A Certain Justice (23 page)

“No, I didn’t book. I’m known at Rules. They usually manage to find me a table. They did last night. I was there by eight-fifteen, as the police will no doubt check. May I suggest, Simon, that you leave the police work to them?”

He returned to his book.

Costello said shortly: “I left Chambers just after you, Hubert, at six o’clock, went home and stayed at home. Lois can confirm it. What about you, Drysdale?”

Laud said easily: “This is all a bit pointless, isn’t it, until we know the time of death? I too went home, and then to the theatre to see
When We Are Married
at the Savoy.”

Costello said: “I thought that was at Chichester.”

“It’s been transferred to the West End for an eight-week run until November.”

“You went on your own? Don’t you usually go to the theatre with Venetia?”

“Not this time. As you say, I went on my own.”

“Well, it was conveniently close anyway.”

Laud kept his voice calm: “Conveniently close for what, Simon? Are you suggesting that I could have dashed out in the interval, killed Venetia and got back in time for the second act? I suppose that’s something the police will check. I can just imagine one of Dalgliesh’s minions leaping out of his seat, tearing down the Strand, timing it all to the minute. Frankly I don’t think it could be done,”

It was then that they heard the sound of wheels in the court. Laud moved to the window. He said: “What a sinister-looking van. They’ve come to take her away. Venetia leaves Chambers for the last time.”

The front door was opened, they could hear masculine voices in the hall, the measured tread of feet on the stairs.

Langton said: “It seems wrong to let her go like this.”

He pictured what was happening in the room above them, the corpse being zipped into the body bag, lifted onto a stretcher. Would they leave the bloody wig on her head or transport it separately? And didn’t they tape the head and the hands? He remembered seeing that done last time he watched a crime series on television. He said again: “It seems wrong to let her go like this. I feel there’s something we ought to do.”

He moved to join Laud at the window and heard Ulrick’s voice.

“Do what precisely? Do you want to find Harry and Valerie and then line us all up in a guard of honour? Perhaps we should be wearing robes and wigs to make the gesture more appropriate.”

No one replied, but all except Ulrick stood at the window and watched. The burden was carried out and loaded into the van, swiftly and efficiently. The doors were quietly closed. They stood watching until the sound of the wheels had died away.

Langton broke the silence. He said to Drysdale Laud: “How well do you know Adam Dalgliesh?”

“Not well. I doubt whether anyone does.”

“I thought you’d met.”

“Once, at a dinner party given by the last Commissioner. Dalgliesh is the Yard’s maverick. Every organization needs one, if only to reassure the critics that it is capable of inspiration. The Met doesn’t want to be seen as a bastion of masculine insensitivity. A touch of controlled eccentricity has its uses, provided it’s allied with intelligence. Dalgliesh certainly has his uses. He’s adviser to the Commissioner to begin with. That could mean anything or nothing. In his case it probably means more influence than either would be willing to admit. Then he heads a small squad dignified with some innocuous name set up to investigate crimes of particular sensitivity. Apparently ours qualifies for that privilege. It’s a device for keeping his hand in, presumably. He’s a useful committee man too. At present he’s just finished serving on that advisory group the Met set up to discuss how to assimilate the spies of MI-5 into conventional policing. There’s a nice little pot of trouble brewing up there.”

Unexpectedly, Ulrick looked up and asked: “Do you like him?”

“I don’t know him well enough to feel any emotion as positive as like or dislike. I’ve a certain prejudice, irrational as prejudice usually is. He reminds me of a sergeant I knew when I was doing my spell in the Territorials. He was perfectly qualified to take a commission but preferred to remain in the ranks.”

“Inverted snobbery?”

“More a kind of inverted conceit. He claimed that remaining a sergeant gave him a better chance of studying the men as well as greater independence. He was actually implying that he despised the officers too much to wish to join them. Dalgliesh could have been Commissioner or at least a Chief Constable, so why isn’t he?”

Ulrick said: “There is his poetry.”

“True, and that could be more successful if he put himself about, did a bit of publicity.”

Costello said: “Will he realize that the work here has to go on, that’s what I’m asking. After all, it’s the beginning of the Michaelmas term. We’ve got to get access to our rooms. We can’t see clients when there are heavy-footed detective constables stamping up and down the stairs.”

“Oh, he’ll be considerate. If he has to clamp the handcuffs on any of us he’ll do it with a certain style.”

