The Corpse of St James's (7 page)

‘No progress,' said Alan. ‘No identification of the body yet. They've kept your name out of it, anyway.'

I poured myself another cup of coffee. ‘Thought I was irrelevant. A woman.'

‘Toast?' Alan asked.

‘No, thanks. Alan, what are we going to do?'

He sighed. ‘I don't know.'

When Alan is dressed, his hair neatly combed, his chin freshly shaved, he looks far younger than he really is. Now, in rumpled pyjamas, his hair sticking up in spikes, his face covered in greying stubble, and with doubt and worry written all over him, he looked every day of his age. I was seized with compassion.

‘I wish I didn't think we had to do something, but we do, don't we? But what a can of worms!'

At least that made Alan smile, as he often did when I came up with some colourful American expression. I love his Brit-speak, too.

‘Are you duty-bound to tell anyone what Jonathan has told us?'

‘Not really. It's up to my own conscience, which I must say is sorely strained. On the one hand, I have no more right than anyone else to withhold information. On the other, Jonathan has a very good point. When an investigation involves the palace, even tangentially, everyone works four times as hard, or at least tries to create that impression. Every stone would be explored.'

‘And every avenue turned over. Yes. So the only question is, really, what can we do, the three of us, to get at the truth quietly?'

‘I have no contacts at the palace,'said Alan.

‘Well, neither do I, for heaven's sake! But Jonathan does.'

‘Jemima. Is it a good idea to involve her at this stage?'

‘She'll have to be involved soon. She's the girl's mother!'

‘We think she is. It isn't proven.'

Alan can sometimes sound irritatingly like a policeman.

‘Well, we're never going to prove it unless someone identifies her, are we? And we can hardly ask them to call Jemima in to look, without giving away the show. But what's to prevent Jonathan from showing her some of the pictures they took at the scene? They're not too awful, really, no blood or anything like that.'

‘You forget, Dorothy, that Jonathan has no access to those photos.'

‘I'll bet they'd let him see them. Or you. You were both on the scene. You were both well-respected police officers. The respect isn't gone just because you're retired and Jonathan is invalided out.'

‘It would soon be lost if they caught either of us out in a stunt like this!'

His voice was getting louder. We were on the verge of a quarrel.

‘But look, Alan. Suppose Jonathan asks Mr Carstairs if he can look at the photos. Carstairs will almost certainly say yes. And I'll bet it wouldn't be hard for him to make a quick copy.'

‘And if he gets caught doing that?'

‘He can make up something, I'm sure.'

‘I won't encourage him to lie, Dorothy. Lying by saying nothing is one thing. A deliberate untruth is another.'

We seemed to be at an impasse. I could think of no way to find out anything further without a firm identification of the body, and there seemed to be obstacles in every path to that identification.

‘All right,' I said slowly. ‘Try this. I go to Carstairs. I say, with perfect truth, that I'm particularly interested in this case, and I'd like to see the pictures, because I didn't really get a good look at the time. Then I'll choose the best one, the clearest and least disturbing, and ask, as a special favour, if I might have a copy. I don't suppose he'll ask why, but if he does, I'll hint something. I won't lie. I think he'll let me have it, because I'm ultra respectable – I'm your wife, after all – and known to take an unusual interest in crime. If I play it right, I imagine he'll be rather amused and inclined to let the nosy old lady have what she wants.'

Alan pondered.

‘I'm not official, you see,' I pursued. ‘I know you and Jonathan aren't either, not now, but I never was.' And as he still said nothing, I added, ‘Please don't tell me not to do this, Alan. For Jonathan's sake.'

‘And if I do say no?'

‘Then I'll try to find another way. I won't go against your wishes, Alan. We don't have that kind of marriage. Yes, I've fallen into situations you didn't like, but they were because of bad luck or poor judgement. I've never deliberately done anything you specifically asked me not to do.' At least I couldn't think of any instances, and I prayed he couldn't either. He's not the sort of man to give orders unless he thinks I'm putting myself in jeopardy. I admit, once or twice I've not told him what I planned to do, in case he objected, but that's justified.

