The Corpse of St James's (16 page)

‘They're all right, but I prefer the Renaissance. Jonathan, what were you talking about?'

‘The Renaissance?' I ploughed on. ‘Now that covers a pretty broad field, and I'm afraid I'm relatively ignorant about it. Are we talking painting, sculpture, architecture . . . what?'

‘Painting and the decorative arts, really, I suppose. Jonathan, tell me!'

I put on my schoolteacher voice. ‘Really, Jemima, it will be much better if we wait until we can discuss this calmly. Meanwhile, I actually do know a little about the decorative arts. Have you ever heard of the Thorne Miniature Rooms at the Art Institute of Chicago?'

‘I don't want . . . oh, all
right
.' She gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Yes, I know what you're talking about. I've seen pictures, heavily retouched, I'm sure.'

‘Oh, no, I know the pictures you mean, and they're absolutely accurate. You wouldn't believe how perfect the scale is, and how carefully each tiny detail was planned. She was a very wealthy woman, Mrs Thorne, although not in the same league with your boss.'

‘My boss? The dragon?'

‘I think she means Her Majesty,' said Alan, with the hint of a smile in his voice.

‘Oh. Well, nobody's in her league, are they? She doesn't have to deal with miniature furniture and tapestries; she has the real thing.'

‘And you love them, don't you?'

It was the wrong thing to say. Her love of all those beautiful things had led her to the palace, away from the care of Melissa, and in one way or another, that decision had led to tragedy.

As Jemima began to sob, Letty pulled her car into the minuscule parking space next to her house. ‘You'll all have to get out on my side; sorry. Come along, love, you're skinny enough to slide under the steering wheel.'

Jemima clung to her (much smaller) mother like a child with a skinned knee.

I heard Alan say, in an undertone, ‘Jonathan, let me do the talking.'

Letty, in her no-nonsense way, settled Jemima down enough that she sat quiet in an armchair while Alan laid out the whole story, ending with the need to find Bert. ‘And in a city the size of London, it's plainly impossible to find one man without using the resources of the police. Unless you know where he is.'

Jemima shrugged. ‘I don't even know
who
he is nowadays. He changed his name when he went to work with his first London gallery, I do know that. I used to get Christmas cards from him, but it's been a long time, and I don't remember his posh name.'

‘Did he not help you get the job at the palace?' I was honestly surprised.

‘Bert Higgins hasn't helped me with anything for a very long time.' She sounded not so much bitter as utterly weary. ‘We were kids in love with beauty, never with each other. When we got a pair of Staffordshire dogs, at auction, we were over the moon, couldn't believe we'd actually done it. That was why we . . . well. We never actually meant all that much to each other. I didn't blame him for going off, well, not much, anyway.'

‘I did,' said Letty. ‘You faced up to your responsibility with a child. He never did. Left you high and dry.'

‘He had his horrible father to deal with. I don't blame him. Not now, at least. He didn't have you, Mum.'

She leaned over to give Letty a kiss, the first sign I had seen in her of any softness. Then she sat up straight and said to Alan, ‘Right. Now. What can I expect?'

As if in answer, the telephone rang. Her face filled with apprehension, Letty answered.

‘Yes? Yes.' She made a face and nodded at us. ‘Yes, she's right here. Would you like to talk to her? I see. In a few minutes, then.'

She sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘They're on their way, love.'

‘How did they sound?'

‘Non-committal. Very official.'

Alan spoke. ‘Now listen to me, all of you. I'm going to answer the door when they arrive, and introduce myself. I'll make it quite clear that I am here only as a friend of the family, which is true enough, but my former rank will keep them on their toes. Jonathan, don't volunteer your former rank, but don't lie if they ask. In fact, no lies from anyone, please, but say no more than necessary. Understood?'

When Alan speaks in full chief constable mode, people obey. We all nodded and sat silent, our hearts thudding, waiting for the police to arrive. I don't know about anyone else, but I was praying.

The knock when it came was neither loud nor threatening, but we all jumped. Alan opened the door. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector, Sergeant. My name is Nesbitt. I'm the retired chief constable of Belleshire, and a good friend of the Quinn and Higgins families. Won't you come in?'

