The Corpse of St James's (4 page)

‘Well, sir,' said the constable, looking trapped, ‘I was told . . . and it won't be very pleasant for the lady . . .'

‘I do assure you, young man, that I am not unacquainted with the recently deceased.' I used my best Victoria Regina voice and vocabulary. ‘And in any case I prefer to remain with my husband.' A little echo of the late Queen Mum thrown in for good measure.

The constable knew when he was beaten. ‘As you wish, then.' He looked around, and with deep relief said, ‘Ah. Here's the Chief Superintendent now.'

As the constable murmured a few words to his superior, Jonathan made no obvious movement, but I thought he braced himself. Then the approaching man called out, ‘Quinn!' and he looked up.

‘Sir!' said Jonathan, and that single syllable was laden with meaning. The top note, I thought, was pleasure.

‘Good to see you, Quinn! I won't ask how you're getting on. I expect you're sick of the subject. I'm damn glad you're here, man. And you, sir,' he added, turning to Alan and offering him a hand. ‘We've not met, but your reputation has preceded you. Carstairs.'

They shook hands. Mr Carstairs went on, ‘I was, as you will have gathered, Quinn's chief. They thought I'd want to be here. I'm sure you can imagine how much he's missed. Now tell me, both of you. As you've elected to stay on the scene, what have you observed?'

Well, there I was again, being ignored while the men went over the few salient facts, over and over. I shifted restlessly on the bench, which was getting extremely hard. And extremely hot. The sun had decided to come out in full force, and combined with the high humidity, it made the temperature very uncomfortable, especially clad as I was in a long-sleeved dress and an elaborate hat. I fished Alan's handkerchief out of my pocket, wiped my brow, and sighed.

Alan cleared his throat. ‘Chief Superintendent, let me introduce my wife, Dorothy Martin.'

Mr Carstairs smiled broadly and held out a hand. ‘Ah, yes, the Miss Marple of Belleshire! Your reputation, too, has spread far and wide. I think your husband was gently reminding me, just now, that you might have some insights into this little matter.'

‘Hardly,' I said, and if I sounded frosty, I felt I had good excuse. ‘I've really seen nothing. From what Jonathan and Alan have said, I gather a young woman is under that bush. I must say, it seems a very odd place to leave a body. It was bound to be discovered soon.'

‘We don't yet know that there has been foul play, Mrs Martin.'

‘Right. She crawled under there in the middle of the night, for reasons of her own, and just happened to die there.'

‘Dorothy,' said Alan, frowning.

Carstairs held up a hand and said, ‘All right, all right! Obviously we must have a look at the lady, but I agree the circumstances are suspicious. To say the least,' he added hastily. ‘For one thing, as the constable told you, this is an area of the park that is closed to the public. He said you found the gate open?'

‘Ajar, at any rate,' said Alan. ‘I saw no lock, and certainly no sign forbidding entry.'

‘There is normally a sign, and a CCTV camera. Presumably the sign was removed and the camera vandalized by the murderer, assuming this is a murder.'

By now, the small area was swarming with policemen, most of them in plain clothes, going methodically about the business of documenting the crime scene. One of them spoke to Carstairs. ‘Finished for now, sir. The body can be moved. There are some recent footprints; we've covered them and will take casts.'

‘Those will probably be mine,' said Alan. He sat down and held both feet out for examination. ‘Sorry to complicate your task, but I didn't know this was a crime scene when I trampled over it. I'd give you my shoes straight away, but I've nothing else in London to wear, and we're staying until tomorrow.'

‘If you wouldn't mind taking one off for a moment, sir, I can do a quick comparison.'

It was done. The policeman nodded to Carstairs and returned the shoe. Alan put it back on and stood.

‘Right,' said Carstairs. ‘We can get on with it, then.' He gave me a worried look. ‘Are you quite sure you'll be all right, Mrs Martin?'

‘If you're expecting me to faint or be sick, I can assure you I'm not likely to do either. I have seen dead people before, you know. It isn't my favourite thing, but I feel a vested interest in this one, and I'd like to know what I can. If there's something really horrible you think I'd rather not see, tell me and I'll look away.'

