by Julia Thomas
“Not exactly the sort you’d choose for him yourself, then?”
“Where are you going with this, Inspector?” Ashley-Hunt growled. He stood up and walked around to sit in the chair behind the desk.
“I’m just trying to determine if you and your wife approved of Miss Burke.”
“What difference would it make? Young people date whomever they wish these days.”
“But for the record, you did not approve of her?”
“No,” he admitted. “She wasn’t the sort of girl we wanted him to see. Frankly, she was beneath him.”
Murray looked at the French doors over Ashley-Hunt’s left shoulder, remembering what he had read about the man’s own humble beginnings. It was hypocritical, to say the least. The velvet curtains were opened and he watched the torrents of rain beating against the pane. “When did they become engaged?” he asked.
“In February.”
“That’s short notice for a wedding at Westminster Abbey,” he remarked.
“My wife is a member of the royal family,” Ashley-Hunt said. “But it was still difficult to secure the location. I had to call in a few favors.”
“Twelve weeks,” Murray counted. “So many details. The dress, the caterers. Who made most of the arrangements?”
“She did.” Ashley-Hunt had not once used his wife’s name, Murray noticed. “With my credit cards, of course.”
“Who decided to have the wedding at the Abbey?”
“We did. They would have gotten married anywhere, Trafalgar Square, Regent’s Park, a Register Office. I don’t think either of them cared, and as long as they didn’t, we preferred that they do it right.”
“Of course.” Murray opened the notebook at last and jotted a few scrawling lines across the page before closing it. Would Ashley-Hunt have gone to the trouble of securing Westminster Abbey if he had wanted to kill the girl? he wondered. “Did you see them often during the engagement?”
Ashley-Hunt shook his head. “We’re both busy men. We met occasionally for dinner.”
“Would you say you grew fond of Miss Burke during that time?”
The man’s face turned to stone. “We really didn’t know her that well. She spoke little when we did see her. I suppose she was minding her p’s and q’s.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted her dead?”
“Until the day of the wedding, I had never met any of her family or friends. I have no idea who could have done such a thing.”
“Did you speak to her on the day of the wedding?”
“No, I did not.”
“I understand you were in the area where she was getting ready. You were seen coming down the hall approximately fifteen minutes before the body was found.”
“Are you suggesting I had something to do with it?” Ashley-Hunt demanded, rising from his chair. “I’ll admit I didn’t particularly like the girl. I didn’t see her as a suitable wife for my son, but things have a way of taking care of themselves. If she was as unsuitable as I believed her to be, the marriage would have dissolved within a few months. As a matter of fact, I’m sure it would have. She lacked the essential qualities that would have suited Hugh for a long-term relationship.”
“Did you ever say as much to your son?”
Ashley-Hunt’s mouth hardened to a thin line. “I’ve learned that one can give advice but it is rarely taken. The older you get, the more you have to regret. I did not wish to add my son’s ire to that particular list.”
“Did you see anyone acting suspiciously that morning?”
“Not that I recall.”
Murray tucked the notebook into his coat and stood. “I understand the funeral is also to be held at Westminster Abbey. Who decided to have it there?”
“The use of it was offered in light of the circumstances.”
“That was most kind, I’m sure.” Murray took a card from his pocket. “If you think of anything else, you can ring me at this number.”
“I’m sure I’ve told you everything I know. I think the police should be out looking for real leads instead of bothering the family at a time like this.”
“Unfortunately, in a crime of this nature, no one is exempt from scrutiny, Mr. Ashley-Hunt.” Murray paused for a moment. “I’d like to have a brief word with your son while I’m here.”
“He’s home, of course,” Ashley-Hunt said, “but I thought it best he not join us for this meeting. I don’t want to distress him further. I’m sure you understand.”
“As a matter of fact, he may need to talk about it. I’m sure he is anxious to see the killer identified as quickly as possible.”
