The Murder Room (40 page)

Dalgliesh said, “We already have your fingerprints which were taken after Dr. Dupayne's murder. I'm sorry that the sealing of the Murder Room and the temporary closing of the museum will cause inconvenience to you all. I hope we shall be finished by Monday. In the meantime I think we have finished with everyone except Mrs. Clutton and Mrs. Strickland. We have, of course, all your addresses.”

Marcus Dupayne said, “Aren't we to be allowed to know how the girl died? I imagine the news will be leaked to the press soon enough. Haven't we a reasonable right to be told first?”

Dalgliesh said, “The news will not be leaked and nor will it be made public until the next of kin have been informed. I would be grateful if you would all keep silent to avoid unnecessary distress to family and friends. Once the murder does become public there will obviously be press interest. That will be dealt with by the Met public relations department. You may wish to take your own precautions against being pestered.”

Caroline asked, “And the post-mortem? The inquest? What will be the timing there?”

Dalgliesh said, “The autopsy will take place tomorrow morning and the inquest as soon as it can be arranged by the Coroner's office. Like the inquest on your brother, it will be opened and adjourned.”

The two Dupaynes and Calder-Hale got up to go. Piers thought that brother and sister resented being excluded from further discussion. Miss Godby apparently felt the same. She got up reluctantly and looked across at Tally Clutton with a mixture of curiosity and resentment.

After the door had closed, Dalgliesh seated himself at the table. He said, “Thank you, Mrs. Strickland, for not mentioning the violets.”

Mrs. Strickland said evenly, “You told me to say nothing and I said nothing.”

Tally Clutton half rose from her seat. Her face paled. She said, “What violets?”

Kate said gently, “There were four dead African violets on the body, Mrs. Clutton.”

Eyes widening with horror, Tally glanced from face to face. She said in a whisper, “Violette Kaye! So these are copycat murders.”

Kate moved to sit beside her. “It's one of the possibilities we have to consider. What we need to know is how the murderer got access to the violets.”

Dalgliesh spoke to her carefully and slowly. “We've seen small terra-cotta pots of these violets in two rooms, Mr. Calder-Hale's and yours. I saw Mr. Calder-Hale's plants on Sunday morning at about ten o'clock when I went to interview him. They were intact then, though I thought he was going to decapitate them when he yanked down the window blind. Inspector Miskin thinks there were no broken flowers when she was in Mr. Calder-Hale's room with his visitors shortly before ten this morning, and Sergeant Benton-Smith noticed them when he went to the room shortly after the discovery of Celia Mellock's body. They were complete at about ten-thirty this morning. We've checked and they're complete now. One of the plants you have on your windowsill here has four stems broken off. So it looks as if the violets came from here and that means the person who put them on Celia Mellock's body must have had access to the cottage.”

Tally said simply, as if there could be no question that she would be disbelieved, “But the ones in here are from Mr. Calder-Hale's office! I changed his pot for one of mine on Sunday morning.”

Kate was practised in concealing her excitement. She said quietly, “How did that happen?”

But it was to Dalgliesh that Tally turned, as if willing him to understand. “I gave a pot of African violets to Mr. Calder-Hale for his birthday. That was on third October. I suppose it was a silly thing to do. One ought to check with people first. He never has plants in his room and perhaps he's too busy to want the bother of them. I knew he'd be in his room working on Sunday, he nearly always does come in on a Sunday, so I thought I'd water the violets and take off any dead flowers or leaves before he arrived. It was then that I saw four of the blooms were missing. I thought, like you, that they must have got broken off when he lowered the blind. He hadn't been watering the pot either and the leaves weren't looking very healthy. So I brought the pot back here to give it some care and substituted one of mine. I don't suppose he even noticed.”

Dalgliesh asked, “When did you last see the African violets undamaged in Mr. Calder-Hale's office?”

Tally Clutton thought. “I think it was on Thursday, the day before Dr. Dupayne's murder, when I cleaned his office. It's kept locked but there's a key in the key cabinet. I remember thinking then that they didn't look very healthy, but all the blooms were intact.”

“What time on Sunday did you substitute the pots?”

“I can't remember exactly but it was early, soon after I arrived. Perhaps between half-past eight and nine.”