“And if the killer has Venetia’s keys, Harry had better arrange to have all the locks changed, and the sooner, the better.”

They were too preoccupied to listen for noises outside the heavy door. Now it burst open and Valerie Caldwell almost tumbled in, white-faced.

She gasped: “They’ve found the weapon. At least they think it’s the weapon. They’ve found Miss Aldridge’s paper-knife.”

Langton said: “Where, Valerie?”

She burst into tears and dashed towards him. He could hardly hear what she was saying. “In my filing drawer. It was in my bottom filing drawer.”

Hubert Langton gazed helplessly at Laud. There was a second’s hesitation in which he almost feared that Drysdale wouldn’t respond, that he’d say, “You’re Head of Chambers. You cope.” But Laud went across to the girl and put an arm round her shoulders.

He said firmly: “Now, this is nonsense, Valerie. Stop crying and listen. No one is going to believe that you had anything to do with Miss Aldridge’s death simply because the dagger has been found in your filing cabinet. Anyone could have put it there. It was the natural place for the murderer to drop it on his way out. The police aren’t fools. So pull yourself together and be a sensible girl,” He urged her gently towards the door. “What we all need now — and that includes you — is coffee. Proper coffee, fresh hot coffee and plenty of it. So be a good girl and see to it. We’re not out of coffee, are we?”

“No, Mr Laud. I brought in a fresh packet yesterday.”

“The police will probably be glad of some too. Bring ours in as soon as it’s ready. And there must be some typing you have on hand. Keep busy and stop worrying. No one suspects you of anything.”

Under the calming influence of his voice the girl made gallant attempts to control herself, even to manage a smile of thanks.

After the door closed behind her, Costello said: “She’s feeling guilty, I suppose, because of that business with her brother. It was stupid to feel resentment over that. What the hell did she expect? That Venetia would present herself in a North London magistrate’s court, complete with junior, to defend a boy accused of trading a few ounces of cannabis? Valerie shouldn’t have asked.”

Laud said: “I gather that Venetia made that only too obvious. She could have been more gentle about it. The girl was genuinely distressed. Apparently she’s deeply devoted to the brother. And if Venetia couldn’t or wouldn’t help, someone here could have done something. I can’t help feeling we let the girl down.”

Costello rounded on him. “Do what, for Christ’s sake? The boy had a perfectly competent solicitor. If he’d felt the need for a barrister and got in touch with Harry, one of us would have taken the case. Me, for example, if I’d been free.”

“You surprise me, Simon, I didn’t realize you were so happy to appear in the lower courts. A pity you didn’t suggest it at the time.”

Costello bristled but, before he could retort, Desmond Ulrick spoke. They turned to him as if surprised to find him still among them. Without looking up from his book, he said: “Now that the police have the weapon, do you suppose they’ll let us back into our rooms? It really is most inconvenient being excluded. I’m not sure that the police have power to do it. You’re a criminal lawyer, Simon. If I demand to have access to my room, legally has Dalgliesh the power to keep me out?”

Langton said: “I don’t think anyone has suggested that, Desmond. This isn’t a question of police powers. We’re just trying to be reasonably co-operative.”

Costello broke in: “Desmond’s right. They’ve found the dagger. If they think that’s the weapon, then there’s no reason why we should stay cooped up here. Where is Dalgliesh, anyway? Can’t you demand to see him, Hubert?”

Langton was saved from the need to reply. The door opened and Dalgliesh came in. He was carrying an object in a thin plastic bag. After taking it over to the table, he took it from the bag with his gloved fingers, then slowly drew the dagger from its scabbard while they watched as if this simple action had the intense fascination of a conjuring trick.

He said: “Could you confirm, Mr. Laud, that this is the steel paper-knife which you gave to Miss Aldridge?”

Laud said: “Of course. There would hardly be two. That’s the paper-knife I gave Venetia. You’ll find my initials on the blade, below the maker’s name.”

Langton gazed down at it, recognized it, knew it for what it was. He had seen it often enough on Venetia’s desk, had even on some now forgotten occasion watched her using it to slit open a heavy envelope. Yet it seemed to him that he was seeing it for the first time. It was an impressive object. The scabbard was of black leather bound with brass, the handle and guard were brass, the whole made to a design that was both elegant and unfussy. The long steel blade was obviously very sharp. This was no toy. It had been made by a swordsmith and by any definition it was a weapon.

