Original Sin (16 page)

'He's never spoken to me about it.'

'Of course he hasn't. That isn't how James operates. He's a doer not a talker. A word of advice. Don't stand too near the balcony of the upper storeys of Innocent House. One violent death in this house is enough.'

He said calmly: qhank you for the warning, but I'm not sure James de Witt would be the chief suspect. After all, if anything happens to me before I marry and make a new will, you'll get my shares, my flat and my life assurance money. You can buy quite a lot of antiques for the best part of two and a half million.'

Claudia was at the door when he spoke again, coolly and without looking up from his paper.

'By the way, the office menace has struck again.'

Claudia turned and said sharply: Nhat do you mean? How? When?'

'Fhis afternoon, at twelve-thirty to be precise. Someone sent a fax from here to Better Books in Cambridge cancelling Carling's signing.

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She arrived to find the advertisements taken down, the table and chair removed, the hopefuls turned away and most of the books relegated to the back office. Apparently she was incandescent with

rage. I rather wish I'd been there to see it.'

'Christ! When did you learn this?'

'Her agent, Velma Pitt-Cowley, rang me at two forty-five when I got back from lunch. She'd been trying to reach me since one-thirty. Carling telephoned her from the shop.'

'And you've kept quiet about it until now?'

'I've had more important things to do this afternoon than swan round the office asking people for alibis. Anyway, that's your job, but I shouldn't make too much of it. I've a good idea this time who was responsible. It's of small importance anyway.'

Claudia said grimly: 'Not to Esm Carling. You can dislike her, despise her or pity her but don't underestimate her. She could prove a more dangerous enemy than you imagine.'

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I5

The upstairs room at the Connaught Arms off Waterloo Road was crowded. Matt Bayliss, the licensee, had no doubt about the success of the poetry reading. Already by nine o'clock the bar takings were well up for a Thursday night. The small upstairs room was normally used for lunches - there was little demand for hot dinners at the Connaught Arms - but was also available for the occasional function and it was his brother, who worked for an arts organization, who had persuaded him to cater for the Thursday night event. The plan was for a number of published poets to read their works interposed with readings by any amateurs who cared to take part. A fee of 2 pounds a head had been charged and Matt had set up a cash wine bar at the back of the room. He had no idea that poetry was so popular or that so many of his regulars had ambitions to express themselves in verse. The initial sale of tickets had been satisfactory but there was a steady stream of late arrivals and people from the bar, hearing of the entertainment overhead, were making their way up the narrow staircase, tankards in hand.

Colin's enthusiasms were varied and fashionable: Black Art, Women's Art, Gay Art, Commonwealth Art, Accessible Art, Innovative Art, Art for the People. This event was billed as Poetry for the People. Matt's personal interest was in beer for the people, but he had seen no reason why the two enthusiasms should not be profitably combined. Colin's ambition was to make the Connaught Arms a recognized centre for contemporary verse speaking and a public platform for new poets. Matt, watching his relief barman busily opening bottles of Californian red, discovered in himself an un-expected interest in contemporary culture. He came up from the saloon bar from time to time to sample the entertainment. The verses were to him largely incomprehensible; certainly very few either rhymed or had a discernible metre, which was his definition of poetry; but all were enthusiastically applauded. As most of the amateur poets and the audience smoked, the stagnant air was heavy with the fumes of beer and 'tobacco.

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The advertised star of the evening was Gabriel Dauntsey. He had asked to go on early but most of the poets before him had over-stepped their time limits, the amateurs in particular' not being susceptible to Colin's muttered hints, and it was nearly 9.30 before Dauntsey made his slow way to the rostrum. He was listened to in a respectful silence and loudly applauded, but Matt guessed that his poems of a war which, for the great majority of those present, was now history, had little relevance to their current preoccupations. Afterwards Colin had pushed his way through the throng to reach him.

'Do you really have to leave? A few of us are thinking of going out for a meal afterwards.'

'I'm sorry, it will be too late for me. Where can I get a taxi?'

'Matt here could ring, but you'll probably get one quicker by walking to Waterloo Road.'

He had slipped away almost unnoticed and unthanked, leaving Matt feeling that somehow they had done badly by the old man.

He was hardly out of the door when an elderly couple came up to him at the bar. The man said: 'Has Gabriel Dauntsey gone? My wife has a first edition of his poems which she'd love him to sign. We can't see him anywhere upstairs.'

Matt said: 'Have you got a car?'

'Parked about three blocks away. It's the nearest we could get.'

'Well he's only just left. He's on foot. If you hurry you could catch

him up. You'll probably miss him if you wait to go for the car.' Hurriedly they left, the woman, book in hand, eager-eyed.

Within three minutes they were back. Across the bar Matt could see them coming in through the door, supporting Gabriel Dauntsey between them. He was holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his

brow. Matt made his way across to them.

'What's happened?'

The woman, obviously shaken, said: 'He's been mugged. Three men, two black and one white. They were bending over him, but ran off when they saw us. They got his wallet, though.'

The man looked round for a vacant chair and settled Dauntsey into it. 'We'd better ring the police and an ambulance.'

Dauntsey's voice was stronger than Matt had expected. 'No, no. I'm all right. I don't want either. It's only a graze where I fell.'

Matt looked at him, undecided. He seemed more shaken than hurt.

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And what was the point of ringing the police? They didn't have 0 chance of catching the muggers and this would only be one more minor crime to add to their statistics of crimes reported but unsolved-Matt, while a strong supporter of the police, preferred on the whole not to see them too frequently in his bar.

The woman looked at her husband then said firmly: %qe have to pass St Thomas's Hospital. We'll take him to the casualty department. That would be the wisest plan.'

