Dying to Know (A Detective Inspector Berenice Killick Mystery)

by Alison Joseph

  Berenice read on, picking up a cleaner’s report, ‘Bessie Wallace: “All I’ll say is, Ma’am, people get mighty superstitious when it comes to atoms, don’t they? And them notes put under them people’s doors, that’s what they were saying. That if you mess with the Lord’s creation, who knows what might happen? All this smashing them tiny particles, all that nothingness, you’re asking for trouble, isn’t it? Opening up them empty spaces, who knows what might get in the gaps in between?”’

  Berenice replaced the paper on the pile. She found that she’d eaten all her sandwich without noticing.

  Helen dabbed at a scratch in the smooth polish of the bureau. Escritoire, perhaps it should be called, she thought, looking at the fine mahogany finish. Stacked on the surface were the loose pages of the book that she’d carefully unfolded and removed, and it occurred to her that the desk had been made long before poor Amelia had written the words in front of her.

  “I fear for our souls, and for that of our dear child. Where my father had the Lord, my husband will have Aether, and Atoms, and Gravity. I ask him why Gravity, why is it so mysterious, and he tells me it’s about the measurement of it, to see how it comes to bear on particles. He said, that he and Guy had set out to measure it, and he will do so still. He speaks much about my brother, about their work together, about honouring his memory. Then he takes my hand, and tells me we are falling, falling through space, through time, even. I remain silent, for to say any word at all is to risk his wrath…’

  She turned the page.

  “The death of my dear brother haunts us all. Last night I slept alone. My husband inhabits a world wherein I cannot join him. He sits at his bench long into the night, with his lenses and rays and beams. Last night I watched our dear child in her cradle, and I prayed to the Lord to keep us from this Heavyness, this Darkness. When I awoke this morning I ventured to my husband’s room and found him sleeping there, a makeshift mattress on the floor. He is like a shadow to me now, this man whom once I loved, and my heart does bleed. Where once was joy and laughter, now there are tears, and Silence.”

  Helen slipped the pages into their folder. She’d bought it earlier today, a cardboard file, a designer one, covered in white roses. It seemed to suit Amelia, she thought, why she wasn’t sure. Loss, perhaps; a husband who once had loved her, now turned away.

  She got up, went to the window. The glass was dotted with drops of rain. Beyond that, the strip of sea was a threatening grey. Somewhere in the house her phone trilled, a text message coming in, and at once she thought, it’ll be Liam, he’ll be telling me –

  Telling me what?

  Chad had phoned earlier, to say that the police were interviewing everyone in the lab now. He’d dropped off the book at the front desk, felt a bit of a fool, he’d go straight from the office to evening service, they could eat together after that…

  She wandered out to the kitchen, picked up her phone, found a message from Anton saying that one of their former colleagues was reviewed in the papers that day, ‘Glowing, darling, glowing – and richly deserved, of course, dear Tanya…’

  Anton, of course. Not Liam. She smiled at the message, at its Anton-ness. He’d always say to anyone who’d listen that Tanya was an “also ran”. She told herself that Liam would have nothing to say to her, police investigation or not. She went back to the bureau, finished hiding away Amelia’s writings.

  Liam collected Jonas from the Duty Sergeant, with effusive thanks on his side and admiring comments from the Sergeant, ‘Good as gold, he was, and you can’t say that for all of them, tetchy breed, collies, aren’t they…’

  He left Police HQ in the rain, putting up his umbrella, gathering up Jonas’s lead, checking his phone for messages…

  He found himself hoping that Helen had texted him, ridiculous thought… Then he thought he might text her, or even call her, he could tell her… What? What was this urge to confide in her?

  An amusement, he thought. That’s what my sister always says. Another way of wasting your life, that was how she put it last time, you always manage to find the perfect distraction, Liam, they’re either married, or they don’t want you, what was the last one, oh, yes, she was just about to emigrate, wasn’t she, always someone who isn’t going to make any demands…

  Sinead’s voice in my ears. Perhaps she’s right, he thought. Maybe Helen’s a distraction. What is it to her anyway, Murdo and Elizabeth and poor Virginia…

  I played it down, just then, with that nice policewoman, didn’t want to besmirch Murdo’s good name… Perhaps I should have said more. Perhaps it’s more relevant than I think. Helen would know, I could ask her what she thinks…

  ‘What would you do, Jonas boy?’ he stopped, adjusting the umbrella. Jonas shook raindrops from his neck and looked up at him.

