A Matter of Trust (17 page)

He had the usual trouble finding a parking space, and the even more usual trouble of trying to find one patient in such a mammoth place. But eventually, on the sixth floor, he quietly approached a four-bed women's ward and whispered a word or two to the sister
on
duty there. After showing her his badge, he was quietly ushered to the bedside of Sir Vivian Dalrymple's widow.

June Dalrymple looked very ill indeed. He hadn't asked the sister for any medical details, but one look at the sunken cheeks and the hollow-eyed glance that turned his way, and Lisle felt his heart lurch. Her white hair hung in limp wisps against her cheeks. Her hands on the blanket, both hooked up to IVs, looked gnarled and painfully thin. But the smile she gave him radiated out of the wreck of her face like a sunburst.

‘Visitors?' she asked. Her voice lacked the power it must once have had, but it was still defiantly full of life. ‘How nice.'

‘My name is Detective Inspector Jarvis, Lady Dalrymple.'

‘Oh, yes. The police.' The smile faltered, but only briefly. ‘I've been expecting you. My sister-in-law called in yesterday to tell me the news about my poor Vivian.'

Lisle couldn't help but show his relief. June Dalrymple smiled again. ‘Please, take a seat, Inspector. And ask me anything you like. I'm over the worst of the shock now. Or at least, I think I am, which is more or less the same thing, isn't it?'

Lisle took one of the garish orange plastic chairs from a sleeping woman's bedside, and sat down beside the old lady. As he did so, he began to breathe more easily.

Lady
Dalrymple was obviously of the old school. Her generation had been raised to keep a stiff upper lip at all times, remain polite, even in the direst of circumstances, and always, always, to respect authority. And no matter what modern thinking espoused on the repression of emotion prevalent in her generation, right at that moment, Lisle could have kissed her.

Like all big and tough men, weeping women totally flummoxed him.

‘Thank you, Lady Dalrymple. I really am very sorry about your husband,' he said sincerely.

For a moment, the old lady looked at the policeman. Liking what she saw. Liking what she heard. A
genuine
man. One that she instinctively trusted.

‘Can you tell me how he died, Inspector?' she asked quietly. ‘Maud just said that he'd been . . . murdered.'

Lisle met the frank, unwavering gaze, still feeling a little unnerved at her obvious fragility. But there was a no-nonsense look in those dark, ravaged-by-pain pupils that aroused his sense of honour.

He nodded once, briskly. ‘He was shot with a bow, Lady Dalrymple. The arrow passed clean through his heart, stopping it instantly. He wouldn't have felt much pain. I doubt he would even have known what was happening to him.'

For
a long few seconds they were both silent. At last, June Dalrymple sighed heavily. ‘He would have been most put out by that, you know. He always said death was the last great adventure. He'll have been miffed to have missed it, so to speak.'

Lisle blinked in surprise but then smiled. For a second, in perfect accord, the two people—the old dying woman, and the young, vibrant, powerful man, sat in quiet and gentle understanding.

Then Lisle got out his notebook. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill your husband, Lady Dalrymple? A disgruntled ex-student, someone he might have crossed, a colleague he upset. Anything of that nature?'

‘No, Inspector. You're barking up the wrong tree there, I'm afraid. Whoever did this, if it was not a random act of violence, did it for a specific reason. My husband was not the kind of man who made enemies. He understood human nature too well for that.'

It was a simple statement, and right to the point. And had she been any other woman, any other wife, he would have taken it with a good pinch of salt. He'd been a policeman too long, and knew that usually the spouse was the last one to know anything. But this couple, he realised instinctively, were not of the usual mould.

He found himself believing her. So, Sir Vivian was not a man who was likely to just
easily
get himself murdered.

‘I see,' he said softly. Her words only confirmed his own thinking on the matter. ‘Your husband was attending a prize-giving Dinner at St Bede's the night he was killed.'

‘The Kendall, yes I know,' June said quickly, with a smile. ‘A very prestigious award, Inspector. And one that carried a considerable amount of money with it.'

‘Did your husband expect to get it?'

