Eileen Wyvil paused while the judges scribbled vigorously.
“The point which the judge had to decide was precisely the same as we have here. Was Velasco driving the car
in his capacity as a consular agent
? In other words, was it a necessary part of his consular duty? The judge seemed to have had little difficulty in deciding that it was not. Would you ask yourselves, therefore, the same question? Was Karl Mullen fetching these books from Lampards Bookshop as a necessary part of his consular duty? Surely not. It was a chore which could have been carried out by any minor functionary or even entrusted to a messenger service. I do not think I need labour the point—”
The warm smile on the face of the Lord Chief Justice assured her that her point needed no labouring. Martin Bull gathered together his papers with the gesture of a poker player who has bid as high as he dared on a weak hand and throws in his cards.
The result of the Divisional Court hearing was featured briefly in the late edition of the evening papers and dealt with more fully in the morning papers on the following day.
In announcing the decision of the Court, which was unanimous, the Lord Chief Justice had said that none of them doubted that Karl Mullen was a high official in his own government and was in this country on official business. However, it was quite clear that he was not, in fact, acting in his consular capacity when he visited Lampards Bookshop, and that therefore the immunity from criminal process conferred by the Vienna Convention has no application in this case. He had added that this decision must not be considered to pre-empt in any way the outcome of the case now pending. That was something for the Lower Court to decide. The matter would be remitted to the Magistrate.
The writer of this account added that he understood that the case was likely to be before the Magistrate on the following Monday, November 5th.
“Make a note of that date in your diary,” said Chief Inspector Ancrum to Inspector Brailey. “Cancel all leave.”
Brailey said, “Damn.” He had been hoping for some leave himself.
On the afternoon of that Thursday Rosemary paid what she hoped would be her last visit to the Newspaper Library at Colindale. It was already four o’clock and the library shut at six, but there were only half a dozen numbers of the
News and Journal
remaining to be dealt with. She had become heartily sick of her self-imposed task, but she had read the news of the Divisional Court decision. It seemed that, at last, after so many delays and difficulties, Mullen was going to face justice. The thought encouraged her to continue and conclude her work.
When she saw the report of Charles Mullen pleading guilty to the theft of a book at Oxford she could hardly believe her eyes. She had no doubt at all that this was what the solicitor had been looking for. And had found. The difference of Christian names meant nothing. People used different names at different points in their carShe made a careful note of the date of the paper and the location of the paragraph and returned the book to the counter. Kathleen, who was waiting there, said, “Did you find what you wanted, then?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And it’s something about that pig?”
“It certainly is,” said Rosemary and showed her the entry.
Kathleen said, “If it’s the same man, it’s going to cook his goose, isn’t it? I hope they send him down for a good long stretch. That’ll be something back for what he did to you.”
Rosemary touched the scar on her face with one finger.
When she got home she found her father and Mkeba together. She said, “I’ve got a bit of news for you.” She tried to hide her triumph under an assumption of indifference. “If, by any chance, when Karl Mullen was at Oxford he used to call himself Charles Mullen he’s got a previous conviction for shop-lifting. What do you think of that?”
For the first time she noticed that both men were looking unhappy. She said, “What’s up? Has something happened?”
Her father said, “I’m afraid the case against Mullen is no longer a runner. It was on the six o’clock news. Jack Katanga died this afternoon. Natural causes.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” said Dr. Moy-Williams. “You did all that you could. No one could have done more.”
He was a white-haired teddy bear, an old-fashioned practitioner who believed that more than half of a doctor’s job was keeping his patients from worrying.
“You knew that this might happen at any time, without warning. Of course, I realise that it doesn’t make it any easier for you—”
Dorothy said something which might have been ‘yes’ or ‘no’. She had been crying in a helpless way, like a child, and she still spoke with difficulty, but the doctor could see that there was something important she wanted to add. In the end she got it out.
“Could we – do you think – could we put something over him?”
When the doctor arrived, Katanga had been on the floor. With Anna’s help they had lifted him onto the sofa so that he could be examined.
