Paddy’s sitting-room looked as if she had only slipped out to take a class. The Sunday papers were still strewn around. On the table was a half-drunk cup of coffee, and there was still a record sitting on the silent turntable. Lindsay went through to the kitchen to brew up while Cordelia struggled with the television company switchboard.
She was replacing the receiver and sighing with relief when Lindsay returned with the coffee. “Will he see us, then?” Cordelia nodded. “You smooth-talking bastard! I could use your gifts of persuasion on the doorstep next time I’ve got a sticky one,” Lindsay enthused. “What time, and where?”
“It was touch and go, but he’ll see us at eight at his place in Camden Town. For God’s sake, don’t tell him you’re a journalist! He was very twitchy about it all, and no wonder. He’s had the police and half your lot in the last few days, and as far as he’s concerned, it all ended with the arrest.”
“It might feel like that for him, but I’m bloody sure that’s not how it feels for Paddy. I think we should try to go and see her this afternoon. Did the solicitor tell you what the score is on visiting arrangements?”
Cordelia shook her head. “Why don’t you give her a call? I don’t suppose we’ll be able to visit, anyway—I mean, don’t you have to have a visiting order or something?”
Lindsay shook her head. “Not when the prisoner is on remand. Paddy’s legally entitled to a fifteen-minute daily visit from family or friends. Plus unlimited time with her legal advisor. Give me the number for this solicitor.”
She was quickly connected with Gillian Markham, who sounded brisk and competent. As they talked, Lindsay’s face grew more puzzled and angry. She finally put the phone down and said, “Well, there’s no problem with the visit. We can see Paddy if we get there between three and half-past. Gillian thinks it will take us about an hour to drive to the remand center. We can take food and cigarettes with us, and Paddy would apparently like some fresh clothes since she’s opted to wear her own gear rather than prison uniform. Does that still give us time to get to London, assuming we get away about four?”
“Given the way you drive, I don’t anticipate any problem with that,” Cordelia replied tartly. “But what’s the matter? You look as if you’ve just been kicked in the teeth.”
“From what Gillian’s just told me, I think it’s Paddy who’s been kicked in the teeth, not me.”
“Meaning?”
“Gillian’s just had a tip from a contact inside the force about a new piece of circumstantial evidence against Paddy. Remember all that carry-on with Sarah Cartwright on Saturday morning? Well, guess where Paddy took her to cool down?”
Cordelia looked dismayed. “If I said Music 2, would I be wrong?”
“You’d be spot on. As if that wasn’t bad enough in itself, Sarah has given the police a statement saying that Paddy passed a remark along the lines that the room had been nicely spruced up for its VIP guest. Sarah also maintains that Paddy was wandering around idly opening cupboards and picking things up while they talked.”
“Oh God, no! Surely the girl must be lying?”
“I suggest we check that out with Paddy before we confront the girl with anything. If she’s telling the truth, it wouldn’t in itself be damning. Those seem to me to be perfectly normal things to do and say, taken by themselves. But coupled with the other bits and bobs the police have against Paddy, it can only be seen as more evidence weighing the scales against her. If Paddy denies that those events took place, we’re in a very different ball game. We’ll have to look at the reasons why the girl might be lying.”
“Surely she’d only tell that kind of lie against Paddy if she had something to hide,” Cordelia protested.
“Not necessarily. It could be she’s lying to protect herself. It could also be that she’s lying to protect her father because she knows he was involved. Or it could simply be that she’s made up this story because she only fears her father may be involved and she’s trying to divert police attention well away from him. Either way, we need to talk to Paddy about this. And quite honestly, with the interview we’ve got next, I’d rather put Sarah and her motives right to the back of my mind.”
They drank their coffee in a tense silence. Neither was looking forward to the forthcoming interview. Cordelia cleared away the cups, taking Paddy’s with her to the kitchen, and called through, “Have you got the photo?”
“Yes, in my handbag. I did a couple of seven by fives of the heads. Let’s hope I don’t have to use it as a shock tactic.”
