BOOK THREE

The Second Victim

WEDNESDAY 6 NOVEMBER–THURSDAY 7 NOVEMBER

1

On Wednesday the sixth of November the day broke imperceptibly, the first light seeping through an early morning sky which lay furred as a blanket over the city and river. Kate made early morning tea and, as always, carried the beaker out on to the balcony. But today there was no freshness. Beneath her the Thames heaved as sluggish as treacle, seeming to absorb rather than to reflect the dancing lights across the river. The first barges of the day moved ponderously, leaving no wake. Usually this moment was one of deep satisfaction and occasionally even of joy born of physical well-being and the promise of the new day. This river view and the two-bedroom flat behind her represented an achievement which every morning brought a renewal of satisfaction and reassurance. She had achieved the job she wanted, the flat she wanted in the part of London she had chosen. She could look forward to a promotion which it was rumoured would come soon. She worked with people she liked and respected. She told herself this morning, as she did nearly every day, that to be a single woman with your own home, a secure job and money enough for your needs, was to enjoy more freedom than did any other human being on earth.

But this morning the gloom of the day infected her. The present case was still young but it was now entering the doldrums, that depressingly familiar part of a murder investigation when the initial excitement sinks into routine and the prospect of a quick solution lessens by the day. The Special Investigation Squad weren’t used to failure, were indeed regarded as a guarantee against failure. Fingerprints had been taken for elimination purposes from everyone who could legitimately have handled the can or entered the garage, and no unexplained prints had been found. No one admitted removing the lightbulb. It seemed that Vulcan, by cleverness, luck or a mixture of both, had left no incriminating evidence. It was ridiculously premature with the case so young to be worried about the outcome, but she couldn’t shake off a half-superstitious fear that they might never have enough evidence to justify an arrest. And even if they did, would the CPS let the case go to court when that mysterious motorist who had run into Tally Clutton at the house was still unidentified? And did he exist? True, there was the evidence of the twisted bicycle wheel, the bruise on Tally’s arm. Both could be easily fabricated, a deliberate fall, the ramming of the bicycle against a tree. The woman seemed honest and it was difficult to think of her as a ruthless murderer, particularly this murder; less difficult, perhaps, to imagine her as an accomplice. After all, she was over sixty; she obviously valued her job and the security of that cottage. It could be as important to her that the museum continued as it was to the two Dupaynes. The police knew nothing of her private life, her fears, her psychological needs, what resources she had to buttress herself against disaster. But if the mysterious motorist existed and was an innocent visitor, why hadn’t he come forward? Or was she being naÏve? Why should he? Why subject yourself to a police interrogation, the exposure of your private life, the dragging into light of possible secrets, when you could keep quiet and remain undetected? Even if innocent, he would know that the police would treat him as a suspect, probably their prime suspect. And if the case remained unsolved, he would be seen as a possible murderer all his life.

This morning the museum was to open at ten o’clock for Conrad Ackroyd’s four Canadian guests to be shown round. Dalgliesh had instructed her to be there with Benton-Smith. He had given no explanation but she remembered his words from a previous case: “With murder, always stay as close as you can to the suspects and the scene of the crime.” Even so, it was difficult to see what he hoped to gain. Dupayne hadn’t died in the museum, and Vulcan, when he arrived last Friday, would have had no reason to enter the house. How, in fact, could he have done so without the keys? Both Miss Godby and Mrs. Clutton had been adamant that the museum door had been locked when they left. Vulcan would have concealed himself among the trees or in the garden shed, or—most likely of all—in the corner of the unlit garage, waiting, petrol in hand, for the sound of the door being pulled open and the dark figure of his victim to stretch out his hand to the light switch. The house itself was uncontaminated by horror but for the first time she was reluctant to return. Already it too was becoming tainted with the sour smell of failure.

By the time she was ready to leave, the day had hardly lightened but there was no rain except for a few heavy drops splodging the pavement. Rain must have fallen in the early hours as the roads were greasy, but it had brought no freshness to the air. Even when she had reached the higher ground of Hampstead and had opened the car windows there was little relief from the oppression of polluted air and a smothering cloud base. The lamps were still lit in the drive leading to the museum and when she turned the final corner she saw that every window blazed as if the place were preparing for a celebration. She glanced at her watch; five minutes to ten. The visiting group would be here already.

She parked as usual behind the laurel bushes, thinking again how convenient a shield it was for anyone wanting to park unseen. A row of cars was already neatly aligned. She recognized Muriel Godby’s Fiesta and Caroline Dupayne’s Mercedes. The other car was a people carrier. It must, she thought, have brought the Canadians. Perhaps they had hired it for their English tour. It was apparent that Benton-Smith had not yet arrived.

Despite the blaze of light, the door was locked and she had to ring. It was opened by Muriel Godby who greeted her with unsmiling formality which suggested that, although this particular visitor was neither distinguished nor welcome, it was prudent to show her proper respect. She said, “Mr. Ackroyd and his party have arrived and are having coffee in Mr. Calder-Hale’s office. There’s a cup for you, Inspector, if you want it.”

“Right, I’ll go up. Sergeant Benton-Smith should be arriving soon. Ask him to join us, will you please?”

The door to Calder-Hale’s office was shut but she could hear subdued voices. Knocking and entering, she saw two couples and Ackroyd seated on an assortment of chairs, most of them obviously brought in from one of the other rooms. Calder-Hale himself was perched on the side of his desk and Caroline Dupayne was seated in his swivel chair. They were all holding coffee cups. The men rose as Kate entered.

Ackroyd made the introductions. Professor Ballantyne and Mrs. Ballantyne, Professor McIntyre and Dr. McIntyre. All four were from universities in Toronto and were particularly interested in English social history between the wars. Ackroyd added, speaking directly to Kate, “I’ve explained about Dr. Dupayne’s tragic death and that the museum is closed to the public at present while the police carry out an investigation. Well, shall we get started? That is, unless you’d like some coffee, Inspector.”

This casual reference to the tragedy was received without comment. Kate said she didn’t need coffee; it had hardly been an invitation she was expected to accept. The four visitors seemed to take her presence for granted. If they were wondering why, as strangers to the museum, they needed to be accompanied by a senior police officer on what was after all a private visit, they were too well mannered to comment. Mrs. Ballantyne, pleasant-faced and elderly, seemed not to realize that Kate was a police officer and even asked her as they left the office whether she was a regular visitor to the museum.

Calder-Hale said, “I suggest that we start on the ground floor with the History Room, and then the Sports and Entertainment Gallery, before coming up to the gallery floor and the Murder Room. We’ll leave the library to the last. I’ll leave Conrad to describe the exhibits in the Murder Room. That’s more in his line than mine.”

They were interrupted at this point by the sound of running feet on the stairs and Benton-Smith appeared. Kate introduced him somewhat perfunctorily and the little group set out on its tour. She was irritated by his belated arrival but, glancing at her watch, realized that she couldn’t later complain. He had in fact arrived precisely on time.

They descended to the History Room. Here one wall with a range of display cabinets and shelves dealt with the main events of British history from November 1918 to July 1939. Opposite a similar collage showed what was happening in the wider world. The photographs were of remarkable quality and some, Kate guessed, were valuable and rare. The slowly moving group contemplated the arrival of world statesmen at the Peace Conference, the signing of the Versailles Treaty, the starvation and destitution of Germany compared with the celebrations of the victorious Allies. A procession of dethroned kings passed before them, their ordinary faces dignified—and sometimes made ridiculous—by lavishly decorated uniforms and ludicrous headgear. The new men of power favoured a more proletarian and utilitarian uniform; their jackboots were made to wade through blood. Many of the political pictures meant little to Kate, but she saw that Benton-Smith was engaging in an intense discussion with one of the Canadian professors about the significance for organized labour of the General Strike of May 1926. Then she remembered that Piers had told her that Benton-Smith had a degree in history. Well he would have. Sometimes Kate reflected wryly that she would soon be the only person under thirty-five without a degree. Perhaps that might in time confer its own prestige. The visitors seemed to take it for granted that she and Benton-Smith were as interested in the exhibits as were they and had as much right to express an opinion. Following them round, she told herself ironically that an investigation of murder was turning into something of a social occasion.

She followed the party into the gallery concerned with sports and entertainment. Here were the women tennis players in their bandeaux and encumbering long skirts, the men in their pressed white flannels; posters of hikers with their rucksacks and shorts, striding into an idealized English countryside; the Women’s League of Health and Beauty in black satin knickers and white blouses, performing their mass rhythmic exercises. There were original railway posters of blue hills and yellow sands, bob-haired children flourishing buckets and spades, the parents in their discreet bathing costumes all apparently oblivious to the distant clangour of a Germany arming for war. And here, too, was the ever-present, unbridgeable gulf between the rich and the poor, the privileged and the underprivileged, emphasized by the clever grouping of the photographs, parents and friends at the 1928 Eton–Harrow cricket match compared with the bleak expressionless faces of ill-fed children photographed at their annual Sunday school outing.

And now they moved upstairs and into the Murder Room. Although the lights were already on, the darkness of the day had intensified and there was a disagreeable mustiness about the air. Caroline Dupayne, who had been an almost silent member of the party, spoke for the first time. “It smells stale in here. Can’t we open a window, James? Let in some cold air on this stuffiness.”

Calder-Hale went to a window and, after a slight struggle, opened it about six inches at the top.

Ackroyd now took over. What an extraordinary little man he was, Kate thought, with his plump, carefully tailored body, restless with enthusiasm, his face as innocently excited as a child’s above that ridiculous spotted bow-tie. AD had told the team about his first visit to the Dupayne. Always over-busy, he had given up valuable time to drive Ackroyd to the museum. She wondered, not for the first time, at the singularity of male friendship founded apparently on no bedrock of personality, no shared view of the world, based often on a single common interest or mutual experience, uncritical, undemonstrative, undemanding. What on earth did AD and Conrad Ackroyd have in common? But Ackroyd was clearly enjoying himself. Certainly his knowledge of the murder cases displayed was exceptional and he spoke without notes. He dealt at some length with the Wallace case and the visitors dutifully examined the notice from the Central Chess Club showing that Wallace was due to play on the evening before the murder, and gazed in respectful silence at Wallace’s chess set displayed under glass.

Ackroyd said, “This iron bar in the display cabinet isn’t the weapon; a weapon was never found. But a similar bar used to scrape ashes from beneath the grate was missing from the house. These two blown-up police photographs of the body taken within minutes of each other are interesting. In the first you can see Wallace’s crumpled mackintosh, heavily bloodstained, tucked against the victim’s right shoulder. In the second photograph it has been pulled away.”