June laughed. ‘Good grief, no. He expected either Dr Ngabe or dear Callum to win it.'

‘Dr Fielding did indeed do so,' Lisle said simply.

‘Did he? Oh good. I am glad.' Briefly, the old lady's face lit up. Pain seemed to recede for a moment or two.

‘You like Dr Fielding I take it?' Lisle said, making it a statement. ‘Did your husband get on well with him also?'

‘Like a house on fire, Inspector,' June said with a small laugh. ‘My husband tutored him, you see, and he always said that Callum was one of those pupils that you pray for—one that can surpass the master, as it were. And he went on to do so well. Yet he still always came to Vivian for advice and help whenever he needed it. Which wasn't so often of course nowadays.'

Lisle nodded. It confirmed what Callum had already told him—that he liked and respected the man. Still, a lot of his team had now
reported
in that, during the pre-Dinner party, Sir Vivian had become progressively more and more drunk, and had more or less accused someone present of being a cheat and fraud.

Which meant that someone had a motive. He took a deep breath. ‘Lady Dalrymple . . .' something in his tone made the old lady look at him sharply. ‘Did your husband say anything to you about suspecting somebody of cheating? That is, of either plagiarism or something along those lines?'

Lisle understood only too well what a charge of cheating would mean to an Oxford Fellow.

‘No. Never,' she said simply. ‘Why?'

Gently he explained to her the picture they were building up of her husband's behaviour on that night, and the things he'd been saying. When he'd finished, the old lady was shaking her head in astonishment.

‘That's not like Vivian at all. Not at all,' she said fretfully. ‘Either the drinking, or the speaking out of turn. It just wasn't
like
him. He must have been really upset . . .
really upset
, Inspector, to do something like that.'

Lisle believed her. And, instinctively, he believed that that was the reason Sir Vivian had been killed. Someone at that party had been doing something he or she shouldn't. And Sir Vivian hadn't liked it. And had hinted broadly that he knew about it. And someone, who owned a very powerful bow and knew how
to
use it, had slipped out, retrieved that bow and lay in wait for him in the car park, and killed him.

But who? Common sense told him that the short-listed candidates had to be high on the list. Otherwise, why would a man of Sir Vivian's obvious restraint have been quite so verbal and upset at that particular social event?

Callum Fielding had actually won the Prize. And he'd always been Sir Vivian's golden boy. It would really upset the old man all right to discover that his prayed-for pupil had feet of clay. And, of all of them, he was the only one known to be a keen archer, and have a key to the archery room. Except that the weapon hadn't been one of those. Would he buy an expensive bow, when he had all the bows and arrows he needed right on tap? He even lived in the same House as the archery room.

Perhaps. Human nature always wanted the best. To own something bigger and better than everyone else.

He made a mental note to get a search warrant to check the Fellow's room. Not that he was optimistic of finding anything. If the Don had killed his mentor, he was way too smart to have the murder weapon lying about in his rooms.

‘Do you know if Dr Fielding and your husband had had an argument recently?' Lisle asked curiously.

June
Dalrymple flushed. It was just a pale wash of pink, but it came and went angrily, indicating more clearly than words what she thought of that question.

In obvious pain, she turned a little on the bed, the better to look at him. ‘Young man,' she said, a shade breathlessly, ‘if you're looking at Callum as a possible killer, you are most definitely wasting police time.'

Lisle smiled. ‘I see. Well, thank you for seeing me, Lady Dalrymple. And if you can think of anything else . . .' he rose and put the chair back, wanting to leave but knowing that he couldn't. He had one more question he really didn't want to ask—for a number of reasons—but ask it he must.

‘Lady Dalrymple, I'm sorry to have to ask this, but did you suspect your husband of having an affair?'

June Dalrymple looked at him blankly for a moment, and then, unbelievably, began to laugh. It hurt her to do it, and she began to cough, but she couldn't stop. ‘Oh, Inspector . . .'

Lisle, feeling suddenly very foolish and thoroughly ashamed of himself, backed out of the room as the sister hurried in to try and calm her patient.

Lisle still felt all kinds of a fool as he drove back towards the city and St Bede's, where the porter gave him directions to Sir Vivian's office. And as he climbed the spiral stone
staircase,
he was still shaking his head.

