Original Sin (25 page)

“The last time I saw Gerard was when I went to the ground-floor lavatory. It’s the one at the back of the house next to the shower room. The women usually use the lavatory on the first floor. Gerard was coming out as I went in. We didn’t speak
but I think he nodded or smiled. There was some kind of passing acknowledgement, that’s all. I didn’t see him again. I came back to my flat and spent the next two hours in reading over the poems I’d selected for the evening, thinking about them, making coffee. I listened to the BBC six o’clock news. Shortly afterwards Frances Peverell rang me to wish me good luck. She had offered to go with me. I think she thought that someone from the firm ought to be there. We had spoken about it a few days earlier and I managed to dissuade her. One of the poets due to read was Marigold Riley. She’s not a bad poet but much of her verse is scatological. I knew that Frances wouldn’t enjoy the poetry, the company or the atmosphere. I told her that I would prefer to be on my own, that having her there would make me nervous. It wasn’t entirely a lie. I hadn’t read my verse for fifteen years. Most of the people there would assume that I was dead. I was already wishing I hadn’t agreed to go. Having Frances there, wondering whether she was unhappy, how much she was disliking it all, would only have increased the trauma. I rang for a taxi and left shortly after half past seven.”

Dalgliesh asked: “How shortly?”

“I rang for the taxi to be in the lane by seven forty-five, and I suppose I kept him waiting a few minutes, not more.” He paused again, then went on: “What happened at the Connaught Arms will hardly interest you. There were enough people there to confirm my presence. I suppose the reading went rather better than I expected, but it was too crowded and too noisy. I hadn’t realized that poetry had become a spectator sport. There was a great deal of drinking and smoking and some of the poets were rather self-indulgent. It all went on too long. I meant to ask the landlord to telephone for a taxi but he was busy talking to a group of people and I slipped out more or less unnoticed. I thought I could pick up a cab at the end of the
road, but before I got there I was mugged. There were three of them, I think, two black and one white, but I won’t be able to identify them. I was just aware of rushing figures, the strong shove from the back, of hands grabbing at my pockets. It wasn’t even a necessary assault. If they had asked I would have handed over my wallet. What else could I do?”

“They got it?”

“Oh yes, they got it. At least it was missing when I looked. The fall stunned me for a moment. When I came to a man and a woman were bending over me. They had been at the reading and were trying to catch me up. I had banged my head when I fell and it was bleeding slightly. I took out my handkerchief and held it to the wound. I asked them to bring me home but they said that they had to drive past St. Thomas’s Hospital and insisted on leaving me there. They said that I ought to have an X-ray. I could hardly insist that they drove me home or found a cab. They were being very kind, but I don’t think they wanted to go too far out of their way. At the hospital I had to wait quite a time. There were more urgent cases in the casualty department. Eventually a nurse dressed the wound on my head and said that I must wait to have an X-ray. That meant another wait. The result of that was satisfactory but they wanted to keep me in for a night’s observation. I assured them that I would be well looked after at home and told them that I wasn’t prepared to be admitted. I asked them to ring Frances and let her know what had happened and call a taxi. I thought she would probably be watching out for me to hear how the evening went and might be worried when I wasn’t back by eleven. It was about half past one when I did get home, and I rang Frances at once. She wanted me to go up to her flat, but I told her I was perfectly all right and what I needed most was a bath. As soon as I’d had one I gave her another ring and she came down at once.”

Dalgliesh said: “And she didn’t insist on coming down to your flat as soon as you returned?”

“No. Frances never intrudes if she thinks someone wants to be alone, and I did want to be alone at least for a little time. I wasn’t quite ready to give explanations, hear expressions of sympathy. What I needed was a drink and a bath. I had both and then rang Frances. I knew she was anxious and I didn’t want to keep her waiting until the morning to learn what had happened. I thought the whisky would make me feel better, but in fact it made me feel rather sick. I suppose I had some kind of delayed shock. By the time she knocked on the door I wasn’t feeling too good. We sat up together for a little time and then she insisted that I went to bed. She said she would stay in the flat in case I needed something in the night. I think she was afraid that I might be a great deal more ill than I made out and that she ought to be at hand to telephone a doctor if anything went wrong. I didn’t try to dissuade her, although I knew that all I needed was a night’s rest. I thought she would sleep in my spare room but I believe she wrapped herself in a blanket and stayed next door in the sitting room. When I woke in the morning she was dressed and had made me a cup of tea. She insisted that I should stay at home, but I was feeling a great deal better by the time I was dressed and decided to go into Innocent House. We arrived together in the main hall just after the first launch of the day had arrived. That’s when we were told that Gerard was missing.”

