The Corpse of St James's (19 page)

Letty eventually dredged it out of her memory. ‘It's in Bond Street, I think.'

‘Yes, it would be,' said Lynn, the art lover. ‘I think I know it, actually. So now, Dorothy, you and I are going to organize a shopping trip. Tomorrow, I think, don't you?'

‘Wait a minute,' said Jemima. ‘I have the right to know what you plan to do. Melissa was my daughter, and my cousin is suspected in her murder.'

‘Yes, you need to know,' I said. ‘I'm guessing that Lynn wants us to go to the gallery, looking like ordinary shoppers. I couldn't pull it off, but Lynn knows galleries.' I looked around at the dining room walls, hung with paintings that were either original Impressionists or very, very good copies. ‘She'll be able to convince them that she's a genuine customer. Meanwhile, I hope to strike up a conversation with Bert. If he still works there. If he's in. If, if, if.'

‘And what exactly do you intend to say in that conversation?'

This was the tricky part. ‘I'll play it by ear, but my idea now is to find out if he knows anything about the Royal Collection. Not just what's in it, I mean – I doubt even the Queen knows what all she has—'

‘It doesn't belong to the Queen, my dear,' said Alan. ‘It belongs to the Crown. Quite a different matter.'

‘I do know that. Manner of speaking.' Personally I thought the distinction rather fine, but I had the sense not to say so. ‘But what I want from Bert is anything he can tell me about the curators, or guardians, or whatever they're called. The people who look after the Collection; who know about it.'

‘You're trying to find out who might have met Melissa.' Jemima's voice sounded dead.

‘That, among other things.'

Letty gave me a pointed look before she got up and went on her way, but I was not prepared to say any more.

At least not then and there, to Jemima and the rest. That night, though, as Alan and I were settling down in bed, and trying to discourage Watson from joining us, Alan said, ‘What are you really after tomorrow, Dorothy?'

‘What I told Jemima. I want to know who might have crossed Melissa's path at the palace.'

‘What else?'

‘You're a policeman. You don't have to be told.'

‘No. Tell me anyway.'

‘I think Bert may have had more to do with his daughter than anyone knows. I think those repeated visits to London might have been to see him, at least in part.'

‘You're not suggesting . . .'

‘Incest. No. I devoutly hope not, and anyway I have a hunch . . . well. No, but I have the feeling Bert might well put us on a path to finding Melissa's lover. And her murderer.'

‘Put
you
on the path. Remember, I'm out of this. I've blotted my copybook.'

‘Yes, and I know you'll carefully refrain from giving me any suggestions, or bailing me out when I get into trouble.'

‘You'd better not get into trouble.'

He turned out the light, and Watson, assuming that since we couldn't see him we would not know he was jumping on the bed, proceeded to settle right in the middle.

I'd planned to get up early, but what with Watson and my uneasy thoughts, I didn't really get to sleep until the wee hours, and then I slept like a rock. Alan woke me with a cup of Lynn's wonderful coffee.

‘It's nearly ten, love. If you're off on a shopping binge with Lynn, you'd better get cracking.'

‘Mm.'

Alan grinned, mussed up my hair, and left me to surface in peace.

Once I'd regained full consciousness, I showered in haste and then considered what to wear. I hadn't packed with the intent of visiting an upscale gallery with an upscale lady, but I had tossed in my one and only Little Black Dress. Not so little any more, owing to my love of carbohydrates, but undeniably black and understated. With pearls it would have to do.

I headed for the stairs and ran smack into Jonathan. ‘Dorothy, may I speak to you for a moment?'

I nodded and looked around. There was no one in sight, but conversation from the floor below told me Alan and Tom and Lynn were nearby. ‘If it's private, we'd better duck back into your room. Alan might come up and pop into ours.'

‘I don't suppose it's especially private. I just wanted to say I've been a fool, and I know it. I . . . it's jealousy, you see. I never thought of Jemima as anyone I cared about, so when I found out about her pregnancy, all those years ago, I didn't understand why I . . . well, I was watching you yesterday, your face, and you seem to have worked something out that I didn't even know until just now. I . . . I thought I was only trying to protect Aunt Letty, when all the time . . . and I've always thought of her as more like a sister, and now it's all gone pear-shaped. I don't know what to do.'

