Readers of the news stories were pointed towards inside pages to read assessments of the Warburton long-list cobbled together the previous afternoon by Arts editors whose judgements crossed a spectrum from praise for its eclecticism to denunciations of its self-indulgence and absence of social conscience. The Guardian was so outraged over the shortage of regional and ethnic fiction that Amiss suspected Rosa must have been on the telephone straight after the meeting, the Daily Telegraph produced a general lament about the impoverished state of modern fiction and the Daily Mail had a ‘why-oh-why?’ comment piece about the craze for novels about drugs, sex and degradation.
Amiss fell asleep shortly afterwards and dreamed about Dervla’s midriff.
***
‘Here’s ’is statement, sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Kennison.
‘Whose statement?’ asked Pooley.
‘The fella as found Wilcox’s corpse tied up to his ’ouseboat. Funny bloke. Saw ’im late last night and tried to make ’im give a statement proper, but ’e said as ’ow I was leaving out the magic, and he made a big fuss, and to be honest, I couldn’t spell ’alf the words, so it seemed easier in the end to let ’im write it ’isself. Like you said, last week, it’s no ’arm to let ’em ’ang themselves.’
Pooley, who had recommended that course of action after a bruising encounter with Kennison’s prose, took the couple of sheets of typescript and settled down to read. ‘My name is Nigel Withenshaw and presently I roost in a little houseboat moored across from the Chiswick Eyot. I’d had a simply exhausting day, so very soon after I reached home, coming up to nine, as my friend Harry was cooking our little supper, I poured us each a glass of wine and took mine onto the deck to calm me and help me savour the enchanted evening.
‘It was an occasion of sensual delight, for from below were coming some exquisite Schubertian strains, the air was balmy, the gentle zephyr soothed my soul and the moonlight danced on the water between my boat and the glorious willows on the eyot. I revelled in the textures, the mixture of light and shade and the driftwood, whose myriad shapes intrigue my inner artist. But, soft, was that shape driftwood? Or was it perchance…? For a moment, I thought I’d had perhaps a little too much of what dear Keats called “the true, the blushful Hippocrene”, for what I could see lying in the water resembled Ophelia—John Everett Millais’ Ophelia that is—but with her arm caught in my anchoring rope. Fearfully, I called Harry, who confirmed that my eyes did not deceive. Together, we managed to pull our sad Ophelia on board. To my horror, I recognised her: it was my Ethereal Lady, my Free Spirit, whom I’ve seen before walking past the boat of an evening—on warm evenings wearing the apparel of a veritable faerie. I hailed her once, but she gave me a long, sad smile and shook her head, so I honoured her desire for seclusion. We looked for signs of life, but her frail body was cold and quiet. The Lady’s soul had flown away across the horizon. We rang 999, and the rest you know.’
‘See wot I mean, sir?’
Pooley looked solemn. ‘I do indeed, Kennison. You were quite right to let him write his own statement. It’s much more authentic that way.’
Kennison looked relieved. ‘Anything else, sir?’
‘Still no sign of the prelim report?’
‘No, sir. Shouldn’t be long.’
‘Any idea where the body got into the river?’
‘They’re still working on it, sir. It would ’elp if we knew ’er route, but ’er maid couldn’t ’elp.’
‘I’ll follow that up, Kennison. That’s all for now.’
As Kennison turned towards the door, Pooley asked, ‘Did Mr Withenshaw happen to mention what he did for a living.’
‘Well, ’e didn’t mention it, but I asked ’im. ’E’s a sewage engineer.’
‘Thanks, Kennison. That explains a lot.’
Looking totally baffled, Kennison departed.
***
‘Lady Karp?…It’s Detective Inspector Ellis Pooley. We met at the House of Lords the other day…Yes, yes, it is terrible news. I quite understand how upset you must be…That’s what I want to ask you. Lady Wilcox’s housekeeper tells me that she often used to walk by the Thames, but didn’t know where and I wondered if you could help…Yes, yes…Oh, really? She said that? And where do you think?…That’s most helpful. Thank you so much…Yes, I’m sure I’ll be able to get hold of it. Early summer, you said?…Thank you very much. Goodbye.’