Dalgliesh said: “And that was the first you knew of it?”

“Yes. It was his habit to work later than most of us, particularly on Thursdays. He was usually in later in the morning, except on the days when we had a partners’ meeting when he liked to begin promptly at ten. I’d assumed, of course, that he had gone home at about the time I left for my reading.”

“But you didn’t see him when you left for the Connaught Arms?”

“No, I didn’t see him.”

“Or see anyone entering Innocent House?”

“No one. I saw no one.”

“And when you were given the news that he was dead the three of you went up to the little archives office?”

“Yes, we went up together, Stilgoe, de Witt and myself. It was a natural response to the news, I suppose, the need to see for oneself. James got there first. Stilgoe and I couldn’t keep up with him. Claudia was still kneeling by her brother’s body when we arrived. She got up and faced us and spread out one arm towards us. It was a curious gesture. It was as if she were displaying this enormity to public gaze.”

“And how long were you in the room?”

“It could only have been less than a minute. It seemed longer. We were bunched together just inside the door, looking, staring, unbelieving, appalled. I don’t think anyone spoke. I know I didn’t. Everything in the room was extremely vivid. The shock seemed to have jarred my eyes into an extraordinary keenness of perception. I saw every detail of Gerard’s body and of the room itself with astonishing clarity. Then Stilgoe spoke. He said: ‘I’ll telephone the police. We can do nothing here. This room must be locked at once and I’ll keep the key.’ He took over. We left together and Claudia locked the door after us. Stilgoe took the key. The rest you know.”

During the innumerable discussions of the tragedy which were to occupy the following weeks and months, it was generally agreed by the staff of the Peverell Press that the experience of Marjorie Spenlove had been singular. Miss Spenlove, senior copy editor, had arrived at Innocent House punctually at her usual hour of 9.15. She had murmured a “good morning” to George who, sitting stricken at his switchboard, hadn’t noticed her. Lord Stilgoe, Dauntsey and de Witt were in the little archives room with the body, Mrs. Demery was ministering to Blackie in the ground-floor cloakroom surrounded by the rest of the staff and the hall was for a few minutes empty. Miss Spenlove went straight up to her room, took off her jacket and settled down to work. When working she was oblivious to everything except the text before her. It was claimed by Peverell Press that no work copy-edited by Miss Spenlove ever contained an undetected error. She was at her best working on non-fiction, occasionally finding it difficult, with young modern novelists, to distinguish between grammatical mistakes and their cultivated and much-praised natural style. Her expertise went beyond
details of the words; no geographical or historical inaccuracy went unchecked, no inconsistencies of weather, topography or dress unnoticed. Authors valued her even though their session with her to approve the final text left them feeling that they had undergone a particularly traumatic session with an intimidating headmistress of the old school.

Sergeant Robbins and a detective constable had searched the premises soon after their arrival. The search had been a little perfunctory; no one could seriously expect that the murderer was still on the premises unless he or she was a member of the staff. But Sergeant Robbins, perhaps excusably, had neglected to look in the small lavatory on the second floor. Descending to fetch Gabriel Dauntsey, his sharp ears detected the sound of a cough from the adjoining office and, opening the door, he found himself confronting an elderly lady working at a desk. Regarding him sternly above her half-moon spectacles she enquired: “And who may you be?”

“Detective Sergeant Robbins of the Metropolitan Police, madam. How did you get in?”

“Through the door. I work here. This is my office. I am the senior copy editor of Peverell Press. As such I have a right to be here. I very much doubt whether that could be said of you.”

“I’m here on duty, madam. Mr. Gerard Etienne has been found dead under suspicious circumstances.”

