Enter Pale Death (12 page)

“It was a double-handed effort,” Hunnyton explained. “If you look at the signatures you’ll see that of the local doctor, Thoroughgood, who attended at the scene, and also the name of the pathologist, Mr. Frobisher, here in the hospital in Cambridge where the body was brought for further inspection—at the insistence of Thoroughgood himself. He stayed to witness the procedure and helped draw up the statement, which they both signed.”

“Unusual? The doc could, in a clear case of misadventure which this was, have just dealt with it and got a colleague to provide the second signature on the certificate. No fuss. No one would have questioned it.”

“Obviously the good doctor had a question in his own mind to make him go to this trouble. It
is
a trouble. Transporting bodies about the place, hospital involvement and all that, it’s time-consuming and appears fussy. Truelove himself might well have been a bit miffed.”

“He was. At the first suggestion. He quickly changed his attitude to one of resigned acceptance, I hear. Look, Sandilands, you can make your own enquiries, get your own answers. I just pass on to you as impartially as I can what was said to me.”

“Understood. In that case,” Joe said, riffling through the sheets, “have you an explanation for this? Which page was it now?
Ah, here we are … I’m wondering why, when the victim has succumbed to the most appalling and evident wounds, the doctor advised the surgeon—‘at the request of Dr. Thoroughgood’ —to investigate the lady’s internal organs. Heart, liver, blood tests done—just as you’d expect in a case of suspicious death. He further states that the victim was not pregnant. I’d say this is a matter the local doctor wished to have clarified.”

“The old feller had a suspicion that she
was
pregnant?” Hunnyton suggested.

Joe’s voice conveyed a grim satisfaction. “Nothing like a suspicion of pregnancy to stir up trouble with the various males in a woman’s entourage, we find in the Smoke, and I expect it’s much the same in deepest Suffolk.”

“Worse,” was the unadorned admission, and Joe could have kicked himself for his ineptitude. Hunnyton’s shake of the head and his knowing grin forgave him and dismissed the idea that Joe should be ever on the alert for potentially offensive remarks.

Joe grinned back, reassured, and poured out more whisky. He was beginning to think Hunnyton was a good bloke to be in harness with. He just hoped together they could plough a straight furrow and avoid careering off into the ditch. “Right. Let’s read through the whole lot again and share insights, shall we?”

H
E WOKE AT
three in the morning to the sound of a cracked college bell sounding the hour and stayed awake long enough to allow into the conscious front of his mind the thought that he’d shoved to the back when he’d gone to bed well after midnight. How much information of a personal nature had he divulged to this stranger with the receptive gaze and the disarming country growl? In a moment of clarity he remembered he’d bared his soul regarding his feelings for Dorcas, he’d even revealed that Sir James had admitted only days before his wife had died to having intentions below and beyond intellectual support for the wretched girl.

Joe remembered her words to him one April afternoon: “He wants to take things further and I’m considering it.” Delivered with a cool insouciance. Joe had been too devastated to demand to know what precisely was implied by “things” and “further.” Any attempt to spell out to her the habits of men like Truelove would have been greeted with a sophisticated sneer. Dorcas was no ingénue.

But the next week Lavinia Truelove had died and Joe had been left with those tormenting words creeping into his mind, where they’d lodged and festered. He recalled them at the most inopportune moments. Lord! Surely he hadn’t been so indiscreet as to confide that? No. Even faced with a professional hypnotist in a Harley Street consulting room, he’d have managed to censor that much. Certainly. But he’d hinted at—no, it was stronger than a hint—Dorcas’s special powers with animals. And the superintendent had listened, nodding his understanding, quietly making connections while Joe had blundered on forging handcuffs for the girl he loved.

Too late some baleful words of—was it John Dryden? Or was it his mother?—sneaked into his mind to trouble him.
He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master
. Perhaps he should get it made up in poker work and offer the sentiment to the landlord of the
Fleeing Footman
?

CHAPTER 8

FRIDAY 23RD JUNE.

Christ! He was right behind her!

This was awkward. Your target was supposed to be in your sights at all times, not breathing down your neck. Lily managed to disguise her start of surprise and fixed a smile on her face. She finished the sentence she’d been addressing to the reception manager at the moment Mr. Fitzwilliam had bounded into the hotel and come to a halt, an impatient presence waiting his turn just behind her right shoulder.

