A Certain Justice (39 page)

The implied question was, he saw, unwelcome. There was a short pause before Mr. Froggett replied. “I have been lucky recently. I have an acquaintance in one of the listing offices and he has been able to give me details of pending cases. The public are, of course, allowed into trials, so I didn’t regard the information as confidential. However, I would much prefer not to give you his name.”

Dalgliesh said: “I’m grateful to you for bringing this along. I’ll keep it for a little time, if I may? I will, of course, give you a receipt.”

The little man’s gratification was apparent. He watched while Dalgliesh wrote out the receipt.

Dalgliesh said: “You mentioned earlier that you were expected to take over the school, but that events intervened. What happened precisely?”

“Oh you haven’t heard? Well, I suppose it’s all old history now. I’m afraid Clarence Aldridge was something of a sadist. I protested to him many times about the frequency and indeed severity with which boys were beaten, but I’m afraid that, despite my senior position in the school, I had little influence over him. No one had. I decided that I couldn’t happily continue to co-operate with a man for whom I was losing respect, so I gave in my notice. A year after I left there was, of course, the tragedy. One of the pupils, young Marcus Ulrick, hanged himself by his pyjama cord from the banisters. He was due to receive a beating next morning.”

So here at least was information of value. And Dalgliesh would have missed it except for his patience. But he gave no sign that the name struck any chord.

Instead he asked: “And you haven’t seen Miss Aldridge since?”

“Not since I left the school. I didn’t think it right to get in touch or to approach her. It was perfectly easy to attend court without her seeing me. Happily she was a counsel who never glanced at the public benches and, of course, I took care not to sit in the front row. I wouldn’t wish her to think that I have been, as it were, following her. She might even have thought that I was behaving like one of those stalkers. No, I have had no desire to intrude on her life in any way or to take advantage of our past friendship. And I need hardly say that I wished her nothing but good. But of course you have only my word for that, Commander. Perhaps I ought to provide an alibi for the night of her death. I can do so very easily. I was at evening classes from half past six until half past nine at the Wallington Institute in the City. I go every week. We study the architecture of London from six-thirty to eight, and then I have my Italian class from eight until nine. I am hoping to make my first visit to Rome next year. I can, of course, give you the names of the teachers of both classes, and they and anyone else present will be able to confirm that I was there for the whole time. It would have taken me at least half an hour to get from the Institute to the Temple, so if Miss Aldridge was dead by half past nine I think I can safely say I am in the clear.”

He spoke almost with regret, as if disappointed that he wouldn’t feature as a prime suspect. Dalgliesh thanked him gravely and got to his feet.

But his visitor still took his time. He slid the receipt for his book into a compartment of a rather battered wallet, replaced the latter carefully in an inner pocket of his jacket and patted it as if to make sure that it was safely lodged. Then he shook hands gravely with Dalgliesh and Piers, rather as if the three of them had just completed some complicated and highly confidential business. He cast a last look at the scrapbook lying on Dalgliesh’s desk and seemed about to speak, perhaps just saving himself from the solecism of reminding Dalgliesh to keep it safely.

Piers saw him out. Bounding back into the room with his usual vigour, he said: “Extraordinary little man. God, he was weird! That’s the oddest example of stalking I’ve ever seen. How do you think it started, sir?”

“He fell in love with her when she was a schoolgirl and it grew into an obsession — an obsession with her or with criminal law, or perhaps with both.”

“Odd sort of hobby. Difficult to see what he gets out of it. He obviously regards her as his protégée. I wonder what she’d have thought of that. Not much, from what we know of her.”

Dalgliesh said: “He wasn’t doing her any harm. He took good care that she didn’t know he was following her. Stalkers usually pester; he didn’t. I thought there was something rather likable about him.”

“I didn’t see it. Frankly I thought he was a creep. Why doesn’t he live his own life, instead of sucking at hers like some kind of bloated fly? OK, you can see it as pathetic, but I think it’s obscene. And I bet those sessions didn’t take place in her parents’ drawing-room.”

