The Corpse of St James's Page 5

  He related the whole story, as he had told it to me. ‘So you see, sir, why I said nothing yesterday. I owe everything to Aunt Letty, and this will destroy her.’

  ‘I told you before, young man, less of the “sir”. I’m not your boss any more. I’m not anybody’s boss. I hope we’re your friends, Dorothy and I.’

  Jonathan nodded again.

  ‘And therefore, as your friends, I hope we can help you find some way out of this mess. It’s none of your doing, to begin with, but Lord, boy, you are in a dilemma, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am, Alan.’ He forced a smile. ‘It’s far from the first time Jemima’s got me into trouble.’

  ‘All right, now, let’s get this perfectly clear. Do you or do you not think your cousin . . . all right, your honorary cousin . . . had anything to do with her daughter’s death?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I have nothing whatever to base that statement on except what I know of Jemima, but she’s been a fiercely protective mother, that I do know from what Letty’s told me. Not a wise mother, mind you. She hasn’t given Melissa the kind of direction a child ought to have. But she managed to keep her warm and fed, even when that was really tough, and she protected her from her own boyfriends, to use the term loosely.’

  ‘But where did the child live?’ I asked. ‘With Jemima living at the palace . . .?’

  ‘With Letty. In West Sussex. A village called Bramber.’

  ‘But she must be frantic with worry!’ I was appalled. ‘Jonathan, you must tell her at once!’

  ‘Melissa’s run away before,’ he said wearily. ‘It always turned out she was staying with friends, or had gone to London to shop. I’m sure Letty is calling them all, but she’s . . . she’s a realist, Dorothy. And she’s not young.’ He said that almost apologetically, looking at Alan and me. ‘After a while, I think a sort of numbness set in. She knows Melissa always comes home in the end.’

  ‘But this time,’ Alan said sternly, ‘she isn’t coming home. Dorothy’s right, Jonathan. Phone your Aunt Letty.’

  ‘And if it gets back to the authorities?’

  ‘Unless she’s called in a missing persons report, it won’t. Not for some time, at least. And you don’t think she’s likely to have done that.’

  ‘No. Yes, you’re right. I haven’t been thinking very straight. Excuse me.’

  He took his mobile phone into the next room to make the difficult call. I was silent.

  ‘It’s a pity for the boy,’ said Alan at last. ‘That this should happen on the very day he was honoured by his Queen.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The voice from the next room was low, but agitated. We both tried not to listen, though Watson pricked his ears. He didn’t care much for this human, but he always wanted everyone to be happy.

  ‘This is taking more courage than going after that little girl,’ I said presently.

  ‘Yes. Moral courage is always harder than physical courage. There’s no adrenalin flowing, only the determination to do what’s right.’

  ‘And it’s harder when you’re not even sure which course is the right one. That boy has a lot of guts.’

  ‘Well, we knew that, didn’t we?’ Alan drew a small, imaginary cross on his left breast, just as Jonathan came back into the room.

  ‘I’ll have to go to her,’ he said. ‘She took the news as well as could be expected, but she needs someone with her. Do you know when the next train leaves for Shoreham? I think that’s the closest station.’

  ‘Nonsense. We’re driving you. Bramber isn’t far. We’ve been there, Dorothy. Remember that marvellous old house?’

  ‘Oh, yes! St Mary’s. The Deans took us there. It took my breath away. Just let me get my bag, and a hat, and we’re off.’

  We stopped at the railway station to pick up Jonathan’s wheelchair, which Alan wrestled into the boot, and then set off down the country roads that led to Bramber.

  ‘Jonathan,’ I said into a silence that was threatening to become awkward, ‘what about Jemima? Will Letty phone and tell her the dreadful news?’

  ‘We talked about that. Not right away, she decided. Jemima doesn’t even know about Melissa running away this time. It’s all such a pity!’ He struck his armrest in frustration. ‘She was wilful and wayward, but she was bright. She could have made something of her life!’

  ‘How old was she?’ I asked gently.

  Jonathan thought about that, counted on his fingers. ‘Fourteen,’ he said finally.

