by P. D. James
“You’re asking me for an alibi?”
“You could certainly put it like that.”
“I can’t think of any other way to put it. Are you suggesting that I took my key and went over to Mr. Langton’s Chambers on the off-chance that I might happen to find Miss Aldridge in her room and alone, in which case I could, of course, conveniently murder her before Mrs. Carpenter arrived?”
“We’re not suggesting anything, Miss Elkington. We’re only asking a simple question, one which we have to ask of anyone who has a key to Chambers.”
Miss Elkington said: “As it happens I do have an alibi for most of Wednesday night. Whether or not you find it satisfactory is, of course, for you to say. Like most alibis it depends on the confirmation of another person. I was with a friend, Carl Oliphant, the conductor. He arrived at seven-thirty for dinner, which I cooked, and he left in the early hours. Since you haven’t told me the approximate time of death, I don’t know whether that is helpful. I shall, of course, get in touch with him and, if he agrees, I shall give you his number.” She looked at Piers. “And that’s all you came back for, my alibi?”
If she had hoped to intimidate Piers, she didn’t succeed. He said, without a trace of embarrassment: “That’s the reason why we came back, but there is something else I’d like to know. It’s really only vulgar curiosity, I’m afraid.”
Miss Elkington said: “Life must be difficult for you, Inspector, when you’re anxious to know something but haven’t any real justification for asking. I suppose with the frightened, the unimportant or the ignorant you just ask away and chalk it up to their future disadvantage if they tell you to mind your own business. Well, ask away.”
“I was wondering how you managed to run a successful business by such eccentric methods.”
“And is that relevant to your inquiry, Inspector?”
“It could be, anything could be. At the moment it doesn’t seem likely.”
“Well, at least you’ve given a reason for asking which I find convincing. ‘Vulgar curiosity’ is more honest than ‘routine police procedure.’ This business was left to me some ten years ago by a maiden aunt of the same name. It has been in the family since the 1920s. I keep it going partly from family piety, but principally because I enjoy it. It brings me into touch with interesting people, although no doubt Inspector Miskin would find that surprising, since most of them are content to do housework. I earn enough to supplement a small private income and enable me to employ one assistant. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Give my compliments to Commander Dalgliesh. He should come on some of these routine inquiries himself occasionally. Had he done so, I would have had a question about one of the poems in his last volume. I hope he isn’t falling into the fashionable error of incomprehensibility. And you can reassure him that I did not murder Venetia Aldridge. She was not on my list of people who, for the greater good of humanity, would be better dead.”
Kate and Piers walked towards Horseferry Road in silence. She saw that he was smiling.
Then he said: “Extraordinary woman. I don’t suppose we’ll have any excuse for going back to her. That’s one of the frustrations of this job. You meet people, question them, get intrigued by them, eliminate them from inquiries and never see them again.”
“Most of them I’m only too happy not to see again, and that includes Miss Elkington.”
“Yes, you didn’t like each other much, did you? But didn’t she interest you—as a woman, not as a prospective suspect or a provider of useful information?”
“She intrigued me. All right, she was playing a part, but who isn’t? It would be interesting to know why that particular part, but it isn’t important. If she wants to live in the 1930s—if that’s what she’s doing—then that’s her concern. I’m more interested in what she told us about Janet Carpenter. She was pretty determined—wasn’t she—to work in those particular Chambers. She was doing perfectly well with Sir Roderick Matthews. Why change? Why Pawlet Court?”
“I don’t find that suspicious. She happened to call there, liked the clerk, liked the place, thought it might be an agreeable Chambers to work in. Then, when the opportunity came, she got a transfer. After all, if she’d set her heart on Langton’s Chambers because she wanted an opportunity to kill Venetia Aldridge, why wait over two years? You’re not telling me that Wednesday night was the only time Mrs. Watson wasn’t able to turn up at work.”
