‘And he didn’t smoke and he drank alcohol moderately and he had no work worries and no money worries . . . it sounds just a bit dull.’
‘Dull but lucky,’ said Elaine. ‘And a very nice man.’
Chapter Thirteen
I left the department a little more informed than when I’d arrived, but distinctly more puzzled. Maybe Robbie Lucas had been the equable paragon Elaine described, or then again maybe Elaine was just a protective secretary, doing her job. She didn’t seem a front runner for the mistress, unless she had a daughter she hadn’t mentioned.
I stood in the First World War hospital corridor, watching students pass, trying to work out the quickest way out of the building. It couldn’t be re-tracing my steps, because the main entrance wasn’t the nearest way out: in getting there I’d walked three sides of a square.
‘Excuse me,’ I said on an impulse to a purposeful-looking student, ‘could you tell me the way to the English Department?’
‘Follow me, I’m on my way there,’ he said, and swept me along a corridor, up a flight of stone spiral stairs, along another corridor where he pointed at a door, and said tersely, ‘Office’, and carried on.
I opened the door: the room was apparently empty. In layout and furniture it was not unlike the History Department office, but there the resemblance stopped. Each wall was painted a different colour – dark blue, dark red, dark green and terracotta – and hung from floor to ceiling with posters of poems. On every possible surface were plants, bursting with health and vitality and in some instances making determined efforts to grow up the posters.
‘Can I help you?’
The voice came from a corner of the room behind a filing cabinet, some plants and several ferns. Then a face emerged, framed by fronds and tendrils: a youngish female face, my age I guessed, round and cheerful, surrounded by a halo of frizzy blonde hair and wearing thick, distorting glasses.
I explained who I was and what I was after, and that I’d just come from the History Department.
‘Let me finish spraying the plants, and I’ll be with you,’ said the girl. ‘I’m Maisie and I’ll tell you what I know.’
‘Henry James,’ I said. ‘Were you called after the book?’
‘No way,’ she said, ‘it’s a stupid enough name anyway but no Eng. Lit. tit can resist referring to it so I get my retaliation in first. Right,’ she said triumphantly giving a last decisive spray and emerging completely.
She was just a little taller than me and her whole body was as slender as Elaine’s sylph-like top half had been. She was wearing black woollen tights, high-heeled clumpy shoes, a short narrow leather skirt, a red skimpy sweater, and an amused alert expression which I guessed was permanent. ‘D’you want a cup of coffee? I’m just making.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Black, no sugar.’
‘Just as well. Some slob’s pinched the milk.’
‘Are you the department secretary?’
‘That’s me. Bit different from History, eh?’ She waved her hand around the office.
‘Just a bit. Maybe you can explain something to me – why do historians do it with perspective?’
‘To make their dicks look bigger?’ she suggested.
‘And how do Eng. Lit. tits do it?’
‘Like rabbits. Here’s your coffee, have a chair and tell me what you need to know.’
‘Anything at all about Professor Lucas and what might have caused or precipitated a heart attack.’
She leant against the edge of the desk, sipped her coffee and watched me. ‘You needed Philip Gein – you know who I mean?’ I nodded. ‘They were mates.’
‘That’s why I came here. Elaine wouldn’t tell me anything even if there was anything to tell; protecting her department. She made Robbie Lucas sound like a candidate for Man of the Year award. Great boss, great husband.’ ‘He was, I think,’ said Maisie. ‘A really nice guy, apart from an obssession with irrigation and drainage.’ ‘Why don’t you tell me what Philip Gein would have said if he were here to say it? You could probably guess.’ She laughed. ‘Nobody could guess what Philip would say. Never. Unpredictable, he was. Typical of him, really, to die the way he did.’
‘Which was?’
‘He just walked out of here one afternoon, said “See you tomorrow”, and the next we heard, he was dead. Mugged on the way to the Strand.’ She was serious now, and sad.
Something struck me. ‘When was this?’
‘August,’ she said.
‘He was mugged on an afternoon in August? And killed?’ That was really odd. London muggers seldom kill people. When I’d first heard it I’d assumed it was late at night, in the dark, some kids who were drunk or high. Even that would have been unusual. ‘Did the police ever catch them?’
‘No. They had no idea. He was found stabbed on the street, that’s all they knew, and his wallet had gone so they classed it as a mugging. It’s been dull round here since he went. I still can’t believe it, actually. I expect him to walk in . . . But you don’t need to hear this. What else can I tell you?’
‘I was wondering, really, if Professor Lucas had other friends in this department. Philip Gein sounds as if he made friends easily, while Lucas didn’t, according to Elaine. So I thought maybe there were other people in this department who were close to Gein who sort of got to know Lucas.’
‘I see what you mean . . . you could try Barbara Gottlieb. She was probably closest to Philip.’
‘Close close?’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘Not Barbara, though Philip wasn’t averse to as much close close as he could get, which was plenty. She’s in her office, I think. D’you want to go along and give her a try?’
