He sprang to his feet with some relief when he heard Stuart Salkeld’s car crushing the gravel, seizing a legitimate opportunity to escape from the tense quiet. Ricky also stood up, evidently struck by the same thought.
“It’s OK, I’ll go,” said Tim. “I need to have a quick word with Stuart before he starts.” He turned before he reached the door. “Mr de Vries, I think that that’s Professor Salkeld just arriving. He’s the pathologist. Would you like to meet him before he goes to examine your wife?”
Kevan de Vries rose and started pacing the room in obsessive fashion, backwards and forwards between the hearth and the bay window, muttering something under his breath.
“Mr de Vries, are you all right? I asked whether you would like to meet Professor Salkeld, the pathologist?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, unless he wants to see me. It’s Archie I need to worry about now.” He glanced at his watch. “I must see him. Somehow, I have to explain to him that Joanna’s . . . gone. If I leave now, I should get to the school before the boys have breakfast.”
“You’re in no fit state to drive,” said Jean Rook swiftly, her tone almost hectoring.
“For God’s sake, Jean . . .” Tim suddenly wondered why de Vries had invited the solicitor there at all. She’d done nothing but irritate him since her arrival and, as de Vries was not being charged with anything, her presence seemed superfluous. Had he expected to be charged? If so, of what? His wife’s murder?
“Ms Rook has a point, Mr de Vries,” Tim said out loud. “It would be irresponsible of us to allow you to drive at the moment.”
“I’ll take you,” Jean Rook announced.
“No, Jean, you won’t. If you all insist that I should be accompanied, I’ll ask Sentance.”
Simultaneously Tim and Ricky remembered what they had heard from de Vries the previous evening. They looked at each other. Sentance had a lot of explaining to do and de Vries was behaving oddly. There was a great deal to fathom besides Joanna de Vries’ death. Allowing them to spend time alone together would be foolhardy while there was still the possibility that they had been engaged together in some kind of crime.
“DC MacFadyen will accompany you, sir,” said Tim. “His car’s just nearby. That will be the quickest solution.”
Kevan de Vries shrugged. “If you say so. As long as I get to Sleaford before Archie’s lessons begin, I really don’t care.”
“Will you bring him back here?” asked Jean Rook.
De Vries ignored her, speaking to Tim as if the question had come from him.
“That depends very much on your pathologist friend,” he said. “How soon is he likely to be able to move Joanna? I can’t bring the boy here while his mother is lying in the cellar. I take it that your professor will want to move her,” he added. “He won’t be leaving her here for the undertakers to deal with?” His face twisted into an ugly grimace. For the first time Tim was able to see the depth of the man’s grief. He felt a lump rise in his own throat. How would he himself have managed to bear it if the circumstances had been reversed and it had been Katrin lying dead in the cellar instead of Joanna de Vries?
He laid a friendly hand lightly on de Vries’ sleeve. De Vries did not try to shake him off.
“Let’s ask him, shall we, sir? I think I heard Mrs Briggs let him in. He’s probably waiting just outside for us.”
Tim opened the door and the three men stepped out, closely followed by Jean Rook. Stuart Salkeld was standing in the hall, saying something to Jackie Briggs. He came forward to greet Tim and held out his hand to Kevan de Vries. Tim was relieved to see that he appeared to be on his best behaviour.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” he said, without introduction.
De Vries inclined his head and at the same moment Professor Salkeld caught sight of Jean Rook.
“Ah, Ms Rook,” he said, his tone swiftly changing from one of respect to the Teflon-coated inflection of irony that he reserved for those he didn’t like. “I didn’t realise you were here. Just putting us on the right track, are you?”
“Ms Rook is Mr de Vries’ solicitor,” Tim said quickly. “She’s here at his invitation.”
“I see.” There was a dangerous gleam in the pathologist’s eye.
“Mr de Vries has a question for you,” Tim ploughed on. “He’d like to know whether you will be removing his wife’s . . . remains . . . to the morgue, once you’ve completed your in situ investigation, and, if so, when that is likely to be. He wants to fetch his young son back from his boarding school at Sleaford,” he continued. He watched a half-formed witticism die on the professor’s lips.
“It’s hard for me to say,” said Stuart Salkeld gravely. “But unless circumstances are very peculiar indeed, I’m not likely to be here for more than an hour or two. And yes, I shall be removing her. I take it that you don’t want your son to see her?”
De Vries shook his head. Again, he seemed overpowered by grief.
“I’ll let DI Yates know when we’re ready to remove her,” the professor said. “He can call you. Will you be able to stay at the school with the lad until then?”
“I expect so.” He looked at Ricky MacFadyen, clearly impatient to leave.
“I’ll just fetch my car, sir. I won’t be gone five minutes,” said Ricky.
“Well,” said Jean Rook crisply, shooting de Vries an affronted look for the first time since her arrival in the early hours of the morning. “If that’s all you want from me, Kevan, I’ll be on my way. I’ve got to get through a day’s work, somehow, and I’m desperately in need of a shower. You can always call me later if you need me.”