  ‘Dear God.’ That was from Alan, and I knew he was thinking about his daughter when she was that age.

  After another few miles, Alan cleared his throat. ‘What are your plans, Jonathan?’

  ‘I don’t have any, s— Alan. Except to try to give Letty whatever comfort I can.’

  ‘I have a bit of information that may help you,’ Alan replied. ‘Dorothy, I meant to tell you as soon as I got home, but . . . well. At any rate, I stopped at the police station before I did the shopping. I thought there might be some news. They haven’t done a complete autopsy yet, but I can tell you, Jonathan, that Melissa – if it is Melissa, we still haven’t proved that, have we? – the girl in the park, at any rate, died of asphyxia, almost certainly suffocation, from other indications. Some foreign matter in the mouth. They haven’t determined what, as yet, but possibly a scarf or something of that sort, something soft. But the part that your Aunt Letty might find of some comfort, Jonathan, was that she had not been raped.’

  Jonathan and I let out a simultaneous long breath. ‘That’s a relief!’ I said. ‘I had been imagining . . . well, never mind.’

  ‘However,’ said Alan, and my nerves tightened again. ‘She was not a virgin. She was, in fact, about three months pregnant.’

  This just got worse and worse. ‘I don’t suppose they could be wrong . . . no, of course not. But Alan! At age fourteen!’ I turned around to glance at Jonathan in the back seat. He sat so still I thought for a moment he’d gone to sleep, until I saw his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.

  ‘Old enough,’ Alan said roughly. ‘One mistake, that’s all it takes. It’s happened before.’

  ‘Are you going to tell Letty that, too?’ I asked. ‘Jonathan, I wouldn’t. She doesn’t have to know, and it would hurt her terribly.’

  ‘No, Letty doesn’t have to know,’ said Alan, sounding weary. ‘But Jonathan, I’m afraid this will put a great deal more pressure on Jemima, when the police work out the connection.’

  ‘Pressure?’ Jonathan sounded very far away.

  ‘Carstairs is going to want to know who fathered the child.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jonathan politely.

  I remembered what he said about his blackouts under stress. We were coming up on a tiny village, with an attractive pub. I looked at Alan. He nodded and turned into the car park. ‘Come on, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘Coffee.’

  He came with us like an obedient child. We ordered coffee for all of us. Alan never drinks any alcohol when he’s driving. And though coffee at that hour keeps me from sleeping, and I would have appreciated the soothing influence of a glass of wine, I felt I needed all my wits about me, to support Jonathan in the coming ordeal.

  Jonathan came to himself after half a cup. ‘Sorry. I guess I was a bit . . .’

  ‘Gobsmacked,’ I supplied. ‘And no wonder.’

  ‘And you’ve been more than kind. But I really do need to move on. Letty will be wondering about me.’

  ‘And probably worrying something’s happened to you, too. Her world has suddenly become very insecure. Off we go, then.’

  Alan often has a Thermos in the car. He poured the rest of the coffee into it, begged two paper cups from the publican, and packed us back into the car.

  It took only a few minutes to get to Bramber and find Aunt Letty’s house.

  ‘We’ll come in if you want,’ I offered, while Alan wrestled the wheelchair out of the boot. ‘Or wait for you and take you home.’

  ‘I think this is something I have to do alone,’ Jonathan sai
d. ‘And I’ll stay the night. Letty would like me to, I think. You’re right about her feeling insecure just now. But she’s a tough lady. I think she’ll handle this better than I will, if you want the truth.’

  He struggled out of the car, refusing any help. A light went on over the front door of his aunt’s cottage. Jonathan turned to me. ‘Dorothy, I can’t thank you enough.’ To my great surprise, he kissed my cheek. ‘Alan, I think you know what your help means. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.’ He unfolded his chair with the expertise born of long practice, and rolled up the flagged path.

  Coffee or not, I slept most of the way home.

  SEVEN

  I woke the next morning to a blue sky and birdsong, and a moment of the sheer joy of living on such a glorious spring day, until the memory of the past two days washed over me. Then I would just as soon have turned over and pulled the covers over my head, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Watson was alert to my wakefulness, but he has learned not to be overly animated first thing in the morning. He greets every day with vast enthusiasm, but has realized that his humans don’t always share his mood.

