The Corpse of St James's

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I said weakly. ‘That must have made matters much, much worse.’

  ‘You’d think so. But in fact it was the turning point. Jemima’s not stupid, you know. She realized that she had a child to support, and she settled down to do it. She’s always tackled life as if she was fighting tigers, and this was no exception. She had no marketable skills, so she set out to acquire some, took a secretarial course and landed a job with Quinn’s.’

  ‘With your father!’ I said, amazed.

  ‘He was dead by that time, and the man who took over didn’t care who an employee was, so long as she was competent. Jemima was all of that. She had an unexpected talent for organization, and it wasn’t too long before she was managing the business end of the catering department.

  ‘I got all this second-hand, you understand. I had finished at Hendon and made it into the Met, the very lowest rungs, but climbing one step at a time. I kept in touch with Letty, naturally. She’d inherited that house at Bramber – from an ancient aunt, I think – and with a tiny annuity and what I had set up for her in trust, she managed, but she couldn’t have Jemima and Melissa living with her. The house was too small, and she wanted Jemima to make it on her own.’

  ‘Which she was doing, apparently,’ I put in.

  ‘Which she was doing. Melissa was old enough for school, which helped a bit. Jemima had to have a childminder only part of the day. Even so, she was away from her flat more than Letty thought she should be, because she was still mad for art. Took classes in art history, that sort of thing, and applied for jobs in galleries.’

  ‘Where was Melissa’s father all this time? Bert, was that his name?’

  ‘We all assumed it was Bert, though Jemima would never say. I was appalled by that. Her own cousin. I was sure the baby would turn out to be an idiot or something, but she turned out all right.’ Jonathan stopped, remembering how, in the end, Melissa had ‘turned out’. He drank his tea, cold by now, and resumed.

  ‘Anyway, Bert had pretty much dropped out of the picture. He had helped out when he could, at the beginning, but he was just a kid, and he wouldn’t have dared approach his father. He got a job in one of the local galleries, and did well enough there to go to London. I assume he’s still there. I’ve not heard from him in ages.’

  ‘Would he have helped Jemima get the job at the palace?’ asked Alan.

  ‘Possibly. I really don’t know.’

  I exchanged glances with Alan. He nodded. ‘I think we need to talk to him,’ said Alan, ‘about that and several other things. He lives in London?’

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘I suppose. As I said, I’ve lost touch. It’s possible Jemima might know.’

  ‘And his surname is Higgins, I assume, as he’s the son of Letty’s brother-in-law?’

  ‘It was. He may have changed it, I suppose. It’s not a classy-sounding name, is it? And the circles he moves in . . .’

  ‘Phone Jemima.’ It was not a suggestion.

  Jonathan fished his mobile out of his pocket and punched in a number. ‘No answer,’ he said eventually. ‘She always answers. I can’t imagine . . .’

  Alan ran a hand down the back of his neck once more, then stood and looked Jonathan straight in the eye. ‘All right, my friend. It’s obvious that Bert Higgins must be found. It’s also obvious that the two or three of us, working on our own, can’t do it. This is a job for the Met. It’s time we told Carstairs the whole story.’

  ‘But . . . Jemima . . . the palace . . . the scandal . . .’ I protested.

  ‘I hate it as much as you do, Dorothy.’ Alan looked grim. ‘But it’s that or risk a murderer going free. We must tell him. Now.’

  ‘Couldn’t we try Jemima again?’ I pleaded. ‘She might know where Bert is. It’s worth a try.’

  Alan pulled out his phone, pushed buttons. ‘Voicemail,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  We were a sad and sorry trio an hour later, leaving Carstairs’ office. He had greeted us cordially, but once Alan launched into our story, the emotional climate became arctic. The Chief Superintendent ignored me completely, turned the occasional chilly glare on Jonathan, and said absolutely nothing throughout Alan’s narrative.

  ‘I see,’ he said when Alan had finished. His jaw worked, as if he had a great deal more to say. Alan’s exalted one-time rank, however, kept him silent. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sure you will excuse me, as I now have a great deal to do.’

