Peter Lovesey - Rough Cider

“She’s convinced that her father was wrongly convicted.”

“Apparently.”

“You don’t seem at all surprised. I suppose the paper put her up to this.”

Digby tried to look inscrutable.

I said with my anger held in check, “Doesn’t your rag have any sense of responsibility? The girl is fanatical. She’s loosing off some extraordinary accusations. At one stage today she even suggested I fired the fatal shot. A kid of nine.”

‘That is a bit over the top,” Digby had the graciousness to say.

I hoped he would still feel the same when she put it to him herself. I added, “It’s slanderous nonsense, and if I took it seriously, I’d want to know precisely how your paper is involved.”

Digby dipped his mouth to the beer.

Having got that across, I said in a public-spirited vein, “What bothers me is that if there were grounds for doubting the Donovan verdict, this is not the right way to examine them.”

“Possibly not,” Digby conceded.

“As a crime reporter, you know the form,” I went on. “Let’s suppose some evidence turned up suggesting that a miscarriage of justice had occurred, and a man had been falsely convicted of murder. Hanged, in fact. Is there anything one could do within the law to clear his name?”

The fleshy mounds around Digby’s eyes slid aside to reveal an interested gleam. “This is hypothetical?”

“Naturally.”

“It would depend.”

“On what?”

“In the first place, the quality of the evidence.”

“Irrefutable.”

Digby sniffed. “You’d be unwise to claim that it was. Are we speaking of forensic evidence, a new witness, or what?”

“Never mind. Let’s say that the case for a new hearing was overwhelming.”

He grinned. “It might overwhelm you or me, old sport, but try overwhelming the Home Office and see what happens.”

“Is that the procedure? One applies to the Home Office?”

“You can try.”

“You don’t sound optimistic.”

“I have personal knowledge of three families who’ve been sending in petitions for years.”

“So what would you suggest?”

He drained his glass, peered at me artfully, and said, “I haven’t enough to go on yet.”

Waiting to be served, I took stock. Talking to the press goes against the grain, but I was damn sure Alice would be on to him in the morning.

Over that second pint I gave him a rapid rundown on the day’s discoveries, stopping with our departure from the Royal Crescent. I didn’t explain why Alice was spending the night in a seedy hotel in Bath. He listened and made no comment except a belch that I like to believe was inadvertent.

He must have felt he’d profited in some way, because he heaved himself off the chair to buy the next round. When he returned with the glasses, he asked what I proposed to do next.

“That’s why I’m here,” I explained. “Is there any point in pursuing this, opening old wounds, if it achieves nothing in the end?”

Digby pondered the question. “Candidly, the chances of getting a royal pardon for Donovan, if that’s what you have in mind, are smaller than infinitesimal.” He beamed. “Said that well after two pints, didn’t I? It’s a textbook case, as you know. Every lad who’s passed through police college has heard of the skull in the cider.”

“No one’s questioning the work that was done on the skull,” I pointed out.

“Ah, but it takes the gilt off the gingerbread if some bright chappy from Pangbourne proves that they got the wrong man in the end.”

“True, but…”

“There’s another thing. This is a jaundiced old pressman speaking, but let’s not forget the international angle. Young American soldier helps us win the war and how do we show our gratitude. Wouldn’t do much for the Atlantic alliance, would it? It’s a hot potato, this one.”

“You’re saying we’d get nowhere through official channels?” Actually, it was what I’d expected him to say.

“Nothing short of a confession signed by the murderer would do any good.” He emptied his glass again. “Mind you, that’s only a personal opinion.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Digby leaned back and displayed the triple-tiered flesh below his chin. “A direct appeal to Joe Public. It’s the only sure way to win this one.”

Playing dumb, I asked, “How would you go about it?”

“Through the paper-if we got that evidence.”

I said in a low voice. “It’s just possible I could obtain it. The real thing, not wild accusations.”

His mouth jutted open, and a glassy look appeared in his eyes. The scoop of a lifetime was beckoning to Digby Watmore. “And you need some help from me?”

“No.”

He reddened. “You and I could handle this together. No need to bring in the Fleet Street boys at this stage. We could come to terms, I’m certain. Generous terms.”

“That’s not important to me.”

“What do you need, then?”

“Time. Two or three days without Miss Ashenfelter breathing down my neck.”

“Then you’ll give me an exclusive?”

I put out my right hand.

Digby smiled hugely and gripped it.

Monday morning, ten A.M. Twenty-six first-years looked expectantly towards me. On their syllabus sheets they had a lecture on the Venerable Bede scheduled for this hour. They were in for a disappointment.

Adhering to my belief that honesty is the best policy, I announced, “I’d better confess that I neglected to prepare this lecture. I spent the weekend with a blonde instead of Bede.”

This was met with disbelieving jeers and a shout that I ought to be ashamed of myself.

“Indeed I am,” I told them. “And to save my good name and reputation, I’ve brought in my slides of the great cathedrals and abbeys of Europe. Would you turn out the lights, Miss Hooper?”

Thank God for the great cathedrals and abbeys of Europe. My first reaction on waking at 8:50 A.M. had been to reach for the Alka-Seltzers and my slide projector. Just try ad-libbing for an hour on Bede.

When it was over, I made a phone call from the Senior Common Room. Sally Ashenfelter answered, reciting her number with a crispness that sounded encouragingly sober.

‘This is Theo Sinclair,” I told her. “Visited you yesterday, remember?” I was far from confident that she would.

“Why, yes. The evacuee. I’m afraid my husband isn’t here this morning, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Actually, I wanted to speak to you.”

“Me?”

“We didn’t have much time to talk. There were a couple of things I’m most anxious to ask you about.”

Oh?”

“I’m speaking from the university, Mrs. Ashenfelter. It’s a little public here. Do you think we could meet?” I was about to say “For a drink,” when empty vodka bottles clinked a warning in my head.

“In Bath, do you mean?” asked Sally.

“The Pump Room,” I said on an impulse, “for a coffee.”

She hesitated. “Which day did you have in mind?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Let’s see… Harry’s going to be out all day, so that’s all right. Someone’s coming in the morning. I can’t put them off.” She thought a moment and suggested casually, “How about a lunchtime drink in the Francis?”

Alcoholics are smart operators. “Difficult,” I said. “Afternoon tea in the Pump Room?”

She laughed. “Cucumber sandwiches, the three-piece orchestra and all? All right. Let’s meet at three, before it gets too crowded.”

“I’ll have reserved a table,” I promised.

I spent the next hour in the history department’s library making up time.

Towards lunch, I scooped my books into a more tidy pile, walked down a staircase, through two sets of swing doors, and into the narrow office where a far-from-narrow secretary called Pippa received visitors to the psychology department. Pippa could pin you to the wall with one deep breath.