  ‘You’d ring her, would you? Mind you,’ he said, as they set off again, ‘you’ve always been an incisive kind of chap. Always one to seize the moment, eh, boy?’

  The dog lifted one ear, trotting at his side.

  Liam stopped again, reached out his phone and dialled Helen’s number.

  Particles, Berenice thought, weighing the book in her hand. Gravity. Nothingness.

  It was beautifully made, bound in soft leather, with thick creamy pages.

  She opened it at random. Was it really dangerous, as the cleaner said, if you open up those empty gaps?

  “… a most subtle spirit,” she read, “which pervades all particles, by the force and action of which spirit all particles attract one another…”

  She flicked to another page. “It is in the Chaos that order is restored. And we must face the Chaos in order that the Truth be revealed…”

  And what was this to do with two murders? So, she thought, they happened to be scientists. So, they both fell from the old lighthouse. So, there was a certain amount of bad feeling, but only normal workplace stuff, they should try HQ here… And there’s a thread of a dispute with this villain and some claim on the old house next door.

  She held the book in her fingers.

  From the sound of it, Virginia was keen to get rid of it, now her husband’s dead. And the lad Tobias claims it carries some kind of secret, that Moffatt was after.

  In my experience, she thought, murder is always human. Born of ordinary, human feelings. Like jealousy. Or greed. Or revenge. If we’re looking for secrets in all this science here, this aether and nothingness and particles - we’re looking in the wrong direction.

  She glanced up as the door opened and Mary appeared with a mug of coffee for her.

  ‘I didn’t mean that you should bring it,’ Berenice said. ‘One of those lads out there, sitting on his arse-’

  ‘I think you should join me,’ Mary said. ‘Elizabeth Merletti. Reckons she’d had an affair with the deceased. Before she was married. When she was Elizabeth Van Mielen.’

  Berenice put the book down. ‘Van Mielen, yeah? Now we’re getting somewhere.’ She stood up, gathered up her jacket. ‘Like I always say. Not science at all. Just human feeling. Extreme, maybe. But, in the end, human.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘I’m sick and tired of that blasted book.’ Elizabeth Merletti flicked back a loose lock of hair. ‘I wish the Kent lot had kept it.’

  Berenice, having shown her the book, withdrew it, stacking it back on the desk with her papers.

  ‘It’s your name in it,’ she said.

  ‘Not my name,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Some ancestor. My grandfather’s cousin.’ She sighed, shifted on her chair, glanced up at the narrow window which was dark with the late afternoon rain. She was still in her raincoat, which she’d refused to remove – ‘It’s not as if I’m staying,’ she’d said, in that cool, even voice with its very slight accent. Berenice wondered whether she put it on for effect, a kind of all-purpose continental sophistication. It certainly worked, she thought, or perhaps it was just the long sweep of hair, the well-cut clothes, the low-heeled but elegant black patent shoes.

  ‘It’s your maiden name,
’ Berenice said. She glanced at Mary, who sat, head bent, writing notes. ‘Van Mielen,’ she went on.

  Elizabeth sighed.

  ‘You must admit, it’s rather odd…’

  ‘Is it?’ Elizabeth fixed her with her clear, grey-green eyes. ‘My father’s family were from round here.’

  ‘You know its history, then?’

  ‘Neil knows more about it than I do. Neil Parrish. He’s the local history freak. It was he who told me about it. Frankly, I really wasn’t that interested. We’re from a different branch, you see. The American lot. I knew nothing about this eccentric ancestor until I mentioned the book to Neil.’

  ‘So you gave it away?’ Berenice watched her.

  She yawned, but it seemed fake. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I gave it away.’

  ‘To Murdo,’ Berenice said.