Cordelia re-emerged. “I’m beginning to wish we’d never taken this on. I like Margaret Macdonald, for God’s sake. She taught me to like music, to listen properly to it.”
Lindsay got up and hugged her. “Just think of Paddy,” she whispered. “It may be unpleasant but you’re doing it for all the right reasons.”
They walked through pale autumn sunlight to Grin Low House and mounted the stairs in silence. Margaret Macdonald’s rooms were at the end of the first-floor corridor. Lindsay knocked on the door and was rewarded with, “Come in.” They entered to find the teacher sitting at a desk correcting some music in manuscript. When she saw who it was, she seemed startled. It would have been easy to read guilt into her look. Neither Lindsay nor Cordelia set much store by her reaction, since they already knew she was hiding something.
“I was rather expecting you two,” she said. “Miss Overton told me she’d asked you to help sort out this terrible business.” She stood up and gestured toward the three armchairs that were ranged round her gas fire. “Let’s be comfortable. Now, I suppose you want me to tell you about the concert and the music department, that sort of thing?”
Cordelia took this as a cue to begin gently probing. “When you were backstage on Saturday night, did you see anyone at all going down the corridor toward Music 2?”
“I don’t really remember. I was rushing round so much organizing the choirs and the orchestra. But I would have thought nothing of it even if I had, because the music storeroom is there too, and that’s where the programs were being kept.”
“Did you go to your own room?”
“Several times, but I didn’t stay there for any length of time, as I’ve already told the police. I didn’t pay any attention to the keys, and I didn’t see anyone else go in or out of my room.”
“How many people knew that Lorna was going to be in Music 2 before her performance?”
Margaret thought for a moment. “It was no particular secret,” she replied. “Most of the girls involved in the concert could have worked it out for themselves, since that room had been left free. I think I mentioned in the staffroom that I’d had the fifth form clearing it up on Friday so that it would be tidy for Lorna. I wanted to make sure that everything was just right, so there could be no criticism from her of my preparations. So the answer to your question is that anyone could have known. There’s no way of narrowing it down.”
“I suppose in theory you yourself could have taken the key, gone to Music 2, done what you had to do, and put the key back in the wrong place—deliberately?” Cordelia inquired.
Margaret Macdonald’s hands worked in her lap. There was fear inadequately hidden in her eyes and Lindsay noticed a trace of sweat on her upper lip. “I suppose I could have. But I didn’t. Look, Lorna was the most distinguished pupil I’ve ever taught; she was about to give a concert in aid of the school. Why should I have wanted to kill her? This is nonsense!”
There was a pause. Lindsay could sense that when it came to questioning her former teacher, Cordelia had no killer instinct. But she was loath to take the hard line of questioning herself. For once she felt unhappy at subjecting someone to her professional probing. She didn’t want to strip this woman’s defenses down because she was sure she was a sister of sorts. She should be offering her support, not giving her a hard time. Then she thought about Paddy, “I know you taught Lorna, and obviously she owed a lot to you,” she said decisively. “Did you remain close?”
Margaret st
udied the carpet as if inspecting it for some clue as to how she should respond. She said quietly, “Not since she left school. We exchanged Christmas cards, that was all. She had a very hectic life.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t stay more closely in touch.”
Again there was quiet in the room. It wasn’t easy for Lindsay to become the interrogatory machine, but she stifled her feelings and continued remorselessly. “You went for a walk with her on the morning of the day she died, didn’t you?” she demanded.
Swiftly, Margaret’s head came up. There was no mistaking the fear now. “No!” she replied sharply. “No, I didn’t go for a walk with her.”
“You were with her in the gardens on Saturday morning and you were arguing.”
“That’s not true.”
Lindsay slipped the photograph from her handbag and offered it to the music mistress, who glanced at it, then rose to her feet and walked to her desk, where she collapsed in her chair.
Lindsay spoke gently. “I was up on the hillside taking some photographs. The red sweater you were wearing caught my eye. I haven’t shown these to the police yet. There seemed to me to be little reason to do so. But now Paddy has been arrested, I think I might have to go to the police with them. Unless I am convinced that they have nothing to do with the murder and would therefore serve no purpose in helping Paddy.”
