A Certain Justice (37 page)

The concatenation of theories sped through Dalgliesh’s mind in seconds while Anna Cummins relaxed and, gently rocking in her chair, paused before going on with her story. But the room had lost its innocence and he was seeing her now through different, more critical eyes. The icon of comforting maternity and inward serenity was blurred now by a more insistent image: Venetia Aldridge’s body, the dangling hands vulnerable and still, the bent head with its helmet of drying blood. He could, of course, have asked Marie if she’d been with her parents to London. But he knew that he couldn’t and wouldn’t. The whole idea of a joint murderous enterprise now struck him as bizarre.

The lilting voice went quietly on: “I took a piece of quiche and a pot of yoghurt with me to eat in the train so that I didn’t have to bother about supper. I went straight to the flat from the station, left my overnight case at the flat and started out at once for the Temple. I wanted to be sure I was on time. I was lucky and picked up a taxi at once at Waterloo Bridge. I asked to be dropped opposite the Law Courts, crossed the road and found the passage, Devereux Court. It was perfectly simple. Oh I forgot. Before I set out from the flat I rang Chambers. I wanted to be sure Venetia was there. She answered the phone and I just said we were on our way and replaced the receiver. But she was there just after half past seven and I knew she was expecting me.”

He asked the formal, necessary question. “And you are sure of the time?”

“Of course. I was keeping an eye on my watch the whole time to make sure I wasn’t late. Actually I was early. I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous loitering in the passage, so I killed five minutes walking along the Strand. I was outside the gate at ten past eight. I waited until eight-forty. Venetia never came.”

Dalgliesh said: “Did you see anyone else come through the gate?”

“Three or four people, men. I think they were musicians. Anyway, they had instrument cases with them. I don’t think I’d be able to recognize them. Then, at quarter past eight, there was one I might perhaps know again. He was strongly built and had bright-red hair. I remember him particularly because he unlocked the small door in the gate — he had a key — but was only in the Temple for about a minute. Then he came out again and went off down the passage. He was hardly in the Temple before he was out again. It was odd.”

“And you think you’d recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I think so. There’s a lamp above the gate. It shone on his bright hair.”

Dalgliesh said: “I wish I’d known this earlier. You’d been told that Miss Aldridge was dead, probably murdered. Did it really not occur to you that this evidence was important?”

“I realized you’d need to know it, but then I thought you did know it. Didn’t Octavia tell you? I thought that’s why you’d arranged to see us, to verify her story.”

“Octavia knew about your visit?” There was no point in pretending this was not news to him, but he kept his voice unsurprised.

“Yes, she knew. After I’d got back to Alice’s flat I thought it was possible that Venetia hadn’t come to the gate because she’d suddenly been taken ill. It didn’t seem at all likely, but I wasn’t happy about going to bed without alerting someone. Venetia had been so definite about the appointment. I rang Pelham Place. A man answered — a young man, I think — and then Octavia came on the line. I told her what had happened — not why I’d come up to London, but about the missed appointment. I suggested that she should ring to see if her mother was all right — that is, if she wasn’t already at home. Octavia said, ‘I expect she decided that she didn’t want to see you. We none of us want to see you. And don’t try to interfere in my life.’”

Dalgliesh said: “Which would suggest that she’d guessed what the appointment was about.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult to guess, would it? Anyway, I felt I’d done what I could and I went to bed. Next morning I left for home. Luke and Marie met me off the train. When we got back here Drysdale Laud telephoned. He’d been trying to reach us to tell us that Venetia was dead.”

“And you did nothing? You still kept silent about your visit?”

“What could we do? Octavia knew the facts. We expected that the police would be in touch to confirm her story, and you did get in touch to say you’d be coming to see us. It seemed better to wait until you arrived. I didn’t want to discuss it on the phone.”

It was at that moment that they heard the approaching truck. Immediately the child ran from her seat and stood in the doorway, giving little jumps and squeaks of anticipatory joy. As soon as the engine stopped she dashed out as if in response to a signal. There was the slam of the truck door, the sound of a masculine voice, and a minute later Luke Cummins appeared, carrying his daughter on his shoulders.

