John gave directions to the SOCO, to whom no one had bothered to introduce me. She led, John at her shoulder, with Worthington, Enderby, Bud, and me following. At the top of the stairs, we all plodded along the balustraded landing off which led a few doors. I saw two bedrooms – one pink, one blue – and a separate bathroom, then we found ourselves at the foot of a spiral staircase; it was of gothic design and crafted from wrought iron. My heart sank; I hate spiral stairs…I’m not built for them, and can never seem to make my feet work properly on the tiny steps, even though my feet are small enough to theoretically fit. We all pulled on our bootees and gloves. Quite how the SOCO woman managed to get up so fast I couldn’t fathom, until I began my own ascent; unlike most spiral staircases this one was wide, with deep, shallow treads. I surmised it had been built to accommodate Victorian ladies’ garments, bustles and all…which is handy when you have your own built-in bustle.
Once I reached the top, I paused to take in the room we had entered. It was extraordinary: the entire thing was made of curved glass, bounded by meticulously forged cast iron which was painted matte black; above the glass canopy was the night sky, and on the horizon – below, and all around us – the entirety of London and its suburbs, in all their glittering glory. I felt as though I were on top of the world, and did my best to blot images of Jimmy Cagney from my mind. The staircase emerged about one third of the way across the room, which was massive, because it was as large as the entire footprint of the house beneath it. The skill of the engineering used to achieve such large spans with glass and metal alone wasn’t lost on me, and I gave myself up to the grudging acknowledgement that – for all their hypocritical puritanism, desperate colonialism, and utter disregard for those for whom an unfortunate birth inevitably meant an unfortunate life – the Victorians really had taken leaps and bounds in terms of the technology of the day. This addition was no carbuncle on the top of an elegant Georgian pile, it was an opulent celebration of engineering, and I was fascinated to see what the Asimov family had chosen to make of the opportunity it afforded them.
The palace room looked like a set for a Jules Verne film – not quite steam-punk, but not far off. Originally-expensive carpets were strewn across the expanse of the floor, but all were well-worn, their colors subdued by possibly hundreds of years of wear; the furnishings were plentiful, also well-worn, with lashings of Victorian over-zealous decoration about them. I realized everything I was looking at must have been brought to the room up the spiral stairs, so it wasn’t a surprise that the scale of the furniture was small. Then I saw the desk. It was so huge I suspected the only way it could have got there was either to have been brought up in pieces and constructed inside the room, or hoisted onto the roof before the edifice had been glazed; given it was high art deco in design, I suspected the former method had been employed. Standard lamps provided pools of illumination as the SOCO switched them on; she moved carefully across the room and finally turned to face us.
“There,” she pointed.
I’d noticed the room was chilly, and had put that down to there being no obvious source of heating, however, now I could see there was an opening in one of the walls. As the light from the SOCO’s torch played around the doorway, then around the room, it was clear that each of the four sides of the glass canopy had a metal-framed door set into it; one of them was open – the one which, if my bearings were correct, would give a view over the center of the front of the house – just where Sasha’s body had fallen.
“Follow my path,” instructed the SOCO, and she reminded us with the beam of her torch where she’d walked. We did as instructed, then stopped when she raised her hand. She bobbed and weaved, pointing the light this way and that, before directing the beam from her torch out onto the roof beyond the glass walls.
There was a walkway, about a foot or so wide, with a metal railing – another gothic delight – that came up to mid-thigh height. Even to my inexperienced eyes it was the sort of railing that would send any modern building-code enforcer reeling, as it only served the purpose of appearing to offer safety, rather than actually promising to be of any use if one leaned or fell against it. It wouldn’t have taken much to step over it, or to be pushed over.
And that was the question, of course, that had been in all our minds since our grisly discovery: what had caused Sasha’s demise? An accident? An intentional deadly deed? Or had she chosen to end her life in a way designed to cause shock and horror, as well as grief, for those who loved her?
“Indistinct marks in the slush, directly above the landing site,” said the SOCO. “Not much doubt she went over from here.” Her camera flashed, then she filmed the scene. “Nothing visible on the rail.”
“Anything else?” Worthington’s voice cracked as he spoke.
