The Murder Room (41 page)

He hardly dared hope that she loved him, but even if she were on the edge of love she might draw back. Her life was in Cambridge, his in London. He could, of course, resign from his job. He had inherited enough money from his aunt to make him comparatively rich. He was a respected poet. From boyhood he had known that poetry would be the mainspring of his life, but he had never wanted to be a professional poet. It had been important to him to find a job which would be socially useful—he was, after all, his father's son—a job in which he could be physically active and preferably occasionally in danger. He would set up his ladder, if not in W. B. Yeats's foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart, at least in a world far removed from the seductive peace of that Norfolk rectory, from the subsequent privileged years of public school and Oxford. Policing had provided all that he was looking for and more. His job had ensured his privacy, had protected him from the obligations of success, the interviews, the lectures, the overseas tours, the relentless publicity, above all from being part of the London literary establishment. And it had fuelled the best of his poetry. He couldn't give it up, and he knew Emma wouldn't ask that of him, any more than he would ask her to sacrifice her career. If by a miracle she loved him, somehow they would find a way to make a life together.

And he would be at King's Cross station on Friday to meet that train. Even if there were important developments by Friday afternoon, Kate and Piers were more than competent to cope with anything that happened over the weekend. Only an arrest would keep him in London, and none was imminent. Already he had Friday evening planned. He would go early to King's Cross and spend the half hour before the train was due to arrive in the British Library, then stroll the short distance to the station. If the skies fell, she would see him waiting at the barrier when she arrived.

His last act was to write a letter to Emma. He hardly knew why he needed now, in this moment of quietude, to find the words which might convince her of his love. Perhaps the time would come when she no longer wanted to hear his voice or, if she listened, might need time to think before she responded. If that moment ever came, the letter would be ready.

6

On Thursday 7 November, Mrs. Pickering arrived to open the charity shop in Highgate promptly at nine-thirty as she always did. She saw with annoyance that there was a black plastic bag outside the door. The top was open revealing the usual jumble of wool and cotton. Unlocking the door, she dragged the bag in behind her with small clucks of irritation. It really was too bad. The notice pasted to the inside of the window stated plainly that donors shouldn't leave bags outside the door because of the risk of theft, but they still did it. She went through to the small office to hang up her coat and hat, dragging the bag with her. It would have to wait until Mrs. Fraser arrived, shortly before ten. It was Mrs. Fraser, nominally in charge of the charity shop and an acknowledged expert on pricing the items, who would go through the bag and decide what should be put on display and how much should be charged.

Mrs. Pickering had no great expectations of her find. All the voluntary workers knew that people with clothes worth buying liked to bring them in themselves, not leave them outside to be pilfered. But she couldn't resist a preliminary inspection. Certainly there seemed nothing interesting in this bundle of faded jeans, woollen jumpers felted with washing, a very long hand-knitted cardigan which looked quite promising until she saw the moth-holes in the sleeves, and some half-dozen cracked and distorted pairs of shoes. Lifting the items one by one and thrusting her hands among them, she decided that Mrs. Fraser would probably reject the lot. And then her hand encountered leather and a narrow metal chain. The chain had become entangled with the laces on a man's shoe but she pulled it through and found herself looking at an obviously expensive handbag.

Mrs. Pickering's place in the charity shop's hierarchy was lowly, a fact she accepted without resentment. She was slow in giving change, completely confused when Euro notes or coins were proffered and inclined to waste time when the shop was busy, chatting with the customers and helping them to decide which item of clothing would best suit their size and colouring. She herself recognized these failings but was untroubled by them. Mrs. Fraser had once said to a fellow worker, “She's hopeless on the till, of course, and dreadfully chatty, but she's thoroughly reliable and good with the customers and we're lucky to have her.” Mrs. Pickering had only caught the last part of this sentence but would probably not have been dismayed had she heard the whole. But although the assessing of quality and the pricing were privileges reserved for Mrs. Fraser, she could recognize good leather when she saw it. This was certainly an expensive and unusual handbag. She smoothed her hands over it, feeling the suppleness of the leather, then placed it back on the top of the bundle.