‘You're very good at misdirection, however. You should have been a conjuror, or perhaps a con artist. All right, my dear. You know I don't
want
to stand in your way. It's just that . . .'

‘I know, love, I know. And I promise I'll be discreet.'

The guffaw that followed that remark made him choke on his coffee.

Now that I felt like eating again, I made us a modest cereal-and-fruit breakfast. Alan tries hard to keep fit, and I watch my weight when I can. Usually I watch it inch up.

‘Once you get the picture,' Alan asked over a third cup of coffee, ‘what are you going to do with it? Take it to Jemima?'

‘Good heavens, no! I wouldn't have a clue how to go about visiting someone at the palace. No, I'll give it to Jonathan, and he can take it from there. By the way, did you think to get a phone number for Aunt Letty? I don't even know her last name.'

‘I did. Shall I tell him your plans? I'd planned to phone him this morning anyway, to see how Aunt Letty was feeling.'

‘And how he's feeling himself. Good heavens, Alan, that boy has been through way too much these past few days! Not to mention his physical pain.'

‘I suspect he's trying to do too much, physically. Needs to prove something to himself. So am I to tell him, or not?'

‘Tell him, by all means. Maybe not the details, on the principle that what he doesn't know can't hurt him, but tell him I'll try to get him a photo in the next day or two. And Alan, would you call Mr Carstairs and tell him to expect me?'

‘That conversation will tax all my powers of diplomacy. When shall I say?'

‘This afternoon, if it works for him. I can catch the next train.' And
diplomacy
, I thought with an inner smile, was just another word for stretching the truth. Men and semantics!

I made a quick call myself, to Lynn Anderson. ‘Are you going to be home in a couple of hours? I'm making a quick trip to Town, and I want an invitation to lunch. There's lots I'm dying to tell you!'

Alan came into the room just as I was clicking off my mobile. ‘And dare I ask just what you're going to tell whom?'

‘Fear not. I told you I'd be discreet. I just begged lunch with Tom and Lynn, and I'm going to tell them about the Investiture. I don't think they've ever been to one, and as much as they try to be blasé about the royals, I know they'll eat it up.'

‘Just as long as . . . No. I won't tell you what to say. I may protest a good deal, my dear, but in the end I trust to your good judgement.'

That earned him a kiss, and what with one thing and another, I very nearly missed my train.

Tom and Lynn live in a delectable Georgian house in Belgravia, a stone's throw from Victoria Station. They're American expats like me, have pots of money, and are very dear friends from way back. They've also been of great help in several of my forays into criminal investigation, and it was going to take all my fortitude not to tell them what I was up to in London.

We made it through lunch safely enough on the Investiture. They wanted to know all the details, and were amused at my confusing the Yeomen of the Guard with the Yeomen Warders. ‘But of
course
, my dear!' said Lynn in the Philadelphia accent she's never quite managed to lose. ‘Everyone does exactly the same thing. And it's all Gilbert and Sullivan's fault.'

‘And the uniform. Really, I wonder if they were once part of the same unit, or something. It seems too much of a coincidence otherwise. The next time I go to the Tower—'

‘Which, God willing, won't be for ages,' Lynn put in.

‘—I'll ask one of the Beefeaters. I do feel safe calling them that, since everyone does.'

‘You might not have to wait that long, D.,' said Tom, who had been listening indulgently. ‘I know one of the Yeomen of the Guard. You could ask him.'

‘Really?' I said, trying hard to conceal my deep interest. ‘Does he work at the palace?'

‘None of them exactly “works at the palace”. They're the Queen's official bodyguards, but their duties are purely ceremonial.'

‘Do they live at the palace, then?'

‘I don't think so, but I have no idea, really. Why this sudden interest in a bit of royal trivia?'

‘You know I love all things royal,' I said lightly. ‘How do you happen to know this man, anyway?'

‘Friend of a friend of a friend. You know how these things work. And you're evading my question. What are you up to this time, D.?'

