The Corpse of St James's (29 page)

‘He's very good, this chap. He's got me to see a lot of things in a different light. Though,' he added, his tone changing, ‘being a murder suspect darkens the outlook a bit.'

I bit my lip. I was aching to tell him, but thought it better to wait until Alan got back. ‘Well, not as far as we're concerned, you're not. So you can just put that bright face back on and decide where you'd like to go for lunch.'

‘I say,' said Alan, coming to join us, ‘we stop at the market and pick up some cheese and salads and so on, and have a picnic at home. There are things we need to talk about, in some privacy.'

And not another word would he say until we were seated around the kitchen table, a small feast in front of us. Alan had poured a glass of beer for each of us, and now he raised it in a toast. ‘Jonathan, this is to you. First, because you've made such progress with Dr Miller, and second because you've dropped to the bottom of the list of suspects.'

‘I've . . . what did you say?' He was suddenly pale, and I was afraid Alan had broken the news too suddenly. Even good news can be unsettling.

‘Steady, there! It's true. I talked to Carstairs this morning. There have been some startling developments, and though you're not quite out of the tunnel, the light at the end is growing brighter all the time.'

So we told him what had been going on in the past couple of days. He was listening so intently he forgot to eat.

‘So,' I concluded, ‘you're the only one who can help us at all. Everyone else has flown the coop! Now eat something, and then we'll do some serious planning.'

He looked at his almost untouched plate. ‘Oh. Sorry. Everything's delicious. It's just . . . all this is a little overwhelming.'

‘Of course it is. And you have no idea if any of the food is even edible; you haven't tasted it. Finish your beer . . . that is, does Dr Miller say you can have it?'

‘He does,' said Alan firmly. ‘I checked.'

There was Alan-the-chief-constable coming out again, dotting and crossing all the appropriate letters. I exchanged a grin with Jonathan.

‘Now, then, if you two have finished flirting with each other, shall we get down to it?' Alan reached for three pads of paper by the telephone and handed one to each of us, along with pens.

‘First of all, what do we know?'

Well, I would have started with what we didn't know, but I wasn't a trained policeman. And certainly the list of known facts was a good deal shorter. ‘Shall we do it by name? What we know about each of the principals?'

‘As good as any method,' said Alan, nodding. ‘Let's start with Jemima. First, her character as we know it.'

‘Prickly,' said Jonathan, with a small frown. ‘Impulsive. Passionate.' He flushed a little. ‘About art, I mean.'

‘But passion for one thing can translate into passion for another,' I pointed out.

‘No speculating at this point,' said Alan. ‘No analysis. That comes later.'

‘Just the facts, ma'am,' I said drily, creating a puzzled look on both their faces. ‘Never mind. Old American TV show. Onward. Jemima's headstrong, and she has a temper, but she's hard-working.'

Alan waited a moment for more comments, then drew a line on his pad. ‘Very well. Now. Background.'

Jonathan could do most of that. Born and raised in Brighton, daughter of his honorary ‘aunt', Letty Higgins. Father pretty much a nonentity. Jemima wild as a child and teen, bearing illegitimate child at age seventeen. Already obsessed by art. Worked hard to support Melissa. Eventually landed job at the palace, sending Melissa to Letty.

I watched Jonathan covertly through this recitation. Though it was obviously hard for him, he bore up very well for someone who'd been a basket case a few days before. I made a note or two of my own, trying to make connections, but there wasn't much to work with.

‘Now are we going to get to actions? A timetable?' I was getting restive.

‘Not yet. The rest of the characters first.'

So we went through them all. First Letty, who wasn't suspected of anything but was clearly important to Jemima, Melissa and Jonathan, and to a lesser degree to Bert. That led us to Bert.

We split on Bert's character, at least at first. ‘Charming,' I pronounced instantly.

‘Ye-es,' said Jonathan. ‘But . . . unreliable, I suppose is the word.'

I thought about that for a moment. ‘Well – vacillating, perhaps.'

‘A liar,' said Alan flatly. ‘And dissolute.'

‘But he runs a successful business,' I protested. ‘And he helped support Melissa when Letty asked him. He can't be all that unreliable or “dissolute”. What a Victorian sort of word, Alan!'