Dalgliesh said, “I have to ask you, Mrs. Clutton. You didn't break off those flowers yourself?”

Still gazing into his eyes she answered, as docile as an obedient child. “No. I didn't break off any of the flowers.”

“And you're quite certain of the facts you've told us? The African violets in Mr. Calder-Hale's office were undamaged on Thursday thirty-first October and you found them damaged and replaced them on Sunday third November? You have absolutely no doubt about this?”

“No, Mr. Dalgliesh. I have no doubt at all.”

They thanked her for the use of the cottage and prepared to leave. It had been useful to have Mrs. Strickland there as a witness to their questioning of Tally, and now she made it apparent that she had no intention of hurrying away. Tally seemed glad of her company and made a tentative suggestion that they might have some soup and an omelette before Ryan returned. There had been no sign of him since Kate had spoken to him, and he would have to be seen and questioned again, now more particularly about what he had done during the day last Friday.

On Monday, after Tally had brought him back, he had provided one useful piece of evidence, the bitterness between Neville Dupayne and his siblings about the future of the museum. He had said that after receiving his day's pay, he had gone back to a previous squat with a view to taking out his friends for a drink, but had found the house repossessed by its owners. He had then wandered round the Leicester Square area for a time before deciding to walk back to Maida Vale. He thought he had arrived home at about seven o'clock but couldn't be sure. None of this had been verifiable. His account of the assault had agreed with that of the Major, although he hadn't volunteered why he had found the Major's words so offensive. It was difficult to see Ryan Archer as a prime suspect, but that he was a suspect at all was a complication. Wherever he was now, Dalgliesh devoutly hoped that the boy was keeping his mouth shut.

Calder-Hale was still in his room and Kate and Dalgliesh saw him together. They couldn't claim that he was uncooperative, but he seemed to be sunk in apathy. He was slowly collecting papers together and stuffing them into a commodious and shabby briefcase. Told that four stalks of African violets had been found on the body, he showed as little interest as if this had been an unexciting detail which wasn't his concern. Casually glancing at the violets on his windowsill, he said that he hadn't noticed that the pots had been exchanged. It was kind of Tally to remember his birthday but he preferred not to mark these anniversaries. He disliked African violets. There was no particular reason, they were just plants which had no appeal. It would have been ungracious to tell Tally this and he hadn't done so. Usually he locked the door to his room when he left, but not invariably. After Dalgliesh and Piers had interviewed him on Sunday he had continued working until twelve-thirty and had then gone home; he couldn't remember whether he had locked his door on leaving. As the museum was closed to the public and was remaining closed until after Dupayne's funeral, he thought it probable that he hadn't bothered to lock his office.

During the questioning he had continued to collect his papers, tidy his desk and take a mug into his bathroom to rinse it out. Now he was ready to leave and showed every inclination to do so without enduring further questioning. Handing his keys to the museum to Dalgliesh, he said that he'd be glad to have them returned as soon as possible. It was highly inconvenient not to have the use of his room.

Last of all, Dalgliesh and Kate called Caroline Dupayne and Muriel Godby from the downstairs office. Miss Dupayne had apparently reconciled herself to the inspection of the flat. The door was to the rear of the house and on the west side, and was unobtrusive. Miss Dupayne unlocked it and they entered a small vestibule with a modern lift controlled by pushbuttons. Punching out the sequence, Caroline Dupayne said, “The lift was installed by my father. He lived here in old age and was obsessive about security. So am I when I'm here alone. I also value my privacy. No doubt you do too, Commander. I find this inspection an intrusion.”

Dalgliesh didn't reply. If there were evidence that Celia Mellock had been here or could have entered the museum from the flat, then Miss Dupayne would be faced with a professional search which would indeed be intrusive. The tour of the flat, if it could be called that, was perfunctory, but he was unworried. Briefly she showed him the two spare bedrooms—both with adjoining bathroom and shower and neither showing any sign of recent use—the kitchen with a huge refrigerator, a small utility-room with its large washing machine and dryer, and the sitting-room. It could not have been more different from Neville Dupayne's room. Here were comfortable chairs and a sofa in pale green linen. The low bookcase ran the length of three walls, and rugs covered almost the whole of the polished floor. Above the bookcases the walls were hung with small pictures, water-colours, lithographs and oils. Even on this dull day light poured in from the two windows with their view of the sky. This was a comfortable room which, in its airy silence, must provide a relief from the noise, the impersonality and lack of privacy of her apartment at Swathling's, and he could understand its importance for her.