  Alan was already up, so I shrugged into a robe and went down to the kitchen. He had just finished making coffee and silently handed me a cup.

  ‘Mm,’ I said in thanks, and drank it, hoping it would brighten my outlook.

  Alan handed me the Telegraph. I glanced at the headlines, according to which the world was just about to fall apart, again, and then turned inside to the London news.

  ‘No progress,’ said Alan. ‘No identification of the body yet. They’ve kept your name out of it, anyway.’

  I poured myself another cup of coffee. ‘Thought I was irrelevant. A woman.’

  ‘Toast?’ Alan asked.

  ‘No, thanks. Alan, what are we going to do?’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  When Alan is dressed, his hair neatly combed, his chin freshly shaved, he looks far younger than he really is. Now, in rumpled pyjamas, his hair sticking up in spikes, his face covered in greying stubble, and with doubt and worry written all over him, he looked every day of his age. I was seized with compassion.

  ‘I wish I didn’t think we had to do something, but we do, don’t we? But what a can of worms!’

  At least that made Alan smile, as he often did when I came up with some colourful American expression. I love his Brit-speak, too.

  ‘Are you duty-bound to tell anyone what Jonathan has told us?’

  ‘Not really. It’s up to my own conscience, which I must say is sorely strained. On the one hand, I have no more right than anyone else to withhold information. On the other, Jonathan has a very good point. When an investigation involves the palace, even tangentially, everyone works four times as hard, or at least tries to create that impression. Every stone would be explored.’

  ‘And every avenue turned over. Yes. So the only question is, really, what can we do, the three of us, to get at the truth quietly?’

  ‘I have no contacts at the palace,’said Alan.

  ‘Well, neither do I, for heaven’s sake! But Jonathan does.’

  ‘Jemima. Is it a good idea to involve her at this stage?’

  ‘She’ll have to be involved soon. She’s the girl’s mother!’

  ‘We think she is. It isn’t proven.’

  Alan can sometimes sound irritatingly like a policeman.

  ‘Well, we’re never going to prove it unless someone identifies her, are we? And we can hardly ask them to call Jemima in to look, without giving away the show. But what’s to prevent Jonathan from showing her some of the pictures they took at the scene? They’re not too awful, really, no blood or anything like that.’

  ‘You forget, Dorothy, that Jonathan has no access to those photos.’

  ‘I’ll bet they’d let him see them. Or you. You were both on the scene. You were both well-respected police officers. The respect isn’t gone just because you’re retired and Jonathan is invalided out.’

  ‘It would soon be lost if they caught either of us out in a stunt like this!’

  His voice was getting louder. We were on the verge of a quarrel.

  ‘But look, Alan. Suppose Jonathan asks Mr Carstairs if he can look at the photos. Carstairs will almost certainly say yes. And I’ll bet it wouldn’t be hard for him to make a quick copy.’

  ‘And if he gets caught doing that?’

  ‘He can make up something, I’m sure.’

  ‘I won’t encourage him to lie, Dorothy. Lying by saying nothing is one thing. A deliberate untruth is another.’

  We seemed to be at an impasse. I could think of no way to find out anything further without a firm identification of the body, and there seemed to be obstacles in every path to that identification.

  ‘All right,’ I said slowly. ‘Try this. I go to Carstairs. I say, with perfect truth, that I’m particularly interested in this case, and I’d like to see the pictures, because I didn’t really get a good look at the time. Then I’ll choose the best one, the clearest and least disturbing, and ask, as a special favour, if I might have a copy. I don’t suppose he’ll ask why, but if he does, I’ll hint something. I won’t lie. I think he’ll let me have it, because I’m ultra respectable – I’m your wife, after all – and known to take an unusual interest in crime. If I play it right, I imagine he’ll be rather amused and inclined to let the nosy old lady have what she wants.’

  Alan pondered.

  ‘I’m not official, you see,’ I pursued. ‘I know you and Jonathan aren’t either, not now, but I never was.’ And as he still said nothing, I added, ‘Please don’t tell me not to do this, Alan. For Jonathan’s sake.’