Kate said: “And then she was apparently happy to work privately for Miss Aldridge when Mrs. Buckley needed an extra pair of hands. It looks as if Janet Carpenter was using every means to get close to Aldridge. Why? The answer could lie in her past.”
“In Hereford?”
“Could be. I think someone should do a little nosing round. It’s a small town. If there’s anything to smell out it shouldn’t take long.”
Piers said: “City, not town. It’s got a cathedral. I wouldn’t mind a day in the country, but I suppose it had better be a sergeant and a woman DC from City Police. D’you want to wait until AD rings in?”
“No, we’ll set it up at once. I’ve a feeling this could be important. You see to it, and I’ll take Robbins to interview the conveniently sick Catherine Beddington.”
2
Catherine Beddington lived in a narrow street of identical terraced houses tucked away behind Shepherd’s Bush Green. Originally the street must have housed the respectable Victorian working class, but it had obviously now been colonized by young professionals attracted by its nearness to the Central Line and, for some in the media no doubt, to the BBC’s television studios and headquarters. The painted doors and windows glistened, window boxes made their cheerful statement and the cars were so closely parked that Kate and Robbins had to circle for ten minutes before they could find a space.
The door of Number 19 was opened by a fat young woman wearing trousers and a voluminous blue shirt. Her frizzled hair, dark brown and parted in the middle, sprang like twin bushes each side of an amiable face. A pair of very bright eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles summed up the visitors in a couple of quick glances. Before Kate could complete the introductions, she said: “All right, I don’t need to see your warrant cards or whatever it is you flourish. I can recognize the police when I see them.”
Kate said mildly: “Especially when they’ve telephoned in advance. Is Miss Beddington well enough to see us?”
“She says she is. I’m Trudy Manning, by the way. I’m halfway through my training contract. And I’m Cathy’s friend. I suppose you’ve no objection if I sit in on the interview?”
Kate said: “None at all, if that’s what Miss Beddington wants.”
“It’s what I want. Anyway you need me. I’m her alibi and she’s mine. I expect it’s an alibi you’ve come for. We all know what the police mean when they talk about helping with inquiries. She’s in here.”
The house was warm, and more accommodating than Trudy Manning’s words. She led the way to a room to the left of the hall and stood aside while they entered. It ran the whole length of the house and was filled with light. A conservatory fitted with white shelves had been built onto the rear and Kate could glimpse a small walled garden beyond the pots of geraniums, variegated ivies and lilies. A gas fire of simulated coals burnt in the period grate, the flames almost eclipsed by the strength of the sun. The room gave an immediate impression of comfort, warmth and security.
It was, Kate thought, an appropriate setting for the young woman who rose from her low chair before the fire to greet them. Here was a true blonde. The hair, drawn back tightly from the forehead and tied with a pink chiffon scarf, was flaxen, the eyes were a violet blue under curved brows, the features small and regular. For Kate, sensitive to beauty in either sex, there was something missing, that spark of eccentric individuality, a more positive charge of sexuality. The face was almost too faultless. It was, perhaps, the type of feminine beauty which fades quickly into prettiness and in old age into conventional nonentity. But now even anxiety and the dulling ha
nd of recent illness couldn’t destroy her serene loveliness.
Kate said: “I’m sorry you’ve been unwell. Are you sure you want to see us now? We could come back.”
“No, please. I’d much rather you stayed. I’m all right. It was just a bad bilious attack, something I ate or one of those twenty-four-hour bugs. And I want to know what happened. She was stabbed, wasn’t she? Mr. Langton did ring me Thursday afternoon with the news, and of course it’s in the paper this morning, but they don’t really tell us anything. Please, do sit down—I’m so sorry. The sofa’s comfortable.”
Kate said: “There isn’t much to tell at present. Miss Aldridge was stabbed in the heart sometime after seven-forty-five on Wednesday evening, probably with her steel paper-knife. Do you remember seeing it?”
“The dagger? It was more like a dagger than a paper-knife. She kept it in the top right-hand drawer and used it to open her post. It was terribly sharp.” She paused and whispered, “Murder. I suppose there’s no doubt? I mean, it couldn’t have been an accident? She couldn’t have done it herself?”