Dauntsey, apparently, was to have no say in the matter.

They want to get rid of the responsibility as soon as possible, thought Matt, and he didn't blame them. After they had left he made his way upstairs to check on the supply of wine and noticed on a table by the door a pile of slim volumes. He felt a spurt of pity for Gabriel Dauntsey. The poor devil hadn't even waited to sign his books. But perhaps that was just as well. It would have been embarrassing fo everyone if he hadn't made a sale.

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16

On the following morning, Friday x5 October, Blackie awoke to a weight of apprehension. Her first conscious thought was dread of the day and what might lie ahead. She put on her dressing gown and went down to make the morning tea, wondering whether to wake Joan with the complaint that she had a headache, that she didn't think she'd go into the office today, asking Joan to telephone later with her regrets and promises to be back on Monday. She thrust the temptation aside. Monday would come only too quickly, bringing with it an even heavier weight of anxiety. And not to appear today would look suspicious. Everyone knew that she didn't take days off, that she was never ill. She must go in to work as if this was just an ordinary day.

She could eat no breakfast. Even the thought of eggs and bacon made her nauseous and the first spoonful of cereal clogged her mouth. At the station she bought her usual Daily Telegraph but clutched it unopened during the journey, staring out at the flashing kaleidoscope of the Kent suburbs with unseeing eyes.

The launch was five minutes late starting off from Charing Cross pier. Mr de Witt, usually so punctual, came running down the ramp just as Fred Bowling was deciding that he had to cast off.

Mr de Witt said briefly, 'Sorry everyone, I overslept. Good of you to wait. I thought I'd have to take the second boat.'

They were all there now, the usual first boatload: Mr de Witt, herself, Maggie FitzGerald and Amy Holden from publicity, Mr Elton from rights and Ken from the warehouse. Blackie took her usual seat in the prow. She would have liked to have removed herself to the stem and sit alone, but that too might have looked suspicious. It seemed that she was abnormally conscious of her every word and action, as if she were already under interrogation. She heard James de Witt tell the others that Miss Frances had rung him late the previous night to tell him that Mr Dauntsey had been mugged. It had happened after his poetry reading. He had been quickly found by two people who had been at the pub and who had taken him to the

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casualty depai-tment at St Thomas's Hospital. He had suffered more from shock than from the mugging and was all fight now. Blackie didn't comment. This was just one more minor mishap, one more piece of bad luck. It seemed unimportant compared to the dragging weight of her own anxiety. Usually she enjoyed the river trip. She had done it now for over twenty-five years and it had never lost its fascination. But today all the familiar landmarks seemed no more than stage-posts on the journey to disaster: the elegant ironwork of Blackfriars Railway Bridge; Southwark Bridge with the steps on Southwark Causeway from which Christopher Wren was rowed across the river when he supervised the building of St Paul's Cathedral; London Bridge where once the heads of traitors were displayed on spikes at either end; Traitor's Gate, green with algae and weed; and Dead Man's Hole under Tower Bridge where, by tradition, the ashes of the dead were scattered outside the city boundaries; Tower Bridge itself, the white and pale blue of the high walkway with its gleaming gold-tipped badge; HMS Belfast in its Atlantic colours. She saw them all with uncaring eyes. She tolcl herself that this anxiety was ridiculous and unnecessary. She had only one small cause for guilt which perhaps, after all, wasn't really so important or so blameworthy. She had only to keep her nerve and all would be well. But her anxiety, which now amounted to active fear, grew stronger with every minute which brought her closer to Innocent House and it seemed to her that her mood infected the rest of the group. Mr de Witt usually sat in silence, often reading, on the river journey, but the girls were usually cheerful chatterers. This morning all of them fell into silence as the launch slowly rocked to its usual mooring ring to the right of the steps. De Witt suddenly said: 'Innocent House. Well, here we are...' His voice held a note of spurious jollity as if they had all returned from a boat trip, but his face was stern. She wondered what was the matter with him, what he was thinking. Then slowly, with the others, she carefully made her way up the tide-washed steps onto the marble patio, bracing herself to meet whatever the day had in store.

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17

George Copeland, standing behind the protection of his reception desk in embarrassed ineptitude, heard the clatter of feet on the cobbles with relief. So the launch had arrived at last. Lord Stilgoe halted his angry pacing and they both turned to the door. The little group came through in a bunch with James de Witt at the front. Mr de Witt gave one look at George's worried face and asked quickly: 'What's wrong, George?'

It was Lord Stilgoe who answered. Without greeting de Witt he said grimly: 'Etienne's missing. I had an appointment to meet him in his office at nine o'clock. When I arrived there was no one here but the receptionist and the cleaner. It's not the way I expect to be treated. My time is valuable even if Etienne's isn't. I have a hospital appointment this morning.'

De Witt said easily: 'How do you mean, missing? I expect he's got held up in the traffic.'

George broke in: 'He must be here somewhere, Mr de Witt. His jacket is over the chair in his office. I looked there when he didn't reply to my ring. And the front door wasn't locked when I arrived this morning, not with the Banham. I got in with just the Yale. And the alarm hadn't been set. Miss Claudia's just arrived. She's checking

now.'

They all moved, as if driven by a common impulse, into the hall. Claudia Etienne, with Mrs Demery at her shoulder, was coming out of Blackie's office.

She said: 'George is right. He must be here somewhere. His jacket is over the chair and his bunch of keys in the top right-hand drawer.' She turned to George. 'You've checked at number ten?'

'Yes, Miss Claudia. Mr Bartrum's arrived but there's no one else in the building. He had a look and rang back. He says that Mr Gerard's Jaguar is there, parked where it was last night.'