Original Sin (51 page)

“It hangs together, sir. It’s logical and it’s credible.”

“It’s conjecture, every part of it, Kate. It can’t be proved. None of it would stand up in court. It’s an ingenious theory which fits all the facts as we know them so far but it’s circumstantial. There’s just one small piece of corroborative evidence. If she pinned the false suicide note to the noticeboard before she left Innocent House there would have been the marks of one or
more drawing pins in the paper. Was that the reason why it was so neatly trimmed down before it was spiked on the railings?”

There was little else of interest in the desk. Mrs. Carling received few letters or, if she did, she destroyed them. Those she kept included a bundle of airmail forms tied with a ribbon and kept together in one of the cubbyholes. They were from a woman friend in Australia, a Mrs. Marjorie Rampton, but the correspondence had gradually grown more perfunctory and seemed to have petered out. Apart from this there were bundles of letters from fans, all with a carbon of the reply attached to the original letter. Mrs. Carling had obviously taken considerable trouble to satisfy her admirers. In the top drawer of the desk there was a file labelled “Investments” with letters from her stockbroker. She had capital of just over £32,000 carefully invested between gilts and equities. In another file was a copy of her will. It was a short document in which she left a legacy of £5,000 to the Authors’ Foundation and to a crime writers’ club and the bulk of her estate to the friend in Australia. Another file contained papers relating to her divorce fifteen years earlier. Glancing quickly through them, Dalgliesh saw that it had been acrimonious but, from her point of view, not particularly advantageous. The payments had been small and had stopped with Raymond Carling’s death five years later. And that was all. The contents of the desk confirmed what Dalgliesh had suspected. Here was a woman who lived for her work. Take that away and what had she left?

Velma Pitt-Cowley, Mrs. Carling’s literary agent, had agreed to be at the flat at 11.30 and arrived six minutes late. She was hardly inside the door before it became apparent that she was in none too good a temper. She burst into the room when Kate opened the door, with a speed that suggested that it was she who had been kept waiting, flung herself into the nearer of the two armchairs, then leaned forward to slip the gold chain of her bag from her shoulder and to deposit a bulging briefcase on the carpet beside her. Only then did she deign to bestow any attention on Kate or Dalgliesh. When she did, and her eyes met Dalgliesh’s, her mood subtly changed and her first words showed that she was prepared to be gracious.

“Sorry to be late and in such a rush, but you know how it is. I had to go into the office first and I’ve got a luncheon guest at the Ivy at twelve forty-five. It’s pretty important as a matter of fact. The author I’m meeting flew in especially from New York this morning. And things cropped up as they always do if you show your face in the office. You can’t trust people with the simplest jobs nowadays. I left as soon as I could but the
taxi got snarled up in Theobalds Road. My God, this is terrible about poor Esmé. It’s really terrible! What happened? She drowned herself, didn’t she? Drowned or hanged herself or both. I mean, that’s really sick.”

Having expressed appropriate outrage, Mrs. Pitt-Cowley settled herself more elegantly in the chair and drew up the skirt of her formal black suit almost to her crotch to reveal a pair of very long and shapely legs enclosed in nylons so fine that they were no more than a dull sheen on the sharp bones. She had obviously dressed with care for her 12.45 luncheon appointment, and Dalgliesh wondered what privileged client, present or prospective, warranted a smartness which carefully combined professional competence with sexual allure. Beneath the well-fitting jacket with its row of brass buttons she wore a high-necked silk shirt. A hat of black velvet, speared at the front with a golden arrow, was crushed over light brown hair cut in a fringe, just touching the thick, level eyebrows and falling in well-brushed swathes almost to her shoulders. As she spoke she gesticulated; the long fingers, heavily ringed, restlessly patterned the air as if she were communicating to the deaf, and from time to time her shoulders hunched in sudden spasms. The gestures seemed oddly unrelated to her words and it seemed to Dalgliesh that the affectation was less a symptom of nervousness or insecurity than a trick originally designed to draw attention to her remarkable hands but which had now become an unbreakable habit. Her initial testiness had surprised him; in his experience people involved in a spectacular murder, provided they neither grieved for the victim nor felt themselves at risk from the police inquiry, usually relished the vicarious excitement of their brush with violent death and the notoriety of being in the know. He was used to encountering eyes slightly ashamed but avid with curiosity.
Bad temper and a preoccupation with one’s own concerns at least made a change.

