A Taste for Death (16 page)

'He had political enemies, obviously. Some few from his own party, no doubt. But none as far as I know is a homicidal maniac. And terrorists, surely, use bombs and guns not their victim's razor. Forgive me, Commander, if I'm stating the obvious, but isn't it most likely that

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someone unknown to him, a tramp, a psychopath, a casual thief, killed both him and this Harry Mack?'

'It is one of the theories we have to consider, Lady Ursula.' He asked: 'When did you last see your son?'

'At eight o'clock yesterday morning when he carried up my breakfast tray. That was his usual practice. He wished to reassure himself, no doubt, that I had surviv, ed the night.'

'Did he tell you then or at any time that he intended returning to St Matthew's?'

'No. We didn't discuss his plans for the day, only mine,

and those I presume are hardly of interest to you.' Dalgliesh said:

'It could be important to know who was here in the house during the day and at what time. Your own time-table could help us to that.'

He gave no further explanation and she asked for none. 'My chiropodist, Mrs Beamish, arrived at ten thirty. She always comes to the house. I was with her for about an hour. Then I was driven to a luncheon engagement with Mrs Charles Blaney at her club, the University Women's. After luncheon we went to look at some watercolours in which she is interested at Agnew's, in Bond Street. We had tea at the Savoy together and I dropped Mrs Blaney at her Chelsea house before returning here at about half past five. I asked Miss Matlock to bring me up a thermos of soup and a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches at six o'clock. She did so and I told her I preferred not to be disturbed again that evening. The luncheon and exhibition had been more tiring than I had expected. I spent the evening reading, and rang for Miss Matlock to help me to bed shortly before eleven.'

'Did you see any other member of the household during the day apart from your son, Miss Matlock and the chauffeur?'

'I saw my daughter-in-law briefly when I had occasion to go into the library. That was some time during the early part of the morning. I presume that this is relevant, Commander?'

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'Until we know how your son died it is difficult to be sure what is or is not relevant. Did any other member of the household know that Sir Paul intended revisiting St Matthew's yesterday evening?'

'I have had no opportunity to ask them. I can't believe it likely that they did. No doubt you will inquire. We have only a small staff. Evelyn Matlock, whom you have met, is the housekeeper. Then there is Gordon HaIliwell. He is an ex-sergeant in the Guards, who served with my elder son. He, I suppose, would describe himself as a chauffeur-handyman. He came here just over five years ago, before

Hugo was killed, and has stayed on.'

'He drove your son?'

'Rarely. Paul, of course, had the use of his ministerial car before he resigned; otherwise he drove himself. Hal-liwell drives me almost daily, and occas{onally my daughter-in-law. He has a flat over the garage. You will have to wait, Commander, to hear anything he may dis-dose. Today is his day off.'

'When did he leave, Lady Ursula?'

Either very late last night or early this morning. That is his usual practice. I have no idea where he is. I don't question my servants about their private lives. If the news of my son's death is broadcast this evening, as I expect it will be, no doubt he will return early. In any case he is normally back before eleven. Incidentally, I spoke to him by house telephone yesterday evening shortly after eight o'clock and, again, at about nine fifteen. Apart from Halliwell, there is now only one other member of the staff, Mrs Iris Minns, who comes here four days a week to do general housework. Miss Matlock can give you her address.'

Dalgliesh asked:

'This experience of your son's in the vestry of St Mat-thew's, did he talk to you about it?'

'No. It was not a subject with which he would expect me to sympathize. I have not since 1918 been a religious woman. I doubt if I ever was in any real sense. Mysticism, in particular, is as meaningless to me as music must be to

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the tone deaf. I accept, of course, that people do have these experiences. I would expect the causes to be physical and psychological; overwork, the ennui of middle age, or a need to find some meaning to existence. That to me has always been a fruitless quest.'

'Did your son find it fruitless?'

'Until this happened, I would have described him as a conventional Anglican. I suspect that he used the offi-ces of his religion as a reminder of fundamental de-cencies, an affirmation of identity, a brief breathing space when he could think without fear of interruption. Like most upper-class Anglicans he would have found the incarnation more understandable if God had chosen to visit His creation as an eighteenth-century English gentleman. But like most of his class, he got over that little difficulty by more or less refashioning Him in the guise of an eighteenth-century English gentleman. His experience - his alleged experience - in that church is inexplicable, and to do him justice, he didn't attempt to explain it, at least not to me. I hope you won't expect me to discuss it. The subject is unwelcome, and it can surely have had nothing to do with his death.'