  ‘And if I do say no?’

  ‘Then I’ll try to find another way. I won’t go against your wishes, Alan. We don’t have that kind of marriage. Yes, I’ve fallen into situations you didn’t like, but they were because of bad luck or poor judgement. I’ve never deliberately done anything you specifically asked me not to do.’ At least I couldn’t think of any instances, and I prayed he couldn’t either. He’s not the sort of man to give orders unless he thinks I’m putting myself in jeopardy. I admit, once or twice I’ve not told him what I planned to do, in case he objected, but that’s justified.

  ‘You’re very good at misdirection, however. You should have been a conjuror, or perhaps a con artist. All right, my dear. You know I don’t want to stand in your way. It’s just that . . .’

  ‘I know, love, I know. And I promise I’ll be discreet.’

  The guffaw that followed that remark made him choke on his coffee.

  Now that I felt like eating again, I made us a modest cereal-and-fruit breakfast. Alan tries hard to keep fit, and I watch my weight when I can. Usually I watch it inch up.

  ‘Once you get the picture,’ Alan asked over a third cup of coffee, ‘what are you going to do with it? Take it to Jemima?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about visiting someone at the palace. No, I’ll give it to Jonathan, and he can take it from there. By the way, did you think to get a phone number for Aunt Letty? I don’t even know her last name.’

  ‘I did. Shall I tell him your plans? I’d planned to phone him this morning anyway, to see how Aunt Letty was feeling.’

  ‘And how he’s feeling himself. Good heavens, Alan, that boy has been through way too much these past few days! Not to mention his physical pain.’

  ‘I suspect he’s trying to do too much, physically. Needs to prove something to himself. So am I to tell him, or not?’

  ‘Tell him, by all means. Maybe not the details, on the principle that what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, but tell him I’ll try to get him a photo in the next day or two. And Alan, would you call Mr Carstairs and tell him to expect me?’

  ‘That conversation will tax all my powers of diplomacy. When shall I say?’

  ‘This afternoon, if it works for him. I can catch the next train.’ And diplomacy, I thought with an inner smile, was just another word for stre
tching the truth. Men and semantics!

  I made a quick call myself, to Lynn Anderson. ‘Are you going to be home in a couple of hours? I’m making a quick trip to Town, and I want an invitation to lunch. There’s lots I’m dying to tell you!’

  Alan came into the room just as I was clicking off my mobile. ‘And dare I ask just what you’re going to tell whom?’

  ‘Fear not. I told you I’d be discreet. I just begged lunch with Tom and Lynn, and I’m going to tell them about the Investiture. I don’t think they’ve ever been to one, and as much as they try to be blasé about the royals, I know they’ll eat it up.’

  ‘Just as long as . . . No. I won’t tell you what to say. I may protest a good deal, my dear, but in the end I trust to your good judgement.’

  That earned him a kiss, and what with one thing and another, I very nearly missed my train.

  Tom and Lynn live in a delectable Georgian house in Belgravia, a stone’s throw from Victoria Station. They’re American expats like me, have pots of money, and are very dear friends from way back. They’ve also been of great help in several of my forays into criminal investigation, and it was going to take all my fortitude not to tell them what I was up to in London.

  We made it through lunch safely enough on the Investiture. They wanted to know all the details, and were amused at my confusing the Yeomen of the Guard with the Yeomen Warders. ‘But of course, my dear!’ said Lynn in the Philadelphia accent she’s never quite managed to lose. ‘Everyone does exactly the same thing. And it’s all Gilbert and Sullivan’s fault.’

  ‘And the uniform. Really, I wonder if they were once part of the same unit, or something. It seems too much of a coincidence otherwise. The next time I go to the Tower—’

  ‘Which, God willing, won’t be for ages,’ Lynn put in.

  ‘—I’ll ask one of the Beefeaters. I do feel safe calling them that, since everyone does.’

  ‘You might not have to wait that long, D.,’ said Tom, who had been listening indulgently. ‘I know one of the Yeomen of the Guard. You could ask him.’