The Devlin Diary (31 page)

“Ravenscroft was a genius,” Fiona insisted. “And I could prove it too if Derek Goodman hadn’t absconded with my research materials.”

“What do you mean, absconded?”

“What I mean is that too many times when I tried to locate the books or documents I needed, they seemed to have mysteriously disappeared. And Derek Goodman always seemed to have been the person looking at them just before me.”

“I see,” Andrew said. “I might be able to help with that. Fiona, if I can find the materials you want, would you share with us what you know about any murders committed near the Fleet Ditch? It may have something to do with Derek Goodman’s death.”

She thought it over, then smiled. “I’ll do you one better,” she said. “I’ll tell you the name of the student he was sleeping with.”

H
ER NAME WAS
Ashley Templeton and she was a third-year at Trinity. Fiona had seen her with Derek Goodman in the London Underground only two weeks ago, on the Piccadilly line. They hadn’t seen her. How could they? They’d been in constant lip-lock all the way from Knightsbridge to Leicester Square.

As Claire and Andrew crossed West Road after leaving Fiona’s office, Andrew was still shaking his head. “A student,” he muttered angrily. “The man clearly had no moral compass whatsoever. If he were still alive I’d be tempted to kill him myself.” He stopped and looked tiredly at Claire. He seemed to have aged a few years since the morning. “I’m going to have to talk to her. But what am I going to say? Pardon me, but did you have a sexual relationship with Derek Goodman?”

“You can’t just blurt it out like that.”

“I know, but I can’t think of anything else.”

“The point is to encourage her to talk, not frighten her into being defensive. Why not ask her if she knows anything about what happened that night? Even the smallest detail could help us discover who killed him.”

“Help
them,
you mean.” He looked at her sternly. “The police.”

“Them, of course,” Claire nodded.

They watched a punt filled with Japanese tourists float slowly along the river past Queens’ College. Andrew sighed. “Do you mind coming with me? I don’t imagine I’ll be very good at this.”

She was surprised that he’d taken her comment so much to heart. “But I don’t even know her.”

He shrugged. “I hardly know her myself.”

They found Ashley Templeton’s set at the top of C staircase in Whewell Court. As soon as the girl opened the door, Claire realized that she’d already made a whole group of assumptions that weren’t going to apply at all. She’d constructed a mental image of an innocent, duped school-girl, another of Derek Goodman’s victims. Or, if
victim
was too strong a word, someone who had been taken in by his mesmerizing charm; something to which Claire could sadly relate.

But Ashley didn’t look like anyone’s fool. To begin with, she was exceptionally pretty, with the kind of polished beauty only money can buy, from the roots of her expensively highlighted mane of golden hair to her perfectly manicured toes. Her bare feet, one christened with an ink-blue, star-shaped tattoo, were just visible from under the fashionably faded bell-bottom jeans that rode low on her slim hips. A T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a rock band Claire had never heard of—what else could IronKlad be?—was short enough to show off her diamond-studded navel. Although Ashley had the requisite piercings, tattoos, and wardrobe of her peers, Claire got the impression that the clothes were the pricey, boutique version of Neo-hippy. It wasn’t that hard to figure out. Through the open door, she could see an array of shopping bags—Harrods, Harvey Nichols, Selfridges—on the chairs and on the floor, tissue paper and price tags still sticking out of the open tops. Not a typical Cambridge student; not a typical twenty-year-old. More than anyone else Claire had met in Cambridge, Ashley Templeton reeked of money and privilege. Not to mention cigarettes and perfume. The odor of both drifted out into the hall.

“Dr. Kent.” Ashley’s eyes quickly passed over Claire, ascertaining in an instant that she was no one important. “I’ve already spoken to the
police.” She looked at them dismissively and began to shut the door in their faces.

“Do they know?” Claire piped up.

She froze. “Know what?” Despite her blasé demeanor, there was a flash of fear in Ashley’s eyes.

“That you had a sexual relationship with Dr. Goodman.”

Andrew turned to Claire, his mouth agape with wonder and horror. Ashley looked furtively into the hall, as if she was afraid that someone had overheard.

“You’d best come in,” she said. She opened the door for them and turned to the guy slouched on her slip-covered couch. “Clive, it’s time for you to go.”

Clive reluctantly got to his large, Doc Marten–clad feet. He, too, was dressed in jeans—working class rather than designer, Claire noted—and grubby T-shirt, over which he wore a black leather jacket, the kind with an excess of belts and buckles favored by motorcyclists. His dark hair was shorn almost to the scalp. Part of a colorful and obviously large tattoo crept up his thick neck above his jacket collar. He was an inch or two taller than Andrew and built like a truck. Not the sort you’d want to encounter in a dark alley.

