Original Sin (23 page)

“We’ve done no cleaning, Mrs. Demery.”

“Someone has. There’s not three weeks’ dust here. Look at that mantelpiece and the floor. That floor’s been vacuumed. Bloody hell! So he cleaned the room before he did his killing, and with my Hoover!”

She turned to Dalgliesh and he saw in her eyes a dawning mixture of outrage, horror and superstitious awe. Nothing so far about Etienne’s death had affected her so deeply as this cleaned and prepared death cell.

“How do you know, Mrs. Demery?”

“The Hoover’s kept in the utility room on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. When I went to take it out this morning I said to myself, ‘Someone’s been using this.’ ”

“How could you tell?”

“Because it was set for cleaning a smooth floor, not a carpet. There’s two settings, you see. When I put it away it was set for cleaning the carpet. The last job I’d done was those carpets in the boardroom.”

“Are you sure, Mrs. Demery?”

“Not to swear in a court of law. There are things you can swear to and things you can’t. I suppose I could have changed the setting accidentally like. All I know is that when I took it out this morning I said to myself, ‘Someone’s been using this.’ ”

“Did you ask anyone if they had been using it?”

“No one here to ask then was there? Besides, it wouldn’t be any of the staff here. Why would any of them be wanting the Hoover? That’s my job not theirs. I thought it might be someone from the cleaning company, but that would be odd too. They bring all their own equipment.”

“Was the vacuum cleaner in its usual place?”

“Yes it was. And the flex wound round crossed, just like I left it. But the setting wasn’t the same.”

“Is there anything else about this room that strikes you?”

“Well the window cord’s gone, hasn’t it? I suppose you chaps have taken that away. It was getting a bit old and frayed. I said to Mr. Dauntsey when I put my head round the door on Monday that it ought to be replaced and he said he’d have a
word with George. George does all the odd jobs around here. Very handy is George. Mr. Dauntsey had the window half open at the time. He usually keeps it like that. He didn’t seem much worried but, like I said, he was going to have a word with George about it. And that table’s been moved. I never move the table when I dust up here. Look for yourself. It’s a couple of inches to the right. You can see by that faint line of dirt on the wall where it usually was. And Mr. Dauntsey’s tape recorder’s gone. There used to be a bed here once, but they took that away after Miss Clements killed herself. A nice thing that was too. Two deaths we’ve had in this room Mr. Dalgliesh. I reckon it’s time they locked it up for good.”

Before they had finished with Mrs. Demery, Dalgliesh asked her to say nothing to anyone about the possible use made of her vacuum cleaner, but with little hope that she would keep the news to herself for long.

After she had left, Daniel said: “How reliable is that piece of evidence, sir? Could she really tell if the room has been recently cleaned? It could be her imagination.”

“She’s the expert, Daniel. And Miss Etienne remarked on the cleanness of the room. On Mrs. Demery’s admission she doesn’t usually bother with the floor. This floor is dustless, even in the corners. Someone has cleaned it recently and it wasn’t Mrs. Demery.”

In the boardroom the four partners still waited. Gabriel Dauntsey and Frances Peverell sat at the oval mahogany table, close but not touching. Frances had her head bowed but was absolutely still. De Witt was at the window, one hand pressed to the pane as if he needed support. Claudia stood intently examining the large copy of a Canaletto of the Grand Canal which hung beside the door. The magnificence of the room both diminished and formalized the burden each bore of fear, grief, anger or guilt. They were like actors in an over-designed play in which a fortune had been lavished on the extravagant set but in which the players were amateurs, the dialogue half-learned, the moves stiff and unpractised. When Dalgliesh and Kate had left the room Frances Peverell had said, “Leave the door open,” and de Witt, without a word, had gone back to leave it ajar. They needed the sense of a world outside, the sound of distant voices however faint, however occasional. The closed door would be too like the vacant chair at the middle of the table, one awaiting Gerard’s impatient entry, the other his presiding presence.

Without looking round Claudia said: “Gerard always disliked this picture. He thought Canaletto overrated, too precise, too flat. He said he could picture the apprentices carefully painting in the waves.”

