He shook his head when he saw Jemima, that gently placatory gesture which their various forays on television had made famous. Nothing ever surprised Pompey; his manner suggested that he had all along predicted that one Saturday night Jemima would find her best friend with her throat cut.
The police surgeon, a nice rather weary man, duly pronounced life extinct - to Jemima's view slightly unnecessarily, but she knew the careful ways of the police. However the doctor did summon up some enthusiasm when discussing the cause of death. He also proved to be a connoisseur of modern painting. 'Cause of death cut throat. That's clear enough. The first blow killed her, very well done, severed the windpipe immediately, that accounts for all the blood, main arteries you know, must have spouted like an oil well. By the body temperature, about six hours ago. Rigor mortis only just beginning to set in - the hot weather. Nothing to do with that razor by the bed of course; clumsy, aren't they? I much prefer the electric sort myself.' He smoothed his own chin appreciatively.
'They'll have to look for something else. Good picture over the bed by the way. It's an Athlone, isn't it? I thought so. There's one in the Tate rather similar. I'm very glad to have had an opportunity to see that.' He might have been visiting an art gallery in a provincial town.
He added in a much brisker voice: 'Most unsuitable for a lady's bedroom, I would have thought.'
'How about this, sir?' It was the young detective, addressing Pompey. He was holding in a gloved hand one of Chloe's long sharp kitchen knives. It was part of the batterie de cuisine which Jemima had admired the night before. According to Chloe - could one believe her? - it had been a housewarming present from Isabelle Mancini. Chloe, the domestic cat, had once been an excellent cook; now her gleaming batterie had been literally the death of her. The blade of the large knife looked as if it had been dipped in rust.
Jemima was familiar with the slow grinding of the police methods. She recognized the need for the endless questions and the establishment of apparently obvious facts. Nevertheless she was relieved when Pompey suggested that she should think about taking herself elsewhere - a police car would be provided - where they could continue their essential conversation in some greater comfort.
Powder was now everywhere. Everything in the flat had been dusted and tested for fingerprints. Jemima's own - fingerprints 'friendly to the environment' as Pompey put it - had been taken for elimination. It proved quite a jovial procedure, accompanied by some grave shakes of the head from Pompey.
Jemima repeated her basic story. How she had left for the Reading Room at about 12.30, going to the Pizza Perfecta en route. How the flat had certainly been empty when she left, since it was very small. She had visited the kitchen just before leaving to see if she could find anything interesting to eat. She was sure the batterie was then complete because she had used one of the smaller knives to cut a piece of cheese, before suddenly deciding in favour of the Pizza. She had returned at approximately 5.30.
Finally Chloe's little body, wrapped in hygienic black plastic, was carried away down the stairs, off to the local mortuary, at the orders of the Coroner's office. There, like the rest of London, it would spend a quiet weekend - no noise, no disturbance - awaiting its post-mortem from a pathologist on Monday morning. The efforts of the police photographer, first taking shots of the body, and then general shots of the flat, punctuated the proceedings. He might be an ardent paparazze trying to nose out a juicy scandal with his flashing camera, thought Jemima: but then, of course, that's exactly what he is trying to do.
It was illogical, but she still minded the desecration of her friend's pale paradise. It was better to concentrate on the notion of scandal, and that was a thought which led directly to the subject of Sir Richard Lionnel, a topic temporarily eliminated from her mind by shock. Who, Who? ... As though on cue, yet another policeman appeared in the doorway and whispered in Pompey's ear.
Pompey left the flat abruptly. His expression was enigmatic, with only the unexpected severity of the shake of his head to give some clue that for once perhaps he was very slightly surprised. Jemima was deciding to organize herself into an hotel - there must be some quiet private room in Bloomsbury of a Saturday night - when the telephone rang. Cocking an eyebrow at the remaining policeman, she answered it. She was greeted by the sound of pip-pips and then a loud voice bellowed in her ear.
'Dollie, is that you? Dollie, this is Dad.' But Jemima had already recognized the arbitrary tones of Mr Stover. Oh God, she thought, have I got to tell him? 'I'm at the station,' he went on.