Dalgliesh was surprised at Piers’s vehemence — usually he showed more tolerance than this frank disgust. But the reaction was close to his own. For any man who valued his privacy the thought that another human being could be living vicariously one’s own closely guarded life was extraordinarily offensive. The stalker was disturbing enough; the secret stalker was an abomination. But Froggett had done his target no harm, had intended no harm. Piers was right to call his behaviour obsessional, but it had not been illegal.

Piers said: “Well, he’s given us one piece of information which I doubt we’d have got any other way. It’s an unusual name. If Marcus Ulrick was Desmond Ulrick’s younger brother, at last it gives us a clear motive. That is, if it’s the same family.”

“Does it, Piers, after all these years? If Ulrick wanted to kill Aldridge in revenge for her father’s actions, why wait over twenty years? And why blame her? She was hardly responsible. Still, it has to be followed up. Ulrick usually works late. Ring Chambers and see if he’s there. If he is, say I’d like to see him. Langton and Costello, too, if they’re in Chambers.”

“This evening, sir?”

“This evening.”

Dalgliesh began parcelling up Froggett’s book. As Piers was about to leave Dalgliesh asked: “What’s the news on Janet Carpenter?”

Piers looked surprised. Dalgliesh said: “I asked on Friday to be told if anything comes to light about her past life. Who went to Hereford, by the way? Who’s looking into that?”

“Sergeant Pratt of the City and a WPC. I’m sorry, sir, I thought we’d reported. There’s nothing criminal on record. She taught English before she retired. She’s a widow and her only son died of leukaemia five years ago. She lived in a village outside the city with her daughter-in-law and her granddaughter. The granddaughter was murdered in 1993 and the daughter-in-law committed suicide shortly afterwards. Mrs. Carpenter wanted to cut herself free of all the old associations. It was the Beale case, I don’t know if you remember it. He’s doing life. The trial was at Shrewsbury Crown Court and Beale was defended by Archie Curtis. The case had nothing to do with London or with Miss Aldridge.”

The tragedy explained something Dalgliesh had sensed in Mrs. Carpenter. The quiet resignation, the serenity which was evidence, not of inner peace, but of a private suffering patiently borne. He said: “How long has all this been known?”

“Since about nine this morning.”

Dalgliesh’s voice did not change. He said: “When I request information about a suspect, see that I get it when it’s available, not when I happen to ask for it.”

“Sorry, sir, it’s just that other things seemed more important. She’s got no record and the granddaughter’s murder has nothing to do with London or with Aldridge. It’s an old tragedy. It didn’t seem relevant.” He paused and said: “I’m sorry, there’s no excuse.”

“Then why make one?”

Piers paused, then said: “Do you want me to come to Chambers with you?”

“No, Piers, I’ll see Ulrick alone.”

After he had left, Dalgliesh paused for a moment, then he opened his drawer and took out his magnifying-glass and slipped it into his pocket. The door opened and Piers put his head round.

“Ulrick’s in Chambers, sir. He says he’ll be delighted to see you. I got the impression he was being sarcastic. He was about to leave but he says he’ll wait. And Mr. Langton and Mr. Costello will be there until eight.”

D
algliesh asked: “Did you know that Venetia Aldridge was the daughter of Clarence Aldridge, who was headmaster of Danesford School?”

Ulrick did not at first answer and Dalgliesh waited patiently. The basement room, with three sections of the electric fire switched on, was over-heated for an autumn evening in which Dalgliesh, carrying Edmund Froggett’s book, had walked through the court under the gentle glow of the gas lamps, and had seemed to feel emanating from the ancient stones the lingering warmth of late summer. Ulrick’s room was an academic cell. The closely packed shelves of books seemed to press down on Dalgliesh from four walls. The desk was piled high with papers and Ulrick had to clear a chair before Dalgliesh could sit down. It was one of two high-backed chairs almost dangerously close to the fire and Dalgliesh had the sensation of being cushioned in the strong-smelling stickiness of hot leather.

As if sensing his visitor’s discomfort, Ulrick knelt to turn off the top three bars of the fire. He did so with the deliberate carefulness of a man undertaking a complicated task requiring precision if disaster is to be avoided. Having satisfied himself that the glow of the bars was fading, he got to his feet and again seated himself, swivelling his chair to face Dalgliesh.