The next twenty minutes were spent as usual in dusting the shelves, rearranging the items in the order prescribed by Mrs. Fraser, re-hanging the clothes which eager hands had dislodged from their hangers, and setting out the cups for the Nescafé which she would make as soon as Mrs. Fraser arrived. That lady, as usual, was on time. Relocking the door behind her and casting a preliminary approving look over the shop interior, she went into the back room with Mrs. Pickering.

“There's this bundle,” said Mrs. Pickering. “Left outside the door as usual. Really, people are very naughty, the notice is perfectly plain. It doesn't look very interesting, except for a handbag.”

Mrs. Fraser, as her companion knew, could never resist a new sack of donations. While Mrs. Pickering switched on the kettle and doled out the Nescafé, she went to the bag. There was a silence. Mrs. Pickering watched while Mrs. Fraser unclipped the bag, examined the fastener carefully, turned it over in her hands. Then she opened it. She said, “It's a Gucci, and it looks as if it's hardly been used. Who on earth would have given us this? Did you see who left the sack?”

“No, it was here when I arrived. The handbag wasn't on the top, though. It was stuffed well down the side. I just felt around out of curiosity and found it.”

“It's very strange. It's a rich woman's bag. The rich don't give us their cast-offs. What they do is send their maids to sell them at those upmarket second-hand shops. That's how the rich stay rich. They know the value of what they've got. We've never had a bag of this quality before.”

There was a side pocket and she slipped her fingers into it, then drew out a business card. Coffee forgotten, Mrs. Pickering came over and they looked at it together. It was small and the lettering was elegant and plain. They read:
CELIA MELLOCK,
and at the bottom left-hand corner,
POLLYANNE PROMOTIONS, THEATRICAL AGENTS, COVENT GARDEN, WC2.

Mrs. Pickering said, “I wonder if we ought to get in touch with the agency and try to trace the owner? We could return the bag. It might have been given to us by mistake.”

Mrs. Fraser had no truck with such inconvenient sensitivities. “If people give things by mistake, it's up to them to come in and ask for them back. We can't make that sort of judgement. After all, we have to remember the cause, the refuge for old and unwanted animals. If the goods are left outside, we're entitled to sell them.”

Mrs. Pickering said, “We might put it by for Mrs. Roberts to have a look at. I think she'd give a very good price. Isn't she due in this afternoon?”

Mrs. Roberts, an occasional and not particularly reliable volunteer, had an eye for a bargain, but as she always gave at least ten percent more than Mrs. Fraser would dare ask of ordinary customers, neither lady saw any moral difficulty in accommodating their colleague.

But Mrs. Fraser didn't reply. She had become very quiet, so quiet indeed that she seemed for the moment incapable of movement. Then she said, “I've remembered. I know this name. Celia Mellock. I heard it on this morning's local radio. It's the girl who was found dead in that museum—the Dupayne, wasn't it?”

Mrs. Pickering said nothing. She was affected by her companion's obvious if repressed excitement, but couldn't for the life of her see the significance of the find. Feeling at last that some comment was required, she said, “So she must have decided to give the bag away before she was killed.”

“She could hardly decide to do so after she was killed, Grace! And look at the rest of these things. They can't have come from Celia Mellock. Obviously someone shoved this handbag among the other things as a way of getting rid of it.”

Mrs. Pickering had always regarded Mrs. Fraser's intellect with awe and, faced with this remarkable deductive power, struggled to find an adequate comment. At last she said, “What do you think we should do?”

“The answer's perfectly plain. We keep the
CLOSED
notice showing on the door and we don't open it at ten o'clock. And now we phone the police.”

Mrs. Pickering said, “You mean ring Scotland Yard?”

“Precisely. They're the ones dealing with the Mellock murder and one should always go to the top.”

The next hour and three-quarters were extremely gratifying to the two ladies. Mrs. Fraser rang while her friend stood by admiring the clear way in which she gave the news of their find. At the end she heard Mrs. Fraser say, “Yes, we've already done that, and we'll stay in the back office so that people won't see us and start hammering on the door. There's an entrance at the rear, if you want to arrive discreetly.”