She gazed round the room at the open desk, at the pile of papers on the table, and said: “God, it’s too awful sitting here in her flat, you having to rummage through her things. I know you have to do it, it’s your job, but it’s sort of uncanny. She seems more present now than when she was actually here. I keep thinking I’ll hear her key in the lock and she’ll come in, find us like this, uninvited, and raise hell.”

Dalgliesh said: “Violent death destroys privacy, I’m afraid. Did she commonly raise hell?”

As if she hadn’t heard him, Mrs. Pitt-Cowley said: “Do you know what I’d really like now? What I really need is a good strong black coffee. There’s no chance of any, I suppose?”

It was Kate she looked at, and Kate who replied. “There’s a jar of coffee grains in the kitchen and a carton of milk in the fridge unopened. Strictly speaking I suppose we should get the bank’s permission, but I doubt whether anyone would object.”

When Kate made no immediate move towards the kitchen, Velma gave her a long speculative stare as if assessing the possible nuisance-value of a new typist. Then, with a shrug and a flurry of fingers, she decided on prudence.

“Better not I suppose, although she won’t be needing it herself now, will she? But I can’t say I fancy drinking it out of one of her cups.”

Dalgliesh said: “Obviously it’s important for us to learn as much about Mrs. Carling as we can. That’s why we’re grateful to you for meeting us here this morning. Her death must have been a shock and I realize that it can’t be easy for you coming here. But it is important.”

Mrs. Pitt-Cowley’s voice and look expressed a passionate intensity. “Oh, I do see that. I mean, I understand absolutely
that you have to ask questions. Obviously I’ll help all I can. What did you want to know?”

He asked: “When did you hear the news?”

“This morning, shortly after seven, before your people rang to ask me to meet you here. Claudia Etienne telephoned. Woke me up, actually. Not exactly pleasant news to start the day. She could have waited, but I suppose she didn’t want me to read it in the evening paper or hear it when I got to the office. You know how fast gossip travels in this town. After all I am—I mean I was—Esmé’s agent and I suppose she thought that I ought to be one of the first to know and that she ought to be the one to tell me. But suicide! It’s bizarre. It’s the last thing I’d have expected Esmé to do. Well of course it was the last thing she did. Oh God, I’m sorry. Nothing one says seems adequate at a time like this.”

“So you were surprised at the news?”

“Isn’t one always? I mean, even when people who threaten suicide actually do it, it always seems surprising, a bit unreal. But Esmé! And to kill herself like that. I mean it wasn’t the most comfortable way to go. Claudia didn’t seem very sure how exactly she died. She just said that Esmé had hanged herself from the railings at Innocent House and that the body was found under water. Did she drown or strangle herself or what exactly?”

Dalgliesh said: “It is possible Mrs. Carling died by drowning but we shan’t know the cause of death until after the autopsy.”

“But it was suicide? I mean, you’re sure about that?”

“We’re not sure yet of anything. Can you think of any reason why Mrs. Carling should have wanted to end her life?”

“She was upset about Peverell Press rejecting
Death on Paradise Island
. You’ve heard about that, I suppose. But she was more angry than distressed. Furiously angry in fact. I can imagine her seeking some kind of vengeance on the firm, but
not by killing herself. Besides that takes guts. I don’t mean that Esmé was a coward, but I can’t somehow see her throttling herself or throwing herself in the river. What a way to die! If she really wanted to do away with herself there are easier ways. Take Sonia Clements. You know about that, of course. Sonia killed herself with drugs and booze. That would be my way. I’d have thought it would be Esmé’s.”

Kate said: “But less effective as a public protest.”

“Not so dramatic, I agree. But what’s the good of a dramatic public protest if you aren’t there to enjoy it? No, if Esmé decided to kill herself it would be in bed, clean sheets, flowers in the room, her best nightdress, a dignified farewell note on the bedside cabinet. She was a great one for appearances.”

Kate, remembering the rooms of suicides she had been called to, the vomit, the soiled bedclothes, the grotesque body stiffened in death, reflected that suicide was seldom as dignified in practice as in imagination. She said: “When did you last see her?”

“On the evening of the day after Gerard Etienne’s death. That would be October fifteenth, the Friday.”

Dalgliesh asked: “Here or in your office?”

