The Corpse of St James's (20 page)

‘So,' I went on, ‘when Jonathan was to be awarded the George Cross, we were invited to the ceremony at Buckingham Palace, and just as we were leaving, we ran into Jemima.' I narrated the rest of the day, the discovery of the body in St James's Park, and then Jonathan's disclosure the next day that he knew who the victim was. ‘Now you know . . . or I suppose you do . . . that Jonathan was a fairly high-ranking officer with the Metropolitan Police before that terrible terrorist thing that left him too handicapped to serve. But what you don't know is that my husband used to be a policeman, too. Chief Constable of Belleshire, until his retirement a few years ago.'

‘But . . . you're American.'

‘I am. My husband is English. It's a second marriage for both of us.'

‘Wait a minute. What did you say your name was?'

‘Martin. Dorothy Martin.'

‘I read something in the paper . . . but the name wasn't Martin. Nestle . . . Desmond . . .'

‘His name is Alan Nesbitt. I kept my name when we married. I'd used it for over forty years, after all.'

‘Right. But I still don't see . . . look, I'm sorry, but what does your personal history have to do with anything?'

‘I think we might do better if you just let me tell my story,' I said, suppressing a sigh. ‘The point of my personal history, and Jonathan's, is that when Jonathan decided not to tell the police, the official police, that the body was Melissa's, he was violating not only the law – withholding evidence is a crime, you know – but his personal code of conduct.'

‘He did that? Not like him. He was always such a good little boy, was our Jon.'

‘His reasoning was that Jemima's position at the palace made her vulnerable to the lower echelons of the press, and he wished to avoid scandal, if he could. And he persuaded Alan, my husband, to go along. Which is out of character for Alan, too. That was when I began to suspect that Jonathan's feelings for Jemima were somewhat different from what he supposed them to be.'

‘You're not saying . . . Lord! Then that's why . . . Jon dropped me like a hot brick the minute he knew about Jemima's pregnancy. I could never understand why, but if . . . another thing, too. I wondered how Aunt Letty managed to find me, with the name change and all. But if she had a copper doing the hunting . . .'

‘Yes, Jonathan was the one who found you. Incidentally, the financial support you've been providing has been a great help to Letty. She wanted you to know that you could stop sending it, now that . . . well, that you could stop. But there is something else you could do that would aid us in the present situation.'

I paused. Now I truly wanted that cup of tea he had offered earlier. I was parched from so much talking. But he was really listening now, really interested in what I had to say, and I didn't want to break the mood.

Lynn did it for me. She poked her head in from the showroom. ‘Sorry to interrupt, just when you were all nice and cosy, but I'm going to run a few errands. Bert, there are two paintings I like very much, so I'll be back to talk to you about them. Does the front door lock itself . . .? Good. Have a lovely talk.'

The door pinged, and she was gone.

‘Bert, may I change my mind about that tea?'

‘Sure. Earl Grey or Darjeeling?

‘Darjeeling, please.' I watched as he moved about his kitchenette with an economy of movement which was pleasant to see. ‘Do you live here?'

‘Upstairs. I have quite a nice apartment on the upper two floors, with a proper kitchen. I like to cook. But it was a bother running up every time I wanted tea or coffee or a snack, so I had this put in. Barely room to swing a cat, but it suffices. Milk? Sugar?'

I accepted both, and we settled down again. I tried to remember where I'd left off.

‘You said I could help you somehow, but I don't quite see how. In fact, I don't see how you fit into this at all.'

‘I told you that Jonathan and Alan decided not to give the police the vital information about Melissa's identity, in the hopes that we could clear up the matter quickly ourselves.'

‘Are you a policeman . . . er . . . a police person too, then?'

I smiled. ‘No. I'm a retired schoolteacher. But I've discovered an unexpected talent for snooping, and on occasion I've been of use to the police. In this case, I'm acting entirely unofficially. You see, it became necessary to tell the police everything, and they were extremely angry with us for not telling them sooner. They didn't charge any of us – Alan because he had outranked them all at one time, Jonathan because he was a hero. You heard about that?'

