The Corpse of St James's (13 page)

‘I tried not to listen. They're hateful, all of them!' The gin seemed to be loosening Jemima's tongue. ‘They . . . they called her a little slut, said she was headed for trouble. Some of them know I used to . . . get into some trouble myself when I was young, and said she was taking after me. I hate them all!'

‘Why would they say things like that?' I asked gently. ‘Was it her clothes, or her language, or . . .?'

‘I don't know! I suppose she overdid the make-up a bit. She was tall for her age, and beginning to develop a bit of figure, and she wanted to look older. You know how it is at that age.' She looked at me doubtfully, as if wondering whether I'd ever been a teenager.

‘How well I remember! A woman spends her whole life wanting to be twenty-five.' I suddenly remembered that Melissa would never be twenty-five. Lynn gave me a reproving look, which I deserved. It had been a stupid remark. But I ploughed on. ‘What I was getting at was this: do you think any of the staff had seen Melissa flirting with some young man while on her palace odyssey?'

‘She was thirteen!' Jemima set her glass down with a thump. ‘The staff are all much older. The youngest footman must be twenty, at least. Besides she was too angry to think of anything else. She gets into . . . she used to get into these huge rages, tantrums, almost. When she was like that she was blind and deaf to everything.'

I sighed. ‘I understand what you're saying. But Jemima, someone seduced your daughter. Someone got her pregnant. I'm sorry to say it so baldly, but it has to be said. I thought it might be someone from the palace, but if you don't like that idea, who was it, then? Have you no idea at all?'

‘Some lout from school, probably. What on earth does it matter?'

I bit my lip. I hated to do this to her. ‘Jemima, listen. I know this is impossibly hard for you. But we want, we need, to find out who killed Melissa. She was killed in London. Your mother says the last time she ran away was three months ago, and that she admitted going to London. The timing is right. So you're right, it could be some boy from her school. But why would he come to London? Nothing about that makes sense.'

‘But nothing about anything makes sense! And nothing matters any more, nothing! My daughter is dead, and it's my fault!'

That tore it. Jemima's sobs escalated into full-blown hysterics. By the time we had calmed her down, there was no way I could make myself ask her any more questions. I wasn't sure she had any useful answers, anyway.

Lynn wanted to put her to bed, but Jemima was having none of it. ‘Are you sure you're well enough?' Lynn persisted. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you look dreadful.'

‘I have to get back to the palace. I don't know what excuse I'm going to use. I can't lose my job on top of everything else.'

‘You'll have to say you're ill,' said Alan. ‘It's not so far from the truth. And Jemima, the time has come. I need a list of the people working in the palace that day who might possibly have fallen within Melissa's erratic orbit. And then I need your permission to take this information to Chief Superintendent Carstairs.'

I held my breath. But she shook her head.

‘I can't let you do that. It's not just about me and my job, honestly. I'll probably lose that anyway. It's . . . oh, well, damn it, I suppose I do have some loyalty to the dear old much maligned royals. It can't be pleasant living in a goldfish bowl, and really the Queen can be quite decent. So no, if there's any way to keep scandal away from Buck House, I'd rather do it that way.'

‘It will be much harder,' Alan warned. ‘None of us has any authority to question anyone, and we can't go about kidnapping all our witnesses.' He smiled at Jemima, who managed a tiny smile in return. ‘However, the sentiment does you credit. How soon can you get me that list?'

‘If you get me back to the palace within ten minutes, and I can sneak into my office without the dragon noticing, I may be able to claim I had a headache and had to lie down for a while. Then I can find out some names of the youngest footmen and phone you tonight.'

‘Not just the youngest,' I said as we made our goodbyes to Tom and Lynn and hurried down the stairs. ‘Pay attention to the best-looking ones, and the friendliest.'

‘They're none of them friendly to me,' she muttered.

‘Taxi!' Alan called.

W
e were both exhausted by the time we got home. The house was chilly, and Sam and Emmy were querulous. We had been away from home entirely too much of late, and they told us, at some length, that they felt unloved and neglected. I wanted only to go to bed, but I felt obliged to sit on the couch with a cat on either side and pet them until they purred their forgiveness. Alan, meanwhile, built a fire against the chill that had come with the morning's rain, and then disappeared into the kitchen, followed by an alert Watson.

