A Certain Justice

by P. D. James

  “The usual, the Judges’ Gate at Devereux Court.”

  “And you were both in the church for the whole of the rehearsal?”

  Trudy said: “Yes we were. I’m not a member of the orchestra, of course. I went because it’s always entertaining to watch Malcolm Beeston rehearse. He sees himself as Thomas Beecham with a touch of the flamboyance of Malcolm Sargent. And they were playing the kind of music I can cope with.”

  Catherine Beddington said: “We’re not bad really but we are amateurs. This time it was all English. Delius’s On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring, Elgar’s Serenade for Strings, and Vaughan Williams’s English Folk Song Suite.”

  Trudy said: “I sat well at the back so as not to be intrusive. I suppose I could have slipped out unnoticed, dashed through Pump Court and across Middle Temple Lane and into Pawlet Court, stabbed Venetia and then sneaked back into the church, but I didn’t.”

  Catherine broke in: “You were sitting quite close to Mr. Langton, though, weren’t you? He can probably confirm that you were there, at least for the first part of the rehearsal.”

  Kate asked: “So Mr. Langton was at the rehearsal, was he? Did that surprise you?”

  “Well, it did a little. I mean, he’s never attended a rehearsal before. He usually comes to the performance, but perhaps he won’t be able to make it this year so he caught the rehearsal. Actually he didn’t stay very long. When I looked up after about an hour, maybe a bit less, he’d gone.”

  Kate turned to Trudy: “Did he speak to you?”

  “No. I hardly know him except by sight. Actually he looked pretty preoccupied. I don’t know whether it was the music. At one time I thought he’d fallen asleep. Anyway, after about an hour he got up and left.”

  Robbins asked: “And after the rehearsal you went to supper?”

  “That was the idea but it didn’t happen. Cathy had been feeling queasy during the whole evening. We’d planned to eat at the carvery in the Strand Palace Hotel but when we got there she couldn’t face a full meal. Cathy said she’d just have soup to keep me company, but the whole point of the carvery is to stock up on protein for the next week. It’s daft to pay a fixed price and eat nothing. The sensible thing was to get home, so that’s what we did. As it counted as an emergency and we’d saved the cost of the meal, we took a taxi. The traffic was pretty heavy but we were back here in time to catch the nine o’clock news. At least I caught it, Cathy just about made it. She was violently sick and went straight to bed. I cooked myself some scrambled eggs and spent the rest of the night holding her head and bringing hot-water bottles.”

  Robbins asked: “In what order were the pieces rehearsed?”

  “The Delius, the Vaughan Williams and last the Elgar. Why?”

  “I’m wondering why you didn’t leave early if you were feeling unwell. There is no woodwind in the Elgar. You wouldn’t be wanted for the last part of the rehearsal.”

  Kate, surprised, half-expected the question to provoke either embarrassment or an angry retort from Trudy. But to her surprise the two girls looked at each other and smiled.

  Catherine said: “It’s obvious you haven’t seen Malcolm Beeston rehearse. When he calls a rehearsal, he calls a rehearsal. You never know when he’s going to switch pieces.” She turned to Trudy. “Do you remember poor Solly, who sneaked out for a quick beer when he thought the percussion wouldn’t be called?” She imitated a masculine voice, a high, petulant falsetto: “ ‘When I call a rehearsal, Mr. Solly, I expect all players to do me the courtesy of being present for the whole of the time. One more act of insubordination and you’ll never play under my baton again.’ “

  Kate then asked Catherine about the wig and the blood. She admitted that she knew about both. She had been present in the hall when Mr. Ulrick had told Miss Caldwell that he had stored blood in his refrigerator. The girls were obviously surprised at the questions, but neither made any comment. Kate had thought hard before asking them; the police, as well as the barristers of Pawlet Court, had no wish for the spectacular desecration of the body to be made public. On the other hand, it was important to ascertain whether Catherine knew about the blood.

  She asked her last question: “When you left by the Devereux Court gate at about five minutes past eight, did you see anyone in Pawlet Court or entering Middle Temple?”

