Or maybe she just phoned and said some important personages, unnamed, had dropped into Blake’s office, and he had made these comments to them. No, she was not at liberty to say who the other people were, and they were not seen on the tape, but they were very highly placed.
She’d managed it somehow, leaving Blake free to be discreetly somewhere else. Maybe in London, more likely closer to Sherebury. The number of small, discreet pubs in southern England is amazing, and it would take the police a long, long time to find the place, unless they got very lucky.
So. Blake and Doyle meet. Blake (undoubtedly briefed by Vanessa) manages to get hold of Doyle’s heart pills. They’re probably in a coat pocket, and he must have found a way, knocked the coat to the floor or something. Then he doctors the coffee or whatever. Doyle begins to feel ill, his heart begins to beat erratically. Blake manages to get him home, waits for him to die, and then stabs him.
Why stab him? So Amanda will be blamed, of course. Why after he’s dead? Because Blake doesn’t want to get blood all over himself.
Why doesn’t he take the note? That damning note, right there in Doyle’s pocket for the police to find. They didn’t, of course, but Blake couldn’t have anticipated Amanda’s actions.
Oh. He had asked Doyle for the note earlier, but Doyle had said he had destroyed it. Blake might not have believed him, might have looked, but something changed his mind. A noise from upstairs, from outside? I’d probably never know, but almost anything might have spooked him. At least, it would for me, if I had just committed murder. I would want to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.
And then—and then what? Then Blake, or more probably the invaluable Vanessa, watches developments. Amanda is arrested; very good. She is released; not so good, but not terrible. The police take no further obvious steps. No one approaches Blake. He appears to have escaped notice.
But then this nosy American woman appears from out of nowhere. She wants to know what Doyle did in London. She says she doesn’t think Amanda did it. Maybe worst of all, she sees Vanessa drop things out of her purse.
I thought back to that brief meeting. Vanessa had been cool, capable, very much in control. She hadn’t reacted in any unusual way to anything I’d said. What, in fact, had I said?
I couldn’t remember saying anything that was at all incriminating. I’d certainly said nothing to suggest that I thought Blake might be up to something, because I’d had no such idea, then. My suspicions had all been of the chapel people, those thoroughly unpleasant Rookwoods.
I’d rather lost sight of them, hadn’t I? Was it possible, still, that they were responsible for Doyle’s death? If they really were raking a lot of cash off the top of the chapel’s operation, they had an excellent motive. For one delightful moment I pictured them at one of those Wednesday night prayer meetings, with Doyle standing up to denounce them in front of the whole congregation.
In a way it was almost a pity it had never happened. If anyone ever deserved that kind of pillorying, it was the Rookwoods. I would have liked to be there.
Which was an unworthy thought and one that put me in the same basket as them, glorying in someone else’s downfall. Shame on me. All the same, if they had known such a thing was a possibility, they would have done a lot to prevent it.
Of course, the police knew that as well as I did. They were certainly looking very closely into the movements of that pair on the night in question.
What the police didn’t know about was a note found in John Doyle’s pocket. A note in Anthony Blake’s distinctive handwriting.
I wrenched my thoughts away from the Rookwoods and back to my scenario. After Vanessa and I meet, she tells Blake that I’m asking awkward questions. She doesn’t think I know anything, but I have to be silenced.
I shivered. Why was I still alive? Perhaps only because I had a noted policeman for a husband. Or perhaps it hadn’t been easy to follow my movements. But Blake could easily find his daughters and his granddaughter, because he had told them to go to his cottage in Hampshire. And they might hold important knowledge, important keys that could lock him out of the future he wanted. Gillian with her knowledge of television, Amanda with whatever John might have told her, Miriam with her memory of whatever she might have seen or heard that night …
I’d tried not to think about that part. I didn’t want to believe that anyone could be callous enough, cold enough, to kill his family out of political ambition. But as I sat there nearing home, I knew as surely as I knew the train route that Anthony Blake had not been in Edinburgh when Gillian’s car was wrecked. I was willing to bet money that he had been in a car on that roundabout, or perhaps that Vanessa had been there, making sure in the fast, heavy traffic that Gillian’s car was crowded off the road and into a nice brick wall.
34
I WAS, I realized as the train pulled into Sherebury station, right back where I’d started. How could I prove any of this?
Oh, there was undoubtedly evidence out there. Some phone calls to the right people at the right TV stations might elicit the information that those Blake tapes had been supplied by Blake, not the station cameramen. Very sophisticated analysis of fibers and so on collected at the murder scene might match up with clothing, or hair, or whatever. There was always DNA, too. Blake would not, of course, have left any fingerprints. Unlike his repressed daughter, he lived in the real world and understood about forensics. He would have worn gloves. On a late November night, it was a normal thing to do.
He would have left something behind, and taken something away with him. That’s the first rule of forensics, that a person cannot go to a place without leaving something—a hair, say, or a few flakes of dead skin, or a trace of shoe polish—and removing something, perhaps carpet fibers or a little dirt from a muddy patch on a path.
The evidence could be obtained, all right, but first the police had to look for it, and match it up. And there was the problem.
