The Corpse of St James's (25 page)

‘If you wouldn't mind making do with a sandwich, I'd like to call on one Robert Higgins Hathaway. I think that young man has some explaining to do.'

The more expensive a shop is, it seems, the later it opens, and Robert Hathaway's shop was very expensive indeed. The sign wasn't on the door any more, but the shades on the door and the show window were pulled down, and no lights were visible. ‘Round here,' said Alan, steering me into the narrow passageway between the shop and the one next door. It was rather more salubrious than such areas in London tend to be. Evidently Chelsea keeps not only its streets but its footpaths cleaner than do lesser neighbourhoods.

The door Alan had expected to find was there, blank and unwelcoming. It had a buzzer and an intercom, though, and Alan applied his thumb and kept it there. We could hear the raucous noise from where we stood.

Eventually a voice sounded from the speaker. ‘Go away.'

‘Not until we've talked to you, Mr Hathaway.'

‘Who the hell are you?'

I spoke up. ‘It's Mrs Martin, Bert. I'm here with my husband,' I added, in case Bert was feeling violent at being awakened.

Pause. The voice, when it came again, was a little less agitated. ‘My dear lady, do you have any idea what
time
it is?'

‘It is after noon, sir,' said Alan. ‘We must talk to you.'

‘Bloody . . . all right, all right. Give me fifteen minutes.'

It was more like half an hour before the door finally opened. A young man who bore no resemblance to Bert stumbled out, glared at us, and paused to light a cigarette and blow smoke in our faces before walking towards the street, muttering.

‘Shall we?' Alan gestured to the open door. I coughed, nodded, and followed him up the narrow stairs.

Bert had managed to shower and pull on a pair of elegant jeans. He was barefoot and wore no shirt. He was standing in the kitchen area, at a fearsome-looking machine which was making noises suggestive of an imminent blast-off. ‘Sorry I was rude,' he said, ‘but I'm barely human until I've had my coffee.'

‘Late night?' I asked brightly, looking around the flat. Glasses and bottles were much in evidence, as were overflowing ashtrays. The air was heavy with the odours of sweat and smoke, and not, I thought, just tobacco smoke.

The disorder was a great pity, because the flat should have been beautiful. It was decorated in a clean, modern style that managed still to be warm. A couple of fine paintings hung on the white walls; a few well-chosen objets d'art brightened shelves and tables.

‘I'm surprised you allow your guests to smoke in here,' I said. ‘It can't be doing the paintings any good.' And then I told myself to shut up. We weren't there to talk about his habits, for heaven's sake!

‘I don't usually have parties up here, for that very reason. Last night just sort of happened. Some people came by, and then some more, and some of them brought in food, and they just . . . stayed.'

His hands shook as he picked up the cup of coffee, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked, in short, a wreck. He needed some aspirin and several more hours of sleep, not an interrogation.

I hardened my heart. Jonathan was in the hospital, and might have been dead. He was running a real risk of arrest for murder, and I was certain he was innocent. If Bert could help us find the real killer, he would just have to deal with his hangover later.

‘We're sorry to disturb you,' I said crisply, ‘but we need some information, and we need it now. Jonathan Quinn tried to kill himself yesterday.'

Bert spilled his coffee. ‘Ow!' He grabbed a towel and dabbed at his chest. ‘But why?'

Alan shrugged, with a warning look at me. ‘At least in part because he is suspected of murder. The point is, several of us think he's the wrong man. We'd like to know a little more about Anthony Jarvis. For a start, what is his real name?'

With great care, Bert put his coffee down. ‘So far as I know, his name is Anthony Jarvis.'

‘I don't think so, Bert,' I said. ‘Oh, that may be his real name now, but it isn't the one he was born with. What was his name when you first knew him in Brighton?'

‘Why would you think it was something different?'

Aha! We'd been fishing, but whenever a person answers a question with a question, that person is stalling. I let Alan take over.

‘There are ways to find out, Higgins, but asking you was quickest. The name, please.'

‘Why should I tell you? You're not the police. And I don't want to get the poor chap into trouble.'

Alan just waited, looking steadily at Bert.

