A Certain Justice

by P. D. James

  Dalgliesh said: “Was it sharp?”

  “God yes, extremely sharp, but it had a sheath. That was in black leather with a brass tip and a kind of brass rose on it, as far as I remember. And the paper-knife itself had my initials engraved on the blade.”

  Dalgliesh said: “It isn’t in her office now. Can you remember when anyone here last saw it?”

  There was no reply. Laud said: “Venetia used to keep it in her top right-hand drawer unless she was actually opening letters. I don’t think I’ve seen her with it for weeks.”

  But she had opened that stiff envelope the night before and the flap had been sliced, not torn.

  Dalgliesh said: “We shall have to find it. If it was the weapon, the killer may, of course, have taken it away with him. If it is found, obviously it will be tested for prints. That means that we need the prints of anyone who was or could have been in Chambers yesterday evening.”

  Costello said: “For elimination purposes. And afterwards, of course, they will be destroyed.”

  “You’re a criminal lawyer, aren’t you, Mr. Costello? I think you know the law.”

  Langton said: “I’m sure I speak for the whole of Chambers when I say that we shall co-operate in every way we can. Obviously you’ll need our prints. Obviously, too, you’ll need to search Chambers. We’ll be glad to have the use of our rooms as soon as possible but we do understand the need for delay.”

  Dalgliesh said: “I’ll ensure that it’s kept to the minimum. Who is the next-of-kin, do you know? Have the family been told?”

  The question was treated with embarrassment, almost, he thought, with dismay. Once more no one responded. Langton looked again at Laud.

  Laud said: “I’m afraid that what with shock and the need to call you in as soon as possible we hadn’t thought about next-of-kin. There’s an ex-husband, Luke Cummins, and an only child, Octavia. Venetia had no other family as far as I know. She’s been divorced for eleven years. Her ex-husband has remarried and lives in the country. Dorset, I think. If you want his address I expect it will be among Venetia’s papers. Octavia lives in the basement flat at her mother’s house. She’s young, only just eighteen. Actually she was born on the first minute of the first day of October; hence the name. Venetia always liked life to be rational. Oh, and there’s the housekeeper, of course, Mrs. Buckley, who rang Harry this morning. I’m surprised she hasn’t been on to us again.”

  Langton said: “Didn’t Harry say that he’d told her that Miss Aldridge was here? She’ll probably be expecting her home for dinner as usual.”

  Dalgliesh said: “The daughter should be told as soon as possible. I don’t know whether a member of Chambers would wish to do that? I should in any case want to send two of my officers to the house.”

  Again there was an embarrassed pause. Again the other three seemed to be looking to Laud for a lead. He said: “I knew Venetia better than anyone else in Chambers, but I’ve hardly met the daughter. None of us knows Octavia. I don’t think she’s ever set foot in Chambers. When we did meet I sensed that she didn’t much care for me. If we had a woman colleague here, we could send her, but we haven’t. It might be better if one of your people told her. I don’t think the news would come well from me. I’m here, of course, if I can help.” He looked round at his colleagues. “We all are.”

  Dalgliesh asked: “Did Miss Aldridge normally work late in Chambers?”

  Once more it was Laud who replied. “Yes, she did. Occasionally she’d be here as late as ten. She preferred not to work at home.”

  “And who was the last person to see her yesterday?”

  Langton and Laud glanced at each other. There was a pause and then Laud replied. “Probably Harry Naughton. Harry says that he took a brief up to her at six-thirty. The rest of us had left by then. But one of the cleaners may have seen her, Mrs. Carpenter or Mrs. Watson. We get them from Miss Elkington’s domestic agency, and they both come from eight-thirty to ten on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On the other two days Mrs. Watson works alone.”

  A little surprised that Laud should know these domestic details, Dalgliesh asked: “And one or both of them has a key?”

  Again it was Laud who replied: “To the main door? Both of them, and Miss Elkington. They’re extremely reliable women. They set the alarm before they leave.”

  Langton broke his silence. He said: “I have every confidence in the reliability and integrity of the cleaners. Every confidence.”

