The Murder Cabinet: an Inspector Constable murder mystery (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 7)

by Roger Keevil

  “So what is it?” Constable held out his hand.

  Copper passed the crumpled sheet of paper across. “I only got a quick glance at it, guv, but it looks like the draft of a letter.”

  Constable took the sheet and smoothed it out on the top of the briefcase, while Copper moved to stand behind him to read over his shoulder. The paper was a sheet of the hotel’s headed notepaper, evidently extracted from the leather folder on the desk.

  “That’s a scrawl and a half, isn’t it, guv?” remarked the sergeant, as the pair surveyed the bold script littered with amendments and crossings-out.

  “That’s as may be, but the good thing is, it’s definitely Mrs. Ronson’s scrawl,” replied the inspector. “It matches her handwriting in the hotel register. So, let’s see what it’s all about.” He bent his head to peruse the letter’s contents.

  “‘It is with some regret that I accept your resignation’ ,” he read aloud. “Well, that’s clear enough. Somebody was on the way out.”

  “Except that we don’t know who, sir, do we? It’s not addressed.”

  “Patience, sergeant. We may find out if we read on. ‘Although we have …’ … there’s some crossing out here, so it’s not that easy to read, but it looks like ‘been close’, but then that’s been changed to ‘known each other’, but then that’s been crossed out as well, and she’s finally settled on ‘worked together for many years, I agree that, in the event of the latest …’ there’s a word here, but it’s been pretty much scribbled over … it might be ‘startling’ … ‘revelations, I believe there is no alternative.’”

  “Startling revelations, eh, guv?” smiled Copper. “Everybody’s been telling us how hunky-dory everything is. Are we starting to get somewhere?”

  “Let’s hope so.” Constable browsed further. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t look as if it’s going to go into specifics … ‘good of the government’s image’, but then ‘image’ has been crossed out and replaced by ‘reputation’ … ‘need to be seen to be above criticism’, but then she’s deleted that and inserted ‘reproach’ …” The inspector leaned back and sighed. “No, it doesn’t look as if it’s going to give us any clue as to who all this is referring to. And then it breaks off halfway through a sentence, and it’s obviously been screwed up and thrown in the bin. Well, near it. But the question that prompts is, why?”

  Copper shrugged. “Could be any number of reasons, guv. Maybe Mrs. Ronson thought better of it and decided she wasn’t going to accept the resignation of whoever-it-was after all. Maybe they thought that they could keep the lid on these startling revelations, whatever they were, if they hadn’t actually got out yet. Or maybe she just decided that she didn’t like what she’d written, what with all the crossings-out and all, and wanted to start again from scratch. It just so happened that she never got round to it, because there’s no follow-up draft. Or … here’s another thought, guv. What if whoever wrote the resignation letter …”

  “Which seems to have vanished,” interrupted Constable. “That’s if there was a letter at all. There might well not have been. It could have been verbal.”

  “Be that as it may, sir,” persisted Copper, “the person involved could have turned up at the door, and Mrs. Ronson might have chucked the draft away so that they didn’t see what she was about. Although …” He reflected for a moment. “Actually, it might have been anybody turning up, and she might still not have wanted them to see what she was about.” He gave a grunt of annoyance. “Rats!”

  “Too many maybes,” snorted Constable in exasperation. “Too many whoevers and whatevers. And the other thought that occurs to me is, if this mysterious putative visitor does exist, did they take away with them this theoretical resignation letter and its theoretical reply? And, if not for the obvious reason that it was about themselves, why?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “This could drive a person crazy. I feel as if I’m trying to swim in treacle.”

  There was silence for a few seconds. “Can I make a suggestion, sir?” ventured Copper tentatively.

  “All helpful suggestions gratefully received, sergeant,” said Constable, leaning back and letting out a gusty sigh.

  “Why don’t we try a change of tack and go back to doing what we do best?”

  “Which is?”

  “Talk to people, guv. You’ve always told me that the best way to get to the bottom of things is to let people talk, and sooner or later the information you’ve been after slips out.”