Mrs. Ballantyne gazed at the photographs with a mixture of distaste and pity. Her husband and Professor McIntyre conferred together on the furniture and pictures in the cluttered sitting-room, that seldom-used sanctum of upper-working-class respectability which, as social historians, they obviously found more fascinating than blood and smashed brains.

Ackroyd concluded, “It was a unique case in three ways, the Court of Appeal quashed the verdict on the grounds that it was ‘unsafe having regard to the evidence,’ in fact saying that the jury had been wrong. This must have been galling for Lord Chief Justice Hewart who heard the appeal and whose philosophy was that the British jury system was virtually infallible. Secondly, Wallace’s trade union financed the appeal, but only after calling the people concerned to the London office and in effect holding a mini trial. Thirdly, it was the only case for which the Church of England authorized a special prayer that the Appeal Court should be guided to a right decision. It’s rather a splendid prayer—the Church knew how to write liturgy in those days—and you can see it printed in the order of service in the display case. I particularly like that last sentence. ‘And you shall pray for the learned counsels of our Sovereign Lord the King, that they may be faithful to the Christian injunction of the apostle Paul. Judge nothing until God brings to light hidden things of darkness and makes manifest the counsels of the heart.’ The Prosecuting Counsel, Edward Hemmerde, was furious about the prayer and probably more furious when it was effective.”

Professor Ballantyne, the elder of the two male visitors, said, “The counsels of the heart.” He took out a notebook and the group waited patiently while, peering at the printed service, he wrote down the last sentence of the prayer.

Ackroyd had less to say about the Rouse case, concentrating on the technical evidence about the possible cause of the fire and saying nothing about Rouse’s explanation of a bonfire. Kate wondered whether this was prudence or sensitivity. She hadn’t expected Ackroyd to mention the similarity with the Dupayne murder and he managed to avoid it with some skill. Kate knew that no one outside those most concerned had been told of the mysterious motorist or of how his words to Tally Clutton had so uncannily echoed those of Rouse. She glanced at Caroline Dupayne and James Calder-Hale during Ackroyd’s careful recital; neither betrayed a flicker of particular interest.

They moved on to the Brighton Trunk Murder. It was a case less interesting to Ackroyd and one which it was more difficult to justify as typical of its age. He concentrated on the trunk.

“This was precisely the kind of tin trunk used by the poor when they travelled. It would have held virtually everything the prostitute Violette Kaye owned, and in the end it was her coffin. Her lover, Tony Mancini, was tried at Lewes Assize Court in December 1934 and acquitted after a brilliant defence by Mr. Norman Birkett. It was one of the few cases where the forensic pathologist, Sir Bernard Spilsbury, had his evidence successfully challenged. The case is an example of what is important in a trial for murder: the quality and reputation of the Defence Counsel. Norman Birkett—later Lord Birkett of Ulverston—had a remarkably beautiful and persuasive voice, a most potent weapon. Mancini owed his life to Norman Birkett and we trust that he was appropriately grateful. Before he died, Mancini confessed that he had killed Violette Kaye. Whether he intended murder is another matter.”

The little group surveyed the trunk, Kate thought, more from politeness than genuine interest. The sourness of the air seemed to have intensified. She wished that the party could move on. The Murder Room, and indeed the whole museum, had oppressed her from the moment of her first entry. There was something alien to her spirit about its careful reconstruction of the past. For years she had tried to throw off her own history and she resented and was half afraid of the clarity and the awful inevitability with which it was now returning month by month. The past was dead, finished with, unalterable. Nothing about it could be compensated for and surely nothing fully understood. These sepia photographs which surrounded her had no more life than the paper on which they were printed. Those long-dead men and women had suffered and caused suffering and were gone. What extraordinary impulse had led the founder of the Dupayne to display them with so much care? Surely they had no more relevance to their age than had those photographs of old cars, the clothes, the kitchens, the artefacts of the past. Some of these people were buried in quicklime and some in churchyards, but they might just as well have been dumped together in a common grave for all that mattered now. She thought, How can I live safely except in this present moment, the moment which, even as I measure it, becomes the past? The uneasy conviction she had felt when leaving Mrs. Faraday’s house returned. She couldn’t safely confront those early years or nullify their power by being a traitor to her past.

They were about to move on when the door opened and Muriel Godby appeared. Caroline Dupayne was standing close to the trunk and Muriel, a little flushed, moved up beside her. Ackroyd, about to introduce the next case, paused and they waited.

The deliberate silence and the circle of faces turned towards her disconcerted Muriel. She had obviously hoped to deliver her message discreetly. She said, “Lady Swathling is on the telephone for you, Miss Dupayne. I told her you were engaged.”

“Then tell her I’m still engaged. I’ll ring her back in half an hour.”

“She says it’s urgent, Miss Dupayne.”

“Oh very well, I’ll come.”

She turned to go, Muriel Godby at her side, and the group again turned their attention to Conrad Ackroyd. And at that moment it happened. A mobile phone began ringing, shattering the silence, as startling and ominous as a fire alarm. There was no doubt from where it came. All their eyes turned to the trunk. For Kate the few seconds before anyone moved or spoke seemed to stretch into minutes, a suspension of time in which she saw the group frozen into a tableau, every limb as fixed as if they were dummies. The tinny ringing continued.

Then Calder-Hale spoke, his voice deliberately light. “Someone seems to be playing tricks. Juvenile but surprisingly effective.”

It was Muriel Godby who acted. Scarlet-faced, she burst out with “Stupid, stupid!” and, before anyone could move, dashed to the trunk, knelt and lifted the lid.

The stench rose into the room, overpowering as a gas. Kate, at the back of the group, had only a glimpse of a hunched torso and a spread of yellow hair before Muriel’s hands fell from the lid and it dropped back with a low clang. Her legs were shaking, her feet scrabbling at the floor as if she were trying to rise, but the strength had gone out of her body. She lay across the trunk making stifled noises, shuddering groans and pitiful squeals like a distressed puppy. The ringing had stopped. Kate heard her muttering, “Oh no! Oh no!” For a few seconds she too was rooted. Then quietly she came forward to take command and do her job.

She turned to the group, her voice studiously calm, and said, “Stand back please.” Moving to the trunk she put her arms round Muriel’s waist and tried to lift her. She herself was strong-limbed, but the woman was heavily built and a dead weight. Benton-Smith came to help and together they got Muriel to her feet and half carried her to one of the armchairs.

Kate turned to Caroline Dupayne. “Is Mrs. Clutton in her cottage?”

“I suppose so. She may be. I really don’t know.”

“Then take Miss Godby to the ground-floor office here and look after her, will you? Someone will be with you as soon as possible.”

She turned to Benton-Smith. “Get the key from Miss Dupayne and check that the front door is locked. See that it remains locked. No one is to leave at present. Then ring Commander Dalgliesh and come back here.”

Calder-Hale had been silent. He was standing a little apart, his eyes watchful. Turning to him, Kate said, “Will you and Mr. Ackroyd take your group back to your study, please? We’ll be needing their names and their addresses in this country, but after that they’ll be free to leave.”

The little group of visitors stood in stunned bewilderment. Scanning their faces, it seemed to Kate that only one of them, the elderly Professor Ballantyne, who had been standing with his wife nearest the trunk, had actually glimpsed the body. His skin looked like grey parchment and, putting out his arm, he drew his wife to him.

Mrs. Ballantyne said nervously, “What is it? Was there an animal trapped in there? Is it a dead cat?”

Her husband said, “Come along, dear,” and they joined the small group moving towards the door.

Muriel Godby was calm now. She got to her feet and said with some dignity, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It was the shock. And it was so horrible. I know it’s stupid, but for a second I thought it was Violette Kaye.” She looked piteously at Caroline Dupayne. “Forgive me, forgive me. It was the shock.”

Ignoring her, Caroline Dupayne hesitated, then moved towards the trunk, but Kate barred the way. She said again, more firmly, “Please take Miss Godby to the office. I suggest you make a hot drink, tea or coffee. We’re phoning Commander Dalgliesh and he’ll join you as soon as he can. It may be some time.”

There were a few seconds of silence in which Kate half-expected that Caroline would protest. Instead she merely nodded and turned to Benton-Smith. “The front door keys are in the key cupboard. I’ll let you have them if you come down with us.”

Kate was alone. The silence was absolute. She had kept on her jacket and now felt in the pocket for her gloves, then remembered that they were in the compartment of the car. But she did have a large clean handkerchief. There was no hurry, AD would be here soon with their murder bags, but she needed at least to open the trunk. But not at this moment. It might be important to have a witness; she would do nothing until Benton-Smith returned. She stood motionless, looking down at the trunk. Benton-Smith could only have been absent for a couple of minutes but they stretched into a limbo of waiting in which nothing in the room seemed real except that battered receptacle of horror.

And now at last he was at her side. He said, “Miss Dupayne wasn’t too happy about being told where she was to wait. The front door was already locked and I’ve got the keys. What about the visitors, ma’am? Is there any point in holding them?”

“No. The sooner they’re off the premises the better. Go to Calder-Hale’s office, will you, take their names and addresses and say something reassuring—if you can think of anything. Don’t admit that we’ve found a body, although I don’t imagine they’re in much doubt.”

Benton-Smith said, “Should I make sure there’s nothing useful they can tell us, nothing they’ve noticed?”

“It’s unlikely. She’s been dead some time and they’ve only been in the museum for an hour. Get rid of them with as much tact and as little fuss as possible. We’ll question Mr. Calder-Hale later. Mr. Ackroyd should leave with them, but I doubt whether you’ll shift Calder-Hale. Come back here as soon as you’ve seen them out.”

This time the wait was longer. Although the trunk was closed, it seemed to Kate that the smell intensified with every second. It brought back other cases, other corpses, and yet was subtly different, as if the body were proclaiming its uniqueness even in death. Kate could hear subdued voices. Benton-Smith had closed the door of the Murder Room behind him, muffling all sound except a high explanatory voice which could have been Ackroyd’s and, briefly, the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Again she waited, her eyes on the trunk. Was it, she wondered, actually the one that had held Violette Kaye’s body? Up until now, whether or not it was genuine, it had held no particular interest for her. But now it stood, black and a little battered, seeming to challenge her with its ominous secrets. Above it the eyes of Tony Mancini stared defiantly into hers. It was a brutal face, the eyes darkly fierce, the large mouth obstinately set in a stubble of hair; but then the photographer hadn’t set out to make him look appealing. Tony Mancini had died in his bed because Norman Birkett had defended him, just as Alfred Arthur Rouse had been hanged because Norman Birkett had appeared for the Crown.