‘Nothing like that, sir,' said the policeman who was apparently in charge of the initial collecting of evidence. ‘Not that we could see, anyway.'

‘Very well. Mind you, Mrs Martin, if you were anyone else, I'd turf you out of here. Right, Bob. Let's have her out from under there and see what there is to see.'

My first impression was that she was very young, too young to be dressed as she was. Her skirt was long and swirly and sophisticated, her top tight and low-cut, designed to display an impressive bust, not her slender, undeveloped form. The three-inch stilettos would have suited a woman of twenty-five. There was nothing especially terrible about her appearance, no obvious wounds, no visible blood. Her clothes were dusty and disarranged, but otherwise in good condition. She had long bleached-blonde hair, beginning to darken a bit at the roots, and wore quite a lot of make-up. Her fingernails were long and blood-red.

‘Poor child,' I said. ‘Trying so hard to be grown up and sophisticated, and this is how it all ended.'

‘That's how it strikes you?' asked Carstairs, sounding interested. ‘I'd have put rather a different interpretation on it.'

‘A prostitute? Well, it's possible, but somehow I don't think so. Her clothes are “dressed up” but not tawdry. Everything is expensive. Is her handbag under there still?'

The other policemen shook their heads, and the man called Bob said, ‘Nothing else of any size. We'll do a closer examination, but there's certainly no handbag.'

‘Which obviously makes identification harder.' I shook my head. ‘Poor child,' I said again. ‘What killed her, do you have any idea yet?'

‘At a guess, I'd say she was smothered. There's a bit of bruising about the mouth, and her lipstick is smeared. A number of explanations for that, but there are some indications in her eyes, as well.'

I knew about the tiny haemorrhages in the eyes that could occur in cases of either smothering or strangulation. ‘No bruises on her neck?'

‘Not that anyone's found yet. We'll know a lot more when she's been examined.'

I sighed. ‘Looks like an evening out gone wrong. Sad, and sordid, and quite definitely
not
my cup of tea. Thank you, Mr Carstairs, for indulging me. I won't get in your hair any more.'

Someday I'll learn not to make rash promises.

O
ur reservation at the Ivy had long since lapsed, and the maître d' was inclined to be haughty about our failure to cancel. His tone changed once Alan had explained the situation, but he remained firm. So sorry, sirs, madam. There were simply no tables available. Perhaps in another two hours, though even then . . .

‘Alan, let's just go back to the hotel. They have a wonderful restaurant, and I don't think I'm quite up to the Ivy, anyway, after . . . all that.'

All that
, as both men understood, comprised a morning of excitement, pomp and pride, followed by the striking contrast of murder. None of us was feeling terribly festive.

We were, however, hungry, so when we reached the Goring and had freshened up a bit, we presented ourselves at the dining room door, only to be told by a distraught concierge that we had missed lunch by half an hour. ‘But meals are always available in the bar, if you'd like something light. Or afternoon tea begins soon in the lounge, though I fear we may be fully booked. Or we can send something up to your room.'

‘It's a conspiracy,' I said, trying to laugh about it. ‘All of London is determined to keep us from our food. No, I didn't mean you,' I assured the concierge. ‘Not your fault, but it's not ours, either. Unavoidable. I vote for the bar, if that's all right with the rest of you?'

The barman was genial. ‘I understand we've some starving Americans, have we?'

‘One starving American and two starving Englishmen. And since it's been a pretty trying day so far, perhaps we'll start with a glass of sherry?'

‘Certainly, madam. We've some lovely Amontillado, if that suits.'

‘Admirably.'

We ordered our meals of sandwiches and salads, and sipped our sherry. I for one would happily have kicked off my shoes, but I realized the Goring was not that kind of place.

Alan lifted his glass. ‘I propose a toast to Jonathan, a verray parfit gentil knyght!'

Jonathan acknowledged the toast with a little duck of the head, and muttered something deprecating.

‘Jonathan, I'm so sorry the day turned out this way,' I said after clinking glasses with Alan. ‘It was meant to be a celebration, and then it was spoilt.'

‘Hardly your fault, was it?'

‘I could have insisted we leave and turn the whole thing over to Mr Carstairs. He looks quite capable.'