He lumbered past them. “Awright, luv, see you later,” he said. He glanced warily at Andrew as he walked out the door.

“Is he a student?” Andrew asked.

“No,” Ashley replied. “What of it? Just because I’m a student, I’m only allowed to hang out with poncey students?” She loped over to the dining table, her long pants dragging noisily on the floor, and picked up a pack of Marlboro Lights and a bright pink disposable lighter. The ashtray next to them was so full of butts that ashes had spilled on the table all around it, but Ashley didn’t seem to notice or care. She tossed her long, thick hair away from her face and tilted up her chin, putting the cigarette between her lips and lighting it amidst a jangle of silver bracelets.

“So what is it you want to know?” she asked, expertly blowing out a long stream of smoke. With her air of brittle sophistication, Claire would never have guessed Ashley was only twenty.

“We’re not here to question you, Ashley, but it’s come to our attention that you were involved with Dr. Goodman,” Andrew said. “We were hoping that you might know something about the night he died. Dr. Donovan and I are investigating on behalf of the college. It doesn’t involve the police.” He gave Claire a sidelong glance, and she subtly nodded her approval.

Ashley sniffed and ran her tongue over her teeth, which were brilliantly white and as straight as piano keys. “I saw him at a party. Not a college party—it was over on Pemberton Terrace. Some artist’s studio.” She took another drag off her cigarette. Claire noticed that the pink, candy-colored nail of her right index finger was short and ragged, as though it had been chewed off. Her one tiny blight of imperfection. “Derek showed up with someone else. He didn’t know I was going to be there, obviously. We had an argument.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Did you see him again later?”

“No,” she said crossly. “I never wanted to see him again, ever. I’m not one of those idiots who moons about over guys who are two-timing me.” Ashley was beginning to look tense, like she was no longer interested in playing along.

“Who did he come to the party with?” Andrew asked.

“That bitch Nora Giles.”

Nora Giles, the Pepys librarian? The conspicuously engaged Pepys librarian? Claire tried to suppress her astonishment. She looked at Andrew and saw that he didn’t seem surprised at all.

Ashley stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, sending a small avalanche of ashes and butts onto the table. She was obviously angry, and her mouth had a mean twist to it, but her eyes were starting to look a little misty. She sniffed again.

“Do you have a cold?” Claire asked her.

“Allergies,” Ashley replied.

“Who else was at this party? Any other students?”

“A few graduate students—a girl named Sharon, a guy called Robbie, and another one that Derek called Mousy.”

“So you told the police that you had an argument with Dr. Goodman, but you didn’t tell them why?” Andrew pressed.

“I don’t see why they needed to know. I simply confirmed what other people saw. If they want to know more, they’ll have to arrest me. My father’s a barrister, I know my rights. I don’t have to tell them anything. Or you, for that matter. Keep in mind that if you mention any word of this to the police I’ll sue you for violating my student confidentiality rights. You personally, Dr. Kent, along with the school,” she added with a triumphant toss of her hair.

“That went well,” Andrew said as they walked down the last few stairs and stepped out into the bracing air. It was too obvious a falsehood to bother with sarcasm. Instead, he sounded rather wistful, as if he’d been referring to something pleasant from long ago.

Claire responded with an indistinct harrumph of despairing agreement. They’d been beaten by a twenty-year-old. A sophisticated, intelligent twenty-year-old, but still. Hardly the thing to make them feel proud of their investigative skills. Perhaps they were both better off sticking to books. The blustery wind kicked up, tossing Claire’s long hair into her face. She arranged her paisley scarf around her throat and chest and buttoned up her wool coat. Andrew thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. They turned west into the wind, automatically heading back to Great Court.

“Didn’t Detective Hastings tell you that Derek Goodman tested positive for cocaine?” Claire asked.

“Yes,” Andrew replied glumly. “Is that what you think was going on in there?”

“Could have been.”

“I suppose I’ll have to tell Portia.”

“Yes, you will.” Claire could see how upset he was by the prospect—almost as if it was physically painful for him to discover law-breaking behavior at his own school. “This is really tough for you, isn’t it?” she asked gently.

“Yes, it is. I guess I’m a bit of a square.”

“I’m afraid so. By the way, no one uses the word ‘square’ anymore.”

Andrew smiled faintly. “Damned by my own out-of-date vocabulary. I suppose I am rather old-fashioned sometimes.”

