The Murder Room (44 page)

Kate said, “No realistic hope.”

“But she had money. We saw the bank statements and the investment portfolio. Daddy left her two and a half million. Not a vast fortune by modern standards but you could live on it. A girl with that kind of money and her own flat in London doesn't have to be lonely for long.”

Kate said, “Not unless she's needy, the sort that falls in love, clings and won't let go. Money or no money, men may've seen her as bad luck.”

Piers said, “One of them obviously did and took pretty effective action.” There was a silence, then he went on, “Chaps would have to be pretty unfastidious to put up with that mess. There was a note pushed through the door from her cleaning woman, saying that she wouldn't be able to come on the Thursday because she had to take her kid to hospital. I hope she got well paid.”

Dalgliesh's quiet voice broke in. “If you get yourself murdered, Piers, which is not entirely beyond the bounds of possibility, we must hope that the investigating officer who rummages among your intimate possessions won't be too censorious.”

Piers said gravely, “It's a possibility I keep in mind, sir. At least he'll find them in good order.”

I deserved that,
thought Dalgliesh. It had always been a part of his job which he found difficult, the total lack of privacy for the victim. Murder stripped away more than life itself. The body was parcelled, labelled, dissected; address books, diaries, confidential letters, every part of the victim's life was sought out and scrutinized. Alien hands moved among the clothes, picked up and examined the small possessions, recorded and labelled for public view the sad detritus of sometimes pathetic lives. This life too, outwardly privileged, had been pathetic. The picture they now had was of a rich but vulnerable and friendless girl, seeking entry into a world which even her money couldn't buy.

He said, “Have you sealed the flat?”

“Yes sir. And we've interviewed the caretaker. He lives in a flat on the north side. He's only been in the post for six months and knows nothing about her.”

Dalgliesh said, “That note through the door, it looks as if the cleaning woman isn't trusted with a key unless, of course, someone delivered the letter for her. We may need to trace her. What about Nobby Clark and his team?”

“They'll be there first thing tomorrow, sir. The sheet's obviously important. We've got that. I doubt they'll find much else. She wasn't killed there, it isn't a murder scene.”

Dalgliesh said, “But the SOCOs had better take a look. You and Benton-Smith could meet them there. Some of the near neighbours might have information about possible visitors.”

They turned to Dr. Kynaston's post-mortem report which had been received an hour previously. Taking his copy, Piers said, “Attending one of Doc Kynaston's PMs may be instructive, but it's hardly therapeutic. It isn't so much the remarkable thoroughness and precision of his butchery, it's his choice of music. I don't expect a chorus from
The Yeoman of the Guard,
but
Agnus Dei
from Fauré's
Requiem
is hard to take given the circumstances. I thought you were going to keel over, Sergeant.”

Glancing at Benton-Smith, Kate saw his face darken and the black eyes harden into polished coal. But he took the gibe without flinching and said calmly, “So for a moment did I.” He paused, then looked at Dalgliesh. “It was my first with a young woman victim, sir.”

Dalgliesh had his eyes on the PM report. He said, “Yes, they're always the worst, young women and children. Anyone who can watch a PM on either without distress should ask himself whether he's in the right job. Let's see what Dr. Kynaston has to tell us.”

The pathologist's report confirmed what he had found on his first examination. The main pressure had been from the right hand squeezing the voice box and fracturing the superior
cornu
of the thyroid at its base. There was a small bruise at the back of the head suggesting that the girl had been forced back against the wall during strangulation, but no evidence of other physical contact between the assailant and the victim, and no evidence under the nails to suggest that the girl had fought off the attack with her hands. An interesting finding was that Celia Mellock had been two months pregnant.

Piers said, “So here we have a possible additional motive. She could have arranged to meet her lover either to discuss what they should do, or to pressurize him into marriage. But why choose the Dupayne? She had a flat of her own.”

Kate said, “And with this girl, rich and sexually experienced, pregnancy is an unlikely motive for murder; no more than a little difficulty which could be got rid of by an overnight stay in an expensive clinic. And how come she was pregnant, when she was apparently on the pill? Either it was deliberate or she had stopped bothering with contraception. The packet we found was unopened.”

Dalgliesh said, “I don't think she was murdered because she was pregnant; she was murdered because of where she was. We have a single killer and the original and intended victim was Neville Dupayne.”