‘He's very good. The best there is, saving your presence, sir.' He nodded to Alan.

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, Jonathan, we're long past the “sir” stage. What's got you going all formal on us?'

‘Sorry, s— Alan. It's been rather an unsettling day.'

I looked at him more closely. His face was a bit pale, and he slumped in his wheelchair. ‘It has,' I agreed, ‘and you're tired to death. Alan, let's feed this man and send him home. He's had enough for one day.'

I was ready for collapse, myself. Once we'd had our food and sent Jonathan on his way, in a taxi Alan insisted on paying for, we went wearily back up to our luxurious room, and at last I could take off my shoes. ‘Alan, I'm worried about that boy,' I said, blissfully stretching my toes.

‘Hardly a boy. He's thirty-two, I believe.'

‘Oh, one foot in the grave, I see. No, from where I sit, he's a boy, and he's in a bad state.'

‘The pain, you mean? Or his financial situation?'

‘All of that,' I said with a frown, ‘but a lot more, as well. He talked to me while you were off getting the drinks. He's extremely depressed; thinks he's washed up, useless. That's really why I was so intrusive about sticking around to see the body. I thought he'd show some enthusiasm at being included in an investigation again. The old fire horse would perk up at the sound of the bell. He didn't, though, once his first interest waned.'

‘No, he was remarkably quiet the rest of the afternoon. Ah, well, he was tired.'

‘As am I. Oh, Lord, it's way too early to go to bed, and too late to take a nap.'

‘It is never,' said Alan, removing his tie, ‘too late for a nap.'

It was, though. I slept far too long, and although Alan and I had our supper at a pub, with more beer than I usually allow myself, I had a very hard time getting to sleep. I kept thinking about that poor girl under the bush. Who was she? Why had she dressed that way, in those outlandish shoes and so much make-up? Was she a tart, as Chief Superintendent Carstairs had suggested? No mother, I thought, would have wanted to let the girl go out looking like that, although I knew mothers sometimes had little influence over girls that age. Not for the first time, I realized that my childless state had some compensations.

Perhaps she'd run away from home? If so, it had been recently. She had seemed healthy and well nourished, and her clothes had been clean when she'd put them on.

Had she been raped? It seemed likely, given the way she was found. But a royal park, even at night, seemed an odd place for an assault. Surely they were patrolled? But she had been in an unfrequented, indeed a forbidden area. And why was that gate unlocked, the camera vandalized?

The police will know, I told myself, turning over and punching the pillow for the tenth time. The police will do their job. It's none of your business.

Alan grunted, almost as if agreeing in his sleep.

I got up to go to the bathroom, an all too frequent necessity at my age. All that beer didn't help. I drank a glass of water to deal with the thirst that comes after too much alcohol, and crept back into my comfortable bed.

But how are they going to begin, since they don't know who she is? London is an enormous city, and a haven for those who want to lose themselves. Though that isn't so easy nowadays, I thought, turning over again. Computers, email, cell phones, all those other ‘hand-held electronic devices' the airlines are so fond of telling you not to use – everything leaves a trail. People are easy to trace. If she ran away from home, somebody will have reported her missing. They'll find out who she was. Leave it to them, Dorothy. Leave it.

I turned over once more, and this time, I slept.

I was wrung out in the morning, but an excellent breakfast helped a good deal. It always does. Considering my too-generous figure, I've always envied those heroines who can't eat when they're upset and are always being told they're ‘too thin'. Not I. I find good food a comfort in most circumstances. Still, I nodded off in the train going home and woke, with a stiff neck, only when Alan nudged me to say ours was the next station.

Our new dog, Watson, was as usual ecstatic to see us back, but our two cats, Emmy and Sam (officially Esmeralda and Samantha), were inclined to snub us, although they'd been well cared for by our wonderful next-door neighbour, Jane Langland. ‘We've only been gone for two days, for Pete's sake!' I informed Sam, who uttered a blood-curdling Siamese shriek and marched stiff-legged out of the room.

‘So nice to be back amongst one's loving family,' Alan commented.

‘She'll get over it. As soon as you've unpacked, Alan, I need to do some laundry. Back to real life.'