A Taste for Death (19 page)

'You told me that Sir Paul collected his lunch. Did he do that himself or did you get it for him?'

'He did. He knew where things were kept. He was often in the kitchen when I prepared Lady Ursula's breakfast tray. He used to take it up to her.'

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'And what did he take away with him yesterday?'

'Half a loaf of bread which he sliced ready to eat, a piece of Roquefort cheese, two apples.' She added:

'He seemed preoccupied. I don't think he much minded what he was taking.'

It was the first time she had volunteered any informa-tion, but when he went on to question her gently about Berowne's mood, what, if anything he had said, she seemed to regret the moment of confidence and became almost surly. Sir Paul had told her that he wouldn't be in to luncheon, but nothing else. She hadn't known that he was going to St Matthew's church, nor whether he would be back for dinner. Dalgliesh said:

'So you prepared dinner in the usual way and at the usual time?'

The question disconcerted her. She flushed and the clasped hands tightened. Then she said:

'No. No, not in the usual way. Lady Ursula asked me when she got back after her tea engagement to bring up a tray with a flask of soup and a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches on brown bread. She didn't want to be dis-turbed again that evening. I took it up shortly after six. And I knew that Lady Berowne was dining out. I decided to wait and see if Sir Paul actually came back. There were things I could cook quickly if he did. I had soup I could warm up. I could make him an omelette. There's always something.' She sounded as defensive as if he had accused

her of dereliction of duty.

He said:

'But it was, perhaps, a little inconsiderate of him not to

let you know whether he would be in to dinner.'

'Sir Paul was never inconsiderate.'

'And to stay out all night without a word was surely unusual? It must hve been worrying for all the house-hold?'

'Not for me. It isn't my business what the family choose to do. He could have been staying in the constituency. At eleven o'clock I asked Lady Ursula if it was all right to go to bed and leave the front door unbolted. She said that I

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should. Lady Berowne knew that it was necessary to bolt it after her when she came in.'

Dalgliesh changed the tack of his questions.

'Did Sir Paul take matches with him yesterday morn-ing?'

Her surprise was obvious and, he thought, unfeigned.

'Matches? He didn't need matches. Sir Paul doesn't -he didn't -- smoke. I didn't see him with any matches.'

'If he had taken them, where would he have got them?' 'From here at the side of the stove. It isn't self-lighting. Or there is a packet of four boxes in the cup-board above.'

She opened and showed him. The paper wrapping round the four boxes had been torn and one box taken, presumably that now lying at the side of the stove. She was gazing at him now with a fixed attention, her eyes very bright, h&r face a little flushed, as if she had a slight fever. His questions about the matches, which had first surprised her, now seemed to disconcert her. She was more on her guard, warier, much more tense. He was too ex-perienced and she too poor an actress for him to be deceived. Up to now she had answered his questions in the tone of a woman performing a necessary if dis-agreeable duty. But now the interview had become an ordeal. She wanted him gone. He said:

'We would like to see your sitting room, if you have no objection?'

'If you think it necessary. Lady Ursula said that you were to be given every facility.'

Dalgliesh thought it unlikely that Lady Ursula had said any such thing, and certainly not in those words. He anti Kate followed her across the passage and into the opposite room. It must, Dalgliesh thought, once have been the butler's or housekeeper's sanctum. As with the kitchetx there was no view except of the courtyard and the door leading through to the mews garages. But the furniture was comfortable enough; a chintz-covered sofa for two, ; matching armchair, a gate-legged table and two dining chairs set against the wall, a bookcase filled with volumes

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of an identical size, obviously frorO a book club. The fireplace was of marble with a wide over-mantel on which was crowded, with no attempt at arraOgement' a collection of modern and prettily sentimental igurlnes, women n

hu 'n a u hepherds and shep crinolines, a child dagndrgThPe PPY'tmably belonged to

herdesses, a ballet . ese pre

Miss Matlock. The pictures were prits in modern frames,

one of Constable's Hay Wain and, motc surprising, Monet's

Women in a Field. They and the furnittire were innocuous,

predictable, as if someone had said, 'We need to employ a

housekeeper, furnish a room for he'.' Even rejects from

the rest of the house would have had fnore character than

these impersonal objects. What again was missing was the

sense that someone had impressed oO thas place her own

personality. He thought: They live here their separate

cabined lives. But only Lady Ursula is at home in this

house. The rest are no more than sqoatters'

He asked her where she had spent ttae previous evening.