“It’s one of the things I like about you,” Claire blurted before she could stop herself. There she went again, saying what she thought at the moment that she thought it.

“That I’m old-fashioned?”

“Why don’t we call it ‘traditional’ instead?” She paused, wondering if she should risk saying anything more. Andrew looked pretty gloomy; perhaps he needed some cheering up. “I like that you expect people to be honest and trustworthy and to do the right thing, like you do.”

“You don’t think I’m boring?”

“No.”

“Thanks.” He smiled again, this time with more enthusiasm.

“How did you know about Nora Giles?” Claire asked.

“Rumors, for a start, although I try not to give too much credence to them. But late last term I came over here for an early run and I saw her leaving New Court. It was five-thirty in the morning. It wasn’t difficult to deduce where she’d been. I didn’t know if they were still seeing each other, however.”

Jesus, Claire thought, how many women had Derek Goodman been stringing along?

They walked through the Trinity Gate and into Great Court. “I promised Fiona I’d look for those books in Derek’s set. I’ve been thinking…if his work had anything to do with his death, then we need to figure out exactly what he knew. I’ll work on finding the materials in his rooms if you’ll—”

“Transcribe the diary?”

Andrew smiled. “Meet me at eight for dinner at hall, and we’ll compare notes.”

16 December 1672

F
ANNY
D
OYLE PADS
quietly up the thickly carpeted stairs to Sir Granville’s bedchamber, breakfast tray clutched in both hands. She’s been under-chambermaid for less than a month, but she’s already familiar with the bellowing that will ensue if she spills so much as a drop of chocolate. The master’s particular about his morning repast: a dish of chocolate and a sugared roll, every single day. The cook-mistress told her this is what they eat in France, but Fanny’s not certain she should believe her. Never sardines or meat or a bit of strong cheese? Bread and chocolate seems meager fare, especially for someone as rich as Sir Granville.

Fanny carefully balances the tray on one arm and taps on the door. Her knock doesn’t prompt any response. Even though it’s well past ten, she’s not surprised that the master’s still asleep. He keeps whore’s hours more often than not. She’ll have to wake him, a prospect she doesn’t enjoy. Sir Granville doesn’t seem to mind if she sees him in his nightgown looking a fright, but it’s hardly a sight she appreciates. Fanny slowly opens the door and steps inside. It’s always quiet in Sir Granville’s bedchamber, a muffled, numbing sort of quiet that exists
nowhere else in the house. It’s because of all the frills and furbelows, she decides, the swank bed draperies and the damask-covered walls, the thick red velvet curtains. They’re drawn shut, but a weak daylight filters through, enveloping the room in a ruby-colored gloom. She sets the tray on a table near the hearth, pushing aside a wine decanter and two gold-stemmed glasses, and crosses to the window, her feet sinking into overlapping layers of plush Turkey rugs.

Fanny pulls back the curtains and looks over to the bed. The silk sheets are all a-tangle; in fact the old goat has fallen out of bed and is sleeping on the floor. She can see his bare feet sticking out from the end of the tester. It isn’t the first time she’s found him in this condition.

“Sir?” Fanny calls tentatively as she walks closer.

Then she puts her hands to her face and begins screaming.

It’s a gruesome sight. So gruesome that none of Sir Granville’s servants have gone anywhere near the body. As his closest relation and heir, Edward Strathern is the first informed, and when he arrives he finds the scene unmolested. Despite his shock and revulsion at the way his uncle met his ultimate end, it occurs to him that studying the victim in the milieu in which he was murdered may yield some information about the crime.

Sir Granville’s steward stands a good distance away, looking on the tableau with horror. “You can see for yourself, sir, why I thought it best not to summon the night watchman or the constable.”

“Yes, Mr. Callow.”

“Best to keep it in the family, sir.”

Edward mumbles something indistinct that could be interpreted as his assent. The manner of Sir Granville’s death would no doubt appear to many as shocking, sordid, even salacious. His uncle is stark naked and sprawled on the floor, with a bedsheet—twisted so it’s as strong and deadly as a rope—coiled tightly around his neck. His eyes bulge from his face, looking as if they could be popped out as easily as one might squeeze a pip from a lemon. His tongue, thick and livid, hangs from the side of his mouth. But that’s not the worst of it. Although if
he had to make a choice between the bloody stab wounds, the long gash in Sir Granville’s lower abdomen, so deep he can glimpse slick gray intestines, or the symbols inscribed on his uncle’s chest, Edward would be hard-pressed to decide which was the most horrible. There’s something deeply discomfiting—atavistic, even—about flesh being cut in such a manner.