Somehow, if June Dalrmple didn't believe her husband was a philanderer, he couldn't believe it either. So exactly
what
business did Nesta Aldernay have with the dead man? Which reminded him—he'd been so shaken by the sexual explosion that had happened between them, that he'd forgotten to ask her exactly where she'd been the night Sir Vivian was killed.

Hell! He really was walking on quicksand.

The yellow police tape hung down at the side of the door, but he wasn't surprised. The damn stuff was always unpeeling.

But the instant he opened the door to the rather dark and cramped office, he sensed that he wasn't alone. Belatedly, he realised that his steps, echoing off the stone staircase as they had been, would have alerted anyone inside to his presence. It was not that he could see anyone, or any signs of recent human activity. He just knew he wasn't alone. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

Although it was only early afternoon, the windows were so small, and the day so cloudy, he flicked on the light switch.

His eyes scanned the room. A cupboard. No doubt full of stationery and files. A big desk and with a big kneehole . . . His eyes narrowed. That kneehole should not be as shadowed as it was.

‘All right,' he said grimly, his voice deep
and
growling and dangerous. ‘Come on out of there. Police. Come on out damn you!'

And a second later there was a reluctant scuffle of movement. Then, rising from behind the desk, a familiar gleam of dark red hair.

Nesta Aldernay's green eyes shone at him, like a cat's, above the line of the desk top.

‘You,' Lisle barked.

He might have known.

*           *           *

Callum walked reluctantly into the foyer of the Randolph hotel, and once again asked for Miss Kendall. The clerk, recognising him this time, smiled brightly and quickly reached for the phone. Callum tensed, feeling the potential for embarrassment wash over him if she refused to see him.

But the clerk told him that Miss Kendall would be right down, and with a sigh of relief Callum moved back to the open doorway and glanced down Broad Street.

His working day was over, and the last of his students had been seen. Evening approached, and when he felt her presence beside him, he turned and smiled briefly.

‘Miss Kendall.'

She was wearing a midi-length black silk dress, with a silver and black shawl thrown about her shoulders. Her jewellery was chunky silver, and she looked as stunning as ever.

He
was about to apologise for the scene with Rosemary, then stopped himself. Although she'd almost certainly misinterpreted what had really happened earlier on, he thought that perhaps it would be better to let the misunderstanding continue. If she thought he was involved with someone else it could give him some much-needed protection from his growing attraction from her. After all, she'd be far less likely to continue to be interested in him if she thought he was taken, so to speak, and with a little luck her own indifference might help him stem the tide of his own growing attraction towards her.

Unless, of course, she was the kind of woman who didn't care if she poached on someone else's territory.

‘You can't keep calling me that,' Markie said with a wry smile. ‘Markie, please.'

‘Markie then,' Callum repeated a shade reluctantly. ‘I've had an idea about where Vivian might have left his notes. According to Sin Jun, the police found no interesting or suspicious documents in his rooms at College, and if they found anything at his home, they're hardly likely to share the knowledge with us.'

‘I can't see that Inspector Jarvis exactly being forthcoming, no,' Markie agreed sardonically.

‘But Vivian kept a country cottage in Cornwall. And he always liked peace and quiet if he was writing an especially difficult paper.
So
he just might have taken his research about our cheater down there.'

Markie's face lit up. ‘Then we must go.'

Callum took both a mental, and a literal, step backwards. ‘Now just a minute, I only told you to keep you in the loop. I was thinking of driving down there this evening and spending the night. That'll give me plenty of time to search the place. A long time ago, Vivian gave me a key, and said I could use it whenever I needed to. In fact, I spent a few weeks down there just last Spring. But . . .'

‘You can't keep me out of this,' Markie warned fiercely. ‘Give me five minutes to pack.' She turned and headed towards the staircase, then shot a sharp look back over her shoulder, her eyes sparking jewelled fire. ‘And don't even think about giving me the slip, otherwise I'll get the address from either Sin Jun or Lady Dalrymple and just arrive on the doorstep anyway.'