De Witt said: “It wasn’t Canaletto he disliked, just that picture. He said he was bored with constantly having to explain to visitors that it’s only a copy.”

Frances’s voice was indistinct. “He resented it. It reminded him that Grandfather had sold the original at a bad time and for about a quarter of what it was worth.”

“No,” said Claudia firmly. “He disliked Canaletto.”

De Witt moved slowly from the window. He said: “The police are taking their time. Mrs. Demery is enjoying herself, I imagine, giving her favourite impersonation of a Cockney charwoman, good-natured but sharp-tongued. I hope the Commander appreciates it.”

Claudia turned from her concentrated examination of the painting. “Since that is what she is you can hardly describe it as an impersonation. Still, she does become garrulous when excited. We must take care that we don’t. Become garrulous. Talk too much. Tell the police things they don’t need to know.”

De Witt said: “What things had you in mind?”

“That we weren’t precisely united about the future of the firm. The police think in clichés. Since most criminals act in clichés that is probably their strength.”

Frances Peverell raised her head. No one had seen her weep but her face was drained and bloated, the eyes dull under swollen lids, and when she spoke her voice sounded cracked and a little querulous.

“What does it matter if Mrs. Demery does talk? What does it matter what we say? No one here has anything to hide. It’s obvious what happened. Gerard died of natural causes or an
accident and someone, the same person who’s been playing tricks in this place, found the body and decided to make a mystery of it. It must have been terrible for you, Claudia, finding him like that, seeing the snake around his neck. But it’s all fairly straightforward surely. It has to be.”

Claudia turned on her as vehemently as if they were in the middle of a quarrel. “What sort of accident? You’re suggesting Gerard had an accident? What sort of accident?”

Frances seemed to shrink in her chair but her voice was firm. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there when it happened, was I? It was just a suggestion.”

“A bloody stupid one.”

“Claudia.” De Witt’s voice was more loving than censorious. “We mustn’t quarrel. We have to keep calm and we have to stay together.”

“How can we stay together? Dalgliesh will want to see us separately.”

“Not physically together. Together as partners. Together as a team.”

As if he hadn’t spoken, Frances said: “Or a heart attack. Or a stroke. He could have had either. It happens to the healthiest of people.”

Claudia said: “Gerard had a perfectly sound heart. You don’t climb the Matterhorn if you’ve got a weak heart. And I can’t imagine any less likely subject for a stroke.”

De Witt’s voice was conciliatory. “We don’t know yet how he died. We can’t until after the post-mortem. In the meantime what happens here?”

Claudia said: “We carry on. Of course we carry on.”

“Provided we have the staff. People may not want to stay, especially if the police suggest that Gerard’s death wasn’t straightforward.”

Claudia’s laugh was harsh as a sob. “Straightforward! Of course it wasn’t straightforward. He was found dead, half-naked with a toy snake wound round his neck and its head stuffed in his mouth. Even the least suspicious policeman would hardly call that straightforward.”

“I meant, of course, if they suspect murder. We’ve all got the word in our minds. Someone may as well speak it.”

Frances said: “Murdered? Why should anyone murder him? And there wasn’t any blood, was there? You didn’t find a weapon. And no one could have poisoned him. Poisoned him with what? When could he have taken it?”

Claudia said: “There are other ways.”

“You mean he was strangled with Hissing Sid? Or suffocated? But Gerard was strong. You’d have to overpower him to do that.” Then, as no one replied, she said, “Look, I don’t know why you’re both so anxious to suggest Gerard was murdered.”

De Witt came and sat down beside her. He said gently: “Frances, no one is suggesting it, we’re just facing the possibility. But you’re right of course. It’s much better to wait until we know how he died. What puzzles me is why he was in the little archives office. I can’t remember him ever going up to the top floor, can you Claudia?”

“No, and he couldn’t have been working up there. If he decided to do that he wouldn’t have left his keys in his desk drawer. You know how punctilious he was about security. The keys were only in that drawer when he was working at his desk. If he left the office for any length of time he’d slip on his jacket and put the bundle of keys back in his pocket. We’ve all seen him do that often enough.”

De Witt said: “The fact that he was found in the archives office doesn’t necessarily mean that he died there.”