The SOCO bobbed, peered, stepped outside, stood, flashed away again, then returned. “A soaked and disintegrating cigarette butt. There had been slush, which has held some evidence of foot traffic, but the fresh fall on top of that layer hasn’t helped. I’ve taken photos, and have recorded with live footage. I’ll bag the butt.” She peered upward at the arc of glass. “Not much chance of securing a protective covering here. I’d prefer to do my detailed examination now, before the snow gets any thicker.”
Worthington replied, “Agreed. Remember, personal safety first. It’s slippery out there, take care. We’ll observe in here, and summon you if anything pertinent is spotted.”
“Sir.” The SOCO nodded, as did we all when Worthington scanned our faces.
“Obviously, touch nothing.” Worthington sounded grim. “Let’s take north, south, east, and west quadrants.” He waved us away, and we did as we were told; he chose to join me.
I took the north quadrant, which offered the best view toward Greenwich, Canary Wharf beyond it, and the City of London itself. The skyline rose like a jagged, dazzling tiara against the velvet of the now-clear night sky; north of the Thames, it looked as though the snow had blown through at last. The fairly sizeable brass telescope affixed to a tripod which would have allowed me a much better view of the distant horizon was off limits, because I’d have had to raise it from its position – with its lens pointing toward the floor – to be able to take in the sights. Instead, I noted the two occasional chairs upholstered in rather tatty leather, and a rug that had once been, possibly, red and blue. A small side table – octagonal and topped with intricately-patterned brass – provided a resting place for a cigarette box, a burlwood veneered humidor, and a marble-based table-lighter. It was a pretty standard range of items to find on a smoker’s table, which was what this clearly was.
“I have something,” called John, capturing everyone’s attention. He’d taken the eastern quadrant, which overlooked the front of the house, and was where the large desk was situated. We all turned. He added, “It’s a handwritten note. Signed by Sasha. Can’t say if it’s her handwriting or not, because I’m not aware I’ve ever seen her handwriting before.”
“SOCO, now,” called Worthington.
We all waited while the position of the note was recorded, and it was placed in a protective plastic bag.
Worthington beckoned to his bunny-suited minion, and took the bag. Extending his arm, he read aloud. “‘He’d have been eighty today. His shadow will never leave me. It’s too late for me to try to be whatever I could have been, had he not been my father. I thought it would end with his death. But now it seems that was a foolish hope on my part. It will never end, until I end it. So I shall. No procrastination. No more…anything. Sasha.’ That’s it.”
A clock tocked in the silence.
“Looks to be intentional.” Worthington’s tone suggested he’d expected a suicide note, and was relieved to find one.
John shifted his weight. “As I say, I can’t be certain it’s her handwriting.”
Bud and I caught each other’s eye; Bud’s spine became more rigid. “I’m sure Mr. Worthington will be seeking assurance it’s written in Sasha’s hand.”
Worthington looked across the room. All I could see was the back of his head, but I could feel his eyes boring into Bud. “Of course, Mr. Anderson. We’ll take every measure necessary to ascertain the origin of this note. Silver, you knew the woman, even if you didn’t know her writing. Sound like her?”
John chewed his lip. “She wasn’t someone who chose to show me her emotions and, to be honest, we haven’t spent a great deal of time in each others’ company. When we did mix, I always found her to be a little sharp…businesslike. Most of what I know about Sasha is what Bella has told me about her, though Bella tells me she and her sister didn’t share an overly close relationship beyond their teen years. You see, Sasha was older than Bella by ten minutes, and their father favored her as his firstborn. Sadly for Bella, this meant she felt she never met her father’s expectations of her, though Sasha could do little wrong in his eyes. Of course, Bella and Sasha were at school together, but they moved in different sets; Bella was always quieter, more artistic, whereas Sasha was outgoing, sporty, and…well, Bella mentioned that Sasha was rather more keen on boys than she was – you know the way it is with teens, I dare say. Anyway, when they weren’t in school, or abroad on trips, they spent their holidays here, together. This was the family home, you see, when their father was married to their mother; he moved out when they divorced. Bella and Sasha continued to live here, with their mother, until they each left to attend university. As you’ve seen, it’s a large house, and Bella tells me they didn’t need to, and rarely chose to, spend a great deal of time together. Bella moved into the coach house after her mother’s death; shortly thereafter Sasha and Piers sold their home and took up residence in the main house. But, even then, Bella said their relationship revolved around their professional connections, rather than them being personally close. Sasha just couldn’t come to grips with Bella’s artistic flair, you see.”