Barbara Gottlieb’s office was absolutely businesslike. No plants, no posters. Bookcases, entirely full of books and files and papers, a desk with a computer and more papers, and one chair. No chair for her and clear floor space otherwise, to leave her room to manoeuvre her wheel chair, which she did skilfully, with strong arms. The lower part of her body, under a rug, seemed almost wasted to nothing. She was in her forties, probably, though the dark-brown hair which fell straight to her shoulders was untouched by grey and the thick skin on her handsome face was virtually unlined.
She could be the right age for the mistress. I needed to find out if she was married, so I went for it. ‘Are you Herman Gottlieb’s wife, by any chance? I worked with him on a documentary once.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not married.’ She appeared uninterested in Herman Gottlieb, which was just as well. I don’t like inventing when I don’t have to. I explained myself, again, and my cover story sounded no more sensible on the third run-through. As I talked, she waved me to the chair, and watched me with her large clear grey eyes expressionless. When I’d finished, she nodded.
‘Hilary Lucas has agreed to this?’ she said.
‘Yes. Elaine in the History Department checked with her.’
She nodded again.‘You’ll forgive me if I have a word with Elaine.’
‘Of course.’
While she telephoned, I looked around the room, at the high arrow-slit windows and the bookcases going all the way up to the Gothic ceiling, and wondered how she ever reached the books on the upper shelves, and why a German had come to London to teach English literature, because although she was absolutely fluent she had a decidedly German accent.
When she put the phone down, she looked puzzled.
‘All right?’ I said blandly.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I don’t quite understand. Hilary’s a very private person, very self-contained, and she was absolutely devastated by Robbie’s death. We all were, of course, it was so unexpected, but for the widow in a good marriage –’
‘Especially a childless marriage,’ I said.
‘Indeed. For the widow in a good marriage a death like Robbie’s must be as if the world had stopped. That’s one reason why we left it so long before the memorial service.’
‘When was Professor Gein’s memorial servi
ce?’
‘In September,’ she said briefly, as if the memory was painful, then returned to her point. ‘I could understand if Hilary was co-operating in scientific research which might help other potential heart-attack victims, but yours is to be a popular programme, isn’t it?’
‘We have properly qualified advisers,’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask me to name them, knowing she would.
‘And those would be . . .’
‘I’m afraid I’m not dealing with that aspect of the research,’ I said weakly.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I’m dealing with lifestyle. Such as, were there particular stresses in his work, in his domestic life? Was he a good mixer with plenty of friends, or a more solitary person? That kind of thing.’
‘That kind of thing,’ she repeated. ‘So, ask me your questions, if Hilary wants it.’
‘Were you a close friend of his?’
‘Not so much. I was a friend of Philip’s and I saw something of Robbie because of Philip.’
‘What was Robbie’s life like? Can you describe it to me?’
‘It was very pleasant, I think. He was devoted to his wife, and proud of her. She is, as you probably know, very successful. He was successful too, in his own field, which interested him. She has plenty of money of her own, and she also earns a great deal, and his salary was good. They had a beautiful London flat and a villa in Tuscany. They enjoyed good food, which Hilary cooked, and good wine, which Robbie chose. They were minor collectors of modern art. They went to the opera, they listened to music, they had a small circle of friends whose company they enjoyed. Hilary’s sisters have children, and they took an interest in them. Robbie’s brother also has children, several children, and they took an interest in them too. A quiet but pleasant life, I think. Good people. Kind. Generous. Intellectual.’
‘The small circle of friends,’ I said. ‘Who else should I talk to? Professor Gein’s widow, perhaps?’
‘Philip did not leave a widow. His wife died three years ago. She had myasthenia gravis.’
I scraped around my information bank. ‘The wasting disease?’
‘Yes. She was in a wheelchair, like me. And I have been paraplegic so long, I knew about disability. Sometimes, as his wife sickened, I could tell him what to expect, how to help her, what to do for the best.’
I said nothing because nothing seemed tactful. ‘So who else do you think I should talk to, about Professor Lucas?’
She looked at me, expressionless. ‘It depends what you want to talk about. He saw a great deal of Hilary’s family.’
‘That’s an angle I must pursue, then. But on the work side,’ I said remembering Hilary’s suggestion that the mistress was probably an academic, ‘someone else in his field? I imagine he went to conferences and read papers about his subject?’
‘Sometimes, of course, but he did not make friends easily. He was very self-contained. I don’t remember him mentioning anyone in particular.’
‘A society, then? Is there an irrigation and drainage society?’
‘Not as such. There are Historical Geography Societies, of course, but again, I can’t remember him mentioning anyone in particular. You could ask.’
We seemed to have reached an impasse. I wanted to ask her, straight out, who his mistress was. She might even have told me. Her reaction would have told me something, at least. But that was exactly what Hilary didn’t want, and I still had nearly a week.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I cannot have been of much help.’
‘It doesn’t sound as if he’s much of a candidate for stress, no, but that in itself could be interesting.’
‘If you say so. And you know where I am. If there is anything else I can help you with—’ she began, and stopped.
I let the silence go on, hoping she’d fill it. She didn’t.
Chapter Fourteen
When I got back to the flat I found Polly sitting on the floor surrounded by letters and full of herself.‘I’ve solved your problem!’ she said.