Claudia seated herself opposite him and leaned forward over the table. “You mean he could have died in his office?”

“Died or been killed there and moved subsequently. He could have died quite naturally at his desk, a stroke or heart attack as Frances suggests, and the body moved later.”

“But that would need considerable strength.”

“Not if you used one of the book trolleys and took the body up by the lift. There’s nearly always a trolley waiting at the lift.”

“But surely the police can tell whether a body has been moved after death.”

“Yes, if it’s found outdoors. You get traces of soil, twigs, flattened grass, signs of dragging. I’m not sure that it would be so easy with a body discovered in a building. It’s one of the possibilities they’ll be considering. I suppose they’ll condescend to tell us something sooner or later. They’re certainly taking their time up there.”

The two of them were talking as if there was no one else in the room. Frances suddenly said: “Do you have to discuss it as if Gerard’s death was some kind of a puzzle, a detective story, something we’d read or seen on television? This is Gerard we’re talking about, not a stranger, not a character in a play. Gerard is dead. He’s upstairs with that ghastly snake round his neck and we’re sitting here as if we didn’t care.”

Claudia turned on her a speculative gaze tinged with contempt. “What do you expect us to do? Sit around in silence? Read a good book? Ask George if the newspapers have been delivered? I think it helps to talk. He was my brother. If I can stay reasonably calm, so can you. You shared his bed, at least temporarily, but you never shared his life.”

De Witt said quietly, “Did you, Claudia? Did any of us?”

“No, but when this death really hits me, when I really believe what’s happened I shall mourn for him, never fear. I shall mourn for him but not yet, not now and not here.”

Gabriel Dauntsey had been sitting gazing ahead out of the window towards the river. Now he spoke for the first time, and the others turned and looked at him as if suddenly remembering that he was there.

He said quietly: “I think he may have died of carbon monoxide poisoning. The skin was very pink—that’s one of the signs apparently—and the room was unnaturally warm. Didn’t it strike you, Claudia, that the room was very warm?”

For a moment there was silence, then Claudia said: “Very little struck me except seeing Gerard and that snake. You mean he could have been gassed?”

“Yes. I’m saying that he could have been gassed.”

The word hissed on the air. Frances said: “But isn’t the new North Sea gas harmless? I thought you couldn’t poison yourself anymore by putting your head in a gas oven.”

It was de Witt who explained. “It isn’t poisonous to breathe. It’s perfectly safe if properly used. But if he lit the gas fire and the room wasn’t adequately ventilated the fire could malfunction and produce carbon monoxide. Gerard could have become disorientated and unconscious before he realized what was happening.”

Frances said: “And afterwards someone found the body, turned off the gas and put the snake round his neck. As I said, it was an accident.”

Dauntsey spoke quietly and calmly. “It isn’t quite as simple as that. Why did he light the fire? It wasn’t particularly cold last night. And if he did light it, why did he shut the window? It was shut when I saw his body and I left it open when I last used the room on Monday.”

De Witt said: “And if he was planning to spend the evening working in the archives long enough to need a fire, why did he leave his jacket and keys in his office? None of it makes sense.”

In the silence that followed Frances suddenly spoke. “We’ve forgotten Lucinda. Someone’s got to tell her.”

Claudia said, “God yes! One tends to forget the Lady Lucinda. Somehow I don’t imagine that she’ll hurl herself into the Thames with grief. There was always something odd about that engagement.”

De Witt said: “All the same, we can’t let her read it in tomorrow’s papers or hear it on the South East News. One of us had better ring Lady Norrington. She can break the news to her daughter. It would come best from you, Claudia.”

“I suppose so, as long as I’m not expected to go round and administer comfort. I’d better do it now. I’ll ring from my own office, that is if the police aren’t in occupation. Having the police here is like having mice in the house. You can sense them scrabbling away even when you don’t actually hear or see them and once they’re in you feel you’ll never get rid of them.”

She got up and walked out, her head held unnaturally high but her step uncertain. Dauntsey tried to get to his feet, but his stiffened limbs seemed unable to respond and it was de Witt who moved quickly to her side. But she shook her head and gently pushed away his supporting arm and was gone.