He said: “Yes, I knew. I knew that Aldridge had a daughter named Venetia and the age was right. I was naturally curious when she joined Chambers. I asked her. It was a matter of slight interest, no more.”

“Can you remember the conversation?”

“I think so. It wasn’t long. We were, of course, alone in her room at the time. I asked, ‘Are you the daughter of Clarence Aldridge of Danesford?’ She looked at me and said that she was. She seemed wary, but not particularly worried. I then told her that I was the elder brother of Marcus Ulrick. She made no comment for a moment, and then said: ‘I thought there might be a relationship. It’s not a common name. And he told me he had an elder brother.’ I then said, ‘I don’t think either of us need talk about the past.’”

“How did she respond to that?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t wait to see. I left her room before she could reply. Neither of us mentioned Danesford again. This restraint required no resolution on my part. I hardly ever saw her. She has a reputation for being a difficult woman and I keep free of personalities in Chambers. I have no interest in the criminal law. Law should be an intellectual discipline, not a public performance.”

“Would it distress you if I asked what happened about your brother?”

“Do you need to?” After a moment he added, “Do you need to for the purpose of your investigation?”

The voice was unemphatic, but the grey eyes met Dalgliesh’s with something of the insistence of an interrogation.

Dalgliesh said: “I don’t know. Probably not. It isn’t easy with murder to know what will prove relevant. Most cases that go wrong do so because too few questions are asked, not too many. I’ve always felt the need to know as much about the victim as possible, and that includes her past.”

“It must be gratifying to have a job which can be used to justify what in others might be called intrusive curiosity.” He paused, then went on: “Marcus was eleven years younger than I. I wasn’t sent to Danesford. Father was then prosperous enough to send me to his own prep school. But by the time Marcus was eight things had changed. My father was working overseas, I was at Oxford and Marcus was in the care of our paternal uncle during the holidays. Father had lost money and we were relatively poor. He wasn’t a diplomat or working for an international corporation. School fees were not paid by the firm, although I believe his salary included a small compensatory payment. Danesford was cheap. The school was close to my uncle and aunt’s home. It had a good reputation for getting boys into public schools with scholarships. The health record was satisfactory. My parents were impressed when they visited, although, given their circumstances, they would have found it inconvenient to have been unimpressed. It would have been particularly inconvenient to have discovered that Aldridge was a sadist.”

Dalgliesh did not reply. Ulrick went on: “His perversion is so common that perhaps the word ‘perversion’ is inappropriate. He liked beating small boys. He had one refinement, which perhaps gave him claim to some originality. He would prescribe a certain number of strokes but would deliver them publicly at a set time every day for a week, usually after breakfast. It was that daily anticipation of humiliation and pain which Marcus couldn’t face. He was a timid and sensitive boy. He hanged himself from the banisters with his pyjama cord. It wasn’t a quick death, he suffocated. The public scandal which followed finished the school and finished Aldridge. I don’t know what happened to him. That is a brief but, I trust, comprehensive account of what you wanted to know.”

Dalgliesh said: “Aldridge and his wife are both dead.” He thought, but did not add: Leaving a daughter who didn’t like men, who competed successfully in their world, whose marriage ended in divorce, whose daughter disliked her. More to himself than to Ulrick, he said: “It wasn’t her fault.”

“Fault? That isn’t a word I use. It implies that we have control over our actions, which I believe to be largely illusory. You’re a policeman. You have to believe in free will. The criminal law rests on the premise that most of us can control what we do. No, it wasn’t her fault. It was her misfortune, perhaps. As I said, we never discussed it. Private lives are best kept out of Chambers. Someone bears a heavy responsibility for my brother’s death, but it wasn’t — it isn’t — Venetia Aldridge. And now I would like, please, to be allowed to go home.”

S
imon Costello occupied one of the smaller rooms at the front of the second floor. It was an untidy but comfortable office, the only personal object a large silver-framed studio photograph of his wife which he had on his desk. As Dalgliesh entered he motioned him to one of the two easy chairs placed, not in front of the fireplace, but each side of a small table by the window. Outside the leaves of the great horse chestnut, lit from below, made a pattern of black and silver against the pane.