  Catherine said: “No one. Devereux Court and the passage out to the Strand were deserted.”

  “Did either of you notice whether there were any lights in Eight, Pawlet Court?”

  The girls looked at each other, then shook their heads.

  Catherine said: “I’m afraid we didn’t notice.”

  There seemed nothing else to be learned and time was pressing. Trudy offered to make coffee but both Kate and Robbins declined, and they left soon afterwards. They didn’t speak until they were in the car, then Kate said: “I didn’t know you were musical.”

  “You don’t have to be musical to know that Elgar’s Serenade for Strings doesn’t include oboes.”

  “It’s odd that they didn’t sneak off early. No one would have noticed anyway. The conductor would have been facing the orchestra and the orchestra would have had their eyes on him, not on the audience, such as it was. And Trudy Manning could certainly have gone out for ten minutes or so any time during the evening without people noticing. If both of them had left once the orchestra had started on the Elgar, would it have mattered? If Beeston tackled Beddington later she’d have had the excuse that she was taken ill. It was only a rehearsal, for God’s sake, and she’d have been there when she was wanted. And it would only have taken a matter of minutes to get to Pawlet Court through the arch at Pump Court, linking Middle and Inner Temples. Beddington has a key to chambers. She knew when Aldridge worked late. She knew about the blood and where to find the wig, and she knew exactly how sharp that dagger was. One thing is certain, if they did leave early, either separately or together, we’ll never get Trudy Manning to admit it.”

  Robbins didn’t reply. Kate said: “I suppose you’re going to tell me that the fragrant Miss Beddington isn’t the type of woman to commit murder?”

  “No,” said Robbins. “I was about to say that she’s the type of woman other people commit murder for.”

  3

  It was another perfect autumn day and Dalgliesh at last threw off the western tentacles of London with a sense of liberation. As soon as he saw green fields on each side of the road he drove the Jaguar onto the verge and put down the hood. There was little wind but as he drove the air tore at his hair and seemed to cleanse more than his lungs. The sky was translucent, with faint trails of white cloud dissolving like mist in the clear blue. Some of the ridged fields lay bare but others were flushed with the delicate green of winter wheat. He was not inhibited by Piers’s remarks from stopping briefly at Salisbury Cathedral, as he had intended, despite the irritation and difficulty of finding somewhere to park the Jaguar. After an hour he pressed on through Blandford Forum, then south down the narrow country lanes, through Winterborne Kingston and past Bovington Camp towards Wareham.

  But suddenly he was struck by an imperative need to glimpse the sea. Crossing the main road, he drove on towards Lulworth Cove. At the breast of a hill he stopped the car at a gate and climbed over into a field of shorn turf where a few sheep ambled clumsily away at his coming. There was an outcrop of rocks and he sat with one at his back and gazed out over the panorama of hills, green fields and small coppices to the wide blue stretch of the Channel. He had brought a picnic of French bread, cheese and pâté. Unscrewing the thermos of coffee, he hardly regretted the lack of wine. Nothing was needed to enhance his mood of utter contentment. He felt along his veins a tingling happiness, almost frightening in its physicality, that soul-possessing joy which is so seldom felt once youth has passed. After the meal he sat for ten minutes in absolute silence, then got up to go. He had had what he needed and was grateful. A drive of only a few miles towards Wareham brought him to his destination.

  An arrow in white
wood with the words “Perigold Pottery” painted in black was fixed to a post stuck into the grass of the verge. Dalgliesh took the turning indicated and drove slowly up a narrow lane between high hedges. The pottery came into view, an isolated white cottage with a tiled roof lying some fifty yards from the road on gently sloping ground. It was approached by a grassy path which widened into a parking-space for two or three cars. The Jaguar bumped almost silently over the lumpy ground. Locking it, Dalgliesh walked up to the cottage.

