Peter Lovesey - Mad Hatter

She lowered her eyelids. ‘You must think me very foolish, Sergeant, to have attempted to deceive you.’

‘Not foolish, Ma’am. I understand your reasons. If I may say so, it was a spirited account of the fireworks, considering you weren’t awake at the time.’

She smiled faintly. ‘One goes to extreme lengths to avoid a scandal when one’s living is founded on public confidence, as ours is. The smallest suggestion of anything improper can decimate a medical practice, Sergeant. I’m sure you’ll find Bridget’s murderer and bring him to trial, but he can expect to receive more justice than we shall. There is no question that in the eyes of my husband’s patients as they read their newspapers in Dorking we shall be condemned, without reference to a judge and jury. Who is going to consult a doctor whose name is mentioned in connection with a murder, whose wife is shown to be dependent upon a sleeping-drug and whose son swam on a public beach with a female servant? There is no question of it: we shall have to move away, hoping that when our names are no longer household words we can purchase a practice in some other part of the country. But I wonder whether we shall survive at all as a family. We have lived with secrets, Sergeant, things that will rend us apart when they are revealed, as now they must be. In my weakness I stood by while Guy indulged in his silly antics in the sea with Bridget, knowing it would cause the gravest offence to my husband, but believing he would never have cause to know about it.’

‘Perhaps he guessed the truth,’ said Cribb.

She shook her head. ‘Never. He would have stopped it at once. I had my instructions, but I was not equal to them. Yet that is not all that I dread. When my husband went out by afternoon and evening, sometimes returning very late, I kept telling myself that I believed his stories of visiting former patients. For peace of mind I did not seek to discover the truth, Sergeant-how many thousand neglected women have done the same? — I took my sleeping preparation and sought oblivion. But now there will be no escape from the truth. I shall hear where he was on Saturday and I do not know what I shall have to forgive. I do not know whether the removal of our illusions is the best thing. Sergeant, is it so unforgivable to have tried in our clumsy way to conceal the fact that Bridget was probably your dead woman on the beach?’

‘I’m in no position to forgive it, Ma’am,’ said Cribb, ‘but when you put it that way I can understand.’

‘Now, Thackeray. I’ve told you about my meeting with Mrs. Prothero. I’d be obliged if you’d give me your account of the meeting you had with Miss Floyd-Whittingham.’

Thackeray took out his pocket-notebook and cleared his throat in the best police-court manner. He was now becoming accustomed to the solemn little exchanges of information in the interviewing-room at Grafton Street police station, but the first time it had happened you could have knocked him down with a police-issue pencil. It was contrary to everything he knew about Cribb’s way of conducting inquiries. Anyone assisting Cribb was expected to glean a full understanding of developments from listening for occasional utterances never more than half a dozen words in length and watching for the tell-tale tilt of an eyebrow, or the twitch of a cheek-muscle. There were rumours, of course, that after Cribb’s music hall murder investigation, criticism had been voiced in certain quarters of sergeants who ordered constables to perform manoeuvres in ignorance of their full implications, but Cribb was unlikely to be influenced by that. It was far more likely that the Brighton ozone had gone to his head.

‘In accordance with my instructions,’ Thackeray began, ‘I proceeded to Lewes Crescent, arriving there shortly after eleven o’clock. Upon knocking at the door and announcing my business I was admitted by a maidservant who informed me that Miss Floyd-Whittingham was at breakfast. I impressed upon her the seriousness of my business and she agreed to take me to her Mistress without delay. I followed in anticipation of being admitted to the breakfast-room, but found myself instead being led upstairs and shown into what-er-not to beat about the bush-I found to be Miss Floyd-Whittingham’s bedroom.’

‘Her bedroom? ‘ Cribb brought down his hand noisily on his thigh. ‘Thackeray, how do you manage it? You can make a compromising situation out of anything. Where was Miss Samantha, then?’

‘In bed, Sarge. With a boiled egg on a silver tray.’ He resumed his evidence-giving manner. ‘Naturally, I apologised for the intrusion, but she did not give the appearance of being discomfited.’

‘She didn’t disappear screaming under the bedclothes, you mean? Go on.’

‘She was decently covered with a white lace garment. I sat on a chair-it was quite ten feet from the bed-and explained the reason for my visit. I handled it delicate, Sarge, as you suggested, saying we was tracing the movements of a number of people on Saturday night. She admitted quite readily that she was at the ball with Dr. Prothero-called him Gregory. They was in the Dome from nine o’clock onwards, except for half an hour when they watched the fireworks from the Steine Gardens. That was between half past nine and ten. Otherwise they was there until one in the morning. She’s got a card with his name against the dances to prove it, Lancers and Galopades and Polkas. Gregory all the way down to the Last Waltz. She’ll vouch for him, I’m sure.’

‘Hm. Did she volunteer anything else about him-where she met him, for instance?’

‘In church, Sarge. She didn’t know he was married at first. He’s always behaved very proper, she said. He’s a decent, warm-hearted man and his wife don’t understand him.’

Cribb gave the celebrated tilt of the right eyebrow. ‘That’s one view of Prothero, then. What about Samantha? What’s your opinion of her, Constable?’

Thackeray tilted both eyebrows. ‘Oh, a regular beauty, Sarge! No question of it. A face like a china doll and a show of red hair I’ve never seen the equal of. I suppose she wears it different when she goes out, but it was hanging loose down her back when I saw it. I don’t know what she’s like dressed and on her feet, Sarge, but she’s a stunner in bed, I promise you!’

Cribb winced. ‘I believe it Thackeray, but I wouldn’t bandy it about in quite those terms if I were you. People jump to wrong conclusions.’

‘What bothers me,’ said Thackeray, undaunted, ‘is what a handsome young woman like that sees in a man of Prothero’s age-even allowing that he’s a dapper little toff.’

‘Oh, it’s not so unusual,’ said Cribb.

‘You’re right, Sarge! I do believe there’s a type of young woman that finds older men difficult to resist. I observed a certain look in Miss Floyd-Whittingham’s eyes as I entered the room.’

‘Focused on a grey beard, perhaps?’ murmured Cribb. ‘It sounds as though you had a lucky escape, Thackeray. You did escape, I take it? Never mind. We’ve more important things to discuss. Between us, we’ve now interviewed everyone who would seem to be connected with this case-Miss Floyd-Whittingham, the Protheros and Mr. Moscrop. I suppose there’s still the possibility of some complete stranger having met Bridget on the beach on Saturday night and murdered her, but in my experience that sort of killer doesn’t go to a deal of trouble afterwards to get rid of the body. No, I think we’ve met our murderer already. You’ve got your notebook there, and I’ve seen you working at it on and off throughout the week. If it wasn’t the Newmarket Handicap you were considering, I hope you’ve got something useful to contribute to the investigation by now.’