Original Sin (47 page)

James de Witt said: “I didn’t hear a taxi, and neither Miss Peverell nor I saw or heard anyone or anything in Innocent Lane after my arrival. There were the usual sounds from the river, but muted by the curtains. I think there was a certain amount of noise earlier in the evening but I can’t remember when. It certainly wasn’t unusual enough to cause us to go out on the balcony and see what was happening. One gets used to noises on the river.”

Inspector Aaron spoke: “How did you get here tonight, sir, by car?”

“By taxi. I don’t drive in London. I ought to have said
earlier that I came from home. I wasn’t in the office this afternoon. I had a dental check-up.”

Suddenly Frances Peverell said: “What was in her bag? It looked heavy.”

Inspector Miskin said: “It is heavy. This is why.”

She took the plastic bag from Inspector Aaron and tipped out the shoulder bag onto the table.

They watched while she undid the straps. The manuscript was bound in a pale blue manila cover with the name of the novel and of the author in capitals:
DEATH ON PARADISE ISLAND BY ESMÉ CARLING
. And written across the cover in thick red ink were scrawled the words “Rejected—and after Thirty Years,” followed by three huge exclamation marks.

Frances Peverell said: “So she brought that with her as well as the suicide note. We’re all a little to blame. We should have acted with more kindness. But to kill herself … And to do it like that. The loneliness, and the horror. Poor woman.”

She turned away, and James de Witt moved closer to her but didn’t touch her. He said, turning to Inspector Miskin: “Look, do we have to talk any more tonight? We’re all in shock, and it’s not as if there’s any doubt.”

Inspector Miskin replaced the manuscript in the bag. She said quietly: “There is always doubt until we know the facts. When did Miss Carling learn that the firm had rejected her novel?”

James de Witt replied: “Mrs. Carling. She’s a widow. She divorced some time ago and her husband died since. She knew the morning Gerard Etienne died. She came into the office to see him but we were at the board meeting and she had to leave for a book signing at Cambridge. But you know all that.”

“The signing that was cancelled before she arrived?”

“Yes, that signing.”

“And has she been in touch with either of you since Mr. Etienne’s death or with anyone at the firm as far as you know?”

Again de Witt and Frances Peverell looked at each other. De Witt said: “Not with me. Has she been in touch with you, Frances?”

“No, not a word. It’s rather odd when you come to think of it. If only we’d been able to talk, to explain, this might not have happened.”

It was Inspector Aaron who suddenly broke the silence. He said: “Who was it who decided to pull her out of the river?”

“I did.” Frances Peverell turned on him her mild but reproachful look.

“You surely didn’t think you’d be able to resuscitate her?”

“No, I don’t think I thought that, but it was so terrible to see her hanging there. So …” She paused and then said, “So inhuman.”

De Witt said: “We’re not all police officers, Inspector, some of us still have human instincts.”

Inspector Aaron flushed, glanced at Inspector Miskin and with difficulty controlled his temper.

Inspector Miskin said quietly: “Let us hope you manage to retain them. I expect Miss Price would like to go home now. Inspector Aaron and I will drive her.”

Mandy said with the obstinacy of a child: “I don’t want to be driven. I want to go home by myself on the bike.”

Frances Peverell said gently: “Your bike will be perfectly safe here, Mandy. If you like we could lock it in the garage at number ten.”

“I don’t want to leave it in the garage. I want to ride home on it.”

In the end she had her way, but Inspector Miskin insisted on the police car driving behind her. Mandy took some pleasure
in weaving in and out of the traffic and making it as difficult as possible for them to keep up with her.

When they got to her house on Stratford High Street, Inspector Miskin, looking up at the darkened windows, said: “I thought you said there would be someone at home.”

“There is someone at home. They’re all in the kitchen. Look, I can look after myself. I’m not a kid, OK? Just get off my back, will you?”

She dismounted and Inspector Aaron got out of the car and helped her lift the Yamaha through the front door and into the hall. Without a word she shut the door firmly after him.

Daniel said: “It wouldn’t have hurt her to say thank you. She’s a tough cookie that one.”

“She’s in shock.”

“Not so shocked she couldn’t eat her dinner.”

