A Certain Justice (19 page)

“When did you put it in the refrigerator, Mr. Ulrick?”

“On Monday, at about midday. I came straight from the hospital.”

“And who knew it was there?”

“Mrs. Carpenter, the cleaner. I left a note warning her not to touch it. I told Miss Caldwell in case she wanted to put her milk in my fridge. I have no doubt she passed the news round Chambers. Nothing is secret here. You had better ask her.” He paused and then said: “I take it from the presence of you and your colleague that the police are treating this as an unnatural death.”

Dalgliesh said: “We are treating it as murder, Mr. Ulrick.”

Ulrick made a movement as if about to approach the body, then turned to the door.

“As you no doubt know, Commander, Venetia Aldridge was much concerned with murder, but she could hardly have expected to be so intimately involved. She will be greatly missed. And now, if you will excuse me, I’ll get down to my room. I have work to do.”

Dalgliesh said: “Mr. Langton and Mr. Laud are in the library. I would be glad if you would join them. We shall need to examine your room and to dust for fingerprints. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s free.”

He thought for a moment that Ulrick was about to protest. Instead he held out the pouch.

“What am I supposed to do with this? It’s no use to me.”

Dalgliesh said, “I’ll take it, thank you,” holding out his gloved hands.

He carried it by the corner over to the table and, taking out an exhibit bag, placed the pouch inside. Ulrick watched, seeming suddenly reluctant to leave.

Dalgliesh said: “While you are here, perhaps you could tell me something about the wig. Is it yours?”

“No. I have no ambitions to be a judge.”

“Did it belong to Miss Aldridge, do you know?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Few barristers own a full-bottomed. She’ll have worn one once before, when she became a QC. It’s probably Hubert Langton’s. It used to belong to his grandfather and he keeps it here in Chambers to lend to any member who takes silk. It’s kept in a tin box in Harry Naughton’s office. Harry’s our Senior Clerk. He’ll be able to check for you.”

Kynaston was peeling off his gloves. Ignoring Ulrick, he said to Dalgliesh: “I can’t do anything more here. I have a couple of PMs this evening at eight. I could fit her in then.”

He turned to go but found the doorway temporarily blocked by Kate Miskin. She said: “The SOCOs and the photographers are here, sir.”

“Good, Kate. Take over here, will you. Is Piers with you?”

“Yes, sir. He’s with Sergeant Robbins. They’re taping off this part of the court.”

Dalgliesh turned to Ulrick. “We shall need to search your room first. Perhaps you would be good enough to join your colleagues in the library.”

More meekly than Dalgliesh had expected, Ulrick went out, almost colliding with Charlie Ferris in the doorway. Charlie Ferris, inevitably nicknamed the Ferret, was one of the most experienced of the Met’s scene-of-crime officers, reported to be able to identify by sight threads normally discernible only under a microscope, and to smell out a decaying body at a hundred yards. He was wearing the search garb which in the last few months had replaced his former, somewhat eccentric, outfit of white shorts, with the legs cut to the crotch, and a sweat-shirt. He now wore a tight-fitting cotton jacket and trousers and white plimsolls, and his customary plastic swimming-cap, tight-fitting to prevent the contamination of the scene with his own hairs. He stood for a moment in the doorway as if assessing the room and its potential before beginning his meticulous kneeling search.

Dalgliesh said: “The carpet is scuffed just to the right of the door. It’s possible she was killed there and dragged to the chair. I’d like that patch photographed and protected.”

Ferris muttered, “Yes, sir,” but did not take his eyes from the part of the carpet he was examining. He wouldn’t have missed the scuffmark and would get to it in time. The Ferret had his own way of working.

The photographers and fingerprint officers had arrived now and went silently about their business. The two photographers were an efficient couple, used to working together, who wasted no time on the niceties but did their job and got out. As a young detective sergeant Dalgliesh used to wonder what they made of it, this almost daily recording of man’s inhumanity to man, and whether the photographs they took when they were off duty, the a innocent holiday pictures and records of family occasions, were overlaid by the images of violent death. Taking care to keep out of their way, Dalgliesh began his examination of the room, Kate at his shoulder.