“Here in this room. It was fortuitous really. I mean, I hadn’t planned to call. I was dining with Dicky Mulchester of Herne & Illingworth to discuss a client and it occurred to me that his firm might be interested in
Death on Paradise Island
. It was a long shot but they are taking on a few crime writers. I was driving past here to the restaurant when I noticed that there were some parking spaces free down the side road and I thought I’d call in and borrow Esmé’s copy of the manuscript. The traffic was lighter than I expected and I had ten minutes in hand. We hadn’t spoken since Gerard’s death. It’s odd, isn’t it, how small things decide one’s actions? I probably
wouldn’t have bothered if I hadn’t seen the empty space. I was interested, too, in hearing Esmé’s reaction to Gerard’s death. I couldn’t get much out of Claudia. I thought Esmé might have picked up some of the details. She was a great one for gossip. Not that I had much time to spare then. The main reason for calling was to collect the manuscript.”

Dalgliesh asked: “How did you find her?”

Mrs. Pitt-Cowley didn’t immediately reply. Her face was thoughtful, the restless hands momentarily stilled. Dalgliesh thought that she was evaluating the interview in the light of subsequent events, seeing it perhaps as more significant than it seemed at the time. At last she said: “Looking back on it I think she behaved rather oddly. I would have expected her to want to talk about Gerard, how he died, why he died, whether it was murder. She just wouldn’t discuss it. She said it was too dreadful and too painful, that she’d been published by Peverell Press for thirty years and however badly they’d treated her his death had shocked her profoundly. Well, it had shocked us all, but I didn’t expect Esmé to feel much personal sorrow. She did tell me that she had an alibi for the previous evening and the night. Apparently she had a neighbour’s child in here with her. I remember thinking it a little odd at the time that she bothered to tell me that. After all, no one was going to suspect Esmé of throttling Gerard with a snake, or however it was he died. Oh, and I remember she did ask whether I thought that the partners would change their minds about
Paradise Island
now that Gerard was dead. She always held him mainly responsible for its rejection. I didn’t hold out much hope. I pointed out that it had probably been a decision from the whole Book Committee and that anyway the partners wouldn’t like to go against Gerard’s wishes now that he was dead. Then I suggested that Herne & Illingworth might be interested and asked to borrow
her manuscript. She was odd then too. She said she wasn’t sure where she’d put it. She’d looked for it that morning and couldn’t find it. Then she said that she was too upset to think about
Paradise Island
so soon after Gerard’s death. That hardly rang true. After all, she’d asked me only a couple of minutes earlier whether I thought that the partners would change their minds and take it. I don’t think she had the manuscript. Either that or she didn’t want me to have it. I left soon afterwards. I was only here for about ten minutes in all.”

“And you have spoken to her since?”

“No, not once. That’s odd too when I come to think of it. After all, Gerard Etienne was her publisher. I’d have expected her to come into the office if only for a gossip. Usually you couldn’t keep her away.”

“How long have you been her agent? Did you know her well?”

“Less than two years, actually. But yes, even in the short time I did get to know her quite well. She saw to that. Actually I inherited her. Her old agent was Marjorie Rampton and Marge took her on with her first book. That’s thirty years ago. They were really close. There often is personal friendship between agent and author—you can’t do your best for a client if you don’t get on with them as well as respecting the work. But with Marge and Esmé it went deeper. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m talking about friendship. I’m not hinting at anything, well—sexual. I suppose they had quite a lot in common, both being widows, both childless. They used to take holidays together and I think Esmé asked Marge to be her literary executor. That’s going to be a nuisance for someone if she didn’t change her will. Marge went to Australia to stay with her nieces as soon as she’d sold the agency to me, and she’s still there as far as I know.”

Dalgliesh said, “Tell us about Esmé Carling. What sort of woman was she?”

“Oh God, this is awful. I mean, what can I say? It seems so disloyal, indecent almost, criticizing her when she’s dead, but I can’t pretend she was easy. She was one of those clients who are always on the phone or calling in at the office. Nothing’s ever right. They always feel you can do more, squeeze a higher advance from the publisher, sell the film rights, get them a TV series. I think she resented losing Marge and thought I wasn’t giving her the attention her genius warranted, but actually I was giving her more time than was really justified. I mean, I do have other clients and most of them a damn sight more profitable.”