by P. D. James
“We’ll take this book back to Campden Hill Square if you’ve finished with it, Mrs. Minns.”
“Please yourself. I wasn’t thinking of pinchin’ it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Massingham asked:
“What else happened after he’d said you could borrow the book?”
“He asked me how long I’d been working at Campden Hill Square. I said nine years. Then he said, ‘Have they been good years for you?’ I said, as good for me as they have for most.”
Massingham smiled. He said:
“I don’t think that’s what he meant.”
“I know what he meant all right. But what did he expect me to say? I do the work, they pay me; four pounds an hour, which is above the going rate, and a taxi home if I’m there after dark. I wouldn’t stay if the job didn’t suit. But what do they expect for their money? Love? If he’d wanted me to say that I’d spent the best years of my life at Campden Hill Square, then he was disappointed. Mind you, it was different when the first Lady Berowne was alive.”
“How do you mean, different?”
“Just different. The house seemed more alive then. I liked the first Lady Berowne. She was a very pleasant lady. Not that she lasted long, poor soul.”
Kate asked:
“Why did you continue to work at number sixty-two, Mrs. Minns?”
Mrs. Minns turned on her her bright little eyes and said simply:
“I like polishing furniture.”
Kate guessed that Massingham was tempted to ask what she thought of the second Lady Berowne, but he decided to keep to his main line of questioning.
“And what then?” he asked.
“He went out, didn’t he?”
“Out of the house?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you be sure?”
“Look, he had his jacket on, he picked up that hold-all he had, he went through the hall and I heard the front door open and shut. If it wasn’t him going out, then who was it?”
“But you didn’t actually see him go?”
“I never followed him to the door to kiss him good-bye, if that’s what you mean. I have my work to do. But that’s the last time I saw him in this world, and I’ve no expectations of seeing him in the next, that’s for sure.”
Perhaps prudently Massingham did not pursue this thought. He said:
“And you’re certain that he put the diary back in the drawer?”
“He didn’t take it with him. Look, what is it about the diary? Are you saying I stole it or something?”
Kate broke in:
“It isn’t in the drawer now, Mrs. Minns. Of course, we don’t suspect anyone of taking it. It hasn’t any value. But it does seem to be missing, and it could be important. You see, if he did make an appointment for the next day, then it wouldn’t be very likely that he set out from home meaning to kill himself.”
Mrs. Minns, mollified, said:
“Well, he didn’t take it with him. I saw him put it back with my own eyes. And if he did come back for it later, it wasn’t while I was in the house.”
Massingham asked:
“That’s possible, of course. When did you leave?”
“Five o’clock. My usual time. I wash up the lunch things and I have my special afternoon job. Some days it might be the silver, some days the linen cupboard. On Tuesday it was dusting the books in the library. I was there from half past two until four, when I went to help Miss Matlock with the tea. He certainly didn’t come back then. I’d have heard anyone if they’d come through the hall.”
Suddenly Kate asked:
“Would you say it was a happy marriage, Mrs. Minns?”
“Hardly ever saw them together to tell. When I did, they seemed all right. They never shared a bedroom, though.”
Massingham said:
“That’s not so very unusual.”
“Maybe. But there’s not sharing and not sharing, if you get my meaning. I make the beds, you see. That may be your idea of a marriage, but it’s not mine.”
Massingham said:
“Hardly the way to produce the next baronet.”
“Well, I did wonder about that a few weeks ago. Off her breakfast she was and that isn’t like her. But not much chance, I reckon. Too worried about her figure. Mind you, she’s not bad when she’s in a good mood. Too gushing though. ‘Oh Mrs. Minns, be a darling and fetch my dressing gown.’ ‘Mrs. Minns, be an angel and run a bath for me.’ ‘Be a dear and make a cup of tea.’ Sweet as sugar, as long as she gets her own way. Well, she more or less has to be. Same with Lady Ursula. She doesn’t much care for Miss Matlock helping her to bath and dress. I can see that even if Matlock can’t. But there it is. If you get used to having your bath run and your breakfast in bed and your clothes hung up, you have to put up with some inconvenience in return. Different when Lady Ursula was a girl, of course. Servants were seen and not heard then. Pressed back against the wall when the gentry go by in case they have to look at you. Hand the post with a glove so as not to contaminate it. Think yourself lucky to have a good place. My gran was in service; I know.”
Massingham said:
“There were no quarrels, then, as far as you know?”
“It would have been better, maybe, if there had been. He was too polite, formal you could say. Now, that’s not natural in a marriage. No, there were no quarrels, not till Tuesday morning anyway. And then you could hardly call it a quarrel. Takes two to quarrel. She was screeching fit to reach the whole house, but I didn’t hear much from him.”
“When was this, Mrs. Minns?”
“When I took up her breakfast tray at half past eight. I do that every morning. Sir Paul used to take up Lady Ursula’s. She only has orange juice, two slices of wholemeal bread, toasted, marmalade and coffee, but Lady Berowne has the whole hog. Orange juice, cereal, scrambled egg, toast, the lot. Never puts on an ounce, though.”
“Tell me about the quarrel, Mrs. Minns. What did you hear?”