  Constable rewarded his colleague with a smile of approval. “You’re absolutely right, Copper. I’m glad you’ve been paying attention over all these years. Sound advice.” He chuckled. “Except that I never expected to be on the receiving end of it from you. What’s that line from the song – from ‘The King and I’, I think it is – ‘by your pupils you’ll be taught’.”

  “I don’t know about that, guv.” Copper looked faintly abashed. “But what do you reckon to the idea?”

  Constable heaved himself to his feet. “I think it’s a very good one.”

  “I mean, there’s the people down at the village pub,” continued Copper. “Old Gideon and so on. From all I remember, he was a cheery old bloke, so with a bit of luck, he’ll lighten the mood a bit. Plus, when we were here before, he seemed to have his finger pretty much on the pulse of everything that was going on, so if he can’t throw a bit of light on what happened during the dinner all this lot went to, I’d be surprised.”

  “You may well be right,” replied Constable, his good humour restored, as he started for the door. “And there was also mention of a waitress, so we’ll see if she can contribute anything.” He stopped short. “Ah. That reminds me. There’s one person on the premises we haven’t yet got round to, and that’s this waiter chap, or whatever he is, from the Downing Street staff. He’s still cooling his heels downstairs in the morning room. We’ll talk to him first before we go off charging round the countryside.” He glanced at his watch. “And we’d better get on with it. Time’s a-wasting.” He strode briskly out of the room towards the stairs.

  Chapter 7

  At the foot of the stairs, the detectives headed to the left and, bypassing the library, pushed open the door to the morning room, to find a solitary occupant, feet up on a chesterfield sofa, leaning to pour himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the small wine table alongside him. He was a young man – late twenties, Constable gauged – slim, with a mop of dark hair falling forward over his forehead and sharp lively features enhanced by a pair of piercing blue eyes. He swung his feet to the floor and stood.

  “Aha! At long last! You’ll be the forces of law and order, if I’m not much mistaken.” The voice rang with the broad distinctive accent of Belfast.

  “You’re absolutely right, sir,” responded the inspector. “My name is Detective Inspector Constable, and my colleague here is Detective Sergeant Copper.”

  “Sheila said you’d be along. Although she didn’t say you’d be this long about it. Good job I had the sense to fortify myself with some provisions.” A nod towards a crumb-dotted plate among the coffee things.

  “I’m afraid we’ve had quite a number of people to speak to so far this morning, sir,” said Constable, a faint irritation in his tone. “It’s just unfortunate that you happen to be at the end of my list. But you’ll understand that I need to ask you some questions about this morning’s events.”

  “Events, is it? Well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose. You’d better take a seat and get on with it, then.” The man swung his feet back up on to the sofa, waving vaguely in the direction of a pair of armchairs alongside the fireplace. “I’d offer you a coffee, but I’m afraid I’ve just finished the last of it, and I dare say you haven’t got the time for me to go and make a fresh pot.” An open smile.

  “I think I’d prefer to make a start, sir,” said Constable, with a touch of grim determination. “Sergeant, perhaps you’d like to make some notes.”

  “Oh, on the record, is it?” The man composed his
features into a serious expression, somewhat belied by the twinkle which remained in his eyes.

  “It is, sir. Considering the circumstances. So I think we’ll start with your name.”

  “Jim Daly, inspector.”

  “Would that be short for ‘James’, sir?” put in Copper, pen poised.

  “Actually, no, sergeant. On the birth certificate it says ‘Seamus’, but everyone calls me Jim.”

  “Seamus Daly …” murmured Copper in an undertone as he wrote.

  “And that’s ‘Seamus’ the proper Irish way, sergeant,” said Jim. “None of your ‘S… H… A…’ nonsense.”

  “Got that, sir.”

  “And you’re employed as a member of the catering staff at Number 10 Downing Street?” resumed Constable.

  “Well, I have been. Who knows if I’ve still got a job, now that poor old DiDo’s kicked the bucket.”

  Constable frowned in puzzlement. “Sorry, sir. What did you say?”