“Of course, my dear. Stupid of me. Fetch a sheet, will you?” When Anna returned with one he spread it carefully over the body. “Now, my dear, I’m going to use your telephone, if I may. I’ll get my secretary to come round herself and bring something that will help you. Just sit back and see if you can relax. Not easy, I know. But try.”
Whilst they were waiting for his secretary the doctor drew his chair up to hers and said, “Would you see if you could answer a few questions? You’ll find the effort will do you good.”
“I’ll try.”
“Tell me then. When did you first notice that anything was wrong with your husband?”
For a moment he thought that she was not going to answer him. Then she seemed to pull herself together. She said, “We had some lunch ready, in the kitchen. He didn’t seem to want anything. So he came back in here. When he had gone Anna and I started our own lunch. After about five minutes—”
“More like ten,” said Anna.
“It might have been ten minutes, we heard him cry out. We both ran in. He was sitting in that chair and seemed to be gasping for breath. He’d had this difficulty in breathing before. At night sometimes it was quite bad. So I wasn’t too much alarmed. After a bit he seemed to get better.”
“Got much better,” said Anna. “I thought maybe some black coffee would do him good. I went out to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Then I heard him cry out again. It was a sort of terrible choking cry. When I ran in, he was on the floor.”
It seemed to the doctor that Anna was deriving a not unpleasurable excitement from the drama of the moment. Dorothy had her eyes shut. He said, “Yes, I quite understand. And then you telephoned for me.”
At this point a ring at the doorbell announced the arrival of the doctor’s secretary, a snub-nosed girl with very wide-awake eyes. The doctor poured out a generous dose from the bottle she had brought. The girl said, “I’d better be getting back. There are two or three people waiting.”
“Doctor Blain will have to take my afternoon surgery. Tell him about this—” He waved a hand at the shrouded sofa. “I can’t see anyone else today.”
The girl hardly waited for him to finish before she was out of the door. She had a cousin in the BBC and she was aware that Katanga was news.
“Before I give you this,” said the doctor, “there’s just one more question. It’s something you’re sure to be asked. Your husband used that – that instrument – to clear his throat. How often did he do this?”
“It used to be every three or four days. Lately it has been every day.”
“I see. Yes. He complained of a sore throat. That was about a fortnight ago, when I came to see him. And you say that since then he has used it every day. Do you happen to know if he had done so today?”
When Dorothy hesitated Anna said, “Yes. He used it today.”
“You’re sure?”
“Certain sure.” She pointed to the glass container on the sideboard, with the bougie standing up in it. “He kept that pushed away, behind those books. Now, you see, it’s been pulled out. He would do that when he used it.”
“Thank you. I just wanted to be clear about that. Now, my dear. Drink this. It will give you a good night’s sleep. That’s right. Down it goes. Anna and I can help you up to bed.”
“No help needed,” said Anna. “I can manage.”
When they had gone, the doctor stood quite still for a moment. Then he moved across and examined, without touching it, the glass container on the sideboard. It was half full of olive oil. This had been his own suggestion. He thought it would ease the bougie down. Swallowing it and bringing it up cannot have been agreeable, but no worse, he supposed, than self-injection by a diabetic.
Upstairs the two women heard the front door close and the doctor’s car starting and driving away.
Dorothy undressed and got into bed. When Anna said “Is there anything I can get you?” she shook her head. Her eyes were now wide open, as though she was fighting against the sedative she had been given, afraid perhaps of what images sleep might bring. Anna tip-toed out.
After some minutes, when she could fight no more, Dorothy’s eyes closed and silence descended on the house, shrouding and covering it like the sheet over the body in the room below.
At nine o’clock on the following morning, as Dr. Moy-Williams approached the Homestead he noticed that the police, who must have listened to the six o’clock news the night before, had posted a man at the entrance to West Mead Close, a sensible precaution, he thought, to keep off unwanted sightseers. He found Dorothy sitting up in bed and saw that she had eaten most of the breakfast that Anna had brought up for her. A night’s sleep had drawn its merciful curtain between past and present. He was glad of this. There were a number of things that had to be attended to.