The picture, although as yet no more than supposition, came into his mind with astonishing clarity; that androgynous figure, its sex as yet unknown, turning on the tap at the corner of the garden shed. A strong spurt of water washing away all traces of petrol from the rubber-gloved hands. The furnace roar of the fire. And then, half-heard, the sound of breaking glass and the first crackle of wood as the flames leapt to catch the nearest tree. And what had made Vulcan look up at the house, a premonition or a fear that the fire might be getting out of control? It would have been in that upward glance that he saw, staring down at him from the Murder Room window, a wide-eyed girl with her yellow hair framed with fire. Was it in that one moment and with that single glimpse that Celia Mellock was doomed to die?

He heard Kate speaking. “But we're still left with the problem of how Celia got into the Murder Room. One way would be through the door of Caroline Dupayne's flat. But if so, how did she get into the flat and why did she go there? And how could we prove it when it's perfectly possible that she and her killer got into the museum while the reception desk was unattended?”

It was then that the phone rang. Kate picked up the receiver, listened and said, “Right, I'll come down at once.” She spoke to Dalgliesh. “Tally Clutton has turned up, sir. She wants to see you. She says it's important.”

Piers said, “It must be, to bring her here personally. I suppose it's too much to hope that at last she may have recognized the motorist.”

Kate was already at the door. Dalgliesh said, “Put her in the small interview room, will you, Kate? I'll see her at once and with you.”

BOOK FOUR

The Third Victim

THURSDAY 7 NOVEMBER–FRIDAY 8 NOVEMBER

1

The police had said that the SOCOs would need the rest of Wednesday and half of Thursday to complete their search of the museum. They hoped to be able to return the keys by late afternoon on Thursday. The trunk had already been removed. After the inspection of Caroline Dupayne's flat by Commander Dalgliesh and Inspector Miskin it seemed to have been accepted that there was no justification for taking her keys and keeping her out of what essentially was her home.

Getting up early on Thursday as usual, Tally was restless, missing her early morning routine of dusting and cleaning. Now there was no shape to the day, only a disorientating sense that nothing was any longer real or recognizable and that she moved like an automaton in a world of horrifying fantasy. Even the cottage no longer offered a refuge from the prevailing sense of disassociation and mounting disaster. She still thought of it as the calm centre of her life, but with Ryan in residence its peace and order had been destroyed. It wasn't that he was being deliberately difficult; the cottage was just too small for two such discordant personalities. One lavatory, and that in the bathroom, was more than an inconvenience. She could never use it without the uncomfortable knowledge that he was waiting impatiently for her to come out, while he himself stayed in it for an unconscionable time, leaving wet towels in the bath and the soap messily congealing in the dish. He was personally very clean, bathing twice a day, so that Tally worried over the fuel bills, but he dumped his dirty working clothes on the floor for her to pick up and put in the washing machine. Keeping him fed was a problem. She had expected him to have different tastes in food but not that he would get through such quantities. He didn't offer to pay and she couldn't bring herself to suggest it. He had gone to bed early each night, but only to switch on his stereo. Loud pop music had made Tally's nights intolerable. Yesterday night, still in shock from the discovery of Celia Mellock's body, she had asked him to turn it down and he had complied without protest. But the noise, although more muted, was still an irritating nerve-racking beat which even tugging the pillow over her ears couldn't silence.

Immediately after breakfast on Thursday, when Ryan was still in bed, she decided to go to the West End. Uncertain how long she would be away, she didn't pack her rucksack but took only a commodious handbag and an orange and a banana for lunch. She took a bus to Hampstead station, went by underground to the Embankment, then walked up Northumberland Avenue, across the confusion of Trafalgar Square and into the Mall and St. James's Park. This was one of her favourite London walks and gradually, as she circled the lake, it brought her a measure of peace. The unseasonable warmth had returned and she sat on a bench to eat her fruit in the mellow sunshine, watching the parents and children throwing bread to the ducks, the tourists photographing each other against the sheen of the water, the lovers strolling hand in hand, and the mysterious dark-coated men walking in pairs who always reminded her of high-ranking spies exchanging dangerous secrets.

By two-thirty, refreshed, she wasn't ready to return home and, after a final circle of the lake, decided instead to walk to the river. It was when she reached Parliament Square and was outside the Palace of Westminster that she decided on impulse to join the short queue for the House of Lords. She had visited the House of Commons, but not the Lords. It would be a new experience and it would be good to sit in peace for half an hour or so. The wait was not long. She passed through the rigorous security, had her bag searched, was issued with her pass and, as directed, climbed the carpeted stairs to the public gallery.