Kevan de Vries looked at her blankly for a moment, as if he did not recognise her. He passed a hand across his face as if the action would help to gather his thoughts.
“There is something that you can do, Jean. Can you get hold of Sentance and ask him to meet me here later today? Not when I come back with Archie, but this afternoon.”
Jean Rook did not try to contain her anger.
“You want to see Sentance? Today? But why?”
“I have a business to run, Jean, and I’m only too aware of the responsibilities that go with it. But I may want to take Archie away for a while. I’ll need to see Sentance before I go. I’ll need to see you again, too: to discuss Joanna’s will, and my own, for that matter.”
“But you won’t be going away before the funeral?”
“I rather think I will. I believe I’m correct in thinking that Professor Salkeld might want to hold Joanna’s . . . Joanna for some weeks?”
“That’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, sir, but we’ll try to be as quick as possible.”
“I’m sure you will, but even if you release her quickly, we won’t be able to have a funeral for some time. Joanna has donated her body to medical research.”
“I’m not sure you’ll be able to go away just yet,” said Jean Rook, looking meaningfully at Tim. “Aren’t you still supposed to be helping the police with the passports’ issue?”
Tim was amazed at the woman’s cold-blooded cheek. She’d been fighting tooth and nail to free de Vries from the passport investigation until now. Presumably Joanna de Vries’ death had put a different complexion on it. But even Tim himself would not have hassled the man with such a reminder on the day of his wife’s death.
“We can discuss that later, sir,” he said quietly. “We’ll try to get it cleared up as quickly as possible, to leave you free to concentrate on your son. Talking of which, DC MacFadyen should have had time to bring his car round now. You said you wanted to leave as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” Kevan de Vries said. He headed for the door, turning just once after he had opened it.
“You won’t forget about Sentance, will you, Jean?”
“Of course not.” She was businesslike again.
“Well, I’ll
be getting on,” said Professor Salkeld. “Did you say Patti Gardner was here? If so, she can probably help me.”
“She’s in the kitchen,” said Tim. Patti materialised at almost the same moment. She and Stuart Salkeld disappeared into the cellar, leaving Tim alone with Jean Rook. She returned to the drawing-room to retrieve her briefcase.
“Goodbye for now, Detective Inspector,” she said when she was back in the hall. “I’m quite certain that we shall be meeting again soon.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Tim. “In the meantime, there is a favour I’d like to ask of you.”
“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow archly. “Do tell me what it is.”
“We need to speak to Tony Sentance again. We’ll be trying to get in touch with him today, naturally. But if you manage to reach him before we do, would you let him know?”
“Certainly.”
Tim was not convinced by her tone.
“If we don’t manage to contact him, we’ll have to come here to meet him this afternoon. I’m assuming that he won’t refuse Mr de Vries’ request.”
“I think that’s unlikely. I’ll be sure to tell him you want to see him.”
“Thank you.”
She turned on her heel and made for the door. Tim noticed a ladder in her sheer black tights. It was running high up her thigh. For a moment, it made her seem vulnerable.
He shook off the thought. He was about to return to the cellar himself when he saw Jackie Briggs standing in the kitchen doorway. The look on her face was unfathomable.
Forty-Two
Later that day, Katrin was sitting at her desk, trying to concentrate on the de Vries company accounts that Superintendent Thornton had now asked her to obtain and examine, when her phone rang. The shrill ring cut through her reverie. She’d been so deeply preoccupied with Florence Jacobs’ journal that it took her a couple of seconds to lift the receiver.
“Hello, Katrin, is that you?”
“Juliet! I didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon. How are you?”
“Improving, I think. Still tired, that’s all.” Once again, Katrin detected an unwarranted chirpiness in Juliet’s manner.
“Did you get the journal all right?”
“Yes, it came exactly when you said. I started reading it yesterday evening.”
“You can’t have finished it yet?”
“God, no, I’m a slow reader at the best of times and I’m finding Florence’s handwriting harder than I expected. Besides, I want to think about what I’m reading as I go: it’ll save more time in the long run than rushing through and then having to read it again. But I wanted to ask you something.”
“Go on.”
“You’ve surely noticed all the references to a Mr Rhodes. Do you think Florence could mean Cecil Rhodes?”
“Yes, I said as much to Tim, but it seemed a little far-fetched, somehow. I wanted you to mention it yourself without my suggesting it. Frederick Jacobs was an obscure gentleman farmer, not an African colonial.”
“Perhaps, but the journal refers to his frequent absences. He seems to have been a very reluctant ‘gentleman farmer’ and an even more unpromising husband.”
“I agree with you there.”
“What do you know about Cecil Rhodes?”
“Not all that much. My grandfather spent some time in the country he was pleased to call ‘Rhodesia’ just after the war. He used to annoy me when I was a teenager with his bigoted pronouncements about black people not being fit to rule themselves. I’ve no idea why Rhodes was allowed to call the country after himself.”