When the cats had purred themselves to sleep, and I was near that state myself, Alan came back from the kitchen with roast beef sandwiches on good, crusty bread. ‘I'm not hungry,' I said, massaging Sam's favourite spot behind her left ear.

‘I know. Neither am I. But we have to stay up to wait for Jemima's call, and food will help. Try it, at least.'

Once I bit into a sandwich, I discovered I was ravenous. I ate it all, except for the fragments of beef that Sam and Emmy claimed as their due. Cats can, at times, be magnificently oblivious to human mental distress, though they are usually attentive to physical illness. Their indifference can be refreshing. Dogs, on the other hand, are never indifferent to their humans, or to food. Watson got his share, too.

The food did help. A cup of coffee would have helped still more, too much, in fact. I wanted to sleep tonight. I wanted to sleep right now. I was nodding off, a cat in my lap and a dog on my feet, when Alan's mobile rang. I jumped, and the animals scattered.

‘Ah, Jemima. First of all, were you able to placate the dragon?' Pause. ‘Good. Now, what do you have for me?' A lengthy pause, while Alan wrote on a notepad. ‘Excellent. Now, have you any suggestions for how to approach these gentlemen? Do they frequent the Horse and Groom?' Pause, punctuated by various assenting noises. ‘Good. Yes. Yes. Goodnight.'

I was wide awake by that time. ‘Well?'

‘Four names. Young and/or good-looking footmen. They are apparently not as hostile to Jemima as the others, or at least as she thinks the others are.'

‘I suspect a good deal of it is her own attitude. If she'd loosen up a bit, she'd find it easier to make friends.'

‘Yes. Well, at any rate, these four prefer another pub, the Bag O' Nails.' He paused. ‘Jemima gave me their phone numbers.'

I was very tired. I sat silent for a long time. Watson came back and sat at my feet, feeling I was in need of a comforting dog. Finally I said, ‘Tom and Lynn have a spare room. Shall we ask if we can use it for a few days?'

‘I'll phone them. Go to bed, love.'

I went.

I slept later than usual the next morning. It felt like the first time in weeks I had been able to indulge myself. Alan brought me a cup of coffee when he thought I was about due to wake. ‘Feeling better, my dear?'

‘Mmm.' I sipped the magical brew.

‘I would have let you sleep longer, but I was afraid you'd wake with a headache.'

‘Mmm.' I needed a bit longer to surface. Alan kindly left me alone with my coffee.

I had showered, dressed, and begun nibbling on a piece of toast before my dear husband asked me to face the day.

‘If you can bear another train ride, love, I've talked to Tom and Lynn. They'll be delighted to have us stay with them for however long we need to. Jane will look after the cats.'

‘And Watson?' The dog looked up at the mention of his name, his tail wagging hopefully.

‘Watson comes with us. I'll actually feel better about you meeting potential murderers if he's with you.'

I know dogs don't understand much English. But I'll swear he had a smug expression on his face.

Watson is the first dog I've ever owned, so I don't know if dogs are allowed on American trains. I rather doubt it. But dogs are very important people in England, so they're welcome nearly everywhere. The Queen's corgis aren't the only dogs to be treated like royalty.

We packed for a week. I hoped we wouldn't be away that long, but the way this investigation was going, it might take us at least a week to learn anything important. That meant taking a week's worth of dog food and treats, and Watson's favourite toys, as well as his food and water bowls, and the bags and scoop to deal with his less pleasant artefacts.

‘We need a diaper bag,' I said, surveying the growing stack of impedimenta. ‘It's like travelling with a toddler.'

‘No bottles or rattles,' said Alan. ‘Otherwise, I agree.'

We caught the train with about ten seconds to spare. Watson baulked at the last minute, not at all sure he wanted to climb those nasty-looking steps into a place he knew nothing about, but we managed somehow. ‘Never been on a train before, have you, old boy?' said Alan, sounding like a doting papa. It seemed a reasonable assumption. We found Watson, or rather he found us, as a mature dog, after his previous owner died, so we didn't know a lot about his background. I was a little uneasy about how he might behave on the journey, but once he observed that we were calm and comfortable, he decided that a train was acceptable, and went to sleep at Alan's feet.

