The Murder Room (45 page)

Without preamble, Tally said, “I've seen the motorist who knocked me down. I've been to the House of Lords today. He was there on the cross-benches. His name is Lord Martlesham.”

Commander Dalgliesh said, “Did you hear him speak?”

“Yes. It was Question Time and he asked a question. I knew him at once.”

“Can you be more specific? Which did you recognize first, the voice or the appearance? Cross-bench peers would have their back to the public gallery. Did you see his face?”

“Not when he spoke. But it was the end of Question Time. He was the last one. After he'd been given an answer and one or two other peers had spoken, they went on to other business. It was then that he got up and turned to go out. I saw his face.”

It was Inspector Miskin, not Commander Dalgliesh, who asked the expected question. “Are you absolutely sure, Mrs. Clutton? So sure that you could stand up to hostile questioning in the Crown Court and not be shaken?”

It was to Commander Dalgliesh that Tally looked. She said, “Absolutely sure.” She paused, then asked, trying to keep the note of anxiety out of her voice, “Will I have to identify him?”

Commander Dalgliesh said, “Not yet, and possibly not at all. It will depend on what he has to tell us.”

She said, looking into his eyes, “He's a good man, isn't he? And he was concerned about me. I couldn't be mistaken about that. I can't believe . . .” She broke off.

Commander Dalgliesh said, “He may have a perfectly innocent explanation for what he was doing at the Dupayne and why he hasn't come forward. He may have useful information which can help us. It was very important to find him and we're grateful.”

Inspector Miskin said, “It's lucky you went to the Lords today. Why did you? Was the visit planned?”

Quietly Tally gave an account of her day, her eyes on Dalgliesh—the need to get away, at least temporarily, from the museum; the walk and picnic lunch in St. James's Park; the decision on impulse to visit the House of Lords. There was no triumph in her voice. It seemed to Dalgliesh, listening, that she was seeking his reassurance that this confession wasn't an act of treachery. After she had finished her tea, which she had drunk thirstily, he tried to persuade her to accept a lift home in a police car, gently assuring her that she wouldn't arrive with a blue light flashing. Equally gently but firmly she refused. She would make her own way back as usual. Perhaps, he thought, it was just as well. For Tally to arrive chauffeur-driven would almost certainly have attracted comment at the museum. He had asked for her silence and could be sure that she would keep her promise, but he didn't want her bothered by questions. She was an honest woman for whom lying would be repugnant.

He went down with her and said goodbye outside the building. As their hands clasped, she looked up at him and said, “This is going to be trouble for him, isn't it?”

“Some trouble, perhaps. But if he's an innocent man he'll know he has nothing to fear. You did the right thing in coming, but I think you know that.”

“Yes,” she said, at last turning away. “I know it, but it isn't any comfort.”

Dalgliesh returned to the incident room. Piers and Benton-Smith were put in the picture by Kate. They listened without comment, then Piers asked the obvious question. “How certain was she, sir? There'll be one hell of a stink if we get this wrong.”

“She said there was no doubt. The recognition came as soon as Martlesham got to his feet and spoke. Seeing him full-face confirmed it.”

Piers said, “Voice before face? That's odd. And how can she be so sure? She only saw him bending over her for a few seconds and under a dim street lamp.”

Dalgliesh said, “Whatever the sequence of her thought processes, whether what determined the identification was appearance, voice or both, she is adamant it was Martlesham who knocked her down last Friday night.”

Kate asked, “What do we know about him, sir? He's some kind of philanthropist, isn't he? I've read about him taking clothes, food and medical supplies to where they're most needed. Didn't he go to Bosnia driving a truck himself? There was something about it in the broadsheets. Tally Clutton may have seen his photograph.”

Piers went over to take
Who's Who
from the bookcase and brought it over to the table. He said, “It's a hereditary title, isn't it? Which means he was one of the hereditaries elected to remain in the House after that first botched reform, so he must have proved his worth. Didn't someone refer to him as the conscience of the cross-benchers?”