“You mean someone has murdered him?”

“We can’t be sure of that yet.”

“When did he die?”

“We shall know more after the forensic pathologist has reported.”

“How did he die?”

“We don’t yet know the cause of death.”

“It seems to me, young man, that there is very little you do know. Perhaps you had better come back when you are better informed.”

Sergeant Robbins opened his mouth then shut it firmly, just managing to prevent himself saying, “Yes, miss. Very good, miss.” He disappeared, closing the door behind him, and was halfway down the stairs before realizing that he hadn’t asked the woman’s name. He would, of course, learn it in time. It was a small omission in a brief encounter which, he admitted, hadn’t gone well. Being honest and given to mild speculation, he also admitted that part of the reason was the woman’s uncanny resemblance in appearance and voice to Miss Addison, who had been his first teacher when he moved up from the infants’ school and who had believed that children do best and are happiest when they know from the start who is boss.

Miss Spenlove was more shaken by the news than she had let him see. After completing work on the page she telephoned the switchboard.

“George, could you find Mrs. Demery for me?” In seeking information she believed in going to an expert. “Mrs. Demery? There’s a young man roaming the building who claims to be a detective sergeant of the Metropolitan Police. He told me that Mr. Etienne is dead, possibly murdered. If you know anything about it, perhaps you could come up and enlighten me. And I’m ready for my coffee.”

Mrs. Demery, abandoning Miss Blackett to the ministrations of Mandy, was only too eager to oblige.

Dalgliesh, with Kate, conducted the remaining interviews with the partners in Gerard Etienne’s office. Daniel was occupied in the little archives room where the gas man was already at work dismantling the fire and, when this was completed and samples of any chimney debris despatched to the lab, would go on to Wapping Police Station to set up the incident room. Dalgliesh had already spoken to the station superintendent who had accepted philosophically the need for the intrusion and the temporary use of one of his offices. Dalgliesh hoped that it wouldn’t be for long. If this was murder, and he now had no doubt in his own mind that it was, then the number of possible suspects was unlikely to be great.

He had no wish to sit at Etienne’s desk, partly because of sensitivity to the feelings of the partners, but principally because a confrontation across four feet of pale oak invested any interview with a formality which was more likely to inhibit or antagonize a suspect than elicit helpful information. There was, however, a small conference table in the same wood, with six chairs, close to the windows, and they seated themselves
there. The long walk from the door would be intimidating for all but the most self-possessed, but he doubted whether it would worry Claudia or James de Witt.

The room had obviously once been a dining room but its elegance had been desecrated by the end partition which cut across the oval stucco decorations on the ceiling and bisected one of the four tall windows which looked out on Innocent Passage. The magnificent marble fireplace with its elegant carving was in Miss Blackett’s office. And here in Etienne’s office the furniture—desk, chairs, conference table and filing cabinets—was almost aggressively modern. They might have been chosen to be deliberately at odds with the marble pilasters and porphyry entablatures, the two magnificent chandeliers, one almost touching the partition, and the gilt of picture frames against the pale green of the walls. The pictures were conventional rural scenes, almost certainly Victorian. They were well- but a little overpainted, too sentimental for his taste. He doubted whether these were the pictures which had originally hung here and he wondered what portraits of the Peverells had once graced these walls. There was still one piece of the original furniture: a marble and bronze wine-table, obviously Regency. So one reminder of past glories, at least, was still in use. He wondered what Frances Peverell thought of the room’s desecration and whether now, with Gerard Etienne dead, the partition would be taken down. He wondered, too, if Gerard Etienne had been insensitive to all architecture or only disregarding of this particular house. Was the partitioning, the discordant modern furnishing, his comment on the unsuitability of the room for his purposes, a deliberate rejection of a past which had been dominated by Peverells not Etiennes?

Claudia Etienne walked across the thirty feet towards him
with confident grace and seated herself as if she were conferring a favour. She was very pale, but had herself well under control, although he suspected that her hands, plunged in the pockets of her cardigan, would have been more revealing than her taut grave face. He offered his condolences simply and, he hoped, sincerely but she cut him short.