‘It stands. Don't forget, he was responsible for Melissa in the first place.'

‘Well, there is that,' I admitted. ‘But he's still charming. At least most of the time.'

‘I thought you mistrusted charm.'

‘Some kinds of charm, I do, but in Bert's case . . . oh, you know me too well! Is there any more beer, speaking of dissolute?'

We noted Bert's background, so similar to Jemima's until the unfortunate circumstance of Melissa's birth led the two young parents down such different paths.

Then, at last, we came to Anthony Jarvis/Andrew Welles. ‘Which name do you want to use?' asked Alan.

‘Jarvis. I don't like that name as much as Welles, and I definitely do not like Mr Jarvis.'

Jonathan knew nothing except what we had told him of the art teacher with the nasty reputation, so Alan and I made quick work of his character and background. ‘And for my money,' I finished, ‘he's the one. He's likely to be the father of Melissa's baby, which gives him a whale of a motive for killing her. Her accusation would have put him in prison as a sex offender. He could have had the means; everyone has scarves and that sort of thing. Even a plastic bag could have done for her. And Carstairs and Co can certainly find out whether he had the opportunity.'

Alan and Jonathan exchanged a glance. ‘Yes, but you see, Dorothy . . .' Jonathan began, and Alan guffawed.

‘He's trying to be delicate, love, and tell you that what you've spun is thinner and much weaker than a cobweb. I don't like the chap, either, but you have nothing whatever that even comes within shouting distance of evidence. He's
likely
to be the baby's father; he
could have had
a scarf or whatever; the police will find out
if
he had the opportunity.'

‘All right, all right! I know I'm not the professional here. I still think he's the one. But maybe it's time to go into actions and movements? Then maybe we can spin something a little sturdier. I'm going to make some coffee.'

C
offee and more coffee. Discussion and more discussion. When at last I threw down my pencil, we had a timeline of sorts, with huge holes in it; times when we knew nothing about where various characters were or what they were doing.

I sat back, exhausted. ‘All right, you two professionals, tell me. Was that worth the time and effort?'

They looked at each other. They were developing an irritating habit of silent communication, shop talk without words. Alan sighed, finally. ‘It cleared the decks, I think. It's perfectly obvious that these three people are caught up together in a web, whether of their own making or the work of another, we don't know.'

‘We do know, though,' I said, ‘that all three of them are missing. Isn't it reasonable to suppose – all right, to hypothesize – that they're together?'

‘That's one possibility, certainly. And given the whole situation, it's rather an ominous one.'

I stood, with some difficulty. I'd been sitting for a long time. ‘Alan, this inactivity is killing me. Isn't there something we could do? If Jemima is in danger . . .'

‘Carstairs is doing everything he can, Dorothy. I know exactly how you feel. I feel the same way. But we'd just be getting in the way of the police, and we haven't anything like their resources.'

‘With respect, sir.' Jonathan coughed.

‘I thought we'd got over the “sir” routine,' Alan growled.

‘Very well, then, Alan. I think Dorothy has a point, and with res – that is, I believe there is something we can contribute.' He gestured at the table. It looked rather as if a minor tornado had struck a paper mill, and I must have looked as baffled as Alan.

‘We know these people,' Jonathan explained. ‘At least, we don't really know Jarvis, but even about him, we know things that the police may not. We have inside information. I think if we were to institute a search for one or another of them, we might be more successful than the Met. If I may say so, s— Alan.'

Alan was silent, considering. Considering many things, I suspected. Jonathan's fitness, mental and physical. The danger inherent in the situation. The probability that we would further anger Carstairs, or that we would interfere with his investigation.

Finally, he said, ‘You're right, both of you. The thing is, Jonathan, are you up to this?'

Jonathan looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Yes. If I run out of stamina, I can rest and start again. And I'm as fit mentally as I've ever been. This is something I can do. Something I need to do.'

‘For Jemima,' I said.

‘Yes. And for myself.'

His finest hour, I thought to myself. There really is something in the English character that displays its best under pressure. Jonathan hadn't looked a lot like a hero in the past few weeks, but he looked like one now.