Bert picked up his coffee cup and sipped, gingerly. His hand was a trifle steadier. ‘Oh, all right!' he said finally. ‘I should never have mentioned him in the first place. He couldn't possibly have anything to do with this, but you're going to think . . .'

‘You supply us with the facts and let us decide what to think.'

‘I suppose you'll find out anyway, if you persist with this ridiculous notion. His name was Andrew Welles.'

‘And he used to be a teacher?'

‘I never said so!'

‘No.' Alan let the silence lengthen again.

‘Yes,' Bert said finally, ‘at a small school. It isn't there any more. It's been merged into some god-awful comprehensive.'

‘He taught art?'

‘If you can call it art in a school like that. He worked with the nine-to-elevens, trying to impart some sense of line and mass. It was a lost cause, naturally.'

‘You seem to know rather more about him than you implied to my wife earlier.'

‘I didn't “imply” anything at all!' Bert winced at his own loud voice. He picked up his coffee cup and took a swallow. ‘Look, I don't know what you're talking about. I knew Andrew for about a year. All right, I pursued him, if you want to know. So I chatted him up whenever I could contrive to meet him. I knew he hated his job. I wasn't surprised when he chucked it.'

‘I thought you didn't know he had left Brighton.' Certainly I'd had that impression when Bert called.

‘Well, I did. Look, that's all I know about the man, except that he's really knowledgeable about art and a decent sort of chap. And I need to dress and work out some way of feeling human by the time the shop opens, so if you don't mind . . .'

‘Just one more question,' said Alan. ‘How did you know the gentleman's new name? And why did he change it?'

‘That's two questions. How would I know why he changed it?'

Another question answered with a question, I noted.

‘As for how I knew, it's perfectly simple.' Bert took on the tone of one addressing a somewhat slow five-year-old. ‘The man is an artist. He is interested in art. I sell art. He came into the shop one day to look. I didn't happen to be out front. My assistant tried to help him, but he wanted something by a specific artist, and we had nothing at the time. My assistant took down his name, Anthony Jarvis, and his phone number. I happened to glance out while they were talking, and recognized Andrew.'

‘And you didn't go out to talk to him?' I put the maximum of scepticism into my voice.

‘After the way he humiliated me the last time we'd seen each other? Not bloody likely!'

‘But you're sure it was Andrew Welles. And he gave his name as Anthony Jarvis.' Alan likes to be certain.

‘God, how many more times! Yes, I'm sure. And I think I'm going to be sick. Go!'

We went.

‘What now?' I asked Alan as we descended into the Tube station.

‘Suppose I send you home by train. I imagine you'll have some arranging to do, and between Jonathan and his gear, the car's going to be a bit full.'

So we made for Victoria Station. Once I got home, and after I'd tidied up the guest room and changed to fresh clothes, I sat down at my computer.

If information about Anthony Jarvis was notably lacking, there was a plethora about Andrew Welles, and it was both confusing and unsettling. He had apparently begun his teaching career working with younger children, and he'd done a lot of job-hopping. A year here, two there, always with the same age group, the intermediate ages of nine to eleven. He was a part-time art teacher at first, but then, in one school, had taken a full-time position with a class of eleven-year-olds, teaching general subjects.

All the schools were in the same part of the country, never far from Brighton, and there seemed no reason why Welles had moved around so much.

Then I found it: a newspaper account of Andrew Welles's trial for child molestation.

I scrolled down. There was no verdict shown; apparently the trial ran to a second day. I clicked a few times and found the follow-up article.

Acquitted. I wished I could see a transcript of that trial.

I also wanted, urgently, to tell Carstairs. Surely he'd find it of interest that a suspected child molester was in Buckingham Palace at a time when he might have met Melissa!

Well, I'd better consult Alan before I tried to talk to Carstairs. Meanwhile, there was the question of a meal. I finally decided to make a hearty salad and slice some meat and cheese for sandwiches. Then everyone could eat what they wanted, if they wanted. I made a quick trip to the High Street for orange juice, since wine isn't a good idea for someone suffering from depression, and bustled about vacuuming cat and dog hair away, arranging flowers.