'Which station?' said Jemima in a shaky voice.
'Tottenham Court Road tube station,' Mr Stover sounded extremely testy. 'That's where. Not Folkestone station I can assure you, which I left some hours ago at your personal request. Awful journey by the way. British Railways ought to be ashamed.' Pause for emphasis. 'Tottenham Court Road tube station that's where. Where you said you'd meet me at six o'clock. And it's now six-fifteen precisely.'
Jemima covered the mouthpiece. 'Officer, I think you'd better deal with this. It's the dead woman's father . . . stepfather, I mean. I mentioned earlier that her mother was probably her next of kin. He appears to be here in London.'
The police officer began to address Mr Stover in that same voice of neutral courtesy which had characterized all the proceedings.
'I am a police officer, sir, at your daughter's flat; dealing with a certain matter. No, I am afraid I cannot discuss it with you on the telephone. No, sir, I cannot at the moment give you any information. If you would just stay where you are, sir, a young lady police officer will arrive to look after you.'
'He's an old man,' Jemima thought dully. 'A confused and angry old man. This shouldn't be happening to him.'
The man Pompey brought back with him was one to whom she felt confusion was quite unknown. Sir Richard Lionnel immediately dominated the scene by his mere presence. It was partly his physique -the Lion of Bloomsbury was well named.
Lionnel was urbanely dressed in a light tweed suit, so well cut that it did not even look out of place on this summer evening; the colour complemented his tanned skin. He was not in fact particularly tall, a little taller than Jemima herself perhaps, but his shoulders in the tweed suit were broad, giving an air of authority, and he himself, if not exactly heavy, was certainly a substantial man. Beyond that, everything about Lionnel exuded extraordinary life and force, from his black curly hair, tonsured by baldness like a monk, but still black and growing very vigorously, so that the curls seemed to be springing from his head, like a devil's horns, to his bright black eyes, definitely the eyes of some attendant devil at Lucifer's court. As they snapped from side to side, taking in Jemima, the flat, the policeman, the mess, they created their own energy. Even Lionnel's tan - or perhaps it was merely the native olive of his complexion - added to the air of natural force by making him look vigorously healthy.
The Lion of Bloomsbury, yes, indeed, a powerful animal. Instantly, Jemima understood what had attracted Chloe - not novelty, not sex, not security, although doubtless all these elements had been present, but command. Sir Richard Lionnel, the powerful pirate vessel, would cany along Chloe's frail little craft in his wake, and supply that command which somehow, Chloe, through two marriages and innumerable love affairs, had failed to find. For a moment Jemima, the cool, the collected, the independent, found herself irrationally jealous of her dead friend.
What was further remarkable about Sir Richard Lionnel under the circumstances, was that he was absolutely and totally at his ease. Yet, thought Jemima, taking refuge from her instinctive moment of jealousy in a meaner mood of sardonic satisfaction, when all is said and done, he has a great deal of explaining to do. A mistress in his office flat of an August weekend. How will that be kept from the papers? Or for that matter Lady Lionnel? No question of gossip columnists now or the satiric snipings of Jolly Joke - headlines would be the order of the day for the beautiful slain Chloe Fontaine, romantic lady novelist. Sir Richard Lionnel's desire to go respectable had met a
n untimely end - as had his mistress. The pirate ship would not find a safe port at CARI after this. Of course - she looked down at his strong hands - he may have even more explaining to do. Who, Who? . . . She shuddered.
Lionnel introduced himself to Jemima with perfect gravity. 'Richard Lionnel. I own the building. I came back to my office flat downstairs to find the police. You were her tenant, I believe. I understand you found her. This must be terrible for you. Where will you go?' He did not even pause on the second word 'her'; nor could Jemima decide whether his avoidance of the name Chloe Fontaine indicated stress or total self-command. Lionnel certainly seemed indifferent to the fact - he could hardly be unaware of it - that it must also be terrible for him. The only conceivable sign of strain he exhibited was the fact that he was smoking as he entered the flat - although he stubbed the cigarette out immediately.
