The Corpse of St James's (11 page)

‘You're in need of some rest, aren't you, love?'

‘Not as much as Jonathan is,' I said with a sigh. ‘He looks awful, and it isn't just pain. Alan, he lied to us.'

‘He didn't tell us all the truth,' said Alan. ‘There's a difference.'

‘Lying by omission, you called it.'

‘About how he met with his accident,' he went on, ignoring me.

‘At least about that. Do you think the rest was true?'

‘As far as it went. It was painful for him, too painful to be a made-up story. His one fault as a policeman was always that he had trouble masking his feelings.'

‘I can relate. But why would he lie about his accident?'

‘Obviously,' said Alan, ‘because he doesn't want us to know how it really happened. Which means someone else is involved.'

‘Jemima.'

‘It all comes down to Jemima, doesn't it? And if she knew her daughter was pregnant, and she and Jonathan quarrelled about it . . . He contradicted himself, did you notice? At first he said he just fell, then that he tripped over his cane.'

‘I missed that. I was so horrified by the rest of the story. But Alan, you're surely not suggesting . . . her own daughter?'

‘It's not as uncommon as you'd like to think. You know perfectly well that the first suspect in any murder case is a member of the family. A spouse, if there is one, but mother, father, brother, sister . . . unpleasant, but true.'

‘The first recorded murder was a fratricide,' I said soberly.

‘Jonathan isn't necessarily lying to protect Jemima,' Alan went on. ‘He may have been injured by someone else, or in a way that he finds too embarrassing to relate.'

‘He wouldn't lie over something that was just embarrassing,' I argued. ‘At least not to us. He respects you, Alan. He
reveres
you. Yes, he does, don't look at me that way. He'd only lie about something really important.'

‘Like what?'

And there we were stuck. Neither of us could think of something Jonathan would want to conceal, after he'd already told us so much.

The Horse and Groom was small and not very crowded, but what clientele there were, were exclusively male. I was very glad I had decided not to go in by myself.

Joe Smith spotted us before we identified him.

‘You'll be Bob Finch's friend, then?'

The voice came from a rather dark corner. I shaded my eyes and saw him – a small man with a countryman's face and an air of deep suspicion. We approached.

‘And who's this, then?' He glowered at Alan, with a sideways nod of his head towards me.

‘This is my wife, Dorothy Martin.'

‘Thought you said your name was Nesbitt.'

Alan smiled genially. ‘Alan Nesbitt, sir. I see your glass is empty. Will you have another?'

‘Don't mind if I do,' said Joe Smith, his manner edging a point or two away from hostility. He waved a hand towards a chair in what I took as an invitation to sit.

When Alan came back with three brimming pints and several packets of crisps (what we Americans call potato chips), Joe relaxed even more. ‘Cheers, mate,' he said, raising his glass. He downed half its contents in one swig while I took a genteel sip. By now I really was hungry, and beer on an empty stomach wasn't such a good idea. I helped myself to a handful of crisps.

‘You'll be wondering why my wife and I wanted to talk to you,' said Alan.

Joe shrugged. ‘So long as you're buyin', mate, don't know as I care.'

‘Well, then, what can you tell me about life in the palace? Seems a rather extraordinary place to live.'

‘Can't tell you about the family, y'know. Took me oath.'

‘Does that include the corgis?'

‘Ah, them!' He raised a trouser leg to reveal a bandage on his ankle. ‘See that there? That's just the latest. That's Emma did that. Rest of 'em behave themselves, mostly, but Emma, she's got it in for me.'

I couldn't stay silent. ‘Does the Queen know Emma bites you?'

‘Can't talk about the Queen,' he said, and polished off the rest of his pint.

Alan gave me a ‘
Keep still
' look. ‘How long have you lived at the palace, Joe?'

He considered. ‘Twenty years come Michaelmas.'

‘Then you must have seen a good many corgis come and go.'

‘Corgis, and people. I don't just work with the dogs, you know. I'm a footman, and we do all sorts of things.'

‘Are you allowed to talk at all about your work? The kinds of things you do all day? Most of us never get a glimpse inside the ordinary workings of the palace,' Alan added.

