Stephanie (35 page)

‘I hear there's some talk of your suspecting the existence of a drugs ring operating from the island.'

‘Indeed? Do you know Corfu, Inspector?'

‘'Fraid not, sir. My daughter went last year but it was simply on a package deal.'

‘Well, there's a quay on the south of the island which can take thirty-ton vessels that may or may not ferry illegitimate consignments. Who am I to say? And there's a titled Englishman who has a large villa in the north of the island who may or may not be involved. Guesswork at the worst. Plain unsubstantiated guesswork. And at the best, only hearsay.'

‘Only hearsay …'

‘Yes.'

Foulsham's white hair was silhouetted against the bright day.

‘Well, seeing Dr Arun Jiva was not hearsay. The information that he was returning to England was of the utmost value to us.'

‘I'm glad.'

‘Jiva was arrested on Wednesday, and documents on him, pieced together with papers found in his house, point to a direct connection between him and an important man – also a titled man – who we have recently – that is, since Colton's death – had some suspicions of, but not a vestige of proof. All that has now changed, and we very much appreciate your assistance in the matter.'

‘Delighted I was of help.'

‘You will be, of course.' When James raised his eyebrows Foulsham added: ‘Then there was the young Indian, Naresh Prasad. Had you not brought his plight to our notice it's pretty clear he would have disappeared without trace. We still haven't found the ambulance, by the way.'

‘Pity, that … It just seems I have twice been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.'

‘Only twice?' Foulsham said.

James looked up. ‘As far as I know, yes.'

‘Tell me, Mr Locke, when you were in Corfu, did you look up the first Mrs Colton?'

Curse Henry. Had he let this out, or was the policeman guessing?

‘I suppose you could look on that as another lucky coincidence. She was a waitress at a restaurant I visited.'

‘Did you go there on purpose?'

‘Actually it was an embarrassment, meeting her,' James said, dodging the direct question.

‘Embarrassment?'

‘As you know, I had been on bad terms with Colton.'

‘So what was your purpose in meeting her?'

‘I thought she might be able to tell me how Colton first became involved in the drugs trade.'

‘Presuming he was … And did she?'

‘No. I think she was too scared.'

‘What was her reaction to her husband's death?'

‘Not much obvious grief. Chiefly concerned whether her allowance would continue. And she wanted her daughter back.'

‘Did she say who she thought might have murdered her husband?'

‘I didn't ask her. But I don't think she had any idea.'

Foulsham sipped his coffee and then stared into the cup as if seeking wisdom.

‘
We
have ideas, Mr Locke, I must tell you that, but as yet there is insufficient proof.'

‘I wish I could help you,' said James.

‘I wish you would,' said Foulsham.

There was a rather long silence. James nursed his ankle.

Inspector Foulsham said: ‘Have you ever heard of the Locard principle, sir?'

‘No.'

‘In effect it's a principle much used by the police these days – the theory being that when a person enters a room he brings something in with him that he leaves behind, and when that person leaves that room he takes something away with him that he did not have when he entered.'

‘Interesting.' James pressed his button and the chair took him to the coffee table. ‘How would it apply?'

‘Well, if a murder is committed the chances are that the murderer has brought something in and taken something away – it may be a dog's hair, foreign dust, fingerprints, footmarks, threads of tweed or cotton or wool, saliva, mud, biro marks, chalk, sweatstains. When the murder has involved a struggle it is still more unusual for it not to have occurred.'

‘More coffee?'

‘Thank you, no, Mr Locke. I must be on my way.'

‘Am I right in supposing that in the case of the murders of Colton and Smith, the Locard principle has not worked?'

‘Not so far.'

‘But you're still hopeful of an arrest?'

‘Investigations which are still proceeding may help us to find the culprit. Perhaps someone will come along who will be as helpful as you have been in this other criminal activity.'

‘Don't you think they are connected?'

‘Maybe. Tell me your reasoning, sir.'

