‘Elizabeth. Yes, she’s good. She may make an artist one day, if her parents don’t succeed in marrying her off to a stockbroker, their most desperate hope. So if you’re not trying to convince me about a budding Leonardo, what did you want to see me about?’
‘Well, I’m sure this is going to sound very odd to you, but I’m doing some research about school activities in England. I am, as you can probably tell, American by birth, though I’ve lived in Sherebury for some time now. I was a teacher in the States, and I’m writing a book contrasting American educational methods with English ones.’
I took out my pen and notebook again, keeping the open page out of the man’s sight. It contained random jottings that made no particular sense. I wrote down his name.
I had hoped for a truly boring approach, and it appeared I had succeeded. His eyes were already beginning to turn towards his studio. ‘Yes, and how may I help you? I suspect methods of teaching art are much the same all over the world. One instructs in methods and then puts the little blighters to work. Most of them are dire.’
‘Well, I’m actually more interested in your methods of teaching art appreciation. At least, that’s what we called it back in Indiana. Art history, perhaps?’
‘Again, probably very similar to the way it’s done in the States.’ He shifted, and a pile of papers cascaded to the floor. ‘Pictures, slides, that sort of thing.’
‘Ah, but on this side of the pond you have so many opportunities to see the real thing. All the wonderful museums in London alone! And then there’s Buckingham Palace. Your headmaster tells me you sometimes take the older children on tours there. How wonderful for them!’
‘Some of them enjoy it. Others just don’t care about that sort of art. They’d choose Robert Indiana over Rembrandt any time, so for them it’s a frightful bore.’
‘I understand you sometimes take along an expert on the collection, to supplement the information on the self-guided tour.’
‘We did once. Bloke volunteered. He knew his stuff, but . . . he wasn’t entirely satisfactory. I doubt we’ll do it again. Now if that’s all, Mrs Um, I need to make sure the brats are still working.’
He stood, ignored the books that joined the papers on the floor, and strode out of the room.
I’d touched a nerve.
Once I’d regained the ground floor, I stopped to get Mr Jarvis’s address and telephone number from Mrs Stevens, and then headed for the front door. Just as I got to the front steps I heard voices.
‘What the hell did she want?’
It was a man’s voice, and I thought it belonged to the art teacher. I casually leaned against the wall to tie my shoe.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Mr Peretti?’ That was Mrs Stevens.
‘She was asking too many questions about Jarvis. I want you to find out who she is and what she thinks she’s doing.’
‘Really! I am not an enquiries firm.’
‘No? That’s what it says outside your door. Enquiries. You’d better get on with it, Sadie, my dear, or—’
Somewhere nearby a door slammed. I skedaddled.
TWENTY-FIVE
When Alan had driven us well away from the school, I recounted my conversations.
‘Did you record them?’
‘I hope so. I pressed the right button, I think. I won’t know for sure till we get home and I can listen to the thing. But Alan, don’t you think the most interesting part was what they didn’t say?’
‘Everyone seemed to avoid talking about Mr Jarvis.’
‘Even the secretary. Oh, I don’t think I recorded her. But she acted funny when I mentioned him. Acted . . . as if she expected some trouble.’
‘Hmmm. And it sounds as though they all shied away from any talk about London and Buckingham Palace. None of it’s evidence. But I agree, it is suggestive.’
‘And what it suggests to me is that there’s something at least slightly fishy about Mr Jarvis.’
‘Or that Carstairs’ people have already been there.’
‘I thought of that, but I just didn’t sense that kind of reaction. There was no “But I already told the police all that” sort of attitude, just a stone wall. I wish I could find somebody who would tell me something about the man.’
‘Surely the first step is to speak to the man himself, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You’re right. I . . . for some reason I’m a little uneasy about the direct approach. I suppose, suspecting what we do . . . but you’re right. I need to meet him and form my own opinions.’
I pulled out my mobile and punched in the number I’d carefully noted down. After five rings it went to voicemail.