He sounded more like a lovesick teenager than a man in his thirties. ‘I can't tell you, Jonathan. You have to work it out for yourself.'

‘I know. But what I really wanted to tell you was to go ahead and do what you need to do to find Bert and . . . say anything you want to him. We need to find Melissa's murderer, and if the police keep on thinking I did it, they're not going to look much further.'

‘I don't know how true that is. I find it hard to believe that the Met will accept the easy answer, but I
can
imagine that they may spend a bit more effort just now trying to find proof of your guilt than looking for another suspect. And since they won't be able to find that proof, you not being guilty, it will, perforce, take up a lot of their time.'

‘Yes.'

He looked so downcast I had to give him what encouragement I could. ‘Don't worry too much, Jonathan. You know better than most that the police are efficient and conscientious. They don't put many innocent people in prison.'

‘Not many. But there have been some. You know there have been some.'

‘Yes, well, then we'll just have to trust in God, won't we?' And leaving him with what was obviously a startling idea, I went downstairs to my breakfast.

‘Seeing as it's nearly lunchtime,' said Lynn with an assumed air of martyrdom, ‘I'm making omelettes. Is there anything you don't like by way of filling?'

‘I've never been too partial to pickled herring in an omelette, but other than that . . .'

‘If I had any, I'd put it in just to spite you. Sit down now. They only take a second.'

Less than an hour later, replete, we sallied forth into a beautiful day, warm and sunny, with the smell of summer in the air.

‘Are those roses I smell?'

‘You ask that in England? There are roses everywhere they can possibly be made to grow, even in London. I think the nearest ones are actually in the garden two squares away, but in weather like this, you can smell them even over the diesel fumes. Hi! Taxi!'

Bond Street wasn't that far away. I was getting nervous. ‘What are we going to do if he doesn't work there any more?'

‘Ask where he's gone. I can play the grande dame and say I prefer to deal with Bert, personally. I don't have to give a reason. Rich bitches don't need reasons. But if he's there, then I'll get all snooty with the gallery owner and act like I'm going to spend a bundle, and you can chat up Bert while I debate about whether I like the one with the invisible white cubes or the one with the invisible black lines.'

‘Oh. It's that kind of gallery.'

‘Probably. Most of them are these days. Don't worry. I'll twist them around my little finger. And here we are.'

Lynn paid the driver what seemed to me an exorbitant amount of money for a short ride, and we went inside the imposing premises of the Andrews Gallery.

They seemed imposing to me, anyway. Intimidating, even. There is something about the atmosphere of a place where lots and lots of money changes hands that gives me a cold chill. Lynn was used to it and batted nary an eyelash.

A white-haired man was seated at a desk at the back of the room. Even my unpractised eye could see that it was an antique, a fine example of what Jemima would call the decorative arts. Louis the Fourteenth, perhaps, or that sort of style, anyway. The carpet it was sitting on was the sort I would have hung on a wall, had I been fortunate enough to own such an exquisite piece of weaving. I was very glad the weather was good. The thought of walking on the probably priceless rug with wet feet made me cringe.

The paintings on the walls didn't match the surroundings. I nearly giggled as I looked at one canvas that was apparently blank, though on a closer inspection it had some sort of pattern in the brushwork. Lynn's invisible white cubes.

The white-haired man rose and smiled with just the right degree of condescension. We might be customers, but he was certainly not going to be mistaken for anything so crude as a salesman. ‘Good morning, ladies. Lovely morning.'

‘Yes,' said Lynn crisply. ‘I wonder if Bert is here this morning.' She allowed her accent to become somewhat more American than usual, and her attitude to become far less amenable.

‘Bert? Oh, Robert.' White-hair frowned. ‘He is no longer with us, but I assure you, madam—'

‘I prefer to deal with Bert. Where has he gone?'

‘Er . . . I believe he has opened his own gallery, madam. I could not say whether he is able to offer quite the standard of quality—'

‘Where is it?' Really, Lynn cultivated a very nice standard of quality herself. In rudeness, that is.