‘One could hardly avoid it. It was splashed all over the news.'

‘Had you heard about the George Cross, until I told you just now?'

‘No. I'm not surprised, though. Jon was always brave, and always soft about kids. He saved a couple of them from drowning once, at Brighton, only it didn't get put about. He didn't want anyone to make a fuss about it. He deserves that medal, several times over.'

‘You were really good friends, weren't you?'

‘The best mate I had, ever.' Bert made a dismissive gesture. ‘But you were telling me how you got mixed up in this business.'

‘Well, with Jonathan and Alan both out on their ears, so to speak, I was the only one still free to poke around and see what I could find out.'

‘Well, I'm sure you're a splendid Miss Marple, or whatever, but perhaps it would be just as well to leave it to the police?'

‘It looks as though the police think Jonathan did it.'

‘Jon! But that's . . . that's . . .'

‘Ridiculous. But look at it from their point of view. He was closely involved with the family. He was in the vicinity. He was actually there when Alan found Melissa's body, and then he concealed her identity from the police. No other viable suspect has surfaced. They don't
want
it to be Jonathan, but that very fact is going to make them careful to keep him at the top of their list. And there's something else you don't know.' I debated for a moment, and then decided, in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Melissa was three months pregnant.'

‘
What?
She's a child! It's impossible!'

‘She was fourteen. It's entirely possible. And true, I'm sorry to say.'

He stood, turned away from me. I waited while he fought for control, thinking all the while what a pity it was that men were ashamed to cry.

When he thought he could trust himself to speak, he said, ‘Are you telling me you think Jon's the father of Melissa's baby?'

‘I don't think so. The police may. DNA testing would prove the matter, one way or another, but that's terribly expensive and takes a long time. No, my idea is quite different. I do think it's likely that the same man is almost certainly responsible for the pregnancy and the murder. But I'm quite sure it isn't Jonathan. And that's why I've come to you.'

He turned abruptly to face me. The signs of his tears were still there, but he was furiously angry. ‘If you think for one moment that I would have molested my own daughter—'

‘Oh, don't be silly. How could I possibly think that? For one thing, you're gay, aren't you?'

He simply looked at me.

‘That little fling with Jemima happened before you were comfortable with your sexuality, didn't it? You might even have been trying to prove to yourself that you were heterosexual, because you knew how that father of yours would react to your being gay. My guess is that learning about the pregnancy shocked you into a reassessment. Something did, anyway, and you realized that wasn't the path for you.'

‘Got it in one,' he said, and sat down again. ‘Sorry.'

I wasn't sure whether he was apologizing for his tears, or his anger, or both. I shrugged a ‘doesn't matter'.

‘So,' he said, trying to establish an easy tone, ‘going back to the last remark but five, you said you wanted my help. About what?'

‘About the art world. Specifically, the Royal Collection and its minders.'

‘The curators, you mean?'

‘I don't know enough about it to know what I mean. Anyone who has anything to do with the collection and works at the palace.'

‘At Buck House? Or the others? Windsor, Balmoral, and the rest,' he added somewhat impatiently when I looked puzzled. ‘The Collection spreads out over quite a vast area, you know, all the royal residences.'

‘How stupid of me. I should have known. Just . . . Buck House.' I was a little uncomfortable with the term, which smacked to me of
lèse-majesté
. Bert's hint of a grin told me he was well aware of my reaction.

‘Term of affection, dear lady, I assure you. I do know a number of the staff who look after the Collection, as it happens. What do you want to know . . . and why, if I may ask?'

I leaned forward. ‘This may seem as far-fetched to you as it does to Alan and Jonathan, but I'm convinced that art is somehow at the bottom of all this. It was your passion for art, yours and Jemima's, that led you into this business and Jemima into her job at the palace. I don't know if you know that she's hoping desperately to change jobs and work with the Royal Collection in some capacity. It was, if you don't mind my saying so, that same passion for art that led to . . . well, the fact of Melissa. Art keeps swirling around in my head. There's some connection, I'm sure of it.'

