Embarrassment of Corpses, An (5 page)

“I didn't do that very well, did I?” Oliver lamented, as the front door closed behind them.

“Sympathy's tricky.” She laid the roses on a small table. “In answer to your first question, I'm quite alone. A surging sea of aunts came by yesterday, and they took the phone calls while I cried all day. I sent them away this morning. They didn't mind; people tire of death very quickly. It's all right to say ‘death' to me, by the way. Rather a nice write-up about Daddy in the
Times
this morning, don't you think? Want some lunch? Sandwiches okay?”

Lorina Random was in her mid-twenties, the same age as Oliver. They had met at university when she had applied his make-up in a student-written rock musical based on the life of the Brontës, called “The Bell(e)s of Haworth.” (The deconstructive parentheses drew attention to the triple pun in the title, but even this was less labored than the show's lyrics, which made several revisionist suggestions about Charlotte's sexual propensities for the sake of a cheap and obvious rhyme.) Their romance lasted little more than a year, and, as Oliver remembered it, he had spent most of their time together studying the mane of straight brown hair that fell across her face while she addressed her latest radical political beliefs to the bottom of a coffee cup. But the relationship also introduced him to her father, and the friendship between the two men quickly flourished. Oliver and Lorina also remained friends, although since adopting the Sanders Club as a place to meet Sir Harry, he hadn't seen his former girlfriend for several months.

“Lorina, you look wonderful,” Oliver said, with genuine admiration, as they stood together in the kitchen. She was cutting slices from a loaf of fresh granary bread.

“What a nice compliment for a grieving daughter,” she replied graciously. But it was true. Since leaving university and joining the Ministry of Defence, Lorina had transformed herself. Gone was the uniform of student dissent—the determinedly unfashionable glasses, the peasant clothes, the bitten fingernails. Contact lenses were clearly in place, or she would have severed a well-manicured finger with the bread knife by now. Her long hair had been cut and given body. And her body…well, Oliver had never before seen her shape revealed so fetchingly outside her bedroom. Tight denim jeans and a dusty white tank top were unusual mourning clothes. Her feet were bare.

“In case you're wondering, yes, there's a reason why I'm dressed this way, and no, I wouldn't have opened the door if I hadn't known it was you.” Lorina handed him a ham sandwich and an open bottle of beer. “Consume that quickly. I have a job for you.”

While they ate, he told her briefly about finding the body the previous morning, omitting the more distressing details—including his murder theory. She took it well, pausing only once to bow her head and rub at her eyes. Then she put the plates onto the draining board—the sink was full of cellophane-wrapped chrysanthemums—and led him into Random's study.

Sir Harry's reluctance to travel had left him totally dependent on research for the background and color of his adventure stories. As well as a remarkable collection of reference and travel books, he also kept newspaper and magazine clippings and his own copious notes on every subject that appealed to him. Much of Random's credibility as a writer came from these files, which he used as an extension of his prodigious memory. He knew exactly where to find the single fact or observation that brought an unfamiliar setting to life, such as the way a smoldering mosquito coil in Trincomalee smelled like a mix of frangipanni and mineral oil (noted in a 1958
National Geographic
), how the tintinnabulation of metalworkers provided a sonic backdrop to a chase through a Tunisian souk (a Berlitz pocket guide), or what poisons could be masked by the sickly taste of candied banana offered by a street vendor in Chiang Mai (
Good Housekeeping
).

Over the years, the material had grown until it filled several metal filing cabinets and well-stocked bookshelves, all crammed meticulously and neatly into the little study. But now all the drawers were open, and manila files windmilled from them at crazy angles, as if the cabinets were playing poker with oversized cards. Other files had been pulled out and lay on Harry's huge desk, on the chair, and on the floor.

“Burglars?” Oliver asked cautiously. Lorina's black cat, Satan, who had been sleeping in a makeshift nest of papers, peered at them suspiciously.

“Just me,” Lorina replied. “I've been looking for Daddy's will.”

“Well, you've nothing to worry about. He rewrote it last year, and I was a witness. Everything goes to you.”

“Why did he rewrite it?” she asked with a frown, tickling Satan under the chin. The cat stood up, hoping that food was to follow.

