by HRF Keating
So, yes, Tigger, bouncy amoral Tigger, whom I came when Daphne Morgan-Woods was talking about him to see as care-for-nothing Valentine Drummond, has clearly the capability of eliminating Robert Roughouse if he’d become a threat to some scheme of the Cabal’s. A scheme, it must be, of more than a little weight. So, acting at once, and quite possibly on his own initiative, did he block for ever the one gap through which the whole scheme might come pouring into the light of day?
For a moment she saw Robert Roughouse, once in line to be a Master of Foxhounds, as a fox himself, baying hounds in close pursuit, scrabbling at last to his earth. Only soon to find it brutally dug up.
Why did I start thinking all that? OK, the murder attempt on Roughouse, defiant supporter of hunting, was where, so to speak, I came in. A crime to be resolved, and myself by sheer chance witnessing it. So fair enough to think of Roughouse, who, as Charity suggested to me, was desperately asking himself when he had that nightmare whether he should abandon some long-held loyalty. Because, yes, would it have been because Sir Marcus Fledge had wanted him, ordered him, to go, not of course to Gralethorpe, but to Transabistan to help seize the buried wealth that lies in its huge deposit of pitchblende.
Yes, he had been a fox, dipping and dodging its way to — not the darkness of its earth but to the light of day. The truth made plain to see.
And what else did I learn from clever Daphne, truth-seeking even in the gossip columns of glossy All the Way Round?
Just this. That she had no hesitation in agreeing with me when I tentatively put it to her that the Cabal had grown from a group of friends dining together and indulging in a little gossip into something altogether more actively directed to a particular end. And finally she had spoken that crucial word illegal. The notion of the Cabal as involved in something illegal was what cautious Kailash Gokhale had also hinted at in his deserted Lincoln’s Inn chambers. He pointed me, with that seemingly far-fetched story of his being locked in at the big Bristol library, to Roughouse’s Marching Through Georgia, with its references to Transabistan and pitchblende. He had wanted to plant in my mind his own faint suspicion. But, with lawyer’s caution, he did not want to speak about it directly. Yes, he wanted me to think about those words I read, and even paused over. Little boys black-faced and shiny as niggers because of the pitchblende pebbles they kept throwing at each other.
And, yet more. Daphne, just by asking how much I knew about Pettifer’s, brought me to recall those enormous photographs of earth-shifting machines in the entrance lobby at Pettifer House, machines unmatched world over, perhaps then the only ones that could be used for rapidly extracting pitchblende from the earth, eventually, as John actually told me, to yield death-dealing uranium.
It’s all beginning to hang together. Yes, it’s as if a murderer’s features are slowly emerging from the come-and-go shadows. A murderer infuriated to discover that Roughouse, that man with his own code of honour, had rebelled at last and might be on the point of discarding a long-held loyalty.
How right I was to take the half-concealed advice that Marching Through Georgia might be worth reading. I was right to make all that effort to get hold of it, even if in the end it was John’s copy, overdue at the library, that I read. Yes, that all-night trudge in those dull footsteps has paid off.
What that single mention of pitchblende means is that Roughouse could have worked out that underneath an obscure village in Transabistan there lies a huge deposit of rare pitchblende, now immensely valuable. No doubt, when Matthew Jessop went to Transabistan, ostensibly to make a film of Robert’s adventures, he had been able to ascertain that the pitchblende under that village was there in quantity enough to make mining worthwhile. No wonder he had looked disturbed when he saw me staring at those two photographs.
Yes. Oh, yes. Everything is coming together. And it’s plain now why Valentine Drummond took advantage of his invitation to that big party down on the Kentish coast. It was in order to come quietly up to Birchester and, with those unlikely inquiries about ‘a friend’, explore the possibilities of getting into the Masterton. Then, when he was baulked by Tonelle, under cover of the darkness of that rainy night he had explored the outside of the old converted mansion. He had found the window that Bolshy in his turn had located. He had forced it, wriggled through and, shoes sodden by that night’s rain, had left a trail of footsteps ending where a card in a little brass holder made plain Mr Robert Roughouse was asleep on the other side of the door. And he had blotted out that dangerous existence.