  There was an embarrassed silence. Laud seemed about to speak, changed his mind and then looked straight at Dalgliesh. “There’s something I ought perhaps to mention. I’m not saying it’s got anything to do with Venetia’s death but it could be a factor in the situation. I mean, it’s something your officers might find it helpful to know before they see Octavia.”

  Dalgliesh waited. He was aware of a heightened interest in the room, an almost perceptible tightening of tension. Laud said: “Octavia’s taken up with Garry Ashe, the boy Venetia defended a month ago. He was accused of murdering his aunt in a house on Westway. You’ll remember the case, of course.”

  “I remember.”

  “Apparently he made contact with Octavia almost as soon as he was released. I don’t know how or why, but Venetia thought it was contrived. Obviously she was desperately worried. She told me they were actually thinking of getting engaged, or were already engaged.”

  Dalgliesh asked: “Did she say whether they were lovers?”

  “She thought not, but she wasn’t sure. That was the last thing she wanted, of course. Well, that would be the last thing any parent would want. I’ve never seen Venetia so upset. She wanted me to help.”

  “In what way?”

  “By buying him off. Yes, I know it’s absurd, I had to tell her so. But there it is, or rather there he is.”

  “In the house?”

  “In Octavia’s flat most of the time, I believe.”

  Langton said: “I thought that Venetia was in a very odd mood when she got back from the Bailey on Monday. I suppose she was worried about Octavia.”

  It was then that Ulrick looked up from his book. He said to Laud: “I’m interested in why you should think this is—how did you describe it?—a factor in the situation.”

  Laud said curtly: “Garry Ashe was accused of murder; this is murder.”

  “A convenient suspect, but I can’t see how either he or Octavia could have known about the blood in my refrigerator, or where the full-bottomed wig was stored. I have no doubt you are right to bring the matter to the attention of the police, but I fail to see why Venetia was so worried. After all, the young man was found not guilty. A brilliant defence, I believe. Venetia should have been gratified that he obviously wished to maintain his links with the family.”

  He returned to his book. Dalgliesh said, “Excuse me,” and drew Kate outside.

  He said: “Tell Ferris what we’re looking for, then get the Aldridge address from Harry Naughton and take Robbins with you. If there’s a chance of finding out what the girl and Ashe were doing last night without upsetting her too much, do so. And I want the cleaners here, Mrs. Carpenter and Mrs. Watson. As they work at night there’s a good chance one of them will be at home. Oh, and leave a WPC and a man at the house, will you, Kate? The girl may need some protection from the press. And speak to the housekeeper, Mrs. Buckley, in private if you get a chance, she could be helpful. But don’t spend too long. We’ll need to go back later and the real questions can wait until the daughter’s over the shock.”

  Kate wouldn’t, he knew, resent the instructions or see this chore as an irritating interruption in the real detection. Nor would she resent the fact that this was regarded as a woman’s job. It was always better to send a woman to another woman, and women, with some notable exceptions, were better at breaking bad news than men. Perhaps down the centuries they had had more practice. But Kate, even as she comforted, would be watching, listening, thinking, assessing. She knew as well as any police officer that the first encounter with the ber
eaved was, as often as not, the first encounter with the killer.

  4

  The address given by Harry Naughton for Miss Aldridge was in Pelham Place, SW7. Checking her list of addresses and consulting the map before driving off, Kate said to Sergeant Robbins: “After we’ve seen Octavia Cummins, assuming she’s at home, we’ll try Mrs. Carpenter at Sedgemoor Crescent. That’s in Earls Court. The other cleaner, Mrs. Watson, lives in Bethnal Green. Earls Court will be quicker. But we need to talk to one or both of the women as soon as possible. We could telephone and check if they’re at home but it’s better to break the news face to face.”