“He cut your half-brother out, I'm afraid.”

“That was mean of him. I suppose that makes Ambrose my financial responsibility.”

“Have you heard from Ambrose?”

She shook her head. “But it wasn't really Daddy's will I needed,” she explained, changing the subject pointedly. “I was looking to see if he'd left any instructions for a funeral service, and I assumed it would be with his will. You know what's in here better than I do—I never took much notice.”

“Too busy picketing American missile sites,” thought Oliver, as he glared round the room helplessly. “Okay,” he said aloud, “your father probably kept his private stuff and his story research separate. Do you know where the personal files are?”

Lorina shrugged, a move that showed off the chevron of her well-exercised deltoids. “There's a lot of papers about his own life in the desk.”

Oliver pulled open the lower left-hand drawer of the large oak desk, which was stuffed with hanging files. Colored plastic tabs revealed the subjects. He flicked through the cardboard hammocks, his fingers moving like the legs of a demented heron. Satan, stretching front legs and back legs in turn, goose-stepped over to sniff at Oliver's shoes.

“Alphabetical order,” Oliver commented, reading the hand-lettered tabs. “Identity cards, inoculations, international publishing rights, jewelry, jury duty, kitchen appliances, knighthood, laundry, legal actions, library membership, life insurance, loans, Lorina…Want to see what he kept about you? It's quite a thick file. Actually, it's several.”

He hefted the files out of the drawer and piled them on top of the desk. Several odd-sized papers and documents avalanched across the shiny surface. Most had other sheets of notepaper stapled to them, covered in Sir Harry's spidery handwriting. More recent records were adorned with fluorescent yellow labels. Lorina picked up a booklet with a little cry.

“This is my school report, from when I was eight years old,” she cried in amazement. “And here's my certificate of confirmation. And an article from the local newspaper about a ballet recital when I was twelve. God, I look awful in this picture. No, you don't” she added laughingly as Oliver tried to snatch the sallow clipping. Satan chose the moment to bite firmly into his ankle, but Oliver was used to the beast's habits and pushed him away.

“I think he always wanted to write his autobiography, which is why he made notes about everything that ever happened to him.” Lorina chuckled. “Who'd believe the old fraud had never traveled further than a day trip to Boulogne?”

“There's no entry under
L
for ‘Last will and testament,'” Oliver reported. “Shall I try
W
for ‘Will' or
F
for ‘Funeral arrangements'?”

The doorbell rang. Lorina looked startled.

“Can you get that?” she asked, looking down at her clothes. “I'll search in the meanwhile. Oh, and Ollie—try to be diplomatic.”

Bristling at the last remark, Oliver headed for the hall and opened the front door without using the peephole. He was surprised to find himself staring into his uncle's necktie.

“So Harry's death was murder,” he breathed, raising his eyes, in which glimmerings of triumph were appearing.

“Actually, I'm here to pay my respects to Lorina,” Mallard replied scornfully. “And I sincerely hope you haven't been bothering her with your half-witted theories. Can I come in?”

“It's my Uncle Tim,” Oliver called as he ushered Mallard across the threshold. Lorina hurried into the hall and hugged the detective. Satan rubbed his cheek against Mallard's trouser-leg.

“Found it,” she said to Oliver, waving a piece of paper. “
O
for ‘Obsequies.'”

“Lorina, my dear,” said Mallard, after he had recovered from his astonishment at her casual appearance, “I didn't know your father as well as I hoped. His passing has sadly taken away the pleasure of achieving that ambition.”

“How nicely put!” she said with delight. “Oliver, you could learn a lot from your uncle. Now, you two make yourselves comfortable in the living room, I'm going to put the kettle on for tea. Give me a few minutes to change first, though.”

She skipped away. The men stared at each other uncomfortably, then drifted into the large, paneled living room. Satan followed them, trying to make his destination look like a coincidence.

“Not much like a house of mourning,” muttered Mallard eventually, as he inspected the line-up of Sir Harry Random's literary awards on the stone mantelpiece. Oliver had perched on an unyielding recamier and patted his lap. The cat ignored him and began to wash himself in offensive places.

“It's her way of dealing with it,” Oliver said. “She cares, I can tell.”