Benton-Smith had returned. He said, “Pleasant people. They made no trouble and they have nothing to tell except that they had noticed the stale smell in the room. God knows what stories they’ll take back to Toronto. Mr. Ackroyd went under protest. He’s avid with curiosity. Not much hope of his keeping quiet, I should say. I couldn’t shift Mr. Calder-Hale. He insists there are things he needs to do in his office. Mr. Dalgliesh was in a meeting but he’s leaving now. He should be here in twenty minutes or so. Do you want to wait, ma’am?”

“No,” said Kate. “I don’t want to wait.”

She wondered why it was so important that it was she who opened the trunk. She squatted and, with her right hand swathed in the handkerchief, slowly lifted the lid and threw it back. Her arm seemed to have grown heavy but its upward movement was as graceful and formal as if this action were part of a ceremonial unveiling. The stink rose up so strongly that her breath caught in her throat. It brought with it, as always, confused emotions of which only shock, anger and a sad realization of mortality were recognizable. These were replaced by resolution. This was her job. This was what she had been trained for.

The girl was crammed into the trunk like an overgrown foetus, the knees drawn up together, her bent head almost touching them over folded arms. The impression was that she had been neatly packed like an object into the cramped space. Her face wasn’t visible, but strands of bright yellow hair lay delicate as silk over her legs and shoulders. She was wearing a cream trouser suit and short boots in fine black leather. The right hand lay curved above her left upper arm. Despite the long nails lacquered in a vivid red and the heavy gold ring on the middle finger of the right hand, it looked as small and vulnerable as the hand of a child.

Benton-Smith said, “No handbag and I can’t see the mobile phone. It’s probably in one of the pockets of her jacket. At least it will tell us who she is.”

Kate said, “We won’t touch anything else. We’ll wait for Mr. Dalgliesh.”

Benton-Smith bent lower. “What are those dead flowers sprinkled over her hair, ma’am?”

The small flowerlets still held a trace of purple and Kate recognized the shape of the two leaves. She said, “They are—or were—African violets.”

2

Dalgliesh was relieved that Miles Kynaston, when telephoned at his teaching hospital, had been found beginning a lecture and was able to postpone it and be immediately available. As one of the world’s most eminent pathologists, he might well have been already crouched over some malodorous corpse in a distant field, or called to a case overseas. Other Home Office pathologists could be called, and all were perfectly competent, but Miles Kynaston had always been Dalgliesh’s pathologist of choice. It was interesting, he thought, that two men who knew so little of the other’s private life, had no common interest except in their work and who seldom saw each other except at the site of a dead and often putrefying body, should meet always with the comfortable assurance of instinctive understanding and respect. Fame and the notoriety of some highly publicized cases hadn’t made Kynaston a prima donna. He came promptly when called, eschewed the graveside humour which some pathologists and detectives employed as an antidote to horror or disgust, produced autopsy reports which were a model of clarity and good prose, and in the witness-box was listened to with respect. He was indeed in danger of being regarded as infallible. The memory of the great Bernard Spilsbury was still green. It was never healthy for the criminal justice system when an expert witness had only to step into the witness-box to be believed.

Rumour said that Kynaston’s ambition had been to train as a physician but that he had to change course at registrar level because of his reluctance ever to have to watch human suffering. Certainly as a forensic pathologist he was spared it. It wouldn’t be he who would knock at unfamiliar doors, steeling himself to break the dreaded news to some waiting parent or partner. But Dalgliesh thought the rumour unfounded; an aversion to encountering pain would surely have been discovered before undertaking medical training. Perhaps what drove Kynaston was an obsession with death, its causes, its manifold manifestations, its universality and inevitability, its essential mystery. Without religious belief as far as Dalgliesh knew, he treated each cadaver as if dead nerves could still feel and the glazed eyes could still entreat his verdict of hope. Watching his stubby latex-clad hands moving over a body, Dalgliesh sometimes had the irrational thought that Kynaston was administering his own secular Last Rites.

For years he had seemed unchanged, but he had visibly aged since their last meeting, as if he had suddenly dropped to a lower level on the continuum of physical decline. His solid frame was more cumbersome; the hairline above the high speckled forehead had receded. But his eyes were still as keen and his hands as steady.

It was now three minutes after midday. The blinds had been earlier drawn down, seeming to disconnect time as well as shutting out the surly half-light of late morning. To Dalgliesh the Murder Room seemed crowded with people, yet there were only six present in addition to Kynaston, himself, Kate and Piers. The two photographers had finished their work and were beginning quietly to pack up, but there was still one high light shining down on the body. Two fingerprint experts were dusting the trunk and Nobby Clark and a second scene-of-crime officer were meticulously prowling over ground which, on the face of it, offered little hope of yielding physical clues. Clad in the garb of their trade, all moved with quiet confidence, their voices low but not unnaturally muted. They could, thought Dalgliesh, be engaged on some esoteric rite best hidden from public view. The photographs on the walls were ranged like a line of silent witnesses, infecting the room with the tragedies and miseries of the past: Rouse, sleek-haired with his complacent seducer’s smile; Wallace in his high collar, mild-eyed beneath the steel spectacles; Edith Thompson in a wide-brimmed hat, laughing beside her young lover under a summer sky.

The corpse had been lifted from the trunk and now lay beside it on a sheet of plastic. The merciless glare of the light shining directly on her drained away the last traces of humanity so that she looked as artificial as a doll laid out ready to be parcelled. The bright yellow hair showed brown at the roots. She must have been pretty in life with a fair kittenish sexuality, but there was no beauty or peace in this dead face. The slightly exophthalmic pale blue eyes were wide open; they looked as if pressure on the forehead would dislodge them and they would roll like glass balls over the pale cheeks. Her mouth was half open, the small perfect teeth resting in a snarl on the lower lip. A thin trickle of mucus had dried on the upper lip. There was a bruise on either side of the delicate neck where strong hands had crushed the life out of her.

Dalgliesh stood silently watching as, crouching, Kynaston moved slowly round the body, gently spread out the pale fingers and turned the head from left to right, the better to scrutinize the bruises. Then he reached in the old Gladstone bag he always carried for his rectal thermometer. Minutes later, the preliminary examination complete, he got to his feet.

“Cause of death obvious. She was strangled. The killer was wearing gloves and was right-handed. There are no fingernail impressions and no scratching, and no signs of the victim trying to loosen the grip. Unconsciousness may have supervened very quickly. The main grip was made by the right hand from the front. You can see a thumb impression high up under the lower jaw over the cornu of the thyroid. There are finger-marks on the left side of the neck from the pressure of the opposing fingers. As you can see, these are a little low down along the side of the thyroid cartilage.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Could a woman have done it?”

“It would have needed strength, but not remarkable strength. The victim is slight and the neck fairly narrow. A woman could have done it, but not, for example, a frail woman or anyone with arthritic hands. Time of death? That’s complicated by the fact that the trunk is practically airtight. I may be able to be more precise after the PM. My present estimate is that she’s been dead at least four days, probably nearer five.”

Dalgliesh said, “Dupayne died at about eighteen hundred hours last Friday. Is it possible that this death occurred at approximately the same time?”

“Perfectly possible. But even after the PM I couldn’t pinpoint as accurately as that. I’ve a free slot tomorrow morning at eight-thirty and I’ll try to get a report to you by early afternoon.”

They had found the mobile, one of the most recent designs, in her jacket pocket. Moving to the far end of the room and with gloved hands, Piers pressed the buttons to discover the source of the call, then called the number.

A male voice answered. “Mercer’s Garage.”

“I think we just missed a call from you.”

“Yes sir. It’s to say that Celia Mellock’s car is ready. Does she want to collect it, or shall we deliver it?”

“She said she’d like it delivered. You have the address, presumably?”

“That’s right, sir, forty-seven Manningtree Gardens, Earl’s Court Road.”

“On second thoughts, better leave it. You’ve just missed her and she might prefer to collect it. Anyway, I’ll let her know it’s ready. Thanks.”

Piers said, “We’ve got the name and address, sir. And we know now why she didn’t come by car to the museum. It was at the garage. Her name’s Celia Mellock and the address is forty-seven Manningtree Gardens, Earl’s Court Road.”

The girl’s hands had been mittened in plastic, the red nails shining through as if they had been dipped in blood. Dr. Kynaston gently raised the hands and folded them on the girl’s breast. The plastic sheet was folded over the body and the body bag zipped up. The photographer began dismantling his lamp and Dr. Kynaston, gloveless now, was removing his overall and stuffing it back in his Gladstone bag. The mortuary van had been summoned and Piers had gone downstairs to await its arrival. It was then that the door opened and a woman came purposefully in.

Kate’s voice was sharp. “Mrs. Strickland, what are you doing here?”

Mrs. Strickland said calmly, “It’s Wednesday morning. I’m always here on Wednesdays from nine-thirty to one, and on Fridays from two to five. Those are the times I have set aside. I thought you knew that.”

“Who let you in?”

“Miss Godby, of course. She perfectly understood that we volunteers have to be meticulous about our obligations. She said that the museum was closed to visitors, but I’m not a visitor.”

She moved without apparent repugnance towards the body bag. “You’ve a dead body in there, obviously. I detected the unmistakable smell the moment I opened the library door. My sense of smell is acute. I was wondering what had happened to Mr. Ackroyd’s group of visitors. I was told that they would visit the library and I put out some of the more interesting publications for them to see. I take it, now, that they won’t be coming.”

Dalgliesh said, “They’ve left, Mrs. Strickland, and I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

“I shall in ten minutes, my time will be up. But I need to put away the display I arranged. That was a waste of time, I’m afraid. I wish someone had told me what was going on. And what is going on? I assume this is a second suspicious death as you’re here, Commander. No one from the museum, I hope.”

“No one from the museum, Mrs. Strickland.” Dalgliesh, anxious to get rid of her but not to antagonize her, kept his patience.

She said, “A man, I suppose. I see you haven’t a handbag. No woman would be found without a handbag. And dead flowers? They look like African violets. They are violets, aren’t they? Is it a woman?”

“It is a woman, but I must ask you to say nothing about this to anyone. We need to inform the next of kin. Someone must be missing her, worried where she is. Until the next of kin are told, any talk might hamper the investigation and cause distress. I’m sure you will understand that. I’m sorry we didn’t know you were in the museum. It’s fortunate you didn’t come in earlier.”