  Pelham Place was a quiet attractive street of equally attractive period terraces, identical three-storeyed gleaming houses with elegant fanlights, railed front gardens and basements. The street and the houses had a perfection which was almost intimidating. Surely no weed, thought Kate, would dare to push its unsanctified tendrils through these carefully tended small lawns and flower beds. There was a noticeable absence of cars and the street lay in a morning calm with no sign of life. Kate parked in front of Miss Aldridge’s house with an uneasy feeling that she might well find the car clamped or missing when she and Robbins returned. Looking up at the glistening façade, the two tall windows at first-floor level with their ironwork balcony, Robbins said: “Nice house. Pleasant road. I didn’t think members of the criminal Bar did that well for themselves.”

  “It depends on the barrister. Venetia Aldridge didn’t just rely on legal aid—not that legal-aid cases are as badly paid as some lawyers make out. But she’s always had a number of wealthy private clients. There were those two cases last year, one of criminal libel and the other fraud against the Inland Revenue. The second lasted three months.”

  Robbins said: “She didn’t win it, though, did she?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t paid.”

  She wondered why Venetia Aldridge had chosen this particular street and then thought that she knew why. The South Kensington underground station was within a few minutes’ walk with only six stops from there to the Temple. Miss Aldridge could be in Chambers in about twenty minutes, whatever the congestion on the roads.

  Robbins put up his hand to a gleaming bell-push. They heard the thin scrape of the chain and an elderly woman peered anxiously out at them.

  Kate showed her warrant card. She said, “Mrs. Buckley? I’m Detective Inspector Miskin and this is Sergeant Robbins. May we come in?”

  The chain was released and the door opened. Mrs. Buckley was revealed as a slight, nervous-looking woman with a small, precisely formed mouth between bulging cheeks, which gave her the appearance of a hamster, and an air Kate had noticed before in the insecure: a somewhat desperate respectability tempered by an attempt at authority.

  She said: “The police. You’ll be wanting Miss Aldridge, I expect. She isn’t here. She’s at her Chambers in Pawlet Court.”

  Kate said: “It’s about Miss Aldridge that we’ve come. We have to see her daughter. I’m afraid there’s bad news.”

  At once the anxious face paled. She said: “Oh God, so there is something wrong.” She stood to one side shaking, and, as they entered, pointed soundlessly to the door on the right.

  As they came in, she whispered: “She’s in there—Octavia and her fiancé. Her mother’s dead, isn’t she? That’s what you’ve come to tell us.”

  “Yes,” said Kate, “I’m afraid she is.”

  Surprisingly, Mrs. Buckley made no attempt to precede them but left Kate to open the door, then followed last behind Sergeant Robbins.

  They were met immediately by a strong breakfast smell of bacon and coffee. A girl and a young man were seated at the table but got up as they entered and stared at them with unwelcoming eyes.

  It could only have been a couple of seconds before Kate spoke, but in that brief moment her keen eyes had taken in the girl, her companion and the layout of the room. It had obviously originally been two but a dividing wall had been taken down to make one long dual-purpose room. The front part was the dining-room with an oblong table in polished wood, a sideboard to the right of the door and, opposite, a period fireplace with fitted shelves on either side and an oil painting above. At the garden end was the kitchen, and Kate noted that the sink and stove had been fitted to the left-hand wall so that the window gave an unimpeded view of the garden. Small details impinged upon her eyes and mind. The row of terra-cotta pots of herbs under the far window, an assortment of porcelain figures, discordant in size and period, placed rather than arranged on the display shelves, the smear of grease on the mahogany table left by the discarded plates.

  Octavia Cummins was skinny but full-breasted, with the face of a knowing child. Her eyes, the irises a rich chestnut brown, were narrow and slightly slanted under thin brows which looked as if they had been plucked. They gave an exotic distinction to a face which might have been thought interesting if not pretty, were it not for the sullen downturn of the over-long mouth. She was wearing a long sleeveless cotton dress, patterned in red, over a white shirt. Both were in need of washing. Her only jewellery was a ring, a red stone surrounded by pearls, on her engagement finger.

  In contrast to her grubbiness, the young man looked aggressively clean. He could have sat for a portrait in black and white: dark, almost black hair, black jeans, a pale face and a very white open-necked shirt. The dark eyes stared at Kate with a look half insolent, half appraising, but which, as their eyes held, became disconcertingly blank as if, for him, she had suddenly ceased to exist.

