A Banquet of Consequences (18 page)

Although Clare’s radio interview had not been scheduled till half past ten, Caroline knew that she was an extremely early, predawn riser. But she also knew not to disturb her employer when she was working, which Clare would be doing as she had an article to finish for a magazine’s deadline. Thus, Caroline hadn’t knocked on Clare’s door till eight
A
.
M
. When there was no answer, she wasn’t concerned. Clare, she reckoned, would be downstairs in the hotel’s restaurant, having her breakfast. That she normally ate earlier did not concern Caroline. It had been a late night, and there was always a possibility that Clare had not risen as early as she normally did.

But Clare wasn’t in the restaurant, and a question in the lobby of the hotel gave Caroline the information that Ms. Abbott hadn’t been seen going out for a walk along the river or anywhere else. As far as anyone knew, she was still in her room.

When a second knock on Clare’s door achieved nothing, Caroline returned to her own room. As they had adjoining rooms, she entered that way.

Why had she not done that from the first? was what Rory wanted to know.

Because she’d been told a thousand times not to bother Clare when she was at work! was Caroline’s reply. She went on to say she didn’t know what had happened to Clare. There she was on the floor and she was dead and she’d been dead for hours and Caroline raced to phone—

To Rory’s question of how Caroline had known that Clare was dead at all, let alone dead for hours, Caroline shrieked, “D’you
know
what it looks like when someone’s been dead for hours? D’you
want
me to give you chapter and verse? I rang reception and they came on the run and they phoned emergency and there was nothing to be done. The paramedics didn’t even
try
CPR because there was no point. D’you understand? Dead means dead and I don’t know what happened. It’s a heart attack or a stroke or something and I don’t
know.
”

Now in Cambridge, Rory pulled into the car park of the hotel. The River House sat on the bank of the River Cam, walking distance from the city’s great colleges, a modern affair of wood and glass but sympathetically designed to blend in with the great willows and sycamores
that shaded it. She slipped Arlo into his vest, clipped him onto his lead, and hurried towards reception. She was opening the door as a heavy-set man came out, accompanied by a police officer in uniform. The heavy man’s words to “seal it off, then, until word comes round” told her he, too, was probably with the Cambridge police.

The presence of police on the scene made Rory feel faint. As he was trained to do, Arlo sensed this and bumped into her leg, nudging her towards a large planter box on which she could sit if she felt it necessary.

She said to the heavy man, “Clare Abbott?” and he paused. He jerked his head at the uniformed officer with a get-about-your-business expression, and he said nothing to Rory until the man had done as ordered. Then he introduced himself as Detective Chief Superintendent Daniel Sheehan, standing in this morning as duty inspector, and who was she? She used the words
close friend
first and
colleague
second and only third did she tell him she was Clare Abbott’s editor from London, here in Cambridge because Clare’s assistant Caroline Goldacre had rung her. Where is Clare? she added. What happened? How is . . . ?

But Rory knew there was no point to “
How is she
.” There was no chance that Caroline had been mistaken, not once the paramedics had arrived. Prior to that, perhaps, but not afterwards. To her horror, she began to weep. Arlo stepped in, nudging her again. The detective took her arm and led her into the hotel, where he sat her on a sofa and joined her. Arlo lay at her feet. The detective bent and petted his tousled-haired head, saying to him, “I expect you’re a helper dog of some sort, aren’t you?” before he spoke to Rory.

They were attempting to suss out the deceased woman’s next of kin, he told her, but they weren’t able to get much sense from the lady who’d discovered the body. She’d had to be given a mild sedative, so distraught was she. They’d insisted she ring for someone to come to her aid, as it didn’t seem likely that it would be safe for her to take herself home when the time came for her to leave. Could Ms. Statham give them the next of kin for the deceased? There was the formality of an identification of the body that would have to take place prior to the autopsy, which itself would occur once—

“Autopsy?” The idea of Clare being cut open . . . the thought of her skin being pulled back . . . the image of organs removed and weighed and a terrible incision in her chest sewn up . . . Rory pressed her fingers to her forehead. Arlo leapt onto the sofa and assumed the drop position, his chin in her lap.