  Once more that fixed, determined look. ‘Which is what we’re here to talk about, isn’t it? Not some silly old book.’

  Mary exchanged a glance with Berenice, then went back to her note-writing.

  ‘Yes,’ Berenice agreed. She took a sip of cold coffee. ‘That’s what we’re here to talk about. You and Murdo Maguire.’

  The room quietened. Berenice could hear the slam of distant doors, the revving of car engines as people began to head for home. For a moment she envied them, until she thought of what passed for her own home, a characterless rented terraced house where even the furniture didn’t feel like her own…

  ‘I loved him.’ Elizabeth’s words cut through her thoughts. ‘Murdo. I loved him for years,’ she said. ‘And he loved me.’ For the first time, there was a tremor in her voice. She looked across at Berenice. ‘I don’t particularly want to tell you all this,’ she said, ‘but I figured you’d find out anyway, and I don’t want to “impede the course of justice” or whatever it’s called, and anyway…’ Again, the shake in her voice. ‘And anyway,’ she said, ‘I owe it to Murdo.’

  ‘Mrs. Merletti.’ Berenice crossed and uncrossed her legs. ‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Dr. Maguire?’

  Elizabeth shook her head, with an expert swish of hair.

  ‘People have mentioned bad feeling in the lab,’ Berenice went on. ‘Hatemail stuffed under doors. We’ve seen a few of them.’

  She shrugged. ‘People can get silly about scientific truth.’

  ‘You’d only recently come here. From Italy.’

  ‘Yes,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘What brought you back here?’

  The grey eyes fixed on hers. ‘I got the job here. My marriage in Italy was over, and this experiment here, it’s very exciting.’

  ‘When was this?’

  She gazed at the ceiling, calculating. ‘About seven, no, eight months ago, it must be.

  ‘And did you see much of him?’

  She met her eyes. ‘Here, yes. Of course. We were on the same team.’

  ‘As colleagues?’

  ‘Of course. As colleagues.’ The voice was firm.

  ‘And in any other sense?’ Berenice’s voice, too, was firm.

  ‘I consider that intrusive, but I shall answer it anyway. You have to understand, Mrs. – ’ she stopped, thwarted in her perfect manners.

  ‘Detective Inspector.’ Mary’s voice was sharp. ‘Not Mrs.’

  ‘You have to understand – ’ Elizabeth spoke as if Mary wasn’t there. ‘It was a meeting of minds. A perfect love affair. At the time, maybe, I didn’t see how perfect. It was only afterwards… Later, when I met my husband, I thought I could just slough it off, like an animal changes their skin, just start again. But it wasn’t like that. Oh no,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t like that at all.’

  The composure had returned.

  A meeting of minds, Berenice thought. Two scientists as one, in the pursuit of knowledge. She looked at the well-fitted cashmere sweater and wondered whether Elizabeth was entirely right about that one. From what I know of men, Berenice thought, it wouldn’t be her mind that kept him coming back. But then, she thought, maybe it’s me who’s wrong, what do I know of physicists, clever men like that, not stupid, stupid, moronic bastard journalists – She realized Elizabeth was speaking again.

  ‘… and that drooping, self-pitying wife of his, keeping him for herself, she knew he’d had a chance of happiness and she made sure he turned away from it, made sure he tiptoed back into his grey, love-less existence.’

  Ah yes, Berenice thought, the wife. I must have thought that too, told myself that I was all he wanted, I was the only one who could make him happy, until I found out that not only was she keeping him financially but they had a fab sex-life too –

  ‘They’d fallen out of love long before he met me,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s not as if I stole him from her.’

  My words exactly, Berenice thought. Word for word. I used to say exactly that -

  ‘Did you say something?’ Elizabeth was looking at her, and Mary shot her a glance.

  ‘No. Nothing. Do go on. What I want to know is, the timescale.’ Berenice adjusted her voice to business-like. ‘When was this affair? When did he go back to his wife? When did you leave?’

  ‘Your assistant here has all the dates.’ Elizabeth waved vaguely towards Mary.