Margaret Macdonald looked Lindsay straight in the eye. Her fear had been replaced by resignation. She shrugged, then said bitterly, “After all, why not? If anyone can understand it, maybe you two can. They say it takes one to know one.”
Lindsay kept her eyes on the teacher, but on the edge of her vision she was aware of Cordelia turning away, whether from sympathy or embarrassment she could not tell. Margaret sighed deeply. “I’ve never told anyone this, and I hoped I would never have to.
“Fifteen years ago, Lorna was a seventeen-year-old with a blinding and brilliant gift. The cello was my own instrument, and though I could never play like she did, I’m a good teacher. I had experience and so much enthusiasm to pass on. She wanted to absorb all she could from me, and I was happy to show her every secret.
“We spent hours together, practicing, listening to music, or just talking. I had always known I was different from most of my friends. I only ever felt emotionally attracted to my own sex. It’s ironic really—everyone assumes that it was my love of music and teaching that made me choose this life. But for me it seemed the only option because it was a life I could lose myself in.
“I had never acted on my desires in any way before Lorna—it was a different world when I was young. It wouldn’t have been possible to have fulfilled my dreams and still have done the things I wanted to in my career. It would have set me too far apart, and I’d never have got a teaching job. I was never attracted to the idea of living a secret life, I never had that kind of nerve.
“When Lorna came along, I was thirty-five. Suddenly I felt that my life was slipping past me without meaning. I needed love. Lorna was half my age, but she worshiped me for what I could give her.
“And I worshiped her talent. I knew I could never play like that, but to have Lorna to listen to was the next best thing. We were each obsessed by what the other could give.” Margaret paused. “It only lasted a matter of a few months. Then Lorna left to go to the Royal College. And that was the end. The week after she left here, she wrote saying that she didn’t want to see me again. She took everything she could, then simply discarded me. As you can imagine, it has haunted me ever since. I’ve never dared to get close to a pupil again, for fear I would fall into the same trap. I got what I deserved. I betrayed the trust of my position and she betrayed my love.”
Cordelia rose and held her hands up to the fire. It was warm in the room, but she felt cold as ice. Neither she nor Lindsay felt capable of further questioning. But Margaret Macdonald continued unasked.
“I didn’t see her in all those years, apart from going to the occasional concert where she was playing. I never spoke to her. We did exchange Christmas cards and I bought all her records, but that was all. When Pamela Overton told me she had persuaded her to come here, I didn’t know what to do or how to act. On Friday, I had no chance to be alone with her. But on Saturday, I saw her going for a walk and followed. God help me, I could still see in her the girl I had loved. I caught up with her when we were out of sight of the house. I didn’t really know what I was going to say, but I didn’t get much chance to speak.” She let her head drop into her hands but kept talking in a low monotone.
“She taunted me for being pathetic and afraid of the consequences of my actions. She said she supposed I’d come to plead and beg for her silence; she said. ‘If you’d said nothing, of course I would have kept quiet. But this sneaking out behind me, this cringing and crawling makes me despise you. It devalues a pretty worthless past. So why should I protect you?’ I said that wasn’t what I meant to do at all, but that yes, she could damage my present and future with a few words. Not to mention the damage she would do to both our memories of the past. She laughed in my face, then walked off. It was all disgustingly melodramatic. I found it sickening.
“You may think this gives me a reason for wanting her dead. But she was already dead to me. Her reaction that morning killed the last dreams I had about her. The school is a very important part of my life, and has been for many years. But not as important as my music. If I had been inclined to murder, I wouldn’t have done it here, before the concert. I wanted to hear her play. I wanted to be sure that she could still play like an angel. And if she had told anyone of our past, well, so be it, I would have lost the school, but I could have made a new life for myself teaching privately. Lorna could only destroy a fragment of my life, I see that very clearly. I didn’t kill her for that fragment. Besides, Paddy Callaghan is probably the closest friend I have. I couldn’t sit back and watch her suffer if I had committed this crime. Whether you believe me or not, I didn’t kill Lorna.”