So what to do?
Not, plainly, go rushing round to that flat high above Parliament Square to tackle Drummond, should he even be there. But worthwhile perhaps to test if my inside informant really can use Graham’s mobile. All very well her saying Ev’body can, but that may have been no more than trying to establish her so-to-speak citizenship of the mobiles-mad UK.
*
‘Maria, is that you?’
‘Is Maria. You are police lady.’
‘Yes, yes, I am. And I’m glad you’re able to answer.’
‘Ev’body can.’
‘So it seems. But tell me, Maria. Is Mr Drummond at home?’
‘Out. Very much out-out now. Here only when he is seeing those bad men.’
Bad men? What the hell is she talking about?
‘What bad men, Maria? He’s having men come to the flat? But why do you say they’re bad?’
‘Guns.’
‘They’re men with guns? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Said. They are showing what guns they have. Mr Drummond telling what to do.’
God, they must be mercenaries. He’s been hiring mercenaries. He’s going to take them to Transabistan. Gung-ho characters have fought their way to power in other parts of the world. Yes, that’s what bouncy Tigger has in mind. And that back-to-camera photo of a gun-toting exhibitionist in Jessop’s drawing-room was probably not of poor Rob Roughouse but of Tigger himself. And, yes, now he’s got full backing for this expedition of his. From the Cabal.
But what else did Maria just say? Very much out-out. Don’t like that. Is he preparing to get abroad at a moment’s notice? Worse, is the Cabal almost ready to put their Transabistan plan into immediate action? No, don’t like this at all.
‘You mean,’ she asked, to make sure beyond doubt, ‘that Mr Drummond’s been out a lot these past few days?’
‘Yes, not-not here most of day.’
‘All right. Thank you. But, Maria, could you ring me and let me know, at whatever time of day it is, that he’s back?’
God, will she understand all that?
‘Yes, yes.’
So has she understood? Really? I’ll have to assume she has. And hope.
*
Back at last at the car, she found it, of course, thickly grey with slowly eddying stale smoke. No time, however, for a prolonged holding open of the door. She got in, half-holding her breath, and found her mind already made up about what to do next.
‘Lincoln’s Inn, New Square,’ she said.
Without a word Bolshy, perhaps grateful that she had made no fuss about the fug, started up.
She found, as somehow she knew she would, that Kailash Gokhale was in and willing to see her.
‘You know,’ she said, shaking hands, ‘I envisage you here, all day and well into the evening, as it is now, head bowed over papers and books. The embodiment of the Law, that huge net supporting us all.’
The Bengali QC smiled.
‘Extremely gratifying. But, alas, something of an exaggeration.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet agreed, with a wry smile of her own, ‘there’s always the law of nature, or physics, or whatever, exerting even more pressure on us all than every one of your statutes.’
‘There’s more. There’s the law of God, whichever God you believe in. There’s a sharp quotation from Robert Louis Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde that I like to remind myself of, as well as reminding the occasional client. It’s this: In the law of God there is no statute of l
imitations.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet said. ‘Yes, that’s something to remember, whichever God, as you say, is there not to be bound by any statutes.’
Kailash Gokhale gave her a tight little smile.
‘So what has brought you here now?’ he asked. ‘The weight of the law or the weight of atmospheric pressure? Or the weight of the Almighty?’
‘You’re quite right. I haven’t come just for conversation, however philosophical. I’ve come, in fact, for something right at the other end of the scale. I want the low-down on a number of people whom I’ve begun to suspect of some seriously illegal activity.’
‘The Cabal. Yes, I thought the moment our Clerk rang through to say you were here that it would be the Cabal you wanted me to tell you more about. So, what have you found out yourself?’ Another quick glint of a smile. ‘Without prejudice.’