  ‘Detective Constable.’ Berenice’s voice was sharp. ‘Not Assistant.’ She caught a twitch of a smile on Mary’s face. ‘Tell me – ’ Berenice leaned forward. ‘Would you say there was any bad feeling in the lab? Between the Professor, say, and Dr. Maguire?’

  There was a moment of hesitation, then Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re a team. Differences, maybe, but nothing that would lead to… to this.’

  There was more, sitting in that stuffy room as the afternoon wore on and the rain eased. Mary’s pen scratched away, taking notes, yes, Elizabeth supposed, the hate mail might be significant. And yes, she conceded, the Professor was more of a manager than a scientist. Was it a mistake to sack Tobias? Certainly it was, and as for you charging him, I will not hear a word against that poor boy, I can’t believe you’re even thinking of it, so what if he was spotted on those camera things? He likes Hank’s Tower, it’s a known fact about him, he does what he calls his experiments up there, completely harmless… Someone else, someone with a grudge against both men? It’s possible, yes, like you say, we’ve had these threats. Do I feel that I’m in danger? At this, she’d shrugged. ‘Not any more than usual,’ she’d said, and Mary had written it down.

  At the end of the interview, Elizabeth turned her pale face to Berenice. ‘There will be a funeral, won’t there? You don’t keep them in fridges forever, do you?’

  ‘We try not to,’ Berenice said, gently.

  ‘I’d like to… at least, if I couldn’t be there when he…’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Berenice got to her feet, and Elizabeth followed.

  At the main entrance, Elizabeth turned to her. ‘If Murdo was in danger, he’d have told me. You have to know that, Detective Inspector. If anything was going on in his life, I’d have known.’ Her eyes welled with tears. She stood in the doorway, newly vulnerable.

  Berenice offered her hand. ‘Thanks for coming in, Dr. Merletti,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it’s difficult.’

  ‘I want to help,’ she said, wearily, returning the handshake. ‘Anything you want to know, just ask.’

  Berenice watched her go, clicking her way along the rainy, light-splashed pavement.

  Funerals, she thought, turning back inside the building. I hadn’t reckoned on that. If he dies, will I be there, lurking in the crowd, hiding from his wife?

  Yet another hold he has over me. Bastard.

  ‘Penny for them?’ Mary was waiting in the corridor.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that,’ Berenice said.

  ‘Him again?’ Mary nodded sympathetically. ‘Time’s a great healer, you know.’

  Chad bent his head against the rain, which was falling with renewed zeal.

  …of Water does each Thing have its Beginning… What was it that Van Mielen h
ad said, about water as Prime Matter? The Abyss, where Behemoth lives…

  He rounded the corner into St. Mary’s Street. The church spire at the end of the road loomed darkly, blurred by rain. There’ll be about four people there, he thought. Six if I’m lucky, if Mrs. Benfield comes with her sister. Mind you, they’ll be exchanging glances if there’s anything too fancy about the readings. They like their religion plain round here.

  The gravel of the church drive crunched under his feet. The rhododendron bushes shuddered with rain.

  Like my father, he thought. He liked a no-nonsense God, a sensible kind of chap who rewarded the good as long as they didn’t get above themselves and sent his Son to keep an eye on things.

  He remembered the chapel he’d go to as a boy, its blank walls, narrow pews, outsized and angular pulpit that seemed to be preparing to lecture its audience before the minister even stepped up to it.

  I am no longer like my father, he thought. My faith is coloured red and gold, draped with altar cloths and incense, candles and flowers. My God is unknowable, his Son is Love incarnate. There is nothing no-nonsense about a faith that turns wine to blood.

  He unlocked the church door, pushed at the heavy iron handle, walked through the darkness, switched on the lights. He found himself standing beneath the painting on the north aisle.

  It was a modern painting of the crucifixion; the cross painted as a tree, in almost photographic detail, the bloodstained male form, the nails through the hands and feet.

  He thought about the Green Man of Van Mielen’s book, the first Adam and the last, the tree of life and the tree of knowledge.

  And now, he thought, there’s a new, Godless creation story, where the universe explodes into life, a story of fiery collidings told in mathematical equations. The beginning of matter itself.