The Murder Room (37 page)

Rumour said that Kynaston's ambition had been to train as a physician but that he had to change course at registrar level because of his reluctance ever to have to watch human suffering. Certainly as a forensic pathologist he was spared it. It wouldn't be he who would knock at unfamiliar doors, steeling himself to break the dreaded news to some waiting parent or partner. But Dalgliesh thought the rumour unfounded; an aversion to encountering pain would surely have been discovered before undertaking medical training. Perhaps what drove Kynaston was an obsession with death, its causes, its manifold manifestations, its universality and inevitability, its essential mystery. Without religious belief as far as Dalgliesh knew, he treated each cadaver as if dead nerves could still feel and the glazed eyes could still entreat his verdict of hope. Watching his stubby latex-clad hands moving over a body, Dalgliesh sometimes had the irrational thought that Kynaston was administering his own secular Last Rites.

For years he had seemed unchanged, but he had visibly aged since their last meeting, as if he had suddenly dropped to a lower level on the continuum of physical decline. His solid frame was more cumbersome; the hairline above the high speckled forehead had receded. But his eyes were still as keen and his hands as steady.

It was now three minutes after midday. The blinds had been earlier drawn down, seeming to disconnect time as well as shutting out the surly half-light of late morning. To Dalgliesh the Murder Room seemed crowded with people, yet there were only six present in addition to Kynaston, himself, Kate and Piers. The two photographers had finished their work and were beginning quietly to pack up, but there was still one high light shining down on the body. Two fingerprint experts were dusting the trunk and Nobby Clark and a second scene-of-crime officer were meticulously prowling over ground which, on the face of it, offered little hope of yielding physical clues. Clad in the garb of their trade, all moved with quiet confidence, their voices low but not unnaturally muted. They could, thought Dalgliesh, be engaged on some esoteric rite best hidden from public view. The photographs on the walls were ranged like a line of silent witnesses, infecting the room with the tragedies and miseries of the past: Rouse, sleek-haired with his complacent seducer's smile; Wallace in his high collar, mild-eyed beneath the steel spectacles; Edith Thompson in a wide-brimmed hat, laughing beside her young lover under a summer sky.

The corpse had been lifted from the trunk and now lay beside it on a sheet of plastic. The merciless glare of the light shining directly on her drained away the last traces of humanity so that she looked as artificial as a doll laid out ready to be parcelled. The bright yellow hair showed brown at the roots. She must have been pretty in life with a fair kittenish sexuality, but there was no beauty or peace in this dead face. The slightly exophthalmic pale blue eyes were wide open; they looked as if pressure on the forehead would dislodge them and they would roll like glass balls over the pale cheeks. Her mouth was half open, the small perfect teeth resting in a snarl on the lower lip. A thin trickle of mucus had dried on the upper lip. There was a bruise on either side of the delicate neck where strong hands had crushed the life out of her.

Dalgliesh stood silently watching as, crouching, Kynaston moved slowly round the body, gently spread out the pale fingers and turned the head from left to right, the better to scrutinize the bruises. Then he reached in the old Gladstone bag he always carried for his rectal thermometer. Minutes later, the preliminary examination complete, he got to his feet.

“Cause of death obvious. She was strangled. The killer was wearing gloves and was right-handed. There are no fingernail impressions and no scratching, and no signs of the victim trying to loosen the grip. Unconsciousness may have supervened very quickly. The main grip was made by the right hand from the front. You can see a thumb impression high up under the lower jaw over the
cornu
of the thyroid. There are finger-marks on the left side of the neck from the pressure of the opposing fingers. As you can see, these are a little low down along the side of the thyroid cartilage.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Could a woman have done it?”

“It would have needed strength, but not remarkable strength. The victim is slight and the neck fairly narrow. A woman could have done it, but not, for example, a frail woman or anyone with arthritic hands. Time of death? That's complicated by the fact that the trunk is practically airtight. I may be able to be more precise after the PM. My present estimate is that she's been dead at least four days, probably nearer five.”

Dalgliesh said, “Dupayne died at about eighteen hundred hours last Friday. Is it possible that this death occurred at approximately the same time?”