‘Madam?'

‘Bert's gallery.
Where is it?
' She had raised her voice, as to the deaf or stupid, and was speaking with a cut-glass emphasis on each word.

‘Er . . . I believe I may have the address somewhere.'

‘Good.' Lynn sat down on one of the spindly little gilt chairs that were clearly there for decoration and crossed her legs, plainly prepared to stay there till she got what she wanted, if it took all day.

White-hair conceded, if with a bad grace. He went back to his desk and pulled out a rather dirty business card. ‘Ah. Here we are, madam. I hope you won't be disappointed.'

‘Do you?' said Lynn, and swept out, trailing invisible robes, and me, in her wake.

‘Goodness!' I said as we waited for a taxi. ‘That was an impressive performance, I must say. I was ready to curtsey.'

‘I was always a hit in the minor roles at Bryn Mawr.'

The address we'd been given was in Chelsea, not quite as upper crust as Bond Street, but very close. ‘Hmm,' I said when the taxi drew up to the kerb, ‘I wonder. Didn't Letty say Bert had a flat in Chelsea? I wonder if he lives over the shop.'

We paused before the door. ‘Robert Hathaway, Fine Art' was written in flowing gold script on the glass.

‘Bert Higgins, Robert Hathaway. How the lowly have risen,' was Lynn's comment. ‘Shall we?'

The shop was smaller than the Bond Street place, and furnished less opulently. On the other hand, I greatly preferred the art. These paintings were recognizably pictures of something or someone. Small, friendly-looking
objets d'art
sat here and there on shelves and one lovely little piecrust table. And on one corner of the mantel sat – aha! – a very nice Staffordshire dog.

No human being was in sight, but the ping of the opening door brought a voice from behind a curtain at the back of the store. ‘Hullo! Be with you in a tick!'

‘I might just be minded to buy something in here,' said Lynn
sotto voce
. ‘I like his style.'

‘
Much
nicer than old stuffed shirt back there,' I agreed.

‘And what can I do for you today, or would you just like to look?' The young man was dressed in designer jeans and a white shirt that managed to be both elegant and casual at the same time. He was very good-looking, tanned and fit, and had an engaging smile.

I took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I just wanted to talk to you. That is . . . you
are
Bert Higgins, aren't you?'

H
is smile faded. ‘That's the name I was born with, yeah. Why?'

‘I don't know quite how to tell you this, but I've become a friend of your cousin Jemima.'

Now his expression was definitely wary. ‘Ye-es?'

‘And . . . did you know about her recent tragedy?'

‘Look, if you're trying to tell me something, just tell me, OK?'

‘Your daughter is dead, Mr Higgins. She was murdered. And I'm trying to help the police find the man who did it.'

He said nothing for at least a minute, which can be a very long time. Then he went to the door, locked it, and pulled a shade over the window.

‘I don't know about you, but I could use a cup of tea. Or something stronger. Let's go through to the back.'

Behind the curtain was a small, cluttered office, and behind that, a tiny, very clean kitchenette. ‘Sorry, only two chairs,' he said, with a glance at Lynn.

‘It's all right. I'm really just along for the ride. I'll go back out in front and take a look at your stock.' She disappeared, and I sat down.

‘Tea?' asked Bert.

‘Thank you, but I'm fine. You have some, though.'

‘If it's all the same to you . . .' he said, and pulled a bottle of Laphroaig and a glass out of a cupboard. Pouring himself a healthy splash, he sat down opposite me at the minute kitchen table and took a good swig. ‘Now. Tell me. For a start, who are you, and how did you get mixed up with my . . . with Jemima?' He took another swallow.

‘My name is Dorothy Martin, and it's a long story. You might want to ease up on that a bit.' I nodded to his nearly empty glass.

He gave me a long, not particularly friendly look, and pushed the glass away.

‘It all started the day of the Investiture, a week ago Wednesday. Or well, no, back a lot further than that, really. My husband and I have been friends with Jonathan Quinn for a long time.'

He looked up sharply at Jonathan's name.