“I got to the bedroom door when I heard her screeching: ‘You’re going to that whore. You can’t, not now. We need you, we both need you. I won’t let you go.’ Something like that. And then I could hear his voice, very low. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I stood outside the door and wondered what to do. I put the tray down on the table by the door. I usually do that while I knock. But it didn’t seem right to go barging in. On the other hand, I couldn’t stand there like a daft thing. Then the door opened and he came out. White as paper he was. He saw me and said: ‘I’ll take the tray, Mrs. Minns.’ So I gave it to him. The way he looked, it was a wonder he didn’t drop it there and then.”
Massingham said:
“But he took it into the bedroom?”
“That’s right, and shut the door. And I went back to the kitchen.”
Massingham changed the direction of his questions. He asked:
“Did anyone else enter the library that Tuesday as far as you know?”
“That Mr. Musgrave from the constituency did. He waited from about half past twelve to nearly two o’clock, hoping Sir Paul would be back for lunch. Then he gave up and went away. Miss Sarah was there about four o’clock. She’d come to see her grandmother. I told her Lady Ursula wasn’t expected back to tea, but she said she’d wait. Then she got fed up too, seemingly. Must have let herself out. I didn’t see the going of her.”
Massingham went on to ask her about Diana Travers. Kate sensed that he had less faith than had she in AD’s belief that the deaths of both girls were somehow connected with Paul Berowne’s murder, but he dutifully did what was expected of him. The result proved a great deal more interesting than either of them had thought possible. Mrs. Minns said:
“I was there when Diana arrived. We’d just lost Maria. She was Spanish, her husband worked as a cook in Soho, then she got pregnant with her third and the doctor said to cut down on her outside jobs. She was a good worker, was Maria. Those Spanish girls know how to house clean, I’ll say that for them. Anyway, Miss Matlock pu
t a card in the newsagent’s window at the end of Ladbroke Grove and Diana turned up. The card couldn’t have been there more than an hour. A bit of luck, really, I never thought she’d get any answers. Good cleaning ladies don’t have to look in newsagents for jobs these days.”
“And was she a good cleaner?”
“Never done it in her life before, you could see that. But she was willing enough. Of course, Miss Matlock never let her touch the best china or polish in the drawing room. She took over the bathrooms, bedrooms, prepared vegetables, did a bit of shopping. She was all right.”
“A strange job for her to choose, though, a girl like that.”
Mrs. Minns understood what he meant.
“Oh, she was educated all right, you could see that. Well, it wasn’t badly paid, four pounds an hour, a good midday meal if you’re there for it and no tax unless you’re daft enough to pay it. She said she was an actress looking for work and wanted a job she could chuck at once if something turned up. What’s so interesting about Diana Travers anyway?”
Massingham ignored the question. He said:
“Did you and she get on well together?”
“No reason why we shouldn’t. I told you, she was all right. A bit nosey. Found her one day looking in the drawer of Sir Paul’s desk. Didn’t hear me till I was on top of her. Bold as brass about it. Just laughed. Asked a lot about the family, too. She didn’t get much out of me, nor from Miss Matlock either. No harm in her though, just a bit too keen on chat. I liked her all right. If I hadn’t I wouldn’t have let her come here.”
“You mean she lived here? We weren’t told that at Campden Hill Square.”
“Well, they didn’t know, did they? No reason why they should. She was buying herself a flat in Ridgemount Gardens and there was a hold-up. The owners weren’t ready to move into their new place. You know how it is. Anyway, she had to leave her old place and find somewhere for a month. Well, I’ve got the two bedrooms, so I told her she could move in here. Twenty-five pounds a week including a good breakfast. Not bad. I don’t know that Mr. Smith was all that keen, but he was due to be off roamin’ anyway.”
And there were the two bedrooms, thought Kate. Mrs. Minns’s black eyes stared at Massingham, defying him to enquire about the usual sleeping arrangements. And then she said:
“My gran said every woman should marry once, she owes it to herself. But no point in making a habit of it.”
Kate said:
“A flat in Ridgemount Gardens? Isn’t that a bit up-market for an out-of-work actress?”
“That’s what I thought, but she said Daddy was helping. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was Daddy, maybe someone else. Anyway, he was in Australia, or so she told me. No business of mine.”
Massingham said:
“So she moved in here. When did she leave?”
“Just ten days before she was drowned, poor kid. And you’re not telling me there was anything suspicious about that death. I was at the inquest. Natural interest, you might say. Never a mention of where she worked though, was there? You’d have thought they might have sent a wreath to the funeral. Didn’t want to know, did they?”
Massingham asked:
“What did she do with herself while she was living here with you?”
“I hardly saw her. No business of mine, was it? Two mornings a week she worked at Campden Hill Square. The rest of the time she said she was off for auditions. She went out a good bit at night, but she never brought anyone here. She was no trouble, neat and tidy always. Well, I wouldn’t have had her here if I hadn’t known that. Then, the evening after she drowned, before the inquest even, she hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours, these two chaps turn up.”
“Here?”
“That’s right. Just when I got back from Campden Hill Square. Sitting in their car watching out for me, if you ask me. Said they were from her solicitors, come to collect any of her things she might have left here.”