“No cause for alarm,” Daniel Sheehan said sympathetically, putting his hand on her arm and squeezing it briefly. He called out to the receptionist. Could a pot of tea be brought? Some biscuits as well? A tea cake would do if they had one. He turned back to Rory. “It’s procedure,” he told her. “When an otherwise healthy individual dies suddenly? There’ll be a coroner’s inquest to determine what happened. But prior to that, a kinsman needs to do the formal identification. Has she a husband? Children? Siblings?”

“There’s no one,” Rory said. “Her parents are dead and she has no children. There’s a brother but they’ve been estranged for years. Things are . . . were . . . difficult between them.” No need to say more than that, Rory thought. To use Clare’s own words, her older brother was part of her past best forgotten. She had not continued to hate him for what he’d done to her childhood innocence in the dark of night, but two decades spent learning how to forgive him had not concluded with Clare’s wanting him to be a presence in her life. Rory added to what she’d said about the estrangement. “Clare wouldn’t want him here. If it’s allowed, I’ll identify her.”

Sheehan said that he would see to the arrangements, then.

Rory said, “C’n I ask . . . ?” The detective looked expectant but also kind and sympathetic, and she appreciated that. “It’s just that I don’t quite understand the police being here.”

The pot of tea arrived. Everything was set out: a china pot—not one of those terrible tin ones—with matching cups, saucers, milk jug, and sugar bowl. Five ginger biscuits were arranged on a plate. Sheehan frowned at these. He lifted the teapot’s lid and stirred its contents. He poured them each a cup. He broke a biscuit in half and asked if he could give it to Arlo. Rory liked him for this. He told her briefly that any call to triple nine was always evaluated by a police official, the force incident manager. Any death was considered suspicious until proven otherwise, so a uniformed patrol officer would be dispatched.
That officer made sure the victim was indeed deceased, sealed off the scene, and rang for the duty inspector. “Me, in this case,” Sheehan said. “We’re short-handed at the moment.”

“So it doesn’t mean that someone could have hurt her? It’s just that I can’t bear to think . . .” Rory opened her eyes as wide as she could, straining to keep herself from breaking down a second time.

Sheehan said, “Let me say that there’s no evidence at all of . . . well, of foul play. One drinking glass overturned on the bedside table, and that’s it. Ease your mind on that score.”

But as to the rest? Rory asked herself. How could she ease her mind about anything until she knew for certain what had happened to Clare?

She said, “It was her assistant who rang me. Can you tell me where she is?”

Resting in her own room was the detective’s reply. She’d told the police that this unexpected death had reignited the anguish she’d experienced at the recent death of her own son. So she wasn’t coping well.

“Who can blame the poor woman?” Sheehan concluded.

Who indeed, Rory thought.

SPITALFIELDS

LONDON

Charlie Goldacre heard it in Alastair’s voice the moment the man said, “Is that you, lad?” when he answered the phone. To Charlie’s “What’s wrong?” Alastair said, “I’ve got to go up to Cambridge. Lad, I need you to go with me. See, your mum and me . . . Sorry to say we’re still having our problems down here and—”

“What’s going on?” Charlie’s pulse had started beating in his fingertips. He could feel it from the way he was gripping the phone. He said, “Cambridge? Alastair, has something happened to Mum?”

“No, no,” Alastair reassured him hastily. “It’s that Clare Abbott’s died of a sudden. She and your mum—”

“Clare Abbott? Good Christ. What happened?”

“She and your mum were up there in Cambridge for some do. Clare wanted your mum to go along with her as per usual ’cause there were books to be sold and all that rubbish that goes with it. She died in the night and your poor mum found her just like that this morning. She rang, she’s a wreck, and there’s no way on God’s green earth she c’n get herself back to Dorset on her own, so I’ve got to—”

“Died?” Charlie was still trying to get his mind round the fact that Clare Abbott, who to him always seemed much more than a mere mortal, was actually dead. “Was there an accident? God, she didn’t
do
something to herself?”

“Don’t know anything beyond her being dead. Only that your mum rang me and she can’t get back here on her own in the state she’s in and having to take the train and change in London and manage the luggage. She’s not making a lot of sense on the phone, but the police have been and she’s had to talk to them and that set her off in a bad way.”