Dalgliesh said, “Hardly. Aren't the cross-benchers a conscience in themselves? You're right about the philanthropy, Kate. He set up that scheme whereby the rich lend money to those who can't get credit. It's similar to the local credit unions but the loans are interest-free.”

Piers was reading aloud from
Who's Who.
“Charles Montague Seagrove Martlesham. Quite a late peerage, created 1836. Born third October 1955, educated usual places, succeeded 1972. His father died young, apparently. Married a general's daughter. No children. So far conforms to type. Hobbies—music, travel. Address—The Old Rectory, Martlesham, Suffolk. No ancestral house it seems. Trustee of an impressive number of charities. And this is the man we are about to suggest is guilty of a double murder. Should be interesting.”

Dalgliesh said, “Contain your excitement, Piers. The old objections still apply. Why should a man fleeing from the scene of a particularly hideous murder stop to check that he hasn't hurt an elderly woman knocked off her bicycle?”

Kate asked, “Will you warn him, sir?”

“I'll tell him I want to see him in connection with a current murder investigation. If he feels the need to bring his lawyer with him, that's his decision. At this stage I don't think he will.” He seated himself at his desk. “He's probably still at the House. I'll write a note asking him to see me as soon as possible. Benton-Smith can deliver it and escort him here. Martlesham's almost certainly got some kind of London address and we could go there if he prefers, but I think he'll come back with Benton.”

Kate walked over to the window and waited while Dalgliesh wrote. She said, “He's an unlikely murderer, sir.”

“So are all the others—Marcus Dupayne, Caroline Dupayne, Muriel Godby, Tally Clutton, Mrs. Faraday, Mrs. Strickland, James Calder-Hale, Ryan Archer. One of them is a double murderer. After we've heard from Lord Martlesham we might be closer to knowing which.”

Kate turned and looked at him. “But you know already, don't you, sir?”

“So I think do we all. But knowing and proving are two different things, Kate.”

Kate knew that he wouldn't speak the name until they were ready to make an arrest. Vulcan would remain Vulcan. And she thought she knew why. As a young detective constable, Dalgliesh had been involved in a murder investigation which had gone badly wrong. An innocent man had been arrested and convicted. As a new DC he had not been responsible for the mistake, but he had learned from it. For AD the greatest danger in a criminal investigation, particularly for murder, remained the same. It was the too easy fixing on a prime suspect, the concentration of effort to prove him guilty to the neglect of other lines of inquiry, and the inevitable corruption of judgement which made the team unable to contemplate that they might be wrong. A second principle was the need to avoid a premature arrest which would vitiate the success both of the investigation and of the subsequent court proceedings. The exception was the need to protect a third person. And surely, thought Kate, with this second murder Vulcan was no longer a danger. And it couldn't be long now. Sooner than she had thought possible, the end was in sight.

After Benton-Smith had left for the House of Lords, Dalgliesh sat for a minute in silence. Kate waited, then he said, “I want you to drive to Swathling's now, Kate, and bring back Caroline Dupayne. She's not under arrest, but I think you'll find that she'll come, and it will be at our convenience, not hers.” Then, seeing Kate's look of surprise, he said, “I may be taking a chance, but I'm confident that Tally Clutton's identification is right. And whatever Martlesham has to tell us, I have a strong feeling that it will be concerned with Caroline Dupayne and her private flat at the museum. If I'm wrong and there's no connection, I'll try to reach you on your mobile before you get to Richmond.”

2

Lord Martlesham arrived at the Yard within thirty minutes and was escorted up to Dalgliesh's office. He came in, composed but very pale, and seemed at first uncertain whether he was expected to shake hands. They sat opposite each other at the table in front of the window. Looking across at the bleached features, Dalgliesh had no doubt that Lord Martlesham knew why he had been summoned. The formality of his reception, the fact that he had been shown into this bleakly functional room, the bare expanse of pale wood between them, made their own statement. This was no social call and it was obvious that he had never supposed that it was. Looking at him, Dalgliesh could understand why Tally Clutton had found him attractive. His was one of those rare faces for which neither the word “handsome” or “beautiful” is entirely appropriate, but which show with a guileless vulnerability the essential nature of the man.