“Of course he is. We all are,” Ashley-Hunt snapped. “But he’s distraught. Anyone can see it’s a bad time.”
“There’s never a good time to talk to someone during a murder investigation, sir,” Murray said, tapping the arm of the chair. “Like anyone who was present, he may have seen something inadvertently without realizing a connection, something that might have bearing on the case.”
Ashley-Hunt didn’t move for a few seconds, and then with a loud sigh left the room in search of his son.
“What do you think, sir?” Ennis asked in a low voice, his eye on the door in case Ashley-Hunt made a sudden return.
“I don’t care for the man, but I don’t believe he’s involved in the girl’s death. It obviously was premeditated murder, and you can’t convince me he would have hired the greatest church in Christendom as a place to kill a future daughter-in-law. A man like that wouldn’t want the publicity, would he?”
“But wouldn’t publicity be good for an actor’s prospects?”
“Not for a man like Ashley-Hunt. He’s already established. He seems like a man who would avoid controversy rather than create it.”
They heard footsteps in the hall and waited for Hugh to come into the room. Murray was curious to see him again. They certainly were intriguing, these young actors. Hugh was already successful, even at his age. He could afford to marry someone for love rather than merely to please his parents, if he so chose. Not all young men could say the same.
Hugh came into the room and walked straight to Murray, who stood and shook his hand. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked. His face was drawn and his complexion naturally pale. He looked tired, as if sleep had eluded him since Tamsyn’s death.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Murray said. He glanced at the door to be certain that the young man’s father hadn’t followed him into the room.
Hugh noticed and nodded. “I told him I didn’t mind talking to you. Have you found out anything? Have you got any leads?”
“No,” Murray answered. “But we will. By the way, do you happen to have her mobile?”
“No,” Hugh said, looking surprised. “I thought you had it.”
They each found a seat and Murray continued. “Tell me what you remember about that last hour.”
Hugh looked at Ennis and then back at Murray before taking a deep breath. “I was in the chapel for quite a while. I was nervous, you see. We probably should have run off together, but my parents wanted a ‘real’ wedding, and we didn’t want to disappoint them. It’s fairly intimidating to stand in the middle of Westminster Abbey and realize you’re about to get married in the same spot where kings tie the knot.”
“Had you seen Tamsyn earlier in the day?”
“No, she stayed at a friend’s the night before. I thought it was a little absurd, because we were already living together, but she wanted to do it right.”
He struggled to maintain his composure. Murray gave him a moment before he asked the next question.
“Did you speak to anyone while you were in the chapel?”
“One of the assistants came in and spoke to me about the music, and then I was alone for a while until Daniel came in.”
“You’re good friends, if I
’m not mistaken.”
“He’s like a brother to me. He came to make sure I was all right. He’d seen Tamsyn a few minutes before and said … he said she looked beautiful and she was anxious for the ceremony to get started, like I was.”
“And then what happened?”
“Daniel told me that my father was looking for me. He probably wanted to give me some parting word of encouragement or something, but I couldn’t find him. It’s hard to find your way around the place. I ran into that old friend of Tam’s, Monaghan I think it is, and then I heard a scream. I really don’t remember anything after that.”
“Did you speak to Monaghan?”
“No. I’ve only been introduced to him once.”
“Have you had any thoughts about who might have sent the death threat?”
Hugh shook his head. “None at all, sir. I’ve racked my brain since this happened. I can’t think of a single person who would have threatened either one of us. If you knew Tam, you’d know what I mean. She had such a good heart.”
Murray nodded. “Thank you for talking with me. I’m sorry to have troubled you. It’s just important for us to know everything that happened that day so we can get to the bottom of it.”
“I understand,” Hugh replied.
Murray could tell that Hugh was the opposite of his father in terms of personality: he was someone who easily related to others. “If you think of anything, ring me at once,” he added, standing. He shook hands with Hugh once again.