The Sunday Oracle’s ‘My Magic Place’ was one of those features beloved by newspapers in which they fill up a page or two free in exchange for giving minor celebrities publicity. In that Rosa, Wysteria and Hermione were among those contributing, Hugo Hurlingham’s hand was detectable. Rushed though he was, Pooley could not resist a quick skim which revealed that Rosa had difficulty in deciding whether she preferred to be in the centre of West Indian culture in Brixton, Asian in Southall or Turkish in Finsbury Park and that Hermione frequently enjoyed a melancholy but inspirational stroll around Gordon Square in Bloomsbury conjuring up the spirits of those great intellects she felt so close to and trying to recreate the astonishing conversations in the drawing room of Number 46, where Virginia and Vanessa and Lytton and Duncan thought the unthinkable about philosophy, art and religion.
‘Bingo,’ shouted Pooley when he saw the caption to the photograph of Wysteria sitting among a great deal of trailing greenery. ‘Lady Wysteria Wilcox at peace on the Chiswick Eyot—her favourite place of refuge.’
‘It’s my own little island,’ wrote Wysteria. ‘Not that I own it, but I feel that spiritually it is there as my refuge, somewhere I can commune with nature and the unseen forces that guide us. I live near the Thames, and when the horridness of the world bears heavily on me, if it is low tide I sometimes put on my little wellie boots, take my troubled spirit to the river and splish-splash I trip across to Chiswick Eyot. There I daydream among the willows and listen to the ancient rhythms of the river and sometimes even drift off in the arms of Morpheus…’
***
Amiss awoke just as the train was pulling into Cambridge station: jamming the relevant sections of the newspapers into his holdall, he jumped out. As he was leaving the station, he thought he saw Den Smith in the distance and lagged behind in case he was right. It was dry and warm, so he decided to walk to St Martha’s in the hope of clearing his fuzzy head and took the opportunity to make a few calls. Prothero seemed permanently engaged and Dervla was still unobtainable, but after a few abortive attempts he reached Pooley. ‘Where are we at? How bad is it?’
‘I don’t know, Robert. I’ve just seen the preliminary pathology report and that tells us what we already know: she drowned. There’s no sign of heart failure or a stroke, but it is, as I say, a preliminary report. We’re pretty certain she was on the Chiswick Eyot—that little island half-way along the course of the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race route.’
‘I vaguely remember it.’
‘Accident’s very unlikely; she’d have had to be caught unawares by the tide and been stupid enough to try to swim across the river. Suicide’s possible but unlikely. Her housekeeper said she seemed no different from usual, and Rosa Karp had rung her late afternoon when she said she was shaken but recovering and was going to take a beloved calming walk to reconnect her with her muse.’
‘Anyway, it’s not on, Ellis. You can bet there’s absolutely no chance that Wysteria would have killed herself without leaving a nasty note accusing someone vulnerable of being responsible. Someone like her unfortunate maid.’
‘Of course the balance of her mind might have been disturbed as a result of her morning with Jack?’
Amiss snorted. ‘Looks like murder, then?’
‘I think so. After dusk someone could have walked out after her and, if she was off-guard, it would have been easy to tip her over the bank. Only a strong swimmer would have stood a chance. Sorry, Robert. I’ve got to go.’
‘Hang on. What’s the line going to be?’
‘As of now, no reason to suggest
foul play. As you know, it’s a point of principle with our AC to stick his head in the sand until someone kicks him in the butt.’
‘You’re beginning to talk like Mary Lou.’
‘I’m beginning to think like Mary Lou. Jim and the AC had a big argument; the AC told him he was seeing trouble where none existed and that Wysteria’s death was a coincidental accident. He had already decided that Hermione’s death had nothing to do with the Warburton but that she was poisoned at nine-fifteen on the morning of her death by someone called Ed. Unfortunately for him it was just this morning that we finally located the last Edward in Hermione’s voluminous address books, Edward Cumming, who’d been in the States and hadn’t heard about her death.’
