by P. D. James
“They were very kind, those two inspectors. I can see now that they were just trying to put me at my ease. I can’t remember half I told them—about Kenny, of course, and how I hated Miss Aldridge, but that I hadn’t killed her, I wouldn’t kill anyone. And I told them about the gossip, that she might be next Head of Chambers and what that could mean. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said any of it. It isn’t my business. And now I’m afraid Mr. Langton and Mr. Laud will find out and they’ll know it was me and I might lose my job. I wouldn’t blame them if they sacked me. I don’t know how it happened. I always thought I could be relied upon—you know, relied upon to be discreet, not to talk about things I learned in Chambers. Miss Justin impressed that on me when I first came. You too, Mr. Naughton. You told me the same. And now I’ve blabbed to the police.”
Margaret said: “You mustn’t worry. It’s their job to wheedle things out of people. They’re good at it. And you only told them the truth. The truth can’t hurt anyone.”
But Valerie knew that it could. The truth was sometimes more fatal than a lie.
She said: “But there were two things I didn’t tell them. I wanted to tell you.”
She glanced at Harry, and saw that his face was suddenly suffused with anxiety and, for a second, something close to terror.
She went on: “It’s about Mr. Costello—at least one of the things is. When Miss Aldridge came back from the Bailey on Tuesday, she asked if he was in Chambers. I said that he was. Then later I had to take some papers up to put on Mr. Laud’s desk. Miss Aldridge was just opening Mr. Costello’s door and they must have been standing close together. I could hear him speaking very loudly—well, shouting really. He said: ‘It isn’t true. None of it’s true. The man’s a liar trying to impress you with a juicy piece of calumny. He’ll never prove it. And if you confront him with it, he’ll deny it. What good will it do you, or anyone, to make a stink in Chambers?’
“I was on the top steps by then, so I quickly moved down the stairs and then came up again as noisily as I could. Miss Aldridge was closing the door by then. She passed me on the stairs without speaking, but I could see she was angry. The thing is, should I have told the police? What do I do if they ask me?”
Harry thought for a moment, then said quietly: “I think you were perfectly right to say nothing. If they ask you later whether you’ve ever heard Miss Aldridge and Mr. Costello quarrelling, then I think you have to tell them the truth. Don’t make too much of it. You could have misunderstood. It could mean very little or nothing. But I think, if they ask you, you’ll have to tell them.”
Margaret said: “You said there were two things.”
“The other’s very odd. I don’t know why it seems important. They asked me about Mr. Ulrick coming into Chambers this morning. Could I remember whether he was carrying his briefcase.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said I couldn’t be sure because he was carrying his raincoat over his right arm, and it could have been hiding the case. But it was a funny question for them to ask, wasn’t it?”
Margaret said: “I expect they had a reason. I shouldn’t worry. You told them the truth.”
“But it was odd. I didn’t tell them—and it didn’t occur to me till afterwards that it was funny—but Mr. Ulrick usually pauses in the door when he comes in and says good-morning. This morning he did call out, but he walked past as if he were in a hurry and I didn’t have time to reply. It’s such a small thing. I don’t know why I worry about it. And there’s something else. It’s been so fine recently, almost like summer. Why was he carrying a raincoat?”
There was a silence, then Harry said: “I don’t think you should worry about details like that. All we have to do is to get on with our work as well as we can and answer questions from the police honestly. We don’t have to volunteer information. That isn’t our job. And I don’t think we should gossip in Chambers about the murder. I know it’s going to be difficult, but if we chatter and argue among ourselves and start putting forward theories, we could do great harm to the innocent. Will you promise me to be very discreet once Chambers reopens? There’s bound to be gossip and speculation. We shouldn’t add to it.”
Valerie said: “I’ll do my best. Thank you for being so kind. It’s helped me, coming here.”