Worthington looked a little bemused. “I see. So are you saying your fiancée’s late sister might have written this note?”
“Certainly Sasha wrote notes. Not emails, notes. On paper. Though she’s never shown me any of them – as they are all private, I understand – Bella says Sasha’s very keen on writing notes for many people, herself included. Sasha seemed to think a person needed to see something written down before they’d take it seriously. At least, that’s what Bella told me. On balance, I would say the tone of this note matches what I myself know of Sasha’s personality, and it would be in line with what her sister has told me about her. It’s a very…businesslike note. Though some elements are puzzling.”
Worthington swung around to face me. “Professor Morgan?”
I took a deep breath, “The note doesn’t contain an apology. That’s unusual, for most people. The woman I knew twenty-five years ago would also not have apologized; she was entirely focused on herself – her own needs and desires – back then, and nothing I saw this evening made me believe she’d changed in that respect.” I paused, then added, “But I was in her company for only half an hour or so tonight, and wasn’t studying her with…this sort of analysis in mind.”
Worthing nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, both. Has anyone seen anything else they feel we should take note of, that they haven’t yet mentioned?”
I raised my hand. Worthington nodded. “I have a question for the SOCO,” I said. “Which of these lamps were illuminated when you first entered this room?”
“Only the lamp beside the telescope,” she replied.
I thanked her. “And I have one more question: how did Sasha even get here? I saw her leave through the doors leading to the garden, and I remained in the salon. She didn’t return to the house that way.”
“I might be able to help there,” said John. “Sasha and Piers’ bedroom is at the rear of the house, overlooking the garden. It has a little terrace, which is, in fact, the roof of the bowed window of the salon beneath it. There’s a staircase at the side of the house leading to that terrace. Renata said Sasha felt cold outside and wanted a shawl or something – she might have used those steps to go to her room via the terrace. That, in turn, would have allowed her to come here from the upper hallway.”
“Enderby and I shall, of course, be establishing if anyone saw Mrs. Tavistock in the moments before her death,” replied Worthington. “Anything else, anyone?”
“Nothing here, sir,” said Enderby. Her voice was surprisingly deep for such a slight woman. “No signs of a struggle. Nothing disturbed, it seems.”
Worthington cleared his throat. “Once the SOCO has completed her work, get the husband up here, so he can tell you if anything’s not where it should be – you know the drill, Enderby.”
I suspected we were about to be ushered out of the space, so took one last look around the entire vista offered by the room, drinking it all in. “I wonder if anyone in any of the homes this place overlooks saw Sasha…fall,” I said. Glowing windows – thousands of them, in every direction – seemed to offer innumerable opportunities for witnesses, all with an unrestricted view.
“Impossible to ask everyone,” said Worthington quietly, “even if we were the types to go knocking on doors. I dare say if anyone saw anything amiss, they’d phone it in.”
I didn’t share the man’s belief that people would rush to report seeing something that might, possibly, have been unusual.
Before we were politely invited to leave, I took one final glance upward; all I could see were the icy stars in the clearing sky. A wave of sorrow washed over me: how dreadful to be unable to see a possibility of continuing to live, when so much of life was literally displayed at one’s feet, and above one’s head was the beauty of nature. Sasha’s brief note didn’t give any real explanation of why she’d done what she’d done – it was vague, to say the least, though of course I wondered what she’d meant by the reference to her dashed hopes, and what it was that wouldn’t end until she, herself, no longer existed.
It also didn’t sit well with me that she’d apparently chosen to kill herself in such a dramatic, and horrifying way – a method of suicide that was bound to cause as much trauma as possible for everyone in the house. I wondered if I should share my concerns with Worthington, but decided to keep them to myself until I’d at least had a chance to talk things through with Bud, and – maybe – even John.