‘All right then. A lot of guesses and suppositions, and a few hard facts.’
‘Let’s hear, especially the suppositions.’
‘Very well. One way and another I have learnt that a prominent member of the Cabal was supposed to be down in Kent on the night that Robert Roughouse was smothered to death in the Masterton Clinic in far-off Birrshire, and that he was definitely not there.’ An abrupt hesitation. ‘Or, rather, that there is good evidence that he was not.’
‘Yes, exactly. Valentine Drummond — for the moment let’s imagine it’s him we’re talking about — is a great friend of Lady Margaret Tredannick. And Lady Margaret, as the whole world knows, or at least those people who glance from time to time at the gossip pages certainly know, was giving a very large party that night at Ravenham House in Kent for her son’s coming-of-age. But, among all the guests there, anybody, any police officer even, would have had considerable difficulty in proving beyond reasonable doubt that any particular person was not present. I hardly need tell you how hard it is to prove a negative.’
‘But I have had an assurance,’ Harriet ploughed on, resolutely ignoring the legal niceties, ‘a very definite assurance, from someone who knows Valentine Drummond well, that he was not at the party.’
‘Very well. Evidence coming, as it must have done, from a person who’s a friend of whoever it is we are discussing —’ A quick smile of complicity, ‘… will carry a certain weight. But, make no mistake, only evidence gathered from everybody who was at the party stating that they never saw our friend there would in law be enough to make it likely, I say no more, that he was not present.’
Harriet felt as if, in the delightful heat of a fine summer’s day, she had found herself standing under a chilly waterfall.
OK, she thought, I really knew all that he’s been saying. However intelligent and truth-telling Daphne Morgan-Woods is, she could not possibly have been absolutely certain Drummond was not at the party. But somehow, because other circumstances seemed to fit, I let myself believe he was not there. All right, it was fair enough as a working hypothesis. But, no. No, I was running ahead of myself.
So what now? All right, Kailash Gokhale has, in fact, told me what’s next. It’s that I need hard evidence now that Drummond was at or near the scene of the crime at the relevant times.
‘Well, thank you for your advice,’ she said to her stern legal mentor. ‘You may have pointed out to me what the law will and will not accept. But you have, as well, suggested where I should go next. To the Masterton Clinic, where it’s possible I’ve got a reliable witness who may be able to identify Val —’
‘No, no. I really don’t think I ought to be hearing the name of anyone I may at some point — it’s not impossible — be asked to defend. A brief which, I have to tell you, I would have little trouble in bringing to a successful conclusion. The inexorable law would simply demand it of me.’
That same sweet, and knowing, smile.
Chapter Nineteen
Even though it was dark by the time they had reached Birchester, Harriet told Bolshy to go on to the Masterton. She needed to question Tonelle a lot harder about the man who had come to the clinic’s door. She urgently wanted now to compare Tonelle’s description with the image, vivid in her mind, of Tigger in his high-perched flat producing that half-alibi of his. Or, better still, she had to ask if Tonelle would be able, in a courtroom, to point a finger at the man in the dock and say: That’s him.
All right, ‘Debra Delaville’, or Daphne Morgan-Woods, seemed to have exploded that attempted alibi. But if what Kailash Gokhale gently hinted about proving a negative holds good when it comes to the crunch — a fleeting vision of him, bewigged in court as Defence counsel — my case will require better evidence than a simple challengeable declaration.
Telling Bolshy, once more, to wait at the gates — ‘As per usual’ came the mutter — she went quickly up to the house. She found she had forgotten that the heavy glass doors would be locked. But by dint of ringing and ringing at the bell, plus a bout of useless thumping on the solid glass itself, she did at last see a figure emerge through the gloom of the big, dimly lit entrance hall and go to the semi-circular reception desk.
Tonelle? It could be.
‘What you want, this time of the evening?’ a voice came from the phone grille beside her.
Yes, Tonelle.