They were kind. They didn’t hurry her away, but she knew that she mustn’t stay long. Margaret went to the door with her. She said: “Harry tells me you fainted when you heard the news this morning. I know it was a shock, but that isn’t right, not in a young girl. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”
Valerie confessed: “I’m all right, really I am. It’s just that I’ve been rather tired lately. There’s a lot to do at home and Gran isn’t really fit for it. And there’s the sneaking out to try and visit Ken at weekends without letting Gran suspect. And perhaps trying to do without a temp at work wasn’t such a good idea. I think it’s all been a bit of a strain.”
Margaret put her arms round her. She said: “We’ll try and see if we can get some help from Social Services. And I think you should speak to your gran. The old are much tougher than you think. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t know about Ken already. There’s not much you can keep from your gran. And you’re lucky that she and your mother were at home yesterday night. I wasn’t, I was at the parochial church council and then drove Mrs. Marshall home and stayed chatting. Of course, I’d left supper ready for Harry, but I wasn’t back home until nine-thirty. You’ve got someone to confirm what time you got home. Harry hasn’t. Now, if there’s anything we can do to help, you will let us know, won’t you?”
Reassured by the confident voice, the warm enfolding maternal arms, Valerie said that she would, and walked home comforted.
10
It was five past seven, a little past his normal time, when Hubert got back to the flat which he supposed he ought now to call home, but in which he still felt as ill at ease as a guest who is beginning to suspect that he has outstayed his welcome. The flat had something of the over-crowded look of an auction showroom; the furniture and pictures he had chosen to retain, far from providing a familiar and reassuring sense of continuance, looked as if they were waiting for the auctioneer’s hammer to fall.
After his wife’s death two years previously, his daughter, Helen, had moved in, both literally and figuratively, to help with the organization of his life. She was a woman in whom a certain sensitivity, acquired rather than innate, was at war with a natural authoritarianism. He was, of course, to be fully involved in all decisions. On no account should he be made to feel that others were taking over control of his life. While he still worked it would, of course, be sensible for him to live in London, preferably within easy travelling distance of the Temple. It would be ridiculously impractical—extravagant too—for a widower to keep on two homes. The message was communicated, and not subtly, that what was expected of his ageing generation was for the expensive family home to be sold, and for a proportion of its inflated value to be given to the grandchildren to enable them to mount the first rung of the property ladder. He offered no objection to arrangements made primarily for the benefit of others. What did occasionally irritate him was the assumption that he should be grateful.
The flat, chosen by Helen, was in a prestigious 1930s block in Duchess of Bedford’s Walk in Kensington. Even after he had acquiesced in the purchase of the lease she continued irritatingly to reiterate its advantages.
“A good-sized drawing-room and dining-room and two double bedrooms—you won’t need more. Twenty-four-hour porterage and a modern security system. No balcony, which is a pity, but a balcony always increases the risk of burglary. All the shops you need in Kensington High Street and you can go to Chambers from the High Street underground on the Circle Line. It only means a short walk downhill. If you go an extra station on the journey home and get out at Notting Hill Gate you can leave by the Church Street exit and avoid crossing either main road.” There was the implication that Helen
had arranged the London Underground system for his convenience. “And there’s a supermarket close to both stations, and Marks and Spencer at the High Street, so that you can easily pick up any food you need. At your age there’s no need to carry heavy loads.”
It was Helen who, through one of her complicated networks of colleagues and acquaintances, found him Erik and Nigel.
“They’re gay, of course, but that needn’t worry you.”
“No,” he said, “it doesn’t worry me. Why should it?” But neither his comment nor the question had been heard.
“They keep some kind of antique shop south of the High Street but they don’t open before ten o’clock. They’re prepared to come in first thing and cook breakfast, make your bed and do a little general tidying. You can have a daily woman for the heavy work. They offered to come back in the evening and give you dinner—well, ‘supper’ would be a more appropriate word, I suppose. Nothing complicated, simple well-cooked food. Erik, he’s the elder, is reputed to be an excellent cook. He’s Erik with a k, remember, he’s particular over that. I can’t think why, as he isn’t Scandinavian. Born in Muswell Hill, I think he said. Nigel is a sweet boy, so Marjorie assures me. Very blond, but I suppose his mother rather liked the name and didn’t know or care about derivations. Now, we’d better discuss pay. It will be a tie for them, of course. This kind of service doesn’t come cheap.”