“I believe you,” said Cordelia, turning back to the room, “I don’t think there’s anything more we need to ask. I’m sorry we’ve caused you pain.”
“Thank you,” echoed Lindsay. “You have helped us a great deal. I’m sorry I had to be so hard.”
The music mistress remained silent as they left. Then she subsided into heavy, silent sobbing.
Lindsay and Cordelia walked back over to Paddy’s room without talking. Lindsay went straight to the drinks cupboard, unlocked it, and poured two liberal whiskies. “I’m glad I wasn’t born twenty years earlier,” she said, furious. “And I hope to God I never have to find the kind of courage she’s needed all these years.”
“You did believe her, then?”
“My God, yes. I believed her all right. You don’t lie like that. Not with so much obvious pain. She might well have felt like killing Lorna, but I don’t believe she did it. She’s had the guts to live like this for so long; she must have known inside herself that she could have dealt with any blow that bitch could hand out,” said Lindsay bitterly. “She may not have chosen to deal with it, but she had the strength to. You know, suddenly, this has stopped being a game. I didn’t really take it seriously till now.”
“I know what you mean,” said Cordelia, “we’ve been fooling ourselves into thinking this would be some civilized exercise in detection like it is in the books, without understanding that there are real emotions involved. While the only thing we had to think about was Paddy, it wasn’t difficult to imagine being detectives. The great righteous crusade. All that sort of rubbish. But I’m not at all certain that I can handle this kind of thing.”
Lindsay nodded. “I know,” she said. “But we’re committed now. We can’t back out. And if we don’t do something for Paddy, who will? None of us can afford proper private detectives—and anyway, would we have any notion how to find a good one? We’ve still got the advantage of knowing Paddy and knowing something about all these people, especially Lorna, and I’m hopeful that Paddy can give us some ideas. We have to ke
ep pressing on, no matter how much we hate it. Haven’t we?”
For answer, Cordelia took out her notebook and started scribbling rapidly in it. “You should be doing this,” she complained. “You’re the journalist; you should remember what people say. Who’s next for the Lindsay Gordon Spanish Inquisition?”
In spite of herself, Lindsay smiled at the echo of Caroline’s words on Saturday night. She said, “James Cartwright. I feel like working off some of my spleen, and from the little I’ve heard of him, I reckon he’s a prime candidate for that.”
“But we’ve really got nothing on him at all. What the hell are we going to ask him?” Cordelia demanded.
“We’ll just have to try an elaborate con job, I suppose, and hope I can rattle him enough with my penetrating questions.”
“I’ll leave it to you, then. After all, you’ve already displayed your professional interrogation skills today,” said Cordelia drily.
“I didn’t get any pleasure from that success, if success you choose to call it,” said Lindsay. “Usually when I monster people like that in the course of getting a story, I know they’re villains. It’s not too hard to get heavy and put on the pressure when you know your victim is no stranger to putting the screws on somebody else. There’s no satisfaction in hammering somebody like Margaret Macdonald, believe me. At least Cartwright should be sufficiently tough for me not to have any qualms about turning nasty if I have to.”
“I feel sorry for the poor bloke,” Cordelia mocked. “Almost as sorry as I feel for you, sweetheart. What a way to make a living!”
11
By any standards, James Cartwright’s was an impressive house. Rather than choosing something he had built himself, he had opted to live in the dramatic flowering of another man’s imagination. It was three stories tall, built in extravagant Victorian Gothic in the local gray stone with twin turrets and superb views across open fields to the distant White Peak. In front, a Mercedes sports car and a Ford Sierra were parked. Even fortified by whisky and coffee, Lindsay felt daunted as she parked her car at the end of the semi-circular sweep of gravel. She switched off the engine and said, “Suddenly I feel I’m driving a matchbox. Just look at that garden! He must employ a battalion of gardeners. Have you got the letter from God?”