‘Not home. Or not answering.’
‘Does he live in Brighton, or possibly Hove?’
‘Neither. It was a London address.’ I looked it up. ‘Mulberry Walk, SW3. Do you know it?’
‘Not to say know it. I think it’s in Chelsea.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Lots of people live in Chelsea, Dorothy.’
‘I know, I know. Still . . .’
We drove in silence for a couple of miles, pondering.
‘Home for lunch before catching the train?’ said Alan after a while. ‘I do not propose to drive into London.’
‘No. I mean, yes, lunch at home first.’
I found my A-to-Zed after we’d eaten a quick sandwich, and looked up Mulberry Walk. ‘You’re right, it’s in Chelsea, a couple of streets north of the King’s Road. Doesn’t look like there’s a tube station anywhere close.’
Alan sighed. ‘Bus or cab, then. This little adventure is getting awfully expensive, my love.’
‘Jonathan has lots of money. We’ll bill him for expenses, once we get him off.’
‘If we get him off.’
Alan drove to the railway station in Sherebury, but when I turned to kiss him goodbye, he was already getting out of the car. ‘You’re coming with me?’ I asked in surprise. ‘I thought you were keeping discreetly out of any active investigation.’
‘Not if it means letting you walk into a lion’s den by yourself.’
‘We don’t know that it’s a lion’s den.’
‘We don’t know it isn’t. Get a move on, old dear, or we’ll miss the train.’
The carriage was crowded, so we didn’t talk about anything important on the way in. There wasn’t really much to say. We were grasping at straws, and we both knew it.
It took us a long time to get a taxi at Victoria. For some reason, they all seem to vanish from time to time, though when one doesn’t want one there’s a long queue of them. The afternoon grew warmer by the second, and by the time we finally got to our destination, I was hot and tired and cross.
Alan rang the bell, and after a longish interval, rang it again. I pulled out my phone and called Anthony’s number. Voicemail again.
I uttered a couple of regrettable words.
‘Annoying, isn’t it, my dear? When the universe fails to arrange itself according to your wishes?’
‘Oh, go ahead. Make fun. But it tells us one thing, at least. Why would the man be hiding from us unless he had a good reason?’
‘He could, you know, be out doing his job. Or buying groceries. Or communing with nature, or writing a sonnet, or taking in a matinée, or . . .’
I sighed, deflated. ‘Did I ever tell you you have an annoying habit of being right?’
He grinned and took my arm. ‘Now, would you like to cool off over a nice pint?’
‘Would I ever! But first . . .’
‘But first you’d like to call on Bert Higgins and see what more he can tell us about the elusive Mr Jarvis.’
But Bert’s shop, only a street or two away, had a sign on the door: ‘Closed today, back tomorrow.’
‘Well, that certainly isn’t very informative! Some dates would be useful. Alan, I begin to get the feeling this isn’t our day.’
‘Or we may be going about this the wrong way. Let’s have that pint, love, and talk about other possibilities.’
/>
The pint, tracked down at an especially pretty pub neither of us had known before, was refreshing. The place wasn’t crowded, amazingly enough, and that meant a pleasant drink, but the noise level was too low for private conversation. The train home, by way of contrast, was so crowded and noisy that any conversation was next to impossible.
So we didn’t get a chance to talk until we were settled at home, tired and disgruntled, with various comforting animals disposed about us.
‘That,’ I said, ‘was a totally wasted day. No one we really wanted to talk to was available, and the only people who were didn’t tell us – didn’t tell me anything useful.’
‘Mmm,’ said Alan.
That’s the sort of noise the man makes when he doesn’t agree with me, but thinks it wiser not to say so. It can sound non-committal, or disapproving, or, with an upward lift, interrogative. No matter how he says it, it’s just as maddening as direct contradiction.
‘All right, so tell me what you think was productive about all the running around we did today.’
Watson, at my feet, lifted his head and whined at my tone of voice. I sounded unhappy, to his distress.