  A curt bow to me and to Alan, another icy glare at Jonathan, and he strode out of the office, leaving us to find our way out.

  ‘There’s a pub just around the next corner,’ I said, finally. ‘Can you walk that far, Jonathan?’

  ‘I know the place. I can get that far.’ He limped along. He’d left his wheelchair at his flat, not wanting to appear in it before his erstwhile boss. Now I thought he was regretting it.

  None of us said another word until we were seated at a small table in the Sanctuary House, with pints in front of us. I took a large, refreshing gulp of mine and said, brilliantly, ‘Well.’

  ‘We deserved every word he didn’t say,’ said Alan, with a grimace. ‘We’ve been bloody fools.’

  Alan almost never swears. I agreed with his sentiments, and his mood.

  ‘What do we do now, troops?’ I asked when I’d finished my beer and reluctantly decided against another.

  ‘The very first thing is to phone Jemima,’ said Jonathan. ‘I should have done it the moment we left the Yard, but I wasn’t thinking very straight.’ He pulled out his mobile and punched in some numbers.

  I rolled my eyes at Alan. ‘We should have thought of that,’ I whispered. ‘They may be with her right now.’

  ‘It’s still going to voicemail,’ said Jonathan, sounding doomed.

  ‘We have to trust them to be discreet,’ said Alan. ‘They won’t start a palace scandal if they can help it.’

  ‘The question is, will they be able to help it?’ I wasn’t optimistic. Scandal is the life blood of a tabloid, and dearly as I love England, I think the bottom-feeders in their press corps are much, much worse than their cousins in America. ‘We’re really left with only one thing to do. Jonathan, phone Letty and ask her to meet us at the station in Shoreham. We need to be with her when the police get in touch with her, and we need to pick her brains.’

  I put in a quick call to the Andersons, telling them to expect us back when they saw us. Alan hailed a taxi; Jonathan wasn’t up to the walk to Victoria Station.

  We said little on the journey. What was there to say? We had tried our best to help Jemima by keeping her name out of the murder investigation. It had been a foolish undertaking from the start, worse then foolish, verging on the criminal. And we had failed. We were simply not equipped to deal with matters involving the palace.

  If it did involve the palace. I still wasn’t totally convinced about that. Certainly, Melissa could have run into someone while she was abroad on her illicit tour of the palace, met someone who later took advantage of her naïveté and dragged her into an affair. And certainly we’d have to check on that list of footmen that Jemima had provided. But it didn’t sit right with me, somehow. There was something wrong with the scenario, and I wanted to get to the truth.

  Or I wanted someone to get to the truth. It looked, now, as if it was likely to be the mighty forces of the Met, and as long as they handled it discreetly, that was perfectly fine with me.

  Of course it was.

  EIGHTEEN

  We looked for Letty at the station, but couldn’t see her. Jonathan finally spotted her car in the car park.

  ‘Oh, no!’ he cried.

  ‘What’s the matter . . . oh.’ For I had seen what he saw. There were two people in the front seat, and the passenger was Jemima.

  ‘You idiot!’ Jonathan lowered his head to Jemima’s open window and spoke in a low, furious voice. ‘Don’t you know running away is the stupidest thing you could have done?’

  Her expression went blank. ‘I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking abo
ut. I didn’t run from anything. I came to Letty for a little rest. I told the dragon my daughter had died and I needed some time off, and she gave me a few days’ compassionate leave.’

  ‘Then you haven’t seen the police?’

  ‘No! What are you talking about? What have you done?’

  Jemima was growing more and more agitated, and Alan intervened. ‘Perhaps it would be best to discuss this in a less public place. I think we’ll all fit in the car, Letty, if we squeeze a bit, and when we get to your house we can talk. Until then, Jemima, please be assured that nothing dire has taken place.’

  Alan is not given to lying, and that, in my mind, classed as a whopper, but I followed his lead and tried to force Jemima into idle conversation on the short ride to Bramber.

  ‘Jemima, Jonathan tells us you’re an expert on art. Do you have a favourite period? Myself, I’ve always loved the Impressionists.’

