A Woman Unknown (36 page)

As the minutes and hours ticked by, I saw the photographs again in my mind’s eye, especially the ones of people I knew: Deirdre with Joseph Barnard on Leeds Bridge, Philippa Runcie with the groping Lord Fotheringham, and Gideon King with one of the beaters at the shoot. And the anonymous couples caught in unguarded moments.

Some pictures were innocuous, perhaps, but may make a guilty person worry that something worse might be known about them. What I found so difficult to grasp was that a talented, gifted man such as Diamond could have stooped to blackmail.

Given my part in gathering this evidence, I hoped that Marcus might include me in the investigation that followed. Some hopes!

Yet he did have the courtesy to speak to me privately about the outcome of his sergeant’s investigation. We were in the hotel room. Marcus sat at his desk, King’s statement in front of him. ‘Mr King admits to withdrawing the money from his bank on Tuesday, 28
^th
August, the day before the Ebor Handicap. He says the money was in his wallet and was stolen.’

This seemed to me unbelievable. ‘Why was it in an envelope?’

‘He said he was keeping separate his gambling money and what he wanted to hold onto, what he had withdrawn for his own expenses.’

‘Did he report the theft?’

‘No. He claims to have felt foolish.’ Marcus looked at King’s statement, and read part of it to me. ‘King says, “What sort of idiot lets himself be pickpocketed? It’s not as if there are no warnings. One should be very careful at a racecourse.” He says that he did not mention the loss to others in his party because he did not want to spoil the day. Someone jostled him on his way into the grandstand.’

‘Did he mention Leonard Diamond?’

‘Oh yes, though he pretends not to know the man’s name. He says he had a bit of an altercation with a photographer, that he pushed the man away, to try and stop him photographing Mr and Mrs Runcie and Miss Windham.’

It struck me that King could hardly have denied that, given the number of witnesses who saw him elbow Diamond aside. That contact between King and Diamond could have been engineered: the moment when money changed hands.

Marcus pushed the photograph of King and the young beater at the shoot across the desk. It was not a very good photograph, falling short of Diamond’s standard in terms of composition and lighting, but then one would hardly have expected the two fellows to pose for him.

I faced up to the fact, and made myself say it aloud: ‘Len Diamond was a blackmailer. He was blackmailing King, and King paid up.’

Marcus stared glumly at the photograph. ‘So it would seem. And perhaps King did not pay enough, and decided to end your photographer friend’s life. He may have done a lot of people a favour, but if that proves to
be the case, the noose dangles perilously close for Mrs Runcie’s private secretary.’

‘Have you arrested him?’

‘No. There’ll be more digging before we get to that stage. King thinks he will be getting his pickpocketed money back, and that the fingerprinting was for purposes of elimination. He won’t be going anywhere. I have his passport, and have put a warning in place for him not to be allowed to leave the country.’

‘Then he’ll know he’s a suspect.’

‘I don’t think so. My sergeant has a very soothing and plausible way with him. King believes this is to do with the security of ensuring that the money will be returned to its rightful owner.’

I thought back to the film that Mr Duffield had handed in to the newspaper dark room. ‘There are more photographs, Marcus. Perhaps King was not the only man being blackmailed.’

Marcus gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Sorry, Kate. I know you admired Diamond. And you don’t want King to be a murderer because he is Mrs Runcie’s secretary.’

‘Marcus, surely you don’t believe Philippa is involved?’

‘I didn’t say that. But the very fact that he is part of the household makes it more likely that he should come under suspicion. With Runcie dead, the expensive divorce becomes unnecessary. Mrs Runcie had agreed a settlement on her husband. That is now null and void. Mrs Runcie will be able to keep her money.’

The way he spoke, made me believe that Marcus did not only suspect King; he suspected Philippa. When I put this to him a second time, and more forcibly, he made it clear our chat was at an end.

As I rose to go, he said, ‘Does Mr Duffield at the newspaper know I need the other photographs as soon as possible?’

‘He’s aware of the urgency.’

Marcus did a little packing up motion of the papers on his desk. ‘Thank you for your sterling help, Kate.’

He smiled, and I smiled back. ‘Bye, Marcus.’

I wondered whether our positions would ever be reversed, and I would thank Marcus for his help.

I could have gone back to the newspaper offices to try and persuade Mr Duffield to come out for a glass of sherry when he finished work. Or, I could have gone home.

Instead, I decided to pay Philippa a visit. She had asked for my help in finding Runcie’s killer. All that I had done was to bring suspicion into her house and onto her trusted secretary.

The investigation was moving, but whether that was in the right direction I could not tell. Philippa had given me a generous retainer. It was time to tell her that I should return it to her. After all, I had found Deirdre, and that took the investigation nowhere in particular. I had discovered blackmail, and that seemed to me to be going down a dark alley. For once, I felt up against the wall, without ideas, without a plan.

And then a thought occurred to me. Perhaps King had deliberately planted the idea of blackmail in my head, to send me off on a wrong track. He knew of my friendship with Marcus, and that a word in my ear might find its way to the investigating officer.

What if the money in Diamond’s locker was a part-payment towards murder, the murder of Everett
Runcie? And having done the deed, Diamond was too dangerous to be allowed to live?

The search of Diamond’s rooms after his death could have been because the killer was looking for money that could be traced back to him.