If Alan had hoped the police officers would be disconcerted by that little speech, he was disappointed. They had obviously been warned in advance that CC Nesbitt was meddling in this affair. Gravely polite, they introduced themselves, showed their identification, and came into the small room.

‘I'll get chairs,' murmured Letty. The five of us had taken up all the available seating.

‘Please don't bother, ma'am,' said the woman, apparently the senior officer of the pair. ‘We can stand.'

‘I'm sure you can, but you'll be more comfortable sitting,' Letty retorted, and went to retrieve the kitchen chairs. Jemima started to stand, to help her, but Alan shook his head ever so slightly, and she subsided.

The woman cleared her throat and spoke to us all. ‘I'm Inspector Bradley and this is Sergeant Dalal. We are with the Sussex police, and are assisting the Metropolitan Police in their investigation into the murder of Melissa Higgins. May I assume that you are Jemima Higgins?'

It wasn't much of a guess. Jemima was the only young woman present. She nodded. ‘I am.'

‘And you are her mother, Letty Higgins?'

The inspector had spoken to me. I shook my head, and Letty, returning with two chairs, said, ‘That's me.'

‘Ah. Then you will be Mrs Martin, I take it, and you are Jonathan Quinn.'

We all nodded dumbly. I thought we looked as if we belonged in the back window of a car.

‘Well, then. Thank you, Mrs Higgins.' The inspector sat on one of the chairs and nodded to her assistant, who moved the chair quietly into the most inconspicuous spot he could find and pulled out a notebook and pencil.

‘First of all, Ms Higgins, my condolences on the loss of your daughter.'

‘Thank you.' Jemima's words were barely audible; she pulled a tissue out of her pocket and tried to stem the flow of tears.

I hoped Inspector Bradley would be merciful. Jemima was exceedingly fragile. I thought about saying something, but Alan cocked an eyebrow at me. I bit my lip and remained silent.

‘Can you tell us why you failed to report your daughter's death to the police?'

Whoa! That was hitting her between the eyes. Letty put her hand on Jemima's arm.

Jemima swallowed hard before she answered. ‘I work and live at Buckingham Palace. I was afraid that any police investigation would bring the media down on me and create a scandal.'

‘Were you concerned that you might lose your job?'

‘Partly that, but mostly I just wanted to protect the palace and the royal family. Not that they have anything to do with any of this, but you know how the media can twist things.'

‘Exactly what are your duties at the palace?'

‘I'm with the Lord Chamberlain's Office. We deal with the ceremonies connected with the royal family, at Buckingham Palace and elsewhere, but I work only at the palace. There are a good many ceremonies!'

‘Indeed.' The inspector smiled. ‘But can you be a little more specific about what you do?'

The impersonal questions were calming Jemima, I was glad to see. She had stopped shredding the tissue in her hands. Letty quietly took it away and handed her a clean one.

‘It's a lot like organizing a huge wedding, several times a month. Someone must see to the invitations, to the housing of guests if it's that sort of do, to the menu if there's food, to the details of the ceremony itself. I don't do any of the planning, actually. That's done in much higher echelons, and in a sense there's not a lot to do there, because most of the ceremonies haven't changed in years. Centuries, maybe. Take the Investiture last week, for example.' She glanced at Alan, wondering if she was saying too much, but he smiled and nodded.

‘My specific duty that day, after I'd checked the Ballroom to make sure everything was ready, was to help greet those being honoured and direct them to the briefing room. There were about a hundred of them, so three of us were assigned to that little chore. Then after the ceremony was over I had to help shepherd everyone out. But the real work was done ahead of time: preparing the invitation lists, making sure all the medals were ready, in the proper order, checking on the music – oh, a thousand details. I don't do all that, but all of us on the staff have to know, in general, what's going on and what needs to be done. We're expected to be able to step in wherever needed.'

‘Sounds like hard work.'

‘It is, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Working at the palace, I mean. I'd actually like to get into the Royal Collection Department, but those jobs aren't going begging, and I . . .'