The desk was not modern, a solid mahogany partner’s desk, leather-topped, the wood showing the patina of years of polishing. The brass handles on the two sets of three drawers were obviously original. In the top left-hand drawer was a handbag in soft black leather with a gold clasp and a narrow strap. Opening it, Dalgliesh saw that it contained her cheque book, a thin wallet of credit cards, a purse with twenty-five pounds in notes and a few coins, a clean folded handkerchief in white linen and a bunch of miscellaneous keys. Examining them, he said: “It looks as if she kept her house and car keys on a separate ring from her keys to Chambers’ front door and this room. It’s odd that the killer locked these two doors and took away the keys. You’d expect him to leave the door open if he wanted this to look like an outside job. But he could get rid of them easily enough. They’s probably in the Thames or dropped through a grating.”

He drew open the two bottom drawers and found little of immediate interest. There were boxes of writing-paper and envelopes, notepads, a wooden box containing a collection of ballpoint pens and, in the bottom drawers, two folded hand towels and a toilet bag containing soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste. A smaller zipped bag held Venetia Aldridge’s make-up, a small bottle of moisturizer, a compact of pressed powder, a single lipstick.

Kate said: “Expensive but minimal.”

Dalgliesh heard in her voice what he himself had so often felt. It was the small chosen artefacts of daily life which produced the most poignant
memento mori
.

The only paper of interest in the top right-hand drawer was a copy of a thin pamphlet, inexpertly printed, and headed
Redress
. It was apparently distributed by an organization concerned with opportunities for women in senior posts in the professions and industry, and consisted mainly of comparative figures for some of the most prominent corporations and companies, showing the total number of women employed and those who had achieved directorship or senior managerial posts. The four names printed beneath the name
Redress
meant nothing to Dalgliesh. The secretary was a Trudy Manning with an address in North-East London. The pamphlet consisted of only four pages; the last bore a brief note:

“We find it surprising that the chambers of Mr. Hubert Langton at Eight, Pawlet Court, Middle Temple, employ only three women barristers from a total of twenty-one members. One of them is the distinguished criminal lawyer Miss Venetia Aldridge, QC. May we suggest to Miss Aldridge that she shows a little more enthusiasm than she has to date for ensuring fair treatment for her own sex.”

Dalgliesh took out the pamphlet and said to Ferris: “Put this among the exhibits, will you, Charlie.”

Venetia Aldridge had obviously been working when she was killed. There was a brief on the desk supported by a thick wodge of papers. A cursory glance at the brief showed Dalgliesh that it was a case of grievous bodily harm set down for the Bailey in two weeks’ time. The only other papers on the desk were a copy of the
Temple News Letter
and the previous day’s
Evening Standard
. It looked untouched, but Dalgliesh noted that the pink financial insert, “Business Day,” was missing. A stout manila envelope, neatly slit and addressed to Miss Venetia Aldridge, QC, was in the waste-paper basket to the right of the desk. Dalgliesh thought it had probably held the
Temple News Letter
.

The room, about fifteen feet square, was sparsely furnished for a barrister’s chambers. Along the left-hand side a long elegant bookcase, also mahogany, stretched almost the whole length of the wall facing the two Georgian windows, each with its twelve panes. The bookcase contained a small library of law books and bound statutes, with beneath them a row of barristers’ blue notebooks. Drawing one or two out at random, Dalgliesh saw with interest that they covered the whole of her professional career and were meticulously kept. On the same shelf was a volume of the
Notable British Trials
series dealing with the trial of Frederick Seddon. It was a somewhat incongruous addition to a library otherwise completely dedicated to statutes and criminal statistics. Opening it, Dalgliesh saw a brief dedication in a small cramped hand. “To VA from her friend and mentor, EAF.”

He moved over to the left-hand window. Outside, in the morning light which was beginning already to hold the promise of sunshine, he saw that part of the court had been taped off. No one was about, yet he seemed to sense the presence of watching eyes behind blank windows. Briefly he surveyed the rest of the furniture. To the left of the door there was a four-drawer metal filing cabinet and a narrow mahogany cupboard. A coat hanger held a coat in fine black wool. There was no red robe bag. Perhaps she was in the middle of a case and had left her wig and gown in the locker room of the Crown Court. In front of the windows was a small conference table with six chairs, while the two leather high-backed chairs in front of the marble fireplace suggested a more comfortable ambience for consultation. The only pictures were a line of
Spy
cartoons of nineteenth-century judges and barristers in wig and gown and over the fireplace an oil by Duncan Grant. Under an impressionistic late-summer sky it showed a haystack and wagon with low farm buildings and a corn field beyond, the whole painted in clear bold colours. Dalgliesh wondered whether the cartoons had been there when Miss Aldridge took over the room. The Duncan Grant suggested a more personal taste.