‘You’re right, of course, love. We didn’t accomplish a great deal. But we did confirm our sense that there’s something not quite right about Anthony Jarvis.’
‘But we still don’t know for sure.’
‘There is, of course, one resource we haven’t yet tapped.’
‘Well, Bert, but he wasn’t home.’
‘I was thinking of something much closer to home.’ He gestured with his head towards his study.
‘The Internet!’ we cried in unison.
I admit I was slow to move into the electronic age. My own age might have something to do with that. But now that I’ve understood the possibilities, I can’t imagine how I ever functioned without the remarkable resources that a computer puts literally at my fingertips.
I smacked my head. ‘Of course. The obvious. The headmaster at St Cuthbert’s said Jarvis used to be a teacher at one time. There’s bound to be something about him on the Net.’
We went to work, each on our own computer. (Yes, we have two. We haven’t yet succumbed to smart phones and the like, but we do love our computers.)
I spent an hour in my small kitchen-office hopping from one website to another, growing more and more frustrated. At last I went into Alan’s den, where he sat frowning at the screen.
‘Alan, I’m having no luck at all. I find sites for schools all over the area, and academic directories, and all sorts of places where Jarvis ought to be, but he isn’t. I can’t even find any phone or address listings for him except the one in Chelsea. He has a website, but it’s pretty useless. No bio or background, just self-promotion.’
‘I’m finding the same pattern. You know what it means, don’t you?’
‘Something’s being covered up.’
‘And perhaps there’s been a name change. There could be all kinds of reasons for that, you know.’
‘Witness protection programme, something like that? Yes, I know, but all the same, it’s odd. And frustrating! This is when we need the resources of the police, and they’re not available to us! Do you think the Met will follow this up?’
‘I wish I could say yes, but their eyes are on Jonathan. They’re not going to go out of their way to find another suspect when he’s so handy.’
‘Is that the way the police work?’ I sounded a trifle bitter.
‘Sorry to disillusion you, but yes, in these days of under-staffing and underfunding, I’m afraid it often is the way they work. There’s always pressure from above to clear a case and get on with the next. And when the case is as explosive as this one could be, the pressure is unrelenting.’
‘So.’ I dropped into a chair. Watson, anxious about me again, came over and licked my hand. I patted his head absently. ‘What now? I’ve run out of ideas.’
Alan looked at me over the tops of his glasses. ‘You’re tired, and you’re depressed. I’d suggest you rest for a bit while I make us some dinner, and then we’ll brainstorm.’
Even though he sometimes exasperates me, I often have occasion to bless the day I married this man. He knows me so well.
The rest turned into a nap, of course, but I woke when the smell of dinner became too enticing to ignore.
The dear man had concocted some sort of ragout, with beef and onions and mushrooms and baby carrots in a rich gravy. He’d made mashed potatoes to go with it, and a salad, and by the time I’d made my way through every bite, I was feeling very much better.
‘It’s a good thing I didn’t know you could cook like this before I married you, or you’d think the whole deal was just to get a chef.’
‘No, indeed, my dear. I knew you married me for my accent.’
‘That, too. Oh, no, thanks, I’ll just have coffee.’
Alan put the fruit tarts back in the fridge. ‘They’re store-bought, anyway. Pastry isn’t my strong point, and I had the feeling you might not want much dessert. Now, love, while you were snoring away, I’ve been thinking.’
I sipped my coffee and looked encouraging.
‘The source of all the troubles, in more ways than one, is Melissa’s father, Bert Higgins. Or Robert Whatever-it-is.’
‘Hathaway. Well, he was certainly the source of Melissa!’
‘And of the information about Jarvis. Now I’ve begun to wonder about that. If his name has been changed, and Higgins hasn’t seen him since the encounter . . . or non-encounter . . . in Brighton, how did Higgins know his present name?’
‘Oh. Maybe we’re wrong about the name change.’
‘Quite possibly. But in any case, don’t you think another little visit to London is in order?’