‘Oh, I haven't got as far as that. But Errol was in the drug trade, Errol was connected with Jiva. If –'

‘Why d'you say that?' Foulsham's voice was suddenly sharper.

‘What?' James breathed out slowly. ‘That Errol was connected with Jiva? Well, weren't they?'

‘You are telling me that they were. How do you know that?'

Having put his cup and saucer down, James brought his chair round to face his visitor.

‘On the afternoon when I found Naresh Prasad waiting for an ambulance he told me, as you know, that he had been given Errol Colton's name by Jiva as the man who was going to help him.'

‘You didn't mention this in your first statement to Sergeant Evans.'

‘Didn't I? Well, no, I must have forgotten.'

‘Do you think, Mr Locke, that your daughter could have been in any way involved with Colton or Jiva or both in their trade in drugs?'

‘I do not.'

‘You seem sure. Young people –'

‘I'm very sure.'

For the first time in their several meetings Foulsham heard steel in James Locke's voice. It made more sense of police suspicion.

‘Just so. Just so … Well, we may be able to persuade Dr Jiva to tell us more about his involvement with Colton. So far as Colton's death is concerned, it could have been a revenge killing and with Smith more or less accidentally involved.'

‘Revenge?'

‘It's a good motive.'

‘Nietzsche had something to say about that.'

‘Who, sir?'

‘Nietzsche. I think he said that revenge was the sign of a noble mind.'

‘I hadn't heard. I can't say I agree with him. Was he a Frenchman?'

‘A German.'

‘Ah, well, there you are. We're all entitled to our views, aren't we. Except when we take the law into our own hands. There's all the difference between thinking and doing. Are you a religious man, sir?'

‘No.'

‘Nor L But I was brought up right. I was taught that it was almost as wicked to think evil as to do evil. As a policeman I have had to disregard those teachings. There's all the difference in the world of law between wishing a man dead and killing him.'

James smiled.‘And I suppose there's all the difference in the world of law between suspecting a man of a crime and finding evidence

to prove it.'
‘Just so,' said Foulsham. ‘But we shall keep on trying.'

When he had gone Mary Aldershot put her back to the door and said: ‘How
dare
you! What possessed you? How could you tell him such a thing?'

James looked at her, his head on one side. ‘ It was an impulse.'

‘An impulse indeed!'

‘A double bluff, if you get my meaning.'

‘Not at all!'

‘The police suspect me of the murders but they've little or no evidence. They see me as the most likely suspect but they know they could be wrong. I think they look on me as a fairly honourable man driven to distraction by his daughter's death. An honourable man does not ask someone to marry him if he thinks his new wife is likely to become the wife of a man arraigned for murder. It seemed to me a way of confusing them, of throwing them off the scent. “ He must be innocent, or sure of the lack of evidence, or completely around the bend, to make such a proposal.” D'you see what I mean?'

‘I think you are completely around the bend,' Mary said.

‘Well, thank you.'

‘You could equally be marrying me because my testimony as a housekeeper could incriminate you, whereas as a wife I could not be compelled to testify.'

‘I hadn't thought of that.'

‘I thought, perhaps,' said Mary, ‘that you
were
thinking of that!'

‘The unkindest cut! Why d'you so resent what I have said?'

‘Because,' she said, ‘ because if it were ever even to be a possibility, the motive would have to be quite different.'

James thought this out. ‘Oh, I could make the motive very different. Pity, for example.'

‘Pity for me?'

‘You know very well what I mean! A healthy youngish woman and a crippled elderly man.'

‘You're talking of
my
motive now, not yours.'

‘Well,' James said after a moment, ‘there could be a joint motive, common to us both. A selfish motive, seeking affection, companionship, mutual interests, even love. But you turned me down once, five years ago. It can't be any more of an attractive proposition now.'

Mary moved from the door, opened it again and looked out. The police car had gone.

She said: ‘I don't think last time you mentioned love.'

