A Certain Justice (49 page)

And now I come to the part of this letter which will most concern the police: the death of Venetia Aldridge.
On the night of 9 October I got to Chambers at the usual time. I was, as it happened, alone — it was purely chance that Mrs. Watson had been called to her injured son. Had she been with me one thing at least would have been different. I set about the cleaning, but less thoroughly than when there were the two of us. After finishing the ground-floor offices I went up to the first floor. Miss Aldridge’s outer door was shut but unlocked. The inner door was ajar but with the key in her side of the lock. The room was in darkness, as were all rooms of Chambers when I arrived except for the hall. I pressed down the switch.
At first I thought she was asleep in her chair. I said, “I’m so sorry,” and drew back, thinking I’d disturbed her. She didn’t reply, and it was then I knew that something was wrong and moved up to her. She was dead. I knew that at once. I put my finger gently against her cheek. It was still warm but her eyes, wide open, were dull as dry stones and when I felt her pulse it was lifeless. But I needed no confirmation. I know the difference between the living and the dead.
It never occurred to me that the death was other than natural. Why should it have? There was no blood, no weapon, no sign of violence, not even any disturbance of the room or of her clothes. She was sitting relaxed in her chair, her head bent on her chest, and she looked perfectly peaceful. I thought it was probably a heart attack. And then the reality of it swept over me. She had cheated me of my great vengeance. All that planning, all that expense, all that trouble, and now she had escaped for ever. It was some consolation that at least she had known of Ashe’s presence in her daughter’s life, but the knowledge had been for so brief a time, the revenge so meagre.
It was then that I fetched the blood and the wig and made my last gesture. I knew of course where to find the full-bottomed wig — Mr, Naughton’s cupboard was never locked. I didn’t bother about fingerprints; I was still wearing the thin rubber gloves I always put on before starting my cleaning. I think I realized — I must have done — that my action would cause trouble in Chambers, but I didn’t care. I hoped that it would. I went out, locking both doors of her room behind me, put on my coat and hat, set the alarm and left Chambers. I took her key-ring with me and dropped it in the Thames just across the Embankment from Temple Station on my way home.
It was only after Inspector Miskin called the next morning to take me back to Chambers that I learned that the death wasn’t natural. My first thought was to protect myself, and it was only when I returned home that morning that I began for the first time to face the reality of what I had done. I took it for granted that Ashe must be involved, and it was only after I’d rung Mrs. Buckley that I was told of his alibi. But I knew now that it had to end, the whole charade. When I’d poured that blood over Venetia Aldridge’s head it was as if I’d poured out all the hatred. What had seemed an act of appalling desecration had become one of liberation. Venetia Aldridge was out of my reach for ever. I could at last let go, and in letting go of my obsession I faced the truth. I had conspired with evil to do evil. I, who had lost a grandchild by murder, had deliberately put another child into a murderer’s power. It had taken her mother’s death to show me the enormity of the sin into which my obsession had drawn me.
That is why I came to you, Father, and made my confession. That had to be the first step. The second will be no easier. You have told me what I have to do and I shall do it, but in my own way. You said I must go at once to the police. Instead, when Ashe rings me, as he will on Tuesday morning, I shall tell him to bring Octavia to see me that evening at half past seven. If he refuses, then I shall go to see her. But I would prefer that our talk should be here in my flat, one she need never enter or see again. That way her home won’t be tainted with the memory of my perfidy. Then I shall go away, just for a week, I know that this escape is cowardice, but I have to be alone.
I give you authority to show this letter to the police. I suspect that they already know that I was responsible for desecrating Venetia Aldridge’s body. I know that they will want to interview me but that can wait for a week. I shall be back in seven days. But now I have to get away from London to decide what I shall do with the rest of my life.
You made me promise to tell the police and the police will be told. You said that I must put things right with Octavia and I shall. But I must be the one to tell her. I don’t want it done by a police officer, however sympathetic. And it will be difficult to tell her, that is part of the penance. It may be that she is so committed to Ashe that nothing will shake her faith. She may not even believe me. She may still want to marry him, but if she does it must be with the knowledge of what he is and what he and I together have done.

There was nothing else but the signature.