She made a futile little gesture and stopped speaking. Inspector Bradley leaned forward. ‘I thought you said you weren't terribly concerned about losing your job if a scandal arose.'

Jemima didn't reply immediately. When she did, her voice had sunk once more to a whisper. ‘I said that wasn't my chief concern, and it's true. I do love my job, but . . . going to work there . . . leaving Melissa behind . . .' She couldn't continue.

‘We can come back later if you prefer,' the inspector said quietly to Letty, but Jemima shook her head vigorously.

‘I think she'd rather get it over,' said Letty. ‘If you'll just give her a minute?'

‘Certainly. Mrs Martin, do you think you could take her to another room where she could wash her face and so on? Meanwhile, Mrs Higgins, perhaps you could tell us a few things about Melissa.'

I would have liked to hear that, but the inspector plainly wanted Jemima to be chaperoned, and I was the obvious candidate.

She refused my hand to help her up, and led the way to Letty's small bathroom. ‘I'll be all right,' she said indistinctly. ‘It was just . . .'

‘I know. You think this is all your fault. It isn't, you know.'

‘Yes, it is! If I hadn't been so stubborn, hell-bent on that job and no other, if I'd stayed home with Melissa—'

‘Everything in the garden would have been rosy? You never had the slightest trouble with Melissa before you went to London? I find that hard to believe.'

She dismissed my remarks with a shaky wave of her hand. ‘I don't care if you believe it or not. Oh, we quarrelled. Mothers and daughters do. But there was never anything really serious until I went off and left her with Letty.'

‘Uh-huh. Melissa was a lot like you, wasn't she?'

‘I . . . what do you mean, like me?'

‘I mean she was rebellious, strong-willed, intelligent . . . and passionate about beauty. Just like you.'

She looked at me for a moment, stunned, and then sank to the floor and started to cry in earnest. This time I let her cry. She needed the release.

When her sobs had abated, I handed her a facecloth wrung out in cold water, and a fistful of tissues.

‘I look frightful,' she said when she had mopped up and looked in the mirror. That was a good sign.

‘Yes,' I said frankly. ‘Your eyes are red and the lids are puffy and your nose looks like you've had a bad cold for a week. Better have some more cold water.'

‘I can't tell if you're trying to irritate me or make me laugh,' she said shakily, and ran the water.

‘Either. Both. Anger is a more useful emotion than sorrow, you know. Up to a point, it sharpens your wits and gets the adrenalin going. You're going to have to go back in there and face them, and you'll need all the armour you can find.'

‘Yes.' She dried her face and took a deep, shaky breath. ‘I haven't made a very good showing so far, have I?'

‘A trifle spotty, perhaps.' I looked her over. ‘You'll do. Off we go.'

Letty was talking when we got back. ‘As I've said, I was not . . . not admitted to Melissa's private life. She kept it very private indeed. I made mistakes raising Jemima, interfered too much, tried to control too much. I thought the wiser course with Melissa was to give her a loose rein, let her make her own mistakes, work out the rebellion her own way.' She stopped for a moment, gripping the arms of her chair. ‘I was wrong.'

‘Mum, it's not your fault!'

‘Not my fault that she ran away several times, ran away and got herself in trouble, got herself killed in London . . .'

I was about to make the same speech I'd given Jemima, but Inspector Bradley got in first.

‘You mustn't blame yourself too much, Mrs Higgins. I have children of my own. Dealing with them is always a balancing act, and in the end, once they've reached a certain age, they make their own decisions. So you can't give me the names of her friends?'

‘Only the few I've mentioned.'

‘We'll try the school, then. Now, here's the critical question, and I wanted to save it, Ms Higgins, until you were back with us. Can either of you think of anyone who might have wished Melissa harm?'

The usual answer to that is a quick denial. Not this time. Letty and Jemima both thought hard.

‘Not in the sense you mean, Inspector,' said Letty finally. ‘Melissa could get up people's noses. She was rude to several of my neighbours, who understandably didn't have much time for her. She didn't care for school work, except for art, so she probably wasn't popular with her teachers. But as to harming her . . . no.'