‘Do we have a plan of action once we get there?' I asked Alan. The carriage was deserted except for the three of us.

‘Not really. We'll phone the first man on the list, find out when he's available to talk to us, and go from there.'

‘Oh, I
wish
it weren't all so nebulous!' I pounded the arm of my seat in frustration, and Watson woke for a moment. ‘It's all right, dog, But . . . oh, Alan, every day that passes means the Met will have a harder time working the case, and every day makes me feel guiltier about not telling Carstairs everything.'

‘I know. I keep on trying to think what else we could have done, and finding no other course. But if we learn nothing in the next day or two, we'll have no choice but to go to Carstairs.'

‘And take our lumps.'

Alan shook his head wearily. ‘Whatever “lumps” he doles out will be minor, compared to the beating I'll give myself, if this case is never solved.'

There was no possible reply to that.

Tom and Lynn's house is within easy walking distance of Victoria Station, but not with two large suitcases, Watson's carryall, and Watson himself. Alan bundled me and the luggage into a taxi. ‘I'll take the old boy and meet you there. We could both use the exercise.'

‘You'll probably get there first,' I said. The traffic was even worse than usual. It was high tourist season in London, and besides the cars and buses and taxis, bewildered travellers were afoot everywhere, speaking every conceivable language and getting in each other's way.

‘I don't know,' I murmured. ‘Maybe Sam Johnson was wrong after all.'

‘Beg pardon, madam?' said the driver.

Tom and Lynn received us with the minimum of fuss, showed us our room, made much of Watson, and then left us to our own devices. ‘Because,' said Lynn, ‘this is business. We'll have a wingding when you've put the puzzle together. Meanwhile, here are two house keys and a key to the garden. Come and go exactly as you like. We're here when and if you want company, but otherwise ignore us.'

‘I'm glad they have such faith in us,' I said, sitting down on the bed. ‘I'm not as optimistic.'

‘Need some chocolate?'

‘No.' I stood up again and started to unpack. ‘Alan, I don't mean to be grumpy, but what I need is not sympathy, but an idea. A direction.'

‘Then leave that silly unpacking and come for a walk with me.'

Alan so seldom issues an order that I was startled into dropping the jacket I was hanging up, and following him out the door.

Belgravia is one of the loveliest areas of London. If you ever saw the old television series
Upstairs, Downstairs
, you know exactly what it looks like. Streets are lined with elegant Georgian houses, set off by gleaming black iron fences and small potted trees by every front door. Many windows sport boxes full of cascading flowers, and here and there a small garden occupies a square. These are fenced and gated, for use only by the residents.

Watson was very interested in the smell of the garden opposite the Andersons' house. ‘We have the key,' said Alan. ‘Shall we?'

‘Did you bring a bag, just in case? I can't imagine what they'd do to a dog that fouled a path in this neck of the woods.'

‘Not the dog, the owners. Shot at sunrise, I imagine. I have a bag.'

We wandered through the garden. There wasn't a lot to it, really, just a few patches of grass, bushes, gravelled paths. We let Watson off the leash and he wandered happily, sniffing, checking out all the other dogs that had visited there since time immemorial.

Somewhere in the distance there was a hint of martial music. ‘Is there a parade or something?' I asked.

‘Dorothy, we're very near the palace and Wellington Barracks. It won't be the Changing of the Guard, that's in the morning, but they're probably practising for something.'

The sound came and went, now borne to us on the wind, now buried under traffic noise. The beat of the drum was the one constant, the pattern changing from time to time but the rhythm as steady as my heartbeat.

Rhythms. Patterns.

‘Alan, we're missing something. Something critical. I don't know what it is, but there's a thread to this somewhere, if we could only find it. I've been thinking about it a lot. Well, all the time, really. I have begun to think it's naïve to suppose that Melissa just happened to come to visit her mother, just happened to run away and roam the palace for hours, just happened to meet someone, just happened to get seduced by him. Somewhere there's a pattern, I know it. If only I can figure out what it is!'