Dalgliesh read a little faster than Kate and would wait the few seconds until she nodded before turning the page. The writing had been easy to read, strong and upright. When they had finished, Dalgliesh, folding the letter, was silent.

I
t was Kate who broke the silence. “But she was crazy to make that assignation. Did she really expect him to bring Octavia?”

“Perhaps. We don’t know what was said between them when he rang. He may even have told her that he was happy for Octavia to know the truth. He may have persuaded her that he could convince Octavia that what had begun as a deception on his part had ended for him in love. There was unfinished business between them.”

“But she knew he was a murderer.”

“Of his aunt, not of Venetia Aldridge. And even when she saw that he was alone she may have let him in. That would account for the turning up of the TV. He’d hardly have had time to do that if he’d burst in upon her.”

“If it was he who turned up. We can’t be sure.”

“We can’t be sure of anything except that she’s dead and he murdered her.” And perhaps, at some deep level of the mind, unacknowledged, subconscious, Janet Carpenter might not even have cared whether what he brought with him was Octavia or death.

Kate said: “He turned up for the appointment, waited in the shadow of the cupboard, knew when she’d be home. Or perhaps he rang the bell and overpowered her when she opened the door. Or was Octavia with him? Were they in it together?”

“I don’t think so. It’s in his interest that the marriage goes ahead. She’s an heiress of sorts, after all. She may think she’s in love, but presumably she has some sense of self-preservation. I doubt whether he’d risk committing murder in front of her, and it was a messy killing. No, I think he came alone. But he’ll probably rely on her for an alibi and she may be besotted enough to give it. I want a watch on the Pelham Place house, now. But see that it’s kept discreet. And ring Mrs. Buckley. Check that the two of them are at home. Tell her we’ll be with her in half an hour. Don’t say why.”

“It could be we’re wrong, sir. Did he kill Miss Aldridge? Can’t we break that alibi?”

“No, he didn’t kill Aldridge. That rests where we always thought it did — in Chambers.”

“If that priest had told us on Sunday everything he knew, she’d still be alive.”

“If we’d gone to interview her early Monday evening she’d still be alive. I should have realized that her granddaughter’s murder had to be significant. We had a choice, Father Presteign didn’t.”

He left Kate to get on with it and went into the church. At first he thought that it was empty. The congregation had left and the great door was closed. After the warmth and light of the vestry the incense-heavy air struck chill. The marble pillars rose into a black nothingness. It was strange, he thought, how spaces designed for people — theatres, churches — always held when empty this sense of a bereft expectant air, a sense too of the pathos of irretrievable years, of voices stilled and footsteps long faded. To his right he saw that two fresh candles had been lit before the statue of the Virgin and wondered what hope or desperation was held in their steady burning. The statue, despite the pristine blue of the robe, the golden curls of the child with the chubby hand outstretched to bless, was less sentimental than most of its kind. The face, gravely carved, expressed in its perfection a Western ideal of untouchable femininity. He thought: Whatever she had looked like, that unknowable Middle Eastern girl, it was never like this.

A shape moved among the shadows, and took form as Father Presteign came out of the Lady Chapel. He said: “If I had persuaded her to go to you immediately after she left the church, if I had insisted on accompanying her, she’d be alive today.”

Dalgliesh said: “If I had interviewed her as soon as I learned of her granddaughter’s murder, she would be alive.”

“Perhaps. But you couldn’t know then that Ashe was in any way concerned. You made a reasonable operational decision, I made an error of judgement. It’s strange that the consequences of a misjudgement can be more destructive than the consequences of a mortal sin.”

“You are the expert in these matters, Father, but if an error of judgement counts as sin we are all in a perilous state. I must keep the letter, at least for the present. Thank you for handing it over. I’ll ensure that it is read by as few people as possible.”

Father Presteign said: “That is what she would have wished. Thank you.” They began to move back towards the vestry.

Dalgliesh half-expected Father Presteign to say that he would pray for them, but then he realized that this would not be put into words. Of course the priest would pray for them; that was his business.