That evening the guest of honour was the last to arrive.

‘
Very
sorry,' Peter Brune said to the Principal, smiling as he shook hands. ‘An urgent telephone call at the last minute from Hong Kong. It's always difficult to refuse a call when someone has taken the trouble to ring you in the middle of the night –
their
night.'

Crichton beamed to hide his constraint. ‘Let me see, do you know everybody here? Herbert Norris, the member for Lewisham. I'm not sure …'

‘We've met,' said Brune. ‘At a memorial service in Cambridge, for the Master of Caius.'

‘Yes, yes. Three years ago. Certainly.'

‘Norris, as you know, is Shadow Minister for Education.'

‘There's room for improvement, isn't there?' Brune said.

‘Well, we certainly feel so.'

‘You don't, I think, know Martin Goodbody, whose subject is Medieval History. Henry Gaveston, of course –'

‘
Very
well,' said Brune.

‘James Locke, whom I believe you met once.'

‘Briefly,' said Brune.

‘Briefly,' said James. When you carried a stick it wasn't difficult to ignore the half-extended hand. They stared at each other, eye to eye, for a long moment. It was like a clash of swords.

Alistair took his guest by the arm, not touching Brune's hand for his own were sweating.‘Of the others, Lord Caterham …'

‘Yes, of course. How d'you do. Are you going to Ascot this year?'

They went round the remaining guests. Brune seemed to know what each of the others did, where they had met before, what would be a subject of particular interest to mention.

Everyone talked amiably for a few minutes. Among the guests was Bruce Masters, Stephanie's personal tutor. He shook hands with James silently, and looked as if he would like to say something but did not know quite what. They had met twice since her death, though briefly.

James suddenly said, in a voice Henry could overhear: ‘ Tell me, Mr Masters, you dealt with Stephanie's work?'

‘Yes, of course. Indeed.'

‘What was her grammar like?'

‘Grammar? D'you mean English, or –'

‘English.'

‘Very good.' Masters smiled wryly. ‘She was well brought up.'

‘Did she ever split an infinitive?'

Masters' expression became slightly strained, as if he were not following the line of questioning. ‘Surely not. I would have noticed. She was rather a stickler for that sort of thing.' He smiled again. ‘Nowadays, alas, most people don't even know what split infinitives are.'

‘
She
did,' said James.

‘I'm sure. As I've said … Fortunately such problems don't arise in French or Spanish.'

Crichton, having seen that Brune had finished his drink, was now leading the way into Hall. A few other Fellows were already there, but places had been left for the main group. They were already a few minutes late, and the students all stood when they came in, though a few were getting restless at the delay.

Brune sat next to Crichton, with Lord Caterham on his right. James was between Henry and Martin Goodbody, a little way down the table with his back to the students. Food and wine came and went. Although they had spoken frequently over the telephone, it was the first time Henry had seen James since the Corfu visit. Henry noticed James kept his eyes on Peter Brune, who looked more relaxed than his host, with his handsome hair, hooked nose, deeply indented sardonic smile that came and went as he talked. And bright dark eyes that occasionally met Henry's, but never James's stare.

The food was no better and no worse than usual, but the wine was specially excellent. Brune probably expected some word of appreciation for having donated it to the college, but Crichton unexpectedly gagged and couldn't find the words.

They went downstairs for the customary coffee and port and grapes. According to tradition, the seating had to be changed, and James found himself next to Lord Caterham, who had been Home Secretary in the mid-sixties. Conversation at the new table was wide-ranging: congratulations on St Martin's good showing in the Norrington Scale, progress of repairs to the tower, the bitterness of the miners' strike and the tightrope that had to be walked by those responsible for law and order. Brune had his share of the talk; James was silent; Henry in his high-pitched voice contributed ever and again. At the extreme end of the table two dons could be heard arguing about the influences of the Swahili language on East African politics.

‘I imagine law and order was quite a different matter in your day, Rupert,' Crichton said to Caterham.