He said, “I hope you won’t think that I’m taking too much on myself, but I’ve had a word with Cyril Larch – I expect you’ve seen his shop in the High Street – Larch and Parsons, Funeral Directors—”
“And he’ll be able to take charge of—of everything?”
“Certainly. That’s his job. He’s a very experienced man. He’s coming round here at half past nine. There’s no need for you to come down.”
“But I will,” said Dorothy. “I’ll feel better when I’m up.”
“You’ll find him very helpful. And I had a word with the rector last night. He was most sympathetic and although your husband was – well, I suppose we should say, an alien – he’s sure that he will be able to find a site for his interment. Now, I’ll leave you to get dressed.”
From her bedroom window Dorothy could see Mr. Larch’s car, a dark-blue saloon with an extended hatchback. By the time she got down, her husband’s body had been carried out and the car had gone and Anna had swept and tidied the room.
Dr. Moy-Williams said, “Now, we’ve got some formalities to attend to. I had to inform the Coroner. No need to get upset. Don’t, please, start thinking in terms of inquests and post mortems. No, no. As soon as I handed him a copy of my death certificate, he agreed that there was no reason for the interment to be postponed. It could take place as soon as Mr. Larch and the vicar were ready—”
The front doorbell rang and Anna appeared. She said, “Will I tell them to go away?”
“Well,” said the doctor reasonably, “that rather depends who it is, doesn’t it? If it’s just a snooper the constable would have stopped him. Better go and see.”
Anna departed reluctantly. When she came back she was followed by a man with a thin outcrop of sandy hair around an island of pink baldness. His most noticeable features were the prominence of his nose and the size of the horn-rimmed glasses which straddled it. The doctor, who evidently knew him, said, “Hallo, Arthur. You’re early on the job.” And Dorothy, more coldly, “Good morning, Mr. Pauling.” There was a distinct question mark at the end of her words.
“Indeed, you must be surprised to see me,” agreed Mr. Pauling. “Normally a solicitor, in circumstances like this, is only too happy to leave affairs in the hands – the very capable hands – of the doctor and the undertaker.” He added, with a smile, “I expect you have read in books about the family solicitor arriving within a few hours of his client’s decease and reading the will to the assembled family. I can only say that, in forty years of practice, I have never known this to happen. No. Normally the solicitor’s part comes later. In this case, however, I had to say my piece before – well, before any irrevocable steps were taken. Was that Mr. Larch’s car I passed at the end of the road?”
“I imagine so,” said the doctor. “Why?”
“Allow me, then, to read you part of the will. It’s the opening clause, so it’s clearly a point that Mr. Katanga desired to emphasise. It says, ‘I instruct my solicitor, in priority to all other matters, that on death my body be cremated.’”
There was silence in the room. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it seemed to stretch long fingers into the future.
Dr. Moy-Williams said, “I see. This may, of course, affect my certificate.”
Mr. Pauling nodded. “You will have to bring in a second doctor. Not one of your partners.”
“That makes it a bit difficult. I and my partners look after all the people in this area. I don’t really know—”
“Then perhaps I can make a suggestion. Dr. Thorn, who is a consultant at Hammersmith Hospital.”
“Ian Thorn. Well, yes—I suppose—”
“You sound doubtful. I can assure you that he’s an able man. He gave evidence for a client of mine in a manslaughter case last year and did it very competently.”
Dr. Moy-Williams’s hesitation was not based on any doubt as to Dr. Thorn’s ability. The fact was that Thorn did a lot of work for the police and it seemed somehow unsuitable to bring him into a family matter. He realised that he was being unnecessarily sensitive. He said, “So be it. As you know him personally, perhaps you’d be kind enough to give him a ring and tell him what we want.”
“Certainly. And meanwhile we’d better give Mr. Larch a call as well and tell him about this development.”
Dorothy said, “Doctor. Please.”
The two professional men swung round at the interruption —
“Please, could you stay with me when Dr. Thorn comes?”