Mrs. Strickland said, “Dead bodies don’t cause me distress. Living ones do occasionally. I’ll say nothing. I suppose the family know—the Dupaynes I mean?”

“Miss Dupayne was here when we made the discovery, as was Mr. Calder-Hale. I’ve no doubt one or both of them will have telephoned Marcus Dupayne.”

Mrs. Strickland was at last turning away. “She was in the trunk, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Dalgliesh, “she was in the trunk.”

“With the violets? Was someone trying to make a connection with Violette Kaye?”

Their eyes met but there was no hint of recognition. It was as if that hour of confidence in the Barbican flat, the shared wine, the intimacy, had never been. He could have been talking to a stranger. Was this her way of distancing herself from someone to whom she had been dangerously confiding?

Dalgliesh said, “Mrs. Strickland, I must insist that you leave now so that we can get on with what we have to do.”

“Of course. I’ve no intention of obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.” Her voice had been ironic. Now she walked towards the door, then turned and said, “She wasn’t in the trunk at four o’clock last Friday, if that’s any help.”

There was a silence. If Mrs. Strickland had wanted to leave on a high dramatic note, she had succeeded.

Dalgliesh’s voice was calm. “How can you be sure of that, Mrs. Strickland?”

“Because I was here when the trunk was opened by Ryan Archer. I suppose you want to know why.”

Dalgliesh had to resist the ridiculous impulse to say that he wouldn’t dream of asking. Mrs. Strickland went on: “It was pure curiosity—perhaps impure curiosity would be more appropriate. I think the boy had always wanted to see inside the trunk. He had just finished vacuuming the corridor outside the library. It wasn’t a convenient time, of course, it never is. I find it difficult to concentrate with that disagreeable background noise and if there are visitors he has to stop. Anyway, there he was. When he switched off the vacuum cleaner he came into the library. I don’t know why. He may have fancied some company. I’d just finished writing some new labels for the Wallace exhibits and he came over to look at them. I mentioned that I was taking them to the Murder Room and he asked if he could come with me. I saw no reason why he shouldn’t.”

“And you’re sure about the time?”

“Perfectly sure. We came into this room just before four. We stayed about five minutes and then Ryan left to collect his wages. I left soon after five. Muriel Godby was on the desk and, as you know, she offered to give me a lift to Hampstead underground station. I waited while she and Tally Clutton checked the museum. I suppose it was about five-twenty when we finally drove off.”

Kate asked, “And the trunk was empty?”

Mrs. Strickland looked at her. “Ryan is not the most intelligent or reliable of boys, but if he had found a body in the trunk I think he would have mentioned the fact. Apart from that, there would have been other indications, that is if she’d been there any length of time.”

“Do you remember what was said between you? Anything significant?”

“I believe I told Ryan that he wasn’t supposed to touch the exhibits. I didn’t reprove him. His action seemed to me perfectly natural. I believe he did say that the trunk was empty and that he didn’t see any bloodstains. He sounded disappointed.”

Dalgliesh turned to Kate. “See if you can find Ryan Archer. It’s Wednesday, he should be here. Did you see anything of him when you arrived?”

“Nothing, sir. He’ll probably be somewhere in the garden.”

“See if you can find him and get confirmation. Don’t tell him why you’re asking. He’ll know soon enough, but the later the better. I doubt whether he could resist spreading the story. The priority now is to notify the next of kin.”

Mrs. Strickland turned to go. She said, “By all means get confirmation. I shouldn’t frighten the boy though. He’ll only deny it.”

And then she was gone. Running down the stairs, Kate saw her re-entering the library.

At the front door Benton-Smith was standing guard. He said, with a nod towards the office, “They’re getting impatient. Miss Dupayne has been out twice to ask when the Commander will be seeing them. Apparently she’s needed at the college. They’ve got a prospective student and her parents coming to look over the place. That’s why Lady Swathling phoned earlier.”

Kate said, “Tell Miss Dupayne it won’t be long now. Have you seen anything of Ryan Archer?”

“No ma’am. What’s up?”

“Mrs. Strickland says that she was in the Murder Room with Ryan at four o’clock last Friday and he opened the trunk.”

Benton-Smith was already unlocking the door. “That’s useful. Is she sure about the time?”

“She says so. I’m off to check with Ryan now. It’s Wednesday. The boy should be here somewhere.”

Despite the gloom of the day it was good to be in the fresh air, good to be out of the museum. She ran to look up the drive but could see no trace of Ryan. The mortuary van was arriving and, as she watched, Benton-Smith came out of the museum and walked quickly to unlock the barrier. She didn’t wait. The body would be moved without her help. Her job was to find Ryan. Moving past the burnt-out garage to the back of the museum, she saw that he was working in Mrs. Clutton’s garden. He was wearing a stout duffle-coat over his grubby jeans and a woollen hat with a pom-pom, and was kneeling beside the bed in front of the window, plunging his dibber into the soil and planting bulbs. He looked up as she approached and she saw his look of mingled wariness and fear.

She said, “You need to plant them deeper than that, Ryan. Didn’t Mrs. Faraday show you?”

“She doesn’t know I’m working here. Not that she’d care. I can lend a hand in Mrs. Tally’s garden when I’ve got time. This is to surprise her next spring.”

“It’ll surprise you too, Ryan, when they don’t come up. You’re planting them upside down.”

“Does that matter?” He looked down at the last shallow hole with some dismay.

Kate said, “I expect they’ll right themselves and come up eventually. I’m not an expert. Ryan, did you look in the trunk in the Murder Room? I’m talking about last Friday. Did you open the lid?”

He dug the dibber viciously deeper into the soil. “No, I never. Why would I do that? I’m not allowed in the Murder Room.”

“But Mrs. Strickland says that you were there with her. Are you saying she’s lying?”

He paused, then said, “Well, maybe I was. I forget. There’s no harm anyway. It’s only an empty trunk.”

“So that’s all it was, empty?”

“Well, there wasn’t any dead tart in it when I looked. There wasn’t even any blood. Mrs. Strickland was there, she’ll tell you. Who’s complaining anyway?”

“No one’s complaining, Ryan. We just wanted to be sure of the facts. So you’re telling the truth now? You were with Mrs. Strickland just before you left the museum and you looked into the trunk?”

“I’ve said so, haven’t I?” Then he looked up and she saw horror dawning in his eyes. “Why are you asking? What’s it to do with the police? You’ve found something, haven’t you?”

It would be disastrous if he spread the story before the next of kin were informed, better indeed that it wasn’t told at all. But that was hardly practicable; he would learn the truth soon enough. She said, “We have found a body in the trunk but we don’t know how it got there. Until we do, it’s important you say nothing. We shall know if you do speak because no one else will. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ryan?”

He nodded. She watched while he picked up another bulb with his ungloved grubby hands and inserted it carefully into the hole. He looked incredibly young and vulnerable. Kate was filled with an uncomfortable and, she thought, irrational pity. She said again, “You do promise to say nothing, Ryan?”

He said grumpily, “What about Mrs. Tally then? Can’t I tell Mrs. Tally? She’ll be back here soon. She’s had her bike fixed and she’s gone into Hampstead to do some shopping.”

“We’ll speak to Mrs. Tally. Why don’t you go home now?”

He said, “This is my home. I’m staying here with Mrs. Tally for a while. I’ll be going when I’m ready.”

“When Mrs. Tally comes home, will you tell her that the police are here and ask her to come to the museum. Mrs. Tally, Ryan, not you.”

“OK, I’ll tell her. I suppose I can say why?”

He looked up at her, his face innocently bland. She wasn’t deceived. “Tell her nothing, Ryan. Just do as I ask. We’ll talk to you later.”

Without another word, Kate left. The mortuary van, sinister in its black anonymity, was still outside the entrance. She had reached the front of the museum when she caught the sound of wheels on the gravel and, turning, saw Mrs. Clutton cycling down the drive. Her bicycle basket was piled with plastic bags. She dismounted and carefully wheeled her machine on to the grass verge round the post of the barrier. Kate went to meet her.

She said, “I’ve just been speaking to Ryan. I’m afraid I have distressing news. We’ve found another body, a young woman, in the Murder Room.”

Mrs. Clutton’s hands tightened on the handlebars. She said, “But I was in the Murder Room doing my dusting at nine o’clock this morning. She wasn’t there then.”

There was no way of softening the brutal facts. “She was in the trunk, Mrs. Clutton.”

“How horrible! It’s something I’ve sometimes dreaded, that a child would decide to get in and be trapped. It was never a rational fear. Children aren’t allowed in the Murder Room and an adult wouldn’t be trapped. The lid isn’t self-locking and it can’t be very heavy. How did it happen?”

They had begun walking together towards the museum. Kate said, “I’m afraid it wasn’t an accident. The young woman has been strangled.”

And now Mrs. Clutton faltered and for a moment Kate thought she would fall. She put out a supporting hand. Mrs. Clutton was leaning against the bicycle, her eyes on the distant mortuary van. She had seen it before. She knew what it was. But she was under control.

She said, “Another death, another murder. Does anyone know who she is?”

“We think she’s called Celia Mellock. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No, nothing. And how could she have got in? There was no one in the museum when Muriel and I checked last night.”

Kate said, “Commander Dalgliesh is here and so are Mr. and Miss Dupayne and Mr. Calder-Hale. We’d be grateful if you’d join them.”

“And Ryan?”

“I don’t think he’ll be needed at present. We’ll call him if we want him.”

They had reached the museum. Mrs. Clutton said, “I’ll just put my bicycle in the shed and then join you.”

But Kate didn’t leave her. They walked together to the shed and she waited while Mrs. Clutton took her plastic bags from the supermarket into the cottage. There was no sign of Ryan although his trug and dibber were still on the flower bed. Together they walked in silence back to the museum.

3

Kate returned to the Murder Room. Dr. Kynaston had left.

Dalgliesh asked Kate, “Where are they?”

“They’ve moved to the picture gallery, sir, including Calder-Hale. Tally Clutton has come back and she’s with them. Do you want to see them together?”

“It would be a convenient way to check one story against another. We know the time she died fairly accurately. Taking Mrs. Strickland’s evidence and Dr. Kynaston’s preliminary assessment puts it at some time on Friday night, earlier rather than late. Common sense suggests that she died either shortly before or soon after the Dupayne murder. A double killing. I refuse to believe that we have two separate murderers at work at the same place on the same evening at approximately the same time.”

