you might do a little thwarting. Have you any plans to pull his plug? Do you know where he keeps it?”

  “I think I do. And I have to act quickly. There’s a clock ticking.”

  “Ouch! Sounds urgent. Anything I can do? Shall I come up and join you? Sit on Sir Gregory while you tickle his feet with a feather? What are you planning?”

  “I can’t tell you, Dorothy. Because I don’t know yet. I shall play it by ear.”

  A lie. Joe rarely played any tune or scene by ear. He knew exactly what he had to do and who was going to join him in his activities. Dorothy was definitely not one of them. He wanted her well away from Pertinax’s gathering evil.

  “Just stay away from Cambridge. That’s all you can do, Dorothy,” he said in a tone that invited no reply “Now tell me—did you know that Pertinax has acquired another Picasso? . . . Yes! That’s the one! All buttocks and bosoms! Amongst the assorted globular hemispheres on display I detected a clear case of chronic carbunculosis. Gave me quite a turn!”

  At one o’clock, Barnes made his ritual inspection of the upper floors before retiring for the night. Pacing silently past Miss Dorothy’s room, he paused, checked that the coast was clear and put an ear to the door. Girlish giggles. The assistant commissioner was doing his stuff. Barnes smiled and padded on down the corridor.

  Chapter 23

  Constable Risby turned up at precisely nine o’clock to pick up Joe after breakfast.

  “Lagonda today, sir?” he asked eagerly.

  “Oh, yes. It’s going to rain and I don’t want to appear looking like a drowned rat. I think we’ll arrive in style. Though we’re only a few minutes’ walk away from our destination.”

  He checked the officer’s appearance. Smart police uniform, freshly brushed helmet, all leather bits and bobs shining. Joe had had his trench coat sponged and pressed overnight. He now slipped it on over his best charcoal-grey suit and put his fedora on at a good angle.

  “We should knock ’em for six!” he decided. “We’re off to the laboratory, Risby. The Cavendish. You will escort me through the building with a swagger, please. You are my entry ticket. You’re there to guarantee that I’m not a paint salesman drumming up business. They know we’re coming; I telephoned and made an appointment.”

  Risby looked alarmed. “The governor’s been there. For parties and openings and suchlike. But it’s hard to get inside without an invitation.”

  “Quite right too. But I have an open sesame kit that gets me in wherever I need to go.” He patted his briefcase. He was silent on the matter of the various documents it contained: warrants and special permissions signed by the home secretary himself, documents that he had taken the trouble to extract from the Services under the aegis of Operation Imperator. “I could even get into the Strafford Clu
b if I thought that at all an entertaining idea. Come on, laddie! Cambridge is ours for the taking this morning! Now—a briefing—let me tell you why we’re stalking scientists in their stronghold.”

  They parked the car and made their way down the very narrow Free School Lane towards the Cavendish. Following on from the ancient churches, inns and houses in the centre of the city, the buildings of the laboratory were a surprise. For a start, they looked nothing like anyone’s notion of a scientific work place in the twentieth century, and to go on, they were not sympathetic to their surroundings. The Tudor-Gothic stone front rose up to three storeys in height, soaring above the medieval rooftops and dwarfing its neighbours by its bulk. The Victorian architect had clearly been striving for grandeur. Heavy oak doors were encased in ornate stone details, windows likewise. Both were impenetrable and set within an unbreachable flat, stone-slabbed façade of dull grey-brown. The place was a fortress, Joe decided, and he didn’t care much for it.

  Risby’s throat wobbled under his chin strap as he stared up at it. “Did we miss the sentries, sir?” he whispered. “I think that’s the front door down there. But how do we get in? It’s shut. No one about.”

  “Forward the battering ram, then!” Joe said cheerily.

  Risby grinned, took out his truncheon and advanced on the huge door. Holding the truncheon like a mace, the constable banged peremptorily three times. Spotting a bellpull, Joe tugged on it and repeated the tug. “That should fetch ’em!”

  The door swung open and a puzzled steward in a green boiler suit peered out at them.

  “Assistant Commissioner Sandilands of the Yard and Constable Risby of the Cambridge Police to see the director,” Risby announced.

  “Oh. Right. Why didn’t you come in the back way like everyone else?”

  “The commissioner doesn’t use back doors,” Risby announced as he shouldered his way through.