‘She sure did. Several in fact. And they certainly weren’t child-friendly. Or indeed William-friendly.’
‘Still, as you got older…?’
‘We were disappointing. Failed to be a credit to her.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘At great expense to William we went to excellent schools that got us out from under Mama’s feet during term-time, but we performed no better than competently, academically or otherwise. We are OK to look at, but nothing to write home about.’ He chuckled again. ‘Took after her that way rather than Dad or Aunt Flora. We ended up—to her great embarrassment—at red-brick universities. And to her even greater embarrassment we read subjects she considered naff; engineering in my case, business studies in Alex’s. Can’t imagine what she told them at the Groucho. Beautiful, talented, arty children were what she required. Passable mediocrities with a yen for the practical were not.’
‘Are you saying your mother didn’t love you?’
‘Love isn’t a word I associate with my mother, Inspector. Duty is. She behaved perfectly properly towards us even if she did strongly show her displeasure when we failed to obey orders. Most of her sins were of omission, not commission.’
‘And you felt about her?’
‘Also dutiful. I’ll do my bit at the funeral and I’ll try to feel sorry she’s dead. But the truth is she hasn’t had any impact on my life worth talking about since I ceased to be under her control. She’s never even seen her grand-children. Or shown any interest in them. Though she always sent them cheques at Christmas.’
‘Any advice on which friends I should see?’
‘None. Mama seemed to me to have colleagues rather than friends and these changed according to whatever was preoccupying her at the moment. Though of course she always kept in with the magic literary circle even when her mind was on New Labour.’
‘The literary circle is?’
‘Influential publishers, reviewers, literary editors, literary organisations. And she never turned down an invitation to join a committee. Preferably as chair.’
‘Can you suggest who should be top of my list?’
‘That guy she reviewed for—what’s his name, Hugo something? That madman Den Smith. Probably Wysteria Wilcox. She seems to have been having dinner with them forever and they certainly know everyone.’
‘They were all with her on the Warburton committee.’
Joshua gave a shout of laughter. ‘Didn’t I tell you there was a magic circle?’
***
‘His sister sounded just like him and echoed him almost word for word,’ Pooley reported to Milton. ‘They’re obviously very close. “She’d have liked us to be stepping-stones to further advancement,” she said. “Instead, more often than not, we seemed to be millstones.”’
‘Anything more about Sir William?’ asked Milton.
‘Just the same sympathetic noises as Joshua. And when it came to friends she also mentioned Wysteria Wilcox and Den Smith. Said she couldn’t understand how anyone could put up with him. Thought he was off his head.’
‘I’m looking forward to this encounter.’ He took his glasses out of his inside pocket. ‘Pass me Smith’s Who’s Who entry. I’ve come prepared.’
Den Smith had declined to be interviewed at home (‘I will not have my privacy invaded’), at the Yard (‘I will not set foot in Gestapo headquarters’) or Milton’s club (‘I refuse to obey a dress code imposed by dinosaurs’). After much negotiation, he had grudgingly suggested an upstairs room in a Notting Hill pub. ‘Slow down, Sammy,’ said Pooley, as they neared the rendezvous. ‘Look, Jim, that’s his house on the corner.’
‘That looks worth as much as Rawlinson’s,’ observed Milton.
‘Easily.’
‘It’s very big for one person.’
‘He uses it for his various causes. That’s where “Anti-Fascism ’88” was launched. I’ve been reading about it on the Net. Reagan had just been re-elected and Smith and Hermione called luvvies, literati and smart academics of the left to arms against the Thatcher-Reagan forces of evil.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘Acres of piss-taking by the right-wing press followed by the total failure of the campaigners to decide on what they wanted to achieve. Den’s desire to overthrow the state in the name of democracy seems to have been too much for most of them. There was a huge row and Rage targeted a whole new batch of enemies.’
‘Here we are, sir,’ said Pike.
‘Thanks, Sammy. Don’t hang around. We’ll get a taxi back.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to wait outside the room, sir? He sounds like a nasty piece of work.’