Leaving Benton-Smith in the Murder Room, Dalgliesh, Kate and Piers went down together through the empty hall and into the picture gallery. Six pairs of eyes turned to them, it seemed simultaneously. Mrs. Strickland and Caroline Dupayne had taken the armchairs before the fire. Muriel Godby and Tally Clutton were seated on the padded bench in the middle of the room. Marcus Dupayne and James Calder-Hale stood together at one of the windows. Looking at Muriel Godby and Tally Clutton, Kate was reminded of patients she had seen in an oncologist’s waiting-room, keenly aware of each other but not speaking or meeting each other’s eyes since each knew that she could safely bear only her own anxieties. But she sensed also an atmosphere of mingled excitement and apprehension to which only Mrs. Strickland seemed immune.

Dalgliesh said, “As you’re all here, it seems a convenient time to confirm earlier information and discover what, if anything, you know about this latest death. The museum will have to remain closed so that the scene-of-crime officers can examine all the rooms. I shall need all the keys. How many sets are there and who has them?”

It was Caroline Dupayne who replied. “My brother and I have sets, as do Mr. Calder-Hale, Miss Godby, Mrs. Clutton and the two volunteers. There is also one spare set kept in the office.”

Muriel Godby said, “I’ve been having to let Mrs. Strickland in. She told me ten days ago that she’d lost her keys. I said we’d better wait a week or so before issuing a duplicate set.”

Mrs. Strickland made no comment. Dalgliesh turned to Caroline. “I shall also need to go with you later this afternoon to see the rooms in your flat.”

Caroline was composing herself with difficulty. “Is that really necessary, Commander? The only access to the galleries from my apartment is kept bolted and only myself and Miss Godby have keys to the ground-floor entrance.”

“If it were not necessary, I should not have asked.”

Calder-Hale said, “We can’t quit the museum at a moment’s notice. I have things I need to do in my room, papers to take away to work on tomorrow.”

Dalgliesh said, “You’re not being asked to leave immediately, but I should like the keys to be handed over by the end of the afternoon. In the meantime, the scene-of-crime officers and Sergeant Benton-Smith will be here, and the Murder Room will, of course, be closed to you.”

The implication was as plain as it was unwelcome. While in the museum they would be under discreet but effective supervision.

Marcus Dupayne said, “So this wasn’t an accident? I thought the girl might have climbed into the trunk, perhaps out of curiosity or in response to some sort of dare, and got trapped when the lid fell on her. Isn’t that a possibility? Death by suffocation?”

Dalgliesh said, “Not in this case. But before we go on talking it would be convenient to leave the museum to the scene-of-crime officers. I’m wondering, Mrs. Clutton, if you would mind our using your sitting-room.”

Tally Clutton and Mrs. Strickland had both got to their feet. Now Tally, disconcerted, looked at Caroline Dupayne. The woman shrugged and said, “It’s your cottage while you’re living there. If you can fit us in, why not?”

Tally said, “I think there’ll be room. I could bring extra chairs from the dining-room.”

Caroline Dupayne said, “Then let’s go and get it over.”

The little group left the picture gallery and paused outside while Dalgliesh relocked the door. They trailed round the corner of the house in silence like a dispirited group of mourners leaving the crematorium. Following Dalgliesh through the porch of the cottage, Kate almost expected to find ham sandwiches and a restorative bottle waiting on the sitting-room table.

Inside the room there was a slight commotion as extra chairs were brought in by Marcus Dupayne helped by Kate, and people arranged themselves round the centre table. Only Caroline Dupayne and Mrs. Strickland seemed at ease. Both selected the chair they preferred, sat promptly down and waited, Caroline Dupayne in grim acquiescence and Mrs. Strickland with a look of controlled expectation as if she were prepared to stay as long as she remained interested in the proceedings.

It was an incongruous room for such a meeting, its cheerful homeliness so at odds with the business in hand. The gas fire was already on but turned very low, probably, Kate thought, for the benefit of the large ginger cat which was curled in the more comfortable of the two fireside chairs. Piers, who wanted to hold a watching brief away from the group round the table, unceremoniously tipped him out and the cat, affronted, walked to the door, his tail thrashing, and then made a dash for the stairs. Tally Clutton cried, “Oh dear, he’ll get on the bed! Tomcat knows he’s not allowed to do that. Excuse me.”

She rushed after him while the others waited with the awkwardness of guests who have arrived at an inconvenient moment. Tally appeared at the door with a docile Tomcat in her arms. She said, “I’ll put him out. He usually does go out until late afternoon but this morning he just took possession of the chair and fell asleep. I hadn’t the heart to disturb him.”

They heard her admonishing the cat and then the sound of her closing the front door. Caroline Dupayne glanced at her brother, eyebrows raised, her mouth twisted into a brief sardonic smile. They were settled at last.

Dalgliesh stood beside the southern window. He said, “The dead girl is Celia Mellock. Does anyone here know her?”

He didn’t miss the quick glance which Muriel Godby cast at Caroline Dupayne. But she said nothing and it was Caroline who replied.

“Both Miss Godby and I know her—or rather, knew her. She was a student at Swathling’s last year but left at the end of the spring term. That would be the spring of 2001. Miss Godby was working as a receptionist at the college the term before. I haven’t seen Celia since she left. I didn’t teach her but I did interview her and her mother before she was admitted. She only stayed for two terms and it wasn’t a success.”

“Are her parents in England? We know Miss Mellock’s address is forty-seven Manningtree Gardens, Earl’s Court Road. We’ve phoned, but there’s no one there at the moment.”

Caroline Dupayne said, “I imagine that’s her address, not her parents’. I can tell you something of the family but not a great deal. Her mother married for the third time a month or so before Celia came to the college. I can’t remember the new husband’s name. He’s some kind of industrialist, I believe. Rich, of course. Celia herself wasn’t poor. Her father left a trust fund and she got access to the capital at eighteen. Too young, but that’s how it was. I seem to remember her mother used to spend most of the winter abroad. If she isn’t in London she’ll probably be in Bermuda.”

Dalgliesh said, “That’s a useful feat of memory. Thank you.”

Caroline Dupayne shrugged. “I don’t usually make a bad choice. This time I did. Our failures are rare at Swathling’s. I tend to remember them.”

It was Kate who took over. She said to Muriel Godby, “How well did you know Miss Mellock while you were at the college?”

“Not at all. I had very little contact with the students. That which I did have wasn’t pleasant. Some of them resented me, I can’t think why. One or two were actually hostile and I remember them very clearly. She wasn’t among them. I don’t think that she was often in college. I doubt whether we ever spoke.”

“Did anyone else here know the girl?” No one replied, but they shook their heads. “Has anyone any idea why she should have come to the museum?”

Again they shook their heads. Marcus Dupayne said, “Presumably she came as a visitor, either alone or with her murderer. It seems unlikely that it was a chance encounter. Perhaps Miss Godby might remember her.”

All eyes turned to Muriel. She said, “I doubt whether I’d have known her if I had seen her arriving. Perhaps she’d have recognized me and said something, but it’s unlikely. I can’t remember her so why should she remember me? She didn’t come in while I was on the desk.”

Dalgliesh said, “Presumably Swathling’s have a name and an address for Miss Mellock’s mother. Would you telephone the college, please, and ask for it?”

It was obvious that the request was unwelcome. Caroline said, “Won’t that seem a little unusual? The girl left last year and after only two terms.”

“And the records are destroyed so quickly? Surely not. There’s no need to speak to Lady Swathling. Ask one of the secretaries to look up the file. Aren’t you the joint Principal? Why shouldn’t you ask for any information you need?”

Still she hesitated. “Can’t you discover it another way? It’s not as if the girl’s death has anything to do with Swathling’s.”

“We don’t yet know what it has to do with. Celia Mellock was a student at Swathling’s, you are the joint Principal, she’s been found dead in your museum.”

“If you put it like that.”

“I do put it like that. We need to inform the next of kin. There are other ways of finding their address but this is the quickest.”

Caroline made no further objection. She lifted the telephone receiver.

“Miss Cosgrove? I need the address and telephone number of Celia Mellock’s mother. The file is in the left-hand cabinet, the ex-student section.”

The wait lasted a full minute, then Caroline noted down the information and handed it to Dalgliesh. He said, “Thank you,” and handed it to Kate. “See if you can make an appointment as soon as possible.”

Kate needed no instruction to make the call outside the cottage on her mobile. The door closed behind her.

The gloom of the early morning had lifted but there was no sun and the wind was chill. Kate decided to make the phone call from her car. The address was in Brook Street and the call was answered by the unctuous voice of someone who was obviously a member of the staff. Lady Holstead and her husband were at their house in Bermuda. He was not authorized to give the number.

Kate said, “This is Detective Inspector Miskin of New Scotland Yard. If you wish to verify my identity, I can give you a number to ring. I would prefer that we don’t waste time. I need urgently to speak to Sir Daniel.”

There was a pause. The voice said, “Will you please hold on a minute, Inspector?”

Kate heard the sound of footsteps. Thirty seconds later the voice spoke again and gave the Bermudian number, repeating it carefully.

Kate rang off and thought for a moment before making the second call. But there was no option; the news would have to be quickly given by telephone. Bermuda was probably about four hours behind Greenwich Mean Time. The call might be inconveniently early, but surely not unreasonably so. She dialled and was answered almost immediately.

A man’s voice came over, sharp and indignant. “Yes? Who is it?”

“This is Detective Inspector Kate Miskin of New Scotland Yard. I need to speak to Sir Daniel Holstead.”

“Holstead speaking. And it’s a particularly inconsiderate hour to ring. What is it? Not another attempted break-in at the London flat?”

“Are you alone, Sir Daniel?”

“I’m alone. I want to know what the hell this is about.”

“It’s about your stepdaughter, Sir Daniel.”

Before Kate could go on, he broke in. “And what in God’s name has she been up to now? Look, my wife isn’t any longer responsible for her and I never was. The girl is nineteen, she leads her own life, she’s got her own flat. She must cope with her own problems. She’s been nothing but trouble to her mother from the day she could speak. What is it now?”

It was apparent that Sir Daniel was not at his sharpest in the early morning. That fact could have its uses.

Kate said, “I’m afraid it’s bad news, Sir Daniel. Celia Mellock has been murdered. Her body was found earlier this morning in the Dupayne Museum, Hampstead Heath.”

The silence was so complete that Kate wondered whether she had been heard. She was about to speak when Holstead said, “Murdered? How murdered?”

“She was throttled, Sir Daniel.”

“You’re telling me that Celia has been found throttled in a museum? This isn’t some kind of sick joke?”