‘Oh, dear.' I glanced at my watch. ‘Look, I honestly can't tell you right now. I'm due at . . . I have an appointment in fifteen minutes, and traffic being what it is, I'll be late if I don't leave this minute. I'll tell you all about it as soon as I can.'

‘And that's the price of the name and phone number of my tame Yeoman,' said Tom, showing me down the elegant staircase.

I
made it to Scotland Yard with exactly one minute to spare, and was shown into Mr Carstairs' office immediately.

I don't know quite what I expected. Something out of Dickens, I suppose. I should have known better. New Scotland Yard is a sixties vintage office building, all glass and steel and anonymity, and the offices match; bland, indistinctive.

‘Mrs Martin, what a pleasure! Would you like some coffee?'

‘I just finished lunch, thank you.'

‘Ah, well, just as well, perhaps. Our coffee is not always . . . however. How can I help you? Alan was a bit mysterious about your mission.'

‘I feel a bit silly about it, to tell you the truth. I know you're terribly busy, and I shouldn't be bothering you.'

‘Not at all.' It was the polite reply that meant:
Do get on with it.

‘Well, as Alan may have told you, it has to do with the incident in St James's Park.'

‘Ah, yes. Do you perchance have some information for us? I'm afraid we haven't got much forrader with it.'

‘Oh, dear. I'm sorry to hear that, and sorrier still that I can't help. I actually came to make a request, which you're going to think very silly and stupid, I'm afraid.'

‘I doubt that, Mrs Martin. You are not a silly or stupid woman.'

Uh oh. He wasn't going to buy a ditzy act. ‘You may change your mind after I tell you what I want. I know you're busy, so I'll come straight to the point. I'd like to look at the pictures your people took yesterday. I never did get a really good look at the poor child.' I stopped there, fearful lest I say too much.

Mr Carstairs frowned. ‘Is there some particular reason?'

‘None you'd think adequate, I suspect. You know of my interest in crime. If I were much younger, I think I might make a good investigator; officially, I mean. As it is, I simply like to know as much as I can about any crime which touches me. I suppose it really comes down to being nosy.' And that was the gospel truth, if not all the truth. Lying by omission, as Alan rather brutally called it.

Mr Carstairs looked at me very thoughtfully, and then picked up his phone. ‘Oh, Latham, bring me the St James's file, would you?'

‘Sounds like something diplomatic,' I said brightly. ‘The Court of St James's, and all that.' I had remembered that ambassadors to England were called to the ‘Court of St James's', an archaic usage from back when St James's Palace used to be the monarch's residence.

‘Yes, well, we're calling this one the Corpse of St James's.'

I smiled. ‘Appropriate, if a bit macabre.'

‘But then you enjoy the macabre, as you said.'

Why did I have the uncomfortable feeling that this man could see straight into my mind? While I was trying to think of some safe reply, the sergeant, or whoever he was, came in with the file, and Mr Carstairs opened it and placed the photographs before me.

They weren't pretty. True, there was no explicit evidence of violence, but a young girl lying crumpled in the dust was a pathetic sight, at best. They were in colour, so her pallor was more evident than I had remembered.

Her eyes were open. I hadn't noticed that at the time, or maybe they had closed them before they moved her out from under the bush. I suppressed a shudder and turned to other pictures that didn't show her eyes.

I lingered over one. It was a good clear picture, showing her face but taken from an angle that made the open eyes less obvious.

‘Now I'm about to ask something truly outrageous, Mr Carstairs.' Take the initiative away from the adversary whenever possible. ‘I would like a copy of this picture. Is that possible?'

He was silent for a long time. Well, I know that technique, too. I waited him out.

‘I have always had a very great respect for your husband,' he said finally, ‘from back in the early days, when I was just getting started, but he was in the very highest echelon already. He's an extraordinary policeman, Mrs Martin.'

‘And an extraordinary man,' I said steadily.

‘Were it not for that . . .' There was a long pause. Again I didn't break it, though my nerves were stretched to their tightest.

‘You may have your copy. I'm sure I can trust you not to make unwise use of it.'

‘Certainly.' We both stood at the same moment. ‘Yes, I've taken up far too much of your time. And thank you so very much.'