He was tempted to say that he supposed the family would leave him enough from the sale of the house at Wolvercote to pay for part-time hired help.
It had worked well, was still working well. Erik and Nigel were kind, efficient and reliable. He wondered now how he had ever managed without them. Erik was a plump, dandyish fifty-year-old with a mouth too pink and perfectly formed above a rough beard. Nigel was slight, very fair and the more vivacious of the two. They worked always together, Erik doing the cooking, Nigel, his acolyte, preparing the vegetables, washing-up and providing vocal admiration. When they were in the flat he could hear from the kitchen their constant antiphonal voices: Erik’s slower bass, Nigel’s high enthusiastic treble. The sound was agreeably companionable, and when they were on holiday he missed that happy bird-like chatter. The kitchen had become their domain; even its smell was unfamiliar and exotic. He entered it as a stranger, wary of using his own pans and utensils in case he should mar their perfection, examining with curiosity the labels on the extraordinary variety of bottles and jars which Erik found necessary for his “good simple cooking”: extra-virgin olive oil, sun-dried tomatoes, soy sauce. He would sniff half-guiltily the herbs in their pots set out in a row on the window-sill.
The food was beautifully served with a formality which complemented the quality of the meal. It was always Erik who brought in the supper, Nigel watching anxiously from the door as if to ensure the proper recognition of its perfection. Tonight Erik, putting down the plate, announced that he was to eat calves’ liver and bacon with mashed potatoes, spinach and peas, the liver cut very thin and seared rather than cooked, just as he liked it. It was one of his favourite meals; he wondered how he would manage to eat it. He spoke the usual words: “Thank you, Erik, that looks excellent.”
Erik permitted himself a brief, self-congratulatory smile, Nigel beamed. But something more must be said. Obviously they hadn’t yet heard the news of the murder, but it would break tomorrow. It would look strange, suspicious even, if he came home and said nothing. But when he spoke, just as Erik had reached the door, he realized that, despite the careful nonchalance in his voice, he had said the wrong thing.
“Erik, can you remember what time I got home yesterday?”
It was Nigel who answered. “You were late, Mr. Langton. Three-quarters of an hour. We were a bit surprised that you hadn’t telephoned. Don’t you remember? You said you went for a walk after you left Chambers. It didn’t matter, because Erik never begins cooking the vegetables until you’re drinking your sherry.”
Erik said quietly: “You got home just after seven-thirty, Mr. Langton.”
Something more had to be said. When the news broke about the murder his question would be remembered, pondered over, its signifiance recognized. He reached for the bottle of claret, but realized in time that his hand wasn’t steady. Instead he spread his napkin over his knees and kept his eyes on the plate. His voice was calm. Too calm?
“It may be of some importance. I’m afraid something very dreadful has happened. This morning, one of my colleagues, Venetia Aldridge, was found dead in Chambers. The police aren’t sure yet how or when she died. There’ll have to be an autopsy, but there is a strong possibility—almost a certainty—that she was murdered. If that is proved, then all of us in Chambers will have to account for our movements. A matter of police routine, nothing more. I wanted to be sure that my recollection was accurate.”
He made himself look up at them. Erik’s face was an impassive mask. It was Nigel who reacted.
“Miss Aldridge? You mean the lawyer who got off those IRA terrorists?”
“She defended three men accused of terrorism, certainly.”
“Murder. But that’s terrible! How ghastly for you. You didn’t find the body, did you, Mr. Langton?”
“No, no. I’ve just explained. The body was discovered early in the morning, before I arrived.” He added, “The Temple gates aren’t closed until eight o’clock at night. Someone obviously got in.”
“But the door to Chambers wouldn’t be open, would it, Mr. Langton? It must have been someone with a key. Or perhaps Miss Aldridge let her murderer in. It could have been someone she knew.”