  It looked peaceful, domestic, calmly deserted under the afternoon sun. In front was a stone patio furnished with an assortment of terra-cotta pots, the smaller ones clustered together. Two large pots, Ali Baba-shaped, stood each side of the door bearing apricot roses still with a few late buds. The hostas were finished, their brown-rimmed leaves slumped over the pot sides, but a fuchsia bush still flowered and the geraniums were woody but not yet over. To the right of the cottage he could see a vegetable garden and there came to him the country smell of manure. The canes of runner beans had been partly pulled out but there were rows of winter spinach, leeks and carrots behind a solid cluster of Michaelmas daisies. Behind the garden he could see the wired enclosure of a chicken-run and a few hens busily picking at the earth.

  There was no sign of life but to the left of the cottage was a barn converted into living accommodation. He could see that the wide door was open and there came to him the gentle sound of a turning wheel. He had raised his hand to the doorknocker—there was no bell—but now let it fall and walked across the patio towards what was obviously the studio.

  The room was full of light. It spilled over the red-tiled floor and filled every corner of the pottery with its soft effulgent glow. The woman bent over the wheel must have been aware of his presence but she gave no sign. She was wearing blue jeans heavily spattered with clay and a paler painter’s smock. Her hair was covered with a green cotton scarf bound close to a high curved forehead and there was a single long plait of reddish gold hanging down her back. There was a child with her, a girl of about two or three with hair like white silk framing a delicate face. She was seated at a low table rolling a piece of clay and jabbering quietly to herself.

  The woman at the wheel had just completed her pot. As Dalgliesh’s tall figure darkened the doorway she lifted her foot and the wheel slowly stopped. Taking a wire, she sliced the pot from the wheel and carried it carefully over to a table. Only then did she turn and give him a long look. Despite the full concealing smock, he could see that she was pregnant.

  She was younger than he had expected. Her eyes, calmly appraising, were widely spaced. The cheekbones were high and prominent; the skin was lightly tanned and freckled; her mouth was beautifully formed above a small cleft chin. Before either of them could speak the child suddenly got up from her chair and trotted across to Dalgliesh. She tugged at his trousers and then held up for his inspection an almost shapeless piece of clay. She seemed to be expecting either comment or approval.

  Dalgliesh said: “You’re very clever. Tell me what it is.”

  “It’s a dog. Its name is Peter and my name is Marie.”

  “Mine is Adam. But it hasn’t any legs.”

  “It’s a sitting-down dog.”

  “Where’s its tail?”

  “It hasn’t got a tail.”

  She went back to the table, apparently disgusted with the impossible stupidity of this new adult.

  Her mother said: “You must be Commander Dalgliesh. I’m Anna Cummins. I was expecting you. But don’t the police usually come in pairs?”

  “Usually we do. Perhaps I should have brought a colleague. I was tempted by the autumn day and a need for solitude. I’m sorry if I’m early, sorrier if I spoilt the pot. I should have tried the door of the cottage but I heard the sound of your wheel.”

  “You haven’t spoilt anything and you aren’t early. I was busy and forgot the time. Would you like some coffee?” Her voice was low and attractive, with the trace of a Welsh lilt.

  “Very much, if it isn’t a trouble.” He wasn’t thirsty but it seemed kinder to accept than refuse.

  She went over to a sink and said: “You want, of course, to speak to Luke. I don’t think he’ll be long. He’s been delivering some pots to Poole. There’s a shop there which takes a few every month. He should be back soon if he doesn’t get held up. Sometimes people like to talk to him, or he may go for a coffee, and there was some shopping he had to do. Please sit down.”

  She indicated a wicker chair plump with cushions and with a high winged back. He said: “If you want to get on with your work, I could go for a walk and come back when your husband is likely to be here.”

  “I think that might be a waste of your time. He shouldn’t be long. In the meantime I could probably tell you what you want to know.”

  For the first time he wondered whether her husband’s absence had been planned. Both the Cumminses were taking his visit with extraordinary calmness. Most people, having made an appointment with a senior police officer, find it prudent to keep it on time, particularly when the time has been of their choosing. Had they wanted her to be here alone when he arrived?