English police are, I believe, as incorruptible as any in the world. But that doesn’t mean that they are not influenced by politics. Of course they are. When the government pays your wages and sets all the rules by which you operate, of course you’re careful not to upset whoever represents “the government” in your particular bailiwick.
Anthony Blake was, of course, not the MP for Sherebury. But he was a powerful man, the leading Tory in Parliament.
How many policemen were willing to stick their necks out far enough to offend Anthony Blake? Oh, if they were certain he was guilty, most of them. I’d give them that. They wouldn’t shield the guilty, not even if the guilty was a Royal. But launch an investigation on the strength of some unsupported allegations by an elderly American woman?
I didn’t think so.
I took a taxi home, still pondering.
Alan greeted me with a kiss and made me a sandwich when I said I’d missed lunch again. After I’d changed into dry clothes, I settled down at the kitchen table to eat, while Alan had some coffee to keep me company.
“Was it worth it?” he asked.
“Well, I learned some things.” I detailed Gillian’s information. “Oh, by the way, I was able to talk to Amanda for a few minutes, and I was right about the note. Amanda’s part in it, I mean. You should have heard her tone of voice when she said she supposed she should have given it to the police.”
Alan groaned.
“Miriam’s still not quite conscious, but she’s getting there. According to Gillian, the doctors are pretty optimistic now.”
Alan made suitable noises.
I nibbled at my sandwich and then put it down, suddenly no longer hungry. “Alan, what am I going to do?”
He might have said, “About what?” He might have said, “Why do you have to do anything? Leave it to the police.”
Bless his heart, he simply shook his head.
“What’s happening with the Rookwoods?” I asked after a while. “Has Derek told you anything?” I was hoping that, perhaps, after all …
He shook his
head again and waved a dismissive hand. “They’re in a good deal of trouble, of course. They kept two sets of books for the chapel, and one shows quite clearly how much money they’d been stealing over the years. They’ll be charged with various kinds of fraud and so on, but not murder. They both have alibis for that Wednesday night. And before you start your speech about alibis being suspect, let me say that these are vouched for by their congregation for the early part of the evening, and later on by the staff of that dreary mission down by the river. It seems the Rookwoods went there directly after the prayer meeting and stayed until well after midnight, supposedly to minister to the homeless but really, the director says, to harangue them about their evil ways. They were most unpopular, and quite irrefutably there.
“They didn’t do it, Dorothy. Much as I’d like to see them behind bars, they didn’t commit murder, at least not the murder of John Doyle.”
“No.” I had already been sure, but it was so much the easier, less painful solution, and hope is not easily defeated.
“He mustn’t get away with it, Alan!” I burst out after another moody silence. “A man like that in high office—the damage he could do—”
“Yes. Something must be done.”
His tone jolted me out of my frustration. I stared at him.
“You won’t like it,” he went on.
“Try me. I’ll do anything.”
“It doesn’t involve you. That’s one reason that you won’t like it.”
“For heaven’s sake, Alan!”
“Very well. It’s the old trick. I ring him up, tell him I know what he did, imply blackmail, arrange a meeting. I carry a microphone or a tape recorder. When he has incriminated himself, the police close in.”
Alan was right. I didn’t like it, not one bit. Blake was a dangerous man, and I didn’t want Alan in danger. If it was the only way, I argued, I wanted to be in on it. I wanted to be there to make sure Alan would be all right. “Besides, I want to see that smarmy smile wiped off his face. I admit it.”
“Dorothy,” said Alan wearily, “if the positions were reversed, what would you say? How much do you like it when I try to keep you from walking into danger?”
“Oh.”
There were a lot of angry answers to that: But this is completely different, I’ve never put myself in real danger, that isn’t the only reason I want to be there. Et cetera.
There was only one honest answer. “I don’t like it at all. And it’s been a long time since you’ve done that, even though I know you’ve wanted to. So I won’t try to stop you, and I won’t pretend I’d be of any use in protecting you. Who am I kidding? At my age, in my sort of shape, with arthritis and too much weight—no, I couldn’t exactly be Superwoman to the rescue.”
He smiled and took my hand.
“But.”
He stopped smiling.
“I still want to be there, for another reason. I think I should be the one to make the phone call, and therefore I should be the one he sees first when he comes to wherever we meet. He knows me, Alan, and he knows I’ve been poking around in this. I’m the logical one to have found out something. He doesn’t know you, except as my husband. Let me make the call. Then you can come with me, and I can say you insisted. I’ll fade into the woodwork whenever you say the word, but I should be there.”
We argued about it, of course. I had to admit that I had ulterior motives as well. I’d been in on this from the beginning; I wanted to see it through. I also had the nasty longing to see Blake toppled from his pedestal. I even admitted my worry about Alan and my desire to be wherever he might possibly get into trouble.
He conceded, finally. “If Derek agrees, Dorothy. And the chief. This is a highly irregular procedure we’re proposing, and it has to have everyone’s approval from the top down, or we may find ourselves without a case to take to court. And you must do exactly as you’re told when the time comes. You have to remember that we are trained to meet dangerous situations and you are not.”