‘It’s me, Harriet Martens.’
‘East, not zero, leads to dug-out,’ Tonelle said with a grin as she heaved open one half of the heavy doors. ‘Though, if you’re here to talk to Fishface, you’re out of luck. Gone into Birchester, see an old film, club cinema. Brief Encounter, or something. Said she just had to see it again. God knows what it is.’
‘I could tell you. But it’s not her I’m here for. It’s you. I have got questions for you to answer, if you can.’
Tonelle swept the doors wide, and led Harriet, heels clicking, across the decorative tiled floor back to the reception desk.
‘If this is going to take time, sit yourself in my chair,’ Tonelle said, hopping up on the desk itself and swinging her legs round.
‘Thanks. And I think I may take up a fair bit of your time. You see, I want to hear more, a lot more, about that mysterious man who wanted to know if the Masterton was — didn’t you say this? — suitable for a friend of his.’
‘Yeah, he said that. The exact words, now you remind me. And, yeah, suppose there may be more to tell about him. Anyhow, much more than I told that DS of yours, couldn’t wait to be on his way.’
‘Sorry about him. I was too caught up with the Scene of Crime people this morning to be able to see you myself.’
‘But wanting to ask me about that bloke means you’re getting somewhere? Going to nick the bastard who broke in here?’
‘Well, I can’t tell you, not just yet. But learning as much as I can about that man is what may well help. Would you be able to point him out, for a certainty, in an identity parade?’
Tonelle thought for a moment, her ebony-black face totally lacking its habitual full-lipped smile.
‘No,’ she said at last. ‘No, I couldn’t ever swear to him. It was dark, you know, darkish, an’ he kept his face sort of — yeah, crossword word, averted.’
‘Ah, well. Can’t have everything. But let’s see what we can have.’
‘OK. You said you had questions for me. Shoot, then.’
‘No,’ Harriet said, at that moment seeing her way forward. ‘No, this is what I want to do. I want you to go back to the minute that man rang at the bell, just in the way I did a moment ago. And then I want you to imagine it’s all happening again, and tell me every detail that comes to your mind.’
‘OK then.’
Tonelle took in a long breath and closed her eyes.
‘I’m sitting here, where you are now. In my chair. Thinking it’ll be only five minutes till I can close the doors, tidy up, finish for the day. And I’d done the crossword, every clue in it, so I’m feeling pretty chuffed. First time ever. An’ you know what? I was thinking of your old man, what a clever bugger he must be.’
Harriet stopped herself, with some effort, from endor
sing Tonelle’s assessment. The flow was not on any account to be interrupted.
‘An’ it was then I heard the bell. No. No, wait. It was a bit after. I’d been so far away thinking about the clues I’d solved all by my own self an’ what a brilliant bitch I’d become that the bell must’ve been rung for quite a bit before I noticed. Anyway, soon as I realised, I jumped up from where I was still sitting here at the desk, went over an’ pulled one half of the doors open. And there was this bloke standing there. Big bloke, like he was a boxer or something, broad shoulders. First thing I really noticed about him, though, was that hat of his, like what guys have at the races. Seen ’em on telly. Brim pulled down so you couldn’t hardly see his eyes.’
For a moment she fell silent, sitting up on the desk in a deep dream.
‘And …?’ Harriet softly prompted.
‘And he asked me if the clinic had any vacancies. An’ it was then he said suitable, an’ I thought poncy cunt. So I looked him up an’ down, much as to say Who are you then? But he just went on with his stupid questions, ’bout how many rooms there were, did they look out on the grounds — That’s what he said the grounds — on an’ on. And I thought What the hell you up to, matey? So I took a better look at him. Sort of riding mac he had on, all stiff like, and trousers, what I could see of ’em, from a tweedy brown suit. An’ shoes, brown polished brogues. Hundred per-cent the country gent. ’Cept for them pockets of his mac. Bulging with stuff crammed in there. Could ’ave had tools of some sort in one of ’em.’