  He sat in the chair and watched while she set about making the coffee. On either side of the sink were two low cupboards, one holding an electric kettle, the other with a two-ringed gas stove. He watched while she filled the kettle and plugged it in, reached up for two of her own mugs and a small jug from those lined up on a shelf, then bent to the cupboard and brought out a packet of sugar crystals, a carton of milk and a jar of ground coffee. He had seldom seen a woman who moved with such natural grace. No gesture was hurried, none was either studied or self-conscious. Far from resenting her detachment, he found it refreshing. The room was very restful, the wicker chair, with its high backrest and arms, enclosed him in a seductive comfort.

  He let his eyes move from her bare, bespeckled arm as it bent to twist open the coffee jar, and studied the details of the studio. Apart from the wheel the dominant feature was a large wood-burning stove, the door open, the kindling laid ready for the evening’s autumn chill. There was a roll-topped desk against the north wall with, above it, three shelves holding telephone directories and what looked like reference books and ledgers. The longest wall, opposite the door was fitted with shelves on which her pots were displayed: mugs, small bowls, beakers, jugs. The predominant colour was a greeny blue, the design pleasant but conventional. Below the shelves was a table holding larger artefacts: dishes, fruit bowls and platters. These showed a more individual, more experimental creativity.

  She brought his mug of coffee over to him and placed it on the low table beside the chair, then seated herself in a rocking-chair and contemplated her child. Marie had demolished her menagerie and was now cutting a roll of clay into small pieces with a blunt knife and forming small bowls and plates. The three of them, only the child occupied, sat in silence.

  It was obvious that no information would be volunteered. Dalgliesh said: “I want, of course, to speak to your husband about his late wife. I know they divorced eleven years ago, but it’s possible he may have some information about her, her friends, her life, even an enemy, which could help. In a murder investigation it’s important to learn as much as possible about the victim.”

  He could have added, That’s my excuse for escaping out of London this wonderful autumn day.

  She must have caught the unspoken thought. She said: “And you came yourself.”

  “As you see.”

  “I suppose finding out about people—even dead people—is fascinating if you’re a writer, a biographer, but then it’s always second-hand, isn’t it? You can’t know the whole truth about anyone. With some dead people, parents and grandparents, you never begin to understand them until they’ve died, and then it’s too late. Some people leave more personality behind them than they seem to have had when they were alive.”

  She spoke without emphasis and as if she were divulging a private and newly discovered fact. Dalgliesh decided it was time
for a more direct approach.

  He asked: “When did you yourself last see Miss Aldridge?”

  “Three years ago, when she brought Octavia here to stay with her father for a week. Venetia was only here for an hour. She didn’t come to take Octavia home again. Luke put her on the train at Wareham.”

  “And she didn’t come again—Octavia, I mean?”

  “No. I thought—that is, we thought—that she should spend some time with her father. Her mother had custody but a child needs two parents. It wasn’t a success. She was bored in the country and she was cross and rough with the baby. Marie was only two months old and Octavia actually struck her. Not a hard blow, but it was deliberate. After that, of course, she had to go.”

  It was as simple as that. The final rejection. She had to go.

  He asked: “And her father agreed?”

  “After she struck Marie? Of course. As I said, the visit wasn’t a success. He was never allowed to be a father to Octavia when she was young. She was at prep school by the time she was eight and they rarely spent time together after the divorce. I don’t think she ever really cared for him.”

  Dalgliesh thought: Or he for her. But this was dangerous and private ground. He was a police officer, not a family therapist. But it was part of that stark black-and-white sketch of Venetia Aldridge which he needed to fill in with living colour.

  “And neither you nor your husband has seen Miss Aldridge since then?”

  “No. Of course, I would have seen her on the night she died if she had come to the gate.”

  Her voice was gentle, unemphatic. She spoke as calmly as if making a comment on the strength of the coffee. Dalgliesh was trained not to show surprise when a suspect came out with the unexpected. But, then, he had never seen her as a suspect.

  He put down his mug and said quietly: “You’re telling me that you were in London that night? We’re talking about this Wednesday, the ninth of October?”

  “Yes. I went up to see Venetia at Chambers. It was at her suggestion. She was supposed to unlock that small door in the gate at the end of Devereux Court for me, but she never came.”