The photographers had finished for the present and were ready to go, but the fingerprint officers were still occupied with the desk and the jamb of the door. Dalgliesh thought it unlikely that any useful prints would be found. Anyone in Chambers would have had legitimate access to the room. He left the experts to their task and went to join the company waiting in the library.

There were now four men present. The addition to the company, a large red-haired man, powerfully built, was standing in front of the fireplace.

Langton said: “This is Simon Costello, a member of Chambers. He wanted to stay and I wasn’t prepared to keep any member of Chambers out of this building.”

Dalgliesh said: “If he stays in this room he won’t be in the way. I had rather assumed that busy men would prefer to work elsewhere for the morning.”

Desmond Ulrick was seated in a high-backed chair by the fireplace. A book lay open on his lap and, with his thin knees pressed together, he looked as docile and absorbed as an obedient child. Langton was standing at one of the two windows, Laud at the other, and Costello had begun a restless pacing as soon as Dalgliesh entered. All except Ulrick fixed their eyes on him.

Dalgliesh said: “Miss Aldridge was stabbed in the heart. I have to tell you that we are most certainly dealing with a case of murder.”

Costello’s voice was roughly belligerent: “And the weapon?”

“Not yet found.”

“So why almost certainly? If the weapon isn’t there how can it be anything else but murder? Are you suggesting that Venetia stabbed herself and someone else conveniently removed the weapon?”

Langton sat down at the table as if his legs had suddenly lost power. He looked at Costello, silently imploring him to be tactful.

Dalgliesh said: “Theoretically Miss Aldridge could have stabbed herself and the weapon have been removed later by someone else, perhaps the person who put the wig on her head. I don’t for a moment believe that’s what happened. We are treating the case as murder. The weapon was a sharp stiletto-like blade, something like a small thin dagger. Has any of you seen such a thing? The question may seem absurd, but obviously it has to be asked.”

There was silence. Then Laud said: “Venetia had something very like it. A paper-knife, but it wasn’t intended as a paper-knife. It’s a steel dagger with a brass handle and guard. It was given to me by a grateful if undiscriminating client when I took silk. I think he had it specially made and imagined it was something like the Sword of Justice. An embarrassing object. I was never sure what I was expected to do with it. I gave it to Venetia about two years ago. I was in her office when she was opening her letters and her wooden paper-knife snapped, so I went down to my room and brought up the dagger. I’d put it at the back of one of my desk drawers and had almost forgotten about it. Actually it made a very effective paper-knife.”

Dalgliesh said: “Was it sharp?”

“God yes, extremely sharp, but it had a sheath. That was in black leather with a brass tip and a kind of brass rose on it, as far as I remember. And the paper-knife itself had my initials engraved on the blade.”

Dalgliesh said: “It isn’t in her office now. Can you remember when anyone here last saw it?”

There was no reply. Laud said: “Venetia used to keep it in her top right-hand drawer unless she was actually opening letters. I don’t think I’ve seen her with it for weeks.”

But she had opened that stiff envelope the night before and the flap had been sliced, not torn.

Dalgliesh said: “We shall have to find it. If it was the weapon, the killer may, of course, have taken it away with him. If it is found, obviously it will be tested for prints. That means that we need the prints of anyone who was or could have been in Chambers yesterday evening.”

Costello said: “For elimination purposes. And afterwards, of course, they will be destroyed.”

“You’re a criminal lawyer, aren’t you, Mr. Costello? I think you know the law.”

Langton said: “I’m sure I speak for the whole of Chambers when I say that we shall co-operate in every way we can. Obviously you’ll need our prints. Obviously, too, you’ll need to search Chambers. We’ll be glad to have the use of our rooms as soon as possible but we do understand the need for delay.”