“I’m afraid not. You can verify the information by telephoning the Yard. We thought it best to speak to you first so that you can break the news to your wife. I’m sorry. This must be a terrible shock.”

“My God it is! We’ll fly back today by the company jet. Not that there’s anything useful we can tell you. Neither of us has seen Celia for the past six months. And she never phones. No reason why she should, I suppose. She’s got her own life. She’s always made it plain what she thought of any interference from her mother and me. I’ll go now and break the news to Lady Holstead. I’ll let you know when we arrive. You’ve no idea yet who did it, I suppose?”

“Not at present, Sir Daniel.”

“No suspect? No obvious boyfriend? Nothing?”

“Not at present.”

“Who’s in charge? Do I know him?”

“Commander Adam Dalgliesh. He’ll come to see you and your wife when you get back. We may have a little more information then.”

“Dalgliesh? The name’s familiar. I’ll ring the Commissioner when I’ve spoken to my wife. You could have broken the news with more consideration. Goodbye, Inspector.”

Before Kate could speak, the receiver had been banged down. He had a point, she thought. Had she broken the news of the murder immediately, she wouldn’t have heard that small outburst of rancour. She knew rather more about Sir Daniel Holstead than he would have wished. The thought gave her a small glow of satisfaction; she wondered why it also made her a little ashamed.

4

Kate returned to the cottage and took her seat, nodding a confirmation to Dalgliesh that the message had been given. They could discuss the details later. She saw that Marcus Dupayne still sat at the head of the table, his hands clasped before him, his face a mask. Now he said to Dalgliesh, “We are, of course, perfectly free to leave if that’s what any of us want or need to do?”

“Perfectly free. I’ve asked you to come here because questioning you now is the quickest way to get the information I need. If any of you find that inconvenient, I can arrange to see you later.”

Marcus said, “Thank you. I thought it as well to establish the legal position. My sister and I naturally wish to co-operate in any way we can. This death is a terrible shock. It’s also a tragedy—for the girl, for her family and for the museum.”

Dalgliesh did not reply. He privately doubted whether the museum would suffer. Once reopened, the Murder Room would double in attraction. He had a vivid picture of Mrs. Strickland sitting in the library, those careful arthritic hands writing a new label, the Dupaynes standing each side of her. The original trunk in which the bodies of Violette Kaye and Celia Mellock were concealed is at present in the possession of the police. This trunk here is similar in age and type. The fantasy was disagreeable.

He said, “Can you, between you, go through last Friday. We know, of course, what you were doing after the museum closed. Now we need a detailed account of what happened during the day.”

Caroline Dupayne looked at Muriel Godby. It was she who began, but gradually all those present except Calder-Hale added to or confirmed what was said. A detailed picture of the day emerged, hour by hour, from the moment Tally Clutton arrived at eight o’clock for her regular cleaning until Muriel Godby finally locked the door and drove Mrs. Strickland to Hampstead underground station.

At the end Piers said, “So there are two occasions on which Celia Mellock and her killer could have got in unseen, at ten o’clock in the morning and at one-thirty when Miss Godby left the desk and went over to the cottage to fetch Mrs. Clutton.”

Muriel Godby said, “The desk couldn’t have been unattended for more than five minutes. If we had a proper telephone system, or if Mrs. Clutton would agree to have a mobile, I wouldn’t need to go over to the cottage. It’s ridiculous trying to manage with an old-fashioned system without even an answerphone.”

Piers asked, “Supposing Miss Mellock and her killer did get in undetected, are there any rooms in which they could have been concealed overnight? What are the arrangements for internal locking of the doors?”

It was Muriel Godby who replied. “After the front door has been locked to visitors at five, I go round with Tally to check that no one is in the museum. Then I lock the only two doors to which there are keys, the picture gallery and the library. Those contain the most valuable exhibits. No other room is locked except Mr. Calder-Hale’s office, and that isn’t my responsibility. He usually keeps it locked when he’s not there. I didn’t try his door.”

Calder-Hale spoke for the first time. “If you had, you would have found it locked.”

Piers asked, “What about the basement?”

“I opened the door and saw that the light was still on. I went to the top of the iron platform and looked down into the basement. No one was there so I turned off the light. There isn’t a lock on that door. With Mrs. Clutton I also checked that all the windows were locked. I left at five-fifteen with Mrs. Strickland and dropped her at Hampstead tube station. Then I drove home. But you know all that, Inspector. We’ve been questioned before about last Friday.”

Piers ignored the protest. He said, “So it would be possible for someone to be concealed down there in the archives between the sliding steel shelves? You didn’t go down the steps to check?”

It was then that Caroline Dupayne broke in. She said, “Inspector, we’re running a museum, not a police station. We’ve had no break-in and no detectable theft for the last twenty years. Why on earth should Miss Godby search the archives room? Even if someone had been concealed when the museum was locked, how could he get out? The ground-floor windows are locked at night. Miss Godby, with Mrs. Clutton, carried out their usual routine.”

Her brother had remained silent. Now he said, “We are all suffering from shock. I don’t need to say that we are as anxious as you to have this mystery solved and we intend to co-operate fully in the investigation. But there is no reason to suppose that any person who worked at the museum had anything to do with the girl’s death. Miss Mellock and her killer may have come to the museum merely as visitors or for some purpose known only to themselves. We know how they could have got in and how they could have been concealed. There is no problem about an intruder leaving undetected. After my brother’s death my sister and I waited for you in the library here. We left the front door ajar knowing that you were due to arrive. We waited for you for over an hour, plenty of time for the killer to make his escape unseen.”

Mrs. Strickland said, “He’d be taking a terrible risk, of course. You or Caroline might have come out of the library or Commander Dalgliesh might have come through the front door at any moment.”

Marcus Dupayne dealt with the comment with the controlled impatience with which he might have greeted a subordinate’s intervention at a departmental meeting. “He took a risk, of course. He had no option but to take a risk if he were to avoid being trapped in the museum all night. He had only to look briefly out of the basement door to see that the hall was empty and the front door was ajar. I’m not suggesting that the murder took place in the basement. The Murder Room seems the more likely. But the archives room offered the best—indeed the only—safe hiding place until he could get away. I’m not arguing that it must have happened this way, only that it could have.”

Dalgliesh said, “But the door to the gallery was also ajar. Surely you or your sister would have heard someone passing through the hall?”

Marcus said, “Since it’s obvious that someone must have passed through the hall and we heard nothing, the answer is incontrovertible. We were, I remember, sitting with our drinks in front of the fireplace. We were nowhere near the door and we had no view of the hall.”

His sister looked straight at Dalgliesh. She said, “I don’t want to seem to be doing your job for you, Commander, but isn’t there a possible reason why Celia came to the museum? She may have had a lover with her. Perhaps he was the kind who needs an element of risk to give sex that extra edge. Celia may have suggested the Dupayne as a possible venue. Knowing that I was a trustee here might have added a spice of danger to the sexual thrill. Then things got out of hand and she ended up dead.”

Kate had not spoken for some time. Now she asked Caroline, “From your knowledge of Miss Mellock, is that the kind of behaviour you’d think likely?”

There was a pause. The question was unwelcome. “As I said, I didn’t teach her and I know nothing of her private life. But she was an unhappy, confused and difficult student. She was also easily led. Nothing she did would ever surprise me.”

Piers thought, We should recruit this lot to the squad. Give them another half hour and they’ll have both murders solved. But that pompous ass Marcus Dupayne had a point. The scenario might be unlikely but it was possible. It would be a gift to a defending counsel. But if it had happened that way, with luck Nobby Clark and his boys would find some evidence, perhaps in the basement archives room. But it hadn’t happened that way. It was beyond credibility that two separate murderers were at the museum on the same night at roughly the same time killing such very different victims. Celia Mellock had died in the Murder Room, not in the basement, and he was beginning to think he knew why. He glanced across at his Chief. Dalgliesh’s look was serious and a little withdrawn, almost contemplative. Piers knew that look. He wondered whether their thoughts were running along the same lines.

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.

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.”

The lift was fitted with a low padded seat along one side and three of the walls were lined with mirrors. Dalgliesh saw himself and Kate reflected in an apparently unending line. Neither of them spoke. The upward journey was swift and the lift came gently to a stop. Almost at once the doors opened silently.

They found themselves in a wide corridor with a series of doors opening on either side. The wall facing them was hung with a double row of prints of exotic birds. As they stepped out of the lift, they saw two women coming towards them soundlessly on the soft carpet. One, in a black trouser suit and with a look of slightly intimidating self-confidence, had the brisk efficiency of a personal assistant. The other, fair-haired and younger, was wearing a white overall and carrying a folded massage table, the straps slung over one shoulder.

The older woman said, “Until tomorrow then, Miss Murchison. If you can be through in an hour I can fit you in before the hair appointment and manicure. It will mean your arriving fifteen minutes early. I know Lady Holstead dislikes hurrying a massage.”

The masseuse stepped into the lift and the door closed. Then the woman turned to Dalgliesh. “Commander Dalgliesh? Sir Daniel and Lady Holstead are expecting you. Will you come this way, please.”

She had taken no notice of Kate, nor did she introduce herself. They followed her down the corridor to a door which she opened with easy confidence and announced, “Commander Dalgliesh and his colleague, Lady Holstead,” then closed the door behind her.

The room was low but large with four windows looking out over Mayfair. It was richly, indeed luxuriously, furnished in the style of an expensive hotel suite. Despite an arrangement of photographs in silver frames on a side-table beside the fireplace, there was little to indicate individual taste. The fireplace was ornate and in marble, and clearly hadn’t originally been part of the room. There was a fitted carpet in silver grey and over it an assortment of large rugs, the colours a brighter version of the satin cushions, sofas and armchairs. Over the fireplace was a large portrait of a fair-haired woman in a scarlet ball-gown.

The subject of the portrait was sitting beside the fire, but as Dalgliesh and Kate entered, she rose in one elegant movement and came towards them, stretching out a tremulous hand. Her husband had been standing behind her chair but now he too came forward and put his hand under her forearm. The impression was of delicate feminine anguish supported by impressive masculine strength. Gently he led her back to the chair.