“Perhaps you might make time to find out? I’d be really grateful if you could do a bit of research into him. It’s virtually impossible for me to get internet access here. Could you look him up and get back to me? Perhaps print some stuff out for me? I’d particularly like to know if he had any Lincolnshire connections and if he could have been the man Florence talks about in the journal.”
“We’ve come to the same conclusion about what we need to find out! However, I’ll need to have the journal back again, to check specific dates.”
“I’ll make sure you get it back as soon as I’ve finished reading it. There’s no need to check actual dates just yet: what I want to know is whether Rhodes came back to this country in the 1890s and, if so, whether he could have included, or could’ve had reason to include, trips to Lincolnshire while he was here.”
“I meant to do this for myself – you’ve confirmed my own feelings exactly.”
“Not overloading you, am I? I should have asked how busy you were first. Have you got a lot on at the moment?”
“Nothing particularly urgent. Superintendent Thornton’s asked me to work through the de Vries company accounts. I’ll need to try to finish that today.”
“Has he? That’s interesting. Perhaps he doesn’t really think that Kevan de Vries is the sterling character that he keeps on trying to sell to us.”
“Well, he hasn’t given me a reason and I’ve deliberately not told Tim about it. I don’t want the Superintendent to think that I run to Tim with every piece of information that I think he might find interesting.”
“Even though you do?” Juliet’s voice took on a teasing tone.
“I’m not going to answer that. I’ll see what I can find about Rhodes and either call you back or post some stuff to you.”
After Juliet had rung off, Katrin immediately googled Cecil Rhodes. She started with Wikipedia. She knew she’d probably need to supplement and verify anything that she could glean about him in the online encyclopaedia, but it was a start. She took a long look at the photograph of ‘The Right Honourable Cecil Rhodes’. He was an unpleasant-looking man: jowly and self-satisfied, she thought, as well as mealy-mouthed, and quickly looked across to the text.
Rhodes was the son of the vicar of Bishop’s Stortford, and the family’s roots were in the countryside, where Cecil Rhodes always felt at home: tree planting and agricultural improvement were among his lifelong passions, though his earliest ambition was to be a barrister or a clergyman. His father was prosperous enough to send one son to Eton College, another to Winchester College, and three into the army. Cecil, however, was kept at home because of a weakness of the lungs and was educated at the local grammar school. Poor health also debarred him from the professional career he planned. Instead of going to the university, he was sent to South Africa in 1870 to work on a cotton farm, where his brother Herbert was already established.
Bishop’s Stortford, she thought. Not a million miles from the Fens. She googled the distance between Bishop’s Stortford and Sutterton. The search engine came up with how long it would take by car, as well as the distance in miles: one and three quarter hours. She supposed that travel time would have been doubled in late Victorian England – although there would probably have been a train service to take Rhodes at least part of the way. She carried on reading the article, noting that it was very pro-Rhodes: in fact, almost reverent in tone.
There was some suggestion that he was a misogynist, a trait that he would have shared with Frederick Jacobs if they’d met. The article even contained veiled hints that Rhodes had been homosexual. It didn’t state this directly, though, just as the journal wasn’t explicit about Frederick’s sexuality. There was still nothing to link the two men, though.
Katrin flipped through several paragraphs about African colonial politics. She could barely understand them – the article was too brief to provide a proper context – but, although whoever had written it continued to describe Rhodes’ activities with adulation, she found the great white man’s outlook on life and the long list of his ‘achievements’ distasteful. Even allowing for the massive changes in attitude to colonialism and the subjugation of non-Europeans that had taken place in the eleven decades since his death, Rhodes’ ambition and his cruel treatment – not to mention trickery – of African ‘natives’ w
as indefensible. The hubris of his eventual success in naming Rhodesia after himself could not be disguised by hagiography.
Skimming the details of Rhodes’ frequent conflicts with black Africans, Katrin started to read more thoroughly when the account turned to his relations with British politicians and Queen Victoria. By dint of the most shamelessly crass flattery, he’d had the old Queen eating out of his hand (no surprise there!), but Joseph Chamberlain, the British colonial secretary, appeared to have seen through him. Katrin was just struggling through the detail of why Chamberlain thought that Rhodes was in breach of the law when a couple of dates caught her attention. Rhodes was in England in 1892 and again in 1896. She’d have to wait until she got the journal back again before she could verify it, but she thought that at least the latter of these dates coincided with one of Frederick Jacobs’ periodic run-ins with his mother about ‘Mr Rhodes’. She was certain that Frederick had been frequently absent from home in the mid-1890s. Was it possible that he’d spent some of that time in Africa?
She scrolled back to the top of the article again. Cecil Rhodes seemed to be close to his many brothers and sisters, but there was no record of their having lived in Lincolnshire. The sisters looked as if they might yield more promising clues than the brothers, who seemed to have dispersed themselves to all corners of the Empire as soon as they were able; reading further, she saw that one of the sisters had spent time with Rhodes in Africa, too. “Rhodes left nothing to his sister . . .” the article said.
Sausage Hall Page 22