She said:

'I was here or in the kitchen. Mr Dominic Swayne came

'or a meal and a bath, and afterwards ve played Scrabble.

He arrived shortly before seven and lo(t.bef�re eleven. Our

neighbour, Mr Swinglehurst, was garagng his car and saw

Mr Swayne arrive.'

him while he was

'Did anyone else in the house sec

here?'

' I at about twenty to

No, but he did take a telephone cal

ot the last agent at

nine. It was from Mrs Hurrell, the witq .....

the constituency. She wanted to try aO

I told her that no one knew where he was.'

And Mr Swayne, where dd he bath.

'Upstairs, in the main bathroom. Ivtdy Ursula has her own bathroom, and there is a show�f,r��m down here, but, Mr Swayne wanted a proper batl*'he

So you were either in this room or t kitchen and Mr Swayne was upstairs for at least part of the evening. The back door, was it locked?'

, ter

Locked and bolted. It always is a , tea. The key is

here on the keyboard in that cupboard'

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She opened it and showed him the wall-mounted board with its rows of hooks and tagged keys. He asked:

'Could anyone have gone out without your noticing, perhaps while you were in the kitchen?'

'No. I usually keep the door to the passage open. I should have seen or heard. No one left the house last night by that door.' She seemed to rouse herself then said with sudden vigour:

'All these questions. What was I doing? Who was here? Who could have left without being seen? Anyone would

think he was murdered.'

Dalgliesh said:

'It is possible that Sir Paul was murdered.'

She gazed at him, appalled, then sank down on to the chair. He saw that she was shaking. She said in a low voice:

'Murdered. No one said anything about murder. I thought ...' Kate moved over to her, glanced at Dal-gliesh, then placed her hand on Miss Matlock's shoulder. Dalgliesh asked:

'What did you think, Miss Matlock?'

She looked up at him and whispered so quietly that he had to bend his head to hear.

'I thought he might have done it himself.'

'Had you any reason to suppose that?'

'No. No reason. Of course not. How could I? And Lad;,' Berowne said ... There was something about his razc'. But murder... I don't want to answer any more questions. not tonight. I don't feel well. I don't want to be badgered. He's dead. That's terrible enough. But murder! I car't believe it's murder. I want to be left alone.'

Looking down at her, Dagliesh thought: The shock is real enough, but part of this is acting, and not very co-vincing acting at that. He said coolly:

'We're not allowed to badger a witness, Miss Matlock and I don't think you really believe that we have been badgering you. You've been very helpful. I'm afraid we shall have to talk again, to ask you more questions, but it needn't be now. We can see ourselves out.'

I36

She got out of the chair as clumsily as an old woman and said:

'No one sees themselves out of this house. That's my job.'

In the Rover Dalgliesh rang the Yard. He said to Massingham:

'We'll see Mr Lampart as early as we can tomorrow. It would be helpful if we could fit that in before the PM at three thirty. Is there any news of Sarah Berowne?'

'Yes sir. She's a professional photographer, apparently, and has had sessions all today. She's got another booked for tomorrow afternoon, a writer who's due to leave for the States in the evening. It's rather important so she hopes it won't be necessary to cancel. I told her we'd come along in the evening at six thirty. And Press Office want an urgent word. The news will break at six o'clock and they want to set up a press conference first thing tomorrow.'

'That's premature. What on earth do they expect us to be able to say at this stage? Try to get it postponed, John.'