Their silence was answer enough. After a pause she went on, her voice little more than a whisper. “Poor Harry. It must have been an appalling shock, finding her like that. Mr. Langton told me that it was Harry who found her. But it’s worse for him—for Mr. Langton, I mean. And coming so near the end of his time. His grandfather was Head of Chambers before him. Eight, Pawlet Court, has been his whole life.” The violet eyes brimmed with tears. She said: “This will kill him.”
Perhaps to lighten the mood, or for some reason best known to himself, Robbins said: “I like this room, Miss Beddington. It’s difficult to believe that you’re only a few miles from Marble Arch. Do you own the house?”
It was a question Kate herself had wanted to ask, but she had been aware that there was little excuse for doing so: Miss Beddington’s living arrangements were hardly the concern of the police. But it came better from Robbins, who might, she sometimes thought, have been recruited for the sole purpose of reassuring the timid or cynical that the Met was staffed by every mother’s favourite son. He was a stalwart of his local Methodist church, a non-drinker and non-smoker, and a part-time lay preacher. He was also one of the most sceptical officers Kate had ever worked with; his presumed optimism about the redeemability of human nature was combined with an apparent ability to expect the worst and to accept it with non-judgemental but uncompromising calm. Very few questions asked by Robbins were resented; very few lying answers went undetected.
Trudy Manning, who had seated herself opposite her friend, obviously in the capacity of watchdog, looked as if she were about to protest and then thought better of it, perhaps feeling that it might be advisable to save her protests for the more objectionable questions which could be in store.
Miss Beddington said: “Actually it’s Daddy’s. He bought it for me when I started at university. I share it with Trudy and two other friends. We each have a bed-sitter and we share the basement kitchen and dining-room. Mummy and I chose it because it’s convenient for the Central Line. I can get off at Chancery Lane and walk to Chambers.”
Trudy said: “No point in giving your life history, Cathy. Don’t you tell your clients that the less they say to the police the better?”
“Oh Trudy, don’t be so stuffy. What does it matter if they know who owns the house?”
So I’m right, thought Kate. It was after all a common arrangement where students had rich fathers or private means. The house increased in value, Daddy made a profit on resale, the student avoided the machinations, financial or sexual, of landlords, and sharing the house covered the heating and maintenance costs and ensured that Daddy’s girl lived with young people of her own kind. It was a sensible arrangement if you were lucky, and Catherine Beddington was one of the lucky ones. But Kate had known that as soon as she had entered the house. The furniture might be older pieces which could be spared from home, but they were carefully chosen, right for the proportions of the room. And the sofa, which was obviously new, hadn’t been cheap. The polished oak floor was liberally covered with rugs, the family photographs on a side table were in silver frames, the divan set against the wall and covered with cream linen was plump with embroidered cushions.
Kate noticed that one of the photographs was of a young man in a cassock with Catherine Beddington standing beside him. A brother, she wondered, or a fiancé? She had noticed that Catherine Beddington was wearing an engagement ring, a cluster of garnets set in a small circle of diamonds in an old setting.
But it was time to get on with their business. Kate said: “Could you tell us where you were, what you were doing, from seven-thirty on Wednesday? These are questions we have to ask everyone who has a key to Chambers.”
“I was in court at Snaresbrook with Miss Aldridge and her junior. We rose earlier than expected, because the judge didn’t want to begin his summing up until the next morning. Miss Aldridge drove back to London and I caught the Central Line at Snaresbrook Station and got off at Chancery Lane. Daddy doesn’t like me to drive in London, so I haven’t a car.”
“Why didn’t you drive back with Miss Aldridge? Wouldn’t that have been the normal thing?”
Catherine flushed. She looked at Trudy Manning and said: “I suppose it would. Actually, she did take it for granted that I’d drive with her, but I thought she would rather be on her own, so I said I was thinking of meeting a friend at Liverpool Street Station and would go by train.”