“Did they show you any identity, any authority?”
“A letter from the firm. Posh writing paper. And they had a card, so I let them in. I stayed by the door and watched them, mind you. They didn’t like it, but I wanted to see what they were up to. ‘There’s nothing here,’ I told them. ‘Look for yourselves. She left nearly a fortnight ago.’ They properly turned the place over, even turned the mattress up. Found nothing, of course. Funny business, I thought, but nothing came of it, so I let it go. No point in making trouble.”
“Who do you think they were?”
Mrs. Minns gave a sudden shout of laughter.
“You tell me! Come off it! They were two of you lot. Fuzz. Think I don’t know a policeman when I see one?”
Even in the room’s dim arboreal light Kate saw the faint flush of excitement on Massingham’s face. But he was too experienced to press further. Instead he asked a few harmless questions about the domestic arrangements at Campden Hill Square and prepared to bring the interview to a close. But Mrs. Minns had her own ideas. Kate sensed that she had something private to communicate. Getting up, she said:
“D’you mind if I use your lavatory, Mrs. Minns?”
She doubted whether Massingham was deceived, but he could hardly follow them. Waiting for her when she came out of the bathroom, Mrs. Minns almost hissed:
“You saw the date in that book?”
“Yes, Mrs. Minns. The day Diana Travers was drowned.”
The sharp little eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“I thought as how you’d noticed. He didn’t though, did he?”
“I expect so. He just didn’t mention it.”
“He never noticed. I know his sort. Too sharp for their own good and then miss what’s under their noses.”
“When did you first see the book, Mrs. Minns?”
“The next day, August eighth. In the afternoon it was, after he came home from the constituency. Must have brought it with him.”
“So she may have given it to him then.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Interesting though, isn’t it? I thought as how you’d noticed. Keep it to yourself, that’s my advice. He thinks too much of himself, that Massingham fellow.”
They had turned out of Portobello Road and were walking down Lad-broke Grove before Massingham spoke, then he laughed.
“My God, that room! I pity the mysterious Mr. Smith, If I had to live there and with her, I’d go roaming.”
Kate flared:
“What’s wrong with it or with her? At least it’s got character, not like the bloody building designed by some bureaucrat with a brief to fit in so many living units with the least possible public expenditure. Just because you’ve never had to live in one doesn’t mean that the people who do like it.” She added with fierce defensiveness: “Sir.”
He laughed again. She was always punctilious about acknowledging his rank when she was angry.
“All right, all right, I admit the character. They’ve both got character, she and her room. And what’s so wrong with the block? I thought it was rather decent. If the council offered me a flat there, I’d take it quickly enough.”
And he would, she thought. He was probably less concerned about the externals of his life, where he ate, where he lived, even what he wore, than she was herself. And it was irritating to discover, once more, how easily in his company she was trapped into insincerity. She had never believed that buildings were all that important. It was people, not architects, who made slums. Even Ellison Fairweather House would have been all right if it had been put up in a different place and filled with different people. He went on:
“And she was useful, wasn’t she? If she’s right and he did put the diary back in the drawer, and if we can prove that he didn’t return …”
She broke in:
“That won’t be easy, though. It’ll mean accounting for every minute of his time. And so far we haven’t a clue where he went after he left the estate agent’s. He had a key. He could have let himself in and been out again in a minute.”
“Yes
, but the probability is that he didn’t. After all, he went out with his bag, he obviously intended to stay out all day and go straight to the church. And if Lady Ursula did consult the diary before six o’clock when General Nollinge rang, then we know who has to be our chief suspect, don’t we? Dominic Swayne.”
None of it needed saying. She had seen the importance of the diary as soon as he had. She said:
“Who do you think those men were, the ones who did the search? Special Branch?”
“That’s my guess. Either she worked for them and they planted her in Campden Hill Square, or she worked for someone or something a great deal more sinister and they rumbled her. Of course, they could have been who they said they were, men from a solicitor’s firm looking for papers, a will.”
“Under the mattress? It was a pretty professional search.”
If it was Special Branch, she thought, there was going to be trouble. She said:
“They did tell us about Berowne’s mistress.”
“Knowing that we’d have discovered that for ourselves quickly enough. That’s typical of Special Branch. Their idea of cooperation is like a Minister answering a question in the House; keep it short, keep it accurate, make sure you don’t tell them anything they don’t know already. God, if she was tied up with Special Branch, there’s going to be trouble.”
She said:
“Between Miles Gilmartin and AD?”
“Between everyone.”
They walked in silence for a moment, then he said:
“Why did you bring away that novel?”
She was for a moment tempted to prevaricate. She knew that when the significance of the date had first struck her she had planned to keep quiet about it, to do a little private detection, trace the writer, see if there was anything in it. Then prudence had prevailed. If it proved important, AD would have to know and she could imagine what his response would be to that particular kind of personal initiative. It was hypocritical to complain about the lack of interdepartmental cooperation while trying to run her own show within the squad. She said:
“The signature is dated seventh August, the day Diana Travers died.”
“So what? She signed and posted it on the seventh.”