“Perfectly possible. But even after the PM I couldn't pinpoint as accurately as that. I've a free slot tomorrow morning at eight-thirty and I'll try to get a report to you by early afternoon.”

They had found the mobile, one of the most recent designs, in her jacket pocket. Moving to the far end of the room and with gloved hands, Piers pressed the buttons to discover the source of the call, then called the number.

A male voice answered. “Mercer's Garage.”

“I think we just missed a call from you.”

“Yes sir. It's to say that Celia Mellock's car is ready. Does she want to collect it, or shall we deliver it?”

“She said she'd like it delivered. You have the address, presumably?”

“That's right, sir, forty-seven Manningtree Gardens, Earl's Court Road.”

“On second thoughts, better leave it. You've just missed her and she might prefer to collect it. Anyway, I'll let her know it's ready. Thanks.”

Piers said, “We've got the name and address, sir. And we know now why she didn't come by car to the museum. It was at the garage. Her name's Celia Mellock and the address is forty-seven Manningtree Gardens, Earl's Court Road.”

The girl's hands had been mittened in plastic, the red nails shining through as if they had been dipped in blood. Dr. Kynaston gently raised the hands and folded them on the girl's breast. The plastic sheet was folded over the body and the body bag zipped up. The photographer began dismantling his lamp and Dr. Kynaston, gloveless now, was removing his overall and stuffing it back in his Gladstone bag. The mortuary van had been summoned and Piers had gone downstairs to await its arrival. It was then that the door opened and a woman came purposefully in.

Kate's voice was sharp. “Mrs. Strickland, what are you doing here?”

Mrs. Strickland said calmly, “It's Wednesday morning. I'm always here on Wednesdays from nine-thirty to one, and on Fridays from two to five. Those are the times I have set aside. I thought you knew that.”

“Who let you in?”

“Miss Godby, of course. She perfectly understood that we volunteers have to be meticulous about our obligations. She said that the museum was closed to visitors, but I'm not a visitor.”

She moved without apparent repugnance towards the body bag. “You've a dead body in there, obviously. I detected the unmistakable smell the moment I opened the library door. My sense of smell is acute. I was wondering what had happened to Mr. Ackroyd's group of visitors. I was told that they would visit the library and I put out some of the more interesting publications for them to see. I take it, now, that they won't be coming.”

Dalgliesh said, “They've left, Mrs. Strickland, and I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

“I shall in ten minutes, my time will be up. But I need to put away the display I arranged. That was a waste of time, I'm afraid. I wish someone had told me what was going on. And what is going on? I assume this is a second suspicious death as you're here, Commander. No one from the museum, I hope.”

“No one from the museum, Mrs. Strickland.” Dalgliesh, anxious to get rid of her but not to antagonize her, kept his patience.

She said, “A man, I suppose. I see you haven't a handbag. No woman would be found without a handbag. And dead flowers? They look like African violets. They are violets, aren't they? Is it a woman?”

“It is a woman, but I must ask you to say nothing about this to anyone. We need to inform the next of kin. Someone must be missing her, worried where she is. Until the next of kin are told, any talk might hamper the investigation and cause distress. I'm sure you will understand that. I'm sorry we didn't know you were in the museum. It's fortunate you didn't come in earlier.”

Mrs. Strickland said, “Dead bodies don't cause me distress. Living ones do occasionally. I'll say nothing. I suppose the family know—the Dupaynes I mean?”

“Miss Dupayne was here when we made the discovery, as was Mr. Calder-Hale. I've no doubt one or both of them will have telephoned Marcus Dupayne.”

Mrs. Strickland was at last turning away. “She was in the trunk, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Dalgliesh, “she was in the trunk.”

“With the violets? Was someone trying to make a connection with Violette Kaye?”

Their eyes met but there was no hint of recognition. It was as if that hour of confidence in the Barbican flat, the shared wine, the intimacy, had never been. He could have been talking to a stranger. Was this her way of distancing herself from someone to whom she had been dangerously confiding?

Dalgliesh said, “Mrs. Strickland, I must insist that you leave now so that we can get on with what we have to do.”