Last of all, Caroline Dupayne showed them her bedroom. The room surprised Kate. It was not what she had expected. It was unfussy but comfortable, even luxurious, and, despite a hint of austerity, it was very feminine. Here, as in all the other rooms, the windows were fitted with blinds as well as curtains. They didn't go in but stood briefly at the door which Caroline had opened wide, standing back against it and gazing fixedly at Dalgliesh. Kate caught a look that was both challenging and lubricious. The look intrigued her. It went some way to explaining Caroline Dupayne's attitude to the investigation. And then, still in silence, Caroline closed the door.

But what interested Dalgliesh was the possible access to the museum. A white-painted door led to a short flight of carpeted steps and a narrow hallway. The mahogany door facing them had bolts at top and bottom and a key hanging on a hook to the right. Caroline Dupayne stood silent and motionless. Taking his latex gloves from his pocket, Dalgliesh put them on and then drew back the bolts and unlocked the door. The key turned easily but the door was heavy and, once open, it needed his weight to prevent it from swinging back.

Before them was the Murder Room. Nobby Clark and one of the fingerprint officers looked at them with surprise. Dalgliesh said, “I want the museum side of this door dusted for prints.” Then he closed and bolted it again.

In the last few minutes Caroline Dupayne hadn't spoken, and Miss Godby hadn't uttered a word since their arrival. Returning to the flat, Dalgliesh said, “Will you confirm that only you two have keys to the ground-floor door?”

Caroline Dupayne said, “I've already told you so. No other keys exist. No one can get into the flat from the Murder Room. There's no handle on the door. That, of course, was deliberate on my father's part.”

“When were you, either of you, first in the flat following Dr. Dupayne's murder?”

And now Muriel Godby spoke. “I came in early on Saturday because I knew Miss Dupayne planned to be in the flat for the weekend. I did some dusting and checked that things were in order for her. The door to the museum was locked then.”

“Was it normal for you to check that door? Why should you?”

“Because it's part of my routine. When I come to the flat I check that everything is in order.”

Caroline Dupayne said, “I arrived at about three o'clock and stayed here on Saturday night alone. I left by ten-thirty on Sunday. No one, to my knowledge, has been here since.”

And if they had, thought Dalgliesh, the conscientious Muriel Godby would have eliminated any trace. It was in silence that the four of them descended to the ground floor and in silence that Miss Dupayne and Miss Godby handed over their sets of the museum keys.

5

It was shortly after midnight before Dalgliesh was at last in his high riverside flat at the top of a converted nineteenth-century warehouse at Queenhithe. He had his own entrance and a secure lift. Here, except during the working week, he lived above silent and empty offices in the solitude he needed. By eight o'clock every evening even the cleaners had gone. Returning home he could picture below him the floors of deserted rooms with the computers shut down, the waste-paper baskets emptied, the telephone calls unanswered, with only the occasional bleep of the fax machine to break the eerie silence. The building had originally been a spice warehouse and a pungent evocative aroma had permeated the wood-lined walls and was faintly detectable even above the strong sea smell of the Thames. As always he moved over to the window. The wind had dropped. A few frail shreds of cloud stained ruby by the glare of the city hung motionless in a deep purple sky spangled with stars. Fifty feet below his window the full tide heaved and sucked at the brick walls; T. S. Eliot's brown god had taken on his black nocturnal mystery.

He had received a letter from Emma in reply to his. Moving over to his desk, he read it again. It was brief but explicit. She could be in London on Friday evening and planned to catch the six-fifteen train, arriving at King's Cross at three minutes past seven. Could he meet her at the barrier? She would need to set out by five-thirty, so could he phone her before then if he couldn't make it. It was signed simply
Emma.
He reread the few lines in her elegant upward strokes, trying to decide what might lie behind the words. Did this brevity convey the hint of an ultimatum? That wouldn't be Emma's way. But she had her pride and after his last cancellation might now be telling him that this was his last chance, their last chance.