I promised. I would have promised to stand on my head if he’d asked, now that I had won my point.
Alan began the process with a long phone call to Derek, to which I was not privy. I imagined them exchanging male commiseration about stubborn women. I didn’t care what they said, as long as Derek agreed in the end.
He did, of course. Alan had been his boss for a long time. Derek also, somehow, managed to gain the approval of his bosses all the way up to the chief constable.
It all took time. It would have taken more time but for Alan’s quiet insistence on all possible speed. Both of us seemed infected by a curious notion that events were moving fast, that delay could be disastrous. “He’s killed once and tried to kill again,” I kept thinking, and often saying out loud. I didn’t know what was coming next, only that it had to be averted.
It was evening, and we had eaten a sketchy supper, when the call finally came. I beat Alan to the phone, but turned on the speaker so Alan could hear, too.
“Derek here, Dorothy. It’s been arranged. I had rather a tough time with the chief, but seeing as it’s you and Alan, he finally agreed. To tell the truth, he doesn’t believe a word of the accusation, but he’s authorized the use of the microphone, and allowed me one man.”
“One man! But—”
“Besides me, that is. I’m on my own time, and a few other officers who know enough about you to believe in your story are willing to join me. Don’t worry about that part of it. There will be enough of us. All concerned made one point, however, and it’s this. When you ring the bloke to arrange the meeting, make it as soon as possible. We want to give him very little time to make any little arrangements of his own.”
“Yes, I can see that. Alan and I have been talking about where to meet. Do you have any ideas about that?”
“Yes. You want a place that seems private but actually affords hiding places for our men. The Cathedral Close comes to mind. Spacious, open, but surrounded by buildings. After dark it has all the privacy anyone could want, but we’ll be watching from the shops, and houses, and of course the Cathedral itself, and remember that we’ll hear every word you say, just as long as you stay inside the Close. The equipment has the range for that, but not a lot more.”
“What if he wants to meet some other place?”
“You’ll insist, and you’ll have the upper hand. He’ll think you’re trying to blackmail him, remember. He’ll know you can always simply not show up if it doesn’t suit you. He’ll try to negotiate, of course, but stand your ground.”
“I can do that. Tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, call him in late afternoon, as late as you think you can still reach him, and make it for, say, seven o’clock. It’ll be good and dark by then, and there won’t be many people about. And let us know as soon as you’re set.”
With a distinctly fluttery feeling somewhere inside, I agreed and hung up.
35
I WAS very nervous as I walked out of my door and through the gate into the Close at seven o’clock the next evening. The Cathedral clock was chiming the hour in reassuring fashion, and Alan was only a step or two behind me, but still I was nervous.
No. I was scared.
The phone call to Blake, that afternoon, had been simpler than I’d feared it would be. English MPs are more accessible than their American Congressional counterparts. They don’t have a huge staff, and they have a tradition of responsibility to their constituency.
I’d felt wildly melodramatic speaking my piece, once I’d reached him. I tried not to let my voice shake as I said, “I know what you did, and I’ll tell the police unless you make it worth my while.”
There was a pause. Then, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, but perhaps we’d best sort it out. What do you want?”
“Oh, no. Not on the phone. Meet me tonight.”
We’d set the time and place. He’d protested, as expected, but I played tough and he finally agreed. Derek had already been to the house to wire me for sound.
“Are you sure this thing is working?” I asked Alan now in an anxious undertone.
“Thoroughly checked out this afternoon,” he murmured. “Fresh batteries and all. But if you want to be absolutely certain, just ask Derek to step outside for a moment. He’s in the Rose and Crown.”
“Derek,” I whispered, “could you come out? There’s no problem, I’m just—uh—testing the equipment.”
On the opposite side of the Close, the door of the pub opened, spilling light out onto the cobblestoned pathway. A man stepped out, looked at his watch, looked to left and right, made an annoyed little gesture and stepped back in again.
“Picture of a man who’s been stood up,” said Alan next to my ear. “Derek has always been good at amateur theatricals.”
“Very reassuring,” I whispered back, and then we were too near our meeting place to talk anymore.
I had chosen a stone bench very near the center of the Close. It was right out in the open, with no shrubbery or trees or buildings anywhere near. I would ordinarily not have chosen to spend any time in such a spot on a damp, chilly December evening, but it had all the privacy Anthony Blake’s heart could desire. He wasn’t there yet, however, so Alan and I sat down to wait.
The stone was very cold. I could feel the cold seeping right through my coat and my slacks, into my flesh, to my very bones. It met the cold fear that lay deep inside me. Maybe I would freeze there into an ice statue and never move again. I would become a monument, a statue of a martyr, and they would put up a bronze plaque, and after a year no one would remember who I was or what I’d done …
“He’s late,” said Alan, quietly cross.
I returned to the world of the living; the ice inside receded a little, though outside the air grew even colder. “Or else he’s not coming. Maybe I was wrong after all. What time is it?”
“Twenty past.”
We returned to our silent waiting. The dampness coalesced into a fine mist, and from that into a drizzle.
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