He crouches down, trying to stay clear of the dark stain that spreads out in a wide circle around the body. He gingerly touches the warm, wet carpet. When he turns his hand over, his fingertips are bloody. With his handkerchief, he wipes his fingers clean, then rubs away some of the dried blood from Sir Granville’s chest. Like the others, he is marked with three symbols: the first is two interlocking triangles, the second is another triangle, inverted. The third is nothing more than a short vertical line. He tips the body back slightly, to free the arm that’s trapped underneath.

“Holy Mary Mother of God,” Mr. Callow exclaims in a single exhaled breath.

It’s as Edward feared: the only digit remaining on Sir Granville’s right hand is his thumb.

Only a week ago he told his uncle about the similarities between the murders of Dr. Briscoe, Sir Henry, and Mr. Osborne, and he revealed his conclusions, such as they were. Sir Granville became quite distressed at the news, so much so that Edward suspected he knew something he wasn’t telling. He insisted that Sir Granville be especially cautious when he was abroad at night, but he never imagined that his uncle would be vulnerable in his own home. Apparently neither did he.

Sir Granville’s bedroom is on the third floor. It’s unlikely anyone entered through the window, but Edward checks it anyway. It’s closed and locked, and the windowsill is free of dust. Either it’s been opened recently or the room is kept spotless. He peers outside. Only thirteen years ago, at the end of Cromwell’s reign, this area between Pall Mall and Piccadilly was untamed park and swampland. Now it’s one of the most popular areas for the new mansions of the gentry. There’s decent street lighting here, and the parishes are wealthier, so they can afford to hire able men for the watch. It’s not an area known for its crime—but
then again, Sir Henry was murdered not far away, in St. James’s Park.

Edward turns back to the room, his gaze settling on the wine decanter and glasses on the hearthside table. “Mr. Callow, could you do me a kindness and have everyone assemble downstairs?”

Sir Granville’s staff numbers nearly twenty, not including the stable boys. They gather in the kitchen, the cook-mistress and the kitchen maids and chambermaids sitting at the long table, the footmen, page-boys, porter, and steward leaning against the walls and counters. The cook-mistress sits with a protective arm around a young chambermaid with a tear-stained face—the one who discovered his uncle, Edward surmises.

He stands at the foot of the table to address the group. “Did Sir Granville have a visitor last night?”

The servants shift uncomfortably and exchange cautious looks, but no one answers.

“My uncle is dead,” he says. “There’s no point to keeping secrets.”

The porter, a tall, thin lad of twenty or so by the name of James Turner, speaks up. “Yes, he had a visitor, though that’s not what we usually call them.” He glances at the others but sees that his attempt at levity falls flat.

Edward misses the inference. “Can you tell me the gentleman’s name?”

“’Tweren’t a gentleman. ’Twas a lady.”

“It weren’t no lady,” the cook-mistress says.

“Well—it was a woman, sir,” Turner says.

A woman? He can’t believe that a woman is capable of the violence inflicted on his uncle. Perhaps she was an accomplice and it was she who let the fiend into the house. He only briefly entertains the thought that the killer is one of the staff. Most of Sir Granville’s people have been with him for years. Although his uncle could be haughty and demanding, he was fair, and his servants were loyal to him. And Edward couldn’t think of any among them who would have had any contact with Osborne, Sir Henry, or Dr. Briscoe. No, it had to be someone from outside. But a woman?

“I shouldn’t of let her in,” Turner adds mournfully.

“You were only doing your job, Jamie,” the steward consoles him, then addresses Strathern. “You aren’t going to hold him responsible for what happened, are you?”

“Of course not. Please, do not make yourselves uneasy. I’m simply trying to find out who came to see my uncle last night. Did Sir Granville often have female visitors?” The servants nod emphatically, surprising him. He hadn’t known that his uncle was such a connoisseur of women. He speaks to Turner. “Had this particular woman been here before?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Usually they show up just once is all.”

“And where do they come from?”

Mr. Callow speaks in Turner’s stead. “I believe Sir Granville had an arrangement with one of the bawds in town. She sent him those ladies that she thought would meet with his approval.”

“I see,” Edward replies. Then turning to the porter, he asks, “Can you describe her for me?”

“Not really, sir. Her face was covered by one of them masks.”

“A vizard?”

Turner nods.

“Perhaps there was something else about her that was notable.”

“Not that I can think of, sir.”