I sighed. ‘What I think is that I’d like a little brandy with my coffee.’
The fact, I admitted to myself and finally to Alan, was that, old Sam notwithstanding, I was tired of London. Oh, not for good. There would come a time when I would want to enjoy the bustle and the glitter again, but June in the country is gorgeous. Bob was getting my garden in shape, and the Cathedral was looking at its best, and . . . well, much as I hated to say it, I wanted to stay home and tend to my knitting.
‘You never were very good at knitting,’ Alan observed to that last comment. ‘What’s really wrong, Dorothy?’
‘I am genuinely tired, Alan. And discouraged. Every time we find something that looks like a promising path to explore, it leads to nothing, or at least to a place where we can go no further. I’ve never felt like this before. There was always something just ahead to chase, like . . . like a fox’s brush. Now . . . oh, I’m ready to give up the whole thing.’
Alan took my hand, and we sat there for a long time. I finished my coffee and my brandy in silence. There seemed to be nothing to say.
The phone rang. Neither of us really wanted to answer it, but Alan finally released my hand and got to his feet.
‘Nesbitt here.’ A brief pause. ‘I see. Thank you, sir.’
He turned to me, his face set in lines of worry. ‘That was Carstairs. Jonathan’s in hospital. He’s tried to commit suicide.’
TWENTY-SIX
We spoke little on the way to London. Alan concentrated on his driving, and there was either too much to say, or too little.
‘They didn’t give me any details, Dorothy,’ Alan said in response to my tentative query. ‘They went to his flat to ask him a few questions, and found him unresponsive, apparently drugged.’
‘Will he . . .?’ The question stuck in my throat.
‘They don’t know yet.’
The road unrolled. Lights flew past. The long June twilight darkened into night.
‘I hope someone’s called Letty!’ I said suddenly, sharply.
‘I don’t know. Probably.’
And that was all, until we hit the nightmare of London traffic.
Alan, who knows the great city well, found a car park close to London Bridge Station. ‘We can get a taxi fro
m here,’ he said briefly.
‘Not the Underground?’
‘It’ll be closing soon. A taxi’s slower, but surer.’
I was all but biting my nails by the time we got to St Thomas’s and found the Accident and Emergency department.
Mr Carstairs rose as we came in. ‘He’s going to be all right,’ he said instantly.
I dropped into the nearest chair. Somehow my legs didn’t want to hold me up.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Alan was keeping his voice from shaking, but I could hear the effort. He spoke in the hushed tones one uses in places where death is a frequent visitor.
‘Not in any detail. He apparently swallowed a good many oxycodone capsules. We phoned him to say we wanted to talk to him for a bit, and when we got no answer, we went to the flat. That is, my people went. They found the door unlocked and Quinn almost unconscious on the bed, with the empty bottle beside him.’
‘A note?’
Carstairs pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and handed it to Alan, who read the note inside and grimaced. ‘Bloody little fool!’ he said under his breath.
‘Let me see,’ I whispered. He handed it to me.
In crisp, precise handwriting it read simply, ‘Sorry for everything.’ It was not signed.
‘It’s his handwriting,’ Alan said, and gave the pathetic little document back to Carstairs.
There was a gloomy silence.
‘Can we see him?’ I asked finally.
‘They’ll let us know when he’s conscious and can talk to us. I’ll have to question him, of course.’
Of course. Suicide is a crime, even when it isn’t successful.
A hospital waiting room may well be the most depressing place on this earth. Its stark functionality provides no cheer for the soul; no rest for the body. One is tired and uncomfortable, simultaneously bored and terrified. At our ages, Alan and I brought to the place a lot of unhappy memories, as well. We’d done this before, and the outcome had sometimes been tragic. I knew he was thinking of his first wife, as I was of my first husband. Both had died suddenly, unexpectedly, and far too young. They’d died in hospitals thousands of miles apart, but in one sense, in exactly the place where we now sat, restless and frightened.
The Corpse of St James's Page 18