‘Well, then,' I said, swallowing the lump in my throat, ‘you know Bert and Jemima the best. Where would you look for them?'

‘If they've gone somewhere of their own free will, it will be a beautiful place. I'd bet on London; they're both Londoners now. And Bert has lots of money. My guess is, they've figured out who killed Melissa, and they're hiding from him. And where better place to hide, if you can afford it, than one of London's posh hotels?'

Alan and I both felt we should have thought of that. We had once had occasion to use the Ritz as a hideaway for some people who needed protection and could afford the luxury.

But there are a lot of posh hotels in London. Intimate ones like the Goring, which is absolutely wonderful, but perhaps not so good for hiding out, simply because of its size. One tends to be noticed at the Goring.

We went down the list. The Dorchester. The Connaught. Le Méridien. The Langham. None seemed quite right.

‘The Ritz, then?' I suggested. ‘It's big enough to guarantee anonymity, and it's certainly grand enough.'

Alan ran a hand down the back of his neck. ‘Very grand, but a bit . . . flashy, perhaps? I'm not sure that two people who love art would . . . Ah. I have it, I think. Jonathan, what do you think of Claridge's?'

His face lit up. ‘Yes! The very symbol of luxury and grandeur, but very, very English. Not, mind you, that I've ever stayed there, but a friend who did treated me to lunch once. He showed me his room. I've never seen the Queen's bedroom, needless to say, but I can't imagine it could possibly be any more . . .' He waved his hands about, searching for a word. ‘No, I can't even describe it, except it really is the last word in luxury and good taste. Oh, yes, if Bert wanted a bolt-hole, Claridge's would be perfect. In fact, now that I think of it, he said once, when we were boys, that he'd like to live there one day.'

‘Well,' I said, ‘he's there, or he isn't. We can only try it. What are we waiting for?' I picked up my purse.

Alan cocked an eyebrow. ‘Don't you want to change?'

‘Why? Is there dirt someplace I can't see?' I twisted around to try to check the back of my slacks.

‘My dear Dorothy, you look perfectly all right, and no, there's no dirt anywhere. But we're talking Claridge's. If you want to blend in . . .'

‘Oh.' I was wearing a very nice pair of summer slacks, new last year, and a pretty, striped tee shirt, but I could see his point. ‘Not exactly elegant, huh? I'll go find something for hobnobbing with the nobs.'

I had to rummage a bit, but I finally spotted a church dress I hadn't worn in a while, that went very nicely with my Queen Mum hat, a purple sort of cloche with violets all over it. It was really a winter hat, but never mind. It looked as respectable and upper-class as all get-out, and would, I hoped, impress the staff at Claridge's.

It impressed Jonathan, at any rate. His eyes glazed a bit, but he made no comment. Alan, who had put on his best suit, grinned at me behind Jonathan's back, and I made a face.

We were the only ones in the train carriage on the way to London, so we could talk freely. ‘Have you thought out a plan, Dorothy?' Alan asked mildly. ‘We can scarcely saunter in and ask for Bert Higgins.'

‘I think he'd register as Hathaway,' I said primly. ‘Since it seems one needs to be lah-di-da to be let in the door. Anyway, that's probably the name on his credit cards.'

‘Robert Hathaway, then. They won't tell you anything about him, you know.'

‘I do know. I thought we'd go to a house phone, if there is one, and ask them to ring his room. If there isn't, we'll have to go to the front desk, but I'd rather do it the other way.'

Jonathan nodded, looking very much like a policeman. I've seen that look of concentrated thought on Alan's face enough time to see the wheels turning. ‘And then, once we know for certain he's there, we can work out what to do.'

We headed for Victoria.

Jonathan had refused to take his wheelchair, and I wondered how much of his physical disability was related to his mental state. Certainly he seemed to be moving more easily, now that he was in better spirits.

We took a cab from the station. Guests at Claridge's presumably did not arrive by Underground or bus. One wondered if they had ever heard of public transport. ‘Pity the Rolls is laid up,' I commented to no one in particular as we sat in a typical London traffic jam.