Everything was ready much too soon, and then all I had to do was sit around and worry. I sat for a while, Watson anxiously attentive, then went to the window to peer down the street, then went to the kitchen to make sure I'd left nothing undone, then sat again. The cats, annoyed by my restlessness, disappeared, presumably upstairs to sleep on the freshly made bed and deposit fur on the pillows. Watson eventually wearied, too, and stretched out in his bed in the corner.

I fretted, imagining all sorts of disaster. Jonathan was worse. The police had decided to keep him in London. There'd been an accident on the A21.

I put the kettle on, brewed myself some tea, and forgot to drink it.

Twilight was approaching by the time they finally arrived, and twilight comes late to England in June. I forced myself to assume an attitude of calm. The last thing Jonathan needed right now was a dithery female.

Alan helped him out of the car, and he made his way to the front door, leaning heavily on his cane.

‘Welcome, Jonathan.' To my horror, my voice shook and a tear threatened to slide down my cheek. This would never do!

‘I'm sorry to be a bother,' he muttered. ‘Frightful nuisance, I know.'

Well, that dealt with my tears. ‘Jonathan Quinn, I never want to hear you say anything like that again! You are
not
a nuisance, you are an honoured guest, and you'd better get used to it! Now come in and sit down and tell me if you'd prefer tea or orange juice.'

‘There's no need to bother . . .' he began.

I gave him The Look.

‘That is . . . tea would be very nice, thank you.'

I exchanged glances with Alan. He shrugged almost invisibly. Nothing interesting to report.

I made fresh tea for Jonathan, poured wine for Alan and me, and set out my sketchy supper on the table. ‘Come and have something to eat, gentlemen, before Watson and the cats scarf it all.'

They sat in near silence, passed food, asked for the mayonnaise and mustard.

I'd had enough. I cleared my throat. ‘We're all being very discreet, and ignoring the elephant in the room. It's time we talked. Jonathan, are you able to tell us about last night?'

He put down the fork with which he had been pushing food around his plate. ‘Not much to tell. Jemima came to see me. We quarrelled.'

I waited.

‘We . . . I thought we were getting on better. But when I tried to talk to her about her future, she . . .'

‘Of course she did,' I said with exasperation. ‘Too soon, Jonathan.'

‘I don't know much about women. I've never had time. And now . . . if the police hadn't come . . .'

‘But they did, and a good thing, too.'

‘Why? So I could be accused of murder?' The bitterness was corrosive.

‘Jonathan, it's a good thing you're not in possession of all your physical capabilities. Because if you were, I'd have no problem shaking you till your teeth rattled. As it is, my conscience won't let me.'

Alan raised his eyes heavenward. ‘My dear, I do think we ought to let this poor man get some sleep.'

‘And how well do you think
I'd
sleep, thinking he was lying there trying to figure out how to kill himself as soon as we let him out of sight?'

Jonathan winced. ‘I've told you . . . and in any case, I would never abuse your hospitality in that way.'

‘But only because you're polite, not because you've given up the idea. No, you'd wait until you weren't under our roof any more, and then . . . wheel yourself in front of a lorry, or under a Tube train, or something. And it's got to stop, do you hear? I've tried to tell you life is worth living. Letty's tried to tell you. I suppose even Jemima's had her shot at you. Yes, that's right, think about Jemima for just a minute. How do you think she'd feel if she lost you on top of everything else? Don't look at me that way. She may have torn a strip off you last night, but under all the prickles, she feels the same way you do. I'm not blind, you know, even if I am an old bat. Now you eat some supper, and then we're putting you to bed, and
then
, in the morning, we're going to see what we can do about your depression.'

Jonathan, looking rather as if he'd been hit on the head with a baseball bat, obeyed.

After we'd seen him safely to his room, Alan and I retired, exhausted, to ours. ‘You were pretty hard on the poor chap, Dorothy.'

‘I know. And I hated to hit him when he's down. But he needs to be shaken up. He's been wallowing for so long in the slough of despond that he's forgotten how to climb out of it. I don't think he even knows there's a way out. First thing in the morning, I'm heading straight to the Cathedral to ask the Dean who's the best counsellor or psychiatrist or whatever in town. Jonathan needs professional help, and I intend to see that he gets it.'