In the hall, he and Ennis were given their umbrellas and stepped outside into the rain, which had not abated during the brief conversation. They hurried out to the car.
Ennis turned up the heat, while Murray wished for a cup of tea. As the car pulled away from the curb, he looked up at the house, where his eye caught the flutter of a curtain up on the first floor. It was Noel Ashley-Hunt, frowning down at them from his study.
“I’m anxious to see who turns up for the funeral,” Murray said, turning to his sergeant.
“You don’t think the killer will be there, do you?” Ennis asked, surprised.
“He’ll have to be,” the inspector replied. “Otherwise, he’s implicating himself in her murder.”
Thirteen
It was the tics that bothered Nick Oliver the most, the rapid, involuntary muscle contractions in his right arm that beleaguered him hourly. It was ruining his life. He couldn’t throw or catch a ball. He couldn’t write a letter without that dreaded jerking motion wrecking the page. Not to mention that one couldn’t hide a thing like that. It was evident to everyone who saw him. Most people had the presence of mind not to comment on his disability, but nevertheless, their eyes were drawn to it anyway. He could see them watching, waiting to see when it would happen next.
It had been distressing when he was at school, but now that he was a university student, he chose distance learning instead of living among his peers. He was stringing his education out slowly, taking only one or two courses per term, in no hurry to graduate. Graduation implied doing something with what he had learned. He had hoped to study horticulture or environmental studies, something approachable like agriculture, a solitary occupation, but his mother had insisted on computers and finance, which he despised. She thought, mistakenly, that he was going to get up his courage and rejoin the world, make something of himself, but he wanted to dig in the earth and grow things, not put on a suit and tie and watch people watch his ticking arm and wonder when another insensitive idiot would say something to him about it. Sometimes the tics would disappear for a few minutes and he could almost pretend that he was normal. Those blissful moments were invariably shattered by reality. His reality was that he still lived at home with his mother at twenty-three years of age, a borderline agoraphobic due to the disease that was ravaging his nervous system.
He only had one real friend, Carey Burke, who had lived next door to him his entire life until she had gone to university in London. They had shared everything: every secret, every dream. Between their houses at the back of the garden was a high shrub into which he had trimmed a passageway they called their maze, and they would slip through it to see one another even though they could have easily knocked on one another’s front door. He had been distraught when Carey left, though they spoke on the phone and emailed frequently. Now, he sat on the bed, looking at the letter in his hand that had arrived in the morning post. It was her way; important things were always written by hand, her crisp, no-nonsense letters committed to paper as though they were too sacred for electronic transmission.
She had written to break it to him that Tamsyn was dead, though he already knew it from his mother. The whole country probably knew by now. For Nick, the news had evoked a variety of emotions. He was devastated for Carey, who was the best person he had ever known. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for someone, even a complete stranger. In fact, if she had a flaw, it was that her compassion caused her to be too involved with people she didn’t even know. Carey and her parents, who had gone to London expecting a wedding in Westminster Abbey and were instead mourning the loss of their eldest child,
deserved his concern. Tamsyn, however, did not. It was hard to imagine two sisters more dissimilar. He’d once heard Carey called “the plain one,” which had angered him because it couldn’t be farther from the truth. Hers was an innocent beauty, as far as he was concerned. Tamsyn was brash and irreverent, but she could also be cruel. She had taunted him from the earliest age, calling him “Spaz,” and he’d despised her as much as he cared for her sister.
“She doesn’t mean it,” Carey used to say, ever the peacemaker. She also believed that the meek would inherit the earth.
“Of course she does,” he’d argued. “Why else would she say it?”
He had never been able to convince her that Tamsyn wasn’t the same sort of person she was. Carey loved unconditionally, refusing to believe anything but the best in people, and although Nick had even benefited from it himself, he did not think it should apply to someone who had the capacity to laugh at the misfortunes of others. Agitated, he looked at the letter in his hands, which was crumpling at the edges.