  “DiDo, inspector. The Prime Minister.” Jim raised his eyebrows at the inspector’s continuing bafflement. “Oh, come on. Don’t say you’ve not heard her called that before.”

  Constable turned to Copper with a querying look. “Sergeant, help me out here.”

  “I think it’s what some of the papers call Mrs. Ronson, sir.”

  “Not the papers I read.”

  “Mostly the tabloids, I think, sir. Di Do, you see. Short for ‘Diamond Doris’. Makes for a snappier headline, I suppose.”

  “I thought you weren’t particularly interested in politics.”

  “Some people leave the papers lying around in the locker room at the station, sir,” explained Copper defensively. “I just see the headlines. I don’t actually read them.”

  “Well, I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up,” said Constable heavily. “So, as you say, somewhat disrespectfully, Mr. Daly, the Prime Minister has been killed. And I’ve been put in charge of the immediate efforts to discover why and by whom.”

  “And you want to know what I know.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “Well, the short answer to that, inspector, is ‘not a lot’.”

  “But you were in the house when the body was discovered, I think, Mr. Daly.”

  “In the house, yes. In the room, no. I’d only just got here this morning with Sheila Deare, so that I could get on with doing the breakfast, but it was that Knightly chap who actually went into the library and discovered the grisly corpse. At least, I assume it was grisly, because he came straight out again like a cork from a bottle, looking as white as the proverbial, and told us what he’d found. At which point Sheila snapped into action and took control. She went into the library to check what was what, and then out she came and told me to get into the kitchen and stay there while she got in touch with the higher-ups back in Whitehall. Do nothing, say nothing, touch nothing – those were her instructions, so I sat there like a lemon, until the orders changed and I got shunted in here, with hardly a second to grab myself something to keep the wolf from the door. And here you find me, not having seen a soul. And that’s the whole story.”

  “Very concise, Mr. Daly,” commented Constable. “And it ties in admirably with what we’ve already been told. But of course, it isn’t the whole story, is it?”

  “Is it not, inspector?”

  “Not quite, Mr. Daly. Because we have yesterday evening to consider. I’m hoping you may be able to tell us something about what went on then.”

  “Not that I was around for most of it,” said Jim. “After they’d had their dinner down at the pub, I stayed put down there while everyone else came back up here. So whatever they got up to after that, I don’t know about it. Unfortunately. I wish I did.”

  “It would certainly help us if you did, sir. But as it is, we’ll concentrate on the area where you may be able to help us, and that’s during the dinner itself. You helped to serve, I understand.”

  “I did that, inspector.”

  “So perhaps some of the conversations at table, which I imagine you might well have overheard, could shed some light.”

  Jim burst out laughing. “Oh, inspector! It’s obvious you’ve spent no time around politicians. The amount of two-faced pussy-footing that goes on, you wouldn’t believe. Sweetness and light while they’re talking to someone, and then, as soon as their back’s turned, wham, in goes the knife.” He caught his breath. “But don’t take that as an admission that I know anything about what’s happened to Mrs. Ronson, because I don’t. Just a figure of speech. And as for the question of politicians not being honest and trying to cover up the truth, pardon me if I don’t seem surprised. Big news! Politician tells lies! Hold the front page!”

  Constable declined to be amused. “Can we move on to specifics please, sir? If you’ve heard something that’s relevant, I need to know.”

  “Ask away.”

  Constable sighed inwardly. Information was not proving easy to extract. “Sergeant,” he said sharply, turning to his junior colleague. “Remind me. I think you made a note of the seating arrangements down at the Dammett Well, didn’t you?”

  “Certainly did, sir.”

  “Look them up for me, would you?”

  The sound of pages being leafed through. “Got it, sir.”

  “Tell me, who was seated alongside Mrs. Ronson at the dining table?”

  “She had Mr. Grade on one side, and Mr. Stalker on the other, sir.”

  “Right. Thank you.” Constable turned back to Jim. “So, Mr. Daly, did you hear any of the exchanges between Mrs. Ronson and either of the two gentlemen?”