I found it much more of a challenge to get down the spiral staircase than I had to get up; Bud waited to see that I reached the upper hallway safely, and we shared a hug before we joined the others, in the master bedroom.
“The terrace I told you about is here,” said John, indicating a glass door discreetly tucked to one side of the large double sash windows which gave a view over the inky garden at the rear of the house. The fresh covering of snow was rapidly melting on the terrace, allowing black patches to appear here and there in random places. “Look, footprints,” he added, pointing to a defined track in the slushy covering of what was clearly the roof of the room below us.
Worthington nodded. “Let’s not disturb anything out there until the SOCO’s taken some photographs and so forth. You take some shots for now, Enderby, in case all that snow melts and everything disappears. Where’s her backup, by the way?”
“Still at the other locus, sir,” came Enderby’s businesslike reply.
Worthington rocked on his toes. “Hmm, no idea when that’ll all be dealt with. Better warn ours she’s in for quite a night of it here. I want all this lot recorded –” he waved toward the terrace – “and I dare say there’ll be a bit for her to do downstairs, and more outside too. You can point me in the direction of the way by which the victim could have come up from the garden when we get downstairs, Silver.”
“The body’s been removed. Plain vehicle, no fuss,” said Enderby, reading from her phone. “Want uniform to hang about, sir?”
Worthington scratched his neck. “I want the entire area where she landed searched in daylight, so it needs to remain undisturbed. One uniform until that daylight examination is completed. The others can go. And I want a victim support officer here pronto. Let them know.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, sir,” said John.
Worthington almost smiled. “I dare say, but it’s something we need to be seen to have done, Silver. Make sure the family knows the offer was made. You catch my drift?”
John nodded. “I’ll be staying at the coach house with Bella tonight; I’ll be around tomorrow as needed, to liaise.”
“Always good to play to one’s strengths,” responded Worthington. Was there a hint of sarcasm in his tone?
John spoke to Bud, “You two won’t mind going back to my place alone tonight, will you?” He sounded concerned. “I dare say Vinnie will be able to drive you.”
“We’ll be fine,” replied Bud.
The four of us were arranged in a semi-circle around Worthington’s back, all of us still staring out at the terrace. Worthington turned, the light from the bedside lamp casting deep shadows beneath his eyes. “It’ll be quite some time before anyone’s leaving here,” he said. “And until then, none of you will share a scintilla of information about any of our discoveries, or beliefs. I shall choose who gets to know what, and when. Silver, you can begin your liaising by gathering everyone in one room, downstairs. I need to talk to all those present at the time of Mrs. Tavistock’s demise. Enderby will be taking formal statements later on; I shall allow my initial conversations to go wherever I need.”
John stepped forward. “I know just the place. There’s an office-cum-meeting room beyond the dining room, in what were the servants’ quarters. Sasha and Bella use it when they have business meetings themselves, or when clients visit the house. I’ll talk to Julie and Glen about sorting that out for us, and maybe they’ll organize some coffee. I think it would be better suited to your needs than the main salon, or even the dining room.”
“Indeed,” replied Worthington, “gravitas is important, thank you.” The ominous shadows on Worthington’s face shifted as he turned toward me; his teeth gleamed like uneven tombstones in the lamplight when he smiled. “And I happen to have my very own victim-profiling expert on the spot.” It sounded like an accusation. The seconds of silence that followed were counted by an invisible clock. “Let’s get to it.” We all breathed out. He strode between Bud and me, out to the hallway.
We trooped along behind him, and Bud squeezed my hand. “Don’t let him intimidate you, Cait. He’s pretty high up the food chain in these parts, it seems.”
“Intimidate me?” I was surprised. “How could he do that? I mean, what have I got to lose? Besides, he’s not my boss, and I don’t plan on undermining his authority at all. It’s just that I want to…”
“…know,” said Bud. He smiled, warmly. “I understand, Wife. Go get ’em, girl.”
I tutted. “At fifty years of age I’m hardly a ‘girl’, but thanks anyway. Come on, let’s catch up – I don’t want to miss a thing. And by the way, I expect you to shadow Enderby, so between us we get the full picture. Right?”
“Sure thing.” Bud mugged a salute, and off we went.