‘A flunky who goes too far and, trying to imitate a raptor attack, kills Elizabeth George.’
‘Right. Case closed.’
‘Without a scintilla of evidence.’
‘Right. But we’ll find some.’
‘And have you forgotten that Paul Hartford is now beyond the reach of human justice?’
‘No. He’s being dealt with. I trust as he deserves. No, but whoever actually set Silas’s birds loose, whoever actually killed those chickens, whoever killed Elizabeth – that person, or probably those people, are at large. They must be found and dealt with as they deserve. Here on earth.’
‘Red light, love!’
I had been too caught up in my own rhetoric to notice, but thanks to Alan I stopped in time.
‘And where,’ he said quietly when we were under way again, ‘where in this scenario of yours do you fit the murder of Paul Hartford?’
We talked about that all the way home, tossing ideas back and forth and coming to no conclusions whatever.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some tea and/or a nap. I didn’t have a lot of whisky, but it was too much for that time of day. And Silas’s story was exhausting.’
‘Indeed. But for me, it will have to be tea. Or coffee. No nap. I need to see John as soon as possible. He can get to work, or get his colleagues to work, on finding proof of what we think happened in Paul’s early life – even though it sheds no light on the ending of it.’
‘I think it does, though. Or it might. Why don’t you just call John? Then you could relax a little.’
‘I don’t want to talk about Silas’s story on the phone, Dorothy. You know a mobile is roughly as private as Trafalgar Square, and we promised not to spread it about.’
‘Oh, right. Well, this time you’re on your own. I’m having some tea and some down time. Are you okay to drive?’
‘I will be once I’ve had some good strong coffee.’
I thought of the line about coffee not sobering anyone up, but just producing a wide-awake drunk, but decided not to mention it. Alan was far from drunk, only a bit muzzy, and coffee probably would erase the effects of the Scotch.
I had my tea and settled down for a lovely nap, wishing I had some comforting animals to share it with me. I missed them so much. When I wake up, I thought, I’m going to call Jane and see how they’re doing. And then I remembered that it was past bedtime in England. Well, morning will do. And that was my last conscious thought.
I slept for only an hour, but it was enough. I woke full of bright ideas, eager to tell Alan, who came home just as I was tidying my hair.
‘Alan!’
‘Dorothy!’
We spoke at the same moment, each sounding excited, and laughed. ‘You first,’ we both said.
‘Ladies first,’ said Alan, though he was obviously bursting with news.
‘Oh, you probably have something more exciting than I do. It’s just, we never asked Silas if he saw anything, the day Elizabeth died. It did happen not far from his place, and he does go out with his birds almost every day. What if he saw something, but didn’t think it was important? Or more likely, decided to keep his mouth shut just because he hates getting involved in anything outside his narrow little world. I think it’s important, Alan.’
‘And so do I, and we will certainly ask him. We, I think, certainly not the police, not even John. He trusts us. But I have some good news.’
‘Tell!’
‘The lab rushed through the blood sample from the knife. It’s unquestionably Harold’s. It was also certainly not used to kill Elizabeth George, although it fits the wounds perfectly. They gave the knife a very thorough going-over. There was no other blood anywhere, and no traces – sweat, skin fragments – of anyone else ever handling it. Harold’s fingerprints were all over it. It’s his knife. He made it himself, or at least made and fitted the handle, and it’s never been out of his hands until we carried it off. And as he has a very complete alibi for the presumed time of the murder – oh, yes, they checked that out as well – he’s unmistakably in the clear. Now the police are looking for where the killer might have obtained a knife with a virtually identical blade, for something like it was certainly used on the poor girl. Well-chosen to imitate a raptor’s talons, but not quite close enough.’
‘That is good news for Harold! Has anyone told him yet?’
‘John was headed up there to return the knife, with apologies.’
‘And then someone has to tell Teresa.’
‘You’re not thinking, Dorothy. Teresa doesn’t know Harold was under suspicion. She doesn’t need to know. She’s feeling a little more secure in her world now, knowing she has a family, at least by adoption, who will back her up. I’m going to call Mary this evening to see how Teresa’s getting along, but I think we should give her her privacy for the time being. Don’t forget she’s in mourning, not only for Elizabeth, but for Paul.’
‘And that makes me absolutely furious! A nice girl like that, grieving for that, that … I don’t usually use the words that describe him best.’
‘I sometimes do. Bastard, I think, is a fairly mild descriptor. But Teresa only knew the charming side. Let her hold onto her illusions a while longer. It will all come out eventually, but it will be piecemeal, easier for her to assimilate. Let her be.’
I sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. She’s so fragile right now – best not to rock the boat.’
‘I learned something else from John, too. The coroner is quite sure that Hartford was killed not long before he was found – but not where he was found. There wasn’t enough blood. His clothes soaked up some of it, of course, but he would have bled copiously.’
‘It was the stab wound that killed him, then? Not the blow to the head?’
‘The blow to the head, it turns out, was minor. Perhaps enough to stun him, but not enough to render him unconscious. The knife, on the other hand, or whatever was used, hit the aorta. Death occurred in a matter of seconds.’