Sir Daniel was a large man, broad of shoulder, heavy-featured and with strong iron-grey hair brushed back from a wide forehead. His eyes were rather small above the double pouches and the look they fixed on Dalgliesh gave nothing away. Looking at his bland, unrevealing face sparked off for Dalgliesh a childhood memory. A multimillionaire, in an age when a million meant something, had been brought to dinner at the rectory by a local landowner who was one of his father’s churchwardens. He too had been a big man, affable, an easy guest. The fourteen-year-old Adam had been disconcerted to discover during the dinner conversation that he was rather stupid. He had then learned that the ability to make a great deal of money in a particular way is a talent highly advantageous to its possessor and possibly beneficial to others, but implies no virtue, wisdom or intelligence beyond expertise in a lucrative field. Dalgliesh reflected that it was easy but dangerous to stereotype the very rich, but they did hold qualities in common, among them the self-confident exercise of power. Sir Daniel might possibly be impressed by a high court judge, but he could certainly take a commander of the Metropolitan Police and a detective inspector in his stride.

His wife said, “Thank you for coming so quickly. Let’s all sit down, shall we?” She looked at Kate. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wouldn’t be alone.”

Dalgliesh introduced Kate and the four of them moved to the two immense sofas set at right angles to the fire. Dalgliesh would have preferred almost any other seat in the room to this smothering opulence. He sat forward on the edge and looked across at the two Holsteads.

He said, “I’m sorry we had to give you such terrible news, and by telephone. It’s too early to give you very much information about how Miss Mellock died, but I’ll do what I can.”

Lady Holstead leaned forward. “Oh do, please do. One feels so utterly helpless. I don’t think I’ve taken it in yet. I almost expected you to say that it’s some terrible mistake. Please forgive me if I’m not more coherent. The flight . . .” She broke off.

Her husband said, “You could have broken the news with more tact, Commander. The female officer who telephoned—I presume it was you, Inspector Miskin—was hardly considerate. I was given no indication that the call was particularly important.”

Dalgliesh said, “We wouldn’t have telephoned you and woken you at that hour if this had been a minor matter. I’m sorry if you feel that the news was insensitively broken. Obviously Inspector Miskin wanted to speak to you rather than Lady Holstead so that you could decide how best to tell her.”

Lady Holstead turned to him. “And you were sweet, darling. You did your best, but you can’t really break news like that gently, can you? Not really. Telling a mother her child has been murdered, there’s no way of softening it. None.”

The distress, Dalgliesh thought, was genuine enough. How could it be otherwise? It was unfortunate that everything about Lady Holstead suggested a certain theatricality that was close to falseness. She was dressed to perfection in a black suit reminiscent of a military uniform, short-skirted and with a row of small brass buttons at the cuffs. The blonde hair looked as if it had been recently set and her make-up, the careful shading of rouge on the cheekbones and the meticulous outlining of the lips, could not have been achieved except with a steady hand. Her skirt was drawn up above her knees and she sat with her shapely thin legs stretched side by side, the bones sharp under the sheen of the fine nylon. You could see this perfection as the courage of a woman who preferred to face life’s tragedies as well as its minor imperfections looking her best. He could see no resemblance to her daughter, but that was hardly surprising. Violent death erased more than the semblance of life.

Her husband, like Dalgliesh, was sitting well forward on the sofa, his arms dangling between his knees. His face was impassive and his eyes, fixed for most of the time on his wife’s face, were watchful. He couldn’t, thought Dalgliesh, be expected to feel a personal loss for a girl whom he had hardly known and who had probably been an irritant in his busy life. And now he was faced with this very public tragedy for which he would be expected to show appropriate feeling. He was probably no different from other men. He wanted domestic peace with a happy—or at least contented—wife, not a perpetually grieving mother. But all this would pass. She would forgive herself for being unloving, perhaps by persuading herself that she had loved her child, however unrewardingly, perhaps more rationally by accepting that one cannot love even a child by an act of will. She now seemed more confused than grief-stricken, holding out her arms to Dalgliesh in a gesture more histrionic than pathetic. Her nails were long and painted a bright red.

She said, “I still can’t believe it. Even with you here it doesn’t make sense. Coming over in the jet I imagined that we’d touch down and she’d be there waiting, explaining that it was all a mistake. If I saw her I’d believe it, but I don’t want to see her. I don’t think I could bear that. I don’t have to see her, do I? They can’t make me do that.”

She turned imploring eyes on her husband. Sir Daniel was having difficulty in keeping the impatience out of his voice. “Of course they can’t. If it’s necessary, I’ll identify her.”

She turned her eyes to Dalgliesh. “To have your child die before you, it’s not natural, it’s not meant to be.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not meant to be.”

His own child, a boy, had died with his mother soon after his birth. They were stealing into his mind more often now than they had for years, bringing back long-dormant memories: the dead young wife; that early impulsive marriage when giving her what she so desperately wanted—himself—had seemed so slight a gift; the face of his stillborn son with its look of almost smug contentment, as if he who had known nothing, would never know anything, now knew it all. Grief for his lost son had been subsumed in the greater agony of his wife’s death and in an overwhelming sense of participating in a universal sorrow, of becoming part of something not previously understood. But the long years had gradually laid down their merciful cicatrice. He still lit a candle for her on the anniversary of her death because that was what she would have wanted, but he could think of her now with nostalgic sadness and without pain. And now, if all went well, there might still be a child, his and Emma’s. That such a thought, compounded of fear and an unfounded longing, should come into his mind at this moment unnerved him.

He was aware of the intensity of Lady Holstead’s gaze. Something passed between them which she could believe was a moment of shared sympathy. She said, “You do understand, don’t you? I can see you do. And you will find out who killed her? Promise me that.”

He said, “We shall do all we can, but we need your help. We know very little of your daughter’s life, her friends, her interests. Do you know if there’s anyone close to her, someone she might have gone to meet at the Dupayne Museum?”

She looked helplessly at her husband. He said, “I don’t think you’ve grasped the situation, Commander. I thought I’d made it clear that my stepdaughter lived as an independent woman. She came into her money on her eighteenth birthday, bought the London flat and virtually moved out of our lives.”

His wife turned to him. “The young do, darling. They want to be independent. I understood that, we both did.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Before she moved, did she live here with you?”

Again it was Sir Daniel who replied. “Normally, yes; but she spent some time at our house in Berkshire. We keep the minimum staff there and occasionally she would turn up, sometimes with friends. They used the house for parties, usually to the inconvenience of the staff.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Did you or Lady Holstead meet any of these friends?”

“No. I imagine they were temporary hangers-on rather than friends. She never spoke of them. Even when we were in England we rarely saw her.”

Lady Holstead said, “I think she resented my divorce from her father. And then, when he was killed in that air crash, she blamed me. If we’d been together he wouldn’t have been on that plane. She adored Rupert.”

Sir Daniel said, “So I’m afraid there’s very little we can tell you. I know she was trying to become a pop star at one time and spending a great deal of money on singing lessons. She actually had an agent, but it came to nothing. Before she came of age we managed to persuade her to go to a finishing school, Swathling’s, for a year. Her education had been very neglected. There was one school after another. Swathling’s has a good reputation. But of course she didn’t stay.”

Kate said, “I don’t know whether you know that Miss Caroline Dupayne, one of the trustees of the museum, is the joint Principal at Swathling’s.”

“You mean that Celia went to the museum to meet her?”

“Miss Dupayne says not, and it seems unlikely. But she may have known of the museum through that connection.”

“But surely someone saw her arriving? Someone must have noticed whom she was with.”

Dalgliesh said, “The museum is understaffed and it is possible that both she and her killer got in to the museum unobserved. It is also possible that her killer may have left that Friday night without being seen. At present we don’t know. The fact that Dr. Neville Dupayne was also murdered on that Friday suggests there may be a connection. But at present nothing can be said with any certainty. The investigation is in its very early stages. We shall, of course, keep you informed of progress. The autopsy is being carried out this morning. The cause of death, strangulation, was self-evident.”

Lady Holstead said, “Please tell me that it was quick. Please say that she didn’t suffer.”

“I think it was quick, Lady Holstead.” What else could he say? Why burden her with her child’s final moment of utter terror?

Sir Daniel asked, “When will the body be released?”

“The inquest will be opened tomorrow and adjourned. I don’t know when the Coroner will release the body.”

Sir Daniel said, “We’ll arrange a quiet funeral, a cremation. We’ll be grateful for any help you can give in keeping the gawpers away.”

“We’ll do what we can. The best way of ensuring privacy is to keep the place and time secret, if that’s possible.”

Lady Holstead turned to her husband. “But darling, we can’t just put her away as if she was nobody! Her friends will want to say goodbye. There ought at least to be a memorial service, a nice church somewhere. London would be most convenient. Hymns, flowers, something beautiful to celebrate her life—a service people will remember.”

She looked at Dalgliesh as if he could be expected to conjure up the appropriate setting, priest, organist, choir, congregation and flowers.

It was her husband who spoke. “Celia never went near a church in her life. If a murder is notorious or tragic enough you can fill a cathedral. I doubt whether that’s the case here. I have no wish to provide a photo opportunity for the tabloid press.”

He could not have demonstrated his dominance more clearly. His wife looked at him, then her eyes fell and she said meekly, “If that’s what you think, darling.”

They left soon afterwards. Sir Daniel had asked, or rather demanded, to be kept in touch with the progress of the investigation and a guarded assurance had been repeated. There was nothing more to be learned and nothing more to be said. Sir Daniel saw them to the door of the lift, and then down to the ground floor. Dalgliesh wondered whether this courtesy was to give him an opportunity for a private word, but he said nothing.

In the car Kate was silent for a few minutes, then she said, “I wonder how long it took her this morning to put on that make-up and paint her nails. Hardly the grieving mother, was she?”

Dalgliesh kept his eyes on the road ahead. He said, “If it’s important to her self-respect to face the day groomed and painted, if it’s as normal a routine for her as a morning shower, do you expect her to neglect it just so that she can look appropriately distraught? The rich and the famous are as capable of murder as the rest of us; privilege doesn’t confer immunity to the seven deadly sins. We should remember that they are also capable of other human emotions, including the confusing devastation of grief.”

He had been speaking quietly and to himself, but that is not how Kate heard him. Criticism came rarely from Dalgliesh but, when it did, she knew better than to attempt explanation or excuse. She sat red-faced and consumed with misery.

He went on, his voice gentler, as if the previous words had never been spoken. “I’d like you and Piers to interview Lady Swathling. Find out if she’s prepared to be more forthcoming about Celia Mellock than was Caroline Dupayne. They’ll have consulted, of course. There’s nothing we can do about that.”

It was then that Kate’s mobile rang. Answering it she said, “It’s Benton-Smith, sir. He’s just had a telephone call from a charity shop in Highgate. It looks as if they’ve found the handbag. Piers and Benton are on their way.”