‘Of course,’ exclaimed Amiss. ‘E.C. Cumming. Damn. I didn’t realise his name was Edward. He’s the colleague whose ghastly book she’s plugging.’
‘That’s the one. Turns out he met her that morning on his way to Heathrow in the Warburton car-park so she could give him a book by another protégé that she wanted him to read on the plane and review for the Oracle. They had a chat for a few minutes and off he went to the airport and she to the committee room.’
‘So what did the AC say to that?’
‘He got angrier, as he always does when he’s in the wrong, and went on insisting that even if Wysteria’s death wasn’t an accident, it must be suicide. The best Jim could do was to get him to agree that if—but only if—any evidence emerges that Wysteria was murdered, the Met will provide some protection to the other judges.’
‘It’s a bit of a double-whammy having Wysteria knocked off and Ed in the clear. What’s your feeling, Ellis?’
‘That I wish this was all over, because I fear my friends may be at risk and I feel powerless to look after you. Watch your back, Robert. There may be a lunatic about.’
14
The baroness placed Amiss in an armchair, instructed Mary Lou to give him the cup of coffee she had already poured for him and shook her head energetically.
‘Goodness me, everybody does get into such a state. Why do I always have to be the person to calm them down?’
‘Drivel,’ screamed the parrot from his vantage point on her shoulder. ‘Bloody drivel.’
Mary Lou sighed. ‘He’s learned a lot more expletives during the past week or so.’
‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks,’ observed Horace obligingly. ‘Balls, balls, balls. Who’s a good Horrie?’
‘A quiet Horrie,’ said the baroness firmly as she carried him over to his cage. She came back waving a piece of paper she had taken off her desk and handed it to Amiss. ‘Here’s the press release I told Georgie Porgie to put out.’
‘“Baroness Troutbeck, Chairwoman of the Warburton Committee, issued the following statement,”’ read Amiss. ‘“There has been speculation in the media that Lady Wilcox, who sadly died last night, may have been murdered. In view of the undoubted murder ten days ago of Lady Babcock, this is an understandable inference, but not one I draw myself: I await the result of the inquest. The committee regrets the death of Lady Wilcox, is grateful for her contribution and extends sympathy to her family and friends.”’ He paused. ‘Gosh, Jack, you’re so tactful and hypocritical that I’m proud of you.’ He resumed reading. ‘“We will be carrying on our business as usual, drawing up our communal short-list and then choosing the winner. Dr Mary Lou Denslow has kindly agreed to join our committee in Lady Wilcox’s place.”’ He stopped. ‘Mary Lou joining the committee! What! Are you mad?’
‘Denslow is willin’,’ said Mary Lou.
‘Does Ellis know this?’
‘I’ve just told him.’
‘I bet he was thrilled.’
‘Not.’
‘How can you just impose Mary Lou?’
‘I told the others there was safety in numbers, which was a concept they like since they seem to be getting a touch nervous. I said it wasn’t easy to get hold of anyone in the circumstances, which they couldn’t disagree with. I said too that I had been very worried about the racial exclusiveness and age profile of the committee, and this was an opportunity to remedy this injustice, since the literary critic I was suggesting was young and black. That silenced any potential opposition. I didn’t share with them that she was American or Den might have had a seizure, and nor did I mention she was Bursar of St Martha’s. They’ll find all that out in the fullness of time.’
‘But all those reasons are bogus, Jack. We don’t need a substitute. We know all too well which books Wysteria favoured.’
‘One must always seize the opportunity,’ said the baroness. ‘You know that, Robert. Having Mary Lou on means us sane people have another ally.’
‘But you may be putting her at risk.’
‘Oh, Robert,’ said Mary Lou, ‘don’t be such a fusspot.’
‘You sound more and more like Jack every day.’
‘Maybe I am more and more like Jack every day. There are worse role models.’