If he could prove that Berowne had been murdered the whole investigation would take place against a background of feverish media interest. He knew that, although he didn't welcome it, but there was no reason why it should start yet. As Kate manoeuvred the Rover out of its re-stricted parking place and began to move slowly down the Square he looked back at the elegant fafade of the house, at the windows like dead eyes. And then, on the top floor, he saw the twitch of a curtain and knew that Lady Ursula was watching them leave.

4

It was six twenty before Sarah Berowne managed to reach Ivor Garrod by telephone. She had been in her flat for most of the early part of the afternoon but hadn't dared ring from there. It was an absolute rule of his, born, she

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had sometimes felt, from his obsession with secrecy, that nothing important should ever be told over her own telephone. So the whole afternoon from the time her grand-mother had left her had been dominated by the need to find a convenient public kiosk, to have sufficient coins ready. But he had always been unavailable and she hadn't liked to risk leaving a message, not even her name.

Her only appointment of the day had been to photo-graph a visiting writer staying with friends in Hertfordshire. She always worked with the minimum of equipment and had travelled by train. She couldn't remember very much of the short session. She had worked like an automaton choosing the best setting, testing the light, fitting the lenses. She supposed it had gone reasonably well, the woman had seemed satisfied, but even as she worked she had been impatient to get away to find a public telephone, to try once again to reach Ivor.

She had jumped down from the train almost before it drew to a stop at King's Cross and had looked round with desperate eyes for the arrows pointing to the telephones. They were open instruments banked each side of a malodorous passageway leading from the main concourse, its walls scribbled with numbers and graffiti. The rush hour was in progress and it was a couple of minutes before an instrument was free. She almost snatched it, still warm, from the relinquishing hand. And this time she was lucky; he was in his office, it was his voice that answered. She gave a small sob of relief:

'It's Sarah. I've been trying to reach you all day. Can you talk?'

'Briefly. Where are you?'

'At King's Cross. You've heard?'

'Only now, on the six o'clock news. It hasn't made thc evening papers.'

'Ivor, I have to see you.'

He said calmly:

'Naturally. There are things we need to talk about, but not tonight. That isn't possible. Have the police been in touch with you?'

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'They've been trying to get me, but I told them that I was tied up all today and wouldn't be free until six thirty tomorrow.'

'And are you?'

What does that matter, she thought. She said:

'I've got two appointments in the afternoon.'

'Hardly being tied up all day. Never lie to the police unless you can be sure that they have no way of finding out. They only have to check with your diary.'

'But I couldn't let them come until we'd spoken. There are things they might ask. About Theresa Nolan, about Diana. Ivor, we have to meet.'

'We shall. And they won't ask about Theresa. Your father killed himself, his final and most embarrassing folly. His life was a mess. The family will want it decently buried, not dragged out stinking into the daylight. How did you learn the news, by the way?'

'Grandmama. She rang me, then came round by taxi after the police had left her. She didn't tell me very much. I don't think she knew all the details. She doesn't believe that Daddy killed himself.'

'Naturally. The Berownes are expected to put on uni-form and kill other people, not themselves. But that, come to it, was apparently what he did, kill another person. I wonder how much sympathy Ursula Berowne will waste on that dead tramp.'

A small burr of doubt caught at her mind. Could they possibly have said on the news that the second victim was a tramp? She said:

'But it isn't only Grandmama. The police, a Com-mander Dalgliesh, he doesn't seem to think that Daddy killed himself either.'

The level of noise had risen. The narrow hallway was crowded with people needing to telephone before catching their trains. She felt their bodies thrusting against her. The air was a jabber of voices against the background tramp of feet, the raucous, unintelligible litany of the station an-nouncer. She bent her head more closely over the mouthpiece. She said:

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'The police don't seem to think it was suicide.'

There was a silence. She dared to speak more loudly against the noise.

'Ivor, the police don't think...'

He cut in:

'I heard you. Look, stay where you are. I'll come now. We can only have half an hour but you're right, we ought to talk. And don't worry, I'll be with you in the flat when they arrive tomorrow. It's important you don't see them

alone. And, Sarah...'