“Strange to think she's now a rising star of the Civil Service, when she was neither civil nor serviceable in her student days,” Mallard continued. “You do realize, dear nephew, that if you want me to investigate Harry's death as a murder, Lorina becomes a suspect? It was well known they didn't see eye to eye.”

Oliver didn't look at his uncle. “I thought you said it was a dead issue, excuse the pun.”

“I don't think I should in the house of the deceased,” Mallard replied huffily. “Anyway, I meant what I said before. Officially, Harry drowned accidentally unless the inquest says otherwise.”

“So why are you here? You didn't know the family that well. A sympathetic greeting card would have sufficed.”

“I called your office and Mr. Woodcock said you'd come here.” Mallard fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook, turning to the page on which he'd copied the two zigzag lines. He thrust it under Oliver's nose.

“Mean anything?”

Oliver stared at the paper. “Some sort of trademark?” he ventured.

“That's what Effie Strongitharm said, but I don't think so,” Mallard replied, noticing Oliver's unconscious flinch with curiosity. “Effie also found out, by the way, that the fountains in Trafalgar Square had been on all Sunday night, although I probably shouldn't tell you that since it ruins my theory of Harry's death.”

“Good old Effie,” muttered Oliver, trying to determine Mallard's mood. “So what's the story with the squiggly lines?”

“They're a clue to a
real
murder. Some poor woman, so far unidentified, who was clubbed to death at Sloane Square tube station this morning. This symbol was on a card, attached to the murder weapon. A rather prosaic length of lead piping.”

“Sounds like a board game. You know, ‘Colonel Mustard, in the Ballroom, with the lead pipe.'” Oliver grinned. “I take it you thought this symbol might have some connection with the symbol drawn on Sir Harry Random's chest?” he ventured.

“Not officially,” said Mallard guardedly.

“Then officially, I can't think of any connection.”

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially, I still can't think of any connection,” Oliver confessed. “Although they do seem somewhat familiar. I'll think about it.” He grinned again, for no apparent reason. The cat sneezed.

“Funny thing about Sloane Square station,” Mallard continued in an airy tone, idly stroking his white moustache. His nephew's self-satisfaction was beginning to wear on him. “It's got a river running through it.”

“Oh yes, the Westbourne. Goes through in a big pipe, doesn't it? The station took a direct hit from a Nazi bomb in 1940, but the pipe didn't break. Ah, now there's a connection,” Oliver exclaimed, unaware of his uncle's growing exasperation. “A bomb once went off in Trafalgar Square, too. Sometime in the 1880s, planted by the Irish Nationalists. Nearly destroyed Nelson's Column.”

“I asked you if you recognized a symbol, I didn't want a bloody history lesson,” Mallard growled. He reflected for a moment. “I suppose Harry's views on Ireland weren't noticeably controversial?” he added, with insufficient nonchalance.

“He thought the Irish Question was rhetorical.”

Mallard snapped his notebook shut. “Well, I doubt there's much connection between his death and a century-old Fenian outrage. Just as I truly doubt there's any connection between Harry and this morning's victim.”

“Perhaps the two symbols will turn out to be the start of a coded message,” Oliver persisted. “Like the ‘dancing men' in the Sherlock Homes story.”

“Oh, enough with the Sherlock Holmes, already,” Mallard protested.

“Sherlock Holmes?” echoed Lorina from the doorway. She had changed into a simple dark dress—navy, not black, both men noticed—and was carrying a loaded tea-tray. Mallard stepped over to take it from her. “Did you know that Oliver adores Sherlock Holmes?” she continued brightly, with a smile at her former boyfriend. “He likes anything to do with detection. You've been quite a role model for him, Uncle Tim.”

The two men fell into an embarrassed silence, each pretending to have a deep fascination with the way Lorina was placidly stirring the tea, like closely packed riders in an elevator studying the floor numbers. Mallard had more reason to be distracted, because he was trying to decide if he should be complimented or insulted by Lorina's remark. Suddenly, Satan lifted his head and unspooled himself from his chair. A few seconds later, the doorbell rang and, with an apology, Lorina followed the cat out of the living room. They heard the front door open, and a strangely high-pitched voice declaimed a greeting.