It was a long speech and he could see that it had tired her. And she could not, thought Dalgliesh, be as naive as that; he was surprised that she could expect him to believe that she was. He said:

'When a man changes the whole direction of his life and is dead - possibly murdered - within a week of that decis-ion, it must be relevant, at least to our investigation.'

'Oh yes, it's relevant to that I've no doubt. There will be very few privacies in this family which won't be relevant to your investigation, Commander.'

He saw that in the last few seconds, she had been overcome with exhaustion. Her body looked diminished, almost shrivelled, in the huge chair, and the gnarled hands on the arms began very gently to shake. But he controlled his compassion as she was controlling her grief. There were questions he still needed to ask and it wouldn't be the first time that he had taken advantage of tiredness or grief. He

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bent and took from his case the half-burnt diary still in its protective transparent wrapping. He said:

'It's been examined for fingerprints. We shall need in time to check which belong to people who had a right to handle the diary; Sir Paul, yourself, members of the house-hold. I wanted you to confirm that it is in fact his. It would be helpful if you could do that without unwrapping it.'

She took the package and it lay for a moment in her lap while she stared down at it. He had a sense that she was unwilling to meet his eyes. She sat with extraordinary tillness, then she said:

'Yes, this is his. But it's unimportant surely. A mere record of engagements. He wasn't a diarist.'

'It's odd, in that case, that he should wish to burn it - if he did burn it. And there's another oddity; the top half of the last page has been torn away. It's the page setting out last year's calendar and the calendar for 1986. Can you recall what else, if anything, was on that page, Lady Ursula?'

'I can't remember that I ever saw that page.'

'Can you recall when and where you last saw the diary?'

'I'm afraid that's the kind of detail it's impossible for me to remember. Is there anything else, Commander? If there is, and it isn't urgent, perhaps it could wait until you

are sure that you are, in fact, investigating murder.' Dalgliesh said:

'We know that already, Lady Ursula. Harry Mack was murdered.'

She didn't reply, and for about a minute they sat in silence, facing each other. Then she lifted her great eyes to his and he thought he detected a mixture of fleeting emotions: resolution, appeal, defiance. He said:

'I am afraid I've kept you too long and tired you. There is really only one more matter. Is there anything you can tell me about the two young women who died after they had been working in this house, Theresa Nolan and Diana Travers?'

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The production of the half-burnt diary had shocked her deeply, but this question she took in her stride. She said calmly:

'Very little, I'm afraid. I've no doubt you know most of it already. Theresa Nolan was a gentle, considerate nurse and a competent, but not, I think, very intelligent, young woman. She came as night-nurse on the second of May when I had a bad attack of sciatica and left on the four-teenth of June. She had a room in this house but was on duty only at night. She went, as I expect you know, to a maternity nursing home in Hampstead. ! accept that she probably became pregnant while she was working here, but I can assure you that no one in this house was re-sponsible. Pregnancy is not an occupational hazard of nursing an 82-year-old arthritic woman. I know even less of Diana Travers. She was, apparently, an unemployed actress who was doing domestic work while she was "rest-ing'' - I think that's the euphemism they use. She came to the house in response to a card Miss Matlock had placed in a local newsagent's window and Miss Matlock took her

on to replace a cleaning woman who had recently left.' 'After consulting you, Lady Ursula?'

'It was hardly a matter on which she needed to consult me and, in fact, she did not. I know, of course, why you are inquiring about both women. One or two of my friends made it their business to send me the cutting from the Paternoster Review. I'm surprised that the police should trouble themselves with what is surely no more than cheap journalistic spite. It can hardly be relevant to my son's murder. If that is all, Clommander, perhaps you would like to see my daughter-in-law now. No, don't bother to ring. I prefer to take you down myself. And I can manage perfectly well without your help.'