The manager took in the situation at once and made an evaluation. “Mr. Fitzwilliam!” he called out. “Good morning, sir! I’ll be with you directly.” Turning to Lily: “Miss … er … Richmond, I wonder if I might pass you to my assistant, who will be very pleased to handle your registration?”

“Not at all.” Lily shuffled over meekly, leaving space at the counter for the more illustrious client, and Fitzwilliam stepped forward, all bonhomie and effusive thanks. A solitary, middle-aged lady in flowered hat and laced shoes was never going to command the best attention of London hotel staff or the notice of guests and Lily had counted on this when she’d put together her identity for the next two days. It seemed to be working. She greeted the smart young woman who came to attend to her and began to fill in her details for the card from the beginning.

“My name is: Richmond … Vanessa. That’s Miss … and my home address is in Yorkshire.” She dictated it. “Two nights? Yes, that’s right. Single room. I did book in advance. Reason for visit? Pleasure? You’re asking me what am I doing in London?” Lily found an affected deafness always put people off their guard and discouraged them from listening to conversations. A shouting person had nothing to hide and nothing worth hearing, apparently. “I’m not a tourist, my dear! No, no! If you really must make such a personal enquiry you may write down: business. I’m here to work.” She enjoyed the fleeting look of surprise before adding in quiet triumph, “Yes, I’m a working woman! If you can call writing work. Many do not!… Historical novels, dear,” she confided, looking about her to ensure no one was listening in to such a confession. “Romances. I’m here at the
Castlemaine
,” Lily stressed the name, “because of its connections with the flame-haired, turquoise-eyed beauty of that name … Barbara Castlemaine, one of the mistresses of Charles the Second, the one who became Duchess of Cleveland as a reward for services rendered … You hadn’t connected the name?… Oh, the dashing duchess was strong on the wing in this part of London and I’m spending a couple of days following her traces around the Palace of St. James’s … Yes, dear, you certainly could—they keep all my works at Hatchard’s round the corner in Piccadilly … Now, I asked for a single room that is larger than a dog-kennel and for it to be supplied with a desk and plenty of ink. Stephens blue-black … You have? Jolly good.”

While Lily twittered on, she was listening intently to Mr. Fitzwilliam who, like her, had chosen to check in earlier than expected. As they both turned from the desk at the same moment, he smiled and held out a hand. “How do you do, Miss Richmond. Rowley Fitzwilliam, also here on business. Pardon me, I couldn’t help overhearing. I’ve never met a writer of romantic novels before. How delightful! We must—”

“And you’ve never read one either, young man,” Lily said
sharply, looking him up and down. “Though you could well be the subject of such a work. Yes—tall, dark, handsome and doubtless disreputable.”

For a moment Fitzwilliam was taken aback but he rallied to slap his fedora back on his head at a louche angle and narrow his eyes. “That’s just the effect of the gangster hat. All the go at the moment—the slouch—but don’t be deceived! This is not a stickup, madam.”

“I see. I’m pleased to note that St. James’s is still stocked with its share of fashionable—and law-abiding—young gallants. Ah, there goes my luggage … Excuse me—I must away to my broom-cupboard.”

That should have been enough to put him off any further approach, Lily thought. Mad old bat. Harmless but better avoided. Not what she’d been expecting, though, her target. What
had
she expected? Joe had gritted out a warning that he was an exemplary Englishman while hinting darkly that he might well, under this cover, be planning to steal the crown jewels or overturn the government. The smart, jokey chap she’d encountered in the lobby had given out no such dire signals. Lily decided that if she should ever be trapped in the Castlemaine lift she would not be displeased to find Fitzwilliam trapped in there with her. Strangely, he seemed like a man who might well have a handy screwdriver in his back pocket and he’d have the athleticism to climb up and free a cable perhaps. If all else failed he’d keep her entertained. Lily hoped she wouldn’t be called on to shoot him.