His wife got up from her chair and stood quietly waiting. As he entered they moved soundlessly together. Gently releasing Marie, Cummins embraced his wife while the child, leaning against him, imprisoned his leg in her arms. For the moment they stood motionless in their private tableau, from which Dalgliesh felt an almost physical sense of exclusion. He studied Luke Cummins, trying to imagine him as Venetia Aldridge’s husband, to see him as part of her world, of her over-driven obsessional life.

He was very tall, loose-limbed, with sun-bleached fairish hair and a boyish weather-tanned face, finely boned and sensitive but with a suggestion of weakness about the mouth. The thick corduroy trousers and roll-necked Aran sweater gave bulk to a body which looked as if in adolescence it had outgrown its strength. He glanced across at Dalgliesh over his wife’s shoulder and gave a brief smile of acknowledgement before bending again to his family. Dalgliesh thought: He’s mistaken me for a customer. He got up and moved over to the exhibition table, uncertain whether the move was prompted by a sudden whim to play the part, or the wish not to intrude on their privacy. His ears caught Cummins’s softly spoken words.

“Good news, darling. They want another three cheese platters by Christmas, if you can manage it. Is that possible?”

“The garden scene with the geraniums and the open window?”

“One similar, the other two are commissions. The customers want to discuss with you what they’d like. I said you’d ring and make an appointment.”

His wife’s voice was anxious. “The shop won’t put them on display together, will they? That always makes them look mass-produced.”

“They understand that. They’ll show only the one and then take orders. But it’s cutting it fine, I don’t want you stressed.”

“I won’t be.”

It was only then that Dalgliesh turned round. Anna Cummins said: “Darling, this is Mr. Dalgliesh from the Metropolitan Police. Remember? We did know that he was coming.”

Cummins came over and held out his hand. He could have been greeting a customer or a casual friend. The handshake was surprisingly firm, a gardener’s hand, strong and hard.

He said: “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I expect Anna has told you all we know. It isn’t much. We haven’t heard from my ex-wife for three years except for that telephone call.”

“Which you weren’t here to take.”

“That’s right. And Venetia didn’t ring back.”

And that, thought Dalgliesh, was in itself surprising. If the appointment had been so important, why had Miss Aldridge not confirmed it, spoken to Cummins herself? Surely she could have found a spare minute during the day. But she might later have half-regretted her call. It had sounded more like an impulse — panic even — than a reasoned response to her dilemma with Octavia, even though she wasn’t a woman who panicked easily. She might have thought: I won’t humiliate myself by ringing again. If he comes we’ll talk; if not, nothing is lost.

Anna Cummins said: “Mr. Dalgliesh suggested earlier that he should take a walk. Why don’t you go together up the field and show him the view, then you could come back for some tea before he leaves.”

The suggestion, mildly voiced, had something of the force of command. Dalgliesh said that he’d like the walk, but would have to leave without waiting for the tea. Cummins put down his daughter and he and Dalgliesh set off through the garden, past the hen-house where a variety of fowl came squawking towards them, over a stile and into a field which stretched gently uphill. The winter wheat had recently been sown and Dalgliesh marvelled, as he always did, that such delicate shoots could push through so strong a soil. Between a high tangled hedge of brambles, gorse and bushes was a rough path wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast. The blackberries were ripe and from time to time Cummins would stretch out a hand to pick and eat them.

Dalgliesh said: “Your wife has told me about her visit to London. If the meeting had taken place it could hardly have been pleasant. I was a little surprised you let her go alone.” He didn’t add, “and when she was pregnant.”

Luke Cummins reached up for a high branch and drew it down towards him. He said: “Anna thought it was best. I think she was afraid Venetia would bully me. It was rather the pattern.” He smiled as if the thought amused him, then added: “We couldn’t both go, because of Marie and the customers. Perhaps it would have been wiser if neither of us had, but Anna thought it would be better to make it plain once and for all that we couldn’t get involved. Octavia is eighteen, an adult in law. She didn’t take any notice of me when she was a child. Why should she now?”

He spoke without bitterness. There was no trace of apology, justification or excuse; he was simply stating a fact.

Dalgliesh asked: “How did you meet your first wife?”

It was hardly a relevant question, but Cummins showed no sign of resenting it.