Wapping Police Station was quiet and they saw only one officer as they mounted the stairs to the incident room. They stood for a moment at the window before drawing the curtains. The clouds had lifted now, and the river flowed wide and calm, bearing its patterns and swirls of light under the prickling of high stars. But there was always an unnatural sense of peace and isolation in a station at night. Even when it was busy, and the calm momentarily broken by loud male voices and heavy footfalls, the air held a peculiar stillness, as if the world outside with its violence, its terrors, could lie in wait but had no power to disturb that essential tranquillity. There was, too, a deepening comradeship; colleagues talked less often but more freely. But they could expect no comradeship at Wapping. She knew that they were to an extent intruders. The police station was offering them hospitality,
affording them all the facilities they needed, but they were still outsiders.

Dalgliesh was visiting the Durham Constabulary on some mysterious business of the Commissioners, and she didn’t know whether he had yet left for London. She put through her call and was told that he was thought to be still there. They would make an attempt to find him and ask him to ring back.

While waiting, she said: “You were sure of her alibi? Esmé Carling’s, I mean. She was at home the night Etienne died?”

Daniel seated himself at his desk and began playing with the computer. He said, trying to keep the irritation from his voice: “Yes, I’m sure. You’ve read my report. She was with the kid, Daisy Reed, from the same block of flats. They were together the whole evening and until midnight or after. The kid confirmed it. I wasn’t incompetent, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not. Cool it, Daniel. But she was never really a suspect, was she? The blocked flue, the frayed cord—it all needed too much advance planning. We never saw her as a possible murderess.”

“So you’re suggesting that I was too easily satisfied?”

“No, I’m just checking that you were satisfied.”

“Look, I went with Robbins and a WPC from the Juvenile Bureau. I interviewed Esmé Carling and the kid separately. They were together that night, most nights if it comes to that. The mother would be out at her job—stripping, or night-clubbing, or a spot of prostitution, or whatever—and the kid would wait until she’d gone, then sneak off and spend the evening with Carling. Apparently it suited them both. I checked on every detail of that Thursday night and their accounts tallied. The kid didn’t want to admit she’d been with Carling at first. She was a bit scared that her mother would stop the arrangement or that the Juvenile Bureau would get in
touch with Social Services and she’d end in care. They did of course—get in touch with Social Services, I mean. They could hardly do anything else, given the circumstances. The kid was telling the truth. Why the doubt anyway?”

“But it’s odd, isn’t it? Here you have a woman whose book has been turned down after thirty years. She comes roaring in fury to Innocent House to have it out with Gerard Etienne. She’s prevented from seeing him because he’s in a board meeting. Then she goes off to do a signing and discovers on arrival that someone from Innocent House has cancelled it. By then I imagine she was incoherent with rage. So what would you expect her to do? Go home quietly and write a letter or storm back that evening to confront Etienne? She probably knew that he worked late on Thursdays. Nearly everyone concerned with Innocent House seems to have known that. And her behaviour since is odd too. She knew that Gerard Etienne was the one principally responsible for rejecting the manuscript. Now Gerard Etienne is dead. So why didn’t she come back and make another attempt to get the book accepted?”

“She probably knew that it wouldn’t be any use. The partners wouldn’t like to reverse a decision of Etienne’s so soon after his death. Anyway, they probably agreed with it.”

Kate went on: “And there are several odd things about tonight, aren’t there? Frances Peverell and de Witt would almost certainly have heard the taxi if it had come up Innocent Lane to the usual entrance. So where exactly did she ask to be dropped?”

“Probably somewhere in Innocent Walk, then she went on foot to the river. She knew that a taxi might be heard on the cobbles of Innocent Lane either by Dauntsey or Miss Peverell. Or she may have been dropped at the end of Innocent Passage. That’s the access closest to where she was found.”

“But the gate at the end of the passage is locked. If she got to the river that way, then who opened the gate for her and locked it again? And what about the message? Did it really read to you like a suicide note?”

“It’s not typical, perhaps; but, then, what is a typical suicide note? A jury wouldn’t have much difficulty in convincing themselves that it’s genuine.”

“And written when?”

“I suppose just before she killed herself. It’s hardly the kind of thing you concoct in advance and keep handy in case you should suddenly need it.”