The black stub receded from her view into the pale glazed pottery ash-tray; it was shortly joined by another. Neither cigarette was fully smoked, a habit Sir Richard had in common with Kevin John Athlone; it was the image of the latter, stubbing out ceaselessly the black Sobranies he had found in Chloe's bedroom, which confirmed to her that this man before her had known her friend well, had from time to time shared that bedroom with her, had stored his cigarettes there, had perhaps stored a razor as well. Now she was dead, murdered.
Jemima did not of course know what had transpired between Lionnel and Pompey downstairs. Had he made a statement or were matters not that advanced? Which did he fear more - the Press or the police? These questions tantalized her as she replied with composure to match his own: 'I'm going to an hotel near here, I hope. Then I shall try to find something else. My own flat is let and I need to be in this area to get on with my work in the British Library.' She glanced at Pompey, who gave a very gentle shake of his head, and added firmly: 'And of course I want to give the police all the help I can.'
'Naturally,' replied Lionnel, as though she was offering to help him rather than the police. Once again he did not apparently feel it incumbent upon him to express the same helpful attitude. They stared at each other. 'Whatever the police know at this point about your relations with Chloe,' thought Jemima, refusing to let her own green eyes fall before his black ones, ‘I know. But do you know that I know?'
'Excuse me, sir,' said the young policeman, with a deferential cough. 'There's the question of this pet.' He was holding in his arms the golden bundle of Tiger, whose wild green eyes, rather the colour of Jemima's own but far more baleful, gazing with savage outrage at his imprisonment, made the policeman's description of him seem singularly inappropriate.
'Oh God - Tiger - I'd forgotten. Who will feed him?' began Jemima, just as the infuriated so-called pet eluded his captor's arms. Delivering a vicious scratch to the policeman's shoulder, protected only by a white shirt, he leapt away and to the floor. From this point he then leapt with equal precipitation right up on to Lionnel's tweed-clad shoulder. It was as though in his feline language, he was pointing directly and threateningly to their secret acquaintance. If so, Lionnel's reaction was equally significant. Without any visible annoyance, he simply struck the clinging cat off his shoulder, as one might brush off a beetle or some other flying insect. Tiger let out something closer to a squawk than a mew.
'Cats in their place,' said Lionnel pleasantly, but without a trace of apology. This was how Jemima had witnessed the Lion of Bloomsbury coping with television. 'Lionnel Estates will definitely be building further high-rise blocks - Lionnel Estates will be demolishing unsafe Adam houses - Lionnel Estates will do this, do that - wherever the permission is granted.' And then at the end, an unexpected grin, making him look like a happy satyr. He was not grinning now. 'But there's no need for them to starve. Cats, Miss Shore, not the masses. By repute, as you know, I'm less particular about the latter. Besides you might not get into a very salubrious hotel at this hour, and at the height of the tourist season. I'll call my people on Monday and see what we've got on offer to accommodate you. In the meantime, Miss Shore, why don't you stay downstairs? I've an office flat,' he went on blandly, 'which I'm using till my own flat on the third floor is decorated. Quite comfortable. Yes, really quite comfortable. I take it you're alone.' He looked round.
'Yes, quite alone,' said Jemima in her most poised voice. 'How very kind, Sir Richard. But what about—' she phrased it diplomatically 'your own plans?'
'I'm going back to the country. Now.' And to Portsmouth he added: 'You have my number there of course, and I'll be available at any time.'
'Thank you, Sir Richard. I should like to have a further word with you before you go.' Equally noncommittal.
'So why not, Miss Shore?' Why not indeed? It was true that Jemima felt a growing obligation towards Tiger, as though tending him was her own expression of mourning for Chloe. She could not abandon him now to his wildness. Who else would tend him? Adam Adamson? Was he yet back from that mysterious errand? Ah, that was a thought. The whole question of Adam Adamson, to say nothing of Kevin John Athlone, brought her back to the persistent refrain Who, Who?...