“In the cafeteria of the National Gallery. It was very busy and Venetia was at a table for two. I asked if I might share it. She said yes, but hardly looked up at me. I don’t suppose either of us would have spoken if a young man passing hadn’t jerked our table and spilled her wine. He didn’t apologize. She was angry at his bad manners and I helped by mopping up the mess and getting her another glass. After that we talked. I was teaching in London at the time at a comprehensive, and we spoke about the job, about the problems of discipline. She didn’t tell me she was a lawyer but she did say that her father had been a schoolmaster. Oh, and we talked a bit about the pictures. Not much about ourselves. She was the one who suggested that we might meet again, I wouldn’t have had the nerve. We were married six months later.”

Dalgliesh asked: “Did you know that she’s left you a bequest? Eight thousand pounds.”

“The solicitor rang to tell me. I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t know whether it’s a reward for marrying her or an insult for leaving her. She was glad when the marriage ended, but I think she would have liked to have been the one who walked out.” He was silent for a moment, then said: “We thought at first that we’d refuse the bequest. I suppose you can refuse?”

“That might be awkward for the executors, but you don’t have to use the money for yourselves if you’ve got scruples.”

“That’s what Anna thought, but I expect we shall take it in the end. One gets these fine ideas but there are usually second thoughts, aren’t there? Anna does need a new kiln.”

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, then he said: “How far is my wife involved in all this? I don’t want her upset or bothered, particularly now, with the baby coming.”

“I hope that she won’t be. We’ll probably need a statement.”

“So you’ll come back?”

“Not necessarily. Two of my colleagues may.”

They were on the ridge of the field now and stood together looking down on the patchwork countryside. Dalgliesh wondered if Anna Cummins was watching them from the window. Then Cummins answered a question that Dalgliesh hadn’t asked.

“I was glad to give up teaching, at least in London, glad to be rid of noise and violence and staff-room politics, and the constant fight to keep order. I was never any good at it. I do a little supply teaching here, it’s different in the country. But mostly I do the garden and the studio accounts.” He paused and then said quietly: “I didn’t believe that anyone could be so happy.”

They walked down the field together, this time in a silence which was curiously companionable. Approaching the studio, they could hear the whirl of the wheel. Anna Cummins was bent over a pot. The clay spun, rose and curved under her hands and, as they watched, her fingers delicately touched the rim, forming the lip of the vase. But suddenly, apparently without reason, she brought her hands together and the clay, like a living thing, twisted and collapsed into a slimy lump as the wheel slowed to a stop. Looking up at her husband, she laughed.

“Darling, your mouth! It’s all smeared. Purple and red. You look like Dracula.”

A few minutes later Dalgliesh said his goodbyes. Husband and wife with the child between them stood unsmilingly to see him off. He sensed that they were glad to see the last of him. Glancing back as they turned together into the studio, Dalgliesh felt the weight of a fleeting melancholy tinged with pity. That tranquil studio, the pots so unthreatening in design and execution, the small attempt at self-sufficiency represented by the garden and the hen-house: didn’t they symbolize an escape, a peace as illusory as the dignified order of the eighteenth-century courts of the Temple, as illusory as all human seeking after the good, the harmonious life?

He felt no temptation to meander through the villages. Getting onto the main roads as soon as possible, he drove at speed. His pleasure in the beauty of the day was replaced by a dissatisfaction, partly with the Cumminses, but mostly with himself, which irritated him by its irrationality. If Anna Cummins had been telling the truth, and he thought that she had, there was at least one cause for satisfaction. The inquiry had progressed significantly. The time of death could now be placed between seven-forty-five, when Mrs. Buckley had rung Chambers, and eight-fifteen, when Venetia Aldridge had failed to appear to open the Judges’ Gate in Devereux Court.

Some of Mrs. Cummins’s evidence could be checked. Before leaving, he had taken the name and address of the friend who owned the flat at Waterloo and the name of the neighbour, but Luke Cummins had been unable to provide confirmation that he had been at the pottery. No customers had, in fact, called. Then there was the red-haired man Anna Cummins had seen entering and leaving the Temple. If she could positively identify Simon Costello, then it would be interesting to hear his explanation.