‘It's not too much of a stretch, I suppose. You're right. Jemima was as mad about art as I was . . . as I am. And I suppose she could have passed her obsession on to her daughter. But what could that have to do with Melissa's death?'

‘Just this.' I told him about Melissa's escapade at the palace. ‘She was roaming that treasure house, unsupervised, for perhaps two hours.'

‘You don't think she stole something?'

‘No. She couldn't have. Apart from anything else, there's the security system.'

Bert frowned. ‘The palace isn't a museum, you know. It's a home. A very posh home, with furnishings that would grace any museum in the world, but nevertheless a residence. The Queen would cast a cold eye, believe me, on any attempt at museum-style security; pressure pads, electronic eyes, that sort of thing.'

‘I'm told the treasures don't actually belong to her, but to the Crown. I confess the distinction eludes me.'

‘They belong to the United Kingdom, under the guardianship of the current monarch. Under certain circumstances she could give something away, to a visiting head of state, for example, but she cannot sell or otherwise dispose of anything. They are hers to enjoy during her lifetime. If she wishes, for example, to move a vase from one room to another, or from one residence to another, for that matter, she is free to do so. She cannot, however, decide that several of the clocks are hideous – which, frankly, some of them are – and should be given to Oxfam, though she can banish them to the attics. And if she wants to walk round with a guest and pick up a piece of Sèvres to point out a detail, she certainly doesn't want alarms to ring. So Melissa could, in theory, have made off with some small object, a snuff box, that sort of thing.'

‘Right. But they searched her when they found her, so that really isn't a possibility. No, my idea is quite different. I think she met someone, someone who showed her around, was amused by her admiration and wonder, and thought she might be fun to know.'

‘And you want to know if I can think of any likely candidates.' He reached for the glass holding the remains of his whisky. ‘Are you sure you won't have some?'

‘I'm a bourbon girl. But as I've had no lunch, I'd say no in any case. The tea was ample.'

He brooded, sipping. ‘No one comes to mind at the moment, but this has all come as a bit of a shock. I still can't believe . . . I mean, I believe you, but the idea of my daughter . . . I know I abandoned her. I know I've had nothing to do with her life. At first I thought I had no choice. I was just a kid, with no job, nothing . . . and my father would have turned me out if he'd known. He hated his brother and that whole side of the family. And I hated him. He was a smooth, self-righteous prig. I liked Aunt Letty, though. Anyway . . . there wasn't much I could do for Jemima and Melissa at first, and then . . . I don't think she wanted anything to do with me, anyway, and she . . . a baby . . .'

‘A baby would have been a terrible embarrassment to you in your new way of life.'

‘That makes me sound like a selfish prat.'

‘Yes.'

He sighed. ‘Oh, all right, so I
was
a selfish prat. It didn't seem like it at the time, but looking at it now . . . OK, I could have done a lot more. I should have done a lot more. I was getting along all right. I'm not exactly rich, but I suppose I'm not far from it. And here's Jemima working some nothing job just to make ends meet, and Melissa . . .' He finished his whisky at a gulp, stood, and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I'll make out a list of anyone I can think of at the palace who might have caught Melissa's fancy, and I'll get it to you as soon as I can. But I'll tell you this. If you, or the police, or whoever, catch up with the bastard who messed my daughter about and then killed her, you'd better have him safe behind bars before I know who it is. I may not have been much of a father, but I'll kill the bleeder if I find him.'

L
ynn came back and bought her paintings and then took me back to the house. We sat around having a late snack lunch and a post-mortem. Jonathan had gone home to brood, and I assumed Letty was either with him or back in Bramber. I was glad they weren't there; it made the discussion easier.

‘Did he mean it, the threat?' asked Alan.

‘Oh, he meant it. At the time, anyway. Now once he's over his first shock, he may cool down. I don't know, though. He struck me as genuinely contrite about his shabby treatment of Jemima and Melissa in the past, and deeply distressed about the child's death. I may have set the cat among the pigeons.'