“And were you?”
“No. I’m afraid it was a fib. I just felt I’d be more comfortable on my own.”
“Did anything happen that day in court to upset you or Miss Aldridge?”
“Not really. At least not anything worse than usual.” Again she flushed.
Trudy broke in: “You may as well know the truth of it. Venetia Aldridge was Cathy’s sponsor. She is—well, was—a very fine lawyer, everyone will tell you that. I never met her, so I’m not competent to say, but I know her reputation. It didn’t mean that she was good with people, particularly the young. She had no patience, a scathing tongue, and she expected a ridiculously high standard.”
Catherine Beddington turned to her and said: “That’s not quite fair, Trudy. She could be a wonderful teacher, but not to me. I was too frightened of her, and the more she scared me the more mistakes I made. It was my fault really, not hers. Because she was my sponsor I think she believed she ought to take an interest in me—although Mr. Costello is my pupil-master. QCs don’t have pupils. Everyone said how lucky I was to have her as sponsor. She’d have been fine with someone who was clever and could stand up to her.”
Trudy said: “Preferably male. She didn’t like women. And you are clever. You got a Two-One, didn’t you? Why the hell do women always under-rate themselves?”
Catherine turned on her friend: “Trudy, that isn’t fair—I mean, about her not liking women. She didn’t much like me, but that doesn’t mean she was anti-women. She was just as fierce to the men.”
“She didn’t exactly support her own sex, did she?”
“She thought we ought to compete on equal terms.”
“Oh, yeah? And since when have women enjoyed equal terms? Come off it, Cathy. We’ve had this argument before. She would have done everything she could to stop you getting a tenancy.”
“But, Trudy, she was right. I’m not as bright as the other two.”
“You’re as bright, you’re just not as confident.”
“Well, that counts, doesn’t it? What’s the good of a lawyer who isn’t confident?”
Kate turned to Trudy Manning: “You’re one of the organizers of Redress, aren’t you?”
If she had expected Trudy to be disconcerted by the question she was disappointed. The girl laughed.
“Oh that. I expect you found a copy of our newsletter in Venetia Aldridge’s desk. Yes, that’s me. I set it up with three friends, one of whom lets us use her house as an address. It’s been quite a success—much more than we expected. Well, the
country’s practically run by vociferous pressure groups, isn’t it? And this happens to be one I believe in. Not that women are a minority, that’s what makes it all so irritating. What we’re trying to do is to encourage employers to give women a fair crack of the whip and to suggest to women who’ve made it that they have a responsibility to support their own sex. After all, men do. We write to firms occasionally. Instead of replying that they have perfectly fair promotion procedures and will we please mind our own business, they send back long reports explaining exactly what they’re doing in the cause of equal opportunities. But they won’t forget that we’ve written. I mean, next time a promotion comes up, they’ll probably think twice about rejecting a perfectly suitable woman in favour of a man.”
Kate said: “You mentioned Venetia Aldridge by name in the newsletter. How did she respond to that?”
Again Trudy laughed. “She didn’t much like it. She had a word with Catherine—she knows that we’re friends—and talked darkly about libel. We weren’t worried. She was much too intelligent to go down that road. It would be demeaning for one thing. But mentioning her by name in a newsletter was a mistake. We’ve stopped that now. It’s dangerous and counter-productive. It’s much more effective to send personal letters to people.”
Kate said to Catherine: “Could we get back to Wednesday evening? You took the train from Snaresbrook Station?”
“That’s right. The station’s very convenient for the Crown Court. I was back in Chambers by about four-thirty. Then I worked in the library until just before six, when Trudy called for me. She’d brought my oboe from home and we both went to the rehearsal in Temple Church. I’m a member of the Temple Players. It’s an orchestra mostly of people from the Temple. The rehearsal was called from six till eight but actually we finished just before eight. I suppose it was about five past by the time we left the Temple.”
Kate asked: “What gate did you leave by?”