I can barely breathe, Nicky. I can’t believe she’s gone. I know she wasn’t always as good to you as she should have been, but she was my sister, and I loved her. Who could have done such a vicious thing?
It was eerie, of course; someone he’d known well dying at so young an age. Even though he hadn’t liked her, Nick had to admit it was terrible luck to be killed on one’s wedding day. No one deserved that. He moved over to turn on his computer and sat down in the chair in front of it, tapping his foot as it displayed the logo and took the usual two and a half minutes before he could log on to the Internet. When at last he was connected, he looked up the Westminster Abbey website, picturing, with something between fascination and repugnance, Tamsyn’s bloody body in a wedding gown. What a vile way to die. He wondered who killed her. Was it another poor soul who had been tormented by her as he had? Someone who was jealous of the sudden happy turn of events in her life? He had followed, with some perplexity, her minor television career, and he thought it staggering that she had been offered a major role in a film. Carey had never expressed any surprise whatsoever.
I always wanted to please her, to make her laugh. Her laughter was the most magical sound on earth. When she was happy, she lit up the whole room.
And when she wasn’t, Nick thought ungraciously, she could be a real bitch. Even so, he had to admit that men everywhere were attracted to her. Who wouldn’t be, when she went out of her way to be noticed by everyone in her trajectory?
Nick slid the letter back into the envelope and put it on the corner of his desk. Tomorrow he would take the train to London for the funeral. His mother wanted to go but she couldn’t get leave from work. It would be difficult, making such a long trip on his own. He hadn’t done it in years, and then, Carey and his mother had been with him. At least Ca
rey would come home for a while in June, after her term, to be with her parents. That was something to look forward to.
It was a beautiful afternoon. Nick went downstairs and through the back door. He needed to weed while the sun was out. He had always been one to plant things, but over the last five or six years, he had taken over the garden entirely. His mother had never cared for it much anyway, and it was cathartic to create something beautiful on his own. In the shed, he took down the hoe and went out into the yard. Weeds sprouted around the brick paving stones that surrounded the roses and dianthus. He stepped on the hoe’s blade with the toe of his Wellington boot, pushing it into the wet ground.
Their house had been built in 1953, and as with most homes of that era, its period details were both charming and annoying, for everything, sooner or later, broke and then broke again. It seemed they were always fixing things: roof tiles and exasperating leaks with no certain origin and cracks in the plaster. His parents had bought the house the year he was born. The Burkes had moved in the year before, when Tamsyn was a toddler, and Carey was born seven months after Nick. He’d been an only child. Neither of his parents had ever told him the reason why, but he’d speculated for years that they didn’t want another handicapped child. Many neuromuscular diseases were genetic, he’d learned as he had gotten older. He had always tried to be a good son to make up for his affliction, and he’d been particularly close to his father, who had died four years prior from a heart attack.
His parents had lived a quiet life. His mother was a teacher in a local primary school; she often brought home drawings from her pupils and put them on the bulletin board over her computer, in the office where she had been struggling to write poetry in her free time since he was very young. She’d had no success, but wrote on without complaint, amassing stacks of unpublished poems in neat folders on her desk alongside stacks of rejection slips. She was perhaps too well-adjusted for the melancholia he suspected was required to write great poetry, though poetry was, in his opinion, a lost art. There were no more Plaths or Audens or Keats on the literary horizon, no budding Yeats who could shake one to their very core. Modern poets whined of dull suburban life, of various and sundry complaints like dealing with children who grew up with handicaps, of the temptation to drink or fight or break out of the boring nothingness of life and feel something for a change. He found it exhausting and was happy his mother rarely complained. She was a stoic sort, quiet and self-contained, and they kept out of each other’s way. She prepared the evening meal, where they had their one brief if pleasant interaction of the day, and spent much of her free time at the computer. The keys were not often heard clacking, for she stared out of the window a great deal, possibly wondering where her life had gone.