She put down the receiver and said, “They're sending someone round. They told us not to open the shop and to wait for them in the office.”

The wait was not long. Two male officers arrived by car at the back entrance, one rather stocky who was obviously senior, and a tall dark one so handsome that Mrs. Pickering could hardly take her eyes off him. The senior introduced himself as Detective Inspector Tarrant and his colleague as Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith. Mrs. Fraser, shaking hands with him, gave him a look which suggested that she wasn't sure if police officers should be as good-looking as this. Mrs. Pickering told her story again while Mrs. Fraser, exerting considerable self-control, stood by, prepared to correct any small inaccuracies and save her colleague from police harassment.

Inspector Tarrant put on gloves before handling the bag and slipping it into a large plastic envelope which he then sealed, writing something on the flap. He said, “We're grateful to you two ladies for letting us know about this. The bag may well be of interest. If it is, we need to know who's handled it. Do you think you could come with us now and have your fingerprints taken? They're needed, of course, for the purposes of elimination. They'll be destroyed if and when they're no longer required.”

Mrs. Pickering had imagined herself driving in splendour to New Scotland Yard in Victoria Street. She had seen the revolving sign often enough on television. Instead, and somewhat to her disappointment, they were taken to the local police station where their fingerprints were taken with the minimum of fuss. As each of Mrs. Pickering's fingers was gently taken and rolled on the pad, she felt all the excitement of a totally new experience and chattered happily about the process. Mrs. Fraser, retaining her dignity, merely asked what procedure was followed to ensure the prints would be destroyed when appropriate. Within half an hour they were back in the shop and settling down to a fresh cup of coffee. After the excitement of the morning both felt they needed it.

Mrs. Pickering said, “They took it all very calmly, didn't they? They didn't tell us anything, not really. Do you think the handbag really is important?”

“Of course it is, Grace. They wouldn't have taken all that trouble and asked for our fingerprints if it isn't.” She was about to add,
all that apparent indifference is just their cunning,
but said instead, “I thought it rather unnecessary of that senior officer, Inspector Tarrant, to hint that if this came out it would have to be we two who were responsible. After all, we did give him our assurance that we wouldn't tell anyone and we're obviously both responsible women. That should have been sufficient for him.”

“Oh, Elinor, I don't think he was hinting that. It's a pity, though, isn't it? I always like to have something to tell John at the end of the day when I've been here. I think he enjoys hearing about the people I've met, particularly the customers. Some of them have such interesting stories once you get talking, haven't they? It seems a shame not to be able to share the most exciting thing that's ever happened.”

Privately Mrs. Fraser agreed. Returning in the police car she had impressed on Mrs. Pickering the need for silence but she was already contemplating perfidy. She had no intention of not telling her husband. After all, Cyril was a magistrate and knew the importance of keeping a secret. She said, “I'm afraid your John will have to wait. It would be disastrous if this got round the golf course. And you have to remember, Grace, that it was you who actually found the handbag. You may be wanted as a witness.”

“Good gracious!” Mrs. Pickering paused, coffee cup half-way to her lips, then replaced it in the saucer. “You mean I'd have to go into the witness-box? I'd have to attend court?”

“Well, they'll hardly hold the trial in the public lavatory!”

Really, thought Mrs. Pickering, for the daughter-in-law of a previous Lord Mayor, sometimes Elinor could be very crude.

7

The meeting with Sir Daniel Holstead had been arranged for half-past nine, a time suggested by Sir Daniel when he rang Dalgliesh an hour earlier. It would hardly give him and his wife a chance to recover from the flight but their anxiety to hear from the police first had been imperative. Dalgliesh doubted whether either of them had slept except in snatches since learning the news. He thought it prudent as well as considerate to see the couple himself, taking Kate with him. Their address, in a modern block in Brook Street, had a commissionaire at the reception desk who scrutinized their warrant cards and announced them by telephone, then showed them to a lift controlled by a security device. He punched out the numbers, then ushered them in and said, “You just press the button there, sir. It's a private lift that goes straight to Sir Daniel's apartment.”