‘The aorta! Then his murderer must have been covered in blood.’
‘Not necessarily, not if he or she was standing behind Hartford. The man’s own body would have shielded his attacker to a considerable extent.’
‘Wouldn’t that be awfully awkward, though – to stand behind a man and stab him in the chest?’
‘It would depend on the circumstances. Let’s say his attacker hit him on the head from behind, and then he fell backward, into his attacker’s arms, so to speak. Then it would be easy for the attacker to thrust a knife into his chest, below the ribs, just in the right place to slit the descending aorta. And before you say you thought the aorta was right next to the heart, I thought so too, until early in my career. An ME in Penzance explained to me that the aorta originates at the heart and then branches into several directions, one going straight down to, and through, the diaphragm into the abdomen.’
I shuddered. ‘So any knife thrust just there would … what a horrible picture. At least he died quickly. But – God forgive me – I’m not sure he deserved that merciful an ending.’ Alan just looked at me, and I was ashamed. ‘I know, I know – judge not, etc. Anyway, so have they figured out where he was killed? I’d have thought there’d be marks from dragging the body and that sort of thing.’
‘That’s one of the odd things. There are no such marks. They’re inclined to suspect that it was done in the kitchen itself, not far away at all. For one thing, it bears all the earmarks of an unpremeditated crime, and they think the weapon was a thin kitchen knife, a boning knife or something of that sort.’
I nodded. ‘They’re very sharp and would certainly make a formidable weapon.’
‘Yes. But while the use of that sort of knife makes the kitchen seem a likely place, offset that against all the activity that was going on there that night. Food being prepared, waiters in and out – what?’
I had held up my hand. ‘Food was not being prepared, not in the sense I think you mean. No one was actually cooking. The food had a
lready been prepared in the caterer’s kitchen. It had to be removed from boxes and placed on platters. The food that was to be served hot had to go in the oven or on the stove for a little while. But while all that meant a lot of activity, it was mobile activity. Almost no one would have stayed in one place in the kitchen for more than a minute or two at a stretch. And when you’re on the move and in a hurry, intent on your job, you’re not going to be very observant.’
‘You’re right, of course. Still, a violent murder is unusual enough to be noticed, even when busy, wouldn’t you think?’
‘Sarcasm is the tool of the devil! Tell me, what is this kitchen like? Big, small, well laid-out, well equipped, what?’
Some men would have been hard-put to answer such a question, but Alan knew his way around a kitchen. His first wife died a good many years before he and I met, and he had grown accustomed to cooking for himself, and quite enjoyed it. He considered.
‘Quite big, somewhat bigger than I would have expected, and very well equipped. I didn’t notice all the details, but there were at least two six-burner stoves, two large commercial stainless-steel fridges, two large upright freezers, cabinets stocked with tableware, two large stainless steel islands – you get the picture.’
‘What about supplies? A spice cupboard, that sort of thing?’
‘Perhaps. I didn’t notice any of that. As you so rightly observed, no actual cooking was going on.’
‘Right. So you didn’t happen to see the pantry.’
Alan looked puzzled. ‘A butler’s pantry, do you mean?’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake! Here we go again, two countries divided by a common language. The – what is it in Brit-speak? – the larder. Is that right? Where they keep the staples, flour and sugar and dry beans and rice – all that.’
His brow cleared. ‘Yes, larder. No, I didn’t notice one. There was probably a door somewhere, but I confess I wasn’t thinking about dry beans.’
‘Sarcasm again. My point is this: there’s a larder. There has to be. A commercial kitchen could not function without one. Now without knowing the layout of the kitchen, I’m speculating entirely in the dark. But if the larder is near an entrance to the kitchen – and it would almost have to be, for big bags of flour and so on to be brought in – and if it is near a knife rack, it would be relatively easy to stab someone in there without attracting attention, and to move the body out when no one was paying close attention. Add a folded tablecloth, perhaps from one of the drawers in the kitchen, and you could easily drag the body over a smooth surface, such as the tiles or linoleum I assume floors the area. Then you close the pantry – sorry, the larder – door again, and you have all the time you need to wipe away bloodstains.
‘So the point is, has anyone searched the larder?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that. But John will know.’ He picked up his phone. ‘But love, you know there are a good many holes in your proposed account. Yes, given … oh, hello, John. Dorothy has some questions for you. Do you have a moment?’ He put the call on speaker and handed me the phone.
‘John, I have a lot of questions, and some of them are pretty involved. I’d like to get together when you have a little time. Yes, I know that may not be for a while, but as soon as you can. For now, though, I have only two. First, is there a pantry – larder – stores cupboard – whatever you call it in Canada – off the kitchen in the event centre? And second, if there is, has it been searched carefully for bloodstains or anything else interesting? Yes, I’ll wait for a call back.’ I clicked off. ‘He doesn’t know, but he’ll find out. Alan, do you think they’d let us in if we went over there to take a look for ourselves?’
‘At the crime scene? I would say, not a chance. There have been quite enough people contaminating that scene without adding our footprints and DNA.’