‘His bile is worse than his bite, I think,’ said Milton, grinning at his own wit.
***
Wearing a black rollneck, Smith was sitting across the table in the tiny room with a half of bitter in front of him, ostentatiously reading Kafka. (‘I’m surprised he thought we’d get the reference,’ said Milton afterwards.) ‘Good afternoon, Mr Smith. Detective Chief Superintendent James Milton and Detective Inspector Ellis Pooley,’ said Milton. ‘May we sit down?’
‘I can’t stop you, but I warn you I’m not going to use those fascistic titles.’
‘We’re not interested in titles, Mr Smith. We just want your help in finding the murderer of your friend Lady Babcock.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not using the ricin as an excuse to lock up every Muslim in London.’
‘So far there is no reason to suspect that this was a political crime. You may be associating ricin with Muslims because of recent publicity. We have no reason to do so.’
Smith glared at him. ‘So what was it then? Who did it?’
‘I hope you’ll have some ideas on that.’
‘And if I don’t? What then?’
‘You will, I hope,’ offered Milton mildly, ‘have some suggestions about where we should direct our enquiries. We’re trying to build up a picture of Lady Babcock. We’ve talked to her family and now we’re talking to her friends. You were one of her dearest friends, I think.’
The belligerence diminished slightly. ‘I suppose I was. Hermione and I go back a long way.’
‘How long?’
‘Since the seventies. We met on a peace march. We were both speakers.’
‘You became friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just friends?’
Smith jumped to his feet with such force that he rocked the table and spilled his drink. ‘Typical filth-type insinuation. How dare you! How dare you! It’s no surprise you’ve minds like sewers, but I don’t have to answer your shitty questions.’
Milton, who had been mopping the table with a tissue, spoke with no sign of annoyance. ‘Please sit down, Mr Smith. I’ve no wish to upset you, but equally, you’ve no right to refuse to assist us. Either you want Lady Babcock’s murderer caught or you don’t. If you do, then I suggest you answer questions frankly. If you don’t, why then we will have to ask you to come to a police station and help us anyway. It’s your choice.’
Smith was still quivering. ‘I can get a lawyer. And not one of those lawyers you can bully into submission. I can get a famous human rights lawyer who’ll make you shiver in your flat-footed shoes.’
Milton looked at Smith benignly. ‘If you want to go to that trouble and expense, Mr Smith, by all means go ahead. I will merely ask that you turn up at New Scotland Yard at nine tomorrow morning. And if you don’t, I might have to have you arrested.’
Smith looked at him venomously and sat down. ‘Fuck it. Oh, all right. Go on.’
‘Did you have an affair with Lady Babcock?’
‘Yes, I did. Thirty-odd years ago. So what!’
‘Did it go on for long?’
‘Just a few months.’
‘Why did it end?’
‘William Rawlinson came on the scene.’
‘And she preferred him?’
‘No.�
��
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘But she ended your affair?’
‘She wanted to marry William.’
‘Rather than you.’
‘I don’t marry.’
‘You did once.’
Smith shot him a furious look. ‘Once was fucking well enough.’
‘She would have liked to marry you?’
‘Of course she would. But even if I would have, I couldn’t afford Hermione. She needed someone well-off.’
‘But you remained on good terms?’
‘Yep.’
‘But no longer lovers.’
‘Yep.’
‘Was she faithful to Sir William?’
‘How the fuck would I know? We didn’t have another affair, if that’s what you’re insinuating in your creepy way.’
‘You didn’t try to rekindle the passion?’
Smith looked at Milton incredulously. ‘Rekindle the fucking passion? Are you off your fucking head? We’re talking about Hermione Fucking Babcock, not Cleofuckingpatra. Hermione didn’t do passion. She did a polite, well-behaved affair if it suited her.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Smith, but I’d have thought you were a man given to strong passions rather than convenient liaisons.’