Edward tries to conceal his mounting frustration with Turner’s limited powers of observation. “What was she wearing?”

“She was dressed in black, sir.”

“Was she young or old?”

“I really couldn’t tell, sir. Young, I suppose.”

“Tall, short, fat, thin?”

“Tall and sort of medium-size, I’d say. Her hair was red,” he adds, happy to remember something.

“Was it a wig?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir. It looked real enough to me.”

“And how did she arrive here? On foot?”

“Hackney coach, sir.”

He pauses and studies the faces staring back at him. Beneath the
bland, inexpressive mask of servitude, they’re afraid, and not just because someone has committed a heinous crime in their midst. The sudden death of the master of the house means the sudden loss of their positions and pay. As Sir Granville’s heir, it will be up to Edward to decide how the house is managed, how many servants will be necessary, who stays and who goes.

“Thank you, James,” he says, certain that the porter has no more information to impart. “You’re all free to go about your duties. Please carry on as you would any other day, if you can. You’ll all be paid through the end of the month, at which time I shall determine the needs of this household. In the meantime, there are more pressing things to attend to. Mr. Callow, if you would come with me?”

Surrounded by stacks of leather-bound journals and yellowing papers, Hannah sits on the floor of her bedroom reading through her father’s medical notes and observations.

Much of it is instructive, but none of it is pertinent. So far, she has found nothing that mentions Sir Henry or Mr. Osborne, nothing from her father’s time in France attending Henriette-Anne.

She hears Hester’s footsteps on the landing and calls out to her before she reaches the open door. “You may come in.”

Hester lingers uncertainly on the threshold. “You have a visitor, ma’am,” she says with eyes lowered. She’s been inconsolable ever since Lucy left. For all their squabbling, she and Lucy were as close as sisters; Lucy’s running off with the boy Hester fancied must feel like a double betrayal. Hannah has tried to cheer the girl with special treats of sugared plums, oranges, and chocolate, and she has allowed her to ignore her chores and even her studies when she wished. Mrs. Wills frets that
this kind of indulgence only makes it worse, but Hannah cannot bear to see her so sad. Unhappily none of it has worked.

“Who is it?”

“Dr. Strathern, ma’am.”

Just the mention of his name makes her feel breathless. Only a week has passed since they last saw each other and she asked him not to call on her. Why is he ignoring her request? A small voice inside says that he may have broken off his engagement, but she knows better than to listen to it. Hope only leads to disenchantment.

As she descends the stairs, Edward turns from his study of the chimneypiece, a tapestry her parents bought years ago in France. He is attired much as he was the week before, sans wig, in an everyday coat and breeches and plain silk cravat.

“Mrs. Devlin,” he begins as she crosses the parlor, “I would not intrude on your privacy except for a matter of the utmost importance.” His expression is grim, his eyes dulled by dark half circles underneath. She knows at once that his purpose here is not romantic, but she is too concerned by his obvious suffering to feel disappointed.

“What is it, Dr. Strathern? What has happened?”

“My uncle was murdered,” he says, his voice low but tinged with an unmistakable edge of anger.

“When?”

“Just last night. He was in his own home—actually, his own bedroom.”

“I’m so sorry.” Hannah shakes her head, baffled. “No words are adequate for occasions such as this. Please sit down. You look quite distressed.”

“Thank you.” He absently settles into the nearest chair, looking around as if he is just beginning to take notice of his surroundings. “I don’t think I realized just how distraught I felt until seeing you. All morning I have been contending with the most horrible…” He trails off, not wanting to burden her with the details, but she can see by the stark, pale line of his jaw that they remain fresh in his mind. “It is one thing to clean a stranger’s body in the theatre, quite another to prepare one’s own relative. Especially after a murder such as this.” He sighs and
shakes his head. “First your father, then Sir Henry, then Mr. Osborne, and now Sir Granville.”

“He was killed in the same manner?”

“I’m afraid so. Although I believe he was strangled first, so that no one would hear his screams.”

Hannah shudders. She had no great affection for Sir Granville, but she would never wish such savage cruelty upon anyone. She wants to say again that she’s sorry, but it seems unnecessary. Dr. Strathern knows that she of all people understands how he feels. Perhaps that’s why he’s come here.

She goes down to the kitchen and asks Mrs. Wills to prepare some food and wine. When Hannah returns, Edward is on his feet again, pacing the room.

“Dr. Strathern, please; you are overtired and should rest.”

“I am unable to rest. I feel as if I must do something, only I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ve already alerted the constable?”