Her pre-judgement of the room allocated to her had been equally unjust, she recognised as she settled in. It was spacious enough for a couple and equipped with two single beds. The furnishings and the linen were all of excellent quality and the water came boiling out of the taps in the bathroom next door. She kicked off her laced shoes and removed the heavy spectacles that distorted her vision. Though longing to apply a slather of cold cream to her
makeup, she resisted the urge, planning to make a further foray into the lobby when the rush had abated. She hung up the jacket of her heather-mix Hebe suit and, with relief, took out of her brassière the layer of padding that boosted her lissom 34 inches to 44 inches of imposing bosom. She flopped down onto one of the beds, relishing a moment to spend with the book she’d bought half an hour before. She’d been drawn by the title:
Midsummer Masquerade
. It had seemed appropriate. She’d better read it and find out how this historical novel business was managed. How taxing could it be? Lily was full of confidence. She was able to write and she knew some history after all.

Lily hadn’t counted on anyone but her Aunt Phyl actually being fascinated sufficiently by this stuff to want to initiate a conversation about it. Her cover story was meant to be plausible if questioned but so dull as to deflect interest in the first place. In extremis, she would have to call on her deafness or authorial modesty to wriggle free.

She persevered for ten minutes. Ten tedious minutes of soulful sighs and side-slipping glances, fans and hearts a-flutter and—the last straw: “ ’Pon my soul, Mr. Ponsonby” and the book broke its spine on the wall opposite.

Back to business. Lily went to reception and began to make notes. She’d overheard Fitzwilliam booking a table for four at one o’clock. Lily rang down to the desk and requested a lunch table for herself at 12:30. She would be already in position when his guests arrived and could always linger over coffee if she needed to prolong her surveillance. Joe was going to get his money’s worth. This Fitzwilliam was troubling her boss in a way that was a mystery to her. Not such a mystery to Joe, she had concluded, and wondered what he was deliberately hiding from her.

N
O WONDER AT
all that Special Branch had been bored out of their skins keeping a watchful eye on this bird, Lily
reckoned. His three guests were respectability itself. A Tory grandee with a finger in every financial pie in Westminster, his glum wife and, last to arrive, to make up the numbers, Lily guessed, a lady who by her looks could be no other than Fitzwilliam’s younger sister. Tall, slender, dark and fashionably though not showily dressed, she moved easily into her place in the group. After a loving exchange of kisses with her brother, she was presented to the other two. “You haven’t met my sister Margaret, who is in her other life Mrs. Hubert Hawkes? She’s so often travelling the world these days I don’t have a chance to see much of her.”

Lily recognised the name of an English conductor about to perform in the forthcoming Promenade Concerts. Margaret, or Meggie, as her brother called her, proceeded to keep the table entertained with a flow of conversation that skilfully drew out the rather silent wife while flirting innocently with her elderly husband, Lily noticed. A useful sister for a man like Fitzwilliam.

What was she to make of her target on this showing? Confident, amusing, attentive. She was not close enough to catch much of the conversation but he appeared to be exuding a happiness she had no way of accounting for. His happiness extended to the dull political pair and they appeared flattered and warmed by it. It had, for a brief moment, reached out and touched the dumpy, deaf old lady from the provinces he’d met in the lobby. As she watched, a young waiter allowed a fork to drop to the floor from the plate he was clearing. He stood, astonished to see Fitzwilliam leap to his feet, pick up the offending utensil and replace it on the plate with a wink and a grin. Next he’d be tap-dancing down Piccadilly. A man who was “on something”? He was definitely experiencing euphoria of some sort. In Lily’s experience there could be only one possible cause for such relentless jollity. Could she be right? Lily felt a sudden need for a second opinion.

Otherwise, so uneventful was the luncheon party that Lily, who’d brought her notebook to the table in a defiantly eccentric
gesture, found that between the soup and the dessert she’d sketched out the first chapter of her first anti-historical novel.

Lily decided she’d had enough. If this man was hiding himself away, he had a strange way of going about it. Here he was hosting lunch in plain sight of London society, in the company of three unimpeachable people. Lily’s research had revealed he was not even lying about his name. Rowley and Fitzwilliam were his middle names. He had a perfect right to both of them. This was the simple device of a man in the public eye needing to avoid the attentions of a press who combed through guest lists these days and bribed hotel clerks to divulge the names of their famous clients. A single man, he probably had a club close by and chose to entertain mixed couples in the more relaxed atmosphere of a good hotel. Women generally did not appreciate the kind of hospitality on offer in the world of gentlemen’s clubs even in those ones who were prepared to acknowledge the existence of the other sex.