He said with a kind of wonder: “Can this really be what killed her? But it’s so clean. It doesn’t look any different.”

Dalgliesh said: “It’s been thoroughly wiped. There are no prints, but, then, we didn’t expect any. We shall have to await the post-mortem report to be certain, but it looks as if this was the weapon. You’ve all been very patient. I’m sure you want now to get back to your rooms. And we shan’t any longer need to tape off part of the court, which will be a relief to your neighbours. Before you leave Chambers it would be helpful if you would see one of my officers and let him or her know where you were last night from six-thirty onwards. If you could write the details down it would save time.”

Langton felt the need to speak. He said: “I think we could all undertake to do that. Is there anything else you need?”

Dalgliesh said: “Yes. Before you go I’d like to know anything you can tell me about Miss Aldridge. The four of you here must have known her as well as anyone in Chambers. What was she like?”

Langton said: “You mean as a lawyer?”

“I think I know what she was like as a lawyer. As a woman, as a human being.”

The four of them looked at Langton. He was swept by a wave of apprehension, almost of panic. He was aware that they were waiting, that something was expected of him. The moment required more than the platitudes of regret, but he wasn’t sure what. It would be intolerably embarrassing to slip into bathos.

At last he said: “Venetia was a very fine lawyer. I put that first because that was the most important thing about her to the very many people who owe their liberty and their reputations to her skill. But I think she would have put that first herself. I don’t think you can separate the lawyer from the woman. The law was what mattered most to her. As a member of Chambers she could be a difficult colleague. That isn’t unusual; we have a reputation for being difficult. Chambers is a collection of intelligent, highly independent, idiosyncratic, critical and overworked men and women whose profession is argument. It’s a dull set which doesn’t contain its share of eccentrics and personalities who could be described as difficult. Venetia could be intolerant, over-critical, rebarbative. So can we all be at times. She was very greatly respected. I don’t think she would have regarded it as a compliment if she’d been described as someone who was greatly loved.”

“So she made enemies?”

Langton said simply: “I haven’t said so.”

Laud obviously thought it was time to speak. He said: “Being difficult in Chambers is practically an art form. Venetia brought it to a higher pitch than most, but we none of us like to live too peaceably. Venetia would have been a distinguished lawyer in any branch of the law. The criminal Bar suited her for some reason. She was a brilliant cross-examiner — but, then, you’ve probably heard her in court.”

Dalgliesh said: “Sometimes to my discomfort. So there’s nothing else you can tell me?”

Costello broke in impatiently: “What else is there to say? She prosecuted, she defended, she did her job. And now I’d like to get on with doing mine.”

It was then that the door opened. Kate put her head in and said: “I have Mrs. Carpenter here for you, sir.”

D
algliesh had early learned not to judge in advance of the facts; this applied as much to appearance as it did to character. Even so, he was surprised and a little disconcerted when Janet Carpenter walked with a quiet dignity across the reception room and held out her hand. He had got to his feet as she entered and now took the outstretched palm, introduced her to Piers, to whom she made a gesture of acknowledgement, and invited her to sit down. She was composed, but the thin scholarly face was very pale and his experienced eyes detected the unmistakable ravages of shock and distress.

Watching her as she seated herself, he felt a small jolt of familiarity: he had met her in various guises before, as much a part of his Norfolk childhood as the five-minute bell on Sunday mornings, the Christmas gift fair, the summer fête in the rectory garden. She wore the clothes which were so familiar: the tweed suit with the long jacket and skirt with three front pleats, the floral blouse discordant with the tweed, the cameo brooch at the neck, the serviceable tights, a little wrinkled round the thin ankles, the sensible walking brogues as polished as new chestnuts, the woollen gloves which she now held in her lap, the felt brimmed hat. Here was one of Miss Barbara Pym’s excellent women, a dying breed no doubt, even in country parishes, but once as much a part of the Church of England as sung evensong, an occasional irritant to the vicar’s wife, but an indispensable prop to the parish; Sunday-school superintendent, arranger of flowers, polisher of brass, scourge of choirboys and comforter of favoured curates. Even the names came back to him, a sad roll call of gentle nostalgic regret: Miss Moxon, Miss Nightingale, Miss Dutton-Smith. For a second his mind amused itself with the fancy that Mrs. Carpenter was about to complain about last Sunday’s choice of hymn.