For a moment, I was disappointed, the kind of disappointment that comes when someone else fills in the last clue in your crossword puzzle. Then I adjusted my face to grateful, which I actually was, and said ‘Great! Who is she?’
‘Who is who? Oh, your woman. I’m not talking about that, though I have some suggestions about where to look. I meant, your problem about telling the police. All done.’
A surge of rage gripped me. What the devil did she think she was doing? And who had she told? And what kind of a mess had she got me into with Hilary Lucas? And what did the heck did Nick think she was doing, skiving off and leaving me making do with Polly?
‘Don’t be cross,’ she said. ‘Listen, I didn’t mean to interfere, but it seemed such a wonderful opportunity, oh do stop looking so cross, listen – Arthur Fishburn, the old ex-policeman chappie, Eddy’s friend, dropped in to see you and I gave him a cup of tea and we got to chatting – I just think a chat was what he wanted, because he didn’t seem to have a message for you or anything. And then I thought, he’s Eddy’s friend, he’s got contacts and his, old friends of course, and he knew all about how the serial killer hunt is organized and who he should tell, and who would act on it, and he said he could do it without naming names, so I told him, but not with the names, and he said he’d speak to someone this afternoon, and then let us know when it was done, and I gave him your card so he has your number here and in the office.’
She stopped, and looked at me half-defiantly, half as if doubts were creeping in.
Not half as many doubts as I was having, but there was no point letting her see that. What was done was done, and she wasn’t to know that Eddy had given me health warnings on Arthur, nor that I had my own reservations about him. Now he knew I was a private investigator, and I’d deliberately kept all that well away from him. ‘Oh, Arthur,’ I said heartily. ‘Of course. Good thinking.’
She wasn’t entirely convinced, but she wanted to be. ‘Because I thought, if you didn’t need to wait to talk to Eddy, then you could go over to the house and get stuck in this evening, so I rang the estate agent and made an appointment for you, for eight o’clock. That’s the first time one of them will be in, apparently. It isn’t the owner – it’s the one who has a girl in his flat. James Hobbs.’
‘Thanks, Polly,’ I said rather limply.
She obviously felt I wasn’t enthusiastic enough, and she was right, because she’d meant well and she hadn’t done too badly, always supposing that Arthur Fishburn could or would do anything sensible. ‘D’you want to give Fishburn a ring and call him off?’ she said. ‘Or cancel the appointment with Hobbs?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘I’m making coffee and I’ll get you some water, and then you can tell me what you’ve sussed from the letters.’
‘OK,’ said Polly, who had moved to the desk and was marshalling the letters in piles in front of her, ‘what with talking to Arthur and really concentrating on each letter, I haven’t gone through all of them. I read the last letter, the one about Rillington Place, but apart from that I stuck to chronological order and I’m up to 1986. This is what I’ve got so far. First thing is, they know each other very well and see each other a lot. Apart from their private meetings, that is.’
‘Evidence?’ I said.
‘She never uses the letters for practical details. Nothing at all to say next week at the usual place or don’t forget to book the table.’
‘Which you would otherwise expect to find?’
‘Of course. It’s not easy making arrangements with a married man, believe me, unless you work with him or see him regularly for some other reason. Plus it isn’t the other usual thing, where you make detailed arrangements for the next date at each meeting, because the gaps between meetings are too long. They make love about five times a year, with a minimum of two months between. Two months in advance is a long time to make firm dates. Plus they don’t talk privately on the telephone, because some of the letters are just sa
ying very simple things like, I’m missing you very much or I wanted to tell you I love you . . . things which she could perfectly well have said on the phone, if they could safely have used it.’
‘Maybe she preferred writing it.’
‘OK, even if she did, that last letter – the one about I wanting him to talk to their son – she’d surely have said that on the phone if she could have, and discussed it with him. But apart from the arrangements question, the other reason I have for saying that they see each other quite often as well as meeting to bonk, is that she doesn’t describe or explain important events in her own life or his, she just refers to them, and quite often they’re things that have happened since their last bonking session, and the really obvious example is when their son is born. They don’t meet privately from January that year until July, but she writes to him in May, taking it for granted not only that he knows about the child but that he’s seen it, probably several times.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Supposing you’re right—’
‘I am, and do you see what that means? It means we’re not looking for a work colleague. It’s got to be a friend of the family. Or a member of the family, sister, sister-in-law, maybe.’
‘A work colleague could bring in her baby for general admiration and the ritual presentation of cuddly toys.’
‘But a work colleague wouldn’t expect him to be so familiar with all the current details of her home life. They don’t meet often for their bonking sessions, she’s not going to waste them describing the difficulties she’s having with her newly installed french windows.’
‘French windows?’
‘Yes, back in 1980 that’s what she’s referring to, as if he knows all about it. Plus the original falling-in-love bit happened in Rome, yeah? During the holiday time. In August. Where I’ll bet anything they were all holidaying together. Her husband was there anyway, because she says she found it hard to face him, that night. And also, I think the nicknames are so she doesn’t have to use the names.’
‘Because she’s worried about someone reading the letters and identifying her?’
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