Smith looked pleased. ‘You’re right up to a point, copper.’ He stopped. ‘Up to a point, copper. That’s bloody good. You won’t get the joke, of course. It’s a play on…’
‘On “Up to a point, Lord Copper”. I’ve heard the pun before, sir.’
Sulkily, Smith continued. ‘You can’t have strong passions all the time. Hermione was an available fuck so there were no hard feelings when she moved over. But we kept in touch and were allies in the literary world.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Oh, I dunno. I introduced her to a few people, I suppose.’
Pooley touched Milton on the sleeve. ‘May I, sir?’
‘Certainly, Inspector Pooley.’
‘Sir, would I be right in saying that it was because of you that Ms Babcock, as she then was, was asked to join the PEN committee?’
‘It’s a long time ago, but that’s probably right.’
‘And that began her involvement with literary committees?’
‘Hermione certainly took to committees.’
‘Was she particularly able in committee work?’
‘She was keen. And not many people in our circles will do the work, I suppose.’
‘Was she not on the Cultural Resources Council when your magazine was given a substantial grant?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You’d know when Rage received the hefty subsidy that made it viable.’
‘How do you know about this?’
‘Please answer my colleague’s question,’ said Milton.
‘It was sometime in the early eighties.’
‘Hermione Babcock was on the CRC from 1982– 5, Mr Smith. She did you a big favour, didn’t she?’
‘Nothing that wasn’t deserved. There wasn’t any other magazine like Rage.’
‘But there was quite a lot of criticism, wasn’t there? Suggestions of cronyism, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘Since when you and she have been on innumerable committees—together and apart. She was on the Pilkington when you won the prize for a poem that was denounced as appalling by many, wasn’t she? And you gave Virginia Falling an enormous puff that put it in the reckoning for the Warburton, I gather.’
Smith’s face flushed. He jumped up, kicked his chair to the floor, pushed the table violently and screamed: ‘You red-haired fucking cunt! You piece of fucking filth with a fucking pretend toff’s accent. You moron with fucking pretensions. I’m outta here. And you can send the Home fucking Secretary after me to throw me into one of your fucking dungeons and torture me if you like. I’ll never give in to your fucking police state.’
He stormed out.
‘He’s certainly got a way with words,’ observed Milton.
‘Sorry, Jim. Perhaps I provoked him too much.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about, Ellis. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. It’s a wonderful thing for an uneducated policeman to have the privilege of encountering the intelligentsia. Now let’s go.’
On their way towards the street, the barman stopped them. ‘Den seemed right upset,’ he said. ‘’E were shouting.’
‘’E certainly were,’ said Milton. ‘Is he often like that?’
‘Oh, yeah. Lots of the time,’ said the barman. ‘You don’t want to take ’im too seriously. It’s just ’is way. I reckon ’e should go on one of them anger management courses, but ’e tells me it’s ’is artistic temperament.’ He snorted. ‘Lorra bollocks, if you ask me. I think ’e’s just a bad-tempered git. But if you’d like to ’ang on, I’d say he’d be back in about ’alf-an-hour.’
‘Thank you, but no. Could you give him a message?’
‘Yeah. I’ll give ’im a message.’
‘Just tell him the filth will be back.’ As he pushed open the door to the street, Milton turned and smiled at the gawping man. ‘Soon,’ he added.
9
Mary Lou was half-way through reading the latest government communiqué about ethnicity and higher education when the baroness rang and shouted at her incoherently about cats and lesbians. ‘Don’t come to me looking for sympathy, Jack. I’m just being threatened by the teach-your-grannie-how-to-recognise-an-egg department.’
The baroness emitted a loud sob. ‘I must have sympathy. You’ve no idea how I’m suffering.’
Mary Lou looked at the uninviting pile of paper on her desk. ‘OK. I’ll drop by shortly. In the meantime, pull up your socks and get a grip like you’re always telling everyone else to do.’
***
As he sat on her desk, Pooley tried to keep his eyes away from the buxom charms of DS Barbara Lupoff. While castigating himself for his unprofessionalism, the exculpatory thought occurred that it was hardly surprising his eye should stray considering he so rarely saw the woman with whom he was wildly in love.