To deal with it, she needed two things. First of all, time and space for a clear think. And that the first-floor flat would provide. Second, and of this she was quietly optimistic, she needed a good long talk with her friend Detective Chief Inspector John Portsmouth, otherwise known as Pompey. She had after all a great deal of information for Pompey. Jemima, spirits rising as the habitual curiosity quickened in her, thought Pompey, unofficially of course, might have some for her.
One last encounter remained before she could descend to the abstract peace of the first floor. In its own way it was as surprising as anything which had yet confronted her that day.
Mr Stover was an unexpectedly little man. From his fiercely resonant voice, Jemima had anticipated more physical substance. He stood in the doorway, panting slightly from the climb, felt hat in hand, mackintosh over his arm - careful on even such a blazing day of what sudden rains might lie in wait in the capital. He was quite dwarfed by the policewoman at his side; she was rather pretty, with neat fair hair pinned up under a cap and a pleasantly freckled face; her black and white tie and rolled-up sleeves, revealing freckled arms, gave her the air of a school prefect.
The smallness of Mr Stover depressed Jemima once more. But then Chloe's so small. No, Chloe was small. She tried to put aside the memory of that frail corpse on the bed. And anyway, he's only her stepfather.
But Mr Stover was still talking quite fiercely and the eyes, in the lined face, under the white hair, were bright and even angry.
'We never came here, you know,' he was saying. 'Her mother and I were never invited.'
He looked round at the wreck of the pale flat, which now, under its police occupation, looked like some kind of abandoned film set.
'Very plush, I must say.' It did not seem the right word. 'No garden, of course.'
'There's a nice balcony, sir,' said the policewoman brightly.
Mr Stover shot her a sardonic glance. 'I can see that, my dear, I can see that. Seventy-seven next birthday and still got my own eyes. Can't say the same about my teeth, mind you, but then I don't see with my teeth, do I?'
'No, sir,' said the policewoman in a voice of friendly encouragement, as though he might if he tried hard enough.
'Those your teeth, by the way?' Mr Stover suddenly barked at Jemima, reminding her of the voice on the telephone. His small stature was certainly delusive.
'I believe so.'
'Funny. Always thought they ripped them out if you went on television and gave you new ones. That's why I never accepted any of their numerous offers to appear, you see.' Then the little spark subsided; there was something automatic about it as though Mr Stover was comforting himself with his familiar witticism.
'A balcony, yes,' he went on in a much less energetic voice. 'All very nice. But you couldn't put a baby on a balcony, could you? Not for very long. Her mother said, "Charlie, I'd like to know about the accommodation." That's the last thing she said. "Is
it suitable, Charlie? You must tell Dollie to make quite sure she has a little garden.'" Then he choked and Jemima realized that tears were running down his cheeks, had been running down his cheeks while he talked of Dollie and her garden, and twisted his felt hat in his hands.
'She was so happy, the wife, when Dollie telephoned. We quite forgave her all the waiting. The second letter, cancelling the visit, never arrived, you know. Some problem with the address, I suppose. It will come—' He gave a little dry sob. 'She was so happy. In spite of the, well, somewhat unusual circumstances, least said soonest mended in that direction. "A grand-child at my age!" she said. Dollie was her only one, and we never had one of our own.'
Mr Stover turned to Jemima, as though the police were not present and she, and she alone, must hear this news.
'Yes, Miss Shore, Dollie was going to have a baby. That's what she wanted to tell us. And this morning she was so happy.'
As Mr Stover still stood there, having delivered this bombshell, Jemima found the old question coming back in force. Who, Who? Not only the murderer but the father of Chloe's child. One person or two. Who, Who?
9
Fallen Child
'Yes, she was pregnant all right. About three months, according to the police doctor,' said Detective Chief Inspector Portsmouth. 'We got on to the mortuary immediately in case anything could be done to save the child, which of course it couldn't.' He was sitting, nursing a pale whisky and water, in what was designated as the receiving room of Sir Richard Lionnel's office suite.
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