This was awful. He said repressively: “I don’t think it’s helpful to speculate. As I said, the police haven’t confirmed exactly how she died. It’s a suspicious death. That’s really all we know. But the police may ring or send someone to ask you what time I got home yesterday. If they do, obviously you must tell the truth.”
Nigel opened his eyes very wide. He said: “Oh Mr. Langton, I don’t think it’s ever a good idea to tell the police the truth.”
“It’s a much worse idea to tell them a lie.”
His voice must have been more impressive than he had intended. They left him without another word. Five minutes later they came briefly into the dining-room to say good-night and he heard the front door closing. He waited a few minutes to be safe, then took his plate and flushed the remainder of the meal down the lavatory. He cleared the table and left the dirty plates in the sink for Erik and Nigel to deal with next morning, rinsing them first to avoid overnight smells. It occurred to him, as it did every night, that he might as well finish the job, but this was not part of the domestic agreement drawn up by Helen.
Now he sat in the silence of his over-tidy drawing-room beside the “living-flame” gas fire which looked so realistic, gave so comforting a sense that someone had actually laid the kindling, carried the coals, and let the deadening weight of anxiety and self-disgust settle on his mind.
He found himself thinking of his wife. His marriage had endured, and if it had brought him no heart-healing joy, it had given him little keen unhappiness. Each had sympathized with rather than understood or shared the other’s deepest concerns. The children and her garden had occupied most of Marigold’s energy and in neither had he taken much interest. But now that she was dead, he mourned and missed her more than he would have thought possible. No adored wife could have bequeathed such a desolation of regret. Such a loss, he reasoned, might paradoxically have been easier to accept; death would have been seen as a rounding off, something achieved, something distinctively human, a perfection of loving which left no regrets, no hopes unfulfilled, no unfinished business. Now all his life seemed unfinished business. The horror, the abomination of that blood-bloated wig now seemed a grotesque but not unfitting comment on a career which had begun so full of promise but which, like a stream with too feeble a spring, had spent itself with a sad inevitability among the sandy shallows of unrealized ambition.
He saw the rest of his life with horrible clarity, that l
ong future of humiliating dependence and inexorable senility. His mind, which he had thought was the best, the most dependable part of him, was turning traitor. And now, in his Chambers, there was this murder, bloody, obscene, with its overtones of madness and revenge, to demonstrate how fragile was that elegant, complicated bridge of order and reason which the law had constructed down the centuries over the abyss of social and psychological chaos. And somehow he, Hubert Langton, had to deal with it. He was Head of Chambers. It was he who must co-operate with the police, protect Chambers from the worst intrusions of publicity, steady the nerves of the frightened, find appropriate words to say to those who grieved or pretended to grieve. Horror, shock, disgust, astonishment, regret: those were the emotions common enough after the murder of a colleague. But grief? Who would feel genuine pain for the death of Venetia Aldridge? What was he feeling now but a fear close to terror? He had left Chambers just after six o’clock. Simon, leaving at the same time, had seen him. That was what he had told Dalgliesh when the police had interviewed each member of Chambers separately. He should have been home by six-forty-five at the latest. Where had he been during those missing forty-five minutes? Was this total loss of memory just the most recent symptom of whatever it was that afflicted him? Or had he seen something—worse still, done something—so terrible that his mind refused to accept its reality?
11
The Rawlstones lived in a stuccoed Italianate house on the eastern fringes of Pimlico. With its large portico, gleaming paintwork and brass lion’s-head knocker polished almost to whiteness, the house gave an impression of stolid affluence just short of ostentation.
The door was opened by a young woman, formally dressed in a calf-length black skirt, high-buttoned blouse and cardigan. She could, thought Kate, have been a secretary, housekeeper, parliamentary researcher or general factotum. She received them with brisk efficiency but without smiling, and said in a voice which managed to convey a hint of disapproval: “Mr. Rawlstone is expecting you. Will you come up, please?”