‘So the butler and the waiter agree with the chef that he never left the kitchen.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘And you’ve no reason to doubt that, Barbara?’
‘None, sir.’
‘And you really think the waiter…’ He checked her interview notes again, ‘…András Jungbert is out of the picture.’
‘Sir, he can scarcely speak a word of English and he’s only been in the job three weeks.’
Pooley nodded. ‘Yes, yes. But we must always keep an open mind in case he turns out to be the deceased’s illegitimate son or spurned lover or something.’
‘If he was her spurned lover she’d have recognised him when he waited on her, wouldn’t she, sir?’
‘Sorry, Barbara. My mind was wandering. Now, I see you think Francis Birkett isn’t worth considering either?’
‘He’s been the butler at Warburton HQ for twenty years, sir. I talked to people who’ve known him a long time and they say Knapper kept him on because he loved his old-fashioned courtesy and reliability. Confidential matters are often discussed over lunch or dinner in the executive dining room, and Birkett is known to be utterly discreet. Indeed, he told me he always makes sure the waiters are foreign in case they picked up any information they shouldn’t have.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘Respectable, sir. Dull, nice and respectable, just like he looks. You’d be glad to have him as an uncle but you wouldn’t want him as a boyfriend.’ She grinned. ‘Not like András. Pity he’s foreign.’
Pooley looked at her notes again. ‘Nothing interesting from the checks?’
‘No, sir. No record of any kind for any of the three. And the others at that dinner confirm Lady Babcock didn’t know him until they all met him at their first lunch.’
‘All right, Barbara. Th
anks. Now, I’ve another job for you. Lady Babcock wrote “9.15 Ed” in her diary for the day she became ill. Sir William Rawlinson said he didn’t know if it was short for Edward, Education or anything else beginning with Ed, so I’d like you to get to work on it. Obviously, you’ll have to go through her manual and electronic address books, but any other bright ideas will be welcome. Report as soon as you find anything interesting.’
As he walked away, Pooley switched on his mobile phone and picked up four messages.
‘This is Wysteria Wilcox, Inspector…what is your name? Dooley? Cooley? Gooley? The maid’s writing is so slovenly I can’t read it. I just want to tell you that I won’t be able to stand it if there are more than two of you and if you behave roughly. My nerves are not good, I have a weak heart and I am grief-stricken at the tragic death of my dear friend. I thought I should warn you. And I insist you do not arrive one minute before four. I cannot have my precious writing time interrupted. Goodbye.’
Beep. ‘Ellis, it’s Jim. Griffiths can’t do the later time, so I’ll see him and you see Wysteria Wilcox and Rosa Karp. Talk to you later.’
Beep. ‘Hello, Ellis. It’s Robert. Yes, I’m happy to move the venue to your place, especially since Plutarch has just broken a bottle of whisky from sheer spite, as far as I can see, and the pong is pungent, to say the least.’
Beep. ‘It’s me, darling. I’m having an interesting time. Are you? Don’t forget to ask me about the effect a tree falling in the forest had on Jack.’
***
‘Come in,’ called a high-pitched voice in response to the timid knock by the nervous young Filipino, who opened the drawing-room door for Amiss and then left him to it. Wysteria Wilcox, small, fragile and draped in layers of floaty and diaphanous shades of mauve and lilac and purple, was sitting at a mahogany Chippendale desk, writing with a silver fountain pen. She continued until, fed-up, Pooley cleared his throat and said, ‘Good afternoon, Lady Wilcox.’ Her hand flew to her throat as she turned to face him. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Pooley. You asked me to come after four. It is now four-ten.’
‘You gave me such a shock.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sit down.’ She pointed at a gilt chair near her desk, but as he was about to sit on it she squealed, ‘Stop. You’re so big and heavy you might break it.’ Pooley, who was proud of his slim, athletic body, felt extremely aggrieved.
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 9
