Роберт Гэлбрейт - Lethal White

‘Nothing whatsoever.’

‘When he asked me to find a way of countering his blackmailers, he told me that whatever he’d done happened six years ago. He implied to me that it wasn’t illegal when he did it, but is now.’

‘I’ve no idea what that could have been. Jasper was a very law-abiding type, you know. Whole family, pillars of the community, churchgoers, they’ve done masses for the local area . . . ’

A litany of Chiswellian beneficence followed, which rolled on for a couple of minutes and did not fool Strike in the slightest. Drummond was obfuscating, he was sure, because Drummond knew exactly what Chiswell had done. He became almost lyrical as he extolled the innate goodness of Jasper, and of the entire family, excepting, always, the scapegrace Raphael.

‘ . . . and hand always in his pocket,’ Drummond concluded, ‘mini­bus for the local Brownies, repairs to the church roof, even after the family finances . . . well, well,’ he said again, in a little embarrassment.

‘The blackmailable offence,’ Strike began again, but Drummond interrupted.

‘There was no offence.’ He caught himself. ‘You just said it yourself. Jasper told you he had done nothing illegal. No law was broken.’

Deciding that it would do no good to push Drummond harder about the blackmail, Strike turned a page in his notebook, and thought he saw the other relax.

‘You called Chiswell on the morning he died,’ said Strike.

‘I did.’

‘Would that have been the first time you’d spoken since sacking Raphael?’

‘Actually, no. There had been a conversation a couple of weeks prior to that. M’wife wanted to invite Jasper and Kinvara over for dinner. I called him at DCMS, breaking the ice, you know, after the Raphael business. It wasn’t a long conversation, but amicable enough. He said they couldn’t make the night suggested. He also told me . . . well, to be frank, he told me he wasn’t sure how much longer he and Kinvara would be together, that the marriage was in trouble. He sounded tired, exhausted . . . unhappy.’

‘You had no more contact until the thirteenth?’

‘We had no contact even then,’ Drummond reminded him. ‘I phoned Jasper, yes, but there was no answer. Izzy tells me—’ He faltered. ‘She tells me that he was probably already dead.’

‘It was early for a call,’ said Strike.

‘I . . . had information I thought he should have.’

‘Of what kind?’

‘It was personal.’

Strike waited. Drummond sipped his tea.

‘It related to the family finances, which as I imagine you know, were very poor at the time Jasper died.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’d sold off land and remortgaged the London property, offloaded all the good paintings through me. He was right down to the dregs, at the end, trying to sell me some of old Tinky’s leavings. It was . . . a little embarrassing, actually.’

‘How so?’

‘I deal in Old Masters,’ said Drummond. ‘I do not buy paintings of spotted horses by unknown Australian folk artists. As a courtesy to Jasper, being an old friend, I had some of it valued with my usual man at Christie’s. The only thing that had any monetary worth at all was a painting of a piebald mare and foal—’

‘I think I’ve seen that,’ said Strike.

‘—but it was worth peanuts,’ said Drummond. ‘Peanuts.’

‘How much, at a guess?’

‘Five to eight thousand at a push,’ said Drummond dismissively.

‘Quite a lot of peanuts to some people,’ said Strike.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Henry Drummond, ‘that wouldn’t have repaired a tenth of the roof at Chiswell House.’

‘But he was considering selling it?’ asked Strike.

‘Along with half a dozen others,’ said Drummond.

‘I had the impression that Mrs Chiswell was particularly attached to that painting.’

‘I don’t think his wife’s wishes were of much importance to him by the end . . . Oh dear,’ sighed Drummond, ‘this is all very difficult. I really don’t wish to be responsible for telling the family something that I know will only cause hurt and anger. They’re already suffering.’

He tapped his teeth with a nail.

‘I assure you,’ he said, ‘that the reason for my call cannot have any bearing on Jasper’s death.’

Yet he seemed in two minds.

‘You must speak to Raphael,’ he said, clearly choosing his words with care, ‘because I think . . . possibly . . . I don’t like Raphael,’ he said, as though he had not already made that perfectly clear, ‘but I think, actually, he did an honourable thing on the morning his father died. At least, I can’t see what he personally had to gain by it, and I think he’s keeping silent about it for the same reason as myself. Being in the family, he is better placed to decide what to do than I can be. Speak to Raphael.’

Strike had the impression that Henry Drummond would rather Raphael made himself unpopular with the family.

There was a knock on the office door. Blonde Lucinda put her head inside.

‘Mrs Ross isn’t feeling terribly well, Henry; she’s going to go, but she’d like to say goodbye.’

‘Yes, all right,’ said Drummond, getting to his feet. ‘I don’t think I can be of more use, I’m afraid, Mr Strike.’

‘I’m very grateful for you seeing me,’ said Strike, also rising, though with difficulty, and picking up his walking stick again. ‘Could I ask one last thing?’

‘Certainly,’ said Drummond, pausing.

‘Do you understand anything by the phrase “he put the horse on them”?’

Drummond appeared genuinely puzzled.

‘Who put what horse . . . where?’

‘You don’t know what that might mean?’

‘I’ve really no idea. Terribly sorry, but as you’ve heard, I’ve got a client waiting.’

Strike had no alternative but to follow Drummond back into the gallery.

In the middle of the otherwise deserted gallery stood Lucinda, who was fussing over a dark, heavily pregnant woman sitting on a high chair, sipping water.

As he recognised Charlotte, Strike knew that this second encounter could not be a coincidence.

50

… you have branded me, once for all – branded me for life.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

‘Corm,’ she said weakly, gaping at him over the rim of her glass. She was pale, but Strike, who would have put nothing past her to stage a situation that she could use to her advantage, including skipping food or applying white foundation, merely nodded.

‘Oh, you know each other?’ said Drummond, surprised.

‘I must go,’ mumbled Charlotte, getting to her feet while the concerned Lucinda hovered. ‘I’m late, I’m meeting my sister.’

‘Are you sure you’re well enough?’ said Lucinda.

Charlotte gave Strike a tremulous smile.

‘Would you mind walking me up the road? It’s only a block.’

Drummond and Lucinda turned to Strike, clearly delighted to offload responsibility for this wealthy, well-connected woman onto his shoulders.

‘Not sure I’m the best person for the job,’ said Strike, indicating his stick.

He felt Drummond and Lucinda’s surprise.

‘I’ll give you plenty of warning if I think I’m actually going into labour,’ said Charlotte. ‘Please?’

He could have said ‘No’. He might have said, ‘Why don’t you get your sister to meet you here?’ A refusal, as she knew well, would make him appear churlish in front of people he might need to talk to again.

‘Fine,’ he said, keeping his voice just the right side of brusque.

‘Thanks so much, Lucinda,’ said Charlotte, sliding down from the chair.

She was wearing a beige silk trench coat over a black T-shirt, maternity jeans and sneakers. Everything she wore, even these casual things, was of fine quality. She had always favoured monochrome colours, stark or classic designs, against which her remarkable beauty was thrown into relief.