Barbara Cleverly - The Blood Royal

‘Listen. We had already eliminated the taxi girl.’ Joe steeled himself to deliver the disappointment. ‘Routine police work. Chappel called in a few favours on his old patch — excellent stuff — and we came up with Mrs Braithwaite. Not her real name. She keeps an annexe next to the Pinks Hotel with a useful rear entrance. High-class operation. Never one to give trouble. The calibre of the customers seems to render it immune to the prying eyes of the law. Indeed, some of their number are the prying eyes of the law. The lady was persuaded by someone more influential than Hopkirk to look in her books and verify the existence of Mr Mountfitchet’s visitor on the night in question. All is as you supposed, Wentworth. As, indeed, you have actually demonstrated by your intervention. You heard me tell the admiral’s family that she had been eliminated from our inquiries. You also heard me say the inquiry was concluded. No need for further investigation. I thought I’d made that clear.’

Joe was trying to be discouraging; he feared he was being bombastic and annoying.

To his surprise, she smiled at him and the smile was broad and free from any trace of irony. ‘Good old Inspector Chappel! Well done, that copper! Routine police work, as you say, sir. Glad to hear bread and butter bobbying is getting results!’

‘But you’re thinking — I know I am — that it would have been even better to have heard it before you opened negotiations with Mr Mountfitchet.’

‘Oh, I quite enjoyed it, sir. Stimulating. But I’m still puzzled. I thought you were looking for a civil motive for the killing. Are you now saying you’re happy to accept a political one? When it’s obvious that at the bottom of all this there’s a possibility that someone hired the Irishmen to do the killing for quite other reasons? That someone hired known Fenians deliberately, following the previous attacks on military men, to send everybody down the wrong trail? Well, it worked. And our villain stayed at the scene long enough to fire the decisive bullet when it looked as though his schemes were going wrong. It wasn’t an exotic goddess of terror we should have been looking for.’ She looked him in the eye as she delivered her thunderbolt. ‘It was a home-grown family member.’

Joe flinched and slowly nodded. He looked at the notebook she produced and passed across the desk to him. He looked at the last page. ‘Burlington Bertie? What are we to infer from that?’

‘I think you’ve already done your inferring, sir. And you’re as unhappy with it as I am. We’re each waiting for the other to go first.’

‘Yes. Well, it’s a concise image — for someone hanging on to consciousness. The cabby did well. Again! It’s a clear picture in two words of the man we’re looking for. A swaggering figure in top hat and tails. Everyone knows the music hall act. Everyone can sing the song. A man a little the worse for wear after a boozy night out. A toper staggering home down the street would be just part of the scenery in that area. You wouldn’t look at him twice.’

Lily took the book from him and began to read. ‘The cabby’s exact words were: “… pissed as a newt, he was. Couldn’t walk straight. But he could shoot straight all right.” And Dr Spilsbury confirms that. Single shot, right through the heart. So, a man, not drunk but unsteady on his feet.’ Her voice faltered. ‘I couldn’t help it, sir … the image of Sebastian Marland came to mind.’ She fell silent, colouring with embarrassment. ‘Oh, sorry, sir. When I say it out loud I can hear how ridiculous it sounds. I’ve gone and done it now, haven’t I? I must look a complete idiot. Um … I think I’d better make myself scarce. It’s been a long day. Sorry … I really will remove myself from the premises now.’

‘Stay!’ Joe spoke automatically. He got up, went to the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Apologetically, he smiled and said: ‘I’ve seen you move, Wentworth. You could outrun me as well as out-think me, so I take no chances. You won’t leave this room until you’ve signed the forms I put before you last evening. You’re into something way above your head … my fault entirely … but you must trust me to do the right thing as far as your career is concerned! I was just speaking to the Home Secretary…or being spoken to … for the umpteenth time today. I suppose you’d better hear what transpired this morning while you were out playing hopscotch!’

It was uncomfortable. It was demeaning. He was a high-ranking officer, for God’s sake! He could have this girl shorn of her epaulettes and buttons and stuck away in the Tower or somewhere quiet in five minutes, no questions asked. He owed her nothing. She was eminently dispensable. Why was he sitting behind his desk, at bay, hesitating to meet her eye?

Because, for a start, the wretched girl had — foolishly but bravely — put herself in bodily danger to single-handedly unearth evidence it had taken a squad of men days to piece together. Sandilands didn’t shoot sitting ducks, carrier pigeons or game out of season. And he didn’t undermine effective officers. Fair was fair. And besides, although, for old-fashioned reasons, he’d advised against the involvement of a woman at the outset, it had become very clear that this one, at any rate, had considerable talents. Talents they still had need of. They hadn’t finished with her yet, he told himself firmly. One last job to do. He thought hard and decided there was no risk involved for her. No risk at all.

And those damned eyes were hard to meet when you weren’t entirely sure that what you were telling them was the truth. Too big. And too grey. You might just as well try fibbing to the goddess Minerva. Or your nanny.

Joe fidgeted with his blotter and launched into his account. Always give the good news first. He tried for a positive tone, picking out the first favourable aspect of this whole murky affair that came to mind. ‘Well, it seems that Hopkirk and I had it right all along. A common domestic murder, not an assassination, is what we had to deal with. And what has triumphed in the end is — as you noted — good old regular police work. The superintendent has done some ferreting around in Sussex and reported back to me. He’s banged on doors and interviewed bank managers in the time-honoured way.’

He pulled a page of notes from under the telephone and glanced at them briefly. ‘Frog’s Green, that’s the village. Sebastian Marland’s motor business is not as healthy as we had been led to believe … managers sacked, disappointing trials … though banking records reveal no evidence that he is actually in debt yet. And he has an alibi for the night of the killing, if not a watertight one. His housekeeper, who appears devoted to the chap, declares he went to bed early and was still abed when she took him his early morning cup of tea. She’s the kind of lady whose evidence would stand up wonderfully in court … you can imagine?’

‘No mention of a phone call in the night?’

Joe smiled at her perception. ‘No. She reports that, after a hasty breakfast, the young master made two phone calls and screeched off in his car, claiming he was responding to an emergency.’

‘But didn’t Cassandra imply that she’d spoken to him in Sussex straight after the murder? I’m sure she told us she had.’

‘It was vaguely phrased to lead us astray. I don’t believe Cassandra has any idea that records of trunk calls are available to us. I checked. Many calls were made from her telephone that night, but none to Sussex. I don’t think we could make an accusation stick. He could certainly have sneaked off up to London. He could have loitered in evening dress in Melton Square or anywhere in Mayfair and not raised an eyebrow. He certainly wouldn’t have been bothered by the beat bobbies. As you say, upper-class drunks are ten a penny on a Saturday night. And, as the cabby observed, steady gun hand, unsteady on his pins. He could have done it. Hired the Irishmen and hung around to make sure they did the job. But we run into another factor that would get me a clip round the ear if I approached the Director of Public Prosecutions with a request for arraignment. There’s no kind of motive — financial, I mean — that would stand up and convince. He inherits a modest lump sum from his uncle and a yearly retainer for supervising the boys, and he had foreknowledge of that, but it’s a long way short of a fortune. No judge in the land would accept it as an incitement to murder.’