  ‘They’re all right, but I prefer the Renaissance. Jonathan, what were you talking about?’

  ‘The Renaissance?’ I ploughed on. ‘Now that covers a pretty broad field, and I’m afraid I’m relatively ignorant about it. Are we talking painting, sculpture, architecture . . . what?’

  ‘Painting and the decorative arts, really, I suppose. Jonathan, tell me!’

  I put on my schoolteacher voice. ‘Really, Jemima, it will be much better if we wait until we can discuss this calmly. Meanwhile, I actually do know a little about the decorative arts. Have you ever heard of the Thorne Miniature Rooms at the Art Institute of Chicago?’

  ‘I don’t want . . . oh, all right.’ She gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Yes, I know what you’re talking about. I’ve seen pictures, heavily retouched, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, no, I know the pictures you mean, and they’re absolutely accurate. You wouldn’t believe how perfect the scale is, and how carefully each tiny detail was planned. She was a very wealthy woman, Mrs Thorne, although not in the same league with your boss.’

  ‘My boss? The dragon?’

  ‘I think she means Her Majesty,’ said Alan, with the hint of a smile in his voice.

  ‘Oh. Well, nobody’s in her league, are they? She doesn’t have to deal with miniature furniture and tapestries; she has the real thing.’

  ‘And you love them, don’t you?’

  It was the wrong thing to say. Her love of all those beautiful things had led her to the palace, away from the care of Melissa, and in one way or another, that decision had led to tragedy.

  As Jemima began to sob, Letty pulled her car into the minuscule parking space next to her house. ‘You’ll all have to get out on my side; sorry. Come along, love, you’re skinny enough to slide under the steering wheel.’

  Jemima clung to her (much smaller) mother like a child with a skinned knee.

  I heard Alan say, in an undertone, ‘Jonathan, let me do the talking.’

  Letty, in her no-nonsense way, settled Jemima down enough that she sat quiet in an armchair while Alan laid out the whole story, ending with the need to find Bert. ‘And in a city the size of London, it’s plainly impossible to find one man without using the resources of the police. Unless you know where he is.’

  Jemima shrugged. ‘I don’t even know who he is nowadays. He changed his name when he went to work with his first London gallery, I do know that. I used to get Christmas cards from him, but it’s been a long time, and I don’t remember his posh name.’

  ‘Did he not help you get the job at the palace?’ I was honestly surprised.

  ‘Bert Higgins hasn’t helped me with anything for a very long time.’ She sounded not so much bitter as utterly weary. ‘We were kids in love with beauty, never with each other. When we got a pair of Staffordshire dogs, at auction, we were over the moon, couldn’t believe we’d actually done it. That was why we . . . well. We never actually meant all that much to each other. I didn’t blame him for going off, well, not much, anyway.’

  ‘I did,’ said Letty. ‘You faced up to your responsibility with a child. He never did. Left you high and dry.’

  ‘He had his horrible father to deal with. I don’t blame him. Not now, at least. He didn’t have you, Mum.’

  She leaned over to give Letty a kiss, the first sign I had seen in her of any softness. Then she sat up straight and said to Alan, ‘Right. Now. What can I expect?’

  As if in answer, the telephone rang. Her face filled with apprehension, Letty answered.

  ‘Yes? Yes.’ She made a face and nodded at us. ‘Yes, she’s right here. Would you like to talk to her? I see. In a few minutes, then.’

  She sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘They’re on their way, love.’

  ‘How did they sound?’

  ‘Non-committal. Very official.’

  Alan spoke. ‘Now listen to me, all of you. I’m going to answer the door when they arrive, and introduce myself. I’ll make it quite clear that I am here only as a friend of the family, which is true enough, but my former rank will keep them on their toes. Jonathan, don’t volunteer your former rank, but don’t lie if they ask. In fact, no lies from anyone, please, but say no more than necessary. Understood?’

  When Alan speaks in full chief constable mode, people obey. We all nodded and sat silent, our hearts thudding, waiting for the police to arrive. I don’t know about anyone else, but I was praying.