‘I’m sure Ellis would be thrilled to hear it.’
‘It would offend my finer feelings if the prize went to one of the clique’s candidates because I was chicken. There’s such a thing as common justice.’
‘And noblesse oblige,’ intervened the baroness.
‘A concept that played pretty big in Minnesota,’ said Mary Lou, grinning.
‘But it’s highly likely Wysteria was murdered and it’s mad of you to take a risk.’
The baroness was looking very impatient. ‘If one were going to fret about being murdered one would never get anything done. Anyway, we’re prepared to accept police help since it won’t be for long. The Cambridgeshire cops have already been on the phone talking of throwing a ring of steel around St Martha’s. I told them to stop being stupid but that I wouldn’t mind a rather obvious police presence.’
‘You’re lucky you’re living in Cambridge. Jim’s boss is refusing to provide any protection in London.’
‘You’d better stay here then. Ring Plutarch and tell her to pack her bags and follow.’
‘Absolutely not. I have to be in London. Apart from anything else I’m not leaving Dervla without someone to call on.’
‘You could stay with Ellis or Jim,’ suggested Mary Lou.
Amiss suddenly got cross. ‘You could just as well both leave here too. You could stay with Ellis, Mary Lou. And, Jack, you could stay with Myles.’
‘Rubbish. Too busy.’
‘I suppose it didn’t occur to you to tell Knapper to cancel the prize?’
‘Good God, no. Mind you, that’s what Den, Rosa and the Ferrett wanted to do, but I dealt with them. I told them I was holding firm, as were you…’
‘Whom you didn’t bother to check with…’
‘Of course I didn’t. I know you. And that Griffiths was…which I already knew, and Dervla too. So those three wimps couldn’t face the bad press that would come if they resigned. Pity really, we could have fixed the prize more easily.’
‘Dervla. What do you mean she’s holding firm? She’s terrified.’
‘She rang this morning. And when she found you and I were hanging in there she said she would too because she wasn’t going to rat on the only people who had been nice to her. At least that’s what I think she said.’
‘But suppose something happens to her!’
‘Oh, God, Robert, why should it?’
‘We’re all at risk, for Christ’s sake,’ he yelled. ‘There’s no other possibility. Someone must be trying to influence how the prize is going.’
‘Can’t imagine any circumstances in which they’d want to kill any of us goodies. Wysteria and Hermione were baddies. If this is what it’s about, it’ll be Rosa or Den next.’
‘That doesn’t make it all right…’
Mary Lou slipped over to Amiss’ side and put her arm through his. ‘Come for a walk, Robert. I want to show you the fernery.’
‘Good idea,’ said the baroness. ‘I’ve got work to do. Calm him d
own.’
Amiss looked at the baroness, who was already at her desk scrawling instructions on a piece of paper. He turned back to Mary Lou. ‘What about the snipers? Shouldn’t we wait until the bulletproof vests are delivered?’
‘I’m prepared to take the risk if you are.’ She took his hand. ‘Come on, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’
The baroness looked up as they left. ‘When he’s stopped being a prima donna, I want him back here to plot about the short-list.’
***
The new gardener had indeed done wonders with some dreary parts of the Victorian garden. Amiss gazed in admiration at a corner which had hitherto held nothing but a few dank and tenacious weeds. ‘It’s amazing what ferns and mirrors and imagination can do.’
‘And money. Jack didn’t stint.’
‘But that wasn’t why you dragged me out here, was it?’
‘No. There are two things I want to talk about. First, I need advice about me and Ellis.’
‘What sort of advice?’
‘Would I be wise to get a job in London?’
Amiss stopped and faced her. ‘I thought you were happy here.’
‘I am, much of the job is great, I would miss Jack, and she would miss me, but I can’t expect Ellis to transfer to the Cambridgeshire police…’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
‘The Met’s more exciting?’
‘Yep. Much. And since I want to give marriage my best shot, it seems a good idea to start it off by actually living together, rather than carrying on the way we are at present.’
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 16