8

Lady Swathling received Kate and Piers in what was obviously her office. Motioning them to a sofa with a gesture as contrived as a royal wave, she said, “Please sit down. Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? I know you’re not supposed to drink on duty.”

To Kate’s ears her tone managed to convey subtly that off duty they were commonly sunk in an alcoholic stupor. She said, before Piers could answer, “No thank you. We won’t need to interrupt you for long.”

The office had the discordant look of a dual-purpose room unsure of its primary function. The double desk before the south window, the computer, the fax machine, and the row of steel filing cabinets lining the wall to the left of the door constituted the office. The right side of the room had the comfortable domesticity of a sitting-room. In the elegant period fireplace, the simulated blue flames of a gas fire gave out a gentle heat supplementing the radiators. Above the mantelpiece with its row of small porcelain figurines was an oil painting. An eighteenth-century woman with pursed lips and protuberant eyes, in a low-necked dress of rich blue satin, was holding an orange in tapering fingers as delicately as if she expected it to explode. There was a cabinet against the farther wall containing a variety of porcelain cups and saucers in pink and green. To the right of the fire was a sofa and to the left a single armchair, their immaculate covers and cushions echoing the pale pinks and greens in the cabinet. The right-hand side of the room had been carefully contrived to produce a certain effect, of which Lady Swathling was part.

It was Lady Swathling who took the initiative. Before either Kate or Piers could speak, she said, “You’re here, of course, because of the tragedy at the Dupayne Museum, the death of Celia Mellock. Naturally I wish to help with your inquiries if I can, but it’s difficult to see how you imagine that I can. Miss Dupayne surely told you that Celia left the school in the spring of last year after only two terms. I’ve absolutely no information about her subsequent life or activities.”

Kate said, “In any case of homicide we need to know as much as possible about the victim. We’re hoping you might be able to tell us something about Miss Mellock—her friends, perhaps, what she was like as a student, whether she was interested in visiting museums?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. Surely these questions should be addressed to her family or to people who knew her. These two tragic deaths have nothing to do with Swathling’s.”

Piers kept his eyes on Lady Swathling with a gaze that was half admiring, half contemptuous. Kate recognized the look; he had taken against Lady Swathling. Now he said smoothly, “But there is a connection, isn’t there? Celia Mellock was a pupil here, Miss Dupayne is joint Principal, Muriel Godby worked here and Celia died in the museum. I’m afraid in a case of homicide, Lady Swathling, questions have to be asked that are as inconvenient to the innocent as they are unwelcome to the guilty.”

Kate said to herself, He thought that one out in advance. It’s neat and he’ll use it again.

It had its effect on Lady Swathling. She said, “Celia wasn’t a satisfactory student, largely because she was an unhappy child and had absolutely no interest in what we have to offer. Miss Dupayne was reluctant to accept her but Lady Holstead, with whom I am acquainted, was very persuasive. The girl had been expelled from two of her previous schools and her mother and stepfather were anxious that she should get some education. Unfortunately Celia came under protest, which is never a helpful beginning. As I have told you, I know nothing about her recent life. I saw very little of her while she was at Swathling’s and we never met after she had left.”

Kate asked, “How well did you know Dr. Neville Dupayne, Lady Swathling?”

The question was met with a mixture of distaste and incredulity. “I’ve never met him. As far as I know, he’s never visited the school. Mr. Marcus Dupayne came to one of our students’ concerts about two years ago, but not his brother. We’ve never even spoken by telephone and we’ve certainly never met.”

Kate asked, “He was never called in to treat any of your students? Celia Mellock, for example?”

“Certainly not. Has anyone suggested such a thing?”

“No one, Lady Swathling. I just wondered.”

Piers intervened, “What relationship was there between Celia and Muriel Godby?”

“Absolutely none. Why should there be? Miss Godby was merely the receptionist. She wasn’t popular with some of the girls, but as far as I can remember Celia Mellock made no complaint.” She paused, then said, “And in case you were thinking of asking—which I must say I would greatly have resented—I was in college the whole of last Friday from three o’clock, when I returned from a luncheon date, for the rest of the day and evening. My afternoon engagements are listed in my desk diary and my visitors, including my lawyer who arrived at half-past four, will be able to confirm my movements. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. If anything relevant should come to mind I shall, of course, get in touch.”

Kate said, “And you are sure that you never saw Celia after she left Swathling’s?”

“I have already said so, Inspector. And now, if there are no more questions, I have matters I need to attend to. I shall, of course, write a letter of sympathy to Lady Holstead.”

She rose from her chair in one swift movement and went to the door. Outside the uniformed porter who had let them in was already waiting. No doubt, thought Kate, he had been stationed there throughout the interview.

As they reached the car, Piers said, “Artificial setup, wasn’t it? No prizes for guessing her priorities, self first and the school second. Did you see the difference in those two desks? One practically empty, the in- and out-trays on the other full of papers. No prizes, either, for guessing who sits where. Lady Swathling impresses the parents with her aristocratic elegance and Caroline Dupayne does all the work.”

“Why should she? What’s she getting out of it?”

“Perhaps she hopes to take over. She wouldn’t get the house, though, unless it’s willed to her. Perhaps that’s what she’s hoping for. I can’t see her affording it.”

Kate said, “I imagine she’s well paid for what she does. What I find interesting is not why Dupayne stays here, but why she’s so keen on keeping the museum open.”

Piers said, “Family pride. The flat is her home. She must want to get away from the school occasionally. You didn’t take to Lady S, did you?”

“Or to the school. Nor did you. Kind of privileged place the bloody rich send their kids to in the hope of getting them out of their hair. Both parties know what the bargain is, what the parents are paying through the nose for. See she doesn’t get pregnant, keep her off the drugs and booze and make sure she meets the right kind of men.”

“That’s a bit harsh. I once dated a girl who’d been there. It didn’t seem to have done her much harm. Not exactly Oxbridge entrance, but she knew how to cook. That wasn’t her only talent.”

“And you, of course, were the right kind of man.”

“Her mama didn’t think so. Do you want to drive?”

“You’d better, until I simmer down. So we report to AD that Lady S probably knows something but isn’t talking?”

“You’re suggesting she’s a suspect?”

“No. She wouldn’t have given us that alibi if she didn’t know it would stand up. We’ll check if we need to. At present it would be a waste of time. She’s in the clear for both murders, but she could be an accomplice.”

Piers was dismissive. “That’s going a bit far. Look at the facts. At present we’re assuming that the two deaths are connected. That means that if Lady S is mixed up with Celia’s death, she’s mixed up also with Neville Dupayne’s. And if one thing she said struck me as true, it was her claim that she’s never even met him. And why should she care if the museum closes? It might even suit her, keep Caroline Dupayne more closely tied to the school. No, she’s in the clear. OK, there’s something she either lied about or isn’t telling, but what’s new about that?”

9

It was three-fifteen on Thursday 7 November and in the incident room the team were discussing progress. Benton-Smith had earlier brought in sandwiches and Dalgliesh’s PA had provided a large cafetière of strong coffee. Now all evidence of the meal had been cleared away and they settled down to their papers and notebooks.

The discovery of the handbag had been interesting but had got them no further. Any of the suspects could have shoved it into the black bag whether the ploy had been planned or decided on impulse. It was an idea which might occur more readily to a woman than a man, but that was hardly firm evidence. They were still awaiting information from the mobile telecommunications service about the location of Muriel Godby’s mobile when she answered Tally Clutton’s call. The demands on the service were heavy and there were other priority requests. Inquiries put in hand about Neville Dupayne’s professional life before he moved to London from the Midlands in 1987 had resulted only in silence from the local police force. None of this was particularly disappointing; the case was still less than a week old.

Now Kate and Piers were to report on their visit to Celia’s flat. A little to Dalgliesh’s surprise Kate was silent and it was Piers who spoke. Within seconds it was apparent that he was enjoying himself. In short staccato sentences the picture came alive.

“It’s a ground-floor flat looking out on a central garden. Trees, flower beds, well-kept lawn, on the expensive side of the block. Grilles in the windows and two security locks on the door. Large sitting-room at the front, and three double bedrooms with bathrooms en suite. Probably bought as an investment on the advice of Daddy’s lawyer and at present prices worth over a million, I’d say. Aggressively modern kitchen. No sign that anyone bothers to cook. The refrigerator’s stinking with sour milk and out-of-date cartons of eggs and supermarket meals. She left the place in a mess. Clothes strewn all over her own bed and those in the other two rooms, cupboards stuffed, wardrobes crammed. About fifty pairs of shoes, twenty handbags, some hooker-chic dresses designed to show as much thigh and crotch as possible without risking arrest. Most of the rest of the stuff expensive designer gear. Not much luck from examining her desk. She didn’t go in for paying the bills on demand or for answering official letters, even those from her lawyers. A City firm looks after her portfolio, the usual mixture of equities and government stock. She was getting through the money pretty quickly though.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Any sign of a lover?”

Now it was Kate who took over. “There are stains on a fitted bottom sheet stuffed into the clothes basket. They look like semen but they’re not fresh. Nothing else. She was on the pill. We found the packet in the bathroom cupboard. No drugs but plenty to drink. She seems to have tried modelling, there’s a portfolio of photographs. She’d also set her heart on being a pop star. We know that she was on the books of that agency and she was paying through the nose for singing lessons. I think she was being exploited. What’s odd, sir, is that we found no invitations, no evidence she had friends. You’d think that with a three-bedroom flat she’d want to share, if only for company and to help with expenses. There’s no evidence of anyone being there except herself, apart from that stained sheet. We had our murder bags with us so we put it in an exhibit pouch and brought it away. I’ve sent it to the lab.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Books? Pictures?”

Kate said, “Every women’s magazine on the market including fashion magazines. Paperbacks, mostly popular fiction. There are photographs of pop stars. Nothing else.” She added, “We didn’t find either a diary or an address book. She may’ve had them in her handbag, in which case her murderer has them if they haven’t been destroyed. There was a message on her answerphone; the local garage rang to say that her car was ready for collection. If she didn’t come with her killer it was probably by taxi—I can’t see a girl like that taking a bus. We’ve been on to the public carriage office in the hope they can trace the driver. There were no other answerphone messages and no private letters. It was odd: all that clutter and no evidence of a social or personal life. I felt sorry for her. I think she was lonely.”

Piers was dismissive. “I can’t think why the hell she should be. We know the modern holy trinity is money, sex and celebrity. She had the first two and had hope of the third.”

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.”