Without preamble, Dalgliesh said, “Mrs. Tallulah Clutton, the housekeeper at the Dupayne Museum, has this afternoon recognized you as the motorist who knocked her off her bicycle at about six twenty-five on Friday the first of November. On that night two people were murdered at the museum, Dr. Neville Dupayne and Miss Celia Mellock. I have to ask you whether you were there and what you were doing.”

Lord Martlesham had been holding his hands in his lap. Now he raised them and clasped them on the table-top. The veins stood out like dark cords and the knuckles shone, white marbles under the taut skin. He said, “Mrs. Clutton is right. I was there and I did knock her down. I hope she wasn't more hurt than I thought. She did say she was all right.”

“She was only bruised. Why didn't you come forward earlier?”

“Because I hoped this moment would never happen. I was doing nothing illegal but I didn't want my movements to be known. That's why I hurried away.”

“But later, when you knew about the first murder, you must have realized that your evidence was material, that you had a duty to come forward.”

“Yes, I think I did know that. I also knew I had nothing to do with the murder. I didn't even know that the fire was deliberate. If I thought anything it was that someone had lit a bonfire and it had got out of control. I convinced myself that coming forward would only complicate the investigation and cause embarrassment to myself and to others. When I learned this morning of the second death, things became more complicated. I decided that I would still keep silent, but if I were identified, then I would tell the truth. I didn't see this as obstructing the course of justice. I knew I had nothing to do with either death. I'm not trying to defend myself, just explaining how it happened. It seemed unnecessary to come forward after Dr. Dupayne's murder, and that decision affected what I did subsequently. With every passing hour it was more difficult to do what I accept was right.”

“So why were you there?”

“If you'd asked me that question after Dupayne's death, I would have told you that I was using the museum to get off the road and rest, and then I woke and realized I was late for an appointment and needed to hurry. I'm not a practised liar and I doubt whether it would have been convincing, but I think it might have been worth a try. Or, of course, I could have challenged Mrs. Clutton's identification. It would have been her word against mine. But the second death has changed all that. I knew Celia Mellock. I went to the museum that night to meet her.”

There was a silence. Dalgliesh said, “And did you?”

“No. She wasn't there. We were to meet in the car-park behind the laurel bushes to the right of the house. The time arranged was six-fifteen, the earliest I could manage. Even so, I was late. Her car wasn't there. I tried ringing her on her mobile, but there was no reply. I decided that she had never intended to be there, or had got tired of waiting, so I drove away. I wasn't expecting to meet anyone and I was driving faster than I should have been. Hence the accident.”

“What were your relations with Miss Mellock?”

“We had briefly been lovers. I wanted to break off the association and she didn't. It was as brutal as that. But she seemed to accept that it had to end. It should never have begun. But she asked me to meet her for the last time at the museum. It was our usual place of assignation, in the car-park. It's utterly deserted there at night. We'd never felt at risk of discovery. Even if we'd been seen, we weren't doing anything illegal.”

Again there was a silence. Martlesham had been looking down at his hands. Now he shifted them again and re-placed them in his lap.

Dalgliesh said, “You said you were here to tell the truth, but that isn't the truth, is it? Celia Mellock was found dead in the Murder Room of the museum. We believe she was killed in that room. Have you any idea how she got into the museum?”

Martlesham looked hunched in his chair. Without looking up, he said, “No, none. Couldn't she have arrived earlier in the day, perhaps to meet someone else, and then hidden herself—in the basement archive room, say—and been trapped there, perhaps with her killer, when the doors were locked at five o'clock?”

“How do you know about the archive room and that the doors of the museum are locked at five?”

“I've been there. I mean, I've visited.”

“You're not the first person to put that forward as an explanation. I find that an interesting coincidence. But there's another way Celia Mellock could have got into the Murder Room, isn't there? Through the door from Caroline Dupayne's flat. Isn't that where you and she had arranged to meet?”