  Kate said: “Miss Octavia Cummins? I’m Detective Inspector Kate Miskin and this is Detective Sergeant Robbins. I’m afraid we have some very bad news. Miss Cummins, I think it would be better if you sat down.”

  It was always a useful warning of impending disaster, this convention that bad news should never be taken standing up.

  The girl said: “I don’t want to sit down. You can if you like. This is my fiancé. His name is Ashe. Oh, and this is Mrs. Buckley. She’s the housekeeper. I don’t think you want her, do you?”

  Her voice held an unmistakable note of bored contempt, and yet, thought Kate, it was surely impossible that she should have no realization of the significance of their visit. How often did the police come bearing good news?

  It was the housekeeper who spoke. “I should have known. I should have rung the police last night when she didn’t come home. She’s never stayed out all night without telling me. When I rang this morning that man, the clerk, said she was there in Chambers. How could she be there?”

  Kate kept her eyes on the girl. She said gently: “She was there, but I’m afraid she was dead. The clerk, Mr. Naughton, found her body when he arrived for work. I’m very sorry, Miss Cummins.”

  “Mother’s dead? But she can’t be dead. We saw her on Tuesday. She wasn’t ill then.”

  “It wasn’t a natural death, Miss Cummins.”

  It was Ashe who spoke. “You’re telling us that she was murdered.”

  It was a statement, not a question. His voice puzzled Kate. It was superficially ordinary enough, yet it struck her as artificial, one of many voices he could summon up at will. It was not, she thought, the voice he had been born with, but, then, was hers? She was not the Kate Miskin who had lugged her grandmother’s shopping up seven urine-smelling flights of stairs at Ellison Fairweather Buildings. She didn’t look the same. She didn’t sound the same. She sometimes wished that she didn’t feel the same.

  She said: “I’m afraid it looks like that. We shan’t know the details until the post-mortem.” She turned again to the girl. “Is there anyone you would like to have with you? Shall I ring your doctor? Do you want a cup of tea?”

  A cup of tea. That English remedy for grief, shock and human mortality. She had made tea in so many kitchens during her career as a policewoman: in squalid stinking pits where the sink was piled with unwashed plates and rubbish spilled from the bin; in neat suburban kitchens, small shrines of domesticity; in elegantly designed rooms in which it w
as difficult to believe that anyone ever cooked.

  Mrs. Buckley glanced towards the kitchen and said, looking at Octavia: “Shall I?”

  The girl said: “I don’t want tea. And I don’t want anyone else. I’ve got Ashe. And I don’t need a doctor. When did she die?”

  “We don’t yet know. Sometime last night.”

  “Then you won’t be able to pin it on Ashe like you did last time. We’ve got an alibi. We were down in my flat and Mrs. Buckley cooked dinner for us. The three of us were there all the evening. Ask her.”

  This was information Kate wanted, but she had had no intention of asking for it yet. One does not break the news to a daughter of her mother’s murder and at the same time inquire whether she and her boyfriend have an alibi. But she couldn’t resist raising an interrogative eyebrow at Mrs. Buckley. The woman nodded. “Yes, that’s true. I cooked a meal in the kitchen downstairs and we were together all evening until I went up to my room. That was after I’d washed up. It must have been ten-thirty or a little after. I remember thinking that it was half an hour after my usual time.”

  So that put Ashe and the girl in the clear. They could hardly have got to the Temple in under fifteen minutes, even by a fast motorcycle and assuming the roads were unusually clear. The time could be checked but why bother? Venetia Aldridge had been dead long before ten-forty-five.

  Octavia said: “So there you are. Hard luck. This time you’ll have to find the real murderer. Why not try her lover? Why not question bloody Mr. Mark Rawlstone, MP? Ask him what he and my mother were quarrelling about on Tuesday night.”

  Kate controlled herself with difficulty. Then she said calmly, “Miss Cummins, your mother was murdered. It’s our job to find out who was responsible. But at the moment I’m more concerned to make sure that you’re all right. Obviously you are.”