It could have been to make the murder look like a burglary gone wrong.

Nothing felt right, and that was not just because I was driving the wrong car. A fine drizzle spattered the windscreen of Dad’s Morris as I turned into the gates of Kirkley Hall. The troops of beech trees took on a mournful aspect. Poor oak Wellington stood his tallest, shrouded by raindrops, as if waiting patiently to vanish into the mists of time.

I wondered what the original occupants of Kirkley Hall would have made of an investigation into the death of a banker and a photographer. They would have understood the trade of banker, but photographer? That would have seemed like so much magic. A gardener, face lined as a furrowed field, looked up and saluted as I passed. He would have made a perfect subject for one of Len Diamond’s candid photographs, but would be a useless target for extortion. ‘Give me your sunflower seeds and I won’t tell anyone you sold a cabbage.’

But was Diamond guilty of murder? Was the victim also a killer? If Len Diamond had blackmailed King, that would bring them together. King could have turned the tables and said, If you really want money, rid us of
Everett Runcie. Diamond would know his way around the Metropole. He killed Runcie. And then King strangled Diamond.

It was an outlandish notion, but plausible. If this idea stood up, Philippa might be involved. Just because I liked her and she had asked for my help did not put her beyond suspicion.

Parking the motor by the stable block, I decided that the best purpose for my visit would be to enquire after Philippa, and see if she needed a sympathetic ear. This was one visit to Kirkley Hall that I did not relish. I told myself she may not be at home. But of course she would be at home. There was too much planning to be done; the planning of a fine funeral for Everett; overseeing the packing of trunks to return to Boston.

The trouble with investigating murder is that one begins to look at people in a different way. On the surface, it is business as usual. When the butler opened the door, I found myself thinking, what do you know? What have you heard, and seen?

Strains of a Schubert sonata floated from the music room, the talented Philippa losing herself in music.

‘One moment,’ the butler said, and I was left standing in the double-height hall, admiring the grandeur of the winding staircase.

The music stopped.

‘This way please.’

I was ushered into the vast space furnished with small sofas and elegant chairs, a harp, a flute on an elaborate stand, grand piano and harpsichord.

Philippa was alone. I felt relieved not to see Gideon King. She turned from the piano and stood to greet me.
In that instant, I caught her in profile. The silk dress floated against her body, revealing her pregnancy.

I stared, and then looked away quickly. She immediately picked up a matching voluminous sleeveless over garment and put it on. But it was too late. Perhaps she wanted me to know.

Philippa walked to the nearest sofa, one of a gold brocade pair that would have looked ridiculous in a less grand room.

Seated on the sofas, we faced each other.

She leaned back. ‘I wondered when you’d come.’

‘I’m glad to see you recovered.’

‘Thank you. And well done on finding the woman. I knew you’d be faster off the mark than the police. Who is she?’

‘No one you would know.’

‘I should like to know.’

‘It was purely a business arrangement.’

‘I suppose it would be. Is she a whore?’

‘She’s a woman who needed money.’

‘Well in that respect, it was a good coupling, though she might have had the decency to stay around and report his death. Or is she involved?’

‘No sign of that.’

‘I suppose she wasn’t paid enough to deal with a corpse.’

‘Philippa, I may have to return your cheque. Apart from locating the woman, I have done nothing yet to earn it.’

I did not say that my sudden suspicion of King made me feel uneasy about working on her behalf.

She looked at me steadily. ‘Don’t give up, Kate. I have
faith in you. The police could jump to a wrong conclusion, and then I really would need your help.’

Reluctant to be drawn into a discussion of what the police may or may not discover, I looked towards the window, as if light might give me inspiration, or a way out. Something caught my eye. The room was full of works of art. The paintings were few, but striking, including a full-length portrait of Philippa. There were bronze figures and, by the window, a bust of Philippa, beautifully carved. This was very much her room. If I was not mistaken, the bust was carved by Rupert Cromer. Put side by side with the bust of Caroline Windham, the pieces would represent the two important women in Runcie’s life.

She saw me looking. ‘I’m wondering what to take with me. Gideon started to do the inventory, what belongs in the house and what I brought and bought. But it’s all ground to a halt since Gideon took to his room.’

‘Why has he taken to his room?’

‘Embarrassment and annoyance, I think. Apparently he was pickpocketed at the races, and the money has turned up.’

‘Well that’s good.’

‘Apparently not, if you are Gideon King.’

To fill the awkward silence that followed, I walked across the room to where Philippa’s bust stood on a small plinth. ‘This is beautiful. It really captures you.’

‘Does it? An engagement present from Everett. He commissioned it. I had to sit for Cromer, who I felt sure had taken a dislike to me. Either that or Everett had beaten him down on the price for the job.’

It was several moments before Philippa spoke again.
‘What’s going on, Kate, regarding Gideon I mean? I don’t believe Scotland Yard would take an interest in the victim of a racecourse pickpocket. I hate it that the spotlight is being turned on my own staff. Why are they worrying about pickpockets when they should be looking for Everett’s killer?’

‘How much do you know about it?’

She shrugged. ‘Not much. The money Gideon lost has been recovered, from some petty thief. I said he should have reported it, but he’s so careful of my feelings. He didn’t want to spoil the day, or upset me by making a song and dance about it.’