“Then why no mention of Gerard Etienne’s death? She must have known that he was chiefly responsible for rejecting her novel. Well, of course she knew. Mandy Price and Miss Blackett have both described how she burst into the office to see him. Surely his death must have made a difference to how she felt about Peverell Press. And even if it didn’t—if she still felt the same bitterness—isn’t it odd that the note doesn’t even mention his death?”

Then the telephone rang and Dalgliesh was on the line. Kate gave her report clearly and concisely, explaining that they hadn’t been able to contact Doc Wardle who was out on a case but hadn’t tried to find a substitute since the body had been moved. It was now at the mortuary. It seemed to Daniel that she listened for a long time without speaking, except for an occasional “Yes sir.”

Eventually she put down the receiver. She said: “He’s flying back tonight. We’re not to interview anyone at Innocent House until we get the results of the PM. They can wait. Tomorrow you’re to try and trace the taxi and check whether anyone on the river that night saw anything, including any boat party who passed between seven o’clock and the time
before Mandy found the body. We’ve got the keys to Carling’s flat from her bag and apparently there’s no next of kin, so we’re going there tomorrow morning. It’s in Hammersmith. Mount Eagle Mansions. He wants Mrs. Carling’s agent to meet us there at eleven-thirty. First thing tomorrow he and I are going to re-interview Daisy Reed. And there’s something else. Damn it, Daniel, we should have thought of it ourselves. AD wants the scene-of-crime officers here first thing tomorrow to examine the launch. The Peverell Press will have to make other arrangements to collect their staff from Charing Cross. God I feel such a bloody fool. AD must be wondering if we ever see ahead further than our own noses.”

“So he thinks she used the launch to string herself up. It would certainly have been easier.”

“Carling used it—or someone else.”

“But the launch was tied up in its usual place on the other side of the steps.”

“Exactly. So, if it was used, then someone moved it before and after she died. Prove that and we’re getting closer to proving that this was murder.”

By ten o’clock Gabriel Dauntsey had gone down to let himself into his own flat and James de Witt and Frances were alone. Both realized that they were hungry. Mandy had finished both portions of the duck but neither would have felt equal to its richness. They were in the uncomfortable state of needing food but without being able to think of anything they actually wanted to eat. In the end Frances cooked a large herb omelette and they shared it with more pleasure than either would have thought possible. As if by an unspoken agreement they said little about Esmé Carling’s death.

Before Dauntsey left Frances had said: “We’re all responsible, aren’t we? None of us really stood up to Gerard. We ought to have insisted on a discussion about Esmé’s future. Someone should have seen her, talked to her.”

James had said gently: “Frances, we couldn’t have published that book. I don’t mean because it was a commercial book, we need popular fiction. But it was bad popular fiction. It was a bad book.”

And Frances had replied: “A bad book? The ultimate crime,
the sin against the Holy Ghost. Well, she’s certainly paid highly for it.”

The bitterness, the irony had surprised him. The comment had been so unlike her. But she had lost some of her old gentleness and passivity since the break-up with Gerard. He saw the change with a tinge of regret, but recognized that this was one more manifestation of his recurrent psychological need to search out and love the vulnerable, the innocent, the hurt and the weak, to give rather than to receive. He knew that it didn’t make for an equal relationship, that a constant uncritical kindness could in its subtle condescension be as oppressive to the loved one as cruelty or neglect. Was this how he bolstered his ego, by the knowledge that he was needed, depended upon, admired for a compassion which when he looked at it with honest eyes was a particularly subtle form of emotional patronage and spiritual pride? Was he any better than Gerard for whom sex was part of his personal power game and who got a kick out of seducing a devout virgin because he knew that, for her, surrender had been a mortal sin? He had always loved Frances, he still loved her. He wanted her in his life, in his house, in his bed, as well as in his heart. Perhaps it was possible now that they could love on equal terms.

Tonight he was reluctant to leave her but there was no choice. Rupert’s buddy, Ray, had to leave by 11.30 and Rupert was too ill to be alone even for a few hours. And there was another difficulty. He felt that he could hardly suggest that he should spend the night in her spare room without presumption. She might, after all, prefer to confront her private demons alone rather than have the inconvenience of his presence. And there was something more. He wanted to make love to her but it was too important to happen because shock and grief had made her vulnerable so that she came to his bed not
from an equal desire but from the need to be comforted. He thought: What a mess we’re all in. How hard it is to know ourselves and, when we do, how difficult to change.