  “Not Milo Grade, no. The pub landlord and his girl were mostly looking after that end of the table.”

  “But Mr. Stalker? It sounds to me as if you did hear something there?”

  “Well …” Jim seemed disposed to tease the detectives. “Maybe there was something.” He screwed his eyes up as if in recollection. “Oh, yes, that was it. There was talk about when he’d been on T.V., not too long back, and DiDo said something about him guarding his tongue, and he made some sort of snappy retort like ‘Ah, but what if there aren’t any guards?’, or some such. She didn’t seem at all amused by that, and she said something about what he’d said not being defensible, or there being no defence if he carried on like that. Something of the sort, anyway. I couldn’t really hang about eavesdropping too obviously, although it sounded as if it could have been pretty interesting. But I saw the look in her eyes – it’s no wonder he pulled his horns in a bit after that, and I don’t think I heard much said between them afterwards.”

  “What about anyone else seated nearby?” asked Constable. “Sergeant, who was on the other side of the table?”

  “That would be Miss Mayall, sir. Sorry, ‘Ms’ Mayall.”

  “Ah, the lovely Erica,” said Jim. “Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs.” He laughed softly. “Don’t you love irony in politics? Young, beautiful … what’s not to like?” The look on his face seemed to indicate a deeper meaning to his words.

  “And Mrs. Ronson?” enquired Constable, striving to pick up on the hint in Jim’s manner. “Are you telling me that, for some reason, she did not like Ms. Mayall?”

  Jim gave him an odd look. “I don’t think I said anything of the kind, inspector. As far as I can find out, they were very good friends. Of course, there’s a shared history. I mean, they came into the House of Commons together, didn’t they, so that makes for a close relationship, doesn’t it? Although …”

  “Yes?”

  “Although you might not have thought it from one or two of the things that got said last night.”

  “And what might these have been, Mr. Daly?” Constable attempted to disguise his growing impatience at the way he seemed to be having to extract the information from his witness.

  “Well, for some reason, DiDo seemed to have taken exception to Erica Mayall’s shoes.”

  “What?”

  “I know, inspector. Sounds daft, doesn’t it? But I only know what I hear
d.”

  “Doesn’t that tie in with something Mr. Stalker mentioned to us, sir?” put in Dave Copper.

  “It might well do, sergeant, but I don’t see the relevance. So what exactly did you hear, Mr. Daly?”

  “DiDo said …”

  “I really don’t approve of the way you speak of her, sir,” interrupted Constable. “Could we have a little more respect for the dead woman?”

  Jim raised his eyebrows. “Sorry about that, inspector. It’s just my way of talking. Force of habit. No offence intended. So, anyway, the … Prime Minister … said something like ‘I don’t much care where you go to buy your shoes’, and then she said ‘No, actually, that’s not true. And what people will care even more about is how you buy them. Or anything else’. And Erica retorted something about a duty to her constituency, and DiDo … sorry, the P.M. said that anything Erica had been given could soon be taken away. It wasn’t that easy to hear, because Perry Neal was blaring on to Lew Stalker something about the press, which I was also half-distracted by, and by then the two women were pretty much hissing at one another under their breaths. I would have loved to hear more, because if there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s a good cat-fight, but you can only take so long clearing a dinner plate, can’t you?”

  Constable paused for a moment to let the information sink in. “Anything else that strikes you, Mr. Daly? You seem to have quite a facility for remembering conversations.”

  “Comes in quite handy in my line of work, inspector.”

  “Sorry, sir. How do you mean?”

  A slow smile crept across Jim’s face. “When you’re taking orders for meals and so on, inspector. That’s all. It helps to cultivate a memory for what’s said to you.”

  Constable couldn’t help the feeling that he was being ribbed. “So, was anything else said to you? Or, at least, in your hearing? Wasn’t anyone else seated at the end of the table where you were working?”

  “Only Marion Hayste, inspector, and I don’t think she contributed that much to the conversation at all. In fact, as far as I remember, she hardly uttered a peep during the whole meal, so I’m afraid I’ve got no beans to spill there. Sorry.”