Pushing open the wooden door, she found herself high above the chamber and gazing down in amazement. She had seen it on television often enough, but now its sombre magnificence came splendidly alive. No one today could possibly create such a legislative chamber; the wonder was that anyone had thought to do so at any time. It was as if no ornamentation, no architectural conceit, no workmanship in gold and wood and stained glass could be considered too grand for those Victorian dukes, earls, marquises and barons. It was certainly successful—perhaps, thought Tally, because it had been built with confidence. The architect and the craftsmen had known what they were building for and had believed in what they knew. After all, she thought, we have our pretensions too; we built the Millennium Dome. The chamber reminded her a little of a cathedral, except that this was a purely secular building. The gold throne with its canopy and candelabra was a celebration of earthly kingship, the statues in the niches between the windows were of barons not saints, and the tall windows with their stained glass bore coats of arms, not scenes from the Bible.

The great golden throne was immediately opposite her and it dominated her mind as it did the chamber. If Britain ever became a republic, what would happen to it? Surely even the most anti-monarchist government wouldn't melt it down. But what museum room would be large enough to house it? What could it possibly be used for? Perhaps, she thought, a future president, lounge-suited, would sit in state under the canopy. Tally's worldly experience of state was limited but she had observed that those who had risen to power and status were as keen on their perquisites as those who had acquired them by birth. She was glad to be sitting down, grateful to have so much to occupy mind and eyes. Some of the anxieties of the day fell away.

Busy with her thoughts and obsessed with the chamber itself, she at first hardly noticed the figures on the red benches below. And then she heard his voice, clear and to her unmistakable. Her heart jolted. She looked down and he was standing in front of one of the benches that ran between those of the Government and the Opposition, his back towards her. He was saying, “My Lords, I beg to ask the question standing in my name on the Order Paper.”

She almost clutched at the arm of a young man sitting next to her. She whispered urgently, “Who is that, please? Who is speaking?”

He frowned and held out a paper to her. Without looking at her, he said, “Lord Martlesham, a cross-bencher.”

She sat stiffly, leaning forward, her eyes on the back of his head. If only he would turn! How could she be certain unless she saw his face? Surely he must somehow sense the intensity of her downward gaze. She didn't take in the Minister's reply to the question or the intervention of other peers. And now Question Time was over and the next business was being announced. A group of members was leaving the chamber and, as he rose from the cross-benches to join them, she saw him clearly.

She didn't look at Lord Martlesham again. She had no need to verify that moment of instant recognition. She might possibly have been mistaken in the voice, but voice and face together brought an overwhelming conviction which left no scintilla of doubt. She didn't believe; she knew.

And now she found herself on the pavement outside St. Stephen's entrance with no memory of how she had got there. The street was as busy as in the throes of the tourist season. Churchill, from his plinth, gazed in bronze solidity at his beloved House of Commons across a street jammed with hardly moving taxis, cars and buses. A policeman was holding up pedestrians to direct Members' cars into the courtyard to the House of Commons and a stream of tourists, cameras slung across their shoulders, were waiting for the traffic lights to change before making their way over the crossing to the Abbey. Tally joined them. She had become aware of an insistent need for quietness and solitude. She needed to sit and think. But there was already a long queue waiting at the north door of the Abbey; it would be difficult to find peace there. Instead she entered St. Margaret's Church and sat in a pew half-way down the nave.