They were almost at the vestry door when it suddenly opened and Kate confronted them. Their eyes met. She said, trying to keep her voice level, unemotional: “He’s not there. He left late yesterday night on the motorbike without saying where he was going. And he’s got Octavia with him.”

At Pelham Place Mrs. Buckley greeted them with as much relief as if they were friends whose arrival had been long expected.

“I’m so glad to see you, Commander. I was hoping you’d find time to drop in. That sounds foolish when I know how busy you are, but I’ve had no news. Octavia tells me nothing and it’s been a dreadful week.”

“When did they leave, Mrs. Buckley?”

“Yesterday evening at about ten-thirty. It was very sudden. Ashe said that they wanted to be alone for a time, that they needed to get away from the press. Well I can understand that, it was particularly bad for the first two days. We kept the door locked and that nice policeman was very helpful, but it really was like being under siege. Luckily Miss Aldridge had an account at Harrods so that I could telephone for food to be delivered and didn’t have to shop. But Ashe and Octavia didn’t seem worried at the time, and it did get better. But now they’ve suddenly decided that they have to get away.”

They had moved from the hall and down the stairs to the basement flat. The door didn’t open to Mrs. Buckley’s hand. She said: “They’ve locked it on the inside. We’ll have to go through the garden basement entrance. I’ve got a spare key. Miss Aldridge insisted on my having one in case of fire or flood in the flat. I won’t keep you a moment.”

They waited in silence. Kate tried to suppress her impatience. With every hour Ashe and Octavia could be travelling further, abandoning the motorcycle, making it more difficult to find them. Yet she knew that Dalgliesh was right in not hurrying Mrs. Buckley. She had information they needed, and too many inquiries go wrong, Kate knew, because the police had acted in advance of the facts.

The housekeeper was quickly back and they went into the garden and down the basement steps. She unlocked the door and led them into a narrow hall. It was dim, and when Mrs. Buckley switched on the light, Kate saw with surprise that half the wall had been pasted with a collage of illustrations from magazines and books. The dominant colours were brown and gold and the arrangement, although initially startling, was not displeasing.

Mrs. Buckley led them into the sitting-room to the right of the hall. It was surprisingly tidy, but otherwise was much as Kate had expected, typical, she thought, of many a basement flat converted by the prosperous middle class for the use of their adolescent children. The furniture was comfortable but not valuable; the walls were left bare to allow for private taste. Octavia had hung a collection of posters. The divan against the left wall was presumably also a spare bed.

Seeing her glance towards it, Mrs. Buckley said simply: “He used to sleep there. I know because I clean in here now. I thought he’d be sleeping with Octavia. The young do, even if they’re not engaged.” She paused and said: “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s nothing to do with me.”

Kate thought: Clever of Ashe, puzzling Octavia, making her wait, proving that he’s different.

The central table was covered with newspapers and this was obviously where they had been working at the collage. There was a large pot of glue and a heap of magazines, some already mutilated, others as yet untouched. Illustrations had been torn out of books as well, and Kate wondered whether these had been taken from the shelves upstairs.

Dalgliesh said: “What happened last night? Did they leave in a hurry?”

“Yes they did, it was very odd. They were down here cutting up pictures to paste on the wall and Ashe came up to the kitchen to ask for a second pair of scissors. That was at nine o’clock. I gave him a pair from the drawer, but he was back within minutes, very angry. He said he couldn’t use them. It was only then that I realized I’d given him the pair Mrs. Carpenter left here when she’d been helping out during my holiday. I’d been meaning to give them to Miss Aldridge to take into Chambers — scissors are so difficult to pack and send by post — but somehow I didn’t like to ask as she was so busy. Actually, I’m afraid I’d forgotten we had them. But of course he couldn’t use them, they’re special scissors. Mrs. Carpenter was left-handed.”

Dalgliesh asked quietly: “What did Ashe do when you told him?”

“That’s what’s so extraordinary. He went very white and stood absolutely still for a moment, then he gave a cry. It was almost as if he was in pain. He took hold of the handles and tried to pull the scissors apart. He couldn’t do it, they were too strong. So he closed the blades and drove the point down into the table. When we go upstairs I can show you the mark. It’s quite deep. It was extraordinary, rather frightening — but, then, he always frightened me.”