Joe looked pointedly at his empty glass. Alan rose, lifting his eyebrows at me. I put a hand over my almost full glass, but mouthed ‘food'. He gave a tiny shrug and went to see what he could do.

‘How did you get to know Bob Finch, Mr Smith?' Surely that was a safe topic, something he wouldn't mind talking about, even to a woman.

‘We were at school together, weren't we? Village school, mind you. Donkey's years ago, that was.'

‘Was that near Sherebury?'

‘Brockhurst.' He named a village a few miles from the Cathedral city. ‘Lived there all my life, till I came to London.'

I wanted to ask why he came to London at all, but Alan returned with the beer and more crisps. He handed the packets to me with an apologetic look. ‘They don't do much in the way of food, it seems.' He turned back to Joe.

‘You were about to tell me what, exactly, a footman does. Besides ride on the back of carriages.'

‘Bit of everything, really. No two days alike. I used to drive a bus. Same thing, day after day. Couldn't stick it. There's parts of this job I could do without, like the corgis. But most of it is interesting, and I got me mates to talk to.'

Ah. If there was any point to this conversation at all, which I was beginning to doubt as I ate my substitute for real food, we were approaching it. His mates. I kept my silence while Alan probed.

‘I expect you've made a good many friends in twenty years.'

‘Like I said, the people come and go. A few stay on, but there's not many been there as long as me. Couple of the women.'

‘I don't suppose you've ever come across a woman named Jemima? I don't recall her last name, but I think she works for the Lord Chamberlain's Office.'

Joe's face had darkened. ‘You a friend of hers?'

‘Friend of a friend,' said Alan. ‘I don't actually know her.'

‘She's a troublemaker, that one,' said Joe. ‘Anyone'll say the same. She's got a kid needs a good smack on the bottom. Ran away from a tour one time, right through the palace, and her mum never stopped her. Could've run into one of the family, couldn't she?'

‘Oh, dear,' I ventured to put in. ‘You can't have that sort of thing, can you?'

‘Too right we can't! If it happens again, the woman will be out on her ear, I can tell you that. And not many tears left behind, either.'

‘She doesn't have friends?' Alan took up the conversation again.

‘One or two. She doesn't mix much.' Joe applied himself to his beer. ‘If you're going to report back to your friend, you can tell him I said she's a good worker. She can put on a smile for visitors, butter up the mucky-mucks when she has to. I'll give her that. And she knows a lot about the art that's all over the place. Wants to get into that side of it, as I hear. Curator, something like that. But she's nervy, short-tempered with anybody she thinks beneath her. And that's most of us. No, nobody'll be very sorry, or surprised, when she gets the sack.'

He put down his glass with a thump. ‘Ta very much. Time to take the darling puppies for their walkies.'

And he was gone.

‘Well, I must say that wasn't very much help,' I said as I finished my glass. ‘Can't we find one single person who's willing to gossip about what goes on inside those gilded halls?'

‘We've only tried one so far,' Alan reminded me. ‘You're cross because you're hungry.'

‘The crisps didn't do much for me,' I admitted.

‘Very well, let's find some sustenance and plan our next moves.'

W
e found tea at one of the many small hotels that dot the area around Victoria Station and the palace. It wasn't the Ritz, but there was good strong tea and enough carbohydrates to keep me happy for a while. Alan, as usual, was right. My mood improved markedly after my third scone.

‘There are really only two courses open to us at this point,' said Alan, tenting his fingers in his familiar lecturing pose. ‘We've exhausted our one resource at the palace. Obviously the employees are well-trained and loyal. No one's going to talk to us, unofficial as we are. So –' he ticked off our options on his fingers – ‘we can go to the police with what we know, or we can go to Jemima and demand some answers.'

‘I'm in favour of the latter,' I said, wiping strawberry jam off my fingers. ‘I don't know if we'll get anything out of her, because she's bound to be in a pretty fragile state, but we're not getting anywhere. If she can't, or won't, give us any information, we'll have to go to Carstairs and let the chips fall where they may.'