There were a few visitors, walking and speaking quietly as they paused before the monuments, but she neither noticed nor heard them. The stained-glass eastern window, made as part of the dowry of Katharine of Aragon, the two niches with the kneeling Prince Arthur and Princess Katharine and the two saints standing above them, had been a source of wonderment on her first visit, but now she gazed at them with unseeing eyes. She wondered why she was overcome by this tumult of emotions. After all, she had seen Dr. Neville's body. That charred image would revisit her in dreams all her life. And now there was this second death, multiplying horror, the corpse more vivid in imagination than if she had actually lifted the lid of the trunk. But in neither case had she been required to take responsibility until now. She had told the police all she knew. Nothing more was asked of her. Now she was intimately involved in murder, as if its contamination were running in her veins. She was faced with a personal decision; that it was one where her duty was clear provided no relief. She knew she had to act—Scotland Yard was only half a mile up Victoria Street—but she needed to face the implications of her action. Lord Martlesham would be the chief suspect. He had to be. Her evidence made that clear. That he was a member of the House of Lords didn't weigh with her; it scarcely entered her mind. She wasn't a woman to whom status was important. Her problem was that she didn't believe that the man who had bent over her with such anguished concern was a murderer. But if the evidence couldn't be found to exonerate him he might well stand trial, might even be found guilty. It wouldn't be the first time that the innocent had been convicted. And suppose the case were never solved, wouldn't he be branded a murderer all his life? And she was troubled by a less rational conviction of his innocence. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, inaccessible either by racking thought or by quiet meditation, was something she knew, a single fact which she should have remembered and told.

She found herself reverting to an old device of her youth. When faced with a problem, she would conduct an internal monologue with a silent voice, which she sometimes recognized as that of conscience, but more often as a sceptical common sense, an uncomplicated
alter ego.

You know what you have to do. What happens afterwards isn't your responsibility.

I feel as if it is.

Then if you want to feel responsible, accept responsibility. You saw what happened to Dr. Neville. If Lord Martlesham is guilty, do you want him to go free? If he's innocent, why hasn't he come forward? If innocent, he may have information that could lead to the killer. Time is important. Why are you hesitating?

I need to sit quietly and think.

Think about what, and for how long? If Commander Dalgliesh asks where you've been since leaving the House of Lords, what are you going to tell him? That you've been in church praying for guidance?

I'm not praying. I know what I have to do.

Then get on and do it. This is the second murder. How many deaths do there have to be before you find the courage to tell what you know?

Tally got to her feet and, walking more firmly now, pushed her way through the heavy door of St. Margaret's and walked up Victoria Street to New Scotland Yard. On her previous visit she had been driven there by Sergeant Benton-Smith and had journeyed in hope. But she had left feeling that she had been a failure, had let them all down. None of the photographs shown to her and no features cunningly fitted together had borne any resemblance to the man they sought. Now she was bringing Commander Dalgliesh good news. So why did she come with such a heavy heart?

She was received at the desk. She had thought out carefully what she would say. “Can I see Commander Dalgliesh, please? I'm Mrs. Tallulah Clutton from the Dupayne Museum. It's about the murders. I have some important information.”

The officer on duty showed no surprise. He repeated her name and reached for the telephone. He said, “I have a Mrs. Tallulah Clutton to see Commander Dalgliesh about the Dupayne murders. She says it's important.” A few seconds later he replaced the receiver and turned to Tally. “One of Commander Dalgliesh's team will come down for you. Inspector Miskin. Do you know Inspector Miskin?”

“Oh yes, I do know her, but I'd rather speak to Mr. Dalgliesh, please.”

“Inspector Miskin will take you to the Commander.”

She sat down on the seat indicated against the wall. As usual she was carrying her handbag slung over one shoulder, the strap across her chest. Suddenly she felt that this precaution against theft must look odd; she was, after all, in New Scotland Yard. She slipped the strap over her head and held the bag tightly in her lap with both hands. Suddenly she felt very old.

Inspector Miskin appeared surprisingly quickly. Tally wondered whether they were afraid that, left to wait, she might change her mind and leave. But Inspector Miskin greeted her calmly and with a smile, and led the way to the bank of lifts. The corridor was busy. When the lift arrived they crowded in with half a dozen tall and largely silent men and were borne upstairs. They were alone when the lift came to a stop but she didn't notice what button had been pressed.

The interview room which they entered was intimidatingly small, the furniture spare and functional. She saw a square table with two upright chairs each side, and some kind of recording equipment on a stand at the side.

As if reading her thoughts, Inspector Miskin said, “It's not very cosy I'm afraid, but we won't be disturbed here. Commander Dalgliesh will be with you directly. The view is good though, isn't it? We've ordered some tea.”

Tally moved over to the window. Below her she could see the twin towers of the Abbey and, beyond, Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster. Cars cruised like miniature toys and the pedestrians were foreshortened manikins. She watched it all without emotion, listening only for the door to open.

He entered very quietly and came over to her. She was so relieved to see him that she had to restrain herself from running towards him. He led her to a chair and he and Inspector Miskin sat down opposite.