“Of course. I've no intention of obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.” Her voice had been ironic. Now she walked towards the door, then turned and said, “She wasn't in the trunk at four o'clock last Friday, if that's any help.”

There was a silence. If Mrs. Strickland had wanted to leave on a high dramatic note, she had succeeded.

Dalgliesh's voice was calm. “How can you be sure of that, Mrs. Strickland?”

“Because I was here when the trunk was opened by Ryan Archer. I suppose you want to know why.”

Dalgliesh had to resist the ridiculous impulse to say that he wouldn't dream of asking. Mrs. Strickland went on: “It was pure curiosity—perhaps impure curiosity would be more appropriate. I think the boy had always wanted to see inside the trunk. He had just finished vacuuming the corridor outside the library. It wasn't a convenient time, of course, it never is. I find it difficult to concentrate with that disagreeable background noise and if there are visitors he has to stop. Anyway, there he was. When he switched off the vacuum cleaner he came into the library. I don't know why. He may have fancied some company. I'd just finished writing some new labels for the Wallace exhibits and he came over to look at them. I mentioned that I was taking them to the Murder Room and he asked if he could come with me. I saw no reason why he shouldn't.”

“And you're sure about the time?”

“Perfectly sure. We came into this room just before four. We stayed about five minutes and then Ryan left to collect his wages. I left soon after five. Muriel Godby was on the desk and, as you know, she offered to give me a lift to Hampstead underground station. I waited while she and Tally Clutton checked the museum. I suppose it was about five-twenty when we finally drove off.”

Kate asked, “And the trunk was empty?”

Mrs. Strickland looked at her. “Ryan is not the most intelligent or reliable of boys, but if he had found a body in the trunk I think he would have mentioned the fact. Apart from that, there would have been other indications, that is if she'd been there any length of time.”

“Do you remember what was said between you? Anything significant?”

“I believe I told Ryan that he wasn't supposed to touch the exhibits. I didn't reprove him. His action seemed to me perfectly natural. I believe he did say that the trunk was empty and that he didn't see any bloodstains. He sounded disappointed.”

Dalgliesh turned to Kate. “See if you can find Ryan Archer. It's Wednesday, he should be here. Did you see anything of him when you arrived?”

“Nothing, sir. He'll probably be somewhere in the garden.”

“See if you can find him and get confirmation. Don't tell him why you're asking. He'll know soon enough, but the later the better. I doubt whether he could resist spreading the story. The priority now is to notify the next of kin.”

Mrs. Strickland turned to go. She said, “By all means get confirmation. I shouldn't frighten the boy though. He'll only deny it.”

And then she was gone. Running down the stairs, Kate saw her re-entering the library.

At the front door Benton-Smith was standing guard. He said, with a nod towards the office, “They're getting impatient. Miss Dupayne has been out twice to ask when the Commander will be seeing them. Apparently she's needed at the college. They've got a prospective student and her parents coming to look over the place. That's why Lady Swathling phoned earlier.”

Kate said, “Tell Miss Dupayne it won't be long now. Have you seen anything of Ryan Archer?”

“No ma'am. What's up?”

“Mrs. Strickland says that she was in the Murder Room with Ryan at four o'clock last Friday and he opened the trunk.”

Benton-Smith was already unlocking the door. “That's useful. Is she sure about the time?”

“She says so. I'm off to check with Ryan now. It's Wednesday. The boy should be here somewhere.”

Despite the gloom of the day it was good to be in the fresh air, good to be out of the museum. She ran to look up the drive but could see no trace of Ryan. The mortuary van was arriving and, as she watched, Benton-Smith came out of the museum and walked quickly to unlock the barrier. She didn't wait. The body would be moved without her help. Her job was to find Ryan. Moving past the burnt-out garage to the back of the museum, she saw that he was working in Mrs. Clutton's garden. He was wearing a stout duffle-coat over his grubby jeans and a woollen hat with a pom-pom, and was kneeling beside the bed in front of the window, plunging his dibber into the soil and planting bulbs. He looked up as she approached and she saw his look of mingled wariness and fear.