“The
police
?” Charlie wanted to rattle his brains like a cartoon character to keep himself from playing the echo.

Alastair said, “They’ve had your mum in for some questions, but they’d do that, wouldn’t they? They’ve got to speak with who found the . . . well, her. Clare. With who found Clare and that was your mum. Wish it’d been the hotel maid or something but there you go. It’s all unnerved her. What I know is the police have been and that Rory person—Clare’s good friend who’s a bit peculiar with that dog, you know?—she’s there now. So what it is is this, lad. I need your help with your mum ’cause we’re still in a bad way with each other and she’s asked for you as well. Fact is, she’d rather have you from the word go and she only rang me as you weren’t answering.”

“I’ve had clients all this morning. I’ve only just taken a break.”

“No need to explain. But will you go? I don’t mean on your own. I’ll come up there and we c’n set off. Will you do it, Charlie?”

“Of course,” Charlie said. “But my God, Alastair, this might push her straight over the edge, after Will.”

“I know,” Alastair said.

They made the arrangements. As it happened, Alastair was already
on his way, only phoning Charlie when he’d stopped for petrol at a Welcome Break along the motorway. They worked out where to meet so that Alastair could avoid having to trek through London, and after that Charlie made quick work of cancelling the remaining appointments he had that day.

It was a terrible irony, he thought. Clare Abbott, as far as he knew, had been the picture of absolute health while his mother was in the worst physical condition of her life, with uncontrolled weight gain taking her ever closer to a heart attack or stroke. How in God’s name had Clare turned out to be the person to die unexpectedly?

RIVER HOUSE HOTEL

CAMBRIDGE

Rory watched the laughing tourists make a hash of trying to punt on the Cam. Obviously, they’d decided to go it alone on the river instead of having the pole wielded by one of the many straw-hatted young men available for the activity. As it was, they were merely floating in circles while boaters far wiser and in the hands of skilled punters sat back and enjoyed the smooth ride taking them in the direction of Grantchester. Behind her, at one of the tables set out on the lawn to enjoy the afternoon summer sun while it lasted, Caroline Goldacre was refusing the hotel’s special afternoon tea being urged upon her by her husband and son. She didn’t want to drink and she couldn’t eat, she was telling them. What did they think she was? Clare had died, did they not understand? Yet another person had been ripped from her life—

“From his mother’s womb, untimely ripp’d” came to Rory. How odd it was, she thought numbly, that a single word could trigger a line from Shakespeare completely unrelated to the events at hand.

She couldn’t blame Caroline for refusing the offer of finger sandwiches, scones, and sweets. She herself had eaten nothing all day. She’d found something for poor Arlo and he’d made short work of it, but as for herself the sight and the smell of food in any form closed off her throat. She could barely manage a cup of tea.

Caroline’s son and her husband had taken her out of the hotel because she’d not been able to cope once they descended with her to the lobby. She couldn’t breathe inside the place, she told them, and she couldn’t muddle through the checkout procedure at all. Not with everyone staring at her and knowing that she’d found Clare’s body and believing that she had something to do with what had happened. It was the bloody police, she had hissed. It was that they had insisted upon questioning her away from her own room and at a distance from Clare’s. People saw them escorting her to a conference room, and now they thought she had something to do with what had happened in the middle of the night.

They knew that much: Clare had died between midnight and three
A
.
M
. But even that was mere speculation on the part of the forensic pathologist. More would be forthcoming later: a more specific time of death and the cause.

While still at the tea table with them, Rory had asked Caroline why the police had wanted to question her. It had seemed an innocent enough question as she voiced it, but Caroline’s icy reply of “Why do you
think
they wanted to question me? Have you recently gone stupid?” prompted Rory to push back from the table, rise, and walk to the low wall separating the garden from the Cam. Caroline’s voice followed her, “
Are
you stupid? Because it seems to me you’d have already worked out that she went to bed healthy and she dropped dead in the night and they want to know what happened to her. Did I see anything, did I hear anything, why didn’t I go to her if she was in distress?”