‘Well – what about just taking a look at the kitchen? I really want to see the layout. I know you’re a good cook, Alan, but you haven’t spent most of your life in a kitchen. And I’ll bet most of the cops swarming over the place haven’t either. I might see something odd that they’d miss.’
‘I don’t think they’ll buy it, but when John calls back you can make your request.’
John sounded very tired when he called back. ‘Yes, there is a pantry, and no, they hadn’t searched it, as it is always kept locked when an outside caterer is using the kitchen. At your suggestion they will search it now, though they don’t see the point. Nor do I, I confess. And I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to meet with you until tomorrow at the latest. Things are very … difficult just now. I must go.’
‘This is getting to him, Alan. You heard.’ I’d put the call on speaker phone.
‘Yes. And to me, I admit. I know you had a nap, but I didn’t, and I’m worn out. We’re neither of us as young as we like to think we are. I’ll call Mary to check on Teresa, and then, my dear, suppose we have an early night, and by tomorrow perhaps things will seem brighter.’
I doubted that.
TWENTY-FOUR
Alan brought me coffee and news in the morning.
‘Well, my dear, you are vindicated.’
‘Mmm?’ I couldn’t even think what the word meant.
‘John phoned me just now. They went over the larder and found a few traces of what could certainly be blood. They’re waiting for lab results now, and questioning the staff all over again about that locked door.’
‘Good.’
Alan smiled and went away to fix breakfast. He hadn’t expected wild delight, not first thing in the morning.
I finished my coffee, showered and dressed, and came to the kitchen wide awake.
‘Alan, did I dream it, or did you tell me they found bloodstains in the pantry?’
‘I did. By the way, it’s a “pantry” here as well. Frightful, what’s happening to the Queen’s English. Do you want bacon, or just eggs and toast?’
‘Just toast, please, love. And more coffee. Did you ask John if I could go and take a look?’
‘I did. I doubt he’d have even asked those in charge if you hadn’t been right about the larder – pantry. Even so, he said they weren’t happy about it. You may go and stand at the door and look – under supervision.’
‘That’s all I need. I just want to work out escape routes.’
‘My dear, you were wasted as a schoolteacher. You should have been a writer of shilling shockers. Escape routes, indeed.’ He poured more coffee for both of us and put down a plate of hot buttered toast. (I’ve persuaded him to make it that way for me. He still prefers his English-style, crisp and dry and cold.)
‘I was asleep last night by the time you came to bed. I trust Mary’s report on Teresa was good?’
‘Fair. The poor child is still very unhappy, but is coping. She’s going to start a cyber-search today for another job.’
I snorted. ‘Cyber-search indeed. In my day we checked out the classifieds in the newspaper.’
‘Autres temps, autres mœurs. Trust me, love, the Internet is the way it’s done nowadays.’
‘There are times when I feel very old.’
It was still quite early when we got to the event centre, but the place was buzzing with activity. I had expected to see only the police. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s a public venue, love. John told me there’s a big wedding this evening. The caterers aren’t allowed in the kitchen yet, to their loudly-voiced dismay, but they’re setting up the tables. The police have promised them the kitchen at the first moment possible. You’ll need to take your peek quickly. And perhaps we’d best go in the back. You’re not going to be very popular if you can go to the kitchen and they can’t.’
‘Right. The back works best for me anyway.’
We had to show our IDs to get in. The harassed constable at the door raised eyebrows at our English passports, but John stepped up just then.
‘It’s all right, Sam. They’re English detectives, here at my request.’
That was certainly stretching a point, in m
y case at least, but it got us in.
John led us from the back door to the back kitchen entrance. ‘You can look in any of the kitchen doors, so as to see the whole layout from different angles. Please don’t get in anyone’s way – they’re frantic, trying to wrap up before the wedding caterers have to start working.’
‘Hmm. Then after the caterers do start swarming over the place, presumably we could too.’
‘So far as the police are concerned, yes,’ said John, sighing. ‘But I wouldn’t advise it, Dorothy. The caterer, the one in charge, I mean, is already furious to the point of apoplexy about being kept waiting. I wouldn’t want to upset him further.’
‘I won’t. I just want to stand on the side-lines and watch. Meanwhile, I’ll peek in the doors.’
There were four of them. The one nearest us opened into the back hallway, more of a vestibule, really. Then there were the doors into the main room, where the events actually took place. These were the traditional swinging doors ‘in’ and ‘out’, for the convenience of waiters carrying trays. That counted as one entrance. Then there was what might be termed a side door, from the kitchen to the main front-to-back corridor. That led to the small ‘backstage’ area and on into the main room, and, almost as an afterthought, to that awkward little passage to the storage room, the place where the body had been found. Finally there was the one I couldn’t examine right now, an overhead garage-type door leading directly from the pantry to the loading platform outside, for the convenience of trucks making food deliveries. It wasn’t so convenient for caterers bringing in things like tables and chairs and boxes of china and crystal; to get to the main room they would have to go through the kitchen or, with the kitchen forbidden to them for now, in through either the back door and the passage to the backstage, or the big front entrance.
Death in the Garden City Page 19