She pressed the knob in the arm of her chair and the seat slowly rose. It took her a moment to establish her balance. Then she said:

'Before you meet my daughter-in-law there is something I should, perhaps, say. rou may find her less apparently distressed than you expect. That is because she has no

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imagination. Had she found my son's body she would have been disconsolate, certainly too shocked and distressed to talk to you now. But what her eyes don't actually see she finds it difficult to imagine. I say this only in justice to both of you.'

Dalgliesh nodded but didn't reply. It was, he thought, the first mistake she had made. The implication of her words was obvious, but it would have been wiser of her to have left them unspoken.

He watched while she braced herself for the first step, steeling herself for the expected gripe of pain. He made no move to help her; he knew that the gesture would be as presumptuous as it was unwelcome and Kate, sensitive as always to unspoken commands, closed her notebook then waited in watchful silence. Slowly Lady Ursula made her way to the door, steadying herself with her cane. Her hand shook on the gold knob, the veins starting out like blue cords. They followed her slowly down the carpeted cor-ridor and into the lift. There was barely room in its ele-gantly curved interior for three and Dalgliesh's arm was against hers. Even through the tweed of his sleeve he could sense its brittleness and could feel its gentle, perpetual shaking. He was aware that she was under intense strain and he wondered how much it would take to break her and whether it would be his job to see that she did break. As the lift ground slowly down the two floors he knew that she was as aware of him as he was of her, and that she saw him as the enemy.

They followed her into the drawing room. This room, too, Paul Berowne would have shown him, and for a moment he had the illusion that it was the dead man, not his mother, who stood at his side. Three tall curved windows, ornately curtained, gave a view of the garden

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trees. They looked unreal, a one-dimensional woven tapestry in an infinite variety of green and gold. Under the elaborately enriched ceiling with its curious mixture of the Classic and Gothic, the room was sparsely furnished and the air had the melancholy, unbreathed atmosphere of a seldom-visited country house drawing room, an amalgam of pot-pourri and wax polish. Almost he expected to see a white looped cord marking off the area where tourists' feet were forbidden to tread.

The bereaved mother had received him aloiie, pre-sumably by choice. The widow had thought it prudent to be solaced and protected by her doctor and her lawyer. Lady Ursula briefly introduced them then immediately went out and Dalgliesh and Kate were left to walk alone across the carpet to a scene which looked as contrived as a tableau. Barbara Berowne was sitting in a high-backed armchair to the right of the fire. Opposite her, and leaning forward in his chair was her lawyer, Anthony Farrell. Standing beside her with his hand on her wrist was her doctor. It was he who spoke first:

'I'll leave you now, Lady Berowne, but I'll look in again this evening, about six o'clock if that is convenient, and we'll try to do something to help you sleep tonight. If you need me earlier, get Miss Matlock to ring. Try to eat a little supper if you can. Get her to make you something light. You won't feel like food, I know, but I want you to try. Will you?'

She nodded and held out her hand. He held it for a moment, then turned his gaze on Dalgliesh, shifted his eyes and muttered:

'Appalling, appalling.'

As Dalgliesh made no response, he said:

'I think Lady Berowne is strong enough to talk to you now, Commander, but I hope it won't take long.'

He spoke like an amateur actor in a murder play, predictable dialogue predictably delivered. It surprised Dalgliesh that a doctor, presumably not unused to tragedy, should be more ill at ease than his patient. When he reached the door, Dalgliesh asked quietly:

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'Were you also Sir Paul's physician?'

'Yes, but only recently. He was a private patient of Dr Gillespie who died last year. Sir Paul and Lady Berowne then registered with me under the National Health Ser-vice. I now have his medical records but he has never consulted me professionally. He was a very healthy man.'

So part of the unease was explained. Here was no old and valued family physician but an overworked local gen-eral practitioner, understandably anxious to get back to a crowded surgery, or his round of visits, perhaps unhappily aware that the situation required a social skill and concen-trated attention which he hadn't the time to give, but trying, not very convincingly, to play the part of a family friend in a drawing room which he probably had not entered until that moment. Dalgliesh wondered whether Paul Berowne's decision to register as a National Health patient had been a matter of political expediency, con-viction or economy, or of all three. There was a rectangle of faded wallpaper above the carved marble fireplace. It was half-obscured by a not particularly distinguished family portrait, but Dalgliesh suspected that a more