‘And I don't mind telling you,' said Alan as he stood and fished out his wallet, ‘that I'll feel mightily relieved when we've done that. This business of acting ex officio is not my cup of tea.'

‘It's as bad as that time back in Indiana, isn't it?' We had visited my hometown on a memorable occasion when we wound up investigating the death of one of my dear old friends, and Alan was frustrated by his lack of police powers.

‘Worse, because there I didn't have to worry particularly about stepping on anyone's toes. Here in London the toes are thick on the ground.'

‘And some of them,' I added grimly, ‘might even be able to boot us off to the Tower.'

‘They don't imprison people there any more, as you very well know.'

‘I was using the term metaphorically.'

We had headed up Buckingham Palace Road, and when the palace came into sight, my stomach began to clench, and I regretted that last scone. ‘Do you have her phone number?'

‘No.' Alan pulled out his mobile. A quick call to Letty produced Jemima's number. He punched it in while I waited anxiously.

‘Yes, good afternoon. My name is Alan Nesbitt. We met a few days ago at the Investiture; I was with your cousin Jonathan. It's quite urgent I speak with you.' He had spoken rapidly, probably fearing she would hang up. Now there was a brief pause. ‘Now, if it's at all possible. I'm just outside the Forecourt.' Pause. ‘Yes. Five minutes? Oh, and my wife is with me.' He pocketed the phone.

‘That sounded hopeful.'

‘She wants to meet at the Canada Gate. Shall we?' He gave me his arm as we negotiated the busy crossing.

The Canada Gate is one of those pieces of useless decoration that I so love in London. It isn't really the gate to anything, since there is no fence on either side. You go around it, not through it, to get into Green Park. But it's perfectly gorgeous, gilded everywhere the designers could think to put gold, and quintessentially ‘royal' in impact. It does not, however, have any handy benches nearby, and my feet and knees were beginning to complain. I hoped Jemima wouldn't keep us waiting long.

She did not. She came striding towards us within seconds after we arrived at the gate, and every movement of her body showed us she was furious.

‘How dare you!' she said the moment she was near enough to be heard. Her tone was low and menacing. Plainly she would have preferred to scream at us. ‘You wait days to tell me my only child is dead, and now you have something “urgent” to tell me? Well, I have something to tell you, both of you. You can both go and—'

‘Jemima.' I laid a hand on her arm. She had ignored me until then, but she whirled and shook off my hand.

‘No, but just listen a minute,' I said in my most soothing tones. ‘If you're still angry after you hear what we have to say, you can shout, scream, whatever you want, but let's go sit down and talk about this like reasonable people.'

‘I don't feel like sitting down!'

‘No, but I'm a great deal older than you are, and I do need to sit, so please.' I gestured to a nearby set of steps and smiled. It took an effort, but I smiled, and it helped. With a grimace, Jemima marched off to the steps and sat, arms folded, chin out.
I dare you to change my mind.
She didn't say it aloud. She didn't need to.

I sat down next to Jemima. Alan stepped back and let me take over. ‘I think, Jemima, that you may not quite understand what's happening here.' She opened her mouth, but I shook my head. ‘No, you promised to listen.' She hadn't, but she closed her mouth again. ‘Alan and I, along with Jonathan, have been risking a good deal on your behalf. We have, all three of us, withheld information from the police. That is very much against the law. We have done so to try to save you from their attentions and, worse, from the attentions of the media.'

She was at least listening now. I went on. ‘You've had a dreadful experience. I won't try to pretend that I understand how you feel, because I never had children. I do not, from personal experience, know what you're going through, but I do know it's been horrific, and my heart bleeds for you. But my dear, think how much worse it would be if the press made a meal of it!'

‘And you think you can do something to stop that.' Her voice was flat, her face full of cynicism.

‘I don't know,' I said honestly. ‘We can only try. If we can present the police with a solution to the crime before they even know you're involved, we have a chance. You know yourself that if they come here to question you, or even ask you to come to them, some of the gutter press are going to get hold of it. They're completely unscrupulous about how they get information, and how they use it.'