  The knock when it came was neither loud nor threatening, but we all jumped. Alan opened the door. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector, Sergeant. My name is Nesbitt. I’m the retired chief constable of Belleshire, and a good friend of the Quinn and Higgins families. Won’t you come in?’

  If Alan had hoped the police officers would be disconcerted by that little speech, he was disappointed. They had obviously been warned in advance that CC Nesbitt was meddling in this affair. Gravely polite, they introduced themselves, showed their identification, and came into the small room.

  ‘I’ll get chairs,’ murmured Letty. The five of us had taken up all the available seating.

  ‘Please don’t bother, ma’am,’ said the woman, apparently the senior officer of the pair. ‘We can stand.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, but you’ll be more comfortable sitting,’ Letty retorted, and went to retrieve the kitchen chairs. Jemima started to stand, to help her, but Alan shook his head ever so slightly, and she subsided.

  The woman cleared her throat and spoke to us all. ‘I’m Inspector Bradley and this is Sergeant Dalal. We are with the Sussex police, and are assisting the Metropolitan Police in their investigation into the murder of Melissa Higgins. May I assume that you are Jemima Higgins?’

  It wasn’t much of a guess. Jemima was the only young woman present. She nodded. ‘I am.’

  ‘And you are her mother, Letty Higgins?’

  The inspector had spoken to me. I shook my head, and Letty, returning with two chairs, said, ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Ah. Then you will be Mrs Martin, I take it, and you are Jonathan Quinn.’

  We all nodded dumbly. I thought we looked as if we belonged in the back window of a car.

  ‘Well, then. Thank you, Mrs Higgins.’ The inspector sat on one of the chairs and nodded to her assistant, who moved the chair quietly into the most inconspicuous spot he could find and pulled out a notebook and pencil.

  ‘First of all, Ms Higgins, my condolences on the loss of your daughter.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jemima’s words were barely audible; she pulled a tissue out of her pocket and tried to stem the flow of tears.

  I hoped Inspector Bradley would be merciful. Jemima was exceedingly fragile. I thought about saying something, but Alan cocked an eyebrow at me. I bit my lip and remained silent.

  ‘Can you tell us why you failed to report your daughter’s death to the police?’

  Whoa! That was hitting her between the eyes. Letty put her hand on Jemima’s arm.

  Jemima swallowed hard before she answered. ‘I work and live at Buckingham Palace. I was afraid that any police investigation would bring the media down on me and create a scandal.’
/>   ‘Were you concerned that you might lose your job?’

  ‘Partly that, but mostly I just wanted to protect the palace and the royal family. Not that they have anything to do with any of this, but you know how the media can twist things.’

  ‘Exactly what are your duties at the palace?’

  ‘I’m with the Lord Chamberlain’s Office. We deal with the ceremonies connected with the royal family, at Buckingham Palace and elsewhere, but I work only at the palace. There are a good many ceremonies!’

  ‘Indeed.’ The inspector smiled. ‘But can you be a little more specific about what you do?’

  The impersonal questions were calming Jemima, I was glad to see. She had stopped shredding the tissue in her hands. Letty quietly took it away and handed her a clean one.

  ‘It’s a lot like organizing a huge wedding, several times a month. Someone must see to the invitations, to the housing of guests if it’s that sort of do, to the menu if there’s food, to the details of the ceremony itself. I don’t do any of the planning, actually. That’s done in much higher echelons, and in a sense there’s not a lot to do there, because most of the ceremonies haven’t changed in years. Centuries, maybe. Take the Investiture last week, for example.’ She glanced at Alan, wondering if she was saying too much, but he smiled and nodded.

  ‘My specific duty that day, after I’d checked the Ballroom to make sure everything was ready, was to help greet those being honoured and direct them to the briefing room. There were about a hundred of them, so three of us were assigned to that little chore. Then after the ceremony was over I had to help shepherd everyone out. But the real work was done ahead of time: preparing the invitation lists, making sure all the medals were ready, in the proper order, checking on the music – oh, a thousand details. I don’t do all that, but all of us on the staff have to know, in general, what’s going on and what needs to be done. We’re expected to be able to step in wherever needed.’